I've been a good consumer. Today, I forced myself to finish a book I've spent two weeks working my way through, and I've seen two movies in the last few days that have been meaning to see for years.
The book was Graham Greene's The Power and the Glory. I started this within a few days of finishing Our Man in Havana, but found it considerably denser than that book. The plot - which concerns a Mexican state where a revolution has made one its goals the forcible liquidation or assimilation (by forcing them to marry and cease practicing) of all priests - is fairly tangled, and the atmosphere is often grim. The plot moves in bursts - lengthy scenes of dialogue between characters (many of whom only reappear, if at all, much later on in the story) are interspersed with sudden passages of time, ranging from several days to several weeks. It's a far cry from Our Man in Havana, a book Greene wrote some 15 years later. That book has a light, rapid pace. The Power and the Glory is heavy on philosphy and religion; specifically, how a man can atone for his sins before the clock runs out on him. Or at least, that's what I think it's about - it's a book I could probably stand to re-read now that I know where the plot is going, paying more attention to the characters and the exchanges between them now. That's probably why it took me over a week to get through this*, while I read Our Man in Havana in 2 days. The Power and the Glory is full of wonderful passages like this one, which occurs when the protagonist - a priest on the run - has one of several encounters with his chief pursuer. Asked by his pursuer if the he still believes in miracles, the priest responds:
"Or, it's funny, isn't it? It isn't a case of miracles not happening -- it's just a case of people calling them something else. Can't you see the doctors round the dead man? He isn't breathing any more, his pulse has stopped, his heart's not beating: he's dead. Then somebody gives him back his life, and they all - what's the expression? - reserve their opinion. They won't say it's a miracle, because that's a word they don't like. Then it happens again and again perhaps - because God's about on earth - and they say: there aren't miracles, it is simply that we have enlarged our conception of what life is. Now we know you can be alive without pulse, breath, heart-beats. And they invent a new word to describe that state of life, and they say science has disproved a miracle."
Interestingly, one thing that helped me understand this book was that the previous owner had underlined several key passages and made notes on a few pages - clearly a better student than I ever was.
As for film:
I finally saw Velvet Goldmine. I was a giant - giant - David Bowie fan in the mid-1990s. At the peak of my fan-dom, I saw him perform live 6 times between 1995 and 1997. I bought every CD, book, or magazine that featured Bowie. My college dorm was plastered with close to ten(!) Bowie posters during my senior year. Velvet Goldmine came out in 1998, and was an open semi-fictionalization of Bowie's rise to fame in the early 1970s, complete with analogues for Iggy Pop, Tony DeFries, and other figures from the period. Why I didn't see this movie the day it opened, I have no idea. I do remember that the filmmakers voice their unhappiness during the making of the film when Bowie refused them permission to use his songs in the film, and perhaps that's what kept me away. If so, it was a dumb reason. The movie soundtrack, as it stands, is loaded with material from the first Roxy Music record - mostly re-recorded in versions that hew close to the originals - and from Brian Eno's first two solo records, Here Come the Warm Jets and Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy). They've also got a few T. Rex songs and Lou Reed's "Satellite of Love" - which was produced and arranged by Bowie - as well as a few Stooges tracks. Finally, there are also a few original compositions, like "The Ballad of Maxwell Demon", that are fairly impressive Bowie songwriting impersonations c. 1972. My point being: I like the soundtrack. Being Bowie-less didn't hurt it.
As it turns out, the bigger reason to stay away is the sheer lack of focus in the film, which makes for a highly unsatisfactory ending. Christian Bale sleepwalks his way through the film as a reporter working in the mid-80s who is trying to learn what happened to Brian Slade (the Bowie facsimile) after he staged a phony assassination and retired in the mid-70s. Meanwhile, Bale's character is trying to resolve his own past - out of touch parents, finding his peers, the trauma of learning to apply glitter - at the same time. The film also spends some time on Slade's relationship with an Angie Bowie facsimile (played by Toni Collette) and an Iggy Pop/Kurt Cobain character (played by Ewan MacGregor). Oh yeah, and Oscar Wilde. Sound confusing? It is. For starters, it's not clear who the main character is - I'd say it's Bale's, but he does so little emoting it's hard to notice when he's on screen. In fact, the only time I could really pay attention was when Collette or MacGregor were on screen; both give broad, emotive performances, particularly MacGregor, who improves everything he appears in (well, OK, not everything).
I should have known what I was for by the opening sequence, in which aliens leave an infant Oscar Wilde, via their spacecraft, on the doorstep of a British couple in 1854. (Yes, really). It was that kind of movie. But I did enjoy the concert sequences, as well as some of the meticulous attempts to mimic actual historical events - like MacGregor's character body-surfing a la Iggy, Brian Slade "going down"on his guitarist like Bowie did with Mick Ronson, and the early television appearances of Slade's band, looking uncannily like early Bowie promotional videos.
