London burning
I’ve got memories, even some fairly recent, plus idle time spent in the Museum of London, among other places. When I woke with a start Thursday morning, aware that something was amiss in the world, I didn’t know what it was.
London Bridge has fallen down?
I’ve got two mental images, and I’ll put down what comes to mind. Metal detector (and the ‘no trash can’ rule in the national gallery) and the single photograph in St. Paul’s historical archives, like in the basement.
It was a trip, in the fall of 2001, and in the National Gallery, off Trafalger Square, pretty near the heart of London, a friend and I were walking around, being bloody American tourists with little empty Starbucks cups in hand. I asked where the nearest trash receptacle was.
‘Outside,’ the docent replied. If I could raise an eyebrow, I would’ve. My subtle query as to why was answered with vague mumblings about the IRA, like it was in the bad old days.
Years before, with my father, we’d toured a little-visited museum. Had to pass through a metal detector, and our packages were scanned for bombs. Just part and parcel of living in a city that lives with this kind of a threat.
The other image that came to mind was from St. Paul’s historical section, fittingly located in the old catacombs. Or whatever they call their basement under an important church. It was a single aerial shot of St. Paul’s cathedral, at the tail end of World War II. Battle of Britain, wave the Union Jack, indomitable British spirit, and so forth.
That image showed St. Paul’s, intact, untouched. The area around it? Rubble. A complete circle, around the church, reduced by German bombers to nothing but fractured stone. There are two theories, one, the obvious one, divine intervention. The other, unsupported by text as far as I know, was that Hitler ordered St. Paul’s spared for his own nefarious purposes.
It’s all bad.
London news:
Just got the Olympic games for 2012? And then the shit hits the fan. Remember the rule? Whatever hits the fan will not be evenly distributed.
Thursday’s weirdness
Books, and fishes, and so forth. Just a hot summer day in Austin?
Books and places:
Years ago, I had a chance to meet the San Antonio author, Rick Riordan (Gemini – married to a Gemini). One of his books, his first published novel, I think, is called Big Red Tequila and the name derives from the protagonist’s memories of a high-school era San Antonio drink, Big Red and tequila – I don’t even drink tequila (or Big Red), and the combination makes me nauseous just thinking about it.
I quizzed the author during that meeting, a catered book signing, and he admitted that he didn’t ever really drink the concoction. Turns out, the author, at the time, was a mild-mannered 7th grade teacher by day, and he writes these tasty little mysteries at night.
There are two hooks that got me. One, should be obvious, the main character is (was) an unlicensed PI with a lot of literature degrees. Medieval lit, I think, was the fictional field of study. Then there was a cat, and best of all, one of the real characters is San Antonio.
Latest book? South Town and the title refers to an area just south of downtown San Antonio. I started reading the book late one night, and after about three pages, I had to put it down as the opening sequences are of a bloody and violent jailbreak, inside the mind of character who is a sociopath.
But I picked it up again, and I read most of the book in a single sitting. What hooked me again was that sense of place. Since I’ve been working and visiting San Antonio a great deal, the details are absolutely correct. Perfect. Sort of wry descriptions, too, but hitting on one detail after another – in way that evokes my own memories, or, better yet, describing people that I know? Characters that I’ve encountered in SA?
The more I pondered this while walking over to get the mail, the more I realized what a deft sleight of hand trick the author was pulling. Hitting spots I know, I’ve seen, I’ve passed that soccer field, I know a ‘vato’ just like one character, getting me to care about descriptions of characters.
Plus, big plus, sense of place. Perhaps by design, or perhaps as a fragment of the author’s imagination, the sense of place, San Antonio is an unwitting character in the book.
Musical Nota Bene:
“I like to kick back by the railroad tracks and wait for that lonely train, if you don’t like our hillbilly sound, hey man, go fuck you.” (Hank III, Hillbilly Joker)
Unrelated design issues:
Art imitates life?
The production crew:
My Piper sandals were returned, via post, along with everything else in the mail. Handwritten note, begging forgiveness for the delay (hint: it always takes this long to get them resoled, way it is). Along with that packaging, there was also a bit of promotional material.
Two thoughts occurred, one, that the business model is so beautifully simple, it just has to work. The second thought was spurred by the enclosed picture of “The Crew at Piper Sandals,” Dave, his son and daughter-in-law, plus the dog and the cat.
I should do a picture of the crew here. It would be the cat, the trailer’s living room, the beeper, the phones, maybe the modem and the router?
I don’t know:
Where I’m going to go, when the volcano blows.
Quick statistical update:
Over 50k “hits” for July 1-7, 20k to the blog. That works out to? Never mind. I looked at the June stats, and then, when I got the “347 hits per hour” average, my mind folded. Forgot what I was looking for.
Cherchez le poisson:
