books, boots, steampunkery
I think I have a fever of some sort, and not the disco kind. Ah well, there are worse things to have on a rather nice weekend.
The week went well enough--as well as could be expected considering the rather pressing due dates and stuff like that which impinged on my usual (and honestly incredibly lazy) study habits. I’m not really sure what happened during a good portion of said week (I totally blocked a few days of it from my mind)--I know that I listened to a lot of Neck every day (not because I’m particularly bitter or anything, quite the opposite in fact, I just like the lead singer’s voice and aside from the depressing lyrics the music itself is much better than Dropkick Murphys and others in the Celt-Punk world.). I never thought I would say this, but: I now have more respect for Roger Ebert. Sure I might disagree with him on the merits of certain films and such, but it is nice to see that the man is as much a packrat and bibliophile as the rest of the intellectual world. (Not that all intellectuals must be these things, just that…well, look at them, most of them tend to be fairly predictable--bookshelves overflowing with books, closets filled with clothing, walls stacked high with more books that are in a general ‘to read’ pile--hell, I’ll be honest, I have two large plastic (waterproof) cases set aside only for books to consider reading once I have finished my latest one. Well, one of the latest ones; there is a stack directly in front of my nightstand (making it impossible to open the two drawers full of personal documents--who needs looks when you have piles of books?) for books I am currently ‘reading’--and yes, reading deserves those quotes--some of the books are honestly just there because I find them aesthetically pleasing or soothing to read a page from after a very long day. This is the case with Kipling, G.D. Roberts, Gibran, Malraux, and some of the others. There are a few books that I am rather confused by, puzzled by their placing in the grand design of things, the oddly ordered microcosm--China Mieville’s Looking for Jake, for instance, should probably be moved to one of the boxes out on the porch (these are reserved for books that I might want to read at some point, usually on a nice afternoon, but do not want to throw into the morass that is the basement just yet) especially after the highly unsatisfactory reading of Iron Council--the middle three hundred pages of which were great and had me hooked on every word--however, I’m one for actual endings--and this book did not have that, in any way, and…well, next time I will wait until someone I trust reviews his works before diving into it (also someone I can track down and beat for wasting my time if the work happens to suck as much as Iron Council)--and yet it has stayed in the position of second from the top of the pile for over a month (quite a long time given my general inclination towards the rearranging of things in more and more aesthetically pleasing stacks and piles). Where was I…ah, yes. Books. And then there is the space between my bed and the west facing window. As spaces go, this window is probably one of my favorite--perhaps because this is the house I grew up in, and I remember playing around this window all year long (well, except in the summer due to being in Rhode Island)--I remember having to scrape ice off of it in order to see the thousands upon thousands of crows fly by on winter days (whatever happened to those crows? I loved just watching them and listening to the semi-music of their calls--I’ve been one to never dispute that the crow is indeed a songbird, a damned smart songbird at that)--now there is no more room for me to crouch under the windowsill and gaze up at the stars on clear autumn nights, all this space is filled in with books--and besides, I would not really fit under the windowsill anymore…the physics of that just do not seem to work. The books here are actually ordered, though to the casual observer they look quite the opposite--like all the other books in the demesne, they are arranged on order of use--the most useful and/or enjoyable being at the top, and those that I think I might someday need to have near at hand at the bottom of the pile, covering up the one pristine portion of a very nice Persian (I think it’s actually Turkish or an otherwise nice knock-off) rug that has since been mostly covered in dog hair and…my hair…and dust, and gravel, and all the things tracked in by boots that even the strongest of vacuums cannot seem to expunge (every now and then I attempt to vacuum my personal quarters and fail horribly, usually destroying or partly destroying a vacuum in the process. Still, walking on this carpet-above-the-rug is rather nice as long as I am lucky enough to avoid the random small rocks and occasional twigs. And then there are the shelves on the wall. These…simply are. One has what could almost be described as an altar on it (hidden in its own very obvious way), perhaps a crypto-shrine is a better word. The shelf directly over the head of my bed has been the source of countless near-concussions and bruisings, but the underside of it makes up for that now by being covered in postcards, price tags, and letters that all stand to serve as a very complex memory device that I simply cannot explain to the viewer that is not me. Even to myself I have trouble keeping everything exactly straight sometimes, it is as if there has been a coup in the Palace of Memory. If the underside of the shelf is a memory in picture form, than the walls and ceilings serve as a dream. A subtle dream, but one composed of flashing images and brilliant vistas all the same.
