Greatly Exaggerated

The problem with spending this much time away from posting is that it is, much like a distant, lapsed friendship, always difficult to find the point to start. Do we talk photo shoots, Stanley Cups, Arthur Danto? Or maybe the TV show Werewolf, finding the right lump charcoal, replacing the turntable I left back in SF? And what exactly is it with my obsession over learning Hungarian anyway?

Life, as they say, gets in the way. Between moving, co-habitating, the supreme exhaustion in working a graveyard schedule and trying to still find time to write my own stuff, not to mention the resulting despondency from having two teams lose in their respective championship games on the same day, these all matter. And they have gotten in the way, as it were. But this is not to say I have not been either missing you or forgotten you, faithful readers. It is to say that more posts will be forthcoming.

I'm planning a photo dump of some of the material I've shot in the interim months. And I'll post up one or two pieces I wrote for no reason whatsoever other than I wanted to write them. And the full breakdown of Werewolf (I was not kidding) and why it desperately needs to be rebooted, BSG-style. Also a few book reviews, maybe another film when it's been shot/edited. These will all come.


But for now, I'll have to tide you over with a pair of podcasts I've become absolutely enamored with: The Partially Examined Life and Bookfight.

As some of you may be aware, I enjoy philosophy. I'm terrible at it, but a good conversation about metaphysics, ethics, aesthetics, these all exhaust me. Inspire me, but exhaust me nonetheless. This is where TPEL fits. Four former philosophy graduate students basically do a book club format of a different reading per month, and the conversations can tend to the long (I believe they have had only one that's been less than one hour), but tonally, they nail it with a mix of humor, insight, and a lot of rage at the text.

As for Bookfight, it seems to be weekly, with two editors from the lit mag Barrelhouse breaking down a different book in a nearly weekly discussion. The nice thing: they rage as well. They hold nothing back, they let their joys or their disappointments or their resentments out, and meanwhile have one of the better discussions about craft I've heard in a podcast.

But really, they rage. When appropriate. And that's a good thing.

Anyway, I'm saluting all the readers who have maxed out their allotment of patience waiting for installments. Stay tuned.

Two American Traditions

Owing to the fact that I'm an Army brat, allow me to indulge in two very American traditions. Football and the Armed Service.

The football season is winding down now, coming upon two huge contests between the 49ers vs. the Giants and the Ravens vs. Patriots. And if you're a homesick soldier roasting in the desert of Kuwait, pining for the roar of a TV and the brews being passed to and fro while everybody yells at the vacuity of the commercials in between?

You make a video, of course. And post it online.

So courtesy of the 113th Sustainment Brigade currently stationed at Camp Arifjan, Kuwait, a National Guard unit out of North Carolina overseeing and assisting the drawdown in the Iraq and Afghanistan theaters, we bring you this, the videos, in order of winners to losers in each game (ordering my own):

New York Giants at San Francisco 49ers:








Baltimore Ravens at New England Patriots:








(Ed. note: Excuse my selective curating, but it would be completely un-American of me to not indulge in that other American pasttime: false confidence masquerading as blowhardery. I am not a communist.)

A Return to Charm City

If this was home, I had lost my frame of reference.

The Jones Falls still roared alongside, but above it were new buildings of glass and concrete, I assume erected as a visible showing of progress. They blocked the twin overpasses -- my only landmarks upon embarking from Penn Station, and so it was after ten years away, standing on the crest of this hill in the city of Baltimore, with the line of taxis idling curbside and right in front, I was struck that I had no concept of north or south.

On my last trip I flew from San Francisco to BWI (now BWI Thurgood Marshall), visiting an old high school friend. She lived in Fells Point in a converted warehouse, and of her apartment all I distinctly remember is the empty carpeted foyer and the fact that it was almost permanently frigid, apparently the contractors not understanding the finer necessities of insulation when it comes to old, airy concrete structures on the dock. I don't believe we ventured out more than three times over the visit, once to refresh our supply of tequila, once to take a road trip to NYC. The city was icy, and on the third trip out (drinks, dinner, showing off), we got a small dust of snow, none of which stuck to the stones that constituted the street.

In hindsight I should have seen her living situation as an indicator of the changes happening. But I was dumb, a naif, and still enamored with the company and the city I was then living in. So those buildings may have been there. My cardinal orientation may have already been compromised.

Ten years later, Sophie emerged from the station and we hailed a car. As we drove down St. Paul, I regained my sense of direction and, with it, a niggling feeling of familiarity.

* * *

Before I overstate: Was this home?

Videos, in wet socks

I'm going to keep this brief as I'm currently standing (sitting) in a half gallon of NYC's vaunted public water, borrowing as I am from an old Army trick for breaking in jump boots.

Yes, I stood in the shower with new leather boots on. Not jump boots.

And now I'm reliving the punchline to the old Army trick: I get to wear them, my feet soggy, sopping, until the shrink and fit is molded perfectly to my feet. Apparently the method involves keeping them on throughout a full day. Thus, forgive what I write here.

* * *

Exhibit 1. Having now finished the Krasznahorkai, and being completely lost as to what my next literary expedition should be, I turned to the place where all discerning readers go: Youtube.

randomly generated moments of reflectivity

I am writing this with a bit of a cough, so please excuse this and my relative lack of coherence, if it happens. A three-dots post:

One. With the death of Patrice O'Neal, I'm remembering my only story involving the guy. (Great comedian, btw, in the few places I saw him -- he was the flamer on Arrested Development, although I remember him as a regular on the earliest iteration of Politically Incorrect and Comedy Central Roasts.

Subjects, or the Mailbag

1. Crazy girls gone wilder. [Ed. note: The writer of this blog does not condone the exploitation of the mentally disaffected, nor should they be used in a suggested reboot of a once-ballyhooed reality series "Survivor: Lizzie Borden All-Stars."]

2. Scare people with your tool today. [Ed. note: The assumption and accusation that he in any way resembles Michael Myers or O.J. Simpson or Freddie Kreuger or Leatherface, et al., is a complete fabrication and should respectfully be struck wholely and completely from the public record.]

3. She will surely pounce on you. [Ed. note: The writer loves letters from the SPCA, owing to the warm fuzzy he receives from the usually included photo kittens: one tuxedo and one russian blue.]

4. Singer-Songwriter Competition, Win Your Transaction and More. [Ed. note: This was immediately deleted due to the likelihood that the content would be of an adult nature.]

* * *

My first lost post. I had started it around Labor Day, today I let it go. Read it, but understand it's not complete. 

The theme: Aspirations. 

The setting: The Berkshires, Labor Day weekend. 

Where I lost it: the aspiration to not exist. 

Is it safe for work?: Yes.

Tangent: In which the writer tries to draw a parallel between the works of Sol LeWitt and John Cage. The term aleatoric is mentioned (quite a bit). The loss of identity, the abnegation of identity, the hubris brought about by the fact the artist might have touched or otherwise been involved with the piece of art is questioned - and those particular concepts of identity, post-human and post-artist - are brought up. The idea that post-art - as wrought by conceptual art - is the world of design (which we're in) and marketing campaigns (which we're also in) is also broached. The notion that these are wrong for the ongoing continuation of the human species is included. That we abnegate, allow others to make our sense of taste; that we deny the glory of ugh anger love beauty. That's in the piece. That we're in the new Dark Ages. Not as much (but it's hinted at oh so slightly).

Summary: Geof is an abnegation; we are in the dark ages; go fetch your zombie hat before you die. And Cormac McCarthy was right. 

Or something like that.

* * * 

Did I mention I saw Drive last week? So exciting. Although to be fair and granted, the film had its problems all up and down the map (map read as the Character of Ryan Gosling's the driver), but as a noir flick it was immaculately shot and needs to be seen on a big screen. When given a full character, the performances were tight. 

The end.

Or Fin.

Or...

Berkshire Mountain High

[Ed. note: This will be the ultimately unfinished start to a failed post, ruminations on the now long-done Labor Day weekend trip that spared me the shootings that hit my neighborhood (and which surprised no one).]

I.


It was upon the fourth or fifth passing of a car dealership that I turned to my navigator-cum-lady-companion and said "This is what America looks like." We were driving along Route 9, towards MassMoCA from the city of Great Barrington, Mass., and the two lanes running alongside were empty, people vacating for the Labor Day weekend. We drove through the trench between two lines of the cloud-covered Berkshires. Unmowed grass on flanked us on either side. Breaking the ranks of the untamed ground were said dealerships. Breaking the ranks of homeless autos, a gas station or turnoff diner. Breaking the ranks of those were the occasional stagnant creek or still runoff lake. And breaking the sight of that was more asphalt and road.

We were listening to Mogwai, a dreary ruminative track most suited for the dreary overcast sky. It was 80 degrees, it was muggy. It had been raining intermittently, and were it not for the mountains I could have been back in Maryland. Even with the mountains it had that same lost rundown feel. Maybe it was more like Pennsylvania.

II.

That Tuesday, I told a coworker and UMass alum that I had been to the Berkshires for long weekend. He asked "Which Berkshires?", a concept alluding to the stark discrepancy between haves and nots: the summer holidayers from parts richer who forgot that the summer eventually has an end (New York, Boston, or any place where there is a fortune to be made), and the leftovers from when there used to be a vibrant industry, manufacturing, etc., at least judging from the factory shells that still dot the area.

The level of poverty is below that of the rest of the state (9.5% versus 10.1% statewide), but with its primary industry being tourism, it's easy to see how this divide can take place. For simplicity's sake, I will define the two groups as the Nose-uppers versus the Nose-downers. If I refer to them again.

III.

I've always held a belief in that you can tell a great deal about an area by the types of car-dealerships they have. Especially as the symbol of American-ness-writ-large in the latter half of the century, the car at once embodies a certain momentary status as well as the general aspirational zeal of its owner. And make no mistake, we saw our fair share of BMWs and Benzes and Cadillac dealerships, especially focused around the hubs of Great Barrington and Pittsfield. As the region denigrated to something more rural, these were supplanted by Chevrolet and Hyundais. makes both less lofty in ambition and strictly utilitarian, dependable, the vessels of mere survival.

The stores changed as well, from boutique outdoor-goods vendors to Dicks Sporting Goods to Marshall's. Predictably, the cars in the respective parking lots carried forth with these distinctions.

IV.

The houses were the type of blue and fading that tend to procreate in old mill towns, Victorian with white picketed porches and a crowning steeple, conical and wooden thatched. These were the type of houses that one would see in a magazine and would assume would be out of place. Due to the homogeneity, they defined the location they were in, and they articulated the probable ambitions of the original homeowners.

As we drove through North Adams these leered separated from the highway road, the road opened up to a webwork of downtown; with a light we were at the brick behemoth of the museum.

V.

What is the level of irony when your trip, to two unaffiliated museums is bookended by a pair of installations from the same artist? The artist in question: Sol LeWitt. The other museum: Dia:Beacon.

At Beacon the exhibit was line art, with geometric patterns being forced into 9x9 boxes to form a penciled-in texture. On a wall, in a room, with only a small white frame of unmarked paint and the light streaming in from skylights, they were weblike and claustrophobic.

At MassMoCA, they more dimension-plays, in the type of shocking hues that is a prescription for the color-blind.

At both places, they were missing the artist. In some ways, this was the goal of an era.

VI.