IN THE SUMMER OF 1999, the Holy Spirit directed Rick Karr, a 51-year-old Texan, to answer the calls made to a phone booth located in the middle of the Mojave Desert, 15 miles from a highway. He spent 32 days camping beside the phone booth on the desert playa in scorching heat. During that time he answered over 500 calls, many of which came from someone named Sergeant Zeno, who said he was phoning from the Pentagon.
Why be drawn into reading yet another interesting essay on the stunning LARB site? In the opening paragraph they mentioned Tikkun a magazine I buy at the Elgin Street store in YOW called Mags & Fags. I don’t subscript but should but also like an excuse to rustle in the other interesting things I don’t read and don’t see on the web they have usually.
I like Rabbi Lerner and what and how he says it. Suspect we need more of him and less of those favoured by ………. .
The reason I have been left behind to fend for myself like the Boy Scout I once was while Laura and the cats head for the little house on the Jersey shore (which, incidentally, is the title of my first Young Adult novel, which will be full of reverie, awkwardness, and haunted emotion, just like adolescence) is that I have a double feature in Brooklyn this weekend: a memorial service for Alexander Cockburn today and tomorrow on “Creative Life in NYC in the 70s, 80s and Beyond” at the Brooklyn BookFestival with legendary producer Niles Rodgers (Le Freak), Cynthia Carr (Fire in the Belly: The Life and Times of David Wojnarowicz), and moderated by Will Hermes (Love Goes to a Building on Fire).
Last weekend, twenty-five men and women in Conway, Arkansas, put their hands on the red, waxed body of a Ford F-150 truck—four days later, only one person was left standing. The winner drove the prize home.
The Stuck on a Truck competition, as the event is known, started in 2001 as part of the…
I can’t figure out what’s weirder the competition or the audience watching the competition.
I’m watching Forbrydelsen, en anglais the killing. I’ll maybe watch the AMC copy of the original later or maybe I won’t. I’m usually very disappointed in knock-offs made mainly for the 2 upper parts of North America.
Jesus H Christ I love cities - specially really big ones. I was in love with NYC before I first arrived at the Brooklyn Navy Yard in the 1960’s and NYC - f Bloomberg - still seems to survive even authoritarian shmucks like him and have charmers everywhere.
I had a difficult time getting past the line, “A writer before he was a politician, Mr. Obama is a voracious consumer of news … ” , but pressed on none the less and had only my confused view on the guy confirmed; which is likely best summed up by that disdainful neologism, a coronet of Yinglish - apologizes Leo Rosten - shmegegge ( http://bitly.com/a6yZEE )
Here are some examples of Aedes nigripes, one of the common species of Arctic mosquito, found all over Greenland and northern Canada, showing the range in size of females. If the Arctic gets warmer and wetter, mosquito populations are likely to thrive. (PHOTO BY LAUREN CULLER)
“The Olympic Village is occupied by two classes of citizens: those athletes for whom the Games mean everything, and those for whom they mostly mean a paid vacation. The latter primarily play professional basketball, tennis, and soccer.”—
And you can add hockey for the 5 ring Winter debacle, aka The Olympics.
Watching Perfect Sense again must be ‘cause it’s a perfect summer evening here in this part of North America. Lovely summer smells, beautiful street sounds, stunning sunset. Perfect for my urbin senses.
Is this the anniversary of the 1st maned moon landing? Shit it is!
It seems it is but it also seems to have been surpassed by a current day horror. To bad the landing was actually significant and to be surpassed by a sadly to regular awfulness. What is to be said? I don’t know …. .
Oh well as you get old who gives a shit, eh. Below is a picture of the home I watched the moon landing from; out the back on a black & white tiny TV in awful humid weather. This is the same home I was in a year earlier when Bobby Kennedy was killed. I sat in our ‘65 VW bug in that driveway about 6 AM on June 7th ‘68 before heading off to the GM foundry listening to the CBC National News and knowing that RFK was dead out in CA but no one was yet saying it. I just sat in the car and was stunned.
About a year later we all in North America, oh most humans I should say any where, watched the moon. A week after the landing I left this house and moved into a farm between Tottenham and Beeton ON and began my movement into the “elite”. What a July eh. Woodstock and the moon and moving on and up. And and and and …. Now.
In this photo, we see, standing from left to right:
Jacques Lacan, philosopher and psychoanalyst; Cecile Eluard, daughter of the surrealist poet Paul Eluard; Pierre Reverdy, surrealist and cubist poet; Luoise Leiris, wife of gallery owner Michel; Pablo Picasso, artist and playwright; Zanie de Campan, actress; Valentine Hugo, artist and wife of great-grandson of Victor Hugo; Simone de Beauvoir, author and feminist; Brassaï, photographer;
sitting from left to right:
Jean-Paul Sartre, philosopher and author; Albert Camus, author; Michel Leiris, owner of famous Gallerie Luoise Leiris; Jean Aubier, editor.
