The Memorial Day booksale at the Bibliobarn on Rose's Brook Road out in S. Kortright just opened. I went over with my daughter and picked up these books at 50% off:
Signifying Nothing: The Semiotics of Zero, by Brian Rotman (St. Martin's, 1987).
Remarks on the Foundations of Mathematics, by Ludwig Wittgenstein (MIT Press, 1967).
The Birth of Mathematics in the Age of Plato, by Francois Lasserre (American Research Council, 1964).
Aristotle to Zoos: A Philosophical Dictionary of Biology, by P.B. and J.S. Medawar (Harvard 1983).
Greek: A New and Simple Approach for those who Want to Read Greek Literature, by F. Kinchin Smith (Teach Yourself Books, 1983).
A Frozen Hell: The Russo-Finnish Winter of 1939-40, by William R. Trotter (Algonquin Books, 2000).
A History of Finland, by Eino Jutikkala with Kauko Pirinen (Dorset Press, 1988).
I also got two books on Harry Potter for my daughter. The total price? $29.95.
I love the owners of the Bibliobarn: H.L. and Linda Wilson, originally out of Norfolk, VA. Also saw my friend Gary Mayer there, buying novels. He painted a huge mural of the nineteenth century literary scene in London behind the barn. It took him all winter. It looks great: my son is in one scene stealing a wallet from a scene out of Dickens.
S. Kortright has two big cultural institutions: the Bibliobarn, and the Kortright Center, which is going to feature Leon Redbone in about a month for $22. I think I'll go.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
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Kirby: Thanks for including in your book list books on "nothing." My first venture into fiction will be informed by own experiences and by your example in "Temping," which even my unbookish 85-yr. old mother found fascinating. Any general hints for fist-time fiction writers? (You may wish to confide these in a private email, as we have done in the past.) At any rate here's a sample of recent my recent experience that I'll try to turn into fiction some day:
On your papa--know that our hope is that he is, in Leon Bloy's words, is now basking in that life beyond the stars, and the task for the rest of us is to prove ourselves worthy of achieving it someday (I did remember him in my private prayers in St Alphonse's Church in Windsor, Ont, where we've been pleased to hole up for a couple of days after Mum's near-total recovery and the end for now of our hectic writing and editing schedules--and Windsor's the only way the hellish liberal city of Detroit way the city what?--she of the burning cars and buildings. We could see the smoke acoss the river from our hotel room window in Windsor) and of the other daily assorted acts of violence, corruption, gratuitous mayhem, and thuggery that are "business as usual" in DEE-troit) can sensibly be viewed.
I'd yesterday dusted off some schoolboy German in warning a few English-challenged German tourists staying in our favourite hotel in Windsor that upon reaching the wheely city, wherever they observed a higher-than-usual concentration of bullet-holes in the cars and buildings of a place, it was best to remain on the tour bus until reaching the burbs unless they were by chance armed and ready for a little titillating gunplay--BTW, me n' Emmy are scheduled to train for our CC permits next month, so then we can return to the "hostage" institutions stuck in the maw of our major lib-run urban infernal paradises, like DEE-troit's Institute of Art and its opera-house--islands of art surrounded by a sea violence, cacophony, and crime. As the incomparable movie bandito, Eli Wallach has it, when you gotta shoot--shoot, don' talk.
Talked to two German university students who couldn't even parse the German idiom "Eulen nach Athen tragen" (the effect equivalency of "carrying coals to Newcastle--me n' Emmy actually have done this, mais c'est une autre histoire!--but literally meaning "to carry owls to Minerva," that is, to perform some superfluous and unnecessary action; nevertheless, one of these poor benighted German coeds I was chatting up--while Em and her brother were recovering from the previous night's revels--tried to argue than "Athen" ("ah-TAIN") stood for Athens, Greece, and the other thought "Eulen" ("owls") in the idiom referred to the name of an anti-Hitler politician; my protests ("Nein, Fraulein, das ist ein Eigentuemlichkeit!"--an "idiom") were in vain (leading me to wonder about the current state of the once-sterling classical German gymnasium before its inundation with the cultural sewage that is "pop culture").
