Under her varnished pavillion, she is frozen, forever gazing westward.
A wooden robot made of filligreed ramen lattice interlocked in feudal fashion to turn back the atomic clock stands watch. Ancient rusted cogs chugging incrementally forward, slowly rotate the axis of a platformed pagoda only two stories tall. The noise it makes deafens. But still the monks gather, praying to the sleek slabs of concrete faux finished to resemble shiny jade and studded along its ribbed walls.
Eyes automatically avert as the Medusa walks by lest be blinded its mirrored sunglasses. The burning man merely burns in retaliation as an abstract elephant, its trunk an ascending escalator, offers solace while children play about, oblivious.
And he wonders when the next time will be.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Why "team" is spelled with an "I" nowadays and rightly so
The game of any game is after all simply a game. The glory of the individual whose skill or talent or perseverance or courage in concert with or competition against other such combatants reinforce the character of man under pressure. Or that is what the traditional Modernists, those who revere the purity of the contest, the status quo, would have you believe. But playing to win no longer holds as much sway within this context because popular culture elucidly identifies a newer motivation of the participant which demands, "show me the money." A not-so-sudden shift in attitude that elicits much misunderstanding among the underinformed minions who form the ticket-buying public. And where better than to hear their rantings than listening to sports talk radio while driving about as caller after caller bends over and grabs their ankles, spouting their particularly vituperative brand of homily, an American anti-intellectualism incapable of distinguishing their income from that of their often tragic heroes overinflated by the excesses of their undeserved accomplishments. For them, money (in vast and unjustifiable sums in compensation for services rendered or specifically lack thereof) corrupts aptly describes the current state of sports affairs. So blame the messenger instead. How can they be paid so much for doing so little?
It certainly functions as the perennial soap box from which the vox populi self-righteously pollute the airwaves propagating the hackneyed accusation of the ballplayer as overpaid, underachieving lout as if in this day and age to simply play professional sports for the love of the game ought to suffice. Ever inflicting their archetypal blue collar logic that demands equating hitting or shooting a ball as labor, a job to be done. Does it matter that their salary is based on what the market bears? But misbegoten economic theory that badly account for play notwithstanding, who can blame the postmodern athlete for intuitively understanding how the nature of sports evolved into spectacle.
But more troubling is the underlying tone of racism disguised as accusations of showboating. For how often do veiled remarks abound denigrating the inner city nee undisciplined athlete freelancing outside the constraints of proper coaching, disrespectful of authority in favor and praise of the precious and sacred "system", team players with "lunch bucket" ethics schooled in the fundamentals. Or of the underprivileged star being manipulated and exploited by the almighty dollar too soon into self-destruction. It now represents a politics of representation, an individualized identity dependent on capitalism, on creative expression bordering on entertainment. Is it that difficult to sway with the wind and accept that Jim Crow ended a long while ago? And you can thank Curt Flood profusely for that. But still corn rows and Sharpies as touchdown dance prop logically validate a demonstrative egotism indicative of a postmodern sense of irony inevitably affecting popular culture including sports. Why not superimpose and juxtapose these variant cultural elements to harken the self? It pays to look good. Style as Madison Avenue taught us sells and in droves. Who notices a two-handed chest pass when the crowd goes bonkers over a thunderous windmill tomahawk dunk? And therein lies the contradiction for the so-called, self-acknowledged true fan of the game who deride the trash-talker as cocky but applaud the no-look, behind the back pass as artistry.
So in order to get paid, he got game.
It certainly functions as the perennial soap box from which the vox populi self-righteously pollute the airwaves propagating the hackneyed accusation of the ballplayer as overpaid, underachieving lout as if in this day and age to simply play professional sports for the love of the game ought to suffice. Ever inflicting their archetypal blue collar logic that demands equating hitting or shooting a ball as labor, a job to be done. Does it matter that their salary is based on what the market bears? But misbegoten economic theory that badly account for play notwithstanding, who can blame the postmodern athlete for intuitively understanding how the nature of sports evolved into spectacle.
But more troubling is the underlying tone of racism disguised as accusations of showboating. For how often do veiled remarks abound denigrating the inner city nee undisciplined athlete freelancing outside the constraints of proper coaching, disrespectful of authority in favor and praise of the precious and sacred "system", team players with "lunch bucket" ethics schooled in the fundamentals. Or of the underprivileged star being manipulated and exploited by the almighty dollar too soon into self-destruction. It now represents a politics of representation, an individualized identity dependent on capitalism, on creative expression bordering on entertainment. Is it that difficult to sway with the wind and accept that Jim Crow ended a long while ago? And you can thank Curt Flood profusely for that. But still corn rows and Sharpies as touchdown dance prop logically validate a demonstrative egotism indicative of a postmodern sense of irony inevitably affecting popular culture including sports. Why not superimpose and juxtapose these variant cultural elements to harken the self? It pays to look good. Style as Madison Avenue taught us sells and in droves. Who notices a two-handed chest pass when the crowd goes bonkers over a thunderous windmill tomahawk dunk? And therein lies the contradiction for the so-called, self-acknowledged true fan of the game who deride the trash-talker as cocky but applaud the no-look, behind the back pass as artistry.
So in order to get paid, he got game.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
A Valentine's Day lament, or sometimes a great notion, part two.
The cottage industry that is red roses, red lingerie, red hearts and chocolate, chocolate, chocolate always manages to dry-heave deep pangs of regret, of missed opportunity, of the special one that got away. So young, so stupid, so inexperienced back then as to not pool any and maybe even borrowed resources to start up what should have been "Cads and Heels," a convenience store for dysfunctional romantics desperately in need of special last-minute gifts. A public service, if you will, open twenty-four hours, seven days a week and especially on holidays. Those "in the doghouse" could stop by the drive-up menu to order any variety of flowers, stuffed animals, confectionaries, perfumes and of course, jewelry, all at jacked-up prices.
Or my express ticket to early retirement. It struck, like all brilliant ideas do, straight out of necessity, more than likely years ago, to be truthful, probably after yet another forgotten anniversary or birthday or equally important date. The business of love, or more appropriately, the racket of heartache costs a small fortune. Market research proves this group of lost souls as target demographic. Just ask any guy who find themselves in hot water because of faulty memory capacity. Love is expensive and the price of an elevator ride back to the penthouse means forking out some deniro. Only in America can such a dumb idea but the perfect business scheme actually work. But naturally nothing ever materialized. No prospectus, no potential investors, no franchising opportunities, no going public, no stock options, nothing. The time then suited a better entrepreneurial moment for such a venture to exist, survive and flourish.
And now to freely advertise this pot of gold is probably copyright suicide. But ultimately what began as an idea whose time has come, an idea whose purpose is noble, somewhat belongs to every "Dear John". Besides why kick a dead horse on the ground again?
Or my express ticket to early retirement. It struck, like all brilliant ideas do, straight out of necessity, more than likely years ago, to be truthful, probably after yet another forgotten anniversary or birthday or equally important date. The business of love, or more appropriately, the racket of heartache costs a small fortune. Market research proves this group of lost souls as target demographic. Just ask any guy who find themselves in hot water because of faulty memory capacity. Love is expensive and the price of an elevator ride back to the penthouse means forking out some deniro. Only in America can such a dumb idea but the perfect business scheme actually work. But naturally nothing ever materialized. No prospectus, no potential investors, no franchising opportunities, no going public, no stock options, nothing. The time then suited a better entrepreneurial moment for such a venture to exist, survive and flourish.
And now to freely advertise this pot of gold is probably copyright suicide. But ultimately what began as an idea whose time has come, an idea whose purpose is noble, somewhat belongs to every "Dear John". Besides why kick a dead horse on the ground again?
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Mudville rejoices
"Pitchers and catchers, this Saturday."
So what more needs to be said
except the national pastime redux.
So what more needs to be said
except the national pastime redux.
Notes on a broken stand
Why not a small gesture?
Since or perhaps because it fell apart from being unglued, paint the disjointed sections of discarded and possibly fake Ming stool a rainbow of pretty colors. Then reassemble it but (or not) into chinoiserie version of Bauhaus or more correctly Rietveld chair.
Now comes basic color theory of which ones will work dynamically.
Since or perhaps because it fell apart from being unglued, paint the disjointed sections of discarded and possibly fake Ming stool a rainbow of pretty colors. Then reassemble it but (or not) into chinoiserie version of Bauhaus or more correctly Rietveld chair.
Now comes basic color theory of which ones will work dynamically.
Monday, February 09, 2004
He shoots (from way downtown), he scores (finally)
Knock on wood because the trey no longer veers right or left but actually swishes through. The lost range prompted a retooled jumper that actually elevates off the floor. The tried-and-true knock-kneed Bob McAdoo over-the-head rainbow failed on more than one occasion from the top of the key. Or no longer money in the bank as some would say. Besides it telegraphed the shot being so deliberate a release that anyone guarding the perimeter could easily close quickly. So to adapt against all that defensive length meant back to the drawing board deconstructing why beyond the three-point arc, the smooth rhythm of shooting a bomb felt so awkward, unnatural and strained. The culprit, ultimately, proved to be poor mechanics bred of bad and, no doubt, lazy habits.
The answer after analysis literally hinged on the wrist. Think of how Pippen shoots, the ball on his fingertips directly underneath with his wrist cocked at a ninety-degree angle and elbows perpendicular to his squared shoulders. In coordination feet come together before jumping into a simple flick of his wrist at the apex. The power propelling the ball emanates from the momentum of the controlled leap straight up into following through the motion of fish-hooking your shooting hand. This is what I emulate, visualize when hoisting a three.
Recent three-point attempts fell short because of the tendency to muscle up the shot, pushing the middle of the ball on a line-drive to generate enough speed to overcompensate for the longer distance. Of course what happened was the typical "right shape, wrong size" montrosity that mostly if lucky clanged off the front of the rim.
The advantage of jumping also creates separation offensively, making it more difficult to get blocked. Which also pays off in the paint considering the big target painted on my back posting up. Just to explode off my feet again not only legitimizes a low post presence but allows for an extra step off the drive.
After all, the game is played above the rim or in our case, a foot or so below. It feels good to drain the open or even contested shot.
The answer after analysis literally hinged on the wrist. Think of how Pippen shoots, the ball on his fingertips directly underneath with his wrist cocked at a ninety-degree angle and elbows perpendicular to his squared shoulders. In coordination feet come together before jumping into a simple flick of his wrist at the apex. The power propelling the ball emanates from the momentum of the controlled leap straight up into following through the motion of fish-hooking your shooting hand. This is what I emulate, visualize when hoisting a three.
Recent three-point attempts fell short because of the tendency to muscle up the shot, pushing the middle of the ball on a line-drive to generate enough speed to overcompensate for the longer distance. Of course what happened was the typical "right shape, wrong size" montrosity that mostly if lucky clanged off the front of the rim.
The advantage of jumping also creates separation offensively, making it more difficult to get blocked. Which also pays off in the paint considering the big target painted on my back posting up. Just to explode off my feet again not only legitimizes a low post presence but allows for an extra step off the drive.
After all, the game is played above the rim or in our case, a foot or so below. It feels good to drain the open or even contested shot.
Friday, February 06, 2004
Trading spaces and so forth
Out of sight, out of mind, lost in space, up to no good and dreamweaving like crazy.
And for what purpose except simply to primp. Gary Wright stuck in neutral because cyberspace addicts. But worse than that is the blankness of white backgrounds to recreate old and tired looks. The terror of visually communicating an attitude, a definable aesthetic. So how much of what is said about spatial organization rings true and pertinent? Vainglorious explains the fashion of change disguised meekly as keeping idle hands busy. Is it a form of sketching this update or something deeper related to watching way too many makeover shows?
Rehab for sake of self-improvement or updated clothes that make the metrasexual, whether trading spaces, a queer eye, what not to wear, designing for the sexes or even curb appeal, all of it matters as a matter of postmodern discourse. Funny how a white or beige room now comes to signify status quo cookie cutter uneventful drab surburban bland. How the modernist edict toward the purely and simply universal continues to reinvent under the banner of colorful subaltern sleek. Talk about stuffing ten pounds of potatoes into a five-pound sack as the masses obediently redo in an attempt to "color me beautiful." And Bill Beckley reacts by lifting his classicist pinkie up in the air.
Remember not long ago generations clinging to tradition in the name of values in the face of social revolution. Well that instinct is now nicely co-opted by Madison Avenue who understand how to Middle-Americanize the Benetton message. Do the politics of representation demand an upgraded identity? If so, where does Maury Povich and Jenny Jones fit in this picture? And forget Oprah, her mainstreamness breaks the mold.
An interesting premise while uploading the "made-over" site...
And for what purpose except simply to primp. Gary Wright stuck in neutral because cyberspace addicts. But worse than that is the blankness of white backgrounds to recreate old and tired looks. The terror of visually communicating an attitude, a definable aesthetic. So how much of what is said about spatial organization rings true and pertinent? Vainglorious explains the fashion of change disguised meekly as keeping idle hands busy. Is it a form of sketching this update or something deeper related to watching way too many makeover shows?
Rehab for sake of self-improvement or updated clothes that make the metrasexual, whether trading spaces, a queer eye, what not to wear, designing for the sexes or even curb appeal, all of it matters as a matter of postmodern discourse. Funny how a white or beige room now comes to signify status quo cookie cutter uneventful drab surburban bland. How the modernist edict toward the purely and simply universal continues to reinvent under the banner of colorful subaltern sleek. Talk about stuffing ten pounds of potatoes into a five-pound sack as the masses obediently redo in an attempt to "color me beautiful." And Bill Beckley reacts by lifting his classicist pinkie up in the air.
Remember not long ago generations clinging to tradition in the name of values in the face of social revolution. Well that instinct is now nicely co-opted by Madison Avenue who understand how to Middle-Americanize the Benetton message. Do the politics of representation demand an upgraded identity? If so, where does Maury Povich and Jenny Jones fit in this picture? And forget Oprah, her mainstreamness breaks the mold.
An interesting premise while uploading the "made-over" site...
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
She Bangs
Every winter, see Pappy fall.
And not the momentarily-losing-your-balance-before-slipping-on-your-ass falling down, the kind where your embarrassed face blushs red, betrayed by the laws of gravity but momentous, gorgeous flights of fancy, legs kicked forward, arms flailing, what aerodynamic engineers refer to as sheer horizontal. The type that Looney Tunes animators masturbate about.
Previous theories as to her malady centered on her high center of gravity. That her long, scrawny barely chicken legs ill-supported her top-heavy torso which to complicate matters further threw off her already skewed sense of equilibrium when carrying the additional load from a huge backpack slung over either shoulder (her noticable lack of calf muscle in itself lacked the necessary ballast to offset any imbalance). This awkward and uneven distribution of weight caused teetering steps that lacked firm footing on any icy surface. Someone once even suggested ankle weights to prevent further accidents.
But last weekend at night coming home from a wedding picking up the boy gingerly tiptoeing down eight concrete steps on unseen black ice scored a perfect Nadia Comaneci as she went face forward, a projectile arc that resulted in five hours in the emergency room, a CAT scan, seven stitches above her lip, two chest x-rays and a whole bottle of prescription Vicodan.
It is her birthright, an annual tradition and painfully, a bloody curse.
And not the momentarily-losing-your-balance-before-slipping-on-your-ass falling down, the kind where your embarrassed face blushs red, betrayed by the laws of gravity but momentous, gorgeous flights of fancy, legs kicked forward, arms flailing, what aerodynamic engineers refer to as sheer horizontal. The type that Looney Tunes animators masturbate about.
Previous theories as to her malady centered on her high center of gravity. That her long, scrawny barely chicken legs ill-supported her top-heavy torso which to complicate matters further threw off her already skewed sense of equilibrium when carrying the additional load from a huge backpack slung over either shoulder (her noticable lack of calf muscle in itself lacked the necessary ballast to offset any imbalance). This awkward and uneven distribution of weight caused teetering steps that lacked firm footing on any icy surface. Someone once even suggested ankle weights to prevent further accidents.
But last weekend at night coming home from a wedding picking up the boy gingerly tiptoeing down eight concrete steps on unseen black ice scored a perfect Nadia Comaneci as she went face forward, a projectile arc that resulted in five hours in the emergency room, a CAT scan, seven stitches above her lip, two chest x-rays and a whole bottle of prescription Vicodan.
It is her birthright, an annual tradition and painfully, a bloody curse.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
An adjunct life
A noble act based on friendship relies on patience and sometimes, good timing with even better luck. How else do you explain disembarking into fifty degree weather from single-digit temperatures without the slightest clue? Naturally this is what happens just as soon as I leave town.
It seemed a foregone conclusion that both my classes cancelled but oddly enough (or maybe not), wheels began spinning almost immediately and then suddenly two messages appeared. From the void came hope, a respite from the powers that be which sounded too good to be true. And so it was, this instinct proved correct. My good fortune as the deck of cards shuffled meant that another colleague, my good friend who recommended me in the first place to teach here, bend over and grab her ankles.
If not for foresight and an itchy trigger finger to finally follow through the proposed bait and switch might have screwed certain parties involved royally. Given the hierarchy which enables those tenured to usurp any adjunct, the unlucky loser left holding the bag usually ends up with nothing. As would have been the case as trading spaces meant relinquishing a preferred time slot more suitable in terms of convenience and schedule. Finally and fortunately a contingent plan (paying more salary) called back to confirm.
So the endgame of playing an awkward shell game while sweating bullets finally yielded bountiful fruit for the whole gang. When the merry-go-round stops, when the music ends, the three circling the chairs do find enough space for all to sit.
And despite the surreptitious phone tag, all is well that ends well.
It seemed a foregone conclusion that both my classes cancelled but oddly enough (or maybe not), wheels began spinning almost immediately and then suddenly two messages appeared. From the void came hope, a respite from the powers that be which sounded too good to be true. And so it was, this instinct proved correct. My good fortune as the deck of cards shuffled meant that another colleague, my good friend who recommended me in the first place to teach here, bend over and grab her ankles.
If not for foresight and an itchy trigger finger to finally follow through the proposed bait and switch might have screwed certain parties involved royally. Given the hierarchy which enables those tenured to usurp any adjunct, the unlucky loser left holding the bag usually ends up with nothing. As would have been the case as trading spaces meant relinquishing a preferred time slot more suitable in terms of convenience and schedule. Finally and fortunately a contingent plan (paying more salary) called back to confirm.
So the endgame of playing an awkward shell game while sweating bullets finally yielded bountiful fruit for the whole gang. When the merry-go-round stops, when the music ends, the three circling the chairs do find enough space for all to sit.
And despite the surreptitious phone tag, all is well that ends well.
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
A solemn duty
Another sad, snowy day by which to measure terms of closure.
It became in its mourning a tally of sorts, to see who in such circumstances simply shows up. No doubt, someone kept count. Eyes stared and heads swiveled about, all noting those in attendance and those conspicuously not. And of course among that select company the most glaring absence betrayed a lack of manners. Their impropriety as such then is an inexcusable trangression against the rules of civility, a symptom of vast and misguided egoes so self-involved that it failed to do the right thing.
But paying respects is more than giving face. Let bygones be bygones, no matter the vitriolic of past wrongs because that moment should not be the time for such pettiness. Sooner than later, though, the time for reckoning will arrive on hand.
It became in its mourning a tally of sorts, to see who in such circumstances simply shows up. No doubt, someone kept count. Eyes stared and heads swiveled about, all noting those in attendance and those conspicuously not. And of course among that select company the most glaring absence betrayed a lack of manners. Their impropriety as such then is an inexcusable trangression against the rules of civility, a symptom of vast and misguided egoes so self-involved that it failed to do the right thing.
But paying respects is more than giving face. Let bygones be bygones, no matter the vitriolic of past wrongs because that moment should not be the time for such pettiness. Sooner than later, though, the time for reckoning will arrive on hand.
Monday, January 05, 2004
Behind door number one is...
Monday Night Basketball or Survey of Art, Part Three (From Impressionism to Contemporary)...which shall it be?
So nothing like being on pins and needles awaiting whether next week will be the last evening of shooting hoops until the end of the spring term (which might be a crying shame considering that the nephew gave me a brand new Nike indoor/outdoor basketball for Christmas). Therefore to teach or not to teach depends quite simply on enrollment and to be honest, it looks bleak. So far, only one student is enrolled and the magic number ought to be double-figures at the minimum in order for the class to run. Not many people appear enamored of learning about modern art willingly. Too many bad cliches still persist.
But crossing your fingers sitting in front of the computer monitoring the real-time registration smacks either of desperation or dooficity. Somehow the latter says it all. It is after all good and needed income.
So nothing like being on pins and needles awaiting whether next week will be the last evening of shooting hoops until the end of the spring term (which might be a crying shame considering that the nephew gave me a brand new Nike indoor/outdoor basketball for Christmas). Therefore to teach or not to teach depends quite simply on enrollment and to be honest, it looks bleak. So far, only one student is enrolled and the magic number ought to be double-figures at the minimum in order for the class to run. Not many people appear enamored of learning about modern art willingly. Too many bad cliches still persist.
