the cobain/corgan correlation

Before I begin I need to explain my blogging absence for the past few months. For some reason blogspot has felt necessary to eliminate paragraph breaks in their posts. This may not seem like a big deal, but when you have a lengthy entry that meanders from one thought to another, it is sometimes helpful to allow your writer to organize a post into paragraphs. It helps keep the ideas organized, making life much easier on the reader. If my last few entries were a single long paragraph, please understand I didn’t write them that way. Blogspot did it. This entry will prove a test run for future entries, if any. Here goes with the first paragraph. I had a 90’s flashback this morning on my iTunes. The first album that popped up was Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged. I was a Nirvana latecomer, and by latecomer I mean I didn’t start listening to them until a few years ago when I broke down and bought In Utero and thinking after the first listen holy crap this is the best album I’ve ever heard! The Unplugged performance is so beautiful. Kurt Cobain sounds like a man caught on the edge, one foot over and one foot back, not quite sure if he should take the plunge. There’s such sorrow in his voice, especially on “Jesus Doesn’t Want Me For a Sunbeam.” It’s as though he’s debating right then and there what he should do. It sent shivers down my spine while I trimmed my beard to the point that I had to jump in the shower before I heard much more of the track. Such a moving performance. You can even see the conflict in the set list. Nothing if anything is from Nevermind. Most of the songs are from Bleach and Incesticide, and they steer clear of the big In Utero hits. My only experience with this record before this year was in snippets on the radio, usually “The Man Who Sold the World” or “Polly.” This is a record that needs to be listened to from beginning to end. It’s one of the last imprints from one of the world’s greatest creators. Immediately after Nirvana came the Smashing Pumpkins with Disc One of Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, “Dawn To Dusk.” This is arguably the best album from the 1990’s and it remains in my all-time top 10, maybe top 5. It’s a peaceful album about patience. It’s about understanding yourself and realizing you are not unlike anyone else, no matter how lost or afraid you feel. The opening instrumental title track sets the serene stage, grabbing the restless soul by the hand and soothing the heart, showing you to a seat and telling him to listen. “Tonight, Tonight” rolls in and the soul is taken on a journey. This album is a goldmine for great lyrics, and this track is the first gem. Billy Corgan knows how afraid you feel, how lonely, how depressed, and he tells you it’s okay. It’s okay to be afraid because everyone else is afraid. It’s what makes us human. But he wants you to understand one thing: no matter how lost you feel, no matter how hopeless and dire it all seems, he will be there with you. This record is for you. This song is for you. Each verse, each syllable, is written for you. “Believe in me as I believe in you tonight.” We’ll get through this life together if you just give me a chance. Every track that follows is an affirmation of that promise. Such a wonderful album. Everyone needs to listen to it at least once. There was something about the 90’s that brought out so much music like this. Maybe it’s just the decade where I came of age and so I associate the music with my youthful chemical imbalances. It just seems as though depression rock and shoe-gazer music reigned supreme throughout the 90’s. As with all eras there were three categories – the great acts, the so-so’s, and the forgettable and regrettable. Other great releases from the 90’s came from Helium (The Dirt of Luck) and Marilyn Manson (Antichrist Superstar), and Radiohead blew away the scene with OK Computer. Sleater-Kinney jumped on board with Dig Me Out and The Hot Rock. I could go on and on, but these two albums just seem to define the decade. On the one hand you have possibly the single greatest poet-musician who ever lived singing away his tormented soul while on the other you have a double-disc masterpiece that tells you it’s okay to be a depressed teenager. My morning ran the complete gamut of the 90’s, shifting from divine despair to hopeful rebirth. Kurt Cobain and Billy Corgan – I’m sure people will disagree, but those two names just embody the 90’s.

masters of war

The other day I was watching Futurama, the episode “Roswell That Ends Well” where our heroes go back in time to 1947 Roswell, New Mexico, and Fry accidentally becomes his own grandfather. Many people who read this blog know I have a fascination with World War 2 stuff. It started when I was a kid and watched To Hell and Back for the first time. My interest has evolved from 1950’s Hollywood patriotism to the gritty, repulsive, ugly truth. Show what happens and show it honestly. The audience deserves to know. But I digress. I am fascinated with everything about World War 2, everything from the human involvement and the mind-boggling number of casualties to the weapons and armaments. World War 2 just had the coolest weapons. What’s a Stealth Bomber compared to a B-25? Forget being able to strike anywhere in the world from bases well within American borders. When we bombed Tokyo in 1942 we crammed an entire squadron of B-25 bombers onto an aircraft carrier and sailed them close enough that they could crash land in China when they ran out of gas. That’s dedication. You really have to want to bomb the hell out of someone to do something like that. As for tanks, we wouldn’t have something like the M1 Abrams if it weren’t for the German Tiger. The Germans essentially invented power-steering because they wanted to fit an 88 millimeter canon on a tank. The machine had to be hefty enough to carry a gun that big, and it had to be maneuverable enough that it didn’t become a liability to its crew. The Tiger’s armor was revolutionary, as well, if only a carbon copy of the Russian T-42’s armor. Instead of focusing on absorbing the explosive impact of a shell, they focused more on deflecting the burst. Tank armor became sloped, thick enough to prevent penetration but angled so the round deflected away. Watch Saving Private Ryan, towards the end, where Tom Sizemore fires the bazooka at the Tiger. It might as well be a cherry bomb, and you can even see the trail of the round deflecting up and to the left. The Tiger rolls on like nothing happened. A gun more powerful than anything the Allies could put on the field and almost perfect armor – the reason we beat the Tiger and its Panther cousin wasn’t because of superior technology but because we had more stuff. Only a few hundred of both tanks were ever produced compared to thousands of American Shermans and Russian T-42’s. But the effects are still apparent. The modern M1 basically has the Tiger’s canon, and armor has evolved even further from simple sloping. But all of that requires another blog. Back to Futurama. So what does all of this have to do with “Roswell That Ends Well?” At the end of the episode they raid the Army base and steal the microwave radar dish. In mid-chase, mid-fiasco, two P-51 Mustangs launch to pursue and shoot down the Planet Express ship. The animation is brilliant and the design on the fighters exceptional, but when I watched the episode the other day I noticed a flaw, more an anachronism. The P-51’s had canopies that were extensions of the fuselage. By that time, even later in World War 2 when the Mustang proved itself the best fighter of the period, P-51’s had bubble canopies. A bubble canopy gives the pilot better visibility in front and behind. By 1947 all active P-51’s would have had bubble canopies. While the design of the fighters is beautiful, this chronological flaw stood out and will always stand out in an otherwise perfect episode of Futurama. Yeah. I’m that guy. I am a nerd in more ways than one, people. Currently in love with: Dear Science, by TV on the Radio. I have to force myself not to overlisten this thing and wear it out. Every song is a highlight.

our world is gonna change nothing

I was going to make this entry a "currently listening to," but I have to make it a full entry. I bought The Stand-Ins, by Okkervil River, a few days ago, and it's all I've listened to since. This has to be a review. A review is what I will write. When we left Okkervil River at the end of The Stage Names they were setting sail on the John Allyn Smith. The Stage Names was a symmetrical journey through the hardships of an up and coming band touring nonstop, finding fleeting love on the road, forging flimsy acquaintances and forgetting who you are and where you came from. They sang the traditional "this is the worst trip I've ever been on" for the last song, vowing to leave the road because they want the old comforts of home. When we find them at the beginning of The Stand-Ins they are still sailing. "Lost Coastlines" opens the album, a testament to failure and loss of direction. The more they try to leave, the harder it is to go home. All of this comes after rumors of Jonathan Meiburg and Will Sheff having conflicting artistic vision, Meiburg breaking free from Okkervil River to pursue his side project Shearwater. Much of The Stand-Ins speaks of this parting of ways. "Singer Songwriter" is a tune that gets stuck in my head like an anchored screw, and in it Sheff lets loose. "You've got taste/You've got taste/What a waste that that's all that you have." One could take it as a diatribe if it weren't for the nagging suspicion I have that Sheff is simultaneously chastising himself. Here they are, Jonathan Meiburg and Will Sheff, two strong egos at the forefront of a strong indie band, forging new ground with every song, every verse, both of them well versed and well read intellectuals, and at the core of it all perhaps there's nothing but empty space. "And our world is gonna change nothing." Take a look at the road you've traveled and ask yourself how much of it was a circle. It's this duality that has me writing tonight. I read early previews of The Stand-Ins that called it a sequel to last year's The Stage Names. While last year all the songs were about the road, The Stand-Ins is all about going home and realizing you can't go home again. A part of you still lives on the road, and as long as something inside you lives on the road you belong to the road. "On Tour With Zykos" begins as another possible diatribe towards Meiburg, like Sheff is throwing him out of their house. "Hey thanks John/Go sing songs/Go rock on/Roll your crew on down the road to the next sold out show." It quickly changes from break-up to the day after, going home, smoking a bowl and watching television when you should be doing the most profound work of your life, hanging out at a bar with the MGD flies and missing someone. As the band grows, as the two egos grow too conflicting and eventually separate, all he's left with is loss. The Stand-Ins speaks volumes of crossroads. Okkervil River is a band in transition. The Stand-Ins finds its strength in Will Sheff's uncertainty, and it finds its success in his willingness to strip bare and show the naked truth. I'll be listening to it for a long time and lamenting that I won't be seeing them on tour this fall. By way of a PS, "Calling and Not Calling My Ex" is this year's sleeper Christmas track.

