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.