But crossing your fingers sitting in front of the computer monitoring the real-time registration smacks either of desperation or dooficity. Somehow the latter says it all. It is after all good and needed income.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Our tax dollars at work
Try as hard as you may to walk the straight and narrow, life is full of minor annoyances. And like clockwork, it happens unsuspectedly. If you will, free-associate a rotating, swirling bolo flying out of nowhere that hogties your ankles from which, before any instinct can react, cartoon physics apply, yanking the rug from under causing your mug to be smashed flat against the pavement. Case in point:
December 29, 2003
City of Chicago
Department of Revenue
P.O. Box 88298
Chicago, IL 60680-1298
To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing to contest the parking ticket # 0043884120-14 issued for code violation 9-64-190 (b) Meter Violation, Central Business District.
On the date in question of the supposed violation listed above, I parked my vehicle across from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago located at 280 South Columbus Drive in a metered parking space. The relevant parking meter numbered 900067 was inoperable and/or malfunctioning as indicated by a code “JA 77” which flashed from its display.
Just to avoid any possibility of a meter violation, I consciously pressed the button labeled “right” to indicate which parking space my vehicle actually occupied because another vehicle parked to the left of the meter wrote a note stating that the meter was indeed broken AND, to be doubly sure even sacrificed two quarters into the meter to no effect. In fact, one of the quarters sat in the slot without falling into the chamber.
Imagine my irritation to see a ticket placed underneath the windshield wiper upon returning. I incorrectly presumed that any competent parking meter attendant would notice the broken meter. However, such is always my mistake to give the benefit of the doubt especially to that most treasured of what our wonderful city offers---the civil servant. Again my only evidence to support my defense is the code “JA 77” (the first 7 was actually backwards) on the parking meter display as it is not my habit to lug around a camera to document any perceived parking infractions that I overtly seek to transgress.
Please allow me to thank YOU and the exceptionally wonderful work of your ever-vigilant office. It is, I might add, a pleasure to do business as always.
(sigh)
December 29, 2003
City of Chicago
Department of Revenue
P.O. Box 88298
Chicago, IL 60680-1298
To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing to contest the parking ticket # 0043884120-14 issued for code violation 9-64-190 (b) Meter Violation, Central Business District.
On the date in question of the supposed violation listed above, I parked my vehicle across from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago located at 280 South Columbus Drive in a metered parking space. The relevant parking meter numbered 900067 was inoperable and/or malfunctioning as indicated by a code “JA 77” which flashed from its display.
Just to avoid any possibility of a meter violation, I consciously pressed the button labeled “right” to indicate which parking space my vehicle actually occupied because another vehicle parked to the left of the meter wrote a note stating that the meter was indeed broken AND, to be doubly sure even sacrificed two quarters into the meter to no effect. In fact, one of the quarters sat in the slot without falling into the chamber.
Imagine my irritation to see a ticket placed underneath the windshield wiper upon returning. I incorrectly presumed that any competent parking meter attendant would notice the broken meter. However, such is always my mistake to give the benefit of the doubt especially to that most treasured of what our wonderful city offers---the civil servant. Again my only evidence to support my defense is the code “JA 77” (the first 7 was actually backwards) on the parking meter display as it is not my habit to lug around a camera to document any perceived parking infractions that I overtly seek to transgress.
Please allow me to thank YOU and the exceptionally wonderful work of your ever-vigilant office. It is, I might add, a pleasure to do business as always.
(sigh)
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
On watching Thunderbirds are GO! late night
Time to remember S.H.A.D.O.
Or Supreme Headquarters, Alien Detection Organization, the good guys of "UFO", a long-forgotten Gerry Anderson vehicle from the early seventies that used to air eight o'clock Sunday nights on Channel Nine right before bedtime. Naturally I begged Mom the extra hour just to see Commander Straker and his ultra-secret (super-technological) forces based in a hidden defense base on the moon battle those evil extraterrestials who crave to harvest human flesh as a food source. Not to be confused with its better-known counterpart "Space: 1999" featuring the then-husband and wife duo of Martin Landau and Barbara Bain, both cast-offs, of course, from the original cast of "Mission: Impossible" (It seems the two gravitated toward adventure/fantasy series containing colons).
Which differs from S.H.I.E.L.D.
Or Supreme Headquarters, International Espionage and Law Enforcement Division that Marvel Comics issued with Agent Nick Fury, former sergeant of those "Howlin' Commandoes" from the Big One, World War Two and his cronies, Dum-Dum Dugan and Jasper Sitwell to fight the crime syndicate HYDRA.
Childhood heroes like childhood memories never ever die.
Or Supreme Headquarters, Alien Detection Organization, the good guys of "UFO", a long-forgotten Gerry Anderson vehicle from the early seventies that used to air eight o'clock Sunday nights on Channel Nine right before bedtime. Naturally I begged Mom the extra hour just to see Commander Straker and his ultra-secret (super-technological) forces based in a hidden defense base on the moon battle those evil extraterrestials who crave to harvest human flesh as a food source. Not to be confused with its better-known counterpart "Space: 1999" featuring the then-husband and wife duo of Martin Landau and Barbara Bain, both cast-offs, of course, from the original cast of "Mission: Impossible" (It seems the two gravitated toward adventure/fantasy series containing colons).
Which differs from S.H.I.E.L.D.
Or Supreme Headquarters, International Espionage and Law Enforcement Division that Marvel Comics issued with Agent Nick Fury, former sergeant of those "Howlin' Commandoes" from the Big One, World War Two and his cronies, Dum-Dum Dugan and Jasper Sitwell to fight the crime syndicate HYDRA.
Childhood heroes like childhood memories never ever die.
Thursday, December 18, 2003
Technologically Lazy
Five-eight-eight-two-three-hundred, Empire...
