H-Town

This article in the New York Times has made me homesick. A favorite quote (the writer is describing a Houston Tex-Mex restaurant named El Jardin):

Steaming combination platters of beef tacos and guacamole-topped chicken flautas cover the tables. For $5.55, the No. 16 was paralyzing — three pork tamales steamed in cornhusks dripped with gravy and cheese. You want to take a nap after lunch.

In Which I Rant About An Esteemed American Critic

Adam Gopnik is one of the best critics writing in America today. Along with Louis Menand and John Updike, he’s one of the critics in the New Yorker that I always read. He is intelligent, of course, (how do you become a critic for the New Yorker if you’re not? Only David Denby knows); but more importantly he’s enthusiastic; he isn’t cynical about what he reads and he manages to combine the erudition and training of an expert with the passion and perspective of an amateur.

That said, there is inevitably a passage in every one of his essays that irritates the living heck out of me. The passage in question this week comes at the end of a discussion on abridged versions of classic novels. (Apparently a British press is now publishing half-length versions of long 19th-century masterpieces like Moby Dick, Vanity Fair, and Anna Karenina.) Gopnik is surprised to find that most abridged novels seem to read as well as the originals.

“.... when you come to the end of the compact “Moby-Dick” you don’t think, What a betrayal; you think, Nice job—what were the missing bits again? And when you go back to find them you remember why the book isn’t just a thrilling adventure with unforgettable characters but a great book. The subtraction does not turn good work into hackwork; it turns a hysterical, half-mad masterpiece into a sound, sane book. It still has its phallic reach and point, but lacks its flaccid, anxious self-consciousness: it is all Dick and no Moby.”

What drives me bonkers here is the last sentence. It’s intended to be clever, but in fact it’s false—and the reason it’s false is because Gopnik is trying so hard to be clever.

Why is it false? Because the abridged version of Moby Dick is not, in any way, phallic. I’ll leave aside the question of whether or not “reach” and “point” are accurate descriptions of a phallus; let’s say for now that Gopnik is right, and that they are (but they’re not). Even so, there exists no person in this Universe who, upon finishing a book sharing the traits with the abridged version of a classic—one that is “sound, sane” and well-plotted—thinks to themselves, “You know, that book had reach. It had point.” No one. Not even Adam Gopnik. How could he? Those words bear no relation to the reading experience he describes.

What’s more, Gopnik knows this. How can he not? Anyone smart enough to write the rest of this essay must have known, when he coined that formulation, he was saying something that was not true. He knew, and did it anyway. The pun at the end of the paragraph (“All Dick and no Moby”) was important enough that he could justify the falsity its creation demanded. He wanted to sound clever, and even though that required him to say something untrue, he didn’t care.

It’s one thing to distort experience because you are, at root, unable to capture it. That’s a lack of skill; and though it is a failing, it is not a moral one. But Gopnik has no problem getting experience right, if he wants to. He has the skill; he’s just chooses not to use it. (If you don’t believe me, read the rest of the essay). And that, ultimately, is why passages like these make me so angry—because his failure is not the failure of the mediocre writer. He could say something true, but chooses not to. He would rather sound smart than write the truth. And that IS a moral failing.

"L.A. Is The Apocalypse"

This mildly deranged, Dave Hickey-esque, rumination on L.A. comes from a pretty excellent blog about contemporary architecture, urban planning, and all sorts of other nutty stuff . (Via: ASWOBA). It's intense, but funny and--at least in my limited experience--fairly accurate.

Greater Los Angeles

No matter what you do in L.A., your behavior is appropriate for the city. Los Angeles has no assumed correct mode of use. You can have fake breasts and drive a Ford Mustang – or you can grow a beard, weigh 300 pounds, and read Christian science fiction novels. Either way, you're fine: that's just how it works. You can watch Cops all day or you can be a porn star or you can be a Caltech physicist. You can listen to Carcass – or you can listen to Pat Robertson. Or both.
That's how we dooz it.

L.A. is the apocalypse: it's you and a bunch of parking lots. No one's going to save you; no one's looking out for you. It's the only city I know where that's the explicit premise of living there – that's the deal you make when you move to L.A.
The city, ironically, is emotionally authentic.

It says: no one loves you; you're the least important person in the room; get over it.

