that's really it in a nutshell.
I think the line is beautiful, and I don't know what Lithuanian spambot came up with it but I guess a hundred chimpanzees, typewriters, shakespeare, etc.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Tokyo Drift
Helping some coworkers move an usual piece of gym equipment for some much-needed scrilla the other day. We make final adjustments, squaring the circle as we route the infuriatingly heavy device through the geometry of their Connecticut basement. Triumphant is a good word for the minutes that followed. Standing there, completely out of breath, every muscle screaming, I notice a small book on a shelf of primarily medical texts. Tokyo Vice by Jake Adelstein.
I had heard of this book. I played through Yakuza 3 on the PS3 almost entirely with my girlfriend. It's highly unusual for her to become absorbed in my game hours, but when the recognizable fanfare of the title screen would come on she would absentmindedly find herself in the room, appreciating the story, really jazzed about each plot point. She loved Mazima in particular, oddly. Whenever he would pop out she would cheer, and some later plot developments involving his assistance to Kaz incited joyful applause. Again, this is weird for her.
Anyway, the point is, I was browsing some info on the game online after completing it and stumbled onto this:
http://boingboing.net/2010/08/10/yakuza-3-review.html
Some odd gaijin dude playing Yakuza 3 with actual Yakuza.
I'll admit, the first thing that jumped to mind reading this was it sounded like some bullshit (but entertaining) gonzo journalism stuff. Something to slide in next to Vice's Dos & Don'ts. The idea of it seemed insulting, but I thought the Yakuza actually provided some excellent, insightful yet meager commentary. Then I started to read about this book he wrote.
So this was like 6 months ago. Here the book is staring me in the face. I ask the couple to borrow it.
*nodding on nonfiction*
I don't read a lot of nonfiction. I don't have an excellent reason for that aside from this: I think fiction brings more truth to bear than non-fiction. I think One Hundred Years of Solitude, Pedro Paramo, and Osamu Dazai's best known work tell more truth about the world, its people and their authors than a biography or a thoroughly researched travel guide. Memoirs can be fascinating, history is of special interest to me, and academic essay-type shit can actually be engrossing if confidently/competently written.
Of late I've been absorbed into nonfiction for no good reason. I didn't feel like I've been hunting these books out, but almost everything I've recently ingested has been non-fiction(y). Aside from comics and whatnot, my shoulders have been bearing the weight of Lipstick Traces by Greil Marcus, Herodotus' Histories, The Autobiography of a Cro-Magnon by John Joseph and now Tokyo Vice. The first was mindmelting and certainly entertaining in its way (my third attempt at reading it but I finished it this time), the second is, well, the foundation of writing I think, and the third is an assortment of some hellish & humorous war stories that is really dragging as Joseph encounters his developing Krishna faith.
Tokyo Vice was enthralling and exhausting.
The book is really all over the map, but in the very best way. There's something frantic to the whole tale, Adelstein's years as an outsider skillfully & clumsily (& luckily) mapping his path through the Japanese criminal underground, eventually emerging as an insider, as a real reporter, and beyond. The book is crafted around many, many years of this unusual man's life and the length of time bleeds on each page. I feel like he must have lost YEARS of time pursuing various scoops and leads to stories he doesn't even mention a whisper of. Maybe they weren't worth telling, or just aren't worth telling now?
He attempts to plant structure on this tale but the proposition seems absurd...I'm saying again this is over a DECADE of professional life condensed into 330 pages. David Simon & Ed Burns wrote their massive text The Corner on 2 years of life in a drug market, and it was a richly rewarding read. Adelstein, instead, fraught with what must be bloodily scarred elbows grated against some of Japan's most predatory scumfuck population (not really talking about the johns and marks so much...Adelstein even comments that their scramble for purchased sexual contact may be symptomatic of their sadly commonplace emotional isolation), takes an extremely broad brush to the canvas, at least until he spirals into human trafficking issues to what appear to be stupidly heroic yet somewhat substantial ends.
I hate a hero for the narrator of a memoir. Back to my original thoughts on fictions being true, I believe memoirs to be primarily fictional. Recreate the past to the best of your ability and take your falls when they look smooth. Or fall very fucking hard and appear profound and brave. Maybe even kiss the girl you dodged and beat the shit out of the guy who really pussied you out that night. Hide the largest and most emotional moments in snappy prose, while grandly expanding on the trivial. Make the story work, when most lives really don't function this way.
