where art collides philosoperontap

17h32-18h45, 27-March-2013

Meant to head out to some writing perch or other today, however circumstance conspired to keep me from doing so. Thus, I am coming to you today via my usual keyboard from the desk in my home office, a cozy cave measuring roughly 12 meters square, surrounded by books and ever mindful of the dangers posed by various flotsam and whatsum that has found its way to the floor and into the corners over the 11+ years that have passed since La Famille Kessel first took up residence at 57BB.

On Monday the Internet rocked with the release of the first real trailer for World War Z, a tent-pole Summer 2013 sci-fi flick starring Brad Pitt. Having only clocked a scant awareness of the film, due most likely to having my “Blockbuster” RAM filled with the likes of Star Trek: Into Darkness and Iron Man 3“, I clicked through and soon found myself staring agape at some remarkable CGI.

Zombies. Again. And this time tuned up to the absolute nth degree of their power to stimulate the apocalypic imagination. Dozens, hundreds, thousand, millions, TENS OF MILLIONS of zombies! Zombies jumping from rooftops, zombies rolling over buses, zombies grasping helicopter undercarriages, zombies crawling over zombies with the intent and will to make more zombies. And these zombies aren’t your typical everyday run-of-the-mill zombies, aching through every shuffling footstep at roughly the rate of a speeding turtle. Oh no, these zombies have got game!

So being as much a sucker for a well-produced trailer as anyone, I finished my first run-through and immediately fired that puppy up for a second look. Zombies. YES!

Faithful readers already know that I have something of a jones for The Walking Dead (the serious comic book, not the comical TV series), and I have certainly enjoyed many a zombie film over the years, beginning (probably) with George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead and moving through more recent ghoulish quality offerings such as 28 Days Later, Shaun of the Dead and 2009’s utterly terrific Zombieland. Yup, I suppose it can be said that I draw significant entertainment from all-things-undead, a satisfaction that could be rooted in a deep fascination I have with Judgement Day scenarios or that perhaps ties to some penchant I have to always root for the underdog against forces deemed insurmountable (been a Chicago Cubs fan since birth, yes I have). This World War Z thing managed to scotch right by me, though, until the trailer hit the other day. And finding myself delighted and excited by it all, I began binging (googling, whatever) and instantly learned that I have a huge zombie-culture blind spot! World War Z is based on Max Brooks’s best-selling book? And that best-selling book was preceded by The Zombie Survival Guide, yet another best-selling book by Brooks (and the likely title of a WWZ sequel that is already in development)? How can I know about such zombie coolness as Colson Whitehead’s Zone One and the Jane Austen (yes, THAT Jane Austen)/Seth Grahame-Smith collaboration Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and yet be completely brain-dead on World War Z?

“Zombies on ice..that’s nice.”

17h04-17h51, 23-March-2013

** Scribbled down over the weekend and only now revealed to the Internet’s great light **

No new material here for more than a week, but who is out there to complain? Or is that an utterly shameless attempt to garner some comments? Wow, compelling stuff!

No idea, really, who first said it — it could’ve even been me — but one mark of a truly great coffee house is that from the moment you walk in you feel as though they have been waiting for you. Back at Black Market Café today, dropping in just as Talking Heads’s Psycho Killer began shimmying through the speakers.

Just learned what a “cowboy cookie” is and I can honestly say I am better for it. Oatmeal, pecans, chocolate chips, and coconut. Life doesn’t suck.

In 8 days I will put 47 in my rearview mirror. For writing’s sake I truly wish I could express some angst, hesitation or — heck! — just some need to contemplate over moving up a click, as anything would be a markedly more interesting than the indifference I feel towards my personal mark in time. I did manage, though, to parlay the imminent arrival of 31-March into a blue-sky discussion over what to do two years hence for my 50th (the spending of our 2015 Winter Holiday in New York with My Missus and The Boy…and anyone else who wants to float in/out while we are there), so it isn’t a total non-thing.

From “Psycho Killer” to Life During Wartime to Once in a Lifetime to Swamp to Burning Down the House to This Must be the Place (Naive Melody) to And She Was to Road to Nowhere to Wild Wild Life to (Nothing but) Flowers…chronological mixes are fine, but any Talking Heads fan worth his salt would rise up in loud protest over the absolute lack of anything from <More Songs About Buildings and Food! Imagine me at this very moment pouncing up from my chair, stepping onto the table — rattling the mugs, glasses and silverware but good in the process — and launching into Take Me to the River (and, yes, I am aware that the tune is an Al Green classic and not a Heads original…feh)! OK, got the image? Hold onto it and cherish it, because it didn’t happen. Never would. Can’t. That flavor of mad courage maintains a lonely existence in the deepest and darkest corners of my cerebrum.

My Missus has finished her art and gardening magazines and a dog chose just now to do his business on the street in front of BMC, framed perfectly in the plate glass window for my benefit and that of all of my fellow patrons. So, time to go. Ah, Paris.

16h18-18h15, 15-March-2013

A thousand words on multi-tasking…OK, go!