provide the proper documentation

One reason I keep digital cable around is so I can enjoy the brilliance that is Sundance Channel and IFC. Independent movies wear on me after a while, and long ago I came to the conclusion that “independent” does not necessarily mean “good.” The same is true of independent music, but that’s beside the point. The reason I like Sundance and IFC so much is because of their willingness to show documentaries. I’ll admit I’m a sucker for a good documentary. It must be the academic in me resurfacing whenever I see someone’s hard work and research come to life in an interesting and engaging way. I think it began back in high school when I saw part of When We Were Kings, the documentary about Muhammad Ali. Historical fiction only goes so far and focuses on what it wants, all in the name of entertainment. While documentaries suffer from the same malady as any expository work and only focus on what the filmmaker wants, I can generally tell when the artist has taken time to cover as many bases as possible in order to provide a broader perspective on his or her topic. When they edit and assemble their work in a way that captures my interest, a good documentary can trump most motion pictures on any given day. Yesterday started the way that most football Sundays do for me. I turned on Sunday NFL Countdown on ESPN and watched about thirty minutes before I realized they had nothing to tell me, and then the channel surfing began. First let me clarify what channel surfing is for me. I surf the digital guide before I start flipping channels. My rounds go through the Military Channel, AMC, and the Encore movie channels, so it is a limited surfing, and if I don’t find something else interesting I will either keep watching what I’m watching, turn it off and play Resident Evil 4, or turn it off and listen to music. Yesterday I found something else in my search. IFC had a documentary, and right now I’m kicking myself because I didn’t write down the name. That’s how good a researcher I am. I don’t even take time to write down the title of something I’m going to write about later. It was called something like Split: A Divided America, although I ran an Amazon search and nothing came up, so I could be wrong. But it’s about American politics and how the idea of discourse is completely alien to modern society because our political beliefs have become so terribly polarized. What ultimately happens in modern times is political discourse turns into a personal argument complete with battle lines and knowing your enemy. The filmmaker/narrator interviewed people from across the political spectrum, and this was what impressed me the most. He talked to people on both sides (even now I’m using his language), Republican and Democrat alike, high ranking officials, pastors, academics, editors and reporters and commentators. Yes there were some who let their personal views show their polarization as they talked, but the vast majority agreed with each other and gave corroborative testimonies. The only thing that pulled me away was my desire to see Brett Favre in a New York Jets uniform playing my Miami Dolphins and Chad Pennington. It was a painful wrench, but I did it. I am a complicated man, but I was thoroughly fascinated and enlightened. There’s just something about a good documentary. I love absorbing information, and it might have something to do with my inability to finish a book that draws me to them. I’m not ashamed to admit it. At least I’m using my Brave New World ADD in constructive ways by seeking out educational material. I know I’ve found a good documentary when I’m thinking about it days afterward. A good movie will change you, but a good documentary will transform you. Some documentaries you should check out: Woodstock: 3 Days of Peace & Love; The Last Waltz; The Fog of War; Iraq For Sale: the War Profiteers; Bowling For Columbine; Punk: Attitude; Who Killed the Electric Car?; Loose Change (I had to include it; you should watch it once just to see what the talk is about; take it however you want) Recently listening to: Steve Winwood. A lot of Steve Winwood. I love Steve Winwood. “Gimme Some Lovin’” is my new theme song, and the fact that he was 18 at the oldest when he laid down those vocals is…I can’t even think of it. The voice of God. God Almighty.

it's still there and you will see

Today I felt like going hipster. I put on my PBR shirt and flashed the logo like a proper standard, and I decided to listen to the first Clap Your Hands Say Yeah CD on my day’s ventures. I hadn’t listened to it in a while, and I figured today was as good a day as any to revisit an old friend. I don’t understand people who say an album is “so last year” or who refuse to listen to a record months after its release, saying it’s grown old and must make way for new sounds. If an album is great, keep listening to it, keep loving it. Refusing to listen to something that came out last year because it’s old is like refusing to listen to Sticky Fingers because it’s old. You can do it, sure, but can you really live without “Dead Flowers?” Can you? And I guess that by listening to an older Clap Your Hands Say Yeah release I have thereby violated the hipster code and negated everything I set out for today. So be it.

But that’s not what this entry is about. As I set out for my errands today I pulled onto Windsor in the Grandin area, and “Let the Cool Goddess Rust Away” started playing. In microseconds it was two years ago, early August, and I had just left the Botetourt Mill Mountain Coffee and Tea on my way to see Sleater-Kinney in Washington, DC. I listened to this CD on that trip, and this song symbolized everything I felt. “Let the Cool Goddess Rust Away” has always had a sense of adventure to it, a sense of diving into the unknown but accepting anything and everything you find because anything and everything is good. It’s that opening riff. It’s a sense of hope. That trip to years ago was the first time I had driven to Washington, DC, by myself, something I have done twice since then, but the first time was the most exciting. I had just gotten of work at two in the afternoon, raced home for a shower, and then jumped back in the Sunbird to make it in time for the seven o’clock doors. The day was turning to late afternoon, that certain light in August that Faulkner was so keen on, an orange gold that was triple-digit hot that day but seemed so comfortable as I raced up 81 through rush hour traffic and turned east on 66. I’ve made the same trip alone twice more since then, and I’ve flown west solo with a similar feeling of adventure and discovery, but that trip was by far one of my favorite nights. Hearing the rush of the riff today for the first time in a long time sent me back behind the wheel of that Pontiac with a barrel of butterflies unleashed in my gut and a driven urge pumping through my spine. I was flying. I was alive.

It’s funny how a song or a movie can trigger something like that. Just last week I watched the Kill Bill movies again for the first time in years. As I watched Kill Bill, Vol. 1, it was October of 2003 again. My roommate’s sister was in town on a chilly, rainy day, and with nothing better to do we decided to go to the movies. The opening shock of Kiddo shot in the head startled me out of my seat with my popcorn geysering a foot in the air, and as I watched the animated origin of O-Ren Ishii I realized this was by far the coolest movie I have ever seen. That day came at the tail end of a month and a half of all night Gran Turismo 3 binges, cruising around town to the tune of Hot Hot Heat’s Make Up the Breakdown, lamenting the loss of Bacchus Grill but maintaining Tuesday Night Bowling like a religion. I had just graduated college and stood on the edge of my life, happy with a hotel maintenance job and enjoying what time I had before I knew which way to go. All it took was a single gunshot and Nancy Sinatra singing about how her baby shot her down and I was there, adrift in the best year of my life. Memory has a hair trigger. Handle it with care.

The same thing happened again today as I drove with Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, later, as I got onto my exit for 581. I drove beneath the Wonju Street overpass as I trailed a semi truck, and the reverberation of the truck’s engine with the roof of a bridge overhead sent me back to growing up in the DC, Annapolis, Baltimore area of Maryland. As much as I love the country, I’ve always been a city kid. I always will be. Something about the urban setting makes me feel alive. The sights, the sounds, the smells – I like the smell of diesel exhaust. I really do. I wouldn’t want to breathe it for an extended period of time, but I smell it and I’m home. Sidewalk construction is a work of art, walking the detour through a plywood corridor as someone fashions a vacant storefront into something new. Seeing three dozen people in every direction walking in all modes of life – this is the cross-section of past and future. This is the here and now. This is Roanoke, Virginia, under an overpass, and I’m five years old with my mother and brother walking to the Museum of Natural History to see the dinosaurs. All it took was internal combustion and the expulsion of greenhouse gases to take me there.

I’m not sure if there’s an end to this entry. Maybe there never will be. It seems like you travel so far in your life but the distance doesn’t hit you until something reaches out of the abyss and takes you back. All you can do is fasten your seatbelt and enjoy the ride.

you are the perfect fit

I’ve stolen the beginning of this entry from another blog, but lots of bands have a secret weapon. Usually it’s a multi-instrumentalist, someone who jumps from station to station in the course of a show, at one moment playing bass while at another moment playing trumpet. Mick Cook of Belle and Sebastian is a perfect example of this, along with Garth Hudson of the Band. Their efforts go under the radar and are overshadowed by a flashier performer or songwriter. They complete the sound and without them the band would be vastly different. They are essential to the process, essential to creating the music we love.

The other day I drove around with my burned copy of the first four Belle and Sebastian EP’s, and I found myself drawn to the work of Richard Colburn, the drummer. I’d never really listened closely to his part before, but something about it stood out. Nothing about his work is particularly exemplary, but that’s where I found my sudden infatuation. Nothing about it places Colburn with Keith Moon and Janet Weiss as the greatest drummers of all time, but anything more out of him would be too much. Anything more in the context of this sound would throw the entire mix off balance. That’s where I realized how essential Colburn is to the band. He’s the perfect fit. He’s nothing great, but he is the right man for the job. Anyone else and Belle and Sebastian are a different band.