I wonder if fictionalizing rock-n-roll, while borrowing liberally from actual people and events, and trying to simultaneously infuse a deeper story (unlike the light That Thing You Do) is even a task that can be accomplished well. Velvet Goldmine reminded me uncannily of Grace of My Heart, another semi-fictionalized rock-n-roll movie, with similar (if not as extensive) storytelling problems.
The second film I saw this week was Gabriel Over the White House. This was easily an odder film than Velvet Goldmine, yet the core was much more compelling and the ideas - particularly as a historical piece - far more interesting to consider. Loosely, the plot concerns a recently-elected Depression-era US President, Judd Hammond, who at first glance appears to be solely a tool of his party, elected to conduct business as usual. But after a high-speed car accident, he returns from the brink of death transformed into a crusader for the public, and when he encounters resistence in DC, his solution is to wield his power ruthlessly, firing his cabinet, suspending Congress and installing himself as dictator, and using military tribunals to try and execute gangsters. He uses military force to coerce European and Asian nations into repaying their leftover debts from WWI and signing a major disarmament treaty. He organizes unemployed, disgruntled labor into a paramilitary "construction army".
Ready for the punchline? He's the hero! That's why this movie is a fascinating historical piece - because at no other time in US history, outside of the early years of the Depression, could a US President essentially embracing fascism be portrayed by a major film studio as anything other than a tyrant and villain. Gabriel Over the White House was made by William Randolph Hearst in 1932, and depending on which analysis you believe, it's either a reflection of Hearst's proto-fascist leanings (remember, Hitler hadn't achieved significant power yet in 1932 and Mussolini didn't seem so bad on his own) or his idealistic wish for a person like Franklin Roosevelt to succeed Herbert Hoover (as he would, several months later) and cut away the regulation and tradition that prevented the federal government from taking more significant action during the early years of the Depression. Either way, the film couldn't have been made at any other time and treated Hammond so heroically (it is strongly suggested that he undertakes his actions as a result of divine intervention - hence the title, although Gabriel himself never appears).
Of course, it suffers a lot of the weaknesses of old Hollywood films - stilted dialogue, tiny sets, unbelievable setups (I didn't realize gangsters could carry out drive-by shootings into the foyer of the White House) - and the characterization could be a lot better. But I was able to follow along for all 86 minutes a lot more enjoyably than the two hours of Velvet Goldmine.
On the same topic, I started a book today: It Can't Happen Here, Sinclair Lewis' 1936 novel about a fictional US Senator who establishes a dictatorship in the US. This time, he's the villain.
* Ultimately, I resorted to taking my copy of the book to a local Starbucks and forcing myself to read the last hundred or so pages in a single sitting, free of the distractions of home.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Monday, April 25, 2005
Turning 406 today...
Today is Oliver Cromwell's birthday. Cromwell led Parliament's armies to victory over Royalist forces during the English Civil War (1642-1649), and subsequently wound-up ruling Britain for the next nine years - at first implicitly, and later explicitly under the title of Lord Protector - until his death (from, most likely, natural causes) in 1658. He also led reconquest campaigns in Scotland and Ireland (occasionally brutal), both of which had moved towards independence before and during the conflict, and played a significant role in the trial and execution of Charles I - all of which have made him a controversial subject, one of endless historical debate. Was Oliver Cromwell a revolutionary bent on destroying everything that made Britain great? Or was the English Civil War - and by extension its most central figure - a major turning point in the history of constitutional republicanism?I spent much of my college career studying Cromwell, and he remains the historical figure with which I am still most fascinated. Even now, as I write this, I have a framed print on my wall entitled "Cromwell Refusing the Crown of England", which idealizes the moment when Cromwell refused to assume the position of monarch and start a new royal dynasty of Cromwells. (I say "idealizes" because although Cromwell's supporters have argued that he shunned the crown in order to show his devotion to republican ideals, and furthermore as proof that he wasn't interested in personal power, thing weren't so simple, and in fact Cromwell did seriously consider assuming the crown).
He fascinates me for a number of reasons, probably none moreso than his sheer obscurity before the civil war erupted. Cromwell was in his forties before he rose to any sort of prominence, in a time when the life expectancy was 48! He had no prior military experience, and only limited political experience. Yet he emerged as the savior of Parliament's armies on the battlefield, and managed a political balancing act of monumental proportions between 1649 and 1658 as he held both the army and successive Parliaments in place - and away from each other's throats. While his repeated experiments with republican government were undoubtedly failures, they remain Britain's only efforts at a written constitution, 350 years later. And there is no question that James II was thinking of his father's fate when he threw in the towel thirty years later and allowed Parliament to exercise their ultimate supremacy during the Glorious Revolution, seen by many as the (successful) coda to the English Civil War.
