Lowering the BarYesterday I promised I would get a picture of the building CNN has taken over for their convention coverage. Here it is. I took a few different shots because I wanted to capture just how dramatically the cable news network had seized the space. The entire building is theirs. They have painted the bricks on all four sides. They have flown in top chefs from New York to cater for them. They have created a back porch looking on at the Pepsi Center: the CNN Grill. I do wonder what prude made them drop the bar. I also noted that on tonight’s CNN broadcast they had begun inserting establishing shots of the exterior of the Pepsi Center taken from the CNN Grill between segments.

Work proceeded apace today. The energy around the Pepsi Center is growing as Monday looms nearer. More people, more activity, more manic phone calls and vendors more harried than ever. I got a chance to spend a bit of time with Joe Keenan, Director of the Senate Press Gallery. We needed to work out some confusing logistical details regarding seating arrangements in the press stands in the bowl. I would have liked to have taken some pictures as we walked around the press stands, but sadly the no photography rule is still in effect.

Pepsi CenterWhat I did appreciate was the sense that these seemingly anonymous elements of the government are actually run by real people, who laugh and joke and get serious or crabby just like the rest of us. It was a simple thing, really, moving some seats from one section of the press stands to another, but it also reminded me in some ways that government is– despite what we may say from time to time– an essentially human enterprise.

After we called it a day in the media workspace, I decided to forgo the fancy dinner with my colleagues and headed out into lower downtown Denver with a couple bucks and my camera. I just wanted a little time for myself and to explore a little bit. I’m staying at a hotel just a couple blocks from the 16th Street Mall, so I headed over that way to walk around and got a couple pictures that I’m particularly happy with.

Street Performer 1Street performing has been popular on the mall for a long time. I headed over there thinking I might add one or more of the performers to my 100 Strangers project. The sun was going down and it was getting somewhat dark by the time I came across a man I thought would make an excellent candidate for the project. He was playing music on a large collection of glasses filled with various levels of water. While I watched, he played classical pieces from Mozart as well as some Beatles and some traditionals. Every time the performer took a break between songs and I thought I had an opportunity to approach him a woman off to his left would begin explosively describing a vast litany of conspiracies and unreflected political theories. — This is also part of the character of the mall. So I snapped a few pictures and moved on.

CalvoI did get a chance to approach a clown named Calvo who was barking up interest in “Burlesque As It Was” at Lannie’s Clocktower Cabaret. He claimed that Barack Obama had already made his reservations for both of the special Monday and Tuesday night shows they are putting on to coincide with the Democratic National Convention. I think this was just an attempt to be relevant. It is very difficult to escape the notion that Denver is the host city for the convention. It is everywhere. But now that I think about it, Calvo made no mention of whether Michelle would be accompanying Barack. It makes me wonder.

In convention news, Obama has stated that he’s decided on his running mate and will announce that decision on Saturday in Springfield, Illinois. Also, rumors continue to circulate the Pepsi Center that the stage will be revealed to the public tomorrow. I hope that means that the restrictions on photography inside the bowl will be lifted.

Tune in tomorrow and find out!

The Daniels and Fisher TowerHurry up and wait. Today was dominated by the call to action: hurry up and wait. I hurried to make sure I would be available for vendors to deliver office equipment– monitors, keyboards, televisions, printers– only to wait to learn they will arrive early tomorrow morning. I hurried to make sure our assignments from the Congressional press galleries in the press stands, the central camera stand and the digital darkroom were what we had requested and been allocated only to learn that some of the spots were either confused, missing, still under construction, or left off the construction plans. So I waited for the press galleries to straighten things out with the contractors. All of this was not as bad as I may be making it out to be. It allowed me some time to catch up with other bits of the project. I got to do some work on QoS policy writing, performance testing and connectivity testing.