Examples of the perfect fit are everywhere, and they don’t have to be a drummer. It does help, though. Ringo Starr comes to mind immediately. There’s nothing incredible about what he did with the Beatles, but I can’t think of anyone else doing it. If it’s a simple matter of keeping the beat, of holding the sound together, Ringo fit the bill. I really don’t want anyone else to play the part on “Revolution.” The same goes for Charlie Watts of the Rolling Stones. Who else would be able to sit there with that wry grin and keep the beat to “Satisfaction?” Probably anyone else could do it, but nobody else should. Charlie Watts is just the right man for the job. Rick Danko of the Band is a non-drummer who is the perfect fit. While his vocals on “It Makes No Difference” and “Stage Fright” are irreplaceable, his bass work is my focus. Again, he’s no Flea, but he doesn’t have to be. He was everything the Band needed. Anyone else would have clashed. The perfect fit elevates a band. Without him or her, the dynamic just isn’t there.

All great bands have the secret weapon, but the more underappreciated performer is the perfect fit. Image may have something to do with their importance. In the case of Charlie Watts, I just see his grin and immediately I think Rolling Stones. Mick Jagger may have the swagger and the image, but I see Mick Jagger and I think Mick Jagger. I see Charlie Watts and I think Rolling Stones. Richard Colburn has the same presence. He looks like a big kid having the time of his life in a rock and roll band, and I wouldn’t have him any other way. All he has to do is have fun and hit every beat and Belle and Sebastian will stay great. That’s the key component to being the perfect fit. Just have fun and do your job, and do it well, and your music will be great. Let’s appreciate all the perfect fits out there whose time has come for proper accolade.

remembrance of things past

It might seem like overkill or kicking a dead horse for me to talk about a record that came out last year, but this is something I have to do. I’ve talked about Boxer by the National a lot on this blog. I’ve fluctuated between liking it and disliking it, hovering on the fence for some time and then venturing a leg on either side. At the end of last year I was more than halfway on the negative side. I gave Boxer a rest so I could come back to it once more, maybe discover something I hadn’t heard, something I could latch onto and get under my skin. The jury is finally back on Boxer, and they didn’t like it.

I love the first two tracks. I loved “Mistaken For Strangers” when I bought the 7-inch last fall, but when I listened to Boxer again the other day what struck me is what has always struck me about it. I just never put my finger on it until now. The drums are so high in the mix. The one thing that drew me to the National was always the drum work, and now I understand why. It’s the only thing they have going for them, and I think they know it. They force it on you so it’s right in the front of the mix along with the vocals, even competing with the vocals and overpowering them, which is fine by me because the vocals leave something to be desired. He has about a four note range and doesn’t put any feeling into it, but people love it for some reason. Nearly every song on Boxer features an overwhelming drum track, and it’s a drum track that doesn’t vary from song to song. Variation is important when it comes to appreciating music. If I don’t get variation in a sound I lose interest and tune out. The National do not vary. By track seven or eight I found myself where I always found myself, thinking, There’s still four more songs to go on this damn thing. I toughed it out and finished it, and what’s sad is this is a sound I could love. They have the start of something brilliant, but they don’t do enough. It’s like they settled for the template when they could have created a masterpiece. In the end we have an emotional man lazily crooning about whatever is weighing on his mind from song to song (which is nothing new to indie rock) while the drums overpower his weak attempt at storytelling. They have the beginning of something, and given all the hype I guess I expected more. I don’t know. Maybe I expected something good.

Let the horse be kicked. Things need to be said and I hadn’t fully formulated my opinion on this record. Now it’s all there and I’m letting you know about it. The end.

on reading

Depending on your definition of “pile,” there could be anywhere from five to twelve piles of books on my floor. Over the years living in Roanoke I managed to acquire enough books to fill up my single bookshelf, and the highly limited space in my apartment prevents me from buying a second. These refugee books have nowhere to spend their days but piled on my floor. I have adapted quite well, maintaining enough walking room that I can navigate to the important places. On first glance I must come off as a packrat. In actuality I just live in a small apartment.

The common factor linking all of these books (and many of the books on my lone shelf) is that while they number perhaps in the twenties I have read only a handful. Much of this has to do with collecting faster than I can read. The majority of my floor books came into my life on one trip to visit friends who own a bookstore in Winchester. I bought a lot on that trip, but on the way out I was invited into the back of the shop where they kept promotional copies of many of their titles. These promotional copies needed homes. They were free. I took all the ones I found interesting at first glance. I don’t think I’ve read any of them.

Maybe it is a perceived lack of time that keeps me from reading these books, but I that’s an excuse. The real problem is confidence. The other day a friend of mine suggested I start reading something, and so I picked up a title I received for Christmas a long time ago but haven’t gotten around to reading. It was Tailchaser’s Song, by Tad Williams. I’m a cat fan, although I don’t have one (yet), and Tailchaser’s Song is a fantasy epic in the same vein as Lord of the Rings. A brave young feline goes on an adventure to save a friend, and he meets many challenges on the way. I read a little bit of it and it’s quite good. After a while I put it down to eat something, but later that night I ignored it and picked up another book that I had started reading back in March but never finished. On Writing, by Stephen King, is a fantastic book, King’s take and advice on the field of writing. I love King’s voice, and reading this is like having him in the room with you, telling anecdotes, giving his wisdom, cracking jokes with the greatest of ease. I read maybe forty pages and then put it down. That was Saturday and now it’s Tuesday and I haven’t read a word in the interim.

I easily fall into the trap of thinking How come if something like this can get published I can’t get a single word of my work a minute of consideration? I’ve been trying for a year and a half to get an agent and/or publish an excerpt from my first novel, and so far nothing. If you don’t already have your foot in the door it’s impossible to get your foot in the door. At the same time people ask me why I don’t just self-publish. My response is that I don’t exactly have a thousand dollars to drop on self-publishing. I read books and find myself wondering how such mediocre shit can get national attention and I can’t even get ten pages published. I know this is the process any aspiring writer goes through, the seemingly endless cycle of rejection, but I can’t take it. I hate this. Reading only drains my confidence further, so I’ve given up on that, too. The floor books will stay on the floor, mostly unread, bearing absolutely no weight on my conscience because they are untouched and ignored. Tailchaser’s song will go unsung and Stephen King will tell me no more about writing because there really is nothing more he can tell me that I didn’t already know. I will stay unpublished because I don’t have anything anyone wants.

Currently watching: The Incredibles. It’s reassuring to know that someone like Brad Bird can still dream.

to sleep, perchance...

I’ve been mulling over a metaphysical issue. The other day my alarm woke me up, which is nothing unusual. It was the moment before I awoke, before the alarm cut through my sleep, that has me thinking and debating. In that moment before the beeping blared in the early morning I shifted. Something inside me moved, and I felt as though I were slipping deeper into a covering, deeper inside a shelter. I felt like something connected and sleep took that last step towards the depths of consciousness, like deep sleep was finally upon me. It was strange, and then the alarm rang out and I slowly became aware of the infant sun. To feel sleep take hold, to feel deep sleep envelope me like a swan’s wing and know the precise moment in which I am completely at rest – it’s an odd experience and a peculiar memory. Knowing sleep was wrenched from me in that moment when the alarm rang makes the perspective all the more askew.

But what if it wasn’t the onset of deep sleep? What if in that moment I wasn’t slipping away into rest but rather waking up? Maybe the sinking sensation I felt in that moment wasn’t so much a sensation but rather a sublime connection to the moment itself. How do we experience time when we are asleep? No one can say. No one can accurately gauge how we perceive the passage of time when our eyes are closed and we are completely unaware of the waking world. Maybe that moment was a reaction to the ringing of my alarm clock. What is startling and sudden in real time can be an eternity elsewhere, an eased withdrawal to bring us back to life.

Maybe I’m thinking too long and hard about this. It’s probably nothing. But I can wonder.

Currently listening to: Evil Urges, by My Morning Jacket. I don’t like it. I’m giving it another shot, because I was on the fence. What drew me to My Morning Jacket (among other things) was Jim James’s voice. There was something hypnotizing haunting about it. On Evil Urges he starts out sounding like Prince and then sounds like Nashville Skyline Bob Dylan, like he’s putting on a costume. He needs to sing like Jim James. Thinking about it like that makes me wonder if he was pretending when I thought he was singing like Jim James.

run to the hills

The first album that played this morning on iTunes was Madman Across the Water, by Elton John. It’s a solid album, not nearly my favorite Elton John album (Goodbye Yellow Brick Road has that honor secured in perpetuity throughout the universe), but still one that surprises me like an e-mail from an old friend. “Tiny Dancer” and “Levon” are one of the best first and second track combinations in all of music, and I’ve always loved the experienced innocence of “Holiday Inn.”

What got me thinking this morning just as I stepped in the shower was what always gets me thinking whenever I hear Madman Across the Water. Even in high school when I first laid hands on this CD the song “Indian Sunset” has gotten under my skin. It’s a tale of a lone brave leaving his tribe with his wife and child, leaving a dying world to seek a future elsewhere in this great land that was once his. It’s a song about the white man encroaching on the rights and lives of a proud and thriving native people. I’m about as critical as they come. What happened to the indigenous people of the Americas is an atrocity. For the record I think the least we can do is offer an apology. Australia just did it a month ago, issuing an apology to the aboriginal population. It wouldn’t be too hard, and I think it would be a solid gesture in the eyes of the world.