That Oliver Cromwell made mistakes, or did things we would find difficult to accept today, is unquestionable. But I have always felt that he was ultimately the right man for a difficult time, as well as a modest and relatively uncorruptible figure who assumed power more for lack of choice than anything else. History is littered with plenty of examples of nations who could have well used a Cromwell-like figure during their time of distress, but were left instead with Napoleons, Lenins, and Francos.
Ironic epilogue: Perhaps by coincidence, the copy of the Stiff Little Fingers' Inflammable Material that I ordered a few weeks ago showed up this morning. I had never heard any of their material before, but had seen them described as "the Irish Clash", so I had a pretty good idea of what to expect. I was quickly hooked by tracks like "Suspect Device" and "Law and Order", and spent most of the day playing the entire CD over and over while I worked. It could have hardly been more incongrous to spend the day thinking of a man who (among many other things) crushed Ireland's nascent independence movement while listening to a record chiefly concerned with the effects of Britain's continued possesssion of (a portion of) Ireland a few centuries later.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Prehistoric times
This weekend, while traveling via rail to see family, I once again thought of something I've often wondered in the last few years: How did people ever socialize successfully before cell phones? I - and most people I know - completely depend on mobile phones these days. This weekend, my wife and I used our phones to coordinate being picked-up at our destination at the right time. We used them to get in touch with a number friends who we weren't sure would be in the same area we'd be in at the same time. Friday afternoon, I used my phone to quickly 3-way conference co-workers to make sure an issue was settled before the weekend. And all things considered, we (my wife and I) are probably light on our phone usage compared to many of our peers.
Look around any city street, or the waiting room of any train or bus station, and probably half the people you'll see will be dialing, talking, or receiving calls on their mobile phones. In New York City, it's unusual for your cabbie not to be talking on his hands-free when you get in the cab. And on any Friday or Saturday night, American cities are teeming with people furiously playing games of walkie-talkie with their friends, trying to determine which movie to see, what bar to meet at, and at whose apartment to rendezvous beforehand. How did we all manage to meet up and socialize in the days before mobile phones became ubiquitous? I'm too young to really remember, unless high school is my guide, in which case the answer is that everyone in those days before mobile phones just knew to meet up and hang out at Bickfords until the night shift kicked us out.
According to the US Census Bureau, there were 5 million mobile phone subscribers in the US in 1990, and 110 million in 2000. When we look back, the revolution in wireless phones will appear to have had as much, if not more impact on how we live and work than the Internet. (And that's coming from a guy who works on the Internet for a living).
If my Dad were writing this, now would be when he'd chime in to tell us that he remembers having to speak with operators on the other end of the line in order to make a call, and that sometimes the operators had no idea how to get your call through. It was just like those old movies with dozens of uniformed women frantically running the switchboards, but apparently not as efficient. On the other hand, I can't remember for the life of me when I last spoke with an operator, for any reason.
Look around any city street, or the waiting room of any train or bus station, and probably half the people you'll see will be dialing, talking, or receiving calls on their mobile phones. In New York City, it's unusual for your cabbie not to be talking on his hands-free when you get in the cab. And on any Friday or Saturday night, American cities are teeming with people furiously playing games of walkie-talkie with their friends, trying to determine which movie to see, what bar to meet at, and at whose apartment to rendezvous beforehand. How did we all manage to meet up and socialize in the days before mobile phones became ubiquitous? I'm too young to really remember, unless high school is my guide, in which case the answer is that everyone in those days before mobile phones just knew to meet up and hang out at Bickfords until the night shift kicked us out.
According to the US Census Bureau, there were 5 million mobile phone subscribers in the US in 1990, and 110 million in 2000. When we look back, the revolution in wireless phones will appear to have had as much, if not more impact on how we live and work than the Internet. (And that's coming from a guy who works on the Internet for a living).
If my Dad were writing this, now would be when he'd chime in to tell us that he remembers having to speak with operators on the other end of the line in order to make a call, and that sometimes the operators had no idea how to get your call through. It was just like those old movies with dozens of uniformed women frantically running the switchboards, but apparently not as efficient. On the other hand, I can't remember for the life of me when I last spoke with an operator, for any reason.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
The Downfall
I saw Oliver Hirschbiegel's The Downfall (Der Untergang) today, a movie based on Nazi Germany's final days. Specifically, the movie chronicles the period between Hitler's 56th birthday on April 20th*, 1945, and his suicide ten days later, mostly through the eyes of Traudl Junge, his wartime secretary (played by the heart-poundingly beautiful Alexandra Maria Lara). As Soviet troops encircle and demolish Berlin, you see stories of local resistance, panic, and betrayal play out in the city, while an isolated group of top-level Nazis (Hitler, Goebbels, Speer, etc.) and their adjutants and families ensconced in an underground bunker spend a lot of time contemplating their fate (and regularly absolving themselves of responsibility for what is happening outside).
