taking fire

There are many ways to get around the streets of Manhattan. Five points for each one you Spy!

• The Gaper. Hapless in shorts, the foreign and the naive amble and pause, pointing pocket cameras at the Chrysler building from three blocks away, flash plinking feebly.
• The Commuter. Roll-sleeved shirts and ties move in straight impatient lines, juggling Blackberrys and maintaining optimum viewing distance from the flimsy sundress walking ahead. Commuters suffer from animosity toward Gapers.
• The Hailer. One arm urgently aloft and the other heavy with expensive shopping bags, the Hailer demonstrates her greater need to be somewhere, chin high and confident. Note: Manhattan only. Cab drivers understand that the Brooklyn bridges are made of wet papier mache and lead to a grim land of flesh-eating zombies, and will sooner sauté their grandmothers’ kidneys than take you anywhere off the island.
• The Shuffler. The downtrodden and homeless shuffle slowly. Loose, worn knitwear and battered sandals. An ancient walkman looping something through earphones shorn of foam. Without destination or focus they make their steady, glassy progress, foot, over foot, over foot, like wind-up toys.
• The Trolley. Bent with weight into their shopping cart, sisyphean. Bags full of the recycleable and dubious. Grim with apparent purpose.
• The Batshit Loonball. The truly mad travel less; the consistency of a neighbourhood some measure of comfort given wild internal weather. On my block, the Japanese lady asks questions angrily of the sidewalk, sharp foreign consonants and a baffled lack of response. She moves off toward 10th Avenue, carefully walking using her right knee instead of the foot; a loping, unnecessary, uncomfortable tribute to John Cleese.
• The Courier. Heralded by the hated blast of car horns, the brakeless courier careens across the junction through another red. No problem, no worries, no fear.
• The Scooter. Mothers on Xootrs wait carefully for the crossing signal and push off, leading their line of helmeted ducklings on wobbly toy-wheeled Razors home.
• The Inliner. Muscle-topped and tanned, the gay ‘liners power their olympic way around the greenway circuit, legs sweeping out, side to side to side.
• The Skater. The hipster hat and sunglasses glide along behind the row of parked cars. The tarmac growls loudly of skateboard wheels. Dogs follow the unnatural noise and bark taut against the leash. On Union Square, the skaters take turns passing up and down in front of the steps like mediaeval jousters, stretching out manuals, kickflipping, cashing in their hours of practice for short-lived glory.

My friend Emily bought me a book on Basquiat for my birthday. One in truth I already had because i’m a complete Basquiat nerd but anyway, it prompted me to read it rather than just look at the picters. Turns out he had his first ever solo exhibition at the Fruitmarket in Edinburgh. Goodness me.

Cool wee story here about him leaving a painting behind. I wonder how many people in Edinburgh are sitting on an original, maybe some without knowing how important and rare his pieces are. Made me smile.

http://freespace.virgin.net/iain.irving/Basquiat%20Painting.html

For some reason the subject of paedophilia keeps coming up in conversations. I think it’s because the British pronunciation (pea-dophile) is hilarious to Americans. The reference I inevitably drop into the conversation and which subsequently sinks like a depleted uranium canoe is the classic, “Would you like to see some puppies?”

This of course requires some explanation at length. I thought it might be quicker just to post the original public service broadcast (also embedded after the jump). It’s still chillingly relevant. I think the wee boy narrator’s performance is outstanding. I wonder where he is now?

Hopefully not buried under a garden shed somewhere.
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You can get all kinds of neato stuff by trawling for torrents. Demonoid (Mac stuff), UKNova (UK TV), PirateBay (films, pr0n), that sort of thing.

One of the self-confessed geekiest moments of my life was enabled by the magic of torrent. If you’ve never caressed a Space Marine, skip this paragraph now.
Over at Wikipedia’s extensive Warhammer 40K section, I found myself in a minor edit war. Clashing with some sapling n00b, I found I was unable to settle a vital dispute over some obscure detail of Tyranid mythology from *nrgh* over twenty years ago. Now I know my memory is infallible (as Stu will testify). If only I had my trusty 1987 copy of Rogue Trader! These kids weren’t even born when I was playing. My geekness accumulated thus:

1. Actually bothering to edit Wikipedia
2. Admitting to ever playing 40K
3. Actually caring about it enough to argue
4. Being pedantic enough to search for the book
5. Amazingly finding a torrent and spending time downloading it
6. On inspection realising that I was completely, comprehensively wrong

Anyway I digress. My learned colleague at work pointed out this rather fine work of art previously only available for bum-clenchingly large sums of cash, but now ruthlessly distributed in bitty torrents for your cheap-ass perusal. It’s the Codex Seraphinianus, and you can download it directly here. It’s a bumper batch of eye biscuits. Once you’ve checked it out there’s some context on WP.

It reminds me of the weird, disturbing coloured angel creatures in Jim Woodring’s stuff. For a cheeky taste of Jim’s most famous creation Frank, there is a really, really excellent don’t-miss-it article describing why it buggers with your mind so. Jim himself approves.

Hamit Alintop (below, top) was one of the star players for Turkey during their Euro 2008 campaign. Tonight, they unfairly lost in the semi-finals to a very poor German side, ending their dreams of reaching the final. Alintop (below, bottom) was photographed soon afterwards drowning his sorrows after the defeat.

The heat and humidity remain, but Sunday is peaceful. The rain washes steadily in the quiet. People are staying home. Now and then you hear the distant sound of what might be thunder, but is probably just God crumpling up old skyscrapers.

When I thought of moving to NY I didn’t think of attending lectures. Nevertheless some of my most memorable evenings here have been spent in quiet orderliness learning about something new from legendary players in their given field.