What matters is what you do there.

And maybe that means renting Hot Fuzz and eating too many pretzels; or maybe that means driving a Prius out to Malibu and surfing with Daryl Hannah as a means of protesting something; or maybe that means buying everything Fredric Jameson has ever written and even underlining significant passages as you visit the Westin Bonaventura. Maybe that just means getting into skateboarding, or into E!, or into Zen, Kabbalah, and Christian mysticism; or maybe you'll plunge yourself into gin-fueled all night Frank Sinatra marathons – or you'll lift weights and check email every two minutes on your Blackberry and watch old Bruce Willis films.

Who cares?

Literally no one cares, is the answer. No one cares. You're alone in the world.

L.A. is explicit about that.

If you can't handle a huge landscape made entirely from concrete, interspersed with 24-hour drugstores stocked with medications you don't need, then don't move there.
It's you and a bunch of parking lots.

You'll see Al Pacino in a traffic jam, wearing a stocking cap; you'll see Cameron Diaz in the check-out line at Whole Foods, giggling through a mask of reptilian skin; you'll see Harry Shearer buying bulk shrimp.

The whole thing is ridiculous. It's the most ridiculous city in the world – but everyone who lives there knows that. No one thinks that L.A. "works," or that it's well-designed, or that it's perfectly functional, or even that it makes sense to have put it there in the first place; they just think it's interesting. And they have fun there.

And the huge irony is that Southern California is where you can actually do what you want to do; you can just relax and be ridiculous. In L.A. you don't have to be embarrassed by yourself. You're not driven into a state of endless, vaguely militarized self-justification by your xenophobic neighbors.

You've got a surgically pinched, thin Michael Jackson nose? You've got a goatee and a trucker hat? You've got a million-dollar job and a Bentley? You've got to be at work at the local doughnut shop before 6am? Or maybe you've got 16 kids and an addiction to Yoo-Hoo – who cares?

It doesn't matter.

Los Angeles is where you confront the objective fact that you mean nothing; the desert, the ocean, the tectonic plates, the clear skies, the sun itself, the Hollywood Walk of Fame – even the parking lots: everything there somehow precedes you, even new construction sites, and it's bigger than you and more abstract than you and indifferent to you. You don't matter. You're free.

In Los Angeles you can be standing next to another human being but you may as well be standing next to a geological formation. Whatever that thing is, it doesn't care about you. And you don't care about it. Get over it. You're alone in the world. Do something interesting.

Do what you actually want to do – even if that means reading P.D. James or getting your nails done or re-oiling car parts in your backyard.

Because no one cares.

In L.A. you can grow Fabio hair and go to the Arclight and not be embarrassed by yourself. Every mode of living is appropriate for L.A. You can do what you want.
And I don't just mean that Los Angeles is some friendly bastion of cultural diversity and so we should celebrate it on that level and be done with it; I mean that Los Angeles is the confrontation with the void. It is the void. It's the confrontation with astronomy through near-constant sunlight and the inhuman radiative cancers that result. It's the confrontation with geology through plate tectonics and buried oil, methane, gravel, tar, and whatever other weird deposits of unknown ancient remains are sitting around down there in the dry and fractured subsurface. It's a confrontation with the oceanic; with anonymity; with desert time; with endless parking lots.

And it doesn't need humanizing. Who cares if you can't identify with Los Angeles? It doesn't need to be made human. It's better than that.

Is It Wednesday? I Guess It's Time To Define Love

Rainer Maria Rilke on love:

We must trust in what is difficult. It is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult. It is also good to love, because love is difficult. For one human being to love another human being: that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been entrusted to us, the ultimate task, the final test and proof, the work for which all other work is mere preparation…. Love consists in this: that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.

Pretty great, huh?
Via Cosmic Variance

Sort of A Poker Post

The Final Solution To All Global Warming

Ok, that's a slight overstatement. I wanted to get your attention, though. This article, in City Journal, a market-centered policy journal, argues persuasively against carbon "cap-and-trade" programs. Such programs are increasingly popular (one now exists in Europe) solutions to Global Warming. According to the author, a better policy would be to implement a straight-up tax on carbon emissions and remove the numerous state and local regulations which currently make it almost impossible to build nuclear power plants. A thought-provoking piece.