"Windsor's the only way to view from a safe distance the hellish liberal city . . ." etc. (I see Em has been editing my messages again)
(continued)
Me 'n Em made what the sublime and luciously degenerate Colette calls a "courir de guilledou" (a kind of "round of cheap joints in search of adventure"). Fortified (or better, anesthetized) by a couple of heady "green fairies" at an absinthe-bar called "Milk" (though Em's home batches are decidedly superior), we set sail on our anticipated adventures and were not disappointed by Windsor's exuberant night-life. We ended up at "Jake's Downtown Joint," where their "rough-trade" female bartenders are featured on the place's marquee and where artists and intellectuals roam free, free at last. One female bartender greeted my request for a pint to accompany my huge, thick burger (a great buy for burger tourists at 3 dollars USD) with a caress on the bum and a cloying "Sweetie, you want "Douchebag Lite" or just "Old Vagina?" Well, after this sophisticated and cosmopolitan intro to the joint we were pleased find such a place to introduce Em's little bro' to a few harmlessly louche vices as a kind of vaccination against the truly self-destructive ones. Unlike bartenders in the States, the female bartenders at "Jake's" are not a bit retincent aboot becoming their own customers and doing some bump n' grind dance-frottaging with the customers (of which there were only a few of us left standing at two A.M.), and after which I dutifully pulled a graveyard shift in "Caesar's Palace" casino accompanied by one of the two 30-ish bar slags who thought me a cute stand-in for James Joyce, though I refuse to wear his characteristic spats (Em and her bro' had retired to bed at our hotel--and at this point let me say, a la Diderot's disclaimers in "Jacques le Fataliste," that we trust each other implicitly, so brett--no louche remarks cum commenting filthily upon them, thank you kindly). Among the thousands upon thousands of sluts and slots there, my practiced guide led me to one called "Risqué Business," which is a game organized around strip-joint action (disclaimer: I've never been to one of such joints in my life, which seemed mightily to amuse my now-friend, and previously only a barmaid to me). So we played and we predictably lost, though I'll have another go at it when we return with Em's actress-singer cousin Brigitte (another p-p-preposterous person whom I adore) next week. Then it's back to work on our next books.
Apologies to readers, but perhaps once a year Kirby might give his regular bloggers leave to indulge themselves a bit (my little indugence is nearly over, and bored readers might just ignore these posts entirely):
In practical matters, I learned that my former Canadian work permit (now expired) and my social insurance card in Canada (that I luckily obtained while lived in Vancouver on fellowship at the University of British Columbia) some years ago does actually entitle me to full benefits in the Canadian social welfare system). So while I couldn't work there without renewing my permit, I could nevertheless receive the benefits afforded those who can't or don't work. Typical nanny-state irony.
In last night's fish-fry at my VFW post there was touch of melancholy due to the sudden death one of our comrades while Em and I were away in Canada. So for consolation after the dinner Em n' me repaired to a nearby place of dubious repute, the innocuously named "Hamburg Pub," for the standing-room only Friday karaoke night--dear "HB,"
a veritable sultan's harem of venery, lechery, bitchery, and malicious gossip. We did find a pretty good sit-down table (and one of this joint’s strengths is the astounding cheapness of the booze—e.g., our bill for: a huge basket of chips with salsa, two "melon-ball" mixed drinks for Em and two pints of Labatt’s cum neat shots of bar scotch--and BTW, the first hard-of-hearing barmaid serving me my standard order of a pint cum shot of scotch there heard me as ordering with my pint a shot [for God’s sake!] of butterscotch!—was, with tax included, a mere $25.43—it’s whispered about that the owners give significant discounts to patrons and habitues they deem “interesting”).