I don’t remember when the first time was that I heard the term “multi-tasking”, but I can say that for me it required not a lick of explanation. And yet…what is multi-tasking? What? Doing more than one thing at a time? Big whip! Of course, time is relative (No shit, Sherlock…er, Einstein), and whether it is even possible to do more than one thing at at time really depends on how “time” is defined in context. For instance, at this exact moment I am typing, but less than a minute ago I was checking both Facebook and my Twitter feed and my email, and before that I was looking in on my torrent downloads (kinda hot to test-drive some disk utility software today after having read Joe Kissell’s Macworld article Do you need a third-party disk utility?), all immediately following a round of click-click-clicking to establish my place on the free wifi network at my Black Market Café perch. Is this multi-tasking? The answer is both “Yes!” (if “time” is defined in increments of 5 minutes) and “No.” (regardless of one’s level of keyboard prowess, even at the proverbial speed of light it is simply impossible to simultaneously perform any of the tasks I just described).

OK, science geek. Get over yourself, bag the theoretical and pedantic, and move on.

Juggling is often used to as a metaphor for multi-tasking. However, still I consider myself to be the one of the original multi-taskers, despite my absolute inability to keep more than one ball in the air at a time. And although I cannot play the piano with more than one finger (and slowly with that finger, at that), I can play a keyboard like nobody’s business, all ten fingers working in tandem to accomplish individual tasks towards a common goal. So can touch-typing be considered a form of multi-tasking? No, that’s just silly. Are you really so desperate to get down a thousand words on multi-tasking, Kory? Come on.

One of the sharpest insults heard during my teenage years was the labeling of a person as someone who couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time. The line is decades-stale today and is seldom used, but that doesn’t mean I don’t continue to hear it in my unspoken thoughts…except these days I tends to ascribe it to uncooperative computer operating systems…Hello, OSX! Yes, Windows, I’m talkin’ ’bout you!

It used to exasperate my Mom when in high school I would do my homework while watching Late Night with David Letterman and talking to friends on the phone. And as glad as she no doubt was that my grades didn’t suffer, I think it irritated her greatly that said formula worked so well for me. Poor Mom. What was she going to say? “Just imagine how much better your A in English would be if you concentrated harder on your work!” Later, when I struggled during the first semester of my Freshman year at Yeshiva University, Mom saw her moment. Harping at me (lovingly, of course) that college was so much more difficult than high school and that it was time to bear down and concentrate on my studies, she was quite gratified when my grades rebounded in second semester. It has been nearly thirty years since then, but I am reasonably certain I gritted my teeth in a smile and swallowed the response I no doubt ached to offer, that being that my letters were back up due to my having recovered (somewhat) from the first semester breakup with my first love (we’ve all got ’em) and had as a result returned to watching David Letterman while studying (and whatever rerun whatnot WNBC ran after that).

One man’s concentration is another man’s desolated desert of distraction. Oh, somebody please poison me slowly for not editing that sentence out!

Hopped away for a moment to check Facebook and Twitter, track my Raspberry Pi order (how cool it would’ve been if the darn thing — which I ordered back on 12-February — had shown up yesterday!), send a couple of iMessages to My Missus, grab a glass of water (writing is thirsty work!), gab with Yusef about his terrific decision to fire up some sweet Chet Baker, and to wag a finger at The Boy for doing face stuff (imagine things 11-year-olds do unconsciously that involve fingers, fingernails, noses, mouths and you’ll have enough information to go on). A multi-tasking fiend, am I.

I want to write here that following university my work habits matured and that I no longer required distractions to achieve my best work, but that would be akin to saying that I no longer enjoy comic books or dig good sci-fi or organize my music collection. No, not only do I still need to have a glorious mess of various-and-sundry going on that has nothing to do with work to have any hope of doing my work and doing it well (e.g., a documentary running on the screen to my left, social media humming away, some kinda music running underneath, an article open on Pocket, 25+ Chrome tabs open…), but I remain a world-class procrastinator. Rough estimate? To get in my 8-10 daily work hours I only need 12-14 hours in front of AppleKory, with sleep paying the multi-tasking freight.

Just resolved to drop “multi-tasking” from my vocabulary and to replace it with “multi-tracking”. This new term — during this introductory period please feel free to use it at no cost — benefits from the shedding of the connotation of simultaneousness that the now-replaced term shouldered for so long (and badly), and it also sounds way cool. Bit of a feeling of movement and kinda music-y at the same time. Got a “one-track mind”? No multi-tracking for you! Got an eight-track mind? Wake up and smell the digital.

00h32-02h21, 15-March-2013

I just spent nearly 4 minutes trying to come up with a clever opening line, something that would poke great fun at my neglecting to fill this space yesterday. First I tried a clever take on Genesis 2:2, and when that didn’t work I made a stab at paraswiping a lyric from Hot for Teacher but it really sucked, so…

I clued into “The Walking Dead” somewhat late but caught up quick, blowing through issues 1-72 over the course of a little less than a month in late 2010. What with the the much-ballyhooed (and really really thick) The Walking Dead: Compendium One making a bunch of 2009 “Best Of” graphic novel lists and the building hype over the imminent launch of the TV series, I could hardly avoid it any longer. And I wasn’t the least bit disappointed. Well-told and beautifully rendered comics are my red meat even when they don’t touch upon or hint at the End of Days, but throw eschatology into the mix you can be sure that Dark Kory will come out to play…and to feed. I love so much about the story that writer Robert Kirkman started telling nearly ten years ago, marveling both at the myriad of rich characters with whom he has populated his post-Apocalypse American South and at his ability to employ these characters in portraying the best/worst/what-the-fuck of humanity. And it continues. Thank the devil in hell, it continues. This in spite of the epically awful Bizarro World television version of it depicted on AMC’s “The Walking Dead” (on which Kirkman serves as a Producer), which recently I was horrified to learn is currently the highest-rated scripted show among viewers 18 to 49 (horrified, but not surprised, as the lowest common denominator has long had an insatiable appetite for blood-and-guts and various viscera).

