The Song: "Like the Weather," 10,000 Maniacs. Words & music by Natalie Merchant. Track 3 of In My Tribe, 1987.
How/when acquired: Illegally copied cassette tape, 1987
Listen/watch here.
This morning's news reported that the rest of the country expects record temperatures today. Here in Maine, it's rainy and cold.
Almost six years after I moved here, I am still not used to how quickly and abruptly the summer ends. Leaves are turning, and my heat's come on a couple of times already. The days are noticeably shorter.
At this time of year, I can point to Maine's change of seasons as a major advantage of living here. I like the reminder that the earth is traveling around the sun, that we're all getting a little older, that everything sleeps and wakes, lives and dies and lives again. Ask me again in January, and you might get a different point of view.
Having praised my brother Ed in yesterday's post, I'm poking him today with this one. His distaste for Natalie Merchant is violent and vocal, though I'm not clear on exactly what he objects to; maybe he'll leave his views in the comments section. She seems to be a polarizing figure, but I've always liked her. I suspect that you would find a copy of this album in the collection of most white, college-educated American women between the ages of, oh, say 38 and 45.
Do you own it? Admit it in the comments section.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
"For the ones who had a notion,/a notion deep inside/That it aint no sin/to be glad you're alive."
The Song: "Badlands," Bruce Springsteen. Words & music by Bruce Springsteen. Track 1 of Darkness on the Edge of Town, 1978.
How/when acquired: Gift LP, 1981
Listen/watch here.
Happy birthday, Bruce Springsteen. He is 61 today, and as far as I'm concerned, his importance in American pop culture cannot be overstated.
He's saved my life more than once, with this song among others. Darkness on the Edge of Town, released the year I turned 13, was my first real exposure to Bruce Springsteen. I'd been dimly aware of Born to Run, but I was too young to understand what he was talking about. Darkness, released around the time I started ninth grade, distilled everything hopeful and magic about what might lie on the other side of adolescence.
I still own this album on vinyl. It was a gift from my brother Ed — reparations, really. He'd cracked one of the two discs in my copy of The River, and I'd reacted exactly as you'd expect the 14-year-old sister of a ten-year-old brother to do. Ed, gracious and honorable beyond his years, tried to replace the album, but the Exchange had sold out; he bought me Born to Run and Darkness on the Edge of Town instead. So thanks for that, Ed, and I owe you.
How/when acquired: Gift LP, 1981
Listen/watch here.
Happy birthday, Bruce Springsteen. He is 61 today, and as far as I'm concerned, his importance in American pop culture cannot be overstated.
He's saved my life more than once, with this song among others. Darkness on the Edge of Town, released the year I turned 13, was my first real exposure to Bruce Springsteen. I'd been dimly aware of Born to Run, but I was too young to understand what he was talking about. Darkness, released around the time I started ninth grade, distilled everything hopeful and magic about what might lie on the other side of adolescence.
I still own this album on vinyl. It was a gift from my brother Ed — reparations, really. He'd cracked one of the two discs in my copy of The River, and I'd reacted exactly as you'd expect the 14-year-old sister of a ten-year-old brother to do. Ed, gracious and honorable beyond his years, tried to replace the album, but the Exchange had sold out; he bought me Born to Run and Darkness on the Edge of Town instead. So thanks for that, Ed, and I owe you.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
"It is time for you to laugh instead of crying."
The Song: "Stop Your Sobbing," The Pretenders. Words and music by Ray Davies. Track 7 of Pretenders, 1980.
How/when acquired: Downloaded MP3, 2007
Listen/watch here.
I sang this song to Dizzy all the time when he was a puppy, and when I played it this morning he grumbled and whined along. He almost never pays attention to the music I play; he must remember this song.
Anyway, the last ten days have had more than their share of bad news, and I'm ready for it to stop. Tonight I start rehearsals for yet another show — My Three Angels at Gaslight, November 12–20 (closing night is my birthday, so you have an extra reason to come). I'm looking forward to sitting around a table and laughing for a couple of hours.
It's mildly alarming to think that this album is 30 years old. (This song, by the way, is older than I am; this version is a cover of The Kinks' original, released in 1964.) It's also a little strange that I didn't own it until recently, because it was an important piece of the soundtrack of my late teens. But this was one of those albums everyone owned, so I didn't need to; my best friend had it, my boyfriend had it, my roommate had it, my next boyfriend had it . . . now Dizzy and I own it together. I would put it on a short list of best first albums of all time.
How/when acquired: Downloaded MP3, 2007
Listen/watch here.
I sang this song to Dizzy all the time when he was a puppy, and when I played it this morning he grumbled and whined along. He almost never pays attention to the music I play; he must remember this song.
Anyway, the last ten days have had more than their share of bad news, and I'm ready for it to stop. Tonight I start rehearsals for yet another show — My Three Angels at Gaslight, November 12–20 (closing night is my birthday, so you have an extra reason to come). I'm looking forward to sitting around a table and laughing for a couple of hours.
It's mildly alarming to think that this album is 30 years old. (This song, by the way, is older than I am; this version is a cover of The Kinks' original, released in 1964.) It's also a little strange that I didn't own it until recently, because it was an important piece of the soundtrack of my late teens. But this was one of those albums everyone owned, so I didn't need to; my best friend had it, my boyfriend had it, my roommate had it, my next boyfriend had it . . . now Dizzy and I own it together. I would put it on a short list of best first albums of all time.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
"I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch/He called out to me, 'Don't ask for so much'..."
"...And a young man, leaning on his darkened door
He cried out to me, 'Baby, why not ask for more?'"
The Song: "Bird on a Wire," Jennifer Warnes. Words and music by Leonard Cohen. Track 2 of Famous Blue Raincoat, 1987.
How/when acquired: Purchased cassette, 1987.
Listen here.
Happy birthday, Leonard Cohen. He's 76 years old today, and still touring; he's on a short list of artists I've never seen live and would really, really like to.
At the risk of heresy, however, I'll say that Leonard Cohen is a better songwriter than singer, and is not always the best interpreter of his own songs. I own five different versions of this song, and this is my favorite.
I bought this cassette in the spring of 1987, at Olsson's Books & Music in Georgetown. It was an unjustifiable extravagance. I was working two jobs that paid just over minimum wage, and picking up as much extra babysitting as I could. I was living alone in a basement apartment, my student loans had come due, and I've always been terrible with money anyway. I never had any cash in my pocket, and am pretty sure I bought this cassette on impulse, just because I had a ten-dollar bill.
The cassette's still in my car. Remarkably, it still plays. I probably listened to it every day for the first four months I owned it, and it's been in heavy rotation, in one format or another, ever since.
Recently I saw a comment on a friend's Facebook page about how $250,000/year shouldn't be considered wealthy, especially for people with mortgages to pay and children to send to college. The median household income in the United States was $52,059 in 2008; in Maine, it was $46,419. I don't make that much, but I'm just one person, and I don't need to (see previous comment about being bad with money).
It would baffle me, if Leonard Cohen hadn't explained it all so elegantly. As birds on the wire, we shouldn't ask for so much — but why not ask for more?
He cried out to me, 'Baby, why not ask for more?'"
The Song: "Bird on a Wire," Jennifer Warnes. Words and music by Leonard Cohen. Track 2 of Famous Blue Raincoat, 1987.
How/when acquired: Purchased cassette, 1987.
Listen here.
Happy birthday, Leonard Cohen. He's 76 years old today, and still touring; he's on a short list of artists I've never seen live and would really, really like to.
At the risk of heresy, however, I'll say that Leonard Cohen is a better songwriter than singer, and is not always the best interpreter of his own songs. I own five different versions of this song, and this is my favorite.
I bought this cassette in the spring of 1987, at Olsson's Books & Music in Georgetown. It was an unjustifiable extravagance. I was working two jobs that paid just over minimum wage, and picking up as much extra babysitting as I could. I was living alone in a basement apartment, my student loans had come due, and I've always been terrible with money anyway. I never had any cash in my pocket, and am pretty sure I bought this cassette on impulse, just because I had a ten-dollar bill.
