Culture Overload

Purchased for myself this last week of the Christmas shopping season:

Ego & Hubris: The Michael Malice Story (Graphic Novel by Harvey Pekar)
Tom Waits' Orphans: Brawlers, Bawlers, and Bastards
The Basic Eight by Daniel Handler
Two tickets to the Seattle Public Theatre's Christmas Eve performance of The Santaland Diaries by David Sedaris
Two tickets to Night at the Museum which I saw at the IMAX theater with my nephew-to-be, Coby, on Friday night (actually purchased by Risajoy)

Extravagant Travelers

Shall I go in chronological order? I guess so...

Portland

Last weekend Risa and I took our Prius (name drop) on its first road trip. Our destination was the lovely city of Portland, Oregon and the purpose of the trip was to see my long time friend, Wayne Reed, and his special lady friend, Sheila Modi, both visiting from Galveston, Texas. Sheila, being the bright young gal she is, is due to graduate from medical school in May and is canvassing the country in hopes of landing a residency in a desirable locale. We explored the town as best we could in about thirty-six hours, making two book related stops. The first was the world-famous Powell's City of Books which was nice and lived up to its name and the second, and only place I made a purchase, was a small bookstore about a block away called Reading Frenzy where I picked up a hardback copy of Charles Burns' graphic novel Black Hole. Risa and I were introduced to him at Bumbershoot this year when he did a reading with Chuck Palahniuk and you may know him as the resident cover artist for The Believer. The graphic novel is somewhat twisted but in a healthy way. Our visit also included some late night Cajun dining, a French breakfast, and an indie arts fair at the lovely Crystal Ballroom. Thumbs up on all three counts.

Hotel Mark Twain

This summer while visiting Risa in San Francisco I was taking an early morning walk and laid eyes upon a gem in the city: The Hotel Mark Twain. Sure, we were staying across the street at the Hilton but this charming early 20th century boutique hotel captured my heart. Now, as we are planning a return trip to visit two of Risa's best friends and their daughter, that currently reside in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, I have had the "pleasure" of making a reservation there for a two-night stay. According to tripadvisor.com, it could be a mistake (review titles: "Oh Dear. Dear, oh dear" and "Don't stay here") but I'm going with my gut on this one. Plus, for $80 a night, why wouldn't I give it a try? I already have visions of it being like the apartment building in Naked Lunch, but in a good way.

So many options

I'm not accustomed to having a clean slate like this to work with...

My working life is divided up into carefully regimented portions that require me to do things methodically and with very little latitude or creativity. But here I am free to do as I choose and, I must admit, it is as daunting as it is exhillarating. I could write about Billie Holiday or my new Spanish tutor or the Alaskan Way Viaduct debacle here in Seattle. I could recommend that you watch Charlie Rose tonight (or any night) or listen to Christopher Lydon on Radio Open Source. I could reminisce on Arcade Fire's magical performance at the 2005 Austin Music Festival, in the 100+ degree weather, when I had yet come to fully appreciating the band. Or maybe the first concert I ever saw: 311 and Cypress Hill at the Bronco Bowl in Dallas, in 1996. I could write out a Christmas wishlist or write a review of the Diet Dr. Pepper I just drank (it was extravagant). I could brag about what I've read lately (John Updike's Rabbit books, all four of them, in a row) or muse over sub-par quality of the graffiti in Seattle.

But instead, I'm going to retire to the couch and listen to the wind. I'm taking the newest issue of The New Yorker with me and my half-read copy of Orhan Pamuk's Snow but those will just be part of the background. I like storms like this for the same reason I like the ocean: they both make me feel like the earth is alive. I find peace in that.

If this were jail, I'd find another new jack and break him down in the mess hall, just to show everyone that I mean business. But alas, this is the web and I'm a pacifist to boot. I'm also an engineer and "we" aren't usually much for writing things so I thought I'd add a little something to show that I, an engineer, have in fact contributed something to literary world...okay, that's a stretch but I did have the good fortune to publish the following essay in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer about a year ago.

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/opinion/240075_firstperson12.html

Lamenting the loss of brick beneath our feet
Wish we could follow the red brick road

KEITH HARRIS

I haven't many things in common with Pulitzer Prize-winning authors, but I do suffer the same laments as one in particular. The thorns in our respective sides are probably somewhat common in people all across the land, although I have never met a kindred spirit. I would try to explain the ailment myself but, hey, when you buy one of his books, it has a little gold seal of approval on the cover. It's safe to say that his words are certainly more precise than mine and are, therefore, pilfered here for everyone's benefit:

I suffer intensely from bouts, at times almost disabling, of a limitless, all-encompassing nostalgia, extending well back into the years before I was born.

My most recent encounter with the debilitating condition, which I share with Michael Chabon, was while walking down Third Avenue in Belltown. Road crews have thoroughly stripped the upper layers of asphalt from the roadway and thus exposed the beautiful, yet faded red brick that once carried the load of my fellow townspeople. How long has it been since those bricks last saw the seasons? Why would anyone cover this red-brick road with asphalt?

I had an idea and it seems to be a recurring theme these days: Pragmatism versus Idealism, Cost versus Beauty. My initial reaction was along the lines of riotous acts, civil unrest and the like. I could picture the young urban dwellers, led by Chabon, up from Berkeley with a vengeance, storming through downtown toward Pioneer Square, where the newly reunited Rage Against the Machine would perform a set for the masses along the streets of the only remaining pure part of town -- and so on.

But as I returned to my office, I returned to reality. Rage Against the Machine is not getting back together and the streets of Seattle will most likely remain asphalt. It's a shame, on both counts, and I am sure there is utility in the use of asphalt. My tax dollars surely are going to street repair (I travel mainly by foot, on the sidewalk) and repaving asphalt is probably significantly cheaper and faster than having a crew of masons replacing cracked bricks.

It's the same old tune sung over and over again: another case of pinching pennies for the sake of convenience, modernity or just plain bad taste. It's a tired argument, I know, but anyone else who feels our pain should make their way down to Belltown and see what has been beneath our feet, or tires, all along.

"So much for days of old," I say to the author. "Some of us have been mistakenly placed in a time in which we don't quite fit."

Keith Harris lives in Seattle.


So there you have it. A piece of my mind from summer '05.

Welcoming myself to the fold

So, I threatened to start one of these the other day while complaining that there are too many websites that I visit. I felt like I needed a homebase for myself; a place to organize my links and so on. Risajoy suggested that I use the bookmark function on the browser but I, being slightly interested in broadcasting my "thoughts" to the world, had my eye on doing it like this. Welcome to my work in progress!