like writing questions in a letter

Song for the Missing

2008-12-10T07:12:00.001-07:00

Stewart O’Nan’s Songs for the Missing is maybe the saddest book I’ve ever read. I mean that as a compliment.

It’s not easy to write about sad, just like it’s not easy to write funny. But O’Nan is an expert at writing heartbreaking books. I mean that as a compliment, too, though I know saying that most of his books are sad isn’t exactly a great way to recommend him.

The thing is that O’Nan writes books full of sadness that are not depressing. They are sentimental and beautiful, but never contrived. I often hate sentimentality because so often it’s a mask, a way of trying to get a reader/viewer to feel something without earning it. O’Nan’s sentimentality is different. Virtually every character he writes is yearning for something in the past—the narrator of Snow Angels who can’t forget high school, all the players in The Night Country whose lives seem to have stopped on the fateful Halloween night a year previous, etc.

In Songs for the Missing we get something similar—a book about a girl who goes missing that is almost entirely about those left behind and not the missing girl herself, who we only see in the brief opening chapter, and then not again. This is a good trick on one level because it puts us in a position of great empathy with the characters we’re reading about—the parents, the sister, the boyfriend, the best friend. None of them know what happened to the girl—neither do we.

But what really makes the book succeed is what always makes O’Nan’s books successful—the sense that he’s not writing for the reader. A bad sentimentalist writes with a deliberate intent to create some kind of emotion in the reader. O’Nan doesn’t seem to care about his audience at all. His books are often potentially subject to the criticism that nothing happens, that they lack a plot, that they go on too long. And yet, they are compelling. You won’t find yourself unable to put down Songs for the Missing (or, for that matter The Good Wife or Last Night at the Lobster) because you want to know what happens. If you’ve ever read O’Nan you’ll probably have a good idea that not much is going to happen. You won’t be able to put the book down because you’ll want to stay with the characters.

O’Nan is not a complicated writer, nor is he a spectacular writer. This is part of why he’s somehow able to put out a novel every year and have them all be astonishingly good. His writing is simple, a reflection of the people he writes about.

Many writers who write about "everyday people" do so either condescendingly or, alternatively, with the deliberate intent to celebrate their ordinariness. O’Nan doesn’t bother. His books could be non-fiction. He finds characters in interesting but not spectacular circumstances. Most important is that he cares about the characters he creates. He writes with no agenda other than to tell their story. As such, when we’re with the girl’s father in Songs for the Missing we understand him and feel what he feels. When we’re with the girl’s mother we understand why she’s furious with her daughter’s friends, who withheld information that might have helped early on. When we’re with the friends, we understand exactly why they did. Neither party is right or wrong. But they feel true.

What might be most amazing about O’Nan is not his efficiency (seriously, a book every year?), or his empathy, but the range of topics and locales he takes on with such precision. I’ve said previously that his characters tend to be ordinary people, but none can be said to be more alike than that. Years ago he wrote a novel actually called Everyday People about inner-city, mostly black residents of Pittsburgh. This is the kind of book from a white male author that should fail spectacularly, but it’s beautiful (if nowhere near his best). Since then, he’s written about a small-town cop, a wife waiting for her husband to return from prison, the family and friends of a missing girl, the owner of a Red Lobster on the last night before the restaurant closes, and more. Most of the stories take place in New England, but he’s also written about urban Pittsburgh, rural Ohio, and Vietnam.

There is a point, maybe two-thirds of the way through Songs for the Missing, when I started to wonder if the book was going to go on just a bit too long. Almost immediately, the tone changed, events threatened to happen, then did. The brilliance of the book, I think, is not simply that I spent 200 pages reading about nothing much happening—and knowing full well nothing would—but that I almost wondered if the events that form the resolution such as it is were necessary at all.

The sky is falling!

2008-09-04T09:46:00.003-07:00

It's been a rough couple of weeks.

Both my parents have to have surgery this month. For my Dad, it's a relatively minor outpatient thing, but my Mom is having her thyroid removed because they're afraid it may be cancerous. If it does turn out that it's cancerous, thyroid cancer is about the best kind of cancer you can get - but of course I'm still scared for my Mom. At the same time, my grandma who had a stroke about two years ago, has been told that parts of her brain are dying. The doctor has told her she has to move into some kind of assisted living facility ASAP.

On top of it, we have a small leak in the roof over the garage. It's been there a while actually and we have been bad homeowners and mostly just trying to ignore it. Last week's rains of course reminded us again that we're going to have to get it fixed, which is going to be expensive and no fun at all.

Diana was going to Vegas with her work friends over Labor Day weekend and I was kind of looking forward to the chance to have some alone time, try to put aside the stress from work, which has been especially bad lately, and all the other family and life stuff. Then our ceiling caved in.

Actually, I want to try to be positive, because everything could have been way worse. Diana called me as I was on my way home Friday night and told me the ceiling was falling. I had just come from Erin's neighborhood, where Thursday night's storm had knocked over trees and power poles and pretty much everything else, so my first concern was that we had storm and roof damage. That was not the case, thankfully. Instead, the air conditioner, which is in the attic, was leaking.

This is what the ceiling looked like Friday night:

From Ceiling

There must have been a lot of water on the floor, but Diana had pretty much cleaned it up by the time I got home. I got up in the attic and figured out it wasn't storm or roof damage, but stupidly it didn't occur to me that we should turn the AC off until Saturday morning. By Saturday, it looked like this:

From Ceiling

I also got to spend the night in the house Saturday and Sunday night with no air conditioning. That's just lovely in Phoenix, right? I spent most of the days away from the house because doing anything out was better than being there. When I came home Sunday, the whole thing had finally come down:

From Ceiling

Fun, right?

When Diana came home on Monday we were able to pull down some of the insulation and I could figure out exactly what was leaking. We rigged some pans so that we could have the AC on without causing any more water damage. Yesterday we finally got the AC fixed so it's not leaking anymore. Don't know yet when the ceiling can get fixed.

The real bitch of it is that most of the attic AC unit is underlaid by a drip pan (ie, a pan that collects and drains any water that leaks out). Except, the drip pan wasn't as big as the unit! And where it dripped from was a part not underlaid by the drip pan! Someone was really thinking when they installed this system, right?

But, really, it all could have been worse. You can't tell but this part of the ceiling is in the hallway just outside the guest bedroom and the bathroom. The floor was tile so none of the floor was damaged, even the sofa table and the quilt we had right there managed not to get wet or damaged. It's hard to luck at this situation as lucky but, if this had to happen, we're lucky it happened where it did.

LeRoi Moore, 1961-2008

2008-08-19T22:57:00.002-07:00

“Every day should be a good day to die.”

That’s maybe my favorite Dave Matthews lyric. Not because it’s such a unique sentiment, or because it’s especially poetic, or delivered with any kind of special grace or intensity. It’s none of those. But it is, to a great extent, what I think of as the overarching theme of nearly all the music he has written.

It’s not as innocently hopeful as his more famous (and certainly stolen) “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” There’s some subtlety in that "should." There’s an acknowledgement that not every day will be.

It’s not as deliberately carpe diem as when he sings “Don’t burn the day away.” It’s a more reflective lyric; the song in which it appears was released on the same album that had him singing, “If I should die before my time.” It’s an older, more reflective lyric.

But it’s still, as I said, the very core of what I love about Dave Matthews. I once reviewed one of his band’s albums for my high school newspaper and made a joking comment about his overuse of the carpe diem trope, but I didn’t mean it in a discouraging way. It was the very hopefulness of the music and lyrics that so spoke to me so many years ago and still makes me a fan today. The lyrics say it but the music makes you feel it. When a song like “You Never Know” is playing and I get caught up in it, that moment is pure joy. When, at the end of that song, Dave sings “Every day should be a good day to die,” it signals not just a hedonistic call to the pleasures of that night, but a deeper commitment you make with yourself to really live every day to its fullest. The moment doesn’t always last, of course.

The last time I saw LeRoi Moore play as part of Dave Matthews Band was last September in San Diego. They played “You Never Know” that night.

It wasn’t just Dave Matthews who made me a fan of Dave Matthews Band. While many people have mocked the unusual line-up (drums, acoustic guitar, bass, violin, and sax) I loved it immediately. I think I really started to love LeRoi when I first saw them play “Lover Lay Down” live. It’s a slow song, not a ballad really, but just a sweet, quiet groove and LeRoi’s saxophone is the highlight. I remember being amazed that he could so easily howl his way through a loud song, and be so beautiful on the quieter ones, as well.

But then, I think every fan loved LeRoi. He wore sunglasses on stage for most concerts because he never quite got over his stage fright. At shows he always seemed quiet, almost passive. But if you watched him up close you could tell he wasn’t bored—he was soaking it in. There were times when watching him was like watching a fan—he was just enjoying the music. Off stage, in interviews and from all accounts I’ve ever heard from those who met him, he was the opposite of his unassuming onstage self. He was funny, kind, had a big laugh. I happened to “meet” Dave Matthews outside a hotel in Chicago once; I shook his hand. But I would have hugged LeRoi. I’m pretty sure he would have been used to that kind of greeting, even from a grown man, and that he would have returned it.

I’ve been a fan for a long time, and I’ve been through all the rumors and crazy stories. Like Dave is gay. Or has AIDS. Or both. One that seemed to recur a lot was that LeRoi had died in a car accident. Maybe because of that it was especially cruel to learn earlier this summer that he was in an ATV accident and badly injured. The good news was that he seemed to be doing well. The band’s tour continued. It wasn’t the same without Roi, but all indications were that Roi would be back as soon as he could. I had even started imagining the great reception he would get at, say, the first 2009 show when he returned.

Given all that, today’s news was an absolute punch in the gut. I literally did not believe it. Not until the news came up on the official site, and then on the front page of CNN, and everywhere else. Now that I know it's true I still don't believe it. I want to fall asleep and wake up from this bad dream.

And maybe it’s silly. I know people who think that it’s silly to be sad about the death of a celebrity. But (even though I ultimately disagree with that) the point is that Roi was more than a celebrity. I’ve seen DMB live … well, a lot. I listen to them … a lot. He’s part of my life almost every day in that way. I don’t know what to say. He’s someone I never met, but I miss him.

My thoughts are with his family and with all members of the DMB family. Rest in peace, Roi.

“Every fire dies
All fall
I find it hard to explain”

Catching up on some stuff

2008-07-03T07:23:00.004-07:00

I now have a .Mac page with photo albums. Link here and on the sidebar.

***

The same page has links to the library of our DVDs. We'll let you borrow, but a credit check is required. Also note the link to my LibraryThing catalog of books (it's a lot more fun if you choose to view by 'Covers' instead of 'List'). Borrower cards for the library are free but late fees can be hefty.

Yes, I'm aware it's a sickness. My wife has mentioned it a few times.

***

Among the picture albums on the site are some that I took on my trip to San Diego a couple weeks ago. I had tickets for the U.S. Open at Torrey Pines and was sharing them with my Dad as a Father's day gift (for last year, this year, and presumably another five or six years to come I should think). My parents spent almost a week there, but I went out on Thursday afternoon. Still, I got to attend the tournament on Friday and Sunday and, as an added bonus, on Monday for the playoff. I had an unbelievably great time all around.

I didn't even get to see this moment from the tournament in person, but I'll still never get tired of watching it:

On Monday I was even on TV as Tiger teed off on the first hole (maybe more than that but I haven't watched the recording which Diana wishes I would get off our DVR already). I'd love to figure out how to do a screen cap and post it, but for now you'll have to take my word for it.

***

I had a work commitment that meant instead of coming home from San Diego on Monday as I had originally planned, I needed to be in Orange County. While there, I settled a claim for $1,075,000.

On Tuesday the check came into the office and so, for a brief while, I held in my hands a check for over a million dollars that had my name on it. Of course, I don't get any portion of that, but it was still kind of surreal. I didn't get a picture of that either as there were a lot of people around my desk wanting to check out what the big deal was.

***

Last thing.

JK Rowling gave the commencement address at Harvard this year. It's really, really good.

Go here and you can watch it, read it, or download an mp3.

***

OK, that wasn't really the last thing. This is. I present to you ...

Murr in a box!

I wanna be ...

2008-06-30T10:58:00.000-07:00

I can’t remember with certainty when I first started hoping Dave Matthews Band would cover Peter Gabriel. It could go as far back as 10-12 years ago, when I first bought a used copy of Gabriel’s “So” album because I liked “In Your Eyes” and quickly fell in love with it and, in short time, most of the rest of his discography. It could have been sometime later, though, maybe as the result of a thread at (now dearly departed) Nancies asking what covers we’d like to see. Or it could have been driving down the road one day, rocking out, and having it suddenly hit me.

I don’t know exactly when, but the idea has been kicking around my head for a long time. I remember talking to Romi about it (I was probably trying to convert her into being a Gabriel fan) and the last time I saw her was 2001.

There are a lot of songs in Gabriel’s catalog that DMB could take on nicely. I can imagine LeRoi whistling through “Games Without Frontiers,” and a roaring solo at the end. I think of how well the band can take on the dark rock sound of a tune like “Eh Hee” and know that they could do marvelous things with “Digging In The Dirt.” But, really, the best candidate was always “Sledgehammer.”

While it was one of his biggest hits, a hugely popular video, and still one of his best-known songs, “Sledgehammer” is not one that most fans of Peter Gabriel would count among his greatest songs. There’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s a little more pop and a lot less substance than the majority of his work. But that’s a huge part of what made it such an appealing cover tune.

I have never really thought of DMB as a band that does many covers—what covers they do play tend to be arranged in a way that is very unique to the band (“All Along The Watchtower,” “The Maker”). Most of the covers they do play are hardly of the typical variety. Most bands play covers for a good time; it’s another song the audience is likely to know even if they didn’t write it. But DMB has played three different songs by Daniel Lanois who is and will always be far more well-known as a producer than as a musician himself—all three of those (“The Maker,” “For The Beauty of Wynona,” and “Still Water”) are either dark or quiet tunes. Other covers the full band has taken on over the years include “Long Black Veil” and “Cortez The Killer”—cheery these songs aren’t. Sure, “Exodus” showed up once every five years or so, and “Watchtower” is fun in a sort of loud and dark way, but that was about it until 2005, when they debuted a cover of “Time of the Season.” 2006’s Fenway Park gigs saw them try “Sweet Caroline.” At two shows in Las Vegas in early 2007 the band played four cover songs at each show, an unheard of ratio for them (though weak compared to a Pearl Jam show I once saw in the same arena which featured seven cover songs). And still, while “Sweet Caroline” was played for only the second time and “Time of the Season” came out after a year away, most of the covers were still of the dark variety—“Still Water,” “The Maker,” and “Down By The River.” As such, the idea of DMB performing a cover of “Sledgehammer” seemed unlikely at best.

There were small signs of hope. In the online community, as it turned out, I was by no means the only person who saw the genius of the idea—inasmuch as there is ever widespread agreement in online forums, the thought that DMB could do a killer cover of “Sledgehammer” was widely agreed upon. Furthermore, during the Dave & Friends tour of 2003-4, that band betrayed Dave’s obvious appreciation of Gabriel by doing a cover of “Solsbury Hill.” That was fine and all, but “Solsbury Hill” is about the least interesting Gabriel cover possible and I was neither going to any Dave & Friends shows nor did I have much burning desire to do so.

Starting in 2008, prospects got even better. The first month of the tour has been full of new (and mostly upbeat) covers—“Thank You (Falletinme Be Mice Elf Agin,” “Money” [the Pink Floyd Version], “Money (That’s What I Want)” [the Beatles song], “Bitch,” and “Hey Hey My My” have all been in rotation. There were even rumors that “Sledgehammer” was being soundchecked, though I always find soundcheck rumors questionable at best.

But, Saturday night, it happened. And they rocked it. Even better than I’d always imagined.

Now, I just can’t wait to get to a show. (Amazing that after seeing 17 shows since 2004 this is the summer I’m only going to see two.) A festival seems like a good place for a cover like “Sledgehammer,” right? Like, say, the Mile High Music Festival? Or, if not, then surely Saturday night in Phoenix says, “Sledgehammer,” no? That Saturday night when they visit Phoenix this year is my birthday—one guess as to what ‘present’ I’m hoping for most.

A self-congratulatory moment

2008-05-17T23:34:00.004-07:00

I did something today I’ve never done before, which by the time you’re an adult isn’t something you can say every day. Actually, what I did today was do something better than I ever had before: I played golf with a couple friends from work, and shot a lower score than I ever have before.

It was definitely not the hardest course I’ve ever played and it was playing short so that’s a huge advantage for me … then again it’s certainly not the first time I’ve played a short course, it is still the first time I’ve shot 68. Or ever been more than two shots under par at any given time during a round (I was 5-under on the back nine). It might be the only round I’ve ever played with only one bogey. I made five birdies—more than I’ve ever had in a single round. And I was about half an inch from a hole in one. Hell of a day.

So, to celebrate and because I now you really care, here’s a lost of the 5 best rounds of golf I’ve ever played.

#5. Tie: June 1994, Meadow Hills Golf Course, Aurora, CO (82, 12-over par). I’m calling a tie for these two landmark rounds. On the last day of eighth grade I played with a few friends at Meadow Hills. I had never broken 90 before, though I’d been close all spring. Out of nowhere, I played completely out of my mind and so the first time I broke 90 it was by shooting 82.

August 1995, Legacy Ridge Golf Course, Westminister, CO (79, 7-over par). By the next summer I was fighting to break 80. One Friday my Dad and I played a course called Mariana Butte in Loveland and I had a great chance to do it but made a double bogey on 17. The next day we played Legacy Ridge. I had a horrible front nine, shooting 9-over, which meant even if I played the back nine in even-par I would shoot 81. On the back nine, I made six straight pars—then made about a 30-foor putt for birdie on the par-3 16th and somehow birdied the 440-yard par 4 17th. I almost blew it on 18, but manager to make a sand save for par and shot my first 79.

#4. Summer 2002. El Rio Golf Course, Tucson, AZ (69, 1-under par).
This was the summer I lived in Tucson and I played a lot of golf. I played some of the nice courses at their discounted rates, but mostly I liked playing a few of the city courses—if you played after 4 and walked, it cost $4. Hard deal to beat, even if the heat was unbearable and I was alone on the course, and probably seriously risking my health. El Rio was the course I played the most because it was just about a mile from my apartment. El Rio is an old, traditional-style course, very short, but tough with a lot of elevated greens. Plus, because it was summer and extremely dry the course played strangely hard. It drove me crazy all summer. Finally, late in July I played a round where I made pars like crazy, just a few bogeys and a birdie. I went to the 18th at 1-over. 18 was a medium-length par 5, a severe dogleg right around the driving range, but it was tough to reach in two because the dogleg was short and there wasn’t much of a way to cut the corner. On this day, somehow, I figured out how to hit a cut around the corner, and then hit an iron in. I ended up with only about 15 feet from eagle, but I was putting from the fringe. Made the putt, for eagle, and shot 1-under. Because that course was a par 70, that became the first time I’d ever shot in the 60s.

#3. (Today) May 2008. Club West Golf Club, Chandler, AZ (68, 4-under par). Made tap-in birdies at 3, 4, 6, and 8. Had other decent birdie tries at 1, 2, and 9. Probably the best nine holes I’ve ever played. Nice inward half, too: missed a few make-able birdie putts, but finally made one at 13, and also made a few good par putts. I went to 18 5-under and without having made any bogeys. It hit a bad drive and from there just got a couple bad breaks, which I can’t complain about since I had 17 holes of good luck previous. Still, my par putt lipped out and I wanted to drown myself in the lake. Still as solid as I can play, and my best score both in relation to par (by three shots) and in strokes.

#2. May 2001. PGA West (Stadium Course), La Quinta, CA (81, 9-over par).
I’ve played a lot of really hard golf courses in my life, but nothing even comes close to how hard this course is. (See the 17th hole above? That’s not even a short par 3. It’s 170 yards. No. 6 is a 255-yard par 3 that’s all carry over water. I had to hit 3-wood to the bail-out area on the left. This hole would be a tough par 4, if it were a par 4. On the courses web site, they have a quote from the designer: “Golf is not a fair game, so why build a fair course?” That’s about right. Everything about that place is brutal. Shooting 9-over was the lowest possible score I could have made, probably could ever make. I was playing great that day, driving it straight and long, hitting irons well, putting well. And I still shot 9-over.

#1. Labor Day Weekend 2004. Ventana Canyon (Mountain Course Front-Canyon Course Front), Tucson, AZ (71, 1-under par).
A combination, finally, of a really good score and a really hard course. One of those good but boring rounds. I made pars all day long and almost never had birdie chances. I made bogey early in the round, got it back early, made another bogey and then just stayed steady at 1-over. Finally I birdied 16 (Canyon no. 7) and was at even par. I missed the green at 18 and was sweating about whether I could get up and down … and then chipped in for birdie.

Just like NKOTB -- I'm back!

2008-05-15T23:15:00.002-07:00

... and I'm going to keep it short, sweet, and hyper-specific.

TRISH!!!! This is for you!

Several weeks ago Diana and I sat down on a Saturday night and watched "Jaws." All the way through. (Turns out there actually was quite a bit of it I'd never seen - a lot of the on the boat stuff.)

Will you be my friend again?

I'm in the wrong field

2008-01-24T23:11:00.001-07:00

I am so sick of “news” stories about GoDaddy and their “travails” in getting a Super Bowl ad approved. Does anyone really consider this news? Actually, here’s a better question: Was this ever news? This is an annual tradition since 2005. I hardly think it was newsworthy then, but at this point it’s an annual publicity stunt and nothing more.

A journalist’s job is not just to report what’s going on, it’s to make decisions about what’s important and worthy of the public’s attention. One of the first things you learn as a student of journalism is how to interpret press releases—even at our university paper, we received well over 20 press releases a day. Most were so banal they were never even read in full. Others were interesting but not news. Maybe one a day included some piece of information that with proper follow up (also known as reporting) was a legitimate news story.

Even the first time it happened – four Super Bowls ago – the GoDaddy thing was a total publicity stunt. That’s what making a “shocking,” “boundry-pushing” ad is all about. Whether it was their intention to make something just offensive enough to be censored I don’t know, but either way they were going to come out a winner. Either the ad would make it to air and (presumably) offend enough people to create a “controversy” that put the company’s name in news stories … or the ad would get rejected and you’d have the same “controversy.”

GoDaddy complaining about the rejection of their Super Bowl ad was clever in 2005, but at least then it was new, which if you can read you understand to be an important part of news (roughly seventy-five percent, give or take). Now it’s just tired. And yet they’ve had front page stories on azcentral.com over several weeks. It’s poor journalism and poor editing.

* * *

Speaking of poor editorials decisions made by azcentral, when I opened it up this morning the story about Kate Walsh making an appearance at yesterday’s Barack Obama rally had a headline of, “Star power trotted out to back Obama at ASU.” Yes, really. Journalism professors all over the state no doubt laughed, took some aspirin for their headache, and then printed it out for future lectures on what not to do.

By this afternoon, the headline had been changed. Weak. At least before you were wearing your bias proudly, Republic editors.

[UPDATE] The old headline is still in the archive.

Ridin' With The King

2008-01-17T14:13:00.000-07:00

I’m annoyed by the “Whopper Freakout” Burker King commercials, the ones where they show what happens to people visiting a Burger King when that location has supposedly stopped selling the Whopper for a day. It’s a really bizarre marketing strategy.

Look, if we remove just one item from our menu, most of our customers don’t even want to eat here anymore! The rest of our food is so bad that customers will threaten the lives of our managers! Come on in! Have it your way!

I get that the Whopper is the item they’re known for and everything, but if you wanted to go down this road wouldn’t be a little better to first show people being sad to not have a Whopper … but then realizing that, “Wow, these chicken fries are great!” Every other company in the world seems to understand that what people want is choice. But then most companies also realize that advertising shouldn’t terrify customers, too. I’m looking at you, The King.

A proviso. The above explains why the new campaign confuses me. It doesn’t explain why it annoys me. Here then:

So, it’s Saturday night and I’m craving a burger (specifically, Red Robin’s Blue Ribbon Burger), but I’m not really interested in going to a restaurant. So, I get in the car, I’ m heading west on Bell toward Jack In The Box … when on the radio comes one of those damn Whopper Freakout ads. And damned if it didn’t make me crave a Whopper. And, yes, I made a U-turn, and went to Burger King.

Sometimes I hate myself.

Catching Up

2007-12-28T13:42:00.001-07:00

From Trish, and way late considering that this was probably supposed to be Halloween-themed. Oh well.

The rules are that you Bold those you’ve seen.
Italicize movies you have started but couldn’t finish.
Add an asterisk* to those you have watched more than once.

The Shining* - I read the book and loved it long before I ever saw the movie. As such, the first time I saw the movie I was unhappy. But i got over it. This is a 100% classic.

The Exorcist* - For my me this is one of the scariest movies ever made, and a good lesson in how it's not good effects or gross-out stuff that makes a great scary movie because, while this movie has both, the effects are so comically bad that they don't work for the most part. Also, not the kind of movie you sit and watch and scream during, but the kind of movie that you won't sleep very well after seeing. I was in college when they re-released this in theatres, and I went with some friends who had never seen it. They were so freaked out that I ended up having to stay and sleep on the floor in their room because they didn't want to be left alone (because, what, I'm going to protect them from Satan?), and they left the lights on all night, too. That's a good scary movie right there.

Texas Chainsaw Massacre -This is OK in and of itself but to the extent that it has inspired slasher flicks and, even worse, Rob Zombie, i find it hard to have positive feelings about it. But what a great poster this flick had. "Who will survive and what will be left of them?" That's great.

The Silence of the Lambs* - This is a very good movie, but I've never really seen it as a horror movie.

Jaws - I know, i know, start the outrage. It's not that I started it and couldn't finish it; I've just seen parts, maybe even the whole movie, but not in sequence and/or all at once.

Halloween - I don't much like the original but it's certainly light years better than the remake.

Psycho - Hitchcock has a lot of far better movies, and ones that don't suffer so much for their age.

Seven* - I rented this one night in high school when my parents were out of town and I was (duh) home alone. Bad idea. There was also a huge thunderstorm going on outside while I watched it. Freaky. But one of my favorite movies. I'd say it's one of the best movies made in the past 10 years ... except I'm thinking it might be older than that now. And that makes me feel old.

Rosemary’s Baby - No interest in seeing it, either. One of those where I have pretty much taken in the story via social osmosis anyway,

Poltergeist - Again, I've seen parts of it recently, but if I ever saw the whole thing when I was younger then I don't remember it.

A Nightmare on Elm Street -I think the first and only time I saw it was at a sleep-over back in elementary school. I have never been interested in this series.

Friday the 13th - Pretty much same as above.

The Thing - Never seen it, not interested.

The Evil Dead* - I'm the kind of person that "cult movies" generally appeal to, but this one doesn't. I've seen it twice because they did a midnight showing of it at Gallagher when I was in college and I went, hoping to "get it." I didn't.

Carrie - Probably the only time I saw it was ... junior high, maybe? I know I'm generally anti-this kind of statement but, given how short and good the novel is, there's no reason the movie should be so inferior to the book.

Night of the Living Dead - The first horror movie I ever saw. When I was growing up, there was a high school-aged kid who lived across the street who sometimes played basketball with me. He invited me over one time and I watched this with he and his family. My mom was pissed when she found out, but this movie really isn't good enough to be scared by.

The Omen - never seen the original.

An American Werewolf in London - Never seen it.

Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer - Never heard of this movie.

The Hitcher - Never seen the original. Diana watched the remake one evening while I napped because I had a headache. I heard the remake had a DMB song in it, though.

The Blair Witch Project - This movie scared the hell out of me not because it had any aura of "real"-ness around it; that always seemed like pure propaganda to me. But it did a very nice job of creating that effect, so I applaud it for that. The reason it scared me is because I have been lost in the woods before; it's amazing how easy it is to get a few feet off a trail and suddenly feel like you have no idea where you are and have no idea how to get back to where you need to be. That's a horrible feeling and this movie had me full of it the entire time I was watching it. Haven't seen it (all the way through anyway) since that first time in the theater, when it was brand new.

Pet Cemetery - Never seen it, never read the book. I think I may have seen the end of this once on TV, actually.

Saw - A clever idea for a movie ruined by the (now thankfully dying) more gore aesthetic that came over horror movies this decade. Gross things aren't scary, they're just gross. That and Cary Elwes' final scene ruined this one.

The Ring* - I imagine with any horror movie hype can really kill the experience. Diana and I saw this at a sneak preview, without really knowing anything about it. Scared the hell out of both of us. She can tell you all kinds of embarrassing stories about just how much it scared me.

Scream* - I have mixed feelings. I don't like the slasher sub-genre at all, so to the extent that this movie is part of that (and even more so to the extent that it re-invigorated the genre) I disdain it. But, as my dear wife is so fond of pointing out, it's also a very clever movie. It's not quite a spoof, but it winks so often that I found it funny (and this is good because the reason i don't like slasher flicks is that they're almost never scary). So, to the extent that it's a movie-about-movies, I liked it.

Drink to Chuck's health

2007-12-28T13:30:00.000-07:00

(I know this is a pretty random way to come back after months away.)

Further proof that Charles Dickens was the greatest novelist ever. "Without doubt the most Christmassy classic author, Dickens is also literature's best source of winter cocktails."

I've always wondered what wassail is; sounds pretty darn good.

A Review of Ana Castillo's 'The Guardians'

2007-08-08T15:17:00.000-07:00

I have an issue with the person who wrote the blurb for Ana Castillo’s The Guardians. Actually, I have issue with blurb-writers in general, but this one particularly annoyed me.

The back cover of The Guardians calls the main character Tia Regina, a “sensuous, smart, and fiercely independent” woman. I’ll give them smart. Maybe even sensuous. But, despite her many qualities, Regina never strikes me as a “fiercely independent” woman. True, she lives alone. And I suppose there are times when she acts bravely in the book. But read the first section of the book, narrated from her perspective, and it’s clear she is not “fiercely independent.” She is independent by circumstance; it is not something she fights (or ever fought) for. The blurb summary reads far more like a personal ad and it is just that, in a way – it’s a list of qualities the publisher thinks will appeal to women. It’s a list of things women are supposed to wait to be and in this way the portrayal of the character is supposed to be appealing to the target female audience (and this, as with so many others books by female authors, is clearly targeted to a female audience).

