taking fire

George Carlin is dead. Not just the guy who played Rufus in Bill & Ted’s, but the guy chopping out social commentary on human nature and free speech for over four decades.

George said a lot about organised religion. He was probably the world’s only Pescitarian. I liked his idea of Frisbeetarianism though: the belief that when a person dies their soul gets flung onto a roof, and just stays there.

A quick quote, then it’s off to read the wikipedia entry.

The very existence of flame throwers proves that some time, somewhere, someone said to themselves, “You know, I want to set those people over there on fire, but I’m just not close enough to get the job done.”

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’s 79 degrees in my apartment. Hot. The ball of my foot is aching and blistered inside my cons chucks. Back from skating at Chelsea Park, where the sun shears down relentless. I’m sleepy, I can’t concentrate. Directly outside there are workmen. They have devices pinned to their ears. They are knocking chunks out of the basement below me, making the floor shake gently. They are hefting concrete debris into a dumpster. There are sirens. In the news another crane has collapsed uptown and killed somebody and injured some other people. Some website tells me about shootings in my neighbourhood. It’s 79 degrees in my apartment. Hot. Harvey Korman is dead, dead, gone. Known less for the Star Wars Holiday Special and more for the ever-loved Blazing Saddles. Danieru identified me as a spurmo, which sounds like something unpleasant from Futurama. I take my camera out onto 23rd to try and capture Manhattanhenge amid the Friday night screechers. The sundown is covered with clouds. Sun is gone. 79 degrees, debris, dead, gone. Hot.

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.

Friday, the first blazing day of summer. The ComiCon, New York’s biggest geekfest kicks off.

I duck out of work to make the 6pm start of Neil Gaiman’s reading and Q&A. After the highlights of Sandman, American Gods, Miracleman and Beowulf it’s a must-see. I’m going with my colleague Andre, but his ticket says 5pm. An hour difference, what the-?

Turns out Andre has mistakenly been given the extra-special Willy Wonka VIP golden ticket of legend, worth $500. So I go for a hotdog with the plebs while he goes for an hour-long hangout with the man himself in some kind of suitably gothic green room. He emerges afterward with Ye Autographed Death sketch and a taut swag-sack full of enough exclusive gear to make four figures on eBay from delirious uber-fans.

The boy Gaiman is an excellent speaker and fires through narrative like a decorated Jackanory veteran (or Storyteller, depending on your era). He pings off a clutch of well-formed short stories, wrestles a small pile of enthusiastic fan-questions and finishes us off with a chapter from the unreleased Graveyard Book. The latter is fine but not so enjoyable for adults as, say, the actually-creepy Coraline.

Many, many people crowd and mill around a vast space of stands, banners, screens. Books, posters, artwork, obscurely referencing geegaws. Cameras flash. There is cosplay. The Star Wars and Batman cast feature heavily. Here and there wander Ghostbusters, Henry Jones’s and a vast array of anime characters far beyond my understanding.

Kids wandering laden with branded plastic bags full of stuff. Everyone, including myself has an uncontrollable grin. I notice Amanda Palmer from The Dresden Dolls scurrying about, beaming. “Here no one makes fun of you,” points out Sam (my new friend and evident con-veteran) tellingly.

It’s exciting and frankly overwhelming. I thoroughly recommend having at least one beer before diving into the madness. I didn’t try too hard to make the most of it: there was a ton of missed stuff from Orson Scott Card, Grant Morrison, Scott McCloud. I did try to get into the session for Kevin Smith’s new film but we were brusquely told to fuck off by security as it was overcrowded to a potentially-fatal degree.

No good photos from me, but flickr is your friend. Comic conventions are great.

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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Well it has been a crazy few weeks, as they say. Where ‘they’ are kind of lacking in imagination but generally quite concise and often good company.

First I was in Houston (to be written up, an interesting place), then I made the emergency trip back to Arbroath, then Glasgow, then Dundee (also some great notes to write up), then Edinburgh, then NYC again. I’ve taken this week off work as my first wedge of vacation time. The original plan was to spend it in Arbroath but that’s not really an option any more.

So I’ve done some last minute research and tomorrow I fly to Miami. I’m staying here at the Clinton on South Beach.

I watched an episode of CSI:Miami on the plane coming over as vague and ineffective research. The programme is almost-intentionally hilarious. It’s worth watching just and only for the amazing legendary performance of David Caruso.

For mind food, I bought the whole Ender’s Game quartet today. I need a break from the current pile of science I’m hacking through (Dennett, Dawkins, Pinker). Excited to get stuck in with eyes narrowed against the sun.

Bah / Hurrah*

Hurrah: Dune is being remade! Bah: zero confidence in the director.

Hurrah: I got a ticket to the Neil Gaiman reading/Q&A at New York Comic Con next Friday. Bah: it’s on at the same time as the Silent Rave at Union Square.

Hurrah: The New York Asian Film Festival is coming. It’s bonkers and truly excellent. Bah: it’ll all be on during the day. No use for us corporate puppet nine-to-fivers.

* I promise I will never do this again

I can’t stop listening to this song.

It’s even easier to play than Station Approach. A bugger to sing at the same time though.

Update! For the basic chords: C G Bb F

For the piano line: play all these twice, a simple descending line.

e----------------
B----------------
G---2-0---0---0--
D----------------
A-3-----3---3----
E----------------
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