Rhododaktulos Ēōs

Saw Rosy-fingered Dawn do her stuff this morning. Was up earlier than usual to take la wife to O’Hare for her 6 AM flight and so I was able to enjoy all those pink clouds I’d normally snooze through.

The sunrise display caused me, as always, to wonder how Homer got it so wrong. Granted, he was blind, but couldn’t someone have told him the clouds at dawn look more like ribs than fingers? If Dawn is said to look like rosy fingers, doesn’t that evoke a picture of clouds radiating from from a central palm? (See figure 1.)

Figure 1

That seems all wrong. Homer nods indeed. If one fine morning we saw a giant pink hand looming over the horizon, we’d be sure the end of the world had come.

No, not fingers. I think Homer would have done far better to call her “Pink-pancake Dawn.” (See Figure 2.)

Figure 2

There. Now that’s more like it. Pink-pancake Dawn: a better metaphor visually, and as a bonus it carries a suggestion of a delicious breakfast treat.

While we ‘re on the subject: Don’t you think Rudyard Kipling is way off base when he says, “An’ the dawn come up like thunder?” Well, I do. Maybe the dawn thunders “outer china ‘crost the Bay on the Road to Mandalay” but it barely squeaks around here. Oh, man. I’m going back to bed.

Nice Work Book Review: Hit and Run

First Jack Reacher, now John Paul Keller.

Two of my favorite Junk Fiction anti-heroes: gone for good. And all in the space of three weeks. First, the British writer of tuff-guy thrillers, Lee Child, changes his ex-MP brawler, Reacher, from a sort of Libertarian Lone Ranger into a Greenpeace activist. (See my mournful review.) Now Lawrence Block transforms his epitome of evil, the hitman Keller, into a Sword of Justice in his new novel, Hit and Run.

Keller’s previous appearances in Hit Man, Hit List, and Hit Parade gave no warning that he would metamorphose into a good guy — or what passes in Lawrence Block’s world for a good guy. He had been an emotionally blank, unimaginative, conscienceless professional murderer. The guilty pleasure of those books — one novel and two linked-story collections — lay in Block’s luring the reader into siding with this charmless psychopath. Imagine Patricia Highsmith writing The Talented Mr. Ripley with Chauncey Gardiner (from Kosinski’s Being There) in the lead.

Sadly, in his latest, Block turns Keller into a righteous left-wing hero. Keller crosses the country avenging the assassination of an Obama-like presidential hopeful by killing Republicans on the golf course. No, really. At one point he executes a Bible-thumping NRA yokel in Indiana who sleeps with an Ann Coulter blow-up doll. Ho ho. Look to your laurels, Al Franken.

It gets worse, but why go on? Politics ruins everything. If Block wanted so badly to chime in this election year with some ham-fisted lefty satire, hey, more power to him. Free country. But did he have to suborn Keller?

Curse You, Steve Jobs

Stop me before I download again. I’m having too much fun watching itty-bitty TV shows on my iPod.

Look: There is a stack of improving books on my bedside table. But they go unread while I follow the comic misadventures of Brenda Leigh Johnson in The Closer as she fights crime in Los Angeles. (Think Beverly Hillbillies meets Columbo.) I know all this iTunes spending is wrong, but I just can’t stop.

Odd how compelling that 2.5 inch screen is. Like your own secret window into the screwy brains of Hollywood screenwriters. Reminds me of the short story by H.G. Wells, “The Crystal Egg” about a London antique dealer who becomes obsessed with the images he sees in the titular object. Turns out it’s a television link to Mars. I’m not kidding: that’s the story. Read it yourself: EGGEGGEGGEGG.

Or maybe it’s the intimacy of the stereo headphones. Television drama after all these years is still fundamentally radio drama. The voices are so distinct and so hyper-expressive you can enjoy most shows pretty well with no picture. Or maybe it’s Kyra Sedgwick’s big, red…

Oops! What happened? I seem to have downloaded another episode… When? How? I must have slipped into some kind of a fugue state. Gosh… Well, whatever. Bye!

Giants in the Land

Liz and I brunched at our favorite IHOP yesterday and perused the local paper. A forkful of cheese blintz stopped halfway in its transit when I spotted this thrilling headline:

Could it be true? Dare I hope? Has Narnia broken through to our drab world?

A quick search through the paper revealed nothing about centaurs, dryads or fauns. Maybe they’ve emerged stealthily, or maybe they are waiting to see how things work out for the giants. Who knows? Nice Work will keep you updated on this exciting mythopoeic development.

WATCH ME PLAY GOLF, a true story

My daughter reports the following dialogue. A five year old boy was conversing with his mom yesterday. At top volume, too — even though the playlet took place across the street in front it still came in loud and clear through the second floor window in back where Liz transcribed it at this computer. Figure about 75 decibels. (A diesel truck is about 84db.)

