o A mondo-heady Judith Supine punk-rawk collage/animation video by the dude who may or may not be my roommate. (Thanks, Judith Supine!)
o Former Mets’ manager Bobby Valentine sells meat in Japan: for a relaxing time, make it Bobby-Burger time. (Alright, MetsBlog, and thanks for the great year.)
o A DJ set Simpsons‘ creator Matt Groening spun on the BBC last year (or, the badass setlist, anyway).
o A really creepy bootleg mix I acquired over the weekend, called Endless Bummer: The Very Worst of the Beach Boys, features in-studio arguments, terrible ads, drunken live cuts, Brian rapping, and the Spanish version of “Kokomo.” Perhaps I will post a track sometime. (Big ups, Pete.)
o A recent article about what’s become of the Shibuya-kei scene that produced Cornelius and Kahimi Karie.
The Mets will change in the off-season, as teams do. Some are now free agents, others — perhaps — trade bait. The lineup will morph, and they’ll start again in Florida, in the agreeable weather and miles of green.
On the way home from Shea, I pulled my comfort ripcord and listened to In Utero quite loudly while reading the new 33 1/3 book about the same. Escaping back into the music that I loved in ninth grade when I turned away from sports to begin with, the phrase that kept rolling around in my mind was “aqua seafoam shame,” which is what I thought Kurt Cobain was singing somewhere in “All Apologies” (and still kinda do; the actual lyric is rather mundane).
I’m not sure why it’s appropriate, really, or even if it’s how I’m actually feeling right now, but it’ll do. Next season in Jerusalem, as I believe the saying goes.
Of all the major professional sports, baseball is easily the one with the most physical inactivity. That is, with the exception of the pitcher and catcher, most of the players are still far more than they are in motion. In that, it is also the professional sport best suited for lingering close-ups on players’ eyes. Resultantly, though perhaps I am saying this as one who never developed a taste for any other sport, it also seems the game with the greatest potential for articulated drama. It is not a coincidence, I don’t think, that the majors are known as The Show.
In terms of creating a genuine, truthful response from as large an audience as possible, mannered dialogue brimming with double-entendres and clever plot devices is always going to be working at a handicap compared to the evenly distributed nine innings of a playoff game. Storylines are ending, developing, and beginning, though not even the characters know which ones. Only the unwritten ending can contextualize the true meaning of the two-out rallies that begin on botched catches (as the Mets pulled in the 7th tonight), or advances that are temporarily halted (like a massive Carlos Beltran throw to the plate that prevented Juan Encarnacion from tagging) (though So Taguchi drove him in, quite futilely, on the next at-bat, anyway). Nobody knows the meaning, especially not going into game 7, but we’ve all got our suspicions.
For fans, October is an exciting time of year, for the majority of ballplayers — which is to say, all those who didn’t make the playoffs — it must be disconcerting. The sportswire is filled with the dispensing of managers, the scouting of coaches to fill their positions. For players — nomads, mostly, during the summer months — it is about moving. No matter what the Mets’ fate might be over the next few days, and no matter how he pitches tomorrow night, John Maine will soon be vacating the room in the Ramada Inn off the Grand Central Parkway where he’s been living, headed for that black hole known as the off-season.
Watching these games, sometimes, all the fancy fonts and and modern uniforms and tailored facial hair fall from view, and the face in the batter’s box could be peering from a daguerreotype in a Ken Burns documentary or a sun-bleached ’70s Topps card, all gauzy technicolor. The face becomes, for a moment, somehow classic. Tonight, that face belonged to the Cardinals’ runt of a leadoff hitter, David Eckstein, who nabbed a few near-hits during the Mets’ first at bat, and later took a pitch hard on his fingertips. He seemed like a ghost already, someone I’ll forget after the post-season. In my memory, his features will join my blurry gallery of ballplayers, an index like a massive WPA mural.
“I’d Love Just Once To See You” – The Beach Boys (download here)
from Wild Honey (1968)
released by Capitol Records (buy)
(file expires October 24th)
Post-Smile Beach Boys tends to get a bad rap, and maybe rightly so, but some of it is quite excellent — Wild Honey, especially. It doesn’t really fit the popular Smile narrative that Brian should still be making great, current music after the collapse of his concept album, but Wild Honey is a completely Beach Boys take on the back-to-the-roots thing that Dylan, the Beatles, the Stones, and everybody else was doing after a few years of psychedelic blow-outs (see: John Wesley Harding, the White Album, Beggars’ Banquet, etc.).
The lyrics are the stuff of everyday (“I washed the dishes, and I rinsed up the sink, like a busy bee”), but are positively liberated by BB standards. “I wouldn’t mind if I could get with you right away,” Brian sings. (That’s not say they’re entirely liberated. “When’s the last time you baked me a pie?” Brian also asks.) The composition is laced with the same tricks to be found all about Pet Sounds and Smile, here applied to something modest and adult, instead of high school melodrama or teenage symphonies to God. The arpeggiated 12-string figure behind the bridge melody wouldn’t be out of place on “Cabinessence,” and — of course — there’s some lovely harmonized bah-bah-bahing.
But really, the song is all about the punchline at the end: “I’d love just once to see you, I’d love just once to see you, I’d love just once to see you…” — pause– “…in the nude.” Hot. (Kinda is, right?)
Not long after that season ended, I got a copy of the Mets’ highlight video, 1986: A Year to Remember, at a literal fire sale over on Jericho Turnpike: the place had burned, and the tape smelled like badly crisped bacon for a few years. As a nine year old, I watched it religiously, learning consciously for the first time about drama. There was an ominous narrator, atmospheric music, non-linear editing techniques, excited radio announcers, and some killer montages (one featuring “Karn Evil 9” by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, though I wouldn’t learn that for another decade). I saw how music could build tension and how authoritative foreshadowing could build it even further. I learned about fate, or at least its implications.
For me, it is right impossible to watch this post-season unfold and not hear A Year to Remember‘s narrator framing it. I want him to. I want him to say things like “in game 5, they put the ball in the capable hands of Tom Glavine,” as he described a winning Bob Ojeda appearance against the Red Sox. I want to see surprisingly tasteful bits of nostalgia — say, Reyes sliding in slow motion into second, coming up grinning — like the condensed version of the Series set to Bob Dylan’s “I’ll Remember You” (which, like the ELP cut, I didn’t realize was Dylan until much later).
Of course, the video’s weight comes entirely because the Mets made it, and won the World Series. Watching the Mets go down two games over the weekend, Saturday night in a singularly spectacular meltdown by seemingly everybody, the fate of the team was thrown into question for the first time since the post-season began. If the Mets lose now, and they might, does that invalidate everything that has happened already? Does the entire theoretical highlights video crumble? As the games progress, I hear him crunching them into soundbytes. I just wish I could feed him lines.
Keeping score is a Braille record of the game, feeling the innings and statistics stretch, one by one. It is something to hold onto, something deeper than the drunken mayhem of the far reaches of the upper deck. Out there — even deeper than last time, now behind the stadium’s speakers — Ivan Neville’s rendition of the national anthem is almost literally avant-garde. Whole notes form ill-fitting harmonies with those on either of side of them in the melody.
Even the echo of the bat is gone, as is the announcer. The scoreboard is an unreadable sliver. In the eighth, we figure out that Manny Mota is pitching because the name on the back of the jersey is short and the number is somewhere in the 50s. On my lap, the scorecard is a languid other-world, far from the chants (“En-dy C,” “En-dy Cha-vez” and just “En-dy” all compete after a Ron Swaboda-like miracle catch) and the chill (which will surely be worse at future games).
The innings occasionally widen, only once filled with the black wedges that represent runs (Carlos Beltran’s two-run shot in the sixth), and sometimes aberrations (Beltran’s 8-3 double-play from centerfield to first base) (booya!), but mostly they roll by like a river and keep pulse: the heartbeat of a season extended nine more innings.
o The PhantasyTour message boards, where the Phish parking lot lives on, are many things. Rarely, however, are they as brilliant as the thread that began several weeks ago with the subject “moe. = missionary position sex…” and went from there. (Random sampling: “Brothers Past = boning an emo chick just to see what it’s like. Turns out, not that bad.”)
o An unusually well-written baseball profile by John Koblin in the New York Observer, about Mets’ starter John Maine. (Thanks, MetsBlog.)
o These lists make the rounds every few years, but here is an updated page of how much it costs to book bands at colleges via the Man. (James Brown: $100,000; Huey Lewis, $150,000. Hmm. (Go Josh!)
o Yo La Tengo’s Ira Kaplan listed his faves for both Pitchfork and eMusic recently.
o A great piece from the New York Review of Books reviewing a bunch of books about Google, the Long Tail, and such. (Word, Joey.)
Since the last update from wunderkammern27.com’s Ordovician Archives, Dr. Tuttledge has traveled to Nigeria. Though he has remained in constant contact regarding his collection of oral histories related to the narratives transmitted by what he deemed “Urgent Message” artifacts (classified as “419 scams” by other scholars), Dr. Tuttledge has been unable to maintain his own observational work. The Center for Anthropological Computing — whose ever-expanding collections continue to be stored in Manhattan — has received applications for our still-open intern position, though none have yet met Dr. Tuttledge’s exacting standards.
In the meantime, we would like to present one new discovery that has earned a spot in the Archives. It is a classic type 1 goods-for-sale message, but it mimics the form of a MySpace notification. It is a strategy that employs the message type’s perfect ubiquity to cloak it against both humans and electronic filters. All of us here at the CAC are duly impressed and doff our hats. (The accompanying gibberish is pretty interesting, as well.)
From: New MySpace Message
Date: Saturday, October 7, 2006 2:32 AM
Subject: New message from Ruth on MySpace sent on Oct 07 02:20:00 -4 2006
You’ve got a new song from Ruth on MySpace!
Click here to hear your MySpace music:
http://myspace.mp3piat.com/?reloc.cfm=6&id=78730
Click here to get 5-free songs downloaded to Your Space:
http://myspace.mp3piat.com/?reloc.cfm=6&id=7873096909_5free
————————-
At MySpace we care about your privacy. We have sent you this notification to facilitate your use as a member of the MySpace service. If you don’t want to receive emails like this to your external email account in the future, change your Account Settings to “Do not send me notification emails”
Click here to change your Account Settings:
http://myspace.mp3piat.com/?account.settings=update=6&id=78730
MySpace Inc. – 1900 Wilshire Blvd. 2109, Los Angeles, CA 90403-5400 USA
©2006 MySpace Inc. All Rights Reserved
5. EXPORT RESTRICTIONS. Licensee agrees not to export or re-export the Licensed Materials to any country, person, entity or end user subject to U.S.A. export restrictions. Licensee warrants and represents that neither the U.S.A. Bureau of Export Administration nor any other federal agency has suspended, revoked or denied Licensee’s export privileges. By installing the Software, Licensee agrees to the foregoing and Licensee is representing and warranting that they are not located in, under the control of, or a national or resident of any such country.
1. Game overview
RESPONSIBILITIES FOR SELECTION OF
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the wrapper-script named ‘curl’ that is a front-end to curl in this case.
– Debian bug report 338681 by Jan Kunder: make curl better detect and report
Added support for a second FTP server in the test suite. Named… ftp2.
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compliance with the terms hereof, permits you to Use
– Nodak Sodak reported a crash when using a SOCKS4 proxy.
Daniel (14 March 2005)
Nationals or the U.S. Commerce Department‚s Table of Deny
___________________
with any of your obligation or conditions of this Agreement.
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END-USER LICENSE AGREEMENT
10. If you wish to incorporate parts of the Program into other free
Capture/Review LL
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authorized to Operate or use the Product in any way.
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BE BOUND BY AND ARE BECOMING A PARTY TO THIS
Intel 740
distribution and on any media you distribute that includes
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of strerror_r() API that is used when cross-compiling. If __GLIB__ is
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8. TERM. The license granted hereunder is effective until
Diffie-Hellman key types.
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agree that the Product may be subject to restrictions and
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