Some of the more interesting moments today were the meals. For lunch one of the broadcast engineers from KWGN took us to the Paramount Cafe. As soon as I walked in I immediately recognized it from when I would come up to Denver and go to Wax Trax on Colfax to buy records and then come down onto the 16th Street Mall for lunch. That was twenty years ago. Today a startling wash of nostalgia came over me as I stepped inside and sat down.

Four more people arrived in Denver today from Tribune. One left. There are now nine of us in town doing setup work for the convention coverage. For dinner we went as one big group to dinner at The Buckhorn Exchange. In their own words:

Denver’s original steakhouse, The Buckhorn Exchange is located in the city’s oldest neighborhood. This National Historic Landmark and Western Museum has been serving the finest in Old West fare since 1893. Prime grade beef steaks, buffalo prime rib, elk, salmon, quail, game hen, and succulent baby-back pork ribs are just some of the marvelous offerings on the Buckhorn menu. Exotic appetizers such as alligator tail, rattlesnake and buffalo sausage are available, and no dinner is complete without the house specialty, Rocky Mountain Oysters.

To the best of my recollection, I had never been to the Buckhorn Exchange before. I had thought about bringing the camera along to dinner to maybe take some sunset shots of the city. Schedules with a large group have a way of stretching out and I lost the light and put away the camera before we’d made plans on where we were going to go. Now I wish I had taken my camera with me to get some pictures of the inside of the place. The Buckhorn Exchange holds Colorado liquour license Number One. Live musicians perform nightly. Its walls hold a rare 575-piece taxidermy collection and a 125-piece gun collection. Elk, deer, moose, bison, big horn sheep, mountain lion, Colt .45s, Winchesters, Derringers, and a 1889 Sharp’s sporting rifle– to name just a few highlights.

In convention news, we learned that the DNCC will reveal the stage on Friday, so I should be able to get in there and take some more pictures of what it looks like as well as publish some of the previous pictures I had taken during its construction. I also learned that my city mayor, Richard M. Daley will be speaking at the DNC convention on Wednesday, August 27th– not that Daley is a particularly inspiring public speaker, but it seemed slightly relevant at the time I learned it.

Tomorrow I am going to try and see if I can’t find a way to take a picture of the building outside the Pepsi Center CNN has taken over for the duration of the convention. CNN has completely repainted the outside of the historic brick building with sloganism and marketing. I find it fascinating in a slow-moving train wreck sort of way.

The Gold DomeSame song, second verse. Could get better but it’s gonna get worse. — Wait a minute. Wait a minute. That’s not right. That’s not what happened today. Yes, it is the second day of setup, and yes much of today was similar to much of yesterday. But things did not get worse. We made progress. We didn’t kill ourselves with excess work. In fact, the only really negative thing to happen today was an extensive collection of fliers mysteriously appeared all around the bowl at the Pepsi Center declaring: all photography is absolutely forbidden, violators will be escorted off the premises.

My colleagues were amused by this development with the restrictions on photography during the final construction phase and have taken to good-naturedly blaming me for the rule’s inception. I responded by asking: So, at an event that will have thousands of members of the media present, are you saying that I was the only one who thought to bring a camera? Crickets.

The DNC has not clarified the reasoning behind the restriction. The speculation among the people working on setup here is that the party wants to keep the timing of the revelation of their big bad voodoo stage on their time table, rather than allowing just any asshat with a camera and a network connection to spoil the surprise.

So let me just say that I think the stage in the Pepsi Center is impressive. I also wonder how the designers feel about the move of Day Four of the convention to Mile High Stadium– the big night will not take place on this grand stage they’ve put together. I know that if I had been working on the stage and that happened, I would feel let down.

Union Station at NightAnyway. No pictures of the bowl. — So this evening after we were done working, I took some pictures around downtown Denver. I’m assuming those are safe. I mean, I was on public streets shooting pictures of the exteriors of well-known buildings. Maybe tomorrow there will be an addendum to the memo. Something about the current threat level being raised to prismatic! All devices containing prisms– like cameras– will be confiscated. Okay. I admit. Maybe that’s a bit overboard. I’ll stop now.

