Weirdo turned pro.
Pen to paper. Fingertips to keyboard.
Like thousands, millions, billions high primates before.
A boon, a propitiation to no one around.
I choose not to go numb, though stumbling clumsy and thick.
And frowning at what has been scrawled or tapped more often than smiling.
But I choose to try. To last.
So far with the writing project, it’s been writing by hand while out ‘n’ about, then getting around to typing that writing up by hand on the computer. Doing some editing in that process, especially hiting spots of leaning into the notes and thinking “Wha-a-at the heck?” and reinterpreting.
Finished up typing up manuscript up to the end of May. Broke 127,000 words, still in the middle chapter.
Neil Gaiman, a writer I like in interviews but have never read, said in an interview that waiting for inspiration to strike is something for poets. Novelists need to sit and be at task or it’ll never get done. That’s echoed by a LOT of writers. I’m finding that to be true.
Haven’t had Writer’s Block, but DO suffer from acute Writer’s Avoidance. Finding distractions to keep from the physical effort.
And it is often dreary typing up notes, not liking what I’m going over. But then a gem or scene or description comes on that I like and it’s a relief. Promise of the project restored.
I’m really getting excited for the process of revision after the First Draft is done. It’ll be a while from now, and it’ll be brutal, but the prospect of slimming this thing down to something elegant makes me antsy and happy.
Uhura in a midriff-baring uniform on Star Trek was stirring as a kid. By “stirring”, I mean “ohmigod thatissohot” swirled with a hunger for acquisition even when my sense of anatomy and what goes where was, to put it kindly, vague. The episode she showed her abs was “Mirror, Mirror” and on Sunday afternoon I went to a production with my spouse and friends and new acquaintances to see a local troupe re-enacting the episode, verbatim, with great humor, ingenuity, charm, and energy as part of an annual “Trek in the Park” event. More on that later.
Back to early stirrings and burgeoning lust.
Seeing Nichelle Nichols as Uhura sadistically, strategically, and dangerously tantalize George Takei as Sulu (Uhura, distract him with your wiles from seeing that flashing light on his console! Sulu, you lucky dog!) with a knife then sashaying off when she got what she wanted was ¡RAWR! to early-pubescent me.
A transporter accident beams four Enterprise crew members (Kirk, Uhura, Scotty, McCoy) to an alternate universe where the Federation is an assasination-happy empire. Enough summary. Confident cheesecake below!
HAWT, right? This imprinted me. I have a Nichelle Nichols CD of her singing (including made-up lyrics to the ‘Star Trek’ theme song) she recorded in the ’90s. My friend S was similarly imprinted. We can both recite her favorite two anecdotes verbatim: when she wanted to quit ‘Star Trek but Martin Luther King Jr. begged her not to, and hearing from Whoopi Goldberg that seeing a black woman like Uhura on prime time television was a BIG inspiration to little Whoopi in the 60s.
In high school/college, seeing the episode again, my eyes were opened to ANOTHER BABE on the very same episode: Barbara Luna as Marlena Moreau. Not the typical romantic interest for Kirk – ditzy, blonde, easily tricked – Marlena was a brunette, ambitious, great presence, and two-dimensional (maybe three dimensional?). Check out Marlena pitching woo to Kirk, not knowing (yet) he’s from another universe where they are NOT shacked up:
Hubba, and then again [gets a drink of water, stands on porch, watches the sunset, does dishes] hubba.
Dialog is goofy, hilarious, and female-empowering in a ham-handed way. “You could be anything you want to be.” Meaty episode with lots for actors to chew on, and a great choice for Trek in the Park.
Sunday was the first time I’ve attended. Wanted to before, but didn’t get around to it the last two years. Finally, friend E. evangelized enough to get me and my spouse past our torpor and our asses on blankets. She got there about four hours before show time. I got there three hours before, and we held ground for the gradual trickling in of friends and family. E. got GREAT seats for us, third tier up from the ground in the tiny outdoor auditorium, center looking at the captain’s chair. A shot of the crowd to my right about ten minutes before show time, rows of people behind THEM you can’t see in the photo, captain’s chair draped in orange on the left:
E. & her spouse say the crowds have ballooned in the 3 years of Trek in the Park. Always in this park, but now the actors have to project loudly and essentially play in the round. They do a good job of it. Microphones & speakers are saved for voice overs (like intercom and computer voices).
