A new person started working with me a couple of weeks ago who's also a writer. Let's call her Miss Dramaturgy. Athough she's a playwright and holds a very different perspective, we've have some pretty good chats on issues of writing: work ethics, building ideas, how to make a living and still make time to write. A fellow soldier in the literary army, I suppose.
I shouldn't have been all that surprised when she finally asked, "So what do you write?"
I launched into my standard answer. "After growing up on a rather (un)healthy diet of comic books, I moved up the chain to mythology and then sci-fi/fantasy novels. I got more interested in literary work in college, and then into experimental material. At my best, I try work all of it into a story through a variety of ways".
"Interesting," said Miss Dramturgy. "What are you working on now?"
And I told her about the current sword-and-sorcery style piece I'm working on now. The celtic society, the lion-worshipping religion I have yet to name, the werewolves.
She peered at me through her narrow glasses for a moment and said, "Oh. You do genre work. I just assumed you did something more literary."
I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to rant and rave, to pull her up into the stars and see the spaceships and fabulous future worlds of Samuel Delaney and Octavia Butler. Or maybe hop on a dragon and fly to the imaginary lands of Ursula Lequin and China Mieville. But instead I just looked at her and said, "Yeah. I guess I'm genre guy."
I went home that day a little miffed. Not mad enough for mass murder, but mad enough to glower at people who stood a little too close to me on the sidewalk while we watched for the crossing light to change. I finally made it to the metro station and tapped my foot impatiently while I stood waiting for my train. A woman stood a little to my left, and she was a typical D.C. worker. Late 20's or early 30's, conversative black business suit with a blue shirt, hair pulled back behind her head nice and neat. She was a reading a John Grisham paperback, and I caught myself scowling at her, wondering why she'd waste time reading that crap when there's so many better books out there.
So, little lady on the metro platform. I'm sorry I had some bad thoughts about you. I've never been a big fan of Grisham, and I caught myself putting a box around this poor woman just for reading his book. I read as much crap as the next person, it's just a different kind of crap. I guess we all have our own little literary prejudices.
Excelsior.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Monday, April 11, 2005
Weekend Recap
My weekend ended up being a pretty nice, if somewhat unusual.
Saturday night I went to the Baltimore Museum of Art for the 2005 Annual Recital for the Daughters of Rhea, a loose-knit collective of sorts of belly-dance performers. There was quite a wide range of, from beginning level dancers to real veteran performers. There were dancers with veils and dancers with canes. Dancers with swords and dancers behind screens. Some stayed true to the older traditions of the dance, while others worked in small threads of R&B, performance art, and even heavy metal. The highlighted performers were Piper, who dances with a sword balanced on her head, Lotus, who brought a high level of sass and sultriness to the stage. How she struts and dances like she does in high heels, I'll never know. I admittedly mainly went to support Miss Anonymous L and the rest of the Blue Orchid Dancers, but still enjoyed myself.
Afterwards, we enjoyed some post-show eats with some of the other performers at the nearby Paper Moon Diner. One of the other performers teaches dance and sells belly dance costumes and gear out of her husbands comic book store in Baltimore. The other is a dancer and pianist with a degree in anthropology, and she's apparently won some Maryland awards for her Ragtime Piano playing. The whole evening was, in a phrase, very Baltimore.
The fun of the weekend continued into Sunday night with the Fatomas show at the 9:30 Club in downtown D.C. Fantomas, for lack of a better description, is melodic hardcore. This supergroup, fronted by Mike Patton of Faith No More/Mr. Bungle fame, features musicians from groups like the Melvins and Slayer. Most of their music is instrumental, and come highly influenced by movie themes and cartoon music (they do a wicked-evil cover of the the theme from the Omen). With the thundering double-bass drums, the near-grating guitar and bass, it was a very loud, energetic, and near-violent show. Patton brought in most of the melodies with his unique vocal gymnastics. It had been awhile since I'd seen live music quite like theirs, and I had a great time.
But now, unfortunately, it's tax time. And I've procrastinated enough. Time to break out the adding machine.
Excelsior.
Saturday night I went to the Baltimore Museum of Art for the 2005 Annual Recital for the Daughters of Rhea, a loose-knit collective of sorts of belly-dance performers. There was quite a wide range of, from beginning level dancers to real veteran performers. There were dancers with veils and dancers with canes. Dancers with swords and dancers behind screens. Some stayed true to the older traditions of the dance, while others worked in small threads of R&B, performance art, and even heavy metal. The highlighted performers were Piper, who dances with a sword balanced on her head, Lotus, who brought a high level of sass and sultriness to the stage. How she struts and dances like she does in high heels, I'll never know. I admittedly mainly went to support Miss Anonymous L and the rest of the Blue Orchid Dancers, but still enjoyed myself.
Afterwards, we enjoyed some post-show eats with some of the other performers at the nearby Paper Moon Diner. One of the other performers teaches dance and sells belly dance costumes and gear out of her husbands comic book store in Baltimore. The other is a dancer and pianist with a degree in anthropology, and she's apparently won some Maryland awards for her Ragtime Piano playing. The whole evening was, in a phrase, very Baltimore.
The fun of the weekend continued into Sunday night with the Fatomas show at the 9:30 Club in downtown D.C. Fantomas, for lack of a better description, is melodic hardcore. This supergroup, fronted by Mike Patton of Faith No More/Mr. Bungle fame, features musicians from groups like the Melvins and Slayer. Most of their music is instrumental, and come highly influenced by movie themes and cartoon music (they do a wicked-evil cover of the the theme from the Omen). With the thundering double-bass drums, the near-grating guitar and bass, it was a very loud, energetic, and near-violent show. Patton brought in most of the melodies with his unique vocal gymnastics. It had been awhile since I'd seen live music quite like theirs, and I had a great time.
But now, unfortunately, it's tax time. And I've procrastinated enough. Time to break out the adding machine.
Excelsior.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Dearest Reader.....
Today I'm thinking about the ever-vague concept of the reader. Who they are, what they want, and how much should a writer even care about them.
It's been on my mind a lot lately, ever since reading the novel Tumbling After by Paul Witcover. The book does passable balancing act of telling two parallel fantasy stories at the same time. The first and primary story focuses on Jack and Jilly, a set of young twins who may or may not possess near-godlike powers. Kestrel, and half-man/half-bird mutant, stars in the second story, which features a highly detailed, complex fantasy world. Although very different, Witcover develops relationships in theme and character between the two threads.
What I'm questioning is the way Witcover introduces us to the second story. Set in the late 1970's, Jack and Jilly are obsessed with a Dungeons and Dragons style game called Mutes and Norms. Kestrel's story is told by way of this of this game. The game is ruled by a series of complicated rules and rolls of 20 and 100 sided dice, and the rules echo within Kestrel's fantasy world to the point that they make some of their own choices by way of a dice roll.
I enjoyed this angle, particularly since I was a little bit of a D&D geek as a little kid. I didn't play it that often, but I loved reading the books of different monsters, and the odd little plots that people developed. Problem being, I'm over 30 and Witcover's book flows like a Young Adult/Teen book. The rules and details of it all wore a little on me at times, but the teens of today play games on the computer, not on tables with sets of dice and long, complicated rule sheets. I just can't see them wading through the longer sections that explain the rules of Mutes and Norms, much less responding with the same level of understanding that I did.
And so the big question for today: who is Witcover writing to? And does it even matter?
When I'm writing here, I obviously have some idea of an audience in mind. Aside from the people I know who look here, I keep things relatively directed towards books and writing in general. But when I'm writing fiction I don't really think about an audience until I get to the place of selling the piece. Then I try to think about where it fits, and possibly how to reshape things for the particular publication.
An argument could be made that thinking about audience stifles, perhaps even destroys, all chance at creativity and originality (enter Tom Clancy). But if no one reads it, if that book just sits coated in dust on that lonely shelf in the back corner of the library (you know the one I mean) does the book matter?
I'm not sure.
Part of my conflict comes from my liking the book. And I'm not the only one. It's getting some raves in a variety of spots. But if, despite glowing reviews, the intended audience doesn't read it, it's likely it will be forgotten. While I hope this doesn't happen to Mr. Witcover, I unfortunately think it's pretty likely.
Excelsior
It's been on my mind a lot lately, ever since reading the novel Tumbling After by Paul Witcover. The book does passable balancing act of telling two parallel fantasy stories at the same time. The first and primary story focuses on Jack and Jilly, a set of young twins who may or may not possess near-godlike powers. Kestrel, and half-man/half-bird mutant, stars in the second story, which features a highly detailed, complex fantasy world. Although very different, Witcover develops relationships in theme and character between the two threads.
What I'm questioning is the way Witcover introduces us to the second story. Set in the late 1970's, Jack and Jilly are obsessed with a Dungeons and Dragons style game called Mutes and Norms. Kestrel's story is told by way of this of this game. The game is ruled by a series of complicated rules and rolls of 20 and 100 sided dice, and the rules echo within Kestrel's fantasy world to the point that they make some of their own choices by way of a dice roll.
I enjoyed this angle, particularly since I was a little bit of a D&D geek as a little kid. I didn't play it that often, but I loved reading the books of different monsters, and the odd little plots that people developed. Problem being, I'm over 30 and Witcover's book flows like a Young Adult/Teen book. The rules and details of it all wore a little on me at times, but the teens of today play games on the computer, not on tables with sets of dice and long, complicated rule sheets. I just can't see them wading through the longer sections that explain the rules of Mutes and Norms, much less responding with the same level of understanding that I did.
And so the big question for today: who is Witcover writing to? And does it even matter?
When I'm writing here, I obviously have some idea of an audience in mind. Aside from the people I know who look here, I keep things relatively directed towards books and writing in general. But when I'm writing fiction I don't really think about an audience until I get to the place of selling the piece. Then I try to think about where it fits, and possibly how to reshape things for the particular publication.
An argument could be made that thinking about audience stifles, perhaps even destroys, all chance at creativity and originality (enter Tom Clancy). But if no one reads it, if that book just sits coated in dust on that lonely shelf in the back corner of the library (you know the one I mean) does the book matter?
I'm not sure.
Part of my conflict comes from my liking the book. And I'm not the only one. It's getting some raves in a variety of spots. But if, despite glowing reviews, the intended audience doesn't read it, it's likely it will be forgotten. While I hope this doesn't happen to Mr. Witcover, I unfortunately think it's pretty likely.
Excelsior
Thursday, April 07, 2005
The Rise of the Indian Rope Trick
It's the most wondrous of magic tricks every devised not just in India, but anywhere. A performer pulls out a long rope and with a combination of words and gestures coaxes it to climb high into the open sky without any sign of support. The magician then calls upon his young boy of an assistant, who climbs up the rope so high that he vanishes from view. When the boy doesn't return the magician angrily climbs up after the boy and carries the assisant back down with him to a resounding round of applause from the audience.
Quite an amazing trick, to be sure. The trouble is, it never happened.
Not ever.
Peter Lamont's fun but very informative book details the history of this unusual myth: who invented it, who embellished it, and why so many wanted to believe in it so deeply.
By all accounts the first "hard" reference came from a fabricated eye-witness report that appeared in the Chicago Tribune in 1890. Although the inventive journalist John Elbert Wilke, a man who would strangely become head of the U.S. Secret Service years later, printed a retraction of his original story by way of a letter to the editor a few months later it didn't make any difference. The story had already captured the attention of readers in the
U.S. and Britain to the level that others claimed to have witnessed the trick themselves.
Pulling in a variety of supporters over the years from
famed mystic Madame Blavatsky to contemporary
journalist John Keel of Moth-man fame, the Indian Rope
Trick became a touchstone reference point for anyone
trying to prove the existence of real magic or psychic
powers. Strange and often sometimes frightening stories developed around the swamis and magi who supposedly performed the trick, and the dangers experienced by those who attempted to discover its secrets.
Professional magicians divided into two camps over the issue. The first emcompassed performers who embraced this image of the Indian; they darkened their skin with greasepaint, put turbans on their heads and made wild claims of mystical powers to fill the seats for
their performances. The second camp saw the Indian Rope Trick as an impossibility, and they went out of there way to disprove all claims. Many explanations were offered: magnetism, hidden wires, drugs, and even mass hypnosis. Unforunately, none of these were able to perfectly duplicate the trick. In the early 1900's a bizarre cabal of magicians in London formed to disprove claims of mystic powers, with the rope trick high on their list. The cabal went so far to offer a substantial reward for anyone who could perform it, but no one ever claimed the prize. In the end the story of the Indian Rope Trick begins and ends with man's love of a good yarn and an unending ability to believe in the impossible.
Amidst all the campy historical facts Lamont manages to develop some interesting conclusions. The late 1800's brought us a huge rise in science and a growing disbelief in superstitions and the spiritual side of life. The educated westerner knew things like faeries and goblins didn't exist, but this story of a crazy, impossible trick fulfilled some need to believe in something that can't be understood. Placing it in the faraway land of India, a place westerners had difficulty dicovering anyway, only added a level of mystique. A fascination with the east began that continues to press on us even today. Lamont wisely makes the point that the stories we tell about others say more about us than about the subject matter of the story.
Excelsior.
Quite an amazing trick, to be sure. The trouble is, it never happened.
Not ever.
Peter Lamont's fun but very informative book details the history of this unusual myth: who invented it, who embellished it, and why so many wanted to believe in it so deeply.
By all accounts the first "hard" reference came from a fabricated eye-witness report that appeared in the Chicago Tribune in 1890. Although the inventive journalist John Elbert Wilke, a man who would strangely become head of the U.S. Secret Service years later, printed a retraction of his original story by way of a letter to the editor a few months later it didn't make any difference. The story had already captured the attention of readers in the
U.S. and Britain to the level that others claimed to have witnessed the trick themselves.
Pulling in a variety of supporters over the years from
famed mystic Madame Blavatsky to contemporary
journalist John Keel of Moth-man fame, the Indian Rope
Trick became a touchstone reference point for anyone
trying to prove the existence of real magic or psychic
powers. Strange and often sometimes frightening stories developed around the swamis and magi who supposedly performed the trick, and the dangers experienced by those who attempted to discover its secrets.
Professional magicians divided into two camps over the issue. The first emcompassed performers who embraced this image of the Indian; they darkened their skin with greasepaint, put turbans on their heads and made wild claims of mystical powers to fill the seats for
their performances. The second camp saw the Indian Rope Trick as an impossibility, and they went out of there way to disprove all claims. Many explanations were offered: magnetism, hidden wires, drugs, and even mass hypnosis. Unforunately, none of these were able to perfectly duplicate the trick. In the early 1900's a bizarre cabal of magicians in London formed to disprove claims of mystic powers, with the rope trick high on their list. The cabal went so far to offer a substantial reward for anyone who could perform it, but no one ever claimed the prize. In the end the story of the Indian Rope Trick begins and ends with man's love of a good yarn and an unending ability to believe in the impossible.
Amidst all the campy historical facts Lamont manages to develop some interesting conclusions. The late 1800's brought us a huge rise in science and a growing disbelief in superstitions and the spiritual side of life. The educated westerner knew things like faeries and goblins didn't exist, but this story of a crazy, impossible trick fulfilled some need to believe in something that can't be understood. Placing it in the faraway land of India, a place westerners had difficulty dicovering anyway, only added a level of mystique. A fascination with the east began that continues to press on us even today. Lamont wisely makes the point that the stories we tell about others say more about us than about the subject matter of the story.
Excelsior.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
On the Street with Mary Kay
I was running a bit late to work today, and rushed a little more quickly than usual in my short jaunt between Metro Center and the office. In my haste, a lovely plastic shopping bag, dancing merrily on the wind, smacked me in the face as I cruised by the display windows of the local Bums and Valiant Bookstore. I peeled off the Safeway bag (Safeway Shopper #4387656, you should really consider some more fiber in your diet) and a book in the window caught my eye.
Two pudgy but strong Japanese men wrestled on the cover, one draped in red and the other in plain colors. Done up in a painterly style, it it stuck out from the political fair the store usually showcases. Intrigued, I looked at the title: The Bowl Is Already Broken. And from there to the author's name, Mary Kay Zuravleff.
It was exciting for me, finding a new book by her. Not only is Mary Kay local to D.C., she taught a class of mine in grad school. It was good timing on my part. Up to Mary Kay, my professors were all card carrying members of the realist camp and I was feeling pretty antagonized by the whole program. It wasn't a writing class, but kind of a theory class on the structure of novels. But I still found her suprisingly open-minded to different styles and content, and it encouraged me to stick with the program. I haven't run into Mary Kay in probably a year and a half, and the last time I saw her she was still strugggling with the novel (along with working part-time and raising kids).
Her first novel, The Frequency of Souls, mixes unusual characters with a unique balance of realistic and fastastical plot twists. Bowl appears to be more realistic, but I'm sure it will hold substantial wackiness. If I'm reading the summary right, it's set in The National Museum of Asian Art, and I know she spent time as an editor for the Smithsonian. I'm hoping for lots of good behind-the-scenes stuff.
