mobylives blogged on that laura miller essay today. or they posted a distillation of it, anyway.
writing an opinion of an opinion that then found its way to a blog within the industry isn't anything special. it's just the internet -- and, sadly, nothing close to that scoop we're always chasing. but it makes me less unhappy to be stuck at this desk right now to think that my course of information gathering might sometimes run parallel to that of one of my favorite sources of information.
or maybe i'm so entrenched in a circular underpinning of my opinions that i'm just chasing my tail around to pre-determined (or at least obvious) conclusions, results and -- woe be to you, o reader -- stale cultural recommendations; in which case i've incapacitated myself in my ability to be an important critical voice of the new status quo. is 'looking good in pants' more out of touch the more we're in the know? discuss.
calling this one a draw.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
ON THE PARTICULAR SADNESS OF LEMON CAKE
in jonathan franzen's piece on christina stead in the summer reading issue of the nyt book review (6/6/10), he mentions by way of his introduction to why we shouldn't read ms. stead's novel the man who loved children an anecdote about an english professor friend of his that speaks directly to the probable folly of keeping a blog like this one:
i should be able to finish the kazushige abe book today, and the canal should be an easy evening's read for tomorrow. i haven't yet gotten my hands on a copy of day for night, but powell's did (who's surprised) have a cheap japanese paperback of the woman in the dunes. that, i think, i'll read last. which means absolutely nothing. aimee bender's book hasn't yet been replaced, but the potential of the museum of innocence has grown since i've had istanbul off the brain for the past several days. or, maybe i'll read brideshead revisited after all.
i did, though, reconsider removing bender's book from my list after reading this new essay by laura miller on the waning power of traditional publishing authority to dictate what and how we read. encouragingly, her analysis focuses on the effects of the emergence of digital self-publishing and social networking on choices for readers and not on the shrinking ranks of the traditional publishing camp. thank god, because otherwise i would digress. and a hot topic digression at a blog that organizes itself around linking tangents and digressions by self reference is dangerous. that, i suppose, is just a blog, though, and nothing new. i'd still prefer to be able to enjoy some of this beautiful afternoon.
miller's essay ultimately makes no conclusion, but rather opines around answering the rhetorical questions it posits: how will readers with limited time decide what to read without the filter of a professional editorial establishment? won't we start to avoid reading if we're constantly wasting time slogging through literary "slush?" aren't the new literary "gatekeepers" of the blogoshphere just as fallible as any professional editor?
important questions, for sure. as a new literary gatekeeper myself, i'd argue that my admitted fallibility makes me no less competent -- unless incompetence can be gauged by the ill sense of my willingness to produce for free (for the time being). simultaneously, there isn't an overwhelming body of evidence to accredit the authority of established taste makers. only a handful of major publications produce consistently thoughtful work on books. and i'd like to think that the books they review (and especially the books they review well) aren't chosen based on hierarchies of conglomerate organization (although i probably know better). but then you have reviews like this one from the oregonian of, incidentally, aimee bender's book.
the oregonian isn't a great paper. i haven't bought one since i stopped needing its reprints of the previous sunday's nyt crossword puzzle. but for some reason, powells.com saw fit to post this "review" at its review-a-day section last week. it's under 500 words, which isn't damning in itself. but in its three and a half paragraphs, it does very little more than reference the publisher's jacket copy and then quote the publisher sanctioned publicity excerpt. i sincerely doubt (and i mean that to the word, not in just the cliched idiomatic sense of that phrase) that the reviewer did not read the book. i understand that the gatekeepers of miller's essay are the people making decisions on what gets published to begin with, which is to be distinguished from what is well received by critics. but in as much as reviewers do write in a capacity to help readers narrow their reading choices, they are to be included under her gatekeeper framework. and if reviews like that one in the oregonian are a measure of the quality of book reviews in most newspapers and magazines, then i say that the old gatekeepers are in fact out of touch, incapacitated and deserve to be supplanted. why stop amateurs from doing better jobs? it's not a question of print versus digital -- the review in question i read online -- but of the ineffectualness (and, by extension, non-necessity) of the current establishment.
manifesto over. bender's book is about a girl who can taste the emotions of the people who cook the food she eats. maybe i should read it and review it myself. i have been baking nearly every third day of the last few weeks. i'm charmed lately by the idea of having cake to give to guests. for me, the particular sadness of lemon cake was deciding not to go to the store to buy more white flour and baking one with whole wheat flour instead. what could have been a light, fragrant early summer delight turned out too dense, too dark and, well, tasting too much like whole wheat. my icing, though (i pretended that i was making the cake just to use the cream cheese i found in the fridge at work that expired on the 14th), was perfect.
strangely, miller introduces her essay on reader choice and editorial authority with a reference to augusto pinochet, but doesn't write at all about the explosion of new chilean literature (or the translations of new south american literature that are finally showing up on american shelves) that's occurred since the fall of that chilean dictatorship. i will definitely be spending an evening with alejandro zambra's the secret lives of trees at some point this summer. maybe for that evening i'll take another stab at that cake.
"as [he] likes to say, novels are a curious moral case, in that we feel guilty about not reading more of them but also guilty about doing something as frivolous as reading them; and wouldn't we all be better off with one less thing in the world to feel guilty about?"stead's novel is lengthy and arcane, and should apparently give the list maker certain pause before he decides to include it in his summer reading. the man who loved children, like its contemporary brideshead revisited, isn't likely to make it onto any 'looking good in pants' list this season or next. but my summer reading continues apace nonetheless, even if my coverage of the literary press has fallen behind. i could waste my time in worser ways.
i should be able to finish the kazushige abe book today, and the canal should be an easy evening's read for tomorrow. i haven't yet gotten my hands on a copy of day for night, but powell's did (who's surprised) have a cheap japanese paperback of the woman in the dunes. that, i think, i'll read last. which means absolutely nothing. aimee bender's book hasn't yet been replaced, but the potential of the museum of innocence has grown since i've had istanbul off the brain for the past several days. or, maybe i'll read brideshead revisited after all.
i did, though, reconsider removing bender's book from my list after reading this new essay by laura miller on the waning power of traditional publishing authority to dictate what and how we read. encouragingly, her analysis focuses on the effects of the emergence of digital self-publishing and social networking on choices for readers and not on the shrinking ranks of the traditional publishing camp. thank god, because otherwise i would digress. and a hot topic digression at a blog that organizes itself around linking tangents and digressions by self reference is dangerous. that, i suppose, is just a blog, though, and nothing new. i'd still prefer to be able to enjoy some of this beautiful afternoon.
miller's essay ultimately makes no conclusion, but rather opines around answering the rhetorical questions it posits: how will readers with limited time decide what to read without the filter of a professional editorial establishment? won't we start to avoid reading if we're constantly wasting time slogging through literary "slush?" aren't the new literary "gatekeepers" of the blogoshphere just as fallible as any professional editor?
important questions, for sure. as a new literary gatekeeper myself, i'd argue that my admitted fallibility makes me no less competent -- unless incompetence can be gauged by the ill sense of my willingness to produce for free (for the time being). simultaneously, there isn't an overwhelming body of evidence to accredit the authority of established taste makers. only a handful of major publications produce consistently thoughtful work on books. and i'd like to think that the books they review (and especially the books they review well) aren't chosen based on hierarchies of conglomerate organization (although i probably know better). but then you have reviews like this one from the oregonian of, incidentally, aimee bender's book.
the oregonian isn't a great paper. i haven't bought one since i stopped needing its reprints of the previous sunday's nyt crossword puzzle. but for some reason, powells.com saw fit to post this "review" at its review-a-day section last week. it's under 500 words, which isn't damning in itself. but in its three and a half paragraphs, it does very little more than reference the publisher's jacket copy and then quote the publisher sanctioned publicity excerpt. i sincerely doubt (and i mean that to the word, not in just the cliched idiomatic sense of that phrase) that the reviewer did not read the book. i understand that the gatekeepers of miller's essay are the people making decisions on what gets published to begin with, which is to be distinguished from what is well received by critics. but in as much as reviewers do write in a capacity to help readers narrow their reading choices, they are to be included under her gatekeeper framework. and if reviews like that one in the oregonian are a measure of the quality of book reviews in most newspapers and magazines, then i say that the old gatekeepers are in fact out of touch, incapacitated and deserve to be supplanted. why stop amateurs from doing better jobs? it's not a question of print versus digital -- the review in question i read online -- but of the ineffectualness (and, by extension, non-necessity) of the current establishment.
manifesto over. bender's book is about a girl who can taste the emotions of the people who cook the food she eats. maybe i should read it and review it myself. i have been baking nearly every third day of the last few weeks. i'm charmed lately by the idea of having cake to give to guests. for me, the particular sadness of lemon cake was deciding not to go to the store to buy more white flour and baking one with whole wheat flour instead. what could have been a light, fragrant early summer delight turned out too dense, too dark and, well, tasting too much like whole wheat. my icing, though (i pretended that i was making the cake just to use the cream cheese i found in the fridge at work that expired on the 14th), was perfect.
strangely, miller introduces her essay on reader choice and editorial authority with a reference to augusto pinochet, but doesn't write at all about the explosion of new chilean literature (or the translations of new south american literature that are finally showing up on american shelves) that's occurred since the fall of that chilean dictatorship. i will definitely be spending an evening with alejandro zambra's the secret lives of trees at some point this summer. maybe for that evening i'll take another stab at that cake.
Friday, June 25, 2010
ON JUST HOW MANLY IT IS TO BE ON THE BOTTOM
according to these rankings, compiled in part by combos (the colon shaped pretzel people), portland is the least manly city in the united states. we're proud to be one of the star bottoms on the list again this year. thanks america. we'll take whatever you've got to give us.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
REMEMBERING WHAT'S IMPORTANT: TAKING A LESSON FROM THE RULEBOOK OF INTERNATIONAL SOCCER
had algeria beaten the united states in those teams' final game of the world cup's group round this morning, it wouldn't likely be so easy for me to admit how splendid i found the algerians' uniforms. of course, there's probably a consensus on the allure of soccer players as deeply established as their sport's worldwide popularity and its fans' rabid allegiance to their teams. footballers (i'll use because there's more punch in the one word than in "soccer players") look good in pants, and even better in shorts. and today they were looking remarkably good in jerseys as well. i'm not sure if it was the cut of the cloth (puma made them, i think), or just that each of the algerian players seemed to have been outfitted in a jersey one size too small, but the algerians were fine, fine adversaries. suffice it to say -- again, without changing the result of the match -- that it would have been a shame had antar yahia been ejected (on a much deserved red card) before stoppage time.
and saying so here is to do more than point out just a specific example of footballers' physical charms, but to give example that soccer is powerfully multifaceted...while also having set myself up to mention that i was glad to have certain distractions on the television screen to keep me from turning around for no other reason than to peek at the sexy guy behind me. not much less could get me out of the house before seven in the morning -- the draw of the sport, that is; because the man in question was delightfully strange to me, and anyway, how could i be sure who would also be watching the match where i was.
[time lapse]
i was fiercely exhausted last night. and whether it was tiredness that stopped me writing or it was forcing myself into a too calculated quasi-ramble to preface what i should have written earlier in the day while still feeling the caffeine that made me tired, i slept on it. now it's tomorrow in reference to everything you've just read, but let's continue as if the u.s.-algeria match were still this morning, which is to say keep in the frame of reference of yesterday, because that's how i'm still experiencing the match for now -- and how blogger will record it for posterity.
the match required me to be up and away before seven a.m., which, since i didn't think i could make it through work after the same two liters of beer i'd had at the seven a.m. u.s.-slovenia match, meant coffee. i'm in the habit of consuming caffeine only recreationally on my days off, so two sixteen ounce cups gave me more than enough spirit for 90 minutes of soccer (and then for a bike ride, and then well into the rest of my day), and the spirit of 90 minutes of soccer is something special. i'd felt something similar during u.s.-slovenia, but the smell and taste of coffee -- as well as, no doubt, my hyper-aware caffeine euphoria -- made writing about it seem finally imperative. the coffee, the crowd and the smell of early morning alcohol and nicotine reminded me of traveling, and specifically of istanbul.
turkey is enigmatic and embattled. i know that mostly from books and the newspaper. but the time i spent in istanbul between marrakech and meeting a friend in budapest was no less formative for its paucity of historical significance. i did a considerable amount of wandering. otherwise i was likely eating cake (istanbul has fantastic patisseries) or experimenting with masturbation, inspired by an anais nin collection entitled artists and models that i'd found on istiklal st. so i guess i also read. and i watched soccer.
tea rooms in instanbul, which from the way most of them looked double as card rooms in most of their incarnations, aren't the most welcoming places for itinerants. which is exactly the reason that a traveler with limited time to take in a culture should make himself uncomfortable and go to them. for the most authentic experience, look for fluorescent lights and clouds of cigarette smoke. the smoke will be everywhere you visit in istanbul, it's just easier to spot in the bad light. there should be a television too. and that's where you watch the soccer.
no one really talked to me in the tea rooms i visited. of course, i'd given up on turkish after failing to master "thank you" from a man in a taxi, and language barriers didn't help me seem any less the interloper. but no one hassled me for just sitting by myself and staring at the television. the people in istanbul like their soccer as well as the people anywhere else. plus, there was booze and coffee and the occasional german (including one who bought me drinks because i reminded him of his son, as if that's something that people should actually think to do in real life). i won't, though, go so far as to say something so pathetically gay as that the sport is some kind of international language. it's not. if anything, sports appreciation just highlights the hawkishness and blind provincialities that tend toward conflict where the nuance of careful language might otherwise validate and accommodate differences. but it's vicously fun. and at that basic level, most fans can agree to agree. (i'd also arbitrarily decided to support galatasaray, and that came with a built in peer support group.)
so maybe soccer isn't so multi-faceted after all. sure, there are the refined nuances of play and the melodramatic meta-narrative of each match. and i don't think the scale and scoring structure of any other sport allow for the expression of soccer's level of finesse. but -- or maybe just for those very reasons -- the world cup is just a spectacle. and if it's bringing the world together in any other way than collecting national representatives at the stadium, it's because we're drinking and probably surrounded by people screaming for our side. then again, it must be worth something, if not something special, if i'm willing to stomach prost! -- the overpriced, shticky german place on mississippi and skidmore that's the only place in the neighborhood open at seven in the morning with televisions -- to watch it. it's the company, maybe, or the resonance that the game has with my more colorful experiences. i will chase my own detested provinciality down whatever hole i need to to deny it.
but damn if those footballers aren't dreamy. theirs are definitely pants i could get into.
and saying so here is to do more than point out just a specific example of footballers' physical charms, but to give example that soccer is powerfully multifaceted...while also having set myself up to mention that i was glad to have certain distractions on the television screen to keep me from turning around for no other reason than to peek at the sexy guy behind me. not much less could get me out of the house before seven in the morning -- the draw of the sport, that is; because the man in question was delightfully strange to me, and anyway, how could i be sure who would also be watching the match where i was.
[time lapse]
i was fiercely exhausted last night. and whether it was tiredness that stopped me writing or it was forcing myself into a too calculated quasi-ramble to preface what i should have written earlier in the day while still feeling the caffeine that made me tired, i slept on it. now it's tomorrow in reference to everything you've just read, but let's continue as if the u.s.-algeria match were still this morning, which is to say keep in the frame of reference of yesterday, because that's how i'm still experiencing the match for now -- and how blogger will record it for posterity.
the match required me to be up and away before seven a.m., which, since i didn't think i could make it through work after the same two liters of beer i'd had at the seven a.m. u.s.-slovenia match, meant coffee. i'm in the habit of consuming caffeine only recreationally on my days off, so two sixteen ounce cups gave me more than enough spirit for 90 minutes of soccer (and then for a bike ride, and then well into the rest of my day), and the spirit of 90 minutes of soccer is something special. i'd felt something similar during u.s.-slovenia, but the smell and taste of coffee -- as well as, no doubt, my hyper-aware caffeine euphoria -- made writing about it seem finally imperative. the coffee, the crowd and the smell of early morning alcohol and nicotine reminded me of traveling, and specifically of istanbul.
turkey is enigmatic and embattled. i know that mostly from books and the newspaper. but the time i spent in istanbul between marrakech and meeting a friend in budapest was no less formative for its paucity of historical significance. i did a considerable amount of wandering. otherwise i was likely eating cake (istanbul has fantastic patisseries) or experimenting with masturbation, inspired by an anais nin collection entitled artists and models that i'd found on istiklal st. so i guess i also read. and i watched soccer.
tea rooms in instanbul, which from the way most of them looked double as card rooms in most of their incarnations, aren't the most welcoming places for itinerants. which is exactly the reason that a traveler with limited time to take in a culture should make himself uncomfortable and go to them. for the most authentic experience, look for fluorescent lights and clouds of cigarette smoke. the smoke will be everywhere you visit in istanbul, it's just easier to spot in the bad light. there should be a television too. and that's where you watch the soccer.
no one really talked to me in the tea rooms i visited. of course, i'd given up on turkish after failing to master "thank you" from a man in a taxi, and language barriers didn't help me seem any less the interloper. but no one hassled me for just sitting by myself and staring at the television. the people in istanbul like their soccer as well as the people anywhere else. plus, there was booze and coffee and the occasional german (including one who bought me drinks because i reminded him of his son, as if that's something that people should actually think to do in real life). i won't, though, go so far as to say something so pathetically gay as that the sport is some kind of international language. it's not. if anything, sports appreciation just highlights the hawkishness and blind provincialities that tend toward conflict where the nuance of careful language might otherwise validate and accommodate differences. but it's vicously fun. and at that basic level, most fans can agree to agree. (i'd also arbitrarily decided to support galatasaray, and that came with a built in peer support group.)
so maybe soccer isn't so multi-faceted after all. sure, there are the refined nuances of play and the melodramatic meta-narrative of each match. and i don't think the scale and scoring structure of any other sport allow for the expression of soccer's level of finesse. but -- or maybe just for those very reasons -- the world cup is just a spectacle. and if it's bringing the world together in any other way than collecting national representatives at the stadium, it's because we're drinking and probably surrounded by people screaming for our side. then again, it must be worth something, if not something special, if i'm willing to stomach prost! -- the overpriced, shticky german place on mississippi and skidmore that's the only place in the neighborhood open at seven in the morning with televisions -- to watch it. it's the company, maybe, or the resonance that the game has with my more colorful experiences. i will chase my own detested provinciality down whatever hole i need to to deny it.
but damn if those footballers aren't dreamy. theirs are definitely pants i could get into.
Monday, June 21, 2010
SCOOP! or, HOW TO REMAIN GRACEFUL IN(evitable) VICTORY AS IN DEFEAT
scoop!
as was predicted at the beginning of june, 'looking good in pants' has now outpaced its much larger competition in style and culture reporting. to be sure, our summer style theme was discussed decidedly within the "week or so" time frame we extended ourselves for our first scoop. now there are purse queens marching all up and down the top fold -- so to speak -- of the new york times online. compare our concept rendering with the ensembles pictured and discussed in this nytimes.com review of the emporio armani menswear show in milan.
the author really isn't to blame for being late to the game on this one. after all, he only has to work with what he has to review. (but we'd be happy to share our inspirational materials with mr. guy trebay whenever he might have time to chat.) it's really armani that needs to get with the times. contrary to the information in the subtitle of one of the images at the times review, this is a spring/summer 2011 collection. and shorts over leggings are so 2010. just ask all the queers who were at blow pony on saturday. too bad we didn't get any pictures.
yeah, yeah...half of our rendering is from a picture at 'the sartorialist.' we knew it all from men's non-no months before he took that shot. but looking good in pants means knowing when to share the credit. as of this writing, though, 'the sartorialist' still hasn't posted any runway shots from emporio armani. just saying. also just saying: armani peoples, we are happy to accept styling consultations for future shows.
as was predicted at the beginning of june, 'looking good in pants' has now outpaced its much larger competition in style and culture reporting. to be sure, our summer style theme was discussed decidedly within the "week or so" time frame we extended ourselves for our first scoop. now there are purse queens marching all up and down the top fold -- so to speak -- of the new york times online. compare our concept rendering with the ensembles pictured and discussed in this nytimes.com review of the emporio armani menswear show in milan.
the author really isn't to blame for being late to the game on this one. after all, he only has to work with what he has to review. (but we'd be happy to share our inspirational materials with mr. guy trebay whenever he might have time to chat.) it's really armani that needs to get with the times. contrary to the information in the subtitle of one of the images at the times review, this is a spring/summer 2011 collection. and shorts over leggings are so 2010. just ask all the queers who were at blow pony on saturday. too bad we didn't get any pictures.
yeah, yeah...half of our rendering is from a picture at 'the sartorialist.' we knew it all from men's non-no months before he took that shot. but looking good in pants means knowing when to share the credit. as of this writing, though, 'the sartorialist' still hasn't posted any runway shots from emporio armani. just saying. also just saying: armani peoples, we are happy to accept styling consultations for future shows.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
PUT THAT IN YOUR PRIDE AND SMOKE IT
this post planned on being short: "learned that one of the queerest things i could do was dance with a girl" -- or something sort of pithy in that vein that would write itself quickly but intentionally and then make me worry that too much dance pop had turned all of my potentially compelling sentiments into crappy song lyrics. maybe, if i'd written this last night instead of just saving a title so that i could be sure to get a post up with yesterday's date stamp* if i wanted to, the triple threat of rain, hangover nausea and post-event melancholia that kept me on the couch would have also kept me within twenty words. but now that you're to sentence three (the first two both long-ish ones), you'd better just join me in the sinking feeling that this post isn't going to succeed by virtue of brevity.
every year, pride weekend seems to rear up out of nowhere (not surprising in a place where it's so easy to forget it's june), and every year i insist that i'm not going to do anything special. and maybe i never do anything special. but i do end up doing something(s). and i usually have a fabulous time. but every year it's like new year's all over again, and in the lead up i get so anxious that there will be something else more fun with more interesting and attractive people happening the somewhere i won't be as soon as i commit to anything that it's easier just to imagine myself at home or out doing something decidedly un-gay. then i remember that although a night to myself could involve just as much alcohol as any pride party, it certainly never got anyone laid -- nor did it an outfit excuse make. but then i also remember that pride is supposed to be a protest and remember how many times i was reminded of that in the week prior and wonder if going out for the same reasons that get me to do the gay stuff on any other night are worth it. but visibility is a kind of protest, right? maybe i'll meet someone sexy who wants to make out and talk about judith butler? so finally i tell myself that i can always go out and come home if i'm not having fun or if all the fags hate me or if i get sad drunk enough to really believe that it's all just "too commercial."
and so, i went out and did pride, both friday and saturday nights. not surprisingly, i had fun; and not all of the fags hated me; and i just got regular drunk. queers have amazing parties. you know them from the tv. we look good, and we talk good, and we dance...if not good, well, a lot. but pride is the only time that we smile and apologize when someone spills a drink on us. and i don't think that's just me. or maybe it is. and maybe it's just because, but the community seems especially validating. and then somehow i'm talking and dancing and i barely even care about getting laid anymore.
then it's early sunday morning, and i'm walking home from blow pony and get spare changed on martin luther king near the max stop. michael needs money to help get his passed out buddy somewhere. he looks to be in a bad way himself. i haven't any cash so i don't have to lie. plus, i'm walking home too. michael wants a hug. i'm full of positivity so i give him a hearty one. "you gay?" michael asks me. "yeah." "i thought so. i'm a bisexual. i mean, i'm gay too. i saw a bunch of people out today." michael wants to make out. michael will be able to go back to the treatment facility tomorrow if i make out with him. i'd already had one awkward kiss earlier when my friend caitie and i got put under the "gay mistletoe" -- which you can imagine to be whatever you'd like. but, even having done far more suspect things when drunk at the end of an evening, i can't make out with michael. i wonder if he'd asked many other boys. in any case, he has to settle for three more hugs and a cigarette. and i'm sure those didn't get him off the street.
dancing with girls wasn't the queerest thing i did at pride. i don't know if i did anything particularly groundbreaking in the performative sense. but not writing anything about pride weekend would have been too glaring an omission for this blog; and some rakish offhand dismissal, though definitely in character, would only have captioned that one shot in which i'm looking completely at ease in my pretty little bubble. i'm at the end of episode nine of brideshead revisted and can't help stealing its close because i can't help wondering if i set out to write any certain opinion in the first place. "can we have our happiness in spite of them? here and now? ...for how many nights?" thanks again, charles.
