Anyone can whistle. But not everybody should.
There's an inveterate whistler in MOS's neighborhood. She roams the sidewalks of this little corner of western Queens whistling up a storm nearly every morning. Mostly, it's patriotic tunes--"Yankee Doodle," "My Country 'Tis of Thee"--with the occasional smattering of "Funiculi, Funicula" (spelling? Oh, who cares!). It would be tolerable if it were (a) rarer and (b) not just-that-little-bit-off-key. MOS has apparently seen the woman up close and resisted the urge to club her with a walker. Barely. She (MOS) is perfecting her helpless little old lady look before undertaking homicidal activities. It'll go over better in court.
As we continue our hometown adventure, we are struck by the ambient noise. We've been sleeping in our childhood bedroom, located on the corner of MOS's building, and, in turn, over the corner of a semi-busy intersection. Of course, just about any New York City intersection--even in a comparatively quiet neighborhood--will be louder by an order of magnitude than the parking lot our California bedroom overlooks. The braking of buses, the bickering of cabbies, even just the normal enhanced-decibel conversations of late-night pedestrians. We remember being able to drift off to sleep as a child, but, for the life of us, we can't imagine how we did it.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Well Begun and All Done: Inherent Vice
It's come to this: We're blogging in a coffee shop!
The book: Inherent Vice by Thomas Pynchon
Opening line: She came along the alley and up the back steps the way she always used to.
Closing line: For the fog to burn away, and for something else this time, somehow, to be around.
Notable line: “Yeah well, I’m watching cartoons here, okay? and this Donald Duck one is really freaking me out? . . .It’s like Donald and Goofy, right, and they’re out in a life raft, adrift at sea? for what looks like weeks? and what you start noticing after a while, in Donald’s close-ups, is that he has this whisker stubble? like, growing out of his beak? You get the significance of that? . . . We’ve always had this image of Donald Duck, we assume it’s how he looks all the time in his normal life, but in fact he’s always had to go in every day and shave his beak. The way I figure, it has to be Daisy. You know, which means, what other grooming demands is that chick laying on him, right?”
Perhaps the most striking thing about the opening line of Inherent Vice, considering that it is a Thomas Pynchon novel, is how undaunting it is. Pynchon, perhaps the pre-eminent post-modernist of American literature, is known for pyrokinetic language and sentences that often demand repeated rereading to yield their meaning. This opening is positively prosaic, and the book itself is certainly the most accessible thing Pynchon has ever written.
Inherent Vice is a pseudo-noir murder mystery, set, in the best Chandleresque tradition, in Southern California. The novel is set in the early 1970s, though, and the world-weary Sam Spade has been replaced by the pot-addled Larry “Doc” Sportello. The “She” of the opening is Doc’s ex, Shasta Fay Hepworth (Pynchon always has fun with names), who has come to ask for Doc’s help. Her current lover, she fears, is the target of a scheme to have him declared mentally incompetent: He is a wealthy developer, who has decided that it is wrong to charge people for shelter, and who, as a result, is throwing his fortune into a vast free housing project.
It really doesn’t matter. The semi-straightforward mystery ends up curving off in all manner of directions, involving crooked cops, homosexual ex-cons, and the Golden Fang--which may be a ship, a vast criminal conspiracy, or a semi-underground cabal of dentists--or all of the above. If there is one overarching theme of Pynchon’s work, it is that the world is populated by vast schemes to complex to be grasped by the common herd. Maybe it is all essentially elusive, and maybe we’re all, like Doc, waiting for the fog to burn away.
The book: Inherent Vice by Thomas Pynchon
Opening line: She came along the alley and up the back steps the way she always used to.
Closing line: For the fog to burn away, and for something else this time, somehow, to be around.
Notable line: “Yeah well, I’m watching cartoons here, okay? and this Donald Duck one is really freaking me out? . . .It’s like Donald and Goofy, right, and they’re out in a life raft, adrift at sea? for what looks like weeks? and what you start noticing after a while, in Donald’s close-ups, is that he has this whisker stubble? like, growing out of his beak? You get the significance of that? . . . We’ve always had this image of Donald Duck, we assume it’s how he looks all the time in his normal life, but in fact he’s always had to go in every day and shave his beak. The way I figure, it has to be Daisy. You know, which means, what other grooming demands is that chick laying on him, right?”