Over 100 issues into “The Walking Dead” the reason behind the Zombie takeover has not been revealed, may never be revealed, and it doesn’t need to be revealed because that isn’t the crux of the story. In the 6th episode of the 1st season of the TV program our heroes are told by a scientist at the Center for Disease Control that Zombie-ism is the result of a virus and a possible cure is hinted at, produced by the French! Over 100 issues into “The Walking Dead” and still we do not know the extent of the new Zombie reality and an undefined but very real — and wonderfully tortuous — hope for redemption remains. Three episodes from the end of the 3rd season of the TV program and already it is dead-bang established that all hope is gone, that those who continue to survive have only war and strife and the constant pursuit and fight for food, shelter, and safety to look forward to until a relentlessly inevitable extinction that only makes the stories told seem like so much wasted effort. No future equals no reason equals no interest.

So I just slammed “The Walking Dead”, the most popular scripted television program currently in production in the English-speaking world, and a show that offends my sensibilities on many levels (artistically, culturally, integrity-wise…). But, of course, I watch “The Walking Dead”, and I’ll continue to watch it. In fact, I am watching it now, this past Sunday’s episode, a gorgeous high-definition .avi file. Dark Kory must eat.

21h28-23h13, 12-March-2013

Previously…on ‘Dallas’.

Between the time I left for Yeshiva University in October ’83 and July ’86 my folks moved once again, this time into a split-level house…a house that came complete with a designated For-When-Kory-is-Home room that was situated squarely at the top of a flight of stairs leading up from the den (which is really just an extremely wordy way of saying “above ground-level” or “2nd floor”). And though most nights my head was not hitting a pillow in this house, during the breaks and holidays that did require I lay me down to sleep at 10431 Shadow Bend Drive in Dallas, TX USA you can reasonably drop coin I was performing my security haunting…that is, until 21-July-1986.

The summer of 1986 began for me in New York, couch-surfing first with a friend in Washington Heights and later with another friend in Brooklyn, while working to hold down a sales job with a lower Manhattan Your-Office-Out-of-the-Office company located somewhere in the shadow of the World Trade Center. That didn’t last long — how could it? — and by mid-July I was back in Dallas, camped out on the 2nd floor of my parents’ house and splitting my time between two part-time jobs, one slinging frozen yogurt in a strip mall and the other ringing up puppies and tropical fish for an awful Valley View Mall pet store.

On that Monday afternoon a wicked height-of-summer storm rocked Dallas, with dark clouds rolling over the city with scary-movie lightning and too-loud thunder cracks along for the ride. I was putting in some hours at the pet store that day, probably spending 90-95% of my time looking out at the pelting rain and doing anything other than useful work (HATED that job, though I did make a friend-for-life out of it in the form of a marvelous cat I lifted from the shop and promptly named “Larceny”). Anyway, a raging thunderstorm at 5PM had become a bright and sunny summer’s evening by 6PM when my shift ended and I took to my car for the 10-minute drive home. At last, the day was mine, and I jacked the stereo volume and had just began mulling over potential nighttime plans when I found myself caught in epic traffic on Hillcrest Road heading south. “Fuck this.”, I said (or, at least, thought), as I took a left, knowing the area so well as to be able to easily skirt the traffic and make it home via neighborhood streets. And soon enough, I was moving smoothly down Boedeker Street and making a right onto Pagewood Drive, singing along to something LOUD and tapping the steering wheel (Talking Heads? Maybe Van Halen?). A minute later, still rockin’, I made a right onto Shadow Bend Drive, and there in front of me was the cause of that horrendous traffic jam I had so ably avoided: my parents’ house ablaze, firefighters in front of around and atop, with every available neighbor looking on. I parked Erin (my first car…faithful readers of this space for the past two weeks already know that) and got out. I then sat on the hood — having taken quick stock of my Mom and Dad and the family dog, Miko, in the crowd — and took in the spectacle, laughing, aglow with the joy of neurosis in resolve.

22h55-23h59, 11-March-2013

There must be no less than twelve things I would rather be doing right now than sitting down to write. Should I list them? Huh? Should I?

I have spent a lot of time driving down Iceland’s Route 1 lately, and like any good highway it has the power in its more mundane straighaways to trigger unexpected thoughts and recollections. For instance, today just after shooting past some outlet glacier tongue of Vatnajökull whose name I have no prayer of ever remembering I found myself dwelling on the latter half of the summer of 1986, when circumstance (and a lightning bolt) finally put ‘Paid’ to a long-held (self-diagnosed) neurosis of mine.

My obsessive fear of house fires began in 1971, immediately after being shown a Walt Disney/Donald Duck cartoon on fire prevention in the 1st Grade during a school assembly (along with at least one other short film on the subject, one that did NOT involve familiar animated characters and was thus a whole heckuva lot scarier). I vividly recall going home that day and immediately checking our basement for oily rags that could spontaneously combust. Also, that night — and countless other nights over the ensuing 15 years — found me lying awake waiting for my parents to turn out their light so I could sneak out of bed to make sure (1) the stove was turned off, (2) that there were no live cigarette embers in the ashtrays strewn throughout the house, and (3) that neither Mom nor Dad had fallen asleep in bed with a lit cigarette between their fingers. The fact is, all thanks for my being the quintessential “night owl” today should probably be set at the webbed feet of Donald, Huey, Dewey, and Louie.

Time passes. We move from a house in Hoffman Estates, IL USA (3rd story room, a 30-foot drop) to a house in Richardson, TX USA (2nd story room, window egress to a sea of concrete) to a house in Plano, TX USA (a ground-level room, and a breath exhalation held for nearly six years). I continue to make my tiptoe rounds each night, though, having added fireplace cinder waiting-out and door lock confirmation to my routine (the latter likely tied to Dad’s having made a career shift into the sale of home security systems).

More time. More moves (a subject for other days)…and more ground floor bedrooms. All good. College begins, and full-time residency with the parents comes to an end without my perishing in a blaze brought to ferocious life by a shoddy-wiring-and-insullation cocktail or the superheated creosote of a poorly-cleaned chimney. And of course I am aware that university dormitories come complete with up-to-code fire escape routes and evacuation plans.

And that’s all we have time for today, folks. Do tune in tomorrow, though, for the conclusion of this episode of…”Route 1 Reminiscing”!

22h53-23h57, 08-March-2013

So no excuses. I knew that carving out time to write each day while on holiday in Iceland with My Missus and The Boy was going to be a challenge, what with our typically frenetic mornings, the fact that we are driving everywhere (and I am the wheelman), long days packed chock-full with take-a-picture-here-take-a-souvenir (followed at night by three sessions of upload/edit/admire), and blissful unwinding at the end of it all. So no excuses.

Even with the near-religious importance I have long put on food/feating/eeding I still find myself surprised at the sheer might that a good meal can brandish. And I’m not talking about a pizza salve following the loss of the Little League championship in the 10th inning on a walk-off-homer, nor am I referring to a big bowl of chips-n-salsa applied liberally by a pal to help shake off the fact that she wants nothing at all to do with you. There, there? No. NO. Not cross-over grub, but a meal capable of changing the conversation, able to take you from whinging about everything awful that made your awful day the awful day that it was to reveling in the splendor of flavor, the magic of taste combinations, to “Forget about whatever it was I was bellyaching over, you have to taste this bisque, what goes into that coulis, and, no, I hardly ever order dessert but considering how good everything else has been so far, who would’ve ever thought we’d eat like this out here in Wherevertheheck?” The power of love? No, Huey, that’s the power of food.

Talk of “getting away from it all”? Cacophonous. Taking time enough from toil to truly leave it behind? Cliché Cops in hot pursuit. Need a long break? Break this, buddy. So what, then? This: Book a holiday (that’s “vacation” for you ‘Mericans out there) to start at mid-week. Weekend-to-weekend holidays all come complete with a “Next Monday”, as in “I go back to work next Monday.” You cannot get away when you know precisely when you need to get back. “It’s Tuesday. Damn, I have to go back to work in less than a week.” “It’s already Thursday? Where did this week go? Man, that was fast. Tomorrow is the weekend, and next Monday…back to work.” But a holiday that kicks off on a Thursday and ends the following Wednesday? Not only is there reapable benefit to be had in the not-full weeks on the front and back end of your holiday, but the cracking of the norm is sure to levy confusion of the very best type. Take for example La Famille Kessel, which began its happening-now Iceland holiday two days ago (Wednesday, for those of you out there not paying close enough attention)…today My Missus must have asked me what day it was no less than three times, and no less than three times I had to stop and ponder and do a few nano-seconds of actual work to figure out the correct answer.

Next Monday has no hope of finding my ragged ass!

17h39-18h08, 07-March-2013

Settled into our Efsti-Dalur accommodation and biding time until we head over to Geysir for dinner, trying to shut out The Boy’s relentless repetition of a poem he has to have memorized by the time his Vacance d’Hiver ends…in 11 days. And the Airmail beta releases are getting out of hand (not rendering that as a link this time, oh no…not taking bad karma for anyone jumping in who doesn’t want to reinstall their email application 1-2 times a day). And The Missus needs her iPad charged, and this can only happen via AppleKory because she didn’t bring her charger to Iceland. And there I go again, Command+Tab back to Chrome to see if the latest-greatest Airmail beta .zip has finished downloading. And now My Missus has set her Mac up on the desk alongside mine, uploaded her photos from the day, and invited The Boy to scootch in to look the pics over (which I also want to do)… Sod it. Will pick up again after dinner/evening entertainment/family turns in/chaos no longer reigns.

