November 28, 2008

Christmas List

A thirty-eight caliber pistol, a single-use cellular telephone, a Japanese watch with a broken crystal, three hundred dollars worth of scotch, a pack of cigarettes which I promise not to smoke, an issue of the now-defunct magazine Omni (the one with the story "The Man Who Rowed Columbus Ashore" in it), eighteen "Before" and "After" photographs of a couple whose happy marriage disintegrated into divorce, a handful of sample packages of migraine medication, two pillows (make sure they're the cheap, dense kind that lend themselves to smothering a sleeping person to death), a set of vintage cuff links inlaid with chipped Bakelite anchors, a jar of creamy peanut butter, a cracked wooden spoon with which to eat the peanut butter, a small plastic Clydesdale horse, an unfinished knife blank, two sets of Hulk Hands, and as many thirty-eight caliber bullets as you can purchase without causing the Walmart clerk to raise her eyebrows.

November 19, 2008

Misc. Quanta

According to the short story, the Quantum of Solace is defined as "a precise figure defining the comfort/humanity/fellow feeling required between any pair of people for love to survive. If the Quantum of Solace is 0, then love is dead."

Wonderful concept, the mathematical quantification of specific feelings: it allows you the illusion of objective analysis of difficult person relationships. So limited, though, by Fleming's post-Fitzgerald Gatsby world, which is casual and tragic and meaningless and dated. Let's have some more which may apply to the year 2008 and the constraints of unhappiness and dificulty:

The quantum of gun death is the number of days after which a person would commit an act of violence after being gifted with a loaded pistol. If the quantum of gun death is a non-0 figure, then said person is a risk to themselves and others.

The quantum of letters is the number of letters one writes to someone of interest before saying something true and fine and beautiful.

The quantum of liquor is the number of drinks after which the concept of choice disappears and the drinker stops refusing further drinks. The quantum of liquor is probably around 3 for most people. If the quantum of liquor is 2 or below for a given individual, subject has a drinking problem.

The quantum of matchsticks is the number of matches one requires to start a campfire. The decline of this number can be mapped directly in an inverse relationship to the number of nights a person has spent in a cold, damp tent, shivering.

The quantum of rocking chairs is the number of rocking chairs in one's home divided by the number of babies in one's home. If this number is below 1, the child will be unhappy as will the parent.

November 18, 2008

Father, halved.



Son, halved.



The loneliness of hotel rooms

A good question to ask before you start a career in corporate business is, are you lonely in hotel rooms?

I have stayed in too many hotel rooms, often of unaffordable quality, expensed, and each time I am dead and alone at night. I turn on the television: CSI is the only thing worthwhile. If I ever remembered to bring any I’d put out trinkets and things that remind me of home. The TV is placed one unit of distance away from the bed. The desk is placed double that distance. The architectural intent is to create a standard room. But regardless of this homogeneity, humans have a basic inability to sleep in new places, sleep being a time of vulnerability and mammals needing a particular brand of sleep in which the entire brain shuts down. Never mind the lack of personality or that the locked room is to a cell what the bed is to a cot.

Cribs, the MTV show, is unimaginably depressing: By and large the homes of celebrities look like hotel lobbies. Who could live there? They must not. Too impersonal. Like hotel rooms with slightly better decorators. Who could live there without dirtying the walls?

November 13, 2008

Three Photographs by Holly Andres

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The Pink Chair, and


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The Spilt Milk, and

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The Secret Portal; this one is the finest.

Thomas Eakins, The Gross Clinic

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November 12, 2008

Some boxers who died at war.

This list isn't limited to any specific time period. The full list from which these are drawn goes back to the 1840s, when boxing records began to be kept in earnest. Again, look at their names.

Stafford (Buzz) Barton
Frisco Grande
Smuggy Hursey
Yoshio (Hank) Nakamura
Elby Pettaway
Lou Pitts
Garland (Rip) Randall
Indian Johnny Rivers
Tabby Romero
Bud Hughes
Kid Hyland
Bayu Young Iray
Frisco Kid
Nottingham Kid
Sailor Kid
Young Labadie
Kid Lavelle
Charles (Bull) McCarthy
Young Terry McGovern
Albuquerque Joe Rivers
Tough Ruffian
Ad Russell
Port Scott
Beethaeven Scottland
Gunboat Skee
Bill (Chicken) Thompson
Stewey the Brakeman
Sonny Boy West
Hammer Wilson


Is this making fun of them? Or, to put that better, is there a way to list these dead men without making light of their names? Is listing automatically depersonalizing? Is a list an automatic model of ridicule?