I suppose this is fine as a marketing tool, but as a literature lover it just irks me. Because in fact Regina is a wonderful, very well-realized character and everything that makes her a wonderful character is something that contradicts that blurb description. She values family, years for them, she is frightened at times, and confused at times, and often feels plain and old and dumb. She is supremely human and recognizable in this way; I can’t ask any more of a character. Reducing her to personal-ad triteness demeans the quality of Regina’s voice and the character the author has created. But so it goes. Anytime a novel contains a character so real that I can take offense at some external portrayal then it’s a good thing – clearly the author has done her job.

Well, nearly all her job. In fact, the novel contains three other narrators are none of them are as convincing or as enjoyable to read as Regina. None of them are bad – her nephew Gabo is a bit of a caricature and not enough of an authentic 16-year-old boy and Miguel is pretty flat – it was just always disappointing to end a Regina section and start someone else’s. I enjoyed being in her head much more.

It’s telling, too, that I’m into my fifth paragraph and only now mentioning the fact that this could easily have been a very political kind of novel. The action takes place in the far south of New Mexico near the border and concerns the search for Gabo’s father who may have been lost in the desert attempting to (illegally) cross into the U.S. Not many issues are as politically hot today (and especially in Phoenix, where I live) as immigration. And yet here’s a book about immigration that doesn’t for a moment address it as an issue. And that’s perfect because from the first moment we’re aware that to these people it is not an issue, not a political concern at all. It’s life, it’s reality.

In the end, the book is about family. A lot of great novels do this – they sell you on the idea that they’re about some new, exciting issue, but then turn out to be very sentimental, very traditional at heart. The Guardians isn’t the kind of book I would normally read – it came to me as part of an early reviewer program – but I related to it strongly. It’s the sort of book that starts slowly, lets you get to know its characters, and then comes at you in a rush. I liked it and would recommend it absolutely.

Overly Sentimental: A Song and a Shot In the Dark

2007-05-11T14:52:00.000-07:00

Don Henley has a lot of songs that I love – more even from his solo career than from his time with the Eagles. Boys of Summer, Sunset Grill, Dirty laundry, All She Wants To Do Is Dance – this is great stuff, not to mention all but mandatory on any mix tape of L.A. songs. Then there’s The End Of The Innocence, which is one of my all-time favorite songs period. And then there’s some stuff that’s much less well known, from his 2000 solo album, Inside Job. The album has a lot of good tracks, but my favorite is easily the closer, My Thanksgiving.

It begins as a salutation to an old friend:

Well, a lot of things have happened since the last time we spoke
Some of them are funny, some of them ain’t no joke
And I trust you will forgive me, if I lay it on the line
I always thought you were a friend of mine
And sometimes I think about you
I wonder how you’re doing now, what you’re going through
Because the last time I saw you, we were playing with fire
We were loaded with passion and a burning desire
For every breath, for every day of living
This is my Thanksgiving

I think that Henley here is in fact addressing his listener, each loyal fan individually, more than any specific long lost friend. It’s a nice little trope, personal and not as condescendingly “rock star” as Henley can sometimes come off. But I’m not old enough to be a long-time Henley fan, I don’t connect with the song in that way (which is not to say that I don’t admire the maturity of this song and the album as a whole). I connect with it personally, and to that extent this verse, and therefore the song as a whole, has always made me thing about my friend Romi.

Romi was probably my best friend in high school, a person who always seemed to essentially be me in a different body. I don’t like the term “soul mates” because it’s so associated with lovey dovey BS that I don’t believe in, but I do believe in … call it kindred spirits. Romi was a kindred spirit – we went to concerts together, we talked about books, we dreamed similar dreams. I loved her in a completely platonic but powerful way – one of the best ways to love someone, in my experience. She, who had a sister and therefore has somewhat of a right to know about such thing, once wrote to me one of the happiest compliments I’ve ever received: she said I was like a brother to her.

And we were friends in high school, a time that is the very definition of “loaded with passion and a burning desire.” The whole world was in front of us. We were believers in a certain kind of better future and our place in creating it. The world was in front of us and it was ours, and even if we were many miles apart it seemed like maybe we would be conquering the world together. She was the one person I actually believed I would keep in touch with after high school. I haven’t seen her since 2001, and haven’t heard from for nearly as long.

The next verse and the bridge:

The trouble with you and me my friend is the trouble with this nation
Too many blessings, too little appreciation
And I know that kind of notion just ain’t cool
So send me back to Sunday school
Because I’m tired of waiting for reason to arrive
It’s too long we’ve been living these unexamined lives
I’ve got great expectations, I’ve got family and friends
I’ve got satisfying work, I’ve got a back that bends
For every breath, for every day of living
This is my thanksgiving

And have you noticed that an angry man
Can only get so far
Before he reconciles the way he thinks things ought to be
With the way things are

As bad as the third and fourth lines are, I love the first and second lines so much that I forgive him. I don’t mean to diminish anyone’s pain, goodness knows there are any number of awful things that can happen to us in this life, but seriously we’re pretty damn spoiled here in America. I remember reading once someone’s rant about how our country was based on the assertion in Jefferson’s declaration that we all have a right to the “pursuit of happiness” but that we modern Americans seem to have forgotten the first part. We act all too often like life isn’t supposed to be hard. But that’s not what the promise of this country was supposed to be – you’re not guaranteed happiness, but you’re guaranteed a chance at it. A chance that anyone who doesn’t live in a free society by definition does not have. I could really go off on this for a lot longer, but Henley has done a beautiful job of summing it up in two lines, so I’ll drop it.

The other thing I love is that bridge, where Henley realizes that he’s much happier when he isn’t fighting so hard for his happiness. It’s a bit of a resignation, I suppose, and heaven knows we’d be nowhere if it weren’t for the passion of youth. But at the same time, when you spend all your time raging against … well, whatever, that’s time you’re not spending really appreciating your life. It’s a two-way street – it’s a worth while life to try to make the world better. But you have to take a breath sometimes, and appreciate the beautiful day outside.

The song ends with:

Here in this fragmented world, I still believe
In learning how to give love, and how to receive it
And I would not be among those who abuse this privilege
Sometimes you get the best light from a burning bridge
And I don’t mind saying that I still love it all
I wallowed in the springtime, now I’m welcoming the fall
For every moment of joy, every hour of fear
For every winding road that brought me here
For every breath, for every day of living
This is my thanksgiving
For everyone who helped me start
And for everything that broke my heart
For every breath, for every day of living
This is my thanksgiving

The best part of this section is what he’s thankful for. Look: fear, winding roads, broken hearts. He’s thankful for this? Ah, but that’s the beauty of a life happily lived: coming to terms with the dark times in our past, seeing how they’ve helped to lead us to where we are, and allowing ourselves to appreciate that such pain may have actually in the end made us stronger.

So this song has always made me think of Romi. It came out when I was in college, at a time when I was still sporadically in contact with her. We’d write sometimes, maybe talk on the phone. And then, for whole months at a time, just not. The day after the Dave Matthews Band concert in boulder in 2001, Romi called me. Have you ever actually gotten a phone call from an old friend who is on your mind but you haven’t talked to in a long time? It’s the neatest feeling. A day or two later we had lunch. Afterward, we saw something awful happened, and I haven’t seen her since. There have been a few letters back and forth – yes, actual letters, and the fact that she would write and mail me actual letters is just one more thing that makes her awesome – but even that’s been years.

And so this song came on this morning and made me think of Romi, and I miss her. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll Google herself one day, and this will show up on Page 19, and she’ll click on it and respond. Probably not. But I thought it was worth a try. Romi Pekarek, if you’re out there, thanks. I hope you’re doing well.

I am not making this up

2007-04-23T11:07:00.000-07:00

A theme park called Dickens World is opening soon in Kent, England. No, seriously.

See?

I am both horrified, and yet desperate to go.

2007-04-12T09:21:00.000-07:00

I've been tagged! Hooray. I think this is as good an excuse as any to finally get back to updating my blog. Now, what was I tagged for?

Oh, yeah: Report on 7 Songs I am Into Right Now: (in no particular order)

1. "My Father's Gun," Elton John. Back when my grandpa died and i went back to nebraska for the funeral the whole experience gave me a very strong Elizabethtown feeling, so I re-watched it one night after I got back. There's a lot of good music in the film (i always enjoy what Cameron Crowe picks out) but this one stood out. Now, it wasn't my father who had died, but the song still really hit me. Even though I've been to a number of funerals and unfortunately have known a number of people who have died, this was the first major family death I've experienced. The whole experience of flying back home and driving back to Nebraska and all of it made me feel adult in a way that was new to me. I had never thought much about what happens to the flowers that get sent, or how much there is for family members to do in the midst of their greif after a loved one dies. as I'm an only child, the only thing I have ever been truly afraid of is my parents' death, because all that shit will be on me - I have no siblings to help shoulder the burden. Also, my grandpa's funeral was the first one I have been to at which all the men in attendance took a shovel full of dirt and dumped it into the grave. I'd seen that in movies, but had never imagined myself doing it. Anyway, all this stuff has been kind of stuck in my mind for the past month and all these thoughts are scored with "My Father's Gun."

2. "Down By The River," Neil Young. Because Dave Matthews Band has started covering it. I'm not sold on their version yet, but hearing it reminded me how much I enjoy the original.

3. "In The Waiting Line," Zero 7. Woke up to it the other day.

4. "Still Fighting It," Ben Folds. Another song about getting older. There is a theme developing, and it's depressing.

5. "Even Better Than The Real Thing," U2. because I have been rereading "Glamorama" and the "we'll slide down the surface of things" quote becomes a very powerful refrain in the club-opening scene. Ellis' books tend to have one line that afterward I always strongly associate with the book. For Less than Zero, of course, it's the opening line "People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles." For Rules of Attraction it's the quote that gives this blog its name. American Psycho is "this is not an exit," and the U2 quote is the one for Glamorama.

6. "Can We Still Be Friends?" Todd Rundgren. Another one from a Cameron Crowe movie. This is the somehat javial sonding tune that disjointedly plays over the scene of Tom Cruise smothering Cameron Diaz in "Vanilla Sky." Brilliant scene. I love when disturbing action is set to an otherwise pleasant score, makes it so much more upsetting. Back in college, I knew a guy who couldn't even listen to that "Stuck In The Middle With You" song without nearly vomiting thanks to "Reservoir Dogs."

7. "Someone Saved My Life Tonight," Elton John. God, more Elton John. But this song is awesome. I learned not too long ago that it's about how Elton almost got married (yes, to a woman) but a friend talked him out of it and encouraged him to continue pursuing music. Turned out OK for him, I guess.

I tag everyone I know who hasn't already done this.

I assure you this is a 'Children of Men' review

2007-01-05T13:55:00.000-07:00

I used to be the sort of person who would say, “This is a book everyone should read,” but I am no longer that person. I don’t know when I changed, or what did it exactly, because I didn’t even fully realize I had changed until recently. I was reading the introduction to Nick Hornby’s “Housekeeping Vs. The Dirt,” a collection of the essays he writes for a magazine called The Believer about what he reads each month. He writes about the decline of reading as a part of the culture, but doesn’t blame TV or movies or computers. Instead he blames readers and English teachers and the sort of people who would say, “This is a book everyone should read.”

Literature, Hornsby says – and I find that I agree with him – is all too often presented not as a pleasure activity, but as a responsibility, as something that’s good for you. But we humans don’t generally like things that are good for us; we think of healthy food as being food that doesn’t taste good, and the doctor as someone who sticks us with needles, and literature as incomprehensible and pointless metaphors for who knows what. This is a problem.

No one says you should watch The Sopranos because it’s good for you – we say you should watch The Sopranos because it’s just a damn good TV show. That it happens to be better for us than, well, pretty much any reality TV program is entirely subordinate to the fact that it’s also just better than any reality TV program. The same thing is often true of literature. Look, I’m not trying to argue that reading John Grisham and Danielle Steele is better for you than reading Cormac McCarthy or Thomas Pynchon. What I’m saying is that it shouldn’t matter whether it’s better for you or not, because ultimately it’s better for us (book-loving people first, but broader culture, too) as a whole.

In high school I worked at a book store and for the first few weeks when a customer would come to the register with two romance novels and a copy of Us it was all I could do to mask my disgust. Jackie Collins? Steve Baldacci? How could people read that crap when they could be buying Hemingway or David Foster Wallace or, God, even an Oprah book!?! But I got over that, too. After all, for every person buying Steve Martini there were countless others not coming into our store and buying anything at all, who were probably not reading at all.

At the end, it has to be better (for literacy, for the publishing industry, for struggling writers, for everyone) if more people are reading five books a year (even if it’s Dean Koontz) than if those same people are (a) not reading at all or (b) attempting to read whatever won the National Book award because they feel like they should, like it will somehow make them better, but hating it and never finishing.

There aren’t many people who still actually complain that Pirates Of The Caribbean will make billions more than whatever movie ultimately wins Best Picture. In the case of movies (and TV, too) we accept that what is good is not always going to be popular and that what is popular can be good without being especially redeeming. The world of books will be much healthier once more people let reading for pleasure be the norm, not some sort of shameful taboo (eg, this British article about people who are supposedly embarrassed to admit they read Harry Potter and Stephen King).

So I’ve given up the “you should read this book” mantra. Reading takes far too long and can be far too painful if you’re not enjoying it. Besides, whatever qualities the book has to recommend it are going to be wholly lost on any reader who resists the project from the start.

So the question, as it relates to what I intended this blog to be about, is whether I feel the same way about movies. Last year, if I remember correctly, I wrote that you should go see Munich. To a great extent, I still really feel that way. And yet, though I own it, I’ve never made any of my friends (nor even my wife) sit down and watch it. I’ve never even suggested it. Here I think the issue of time goes out the window. While reading a book can take hours upon hours of your life, watching a movie takes two, maybe two and a half. I don’t necessarily thinks that’s too much time to ask someone to sacrifice to an important movie. The issue is still whether or not a person essentially forced into watching a movie will get any benefit from it, no matter how potentially meaningful. Last year, Syriana and Munich both left me speechless – but to anyone who doesn’t want to go along for the ride they’re just going to be two movies where things blow up and the plot’s kind of confusing.

So I’ll just say that if it’s the sort of movie that looks even mildly interesting to you, or if you’re in the mood to visit a dark world, or if you just like Alfonso Cuaron – then you should go see Children Of Men.

It is in many ways a very difficult movie to recommend because it’s a movie almost entirely without joy, with only even a tiny amount of hope. Diana said it was good but good in a Schindler’s List kind of way. She’s right, although I hesitate at the comparison because harsh as it is Children of Men was not, to me, nearly as distressing and arduous as Schindler’s List was. That it could have been and is not is one of the greatest things to recommend it, I think.

The movie could easily have been 140-150 minutes, with long stretches toward the beginning that introduce us more fully to the characters and to the futuristic (2027, I think) world in which the movie is set. Instead, you’re thrown in and you have to figure it out for yourself. The characters talk about the calamity of the world they live in, a fragments of news broadcasts fill in other details, but a lot if left unanswered and everything is a part of the plot. The movie is not two hours long and I wasn’t bored or uninterested for even a single second.

Including Children Of Men, I can only think of three movies Cuaron has made (there may be others I either haven’t seen or have forgotten) but I’m not sure there’s any director currently working who I respect more. He just makes good movies. Two (Y Tu Mama Tambien, and Children Of Men) are stories that might otherwise not particularly interest me and I don’t have a burning desire to watch either of them again, but both are lean, well-made films that don’t get boring. Of course, I think the same goes for his Harrp Potter movie (The Prisoner Of Azkaban), which is still my favorite of the series, as much for what it leaves out as anything that’s in it. The guy is brilliant (and how many directors out there can make three so wildly different kinds of movies and be so good at all of them?).

There are pleasures in Children Of Men, just not any that come from the story itself. (I’m not saying the story is bad, mind you, everything about it is good and well done. It’s just so harsh.) Clive Owen is excellent, as he pretty much always is. This is more of a good guy role than he normally takes on and it’s nice to see his strength and rage (and flaws) used for good for a change.

One of the things I was most struck by is the future world they created. It’s a mixture of modern London (remember the story is only 20 years in the future), concentration camps, the American War On Terrorism, and the gray-blue of Minority Report. It’s sci-fi, I suppose, but the world hasn’t advanced much technologically – why would it, if humanity is dying out? The still-green enclave in central London is an interesting touch, and as a contrast the refugee camp on the coast was like Black Hawk Down meets the Blitz. There’s an abandoned schoolhouse, rather late into the movie, that was to me by far the most moving realization of just how awful that world must be. Then there are almost comic touches, like the relative who has “saved” greats works of art (like the David) and now displays them in his foyer, or an inexplicable balloon pig straight off a Pink Floyd album cover.

So it’s hard to recommend the movie, to muster up any enthusiasm. It’s hard to even want to talk about it, which is about 98% of the reason I ever want people to see any movie I’ve seen. But it’s deserving of any award nomination it gets and any best of the year list it makes, and it’s definitely worth your 10 bucks and two hours.

Made-up places

2007-01-04T11:56:00.000-07:00

Another thing I wrote a few months ago, also inspired by Daniel Handler, but not about him.

As a writer, one of the things I’m always most interested in is place. As in location. That I currently have various ideas for stories that take place in San Francisco, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and Colorado is not simply because these are places that I have been to often enough that I feel comfortable writing about them, though that’s certainly a factor. The real reason is because each story has to be set there. Consider that in my own mind I refer to at least two of them as “the Los Angeles story” and “the Las Vegas story,” despite the fact that both have perfectly good working titles (“Screenwriter’s Blues” and “What Happens Here,” respectively). (The stories set in San Francisco and Colorado have no definitive working titles but I don’t tend to think of them as “the San Francisco story” or “the Colorado story” so much as the one is “Aaron’s story” and the other is just “that Big Thompson thing.” This is because the stories could take place in locations other than where they’re currently set, but the intertwining nature of all four books makes the current locations necessary.)

The Las Vegas story could technically take place anywhere, but the point of the story as it’s framed in my mind would be completely different. (When I become famous and dead and my writings are a part of the great American canon, this essay will no doubt be a boon to all those poor graduate students who want to write their theses about my brilliance.) The same goes for the Los Angeles story – sure, people can go crazy anywhere but there’s a whole tradition of “LA makes you crazy” stories that I’m emulating and, besides, the kind of crazy LA drives you is so different from the kind of crazy you get from living in Phoenix that it really would make for a whole different novel.

But this interest in locations gets sticky because I’m writing fiction. I don’t have any idea if there’s an apartment complex in any of the places I need apartment complexes to be in any of these stories. I could drive around and take lots of pictures and get places and crossroads and times just right, but – dammit, why? It’s fiction. Even if I get the right street corner, I’m still putting a fictional person in an apartment that is in fact lived in by a real person. And if the timing of a story is also important that brings up a host of other problems – like, what if it wasn’t in fact rainy in San Francisco that day?

I used to avoid all this by creating my own worlds. Somewhere (I think) I still have a very thick notebook from high school with more details than you can imagine about a fictional metropolis named Harrison City along the southern coast of Oregon. Here was an urban center not unlike San Francisco, a sprawling suburban canvas reminiscent of the suburb I grew up in, a university, a small liberal arts college, a military base, everything I needed. When I set stories in Harrison City (there was some figure of Oregon history who leant his name to the place) I used to sort of imply that I was inspired mostly by Faulkner and his astonishingly complex (given that it was entirely made up) Yoknoptowhatever(who knows how to actually spell this word?) County. Which, I mean OK, I was probably inspired by Faulker a little bit, but in retrospect I had a lot more experience with the fictional Maine towns created by Stephen King (Jerusalem’s Lot, Castle Rock, and Derry, which are themselves apparently based on the trio of fictional town created by HP Lovecraft).

More and more, though, I realized that sometimes the university where a story was going to be set couldn’t be in Oregon – it needed to be in the desert, or in New England – or that the story was about Las Vegas as much as the characters in the story. My reaction was typically overblown. Suddenly every detail had to be right. There’s some use in this. My LA story character is the sort of obsessive who would know everything about all the possible freeway combinations and who would never once tell you how his morning was without relating which route he took to get to work. But ultimately this is inconvenient when you’re me and most of your experience with LA freeways is knowing how to get from the 91 to Disneyland. Moreover, it’s just not important. Sure, there will always be a reader who knows you got a detail or two wrong, but it’s fiction so the nit picky stuff doesn’t matter.

Or then in the middle ground of those two extremes is a place like the fictional San Francisco of Daniel Handler’s The Basic Eight and Adverbs. It is recognizably San Francisco, would be even without being named as such (though it is), with all the landmarks and weather and topography we expect from that city. But it is not San Francisco. It’s Handler’s own unique world. There are band names and terrorist acts and supernatural wonders that are unique to his world. This is all appealing to me and to some extent I emulate the idea. Of my four novels mentioned above, at least three share characters or reference each other in one way or another, and there are short stories that also branch off from those same characters. These are all the same people living in the same world at the same time. If LA is experiencing extreme wildfires in the fall of 2003, it’s something my characters in San Francisco are aware of. If an earthquake hits San Francisco, LA might feel the shock as well. At the same time, I’ve gone back and forth on just how fictional to make my world. Consider my main character in “the San Francisco novel:” He’s an unabashed music lover, virtually everything in his life (all his memories, most of his relationships) is based around music. If I base him on me (and he’s certainly not in full but I’m allowing him much more of me than any other character I’ve ever written), for example, he’ll be a Pearl Jam fan, and a great many of his memories will be traceable to major moments (and concerts) in Pearl Jam history. This is both useful and a detriment to the narrative, potentially. It’s useful in that it’s identifiable. If he wants to compare a feeling to the sweeping chorus of some hit song, there’s a literal equivalent there that the reader can relate to. It also creates a solid timeline around which the narrative can be built. But these are also the potential detriments to the book – Pearl Jam is a known band, so every reader brings a preconceived notion of what it means to be a Pearl Jam fan with them and this may influence their perception of the character more than the actual characterization as put forth in the book. Moreover, the timeline of the real world is often inconvenient for fiction – Pearl Jam’s huge, free (and then aborted) concert in San Francisco was in July of 1995, they have had tours and albums in many but not all years, and their popularity has declined massively over the past decade (it makes me feel so old to write that) … so what if none of this fits the needs of the book? What if, to work with the character’s age and life, Pearl Jam needs to be on tour in San Francisco in 96 or 97? It didn’t happen, so do I look for another band that was touring in San Francisco, then? It gets complicated.

But on the other hand, while you can mold a fictional band to whatever career path and tour schedule you need, you can’t use them as any kind of reference point with the reader. You might love U2 or hate U2 or be indifferent toward U2, but if I talk about U2’s song “One,” you know what I’m talking about. There’s a key scene in the book right now which takes a cue from Better Than Ezra’s “At The Stars.” I could create a fictional song, a fictional band – even one that is self-consciously Better Than Ezra- and “At The Stars”-like, but I can’t guarantee that, as I describe a song about the joys of driving around in a convertible late at night with no cares in the world that the reader will actually think of “At The Stars.” Maybe they’ll think of “Pink Moon,” a great song, but one with a decidedly more somber feeling. Maybe they’ll think of some other song I’ve never heard.

It all gets very complicated, and so the urge to just distance the entire story from pop culture becomes strong. This works sometimes. The Las Vegas story, to the extent I’ve conceived it so far, has no reason to make reference to much of pop culture (the where is more important than the what). But both the San Francisco and the Los Angeles stories rely heavily on pop culture, and I think this is important because pop culture is such a part of all of our lives. The songs we listen to really do say something about us, they really do influence our moods and our decisions.

(As I write this it has just occurred to me that if the LA story and the SF story take place in the same universe then they need to be governed by the same laws of pop culture. The final scene of the LA story (which is all very cinematic) is set to a Beach Boys song. It has to be. So the decision is either maintaining consistency throughout all the novels or letting them be creations unto themselves. Hm.)

The songs we listen to even influence the way we (as writers) write. One of the novels I wrote in high school was completed on an adrenaline-fueled night when the last hundred or so pages came rolling out of me all at once, as I stayed up late into the morning, with The Refreshments’ “Mekong” on repeat virtually the whole time. When I later went back and read parts of the end of that book, I realized the language actually could be read to the songs, it had the same rhythms. Or, for another example, consider that when I write fiction I always listen to music – usually music that is deliberately reflective of the mood I’m looking for in the work. The playlist on my laptop for the LA story includes a lot of Nine Inch Nails, but also Oingo Boingo, 70s Elton John, and Soul Coughing. The Las Vegas story’s playlist is heavy on early-90s U2, Ryan Adams, and Ben Folds. But if what I’m writing is academic I cannot listen to pop music – really nothing with lyrics is appropriate. Film scores, orchestral “tribute” records to pop bands, and classical are my choices then. But no matter what I’m writing, it’s always much easier with music.

And, to bring us full circle (did you catch that? I didn’t even plan it! I am so awesome!), the other thing that has always encouraged my writing is travel. There’s something about being in a different (not even new necessarily) place that intrigues my mind, encourages writing. Day-to-day life at home is uninspiring. Even when I want to write, with work (and now school), and a house to take care of, it’s all but impossible to find the time. I was writing sporadically in the spring and summer but once my classes picked up heavily in July the fiction/creative writing pretty much stopped (that’s also, you’ll notice, when my blog became a ghost town). All of the reading and analyzing was stimulating a different part of my brain. I was reading a lot, even a lot of stuff that had nothing to do with school, and thinking about it a lot, but the creative part of my mind was dead, which is always dangerous because as I’ve grown older I’ve come to realize that not writing tends to result in depression. (When I was younger I had it backwards: I thought that when I was depressed, I could write to pull myself out of it, but writing’s not the cure so much as it’s the symptom. I don’t have much in my life to be depressed about, but sure enough I was depressed just a few months ago, because I wasn’t writing.)

Then I went to California for two nights and suddenly it was bursting out of me quicker than I could possibly write it all down. Even still, weeks later, all those ideas for scenes and conversations crowd my mind, begging to be put to paper before they are forgotten. But real life is again in full effect. I go to work in the morning, I go home and clean and cook and do homework. I write academic papers because I must, and all the while the ideas in my head are forgotten, they trickle away. I lay in bed at night and the ideas come and I must choose between hoping they’ll still be there in the morning or getting up, writing them down, and getting even less sleep than the too-little I already get.

It’s not that I write about foreign places (LA, Las Vegas, San Francisco) because they are more special or better suited to stories than home is. It’s just that home is home. It’s boring. One day I’ll write stories that take place in Phoenix … but not until I’m inspired to write them because I’m here on vacation.

My Daniel Handler problem

2007-01-04T11:34:00.000-07:00

As promised, here's something I wrote several months back. As always, I feel no shame in spoiling the end of all the books discussed.

Sometimes it almost feels like this Daniel Handler fellow is living in my head.

Well, OK, he’s a writer and I’m a writer (clearly far less accomplished than he but still) and he’s a well-red lover of books and I’m a well read lover of books (clearly far less well read than he but still) and so it’s logical that my brain has more of an affinity with Mr. Handler than, say, with the girl at work who just asked me how to spell "threw."

And of course the particular obsession that his writing indicates that he shares with me is an obsession that is probably shared by most writers. More than anyone else, I suspect, it is writers who fret about the lack of simplicity in the world. I can only think of one writer who even seems to have considered the idea that the world is a simple place. That’s Ernest Hemingway and, as much as he valued simplicity in all things, I could easily make an argument that the plainness of his writing was a deliberate attempt to contrast with the complicated world, not an attempt to reflect it. So maybe the actual count of writers who see the world as uncomplicated is an ironically uncomplicated zero.

Few writers, though, confront the complexity as a problem itself worthy of discussion. For most writers, the obsession (frustration might be a better term) is only apparent between the lines – books that are overfull of characters, novels that should have been short stories, sophomore efforts that run to thousands of pages and never get finished. But Handler takes the problem head on, and nowhere more so than in the last of his Lemony Snicket volumes. Having created a whole bizarre world of mysteries and questions and with each successive book presenting far more questions than answers, he had backed himself into a corner: How to resolve all this? But the answer was clear from the very first page, the onion metaphor.

Someone more cynical than I could easily make the argument that this is a cop-out. The novelist chooses their topic and thus it is the novelist’s responsibility to answer all the questions they raise within the narrative. But this is short-sighted and restrictive. If the goal of fiction is to reflect the real world, and for me it certainly is, then fiction must also acknowledge at least at some level that no matter how fleeting a character is they do have their own story, and so does everyone who ever briefly enters their life, and so on and so on. The rebukes to the orphans ("You think your story is the only story in the world?") are in fact direct rebukes to the reader. When you start out with the series, you simply want to know what happens to the orphans – that much is explained. All the other questions we as readers clamor for answers to are questions we have invented and they are tangential to the actual story. Or in other words: If you pick up just one layer of an onion, you can’t expect to know everything there is to know about the whole of the onion.

But as much as it might seem a convenient way out of his predicament, there’s plenty of evidence in his other novels to suggest that the world’s complexity really is one of his obsessions and that, as such, the onion-skin rebuke of Book The Thirteenth might have been planned all along.

Consider the first thing we hear from the narrator of his first novel The Basic Eight: "One may as well begin with ..." she writes. Because, of course, that’s not really where the story starts, but it’s where we may as well start because the whole story of Flannery’s birth (and conception, and her parents’ meeting, etc etc) is just a bit too tedious. Part of the story, certainly, but too tedious. So we may as well begin where we do. We flash back, we get background info, but we don’t have to know how all the Basic Eight became friends or every blow by blow of her previous failed relationship. We don’t have to know it, but it is a part of the story.

Or look at Watch Your Mouth, in which Handler becomes the only person I know of besides myself who admits to being interested in those Library of Congress subject guides. And, of course, interest in order and categorization is itself an awareness of the world’s complexity – organization is how we attempt to minimize the world’s cruel complications. WYM also features one of the most self-aware narrators of any novel (novels?) I’ve ever read, and he too discusses the topic, the millions upon millions of stories the universe can tell. (A side note as it relates to WYM and Handler’s in-my-headedness: While basing a novel on the form of an opera is something that has never occurred to me, it is worth noting that the narrative structure of one of my current novels-in-progress is based on the structure of a piece of musical theatre that I’m particularly fond of.)