Congrats to Mary Kay. Featured that prominently in a store that rarely showcases fiction at all is a good sign that there's some buzz behind the book. It's on my to-buy list, and I hope a lot of other people pick it up as well.
Excelsior.
Two pudgy but strong Japanese men wrestled on the cover, one draped in red and the other in plain colors. Done up in a painterly style, it it stuck out from the political fair the store usually showcases. Intrigued, I looked at the title: The Bowl Is Already Broken. And from there to the author's name, Mary Kay Zuravleff.
It was exciting for me, finding a new book by her. Not only is Mary Kay local to D.C., she taught a class of mine in grad school. It was good timing on my part. Up to Mary Kay, my professors were all card carrying members of the realist camp and I was feeling pretty antagonized by the whole program. It wasn't a writing class, but kind of a theory class on the structure of novels. But I still found her suprisingly open-minded to different styles and content, and it encouraged me to stick with the program. I haven't run into Mary Kay in probably a year and a half, and the last time I saw her she was still strugggling with the novel (along with working part-time and raising kids).
Her first novel, The Frequency of Souls, mixes unusual characters with a unique balance of realistic and fastastical plot twists. Bowl appears to be more realistic, but I'm sure it will hold substantial wackiness. If I'm reading the summary right, it's set in The National Museum of Asian Art, and I know she spent time as an editor for the Smithsonian. I'm hoping for lots of good behind-the-scenes stuff.
Congrats to Mary Kay. Featured that prominently in a store that rarely showcases fiction at all is a good sign that there's some buzz behind the book. It's on my to-buy list, and I hope a lot of other people pick it up as well.
Excelsior.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Local Writer Takes it Home
Yep, cheesy headline.
Just a pointer to today's USA Today. In amongst the articles of the opening of baseball season and the return of basball to D.C. sits a wonderful poem and interview with D.C. poet, author and Gargoyle Guru Ricard Peabody.
Peabody's written a number of stories and poems over the years about the Washington Senators and the sense of loss that spiralled to everyone in the area when the team got ripped away from our town. I'm particularly fond of the baseball related stories in his collection Open Joints on Bridge.
I hope now Peabody will find that special something he's been looking for now that baseball's back.
Excelsior.
Just a pointer to today's USA Today. In amongst the articles of the opening of baseball season and the return of basball to D.C. sits a wonderful poem and interview with D.C. poet, author and Gargoyle Guru Ricard Peabody.
Peabody's written a number of stories and poems over the years about the Washington Senators and the sense of loss that spiralled to everyone in the area when the team got ripped away from our town. I'm particularly fond of the baseball related stories in his collection Open Joints on Bridge.
I hope now Peabody will find that special something he's been looking for now that baseball's back.
Excelsior.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Whitman
WAMU's Metro Connection today offers up an interesting interview with Kim Roberts, editor of Beltway and a Walt Whitman scholar.
The interview mostly highlights the connections between Whitman and Washington, D.C. His time as a nurse in D.C. during the Civil War as well his admiration of Lincoln and fascination with the politics of war make for an interesting segment. They do make a little too much of how Whitman treated the wounded of both sides; this was actually quite common for nurses and doctors during the war. Other than that, it's worth a listen. Also interesting, because D.C.'s direct involvement with the Civil War is so often forgotten. With all the battlefields in Virginia, Maryland and Pennsylvania people forget how involved the people of D.C. (and by this I mean the people who actually live there, not the politicians) were.
I remember the first time I ever heard of Whitman. It was in the 3rd grade, and I remember being amazed that this man was both a journalist and a poet. And then a nurse during the Civil War on top of it all. Even today, something indefinably American hides within his words. Maybe it's plain accessability of his words, despite his lyrical flow. Unlike so much poetry, and art in general, it has a flow that easy to track with and still holds up well today. I have a few Whitman books---Leaves of Grass, a Best of, and a bio on his time as a nurse---sitting on the bookshelf behind me. It's past time to dust them off and remind myself why I bought them.
Excelsior.
The interview mostly highlights the connections between Whitman and Washington, D.C. His time as a nurse in D.C. during the Civil War as well his admiration of Lincoln and fascination with the politics of war make for an interesting segment. They do make a little too much of how Whitman treated the wounded of both sides; this was actually quite common for nurses and doctors during the war. Other than that, it's worth a listen. Also interesting, because D.C.'s direct involvement with the Civil War is so often forgotten. With all the battlefields in Virginia, Maryland and Pennsylvania people forget how involved the people of D.C. (and by this I mean the people who actually live there, not the politicians) were.
I remember the first time I ever heard of Whitman. It was in the 3rd grade, and I remember being amazed that this man was both a journalist and a poet. And then a nurse during the Civil War on top of it all. Even today, something indefinably American hides within his words. Maybe it's plain accessability of his words, despite his lyrical flow. Unlike so much poetry, and art in general, it has a flow that easy to track with and still holds up well today. I have a few Whitman books---Leaves of Grass, a Best of, and a bio on his time as a nurse---sitting on the bookshelf behind me. It's past time to dust them off and remind myself why I bought them.
Excelsior.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Galley-Ho!
I just received the galleys for a short story a small publisher picked up for an anthology.
It's a unique experience for me, because it was sent electronically. All done in MSWord using features I've never really explored, the editor's changes stand out in red. I have to go through them and vote yes or no with a right-click on the mouse for all the changes. Thankfully most of the problems are format issues with their house-style (one space after periods instead of two, for example) a few grammar mistakes that I would have caught if it hadn't been my own work. My previous experience with galleys is limited to print versions covered with copyeditor marks. This is a much easier system to read, and while I hate to admit it Microsoft plugged in some nice features to allow all of this. It certainly made things easier in a time sense. The publisher resides in Manitoba, Canada and I'm all the way down in Vriginia. With the state of international mail, who knows how long it might take to mail changes back and forth to each other.
The full book should come out sometime in May or June, assuming everything goes well. I'm really curious to see what other stories lie inside those pages. I'll post an update when the book comes out, but in the meantime I have some editing to do.
Excelsior.
It's a unique experience for me, because it was sent electronically. All done in MSWord using features I've never really explored, the editor's changes stand out in red. I have to go through them and vote yes or no with a right-click on the mouse for all the changes. Thankfully most of the problems are format issues with their house-style (one space after periods instead of two, for example) a few grammar mistakes that I would have caught if it hadn't been my own work. My previous experience with galleys is limited to print versions covered with copyeditor marks. This is a much easier system to read, and while I hate to admit it Microsoft plugged in some nice features to allow all of this. It certainly made things easier in a time sense. The publisher resides in Manitoba, Canada and I'm all the way down in Vriginia. With the state of international mail, who knows how long it might take to mail changes back and forth to each other.
The full book should come out sometime in May or June, assuming everything goes well. I'm really curious to see what other stories lie inside those pages. I'll post an update when the book comes out, but in the meantime I have some editing to do.
Excelsior.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Hebdomeros Mailbag
loiusdad1819@___ asks:
I like the quote you use on your profile. What is it?
It's time I come clean. This will be really hard to admit, but here it goes.
Hebdomeros is not my real name.
I know, I know. You all feel ripped off. You feel lied to. You might even be thinking, "If he lies about his name, what else could he be lying about? Why I bought Alex Garland's The Coma solely because of his review, and now I may not read it! Damn you, Hebdomeros!".
To make it worse, I ripped it off.
Hebdomeros is a pretty kick-ass novel by Giorgio De Chirico. Best known as a painter and somewhat of a precursor to Surrealism, De Chirico's novel tells the story of Hebdomeros as he wanders through a very imaginative and confusing landscape. From a Surrealist point of view, it's a brilliant book and one of the few novels they officially supported (they disliked most fiction of their day for being too realistic and preferred poetry over any other written form). Although not the easiest of reads, it's worth the effort for De Chirico's unique descriptions and bizarre sense of prose.
I picked the name for a variety of reasons. I'm a fan of both De Chirico and Surrealism, there are many links between my interests and the novel, and it's obscure enough that I didn't think anyone else would be using it. Probably most important, I just like the way it sounds.
Hebdomeros.
Hebdomeros.
Say it loud, say it often.
Hebdomeros.
Back to the question.
The quote comes directly from the novel, and I like the attitude behind it. Thanks for asking.
On a completely other note, I'm pulling together some tentative ideas for some regular features here. We'll see how much people (including me) like them, and if they are even worthwhile.
Excelsior.
I like the quote you use on your profile. What is it?
It's time I come clean. This will be really hard to admit, but here it goes.
Hebdomeros is not my real name.
I know, I know. You all feel ripped off. You feel lied to. You might even be thinking, "If he lies about his name, what else could he be lying about? Why I bought Alex Garland's The Coma solely because of his review, and now I may not read it! Damn you, Hebdomeros!".
To make it worse, I ripped it off.
Hebdomeros is a pretty kick-ass novel by Giorgio De Chirico. Best known as a painter and somewhat of a precursor to Surrealism, De Chirico's novel tells the story of Hebdomeros as he wanders through a very imaginative and confusing landscape. From a Surrealist point of view, it's a brilliant book and one of the few novels they officially supported (they disliked most fiction of their day for being too realistic and preferred poetry over any other written form). Although not the easiest of reads, it's worth the effort for De Chirico's unique descriptions and bizarre sense of prose.
I picked the name for a variety of reasons. I'm a fan of both De Chirico and Surrealism, there are many links between my interests and the novel, and it's obscure enough that I didn't think anyone else would be using it. Probably most important, I just like the way it sounds.
Hebdomeros.
Hebdomeros.
Say it loud, say it often.
Hebdomeros.
Back to the question.
The quote comes directly from the novel, and I like the attitude behind it. Thanks for asking.
On a completely other note, I'm pulling together some tentative ideas for some regular features here. We'll see how much people (including me) like them, and if they are even worthwhile.
Excelsior.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Shake that Stick
Lady Litblitzin passed along a book meme, so I guess it's my turn.
I'd probably give completely different answers in a week, but oh well.
Excelsior.
You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be?
A little confused by this one, as is everyone else. I would want to be Haruki Murakami's A Wind Up Bird Chronicle. I haven't read anything else in recent years that filled my head with such magic and wonder.
To burn? I could never, ever, ever burn a book. I can't even throw away cheap-ass review copies I sometimes get from the magazine. But if I had to, it would probably be anything by Al Franken. He's not half so clever as he thinks he is, and he gives good liberals a bad name by engaging in all the name calling he complains about so much. He can be funny, but I used him in teaching Freshman how not to write an essay. Not very well thought out at all.
Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?
Yep. As a kid, I remember having a crush on Eilonwy, the spunky yet still lady-like like heroine in Lloyd Alexander's Prydain chronicles. Kathy Acker is probably the closest as an adult (she inserts herself into her own books, so I'm counting it).
The last book you bought is:
After the Quake by Haruki Murakami and The Collected Stories of Roald Dahl. Bought shortly after the first of the year, and haven't read either one yet.
The last book you read:
Tumbling After by Paul Witcover
What are you currently reading?
Look at the sidebar, you slacker! Oh, ok. The Rise and Fall of the Indian Rope Trick by Peter Lamont. Silly but well researched book on the history of the greatest magic trick ever dreamed of.
Five books you would take to a deserted island:
Empire of the Senseless by Kathy Acker
The Complete Works of Harlan Ellison
Mason and Dixon by Thomas Pynchon
Bullfinch's Greek Mythology
A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle
I'd probably give completely different answers in a week, but oh well.
Excelsior.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
The Just-us League
Last night I watched The League of Extraordinary Gentleman, which someone at worked had taped and loaned to me. It's a fun concept, merging all of those iconic 19th century action and gothic characters into one massive story. It had more potential than it pays off with, though. The comic series by Alan Moore that's it's based on goes into considerably more depth with the plot and quasi-pomo style links to the original stories. Although the main plot twists are all the same in the movie as in the comic, they come off a lot more believable in the comic form. I'm sure it's mostly because they're developed more deeply. From a guilty-pleasure action movie standpoint, though, it's still kind of fun. Hard to beat Alan Quartermain teaching Tom Sawyer how to shoot a rifle. And the passing of the hero torch between the two is a nice touch (and in a way echoes the passing of empires from Britain to the U.S.).
This is, I think, the second movie based on Alan Moore's comics. The first was From Hell, the Johnny Deep flick about Jack the Ripper. Likewise, it wasn't a bad movie. It just lacked a lot of the more complicated nuances of Moore's themes and plots. I keep hearing grumblings about a movie based on Moore's landmark work The Watchmen. In many ways it would be more difficult to do, at least as a stand-alone movie. There are a lot more fans of that title, and it would be picked apart to much higher degree.
In a somewhat related note, I'm wary but curious about Sin City, which opens this weekend. Based on a series by another great comic book author, it should at least be a fun action ride. Miller reportedly had significant involvement in the script and direction so it's possible it might follow his ideas more closely than the movies based on Moore's work. Visually, at least, it looks pretty close. We shall see.
Excelsior.
This is, I think, the second movie based on Alan Moore's comics. The first was From Hell, the Johnny Deep flick about Jack the Ripper. Likewise, it wasn't a bad movie. It just lacked a lot of the more complicated nuances of Moore's themes and plots. I keep hearing grumblings about a movie based on Moore's landmark work The Watchmen. In many ways it would be more difficult to do, at least as a stand-alone movie. There are a lot more fans of that title, and it would be picked apart to much higher degree.
In a somewhat related note, I'm wary but curious about Sin City, which opens this weekend. Based on a series by another great comic book author, it should at least be a fun action ride. Miller reportedly had significant involvement in the script and direction so it's possible it might follow his ideas more closely than the movies based on Moore's work. Visually, at least, it looks pretty close. We shall see.
Excelsior.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Hebdomeros Mailbag
Not sure why I got this in my email last night, but i did:
In the immortal words of Freddy Mercury, "Who wants to live forever?"
I do.
I am seriously looking for a beautiful female vampire to infect me with eternal life. After all it takes more money to do a fraction of the things one wants to do than can be made in several lifetimes. As a vampire one at least has a fighting chance of accomplishing something worth writing home about.
R.T.
Assuming there really are vampires, I would think the last people in the world they would want to bring into their fold are people begging to join. You're setting yourself up to be a donor for life (in vamp culture, donors are people who willingly give up their blood). But maybe that's me.
And if you really want eternal life you might have to go with a less beautiful vampire. I would imagine the really sexy ones have to fight off the offers with a stick. Or maybe a stake. Not sure.
Try one of the ugly old masters. One of those shrivelled, heavy set, bald guys with bulging veins and purple lips. They might just be desperate enough to give you a little try, you desperate little weasel.
Seriously, though, run, run, run away from anyone who claims vamphood. Real or not, sexy or ugly, they're not worth the danger.
Excelsior.
In the immortal words of Freddy Mercury, "Who wants to live forever?"
I do.
I am seriously looking for a beautiful female vampire to infect me with eternal life. After all it takes more money to do a fraction of the things one wants to do than can be made in several lifetimes. As a vampire one at least has a fighting chance of accomplishing something worth writing home about.
R.T.
Assuming there really are vampires, I would think the last people in the world they would want to bring into their fold are people begging to join. You're setting yourself up to be a donor for life (in vamp culture, donors are people who willingly give up their blood). But maybe that's me.
And if you really want eternal life you might have to go with a less beautiful vampire. I would imagine the really sexy ones have to fight off the offers with a stick. Or maybe a stake. Not sure.
Try one of the ugly old masters. One of those shrivelled, heavy set, bald guys with bulging veins and purple lips. They might just be desperate enough to give you a little try, you desperate little weasel.
Seriously, though, run, run, run away from anyone who claims vamphood. Real or not, sexy or ugly, they're not worth the danger.
Excelsior.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Sandwiches with Frank Zappa
After much debate with myself I decided to return to school. Registration began yesterday, so I'm still getting adjusted to this new situation.
The campus is unusual, and spreads out across a desert flat as a table top. I arrived close to sunset yesterday. With the sun's orange rays streaming down, the desert sand glowed with the color of fire. Scores of jungle gyms and swing sets littered the landscape. Some appeared brand new and gleamed in the bright light, while others were dull, rusty and looked ready to topple over with the slightest breeze. Instead of large stone buildings, the school uses gigantic circus tents for classrooms. I walked by them, lugging my heavy load of books and clothes, trying to find my way to to the dormitories. With my arms getting tired, I searched for someone to help me out.
I saw a large man with a shaved head wearing a sign across his chest that said, "Hi! I'm Simon. Ask me if you're lost."
So I walked up to him and said, "Hello, Simon. Am I lost?"
Simon raised an open palm to me and I saw a deep green eyeball in the center. I first thought it an elaborate tattoo, but it winked at me. "Do you know where you are?" Simon asked.
