sunny spells and cloudy bits

Chris Kammerud

Hello, readers.

One of the things about England is the weather. The weather is one of the things about everything, of course. Even space has weather. Scientist call it space weather. Scientists are brilliant.

The thing about the thing about England that is weather is that it varies quite markedly from street to street, sometimes from shop to shop. Such that one might walk into one side of a shopping mall having exited from a sunny day, and then walk out the other side of the mall, ten minutes later, into fog. Perhaps even some torrential rain. EG says that the way weather forecasts occur in England says a lot about the country, and the necessity of indefiniteness. A man, she says, stands on the screen, waving his hand noncommittedly about the country, proclaiming that here, “We may seen some sunny spells, and over here, a few cloudy bits.”

Occasional weather, readers. OCCASIONAL WEATHER. I will stop shouting now. Yesterday, I shouted STAR WARS at someone in a text and nearly gave them a heart attack. I’m sorry about that.

Here are some things you should be consuming over the weekend:

1) Kenneth: A User’s Manual by Sam J. Miller

2) 25 Invisible Benefits of Gaming While Male

3) South Korea fall scenery by drone.

4) One Gram Short by Etgar Keret

5) Margaret Stackhouse, a fifteen-year-old at the time, gives her thoughts about 2001: A Space Odyssey. Kubrick said of them, at the time:

“Margaret Stackhouse’s speculations on the film are perhaps the most intelligent that I’ve read anywhere, and I am, of course, including all the reviews and the articles that have appeared on the film and the many hundreds of letters that I have received. What a first-rate intelligence!”

Happy Friday, readers.

Be well. Do good work. Keep in touch.

If nothing else, at least occasionally.

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the girl over there

Chris Kammerud

Hello, readers.

The girl over there has thin eyebrows and a laptop with a sticker above the glowing fruit that reads, “THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS.” There’s a book on her table. Old. Thick. Dusty blue. At the bottom of the spine, a white sticker, like from a library. She’s typing. Sometimes she stops, as I do, and thinks, and drinks some tea. When she gets cold, she wraps a gray scarf around her neck.

There’s a bit in Anna Karenina where Tolstoy describes someone as having ‘bare shoulders and long gloves.’

There are some parts of London that are actually kind of outside of London, which might best be described as small houses full of stuff.

Sometimes while riding the bus, the screen flashes, ‘The next bus stop is CLOSED,’ and I wonder what strange, wondrous world awaits the people who alight at CLOSED.

A Warholian acceleration of perception.

It’s not even time anymore. It’s like something else.

Happy random pulls from my notebook, readers.

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the occasional table

Chris Kammerud

Hello, readers.

It’s blue and white outside, and the couch upon what I sit is a very mustardy yellow. My blanket is orange. Very soon I’ll chat with my sister on the video phone. Her being in the U.S. I being in the not U.S.

Yesterday, EG pointed out to me the existence of a thing known as THE OCCASIONAL TABLE. As in, that is what side/coffee/WHATEVER tables are often called. As in, this is my new favorite thing to know because, if you read this blog a lot, you are possibly aware that my understanding of reality is occasional. Not so much in that I occasionally understand reality (though this is also true, and probably the frequency of my understanding of reality is muchmuch less often than occasional), but in that I believe reality to only occasionally exist. Call it quantum theory. Or my inability to commit. Still. Anyway.

THE OCCASIONAL TABLE!

Does it occasionally exist? Is it a structure that is only occasionally a table? What makes a table a table and not a flat, horizontal thing on top of four thin, vertical things? Aren’t all tables occasional? If I use a desk sometimes as a table, does this mean it’s an occasional desk, or an occasional table?

I could do this for hours. Best suited for the video blog, though, as then you can see me smile while I do it.

In other news, of which there usually is.

Hank profiled his brother John Green for Vanity Fair on the occasion (the OCCASIONAL JOHN GREEN!) of John being #36 on Vanity Fair’s list of the new establishment. It’s sweet and awesome and if you wanted a brief overview of the history of nerd fighting, well, this is very brief.

In other, other news, of which there is also usually a fair amount.

Twitter wants to make reporting abuse easier and the environment that much more delightful.

Here are 100 notable books as notabled by the New York Times.