And his most recent work, Adverbs, is as blatant a look at the bizarre, complicated world as may be possible in 300 pages. Do these characters inhabit the same world? Are those with similar names in fact the same character? If so, are they all living at the same time? We don’t know. Based on the jacket description Handler wrote the whole point is that he wants us not to know – and to wonder.

But Adverbs is also, I should point out, where Handler and I begin to diverge in our philosophy of how to deal with this issue of the complex world. Maybe because he’s a better writer than I, Handler is more interested (at least in Adverbs but also it seems this is true in The Basic Eight and Watch Your Mouth) in how to tell stories rather than what stories he’s telling. Adverbs is infuriatingly obtuse, sometimes ending at just the moment we start to care about what’s happening in a story. What horrible act was committed? Did they ever get across the bridge? Who flew a plane into what?

It’s not that I’m adverse to the pleasures of language set free. Hell, look at the emails I write or notice how often I’m using dashes and parentheses and otherwise going off on tangents herein – if writing is something you enjoy and believe yourself to be good at then it’s fun to let your typing fingers run free every now and then. But that, to me, is more poetry than prose and I’ve always enjoyed prose more. Poetry exists to tell a simple truth in a beautiful way (which is also the exact point of Adverbs). There’s value in that, but I was also at one point a journalist, so it’s not hard to understand why my heart falls closer to the prose (tell me what happened) camp. It’s not unlike the difference between a Baz Luhrmann movie – all glitz and color and pomp built around a simple premise – and some kind of David Mamet caper – uninteresting to look out, but full of story to unravel in your mind. Neither approach is wrong, I just like story more than I like artifice. Or maybe Handler is just a better writer than I am, and I’m jealous.

But this brings us to the final proof of my argument, which is again an area where I find I have a lot in common with Mr. Snicket’s personal assistant – we find ending all but impossible. Let’s be honest, Handler’s novels (and the SoUE books) are excellent in many ways but the ending of pretty much all of them could be improved. Strangely, it’s not that he doesn’t know how to end a story – his problem is more that he just can’t leave well enough alone once he has ended his story.

This is eminently understandable. In a universe full of people and lives and stories, nothing really has an end. Flannery’s story isn’t really over after the fateful Halloween party, of course it’s not, but the part we really need to know is over. Same goes for Joseph at the funeral on the riverbank. And for Chapter Fourteen.

At some point, the story you’re telling stops. It doesn’t mean it’s the end for the character, and – unfortunately – it’s often harder for the writer to identify this ending point than anyone else. That’s what editors are for.

2006-12-13T23:56:00.000-07:00

It’s not even been an hour since I walked out of the theatre and, as such, it’s far too early to properly judge, but still: Stranger Than Fiction might be my favorite movie I’ve ever watched.

There are movies I love. Movies I admire as incredible achievements, movies that make me laugh uncontrollably, movies that do any number of things very well and that I enthusiastically recommend. But it’s very rare (I suspect this is true for everyone and not only me) that a movie comes along that I find really speaks to me. Transfixes me. Grabs me early on and makes me feel like it’s not simply talking to me but through me. Like it’s expressing a part of me, but in a better, more perfect way than I ever could.

Almost Famous did, but was far from perfect – it was too long and the actual plot wasn’t as great as the feeling of thee movie. Pleasantville was speaking to me – right up until the last third of the movie turned to total shit.

From the very first moment, Stranger Than Fiction seemed to be speaking to me. Naturally this filled me with terror, because I was so sure this movie couldn’t end well, they were bound to screw it up somehow (you can just see the gaping plot holes), and every failed ending is proportionately worse based on how much you enjoy what came before. And then … I was wrong. It’s just this amazingly perfect movie, all the way through. Well, not perfect, there’s at least one thing that doesn’t work, but that’s pretty easy to forgive in a movie that’s otherwise so good. So good and so funny and so dark and so sad and so … I don’t know, so me.

I’m still on a high from it clearly, because wow. Just wow.

2006-12-06T14:54:00.000-07:00

I have been having some trouble this year – as I did the year before, and the year before that – getting into the holiday spirit. This didn’t used to be particularly hard for me to do. Though not my favorite holiday (it’s pretty much always been Halloween, even when I was little), I’ve always (or perhaps I should say at least until recently) really loved the holiday. This despite my complete lack of religious belief and general annoyance with the crass commercialization of something that I love for the Rockwell-like ideas of hot apple cider and family and gathering around the tree. My childhood was at times amazingly like that Rockwellian fantasy. My adult life to this point, sadly is not.

When I was younger I had a tradition that I observed every Thanksgiving night that began my happy embrace of the season. Sometime after all the family had gone home and I was as full of apple pie and cranberry sauce as it is possible to be, I would go to my room and listen to a very particular song on a very particular holiday CD. (The actual artist and CD are too embarrassing to reveal here, and that must be truly embarrassing when you consider that just a few posts below this one I gush all over how much I enjoy that “Unwritten” song.) That tradition has in recent years fallen by the wayside. This year it didn’t even occur to me until sometime last week that I hadn’t listened to the song – and even though I’ve finally broken down and put holiday music on my iPod, I still haven’t heard that song.

Part of this, almost certainly, is that I have not yet (and may never truly) adjust to the reality of winter in Phoenix (read: there isn’t such a thing). I all but missed Halloween what with the 100-degree temperatures and on Thanksgiving I was uncomfortably hot sitting outside. Even the recent “cold”-er weather hasn’t really helped. I’m not going to extol the virtues of a white Christmas or anything – snow is only pretty in theory, in reality it is wet and cold and makes traveling a distinct pain in the ass. But it does at least set the right mood.

More of the problem, though, is just that I’ve become an adult and being an adult sucks. Sucks hard. I mean, OK, sex is pretty good and I enjoy my booze every now and then and driving is nice, but besides all that adulthood is pretty much a bust. Work? Sucks. Money? Don’t have enough. Bills? Don’t get me started. And even Christmas. It’s just not fun anymore.

The worst of it is that Christmas reminds me not only of the basic things you lose as you grow from a child into an adult, but it reminds me in particular of a part of me that I’ve lost and that I miss. It might seem hard to believe, those of you who have never known me as anything but the decidedly cynical bastard I am, but as recently as high school I was terribly romantic, hopelessly romantic. Not in the Valentine way (I’m still reasonably good at all that), but in the classical way. I believed in the goodness of the world and the power of love to overcome everything and in beauty and in soulmates and … basically all the shit that I today roll my eyes at and regard as utter bullshit.

But, like most cynics who deride the more wide-eyed among us, I really only do so out of jealousy: I miss being that way. Even as I openly gag and push away any such silly, starry-eyed idealism, part of me still yearns for it, part of me remembers when I believed in it, and that part of me misses being that way. It’s a much more fulfilling way to live.

Take the movie to which I increasingly make an effort to relate every thing in the world to – Love Actually. It’s not just a romantic comedy. It’s like ten. It’s sickeningly bursting with optimism and joy and the belief that amor omnia vincit and “all you need is love” and while it gets to me on all those levels (I’m still not that jaded, apparently) the stories I find myself liking best are the dark ones – the long-time wife who knows her husband is cheating but doesn’t know exactly in what manner, and the new wife who suddenly realizes that her husband’s best friend is in love with her. These plot lines have the ring of dark reality to them, and of course like any realist I’m far more enamored with dark real stories than happy real ones (my happy marriage is not nearly as interesting to write about as a marriage falling apart would be, for example). This is disturbing, and while this is itself a sign of hope, I just know that it wasn’t so long ago when I would have seen myself in Colin Firth’s writer character and hated the two stories that dared to bring darkness into such a bright movie. I still love Firth’s story, and Hugh Grant’s, and etc., but they don’t interest me. This is how I have become a dark and cynical person: I am, at least in my approach to art, more head than heart – I’ve become overly cerebral. And it’s ruining my Christmas.

There’s other adult stuff getting in the way, too, of course. The older you get, the shorter any individual month becomes in terms of the entire life you’ve lived, and the more you begin to realize that whether it’s Christmas or Halloween or some week in June, you still have to go to work and your boss still needs those TPS reports yesterday. But that, ultimately, I secondary. I mourn my lost Christmas spirit, but some of that is inevitable and I can live with that – it’s just ridiculous to bundle up in a parka to do Christmas shopping when you know perfectly well that it’s going to be sunny and 70 outside. It’s bad enough admitting that – it’s even worse being reminded that every year I become a little more like Ebenezer Scrooge and a little less like his nephew.

Just like Jay-Z ...

2006-12-04T15:59:00.000-07:00

I’m back. Except, I think I was gone a lot longer than Jigga ever was.

You might notice that my absence corresponds rather well with a typical fall semester of school and there’s a reason for that, of course. But now, while not being completely finished, the bulk of my class work is finished, and here I am again.

I have to admit, it’s not that I was so busy 100% of the time that I couldn’t blog, far from it in fact. But this semester I was enrolled in two literature classes, which turns our to be a hell of a lot of reading, even when you can skim or skip a few books that you’ve read previously. But, again, it wasn’t that I was too busy … I was just unmotivated.

One thing I have learned about myself in recent years is that I’m a writer. That is, I’m not someone who can write, or who writes well, or who uses writing as a particular tool to solve this issue or another. Nor does it mean – God knows – that I actually make any money from writing. I used to think that when I was depressed, if I could force myself to write that it would help to cheer my mood. In fact I had it backwards: it’s not that writing cheers me up necessarily, it’s that not writing makes me depressed. And if there’s one thing that can keep me from writing too much, it’s reading.

This is, I know, kind of a terrible thing to say. A writer has to read, has to really fucking love reading, if he wants to be a good writer. This I believe absolutely. By the time I reached high school I understood – mostly intuitively, though I was able to break it out if needed – a lot of the basic underlying conventions of writing in different genres. It shocked me that so many of my peers – and when I here use the term peers I’m not referring just to other high school students, but to those who were in AP English classes with me and many of whom were way, way smarter than me – flat out didn’t get this stuff. Even some of the good writers didn’t same entirely capable of functioning outside of the convention 5-paragraph essay. I learned all this from reading; not reading anything about how to write, just reading. I read newspapers and saw how that kind of journalistic writing is different from magazine journalism, and how features are different from news, and how and when it’s OK to let opinion slip into writing. Surely I wasn’t born with any of this knowledge, though I may have been born with a brain receptive to it – I just read all the time as a kid. It wasn’t until college that I learned that reading could be a problem, too.

Throughout junior high and high school, I wrote all the time. Awful, trite crap and silly stupid shit, yes, but I just wrote and wrote and wrote. I loved it so much that during my sophomore year of high school it occurred to me that – outside of writing books, which, let’s face it, doesn’t pay the bills – one of the best ways to get paid for being a writer was journalism. I was good at journalism, both writing and editing, because I understood it. The problem was that I kind of hated it (mostly the reporting). So, even though one of the reasons I was interested in UA to begin with was their strong journalism program, when I went to college I enrolled as a creative writing major. And then I promptly stopped writing almost altogether.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I was writing a lot. I had papers to write all the time and all kinds of interesting and not-at-all interesting stuff to read. I didn’t stop reading for pleasure, but I surely cut it back a lot. And as I spent more and more time thinking about academic topics, I spent less and less time allowing the creative side of my grain to make up stories.

I graduated with a creative writing major and barely wrote anything creative in all those four-plus years. Everything that I finished in that time was required of me for a grade. Nothing was longer than 30 pages or so. And most of it was bad. I mean, I was an OK writer then, though four years have made me a better writer now so that I sometimes wince to read some of my old stories, but the stories themselves were just uninspired. You can tell they were forced. There’s nothing behind them, even when they’re (mildly) clever, or (almost) have a plot. Almost all of that fiction (and even some of the “creative non-fiction”) was banged out in the wee hours of the morning mere hours before it was due to be turned in. Every writer runs up against deadlines, but I was pathetic.

The only two stories I’m at all fond of that I wrote in college were both conceived – if not written – while on vacation. One takes place in London, where I went on vacation during my sophomore spring break. The other takes place in an unnamed city but was a re-inspired version of a story I had worked on in high school that came back to me while I was in Hawaii. I wrote something recently (which I will probably post here sooner or later) about the very great extent to which travel and foreign places inspire me. It’s not that I can’t commit to a story and let writing it become a part of my daily life. In high school I was good at that, and over the past 2+ years I have learned the skill again. But when much of my life becomes devoted to some other kind of pursuit – generally school – the creative side of me atrophies. In those times, it seems only travel is particularly effective at breaking my stupor (London and Hawaii in college, a weekend trip to California this fall).

I always want to write. As I said earlier, not writing tends to put me in a bad mood. But there are times when I have much else to do that I find I can’t force it – and that if I were to try, I would be forcing it. At these times, even my recreational writing (what there is of it) gets vaguely academic – see the aforementioned essay about me, travel and writing, and another literary critique of Lemony Snicket that I’ll post here as well.

The good news is that the semester is over, more or less. The bad news is that winter session starts in a week or two. But at least I’m blogging again.

In which I make my triumphant return

2006-09-21T17:04:00.000-07:00

(A blog in 5 acts.)

*

I think if I were a pop music producer I would have a backup choir in pretty much every song I produced. Usually coming in toward the end to add that last over-the-top soulful touch. Seriously, I know plenty of songs have this already, but I can’t fathom why every song doesn’t. It’s not like pop music has ever been afraid of doing too much of a good thing. And a choir singing backup and adding little soulful shouting behind the vocals is most definitely a good thing.

This is how I’m justifying my love for this Unwritten song that was (I guess) a pretty big hit this summer. It’s a good bit of bubblegum pop anyway, and goodness knows I’m a sucker for inspirational-seize-the-day type songs anyway, but it’s that choir toward the end that takes me “this song is OK” to “I’m actually embarrassed by how much I like this song.”

Sure, there are other factors. I tend to hear the song in particularly appropriate situations – driving through Beverly Hills on a lovely June day, driving through Mission Hills on one of the most beautiful August days God ever created – and so I associate the song with those happy times. That’s all well and good, but it really comes back to that choir.

It’s basically a verse-chorus-verse-chorus-chorus-chorus song and the end would be really monotonous if it were just Natasha Beddiwhatever (full disclosure: this song is on my iPod so I could look her name up, I’m just too lazy) singing it over and over – though even then she (or, probably, the producer) does a nice job of altering the phrasing anyway. Still again – that choir.

Thing is, it’s probably not actually a choir. There could have been one or two people in the studio doing background vocals and it’s easy enough to make them sound like hundreds of voices. I care not. When those voice kick in I allow myself to see a balcony full of soul-singing women in white robes, giving it their utmost. I can see the lady at the far end of the line who’s not singing the words but instead is skatting and making all kinds of bizarre but soulful noises, complete with wild gyrations and hand movements. I see the choir moving together as one in a side-to-side motion, and yet individually breaking the rhythm of movement with arms thrown into the air or hands extended to assist in reaching a note as appropriate. I see and hear all of this and the song becomes secondary. I am powerless, I turn up the volume, my face breaks into a smile, I sing along. I feel no embarrassment until the song ends.

This is what pop music should be – and would be, if I were producing it.

**

I’m thinking about changing my license plate again, mostly because I want a personalized plate, but also because it offers the side benefit of ridding myself of A6NEW, which I have hated ever since it arrived.

This started mostly in San Diego last month, because I saw a few music-related plates and I envied them. I spent one bored afternoon checking what was and was not currently taken according to the AZMVD web site and determined many interesting DMB-themed plates were available. I tabled the idea at that point, because my registration will need to be renewed at the end of October anyway – I decided to wait until it came due and if it still seemed like a good idea then, I would go ahead. It’s not registration time yet, but it’s been several weeks, and I’m still thinking I might do it. My favorite options are both reasonably easy to interpret, though even once correctly read most people won’t necessarily understand what it refers to. That’s OK with me.

The best of the options I remember were NMBR41 and LVRLYDN, for the songs #41 and Lover Lay Down, respectively. Something like 364041 is also an option – those are the untitled/numbered songs in the DMB catalog. I like all these options, but really wish I could somehow get something relating to the phrase “Don’t burn the day” on there. But I just can’t see how to compress that to seven letters. The lyric comes from the song “Pig,” but I really don’t need a license plate that says “Pig” on it. Suggestions and/or comments are welcome.

***

I know I’ve been reading a lot of old literature (Shakespeare and gothic novels – all for school, of course) because when I above wrote “because I want” I first started to write “I am desirous of” and when I wrote “my face breaks into a smile” I originally had “my countenance becomes full of joy.” No kidding.

****

Every year Neil Young puts on two concerts in San Francisco that are a benefit for the Bridge School, a special program that supports disabled children (gross oversimplification but I don’t really know all the details). The concerts attract big name bands that each night play acoustic sets of about an hour. Usually there are 3-4 big name bands and a few other smaller acts that you may or may not have ever heard of I’ve always thought it would be fun to go, but never been sufficiently motivated to make the trip.

This year’s lineup, however, includes not only my two favorite bands – Dave Matthews Band and Pearl Jam, to the uninitiated – but also Brian Wilson, Foo Fighters, Death Cab for Cutie, and – perhaps most intriguingly given the all-acoustic setting – Trent Reznor. Oh, how I want to go!

I spent Sunday looking up travel deals and flights and hotels and car rentals and all those nasty details. It wouldn’t be ridiculously expensive, but it’s more than I need to be spending. Plus it would require at least one and possibly two days of vacation from work, and those are increasingly hard to come by at this point. On Monday I decided the wise thing would be to not go. I made my peace.

Then yesterday I got a check from NAU for the balance of my student loan for this semester – they’re idiots and not only didn’t process it in a timely manner but also didn’t reduce the amount as I had requested. So it was a sizable check and for a moment there I thought, “Damn it all! I’ll go! I’ll pay for friends to come, as well! It’ll be a grand old time!” Then I came to my senses and reconfirmed my commitment to adult sensibilities – but the peace I had made had been disturbed and I was sad again.

But as of last night a wondrous new possibility has presented itself. It’s not in San Francisco and it’s not a bunch of interesting bands, but it’s within driving distance, it’s on a free weekend, and it’s realistic enough that it might cure my melancholy. On Saturday October 28 and Sunday October 29 Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds will play acoustic shows at the Santa Barbara Bowl! I’m giddy at the thought. Tickets will be hard to come by, but I think I’ll at least have to try. Even if only for Saturday night. And could there be a way to work this into a Disneyland / Knott’s / Six Flags trip? Oh, the enticing possibilities …

*****

People sometimes look at me like I’m crazy when I confess how much I like Elton John, but you have to understand that I’m not talking about Lion King/Aida/80s and early 90s Elton John when I praise him. Most of that stuff wasn’t even good pop music. But in the 70s, he was brilliant, and some of his most recent records have at least teased at that old style and quality. Now he has released a record called The Cowboy and The Kid that claims to be a sequel to one of his best albums of the seventies – Captain Fantastic and The Brown Dirty Cowboy. And not only is this new record great, I think it’s better than Captain Fantastic. Definitely gets a seal of approval.

I also am feeling the need to pimp Amos Lee as much as possible. His first album has been out for some time, but you still probably haven’t heard it. It’s great. He’s got an acoustic songwriting style that’s reminiscent of folk, but he sings like Otis Redding. And his new album, which comes out next month, is amazingly good stuff. (Uh, a little birdie told me so.)

My pseudo-summer vacation

2006-08-09T16:58:00.000-07:00

Last night marked the end of my summer session class (ie, month of hell) and as far as I know I passed it, so that means it’s a reason to celebrate. I’ll grant you, it would be easier to celebrate with air conditioning, but I’m trying not to wallow in self-pity. At least it’s somewhat overcast and not 110 today.

But once the A/C gets fixed (and provided that it works for longer than 4 days this time), there’s some fun stuff to look forward to:

• Ben Harper at the Dodge Theatre tomorrow night.
• DMB two weeks from tonight on my birthday. That’s a fun birthday party all by itself, but I do like any excuse to get my friends together. Especially if it’s in honor of me. The problem is I think Brianna and Robert are out of town the weekend before and we’re going to be out of town the weekend after my birthday. And the weekend after that is Labor Day weekend. Anyone with a clever solution to this problem (Thursday night dinner?) is welcome to make a suggestion.
• Going to San Diego for a weekend (August 25-27). Ah, San Diego let me count the things I love about thee: nightlife, beaches, downtown and Gaslamp, little Italy, and weather that’s cooler than the temperature I would set on my thermostat – if , of course, I had a working cooling system.
• I actually have to start school again on the 28th, but I’m almost excited about that, too, since it will be my first exposure to actual literature classes. This could go either way.
• Broncos v. Cardinals pre-season football game on August 31. It’s preseason so I don’t much care about the game, but it should be fun to go have a look at the new stadium.
• The lovely woman here at work who just sold me tickets to Wicked at face value, while I was seriously considering paying a ridiculous markup to get them off Craigslist. No one mourns the wicked, you know. But they do mourn the loss of air conditioning.

no. 12

2006-08-04T19:55:00.000-07:00

I have no idea if anyone reads this who doesn't also read Lisa's blog, but I implore you to take three minutes of your life and go watch this film.

http://www.myspace.com/no12movie

It's amazing, and probably the coolest thing I have ever been a part of.

I'm extremely proud of Kane, Tracy, and Trish who really are the ones who make the film what it is. If we were only going to win one award then I'm absolutely glad that this was it. And better yet is that it will be played again at the International Horror & SciFi Film Festival, and hopefully on in a few other places after that.

Go watch this now. Then when my friend Kane becomes famous you can say you remember him from this short.

2006-08-01T17:49:00.000-07:00

You've probably all seen this week's cover of People:

But here is an exclusive sneak preview of next week's cover!

2006-08-01T16:59:00.000-07:00

Three of my favorite authors all in one room. Cool.

Personally, I'm sort of ambivalent about Harry's potential to die. I don't want him to, I guess, but if he does and she does it right (which I have every faith she would) then I wouldn't really have an argument with that decision.

Big Mouth Lancey Bass

2006-07-27T00:05:00.000-07:00

Yeah, because you keeping this "secret" really fooled everyone. We're shocked!

***

Last week I praised Phoenix for having a number of sporting/concert venues that are not named after corporate sponsors. In fact, I think I called it one of the city's few redeeming qualities (there are probably more but they're so hard to think of when it's 118). Then I read the Cardinals are shopping for a sponsor to grant naming rights to for their new stadium. So much for Cardinals Stadium, I guess. Bastards.

Mega Book Post

2006-07-27T00:04:00.000-07:00

I’ve had a good run lately with the books I’ve been reading.

It started with a huge novel by an Australian prosecutor named Eliot Perlman called Seven Types Of Ambiguity. It tells the story of a kidnapping and the successive trial from the points of view of seven of the involved parties. It’s got a Dickensian (both a word and a style that I love) quality in its political and social scope, but also gets very po-mo with its different narrators and the way it shows how truth varies from person to person. Simply one of the best novels I’ve ever read, but it’s a serious undertaking.

Also read Joan Didion’s memoir called The Year Of Magical Thinking about the year after her husband’s death during which she was also dealing with her daughter being sick. Brutal and honest stuff. Not something you’d want to read just for fun, but if you’ve ever lost a person this is about as good a memoir on grieving as you’re going to find (C.S. Lewis’s A Grief Observed is the only other better thing I’ve read).

Then I went for a wonderful satire by Max Barry called Company. Barry also wrote a book satirizing advertising called Jennifer Government that I loved—Company takes on corporate culture. As often happens with satires, the plot just sort of unravels at a certain point, but it’s so worth it for the horrid and painful truths in the first half of the book. If you’ve never worked in a corporate office, it would probably just seem like absurdism, but – tragically – it’s not.

Kevin Brockmeier wrote a book called The Short History Of The Dead that is far from perfect but I’ll always remember because it has one of the best ideas I’ve ever heard for a story. The book takes place (in even numbered chapters) sometimes in the future, as a plague of some sort is killing off virtually all humanity. One of the last people left living is a researcher in Antarctica. The odd-numbered chapters take place in a sort-of Purgatory-like City that’s somewhere after life but not quite like what we think of as death. It’s based on a belief prevalent in many African cultures that there are not two states of existence (alive and dead) like we assume in the Western world, but instead there are three: alive, dead but still remembered by the living, and ancestors (not necessarily people who have been forgotten, but those who are no longer remembered by the living). The odd numbered chapters make the book. The city first fills up drastically, then begins to drastically empty as quickly as it filled (all as a result of the plague). Ultimately, the only inhabitants left are those remembered by the researcher in the even-numbered chapters. It’s a very good book and there are some passages of writing that are excellent, but it’s such a neat idea I’m not sure any writer could have pulled it off.

Then I read Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro (the guy who wrote The Remains Of The Day). This book inexplicably takes place in the twentieth century, but in a different twentieth century than the actual one we just completed. It’s revealed slowly, but the essential idea is that clones were created, raised separately to adulthood, and then essentially used for parts. The book is the journal of one of these clones and it’s about as creepy as anything I’ve ever read. Her story is mostly mundane (schoolyard crush becomes lifelong flame), but the background of who they are and what future faces them is so abhorrent that it just paints every little action that might otherwise be boring or trite as painfully bittersweet. This is a book I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend to anyone.

Most recently, with a little urging from Brianna, I moved onto Daniel Handler (the guy who also writes as Lemony Snicket). I read his first novel The Basic Eight and loved it, and just finished his novel/short story collection Adverbs and loved maybe half of it. Handler is one of those writers who is as much or more interested in playing with language as he is in plot. That’s fine and interesting – it’s just not generally my preference. (I’m a plot guy. Tell me a good story and write well and I don’t care if there’s nothing new in the writing at all.) This worked out pretty well in The Basic Eight because he has 400 pages of novel to fill up so he essentially had to give us plot. And, really, there’s not that much plot – just enough. But his writing is entertaining enough to cover a lot of things that might have been flaws in other books. In general, I hate novels told in a series of letters or diary entries, but this “diary” worked. Flannery is entertaining to read. There’s an over-long section at the end that is almost all about circuitous writing and not at all about plot and that’s the only part of the book I didn’t just love. It should really be a movie (except they’d probably ruin it and they aren’t big on school killing movies since Columbine).

Adverbs is billed as a novel on the cover and true enough seems to contain many of the same characters … but it’s still really a collection of stories. As such, some are excellent, others are just semi-interesting exercises in complicated exposition. Still, there are a handful of the through-images that I just love from Adverbs: (1) The stories mostly take place in San Francisco in a time around (before, during, and after) a disaster of some kind. We don’t really know what. Maybe it’s an act of terrorism. Maybe it’s a volcano. Maybe it’s an earthquake (hey, it’s San Francisco). This is brilliant to me. The not knowing is cryptic and frightening, which is of course the point. What better expression of our national consciousness post-9/11? Moreover, it gets to the point of something I have always tried to work into stories about San Francisco, which is that an impending dread hangs over the place and did so even long before 9/11. The city is sitting right on top of probably the world’s most treacherous fault line. The city has been destroyed before, and very well may be again. But no one knows when. That feeling of uncertain but potentially approaching doom pervades many of the stories, and is wonderful. (2) Although the book is taking place in a recognizable place, it’s not really our world. It’s not our San Francisco, or it is but it’s not our world of culture. Characters have passionate discussions about music, naming bands that Handler has completely made up. If you try really hard you can maybe guess that he may or may not be referring to some real world bands (and places, etc). But maybe he’s just making it up. To his characters, though, the bands they talk about are as real as U2 and Shakira. It’s a nice touch and a tempting one to emulate.

Anyway. Having finished the Handler books, I’ve gone back to Perlman for a collection her wrote called The Reasons I Won’t Be Coming. The first story is one of those that just takes your breath away. Mine, anyway. The second story was also very good. I’m excited.

Other stuff I want to read soon, but may or may not get to:
Handler’s other books, the adult Watch Your Mouth and the Lemony Snicket series so that I’m caught up for #13 this fall
Levi’s American Vertigo essays
A memoir called Oh, The Glory Of It All, by Sean Willsey. But maybe I should wait until I’m working on a San Francisco book to pull out all the SF stuff. Also if I ever get around to writing that, I should re-read the best earthquake novels I've ever read, The Ground Beneath Her Feet (Salman Rushdie) and Strong Mation (Jonathan Franzen).
I’m always itching to re-read Bret Easton Ellis stuff. I’m thinking it might be time to revisit Glamorama.
Jose Saramago’s Seeing/Blindness books.
Who knows how much else?

Tagged

2006-07-24T22:03:00.000-07:00

from Robert ...

Everyone has a job where the same situation, complaint and/or problem comes up. We all know how to resolve the issue quickly and easily because, after all, it's a routine. I'm curious, what is routine for everyone? Each one of us, unless we work at the same place, will all have a different answer.

Q: What's subrogation?
A: God I hate the California Department Of Insurance.

Q: What's segregation? Isn't that illegal?
A: I don't know. I haven't read the laws in Illiterate Nation.

Q: Where's the rest of my money?
A: You live in Idaho and your claim was handled by an Asaian girl. You've just called a 602 area code to get ahold of me. And you think I'm going to just send you money?

Q: What's the status of my claim?
A: I re-assigned my entire caseload three months ago.

Q: What's the status of my claim that was caused by a washing machine/dishwasher/refrigerator?
A: (1, truth): Four years from now, we might send you a check for about 15% of your deductible. If you're still living at the same place. If not, don't expect me to look too hard to find where I should send your $3.47. (2, my answer): Well, I'm not certain of the attorney's schedule but I think he's hoping to get something filed by the end of the summer. From there, it's all up to the courts and the defendants. It's really not in our hands if they want to drag their feet.

Q: What's the status of my E&O claim? I've emailed you five times.
A: I know I've been the "E&O Specialist" for three months, but I haven't actually been trained in it yet. I'll get back to you if that ever happens. Unless I quit first. Or jump off the roof.

