![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/09\/JesseMossPic.jpg\" "\\"\\"")
mon Islands<\/h3>\n\n
mon Islands<\/h3>\n I\u2019m on a flight from Honiara, the capital of the Solomon Islands, to Brisbane, going home after a week long shoot for the World Health Organization. I\u2019m finishing James Michener\u2019s Tales of the South Pacific<\/em>, which my mother gave me just before I left. It\u2019s a surprisingly good companion, and I return to it every night in my hotel room. On the nightstand next to me is an industrial sized can of Raid bug-spray that comes complimentary with every room in the hotel. They\u2019ve just had elections here, and downstairs by the hotel pool, local pols are as plentiful as the bugs, drinking SolBeer and plotting the political future of the country.<\/p>\n <\/a>A storm came through the night before, and when I stepped out on my balcony in the morning, I could see, for the first time, an island in the distance. It\u2019s Tulaghi. And the body of water that separates us is called Iron Bottom Sound. It\u2019s the gravesite of a huge number of American and Japanese warships. My wife\u2019s grandfather was in the First Marine Division when they fought here, on Guadalcanal, in 1943. So I feel a strange and distant personal connection to the place. <\/p>\n Michener\u2019s book was the basis for the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, which I\u2019ve never seen. I ask my colleague Elsie, a native islander, where Bali H\u2019ai is and she gives me a blank look. I feel like a fool for asking. I stare at the map of the island chain in her office, hoping it will materialize magically, like Tulaghi, while a mechanic tries to repair our rental car. Later, while photographing the boat harbor in Honiara, I suppress a strong urge to book one-way passage on a local freighter to the remote islands of the Western Province. <\/p>\n No bug-spray by the bed. I pass out watching an episode of Season 2 of Deadwood<\/em>. George Hearst is on his way to camp. I\u2019ve spent $70 to download the show. It strikes me as a fortune, but I feel like I\u2019m getting my money\u2019s worth. I\u2019ve fallen under the spell of David Milch\u2019s stylized dialogue.<\/p>\n I read Murdoch\u2019s Australian<\/a><\/em>, with a gory photo of a gangland slaying in Melbourne on the front page. I\u2019m reminded of the photo later when I see David Michod\u2019s brilliant first feature, Animal Kingdom<\/a><\/em>, about a Melboure crime family.<\/p>\n I finish the book about Facebook halfway through the flight. Trashy, but entertaining. In the Sydney airport I saw David Kirkpatrick\u2019s book about Facebook \u2013 serious journalism, with detailed footnotes. I regret my choice. But there\u2019s no way I\u2019m reading two books about Facebook. An old friend wrote the definitive book about MySpace, which I bought from her at a reading a year ago, intending to give to my father in law, but never did. It\u2019s still sitting behind my desk, neglected, much like MySpace itself.<\/p>\n I watch Deadwood<\/em> till my laptop craps out. Sleep. When I wakeup, somewhere over the Pacific, frighteningly far from land, I watch the Coen Brothers A Simple Man<\/em> on the flip-out TV attached to my seat. The bar mitzvah scene is brilliant. The Runaways<\/em> disappoints. I turn it off half-way through, just as the band is making it big. Kristen Stewart is unconvincing. \u201cFlipping your hair isn\u2019t acting,\u201d I want to shout.<\/p>\n Granta<\/em> provides diversion, however dated. I read Wendell Steavenson\u2019s article about the Israel invasion of Southern Lebanon in 2006, and Marione Ingram\u2019s memoir of the firebombing of Hamburg. Simon Norfolk<\/a>\u2019s photos of a militarized Scotland are a revelation. Eerie, scary, beautiful.<\/p>\n I start Tinkers<\/em> as the plane descends towards LAX. <\/p>\n The coastal fog burns off, and the sun peers through. On our way home, we stop by Harley Farms Goat Dairy. The goats are in the pens so we try free samples. On the wall is Mark Doty\u2019s poem, Pescadero<\/a><\/em>: <\/p>\n The little goats like my mouth and fingers, Another clipping on the wall, about \u201cPie Ranch.\u201d It\u2019s a working farm down the coast that promotes sustainable agricultural practices and educates young people. I recognize the name of the founder. My best friend in 4th Grade. I haven\u2019t spoke with him since 1982. It feels like a rare moment of re-connection that doesn\u2019t involve the internet. I send him a message on Facebook. He doesn\u2019t remember me.