*for the record, it's now just before midnight 6/21.
every year, pride weekend seems to rear up out of nowhere (not surprising in a place where it's so easy to forget it's june), and every year i insist that i'm not going to do anything special. and maybe i never do anything special. but i do end up doing something(s). and i usually have a fabulous time. but every year it's like new year's all over again, and in the lead up i get so anxious that there will be something else more fun with more interesting and attractive people happening the somewhere i won't be as soon as i commit to anything that it's easier just to imagine myself at home or out doing something decidedly un-gay. then i remember that although a night to myself could involve just as much alcohol as any pride party, it certainly never got anyone laid -- nor did it an outfit excuse make. but then i also remember that pride is supposed to be a protest and remember how many times i was reminded of that in the week prior and wonder if going out for the same reasons that get me to do the gay stuff on any other night are worth it. but visibility is a kind of protest, right? maybe i'll meet someone sexy who wants to make out and talk about judith butler? so finally i tell myself that i can always go out and come home if i'm not having fun or if all the fags hate me or if i get sad drunk enough to really believe that it's all just "too commercial."
and so, i went out and did pride, both friday and saturday nights. not surprisingly, i had fun; and not all of the fags hated me; and i just got regular drunk. queers have amazing parties. you know them from the tv. we look good, and we talk good, and we dance...if not good, well, a lot. but pride is the only time that we smile and apologize when someone spills a drink on us. and i don't think that's just me. or maybe it is. and maybe it's just because, but the community seems especially validating. and then somehow i'm talking and dancing and i barely even care about getting laid anymore.
then it's early sunday morning, and i'm walking home from blow pony and get spare changed on martin luther king near the max stop. michael needs money to help get his passed out buddy somewhere. he looks to be in a bad way himself. i haven't any cash so i don't have to lie. plus, i'm walking home too. michael wants a hug. i'm full of positivity so i give him a hearty one. "you gay?" michael asks me. "yeah." "i thought so. i'm a bisexual. i mean, i'm gay too. i saw a bunch of people out today." michael wants to make out. michael will be able to go back to the treatment facility tomorrow if i make out with him. i'd already had one awkward kiss earlier when my friend caitie and i got put under the "gay mistletoe" -- which you can imagine to be whatever you'd like. but, even having done far more suspect things when drunk at the end of an evening, i can't make out with michael. i wonder if he'd asked many other boys. in any case, he has to settle for three more hugs and a cigarette. and i'm sure those didn't get him off the street.
dancing with girls wasn't the queerest thing i did at pride. i don't know if i did anything particularly groundbreaking in the performative sense. but not writing anything about pride weekend would have been too glaring an omission for this blog; and some rakish offhand dismissal, though definitely in character, would only have captioned that one shot in which i'm looking completely at ease in my pretty little bubble. i'm at the end of episode nine of brideshead revisted and can't help stealing its close because i can't help wondering if i set out to write any certain opinion in the first place. "can we have our happiness in spite of them? here and now? ...for how many nights?" thanks again, charles.
*for the record, it's now just before midnight 6/21.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
HOW TO LOOK GOOD IN PANTS WITHOUT REALLY TRYING
it usually takes me until about thursday to get through the sunday new york times. every sunday, i'll look in the newspaper pile at the coffee shop or around the eating area of the grocery store for at least the magazine (for the puzzle) and hopefully the arts and style sections as well, and if i can find them, i probably won't pursue the rest. the loss of the book review is significant, but the pictures therein aren't anything special, and i can always get it for cheap separately (or for nothing online [wince]). if i'm not successful in finding even the magazine by sunday night, i wait until monday to buy the whole paper at rich's downtown. on my luckier monday's, i get rung up for the daily and only have to pay two dollars -- but, to be honest (in every sense of that expression), someone as vocal as i am about the importance of the persistence of print shouldn't have to think twice about coughing up all six.
the paper, or some selection of its constituent parts, ride around in my bike bag for the first three days of the week, and although the magazine probably gets several half hours of attention, the rest acts more just to give my bag a better rigidity for packing lunches, groceries and changes of clothes. by thursday, my weekend and the contingent enticements of coffee and new puzzle hunting are too near for me not to read through the rest of what i have -- or maybe i just hate to think of myself as that hoarder who lets newspapers pile up on the coffee table until someone finds him some ritalin. (true though, that old newspapers have other uses. after all, you can't insulate your clothes with animal bones).
at any rate, i read the sunday new york times on thursday. or sometimes friday. . .or saturday if friday was especially [mood or degree of sociability]. by that point, i've saved myself time by reading most of the content at the nyt website, but can still justify whiling away a couple more work hours (if it's a thursday or saturday morning) in the interest of culling any useful information before the next cycle.
oof. now it's friday, i should really get to my point. an opinion piece in the most recent sunday times referenced a letter written by a friend of the writer's to a small publication in his south carolina hometown. (i meant to bring the piece with me to the coffee shop to excerpt, but alas, early morning drinking does not a careful researcher make. and i can't for the life of me remember the necessary keywords to find the article on the nyt website.) in essence, the excerpted letter demanded that more responsibility for the gulf oil spill be borne by the american people, or, more generally, first world consumers. while i very certainly sympathize with the letter writer on that general sentiment, i balked at his -- what in the context were meant to seem radical -- prescriptions for remedy: "bike to work. plant a garden." seriously? i bike to work. we have a garden. and those choices weren't precipitated by financial or environmental disaster. but then a second thought.
then i remember where i live. people in portland ride their bikes. they grow their own food and raise farm animals in their yards. and it's a matter of cool. we save money and help the environment, but it's an easy choice because it's the thing to do. or at least -- to make allowance for giving individuals the credit they deserve -- our desires to be good are supported by municipal infrastructure and a sense that doing less would strip us of coveted identity accessories and social collateral. i'm hard on portland, but it's because portland's so easy on us as residents. true, a city like this doesn't just happen. it takes a community of forward thinkers to elect and enact along the lines that make portland so livable and admirable. maybe it's liberal guilt, then, that i feel obliged to scorn what's been put in my lap without my having had to struggle for it myself, because, indeed, more of america's/the world's urban population should live like we do (see? it's impossible to shrug off the smug). but maybe we're pushing it for the wrong reasons; though that, of course, has never been reason enough not to push it.
we raise chickens. or, more correctly, monique raises chickens, and i live with monique. we both appreciated this article on the new domestication (read the article and you won't think that pejorative) of intelligent, powerful women. in fact, i picked it out of that week's magazine (sober, even) and stuck it on the refrigerator. monique's final word on the matter? "why's that girl in the picture dressed so homely? you know she's been gardening in her mini dress." in the end, we're acting the (radical?) part but aren't going to stop dressing our own. nor do we have to -- or could we, if we want to keep our status in this city. we can be grubby bike commuters and livestock raisers and drop dead sexy urbanites at the same time. and that's an elitism worth propagating.
you're a foodie? don't have the space to grow a garden? whatever. stay smug. keep buying from your favorite community supported agriculture (csa) operation, but buy a share for an income restricted family as well. you'll get your healthy, sustainable produce and, at the same time, help that csa project realize the economies of scale that will make producing healthy, sustainable produce affordable for everyone...and you'll help some poorly styled people eat well as collateral damage.
i'll stop there at the advice of the impeccably costumed fixie rider that i overhead at the north park blocks yesterday while on my way to powell's to get two of the books on the summer reading list: "i have a 'car free' sticker and a 'fuck cars' sticker. but i don't have one of those 'one less car' stickers. that's just preachy."
update: find the op-ed referenced here.
the paper, or some selection of its constituent parts, ride around in my bike bag for the first three days of the week, and although the magazine probably gets several half hours of attention, the rest acts more just to give my bag a better rigidity for packing lunches, groceries and changes of clothes. by thursday, my weekend and the contingent enticements of coffee and new puzzle hunting are too near for me not to read through the rest of what i have -- or maybe i just hate to think of myself as that hoarder who lets newspapers pile up on the coffee table until someone finds him some ritalin. (true though, that old newspapers have other uses. after all, you can't insulate your clothes with animal bones).
at any rate, i read the sunday new york times on thursday. or sometimes friday. . .or saturday if friday was especially [mood or degree of sociability]. by that point, i've saved myself time by reading most of the content at the nyt website, but can still justify whiling away a couple more work hours (if it's a thursday or saturday morning) in the interest of culling any useful information before the next cycle.
oof. now it's friday, i should really get to my point. an opinion piece in the most recent sunday times referenced a letter written by a friend of the writer's to a small publication in his south carolina hometown. (i meant to bring the piece with me to the coffee shop to excerpt, but alas, early morning drinking does not a careful researcher make. and i can't for the life of me remember the necessary keywords to find the article on the nyt website.) in essence, the excerpted letter demanded that more responsibility for the gulf oil spill be borne by the american people, or, more generally, first world consumers. while i very certainly sympathize with the letter writer on that general sentiment, i balked at his -- what in the context were meant to seem radical -- prescriptions for remedy: "bike to work. plant a garden." seriously? i bike to work. we have a garden. and those choices weren't precipitated by financial or environmental disaster. but then a second thought.
then i remember where i live. people in portland ride their bikes. they grow their own food and raise farm animals in their yards. and it's a matter of cool. we save money and help the environment, but it's an easy choice because it's the thing to do. or at least -- to make allowance for giving individuals the credit they deserve -- our desires to be good are supported by municipal infrastructure and a sense that doing less would strip us of coveted identity accessories and social collateral. i'm hard on portland, but it's because portland's so easy on us as residents. true, a city like this doesn't just happen. it takes a community of forward thinkers to elect and enact along the lines that make portland so livable and admirable. maybe it's liberal guilt, then, that i feel obliged to scorn what's been put in my lap without my having had to struggle for it myself, because, indeed, more of america's/the world's urban population should live like we do (see? it's impossible to shrug off the smug). but maybe we're pushing it for the wrong reasons; though that, of course, has never been reason enough not to push it.
we raise chickens. or, more correctly, monique raises chickens, and i live with monique. we both appreciated this article on the new domestication (read the article and you won't think that pejorative) of intelligent, powerful women. in fact, i picked it out of that week's magazine (sober, even) and stuck it on the refrigerator. monique's final word on the matter? "why's that girl in the picture dressed so homely? you know she's been gardening in her mini dress." in the end, we're acting the (radical?) part but aren't going to stop dressing our own. nor do we have to -- or could we, if we want to keep our status in this city. we can be grubby bike commuters and livestock raisers and drop dead sexy urbanites at the same time. and that's an elitism worth propagating.
