« January 2005 | Main | March 2005 »
February 28, 2005
Creating
Content is a bitch. I spend more time thinking about what I could put on this thing than I actually do creating things for this space. Thinking becomes fantasy. As as we know, fantasy is mostly narcisissm. Unless it involves wizards, wadrobes and witchcraft. Then it's a guaranteed children's fiction bestseller.
Right now, I'm listening the opening of Brian Wilson's "Our Prayer/Gee" repeatedly. That opening "OOOOOO" jerks my head around.
Honestly, I love reading all the interviews with Brian Wilson now. He's just so nice. Too nice. He would be an amazing kindergarten teacher. He's like Mr. Rogers, if Mr. Rogers had spent a decade dropping acid (sometimes with Charles Manson).
So, these are some things I've been reading and thinking about lately....
I always write out of a need to read something, rather than a need to write something.
- Jonathan Safran Foer
Tragedy primes one for humor. And humor primes one for tragedy. They amplify each other. As a writer, I am trying to express those things that are most scary to me, because I am alone with them. Why do I write? It's not that I want people to think I am smart, or even that I am a good writer. I write because I want to end my loneliness. Books make people less alone. That, before and after everything else, is what books do. They show us that conversations are possible across distances.
- Jonathan Safran Foer
I chanced upon this article this evening. I'm particularly glad I did, because his new work will undoubtedly be amazing, just as "Everything is Illuminated" which I'm in the process of re-reading. (And, as is the case most of the time, reading for the first time.) "Amazing" sees quite a bit of over-usage, so I apologize. But, Safran Foer is no short of extraordinary.
If I was someone who laughed and cried, I would, while I was reading his book.
Jeff Tweedy has some good things to say. And they play good music when they have the chance. And it's call-in show, so there's plenty of opportunity to hear balding, middle-aged men (like my dad if he was cool or me in, say, twenty years) phone in to say how Wilco saved music and their individual beings.
I'm trying not to go all activist on yuo, but the above images are from one of Kristof's recent columns in the NY Times. They are people who were victims of genocide in the Darfur region of Sudan. You can read more here...
If you want to find out more about what's happening in Darfur, or what you can do, I recommend these sites:
Posted by houch at 11:32 PM | Comments (1)
February 21, 2005
Hair noise
So, I had a lame George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton photographic layout in mind, but then I found this...
Wouldn't it be great if someone would create a website that featured local Jackson, Mississippi hard rock bands that played around town during the "Hair Metal" 1980's? Someone who would bring back that era not just with band photos, but also music and video downloads too?
Well, unfortunately for the populace, hair metal doesn't rust.
1980s Era Jackson, MS Heavy Rock Bands
If you visit the site, I implore you to explore Vertigo's page. But if clicking is too hard, I'll give you a taste.
I don't think I can even attempt to caption that.
The 16 ft wingspan flying metal monster you see with the bat wings, skull and ribcage was ours, built to our design by a guy who usually made tiny versions for The Little Big Store.
These guys brought the rock even with no one at their shows.
-------------------
In other news, my hallmate Rob, a fellow American and Radiohead enthusiast, traveled to Oxford this weekend. On a midday jaunt through the town, he spotted a familiar face buying a newspaper. This familiar face was Thom Yorke, sporting a scarf and some aviator sunglasses.
Needless to say, I've leeched all the logistical details of this encounter from Rob so that on some future Saturday, I'll be in Oxford, at that exact location, at the same time. This is my plan, though I'm a bit wary of expecting that type of regularity from someone like Thom Yorke.
Posted by houch at 09:30 PM | Comments (2)
February 18, 2005
England diary
In celebration of the fact that my class for tomorrow was cancelled, and that we were supposed to discuss Theodor Adorno's critique of jazz (total crap, by the way), I decided to make a lot of coffee, dip a baguette in Nutella, listen to Miles Davis and download Jack Kerouac desktops.
Seeing as I've been reading Chuck Palahniuk's Diary, a terribly bleak (nihilistic, even) novel about a diary, I decided to redeem my time by working on my own England diary, I fear, a terribly drab (downright boring, even) account of my time here.
Here's an entry I just finished up, involving my first day here...
Monday, January 17:
I arrived at Gatwick Airport after sleeping zero hours on the transatlantic flight. On the positive side, throughout the flight I was able to watch episodes of Law & Order, the good parts of Forrest Gump and the second-half of "Sky Captain," immediately followed by the first half.
More importantly, I gained a friend. Honestly, I don't know his name. We never introduced ourselves. We talked for 2.5 hours about universities, military service, Sunnis, Shi'ites, and John Kerry. To me, he looked like a David, so hereafter that is what I will refer to him as. Initially, I was a bit wary of being seated next to a middle-aged man in sweatpants and a t-shirt, who looked a bit sweaty, on the second-to-last row of a Boeing 777 jet.