I offer no explanation for the grail full of nails on the small table next to the window.
Nor shall I explain all the hats. Yet.
And now, after all this ranting, I’m going to attempt to clean things slightly, straighten out the chaos.
Steampunk…
What it means to me, the fourth installment:
Steampunk is more than just goggles and bits of brass…if that is what you want it to be. It can also include boots. Now I have several lovely pairs of boots--the problem is that a few of them are what we might call (just maybe, a tad) decaying. This is to be expected what with having found most of them in thrift stores and such…but…well, it is still a damned shame. Of the decaying boots, my favorite pair is also the oldest, well, second oldest in terms of age (though I’ve owned this pair for the longest time of said boot-collection), ancient black leather harness boots--what one might call engineer’s boots, if one was so inclined. Now these boots have a lot of rather fond memories attached to them…and have been resoled twice since I’ve owned them. They are also the comfiest footwear on the planet (probably due to the extreme-wornness of the leather and such). Aesthetically, though, my favorite pair of boots would be the World War II engineer’s boots…these are from 1941, and honestly show it quite a bit (the rubber is starting to split from itself, making the boots something in the way of impossible to actually wear). Still, not only do these boots look amazingly bad ass (I’ll post pictures of my boot collection) but they also have full rubber soles--and we are not talking this post-Cold War crap rubber either, we are talking pre-American entry into WWII rubber, this stuff fucking bounces--and I’m pretty much convinced that I can get anywhere on campus in half as much time as usual
when wearing these boots--so they definitely have a Boots of Speed +2 attribute, despite there rate of decay (which sucks, as for the life of me I cannot find another pair. And then there are my jackboots. I paid far too much for my first pair--$40--to find out that they were about a size or a half-size too small (after wearing them for quite awhile and having them to bloody horrible things to my feet (especially toes))--they are East German (NVA Issue) and pretty bad ass leaving out that they don’t fit quite right. And they are the boots I wear when things might get messy--so they have their uses. From there I go to my Devon-air boots--these are pretty much reserved for ultra-high-dress occasions, those times when I need to look absolutely kick ass. ‘Down on the Corner’ just came on--I’ve been in Lula’s since the mention of the jackboots--anyway, this song is by far one of the best, niftiest pieces of music written in the 20th century--and it always seems to lift my spirits, especially when (like now) I’m unexplainably on the verge of passing out--not really sure why, which…worries me somewhat, since this feels rather like I’ve been drugged (I knew that bacon sandwich tasted just a little too good (joking, I know that the things are much easier to slip in liquid, generally))--so odds are I’ve picked up something new and nasty (huzzah?)--I suppose it would not be fall if I did not get sick as a dog at random, eh. Hell, I suppose it would not be life if I was not randomly stricken with minor ailments. I’ve got other pairs of boots, but at this point (well, far before this point, actually) I feel that describing the various items of footwear I possess would be on the verge of total vanity--and though all is vanity, all possible should be done to avoid needless vanity (and yes, I’d argue that there is such a thing as necessary vanity--I’m not going to defend that argument now, but…well, I think it is there all the same). Thrifting today was a Three Hat Day (and one vest, one jacket, and about thirty seven pairs of shoes for a charity going down to the Dominican Republic)--whilst at the new St. Vincent’s over by Pet Supplies Plus (right where the old G.L. Perry’s used to be--that was where I remember buying my first plastic sword (or, at least picking one out))--I found three very nice hats for Alex--all very steampunky of sorts, and…this is a very good thing
(for those local to South Bend reading this, that St. V’s has a lot of nifty fur and faux-fur (especially an Argentine orlon coat which I would have purchased if it was not $20) and hats--you should go check it out. All of you. Go, now. Stop reading this.
