"I believe in each scene of this Autobiography, I'm proud to say. I'm happy with the results...A busy life, happy. Sure, I broke the rules by revealing some of my suffering and anxieties. But the times we live in demand a little pathos. I had to make myself seem believable." - pg. 319
"I never want to buy drugs from the police again. Only from real, safe, sane, professional drug-dealers." - pg. 259
"...but what strikes you as banal is in actuality a series of potentially lethal traps. They want to catch you by any means necessary. One way or the other, to expose you." - pg. 249
"The most hated men in history become myths. Everybody's afraid of them, secretly wants to be them. I'd love to see normal people be uneasy when I approach. Good men are inevitably forgotten. Saints are monotonous." pg. 235
"Without monumental egos
art is no better than housework" - pg. 164
"It's enough to know I'm cold. The politics of apathy. No one knows how much work this takes. They don't know the effort I make to repress myself. It borders on self-mutilation." pg. 146
make culture. rescue the anonymous.
Brandão, Ignácio de Loyola. Anonymous Celebrity. Trans. Nelson H. Vieira.
Champaign: Dalkey Archive Press, 2009.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
"THE FIRST IMAGINARY AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN THE WORLD"
this one is not it. someone beat us there. someone unnamed, obviously, but whose story was chronicled nonetheless -- and whether to call that chronicle fiction is, given the topic, beside the point. the resolution of ignácio de loyola brandão's anonymous celebrity was disappointing as compared to the originality of its titular personality's voice and narrative mode (the latter frustratingly reminiscent of a tabloid weblog), but even for its cop out conclusion, that autobiography-cum-case file -- and especially for all of its formulations and recommendations) still annuls the originality of our own.
to think that we've supported the cause of literary translation with such dedication, only to find out that had we been spared the translation of this one title we wouldn't now be faced with having to give up the game. "a good imaginary autobiographer has to be comfortable starting from scratch every once and a while if his sculpture begins to fall apart."
i wrecked over the weekend on the east bank esplanade. a design failure, and the reason that i generally avoid the esplanade. i met the path with my right hand, and for the second time in six months my gloves saved me, at least from road rash (which i admit is too noble sounding a phrase for describing any injury i might have sustained from a crash like mine the other day). i did not, however, walk away without a noticeable amount of bruising. one of the two men who got off of their bicycles to check after my well being as i sat on the path with my right knee and shoulder numb from the blunt trauma of the crash knew the score. "i know how it feels. it's more of an ego blow than anything." so he understood when i asked him and the other guy to leave me alone.
thankfully, the sore throat i developed later wasn't gonorrhea.
"Scurrilous" is a great word.
Creation and dissipation. "Dissipation" is another good one. A word with many connotations. You can dissipate your health through drugs, orgies, alcoholism -- hedonism. Or else, in perfect tranquility an with an untroubled conscience, you can dissipate your talent. Wasteful expenditure [delusional hipsterity].
I used these and other words quite often in my imaginary autobiography (a genre I've invented myself, and which I hope secures me a place in the history of literature.)
to think that we've supported the cause of literary translation with such dedication, only to find out that had we been spared the translation of this one title we wouldn't now be faced with having to give up the game. "a good imaginary autobiographer has to be comfortable starting from scratch every once and a while if his sculpture begins to fall apart."
i wrecked over the weekend on the east bank esplanade. a design failure, and the reason that i generally avoid the esplanade. i met the path with my right hand, and for the second time in six months my gloves saved me, at least from road rash (which i admit is too noble sounding a phrase for describing any injury i might have sustained from a crash like mine the other day). i did not, however, walk away without a noticeable amount of bruising. one of the two men who got off of their bicycles to check after my well being as i sat on the path with my right knee and shoulder numb from the blunt trauma of the crash knew the score. "i know how it feels. it's more of an ego blow than anything." so he understood when i asked him and the other guy to leave me alone.
I have trained myself to think perfect thoughts -- sequences constructed with loving care and then saved, frozen in special compartments of my memory set aside for just this purpose. I stage a scene and then redo and correct it, change details, adjust its contours, colors, details. i bridge gaps, cut together the final print.
thankfully, the sore throat i developed later wasn't gonorrhea.
Friday, May 27, 2011
HOW TO LOOK REALLY, EXCEPTIONALLY, IMPOSSIBLY GOOD IN PANTS, part 2
prom! we took friends, or sophomores or went with a classmate who couldn't take his freshman girlfriend (it was the seventies) and couldn't keep from the self-mutilation of standing by and watching, alone, as the other juniors and seniors gathered with their dates in the school parking lot across the street, him with his freshman girlfriend, getting ready for the post-prom sunday picnic. no fun. who wouldn't relish the opportunity for a do over?
portland has proms, because portlanders love theme parties. or, rather, portlanders love reasons to set up a photo booth (those of you who have lived in austin will understand). unfortunately, too many of the portlanders who lust after post-party facebook réclame in the click of the photo booth flashbulb don't have any grown up clothes. it's no trivial perquisite of working in portland, oregon that employers of anyone who might be considered a cultural creative make it so that those of their employees needn't own a suit. but it's no trivial oversight of civility that most of the gay men at the prom themed queer dance night on thursday night showed up in their work clothes. hoodies over plaid button ups might pass muster behind the computer, but is that really how we want to our only prom (this month)?
that's of particular consideration when it's considered that portland has so many fine local tailors -- and in particular the ladies of duchess clothier. it's a very fine thing to have quality local designers available for ordering creatively devised custom garments, but it's of an entirely different order of fineness to have available a group of stylish and knowledgeable local women who have dedicated themselves to men's fashion.
duchess was founded by lady seyta selter (the aptly handled "founding duchess") as a small vintage reproduction boutique for portland's ladies in 2005, but the company has since metamorphosed into an (only somewhat larger) operation committed to outfitting the men of portland in the most dapper suits, shirts and accessories -- and ms. selter's uniquely cool, vintage sensibilities deliver a high standard of dapper, indeed. today, duchess occupies the entirety of the showroom at se 11th ave and division that it used to share with haberdasher winn perry, and duchess' offerings have come to include not just its exquisite -- if under reputed -- custom garments, but also a head to toe line of ready to wear pieces.
the duchess concept is simple: every man looks good, not necessarily in a suit, but in a suit that was made to measure. and the duchess experience begins with the measurements. if it feels good to be wearing (and to be seen wearing) a duchess creation (and people at thursday's prom were definitely looking at the two button duchess two piece with the satin lapels), then it's because lady ariel arrow, the duchess of fit, got it right when she asked you up from the plush leather couch across from her consultation table and took to you with her tape measure. she asks your age. your age informs your carriage, and that number goes down with all the others -- and the photos she's taken -- in your file, which is kept on file, because once you've had yourself made a duchess suit you'll be back for others.