22h00-23h34, 07-March-2013

I’ve always enjoyed driving. Not in a “Man, I feel so alive with the windows down, Def Leppard’s Photograph blaring, and the speedometer topped out with my foot on the floor and my hair on fire.” way (image ROCKS, though), but as a means/manner/venue for feeling good in the world…feeling right. A worthy destination, a reliable car, a full tank, an open road — four lanes good, two lanes better! — and the sun nowhere in sight. Now depending on circumstance, a true companion “riding shotgun” doesn’t hurt, nor does the right mixtape (plural, if the drive is of the interstate variety), however solo-in-silence is the pure sweet stuff, the top-shelf añejo.

I was well into 11 before I ever spent more than 3 hours in a car heading towards a Point B from a Point A (Chicago to Dallas, a ripping out of roots and an attempted transplantation) or crossed more than one state line in the same day’s drive (El Paso to Los Angeles, family holiday fun). Since 1976, though, I have had my wings…uh, fins…uh, well, been significantly more mobile. To recount the more substantial roadtrips to which I have been participant would only be long and boring, and this you can believe because before I performed a monster edit such a recounting was splashed right here, and it was…tragic. Let’s just leave it with “Since I was 11 I have taken many roadtrips across the USA and enjoyed driving holidays in Europe.” and call it a paragraph, OK?

Today La Famille Kessel visited Þingvellir, the Iceland location where the continental drift between the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates can be seen and sometimes experienced (earthquakes). In describing the location to The Boy as we made our way there today, he said “Can you tell me when Europe ends and North America begins?” and all I could think, both hands on the wheel staring down Iceland Road 36 was “If only.”

12h40-13h32, 06-March-2013

Flight delayed, word of “extremely slippery” conditions on the road from Keflavik to Reykjavik, and My Missus just received a call from her bank asking if she is in the U.S. racking up charges on her credit card (she is not). All things considered, though, we could be in Bucharest…or Detroit.

Airports. Photo opportunities are to be had with just about every eye-blink at the airport. Building infrastructure that is not applied (or appropriate) anywhere else, a virtual gumbo of different peoples caring for a seemingly inexhaustible array of luggage styles and sizes, this gadget that gadget the other gadget and a gadget I never thought I’d see, the shoes!, strange vehicles purposefully darting here and there (Or to and fro? I am growing ever more certain that it is the closing in of the Cliché Cops that is causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up.), baggage carrousels…? And, of course, I could go on. Everywhere I look I see pictures that deserve and demand to be taken by someone with far more photography skill than I wield, and — By gum! — it pisses me off.

Today my Eljay (everone should have one) is also in transit, heading for Austin from Londontown for another go at SxSW Interactive. Via social media this morning she reported seeing a Heathrow shop selling “freshly ground coffee & pastries” and quipped that she had “decided to pass on liquidised-coffee-flavoured pastry sludge for breakfast”. As entertained and thought-provoked as I was by Elj’s bon mot, though (and her spellings, though my faith is strong that the day wiill come when the Brits learn to properly speak and write English), I cannot shake the thought that there might be a business opportunity in it all.

Weather reports from Iceland continue to come across, with conditions worsening and a weather warning being issued for parts of the south and west (Keflavik, Reykjavik…). Heavy snowfall, strong gale winds of more than 20 m/s and blizzards…m/s? Into the icy maw of Scandinavian HELL we go (if IcelandAir actually opts to put 543 in the air today, that is)!

I spy with my little eye…a black leather-clad tallish blondish thinnish woman applying far too much lip gloss, a twentysomething student-type guy with his headphones askew (left ear in, right ear out) who is tapping his iPhone against his thigh like a drumstick (wooden, not chicken), a faux beige cowboy hat sitting atop an extensible luggage handle, a lost mouse who is considering making a break for safer harbor…a mouse? Heh no, I made that up. No mice in evidence today at CDG. None of the mammal variety, anyway.

When did Boeing start making planes with tip-up wings? Are new Airbus planes employing the same feature? Is it a design affectation or does it truly add to the flying/flight experience? If free wifi was in the offing I am sure I could find the question’s answer, thus proving yet again that instant information access does not always enable a sense of wonder.

And the Airmail beta? Those crazy kooky tinkerers just refuse to sleep! Build 143 turned up a short time ago, this following yesterday’s release of both Build 141 and Build 142. Feature me once, shame on you. Feature me twice…?

Flight 543 IcelandAir is now boarding. <Cue omininous violin music behind slow fade to white>

11h16-12h48, 05-March-2013

On the way back from walking My Missus to the Metro this morning I realized yet again (re-realized? re-re-re-re-re-realized?) that “walking-asleep” is when I am most open to abstract free-flowing creative thought. That said, I cannot offer a reasonable rationale for why I waited 2.5 hours before disconnecting AppleKory from the home net hive in search of today’s perch. Hmm…well, there was the just-released latest-greatest update to the Airmail beta that absolutely demanded installation…and then I just couldn’t fail to finish Steven Brill’s extraordinary article on the U.S. healthcare system in last week’s Time (Bitter Pill: Why Medical Bills Are Killing Us)…Twitter this, Twitter that, and no small amount of while-I-slept Facebooking to catch up on…

The other side of my table today features a guest star in the form of The Boy, whose two week Vacance d’Hiver (Winter Holiday) began yesterday. I won’t spend time or pixels here attempting to describe how passing time is vastly improved by the kid’s presence, but I could, I really could, and the words would flow like water from a busted East 100th Street fire hydrant in a Bruce Davidson photo…

Bouncing in my seat to what has to be a Two-for-Tuesday playlist…Jefferson Airplane’s “Go Ask Alice” led (and had to have been preceded by “Somebody to Love” as there aren’t any others by the band that are worth a spit), followed down the rabbithole by a fantastic 1-2-3-4 Leonard Cohen two-fer/Neil Young two-fer. Now enduring some 2000s-ish acoustic-sticky happy-in-my-angst half-song thing with a two-clicks-past-too-earnest voicing (you know, that RomCom/”Grey’s Anatomy” montage-ready sludge).