"Yes. No. Kind of. At college."
Simon moved his hand with the eye up and down in a nodding motion. "Do you know where you're going?"
"Sort of. The dorms. I don't know where they are, though."
"You're borderline," Simon said with a sigh. "But lost enough, I suppose, for me to talk to. Just head that way. You'll see the dorm with your name on it."
Simon's free hand pointed farther down the plateau. Following his direction, I found my way to an encampment of smaller tents ranging in all styles and colors. Mine was a simple dome tent, bright green, nestled underneath a giant swing set. Aside from the single swing, the set also had a gleaming silver slide a a long rope perfect for climbing, swinging or both. I walked though the doorway and looked around. The bare floor was neatly swept, with nice neat lines running through the sand. The sunlight blazing through the fabric of the tent gave everything a neon-green hue. A man was sitting on the floor, legs crossed and fumbling with a red flying-v electric guitar. He's average height with a thick mass of curly, black hair and a jet-black mustache, wearing white t-shirt that exclaimed, "Gravity. It's not just a good idea. It's the law."
"Hi, I'm Frank Zappa!" he said as he stood up. "I guess we're roomies."
He held out his hand to shake my own. I took his hand, felt his tight grip and said, "Nice to meet you. I thought you were dead."
Zappa simply shrugged in reply. "They'll accept anyone at this school."
"You still play?" I said, pointing at the guitar. "Are you a music major?"
"Nah. That's just a hobby now. I'm majoring in sandwiches."
"Sandwiches."
"Yeah. They're my passion now."
Zappa bends down and presses hard on the ground. A giant refrigerator popped out of the ground, brought up by some spring-loaded secret panel. The refrigerator stands three people high and two people wide and seems much too large for the size of the tent. Yet, somehow, it manages to fit. Zappa opens the door and starts tossing sandwiches at me as he pulls them out of the refrigerator. Tuna on rye. Hard salami on a baguette. Broiled fish eyes between two pieces of chicken-fried steak. Asphalt patties on wheat grass bread. I look at them closely.
"They look delicious," I said. "But they're all made out of styrofoam."
He gave me a look like I'm an idiot. "Well of course. You don't get to work with real food until your at least half-way through the program."
I nodded, pretending to understand.
"What about you?" he asked. "What's your major?"
"I'm still trying to figure that out."
"Undecided, eh? You better decide soon. Might end up like Simon out there."
"What do you mean?"
"Word is, he refused to declare a major. By the time graduation rolled around they had to give him something to do. So now he just stands out there, helping people who are lost. So you better get on track, bucko." Zappa then made a gun shape with his hand, cocked the trigger and fired at me. A pop sound came from nowhere.
"Well," I said. "I'm going to unpack."
"Please do. Don't let me stand in your way."
I unrolled my sleeping bag and unpacked my books and clothes, piling them up neatly wherever I could. Zappa played with his sandwiches, swapping the parts from one to another creating new and bizarre combinations of potential food. After packing, I read a bit of the newest issue of Fence and put my head down to sleep. Zappa was still up, playing with his sandwiches.
And thus began my new foray into education.
Excelsior.
The campus is unusual, and spreads out across a desert flat as a table top. I arrived close to sunset yesterday. With the sun's orange rays streaming down, the desert sand glowed with the color of fire. Scores of jungle gyms and swing sets littered the landscape. Some appeared brand new and gleamed in the bright light, while others were dull, rusty and looked ready to topple over with the slightest breeze. Instead of large stone buildings, the school uses gigantic circus tents for classrooms. I walked by them, lugging my heavy load of books and clothes, trying to find my way to to the dormitories. With my arms getting tired, I searched for someone to help me out.
I saw a large man with a shaved head wearing a sign across his chest that said, "Hi! I'm Simon. Ask me if you're lost."
So I walked up to him and said, "Hello, Simon. Am I lost?"
Simon raised an open palm to me and I saw a deep green eyeball in the center. I first thought it an elaborate tattoo, but it winked at me. "Do you know where you are?" Simon asked.
"Yes. No. Kind of. At college."
Simon moved his hand with the eye up and down in a nodding motion. "Do you know where you're going?"
"Sort of. The dorms. I don't know where they are, though."
"You're borderline," Simon said with a sigh. "But lost enough, I suppose, for me to talk to. Just head that way. You'll see the dorm with your name on it."
Simon's free hand pointed farther down the plateau. Following his direction, I found my way to an encampment of smaller tents ranging in all styles and colors. Mine was a simple dome tent, bright green, nestled underneath a giant swing set. Aside from the single swing, the set also had a gleaming silver slide a a long rope perfect for climbing, swinging or both. I walked though the doorway and looked around. The bare floor was neatly swept, with nice neat lines running through the sand. The sunlight blazing through the fabric of the tent gave everything a neon-green hue. A man was sitting on the floor, legs crossed and fumbling with a red flying-v electric guitar. He's average height with a thick mass of curly, black hair and a jet-black mustache, wearing white t-shirt that exclaimed, "Gravity. It's not just a good idea. It's the law."
"Hi, I'm Frank Zappa!" he said as he stood up. "I guess we're roomies."
He held out his hand to shake my own. I took his hand, felt his tight grip and said, "Nice to meet you. I thought you were dead."
Zappa simply shrugged in reply. "They'll accept anyone at this school."
"You still play?" I said, pointing at the guitar. "Are you a music major?"
"Nah. That's just a hobby now. I'm majoring in sandwiches."
"Sandwiches."
"Yeah. They're my passion now."
Zappa bends down and presses hard on the ground. A giant refrigerator popped out of the ground, brought up by some spring-loaded secret panel. The refrigerator stands three people high and two people wide and seems much too large for the size of the tent. Yet, somehow, it manages to fit. Zappa opens the door and starts tossing sandwiches at me as he pulls them out of the refrigerator. Tuna on rye. Hard salami on a baguette. Broiled fish eyes between two pieces of chicken-fried steak. Asphalt patties on wheat grass bread. I look at them closely.
"They look delicious," I said. "But they're all made out of styrofoam."
He gave me a look like I'm an idiot. "Well of course. You don't get to work with real food until your at least half-way through the program."
I nodded, pretending to understand.
"What about you?" he asked. "What's your major?"
"I'm still trying to figure that out."
"Undecided, eh? You better decide soon. Might end up like Simon out there."
"What do you mean?"
"Word is, he refused to declare a major. By the time graduation rolled around they had to give him something to do. So now he just stands out there, helping people who are lost. So you better get on track, bucko." Zappa then made a gun shape with his hand, cocked the trigger and fired at me. A pop sound came from nowhere.
"Well," I said. "I'm going to unpack."
"Please do. Don't let me stand in your way."
I unrolled my sleeping bag and unpacked my books and clothes, piling them up neatly wherever I could. Zappa played with his sandwiches, swapping the parts from one to another creating new and bizarre combinations of potential food. After packing, I read a bit of the newest issue of Fence and put my head down to sleep. Zappa was still up, playing with his sandwiches.
And thus began my new foray into education.
Excelsior.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Language in Mind
Last night I went to a lecture/panel discussion at Ford's Theatre in downtown D.C. Tied to their current show Big River, the panel consisted of cast members and the director of this musical based on Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Produced by the San Francisco-based theatre Deaf West, the show simultaneously incorporates singing and sign language throughout the performance.
One of the actors, who is hearing but has been acting with deaf theatre companies for several years, made some interesting comments on sign language and theatre. Their goal in adapting a musical like Big River for both singing and sign language is to make use of sign language for something more than conversation. In a way, the idea is to create a sense of music and poetry within sign language.
My personal knowledge of sign language is pretty limited. I know how to finger-spell my name and some basics like "Thank you", "Hello", "Yes", and the all important word "Toilet". But from what little I understand sign language is not, as many think, an adaptation of the spoken english language. It is its own language with its own rules, structures, syntax and quirks. So in a sense when an interpreter signs a spoken message (or the opposite), what they are really doing is translating. The director described their use of both languages within performances as something akin to movie subtitles, which is probably not too far off.
All of which has me wondering about language and how it works inside the brain.
I know when I think I generally think in words in the english language. There are the odd occasions when I'm trying to picture something visual or hear something auditory, but generally I think in words that I hear in my head. I wonder if the deaf, particularly the deaf who have never heard speech, think in sign and how exactly it takes shape within their mind. There is a definite deaf culture, and all this must impact how they think, how they approach the world and how they interact with it. What, exactly, could consitute poetry, music, and art within the context of sign language? I'm probably asking questions with obvious answers to some people, but to me they are a little perplexing.
It's something to consider if you ever try to write from the perspective of a character who thinks in another language, be it French, American Sign Language, or another form of communication we have yet to experience.
Excelsior.
One of the actors, who is hearing but has been acting with deaf theatre companies for several years, made some interesting comments on sign language and theatre. Their goal in adapting a musical like Big River for both singing and sign language is to make use of sign language for something more than conversation. In a way, the idea is to create a sense of music and poetry within sign language.
My personal knowledge of sign language is pretty limited. I know how to finger-spell my name and some basics like "Thank you", "Hello", "Yes", and the all important word "Toilet". But from what little I understand sign language is not, as many think, an adaptation of the spoken english language. It is its own language with its own rules, structures, syntax and quirks. So in a sense when an interpreter signs a spoken message (or the opposite), what they are really doing is translating. The director described their use of both languages within performances as something akin to movie subtitles, which is probably not too far off.
All of which has me wondering about language and how it works inside the brain.
I know when I think I generally think in words in the english language. There are the odd occasions when I'm trying to picture something visual or hear something auditory, but generally I think in words that I hear in my head. I wonder if the deaf, particularly the deaf who have never heard speech, think in sign and how exactly it takes shape within their mind. There is a definite deaf culture, and all this must impact how they think, how they approach the world and how they interact with it. What, exactly, could consitute poetry, music, and art within the context of sign language? I'm probably asking questions with obvious answers to some people, but to me they are a little perplexing.
It's something to consider if you ever try to write from the perspective of a character who thinks in another language, be it French, American Sign Language, or another form of communication we have yet to experience.
Excelsior.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Setting the Scene
We all know setting is important. It's that area where the characters live and breathe, that special place where the action occurs. It's sometimes vastly important to the story, and other times a quick sketch of a backdrop. In the right hands and in the right story setting can transform from a simple location into a profound echo of the metaphors and themes of the story.
It doesn't happen very often, but it's always very strange to me when I read a novel or story set within a location I know pretty well. The novel I'm reading now, Tumbling After, takes place in Rehobeth Beach, Delaware. It's about three hours from where I live now, and I spent many a good summer there as a kid. At least so far, author Paul Witcover's vison/memory is more general than mine. Aside from quick mentions of route 1, it could really be Anybeach, U.S.A. I'm hoping eventually the characters will drift down to the boardwalk and pass Rehoboth oddities like Dolly's Candy, Gershman's clothes, or even a kitsch-infected mini-golf place. But so far its all waves and sand between the toes, and nothing really distinguishing. There's a lot of local color to the place, and not using seems like a waste. Perhaps it wouldn't mean a thing to a reader who's never visited Rehobeth, but to someone who has it comes off a touch pallid.
But at least Witcover hasn't written anything out and out wrong.
A few years ago I read Children of the Night by Dan Simmons. Part of the novel is set in Alexandria, Virginia and he describes it as a sleepy, southern farm town south of Washington, D.C. Now that description may have fit Alexandria of the 1960's, and that may very well be the last time Simmons made it there. But the novel was set in the 1990's, and many of the details were just laughable. It's been a long, long time since the homes in Alexandria had cows in the front yard. I'm all for it, though, if the city wants to bring them back.
This little entry is nothing against Witcover or Simmons (I actually like Simmons quite a bit). Just a little lesson on watching those little details that can trip up the reader. If it's been awhile, you just might want to visit that place you're writing about.
Excelsior.
It doesn't happen very often, but it's always very strange to me when I read a novel or story set within a location I know pretty well. The novel I'm reading now, Tumbling After, takes place in Rehobeth Beach, Delaware. It's about three hours from where I live now, and I spent many a good summer there as a kid. At least so far, author Paul Witcover's vison/memory is more general than mine. Aside from quick mentions of route 1, it could really be Anybeach, U.S.A. I'm hoping eventually the characters will drift down to the boardwalk and pass Rehoboth oddities like Dolly's Candy, Gershman's clothes, or even a kitsch-infected mini-golf place. But so far its all waves and sand between the toes, and nothing really distinguishing. There's a lot of local color to the place, and not using seems like a waste. Perhaps it wouldn't mean a thing to a reader who's never visited Rehobeth, but to someone who has it comes off a touch pallid.
But at least Witcover hasn't written anything out and out wrong.
A few years ago I read Children of the Night by Dan Simmons. Part of the novel is set in Alexandria, Virginia and he describes it as a sleepy, southern farm town south of Washington, D.C. Now that description may have fit Alexandria of the 1960's, and that may very well be the last time Simmons made it there. But the novel was set in the 1990's, and many of the details were just laughable. It's been a long, long time since the homes in Alexandria had cows in the front yard. I'm all for it, though, if the city wants to bring them back.
This little entry is nothing against Witcover or Simmons (I actually like Simmons quite a bit). Just a little lesson on watching those little details that can trip up the reader. If it's been awhile, you just might want to visit that place you're writing about.
Excelsior.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Random Blogginess
First, I really enjoy my sitemeter. Not so much for how many people come and visit my odd little online home, but more for how they got here. Some level of traffic comes through by way of the reviews I plug in. Perfectly understandable that people would stumble through here looking for more info on Joe Meno or Seth Greenland. But a few things seem completely random. I experienced an odd spike in traffic last week following my three-day thread on the dangers in writing. But these people came through not because of some serious investigation on the trials and tribulations of creating art, but because of my line "puffy callous on the knuckle of my middle finger". Apparently I am not alone in this affliction, and many came here seeking answers.
Afraid I have none. I am sorry to let you down, dear reader. And although I'm not personally bothered by my callouses (I also have them well developed on the pads of my fingertips from playing bass guitar) I'd be happy to share possible solutions since so many seem interested in this issue.
Secondly, Sitemeter's letting me know that I have a lurker. Most of the traffic through here is East Coast U.S. time. Not at all surprising since that's where I reside and I sometimes post about events in the D.C. area. But one lone person from Iceland seems to check in once a week. Or, at least, someone who's played with their computer enough to make it look like they're from Iceland. So hello to you, Icelandic lurker. Feel free to post if you like. Don't be afraid. Despite the hardness of my name, Hebdomeros is actually a nice guy. Ask anyone.
I've added a few links to the side, and am considering adding a few more. Placed here more for my easy reference than for anything else, they're worth looking at if you have the time.
Tomorrow I'll actually write about writing.
Maybe.
Excelsior.
Afraid I have none. I am sorry to let you down, dear reader. And although I'm not personally bothered by my callouses (I also have them well developed on the pads of my fingertips from playing bass guitar) I'd be happy to share possible solutions since so many seem interested in this issue.
Secondly, Sitemeter's letting me know that I have a lurker. Most of the traffic through here is East Coast U.S. time. Not at all surprising since that's where I reside and I sometimes post about events in the D.C. area. But one lone person from Iceland seems to check in once a week. Or, at least, someone who's played with their computer enough to make it look like they're from Iceland. So hello to you, Icelandic lurker. Feel free to post if you like. Don't be afraid. Despite the hardness of my name, Hebdomeros is actually a nice guy. Ask anyone.
I've added a few links to the side, and am considering adding a few more. Placed here more for my easy reference than for anything else, they're worth looking at if you have the time.
Tomorrow I'll actually write about writing.
Maybe.
Excelsior.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
The Spirit Behind Eisner
As graphic novels and comics in general gain more and more respectability, it's no real surprise for more book-length critical texts to start appearing. Since he invented and continued to re-invent the art of the graphic novel over the years, Will Eisner is an obvious but still excellent place to start. His recent passing only makes this book even more timely.
The Will Eisner Companion by N.C. Christopher Crouch and Stephen Weiner is part mini-biography and part summary of Eisner's major works. The Spirit, both it's creation and it's analysis, comprises the first third of the book. The history behind this seminal character warrants a full book to itself, and Companion provides some interesting details and analysis. Eisner's early desire to bring a new sense of realism to comics started in the 1940's, and developed in the unique strip of The Spirit by working in more realistic characters and problems day-to-day life alongside the action stories that were, and still are, the standard. The rest of the book focuses on Eisner's creation of and experimentation with the graphic novel. Companion attempts to explain the themes of character, religion and social awareness so integral to Eisner's stories, and it does a fair job in a Cliff's Notes kind of fashion.
Authors Couch and Weiner have both been strong advocates for graphic novels the last few years, contributing solid reviews to places like Library Journal and Comics Journal, the critical bible of the comics industry. Because of this, I did go into this book expecting a little more depth. The work is approached and described in pretty basic terms, and considering the credentials of the two comes off a little limited for anyone with more than passing knowledge. It is, however, a solid introduction to Eisner's very accomplished work and career. The collections of Eisner's work, spanning over sixty years, really showcase his skill as an artist and storyteller and will certainly inspire the unfamiliar to investigate him further.
In the 60's and 70's critic and author Damon Knight called for an increase in the quality and depth in the criticism of science fiction, and the time seems right for the same thing to happen with the graphic novel. And while I don't think this book in particular is the ideal, it is surely a step in the right direction.
The Will Eisner Companion by N.C. Christopher Crouch and Stephen Weiner is part mini-biography and part summary of Eisner's major works. The Spirit, both it's creation and it's analysis, comprises the first third of the book. The history behind this seminal character warrants a full book to itself, and Companion provides some interesting details and analysis. Eisner's early desire to bring a new sense of realism to comics started in the 1940's, and developed in the unique strip of The Spirit by working in more realistic characters and problems day-to-day life alongside the action stories that were, and still are, the standard. The rest of the book focuses on Eisner's creation of and experimentation with the graphic novel. Companion attempts to explain the themes of character, religion and social awareness so integral to Eisner's stories, and it does a fair job in a Cliff's Notes kind of fashion.
Authors Couch and Weiner have both been strong advocates for graphic novels the last few years, contributing solid reviews to places like Library Journal and Comics Journal, the critical bible of the comics industry. Because of this, I did go into this book expecting a little more depth. The work is approached and described in pretty basic terms, and considering the credentials of the two comes off a little limited for anyone with more than passing knowledge. It is, however, a solid introduction to Eisner's very accomplished work and career. The collections of Eisner's work, spanning over sixty years, really showcase his skill as an artist and storyteller and will certainly inspire the unfamiliar to investigate him further.
In the 60's and 70's critic and author Damon Knight called for an increase in the quality and depth in the criticism of science fiction, and the time seems right for the same thing to happen with the graphic novel. And while I don't think this book in particular is the ideal, it is surely a step in the right direction.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
What's Mything?
This week's Studio 360 was all about artwork influence by myth. They focused on the Orpheus myth of greek mythology, and looked at theatre, film, and music that explored and expanded on the myth. Most of the material looks at the idea of Orpheus as artist, and what the myth has to say about how and why we create art.
Right at the start I shook my fist at the radio and said, "Hey, Kurt Anderson. Mr. Radio Host. You better talk to Nick Cave, because he's got a great song about Orpheus."
And he does. It's on the 2nd disc for his new album, Abattoir Blues / Lyre of Orpheus. And while Cave isn't interviewed, they do listen to the song briefly.
The most interesting segment is probably the interview with Sarah Ruhl, whose play Eurydice picks up where the story left off. Eurydice, as all who enter the underworld do, loses her memory and her ability with language after dying. The spirit of her father, who somehow managed to retain his memory, finds her and teaches her to speak and remember. It sounds like an amazing idea, and I might look into getting a copy of the script at some point.
Personally, I'm more attracted to myths of trickery. Particularly when the gods get tricked into giving something to mankind or the gods trick each other. Prometheus, Loki, Coyote...there are so many and I love them all. But to each their own.
Excelsior.
Right at the start I shook my fist at the radio and said, "Hey, Kurt Anderson. Mr. Radio Host. You better talk to Nick Cave, because he's got a great song about Orpheus."
And he does. It's on the 2nd disc for his new album, Abattoir Blues / Lyre of Orpheus. And while Cave isn't interviewed, they do listen to the song briefly.
The most interesting segment is probably the interview with Sarah Ruhl, whose play Eurydice picks up where the story left off. Eurydice, as all who enter the underworld do, loses her memory and her ability with language after dying. The spirit of her father, who somehow managed to retain his memory, finds her and teaches her to speak and remember. It sounds like an amazing idea, and I might look into getting a copy of the script at some point.
Personally, I'm more attracted to myths of trickery. Particularly when the gods get tricked into giving something to mankind or the gods trick each other. Prometheus, Loki, Coyote...there are so many and I love them all. But to each their own.
Excelsior.
Monday, March 14, 2005
On the Fence
Not surprisingly, Issue 14 of Fence is poetry ladened. I'll just be commenting on the fiction in the issue.
The opening story, "The Artist's Voice: Hearing is Believing" by Manuel Gonzales, tells the story of Karl Abbasonov an immensely talented musician and composer who suffers from a unique affliction. Starting at a young age, whenever he focused his mind on playing or composing music he would endure painful, horrible headaches. Despite this, Abbasonov loved music and kept working on his art. His condition worsens with age, to the point that he becomes completely paralyzed. Without the ability to speak, Abbasonov develops the ability to manipulate the internal workings of his ear allowing him to speak. As far out as it sounds, Gonzales does a wonderful job at working in just enough explanation to make it believable.
Lisa Pearson's "How the Slowworm Struggled, But Not Too Much" focuses on a small worm plugged from the safety of the earth by the claw of a bird. The worm feels special for being the one chosen by the bird, obviously not aware that the bird probably chose him as dinner and not for anything profound. It's an odd but effective mix as you feel this poor little worm's joy in soaring through the air and seeing things like clouds and sunlight for the first time, but the fear for the worm knowing it's about to die. A simple, short piece but very effective.
Two pieces move into the wacky. Alice Bradley's "The Panty Thief" works in a silly mode for the most part, having great fun with a man's obsession of stealing panties from clotheslines. The story shifts at the end, transforming his joy into painful shame. "An Account at the Advance at Northgate" is a wild account of an inexperienced general leading his troops against the onslaught of the Roman Empire. The twist: the disputed territory is a modern-day shopping mall.
The issue closes with Harry Matthews' "My Life in the CIA: How it Began". It's actually part of an older, longer work by Matthews being reissued by Dalkey Archives Press. It's a first-person narrative of a man who everyone thinks to be a CIA spy. Most of the piece is spent with circular arguements, denying any and all connections. Matthews was the only U.S. member of the France-based experimental literature group OULIPO, who combined mathematical structures into their poetry and fiction. Nearly countless jokes and jibes are made at the art world in particular, as well as the culture at large.
Overall a pretty solid issue. Enjoy if you find it.
Excelsior.
The opening story, "The Artist's Voice: Hearing is Believing" by Manuel Gonzales, tells the story of Karl Abbasonov an immensely talented musician and composer who suffers from a unique affliction. Starting at a young age, whenever he focused his mind on playing or composing music he would endure painful, horrible headaches. Despite this, Abbasonov loved music and kept working on his art. His condition worsens with age, to the point that he becomes completely paralyzed. Without the ability to speak, Abbasonov develops the ability to manipulate the internal workings of his ear allowing him to speak. As far out as it sounds, Gonzales does a wonderful job at working in just enough explanation to make it believable.
Lisa Pearson's "How the Slowworm Struggled, But Not Too Much" focuses on a small worm plugged from the safety of the earth by the claw of a bird. The worm feels special for being the one chosen by the bird, obviously not aware that the bird probably chose him as dinner and not for anything profound. It's an odd but effective mix as you feel this poor little worm's joy in soaring through the air and seeing things like clouds and sunlight for the first time, but the fear for the worm knowing it's about to die. A simple, short piece but very effective.
Two pieces move into the wacky. Alice Bradley's "The Panty Thief" works in a silly mode for the most part, having great fun with a man's obsession of stealing panties from clotheslines. The story shifts at the end, transforming his joy into painful shame. "An Account at the Advance at Northgate" is a wild account of an inexperienced general leading his troops against the onslaught of the Roman Empire. The twist: the disputed territory is a modern-day shopping mall.
The issue closes with Harry Matthews' "My Life in the CIA: How it Began". It's actually part of an older, longer work by Matthews being reissued by Dalkey Archives Press. It's a first-person narrative of a man who everyone thinks to be a CIA spy. Most of the piece is spent with circular arguements, denying any and all connections. Matthews was the only U.S. member of the France-based experimental literature group OULIPO, who combined mathematical structures into their poetry and fiction. Nearly countless jokes and jibes are made at the art world in particular, as well as the culture at large.
Overall a pretty solid issue. Enjoy if you find it.
Excelsior.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Old Friends on a Train
Blogger's been giving me problems as of late. I haven't been able to log in to create new posts or reply to people's comments. So no, I haven't been avoiding my duties as an amateur blogger. The infernal system just wouldn't let me on. I've got a little backlog of posts to get up, but I'll do them one at a time. This one relates to this past Thursday night:
One night after work I walked from the office to the Farragut West metro station, It was a nice night, cool but not cold and I had Nick Cave singing on my headphones. After waiting a few minutes I got on the train to Virginia and caught a glimpse of a familiar face, sitting behind me a couple of rows and on the other side of the aisle. The way the seats were arranged, we faced opposite directions.
For some reason I hid myself, putting my open copy of Fence high up in my lap and hunching over it to obsure my face as much as possible. When the light was just right I could use the reflections on the windows in case he noticed me. He read a magazine for a few stops, and then his cell phone rang. He spent the rest of the time, about thirty minutes or so, chatting with whoever was on the other end of the conversation.
This is someone I've known for probably half my life. While I wouldn't say I'm particularly close to him, I still see him socially once or twice a year. I wasn't purposefully avoiding him. Well, I guess technically I was. But it wasn't like I didn't want to say hello. It became more like a little game, waiting to see how long it would take him to notice me. If at all.
In the end, he never noticed. He started to get off the train a couple of stops before mine and I grabbed his arm as he shuffled by. We made the obligatory, "Ha ha-I didn't see you" exchange, our fingers pointing at each other in mock amusement.
But, of course, the joke was on him. I saw him the whole time. Ha ha.
Tomorrow I should have my review of the Fence issue up. Provided blogger keeps cooperating.
Excelsior.
One night after work I walked from the office to the Farragut West metro station, It was a nice night, cool but not cold and I had Nick Cave singing on my headphones. After waiting a few minutes I got on the train to Virginia and caught a glimpse of a familiar face, sitting behind me a couple of rows and on the other side of the aisle. The way the seats were arranged, we faced opposite directions.
For some reason I hid myself, putting my open copy of Fence high up in my lap and hunching over it to obsure my face as much as possible. When the light was just right I could use the reflections on the windows in case he noticed me. He read a magazine for a few stops, and then his cell phone rang. He spent the rest of the time, about thirty minutes or so, chatting with whoever was on the other end of the conversation.
This is someone I've known for probably half my life. While I wouldn't say I'm particularly close to him, I still see him socially once or twice a year. I wasn't purposefully avoiding him. Well, I guess technically I was. But it wasn't like I didn't want to say hello. It became more like a little game, waiting to see how long it would take him to notice me. If at all.
In the end, he never noticed. He started to get off the train a couple of stops before mine and I grabbed his arm as he shuffled by. We made the obligatory, "Ha ha-I didn't see you" exchange, our fingers pointing at each other in mock amusement.
But, of course, the joke was on him. I saw him the whole time. Ha ha.
Tomorrow I should have my review of the Fence issue up. Provided blogger keeps cooperating.
Excelsior.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Danger continued
Novelist Jodi Picoult wrote an interesting column for this week's Book World in The Washington Post.
She writes about the odd mixture of praise and flack she's received for her novel The Pact, which deals with, among other things, teen suicide. I'll let her speak for herself:
Why, then, would an author risk potential sales by writing something people might consider upsetting? Well, it's probably not for the reasons you'd think. I don't write about controversial issues because I like to be edgy. I write about them because-like my readers-I don't have all the answers. When a moral or ethical question roots itself in my mind, I find myself thinking about what I'd do in that situation. I force myself to turn over every stone, consider the issue from every perspective. I find myself walking down roads that are often uncomfortable: talking to the parents of pediatric cancer patients, for example, who would move heaven and earth-not just stem cell research laws-to save their children; speaking to victims of sexual abuse, who cannot shake the memory years later; asking a battered wife why she still loves her husband; listening to a teen who attempted suicide explain what the world looks like through her eyes. None of this is easy, but it opens my eyes, and I have every reason to believe that's a good thing. For every uncomfortable parent who wanted to burn a copy of The Pact, there is a reader who has come up to me in tears to confide that he is a survivor of childhood sexual abuse.
Just as different readers are attracted to different sorts of books-mysteries, romances, dramas-so too are different writers drawn to different kinds of books. While I can appreciate a good beach read as well as the next person, I also think there is a place in modern fiction for the sort of book that exercises one's moral compass and asks questions that cannot-and maybe should not-be answered.....Ultimately, the reason I gravitate toward diffcult subjects is that I produce a better novel when I'm personally challenged...
It's one of the better reasons I've read for writing dangerous or challenging fiction, no matter the consequences. My work used to be more theme-oriented, but the past year has been more plot oriented. I guess there's nothing wrong with it, but I'm starting to rethink things and make some plans for deeper stories. I still plan on writing about werewolves and ghosts and aliens, but hopefully in ways more profound. We'll see.
Excelsior.
She writes about the odd mixture of praise and flack she's received for her novel The Pact, which deals with, among other things, teen suicide. I'll let her speak for herself:
Why, then, would an author risk potential sales by writing something people might consider upsetting? Well, it's probably not for the reasons you'd think. I don't write about controversial issues because I like to be edgy. I write about them because-like my readers-I don't have all the answers. When a moral or ethical question roots itself in my mind, I find myself thinking about what I'd do in that situation. I force myself to turn over every stone, consider the issue from every perspective. I find myself walking down roads that are often uncomfortable: talking to the parents of pediatric cancer patients, for example, who would move heaven and earth-not just stem cell research laws-to save their children; speaking to victims of sexual abuse, who cannot shake the memory years later; asking a battered wife why she still loves her husband; listening to a teen who attempted suicide explain what the world looks like through her eyes. None of this is easy, but it opens my eyes, and I have every reason to believe that's a good thing. For every uncomfortable parent who wanted to burn a copy of The Pact, there is a reader who has come up to me in tears to confide that he is a survivor of childhood sexual abuse.
Just as different readers are attracted to different sorts of books-mysteries, romances, dramas-so too are different writers drawn to different kinds of books. While I can appreciate a good beach read as well as the next person, I also think there is a place in modern fiction for the sort of book that exercises one's moral compass and asks questions that cannot-and maybe should not-be answered.....Ultimately, the reason I gravitate toward diffcult subjects is that I produce a better novel when I'm personally challenged...
It's one of the better reasons I've read for writing dangerous or challenging fiction, no matter the consequences. My work used to be more theme-oriented, but the past year has been more plot oriented. I guess there's nothing wrong with it, but I'm starting to rethink things and make some plans for deeper stories. I still plan on writing about werewolves and ghosts and aliens, but hopefully in ways more profound. We'll see.
Excelsior.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Danger, Danger!
This week's episode of Studio 360 was a pretty good one. The focus was on art that places the artist in one form of danger or another. A major example made was Eva Hess; her unusual sculptures would not have been possible without the synthetic materials that came of age in the 50's and 60's. Her near-constant exposure to the chemicals eventually ended her life. Trumpeter Matthew Steinfeld contributed his own story of a damaged lip caused by playing his instrument to aggressively over a number of years. A few references to performance artists, particularly those like the guest Elizabeth Streb, who purposefully put their bodies into situations that could possibly cause harm. Say jumping through a plate glass window, or living in a gallery with live coyotes a la Joseph Beuys.
What I'm wondering is what exactly could constitute "dangerous" writing. On a pure physical level, I imagine a very industrious writer could get some sort of repeptive stress injury, either from typing or writing by hand (I'm currently eyeballing the puffy callous on the knuckle of my middle finger made by many a pencil).
While this would probably apply, I guess I'm actually thinking of "dangerous" in another way. Writers from the past who challenge our morals and basic ways of thinking are often dubbed "dangerous writers". In the somewhat distant past, the Marquis de Sade certain fits the bill, while Kathy Acker and Harold Jaffe are probably the most widely known modern-day equivalents. At least in the U.S. And, of course, who can forget Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses. As far as dangers go, it's hard to top a fatwa called out on you by one of the world's religious leaders.
But what drives them, exactly? Why write on topics they must know will confound, anger and perhaps even drive your fellow man to vehement violence against you just for the words you write? de Sade was thrown in prison for his words, and Rushdie sent into temporary exile. I'm sure the above were all told at one point in their respective careers to tone it down and behave before something really bad happened. But they persisted anyway. I have respect for people, for artists, like that. Perhaps it's the lack of sleep or the pounding headache, but I'm having a hard time deciding if I would have the strength to do the same.
More tomorrow, by way of Jodi Picoult.
Excelsior.
What I'm wondering is what exactly could constitute "dangerous" writing. On a pure physical level, I imagine a very industrious writer could get some sort of repeptive stress injury, either from typing or writing by hand (I'm currently eyeballing the puffy callous on the knuckle of my middle finger made by many a pencil).
While this would probably apply, I guess I'm actually thinking of "dangerous" in another way. Writers from the past who challenge our morals and basic ways of thinking are often dubbed "dangerous writers". In the somewhat distant past, the Marquis de Sade certain fits the bill, while Kathy Acker and Harold Jaffe are probably the most widely known modern-day equivalents. At least in the U.S. And, of course, who can forget Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses. As far as dangers go, it's hard to top a fatwa called out on you by one of the world's religious leaders.
But what drives them, exactly? Why write on topics they must know will confound, anger and perhaps even drive your fellow man to vehement violence against you just for the words you write? de Sade was thrown in prison for his words, and Rushdie sent into temporary exile. I'm sure the above were all told at one point in their respective careers to tone it down and behave before something really bad happened. But they persisted anyway. I have respect for people, for artists, like that. Perhaps it's the lack of sleep or the pounding headache, but I'm having a hard time deciding if I would have the strength to do the same.
More tomorrow, by way of Jodi Picoult.
Excelsior.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Be Careful What You Write
Evidently in Kentucky the lines between fact and fiction are not quite so clear as where I grew up. I feel sorry for this poor kid. I wrote some pretty hateful material in highschool. If under the same restrictions, I would probably still be reliving the life of the Count of Monte Cristo.
Got a shovel, anyone?
Excelsior.
Got a shovel, anyone?
Excelsior.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Bleh
The Tori book Piece by Piece ended up becoming a bit of a letdown. It's not really a biography so much as a collection of interviews conducted and edited by music critic Ann Powers. The format became very problematic for me; often times I felt excluded from the finer details that really should have been explored. For example, the book does an excellent job in covering Tori's difficulties in having a child. This pain is communicated very well, but then we're cheated a bit by not getting a moment of her daughter Natasya's birth.
All the way through I kept comptrasting it with the recent Anthony Kiedis bio, Scar Tissue. Kiedis wrote very frankly about both his successes and his failures, particularly his drug abuse. Placed alongside each other Piece by Piece comes off a little two-dimensional.
Most of the book takes very broad, intellectual strokes at explaining Tori's artistic process. Where her ideas come from, how she develops them, how she works with the musicians and tech crew that support her. Some of this is interesting. The whole study of archetypes and Tori shifting into different ones for each album hints at a number of possibilites for artists of any type. But the ideas are explored on such a basic level I got frustrated. That and I got tired of reading the short interviews with her musicians who couldn't stop raving about how amazing she is to work with. Instead of providing pages and pages of quotes saying, "Tori's just amazing on how she picks up what I'm doing,", telling a quick story that illustrates this would be much more illustrative, not to mention interesting. Show, don't tell, as the old adage goes.
Powers also makes a lot of assumptions that the reader brings a certain level of knowledge of Tori's background. After getting suffiently frustrated I looked up some quick bios on her online just to give myself a better frame of reference. This means it's probably geared mostly towards the superduper-Tori-fan, and maybe it's just not for me. Somehow, though, I expected a little more.
Excelsior.
All the way through I kept comptrasting it with the recent Anthony Kiedis bio, Scar Tissue. Kiedis wrote very frankly about both his successes and his failures, particularly his drug abuse. Placed alongside each other Piece by Piece comes off a little two-dimensional.
Most of the book takes very broad, intellectual strokes at explaining Tori's artistic process. Where her ideas come from, how she develops them, how she works with the musicians and tech crew that support her. Some of this is interesting. The whole study of archetypes and Tori shifting into different ones for each album hints at a number of possibilites for artists of any type. But the ideas are explored on such a basic level I got frustrated. That and I got tired of reading the short interviews with her musicians who couldn't stop raving about how amazing she is to work with. Instead of providing pages and pages of quotes saying, "Tori's just amazing on how she picks up what I'm doing,", telling a quick story that illustrates this would be much more illustrative, not to mention interesting. Show, don't tell, as the old adage goes.
Powers also makes a lot of assumptions that the reader brings a certain level of knowledge of Tori's background. After getting suffiently frustrated I looked up some quick bios on her online just to give myself a better frame of reference. This means it's probably geared mostly towards the superduper-Tori-fan, and maybe it's just not for me. Somehow, though, I expected a little more.
Excelsior.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Plagiarism: The Most Sincere Form of Flattery?
I'm working on a review for Isaac the Pirate: Capitals, the follow-up to Isaac the Pirate: Exotic Lands, a graphic novel I reviewed about a year ago. They're originally printed in French, and volume 1 received some pretty big awards for both story and artwork there. I started doing some searches online to see if volume 2 received similar accolades, and found a pretty favorable if somewhat cursory review of it.
Midway through the review, something struck me as odd. A paragraph explicating the artwork really stuck out, like it was written by a different person. Even more strange it looked familiar to me. It bothered me for about a day, and then it hit me. I wrote the paragraph.
Now first I just thought I was being spacey. I dug dug around my computer and found my original review, and unfortunately my memory was correct. The lifted an entire paragraph, word-for-word, from my review on volume 1 for their review on volume 2. Since the paragraph focused entirely on the artwork and had nothing to do with story, it fit right in.
I don't retain the rights to anything I review, so I sent an email to my contact at the magazine. The mag gets quoted a lot on places like Amazon and others, so I don't think they care so long as they cite the author and publication. This is obviously a little different.
I suppose I should be angry about it, but really I'm just amused.
Excelsior.
Midway through the review, something struck me as odd. A paragraph explicating the artwork really stuck out, like it was written by a different person. Even more strange it looked familiar to me. It bothered me for about a day, and then it hit me. I wrote the paragraph.
Now first I just thought I was being spacey. I dug dug around my computer and found my original review, and unfortunately my memory was correct. The lifted an entire paragraph, word-for-word, from my review on volume 1 for their review on volume 2. Since the paragraph focused entirely on the artwork and had nothing to do with story, it fit right in.
I don't retain the rights to anything I review, so I sent an email to my contact at the magazine. The mag gets quoted a lot on places like Amazon and others, so I don't think they care so long as they cite the author and publication. This is obviously a little different.
I suppose I should be angry about it, but really I'm just amused.
Excelsior.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Rediscovering Tori
I still remember the first time I saw Tori Amos. It was the spring of '92 and I was working at the campus radio station; for some strange reason a pass for two tickets floated into my hands for a show of hes in a small club in the D.C. area. She was just starting to promote her album Little Earthquakes, and although I had no idea who she was I was intrigued by all the buzz over her.
It was a dark, sitdown club with lots of tables. Everything was pitch black save for the lone, bright light focused on Tori and her piano. Her almost sultry voice and unique piano playing combined in a way I'd never heard before. I didn't really follow all the lyrics at the time, I remember feeling oddly balancde between the sensual and the intellectual. That and her wild, red hair and the way she attacked the piano (one critic used the unfortunate description "humping the piano") gave the performance an almost mystical feel. The club (and Tori as well) made a big deal about her growing up in Baltimore, and I remember her mother was there.
I was smitten, at least for a time. After I actually listened to her album and heard the lyrics to songs like "Crucify" and "Me and a Gun" I realized she was more than just another up-and-coming pop star with attitude. This girl had something to say; and while I didn't get it all at the very green age of 19 I still got into it.
Over the years, my fascination with her waned. I still buy and enjoy her albums, but I don't consider myself much of a fan. I haven't bought her new album yet, and although she's playing live in D.C. soon I have no plans to go. Despite all this, I still picked up the new book Piece by Piece.
The book's not so much a bio as it is a collection of personal essays/interviews expounding on her creative development. For a pretty strong feminist she takes an almost New Age approach to her development places a lot of stock in Jungian-style archetypes. Although only halfway through the book, I can tell that a large part of her interest comes from growing up as a minister's daughter yet loving ideas of rock and roll and sexuality. All of her subsequent work often involves the taking on of seemingly polar opposite roles and examining how they exist simultaneously in everyone. The Virgin Mary/Mary Magdalene roles, for example.
Although I do wish it dug a little deeper, it's an interesting read. But more enjoyable is coming back to her music and re-immersing myself in its powerful beauty. It's like running into an old friend and picking up right where you left off.
Excelsior.
It was a dark, sitdown club with lots of tables. Everything was pitch black save for the lone, bright light focused on Tori and her piano. Her almost sultry voice and unique piano playing combined in a way I'd never heard before. I didn't really follow all the lyrics at the time, I remember feeling oddly balancde between the sensual and the intellectual. That and her wild, red hair and the way she attacked the piano (one critic used the unfortunate description "humping the piano") gave the performance an almost mystical feel. The club (and Tori as well) made a big deal about her growing up in Baltimore, and I remember her mother was there.
I was smitten, at least for a time. After I actually listened to her album and heard the lyrics to songs like "Crucify" and "Me and a Gun" I realized she was more than just another up-and-coming pop star with attitude. This girl had something to say; and while I didn't get it all at the very green age of 19 I still got into it.
Over the years, my fascination with her waned. I still buy and enjoy her albums, but I don't consider myself much of a fan. I haven't bought her new album yet, and although she's playing live in D.C. soon I have no plans to go. Despite all this, I still picked up the new book Piece by Piece.
The book's not so much a bio as it is a collection of personal essays/interviews expounding on her creative development. For a pretty strong feminist she takes an almost New Age approach to her development places a lot of stock in Jungian-style archetypes. Although only halfway through the book, I can tell that a large part of her interest comes from growing up as a minister's daughter yet loving ideas of rock and roll and sexuality. All of her subsequent work often involves the taking on of seemingly polar opposite roles and examining how they exist simultaneously in everyone. The Virgin Mary/Mary Magdalene roles, for example.
Although I do wish it dug a little deeper, it's an interesting read. But more enjoyable is coming back to her music and re-immersing myself in its powerful beauty. It's like running into an old friend and picking up right where you left off.
Excelsior.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Star of Gypsies
The origins of the people we call Gyspies have always been in question; historians claiming they originate from areas as diverse as Turkey, Romania and even Egypt. Robert Silverberg makes great use of these mysterious origins by pushing it even further in his newest novel, Star of Gypsies. In the world of this novel, the gypsies, or Rom as they call themselves, immigrated to Earth thousands of years ago from a distant world and became a part of our society. Or at least the fringes of our society. Living on the edge in their own way, they developed into a nomadic people made infamous by their image as fortune tellers, thieves, and scam artists. Their natural predilections for journeying long distances and an unusual knack for piloting makes them instrumental in the development of mankind's space age; without the Rom it's quite apparent that mankind may have floundered and found themselves trapped on an Earth ravaged of all its natural resources.
The Rom use their new unique position to gain some measure of power, and establish their own loosely connected kingdom within the growing empire of man. Although technically science fiction, this future universe of the Rom holds equals levels of fantasy. Alongside starships and suspended animation lie centuries-old prophecies, and ghosts. At the book's opening, Yakoub, king of the Roms, lives on the barren, cold world of Mulano. Although still technically king, Yakoub left his throne behind to focus on a way to take his people back to the long lost home they call Romany Star. After three long years in isolation he receives word that a new upstart has taken over the mantle of Rom king, a cruel and terriying man named Shandor who happens to be Yakoub's oldest son. When Yakoub returns to reclaim his throne he finds himself immeshed not only in a political fight for control over his own throne but a burgeoning civil war within the empire of mankind.
As a first-person narrative, this book's a rarity in science fiction that focuses not on action but on character. Yakoub's storyteller voice is so strong I can't imagine this tale being told in any other fashion. Reading Yakoub's words, I get the feeling like I just sat down next to someone at a bar and am listening to odd little pieces of his fascinating life. Because it has an almost oral tradition feel to it, the novel interweaves the main story line with a series of colorful flashbacks and diversions. While the flashbacks do enhance the main plotline here and there, most give Silverberg the opportunity to build on our understanding of Yakoub. In lesser hands this novel would be a mess, but Silverberg maintains tight control over the flow. We relive his early days as a slave, watch him work and scheme hard enough to win his freedom and eventually claim the throne of all his people. Behind all the political manipulations, murders and explosions Star of Gypsies is ultimately a portrait of Yakoub, and it's a portrait well worth reading.
Excelsior.
The Rom use their new unique position to gain some measure of power, and establish their own loosely connected kingdom within the growing empire of man. Although technically science fiction, this future universe of the Rom holds equals levels of fantasy. Alongside starships and suspended animation lie centuries-old prophecies, and ghosts. At the book's opening, Yakoub, king of the Roms, lives on the barren, cold world of Mulano. Although still technically king, Yakoub left his throne behind to focus on a way to take his people back to the long lost home they call Romany Star. After three long years in isolation he receives word that a new upstart has taken over the mantle of Rom king, a cruel and terriying man named Shandor who happens to be Yakoub's oldest son. When Yakoub returns to reclaim his throne he finds himself immeshed not only in a political fight for control over his own throne but a burgeoning civil war within the empire of mankind.
As a first-person narrative, this book's a rarity in science fiction that focuses not on action but on character. Yakoub's storyteller voice is so strong I can't imagine this tale being told in any other fashion. Reading Yakoub's words, I get the feeling like I just sat down next to someone at a bar and am listening to odd little pieces of his fascinating life. Because it has an almost oral tradition feel to it, the novel interweaves the main story line with a series of colorful flashbacks and diversions. While the flashbacks do enhance the main plotline here and there, most give Silverberg the opportunity to build on our understanding of Yakoub. In lesser hands this novel would be a mess, but Silverberg maintains tight control over the flow. We relive his early days as a slave, watch him work and scheme hard enough to win his freedom and eventually claim the throne of all his people. Behind all the political manipulations, murders and explosions Star of Gypsies is ultimately a portrait of Yakoub, and it's a portrait well worth reading.
Excelsior.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Beam Me UP, Peter Jennings!
I got bored with the Oscars tonight and popped in my tape of the Peter Jennings "investigation" into UFO's tonight. It aired Thursday but I hadn't gotten around to watching it yet; it seemed a fitting escape from all the bad jokes and self-congratulations out in Hollywood.
Jennings didn't really offer up anything new or shocking. Mostly it was a recap of the history of UFO research, stretching back to the early 1900's. The usual suspect like Roswell, Art Bell and Whitley Strieber made their requisite appearances. Some fun links were made between alien abductions, succubi, and faery folk. Good fodder for fiction, but I have a hard time picturing the wee folk flying around in giant tin foil disc.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not arrogant enough to completely ignore the possibility, but I've read a fair bit on the subject and I have yet to see anything remotely resembling hard proof.
Perhaps the oddest part of the whole program is the involvement of Peter Jennings. Granted he's not much of journalist anymore; like any anchor man he's really more of a face for the ones who do the real investigation. I know Dan Ackroyd became obessesed with alien invasions in recent years, obesessed enough to have his own radio show, but maybe it's spread to others. I would think Jennings would have better things to look into. Social Security. Poverty. The War in Iraq. The tense atmosphere in Korea.
But no. He goes after little green men and the government cover up. Maybe he secretly wants to be Fox Mulder.
Excelsior.
Jennings didn't really offer up anything new or shocking. Mostly it was a recap of the history of UFO research, stretching back to the early 1900's. The usual suspect like Roswell, Art Bell and Whitley Strieber made their requisite appearances. Some fun links were made between alien abductions, succubi, and faery folk. Good fodder for fiction, but I have a hard time picturing the wee folk flying around in giant tin foil disc.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not arrogant enough to completely ignore the possibility, but I've read a fair bit on the subject and I have yet to see anything remotely resembling hard proof.
Perhaps the oddest part of the whole program is the involvement of Peter Jennings. Granted he's not much of journalist anymore; like any anchor man he's really more of a face for the ones who do the real investigation. I know Dan Ackroyd became obessesed with alien invasions in recent years, obesessed enough to have his own radio show, but maybe it's spread to others. I would think Jennings would have better things to look into. Social Security. Poverty. The War in Iraq. The tense atmosphere in Korea.
But no. He goes after little green men and the government cover up. Maybe he secretly wants to be Fox Mulder.
Excelsior.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
It's All In the DNA
I'm probably butchering this paraphrase, but Jorge Luis Borges once said no one ever needed to write a biography on him. To know him one would only have to read his complete works and he would live again through those words. It's quite the romantic ideal, that the full spirit of the writer can be brought forth by reading and understanding their work.
Anyway, I'm thinking about this today because it came up yesterday in class through kind of a back door. I don't think I've mentioned it, but I'm taking a class in editing. This particular class focused mostly on fine-tuning and odd eccentricities of the English language, but a small portion dealt with the challenge of editing a person's work while maintaining the unique sense of the author's style. Discussion even covered computers used to examine and imitate an author's style.
The teacher cited a book called Author Unknown: On the Trail of Anonymous by Don Foster, who apparently coined the term literary DNA. His theory is that a sense of our identities is encoded into the way we use language. To a certain point, that's obvious. No one can confuse the writing of William S. Burroughs for the writing of Diana Gabaldon. But Foster not only presses his idea, he proved it to a point by using his methods to identify Joe Klein as the author for Primary Colors and identify Ted Kaczynski as the Unabomber.
It's a beautiful idea when you think about it. Running with the theory, it could mean that every paragraph, every sentence, every word you write contains some sort of inherent code connecting it to not only the work as a whole (be it a short story or novel) but also to the author. Reading writing should, and most often does, impart a sense of the author. Pushing it to this extent gives it a little magical feel. Magical in a postmodern sense, but still magical. I guess it appeals to my vanity a little bit, too, thinking that I may live on in some small way through my writing.
And you never know. Perhaps some future episode of CSI will feature a murder of a publisher by an angry, rejected writer. The only clue left behind: a copy of an unnamed, rejected manuscript.
I can just imagine it.
"How will we find the killer?" Detective Brass asks.
"We have the killer's DNA," says Grissom.
"What do you mean? The killer didn't leave any fingerprints. No hairs. No skin cells."
"Not that kind of DNA," Grissom says holding the manuscript. "This killer left his... literary DNA."
cue cheesy guitar riff and cut to commercial
Excelsior.
Anyway, I'm thinking about this today because it came up yesterday in class through kind of a back door. I don't think I've mentioned it, but I'm taking a class in editing. This particular class focused mostly on fine-tuning and odd eccentricities of the English language, but a small portion dealt with the challenge of editing a person's work while maintaining the unique sense of the author's style. Discussion even covered computers used to examine and imitate an author's style.
The teacher cited a book called Author Unknown: On the Trail of Anonymous by Don Foster, who apparently coined the term literary DNA. His theory is that a sense of our identities is encoded into the way we use language. To a certain point, that's obvious. No one can confuse the writing of William S. Burroughs for the writing of Diana Gabaldon. But Foster not only presses his idea, he proved it to a point by using his methods to identify Joe Klein as the author for Primary Colors and identify Ted Kaczynski as the Unabomber.
It's a beautiful idea when you think about it. Running with the theory, it could mean that every paragraph, every sentence, every word you write contains some sort of inherent code connecting it to not only the work as a whole (be it a short story or novel) but also to the author. Reading writing should, and most often does, impart a sense of the author. Pushing it to this extent gives it a little magical feel. Magical in a postmodern sense, but still magical. I guess it appeals to my vanity a little bit, too, thinking that I may live on in some small way through my writing.
And you never know. Perhaps some future episode of CSI will feature a murder of a publisher by an angry, rejected writer. The only clue left behind: a copy of an unnamed, rejected manuscript.
I can just imagine it.
"How will we find the killer?" Detective Brass asks.
"We have the killer's DNA," says Grissom.
"What do you mean? The killer didn't leave any fingerprints. No hairs. No skin cells."
"Not that kind of DNA," Grissom says holding the manuscript. "This killer left his... literary DNA."
cue cheesy guitar riff and cut to commercial
Excelsior.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
HST
Well I'm sure most everyone has heard of the death of Hunter S. Thompson. It's a sad day, because we've lost one of those rare people who dared to wear his opinions on his sleeve, on his pants, on the top of his head without any tinge of regret. This is his last column, and is pretty indicative of his style and thoughts if you've never read him.
I have a book of his journals I've been meaning to read for awhile. I think it will be my next book. I'm sorry he had to die for me to pick it up.
Excelsior.
I have a book of his journals I've been meaning to read for awhile. I think it will be my next book. I'm sorry he had to die for me to pick it up.
Excelsior.
Searching for Thomas Pynchon
This past Sunday I caught the last ten minutes or so of the Simpsons. I was reading at the same time, so I wasn't paying that much attention. The episode had something to do with Marge writing a novel. But in the credits under guest voices I saw something surprising: Thomas Pynchon.
Now if you don't know much about Pynchon he's a bit of a recluse. A well respected novelist, it's thought he lives somewhere in Mexico but no one really knows for sure. Well, someone knows, but they're not talking. The only photo I've ever found of him dates back to the 1940's when he served in the Navy. Despite his reclusive nature, he pops up in strange ways. Every once in awhile you'll see a book review or blurb on the back of a friend's book. Even more strangely, I've run across a few music reviews in places like Spin and Rolling Stone. In the early 90's the odd sitcom The John Larroquette Show made an obscure Pynchon joke/reference and he sent them a fan letter. Other than that Pynchon's had very little contact with the public world.
So first I checked IMDB. There I found Prüfstand VII, a german movie that looks to based on Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow. Even more strangely is the movie A Journey Into the Mind of P., a documentary that investigates the known facts of his life and theorizes on his motivations for writing and being a recluse. One of my favorite bands, the Residents, apparently did the soundtrack. Definitely something I'll have to seek out.
From there I found this, a fun little site on all things Pynchon. There's even a link to some guy who makes paper dolls of the writer. Anway, that led me to an article on The Modern Word about the Simpson's appearance. Some of the article's history is wrong, but the details on the episode sound fun. Oh, why did I have to be reading when instead I could have enjoyed the masked cartoon visage of Thomas Pynchon? For an odd, postmodern recluse appearing on the Simpsons seems somehow strangely appropriate.
Probably not many here as amused by this as I am, but I thought I would share anyway.
Excelsior.
Now if you don't know much about Pynchon he's a bit of a recluse. A well respected novelist, it's thought he lives somewhere in Mexico but no one really knows for sure. Well, someone knows, but they're not talking. The only photo I've ever found of him dates back to the 1940's when he served in the Navy. Despite his reclusive nature, he pops up in strange ways. Every once in awhile you'll see a book review or blurb on the back of a friend's book. Even more strangely, I've run across a few music reviews in places like Spin and Rolling Stone. In the early 90's the odd sitcom The John Larroquette Show made an obscure Pynchon joke/reference and he sent them a fan letter. Other than that Pynchon's had very little contact with the public world.
So first I checked IMDB. There I found Prüfstand VII, a german movie that looks to based on Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow. Even more strangely is the movie A Journey Into the Mind of P., a documentary that investigates the known facts of his life and theorizes on his motivations for writing and being a recluse. One of my favorite bands, the Residents, apparently did the soundtrack. Definitely something I'll have to seek out.
From there I found this, a fun little site on all things Pynchon. There's even a link to some guy who makes paper dolls of the writer. Anway, that led me to an article on The Modern Word about the Simpson's appearance. Some of the article's history is wrong, but the details on the episode sound fun. Oh, why did I have to be reading when instead I could have enjoyed the masked cartoon visage of Thomas Pynchon? For an odd, postmodern recluse appearing on the Simpsons seems somehow strangely appropriate.
Probably not many here as amused by this as I am, but I thought I would share anyway.
Excelsior.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Crouching Tiger, Thousand Daggers
Saturday night after work Miss L and I went to see The House of Flying Daggers.
It's near the end of the Tang Dynasty, and police deputies Jin (Kaneshiro) and Leo (Lau) tangle with Mei (Zhang), a brothel dancer suspected of having ties to a revolutionary faction known as the House of Flying Daggers. After arresting her, Jin concocts conconts a plan posing as a wannabe revolutionary, breaking Mei out of prison so she can lead him to the secret camp of the faction. There are a number of plot twists that pit Jin and Mei against hordes of the Tang millitary, showcasing some slick high-wire martial arts choreography. Not surprisingly, Jin falls in love with Mei (who wouldn't) and further twists develop into a final battle encapsulating a desperate and angry love triangle. With lucid cinematography showcasing landscapes in China and the Ukraine, it's easy to get lost in the visual beauty and making it something really made for the big screen. The acting, particularly the chemistry between Kaneshiro and Zhang, is effective and quite powerful.
Several of the reviews I've read tout it as even better a film than Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon It is an excellent movie, but I'm hard-pressed to put it above CTHD. A handful of the fight scenes seem almost a little too choreographed; for example, at one moment Mei and Jin are surrounded by ten soldiers. The soldiers move in synch, stabbing their swords at the same time and creating a pattern of criss-crossed metal. A beautiful visual, but it bothered me for some reason. I've liked martial arts movies since I was a little kid, but CTHD really raised the bar with it's level of story, acting and visual beauty. I will concede that I was simply blown away by the newness of CTHD and my memory may not quite be fair.
It's far and away better than Hero, though (which I also like). The story here in Daggersmanages to wrap a much more complex and moving story over Hero's straight action/adventure storyline.
Excelsior.
It's near the end of the Tang Dynasty, and police deputies Jin (Kaneshiro) and Leo (Lau) tangle with Mei (Zhang), a brothel dancer suspected of having ties to a revolutionary faction known as the House of Flying Daggers. After arresting her, Jin concocts conconts a plan posing as a wannabe revolutionary, breaking Mei out of prison so she can lead him to the secret camp of the faction. There are a number of plot twists that pit Jin and Mei against hordes of the Tang millitary, showcasing some slick high-wire martial arts choreography. Not surprisingly, Jin falls in love with Mei (who wouldn't) and further twists develop into a final battle encapsulating a desperate and angry love triangle. With lucid cinematography showcasing landscapes in China and the Ukraine, it's easy to get lost in the visual beauty and making it something really made for the big screen. The acting, particularly the chemistry between Kaneshiro and Zhang, is effective and quite powerful.
Several of the reviews I've read tout it as even better a film than Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon It is an excellent movie, but I'm hard-pressed to put it above CTHD. A handful of the fight scenes seem almost a little too choreographed; for example, at one moment Mei and Jin are surrounded by ten soldiers. The soldiers move in synch, stabbing their swords at the same time and creating a pattern of criss-crossed metal. A beautiful visual, but it bothered me for some reason. I've liked martial arts movies since I was a little kid, but CTHD really raised the bar with it's level of story, acting and visual beauty. I will concede that I was simply blown away by the newness of CTHD and my memory may not quite be fair.
It's far and away better than Hero, though (which I also like). The story here in Daggersmanages to wrap a much more complex and moving story over Hero's straight action/adventure storyline.
Excelsior.
Friday, February 18, 2005
The Harrow
I was looking over The Harrow today and found this, a new anthology they're putting together. Sounds like a cool idea. Time for me to pull out the notebook of ideas and see if I have anything that fits.
Excelsior.
Excelsior.
A litte help
I'm starting some research for the next story, which among other things features werwolves. I'm finding lots of good non-fiction. Myths, how werwolves are made, how to kill them, their general behaviors. My personal favorite is an Eastern Russian superstition to always sleep with your shoes on, otherwise a Werewolf might come along and make a little snack out of your toes.
But I'm not having much luck on the fiction route. I'm looking for any suggestions on good fiction that use werwolves. There's a ton out there on vamps, but I'm having trouble finding much of anything dealing with their fuzzy little opponents. Vamps certainly have the whole romantic mystique thing going, but it's hard to beat a werewolf on pure, unbridled, chaotic aggression. I would have thought there'd be more content out there. I'll keep looking, and post anything I find. And thanks in advance if anyone has pointers.
Excelsior.
But I'm not having much luck on the fiction route. I'm looking for any suggestions on good fiction that use werwolves. There's a ton out there on vamps, but I'm having trouble finding much of anything dealing with their fuzzy little opponents. Vamps certainly have the whole romantic mystique thing going, but it's hard to beat a werewolf on pure, unbridled, chaotic aggression. I would have thought there'd be more content out there. I'll keep looking, and post anything I find. And thanks in advance if anyone has pointers.
Excelsior.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Damon Knight's Way
I've had Damon Knight's Creating Short Fiction for a couple months now, but haven't cracked it open until today. If you don't know Knight at all, he's no relation to Michael Knight of Knight Rider fame. He's an author, primarily of sci-fi, but also a pretty important critic. Particularly in the 60's and 70's, he was a very vocal personality to raise the bar of quality in sci-fi and how we criticize it. He felt sci-fi not only could but should be criticized as heavily as any other type of writing. He passed away last spring, I believe.
Fairly close to the beginning of the book, he goes into his idea of the four stages of writers:
1 You are writing for yourself, and your stories are essentially daydreams.
2 Now you are trying to break out of your shell, trying to communicate your ideas but your stories are what editors call "trivial".
3 You are writing complete stories, but are being held back by technical problems like structure and character development.
4 You have solved these problems, at least well enough to get by. You have the skill to achieve some level of success at a professional level.
He goes on to say that there are stages after #4, but the author doesn't need help or guidance once the author reaches that point. I thought it interesting enough to blog about. Using his little guidelines, I probably fall somewhere between 3 + 4. I have had some limited professional success, but I definitely still have some problems I'm working on. Ah, perhaps someday I too can look back on stage 4 with fondness.
I'll probably pull more from this book as time goes on. It looks like it has a lot of good material and thoughts for writers. In the meantime, I need to finish my infernal income taxes.
Excelsior.
Fairly close to the beginning of the book, he goes into his idea of the four stages of writers:
1 You are writing for yourself, and your stories are essentially daydreams.
2 Now you are trying to break out of your shell, trying to communicate your ideas but your stories are what editors call "trivial".
3 You are writing complete stories, but are being held back by technical problems like structure and character development.
4 You have solved these problems, at least well enough to get by. You have the skill to achieve some level of success at a professional level.
He goes on to say that there are stages after #4, but the author doesn't need help or guidance once the author reaches that point. I thought it interesting enough to blog about. Using his little guidelines, I probably fall somewhere between 3 + 4. I have had some limited professional success, but I definitely still have some problems I'm working on. Ah, perhaps someday I too can look back on stage 4 with fondness.
I'll probably pull more from this book as time goes on. It looks like it has a lot of good material and thoughts for writers. In the meantime, I need to finish my infernal income taxes.
Excelsior.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Duck Chang's
A couple of weeks ago I made the trip to nearby Annandale to one of my favorite restaurants, Duck Chang’s. It’s a family run place. Mrs. Chang greets you when you come in, the son or daughter will seat and serve you. If you’re lucky Mr. Chang himself might be standing at a carving table, knife in hand, carving up a special order of Peking Duck. Everything’s decorated in that 1970’s Chinese Restaurant style...lots of white, red, and jade. The occasional painting of a dragon adorns the walls. The food’s not fancy, but always excellent and I’ve been going there for at least half of my life. That rare kind of place where they know you well enough to poke fun at you for bringing in a date.
When I got there a couple of weeks ago, the door was locked and all the lights were off. A handwritten note was taped to the door.
We regret to inform our valued customers that Mr. “Duck” Chang passed away this past weekend. Duck Chang’s will remain closed for the next week. We appreciate your understanding.
Tonight I made the first trip there since Mr. Chang’s passing. The place was packed, much busier than I’d seen it in a long time. Apparently they reopened last week for the Chinese New Year. Despite the high activity level, the staff was fairly subdued, their loss still obviously on their minds. Most wore black,while those who didn’t had a black arm band tied around their bicep. The son was making his rounds to all the customers; he got to me about the same time as the fortune cookies.
I expressed my condolences to him, and told him how much I’ve enjoyed coming to their restaurant over the years. We talked a bit about loss, and he told me a good bit about his father. Apparently he was somewhat of a restaurant tycoon in Asia, owning and running several businesses in Hong Kong and Thailand. He left it all behind him in the early 70’s to come to the U.S. so his children would receive a better education and have broader opportunities in life. Mr. Chang opened his place in Annandale in 1975. His son went on to earn a Phd Microbiology, his sister a Masters in Business and a Phd in Computer Science. But they chose to continue working in the family business all these years.
Strangely, just this week in the newest issue of Esquire, Duck Chang’s was rated #8 for an article on Best Bites in the U.S. I’m not sure what the rating system was, or even who did the article, but it’s a fitting and final testament to man who poured his heart and soul into his business. If Mr. Chang’s still looking down on it, I hope he knows how much joy it’s brought to people over all these years.
Excelsior.
When I got there a couple of weeks ago, the door was locked and all the lights were off. A handwritten note was taped to the door.
We regret to inform our valued customers that Mr. “Duck” Chang passed away this past weekend. Duck Chang’s will remain closed for the next week. We appreciate your understanding.
Tonight I made the first trip there since Mr. Chang’s passing. The place was packed, much busier than I’d seen it in a long time. Apparently they reopened last week for the Chinese New Year. Despite the high activity level, the staff was fairly subdued, their loss still obviously on their minds. Most wore black,while those who didn’t had a black arm band tied around their bicep. The son was making his rounds to all the customers; he got to me about the same time as the fortune cookies.
I expressed my condolences to him, and told him how much I’ve enjoyed coming to their restaurant over the years. We talked a bit about loss, and he told me a good bit about his father. Apparently he was somewhat of a restaurant tycoon in Asia, owning and running several businesses in Hong Kong and Thailand. He left it all behind him in the early 70’s to come to the U.S. so his children would receive a better education and have broader opportunities in life. Mr. Chang opened his place in Annandale in 1975. His son went on to earn a Phd Microbiology, his sister a Masters in Business and a Phd in Computer Science. But they chose to continue working in the family business all these years.
Strangely, just this week in the newest issue of Esquire, Duck Chang’s was rated #8 for an article on Best Bites in the U.S. I’m not sure what the rating system was, or even who did the article, but it’s a fitting and final testament to man who poured his heart and soul into his business. If Mr. Chang’s still looking down on it, I hope he knows how much joy it’s brought to people over all these years.
Excelsior.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Cut-up results
I meant to post this earlier, but for the curious this is what happens with a cut-up:
his discovery was true. They lacked his claw. He would prove it to them the only way he know better: he'd continue retreating. Well during the thesis defense your sweater like it wasn't hour 4 already. odd runes, the whole Norse myths. One anger academia at first Stone in Oklahoma and burial sites of a little sports car. Paul turned into Korn and into Led Zeppelin. The cold of the predictions collapsed flat on the ground. Bergelmir redressed in a pizza reopened his eyes to find Dr. Carroll's baseball cap scraped and cut. But Paul knew inside just slightly through the food he pulled his hand out stretching out to the snowflake, knocking him on the Viking helmet. colorless, gray hue. the steady flow. Paul paused. likely to bring the wind circles a Raven could talk called upon the expertise of Dr. Laughter. Well, if that's what you think satisfying himself by viewing her discoveries of small tools by her neck. one hand two sizes too small before he died. the ice and snow burned into him, starting a patch of pepper-gray hair sniffing the air.
Not all that helpful this time, but it did generate some fun descriptions. I'm now shopping for a couple markets and will send it out tomorrow.
In other news, I just got the official contract for the anthology that's running another story of mine. I should be getting galleys next month, and then it's supposed to be published sometime in April or May. I'll post more as more happens.
Excelsior.
his discovery was true. They lacked his claw. He would prove it to them the only way he know better: he'd continue retreating. Well during the thesis defense your sweater like it wasn't hour 4 already. odd runes, the whole Norse myths. One anger academia at first Stone in Oklahoma and burial sites of a little sports car. Paul turned into Korn and into Led Zeppelin. The cold of the predictions collapsed flat on the ground. Bergelmir redressed in a pizza reopened his eyes to find Dr. Carroll's baseball cap scraped and cut. But Paul knew inside just slightly through the food he pulled his hand out stretching out to the snowflake, knocking him on the Viking helmet. colorless, gray hue. the steady flow. Paul paused. likely to bring the wind circles a Raven could talk called upon the expertise of Dr. Laughter. Well, if that's what you think satisfying himself by viewing her discoveries of small tools by her neck. one hand two sizes too small before he died. the ice and snow burned into him, starting a patch of pepper-gray hair sniffing the air.
Not all that helpful this time, but it did generate some fun descriptions. I'm now shopping for a couple markets and will send it out tomorrow.
In other news, I just got the official contract for the anthology that's running another story of mine. I should be getting galleys next month, and then it's supposed to be published sometime in April or May. I'll post more as more happens.
Excelsior.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
The Day of Hearts
My early Valentine's Day yesterday ended up a mix bag of emotions. It started rather early with very discouraging job fair. The fair was hosted by an association of independent schools, and featured about 50 schools throughout Maryland. Despite the literature posted by the association, I came away feeling pretty unqualified for what the schools were looking for. Of course, most were after teachers in Math and Science and didn't want to bother talking to a writing guy like me.
After that, though, things improved. Anonymous L and I made a trip to the Visionary Museum for their new exhibit called Holy H2O. If you've never been there, all the works exhibited are Visionary or Naive Art. In broad terms, it simply means artists who are untrained. Often times the artists involved are working out odd frustrations and obessions, in some cases creating very powerful work. This exhibit, not surprisingly, focused on work inspired by water. Paintings of storms, fountains created out of bric-a-brac, and boats made out of toothpicks are just a few of the highlights. It's also the first time I've been there since the expansions, so it was interesting to see what they've done with their new space. They've added a lot of classroom/activity room areas, and I can easily see school kids having a great time with their programs.
That night, though, was the highlight. We went to a campy burlesque-style show called Trixie Little & The Evil Hate Monkey's Valentine's Day Cabaret.
Really.
I'm not kidding.
Trixie's a self-dubbed burlesque superheroine defending the world from the evil of the tap dancing Evil Hate Monkey. It was an odd mix of dance, acrobratic tricks, pasties, volcanoes, and goofy performance art. The humor's very Baltimore, so not for everyone. But worth it if you appreciate a little bizarre camp served with your humor. Definitely a fun way to celebrate that most fabricated of holidays.
Excelsior.
After that, though, things improved. Anonymous L and I made a trip to the Visionary Museum for their new exhibit called Holy H2O. If you've never been there, all the works exhibited are Visionary or Naive Art. In broad terms, it simply means artists who are untrained. Often times the artists involved are working out odd frustrations and obessions, in some cases creating very powerful work. This exhibit, not surprisingly, focused on work inspired by water. Paintings of storms, fountains created out of bric-a-brac, and boats made out of toothpicks are just a few of the highlights. It's also the first time I've been there since the expansions, so it was interesting to see what they've done with their new space. They've added a lot of classroom/activity room areas, and I can easily see school kids having a great time with their programs.
That night, though, was the highlight. We went to a campy burlesque-style show called Trixie Little & The Evil Hate Monkey's Valentine's Day Cabaret.
Really.
I'm not kidding.
Trixie's a self-dubbed burlesque superheroine defending the world from the evil of the tap dancing Evil Hate Monkey. It was an odd mix of dance, acrobratic tricks, pasties, volcanoes, and goofy performance art. The humor's very Baltimore, so not for everyone. But worth it if you appreciate a little bizarre camp served with your humor. Definitely a fun way to celebrate that most fabricated of holidays.
Excelsior.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Such a Cut-up
My day job forced me to miss my reviewers meeting this week. I thought I would go without books from them this month and use the time to wade through the piles I have on my bookshelves. Like just about any booklover, I have your standard bookshelves all pretty well filled. But in front of the neatly lined up books are piles of other books I have yet to read. The editors sent me a few things anyway, so the piles keep growing.
First is The Capital, which is part two of the graphic novel series Isaac the Pirate. Part one was one of the first things I reviewed for the magazine, so I'm pleased to get this one. They also sent me Star of Gypsies, the newest novel by Robert Silverberg, and new bios on Tori Amos and Ray Bradbury. All look pretty good. It's kind of scary that the editors are zeroing in on my tastes so easily, but I take it as a good sign that they're sending me things when I miss a meeting. Perhaps I'm just that scary good.
Fiction-writing wise, I've made good progress on my story. Although not perfect, it's a lot better than it was on Monday. Late tonight I'll be performing the old cut-up routines on it. Although it doesn't always work, sometimes it shakes up the writing enough to give you some new ways to look at the story. If nothing else I'll get some fun combinations of words I would otherwise miss out on.
Tomorrow I'm up to Baltimore for a job fair, and then an early Valentine Day celebration with Miss Anonymous L. She has things planned for us, but I don't know what. The only thing she's told me is that she's not sure if we have to dress up "nice or funky". So long as "funky" doesn't involve a pair of wooden clogs, it's cool with me.
Excelsior.
First is The Capital, which is part two of the graphic novel series Isaac the Pirate. Part one was one of the first things I reviewed for the magazine, so I'm pleased to get this one. They also sent me Star of Gypsies, the newest novel by Robert Silverberg, and new bios on Tori Amos and Ray Bradbury. All look pretty good. It's kind of scary that the editors are zeroing in on my tastes so easily, but I take it as a good sign that they're sending me things when I miss a meeting. Perhaps I'm just that scary good.
Fiction-writing wise, I've made good progress on my story. Although not perfect, it's a lot better than it was on Monday. Late tonight I'll be performing the old cut-up routines on it. Although it doesn't always work, sometimes it shakes up the writing enough to give you some new ways to look at the story. If nothing else I'll get some fun combinations of words I would otherwise miss out on.
Tomorrow I'm up to Baltimore for a job fair, and then an early Valentine Day celebration with Miss Anonymous L. She has things planned for us, but I don't know what. The only thing she's told me is that she's not sure if we have to dress up "nice or funky". So long as "funky" doesn't involve a pair of wooden clogs, it's cool with me.
Excelsior.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
They're Baa-aack
I was doing a little sweeping up last night and came across some discarded carcasses of long-dead Lady Bugs. Those of you who've been with me since October or so probably remember my earlier posts about my little friends. I've been finding dead ones the last few days, just scattered about. Mostly around windows, probably trying to get outside with the 50 degree weather we've been graced with over the past week here in D.C.
Well, as I was sweeping I noticed one of them moving, its bright red, black spotted body trying to scuttle away on its little legs. I popped it out of the dustbin and it crawled away under the laundry machine. I can only assume going home by way of some magic portal. I imagine their homeland to be some vast forest that's always green and lush, and there are plenty of aphids to munch on. At least I hope they have better places to go than under my washing machine.
Excelsior.
Well, as I was sweeping I noticed one of them moving, its bright red, black spotted body trying to scuttle away on its little legs. I popped it out of the dustbin and it crawled away under the laundry machine. I can only assume going home by way of some magic portal. I imagine their homeland to be some vast forest that's always green and lush, and there are plenty of aphids to munch on. At least I hope they have better places to go than under my washing machine.
Excelsior.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Openings
Below my navel stetches a long tattoo that says "Fuck...U...S..." The skin above those dots has shriveled as though scarred by burns. Like a talisman, the tattoo has protected me in China for almost five decades. Before coming to the States, I wondered whether I should have it removed. I decided not to, not because I cherished it or was nervous about the surgery, but because if I had done that, word would have spread and the authorities, suspecting I wouldn't return, might have revoked my passport. In addition, I was planning to bring with me all the material I had collected for this memoir, and couldn't afford to attract the attention of the police, who might have confiscated my notes and files. Now I am here, and my tattoo has lost its charm; instead it has become a constant concern.
This is the opening paragraph for Ha Jin's novel War Trash. I've always got my eye out for really good openings in novels and short stories, because they are so hard to pull off. The writer needs to grab the reader, but ideally through a way that connects well to the work as a whole.
A lot of writers, particularly in recent years, opt for the violent or shocking opening. Carl Hiassen, for example, always opens his comic-crime novels with a wacky yet graphic murder. It's a good way to go for the right book, and it certainly get the reader involved in the story right away.
Jin certainly could have done that. The narrator Yuan is a captured Chinese soldier trying to survive in a U.S. POW camp during the Korean War, and he's subjected to and witnesses some pretty gruesome stuff. People around him are beaten, shot, stoned, and torn apart by hunger and disease. But instead Jin chose the image of this tattoo. It's a strong image, and one that Jin comes back to throughout the book in a variety of ways. Actually, what's shown in this paragraph is a defaced version of the original tattoo, but I won't give away its original form. In many ways it becomes symbolic of Yuan's constant struggle balancing his love for home and family with precepts of Chinese Communism and Nationalism that he doesn't fully agree with.
When I first read the above paragraph, it brought me nothing but questions. Why would this character get this tattoo? What does it mean for him? Why would someone with a tatoo like this end up in the U.S.? And finding the answers to these questions is part of why I kept reading. And that, I would think, is the whole point.
Excelsior.
This is the opening paragraph for Ha Jin's novel War Trash. I've always got my eye out for really good openings in novels and short stories, because they are so hard to pull off. The writer needs to grab the reader, but ideally through a way that connects well to the work as a whole.
A lot of writers, particularly in recent years, opt for the violent or shocking opening. Carl Hiassen, for example, always opens his comic-crime novels with a wacky yet graphic murder. It's a good way to go for the right book, and it certainly get the reader involved in the story right away.
Jin certainly could have done that. The narrator Yuan is a captured Chinese soldier trying to survive in a U.S. POW camp during the Korean War, and he's subjected to and witnesses some pretty gruesome stuff. People around him are beaten, shot, stoned, and torn apart by hunger and disease. But instead Jin chose the image of this tattoo. It's a strong image, and one that Jin comes back to throughout the book in a variety of ways. Actually, what's shown in this paragraph is a defaced version of the original tattoo, but I won't give away its original form. In many ways it becomes symbolic of Yuan's constant struggle balancing his love for home and family with precepts of Chinese Communism and Nationalism that he doesn't fully agree with.
When I first read the above paragraph, it brought me nothing but questions. Why would this character get this tattoo? What does it mean for him? Why would someone with a tatoo like this end up in the U.S.? And finding the answers to these questions is part of why I kept reading. And that, I would think, is the whole point.
Excelsior.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Creating Deadlines
Lady Lit Blitz's post on procrastination inspired me to come clean.
I've been procrastinating like nobody's business on this stupid nordic dark fantasy/horror piece. I don't even know why. It's a throw away piece with little redeeming value as far as theme, etc, etc. But I keep poking at it, like a little kid jamming a stick into a dead dog on the street. And no matter how many times I poke this dead dog, it doesn't want to come to life.
I've been good the last few days editing it and playing around with it during my lunch hour, and using some slow moments either at work or at home to make the changes on the computer. (I love my data-stick, BTW. It's a life saver. Not that you're reading this, but thanks, Dad).
I've set a deadline for myself of Friday night. Friday's my next day off, so that gives me lunch hours today through Thursday plus all day Friday to finish this piece off. After Friday night I'm either sending it out or putting it aside for at least a couple of months. It's well past time to move on to something else.
Excelsior.
I've been procrastinating like nobody's business on this stupid nordic dark fantasy/horror piece. I don't even know why. It's a throw away piece with little redeeming value as far as theme, etc, etc. But I keep poking at it, like a little kid jamming a stick into a dead dog on the street. And no matter how many times I poke this dead dog, it doesn't want to come to life.
I've been good the last few days editing it and playing around with it during my lunch hour, and using some slow moments either at work or at home to make the changes on the computer. (I love my data-stick, BTW. It's a life saver. Not that you're reading this, but thanks, Dad).
I've set a deadline for myself of Friday night. Friday's my next day off, so that gives me lunch hours today through Thursday plus all day Friday to finish this piece off. After Friday night I'm either sending it out or putting it aside for at least a couple of months. It's well past time to move on to something else.
Excelsior.
Friday, February 04, 2005
Some Housecleaning
These are some random tidbits I've been meaning to blog about for a few days.
First off, Andy Singer's coming out with a collection of his No Exit comics. If you're not familiar with him, he's a somewhat underground comic artist with a strip syndicated in some independant papers across the country. Picture a slightly edgier, more nihilistic version of Zippy the Pinhead with some Gary Larson thrown in, and you're on the right track. Congrats to Singer, though. He has a unique style and he deserves more attention than he gets.
Second, and somewhat related, I added a link for the Comics Curmudgeon. It's a fun blog the deconstructs and pokes fun at the daily comic strips. I think, but I'm not positive, that he hangs in Baltimore. It's good fun if you like comics. Thanks to Anonymous L for telling me about it.
Third, Random House has put together a really good author site for Haruki Murakami. Murakami is in the running for the top spot in my favorite writers lineup, based solely on his novel The Windup Bird Chronicles. Although the buzzword of New Wave Fabulists is dying down somewhat, I can think of no other living author that exemplifies the ideas of it. I have a collection of his novellas set up in my to-read pile, and will hopefully get to it soon. His new novel Kafka on the Shore is getting pretty favorable reviews in Salon, NY Times, and the Washington Post. The author site is very well done, and contains good descriptions of his work, reviews, and a fan section.
Lastly, I think I need to order this. Oddball pomo musician John Zorn doing Lovecraft/Crowley inspired music sounds almost too good to be true.
Excelsior.
First off, Andy Singer's coming out with a collection of his No Exit comics. If you're not familiar with him, he's a somewhat underground comic artist with a strip syndicated in some independant papers across the country. Picture a slightly edgier, more nihilistic version of Zippy the Pinhead with some Gary Larson thrown in, and you're on the right track. Congrats to Singer, though. He has a unique style and he deserves more attention than he gets.
Second, and somewhat related, I added a link for the Comics Curmudgeon. It's a fun blog the deconstructs and pokes fun at the daily comic strips. I think, but I'm not positive, that he hangs in Baltimore. It's good fun if you like comics. Thanks to Anonymous L for telling me about it.
Third, Random House has put together a really good author site for Haruki Murakami. Murakami is in the running for the top spot in my favorite writers lineup, based solely on his novel The Windup Bird Chronicles. Although the buzzword of New Wave Fabulists is dying down somewhat, I can think of no other living author that exemplifies the ideas of it. I have a collection of his novellas set up in my to-read pile, and will hopefully get to it soon. His new novel Kafka on the Shore is getting pretty favorable reviews in Salon, NY Times, and the Washington Post. The author site is very well done, and contains good descriptions of his work, reviews, and a fan section.