the concept is simple, but making an order isn't easy. anything but. even if you're only ordering from the scotch basic menu, which limits you to choosing one of five styles preselected by the ladies from some two dozen total patterns that uniquely represent the best of "classic" taste from the victorian era to the present, you'll still have to decide on color, fabric (those two choices are especially daunting when you're ordering custom shirts)...a vest? a silk jacket lining? hand-stitched lapels? the exact fit of the final suit is up to the customer as well, and although ariel is happy to lend her expertise to your decision through suggestions, she's just as willing to encourage your creativity and push you, with a patient smile and silence, toward an assertion of your personal style. the combination of luxury and coziness that characterizes ariel's consultations can be confounding. the duchess showroom -- and that leather couch in particular -- are inviting, as are all of the ladies (and the one gent) of duchess, but, but...no kid in any candy store has ever had this much fun, or was ever faced with such a complication of choices.
the cultural lexicographers should change the idiom. the image of a dandy gone to duchess is so much more evocative, and if it weren't for the pecuniary limitations that might restrict said dandy's ability to order each and every one of the outfits he'd imagined out of the infinite possibilities of duchess' offerings, that phrase would exemplify absolute bliss. now it just lies with we evangelists to spread the word, get the phrase to catch. spread the word by wearing the clothes. by making orders, as difficult as that task can sometimes be. and not that you won't do whatever it is you can to have all of your suits and shirts made by duchess after you're first glamoured by the duchess magic, but it's worth mentioning that custom garments from duchess are almost indecently affordable for the order of quality and design savvy that they represent. but you're right. it's uncivil to talk about price. you can find pricing information along with style menus at the duchess website.
and pictures? find those at the website, too. the ones from prom aren't ready yet. and if they don't turn out -- the mood was so uninspiringly under dressed -- we'll just have to throw another do over. but in another suit, of course. unfortunately, that means a wait. but it's never not worth it. those ten weeks are always the sweetest sorrow.
portland has proms, because portlanders love theme parties. or, rather, portlanders love reasons to set up a photo booth (those of you who have lived in austin will understand). unfortunately, too many of the portlanders who lust after post-party facebook réclame in the click of the photo booth flashbulb don't have any grown up clothes. it's no trivial perquisite of working in portland, oregon that employers of anyone who might be considered a cultural creative make it so that those of their employees needn't own a suit. but it's no trivial oversight of civility that most of the gay men at the prom themed queer dance night on thursday night showed up in their work clothes. hoodies over plaid button ups might pass muster behind the computer, but is that really how we want to our only prom (this month)?
that's of particular consideration when it's considered that portland has so many fine local tailors -- and in particular the ladies of duchess clothier. it's a very fine thing to have quality local designers available for ordering creatively devised custom garments, but it's of an entirely different order of fineness to have available a group of stylish and knowledgeable local women who have dedicated themselves to men's fashion.
duchess was founded by lady seyta selter (the aptly handled "founding duchess") as a small vintage reproduction boutique for portland's ladies in 2005, but the company has since metamorphosed into an (only somewhat larger) operation committed to outfitting the men of portland in the most dapper suits, shirts and accessories -- and ms. selter's uniquely cool, vintage sensibilities deliver a high standard of dapper, indeed. today, duchess occupies the entirety of the showroom at se 11th ave and division that it used to share with haberdasher winn perry, and duchess' offerings have come to include not just its exquisite -- if under reputed -- custom garments, but also a head to toe line of ready to wear pieces.
the duchess concept is simple: every man looks good, not necessarily in a suit, but in a suit that was made to measure. and the duchess experience begins with the measurements. if it feels good to be wearing (and to be seen wearing) a duchess creation (and people at thursday's prom were definitely looking at the two button duchess two piece with the satin lapels), then it's because lady ariel arrow, the duchess of fit, got it right when she asked you up from the plush leather couch across from her consultation table and took to you with her tape measure. she asks your age. your age informs your carriage, and that number goes down with all the others -- and the photos she's taken -- in your file, which is kept on file, because once you've had yourself made a duchess suit you'll be back for others.
the concept is simple, but making an order isn't easy. anything but. even if you're only ordering from the scotch basic menu, which limits you to choosing one of five styles preselected by the ladies from some two dozen total patterns that uniquely represent the best of "classic" taste from the victorian era to the present, you'll still have to decide on color, fabric (those two choices are especially daunting when you're ordering custom shirts)...a vest? a silk jacket lining? hand-stitched lapels? the exact fit of the final suit is up to the customer as well, and although ariel is happy to lend her expertise to your decision through suggestions, she's just as willing to encourage your creativity and push you, with a patient smile and silence, toward an assertion of your personal style. the combination of luxury and coziness that characterizes ariel's consultations can be confounding. the duchess showroom -- and that leather couch in particular -- are inviting, as are all of the ladies (and the one gent) of duchess, but, but...no kid in any candy store has ever had this much fun, or was ever faced with such a complication of choices.
the cultural lexicographers should change the idiom. the image of a dandy gone to duchess is so much more evocative, and if it weren't for the pecuniary limitations that might restrict said dandy's ability to order each and every one of the outfits he'd imagined out of the infinite possibilities of duchess' offerings, that phrase would exemplify absolute bliss. now it just lies with we evangelists to spread the word, get the phrase to catch. spread the word by wearing the clothes. by making orders, as difficult as that task can sometimes be. and not that you won't do whatever it is you can to have all of your suits and shirts made by duchess after you're first glamoured by the duchess magic, but it's worth mentioning that custom garments from duchess are almost indecently affordable for the order of quality and design savvy that they represent. but you're right. it's uncivil to talk about price. you can find pricing information along with style menus at the duchess website.
and pictures? find those at the website, too. the ones from prom aren't ready yet. and if they don't turn out -- the mood was so uninspiringly under dressed -- we'll just have to throw another do over. but in another suit, of course. unfortunately, that means a wait. but it's never not worth it. those ten weeks are always the sweetest sorrow.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
OH, AND ONE MORE THING
on the approach to the coffee shop:
"he's one of the gay ones, for sure."
"but he's always with a really pretty woman."
"what is it that you see going on here, monique?"
"you're right. they're like us in ten years. we should all get a picture together."
"twenty years, maybe."
"i don't want to be here in twenty years."
"yeah, neither do i."
last night we were trying to remember what it was we thought we should have put up for the opening post of "sex and compromise" but knew that nothing we were coming up with was as good as what we were sure we had that other night. in any case, she's not the stupid girl who doesn't know about her boyfriend.
"he's one of the gay ones, for sure."
"but he's always with a really pretty woman."
"what is it that you see going on here, monique?"
"you're right. they're like us in ten years. we should all get a picture together."
"twenty years, maybe."
"i don't want to be here in twenty years."
"yeah, neither do i."
last night we were trying to remember what it was we thought we should have put up for the opening post of "sex and compromise" but knew that nothing we were coming up with was as good as what we were sure we had that other night. in any case, she's not the stupid girl who doesn't know about her boyfriend.
