Bloomsday or doomsday? Well, a little bit of both, actually.
Thanks to the few stalwart souls who read for a bit or just tried to listen above the din. And thanks to Jake for pouring lots of free beer down the necks of thirsty readers. Lessons learned …
Publicize sooner, procure a stage and powerful microphone, and basically plan more.
Time to start thinking about next year … and the upcoming Civil Life Book Club.
OK, I’ve finished my summer reading (!)… And am halfway through another book… And have still not finished these posts about the essays in A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments* by David Foster Wallace. But this is the second to last one, so I’m getting close!
Now to think back to so many months ago when I read this….
OK, yeah. That’s right. This one’s about when DFW kinda hung around with Michael Joyce at the Qualifiers for the Canadian Open tennis tournament. There’s kind of a lot of tennis stuff that I may or may not have heard of, but, in true DFW style, he makes it interesting. Bless him!
I remember mostly, though, that he was in Montreal. And of course that made me remember our epic vacation in 2010 (34 days!). We sure had fun. Canada is so cool. We’d been to Toronto before, in 2006, but of course, it’s in Ontario, which is mostly English-speaking. Quebec is more French-speaking, and that was really new to me. I know I always say how much I love going to South Beach, because it’s like being in Europe or something, because when you’re lying on the beach, almost nobody around you speaks English… But so then in Montreal, it wasn’t quite like that (no ocean, no sand, e.g.), but… Like every person we came in contact with professionally (bartender, bell-hop, bartender, concierge, bartender, hotel desk person, bartender, maintenance guy, bartender….) addressed us in both French and English. “Bonjour Hello.” “Quel étage? What floor?” You get the idea.
Then in Quebec City, it was even more French! There was this awesome pizza restaurant right across from our hotel (I think it’s a chain or at least a small, possibly local to QC, chain, but still… awesome). And we had our favorite bartender who was so sweet. And so like the third day there I’m talking to her (you know, my mile-a-minute blabber), and she says, “Oh, I’m sorry, my English is not very good.” Gee, Tree. Did I feel like a cad. Ugly American, right here. So I replied, “Your English is much better than my French!” (non-existent, basically, if you don’t count “French” that should be pardoned or “Une carte des vins, s’il vous plaît,” or “Une bouteille de vin rouge, s’il vous plaît.”1 Yeah. So.
Anyway. This essay. Yes. So in true tree tradition, I’m spending time I should be talking about this essay, instead talking about myself. Narcissistic, much?
Just read the essay.
This is the seventh post in a series.
1 You are correct. I learned how to say, but not spell these. I had to look up the spelling (Patrick’s not here right now).
Well, I finally submitted an announcement about Bloomsday at the Civil Life to the KDHX arts and events calendar. It took longer than I thought it would, but after Teresa showed me how to work my computer device it was smooth sailing … because she basically did it for me. I have been putting the word out, and so far … I am the only one who has volunteered to read. I had already planned on reading the first 20 pages, but not the first 640 pages. I will force Jake to read some, too, and you know he will probably use a funny accent. You know you want to read part of this novel. There will be Irish whiskey on hand if you need to overcome your natural shyness. The time has come for all good men (and women) to … well, to read Ulysses*
… out loud … at the Civil Life.
To volunteer to read, email Patrick: bloomsday [at] thecivillife [dot] com
When: 16 June 2012, starting at noon
Where: The Civil Life Brewing Company
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Found in Kafka on the Shore* by Haruki Murakami
June 16th is Bloomsday! In cities around the world (especially Dublin), people will be reading aloud from one of the greatest novels ever written. Come to The Civil Life to celebrate what the Modern Library called the best English language novel of the twentieth century. At noon, I will read the opening section of Ulysses* (with restorative sips of ale taken as needed), and sometime before we close, someone (preferably a woman, or perhaps a drag queen) will read excerpts from Molly Bloom’s soliloquy, which closes the novel. The whole soliloquy consists of eight very long “sentences” and takes about two and a half hours to read (this is a very large number if translated into pints). In between, volunteers will read from their favorite sections of the novel. Stay tuned to sign up. If you don’t have a favorite section yet but would like to read, I can pick something for you. Or stop by the Civil Life and flip through one of our copies of the novel while having a pint.
The Cardossi family dog Boris is not barking. The Roogs may appear to be garbage collectors to the foolish eyes of humans, but their sinister glances at the bedroom windows where people are sleeping suggest evil intentions. So far, the brimming galvanized steel trash pails, or offering urns, have staved off the inevitable. In truth, only the diligent “guardian” Boris keeps the Cardossis from certain death at the hands of the Roogs. Too bad the neighbors complain so much about the warnings he barks out.