At the same time, sidling up to that bleeding heart stance is my fiercely pro-American self that rears its vicious head at seemingly the most unlikely moments. So it would be a great gesture in the eyes of the world. So “Indian Sunset” raises issues of genocide that we can’t afford to forget. So this violent stain flows in the blood of every American living in the twenty-first century. So what? The whole idea of a foreigner making a work of art about American history has always bothered me. Bernie Taupin and Elton John are British through and through, and here is a piece chastising the United States for its treatment of Native Americans. It’s like they know something we don’t or they have wisdom that we all could benefit from. I have two things to say at times like this, and they have been there from the day I bought this album. First, it’s none of your fucking business. Second, where do you think the white people came from?

I raise my hair like this whenever someone outside of the United States makes a comment about the Civil War or slavery, or in times like this when the issue of Native American genocide comes around. I never forget where I came from and I know this dark chapter of American history will always be there, but what right does this give an outsider to criticize me? The potential for evil exists in the hearts of all human beings. Don’t think you’re immune just because you never pulled the trigger. There are lessons for all of us to learn. Just because you fly the Union Jack instead of the Stars and Stripes and you write music doesn’t make you an expert on international relations. Plenty of your relatives probably took part in the slaughter. Plenty of mine, too. No one is any better than anyone else. We are all guilty.

At the same time, though, I highly admire a musician like Bono when it’s chic for Americans to hate the man. Here is a musician throwing his weight in international affairs, meeting the Pope, brokering peace deals. I think that’s where Bono differs from many others. While he could rest his efforts on his big mouth, he takes the initiative to take action. Here is a man, an artist, who helped get the IRA and the British government at the bargaining table back in the 90’s, and it worked. I’m a complex guy. Go figure. Although I would argue that Bono, being Irish, was not an outsider to the affair and had every right to get involved.

Currently listening to: IV, by Led Zeppelin. I’ve listened to this a thousand times before, but this time is on vinyl, fools! Hell, yeah. “When the Levee Breaks” is going to be a monster. The neighbors better watch out.

step brother hijinks

I’ve never seen John C. Reilly as a comedic actor. Even the parts of Talladega Nights that I’ve seen, I didn’t find his performance particularly funny. He spread his butt cheeks for Playgirl. The entire movie was one big dick and homosexual joke. They could have done more, and he could have proven himself in a better environment.

What little I’ve seen of John C. Reilly in Tim and Eric: Awesome Show, Great Job has been funny, but Step Brothers is his coming out party. I have never laughed in a theater the way I did during Step Brothers. I first saw John C. Reilly in Boogie Nights, and this is a far cry from Dirk Diggler’s sidekick. It’s like the reverse of a Jim Carey or a Robin Williams. Instead of a comedic actor turning dramatic it’s a drama veteran immersing himself in comedy. Sometimes it takes an incredible actor to pull off both comedy and drama. John C. Reilly can do it.

“When you fall asleep, I’m going to take a pillow case and fill it with soap bars, and then I’m going to beat you with it.”

“That was me at 6. Don’t make me go to 10.”

“If you could masturbate to any non-pornographic magazine, what would it be?

Good Housekeeping!”

“Boats and Hoes!”

At least one of those might have been Will Ferrell’s lines, but Step Brothers made me like Will Ferrell again, so he deserves a mention in this entry. Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back made me appreciate him, but everything since Anchorman has been Will Ferrell playing Ron Burgundy. Step Brothers worked because it was two forty-year old men playing pre-teen boys. And I really think it was Will Ferrell singing at the end of the movie. He has a beautiful voice. I mean that in a stunned, entertained, ultimate karate chop kind of way. Step Brothers will be worth your time and money. Do your diaphragm a favor and see it.

Recently listening to: Rook, by Shearwater. I found out the other day that Jonathan Meiburg left Okkervil River to do Shearwater full time. If that’s the case and it means more Shearwater records and lots of Shearwater touring I’m all for it, but it still stinks. He was a big part of Okkervil River. Rook is a solid record. Jonathan Meiburg will do just fine.

am I the only one?

I know I’m not. The evening after the madness I was hanging out with some friends in the basement lounge of Fox Hall at Roanoke College, playing a board game for distraction. Of course we couldn’t keep ourselves very far from what happened. The television stayed on, covering what little remained to be covered, offering nothing new to the surreal turn of events. One of the game bystanders mentioned something that had been on my mind all day. The image we’d seen over and over again, the moment of impact seen from every possible angle – the Boeing jet slamming into the World Trade Center and exploding out the other side in a fireball – there was something strangely beautiful about it. Death and despair aside, the war that was to come and continue raging to this day aside, the event itself, ingrained into my mind like a cattle brand, is a matter of pure aesthetics. There is something beautiful about the thing in and of itself. One can make the argument that this is case in point a product of American media, coping with this image like it’s a movie. But there is nothing at all cinematic about it. It bears little to no resemblance to what happens in the movies. The jet races in and the building swallows it. There is no impact blast. It’s like a football falling into a field of mud. The building absorbs it, and it’s not until the jet is entirely inside that the fuel ignites, and all hell explodes out the other side. There’s something perfect, a golden mean that to this day makes me stop in amazed wonder. Seeing it in video I suppose the primary fascination derived from a withdrawn sense of scale. These could be miniatures from this distance. To wrap your mind around an entire airliner swallowed up by a skyscraper and exploding like napalm out the other side – it’s an atrocity, but it’s beautiful. You realize how small and mortal you are.

I’ve seen Dark Knight twice now, and both times I watched it I found myself drawn back to that day. I wonder if it’s everyone who watched that day, near and afar, or if it is only me. You see firefighters standing on a burning hulk of rubble, spraying hoses back and forth, trying to salvage some sort of positive from a catastrophe, to say they tried even in the face of death, and suddenly you’re seven years in the past walking to the Commons for breakfast with the day’s infant images on the news, and then a little over an hour later you’re dumbfounded and numb. Everyone holds that day close to their heart whether they want to or not. The strangest things carry you back. The past becomes your present and you’re left just as numb as you were that day. There is no satisfactory resolution, no closure, and to seek it is a wild goose chase. Do you live your life a victim of memory and give up? No. You just live your life, because this is what your life has become. Nothing is crippling unless you want to be crippled. Maybe I am still hurting enough to seek exorcism from a blog, or maybe this just a natural reaction. Maybe both are true. I know I am not the only one. An ending is impossible, so it ceases.

it's a lovely f***ing war

Our country is in one of the most trying and testing times it has ever faced. We are fighting wars in two nations with a body count that rises every day, and we have what may or may not be a recession running rampant here at home (but that depends on who’s definition of “recession” you believe). Crisis like this cycles through our country with regularity. Look back at 1968. We had Vietnam and the Civil Rights movement burning brightly in our streets. A little less than forty years before that the Great Depression sent Tom Joad and company into the Dust Bowl. World War I. The end of Reconstruction. The United States of America is a nation ripe for domestic turmoil. While each of these events may be unrelated in their nature and circumstance, they each have one uniting characteristic. They were all responsible for the election of a president.

Look at the way Obama and McCain are exchanging fire. One of the key points on which McCain has assailed Obama is his apparent lack of expertise on the ground situation in Iraq and Afghanistan. It’s to the point that Obama is currently visiting both nations to assess the situation. Obama’s position has always been to withdraw American forces from Iraq and strengthen our presence in Afghanistan, a move that the Iraqis favor and the Afghans would welcome with open arms. Before Obama left on his trip he said he would use his findings to help him formulate his plan for troop withdrawal from Iraq. Immediately the McCain camp jumped on this and accused Obama of shifting away from his anti-war stance, saying he had gone closer to center. Obama fired back, saying his belief that our presence in Iraq has always been a mistake has not changed and that he simply wants to understand the situation in order to calculate how fast a withdrawal is necessary. Can we believe him? I think so. Maybe this is all political maneuvering on both sides, McCain seizing any and every opportunity he can find to catch a formidable foe off balance, Obama wheeling and dealing with words to cover up his flip-flopping. Maybe that’s true. I like to think not. I trust Obama. In a situation like this you have to put your trust in one man. The fate of the nation – the fate of the world – is at stake. Before you cast your vote for president, you have to keep that in mind. Just like with Reconstruction, just like the Great Depression, just like Vietnam and Civil Rights, Iraq, Afghanistan and recession are going to decide who wins the election in November. I have faith that Obama is telling the truth.

All of this talk about Obama flip-flopping on Iraq makes me think of the run up to the 1860 election where Lincoln defeated Stephen Douglas. Lincoln’s platform had been from the beginning a platform of abolition, and as soon as he showed signs of wavering on the issue his critics jumped all over him and accused him of backing off. Here was his response:

“If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves, I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone, I would also do that. What I do about slavery and the colored race I do because I believe it helps save this Union; and what I forebear, I forebear because I do not believe it would help to save the Union…I have here stated my purpose according to my view of official duty, and I intend no modification of my oft-expressed personal wish that all men, everywhere could be free.”

People like to use this as further evidence that Lincoln was a racist white man who fought the Civil War for phantom economic reasons (although whenever I ask what those economic reasons were, the discussion always finds its way back to slavery). But here we have a man with deep personal convictions standing up for what he believes in. At the same time he understands that first and foremost comes the preservation of the Union. Lincoln wanted to avert war. So did every president who came before him. He would do whatever it took to avoid it, because bloodshed would do nobody any good. Unfortunately things didn’t turn out that way.