ONE MORE THING
there were so many today that i can't remember which one we didn't share with you to remind you of it, but i did finally remember that i'd meant to announce that the bike fag moved to portland. i didn't think he was really going to do it, but his blog says it's so. that blog, incidentally, hasn't been updated since april 15, the day on which the fag announced his arrival. as such, i will no longer list that blog here as a devotee. (nor, for the same reason, will you find a hyperlink to it anywhere in this post.) the biggest pond of american cycling (where he'd tested the water for a barista position before moving!) has apparently proven too challenging a milieu for the fag to keep confidence in his routine. i didn't think it would be so easy. my condolences. now that's over, tomorrow the world.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
"HOW TO BE HAPPY"
the ten-day forecast is for rain, and only the completely witless among us here in portland could honestly expect for that to change before july if at all, but that doesn't stop any one of us from manifesting our witless hopes for an early and consistent summer by preparing our swimsuit bodies. so there wasn't to be any drinking until the party on friday, and only then because it would be ungracious as a co-host to abstain completely, but then not again until at least another week later. we're considering throwing an underwear party for the beginning of june just to steel our resolve. nothing to drink and extra miles in the mornings.
i realized that my plans must have been for another night when i arrived at the whiskey soda lounge, but having planned to be in southeast i took the opportunity to ride up the back side of mount tabor before heading to 32nd and division. extra miles. and uphill. plus, the whiskey soda lounge serves tasty and refreshing drinking vinegars, so i could consider the possible difficulty of teetotaling at the center of a party avoided. but then there was no party, and it seemed silly to spend on drinking vinegars, sitting alone at the lounge, if i still had time to make it home, to the laundromat and to get some underwear cleaned before the laundromat closed. i could hang them dry myself.
i took anonymous celebrity by ignácio de loyola brandão with me for the wash cycle. "i now read books and have stopped drinking. i have become boring, but i feel good -- even though i'm philosophically against not drinking." thanks lars von trier. i don't suspect you've ever cared much about your swimsuit body, but damn if that press conference on "melancholia" at cannes doesn't keep on giving. i'm of a similar philosophy.
brandão was in on my delinquency as well. anonymous celebrity is, a novel, yes, but it's also a guidebook of sorts, intended to help the faceless masses rescue ourselves from the death sentence of our obscurity. and damned if i didn't come to the section entitled "how to be happy" while my underwear were spinning.
"people live with a constant fear of transgression...what frauds. there's only one way to be happy: to lose it...to push everything around you into anarchy...
pleasure."
i got off on the serendipity. the serendipity and the easy inspiration. and the validation of my efforts to keep pushing everything around me into anarchy for the sake of the how-to autobiography. maybe that was enough. you won't know. anyway, extra miles in the morning. forecast: cloudy.
i realized that my plans must have been for another night when i arrived at the whiskey soda lounge, but having planned to be in southeast i took the opportunity to ride up the back side of mount tabor before heading to 32nd and division. extra miles. and uphill. plus, the whiskey soda lounge serves tasty and refreshing drinking vinegars, so i could consider the possible difficulty of teetotaling at the center of a party avoided. but then there was no party, and it seemed silly to spend on drinking vinegars, sitting alone at the lounge, if i still had time to make it home, to the laundromat and to get some underwear cleaned before the laundromat closed. i could hang them dry myself.
i took anonymous celebrity by ignácio de loyola brandão with me for the wash cycle. "i now read books and have stopped drinking. i have become boring, but i feel good -- even though i'm philosophically against not drinking." thanks lars von trier. i don't suspect you've ever cared much about your swimsuit body, but damn if that press conference on "melancholia" at cannes doesn't keep on giving. i'm of a similar philosophy.
brandão was in on my delinquency as well. anonymous celebrity is, a novel, yes, but it's also a guidebook of sorts, intended to help the faceless masses rescue ourselves from the death sentence of our obscurity. and damned if i didn't come to the section entitled "how to be happy" while my underwear were spinning.
"people live with a constant fear of transgression...what frauds. there's only one way to be happy: to lose it...to push everything around you into anarchy...
pleasure."
i got off on the serendipity. the serendipity and the easy inspiration. and the validation of my efforts to keep pushing everything around me into anarchy for the sake of the how-to autobiography. maybe that was enough. you won't know. anyway, extra miles in the morning. forecast: cloudy.
Monday, May 23, 2011
FROM THE ASHES
our will towards looking good in pants is a flagrant promotion of vanity. no one here expected to be saved. but, as may twenty-first approached, we also didn't spare ourselves the vain hope that something might happen on saturday to save us from having to think about how much better in pants we'd have to look for year number two.
it's difficult enough to optimally fill a social calendar in order that our own fulfillment and non-disappointment be maximized, but now we also find ourselves under an obligation to an audience, and it isn't clear whether discussing an entirely new set of events and topics or simply re-covering the same ones from last year in sequence one year later would be to the highest benefit for all parties. the latter course seemed initially appealing -- although admittedly shticky -- for its potential to help us address any lingering (or looming) questions surrounding our diaphanous relationship to metablogging. however, that relationship can be just as easily addressed in brief, and immediately: this isn't a metablog, but rather a blog that occasionally adopts the discursive modes usually associated with that medium in order to comment on it; i.e. not so much a blog about blogging as a blog that sometimes (and sometimes implicitly) discusses the idea of the metablog. and that, of course, certainly isn't our saying that there's anything doubly meta going on either. we might be musing over the corpse of postmodernism, but we're not the ones who killed ourselves. it's just like with the hipsters, except that, well, they (we?) managed to be both the obituarist and the hand holding the smoking gun (cold and lifeless after the suicide) until the meta-meta-self-aware elephant in the room sat on the party. and portland didn't learn a thing, even if some of us managed to dive off before the shark got jumped (virtually, by identity thieves in a gentrified former warehouse district), which is the reason that the other plan won't work either. this town is damn near finished. luckily, we won't have to worry about that or anything for too much longer since the world is ending in five months. and lucky for portlanders, where we live is a lot like hell: the weather is awful, but all of your friends are there.
so yesterday, instead of letting myself get down about my indecision -- or the ultimate futility of deciding -- i let myself stay down about the outcome of the soccer game. none of the starting members for columbus got raptured, but that still didn't help the team break portland's inaugural season at-home winning streak. the game's only goal scorer was a former columbus player who was brought over to portland in last year's major league soccer expansion draft. columbus' best scoring opportunity? narrowly foiled by portland's keeper, who went to my high school. my memory wants to put him on the junior varsity team freshman year.
i won't be watching any of the mtv remake of "skins," but the bbc version is brilliant (as they'd say in the bbc version). video verite finally has the third season, which isn't on the shelf at the store because the store's one copy came home with me yesterday. (spring fever.) i spent my entire afternoon wondering over the benefits of different designer sparkling waters, commiserating with a beautifully wrecked cast of wasted british youth. you wouldn't think that would have afforded me much time for anything else, but even for my lowered spirits i still attacked the four sunday crossword puzzles that i'd neglected during the lead up to the anniversary party. who's wasted now? three and a half finished before riding to namaste for the dinner buffet. that's productivity.
i had no idea there was a dance floor in the lounge, and i'm confident that the party of thirty sitting at the lofted level brought it after i left. the staff had only just started delivering the group's cocktails by pitcher. i, however, had planning to do. get ready for another year.
