Chuck Klosterman (hipster author) raves about this song so here it is. I can't say I'm familiar with it and I want to introduce it but have no anecdote related to it. This is unusual because it will mean your listening to it, if you've never heard it, will become part of the life history of this song, like hearing Let it Be for the first time.
Where's the orchestra?
Wasn't this supposed to be a musical?
Here I am in the balcony
How the hell could I have missed the overture?
I like the scenery
Even though I have absolutely no
Idea at all
What is being said
Despite the dialogue
There's the leading man
The movie star who never faced an audience
Where's the orchestra?
After all
This is my big night on the town
My introduction to the theater crowd
I assumed that the show would have a song
So I was wrong
At least I understand
All the innuendo and the irony
And I appreciate
The roles the actors played
The point the author made
And after the closing lines
And after the curtain calls
The curtain falls
On empty chairs
Where's the orchestra?
Here's another tune Klosterman raves about, the Beatles influenced "Laura". It's hard to be a solo artist and channel a four man band but Billy Joel and Brian Wilson easily are the closest who ever tried.
Laura
Calls me
In the middle of the night
Passes on her
Painful information
Then these careless fingers
They get caught in her vice
Til they're bleeding
On my coffee table
Living alone isn't all that
It's cracked up to be
I'm on her side
Why does she push the poison on me?
Laura
Has a very hard time
All her life has
Been one long disaster
Then she tells me
She suddenly believes she's seen
A very good sign
She'll be taking
Some aggressive action
I fight her wars
While she's slamming her doors
In my face
Failure to break
Was the only mistake
That she made
Here I am
Feeling like a fucking fool
Do I react the way exactly
She intends me to?
Everytime I think I'm off the hook
She makes me lose my cool
I'm her machine
And she can punch all the keys
And she can push any button I was programmed through
Laura
Calls me
When she needs a good fix
All her questions
Will get sympathetic answers
I should
Be so
Immunized
To all of her tricks
She's surviving
On her second chances
Sometimes I feel like this
Godfather deal is all wrong
How can she hold an umbilical chord
For so long?
I've done everything I can
What else am I supposed to do
I'm her machine
And she can punch all the keys
And she can push any button
I was programmed through
Laura
Loves me
Even if I don't care
That's my problem
That's her sacred absolution
If she had to
She would put herself in my chair
Even though I
Faced electrocution
She always says
I'm the best friend that
She's ever had
How do you
Hang up on someone
Who needs you that bad?
I'm indifferent to these songs after listening to and playing Fountain of Sorrow continuously for a week. Jackson makes Billy Joel tunes sound like jello jingles.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Crime and Punishment
This novel by F. Dostoevsky is remarkable because it's philosophical, investigating the psychology behind life and the observations of a man. Chris McCandless carried this book to his death and he asked his friends to read it probably because it best represented his observations. Not that he was a murderer but that he was deconstructing the natural barriers we put up between one another and it became overwhelming. He probably thought that if someone could read it then they could get an idea of how he was thinking. It doesn't capture a "character" like Confederacy of Dunces does and so it's not as enjoyable a reading experience, but I did find myself laughing out loud as things go from bad to worse for Raskolnikov. There's one funny passage, "So we have this creature, a horrid, singularly awful monster, despicable, detestable. One should kill her and use her wealth for good. Is it not justified? Is it not better?"
Actual text: “Listen, I want to ask you a serious question,” the student said hotly. “I was joking of course, but look here; on one side we have a stupid, senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old woman, not simply useless but doing actual mischief, who has not an idea what she is living for herself, and who will die in a day or two in any case. You understand? You understand?”
Am I the only one who thinks that is funny?
And what I love is that he captures the desperation of all involved. The painters in the room and the horses dying in the mud and the slack mouthed sister who is beaten and the rags, everyone is dressed in rags, drinking, cheating, waking up covered in sweat, sick, disgusted. It's amusing because the writing is so casual. There isn't a heroic figure in the thing. It's an existential novel written from the pits of despair.
"It was clear that he must not now suffer passively, worrying himself over unsolved questions, but that he must do something, do it at once, and do it quickly. Anyway he must decide on something, or else…
You see the black and white debate raging inside this man's head? This is a tortured person as the author himself was tortured. I know that being tortured myself is not enough to give me the ability to write a tortured novel, but it's as important as reading about solar power if you want to write about solar power. I don't think I'm tortured because I want to write about tortured people. I do suspect there is an element of torture to living and if one invites that element into his life, even under the auspices of study and edification, then it will grow nevertheless like cancer until it consumes him such as Raskolnikov is consumed by his own pondering. Now then, is this a human characteristic? Is this something worth investigating? I think it is if you can approach it differently than a master. If you can add something to it. If it helps you find peace.
The problem, something Fyodor would've been nice to mention, is this: by the time you have reached a total comprehension of philosophical self-torture then you will be so far out of touch with the practical world that writing a novel is exactly the kind of impossibly practical thing you can't do. Why write? Fuck the world. Fuck the ignorant horse beating mob with the crack whores and shuffling hobos and CEOs with their granite countertops all cleaned and polished by pregnant Mexican maids. FUCK ALL YE! They don't deserve this work of genius that I'll never finish. And so, the madness is replicated inside the writer's mind until he is, to himself, a knight of honor, stripped naked in his sweltering apartment (or abandoned bus), drinking vodka and beating off to cobwebbed memories, raging against the injustice of this squirrel being killed or that turtle being crushed or that mountain that can never be climbed or that mine that leaches acid or that oil well that pollutes the world! Fuck it all. This torture is mine! You can't have it! The wisdom I learned in the fire of philosophy is for me alone and I'll not draw a map or a fancy picture for you cheap, light beer philistines to enjoy or benefit from.
Sigh.
And this is what separates Fyodor from the rest of us. He definitely plunged into the madness of the world, embraced it and examined it from the pinhole of his rheumy eyes and STILL refused to submit to his demons. He fought them, for what? He had good reason to withhold his writings from the world but he still wrote. Why? He found a reason. He had to write. That must be it. He had no choice. The little resistor in his microchip brain chemically impelled him to write instead of wallowing in his own torture or protecting his bounty like a greedy pirate. But this is where those writing magazines do not help a man alone on his rooftop. You can't talk down a jumper from the faux-philosophical confines of an academy. You think Dostoevsky enjoyed writing? You think he was like John Updike and pranced around in white tennis sweaters to Harvard and Yale giving guest lectures on the writer's craft? I love Updike but Fyodor is unparalleled in his craft. Why? Because his torture went to a place people do not return from. But still he sent back postcards, stamped in Hell.
I think it all goes back to the classic mountaineering adage, "Reaching the top is only half the climb."
It's strange, I thought it had been weeks since my last rant and it's only been two days. I mistakenly read several dozen random blogs (there are 118 million blogs now) and the snapshot of the lives and thoughts of others who have never heard of the Man in the Van made me see the futility of everything. I was repulsed by the keyboard and only with the help of a fictional murderer and a tortured author have I found my muse again. What does that tell you?
The two homeless heroes jump out of the VW van and divide Oggy and Isabelle.
Actual text: “Listen, I want to ask you a serious question,” the student said hotly. “I was joking of course, but look here; on one side we have a stupid, senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old woman, not simply useless but doing actual mischief, who has not an idea what she is living for herself, and who will die in a day or two in any case. You understand? You understand?”
Am I the only one who thinks that is funny?
And what I love is that he captures the desperation of all involved. The painters in the room and the horses dying in the mud and the slack mouthed sister who is beaten and the rags, everyone is dressed in rags, drinking, cheating, waking up covered in sweat, sick, disgusted. It's amusing because the writing is so casual. There isn't a heroic figure in the thing. It's an existential novel written from the pits of despair.
"It was clear that he must not now suffer passively, worrying himself over unsolved questions, but that he must do something, do it at once, and do it quickly. Anyway he must decide on something, or else…
“Or throw up life altogether!” he cried suddenly, in a frenzy—“accept one's lot humbly as it is, once for all and stifle everything in oneself, giving up all claim to activity, life and love!”