Guess we made the grade, as every other time we’ve been there. And some things never change at the HB, however: their tiny and stench-ridden loos. After using their gym locker-size loo, I thought I'd offer a bit of wit to the next needy customer by warning him cheekily not to touch anything in that fetid pirate-ship outhouse--which was promptly trumped by "Yeah, and don't let anything touch you, either." When I returned to “my” seat next to Em it of course was occupied some flanneur “hit-on artist”—a regular performer who'd just triumphantly done a couple of Buddy Holly tunes and saw his opportunity to try to overwhelm Em with blandishments, sweet nothings, and blatantly false professions of prospective devotion. We got it sorted when we revealed (sealed by a big, sloppy public kiss) that no, I'm not Em's papa, but actually her husband, thank you. But I got my revenge when a blond erotic masterpiece behind us decided she and her escort "liked my style" enough for her to jump on my lap and snatch my Panama to wear as if some trophy. (I can only imagine you, Kirby, shrinking back in horror from such Boschian scenes from his painted Hell, but, camerado, a writer's got to have--mm, well,--"experience," n'est-ce pas? Other similar appreciative recognitions followed amid occasional roars when the Red Wings (guess we can call the city "duh-TROIT" 'cause they've an all-Caucasian team?) scored against Chicago, though such noise little distracted the machine-like undulations--and ululations--of the dancers (Em’s a temporary casualty of the Windsor partying excesses, so we didn't take the floor, though we usually like to swing dance a bit). We left early (just past ten), pleading me ol’ Mum's dicey condition to those round us pleading to us to tough it out to the end and stay till the last hour's inevitable pairings-off and the drunken histrionics of those disappointed in the hunt. However, just before leaving I slipped my card (with a whisper in the ear that she was easily the most interesting bitch I'd seen that night) to a young lady to whom I'd been giving an occasional de haut en bas gaze for twenty-or-so minutes--a clipped-haired full-figured 200+- lb. goth-punker adorned with dog-collar and numerous lip and ear piercings. What attracted me to this bitch is that she looked not only prematurely hardened by vice, but slightly dangerous to boot. It'll be a pleasure to welcome her to one of our occasional soirees in future, just to see what will happen by tossing her into our usual menagerie of degenerates. One might aver that I'm recounting all this to implicate you others in the experiences described (shades of that wretched but talented male whore and criminal, Jean Genet), but I assure you all--hypocrites lecteurs--that it is surely the case. . . .
Oh, yeah, I’ve started a novel called “The Modern Degenerate Gazette.” Any suggestions, Kirby? Em’s 400 pages ahead of me in her Dr Who punk-porn fiction (e che faro senza la mia Emilia?), and so I've got some more experiencing to do to provide more "raw" material. Perhaps our second foray into Windsor in three days will yield up a bit more. Let you know. . . .
Cheers, JA
leon redbone
what a character
is that guy still
out there twangin and croonin away
shine on shine on harvest moon
back in the early 80s
i chanced to catch leon live
it was a time when flash cameras
were everywhere
and were going off during the concert
after intermission before the lights came on
a shadow figure came out on satge
and sat down
after a minute the camera flash went
off
and we all realized that
leon redbone had just
taken a picture of the audience
what a hoot
he may be the very last vaudeville act
on the freestore table yesterday in the monastery
where i swap up most of my book fare
there were two rather large stacks of algebra textbooks
for classroom use
two of them by a guy named lehmann
had pictures of electric guitars on the front covers
what i find hard to comprehend is that people spend time compiling to create texts like this
and they are so damn unreadable
i tried
looking into the thoughts of herbert mccabe
just finishing up
the ethical primate
what a great walking discourse
a veritable peripatesis through
modern presumption in science
feast of ascension
i hope jacques and emmybee
recover their bearings
in a nice canadian church today
sounds like a foray into bacchanalian rites
]ah well
it's spring and all
i recently picked up a hard cover copy of jesus through the centuries
by jaroslav pelikan
a 20th century classic i do surmise
and we shall with him rise
j
jh: Thanks for your kind indulgence, Brother John--and I promise you I'll repair to St Alphonse's first thing when we arrive in Windsor again in three days' time--and I'll put away for a time my thoughts of Baudelaire, Gautier, Villiers de l'Isle Adam, Leon Bloy, Bourget, Maurras, etc.--all, in their own ways, apostles of sacred decedence ("Je suis l'empire [the zenith] et la decedance [the nadir]," as the sublime Baudelaire has it). But know that I'll be true and faithful utterly to my adorable 23-yr-old "right-wing gun moll." Thanks be to God for my mother's full recovery, and for the boon that Em n' me can return in coming months to our now-beloved home in 18th c. Piran, Slovenia. We're getting Mum her first passport, "as we speak."