you're a foodie? don't have the space to grow a garden? whatever. stay smug. keep buying from your favorite community supported agriculture (csa) operation, but buy a share for an income restricted family as well. you'll get your healthy, sustainable produce and, at the same time, help that csa project realize the economies of scale that will make producing healthy, sustainable produce affordable for everyone...and you'll help some poorly styled people eat well as collateral damage.
i'll stop there at the advice of the impeccably costumed fixie rider that i overhead at the north park blocks yesterday while on my way to powell's to get two of the books on the summer reading list: "i have a 'car free' sticker and a 'fuck cars' sticker. but i don't have one of those 'one less car' stickers. that's just preachy."
update: find the op-ed referenced here.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
SUMMER READING LIST, A START
the twilight saga continues, unfortunately -- and unexpectedly -- for 'looking good in pants.' on sunday afternoon, i ran into wayne bund (PLEASE watch this video) on my way to the skidmore bluffs where i intended to slog through to the end of book one. wayne seemed disappointed that i'd not liked it better as he loved the series himself, and suggested that i watch the first two movies on dvd, see the third when it comes out at the theater, then read book four, which he had appreciated above all the others.
i was excited to reward myself with the first movie last night after finally finishing the book (the "page turner" parts of which came only after turning about 350 pages). sadly, twilight somehow managed to be even less charming on screen than on the page. put through the screenplay machine, the story lost its connection to the mood of the rustic northwest, an element of the book that was redeeming at least in its analogues to my own experience. banality of banalities, i know. so i should stop. but i think i'm going to read breaking dawn for wayne. i streamed the first half of "new moon" today at work.
in the meantime, even though summer has decided to retreat from portland for the time being, i've decided not to delay the 'looking good in pants' summer reading list any longer. or at least the first part it.
in this particular order for now, and provided easy affordable access to each title:
1. 『インディヴィジュアル・プロジェクション』("individual projection" or "private screening," maybe), kazushige abe
2. day for night, frederick reiken
3. the canal, lee rourke -- had to do something new from melville house. please don't buy the used copy at powell's beaverton before i get there on thursday.
4. the particular sadness of lemon cake, aimee bender -- update, 6/17, or maybe not. probably not. the museum of innocence, maybe. but there's still no paperback, and the thing's just so BIG.
5. 『砂の女』(the woman in the dunes), kobo abe -- don't know how i managed to get away with not reading this until now.
those should keep me busy enough until the first part of july. i'm hoping to translate a couple of yumiko kurahashi short stories this summer and serialize them here for your critique.
there were almost a dozen eggs in the fridge that needed to be used before thursday, so i made some shakshuka (sans cheese) even though i'd already eaten. it's great reheated, but it's absolutely unbelievable when it's fresh and the egg yolks still run when you pierce them. just imagine that smittenkitchen.com is in my blogroll until i get around to lining one up.
i was excited to reward myself with the first movie last night after finally finishing the book (the "page turner" parts of which came only after turning about 350 pages). sadly, twilight somehow managed to be even less charming on screen than on the page. put through the screenplay machine, the story lost its connection to the mood of the rustic northwest, an element of the book that was redeeming at least in its analogues to my own experience. banality of banalities, i know. so i should stop. but i think i'm going to read breaking dawn for wayne. i streamed the first half of "new moon" today at work.
in the meantime, even though summer has decided to retreat from portland for the time being, i've decided not to delay the 'looking good in pants' summer reading list any longer. or at least the first part it.
in this particular order for now, and provided easy affordable access to each title:
1. 『インディヴィジュアル・プロジェクション』("individual projection" or "private screening," maybe), kazushige abe
2. day for night, frederick reiken
3. the canal, lee rourke -- had to do something new from melville house. please don't buy the used copy at powell's beaverton before i get there on thursday.
4. the particular sadness of lemon cake, aimee bender -- update, 6/17, or maybe not. probably not. the museum of innocence, maybe. but there's still no paperback, and the thing's just so BIG.
5. 『砂の女』(the woman in the dunes), kobo abe -- don't know how i managed to get away with not reading this until now.
those should keep me busy enough until the first part of july. i'm hoping to translate a couple of yumiko kurahashi short stories this summer and serialize them here for your critique.
there were almost a dozen eggs in the fridge that needed to be used before thursday, so i made some shakshuka (sans cheese) even though i'd already eaten. it's great reheated, but it's absolutely unbelievable when it's fresh and the egg yolks still run when you pierce them. just imagine that smittenkitchen.com is in my blogroll until i get around to lining one up.
Monday, June 14, 2010
THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE BIKE FAG; or THE MYSTERY OF THE LAPSE IN CONTENTIOUSNESS
the bike fag is an okay guy. we've never met, but he has been to portland and has posted an admirably level headed -- but still replete with the sort of sarcasm necessitated by portland's special brand of faux european smug -- analysis of the portland "bike culture" [end link, start link] at his blog. looking at the series of pictures from the portland post (which follow my morning commute across the broadway bridge to the area around my workplace and then lead up hawthorne into ladd's addition along the same route i take to my wednesday extracurricular), i'm surprised i didn't recognize his purple bike while he was shooting and stop to say hello. i'd also had an apparent run-in with bikesnobnyc in november, 2010, but he was still rocking the anonymity identity-way back then, so it wasn't, again, until evidence turned up at his blog that i knew. the bike fag seems to have been inspired by the snob to start his blog, but his opinion of cycling's platinum queen mecca is markedly different from snobby's always acerbic take. but i'm not by any means taking sides, and if i were, it wouldn't be for something so petty as envy over a book deal. (bike snob nyc will be at powell's this sunday for anyone who's interested.)
in fact, i would probably never have read the bike fag had it not been for the snob first pointing him out. i rarely read the latter anymore, but i knew after the "do i REALLY like cyclocross, or am i just a fashion victim" post that i'd found a kindred spirit in the fag. unfortunately, the bike fag isn't a real homo, which i learned the gross way while reading a post having something to do with riding (leg shaving?) impressing the ladies -- and he was serious. although i understand the "art fag" derivation, i couldn't accept the url being taken by a guy who doesn't like smooching boys. which, i know, makes me a racist. but not in bike fag's sense of the word, an altogether different intentional misuse meant to describe having graduated from fashionable functional riding to fashionable performance riding, and then being a dick about it.
last month, the bike fag posted his musings over whether or not racing is the pinnacle of cycling. a racist himself, the fag wondered if that lifestyle of grueling training and dropping stacks of cash on high end gear was really the truest manifestation of what one of the professional racers he interviewed called "bike love" -- a term that i'm sure has been institutionalized here in portland by incorporation into municipal statute. i recalled that post soon after watching the cirque du cycling crit and then again after writing how much i love seeing/hearing all that expensive gear go to pieces in a crash. i'll never race myself; and that's to say i'll never enter a road race, because racists don't consider cyclocross to be real racing. riding with someone in my close periphery is already terrifying enough. i can't imagine trying to do it successfully at over 35 mph. i also can't imagine training enough to sustain that kind of speed.
a bike fag does wonder, though, whether there aren't next steps that should be taken. i love being on my bicycle, whether just commuting, on short tours or chasing trends to the grail of the 'cross crusade. as sexy as all that may be, once an example has been set, shouldn't i want to be, somehow (i know, right?), better? fitness and environmentalism don't go very far in justifying fancy equipment upgrades. in any case, important as they are, those probably weren't the primary reasons that the 'looking good in pants' crowd got into cycling to begin with. in the words of the fag: "i’d like to say i started riding a bicycle as a statement of freedom from oil dependency or as an expression of my autonomous human-powered mobility, but i’d be lying. i started riding...to have fun, and to look cool." and wasn't i at the crit doing both of those things while also getting to watch the riders look cool (syn. hott) without having to endure the training rides myself? i walked to the race, sure, but i definitely would have ridden if it hadn't been so close.
the bike fag recommends racing if you want to and not getting down on yourself if you don't. bland, yes, but maybe the fag is afraid of being prosecuted under the bike love law if he ever comes back to portland. even so, i'll take it, because i don't plan ever to race but can't imagine not being able to ogle people that do. plus, the world is better for shiny gear. it breaks so pretty. personally, i would never have gotten a pair of dragon 2s if sidi made anything humbler that worked for the race-ish activity i hypothetically participate in during the fall and that also came in white. for everyone like me who's still straddling the divide between fixie hipster douche and elite racist, the bike fag also recently posted his summer editorial calendar for ironic cycling fashions. i'm doing my own thing this summer, but it looks promising nonetheless. and the concept sketch for the ironic cycling fashion of 2025 is wearing the road version of my shoe.
alas, despite my alluded promise to avoid antagonism, i have to disagree slightly with the fag on the issue of bike love. "no website can tell you who's got more?" of course one can. this one. we've seen that snuff short at the bike porn festival.
in fact, i would probably never have read the bike fag had it not been for the snob first pointing him out. i rarely read the latter anymore, but i knew after the "do i REALLY like cyclocross, or am i just a fashion victim" post that i'd found a kindred spirit in the fag. unfortunately, the bike fag isn't a real homo, which i learned the gross way while reading a post having something to do with riding (leg shaving?) impressing the ladies -- and he was serious. although i understand the "art fag" derivation, i couldn't accept the url being taken by a guy who doesn't like smooching boys. which, i know, makes me a racist. but not in bike fag's sense of the word, an altogether different intentional misuse meant to describe having graduated from fashionable functional riding to fashionable performance riding, and then being a dick about it.
last month, the bike fag posted his musings over whether or not racing is the pinnacle of cycling. a racist himself, the fag wondered if that lifestyle of grueling training and dropping stacks of cash on high end gear was really the truest manifestation of what one of the professional racers he interviewed called "bike love" -- a term that i'm sure has been institutionalized here in portland by incorporation into municipal statute. i recalled that post soon after watching the cirque du cycling crit and then again after writing how much i love seeing/hearing all that expensive gear go to pieces in a crash. i'll never race myself; and that's to say i'll never enter a road race, because racists don't consider cyclocross to be real racing. riding with someone in my close periphery is already terrifying enough. i can't imagine trying to do it successfully at over 35 mph. i also can't imagine training enough to sustain that kind of speed.
a bike fag does wonder, though, whether there aren't next steps that should be taken. i love being on my bicycle, whether just commuting, on short tours or chasing trends to the grail of the 'cross crusade. as sexy as all that may be, once an example has been set, shouldn't i want to be, somehow (i know, right?), better? fitness and environmentalism don't go very far in justifying fancy equipment upgrades. in any case, important as they are, those probably weren't the primary reasons that the 'looking good in pants' crowd got into cycling to begin with. in the words of the fag: "i’d like to say i started riding a bicycle as a statement of freedom from oil dependency or as an expression of my autonomous human-powered mobility, but i’d be lying. i started riding...to have fun, and to look cool." and wasn't i at the crit doing both of those things while also getting to watch the riders look cool (syn. hott) without having to endure the training rides myself? i walked to the race, sure, but i definitely would have ridden if it hadn't been so close.
the bike fag recommends racing if you want to and not getting down on yourself if you don't. bland, yes, but maybe the fag is afraid of being prosecuted under the bike love law if he ever comes back to portland. even so, i'll take it, because i don't plan ever to race but can't imagine not being able to ogle people that do. plus, the world is better for shiny gear. it breaks so pretty. personally, i would never have gotten a pair of dragon 2s if sidi made anything humbler that worked for the race-ish activity i hypothetically participate in during the fall and that also came in white. for everyone like me who's still straddling the divide between fixie hipster douche and elite racist, the bike fag also recently posted his summer editorial calendar for ironic cycling fashions. i'm doing my own thing this summer, but it looks promising nonetheless. and the concept sketch for the ironic cycling fashion of 2025 is wearing the road version of my shoe.
