The street to and from Allison Hill starts in downtown as Fourth Street, becomes Mulberry Street on the bridge over the train yard, and, at the top of the hill, merges with Derry Street.
[NOTE: I like embedding the GoogleMaps viewer of the places to which I refer, but I realize it might slow down loading of the blog, so I'll just link to it.]
Coming down the bridge on a bike subjects the rider to cross breezes coming perpendicular to the direction of travel. The negative effect of a strong cross breeze on the cyclist's speed is greater than might initially be expected. The bridge slopes down into town, continuing a general trend of roads leading off of the Hill (as one might expect, per the name of the neighborhood). Achieving top speed approaching the downhill, and continuing to travel fast (approx. 15-20 mph) while coming downhill, then, is the preferred way to combat cross breezes. It does, however, endanger any pedestrians on the bridge's sidewalk.
Since my bike does not have a bell, my preferred strategy is to shout "Passing on your left!" as I approach pedestrians. They turn, look shocked, and step to the right, letting me by. Recently, there were two pedestrians on the bridge, separated by a good deal of distance. The first pass went normally. On the second one, the guy turned around, arms spread wide for a bear hug.
"Whooooa! Heyyyy! Whoooooa! It's Spider-Man! Hey Spider-Man!" he shouted.
I waved, and was gone before I realized what he had said.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
No Last Call: Holiday Edition
This past weekend, I played the Harrisburg Holiday Parade1 with the one and only No Last Call2.
As a part of the band's "uniform," I was wearing a red shirt, red bandana, and a fake white beard, more suited to a desert castaway than to Santa Claus.
After our traditional band breakfast and traditional too-long-of-a-wait-before-playing, we marched across the City Island Bridge 3 .
People were cheering, kids were catching candy, vendors selling cheap toys meandered up and down the street -- very typical, as far as parades are concerned. I was surprised, however, to see two little girls glaring at me. One was giving me the thumbs down.
I was appalled. The band, I thought, sounded good 4 . We hadn't taken any of their candy. What could be wrong?
Then, as I marched by them, they shouted, in unison, over the sounds of the trombones next to me, the drums behind me, and the tuba in front of me, "YOU'RE NOT THE REAL SANTA!"5
I almost fell over laughing.
As a part of the band's "uniform," I was wearing a red shirt, red bandana, and a fake white beard, more suited to a desert castaway than to Santa Claus.
 |
| NTRS playing with NLC in the HHP in HBG |
After our traditional band breakfast and traditional too-long-of-a-wait-before-playing, we marched across the City Island Bridge 3 .
People were cheering, kids were catching candy, vendors selling cheap toys meandered up and down the street -- very typical, as far as parades are concerned. I was surprised, however, to see two little girls glaring at me. One was giving me the thumbs down.
I was appalled. The band, I thought, sounded good 4 . We hadn't taken any of their candy. What could be wrong?
Then, as I marched by them, they shouted, in unison, over the sounds of the trombones next to me, the drums behind me, and the tuba in front of me, "YOU'RE NOT THE REAL SANTA!"5
I almost fell over laughing.
-------------------------------------------------
1 HHP, to this acronym-happy city, also home to HHA, HAA, HYP, and the city's eponymous if not acronymic HBG.
2 NLC
3 CIB
4 See videos here if you're on The Facebook.
5 NTRS
Club IR
Up in Allison Hill, where Naed lives, where the farm is, is the Club Diner.
View Larger Map
It sits across the parking lot from a Mexican/Dominican restaurant and the offices of Industrial Building Maintenance. The "Club Diner" sign has lost its D, N, and E, leaving "Club i r"
Josh (the assistant manager at the farm) and John-Michael and I have breakfast there sometimes. When we walk in this particular morning, the waitress greets Josh by name.
"Agh, she always knows my name," he says--quietly; Club IR is a small place.
"So?" says John-Michael.
"I can never remember hers!"
We all laugh, and the waitress brings the menus.
"What's so funny, boys?"
"Aw, nothin'" says Josh. "This is our friend Greg.'
"Hey," I say.
"Hey," she says. "What can I get you to drink?"
"Darn," says Josh, once she's gone, "I was hoping she'd introduce herself."