November 11, 2008

Beak-bashing. Fistic attractions. Leach Cross, the Fighting Dentist.

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"I knock 'em out, then I put 'em back in."
Boxing is an inherently ridiculous sport in that it's about the total regulation of the most basic act of violence possible. This goes beyond the appeal of blood sports, two guys beating the crap out of each other for three minutes can be a visceral joy if you've got the stomach for it - but what's really great is that when the referee tells them to stop, they both stop. And like clockwork sixty seconds later they beat the crap out of each other for another three minutes. And then we watch and comment on their skill in hitting each other and in being hit. You cannot make this stuff up. But it's inherently kind of noble, too, for exactly the same reasons that it is ridiculous.

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That nose has been busted many times.

Age amplifies primary qualities. Boxing is even more ridiculous and noble when it's old. In that not-quite liminal and not-quite forgotten period between the turn of the century and the Second World War, boxing was a sport dominated by Jewish fighters. That's one of them right there: Leach Cross, the Fighting Dentist.

Born on the Lower East Side as Louis Charles Wallach, he boxed under the name “Leach Cross” to avoid the disapproval of his father, who disliked brutality. Leach had three brothers involved in the sport - one of whom was his manager - and all four took the name Cross. Leach Cross was one of those people who's only known to enthusiasts of sporting history and people with time to kill and a digitized version of the Library of Congress available. You see a picture, you do some basic research, and suddenly you've got a new obsession.

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Leach was an extremely popular fighter. He never won any titles, but check out the list of champions whom he fought and often bested: Jack Britton, Battling Nelson, Ad Wolgast, Willie Ritchie, Freddie Welsh, and Johnny Dundee. Those names. It takes a second to realize they're real and not made up for comedy. Were men once named Ad? What in the world is that short for? Why in did a guy named Lou Wallach think "Leach" would be a good pseudonym? These fellows had completely different ideas of what it means to be a man than anyone alive today.

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Leach Cross by Charles Miller, 2003.

Leach Cross fought from 1906 to 1916. He won most of the time and was fun to watch - the sporting section of the New York Times is full of excited descriptions of his bouts:

"Leach Cross, the east side dentist-pugilist stopped Charley Griffin of Australia in the second round or what was to have been a ten-round bout at the Vanderbilt A.C., Brooklyn, last night. A hard right swing which landed flush on the Australian's jaw was the beginning of Charley's trip to dreamland, and this hard wallop was followed up with a series of uppercuts to the head and body which hurried Griffin along. "

Leach went pro right from the start. No amateur training for him: He needed cash and quick: Leach was paying for dental school himself. Knocked out in the first round of his first fight, in the second round of his second fight. Not an auspicious entry, but he got much better.

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Out of 144 fights, Leach lost 38. This is one of the latter.

Impressively, Leach actually did finish dental school. He had a limited neighborhood practice which soon fell by the wayside as his pugilistic career took flight of feet. And he did get to fix some of his opponents' teeth from time to time, which up-close examination of wounds I imagine gave him an appreciation for the effects of his fists.
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And so but not to dwell on losses, but this quote is too delightfully dated and of such a good story not to include: Of his 1909 fight against Jem Driscoll, Leach Cross said:
"It was the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me. I couldn't touch that shifty Welshman once in ten rounds. What did he do to me? Well, at the end of the fight, my brother - and manager- Sam looked at me in the corner and said ‘What're you doing in this corner- you're not Leach Cross! You don't even look like Leach Cross!’ And it was true-that little Britisher had knocked my face lop-sided!"
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November 10, 2008

Roberto Bolaño, Godzilla in Mexico

Listen carefully, my son: bombs were falling
over Mexico City
but no one even noticed.
The air carried poison through
the streets and open windows.
You'd just finished eating and were watching
cartoons on TV.
I was reading in the bedroom next door
when I realized we were going to die.
Despite the dizziness and nausea I dragged myself
to the kitchen and found you on the floor.
We hugged. You asked what was happening
and I didn’t tell you we were on death’s program
but instead that we were going on a journey,
one more, together, and that you shouldn’t be afraid.
When it left, death didn’t even
close our eyes?
What are we? you asked a week or year later,
ants, bees, wrong numbers
in the big rotten soup of chance?
We’re human beings, my son, almost birds,
public heroes and secrets.