Perhaps the most striking thing about the opening line of Inherent Vice, considering that it is a Thomas Pynchon novel, is how undaunting it is. Pynchon, perhaps the pre-eminent post-modernist of American literature, is known for pyrokinetic language and sentences that often demand repeated rereading to yield their meaning. This opening is positively prosaic, and the book itself is certainly the most accessible thing Pynchon has ever written.
Inherent Vice is a pseudo-noir murder mystery, set, in the best Chandleresque tradition, in Southern California. The novel is set in the early 1970s, though, and the world-weary Sam Spade has been replaced by the pot-addled Larry “Doc” Sportello. The “She” of the opening is Doc’s ex, Shasta Fay Hepworth (Pynchon always has fun with names), who has come to ask for Doc’s help. Her current lover, she fears, is the target of a scheme to have him declared mentally incompetent: He is a wealthy developer, who has decided that it is wrong to charge people for shelter, and who, as a result, is throwing his fortune into a vast free housing project.
It really doesn’t matter. The semi-straightforward mystery ends up curving off in all manner of directions, involving crooked cops, homosexual ex-cons, and the Golden Fang--which may be a ship, a vast criminal conspiracy, or a semi-underground cabal of dentists--or all of the above. If there is one overarching theme of Pynchon’s work, it is that the world is populated by vast schemes to complex to be grasped by the common herd. Maybe it is all essentially elusive, and maybe we’re all, like Doc, waiting for the fog to burn away.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Fingernails VI, Or, Perfection Ain't What It Used to Be
Faithful readers (and what other kind are there?) will recall that, not long ago, we discoursed on the beauty of the perfect game. That rarest of baseball rarities--27-up, 27-down--had only happened 18 times in the history of baseball as of the start of this season. Now, however, in the space of a month, we've had perfect games tossed by Dallas Braden of the Oakland A's, Roy Halladay of the Phillies, and last night, with an asterisk, by Armando Gallaraga of the Detroit Tigers.
Now, Roy Halladay is one of the elite pitchers in baseball. He's well on his way to winning this year's Cy Young Award for the National League, and may very well end up in the Hall of Fame. Dallas Braden and Armando Gallaraga, though? Not that we begrudge them their chance at immortality; indeed, one of the truly beautiful things about the perfect game is its demonstration of the essentially democratic nature of the game. Anyone can throw one at any time: You don't HAVE to be the best of the best. All you need is to be "on" and to have a little bit of luck.
As for that bit of luck, it includes things like having a first-base umpire who can tell the difference between "safe" and "out," hence Gallaraga's asterisk. Last night, with two outs in the ninth, a runner was clearly out at first, but the umpire, James Joyce, said no he said no he said no (literary reference, get it?): He called the runner safe, and Galarraga ended up with a one-hit shutout. Nothing to sneeze at, but hardly historic.
In a way, though, we're relieved. Perfect games SHOULD be rare. There's something unseemly about the thought of three within a month--of course, it now might be ten years before we see another one. Maybe this is what happens now that hitters are scared to use steroids? They can't get the ball out of the infield anymore?
On another baseball note, we would like to take this opportunity to salute Ken Griffey, Jr., upon his retirement. In the 1990s, no one was better than Junior, and we will always have a soft spot for him for the fact that he and Edgar Martinez essentially destroyed the Yankees by themselves in 1997. In the 2000s, he seemed to become almost a forgotten man in the era of steroids and A-Rod, but he still retires with the fifth highest home run total ever. It's bittersweet to consider that, had he stayed healthy and not lost the equivalent of two full seasons (or more?) to injury, he might very well have broken Hank Aaron's record instead of the much-despised Barry Bonds. But see, Griffey never used steroids: For his career, there will be no asterisk.
Now, Roy Halladay is one of the elite pitchers in baseball. He's well on his way to winning this year's Cy Young Award for the National League, and may very well end up in the Hall of Fame. Dallas Braden and Armando Gallaraga, though? Not that we begrudge them their chance at immortality; indeed, one of the truly beautiful things about the perfect game is its demonstration of the essentially democratic nature of the game. Anyone can throw one at any time: You don't HAVE to be the best of the best. All you need is to be "on" and to have a little bit of luck.
As for that bit of luck, it includes things like having a first-base umpire who can tell the difference between "safe" and "out," hence Gallaraga's asterisk. Last night, with two outs in the ninth, a runner was clearly out at first, but the umpire, James Joyce, said no he said no he said no (literary reference, get it?): He called the runner safe, and Galarraga ended up with a one-hit shutout. Nothing to sneeze at, but hardly historic.
In a way, though, we're relieved. Perfect games SHOULD be rare. There's something unseemly about the thought of three within a month--of course, it now might be ten years before we see another one. Maybe this is what happens now that hitters are scared to use steroids? They can't get the ball out of the infield anymore?
On another baseball note, we would like to take this opportunity to salute Ken Griffey, Jr., upon his retirement. In the 1990s, no one was better than Junior, and we will always have a soft spot for him for the fact that he and Edgar Martinez essentially destroyed the Yankees by themselves in 1997. In the 2000s, he seemed to become almost a forgotten man in the era of steroids and A-Rod, but he still retires with the fifth highest home run total ever. It's bittersweet to consider that, had he stayed healthy and not lost the equivalent of two full seasons (or more?) to injury, he might very well have broken Hank Aaron's record instead of the much-despised Barry Bonds. But see, Griffey never used steroids: For his career, there will be no asterisk.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Fingernails V: Oy, It's So Humid!
Ah, yeah, humidity. We’d forgotten about that.
Not that there’s NO humidity in the Bay Area, but, at least there we don’t find ourselves soaked by the time we walk from the house to the car. This morning, we woke up, lying on our back, feeling more or less rested and more or less cool. Then. . . . Somehow, someone must have installed a tepid waterfall right over the bed, as we found ourselves dripping from the exertion of sitting up.
Oh, Humidity! Thou unwanted z-axis in the Cartesian plane of temperature! Thou ‘2’ in the harmonious binary that is hot and cold!
Think about it: Some like it hot, and, simple logic suggests, some like to cold. Is there anyone who likes it humid?
In other news, a moment of silence for the end of Al and Tipper Gore’s 40-year marriage. Who would have thought they’d be outlasted by the Clintons? At the same time, this does mean that Tipper’s on the market, now, doesn’t it? Sorry! Look, what can we say: We have a weakness for post-menopausal, record-labeling blondes.
Not that there’s NO humidity in the Bay Area, but, at least there we don’t find ourselves soaked by the time we walk from the house to the car. This morning, we woke up, lying on our back, feeling more or less rested and more or less cool. Then. . . . Somehow, someone must have installed a tepid waterfall right over the bed, as we found ourselves dripping from the exertion of sitting up.
Oh, Humidity! Thou unwanted z-axis in the Cartesian plane of temperature! Thou ‘2’ in the harmonious binary that is hot and cold!
Think about it: Some like it hot, and, simple logic suggests, some like to cold. Is there anyone who likes it humid?
In other news, a moment of silence for the end of Al and Tipper Gore’s 40-year marriage. Who would have thought they’d be outlasted by the Clintons? At the same time, this does mean that Tipper’s on the market, now, doesn’t it? Sorry! Look, what can we say: We have a weakness for post-menopausal, record-labeling blondes.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Fingernails IV
Or, Have We Got to Change Our Evil Ways?
We hope not. Still, we’re concerned that we could get slapped with a SLAPP (Strategic Lawsuit Against Public Participation). Time was, one’s right to express one’s opinion was quaintly protected by the First Amendment. Now, however, more and more private businesses are going after online public advocates--or just run-of-the-mill kvetches--in court. People who create Facebook groups like “I’ll bet I can find 100,000 people who think McDonald’s makes its hamburgers out of weasels” or “Joey’s Lube and Run Sucks” may find themselves on the wrong end of a lawsuit.
Admittedly, these lawsuits seldom succeed. The companies, though, feel that it’s worth taking a shot at intimidating the offending bloggers into removing their unflattering posts. It often works.
So, as a sort of pre-emptive kowtowing to the powers that might be, the Solipsist would hereby like to issue a heartfelt “Just Kidding” to the following groups and individuals: The Republican Party, Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck, the makers of the CamiSecret, Los Lobos, Canada, the New York (swallowing hard) Yankees, all Florida sports teams, Emi Ha, the research department, WOS (oh, wait, wives can’t sue husbands, can they? WOS, we’re taking back the apology), Mr. Arnold Wasserstein of Upper Saddle River, NJ (when it happens, you’ll know), and Mormons.
We feel immense relief.
