There is precious little information to be found about The Street at this late date. I am the only person I have ever met who saw even one episode. I watched about a dozen on late night TV, when I was living on Long Island in 1988. It was raw and funny, brilliant dialog, and looked like no cop show I’d ever seen at that point. Imagine Adam-12 filmed by Weegee with a handheld camera. It followed cops on their beat, but resolutely refused to get involved in their cases. It predated Cops, so that the first time I saw that I thought it was surely a ripoff. It prophesied Homicide. I would have thought it influenced a huge number of shows that came after it…except that apparently nobody ever saw it.
According to this NYT article, they filmed 40 episodes before releasing the first. It’s screaming for a DVD release.
Or anyway, I am.
”This show is the ne plus ultra hip show,” said Mr. Korris. ”We’re talking about urban hipsters watching this show. It’s for people on the cutting edge. I think it’s the first sitcom of the 1990’s.”
It was around a year ago I started this blog, and I’ve done almost nothing with it since. But as if it had anything to do with that, I’ve started my own virtual anthology.
The finest Robert Louis Stevenson novel I hadn’t read, The Master of Ballantrae (1889) blends the high-seas piracy of Kidnapped! and Treasure Island, with Jekyll & Hyde‘s dark doubled vision of humanity. It seems to have had a strong influence on Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Sharer (1909), of which I was vividly reminded during certain long discussions in a ship’s cabin during a storm. And toward the stripped-down end of the novel, it turns into a grim frontier adventure reminiscent of Antonia Bird’s sublime Ravenous.
Highly recommended. Not all that hard to find online.
“Before us was the high range of mountains toward which we had been all day deviously drawing near. From the first light of the dawn, their silver peaks had been the goal of our advance across a tumbled lowland forest, thrid with rough streams, and strewn with monstrous boulders; the peaks (as I say) silver, for already at the higher altitudes the snow fell nightly; but the woods and the low ground only breathed upon with frost. All day heaven had been charged with ugly vapours, in the which the sun swam and glimmered like a shilling piece; all day the wind blew on our left cheek barbarous cold, but very pure to breathe. With the end of the afternoon, however, the wind fell; the clouds, being no longer reinforced, were scattered or drunk up; the sun set behind us with some wintry splendour, and the white brow of the mountains shared its dying glow.”
I have no doubt that my recent one-day sojourn in Roatan spurred a renewed interest in Stevenson, but I ended up glomming onto this instead of any of his South Sea stories.
Half-Moon Bay. Roatan. Seven Cuttlefish. Paradise.
Not that we possibly could.
Fearless Rudy went and did it. I am not sure what this betokens.
“Let a thousand flurbs bloom.”
We stayed in a funky little cabin at this resort in Winthrop, Washington, several nights ago:
There were Gideon Bibles in every room, but not a single copy of The Virginian, or even a videotape of any one of the numerous movies based on the book. Winthrop earns its place in literary history by somehow inspiring the novel that supposedly gave birth to the Western genre. When I suggested that motel guests might enjoy passing idle motel moments thumbing a copy of the very book that gave the cabin complex its name, the proprietor gave me a somewhat blank and bemused stare. But if you care to send a threadbare thriftstore copy to stock the motel library, I’m sure they wouldn’t object. Or, since they offer wifi, you can read it here while slouching on a springshot naugahyde sofabed:
Winthrop is currently swathed in smoke from the 100,000 acre Tripod Fire and everything came home smelling like a campfire. Conveniently, there is a smoke-jumper base situated right outside town, somewhere past the also-convenient Sullivan Cemetary, where many of the grave markers are etched with images of their occupants heading off into pristine mountains on horseback, a vision of the afterlife which I find more evocative than most.
In the evening, the town fills with smoke jumpers eating ice cream. We drove out to the Electrical Co-op and parked there in the night to watch the fires burning on the far side of a near ridge, until we started to worry we had attracted the attention of suspicious locals who parked nearby as if to keep an eye on us. Later I thought they were probably, like us, watching the fire. It is a constant presence above the town, a preoccupation as well as an actual occupation for many of Winthrop’s residents.
And the smoke has followed us home. We saw a burnt sienna pall above the mountains East of Monroe yesterday.
Before Lars Von Trier’s The Kingdom. Before Stephen King’s Lars Von Trier’s Kingdom Hospital. There was Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace…