I kind of like the whole concept of "identity theft". It's such a bombastic way to lump several transgressions into one buzzword, and lends itself to some weird extentions of analogy. I can just imagine the stand-up routine accompanying it: "What is the deal with identity theft? Why is identity so easy to steal, but so hard to lose? Do they really take it from you, or just copy it? Shouldn't it be called identity plagarism?".
It works best if you imagine that being said in a really nasal voice. Trust me.
I thought today I'd briefly review two (relatively) new Asian airports which were built on razed or artificial islands.
The first is Chek Lap Kok airport in Hong Kong, designed by the renowned Sir Norman Foster and Associates. Construction involved not only the building of a massive central terminal (the largest single enclosed contiguous structure in the world), but the leveling, reshaping, and expansion of the eponymous island, which lies about 25km from Central in Hong Kong. To support the heavy volume of traffic between the island and the city proper, high-speed rail links and suspension bridges for automobile traffic (as well as other infrastructural improvements) were built over hilly and unaccommodating terrain. From Metroplolis magazine, Feb 1999:
Much of what's impressive about the project is its sheer magnitude. I'd be remiss if I didn't rehearse a few facts. During its (incredibly rapid) six years of construction, this was the largest building site on the planet. Chek Lap Kok, a sweet little island with a 345-foot peak, was leveled and then expanded 400 percent to an area two miles wide and three-and-a-half long. The $20 billion spent on the project financed not only the construction of the island, the terminal, the cargo-handling facilities, and myriad outbuildings, but also a high-speed rail line and a highway into downtown Hong Kong, a small city for airport employees, and one of the world's longest suspension bridges.
According to a suggestive piece of publicity, the five-and-a-half-million-square-foot terminal--purportedly the biggest enclosed public space ever built--is "larger than London's Soho district." It contains 457,450 cubic yards of concrete, nearly 30 acres of granite, almost 25 miles of piping, 100,000 light fixtures, and 5,500 doors (not bad for a one-room building). It took 11,000 man days to draw and 13 million to build, has a baggage hall bigger than Wembley (or Yankee) Stadium, can now accommodate 35 million passengers a year, and could eventually handle as many as 87 million.
You might want to avoid it at the moment though, because of that outbreak of SARS.
The second, Kansai airport in Osaka, Japan, is smaller in scale (financially as well, report put the cost between $14 and $17 billion), but perhaps even more audacious given that it rests entirely on an artificial island amassed from reclaimed land for the express purpose of hosting the airport. Completed in 1994 after only 6 years of construction efforts, and connected by a causeway supporting (much like Chek Lap Kok) road and rail traffic, the island rests 5km off the Japanese coast in Osaka bay. The project was further complicated by the necessity of factoring in settlement and sinking rates in accordance with the known behavior of artificial sediment. Despite data which suggests that the current settling rate exceeds the predicted rate (and is uneven, causing the island to tilt), expansion plans were approved and preliminary construction is underway, resulting in far more... turbulent public opinion than its Hong Kong cousin. From a 7/29/01 NYT article:
Last year, despite a modest increase in the number of flights and passenger traffic to Osaka, Kansai International, which charges some of the world's highest landing fees and office rents, lost $1.28 billion.
Transport analysts in Japan attribute the losses to a combination of factors, including the needed repairs and weak economic conditions that have reduced air traffic. Also to blame, they say, is growing competition from new airports in Seoul and Hong Kong, which are more economical and robust, even though they too were built on reclaimed land.
The sinking has raised doubts in Japan and abroad about the safety of Kansai International and whether the world's most expensive airport was worth the price.
Kansai International officials insist that the airport will eventually live up to its potential. Last year, airport traffic increased 5 percent to 120,000 flights, and the number of passenger arrivals rose 3 percent to 20.5 million people, the officials said. But those numbers are far short of the capacity of 160,000 flights a year that planners predicted would be achieved by now.
UPDATE: I later got to visit Kansai Airport when in Japan. Pics are here.
UPDATE 2: Even later, I got to visit Chek Lap Kok.
There's a tiny little Japanese food alcove near my apartment which serves a very limited menu of Osaka cuisine. It's so small that, aside from the two employees, it can't accommodate more than 3 people at a time. They do a hell of a job making takoyaki however (the gu is optional), using their specialized iron grills.
I was reminded of this establishment after running into this flash animation, which incidentally can be sent as an e-card. It depicts several gleeful takoyaki happily cooking away (If you mouse-click on them however, it presses them firmly against the hot surface, and they grimace with anguish!). It's awesome.
