skirblog

rd.

modern problems: because I like to wear the giant BOSE Triportheadphones during my commute (light, yet tight around the ears, great sound) to enjoy my gigs of music and to also, sorry to say, block out the inane chatter and cell warbling of my well meaning and I'm sure, good-souled fellow commuters, I did not hear the apparant warning last week when the Triport's crazy-long cord snagged itself on a chair arm rest and as I proceeded forward, the cord yanked my head and headphones back, whiplash style. I had to disentangle the damn thing to the bemused harumphs of my aurally scorned passengers. This was not a problem folks had to deal with too much before the AE (Apple Era). Also it strikes me as a bit ridiculous that when I walk down the streets still listening and enjoying the music, still blocking the constant begging and really loud alpha male and female cell phone important business second hand cell smoke, I look like Roger Daltry in Tommy, what with the eyeshades and earplugs (and you know where to put the cork.) This all in the service of tuning out the world, which I'm almost giddy to do, when I pass three guys all on cells, trying to out dick each other by sheer volume, sometimes even guys in cars screaming into their fun penis extensions join in for a pissing symphony I thankfully don't have to hear.

What's drowning the world out these days?  Just got a bunch of Medeski Martin and Wood after seeing a clip of them playing and was intrigued. Now that boy Medeski pounds on the organ the way it spozed to be. Grooves a plenty really no complaints. Got the new Polyphonic Spree and my immed. reaction is where before they were channelling JS Superstar and Godspell, now they seem to be channelling the Partridge Family. Not that that's a bad thing.

Read with much interest the Gunter Grass memoir in the New Yawker of his wartime experiences in the freakin' Waffen SS during WWII. That's a slippery slope to be sure. Grass, because he never told the world of his Nazi army past seemes to want to begrudgingly apologize or somehow set the record straight, or is feeling pressure to do so. It is an interesting read, and an even more interesting discussion. As a big fan of his work, I wasn't looking for an apology, and his "explanation" of how he came to wear the "double runes" as he calls them, or the nazi lightening bolt SS's, seems pedestrian enough. Just a kid wanting to join the army, the cause secondary to the romance of war and the getting out of the family home. A story told a zillion times, and one we are so close to now, as our country fights a war we don't beleive in and don't really know the truth about. The army is the army.  Why has he never divulged all this before?  Obviously deep shame and contridiction, reminding me not so much of his own books, but of the great Walter Abish's How German is It? Grass, who's been an active liberal voice and participant in German politics, in his career has done the opposite of war, ie: adding life and creativity to the world with his books, books that don't shy away from controversy, books that beautifully seek various truths.

Hey, I don't wanna nag but I'm really not getting the numbers on Pollen that I'd like to. Wassamatter? The  song no good? Bah! I say. Song very good. Much dub effects good. Drill's voice not so scary now due to dub effects and drinking of the red wine (up in Calistoga, CA) (spodee odee) and listening to nothing but King Tubby, the man who invented dub, Tubby tell me the truth about King Moses and King Solomon being the black man from Africa and I bang this out on the metal outdoor umbrella table up dere in Calistoga and get a hard knock from the man about the noise. But I say, this is King Tubby goddamn you white, cigarette smooking, early bird dinner eatin' goin' out wit the wet hair peopples, get your friggin ASH TRAYS the hell outta here and un-brush your hair and listen to what the Kings are telling you!  But no.

Next day I sober up and finish the book I was reading. And I really sober up. And silence descends.

The sobering news, the biggest possible news for me, or for any reader out there... and I don't mean readers of this blog, but people who like to read the books that are often still published at great expense still in this country for the interest and pleasure of the peoples; and the news, the event is when we, you or finally me, puts down his PK Dick (that didn't sound right...), and his Colson Whitehead (loved Apex Hides the Hurt by the way... ) and reads, even though he said he wasn't going to, the enormous, heart-crushing singularity that is Cormac McCarthy's The Road.  I did declare beforehand that I was not going to read this book.  Not that it didn't look intriguing, but it sounded awfully depressing.  And yet, due to cosmic irony I land a copy of it, get this, for father's day, from my sweet, innocent, beloved, 10 year old son. 

I read a lot of reviews of it and I think it may have been the literary giants over at Entertainment Weekly who called it "devastating." No joke. It is devastating. It is the end. The single bleakest, most wrenching and sad statement probably ever put to paper. It is a product of all nihilism and dystopia that came before it, yet it goes where no other book I know of ever went or would want to go: to the end. Into a completely colorless, hopeless, utterly crushed and sere world, a world where suicide would be a thankfual celebration, where there is exactly ZERO hope and ZERO hope of ever finding hope, and wretchedness and horror are all that remain.  And into this world, McCarthy brings a father, and of course his sweet, innocent, loving 10 year old son. I am on shaky ground before even starting it.