For those of you not running off to St. V’s…well, what else is there to report on.
Oh, yes. I finished Declare (by Tim Powers). And it is a wonderful book. One that I would say is worth buying--not at full price, but if you happen to see it on Amazon or at your local bookshop pick it up. Sad to say that Amazon has upstaged my local bookshop in terms of availability and price of books--I still go to the local places in search of rare old books and the like, but…by and large I now tend more towards internet book-hunting to satisfy most of my reading habit. Well, that and whatever makes it up in the bi-monthly care package of books from Miki (most of which are quite hilarious and wonderful--I really need to get her those CDs as soon as my burner starts working properly (at the moment it rather misbehaves in quite an annoying fashion).
Fock all. I might just clean up my usual ranting and send in a letter to the Observer, that is how fucking enraged this shite has made me. Me, the calm and contained Robinson. Sorry, but the shite in question is something which should not even be up for debate--the GLBQT community, and whether or not they should be considered under the campus bill of rights (as it were)--of course they should, everyone should--regardless of who they like or do not like to fuck, grope. or ogle in their spare time. I spit on anyone (and if they protest this spitting I’ll do more than that) who is against any sexual preference for any reason. Especially, religion--and the ‘well, the Church is okay with homosexuality, just not with homosexual sex.’ My response to this will involve a pineapple and bending the pope over an altar (don’t worry, I’ll use only all natural pineapples). Using a two thousand year old cultural flinch towards almost every kind of sex is not okay (nor is using any flinch towards anything--if something does not strike your fancy, then don’t do it yourself, but damned well don’t stop others from doing it (as long as everything is consensual, of course)).
To get from the ‘Brian Boru’ entry on Wikipedia to ‘Sexual Intercourse’ took me three clicks. (going from Dublin, to Stag Party, to Lap Dance--and…done.)
----
http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2009/10/books_do_furnish_a_life.html
http://www.redmeat.com/redmeat/2009-08-11/index.html
The week went well enough--as well as could be expected considering the rather pressing due dates and stuff like that which impinged on my usual (and honestly incredibly lazy) study habits. I’m not really sure what happened during a good portion of said week (I totally blocked a few days of it from my mind)--I know that I listened to a lot of Neck every day (not because I’m particularly bitter or anything, quite the opposite in fact, I just like the lead singer’s voice and aside from the depressing lyrics the music itself is much better than Dropkick Murphys and others in the Celt-Punk world.). I never thought I would say this, but: I now have more respect for Roger Ebert. Sure I might disagree with him on the merits of certain films and such, but it is nice to see that the man is as much a packrat and bibliophile as the rest of the intellectual world. (Not that all intellectuals must be these things, just that…well, look at them, most of them tend to be fairly predictable--bookshelves overflowing with books, closets filled with clothing, walls stacked high with more books that are in a general ‘to read’ pile--hell, I’ll be honest, I have two large plastic (waterproof) cases set aside only for books to consider reading once I have finished my latest one. Well, one of the latest ones; there is a stack directly in front of my nightstand (making it impossible to open the two drawers full of personal documents--who needs looks when you have piles of books?) for books I am currently ‘reading’--and yes, reading deserves those quotes--some of the books are honestly just there because I find them aesthetically pleasing or soothing to read a page from after a very long day. This is the case with Kipling, G.D. Roberts, Gibran, Malraux, and some of the others. There are a few books that I am rather confused by, puzzled by their placing in the grand design of things, the oddly ordered microcosm--China Mieville’s Looking for Jake, for instance, should probably be moved to one of the boxes out on the porch (these are reserved for books that I might want to read at some point, usually on a nice afternoon, but do not want to throw into the morass that is the basement just yet) especially after the highly unsatisfactory reading of Iron Council--the middle three hundred pages of which were great and had me hooked on every word--however, I’m one for actual endings--and this book did not have that, in any way, and…well, next time I will wait until someone I trust reviews his works before diving into it (also someone I can track down and beat for wasting my time if the work happens to suck as much as Iron Council)--and yet it has stayed in the position of second from the top of the pile for over a month (quite a long time given my general inclination towards the rearranging of things in more and more aesthetically pleasing stacks and piles). Where was I…ah, yes. Books. And then there is the space between my bed and the west facing window. As spaces go, this window is probably one of my favorite--perhaps because this is the house I grew up in, and I remember playing around this window all year long (well, except in the summer due to being in Rhode Island)--I remember having to scrape ice off of it in order to see the thousands upon thousands of crows fly by on winter days (whatever happened to those crows? I loved just watching them and listening to the semi-music of their calls--I’ve been one to never dispute that the crow is indeed a songbird, a damned smart songbird at that)--now there is no more room for me to crouch under the windowsill and gaze up at the stars on clear autumn nights, all this space is filled in with books--and besides, I would not really fit under the windowsill anymore…the physics of that just do not seem to work. The books here are actually ordered, though to the casual observer they look quite the opposite--like all the other books in the demesne, they are arranged on order of use--the most useful and/or enjoyable being at the top, and those that I think I might someday need to have near at hand at the bottom of the pile, covering up the one pristine portion of a very nice Persian (I think it’s actually Turkish or an otherwise nice knock-off) rug that has since been mostly covered in dog hair and…my hair…and dust, and gravel, and all the things tracked in by boots that even the strongest of vacuums cannot seem to expunge (every now and then I attempt to vacuum my personal quarters and fail horribly, usually destroying or partly destroying a vacuum in the process. Still, walking on this carpet-above-the-rug is rather nice as long as I am lucky enough to avoid the random small rocks and occasional twigs. And then there are the shelves on the wall. These…simply are. One has what could almost be described as an altar on it (hidden in its own very obvious way), perhaps a crypto-shrine is a better word. The shelf directly over the head of my bed has been the source of countless near-concussions and bruisings, but the underside of it makes up for that now by being covered in postcards, price tags, and letters that all stand to serve as a very complex memory device that I simply cannot explain to the viewer that is not me. Even to myself I have trouble keeping everything exactly straight sometimes, it is as if there has been a coup in the Palace of Memory. If the underside of the shelf is a memory in picture form, than the walls and ceilings serve as a dream. A subtle dream, but one composed of flashing images and brilliant vistas all the same.
I offer no explanation for the grail full of nails on the small table next to the window.
Nor shall I explain all the hats. Yet.
And now, after all this ranting, I’m going to attempt to clean things slightly, straighten out the chaos.
Steampunk…
What it means to me, the fourth installment:
Steampunk is more than just goggles and bits of brass…if that is what you want it to be. It can also include boots. Now I have several lovely pairs of boots--the problem is that a few of them are what we might call (just maybe, a tad) decaying. This is to be expected what with having found most of them in thrift stores and such…but…well, it is still a damned shame. Of the decaying boots, my favorite pair is also the oldest, well, second oldest in terms of age (though I’ve owned this pair for the longest time of said boot-collection), ancient black leather harness boots--what one might call engineer’s boots, if one was so inclined. Now these boots have a lot of rather fond memories attached to them…and have been resoled twice since I’ve owned them. They are also the comfiest footwear on the planet (probably due to the extreme-wornness of the leather and such). Aesthetically, though, my favorite pair of boots would be the World War II engineer’s boots…these are from 1941, and honestly show it quite a bit (the rubber is starting to split from itself, making the boots something in the way of impossible to actually wear). Still, not only do these boots look amazingly bad ass (I’ll post pictures of my boot collection) but they also have full rubber soles--and we are not talking this post-Cold War crap rubber either, we are talking pre-American entry into WWII rubber, this stuff fucking bounces--and I’m pretty much convinced that I can get anywhere on campus in half as much time as usual
