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Hi everyone. I'm not just a link-posting bot, but I have been writing less lately. You're welcome.

Today on the train I saw the following woman:

She was in her late forties, of indeterminate origin. Clearly a respectable office-worker type. She was one of those people immediately recognizable as eccentric. As soon as one sees such a person the only question is: what's the situation? Because there is a situation.

She thumped into one of the larger seats with a table. Right away she went into what was clearly a settled routine. Out came the purse, and from the purse most of the contents spilled onto the table. There was sorting for a few minutes.

Next, she wound her hair onto four curlers. These remained for the rest of the journey.

A series of plastic containers was carefully lined up. Yogurt, dry cereal, and some slices of fruit were deposited from three of them into a fourth, and slowly consumed with a tiny plastic spoon.

These containers were replaced in the purse, and two more containers were opened. I think they contained lunch materials. Some manipulation of the lunch containers ensued and they too were placed back in the purse.

Satisfied that she was on her way, she kicked off her shoes and took out several books as well as two pairs of glasses and a small pile of tools or jewelry that I couldn't quite make out.

The books were not read. However, she did do some minor repair on her nail polish, and I think some other makeup juju that involved a mirror and a lot of gyrations in the seat.

At this point there were twenty or so objects on the table, most of which she picked up or put down several times. At no time did she look out the window or at any other passengers.

From time to time this woman emitted a clearly audible hissing sound reminiscent of an air brake on a truck. I could not see any source for this sound or any behavior that indicated she was aware of it.

In short: LONG LIVE THE IMMEASURABLE DIVERSITY OF HUMAN EXPERIENCE and damn I am sure glad I don't share an office with her.

He was responsible more than anyone else for the Los Angeles underground music scene that lit up my brain in high school and gave me so much in the years afterwards. The art of all kinds that arose from Theoretical and the Anti-Club turned a lot of us upside down in the best way. Thanks, Jack.

From the Savage Republic mailing list:

-----

Truly a sad day...

Jaques Ren Marquette 1948 - 2008


.We have lost a true pioneer of the LA music scene..


I (thom f.) was fortunate enough to know Jack Marquette and he is a
large part of SR's exposure and success. He gave my first band, Spadra
Moods, our first chance in LA and he promoted my first two shows with
SR. He broke bands like the Abecedarians, Psi-Com, and many others.
The following was sent to me to today by Marnie Weber...


Our very dear friend Jack Marquette passed away early this morning,
after bravely battling a long illness. His partner, Fredrick Ascher
was by his side. All of your thoughts, prayers, visits and love over
the past few months touched him deeply. Jack meant so much to all of
us, he will be greatly missed.

cordiloquy ?

I have renewed faith in the coffeehouse experience. The last two nights when I've stolen an hour from the on-call stuff, once each at D's and at Kéan, have been fruitful. Last night I talked to an artist about his art, how to survive financially, meditative practice, the difficulty of explaining things, and a lot of other topics. We both learned a lot. Tonight, I shot the shit with an airline pilot about travel, cities and their virtues, the madness of money, aviation, and the local criminals. We were joined by another friend of his who did some kind of airport work and I mostly listened as they discussed money, sex, and cars.

I learned a lot and met some interesting people. Yay coffee houses.

I went to a party last night and it wasn't a failure!

This is good, because parties have traditionally either totally alienated me, or hyped me up followed by a nasty crash afterwards. At this one I just had conversations with some nice, interesting people and then went home and went to bed.

There were musician guys there with rock 'n' roll hair but they were the thoughtful and well-educated kind and not yahoos. People were interested in ideas and things, and no one got sloppy drunk and in my face. Also, my Enron shirt was a hit.

It occurs to me that the resilience I'm acquiring through NFB is useful in these social situations so I am not one large nerve and I don't get weird blowback effects afterwards.

Oh, and there was Stilton with apricot in it.

