James Lileks is probably one of the best known bloggers on the InterWeb. He was doing his free-form essay/daily journal thing before anyone even coined the word “blog.” His was the first blog I personally encountered, and I still read him faithfully now, years later.

To be honest, though, he often confounds me. His Daily Bleat frequently consists of nothing more than a laundry list of what he and his daughter Gnat have been doing all day — which is sometimes interesting and/or amusing, but is just as often as dull as my own life, and what’s the point of reading that? Even worse are the times when he gets political, especially if he’s pissed about some matter of foreign policy or national security. Let’s just say that his politics don’t map to my own, and words that have occured to me while reading his screeds include “reactionary,” “paranoid,” “jingoistic,” “hectoring,” and “condescending.” (Fortunately, he’s recently banished most of this content to a dedicated Screedblog, so I no longer have to avoid the Bleat for fear of wanting to put a fist through my monitor.)

I keep reading him because I admire his writing, his ability to work in the medium of words. He has a knack for precisely capturing things that are difficult to convey, concepts and aesthetics and, for lack of a better term, the vibe of a particular time or place. It’s a skill I’m trying to develop and, although I think I’m getting better at that whole “essence of an era” thing, I envy the talent of a guy like Lileks. Take, for example, this little tidbit from today’s Bleat:

Last night on “What’s My Line,” the guest was… Mamie Van Doren, a breathy va-va-va-voomer who performed the odd facial alphabet of the 50s sex siren – the moue, the wink, the coquettish smile, the wide eyes, the teasing glance. And she ran through the sequence again and again, a performance completely disconnected from the questions. It was like watching a prototype Sexbot stuck in an programming loop. She really was from another era – a time when the sex stars had hips like oven doors, hair the color of astronaut suits, brains the size of ant thoraxes, and a life of giddy leisure that revolved around small, portable dogs, beefy Pepsodent morons, pink convertibles, and the purchase of ceramic cat statuary with long necks. A bratwurst to Paris Hilton’s Slim Jim.

That’s brilliant work. Simply brilliant. If you’ve ever seen old footage of a 1950s sexpot, you know his description is dead on, and if you haven’t, well, it’s easy enough to imagine what he’s getting at, isn’t it? I especially love the final line about Paris Hilton, that bony little stick-figure who has elevated vacuous sluttishness to an art form. In one short, smart-assy sentence — a sentence fragment, no less — Lileks wonderfully contrasts the ideals of the post-WW II culture with our own, makes it funny, and even gives us some nifty subtext in the references to meat. (Read into that whatever you will about phony airbrushed sexuality, base desires, models, and advertising. I find it an especially interesting metaphor given the current grumbling about Paris’ TV spot for the Carl’s Jr hamburger chain. Discuss amongst yourselves.)

I stand in professional awe. You only get that sort of quality subtext from a fine wordsmith. Lileks is a writer, by God! If only he weren’t so frequently confounding…

Given the two subjects that have gotten the bulk of my attention lately, I was greatly amused by a line in the new issue of Newsweek:

Now that we’ve learned how Anakin became Darth Vader and who Deep Throat really was, can we finally close the book on the ’70s?

I didn’t think that book was still open, myself, but it does seem like a lot of loose ends are getting tied up lately, doesn’t it? Star Trek, Star Wars, the final mystery of Watergate… what’s next, for someone to dig up Jimmy Hoffa’s body? How about finding Jim Morrison alive and well on Fiji? Is a Sasquatch about to wander into downtown Portland, or will a Scottish fisherman finally manage to land Nessie? Keep watching the skies, kids, because you never know…

Well, now, this is just cool: a company in England is making travel trailers small enough to be towed by a Mini, and which resemble classic American trailers of the 1940s and ’50s, right down to the pastel color palette. I’m a big fan of most things retro, and these caravans — that’s Brit-speak for “trailers,” just in case you’re not an Anglophile — have the added appeal of being tiny and, therefore, cute.

Ladies and gentlemen, courtesy of the always-interesting Boing Boing, I give you The Pod.

While I’ve had my head off in the galaxy far, far away, a couple of real-life dramas have developed much closer to home.
First of all, I’ve recently learned that a good friend from my high school and college years who is now in the military has been posted to Iraq. He’ll be serving as an operations officer at a supply depot somewhere north of Baghdad, which sounds to my admittedly non-military ear like a prime target for insurgent attacks. Needless to say, I am worried for my friend’s safety, and I’m having a hard time imagining that the gentle boy with whom I used to talk about Star Trek and Dr. Who is now walking around a desert war-zone in a suit of body armor. Especially since he’s actually in the Navy and has spent most of the last fifteen years on nuclear submarines a mile underwater. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me that he’d end up on the ground somewhere, but apparently the Joint Chiefs operate by a logic I don’t understand.

For the record, I am politically opposed to the war for reasons I don’t wish to go into right now. But that doesn’t stop me from hoping for the best possible outcome over there and that all the men and women who are far from home will soon be back with their friends and families, alive and intact.

My best wishes also go out to another old friend, a wonderful woman who has spent years trying to make a difficult relationship work and who has now decided that it’s time for her and her daughter to find a better way to live. I haven’t heard from her in a while, and I want to let her know, if she’s reading this, that I hope she’s okay.

After a year and an odd number of months spent watching me spew my thoughts into the void and argue with total strangers about nothing, my friend Mike Chenoweth — a name you may recognize from his frequent comments here on Simple Tricks — has decided he wants his own little piece of the blogging action.

Mike’s got a very different perspective from my own; we’ve occasionally had some real knock-down-drag-outs over various issues. But he’s been a good friend for a long time, and he’s got a good head on his shoulders. I look forward to seeing what’s on his mind…

I’ve received another e-mail from someone who is acquainted with John Pecorelli, the journalist I recently compared to the late Hunter S. Thompson. Her message paints a colorful picture of what the U of U’s resident gonzo, a guy I knew only by reputation and my own assumptions, has been up to in recent years. I’m going to reprint this message in full below the fold for anyone who may be interested. Sensitive readers be warned, though; there is some naughty language toward the end.

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