I mighta mentioned this fact already, that a lot of filmed entertainment is made to be forgotten. People have a hard time with that concept. But it’s an important working class entertainment function, a way to blank your worried mind and lift your depressed spirits; you go into a theater for a couple hours and come out again refreshed and able to carry on. Many affluent types meditate to get this kind of relief, but if you’ve been raised working class, you feel embarrassed trying to meditate. Sitting there, I mean, trying strenuously not to do anything or think anything, when you actually have a lot to do and think about. It’s so much easier to achieve, that restful lack of action or thought, if something big and bright and loud and dumb is projected in front of you.
I agree with Eileen Jones “… I hate those fucking hardship films, and I hate even more the ones smeared with “magical, life-affirming” lies.” But in order to keep up my membership in the pretend middle class, the pseudo-liberal, progressive, caring intellectual sort of branch, and not be too obvious about my working class background amongst my peers I’m going to see Beasts of the Southern Wild but only really to see Quvenzhané Wallis before the system takes this, as some report, good lower class human and destroys her.
[Note to myself: Quvenzhané though being touted on the usual BS talk shows has yet to have her own wikipedia entry.]
[Question for myself: How long can the above smidgin of anonymity last?]
We live in an age of failed institutions and political upheaval, our society is left with nothing to worship – except perhaps the anti-hero. The individual that will make a difference, no matter what. Recently, the storytellers of television have created lead characters that are complicated…
”…if you were a working-class boy in the 1970s, badly written books about fucking – quickly followed in the 1980s by badly written books about shopping-and-fucking – were the kinds of book your mother read, and so, to be fair, did your father, and to be even fairer, 400 million other people.”
I’m rereading William Langewiesche’s Vanity Fair piece, from 2009, on the taking of the Ponant in and about the Gulf of Aden. This time I’m reading online and tracing the vessel’s position etc. when it was taken as well tracking it now on MarineTraffic.com
I’d be torn in choosing amongst these 3 games, if they’d ever materialize: The Curious Class Obsession of Martin Amis, Being Jonathan Franzen, and Call of Duty: Lacanian Ops. Though I’m pretty sure I’d pick Žižek’s fun over Amis ponderousness or Franzen’s endless navel inspections - “oh look world another piece of lint!”.
I’m thinking right now of: Pull Pulling the left trigger to wipe your wiping my beard and exclaim exclaiming “My God!” between wild bursts from your my AK-47.
“Winston Churchill’s widow smashed up an insufficiently flattering portrait of the war leader by Graham Sutherland and had the pieces burned, while Dutchman Bas Jan Ader went missing in 1975 after setting sail across the Atlantic singlehandedly, as part of a conceptual work called In Search of the Miraculous.”—
"… the Broomway, allegedly ‘the deadliest’ path in Britain and certainly [is] the unearthliest path I have ever walked. The Broomway is thought to have killed more than a hundred people over the centuries; it seems likely that there were other victims whose fates went unrecorded. Sixty-six of its dead are buried in the little Foulness churchyard; the bodies of the other known dead were not recovered."
There is a good photo of the Broomway here that should indicate how easy it could be to become disoriented in even good light conditions as the tide rushes back in.
"… as governments relate to their citizens" a strange phrase which, to my mind, has some of the haughtiness of pre-French Revolution panache to it … . A sort of recognition that governments aren’t of the people in fact no matter where they are?
It’s always good, I guess, to have these situations quantified, that is measured. Least so for citizens who base some of their responses to what they see around them on, what we in the empirical world call, fact.
Boredom the ultimate killer of initiative or the thing that “… lies at the root of man’s cultural advance” (John Sisk, The End of Boredom)? And, as noted in a snipit review, in the Chicago Trib (1996), about the book Boredom by Patricia Spacks: “Boredom is the dark side of “leisure” and “the pursuit of happiness,” … and the search for a cure led directly to the invention of modern advertising.” Boredom
Oh shit more cold water on B. Obama’s apparently mindless dreaming or is that policy. Amazing go into debt, quite large debt, and get nothing for it. What’s the expression: “only in America?” Cockburn uses the right word helot but I suspect most what do they call them in the states, oh yeah college educated folks would know the word from Adam, course they also likely don’t know who that Adam was either.
Hmm, seems the barbarians have slid into the Empire and may actually end up building the barrier the bamboozled buffoons think they need to protect themselves. In other words the free and the brave seem to be being handcuffed by their own ideology.
“Is it a house or a home? A temple to the new India, or a warehouse for its ghosts? Ever since Antilla arrived on Altamont Road in Mumbai, exuding mystery and quiet menace, things have not been the same. “Here we are,” the friend who took me there said, “Pay your respects to our new Ruler.”—Capitalism: A Ghost Story | Arundhati Roy