I loved this moment from many years ago on the SF Muni: I was lugging around a copy of the great Infinite Jest
by David Foster Wallace, whose commitment to reading it reached beyond
the mere mental, (of which much has been written by now, due to the
news of DFW’s suicide), but also physical – carrying the large book
around to work and back was a bit arduous, it weighed in at about 1 and
a half pounds, but necessary if you wanted to make any headway in it at
all. (If you had a job that is, or wanted to sleep every so
often... the book is also great when you desire neither of these
things). Many mornings it was either a bottle of water in the messenger
bag or Infinite Jest; lunch or Infinite Jest. What? Skirb missing
lunch? We’ve never seen such a thing, but such was the import of this
book to me; so right for the moment, so much in the voice that I
recognized, related to, thought in myself. A book I was so jealous of:
fucker writing the book the way I want to write a book; afraid of:
fucker digging in deep to my own anxieties at a time when they were not
in control; rejoicing in: fucker pulling it all off, believe me 1000+
pages was nothing compared to what it could have been. So I’m on the
Muni and I hear a small grunt across the aisle: a dude was heaving his
own copy of Infinite Jest from
his own messenger bag. He settled it on his lap and sighed, then looked
up at me observing him. I tilted up my Infinite Jest so he could see,
and we both nodded sagely to each other, the way only two in a silent
club can nod. We were both in, both inside Infinite Jest, a
very large place, a very claustrophobic place; a satirical, funny
place; a sad, twisted place; a verbose, urbane place; a great concavity
of a place, (or was it a convexity?); a place where the academic was
celebrated and shattered; where America was celebrated and shattered;
and where, whenever you want to see it, a writer is celebrated and
shattered as well.
No, its not another diet. I'm off the diets for a while and of course have put the lbs back on. Less of me cause of that damn facebook. quite evil. kept me away from important stuff like playing Word Racer on yahoo games, or blogging of course.
Didn't keep me from a little traveling this summer. Made the usual rounds to Pixburgh, then Orange Co. Good trips all around. I had a goal whilst in Pgh of getting me one fabulous O-dog, ie, a hotdog from the Original Hot Dog Shoppe down in Oakland (the Oakland of Pgh that is...). I put it off, big mistake, cause with all the other eating that needed to be done, including the haj down to Mineos (scored not only the Pie of Death, but an excellent shirt, uglier than sin, as beautiful as a hidden pepperoni). I did a stop by of old school La Prima Espresso Machine Co, dahn the Strip, where you can get a no-frills cap or macchiato and sit in front with the old dudes, which is zactly my kind of thing and since coffee was a bit wanting over there, away from the Blue Bottles and Peets, it was a welcome taste.
A weird shout out to the new, gargantuan Giant Eagle (giant Giant Eagle) that they've opened in E.Liberty/Shadyside as a giant FUCK YOU to Whole Foods and Trader Joes who've finally come to town to unshackle poor Pittsburgh from its Eagle stranglehold. Giant Eagle clearly doesn't want to be left behind in the grocery wars, so they quadrupled the floor space of any mega market and stuffed it full of so much bounty, so much over the top high end food, that you will be lost forever in a glaze of consumption. I mean there were more Mexican items than I see down at Los Mexicanos Groceria in my neighborhood; plus old time Pgh Jewish deli counter where the guys will argue with you over cuts of lox and proper whitefish salad, etc., and obscure foods from a hundred lands. I was almost fooled of course, until that is, during a quick trip to get beer at the BEER DISTRIBUTOR (no beer in regular markets) I popped into the dreaded Greenfield Giant Eagle to pick up a quick something and was overwhelmed by the dirt and oppression, the smell and the dinginess.
Also have to cap on the 'burgh for having the same roads torn up since I was a kid. It was nostalgic really, to try to drive on any of the various "Parkways," called such because you are not meant to drive on them, merely sit parked in endless traffic. No joke. It took us about 2 hours to get from airport to Sq. Hill, easily a 20 min. drive. Other plans to go other places were scuttled due to anyone's inability to drive there.
I feel bad for my bros and sis's over there in the 'burgh.
They should all get the Seqways, eh? Which we like to ride anytime we're in town. This time we toured from Station Square, across the damn Smithfield Street Bridge (lovely) over to down tahn, Point State Park, ex-cetra (as they say). Kudos to me mum, who got up on the Segway and scooted around with the best of 'em. More about Segways later.
Got a chance to see some luminaries of course. And it was good. Flood Manning is holding down the literary fort over at the Cage. Spent much Q-time with him, and his landlords, the Kinders, who are living large up there on White Man Hill. Another ol' buddy, Roger, unseen by us for a spell, knocked by and regaled us. Another evening was a gigantic gathering at the ol' Sharp Edge featuring more Pgh hair than you get in one spot if you're lucky: Big Sam I'm-50-and-play-in-50-bands Matthews, Magee, Vinny (all hair, the three of 'em) and Agent G. Scott (neatly coiffed as usual) plus myself and about a dozen high end, Belgium beers. Big, and large simultaneously. Also hello's to Claire from out here; and got to see Vinny and Daphne's new record shop, Wicked Discs, which sported both discs and wickedness.