We sip the thin coffee (Josh sips tea) and chat, when pop music intrudes over the loudspeaker. The other waitress is just leaving the jukebox, and we flag her down. Under the cover of "Sweet Home Alabama," Josh asks, "Hey, what's the other waitress's name?" This is a dangerous tactic; the counter is only a few feet away, and our waitress could appear from the kitchen at any moment.
"You mean my mom?" she says, shooting him a look refined by having spent at least five years as a teenager. It tends towards a glare, but is not so malevolent as to imply that she is in any way deserving of a smaller tip than one might otherwise be inclined to give.
"Yeah," says Josh. Our waitress emerges, coming rapidly into earshot. Josh covers himself with "And what's your name?"
"I'm Jordan," she says.
"Cool," says Josh. "I'm Josh."
"Yeah, I know." She gives him another look and goes back to her own tables. Josh clenches his fist in defeat. Our waitress tops up our coffee and brings us our omelets. We continue to chat, but soon John-Michael gets up. "That music is too loud," he says.
He walks over to the jukebox. Everyone in the place -- Josh, me, the waitresses, the cook, the old guys in ball caps, the young guys in hoodies -- all watch as he fumbles with the interface.
"What are you doing?" asks Jordan from the counter.
"Trying to turn the music down," says John Michael. A few of the old guys nod in appreciation.
Jordan sighs, glares at John Michael, and whips out a remote control.
Being the only one in our party having not felt the wrath of the staff of the Club Diner, it is decided that I need to get the watiress's name when we pay our bill. I step up to the register.
"I didn't catch your name earlier," I said, handing over my money. The waitress punches the buttons.
"What? Josh didn't tell you?" she turns to Josh, "Josh?"
"Well -- I -- uh. I don't remember."
"Every time!" she says. "It's Leslie." She looks at me and John Michael. "Remind him next time, will ya?"
We nod, tip, and get out of there. Now we meet up there every other week or so, convening in the parking lot to review the staff's names before we enter.
View Larger Map
It sits across the parking lot from a Mexican/Dominican restaurant and the offices of Industrial Building Maintenance. The "Club Diner" sign has lost its D, N, and E, leaving "Club i r"
Josh (the assistant manager at the farm) and John-Michael and I have breakfast there sometimes. When we walk in this particular morning, the waitress greets Josh by name.
"Agh, she always knows my name," he says--quietly; Club IR is a small place.
"So?" says John-Michael.
"I can never remember hers!"
We all laugh, and the waitress brings the menus.
"What's so funny, boys?"
"Aw, nothin'" says Josh. "This is our friend Greg.'
"Hey," I say.
"Hey," she says. "What can I get you to drink?"
"Darn," says Josh, once she's gone, "I was hoping she'd introduce herself."
We sip the thin coffee (Josh sips tea) and chat, when pop music intrudes over the loudspeaker. The other waitress is just leaving the jukebox, and we flag her down. Under the cover of "Sweet Home Alabama," Josh asks, "Hey, what's the other waitress's name?" This is a dangerous tactic; the counter is only a few feet away, and our waitress could appear from the kitchen at any moment.
"You mean my mom?" she says, shooting him a look refined by having spent at least five years as a teenager. It tends towards a glare, but is not so malevolent as to imply that she is in any way deserving of a smaller tip than one might otherwise be inclined to give.
"Yeah," says Josh. Our waitress emerges, coming rapidly into earshot. Josh covers himself with "And what's your name?"
"I'm Jordan," she says.
"Cool," says Josh. "I'm Josh."
"Yeah, I know." She gives him another look and goes back to her own tables. Josh clenches his fist in defeat. Our waitress tops up our coffee and brings us our omelets. We continue to chat, but soon John-Michael gets up. "That music is too loud," he says.
He walks over to the jukebox. Everyone in the place -- Josh, me, the waitresses, the cook, the old guys in ball caps, the young guys in hoodies -- all watch as he fumbles with the interface.
"What are you doing?" asks Jordan from the counter.
"Trying to turn the music down," says John Michael. A few of the old guys nod in appreciation.
Jordan sighs, glares at John Michael, and whips out a remote control.
Being the only one in our party having not felt the wrath of the staff of the Club Diner, it is decided that I need to get the watiress's name when we pay our bill. I step up to the register.
"I didn't catch your name earlier," I said, handing over my money. The waitress punches the buttons.
"What? Josh didn't tell you?" she turns to Josh, "Josh?"