it's difficult enough to optimally fill a social calendar in order that our own fulfillment and non-disappointment be maximized, but now we also find ourselves under an obligation to an audience, and it isn't clear whether discussing an entirely new set of events and topics or simply re-covering the same ones from last year in sequence one year later would be to the highest benefit for all parties. the latter course seemed initially appealing -- although admittedly shticky -- for its potential to help us address any lingering (or looming) questions surrounding our diaphanous relationship to metablogging. however, that relationship can be just as easily addressed in brief, and immediately: this isn't a metablog, but rather a blog that occasionally adopts the discursive modes usually associated with that medium in order to comment on it; i.e. not so much a blog about blogging as a blog that sometimes (and sometimes implicitly) discusses the idea of the metablog. and that, of course, certainly isn't our saying that there's anything doubly meta going on either. we might be musing over the corpse of postmodernism, but we're not the ones who killed ourselves. it's just like with the hipsters, except that, well, they (we?) managed to be both the obituarist and the hand holding the smoking gun (cold and lifeless after the suicide) until the meta-meta-self-aware elephant in the room sat on the party. and portland didn't learn a thing, even if some of us managed to dive off before the shark got jumped (virtually, by identity thieves in a gentrified former warehouse district), which is the reason that the other plan won't work either. this town is damn near finished. luckily, we won't have to worry about that or anything for too much longer since the world is ending in five months. and lucky for portlanders, where we live is a lot like hell: the weather is awful, but all of your friends are there.
so yesterday, instead of letting myself get down about my indecision -- or the ultimate futility of deciding -- i let myself stay down about the outcome of the soccer game. none of the starting members for columbus got raptured, but that still didn't help the team break portland's inaugural season at-home winning streak. the game's only goal scorer was a former columbus player who was brought over to portland in last year's major league soccer expansion draft. columbus' best scoring opportunity? narrowly foiled by portland's keeper, who went to my high school. my memory wants to put him on the junior varsity team freshman year.
i won't be watching any of the mtv remake of "skins," but the bbc version is brilliant (as they'd say in the bbc version). video verite finally has the third season, which isn't on the shelf at the store because the store's one copy came home with me yesterday. (spring fever.) i spent my entire afternoon wondering over the benefits of different designer sparkling waters, commiserating with a beautifully wrecked cast of wasted british youth. you wouldn't think that would have afforded me much time for anything else, but even for my lowered spirits i still attacked the four sunday crossword puzzles that i'd neglected during the lead up to the anniversary party. who's wasted now? three and a half finished before riding to namaste for the dinner buffet. that's productivity.
i had no idea there was a dance floor in the lounge, and i'm confident that the party of thirty sitting at the lofted level brought it after i left. the staff had only just started delivering the group's cocktails by pitcher. i, however, had planning to do. get ready for another year.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
BUY MY BOOK, AGAIN
there wasn't an accessible wifi signal at the united methodist church in worthington, ohio on saturday, so circumstance -- and certainly not any shortfall in preparation -- stayed the promise and the dream of live blogging the timara wedding (the ceremony that officially sanctioned the union of king county's cutest power couple was held in the couple's hometown). however, as if to compensate for the less favorable conditions inside the church, the sun had broken completely through the forecasted clouds and was shining fully through the windows of the new sanctuary by the time that tim and mara exchanged rings and the organ hit the chord that cued their first kiss as married people. (you know that you're someone in the pacific northwest if you have a picture.) brooklyn, chicago, dc and tokyo bore witness among representative dignitaries from other far flung places around the country and the globe. the marriage was officially certified by you know who in a closed door meeting after the kiss. central ohio now boasts the founding of what will surely be one of the seattle area's finest lineages, although comparisons to any royal wedding were forbidden by implicit decree for the entirety of the wedding weekend -- and, even after the fact, a comparison here would be too hackneyed to lend itself to anything but disgrace. (mara only woke up to watch "the" royal event on television to practice her magnanimity in the face of poor taste.)
later, dinner and dancing, but the groomsmen had been directed into a bar by the photographer's assistant three hours before they were scheduled to walk the aisle. it was also for photographs that the entire bridal party returned to that same bar, where the groomsmen were obliged to toss back another round for posterity. although the bride and her attendants were allowed to raise just masquerade cocktails then, they did help with finishing the bottles that had been set aside for the pre-party faux-toast photo shoot outside the reception tent. it's no surprise that the cops got called before the dance floor showed any signs of dying down.
and as the party made its way into sunday, then slept, and then reconvened for an early brunch in order to make enough time for another rally before most of its members' evening departures, it's no surprise that it took two days' recovery time before we could make our apologies for not delivering on the live blog and then also make mention of the event, which, incidentally, appears no less enchanted and majestic in the more sober light of measured hindsight. and that merits mention. plus, it's finally come time to thank timara for choosing to fete the birthday of this blog with such an elegant party as was their wedding's, the event of which coincided exactly with our first anniversary. thankfully, no one was so gauche as to mention the dual birthday on saturday and offend our shared senses of discrimination. it was enough that everyone in attendance knew.
some 100,000 words. they say that's where they're capping dissertations lately. academic publishing has been as susceptible to the demands of dwindling attention spans as its counterpart in mass market trade. so a medium length novel, then. that comparison is more apt anyway, since most of what was posted here during that first year probably seemed of dubious validity, or made up...complete phixion. that's nonetheless cause for celebration. can we get two more cheers? (and by all means try to top the newlyweds.)
want to know the truth? buy my goddamn book.
later, dinner and dancing, but the groomsmen had been directed into a bar by the photographer's assistant three hours before they were scheduled to walk the aisle. it was also for photographs that the entire bridal party returned to that same bar, where the groomsmen were obliged to toss back another round for posterity. although the bride and her attendants were allowed to raise just masquerade cocktails then, they did help with finishing the bottles that had been set aside for the pre-party faux-toast photo shoot outside the reception tent. it's no surprise that the cops got called before the dance floor showed any signs of dying down.
and as the party made its way into sunday, then slept, and then reconvened for an early brunch in order to make enough time for another rally before most of its members' evening departures, it's no surprise that it took two days' recovery time before we could make our apologies for not delivering on the live blog and then also make mention of the event, which, incidentally, appears no less enchanted and majestic in the more sober light of measured hindsight. and that merits mention. plus, it's finally come time to thank timara for choosing to fete the birthday of this blog with such an elegant party as was their wedding's, the event of which coincided exactly with our first anniversary. thankfully, no one was so gauche as to mention the dual birthday on saturday and offend our shared senses of discrimination. it was enough that everyone in attendance knew.
some 100,000 words. they say that's where they're capping dissertations lately. academic publishing has been as susceptible to the demands of dwindling attention spans as its counterpart in mass market trade. so a medium length novel, then. that comparison is more apt anyway, since most of what was posted here during that first year probably seemed of dubious validity, or made up...complete phixion. that's nonetheless cause for celebration. can we get two more cheers? (and by all means try to top the newlyweds.)
want to know the truth? buy my goddamn book.
Friday, May 13, 2011
TRADITION(,TRADITION!)
