Tis the eve of someone else's savior...

...I am drinking a Pacifico, listening to the first Led Zeppelin album, wrapping presents. The Murph is "helping". Was going to bum out and watch Au hasard Balthazar. But christ, it's already half past ten; I'll never make it. Might as well watch Die Hard again. I need to hit that proverbial prune juice to get regular with the blog entries. But that might take a Christmas miracle.

Happy Holidays, turds.

If you were expecting a lengthy update...

...too bad. Not feeling it lately. Still, I've been doing some reading and watching some movies - recapped in short here.

Blood Meridian is the most memorable book I've read in quite some time. If Faulkner had grown up in the Southwest and wrote Moby Dick, it have would read like this. The contrast between the skillful eloquence of the prose and the human depravity which it depicts is mesmerizing and unlike anything I've encountered. To quote a critic, Cormac McCarthy is a genius - also probably somewhat insane.

Decided to then go with a more traditional Western in Once Upon a Time in the West. Can't go wrong in terms of entertainment with Sergio Leone. Claudia Cardinale is a goddamn babe and Charles Bronson is cool as shit with great lines ("I saw three of these dusters a short time ago...inside the dusters, there were three men...inside the men, there were three bullets.")

Finally checked out When We Were Kings, which is about the "Rumble in the Jungle" between Muhammad Ali and George Foreman in 1974. Despite its Academy Award, I wouldn't say it's the greatest documentary in terms how well it was put together; clips get recycled here and there. Though it's hard to deny the vintage footage of B.B. King (apparently he could stand and play guitar at one point) and James Brown (the eternal badass in his prime), not to mention Ali - who was a hilarious enigma way ahead of his time with that clever rhyme scheme. Boxing may not cater to everyone's sensibilities. But watching Ali absorb Foreman's punishment, essentially draining the aggressor of power and then successfully mounting an assault...it is a thing of brilliance and beauty.

The Descent - gnarliest Lifetime movie ever.

Been jamming The Promise by Bruce Springsteen a lot. Don't know how these were leftovers from the Darkness on the Edge of Town sessions. It's classic Springsteen: blue-collar Americana that is melancholy, sentimental and always genuine. Haters be damned.

Kind of want to see The Fighter. My cinematic instincts are telling me that I should know better. We'll see what happens.

Starting to read Lolita. Lock up your daughters.

30 Years Against the Grain

I would be racked with a sincere guilt if I didn't at least mention that Bad Religion had recently celebrated their 30th birthday. After all, they were my first punk band; heard "Infected" on the radio around '94 or '95 and I was floored, which is kind of funny because that song was, comparatively speaking, tailor made for the airwaves. Nevertheless, it contrasted starkly with the Candlebox's and Seven Mary Three's of the time. It had a volatile energy, even at a mid-tempo. And there was something distinct about vocalist Greg Graffin: he didn't have that drawl of self-loathing narcissism common to frontmen and songwriters. He was articulate, both in terms of his pronunciation and vocabulary. The obviousness of the latter was driven home when I finally got my hands on a copy of Stranger Than Fiction (don't know how my parents let me walk out the Wherehouse with a CD by a band named "Bad Religion"...big thanks, mom and dad). At age 9, I recall reading the lyrics to the title track.

A febrile shocking violent smack

the children are hoping for a heart attack
tonight the windows are watching,
the streets all conspire
and the lamppost can't stop crying
If I could fly high above the world
would I see a bunch of living dots spell the word stupidity?
Or would I just see hunger lover homicides,
loving brother suicides
and olly olly oxenfrees, who pickaside and hide

...moving on...

In my alley around the corner
there's a wino with feathered shoulders
and a spirit giving head for crack
and he'll never want it back.
There's a little kid and his family eating crackers like Thanksgiving
and a pack of wild desperadoes scornful of living

Again, I was 9. So all this went right over my head; my only concerns were playing baseball, drinking Slurpees and collecting X-Men comics - everything kids that age should be worrying about. It wasn't until the angst of my teenage years that BR's lyrics became discernible and I began to adopt the liberal ideologies and cynical worldview that were conveyed in their songs. And that's a healthy cynicism, mind you - not some involuntary, knee-jerk, "fuck the government" response. It was more about understanding the individual in relation to the rest of society and coming to terms with fact that there is strength in being an outlier, but that it's not always a comfortable position to inhabit. Okay, there was a slight inclination to smash the state. But I think the rebel spirit is a healthy part of youth. Otherwise, there'd just be apathetic band nerds and Rush Limbaugh jocks.

Nowadays, I'm a little softer. I'd sell a limb for a job that provided a living wage. I indulge in the viewing of arbitrary, testosterone-driven competitions such as MMA. And I occasionally listen to that second Counting Crows record. But looking back, I have to acknowledge Graffin and company as laying an important part my character's foundation. My parents taught me how to be sensitive and compassionate. Bad Religion taught me how to shove a foot up the ass of any status quotidian dogmas that fail to pass tests of simple logic. And for that I am eternally indebted to them.

To celebrate this grand occasion, I figured I'd throw up my favorite BR song - which is no easy task for me to designate. But if there is one jam of theirs I live by, it would have to be this one. Consult the lyrics below if you feel compelled to sing along.

A grizzly scene on my electron beam

told a story about human rights

So all the King's horses

and all the King's men

had a riot

for two days and nights

Well, the city exploded

but the gates wouldn't open

so the company asked him to quit

Now everybody's equal

Just don't measure it

Well Hanson did it to Hester

and Mark David did it to John

and maybe Jack did it to Marilyn

but he did it to South Vietnam

For beauty and glory

for money, love and country

Everybody's doing it,

Don't do that to me

A bitter debate and feminine fate
lie in tandem like two precious babes
While the former gets warmer,
it's the latter that matters
except on the nation's airwaves
And custodians of public opinion stayed back
after vainly discussing her rights
Lay hands off her body
it's not your fucking life

I don't know what stopped

Jesus Christ from turning

every hungry stone into bread

and I don't remember hearing

how Moses reacted

when the innocent first born sons

lay dead

Well I guess

God was a lot more demonstrative

back when he

flamboyantly parted the sea

Now everbody's praying

Don't prey on me

a book, a film, a fight

Again, let's keep it brief.