alas, despite my alluded promise to avoid antagonism, i have to disagree slightly with the fag on the issue of bike love. "no website can tell you who's got more?" of course one can. this one. we've seen that snuff short at the bike porn festival.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
THE ACTUAL UNEXPECTED THING
that sparkling wine was delightful after it thawed. the carbonation had gone, and some of the water must have been lost in the melt, because what was left was not just flat, but heavy, syrupy and intensely aromatic. the wine, a cheap one, has a strong grape flavor to begin with, so the reduction produced something like brandy or tokaj; but it's also spanish, so it's more likely that the grapes were some much less fancy muscat variety from malaga or jerez, which complimented "volver" just fine, and second nightcapped the earlier flamenco event perfectly. the total effect was equally exhilarating and soporific, a periodic motion between charles ryder's drinking to enhance and sebastian flyte's drinking to escape -- all out of a stolen champagne coupe.
the bottle was, though, opened for an entirely different (though no less pretentious) purpose. yesterday was the day of the annual cirque du cycling criterium. wikipedia has a fine definition of a crit(erium), but laura miller's abstemiousness still has a small measure of sway over editorial decisions at 'looking good in pants,' so a description here is also desirable. a crit: several dozen bicycles (and their elite riders) going dangerously fast over a short closed loop through tight city corners. one hour. the crashes are colossal. the whir of the peloton gliding at 40 mph through its turns is a fitting soundtrack for an event that spectators seem to watch with frightened apprehension, but when that apprehension sees its fears realized, there's nothing like the sound of tens of thousands of dollars of carbon fiber splintering amid gasps and dissociated shouts of "we've already called 911."
yesterday was also portland's first day of summer. and there's something very special about summer in the northwest. northwest denizens necessarily accustom themselves to the rain, then eventually insulate themselves further with a layer of mysticism that they, again by necessity, ascribe to the soggy green drear. and to the gray. and to halfassed temperatures that only dictate wardrobes and the direction of the thermostat because of the changing of the month. then summer comes. the sun finally breaks through the clouds and holds its ground, and every year the memory of the previous one has been so obscured by clouds that it's absolutely baffling that something like warm sunshine could even be possible. the cirque crit is held every year on mississippi avenue, which is only a block and a half from the new apartment. so the editorial staff of 'looking good in pants' donned our shorts, leggings, sun dresses and sleeveless shirts, took a bottle from the fridge, dangled glasses from between our fingers and went out into the still too good to be true light of the strange daytime star to strut the avenue (thanks chickens).
the race itself is worth planning an afternoon, but this year's heat also introduced the enticing possibility that spectators would be treated to the gentle lovers quickly peeling off their kits post race. no such luck, unfortunately, but in retrospect, it might have been worse even than this year's one crash had sam nicoletti, who took second (and whose headless pictures were featured at this blog here), bared his chest after inciting bacchanalia by just his profile in that skinsuit. and mark blackwelder, future 'looking good in pants' trophy husband who led the race in the first third, hmm. suffice it to say that the face and the legs, well, apparently make it impossible to write with a laptop actually on the lap. he might even have been staring in this direction.
then, despite that eventual silver lined disappointment, on borthwick at the backstretch of the course, a cavalcade of hellos. and chance but not surprising meetings (portland is the littlest big city in the world). annie from the bye and bye was watching from the retaining wall on the corner of failing street. that pretty cyclist that disappointed half the city by kissing a girl that one night in the parking lot was drinking beer behind shawn small of ruckus components, who talked about having just ridden sixty miles to justify not entering the category 3/4/5 race, his plans for one hundred miles tomorrow and then about finishing his first fully custom frame. the baby momma of that barista from the albina press waved from her second floor terrace.
only two glasses were filled from the bottle before the end of the race and the scurrying toward the promise of flesh at the podium, which is why the bottle was left to be accidentally frozen, luckily empty enough not to explode. it was really best as a prop anyway. a prop that was essential to a lot of silly but damn hott posturing, during the course of which it was by half chance reaffirmed that portland is sexy as all get out, the neighborhood is still full of possibility and that, as wantonly sentimental ("gay" in formal parlance) as it sounds, the community of once ugly ducklings is here still welcoming. oh, and where to find a barbeque to crash? check. bring it on, summer.
the bottle was, though, opened for an entirely different (though no less pretentious) purpose. yesterday was the day of the annual cirque du cycling criterium. wikipedia has a fine definition of a crit(erium), but laura miller's abstemiousness still has a small measure of sway over editorial decisions at 'looking good in pants,' so a description here is also desirable. a crit: several dozen bicycles (and their elite riders) going dangerously fast over a short closed loop through tight city corners. one hour. the crashes are colossal. the whir of the peloton gliding at 40 mph through its turns is a fitting soundtrack for an event that spectators seem to watch with frightened apprehension, but when that apprehension sees its fears realized, there's nothing like the sound of tens of thousands of dollars of carbon fiber splintering amid gasps and dissociated shouts of "we've already called 911."
yesterday was also portland's first day of summer. and there's something very special about summer in the northwest. northwest denizens necessarily accustom themselves to the rain, then eventually insulate themselves further with a layer of mysticism that they, again by necessity, ascribe to the soggy green drear. and to the gray. and to halfassed temperatures that only dictate wardrobes and the direction of the thermostat because of the changing of the month. then summer comes. the sun finally breaks through the clouds and holds its ground, and every year the memory of the previous one has been so obscured by clouds that it's absolutely baffling that something like warm sunshine could even be possible. the cirque crit is held every year on mississippi avenue, which is only a block and a half from the new apartment. so the editorial staff of 'looking good in pants' donned our shorts, leggings, sun dresses and sleeveless shirts, took a bottle from the fridge, dangled glasses from between our fingers and went out into the still too good to be true light of the strange daytime star to strut the avenue (thanks chickens).
the race itself is worth planning an afternoon, but this year's heat also introduced the enticing possibility that spectators would be treated to the gentle lovers quickly peeling off their kits post race. no such luck, unfortunately, but in retrospect, it might have been worse even than this year's one crash had sam nicoletti, who took second (and whose headless pictures were featured at this blog here), bared his chest after inciting bacchanalia by just his profile in that skinsuit. and mark blackwelder, future 'looking good in pants' trophy husband who led the race in the first third, hmm. suffice it to say that the face and the legs, well, apparently make it impossible to write with a laptop actually on the lap. he might even have been staring in this direction.
then, despite that eventual silver lined disappointment, on borthwick at the backstretch of the course, a cavalcade of hellos. and chance but not surprising meetings (portland is the littlest big city in the world). annie from the bye and bye was watching from the retaining wall on the corner of failing street. that pretty cyclist that disappointed half the city by kissing a girl that one night in the parking lot was drinking beer behind shawn small of ruckus components, who talked about having just ridden sixty miles to justify not entering the category 3/4/5 race, his plans for one hundred miles tomorrow and then about finishing his first fully custom frame. the baby momma of that barista from the albina press waved from her second floor terrace.
only two glasses were filled from the bottle before the end of the race and the scurrying toward the promise of flesh at the podium, which is why the bottle was left to be accidentally frozen, luckily empty enough not to explode. it was really best as a prop anyway. a prop that was essential to a lot of silly but damn hott posturing, during the course of which it was by half chance reaffirmed that portland is sexy as all get out, the neighborhood is still full of possibility and that, as wantonly sentimental ("gay" in formal parlance) as it sounds, the community of once ugly ducklings is here still welcoming. oh, and where to find a barbeque to crash? check. bring it on, summer.
SOMETHING UNEXPECTED
this chicken won't eat itself. i only realize the weird morbidity of that statement after writing it, and make sure to wonder if our own chickens are safely in their coop for the night. luckily, they've recently learned to put themselves to bed, and since the weather's good i won't worry past wondering until tomorrow.
but this chicken won't eat itself. and the same fatty stickiness that's lately had me buying whole chickens from the deli case makes it difficult to type. but even for all i'd like to dash this off before i've forgotten the sentences i'd planned, i love it. i'm otherwise a vegetarian, which doesn't need to be said for other than to impress by contrast how much i've given up not indulging (now on multiple occasions) my longtime dream to sit down and finish a whole rotisserie bird -- but now that i've said it i know it makes me sound more the apologetic hypocrite than the conscious exceptor. i'll temper the morbidity by not picking the carcass completely clean, because i know that just means more meat in next week's soup. "volver" is on in the background. i've seen it before so don't have to worry about following the subtitles. also, it's fittingly filled with food, and i love almodovar's colors.
oh! but it's done. all those sentences are forgotten. the chicken did me in. and i accept that revenge. we'll both enjoy the soup, i think. they're serving up mojitos in "voler," and i suddenly want another nightcap. sadly, i find out that you shouldn't leave sparkling wine in the freezer.
but this chicken won't eat itself. and the same fatty stickiness that's lately had me buying whole chickens from the deli case makes it difficult to type. but even for all i'd like to dash this off before i've forgotten the sentences i'd planned, i love it. i'm otherwise a vegetarian, which doesn't need to be said for other than to impress by contrast how much i've given up not indulging (now on multiple occasions) my longtime dream to sit down and finish a whole rotisserie bird -- but now that i've said it i know it makes me sound more the apologetic hypocrite than the conscious exceptor. i'll temper the morbidity by not picking the carcass completely clean, because i know that just means more meat in next week's soup. "volver" is on in the background. i've seen it before so don't have to worry about following the subtitles. also, it's fittingly filled with food, and i love almodovar's colors.
oh! but it's done. all those sentences are forgotten. the chicken did me in. and i accept that revenge. we'll both enjoy the soup, i think. they're serving up mojitos in "voler," and i suddenly want another nightcap. sadly, i find out that you shouldn't leave sparkling wine in the freezer.
Friday, June 11, 2010
DREAM BIG, FAIL HARD
pingmag.jp, the tokyo based magazine about "design and making things" (their quotation marks), was a regular read of mine until it went on indefinite hiatus at the end of 2008. it featured a rotating group of writers in tokyo who visited galleries, interviewed artists, played with gadgets at trade shows, etc. and then reported at the site. in other words, it was a magazine. they don't seem to have supported any ads, so operation of the magazine must have been independently maintained and uncompensated. the writing was often coarse, but the writers get more than commensurate credit for the site being bilingual. i would have loved to have been involved, but was on my own indefinite hiatus at the time, in my case from japan. it's a shame that pingmag stopped producing new content, but who could be surprised.
it was, however, surprising to visit pinmag for the first time in over a year and see recent comments in several languages wondering when we could expect the magazine to start posting again. the content was quality and consistent, and people loved it.
so, people, portland people especially, let's get to work. fun work, that's just us doing the cool, insightful, sweaty whatever it is that we're doing all the time and then writing 500 or 1000 words about it every week or two. 'looking good in pants' is still finding its voice -- and struggling not to become just another site about books. 'looking good in pants' needs to become just another site with variety. plus, the art director needs some help. he's still struggling with the basics of adobe fireworks. pingmag has me reinspired. this site has the potential to fail epically hard. (by that point, i hope that laura miller will have took me on to write reviews for salon.) here and now, especially in portland. thanks for coming to my party.
it was, however, surprising to visit pinmag for the first time in over a year and see recent comments in several languages wondering when we could expect the magazine to start posting again. the content was quality and consistent, and people loved it.