2006-07-21T23:21:00.000-07:00

Seriously, so you've been the president for more than five years and in all that time you have never vetoed a bill that Congress has sent you, and you're starting to think, "Y'know, it's really time."

So you choose to veto a stem cell research bill? As your first veto. Seriously? Because I was hoping it was just a bad dream. But apparently not.

2006-07-20T14:27:00.000-07:00

Even though we learn history as a series of events, with very few exceptions it doesn’t really work that way. Sure there are historic moments that we all sit up and take notice of, but maybe only a few in a lifetime. (Recent ones that come to mind are Pearl Harbor, Kennedy’s assassination, and of course 9/11.) So, while we all learned that World War I started when the Archduke got shot, I’m willing to wager that most people (even in Europe) didn’t even know it had happened and that those who did scarcely expected just how widespread the consequences would be.

Which is why this shit freaks me out so much. Right now it’s over there and involves two other countries and sure we’ve got a whole other war we’re actually fighting. But this kind of crap has a bad habit of spreading. I think another all-out war involving Israel is about the scariest possibility of all in the Middle East and right now it seems they’re walking right up to the brink of it.

2006-07-19T11:11:00.000-07:00

Hey blog, what’s up? Haven’t seen you for a while. You look good. Did you lose a little weight? Yeah. I know, I’m sorry I never write. Or call. Or even read other blogs. I know I can be insensitive. Let me make up for it. I’m sure I’ll never neglect you again.

***

We notice the big changes more, but I think it’s the little battles, the skirmishes around the edges, where change really happens.

That’s why I don’t think you have to care about football or sports or colleges or Michigan at all to take some small bit of interest in this story.

The athletic director and the president of the University of Michigan want to add luxury skyboxes to Michigan Stadium. The stadium is one of the country’s oldest and largest, with a capacity of over 100,000. As you can see, the stadium is a huge oval, with only press boxes that interrupt the shape. However, given its age, the stadium is in pretty desperate need of renovations that will cost millions. The plan to add skyboxes would help recoup the costs of the other renovations.

The thing is, there’s nothing inherently evil about luxury skyboxes. I would never argue that a new stadium should be built without them. I’ve had the pleasure of attending a handful of basketball, hockey, and baseball games in box seats and the appeal is obvious. So it’s hard to argue against the basic concept. And it’s easy to say, “It’s just one stadium.”

But I think it’s more than that. There’s a kind of strange beauty in the tradition of a gigantic public stadium like the one at Michigan. The kind of place where every fan who piles in is sitting on a bleacher seat amongst a sea of humanity. To me, adding what amount o plush condominiums on the side of that stadium, would be to rob it of some of that history and tradition and beauty. It would kill a little something in Michigan U culture. More and more, it seems we are willing to surrender ourselves and our community to the almighty dollar. It makes me sad.

I’m a believer in communities and the power of people working together. My faith in the power of togetherness is the foundation for virtually everything else I believe in – from democracy to live music. Communities with pride are miraculous and powerful things.

So, while I might not often have a lot of positive things to say about Arizona (and Phoenix in particular) I’ll say that one thing I love about this place is that while we do have plenty of places like Dodge Theatre, US Airways Center, Wells Fargo Arena, Chase Field, and Cricket Pavilion, we also have Glendale Arena, Marquee Theatre, Celebrity Theatre, Cardinals Stadium, Sun Devil Stadium, Walkup Skydome (in Flagstaff), and (in Tucson) Arizona Stadium and McKale Center.

These places – stadiums, theatres, concert venues – are where communities come together. These places form the basis for whatever civic pride we might have, and I believe civic pride is a vital thing.

I grew up in Denver which is a place with a very strong sense of community in every way – great fan support for sports teams, major city centers where large numbers of people work, a strong downtown people are happy to visit and are proud of, good nightlife, well-developed public transportation, etc. It’s a strong community that’s perennially among the highest ranked in surveys of good places to live. It’s also one of the highest ranked cities in terms of healthy population. I can’t believe that this is all a coincidence. (For example, you might argue some of this is due to geography and climate but Seattle’s geography and climate are almost exactly opposite to Denver and yet it too is a town with a lot of civic pride and well-known as a popular place to live.)

In my teens, Denver had a quickly growing population, skyrocketing property values, etc etc. To catch a game or a show I went to places like McNichol’s Sports Arena, Mile High Stadium, Fiddler’s Green, and Red Rocks Amphitheatre. Places whose names said something about the community, about the place itself. In 1996, the Avalanche won the Stanley Cup, the first pro sports championship for the Denver area. And in 1998 and 1999, the Broncos won the Super Bowl. I know few things without doubt but I know that I will never experience another night like the night the Broncos won their first Super Bowl. Imagine a team (or a music group, or a movie star) who you love with every atom in your body, a team (or etc) you have loved since birth. Imagine that for years they have failed, or (trust me it’s even worse) come oh so close to glory but fallen short. And then, just at the point you’ve resigned yourself to the permanent misery of a Cubs fan, your team (etc) wins. Imagine how ecstatic you would feel – for them, but also for you, you who has lived and died watching them for years and years. Then try to imagine that everyone else in the city where you live feels the exact same way. Imagine what it was like for me on that day when my mother, who was always aware of sports but never seemed to care in the least (unless it was to roll her eyes at the silliness of it all), broke down in tears in the second half because Green Bay had taken the lead and she thought, “The Broncos are going to blow it again. Just when I let myself get my hopes up.” Have you ever seen complete strangers on the street hugging? Have you seen grown men cry tears of joy? Probably not, unless you were in Denver that January night (or in Boston when the Red Sox finally won the World Series a few years ago). It was magic. The city exploded, but not into riots or violence (which sadly isn’t rare and is what happened pretty much anytime Dallas won the Super Bowl). The city exploded with love. It was the craziest week I’ve ever lived through. That’s the public benefit of sports teams.

But since those wonderful days (and since I’ve moved away) they tore down McNichol’s and built something called the Pepsi Center (even though Albany already had a place called Pepsi Arena – formerly the much more charming Knickerbocker Arena), they renamed Fiddler’s Green to Coors Amphitheatre (even though there was already a Coors Amphitheatre in San Diego), and – worst of all by far – tore down Mile High Stadium and had the audacity to call the new place Invesco Field (OK, they caved and decided to make it Invesco Field at Mile High, but that kind of patronizing is almost worse).

Population growth slowed. Housing prices declined. Homes were foreclosed. The bubble burst. Is this coincidence?

OK, probably it is.

But I’ve heard stories from those of you who lived here or have had family here for years. Stories about the year the Suns made it to the finals and the whole Valley got Suns fever. Stories about grandmas and cousins who caught Suns fever that year and still have it. Isn’t it a beautiful thing when that happens? Even if it’s only happening because of a stupid game, isn’t it beautiful?

I think we lose some of this when we let our stadiums be called not by names that are recognizable and geographically relevant even to non-sports fans but by ever-rotating monikers based on yearly profits and airline mergers. Everyone knew about Mile High Stadium. Even if you’d never heard of it, you’d know where it was. But Invesco Field, what the hell is that?

And I think it holds true for the tradition of Michigan Stadium, this epic venue where seeing a game today is not fundamentally different then seeing a game there in 1960. They’re willing to sacrifice the beautiful tradition of the place for the possibility of money. We all are. We, as a society, have proved we’re willing to make that trade. And I humbly submit that we’re clearly none the better for it.

Michigan’s board of regents will vote on the proposal this week. I’m hoping it gets denied. It’s a small thing. But it matters.

2006-05-19T16:04:00.000-07:00

Pearl Jam has released their first music video in 8 years (bet you didn't even know about that one, did you?).

And it scares me.

A lot.

(Watch it here.)

2006-05-15T22:30:00.000-07:00

Dear writer's of Grey's Anatomy,

Boooooooooooo.

Seriously.

Sincerely,

Matthew

2006-05-13T09:28:00.000-07:00

I don't want to be rude here, because apparently at some point he finds ways to score (last night he had 32 according to the paper), but I never really see Shawn Marion do anything but miss lay-ups.

I'm not a Suns fan but I've watched a few of their games during the playoffs and it's infuriating from a fundaemntal perspective. The Suns will be out on a 2-on-1 break and Nash will dish to Marion for an uncomtested lay-up ... that he misses. Or he'll pull down an offensive rebound and go back up ... and miss the lay in. Hell, last night I only saw one play in the Suns-Clippers game as I walked through the bar of a restarant where we ere eating. The play was Marion missing a lay-up on a fast break.

How good would this guy actually be if he made all his easy shots?

2006-05-10T11:44:00.000-07:00

I think maybe someone should take my credit cards away.

(Diana, I’m in $50,000 of debt and this is how I’ve chose to tell you. Just kidding! Did you really think I was Nicki from Big Love? You did for a second, didn’t you?)

For the past several weeks I have been holding out hope that, since Pearl Jam’s current tour plans ignore pretty much everything south of the Mason-Dixon line (including Arizona) that they would announce fall tour dates for our part of the country for when they finish their European tour. Instead they have announced they are going to go tour in Australia. I now bear a grudge toward boomerangs.

So, either they will come visit Phoenix (but not until 2007 sometime) or we’re getting skipped completely. I know this is ridiculous, but this really bums me out.

I’ll see them on this tour anyway, because I’m driving to San Diego on July 7 to see them there. But now, with little prospect of them playing Phoenix for a year at best or three or four more years at worst, I’m getting the itch to drive to Vegas for the show the night before that one, too. (I could take a half day from work and be there in time! I think.)

This all started a few years (wait, actually 6 years. God I’m old) ago, in 2000 when (living in Tucson and having no Friday classes) I decided I could drive to Albuquerque on Friday, see the show, then drive and see them in Phoenix Saturday night. Then I found out the Sunday night show in Vegas would be their tenth anniversary concert and I had to go to that, too. And so I became a person who is willing (indeed, gets giddy at the prospect) to travel to concerts. I saw three shows in three nights in three different states.

But since then I’ve only seen Pearl Jam in concert once. In 2003 I had planned to see them in Las Vegas and then again the following night back here in Phoenix. I changed my mind, though, and decided to just spend the weekend in Vegas with friends. I sold my Phoenix ticket to some guy on eBay.

Pearl Jam tours are few and far between so I have always tried to maximize. I saw them first when I was in eighth grade (1993) and then made sure I found a way to get tickets to both of their 1995 shows at Red Rocks. Then nothing until 1998. It was the prospect of having only seen one show in 5 years that inspired me to go on the road in 2000. And now I’ve only seen one show since then.

Tickets are still available for Las Vegas via Ticketmaster. I thought perhaps if for whatever reason our June Disneyland trip didn’t work out that I would be able to justify taking another day off to go to LV. Happily (and I really mean that) Disneyland has worked out and I’m excited to be going. But now my excuse for going to LV is gone.

It is so tempting, though.

2006-05-09T15:31:00.000-07:00

Dear Pearl Jam,

Thanks for the really great new album. I mean, I’ve been a big fan of all your stuff but there’s an energy to this new stuff that is special. I can see why you’re excited about sharing it, being more visible in the press, and all that. So thanks.

Having said that, and without wanting to be rude, let’s talk about something you really have to do.

See, the penultimate song on your new record (“Come Back”) is one of the most amazing things you’ve ever written. I was happy to see that the song made its live debut the other night at Irving Plaza. But … mid-set? What’s that all about?

I mean, you would never play Yellow Ledbetter randomly in the middle of a set, right? So why do it with Come Back, seeing as it’s so obviously such a perfect “last song”? You’ve probably already thought of this, though. You’re all very good at what you and when it comes to putting on a concert no one is better. Maybe this is already in the works for tonight’s set. You know, Ed, how you’ll say something like, “Thanks for coming. We hope you’ll all come back tomorrow night so we can do this again.” How you’ll let Mike just go off on a ridiculous solo, then bring back Ed with the little woos and “Come Back! I’ll be here!” with the crowd singing those lines right along, really feeling it. Maybe the band will even leave the stage while Mike is still playing (the way you sometimes do with YL) and the crowd will keep singing and Mike will keep kicking their asses.

Won’t that be an especially perfect closer for the first show of a two-night stand in a given city? I thought so. But you wouldn’t even have to limit it to that. One of the genius things about Yellow Ledbetter is that it’s not just a great musical way to say goodbye – the whole “I don’t wanna stay” thing is poignant. “Come Back” could be equally poignant, reassuring. As fans we often wait 2, 3, even 4 years between shows in our hometowns. Why not at least thank the fans for such patience with a simple request like this at the end of some shows?

As I said, though, I’m sure you’ve already thought about this. I’m really looking forward to it. (In San Diego.)

Thanks again. Great song. Great record.

Sincerely,

Everyone with ears

PS

If you decide you want to use it as a set closer or as the last song in an encore break I won’t be too upset. Just for variety’s sake.

Golf and Dads

2006-05-04T10:18:00.000-07:00

Earl Woods, Tiger’s dad, died yesterday after years of pretty extreme sickness and prostate cancer.

I’m not usually a big fan of parents, like Earl Woods, who really press their kids toward some potential professional career. The father of Venus and Serena Williams, for example – or Jennifer’s Capriati’s parents – may have produced well-known star athletes, but you have to wonder how many kids out there had the same lack of a childhood due to that kind of parent and yet will never achieve any sort of fame at all. But Tiger’s dad, for all his faults and bad quotes, seemed to be a genuinely good guy, and I’m sad to learn of his death.

Maybe I forgive him because it seems (to the extent that anyone on the outside can know) that Tiger himself is a phenomenally well-adjusted person. I think it’s a great compliment to any parent to have a child turn out to be as composed and articulate as Tiger is – never mind how much harder it is to be well-adjusted when you’ve lived a life under such intense scrutiny as Tiger has.

Tiger is only in his early 30s – I think he may actually have just turned 30, but I’m not sure – so this is still a young age to lose a parent. His dad has been sick for years, and this is no surprise, but it still has to be hard.

Over his career, Tiger has often been accused of lacking emotion – which I think is completely ridiculous – but even if it were true I don’t think any son could have sat unmoved through the victory speech he gave after winning The Masters last year. He plainly choked up and nearly cried as he recalled that every previous time he had won the tournament his father had been there with him – 2005 was the first year he was not. And Tiger, barely able to get the words out, said he couldn’t wait to get home to give his dad a hug, then quickly thanked the crowd and walked away. It is to me a moment as defining and wonderful in his career as any of the many great shots he’s hit and putts he’s holed.

So, I’m very sad for Tiger today.

But, as a fan, I’m also very intrigued. Golf is one of those few games that you can excel at by sheer force of will. Even the player who doesn’t have all parts of his game working can win if he wants it more than the other guy. Tiger has proved this himself often enough (and it helps that even when he doesn’t have his A game that he’s still as good or better than anyone else talent-wise). He hasn’t won a major since that Masters last April. For Tiger, that actually counts as a long drought.

I think that “drought” is going to end, though, in a big way. In 2000 I was lucky enough to get to attend some of the US Open at Pebble Beach – when Tiger broke every conceivable record winning by such a ridiculous margin that you’d have thought he was playing a different course. I frankly expect the same thing at this year’s US Open. That is, I don’t just expect him to win, I expect him to embarrass everyone else in the field. And the same thing at the British Open in July, the PGA in August, etc etc. I’m just telling you now: Look out.

Super Tuesday!

2006-05-02T07:16:00.000-07:00

So today is the big day.

You know what I’m talking about.

I’ve been waiting for years for this to finally happen.

A new album.

From one of the greatest artists of the 90s.

One of the greatest artists of all time, really.

Finally, today it happens.

Jewel’s new album is out.

(Oh, also I guess Pearl Jam and Tool have new CDs coming out. Who even knew they were still around?)

* * *

If you thought I was done foaming at the mouth over how good the new Pearl Jam is, well, then you obviously don’t know me very well.

As for Tool, I’ve heard the artwork with their new album is really spectacular. The case comes with a pair of 3-D glasses and … well, you know, it’s Tool so we can all guess at what kind of 3-D images are inside. And, considering the album is only $10 on sale this week, it’s a tempting purchase. Unfortunately, I already listened to the album and it’s … pretty uninspiring. I like Tool, and this album is by no means bad, it’s just nothing new. Only two tracks really capture my interest. (On the plus side, that’s two more tracks than captured my interest on Lateralus so at least it’s an improvement.)

I hate avocados. But not records with avocados on their cover.

2006-05-01T22:23:00.000-07:00

I know I’m biased.

I am one of those obsessive Pearl Jam fans who buys their new records at midnight and buys their bootlegs and travels to neighboring states to see them play live.

But the thing is I’m a realistic obsessive Pearl Jam fan. I never would have tried to convince anyone that Binaural or Riot Act (their two most recent efforts) were albums worthy of praise or even purchase by an average music fan. So try to take me at face value when I tell you that you should really at the very least strongly consider buying Pearl Jam’s new self-titled record when it comes out tomorrow.

It’s their best album in 12 years. Actually, maybe longer.

There’s a little bit of everything on offer here. The album kicks off with five of the strongest straight-ahead punch-you-in-the-face rock songs that the band has come up with in years.

“Life Wasted” is all power chords and a positive Eddie Vedder who sings: “I have faced it, a life waster. I am never going back again.” It’s actually one of the few personal songs on the album. This is one of the strengths. Eddie seems to have finally learned that whe it comes to telling stories showing is better than telling.

This is Pearl Jam so there are political tracks and those will be talked about, but it’s not as political as I would have expected.

There are typically almost-punk Pearl Jam rock tracks in the tradition of “Animal” or “Even Flow”: World Wide Suicide, Comatose, Severed Hand, Big Wave. There are songs with huge soaring melodies in the vein of “Alive”: Life Wasted and Marker In the Sand, an open letter to God that may be the album’s best track.

But after the jolting first five songs, the album gets significantly softer in tone. And – this is what really makes the album stand out from their lesser efforts over the past decade plus – the second half of the album is as strong or stronger than the first half. “Parachutes” features a drifting melody that’s reminiscent of Lennon. “Gone” sounds like a classic Bruce Springsteen track. And the seven-minute closing track “Inside Job” heeds the well known truth that rock music is always just a little better with piano.

But all of those tracks pale in comparison to “Come Back,” which is the most unique song Pearl Jam has ever written. The song feels a little like an old Elvis lounge song, as if the band took inspiration from the feeling of their last hit, their cover of J Frank Wilson’s “Last Kiss.” It’s the best vocal Vedder has put down in I don’t know how long. Some sad songs are pretty. Some are just sad. This one is both and yet is also redemptive – it’s the kind of sad song that pays tribute to how good the good times must have been. Can you tell? I’m obsessed with this song.

I’d almost say that “Come Back” by itself is worth you dropping $10 to get the album while it’s on sale this week, or from iTunes at some point. Even if not, then Come Back and Marker In The Sand together are worth it. But the whole thing shines.

I’m serious. If you like rock music, do yourself a favor and buy this record. Pearl Jam, finally, is back.

2006-04-27T23:08:00.000-07:00

A hundred years ago last week, God tried to take San Francisco. The city was leveled by a shattering earthquake, then burned for three days. But she wouldn’t go.

City Hall after the earthquake and fire

Oh, how I was tempted to write that God tried to take “my city.” San Francisco is the city I love above all others. More than others I have visited and love deeply – Chicago, London, Denver. And surely more than those I have yet to see – New York, Rome. Words cannot express how I love San Francisco, how strong the feeling of desperation can be, wanting to be there. I don’t know if I will ever live there. I know I will always want to.

A hundred years ago last Tuesday (April 18), in the early morning when the sun was just starting to light the day, the earth split open a few miles west of the city, somewhere under the ocean. Modern estimates suggest the magnitude of the quake was 8.25. (Compare that with the earthquake we can probably all remember from 1989 – the one that knocked out whole sections of bridges – that measured a mere 6.7.) Then, of course, the fire came.

Some photos of the city were taken just as the fires were staring to burn.

Like so many cities of the time, San Francisco was a hastily constructed city, which is to say it was wooden. The quake both started fires and cracked what few water supply pipe there were that might have helped firefighters. No one ever actually stopped the fires, after three days they had simply burned everything there was to burn. 25,000 buildings were destroyed. As many as 700 died. And 250,000 people were left homeless.

The city, five weeks after the fires burned themselves out.

What is it about great American cities and perilous locations? Rome was famously built among seven hills for protection and as a reward has endured for millennia. Here in America we eschew such logic. Everyone likes to joke about how the Dutch bought Manhattan from the natives for $24 (though the story about it being $24 worth of beads is untrue), but frankly $24 for a swamp isn’t a bad deal. New York, the very capital of the world, is built on a piece of “land” that’s little more than a sandbar between rivers. Chicago burned down in 1871. Then there are Los Angeles and San Francisco, built along beautiful coastlines where mountains meet the sea. Pity that all that beauty is largely the result of one of the world’s more active faults. Consider where I live: Phoenix, the country’s fifth-largest city, built in a place with no water. And must I even mention New Orleans?

Thing is, and I don’t say this to in any way minimize the horror of what has become of New Orleans, some day – probably within our lifetime – something will happen to San Francisco much worse than what happened in the Gulf last September. A 2003 study found a 62% probability that a 6.7 or greater magnitude quake will hit in San Francisco between now and 2032. That is, there’s a better chance than not that within the next 25 years, San Francisco will be hit by an earthquake worse than the 1989 event. Have I mentioned that the neighborhoods hardest hit by the 1989 quake even still aren’t completely repaired?

Simon Winchester recently wrote a book about the 1906 earthquake and devoted the better part of a chapter to warning how easily it could happen again. It’s a terrifying book. Scary enough most Californians don’t even want to hear about it, as he notes in this article.

“Fragile” he calls San Francisco. If you’ve ever been there, can you possibly disagree?

But – and this I know is completely crazy – it doesn’t make me want to live there any less.

I went to New Orleans once and I’m glad I did because I’ll never get to go back. Even if I again make it to a city by that name I know the place will not be the same.

And I still want to live in San Francisco. Because – look at the place – how can you not? Because, if the worst one day happens, at least I would be able to say: I lived there once, before God finally had his way, and took it.

Why wouldn't you want to live in this place?

Stuff

2006-04-27T10:52:00.000-07:00

This is why I should have been a judge.

Dan Brown, the author of The Da Vinci Code, was recently sued in British court by authors of 1982 book called Holy Blood, Holy Grail. They claimed violation of copyright based on supposed similarities between the books. They lost. Not just that, the judge all but mocked the claimants in his ruling. But that's not all. Apparently, he also put a code in his decision.

I for one hope that the judge's code points out that if Dan Brown is guilty from stealing from anyone it's from himself - he's now written pretty much the same damn book four times over.

***

Elsewhere in the seemy world of literary scandal, we have proof that just because you go to Harvard doesn't mean you have a brain in your head.

What's more offensive here? How completely blatant the plagiarism was or that she chose to plagiarize a book by Megan McCafferty. I mean, really, if you absolutely have to steal to finish your book, steal something better.

***

Finally, it's no Sopranos, but Big Love on HBO is certainly an intriguing show.

Is the show for or against the practic of polygamy?

It's hard to say. The objectivist argument that the show makes (if only implicitly) is essentially: Assuming you, like a majority of Americans now, support gay or non-traditional marriage on the grounds that consenting adults should be able to enter into arrangements of their choosing and not ultimately be dictated morality by the state, then why can't more than two consenting adults enter into a similar arrangement?

It is a tempting and probably convincing argument that the show seems to be promoting: Bill Hendrickson and his three wives fiercely insist that they are happy and living the life they chose.

The show also (creepily) portrays the most logical and common argument against polygamy: That, in reality, most plural marriages are not the result of choice but are the prodcut of cult-like indoctrination. To that end, the show gives us the Juniper Creek "compiund," which is for all intents and purposes Colorado City, the now relatively famous polygamist society in Arizona near the Utah border. Here one man (a self-proclaimed "prophet") essentially runs everything and has many wives, some of them distressingly young teenagers. The whole thing is both convincing and beyond unsettling.

But where the show is really succeeding is in showing the great extent to which even the Hendrickson's willing, big-city four-way marriage isn't really working. The problem, of course, is jealousy. (An excellent article on the ways jealousy is tearing the group apart is here at Slate.)

It's sad to watch the Juniper Creek scenes, but the scenes at the Hendrickson's are frustrating to watch in their own way. It all seems like it should work out -- one can even imagine how it might be fun to be one of the wives (the fun part of being the husband is, I should think, obvious). Except despite all the potential upside their home life is filled with problem after problem after problem. And realistic issues, too, it's not all completely manufactured TV "problems."

More and more, it seems, the real question the show is asking isn't whether or not we should allow polygamy but why anyone would want to be a polygamist in the first place.

Oh, and also, how often can we show Bill paxton's ass before everyone stops watching altogether?

And you thought Voldemort was evil

2006-04-21T14:23:00.000-07:00

The Harry Potter-bashing fun in Georgia continues.

After my last post, Diana commented on an equally (if not moreso) absurd situation in which a certain school administrator disbanded a Harry Potter club when he was aghast to find students "practicing spells" during club time.

Little do those students know how lucky they are that their aspirations to witchcraft were nipped in the bud:

"At Thursday’s hearing, Mallory spoke against the books along with four other parents and students. One of them was Stacy Thomas, a mother of five, who said reading the 'Harry Potter' series made her daughter turn to witchcraft, ultimately causing their Christian family to lose friends, finances and their reputation.

Her daughter, Jordan Fusch, 15, testified that she began experimenting with tarot cards, curses and seances after reading the books.

'As a former witch, I can tell you that witchcraft is not fantasy. ... I felt I could not escape the clutches of witchcraft,' Fusch said. 'It has taken several years of counseling to get to where I was before witchcraft and reading "Harry Potter" books.'"

Fortunately for Jordan she turned away from the dark arts before being led to an even more aboniable fate that is, as Willow Rosenberg would tell us, the inevitable next step after witchcraft.

Every Country Has Problems With Education

2006-04-20T11:15:00.000-07:00

The prime minister of Australia is so upset about schools teaching the postmodern approach to literature that he's considering tying funding to the elimnation of such practices.

I can barely even wrap my head around this. I don't actually have anything against postmodern discussion of literature, but I guess I would generally say it's a bit much for high school. There are so many things about this story that just don't make sense to me as an American. For instance, in most American high schools we're lucky if all the classes can even read Shakespeare. Bonus points if they understand it, and nevermind interpretation postmodern or otherwise.

So, there's some dissonance to realize that in Australia the prime minister can get worked up over how literature is being taught, while here we're more concerned with if it is at all. But the most dissonant thing about this story is to try to imagine the President of the United States even trying to pronounce "postmodern."

I haven't actually read the Bible because the type is too small

2006-04-18T09:19:00.000-07:00

... maybe I should just let other people tell me what to think. That's the ticket!

Thing is, I actually have read the Bible. I mean, I was doing some serious skimming through all of the "A begat B begat C begat ..." (I mean, I like sex in my literature as much as the next guy but it just got gratuitous.) Anyway, the point is I read the Bible before making up my mind about it: For the record I would say it's often boring, occasionally it's great literature, but I'm not buying the whole 'word of God' thing.

I guess I'm just not as trusting as some people. Which brings me to this lady ...

who wants to ban Harry Potter from the library of the public school her children attend.

The story I linked to is about how most people who heard about her cause decided to defend the Potter books, but I particularly liked these comments the paper noted from their message boards:

"I totally agree with this parent seeking to have Harry Potter books removed. If we suggested the Bible be on a list of mandatory books for students to read as a part of their novel requirement, there would be an immediate protest. Therefore, as a Christian, we must begin to take a stand and begin to show accountability for what our children are being taught and exposed to."

— Posted by Mendi on the message board

Because being in the library is exactly the same as being on a list of mandatory books for students to read.

"I am a Christian. I feel that Christian rights are being abolished in this country. Everyone talks about our views being pushed on them. But what about our beliefs? Don't we have any rights at all?"

— Posted by "red" on the message board

That one is so ridiculous that I'm very tempted to believe it's just sarcastic.

But the best of all is the reason given by the petitioning mother herself:

"On the forms, she wrote that she objected to the series’ 'evil themes, witchcraft, demonic activity, murder, evil blood sacrifice, spells and teaching children all of this.'

She wrote she had not read the series because it is long, and she is a working mother of four."

Where have all the books with good, wholesome blood sacrifice gone anyway? At least she's right about one thing: The books are long. Worse yet, I think once or twice, they may have even made me think.

Frankly I think she's just bitter that an online sorting hat put her in Slytherin.

United 93 follow-up and other stuff

2006-04-17T11:06:00.000-07:00

Last week I went to a movie (Inside Man, if you care) for the first time in a while, and while there saw the trailer for United 93. And I have to say, whereas watching it on my home computer gave me a vaguely sick-to-my-stomach feeling and a case of the mopes, seeing it in the theatre elicited a quite different response: Total rage. Hatred. Seething animosity.

Well, you get the point.

My feelings about the film itself remain essentially the same (in a nutshell: I personally have no desire to see a film like that yet, even if it's very good which it may well be considering it's from the guy who made "Bloody Sunday." But much as I don't think it's apprpriate I also don't wish to tell peopl what they can and cannot make movies about. Moreover, Oliver Stone has a 9/11 movie coming out later this summer so don't just blame the makers of this film.)

But there's something about the trailer that makes it unforgivable to me. Something I noticed when I watched the thing online but wasn't as strongly affected by. The brief clip from CNN showing the second plane strike the South Tower.

The thing about that video footage is that no matter how many times I watched and rewatched it on that day and in the years since, it's more than just news footage and I've never been able to forget that. It is, quite literally, a video of a murder. I cannot imagine any other film using actual crime scene footage. Not in the movie and especially not in the trailer.

It's one thing if it's your choice, I think. D and I watched Amityville Horror yesterday and actually lamented that in their "documentary" about the real house that they used so few of the actual crime scene photos, instead relying on "re-created" photos. But that was by choice.

Wednesday night I went to the thatre looking for a simple popcorn bank robbery movie that wouldn't make me think too much. And before I got that I was subjected to a video of an attrocious crime.

I'm not one of those who believes that the families of 9/11 victims should have say over any discussion or representation of that day. Nonetheless, what must it be like to go to a movie expecting to see whatever innocuous movie and suddenly on the screen be watching a video clip of how your husband/father/mother/etc died?