Other tidbits: I got to visit the LA Times western bureau office. I got the wireless router that wouldn’t behave yesterday to behave and do my bidding. I introduced two of my colleagues to sushi. I fixed a packet-queuing problem before it really was a problem. A reporter from the Denver Post stopped by our workspace to talk to us for story they’re working on regarding media preparation for the conventions. Is it wrong for me to think that newspapers writing stories about other newspapers’ business of making newspapers is slightly incestuous? I’m just asking.

And as a final note, because I know you all were very worried. Monday’s one-hour bomb scare closure of Market Street in lower downtown Denver has turned out to be a false alarm. These aren’t the mailboxes you’re looking for. You can go about your business.

I am in Denver, Colorado for the next nine days. After that, I fly to St. Paul, Minnesota and stay there for eleven more days. I am doing this in support of Tribune Publishing’s coverage of the two national party conventions. The Democratic National Convention begins Monday, August 25th in Denver. The Republican National Convention begins one week later Monday, September 1st in St. Paul. I am responsible for the networking needs for our newspapers for these two weeks.

Today was my first real day on the job. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve been planning this work since November of last year. Then again, a lot has happened in the interim. Plans change. Sometimes plans change a lot. Sometimes plans change and you don’t even realize that they’re now nearly the opposite of what you thought they were in the first place. Or was that the third place? I forget. Plans change.

Anyway. It’s late. And I’m rambling. I thought it would be worthwhile to write down some brief observations about each of my days working on the conventions. I’ve brought the camera with me as well and am taking pictures. However I think I will publish the pictures a bit later, after the events have officially opened. I’ll tell you why a little later.

Read the rest of this entry »

I enjoyed Survivor so much that when I was at the bookstore looking for something to take along with me on my business trip at the end of this month I picked up another novel by Chuck Palahniuk. This time I picked up Choke. Choke is another example of transgressive fiction. Transgressive fiction follows the premise that knowledge is to be found at the edge of experience and that the body is the site for gaining knowledge. Victor Mancini serves as protagonist by way of being a delightfully degenerate grifter. Not just for money– the major crux of his con being the reason for the book’s title– but sex and drugs and happiness as well.

From the back cover:

Victor Mancini, a medical-school dropout, is an antihero for our deranged times. Needing to pay elder care for his mother, Victor has devised an ingenious scam: he pretends to choke on pieces of food while dining in upscale restaurants. He then allows himself to be “saved” by fellow patrons who, feeling responsible for Victor’s life, go on to send checks to support him. When he’s not pulling this stunt, Victor cruises sexual addiction recovery workshops for action, visits his addled mom, and spends his days working at a colonial theme park. His creator, Chuck Palahniuk, is the visionary we need and the satirist we deserve.

I have begun a photography project: 100 Strangers. This is a first for me, to shoot pictures with a particular purpose in mind. The challenge is simple: take 100 portraits of 100 strangers. Candids are not allowed. The project’s creator, Teppo, asks:

Want to be a better street photographer? Want to develop as a photojournalist? In order to be one you often need to have the courage to go and talk with people you don’t know.

I think this is a noble goal. I also have to ask myself about the possible causes that would generate such a project in the first place and see so many people attracted to it. What sociological forces are at play that compel one to believe that talking to strangers is a dangerous thing? Is this another example of our growing culture of fear? Are cameras somehow tools of intimidation? Have I grown so used to the anonymizing powers of technology that real face-to-face communication with real people has become foreign? Or is this just group therapy for introverts?

My friend, Princess FixIT, makes some powerful observations on shifting cultural attitudes about strangers in the last two generations. She talks about her grandmother’s trait of striking up conversations with ease. At lunch the other day as we were discussing the project, Princess stated, “Are you kidding!? Grandma did ‘100 Strangers’ every day!” My own grandmother had a very similar approach to people she just met.