The automated telephone system plus the proliferation of interactive web sites online really equals easy living. Those who thought jumping into your car to drive somewhere quickly ought to know that complete lazy-ass convenience of planting your butt comfortably typing or dialing some numbers away. Why find an excuse to stay home anymore? Real-life "human" contact is overrated. Besides any craving of flesh and blood can be satisfied watching any of the multitudinous "reality" programs on prime-time television. That in and of itself is enough to embrace your keyboard.
Because life as hard as it can be only gets better with machines. A blasphemous sentiment given the cynicism of cybernetic paranoia which foretell of gloom and doom from epic battles of man versus that very dangerous thing, the computer. Beware the circuitry rebelling, becoming sentient to overthrow the weakling that is the frail human race, as every Asimov-to-be whines. Growing up enamored of revisionist, modernist utopias supersleek and abstract begs for the modernity of science and technology that manufactures comic book gizmos into actual, workable gadgetry. Being George Jetson pressing a minimum of buttons, buzzing around in a bubbled flying saucer two-seaters or having a robot maid named Rosie clean your already antiseptic digs is our popular cultural (and technological) birthright.
So damn your lion-clothed Charlton Heston for screaming "damn". Tobor lives.
The automated telephone system plus the proliferation of interactive web sites online really equals easy living. Those who thought jumping into your car to drive somewhere quickly ought to know that complete lazy-ass convenience of planting your butt comfortably typing or dialing some numbers away. Why find an excuse to stay home anymore? Real-life "human" contact is overrated. Besides any craving of flesh and blood can be satisfied watching any of the multitudinous "reality" programs on prime-time television. That in and of itself is enough to embrace your keyboard.
Because life as hard as it can be only gets better with machines. A blasphemous sentiment given the cynicism of cybernetic paranoia which foretell of gloom and doom from epic battles of man versus that very dangerous thing, the computer. Beware the circuitry rebelling, becoming sentient to overthrow the weakling that is the frail human race, as every Asimov-to-be whines. Growing up enamored of revisionist, modernist utopias supersleek and abstract begs for the modernity of science and technology that manufactures comic book gizmos into actual, workable gadgetry. Being George Jetson pressing a minimum of buttons, buzzing around in a bubbled flying saucer two-seaters or having a robot maid named Rosie clean your already antiseptic digs is our popular cultural (and technological) birthright.
So damn your lion-clothed Charlton Heston for screaming "damn". Tobor lives.
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Frankly speaking
God knows (and He does) I love a hot dog. I can seriously eat one for each meal if left to my own devices. And this from someone who cooked Oscar Meyer weiners for breakfast between the ages of eight to eleven until a classmate perished the thought. Back then, the mush of pig parts and entrails wrapped in casing that functioned as my convoluted pre-adolescent logic basically lumped the frankfurter into the overall sausage family.
Charred, boiled, or even sliced in half to be pan-fried like Mom used to, any way, it matters not so long as these puppies ended up in my stomach. And dressed up, too. My motto is "Drag it through the garden, baby" or Chicago style. First a steamed bun-some say a poppy seed; others plain, either is good- and then the dog. After which follows a long squirt of yellow mustard and narrow furrows of raw, chopped onions, sweet neon green relish, two or three half slices of tomato, several whole but small jalapeno peppers and the piece de resistance, a shake or two of the celery salt. VIOLA! All your major food groups piled in one easy-to-eat packaged meal-to-go. A joint like Byron's even offers additional toppings like shredded lettuce and sliced green peppers for the ultimate choice of "Everything".
But for damn sake, NO KETCHUP (or catsup) ever. That stuff belongs on Coney Island red hots along with grilled onions or sauerkraut. The difference is geographical like deep dish to thin crust pizza. In Windy City hot dogs we trust.
Charred, boiled, or even sliced in half to be pan-fried like Mom used to, any way, it matters not so long as these puppies ended up in my stomach. And dressed up, too. My motto is "Drag it through the garden, baby" or Chicago style. First a steamed bun-some say a poppy seed; others plain, either is good- and then the dog. After which follows a long squirt of yellow mustard and narrow furrows of raw, chopped onions, sweet neon green relish, two or three half slices of tomato, several whole but small jalapeno peppers and the piece de resistance, a shake or two of the celery salt. VIOLA! All your major food groups piled in one easy-to-eat packaged meal-to-go. A joint like Byron's even offers additional toppings like shredded lettuce and sliced green peppers for the ultimate choice of "Everything".
But for damn sake, NO KETCHUP (or catsup) ever. That stuff belongs on Coney Island red hots along with grilled onions or sauerkraut. The difference is geographical like deep dish to thin crust pizza. In Windy City hot dogs we trust.
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
The King is Dead, Long Live the Queen!
The inevitable happened and who can blame her, really.
Year after year listening to the former Trader Vic's barbeque chef critique the "tookey" prepared annually by his son as being "too dry" or the smashed, not mashed potatoes not being smooth and creamy enough like it used to be prepared in the Army by him for an entire battalion. And the weak culinary excuse of "it's supposed to be that way" for the lumpy consistency of viscuous gravy.
So no more willy-nilly recipes concocted from memory or wildly creative interpretations of tried and true traditions or slipshod, half-ass stop-and-go cooking just to catch the latest replay from the football game because the lady of the house now demands precision, exact measurements. "Follow the directions, actually read those cookbooks stuffed away up in the cabinets behind the cans of Van De Camps baked beans (that taste so damn good alongside a frankfurter, i.e., weiner sans the bun) AND FOCUS...stop going off on tangents being easily distracted while the food burns!" she commands. Those days of laissez-faire holiday meals belong to the distant past as sadly, meekly and humbly I relinquish the spatula.