You see the black and white debate raging inside this man's head? This is a tortured person as the author himself was tortured. I know that being tortured myself is not enough to give me the ability to write a tortured novel, but it's as important as reading about solar power if you want to write about solar power. I don't think I'm tortured because I want to write about tortured people. I do suspect there is an element of torture to living and if one invites that element into his life, even under the auspices of study and edification, then it will grow nevertheless like cancer until it consumes him such as Raskolnikov is consumed by his own pondering. Now then, is this a human characteristic? Is this something worth investigating? I think it is if you can approach it differently than a master. If you can add something to it. If it helps you find peace.
The problem, something Fyodor would've been nice to mention, is this: by the time you have reached a total comprehension of philosophical self-torture then you will be so far out of touch with the practical world that writing a novel is exactly the kind of impossibly practical thing you can't do. Why write? Fuck the world. Fuck the ignorant horse beating mob with the crack whores and shuffling hobos and CEOs with their granite countertops all cleaned and polished by pregnant Mexican maids. FUCK ALL YE! They don't deserve this work of genius that I'll never finish. And so, the madness is replicated inside the writer's mind until he is, to himself, a knight of honor, stripped naked in his sweltering apartment (or abandoned bus), drinking vodka and beating off to cobwebbed memories, raging against the injustice of this squirrel being killed or that turtle being crushed or that mountain that can never be climbed or that mine that leaches acid or that oil well that pollutes the world! Fuck it all. This torture is mine! You can't have it! The wisdom I learned in the fire of philosophy is for me alone and I'll not draw a map or a fancy picture for you cheap, light beer philistines to enjoy or benefit from.
Sigh.
And this is what separates Fyodor from the rest of us. He definitely plunged into the madness of the world, embraced it and examined it from the pinhole of his rheumy eyes and STILL refused to submit to his demons. He fought them, for what? He had good reason to withhold his writings from the world but he still wrote. Why? He found a reason. He had to write. That must be it. He had no choice. The little resistor in his microchip brain chemically impelled him to write instead of wallowing in his own torture or protecting his bounty like a greedy pirate. But this is where those writing magazines do not help a man alone on his rooftop. You can't talk down a jumper from the faux-philosophical confines of an academy. You think Dostoevsky enjoyed writing? You think he was like John Updike and pranced around in white tennis sweaters to Harvard and Yale giving guest lectures on the writer's craft? I love Updike but Fyodor is unparalleled in his craft. Why? Because his torture went to a place people do not return from. But still he sent back postcards, stamped in Hell.
I think it all goes back to the classic mountaineering adage, "Reaching the top is only half the climb."
It's strange, I thought it had been weeks since my last rant and it's only been two days. I mistakenly read several dozen random blogs (there are 118 million blogs now) and the snapshot of the lives and thoughts of others who have never heard of the Man in the Van made me see the futility of everything. I was repulsed by the keyboard and only with the help of a fictional murderer and a tortured author have I found my muse again. What does that tell you?
The two homeless heroes jump out of the VW van and divide Oggy and Isabelle.
“Stop it! Both of you!” Yells Kim in her most assertive, take-no-shit tone. She is practical when it comes to physical attacks and has learned to channel the dominant parent to get adult children to respond. In this case, Isabelle’s will to inflict as much injury on those around her enables her to ignore Kim’s command. Isabelle kicks Oggy with the might of a place kicker in the NFL.
“I will not fight back!” Yells Oggy. “You are only hurting yourself.”
“Am I? Does this hurt me?” she stomps on Oggy’s bad foot, the one that is deformed and crippled. Oggy yelps in pain as Isabelle nods triumphantly.
Kim times her attack to a moment when Isabelle is distracted by Oggy’s howls. Kim knows that Isabelle is beyond diplomacy. Only physical means will resolve the battle. She takes one slow step toward Isabelle to make sure she has a clear route of attack and then she moves cat-like and low, taking Isabelle out at the knees with a shoulder tackle. Robert determines that Oggy is not the provocateur of the conflict so he assists Kim in subduing Isabelle. This takes both of their full efforts as Isabelle swings wildly and Mary suddenly awakes from her daydream and notices two people are wrestling her daughter.
“Get off my baby!” she screams and douses Robert’s face with the remaining pepper spray in a can she carries for encounters with unpredictable limp dick speed hustlers under the railroad trestle. Lefty quietly takes this opportunity to slip away into the bushes and vanishes from the scene, grumbling and discontent with his lot in life. He plunges into the bushes, twisting his ankle on discarded aluminum cans, and staggers in the direction of the social services office.Saturday, June 26, 2010
Overheard Quotes
"I have one position that is twelve hours of moving boxes of frozen fish sticks." heard at temp agency shortly before I walked out.