Lastly, I think I need to order this. Oddball pomo musician John Zorn doing Lovecraft/Crowley inspired music sounds almost too good to be true.
Excelsior.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Getting Jiffy With JEF
One of my smaller resolutions for this year is to renew my interest in more experimental work. I have to read a lot of pretty commercial stuff, a lot of it good, for the mag I review for, but I have felt more than a little out of touch with the fringe movements in fiction. I'll be trying to read at least one book a month that's a bit more out there, either through its concepts, its ideology or its technique. My first dive back into it was the Conjunctions issue I blogged about earlier, and now I move on to the next reading.
In a way, my foray into experimental fiction for the month hits all of those above areas. Issue #29 of The Journal of Experimental Fiction (JEF) titles itself The Literary Terrorism of Harold Jaffe, and focuses solely on his work and career in one form or another. Prior to this mag, I was not too familiar with Jaffe. I know him primarily as the editor for the avant garde lit mag Fiction International, although I've read a piece or two of his in the avant pop anthologies.
Not surprisingly, criticism comprises a large part of this issue. But it's criticism turned slightly on its head. Most of the authors are friends and/or former students of Jaffe, and that brings some interesting color into their comments. His work's compared to punk rock, dadaist and postmodern theory, and some of the essays include personal stories along with them. The best of these are Michael Hemmingson's attempts at producing and directing Jaffe's texts as plays and Carissa DiGiovanni's stories on how helpful he was in inspiring and giving aid when she organized protests against the war in Iraq. A few people attempt some imitation, the best of which seems to be "Countdown" by Trevor Dodge and "Towers of Babel" by Andrew Koopmans. The interview with JEF editor Eckhard Gerdes opens the issue, and provides general but solid background necessary for the other essays and fictions in the issue.
From what I gather, Jaffe likes to take real news stories and spin them on their head in different ways. Two obvious examples are popstar Madonna having a raucous sexual affair with Henry Kissinger, and talk show hosted by Dr. Kevorkian. In some cases it appears he (re)uses the text straight from the newspaper or television, using a variety of techniques to manipulate it in a more controlled Dadaist fashion to create some of his outlandish, over the top, bizarre stories.
What's the point, you might ask? Well, at least according to the critics, Jaffe pretty consistently deals with the idea of the media and how they manipulate what we think of news and how this shapes the way we think both as individuals and as a nation. It's definitely coming from the far left side of things politically (in the interview he dubs himself a subtle anarchist), and race and gender issues seem to be of particular interest to him. Many of the pieces seem to end right at the climax, or even just before, often jarring the reader who's used to western standards of dramatization and structure.
He shares sensibilties with avant pop purveyors, particularly Kathy Acker and the great theorist of artistic terrorism, Hakim Bey. Yes, I realize I'm using a lot of links here, but it's probably better that I let these people speak for themselves than my trying to describe their work in pale, partially informed tones.
Anyway, I give high marks to the issue of JEF if you're feeling adventurous and want to shake up your style a little. Although not difficult reading, it still manages to hit on a lot of pomo and experimental ideas. I'll definitely be checking into Jaffe a little more as well.
Excelsior.
In a way, my foray into experimental fiction for the month hits all of those above areas. Issue #29 of The Journal of Experimental Fiction (JEF) titles itself The Literary Terrorism of Harold Jaffe, and focuses solely on his work and career in one form or another. Prior to this mag, I was not too familiar with Jaffe. I know him primarily as the editor for the avant garde lit mag Fiction International, although I've read a piece or two of his in the avant pop anthologies.
Not surprisingly, criticism comprises a large part of this issue. But it's criticism turned slightly on its head. Most of the authors are friends and/or former students of Jaffe, and that brings some interesting color into their comments. His work's compared to punk rock, dadaist and postmodern theory, and some of the essays include personal stories along with them. The best of these are Michael Hemmingson's attempts at producing and directing Jaffe's texts as plays and Carissa DiGiovanni's stories on how helpful he was in inspiring and giving aid when she organized protests against the war in Iraq. A few people attempt some imitation, the best of which seems to be "Countdown" by Trevor Dodge and "Towers of Babel" by Andrew Koopmans. The interview with JEF editor Eckhard Gerdes opens the issue, and provides general but solid background necessary for the other essays and fictions in the issue.
From what I gather, Jaffe likes to take real news stories and spin them on their head in different ways. Two obvious examples are popstar Madonna having a raucous sexual affair with Henry Kissinger, and talk show hosted by Dr. Kevorkian. In some cases it appears he (re)uses the text straight from the newspaper or television, using a variety of techniques to manipulate it in a more controlled Dadaist fashion to create some of his outlandish, over the top, bizarre stories.
What's the point, you might ask? Well, at least according to the critics, Jaffe pretty consistently deals with the idea of the media and how they manipulate what we think of news and how this shapes the way we think both as individuals and as a nation. It's definitely coming from the far left side of things politically (in the interview he dubs himself a subtle anarchist), and race and gender issues seem to be of particular interest to him. Many of the pieces seem to end right at the climax, or even just before, often jarring the reader who's used to western standards of dramatization and structure.
He shares sensibilties with avant pop purveyors, particularly Kathy Acker and the great theorist of artistic terrorism, Hakim Bey. Yes, I realize I'm using a lot of links here, but it's probably better that I let these people speak for themselves than my trying to describe their work in pale, partially informed tones.
Anyway, I give high marks to the issue of JEF if you're feeling adventurous and want to shake up your style a little. Although not difficult reading, it still manages to hit on a lot of pomo and experimental ideas. I'll definitely be checking into Jaffe a little more as well.
Excelsior.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Woo-Hoo!
No matter what else happens culturally this year, it's all ok with me. Why, do you ask? Well, Dali is coming to Philadelphia.
After Duchamp, he's probably my favorite artist of the 20th century. His wild ideas, his high level of craft, his attitude all appeal to me in a variety of ways. Looks to be a huge retrospective, and Philly is the only U.S. venue.
So go. You owe it to yourself to visit him in 2005.
Excelsior.
After Duchamp, he's probably my favorite artist of the 20th century. His wild ideas, his high level of craft, his attitude all appeal to me in a variety of ways. Looks to be a huge retrospective, and Philly is the only U.S. venue.
So go. You owe it to yourself to visit him in 2005.
Excelsior.
Them Bones
Today I’m reviewing Seth Greenland’s The Bones by way of a literary technique.
In grad school a professor of mine was big on what he called a plot shift for any work over 20 pages. Basically, it’s a technique to shake things up a bit plot-wise, some kind of incident to throw your characters off balance and bring in more conflict when things are running just a little too smoothly. It can be a big thing like a car crash that hospitalizes one of the characters, or perhaps something they were expecting yet counting on, like a job promtion, doesn't come through.
My professor described it in a pretty clear way. If a plot is like a small stream, a plot shift is like a large rock that you toss right in its way. Some smaller rocks will briefly divert the stream, but it will eventually work its way back to its original course. A larger, more dramatic rock can completely divert the flow and take that stream places no one could have predicted.
How does this relate to The Bones exactly? Well, Greenland does an extraordinarily good job with a big honker of a plot shift. You might say he tossed a mountain in the way of his plot-stream. But I need to tell you about the story a bit so you know what the hell I’m talking about.
The Bones is primarily a novel about Frank Bones, bad boy comedian extraordinaire. His smart, in your face and downright insulting style of stand-up comedy has given him a relatively successful career on the comedy club circuit. But whether due to his severe bad-boy image or just a case of bad luck the Bones has never managed to make that career shift into mainstream entertainment through a popular sitcom or movie. As if by a miracle, he's offered his own sitcom at a new television network that can grant him this elusive shot at the big time. The catch is that they want Frank to play an Eskimo, an Eskimo sent on wild, cartoony adventures riding a giant walrus across the frozen tundra. It's obvious Greenland knows the world of television and comedy well, and he takes every opportunity to satirize the glitz and glam of Hollywood. From empty-headed pretty boys to social climbing wives, he populates this world with over the top characters that make you both laugh and think. Even the Bones, womanizing, drug using jerk that he is, comes off surprisingly likable through the quick wit and patter he brings to every scene.
In a last ditched effort Bones calls Lloyd Melnick, an old acquaintance who just came off a very successful run as a writer on the massive hit The Fleishman Show. Bones pitches Melnick the idea of a show based on himself, using his own wild and crazy life as a backdrop for a cutting-edge sitcom. If Lloyd joins in with Bones, the show would get a free pass and lead Bones to every dream of success he's ever had. But Lloyd is burned out on the industry and holds secret desires to finally write that novel he's put off for so long. He turns the Bones down.
Melnick's refusal sends Bones spiraling out of control. After crashing his yellow Hummer into Melnick's house, Bones's anger pushes him ever more deeply into the opiates of narcotics and the Home Shopping Channel. After a few months time, Bones pulls himself out of this morass of self pity and takes his act on the road again, this time to Tulsa, Oklahoma.
Here comes the mountain.
After his act at the Tulsa club, Bones has a very vocal and public argument over money with the club’s owner. Bones takes himself back to his hotel and drinks himself to sleep. The city’s Sheriff, fingering him as the prime suspect in the club owner’s murder wakes him up in the morning.
The whole scene turns into a media-blitz. Entertainment and regular news sources fill up the city, hoping to catch an interview of this bad boy comic who may have just killed someone. Bones suddenly finds himself on the cover of Rolling Stones, his albums start sell like hotcakes and offers start poring in for film and television adaptations for his story. Melnick catches word of the story and jets out to Tulsa, hoping to make use of the Bones’s story for a novel or long work of non-fiction. The tale spins out even further, involving corrupt cops, running the border into Mexico, and yes, even a love story.
Now about that mountain.
Up to the point of sending Bones to Tulsa and involving him in this murder the plot moves on a pretty straight line. Although a fun satire, there are no real surprises and no unusual pressures on the characters to make them change. But this mountain, this plot shift, pushes both Melnick and Bones to learn at least a little something about themselves. What starts out as a simply funny and exciting story about dreams and desires transforms into a very moving story about two men finally growing up.
Excelsior.
In grad school a professor of mine was big on what he called a plot shift for any work over 20 pages. Basically, it’s a technique to shake things up a bit plot-wise, some kind of incident to throw your characters off balance and bring in more conflict when things are running just a little too smoothly. It can be a big thing like a car crash that hospitalizes one of the characters, or perhaps something they were expecting yet counting on, like a job promtion, doesn't come through.
My professor described it in a pretty clear way. If a plot is like a small stream, a plot shift is like a large rock that you toss right in its way. Some smaller rocks will briefly divert the stream, but it will eventually work its way back to its original course. A larger, more dramatic rock can completely divert the flow and take that stream places no one could have predicted.
How does this relate to The Bones exactly? Well, Greenland does an extraordinarily good job with a big honker of a plot shift. You might say he tossed a mountain in the way of his plot-stream. But I need to tell you about the story a bit so you know what the hell I’m talking about.
The Bones is primarily a novel about Frank Bones, bad boy comedian extraordinaire. His smart, in your face and downright insulting style of stand-up comedy has given him a relatively successful career on the comedy club circuit. But whether due to his severe bad-boy image or just a case of bad luck the Bones has never managed to make that career shift into mainstream entertainment through a popular sitcom or movie. As if by a miracle, he's offered his own sitcom at a new television network that can grant him this elusive shot at the big time. The catch is that they want Frank to play an Eskimo, an Eskimo sent on wild, cartoony adventures riding a giant walrus across the frozen tundra. It's obvious Greenland knows the world of television and comedy well, and he takes every opportunity to satirize the glitz and glam of Hollywood. From empty-headed pretty boys to social climbing wives, he populates this world with over the top characters that make you both laugh and think. Even the Bones, womanizing, drug using jerk that he is, comes off surprisingly likable through the quick wit and patter he brings to every scene.
In a last ditched effort Bones calls Lloyd Melnick, an old acquaintance who just came off a very successful run as a writer on the massive hit The Fleishman Show. Bones pitches Melnick the idea of a show based on himself, using his own wild and crazy life as a backdrop for a cutting-edge sitcom. If Lloyd joins in with Bones, the show would get a free pass and lead Bones to every dream of success he's ever had. But Lloyd is burned out on the industry and holds secret desires to finally write that novel he's put off for so long. He turns the Bones down.
Melnick's refusal sends Bones spiraling out of control. After crashing his yellow Hummer into Melnick's house, Bones's anger pushes him ever more deeply into the opiates of narcotics and the Home Shopping Channel. After a few months time, Bones pulls himself out of this morass of self pity and takes his act on the road again, this time to Tulsa, Oklahoma.
Here comes the mountain.
After his act at the Tulsa club, Bones has a very vocal and public argument over money with the club’s owner. Bones takes himself back to his hotel and drinks himself to sleep. The city’s Sheriff, fingering him as the prime suspect in the club owner’s murder wakes him up in the morning.
The whole scene turns into a media-blitz. Entertainment and regular news sources fill up the city, hoping to catch an interview of this bad boy comic who may have just killed someone. Bones suddenly finds himself on the cover of Rolling Stones, his albums start sell like hotcakes and offers start poring in for film and television adaptations for his story. Melnick catches word of the story and jets out to Tulsa, hoping to make use of the Bones’s story for a novel or long work of non-fiction. The tale spins out even further, involving corrupt cops, running the border into Mexico, and yes, even a love story.
Now about that mountain.
Up to the point of sending Bones to Tulsa and involving him in this murder the plot moves on a pretty straight line. Although a fun satire, there are no real surprises and no unusual pressures on the characters to make them change. But this mountain, this plot shift, pushes both Melnick and Bones to learn at least a little something about themselves. What starts out as a simply funny and exciting story about dreams and desires transforms into a very moving story about two men finally growing up.
Excelsior.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
A Short Musical Interlude
While all those big fans probably knew months ago, Nine Inch Nails is releasing a new album in May called With Teeth, and the live lineup was released a couple of days ago. Performing with Mr. Reznor is former Icarus Line guitarist Aaron North, A Perfect Circle and Marilyn Manson bassist Jeordie White, drummer Jerome Dillon and keyboardist Alessandro Cortini.
So prepare for the deluge of promotion. The poster boy for closet rivetheads is back.
I don't have high hopes for the album, although I'm always hopeful to be surprised. Downward Spiral was a masterwork of pop, industrial and metal, and Treznor will probably never reach that height again. People who would never, never, ever listen to anything even remotely industrial or electronic accepted NIN, and it opened up the playing field for a short time. With the giant force of NIN alongside smaller acts like Machines of Loving Grace, Gravity Kills, and few others industrial was the next big thing for a month or two. Maryilyn Manson's a whole other deal, though.
There is this small part of me that hopes Treznor has it in him to rejuvenate a field of music that's essentially dead. Even the big boys like Skinny Puppy have moved on to forms a good bit different from what they used to do (curiously, the guitarist on their last album is also from A Perfect Cicle). But then, Puppy was all about evolution anyway. More info for the curious at the offical site of NIN.
On a completely different track, Cream is doing a very short reunion tour in the U.K. I'm not a big classic rock guy, and Clapton even less so, but Cream is one of those rare exceptions. Clapton by himself always comes off to me like an inauthentic white guy doing a passable job with the blues. But Cream was it's own animal, and was wholly different. I'd definitely make an effort to see them if they bother to come stateside. But I doubt Baker and Bruce would bother.
I'll have one more review up later tonight, or early tomorrow. Most of today's been taken up by the evil of income taxes.
Excelsior.
So prepare for the deluge of promotion. The poster boy for closet rivetheads is back.
I don't have high hopes for the album, although I'm always hopeful to be surprised. Downward Spiral was a masterwork of pop, industrial and metal, and Treznor will probably never reach that height again. People who would never, never, ever listen to anything even remotely industrial or electronic accepted NIN, and it opened up the playing field for a short time. With the giant force of NIN alongside smaller acts like Machines of Loving Grace, Gravity Kills, and few others industrial was the next big thing for a month or two. Maryilyn Manson's a whole other deal, though.
There is this small part of me that hopes Treznor has it in him to rejuvenate a field of music that's essentially dead. Even the big boys like Skinny Puppy have moved on to forms a good bit different from what they used to do (curiously, the guitarist on their last album is also from A Perfect Cicle). But then, Puppy was all about evolution anyway. More info for the curious at the offical site of NIN.
On a completely different track, Cream is doing a very short reunion tour in the U.K. I'm not a big classic rock guy, and Clapton even less so, but Cream is one of those rare exceptions. Clapton by himself always comes off to me like an inauthentic white guy doing a passable job with the blues. But Cream was it's own animal, and was wholly different. I'd definitely make an effort to see them if they bother to come stateside. But I doubt Baker and Bruce would bother.
I'll have one more review up later tonight, or early tomorrow. Most of today's been taken up by the evil of income taxes.
Excelsior.
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