Spent some time with The Boy in the neighborhood Virgin Megastore yesterday afternoon. The store opened nearly 10 years ago, bringing with it a gulletful of hope and expectation for dramatic improvement on the oh-so-dilapidated Boulevard Barbes, however it is now in its death throes as evidenced by the diminishing inventory (oh, and by the announcement in January that the chain was filing for bankruptcy). Walking amongst the lightly-populated shop’s sad shelves and tables — and they are sad, helped to that state by far too many “Soldes!” signs and stickers and nicked-up product spread too thin — I found my thoughts settling into nostalgia for a time not-long-enough-ago-to-warrant-nostalgia when music and book stores were my best and favorite places of refuge. Barenaked Ladies captured the heart of my Single Guy existence best in song with Brian Wilson, singing:

“Drove downtown in the rain,
9:30 on a Tuesday night,
just to check out the late-night..record shop.
Call it impulsive.
Call it compulsive.
Call it insane.”

Of course, late-night bookstores sufficed just as well (way way back then?!) and they had the added enticement of coffee on site, though I never did manage to pin down whether there was a specific day each week when the new tomes were let loose upon the thirsty public.

OH. Must stop typing. John Lennon is here, singing about how a working class hero and how they are something to be, and attention must be paid. And now a band has magically appeared, helping John to convey power to the people (right on!).

At this point I might look up and stare a bit — out the window, at someone interesting-looking (or someone doing the same take-a-break stare), deep into and through some tchochke or kinda-neglected piece of hanging art whatnot — in pursuit of an ending, however today when I look up I see The Boy with his headphones earmuffing his head and realize (re-re-realize) that the priority has shifted definitively into procuring lunch feed.

16h42-17h50, 04-March-2013

Color me surprised this afternoon to discover that both of the newish modernish hip-coolish wifi-ready coffee houses in my neighborhood conform to the oh-so-dusty-European custom of being closed for business on Monday. Always learning in this life, we are…and always walking further than we intended as a result.

Less than three hours ago, right at the tail-end of a lunch best not recounted here, I had a truly great idea for a topic on which to write about today. I did, I really did. The thought made me smile, it made me laugh, it lifted my spirit and filled me with anticipation, and then it took a partner and danced straight out of my mind with nary a backward glance. Not that I am spending much time aching over subjects, mind you, but when you’ve got a good one by the tail (never by the nose) there is no escaping a slicing sense of loss when it breaks free and skips away.

Metaphors. I see I am not lacking for those today, oh no. Of course, me without metaphors is like a laundry basket without socks, or or or a bulletin board without thumbtacks. Uh, a money-showered celebrity without an entourage? Nope, it’s true…the good ones really won’t come when you call.

The chocolat chaud that was meant to share the ride today is already gone, and that is because it was not hot, not marginally so, and thus it was no more in three easy glugs. And that is especially bothersome, considering Le clair de lune, the neighborhood bar/café I tap-tap-tap from today, is part of an affiliation of like establishments called HotCafe. Ironic? Nah. The point isn’t nearly important enough to be considered so and should be released on its own recognizance.

At this point it is evident that the loss of my afformentioned certain-world-beating topic has left me in a place of riffing (read: scrambling, reaching, clutching, grasping, flailing…). Hmm. Should I write about Airmail, the rollickin’ new email program I started beta-testing over the weekend? Uh, no. Or maybe go on a bit about the dreamy handmade camera half-case my eyeballs and fingertips have been tingling over (for Leyna the Leica…avid readers will surely recall my naming psychosis) and that I am thisclose to ordering, as a 48th Birthday gift to myself from My Missus? Uh, no. My ongoing effort to integrate the complete recordings of both Louis Armstrong and Miles Davis into the TOK Tunes digital music library? No no no, heavens no. My surprise over CuzJ being a tad jealous over my imminent Iceland holiday, this despite his leaving days from now for Hawaii? Huh? Of course, I could just share a cat story…

And there it is again, that utterly brilliant topic, rearing its ghastly head as expected and just in time to miss the whole of today’s session of Fill-the-Cruelly-Oppressive-Blank-Space. Caged that slippery beast in a note-to-self this time, though, thus finally subscribing to the notion that writing is at least as much organization as inspiration (perspiration, preparation, presentation, elucidation, and mental masturbation aside).

13h32-14h34, 01-March-2013

As I start in today the free wi-fi at neighborhood café Le Carrefour is down. After the mild railing I gave myself yesterday for my susceptibility to Internet distraction, though, this could be more a good thing than a bad thing…provided what ends up on this page over the next 60 minutes or so is of any use whatsoever.