"matchmaker, matchmaker, i'll bring the veil; you bring the groom, slender and pale."
it's a new tradition, so it's no less false right now than the made up tradition in aleksei fedorchenko's "silent souls" in which a bride-to-be has colored threads tied to her pubic hair by her girlfriends, threads that will be removed by her husband on her wedding night and tied by him to an alder tree on their wedding night. the finnic border culture in the movie doesn't exist, and neither does any irish culture for which the shearing of a groom's facial hair by his best man is a (pre-)nuptial custom. but that's art for you. the best of the best men in the world should be expecting to be held to that obligation from tonight on. grow a beard and get good with those clippers.
accentuating the jaw line is always slimming, and tonight's groom was irish, so he was already pale.
"night after night, in the dark, i'm alone; so find me a match of my own."
irony. r.i.p.
it's a new tradition, so it's no less false right now than the made up tradition in aleksei fedorchenko's "silent souls" in which a bride-to-be has colored threads tied to her pubic hair by her girlfriends, threads that will be removed by her husband on her wedding night and tied by him to an alder tree on their wedding night. the finnic border culture in the movie doesn't exist, and neither does any irish culture for which the shearing of a groom's facial hair by his best man is a (pre-)nuptial custom. but that's art for you. the best of the best men in the world should be expecting to be held to that obligation from tonight on. grow a beard and get good with those clippers.
accentuating the jaw line is always slimming, and tonight's groom was irish, so he was already pale.
"night after night, in the dark, i'm alone; so find me a match of my own."
irony. r.i.p.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
ASSHOLE(S)'S BRUNCH
that the chickens had been producing so many eggs lately was the ostensible justification for the gathering, and that the one of the three chickens currently in the backyard who was also one of the five originals was originally named asshole seemed like reason enough to name the gathering after her, because, well, the gathering was justified by the chickens. a superfluity of eggs is good enough reason for brunch, and mother's day is more than enough reason to have sunday brunch at home. and when monique searched the internet for details on brunch and white people (they love it, and she wanted to understand), she found a picture of a t-shirt advertising the message that brunch was for assholes. after that revelation it was impossible not to call the brunch after asshole, especially since so many white people were coming. so the question then became whether the descriptor in the title of the event should be pluralized to describe our guests or left singular to pay tribute to the chicken. not many of the guests would know the hen, and the event was going to be advertised via social media -- the principle venue for white people's advertising where they're taking their sunday brunches. monique can't be racist because i'm white, in the same way that i can't be a sexual orientationist because monique is straight. assholes, see?
i knew that i wasn't going to be able to make it for the entire dozen of the deneuve films, but i didn't think i'd have to make that confession until i made my scheduled trip out of town on wednesday. rather, i thought i'd make it solidly through the first six and then make up a delicious story. if only it hadn't been for those assholes -- or just the one. i'd already missed the screening of "the young girls of rochefort" when we cleaned the corner store out of crappy brut at six p.m., and it wasn't likely that i was going to make the seven o'clock screening of "mississippi mermaid." most of the food had been eaten by two (and what hadn't was what mismatched little the guests who came after that had brought), so we also needed to think about what we were going to eat before our evening obligations outside the house. just sustenance: nothing could possibly have topped those quinoa cakes.
needless to say, it took some time to recover from brunch, although i did make it through all of "the last metro" on monday evening -- and didn't once give myself over to the arrant seductions of sleep. you should understand why i haven't had the wherewithal to post anything more substantial on the films. it's tiring, being a host. making sure the drinks are full and all. and the unexpected chafing. i mean, those assholes kept me up. asshole, i mean. kept me up, that is. when there are only hens in the coop, one of them starts taking on the role of the male, which means frequent awkward crowing.
the last brunch guests to leave left twenty-one hours after the first ones were asked to arrive, and they left without drinking the breakfasts we'd poured for them before tucking them in. some people do have to work on mondays. those guests should have understood why we weren't going to go to the trouble in the morning.
and so it comes to pass that there will be only four in our deneueve dozen, but supplemented with dozens of eggs, all of them from assholes -- and some of them from the chicken with that name.
singular.
i knew that i wasn't going to be able to make it for the entire dozen of the deneuve films, but i didn't think i'd have to make that confession until i made my scheduled trip out of town on wednesday. rather, i thought i'd make it solidly through the first six and then make up a delicious story. if only it hadn't been for those assholes -- or just the one. i'd already missed the screening of "the young girls of rochefort" when we cleaned the corner store out of crappy brut at six p.m., and it wasn't likely that i was going to make the seven o'clock screening of "mississippi mermaid." most of the food had been eaten by two (and what hadn't was what mismatched little the guests who came after that had brought), so we also needed to think about what we were going to eat before our evening obligations outside the house. just sustenance: nothing could possibly have topped those quinoa cakes.
needless to say, it took some time to recover from brunch, although i did make it through all of "the last metro" on monday evening -- and didn't once give myself over to the arrant seductions of sleep. you should understand why i haven't had the wherewithal to post anything more substantial on the films. it's tiring, being a host. making sure the drinks are full and all. and the unexpected chafing. i mean, those assholes kept me up. asshole, i mean. kept me up, that is. when there are only hens in the coop, one of them starts taking on the role of the male, which means frequent awkward crowing.
the last brunch guests to leave left twenty-one hours after the first ones were asked to arrive, and they left without drinking the breakfasts we'd poured for them before tucking them in. some people do have to work on mondays. those guests should have understood why we weren't going to go to the trouble in the morning.
and so it comes to pass that there will be only four in our deneueve dozen, but supplemented with dozens of eggs, all of them from assholes -- and some of them from the chicken with that name.
singular.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
THE UMBRELLAS OF CHERBOURG
you can buy me a vintage 1965 poster from the japanese theatrical release for only three-hundred twenty-five euros here. the film is just as charming -- and definitively new wave-y -- as it should seem from the poster. in case you don't read japanese: it won the palme d'or at cannes, and it's a musical. what the poster doesn't tell you is that "the umbrellas of cherbourg," directed by jacques demy, was a certain influence (and a strong one) on the work of contemporary french director christophe honoré. (it's understandable. after all, honoré wasn't born until five years after "the umbrellas" was released in japan.) honoré's "love songs" takes both its narrative structure and many of its technical elements directly from demy's film. in fact, i think i'm obliged to admit that i couldn't have been a true fan of honoré's until i saw "the umbrellas," which kicked off the northwest film center's "deneuve dozen" series last night. i think i'm also obliged, now that i'm properly informed, to suggest that honoré probably should have followed demy's lead in simplifying his lyrics. the english subtitled version of "love songs" requires some serious suspension of disbelief -- or at least a generous grant of poetic license to its translators. then again, demy did have agnes varda working as one of his, so maybe a comparison isn't fair. the matter might possibly have been out of honoré's hands. (incidentally, demy and varda's "the young girls of rochefort" screens tomorrow at four.) but demy also has that breathtaking shot of catherine deneuve, in a pale blue twin set (or was it white? or was it even twin?), reading a letter from her absent lover (gone to algeria) as she walks (and the camera moves! a la france, 1964) from one side of a blue wallpapered room to stop (but doesn't stop singing) in front of a window where she's almost completely whitewashed from the frame by the light and the snow outside as they blend with her blond hair, her pearly complexion and her ensemble. and nino castelnuovo looks damn fine in pants throughout. even so, deneuve doesn't wait. is love more than a handsome face? you don't care: you just want to be at the movies. one down, eleven to go.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
DON'T ASK, DON'T TELL
dance class gets more difficult starting in the spring because of the heat, but not necessarily because the studio is any hotter -- the jungle swelter that builds up in front of the mirrors during class is a year round phenomenon -- but because i always dance next to the windows at the southwest side of the room. on days like yesterday, when the windows are open because the day has been hot but the air has already started to cool by the time class begins, the temperature at the windows is probably cooler than at any other spot in the studio, especially once people start pushing their feet toward full tilt.