When I was much younger, my mother took my brother and myself to Solvang, a little town several hours from home. It was settled by Danish immigrants and, in an attempt to market to xenophillic tourists by exploiting their Danish cachet, the town progressively began to resemble their homeland, right down to the cobblestone streets and Aebleskivers. I remember at the time thinking, all of 5 years old, how utterly bizarre it was, and questioning the motives behind the quirky residents intent on perpetuating the oddity.
Having now stumbled across the above linked article, it strikes me that little kids can be pretty perceptive.
There's a Pogues song called "A rainy night in Soho". I've always assumed that the eponymous neighborhood was of the London variety, but here's what a good view of it looks like in New York, thanks to a certain party celebrating the opening of a certain gallery at which a certain Mr. Chia works:
Strange that I made two Pogues references in less than a week.
No, really, your friendly and attentive staff here at Theoretic.org who
love YOU, yes you personally to whom we write this message, from whom we
savor every last little crumb of brilliant data that falls from your lips,
have ordered a new computer to act as boing's replacement. Newer, faster,
probably crashes a bit more, what more could you ask for? Oh, it's possible
that I.. er, that is, we here at Theoretic.. may even do backups! cool huh?
But until then, beware that this computer may disappear, reappear, or just
appear strange in the coming weeks. More news as the story unfolds. We
report, you decide, adios, ciao, PLUR, etc.
--jx 03/20/03
Audioscrobbler works as a plugin for mp3 players, storing your listening info in a database and linking you to users with similar listening habits. It's cool - I've been using it for a few weeks now, and it's oddly addictive to check and see whom it decides to have listening habits consonant with yours. Plus being able to see what everyone is listening to, and how often at that, gives you some limited indication of the real-time musical zeitgeist. [me]
St. Patrick's day may have explained your actions, but it does not excuse them - you've made the counter. Besides, you were way too young to be that inebriated, let alone acting so lewdly in public.
Couples who have made out next to me on the subway:
Standing: 2
Sitting: 2
Cumulative total: 4
Tonight, our friends at the USA network aired "Bring it On", an ostensibly harmless bubble-gum flick centered around the tribulations and triumphs of a high school cheerleading squad. The protagonist, mislead by her predecessor, must right the proverbial ship and prove herself worthy of leadership as her neatly-constructed, white-bread world threatens to crumble around her at the hands of plagiarism.
I fully admit my biased reticence prior to viewing it. By the end however, despite my preconceptions, I found myself genuinely enjoying it. Maybe it tapped into some latent pulp sensibilities or regressive vicarious urges. Maybe I'm just shallow enough to derive a scintilla of healthy heterosexual enjoyment from a movie featuring gads of nubile cheerleaders. Perchance I found the cinematography to be brazen and audacious, engendering a veritable new wave of American cinematic verisimilitude. Or maybe it was the sanguine sub-plot involving the driven-yet-humble, attractive-yet-flawed, socially-gifted cheerleader who falls for the somewhat misanthropic, rebellious-yet-charming, dark-haired punk wannabe whom others deem to be a "loser" (direct quote - kids can be so cruel). Maybe the way she clasped his neck and playfully drew him towards her after winning 2nd place (but more importantly: respect and vindication) in the national competition spoke to the under-appreciated masses out there. Maybe their courtship evoked memories of high school fantasies left unfulfilled, their bitter deferment and subsequent withering now tainting the present anew. Perhaps some viewers might have worked very, very sedulously to suppress those disappointments and scolded themselves, wallowing in masochism, as each long commercial break provided yet more contemplative opportunity to ponder just how far the harsh reality of his/her youth diverged from the idyllic utopia, awash in obnoxious hues and oversaturated colors, now dancing its way across the screen like a Tide commercial on Prozac.
Nah. Didn't strike any nerves there... still searching for the basis of its appeal. What? Why is it so hot in here? And why are you all looking at me?!
Ok, the far more horrible truth is that I liked it because it was snappy, disposable, as innocuous as a fetal Basset Hound, and bubbly.
Crap. That's much worse. I rescind that in favor of the bitter, lingering-angst angle.
[quietly sips Jonestown Kool-aid while listening to Joy Division]
The second floor of my building is a mecca for struggling actors. I wrote a poem about it. Wanna hear it? Here it goes:
Napping on the couch at 10 in the morn,
Oblivious to their building-mates' scorn,
Aspiring thespians rich and poor,
They come to the second floor.
Grins on their faces, and eyes full of stars,
Working their nights clearing tables at bars,
Clogging the elevators and holding the door,
On their way up to the second floor.
Being square is the ultimate taboo,
Easily quashed with a visible tattoo,
Histrionic showoffs to the core,
The infestation of the second floor.