Attending this, I knew I was going to comment on the two original scenes shown above and would want corresponding photos from the reenactment. Kirk (Adam Rosko, who started and leads Trek in the Park) with Marlena (Allison Hergert):
And in this scene with Uhura, actress Dana Thompson gave a bonus playful jab of the dagger at Sulu (Kaebel Hashitani) before her exit that got a big laugh:
During these moments with the actresses, camera shutters went clickity click click. Below, a photo of another early scene with Marlena and Kirk where camera shutter noises also rippled around. Wonder why?
Am left to conclude the other photographers MUST also be bloggers commenting on these scenes. Weird coincidence! Looking forward to those write-ups as soon as they’re posted. In the photo above, Marlena is using the Tantalus Field which can monitor and exterminate people at will. Maybe it was fans of high tech weaponry with all those cameras?. As I’m not much of a gear head, their mentality is tough for me to grok.
No admission charged, but comemorative t-shirts were for sale after the show. I bought us two. Might try to go back with the kids next weekend (the final pair of shows this summer). It was worth the wait for a good spot. A lot of enthusiasm + crowd deeply into it and giving love back = a high time. At the end, they even did a preview of next summer’s episode: “Journey to Babel” where we first meet Spock’s flinty Vulcan dad Sarek, his human mother, wolf dude with a pig snout, murder, intrigue, sneering sneaky blue guy, knife fight, derring-do!
We’re SO there next year.
Lots of commentary about a new series of Summer’s Eve ads with distinctly ethnic voices. Some people are shocked at the relative bluntness, others at the spots targeted to different ethnicities (presumably – could be a “look at us, we’re multicultural!” play to United Colors of Bennetton-susceptible demographics, too).
The approach is new, but the content isn’t that daring. The word “vagina” doesn’t appear in the Latina and Black ones. I’m all for vagina/uteral pride, there needs to be more of it, so no big deal there. The content isn’t anything that most ladies aren’t capable of sharing after 1-2 glasses of wine.
A few comments have been: “How dare they imply all vaginas are stinky!” These are ads from a company selling douches. Toothpaste, mouthwash, and toothbrush ads don’t get by assuring us everything is fine in our mouths. No big deal there, either.
Others have commented on racial stereotyping. Not sure there. Certainly people with accents like these voice overs are all over the place. Wonder how many complaining about racial stereotypes actually are Latinas or Blacks, and not people over-reaching and showingly getting offended on behalf of ethnicities that don’t really care?
Glad Señor Wences isn’t around to see the talking hands. Dated reference. Money shots:
The Latina ad:
The Black ad:
The Cracker ad:
V, out, my viggas!
My Wii avatar, nomenclature: “Mii”. Note the smirk.I’ve been using two fitness programs on the Nintendo Wii: Wii Fit (for about two years) and EA Sports Active (once two days ago).
Wii Fit was ready to go. No extra stuff to attach to your person. No mess. Bouncy, soft. Yoga a big component. But a lot of the yoga stuff is weird. You must maintain balance as measured onscreen by a red dot centered as you move and hold positions. Then you are given a star rating. Hardly a contemplative or simplifying journey inward based on modulated breathing. More like competitive yoga, a vogue-off in slow motion with softer music.
Well, hell-lo, there. Why, yes, I did splash on a little Paco Raban.There’s a choice between having a female or male trainer talk you through the strength and yoga exercises. I went with a lady trainer. I DO NOT perform and stretch and moan and strive for the approval of dudes. No way, José. Eros is a fitness motivator. I don’t want to rise from embarrassing positions to be invited by a sausage fest on my television. Even if virtual, I feel better taking orders from a lady.
Dude trainer = Yelling about issues “Is that good enough for ya, Pop? Is it good enough for ya?” or competing for the attention of the female trainer lurking in the background, stored somewhere in the machine. “Hey, virtual guy. Look at MY plumage indicating willingness to mate. Behold and tremble at MY MIGHTY WINGSPAN! I shall DESTROY YOU! (Can you see this dominance display, are you awed by it, yon virtual female trainer?)”
All was well for a while. Okay, I ignored Wii Fit for more than six months. But when I got back to it, Wii Fit was all like: “Hey. You okay? Oh, you weigh the same. Welcome back, prodigal sack of meat.” and I got back to hula-hooping and step aerobics and doing yoga EXACTLY WITHIN THE LINES every once in a while. I visit a gym about twice a week, and go on walks and occasional bike rides. So, somewhere in there, I moved through three dimensional space beyond lifting fingers and arms around a laptop.
