tCL: Imagespiration

The US is out of the World Cup and Other News.

This was the first real weekend of summer. I had the family beach house reserved, but Jaime had a hair appointment for 8 o'clock Saturday morning, and we had no one to go with us, so I was ambivalent about going over to Vashon at all. By 10:30, when she was finished, the clouds still hadn't cleared. So we didn't go.

We walked up to Toulouse Petit for lunch where we sat in the bar and I ate a burger and Jaime ate an oyster po' boy (which sounds kind of like a crude reference to an encounter with a shellfish worker). There were guys watching the World Cup and seeming really into it. There were a couple of women with them who seemed to be there not merely with but because of the guys. Then there were two in-their-late-thirties-and-single women watching it together.

The latter two were pretending to be into the game. They were cheering and so forth, but I don't think they were genuine - one of them cheered and reacted loudly to a goal attempt that was actually a replay.

I have a firm conviction (which is really just based on speculation) that most of the people right now who are watching soccer are essentially pretending. Maybe these guys at Toulouse were really into it, but they had the look of guys who probably played soccer in their freshman year of high school and weren't very good at it.

I'll admit up front, out of respect for my readers who don't already know about this, which is probably very few of my readers: television sports are not my thing. In fact, in life, anything where there is a kind of organized competition that has rules and involves doing things that aren't sort of fun for their own sake, really isn't my thing. That extends to board games. Luckily Jaime is the same way; for example, this weekend she referred to the World Cup as "the US Open or whatever".

I can catalog my sporting life pretty quickly. I played soccer from probably the age of five to maybe ten. My memories of soccer involve being really miserable during rainy Saturday games and once getting hit in the face with the ball during a game, by my cousin, who was on the same team. I can't remember if I cried, but let's assume I did. I think I played baseball, but I can't even remember the age at which I did this. It was in elementary school and probably for a season - maybe two. I can remember getting in trouble for sitting down in the outfield. Around fourth grade I played floor hockey on a Boys and Girls Club team - I can't even believe that's a sport. I was actually pretty good at it, but being good at floor hockey is kind of like having really handsome elbows. I also played basketball on a B&GC team. I played football in seventh grade - defense; more specifically, I prevented anyone from stealing the bench during games. Then I played on our country club's golf team for like a year in middle school and took first place in my age group in the club tournament - so I was ok at it, but mostly despised it. And, there you have it.

So I do have a skepticism of sports watching, in general, and that's in part due to my own natural biases. The whole activity just seems really habitual, like smoking or the compulsions of those people you see on cable who like pull out their eyelashes.

I'm not one of those anti-sports people, however. I don't think there's anything inherently stupid or barbaric (or insert cliche criticism) about them. I actually think it would be really cool to be good at basketball or some other thing that I could still actually play from time to time in adulthood. But I'm not and I will probably never take the time to become that good at anything like that. If nothing else, after so many years of not doing that kind of thing, my muscles and cortex probably just don't have the right kind of connections to develop a good jump shot. To the point: I'm not criticizing sports here, just suggesting that mass spectator culture seems habitual in a way that makes me leery of it.

And but so Toulouse Petit was really hopping with a lot of these types on Saturday. Lunch was tasty and loud.

When we got back I read about 30 pages of Infinite Jest (which is really just slow but very enjoyable reading, which is why it will probably take me until August to finish its 1,070 pages) and then finished reading Although You End Up Becoming Yourself. Most of the pages I read while up on the roof, where the air was hot and calm and Jaime was reading Imperial Bedrooms.

Cool street/alt art above the block party on 10th.

Saturday night we went to Tavern Law, then to a Pride block party (see last post supra). I should add that the gays are certainly not any different from other groups in at least one way - when they have an event, all the businesses that cater to that event raise their prices (hello $12 cover and $5 national-brand beers just for the pleasure of standing in an outdoor biergarten). We met some new people - when people ask what I do now I tell them I'm a "failed writer working as an attorney", which is really the description that makes me feel the best about myself.

Sunday, Jaime went to a Junior League brunch at the Portage Bay Cafe. I read more Infinite Jest. Then we went to Cactus to meet up with Jaime's friend Amanda who works for a sports-management company - one of their golfers was in the process of (and ended up in fact) winning the tournament that was playing on the television in the bar at Cactus.

After that, we went home and booked our next trip to LA (August), watched a movie and went to bed. Just another weekend of high drama, glitz, glamor &c.

Tavern Law, etc.