Like Princess, I do think that technology has the potential for doing a considerable disservice to the art of communication. Rather than bringing people closer together I find that many technology methods often achieve the opposite. Technology anonymizes conversations, emphasizes difference and distance between us, and inserts errors and confusion where a smile, a hug or a handshake would have soothed things over.

Do we compensate for this perceived– but unrealized– distance between ourselves with ever more obsessive, self-involved technologies? We stopped writing letters and invented email because email was faster. We stopped writing email and started blogging because then we did not have to personalize and repeat the message to everyone. Just post to the blog and the onus was on the audience to find out what we were doing or what we were thinking. Or we stopped writing email and started using instant messaging, because instant messaging was even faster. We have stopped writing multi-paragraph blog entries and are now adopting µblog services like Twitter and identi.ca because blogs just have too many words. Your life is now represented in 140 characters or less. Archived forever. And we install all of these technologies in our mobile phones so they are always available.

Does all of this technological development really improve one’s quality of life? I do not think so. I think it contributes to a culture of self-obsessed introverts with chronic attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Welcome to the anoniverse. Now if someone would just be so kind as to show me the way out, I’d like have a real conversation. With someone. Anyone.

I am motivated to participate in the 100 Strangers project by the prospect of taking better photographs. I am also using the project as a way of disrupting the culture of anonymity. That is to say, I believe technology has made you and me shier, less approachable, and more cowardly than would like. I am going to change. Myself.

Pro C1/C2 15I have an awkward relationship with bicycles. Bicycles have been involved in two of the most dramatic events in my life. In 1984 I was struck by an automobile while riding a mountain bike on a closed road outside Aspen, Colorado. I flew through the windshield face first and ended up in surgery for six and a half hours– total stitch count: four hundred and thirty-five.

In January of 2005, while crossing the three-way intersection of Milwaukee, North and Damen in Wicker Park, I was struck by a bicyclist and suffered a severe brain injury. I crashed to the ground and cracked my head against the curb in a classic coup-counter coup trauma– total days spent in a coma: ten.

Juniors 1But the thing is not all my interactions with bicycles have been bad, brutal or bloody. Starting as a boy, somewhere around the spring of 1982, I began racing bicycles. My dad had been a bicycle enthusiast for a long time. While in college, he took long trips on his bike. He commuted into the office when we lived in Washington D.C. And he raced competitively for several years before I was born– including a qualifying entry in the the Nationals. When I took an interest in bicycles, dad renewed his. I was old enough that dad had someone he could ride with from time to time, and when we traveled to races together it was a trip we took together. I joined the United States Cycling Federation (USCF), the organizing body for amateur bicycle racing, and raced Juniors, kids 18 and younger. Dad had been a USCF member before, renewed and now raced Veterans, racers 35 and over.

Pro C1/C2 26The 1980s were a great time for cycling in the United States. The Coors Classic stage race was the largest stage race in the US– and fourth largest stage race world wide– and it ran for two weeks through my home state of Colorado. Greg LeMond won the Coors Classic in 1985. Bernard Hinault won it in 1986. LeMond would go on to win the Tour de France three times. Bernaurd Hinault had already won the Tour de France five times when he won the Coors Classic. The 1985 Kevin Kostner movie, American Flyers, is set during a fictional American stage race based off of the Coors Classic. They shot part of the movie on the brutal Morgul-Bismarck course– a road course I raced that year.

In 1984, Los Angeles hosted the Summer Olympics. Americans Alexi Grewal, Connie Carpenter, Rebecca Twigg, Steve Hegg, Mark Gorski and Nelson Vails all won medals in cycling that year. The United States Olympic Training Center is in Colorado Springs, just 40 miles from where I grew up, and when McDonald’s built the velodrome in Los Angeles for the Olympics they built an exact duplicate of it in Colorado Springs. For four years Dad and I would go to Colorado Springs to compete in the Tuesday night track racing series.