"Well -- I -- uh. I don't remember."
"Every time!" she says. "It's Leslie." She looks at me and John Michael. "Remind him next time, will ya?"
We nod, tip, and get out of there. Now we meet up there every other week or so, convening in the parking lot to review the staff's names before we enter.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Nathan Says
"...So I can't tell if it's worse that they're morons or that I'm judgmental about them being morons."
"...Which is why I'm going to make seven dragons before I die."
(about being encouraged to start a blog)
"I'm gonna put that on my list of things that I should be doing but am not doing right now. It'll be number 437. Number 1 is 'Make that list.'"
"...Which is why I'm going to make seven dragons before I die."
(about being encouraged to start a blog)
"I'm gonna put that on my list of things that I should be doing but am not doing right now. It'll be number 437. Number 1 is 'Make that list.'"
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Save Us From Our Phones
 |
| The New York Times, web edition, front page, 11/16/10 |
The key line of the ad -- needing a phone to save us from our phones -- is throwaway copy. Neither the voiceover (cued by clicking on the ad) nor the product page reference being save from phones.
Which is to be expected. The situation shown could be caused (but not solved, at least in any way the ad describes) by the Windows Phone. It in no way distinguishes the Windows Phone from any of its competitors (the phones it is ostensibly saving us from).
Nonetheless, the video portion of the ad sets up an interesting little drama: how will the pedestrians respond to the woman's abuse of her phone? How will they use a phone (the Windows Phone, perhaps?) to save themselves (or even her) from her phone? In the end, they just push past her.
 |
| The New York Times, web edition, front page, 11/16/10 |
So, dear readers, since the marketers have failed to answer their question, I leave it to you to find a better lead-in:
"It's time for __________ to save us from our phones."
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Scott Pilgrim
The other night, I saw "Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World" (Wright, 2010) for the first time. I know I'm behind the curve in saying this, but it was awesome. In addition to it being awesome, I would like to posit it as a kind of zeitgeist movie of the hipster culture; it encapsulates the spirit of the zeit (time), even as it suggests new direction for the geist (spirit) of that time.
I. Comic Book Disclaimer
"Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World" is based on a comic book. I have not read the comic book (though I plan to) so all uses of "Scott Pilgrim" refer to the film.
II. Sincerity
One of the things I like most about this movie is its sincerity. Though its mise-en-scene and cultural touchstones (post/punk, indie rock, '80s videogames) are unabashedly hipster, its plot can be read as a repudiation of the core hipster values of cynicism and apathy. A spoiler-laden example follows:
[SPOILER ALERT] When Ramona (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) is leaving at the movie's end, Scott (Michael Cera) says "Ok, well, bye and stuff." Then he goes after her. There is real potential (in terms of the narrative, and in terms of extant footage available to the editors, according to friends who watched the deleted scenes) that Scott will let her go. But he doesn't! Thus, Scott's movie-long sincere desire for Ramona is validated. [END SPOILER]
Sorry, readers who don't want to be spoiled, but that's the only example I've got. When I saw the end, I was shocked -- for the movie to end this way works, narratively, but seems so out of fashion for our times, that, in addition to my love of sincerity, I was impressed by its creative vision.
III. Form
From the get-go, it is clear that this movie is not screwing around, formally speaking. And by that I mean, it's screwing with us all the time, and doing it damn well. Titles flash onscreen, comic-book style words accompany sound effects, cuts are non-continuous, the screen splits regularly; I could go on and on about the cold open and credits sequence alone.
This movie, perhaps more so than any movie I've seen or heard about, exemplifies many of things that are popular in filmmaking today, and often get described as postmodern filmmaking. What makes "Scott Pilgrim" stand out is how it unifies form and content. Tarantino is a good name to check (and he apparently spent time on set), but this is not a Tarantino movie. "Scott Pilgrim" explicitly refers and alludes to video games, but not in the sense that it is a "video game movie." It uses these elements, but refuses to play any of their particularly limiting genre games.
Without providing the kind of close readings that I would love to do on particular formal elements, it will suffice to say that "Scott Pilgrim" is episodic, ironic, playful, referential, and diegetically shifty (in the best way possible). It is, formally, the quintessential postmodern movie.
IV. (Dis)unity
I know I've extolled "Scott Pilgrim" as a movie whose form and content are unified. I stand by that analysis; the story, born in comics, retains its comic book sensibility in a beautifully film-specific way.
