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Chapter Six: Absent and Present Friends As I write this I begin counting down the last thirty days of my Thirties. Sigh. I was mildly stunned to hear that poet Phillip Whalen had passed away, mostly because it had been so long since I had even thought about him. He was one of the Beat mainstays whom I really enjoyed in my less-enlightened youth. That is not to say that his stuff wasn't worth reading, it just struck me as more profound then than it does now (doesn't everything?). The good folks at Big Bridge Press have just released a posthumous collection. After that subtle reminder of lost childhood I spend the better part of an hour reading with glee (and a glass of scotch) the finalists and winners of this year's Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. Go. Partake. They are glorious. So far it's been a neat summer. When not working I try to hit the road. Got to spend a day at this year's Readercon where Octavia Butler was Guest of Honor. Bought lots of books and met up with a few errant friends. Jeff VanderMeer wrote a nice piece about it in Locus. This convention's been around 15 years already, yet it is hard to remember a summer without it. Jennifer and I took some day trips. Headed up to Kittery, Maine to spend a day at the outlets. Also made our way out to the World's Largest Kalideoscope in the Catskills and got sore necks staring up into the surreal abyss of the transformed grain silo. Very cool. Saw some good shows. After NEARFest in June my wholesale mainlining of progressive rock continued with excellent concerts by Rush and Porcupine Tree. I decided I had partaken of too much "prog" when I heard a story on the news about the unwelcome return of the giant hogweed to the Massachusetts wilderness. Before any other Genesis songs could manifest themselves I decided to thin the mix with shows by Guided by Voices, The Twinemen, Fairport Convention and Todd Rundgren. I considered attending The Breeders show, but their new CD is so utterly dismal. In trying to catch up on my reading, I've gotten into Stephen Baxter's Manifold books, John Shirley's Demons, and Neil Peart's memoir Ghost Rider. My comic consumption has included Alan Moore's League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Volume 2 , Hip Flask: Unnatural Sellection, Grant Morrison's The Filth, and Humanoids Publishing's relaunch of Metal Hurlant. Quite yummy. Mostly I have been grateful to spend some time with my friends and groove on the things we really enjoy. Over the last few years I have detected a pattern of friends dropping off the radar at regular intervals. A while back I made a conscious effort to halt this trend and, if possible, reverse it. So far I have done pretty well. When I see I am heading off in a certain direction I check if I know anybody along the way and plan a visit. It's been invigorating and somewhat addictive to check up on old comrades. But the summer hasn't been all fun. As of this writing it has been a few weeks since I last saw Vulcan, God of Fire (this website's official Bad Cat). He went out one morning and hasn't returned. It is not unprecedented for him to vanish for days, no doubt on some Disney-esque adventure with a few other cats, a half-wit dog and a friendly owl. Carolyn and I used to say he's off to "Kitty Woodstock." However there have been several coyote reports 'round these parts and I fear the worst. I have always held the belief that Vulcan would come to a bad end (or was that me?). He was once thoroughly mauled by a skunk and had been seen stalking deer in the thick nearby brush. As bright as he is, he has had a tendancy of getting into unpleasant situations. I am not holding out much hope. The one lesson I have learned from this so far is that most animal shelters are run by decent people, the majority of animal control officials are equally kind and attentive, but the Humane Society is a den of bureaucratic tin gods who expect the world to bow to them for upholding such a noble cause. They have Inextricably embedded themselves in the column marked "Part of the Problem." 