About a year and a half ago, my kids gifted me with EA Sports Active for the Wii. It came with a crazy pair of devices requiring assembly that was more than I wanted to deal with so I shelved it until two days ago. Here’s the ensemble:
That gray thing is not a face mask or a jock strap but a leg strap for the right leg to hold the Nintendo nunchuck controller to monitor your leg movements. The orange ribbon is a resistance band, a contraption that always looked pathetic when seen in fitness infomercials or footage of the elderly or infirm wanting just a TOUCH more challenge than gravity, but not any actual WEIGHTS, fer Pete’s sake.
Who was/is Pete, and why are we concerned with his sake?
You will find my enthusiasm, fitness, and bird-like face compelling.See the lady on the box? She’s the female trainer and in the exercis demo videos. What of the male trainer? I saw him to only reject him in the initial setup for my profile and options, and he popped up in a video showing how two people could do the same exercise in a chummy way, and at the end he nudges the lady trainer away. “Hey, bub, don’t be such a DICK to my new virtual friend here. And RESPECT MY MIGHTY WINGSPAN! BEHOLD MY POWER AND DESPAIR!”
So, chivalry increased the bond I felt with this lady trainer, a real live person in video footage. I had defended her honor, and she would reward me by persuading me to do goofy things like squats back and forth and pretending arm curls with a resistance band resulted in anything at all and, gods help me, her voice (or the voice of another female) made me walk in place, jog in place, then do high back kicks so my heels would nearly touch the rear of my thighs or butt.
We hardly knew each other, yet there she was already TASKING ME to abandon dignity. The nerve! Still, she’s cute, seems nice, and has a job (getting me to do stuff), so history is littered with less dignified relationships.
Jogging in place – there’s no way to make that cool. In the early 80s my Mom had a mini-trampoline that was used to jog in place while watching television. She gave it a go for a while. Maybe she got bored with it. Using it looked like tantrum calisthenics. Stomp in place a good 20-30 minutes so your legs would be READY to outlast anyone not giving you that thing you wanted. “Holy moley. That mom/dad has been hopping up and down, pace undiminished, for 20 minutes. We’d better cave in and exchange that oscillating fan without the receipt.”
The mini-trampoline WAS excellent for bouncing action figures and toy cars off of. Not sure what the statute of limitations is on getting in trouble, so let me say thay my brother and I knew some people who discovered that…
Bob Greene, Oprah’s fitness guru sez: “Hey, let’s rap while sitting on giant blue balls.”EA Sports Active features videos by Oprah’s fitness expert Bob Greene. He’s been on her show jillions of times (I’ve heard), co-written books with her (I’ve seen). One of the few Oprah shows I’ve seen had her in a restaurant after she’d dropped a lot of weight lecturing/scolding her staff on how they should order a salad that met specific criteria she knew all about, or they utterly hated themselves and were doomed to early death. Have you seen Oprah the last few years? Yeah, I skirted by any Bob Greene videos.
Went through a solid hour of activity from EA Sports Active. It was VERY lunge and squat happy. I did it obediently. Scoffed “This is EASY. People DO this for exercise and think it makes a difference?” Lady voice complimented me on pacing and form.
Tried to pick a suitable customized avatar. I think all the models make you look about 22 years old. Below is the closest I could get:
Nudge that body type thing to the left = too skinny. Tried to be realistic about hairline, color, height, all that stuff. THIS virtual dude is ready to inline skate (one of the activities I did in this hour), in real life? Not so much. Clothing options were all more current and hip than Real Life me, too. Bet this virtual me probably goes to cooler concerts all the time, too.
My avatar, one notch toward chubby. TOO chubby (I hope), but note the arms are still JACKED no matter what the body type selection.Spouse got home from her trip to the gym. I packed up shop. Thought I would probably give this EA Sports Active thing another try down the road. Unstrapped the contraption from my leg. Folded up the resistance band. Started up the morning.
Next day, legs were really, really stiff. Those squats and lunges kicked my ass (or my heels hitting my ass literally kicked my ass). The sort of good muscle soreness that indicates good exercise. Though sitting on the toilet puts pressure on my tenderized haunches and make the pain receptors say: “Hey, hey! What the heck? Ow!”
After I recuperate, I’ll use the program again. I want to show that lady trainer that I can do powerful side kicks AND left and right crosses consistently and knock the hell out of that pretend punching bag. She will nod or give a compliment. I shall blush slightly then stand a little prouder the rest of the day hoping I closed the blinds to all the windows so the neighbors couldn’t see.