I've said before that I don't want to tell any artist what they can or can't make a movie about. And that's fine. But this trailer isn't the movie. It's advertsing. And it's beyond fucked up to use that video in a an advertisement for the film. The trailer wouldn't be any less effective without the clip. Those who were interested in the movie would still be interested, those turned off by the idea would still be turned off. Either way, the film would have been advertised. In fact, the trailer would still be emotionally powerful. So why use that clip?

I can't come up with a valid reason. But it was the wrong choice.

***

Granted, this is a story about a simple little online poll. But still.

The thing is, on the face of it, I should applaud the result. U2's "One" is among my very favorite songs and the lyrics as a whole are stunning. Take the song as you will (an embittered love song, a confession from a gay son, an essay on AIDS have all been proposed and all seemingly make sense). The song challenges and gets racy and ... well, basically I just think it's a really good song.

The problem is, the lyrics from "One" that won this competetion were the worst part of the song: "One life with each other, sisters, brothers." I'm sorry but yawn. Why didn't everyone just vote for "We Are the World"?

Then I realized Robbie Williams also made the list and felt slightly better. Clearly, the contest was only open to pre-teen girls.

***

Crazy.

***

And I realize this is the height of ... being a hypocrite (hypocritciscm? hypocritcalness?) but I really appreciated this blog entry. I know I'm often snarky (again, see above), but it's good to remember you really need to be a fan first.

2 links; 2 divergent moods

2006-04-05T12:39:00.000-07:00

I'm not totally sure I even understand what's going on in this story, but even though we can all agree he's probably right, it's pretty great to see a pastor actually quoted as saying:

"Jesus is not OK with it."

I had to read the article a couple times to realize the "it" Jesus isn't OK with is pornography, not the publisher's decision.

Still, Jesus is not OK with it. And Shakespeare still got to get paid, son.

***

I feel like I should have a strong opinion about this movie ... the thing is I really don't.

I probably would if I saw it, but I've really no desire at all to see it. Just watching the preview made me unbearably sad and I'd rather not have two hours of that feeling. My lack of desire to see the movie is an opinion, I suppose, but it's not a strong one.

My feeling is that I would hate the movie, just despise it. Because, for me at least, it's too soon. It wasn't even five years ago that I (like the rest of you) actually lived through that day and even watching the trailer and remembering it as I write this now causes a sadness that is literally physical (tears, trembling, shortness of breath).

But who am I to tell people what art they can and cannot make? I refuse to do that, but I don't necessarily need to patronize the movie.

Some day, not yet for me and maybe not even within my lifetime, the time will be right for a movie like this. It was more than 50 years between D-Day and when Saving Private Ryan opened and I remember many people who had lived then were even still uncomfortable with it. But for people in my (even my parents') generation who knew the stories but hadn't lived through it, the movie was a powerful lesson - it made a heroic but flat incident on the page of a history book truly come alive. Someday my children may similarly find the events of that terrible day more of a curiosity than a horror. Maybe then a movie like this could help them to understand why those two numbers 9-11 are still so powerful in our culture. God willing it will remain an isolated and shocking event, not merely the first of many disastrous days.

But, frankly, I can see no real reason to make this movie now besides money. Of course, it's the motivating factor behind everything in Hollywood. Even the few people who are in it for the art only do so at the behest of those holding the pursestrings. But my God, who really thinks 9-11 is an appropriate thing to wring for profit?

For what it is, the movie doesn't look all that bad, judging by the previes. At least it doesnt seem to Wesley Snipes-ish.

It's not that I'm not interested in stories that are in some way "about" 9/11. I've read several books in the past years that use that day in one way or another to tell a larger story ("Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" comes to mind, as do "Saturday" and "Pattern Recognition". I also hear the new McInerny book is "about" 9/11 in a way, too.). But we're talking about larger stories, not just retellings of that day's events. (In fact I have read one book just about that day's events and so far as I'm concerned it's the only one worth reading: The 9/11 Comission Report.)

I say all of this with hesitation, though - my opinion is not strong. These are vague notions if anything at all.

Even if United 93 is good, moving but not sappy, dramatic but not heavy-handed, sensitive without being treacly ... even if it's everything it can be, how much can it really be? What is this movie aiming to contribute? We all know the story already.

2006-03-29T14:12:00.000-07:00

I was all ready to buy myself the wonderful "Prose before hos" shirt but then I found this one, which is seriously competing for my affections.

Though, the full story of why is only revealed here, and is not on the shirt, sadly.

I had dreams of wearing one of these shirts to the Shakespeare class I have to take in fall semester, but it won't happen ... the class is online. But I'll totally wear them once I'm actually the teacher.

2006-03-28T23:06:00.000-07:00

With apologies to my wife and many of my best friends, I don't really like horror movies. But in college I saw one horror movie that I absolutely loved. It was Val Lewton's 1940's movie "Cat People" (do not even talk to me about that godawful 80's remake).

My love for it tends to highlight why I don't like most modern horror movies. For years, I looked for the film but couldn't even find it on VHS. Happily, it was released (with a lot of Lewton's other work) on DVD just last year. And I just found this wonderful article from Roger Ebert's great movies series about the movie, as well.

I don't even remember why for sure I watched the movie. I saw it as part of a "Film and Literature" class. Generally, we read a book, watched a movie based on the book, and discussed. There were some older movies and a few never ones - Kiss of a Spider Woman and Clueless come to mind. But Cat People isn't based on any book so far as I can tell and I don't recall reading anything with even vaguely ssimilar things. Maybe the prof just really liked the movie and wanted to show it, for all I know. If so, good on ya, prof.

It's a mood piece. Not for everyone. But I really encourage you to give it a chance (it's short!). Watch it with the lights off and no distractions. It's way scarier than "Scream."

***

Other stuff I like right now:

1. James Blunt
2. Ben Harper, esp. his new CD "Both Sides of the Gun"
3. The new season of The Sopranos
4. For that matter, season 1 of The Sopranos, which I have been re-watching with Diana
5. Big Love (new show on HBO)
6. really just HBO in general
7. Chino Bandido
8. that wet stuff what has been falling from the sky lately

The living

2006-03-25T22:42:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer

The world has seen a lot of writing about death. It is, after all, the most universal theme imaginable. Writers (who generally ply their trade as a kind of therapy) are especially likely to write about death. And, once something is written, the writer’s temptation to share it (even if it was only written for personal reflection) can be too strong to resist. So we have entire sections of bookstores on death and grieving. And (seeing as I don’t have a publisher willing to indulge my every written whim) we now have this blog entry.

Subject

Two of the books I’m reading now are about death. This was not necessarily intentional, but neither is it wholly a coincidence – death has been on my mind more than usual lately.

Maybe it’s because my grandmother has been sick. Last year she had a stroke and now she has breast cancer. This is my maternal grandmother who has always been (as grandmothers go) youthful, independent, and intelligent and eloquent beyond all reason. For years, even decades, I have been preparing myself for the death of my paternal grandparents. They are older and have been in generally poor health for a very long time. They live in Nebraska and have scads of other grandchildren and frankly have never been a part of my life in the major way my grandma Lucore has been. And, sad to say, I always expected my Dad’s parents would go first. I haven’t seen them for almost four years but I still have the mental picture of the last time I saw them – a habit I got into many years ago when visiting them, because I was aware the opportunities might be few. But now my Mom’s mom is showing startling and terrible signs of her mortality and it hurts like being hit in the stomach.

Also, a few weeks ago, apropos of nothing so far as I know, Diana asked me about death and dying and the extent to which I have known people who died and what it’s like. Maybe it was because of that I have been keenly aware this month that it’s now been five years since my friend Gwen died. Five years ago this month. And I’m sure it would have been on my mind anyway, but Diana’s question put me in a particularly philosophical mood about it all.

Anyway, this obscenely long post is not really a book review, though it kind of is – it’s mostly some thoughts about a not-especially-blog-friendly subject: death. Or, more specifically, living after those we love have died.

Background

I have known a few people who have died. Many older relatives of some degree of removal. I’ve been to lots of funerals that were really nothing more than formalities. But I have been to two significant funerals in my life, and missed one other that would have been the most significant of all.

I remember my great grandfather, but I can recall nothing of his death. He and my great grandmother lived in New Mexico and I suppose the greatest impact his death had on me was that it meant my great grandmother moved to Pueblo to be near my grandmother and so I saw her much more. She died when I was five or six. It was a Saturday morning and I was watching cartoons. My parents were still asleep. The phone rang but one of my parents (probably my Dad) answered it before I got to the kitchen. I went back into the living room, watching TV. Then my parents called me into their bedroom and told me great grandma had died. I don’t know that I really understood but I was very aware of how sad my mother looked about it and so I was sad, too. I went back into the living room and a McDonald’s ad was playing. This was when I began to hate clowns and their fake, painted-on smiles, and especially Ronald McDonald. I dressed up and we went to Pueblo for the funeral, during which I fell asleep. On the way back home I started to understand what it means to be dead – we never went to Pueblo without seeing my great grandma, but we had just been and I hadn’t gotten to see her and from what everyone was telling me I never would get to again.

When I was a freshman in college, I was in a long-distance relationship with a girl who still lived in Denver. Her sister had died very suddenly from leukemia a few years earlier and the loss had absolutely wrecked her family. One morning in December, a few hours before I was supposed to take a math final, my girlfriend called and woke me up. She was crying. It had happened before and from the very first moment I tried to soothe her and tell her it would be OK. But she told me that I was wrong, it was not OK. She told me her mother had killed herself in the night. I think I may have flunked the final. Just a few days later I was back in Denver for winter break. It was one of the coldest weekends I can remember in Denver. The first time my parents met any member of my girlfriend’s family was in the receiving line after the funeral. A Christian service for a woman who has committed suicide is awkward enough but toward the end a piece of music was played. Toccatta, maybe? Several rows in front of where I sat with my parents and for no immediately discernible reason, my girlfriend stood during the playing of the song. Everyone else remained seated. When, later, I asked her why, even she seemed not to know. “It seemed like the thing to do,” she said. I think it was defiant, a final fuck-you to her mother, who took the pills just after an argument with my girlfriend. Death, I learned, does not always bring on grief.

And then there’s Gwen, who was my best friend sometimes and sometimes almost like a girlfriend and sometimes someone who broke my heart and who I hated. And I don’t talk about her much because it’s awkward and because I think if I were Diana I might not want to hear about it all the time. But Gwen, who died five years ago this month in a car accident that was her own stupid fault, is ultimately the only real experience I have with loss and grieving. She lived in New York when she died and I was in Tucson and didn’t even find out for days that she was gone. I didn’t go back to New York for the service and I don’t know what her mother did with the ashes. The closest I got to saying goodbye was a small gathering I had with four other people who had known her in Tucson. We lit some candles and we talked about her and we cried a lot and that night it seemed like maybe it was some kind of closure but the next morning I woke up and nothing was different.

Losing Gwen, for me, was fundamentally different than most significant deaths because she was not physically close to me at the time and hadn’t been for a couple of years. We were still very close as friends, but I was accustomed to not seeing her, I was used to the feeling of thinking of her and wishing she was around. It’s the way I feel today about Tony in Chicago. Except that if I see something that makes me want to talk to Tony I can call him and I used to call Gwen for the same random reasons – and now I can’t. Gwen’s death is not a constant hole in my life because for two years before she died she wasn’t constantly there. I had already, with the benefit of a few thousand miles, conquered what I imagine to be the most difficult part of the death of a loved one – the lack of their physical presence. Which is not to say that her death was not devastating to me, for it was. But what I do mean is that I have been surprised while reading Joan Didion’s startling memoir about the death of her husband to find how similar my grief was, how similar it is.

The Books

Joan Didion’s husband died, very suddenly, at the end of 2003. That event and the experiences of the year that followed, form the basis for her newest book, a memoir called “The Year of Magical Thinking.”

The other book is fiction, an almost sci-fi novel by Kevin Brockmeier, called “The Brief History of the Dead.” The book takes very literally an idea common to many African and some eastern cultures that there are not two states of being (alive and dead), as we generally believe in the West, but three: living, the recently deceased who are still “alive” in the memories of the living, and the forgotten dead. “Brief History” takes place partly in a city inhabited by that middle category, those who exist only in the imaginations of those still living. They come to the city when they die, and survive there only until all the people who remembered them are still living – then they vanish. The book takes this concept much farther with a global plague and other adventures, but it’s the philosophy that everyone (me included) wants to talk about, not the plot.

Just thinking with my fingers

I like the idea of that middle state of existence. It fits with my ultimate belief that there is no afterlife and that we are nothing more than what we leave behind. And it seems kind of true, as well: Gwen isn’t really gone for me. I still think of her. I know others who do. Two years ago I bizarrely ran into Gwen’s freshman year roommate at Coit Tower in San Francisco and we spent just a few hours together and we didn’t talk about much except Gwen. So long as she lives in my memory, then, she’s not really, completely gone. Is she? I don’t now remember much about my great grandmother but I do always think of the way she would touch the top of my head. That might not affect me as much as memories of Gwen (or my ex-girlfriend’s mother) do, but they’re still real memories, strong, clear.

My problem comes from one of the only other books I have read about dying and grief, which I read after Gwen died because when someone you know dies you will inevitably be given a copy of this book (maybe by me), called “A Grief Observed” by CS Lewis about the death of his first wife. He wrote:

“Slowly, quietly, like snow-flakes – like the small flakes that come when it is going to snow all night – little flakes of me, my impressions, my selections, are settling down on the image of her. The real shape will be quite hidden in the end.”

This is true of all memory – we remember what we want to remember – but is especially true and worth remembering when thinking about the dead. After all, I don’t fully know anyone, even my wife – I have but impressions and selections of her. I have only what she chooses to show me and the way I interpret that. The thing is that while she’s living my idea of her continually grows, every interaction with a person you know challenges your idea of them, offers a chance for you to re-write the file that the computer of your brain has labeled with their name. But if that person should die, they no longer have the chance to challenge you and your own vision can become the reality – you can choose the details that best fit your needs and forget the rest. Most of us forget the bad times – the dead are more often than not angels in our memory, no matter how much they may have hurt us when living. Then again, at least in the short term aftermath of her mother’s death, my ex-girlfriend remembered none of the good things about her mother – only remembering the fights made it possible to hate her.

And I tend to feel that if I die the part of me that lives on in the memories of those I have known will not truly be me. Pieces of me, maybe. Fragments. But not me. I haven’t read far enough into “Brief History” to yet know if this identity problem is an issue in the world of the dead, but it seems a bit much for such a slim book to take on.

What I’ve marveled at from the initial chapters of Didion’s memoir is the way our brain never fully comprehends the notion of death. It is very literally unimaginable. We have many theories of what being dead is, but we cannot know. So, when someone close to us dies, it never fully makes sense.

I have always assumed, to the limited extent that I think about death, that it’s the physical part that drives home the reality. Maybe this is because the way I miss Gwen – as I described before – is not physical, but emotional. I had already adjusted to the physical distance before she actually died. My assumption, then, has generally been that if someone who is literally physically close to you dies that the reality of it is much more immediate. Clearly, it will make the loss of that person worse in the short term. But my guess was that, in the long run, the physical withdrawal would also result in a better mental conception of the reality of the person’s absence. Didion’s memoir tells me that this is not so. Even in the midst of her struggle – and it is of course a horrible struggle – to adjust to the physical loss of her husband, what she finds harder is to accept, to mentally conceive, of his death. I sometimes catch myself thinking I should call Gwen, or that it’s been a while since she called me – Didion, similarly, keeps expecting her husband to walk through the front door. She won’t get rid of his clothes or his shoes – she assumes he will need them as soon as he is back.

It’s a beautiful book, marvelous in its awful, dark honesty. Highly recommended.

2006-03-24T08:46:00.000-07:00

High-schoolers are completely unaware of shocking adult concepts like rape and sex and murder and they must be protected from their own desire to actually read serious literature.

I wish I had more to blog about for you today, but stories like this just suck my entire will to live. Sorry. Happy weekend everyone!

2006-03-20T08:45:00.000-07:00

Someone needs to buy me this shirt. Like, now. Before I buy it for myself in size XXL and olive color.

Also, while you're there, you can go ahead and buy this one for Diana, too.

2006-03-07T08:59:00.000-07:00

Lani more or less tagged me and so I did the survey, but before that I wanted to share this:

When a stranger e-mails

Now the survey

Four jobs I have had in my life:

1.a. Concessions worker / Ticket seller / Usher at United Artists Theatres. 1b. Movie theatre supervisor. I was promoted after being there a month and a half. And then I quit about another month and a half later.
2. Waiter at Olive Garden. Yes, I’m still sorry.
3. Copy editor at the Arizona Daily Wildcat. This is the job where I met Diana. She was, I think, technically my boss’s boss. Or something. Anyway, they needed copy editors so Diana told Eliza, the copy chief, to hire some cute boys for her. But instead Eliza hired me. Diana has still not forgiven her.
4. Special Subrogation Claims Representative at an unnamed insurance company (not that you don’t all know anyway). Quick pop quiz: Does anyone actually have any idea what I do? Sidebar: The "special" is a relatively recent addition to my title. A lovely example of the non-pay-related "promotion."

Four movies I'd watch over and over:

1. Almost Famous
2. Nightmare Before Christmas
3. Wonder Boys
4. Love Actually

Four places I have lived:

1. Aurora, CO
2. Tucon, AZ
3. Phoenix, AZ
4. Technically I’ve only ever lived in those three cities. Two different houses in Aurora, three different dorms and an apartment in Tucson and two apartments plus a house in Phoenix. But I spent an awful lot of time in Boulder, CO one summer during college. Does that count?

Four TV shows I love to watch:

1. Sopranos
2. Entourage
3. Law & Order
4. anything by Aaron Sorkin

Four places I have been on vacation:

Let’s go with most recent

1. Disneyland
2. Chicago, IL
3. Estes Park, CO
4. Maui

Four websites I visit daily:

1. Bookslut
2. New York Times
3. Slate
4. bt.etree.org

Four of my favorite foods:

1. that seafood pasta I had in North Beach (SF) a couple summers ago.
2. Diana’s pasta shells
3. Diana’s spaghetti
4. Diana’s apple butter muffins

Four places I would rather be right now:

1. bed
2. Hawaii
3. San Francisco
4. Tattered Cover

Spring Is In The Air

2006-03-03T07:18:00.000-07:00

How do I know? Not because I had to turn my calendar to March yesterday (I forgot, actually). Not because the sun is up before my alarm goes off in the morning. And not because spring training started today.

Because on Wednesday Dave Matthews Band announced their 2006 summer tour dates. And since I know you all hang on every word I write when it comes to DMB, I shall now pontificate upon this news.

More DMB content than I can really expect anyone to care about
(feel free to skip to next boldface section header)

Really, the tour this year makes me sad. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. It’s an exciting schedule. Another New York festival, Alpine, Gorge, SPAC, all those typical goodies. Plus two nights back at home in Charlottesville to close the tour. The problem is that I can’t realistically do any of that.

Phoenix's Cricket Pavilion: Not the world's most beautiful venue

I’m still at least tentatively planning on two shows. They play Phoenix on my birthday and San Diego that Saturday. (Also, there are rumors of something in Chicago in September and I hold out hope about that, what with the free lodging there and all.) It bums me out a little bit that due to constraints both on my time and my finances that I can’t justify going to Alpine, or Gorge, or Shoreline. And, yet, even more than I feel slightly sad about that I feel even more guilty about it. And that guilt leads me to feel sad in a whole different way, because part of me feels like I’ve gone and spoiled something pure and beautiful.

Seeing multiple shows in a year wasn’t entirely unusual for me. In 97 I saw Dave three times. Twice in 98. But I never traveled to a show until 2002, when I drove to San Diego. I did the same in 2003. Even then it was still something really special. Even the two shows of a given year were within a week of each other, they were special because it was my only opportunity that year. It was like a religious thing. That changed in 2004, which is the first time I ever traveled far enough that it required me to get on a plane. The first show I saw that year (here in Phoenix) was great, but it felt more like a warm-up. The second show (in LA) was like a boring second act, leading up to the big finale. That finale (in San Francisco) was everything promised and more. But it only made me more determined to get to those handful of “special” shows and “special” venues.

So last year I went to Alpine, and it blew me away. And then I saw a show in Phoenix, which was a good solid show, but so paled in comparison to Alpine before it and what I was expecting Red Rocks to be that even driving out there that night felt like an afterthought. And, again, the three nights of shows I saw at Red Rocks were more than I could ever have dreamed. But here’s the problem: They spoiled me.

Coors Amphitheatre near San Diego. A beautiful venue where the breeze blows in from the ocean, just a couple of miles away.

It makes me feel really obscene to feel even the slightest traces of disappointment just because I’ll only get to see two shows. Only? Every single show used to be like a pilgrimage. I’m invoking the religious imagery very deliberately here. Because there’s this small part of that feels like seeing DMB at Cricket f-ing Pavilion now is like going to mass at your local parish after being to the Vatican. And like the Catholic who gets bored with his own church, I can’t help it, but some part of me knows deep down it’s a sin.

The Hollywood Bowl. Why oh why does this show have to be on a Monday night?

On the other hand, there’s a new Pearl Jam record coming out in May. And tour dates to be released soon. Oh, Mike and Stone, give me comfort.

The post gets more philosophical, if not entirely less dorky

Why do I feel so guilty about this change in the way I feel about seeing DMB in concert, though? I’ve been a fan of that band for more than a decade, you would expect my feelings to change some way or another, right? But I think this really gets to the heart of why it’s an issue for me. Because I am the way I am to a great extent because of DMB. I do everything I try to live in the moment. I don’t believe in delaying gratification. I recognize the realities of adult-hood: that saving money is necessary, that we can’t always do all the fun things we want to. And yet I fight against that “adult” voice in my head every day. I know I have to go to work, for example – but how depressing is it to think that if today were to be my last day that I spent it sitting in this office? My compromise is this: I hate my job, sure, but I let it go as soon as I walk out the door. I listen to happy music in my car as I drive home. I drink in the sunshine and am thankful for it. I am this way because some twelve years ago KBCO started playing a little known band with a stupid name.

Well, OK, this is really a chicken-or-the-egg kind of argument. Am I the way I am because at an impressionable age I heard some music and it inspired me and I grew into a mold that fit with that? Or was I inclined to be this way no matter what and that’s why ultimately things like DMB held more appeal than Nine Inch Nails? And of course, even that doesn’t get fully at the root of it, because as much as I embraced the carpe diem stuff in high school … I didn’t really. How can you really appreciate the idea of your own mortality until something forces the issue? For me, college forced the issue in a big way. I had a girlfriend who’s sister had died at 18, who’s mother killed herself, and – more important than either of that – I had a best friend who one night was but a phone call away and then somehow ceased to exist. (Five years ago this month. Where did that time go? But the thing is I still miss her. All the time. Even after five years.) And while I think that aforementioned girlfriend’s experiences with losing loved ones at an early age has made her cautious and fearful of the world, seeing the reality of mortality has made me only more determined to live. Every day to live as much as I can. Does that sound trite? I suppose it is, sort of. But it’s also probably my number one motivating factor.

But there are two ways the guilt is working, remember. The first is that I feel guilty for giving in to my adult side and admitting that this just isn’t the year to fly all over the country for DMB. (Rhetorical aside: Is this entire post invalidated if I do end up going to see them in Chicago in September?) On the other hand, even I’m capable of admitting that it’s a little sad that I might be measuring my life experience based on when and where I get to see a band in concert. I mean, really. I can embrace a song lyric that says, “I can’t believe that we would lie in our graves dreaming of things we might have done,” but if those things are concerts? I admit it’s a little pathetic. But then I hate to begrudge people their fetishes, and this is clearly mine. To each their own. We all do what we must to get through.

Unrelated to all the above

Also, how cool is this? Assuming you're a Costco member anyway. (Though, really, it would be worth it to join Costco just for this single purchase if you were in the market. As best I can tell this same G5 Costco is offering for $1,480 goes for $1,868 via any other Apple outlet. 3-year Apple Care included. Kinda makes me want to buy one ... just cuz.

When I'm done with school we're moving to California

2006-02-23T09:06:00.000-07:00

Item from Yuma's Daily Sun re: new bill in AZ state legislature that would allow community college students to 'opt out' of reading materials they found offensive.

Just when I'm actually starting to think I might someday have this job, the legislature wants to go and take all the fun out of it. And here I thought the exact point of higher education (if not education in general) was to expose people to new and different viewpoints, since at some point or another they will be forced to confront them in the "real world."

Try to ignore how poorly written the article is and just focus on what it's saying. How broad is this going to be? Can a religious bio student opt out of reading about evolution? Can a student opt out of linguistics or sociology if they are offended by the fact that those studies acknowledge the existence of US racial class?

Devil's advocate argument re: wy I might actually want to support such a law:

I'm offended by animal cruelty. Does this mean I don't have to read Moby Dick?

Though, to be completely honest, what's really offensive about Moby Dick is just how damn boring the thing is.

A good example, it seems to me, of one of the truly foul aspects of our culture

2006-02-09T09:14:00.000-07:00

It's not an ideological or a political thing. It's not a religious thing. It's not a hateful thing.

It's good people with generally good intentions who fail to use common sense, and before you know it there are threats of a lawsuit.

Something not foul about our culture: A list (via McSweeney's) of The Elements Of Spam>
(Note that "jizz stick" is my new favorite euphemism (?) for the male sex organ.)

Academy Award Bait Fo Sho

2006-02-07T19:15:00.000-07:00

This is even better than the happy version of "the Shining," I think ...

3 things

2006-02-03T13:34:00.000-07:00

1. Harper Lee, racist

Sometimes I read things and I just like to assume it's a joke. In this case, I'm hoping it's a joke on the part of the person who sent the letter. Really, really hoping.

Assuming it's not a joke, this is an interesting way to consider the topic of literacy. Is being literate simply the ability to read and write? Or does it involve actually being about to understand more than the most basic and literal meanings of words? I'm not saying you have to be able to understand Gravity's Rainbow, I'm just thinking that literacy isn't entirely useful if you think 1984 is just a sci-fi story or think that To Kill a Mockingbird is racist.

2. And speaking of 1984 ...

Note to high school writers: Don't read Chuck Palahniuk, Bret Easton Ellis, or even Stephen King. Or, if you must, please make sure they have no influence on anything you ever want to turn in for class. Unless you want to end up like this, apparently.

Why this story really strikes me beyond all that silly civil liberties nonsense ...

When I was a freshman in high school I wrote a novel, the first of several I wrote during those years. (I haven't finished a single one since.) It was bad in a lot of ways and I'd really rather not go into the plot, but one of the key scenes in the book was when, during the homecoming dance in my school cafeteria, a deranged student blew up the building, killing nearly everyone inside.

At the time, it didn't much occur to me that I could get myself in a lot of trouble if the wrong people found the book. Actually, a lot of people around the school read it and at least one copy was passed from student-to-student quite indiscriminantly. I knew I didn't want a teacher to read it, but I don't suppose I expected to get in much trouble if one ever did. But five years later, two deranged kids walked into their high school and started shooting. They also had every intention of setting off bombs that would have killed or seriously injured hundreds of people in the cafeteria. When I heard about Columbine my first thought was of friends of mine who were students there and if they were OK; my second thought was about that old story I'd written.

Maybe part of my lack of worry about the story at the time was that the whole thing was treated as a distaster. The person responsible was very clearly a villain in every way. The descriptions of what happened were of acts of heroism by survivors and tender scenes recounting those who died. Anyway, that was my intention, I don't know that I was a good enough writer to fully convey the emotion. But nonetheless, it wasn't cruel or vindictive or scary. It was a scene of tragedy.

Still, if someone had found it and I had been expelled it wouldn't be hard for the media to have simply portrayed me as the kid who wrote a book about blowing up his school. Hell, I'd even tried to figure out what supports you;d have to crumble to bring the roof down and what kinds of explosives might do the trick.

To me, the story the kid in Minnesota wrote sounds like something that was aiming at comedy. But the one about shooting the teacher does sound threatening and I'm certainly not going to blame the teacher for reporting that she felt threatened. But how did we skip all the steps where the kid and his parents were contacted by (a) the school or (b) law enforcement to talk about the problem? Then again, in this day and age, maybe the kid's lucky he got out at all.

3. Oh, and this is awesome.

I sometimes think that, if Murray is pretty much Garfield, then Mason is a lot like Bucky. (In which case Murray is also rather like Satchel, sadly).

Linguistics In The Bedroom

2006-02-03T10:58:00.000-07:00

Hi there! It's Friday! I love Fridays, don't you? To celebrate, let’s talk for a moment about orgasms! (No, I’m only kidding.) Let’s talk about the way we talk about orgasms! (That time I was serious.)

I’m interested in language anyway and being in a linguistics class right now has really heightened that, plus this topic has always been one of particular interest to me. English, being both the world’s current language of record and eternally broad and flexible, has been studied almost to the point of exhaustion linguistically. But no one spends too much time talking about dirty words, really, and that’s a shame – in some ways they’re the most fun of all. 1

Perhaps they’re unique precisely because they’re so rarely discussed in proper company, because no one quite wants to sit down and say, This is the proper way to use motherfucker and please for the love of all things holy stop spelling it mothafucka.They might have revised Strunk & White with pictures, but they’re never going to revise enough to help anyone who knows the word cunt but doesn’t know it’s not a good idea to use the word in mixed company.

But back to orgasms. I would say this only occurs to me because I’m a writer – what I mean to discuss here is a spelling convention, it’s nothing to do with the way you talk – but then again I’ve never written any kind of erotica or porn that includes an especially explicit reference to an orgasm. I’ve written some sex scenes, but mostly they’re just preludes or general reactions – only in very extreme circumstances can I imagine a serious work of fiction needing to describe the angle and force of each thrust. And if I ever have the need, I think I tend to refer to being “finishing” or “when it was over,” and not the act of orgasm itself. I may have written the “c” word in the previous paragraph, but there’s always a small part of me that’s just a tiny bit prudish.

So maybe it’s something I’ve noticed as a reader. Or maybe it’s a non-issue that only I’m interested in. (Shocking, I know, but it’s happened before.)

