Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 1o
July 21 - 27, 2006
THE WIND-UP BIRD CHRONICLE /// HARUKI MURAKAMI /// THE HARVIL PRESS, LONDON
Many weird and wonderful things have come out of Japan, and Haruki Murakami’s novel The Wind-up Bird Chronicle can be added to the list, being perfectly though inadequately defined by the two aforementioned adjectives. The book is weird. The book is wonderful.
It begins in a tranquil Tokyo suburb in Toru Okada’s kitchen, where he claims to have found the perfect music for cooking pasta. It’s an opera (read it to find out which and your tortellini will never be the same). As a recently unemployed law clerk, Mr. Okada leads a quiet life in his quiet house, ironing shirts when he’s nervous and cooking pasta at 10:30 in the morning. Then he gets a strange phone call. Then his cat disappears. Then his wife disappears. And Mr. Okada is left in his shell of a life without a clue.
All of a sudden, with his life flipped upside down like a tortilla espanola, the phone starts ringing off the hook. Strange women with strange names know things about him they shouldn’t know. Old memories spring back into focus and new mysteries take odd twists as Mr. Okada tries to sort through a convoluted web of clues in order to find his wife, Kumiko.
The journey is surreal to say the least. All in the name of understanding, Toru Okada is taken through suspicious meetings, wet dreams, trespassing excursions, and even back in time, to wars and battles fought long ago between Japan, Outer Mongolia, and Russia. Yes, the book is weird. But to find out the meaning of self, and to understand how the past creates the future, connections must first be made between executed zoo animals, manskinning Russian intelligence officers, prostitutes of the mind, an unseen bird and its unique sound, and a random blue facial mark. Yes, the book is weird.
The Wind-up Bird Chronicle is an incredible, original and creative book that puts deep, deep life questions into a smooth, exquisitely written context within modern Japan and the minds of its residents. Will Toru Okada find his wife? What about his cat? Are we really free in our lives, or is fate pulling us towards some unknown end?
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Joe's Beach: Looking for Radioactive Mutants at "Chernobyl" Beach
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 10
July 21 - 27, 2006
Oh happy day! It’s the beach issue! Sun, sand, clear Mediterranean water, orange inflatable floaties. Good things. Good times. A little too good. Where’s the grime? Everything has its dark side. Mustn’t every beach issue as well? In search of something more interesting than happiness, more taxing than relaxed sunbathing, one name kept seeping through the cracks like radiation. Chernobyl. Nyet! Not in the Ukraine. Chernobyl, Barcelona.
Fittingly, this supposedly disgusting beach lies right in front of the FECSA energy plant. You may think you have no idea where the FECSA plant is, but you’ve seen it a hundred times. When you’ve looked up the coast in direction Badalona, you’ve seen three massive chimneys. They belong to FECSA.
When you get off of RENFE at Sant Adria de Besos, a machine-generated whirring sound descends upon you, shortly becoming a constant buzz inside your cerebro. The beach itself looks rather normal. The Forum’s solar panels are on the right, the sand is normal, clean enough, and there are plenty of people. If you ignore the FECSA drone in your head and the long white tube extending from the plant into the water, this is una playa bastante bonita.
I ask the lifeguards what the tube is. It draws water into the plant for the cooling system, they explain, and then FECSA spits the warmed water back into the sea. Pero no tiran nada, eh. That’s to say there’s nothing more than water shooting out of that industrial, whirring monster. Nothing? Do you believe it? I probe a little further. “Then why is this beach nicknamed Chernobyl.” “Ah,” they respond, “Chernobyl is the next beach over. Walk alongside the plant and under the tube.”
Passing under the tubes is a filthy experience. There couldn’t possibly be any more opportunities to catch tetanus in one single place. Empty and broken whiskey bottles, rusted cans and sardine tin, and potato chip bags accompany the smell of piss and the sound of rushing water leaving the FECSA plant via a channel labelled “Danger of death due to strong currents.” That’s just in case anyone wanted to swim in water on its way out of a power plant cooling system.
I found the Chernobyl beach lifeguard. He has no special story to tell of a man with three pichas. There’s no radiation, cause it’s a thermal plant. Still, he wouldn’t be surprised if they were dumping something into the sea. But this water is mucho mas clean than the water in Barceloneta, Bogatell, or any of the BCN beaches. It’s a crystal bluegreen straight down to the clearly visible bottom. Aside from the surrounding architecture and its constant machine soundtrack, the beach is pristine. It certainly doesn’t merit the name Chernobyl, I decided.