Elite C4 3This heightened interest in cycling in Colorado granted me the opportunity to meet and ride alongside Carpenter, Twigg, Gorski and Vails. Gorski and Vails just showed up at the velodrome one Tuesday evening on a lark. They demonstrated tandem sprint riding for us– some of the fastest, most explosive cycling you will ever see. I met Carpenter at the 1986 State Track Championships being held at the OTC Velodrome. I met Twigg at the 1987 State Road Championships at the Air Force Academy.

Spring and summer in the mid-1980s, Dad and I raced most weekends somewhere along the Colorado Front Range. We raced track races, road races and criteriums. When we were not racing, we were training or touring. I completed three centuries in those years of racing: a ride of 100 miles in one day. When I moved away to college, I sold my car but kept my bicycle. I continued to ride regularly and race somewhat irregularly through college. When I took a year to study in Germany, I did not bring my bike with me and that decision marked the end of my racing career. When I came back to the US, I continued to ride, but more as general exercise and for fun, rather than competitively.

Pro C1/C2 8Now. Today. My bike terrifies me. — What troubles me is that I was good at cycling. I had the endurance for it, I understood the tactics of it. Moreover, I enjoyed it. I still have the bike I rode to a silver medal in the Colorado Road Championships in 1987. I still have it and I cannot bring myself to ride.

I’ve written about my resurgence in my interest in photography. This weekend, I used that renewed interest an alternate angle to approach cycling. One fraught with less anxiety and with the promise of allowing me to enjoy something I once loved from a new perspective. Chicago hosted a criterium in Grant Park— an event they hope to make recurring in years to come. Grant Park is just a couple blocks from my house, so I grabbed the camera and spent the day at the races. I have been out of the sport so long that I don’t recognize any of the names of the riders. The gear has changed as well. But the energy and the emotion is still there and just as tangible. I took hundreds of pictures of the races. I came home and dumped them all from the camera and then ran back and took hundreds more.

I had a blast.

It has been over twenty years since I read the Sprawl trilogy by William Gibson. Neuromancer, Count Zero, Mona Lisa Overdrive— these combined with the short stories in Burning Chrome to form the basis of my first opinions of cyberpunk literature. Now, twenty-plus years later I am working for a large corporation building networks and recovering from a brain injury. Granted, the injury did not come from jabbing a plug into my skull to try and communicate with Wintermute.

While browsing at the bookstore last week, I ran across the paperback edition of William Gibson’s latest novel, Spook Country. I have not read any of the novels Gibson published between the Sprawl trilogy and now with the exception of The Difference Engine. It was my disappointment with that book that dissuaded me from trying again. Spook Country intrigued me in the idea that it was no a science-fiction novel, but a thriller set in modern day: a modern day at least hinted at early in Gibson’s career.

In 1990 I interviewed Dan Simmons. Cyberpunk was on its way out as a genre. I didn’t know that, but Simmons did. Nonetheless, Simmons was a gentleman and indulged a naive sophomore a few questions about the particular genre. While we were talking, Simmons related a story about William Gibson that has stuck with me. Simmons asked Gibson over dinner about his foremost experience of futureshock. Gibson answered, “Well two weeks ago I was in Tokyo and I got lost. I got off the train, the metro, in the wrong part of Tokyo, which was about thirty miles from the right part of Tokyo. And here I am wandering at 3 a.m. down some quiet street, bathed in neon and rain. And I come across a street corner dispenser of liter bottles of scotch. And the thing is humming and talking to itself in Japanese.”

And that is what I appreciate about Gibson. His critics are ruthless as they rant about his inability to present a compelling psychology, or to answer any big questions about the world in which we live. I think that misses the point. But what I like is that almost myopic view that defines the trend of intense specialization and its inevitable destination: vast swaths of blank ignorance. When he’s on, there’s nothing quite like that tiny, intensely personal mirror he can hold up.

I’m hoping Spook Country follows that trend.

Survivor is the second novel by Chuck Palahniuk. You may recognize the author’s name from his first novel, Fight Club. Like the first novel, Survivor satirizes contemporary commercial culture. The setup for the story is obscure: the protagonist has commandeered a Boeing 747, emptied it of all its passengers, and flies it randomly until it runs out of fuel and crashes. The protagonist does this in order to tell his life story into the “black box” flight recorder.