But Tokyo Vice isn't a memoir. And Adelstein IS a hero. This isn't a year in the life of a ballsy gaijin. This is THE life of an American-Japanese and HAS HE got some drinking stories for you (it's going to be a long night). Except it isn't even that. It's a secret modern history of Japanese vice, with a peculiarly fearless narrator.
I will say that parts of this story almost brought me to tears, flushed my face red, made me furious and angry and want to punch walls, had me biting a hole in my lip. Adelstein succeeds on almost all aspects of a compelling read. The writing works well, although I think many of the conversations are complete bullshit (a trick he often employs is to encounter a professional, who then eloquently dishes a mesmerizing cultural vignette), while other conversations seem scarily fucking real. I believe Adelstein FEELS when he feels, and becomes distant and disaffected when he doesn't, and constantly updates you on it. His often crushing honesty is hugely affecting to the reader. I don't know if this is common among those who've experienced the book, but I think he pushes the reader for trust in the same manner that he combats the uneasiness, hesitancy and distrust of the Japanese population surrounding him...and thoroughly succeeds on both counts.
I can't think of a single book this year that has educated and moved me in the way this one has, and I don't believe I will find it. After reading it I found Adelstein's internet home and will be checking up on it from now on. This is required reading for the 21st Century, so hop to it kids.
EDIT: my bad! for the occasional internet nomad who stumbles upon this post, here's Adelstein-san's website:
http://www.japansubculture.com/
I had heard of this book. I played through Yakuza 3 on the PS3 almost entirely with my girlfriend. It's highly unusual for her to become absorbed in my game hours, but when the recognizable fanfare of the title screen would come on she would absentmindedly find herself in the room, appreciating the story, really jazzed about each plot point. She loved Mazima in particular, oddly. Whenever he would pop out she would cheer, and some later plot developments involving his assistance to Kaz incited joyful applause. Again, this is weird for her.
Anyway, the point is, I was browsing some info on the game online after completing it and stumbled onto this:
http://boingboing.net/2010/08/10/yakuza-3-review.html
Some odd gaijin dude playing Yakuza 3 with actual Yakuza.
I'll admit, the first thing that jumped to mind reading this was it sounded like some bullshit (but entertaining) gonzo journalism stuff. Something to slide in next to Vice's Dos & Don'ts. The idea of it seemed insulting, but I thought the Yakuza actually provided some excellent, insightful yet meager commentary. Then I started to read about this book he wrote.
So this was like 6 months ago. Here the book is staring me in the face. I ask the couple to borrow it.
*nodding on nonfiction*
I don't read a lot of nonfiction. I don't have an excellent reason for that aside from this: I think fiction brings more truth to bear than non-fiction. I think One Hundred Years of Solitude, Pedro Paramo, and Osamu Dazai's best known work tell more truth about the world, its people and their authors than a biography or a thoroughly researched travel guide. Memoirs can be fascinating, history is of special interest to me, and academic essay-type shit can actually be engrossing if confidently/competently written.
Of late I've been absorbed into nonfiction for no good reason. I didn't feel like I've been hunting these books out, but almost everything I've recently ingested has been non-fiction(y). Aside from comics and whatnot, my shoulders have been bearing the weight of Lipstick Traces by Greil Marcus, Herodotus' Histories, The Autobiography of a Cro-Magnon by John Joseph and now Tokyo Vice. The first was mindmelting and certainly entertaining in its way (my third attempt at reading it but I finished it this time), the second is, well, the foundation of writing I think, and the third is an assortment of some hellish & humorous war stories that is really dragging as Joseph encounters his developing Krishna faith.
Tokyo Vice was enthralling and exhausting.
The book is really all over the map, but in the very best way. There's something frantic to the whole tale, Adelstein's years as an outsider skillfully & clumsily (& luckily) mapping his path through the Japanese criminal underground, eventually emerging as an insider, as a real reporter, and beyond. The book is crafted around many, many years of this unusual man's life and the length of time bleeds on each page. I feel like he must have lost YEARS of time pursuing various scoops and leads to stories he doesn't even mention a whisper of. Maybe they weren't worth telling, or just aren't worth telling now?
He attempts to plant structure on this tale but the proposition seems absurd...I'm saying again this is over a DECADE of professional life condensed into 330 pages. David Simon & Ed Burns wrote their massive text The Corner on 2 years of life in a drug market, and it was a richly rewarding read. Adelstein, instead, fraught with what must be bloodily scarred elbows grated against some of Japan's most predatory scumfuck population (not really talking about the johns and marks so much...Adelstein even comments that their scramble for purchased sexual contact may be symptomatic of their sadly commonplace emotional isolation), takes an extremely broad brush to the canvas, at least until he spirals into human trafficking issues to what appear to be stupidly heroic yet somewhat substantial ends.