November 9, 2008

Newsboys

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November 7, 2008



November 5, 2008

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Indonesia

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Greece

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Iraq



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Georgia


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Senegal



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Kenya


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France


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Australia

November 4, 2008

Some whom you should know.

David Lee Edwards, a Kentuckian, won the state lottery and blew his winnings - 74 million dollars - on cars, Oxycontin, houses, jets, a limo company, and other genuinely useless things, including $78,000 worth of replica medieval swords, and ended up living in a storage unit in Riviera Beach. Edwards is on his deathbed with hepatitis.

Len George Koenecke, Brooklyn Dodger and New York Giant, beaten to death with a fire extinguisher by the flight crew of a chartered aircraft after picking the fight with the pilot. Death in 1935.

Helen Stathatos, homeowner in southern California, the walls of whose Tudor-style house began to ooze honey because several million bees had resided in them for twenty years. When last in the news, Ms. Statathos had decided not to have the bees removed from her home, as the extermination would damage the walls of her historic home. Her living room smells exactly like a pot of honey.

Jeremy Joe Kronsberg, director and screenwriter, involved in the Clint Eastwood-orangutan vehicles Every Which Way But Loose and Any Which Way You Can, which are extremely funny movies. as well as something called Going Ape!, which was not successful. Verbatim from his IMDB entry: Often referred to as the godfather of the modern ape chase movie.

Gilbert Lacher, my father's cousin, who was, as they say in the parlance of politeness, touched. Gilbert robbed a savings and loan institution in southern Minnesota, I don’t even know what a savings and loan association is. There are many Gilberts in my family.

Harry Randall Truman, former Navy Man who survived World War I, notable for his refusal to evacuate Spirit Lake prior to the 1980 eruption of Mt. St. Helens. He reached some level of fame for dying so stubbornly, but of this we must say: 65 others refused to leave and died, what of them?

Norman Morrison, a Quaker, doused himself in kerosene and set himself on fire just below Robert McNamara's office in protest of the Vietnam War. McNamara speaks of the event with great sadness, as he speaks of much of the decisions of his life. In Vietnam, his name was rendered Mo Ri Xon and his face is on a postage stamp.

Richard Lewis, an eccentric 56 year old, visits the Ballard Locks in Seattle, Washington, every weekday and has for the past 34 years. Lewis knows the history of every tug boat, when it was built, who owns it, and the succession of owners. He wears thick glasses and carries a backpack filled with maritime magazines and books, and two plastic bags for the overflow.

Johnny Roventini, bellboy discovered by an advertising mogul, became spokesman for Phillip Morris cigarettes. Johnny was less than four feet tall and repeated the slogan of the cigarettes – “Call for Phillip Morris” – in a perfect B-flat tone.

Arthur Bicknell, producer of Moose Murders, a notoriously bad Broadway show, which opened and closed on the same night, and which has the funniest name of any play in the world.

Kurt Gödel, best known as a logician and philosopher, suffered a paranoid fear of poisoning in later life. Gödel would not eat unless his wife Adele, whom he trusted, tasted his food. When Adele was hospitalized in 1977 and could not taste his food for him anymore, he refused to eat. He weighed sixty-five pounds at his death.

David Hahn, not much older than me, an Eagle Scout who attempted to build a nuclear reactor in a shed in his Detroit suburb in the mid 1990s. Gained secondary attention in 2007 for his theft of smoke detectors, from which he was extracting radioactive material, and for his face at the time, which was pock-marked, apparently by exposure to said radioactive material en masse.

James L. Harris, a Miami eighteen-year-old, stole three Miami-Date Transit buses dressed like a Miami-Dade Transit driver. Harris would take the buses from several Miami-Dade Transit bus depots in the county and drive the buses on their routes, picking up and dropping off passengers along the way. He would then return the buses at the end of the day. Harris did not steal any bus fare.

Arthur Bremer, shooter of 1972 presidential candidate George Wallace, later the inspiration for Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver, himself the inspiration for John Hinckley Jr.'s shooting of Reagan, appropriate for a president with roots in show business.

Robert Shields, a former high school teacher, kept a diary with entries made every five minutes from 1972 to 1997. Shields spent four hours per day in his underwear recording his body temperature, blood pressure, and medications, and slept two hours a time so as to describe his dreams. Quote: "Maybe by looking into someone's life at that depth, every minute of every day, they will find out something about all people." Shields’ diary is now in the collections of Washington State University, and under the terms of his donation, may not be read or subjected to a precise word count for fifty years after his death.