but the windows face across twelfth avenue from where solo flamenco is located on southeast division street, and next to the taquería there is a beer bar called apex. i've only been once, and that visit was short, ended when the bartender told me that the bar was cash only and i realized that i couldn't use the atm because i'd lost my debit card, which i immediately left to find. somehow, i made it across town on my bicycle to check the balance of my account on my home computer and call each one of the stores i'd been to that day and then rode back to twelfth and division in the hour i had before the performance at the studio started.
class at the studio gets more difficult as the weather gets warmer because apex has so much outside seating. it also has parking for dozens of bikes, and when the sun comes out the tables on the apex patio are full with interesting haircuts in less and less clothing as the season pushes toward full tilt. i didn't even attempt the series of vueltas in the first half of the farruca yesterday, instead just taking note of the guitar and walking toward the windows to stare. the same thing every time i confused the footwork before the second llamada. i benefited from having practiced the farruca choreography over the weekend. not so with the soleá in hour two. the class marked, and i stared. there were a few exceptional ones. facebook thinks that the busser and i should be friends.
"I'm going to talk about something weird that I do." that's how patrick dewitt, who is guest blogging at powells.com this week started his post for today. i don't think that staring at pretty things when my mind should be on the instruction that i'm paying for is weird. juvenile maybe, but nothing like what dewitt talks about in his post. this post is about bars that i don't go to. one of them is apex, and another one is the bar where i second met patrick dewitt.
dewitt's first novel, ablutions, is about an alcoholic. that alcoholic has dreams, and he lives in los angeles, a city where people with dreams go to think about them while they serve drinks at bars like the one where the protagonist of ablutions works. the novel is gritty and urgent and painfully hopeful. while i was having my copy of ablutions signed at a reading a couple of years ago, i asked dewitt where he liked to drink in portland. i can't remember if he told me whether or not he drank, but he told me that he liked to take his family to the liberty glass (it's also a restaurant), which is where i said hello to him and his family not long after the reading when i recognized the author there one night.
a couple of years ago the liberty glass was not so close to my house as now that i've moved to north missouri and fremont streets, just a few blocks away from where the bar is on cook. the patio at the liberty glass is not so large as the one at apex, but it's just as full when the weather is nice (and also, actually, when it's not, because the patio at the liberty glass is covered and has a wood stove). but now it's just looking at the liberty glass, too. we don't go there anymore. not dewitt, i think he's fine, but i have no way of saying whether he's been there lately. maybe the patio is a minefield for him too (seven, and all of them deadly). but he's probably able to brave it, what with the confidence of having recently released another book.
the sisters brothers is about old west grit and hired guns. good for nothings and cheaters. i'll recommend it to caroline. i'll read it too, but she's much more gracious with americana than i am. plus, she's a good for nothing cheat. and a gun for hire if you're really in a bind. she likes the liberty glass. in fact, she introduced us. now she's in the wives club. she can do whatever she wants there, so i'll ask her to tell dewitt what i thought of his book. she should invite him to the inaugural bloc cascadian national convention as well. we can find someone to watch his kid while he's in port angeles. i know that i can forgive him having once been a californian for knowing that he was born in british columbia. with me? this summer's going to be hot.
but the windows face across twelfth avenue from where solo flamenco is located on southeast division street, and next to the taquería there is a beer bar called apex. i've only been once, and that visit was short, ended when the bartender told me that the bar was cash only and i realized that i couldn't use the atm because i'd lost my debit card, which i immediately left to find. somehow, i made it across town on my bicycle to check the balance of my account on my home computer and call each one of the stores i'd been to that day and then rode back to twelfth and division in the hour i had before the performance at the studio started.
class at the studio gets more difficult as the weather gets warmer because apex has so much outside seating. it also has parking for dozens of bikes, and when the sun comes out the tables on the apex patio are full with interesting haircuts in less and less clothing as the season pushes toward full tilt. i didn't even attempt the series of vueltas in the first half of the farruca yesterday, instead just taking note of the guitar and walking toward the windows to stare. the same thing every time i confused the footwork before the second llamada. i benefited from having practiced the farruca choreography over the weekend. not so with the soleá in hour two. the class marked, and i stared. there were a few exceptional ones. facebook thinks that the busser and i should be friends.
"I'm going to talk about something weird that I do." that's how patrick dewitt, who is guest blogging at powells.com this week started his post for today. i don't think that staring at pretty things when my mind should be on the instruction that i'm paying for is weird. juvenile maybe, but nothing like what dewitt talks about in his post. this post is about bars that i don't go to. one of them is apex, and another one is the bar where i second met patrick dewitt.
dewitt's first novel, ablutions, is about an alcoholic. that alcoholic has dreams, and he lives in los angeles, a city where people with dreams go to think about them while they serve drinks at bars like the one where the protagonist of ablutions works. the novel is gritty and urgent and painfully hopeful. while i was having my copy of ablutions signed at a reading a couple of years ago, i asked dewitt where he liked to drink in portland. i can't remember if he told me whether or not he drank, but he told me that he liked to take his family to the liberty glass (it's also a restaurant), which is where i said hello to him and his family not long after the reading when i recognized the author there one night.
a couple of years ago the liberty glass was not so close to my house as now that i've moved to north missouri and fremont streets, just a few blocks away from where the bar is on cook. the patio at the liberty glass is not so large as the one at apex, but it's just as full when the weather is nice (and also, actually, when it's not, because the patio at the liberty glass is covered and has a wood stove). but now it's just looking at the liberty glass, too. we don't go there anymore. not dewitt, i think he's fine, but i have no way of saying whether he's been there lately. maybe the patio is a minefield for him too (seven, and all of them deadly). but he's probably able to brave it, what with the confidence of having recently released another book.