The cassette's still in my car. Remarkably, it still plays. I probably listened to it every day for the first four months I owned it, and it's been in heavy rotation, in one format or another, ever since.
Recently I saw a comment on a friend's Facebook page about how $250,000/year shouldn't be considered wealthy, especially for people with mortgages to pay and children to send to college. The median household income in the United States was $52,059 in 2008; in Maine, it was $46,419. I don't make that much, but I'm just one person, and I don't need to (see previous comment about being bad with money).
It would baffle me, if Leonard Cohen hadn't explained it all so elegantly. As birds on the wire, we shouldn't ask for so much — but why not ask for more?
Monday, September 20, 2010
"And the leaves that are green turn to brown."
The Song: "Leaves That Are Green," Simon & Garfunkel. Words and music by Paul Simon. Track 2 of Sounds of Silence, 1966.
How/when acquired: Illegally copied from a friend's LP, c. 1981; CD acquired c. 2000.
Listen/watch here.
The autumnal equinox isn't for another three days, but fall's already here in central Maine. The temperature when I woke up this morning was 40F, and has now risen only to 48F, although it's supposed to be much warmer later in the day.
I didn't get enough sleep last night, because I stayed up to watch the encore presentation of "Mad Men." The current season is set in 1965; last night's episode happened in June, still at least five months before my twin sister and I were born. But I'm starting to see things in the show that evoke my earliest memories, and a surprising number of those are media-related.
My father, a Naval officer, was at sea for most of the first five years of my life; my mother was a de facto single parent when they were rare creatures. She loved music (she had worked for Capitol Records before her marriage), so my earliest memories all include the radio in the background. She kept it on for company, and when we were colicky, drove us around in the car until the music and the movement put us to sleep.
This song was the B-side of "Homeward Bound," which made it to #5 on the Billboard charts (although "Homeward Bound" wasn't even on Sounds of Silence, but was included in the next album, Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme). It's quite possible that this is one of the first pop songs I ever heard.
Simon & Garfunkel played this song the one and only time I've ever seen them live — in 2003 at the Staples Center in Los Angeles, a birthday treat from my friend Gary. Thirty-eight felt old, which makes me laugh seven years later.
How/when acquired: Illegally copied from a friend's LP, c. 1981; CD acquired c. 2000.
Listen/watch here.
The autumnal equinox isn't for another three days, but fall's already here in central Maine. The temperature when I woke up this morning was 40F, and has now risen only to 48F, although it's supposed to be much warmer later in the day.
I didn't get enough sleep last night, because I stayed up to watch the encore presentation of "Mad Men." The current season is set in 1965; last night's episode happened in June, still at least five months before my twin sister and I were born. But I'm starting to see things in the show that evoke my earliest memories, and a surprising number of those are media-related.
My father, a Naval officer, was at sea for most of the first five years of my life; my mother was a de facto single parent when they were rare creatures. She loved music (she had worked for Capitol Records before her marriage), so my earliest memories all include the radio in the background. She kept it on for company, and when we were colicky, drove us around in the car until the music and the movement put us to sleep.
This song was the B-side of "Homeward Bound," which made it to #5 on the Billboard charts (although "Homeward Bound" wasn't even on Sounds of Silence, but was included in the next album, Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme). It's quite possible that this is one of the first pop songs I ever heard.
Simon & Garfunkel played this song the one and only time I've ever seen them live — in 2003 at the Staples Center in Los Angeles, a birthday treat from my friend Gary. Thirty-eight felt old, which makes me laugh seven years later.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
"Don't confront me with my failures; I have not forgotten them."
The Song: "These Days," Jackson Browne. Words and music by Jackson Browne. Track 5 of For Everyman, 1973.
How/when acquired: I have no idea. I can't remember not owning some version of this song, in some format. I currently own eight different versions, including two by Jackson Browne and covers by Nico, Gregg Allman, and Fountains of Wayne, among others.
Listen/watch here. (That's an acoustic version; Nico's original cover is here, and Gregg Allman's version is here.)
Yes, I own eight versions of this song. It's important to me, and this line in particular surfaces in my consciousness once a day or more. Jackson Browne was only 16 when he wrote it. When he was 19, he sold it to Nico, who recorded it for her album Chelsea Girl (that's Browne on guitar accompanying her). The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Tom Rush, Kenny Rogers' band Gator Creek and Iain Matthews also covered the song before Browne recorded it himself. The version on For Everyman credits Gregg Allman for the arrangement; Allman recorded it around the same time for his first solo album, Laid Back, which changed this line to "Please don't confront me with my failures; I'm aware of them." I like the original lyrics better.
As an editor, I spend a lot of time pointing out other people's mistakes — not failures, exactly, but things that could be improved by adjustments large and small. It's a big responsibility and can be a stressful one, as what everyone really wants to hear is that their work is good, that I love it, and that they don't need to fix a thing. Clients ask "Do you like it?" and "Is it good?" Those are questions I usually can't answer until the very end of the process. While I'm editing I'm often almost hostile to the work, because if I let myself get sucked into the story I might miss an error or a plot hole. It's best if I don't talk to clients while I'm editing their work; I'm scary in editing mode, sometimes even to myself.
But recommendations for improvement and correction, and queries about plot holes and inconsistencies, are not — and should not be — a confrontation with failure. Writing is less like target practice than like mountain-climbing; you didn't miss the goal, you just haven't gotten there yet.
Anyway, I've never seen a book published without flaws. If you're a reader and have ever been tempted to write an author about a mistake you've found in a novel, I can only say: Please don't. It makes them crazy, as I know from close observation of clients in the wild. An author's ability to correct errors is limited once a book goes into print. If a book doesn't go into multiple printings (and most don't), all your helpful feedback does is remind the author of a failure he or she will never be able to remedy. If you must tell someone, send the publisher a letter. If you really can't let it go, stop a minute to think about how you feel when a stranger approaches you in the middle of the working day to say, "You did that wrong." Chances are, they already know, and have not forgotten.
How/when acquired: I have no idea. I can't remember not owning some version of this song, in some format. I currently own eight different versions, including two by Jackson Browne and covers by Nico, Gregg Allman, and Fountains of Wayne, among others.
Listen/watch here. (That's an acoustic version; Nico's original cover is here, and Gregg Allman's version is here.)
Yes, I own eight versions of this song. It's important to me, and this line in particular surfaces in my consciousness once a day or more. Jackson Browne was only 16 when he wrote it. When he was 19, he sold it to Nico, who recorded it for her album Chelsea Girl (that's Browne on guitar accompanying her). The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Tom Rush, Kenny Rogers' band Gator Creek and Iain Matthews also covered the song before Browne recorded it himself. The version on For Everyman credits Gregg Allman for the arrangement; Allman recorded it around the same time for his first solo album, Laid Back, which changed this line to "Please don't confront me with my failures; I'm aware of them." I like the original lyrics better.
As an editor, I spend a lot of time pointing out other people's mistakes — not failures, exactly, but things that could be improved by adjustments large and small. It's a big responsibility and can be a stressful one, as what everyone really wants to hear is that their work is good, that I love it, and that they don't need to fix a thing. Clients ask "Do you like it?" and "Is it good?" Those are questions I usually can't answer until the very end of the process. While I'm editing I'm often almost hostile to the work, because if I let myself get sucked into the story I might miss an error or a plot hole. It's best if I don't talk to clients while I'm editing their work; I'm scary in editing mode, sometimes even to myself.
But recommendations for improvement and correction, and queries about plot holes and inconsistencies, are not — and should not be — a confrontation with failure. Writing is less like target practice than like mountain-climbing; you didn't miss the goal, you just haven't gotten there yet.