Forgive me if I say that I see this situation replaying today with Obama’s trip to Iraq and Afghanistan. This morning I read an Associated Press article at Yahoo about Obama’s trip, and of course McCain’s criticism took half of center stage. Here is how the article summed up Obama’s stance:

“Lately, (Obama’s) efforts to explain how he will use what he learns from U.S. commanders to refine his proposals have brought charges from Republicans and complaints from Democratic liberals that he seems to be shifting his Iraq policy toward the political center. But Obama maintains his basic goal of ending the U.S. combat role soon remains unchanged and that he's always said the U.S. withdrawal must be done carefully.”

The italics are mine. Obama is a politician. That’s the long and the short of it. His position is and always has been that we need to get out of Iraq – out of a disaster that never should have happened and that diverted our attention away from a far more pressing matter – and concentrate our forces on completing a regime change that we forgot about five years ago. The time-frame and the numbers are what need careful consideration. We made a mess with how we went in. Let’s not make a bigger mess when we leave.

Making a comparison to something like slavery might seem drastic, but when we have a war with a body count of 4,000 and rising I ask you how drastic is too drastic. Look beyond your front yard and see the rest of the world. Yes, there is no fighting in your street, there are no IUD’s exploding Humvees into twisted hulks of metal, there are no weddings being torn asunder by stray cluster bombs, but this is happening halfway across the globe on a daily basis. After a while you wonder how much it’s worth. Are we safer now that we’re stuck fighting an endless guerilla war in Iraq? My answer is no. We were never safer by going in. We are not safer by lingering and making unnecessary targets of our brave young men who are only doing their job by following orders. Other parts of the world are falling into strife while we waste our time in a place that never needed us. Look beyond the politics and see the truth. The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.

And as a side note, remember how the Bush administration used Iraq’s non-existent missile program as their reasoning behind establishing a missile defense system in Eastern Europe? We wasted five years in Iraq, not finding a single shred of evidence to back up the propaganda, and now Iran has successfully test-fired a missile that can reach as far as Romania. Now Condoleeza Rice is saying Iran’s successful test-firing is case-in-point why we need a missile defense system. What if we had gone after Iran to begin with, a country with a long history of hating the United States and who we always suspected of having a nuclear program, instead of Iraq, a country with a severely depleted military and absolutely no infrastructure thanks to one major defeat and a decade of economic sanctions? I’m just saying.

a night at the salem un-fair

Last night I went to the Salem Fair with a few of my co-workers. Any trip to the fair is going to have its highlights. Among mine were the many rides. Did you know there is a ride at the Salem Fair where you stand in line for twenty minutes with no one to talk to but the people you came with, and then right at the end you pay twenty dollars for a wristband?

Among the actual rides I rode, the Extreme was the best, the giant mechanical arm that tosses you back and forth while it spins you in a circle. I would have said the Fire Ball was the best, the train that loops repeatedly, stops at the top and dangles you for a few seconds, and then loops some more. My ride on the Fire Ball last night left me thankful for my life. While I’m sure my safety harness was perfectly secured, I prefer them latching tightly in place with little to no give. My harness felt loose, and when we reached the apex of the loop and stopped in place, I was hoping the train would start moving again before it broke and I plummeted to my death. It was a fun ride as usual, but I will think twice before going on one again. The most exciting thing that happened to me on a ride was on the Swings when we were attacked by a stray balloon. Hilarity ensued to the Benny Hill song.

My most favorite highlight that occurred while not on a ride was while standing in line for the Extreme when somebody’s cell phone came flying out and smashed on the asphalt next to us. I’m not exactly sure why I began thinking to myself, Please be somebody’s iPhone. Please be somebody’s iPhone. But I did. It wasn’t an iPhone, but it made me hand my phone to a friend who was not going on the ride with us.

My second most favorite highlight that occurred while not on a ride was when one of my friends had to throw up. She was very calm about it. “I think I’m going to throw up. I’m going behind that trailer for a second.” And she went behind the trailer. And she threw up. And then she was okay again. And then hilarity ensued to the Benny Hill song.

At the test of strength, the place where for lack of the appropriate word you hit the hammer on the thing and find out how strong you are, they were giving away inflatable blue hammers with the American flag on them. I thought it would be funny if there were an inflatable Iranian watermelon to hit with the inflatable American hammer, but it wasn’t until today that I realized we needed something else, something the entire nation could rally around. What they needed to go with the inflatable American hammer were all the things Americans can proudly unite against – universal child healthcare, gay marriage, the writ of habeas corpus, partial nudity on television and swear words in music, religious freedom in the Air Force, a higher minimum wage to accommodate a higher cost of living – all the evils that plague our great nation and will only become more rampant if Barack Obama is elected president. How else can we pass on our values to our children? And then hilarity ensues to the Benny Hill song as we destroy the lives of human beings.

It was a great time last night. The sunset was beautiful behind the mountain, and when we still had daylight it was something to go up in the air and have a nice view of the valley. Nights like that, being out with my friends, makes me wish I took it upon myself to do things like that more often.

My currently listening to for this entry is not so much “currently” as “recently.” I’ve been listening to the Yardbirds a lot. If you want to think of an all-time super group, they’re probably it, not based on record sales but on all the people who cycled through the line-up. Eric Clapton. Jimmy Page. Jeff Beck. I might go so far as to say I like them more than the Who. In fact, yes. I like the Yardbirds more than the Who.

change the dee's to doo's - "d'oh!"

Every time the Bastards of Fate play in town I try to make it out. Doug Cheatwood assembled a solid line-up of musicians, and every show they play is the rival of anything I would have to drive four hours to see in Carborro or DC. Along with the Sad Cobras they’re one of those hidden gems, one of those bands that had the rotten luck of being born somewhere that is not only under the radar but where radar doesn’t even exist. Good music is wherever you find it, and Roanoke has plenty.

Obscurity aside, the Bastards always manage to play with a very good act from out of town. Back in March they played at Martin’s with a band from Idaho called Finn Riggins. I have subsequently bought the Finn Riggins CD A Soldier, A Saint, An Ocean Explorer, and it is one of the best I’ve gotten my hands on this year. Two nights ago the Bastards played at the Local Roots Café with a band from Austin, Texas, called the Shake ‘Em Ups. The Shake ‘Em Ups are a bluegrass trio, but they’re a bit more than a bluegrass trio. Many of their songs are traditional and draw on traditional influences, and watching them you’d be hard-pressed to call them anything more than bluegrass. At the end of the day their songwriting is their own. They’re an act worth missing your bedtime for. But as I watched them play Wednesday night I realized that out of all the non-pop, non-classical genres of music – bluegrass, jazz, blues, etc – bluegrass is the one I find myself drawn to at the clear-cut expense of the others.

When you talk about jazz or the blues or bluegrass, there’s always someone who says they like them as background music, and there’s always an aficionado who takes offense and fires a diatribe aimed at why they love their music. I’m the person who says they like jazz as background music. My opinion has never been like Homer Simpson’s “they make it up as they go along,” and it has nothing to do with being blind to the skill. I could never play music like Miles Davis or John Coltrane, and I will never pooh-pooh their work. My problem with jazz is that I listen to it for five minutes and then it all runs together. I’m more impressed with what’s happening underneath, keeping the rhythm while someone shows off. The “jazziness” of jazz all sounds the same. I’m not saying it doesn’t take skill. I’m just saying it’s not my thing.

Blues, well, it is the same song every time. Listen to any given blues song and it’s going to be about Jesus, losing your woman, alcoholism, trying to catch a train, or a combination of the four. Toss in a song about going down to the crossroads to sell your soul to the Devil and you have a classic album. That’s really all there is to say about the blues. There’s one recycled riff and four recycled themes. I know it’s at the center of everything rock and roll, but listen to the Rolling Stones, especially Let It Bleed. First four tracks – “Gimme Shelter,” “Love In Vain,” “Country Honk,” “Live With Me.” Translation – “trying to find a woman,” “losing your woman when she leaves on a train,” “drinking yourself silly and looking for a woman,” “trying to convince a woman to sleep with you.” Let It Bleed is a great record. Don’t get me wrong. The same thing can be said about the Beatles, though. The best song on Let It Be is “One After 909,” and it’s about trying to meet your woman at the train station.

I don’t know what it is about bluegrass that I like so much. Maybe it’s a level of entertainment I don’t find anywhere else, and maybe that’s conceited of me, but I’m a music fan. If I’m going to spend money to listen to music, why would I spend money on music I don’t like. Like it or not, I’m looking for entertainment. Anyone who says otherwise is either lying to you or has too much money to spend on music. Bluegrass is just more entertaining for me. Watching a band like the Shake ‘Em Ups is exhilarating. It’s nothing like a welcome change of pace or breaking out of the music shell I find myself in. I just like bluegrass more. It’s a matter of dynamics, listening to everything at once and hearing how it mixes. I know jazz is the same way. Maybe the blues are, too, but it’s hard for me to listen to jazz or the blues. The mixture doesn’t get under my skin the way bluegrass does. It’s just one of those musical things. I like what I like. I’m not going to say, “To each his own,” because that’s a cop-out. I stand by what I like and I know I am right, but I will let someone else listen to what they want to, regardless of how I feel.

