Luminarium

I LOVE THIS BOOK. I mean, I would write more about it now, but I’m trying to finish it. 

Amon

Four simple letters that you can type into Spotify when you need to get work done. 

So when it gets to that point in the set, it’s like Stephin and I, tethered together with a strand of dental floss, suspended over a dark abyss —with scorpions, vampire bats, and C.H.U.D. waiting at the bottom. Then again, I suppose that’s part of the joy of live music.

— The Magnetic Fields’ guitarist John Woo, on playing a song that one would not expect would be so wrought with tension. It’s that “joy of live music” line that kills me, although the thought of Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers competing with scorpions is pretty funny. 

thetinhouse:

A young Alfred Hitchcock, just getting started as a silent film director in Britain, sent away for a copy of Plotto. 

WOW. Just wow. I don’t know what’s better, the tie or the moustache. Also? Now I’d like two skeletons of Hitchcock for my museum. One when he died, and one when he was Charlie Chaplin.

(Source: lestercorp)

Questioning My Methods

I’ve tried two posts of writing about 3-5 objects, movies, songs, or books, and I love it, but I think it’s way too hard to read - - the Tumblr format is based for one item, one article. So my goal for this blog is to write about 3-5 objects, movies, songs, or books every week {This does not count as one}. 

The Mystery of the Shrieking Moka

The moka pot is a classic. The espresso hits just the right note of bitterness without being too acidic, and you don’t have to stand around fidgeting with switches or pod-things unless you really, really want to. It doesn’t look like a science kit while it’s not in use, adding a little bit of old-world charm to any kitchen.

But my moka pot developed the habit of screaming - - shrieking, really, a steamy howl that became scarier by the day.

I’d attributed this an uneven grind after I found half, whole, and quarter beans in the metal basket (B in the diagram), and then created a mental image of sinister bean shards creating a whistling sound. And then I would make sure that they weren’t in the basket the next time I made espresso.

This had no effect. The shrieking got louder by the day, and it became clear to me that I needed to do something in the event that my neighbors stopped by to ask what the horrible bansheeing was about.

After a fair amount of digging around on the internet, I realized that the logical culprit - - not something that I just imagined - - was espresso residue in the flue of the moka pot. Thus far, soaking the moka in 50% to 50% solution of water and white vinegar seems to scare away the banshees.

Of course, as with everything coffee related, there is controversy. Cleaning the Moka is supposed to result in a less cofffee-like taste. From Wikipedia:

It is said to be desirable to retain this residue, as it subsequently prevents coffee from acquiring an unpleasant metallic taste through contact with the aluminum wall.

Yeah, I did not find this to be the case, but it’s certainly a romantic notion. Although not half as romantic as a morning without screaming. [ Moka Pot on Wikipedia ]

Coffices, Letter Racers, Chasing Ghosts

A Room of Everyone’s Own

The Millions has this editorial about the futility of writing in coffeehouses. Strangely, it does not mention that pulling a single shot of espresso can sound like a sputtering demon being born, which can be distracting. Instead, Lombardi talks about how weird it is to create something in public - - writing as performance.

“Writing in public feels like a performance, but, when we’re dealing with literature, the performance is not what endures. To put it another way: the final outcome is the performance. I can’t help but assume when I see the coffice-bound writer as one who privileges persona over results.

I’m not sure that someone typing at a computer is really a persona. Maybe if the cofficeur is smoking a pipe and wearing a vest and pacing around the café table, while a white page and the words “MY NOVEL” is in a 242 point font on his screen. But what I do on Sunday mornings is my own goddamn business. 

And yet I agree with Lombardi’s conclusion that, “literature is a relationship both with solitude and with the rest of the world, and I suppose what bothers me about the laptop hive of the ‘coffice’ is that it offers neither.”

Sure. Although one can feel very isolated while standing in line, waiting to order their cortado. Very isolated indeed…  

[ A Room of Everyone’s Own ]

The Letter Racers

“The letter racers were in his conception totally functional, like models to
demonstrate how the letters would work if they were ever to be mechanized and able to fly into battle.”

Speaking of writing, once upon a time there was a graffiti artist who felt that paint was not enough for something as important as the alphabet, and that letters should be able to defend themselves. His name was Rammellzee, and although that  wasn’t his real name, it suited him. 

I saw the Letter Racers at the Suzanne Geiss gallery about two weeks ago, and I’m still thinking about them. Each racer is a letter of the alphabet, rendered in what you could call a graffiti-lettering-by-Voltron aesthetic. It wasn’t immediately apparent to me which letter is which, and maybe you may can see why - - the photo I’ve included in this post is the letter Z.  

What’s surprising about the Letter Racers is how solid and consistent they are - - each one has parts in common. Sometimes a cheapo umbrella handle is used, sometimes it’s toy spaceship parts, but they all share a common language of adornment and embellishment.

