Blog is an Ugly Word

Yea?

2009-08-15T08:29:00.000-07:00

So it's been a long time since I updated this blog. I'm sorry. Grad school does me in, perpetually.

BUT, the small good news is that I have a story published here, by the great people at Word Riot. If the story were a movie, it would be rated R for language and adult situations.

Road Trip 3: Colorado/Wyoming

2008-08-20T12:46:00.001-07:00

The best restaurant in Denver, Casa Bonita.

After leaving New Mexico on Sunday, August 3rd, I drove North into Colorado, and got to hang out with some friends from the Glen. I decided that this would be a perfect opportunity to see the mythical restaurant, Casa Bonita, which I had originally seen depicted on South Park. When I first watch the episode, I couldn't believe that Casa Bonita was a real place, but now having been there, I can say that the episode is completely (and sadly) true to life.

Essentially, CB is a former department store that has been changed into the Disneyland of Mexican restaurants. Except the part that I assume most people like most about Disneyland, or any amusement park, (the rides), is missing. BUT, like Disneyland, Casa Bonita does have terrible, overpriced food, overdone decor, and vendors who will draw your caricature or sell you a glow in the dark bracelet. On the plus side, the food is all-you-can-eat—all that you have to do is raise the little Mexican flag at your table to the "up" position, and the server will appear immediately to inquire what you would like. After about two plates I just couldn't take any more enchiladas, but I did have a couple of sopaipillas.

CB is also known for its cliff divers, who do real dives off of a fake, 20-foot cliff. The funniest part, though, is that the cliff divers also double as Black Bart and The Sheriff and triple as Chiquita, the Incredible Gorilla, and Animal Trainer in the shows. This allows them to save money, since they only have to pay one set of performers. The writing of the shows could learn something from "B" movie scripts. Still, though, this place was PACKED, and I can only surmise that every child in Colorado has had at least one birthday at CB. It has incredible campy value.

A testament to the quality of the establishment, here is an image of the cliff divers, taken from the CB website. It looks like their pictures came out about like mine did.

Chiquita, the trained gorilla, likes Bermuda shorts and, (not pictured), Nikes. Image taken from CB website.

The fearful caves of CB.

On my way up to Denver, I stopped in San Luis, CO, which, I found out, it the oldest city in the state. The town is tiny, but there is a cool little Catholic church built at the top of a hill, and while ascending the hill, there is a stations of the cross shrine in bronze sculptures. It made for a good way to break up the driving.

The chapel in San Luis, CO.

One of the statues.

On Monday, I continued my drive North, going through Wyoming. I stopped at cool little cafe in Cheyenne, but ultimately I didn't get to do much there.

This is what Wyoming looked like to me. Because it wasn't that interesting, I'll leave you with the Casa Bonita clip from South Park. I guarantee everything in the clip is real. Except maybe Cartman.

Road Trip 2: New Mexico (Part 3)

2008-08-17T16:20:00.000-07:00

An almost aerial view of St. John's college, site of the Glen Workshops.

This year's Glen Workshop was very enriching, even though I didn't take an actual workshop. I felt it deserved it's own entry, even though I'm going to cheat and include an art show review at the end. I didn't even make to all of the presentations this year, but the keynote address by Bret Lott, author of, among other books, Jewel, and the newly released, Ancient Highway, which recently received a positive review in the LA Times, dealt admirably with the conference's theme of "the artist in the city."

Since fiction is kind of my obsession, I also very much enjoyed the reading by Valerie Sayers, director of the creative writing program at Notre Dame, who read a short story published in Image. I thought the story gained a certain lyricism and humor that I might not have noticed had someone else read it.
Of course, the Over the Rhine concert was incredible. They played a full show at Christ Church, Santa Fe, which is a new building that provided an ideal backdrop. Although it's not really evident in the picture below, there is a giant window behind them, fronted by a large glass cross. It was especially cool, when, during one song, a bolt of lightning appeared momentarily in the window behind them. Seriously, if you have never heard OtR, give their album, The Trumpet Child, a demo, or check them out on tour. I wish them only success (and their song, "Nothing Is Innocent," was playing in the Knoxville Starbucks today).

Karin and Linford light up the stage at Christ Church, Santa Fe.

Another convergence at this year's conference was the Santa Fe Biennial, an international art exhibition held at Site Santa Fe every two years. The basic premise for the show was to invite artists from all over the world (typically one per country) to participate. They all came to New Mexico to observe the landscape and culture, and their pieces were supposed to be responses to New Mexico. Each artist was limited to $7,500 to construct his/her work, and after the show, all of the materials will be recycled.

The show was somewhat uneven, and I have to say that I probably didn't have enough time in the exhibit to really soak in each artist's full intention. Still, though, four pieces stood out to me. The first, "Telematch Suburb," by Egyptian artist Wael Shawky, was perhaps the most striking. It was a three part video installation, which really highlighted cultural disparities present in the fabric of New Mexico. For a kind of historical reference point to the wonderful religious and cultural diversity in New Mexico, I would recommend reading Willa Cather's Death Comes for the Archbishop. In the novel, a French Catholic priest is assigned to a parish in New Mexico that includes Native Americans, Mexicans, Canadians, Spaniards, and other Europeans.

Shawky plays with this diverse cultural experience by picking up on similar themes present in Egypt. One huge video projection shows a westernized, Egyptian heavy metal band playing a concert to an audience at a very traditional village. The audience is rural and Muslim, and seem to not know quite how to respond to the music. On another wall, a teacher in Egypt instructs an English class, but his yelled instructions don't sound like English, and his teaching method seems very foreign and strange. On the third wall, a desert scene is playing, with children walking in and out of a structure that might look more at home in New Mexico than it does in Egypt. Somehow, the parade of children has a meditative effect that unifies the other two videos.

Image taken from Shawky's piece.

The second piece, "The Fourth Ladder," was also a video installation, and unlike anything I had ever seen before. Created by an Italian group called Studio Azzurro, the piece was comprised of a series of figures walking up a ramp. The unique bit, however, was that the piece is interactive. Whenever a figure was touched by a viewer, that figure would turn, face the viewer, and relate his or her favorite location in New Mexico, how to get there, and what he or she liked about it. This had a pretty powerful cumulative and experiential effect, especially since the installation was accompanied by another video that interviewed each figure that is walking up the ramp. It was almost as if you were talking to each of those people in an intimate setting.

Viewers interact with "The Fourth Ladder."

For sheer wit, my favorite piece was "Lucky," by Bulgarian artist Luchezar Boyadjiev. The entire piece consists of seventy-seven ten dollar bills, each taped to the wall. Above each bill is a person's name, each selected randomly from the Santa Fe phone book. Essentially, if a name is written on the wall, he or she can claim the ten dollars at any time the show is open—and underneath each bill a fortune is written for that person. Since the artist's English isn't perfect, some of the fortunes were excellent.

"Lucky."

Here is my favorite "fortune" that had been revealed so far. The artist must have a thing for Roksandras.

The last piece that I enjoyed was "Manifest Destiny," another interactive installation, from Italian artist, Piero Golia. Essentially, he rejected the whole "let's be inspired by New Mexico idea," saying that nothing there inspired him. So, instead, he made this kind of stunt-pad-jump installation that is best described by the following video. Before participating, I had to sign a long waiver that included the phrase "in spite of the TREMENDOUS risks involved..."

Road Trip 2: New Mexico (Part 2)

2008-08-17T13:52:00.000-07:00

OK, so I know I've fallen a bit behind on updating the blog. I've been settling in Knoxville and internet access has been sparse. BUT, I'm going to try and catch up before my classes start on Wednesday.

So, we return to New Mexico. On the free day from the Glen Workshop, I went with my parents to Bandelier National Monument, which is about forty minutes outside Santa Fe. It is the site of Pueblo cliff dwellings and petroglyphs (pictures carved into rocks). The cliffs were formed from soft volcanic rock, which has lots of air pockets, that make it look sort of like swiss cheese. Still, though, all of the dwellings were carved by hand with stone tools, after which, the residents would smoke the ceilings of the dwellings to keep them from crumbling.

We hiked a trail for about a mile before ascending four ladders that allowed us to reach the alcove cliff dwelling. The image above is of the alcove cliff dwelling and kiva, or circular room used mainly for religious ceremonies. There was a ladder going down into the kiva, and inside the temperature was surprisingly cooler.

This was the only way up.

This is what the sky looked like from the alcove cliff dwelling.

Me, coming out of a smaller, carved-out dwelling. My guess is that the average cliff-dweller wasn't as big as I am.

Bandelier only took up most of the morning, so I suggested heading over to the city of Los Alamos, which was only a few minutes away. While I was at USC, I took a class on 1950s American Lit. and Film, and one of the documentaries that we watch was Atomic Cafe, which, although disturbing, is a movie that I highly recommend.
Los Alamos was the secret site of the Manhattan Project, but today the town is still the center of much of the government's high-level research, nuclear and otherwise. The entrance to the town is still managed by a guard tower that requires visitors to stop (similar to a border crossing). It was clear, upon entering the city, that most of the people that live there are either employed by the US government or related to someone who is. One of the streets was named "Bikini Atoll," which was a Micronesian island used as a test site for multiple H-bombs, and is highlighted in Atomic Cafe. I thought this was creepy, and in poor taste, since the natives of the island were forced to move (debatably against their will) and exposed to unhealthy levels of radiation as "an experiment." A local store also sold t-shirts with a giant, red-and-orange mushroom cloud on them, which declares: Los Alamos, the Atomic City.

There are two main museums in Los Alamos, one operated by the US Department of Energy, and the other by the city historical society, and they choose to focus on very different vantage points. Predictably, the science museum depicts patriotism (everyone gladly gave up their land for the Manhattan Project), the necessity of developing the A-bomb, and stresses all of the scientific advances made in Los Alamos since then. The historical museum, on the other hand, shows the elite ranch school for toughening up rich boys (attended by Gore Vidal, among others), that was forced to close when the government bought the land. In those days, Los Alamos was a secret city, all mail was sent to a P.O. Box in Santa Fe, and new scientists and staff were not even given directions to the site until they arrived in Santa Fe, went to a particular phone booth, and called a mysterious number. It was all very cloak and dagger. No relatives, except for spouses and children, were allowed to live in Los Alamos.

A model of "Little Boy," the first A-bomb, dropped on Hiroshima, on display at the Los Alamos science museum.

Road Trip 2: New Mexico (part 1)

2008-08-02T09:26:00.000-07:00

I decided I had to break up my week in Santa Fe into at least three blog entries, because there is just too much to tell. I arrived on Sunday afternoon, which quickly turned into a stunning sunset. Above is the view from St. John's College student center. Seriously, it looks like this every night.

While I'm attending The Glen Workshop, in conjunction with Image, I decided not to take a writing workshop this year, but rather just attend the readings/presentations and enjoy New Mexico. This allowed me to go to El Santuario on Tuesday, a Catholic church in Chimayo, NM. It has been called "the Lourdes of America," and is perhaps the only active pilgrimage site in the US. During Holy Week, people walk as far as 150 miles along the highway to visit Chimayo and El Santuario.
This is the view of the front of the church.

The dirt of Chimayo is blessed, and said to have healing properties (although the explanation inside the church ascribes any healing to God). Inside the side chapel are all kinds of crutches and walkers from people who have been healed. Sadly, no photos could be taken inside the church. It has this amazing bell tower, as well as a hutch for pigeons. When you go inside, you can hear the pigeons cooing, and it really has an incredible calming and meditative effect.

The pigeons of El Santuario.

Outside the church, along the path leading up to it, pilgrims and penitents have placed all kinds of homemade crosses and petitions against the fence. This was probably my favorite image at Chimayo. The best part though, was a discarded "wheelchair accessible" sign, that had been removed because of some new construction in the compound. Sitting on the ground next to the crosses, it just struck me as a good image of healing.

My favorite homemade cross was constructed out of barbed wire.

Road Trip 1: Joshua Tree

2008-08-01T09:27:00.000-07:00

Let's kick off this road trip blogging! Even though I've been in Santa Fe, NM for a few days now, I'm just now getting around to the first update. I'll post on New Mexico soon, but let's start at the beginning. Last Saturday, my roommates and I headed out to Joshua Tree National Park for some bouldering and a perfect start to my two week road trip. We spent about two hours climbing around on boulders, and considering that we had no equipment, I thought we got fairly high on the ridge. It was hot, and I drank lots of water.

Yes, that's me on a boulder.

After a couple of hours of driving through the park and taking more pictures in front of Joshua trees (U2 style), I said goodbye to my roommates and drove through the rest of the park toward Arizona. It had always been a dream of mine to drive through the park listening to U2, and I am happy to say that I did it. It also gave me time to consider why U2 was so drawn to a National Park in the US. It occurred to me that U2 really is an ideal desert band. I'm sure I read this somewhere else—but U2's music seems to mesh really well with a desert landscape. The Joshua Tree, too, seems like a tremendous image of U2's music as well as a microcosm of life. Many of U2's songs seem desolate, but with a pervading melodious hope seeping through the somber lyrics and pace. "Running to Stand Still," "One Tree Hill," "Mothers of the Disappeared," and "Red Hill Mining Town," all stand out on Joshua Tree, but I know that many other songs from the immense U2 catalog also fit this description.

Try listening to the beginning of "Where the Streets Have No Name," and picture yourself in a desert with no signs of life. Just when Edge's guitar picks up, you come around a bend in Joshua Tree National Park, and see the dead land come alive with Joshua Trees and other plant life. U2's songs, like the hearty plants in Joshua Tree, flourish despite a harsh environment. Both provide just the right amount of hope in surroundings that seem anything but favorable. The Joshua Tree, itself, with many tangled branches, often looks as if it might topple over at any moment. Like life (and U2's music), it is complex, tangled, and somehow beautiful. I can only ascribe these thoughts to being physically present in the National Park and simultaneously listening to the songs. As I left the park and headed for Arizona, I passed huge rock piles, which somehow reminded me of piles of bones draped in shadow. Not a great way to exit the park, but still a good reminder of my mortality.

These rock piles looked like bones to me.

Anything Special About Short Stories?

2008-07-02T21:12:00.000-07:00

Once again I guest posted over at BookFox, this time with a sort of exploration about whether or not short stories are different from novels in any way other than length. If you have any thoughts on the subject, I'd love to hear them.

A Tennessee Adventure

2008-05-15T15:42:00.000-07:00

As of a few weeks ago, I have accepted the offer at the University of Tennessee. This means that I will once again be a student. It also means that I will be moving across the country in August, something I've never done before.

My plan is simple: load up my Corolla with whatever will fit in it (mostly clothes and books) and drive. I won't be taking anything else with me. I plan to stop at several National Parks, including Joshua Tree and Great Smoky Mountains. I'll also be able to document the trip with my new digital camera, and I'll post updates from time to time. The trip will split up nicely into two parts, with a weeklong break in New Mexico for the Glen Workshop, hosted by Image.

In my mind, this is a minor equivalent of several road trip adventures, which seem to have surrounded me lately. A few of my former students from APU are riding across the country on bicycles to raise support for Project Rwanda. I also recently watched Into the Wild, a film based on the true story of a recent college graduate who essentially went on a two-year road trip that ended in the Alaskan wilderness. Then there's the slower, more laid back approach: 10 MPH, a documentary about a group of disillusioned techies who travel from Seattle to Boston on a Segway. Their top speed? 10 mph.

Somehow, it seems like I've wanted to do this my entire life.

Take Me to Another Place

2008-03-13T09:42:00.000-07:00

Here's a video (anyone remember Arrested Development?)that could be descriptive of my life next fall. I was accepted by the University of Tennessee, but only for another MA (in literature). It is funded, but not exactly with enough money to live comfortably on.

I'm still waiting to hear from four other schools. If I get into Missouri or Nebraska it might be hard to find a theme song. I'll do my best.

Music Video and Literary Journal 2.0

2008-02-11T21:37:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. This blog has been dead for a while. I did survive into the new year, and even managed to send off seven PhD applications. I'm hoping one of them comes through. I promise not to turn off the blog again for so long without notifying you, oh faithful reader.

In the meantime, I have become fascinated with interactive internet content—both musical and literary. For an awesome online literature experience, that turns poems and short stories into interactive art projects, check out Born Magazine. Poets and fiction writers are matched up with artists who work with flash animation, so that what emerges is sometimes much more than just the written word. I really can't explain it, but take a look at "What Afterlife" and "Five Kinds of Weather Roll Across Texas," to see some of the rich variety that the magazine offers. I'm excited because this is, I think, what the internet should be doing for literature. Other than making it more accessible (which is huge), the internet hasn't really added much to literature as a form. Born is starting to push the boundaries of literary art and interaction. I have recently been studying methods of literary interpretation, and this seems to me to have all sorts of implications that I won't really get into, except to say that the idea of a piece of literature as fluid might gain credence by more extreme means of user interaction.

The title screen of "What Afterlife" from Born Magazine.

But this interaction is not limited to literary works. Bands have started in with interactive music videos. The Arcade Fire, long a favorite of mine, have released a video for Black Mirror, a song from their latest album, Neon Bible. What's unique about this one, though, is that users can change the actual music of the video by toggling off and on (at will) individual tracks like drums, bass, guitar, lead vocals, backup vocals and etc. This is surprisingly intriguing, because it lets the user create custom videos.

The protagonist of "Black Mirror" stares into a Dante-like abyss. Notice the numbered triangles at the bottom of the screen. Each triangle indicates that the track is on.

Rolling Stone recommends turning off the drums (track 2) for an amazing and unique version of the song, but I think what fits the video best, and its stark and surprising images, is turning off tracks 1-4, which leaves track 5 (backup vocals) and track 6 (background classical score). This transforms the video into an eerie silent film, with occasional moments of clarity. I love the entire aesthetic sensibility of The Arcade Fire, which comes through in their website design and videos.

Mr. TV-head stares at the viewer while my track preference is displayed.

Taking their cue from no one, an up-and-coming band from Brooklyn, MGMT, has created a downloadable interactive video of their song "Electric Feel," from their new, aptly named album Oracular Spectacular. Checking in at over 400mbs, it lets users edit the images that show while the song is playing. The bottom of the video player in Quicktime is a set of multi-colored rectangles and circles, each of which alters any given frame of the video. Some change the background images, others the video footage, while some superimpose other images or textures over the video. It's pretty crazy and hard to describe. You really have to experience it for yourself. I have literally watched it eight times, and keep finding new images. Watch out for the walrus, he scares me every time I accidentally click on the far right circle at about 50 seconds in.

One of the MGMT guys stabbing what appears to be a pig pinata with what appears to be a spear, while what appears to be a military helicopter flies by in the background.

I also recommend watching the video, not interactive, but just as psychedelic, for their song "Time to Pretend." This overwhelming stream of images and colors somehow fits the uninhibited, melodic and electronic style of their music. For my first entry of 2008, I leave you with what appears to be three dancing Andy Warhols superimposed over a stylized portrait of the other MGMT guy. Who says drugs never helped art?

Spring Classes and More Grad. Apps.

2007-11-16T11:55:00.000-08:00

In the Spring I will be teaching:

1) At APU: English 111: Intro to Literature. This will be fun, although the class will be too large to have ideal discussions. I may try more mini-lectures.

2) At BU: Two sections of English 110B: Critical Thinking and Writing II. Writing with literature. Also fun, but with more essays.

I decided to take fewer classes so that I could write more and try and publish things on a regular basis. These sorts of things are important. I am buried right now in grading and more PhD applications. This year, I am doing more homework, so I hope it helps.

Review Posted at BookFox

2007-07-26T11:32:00.000-07:00

Per request of my former classmate, the always clever BookFox, currently vacationing in South America, I have posted a review of Miranda July's first collection of short stories, No one belongs here more than you over at his website. Somehow, I also managed to reveal embarrassing details about my childhood in the process. The website for the book is interactive and pretty cool, you should check it out. Here is a picture of Miranda July.

Next week I will try and blog from New Mexico, where I will once again be attending the Glen Workshop.

The Physics of Driving II

2007-07-11T10:08:00.000-07:00

Unknown Love in Los Angeles

Perhaps we fashion untruths daily,
our memories become remarks at a funeral—
never mentioning the bad particulars
to honor our idealism.

The most beautiful woman that I can remember
I saw slantwise from the window of a speeding car.
In this glimpse, her body stretched into vectors,
curved hips melding into curved freeway,

breath rhythm lengthening into skyline pulse,
laugh crinkles clouding into dancing city lights.
It was over quickly, but for me
these memories are the most spacious.

You see, I never met her.
In a city always moving love is trackless—
without paths leading in or footprint remainders.
Just pray for rest. Pray for more
than the screech marks of smoldered rubber.

If you see me on the freeway, wave.
I will be the man that drives while
rubbing a disposable razor along my chin—
again and again even though
there is no more hair.

Final Teaching Load (Fall '07)

2007-06-26T22:39:00.000-07:00

After a few weeks of working on lining up teaching gigs, many phone calls, seven mailed resumes and NINE interviews, here is my fall lineup.

Two classes at BU: 1) ENGL 100 (remedial freshmen writing). 2) ENGL 110B the second required writing class that includes some literature—probably mostly sophomores.

One class at VU: 3) ENGL 120: Persuasive Writing. A freshmen writing course that is followed up by research writing.

One class at APU 4) ENGL 110: Freshmen Writing Seminar. This class is organized around a theme, which I am still playing with. My first choice right now is Modern Myth. Aimee Bender, I can sell some of your books this way!

Cold War Kids to Open for The White Stripes and Muse

2007-06-25T12:35:00.000-07:00

I follow the career of Cold War Kids with great interest and enthusiasm. I am very pleased to say that they will be playing at Madison Square Garden with Muse (August 6th), and will be supporting The White Stripes on the second half of their North American tour (September/October). Say hi to Jack and Meg boys.

Frank Miller and Quentin Tarantino View the World through a Smashed Windshield

2007-06-08T10:15:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I watched Frank Miller's Sin City, and I have to admit that stylistically, it's one of the most impressive films that I've ever seen. The sparse use of color (mostly on attractive women and blood), the silhouettes, the incredible action sequences, and the lack of light all stress the source material of the film—Miller's graphic novels.

This slick quality is brilliant and often fantastic. In an early sequence, Marv (Mickey Rourke) intentionally crashes through the windshield of a car, each of his legs knocking a cop unconscious, before Marv throws them from the car, while driving off after his next victim. In both Sin City and 300, Miller's latest project, violence has become a captivating and exciting art form. Of course, this elevation of stylistic gore was brought to our attention by Quentin Tarantino in films like Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs and Kill Bill.

It doesn't seem quite fair to call Miller a Tarantino protégé, since his graphic novels are essentially contemporaries of Pulp Fiction, but certainly the other director of Sin City, (Miller is the first), Robert Rodriguez, uses Tarantino as his starting point. Tarantino and Rodriguez recently teamed on the Grindhouse double feature, which was a bit of a box office bust.

Despite the exhilarating action, I find that I can't watch these films more than once. By the end, I am disgusted with the world, the emptiness of any deed—and more than anything—the complete depravity of human nature. Why live? is the question that keeps popping into my head. In Sin City, everyone, "heroes" and villains, males and females—even children—seem to relish torture, including, but certainly not limited to, dismemberment. In Pulp Fiction the hitman and his target fall into a random pawn shop while fighting, only to find out that the owner is far more sadistic than either of them.

It's not the mere presence of extreme and intense violence that bothers me. It's the lack of any purpose behind the violence. Marv in Sin City tortures and kills dozens of people to revenge the death of Goldie, a prostitute whom he just met the night before. He never stops to ask who Goldie is or why she was killed. In Tarantino films, violence and torture are just the ways in which the world operates. In 300 there is a vague sense of the king of Sparta's honor being offended, but beyond that reference, little is made of Persia's invasion of Greece and the repercussions of paying tribute to Xerxes.

Little or nothing seems needed by Miller to justify inflicting the most extreme kinds of agony. The smallest personal problem is grounds for murder. There is no real right and wrong or good and evil—there is only personal preference. Instead of The Matrix, or any WWII movie, from Miller we get no sense that there is any greater story or rationalization other than the immediate violence itself and the immediate journey of this particular character. While I enjoyed 300, I found it hard to be inspired by the film—in the same way that Braveheart or similar fare is inspiring—because of a lack of a clear sense of meaning and purpose behind the (admittedly) awesome and courageous stand.

Part of this justification of violence appears to stem from a problem with authority and organizations. In Sin City the two super villains are a Cardinal of the Catholic church and a Senator, respectively. In 300, the most disturbing characters are the sexually abusive, disfigured priests, and the power-hungry senator of Sparta who tries to prevent re-enforcements from being sent to the small army's aid. If the world and its institutions are so corrupt, why not just fight the system and the man? Why not?

To be fair, Sin City does admit that once in a while a decent cop will come along, and 300 does show more level-headed senators defeating the traitor (too late to save anyone from the original force). However, what is implicit is not just that absolute power corrupts absolutely, but that corruption seems to be the inevitable result of almost any position of authority. If these are the starting assumptions, it is not surprising to see violence and torture surface as the common currency of interaction.

What, then, is the difference between depravity as presented by Miller and Tarantino, and someone like Flannery O'Connor? Certainly, O'Connor (one of my favorite authors) depicts senseless killing in "A Good Man is Hard to Find," and complete deception and betrayal in "Good Country People." I haven't yet put my finger on it, but I think it has to do with O'Connor's multi-leveled approach. The Misfit has good manners, the traveling Bible salesman presents himself as genuine. This irony of a good veneer peeling away to reveal the true, evil nature underneath seems much more true-to-life and spiritually interesting.

While it may be implied that the Cardinal and Senator (brothers named Rourke) in Sin City present themselves differently in public, there is no evidence provided of this—and indeed—everyone seems to know already that they are completely corrupt, whether or not they are responsible for the specific instances of evil that drive the action in the movie. Moreover, O'Connor seems to be focusing on the inexplicableness of intense evil as events out of the ordinary (and hence, worthy of being the subject of a story), while Miller and Tarantino seem to imply that intense evil occurs as a regular pattern. It's the difference between saying: "there is evil and I can't explain it," and saying "evil is all there is." I guess I would agree that senseless evil does happen all the time, but why would I want to return, over and over again, to that fictional world that they have created?

In any case, I may not run out to see Miller's next project. I would like, however, in light of this criticism, to recommend another crass (but brilliant) film, Idiocracy, written by Mike Judge.

Writing Again...

2007-06-04T17:59:00.001-07:00

Since turning in my thesis over a month ago, I haven't written much of anything. (The poem below being the one exception.) I thought maybe I was tired of it, but really I think I was just burned out. I realized today that I have an intense desire to write again. As a writer, I want to capture the perfect story. It's kind of an impossible quest that contains many bumper-to-bumper moments, U-turns and flaming crashes off of cliffs. I'm off to the library to read Looking Backward: From 2000 to 1887, by Edward Bellamy for inspiration. After Uncle Tom's Cabin and Ben-Hur, this was one of the most popular books of the late 19th century in America. It's a socialist Utopian novel, which interests me for several reasons, which in the interests of my story, I won't reveal, other than to say that it takes a very different view of socialism than, say, The Brother's Karamazov.

The Physics of Driving 1 (A Poem)

2007-05-23T18:58:00.000-07:00

A two-faced habit. I steal
glances at passing drivers on the freeway.
In blurry haste everyone is striking.
With twinges of relativity
everyone on the freeway is someone.

Just last week I saw Einstein,
driving home after a nice dinner at JPL
in rush hour on the 605 freeway—
fingers sifting dunes of electric hair.

Energy equals mass times the speed of light squared.
The world always moves, if however slowly.
Energy equals cars moving within a square.
Energy equals movement coalescing in a square.
The square is a city. The city is Los Angeles.

He has calculated how to weave through traffic
without touching anything.
A half-wide car fits between the lanes
of space and time.

This mask of self-importance
is forever needing a place to go.
Clutching my steering wheel
never changing lanes.

Drive faster.
If you reach the speed of light
everyone will want to know your name.
You just won't recognize yourself anymore.

My New Computer

2007-05-16T20:34:00.000-07:00

Is a MacBook with a built in webcam....

Probably, it takes pictures of me when I'm sleeping and posts them on the internet.

Little Debbie, Sallie Mae and Wendy Play the Three Furies

2007-04-27T09:59:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up and ate a Little Debbie's choco-marshmellow dessert snack with my coffee. Since then, I have pretty much decided that it is the most unhealthy food ever. I don't even think it should properly be called food. Little Debbie is the most innocent-looking little girl since the Coppertone girl who perpetually gets her diaper ripped off by a dog. Does anyone remember that ad? What happens when something bites a diaper? No good can come from that. Who in the world thought that up, and why would it ever be considered a good idea?

But back to Little Debbie—she always has a snack for you. She wants you to be fat and die of scurvy (while consuming oatmeal pies).

Then, instead of eating lunch, I spent two hours sitting in an exit-loan workshop at USC, listening to how Sallie Mae owns me for at least ten years. TEN. For many students, it's TWENTY-FIVE. Favorite fun fact: only 7% of students make all of their payments on time over the first three years of a loan. Sallie Mae is worse than Little Debbie, so much so, that I could only find this picture:

Don't let the look take you in. She will garnish your wages and steal your income tax refund in a heartbeat. (Cliché alert.) I'm pretty sure she is the Irish mafia.

For dinner, I only wish I would have eaten at Wendy's. That little red-haired minx is just as devious. I heard they have replaced the buns with deep-fried choco-marshmellow paddies.

Instead, I had Mexican food.

Why MySpace Boosts My Self-Esteem

2007-04-19T12:04:00.000-07:00

Yes, I admit it. I have a MySpace account. I'm not really ashamed of it, either. I really love the principle of networking centered around artistic communities like musicians and writers, and sharing your work via the network. It still is taken advantage of—because of the lack of an individual verification system like Facebook has. You can say or be anyone on MySpace, which I suppose is what makes the internet a vicarious and scary place. It's interesting, though, because many people take this to another level, where they are almost mocking the principle of "be anyone." How many profiles have you seen that are "99-year-old female" who makes "$250,000 or over?"

I get a lot of friend requests on MySpace—probably at least two a day. Yes, all of the porn stars and entrepreneurial stock broker and drug company types want to be my friend. I can only conclude from this that I am CEO material encaged in an übersexy body. The best friend request, though, was the following:

I have nothing else to say about that.

Final Project and USC are Done

2007-04-19T11:48:00.000-07:00

My final project, though flawed, is complete and approved. So, unless the committee decides to turn it down (very unlikely), I have completed all the requirements of the MPW degree. I'm going to start calling it an MFA, just to avoid confusion. Also, it makes me feel as if I didn't waste money on the degree.

In other news, I will not be attending a PhD program in the Fall. All three turned me down, although the rumor is that I was "close" at USC. They accepted 2 out of 80 applications; so I'm not surprised. I would have loved to stay at 'SC and work with the incredible PhD faculty in the English department, but it looks like I'll have the first year completely off from school since kindergarten.

My responsibilities as a TA are wrapping up and I'm looking forward to the summer and trying to get a story or two published.

Neon Bible

2007-03-11T12:14:00.000-07:00

Montreal's finest rock band, The Arcade Fire, has only boosted its reputation as indie hero with the release of their second full-length album. Neon Bible features two songs with partial French lyrics, weightier religious themes, and an expansion of musical sources. "Intervention" pulses with the verve of a pipe organ, while "My Body is a Cage," is backed by a gospel choir. Of course the violin and accordion return. Songs build melodic layers on top of one another until what emerges is much more than the mere parts.

If you dislike analysis of art, you should consider skipping to the last paragraph. If not, then by all means continue.

Perhaps the most significant shift from Funeral is the inclusion of explicitly religious language, imagery and themes. The title track "Neon Bible," seems to struggle with finding the place of Christianity within contemporary culture. The image of the red and black neon bible is something normally found on the Vegas strip rather than in a sanctuary. Does Christianity have to be flashy and exciting to attract attention? Didn't it work for The Passion of the Christ?

In some ways, it all feels antithetical to the image and feel presented by the band. This is not The Killers, Vegas' poster band, one of edgy clothing, makeup trends and power guitar hooks. That's who should have released a record called Neon Bible. Instead, we get the subtle genius of intermingled instruments and the casual fashion sense of a discount vintage shop or a discovered attic. Don't be jealous, Mr. Brightside.

If "Wake Up" established the group as authors of epic anthems, Neon Bible walks the balance beam of personal and universal without losing a sense of urgency or significance. "(Antichrist Television Blues)" tells the personal narrative of a man exploiting his daughter, all the while asking for divine affirmation. "Lord would you send me a sign/'cause I just gotta know if I'm wastin' my time." "Ocean of Noise" is a story of personal reconciliation encompassed by questions of free will versus determinism. "Black Mirror" laments the difficulty in escaping from the perceptions and language of the self. The black mirror "casts my reflection everywhere." Watch out, the black mirror might be you!

Yet throughout, the album manages to escape an introspective focus. "Keep the Car Running" bursts with pace, suggesting a temporance to life on earth, and expressing a sense of dissatisfaction with the way the world is. If anything sounds like a generational anthem, this is it. In this context, the inclusion of "No Cars Go," a revised song from the band's first, self-titled EP, makes perfect sense. I had always taken "No Cars Go," as a reference to Heaven. Like U2's "Where the Streets Have No Name," a literal Heaven may not be the only reference point. Rather, a convergence between earthly and divine—a meditative state—"between the click of the light and the start of the dream." Religious experience, especially in a culture that values bright city lights and shiny packages, is uncommon—but this album takes us there.

This is the best CD I have purchased this year, and I wouldn't be surprised if it survives as one of my all-time favorties.

Books Make You Fat...

2007-03-10T16:14:00.000-08:00

CNN recently posted an article on how Pizza Hut may be contributing (deviously) to obesity in children through their reading program called Book It! Kids get a free pan pizza every time they meet a reading goal. As a student, I remember this program. I got a holographic button with star stickers on it. Since I read non-stop, I got lots of pepperoni pizzas. I am secretly hoping this comes to a class-action lawsuit. I'm not asking for much, Book It! (just a personal trainer).

2006 Story Prize

2007-03-01T17:29:00.000-08:00

Mary Gordon won $20,000 for her career-spanning collection The Stories of Mary Gordon. The story that Gordon read during the award ceremony featured a podiatrist and a wolf mistaken for a dog. Tragic and funny! Actually, this is now going on my list of things to read. The list is pretty long and often interrupted by the psychology of love and attachment. Attached, but not in love. Fitter, happier, more productive. A pig, in a cage, on antibiotics (thanks Radiohead).

This is the largest monetary award given for fiction in the U.S. How nice would it be to win? I like that it is only open to collections of short stories. The New School in New York sponsors this competition, which debuted in 2004. Viva la short story.

Story as Performance Art

2007-02-26T14:47:00.000-08:00

This is one of the most interesting pieces I've seen in a while. Author Shelley Jackson has taken volunteers to get one word of the 2,095 in her story "Skin" tattooed on his or her body. The story is sent to each participant upon completion of the tattoo. So far, over 10,000 people have expressed interest. Several hundred have all ready been inked. Jackson only sends the story to participants; no one else can read it. She also refers to participants as "her words" and says that she will "make every effort to attend the funeral of a word."

This appeals to me, but I had to think for a few minutes to figure out why. Every author wants (on some level) this kind of intense reader response when they write. A tattoo is pretty intense. Although, I suppose good literature does change people's lives--or at least people's perspectives on life, which is just as good. At what point does this desire turn into unhealthy arrogance? Does calling participants "words" marginalize them? It seems strange to me. Almost as if, when a word dies, Jackson feels that a part of her story has died too. (Really, should one be worried about a tattoo when a person has died.)

In short, I love the creativity but wonder about the motivation. Also, I love the way these typical fonts look on skin. Some of the tattoos, and a description of the project, are available for viewing here.

Recently Learned...

2007-02-17T18:22:00.000-08:00

My reading of the first papers for my TA class yielded the following gems. Really, this makes my grading so much more enjoyable.

King Henry the VIII was the King of Whales. This was by far my favorite. He was pretty portly, but the King of Whales is taking it a bit far.

King Henry reigned "in the time of England." (Obviously a long time ago.)

Ever wondered what Gandhi's first name was? I learned it: Mohammed. Yes, Gandhi experienced a spiritual conversion late in life.

Gathering (a poem)

2007-02-09T12:36:00.000-08:00

Stand in Notre Dame Cathedral if you like, or Westminster—
windows cast brilliant Mondrians on the floor,
though I prefer Sacre Coeur, a small, dark place
where light springs from circular portals,
convincing everyone that glowing is the beginning of beauty.

We are mere shards of a colored pane—
not dropped exactly, yet broken.
A dirtied mirror, even when pointed at the sky,
reflects light only poorly. Who can see it? We
do not believe in bad luck, but certainly in evil.
You ask how one becomes many
on its own. A troubling question:
How did the first cell divide?

John recorded the beginning: be one, even as We are.
East and West shout across a frozen lake;
ears strained from such a distance:
"We will tell you where Spirit comes from."
The stained glass window cracks—then fractures,
nail pounded into door, sword into flesh.
Corruption petitions the night for indulgence—
the king is sharpening his axe!
"I will marry whomever I want."
We scream and scream, and, and, and, and:
"We do not like the way you paint or sing."

Glass bits fly out to sea-worthies,
cross into an experimental world, settle into the dust—
we prefer our secluded corners and cracks.
Convenience has created multicolored grains of sand—
coming soon to a beach near you! Sing praise!

I have taken to washing windows on the sides of skyscrapers—
hoping that one day, after removing the stain of grime,
the stain of colored glass will be revealed.
Though they reach toward Heaven, they are not
another of Cana’s wonders. Still—
set aside the best till now—imagine
reflections from a building made all of glowing windows.

Word of the Day: Portmanteau

2007-02-01T18:05:00.000-08:00

Portmanteau: 1) a large suitcase with two compartments. (Apparently very archaic and rare.) This is the definition I know, probably from reading 19th century novels. I think a traveller could carry pretty much anything in a portmanteau. I would carry gold in mine, if I had one. And if I had gold.

2) the combination of parts of two or more words into one, which yields a new meaning. e.g. Lunch and Breakfast into brunch, or smoke and fog into smog.

Lewis Carroll's poem, "Jabberwocky," famously uses lots of portmanteaus.

All of this makes me want to own an actual leather portmanteau, but it would have very little practical value. I wonder if I could keep files in it?

Yes, I learned most of this from wikipedia.

I also suggested this for the title of the new USC literary journal. I hope it wins, but maybe it's too French-sounding.

U2 as Worship Music?

2007-01-30T20:52:00.000-08:00

I can't believe it took me four months to hear about this...

There is a book of sermons incoporating U2 lyrics as the main teaching points. I assume many have to do with social justice, which is certainly something the church should discuss more.

But there's more. I'm as big a fan of U2 as anyone, but I'm not sure what I think about this. The Episcopal church has been using U2 songs as part of a special Communion service. Apparently, over 150 churches in seven countries have done the service. It's not that I challenge the religious conviction of U2, but rather wonder about the validity of using songs not expressly written for worship. It raises the question of aesthetic use and interpretation. Is it legitimate to re-interpret U2 songs in a much more sacred context? Can a song about a sugar-daddy ("Daddy's Gonna Pay for Your Crashed Car") be re-directed toward God? Or what about "Beautiful Day?"

During concerts, including two that I attended, Bono has said "let's take it to church," setting a tone of worhip or at least meditation for the show. Several songs, including "40" and "Wake Up Dead Man," are meant to be taken as prayers, although "Wake Up" is almost a prayer without hope. Other songs have a distinctly religious component, but more as an exploration of spirituality rather than a decided, worshipful attitude.

Should worship be an expression of certainty, or can it express doubt? How much does authorial intent matter in worship? More than in general, or just the same? Certainly not less.

I am all for trying to make the church more culturally relevant, and it's hard for me to reject U2, because I think they are the best music group today that profoundly addresses Christian themes. But I still have a hard time with this. Maybe I have some liturgical reservations.

Books for Psych 200: Love and Attachment

2007-01-27T20:45:00.000-08:00

Here are the books that are assigned for the class that I am TA-ing:

I could tell that students had been buying these books together from Amazon, because the customer info linked all of them together. I have read the first two already. It's interesting stuff. The first film we showed was A Man for All Seasons, which is the story of Thomas More's execution at the hand of Henry VIII, for More's refusal to acknowledge the validity of Henry's second marriage and his role as head of the Church of England. The film's connection seems to be a portrayal of someone irrationally attached to an idea (religion) at the expense of his life.

I hope I learn something about love and attachment from this class. Apparently, I need all the help I can get.

Evangelicals: American Fascists?

2007-01-27T19:40:00.000-08:00

I was listening to NPR (89.3 for those in LA) this week and they were interviewing Chris Hedges, the author of a recent book, that draws comparisons between the situations in pre-Nazi Germany, pre-Mussolini Italy and the current US. The interviewer was listenly, very seriously, to Hedges' animated rhetoric, comparing Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell and James Dobson to a) Nazis and b) Islamic terrorists. If these Evangelicals had their collective dastardly way, Hedges said, homosexuals and Muslims, in addition to anyone else who didn't agree with the most conservative agenda, would be jailed or thrown into concentration camps. It was all conducted very matter-0f-factly.

It struck me as strange that a credible news program would present such seemingly outlandish claims as plausible. Never did the interviewer challenge Hedges or even ask him to clarify his position. She ate it up.

I was so intrigued that I went to Border's and read most of the first chapter. Hedges was raised as the son of Presbyterian minister, and went to Harvard Divinity School. He obviously is familiar with the Bible and Christian doctrine. His main problems seem to be that he views God as a God of mystery, the Bible as a good, but ultimately contradictory book, moral absolutes as deadly, the hope of Heaven depressing in living an earthly Christian life, and conservative Evangelicals who differ from him as simplistic if not the demon spawn of our country. In reading this, I realized that this view of conservative Evangelicals is probably not that far from the mainstream, liberal view.

Some of Hedges' points seemed grounded. To be fair, he estimates only about 20-25% of Evangelicals as potentially fascist. He labels these "dominionists," who see America as "God's country," who take books like Left Behind literally, who believe in conversion of the unsaved at any cost, who believe in strong, masculine leadership, and who look to a utopian Heaven as fulfillment (and apparently don't care anymore about their earthly lives).

I suppose if all of these were added together, a culture of fascism could occur. But Hedges seems to assume several things that just don't seem to be the case. I am hardly one to endorse Robertson or Falwell, but even they don't seem fully capable of the kind of extremes of Nazi Germany. Morever, Hedges seems to form a correlation between belief in moral absolutes and other fascist characteristics (militarism, self-sacrifice, and etc.). This just seems false. Moral absolutes may be passe or cliche in today's Blue Like Jazz Christian culture, but they are no fascism. Moreover, God Himself, although He may be inscrutable and certainly mysterious at times, does deliver edicts that turn out to be moral absolutes. God's character is morally absolute. Viewing homosexuality or abortion as always wrong does not mean that abortion clinics should be bombed or that gays and lesbians should be punished with the death penalty. Apparently, evangelicals could do more to show their compassion to the wider culture.

This problem of underestimating God comes through too in Hedges' portrayal of Evangelical believers. He tells the story of one convert who was sexually abused early in life, before "finding Jesus." For her, life on earth has let her down, and she looks forward to life in Heaven as a chance to be perfected as a person. Hedges presents her as already having given up on her earthly life. To me, this underestimates God's power to really change and redeem people here on earth.

In any case, I look forward to checking this book out from the library and giving it a proper review. I also encourage you to read it, because it seems to reflect a political view of Evangelicals that is held throughout our country.

Employed Again...

2007-01-11T17:37:00.000-08:00

So USC decided to give me a TA extension after all. Sort of. Due to the amount of students wanting to add the class, administration added a fifth TA to a GE Psych class called "Love and Attachment". I will be the fifth TA. Does anyone see the irony in this? Anyone?

The professor seems to hold to a sort of reductive evolutionary explanation for human behavior, including love and emotional attachment. This should be an interesting experience, although Scandalous Ethics might have been more fun.

I hope it all goes well, and I won't have to eat Ramen noodles all semester.

Cold War Kids on Letterman

2006-12-26T15:44:00.000-08:00

CWK took the stage in NYC for the Letterman show on 12/22, following news anchor Tom Brokaw. My favorite part is at the end, when Dave asks the band where they are from and Maust responds "Long Beach," even though I was hoping for a Whittier shout-out.

The other best part wasn't on this video, but happened before Brokaw came out. Paul and Dave were talking and Paul said "Cold War Kids are my favorite band, and you're going to see why tonight."

Nice to get some late night love. Soon to come, Leno and SNL.

A Myth Concerning Darwin

2006-12-21T11:23:00.000-08:00

1.
Darwin evolved into God after breeding with the elements,
each one alone, until he combined them in his harem—

seducing Fire with promises of virgin timber,
whispering sonnets into Air’s ear,
massaging Earth with his fingers.

But Water would not be won with words or presents—
she felt she was too good for him,

running away as a vapor when he tried to kiss her,
squirming and squishing free from his embrace,
falling at his feet in mock surrender as the rain.

At last he caught her at Lake Grasmere,
but he only slipped on her frozen back, bruising his tailbone.

She held him captive in her hand for five years on the Beagle,
until he agreed to make her queen and mother of his firstborn.

2.
Darwin sat in Heaven, observing the world,
eyes full, mouth with smiling teeth—

particularly enjoying shed cocoons,
the way the pigeons hovered at Trafalgar Square,
and the barnacles that clung to rocks to spite the sea.

It is revenge on Water he proclaimed and laughed—
then later, cried,
he could not make love to her in Heaven.

He took out a blindfold to cover his eyes,
but he saw through it.

He tried to cut himself so that blood would fall to the air,
but his skin was impenetrable.

At last he came to the realization that he could no longer
do anything except watch.

A Fairvilla Christmas

2006-12-17T00:43:00.000-08:00

Nothing says merry like sledding and sweaters.

A Story about Stories: Holy Days/Holidays

2006-12-05T10:04:00.000-08:00

The semester is over at USC. I have no coursework left for my MA. All that remains is grading and a final exam that I have to proctor. I am now transitioning into writing my thesis, a collection of short stories that focus on the way holidays change over time. Sometimes these shifting conceptions of holidays simply reflect cultural patterns (the merchandizing of the early 20th century or 1950s), but in other cases larger ideological shifts are reflected (the secularization of religious holy days, more cynical views on holidays like Valentine's Day or New Year's resolutions).

I have drafts of five stories, two of which have been rewritten. If anyone wants to look at one or two and give me feedback, I would love to hear your opinion.

In other news, I am also applying for grad school again. This is what? Round five? God willing, it will be the last time, following which I will be granted a PhD.

Molting (a prophecy)

2006-11-17T09:43:00.000-08:00

1. Hermit Crab

The picture carried in my wallet is worn out—
crease turned black, edges frayed, corner ripped,
but increasingly agreeable.
A memory like cracked glass,
paint thinner poured over a favorite oil portrait—
the colors hemorrhage.
Someone has written on the back in red ink,
suffering is holy.

In the picture I was only sixteen,
drunk on inhibition.
They gave me a license anyway,
waved hands vaguely in the region of…
Do whatever you think is best.
Buy a sports car, use a condom.
Live.

(I thought nothing was best.)
Awake and not—
I lay on dirty sheets/twin bed,
birthed the sensation of never landing—
cryptic night presence,
skin pale in walled isolation,
the need for plummets to breathe.

Always searching for some new shell.

2. Garden Snake

Walking with/in her fingers,
under the boisterous sun on the beach,
my skin collapses, sloughs off,
her touch chars prints of my identity.

I seemed destined for colder climes—
Ocean corners, Midwest blizzards.
A bottom-dweller for whom light has no meaning.
A withered codger sipping coffee from a paper cup
as the outdoor children build a snow fort.

In a quiet condo,
away from the 5 freeway,
green with long rain gutters along the roof,
the water will not touch us.
We sit and talk on overstuffed couch,
the comfort of being mutually found,
sleep better during the day,
wake as the sun surrounds the curtains.

Sometimes basking in the flowerbed.

3. Albatross

The picture is scanned and digitally altered,
crease removed, edges brightened, corner straight.
I have captioned it:
Me.

On the day after Thanksgiving
I wasn't thankful enough.
Hands in pockets, I perch on the mall's escalator,
watch the pretty girls shop,
how they move,
the way their hair holds light.
All of them memories.

I worry that not enough know how beautiful they are.
A secret to be shared over Spaghetti Bolognese,
chianti, round candles.
How beautiful,
this ignorance.
I cannot tell them.

Not flying again until pinfeathers
push the dead fluff away.

A Brief History of Blog (as portrayed in 1950s monster movies)

2006-10-26T13:25:00.000-07:00

Blog was born some time ago, and right away we infer that his parents must have hated him since they gave him such an ugly name. They must also have been Trekkies or yacht-racers, since the only people that use "log" as a synonym for diary are nautical types or sci-fi lovers. I figured someone must have taken this to the next step, and yes, I have found the Captain's Blog :stardate, now. The captain is a proponent of some AMAZING conspiracy theories, including, but not limited to, the idea that terrorists (or someone like them) are controlling hurricanes and directing them toward the U.S.

But consider the alternatives: Web + Diary = Wiary or Biary. Actually, Biary isn't so bad-sounding, but the one virtue of Blog is that it's short, whereas Biary is more than one syllable. No one could be expected to say more than one syllable in such a fast-paced world as the one that Blog inhabited. He lived in the town of Cyberspace, which is not much like actual space, but it tries hard. Another option would have been Web + Journal = Wournal or Bournal. Neither is short, and both are ugly. I blame Roget (when in doubt, the French can easily fill in as scapegoats) for not coming up with enough synonyms for diary. Although, it does also list record, memoir, account and chronicle. With these more obscure options I was able to come up with Bord, Boir, Woir, Wount, Bicle, and Wicle. How can you argue against Wicle or Boir? If you have a good case, I want to hear it. Now, please. Both of the aforementioned so far surpass blog that I demand a revolution. Maybe I will place an internet poll somewhere where all five of you reading this will find it and vote for either Wicle or Boir.

I digress; this article was about Blog, not those trying to overthrow him. Anyway, Blog got his big break in 1951 with "The Thing." (see how a specific, brilliant liguistic decision can make a career?)

Blog, looking like Frankenstein's monster with horns. Note, Blog is even scarier-looking out of costume.

In 1954, Blog was given another great role, this time as "the creature." Slightly less ambiguous!

Blog, trying to pull himself out of the swamp of ugly (where he still lives, by the way), from the film "The Creature from the Black Lagoon". The swamp of ugly is also where most of Blog's writers live.

For a while, Blog went unnoticed, but after two hit films he could not stay hidden, even in the swamp of ugly. In 1956 he did not appear, but was given creative credit in, "Invasion of the Body Snatchers."

When asked why Blog was credited, even though he never appeared in the film, director Don Siegel stated that "Blog has a tendency to take over people's lives, just like the body-snatchers."

The 50s were busy years for Blog, who in 1958, won the leading role in "Blob."

Here is Blog as "Blob," trying to eat, or perhaps absorb, the world. Please note that this is also Blog's real-life aspiration.

Blog's movie career was never the same after the 50s, although he went on to "Son of Blob" (1972), "Harry and the Hendersons" (1987), and occasional guest spots on "Alf".

Today, Blog has moved on to more-disturbing roles in politics and professional snooping. He is currently a featured profile on MySpace and enjoys internet, but not actual, dating. In person, he is too terrible and ugly to look at.

Competing Visions of the Future (a poem)

2006-10-23T23:13:00.000-07:00

1.
I've walked in circles my whole life—
wondered if they shrink only smaller,
if movement becomes pale—

tracing faint rounds back and forth between
office and studio apartment,
Coin-Up Laundromat and Mike's Burgers,
1st National Bank and Rooney's premium dive bar

where I make pinprick spheres,
poke holes in peanut shells with toothpicks—
at last only sit on one stool and try to flirt with one waitress
who is half my age
and unattractive

2.
On the 35th floor of the Bonaventure Hotel we sit in a rotating lounge
slowly encircling Los Angeles—
outside, lights streak and blur into colored lines that
fade out like firework tails

We watch headlights bounce,
bright angels of possibility
gaze with glowing eyes

Moving in circles, she says, is divine—
like concentric orbits of an asteroid

Moving in circles, she says, is real—
like layers of an onion

Perhaps love's true sensation—
is not dizziness
but the recovery from dizziness

Cold War Kids: Taking Over LA

2006-10-09T12:19:00.000-07:00

I could write this entry about how I used to share a quad in Stewart Hall with bassist Matt Maust, but I won't. Actually, there are some good stories there that involve Seinfeld, Rian, Dave, Phil and Jairus. (There's my one life reference for the month). No, I am writing merely as a fan.

It is past time to write something about the
Cold War Kids, who are, in my mind, one of the bands that everyone should be hearing about in the next year or so (think Arcade Fire or Sufjan Stevens). If you haven't heard of the Arcade Fire or Sufjan Stevens, don't worry, there's still time for you.

Cold War Kids, from left to right, Jonnie Russell, Matt Maust, Matt Aveiro, and Nathan Willett, looking all Hollywood.

Anyway, CWK have been plastered all over the media out here in LA, including an article that was on the cover of the LA Times
calendar section, the front cover of O.C. Weekly, and a full page article in Spin Magazine. Last night, CWK was also featured on the KROQ (LA's big modern rock station) show that plays local bands. I suspect big things, and have for months, even before I went to a sold out show featuring CWK as the headliners at the Troubadour back on Sep. 8th. The venue was packed as CWK unleashed their minimalistic yet rich sound to the enthusiastic audience. I couldn't help but think that they are the perfect Hollywood band—not in the sense of today's image-driven movie society, but a landmark like the Troubadour that hearkens back to the Golden Era of motion picture and rock of the '50s and '60s.

I dislike comparing CWK to other bands, because they are already so distinct in their style. They have the simple, pure, rock beauty of someone like the White Stripes, combined with the soul of blues and the narrative ability of Johnny Cash. This is rock and roll before the electronic invasion of synthesizers and guitar pedals. This is a garage band playing on a paddle-wheel river boat sailing across the forgotten American landscape. This is genuine music.

The songs themselves are quite compelling. They tell stories of people searching for redemption, but perhaps not always finding it. The driving base lines of "We Used to Vacation" or "Hang Me Up to Dry" suggest a primal urgency—a direct need for creative expression, while the fragility of "Pregnant" and the ballad of "St. John" demonstrate that CWK is no one trick pony. Or, for that matter, no one hit wonder. Their live show is just as raw and exciting as their songs—where makeshift instruments are beat upon the stage, and band members collide with one another, as if intoxicated by the melody.

Robbers and Cowards, the first full-length release from Cold War Kids is due out tomorrow and available in stores everywhere.

Robbers and Cowards, designed by bassist Matt Maust

The Story is in the Spam

2006-09-21T11:36:00.000-07:00

Lately, I have been getting incredible spam emails. So much more creative then the usual enlargements, stocks, real estate, FREE DEGREES NOW, or drugs (just say no). No, these are very creative and almost tell a story. Has anyone else gotten these? Perhaps someone (Matthew?) can illumine me to the true puposes of these emails, but until then I have several theories:

1) As an aspiring fiction writer I have somehow unwittingly signed up for some "share your story over email project." (I cry for you, story email project.)

2) These are actually coded messages from either a) the CIA or NSA or b) terrorist cells. I just need the decoder. Please, I want the decoder! I am willing to send in cereal box tops or UPCs.

3) There is some link that I am supposed to click on in the email. (This is not working, by the way, I haven't ever even seen a link.)

4) Some nasty virus is contained in the email (since I have a Mac, nothing happens). But let's be honest. There is another type of virus that is spread by the language in these spam stories, as I like to call them.

So, for your enjoyment, I have pasted a spam story below, and included my italicized commentary and critique, as I would in a writing workshop. I neglected to save the email address to look up the domain. Next time I promise I will.

(Untitled)

I rose quietly, so as not to waken the cowboys, took my fish spear, and went to the channel.

Very Hemingway here, but the cowboys threw me a bit. Cowboys by the beach is a fresh idea. Can they surf?

The only difficulty would be in getting the golfers.

That is always the difficulty. I prefer my golfers to be old, drunk and Scottish.

But later, when the wind freshened a little, I had to send Johnny on the outrigger itself. And then a verbose sermon, as unnourishing a crust as was ever thrown upon the waters.

WHO IS JOHNNY? We need some introduction to the character. Also, is verbose sermon functioning here as a metaphor? And for what?

To come about the canoe must be beached or sailed to shallow water where it can be held. Try to smell the clean breath of an island untainted by habitations. My heart missed a beat and my knees went weak. Now and again she would gasp with emotion, her eyes would become soft and almost sensuously happy.

This is some fine work, really. I find that islands tend to have the cleanest breath when they use Scope. But why do the narrator's knees go weak here? Is it because the island's breath is so sexy? And is the island gasping for emotion, or is this Johnny as a girl, or a new heroine?

The fish retaliated by biting Elaines tongue! Their smug self-complacency annoyed me a little. Another things I proposed to teach my children to take care of themselves. Their smug self-complacency annoyed me a little. I try to remedy this by giving her mostly drawing, at which she surpasses her older sister.

Well, maybe Elaine felt sensual because the fish bit her tongue? I admit, it is a bit of a stretch, but there are some crazy fetishes out there. I would suggest, however, placing the fish biting incident before Elaine feels sensual, unless the bite was supposed to interrupt the mood.

Elaine, trying to reciprocate her sensual feeling.

Soon we were in deep water, too far from the reef to make it swimming should the canoe capsize.

To be honest, this is how I feel about your story.

The trade wind blows fresh and fragrant through the house. Not even the whoops of the cowboys jar my nerves, for they are on the end of the wharf fishing. We pitched our camp under a big tournefortia bush, within a few feet of the beach.
The cowboys, fishing.

YES, I was waiting for the cowboys to come back, although I still wish that they were surfing instead of fishing. I think you might also include some dialogue here between the narrator and the cowboys, those saucy fellows.

Every island has a reef peculiar to itself.

No man is an island, except the one that has sexy Scope breath, and causes Elaine to feel even more sensual than when she was bit on the tongue by a fish.

I pulled him out, dropped him in my bag, and moved on. By the time we had retrieved the spears there were five sharks circling about us.

The suspense builds!

I woke at about four and put in two hours of hard work clearing a path to the north point. Probably not, for the rafters area foot apart and the roofing sheets close together. She always makes a great to-do about her pains. Johnny stayed at home, for she has a boil on her knee. The tide was low in the forenoon and the reef dry. These plaited fronds give both a beautiful effect and a raintight shelter.

I knew it! Johnny is a girl (or maybe just a cross-dressing, surfer cowboy?)

The cowboys ride off into the sunset, but where is the narrator?

Dear Email-a-Story Project Participant,

On the whole I thought the piece lacked the focus it needed to succeed. The revelation of a female Johnny comes too late. The split-personality disorder of the narrator (as Johnny, Elaine, her own children)has been overdone, e.g. Fight Club, Identity, and etc. Continuous description and unification of voice would help achieve a greater clarity. I also wondered about the endearing cowboys, so obvious in their comraderie, and why they would exclude the troubled narrator? The loose end of the problematic golfers still bothers me as well. In short, you have some work to do.

LA's Dopest Attorney

2006-09-14T12:07:00.000-07:00

The following picture is of Allison Margolin, and appeared in (as far as I remember) LA Weekly, in an ad that claimed that she is "LA's dopest attorney." It also feautured bullet points of benefits that clients could expect from hiring the talents of Margolin. The one that caught our eye, combined with the photo and the claim of "ivy-league educated" was "want to smoke pot on probation?"

Margolin giving her sultry stoned look.

I had a good laugh over this one, but as it turns out, Margolin does have an ivy-league education. She also seemingly takes cues from "Legally Blonde" in that she is not afraid to use sex appeal to win a case or attract clients. She favors the legalization of marijuana (hence the pun, or perhaps half pun, on "dopest"). She has an explanatory video on youtube, and the LA Times recently wrote an article on her.

You can't imagine how disappointed I was to find out that she wasn't a model hired to look like a sexy lawyer to garner business for a failing firm. That would have been perfect for Hollywood. She is, however, more of an enigma.

Grandmother (a poem)

2006-09-10T16:09:00.000-07:00

This is a first draft of my second poem I wrote for my poetry class.

I look into eyes of tall sagebrush on a still day,
green and silver without the polish of recognition.
Cumulus hair on skin cracked like deadwood.
The storm has lived here for months.

Hello I say, but she is buried.
Clogged lungs, dirtied eyes, how can she breathe?
The dunes are so high and so wide,
and the wind only keeps piling.

I have seen the future and it is dust.

Dust blows over everything, drifting until the farmers pack up.
Fields are worthless and the sky is dark with grime.
Get the kids in the car and head west.
Have you heard? There is gold in California!

She says Take me home,
but her home has dried up—
there are no crops that can take root in this soil.
She says If you loved me you would take me home,
but love must obey survival.

I want to tell her You are not from Kansas.

Why a Radiohead Concert Might Be More Like Heaven Than a Church Service

2006-09-04T11:14:00.000-07:00

This is a provocative title, and I partially mean it. I'm not just using hyperbole to praise Radiohead.

I had the privilege of seeing the June 28th show in San Diego. If you ever have a chance to see a show at Embarcadero Marina, do it. The venue is outside right near the harbor and if you are clever (I wasn't), you can go to shows for free by simply putting a boat in the water and sailing around the outside of the venue. The view wouldn't be bad either, probably about the same as from the edge of the bleachers.

Thom Yorke responded in a humorous way to the surroundings when he acknowledged the concert crashers. Yelling into the mic he said "Hey you there in the lake, did you pay then?" Of course, everyone loved this. I can't remember which song they went into after that, but it was a good transition. I'd like to say it was "Everything in Its Right Place," but that's probably a falsification.

Thom sings Happy Birthday to Colin Greenwood, photo borrowed from limegreeneye@flickr.

In what way was the concert more like heaven than church? I was reminded of at least two ways (that I probably originally felt at a U2 show). I don't mean that I feel closer to God at a Radiohead concert. Rather, I think that there is a sense of eternity at a good concert. That is, no one there wants it to end. After Radiohead played for nearly two hours everyone yelled until the band came out for an encore. If this method continued to work, I'm fairly sure that most people would have stayed all night. It's that kind of special feeling that is hard to explain and create. Historically significant events have the same sort of quality. Sometimes I do feel this way after worship, but there is no way that the majority of people in the church do, because I can always tell who can't wait to get out of the service. Why does Radiohead do a better job at captivating people's attention?

Probably it's because Radiohead doesn't play every Sunday, and because the audience adores the band. Although this is most likely bordering on idolatry, there is a great sense of unity in the crowd because of this shared acknowledgement of talent. While I do feel unified with other Christians at church, I don't always share the same attitudes toward the worship and sermon. I imagine that in Heaven everyone will justifiably adore their creator, and this sense of adulation will be a very powerful unifying force.

New Mexico and the Glen Workshop

2006-07-31T16:01:00.000-07:00

I was in Arizona and New Mexico for ten days with my dad. The scenery in New Mexico was something I've never experienced before. We got to visit Petrified Forest National Park, The Painted Desert,and Petroglyph National Monument, but Ghost Ranch, where Georgia O'Keeffe lived and worked in isolation for many years, was my favorite.

This picture doesn't really do justice to the tremendous display of colors at Ghost Ranch. In a few hundred feet green grass, red hills, blue mountains and sky, and grey, white and black rocks all appear—somehow conjured up by the desert.

O'Keeffe was famous for her unique perspective, which held realism and abstraction in a comfortable tension. Often, she would paint flowers or bones extremely close-up, to accentuate features often missed by casual viewers. I was able to visit the O'Keeffe Museum, where over one hundred of her pieces were on display. She is one of my favorite artists, probably because of her unified artistic vision and her notoriously eccentric lifestyle.

"Pelvis IV" shows the New Mexico sky as seen through the smooth and alluring bones of a cow.

The reason for our trip was not just to visit national parks and museums (I added those later), but to attend the Glen Workshops, hosted by Image, a journal of "Art Faith and Mystery." It was a chance for Christians of many denominations and artists of many fields to get together and share their experiences. The workshops were awesome. My dad led one workshop on mixed media, and I took the fiction workshop, led by Bret Lott, an accomplished author who also edits the Southern Review. Bret has some insightful advice and very funny stories about being a writer, published as a collection of essays, called "Before We Get Started".

We also were fortunate to hear a concert performed by Over the Rhine, an outstanding band of which I have been a fan for a few years. Their music is lyrically rich, often folk inspired melodic ballads. Their latest release, "Drunkard's Prayer," is my favorite.

Eugene Peterson, scholar, pastor and translator of "The Message" gave the homilies at worship. He has one of those gravelly voices, but it was very humble and inviting.

I could keep going, but let it suffice to say that this was the highlight of my summer.

Why J.R.R. Tolkien Would Have Liked Sigur Ros

2006-07-28T12:44:00.000-07:00

When I listen to the ethereal music of Iceland's Sigur Ros I can't help feeling the same way that I do when I read great epics like Homer's Odyssey or Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. A pervasive sense that the world has been born or died or changed forever rings from the melodies. Part of this is the immense sonic landscape that the band creates—songs that sound like a place rather than merely a progression of chords. The Arcade Fire's "Wake Up" or U2's "Where the Streets Have No Name" are songs that feel epic, but Sigur Ros has a whole catalog. Make no mistake, the Iceland group seems to craft the anthems of mythology—the stories of fairies and elves.

I am not the first to note the similarity between the band and Tolkien. A review in Stylus Magazine from several years ago beat me to it. Sigur Ros, like Tolkien, creates their own language for many of their songs. Called "Hopelandic," it is often primal and eerie, yet still maintains a weighty significance. Sometimes Icelandic is interspersed with the imaginary dialect, but to my ignorant American ears, it blends together almost seamlessly.

Sigur Ros trying to think of the word for "epic" in Hopelandic.

If you are still unconvinced, try watching the video for Glosoli. Hoppipolla is also excellent. I tend to think that Tolkien would agree.

As Seen on a Truck...

2006-07-26T21:33:00.000-07:00

We saw a truck like this on Imperial Highway.

I think this is all for the best...

Lyrics Are Poetry (or something)

2006-07-23T14:26:00.000-07:00

In my neverending search for quality music I occasionally find lyrics that make me want to have metal caps soldered over my ears. Here are a few of my "favorites."

1. System of a Down

"Lonely Day" from the album Hypontize

The alleged story on this song is that System is mocking Emo bands. This could be true. However, nothing excuses the complete disregard for basic principles of GRAMMAR and some of the worst rhymes this side of Kevin Federline. This song has received airplay ad nauseum. Here is pure poetic brilliance.

"Such a lonely day
And it's mine
The most loneliest day of my life

Such a lonely day
Should be banned
It's a day that I can't stand

Such a lonely day
Shouldn't exist
It's a day that I'll never miss
Such a lonely day
And its mine
The most loneliest day of my life"

System of a Down: Every day is the most loneliest day.

2. Nine Inch Nails

"Only" from the album With Teeth

Trent Reznor at his sollipsistic best. Denial will get you everywhere Trent. Just fade away!

Verse: "I'm becoming less defined as days go by
Fading away
And well you might say
I'm losing focus
Kinda drifting into the abstract in terms of how I see myself"

Chorus: "There is no you
There is only me
There is no you
There is only me
There is no ****ing you
There is only me
There is no ****ing you
There is only me"

Trent in his own world. There are no fans, there is only me!

3. She Wants Revenge

"These Things" from the album "She Wants Revenge"

The chorus of this song makes me laugh. She Wants Revenge is the musical equivalent of Ben Stein's Visine "Dry Eyes" commercials. Complete monotone. The lyrics alternate between the comically specific "popsicle" to the incredibly vague "cause of these things." The artist's struggle comes through so clearly: can't you all see? It's 'cause of these things!

"I heard it's cold out, but her popsicle melts
She's in the bathroom, she pleasures herself
Says I'm a bad man, she's locking me out
It's cause of these things, it's cause of these things

Let's make a fast plan, watch it burn to the ground
I try to whisper, so no one figures it out
I'm not a bad man, I'm just overwhelmed
It's cause of these things, it's cause of these things

Separated at birth? She Wants Revenge (left) and Ben Stein (right).

4. Hoobastank

"Inside of You" from the album Every Man for Himself

This speaks for itself...

"What do I have to do
To get inside of you?
To get inside of you?
Cuz I love the way you move,
When I'm inside of you.
When I'm inside of you..."

Hoobastank, saying "our songs are so much more poetic than 'we just want to get inside your pants.'"