My question is: Do people come or do they cum? I’m pretty much exclusively talking about it in terms of verb form here, as I think we’d all agree that the noun with synonyms such as spooge and jizz is cum. But what about the verb? I’ve seen it written both ways (but I’m not actually bored enough to go try to find any right now. Sorry.)

I prefer come, and I can give you rational arguments even though deep down I think it’s just because sentences like Mary was disgusted when John decided to cum on her without asking just kind of look weird to me. Even weirder is the breathless pronouncement I’m gonna cum. Gut instinct is one of the easiest ways to detect something grammatically incorrect, 2 so why not here?

Linguistically, my objection has to do with the fact that it’s a verb whose past tense is came. Logically (not that English conjugation is always logical), you would expect the past tense of cum to be cummed. But it’s not. To me, the verb to come (as it pertains to having an orgasm not what you ask your dog to do) is essentially a verb with an implied but almost never acknowledged prepositional object. To come to orgasm, she came to orgasm, they had come to orgasm, etc. But we just say come, she came, they had come, etc.

The counterpoint would be that in English we very often allow words to function as different parts of speech, so the noun cum might be perfectly capable of becoming the verb cum. In this case, I guess, the verb just happens to conjugate irregularly, maybe because we’re so used to the verb to come that saying cummed would be too strange. Furthermore, you could argue that the idea of to come to orgasm is incorrect since we don’t actually talk about coming to orgasm; we say we had an orgasm. I don’t agree with this argument – and for that matter I’m not sure anyone but me has ever thought about this enough to formulate the argument – but it’s still a valid one.

Does anyone else have thoughts? Preferences?

Next time we’ll try to figure out why the most common way of referring to fellatio involves a verb (to blow) that frankly has no place whatsoever in the act itself. (No, I'm joking, there’s not really going to be a next time.)

1. Consider that in the entire English language we have probably hundreds or thousands of prefixes and affixes but just infix, a linguistic staple of many languages that functions just the same as a prefix or affix except that it appears in the middle of the word. And in English the only infix is the word fuck. As in, absolufuckinglutely.

2. Pretty much everyone can recognize that I are a Steelers fan is incorrect, even if they don’t know enough about subject-verb agreement to explain why.

Not Grouchy

2006-02-01T08:32:00.000-07:00

Ah, early February. A time when America's attention turns to groundhogs, what to get that special someone for Valentine's Day, and arguments over just how this or that shitty ass movie ended up nominated for an Oscar. But not this year - for me anyway.

Of the ten movies nominated for best picture Academy Awards over the past two years, I had only seen two of them at the actual time of the nominations (Finding Neverland and Lord of the Rings). So, it’ll be nice to sit this year and have a valid opinion on most of the movies being discussed, as I’ve actually seen the majority of them. As if that isn’t enough, I even agree with what’s been nominated (mostly).

Best Picture (Brokeback Mountain / Capote / Crash / Good Night, and Good Luck / Munich)

Something that has always annoyed me about BPs is the unwritten rule that they have to be serious movies to qualify. There have been exceptions (Beauty and the Beast and Sideways come to mind) but generally comedies don’t do well. This summer gave us two raunchy, R-rated, but wonderful comedies in The 40-Year-Old Virgin and Wedding Crashers and in a lot of years I might have really hoped one would somehow earn a nomination. But I can’t complain at all about these five nominees. I’m especially surprised (but thrilled) to see Capote get a best picture nomination, and I’m surprised Walk the Line wasn’t nominated. In a perfect world I would add Syriana to the list of nominees (I’d probably take off Good Night, and Good Luck – trading Clooneys, essentially), but to me any of these five are as good as anything else that has been nominated (or won) this decade.

Actor (Philip Seymour Hoffman / Terrance Howard / Heath Ledger / Joaquin Phoenix / David Straithairn)

I guess you could qualify Joaquin as a bit of a dark horse with a chance in this category but this is really the Phil vs. Heath show. My wife and I debate this all the time – she’s of the opinion that Heath Ledger’s performance was better because it was more of a risk and more of a stretch for him. I can’t really argue that. Indeed, her point is so strong I occasionally feel like giving in to it. But if I got to vote I would for Hoffman. When I watched Brokeback Mountain, I often found myself thinking, Wow, Heath Ledger is really doing a fine job of acting. He’s got that Wyoming drawl thing just right. But while I was watching Capote, I didn’t even see Hoffman on the screen. It was one of those performances that is a transformation. The voice, the mannerisms, even the way he looked – even afterward I have such a difficult time reconciling the actor I’m familiar with and the performance in that movie. But, again, both could have statues if these movies had simply been in different years. As for the other nominees, I can’t quibble – Terrence Howard was great in Crash, though calling him a lead actor seems a stretch. That was a good example of a movie that should win an ensemble award, so I’m glad they did from the Screen Actor’s Guild. I haven’t seen Walk The Line, but Joaquin gets a thumbs up from me just because he sings and so nearly convinces me that he actually is Johnny cash. Straithairn was good, especially considering he was often acting against file footage as opposed to other actors. If I could have a sixth nominee I’d like to name Viggo Mortensen for History of Violence.

Actress (Judi Dench / Felicity Huffman / Keira Knightley / Charlize Theron / Reese Witherspoon)

So much for my being informed theory – I haven’t seen any of these movies. Seems like Dame Judi gets nominated for any movie she does, though I can’t necessarily argue with that. I would have liked to see Maria Bello nominated (Hirstory of Violence, again), but since I haven’t seen any of these movies I’m not really qualified to say if she was better or not. Reese Witherspoon is pretty much a lock in this category, isn’t she? If she wins, the list of movies recent best acting winners have starred in will now include: Legally Blonde 2, Stealth, and Catwoman. Plus Philip Seymour Hoffman is going to be the bad guy in MI:3. Curse of the golden Oscar, anyone?

Supporting Actress (Amy Adams / Catherine Keener / Frances McDormand / Rachel Weisz / Michelle Williams)

I liked Catherine Keener a lot in Capote, but this is probably between Weisz and Williams, right? Williams was impressive, though I actually liked Anne Hathaway’s wife of a closeted gay cowboy a little bit more. Oh, and since you’re probably wondering, Amy Adams was in a movie called Junebug that most critics loved and absolutely no one has actually seen.)

Supporting Actor (George Clooney / Matt Dillon / Paul Giamatti / Jake Gyllenhaal / William Hurt)

Now, look, William Hurt is one of my absolute favorite actors. He steals every scene I’ve ever watched him in. But he’s in History of Violence for – what? – five minutes maybe? Maybe ten? He was good, but not that good. Gyllenhaal was good but not nearly as good in his role as Heath Ledger – maybe it was the mustache that kept distracting me. And speaking of facial hair, Clooney is nominated for Syriana and deserves a win.

Animated Feature

There are three things nominated in this category, but I know nothing about "Howl’s Moving Castle." That probably means it will win. I love Tim Burton and I liked Corpse Bride, but I just completely loved Wallace and Gromit. Good year for claymation, though. Pretty harsh for the makers of Chicken Little and Madagascar that they couldn't even get nominated in this category.

Directing

This is one of the first times in my memory that the directors of the five best picture nominees are all nominated for directing. Normally someone gets screwed, it seems. Again, I’d love to see Spielberg win, but Ang lee (who will win) is plenty deserving. The issues I have with the middle section of Brokeback Mountain aren’t his fault, really, and he made a truly beautiful movie.

Best song

I really like the "In the Deep" song that is nominated from Crash. It’s been on my iPod ever since I saw the movie. But how can you not want a song called "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" to win an Oscar?

Adapted Screenplay (Brokeback Mountain / Capote / The Constant Gardener / A History of Violence / Munich)

Brokeback Mountain will probably win but this is one of the categories where I don’t really think it should. If only so that Larry McMurtry won’t thank his typewriter again. Capote is an adaptation from a biography – the writer did a neat job of defining his entire life based on those years he spent out in Kansas working on in Cold Blood. Then again, I liked Munich so much it's hard for me not to pick it for every category.

Original Screenplay (Crash / Good Night, and Good Luck / Match Point / The Squid and the Whale / Syriana)

I liked Match Point, but while the ending resolved a lot of issues I had, it didn’t resolve all of them. GNGL was well done but the writing itself didn’t strike me as spectacular. Plus, when you’re using footage of historical speeches and transcribing news broadcasts does it really count as an original screenplay? Crash and Syriana both tell separate stories about a larger theme that come together in the end. But I thought Syriana did it better, and wasn’t quite as didactic as crash was at times. I’d vote for Syriana, but I really have no idea what will win this category.

An invitation. Anyone who would like to come is welcome to join us at our house on Oscar night for gay cowboy-themed festivities. I mean Oscar festivities. Pretty much the same thing this year, anyway. We'll have a little pick the winners contest and no doubt plenty of snarky comments. Hope to see y'all.

Why I wish everyone would see Munich

2006-01-23T22:17:00.000-07:00

It seems almost petty to lament the way Brokeback Mountain is hauling in awards, because I really did like it despite some problems, and furthermore because it’s sure better than anything that was nominated for awards last year. Of course, I thought last year was a very weak year of contenders – Million Dollar Baby, which won best picture, was both morally repugnant and, worse, a bad movie and Sideways, which was sort of the critical darling of the year, was only funny about twice. But what an abundance of riches this year. I don’t care if the numbers are down or if it’s Mel Gibson’s fault or anything, I really just want to see good, interesting movies – in that respect I think 2005 was as good as any year in recent memory.

That’s a point I could really expand on, but I really only mean to explain that I’m not trying to bad talk Brokeback Mountain when I say I don’t think it’s the best movie of the year. It’s just that this year offered a lot of really great movies, among them Munich, which is probably the best film I’ve seen this decade.

For me, a great movie has to be about something larger than itself. Great movies are not always my “favorite” movies – in the years to come I’m sure to watch The 40-Year-Old Virgin more often than “Munich.” But I’ll probably think about Munich more.

The first way it exceeds is that, pure and simple, it’s a great movie. It’s a thriller by Steven Spielberg. So it’s good even if you pay no attention to the subtext of the story, the politics, the many questions the movie asks. But it’s that subtext that makes this something beyond Minority Report or War of the Worlds – it’s the subtext that makes it great.

It’s easy, especially for those of us who are roughly my age, to dismiss the movie as historical, because it concerns events that happened before our lifetime. What matters in the movie, and what I think Spielberg did a very good job of reminding us, is what history teachers so often fail to remind their students of: Why this is relevant. On the surface this is a revenge movie about something that happened in Europe in the 1970s between Israelis and Palestinians. It’s easy to feel distant from even today’s Israeli-Palestinian conflict if you’re living in the United States. But of course it matters. Even if you are completely unfeeling to the troubles of others, even if you somehow imagine that we do not now live in a global community, even then you must remember that the very existence of Israel (and America’s good relations with the country) is part of what fuels so much of the hatred felt for us by those who wish us harm. So it does matter. We should ask ourselves why they are fighting and what we can do to stop it. And part of helping to stop it is knowing historically why they’re still fighting.

In one of Munich’s best scenes there is a conversation that brilliantly lays out each side’s case, and yet refuses to take a stand. But it begins to make clear a terrible truth: Both are right, in their way. Both, in their way, are wrong. The film has been beaten up pretty badly by those who say it is overly sympathetic to Palestinians and by those who say it’s overly sympathetic to Israel – of course, that such vehement criticism is raining down from both sides is a testament, I think, to the fairness and truth of the film.

But Munich isn’t just about telling us how we got here in terms of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It speaks volumes about the very nature of terrorism in the world today, and it’s this that has recently kept the film most in my mind. Munich shows us a mid 1970s world that I know existed but still can hardly find credible. In this world, terrorism is an almost legitimate tactic. Not because anyone thinks fondly of it, but because it works. Terrorists take hostages to gain the release of prisoners. The hostages die and some of the hostage takers are captured but then another group of terrorists hijacks a plane and demand the release of those captured hostage-takers. And it works. It’s a stunning thing, to see governments negotiate (which is to say cave in) to terrorists.

Of course, this issue is still around. It’s happening in Iraq all the time, it’s why we still don’t know if this young woman is dead or alive. But it’s not that common worldwide anymore because it doesn’t work very often. Most governments now refuse to negotiate with terrorists. And that’s a horrifying thing, because it can mean innocent American citizens being executed live on TV. In the case of the first part of this year’s 24, terrorists took an airport terminal hostage. Wouldn’t it be unspeakably horrible to watch as the terrorists slaughtered people because they could not extort whatever it is they wanted from the President? Wouldn’t it be terrible to be the President, watching those people die? But it has to go that way, because caving not only rewards bad behavior but also encourages more of it. So Munich is a stomach-turning lesson about why we don’t negotiate with terrorists, no matter the cost.

But the film is much more than a lesson about how we came to be here. It is also a question: How do we stop this? The movie is not about the Munich massacre, after all, it’s about a team of Israelis sent to kill those who planned the Munich massacre. It’s a revenge mission, and a covert one, but also a noble one. I dislike revenge and violence on principle, but I was rooting for Eric Bana and his team nonetheless. And yet, as the movie goes on, we in the audience start to question the worthiness of what the Israelis are doing as much as the characters themselves begin to doubt. We start to see questions like: Is it acceptable for an innocent person to die in an attack that also kills a bad guy? How many innocent people?

And more questions about the justness of their cause. We can of course understand why Israel feels it has been attacked by and why they seek revenge. But what about when the Palestinians begin to seek revenge on the Israelis? At some point you have to ask yourself: Where did all this actually start? At Munich? Or sometime earlier? So long as each side remains assured of it’s moral superiority then greater and more terrible acts of violence are necessary. And, justifiably, we begin to wonder: How does this stop?

There’s no answer. Spielberg and writer Tony Kushner aren’t naïve enough to cop out with any peace rhetoric at the end. Eric Bana, though alive, is not at all sure he will be able to stay that way. And what a life he has – he can’t even have sex with his wife without images of violence playing through his head. How does this end? It doesn’t. “There is no peace at the end of this,” a character says.

And then, as if to prove the point, the shot pulls back and we find ourselves looking at the skyline of Manhattan in the 1970s and the credits come up and roll over two very recognizable buildings that no longer stand there. It’s almost subtle. I have read reviews from people who seemed not to notice it at all. But I couldn’t stop staring at those two towers, literally couldn’t look away. I’m a smart person and I think rather often about the darker realities of our world, the wars we’re fighting, and all that. And yet while the movie played I hadn’t much thought about America, except to the extent that America was a part of the story. I hadn’t much thought about our own war on terrorism. I hadn’t much thought about the World Trade Center. But there at the end I finally understood.

A work of art like a book or a movie very often isn’t so much about what it’s title implies or what it seems at the beginning – it’s the last image that the writer wants to stay in your head. So it is with Munich. Yes, it’s about Munich. Yes, it’s about Israel and Palestine. But what I’ll always remember most is the way, at the very end, Spielberg reminded me it’s also a movie about today, about America, about those two towers that no longer rise above the skyline.

Hair, football, and game shows with exclamation points: A weekend in review

2006-01-23T13:18:00.000-07:00

I need a haircut. That’s the main thing on my mind right now. My hair is seriously out of control. It hasn’t been this long since freshman year of high school probably. It hangs down far enough in the front that if I don’t push it to the side, it’s in front of my eyes. My hair always tends to be crazy after I sleep but it’s especially bad when it’s long. This morning I would have been about eight feet tall if you measured from the top of my hair to my toes.

So this weekend was not really so great. Didn’t really do much of anything on Friday or Saturday, except for some homework. Doing homework again really sucks, by the way.

Yesterday afternoon were the two events I was most interested in all weekend and, typically, they overlapped. The Broncos game started at 1, but I had to be at the Phoenician at 2:30 for tryouts for Jeopardy! In retrospect, I’m thankful I had the audition to save me from the agony that watching that game likely would have induced. Then again, I’m thinking maybe I jinxed the boys in predominantly orange by shaving on Saturday morning. I shaved so I would look presentable for Jeopardy! (we were supposed to dress as we would if we were appearing on the show). I hadn’t shaved for a good two weeks, though, and I was getting pretty hairy. As you in the audience are likely unaware, let me explain that Broncos quarterback Jake Plummer, who apparently thinks he’s a hockey player, had grown himself a nice “playoff beard” over the past several weeks. When I let the chin scruff take over, many people at work joked that it was my own playoff beard. I was even warned not to save it, lest it doom the Broncos. I shaved. The Broncos got whupped. Yet further confirmation that the universe is governed by my grooming habits.

But not the Jeopardy! universe, apparently.

Over the summer Diana and I took to TIVO-ing (sorry, digitally recording) Jeopardy! and then watching them the next day when I came home for my lunch break. I guess it was then that I signed up online for contestant recruitment. I don’t recall now if there was any kind of test I had to pass at that point or not – maybe they just assume anyone who really doubts their aptitude wouldn’t risk embarrassing themselves by trying out. So this weekend the Jeopardy! folks were here doing testing at the Phoenician. Basically, at 2:30 I walked into a ballroom with probably 70-100 other people (and we were the third group of the day) and we all talked briefly, answered some practice questions and finally settled in for the test. I understand that if you try out in California at the studio the whole thing is computerized but not so on the road. The questions are computerized but everyone in the room got a sheet of paper with 50 blank spaces on it. The questions went by very quickly; I think they said we only had 8 seconds per question, which is typical for the show I guess. You didn’t have to write it out in a question or anything, just get down enough info to answer the question. It was pretty typical Jeopardy, in other words some questions were easy because it was a category I know well, other questions were difficult but I was able to guess and a few just had me completely stumped. We all handed in our papers and two people went out in the hall to grade them. They’re pretty secretive about what it takes to pass. They claim there’s a pre-determined “passing number” based on how many people they need. But for all I know they only took the highest-scoring five (only five people from our group passed). If you pass, you stay on in the room for a while, play a mock game and talk to the producers. Basically, they’re trying to see who’s most likely to not freak out if they actually do end up on television. If all that goes well, they put your name in a file and they may or may not call to ask you to come to LA sometimes within the next year. Even if they call you, there’s no guarantee you’ll get to be on the show.

That’s all just for your info, though, because I didn’t pass the test. They jokingly tell you to just tell all your friends that you only missed the cut by one question, but actually they don’t reveal how well or poorly you did at all and they don’t reveal the scores of those who passed, either. If you don’t pass, they encourage you to try again, though not until a year has passed.

I will probably try again if they come back to Phoenix. Unlike people who were there yesterday from Denver, Texas, and New Mexico, I can’t imagine traveling to do this kind of thing. But it was still actually fun and challenging and I didn’t feel completely stupid. Also, I was probably the youngest person in the room. I’m not sure if that indicates that we do in fact get smarter with age or just that the older you get the more history questions are things that occurred in your lifetime.

Anyway, you won’t be seeing me on Jeopardy! any time this year. But you might be seeing me writing with my very own Jeopardy! pen. I guess it wasn’t a loss, after all.

“I got no time to get to where I don’t need to be”

2006-01-20T15:37:00.000-07:00

If you’re looking for a happy song, you can’t do much better than Jack Johnson. So long as you’re looking for a contented, “what-a-beautiful-life” kind of happiness, that is. Still, you wouldn’t expect a song called “Breakdown” to be joyous, even if it was written by JJ. And yet this makes me smile:

"I hope this old train breaks down
Then I could take a walk around
See what there is to see
Time is just a melody
All the people in the street
Walking fast as their feet can take them
I just rolled through town
And though my window’s got a view
The frame I’m looking through seems to have no concern for now

So for now
I need this old train to breakdown
Oh please just
Let me please break down"

To the best of my knowledge, it’s a song he wrote while traveling by train through Europe. As he rolled on through town after town, he realized that much as he was happy to be headed wherever he was headed, a part of him also wanted to stop and investigate every little place along the way.

What a wonderful notion that seems to me.

I’m not Tony, but I have traveled by train (not since I was a kid) and one of the reasons I so prefer driving is that ability to do what you want when the mood strikes. See something you want a picture of? Pull over and take a picture. Want some food? Get off at the next exit and find something that suits your mood. Nevermind that I like driving, too.

It’s with that in mind that I’ve always yearned to take a cross-country drive. This is perhaps why, against all better judgment, I was charmed by the end of Elizabethtown. I was envious. Driving cross country is one of those things you are expected to do in your youth and that I always figured I would get around to after graduating from college. I had a vague notion of getting a job that didn’t start for several months and – if the job was in California, say – taking a route to get there that went through New York. Just because.

I love driving. I love being out in the middle of nowhere and I love driving in cities. I love finding random and unique shops and restaurants along the road. I love the freedom of having a motel reservation in a city a few hundred miles away and so many hours to kill before night comes.

At one point I had charted a tentative route that I figured might take as little as a few weeks or as long as two months, depending on how I felt. It included some cities where I had friends or family who would be willing to put me up, it included some cities where I’ve never known anyone but always wanted to go. It hit pretty much all corners of the country. I assumed I would do this in summer, so it was also contingent on my ability to stop and catch a game at Yankee Stadium, at Wrigley Field, at Fenway, even Camden in Baltimore. It was my own, mostly secret, dream. It was what I thought might be a graduation present to myself.

But when I graduated from college I was unemployed and so didn’t think it wise to spend what little money I had on a road trip. Plus, I was in love by then with someone who was both employed and no fan of car trips. So instead of packing my car up and heading out on some unknown highway, I just rented a U-Haul and drove to Phoenix. It wasn’t so bad. Friends helped me unpack and that night we all relaxed in the hot tub at the complex. I don’t regret it, you see. But I do still want to take that trip – someday.

Frey Redux

2006-01-19T08:53:00.000-07:00

Exactly what parts of "A Million Little Pieces" were untrue?

The Onion provides a handy rundown.

Why I hate (and yet love) David Foster Wallace

2006-01-19T08:36:00.000-07:00

Have I mentioned here yet that Powell'sBlog is my new favorite Web site? Well, it is.

Today brings a great posting, inspired (if not actually about) a David Foster Wallace essay. This paragraph in particular really hits the nail on the head when it comes to DFW:

"Many talented authors instill in their readership a particular brand of I-could-have-written-that confidence. Nick Hornby comes to mind. He makes writing look effortless. David Foster Wallace also makes the job seem easy, but unless you scored 800 on both your SATs, cruised through med school, and now spend nights pining for the time when Mensa membership really counted for something, you never get the feeling that you would have known to use quite the same words or to put them in as effective an order. No, if reading Wallace stirs any reaction among prospective writers, it's more likely despair. Why bother? The shaggy fellow on the book flap is clearly so much better at this, and better informed, than you could ever hope to be."

The full post is here.

The Mountaintop

2006-01-18T09:00:00.000-07:00

Martin Luther King Day was Monday and I meant to post this then, but I didn't.

This is a tiny bit taken from the end of one of MLK's most famous speeches, usually referred to as the "I've been to the mountaintop speech," which he gave on April 3, 1968. That is, one day before he was shot and killed.

"I have a dream" is a more famous speech, a more significant one. But it's maybe too famous. We all know it so well that it's impact is lessened; worse yet, King's whole memory is wrapped up in it, which is a shame because the MLK I try to think of is the man who has been to the mountaintop. A religious man, a man who fought the power but remained true to his mission of fighting in a non-violent way. A man who was arrested, harrassed, beaten, and still swore never to fight with fists or weapons, but merely his words. A man who, despite that, was murdered anyway.

I've been writing up a thing about the movie "Munich," which I saw last week but seems to haunt me with every new thing I see or think about -- MLK, 24, even James Frey.

These words ... even just reading them can make me choke up. For a brief while during their 2001 tour, U2 played part of this speech during "Pride," and it was utter genius, devastating, sublime.

Martin Luther King, April 3, 1968. Memphis, TN:

"Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn't matter with me now, because I've been to the mountaintop.

And I don't mind.

Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land!"

I can stop whenever I want!

2006-01-17T20:33:00.000-07:00

I have never used crack cocaine. I have never used methamphetamines. I have never used heroin.

But I do watch “24.”

As with a drug addict, it’s something that a sensible person might not admit in polite company – to those who he hopes will think highly of him.

As with a drug addict, I know 24 is bad for me. It’s painful while experiencing it and the resulting guilt is nauseating. But it’s an addiction. I can go off it here and there, if necessary. I can even rationalize that it would be better to not watch it altogether, lest its seductive wiles work their charm on me yet again.

But I am an addict. I am weak. I’m watching.

This show is awful, ridiculous, even disgusting in the way that appeals to the most violent and ugly of human emotions. It’s sometimes badly written, the plots are convoluted, and ever since season one the ridiculousness factor has increased exponentially.

As art, it's awful. As politics, it's awful. As suspense, it's awful.

But. I. Can’t. Stop. Watching.

Which I guess means it's fucking great TV.

Whither the hand job?

2006-01-17T18:20:00.000-07:00

Sadly, that brilliant turn of phrase is not mine. It comes from this article, supposedly a book review but really more a mediatation on today's adolescent girls. This is the kind of thing that makes me want to be a writer.

(I agree with her, too.)

What I thought of Brokeback Mountain

2006-01-16T14:14:00.000-07:00

** As always, spoilers abound. You’ve been warned. **

To be fair, I really liked Brokeback Mountain. It’s just beautifully directed – which you would expect, because it’s Ang Lee. But no matter how many times they were all nominated, I certainly wasn’t prepared for how good all four lead actors would be. Really, who could have imagined that the guy from A Knight’s Tale and the guy from Donnie Darko would be so good as gay cowboys? Even more, who would have thought a girl from Dawson’s Creek and the girl from the Princess Diaries would be so good as the long-suffering wives of gay cowboys?

But it’s not a perfect movie. It’s slow in places, sometimes with great effect but other times it seems needless. The score is OK at first – spare and quiet, but so repetitive that it soon became noticeable to me (rarely a good sign).

The story itself is a bit of a melodrama, though I suppose that’s typical of love stories. But, curiously, whereas the melodrama of the short story worked, it didn’t work for me in the movie.

The story is fatalistic: From the very first moment Enis tells Jack that he worries about being found out you know at least one of them will die. As in the movie, the literary Jack Twist has ideas and dreams of how they could be together, but (perhaps because the story is told from Enis’ point of view) these never seem logical. As the reader you know the story isn’t going to work out that way.

But, even though I knew how the movie would end, I still found myself rejecting its fatalism. We see Jack in Texas, we know he is aware of the wider world in a way that Enis is not. At one point I started to wonder: Why doesn’t Jack just move to San Francisco? Of course, art – tragedy especially – is all about the choices people could have made but didn’t. Maybe that hint that it could have turned out differently makes the movie better. But not for me.

I try very hard to not let the experience of a movie be too biased by having read the source material beforehand, but Brokeback Mountain was a very different experience indeed. It’s probably the only movie I’ve ever seen with more plot than was in the original story. Given how short the story was based on, this was inevitable. The screenwriters did a good job with both the adaptation and the addition – but because movies are a visual medium and visual obscenity is more shocking than written obscenity and because this obscenity is homosexual and so even more risqué than plain old hetero sex – I felt the movie lacked shock value.

A lot of that is just me, of course. I’m not really shocked by the notion of gayness. Two men kissing isn’t something that turns my head any more than a man and a woman. And while I probably have a more open attitude about that then most of the movie’s audience, I’m still not really sure there was anything in the movie that was shocking to those who went to see it. Everyone walks in knowing they’re going to see “the gay cowboy movie.” Surely no one expects their relationship is only revealed through meaningful glances.

When I originally read it, the story was shocking to me. Here I had read all the way through this wonderful collection of short stories and I came to the last one in which these two cowboys are herding sheep on a mountain one summer. Nothing that came before suggests what the story is going to be about. You figure: sheep are going or a big storm is going to hit. Something. But frankly I would have been less surprised if one of them fucked a sheep than I was when – very suddenly, the whole thing goes from almost wholly platonic to full-on butt-fucking in a just a couple short paragraphs – they started having sex with each other. The story exploits pre-conceptions to shocking effect. I’ve read a lot of stories about men discovering themselves to be gay. I’ve read a lot of stories about cowboys. Reading it later I realized there are hints, little homo-erotic glances and yearning looks – but even that wouldn’t have prepared me for the gusto with which they jump into the sleeping bag.

Much as I remember that, what has always made Brokeback Mountain stick in my mind more than any other Proulx short story is the way it managed to be graphic without actually being graphic. The sex scenes, such as they are, in the story are probably the best I’ve read anywhere in the way they communicate everything important occurring without becoming porn and without being shy. But save for a handful of kisses and their first night as lovers, the sexual component of what Jack and Enis are up to seemed mostly removed from the movie. Which is understandable, I guess, but to me it compromises that good that the film is otherwise doing.

If this were a story of star-crossed heterosexual lovers it would be better than average for a love story, but not award-worthy, not a movie that people talk about even if they haven’t seen it. The whole point of Brokeback Mountain is its gayness. That’s fine to me, most good movies find a hook to turn on: Syriana is about the politics of oil, Munich is about revenge, Capote is about the inner battle of an artist. But it felt like cheating somehow to only tacitly acknowledge why Jack and Enis keep meeting up in the mountains. As Jack says late in the movie, “A few fucks a year” aren’t enough for him; this could almost be surprising because for nearly an hour we haven’t seen the two do much in each other’s company besides hug and drink whiskey and argue.

You have to admire a movie that asks its audience to confront homosexuality as its central issue (most gay movies are about something else – Philadelphia was more about AIDS, RENT is more about, well, AIDS, and Capote was more about being a writer). It’s just a shame that, good as the movie was, it seemed to lack the conviction of its subject.

It's not just that toward the end it stopped being much of a gay movie. It stopped being much of a romance. This is partly why it started to seem pointlessly long at the end. Jack comes and he and Enis fight. Jack comes but Enis has his kids. Jack comes and he and Enis fight. Yawn. Where's the passion? Where's the sex, the kissing, hell any reminder that these men love each other? It just seemed to vanish in the second half of the movie. It would have been a problem in any romance movie; it's especially one for the gay cowboy movie. The finale is powerful and redeems it. But that doesn't forgive the problems that came earlier. Why add so much extra story for Enis but leave Jack's character so murky? Why the waitress character? Why do "films" anymore seem to need to clock in at over (often well over) two hours, when they'd be better in every way if they were shorter?