I did have one embarrassing moment when I introduced myself to someone who'd introduced himself about 45 minutes before. Fortunately I could tell this was a cognitive effect of treatment since it was so unusual, and he was interested in the explanation rather than totally offended.

And now, photo time.

Early in my computer stuff career I worked for a small dotcom outfit that did work for entertainment companies. There were four principals who ran the place, each of which deserves his own article. Today I'm going to talk about Barry (not his real name).

Barry was a smallish, delicately built man with a careful tan. He wore Entertainment Executive Casual clothing of the 90s: those priest collar shirts, khakis, expensive loafers. He had been an exec at a big movie studio and this was his first independent company.

In most ways he was a stereotypical New York entertainment Jew transplanted to L.A., and like most smart people who are stereotypes he played it up. The result was a near-perfect reenactment of Woody Allen in Annie Hall most of the time. When I first started working there he took me out to lunch, and over a Reuben and home fries I got to hear a 90 minute oration on tap water. The tap water in New York was good, but then he came here, and he put a glass of tap water next to his bed and in the morning he saw all the disgusting sediment, and he only drank bottled water now. Yes, 90 minutes.

Barry was halting, diffident, nebbishy in conversation. He salted his sentences with "uh you know" and "if you see what I mean" and "okay, so, okay, so" and pulled his hands up to his face pointed down, like a chipmunk. He'd then rub them together rapidly, changing animals to become a grape-washing raccoon. His eyes darted around the room and he frequently turned away from people while speaking to them, or looked fixedly at some object while he talked.

He loved privilege and perks, and was careful to make sure that he got them all. When any swag or free tickets arrived in the office he was sure to be there to spirit them away. If one of the underlings managed to score something Barry would appear at the desk: "Uh, yeah, hello. So. Yeah, the items, that came from Paramount. Yes. Those are, um. I'll need to, yes, thanks, take them."

When something was on deadline (which was always), Barry would succumb to terrible anxieties. Often he would end up behind some hapless employee's desk, mincing back and forth between two blind spots. "Hi, yes. Not wanting to um bother you! Just, I am trying to. If you could. Um, how is the timing looking for this. The agent, is, you know, waiting. Okay. Okay yes." He could stand there, slightly too close, and wait for someone to complete a writing or graphics task for a good solid hour. If he felt especially worked up he might actually come up and poke someone unexpectedly, which caused at least one employee to snap and scream "BARRY DO NOT EVER DO THAT AGAIN GODDAMNIT".

Barry was an aficionado of humor. The Simpsons were in their prime and we all had sound clips, which since he didn't know how to do sound he envied. I remember him making me play the Harry Shearer Springfield Police Department Rescu-Fone thing over and over and over while he rocked back and forth giggling at my desk.

Barry was single and in great need of a date. And we had many beautiful women come through the office, some of whom were actors and others just pretty people in the business. One time in particular I was doing a kind of online interview thing with an unknown but steaming hot actress. She and I were BSing and horsing around joking with her agent person before we did this event, and Barry was back in the executive office. He kept leaning way, way over to get around his monitor so he could look at her breasts through his office window. Just as she left he rushed up and shook her hand and gave her his card. He then came over to my desk and talked to me about her "rack" for about 15 minutes while making chipmunk hands.

He had great confidence in his own comic skills and loved to do little impressions. One of his favorites was a disheartening racist Ching Chong Chinaman accent act which would make everyone in the room stare silently at nothing and the record player skip and all the cowboys turn around and look, every time he did it. At the time we were having trouble getting enough business from our clients and Barry was the man assigned to go lunch with people and get us gigs. At one Santa Monica soirée with moguls, he did the full Charlie Chan routine over drinks. The president of [redacted], an important movie studio, was his big target that night. Unfortunately the guy was married to a Japanese-American woman and took Extreme Offense. We lost the big account.

Barry made millions when the company was sold. He'd promised equity stakes for underpaid early employees but he lied. I hear he's married now, and running some other internet thing. I bet his hands are still really, really sweaty.