Anyway, I've never seen a book published without flaws. If you're a reader and have ever been tempted to write an author about a mistake you've found in a novel, I can only say: Please don't. It makes them crazy, as I know from close observation of clients in the wild. An author's ability to correct errors is limited once a book goes into print. If a book doesn't go into multiple printings (and most don't), all your helpful feedback does is remind the author of a failure he or she will never be able to remedy. If you must tell someone, send the publisher a letter. If you really can't let it go, stop a minute to think about how you feel when a stranger approaches you in the middle of the working day to say, "You did that wrong." Chances are, they already know, and have not forgotten.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
"Daylight is good at arriving at the right time/It's not always going to be this grey."
The Song: "All Things Must Pass," George Harrison. Words and music by George Harrison. Track 5, Disc 2 of All Things Must Pass, 1970.
How/when acquired: MP3 download, October 2007
Listen/watch here.
Woke up this morning to a thunderstorm so violent and close that at first I thought the ruined paper mill across the street had exploded. I had a minute to think about what I'd need to grab if Dizzy and I had to leave the apartment in a hurry, before I looked out the window and saw nothing on fire.
When I booted up the computer, though, disaster of another kind was waiting: the news that David Thompson, manager of Houston's legendary Murder by the Book and publisher of Busted Flush Press, had died suddenly at his home.
Every death diminishes us, as John Donne says, but this blow hits hard. I didn't know David well, but you couldn't know him and not be his friend. His enthusiasm was contagious, and his goodwill seemed boundless.
I first met him over the telephone, probably close to ten years ago. I was behind the counter at The Mystery Bookstore in Los Angeles, and he was at the store in Houston. We had books they wanted, or vice versa (independent mystery book sellers are collegial that way), but one or the other of us said something about a book we'd just read, and away we went. My last phone conversation with him, in June, was just the same; a quick request turned into a 20-minute conversation about our favorite books of the past year.
The world runs on the passion of people like David, who loved his wife, his dog and his books, and expected the world to share his appreciation. His death is a terrible loss, and my heart goes out to his wife, his colleagues, and his authors.
How/when acquired: MP3 download, October 2007
Listen/watch here.
Woke up this morning to a thunderstorm so violent and close that at first I thought the ruined paper mill across the street had exploded. I had a minute to think about what I'd need to grab if Dizzy and I had to leave the apartment in a hurry, before I looked out the window and saw nothing on fire.
When I booted up the computer, though, disaster of another kind was waiting: the news that David Thompson, manager of Houston's legendary Murder by the Book and publisher of Busted Flush Press, had died suddenly at his home.
Every death diminishes us, as John Donne says, but this blow hits hard. I didn't know David well, but you couldn't know him and not be his friend. His enthusiasm was contagious, and his goodwill seemed boundless.
I first met him over the telephone, probably close to ten years ago. I was behind the counter at The Mystery Bookstore in Los Angeles, and he was at the store in Houston. We had books they wanted, or vice versa (independent mystery book sellers are collegial that way), but one or the other of us said something about a book we'd just read, and away we went. My last phone conversation with him, in June, was just the same; a quick request turned into a 20-minute conversation about our favorite books of the past year.
The world runs on the passion of people like David, who loved his wife, his dog and his books, and expected the world to share his appreciation. His death is a terrible loss, and my heart goes out to his wife, his colleagues, and his authors.
Monday, September 13, 2010
"Well I tried to make it Sunday, but I got so damn depressed/That I set my sights on Monday and I got myself undressed."
The Song: "Sister Golden Hair," America. Words and music by Gerry Beckley. Track 10 of Hearts, 1975.
How/when acquired: Downloaded MP3 single, December 2008
Listen/watch here. (This is a concert version at a faster tempo than the studio version I have. I like the studio version better.)
Born Yesterday closed on Saturday night. After a strike that went faster and more smoothly than I dreamed it could, most of the cast and crew went over to the Liberal Cup and closed it down. I hadn't planned to do much yesterday, but even those small things wound up neglected; I wouldn't say I was depressed as much as exhausted.
This morning I got up full of good intentions, and took Dizzy for a walk to our usual place, Gardiner's Oak Grove Cemetery — only to find a brand new sign:
NO DOGS ALLOWED
POLICE WILL BE NOTIFIED
A sad, unfriendly way to start the day. Dizzy and I have been walking in the cemetery since we moved here; it's one of Gardiner's few open spaces, especially now that Waterfront Park is closed for construction "until further notice." Now I'll have to put him in the car to take him to the woods or the reservoir in Hallowell, or the new dog park in Augusta. It makes me feel unwelcome, and will probably speed up my decision to leave Gardiner. Well played, town leaders.
This song is an old favorite, and was one of the first things I learned to play on the guitar. (I no longer own a guitar, which is bad. Maybe I'll pick one up in a pawnshop over the winter.) Somehow or other, though, I never owned it, an omission I remedied a couple of years ago when my brother James mentioned it over the holidays. While I miss albums, I do love the convenience of 99-cent downloads.
How/when acquired: Downloaded MP3 single, December 2008
Listen/watch here. (This is a concert version at a faster tempo than the studio version I have. I like the studio version better.)
Born Yesterday closed on Saturday night. After a strike that went faster and more smoothly than I dreamed it could, most of the cast and crew went over to the Liberal Cup and closed it down. I hadn't planned to do much yesterday, but even those small things wound up neglected; I wouldn't say I was depressed as much as exhausted.
This morning I got up full of good intentions, and took Dizzy for a walk to our usual place, Gardiner's Oak Grove Cemetery — only to find a brand new sign:
NO DOGS ALLOWED
POLICE WILL BE NOTIFIED
A sad, unfriendly way to start the day. Dizzy and I have been walking in the cemetery since we moved here; it's one of Gardiner's few open spaces, especially now that Waterfront Park is closed for construction "until further notice." Now I'll have to put him in the car to take him to the woods or the reservoir in Hallowell, or the new dog park in Augusta. It makes me feel unwelcome, and will probably speed up my decision to leave Gardiner. Well played, town leaders.
This song is an old favorite, and was one of the first things I learned to play on the guitar. (I no longer own a guitar, which is bad. Maybe I'll pick one up in a pawnshop over the winter.) Somehow or other, though, I never owned it, an omission I remedied a couple of years ago when my brother James mentioned it over the holidays. While I miss albums, I do love the convenience of 99-cent downloads.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
"I'm not expecting to grow flowers in the desert,/But I can live and breathe and see the sun in wintertime."
The Song: "In a Big Country," Big Country. Words and music by Stuart Adamson, Mark Brzezicki, Tony Butler, and Bruce Watson. Track 1 of The Crossing, 1983.
How/when acquired: Illegally copied from boyfriend's roommate's LP, 1985. (Acquired legally on gift CD, c. 1997.)
Listen/watch here.
In a big country, dreams stay with you. I would hate to see this day turn into anything that ignores just how big we are — how resilient and optimistic and inclusive and righteous this country is supposed to be.
I don't understand the uproar about the proposed Islamic center in southern Manhattan (it's not Ground Zero, please), but now I think it's important that it go forward. America is supposed to be a melting pot, and New York is its most visible face. The surge in anti-Islamic prejudice has many precedents in American history; every new wave of immigrants has met its own customized opposition, from "No Irish Need Apply" to the WWII detention camps for Japanese-Americans. It almost seems to be a necessary stage in the process of assimilating new cultures, but it would be nice if we could skip it this time around.
The United States was the first nation in the world to create a citizenship based on a common acceptance of ideals rather than ethnicity or religious belief. We honor the people who died on September 11, 2001 by remembering the power of the American dream, and the promise of Lady Liberty, who still lifts her lamp beside the golden door.
How/when acquired: Illegally copied from boyfriend's roommate's LP, 1985. (Acquired legally on gift CD, c. 1997.)
Listen/watch here.
In a big country, dreams stay with you. I would hate to see this day turn into anything that ignores just how big we are — how resilient and optimistic and inclusive and righteous this country is supposed to be.
I don't understand the uproar about the proposed Islamic center in southern Manhattan (it's not Ground Zero, please), but now I think it's important that it go forward. America is supposed to be a melting pot, and New York is its most visible face. The surge in anti-Islamic prejudice has many precedents in American history; every new wave of immigrants has met its own customized opposition, from "No Irish Need Apply" to the WWII detention camps for Japanese-Americans. It almost seems to be a necessary stage in the process of assimilating new cultures, but it would be nice if we could skip it this time around.
The United States was the first nation in the world to create a citizenship based on a common acceptance of ideals rather than ethnicity or religious belief. We honor the people who died on September 11, 2001 by remembering the power of the American dream, and the promise of Lady Liberty, who still lifts her lamp beside the golden door.
Friday, September 10, 2010
"I know I'm shouting,/I like to shout."
The Song: "I Confess," The English Beat (yes, I know it's just "The Beat" in the rest of the world). Words and music by The Beat (Andy Cox, Everett Morton, Rankin' Roger, Saxa, David Steele, Dave Wakeling). Track 1 of Special Beat Service, 1983.
How/when acquired: Illegally copied cassette from roommate, 1983 (but now I own this track on a best-of CD I purchased in 2006)
Listen/watch here.
I watch too much television news. Living alone and working at home, I often turn on the television just for white noise, and it's usually tuned to MSNBC. Thus I know far too much about some really stupid things, and nowhere near enough about the things that MSNBC doesn't cover (a lot).
There's been an awful lot of shouting this week about this pastor in Florida who's planning to burn the Qur'an (side question: when did "Qur'an" supplant "Koran" as the standard English transliteration?). It's ridiculous, a crazy plan by a crazy man, and the reactions to it are becoming equally crazy. Send in US Marshals to stop it? Invoke sedition laws to trump this man's First Amendment rights?
Please. Didn't these people have mothers? My own mother gave me the obvious response when I was four years old, and that mean Mark Giampolo was teasing me: "Just ignore him, and he'll go away."
If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound? And if a book burns without an audience, does anybody care? Printing is cheap. Burning a book in this day and age is meaningless, unless you force people to pay attention. Anyone with a computer can read the Qur'an in 20 different languages, right here. Allah, the great and merciful — who is also the God of the Jews and the Christians — is not affected by the presence or absence of 50 extra copies of a book.
If all the news cameras and reporters left Terry Jones alone, he would go away, or at least be known only in his immediate community as the pathetic eccentric he is. More important things are happening in Gainesville this weekend: the University of Florida's football team is playing the University of Southern Florida, for one. All the camera crews should go cover that instead.
How/when acquired: Illegally copied cassette from roommate, 1983 (but now I own this track on a best-of CD I purchased in 2006)
Listen/watch here.
I watch too much television news. Living alone and working at home, I often turn on the television just for white noise, and it's usually tuned to MSNBC. Thus I know far too much about some really stupid things, and nowhere near enough about the things that MSNBC doesn't cover (a lot).
There's been an awful lot of shouting this week about this pastor in Florida who's planning to burn the Qur'an (side question: when did "Qur'an" supplant "Koran" as the standard English transliteration?). It's ridiculous, a crazy plan by a crazy man, and the reactions to it are becoming equally crazy. Send in US Marshals to stop it? Invoke sedition laws to trump this man's First Amendment rights?
Please. Didn't these people have mothers? My own mother gave me the obvious response when I was four years old, and that mean Mark Giampolo was teasing me: "Just ignore him, and he'll go away."
If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound? And if a book burns without an audience, does anybody care? Printing is cheap. Burning a book in this day and age is meaningless, unless you force people to pay attention. Anyone with a computer can read the Qur'an in 20 different languages, right here. Allah, the great and merciful — who is also the God of the Jews and the Christians — is not affected by the presence or absence of 50 extra copies of a book.
If all the news cameras and reporters left Terry Jones alone, he would go away, or at least be known only in his immediate community as the pathetic eccentric he is. More important things are happening in Gainesville this weekend: the University of Florida's football team is playing the University of Southern Florida, for one. All the camera crews should go cover that instead.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
"I love everybody, especially you."
The Song: "I Love Everybody," Lyle Lovett. Words and music by Lyle Lovett. Track 18 of I Love Everybody, 1994.
How/when acquired: Purchased CD, 1994.
Listen here.
You can't always take Lyle Lovett at face value, but this song works just as well whether you take it sincerely or ironically. In fact, I think it makes a nice lullaby, in 3/4 time:
That's pretty much all there is to the song. It closes out an album of mostly quirky songs, older pieces that didn't fit on his earlier albums (including the classic "Creeps Like Me," which I will undoubtedly quote at some point later this year).
Lyle Lovett brought me back to country music. Mary Chapin Carpenter gets some credit, too, but it was Lyle P. who reminded me that country music didn't have to be the loud and glossy stuff being played on the radio. I almost met him once; our eyes met (I swear!) at a PBS reception my friend Sue Lin invited me along to. Ah, Lyle. What might have been.
Wednesdays are Onion Ring Night at my favorite bar (the previously-mentioned Liberal Cup), so I stopped there last night before going to a brush-up rehearsal for Born Yesterday (which got a nice review in today's Portland Phoenix).
An attractive woman who might have been overserved was sitting at the bar, telling her companion, "I just love people. I really do. I love people. They don't always love me, but I love people."
"Don't start conversations with drunk people" is one of my rules for a happy life, so I didn't ask the obvious question: what does this mean? Would she love Hitler? Would she love Jeffrey Dahmer? Would she love Saddam Hussein?
As Lyle Lovett says in another song on his very first album: "God does, but I don't/God will, but I won't/And that's the difference between God and me."
How/when acquired: Purchased CD, 1994.
Listen here.
You can't always take Lyle Lovett at face value, but this song works just as well whether you take it sincerely or ironically. In fact, I think it makes a nice lullaby, in 3/4 time:
I love everybody, especially you
I love everybody, especially you
So if you feel lonesome, remember it's true
I love everybody, especially you.
That's pretty much all there is to the song. It closes out an album of mostly quirky songs, older pieces that didn't fit on his earlier albums (including the classic "Creeps Like Me," which I will undoubtedly quote at some point later this year).
Lyle Lovett brought me back to country music. Mary Chapin Carpenter gets some credit, too, but it was Lyle P. who reminded me that country music didn't have to be the loud and glossy stuff being played on the radio. I almost met him once; our eyes met (I swear!) at a PBS reception my friend Sue Lin invited me along to. Ah, Lyle. What might have been.
Wednesdays are Onion Ring Night at my favorite bar (the previously-mentioned Liberal Cup), so I stopped there last night before going to a brush-up rehearsal for Born Yesterday (which got a nice review in today's Portland Phoenix).
An attractive woman who might have been overserved was sitting at the bar, telling her companion, "I just love people. I really do. I love people. They don't always love me, but I love people."
"Don't start conversations with drunk people" is one of my rules for a happy life, so I didn't ask the obvious question: what does this mean? Would she love Hitler? Would she love Jeffrey Dahmer? Would she love Saddam Hussein?
As Lyle Lovett says in another song on his very first album: "God does, but I don't/God will, but I won't/And that's the difference between God and me."
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
"I know all of this and more."
The Song: "Feed the Tree," Belly. Words and music by Tanya Donelly. Track 9 of Star, 1993.
How/when acquired: Gift cassette, c. 1994.
Listen/watch here.
I just realized that I haven't been identifying the writers of these quotations I'm posting; sorry about that. I'll go back and add that information to the earlier posts . . . but in the meantime, this is the song in my head this morning.
Love and death are the two great subjects of music, and this song combines both. It's about the need to honor our ancestors, I think; the refrain goes, "Take your hat off, boy, when you're talking to me, and be there when I feed the tree." (Feeding the tree = buried under it.)
In this case, a simple quotation of the lyrics doesn't convey its full impact, because the song stutters them over several lines: "I know all of this and — I know all of this and — I know all of this and more." But the official version only gives a single iteration, so that's what I'm quoting.
Belly played the first HFStival at RFK Stadium in 1993, as part of a lineup that included Matthew Sweet, the Stereo MCs, Iggy Pop, X, and INXS. They didn't make a particularly strong impression on me, but my upstairs neighbor, an aspiring rock musician himself, was deeply smitten, and made me a mix tape that included this song. (What is the MP3 equivalent of mix tapes? Do people still do this?) Several of the artists on that tape have faded into well-deserved obscurity, but this song stayed with me, and I bought the track from iTunes last year just because I wanted to hear it again.
Anyway, I like to know stuff. It comforts me and gives me the delusion of order and control. I get a little competitive about it, which is why I play pub trivia weekly at The Liberal Cup in Hallowell.
My team doesn't win all the time, or even that often — in fact, most of the time we come in second, often by a fraction of a point. But last night we won by so much that Quizmaster/Brewmaster Geoff invoked a slaughter rule: any team that wins by four points or more must split its winnings with the second-place team. The slaughter rule is added to the usual practice of splitting the trivia pot between the first-place team and the middle-place team, so the spoils of last night's triumphant win came to $4 apiece. We'd have done better, at least financially, if we'd come in fourth.
I call myself a liberal Democrat, but that kind of income redistribution makes me rethink . . .
How/when acquired: Gift cassette, c. 1994.
Listen/watch here.
I just realized that I haven't been identifying the writers of these quotations I'm posting; sorry about that. I'll go back and add that information to the earlier posts . . . but in the meantime, this is the song in my head this morning.
Love and death are the two great subjects of music, and this song combines both. It's about the need to honor our ancestors, I think; the refrain goes, "Take your hat off, boy, when you're talking to me, and be there when I feed the tree." (Feeding the tree = buried under it.)
In this case, a simple quotation of the lyrics doesn't convey its full impact, because the song stutters them over several lines: "I know all of this and — I know all of this and — I know all of this and more." But the official version only gives a single iteration, so that's what I'm quoting.
Belly played the first HFStival at RFK Stadium in 1993, as part of a lineup that included Matthew Sweet, the Stereo MCs, Iggy Pop, X, and INXS. They didn't make a particularly strong impression on me, but my upstairs neighbor, an aspiring rock musician himself, was deeply smitten, and made me a mix tape that included this song. (What is the MP3 equivalent of mix tapes? Do people still do this?) Several of the artists on that tape have faded into well-deserved obscurity, but this song stayed with me, and I bought the track from iTunes last year just because I wanted to hear it again.
Anyway, I like to know stuff. It comforts me and gives me the delusion of order and control. I get a little competitive about it, which is why I play pub trivia weekly at The Liberal Cup in Hallowell.
My team doesn't win all the time, or even that often — in fact, most of the time we come in second, often by a fraction of a point. But last night we won by so much that Quizmaster/Brewmaster Geoff invoked a slaughter rule: any team that wins by four points or more must split its winnings with the second-place team. The slaughter rule is added to the usual practice of splitting the trivia pot between the first-place team and the middle-place team, so the spoils of last night's triumphant win came to $4 apiece. We'd have done better, at least financially, if we'd come in fourth.
I call myself a liberal Democrat, but that kind of income redistribution makes me rethink . . .
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
"Fail with consequence, lose with eloquence, and smile."
The Song: "Consequence," The Notwist. Words and music by Micha Acher. Track 10 of Neon Golden, 2003.
How/when acquired: Gift CD, June 2005.
Listen/watch here.
My friend John hands out CDs the way some people hand out business cards. He's an evangelist for the music he loves, and much of my collection in recent years has come from him. This CD, however, was special. He gave it to me at a book signing and said, "If you don't like this, we can't be friends anymore."
Fortunately, I did. In fact, it's one of my favorite CDs of the last decade, in heavy rotation on my iTunes playlist. The Notwist are a German band whose music has evolved from grunge into electronica over the last 20 years; members play with members of Themselves as a group called 13 & God, which I've seen live. They're moody and smart and bizarre, and this CD hit me so hard when I first listened to it — on a drive from Cambridge, MA to Newport, RI — that I had to pull over at one point to listen to one of the tracks again.
The day after Labor Day still feels like the beginning of a new year, 20+ years after I left school. I have a list of resolutions for a new regime of diligence, focus and — especially — risk-taking. I live a safe life in too many ways, a life that seeks to protect me from the consequences of bad decisions by deferring those decisions until they make themselves. Cowardly, and what it gives you is a life without meaning. Failure is a natural consequence of endeavor, part of the process, and nothing to fear. Or so I'm telling myself.
As Samuel Beckett put it in Worstward Ho: "Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."
How/when acquired: Gift CD, June 2005.
Listen/watch here.
My friend John hands out CDs the way some people hand out business cards. He's an evangelist for the music he loves, and much of my collection in recent years has come from him. This CD, however, was special. He gave it to me at a book signing and said, "If you don't like this, we can't be friends anymore."
Fortunately, I did. In fact, it's one of my favorite CDs of the last decade, in heavy rotation on my iTunes playlist. The Notwist are a German band whose music has evolved from grunge into electronica over the last 20 years; members play with members of Themselves as a group called 13 & God, which I've seen live. They're moody and smart and bizarre, and this CD hit me so hard when I first listened to it — on a drive from Cambridge, MA to Newport, RI — that I had to pull over at one point to listen to one of the tracks again.
The day after Labor Day still feels like the beginning of a new year, 20+ years after I left school. I have a list of resolutions for a new regime of diligence, focus and — especially — risk-taking. I live a safe life in too many ways, a life that seeks to protect me from the consequences of bad decisions by deferring those decisions until they make themselves. Cowardly, and what it gives you is a life without meaning. Failure is a natural consequence of endeavor, part of the process, and nothing to fear. Or so I'm telling myself.
As Samuel Beckett put it in Worstward Ho: "Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."
Monday, September 06, 2010
"Think of me what you will/I've got a little space to fill."
The Song: "You Don't Know How it Feels," Tom Petty. Words and music by Tom Petty. Track 2 of Wildflowers, 1994.
How/when acquired: Purchased CD (used), c. 1997
Listen/watch here.
Tom Petty's an underrated giant of American music, in part because of his uncanny ability to distill complex truths into simple lyrics. "You don't know how it feels to be me," he says, and that's as true as it gets. But where would we be if we didn't even try?
This weekend I crossed paths with one of the handful of people I actively dislike. Dislike is an emotion that surprises and unsettles me. I'm not a particularly benevolent person, but disliking someone takes energy that I don't usually want to spend. It always puzzles me when I realize that my subconscious has made the leap to active dislike, when it would be so much easier just to stop paying attention.
"How would you like it?" my mother used to say when I was mean to my siblings; she taught us empathy by fair means and foul. Weirdly, I've come to the conclusion that it's this very empathy that makes me dislike people, but not in a good way. I do imagine myself in their position, and that's the problem. The people I dislike have this in common: they do things I secretly wish I could get away with. The dislike comes from a sense of outrage that they've given themselves permission to behave in ways I never would (or have, and feel guilty about).
Like every other human emotion, it has nothing to do with the other person. It's all about me. Because Tom Petty is right: I don't know how it feels to be him.
How/when acquired: Purchased CD (used), c. 1997
Listen/watch here.
Tom Petty's an underrated giant of American music, in part because of his uncanny ability to distill complex truths into simple lyrics. "You don't know how it feels to be me," he says, and that's as true as it gets. But where would we be if we didn't even try?
This weekend I crossed paths with one of the handful of people I actively dislike. Dislike is an emotion that surprises and unsettles me. I'm not a particularly benevolent person, but disliking someone takes energy that I don't usually want to spend. It always puzzles me when I realize that my subconscious has made the leap to active dislike, when it would be so much easier just to stop paying attention.
"How would you like it?" my mother used to say when I was mean to my siblings; she taught us empathy by fair means and foul. Weirdly, I've come to the conclusion that it's this very empathy that makes me dislike people, but not in a good way. I do imagine myself in their position, and that's the problem. The people I dislike have this in common: they do things I secretly wish I could get away with. The dislike comes from a sense of outrage that they've given themselves permission to behave in ways I never would (or have, and feel guilty about).
Like every other human emotion, it has nothing to do with the other person. It's all about me. Because Tom Petty is right: I don't know how it feels to be him.
Friday, September 03, 2010
"If being afraid is a crime, we hang side by side/At the swingin' party down the line."
The song: "Swingin' Party," The Replacements. Words and music by Paul Westerberg. Track 6 of Tim, 1985.
How/when acquired: Purchased cassette, 1987
Listen/watch here.
Tim is one of the albums I'd need on a desert island. It's one of a handful of records I've owned in three formats; I had to download it when the CD was stolen from the front seat of my car in 2005. I hope the thief loves it as much as I do, or at least got a couple of bucks for it.
At the risk of sounding like a geezer, I miss the structure of albums. On vinyl and cassette, this track closes the first side. The first six tracks of Tim are a self-contained 18-minute meditation on the traumas of young adulthood, running from self-conscious despair to longing to joyful infatuation, anger, petulance and finally resignation. "Swingin' Party" plays with the double meaning of its title, juxtaposing images of revelers in lampshades and victims of a lynch mob. The end of adolescence may be no more than the revelation that everyone else really is struggling just as hard as we are, and that's the point of "Swingin' Party." I still need that reminder.
Gaslight's production of Born Yesterday opens tonight at Hallowell City Hall. I have a small role as a housekeeper, so if you've ever wanted to see me dressed as a maid, here's your chance. Performances run through September 11; call 207-626-3698 for reservations.
How/when acquired: Purchased cassette, 1987
Listen/watch here.
Tim is one of the albums I'd need on a desert island. It's one of a handful of records I've owned in three formats; I had to download it when the CD was stolen from the front seat of my car in 2005. I hope the thief loves it as much as I do, or at least got a couple of bucks for it.
At the risk of sounding like a geezer, I miss the structure of albums. On vinyl and cassette, this track closes the first side. The first six tracks of Tim are a self-contained 18-minute meditation on the traumas of young adulthood, running from self-conscious despair to longing to joyful infatuation, anger, petulance and finally resignation. "Swingin' Party" plays with the double meaning of its title, juxtaposing images of revelers in lampshades and victims of a lynch mob. The end of adolescence may be no more than the revelation that everyone else really is struggling just as hard as we are, and that's the point of "Swingin' Party." I still need that reminder.
Gaslight's production of Born Yesterday opens tonight at Hallowell City Hall. I have a small role as a housekeeper, so if you've ever wanted to see me dressed as a maid, here's your chance. Performances run through September 11; call 207-626-3698 for reservations.
Thursday, September 02, 2010
"For the sake of momentum, I've allowed my fears to get larger than life."
The song: "Momentum," Aimee Mann. Words and music by Aimee Mann. Track 2 of Magnolia, 1999
How/when acquired: Purchased CD, c. February 2000
Listen/watch here.
I don't own a lot of DVDs, and approximately half of that collection were gifts. Magnolia is one of a handful of films I bought myself. I watch it when I'm feeling stressed, to remind myself I'm not alone (or even, at any given time, especially bad off).
This song, in particular, was a revelation. People who knew and worked with me in Washington in the 1990s are likely to remember me (if at all) as tense, sharp and angry. I remember myself that way, but it was all about fear. I had one of those Washington jobs that's impossible to explain to anyone outside D.C. (association executive), and had managed to convince myself not only of its importance but of its urgency — fueled by nothing but the fear that I would be discovered as an incompetent impostor. Once people discovered my secret I'd be fired, and without my job, who would I be?
Magnolia came out soon after I moved from Washington to Los Angeles, and the movie's soundtrack became my own for most of that first year. I had many reasons to leave Washington and an equal number of reasons to land in Los Angeles, but in retrospect the most important one was just to find out who I was when those fears weren't driving me.
Of course, I traded in the D.C. fears for a whole set of new ones, but that's life in a Darwinian universe. And my big decisions still require a certain critical mass of fear — because the law of momentum says that objects at rest tend to remain at rest.
How/when acquired: Purchased CD, c. February 2000
Listen/watch here.
I don't own a lot of DVDs, and approximately half of that collection were gifts. Magnolia is one of a handful of films I bought myself. I watch it when I'm feeling stressed, to remind myself I'm not alone (or even, at any given time, especially bad off).
This song, in particular, was a revelation. People who knew and worked with me in Washington in the 1990s are likely to remember me (if at all) as tense, sharp and angry. I remember myself that way, but it was all about fear. I had one of those Washington jobs that's impossible to explain to anyone outside D.C. (association executive), and had managed to convince myself not only of its importance but of its urgency — fueled by nothing but the fear that I would be discovered as an incompetent impostor. Once people discovered my secret I'd be fired, and without my job, who would I be?
Magnolia came out soon after I moved from Washington to Los Angeles, and the movie's soundtrack became my own for most of that first year. I had many reasons to leave Washington and an equal number of reasons to land in Los Angeles, but in retrospect the most important one was just to find out who I was when those fears weren't driving me.
Of course, I traded in the D.C. fears for a whole set of new ones, but that's life in a Darwinian universe. And my big decisions still require a certain critical mass of fear — because the law of momentum says that objects at rest tend to remain at rest.
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
"An ordinary miracle is all we really need."
The song: "The Days of Our Lives," The Blue Nile. Words and music by Paul Buchanan. Track 1 of High, 2004
How/when acquired: Purchased CD, September 2004
Listen/watch here.
Happy September 1. The theme of this year's blog is "Songs of Experience." Every post will quote a line from a song in my iTunes collection — sometimes a song I choose, sometimes one that comes up randomly.
Music seemed the obvious next choice for a blog theme, since I've already done movies and books, and it holds an equally important place in my life.
At the moment my iTunes library comprises 7,013 tracks, which some of my friends will find pretty feeble — male friends, in particular, as music collections seem to be a predominantly masculine obsession. Quite a lot of my music collection are gifts from male friends, going back to cassette tapes I've owned since high school and vinyl albums I haven't been able to play in 20 years (but can't seem to give up). Even now, male friends and relations are responsible for most of the new material in my collection, which I appreciate very much. Women who like (and can talk) music are about as common as women who like and can talk sports, and I am happy to do it with my attached male friends who have long since bored their partners silly on the fine distinctions between punk and New Wave, or the relative merits of Johnny Cash and Kris Kristofferson, or the historical significance of the Velvet Underground.
Today's track, however, is one I bought myself. The Blue Nile, a band from Glasgow, is famous for its limited and long-anticipated output. High, its most recent album, came out in August 2004 and was the band's fourth album in more than 20 years. (The first, A Walk Among the Rooftops, came out in 1983.) I bought the CD at the Best Buy in Westwood in September 2004, days after the mishap that kept me in Los Angeles for six weeks longer than I'd originally planned (see the September 2004 blog entries for details). The purchase was an extravagance, as my music purchases almost always are; I needed every penny for the move to Maine, but I needed this album more.
This track starts the album with a lone piano playing a single chord as background to the melody, which is sung by band leader Paul Buchanan. It's a song about the disappointments of midlife whose refrain is "Are these the days/Are these the days/Are these the days/Of our lives?" What saves it from despair is the last line: "An ordinary miracle is all we really need."
My life is full of ordinary miracles that save me every day. Sometimes, that miracle is nothing more than the right song at the right time.
How/when acquired: Purchased CD, September 2004
Listen/watch here.
Happy September 1. The theme of this year's blog is "Songs of Experience." Every post will quote a line from a song in my iTunes collection — sometimes a song I choose, sometimes one that comes up randomly.
Music seemed the obvious next choice for a blog theme, since I've already done movies and books, and it holds an equally important place in my life.
At the moment my iTunes library comprises 7,013 tracks, which some of my friends will find pretty feeble — male friends, in particular, as music collections seem to be a predominantly masculine obsession. Quite a lot of my music collection are gifts from male friends, going back to cassette tapes I've owned since high school and vinyl albums I haven't been able to play in 20 years (but can't seem to give up). Even now, male friends and relations are responsible for most of the new material in my collection, which I appreciate very much. Women who like (and can talk) music are about as common as women who like and can talk sports, and I am happy to do it with my attached male friends who have long since bored their partners silly on the fine distinctions between punk and New Wave, or the relative merits of Johnny Cash and Kris Kristofferson, or the historical significance of the Velvet Underground.
Today's track, however, is one I bought myself. The Blue Nile, a band from Glasgow, is famous for its limited and long-anticipated output. High, its most recent album, came out in August 2004 and was the band's fourth album in more than 20 years. (The first, A Walk Among the Rooftops, came out in 1983.) I bought the CD at the Best Buy in Westwood in September 2004, days after the mishap that kept me in Los Angeles for six weeks longer than I'd originally planned (see the September 2004 blog entries for details). The purchase was an extravagance, as my music purchases almost always are; I needed every penny for the move to Maine, but I needed this album more.
This track starts the album with a lone piano playing a single chord as background to the melody, which is sung by band leader Paul Buchanan. It's a song about the disappointments of midlife whose refrain is "Are these the days/Are these the days/Are these the days/Of our lives?" What saves it from despair is the last line: "An ordinary miracle is all we really need."
My life is full of ordinary miracles that save me every day. Sometimes, that miracle is nothing more than the right song at the right time.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Five Famous Ghosts
Last night I spent several hours at a friend's house, watching and listening for word from The Other Side.
I have to be careful about how I discuss this. My friend does not need ghost-hunters showing up at the front door, and last night's proceedings were subject to some kind of confidentiality agreement whose details I don't know. But I went into the evening with an open mind, and nothing that happened last night makes me any less open to the idea that places might be haunted.
What haunting is, I still don't know, but their existence follows logically from the first law of thermodynamics: energy cannot be created or destroyed, but is merely converted from one form to another. Human beings channel a lot of energy, particularly in times of extreme stress. Theaters are almost always haunted, I think, because the energy expended in performance lingers; the ghosts in theaters aren't those of actors, but those of characters.
The question of whether ghosts have consciousness and agency (the ability to act on their desires) is something I'm still agnostic on, though I'm willing to believe they do. The last house I lived in before I left Washington was haunted by a benign female presence who was curious about modern styles, and particularly about modern beauty products. My makeup case was rifled a few times, and I once came in from the backyard to find my blowdryer plugged in and turned on, though no one was in the house.
Tell me about your own experiences of ghosts in the comments section. Here are five well-known ones:
1. Catherine Howard, Hampton Court, England. The fifth wife of Henry VIII was beautiful, young, and foolish. Charged with infidelities she was probably guilty of, she broke away from her guards and ran screaming toward her husband's chambers, begging for mercy. The guards caught her and dragged her away, still screaming, through what is now called the Haunted Gallery. People have reported seeing her and hearing her. I've been to Hampton Court, and found the Haunted Gallery creepy, but that might have been because I already knew this story.
2. Abraham Lincoln, The White House, Washington, DC. President Harry Truman was convinced that Abraham Lincoln haunts the White House, and no less a witness than Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands reported having seen him. Lincoln himself told his aides, not long before his assassination, that he had had a dream of walking the White House after his own death.
3. Ulysses S. Grant, The Willard Hotel, Washington, DC. The Willard Hotel is my least favorite public place in Washington, and I avoid it if I can. Its atmosphere feels thick with rage and frustration and sorrow; whether those belong to the ghosts or the people who frequent it now, I couldn't say. My guess is that most old hotels have more than one ghost, since people check into hotels at times of grief, anger, illicit passion, and despair. Ulysses S. Grant spent most of his business days as President in the Willard's lobby, where the constant flow of people asking him for things led to the coining of the word "lobbyist." They say you can still smell his cigar smoke.
4. Montgomery Clift, The Roosevelt Hotel, Los Angeles. Montgomery Clift lived in Room 928 of the Roosevelt Hotel during the filming of From Here to Eternity (1953). He died 13 years later, in New York City; maybe the Roosevelt Hotel was the time and place he was happiest. People say he still walks the hallways, reciting his lines, and plays the trumpet late at night. Marilyn Monroe's ghost is supposed to haunt the Roosevelt, too.
5. Al Capone, Alcatraz. Alcatraz's most famous inmate lived for eight years after he got out of prison, but his health failed badly while he was in prison, as syphilis started to eat at his brain. He was afraid he'd be killed if he took recreation in the prison yard, so got permission to practice his banjo in the shower room; people have said they still hear a banjo there sometimes. I've never been to Alcatraz, and am not likely to go when I visit San Francisco in October. If any place is likely to be haunted, it's a prison: all that rage, all that sorrow, all those thwarted desires. No thanks.
I have to be careful about how I discuss this. My friend does not need ghost-hunters showing up at the front door, and last night's proceedings were subject to some kind of confidentiality agreement whose details I don't know. But I went into the evening with an open mind, and nothing that happened last night makes me any less open to the idea that places might be haunted.
What haunting is, I still don't know, but their existence follows logically from the first law of thermodynamics: energy cannot be created or destroyed, but is merely converted from one form to another. Human beings channel a lot of energy, particularly in times of extreme stress. Theaters are almost always haunted, I think, because the energy expended in performance lingers; the ghosts in theaters aren't those of actors, but those of characters.
The question of whether ghosts have consciousness and agency (the ability to act on their desires) is something I'm still agnostic on, though I'm willing to believe they do. The last house I lived in before I left Washington was haunted by a benign female presence who was curious about modern styles, and particularly about modern beauty products. My makeup case was rifled a few times, and I once came in from the backyard to find my blowdryer plugged in and turned on, though no one was in the house.
Tell me about your own experiences of ghosts in the comments section. Here are five well-known ones:
1. Catherine Howard, Hampton Court, England. The fifth wife of Henry VIII was beautiful, young, and foolish. Charged with infidelities she was probably guilty of, she broke away from her guards and ran screaming toward her husband's chambers, begging for mercy. The guards caught her and dragged her away, still screaming, through what is now called the Haunted Gallery. People have reported seeing her and hearing her. I've been to Hampton Court, and found the Haunted Gallery creepy, but that might have been because I already knew this story.
2. Abraham Lincoln, The White House, Washington, DC. President Harry Truman was convinced that Abraham Lincoln haunts the White House, and no less a witness than Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands reported having seen him. Lincoln himself told his aides, not long before his assassination, that he had had a dream of walking the White House after his own death.
3. Ulysses S. Grant, The Willard Hotel, Washington, DC. The Willard Hotel is my least favorite public place in Washington, and I avoid it if I can. Its atmosphere feels thick with rage and frustration and sorrow; whether those belong to the ghosts or the people who frequent it now, I couldn't say. My guess is that most old hotels have more than one ghost, since people check into hotels at times of grief, anger, illicit passion, and despair. Ulysses S. Grant spent most of his business days as President in the Willard's lobby, where the constant flow of people asking him for things led to the coining of the word "lobbyist." They say you can still smell his cigar smoke.
4. Montgomery Clift, The Roosevelt Hotel, Los Angeles. Montgomery Clift lived in Room 928 of the Roosevelt Hotel during the filming of From Here to Eternity (1953). He died 13 years later, in New York City; maybe the Roosevelt Hotel was the time and place he was happiest. People say he still walks the hallways, reciting his lines, and plays the trumpet late at night. Marilyn Monroe's ghost is supposed to haunt the Roosevelt, too.
5. Al Capone, Alcatraz. Alcatraz's most famous inmate lived for eight years after he got out of prison, but his health failed badly while he was in prison, as syphilis started to eat at his brain. He was afraid he'd be killed if he took recreation in the prison yard, so got permission to practice his banjo in the shower room; people have said they still hear a banjo there sometimes. I've never been to Alcatraz, and am not likely to go when I visit San Francisco in October. If any place is likely to be haunted, it's a prison: all that rage, all that sorrow, all those thwarted desires. No thanks.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Five Good Books I've Read or Listened to Lately
Hello again. I've read a lot this month, but it's mostly been manuscripts, or work-related books I didn't like well enough to recommend. I also have more than the usual number of books going at the moment, so am hoping to finish several at once, later this week.
In the meantime, though, these are five worth mentioning.
1. Ann Patchett, Bel Canto. A group of captives in the Vice President's mansion in an unnamed South American country forms its own society with its captors; in the absence of external stimuli, people become who they are. It ends as it must end, but those who survive do so with a more complete understanding of their own nature. This book had come so highly recommended to me (by several friends) that it was almost bound to disappoint. It didn't, exactly, although it was a book I admired more than loved.
2. Stewart O'Nan, Last Night at the Lobster. Karen Olson recommended this book, which I listened to in audio format. It's very short, more a novella than a novel, but it's a gem, about a long, sad day in the lives of some ordinary people — a Red Lobster is closing in suburban Connecticut, and we get almost a minute-by-minute recap of the day. Nothing much happens, yet it feels as if we've learned a lot by the end of the story. Carefully observed, compassionate and kind.
3. Anthony Hyde, The Red Fox. I read this at the recommendation of Joe Finder, who cites it as his favorite Cold War thriller. I understand why; it's a terrifically-paced novel, deeply rooted in the history of the Soviet Union from 1917 to 1980. It's also wildly romantic, as the best spy novels should be. Semi-retired journalist and Russia expert Robert Thorne comes to the aid of his old friend and former lover May Brightman after the disappearance of her father, an importer of furs. Harry Brightman is later found dead, an apparent suicide, but it becomes clear that his death has something to do with May's own adoption as a baby. Thorne follows the trail, which becomes littered with dead bodies, to a secret even he can't quite believe.
4. Don Winslow, Savages. Chon and Ben, who run a profitable and strangely ethical marijuana business in southern California, get a hostile takeover notice from the Baja Cartel. When they refuse, cartel operatives kidnap O, the young woman both men love, and start a war. Don Winslow is one of the best crime writers working today, and experiments here with structure, syntax and point-of-view — it's almost thriller-as-free verse, and in the present tense, no less. In the hands of a lesser writer it might feel like a stunt, but Savages feels like a great carnival ride.
5. Tana French, Faithful Place. Frank Mackey and his first love, Rosie Daly, were going to leave their desperate Dublin neighborhood for a new life in London — but Rosie never showed, and Frank spent the rest of his life believing she'd stood him up, and gone off on her own. Twenty-two years later, Frank, an undercover police detective, gets a frantic call from his sister. Rosie's suitcase has turned up, hidden for decades in an abandoned building. It's only a matter of time before Frank finds out what happened to Rosie, and why, although it means the destruction of everything he thought he knew about his life. French gets everything right here: the delirium of young love, the complicated alliances of siblings, the way the things we believed at 19 shape who we are at 40. Gripping, heartbreaking, beautifully observed. Just brilliant.
In the meantime, though, these are five worth mentioning.
1. Ann Patchett, Bel Canto. A group of captives in the Vice President's mansion in an unnamed South American country forms its own society with its captors; in the absence of external stimuli, people become who they are. It ends as it must end, but those who survive do so with a more complete understanding of their own nature. This book had come so highly recommended to me (by several friends) that it was almost bound to disappoint. It didn't, exactly, although it was a book I admired more than loved.
2. Stewart O'Nan, Last Night at the Lobster. Karen Olson recommended this book, which I listened to in audio format. It's very short, more a novella than a novel, but it's a gem, about a long, sad day in the lives of some ordinary people — a Red Lobster is closing in suburban Connecticut, and we get almost a minute-by-minute recap of the day. Nothing much happens, yet it feels as if we've learned a lot by the end of the story. Carefully observed, compassionate and kind.
3. Anthony Hyde, The Red Fox. I read this at the recommendation of Joe Finder, who cites it as his favorite Cold War thriller. I understand why; it's a terrifically-paced novel, deeply rooted in the history of the Soviet Union from 1917 to 1980. It's also wildly romantic, as the best spy novels should be. Semi-retired journalist and Russia expert Robert Thorne comes to the aid of his old friend and former lover May Brightman after the disappearance of her father, an importer of furs. Harry Brightman is later found dead, an apparent suicide, but it becomes clear that his death has something to do with May's own adoption as a baby. Thorne follows the trail, which becomes littered with dead bodies, to a secret even he can't quite believe.
4. Don Winslow, Savages. Chon and Ben, who run a profitable and strangely ethical marijuana business in southern California, get a hostile takeover notice from the Baja Cartel. When they refuse, cartel operatives kidnap O, the young woman both men love, and start a war. Don Winslow is one of the best crime writers working today, and experiments here with structure, syntax and point-of-view — it's almost thriller-as-free verse, and in the present tense, no less. In the hands of a lesser writer it might feel like a stunt, but Savages feels like a great carnival ride.
5. Tana French, Faithful Place. Frank Mackey and his first love, Rosie Daly, were going to leave their desperate Dublin neighborhood for a new life in London — but Rosie never showed, and Frank spent the rest of his life believing she'd stood him up, and gone off on her own. Twenty-two years later, Frank, an undercover police detective, gets a frantic call from his sister. Rosie's suitcase has turned up, hidden for decades in an abandoned building. It's only a matter of time before Frank finds out what happened to Rosie, and why, although it means the destruction of everything he thought he knew about his life. French gets everything right here: the delirium of young love, the complicated alliances of siblings, the way the things we believed at 19 shape who we are at 40. Gripping, heartbreaking, beautifully observed. Just brilliant.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Five Questions from Last Night's Pub Quiz
Hi there. Did you miss me? I missed you, too — no, really. The blog organizes my day in a way I am not always willing to admit. It is a sort of throat-clearing for the rest of the day, and I suspect I'm more productive when I'm blogging. Between now and the end of the month I'll probably put up a couple more posts, and I'll be back full-time on September 1. Still haven't decided on the new theme, but it will be music-related, since that's something I haven't done yet. I'd say "stay tuned," but that would be an unfortunate pun.
Anyway, last night I served as guest host at The Liberal Cup's weekly Tuesday trivia. It was fun for me, and it seemed to go pretty well — despite the young man who dared, at the first break, to suggest that I speed things up (although that break had come considerably earlier than the break usually does with the regular emcee). None of my regular readers are guilty of this, I feel certain — but men, if you find yourself wanting to coach a woman you don't know, stop yourself and ask whether you'd give similar unsolicited advice to a man. I believe I frightened that young man. At least, I hope so.
If you missed it, here are five of last night's questions. Answers are in the comments section.
1. General Motors is about to return to the ranks of publicly-traded companies, emerging from bankruptcy. The company was founded in 1908 as a holding company for the manufacturer of what make of car, still in production today?
2. What cocktail is made with orange juice, vodka, and Galliano liqueur?
3. According to a recent study of traffic fatalities in New York City, are pedestrians more likely to be hit by male drivers or female drivers?
4. The state of California has reported an epidemic this summer of what childhood illness, which most people think they're immunized against?
5. The official list of hurricane names goes from Alex to Walter, but excludes what two letters from the alphabet in between?
Anyway, last night I served as guest host at The Liberal Cup's weekly Tuesday trivia. It was fun for me, and it seemed to go pretty well — despite the young man who dared, at the first break, to suggest that I speed things up (although that break had come considerably earlier than the break usually does with the regular emcee). None of my regular readers are guilty of this, I feel certain — but men, if you find yourself wanting to coach a woman you don't know, stop yourself and ask whether you'd give similar unsolicited advice to a man. I believe I frightened that young man. At least, I hope so.
If you missed it, here are five of last night's questions. Answers are in the comments section.
1. General Motors is about to return to the ranks of publicly-traded companies, emerging from bankruptcy. The company was founded in 1908 as a holding company for the manufacturer of what make of car, still in production today?
2. What cocktail is made with orange juice, vodka, and Galliano liqueur?
3. According to a recent study of traffic fatalities in New York City, are pedestrians more likely to be hit by male drivers or female drivers?
4. The state of California has reported an epidemic this summer of what childhood illness, which most people think they're immunized against?
5. The official list of hurricane names goes from Alex to Walter, but excludes what two letters from the alphabet in between?
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