Veteran

I don’t think I mentioned it here yet, but I’ve started writing professionally again. I’m finding it fun. It’s hard to squeeze the phone interviews in between work and blogging and cooking et al, however.

I’m also chasing down a project which I think the blogging community at large will find interesting but since I don’t know if it’s gonna be a blog-oriented piece or one for publication, mum’s the word. That’s a part of the professional writing stuff that kinda sucks, keeping the trap shut until press time.

Laurels

I’m meeting with lawyers all day today in consideration of the potential branding and revenue effects of being forever linked with tentacle porn. A leading strategy is to go with a kawaii blitz to offset google effects.

Mefi Mofi Etsee

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Last night was the MeFi MoFi Blog windingdangdoodle at the Elysian. I didn’t realize that the brewpub took reservations, and should have made one.

I parked at the bar until folks started showing up a bit after seven. Mars Saxman was first and we chatted about the improbable appearance that night of Psychic TV at a nearby club. Erika from MonkeyFilter showed up next, and then Jerry Kindall and Tom Harpel.

In the end about 12 or so people showed up and we parked at pair of tables comfortably enough. After beering, Jerry Kindal, Tom Harpel, and our new acquaintance Mark, whole last name and user name I did not catch (he’s an architect, though, and he was funny) went to Caffe Vitta for a cuppa and closed down the place at the late hour of eleven o’clock.

The big news at Caffe Vitta happened when I gave the counter-girl a ten for my latte and she smiled at me real big and said, “Oooh, I love tens,” which amused me but also left me speechless, as a happily married man.

Attendees, I think:

Mark (Mefi user skyscraper)

Stacey Lester (Mefi user black8)

Stacey’s lovely and charming roomie whose name I did not catch

Amy (Mefi user tristeza)

Mars Saxman (Mefi user Mars Saxman)

Jerry Kindall (Mefi user kindall)

Oscar Bartos, (Mefi user O9scar and Mofi user el wombato)

Michael H. (mk1gti)

Tom Harpel (Mefi user tomharpel)

Erika (Mofi user mechagrue)

Steven (Mefi user Vito90), who says we should hie on down to the Virginia Inn next time, which is where he currently pursues the pouring arts. He also shouted out to SportsFilter!

My photos can be found here, and Tom Harpel’s can be found here. MeTa wrapup here (I think – the server went for a JRun just as I went to link to the thread), and MoFi wrapup here.

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And we're off.

Well, folks, here we are. Good luck to you, and to us all today.

I have an extraordinarily pessimistic view of the stakes and circumstances of this election. I mean, it’s extraordinary for people at large; if you know me at all, my view is utterly unsurprising. Voting for either Bush or Kerry will not bring about the fundamental changes in the American economy and political system that are necessary to provide genuine economic and military security to American citizens, and by consequence, to the world.

But voting for President Bush (or his party’s local representatives) dramatically accelerates the specific economic and military practices which lead inexorably to the practical end of democracy itself in this country. Historically, when a great economy becomes a military empire rather than a commercial one, it presages first the end of representative governmental structures, and then the end of economic vitality and transparency. Political actions taken under these circumstances are met with increasingly repressive measures; in the end, the whole thing collapses with maximum human suffering, slowly.

A vote for John Kerry (or his party’s local representatives) has the salutary effect of slowing parts of this process while at the same time, as we’ve seen, dramatically increasing voter participation. Despite this, artificial boundaries around public political discourse limit the scope and benefit of change. However, a Kerry victory or broad Democratic sweep buys time for Americans of all political stripes.

For people on the left, it’s four years of small-d democratic organizing time. For big-D Democrats, it’s four years to bolt the current campaign architecture to the floor and to learn how to break up the GOP voting blocs so effectively mobilized by the right’s synchrony of church and media. For the GOP, it’s an opportunity to get rid of the truly dangerous PNAC types, whose terrible, egotist failure must be apparent to anyone who thinks analytically. It’s also four years of an anti-Kerry campaign that will make the anti-Clinton campaign look like a high-school rumor.

No-one knows how a Kerry presidency will resolve the problem of Iraq. It’s an issue that is unlikely to be finished in four years, no matter how you slice it. Unless a Kerry presidency manages to better Bill Clinton’s economic track record while at the same time turning that GOP propaganda machine into an icon of shame and laughter, the next campaign for the presidency will strongly favor the Republicans.

I did vote for Kerry, but not because he’s anybody but Bush. Clearly he doesn’t represent my own political opinions. Why, then? Well, largely for the reasons that he is distasteful to the right. His leadership in the anti-war movement in the early seventies is highly important to me, not solely because I agree with that movement’s sentiments. What’s more important in that period of Kerry’s life is the fact that he saw worth in translating a common American sentiment, one seen among the veterans and family of every American war, into the language and currency of power in our democracy. Furthermore, his early investigative work in the Senate on BCCI and the Iran-Contra scandal clearly demonstrate that not only is he under no illusions concerning the mechanisms used to circumvent democratic governance with the goal of projecting corporate power, he is unafraid to confront these mechanisms.

Will a President Kerry have the time and will to confront the parallel mechanisms within our democracy today? Can he do so and take executive leadership of the situation in Iraq, the long-term issue of terror at home and in the world, and provide leadership with regard to our civil liberties? It seems doubtful to me. Yet a Kerry presidency, to secure two terms, must accomplish all of these things.

Things about Kerry’s life and campaign which have bothered me include his reasoning for military service (it was because he felt that active-duty military service was required for a successful political career, as I understand it); his inarticulate defense of his transparently political votes on the Iraq war; his icky, Machiavellian use of the word “kill” in reference to terrorists (it’s not that I don’t think he’s willing do do so, whatever my feelings are; it’s that it’s such a transparent attempt to communicate that he’s a tough guy); his general clunkiness when attempting to present himself as a regular guy. He’s not a regular guy. He’s had an exceptional, extraordinary life, and should he win, we can all expect to benefit from his experience. What’s in question is his willingness to trust his own experience and instincts when communicating with the public.

If Kerry and his campaign see and understand the importance of countering the GOP propaganda mill, it will be crucial for them to reach out to progressive voters for the long run. What form this takes is open to debate; traditional American xenophobia is not the solution to outsourcing, for example. But keeping the people who were alternately engaged and energized by the Bush administration and the Dean campaign active and contributing, for all four years, is crucial.

Have fun watching the results, hope it stays free of violence, and I’ll see you in front of the Daily Show’s Indecision 2004 tonight. May our democracy emerge strengthened from this day.

Aztecs, the Clash, the Presidency and the Bible

Occasionally, I mention that one piece or another in a given issue of The New Yorker has particularly struck me. In general, though I try to avoid doing so, mostly because the magazine appeals to me so consistently that if I did not deliberately choose to exclude it from my blogging, I’d be repeating myself weekly.

This week, however, in addition to the previously remarked upon first-ever presidential endorsement, several other worthwhile pieces were published. Richard Avedon’s election year portfolio (not online, alas), the photography series that he was working on at the time of his death, looked to me like images of Americans at the dawn of photography, the keepsake photographs of Union and Confederate soldiers. I found the photographs deeply touching and nearly unbearably sad. A surprisingly flattering profile of Paul Wolfowitz and John Updike’s engaging reflections upon the language of the Bible rub shoulders.

But the pieces that prompt this entry are two works of critical appreciation. First, New Yorkers, please go to the Guggenheim to see “The Aztec Empire,” reviewed and – I am amazed – apparently grokked by Peter Schjeldahl. I am a profound, long-time admirer of pre-Colombian Mesoamerican art, from the earliest known works produced by those we call the Olmec to the work highlighted in this show and associated with the Aztec empire. Yet that art (even the Olmec, despite Schjeldahl’s assertion that the earlier work is less blood-soaked) is profoundly hard to grasp for persons who are products of a Western sensibility. The ideas and religion that produce the metaphorical armature the art operates within are predicated upon the concept and practice of human sacrifice.

Schjeldahl faces this squarely in his review, and draws a direct line between the Aztec and our world.

“Oddly, the alien and alienating viciousness of Aztec culture makes it more accessible than that of other bygone and tribal nations. It provides dramatic focus. Confronting such things as a blackly humorous skull mask, made from a real skull, we know exactly where we stand with the Aztecs: aghast. The supreme quality of their supple, sensitive, elegant arts may be the scariest thing about them, because it testifies that a civilization based on slaughter steadied and inspired human genius.”

He concludes by implying that he’s talking about some unpleasant current events in the Middle East. The review is carefully written, though. It’s clear that he’s also discussing the ways and means of empire, the cost of imperial scale.

One page later, a loving celebration of the Clash, penned by Sasha Frere-Jones sails into view, headed for port. The occasion is the $30 release of a deluxe edition of London Calling, long the rock critics’ canonical choice as the high point of the band’s career. The record, of course, is all about the costs of empire. In so far as many people have reviewed the record in prior incarnations, Jones’ choice is unremarkable. However, deciding to review a record which your peers universally acknowledge as a definitive masterwork presents a particular challenge. A critic must feel that they have something new to say about a piece to make the writing worth doing, and in the case of a masterwork, you can say one of two things, essentially. You can disagree and have fun with the project of willfully defining your stance in opposition to your peers’ consensus. Or you can agree, and attempt to craft the definitive encomium on the work in question.

It’s far easier to pursue the first option. It’s much less about the work under consideration, though, and more about building personal reputation. As such, the subject of the review is not the artist’s work; rather it’s the reviewer’s artistry.

Jones decided to take on the harder option. I’m thinking it was a success. I have read a fair amount of praise for the Clash, and a fair amount of praise for this album. This album is not my favorite Clash record (that’s Give ‘Em Enough Rope). Despite this, Jones somehow captures the sweep and energy of a great Clash song. I found myself nodding, muttering “Yeah!” and “Yes!”

“And what can you call this generous mountain of music, this sound that levitates around its own grievances like a plane on fire?”

By the end of the essay I was anticipating references and points of argument, in the manner that one anticipates a cymbal splash or drum fill at the bridge of a song. If it were possible to have been playing air pen, I would have been scribbling furiously in midair. Jones does this, in part, by citing lyrics from three of the record’s best songs in three out of four of the essay’s closing paragraphs. By citing the music directly in the expectation that the reader knows and loves the record, he effectively samples the music, and sets his words to theirs, and to our emotional experience of the music in question.

One hopes he chooses to continue the exploration. A book by Jones about the Clash along the lines of Marcus’ Mystery Train on Dylan would be welcome reading indeed.

Mars comes to New Jersey

KUOW is continuing the delightful tradition of broadcasting the famed Mercury Theater on the Air Halloween broadcast of The War of the Worlds tonight. It seems, no matter how many times I have heard it, just as successful (script link) in creating an atmosphere of credible tension and urban apocalypse. Listen.

Now I look down the harbor. All manner of boats, overloaded with fleeing population, pulling out from docks.

Streets are all jammed. Noise in crowds like New Year’s Eve in city. Wait a minute… The… the enemy is now in sight above the Palisades. Five — five great machines. First one is crossing the river. I can see it from here, wading… wading the Hudson like a man wading through a brook…

A bulletin is handed me…

Martian cylinders are falling all over the country. One outside of Buffalo, one in Chicago… St. Louis… seem to be timed and spaced…



Now the first machine reaches the shore. He stands watching, looking over the city. His steel, cowlish head is even with the skyscrapers. He waits for the others. They rise like a line of new towers on the city’s west side…

Now they’re lifting their metal hands. This is the end now. Smoke comes out… black smoke, drifting over the city. People in the streets see it now. They’re running towards the East River… thousands of them, dropping in like rats. Now the smoke’s spreading faster. It’s reached Times Square. People are trying to run away from it, but it’s no use. They’re falling like flies. Now the smoke’s crossing Sixth Avenue… Fifth Avenue… a… a hundred yards away… it’s fifty feet…

Feel the power!