Did two 25 minute workout rounds with the kids in the living room watching, occasionally making comments (mostly quiet), and keeping the dog out of the way. Nice to know we’re making future memories for them to comment on my behavior some day. Paying it forward…
Dan Savage was on The Colbert Report last week (only catching up to episodes now) to talk about marriage for same-sex couples, marriage’s history as a conveyance of property, and monogamy. It was a good platform. His Savage Love podcast makes for great weekly listening (funny, righteous political anger, incisive wit), and the book he has been evangelizing, Sex at Dawn, is an eye-opener on how we as a society should be more pragmatic about human nature and happiness and less hypocritical in public (and especially, to my mind, the media). Still smarting that Anthony Weiner, who touched no one that we know of, felt forced to resign when known prostitute (legalize it!) clients were still on the floor of Congress unperturbed.
The guy sitting behind Colbert is his longtime comedy buddy Paul Dinello playing “my Building Manager Tad” a Heterosexual Accountability Buddy, making fun of the Bachmans’ gay reparative therapy horrorshow. Any-hoo, an amusing, fast-moving comedy bit:
| The Colbert Report | Mon – Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c | |||
| Dan Savage | ||||
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Watched the Captain EO Tribute: Presented in 3-D today at Disneyland. Even when I saw in in the late-ish 80s (’86? ’87?) it was slapdash, disjointed, nonsensical, and dorky on at least three different levels. Weak-ass songs, shoddy choreography mimicking more inspired videos by MJ, here performed by people in pajamas. Theater was only 1/3 full, but even at the Kremlin there were slow days of visiting the waxen corpse in Lenin’s Tomb.
But, hoo-boy.
George Lucas directed, Francis Ford Coppola produced (or was it the other way around?) and the signs were all there that the Star Wars prequels were going to suck 13 years ahead of time. Incoherent script. Things like “Hey, here’s X, doing that thing X does all the time.” [X does that thing]. Everyone: “Oh, X…”
Accountants cackling at the thoughts of how much merchandise with X people will have to buy because it’s 3-D! Michael Jackson! George Lucas! That guy who did The Godfather! We put some outerspace stuff in there with peew-peew-peew laser beams ‘n’ shit! And it’s got elements of Aliens and Tron but with mediocre-Broadway musical design, airbrush makeup, & songs! Something for everyone! And Michael Jackson can shoot blue and orange bolts easier than making a fart, just by feeling!
Mercifully, some people in the audience laughed when the Borg-ish bad guys were converted by the power of Michael Jackson b-sides to become highly-moussed pop-lock dancers. Many (me fo’ sho’) recalled when pop-lock/break dancers were dropped into entertainments, and it was exciting – because OMFG some spinning on the ground and walking like robots was ABOUT TO GET DONE! Remember that guy at the end of Footloose? Many of us were parsing his moves and imitating him in school hallways back in the day. Then talked defensively about how we were so much better.
Then the movie was over, some applauded. Not presumably because the movie was any good, maybe out of politeness, as if a member of the Jackson family was in the theater. I didn’t applaud. It was around Captain EO and Bad that Michael Jackson lost his way. Mimicking the heat and energy that once moved him, enough to fool many he was still digging it, though his flame was dimming.
I’d rather have spent the whole 10 minutes or whatever looking at Anjelica Huston in that electric blue dress billowing in the dawn. Pleasing, camp, stirring all at once. A vision all too brief. Alas.
Not only funny and true, but putting this together must have been amusing.
Caught this video, thought “Who’s the brunette? She’s kind of cute.” Saw the in the opening title it was Shakira. Thought “Still kind of cute, I mourn that magnificent mane she whips around.”
It is unlikely I will buy a Shakira record. Many years ago I complained her songs regularly mashed 3-7 genres, which induced disorientation and groove whiplash.
BUT(T)…
From the start I have admired her self-possession. In her videos she seems aware and in control at all times. That is hot.
About five years ago at a then-annual “Man’s Weekend” with high school friends, my buddy J, knowing I prattled on and on imitating Shakira’s hiccupy songs and dissecting them, rented a Shakira concert video. We watched it while playing some game (or maybe porn on an adjacent tv?) but I kept looking at the Shakira concert video in preference over whatever we were collectively doing.
“Look at that!” I would marvel. Shakira working the crowd, hard, and they were LOVING it. She was strong. We may have even had the sound off.
A confident woman directing the music, the crowd, the staging, deploying every wiggle and look into the audience knowing their effects. That was wicked hot. My buddy J, an accomplished drummer and showman, also marveled at her showmanship. So very different than the current gaggle of ditzes who walk as if they are in shoes for the first time ever.
And, oh lord, those hips.
Then shortly into this video, Shakira’s dirty blonde mane was revealed still in tact. And all was right again.