Schadenfreude

2006-01-15T16:12:00.000-07:00

Schadenfreude (someone cue up the Avenue Q soundtrack!) is certainly not the most pure of human emotions, but that doesn’t make it any less sweet. Don’t we all sometimes love to see bad things happen to other people? The highlight of last year’s Orange Bowl wasn’t USC beating the hell out of Oklahoma (though I loved that), it was Ashley Simpson getting booed at halftime. I know I’m not only speaking for myself here.

So it has been with a tiny bit of glee that I’ve observed this week’s “outing” of all the BS in Oprah’s current book club selection, “A Million Little Pieces,” by James Frey. (In short: Frey’s book is a supposed memoir of his adolescent life as a drug addict and criminal. Except that it’s now clear that Frey was at most a petty criminal and basically completely oversells his hardcore cred in the book.)

I read the book several years ago and didn’t much like it then, not because I had any sense of the non-truths in it, but mostly because I didn’t think Frey was a very good writer. Moreover, I had not too much earlier read a much better memoir, largely but not wholly about addiction and recovery, called “The Black Veil” by Rick Moody.

But most of all, Frey’s book was self-aggrandizing and – worse – hypocritical. Consider the section of the book when Frey is at a rehab clinic and a former patient of the clinic – an unidentified but well-known rock star – comes to talk to the current patients. The rock star claims to have consumed pounds of drugs on a daily basis – enough, it seemed to me, to kill a football team let alone a skinny punk. But that was the point – the rock star was over-embellishing his story to the point of ridiculousness. Frey lashed out against the rock star and writes of a fantasy in which he beats up the rock star for spewing such obvious and over-inflated BS. Which is pretty fucking ironic, no?

Personally, I have no moral qualm with some bits of fiction creeping into memoir. Any history is written from a point of view. But then again, Frey’s argument that he’s simply telling his own story as he remembers it is just laughable. Then he went on Larry King and offered up a defense along the lines of Clinton’s “it depends on what you think the definition of ‘is’ is.”

But what really annoys me are those who are sticking by him, especially Oprah. I understand she’s no desire to be made to look like a chump, but she’s turned on authors she’s picked before, and for less – just ask Jonathan Franzen. When Frey appeared on Larry King, Oprah called in and defended the author. Her feeling was that, no matter the facts of the story, the ‘inspirational value’ of reading the book is nonetheless the same. And I’m sorry but that’s just crap.

I didn’t find much of inspirational value in “A Million Little Pieces” to begin with; remember that in the book he proclaimed contempt for the rock star who over-inflated his story. That detail has stuck with me ever since because it didn’t mesh with an author who seemed all too-eager to “brag” about his own bad boy exploits before getting clean. And that was before I knew he’d made the “bad boy” shit up, for the most part. (In retrospect, that Frey’s story has a lot of fiction in it shouldn’t surprise anyone – he tried to sell the book as a novel before one publisher finally suggested he try calling it a memoir instead.)

As I recall, the inspirational message Frey tried to impart with his book was essentially that addicts aren’t victims – they only have themselves to blame and in the end only they can save themselves. I’ve got no quarrel with that message personally, I’m a big believer that we make our own destinies. I just never liked how Frey made his argument. (His crappy writing was another issue, but let’s not get into that.)

So what do we make of someone who has now all but admitted that the hole he had to pull himself out of wasn’t nearly as dark or deep as he previously claimed? Addiction of any type is hard to beat and there’s probably value in Frey’s actual life story. So what made him embellish?

My theory is that, never mind his rhetoric, Frey is ashamed of his actions. If I recall correctly, he was not raised in poverty, or beaten by his parents, or abused, or any of those typical social ills that we might expect would lead someone to a life of drugs and crime. This would explain his insistence that addicts have no one to blame but themselves. Without a suitably adequate reason for getting into drugs in the first place, he compensated by making his addiction and recovery all the more remarkable. The end result was that – to me at least, though not apparently to Oprah – the whole thing just rang false.

Maybe some people actually responded to that air of unbelievablity, and it increased their depth of response. I’ve read a lot of non fiction that has affected me that way – the more unusual and stunning something is, the more your remember it. But there’s a line between the unbelievably true and that which smacks of fiction – or, as in this case, trying too hard. Frey crossed the line. It was one thing for me to have that visceral reaction and not like the book when I read it two years ago – then I could still respect those who were moved by the story. Now I don’t.

Fiction has it’s place. It is often moving and wonderful. As I’ve written before, I believe strongly in the powers of fiction. But good fiction is not deliberately manipulative. And it is labeled as fiction. A Million Little Pieces broke both rules. So let the public shaming continue.

2005-12-23T08:52:00.000-07:00

CAMP: Having deliberately artificial, vulgar, banal, or affectedly humorous qualities or style.
– American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition

There was one point in this week’s season finale of Nip/Tuck where I almost started to believe that the episode was going to end with Christian – whose dream sequence started this disaster of a television season – waking up from the nightmare that was this season. Like claiming virgin birth, after Newhart saying “it was all a dream” isn’t really something anyone else can do. But still, for a moment there, I was convinced it was the only explanation.

The entire episode – truly the whole season – was pretty goofy. But always in a way that suggested bad writing, lazy scripting, and a show that basically blew its wad back in its first season. It had never before occurred to me that the thing was deliberately bad, purposely surreal.

Until we got to the final confrontation scene, really two scenes, both with hostages and forced torture. Both utterly, unspeakably dumb. And both backed by an insipid, almost circus-like soundtrack. I’ve no idea what the song was, actually I’ve no desire to find out. It was upbeat and silly, almost. Entirely inappropriate for the brutality of the actions taking place on screen. And it occurred to me: Wow, it’s all been a scam. Christian is going to wake up with some bimbo next to him wondering why he’s making such strange noises in his sleep. It’s the only explanation. Professional writers can’t possible be this bad. Professional actors wouldn’t stand for it. Professional directors wouldn’t direct it. A network wouldn’t put this on TV unless it’s all a joke. It was all camp. I was sure.

But no. The joke was on me. It really was that bad. It was camp, just the writers didn’t intend it that way.

Somewhere there is the person who made the decision to play that song over that scene and he or she almost certainly believes the scene is a spectacular success in the tradition of Reservoir Dogs.

I’ve not yet decided what shocks me more: How bad a debacle this season was or, as I heard today, that there are those who think the season finale was a spectacular cap to the show’s finest season. Pardon me while I puke.

Irony

2005-12-21T22:47:00.000-07:00

What was my first spoken (though I was alone in my car, I often talk back to the radio) reaction when I heard on Tuesday evening about this decision handed down in the Pennsylvania "Intelligent Design" trial?

"Thank God."

2005-12-16T22:27:00.000-07:00

I already had one response to Lisa's comment that I added as a comment on the previous post, but I had another thought about what she said and it's better as a separate entry than another overlong comment.

Lisa pointed out her lack of tolerance for conservatives who overvalue their own importance, and while I can certainly agree with that point, I tend to think the problem is perhaps not so much with those (probably relatively few) who have the opinions. The problem is the journalism that leads us to believe such opinions are valid, common, and worth discussing.

At least for me, the problem with journalism isn't that there's so much "bad news" out there or that I don't find them credible. The problem to me is the horserace. It's conflict. Journalism is built around conflict to some extent, sure, but most issues (especially the opening of a movie for crying out loud) are nowhere near as divisive as media coverage would have us believe.

Any lazy journalist knows he can reliably get a spicy quote from an extremist on either side of an issue. It's an easy story, but it's lazy journalism. It's writing about issues like horseraces (who wins and who loses) rather than like actual issues with subtexts and complexities and consequences that have nothing to do with "who wins."

It's pretty inexcusable that our elections and wars are reported in this way, but it's an especially sad commentary that even entertainment news now gets the horserace treatment.

Bearing that in mind is how I have managed to stay sane over the past few years. Is it miserabe to have to hear over and over again about Cindy Sheehan? God yes it is. And is it awful to have to hear unending griping from "the Christian right" about the decaying values of Halloywood? Indeed so. But those who make the loudest noise are generally furthest from the actual crowd. That doesn't excuse the incompetence of those people, but remembering that has kept me from pulling my hair out over the past couple of years.

A meandering and (toward the end) sentimental post

2005-12-16T09:21:00.000-07:00

Here's the poster you've probably seen for Brokeback Mountain.

So, then, what's this?

According to this site it's a new ad for the movie. But I had never seen it before. And it really pissed me off. I was all fired up to write this blog about the idiocy of trying to de-gay a gay movie and misrepresentation of potentially offensive topics in general.

And then I thought, "You know. I'm not sure even Hollywood executives are stupid enough to try to promote a gay movie with a poster of a nuclear family." Besides, it didn't really look like a poster, or even a traditional ad.

Turns out it's not a traditional ad, but it's one of several industry promos being sent out to Academy voters with the Oscar package. And since both of the females are supposedly contenders for award nominations it's only natural to put some pictures of them in the promo packs.

Which means that those who are showing off the second ad and screaming about hypocrisy are either (a) irresponsible and stupid or (b) hypocrites themselves. In this case, it's probably A, but even the possibility of B annoys the heck out of me.

From conservatives who rail against abortion but really don't want Roe v Wade overturned lest that disappear as a campaign issue to liberals who denounce the war in Iraq but nonetheless see the loss of American lives there as a chance for political gain, there are far too many examples of dishonest hypocrisy in the world today.

This is why I more and more admire people who at least truly believe in their convictions, even if I don't happen to agree with their opinions. John McCain is the best example. In reality, he and I disagree on far more issues than we share common ground on. But I don't care, really. I think more highly of him than I do of virtually any other politician. I voted for him for his senator position (as if that mattered) and would honestly be tempted to vote for him for President. Even though I don't like his politics, for the most part.

But I'm digressing, because this wasn't meant to be a political discussion. My real point is, in this year when I've read roughly 3,462 articles about how Hollywood is hurting the box office slump goes on, I can't recall reading a single article that suggests the main reason things are going badly: bullshit.

Most articles talk about absurdly high ticket prices (true) and bad product (true). But people always complain about prices and there have always been shitty movies. The problem is the great extent to which we are now aware that even Hollywood executives know they're putting out shit. And yet they still promote it. Does anyone really believe that there was a single person involved in the making of "Stealth" that thought it would be (a) a good movie and (b) a successful one? Of course not. And yet the budget to promote that piece of trash would have been front page news if it were a lottery prize.

So Hollywood is full of shit. We've all long suspected this, and now we have proof. Indeed, as the example I used to start this blog proves, we now tend to think Hollywood is even more full (?) of shit than they really are.

Cynicism is healthy. But a bleak world view isn't. I still believe in convictions and faith and being willing to trust others, even strangers. I think that used to be typical. More recently, it was at least something we all tried to encourage at this time of the year. Now even Christmas is regarded with a skeptical eye. It's a shame.

"The opposite of war isn’t peace – it’s creation"

2005-12-02T09:13:00.000-07:00

You know, I think there’s far too little dancing on tables. Seriously, wouldn’t life just be a little more exciting if from time to time some people on the street, or in the restaurant on the corner, or in your apartment building just burst on in full song and dance? Tell me that wouldn’t rock. (So long as it’s not induced by a demon, right Xander?)

That’s just one of the things I loved about Rent. (Yes, I saw it last night and so, yes, I’m going to write about it. Again. Just let me do this, though, and maybe I’ll get it out of my system.)

I loved the way everyone seemed to be a part of the real world, even when they broke out in song. It was charming and also seemed to work with the whole “we’re bohemian artists” thing that Rent tries so hard to champion.

I really liked the movie overall actually. There were some things I didn’t like, but virtually all of those were things that are problems with the musical – not really the movie’s fault. (Which is to say, the ending still sucks.)

I got a kick out of the dialogue, which was virtually all from the actual play – except in the play they would sing it, not speak it. Sometimes it was awkward and I really wanted them to be singing it, but I still got a kick out of it. Like a big in-joke for people crazy enough to actually recognize it. I wonder if, as dialogue, those lines seemed poorly written or forced to people who don’t know the play that well. Then again, I doubt very much if this movie succeeds at all for people who don’t already know it. That’s normally a big problem for me – generally I think movies need to be movies and not be overly concerned with their source material. But here it didn’t bother me. Maybe because I am a big fan of Rent. Maybe because I frankly doubt if the audience for the movie is much beyond those who have seen the show already anyway.

The only other thing wrong with the movie, I thought, was the strange section where the first half of Act 2 should have been … except suddenly we were no longer in a musical at all and we had that completely pointless scene with Alexi Darling. Stupid. And for that we get denied “Happy New Year,” “We’re OK,” and “Contact”? Harsh.

Otherwise, wow. So many of the songs were done so well. “Rent” is not really a song I love that much but by the end of that song I was sold on the project completely. “One Song Glory” was amazing. “Tango Maureen” kicked my ass. (I wasn’t much for the way “Out Tonight” started in the club, but it was redeemed at the end). And, of course, “I’ll Cover You” was just amazingly perfect – the reprise especially. God that part of the story just kills me. Someone explain to me how the same writer who could write that scene, which is so perfect, could also massacre the ending and Mimi’s death/recovery so badly? I’ll never get it. (Maybe if Larson hadn’t died it could have been tweaked and made better?)

Putting “Seasons of Love” at the beginning was a great decision, too. I already wrote about how much I love that song as a sort of Greek Chorus and to have the cast singing it to an empty theatre as the opening scene … it just worked.

And the cast was excellent. Pretty much the entire original cast was back, except for (I think) Mimi and Joanne. Rosario Dawson was so-so as Mimi but I thought Joanne was wonderful. The woman can sing. And of course the original cast is the standard, not to mention the voices everyone is used to hearing from the CD. Best of all, of course, is Jesse L Martin who frankly has the voice of God.

And I was afraid I wouldn’t like it. Sheesh.

Addendum:

It was so hard to sit in the theatre and not sing along and, at times, to not applaud some of the really great song numbers. It's a musical, you're supposed to applaud. The singing thing was especially awkward. I propose an idea to whoever has the rights to the show and might want to try a new twist: "Rent" as rock concert. Perform the show not as a musical, but as the singalong fest it so often years to be. I know I would go.

One of many reasons Thanksgiving break was great this year

2005-12-01T17:04:00.000-07:00

I’m not really a big fan of biopics. Partly this is the result of my previously expressed affection for the power of fiction to be more true than reality. Partly it’s because I think even the most interesting lives lack any kind of engaging narrative arc. So, even though they look to be good and worthwhile films and even though I’m not uninterested in their subjects, I have never seen Ray, or Ali, or Gandhi, etc etc. I rented The Aviator which was interesting to watch (mostly thanks to Cate Blanchett) but excruciatingly boring as a movie. And I want to see Walk the Line because I’m a Johnny Cash fan but I don’t ultimately expect it to be one of my favorite movies.

But despite all that I want to plug a biopic that I saw over Thanksgiving, because I’ve seen a lot of movies this fall and most were high quality but so far this was the best: Capote.

It’s different than a typical biopic, which is part of why it worked so well for me. It’s based on a full length biography of Truman Capote, but the film focuses exclusively on the three or so years he was working on his masterpiece, the “non fiction novel” In Cold Blood.

Disclaimer: I’m a sucker for this story. Like The Insider or Good Night, and Good Luck (both of which are amazing movies in my book) I feel a little uncertain in recommending Capote because part of why I like it so much is because I’m personally so interested in it, and I’m not certain that everyone else would be so naturally fascinated. (In the case of Capote, my fascination is based on writing in general and In Cold Blood in particular, in the other two movies it’s my interest in journalism.)

I read In Cold Blood in high school and until seeing the movie remembered little of it specifically. What I did remember was the reaction it provoked in me: I mean, the book just floored me. Stunned me. It’s such a masterpiece. I had only a short time earlier read the famous account of the Manson crimes Helter Skelter and while that’s a fine book, reading it was like reading a lengthy piece of journalism. It didn’t engage me emotionally. This is part of why In Cold Blood is so spectacular – it really is like a novel, and is written by a writer who at his best is as good as any American writer of the last century. But the story itself is also just shocking. Even in the late 90s I found myself just stunned by the brutality and the senselessness of the crime. I remember thinking: If this book feels like a punch in the gut to me now, what must it have been like to read it in the comparatively innocent 1960s?

Although it doesn’t tell the full story of his life, Capote really is a biopic. In showing us a mere three years of his life, it somehow manages to tell the full story of his life. We see Capote in New York, famous, worldly, flaming. We hear bits and pieces of his background. And we see the pain and the start of the depression and alcoholism that would ultimately cut his life short. Writing In Cold Blood essentially killed Truman Capote. Even though he lived another 20 or so years he never published another book. He was never the same person.

The movie makes it clear why. Primarily, the movie likes to focus on his very complicated relationship with one of the killers, who is awesomely portrayed by the guy who was the drug dealer in Rules of Attraction. He felt an affinity for the man, who had a haunting background that reminded Truman of his own. But he was also terrified of the killer, with good reason. And he needed him, too, and used him in a very deliberate and conscious fashion to get the information he needed for his book.

Now I’m re-reading the book and it’s interesting to see that he must have had a similar (if surely less painful) conflicted relationship with Kansas, the setting for the book, the scene of the crime. Capote was a flamingly gay, completely urban snob. If we’re to believe the movie (and it makes sense) he laughed with almost a sneer at small town Kansas and its conservative values. And yet, the book seems to celebrate those values as sincerely as if Truman had been born and raised and lived there all his life. It’s an effective narrative device (the narrator of In Cold Blood doesn’t seem to really be Truman Capote any more than it would be in one of his fiction stories). But it’s also scary, because after getting very close to this small town and the people in it, he exploited them. Some of his depictions and descriptions of the people in the book are downright cruel. Others are caring. That’s the way it should be with characters – except these were real people who, inevitably, had to read what this man had written about them.

Anyway, Philip Seymour Hoffman just inhabits Capote. They always say that about actors portraying real people, don’t they? But he does. Like I said, I don’t see a lot of biopics, but let me give you the example of one I did see recently. In The Aviator, Leonardo DiCaprio played Howard Hughes. But I always saw DiCaprio on screen. Blanchett played Katharine Hepburn and she was Katharine Hepburn. She inhabited her. I watched the movie and saw Hepburn there. Hoffman does that with Capote. He’s not like himself at all. It’s not just his voice, or his mannerisms. It’s everything. I know he played a gay character in Boogie Nights, too, but you could hardly believe he’s the same actor. Bravo to him. (I though Catherine Keener as Harper Lee was also great and I’ve never seen Chris Cooper in anything I didn’t think he was great in.)

Diana said she thought it dragged in parts and she’s probably right (she did seem to really like it despite that note). I can’t insist you go see it. It’s a quiet and deliberate movie. There are scenes (one in particular comes to mind) that really do drag on, but they left me utterly transfixed. But if you’re not engaged they will seem overlong and boring. There aren’t many flashbacks or cinematic devices. There are a lot of POV shots. It worked for me. If you don’t go in wanting to see the movie, though, it may well leave you uninspired. But for me it was the best thing I’ve seen in quite a while.

Stuff and nonsense

2005-11-30T17:18:00.000-07:00

Item

The above link is a ranking of how literate various cities (pop. 250,000+) are, based on newspaper circulation, number of bookstores, library resources, periodical publishing resources, educational attainment, and Internet resources.

It’s also further proof of why I don’t want to live here for the rest of my life. Phoenix is all the way down at number 54. (Tucson was better, at no. 34.)

But the two places I would most like to move to, if (when?) I do leave Phoenix? San Francisco rated fifth and Denver was sixth.

*

Item

I’m pretty sure this is the greatest story ever. Do you think Grimace drove the getaway car? And then there’s the obvious question: How does the Hamburgler fit in all this?

*

Item

How do you know your credibility as President has reached disastrously low proportions? How about when the top headline in a conservative paper like the Republic in a conservative place like Phoenix starts giving you the quotation mark treatment: Bush to unveil ‘victory’ plan. Ouch.

*

It’s the last day of November which means I should have 50,000 words of a novel written … right? Well, not so much. As of this moment I have about 37,000, which is way short of the goal but really isn’t too bad. Especially considering where I was last week, I’m pretty proud of the output. And, as I wrote before I’m mostly excited about having found a story.

I thought about taking the afternoon off from work and seeing if I could squeeze out 13,000 words in 11 hours or so, but then I had a 3.5 hour meeting from hell in the morning so didn’t get anything done then and, well, now I’m blogging so the hell with it, I guess.

Don’t know how often I’ll keep working on this story once December officially hits. I’ll probably bounce from story to story based on whatever mood strikes. The problem I ran into with this story is that I hit a kind of boring section I didn’t want to write, which usually just means I’m muddy on the plot. I started writing other scenes that will go later in the book to get around it, so hopefully with time I can fill in that gap. In the meanwhile, there’s another story idea hatching (related to this character world that has spawned the “What I Am…” short story and this novel – which incidentally now has a working title, “Smoke”), plus the good old LA story, and Christmas stuff, etc etc.

So, ultimately, I guess it’s a failure, but we’ll definitely invoke the term “moral victory” for this one.

*

I read on Slate today about a woman writer who feels that Jonathan Larson stole characters from a novel she had published and used them in Rent. I wasn’t going to blog about it, but Lisa’s comment on my Rent post got me thinking about it again, as well as a discussion I had with my aunt over Thanksgiving.

As for whether Rent was partly plagiarized from this lady’s novel, I don’t know – I have ordered both the novel in question and her book where she talks about the “theft” from the library. But I doubt it. After all, rent is – without question – a modern retelling of La Boheme. New city, new disease, Americanized name spellings. But it’s pretty much the same story otherwise. So, if Larson stole from this novel then didn’t the novel also steal from La Boheme? It seems a tough argument to prove.

But the author’s real outrage wasn’t about having been (possibly) plagiarized. It was that she (and by the way she’s openly gay) disliked the portrayal of homosexuals and the AIDS crisis as presented in Rent. She also seems to have a problem with the movie Philadelphia. Interesting note: Rent and Philadelphia were produced primarily by heterosexuals. I’d be curious to know what she thinks of, say, Angels In America, which was written by a gay man. But I digress.

To an extent, I think, she may have a point. I haven’t read her argument in any great depth, but the gist seems to be that it overly sanitizes just how hard it was to be gay in the late 80s and early 90s. Maybe so – what made the Team America gag funny was that it nailed that, “It’s fun to be gay!” thing that seems to be going on in Rent. It’s a tragedy ultimately, but it’s also a lot of fun – and I wouldn’t be the first to argue that the final message is ultimately uplifting, no matter the dead bodies.

But Lisa raised a different point in mentioning her Mom, an apparently open-minded woman who nonetheless had no idea Rent was basically about gays and AIDS. And this is probably true of a lot of people, many of whom might even stumble into the theatre expecting Chicago or Phantom of the Opera. Surely, this has also happened to music theatre goers already.

For me, even that seems like it’s enough. It’s easy to criticize stories that are for whatever reason very close to you because they don’t match your experience. But if you want someone to understand your own personal experience then you have to bring it to them, you can’t expect others to tell your story. Rent tells the story Larson wanted it to. As I said before, it’s silly sometimes, sometimes it’s downright bad, but hopefully it’s close enough to what he believed that it’s an appropriate tribute and memorial to his short life. Of course, most people who see Rent will never get that far. They’ll see gay people with AIDS and hetero people with AIDS and some gay people and straight people who don’t have AIDS. They’ll see them sing and dance and live together and be distinctly human. Maybe it has and will continue to help a few people realize that ultimately all those distinctions don’t make them any less human. That’s a point and a success that no one should want to deny.

I'm just begging for you to mock me

2005-11-29T14:39:00.000-07:00

A lot of people, I know, totally hate Rent. I get that. I can see why you might hate it, even. It’s a love-it-or-hate-it kind of show. It’s OK if you hate Rent. But I love it.

Yes, the story sucks. It’s a four act opera condensed into two acts. Poorly. But I don’t love the story. I don’t love the whole bohemian thing. I know the second act sucks. I still love it, for really the only reason you can love Rent. Because of the music.

I like musicals in general. Thank you for your witty commentary re: my sexuality on that count, but it’s true – I’m that rare creature with a Y chromosome who loves both musicals and women. Go figure. I even used to watch the Tony Awards. I think that’s where I first heard parts of Rent – though I’d been hearing plenty about it before then.

There used to be a record store in Cherry Creek North (I can’t for the life of me think of what it was called now) that let you listen to any CD in the store for any length of time before you bought it. This is years ago, before Blockbuster Music did more or less the same thing, before anyone else was really doing this at all. We’re talking back in the days when hearing something on the radio was pretty much the only way to know what a CD offered before buying it. So, curious, I went to that store and listened to Rent. I bought it the same day. I loved it, listened to it a lot, learned all the words. When I worked at a bookstore I used my discount to buy a book all about the production, complete with the full book/script, as well.

I didn’t get to actually see the show, though, until I was in college. (I remember being in New York the one and only day I was there and regretting that there was no way to stay that night so I could see it on Broadway.) The tour came to Tucson first semester of my freshman year and I went with my roommate (a musical theater major no less!) named Vern. I had been a fan before, but how to describe the actual show? It was equal parts rock concert and musical theatre. It’s not just that so many in the crowd knew the songs – they even knew the words. It wasn’t just that so many people in the crowd had the audacity to sing along – it was that they did so loudly. It wasn’t just that you could hear people singing along – it was that they seemed to be encouraging it. (A note: I saw it again in Denver a few months later and the atmosphere was very different. Maybe because it wasn’t a college campus?)

Is Rent perfect? Far from it. That’s something else to love about it, in my book. It’s not exactly a work-in-progress, but the writer died before the thing even opened on any stage anywhere. So there are rough edges. And thank God they’ve left them (and I hope to God the movie doesn’t gloss over those rough edges completely). It’s musically messy, not nearly so polished as your Chicagos or Wickeds. It’s silly. It’s stupid and sappy sometimes, sometimes so blindingly idealistic that even the world’s greatest optimist would be embarrassed.

But it’s just so goddamn good. I though about changing that second to last word and just can’t. That’s the only way to describe it: goddamned good. How can you not be moved by this story? It’s very time-specific, yes, but what’s wrong with that?

I’m nervous about the movie and also can’t wait to see it. There have been a lot of bad movies made from good musicals. Then again, there are those few like Chicago that are just fabulous. I really hope Rent works that well. I like that most of the original cast is back for the movie, no matter how old they look. I’m nervous about what they cut (“Contact” isn’t on the soundtrack? I’ll be so pissed if they wimped out and cut that) and what's with this new song on the soundtrack? Let’s hope that’s just a “rolling over the end credits” kind of song. Mostly I’m nervous because … well, Rent really shouldn’t work as a movie. Half the point was the bare bones stage, the minimalism. I would have been more than happy to have someone film a performance and just release that. Instead, we get a full-on movie.

Doesn’t it seem odd to have a movie with a sizable budget being made of a musical that triumphed the bohemian lifestyle? That doesn’t offend me, it just strikes me as funny. Really, I have little opinion on the bohemian conflict of Rent. I have little opinion on the story at all. Is it a great story? Not really. But it’s a fairly clever update of La Boheme and, really, the point of opera is never the story but just the terrible inevitability of it all – which is a pretty clever metaphor for AIDS. What I love about Rent is mostly the music. It’s like a rock concert. It’s funny. It’s silly. And then from out of nowhere they break out a song that will have you crying like a baby.

I love Seasons of Love. A great song anyway, what really makes it great is how it functions in the musical. As the opening moment of Act Two, it takes place outside of the plot. It’s not even a part of the story – it’s a Greek chorus as much as anything, not an explicit one, but serving the same function nonetheless: Seasons of Love instructs us to watch the second act in a certain way. It salvages what would otherwise be ridiculously tragic, frankly too operatic for a rock musical.

Haven’t seen the movie yet and I’m both nervous and excited about seeing it. Maybe it will suck. But then again if I can sit in a theatre and hear One Song Glory, that might be money well spent.

2005-11-28T17:12:00.000-07:00

Read this first, then watch me rant like a lunatic.

I've no desire to actually start an abortion debate here, but I hope you'll understand my point here isn't about abortion itself. My point is simply how abhorent it is to ask kids to do something like this. I don't care what the cause is. Doesn't matter if I agree with the cause or don't agree with it. Doesn't matter if everyone on Earth agrees with the cause. It's just wrong to make your kids do something like this.

Kids don't have political opinions. They just don't. They're kids. That's the whole beauty of being a kid.

I'm not trying to tell you that kids aren't actually much smarter than we usually give them credit for -- hell, I just got back from a vacation where I was hangin out with various cousins of mine ranging in age from 7-11 and I think all of them were smarter than me. But they don't have political opinions. They're kids. That's not their world.

If they have political opinions it's not from any fundamental understanding of the issues, it's because Mom & Dad have drilled it into them. And that's sad enough, but what kind of parent makes their little girl go out in the freezing cold Chicago winter and picket a doll store? Sorry, it just disgusts me.

Thank God I'm Not In High School Anymore

2005-11-22T19:31:00.000-07:00

(No) Thanks to Lisa for making me relive when I looked like a cancer victim ...

I'm pretty sure this picture is from the summer following my junior year of high school. I know I still have that shirt. Sorry for inflicting this on you all.

My NaNoWriMo Pseudo-Update

2005-11-22T07:50:00.000-07:00

In which I write a blog with literary flair so I don't feel bad about not writing my novel.

Imagine the horror. After four and a half years of being in college, a writer is quite confident that he is ready to write his own version of that great entry into the world of “literature” – the college novel. He’s got only a short period of time, though – he knows if the months become years and the years become decades, well, he’s going to forget what college was actually like. And indeed the months do become years and he is somewhat worried to find that when he is (rarely) moved to write, it’s not the college novel he intended. He may have already outgrown it. And then a well-established writer of a certain literary and populist pedigree comes along and publishes a novel with great national attention (if not acclaim) and, yes dammit, it’s a college novel. The young writer is discouraged (if 70 year-olds are writing college novels, does that mean the college novel is over?) and later encouraged when he reads it (the book gets it so disastrously wrong that he thinks a “true” college novel may still work). He’s also just annoyed. How many people will read this book and actually start to think college is like this?