It had a been about five years since I'd last read a Murakami novel and had forgot much of what to expect. I was quickly reminded what makes this guy so exceptional: his creation of seams to the surreal within a familiar world in a manner that, for lack of better words, makes sense. And if it doesn't make sense it's still engaging, which is probably due to Murakami's ability to convey isolation, loneliness, longing and any other synonym better than most authors - making feelings palpable through text is a skill few have. He's one of a kind. And this isn't even his best work. (B+, and in case you can't read the title, it's Sputnik Sweetheart)




I was finally able to track down a copy of this from the library that didn't appear as if someone had resurfaced it with a belt sander. It was worth the wait. I'm a pretty outspoken supporter of the Coen brothers, going so far as to crown them the best directors in contemporary American cinema. So I may be a little biased when I say that this is the greatest directorial debut I have ever seen. Every aspect here has an experienced polish. First try and the Coen's nailed their signature exploration of dark tendencies of human nature. Out-of-place injections of humor notwithstanding. (A-)

And what you've all been waiting for...

Call me a nerd, but I was rejoicing this last Saturday when Cain Velasquez dethroned Brock Lesnar as the UFC heavyweight champion. I called this a while a go but saw some footage of Lesnar training and started to second guess myself - the dude looks like the body that Krang operates (TMNT reference). But Velasquez turned the match into that old biblical parable of David vs. Goliath: size isn't necessarily indicative of victory. Take note: he didn't win with a lucky shot. He beat Lesnar with with well-placed, technical striking - straight T.K.O. He also survived some precarious situations: getting caught against the fence and being put on his back - a position no prior opponent of Lesnar had been able to get out of (save for Frank Mir with a fortunate kneebar on a then inexperienced Lesnar).

So I'm dedicating this one to the first Mexican American heavyweight champion in combat sports. It might seem ridiculous coming from a graham cracker such as myself. Whatever. I've been mistaken for Mexican on multiple occasions. So it's all good. One love.

Grade Report

School this quarter is heartless. Specifically, my architecture course. So my assessment of the arts will be brief.

Entertaining and at times engrossing, but the rabbit hole doesn't run quite as deep as it did in American Gods. (B)














My main question is how these people had the money to eat/drink/sleep out (what seems to have been) every single night. The writers didn't appear to have been writing that much...so I guess they were just trust fund kids? Oh, and reading about it over and over again gets tiresome. Lost generation, indeed. (B-)










Awesome. Nothing more needs to be said. Other than I shouldn't have slept on it. (A)

MLB postseason picks back up tonight: Yankees vs. Rangers. Phillies vs. Giants on Saturday. Forgot how great playoff baseball was. Sad to see Bobby Cox leave the game on loss, even though I used to hate the Braves as a kid because they were so damn good - that combination Greg Maddux, Tom Glavine and John Smoltz has to be one of, if not the most dominant starting rotation of all-time. And even though the Twins got swept by the Yankees in the ALDS this year, enjoy the diddy below. It's titled "Don't Call Them Twinkies" by The Baseball Project - which features Craig Finn of The Hold Steady on vocals and some other dudes from various outfits including R.E.M. The track has some great references to our national pastime's rich history.

If the embedded player isn't working, you can listen to the song here. It's a lot to ask, I know.

A New First

Went to my first baby shower on Saturday. If I'm not mistaken, that's an event traditionally reserved exclusively for the ladies. Luckily, Josh and Emily are post-punk parents, breaking down gender barriers and allowing a fine cuisine that included a platter of Top Pot donuts - straight bangin'. Hope my bear themed onesie and blanky weren't too wuss. Give the kid a couple of years to grow into this beast. It (or something similar) will be waiting for him.


Realized I went to Caleb and Lacey's baby shower a few years ago. Whoops.

Decided that the film version of The Last Picture Show is better than the book. While the book is good, Peter Bogdanovich directs better than Larry McMurtry writes - at least in this case.

Checked out a couple of vegan cookbooks from the library. One awesomely titled Veganomicon. Not waving any flags yet. Really just want to acquire more skill in the kitchen. Hoping there's some practical recipes to be found - not a bunch of stuff you have to shop at co-op markets for. Further hoping one can find tempeh at QFC (cue laugh track). To the haters: (1) would like to see what you're benching, and (2) beef doesn't put muscles on your chin.

Watching the second season of Extras. Endless hilarity. (Episode with David Bowie is brilliant.) One of the best theme songs too.

Studying for a quiz in my Architecture course. Who would have thought learning about building houses was so dry? Contractors, perhaps. I suppose not everyone gets to be Frank Lloyd Wright.

Listening to this winner. It goes out to anyone who's spent cheese they really shouldn't have on those must-have records. My days of blowing all my tips at Silver Platters have come and gone. But that warm fuzzy feeling I got from tearing off the plastic on something that hits the ears' sweet spot...priceless. When I eventually lock down the daily grind, I'll be back scrounging in the bins. Can't deny the dig.

Da Bears and other assorted goods

Enjoying some bro-man-dude time with Monday Night Football. Green Bay and Chicago. I've always been a Bears fan. This can first be evidenced from an elementary school class picture where I can be seen posting up hard on the Big Toy, decked out in Bears gear (I'll have to track this one down). I don't know what it is about them. I was too young to remember their prominent years with Jim McMahon and William "The Refrigerator" Perry. Though I do remember Ditka coaching. And I put in serious time on the original Tecmo Bowl for the NES, breaking off huge runs with Walter Payton. There is just something captivating about that navy blue and orange.

The Bears' Famous Invasion of Sicily
by Dino Buzzati

Another cool thing involving bears - this one in the form of an Italian children's book. I use the word "children's" hesitantly, because there's a lot of text, filled with words like "incredulously" and "bivouacked". Add the presence of advanced concepts like national history, cultural/individual identity and a narrator who can be a tad misleading and this one might end up beyond the scope of the ragamuffin who is content with booger nourishment. So feed them another Curious George. Keep this essential read for yourself.

B Is for Beer
by Tom Robbins

Another "children's book". Well, only if you consider the story of a six-year-old girl who gets drunk and then receives a visit from the beer fairy appropriate for that age range. Regardless of how you want to categorize it, in addition the magical journey detailing the glorious combination of grains, barley and hops, Robbins examines a kid's difficulty to make sense of the complicated and contradictory adult world. The fact that its written as if it were for young'uns is rather funny, considering most adults who drink beer (myself included) couldn't even begin to explain the process in which it is made. But yeah, this one's pretty unique.