What they all have in common is that that they’re mounted on skateboards, and they all have a plastic toggle on the back - -  the clicking belt component of a backpack or shoulder bag - - which must have connected to a corresponding clip in Rammellzee’s studio, the Battle Station. Each racer is big, you’d need two hands to pick up each one, and you really get the sense that they are meant to be raced, or played with, or possibly animated. That’s what I keep thinking about - - it seems like they shouldn’t be just on display in a gallery.

[ Rammellzee’s Site | Wikipedia Page | New York Times Article ]

Chasing Ghosts: Beyond the Arcade

A coin-operated mess of video game history and personalities with no real focus. If this documentary (currently on Netflix) was a game, it would be Centipede, with the filmmaker shooting at a large, connected mass, succeeding only in splitting up  the various sections that make up the movie, and probably losing a few quarters in the process.

And yet it has made me think a lot about the idea of the social nature of games; about what kind of games appeal to people; about what people saw when they looked at these early games, which you have to admit, don’t really look like much. 

What makes  Ottumwa, Iowa the home of the Video Game Hall of Fame? What turns a video game champion into a religious evangelist, or someone who describes themselves as being (professionally) just shy of a pimp? What makes someone gravitate to Missile Command over Pac-Man? 

Is it that that Ottumwa is so cold that it makes for a stronger arcade? Is it really, as Mr. Awesome (not exactly his real name but kind of) says, that Missile Command is more masculine than Pac-Man? How weird is it that someone would even describe a video game as masculine? 

Chasing Ghosts has a bit of unfriendly sensibility to it, sometimes mocking its subjects with computer graphics or editing japery (the mullet montage comes to mind). But it also brings a much-needed sense of messiness and confusion about video games. We act like it’s completely normal that people are playing Angry Birds right next to us on the subway. We watch TED talks about the benevolent nature of video games. Forget all that. Let’s talk about using an electric knife or a pencil to cheat at Track and Field - - that game is hard.

  [ Chasing Ghosts IMDB | Trailer ]

Paris Review Chocolate

Best thing to grace my desk this morning. Oh, Paris Review Chocolate - - You are as sweet as you are full of literary insight. And just as salty. And you go well with coffee. And … I think I’m out of magazine/foodstuff analogies. 

Marble Bathtubs, Sailing, Werewolves, Bond, and the Machete Gang Takes a Holiday

The Bathtubs or the Boiler Room 

Roman Mars
99% Invisible

I’m not likely to ever see the 19th century marble bathtubs of the Capital building, with their marble steps and brass fittings, but now I can’t stop thinking about them. Like an excerpt from Travels in HyperReality, this is a discussion of a place as an idea, and an allegory of how our government once was and now is. It’s also a description of some damned beautiful bathubs. {LINK}

A Thoroughly Impractical Guide for Going to Sea 
Chris Landers
BoatUs Magazine 

At 24, when most of us were trying to figure out how to cook for ourselves or if we should apply to grad school (or leave grad school) Chris landers decided to spend four years at sea. 

I saw hurricane-force winds drag two 600-pound anchors across a harbor in Ireland, roused myself from sleep at 4 a.m. to climb 100 feet in the air during a North Atlantic gale, and held my breath clinging to the head rig as it plunged through icy waves. But I also saw the phosphorescent trails of dolphins as they played in the bow wake at night, and felt the relief of tying up to a foreign dock, with a new city to explore, at the end of a long passage.

So great. {LINK}

Werewolves of Montpelier
Jason
Fantagraphics 

The charmingly weird story of an artist (an anthropomorphic cat), who is compelled to dress up as a werewolf at night and break into apartments collecting what he can. Many panels go by without much text, and our protagonist is neither talkative nor introspective about why he does what he does. Instead he’s flummoxed by his own emotional life, and thievery is his method of escape from confusion.

The style is more filmic than comic book, and while things feel a bit too disconnected in the first half of the book, by the story’s end you realize that there’s been a rhythm at work the whole time. {LINK}

Bond, James
 Michele Disler
Counterpath Press 

A breakdown of James Bond as an index, or a  portrait done in statistics. This oulipian project is an excellent compliment to the Q. R. Markham scandal from last year (in which a new spy novel was constructed and published using fragments of Ian Fleming’s work without the publisher’s knowledge). I find it impossible to read all the way through, and I also can’t put it down (“tortured below the waist [whip, saw, bubbling hot geiser] 3; Shakes hands with CIA agent and friend Felix Leiter 0). {LINK}

Machete Gang Holiday 
And So They Ran Faster, This is Firehorse  

The corner bodega near my old Bushwick apartment had a machete that would sometimes would appear in the plexiglass candy display - -I dont think it was for sale, I’m pretty sure it was there for the owner’s protection. This was during the point in my residency were kids wearing neoprene face masks (presumably for warmth) would casually stand around with baseball bats, and police would sweep through every weekend. The machete became one of many things that I just agreed not to see or comment on.

What I particularly like about this song (and this album), is the sense of contrast. Leah Siegel possesses a perfect, controlled voice that glides along this bumpy and cheerful tune, which I think is about the simplicity and subsequent happiness of ignoring bats and machetes and moving on with your life.

A Letter to the Board of Invisibility

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