(Frankly, being seated next to any middle-aged man on any flight has become emotionally worrisome for me after a flight two years ago. Coming home from Romania, having been awake for over 24 hours, now on a small commuter jet, insurance salesman from Idaho is none-too-ashamed to admit that he's a sex addict. And not out of shame or disgust, pure pride. A way to connect with the collegian's plight, I guess. But that's for another post, methinks...)
Anywho, David struck up conversation with me as we were pushing out of the Atlanta gate.
"You headed home?" he asked.
Completely startled, I fumbled with the Sky magazine route map in my hand. Do I look that British? Wait, not that British. Do I even look British?
"Just headed to school," I replied.
It turns out, David works for the US embassy in Chile. He's part of some scientific research wing and pretty much travels all the time. The night before he'd flown in from Santiago. Earlier this morning, he'd stored his luggage and grabbed a MARTA train for some army base 45 minutes away for the sole purpose of working out. He grabbed the train back to Hartsfield, claiming that he showered, but he still looked sweaty. And I was still wary.
So, by the time the incandescent blue and green screen indicated we were over Newfoundland, I had learned that David had formerly lived and worked in Great Britain and Norway, was born in Hattiesburg before moving to thirteen other locations across the States by the age of eighteen, had been active duty Army for twenty years, aspired to teach personnel management and military history at the collegiate level when he retired, and loved flowers, hiking and Virginia Tech.
This is a man who upon me confessing my political positions - which is, essentially, alienation from both sides - leaned up in his seat and shook his arm, urging me never to feel disenfranchised. "Your generation can change things," he said over and over. David had a distinct unbridle optimism about America - not necessarily patriotism, his emotion ran deeper. I'm still completely undecided as to what exactly it was.
David has two children. Both of whom, you see, will be in Iraq, if all goes to according to plan, in less than six months. He talked about his children, outside of their military service, affectionately, like any parent. But, when it came to Iraq, their potential peril, he talked about death like a pragmatist, utterly detached. In my estimation, either reality hasn't entirely revealed itself to him or he's been in the Army for entirely too long.
David's son was a West Point graduate, he'd been a finalist for the Rhodes Scholarship but lost out to a classmate. (He had to "settle" for the Truman Scholar.) I asked David what his son was doing now after he'd wrapped up postgraduate study in philosophy after Oxford.
"My son's going through some really tough times right now," I said. I thought substance abuse or divorce or death. "He's somewhere in the wilderness of Fort Bening trying to pass the Army Ranger test. He's failed twice, and you've only got three chances."
The first time David's son attempted the test, he was fresh out of West Point. Impeccable shape, mentally and physically. But, the Ranger test goes beyond any category of human ability. During the weeks-long test, potential Rangers sleep for no more than two hours on most nights and survive on a meager diet - cold meals once a day. At one point, they drop the cadets off in the middle of the Everglades to live for a week, on their own with nothing.
Arguably the most notorious feature of the test is an orienteering assignment at Fort Bening. Conducted in daylight hours during the middle of July, the test involves finding three out of five landmarks using rudimentary compass equipment. An overwhelming percentage of the cadets fail.
David's son was in a group with his West Point friend, John, who had actually beat him for the Rhodes Scholarship. John had hurt his knee earlier in the week and the infirmary had issued him some strong anti-inflammatory medicine. This was Fort Bening, Georgia in summer. The temperature was over 100 degrees. Nevertheless, John was drudging through the heat. He had located three of the spots - all that was required - before anyone else in the group. However, that was not satisfactory for him. John, Rhodes Scholar. David's son saw him after John had found the fourth. He was utterly fatigued, his eyes hardly open, yet he kept going. They parted ways, and evidently, John lost his way. He wandered off the trail. David's son found him collapsed in a clearing. David's son watched him die there. The medicine John had been taking had made him very susceptible to sunstroke and combined with the sleep depravity, his body could not handle the stress. He literally overwhelmed his body, reaching for perfection.
Perhaps the most emotional David was during the entire course of our conversation came with the mention of certain Republican policies. You see, David "owns" much of the technology responsible for the notorious bunker buster missiles. A few weeks earlier, President Bush had announced plans to develop technology to equip those missiles with nuclear warheads. David was vehemently upset about this, as was the rest of the populace who's seen Dr. Strangelove. Mostly, David just sneered and shook his head.
When we reached Gatwick, David and I realized we both needed to take the same train into London, so we resolved to travel together as long as we could. I gathered my stuff in baggage claim, where I waited for him to do likewise. Eventually, we left to get train tickets and traveled towards the platform together (whereupon my 100+ pounds of luggage knocked over some British guy's bag, much to his displeasure as I judged from my continuous apologies and his continuous frowns...).
Shortly after 7 AM, we boarded a train for Victoria Station in South Central London. At this point, I noticed I was only in possession of three bags. Somewhere a fourth, my satchel, was lost. In it were essentially every book I had brought for my stay here and lots of travelers checks. I told David, realizing this is where we would part ways. He helped me with my bags as I got off the train at the first stop from Gatwick, Horley it was called. David waved as I tried to manage 100 pounds of luggage up two flights of concrete stairs.
I bought a ticket for the trip back to Gatwick. After descending the stairs from the station, back onto the platform, I realized that it was at most a half-mile from Gatwick. And the next train didn't arrive for 30 minutes. Though hauling luggage however many thousand feet down an active rail line did seem appealing, I opted instead to wait. In the cold. In the wind.
Eventually, I made it back to Gatwick. Entirely uncertain of where I left the satchel, I retraced all of my steps. After repeatedly accosting every information desk agent in the Gatwick South, North and Train terminals, I was finally put in touch with a friendly Indian man who had my black satchel, telling me that he had found while he cleaning the baggage claim area. He returned it to me himself, not leaving until I counted every one of my travelers checks.
I eventually made it to Victoria, then a cab, then my hotel. I've tried to track down David through the Chile embassy website. (What I can't do I Google). But to no avail. (Why I'm suddenly aware that this ending sounds like a bad update on "Unsolved Mysteries" or "Maury Povich."
Here's a self-portrait at the end of this debacle:
Posted by houch at 02:08 AM | Comments (5)
February 16, 2005
Upon this rock
I stood in the center of a gravel patch between the food and the crowd, sort of gumming the straw, quadriplegically probing with it for stubborn pockets of meltwater. I was a ways from the stage, but I could see well enough. Something started to happen to me. The guys in the band were middle-aged. They had blousy shirts and half-hearted arena-rock moves from the mid-'80s.
What was...this feeling? The singer kept grinning between lines, like if he didn't, he might collapse. I could just make out the words:
There's a higher place to go
(beyond belief, beyond belief),
Where we reach the next plateau,
(beyond belief, beyond belief)...
The straw slipped from my mouth.
"Oh, shit. It's Petra."
- From "Upon This Rock" by John Jeremiah Sullivan.
I'll admit it. Most of my social interaction is characterized by some, mostly inane, mutterings that you just listen to this album or browse this site. However, this time I feel as if I've actually stumbled upon substance.
The above excerpt is from an article in GQ about a writer's experience at Creation Festival, evidently the largest Christian music festival in the States. It's fascinating. In no way does it tred in the stereotypical way one might imagine. Please, please read it.
(I did a bit of research. Turns out, this writer, John Jeremiah Sullivan, is a former Oxford American editor, now a Harper's editor I believe, and appeared, if any of you were there, on the Thacker Mountain show last spring when Trent Dabbs played. Oh, Oxford, you hubris of disaffection.)
Posted by houch at 12:21 AM | Comments (6)
February 09, 2005
The chairman
Sorry for another quote. I just think these need to be read...
When the Old God leaves the world, what happens to all the unexpended faith? He looks at each sweet face, round face, long, wrong darkish, plain. They are a nation he supposes, founded on the principle of easy belief. A unit fueled by credulousness. They speak a half language, a set of ready made terms and empty repetitions. All things, the sum of the knowable, everything true, it all comes down to a few simple formulas copied and memorized and passed on. And here is the drama of mechanical routine played out with living figures. It knocks him back with awe, the loss of scale and intimacy, the way love and sex are multiplied out, the numbers and shaped crowd. This really scares him, a mass of people turned into a sculptured project. [...] when the Old God goes, they pray to flies and bottletops.
- Don Delillo, Mao II
Posted by houch at 05:25 PM | Comments (1)
February 06, 2005
The whole soul
Men are less free than they imagine; ah, far less free. The freest are perhaps least free.
Men are free when they are in a living homeland, not when they are straying and breaking away. Men are free when they are obeying some deep, inward voice of religious belief. Obeying from within. Men are free when they belong to a living, organic, BELIEVING community, active in fulfilling some unfulfilled, perhaps some unrealized purpose. Not when they are escaping to some wild west. The most unfree souls go west, and shout of freedom. Men are freest when they are most unconscious of freedom. The shout is a rattling of chains, always was.
- D.H. Lawrence, "The Spirit of Place"
Posted by houch at 02:28 PM | Comments (2)
February 03, 2005
Baby Got Bible
I'm not really sure if this is funny or not. I think it is, though. (The opening scene isn't, just keep watching...)
Posted by houch at 12:23 PM | Comments (2)
February 02, 2005
Papist leanings
After creating the birds of the air, the Pope saw that is was pleasing in his sight.
This picture is too good to be true.
Posted by houch at 12:42 AM | Comments (1)