We hope not. Still, we’re concerned that we could get slapped with a SLAPP (Strategic Lawsuit Against Public Participation). Time was, one’s right to express one’s opinion was quaintly protected by the First Amendment. Now, however, more and more private businesses are going after online public advocates--or just run-of-the-mill kvetches--in court. People who create Facebook groups like “I’ll bet I can find 100,000 people who think McDonald’s makes its hamburgers out of weasels” or “Joey’s Lube and Run Sucks” may find themselves on the wrong end of a lawsuit.
Admittedly, these lawsuits seldom succeed. The companies, though, feel that it’s worth taking a shot at intimidating the offending bloggers into removing their unflattering posts. It often works.
So, as a sort of pre-emptive kowtowing to the powers that might be, the Solipsist would hereby like to issue a heartfelt “Just Kidding” to the following groups and individuals: The Republican Party, Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck, the makers of the CamiSecret, Los Lobos, Canada, the New York (swallowing hard) Yankees, all Florida sports teams, Emi Ha, the research department, WOS (oh, wait, wives can’t sue husbands, can they? WOS, we’re taking back the apology), Mr. Arnold Wasserstein of Upper Saddle River, NJ (when it happens, you’ll know), and Mormons.
We feel immense relief.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Fingernails III
A slow day in the big city. We’re looking forward to tomorrow. We get to go with MOS to see her doctor. Her doctor’s name is--well, let’s call him Dr. Jones. Only that’s not the way she pronounces it. She pronounces it, “Dr. Jonestheidiot.”
House, he ain’t. His general recommendation for everything is for MOS to lose weight and have her gall bladder out. Of course, removing the gall bladder would take care of a few pounds, anyway: killing two birds (and perhaps one MOS with one operation).
MOS hastens to add that he is good at writing referrals--and contraindicating warnings on prescription labels. “Don’t worry. Salt tablets are perfectly fine for people with high blood pressure. Just drink lots of juice.”
MOS is looking concerned. We assured her that Dr. Jonestheidiot doesn’t read this blog. Nobody reads this blog. She’ll be fine. Just keep taking those salt tablets.
House, he ain’t. His general recommendation for everything is for MOS to lose weight and have her gall bladder out. Of course, removing the gall bladder would take care of a few pounds, anyway: killing two birds (and perhaps one MOS with one operation).
MOS hastens to add that he is good at writing referrals--and contraindicating warnings on prescription labels. “Don’t worry. Salt tablets are perfectly fine for people with high blood pressure. Just drink lots of juice.”
MOS is looking concerned. We assured her that Dr. Jonestheidiot doesn’t read this blog. Nobody reads this blog. She’ll be fine. Just keep taking those salt tablets.
Brick City
We grew up in New York, but we had forgotten how brick-y the place is. Riding in the cab from the airport, on the way to MOS-cave (MOS-oleum? Let’s have a vote), we looked out the window at one point and felt almost claustrophobic at the sight of so much brick. Real brick. True, bricklike bricks of brickiness.
Of course, there are brick structures everywhere, includiing the Bay Area. But for the full experience we’re talking about, you need to stand at an intersection where every corner features a six-story redbrick behemoth. It’s like looking up from the bottom of a well.
We’ve been back to NYC a few times since moving to California, but this is the first time we’ve felt ourselves mildly overwhelmed by the most prosaic elements of the city’s architecture. We hope this doesn’t mean we’ve lost our street-cred.
(We’ll save you the trouble, FOS: “Street-cred? You have about as much street-cred as the Amish.” Yeah, well. . . .)
Of course, there are brick structures everywhere, includiing the Bay Area. But for the full experience we’re talking about, you need to stand at an intersection where every corner features a six-story redbrick behemoth. It’s like looking up from the bottom of a well.
We’ve been back to NYC a few times since moving to California, but this is the first time we’ve felt ourselves mildly overwhelmed by the most prosaic elements of the city’s architecture. We hope this doesn’t mean we’ve lost our street-cred.
(We’ll save you the trouble, FOS: “Street-cred? You have about as much street-cred as the Amish.” Yeah, well. . . .)
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Fingernails II
We've discovered that, if we sit out back behind MOS' apartment building, we get a fairly decent signal from a public network. As we discovered this--literally, as we were connecting to that network--a New York pigeon christened our laptop. We choose to take this as a sign of good fortune. Because if we don't take it that way, then we were just shit on by a bird for no good reason. Stay tuned.
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