What Awful People

This scene, from Terry Gilliam's Time Bandits, came to me inexplicably when I woke up this morning. (Shouldn't have eaten so much salsa for dinner). It shows what a great comic actor (Cleese) can do with even a minor part. Apparently Cleese drew inspiration for the role from watching minor British Royals press the flesh at soccer matches. (Excuse me: Football matches!) The last line is really really funny--not for the words so much as the delivery. Probably that's what makes great comic actors great; they can turn lines that, for most people, would be throwaways into something approaching high art. Enjoy.

For Your Enjoyment

-An insightful, if somewhat gloomy look at the current English-language literary scene in the New Criterion....

-Pinback, my favorite band of the last few years, has a new album out....

-A site my brother will appreciate: a brave young critic sets out to view and review every single movie in the Criterion Collection. To judge by his review of Andrei Rublev (tops, probably, on my "All-Times Favorites" list), he's a smart and articulate critic.

Spotted: D-List Celebs!

The wife and I had a funny little LA moment on Friday. We went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner--a dive-y neighborhood place--and found a cameraman and producer set up in the main dining area. Turns out one of the couples (Heidi and...some guy?) from "The Hills" was eating there. The crew had come to record. Diners seated in the main room were being asked to sign release forms.

We ended up sitting directly across them (no camera though: they'd gone by then). Both looked supremely bored to be in each other's presence. At different points in the conversation they each talked or texted other people on their cell phone.

And she is REALLY thin. Unpleasantly so. Her arms look like pieces of balsa. Yech.

It was 6:30, too. Seems early for glamorous young Hollywood-ites to eat. But probably they were going to some big party that night. Or something.

Poker IV

I haven't written about poker in a long time. A long, long time. Mostly because I haven't played much in the last few months. That, and the goiter.

But, I'm just returned from Las Vegas ("The Big Easy") where I DID play poker (and won). So, to pacify my legion of enthusiastic readers (Legion!) I will describe two of the more significant hands I played this week. One of them, I played well. Another, not so well.


Setting: The Venetian 550$ Buy-in Friday Hold 'Em


Hand One

Blinds: 500/1000
Ante: 50

Midway through the tournament. We are down from four to two tables. I have the biggest chip stack at the table. To my left sits the other big stack at the table ("Cigarette"). He has an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, orange aviator glasses, and a variety of mustache generally associated with 1970s porn stars. So far he has played a loose aggressive game; my read on him is that he's not afraid to move chips around.

I am in the SB with 9/4 offsuit. Everyone folds. I call the blind (500) figuring that since we are the two big stacks and I outchip him (barely) we will play a small, unexciting pot.

Cigarette sees it differently. He doesn't check; he raises: 4000 more.

Most of the time, I would fold. After all, I have a terrible hand and very little invested in the pot. But something here feels wrong. My Spidey-sense, as it were, is tingling. I don't think he has NOTHING; but neither do I think he's especially strong. Most of all, I think he wants to take the hand down right now; he probably has a hand like AQ.

At this point, my table reputation is fairly tight. I've played only a few hand in the last hour. Almost every time, I've showed good cards. I should--SHOULD--be able to push him around. Or so I think. So, I raise 6000 more, for a total bet of 10,000. He considers long and hard. I try to study him; unfortunately the dealer sits directly between us. I sense, though, that he's not happy about my reraise. I'm not sure he completely believes me--he knows I know he seemed weak on his first bet--but he's definitely thinking.

He calls.

The flop comes: 3 7 8 rainbow. This is a great flop. If, as I suspect, he had high cards, it missed him altogether. So far my bets have represented a large pocket pair. This is the kind of flop that I should like. I lead out and bet 7000. He folds.

I show my cards to the table. I don't want to come off as a jerk; at the same time, I don't want to have to play big pots against him in the future. If he sees I'm slightly unpredictable he might be inclined, in the future, to let me see flops for cheap. He'll also be less likely to bluff at me; he knows I might play back.

As it happens, Cigarette man busts out about thirty minutes later; my attempts to 'set him up' for the endgame go for naught.