The Last Picture Show
by Larry McMurtry

Ever hear old people talk about the past with wistful romanticism? A time when innocence prevailed; Leave It To Beaver was an accurate representation of life. I never really bought into it. Moreover, after reading McMurtry's tribute to his home, Texas a.k.a. "God's Country", it's clear that even people back in the day were teeming with deviance. Kids drank. Kids fought. Kids fucked. And I'll be damned if a couple of them didn't take an impromptu road trip down to Mexico in order to bang a pregnant whore and watch mixed species pornography. All of this before the existence of a Bret Easton Ellis novel.


CURRENT FAVORITE

A Tribe Called Quest - The Love Movement

Tribe has been an all-time favorite of mine for quite some time now. Since I was about 14 - which is when this, their final album, came out. Giving it a few retrospective listens, it's clear that it doesn't exactly warrant swansong status. (But the competition is tough, sharing a body of work with genre classics like The Low End Theory and Midnight Marauders.) Still, there are a number of feelgood jams here. Bottom line: you can't go wrong with smooth beats and butter rhymes.

Prarie Sludge

Sounds like Neil Young jamming with dudes from Sleep and Earth. Drive the herd, catch the vibes. Seriously though, this is good.

Observations and musings

Seahawks home opener: Testosterone was a given. Though there were a surprising amount of Snookies flossing Tatupu jerseys, as well as grown men drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade. The other surprise was that the Seahawks actually looked good.

Jordan Young in 2010 displays flashes of Jordan Young circa 2003/2004. My sides are a little sorer for it.

A Confederacy of Dunces: Could be the funniest book ever. But the parallels between Ignatius J. Reilly and myself are the source of much distress (Proud owner of a worthless liberal arts degree which fosters an archaic and unhealthy ideological worldview that ultimately leads to misanthropy and cripples the ability to function socially and/or professionally within the greater commonwealth. He also lives with his mom.).

Boneshaker: An entertaining read. Felt like the author, Cherie Priest, watched 28 Days Later and played Fallout 3 before writing it. Unfortunately, a lack of character development and sequences of terrible dialogue keep it from being anything "literary". But who really cares about that? Maybe the guy in the paragraph above. So it gets my approval.

Found out my cat - The Murph - has liver disease. To diagnose the specific type would require an ultrasound and subsequent biopsy. Ultimately, the treatment is a daily regiment of medicine, regardless of which strain it might be. Having already been through force-feeding The Murph pills for prior ailments, we (my family) are deciding to forgo the diagnosis and treatment; better that his remaining days are peaceful, rather than living in fear of having things shoved down his throat.

Facebook. On one hand, it's the main way in which I stay in contact with my friends. But thanks to the voyeuristic nature of social networking, that permeable barrier between "friend-of-friend"...I end up unintentionally seeing things that are detrimental to my psychological and emotional well-being. Things that make an individual not into the cardio drive up to the local middle school to run five miles on a track at 7 o'clock at night. There might be a sad metaphor to be found in a guy running 20 laps with hopes of trying to escape/forget something. Good thing I don't pay those literary devices any mind. My legs, however, are in definite pain today.

Here's to brighter days. Don't have to be straightedge to enjoy this one. Love seeing my friend Kevin launching off the monitors. And goddamn those drums sound good.

Have 12 minutes to kill? Sure you do.

Supergroup featuring members of Mogwai, Electric Wizard and Iron Monkey - so obviously I'm jonesin'. Don't worry, this one doesn't bite. Grab some headphones and chillax.

What's crappening

First off, a much belated thanks to Stephanie and Cameron for the reception gathering at Whidbey Island. Good friends and good food: two things I certainly appreciate. Another thanks to Jordan and Jaclyn for transportation, a place to stay and the rollicking session of catch - may we do it again soon.

Kicked off my two week break correctly on Saturday with an old soldier, Matt, at Big E's to watch UFC 118. Even if the card was a little weak, MMA and microbrews isn't a combination to be dropping qualms on. So here's my brief fight-by-fight breakdown that you probably don't want to read.

Nate Diaz v. Marcus Davis - This was easily the best fight of the night. Diaz, known for his jiu-jitsu/submission skills, displayed far superior striking in his hands. He turned Davis' face into something out of Dick Tracy, before submitting him via guillotine choke towards the end of the third round.

Kenny Florian v. Gray Maynard - Despite fighting in his hometown and walking out to the awesome "For Boston" by Dropkick Murphys, K-Flo looked uncomfortable, getting handled in all three rounds by Maynard - who took the unanimous decision.

Demian Maia v. Mario Miranda - This fight was reminiscent of the Jon Fitch/Thiago Alves fight from the last card, where there wasn't a lot of excitement because one fighter successfully neutralized his opponent by controlling them on the ground. It was Maia this time around.

James Toney v. Randy Couture - Boxing legend meets MMA legend - a total joke of a fight. This sideshow played out exactly like most of us had predicted: someone competing in MMA with little-to-no background in wrestling and/or jiu-jitsu is going to get dumped on their ass and submitted with the quickness. To be a one-dimensional fighter is to be worthless. Thank you Randy Couture for proving the haters wrong and hopefully bringing a little more respect to the sport.

Frankie Edgar v. BJ Penn (2) - Huge bummer. This was supposed to be Penn getting redemption for the last fight with Edgar, proving he was still one of the greats. That did not happen. Instead, it was basically the same fight as before, with Penn not doing what he does best (shooting for takedowns) and Edgar outworking him for five rounds (he looked as fresh in the fifth as he did in the first). I don't know whether it was poor conditioning or an issue with cutting weight, but this was not the Penn of (even recent) past. I sincerely hope that he's not finished. I don't want to be stuck remembering him through reruns of the Joe Stevenson fight (see below - don't be a wuss) on Spike.

Find more videos like this on BJPENN.COM

Recently finished a couple of books: Slumberland by Paul Beatty and both Wise Blood and half of A Good Man is Hard to Find by Flannery O'Connor. Josh, I already talked to you about these and since you're the probably the only one taking interest in what I read, I will refrain from any lengthy redundancy. If you're new to Beatty, start with The White Boy Shuffle - the stereotypes he's playing with will be more identifiable. If you're new to O'Connor, be well-versed with Christian theology and start with A Good Man is Hard to Find - she was a better short story writer than a novelist.

Dusted off OutKast's Aquemini last night for the first time since...I'm going to guess high school. Talk about a fine wine. I've always claimed ATLiens was their best (probably because I had my mind blown at age 12 by the video for "Elevators [Me & You]"), but I think I'm going to have to go back on that now. Aquemini is a rare specimen of an album that set an artist on the road to stardom without representing a compromise. It's sort of psychedelic and distinctly southern without being obnoxiously "dirty" (even if they use the word "dirty"). In short, it brings the funk. Even the instrumental/spoken word track (see below - don't be wuss) is dope as hell.

So two weeks off. Got some reading to do. Some projects to help the parents with around the house. Have Architecture II and Engineering Graphics II next quarter. Will probably be more intense coursework than I've had in awhile. But I've got less than a year to go now with my CDD degree. And from talking to a couple of people in the industry, the combination of this degree and my bachelor's degree gives me the opportunity to get a decent job. Finally, there's some light at the end of the tunnel. The chance to comeback from nothing to something. The return of self-worth and pride, never to let them be taken again. Or like The Jealous Sound said, there is hope for us.

Real post coming soon

I'm finishing up school for this quarter, so I'll get something legitimate up here next week. But in the meantime enjoy this little diddy I put together.

If I were a superhero, I'd be this guy.

...if Bruce Banner looked like this guy.

And when this song played...


...super-villains would already be shit-out-of-luck. Oh look, the transformation is starting...

HULK SMASH!

From the diary of some dumb teenager

You're born into this world alone.
And you die in this world alone.
No family.
No friends.
Just you and what you make of your life.

Stay cold.

In respose to your question, Chelsea

Let's begin by introducing the dialogue at hand. My friend Chelsea made the observation that every guy says that only the early Saves the Day and AFI albums are any good. I replied with "I've said all that shit because it is true," to which she posed the question "why?"

First of all, I don't think all males say that. I can easily imagine many-a-dude who like Pantera in metal forums posting something along the lines of "Saves the Day and AFI R 4 fggtz."

But the reason why I have a higher regard for the early works of these bands rather than their later efforts is pretty simple: they stopped doing what they did well.

Saves the Day's first two albums, Can't Slow Down and Through Being Cool, are excellent pieces of pop-punk/melodic hardcore: fast, fun and full of energy. Thir third album that found them success, Stay Where You Are, was more along the lines of that 3rd wave of emo a la Jimmy Eat World; it wasn't bad. In fact, it was quite enjoyable. But it did show the band beginning to lose that energy which made their first two albums so great. Everything after this third album...snoozefest. They started to pull that "we're respectable artists" card. Maybe Pitchfork or some other snooty zine ate that shit up. Sorry, I'm not buying it. Saves the Day were a pop-punk band. Their first tour was with Bane. And then suddenly they're the fucking Beatles? They done forgot their roots.

AFI is a similar case. Great punk/hardcore band that always had a slightly darker edge, one that came out fully on Sing the Sorrow - a rad album, despite what the haters say. But when that "Miss Murder" single dropped, they had traded their punk/hardcore energy for shitty goth makeup and haircuts. Look, I like The Cure as much as the next misunderstood teenager. But the only guy who gets to look like Robert Smith is Robert Smith. Oh, the music? Yes/no. Watered-down and generic. It sounds like they spent more time putting on eyeliner than writing songs.

I can see someone saying "Dave is just selfish and immature. He doesn't like it when bands to grow artistically." To that I say, slow your roll. Growth is fine. Growth can be great. But it's best when artists evolve within themselves. Not when they go off the deep end, because that rarely works. Think of it this way: can you imagine what would have happened if John Steinbeck had written a fantasy novel? Orcs and wizards and unicorns: the whole nine yards. Tolkien would have kicked down his front door and beaten him within inches of his life with a first edition of The Hobbit yelling, "Are you trying to fuck with this?" And that's merely in addition to Steinbeck's fantasy novel sucking really hard.

MORAL: Do what you do well. Do it to the best of your ability. You don't have to do the same thing for five albums. But don't trip out. Stay rooted (to some degree) in what you came up in. Otherwise, start a new band. Because you're tricking old fans into attending your shows with the naive hope that your setlist might contain some classic material, about which you now act as if it had never existed in the first place.

And above all else, do not try to sound like The Beatles. We get it. They kind of changed music. Now let's move on. Because surely you aren't changing it by aping them. Rather, you become - to quote Wayne's World - The Shitty Beatles.

What the hell was wrong with this? Absolutely nothing.

Rock the bells.

Weddings, man. This, my brother's, was the fourth I've been to, but the first I've actually taken part in (as the best man). My responsibilities were relatively small, limited to a few ceremonial requirements. But just being in the midst of the chaos, a chaos which lasted a good half-a-day, was draining. Again, it wasn't even me getting hitched. Rain forcing the ceremony to be moved to the area for reception (The Uptown Hideaway), a debacle with the slide-show (which must have been completed minutes before it was shown), a delay on the ice for the beer, and a bunch of other stuff I won't go into here - shit happens. Let's just say that I couldn't pound an IPA soon enough. Warm or cold.

The clear highlight of the evening would have to have been the musical selections. They were a pleasant surprise. Emphasis on "surprise". While rehearsing the entrance of bridesmaids and groomsmen, no music was played. All I knew was that my brother's wife-to-be was going to walk out to a Cat Power song. So I was taken aback when the procession commenced to the tune of Outkast's "So Fresh, So Clean". It was dope. After the ceremony, the playlist included the likes of Lupe Fiasco, Souls of Mischief, Grandaddy, Ice Cube, Bloc Party, Arcade Fire, along with all the other jams I am forgetting. One of the photographers claimed it was the best music he'd ever heard at a wedding. I'd have to agree with him. Though my wedding hasn't happened yet (a largely hypothetical event), where there is sure to some Dropkick Murphys pumping through the system. In fact, if I don't get to drunkenly sing along to the following, it was never meant to be.

Besides myself, everyone else seemed to have a great time. Especially my family: both immediate and extended. Like I said in the previous post, my folks are a pretty reserved bunch. But whether it was the infectious joviality of spirits or the alcohol, they busted out of their shells. Right onto the dance floor. Seeing them all out there, immersed in uninhibited fun, I had to join. So I did what any other self-respecting white guy does in the presence of loud hip-hop: poorly executed break-dancing. I also dusted off a few choice moves from my golden years at 80's Nights in Bellingham. My mom proceeded to ask where I learned to perform these pelvic gyrations. I explained to her that college wasn't all about books.

In summation, the wedding was a rager. I only hope I didn't ruin the photos with my bulldog front. I swear, it can't be helped. I'm just a mean-looking son of a bitch.