the sisters brothers is about old west grit and hired guns. good for nothings and cheaters. i'll recommend it to caroline. i'll read it too, but she's much more gracious with americana than i am. plus, she's a good for nothing cheat. and a gun for hire if you're really in a bind. she likes the liberty glass. in fact, she introduced us. now she's in the wives club. she can do whatever she wants there, so i'll ask her to tell dewitt what i thought of his book. she should invite him to the inaugural bloc cascadian national convention as well. we can find someone to watch his kid while he's in port angeles. i know that i can forgive him having once been a californian for knowing that he was born in british columbia. with me? this summer's going to be hot.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
BLOC CASCADIAN
osama bin laden is dead. that fact seems to be the only news that's fit for consumption in the united states for the past couple of days. it's a political victory for the obama administration, for sure, and it might help the administration ride its wave of hopeless liberalism into another term (i can only cringe at the thought of the alternative). but no americans seem to be concerned about where they'll run when they're trying to dodge their reluctant commitment to our country's next episode of foreign military adventurism. (surely, though, they can't have ignored the implications of the jingoistic response to the assassination.) regardless, the die is cast, and hardly a peep from the national press about the fall of the sanctuary to the north: last night, while america continued to rattle its sabers and clutch its pearls, canada gave itself over to a conservative parliamentary majority.
i'd like not to think that the media here might have intensified the rattling in order to draw attention away from the dirty tricks played on some voters in key swing constituencies (ridings), tricks that have marked (and sullied) the face of the american electoral process throughout the twenty-first century. has big brother been a naughty influence? from the canadian broadcasting corporation on sunday: "Spokeswoman Francine Bastien said Elections Canada has had reports from several ridings of voters being given false information directing them to the wrong place to vote. Most, but not all, are in Ontario." i don't know whether the affected ridings were essential to the conservative victory, but the tactic bears a close resemblance to the republican style frauds perpetrated on voters since the george w. bush years in the united states.
it doesn't look like elections canada plans to investigate, and now stephen harper, the leader of the conservative party and the continuing prime minister of canada, has seen his longtime wish of breaking the liberal party's hold on politics realized. the liberal party lost more than half of its seats in parliament (down from 77 to 34) in yesterday's election while the conservative party grew its membership in parliament from 143 to 167. as was reported in the christian science monitor today, "A party with socialist roots in the Great Recession, the New Democratic Party, essentially grabbed the left-of-center votes from the Liberals." the ndp surged from 35 seats to 102 and took 31 percent of the popular vote. "The NDP, long a small minority, is now the official opposition party for the first time in Canada’s history, with the charismatic [and dashing] Jack Layton at its helm."
what of the separatists? bloc québécois lost nearly all of its seats in parliament to the ndp, and with only four seats remaining in the house of commons will lose its designation as an official party and will no longer receive public money to fund the staffs of its legislators. jack layton has purportedly promised to reopen discussions on the canadian constitution that would address demands from quebec for more power. the ndp took 60 of 75 seats in that province.
despite the hopes raised by the relative success of layton's party, the glimmer of those hopes is still only visible at the end of the long tunnel of a depressing new mandate. this victory by harper's conservatives isn't in itself a demonstration of the prime minister's belief that liberalism isn't the natural course of canada. it should, however, be a wake up call to those of us who understand that "kids in the hall" could never have happened under a convservative majority, and those of us in particular who live in cascadia. the apparent failure of french canadian separatism shouldn't be any deterrence. rather, it should serve as a testament to the imperative seriousness of our ambitions.
it's time for action. secession now! oregon, washington, british columbia (where the green party managed to win its first seat in parliament in this election). we've got nowhere else to go. well, we americans, anyway. we always assumed we could run away north. nonetheless, we can all agree that things in our respective countries are bad -- and that craft brewing is an important part of our heritage and identity as a nation. the first meeting of bloc cascadian (a party in more ways than one) is to be held in july at peak's pub and brewery in port angeles, washington (date yet to be determined). i've been nominated to act as our nation's first prime resident, so i won't be paying for any drinks. i think we can get seattle to leave its card at the bar. oh, dammit, seattle! stop clutching your pearls!
i'd like not to think that the media here might have intensified the rattling in order to draw attention away from the dirty tricks played on some voters in key swing constituencies (ridings), tricks that have marked (and sullied) the face of the american electoral process throughout the twenty-first century. has big brother been a naughty influence? from the canadian broadcasting corporation on sunday: "Spokeswoman Francine Bastien said Elections Canada has had reports from several ridings of voters being given false information directing them to the wrong place to vote. Most, but not all, are in Ontario." i don't know whether the affected ridings were essential to the conservative victory, but the tactic bears a close resemblance to the republican style frauds perpetrated on voters since the george w. bush years in the united states.
it doesn't look like elections canada plans to investigate, and now stephen harper, the leader of the conservative party and the continuing prime minister of canada, has seen his longtime wish of breaking the liberal party's hold on politics realized. the liberal party lost more than half of its seats in parliament (down from 77 to 34) in yesterday's election while the conservative party grew its membership in parliament from 143 to 167. as was reported in the christian science monitor today, "A party with socialist roots in the Great Recession, the New Democratic Party, essentially grabbed the left-of-center votes from the Liberals." the ndp surged from 35 seats to 102 and took 31 percent of the popular vote. "The NDP, long a small minority, is now the official opposition party for the first time in Canada’s history, with the charismatic [and dashing] Jack Layton at its helm."
what of the separatists? bloc québécois lost nearly all of its seats in parliament to the ndp, and with only four seats remaining in the house of commons will lose its designation as an official party and will no longer receive public money to fund the staffs of its legislators. jack layton has purportedly promised to reopen discussions on the canadian constitution that would address demands from quebec for more power. the ndp took 60 of 75 seats in that province.
despite the hopes raised by the relative success of layton's party, the glimmer of those hopes is still only visible at the end of the long tunnel of a depressing new mandate. this victory by harper's conservatives isn't in itself a demonstration of the prime minister's belief that liberalism isn't the natural course of canada. it should, however, be a wake up call to those of us who understand that "kids in the hall" could never have happened under a convservative majority, and those of us in particular who live in cascadia. the apparent failure of french canadian separatism shouldn't be any deterrence. rather, it should serve as a testament to the imperative seriousness of our ambitions.
it's time for action. secession now! oregon, washington, british columbia (where the green party managed to win its first seat in parliament in this election). we've got nowhere else to go. well, we americans, anyway. we always assumed we could run away north. nonetheless, we can all agree that things in our respective countries are bad -- and that craft brewing is an important part of our heritage and identity as a nation. the first meeting of bloc cascadian (a party in more ways than one) is to be held in july at peak's pub and brewery in port angeles, washington (date yet to be determined). i've been nominated to act as our nation's first prime resident, so i won't be paying for any drinks. i think we can get seattle to leave its card at the bar. oh, dammit, seattle! stop clutching your pearls!