I got taken to see Chip Kidd deliver what was supposed to be an hour on book design, but was closer to actual comedy – the guy is really funny. It was a real insight into what my life would have been like if I’d stuck with Graphic Design all those years ago at high school, instead of jacking in the paintbrushes for low-res lines of COMAL.

Then, the panel discussion on ‘designing New York’, with three of the partners from the apparently mighty design house Pentagram. Design here on a bigger scale: branding and banners and buildings. It was cool to hear the stories behind so many of the visuals I’d noticed around the city over the last six months.

And finally, this week was a gem for me given what I’ve been reading recently: a panel discussion on Science and Morality, including not only Daniel Dennett (philosopher, outspoken rationalist and part-time Santa) but Antonio Damasio (diminutive Italian neuroscientist at the forefront of figuring out how consciousness works). The discussion pinged about in polite fashion for ninety minutes and the host did a decent job of keeping it on target. Given I’ve read the latest books from the main dudes there was little new stuff to learn, but seeing them in person was pretty exciting. Sample ethical quandary given in the discussion: is it moral to masturbate using a chicken?

Unfortunately I couldn’t make it to see the equally bearded Oliver Sacks, who is now apparently a cyclops. Poor lad, after all the good he’s done. Why God why? etc.

The summer is now unequivocally with us. People tell me this is nothing compared to how it gets later on. Time to acclimatise I suppose. My A/C unit is now free of stoor and my ceiling fan spins away, reminding me of Twin Peaks but especially Apocalypse Now. Saigon. Shit. I’m still only in Saigon.

It is happening, again. The cruel recycling of brilliant concepts, despoilment of franchises, milking cash out of fans, etc. Step right up one of my favouritest films, Donnie Darko.

The latest hand-wringing opportunity comes with the news that a ‘sequel’ began shooting this month with ‘director’ Chris F- oh you’ve never heard of him? Interesting. Richard Kelly is nowhere involved – he has no control over the original material.

Fisher has said, “I am a great admirer of Richard Kelly’s film and hope to create a similar world of blurred fantasy and reality. Donnie’s not in [the new film] but there are meteorites and rabbits.”

Even the synopsis makes abundantly clear that the delicately wrought mythology of Darko is being shat on. For me it’s that mythology that makes films like this successful; the internal consistency. From the allusions and hints, reconstructing what the writer has in mind for their wee pocket universe.

In the same way that Lost was – initially – a shallow exercise in bafflement, this will be a shallow exercise in rabbit-oriented randomness, with only cursory attention paid to what it was actually about.

Anyway you can recreate that 80s Darko feeling with all-new music by bagging the latest M83. Set your Molly Ringwalds to stun.

I’m working from home today. Normally this means an excuse to go out skating when I get bored but today, rain relentlessly pishes onto the trees in the street and Chelsea air flows warm and wet into the apartment.

Trawling the iMixes on iTunes is a good way to turn up new band recommendations. By searching for ‘Talk Talk’ – my current consuming obsession – I bought a chunk of post-rock stuff. Calla and My Majestic Star both sound good so far. Portishead’s Third was an interesting one.

My attention was profoundly grabbed at the end of the percussion-wail single Machine Gun, where with 4:01 on the clock it goes all 8-bit, synth noise sweeping in epic and wistful and ominous all at the same time. That’s the effect on me anyway. Is this a product of listening to hours of Commodore music or is it a universal brain-twitch?

Anyway it reminded me of other game/music crossovers. The one that tickles me particularly is The Nextmen sampling the buggery out of Xevious – you can download it free from the mix over at Palms Out.

Alternatively for something a bit more camp but infinitely more amazing, try the full rock opera composed by Man Factory, telling the story of Street Fighter 2. Honestly, it’s not rubbish. Unstoppable track naming #1: Good Grief, Zangief!

Quick question. Have you ever heard or used the word ‘furtle’?

I read Iain Banks’s latest novel, Matter. Apart having my pedantic brain jarred by the weird, bastard mixture of US and British English words I was delighted when one of the characters was described as retrieving something from the shadowy depths of a bag by “furtling around inside”.

furtle, v. – To fumble and grope for something, often in a furtive manner.

I think this is an old Scottish slang term; I’m sure I’ve heard my Gran using it in the past. The fact that Banks is from the homeland reinforces the suspicion. It’s more likely he was gleefully injecting a bit of local culture into his sci-fi Culture.

Urbandictionary nears the mark with ‘move something around’, but it’s not the meaning I know. Google has – surprisingly – very little to say on the subject.

n.b. The bear icon is that of furtive, the mascot from b3ta. Ah, when the web was young.

Have you ever spoken to a friend or relative who has travelled in Africa? Or maybe India? They will mention how in those countries, normal guys on the street will often hold hands in friendship. And it’s just one of those normal things. No accusative fingers are pointed; no jokes are made; no rectal integrity is threatened.

Imagine those cultures at one end of a spectrum. (Actually as a clue to where this is going, watch this clip of the phenomenon in India. Note who took the video and why).

Next along that imaginary line I would venture comes France, home of cheese, military surrender and the astute planting of lips on strangers. Dudes who haven’t seen each other in a while will freely go in for the hug with a bonus kiss on each cheek.

Further along, somewhere here in the middle comes the UK. The gentlemanly handshake is king, but a hug is still perfectly acceptable with only light back-tapping required to maintain straightness.

Now, I can reliably tell you where the other end of that spectrum is, and fuck me sideways it’s right here in the ever-sophisticated USA, where they actually have special words for two straight guys socialising.
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