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The Sun that Burns

On Saturday, I spent the whole day sitting on the beach near the San Onofre nuclear plant, reading. The whole day was cool, and the morning, from 10 to 1 or so, was grey and misty, quite pleasant.

Just as the clouds pushed back offshore, the Goodyear blimp mosied on by, headed south at about 800 feet. I friended it on Facebook and said “hi” on its’ wall as it passed.

I was finishing Harold Dick’s memoir of his time working in Freidrichshafen on behalf of Goodyear-Zeppelin during the rise of the Nazis and had just finished the book when the ship flew by.

I then picked up Gary Shteyngart’s recent and widely-praised “Super Sad True Love Story” and read it through at one sitting. Much of the novel’s intended amusement factor stems from the author’s satirical visualization of virtualized socialization and workflow in the context of an apocalyptically dysfunctional state. I had heard the author in a couple of interviews during his book tour and he was incredibly funny, as were his readings from the book, so I cracked the book with high hopes.

Instead, although I have no specific grounds to critique the experience on, I was sort of disappointed. I did, it must be noted, read the whole thing in one sitting, without even tottering across the burning sands to take a potty break, so it is empirically inarguable that I found the book engaging. I even feel a sort of bemused guilt that I didn’t like it more.

I mean, come ON, highfalutin’ litt’ry dystopian satirical SF? Christ, it’s the genre I should be praying for, if I were to take religious precepts with any kind of seriousness at all. And I will say this: while Shteyngart leaves a couple plot points dangling, and acknowldges them as such in the context of the book, taken as SF, it’s pretty good.

But I guess I had formed the idea that I would bust a gut reading the book. I still feel like I should have – Shteyngart is merciless, showing little sympathy for his characters or their (our) culture, and this is my favorite style of comedy, the Coen Brothers at their most contemptuous or Dan Clowes in high, self-indulgent dudgeon.

So I don’t quite get it. Shteyngart should be my new BFF. But my strongest reaction to the book was a kind of bemusement; I couldn’t figure out why wasn’t really digging it. it was, um, OK. It was alright.

I mean, it’s tight, it’s fluent, it’s clearly the work of a really gifted writer, someone hitting on all cylinders, from command and craft of language to plotting and subtheme. But instead of getting excited, and laughing or yelling or crying or wanting to talk about the book once I finished reading it, I was sort of puzzled by my lukewarm reaction to it.

However, I will likely long remember reading it, because my traveling companions at the beach that day did not bring any sunscreen, and I was too absorbed in reading to think about it. The net result? Full-on second-degree burns on my legs, from above my knees to the middle of my feet. I’m learning a lot about burn care.

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Floaty

Eureka_Paine_08242010.jpg

The Airship Ventures Zeppelin NT is in town or thereabouts until September 8 or 9. I booked us in on a morning flight, September 5. Longtime blog readers will understand my insane levels of excitement.

I drove up to Paine Field and back this afternoon on a scouting expedition. You can’t see it in this picture, but the cabin was open on both sides and there was a person inside doing something.

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WORKING TITLE: “STRANGERS”

Notes about the little-known sitcom, “Strangers,” to have been shot circa 1974-1978 for American network television.

The following casting and story conference took place on Twitter the evening of August 16, 2010. Participants were myself, @mcgee_gorgo, and @arthurwyatt. Transcript has been lightly edited and rearranged in descending chronological order.

Want geriatric sitcom. Bradbury, Heinlein: roomies. Asimov: wacky downstairs neighbor. Working title: “The Veldt.”

mcgee_gorgo: @mwhybark @arthurwyatt I see PK Dick in there as a Kramer figure.

mcgee_gorgo: @mwhybark @arthurwyatt [PKD bursts into room to applause] “Bob! You won’t believe it! My third eye opened and…” “Ah, not this again…”

arthurwyatt: @mwhybark Gold, Jerry, Gold!

PKD added to charlist. Forry Ackerman can be the Newman-enemy type. Also, Bob = Oscar, Ray = Felix.

project name changed: “The Veldt” too obscure. “Strangers” eventual title after rejection of “Bob’s Freehold”

arthurwyatt: @mwhybark @mcgee_gorgo Heinlein and Bradbury create a TV show. Harlan Ellison shows up, pissed off and claiming they’re ripping him off.

I love that Ellison episode. Little known fact: dude wrote it himself, took name off. “Eviscerated,” he claimed.

@arthurwyatt @mcgee_gorgo Asimov keeps coming by, talking about latest book. Sometimes seems to complete three books/episode. Bob hates it.

Ray continually copies childhood diary entries and submits as SF stories or novels. Often they fly. Bob hates it.

arthurwyatt: @mwhybark I’m seeing “Bob hates it” as a regular theme. Possible role for R Lee Emery?

NOICE. I’ll have my people call his people and he can yell at my people until they meet his standards. Yes x3 @ “Bob hates it.”

Maybe Woody Allen as Ray? or @hodgman in wrinkle-skin, liverspots a la Estelle.

who can forget the classic RobbiE the Robot guest shot? Where bot mistaken for RobbiT the Robot, knock off?

and of course the beloved David Bowie Xmas. “O Little Moonbase Alpha,” “Golem Golem Golem, I made you out of clay”

Then there was the time that Roy Orbison dropped by and swapped glasses with Ray. Oh, boy, did Bob hate that. Both Roy and Ray are all blind, and & then PKD is all Roy/Ray/who?

Newhart could actually do either Bob or Ray, come to think of it. So could the actual comedians Bob and Ray, for that matter.

arthurwyatt: @mwhybark hideous casting choice would be Robin Williams. Well, always really.

That one where Asimov thinks he’s gotta lose the sideburns for a gig, and Bob is F YEAH MARINE CUTZ but Ray pixie-fixes it? Bob hated that.

Oooh, lefthanded casting note: Robin Williams as Ray, Bill Shatner as Bob.

“Bob hates that” drinking game sweeps the nation. National ID card? “BOB HATES THAT”, drink. No draft? “BOB HATES THAT,” drink. etc etc

Hugh Hefner guestpisode, never rebroadcast. collectors’ prize, swapped on VHS for decades. When finally posted to YT, it proves pretty meh.

Final core casting in hand: R Lee Emery as Bob Heinlein, Woody Allen as Ray Bradbury. Still uncast: PKD, Asimov, Delany.

Bob surprised by visit from ex-wife, then other ex-wife, finally another. Farcical hiding, excuses to Ray, who doesn’t care. Bob hates it.

Ray gets ripped on May Day, dances, sings, summons hamadryad – turns out to be neighborhood masseuse! Happy endings. Bob likes it.

Asimov is conflicted about publishing in skin mag. Ray and Bob help him see porn is like puppies, kittens. Everyone troops off to Studio 54.

A, B plot experiment: Ray loses key, locked in laundry room. Bob meets cute new neighbor. Neighbor finds, saves Ray. Bob hates it!

Studio discussion of Monty Python promo shot crushed by production schedule conflicts.

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RIP Harvey

Local-news site Cleveland.com reports that comic-book writer, jazz critic, and curmudgeon Harvey Pekar died overnight at his home:

Pekar, 70, was found dead shortly before 1 a.m. today by his wife, Joyce Brabner, in their Cleveland Heights home, said Powell Caesar, spokesman for Cuyahoga County Coroner Frank Miller.

I can’t help but think Harvey would be amused that his career’s end was presided over by a guy named Frank Miller.

I got to know Harvey a little bit about five years ago while writing about comics for various publications. Harvey loved to talk on the phone, as he often depicted himself doing in his work. He never failed to remind me that he was always available to talk – any time, he would emphasize.

Harvey always depicted himself as a guy who was bothered by stuff, who got bound up in grouchiness by obsessing over this or that. In his unsparing self-observation he laid bare the mechanics by which he was capable of making himself miserable. Despite this, it seemed to me that by the time I spoke with him he had got beyond this.

What struck me about Harvey on the phone was his profound generosity of spirit. I don’t think he saw it, and he probably would have been made uncomfortable by the observation. I do think the film American Spendor, starring both Harvey and the perfectly-cast Paul Giamatti, managed to capture that side of Harvey’s personality at the same time as remaining true to the source material. I love the film; Harvey liked it too.

Goodbye, Harvey. I’m so glad I got to spend some time with you, over those long circuits. I did know you were always there, ready to talk. Any time. I’m sorry I didn’t take you up on it as much as I should have.

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Capture culture

I found some Possum videos today. She spent so much time in my lap that using Photo Booth was obvious, unobtrusive, and, frankly, forgotten until juts now. I may post some eventually.

I have been using an iPhone for a couple of weeks now. I’m predictably dissatisfied, primarily because of the many, many things it can’t do that my old phones have been doing for about six years. I gather there are routes around the feature denial, but the thrill of sticking it to the man by nearly breaking your fucking expensive toy has faded. I would expect some longwinded bitching in this forum when I decide to care enough to cut loose.

That said, I’m not unhappy with the device on its’ own merits nor on the late-adopter cost incurred. My last cell phone lasted five years and it was more fully-featured than the iPhone on the day I opened the box. I think when I tell you what sucks about my phone it’s probably useful to listen, but I can’t really say I care one way or the other. I endeavor not to bore the reader with my exegeses on car culture, automotive insurance, engineering reliability, and housing cost inflation. The iphone is much like a car or a house: boring, overpriced, underfeatured, and inevitable. I expect to hate it for the rest of my life.

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Dead Bird

So, speaking of the dead young of our avian neighbors, one of our cats brought the body of a small bird into the house today. We’re not sure who it was, but the general hunterly evidence of late points to our nearly year-old boy cat, George.

Viv called out to me about it as was I was in the yard measuring our grill for some replacement parts. The tiny boy was on the floor of the dining area and Viv told me she had shooed Lark away from it. As I bent down to it, I at first took it for a sparrow, but then I noticed the long, curving beak and the elongated, barred tail-feathers. The baby, not yet ready to leave the nest, had been a juvenile flicker, one of my favorite neighborhood birds.

The body’s torso had yet to be feathered in any meaningful way, but the spotted head, wing feathers, and of course the beak and tail feathers were quite definitive. There was a not-terribly-bloody wound in the bird’s belly, but the corpse was other wise intact, not stiff, and quite cool to the touch. The pinkish-red of the little bird’s back and belly was distinct, as was the yellowish, knuckly look of the base of the bird’s torso from which sprouted those distinctive tail feathers.

I should have taken a couple of pictures, I suppose. I buried the not-quite-a-fledgling near Possum.

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The Eagle

As I was rebedding lettuce this afternoon, the crows started squawking and raising a ruckus, a sure sign that an eagle is near. Usually you can tell where the eagle is by following the shifting trajectories of the crows as they fly toward the center of the mob, chasing the eagle around the sky until the bird leaves.

This time, however, the black birds were all streaming toward a nearby tree, clearly visible to me and about 200 feet downhill, placing the crown of the tree at my eye level. Crows were bouncing up and down out of the tree, clearly actually landing in it and not simply pursing their usual boom-and-zoom diving arcs. Puzzled for a moment, I realized that this almost certainly meant that the predator was in the tree.

Pretty much as soon as I figured this out, the massive shape of a bald eagle emerged from the boughs for a moment before returning to them. The bird appeared in no hurry to leave. I started calling for Viv, and she came to join me in watching.

A moment later, the eagle reappeared, flying strongly toward us before turning away to the south, crows in hot pursuit. The chase was lost to sight behind more trees a moment later, but in the second or two the eagle was flying toward us we clearly saw a small crow clasped in the eagle’s claws.