Resurrection

Please excuse the hiatus I took from blogging last month. I needed to recharge my batteries. Actually, I was just lazy as hell and felt no obligation to entertain you.

Scratch the lazy part. Though a sedentary activity, I've read a lot lately. In fact, I've been following along with with an online lecture series for a Yale course on the American novel since 1945. It's given me the chance to get around to some classics I'd previously overlooked, as well as dust off a number of texts for much deserved rereads. The reading list is as follows (in order): Black Boy, Wise Blood, Lolita, On the Road, Franny and Zooey, Lost in the Funhouse, The Crying of Lot 49, The Bluest Eye, The Woman Warrior, Housekeeping, Blood Meridian, The Human Stain, The Known World, and Everything is Illuminated.

Props to Sno-Isle Libraries for supplying the needed books - with the exception of Lost in the Funhouse , which I've been trying to get by request/interlibrary loan for the past few months (Josh, hook it up if you've got it). I'm currently reading The Human Stain, which means that I only have two more novels to finish before I can officially say that I've completed a course at Yale (sans attending "section" classes or writing any of the papers). Yeah, I've read at my own leisure, starting back in the fall. So although those Yale kids are a bunch of snooty aristocrats, their academic rigor is impressive; reading two novels week in the midst of a full credit load would have broke this camel's back early in the term.

Of the books I reread, it's Housekeeping that I'm most glad I came back to a second time. I first came across it five years ago while at college in a post-modern literature course. My thoughts at the time were something like, "Women. Nature. Hold on while I get the soy milk and Luna Bars" *escapes out back window*. Now I have a much greater appreciation Marilynne Robinson's ability as a writer. I'm not claiming to completely understand what she was doing in Housekeeping (something along the lines of Emerson or Walden). But I know originality when I see it. Did I mention she was a hardcore Christian? All the more amazing that I was feeling it. What can I say? I've got two aces up my sleeve when it comes to theologians in fiction: Robinson, the Protestant transcendentalist and O'Connor, the Catholic absurdist. (C.S. Lewis, you get no love here.)

I can't ignore the Super Bowl. Some key points.

1) I'm sure everyone's favorite commercial was the VW/Darth Vader/force-using one. It was aight. But personally I liked the Doritos one with the the crumb-stain fiend who sucks a dude's thumb and rips off another's pants; that's homoeroticism appreciated. I also enjoyed the British game show-themed Mini Cooper commercial centered around the catch phrase "cram it in the boot", as the contestant proceeded to shove a 12-foot subway sandwich into the trunk of an extremely small car. No sexual innuendos here.

2) That preview for Cowboys & Aliens? I think I'll just watch Tremors again.

3) Black Eyed Peas halftime show. Didn't watch it. Okay, I watched it on mute to know when it was over. Saw that Slash made a cameo for an abominable rendition of "Sweet Child O' Mine" (the GnR royalties must be drying up). I guess it wasn't completely muted. Would have much rather watched the Springsteen performance from two years ago. And lady Ferguson, youse a butterface ho.

The game? It was good. Rather surprised that the Steelers weren't able to pull off the comeback, despite the large deficit at halftime, since the Packers suffered some big injuries in the secondary. To Pittsburgh, I have this to say: I love Troy Palamalu's hair and Brett Keisel's beard, but rapists can't be Super Bowl champions. Ben Roethlisberger, I'm looking at you. "Alleged sexual assault", my ass. I understand that you're one ugly bastard and therefore it's hard to get piece. Doesn't mean you get to strong-arm women. You know who's even uglier than you and still gets laid on the reg without resorting to dirtbag tactics? This guy.

Lemmy Kilmister, my hero.

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.