I know this is a horrible transition, but I wanted to share my favorite passage from Molloy. Despite the lack of a real story, it shows Beckett dropping profound knowledge on a rather taboo subject. Keep in mind that this was written in the late 1940's. How it made it into the final draft, I do not know.

For as long as I had remained at the seaside my weak points, while admittedly increasing in weakness, as was only to be expected, only increased imperceptibly, in weakness I mean. So that I would have hesitated to exclaim, with my finger up my arse-hole for example, Jesus Christ, it's much worse than yesterday, I can hardly believe it is the same hole. I apologize for having to revert to this lewd orifice, 'tis my muse will have it so. Perhaps it is less to be thought of as the eyesore he called by its name than as the symbol of those passed over in silence, a distinction due perhaps to its centrality and its air of being a link between me and the other excrement. We underestimate this little hole, it seems to me, we call it the arse-hole and affect to despise it. But is it not rather the true portal of our being and the celebrated mouth no more than the kitchen door. Nothing goes in, or so little, that is not rejected on the spot, or very nearly. Almost everything revolts it that comes from without and what comes from within does not seem to receive a very warm welcome either. Are not these significant facts. Time will tell.

Wow.

"Yet I don't work for money. For what then? I don't know."

My brother is getting married this Saturday. The weather forecast calls for rain. Hopefully it will be wrong like it is normally supposed to be. I will be representing as best man - something I've always considered myself to be. Now the title will make it official. In all seriousness, the wedding should be a lot of fun. I'm looking forward to getting to see an aunt from Oregon and a couple of cousins from California that I rarely get to see. One of the cousins I haven't seen since I was 11. It will also be interesting to see what the dynamic will be like between the two families. My side is pretty reserved. And I consider myself to be the same when I'm around them. But who knows what's going to happen once the alcohol starts flowing and Prince comes on over the dance-floor. I say the freaks are coming out.

Had the bachelor party this last weekend. Took a shot and a half of the shit above. No sips. Down the hatch. Instant sore throat. Foulest of foul libations.


Molloy
by Samuel Beckett

After finishing this book, I was at ITT Tech when I got into a strange conversation - considering my surroundings - about literature with a teacher. He asked me what literature was. I said that, as an art, it is a form of human expression and, moreover, describes the human condition (that's "what it means to be human" for all you idiots). He thought on that for a second and then returned with, "Okay. But I've always experienced literature as a journey. Where characters begin and end and all that's in between." I thought how convenient and replied with "you're apparently not familiar with Samuel Beckett."

There are no two ways about it: Beckett is a real bastard to read. Mainly because he doesn't subscribe to the "journey" theory of literature. Trying to understand Molloy through such conventional devices like "story" or "plot" quickly becomes a futile and incredibly frustrating exercise. This lens provides little more than the two main characters who, seemingly destined for conflict, never meet - both instead are absorbed and crippled by internal ramblings of a most incoherent nature. In short, the story makes almost no sense; it's just weird people behaving weirdly, without any logical sequence of events to establish significance.

To begin to "get" Molloy requires a rejection of literary norms. The reader either continues to bang their head against the wall of non sequitur text or they develop a new approach. That is, breaking the confines of tradition where you are a reader reading/being told a story; Beckett attempts to accomplish this by feeding you a story you can't make heads or tails of, along with contradictory narration that helps the literary foundations unravel: "Now my sick leg, I forget which, it's immaterial here", "I wouldn't know myself, if I thought about it", "No matter, no matter", "I say that now, but after all what do I know about then", "But to tell the truth (to tell the truth!)", etc.

In the process of struggling, most likely with these phrases and the void of conflict, you're bound to say something along the lines of "I cannot understand what he's doing." Here, distinguishing the "I" and the "he" becomes important, signifying that the story has indeed become "immaterial" and that the main conflict of the novel has formed: that which is not between characters, but between the reader and the author. No longer is the reader in the familiar position of that passive observer of events. Beckett forces us into a not-so-old fashioned donnybrook: not over the literary (of symbolism and what not), but about what literature is.

But what of my "human condition" definition (let's just assume I'm an authority here)? Does it hold true for Beckett? Because merely trying to push the limits of form would be too sanctimonious and self-serving to be considered art. It would be a vain performance of art-for-art's sake: ego stroking, or, if enjoyable, entertainment - which this is most definitely not.

With the reader/author conflict in mind when considering the goal of art, there emerges a successive conflict between this goal in literature and why people read. If literature truly is to describe what it means to be human, it must do so in all its facets. Yet so much of fiction falls back on artificial conventions: the synchronization of memory and time (infallible recollection), sequential placement of events, cumulative significance, a narrator that speaks after the fact. All these elements are used to lend clarity and create a sense of ease with which the reader encounters a story. But they in no way help illuminate human experience. Instead, they romanticize it with a falsely assumed logic and cadence to provide people with a nice leisurely activity. But art? No, they fall short of that.

With almost all of the aforementioned literary comforts absent in Molloy (except for narrators speaking after the fact, but they hardly lends any ease or clarity in their jumbled mess of memories), it's as if Beckett is asking "what the fuck are you here for?", giving readers requiring a pampered tale the opportunity to walk after the first few pages (where they will encounter the one paragraph that will span the next 80). As someone who decided to, as Salman Rushdie says in the introduction, "surrender" to the end of Molloy, persevering whether out of curiosity or ambition or stubbornness or whatever it was, I could not have answered Beckett's question from the outset. For I could not have known the question. Though I had a sturdy definition of art and an understanding that it takes both the book and the reader to make meaning, my analytical perception still placed me as an interpreter disconnected from that which he studied. But in the case of Molloy, it was the author who beheld me and, essentially, turned me and every other reader into characters to be scrutinized. Characters that don't find simple or precise explanations to the complex issues of their reality.

What the Faulk?