Chris Rock said things of smart. Particularly enjoyed his statement that the phrase black progress is not entirely all that smart as whatever progress has been made, it’s for more likely and actual that white people are the ones doing the progressing in terms of being less systematically stupid.

So, to say Obama is progress is saying that he’s the first black person that is qualified to be president. That’s not black progress. That’s white progress.

Happy Occasional Wednesday, readers.

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why are there so many clowns here

Chris Kammerud

Hello, readers.

I’m writing this on a particularly cold and grey Tuesday afternoon in London. Over against the exposed brick wall, cloaked in dim light, two men–one young, dark of head, dressed all in black and one older, silver of head, dressed all in flannel–discuss things over a glistening computer screen the way one supposes that on the dark afternoons of some other century, people discussed things over candlelight. Across from me, a woman eats her coffee with a spoon. I’ve heard of this but have never chanced to witness it. Oh! There she goes again. Mug held up like a bowl. Spoon scooped through and up, then slipped between her lips. People. Fascinating creatures.

Of late, there has been much talk in our flat–and in pubs, and restaurants, and the occasional cafe on some dark afternoon–about how, over time, I might experience many more Tuesdays in London without having to resort to hiding with the toshers. We’ll work it out, I’m sure. It’s simply a matter of time and effort. Applying for a visa does have the unintended effect, though, of making one feel like a criminal. Possibly, that’s silly. It’s very possible, after all, that this effect is not at all unintentional.

Recently, a small gathering of lovely people gathered at our flat to eat a ridiculous amount of food and discuss important things such as clowns. This was a past Friday evening. It wasn’t December yet. Nor was it particularly cold. Nor were there women eating their coffee with spoons. It was a different time. A simpler time, in which friends appeared with wine and dressing and brownies and corn bread and quinoa salads and sushi. Yes. Sushi. People. Fascinating creatures.

We sat around the living room, on couch and chair and floor. We ate and we discussed. Old friends and new. All together, and in our own, smaller clumps of conversation. We learned things about each other and about the world. Among other things, some of those things we learned were:

  1. As mentioned, clown eggs. Apparently, it was, possible is, traditional, in order to make sure no two clowns stole the face of another, for one to visit the room filled with clown eggs and compare and design one’s own face and place it upon a egg such that future clowns will see all of the old eggs, as well as your egg, and no two eggs will be the same. This particular slice of the conversation began with one member of our group describing their travels through London and spying a great many clowns filing out of a building and he wondered, ‘Why are there so many clowns here?’
  2. In Japan, this sort of thing happens. This sort of thing being ‘radio taiso’. ‘Radio taiso’ being the sort of thing where people wake up really early and gather together, in body or spirit, turn on the radio, and exercise.
  3. Shipping. Some people did not know what it meant to ship people together. Some of these people will never again hear the shipping news in quite the same way again.

Happy Tuesday, readers.

love.

also.

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december

Chris Kammerud

Hello, readers.

December arrives today with the departure of EG’s mum. We escorted her to Euston, said our farewells, and watched her buy a paper (The Telegraph) and a bottle of water for the train.

Somewhere in my past, those two things, the paper and the train, collected a shimmer of romance about them. Possibly from old movies. The slow trundle across country, a shared car, an open paper. Coffee. A nap against the window, the winter chill kissing your cheek against the glass.

Eg’s mum visited with us over the weekend. We ate much leftover thanksgiving food: apple pie, sweet potato casserole, macaroni and cheese, brussel sprouts, etc. We took her along Regent street and took a gander at strings of fairy lights and the advertising, strung across the road, for a Night at the Museum performed live on the streets. We visited her old employer, St. James church and her techno-magic shop, the Apple Store. We also absorbed a 70mm print of 2001 of which, she said, “It goes on a bit, doesn’t it?” and watched a spot of television including, Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown and Blake Edwards’ Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She enjoyed Breakfast, as did I, and as EG did less. EG believed the tale of a woman running away from a burdensome past was done better in Cabaret. Having not seen it (ducks a stone from LED), I can’t say.

on regent street
on regent street

At the British Library, there’s an exhibit on exploring the Artic, in search of the Northwest Passage. One of the displays discusses the relocation of Santa Clause. Previously residing in Lapland, Finland, Mr. Claus moved to the North Pole in 1862, at the behest, and pen stroke, of one Mr. Thomas Nast. Nast drew several images of Santa Claus for Harper’s Weekly during the civil war in the U.S. as a kind of melancholy, magic man, surrounded by elves, a combination of the Saint Nicholas celebrated in German tradition, and, well, elves. It was meant to boost morale. Santa Claus in support of the Union. A manic pixie dream guy, possessed of whimsy and pain, and a cat named Cat. It’s possible I’m confusing Santa Claus with Holly Golightly. It’s interesting how we crave magic so much that we never tire of inventing new magicians.