Hand Two

Blinds: 1500/3000
Ante: 100

The final table. We are down to eight. The top five are paid. I am second in chips to the player on my left (Pony-tail). Pony-tail is a solid player; he's mostly folded since he sat down. Twenty minutes earlier he won a very large pot off of me when he backdoored a flush on the river and I paid him off with two pair. It was that hand that lost me the chip lead.

My cards: A9.

Everyone folds to me on the button: I raise to 8000. (Blinds are 1500/3000). Pony-tail thinks and then calls. I'm not happy. He has shown no interest in defending his blinds before this hand. If he calls, he has a hand. Unless I hit the flop HARD I am done with this hand.

The Flop: As Ac 6s

Hard to hit it much harder than that. Except, to my consternation, Pony-tail now leads out and bets into me for 12,000. ??? Puzzlement. Confusion. Hello?! McFly? Doens't he know that I'm the one with Trips?

Does he have a six? Does he have a middle pair (8/8)? Is he using his tight reputation to try and steal? Surely if he had an Ace he would check here--wouldn't he?

I'm not sure. I'm either way ahead or way behind. If the former, he'll only fold when I bet. If the latter, I don't want to put any more money into this pot. I call.

Turn: 8d

He checks. I check. Same reasoning as on the flop.

River: Ks.

He now bets 20,000. !!!! What the hell is going on here? I go into the tank. The river has completed a spade flush. Is it possible he was betting the flop on a flush draw? Or did he have AK, and just make Aces Full? Or has he read my calls for weakness and decided his middle pair is actually good? Or maybe he had KQ and is now making some kind of value bet?

I have to be beat. There is no hand I can beat that would lead into me on the flop and river. I have 60,000 in chips. 20,000 is a significant amount. Could he be on a stone-cold steal? Does Pony-tail have that kind of guts? He is almost guaranteed to make the money already; would he really risk so many chips on a bluff? No. He must have a hand.

Or so I think. But then, I call. I have to see it. I know I am beat, but I have to see it. Because I am a donkey.

He shows: AK. He was ahead the whole time. He checked the turn because he was worried that I had paired my kicker (he knew I had an ace, too) and had filled up. When the King hit the river, he knew he was good (obviously).

The king killed me. Any other river and we probably check it down. But, I also killed myself. On the river, I should have folded. I could have folded. I couldn't beat any hand that could bet there. But it's hard, hard, hard to fold three Aces, especially heads-up. It's hard, but not impossible. I should have done it. But I didn't.


Epilogue: Once we got down to six players we chopped the prize money. Pony-tail had 40% of the chips at that point; the rest of us each had about the same amount. He got 5gs, the rest of us got 2400. Not a bad tourny. But if only I had folded that river....

This and That

I'm sorry I've neglected the blog this last week. I've been working madly on a teleplay, and when I get in my manic writing phases (MUST FINISH MUST FINISH MUST FINISH) I resent being involved in any other literary endeavor. And blogging, as I've learned in the last few months, is hard. It amazes me that John and Kate (plug plug!) manage to put out such elegant and thought-provoking posts with such consistency. Amazes and depresses me. Everyone writes so damn well!

So anyway, here's what's been going on in my life:

-I'm reading a book of short stories by David Gates called The Wonders of The Invisible World. Gates wrote the introduction to my copy of Little Dorrit, through which I slogged, as a knife might through a particularly tedious and deeply-frozen chunk of butter, this spring. I love Dickens, but Little Dorrit? I don't think so. The stories typically center around embittered intellectuals living in and around New York. But the writing is good, and there's enough wit and insight to lift it above the usual generic short story mush.

-The wife and I just finished the second season of The Wire. Wow. It's hard to praise the series as deeply as it deserves. The most significant thing I can think to say is that on three consecutive nights last week I had dreams that featured characters from the show. The only other TV that's done that to me was The Sopranos. If you walk through the garden, you better watch your back. (MAN I love Bunk! And Omar, of course. Has there even been a more stylish and charismatic criminal?)

-This weekend I'm going to Vegas. On Saturday, I'm playing a Celebrity Hold'Em Tournament at the Hard Rock Casino. You never know for sure--some celebrities take poker very seriously--but the poker skill of your average actor/rock singer/rap star is about equal to the field goal-kicking skill of your average 6 year old. Let's hope I catch some cards. Reports will follow, unless I bust out early on a runner-runner suckout. Then, they probably won't.