We had drinks at Tavern Law last night (with a plate of fried fingerling potatoes and serrano fondue), in order to enjoy Seattle's greatest cocktails from Seattle's greatest bartender, Phil. It wasn't very busy for a Saturday night.

Then, we went to the Purr block party to meet up with some friends enjoying the Pride Festival. The atmosphere was, well, proud.

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Last night the SAM had a party at the sculpture park, in the foreground. Mudhoney was the headliner - hadn't thought about them since I was fourteen years old and wearing Doc Martens. I could hear them, loud and clear, as I took this picture.

tCL: Imagespiration

Thanks to Jess for finding this one. Thanks to guest-editor (the anonymous AT) for revisions. Hemingway demonstrates a truism: boating alone is pleasurable; boating with a drink and an automatic weapon is sublime.

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Summer seems to have come in proper form. The two nights since the solstice have been lovely.

IMG_2716 Vintage

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IMG_4537, originally uploaded by Gambol.

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IMG_4548, originally uploaded by Gambol.

Jaime's mac and cheese - four kinds of cheese and truffle oil. In typical Jaime fashion, she managed to spend over $60 making macaroni and cheese, but it was the most I've ever enjoyed mac and cheese. Pretty much sums her up.

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IMG_4568, originally uploaded by Gambol.

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IMG_4594, originally uploaded by Gambol.

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From Dawn's 30th, on Saturday.

tcl: Imagespiration

Knopf released Bret Easton Ellis's Imperial Bedrooms on Tuesday. I finished it today. It is totally wonderful. As a sequel to his debut novel, which he published at 21 (Ryan shifts enviously in his seat), it takes up with most of the primary characters in Less Than Zero as they find themselves 25 years later. It begins with a bit of haute postmodernism: "They had made a movie about us", referring to the movie made of the first novel. From there, it quickly leaves that kind of cleverness behind and the plot (yes, there's a plot) splashes and dribbles out as a post-millennial uber-nihilistic noir.

My impressions/synopsis:

• Clay is developed as a character to an extent he was not in Less Than Zero;
• The ubiquitously reviewed Clay-goes-Patrick-Batemen scenes are frankly a lot more tame than the reviews suggest;
  
• The Lynchian-terror motif that BEE is so good at is all over the place in this book;
• Clay remains the star and Rip is the breakout character in this one.
  

Ellis is doing a signing and reading at the Elliot Bay Bookstore in a couple weeks. I am already trying to come up with something I can ask him to inscribe in my copy. So far, I am leaning toward:

"Your writing is overly precious and highly derivative."

I think it would be good sick fun to get scathing criticism of my writing from one of my literary heroes who has never read a word of mine.

Anticipating Imperial Bedrooms, I re-read Less Than Zero recently. One of the many great passages I enjoyed revisiting, which captures his aesthetic so well:

Christmas in Palm Springs. It was always hot. Even if it was raining, it was still hot. One Christmas, last Christmas, after it was all over, after the old house was left, it got hotter than a lot of people could remember. No one wanted to believe that it could get as hot as it had become; it was simply impossible. But the temperature readings at the Security National Bank in Rancho Mirage would read 111 and 112 and 115 and all I could do was stare at the numbers, refusing to believe that it could get that hot, that hellish. But then I'd look across the desert and a hot wind would whip into my face and the sun would glare down so hard that my sunglasses couldn't keep the shine away and I'd have to squint to see that the metal grids in the crosswalk signs were twisting, writhing, actually melting in the heat, and I knew that I had to believe it.
The nights during Christmas weren't any better. It would still be light at seven and the sky would stay orange until eight and the hot winds would come through the canyons and filter out over the desert. When it got really dark the nights would be black and hot and on some nights these weird white clouds would drift slowly through the sky and disappear by dawn. It would also be quiet. It was strange to drive down 110 at one or two in the morning. There wouldn't be any cars out, and if I stopped by the side of the road and turned the radio off and rolled down the windows, I couldn't hear anything. Only my own breath, which was all raspy and dry and came in uneven gasps. But l wouldn't do this for long, because I'd catch a glimpse of my eyes in the rearview mirror, sockets red, scared, and I'd get really frightened for some reason and drive home quickly.
Early evenings were about the only time I'd go outside. I'd spend this time by the pool, eating banana popsicles and reading the Herald Examiner, when there was some shade in the backyard, and the pool would be totally still except for an occasional ripple caused by big yellow and black bees with huge wings and black dragonflies, crashing into the pool, driven mad by the insane heat.
Last Christmas in Palm Springs, I'd be lying in bed, naked, and even with the air conditioner on, the cool air blowing over me and a bowl of ice, some of it wrapped in a towel, next to the bed, I couldn't become cool. Visions of driving through town and feeling the hot winds on my shoulder and watching the heat rise up out of the desert would make me feel warm and I'd force myself up and walk downstairs out onto the deck by the lighted pool in the middle of the night and I'd try to smoke a joint but I could barely breathe. I'd smoke it anyway, just to get to sleep. I could only stay outside for so long. There'd be these strange sounds and lights next door, and I'd go back upstairs to my room and lock the door and finally fall asleep.
When I woke up in the afternoon, I'd come downstairs and my grandfather would tell me that he heard strange things at night and when I asked him what strange things, he said that he couldn't put his finger on it and so he'd shrug and finally say that it must have been his imagination, probably nothing. The dog would bark all night and when I'd wake up to tell it to be quiet, it would look freaked out, its eyes wide, panting, shaking, but I'd never go outside to see why the dog was barking and I'd lock myself back in my room and put the towel, damp, cool, over my eyes. The next day, out by the pool, there was an empty package of cigarettes. Lucky Strikes. No one smokes cigarettes in the family. The next day my father had new locks put on all the doors and the gates in back, while my mother and sisters took the Christmas tree down, while I slept.

Map

In line at the Safeway nearest my house, they have only one map for sale: Bellevue, Redmond & Kirkland. It's the heart of darkness over there for us city folks - might as well be colonial west Africa. Other accoutrements of a trip to the Eastside include a pith helmet, anti-anxiety medication, mall-hiking boots, an Ed Hardy field guide, and a two-week supply of irony.

I hear some urbanites even hire guides; after all, it is one thing to deal with the bridge-and-tunnel crowd on our own turf, but if you are going to encounter them in their natural habitat, you want to be sure you have someone along who knows how to tranq them with chain-restaurant food and chase them back into their Range Rovers. It's only prudent.

tCL: Imagespiration

Paintings at Jaime's Office

I painted a triptych for Jaime's office some time ago. They just moved offices. Here's a picture of the triptych, in situ.

Nate

Yours Truly

Mike on the Short Board

Bangalore Blog

So much anticipation: A & D have a blog from India (I am guessing it will mostly be A; D will be sitting next to him on her laptop shopping for bags, clothes and shoes on the internet - at least, if my own home life is any guide). So far most interesting post: A & D try to attend synagogue and get denied, even after tying the old "I speak Hebrew" trick. Anyway, I look forward to reading about the beautiful filth and squalor of India, which Jaime and I will be visiting in November.

Mike

Mike

Nate

Nate

Nate

Wakesurfing Video

This was my second day out. I am in love with this sport.

Friday Night

We ate at Spur tonight. They have a new item on the menu - lamb saddle with morels and yogurt. I have never eaten lamb saddle before and I still don't know from whence this little bit of carnal heaven came, but lamb saddle is like smokey barbecued pork...but somehow lamb-ish.
'
Tomorrow I am headed off to Crescent Bar for men's/brothers'-in-law weekend at Coastie Bar. Lots of fun expected. Pictures to come.

Lamb Saddle - Spur

Why I'm Happy Today:

Because for the first time in our relationship, one of us used fishmonger in a sentence; and it was proper usage; and it was Jaime; and when she said it we both laughed.

tCL Imagespiration

Weekend

Image: J. Holbrook

On Friday night I had a few pilsners with Jess at Rob Roy. Saturday I woke up and had breakfast and watched The Road, while Jaime had to work all day. Saturday night I went to a backyard barbecue at Jesse's house in West Seattle. The thing about this barbecue was, it was the first barbecue where I was the only unmarried/unengaged fellow and where I was among the 50% of my friends present who did not either 1) have a child or 2) have offspring in the offing.

I keep having these experiences over the past year - sporadically I have the feeling of living in the world just outside the frame of my baby pictures: the adult world. But as one of a diminishing number of people not holding The Baby, I increasingly become the out-of-focus adult seen in profile in the background.

You catch only glimpses of that out-of-focus world growing up, because most of the people in your world are those that appear in focus, at least partially within the frame. They are the ones who own the arms that reached down and held you upright for the picture.

And this whole myopic experience of childhood and young adulthood that almost inevitably informs who you become as you mature leaves you without a set of observed experiences, which you might use as guideposts, in a world that increasingly exists outside the frame. Instead, you find that, more and more, you inhabit a world that - res ipsa loquitur - is largely overlooked not only by your own family history, but by advertisers, mass culture, etc.

And so, the question is: to what end was/is all that background stuff?

tCL Imagespiration