“Santa Claus in Camp,” Harper’s Weekly, January 3, 1863, cover.

 

Happy December, readers.

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thanks

Chris Kammerud

Hello, readers.

I wrote a thing about Nick Drake for the folks over at And now we rise. It came about after listening, and tweeting about, the 99% Invisible episode about him, Three Records from Sundown. Here’s the beginning of that thing I wrote:

Under the television, behind a couple of cabinet doors, she kept her collection of CDs, a myriad of albums, artists, and mixes. For a time, after she left, she left that collection behind. I guess I knew one day she would come back for it, and she did, but in between when she first left, and when she came and collected everything, I listened, I swallowed, I absorbed, I pushed that music deep, deep down into my soul, holding on to what we had and what I knew we had lost. Among those CDs–so many of them just CD-R’s with the name of an album, artist, or mix written in black marker–were Weezer, Neutral Milk Hotel, Badly Drawn Boy, Lou Reed, Tom Waits, Leonard Cohen, and one mix called “The Frantic Panic Mechanics.” The music blurred into a soundtrack for that moment. One of those CDs had a name written on it I had never seen before.

Nick Drake.

Head over to And now we rise to read the rest. Music is the best time machine. Well. Except for a delorean.

Also. It’s Thanksgiving in the U.S.

So, remember, if you make a bear, undo it, whether you meant to make a bear or not.

Also, also. Someone quoted this passage from To Kill a Mockingbird the other day. It seemed right.

“Atticus–” said Jem bleakly.
He turned in the doorway. “What, son?”
“How could they do it, how could they?”
“I don’t know, but they did it. They’ve done it before and they did it tonight and they’ll do it again and when they do it — seems that only children weep.”

To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee (published in 1960 – based in 1936)

Happy today, readers. Be awesome. Be worthy of thanks.

Thank you.

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the daily show

Chris Kammerud1 Comment

Hello, readers.

A lot of things happened in 1999. Things happen all the time. Some of the things that happened in 1999 include, among other things, The Phantom Menace by George Lucas, The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky, and my graduation from high school.

I remember this one discussion from near the end of that year. I was talking to a boy in my AP English class. The boy’s name was Jake. He possessed a laconic way of being wise in which he spoke little but nodded a lot. One of the things I said in this discussion was how sad I was, at the end of the last year, when Craig Kilborn left The Daily Show with his now famous: dance, dance, dance . I was worried it wouldn’t be as good. I mean, John Stewart? The guy from MTV?

Jake nodded.

“But, well, he turned out okay, didn’t he?”

Jake nodded.

“Yep,” he said. And he nodded some more, so I knew he agreed with me more than a little bit.

I’m reminded of this conversation because yesterday and today my tumbles and tweets have been full of a literate rage. And I wonder how much of that rage, at least among people my age and younger, is, in part, inspired, distilled, and perhaps educated, through years of watching John Stewart, the guy from MTV, demonstrate a glorious obsession and wicked delight with documenting the stupidity, ignorance, and hypocrisy of everything and ever. Stewart, and his writers, defined what it was to cut apart the news and put it back together in a way that made sense. In a way that looks familiar to me now, seeing the gifs, clippings, live videos, and take-downs, that have dominated my tumbles and tweets.

I don’t know. Just a thought. A wonder. And, at least, for me, a lot of gratitude for this man existing. For showing a lot of us that it was not only possible to care, but possible to stay sane, and funny, while doing it. god bless you, Mr. Stewart.

Here are some highlights from the last 15 years.