Certain their workshop dues will land them in plays,
As their screaming exercises waft up the shaft ways,
Get used to disillusionment - start developing a rapport,
It's got permanent tenure on the second floor.
Feeling blessed to be free and alive,
Not a single one older than twenty-five,
Loafing naifs that I abhor,
All come to the second floor.
Sloppy meter and a flawed rhyming scheme,
Won't absolve me of guilt for being so mean,
But hold off on criticism, please - I implore,
Until you've laid eyes on the wretched second floor.
I have no tolerance for caffeine. It gives me cramps, throws my brain into an anxiety spiral, and makes me jittery and nauseated. I should know this by now - I've had plenty of immediate negative conditioning over the years to help dissuade me from ever having anything stronger than the occasional, very mild, cup of decaf tea (so, "nuts" to you, B.F. Skinner). Once, in college, I drank a half-gallon of Arizona's Green Tea with Honey - a really tasty product which I had consumed in limited quantities in high school and could tolerate as such because the caffeine was fairly diluted - and had to stay in for the night, shaking, laying horizontally on a beat-up bright-blue couch, perched on the precarious physical and mental precipice overhanging the imminent threat of vomiting. Modesty and some modicum of pride prevent me from even starting to describe how I react to coffee.
Maybe it's psychosomatic... everybody needs some outlet for their hypochondria.
So you'd think I'd have learned by now. You (and I do mean you, dear reader) would think that the last thing I would do after attending a company-wide meeting in which everybody was informed that we had (as a result of cost-cutting measures) to let a couple of employees go would be to run down to Starbucks in the pouring rain and purchase a grande, alto, ginormiosio (that's Italian for "ginormous") cup of stimulant-laden chai tea.
Yes, it's chai tea, and not a seizure-inducing, midnight-black shot of espresso, but we're talking about someone who hasn't even had a Coke... ever. Factor in the complete lack of tolerance here.
Besides, now I can concentrate on writing a rant on C8-H10-N4-O2 despite the shaking hands it produced instead of letting my mind drift to other, less immediate, and far more troublesome topics.
Like:
Ever been in a fairly small room with 27 other people when it's totally silent? I mean, absolutely dead silent - a complete vacuum of any sound whatsoever, wracked with terror at the mere prospect that someone might clear their throat or shuffle just a trifle in their seat, against the better judgment of a fairly significant part of you that wishes that someone would, because every second of additional silence just compounds upon itself and makes everyone exponentially more uncomfortable? The answer's probably a "yes"... everyone has at some point or another, but that doesn't diminish the punch in the chest you feel when it happens. Visceral is visceral, even if you've been there before.
Quid pro quo for working at a small company I guess: we use double-edged swords like they were chopsticks. One upside is that you know everyone, and one downside is, as I found out today, also that you know everyone - there's not just a face to every name, but a personality, maybe a spouse, and a track record of shared conversations and experiences.
It's not like there's been a death in the family, and we've had far worse before, but it's still well beyond the realm of the uncomfortable. If things turn out as they should, we can all just chalk it up to growing pains, speed bumps, hurdles, or whatever other corporate metaphor you prefer.
Evil, wretched caffeine. I don't know what I ever saw in you. You always make things worse.
I have not been availing myself of the guarantee of anonymity conferred to a denizen of any metropolitan area. Assured of an obfuscated identity, one is free to jettison the shackles of social mores and wreak untold suffering upon the bemused masses.
King Henry I of England (1068-1135) is supposed to have died from indigestion caused by eating moray eel.
Yet more people visited. A virtual embarrassment of social riches befell me.
An open appeal: should my overzealous picture-taking become disruptive at any point, and you happen to be present during a bout of frenzied photographing, simply grab me firmly by the forehead and forcefully push my head against a wall, informing me that "it's freaking annoying, man, seriously, cut it the f--- out." This was Brig's approach. It proved insulting and effective. Behold what little I did manage to capture:
Oh. Awesome. The most widely-used pesticide in America causes hermaphroditism in frogs (at trace levels 1/30th of those allowed by the EPA) and prostate cancer in the workers producing it.
Wow, this weather is sweet. It's so cool how it was really, really, cold and then, right at the first hint of calescence, it started to snow again.
I've got an idea that would help: let's forgo this whole 'weather' thing. There would just be a box, 50 feet long x 50 feet wide x 20 feet high, with a bunch of people and halogen lights. One guy would be wearing a denim jacket, and there would be a little private partitioned area off to the side where you could play checkers. There'd be Sal from Brooklyn, Dewey from Mississippi, and Nyamsuren from Mongolia (whose name roughly translates to 'Saturday Power') amongst others. All the members of this rag-tag ensemble would seem aggravating at first, but they'd grow to be far more endearing that you would have first anticipated.