5. Gwen Stefani

"What You Waiting For?" from the album Love, Angel, Music, Baby

Gwen is awesome. But really, how can she get away with this?

"LOOK AT YOUR WATCH NOW!
YOU'RE STILL A SUPER HOT FEMALE!
YOU GOT YOUR MILLION DOLLAR CONTRACT!
AND THEY'RE ALL WAITING FOR YOUR HOT TRACK!

What you waiting
What you waiting
What you waiting
What you waiting
What you waiting for!?"

Gwen, when is your book coming out?

Obsessed with Entertainment

2006-07-22T13:35:00.000-07:00

A recent article in Los Angeles Magazine posed the following question: do gossip TV shows like "Entertainment Tonight" and "Access Hollywood" satisfy some "primitive urge" within people? Presumably, the primitive urge would be idolizing the rich and famous. Who are the rich and famous covered by these shows? Primarily entertainers. This question made me laugh because it assumes that entertainment has been universally valued in the same way that it is in our current culture.

I sometimes wonder why professional athletes and actors/actresses are by far the highest paid people in our society. Even if you buy the argument that entertainment has been valued across cultural and historical lines, the disparity that exists today seems tremendous. If I'm lucky, I might make, in my lifetime, what Shaq has made this past season. Not that I have anything against Shaq, but he doesn't seem that crucial to our society.

How many men read the sports page (online or newspaper) before the actual headlines (if they even read the headlines at all)? How many people would prefer to spend an hour talking about the movie that's out in theaters this week than the situation in the Middle East? I think both describe me. I don't think "escapism" is the only reason I do it either. And it's not because I don't think the situation in the Middle East isn't important or worth talking about. I just may be more interested in the movie.

I am a product of my culture. Have you noticed that gas stations have begun installing TV screens at the pump that broadcast music videos? My only guess at their existence is to be "better than the station down the road." What TV screens have to do with the quality or value of gas is beyond me. But if that station is more entertaining, more people might go to it. Albertson's has just installed similar screens all over their store here. At the check-stands and in food areas the screens give you recipes (and probably entertainment news). Stater Brothers has had a trivia contest going over the PA to give away free bags of groceries. I wonder who will win.

The Rise of Indie Rock: An Alternative to Alternative

2006-07-15T18:19:00.000-07:00

Note: I started writing this for a journal that promptly went under before I could finish it and send it to them. Scoundrels.

In the mid 80’s with glam rock (KISS, Poison, Stryper) and new wave (Blondie, The B-52’s, any number of one hit wonders) at their respective kitschy heights, “alternative” started making the rounds as a term to describe bands that were not getting the airplay they deserved. The idea of a music underground, struggling against mainstream corporate grooming and pop gimmicks was attractive, and owed its impetus to the early punk rock of The Ramones, The Clash and The Sex Pistols. Defined by less make-up, pyrotechnics, and production and more authenticity, alternative became associated with decade-defining bands like REM, The Cure, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Nirvana.

KISS, defining "kitsch rock."

The huge critical and commercial success of alternative bands pushed the term into mainstream usage, and soon alternative bands were not only played on the air, but in the mid 90’s stations were calling themselves “alternative radio.” Many of these stations have since switched to the “modern rock” moniker, but the irony of mainstream alternative remains, attaching itself to everything from the pop-punk of Green Day to the electronic rock of Radiohead, from the intentionally unpolished sound of The Strokes to the geek rock of Weezer. Two decades later, alternative’s broad swath can be found on stations called top-40, modern rock, and even ‘classic rock.’

Somewhere in the middle of this alternative heyday, another reaction took place against the conglomerate that was corporate record labels (EMI, Sony/BMG, Warner, etc.) and major radio stations. Signing to a major label and getting heavy airplay became “selling out,” sacrificing artistic freedom and street credibility for cash and fame. Independent labels multiplied, offering seemingly untainted artists and a host of musical options. A similar movement is visible in film, where so many independent movies are as successful as their mainstream counterparts. In 2005, four of the best picture nominees were indies. Independent films, made with a smaller budget, often feature indepedent soundtracks.

In Zach Braff’s Garden State, when Natalie Portman declares ‘It’s the Shins, this one song will change your life, I promise you,’ the indie rock community gave a collective cheer. Garden State’s mood was perfected by music from The Shins and Iron and Wine, both from Seattle-based Sub-Pop Records. Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation used British indie stalwarts The Jesus and Mary Chain and My Bloody Valentine from London’s now defunct Creation Records to superb effect in capturing both the brilliant neons of Tokyo nights, and the introspective isolation of both main characters.

Natalie Portman smiling because she loves The Shins.

Big studios should be afraid. With internet downloads (legal and non) of music on the rise, album sales are down. When idie releases out-perform their big studio counterparts, insult is added to injury. The Postal Service's "Give Up," also from Sub-Pop, went platinum. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah offered a self-titled, self-released album that was purchased in large quantities by Target stores after generating a buzz. But perhaps corporate labels are only waiting for bands to succeed before buying them out from indie labels (The Strokes, Interpol, Death Cab for Cutie). Sub-Pop is famous for signing Nirvana and Sound Garden, only to later lose them, while Creation Records can boast discovering Oasis before having them bolt for a larger contract.

This may soon change. Bands don't necessarily need to be marketed in traditional ways in order to attract a national fan-base. Radiohead may be the next to self-release, following the expiration of their contract with EMI. Moreover, the best bands you’ve never heard of may not be unknown very much longer. Increasingly, indie rock music is getting major media exposure. Bright Eyes’s lead singer, Conner Oberst, called “the poster boy of indie rock” by Rolling Stone, was recently the musical guest on The Tonight Show, garnering a national audience. Instead of "selling out" to a larger label, he has staunchly released indie records. Oberst, a singer/songwriter who has drawn comparisons to a young Bob Dylan, released two albums simultaneously in 2005. I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning (Saddle Creek Records), finds Oberst churning out his customary, folk-inspired sound with whirlwind fervor. Digital Ash in a Digital Urn (Saddle Creek Records,) takes an electronic bent, mixing keyboards, drum machines and a vast array of effects with Oberst’s strong lyrics. Although his subject matter has ventured into Christian faith (Arc of Time), doubt (We Are Nowhere, and It's Now), politics (When the President Prays to God), Oberst writes most potently about failed relationships, again returning to the idea of independent music capturing a deeper emotional honesty than big studio releases.

Oberst looking very indie.

Certainly lost love has been a theme of big studio releases, but they often lack the authenticity and aesthetic flair of bands like Bright Eyes. The freedom from big label expectations and formulas (also Hollywood's problem) has led other indie artists like Elliott Smith or Daniel Johnston to create music that excels, precisely because it is not forced or over-produced. Bands like the White Stripes and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs appear to be intentionally creating a raw sound, perhaps in part a reaction to much of mainstream rock.

Indie bands can also self-promote now, more than ever before, through internet avenues. A popular website, E-Music, is devoted to the electronic sales of independent music. That, coupled with a seemingly generational love for artistic intergrity, a little punk rebellion, and a distrust and distaste for corporate America seems to point toward the continued rise of indie rock.

BLUE/RED #1 The Sky (selection from my current story)

2006-07-15T09:55:00.000-07:00

BLUE/RED #1 The Sky, 7/4/1985

The sun was setting on Independence Day. Bottle rockets cackled and shrieked on the blacktop and in backyards invisible from the cul-de-sac. Edgar lounged inside his parents’ house, but the rays shone in through the large picture window. He kept lifting his hand to shade his eyes. Tomas, a friend of the family drunk on appropriated ideas, sat across from Edgar on a burgundy velveteen couch. A gilt outline of light framed Tomas’ face.

“How do you know that the sky is blue?” Tomas asked, in a fit of profundity. He stared at Edgar with an aura of cosmic importance.

“What do you mean?” said Edgar. “Of course it’s blue.”

“If someone told you, when you were growing up, that the sky was red, and all you ever heard was red, red, red—would the sky be red?”

Edgar glanced at his, (he thought), pale green chair, not sure if he understood. Tomas licked his upper lip in anticipation of an answer.

“No. Lava is red. Blood is red. Not the sky.”

“What if you call it blue, but really see red? You can never know that you see the same color of the sky as everyone else, or even anyone else.”

“I guess not.”

Dinner interrupted them, and Tomas’ conspiratorial remarks faded with the last bites of desert. Edgar would have probably forgotten them completely, if not for the events of that night. He was awakened from a sleep without dreams by a fire engine’s siren. A stray bottle rocket caught in the branches of a dehydrated, overarching chestnut. The tree burned. From his bedroom window, Edgar could see his neighbor’s yard—and the smoky sky above, pulsing like an angry red vein from the glare of the flames and the flashing light of the siren.

Diane Arbus Show (at the Walker in Minneapolis)

2006-07-09T19:28:00.000-07:00

On vacation with my family last week I was able to see a great photography show (for free)! Diane Arbus was a prominent fashion photographer who worked for magazines like Harper's in the 50s. Later, she developed a singular portrait style by having her subjects look directly at the camera. She became interested in fringe communities—especially circus performers and insane asylum inmates. Arbus committed suicide in 1971.

At the exhibit, one photo so arrested my attention that I couldn't move on for several minutes.

Both disturbing and enthralling, I think the boy for me embodies a kind of dissastisfaction with the world. I have always been fascinated with dystopian children, not necessarily abused or neglected (Arbus photographed the children of the wealthy in New York), but ones that seem unable to enjoy childhood. Why does this happen? It is a small part of the problem of evil, but one that troubles me from time to time. This picture also seems especially relevant given current dissastisfaction with war in our country and and the fanaticism that started it. I recommend the show, which is currently at the Walker

This is Me (Until Further Notice)

2006-07-09T19:18:00.000-07:00

Someday I will get a better digital picture.

At Long Last

2006-07-09T18:34:00.000-07:00

Welcome!

I have started a blog. What you will find here is some of my writing, which could be anything. I write stories, essays, reviews and occasionally poems. Perhaps you might find one or two personal stories from my oh-too-exciting-life, but I will try and keep those to a minimum.