BTW, I’ve seen her in her presumably natural brunette hair. When long, it still totally works.
Skritch skritch go my Keen sandals on the wooden floor. Painting hung from the ceiling to thigh level. If I were levitated the painting would still exceed me in both height and width. Disappointing it does not rest on the floor. We are meant to regard then walk into it. Now it would take a lean over the sill and a slide on the belly or a scissors kick to get within. Like spotting a pie in a window, then noting more pies worth sampling indoors.
Except for the glass pane. Disappointing, careful textured work now pressed behind it (or is it suspended above the paint?). Fear of a maniac somewhere, a testimony to the power of art by violating it with a slash and a chant or prayer for glory to be known as the maniac who…
To be honest, I’m not incapable of that, if ever riled. Double negative. A continental affectation. I am capable. A SERIOUSLY crabby mood, though. Until then, I shake my head at such people. Alas, ye erratic apes.
Shuffle my feet up to the calf-level stanchion wire.
Now for the inevitable tension between me and the museum docents/staff – how close will they let me get? Shall I squint and feign nearsightedness? No staff in the room. Security monitors scrutinized now, or do the cameras record for future review after the alleged deed? How close could I get before security is summoned, or would an amplified voice intervene first? “Sir! Back from the painting, please!” Me? Sir? The room turns and throws darts of disdain.
Light is diffuse enough to minimize the glare, yet. Damn it. I want to near my eyes and nose and mouth to see if the little dots taste like candy. Pointilistic dapples of tinted sugar, right?
How if I take off my sandals, and in my socks hop atop the wire with an initial wobble then with yoga breathing attain balance. Would those little metal posts groan toward my poised but 191 pounds of heft as I scan around and then peer deeper, hips jutting backward to balance?
Sod it, I’ll only be here once. The wire is a guideline. I shuffle my feet so my toes transgress the imaginary forcefield. Such daring, may be only the 12th or 50th asshole to congratulate himself for such courage today. Or in the last hour. It’s a museum. The artistic mind, even manqué minds, tend toward criminal pathologies. And as anyone who has had a phone or wallet or bike stolen or home broken into, most criminals like aesthetes are pedestrian.
Closer in. My sense of people standing behind me waiting for their chance at unmolested regard, or to take their ironic/irreverent/”Oh, YOU!” photo trying to pose within Seurat’s work, wanes. Foiling those who would extend the sight to a tableau vivante may be why the painting is raised. Eyes go out of focus then pull into sharpness By the man’s hand. As he was. As he wanted people generations later to see, my turn to obey his orders.
Feet standing upon the ooze of the grass on that day. Not closely cut, but the impression of cropped solidity by piling the blips of accumulated colors just so. Point your toes in, your feet drawn into the muck up to your ankles.
Nods to things in motion, but this painting is not alive. It is not a snapshot of a moment. It is a series of comments. Frozen impressions. Not drawn in to walk around each object. Frolicsome dog, garbage curious dog, distant frolicsome dog, playful child, tense arced back monkey all inserted to connote motion but Georges knew better, knew it was a dodge. We know better. Each point carefully applied. To bring in motion as crass and clumsy as a diorama of posed, pinned butterflies.
Dots of pods and seeds, beside flecks of dashed chaff, over golden grains. There is a sound of rustling waves of grass. Not totally inert here.
Micro splotches of milky pastel candies stacked on each other like leaves fallen sideways adhering to the canvas. Can hear the water. Smell the water. Was the grass freshly cut? Septic problems making the coloacal and mictural necessities more prevalent. Air fresher on the island shore? A sound behind in the room draws me back away and in the whoosh a whiff of paint a century past pushes by then is gone.
Bearded Mandy Patinkin in a white smock stands on a ladder painting on the other side of the scrim, harrumphnifting at something ripe delicate Bernadette Peters said to him. But now the work is done, I am not looking through the gauze of staged canvas to watch him, but standing to regard what he did, the complete object, from where he did it, the true Seurat absent and instead selectively dramatized as he wanted here.
“What do you think…?” there is no one beside me. Only me. Uttered nothing.
Où est Georges?
Bet he was going to remain out, then overcame his reserve (in defiance of…?) to ultimately add his avatar. Seeing to the future, clearest detail, solo, drawing on his pipe. Sunlight warming his legs and pants and his feet obscured. Staring to the water knowing he would portray the world behind him. Not accurately, not needing to retain each element as it was. Who was truly behind and beside and before him at that time? Did not matter to him, as it does not to us now. The moment would be his, as he wanted it, and that would be what lasted.