'Nuff said 'bout that. Vulcan (or "The Beast" as I called him) was the only pet Carolyn and I ever had. Her family had owned a parade of dogs and cats, and my family had been held in thrall by a trio of unscrupulous felines named Boots, Moppy, and Jingles during my youth. Carolyn brought Vulcan home from a litter her sister's cat had recently spawned. He was a black ball of fuzz. She so named him after the God of Fire as he looked coated from forge soot. He spent his formative months latching painfully onto the back of my thighs, learning to shred any clothing I had the chutzpah to leave on his floor, and branding my arm a series of progressively deeper bite marks in an attempt to wake me up. Vulcan found that I was quite easy to train, and soon had me performing such complex tricks as feeding him at 4 am and opening the door at his slightest whim. During his day-long naps I would creep up to him, briskly rub his exposed stomach and whisper "isabeeeeest" and "und schleepenbeasten." He would purr and his eyes would bug out. It was like crack to him (but not to me, of course). When Carolyn left she offered to take him with her, but I didn't like the idea of him being moved from a woody area into a thickly settled neighborhood. The boy needs to hunt. This decision may have been his undoing as those same woods draw the bigger wildlife. Of course I hold out some small hope that he has found refuge at a big farm with lots of like-minded cats, a robust lady who gives them milk and a sizable meadow rich with fat mice. He likes mice. JP |
Eager Anticipations: The Moebius online series Arzak Rhapsody. (Has anyone heard any more news on this?) New postage stamps featuring Harry Houdini and Andy Warhol. Warren Ellis' Global Frequency The Out of Time exhibit comes to Springfield. A new Nancy Kress novel Dita Von Teese comes to ManRay A new Jonathan Carroll novel. New Discs and/or Tours by And in 2003 Ars Nova The Terrastock Music Festival A new Walter Jon Williams novel. Another Line of Todd McFarlane/ Clive Barker Tortured Souls figures. The SFX Expo in Boston The 2004 World Science Fiction Convention returns to Boston. Currently in My Various Stereos: Lisa Gerrard/Pieter Bourke Duality Pallas The Cross & The Crucible Guided By Voices Universal Truths & Cycles Fripp/Summers I Advance Masked Mike Rutherford Smallcreep's Day Channel Light Vessel Excellent Spirits Porcupine Tree Stars Die Mission of Burma Forget The Best of Voivod Lycia Trippng Back into the Broken Days Barry Adamson As Above So Below Paranoise Ishq Vanden Plas Beyond Daylight Mistle Thrush Drunk With You Brian Eno Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy |
Eager Anticipations: The Moebius online series Arzak Rhapsody. (Has anyone heard any more news on this?) New postage stamps featuring Harry Houdini and Andy Warhol. Warren Ellis' Global Frequency The Out of Time exhibit comes to Springfield. A new Nancy Kress novel Dita Von Teese comes to ManRay A new Jonathan Carroll novel. New Discs and/or Tours by And in 2003 Ars Nova The Terrastock Music Festival A new Walter Jon Williams novel. Another Line of Todd McFarlane/ Clive Barker Tortured Souls figures. The SFX Expo in Boston The 2004 World Science Fiction Convention returns to Boston. Currently in My Various Stereos: Lisa Gerrard/Pieter Bourke Duality Pallas The Cross & The Crucible Guided By Voices Universal Truths & Cycles Fripp/Summers I Advance Masked Mike Rutherford Smallcreep's Day Channel Light Vessel Excellent Spirits Porcupine Tree Stars Die Mission of Burma Forget The Best of Voivod Lycia Trippng Back into the Broken Days Barry Adamson As Above So Below Paranoise Ishq Vanden Plas Beyond Daylight Mistle Thrush Drunk With You Brian Eno Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy |
Chapter Six: Absent and Present Friends As I write this I begin counting down the last thirty days of my Thirties. Sigh. I was mildly stunned to hear that poet Phillip Whalen had passed away, mostly because it had been so long since I had even thought about him. He was one of the Beat mainstays whom I really enjoyed in my less-enlightened youth. That is not to say that his stuff wasn't worth reading, it just struck me as more profound then than it does now (doesn't everything?). The good folks at Big Bridge Press have just released a posthumous collection. After that subtle reminder of lost childhood I spend the better part of an hour reading with glee (and a glass of scotch) the finalists and winners of this year's Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. Go. Partake. They are glorious. So far it's been a neat summer. When not working I try to hit the road. Got to spend a day at this year's Readercon where Octavia Butler was Guest of Honor. Bought lots of books and met up with a few errant friends. Jeff VanderMeer wrote a nice piece about it in Locus. This convention's been around 15 years already, yet it is hard to remember a summer without it. Jennifer and I took some day trips. Headed up to Kittery, Maine