From the back cover:

Tender Branson– last surviving member of the so-called Creedish Death Cult- is dictating his life story into the flight recorder of Flight 2039, cruising on autopilot at 39000 feet somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. He is all alone in the airplane, which will crash shortly into the vast Australian outback. but before it does he will unfold the tale of his journey from an obedient Creedish child and humble domestic servant to an ultra-buffed, steroid- and collagen-packed media messiah.

Unpredictable and unforgettable, Survivor is Chuck Palahniuk at his deadpan peak: a mesmerizing, unnerving, and hilarious satire on the wages of fame and the bedrock lunacy of the modern world.

Bookworm‘s Michael Silverblatt defines this genre of writing as transgressive fiction. This literary genre graphically explores taboo subjects– drugs, sex, violence, incest, pedophilia, crime– and dysfunctional family relationships with the underlying premise that knowledge is to be found at the edge of experience and that the body is the site for gaining knowledge: “Subversive, avant-garde, bleak, pornographic — and these are compliments.” With that definition I am reminded of a number of books and authors I have enjoyed over the years: Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess, Girlfriend in a Coma and Generation X by Douglas Coupland, Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille, Lolita and Ada by Vladimir Nabokov. That Palahniuk’s writing style was turned on by the aesthetic he heard in punk bands like the Germs and Generation X, and he admires the works of Shirley Jackson and Stephen King— these bits do not surprise me. They excite me. I look forward to reading this book all the more for learning them.

I think I’m going to take this book on the plane with me to Colorado, tomorrow. Somehow, that just seems right.

Some time in May I ran across a description of this book and wrote down the name as something I might be interested in reading. When I read the jacket cover to Whirl she responded that it did not sound like my typical choice in books. I’m not exactly sure how to take that. Is that a good thing that I’m branching out into a different style of writing? Is that a bad thing that my choices are rather predictable? What does that say about me, exactly. I believe choices and their consequences are fundamental elements to the development of personality and I believe that one of the benefits of reading is that it allows us to hold up a mirror to ourselves to judge the effects of our choices.

It is with those sorts of questions at the back of my mind that I have begun to read Will Lavender‘s first novel: a psychological thriller set in a small liberal arts college in rural Indiana. I have some familiarity with the small liberal arts colleges of rural Indiana. I graduated from one of those. I also have some familiarity with puzzles. I married one of those. Or rather, my child bride has a passion for solving puzzles and logic problems.

Just the superficial clues about the book and the setting I find intriguing. The title itself is a bit of a mystery, particularly coupled with the statue of statue of Stanley Milgram in the middle of the Winchester University campus. Stanley Milgram was a psychologist. The Milgram experiments demonstrated the average individual’s willingness to subject others to painful electric shocks when ordered to do so by someone identified as an authority figure.

So we have logic and philosophy, college, murder, mayhem and Man’s inhumanity to Man. Sounds like an interesting time to me. Oh, and for those of you wondering what the text on the cover reads, here it is:

When the students in Winchester University’s Logic and Reasoning 204 arrive for their first day of class, they are greeted not with a syllabus or texts, but with a startling assignment from Professor Williams: Find a hypothetical missing girl named Polly. If after being given a series of clues and details the class has not found her before the end of the term in six weeks, she will be murdered.

At first the students are as intrigued by the premise of their puzzle as they are wary of the strange and slightly creepy Professor Williams. But as they delve deeper into the mystery, they begin to wonder: Is the Polly story simply a logic exercise, designed to teach them rational thinking skills, or could it be something more sinister and dangerous? The mystery soon takes over the lives of three students as they find disturbing connections between Polly and themselves. Characters that were supposedly fictitious begin to emerge in reality. Soon, the boundary between the classroom assignment and the real world becomes blurred—and the students wonder if it is their own lives they are being asked to save.