Mr. Stewart after 9/11.
Mr. Stewart on Crossfire.
Mr. Stewart on the Financial Doodah of 2008 with special guest Jim Cramer from CNBC.
Mr. Stewart, a few months ago, right after Ferguson

A lot of people have this thing where they say that sarcasm is the coward’s way. That comedy is a shield. That being funny is a way of avoiding the things that hurt. These people are missing the point, I think.

Once upon a time, in a small town far, far, away, someone told me that I was shorter and funnier than John Stewart. Clearly, I’m not. Clearly, they were being funny. Possibly they were saying, “You are funnier than John Stewart” when really they were thinking, “I really, really, like you.” Either way, it was a very kind thing to say because maybe what they were saying is that you try to be funny in the way that John Stewart is funny. And that meant the world to me. Because John Stewart, as much as anyone else, knows how to be funny in a way honest, kind, and full of rage.

evitable

Chris Kammerud

Hello, readers.

Winter in London. Thicker coats. Colder rain. Denser fog. The sun sets earlier than you think. The darkness always takes you by surprise. Except, you know, eventually it doesn’t. Sooner or later you learn.

Some things I notice when reading a book like The Perks of Being a Wallflower

1) Letters are good. Both the ones contained in words and the ones that contain words.
2) Books remind me of me.
3) Books remind me of other people.
4) Books remind me of time.
5) Books remind me of lot’s of things. They give me the time and space to remember. They help me imagine things other than they are, and other than me.

Here are other things I’m reading which will probably not result in me making lists of a sad/happy nature.

The Atlantic on self-segregation

HuffPost on white privelege

The Guardian reporting some news

I have to go buy a pie plate now in which to later make pie. Yeah.

 

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bread

Chris Kammerud

Hello, readers.

This could have happened on a Monday. Or it might have been Thursday. Might be it doesn’t matter when it happened, so much as that it did.

Except, in this case, I know.

This was definitely Monday.

What I remember is eating a slice of bread, sitting half on her kitchen floor and half on her living room carpet, my legs stretched out and her sitting beside me, my body empty and electric and my heart so still, so terrified to beat because that would mean time passing, and I wanted nothing more than for this moment to last forever, me eating a slice of her bread, us sitting beside each other, drops of rain lingering in her hair like shattered glass, and both of us knowing in a way we had never known anything before.

Happy Monday, readers.

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couches

Chris Kammerud

Hello, readers.

Across London, in Soho and Camden and Boomsbury (well, Bloomsbury, if you want to be less explosive) and, perhaps, other places, there is a cafe called Yumchaa. They make a golden, soft, delicious lemon drizzle cake which is gluten free and, well, I suppose I’ve already mentioned its being delicious. Another thing they do is have all of their tea out for to smell. More places should let you smell their tea. I like the couches, too. More places should have couches.

Mike Nichols died this week. Here are things to read about that.

He was, like most of that breed of stylish New Yorkers transplanted from elsewhere, a self-invention.

His version was the man who quipped dryly from behind dark or tinted glasses, perhaps in a turtleneck and perfectly fitted trousers, and surrounded himself with friends and associates who if they couldn’t be witty, were at least gorgeous or rich. I always felt a special, tickling shiver when I saw him in public, where he seemed to stand and speak with the droll finesse you always hope such idols will possess in real life but seldom do. via

When I think of him, I think of Angels in America, The Graduate, and Closer–the first being a thing I’ve still never seen, but should; the second being a film I have seen and adored for its ability to be, in turns, rebellious, absurd, and self-aware; and the last being a film that revealed to me at a still tender age the manner in which honesty might shield within it the deadly thrust of cruelty.

Also. This weekend will feature an absurd amount of sitting on couches, eating pancakes, and drinking coffee in honor of binging Gilmore Girls. If you’ve never seen that show, and you love shows capable of inflicting referential whiplash (seriously, there is an entire wiki devoted to the show’s encyclopaedic wit), as well as shows in which things like this exist, then you should probably watch it. Few shows depict the generational lovestrife of grandmothers, mothers, and daughters, quite so well. If, any. I’m sure there are some. I can’t think of any. Oh, except for this. Still. Very few manage to, as I’ve said, include things like this.

Happy Friday, readers.

I’m pretty sure Lorelai and Rory would’ve loved the hell out of a Mike Nichols marathon. This seems like a good weekend for it. Brew some coffee, or tea. Find a proper couch. Get to work.

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