to spend a day at the outlets. Also made our way out to the World's Largest Kalideoscope in the Catskills and got sore necks staring up into the surreal abyss of the transformed grain silo. Very cool. Saw some good shows. After NEARFest in June my wholesale mainlining of progressive rock continued with excellent concerts by Rush and Porcupine Tree. I decided I had partaken of too much "prog" when I heard a story on the news about the unwelcome return of the giant hogweed to the Massachusetts wilderness. Before any other Genesis songs could manifest themselves I decided to thin the mix with shows by Guided by Voices, The Twinemen, Fairport Convention and Todd Rundgren. I considered attending The Breeders show, but their new CD is so utterly dismal. In trying to catch up on my reading, I've gotten into Stephen Baxter's Manifold books, John Shirley's Demons, and Neil Peart's memoir Ghost Rider. My comic consumption has included Alan Moore's League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Volume 2 , Hip Flask: Unnatural Sellection, Grant Morrison's The Filth, and Humanoids Publishing's relaunch of Metal Hurlant. Quite yummy. Mostly I have been grateful to spend some time with my friends and groove on the things we really enjoy. Over the last few years I have detected a pattern of friends dropping off the radar at regular intervals. A while back I made a conscious effort to halt this trend and, if possible, reverse it. So far I have done pretty well. When I see I am heading off in a certain direction I check if I know anybody along the way and plan a visit. It's been invigorating and somewhat addictive to check up on old comrades. But the summer hasn't been all fun. As of this writing it has been a few weeks since I last saw Vulcan, God of Fire (this website's official Bad Cat). He went out one morning and hasn't returned. It is not unprecedented for him to vanish for days, no doubt on some Disney-esque adventure with a few other cats, a half-wit dog and a friendly owl. Carolyn and I used to say he's off to "Kitty Woodstock." However there have been several coyote reports 'round these parts and I fear the worst. I have always held the belief that Vulcan would come to a bad end (or was that me?). He was once thoroughly mauled by a skunk and had been seen stalking deer in the thick nearby brush. As bright as he is, he has had a tendancy of getting into unpleasant situations. I am not holding out much hope. The one lesson I have learned from this so far is that most animal shelters are run by decent people, the majority of animal control officials are equally kind and attentive, but the Humane Society is a den of bureaucratic tin gods who expect the world to bow to them for upholding such a noble cause. They have Inextricably embedded themselves in the column marked "Part of the Problem." 'Nuff said 'bout that. Vulcan (or "The Beast" as I called him) was the only pet Carolyn and I ever had. Her family had owned a parade of dogs and cats, and my family had been held in thrall by a trio of unscrupulous felines named Boots, Moppy, and Jingles during my youth. Carolyn brought Vulcan home from a litter her sister's cat had recently spawned. He was a black ball of fuzz. She so named him after the God of Fire as he looked coated from forge soot. He spent his formative months latching painfully onto the back of my thighs, learning to shred any clothing I had the chutzpah to leave on his floor, and branding my arm a series of progressively deeper bite marks in an attempt to wake me up. Vulcan found that I was quite easy to train, and soon had me performing such complex tricks as feeding him at 4 am and opening the door at his slightest whim. During his day-long naps I would creep up to him, briskly rub his exposed stomach and whisper "isabeeeeest" and "und schleepenbeasten." He would purr and his eyes would bug out. It was like crack to him (but not to me, of course). When Carolyn left she offered to take him with her, but I didn't like the idea of him being moved from a woody area into a thickly settled neighborhood. The boy needs to hunt. This decision may have been his undoing as those same woods draw the bigger wildlife. Of course I hold out some small hope that he has found refuge at a big farm with lots of like-minded cats, a robust lady who gives them milk and a sizable meadow rich with fat mice. He likes mice. JP |
Previous: Inbox dreck and other rude internet acts. Why I'm not feeling very patriotic these days. The Media and Me. Sports. Fuck'em. Prog Rock, Shitstorms, and Dead Children. |
