Re: nerding/re-nerding

My wife and I have been re-watching Star Trek: Deep Space 9, starting right from the very beginning. I initially imagined I’d cherry-pick episodes until the final three seasons when continuity and quality seemed to finally gel into narrative satisfaction. But to my surprise the early episodes stand up much, much better than I remembered.

Back in the day, the stereotypes seemed painted with a broad brush — Odo and Quark, particularly. The way I recollected it René Auberjonois flat-footed the security constable Odo as recognizably gruff but lovable, while Armin Shimerman played his Ferengi character as recognizably weaselly, cunning, amusing — two very fine actors in gobs of latex, Kabuki-playing for the paycheque while the writers got a better feel for the characters and rounded them out in future seasons.

"Shall I lead the next dance?"

Turns out the relationship between Odo and Quark is, right out of the gate, a nuanced exploration of power dynamics between Law Enforcement and the Ambitious-if-occasionally-criminal Entrepreneur. Current qualms regarding policing and the populace get a sensitive rendering on two very different sides of the fence in the portrait of these two “aliens” — provoking deeper thought than might, say, a cop show exploring the dynamic between a Latino officer pestering a Black street hustler in Baltimore.

And that’s just one hot-button topic that hasn’t grown any cooler in the intervening decades. There’s also colonizer/post-colonized relations, religion/science/secular education tensions, gender and racial dynamics and a host of other fraught subjects explored — humanely, with subtlety!

ST:DS9 is, effectively, something I can enjoy even more than I originally did because of the current cultural moment.

Be that as it may, another new Star Trek now drops: Lower Decks. At NYmag Angelica Jade Bastién wants to love it, but has misgivings. Personally I gave up early on Discovery, haven’t bothered at all with Picard, and hold the forthcoming Strange New Worlds with suspicion earned from franchise mishandling of Discovery. But animation is its own interest with me, so I may yet tune in.

Also: over at MEL Tim Grierson reconsiders “a Star Wars movie you probably don’t remember” — Star Wars: The Clone Wars. In fact I DO remember it — I took my daughter out of school so we could catch an afternoon matinee. I dozed off for a few minutes, as is inevitable in any afternoon, but my daughter loved it. And I loved the TV series that followed. “For (some), Ahsoka and Rex were as important as Han and Leia — or Rey and Kylo Ren.” So far as I am concerned? Ahsoka and Rex is the only realized relationship in the entire franchise.

A tale of two writers

My blog stats have been a little weird of late. Usually they reflect what is current — the weekly post plus a few oddballs that get regular clicks. For years my most popular post was about crokinole boards. This post comparing and contrasting the cheesecake scribblings of Chris Sanders and Robert Crumb is a reliable draw. The Monks’ Bad Habits and John Gardner get regular bumps also.

But this past week the post that received the most attention was (drumroll please):

Death, and the epic fantasy series.

It wasn’t just a one-day blip, either. All week that post was Number One, casting shade on even my most current (and surely most pertinent) perambulations.

I imagine this unexpected attention relates to Martin’s ill-considered offer that, “If Winds Of Winter isn’t out by July 29, 2020, fans can imprison him.”

That day came and went last week. Mebbe rr fans were casting about the internet, looking for some surer way to get the book out and the series completed, and stumbled across my modest proposal to this popular novelist I’ve yet to read — hire a younger writer with the energy and work ethic required to meet actual deadlines.

Someone like, say, this chap.

The kicker is Martin used to be that kind of writer — a genre writer who answered the alarm, got out of bed, pulled on his pants and banged out the words while the first pot of coffee was brewing. He’s become insanely successful since those days — the intensity of public focus he receives (to say nothing of the money) is enough to scare the work ethic out of the sturdiest of souls.

And now he’s gone and got himself cancelled. As a younger man he regularly got quite a charge out of egging on the scolds — maybe that’s just the fire he needs to light to get the creative stew a-boiling. Do Martin’s fans dare hope?

*****

“Men’s magazines”: another era, to be sure.