But I'm stronger these days. I can do it. The book is almost impossible to put down. The language is other worldly, as we are in another world. It is biblical. It is incredibly readable, descriptive. The boy calls his father "papa" and each time I read that word I want to cry. I want them, father and son, to die. I want them to die about five pages in, I want them to finally die the two or three times they get close to it. Please die, spare them.  This isn't how I usually feel about characters, the "good guys" the ones I identify with. Shouldn't I want them to live? And somehow, against the book's own internal logic I end up wanting that.

Why would you write a black hole of a book, a hopeless book. And why would a person want to read it? It is entertaining for us to see the end without light?  Is it instructive?  Why does Oprah recommend it, and every major critic and reviewing organ of literature praise it unflinchingly?  Why did it crush me, yet fill me with emotion, stay with me, perhaps forever?

It is a thing unto itself.  Apart from the counterintuitive beauty of its language vs. its bleak subject, is the hard fact that its total nihilism somehow, artfully, seemingly against its own will, like a horrible black hole, spins itself into form, coalesces, creates a  story of hope and love where there should be none. It is intense and inspiring and thank god I was up in Calistoga where the sky was so freakishly blue, the Napa Valley so utterly perfect, my own son, flinging himself into me for a hug was so comforting that I was fine, redeemed, OK.

That is some fucking book.

 

pollen

alls I am saying right now is:

pollen

new song by your good friend, the Drill

sounds now
more text later.

while you're there, don't be afraid to listen to the other songs the Drill has painfully uh painstakingly crafted for you.

OK, be afraid.

bzzz

I know I hit you kind of heavy (heavily, I know…) on my last post what with the smoking and all, so’s mebbe I give you a short break this time with some odds and ends that have been backing up…

Did I tell you about the bees? The giant swarm of bees that visited me at the beginning of May? (some of you who’ve heard this nine times already go ahead and skip forward…). It was apocalyptic for a few minutes there, esp. since we’ve been reading about the wordwide honey bee crises and also hearing strange tales on our trusty Oakland Laurel Dist. Message board about swarms of bees that descend upon some car or bush, stay for a few minutes, then abruptly leave. So that’s what I started to witness, home alone of course, back in my “lair,” typing the always uplifting death notices into the overwrought and Byzantine suite of software disasters that eventually publish the damn things in the paper (member when we wrote ‘em on slips of paper, tossed ‘em on a conveyor belt so crusty ol typesetters could typset ‘em with molten LEAD? No, neither do I. But anyway I hear like this loud electric hum, this buzzing like I used to hear when I lived beneath some giant overhead electrical transformers. I come out and its kinda dark. Dark with bees! No shit. Millions of them swarming around my backyard. Instead of panicking immediately I stood stupefied by the wonders of nature and all that crap, then panicked and grabbed up the two little puppies who were wandering around like there was nothing unusual happening and made for shelter.  I called F but she’s was strangely not answering. I called Ms. M and she listened patiently while I went on about the bees, but I don’t think she belived me for some reason. Then suddenly I see that they’re gone, the bees, just like the msg group said, so I run outside and but no, I still hear the humming and electric buzzing and there, on a branch of the pear tree is this huge living blob of bees, all swarmed together into a big writing, buzzing, vibrating ball of some kind. Dumfounded again, I think about the next day when we’re having a half a dozen 9 and 10 year old kids over to celebrate the dude’s birthday. While they may find a giant living blob of bees entertaining I’m thinking it may not be so kindly reciprocated by the bees themselves. So its time to do what anybody in my situation would do, immediately get on Google and try to find some help. Lemme tell you, the power of Google is indeed awsome. I had someone at the house within the hour. The guy who showed up was an EXTREMELY jocular bloke who's antics and patter would need a whole post unto themselves, so putting that aside for a sec, he and his able assistant proceeded with care and aplomb (he wearing the classic white bee suit) to gently urge my bees into a cardboard box, then load them into a van (a van buzzing with boxed and alarmingly un-boxed bees. “You’re not going to drive around with bees flying around in your van?” I asked. “Oh yeah, I used to wear the suit, but I’ve never been stung once in the van, so why bother?” ) where, so I’m told, they’ll be put to work making honey for you tea drinkers out there. Yes, I felt I should get a cut of that honey, at least one jar, but I’m strictly on the coffee these days.

Low quality pix of the bee situation:

 

Once again I ask: is there a pattern to randomness? (F’s line): reasons I don’t like to drive #544 and #545: actually saw a women KNITTING while in stop and go traffic on the Embarcadero. Forget the shaving and makeup application that is now commonplace to see. Knitting.  Needles, yarn, the whole deal.  And then, in Oakland of course, a guy with a Bluetooth headset in one ear talking on a cell phone in his other. Oh yeah, you’ll be seeing more of that I’m sure, as the now ubiquitous blue teeth are everywhere except where they should be: in people's mouths. Thank you Lt. Uhuru and Mr. Spock for this trend!

Is it my imagination or am I seeing more antennas again on people’s cell phones. The antenna, shunned for the last couple three years making a comeback. Nice.

How’s about my boy, son of Tony, AJ Soprano being put on Lexapro. Shout out to ol’ Lexxy, even though it made him suicidal, apparently a risk with your younger patients. I don even wanna say how good the Sopranos has been as it death spirals, and I’m not sure I even want to see the last episode. What could happen? Either way, (Tony alive or dead) it seems to have ended.

We like the now ended TV show King of Queens, and there's plenty of re-runs to keep us happy. Lots o times we (F and I) fancy ourselves Doug and Carrie (guess who I am), 'specially when we do things they do, like go to the movies together but see different films when we’re there, F for some ungodly reason wanting to see Bug, and me wanting to see anything else that may have been starting at the same time or even 30 minutes later, but I was't seein’ Bug I can tell you that. So wandered into Next, a sci-fi action thing with Nick Cage, Julianne Moore and a very pretty Jessica Biehl. I was pleasantly surprised to see it was yet another film based on a Philip K. Dick story. Man is that guy making money now that he’s dead. I can tell you it wasn’t completely horrible, but wasn’t one of our culture’s shining moments either. PKD would probably have hated it I say without having read the story the “Golden Man” but know a shitty, tacked on Hollywood ending when I see one. And a cameo by Peter Falk for reasons only known to the orbiting AI or other higher powers. Oy!

F. did not give Bug very high marks either. She was a bit disturbed, and said parts were like going through somebody's dirty underwear. OK, glad I missed it then.

Speaking of dirty: this kinda perplexing, kinda scary bit of business that’s suddenly shown up in our esteemed Chron’s various men’s rooms: lots of informative signs about how to wash your (filthy, feces and urine strewn) hands. Here’s two of ‘em:

Yeah, I took some pictures in the men's room. Not a recommended activity unless you are SURE you are alone. Anyway you may have thought a newspaper was possibly a swanky kind of place to work, and I've hopefully dispelled that over the years.  Cleanliness is not a strong point over there either.  At first I thought the bathroom signs were comical, but I’ve seen what goes on in the men’s room hand washing department, and it is often deplorable and shocking. So maybe the signs are a good idea. Also you may have read about a new round of layoffs there. Mainly in Editorial (who reads the articles anyway? Its the ads and death notices that provide content). The death still brings in the money, but if any o yinz out there need somebody with my very broad and far reaching talents, please let me know. Quickly.

Music? We’ve eased quietly out of the Heartless Bastards jag… ssh, walk softly, tiptoe away now, if they hear us leaving… and moved on to… nothing really. Been making playlists lately based on a word that shows up in the title of a song, just because you can with iTunes. Did “city” and that arranged about 20 numbers for me including the Jam, the Who, the Mekons, in kind of a gritty London thing; “Summer” mainly cause I wanted to hear the Flaming Lips “Summertime” and Grandaddy “Summer It’s Gone” next to each other. Also did one for “world” which was a pretty rich vein including Wreckless Eric and a couple from Gang of Four and three "Wild Worlds:" Cat Stevens of course, Jimmy Cliff covering Cat Stevens, and the Birthday Party. All very closely related.

Did you ever look into somebody’s car or office window (or, OK, house, while you were walking past) and see their clock and feel kind of odd about “their” time?  Like can you really trust somebody else’s clock? Or are you doing something kind of illicit, like stealing their time?

Saw Pan’s Labyrinth on the DVD. Bleak, that one. But not as like psychically, mind-altering-ly disturbing as I’ve heard it described. Yes it was horribly violent at times and trippy in others, and def. worth seeing. I hear it’s called “Labyrinth of the Faun” everywhere else in the world but here. Wonder why.

Really trippy, to me at least, was the filmed version of Emmanuel Carrere’s classic, The Mustache (called “La Moustache” everywhere but here. Hmm…) In honor of that great story (man shaves off mustache, nobody notices, people including wife say he never had a mustache, fabric of reality begins to unwind, waves in the breeze, only to snap back in a very PK Dick-esian fashion. No wonder Mr. Carrere has authored a book on Mr. Dick as well. In honor of both Carrere and Dick I decided to rearrange my own facial hair structure (yo Armstrong!) into a modified Fu man chu, only problem was that the parts that remained were completely grey (yo again Armstrong), so I may have experimented with some drugstore type men’s hair manipulation products. When I woke up the next morning people did notice a change in this order: my wife and kid, my manager during a meeting, and elaborated upon at length probably to avoid talking about work; and later my son’s nine year old friend, astute and observant young lady that she is. Thank you all, as reality was definitely teetering on the edge there.

After the bees came the moths. At first I thought it was the same moth visiting me. It flew in and out of the lair many times, finally to land on my computer, copy stand, hand. It was a brown moth and I felt it was there for some reason, it  kept coming back and going.  Back many, many years ago, I was similarly visited by monarch butterflies on two separate occasions. Once, one landed on the rim of my glasses and opened its wings blocking the view in one eye in the most fantastic way. I did see the brown moth dead the other day and was about to wonder about the symbology of moths and death, if there was any, when another brown moth came in and out the same way.

The second butterfly visit I'll save for another time.  But it did, oddly enought have a marked effect on reality.