so, people, portland people especially, let's get to work. fun work, that's just us doing the cool, insightful, sweaty whatever it is that we're doing all the time and then writing 500 or 1000 words about it every week or two. 'looking good in pants' is still finding its voice -- and struggling not to become just another site about books. 'looking good in pants' needs to become just another site with variety. plus, the art director needs some help. he's still struggling with the basics of adobe fireworks. pingmag has me reinspired. this site has the potential to fail epically hard. (by that point, i hope that laura miller will have took me on to write reviews for salon.) here and now, especially in portland. thanks for coming to my party.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
HOW TO GRACEFULLY COUNTENANCE AN OBVIOUS SNUB; or, OR NOT
as you've no doubt already noticed, there is still no link to 'looking good in pants' at salon.com. in fact, a not so exhaustive search of the site turned up only one result dated after the inception of this blog, a letter entitled "pot ruined my son's life" that was featured in the "since you asked" section. you've no doubt also noticed that i've given up on laura miller's experiment. i did think about keeping it up whenever writing about ms. miller, but, seeing as she's taken more of a rival's stance than a peer's, i wasn't strongly encouraged. then i thought compromise. since the experiment challenges web writers to write completely and thoughtfully without leaning on links for source material or (often) necessary background information, i thought that maybe i could embed my links so as to include all of that information within them, which would allow readers to decide whether or not they wanted to pursue any potential extras of nuance; although that could still, admittedly, work adversely on their retention spans. kidding, laura. kidding. though it's painfully clever.
but i'll demure from further contention. indeed, i was only caught in the crossfire of the hyperlink war after visiting salon to find out about its new reading club (which i'd found out about from a mention in monday's edition of publisher's lunch). the club touts its atypicality among online book groups based on a format that will facilitate discussion by readers not only after they've finished a book, but during their readings as well. ms. miller will direct the discussions. the club will first discuss the passage by justin cronin. read laura miller's review here. she liked it -- obviously, because it made the club, but i'm guiltily feeling the need to describe my links. for those of you who just kept reading: she says something about bridging the niceties of literary prose and the captivating storytelling of genre fiction. also there are vampires.
sadly, there isn't any space left in my summer entertainment calendar for vampires. i told a friend that i'd read twilight, and it's been an unexpectedly arduous endeavor. i'm hoping to get through the second half by tomorrow. cocktails should help. PLUS, i'm just coming off of watching the second season of "true blood" on dvd and need to spend all of my allotted vampire time to tracking down people with hbo that will let me go over to watch season three.
the real question is whether 'looking good in pants' should have arival (CLEVER!) book group of its own. for a start, it would help me put up that summer reading list. twilight, maybe? it is set in the northwest, which is a(n at least ostensible) focus of ours. and what could be more interesting than reading the fake discussions i'll have with myself in the comments behind the veil of thinly characterized readers? (if no one's actually reading this, that right there counts as one.) laura miller might even show up in the conversation from time to time. i'm sure she's just as busy as i am and simply hasn't gotten around to reading our archives yet. it did, after all, take me all week to finally getting around to reading up on her new group. she also apparently co-founded salon.com. and writes for the book review. see? you can't always get everything the first time through.
'looking good in pants' is going to sit out the passage, but in all likelihood we'll be there for the discussions on july's pick. until then, read my links: no sloppy writing. damn. this stuff just writes itself.
but i'll demure from further contention. indeed, i was only caught in the crossfire of the hyperlink war after visiting salon to find out about its new reading club (which i'd found out about from a mention in monday's edition of publisher's lunch). the club touts its atypicality among online book groups based on a format that will facilitate discussion by readers not only after they've finished a book, but during their readings as well. ms. miller will direct the discussions. the club will first discuss the passage by justin cronin. read laura miller's review here. she liked it -- obviously, because it made the club, but i'm guiltily feeling the need to describe my links. for those of you who just kept reading: she says something about bridging the niceties of literary prose and the captivating storytelling of genre fiction. also there are vampires.
sadly, there isn't any space left in my summer entertainment calendar for vampires. i told a friend that i'd read twilight, and it's been an unexpectedly arduous endeavor. i'm hoping to get through the second half by tomorrow. cocktails should help. PLUS, i'm just coming off of watching the second season of "true blood" on dvd and need to spend all of my allotted vampire time to tracking down people with hbo that will let me go over to watch season three.
the real question is whether 'looking good in pants' should have a
'looking good in pants' is going to sit out the passage, but in all likelihood we'll be there for the discussions on july's pick. until then, read my links: no sloppy writing. damn. this stuff just writes itself.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
THE MOST POPULAR PERSONAL WEBLOG ON THE INTERNET
laura miller of salon.com knows that 'looking good in pants' is new to the game. but that didn't stop her from calling us out today in a piece entitled "the hyperlink war," on how 'learning not to lean on links can make you a better writer.' you won't find a link to the piece until the end of this post, because i've decided to participate for the day in an experiment miller started to omit hyperlinks from the body sections of her web writing and collect them in an explanatory endnote paragraph instead.
miller's experiment was inspired by her reading the shallows by nicholas carr, a book that demonstrates how the split-second distractions available in abundance on the internet work on the plasticity of the brain to change how we process and recall information. filling up on references made by hyperlink apparently over stuffs our short term memories and makes it difficult to retain information in the long term. constantly skimming and reading in short form also appear to make "deep" reading, of the unbroken literary sort, more difficult. in a nutshell, the internet is developing people some concentration problems (bear with me, i can't seem to write without linking to anything).
today's article, however, wasn't so much on the findings of carr's book as on how removing links from our internet writing makes for writing of higher quality. i very much agree that linking to source material instead of taking the time to lay out and support an argument can be conducive to sloppy writing. as regards nonfiction web journalism in particular, it's surely no onus for a writer to completely and intentionally articulate her take on a subject. rather, it's to be expected. and if she can do that without also embedding constant distractions into her writing, she can maybe help us all finish war and peace as well.
the thing is, some people (me and a few friends) already read long form works of well written literature and journalism that are free of hyperlinks. and that's because they're not on the internet. does some online writing suffer from relying too much on linking and interactivity? sure. but the techie extras available to web writers allow us to produce writing of a unique sort, writing with a visual intertextuality (and a sustained and documented intertextuality in the case of the weblog) that is special to the internet. as miller acknowledges, "a sentence that's written to include hyperlinks won't necessarily make as much sense without them." so maybe the problem to be addressed isn't internet reading but the proliferation of new devices that have more and more readers reading at an electronic interface most of the time. the question should be one of time and place rather than of if at all.
but then there's that bane of the "serious" web writer: cleverness. for some sentences, it's not just clarity that's lost when their links are removed, but their basic raison d'être as entertainment. cheekiness doesn't seem to cut it for everyone, though: a colleague of miller's "conveyed her reservations about jokey links that don't really add anything to a story; they strike her as 'lazy,' an inconvenience to readers who are prodded to check out how clever the writer is."
[expletive]
for miller herself, "doing without [hyperlinks] forces you to think harder about whether that reference is as cool or funny as you think it is." oh, it is, laura. it is. maybe someone's just having a hard time keeping up. since i'm going along with the experiment and wasn't able to link to anything there, i'll tell a joke:
knock, knock. who's there? to. to who? to WHOM!
also, i'm under the impression that linking around to popular sites will help my search engine something or other. without the links, i have to rely on dubious post titles. ms. miller, after you read this, please kindly put a link to 'looking good in pants' at salon.com. i think it's only fair since i've featured you (and will link to your article in just a bit) on the most popular personal weblog on the internet.
referenced in this article: "the hyperlink war" by laura miller. you can read her review of the shallows here or check out the book at powell's. now that i've taught you how to read again, try war and peace.
miller's experiment was inspired by her reading the shallows by nicholas carr, a book that demonstrates how the split-second distractions available in abundance on the internet work on the plasticity of the brain to change how we process and recall information. filling up on references made by hyperlink apparently over stuffs our short term memories and makes it difficult to retain information in the long term. constantly skimming and reading in short form also appear to make "deep" reading, of the unbroken literary sort, more difficult. in a nutshell, the internet is developing people some concentration problems (bear with me, i can't seem to write without linking to anything).
today's article, however, wasn't so much on the findings of carr's book as on how removing links from our internet writing makes for writing of higher quality. i very much agree that linking to source material instead of taking the time to lay out and support an argument can be conducive to sloppy writing. as regards nonfiction web journalism in particular, it's surely no onus for a writer to completely and intentionally articulate her take on a subject. rather, it's to be expected. and if she can do that without also embedding constant distractions into her writing, she can maybe help us all finish war and peace as well.
the thing is, some people (me and a few friends) already read long form works of well written literature and journalism that are free of hyperlinks. and that's because they're not on the internet. does some online writing suffer from relying too much on linking and interactivity? sure. but the techie extras available to web writers allow us to produce writing of a unique sort, writing with a visual intertextuality (and a sustained and documented intertextuality in the case of the weblog) that is special to the internet. as miller acknowledges, "a sentence that's written to include hyperlinks won't necessarily make as much sense without them." so maybe the problem to be addressed isn't internet reading but the proliferation of new devices that have more and more readers reading at an electronic interface most of the time. the question should be one of time and place rather than of if at all.
but then there's that bane of the "serious" web writer: cleverness. for some sentences, it's not just clarity that's lost when their links are removed, but their basic raison d'être as entertainment. cheekiness doesn't seem to cut it for everyone, though: a colleague of miller's "conveyed her reservations about jokey links that don't really add anything to a story; they strike her as 'lazy,' an inconvenience to readers who are prodded to check out how clever the writer is."
[expletive]
for miller herself, "doing without [hyperlinks] forces you to think harder about whether that reference is as cool or funny as you think it is." oh, it is, laura. it is. maybe someone's just having a hard time keeping up. since i'm going along with the experiment and wasn't able to link to anything there, i'll tell a joke:
knock, knock. who's there? to. to who? to WHOM!
also, i'm under the impression that linking around to popular sites will help my search engine something or other. without the links, i have to rely on dubious post titles. ms. miller, after you read this, please kindly put a link to 'looking good in pants' at salon.com. i think it's only fair since i've featured you (and will link to your article in just a bit) on the most popular personal weblog on the internet.
referenced in this article: "the hyperlink war" by laura miller. you can read her review of the shallows here or check out the book at powell's. now that i've taught you how to read again, try war and peace.
Monday, June 7, 2010
CHANNELING IRENE CARA; or, FINALLY, SOME REAL CONTENT
that naked chef guy knows what's up. i've decided to protest the endless rain by spending as much time as possible drinking cold, sparkling beverages and cooking in my underwear. i've also decided that i'll continue in celebration once the season finally turns.
my style theme for the less naked hours of the day? well, we're finally serving up a real meal with this post: summer 2010 is to be the summer of the purse queen.
this summer, looking good in pants means looking good in shorts, and in particular shorts over leggings, a trend that i will have SO owned and overdone by the time it gets here next year that i doubt it will have the temerity to catch on. (looking good in pants also means setting new trends in trendsetting.)
probably not everyone can picture exactly how the ground is being broken here, or even how my having a purse now relates at all to the leggings. it's really not hard to bridge the two with a little imagination, but i suppose that if you're reading you also demand the guidance of our authority. so, i had the art department do a rendering. and you're kicking yourself now because you'd gotten a sense that it involved really wanting a glass of wine after shopping but didn't know that you could be both gena rowlands AND parker posey. the purse queen has not only a handbag and smart style, but also a balance of madness and the ability to know -- even through intoxication -- when to stop fagging out. (looking good in pants also means making good sense.)
unfortunately, a friend to whom i had previously described my summer plans (and for whom i had modeled a few sample ensembles) has apparently seen another portland purse queen with my same studied nonchalance and characteristic style of portage. i'm sharing, so of course i expect to be copied. that's the point. but by my friend's account, this other purse queen was so obviously making a play at my throne that i was given very serious pause. it's certainly not too much to expect some acknowledgment and deference so early in the game. i should be flattered, but my position is still too tenuous. at this point, there can only be one. i'm not calling for anyone's head, but i expect to get some nice new accessories out of the game.
please spread the word. i have already written to inform his unhappy father. i'm no scottish immortal, but i'm gonna live forever. dear bitches: remember my name.
love,
christopher
my style theme for the less naked hours of the day? well, we're finally serving up a real meal with this post: summer 2010 is to be the summer of the purse queen.