Stella Nickell, Seattle woman, murdered her husband in 1986 in order to use his life insurance money to open a tropical fish store. Nickell poisoned her husband with cyanide and then planted five bottles of Excedrin, each contaminated with cyanide at a local convenience store in order to make her husband’s death appear the work of a serial killer. Her Excedrin killed one other woman.

An unnamed young man, flew from Nashville to Los Angeles with a ticket back to Louisiana, intending to hijack a commercial jetliner to commit suicide. Notable in that the boy, sixteen years old, had no political purpose, instead wishing, rather comically, to crash his plane into a Hannah Montana concert. He brought handcuffs, duct tape, and yarn to overpower the flight crew.

Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, you likely know of them from their appearances in the public media, but of whom you are unlikely to know the following: Despite being twins, they are not identical.

Obama

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November 3, 2008

La Crosse in an Aquarium

Beer is the most popular of alcohols in the United States - economic estimates give it 85% of the market. Be you happy you whiskey drinkers! Oh! you happy few! (And rejoice in your camaraderie, you imbibers of beer! You host of strength!) In the frontier west, whiskey was homemade, cut with ammonia, gun powder, cayenne, anything with a bite significant enough to distract from what you and I will immediately assume to be an awful flavor. I have drunk moonshine. It is terrible. It is not bad enough that I would drink it cut with ammonia. Perhaps you drink cheap liquor today as I do. Bottom-shelf and neat. A taste of this awful chemical sweetness suited more for fine conditioners than one’s palate. The larger part terrible, but the final lick at the bottom of the glass is something wonderful: caramel.

And but so back to beer, not to ruminate on whiskey, an over-romanticized drink if there ever was one. (Whiskey, the absinthe of the west). Think of it in linguistic terms. Beer. The word is simple. My toddler brother often said it and found the saying funny: “I’m drunk on beer,” then reeling in an imitation of drunkenness, laughing at his own joke. Simple. Humorous.

Think you on more vocabulary: Six pack. Like a gang or a team. If it is descriptive it is so only as grouping of sameness. A six pack of beer like a herd of cows, you might explain to a farmer learning English. A group of reliable similarity. (A separate definition: A style of corporal punishment in which the victim is shot in the elbows, knees, and ankles and left alive to feel the pain.)

Cans above the 12-oz and 16-oz size are called Tallboys. This name sounds jaunty and brave, like the nickname of a category of English infantryman sent to fight the Great War. The tallboy was given comically useless arms to fight a tragically superior enemy. Perhaps sent with a pike and a satchel charge against Germans with machine gunners. Come back in for one more: an empty bottle is? A dead soldier.

Now a geographic angle: La Crosse, Wisconsin has the most bars per capita: 362 bars, 51,000 people. One bar for every 140. Here are more statistics: In 2004, the population was spread out with 18.8% under the age of 18, 24.4% from 18 to 24, 24.9% from 25 to 44, 17.0% from 45 to 64, and 14.9% who were 65 years of age or older. The median age was 30 years.

I have been to La Crosse. It is a fine city, if I cannot remember a single detail by which to describe it. I have tried to analyze the demographics to determine the character of each bar, as if by performing enough simple mathematical functions I could sketch each regular’s face. But that is not so any more so than I know the regulars at my own local bar by name, whom I see and speak to but do not know except within the context of several specific walls and a few solitary drinks. In the back room they hide in booths behind a tall aquarium. The room is wood. The aquarium takes up the larger part of the space. I have sat there with many people and I have sat there alone. Alone I indulge in a fantasy that says it is lonely to be powerful. Some nights the fantasy is that I am powerful. Some nights it is that I am lonely when the loneliness is behind the glass. Sometimes I can see the aquarium and sometimes it is behind me. The effect is the same: with each drink I worry that the glass will break and the fish will fall onto the floor. In the cold nights I know this will make my walk home difficult. The fish do not ever fall. The glass will someday break.

November 2, 2008

Speechless Grey Horse, Berlinde de Bruyckere

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Jamie Wyeth

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Andrew Wyeth

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Andy Warhol, Facing Left
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November 1, 2008

Pumpkinhead - Self Portrait, Jamie Wyeth

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