when wearing these boots--so they definitely have a Boots of Speed +2 attribute, despite there rate of decay (which sucks, as for the life of me I cannot find another pair. And then there are my jackboots. I paid far too much for my first pair--$40--to find out that they were about a size or a half-size too small (after wearing them for quite awhile and having them to bloody horrible things to my feet (especially toes))--they are East German (NVA Issue) and pretty bad ass leaving out that they don’t fit quite right. And they are the boots I wear when things might get messy--so they have their uses. From there I go to my Devon-air boots--these are pretty much reserved for ultra-high-dress occasions, those times when I need to look absolutely kick ass. ‘Down on the Corner’ just came on--I’ve been in Lula’s since the mention of the jackboots--anyway, this song is by far one of the best, niftiest pieces of music written in the 20th century--and it always seems to lift my spirits, especially when (like now) I’m unexplainably on the verge of passing out--not really sure why, which…worries me somewhat, since this feels rather like I’ve been drugged (I knew that bacon sandwich tasted just a little too good (joking, I know that the things are much easier to slip in liquid, generally))--so odds are I’ve picked up something new and nasty (huzzah?)--I suppose it would not be fall if I did not get sick as a dog at random, eh. Hell, I suppose it would not be life if I was not randomly stricken with minor ailments. I’ve got other pairs of boots, but at this point (well, far before this point, actually) I feel that describing the various items of footwear I possess would be on the verge of total vanity--and though all is vanity, all possible should be done to avoid needless vanity (and yes, I’d argue that there is such a thing as necessary vanity--I’m not going to defend that argument now, but…well, I think it is there all the same). Thrifting today was a Three Hat Day (and one vest, one jacket, and about thirty seven pairs of shoes for a charity going down to the Dominican Republic)--whilst at the new St. Vincent’s over by Pet Supplies Plus (right where the old G.L. Perry’s used to be--that was where I remember buying my first plastic sword (or, at least picking one out))--I found three very nice hats for Alex--all very steampunky of sorts, and…this is a very good thing
(for those local to South Bend reading this, that St. V’s has a lot of nifty fur and faux-fur (especially an Argentine orlon coat which I would have purchased if it was not $20) and hats--you should go check it out. All of you. Go, now. Stop reading this.
For those of you not running off to St. V’s…well, what else is there to report on.
Oh, yes. I finished Declare (by Tim Powers). And it is a wonderful book. One that I would say is worth buying--not at full price, but if you happen to see it on Amazon or at your local bookshop pick it up. Sad to say that Amazon has upstaged my local bookshop in terms of availability and price of books--I still go to the local places in search of rare old books and the like, but…by and large I now tend more towards internet book-hunting to satisfy most of my reading habit. Well, that and whatever makes it up in the bi-monthly care package of books from Miki (most of which are quite hilarious and wonderful--I really need to get her those CDs as soon as my burner starts working properly (at the moment it rather misbehaves in quite an annoying fashion).
Fock all. I might just clean up my usual ranting and send in a letter to the Observer, that is how fucking enraged this shite has made me. Me, the calm and contained Robinson. Sorry, but the shite in question is something which should not even be up for debate--the GLBQT community, and whether or not they should be considered under the campus bill of rights (as it were)--of course they should, everyone should--regardless of who they like or do not like to fuck, grope. or ogle in their spare time. I spit on anyone (and if they protest this spitting I’ll do more than that) who is against any sexual preference for any reason. Especially, religion--and the ‘well, the Church is okay with homosexuality, just not with homosexual sex.’ My response to this will involve a pineapple and bending the pope over an altar (don’t worry, I’ll use only all natural pineapples). Using a two thousand year old cultural flinch towards almost every kind of sex is not okay (nor is using any flinch towards anything--if something does not strike your fancy, then don’t do it yourself, but damned well don’t stop others from doing it (as long as everything is consensual, of course)).
To get from the ‘Brian Boru’ entry on Wikipedia to ‘Sexual Intercourse’ took me three clicks. (going from Dublin, to Stag Party, to Lap Dance--and…done.)
----
http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2009/10/books_do_furnish_a_life.html
http://www.redmeat.com/redmeat/2009-08-11/index.html