"I'll send you the financials tonight..." heard at my internship
"I hit a miracle throw and then you follow it up with two. That's what hurts." Spoken during a game of cornhole.
"I haven't seen you in 20 years." said repeatedly over games of cornhole.
"I'll send you the financials tonight..." heard at my internship
"I hit a miracle throw and then you follow it up with two. That's what hurts." Spoken during a game of cornhole.
"I haven't seen you in 20 years." said repeatedly over games of cornhole.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Unverified Number Trivia
$600: Cost of a gallon of gas in Afghanistan.
4: The MPG of a Humvee.
1500: Number of miles the average forkful of food in the U.S. traveled.
6: Percentage of the food demands of New Hampshire that can be produced by New Hampshire agriculture. Six fucking percent? Are we trying to get to zero? Was there some resolution I missed that made it a goal to become completely reliant on microwavable dinners packaged in Indiana and milk trucked from California? Can't we pretend we reached it and start trying to learn to survive again?
0: My level of desire to write.
4: The MPG of a Humvee.
1500: Number of miles the average forkful of food in the U.S. traveled.
6: Percentage of the food demands of New Hampshire that can be produced by New Hampshire agriculture. Six fucking percent? Are we trying to get to zero? Was there some resolution I missed that made it a goal to become completely reliant on microwavable dinners packaged in Indiana and milk trucked from California? Can't we pretend we reached it and start trying to learn to survive again?
0: My level of desire to write.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Nuclear Matters
If you have a few years to spare I recommend reading about nuclear weapons.
I'm amused that this information is available to anyone with access to the Internet. Just reading it makes me think not only should man never have meddled in this power, but you certainly can't post it on websites. I mean, you have to attest to being over 18 to view blow job pictures but the general facts of nuclear physics as it pertains to weapons is as common and accessible as a recipe for pasta salad!
Our turn on the merry go round is short and bizarre with violent monkeys hanging from the metal bars and whores and drunks falling or jumping to their deaths in moments of depression or clarity. Our money falls from our pockets to children and scavengers below and the cotton candy baked onto the paper cone wafts in pink plumes and fantasy to our noses, which are filled with cocaine. And to what end is the carnival ride? We can climb around and avoid the carnie's greasy hands but we'll fall off eventually and the ride moves on...or implodes upon itself and coats the world with the ash of the dead.
I'm amused that this information is available to anyone with access to the Internet. Just reading it makes me think not only should man never have meddled in this power, but you certainly can't post it on websites. I mean, you have to attest to being over 18 to view blow job pictures but the general facts of nuclear physics as it pertains to weapons is as common and accessible as a recipe for pasta salad!
Nuclear weapons depend upon the potential energy that can be released from the nuclei of atoms. In the atoms of the very heavy elements that serve as fissile material in nuclear weapons, the positively-charged protons and electrically-neutral neutrons (collectively known as nucleons) together form the enormously dense nucleus of the atom that is located at the center of a group of shells of orbiting, negatively-charged electrons.
...residual nuclear radiation will be emitted over an extended period of time, which may be harmful to humans if the detonation is close to the ground, or may damage electronic components in satellites if the detonation is exo-atmospheric...
I just did a tour of a diverse group of blogs that left me agitated and overwhelmed. Even if the present forces lead us to disaster the survivors will soon forget and forge ahead into their own story of joy and grief. Dostoevsky was arrested and tortured and almost executed and came back depressed and gambled and drank. Then he wrote like a madman and his books, which are his life and soul, are looked at like paintings, admired and then we readers go the the track for a whiskey sour.Our turn on the merry go round is short and bizarre with violent monkeys hanging from the metal bars and whores and drunks falling or jumping to their deaths in moments of depression or clarity. Our money falls from our pockets to children and scavengers below and the cotton candy baked onto the paper cone wafts in pink plumes and fantasy to our noses, which are filled with cocaine. And to what end is the carnival ride? We can climb around and avoid the carnie's greasy hands but we'll fall off eventually and the ride moves on...or implodes upon itself and coats the world with the ash of the dead.
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