In August of 1989 in a glossy “men’s magazine” I read an essay that blew the doors and windows off my 24-year-old mind — Dreaming Of Hitler by Daphne Merkin (here). From that day to this, she is a writer I have paid attention to.

I couldn’t find a way to rescue my self-destructive protagonist from her dilemma — her search for love from a man who had none to offer — except through some kind of melodramatic device. Could a woman who entered this overheated and dangerous territory manage to leave it behind without killing herself (as Anna Karenina does), becoming a dehumanized slave (like the title character does in “Story of O”) or going nuts (as Ingeborg Day does in her memoir, “Nine and a Half Weeks”)? Was this kind of deus ex machina inevitable?

Merkin spent decades on a sexually charged novel released just last month. Sounds both enticing and not a little maddening — in other words Merkin in fine form. Another new novel joins the queue.

Eisner/Miller? How's about: Weingarten/Varley?

"Just two good ol' boys..."

I can’t recall when I read this book — probably about 10 years ago. And my recollection of its content is patchy — justifiably so, because the chatter is forgettable. I gave it away and moved on with life.

Still, there’s a moment midway through the book that does stand out. Frank Miller describes fellow industry provocateur Todd McFarlane as that kid in the classroom “who carves a swastika into the desk” just for the hell of it because he doesn’t care what anyone thinks. This summary gets a rise out of Eisner’s wife Ann, who blurts, “I can see that!”

I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Will Eisner was one of the greats in the American comic book industry. Everything he drew was in a league of its own. But more than that, he had an exceedingly keen business acumen — a rarity among the artists who bumped elbows with him. The Schusters and Kirbys and Kanes of his world lamented comic book work — they were slumming it, doing the only work that paid (and paid poorly) while in their heart of hearts they yearned to be artistes. Eisner saw no shame in the work, but kept his eye on the point of profit and never left it. Giving away all rights to a character you created? Unthinkable.

Eisner did alright — when his future father-in-law hired a detective to see if this man-about-town was keener on the family fortune than he was on the daughter he was courting, it came back a nothing sandwich.

As for Miller — if you have to ask (hey, even if you don’t!) go here.

The interview takes place over a weekend in 2002. Miller’s description of McFarlane is punky — Miller is notoriously thick in these matters, but who the hell says something like this in a Jewish household? That the Eisners respond with amusement speaks volumes to the relationship they have with Miller.

And Ann — how remarkable that she knows exactly what is being said here. At this point the Eisners have been married over 50 years. A spouse could be forgiven for losing interest in the family business after a few decades. But Ann is more than just in sync with what Will is doing — she not only knows about McFarlane, she seemingly KNOWS McFarlane. McFarlane is a relative upstart. Eisner likely has zero business relations with him, unless it’s discussion over a Spirit figurine. And yet Ann knows.

Further in the conversation Eisner and Miller discuss the dollars-and-cents business of comics. Eisner points out Miller’s unique benefit — You married your colorist; In your case your wife does the colors. Until reading this book I had no idea Miller tied the knot with 80s/90s colorist phenom Lynn Varley.

Lynn Varley — the prestige work speaks for itself. But what that woman could get a five color press to commit to pulp paper is just this side of miraculous.

A quick Google search reveals the situation changed since the interview. Eisner died in '05, Miller and Varley separated later that year. The explosive success of the first Sin City movie, followed up with 300 seems to have set Miller off the chain.

In that light one almost wonders if Eisner wasn’t gently suggesting to the younger man Guard this bond — guard it with your life. Eisner was too soft-spoken to be so blunt. Neal Adams, arguably the greater mentor to Miller, is characteristically more to the point.

I keep thinking of Ann. “I can see that!” Yeah, I’ll just bet — that and a whole lot more. Where Miller and Eisner drift off in dozey reveries I daresay Ann Weingarten Eisner could have dished the real dirt and left this reader more to remember.

Ann Weingarten Eisner/Lynn Varley — I would pay real money for that.

Rattling in my brain-pan

Some pieces what’s got me cogitatin’ this week:

RIP Peter Green.

