Inhuman Swill : November 2000

Today's weather, as reported last night by the A&E Biography sign:

      WINDY & COLD

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Just on the off-chance that you haven't been forwarded this in email (Michael Bishop sent it to me), you must read Michael Moore's plea to Koffi Anan for intervention in the presidential election. Really.

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More Disching

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In all the excitement of slagging Vintage (whom I had previously appreciated for reissuing Fawn M. Brodie's watershed 1945 biography of Joseph Smith, No Man Knows My History), I forgot that there was a beautiful paragraph or two from Disch's 334 that I wanted to share:

"Okay, Mickey, it's your life."

"Goddamn right." These words, and the tears on which they verged, were like a load of cement dumped into the raw foundation of his new life. By tomorrow morning all the wet slop of feeling would be solid as rock and in a year a skyscraper would stand where now there was nothing but a gaping hole.

What's the word for something you've experienced time and again but couldn't ever render into language to save your life?


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This evening's plans

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Salon du chocolat. Never attend a trade show like this without a buddy.

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Time to Disch

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I just finished reading Thomas M. Disch's fine, fine novel 334, in the recent attractive Vintage trade paperback reissue edition. It wasn't until I was almost done, however, that I bothered to read the back cover copy in any detail. Here is how the blurb, written by some anonymous, bitter, and underpaid editoral assistant, ends:

Poisonously funny, piercingly authentic, 334 is a masterpiece of social realism disguised as science fiction.
Disguised? I'm sorry—excuse me while I heave. As if anything worthwhile in literature can't possible be science fiction—instead it's masking itself and is really something else altogether.

Disch is one of those writers who has written plenty besides science fiction, but is this the price one pays for literary respect? A Galilean disavowal of one's unsavory roots? I'm tempted to throw the book across the room, if only for the sake of the poisonous, piercing back cover copy. I'm sorry I gave Vintage my money. I should have just gone back and read my old tattered paperback copy, with it's unashamed proclamation of SCIENCE FICTION right there on the spine.

I bought a similar Vintage edition of Camp Concentration at the same time. Now I'm going to have to go back home and read the back cover of that one very carefully. I'm not sure how they can possibly spin it away from science fiction, but I'm sure they'll try.

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And the winner is...

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To offer my entirely unsolicited opinion, I think the very coolest personal graphic I've seen on LiveJournal belongs to Baldanders. (It was just one of those things that had to be said.)

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Pet Peeve #17

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The way pedestrians traveling in a group always spread out laterally to block the greatest possible width of sidewalk.

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The one argument I won

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I have a certain ex who was always very . . . willful. Once we came to a corner together in the city. A mother and child shared the corner with us. There was no traffic, but the mother was telling the child to wait for the light to change before crossing. The ex began to step off the curb. I stopped her. "There are no cars coming," she said in the tone of voice that was like the warning crackle of ice beneath my skates.

"This woman is trying to teach her child not to cross the street against the light," I said quietly. "You're going to compromise the lesson."

So she relented and didn't cross the street. I don't remember winning many other arguments, but the ones I did were always like that one—quiet. I never won the screaming matches. There must be a must lesson in there somewhere, if she didn't compromise it for me somehow.

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Eugenics Corner

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What gene is it that humans share with dogs that compels us to dash across a busy street just before the cars arrive?

I call the intersection where Broadway, Columbus and 64th all come together Eugenics Corner. To get across to Lincoln Center, you effectively must cross three streets, with two small islands between. Except in the middle of the night, it's almost impossible to get all the way across in a single cycle of the traffic lights, but that doesn't stop dozens of people from trying every day. Almost any time of day, you can go to that corner and watch people attempt to improve the health of the gene pool by running out into traffic.

I don't know whether people don't see the traffic coming, don't think it's coming in their direction (it is a confusing intersection), or think they can beat it. But inevitably someone steps off that second island and then has to bust a move to get to safety. My favorites in recent memory were the very well dressed, very portly couple on their way to the opera who apparently thought that their social status rendered them superior to the laws of physics. In the middle of the street, when they realized they had stumbled into the path of a predatory yellow taxi, a base flight instinct snatched the reins away from the conscious mind—sort of. I leave it as an exercise to the reader to picture these two fine corn-fed specimens hustling their asses to the safety of the opposite shore.

I wish people like that would be more considerate of those of us waiting patiently for the light to change, the ones having small heart attacks every time the jaws of Darwin miss by a fraction of an inch. It's too bad they usually make it to the other side alive. (I've only seen one person struck by a car in all my life, up at 125th Street. That's if you don't count the time I was hit myself, at the age of eight, which probably explains a lot about this pet peeve of mine.) There are often children watching this spectacle, and how can a parent teach his kids to cross the street properly when so many adults are setting such a piss-poor example?

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Getting my kicks. Not.

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My introductory karate lesson went fine last week. Laura and I had a private session with Sensei Lopez in a small room in the basement of the Tiger Schulmann studio in Manhattan. I think we both did pretty well, although after rehearsing our kicks I was tired enough that spots were swimming in front of my eyes and I thought I might black out.

I was proud of myself for getting through the lesson, but I didn't deal all that well with the locker room. I hate locker rooms. Takes me right back to junior high. I don't want anyone to see me naked, even people studiously minding their own business.

I've got to suck up my discomfort and deal with it, though. Tonight is our first lesson with a full class—about 75 minutes from now, in fact. Now I will see how badly gym class still haunts me.

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