Hello Mac land!

I’m trying to track down a second power adapter for my 15“ aluminum series Powerbook. I’m having a hard time tracking down the scuttlebutt on the available adapters.

Small Dog apparently only carries the Apple OEM variety, and hoo-boy, people hate it. The MacAlly PS-AC4 looks as though it should work (the marketing pic shows it connected to a 15” aluminium PB), but I’m having a hard time determining from the copy if this is accurate. Additionally, while the price is right (about $35), the form factor is clunky. I’d much prefer the iadaptor2, but it looks like it’s been out for at least a couple of years. This concerns me because that means it was released before my model of Powerbook came out.

I should note that the only problem I have experienced with the Apple adaptor is that one of the little flip-up ears for cord-management has a broken pin, from me dropping it. The reason I’m looking for an adaptor is that as a part of my accelerated senility program, I keep forgetting to bring the adaptor with me when I leave the house. So I want a small one to just leave in my bag.

So sock it to me, Mac web! What’s the scoop on third-party adapters for current gen PBs?

HOLY COW

Bill Clinton just called me.

Okay, so he was a phone-bot. But let me tell you, when you pick up the phone and hear “Hello, this is Bill Clinton,” it’s still noteworthy. For the record, my response was to burst into laughter and listen closely to the whole thing to see if they’d figured out some way to do personalization.

More Dreams

Lat night, I looked out of the windows of a building that exists only in my mind, at the windows of another building. The facing wall was old, and brick, and the windows set in the brick were dark. Multiple layers of glass blurred the reflections I saw in them.

The curious thing was that the windows did not reflect the viewer’s image, peering from the facing windows. Rather they reflected two black and white photographs, images I’ve never seen previously. I only recall one clearly, and it appears to be an image from a series of pictures found in my sister’s camera after her death. The series of images shows her taking candle-lit self-portraits in a mirror; the film containing these images was developed a month or so after she died. The photographs I dreamt of do not appear on the film roll, and presumably my subconscious whipped them up in response to the ghostly time of year and Suzy’s incipient birth anniversary, October 28.

On aspect of the images that was a bit odd was the presence of a white-handled Xacto knife; it’s a knife I have seen and held in real life. I don’t recall if it was among Suzy’s possessions or not. I do know that at times she engaged, like many depressed adolescents, in cutting; it’s possible that she had taken up the practice again at the time of her death.

I’ve been puzzling over this a bit today and I think the dream may also have been prompted by the death, in Boston, of a young college student in the street celebrations that followed the Red Sox win in the American League playoffs. The young woman was hit in the eye by a pepper-ball pellet, a one centimeter diameter plastic ball used as rounds in contemporary crowd control by police. I myself have scars on my ass and thighs from being struck by this kind of round during the events surrounding the WTO meeting held here in Seattle a few years ago.

Contrary to published manufacturer’s claims that the pellets do not break the skin, the pellets that struck me tore through three layers of clothing before opening bloody, three-quarter inch sores on my ass and legs. To the best of my understanding, these pellets were being used in accordance with the manufacturer’s operational training, which specifies that they should be directed at the lower body of persons in a crowd being herded. In the Boston fatality, it seems that the officer who fired the weapon into the crowd was not aiming low. When you own the equipment, you will certainly find the opportunity to use it. Each use increases the possibility of misuse.

Following her death, the Boston Herald, a tabloid-format paper, published a Friday edition with a cover photo of the young woman being tenderly cradled by her companions as she dies. The cover image ignited a firestorm of criticism and was followed up by a Saturday apology from the newspaper. I remain puzzled by the controversy. I found the image tragic and beautiful, in that it clearly records the fact of the love the dying woman was receiving. I dearly wish that I had such an image of my sister in the moments after her fatal impact on the station wagon windshield.