• “It’s strange that we now see America threatened by a plague. Because without plague, America, as we know it, would not exist.” Thus begins Andrew Sullivan’s survey of the plagues that shaped human history, over at New York magazine.
• “What good is it to speak of leaps of religious faith without first speaking of leaps into more immediate paradoxes, into the uncertainties of story and human subjectivity?” At The American Interest Mike St. Thomas reviews a book I very much look forward to reading, Christopher Beha’s new novel, The Index Of Self-Destructive Acts.
• “The so-called Culture Wars are less a war against Christianity than a civil war between Christian factions.” Ed Simon considers the scope and penetration of Christendom while reviewing How The Christian Revolution Remade The World by Tom Holland, at LARB.
• “While Galloway and others see mass delivery of content through online platforms as the solution to the real problems of overpriced and underperforming institutions, Hitz sees such platforms as the catalysts of opinionization and anti-intellectualism. Indeed, the metamorphosis of college education into an enormous Zoom meeting is incompatible with Hitz’s brand of intimate thoughtfulness, for in her eyes the internet is ‘a cesspool for the love of spectacle’ and a ‘bottomless temple of lurid fascination.’” Charles McNamara reviews Lost In Thought by Zena Hitz over at Commonweal. Say, you’ve already dropped in on Michial Farmer’s spritely chat with Hitz, have you not?
• And finally: “No wonder, then, that the dominant online mood is one of resentment that spills over into bitter conflict. The game is signalling to most of us that we are losing.” Hey, any tip o’ the hat to René Girard is the sort of confirmation bias I will affirmationally and biasedly confirm! Geoff Shullenberger at The Tablet.

Bob Dylan, ‘Rough And Rowdy Ways’

I ordered Rough And Rowdy Ways after reading Nick Cave’s generous response to inquiries re: Bob Dylan’s lead single: “Murder Most Foul.” The gist shared among enquirers and Cave seemed unique — it appears Dylan is once again tapped into something that registers.

Wrapped in nostalgia.

Dylan has always had a peculiar relationship with nostalgia. He’s reflexively sentimental, but also reflexively contrarian, so the two polarities consistently seesaw in his better songs. There’s a lot of that here. Lyrically, Rough And Rowdy Ways is straight Dylan-the-Lion-in-Winter material.

But the performance is the real surprise. To my ears, he’s singing like he means it.

Sincerity isn’t exactly anathema to Dylan, but it is rare. It makes the album pertinent to the shared moment, I think. Most of us are wrestling with nostalgia and a reckoning with what truly was and is — turns out a little empathy is a welcome solace when sorting through these thorny matters. The album likely will not receive the repeat play that Time Out Of Mind and “Love & Theft” enjoyed in this house — Rough And Rowdy Ways is not quite as rough and rowdy as I prefer my Dylan to be, finally. But it is a lovely album to meditate on, as this particular summer recedes to cooling.

Wither (sic) Liberalism — TIME OUT!

First, a spoonful of sugar: Michial Farmer’s conversation with Zena Hitz (Lost In Thought: The Hidden Pleasures Of The Intellectual Life) will do you more good than anything you are about to read below.

Alright, now that you’re braced . . . 

Never say “never,” but I believe with this post I shall put a cap on the matter of my concern for liberalism, its methods of consideration, and the precipitous erosion thereof. The subject is threatening to become not merely a central concern, but THE central concern for me and this blog, and I won’t have that (because it’s not — but don’t let any of that discourage you from commenting).

Here’s how it shakes down:

"Andrew! Hey, Andrew! Me next, me next!"

• In my most recent back-and-forth with Paul, I all but confessed that I subscribe to New York magazine primarily for the spectacle of that hyper-woke splash-pad giving Andrew Sullivan, of all people, space to spout (along with other guilty pleasures, of course). Just hours after I typed that I was informed those wet-n-wild days have come to a close.
• Lefty journo Doug Henwood proclaims, “Self-expelling is all the rage!” (cf.)
• Over at The New Yorker Gideon Lewis-Krauss asks: What the heck is going on with SlateStarCodex? 

On that last matter Fredrick deBoer framed it as an East-Coast Media vs. Silicon Valley scrap, in which 24/7-ironic ECM twitterers have not the slightest ken to appreciate West Coaster commitment — actual, sincere commitment — to planting a flag up the beach and defending it. I would go further and add that the ECM either does not appreciate the eviscerating effect its spotlight has on its caught-in-the-wrong-intersection subjects, or they know but do not care.

Full disclosure: I’m mostly ambivalent about the SSC project — my presuppositions launch me in a markedly different direction than do theirs (for starters, “Rationalist”? — good luck with that). However, I deeply admire their rigour and good manners. Trolls set up camp in the comments, receiving nearly inexhaustible patience as they attempt to lance the chosen argument with one bad-faith rhetorical ploy after the next. Good manners, patient consideration, careful elucidation — qualities we could all stand to emulate, particularly in these times, no?

Lili Loofbourow wonders to what effect.

I read “Illiberalism Isn’t to Blame For The Death of Good-Faith Debate” and nodded along throughout. I even murmured, “Yikes, that’s me!” at one point. Then she wrapped it all up with her conclusion and — honestly? — only Nietzsche has left me feeling this vertiginous:

“I don’t know how (or if) we get sincerity back.”

Well. In all sincerity I then submit: this isn’t a right-or-left liberal/illiberal woke or tribal thing — it is quite plainly just the latest instance of the Internet gaining its unfeeling mastery over yet another beleaguered member of our groping, simian species.

R.I.P., Google Play Music

Long live YouTube.

I received an unhappy, but not unexpected, email the other day — Google Play Music is shuttering and giving it up to YouTube Music.

There are features to YTM that recommend it above GPM. YTM’s graphic interface is a sexy beast, where GPM’s has been a stodgy old “meh” from Day 1. Also, YTM has seamless access to YouTube proper, which offers inexhaustible troves of delights. Just one example, if, in my newfound love for Ghost Light, I want to compare and contrast concert performances like their delightful Cervantes double-set to their equally delightful available-on-YouTube ONLY double-set at The Independent, San Francisco it can be done with a simple click or tap — no extra tabs to keep open, no painstaking search engine queries, just pure joy.

But YouTube is a streaming service — full stop. And I am loathe to stream music.

There’s the issue of what streaming nets the performers who provide the content, for starters. But, more selfishly, streaming rarely offers good quality sound. Much of that has to do with the technology on my end — very few phones, tablets or laptops have a DAC that brings out what’s actually available in the sound files being played (old Neil is right). And yes, you can download and install better DACs, but then lag-time becomes an issue.

Google Play Music had two features I took advantage of — downloads and uploading. 

With regards to downloads, in the main I prefer to buy CDs directly from the act, but there are occasions where downloads are the only option. GPM’s soundfiles were surprisingly respectable and inexpensive. YTM doesn’t offer downloads, so my next go-to will likely be HDTracks.

As for uploading — I took it for granted, because I rarely streamed my library (it was handy when we were travelling, or visiting family). And yes, I have my digital music library on two separate hard-drives and spread across several portable players. But it was a comfort to think that the hard-to-find out-of-print stuff was secure yet easily accessible in some corner of Google’s massive cloud. And there were albums that I personally remastered and stored there, including the entirety of Citizen: Steely Dan — which sounded great in 1993 but, 27 years later, could stand a serious reengineering.

Google assures me my music lye-berry will be seamlessly transferred to YouTube’s acreage in the Google cloud. We shall see. I have to wonder if YouTube’s algorithm won’t sort through my id tags and decide, “Oh, Citizen: Steely Dan. We have that already. Just bin these files and give him access to ours.” It would be the logical thing to do, but it’d set me out.

Anyhoo, these are admittedly trifles in the current environment of mass discomfort and discombobulation. But sometimes trifles can be welcome diversions, too. So on that note: thanks for reading!