<\/p>\n More Deadwood<\/em>. Season 3. Hearst has arrived in camp. Played by Gerald McCraney<\/a>. I remember him vaguely from 70s TV shows like Simon and Simon<\/em>. I\u2019m somehow disappointed he\u2019s the great and despicable Hearst. But McCraney quickly wins me over.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Jesse Moss is a New York-based filmmaker and the founder of Mile End Films<\/a>. His most recent documentary is Full Battle Rattle<\/a><\/em>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" DAY ONE, Solomon Islands I\u2019m on a flight from Honiara, the capital of the Solomon Islands, to Brisbane, going home after a week long shoot for the World Health Organization. I\u2019m finishing James Michener\u2019s Tales of the South Pacific, which my mother gave me just before I left. It\u2019s a surprisingly good companion, and I […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":53,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[23],"tags":[773,776,775,777,772,673,774,53,674],"class_list":["post-4420","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-culture-diaries","tag-artichokes","tag-australia","tag-california","tag-deadwood","tag-oklahoma","tag-paul-harding","tag-pescadero","tag-reading","tag-tinkers"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/09\/pole.jpeg\" "\\"pole\\"")
Filming in the jungle, I see a man with a machete on a forty-foot pole. Jesus Christ. He\u2019s cutting Betel Nut, and chewing it. He smiles at me, a mouthful of stained red teeth. I\u2019m reminded of Michener\u2019s Bloody Mary<\/a>. I stand under the tree with my camera and pray a betel nut doesn\u2019t fall on my head.<\/p>\nDAY TWO, Brisbane<\/h3>\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/09\/deadwood-al-toasts-150x150.jpg\" "\\"\\"")
The Emporium Hotel, Brisbane. The front desk asks me what paper I want delivered to my room: the Courier Mail<\/em> or The Australian<\/em>? \u201cWhich one\u2019s conservative,\u201d I ask her. She doesn\u2019t know. \u201cWhy don\u2019t we give you both,\u201d she says. <\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/09\/Tinkers.jpg\" "\\"\\"")
Facing a Brisbane-Sydney-LAX-SFO flight, I wander over to Coaldrakes Bookshop<\/a>, around the corner. It\u2019s small but well appointed. I spend a deeply pleasurable hour browsing, and end up with Tinkers<\/a><\/em>, by Paul Harding, a 2006 issue of Granta<\/em>, called \u201cWar Zones<\/a>,\u201d and, Accidental Billionaires<\/a><\/em>, Ben Mezrich\u2019s book about Facebook. In the children\u2019s section, I find a Roald Dahl book<\/a> for my daughter. It\u2019s about an enormous crocodile who wants to eat a \u201cjuicy little child.\u201d She\u2019s four. I wonder if she\u2019s too young for Dahl\u2019s dark sensibility. <\/p>\nDAY THREE, Pescadero, California<\/h3>\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/09\/pescaderosquare.jpg\" "\\"\\"")
Pescadero is only 45 minutes from Facebook\u2019s offices on Page Mill Road in Palo Alto. But it feels a century removed. It\u2019s a coastal California farming town, about a mile inland from the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean. We\u2019re here here for our annual family pilgrimage to Duarte\u2019s Tavern<\/a>. Artichoke and green-chile soup, sourdough bread, dungeness crab and olallie-berry pie. <\/p>\n
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and one stands up against the wire fence, and taps on the fence board
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a hoof made blacker by the dirt of the field,
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pushes her mouth forward to my mouth,
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so that I can see the smallish squared seeds of her teeth, and the bristle-whiskers<\/p><\/blockquote>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/09\/oklahoma-DVDcover.jpg\" "\\"\\"")
Driving back over the Santa Cruz Mountains in my father-in-law\u2019s car, we listen to the soundtrack to Oklahoma<\/em>, which my daughter loves. \u201cAll the cattle are standing like statues\u2026\u201d She\u2019s developing an early fondness for show-tunes, much to my wife\u2019s chagrin. I think of Neil Young, and my college roommate, who used to shower for hours while listening to \u201cAfter the Gold Rush.\u201d Neil lives somewhere up here in La Honda with the last hippie holdouts. <\/p>\n
of Moss’s culture diary.
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