this summer, looking good in pants means looking good in shorts, and in particular shorts over leggings, a trend that i will have SO owned and overdone by the time it gets here next year that i doubt it will have the temerity to catch on. (looking good in pants also means setting new trends in trendsetting.)
probably not everyone can picture exactly how the ground is being broken here, or even how my having a purse now relates at all to the leggings. it's really not hard to bridge the two with a little imagination, but i suppose that if you're reading you also demand the guidance of our authority. so, i had the art department do a rendering. and you're kicking yourself now because you'd gotten a sense that it involved really wanting a glass of wine after shopping but didn't know that you could be both gena rowlands AND parker posey. the purse queen has not only a handbag and smart style, but also a balance of madness and the ability to know -- even through intoxication -- when to stop fagging out. (looking good in pants also means making good sense.)
unfortunately, a friend to whom i had previously described my summer plans (and for whom i had modeled a few sample ensembles) has apparently seen another portland purse queen with my same studied nonchalance and characteristic style of portage. i'm sharing, so of course i expect to be copied. that's the point. but by my friend's account, this other purse queen was so obviously making a play at my throne that i was given very serious pause. it's certainly not too much to expect some acknowledgment and deference so early in the game. i should be flattered, but my position is still too tenuous. at this point, there can only be one. i'm not calling for anyone's head, but i expect to get some nice new accessories out of the game.
please spread the word. i have already written to inform his unhappy father. i'm no scottish immortal, but i'm gonna live forever. dear bitches: remember my name.
love,
christopher
Sunday, June 6, 2010
ON HOW THE JAPANESE INVENTED BLOGGING; or, A FEW TRUE THINGS AND ONE JOKE
japan does everything better, and does all the better things first. seriously. everything you think is cool already had an ironic revival in japan in the sixties. during my time there, it was like i was living a connecticut yankee in reverse. nothing about the giant robots came at all unexpectedly, and i regularly dazzled the japanese with my knowledge of the strange magics of football and organized religion.
so no one should be surprised that the japanese invented blogging (and well before america got around to inventing the internet). although it does surprise me that no one seems to have already done this post. this blogger posted something close but didn't give the japanese nearly enough credit. (i won't judge her especially harshly because i like the name of her blog. it implies that she is both annoying and a horse.) this url and this blog are evidence that people are familiar with the idea, but in that way of uncomfortable, romanticized orientalism. i suppose i could have done more research than just surveying the first ten google hits for "zuihitsu"（随筆）.
zuihitsu can be pretty well understood by the combination of wikipedia's definition, which makes it seem for some reason that the style hasn't been used since the 1800s, and the poorly written definition at this other wiki. the difference between essaying and writing a collection of zuihitsu? the japanese would probably tell you that it's too nuanced for a fixed explanation. i'd agree with my own hypothetical answer to the question that i also posed, then add that zuihitsu doesn't demand a writer establish any justification for writing, or really even make a point. some writers, unwilling to cede the japanese founding rights to blogging, would try to equate zuihitsu with "writing practice," but that can't deny its early origins or the esteem it's held since, well, a long time ago. it only makes sense (in the sense that it's the only scenario that can make sense) that japan, a place beautifully obsessed with mood and formalized contradiction -- as well, of course, as with well costumed science fiction futures, did it first. add electricity and endemic narcissism and you get a really huge blogoshpere egg.
why the fuss? because i usually eat alone. i make my grocery list around weekly menus, cook delicious meals and, more often than not, eat them by myself. and the other evening i remembered a short work i read from a collection i could have found in the zuihitsu section of junkudo. it was on remembering to take care in preparing and presenting food that you don't plan to share. living alone in tokyo is confusing. tokyo is to the gills with people, and personal space is extremely limited and expensive. and at the same time the city is powerfully lonely and alienating. if the internet were a theme park it would be tokyo.
cooking for one isn't something that the japanese look to for pleasure, which isn't surprising in a culture that equates an unmarried, childless woman in her thirties with the loser in a dogfight. that essay (i'll call it now) didn't have much of a point or conclusion per se, but it was comforting, evocative and delicious.
so, until the book deal it's this. and that's the sound of one hand clapping (uncomfortable, romanticized orientalism) from the looks of the comments. the weather in portland is awful again today. i'm going home to make soup.
so no one should be surprised that the japanese invented blogging (and well before america got around to inventing the internet). although it does surprise me that no one seems to have already done this post. this blogger posted something close but didn't give the japanese nearly enough credit. (i won't judge her especially harshly because i like the name of her blog. it implies that she is both annoying and a horse.) this url and this blog are evidence that people are familiar with the idea, but in that way of uncomfortable, romanticized orientalism. i suppose i could have done more research than just surveying the first ten google hits for "zuihitsu"（随筆）.
zuihitsu can be pretty well understood by the combination of wikipedia's definition, which makes it seem for some reason that the style hasn't been used since the 1800s, and the poorly written definition at this other wiki. the difference between essaying and writing a collection of zuihitsu? the japanese would probably tell you that it's too nuanced for a fixed explanation. i'd agree with my own hypothetical answer to the question that i also posed, then add that zuihitsu doesn't demand a writer establish any justification for writing, or really even make a point. some writers, unwilling to cede the japanese founding rights to blogging, would try to equate zuihitsu with "writing practice," but that can't deny its early origins or the esteem it's held since, well, a long time ago. it only makes sense (in the sense that it's the only scenario that can make sense) that japan, a place beautifully obsessed with mood and formalized contradiction -- as well, of course, as with well costumed science fiction futures, did it first. add electricity and endemic narcissism and you get a really huge blogoshpere egg.
why the fuss? because i usually eat alone. i make my grocery list around weekly menus, cook delicious meals and, more often than not, eat them by myself. and the other evening i remembered a short work i read from a collection i could have found in the zuihitsu section of junkudo. it was on remembering to take care in preparing and presenting food that you don't plan to share. living alone in tokyo is confusing. tokyo is to the gills with people, and personal space is extremely limited and expensive. and at the same time the city is powerfully lonely and alienating. if the internet were a theme park it would be tokyo.
cooking for one isn't something that the japanese look to for pleasure, which isn't surprising in a culture that equates an unmarried, childless woman in her thirties with the loser in a dogfight. that essay (i'll call it now) didn't have much of a point or conclusion per se, but it was comforting, evocative and delicious.
so, until the book deal it's this. and that's the sound of one hand clapping (uncomfortable, romanticized orientalism) from the looks of the comments. the weather in portland is awful again today. i'm going home to make soup.
Friday, June 4, 2010
FANNING THE FLAMES
certainly, no author should expect universal acclaim. more important, though, is not to forget, as readers, that emergence and/of controversy make(s) for better book culture. every book worth lauding merits being raked ABSOLUTELY MERCILESSLY over the coals. . .so to speak, of course. because literary discourse should be incendiary without even having to burn books.
zachary german's debut novel eat when you feel sad has apparently been extremely polarizing. as portland's emerging arbiter of taste, i felt obligated to weigh in. plus, i loved the book. german -- a sort of protege of tao lin -- admittedly owes lin a weighty stylistic debt. regardless, and though his simple prose is unarguably intentional (a choice of style), german's writing is compelling and sympathetic because it's ultimately natural. eat when you feel sad is so expressive of the zeitgeist of our/german's generation because german narrates his characters as we've come to narrate ourselves for most of any given day: briefly, resignedly, online. what's more, far from bathos or just a description of contemporary pastiche (the real measure of mundanity), the intentionality of german's writing lends it a -- dare i say(!) -- unique poesy.
and dare i also say that maybe oriana's reaction to eat when you feel sad was mostly a result of her seeing so much of herself in the book? whatever, lady. it's time to come out of the closet. we're hipsters (i.e. happened to be in our twenties and interested in culture at the beginning of the 21st century). and that aside, aren't we past deifying canonical authors and "good" prose? we've all wallowed in nostalgia for the literary greats of other generations. and, undeniably, those greats had their same moments. i'm not (yet?) saying that zachary german is a literary great. but i think it's great to be given a real opportunity to take literature down from that lofty pedestal.
anyway. if you've got time for another thousand words, here's a recommendation of eat when you feel sad i wrote at about the time that oriana was reading it. let the burning begin.
zachary german's debut novel eat when you feel sad has apparently been extremely polarizing. as portland's emerging arbiter of taste, i felt obligated to weigh in. plus, i loved the book. german -- a sort of protege of tao lin -- admittedly owes lin a weighty stylistic debt. regardless, and though his simple prose is unarguably intentional (a choice of style), german's writing is compelling and sympathetic because it's ultimately natural. eat when you feel sad is so expressive of the zeitgeist of our/german's generation because german narrates his characters as we've come to narrate ourselves for most of any given day: briefly, resignedly, online. what's more, far from bathos or just a description of contemporary pastiche (the real measure of mundanity), the intentionality of german's writing lends it a -- dare i say(!) -- unique poesy.
and dare i also say that maybe oriana's reaction to eat when you feel sad was mostly a result of her seeing so much of herself in the book? whatever, lady. it's time to come out of the closet. we're hipsters (i.e. happened to be in our twenties and interested in culture at the beginning of the 21st century). and that aside, aren't we past deifying canonical authors and "good" prose? we've all wallowed in nostalgia for the literary greats of other generations. and, undeniably, those greats had their same moments. i'm not (yet?) saying that zachary german is a literary great. but i think it's great to be given a real opportunity to take literature down from that lofty pedestal.
anyway. if you've got time for another thousand words, here's a recommendation of eat when you feel sad i wrote at about the time that oriana was reading it. let the burning begin.
Although I’ve never considered myself especially timely, that hasn’t anything to do with punctuality. In fact, I’m terrified of being late. Rather, it’s to say that I've never considered myself to be very “now.” That is, until now. It took me until after college to start independently exploring contemporary fiction, and until the last year or so to start regularly reading a specific roll of blogs. Though, maybe (I think to myself on my more heroic days) it just took my slowing down a little to let a generation settle into itself and catch up to me. At least that's how it felt to read Zachary German's pathetically but (and I say this with only a little embarrassment) sympathetically titled novel, Eat When You Feel Sad.
I came across German's book at a blog written by fellow Melville House author Tao Lin, who has himself been called the voice of a generation, and, as such, whose blog I had started reading on a mostly “because a person like me should probably read this” sort of basis. At any rate, German's title was immediately appealing: I'd just returned from a kick-off-the-new-year road trip through sunny Arizona and California (on which I'd been very lucky in love) to cold, rainy Portland, Oregon and an empty bed. I read the first twenty-five or so pages of EWYFS online. I may have been eating; if not, I'm sure I was thinking about it. I was probably at work. I was certainly sad.
German is eight years my junior, and – still in my twenties – I won't lie and say that gap doesn't feel huge. So it's tough to admit how close an affinity I felt with his protagonist, Robert, who, we can only guess from the timeline of EWYFS, is an autobiographical extension of the author. But Robert rides his bicycle. Robert goes to parties. Robert reads and listens to music. Robert drinks beer. Robert tries to eat healthy and tries not to smoke cigarettes. Robert wants someone to sleep next to but doesn't want to give people the wrong idea. (Robert also has a job in there somewhere.) All things that Christopher does, too. And, you might say (still unimpressed, I'm sure), things that a pretty wide slice of American urbanity does on a regularly unremarkable basis. But for the first time, I might have been there. And, yes, in a situation decidedly less sexy than in, say, Fitzgerald or Selby Jr., but there I was. At last that was my ennui, and this was in print.
The allure of EWYFS is, though, less in Robert himself than in the sincerity of his telling. German doesn't mince words. His pared down, matter-of-fact descriptions of Robert and his thoughts are what make Robert a perfect reflection of reluctant hipsterdom's everyman. And not for what Robert actually does and thinks (although those things certainly place him in a comically recognizable “Stuff White People Like” kind of milieu), but because in each of German's remarks on the unremarkable you can hear a keyboard clicking away to the rhythm of his/Robert's/your own distraction at Gchat/Facebook/Twitter. German writes Robert in sentences that might have been pieced together from an online social networking feed. But, this isn't just a cleverly crafted series of real-life Twitter posts (I think Tao Lin has helped publish one of those) or an annotated photo blog compilation. Taken sentence by sentence, the book wouldn't strike as at all special – let alone recommendable. But transposed from the chat room to the page, our mundane web-going day-to-days are taken by German and made into a book. It's okay, Robert. That's just the way things are. This can be poetry, too. I won't feel bad if have another cookie.
And that's important, because in 2010, it's harder and harder to read like we used to. I spent most of my life browsing physical shelves, turning actual pages, taking notes in notebooks. And while I continue to do all of those things, at the same time I find myself reading or buying more and more online, hopping from one link to next. At work when I write, I prioritize headlines and subject headings, because I'm trained by experience to know that my readers won't get much further. Not that any of that is fundamentally bad. But I do sometimes feel a certain something slipping away from me that would be dangerous to let completely pass. And I won't let it. I found EWYFS on the internet and started reading it – in a quickly palatable, distraction friendly format – on the internet. I sent passages to friends via email with short messages: “haha this guy totally owes us royalties for plagiarizing our lives.” But Zachary German wrote EWYFS as a book. And it was in ink on paper that I was excited to purchase it as soon as it was on the shelf at Powell's bookstore. And when I read it (it's on the short side and only took one evening), I might have been sad, I was probably hungry and walking in and out of the kitchen, but I wasn't on the internet.
Although EWYFS was, for me, born online of a rote blog read and is inseparable in its essence from the way we've learned to read and communicate over the internet, what's important is that it makes its case as a piece of literature. Even though its narrative form is derived from a distracted and abbreviated web-speak, its author hasn't just written a web serial in shorthand. Rather, German writes so convincingly about the characteristic malaise of our digital generation because he knows its language well enough to show us for who we are. . .and conspires with us to go ahead and eat if we're feeling sad.
Whether it's me finally giving in to the blogosphere and catching on to the back end of a trend, or a generation finally finding itself and catching up to me, EWYFS is encouraging. At the very least, it's good to know that at the end of the day the new literati of the web will continue to get us off the computer and into a book. And, also, it's nice to feel included.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
HOW TO MAKE YOU FEEL AWKWARD ABOUT MY DIFFERENTLY ABLEDNESS
the 'looking good in pants' summer reading list shouldn't be far off, even if summer doesn't show signs of making it to portland any time soon. unfortunately, i seem to get more reading done when the weather's nice, so if the sun doesn't come out to keep me inside i won't have much chance of getting through a very ambitious list. and that means no insightful musings. so i guess you'd better hope for bright skies.
but this blog couldn't go ahead with its own list before addressing one of the entries on npr's list of indie booksellers' summer reading picks. i was beyond surprised when i saw day for night picked by a bookseller from milwaukee. though it wasn't the surprise i wanted. i'd hoped that there'd been done a translation of kazushige abe's 『アメリカの夜』, a book i recently read by a japanese author i've come to love since being recommended him during a trip to japan last november. ”アメリカの夜” could feasibly be translated as "american night" or maybe "a night in america" depending on context, but, given the content of abe's book (which i'd be happy to analyze at length at request), its title could only be translated to echo the title of truffaut's 1974 film and the term for the cinematographic technique to which the film's title alludes. it's "day for night" or nothing.
please, though, don't think i can't take the taking of the title. like the hard-to-question people at mobylives pointed out last week, a good title is a good title. title matches might cause some marketing and publicity problems, but a title match is not enough a book to damn. and frederick reiken's day for night is probably great. it comes with a great endorsement after all. it should probably go on our list. if just for the title, there's reason to think i'd like it.
my disappointment came rather for the knowledge that there still isn't a single work of abe's available in english. at least one of his has been done in french -- which isn't surprising since there's a french translation of this (via an estonian english professor: "the greatest japanese book ever written. something like philip k. dick meets finnegan's wake.") there's nothing as uniquely frustrating as wanting to recommend an untranslated book or author to someone who doesn't read in its/his/her original language; or, for that matter, to find out that something has been translated but just not into [language] -- in the case of my most immediate reading milieu, english. (or, and maybe this is the worst, to see one author completely dwarfing his more talented neighbor on the shelves at the bookstore.)
to the extent that literature dictates or informs on culture and narrates other contemporary humanities, there's too much to keep losing not to push for a haler pursuit of literature in translation. it's expensive, sure. and people don't really buy literature in english either, you say? maybe, methinks, that's less reason to resign ourselves to fewer good books in translation and more a call to arms to reevaluate how they can be profitably published. melville house in brookyln (it's true, i worship them) is making it happen. this interview with melville house publisher dennis johnson spells out how. finding good translators is a not surprisingly important part of it . . .and damn if dennis isn't classy.
back to abe: he probably won't make it onto many of our readers' own summer reading lists this year. and that won't be out of choice in every case. a shame. i'm expecting another of his books to come back from japan with a friend in a couple of weeks. you'll just have to take my word on that one, too. unless, that is, you read french. bastards.
but this blog couldn't go ahead with its own list before addressing one of the entries on npr's list of indie booksellers' summer reading picks. i was beyond surprised when i saw day for night picked by a bookseller from milwaukee. though it wasn't the surprise i wanted. i'd hoped that there'd been done a translation of kazushige abe's 『アメリカの夜』, a book i recently read by a japanese author i've come to love since being recommended him during a trip to japan last november. ”アメリカの夜” could feasibly be translated as "american night" or maybe "a night in america" depending on context, but, given the content of abe's book (which i'd be happy to analyze at length at request), its title could only be translated to echo the title of truffaut's 1974 film and the term for the cinematographic technique to which the film's title alludes. it's "day for night" or nothing.
please, though, don't think i can't take the taking of the title. like the hard-to-question people at mobylives pointed out last week, a good title is a good title. title matches might cause some marketing and publicity problems, but a title match is not enough a book to damn. and frederick reiken's day for night is probably great. it comes with a great endorsement after all. it should probably go on our list. if just for the title, there's reason to think i'd like it.
my disappointment came rather for the knowledge that there still isn't a single work of abe's available in english. at least one of his has been done in french -- which isn't surprising since there's a french translation of this (via an estonian english professor: "the greatest japanese book ever written. something like philip k. dick meets finnegan's wake.") there's nothing as uniquely frustrating as wanting to recommend an untranslated book or author to someone who doesn't read in its/his/her original language; or, for that matter, to find out that something has been translated but just not into [language] -- in the case of my most immediate reading milieu, english. (or, and maybe this is the worst, to see one author completely dwarfing his more talented neighbor on the shelves at the bookstore.)
to the extent that literature dictates or informs on culture and narrates other contemporary humanities, there's too much to keep losing not to push for a haler pursuit of literature in translation. it's expensive, sure. and people don't really buy literature in english either, you say? maybe, methinks, that's less reason to resign ourselves to fewer good books in translation and more a call to arms to reevaluate how they can be profitably published. melville house in brookyln (it's true, i worship them) is making it happen. this interview with melville house publisher dennis johnson spells out how. finding good translators is a not surprisingly important part of it . . .and damn if dennis isn't classy.
back to abe: he probably won't make it onto many of our readers' own summer reading lists this year. and that won't be out of choice in every case. a shame. i'm expecting another of his books to come back from japan with a friend in a couple of weeks. you'll just have to take my word on that one, too. unless, that is, you read french. bastards.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
PROMISING NOTHING AND DELIVERING EVERYTHING (then VICE VERSA)
thank you for taking us at our instincts in our assessment of portland demography. as it turns out, though, someone else called the census bureau -- as well as some other number crunchers -- on portland and corroborated this blog's thoughtfully argued piece on what will certainly be dire, dire straits in the rose city if the (other) cool kids keep moving here. the conservative business press must have a closet obsession with micro-roasted coffee and bicycles, because, following on that article from the economist, this time the reportage came from the wall street journal.
we're proud that not only was the wsj article posted after the one from the economist but that it's dated may 16 (that's more than a month after the other article), which means that 'looking good in pants' is going to be scooping major journals and newspapers within a week or so. (we don't promise statistics, but we can do that kind of math.) we're also proud to have admitted our torpitude regarding hard data but to be delivering it anyway. true, we didn't do the leg work, but neither did the guy from the journal: look at the slideshow. if you know portland then you know that the guy got invited to someone's condo in the pearl and then walked around about one-and-a-half blocks of downtown for his entire survey. then he got on the phone and asked a couple of questions, the fruit of which, yes, we're using here. really, now, who would you say is the cannier investigative journalist?
for those of you who didn't bother to click through, great! let me encapsulate. all the smart young people are moving to portland, and there are no jobs here. [hyperlink to interesting friends' websites] all of my friends made portland really cool, and now people are willing to be severely underemployed in exchange for invitations to our parties. there's a guy in the article who seems to have had a pretty ok job at an independent weekly in oxnard before moving here. some of my best friends are laid off ex-employees of portland's weeklies. i wish that i would have made this blog more famous before he decided to come, because i probably could have dissuaded him. freelancers write me emails to let me know that they can help me with my job. they send me resumes. i only want my job because it is one. that's the lesson.
the meta-lesson: 'looking good in pants' exceeds expectations; portland, ore. doesn't. folks, it's june 1, and it's raining and maybe low 60s. you're unemployed and broke, you want to at least waste time in the sun, right? it's the worst of times. and seattle's the same -- rain and unemployment. i can't even make an a tale of two cities analogy. on top of that, vancouver is canada, so good luck getting a job there. the northwest is hopeless.
we don't hate, though. in fact, we'll all be late towork dance class because we're waiting for you to cross the intersection on your bicycle while you wait because you understand basic traffic laws. in other words, portland's probably not for you. but i will DEFINITELY go see your band when you come through here on tour.
we're proud that not only was the wsj article posted after the one from the economist but that it's dated may 16 (that's more than a month after the other article), which means that 'looking good in pants' is going to be scooping major journals and newspapers within a week or so. (we don't promise statistics, but we can do that kind of math.) we're also proud to have admitted our torpitude regarding hard data but to be delivering it anyway. true, we didn't do the leg work, but neither did the guy from the journal: look at the slideshow. if you know portland then you know that the guy got invited to someone's condo in the pearl and then walked around about one-and-a-half blocks of downtown for his entire survey. then he got on the phone and asked a couple of questions, the fruit of which, yes, we're using here. really, now, who would you say is the cannier investigative journalist?
for those of you who didn't bother to click through, great! let me encapsulate. all the smart young people are moving to portland, and there are no jobs here. [hyperlink to interesting friends' websites] all of my friends made portland really cool, and now people are willing to be severely underemployed in exchange for invitations to our parties. there's a guy in the article who seems to have had a pretty ok job at an independent weekly in oxnard before moving here. some of my best friends are laid off ex-employees of portland's weeklies. i wish that i would have made this blog more famous before he decided to come, because i probably could have dissuaded him. freelancers write me emails to let me know that they can help me with my job. they send me resumes. i only want my job because it is one. that's the lesson.
the meta-lesson: 'looking good in pants' exceeds expectations; portland, ore. doesn't. folks, it's june 1, and it's raining and maybe low 60s. you're unemployed and broke, you want to at least waste time in the sun, right? it's the worst of times. and seattle's the same -- rain and unemployment. i can't even make an a tale of two cities analogy. on top of that, vancouver is canada, so good luck getting a job there. the northwest is hopeless.
we don't hate, though. in fact, we'll all be late to
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