All of that being said, this leads me to my currently-listening-to for today. I am currently listening to Giant Steps by John Coltrane. Listening to the radio at Starbucks can make you do weird things sometimes, and I decided to buy some Coltrane at Plan 9 today because I’d heard a lot this week and liked it. Originally my post was supposed to be about contradicting my opinion right at the end by saying I was listening to John Coltrane and loving it. I am currently listening to John Coltrane, and he’s all right. He’s been a good background while I wrote this entry. He will not be finding his way into my iTunes library…yet.

call me an asshole one more time

What is a hero? Is it someone who possesses superhuman strength? Superhuman compassion? Does he do extraordinary things extraordinarily well? Does he clean up the messes the rest of us can only dream of comprehending? Does he enjoy his work?

Who is a hero? What is it like to have that stigma over your head? Are heroes comfortable knowing they are a rare breed, few and far between? Are they tired of the limelight? Are they tired of an unappreciative public? Have they been driven to the bottle after a lifetime of scorn and distrust? Is there any hope for them coming back?

Hancock asks all of these questions. From the first time we see our hero passed out in a drunken daze we realize this is no cliché superhero. Hancock (Will Smith) is no knight in shining armor coming to the rescue in chivalrous fashion. A little kid points to a shop window full of TV screens where a police chase unfolds all over the LA news. Hancock tells the kid to buzz off. The kid calls Hancock an asshole on the way out. “You heard me,” the kid says. He can’t be more than eight. This is how the public treats their god. Hancock immediately tries to stick his hand up a pretty lady’s skirt. “Asshole,” she says. Then he gets to work saving the day. You have to wonder why.

Hancock is a movie a lot like The Incredibles. It casts superheroes in a new light, i.e., the light of reality. What would happen if the world really were populated with a gifted few? Would humanity embrace these people as saviors of good, or would humanity insult them and call them criminals? Hancock is a gifted man who is tired of screwing up every time he saves someone. Our secondary hero (played by Jason Bateman), our average Joe who finds his purpose in spinning Hancock a new public image, finds himself trapped on a railroad track with a freight train barreling down. Hancock nonchalantly lands on the hood of his car, flips it gracefully backwards off the track, and then stops the train dead with his presence. The average Joe is okay, albeit upside down in his car which is now on the hood of another car. The train is not okay. Hancock pulls himself from the great dent in the locomotive and surveys the ensuing mile-long jackknife of train cars that unfolds even as he looks. “Ah, shit,” Hancock mumbles. Not again. What else should he expect? Something breaks every time he tries to do something right. Why should this be any different? And why should the crowd react any less angry?

Hancock isn’t Iron Man or Spiderman by any stretch of the imagination. If you want a likeable superhero, Hancock will let you down in a heartbeat. Something tells me this is closer to reality than anything Marvel or DC can ever muster, though. If we are to attribute human characteristics to people who possess superhuman abilities, the rest of us are bound to watch them with a questioning eye. Sooner or later these people are going to notice us staring. Sooner or later they’re going to ask, “What the hell are you looking at?” Sooner or later we’re going to call them assholes. Sooner or later they’ll stop caring. Is it better to be unique? Or is it better to be a face in the crowd? Hancock fights with both avenues, and in the end he makes his choice, and he chooses well. I won’t call this movie believable, but it’s levelheaded. Hancock is a man you want to love, but when you see what we’ve made him, what the public has turned him into, you can’t. It’s easier to hate than it is to understand. And what is hate but a reaction to something you don’t like about yourself? When we see our heroes as they really are we end up hating them. We can’t stand to think that maybe our constant attention and scrutiny made them this way. We’d rather not hate ourselves, so we’ll just hate our creation and call him an asshole. It’s what we’re used to. It’s what he expects. Bad habits die hard. Hancock is a movie worth watching again.

Currently listening to: Marmoset, Florist Fired. This CD isn’t what I expected. I don’t know what I expected. But I like this.

today i learned about scarabs

Many horror movies and thrillers rely on the great swarm-of-insects cop-out. It’s hard to think of enthralling ways to kill someone that doesn’t involve hacking and slashing, so it’s much easier to have your villain or whoever killed off by a swarm of ravenous insects. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull fell back on this with the ants, a scene that I could write pages about for all the reasons why I don’t like it. Today I watched The Mummy before the Euro final started. I’ve seen it before. It’s not very good. I just needed something to kill some time while I waited and wrote. I’ve seen the scarab swarm before, the flood of flesh-eating bugs that kill more than one person in this period-piece action movie. They’ve always bothered me. Not disturbed me, but bothered me. As far back as I can remember hearing about scarabs, I didn’t remember them being quite so carnivorous. There’s a scene in The Mummy where Rachel Weisz has her hands on one of the dead bugs, and she sits next to Brendan Fraser calling it a flesh eater. My red flag rose higher than usual, and I immediately went online to do some research. Here is what I found.

There are 30,000 scarab species, comprising roughly 10% of all known beetles. Scarabs are found on every continent except Antarctica. They range in size from teensy to gargantuan, from 0.08 inches in length to 6.7 inches. Some scarab populations are threatened by habitat loss and collection by beetle hunters, but most scarab populations are relatively stable. The diet of scarab species includes live plants, fruit, fungi, carrion, and other insects, but probably the most famous sustenance of a scarab species is dung. The dung beetle was worshipped by ancient Egyptians as an embodiment of the sun god Khepri. They saw the way the scarab rolled its ball of dung across the ground, and it was that motion that they likened to the movement of the sun across the sky. Egyptian scarabs are not flesh eaters. The only known scarab whose mandibles can penetrate human skin is the Titan beetle, indigenous to the Amazon region of South America. Titan beetles are the largest of scarabs, growing up to 6.7 inches including the antennae. However, Titan beetles do not sustain themselves on human flesh. Larvae live and feed inside of trees. Once reaching adulthood, Titan beetles do not feed. Instead they simply fly around looking for mates. Their jaws are very strong, but they only bite in self-defense, not in a predatory manner. No species of scarab finds sustenance from human flesh. Even the Hercules beetle with its fearsome visage is harmless to humans. Only the males have horns, and they use them the same way that rams use theirs – to achieve sexual dominance. Males fight each other to win the rights to a mate. Hercules beetles spend most of their time scouring the rainforest floor for fallen fruit. In the end, most scarab species are herbivorous. If they do eat meat, they simply eat other insects. None of them travel in swarms looking for unlucky slow humans to feast upon.

References:

http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/bugs/scarab.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Titanus_giganteus

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hercules_beetle

You learn something new every day if you’re willing to look.

summer mix 2008

Some people have received my summer mix for 2008. Unfortunately, cost restrictions and limited supply mean that I cannot make a mix CD for everyone. Here is the next best thing. http://leitzke.muxtape.com/ Enjoy! And may the music make your humid days less miserable, your stormy days less chaotic, and your pleasant days as awesome as a kangaroo backflipping through a dozen hoops of fire into a wading pool full of gravy.

take care of yourself, and take care of somebody else

George Carlin died of heart failure yesterday afternoon. He was 71. I had a chance to see him perform this spring here in Roanoke, but I passed it up, knowing I needed to work, knowing I needed to save money. Now I will never be able to see him.

George Carlin sparked my adolescent revolution. He lit the moment where I realized that all adults are lying to you, that life isn’t going to get any better or worse than it is when you are fifteen, and that you might as well enjoy what you have before someone says you can’t do it anymore. I usually mark eleventh grade as my year for absorbing all the anti-establishment art and literature that made me what I am today, but I always knew that George Carlin started it all. Back In Town was the first special of his that I watched from start to finish, recorded, and then watched over and over much to the constantly shifting amusement and irritation of my parents. His work achieved Simpsons status for me and my brother. We would quote lines to each other ad nausea and then quote them again, working ourselves up into stupid laughter every time. Carlin knew how to mix the silly and the profound in just the right amounts to create the resonant. I went back and got my hands on as much of his material as I could, purchasing Brain Droppings along the way. Out of everything I think Jammin’ In New York is his best routine. Rush out right now and buy it. It’s the best 60 minutes you’ll ever spend in your life. Jammin’ In New York has his great rant about the first Gulf War, a genius journey through the insane nuances of air travel, and his riff about entropy. “You show me a hospital on fire and people on crutches are jumping off the roof and I’m a happy guy!”

At the end of all the intensity in this act, though, he concludes with one of the most thoughtful and peaceful moments in his career. He’s ranting about environmentalism, and at face value he might sound like he’s complaining about environmentalism. He tells us not to worry about the planet, that it will survive: “The planet is fine.” But he moves on. “The planet is fine. The people are fucked.” That was George Carlin’s greatest strength, what he did to me that changed my life. Most of us are passionate about the right things, but we focus on the wrong details. The planet is fine. The people are fucked. We have to change our perspective in order to properly fight our battles. We have to stop thinking about saving the planet and start thinking about saving our species. And he draws the act to a close with his greatest quote, one of the greatest quotes I have ever heard and one that has always stayed with me. “I think we’re part of a greater wisdom than we will ever understand…You know what I call it? The Big Electron. It doesn’t punish. It doesn’t reward. It doesn’t judge at all. It just is. And so are we, for a little while.” That’s been such a mainstay of my thinking for well over a decade. I look to George Carlin as the catalyst for my intellectual development. He was always a huge hero of mine, and now he is gone. The world is much less without him. He will be missed.