I hate a hero for the narrator of a memoir. Back to my original thoughts on fictions being true, I believe memoirs to be primarily fictional. Recreate the past to the best of your ability and take your falls when they look smooth. Or fall very fucking hard and appear profound and brave. Maybe even kiss the girl you dodged and beat the shit out of the guy who really pussied you out that night. Hide the largest and most emotional moments in snappy prose, while grandly expanding on the trivial. Make the story work, when most lives really don't function this way.
But Tokyo Vice isn't a memoir. And Adelstein IS a hero. This isn't a year in the life of a ballsy gaijin. This is THE life of an American-Japanese and HAS HE got some drinking stories for you (it's going to be a long night). Except it isn't even that. It's a secret modern history of Japanese vice, with a peculiarly fearless narrator.
I will say that parts of this story almost brought me to tears, flushed my face red, made me furious and angry and want to punch walls, had me biting a hole in my lip. Adelstein succeeds on almost all aspects of a compelling read. The writing works well, although I think many of the conversations are complete bullshit (a trick he often employs is to encounter a professional, who then eloquently dishes a mesmerizing cultural vignette), while other conversations seem scarily fucking real. I believe Adelstein FEELS when he feels, and becomes distant and disaffected when he doesn't, and constantly updates you on it. His often crushing honesty is hugely affecting to the reader. I don't know if this is common among those who've experienced the book, but I think he pushes the reader for trust in the same manner that he combats the uneasiness, hesitancy and distrust of the Japanese population surrounding him...and thoroughly succeeds on both counts.
I can't think of a single book this year that has educated and moved me in the way this one has, and I don't believe I will find it. After reading it I found Adelstein's internet home and will be checking up on it from now on. This is required reading for the 21st Century, so hop to it kids.
EDIT: my bad! for the occasional internet nomad who stumbles upon this post, here's Adelstein-san's website:
http://www.japansubculture.com/
Thursday, March 3, 2011
proud young man
where within the inelegant slotted
arrangement of our churning liquid do
we
find hard particles to clench shakily in
the direction of others and strangers
and
there was the calm entity who slid an
erratic ballet through fits of bored
teenagers and suave collectives maybe
faking his calm or whether or not
central certainly the cheapest wheel with a
weird set of
darting eyes and delicate insecurities
sometimes
the careful adolescent finds
respite in anachronisms:
eccentricity and inexperience
erectile dysfunction and pubescence
allergies and cocaine
you dawdle parasitic on the sidelines of
the cool and re-tighten your boots again
and
daydream while maintaining mad
composure and really dig the freak girl
you never speak to her because you are
too brave
arrangement of our churning liquid do
we
find hard particles to clench shakily in
the direction of others and strangers
and
there was the calm entity who slid an
erratic ballet through fits of bored
teenagers and suave collectives maybe
faking his calm or whether or not
central certainly the cheapest wheel with a
weird set of
darting eyes and delicate insecurities
sometimes
the careful adolescent finds
respite in anachronisms:
eccentricity and inexperience
erectile dysfunction and pubescence
allergies and cocaine
you dawdle parasitic on the sidelines of
the cool and re-tighten your boots again
and
daydream while maintaining mad
composure and really dig the freak girl
you never speak to her because you are
too brave
Friday, December 24, 2010
xmas is shit and chanukah is 8 days of shit...
...says the asshole who parroted happy holidays in every encounter yesterday. mostly stems from realizing that half of the city is still working through the semiprecious hours while I moan and complain that I only get let off 15 minutes early from the nine-to-five. so its happy holidays, a syrupy, cough-inducing mix of pity and fraternity shucked at the bypassing world like a smileyface cigarette butt.
anyway, people should probably read The Wretch by Phil Hester.
as i dig the flakes out of my sleepy comixless eyes of late I find myself digging in that new futureland version of bargain bins, the Amazon secondhand market. I myself have sold a few things in it, it's really quite weird. less swaggery and cutthroat than eBay, it's a bunch of losers with dusty old things sitting around waiting for the next one to jump. "$6.99? I'm selling mine for $6.49 BEEYTCH!" what the fuck is it even worth it, you end up spending at least an hour on tape and cardboard and the slackjaws at the post office and that shitty saturday morning line because you work all week, all for 6 bucks, a pie slice for the Amazonians, you're basically working a minimum wage side job so you can feel a little productive about getting rid of the useless shit in your house you should be getting rid of anyway.
i digress and only blather all this to say that the secondhand market is a great place to buy the comics you shoulda been reading for the past year rather than playing with yourself and job hunting but the economy is watery baby shit and that's a whole other blog post.
The Wretch is the kinda comic that brings up old shaggy blooms, makes you young again and even gives you chills. It's one of those tales that's more about the town than its hero, more about the flow of visual narrative than verbose chunks of text, more about constructing its own mechanics and rules than pursuing another tired power fantasy with a protagonist chomping EXTRA hard on his cigarette.
Its hero is a kind of scrappy, mute homunculus, empowered by his (her/its?) neighborhood's dreams, by the sincerity of its children, by the charitable and protective nature The Wretch seems to thrive on (maybe that and cookies). The full breadth of power accessible to the hero and the full measure of his faith in the adult world (the tales revolve around youths in trouble) is never quite revealed but that's clearly part of the picture show.
I will say that I don't quite grok the god stuff that seemed to kinda sneak in near the end. Maybe it's cuz I've been reading Christopher Hitchens lately and the beartrap has been cleaned and is highly sensitive, but it stuck out at me. Some might read it and say Hester is beating you over the head with it, some might feel the whiff of a nerf bat. I felt the latter, I think Creature Tech by Doug Tennapel threw way more at you and I still thoroughly enjoyed that. I suppose its curious and worth mentioning that Volume 1's tale ends on somewhat of a deistic tone, but I suppose that's debatable too. We are dealing with the commerce of superhero comics, of gods and similar stuff, and Hester is so refreshingly playful with the grammar of it that the flow seems to be drawn naturally to these ends, for whatever reasons he has.
(suppose I could google him and find that he's fucking Stephanie Meyer and praying for gays to burn in hell but something tells me he's a straight-up cat)
All in all, The Wretch is good stuff with eyeball massaging B&W art. It's worth the price of admission for the "Snow" story alone. and I got it on the cheap...'cept Hester didn't see a cent of it, some lowballing Amazon bastard did. Sorry brother.
I did buy Deep Sleeper back in the day fresh and ordered at the comic shop like a good boy. If anyone hasn't read it you missed out on one of Oni Press's early gems.
anyway, people should probably read The Wretch by Phil Hester.
as i dig the flakes out of my sleepy comixless eyes of late I find myself digging in that new futureland version of bargain bins, the Amazon secondhand market. I myself have sold a few things in it, it's really quite weird. less swaggery and cutthroat than eBay, it's a bunch of losers with dusty old things sitting around waiting for the next one to jump. "$6.99? I'm selling mine for $6.49 BEEYTCH!" what the fuck is it even worth it, you end up spending at least an hour on tape and cardboard and the slackjaws at the post office and that shitty saturday morning line because you work all week, all for 6 bucks, a pie slice for the Amazonians, you're basically working a minimum wage side job so you can feel a little productive about getting rid of the useless shit in your house you should be getting rid of anyway.
i digress and only blather all this to say that the secondhand market is a great place to buy the comics you shoulda been reading for the past year rather than playing with yourself and job hunting but the economy is watery baby shit and that's a whole other blog post.
The Wretch is the kinda comic that brings up old shaggy blooms, makes you young again and even gives you chills. It's one of those tales that's more about the town than its hero, more about the flow of visual narrative than verbose chunks of text, more about constructing its own mechanics and rules than pursuing another tired power fantasy with a protagonist chomping EXTRA hard on his cigarette.
Its hero is a kind of scrappy, mute homunculus, empowered by his (her/its?) neighborhood's dreams, by the sincerity of its children, by the charitable and protective nature The Wretch seems to thrive on (maybe that and cookies). The full breadth of power accessible to the hero and the full measure of his faith in the adult world (the tales revolve around youths in trouble) is never quite revealed but that's clearly part of the picture show.
I will say that I don't quite grok the god stuff that seemed to kinda sneak in near the end. Maybe it's cuz I've been reading Christopher Hitchens lately and the beartrap has been cleaned and is highly sensitive, but it stuck out at me. Some might read it and say Hester is beating you over the head with it, some might feel the whiff of a nerf bat. I felt the latter, I think Creature Tech by Doug Tennapel threw way more at you and I still thoroughly enjoyed that. I suppose its curious and worth mentioning that Volume 1's tale ends on somewhat of a deistic tone, but I suppose that's debatable too. We are dealing with the commerce of superhero comics, of gods and similar stuff, and Hester is so refreshingly playful with the grammar of it that the flow seems to be drawn naturally to these ends, for whatever reasons he has.
(suppose I could google him and find that he's fucking Stephanie Meyer and praying for gays to burn in hell but something tells me he's a straight-up cat)
All in all, The Wretch is good stuff with eyeball massaging B&W art. It's worth the price of admission for the "Snow" story alone. and I got it on the cheap...'cept Hester didn't see a cent of it, some lowballing Amazon bastard did. Sorry brother.
I did buy Deep Sleeper back in the day fresh and ordered at the comic shop like a good boy. If anyone hasn't read it you missed out on one of Oni Press's early gems.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
tour
The walkways diversify
You find yourself courting 9th ave with caustic meander
Weighing the varied meager shames of the day so in a
flowing maneuver you are already walking towards tide and
surrendering to the virus flux of shove and handle
drift
graffiti slogans bubble like air cozy under wheatpastes
a spiral notebook of crumpled pages brick and paint and
elongated dusty industrial
refuse in the alleys contradicting discount store gossamer garbage bags
everything an installation
everything INSTALLED positioned drafted diagrammed hung mad like
nabokovs frustrated child pulling hair at the encumbrance of
meaning
it's become impossible to read
pull the book out and fret the pages with so
little time to produce dreams feel wasted on the mysteries of others
i've learned that looking through the windows is sabotage
old in a gray chair
spend lunch breaks following babel in long strides
walking letters in the rain austere in an
old army coat plucked eye brows and a
haircut of fatuous lies this
perseverance is for frauds but you'd never know
the way i can walk by myself for hours
You find yourself courting 9th ave with caustic meander
Weighing the varied meager shames of the day so in a
flowing maneuver you are already walking towards tide and
surrendering to the virus flux of shove and handle
drift
graffiti slogans bubble like air cozy under wheatpastes
a spiral notebook of crumpled pages brick and paint and
elongated dusty industrial
refuse in the alleys contradicting discount store gossamer garbage bags
everything an installation
everything INSTALLED positioned drafted diagrammed hung mad like
nabokovs frustrated child pulling hair at the encumbrance of
meaning
it's become impossible to read
pull the book out and fret the pages with so
little time to produce dreams feel wasted on the mysteries of others
i've learned that looking through the windows is sabotage
old in a gray chair
spend lunch breaks following babel in long strides
walking letters in the rain austere in an
old army coat plucked eye brows and a
haircut of fatuous lies this
perseverance is for frauds but you'd never know
the way i can walk by myself for hours
Monday, December 14, 2009
Random Street Books
Finally, a decent copy of Adams' Doctor's Amazing Speed Reducing Diet!
You could read it a couple of ways:
-A diet book which will help reduce your weight at an amazing speed. By some unidentified doctor's biographer.
-A diet book about the ease and pleasure of the compulsive use of crystal meth as a means to stay trim. For doctors.
-A book about how to reduce your habitual dieting at a disquieting rate. Written by Yakov Smirnoff.
-A fine hardbound edition of Dilbert comics, and the title is some stupid fucking generalized office metajoke that I don't get.
-Proof positive that spellcheck alone will not solve all of your publishing concerns.
It really is a dream-like spiral of some sort; I keep reading the words but their united meaning escapes me.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
tightrope
waiting for the spilled throng to make space I blend
destructive and quick virus
legs move preprogrammed interzone
buzzing on the music box earplugs thinking
funny small thoughts remixed by
martin hannett riding the board in mai hed god
the subways long and vibrates with the breathing of a million
dreamers and somehow in the mad mob you snooze deeper
than bedsleep ruffled awake by the coos of a child looking very seriously at a
big mac in her distracted moms lap and
lowfi announcements as you exit through a claw of coiled cobrafaced seathunters up
the stairs doubletime faster than plague death cant quit the fucking cigs still
running on a bad knee daydreaming weird weekends that calendars and all i
never quite live might as well
study the ads in the hallways miniature vacations in the clumsy photographs
feeling like a cliche when
it hurts to laugh
destructive and quick virus
legs move preprogrammed interzone
buzzing on the music box earplugs thinking
funny small thoughts remixed by
martin hannett riding the board in mai hed god
the subways long and vibrates with the breathing of a million
dreamers and somehow in the mad mob you snooze deeper
than bedsleep ruffled awake by the coos of a child looking very seriously at a
big mac in her distracted moms lap and
lowfi announcements as you exit through a claw of coiled cobrafaced seathunters up
the stairs doubletime faster than plague death cant quit the fucking cigs still
running on a bad knee daydreaming weird weekends that calendars and all i
never quite live might as well
study the ads in the hallways miniature vacations in the clumsy photographs
feeling like a cliche when
it hurts to laugh
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