I had just dipped into a collection of Paris Review interviews with writers* when I came across this gem in the introduction to the interview with P.G. Wodehouse:
“All of which is by way of saying that Wodehouse, who lived four months past his ninety-third birthday, had discovered his own secret of long life: he simply ignored what was worrisome, bothersome, or confusing in the world around him.”
Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that?
tl;dr: In this essay about his time on the set of Lost Highway,* David Foster Wallace really makes you feel like you’re on the set, too. It’s 45 pages long, but doesn’t really seem long. And I suggest you read it. OK, I know. I’ve totally been slacking about writing these posts about the essays in A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments* by David Foster Wallace. And I’m already half-way through my summer reading (!) and will need to post about that, too, before long.
How do you spell procastinator? T-E-R-E-S-A-H-U-R-L-E-Y.
Anyway.
So this essay was awesome (You knew that, though… And I think I’ve said that about every one I’ve read so far, too… How do you spell broken record? T-E-R-E-S-A-H-U-R-L-E-Y.). It’s about the time DFW got press credentials to be on the set of David Lynch’s film Lost Highway, so he could write about it for Premier magazine.
Patrick and I had watched the movie sometime last year, I think, for the first time. Yeah, I know, late to the party as usual…. but since I worked at movie theaters for so many years and got to see all my movies for free for such a long time, it’s been really difficult for me to pay to go see movies. Even movies by David Lynch (what, am I nuts?). I’m guess that since — when did I stop working for theaters? — 94 (or 95? well, whenever… a long time ago), we’ve probably averaged less than one per year. Probably less than .7 per year.
That’s not to say we haven’t watched movies, though. Since we’ve been married we’ve amassed a nice little DVD collection. And now that we have Netflix, well… I shamelessly watch all kinds of crappy, chick-flicks and idiotic comedies (when Patrick’s working), to the tune of maybe 6 or more a week.
I don’t know why we never watched Lost Highway before then.
We just never got around to it for some reason.
Anyway. DFW really brings the reader onto the set. I mean, seriously. Is it just me? Maybe it is. But it seems like every single thing he writes draws me in to the point where I feel like he and I are there together. Same with this. I felt like I was on the set. I loved watching Lynch direct, even from no shorter distance than five feet away. I loved meeting all the tech people. I loved watching Patricia Arquette and her stand-in drive up (looking identical) in her (Arquette’s) Porsche. I loved talking to the crew member who said, “Utmost is one word. There is no hyphen in utmost.” You just don’t get to do that every day. OK, well I don’t.
So yeah, this is all about me and Patrick and how much or little we watch movies, right? So back to that. There’s this scene in Lost Highway that just killed us. SPOILER ALERT …just because I totally didn’t expect it and that’s one reason it killed me, anyway… that’s why I’m alerting you, so skip the rest of this paragraph if you haven’t seen the movie and don’t want me to ruin this little gem for you)… So Balthazar Getty plays this powerful mafia-ish guy’s (Robert Loggia) favorite mechanic. Loggia brings his Mercedes in and has Getty go for a drive with him. Loggia drives, Getty’s next to him in the front seat, and Loggia’s two heavies are in the back seat. There’s this guy tailgating them. You know, honking, trying to get around them every few seconds (on a curvy, mountain-side road, no less). So Loggia waves him to “come around,” which he does, while extending a particularly expressive finger. The heavies put on their seat belts. I’m not so sure it was the gesture that really riled Loggia up, as much as the tailgating, but at this point, he (Loggia) floors it, rams the guy a couple times, and forces his (the guy’s) car off the road. Then he and his heavies jump out of the car and proceed to remove the offender from his car and beat the living crap out of him (most of which is done by Loggia) while Loggia’s screaming about the dangers of tailgating and forcing the guy to promise to get and memorize a driving manual. How many times have we all wanted to do that?
This is long! Sorry. The essay is longer, though, so there. Go read it now. And watch Lost Highway.
This is the sixth post in a series.
“His skull feels made of metal.”
Photo taken at Brewhaus
No one was ever going to take the trouble to save you, old fellow.
Photo taken at Bailey’s Range
Mr. Palomar* by Italo Calvino.
Mr. Palomar* by Italo Calvino.
Found in Slaughterhouse-Five: A Novel* by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
Found in Slaughterhouse-Five: A Novel* by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
Found in Slaughterhouse-Five: A Novel* by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.