Boy: “Hey, Mo-o-o-om?”
Mom: “Ye-e-e-e-s?”
Boy: [After a suspenseful pause] “What’s your favorite sport?”
Mom: “To play, or to watch?”
Boy: [Annoyed at having to state the obvious] “To PL-A-A-AY!”
[Long pause while she considers]
Mom: “Umm … GOLF.”
Boy: [Vehemently] “I can play golf!”
Mom: “Oh, yeah?”
Boy: [Dripping with scorn] “Tsch. Of course. It’s easy!”
Mom: “Well, it doesn’t seem so easy for Tiger Woods.”
Boy: [Con brio] “It’s easy for ME! Watch me. WATCH ME PLAY GOLF!”

Ha! I’m looking forward to moving to L.A., but that kid-talk is the sort of thing I’m going to miss. In California children are illegal.

Robert le Pieux

Moving house gives me sad. I’m convinced the real reason Satan prefered to “reign in hell” over serving in heaven had nothing to do with hubris: he just couldn’t face another realtor.

Robert le Pieux couldn’t stand it either. He wanted to stay put. In this detail from Jean-Paul Laurens’ famous painting of the Relocation of Robert le Pieux, we see the tenth century French monarch moaning with his wife, Berthe of Burgundy. The thought balloon is a later addition.

Degringolade

Can it really be June 21st already! The solstice has come and gone. The days are growing shorter, the nights longer. The wicked north wind begins to swell its chest and prepares to hurl Canadian snow against our frail huts. Soon the world will look like this photo Liz took one dreadful night last December:

Oh, wait. I forgot. We’ll be in southern California before long. We won’t huddle in fear while the scary trees of winter creep in to surround us and try to frighten us away with their muttered threats and whispered warnings of doom. Those gnarled elms, embittered by the Dutch pandemic, can murmur and hiss all they want: they have no power in L.A.. There, under clear skies, we shall be serenaded by the merry avocados and friendly pistachios.

In the meantime, as the gloom gathers here in the upper Midwest, we must dispel the darkness by manufacturing our own happiness. And what better way than by not going to the movies?

The selection of films to skip makes it hard to choose. How about Get Smart? Not all that funny as a TV sitcom; nor likely to improve with super-sizing. Can a feature length My Mother the Car be far behind?

And look: another Mike Meyers comedy… Oh, never mind. It’s gone.

Guess we’ll have to read a… a… you know, one of those things you read.

My Other Web Log

I started another Web Log today. It’s called Kevin Atherton’s Drawings and that’s all that it is or ever will be.

Here’s what its header looks like:

The first post at the new web log sets out the why’s and wherefor’s, so I won’t go into all that here. I’ll only say that Nice Work was originally meant to be a showcase for my professional work, but it’s gotten so far off that track it will never return. I can’t even find the Mission Statement.

Which is fine. I’m going to continue to use Nice Work as my Sword of Truth and Justice, while Kevin Atherton’s Drawings will be my online portfolio. Two completely separate projects.

¡California, Venimos!

The die is cast. We are moving ourselves to California with whatever worldly goods remain after the garage sale. The garage sale is this weekend. You’re invited. Need a snow-blower?

What this means to the mini-industry that is Nice Work is anybody’s guess. Maybe nothing at all, considering how my illo work has been located in Cybercyberland these dozen years past.

Maybe quite a lot. Will my inner-Moondoggie succumb to lure of the surf? Might. Who knows? And Hollywood won’t be so far away either. Will I hear her siren song? You know, I’ve long nursed a secret dream to be a CGI. This might be my big break.

In the meantime, problems galore. Stuff to pack. Stuff to discard. Stuff to pack, move and then discard. And what about my guns? Are they even legal for non-rioters in L.A.? Will our earthquake insurance premiums go up? Will my high school Spanish prove serviceable after years of neglect except on Cinco de Mayo? Well, one thing at a time. And the first item on the agenda is procrastination.

Restaurant History

Did you ever wonder how the kids’ novelty restaurant, Chuck E. Cheese, got its name?

The question never crossed my mind for even a second, but during a listless browsing of Thomas Cahill’s book, The Mysteries of the Middle Ages, I found out.

Amazingly, the name “Chuck E. Cheese” has its roots in 9th century France. It seems Charles the Bald, one of the early kings of France, was a big promoter of local agriculture. In particular he boosted the cheese industry, earning an everlasting place in the hearts of French dairymen. Indeed, cheese fanciers throughout Christendom sang his praises. Among those satisfied nibblers was Pope Adrian II who bestowed on Charles the title, “Emperator Caseoli.”

Charles’ name frequently appeared on coins and portraits abbreviated as “Carolus E. Caseoli” which, Americanized, becomes “Charles E. Cheese.”

Fast forward to 1984. Restauranteur Nolan Bushnell was in the middle of reorganizing his bankrupt “Showtime Pizza.” He needed a catchy new name. He just happened to pick up a used copy of Cahill’s book and saw the picture reproduced above. For some reason — he can’t explain it — his first thought was, “Chuck, you dirty rat!” The rest is dining history.