A fairly enormous day was spent over at the Carnegie International. We hit it as an afterthought really, me mum was taking the kid to see the new dinosaur exhibit and F and I were just gonna wander through. I was unprepared for how mind blowing it was going to be. But seriously kids, they were not fucking around over there at the Carnegie. Felicia was brought to tears by one beautiful sculpture, while we were both freaked into gelatinous globules by the terror that was "Cave Man Man" an immersive and very wrong installation by Thomas Hirschorn. A ton of other provoking pieces as well. I was down on the ground floor being flipped and tantalized by "Kandor 17" by Mike Kelly which contains a lot of beautiful lit glass and smooth type acrylic, and if you know me, you know I am a bit obsessive about touching glass in museums with my own hands, even though it is forbidden. (What's the word for that obsession?) I've learned you can usually enlist the help of a downtrodden and forlorn museum guard, a person who has been standing in a room with this weird, glowing, emanating shit for countless days and is ready to break the rules a little to actually help you make contact, rather than prevent it. As was the case at this exhibit, where I explained my mania to the guard and he was intrigued enough to cover for me while I gently caressed the glass. Ahhh. Ohhh. I've managed to do this now at the DeYoung and at the Chiluly show at Phipps Conserv. Give it a try...
Bailed outta tahn sans O dog but in time to pull into Berkeley so's I could witness and bear witness to the lovely wedding of the super beautiful Gina and Courtney as they were officially sealed and united under the new legality of marriage granted to anybody who would like to seal the deal, even peeps who've only been together for 14 years or something and at that point have outlasted most straight marriages you know. It was truly one of the most heart-felt and "real" weddings I'd ever seen. And the skir was honored and moved to be a part of it.
On the move once again, this time octuple dimes on the Nickel as we drove it down to Lake Forest, which is somewhere down there near Irvine. This is a bit of a foreign land for the skir, and often makes me jittery and disoriented. But what doesn't, eh? If you don't like doing everything you will ever do, including being born, praying, shopping, eating, recreating and dying in a strip mall of some kind, then stay away! I'm not saying this as a slag either, just the observations of a stranger in a strange land. We like to zip over to Laguna Beach and hit up a few eateries and stores, and of course another stab at enjoying the odd, Pageant of the Masters. This time we were center stage, only about 20 rows back (instead of the very back of last year), but I still can't quite understand the allure of this show. It is technically flawless as people pose, rigged into giant canvasses which from a distance, and with impeccable stage lighting look exactly like famous works of art. But its a mystery to me exactly what the entertainment value of this is. Like why am I seeing what I'm seeing? But I'm in a very small minority as the place is packed solid by the thousands every single night of the summer.
Highlight from the Southlands nonetheless: We rolled it down to San Diego to the Zoo's Wild Animal Park, and you guessed it, rode Segways once again in the park's experimental new guided Segway Wild safari tour. It was a big deal people. We hit the scooters at about 5:30, as the day was cooling off, dusk was immanent and the wild animals were feeling a little more active and interested. Just the five of us (in-laws, F, Illz and I) got a private tour, with a Park guide in front of us and behind, giving out the info and answering our questions. We'd Segway up to the rhinos and giraffes and hundreds of other beautiful animals (fenced in of course, but with a huge roaming area), many of whom had babies by their sides. Just amazing. Sun set and we Segway'd over the hills to dock, exhilarated. On the way outta there we stopped by little roadside stand that was
selling ostrich eggs! Had to have me one, with the intentions of bringing it back home and cooking it up. One egg apparently has the equivalent of about 2 dozen chicken eggs. I couldn't think of that many people to have over for eggs though, and sadly, the thing, still in my fridge is past it's freshness apex. But there's still the marvelous shell, which after I empty it (maybe tomorrow), and dry it out, will take on some status in the skir home.
You'd think I could've made it up to LA for a freakin hot dog wouldn't you? At the Okie or Pinks? But again hours of insane traffic in both directions has been known to take the edge off one's enthusiasm. We did however get to "The Hat," a pretty serious little Orange Co. stand that serves outlandishly large pastrami sandwiches, and giant everything else including four tons of chili cheese fries piled in one helpless container, or the equally galactic chili dog, where I'm still, weeks later, trying to find the hot dog that was buried under all the stuff they put on there.
When I clawed my way back out I was back in Oakland and no sooner than I plopped down then the film We Jam Econo came on cable and I watched it again and marveled at it again... and again, and at the Minutemen and the virtuosity of the three, D. Boon especially. And that put me in a Double Nickels mood, which for me means playing nothing by Double Nickels over and over. And over. It may actually get my vote for the single best and most important record of my 20th Century. I mean I've now read (thanks Gina) the 33.3 book on it, which goes through it all song by song. And during my own listening can hardly fathom just how good and creative was the playing of Hurley and Watt. But this time its Mr. Boon stabs at me, who cries out, frozen in time at his young age, beatified of course, but maybe rightly so. So here's one for you from youtube.