So he starts writing and it turns out (not that he was even intending this necessarily) that he is writing his college novel, finally. It just snuck on him, but he’s 20,000 words in and suddenly it’s clear – that’s what it is. But here we come to the horror. The horror. The writer looks back at what he has written, looks forward to what he think he will write yet in the story and – the horror – everything that was wrong with that Charlotte Simmons book is present in the one he is writing. It’s a college book that barely even addresses what college is actually like. Really, it’s just – the horror! – a sort of dirty book all about sex.

Yes, there’s a lot of revision this story is going to need, should I get to the end and finish it. It’s not unusual, I don’t think, to start a book thinking it’s about one thing or that it’s going to go a certain direction – and then find out you were entirely wrong: It’s actually about this, and going in this direction. One reason so many books and movies are bad is that, as a writer, it can be hard to let go of where you thought you were going. Maybe you had this great scene all planned out. Maybe you still kind of want to stick it in there (ahem!), even if it doesn’t necessarily fit (fit the narrative, I mean. Of course.)

So far, I hate to admit it, the story I have been writing is essentially the tale of Christina’s sexual exploits during one year of her undergraduate schooling. What a dirty bastard I am sometimes. But, let’s be fair for just a moment – lots of people have written lots of books about sex. Mine isn’t even really explicit, or particularly scandalous. I’m beginning to even think the ending might be redemptive, which would be something almost wholly new in my fiction. And moreover there’s this: Sex really, really truly is a part of college life. Sometimes it’s a pretty big part of college. But here’s the thing: Sex isn’t what you’ll remember about college. It isn’t what you’ll miss. And – no matter how much it might be on your mind – it isn’t how you spend most of your day.

The way I remember it, most people were too busy for sex to actually be a big part of their lives. Hell, I was too busy and I was a freaking creative writing major. If I didn’t have time for girls, then how in God’s name did people with jobs and real majors find the time?

So far there’s only a hint of that in what I’ve written – in the form of a little conversation between Christina and her nearing-30-year-old-friend Jess, who misses college. Or misses what she thinks college might have been, if she hadn’t been in a serious relationship. The point, ultimately, is that Jess is wrong – college isn’t really Girls Gone Wild, it isn’t really Charlotte Simmons. Maybe sometimes it is. But most people who are up until 3a on Wednesday nights are studying – and I don’t mean anatomy.

That’s mostly going to have to come in revision, though, I think. Still, it gives the story a focus beyond the sort of weak plot I’ve been working with, and that’s reassuring. There’s virtually no chance I can get this thing to 50,000 words by the end of the month, but it’s worth it having discovered in the midst of this silly little story I wanted to get out of my system, an actual book. That college novel. Finally.

But what really matters is what I want

2005-11-18T15:23:00.000-07:00

Rather than tempt fate by refusing to participate after being tagged, I submit to you the things Google thinks that Matthews needs:

1. Matthew needs to know what is expected of him ... Ain't that the turth?

2. Matthew needs a Mother's Day gift and is just about to discover whether
there's a prize in the cereal box when his mother interrupts his search. Using cereal box "prizes" as gifts ... why didn't I think of that?

3. Matthew needs to double his fluid intake and drink way more than an ordinary child A Guiness, please, bartender. And keep 'em coming.

4. Matthew needs dead babies. I knew this would show up sooner or later. Want to know why I'm not religious? Try having your name be on the bible story about infanticide. Not so fun.

5. Matthew needs to figure out if he’s Matthew or Martha Go figure, but this is where I stopped my search.

How Far We Have Come

2005-11-18T14:46:00.000-07:00

I cannot insist enough that you take just a little time and read or listen to this story over at NPR.

It's one thing to watch HBO's wonderful series "Rome" and reflect on how miserable life was in those days, even for the wealthiest and most powerful individuals. The world was not a comfortable place 2,000 years ago, really.

And it's one thing to appreciate the fact that what I will very haphazardly refer to as "modern medicine" has only been around about a century. It's funny to watch a quasi-historical movie like Sleepy Hollow and giggle at all of the wacky "scientific" equipment Johnny depp has to play with. And it's one thing to marvel that it wasn't until 1939, just 66 years ago, that the miralce drug, the drug that literally changed the world - penicillin - was used to stem bacterial diseases.

All of those things are amazing to marvel at. And yet they are very much historical. There aren't really any first-hand witnesses of those moments around anymore. Our grandparents might remember the rise of penicillin, but even they would have been very young at the time.

This is why it's so utterly incomprehensible that the man in this story, who is younger than either of my parents, lived through (and in many ways continues to live with) a procedure so bizarre, so archane, so B-horror-movie-esque. It's barely comprehensible to me that we used to give people lobotomies with no functional understanding of the brain at all. But to do it this way? With (I'm not making this up) ice picks? Ice picks? In the eyeballs?

It's absurd, horrifying, amazing, sickening. Most of all, it seems like one of those things we really should all know about, we should all remember with a degree of shame and apprehension - and yet ... almost no one knows anything about it at all.

Jumping On The Bandwagon

2005-11-13T20:52:00.000-07:00

You are Baby Gonzo from Muppet Babies! You have
definitely got some issues that need working
out. Your friends really DO like you, but
sometimes you just can't believe them. Maybe if
you'd just stop unleashing strange monsters
from the Basement . . .

Which Forgotten 80s Cartoon Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Ask Someone Smarter Than You

2005-11-09T13:51:00.000-07:00

First, an apology for that last post. See, in an effort to refresh myself on Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire in anticipation of next Friday’s big event, I am listening to the book at work. Turns out I struggle to (a) make any sense at all and (b) use grammar correctly when I’m also listening to delightful children’s stories. Who knew? You might think this suggests terrible things about my job performance while listening, but you would be wrong. In fact, I don’t need to use my brain to perform my job at all. Basically, I’m just a zombie with a phone: “Give money. Sub. Ro. Gay. Shun! Bad toilet part, bad! Give money!” That’s basically me and my co-workers all day long. Or, no wait, maybe that’s just what our supervisor seems to think our job consists of.

Anyway, on with the show.

I have noticed that people are often seeking out my wisdom with questions on everything from current events, to spelling, to the meaning of life. In an attempt to consolidate this chore I have created this new advice column: Ask Someone Smarter Than You. Namely, me. Here we go:

Dear …

I have a problem but I’m not sure how to solve it. When I’m in crowded places, Disneyland say, I am compelled to stop, inexplicably, and obstruct all manner of people and traffic behind me. I’m completely oblivious. I also do this in stores and even parking lots. Can you help?

- Wait, what was I doing again?

Dear what,

You are the proverbial “exception that proves the rule.” In this case, the rule you are proving – albeit in a roundabout way – is that of evolution. Many people mistakenly think evolution simply chooses the best and the brightest to continue on. This is not necessarily true. Sometimes evolution chooses people with no marketable skills whatsoever. For example, girls who are eager to spread their legs and guys who are attracted to those girls don’t really offer much for society, but they have a remarkable rate of procreation. A good real-life example of this is Britney Spears and Kevin Federline. But back to your problem. See, thousands and thousands of years ago, the vast majority of your ancestors were killed on the African plain when they would stop for no reason whatsoever and get stampeded by a herd of wildebeests or eaten by a lion with low standards. Unfortunately, a few of your people survived and passed these genes on to you. In today’s world stopping in the dead center of Main Street Disneyland is not necessarily going to get you killed, but it’s still an evolutionary disadvantage. And if you’re doing the same thing in parking lots then I dare say your kind are soon to meet your appropriate fate. Anyway, I can’t really help you with this problem. But my good friend Charles here ...

Dear guy who ordered some popcorn chicken and mashed potatoes,

I know you asked for Pepsi and not Dr. Pepper. And I know you asked for honey mustard and ranch dipping sauces even though I gave you barbecue sauce. Wanna make something of it?

- KFC drive-thru chick

Dear Thru,

I don’t really mind about the switch to Dr. Pepper. If it was Diet Pepsi then we’d have an issue. What is a problem for me is handing over the drink when it’s completely covered with soda that overflowed from the cup. That’s rude in any situation because people will inevitably get sticky hands, but when the person is sitting in a car then it’s just plain rude. But that probably explains why you’re working at KFC, doesn’t it?

Dear fanboy,

In a recent Rolling Stone interview Bono named "Electrical Storm" as one of his favorite U2 songs. So why haven't they ever played it?

- The Edge

Dear edgy,

This used to upset me, too, but frankly even I don't understand the innerworkings of Bono's brain. At first I thought maybe the song didn't fit their show that well, but ... well, the thing is it would fit in their set. Ultimately, though, I don't get upset because I'm not likely to get a chance to see U2 live until like ... 2009 or something. I did see two very good shows in Phoenix in the spring. Unfortunately, I skipped Las Vegas this past weekend and of course they proceeded to play what everyone is now hailing as the best show of the tour. I'm a fountain of knowledge, for crying out loud, not an oracle.

Hey Matt,

I need directions. Help?

- Erin

Dear cumdumpster,

I wouldn't say we were “lost” either time, but I nonetheless managed to fail to find both Diana’s school and Disneyland on Friday night’s trip, remember? Diana’s school is one thing (I’ve been there twice and one of those times it was a field), but Disneyland? How does one miss Disneyland? So, what in this past history makes you want to seek advice (directional advice especially) from me? Then again, you did trust me to drive you home on Sunday, so maybe I’m all you’ve got?

Dear “buddy,”

Why do older guys like me always call younger guys like you “buddy?” Actually, that’s not even my question, but it’s a damn good one, too. So I saw you walk toward the register and responsibly go through the actual line the way you’re supposed to. And then I just walked up, avoided the line altogether, and got to the counter in front of you. I even made eye contact with you. Don’t you feel like a sucker?

- The guy from the library

Dear guy,

No worries. Once you were out the door the librarian looked at me and said, “That guy comes in here every few days. He’s a total dick.” The librarian, you may remember, was a woman probably old enough to be my grandmother. This made my day so I bear you no ill will. Except for the calling me “buddy” thing. That needs to stop.

That's all for now!

Plenty of nothing

2005-11-09T11:29:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s happened. After a great start in the first few days that gave me a nice cushion, I have now actually fallen behind the pace for NaNoWriMo. I’m still not far behind and I probably shouldn’t worry too much about the actual day-to-day word count but then again this deal is short enough that there’s no luxury time to catch up once you get behind, especially considering distraction such as Thanksgiving, etc coming up.

I’ve several problems with getting it done but strangely most of the problems aren’t to do with the book itself: I’m very uncertain about the story but I think that this was a good choice for a book to write quickly and without thought. The problem is just actually writing.

First came the weekend trip to California. I did at least get the computer out on Saturday afternoon. I think I wrote about a paragraph. But then Sunday on the drive home I had many hours to think about the story and got a little done that night. But I didn’t write at all Monday or yesterday. Tuesdays and Thursdays are what should be my most productive days, but yesterday I didn’t do anything after work but watch some TV and try to clean the house (to pathetically little effect). Life, unfortunately, distracts from writing and while I know the whole point of the month is to let your home fall to shambles around you while you get some writing done … I just can’t do it. My other problem is that generally I prefer to write at night, especially late at night, after Diana has gone to sleep and I’m in bed with the laptop. But the past few nights I’ve actually chosen to go to sleep at a decent hour. So … maybe it is the book after all and I’m just avoiding doing the writing. I don’t know. I’m very conflicted about the story but I’m to the point now where I feel like if I get it out, even if it’s just awful and I never show it to a soul, then at least it will be done and the urge to write the story will be gone. I hope. Or something. I don’t know.

So last night I had a dream that I was at work on a Wednesday and it wasn’t an interesting dream in any way, which is a pretty realistic version of my job. The result was that I woke up this morning thinking it was Thursday. This makes last night’s work dream pretty much the worst dream I’ve ever had. 99.9% of the time I can’t remember my dreams anyway so why didn’t that one vanish? What a crap deal.

Note: I just wrote “carp deal,” which in reality is probably every bit as bad as a “crap deal,” just not as common a saying. I changed it anyway to “crap.” Isn’t it exciting to get an inside look at the way this fabulous blog is put together?

Disneyland was a good time, of course. So our tickets were perhaps less than what is strictly, oh what’s the word? Legal? Yes, that’s it. Not exactly legal. Still, they worked for us. It was reasonably crowded in the afternoon but not busy at all in the morning and we had a good run of getting on every ride we wanted to without having to wait much at all. We walked straight onto Splash Mountain without a wait at all. Good times. We all especially enjoyed the new Buzz Lightyear ride, and the Tower of Terror remains awesome. Good times all around.

I guess that’s it for now. I didn’t really have any point here, but aren’t you pretty used to that now?

Peace out, homies.

And we're off!

2005-11-02T15:51:00.000-07:00

I just posted the first chunk of my NaNoWriMo project over at the blog where I hide all that stuff. You can check it out, if you dare.

I'm not quite as enthusiastic as some about the start, although I did write a lot last night. I chose the "new" story, partly because that's more in keeping with the rules and also because I'm more likely to be able to write 50,000 words of this story. I don't value it as much as the other project, because I'm well aware that it's a silly, probably pretty bad story.

Now for the disclaimer.

I've been paranoid about everything I write ever since a conversation I had with Diana some years ago now when she told me that she really believes that most writers are never really writing fiction, or something to that effect. I disagree. I write fiction precisely because my real life is way too boring to be interesting. My real life is so boring I don't even talk about it with friends; I can't imagine writing a story about it.

Now, to some extent I do think she was on to something. What worries me as a writer is the truth that anything I write is my responsibility. If I write a murder scene, it doesn't mean I've ever killed anyone, but it does mean I have imagined it - the more distubingly brutal the scene, the more disturbing my imagination is, presumably. Truthfully, I think we probably all have imaginations that can be, from time to time, very sick indeed. We live in a violent world, a dirty world, and we're only human. For the most part, the main difference is how much of our sick mind we're willing to share with others.

Some stories do come totally out of thin air. They can be inspired by something you see on TV, or read in a magazine, or see across the aisle in an airplane. Some stories come from a closer place, at least at the start. The story I'm writing for NaNoWriMo is more the latter type. It takes mundane and familiar situations and says: What if? That's fiction.

Hope you enjoy.

Blogs Gone Wild!

2005-10-31T20:20:00.000-07:00

That's right, people.

4 posts. 1 day. Spooky. Almost like it's Halloween or something.

So, in honor of Halloween Chipotle was giving away free burritos to any patrons who were willing to come in dressed in tinfoil (they wrap their burritos in tinfoil there). We expected lines around the corner of foil-clad burrito-lovers like ourselves but it was not to be. Still, we had enough fun at the first Chipotle to all agree that a second free burrito was well worth a short drive.

Anyhow, I promised to let Diana post most of the pictures, since she took them on her camera. And you'll have to wait because tonight she's well behind on her homework and tomorrow she's in class. But of the pictures you'll see when she posts! For example, have you ever wanted to see Erin fashion and then wear a foil/cocunut shell bra? Well, I hadn't either, but it turned out to be quite entertaining. So look for that, for Diana in a patriotic take on the Statue of Liberty and Amy as a delicious barbacoa burrito. For now, I have permission to post a picture of myself.

I call this: Veni. Vidi. Foil.*

I realize I look a bit like the Stanley Cup in this picture, but I challenge you to make a better toga from aluminum foil in five minutes. What else can I say? Best. Halloween. Ever.

* also considered:

"Friends, Romans, countrymen ... lend me your burroitos."

and

"I came, I saw, I ate burritos."

Fun With Gourds

2005-10-31T16:30:00.000-07:00

So Brianna is so cool that not only did she buy herself a little membership to the very cool pumkin-carving-pattern web site Curse of the Zombie Pumpkins!, but she also shared the wealth.

David and Elaine (my brother- and sister-in-law and, it would seem, matchmakers extraodinaire) put on their annual pumpkin carving party Friday night and this is a shindig not to be missed, I tell you. So much so that we rescheduled a vacation so we could be there.

Here are the fruits (well, vegetables really) of our evening (though more could be yet to come, wink wink):

Here is Diana's Hannibal Lecter. Quite good considering this is the first time she's carved a pumpkin in years and the first time it was anything more than a triangular nose and eyes with a freaky grin:

Here's Erin's haunted house:

And my Leatherface:

Just a fun side note: This is my 69th post.

Happy Pumpkin Day! *

2005-10-31T11:17:00.000-07:00

* This politically correct new title brought to you by the same people who spondored today's "fall festivals," "autumn costume contests," and "harvest celebrations."

Things I have done on Halloweens past (not necessarily in any order):

· Been dressed as a pumpkin, Raggedy Andy, and possibly other things I can’t remember.
· Interrupted a robbery-in-progress in my home.
· Saw Dave Matthews Band play a classic show. (Most of you don’t care but hopefully Erin can appreciate this. A great all-around show but the musical highlight was: the I’ll Back You Up > Halloween encore. And it took almost nine years before I finally got to hear Halloween again. The spoken highlight: “We’re disguised as the Dave Matthews Band this evening.” The personal highlight: Gwen nearly fainting because Dave pointed at people in the row in front of us.)
· Had my first date (even if I didn’t realize at the time that’s what it was.)
· Dumped someone.
· Dressed as an architect, golfer, football player, astronaut, fireman, Mickey Mouse, Indian, and surely others I’m forgetting. But since there’s a quilt (and a picture of the quilt in a book sold all over the country) with pictures of me in my old Halloween costumes, I could probably figure out a few others I’ve forgotten.
· Had an embarrassing back-seat experience I’ve never told anyone about ever.
· Gone trick-or-treating with my cousins, including the five-month old twins who were dressed as M&M’s.
· Seen “Saw” and “Bringing Out the Dead” in theatres.
· Introduced my parents to a girlfriend they had pretty much already decided to hate.
· Watched “The Nightmare Before Christmas” approximately 34,213 times.
· Gone to work wearing a Jack Skellington tie.

And, after tonight, you can add to this list: Dressed myself in tinfoil in order to get a free burrito. Seriously. Is this a great holiday or what?

(The jack-o-lantern pictures are coming, I promise. I just can’t upload photos from this computer.)

Sure, I'll Be Your Monkey

2005-10-31T09:17:00.000-07:00

Midnight tonight marks the official beginning of NaNoWriMo, and yet I still haven’t decided what to write.

My first option is the story I’ve been working on, which is the story of a young man in LA who is having a particularly bad weekend of mental health. After mulling the idea for many years, I started writing this book at the end of August of this year for the novel writing class I enrolled in. So far, I have written about 19,000 words.

Reasons I should keep working on the LA story, and make my NaNoWriMo goal to write 50,000 more words of it:

1. It is unwise to stop in the middle of writing something that’s going reasonably well.
2. I’ve written all I can for the class, so this would give me a goal to keep working.
3. It’s a Halloween/fall story so I may not be interested in trying to pick it up again in winter or spring.

Excuses to not keep working on the LA story:

1. I’m not sure this book would even need 50,000 more words to be completed.
2. It’s against the rules. You’re supposed to start a whole new book/project.

The other option is to go crazy with this idea that’s a combination of something very new and something quite old. Prior to the LA story, the thing I was writing for a year or so previous was a strange little story about this love triangle between some people in Las Vegas, but the story lacked any real direction and was just a mess, which is why I dropped it when it was time to do the class. I thought I’d let it simmer and see if I ever actually came up with a plot for the story. Then one night I had this essentially unrelated idea for a story about a young woman who at first befriends a couple but is soon being terrorized by them. Clearly, these two ideas were destined to be intertwined into one story. For lack of anything better to call it, I think of it still as the Las Vegas story.

Reasons to do the LV story:

1. It’s the perfect thing for NaNoWriMo. Since I don’t have much of a plot, at any other time I’m likely to sit around not writing, waiting for inspiration to come. NaNoWriMo would eliminate that luxury, I’d just have to BS my way through it.
2. It’s not a project that is especially near and dear to my heart, so I wouldn’t mind that whatever I get written will inevitably be kinda crappy.
3. You know how us crazy writer-types are. Always flitting around, unable to focus, eager to move on to the new thing, new idea, the new, the new, the new!

Reasons not to do the LV story:

1. When I say I have very little in the way of plot in my head, I mean I have pretty much no plot in my head whatsoever.
2. What tiny bit of plot and theme I have considered suggest a story that I would be more than a little wary of ever showing to anyone, let alone wife, friends, family, or total strangers on the Internet.
3. I’m pretty confident I know how to tell the first third or maybe half of the story. After that, I haven’t a clue and even the “forced” atmosphere may not help.

Any of you want to put in your two cents? Help me make up my mind already, I’ve got less than 15 hours.

In which I waste no time at all

2005-10-26T19:00:00.000-07:00

I have a new car!

I will get to the pictures and the excited burbling in a moment, but first this: I already miss my dear old Subaru a bit. That car was with me all through college and beyond and I had so many wonderful fun times and great memories tied to it. In fact, many of them would probably get me in trouble to post here. But I remember this: I drove Diana on our first date in that car and not long thereafter it recieved one of it's worst dings when I was pulling out of Jessica's driveway and paying not much attention because I was laughing at something Diana said and I hit the mailbox on the opposite side of the street. It was very sad to simply give it up so suddenly. I'll miss you, little Subaru.

But I can console myself with this:

Pretty, no?

One problem. It has a hole in the roof:

Yeah, it's een more "family car" than the last one. But I'm a "family car" kinda guy these days. It's not so bad, really.

random stuff

2005-10-24T22:40:00.000-07:00

1. Finally decided on a new blog name. Then realized I had the quote wrong. Typical. But fixed now!

2. I often write in bed, after Diana has gone to sleep. I usually listen to music with headphones, even though Diana has the TV on for background noise, because music is less distracting. I just glanced over at the TV and thought she must have put on soft core. But a few minutes later I now realize that it's actually "Under the Tuscan Sun." Which makes two Diane lane movies that seem to qualify as soft core.

3. Submitted application for grad school, but still need to turn in all the stuff that matters. Need to write a statement of purpose and turn in a writing sample. Of course, I have nothing that I wrote in college thanks to a computer that unexpectedly went to heaven about two years ago. Oh, and I still need to talk to my boss about writing me a letter of rec ... which could be interesting since, as you might imagine based on the post below, she's not my favorite person right now.

4. Must be fall because when iTunes shuffles to a song from "Achtung Baby" I don't skip over it, but turn off the shuffle and listen to the entire album.

5. Thank goodness Southwest is adding Denver to their routes. Too bad it won't happen until I've already had to give up my firstborn so we can get tickets home for Thanksgiving.

6. In the new Rolling Stone, Bono names a few of his favorite U2 songs and Electrical Storm is one of them. So why won't they play it live? I am bitter.

7. Oh yeah. I'm shopping for a new car. First was the, "This is fun" stage, then caame the "I don't want to spend this much money" stage, and now I'm in the "car dealerships can suck my toe" stage. Expected phases to come: "I love you, dear old Subaru, but the time has come to say goodbye" and "a thousand dollars for paint protectant? Who the fuck do you think you're fooling?"

And that's pretty much where I am right now. Ta ta!

My Wife Is The One Who Teaches Elementary Math

2005-10-21T10:46:00.000-07:00

My supervisor does not understand that one-third and 33% are not the same thing.

I ... I just ...

Seriously, what else is there to say?

Let’s try a happier topic. “The 40 Year Old Virgin” is pretty much one of the funniest movies I’ve ever seen. Yes, I was in an immature mood last night. Yes, that made me more likely to laugh at the chest-waxing scene. But come on. Is there any mood you could be in that would make the term “man-o-lantern” not be funny?

I didn’t think so.

It Takes Two

2005-10-18T12:34:00.000-07:00

I generally write for myself and really no other reason. I don't expect to be published. Though it's something I aspire to, it's so unlikely for even a good writer that it's not a priority. I write when I want to write and when I have a story I want to tell, and that's about it.

But Thoreau has told us that, "It takes two to speak the truth -- one to speak, and another to hear." I write for myself, yes, but it's not only about shouting into the abyss. So, I now have another blog, where I will post stories or other things I might be writing. I encourage and hope for your comments, though I don't expect you to read any of it if you don't want to.

But if you do: Please, make your way to The Perpetual Carnival.

Say It Five Times Fast: NaNoWriMo

2005-10-15T11:18:00.000-07:00

Over the past couple years I've read several articles about NaNoWriMo and been tempted. Now, I notice Lisa is likely to sign up this year, and I too am tempted.

I've been writing enough that there's at least a chance I could actually get out 50,000 words in a month. My problem is that I'm only maybe a fourth (perhaps not even that much) of the way through the novel I started writing for my class. And yet I'm within just a few pages of having written all that I'm allowed to turn in for that class now, too, so I'm already in a precarious position vis a vis continuing to work on it.

So far, the experience of taking a class to self inflict a deadline has worked. But when the deadline goes away, I can't swear I won't lose track again. Already I spent one night this week revising a completely different story I had written back in January.

So, it would be perfect to work on the current thing for NaNoWriMo ... but that's against the rules. And it's one thing to maybe get started a little early, but getting a 13,000 word head start is a bit much. More to the point, there's a new idea I've had over the past couple of weeks that would be perfect for the "dash one off" format. But I worry it would absolutely kill the momentum for this other one which has otherwise been going along so well.

Hm. This wouldn't really be a problem if it hadn't now been nine years since the last time I finished a whole novel. In all that time, I'm probably as close now to finishing one as I have been in all that time, so I'd really like to not fuck it up. We'll see.

Best Day Of Her Life?

2005-10-14T23:18:00.000-07:00

I'm really surprised that Erin has never posted this picture on her own blog, because I know how very excited she was that day when she met Dave Matthews and had this picture taken. Maybe she was embarrassed about those tattoos? Anyway, now I'm sharing it with you all.

And, no, I have no idea who that is on the left edge of the picture. No idea at all.

So, I'm not entirely sure what happened next because there was quite a crowd jostling to get close to Dave, but the next picture has Dave making this face:

Not to be accusatory, but ... just exactly where were your hands, young lady?

You To Thank

2005-10-14T16:35:00.000-07:00

So this morning we had a little office meeting to acknowledge those who this month are having birthdays, or anniversaries with the company, or anything else worth note. At the end of this brief meeting, Jeff (not technically a supervisor of mine in any way, but also sort of the guy in charge of the office) says we're going to do a Halloween-inspired trivia quiz. And, as fate had it, the topic was scary movies.

To be honest, these were questions that were easy enough that I probably could have answered most of them years ago, before I ever met all you dear horror-movie-loving friends of mine (ie, match the serial killer to the movie franchise, what state did Blair Witch take place in, etc.). But, a few I certainly wouldn't have known if it weren't for knowing y'all (ie, the movie with the line "Have you checked the children?" is called When A Stranger Calls.)

Anyway, I kicked serious butt in this trivia challenge, and so I got ... Jeff? "Uh, actually I don't think we have a prize yet. I was going to run to Target and get something Halloween-themed at lunch, but we moved the meeting to the morning." He promised my prize would arrive in the afternoon. I figured anything fun Halloween decoration from Target would be good.

So after lunch Jeff and one of the other supervisors (female and, again, not actually one of my supervisors) presented me, very excitedly I might add, with my prize.

A t-shirt that reads: I'LL MAKE YOU SCREAM AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS.

This is an episode that reveals a number of interesting things about my office. For example, planning a contest but forgetting to plan the prize is rather indicative of all our business practices from the top down. Then there's the shirt itself. Now, I happen to like the shirt. Not necessarily something I would buy for myself, but something I'll gladly wear. I like the Halloween theme and I like the double entendre.

Ah, but that double entendre. Does anyone else wonder if giving an employee a t-shirt with what seems to me a not entirely obscure sexual suggestion is the tiniest bit inapporpriate? Again, it's me and it takes a lot more than that to offend me. But I'm left wondering: Were the people who bought the shirt unaware of the double entendre? Or were they just willing to risk a sexual harrassment charge if I turned out to be offended?

It's all a big mystery to me. But at least I got a free t-shirt. And I have you all to thank.

So ... thanks!

While we're on the subject of cheeky t-shirts, here are two that I enjoy:

It's time

2005-10-13T17:10:00.000-07:00

My iPod has been on its last legs for some time now. It pretty much has no battery left at all, so I can use it only if there's a power source available. But I've been waiting, and waiting, enjoying how the new versions just keep getting better and cheaper.

But now, my friends, I think the time has come.

Strangely, I miss this, too

2005-10-11T22:16:00.000-07:00

Every time I start to try to sell Diana on moving to Denver - the city, the scenery, the seasons! - the season have to come along and actually be, um, season-y. This is my parents' front yard last night:

And the back:

What else?

I seem to have been blogging a lot lately, but I don't know if it's been especially good blogging. Too cerebral, too serious. But one or maybe two people mentioned they thought the blog was funy and ... ack! Performance anxiety, blog style.

Does anyone remember when TV shows only went into syndication after they weren't airing new episodes anymore? It was one thing when Law & Order became unbiquitous on cable, at least it had been around long enough to feel like an old show. Same with The Simpsons. Then Friends went crazy with two syndicated episodes every day. But this is too ridiculous: TNT now has both Las Vegas and Cold Case in syndication. These shows have only been around for - what? - two seasons? Crazy.

And nevermind the fact that Las Vegas (yes, I'm basing this assessment on having watched all of about half of one episode) is one of the truly worst shows ever.

Nip/Tuck is also on now, but I'm saving it to watch with the girls tomorrow night. It made the cover of EW before the season and it was also in this week's "Must List," but ... I haven't honestly thought very highly of season three so far. Watching it last week, I realized that it’s not really a question so much of whether the show has jumped the shark, but how long ago it happened. Does anyone else remember when it was a show about plastic surgeons who happened to have some crazy stuff going on in the periphery? Now it’s a show that is desperately trying everything the writers can think of to continue to shock us (Transvestites beating someone up and pissing on him? Gratuitous shots of man ass? Threesomes? Foursomes?), oh, and also these people just happen to be plastic surgeons.

It was always a show that required a lot of suspension of belief. But now it’s just getting desperate, and that’s too bad. Of course, the show went places in the first season that a lot of shows would need four or five seasons to get to, so maybe it’s no surprise that the writers are struggling. Pity though. Hope it gets back to a more typically Nip/Tuck level of insanity soon.