Tomorrow the wife dons the toque, assuming all responsibility to roast the bird as well as all the fixings. The king is dead, long live the queen!
Year after year listening to the former Trader Vic's barbeque chef critique the "tookey" prepared annually by his son as being "too dry" or the smashed, not mashed potatoes not being smooth and creamy enough like it used to be prepared in the Army by him for an entire battalion. And the weak culinary excuse of "it's supposed to be that way" for the lumpy consistency of viscuous gravy.
So no more willy-nilly recipes concocted from memory or wildly creative interpretations of tried and true traditions or slipshod, half-ass stop-and-go cooking just to catch the latest replay from the football game because the lady of the house now demands precision, exact measurements. "Follow the directions, actually read those cookbooks stuffed away up in the cabinets behind the cans of Van De Camps baked beans (that taste so damn good alongside a frankfurter, i.e., weiner sans the bun) AND FOCUS...stop going off on tangents being easily distracted while the food burns!" she commands. Those days of laissez-faire holiday meals belong to the distant past as sadly, meekly and humbly I relinquish the spatula.
Tomorrow the wife dons the toque, assuming all responsibility to roast the bird as well as all the fixings. The king is dead, long live the queen!
Monday, November 24, 2003
A Manhattan Night
Sad to say, but Charlotte continued a recent trend to imbibe heavily. Ordinarily, a cold soft drink of the Coke family suffices to quench my thirst but somehow the temptation of a per diem on the road justifies the frill of liquor. Sitting at the sushi bar downing Kirin after Sapporo to chase warm sake tastes so much better washing down expense account sashimi. Of course, this is succeded by a nightcap of single-malt whiskey at the bar watching the latest scores on ESPN.
It started innocently enough in Boston actually with the Pappy. The two of us passed the evening away, waiting over an hour and a half for a table at Legal with a couple of Black and Tans. After the surf and turf and trekking in blustery chill about a half mile only to discover that all showings of Lost in Translation sold out, the remaining option left meant activating the backup plan to locate a bar for drinks. So to avoid the cold weather, we headed back in a cab to the hotel bar, a lovely place called the Encore Lounge which immediately proved an inspired choice. The bartender played the straight man for the comedy act that was the piano bar and subsequently Amateur Night. Five Manhattans later listening to the semi-professional wannabes from Ole Blue Eyes to imitation Ethel Mermans only added to the illusion of the booze going down smooth.
Imagine shooting the whole wad drinking. What next...discotheques?
It started innocently enough in Boston actually with the Pappy. The two of us passed the evening away, waiting over an hour and a half for a table at Legal with a couple of Black and Tans. After the surf and turf and trekking in blustery chill about a half mile only to discover that all showings of Lost in Translation sold out, the remaining option left meant activating the backup plan to locate a bar for drinks. So to avoid the cold weather, we headed back in a cab to the hotel bar, a lovely place called the Encore Lounge which immediately proved an inspired choice. The bartender played the straight man for the comedy act that was the piano bar and subsequently Amateur Night. Five Manhattans later listening to the semi-professional wannabes from Ole Blue Eyes to imitation Ethel Mermans only added to the illusion of the booze going down smooth.
Imagine shooting the whole wad drinking. What next...discotheques?
Friday, November 21, 2003
Year of the Monkey (Devil Child)
Time does fly.
The devil monkey child himself turns twelve today. And for someone composed of genetic material predisposed to Sumo proportions, his lack of food intake-which is not to be confused with his appetite as the boy loves his sweets- beguiles the whole family especially considering that his former linebacker dad Willie is often mistaken for Bolo (think Asian muscle man/karate killer from Enter the Dragon) and his mom, my sister, the former high school cheerleader, packs on some meat herself.
But his aversion to eating seems not to affect his height at all. He already stands five foot, two inches tall, with an adult shoe size of seven and a half, weighing a mere eighty pounds tops, a veritable skinny beanhole much like his uncle was at the same age. Those genes rarely fall far from the tree, you know. Or perhaps what really accounts for being thin as a rail might be his strange and very un-Asian dietary habit of eating cheese as if born in Sicily, a weird medical hypothesis given my lactose intolerance that resulted in years of my father every Saturday morning hauling me on the Clark bus headed all the way north to Howard for an allergy shot in my butt at first and later my upper left arm (which may explain why I never flinch at the sight of blood, or sharp needles for that matter).
Yet given his size, the perplexing thing vexing his parents especially because of their former athletic glories is his complete disinterest in team sports. When asked by his sports-obsessed family who religiously golf, hurt themselves annually playing full contact tackle football at the family Turkey Bowl, play league Chicago-style Clincher slow pitch softball (no gloves allowed, baby) or shoot four-on-four indoor basketball which sport he likes the best, no doubt the not-so-subtle pressure weighs heavier than the two hundred and fifty pounds of barbells and dumbbells on a bench in his basement. It somewhat pained them at first to slowly realize their son is not the next coming of Ichiro, but to their credit, both resigned themselves to his lack of hand-eye coordination. Simply put, my nephew is a bookworm prone to mathematical geekiness, the chatty, studious type who loves geography, Mario Brothers and Harry Potter.
So good for him that recently he began taekwondo lessons out of his own accord. Already he broke a couple of boards to achieve his yellow belt.
So for his birthday, another book might be in order. Perhaps, the whole set of the Chronicles of Narnia.
Yeah, not a bad present at all.
The devil monkey child himself turns twelve today. And for someone composed of genetic material predisposed to Sumo proportions, his lack of food intake-which is not to be confused with his appetite as the boy loves his sweets- beguiles the whole family especially considering that his former linebacker dad Willie is often mistaken for Bolo (think Asian muscle man/karate killer from Enter the Dragon) and his mom, my sister, the former high school cheerleader, packs on some meat herself.
But his aversion to eating seems not to affect his height at all. He already stands five foot, two inches tall, with an adult shoe size of seven and a half, weighing a mere eighty pounds tops, a veritable skinny beanhole much like his uncle was at the same age. Those genes rarely fall far from the tree, you know. Or perhaps what really accounts for being thin as a rail might be his strange and very un-Asian dietary habit of eating cheese as if born in Sicily, a weird medical hypothesis given my lactose intolerance that resulted in years of my father every Saturday morning hauling me on the Clark bus headed all the way north to Howard for an allergy shot in my butt at first and later my upper left arm (which may explain why I never flinch at the sight of blood, or sharp needles for that matter).
Yet given his size, the perplexing thing vexing his parents especially because of their former athletic glories is his complete disinterest in team sports. When asked by his sports-obsessed family who religiously golf, hurt themselves annually playing full contact tackle football at the family Turkey Bowl, play league Chicago-style Clincher slow pitch softball (no gloves allowed, baby) or shoot four-on-four indoor basketball which sport he likes the best, no doubt the not-so-subtle pressure weighs heavier than the two hundred and fifty pounds of barbells and dumbbells on a bench in his basement. It somewhat pained them at first to slowly realize their son is not the next coming of Ichiro, but to their credit, both resigned themselves to his lack of hand-eye coordination. Simply put, my nephew is a bookworm prone to mathematical geekiness, the chatty, studious type who loves geography, Mario Brothers and Harry Potter.
So good for him that recently he began taekwondo lessons out of his own accord. Already he broke a couple of boards to achieve his yellow belt.
So for his birthday, another book might be in order. Perhaps, the whole set of the Chronicles of Narnia.
Yeah, not a bad present at all.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
"Love, Exciting and New..."
Finally, love conquers all...
Especially at the business end of a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun. But as usual the only redeemable part about this overseas Hatfield between McCoy feud facsimile might be the sweet music playing when the guilty parties mouth, "I do." Somehow the inmates running the asylum left the door open to the room housing the victrola where the only songs left were:
1) Pachelbel's Canon in D
2) Debussy's Clair de Lune
3) Mozart's Romanze from Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
4) Tan Dun's Eternal Vow
5 and 6) Sade's By Your Side and Kiss of love
7, 8 and 9) Roberta Flack's Feel Like Makin' Love, The Closer I Get To You and Tonight, I Celebrate Your Love (with Peabo Bryson)
10) Barry White's Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe
11) Destiny Child's Dangerously in Love
12) The Reverend Al Green's Let's Stay Together (long version, of course)
13) Ole' Blue Eye's (Love Is) The Tender Trap
14) Macy Gray's I Try
15) Toni Braxton's Breathe Again
16) Babyface's Lady, Lady
17, 18 and 19) Taiwanese love songs from the sixties by assorted artists.
Strangely the needle still worked.
So Bob Eubanks, what say you to magnanimity and allow the newly wed contestants at the very least a thirty second headstart before setting the hounds loose? Before this sorry excuse for Sadie Hawkins Day turns into a lopsided three-legged potato sack hop.
Hell, it is only the decent thing to do.
Especially at the business end of a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun. But as usual the only redeemable part about this overseas Hatfield between McCoy feud facsimile might be the sweet music playing when the guilty parties mouth, "I do." Somehow the inmates running the asylum left the door open to the room housing the victrola where the only songs left were:
1) Pachelbel's Canon in D
2) Debussy's Clair de Lune
3) Mozart's Romanze from Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
4) Tan Dun's Eternal Vow
5 and 6) Sade's By Your Side and Kiss of love
7, 8 and 9) Roberta Flack's Feel Like Makin' Love, The Closer I Get To You and Tonight, I Celebrate Your Love (with Peabo Bryson)
10) Barry White's Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe
11) Destiny Child's Dangerously in Love
12) The Reverend Al Green's Let's Stay Together (long version, of course)
13) Ole' Blue Eye's (Love Is) The Tender Trap
14) Macy Gray's I Try
15) Toni Braxton's Breathe Again
16) Babyface's Lady, Lady
17, 18 and 19) Taiwanese love songs from the sixties by assorted artists.
Strangely the needle still worked.
So Bob Eubanks, what say you to magnanimity and allow the newly wed contestants at the very least a thirty second headstart before setting the hounds loose? Before this sorry excuse for Sadie Hawkins Day turns into a lopsided three-legged potato sack hop.
Hell, it is only the decent thing to do.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
Notes on achieving masterhood
Thin planks cleft in half, splintered and serrated edges reconstructing a karate chop. Jujitsu flip the whole bundle around the broken joints without any wood glue. It builds character and external form from the hip, bent forward with eyes trained on the target. Losing sight prompts a sneer and the punitive whack upside the head. So how thick is the color yellow?
Contrary to popular belief, boards do actually hit back.
Contrary to popular belief, boards do actually hit back.
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