But seeds of doubt were later sewn. I told a friend of mine the story of my excursion, and the disappointing lack of radioactive mutants. “The water is so clean!” I told him, “There’s nothing wrong with the place.” “But maybe,” he said, “it’s so clear because everything’s dead.” Hmmm.
Issue # 10
July 21 - 27, 2006
Oh happy day! It’s the beach issue! Sun, sand, clear Mediterranean water, orange inflatable floaties. Good things. Good times. A little too good. Where’s the grime? Everything has its dark side. Mustn’t every beach issue as well? In search of something more interesting than happiness, more taxing than relaxed sunbathing, one name kept seeping through the cracks like radiation. Chernobyl. Nyet! Not in the Ukraine. Chernobyl, Barcelona.
Fittingly, this supposedly disgusting beach lies right in front of the FECSA energy plant. You may think you have no idea where the FECSA plant is, but you’ve seen it a hundred times. When you’ve looked up the coast in direction Badalona, you’ve seen three massive chimneys. They belong to FECSA.
When you get off of RENFE at Sant Adria de Besos, a machine-generated whirring sound descends upon you, shortly becoming a constant buzz inside your cerebro. The beach itself looks rather normal. The Forum’s solar panels are on the right, the sand is normal, clean enough, and there are plenty of people. If you ignore the FECSA drone in your head and the long white tube extending from the plant into the water, this is una playa bastante bonita.
I ask the lifeguards what the tube is. It draws water into the plant for the cooling system, they explain, and then FECSA spits the warmed water back into the sea. Pero no tiran nada, eh. That’s to say there’s nothing more than water shooting out of that industrial, whirring monster. Nothing? Do you believe it? I probe a little further. “Then why is this beach nicknamed Chernobyl.” “Ah,” they respond, “Chernobyl is the next beach over. Walk alongside the plant and under the tube.”
Passing under the tubes is a filthy experience. There couldn’t possibly be any more opportunities to catch tetanus in one single place. Empty and broken whiskey bottles, rusted cans and sardine tin, and potato chip bags accompany the smell of piss and the sound of rushing water leaving the FECSA plant via a channel labelled “Danger of death due to strong currents.” That’s just in case anyone wanted to swim in water on its way out of a power plant cooling system.
I found the Chernobyl beach lifeguard. He has no special story to tell of a man with three pichas. There’s no radiation, cause it’s a thermal plant. Still, he wouldn’t be surprised if they were dumping something into the sea. But this water is mucho mas clean than the water in Barceloneta, Bogatell, or any of the BCN beaches. It’s a crystal bluegreen straight down to the clearly visible bottom. Aside from the surrounding architecture and its constant machine soundtrack, the beach is pristine. It certainly doesn’t merit the name Chernobyl, I decided.
But seeds of doubt were later sewn. I told a friend of mine the story of my excursion, and the disappointing lack of radioactive mutants. “The water is so clean!” I told him, “There’s nothing wrong with the place.” “But maybe,” he said, “it’s so clear because everything’s dead.” Hmmm.
La Reina de la Platja (Figuras # 4)
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 10
July 21 - 27, 2006
Squinting into the sun, I catch a glimpse of a familiar swimsuit walking by. It’s a one-piece, leopard print little number. And then . . . wait . . .Yes! The same woven beach bag swinging alongside the suit. That means she’s been at this beach every day this weekend. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Of course, that means I’ve been at this beach every day this weekend but, hey, I’m an out-of-work English teacher slash writer. There are a million of me in Barcelona. But there are very few of her.
I have no actual proof that she was also here Thursday, Wednesday, etc. moving backwards in time, but if you judge by her skin you can tell there have been a couple hundred more weekends like this one in her life. It’s a dark, dark brown and seems thicker than most. It isn’t dry, but it obviously hasn’t been lathered with sunscreen but perhaps the polar opposite, super absorbent sunbeam attractor creme. Her hide is exactly that, a hide, like a pelt. The skin is wrinkly as can be but at the same time tight and hard, like leather. She’d make a great shoe.