Here is Jammin’ In New York in its entirety, at least until someone says You Tube isn’t allowed to carry it anymore.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=OBcrvGpAzXw&feature=related

http://youtube.com/watch?v=Phdw-Huwl_g&feature=related

http://youtube.com/watch?v=0q1lZNowEvY&feature=related

http://youtube.com/watch?v=p5XU3bFlKCI&feature=related

http://youtube.com/watch?v=gmokun20L4Q&feature=related

http://youtube.com/watch?v=dIXygZJhWU8&feature=related

what did the queen ever do to you?

Let me tell you what irritates me about the Sex Pistols. Punk did not begin in England in 1976. It began in Detroit in 1967 with MC5 and the Stooges. People peg the Sex Pistols as this beacon of punk rock, the band that all other punk bands strive to be. I argue that the Sex Pistols were striving to be the Stooges, and so vicariously all other punk bands are striving to be the Stooges, and therefore the Stooges are the beacon of punk rock that all other bands strive to be.

I think of the beginning of 24 Hour Party People where Tony Wilson calls the first Sex Pistols performance in Manchester a cultural revolution. Looking at who was in the audience and who was inspired by it is impressive. You have Wilson, founder of Factory Records, and you have the entire line-up of Joy Division, without whom moody 80’s rock probably wouldn’t have been the same (although it would have existed anyway thanks to Roxy Music). You also have the insane producer played by Andy Serkis, the guy whose name I can’t remember who made Joy Division’s drummer dismantle his gear and record his part in “She’s Lost Control” on the roof. To say all of this is thanks to the Sex Pistols is rather daring. At the beginning of the movie Wilson talks about all the bands who were going strong by then – Siouxsie and the Banshees and the Jam to name two. You can’t overlook what originated here in America, though. What about the Ramones, who were just starting on their way at the time? What about the New York Dolls, who had risen to modest greatness and then collapsed in a heroin implosion? And what about the very show about which Wilson waxes and croons, that first performance by the Sex Pistols? What song are they performing? “No Fun” by the Stooges. It all goes back to Iggy Pop and the Asheton brothers.

And compare two records by these bands. Take Never Mind the Bollocks and Raw Power. Never Mind the Bollocks sounds like all the rehashed pop-punk that’s out these days, and here’s the thing. You can make the argument that the reason why it sounds rehashed is because it came first, that Never Mind the Bollocks was the catalyst for a sound. But there’s a catch. When I first heard the pop-punk sound, completely independent of having ever heard the Sex Pistols, it sounded rehashed. It sounded generic. Let’s play loud and sound angry. Nothing else matters. I’m mad. Now look at Raw Power, and I’m not going to rant about much aside from “Search and Destroy” and “Gimme Danger” followed by “Your Pretty Face Is Going To Hell.” You start the album with James Williamson ripping his guitar to shreds, and they melt right into a hauntingly longing tune, and then they erupt with renewed energy as Williamson explodes your eardrums and Iggy Pop howls like a fire alarm. There’s more to it than loud noises and anger. There’s craft. There’s substance. The Sex Pistols have neither.

Finally, “God Save the Queen.” What the hell did the Queen do to you? She has no authority. She’s a figurehead. Let’s call the Queen a fascist because it’s sure to draw a few amused cheers and raised fists. The Queen didn’t make the laws. The Queen didn’t send you to school. Parliament and the prime minister make the laws. Get your priorities straight. This is just like the Declaration of Independence. King George III didn’t do these things to the colonists. It was Parliament. We’ll just be angry at someone because we want to be. That’s more dangerous than actually being angry with someone. Unbridled teenage angst is not art. It’s silly. It’s buffoonish. There’s nothing more depressing than an eccentric clown falling victim to his own antics and being swallowed by his lifestyle.

Give the Sex Pistols some credit, though. They came to their senses and walked away from it. I give them kudos for that. Rest in Peace, Sid Vicious.

maybe it's because i see myself and my memories in these songs

So I’ve been in love for a few days. Have you ever been driving and realized that if the rest of your life was like this, you would die happy? You get locked into a moment, into a song that hits you and stays with you and makes every sight, sound, and memory an eternity. You can’t shake it, and you don’t want to. If it stays this way forever it would be a blessing.

I’ve been in love with Bon Iver. I hadn’t listened to him in a few months, stepping back from a favorite CD to let other music have a chance, and when I came back to him last week it was lightning. For Emma, Forever Ago is the best CD I’ve bought so far this year. I may have to break my own rules and call it record of the year, since it came out last year. This year was it’s Jagjaguwar release, the version most people are familiar with. I’ll be hard-pressed to find a better record, a record that moves me like this. Everything about it, right down to the album art, works in one cohesive whole. It’s under my skin and I’m pleased to give it a home.

Each song is like a memory of lost love, maybe a first love, a first love that ended the way most first loves do. First loves are the ones that stay with you, buried in memory and surfacing now and then to torture you when you least suspect it. First loves can be the ones you remember most fondly, since you’re still figuring out this whole relationship thing. Hopefully the lessons you learn with a first love make you all the stronger in your next relationship. And you try not to take things too personally, knowing that you’re both beginners. The pain stays with you, but you’re all the stronger from enduring it.

For Emma, Forever Ago is all of this. The cover is a view from a window. The view is almost completely frosted over, maybe ninety percent. A few bare treetops poke into clear sky at the top. Forever ago this great love happened, and forever ago it broke apart. He’s looking back years later, remembering what he can even though it’s mostly frosted over and obscured. The lone photograph in the insert is of an icy river thawing in spring. Great chunks of ice break apart at the foot of a hill. The view becomes clearer, the memories flow more easily as he looks back.

When I talked about Son of Rambow I talked about loving movies where each individual shot is a work of art. This love is the same for music. Each song on For Emma, Forever Ago is a painstakingly crafted work of art. He’s actor and director at once, making you see what he sees, feel what he feels. You can’t help but listen and believe.

A few moments give me goose bumps.

At the beginning of “The Wolves (Act I and II)” he sings, “someday my pain, someday my pain,” and in the lyrics it continues, “will mark you,” as though he’s defiantly saying someday his pain will become so strong that she’ll understand what she did to him. But he doesn’t complete the sentence when he sings, moving into the next line. At the end of the song, after softly crescendoing with, “what might have been lost – don’t bother me,” he brings that first line back. This time it’s in multiple voice tracks layered over each other, another attempt at defiance, but all they can manage are whimpers that can’t complete the thought, either. “Someday my pain.”

And then “Blindsided,” which may be my favorite track, has the wonderful line in the chorus: “Cause blinded I am blindsided.” Whatever happened to break them up, whatever it was that made her leave, it was something he should have seen coming. If he knew what he was doing he could have prevented it, but he was blind to himself. The problem was in him. There is no agony, just loss. Just shock. You wonder how could this happen, but in the end it should come as no surprise. It’s just you. There’s nothing you can do about it. It just didn’t work. You’d almost rather be agonized than just be.

There are plenty more moments on this record, but I would have to talk about every song. Just know that each song has the grace of a glacier run-off, a gentle flow that carves a path through your head and stays with you all day long. I’ve been listening to it in the car for four days straight on the way to work. It’s so peaceful. The songs stay with me. I play that line from “Blindsided” over and over throughout my day: “Cause blinded I am blindsided.” It’s a stress reliever. I’m not anywhere near as stressed and worried when I work with this music in my head. There could be a line in drive-thru stretched all the way to Chick-Fil-A and I’m just like, “Whatever. They’ll get helped when they get helped. I got Bon Iver in my head. I’m fine.” I’m in love and that’s all there is to it. I guess we’re at the halfway point of 2008. I love this record.

By way of a PS, I got my hands on a 12-inch EP last week by Music Go Music, called Light of Love. This is in heavy rotation on my turntable. Abba-esque pop never sounded so palatable. This will lift you up where you belong.

what i tried to do with my economic stimulus

What do I find in my mailbox upon coming home from work yesterday but my tax rebate, or as the government has so lovingly termed it, my “economic stimulus.” I expected to have it in hand soon. Actually I was hoping to have it sooner and I was starting to squirm, wondering if it were going to arrive at all. I was happy to find it yesterday. I was happier to find it was worth $600.

I don’t know what I did to deserve a $600 stimulus (that sounds like a sex toy; “Honey, for our anniversary this year I think we should get a $600 stimulus”). I’m not going to argue with it. I do wish I could have had this thing earlier, because I skipped out on an old friend’s wedding this weekend. I couldn’t afford the gas, I couldn’t pay for a hotel, and I couldn’t miss two days’ worth of income. Had I had a $600 stimulus a month ago, I could have made the trip. A day late and a dollar short. Story of my life.

So I started thinking how I could otherwise spend this money. Two other friends are getting married later this month, in town, and I will be able to make it. I need to get their present. I also keep saying I will buy a coffee grinder as soon as I have the money. Now I have a $600 stimulus. Lastly, a rather large and juicy used CD sale came to Plan 9 yesterday before I went in for my shift. I already picked out the ones I want. There is new My Morning Jacket today, as well, and there is a Fugs LP I want to get. All of this is within reach thanks to my $600 stimulus. All of this will be mine.

First the bank beckoned me. I had a pay check to deposit, a rebate on my auto insurance deductible, and my $600 stimulus to pad up my checking account. I deposited my money, and the teller handed me the receipt. I noticed my available balance at the bottom. $170. Uh-oh. Thank God for my $600 stimulus. I didn’t plan on spending more than $170 today anyway, and I have a wallet full of tips for rainy days. I guess it was pouring today.