On Tuesday, issue #8 of “Hawkeye” hit comic shops (and the Internet…DLing comics is as easy these days as DLing television programs), and as has been the case since an old friend turned my eyes to the book some months back, it broke straight through the clutter and delighted me no end. A super hero who lives and interacts among non-Avenger types in an apartment building is nothing new — since the 60s, only “old money” such as Batman and Iron Man have had the dosh to crib out in stately manors — but Hawkeye is certainly the first who slumlords and acts as Super for said building as well. And though this guy may stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the likes of Captain America and Thor when the fate and future of the universe is in the balance, the adventures chronicled monthly in “Hawkeye” capture our hero when he is “off the clock”. Oh, and did I mention mention that Clint Barton…uh, Hawkeye’s dual identity is known to all? Such a premise alone would certainly promise the comic a spot on the top tier from the get-go, however it is the brilliant delivery by the dynamic duo (sorry) of writer Matt Fraction and artist David Aja that delivers on that promise. If you are not yet among those of us lucky enough to already be digging on “Hawkeye”, last month’s Issue #7 is the perfect hopping-on point from which to go backward then forward.

What? You don’t read comic books? Really? Wow, if that IS you, then take a moment to feel both proud and fortunate that you have made it this deep into the third millenium with anything resembling a relevant personal culture.

A long time ago, in a galaxy yadda yadda etc., a friend of mine dissed me but good, saying “Kory, don’t sweat it…someday you’ll find the one girl out there who is into comic books.” Now this friend truly had no idea that I still kept a bit of a toe in all-things-comics, though as zingers go it struck a hard and perfect bullseye at my geeky heart, and its perfect delivery made it worth more than a laugh-and-a-half…deep good-natured yukking all around. Little could either of us have known just how prescient that insult would turn out to be, however, as the mid-point of this newly-unwrapped month will mark 13 years since I was saved by My Missus, a girl who is not only into comic books (though super heroes are far from her cuppa) but who actually put in a good amount of time working in France’s quite-healthy comic book industry…and have I mentioned that her collection is epic?

13h38-14h35, 28-February-2013

The window for a personal word or two is a bit tight today, so let’s see how I do at minimizing distraction and matching my typing to my thinking (write now, edit later).

I have a tendency to name inanimate objects. My first car was Erin, my bicycle is Stella, my computer is AppleKory (Apple MacBook => Apple core => AppleKory), my first cellphone was Louis, Ouizi is my mobylette, my chef’s knife is Larmurlok…and, really, I could go on and on. I have no idea if there is a name for what is obviously a psychosis of some sort, but if not I am certainly qualified and able to put one to it.

Inhabiting the same Black Market Café I mentioned in Tuesday’s piece, I once again find myself bronzed in the afterglow of a too-quickly-finished Cortado. A few more visits will be necessary before I can hang the moniker haunt or hangout on the place, however early signs are good as the Cortados are meticulously prepared and presented and the owner/baristra’s musical tastes work quite nicely for me (on Tuesday Herbie Hancock’s “Maiden Voyage” helped me settle into my seat, and today he is playing wall-to-wall jazz manouche selections).

If only I could follow my “write now, edit later” directive. Getting away from my desk to blurb daily is proving to be a terrific idea, but doing so has done nothing to stanch my talent for multi-tasking (or, more honestly, “to improve my ever-diminishing ability to focus on one thing at a time”). Perhaps I should employ one of those funky new applications designed to minimize distraction from writing, or — better yet — opt NOT to hop on the free wi-fi offered in an increasing number of neighborhood venues….must move…forward.

My Missus and I recently started watching a new television program called “The Ameri☭ans”, which airs in the U.S. on the FX cable network. At some point if the show continues to prove interesting I may share some thoughts on it, but I bring it up here only as a means for opening a discussion of how strangely easy it is now to find fresh freely-downloadable broadcast content via the Internet. It has been more than 10 years since my bottom jaw crash-landed on my keyboard at the sight of an episode of “Friends” playing on my computer screen (downloaded using a then-magical peer-to-peer file sharing software called KaZaA, which is the direct digital ancestor of Skype), and yet I remain astounded that within minutes after a program is first broadcast it can be pulled down over the Internet in pristine high definition a/v quality. And I refer not to the use of such authorized for-profit services as iTunes or Amazon Instant Video, but to free-use technologies like Bittorrent and the ever-growing number of file sharing and uploading sites (e.g., RapidShare, MediaFire, Hotfile, 4Shared, depositfiles, etc.). When TNT shows an all-new episode of “Dallas” — an oh-so-guilty pleasure — on Monday evening in the U.S., I can cue up a perfect .avi file of the episode for a with-my-breakfast viewing on Tuesday courtesy of eztv.it, Transmission (Bittorrent application I run on AppleKory), and VLC Media Player. And this is true these days for virtually every program emitted on U.S. and U.K. television, be it scripted sit-coms or dramas, documentaries, so-called “reality” TV, or live broadcasts such as news programs, award shows, and even certain sporting events. Of course, all of this begs the question, “Who is recording all of this content and making it available (and so quickly, too)?” After all, there is absolutely no money to be made in creating the digital files and sharing them via the Internet, and we are long-past the time when making the effort to upload…well, anything, can be attributed to fulfilling the hacker’s credo of doing it simply to show it can be done. Do the uploaders do it out of the pure goodness of their hearts, hoping that the tiny signature character strings they tack onto the end of the files they offer will result in the gratitude, respect, and admiration of the legions of downloaders who draw entertainment from the fruit of their labor?