I said I was going to post examples of Faulkner's extensive use of parenthetical statements in The Reivers. So here you go. Reading these out of context, they may not seem so bad. But when they're right in the middle of a larger paragraph, your ability to follow along can get thrown for a loop.

pg. 74
But just tough men then, no more, until Colonel Sartoris (I don't mean the banker with his courtesy title acquired partly by inheritance and partly by propinquity, who was responsible for Boon and me being where we at this moment were; I mean his father, the actual colonel, C.S.A. - soldier, statesman, politician, duelist; the collateral descending nephews and cousins of one twenty-year-old Yoknapatawpha County youth say, murderer) built his railroad in the mid-seventies and destroyed it.

pg. 100
The middle right-hand upper one was gold; in her dark face it reigned like a queen among the white dazzle of the others, seeming actually to glow, gleam as with a slow inner fire or lambence of more than gold, until that single tooth appeared even bigger than both of Miss Reba's yellowish diamonds put together. (Later I learned - no matter how - that she had had the gold one taken out and an ordinary white one, like anybody else's, put in; and I grieved. I thought that, had I been of her race and age group, it would have been worth being her husband just to watch that tooth in action across the table every day; a child of eleven, it seemed to me that the very food it masticated must taste different, better.)

pg. 109
His supper was hot: not a plate, a dish of steak smothered in onions at his place. ( You see? how much ahead of his time Mr Binford was? Already a Republican. I don't mean a 1905 Republican - I don't know what his Tennessee politics were, or if he had any - I mean a 1961 Republican. He was more: he was a Conservative. Like this: a Republican is a man who made his money; a Liberal is a man who inherited his; a Democrat is a barefooted Liberal in a cross-country race; a Conservative is a Republican who has learned to read and write.) We all sat down, two new ladies too...

pg. 166
Though some of it has not changed: the big rambling multigalleried multistoried steamboat-gothic hotel where the overalled aficionados and the professionals who trained the fine bird dogs and the northern millionaires who owned them (one night in the lounge in 1933, his Ohio business with everybody else's under the Damocles sword of the federally closed banks, I myself heard Horace Lytle refuse five thousand dollars for Mary Montrose) gathered for two weeks each February; Paul Rainey also, who liked our country enough - or anyway our bear and deer and panther enough - to own enough Mississippi land for him and his friends to hunt them in: a hound man primarily, who took his pack of bear hounds to Africa to see what they would do on lion or vice versa.

pg. 169
But still behind the bit; he had never once come into the bridle, his whole head bent around and tucked but with no weight whatever on the hand, as if the bit were a pork rind and he a Mohammedan (or a fish spine and he a Mississippi candidate for constable whose Baptist opposition had accused him of seeking the Catholic vote, or one of Roosevelt's autographed letters and a secretary of the Citizen's Council, or Senator Goldwater's cigar butt and the youngest pledge to the A.D.A.), on until he reached Ned, and with a jerk I felt clean up to my shoulder, snatched his head free and began to nuzzle at Ned's shirt.

pg. 190
So Butch and Boon went that way, and Everbe and I (you have doubtless noticed that nobody had missed Otis yet. We got out of the surrey; it appeared to be Butch's; anyway he was driving it; there had been some delay at Uncle Parsham's while Butch tried to persuade, then cajole, then force Everbe to get in the front seat with him, which she foiled by getting into the back seat and holding me by one arm and holding Otis in the surrey with her other hand, until Boon got in the front with Butch - and first Butch, then the rest of us were somehow inside the doctor's hall but nobody remembered Otis at that moment) followed the doctor into another room containing a horsehair sofa with a dirty pillow and a wadded quilt on it, and a roll-top desk cluttered with medicine bottles and more of them on a mantel beneath which the ashes of last winter's final fire had not yet been disturbed, and a washstand with a bowl and pitcher and a chamber pot that somebody hadn't emptied yet either in one corner and a shotgun in the other; and if Mother had been there his fingernails would have touched no scratch belonging to her, let alone four cut fingers, and evidently Everbe agreed with her; she - Everbe - said, "I'll unwrap it," and did so.

A pain in the ass sometimes? Perhaps. But dude was (and still is) the man.

Get off my lawn.

The great NW summer weather seems to have finally come around, so lately I've been able to break-out the bike and hit Burke-Gilman. I'm sure all the Tour de France nerds think I look pretty goofy on a mountain bike, cruising down a paved road. But they are Tour de France nerds, so I'm not losing sleep over it. As much as I enjoy getting out to ride, I have noticed one glaring omission of trail etiquette: side-by-side riding. I understand that it's nice to chat it up with your friend while on a bike, but the width of the trail really doesn't allow for it. When I try to pass two double-wide chatty Cathy's on a hill, but have to yield to an oncoming rider, being forced to downshift and fall back, losing all my momentum...that's no good. Next time I see two people doing this side-by-side business, the one on the outside is going to become the unlucky recipient of a clothesline. Ultimate Warrior style.

Recently checked my email for the first time in about a month. Yeah, a little behind on that. Facebook has become my main medium for correspondence. So my email ends up accumulating a lot of dust. Of the two-hundred or so pieces of junk I sifted through, there was one particularly interesting email. It was from WWU Libraries. They claim that I have yet to return a couple of movies (Lost Patrol and The Man Who Came To Dinner - two from old-Hollywood) I checked out from them two years ago. This claim is completely false (I returned everything). More surprising is the fact that this is first I've heard about any unreturned items in the two years since leaving Bellingham. Oh right. I'm getting charged $16. To the WWU Libraries, I say thus:

I owe you many a thanks. During the years I didn't have cable television, I pillaged you and discovered a world of cinema I did not know existed. You made me appreciate countless films of brilliance; films that most people couldn't be payed to watch. In this way you helped me realize my intelligence and become a snob. For this, I am eternally grateful. But as to the money I "owe", you shall not see a dime of it. Eat me.

Watched Gran Torino again. First time since it came out in theatres. Perhaps a little too heavy-handed (bad guys are completely one-dimensional and the ending gets too obvious with the symbolism) to be considered a "great" film, but there's still something about it that I love: Clint Eastwood - the biggest badass of all time. Even as a dying old man (albeit an incredibly racist, dying old man), he is one mean dude. There aren't really any of his ilk left in Hollywood - the kind of actor that isn't necessarily physically imposing but can still make you say "that is just not the guy to fuck with." Get yourself a PBR and throw one back for Eastwood.

What the hell is Adrian Brody doing in the new Predator movie?

Read The Reivers by William Faulkner. Here's a brief account of my history with Faulkner: The Sound and The Fury - practically unreadable; As I Lay Dying - "My mother is a fish." Big gulps, huh? All right! Well see ya later; Absalom, Absalom! - difficult as all hell, but worth the effort (there's no shame in using Wikipedia or SparkNotes). So it should be apparent that I've had a tumultuous relationship with the esteemed author. Yet, I continue to come back to his works. This is in part due to being a literary masochist, as well as simply trying to add notches to my bookshelf (what up, ladies). The Reivers, however, isn't like the majority of Faulkner's novels - it's accessible. The story is more or less linear and doesn't employ the advanced literary techniques he was famous for, such as the shifting stream-of-consciousness. Because of this it has been marked as one of Faulkner's minor works by English professors who subsist off teaching courses on antiquated and indecipherable texts and is consequently overshadowed by his other books. Though it should be said that even an "easy" Faulkner novel still takes more work to get through than most contemporary popular fiction. The man displayed a heartless affinity for parenthetical statements; not only numerous, but of an incredible length. It's funny that in now searching through the book I'm having trouble finding a good example of this issue. (Rest assured, I will find one and post it as a followup.) Anyways, if you want a well-constructed adventure, this one is as good as any. Stolen cars, backwoods horse races, gold-toothed professional sluts: it's the goods.

Also just wrapped up Sherman Alexie's The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. Unless I'm mistaken, this was his first foray into Young Adult literature. I'd say it was a successful venture. Though more optimistic than not, there is enough strife in the story for it to feel genuine and earned - something today's generation of pussies (Clint Eastwood's words, not mine) wouldn't know anything about. My only complaint is that Alexie's attempts at adolescent humor occasionally come across awkwardly. It's the old-people-trying-to-sound-youthful shtick. And it's painful to read. Big Sherm, go talk to M.T. Anderson. He knows how it's done.


CURRENT FAVORITE

The Sounds - Dying to Say This to You

Back in the early-00's, there was an interesting resurgence of an 80's phenomenon: new wave. It was almost as if everyone burned out on the brooding rock music that filled the airwaves during the late-90's, collectively deciding to shut up and dance. From this retro-movement emerged some okay bands like The Killers and some less okay bands like The Bravery. In my opinion, this stuff was hot for a minute but was ultimately superficial gimmickry and lacked substance - like much of what characterized the 80's.

Of all the new wave revivalists, The Sounds were one of the better acts. With them, it wasn't just dumb fashion and shitty keyboards. They were The Clash playing Blondie songs with New Order's gear. And while they did look the part, they brought the energy to back it up - much of which was channeled through the spitfire vocalist, Maja Ivarsson. When I saw them live 5-6 years ago, she had this sassy charisma that was way hot (I said it, I meant it), holding down the stage better than the average knuckle dragger. Probably the most entertaining live band I've seen to date.

Now I'd be lying to you if I said Dying to Say This to You was better than Living in America - which was a cold hard bitch with a penchant for the dance. But I can still say it's really, really good. Maybe as good. And it avoided the sophomore slump. Catchy, infectious, brazen...honestly, this music doesn't require much description to appreciate. But it will definitely have you moving your head in ways you once thought impossible.

You don't know Jesus.

A quick and belated thanks to Josh and Emily for taking me in on the 4th of July. Otherwise, I would have been hanging out with my parents, watching the KOMO 4 coverage of the fireworks display over Lake Union. I'm getting older, but not that old. So thanks again for helping me avoid a depressing holiday.

Another thanks to Jordan, who graciously gave me a discount rate on a Mariners ticket so that I might accompany him to the game Tuesday evening with the Royals. The seats were better than any I'd ever had before: second row, just behind third base. Even though it was a losing effort for the M's (3-2), it was still a good night at the ballpark; Jack Wilson made a couple of nice plays at short and Chone Figgins turned what had to be longest double-play ball in the history of the MLB. The bats were...terrible like they've been all season. I've now seen in-person that trading Cliff Lee is a must.

I just finished Christopher Moore's Lamb last weekend. For the unfamiliar, it's a light-hearted satire on the missing years of Christ's life as told by his best friend, Biff. Coming into it, my thoughts were somewhere along the lines of "well, it's all fiction to me anyways - at least this time it will be funny." Indeed, there is a quite a bit of humor, much of it in how Christ comes to inherit the traits which are commonly associated with his biblical personage - such as his steadfast celibacy (holy shit). Yet what really makes Lamb a unique tale lies in how Jesus is treated as human, rather than the extension of God in shell of man. Yes, he performs his fair share of miracles. But here the messiah doesn't know how to be the messiah right from the beginning. He is not the great shepherd on day one. Instead, he must learn through experience and - at some points - failure. (Character progression in the Almighty's son? I know, total blasphemy. ) So in that sense, it's kind of like Scorsese's The Last Temptation of Christ made enjoyable by way of crude sexual jokes. Ultimately, the narrative isn't really altered from the one we're already familiar with. And I still don't believe in any of it. But that's not the point. Lamb is great for what it is: fiction.

CURRENT FAVORITE

Mogwai - Special Moves (First off, I rarely get into live albums; I'd rather just go see the band in person. Secondly, I did catch Mogwai on tour about two years ago and was, to be frank, a little underwhelmed. I say this as a big fan of their studio work. Having been previously blown away by performances from the likes of Mono and Red Sparowes, groups that Mogwai unarguably paved the way for, it was a bummer that the Scots weren't able to match up. I don't know if it was the venue, the crappy opener, or merely an off-night for the band. Something was missing. So imagine my surprise when I first listened to these tracks and said "Damn. A Mogwai live album is better than seeing Mogwai live." There is no logic to that statement. Yet, it's true - for me, at least. There's a powerful intimacy to this recording that I didn't experience firsthand. Highly recommended.)

This is not youth culture.

Trial (Full Set, w/ soundboard mix) from hate5six productions on Vimeo.

G's never say die.

Drove down to Seaside, Oregon last week with my brother and his fiance. Stayed at this ridiculously nice hotel (bro's fiance hooked it up through her work). Full kitchen. Got a queen sized bed all to myself. The balcony had a gas grill. Press start to fire it up. Cooked a lot of phony baloney. Took a swim in the pool - first time in about six years. Went to Cannon Beach and had some peanut butter-chocolate ice cream. Watched two movies: August and Live Free or Die Hard. Have to agree with my brother and say that I'd rather see a crappy action flick I can laugh at than an average indie-film that's going to put me to sleep. Turns out the 25th anniversary celebration for The Goonies was taking place in Astoria. Couldn't find any bully-blinders for sale. Managed to scope out Bram and Mikey's house, the large ocean rocks which Mikey matches with the "key", along with a windy road that I am pretty sure the kids ride down while Cyndi Lauper's "The Goonies 'R' Good Enough" plays. All in all, it was good to get out of town for a few days.

Finished Neil Gaiman's Stardust. For a fantasy novel, it's deceptively conventional. Yes, there is the unlikely "hero" who embarks on the impossible quest, receiving help along the way from inventive array of characters, to ultimately complete said quest. But the book does a few things differently from the standard LOTR copycat. The heart of the story really isn't in the played out conflict of good vs. evil. While the hero has couple of run-in's with those who look to deter him from his quest (who might be considered "evil"), ultimately there is no grand culmination of this conflict, which works because a halfway intelligent reader would have seen it coming from the beginning and questioned the necessity of reading all the way through to get to something foreseen so far in advance. Instead, the conflict is ditched for more of a coming-of-age realization, where the hero achieves his original goal but comes to understand that the implications of his success are much different than they seemed when he first set the goal - a time when he was a little younger. There are no constants in the world (even a fantasy one); reality and perception of it is always shifting. And that's nice to encounter in a genre that mainly thrives off steadfast archetypes (elves are good at this, dwarfs are bad at that, etc).

Decided to clean out my desk. Tossed a bunch of accumulated garbage from years gone by. But also found a few interesting items in the process.

Old pictures of my dad. I'd never seen these before. He must have been in his 20's when they were taken, which is kind of a trip since he just turned 62 yesterday. I will refrain from taking cheap shots at the photos. That'd be cold-blooded on here. Just know that fashion changes over time. My grandma is some of these too, with a dark head of hair that I undoubtedly inherited but was born about 15-20 years too late to remember.

Tolo pictures. From my freshman year in high school. Wore khakis and a Hawaiian shirt - definitely her choice. Her? Nicole Olsen (what up, girl). She's holding a stuffed-fucking-Tigger in the shot. It's okay. We were both nerds.

Rolling Stone: 35 Anniversary Special. Has a cool section on some of the most notable "American Icons". Springsteen, Warhol, Jordan, Homer Simpson, Chuck Taylors - amongst other people and things. Unfortunately, it also has a small blurb about Avril Lavigne with a headline that proclaims she shows a surprising amount of edge, which is described as "having no light show [and] a simple black curtain emblazoned with a gigantic TRY TO SHUT ME UP slogan and three giant TV screens running real-time footage of Lavigne." Now I remember why I stopped reading this magazine.

Saves the Day - I'm Sorry I'm Leaving. Ah. I do recall a story behind this one. The first Saves the Day song I heard was "Sell My Old Clothes, I'm Off To Heaven", from a Vagrant Records compilation (the one with the Get Up Kids cover of "Beer for Breakfast"); it ripped about as much as emo/pop-punk can rip. So I went off to Circuit City to pick up either Can't Slow Down or Through Being Cool but this EP was the only thing in-stock. I took a gamble on it, not knowing it was all acoustic. Got home and was disappointed to hear Dashboard Confessional pump through my speakers. Well, only slightly disappointed. I was into that dumb shit back then.

Atticus: ...dragging the lake. Grabbed this comp because it had a new Glassjaw track on it. Turned out to have other good songs (some unreleased) by Alkaline Trio, The Movielife, Rival Schools and American Nightmare. Though there is a fair share of crap on there: Finch, The Used, Simple Plan, Sugarcult. Again, I was into some bad stuff at 17 -18. So there are tracks on here by Midtown and The Starting Line that I still know the lyrics to. Catchy like herpes.

A stamp with my name on it. I really don't know what this was for. I did have atrocious handwriting as a kid. But I wasn't an invalid. I could write my own name. My best guess is that I used it for marking ho's on the playground - had to let 'em know.


Clean out your desk, dresser or closet. See what wonders you find.

The death toll rises.

Now Dennis Hopper has peaced out? At age 74 too. That's not young. But it's really not that old either. If anything, it makes me feel old. The first movie I can recall seeing him in was Speed. I remember going over to my uncle's with the family to watch it, which was kind of odd because we never really did that. My parents must have been caught on the slide because that is definitely an R-rated film and I was definitely nine or ten years old at the time. Oops. I remember Hopper being a total psychopath, crazier than anything I had ever seen. A few years later I saw Waterworld in the theatre. The guy was still nuts, but this time as a one-eyed pirate. Then Easy Rider and Apocalypse Now, where I started to detect a pattern in his roles. Finally I came across Blue Velvet and was convinced the guy masturbated with sandpaper (pretty sure his character heavily influenced my friend, Cameron). He was in a lot of other stuff that I'm forgetting. I think he was an alcoholic in Hoosiers too. Anyways, his passing is a bummer. It's been a sad year for notables: Guru, Dio and now Hopper. I guess the real question is how Ozzy is still alive.

Final Isis show in Seattle on Tuesday. Agh. I'm torn over what to do. The sensible person in me says not to go since I don't have a job and shouldn't be frivolous with the cash flow. But then there's another part of me which says that (a) I haven't been to a show in over a year, (b) haven't ever seen Isis live, and (c) will never get to see them again. Revisiting their last record, Wavering Radiant, has me leaning towards the splurge. I don't know. Maybe I'll sell some plasma.

I'd also like to send a shout out to Jordan. He always comes through with the brews at Azteca for the afternoon happy hour rendezvous...even when they get shiesty by charging full price. $31.50 for two pitchers of domestic beer? Get the fuck out. This isn't some bougie lounge with tang aplenty. This is a Mexican-American "cantina" at 2:30pm that is two blocks from the goddamn Funtasia. Still, the man shelled out like it was no big deal. Props, daps and a handshake, my friend.

Josh! I don't normally use exclamation marks, because I think they're clownish. However, I am beyond stoked that you are moving back to Washington. I realize you have an overwhelming amount on your plate at the moment. But being a completely vain and selfish individual, I declare we shall be hanging when your ass comes west of the Cascades. Get 'er done.

CURRENT FAVORITE

Bruce Springsteen - The Ghost of Tom Joad (It's hard for me to believe that at one point I could have actually hated The Boss. But it's true. I was young and dumb, though - probably spinning Finch records like they were worth a damn. I think it was when I heard Nebraska that I was able to find appreciation. All the corny bravado I had previously associated with Springsteen was stripped down to the bare minimum - guitar, harmonica and vocals - and there emerged a great collection of stories about blue collar America. The Ghost of Tom Joad shares the same lyrical themes and subdued musical aesthetic with the subtle addition of background synths. While not quite as good as Nebraska, it's certainly one of The Boss's best albums.)