This whole curing process makes her age difficult to tell, and you can be damned sure that I’m not about to ask her. If she pulled that flirtatious thing and said, “guess,” I’d be as good as hung. You try and guess the age of the jamon on top of your local bar counter, or how many leap years your auntie’s christmas pudding has seen. Besides, this is not a flirting matter. This woman is here strictly on business. “No interviews. I’m here to broncearme,” I imagine her saying.
I climb slowly out of my imagination and stand up to walk the 20 odd steps that separate us. But my legs are stunned into stillness by what my eyes doth see. The Beach Queen has removed the top half of her bathing suit to reveal (yes, I am from the United States and am still, normally, as excited as a school boy to see) a fresh pair of long, leathery breasts. Oh lord!
“Uh . . . perdon, do you come to this playa often?” “Si claro! It’s what I most like to do. I don’t work. My husband esta en el bar.” “What bar?” “Lo Extremeno.” “You’re from Extremadura?” “Claro! You don’t hear my accent?” “What’s your name?” “Senora Silvia Ruiz.” “Senora Ruiz, I think you are expecting demasiado from a guiri. Understanding is prioridad numero uno, I usually don’t get as far as distinguishing accents.” “Pue . . tu ere muy majete pase guiri.”
So it went like that, small talk between me and the Beach Queen Senora Silvia Ruiz. Small talk until she sat up a little more and I sensed a sexy pose taking shape. Oh lord. Free advice to all those save the Beach King who’s out there somewhere: It’s ok to love the Beach Queen for being herself, just don’t love the Beach Queen. . And for the rest of us, so we might understand her the next time, pue is pues, ere is eres, pase is para ser, and majete is nice. It appears not to many guiris are cuddling up with the reina.
Issue # 10
July 21 - 27, 2006
Squinting into the sun, I catch a glimpse of a familiar swimsuit walking by. It’s a one-piece, leopard print little number. And then . . . wait . . .Yes! The same woven beach bag swinging alongside the suit. That means she’s been at this beach every day this weekend. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Of course, that means I’ve been at this beach every day this weekend but, hey, I’m an out-of-work English teacher slash writer. There are a million of me in Barcelona. But there are very few of her.
I have no actual proof that she was also here Thursday, Wednesday, etc. moving backwards in time, but if you judge by her skin you can tell there have been a couple hundred more weekends like this one in her life. It’s a dark, dark brown and seems thicker than most. It isn’t dry, but it obviously hasn’t been lathered with sunscreen but perhaps the polar opposite, super absorbent sunbeam attractor creme. Her hide is exactly that, a hide, like a pelt. The skin is wrinkly as can be but at the same time tight and hard, like leather. She’d make a great shoe.
This whole curing process makes her age difficult to tell, and you can be damned sure that I’m not about to ask her. If she pulled that flirtatious thing and said, “guess,” I’d be as good as hung. You try and guess the age of the jamon on top of your local bar counter, or how many leap years your auntie’s christmas pudding has seen. Besides, this is not a flirting matter. This woman is here strictly on business. “No interviews. I’m here to broncearme,” I imagine her saying.
I climb slowly out of my imagination and stand up to walk the 20 odd steps that separate us. But my legs are stunned into stillness by what my eyes doth see. The Beach Queen has removed the top half of her bathing suit to reveal (yes, I am from the United States and am still, normally, as excited as a school boy to see) a fresh pair of long, leathery breasts. Oh lord!
“Uh . . . perdon, do you come to this playa often?” “Si claro! It’s what I most like to do. I don’t work. My husband esta en el bar.” “What bar?” “Lo Extremeno.” “You’re from Extremadura?” “Claro! You don’t hear my accent?” “What’s your name?” “Senora Silvia Ruiz.” “Senora Ruiz, I think you are expecting demasiado from a guiri. Understanding is prioridad numero uno, I usually don’t get as far as distinguishing accents.” “Pue . . tu ere muy majete pase guiri.”
So it went like that, small talk between me and the Beach Queen Senora Silvia Ruiz. Small talk until she sat up a little more and I sensed a sexy pose taking shape. Oh lord. Free advice to all those save the Beach King who’s out there somewhere: It’s ok to love the Beach Queen for being herself, just don’t love the Beach Queen. . And for the rest of us, so we might understand her the next time, pue is pues, ere is eres, pase is para ser, and majete is nice. It appears not to many guiris are cuddling up with the reina.
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