I drove to Target. What do I find but all three of their gift kiosks unavailable due to updating. Well, shoot. I’m off Thursday this week, too. I decided to come back then. Starbucks is near Target, so I went down the street to see if tips were done for the week and see about a coffee grinder. Still no tips, and all of the coffee grinders have been recalled because of mechanical flaws. Okay then. I hung around and wrote a little on my laptop, took advantage of the free internet (free internet for partners, and if you register a Starbucks card online you get free wi-fi hours), and then headed out. I would have gotten my coffee markout today had I been able to buy a grinder, but I still have to grind mine in store, and I have some Kopelani to finish before I get more coffee. So, the entire trip to Valley View came up empty-handed, but maybe this is a good thing. I used cash to pay for my Plan 9 purchase (no way was I skipping out on my music), and I returned home with much of my $600 stimulus still intact. I guess my $600 stimulus will go towards what I suspected I would use it for all along – paying my rent. There are worst things in this world to blow money on. We must be wise with our $600 stimuli when we get them, for they are fleeting. Although the pleasure may be intense, it is over far too fast if misused, leaving you empty and unfulfilled.

Currently listening to: My Morning Jacket, Evil Urges. I just started listening to it. What the hell am I going to say about it?

School's out forever

I bought School Is Hell last week and read it while I worked my shift at Plan 9. Matt Groening is one of those cultural geniuses that comes along once every fifty years or so. The drawings may be crude and Bongo the bunny may only have one ear, but it is truth. Here are a few quotes I think speak volumes.

“Secret Nursery School Fun: during nap time, lie on your little blanket on the floor and feign sleep. When the teacher walks by, you can look up her dress. Your education has now begun.”

“Things are improving. Back in grade school they treated you like you were in nursery school. Here in junior high you get treated with the dignity due a more mature kindergartener.”

“No matter how bad it gets, don’t kill yourself!!! They will make jokes about you. Death lasts longer than grade school and high school put together There is no TV in heaven. (There is TV in hell, however)”

“How to tell by merely glancing at the mail whether or not you have been accepted to the college of your choice: Thick envelope = Good! Thin envelope = Bad! Postcard = Uh oh.” (This is true. I’ve received too many thin envelopes lately. I’ve gotten a few postcards, too.)

“Basic (College) Rules: Avoid Administrators. Skim the required reading. Skip everything else. Write vague, spineless papers. Cram. Blot out any knowledge inadvertently absorbed in class during the week with brain-damaging debauchery on the weekend.”

“School’s out! School’s out! Teacher let the monkeys out! One went east! One went west! One went up the teacher’s dress! -- traditional grade school chant”

“School’s out! School’s out! Teacher let the monkeys out! One was jailed! One prevailed! Both asked God, ‘How have I failed?’ -- traditional grad school chant”

It’s all true. There’s more, but I’m rambling on this. I need to get to the real meat. Part of the book is Matt Groening’s fifth grade diary, word for word what he saw and experienced. I’m glad to know I wasn’t the only one who thought it was always the boys who got in trouble at school. I’m also glad to know I wasn’t the only one who quietly gloated whenever a girl got in trouble. Nothing about this section of the book is overtly humorous, but it’s obvious why he included it. He knew everyone could relate. Nothing has changed since Matt Groening attended grade school. Fifth grade was the worst year of my life, but somehow my friends and I still managed to have fun. The same goes for little Bongo (little Matt Groening) in the comic.

One part stopped me dead when I read it. The next to last frame of one of the comics reads, “April 23, 1965. Mr. Shute taped my mouth shut all afternoon because he saw me whispering to Freckles Jackson. Every one laughed when he put the tape on. I guess that is why he did it. To make me feel stupid.” The next frame is Bongo sitting at his desk with tape over his mouth. That’s the end of the strip. It’s just so sad. That’s something that never leaves you, the treatment you receive at the hands of a bully. You like to think that only kids bully other kids, but that isn’t true. Teachers will bully children. You can say it only seems like it when you’re growing up, that it’s all discipline and the teachers are only doing their job, but I mean really. Putting tape over a boy’s mouth? That’s sadistic. I’m pretty sure everyone knows a teacher who did things like that, if not from direct experience than by witness or by word of mouth. I never saw anything like that (that I can remember) but I heard stories. In seventh grade Mr. Whited liked to make his students do push-ups. He was fired. You just wonder what makes someone become a teacher. I know the vast majority of people who become teachers do it for all the right reasons. Maybe they all do it for the right reasons. Some people are just bullies, either naturally or because they remember a moment in their past when they were bullied. They need to bully someone else to cope. Why not bully children? They’re easy to bully. Most of them won’t fight back.

I’m probably going too far, but it is true. It’s sad that out of all the education we are supposed to receive we remember the pain most vividly.

more than this would be unbearable

One of the CD’s available at Starbucks right now is called Second Wave. It’s a collection of bands like Joy Division, the Smiths, Roxy Music, the Pretenders, lots of late 70’s and early 80’s indie rock. What I don’t understand about this collection is its inclusion of punk acts from the 1970’s, bands like the Ramones. I understand the label, or what it is trying to accomplish. Second Wave implies the onrush of bands following New Wave. This is the reaction to punk’s initial aftershock. This is the evolution of indie culture as it entered the 80’s. This is the music I would have devoured had I been alive and/or old enough to appreciate it. How come the Ramones are on this compilation? No matter your interpretation of the beginning of punk rock (everyone knows it began in Detroit in 1967 with the Stooges and MC5), the Ramones are one of the icons of punk, if not the ultimate punk band. The Ramones are everything the Sex Pistols wished they were, the natural reaction to the Stooges and the New York Dolls. The Ramones are what made Joy Division possible. What are they doing on this compilation?

I have a strong displeasure for labeling genres of music. So much music defies labeling, so much crosses boundaries. Labeling something as this or that nails it to the floor. The name Second Wave implies reaction. All of these bands were reacting to the Ramones. How can the Ramones be a reaction to their own impact? Someone took over a dozen late 70’s and early 80’s indie bands that they liked and stuck them all on one compilation, slapping on a nice overly general tag so they can sell it to the masses. Elvis Costello is on this thing for crying out loud. “(What’s So Funny About) Peace Love and Understanding” predates “Hand In Glove” by seven years, and “More Than This” is from Roxy Music’s last album, by the way. A band that recorded throughout the 70’s shouldn’t be lumped into this loosely defined category. This is like an action movie that stakes its plot on a system of physics and then proceeds to defy those physics every step of the way. I’m looking in your direction Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Just let music be music and like it or move on as your heart tells you.

I’m still listening to my Mission of Burma. That’s when I reach for my revolver.

that looks just like a flying dog

You know the kind of movies that you wish you had directed, or the kind of books that you wish you had written? Son of Rambow is one of those for me. It’s not a jealousy issue or a feeling that I could have done a better job. It’s more a sense that my vision and the creator’s are pointed in the same direction, and whoever made this work of art did it so well that I wish I’d shared his or her train of thought. As it is, I have found my new favorite movie.

Son of Rambow is the story of two outcast boys – Will Proudfoot, whose religious family holds his spirit under lock and key, and Lee Turner, the school bully. After seeing Rambo: First Blood, they decide to make their own sequel to the Sylvester Stallone action-jackson classic. This is a story about dreams, a story of struggle and creation. Will lives his life smothered by his Puritanistic fellow Brethren. He draws fantastic images of dragons and flying dogs all over the pages of his Bible and makes flip-art in the corners, flip-art of lizards catching flies and airplanes sprouting legs to land. I love it when a director utilizes his medium and turns each shot, each frame, into a work of art. The first two shots in the movie are works of art in and of themselves. First we have an image of the women in Will’s family. His mother works in the kitchen, preparing dinner, while his sister and grandmother are in the living room. We see his sister and mother through the wall, and the view is framed, like a photograph. His sister is working on a puzzle while his senile grandmother sits quietly in a chair. Both are wearing their Brethren dresses, and it may as well carry the title “Destiny,” or “Ages.” Life in this family follows one course, and it always has the same result. The second image is immediately after. We see a shack behind the house, and upon its reveal it’s like looking at a painting, like an Alan Lee illustration for JRR Tolkien. This is where young Will hides from his family, from his life, where he works his magic and makes his drawings. This is where he hides himself. The shack is old and crumbling, one of its edges slightly caved, slightly dented, as though someone tried to bash it in. It’s still standing, and Will still dreams. This is a movie about dreams. This is a movie I love.

Even the first time we see Lee Turner his image is so striking. He’s been kicked out of class for having a tennis ball, and he sits against the wall, tossing the ball and catching it a la Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. He’s a little rebel, a little troublemaker. Troublemakers generally make the best artists.

Son of Rambow is also a period piece. The setting is the early 1980’s when the Cure ruled the charts and the boys wore more makeup than the girls. When our heroes find popularity upon the discovery of their creation they are invited to a CBGB’s/Max’s Kansas City hangout called the Sixth Form. Everything decadently 80’s is at your disposal, whether you like it or not. Everything 80’s and childish, that is. Roll up a bag of Pop Rocks and slam a Coke like there’s no tomorrow. Sniff a cake-scented eraser. Be somebody, baby. Go see Son of Rambow, not because it will change your life, but because it will make you appreciate living all the more.

Currently listening to: Mission of Burma, Signals, Calls, and Marches. Now I have to own them all. Great. I’m going broke again.