this is what i write when i haven’t slept

Woke up in the middle of a horrid night – though I probably slept more than I think – to find that I somehow managed to kick all of the covers loose and bring the bottom of the sheet up to my head; if I talked in my sleep, I'm sure I had interesting things to say, probably far more interesting than in my waking hours. Bright side: I'm still married. Not-so: my capacity to be brilliant is even more nonexistent than normal; might be in negative brilliance territory and no I don't have a clue as to what made it so horrid a night of sleep / send help, DARPA-level coffee / caffeine infusion: I am contributing nothing to this conversation with myself and need to learn to nap.

Scott Walker on PRESS (A) TO START

Scott Walker – a hell of a writer, a hell of a friend, and someone whose advice has always steered me in a direction I hadn’t considered while keeping my whatever-it-is that makes me me intact – was kind enough to share a few words about the first issue of PRESS (A) TO START:

"Weaver's ability to turn a phrase and zig when you expect him to zag is on full display in the debut issue of PRESS (A): With a confident, unflinching determination, this first installment explores decades of time in a search for closure that can never be but must nevertheless be pursued: Weaver's willingness to unapologetically and poetically chew right down to the bone of the trauma of losing his mother - and the conflicting emotions that loss triggered - has yielded an autobiographical work authentically heartbreaking and surprisingly soul satisfying. Just like the relationship of a mother and a son.

–Scott Walker, author of the LITTLE YOKAI series

PRESS (A) TO START is a twice-a-year, print-only premium (though also imperfect, raw, and free) zine produced exclusively for MacroParentheticals subscribers. The first issue, LAST CHRISTMAS IN JULY – A COWARD’S EXORCISM, is now available. You can sign up here to subscribe.

a comics neophyte once more

Yesterday I read an actual physical single issue comic for the first time in at least 10 years (the antique mall find of SUPERMAN'S METROPOLIS, review forthcoming; quick version: loved it – have to get the other two volumes in the trilogy) and now I'm considering, because there are no local shops in this cultural wasteland, getting a pull list together via Midtown – or some other delivery service; if you've got a recommendation, let me know – and reading them again. Only problem: no clue what I'll read or where to start (recs welcome here too)– I feel like a comics neophyte again (even though I wrote a book on them ten years ago) but that, to me, represents the strength of the medium: constant, perpetual change – not always for the better – but change nonetheless.

via

PEAKY BLINDERS, Series Six (2022)

(watched: mon/20220711->fri/20220826 via Netflix; created by Steven Knight and starring Cillian Murphy, Natasha O'Keefe, Sam Clafin, Sophie Rundle, Anya Taylor Joy, Amber Anderson, Finn Cole, Paul Anderson, and Tom Hardy; original airing, 20220207->0403)

In spite of a few last-minute and left-field additions (a last minute addition who is, fortunately, an absolutely perfect last minute addition (kind of reminds me of Klein in Ellroy's WHITE JAZZ); wish we'd had him longer (though perhaps my required re-watch of the series will yield a forgotten setup earlier on)) to the cast to set up the abso-fucking-lutely required film continuation, I'm hard-pressed to recall a better, more fitting finale in recent memory (no I haven't seen BETTER CALL SAUL: I'm only now playing catchup with all the things I've missed; just now started watching JUSTIFIED, ten years late and we've been between the sixth and seventh seasons of SONS OF ANARCHY for at least eight years): the loss of Helen McCrory is handled deftly and tragically, Pol's presence in Michael's every seething glare and vow of revenge and in every machination of Tommy as they hurtle towards one another in a hopelessly (for Michael) unbalanced blood feud; Anya Taylor Joy, Finn Cole, Sam Clafin, Amber Anderson, and James Frecheville make a formidable antagonistic force – though Cole's Michael is most certainly in over his head, not only being on the unbalanced side of that Tommy/Michael blood feud but acting as something of a fall guy for the rest of them; and Natasha O'Keefe, Sophie Rundle, and Paul Anderson prove themselves to be three of the finest actors working today, just as they have in every series prior - Arthur always breaks my heart. Highly, highly recommended.

P.S: the only thing I missed was hearing Nick Cave's original "Red Right Hand" rendition, so here it is.

i appear to be calibrated

The good news is that – well, actually, two pieces of good news: one, my CGM – unlike the night previous – didn't scream at me all night long which means I am, if nothing else, calibrated; and two, the latest issue of MacroParentheticals is out to subscribers. The bad news – though maybe it's good news but if you're reading this... nevermind – is that since I've spent all morning, so far, on getting the newsletter ready for coffee time, my font of biographical ephemera is at a low ebb and this will have to do... oh, right, third piece of good news: yesterday’s antique mall jackpot wasn't a dream.

antique mall jackpot(!)

Clockwise, from top: Dick Tracy two-way wrist radio (1961); Spidey Halloween basket (1979); DICK TRACY MONTHLY No. 2 (Feb 1948); No. 4 (April 1948); No. 9 (Sept 1948); and No. 11 (Nov. 1948). Below, the opened glory of the two-way wrist radio.

Also picked up SUPERMAN’S METROPOLIS, an Elseworlds riff I had never heard of (and now that I’ve learned it’s the first of a trilogy with BATMAN: NOSFERATU and WONDER WOMAN: BLUE AMAZON, I’ll be seeking those out as well):

Damn fine Saturday.

WHITE JAZZ (Ellroy, 1992)

(read: 20220809->17; my complete reading list, from 2013 to the present, lives here. )

Another one that's been in the to-read stacks for awhile, but now that my first complete reading of Ellroy's first LA Quartet (all in first editions, I'm proud to say) – I'd read BLACK DAHLIA and LA CONFIDENTIAL previously; this was my first time with both THE BIG NOWHERE (excellent) and WHITE JAZZ – is done, I'm awash with a sense of accomplishing something: what that something is, I haven't a clue – a chance to start over with a re-read, perhaps: age and mileage do, if nothing else, add perspective.

That being said, I remain both tepid (similar to my reaction to each of Ellroy's in-progress Second LA QUARTET offerings – though mercifully devoid of the utter scorn I hold for the second in the series, THIS STORM) and somewhat confused because – in spite of some brilliant moments weaving in and out of this rare (for Ellroy) first-person account by an unfamiliar though nonetheless excellent protagonist (whom I hope Ellroy revisits sometime: it's a shame Klein's been out to pasture for 30 years and never appeared in prior works – though please correct me if I’m wrong) at the center of the machinations of two forces of LAPD nature, I can't figure – other than acting as a coda to the tales of Exley (who's far more of a shit in the books than in Guy Pearce's excellent film portrayal) and Dudley (Cromwell was perfect), and a pivot between the first LA Quartet and the Underworld, USA trilogy (JAZZ features the debut of my favorite of Ellroy's characters, Pete Bondurant, one of the three protagonists of my favorite of Ellroy's works – and one of my favorite books of all time, AMERICAN TABLOID) – why WHITE JAZZ needed to exist in the first place.

Then again, I might have answered my own (long-winded) question. Wouldn't be the first time.

I am a bluetooth device and my blood is sending me push notifications

Changed my CGM yesterday evening and, as is sometimes the case, alerts woke me up twice in the middle of the night to tell me that I was crashing into hypo-ness but fingerpricking revealed I wasn't, pretzels and sugar gel for zilch. And now, it's doing the same thing this morning: CGM screams, You're at 53 and dropping and oh my fuck you're going to die, while the fingerpricking, the same one I've had since day one of T1D/TFD (this fucking disease) says, Nah, you're fine. 102; carry on. Fuck this fucking disease and the deeply flawed technology it uses to notify me of its fuckeries internal.