Question, jh: Have you read Dostoyevsky's "The Gambler," or prrhaps seen its cheap Hollywood representation as "The Great Sinner," with Gregory Peck as lead? But I assure you I'll not molest the Church's poor-box, as the protagonist did just before his conversion to Christ.
Pax tibi, jh
jh: There are some associations and connexions we have to Church academics and artists in Minnesota--care to give us a private email address?
Busy most of today but am looking forward to reading all of these remarks. May not get a chance until tomorrow. So much going on -- shopping today up in Alby Balby, and then hitting baseballs, and then playing soccer, and and and. But tomorrow after the parade I intend to sit down and read.
well: you've been to more saloons this past week than I've been in in past
20 years!
ever notice that
the closer to closing-time
...the prettier the bimbo sitting next to you gets?
saloons... that's a place to cry-in-your-beer and make lasting friendships
I can just imagine the angst and expectations
if the John's are that filthy just imagine the kitchen and what goes into the food!
Ed: Camerado, it takes one to . . . tu quoque! Tonight me n' Em will dance the tango! Yes, we can!
Ed: We don't eat at the Pub--we eat at my VFW post before we hit the pub scene--jes' so you won't worry . . . Brindisi, camerado!
Jacques, I can't handle anyplace where I have to yell over the music. I rather hate music, anyway, or anything above the regular silence of libraries!
As for fiction:
There are three problems.
1. Writing 50,000 words (the minimum for a novel).
2. Getting an editor to read it, and then publish it.
3. Getting readers to buy it, and then read it.
The whole thing has to be about the third of these three, at least to some extent. Temping did manage to get written, to find an editor (the first to whom I sent it bought it within a month). But finding readers has been very difficult.
I got about 15 good reviews and one that really stunk.
And I get letters from readers who really liked it (I got one from Perth, Australia!), but in general, the book's distribution is scanty, and it's hard to find very good readers.
I know that they exist, but connecting the book to them, has proven to be a very tough task.
At any rate, I think your job is to write a Vietnam memoir, sprinkled in with scenes from after-Vietnam -- communist versus capitalist scenes, and show us how the war is still being fought everywhere we look.
Write what you know, and all that!
Kirby
hey I was in
Brindisi once on the East Coast of Italy where
you get a boat to Athens AN
they sure got some saloons in Brindisi!
buy a beer and they line up on the bar little plates of food mostly sea-food FOR FREE!
I guess being far enough away from Rome is to their advantage!
this was 1968! three years after "what's her name" changed-my-life and broke my heart
is when I began "crying in my beer"
jacques albert
if you want to send me
your email
by clicking on
over on my blog
i'll reciprocate
o canada
j
JA --
So how do we get me (and my family) a free trip to Slovenia? Do they like poets over there?
M
GM: Contact the cultural attache of the Slovenian consulate in Cleveland (I've spoken to the consul--he's very polite, interested, and friendly) about a possible trip. Get Kirby to give you his Seattle friend Charlie's email address. We were supposed to link up with him in Ljub but I think his father's ill-health kept him in the States. We visited him in Seattle on our triuphal Western tour 2 yrs ago. Charlie has many Slovenian contacts. If we hadn't had to return to the States for care of my mum we'd still be there and could host you. Try also "The American Corner" in Koper for info on cultural exchanges. We hung out there a bit, since we lived close by in Piran. The history of translation grad course at Ljub U has used my 2nd translation book among their 10 required works for the course, so after we become expats again, I'll probably lecture theri on the history of translation, and I expect some hospitality when I'm there. Also, contact the US embassy in Ljub--we missed last year's embassy party by one day. At any rate there's a start. Mnogo srece ("good luck"), GM!
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