So the 5th episode of “The Ameri☭ans” aired last in the U.S.. I downloaded it this morning in about 9 minutes time, and tonight My Missus and I will watch it from the comfort of our Paris home at 57BB, after which I am sure to toss it out with the rest of the digital trash.

15h47-17h00, 27-February-2013

Less than five minutes at my perch du jour and already I’ve been abandoned by the espresso that was meant to accompany me today, the only evidence of which I cannot even lick off the inside of the cup. <sigh>

A myth it is, the supposed superiority of the espresso offered in the cafés of France. Typically, the lauded beverage so often held up as a paragon of culture, sophistication, and refinement compared to “American” is no richer/darker/stronger/more flavorful/truer. The fact is that despite the relatively small size of a café (the beverage and not the place at which you might order and drink said beverage…yes, that CAN get confusing), honest imbibers are often able to make out the bottom of their cup through the brown-but-not-so-brown liquid. And it isn’t because the sugar in France is especially strong that a half-teaspoon of the stuff applied tends to go a long-enough way. Now this isn’t to say that all of the café coffee (un café au café?) to be had in France is bad — Au contraire! — but it is long past time for the popping of the bubble of primacy afforded to “un café” over its English-speaking brethren.

There. I wrote it, I take responsibility for it, and once I publish it the French Café Police will be able to hold those pixels against me as they see fit.

A man wearing a nondescript baseball cap just wrested all attention by pounding his cellphone on the bar twice with great force. One has to assume that the thing was already broken, but if not it certainly is now.

Wednesdays are more a “valley day” than a “hump day” in France due to the school system, in which kids at the maternelle and primaire levels do not have classes while those at the higher levels only have classes in the morning. Thus, depending on their age and interests (and the needs and capabilities of their parents), on Wednesdays kids across the country participate in a whole slew of daycare arrangements, sports programs, music lessons, art classes, theatre groups, game clubs, and the like. And the competition to get into these programs can be downright savage, and I am not ashamed to admit that over the years — my being the at-home parent — I have had to throw the occasional hip-check to get The Boy on the list for Swimming, for Tennis, for Sculpture (yes, Sculpture…see the accompanying photo of today’s masterpiece)… Of course, it is all in the name of liberté, égalité, fraternité…and betterment-of-the-organism, so “No blood, no foul”, right?

12h40-13h47, 26-February-2013

Soaking up some scene at Black Market Café, a new 18th arrondissement coffee house up the hill from 57BB, noting three mysterious men through the window street-side, dressed all in white and moving left to right, and hoping the Cortado I just ordered is worth the 3.40€ I will eventually pay for it…

Most weekday mornings begin slooow. Shortly after The Boy made his debut some 11 years back I resolved to make it out of the bed every morning in time to walk My Missus to the Metro and my kiddo to his nounou (and later, to school) before returning home to start my day. This now long-held resolution is the proverbial two-birds-one-stone as it provides short-but-precious morning time with my family while also ensuring that my tendency to fall into bed late — most nights my head hits the pillow between the 2nd and 3rd wee hours — doesn’t result in my getting out of it late as well. An efficient system, to be sure, even if it does make for a bit of a “No Kory’s Land” that barring a work guillotine (read: deadline) lifts between 11h00 and noon…just in time to start thinking about lunch.

Lunch. All who have worked alongside me over the years will no doubt attest that the mid-day meal is a (worthy, yes, worthy) near-obsession with me, and this remains true despite the fact that these days I take most of my lunches solo. Yes, it is about the food (it is ALWAYS about the food, isn’t it?), but it is also about the deep need for a definitive break in the day, a separation, a chance to take a breath and lessen the pulse of backbreaking toil, and…oh, who am I kidding, it’s about the food.

As often as not it goes like this… <cue dreamy music at low volume, soften focus and add more white light, and cut to Kory staring past the monitor on a non-descript spot on the wall>

“Lunch. Am I hungry? Gotta eat. Asian? Could go for something with some crunch. Maybe something light today? It’s cold. A steak-frites might go over nicely. Haven’t had pizza for a while. Shame I have to get on the Metro to get decent sushi. Man, if only there was an authentic taqueria nearby. How long would it take me to get back-and-forth from _______? Thai food, now that could be really great. Stop thinking about sushi, Kory. Could I ever go for that great burger they make over at that place near the circle down the block next to that other place! Maybe such-n-such brasserie has confit de canard or bœuf bourguignon on the menu… I’m meeting My Missus for lunch tomorrow, so I should eat cheap today…wonder if there is something in the fridge that needs to be eaten. A grilled cheese sandwich, a bowl of tomato soup, and an icy-cold Coke…comfort food doesn’t get more comfortable than THAT!…sushi?”

<stop music, sharpen focus on Kory coming out of his Lunch Pondering Trance and reaching for his shoes, with no clue where his feet will take him once they hit the street>

That Cortado? DEFINITELY worth the 3.40€.