peregrine

Gloom and overcast skies bestow an aura of mystery, don't you think? Everything appears enfolded under shaded oyster skies. People smuggle themselves beneath umbrellas and the hoods of jackets. The stormy mantle across the city makes it the kind of day conducive to malaise but also prime to ponder the peregrine. Or if esoteric thoughts regarding being and time is not on the schedule, perhaps there's something else - some recreational pastime easily enjoyed indoors. Like... a movie?

And I did watch a couple movies all the way through this weekend (there were a couple I started, but stopped). One was Red Eye, from 2005, directed by Wes Craven. The first hour was engrossing. Airplane claustrophobia was perfectly captured, and it was exacerbated by the protagonist's predicament. Overall, Red Eye was a taut thriller, though it prolapsed into a boiler plate action flick in the third act.

The other movie was a semi-documentary crime-drama noir from 1948 titled The Street with No Name, directed by William Keighley. This was a solid piece of filmmaking, as so many noir pictures from that era tend to be. Richard Widmark is creepily outstanding as the neurotic, paranoid ringleader of a new breed of gangs hitting the streets of America. Though it is a satisfying picture, it is not necessarily one of the best noir flicks ever made (leave that to Pickup on South Street, Double Indemnity, and Out of the Past). But it is recommended viewing for its capable straightforward storytelling, and especially for the stellar peformance of Widmark. After I watched this, I poked around online and found that Mr. Widmark is still alive. That came as a surprise since so few personalities from that period are still around today...

Movie viewing, computer problems, a few Jim Beam and colas, an effort to catch up on sleep lost during the workweek - weekend activities enjoyed behind the closed doors. My solitary, though not downbeat, state of mind is reflected perfectly in the weather - weather I expressly prefer over summertime heat. The funereal conditions give me the inspiration to spend these minutes here at the machine. As twilight fades, I gaze through the open window in front of me - the portal to the city's mesmeric, noir world. Darkness falls around my solitude.

What if all the world's inside of your head
Just creations of your own?
Your devils and your gods
All the living and the dead
And you're really all alone?

pastiche

Haphazard thoughts from this side of the city.

It's dark outside, and here at home in the Queens Compund, I sit alone with the breeze from the fan blowing across my bare skin. Yes, I'm in for tonight, but I will be out on the town tomorrow to celebrate friend Rich's birthday. In this moment, though, it's just me, these words, the lull of the fan, and Jim Beam and cola. Maybe a movie later on. After the workweek, and with plans tomorrow evening, I welcome the solitude.

So, without any further skylarking...

Spitting. What the hell is the deal with people acting on the urge to deposit a stream of saliva on the sidewalk? I half-expect it from ignominious teens draped in their hip wanna-be gangsta gear, but older men? Because it was a middle-aged gent today. And yes, it is almost always the male of the species, too, though I've had the questionable privilege of observing females expel their excess saliva in public on rare occasions.

Regardless, today as I strolled along 45th Street in the pleasant early morning sunshine, this older fellow spat across the concrete without missing a step. I could only sneer, mumble, shake my head. I really wanted to spin around, catch up, grab him by the ear as one would an unruly child, drag him to the scene of his malfeasance, point to the wad of spew, and demand, "Why in the name of Dante Alighieri did you feel the sudden need to expectorate on the sidewalk for all to see? Don't answer. There is no excuse. And please, on the behalf of civil society, don't do it again." Alas, the scenario entered and left my mind before I hit the end of the block. If I acted on that urge to castigate the way he'd acted on his compulsion to spritz spit, then I'd be on a similar philistine level. Right? Or the middle-aged sidewalk marksman might feel the impetus to file an assault charge against me for stretching out his ear cartilage.

The spit doesn't sizzle on the cement now that the torturous heat wave has passed. Oh, what an endurance test it was a little over a week ago when the stagnant heat and humidity descended across the city and ensconced us in a vise of clammy calefaction. Summer. No, it is not my favorite season. As a child, oh, summer was glorious. But as a working stiff adult (well, as adult as I can be), I find the season distasteful and periodically intolerable. Grouchy and grumbling under the swampy citywide blanket, I found myself longing for San Francisco, where the high temperature was around 70 degrees and the low under 60. As I waded through the viscous air, I found that a mental state of a foggy San Francisco evening, clad in a light jacket, helped me through. Now, however, the weather has become quite agreeable. I know this because my clothes aren't soaked through with sweat within five minutes of stepping outside. Oh, and if the weather above ground is awful, try waiting for the subway on an underground platform - Dante's Inferno in a literal (not literary) sense. We're halfway to autumn, though, and autumn in the city rules. It reminds of (gasp!)... San Francisco.

I am typing this entry on my new Dell notebook computer, an Inspiron E1505. Yes, a few weeks ago I decided it was time for a technological upgrade. I'd been using my Dell desktop since 2002, and I was running low on space and speed, and my CD burner functioned only sporadically. So, I splurged. I realized I would be using this machine for years to come (hopefully), so I went with prudent upgrades so I wouldn't lament my lack of foresight a year or two down the line. 1GB of RAM, 100GB hard drive memory, Bluetooth, high-end wireless, 15.4-inch display (with the upgraded picture quality option), Sound Blaster enhanced audio, and DVD/CD burner combo. So far, so good, and it's a non-combustible battery (in reference to the recent Dell recall of faulty, explosive batteries). It's gratifying to have speed and the room for all of my programs and my ever-expanding music library. Plus, the unit looks pretty spiffy, too.

Recent DVDs to cross my line of vision: Hitchcock's Lifeboat, the classic noir The Street With No Name, Arrested Development Season Two, and Paris, Texas (the brilliant and heartbreaking Wim Wenders film).

Recent music that has assailed my ears in a positive way: New Model Army, Hole, Social Distortion, Blind Illusion, Joy Division, The Damned, SPK, Shinjuku Thief, Token Entry, Sabbat, TOOL.

And the book you must read: King Dork by Frank Portman. Find it. Buy it. Love it. Now.

Well, that's all that comes to mind right now. The thoughts are expunged for the time being. The moment has arrived to pour another drink, so I bid adieu for now...