Monday, May 2, 2011
FORGET FORGETTING; or, HOW TO ESCAPE INTO LITERATURE (i.e. MOVE TO BERLIN)
jeffrey rosen's article "the web means the end of forgetting" sat on the coffee table for a month because the images that accompanied it in the new york times magazine last july were, as i wrote, cute. (they're not included at the article behind that first link, but they are still up at nytimes.com for anyone with a subscription.) i do remember that i got around to reading it, but i don't remember anything specific from the contents beyond the ideas that are inferrable from the graphics. nonetheless, i remember the gist, and i don't regret not taking the pictures' words at face value and ultimately reading the article -- although i'm not going to read it again.
the gist of the irony implicit in the "ctrl identity" and "delete adolescence" keys and the surge protector with "reset reputation" written above its lit red toggle is the title of the article: the web means the end of forgetting because everything on the internet is saved. and that makes it seriously difficult (if not all but impossible for the more invested) to disestablish a reputation. no recantations of opinion, no cleaning the slate. no rewritings of personal histories, especially if you use the internet to write, and even less so if people use the internet to write about you. the library of congress started archiving every public post on twitter just over a year ago. the t-shirt aphorism of "you are what you tweet" couldn't be more groan inducingly true.
joshua cohen is a writer, and he wrote a short story about it. the title of the story is "emissions," which is also the title of a blog in the story, which was published in the spring 2011 issue of the paris review. (that link of course makes it easy for you to share the blurb with your friends and followers online.) in addition to the topic of online reputations, "emissions" is also about dealing cocaine and a frustrated labor market. we shouldn't even begin to assume, however, that joshua cohen has dealt cocaine for lack of other employment options, because even if we take the easy road of equating his narrator with himself, "This isn't that classic conceit where you tell a story about someone and it's really just a story about yourself." cohen delivers that disclaimer in sentence one, and thereby removes himself twice.
"emissions" tells a story about a young man named richard monomian (mono), but that story is told by an unnamed man (less likely a woman but not impossible) who met mono at a biergarten in berlin before the former moved back to new york. mono had been a coke dealer in new jersey. he'd wanted something else, but hadn't had any luck, even after falsifying his educational and employment information on his various applications to the entry level. one day, he gets a call. he didn't get the job. "are you aware of your Internet?" he wasn't, but it takes him only one quick search to find out that his reputation is a mess, and the mess was made -- well, by him at first, but then related -- at "emmissions," one of "upwards of thirty anonymous weblogs...all irregularly updated, but all updated," by one of his customers. then the action. it's not easy to redact the online record. and that record is permanent. a banner ad in one of my open windows reassures that "online rants can ruin reputations," but the ad by reputation.com looks wildly uninteresting compared to cohen's story, so i'm not clicking through.
as with writing about sex that isn't erotica, writing about the online world for venues that aren't strictly for techy audiences can be tricky, especially as fiction. just like with sex, the internet and our tools for accessing it might be everyday -- even pedestrian -- but they can seem completely out of their milieu when they appear on the page. not in "emissions." cohen's introduction of the problem blog is executed naturally, and his descriptions of the proliferation of the offending information on mono across the internet as well as of a gaming session that mono has with his dealer boss are incorporated seamlessly into the physical world of the text. they're exceptional exactly because they don't stand out of the story like some kind of eye-popping sci-fi interfacing.
does cohen blog? play video games? does it matter? only to the extent that his refreshingly deft treatment of the increasingly ubiquitous experience of tech might be the result of his generational experience (he was born in 1980). in other words, maybe the worst is behind us as far as technology in fiction goes. probably, though, cohen is just a skilled writer. if one thing's for sure, we definitely shouldn't assume that he ever sold cocaine in new jersey. after all, i understand my responsibility to cohen's online reputation. i expect that he'll return the favor and write something nice about me down the road. if not, i can change my name and move. just not to berlin. my mother's maiden name is german. who knows what's already online about my new handle. berlin might be too similar to portland anyway: as cohen's narrator states early, "nobody in Berlin works."
tired of it all? just scared? get offline. get out while you still can. reading away from the internet can be just as fulfillingly distracting. i know a guy named joshua cohen has written some stuff.
the gist of the irony implicit in the "ctrl identity" and "delete adolescence" keys and the surge protector with "reset reputation" written above its lit red toggle is the title of the article: the web means the end of forgetting because everything on the internet is saved. and that makes it seriously difficult (if not all but impossible for the more invested) to disestablish a reputation. no recantations of opinion, no cleaning the slate. no rewritings of personal histories, especially if you use the internet to write, and even less so if people use the internet to write about you. the library of congress started archiving every public post on twitter just over a year ago. the t-shirt aphorism of "you are what you tweet" couldn't be more groan inducingly true.
joshua cohen is a writer, and he wrote a short story about it. the title of the story is "emissions," which is also the title of a blog in the story, which was published in the spring 2011 issue of the paris review. (that link of course makes it easy for you to share the blurb with your friends and followers online.) in addition to the topic of online reputations, "emissions" is also about dealing cocaine and a frustrated labor market. we shouldn't even begin to assume, however, that joshua cohen has dealt cocaine for lack of other employment options, because even if we take the easy road of equating his narrator with himself, "This isn't that classic conceit where you tell a story about someone and it's really just a story about yourself." cohen delivers that disclaimer in sentence one, and thereby removes himself twice.
"emissions" tells a story about a young man named richard monomian (mono), but that story is told by an unnamed man (less likely a woman but not impossible) who met mono at a biergarten in berlin before the former moved back to new york. mono had been a coke dealer in new jersey. he'd wanted something else, but hadn't had any luck, even after falsifying his educational and employment information on his various applications to the entry level. one day, he gets a call. he didn't get the job. "are you aware of your Internet?" he wasn't, but it takes him only one quick search to find out that his reputation is a mess, and the mess was made -- well, by him at first, but then related -- at "emmissions," one of "upwards of thirty anonymous weblogs...all irregularly updated, but all updated," by one of his customers. then the action. it's not easy to redact the online record. and that record is permanent. a banner ad in one of my open windows reassures that "online rants can ruin reputations," but the ad by reputation.com looks wildly uninteresting compared to cohen's story, so i'm not clicking through.
as with writing about sex that isn't erotica, writing about the online world for venues that aren't strictly for techy audiences can be tricky, especially as fiction. just like with sex, the internet and our tools for accessing it might be everyday -- even pedestrian -- but they can seem completely out of their milieu when they appear on the page. not in "emissions." cohen's introduction of the problem blog is executed naturally, and his descriptions of the proliferation of the offending information on mono across the internet as well as of a gaming session that mono has with his dealer boss are incorporated seamlessly into the physical world of the text. they're exceptional exactly because they don't stand out of the story like some kind of eye-popping sci-fi interfacing.
does cohen blog? play video games? does it matter? only to the extent that his refreshingly deft treatment of the increasingly ubiquitous experience of tech might be the result of his generational experience (he was born in 1980). in other words, maybe the worst is behind us as far as technology in fiction goes. probably, though, cohen is just a skilled writer. if one thing's for sure, we definitely shouldn't assume that he ever sold cocaine in new jersey. after all, i understand my responsibility to cohen's online reputation. i expect that he'll return the favor and write something nice about me down the road. if not, i can change my name and move. just not to berlin. my mother's maiden name is german. who knows what's already online about my new handle. berlin might be too similar to portland anyway: as cohen's narrator states early, "nobody in Berlin works."
tired of it all? just scared? get offline. get out while you still can. reading away from the internet can be just as fulfillingly distracting. i know a guy named joshua cohen has written some stuff.
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