Capitulation to the elements would not be tolerated. If anyone allowed a drop of rain to fall, or even a gust of wind to kick up, they would be ejected from the box and replaced via in vitro gestation with a 'team player'. Deviating from our initial state of solidarity is what got us to this point, and only a stalwart, unified front can unshackle us from indentured servitude to this cruel tormentor.
There would be a drinking fountain in the box, but only for drinking - not precipitation.
Every night, we'd dim the lights, and sit around and ceremoniously discuss life without weather. We'd revel in our utter dominion over climate and climate-related matters. Sal would regale us with tales of his 8 brothers and their antics, while Dewey would quietly chew tobacco and Nyamsuren would tend to the horses and archery equipment. On occasion, we'd grow beards - not because we needed added insulation from the frigid temperature, but as an expression of independence, and an assertion of our micro-ecological hegemony.
Open wounds would be a no-no. We'd have kindly on-site staff to attend to that sort of thing, but if you were a hemophiliac, that would be grounds for 'dismissal'. There just wouldn't be enough resources to keep cleaning up all that blood. After laying out newspapers and readying garbage bags the other members of the box would encircle you and work themselves into a frenzied trance set to John Philip Sousa marches until someone snapped and bludgeoned you over the head with a lead pipe. The rest of the circle, nigh as enraptured, would then hoist you up and forcibly eject you from the box.
The rest of the world's suffering would be signaled to us by a series of minimalist clicks and whirrs produced by a set of expensive high-fidelity speakers suspended from the ceiling. Every time a blizzard incapacitated some region of the globe, a perfect sinusoidal tone would sound, and we would rejoice.
When the evil greedy land developer wanted to buy the box and turn it into a four-star hotel, we'd display an impressive amount of moxie and gumption, refusing to accept his initial terms, claiming it wasn't about the money - it was the principal of weather avoidance that brought us together. Then he would up his offer by about 15%, and we'd sell.
I'm not obsessed with David Cross. I swear. I know this is the third time I've written about him, but I just think he's funny, that's all. Like this. That's funny.
Hmm. Mr. Alex Sheets is in town, and he repaid my hospitality (letting him stay at my apartment, and leaving my computer there during the day for his use) by adding an entry to my blog. While it's terse, there's a certain desperate poignancy to it, so I'm going to leave it up.
congrats! you are an artsy indie fuck! you understand way more then any normal human being in so much ways. you listen to the most excellent abstract music and analize everything it means and even doesnt mean! art is the life around us and no one else could possibly think about understanding it
Mired in the complacent, but enjoyable social routine of hitting the town on weekend nights, individual events tend to blur together. There's a general trend that operates on many levels: homogeneity breeds homeostasis. Static, stable environments have their place. Economic markets, biology, the global ecosystem, et al all predicate their proper functioning upon stability.
The same does not hold true, at least at the same level, for society and individuals. Yes, we need habits, routines, and familiarity to get us through our days, but becoming overly reliant leads to atrophy.
Strength, creativity, innovation, and progress are all driven by the reviled nemesis of the status quo, heterogeneity. Diversity equals vivacity. Witness the miracle of a melting pot that is America. Witness the allure of travel. Witness the (often positive) personal upheaval caused by the uncommon: the passing of a loved one, marriage, buying that first yacht.
I've come to the conclusion that spending my repetitious nights with people just like myself is beginning to make me a much duller person. I present exhibit A: having spotted someone with the exact same digital camera as I own, I thought it would be funny to take a picture of her taking a picture. You know, kind of a meta-meta-post-postmodern attempt at humor. Now, having reviewed said picture in a state of semi-lucid sobriety, I can attest that it is in fact funny, but not because I've pushed the boundaries of the modern comedy-art paradigm. It's funny just because the guy with the mesh hat is making a weird face:
I'm pretty sure at some point I was an interesting person, with unique insights and some modicum of creativity, but it certainly wasn't the same person who took that photo last night. I'm worried that things might get worse, and my life will fade into one big blurry, obfuscated mnemonic haze - a string of "last night"s, punctuated by the occasional move, wedding, yacht purchase, birth or death, and documented by inane photographs and morose blog archives. I'm worried that I'll have to do something drastic to add some coveted diversity to my life and break out of this homeostasis. I'm even more worried that I might find myself not wanting to.
Oh wait, "Hot Shots Part Deux" is on HBO2. Problem solved.
The first is 
The second, 