The disunity is a cause for hope: while the formal elements are textbook postmodern filmmaking, the story validates sincerity -- one of the things that postmodern/hipster culture has, to my dismay, left in the dust.
"Scott Pilgrim" gives me hope that my favorite things about postmodernity and its attendant irony (Gideon's wardrobe; the vegan jokes; the indie music scene) can coexist with that same heartwarming sincerity that drives the entire movie and is [SPOILER ALERT] validated by the film's conclusion.
I. Comic Book Disclaimer
"Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World" is based on a comic book. I have not read the comic book (though I plan to) so all uses of "Scott Pilgrim" refer to the film.
II. Sincerity
One of the things I like most about this movie is its sincerity. Though its mise-en-scene and cultural touchstones (post/punk, indie rock, '80s videogames) are unabashedly hipster, its plot can be read as a repudiation of the core hipster values of cynicism and apathy. A spoiler-laden example follows:
[SPOILER ALERT] When Ramona (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) is leaving at the movie's end, Scott (Michael Cera) says "Ok, well, bye and stuff." Then he goes after her. There is real potential (in terms of the narrative, and in terms of extant footage available to the editors, according to friends who watched the deleted scenes) that Scott will let her go. But he doesn't! Thus, Scott's movie-long sincere desire for Ramona is validated. [END SPOILER]
Sorry, readers who don't want to be spoiled, but that's the only example I've got. When I saw the end, I was shocked -- for the movie to end this way works, narratively, but seems so out of fashion for our times, that, in addition to my love of sincerity, I was impressed by its creative vision.
III. Form
From the get-go, it is clear that this movie is not screwing around, formally speaking. And by that I mean, it's screwing with us all the time, and doing it damn well. Titles flash onscreen, comic-book style words accompany sound effects, cuts are non-continuous, the screen splits regularly; I could go on and on about the cold open and credits sequence alone.
This movie, perhaps more so than any movie I've seen or heard about, exemplifies many of things that are popular in filmmaking today, and often get described as postmodern filmmaking. What makes "Scott Pilgrim" stand out is how it unifies form and content. Tarantino is a good name to check (and he apparently spent time on set), but this is not a Tarantino movie. "Scott Pilgrim" explicitly refers and alludes to video games, but not in the sense that it is a "video game movie." It uses these elements, but refuses to play any of their particularly limiting genre games.
Without providing the kind of close readings that I would love to do on particular formal elements, it will suffice to say that "Scott Pilgrim" is episodic, ironic, playful, referential, and diegetically shifty (in the best way possible). It is, formally, the quintessential postmodern movie.
IV. (Dis)unity
I know I've extolled "Scott Pilgrim" as a movie whose form and content are unified. I stand by that analysis; the story, born in comics, retains its comic book sensibility in a beautifully film-specific way.
The disunity is a cause for hope: while the formal elements are textbook postmodern filmmaking, the story validates sincerity -- one of the things that postmodern/hipster culture has, to my dismay, left in the dust.
"Scott Pilgrim" gives me hope that my favorite things about postmodernity and its attendant irony (Gideon's wardrobe; the vegan jokes; the indie music scene) can coexist with that same heartwarming sincerity that drives the entire movie and is [SPOILER ALERT] validated by the film's conclusion.
Link
Real writings will follow, but first:
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/14/books/review/Greif-t.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/14/books/review/Greif-t.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Captain Ahab, Zombie Hunter
Nathan and Matt, at the apartment, dressed up in Zombie regalia: sickly green facepaint, wounds, torn clothes, etc. They opened the door at the bottom of the stairs. The second floor door creaked as it opened. From within emerged... Zombie Larry The Cable Guy!
"Oh hey Jon," said Nathan. "Where are you going?"
"Appalchian Brewing Company's zombie party. You?"
"The bookstore's zombie party."
"Cool."
Thus allied, the 3-man zombie horde marched down, through the vestibule, and parted ways on the front porch, moaning "BRAAAAAINS..."
---
From behind the coffee bar, I pulled espresso shots and gave basic explanations of nineteenth century whaling practices.
"See, Greg," said Ryan, "The problem is that no one can tell that you're Ahab without your harpoon. You're just wearing what you usually wear."
"Look at my hands," I said. I had drawn a whale on one and the anchor on the other. "Sea tattoos."
"It needs more," said Ryan. "Gimme that sharpie."
Five minutes later, I was sporting a full rigged ship and a forearm anchor.
---
The zombies started arriving around six. Soon, the store was overrun, and I, Captain Ahab, Zombie Hunter, had to fend them off with my harpoon. Defeated, the zombies departed the store. Minutes later, Nathan and Matt, still in full zombie regalia, arrived.
"Where are the zombies?" said Nathan.
"Not sure how to tell you this," I said. "They're gone."
Score one for the humans.
"Oh hey Jon," said Nathan. "Where are you going?"
"Appalchian Brewing Company's zombie party. You?"
"The bookstore's zombie party."
"Cool."
Thus allied, the 3-man zombie horde marched down, through the vestibule, and parted ways on the front porch, moaning "BRAAAAAINS..."
---
From behind the coffee bar, I pulled espresso shots and gave basic explanations of nineteenth century whaling practices.
"See, Greg," said Ryan, "The problem is that no one can tell that you're Ahab without your harpoon. You're just wearing what you usually wear."
"Look at my hands," I said. I had drawn a whale on one and the anchor on the other. "Sea tattoos."
"It needs more," said Ryan. "Gimme that sharpie."
Five minutes later, I was sporting a full rigged ship and a forearm anchor.
 |
| "From Hell's heart, I stab at thee!" |
---
The zombies started arriving around six. Soon, the store was overrun, and I, Captain Ahab, Zombie Hunter, had to fend them off with my harpoon. Defeated, the zombies departed the store. Minutes later, Nathan and Matt, still in full zombie regalia, arrived.
"Where are the zombies?" said Nathan.
"Not sure how to tell you this," I said. "They're gone."
Score one for the humans.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Vote
I just got in from voting at the local community center (only a block away, just past Thomson's barber shop), and the chill in the air and the smell of pancakes frying at the bake sale just inside reminded me of election days gone by.
Every election day, from who-knows-when until I was 15 or 16, my dad and I would get up early and go vote together. I remember getting my school stuff together and setting it by the door while dad went out to warm up the car. We drove up the hill to the Athletic Association building, snake through its wood-paneled staircases and corridors, and confront the blue-curtained machine. As a child, I went inside the curtains with my dad. It was my job to pull the red level, closing the curtains and sounding a bell.
The secrets of the electoral booth are not to be shared, but I feel comfortable saying that dad rarely ever pulled the "party" button, which triggered the whole booth for one party or the other. Whether for my benefit or because of his political conscience, dad went down position by position and told me which arrow to flip down. Then, my favorite part of the whole process, I would pull the red level again, and the curtains would fly back, the arrows we had painstakingly chosen would flip to their unselected defaults, and our ability to participate in government came down to an issue of trust in our local election judges.
McDonald's hotcakes topped off the morning, and then dad would drive me to school, because, unlike in his day, we did not have the day off for election day.
P.S. Don't worry -- the aforementioned zombie anecdotes are still in the works.
Every election day, from who-knows-when until I was 15 or 16, my dad and I would get up early and go vote together. I remember getting my school stuff together and setting it by the door while dad went out to warm up the car. We drove up the hill to the Athletic Association building, snake through its wood-paneled staircases and corridors, and confront the blue-curtained machine. As a child, I went inside the curtains with my dad. It was my job to pull the red level, closing the curtains and sounding a bell.
The secrets of the electoral booth are not to be shared, but I feel comfortable saying that dad rarely ever pulled the "party" button, which triggered the whole booth for one party or the other. Whether for my benefit or because of his political conscience, dad went down position by position and told me which arrow to flip down. Then, my favorite part of the whole process, I would pull the red level again, and the curtains would fly back, the arrows we had painstakingly chosen would flip to their unselected defaults, and our ability to participate in government came down to an issue of trust in our local election judges.
McDonald's hotcakes topped off the morning, and then dad would drive me to school, because, unlike in his day, we did not have the day off for election day.
P.S. Don't worry -- the aforementioned zombie anecdotes are still in the works.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Zombies
A more substantial post featuring a few amusing zombie anecdotes to follow. First, though, to whet your appetite (for BRAINS!):
http://www.flickr.com/photos/26304166@N07/sets/72157625279720064/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/26304166@N07/sets/72157625279720064/
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