I generally avoid movies that run longer than two hours, because I can't sit still in a theater that long without an intermission, and my attention span is short. Plus, if a particular film turns out to be lousy, I'd rather think I only spent less than two hours watching it. The Downfall clocks in at two and a half hours, but it didn't feel long or lousy at all. I was entranced almost the entire time, from beginning to end. Bruno Ganz, who portrays Hitler, has received much critical commendation, and it doesn't take long to see why. I've seen my share of historical dramatizations, and I'd say that without a doubt Ganz pulls off the single greatest on-screen impersonation of a historical figure that I have ever seen. Unlike, say, George C. Scott playing General Patton, there are no artistic liberties being taken here - at least none that I can tell - in how Hitler behaves, both publicly and privately. In fact, if the film had any major weakness, it was that it suffered when Ganz wasn't on-screen thanks to the singularity of his performance. The other aspect I had trouble with was the obvious exposition at the beginning of the film, but for a historical drama, it's a necessary evil.
One thing I didn't realize until the end of the film is that almost all of the minor characters in the film (with only one or two exceptions) are historical figures, too. I also didn't realize how many of these people were still living until the last few years or so (and, in at least one case, is still alive).
Seeing the movie reminded me of Paul Berman's Terror and Liberalism, which I read last year. Berman's chief focus is Islamic fundamentalism, but he draws numerous parallels with facism, even going so far as to suggest that much of the ideology behind Hitler, Mussolini, and Franco, survives intact in the Middle East today, having never been extinguished as it was in Europe. Bermans puts forward a number of thought-provoking (if occasionally half-formed) theories about why entire populations will follow leaders or ideologies mindlessly ("mass psychosis"), and how it can begin to look normal to the people around them. This is true not only of one's neighbors in the local sense, but even geopolitically, and Berman makes a good case for why (for example) France didn't react with more alarm to Hitler's rise, rhetoric, and actions during the 1930s. He invokes this example to help explain why otherwise intelligent, open-minded people today can find ways to rationalize (even while not condoning, or justifying) various forms of terrorism.
Unfortunately, The Downfall is only playing in a handful of theaters nationwide. I live in New York City, and only the Film Forum (the most fervently "professional" of the many, many art house theaters in the city) is screening it, and not for long. So it's doubtful many people will see it, at least in the USA. But if you have any interest in history at all, I recommend it. Berman's book is good reading, too.
I just found two official sites for the film: http://www.downfallthefilm.com/ and http://www.the-downfall.com/
* Yes, today is also April 20th, but this is a coincidence. When you only work a few days a week, you tend to lose track of the date, and I didn't even realize today was April 20th until several hours after seeing the film. I probably would have stayed away if I had realized the significance of the date, although this being NYC, the neo-Nazi population is pretty thin...
I generally avoid movies that run longer than two hours, because I can't sit still in a theater that long without an intermission, and my attention span is short. Plus, if a particular film turns out to be lousy, I'd rather think I only spent less than two hours watching it. The Downfall clocks in at two and a half hours, but it didn't feel long or lousy at all. I was entranced almost the entire time, from beginning to end. Bruno Ganz, who portrays Hitler, has received much critical commendation, and it doesn't take long to see why. I've seen my share of historical dramatizations, and I'd say that without a doubt Ganz pulls off the single greatest on-screen impersonation of a historical figure that I have ever seen. Unlike, say, George C. Scott playing General Patton, there are no artistic liberties being taken here - at least none that I can tell - in how Hitler behaves, both publicly and privately. In fact, if the film had any major weakness, it was that it suffered when Ganz wasn't on-screen thanks to the singularity of his performance. The other aspect I had trouble with was the obvious exposition at the beginning of the film, but for a historical drama, it's a necessary evil.
One thing I didn't realize until the end of the film is that almost all of the minor characters in the film (with only one or two exceptions) are historical figures, too. I also didn't realize how many of these people were still living until the last few years or so (and, in at least one case, is still alive).
Seeing the movie reminded me of Paul Berman's Terror and Liberalism, which I read last year. Berman's chief focus is Islamic fundamentalism, but he draws numerous parallels with facism, even going so far as to suggest that much of the ideology behind Hitler, Mussolini, and Franco, survives intact in the Middle East today, having never been extinguished as it was in Europe. Bermans puts forward a number of thought-provoking (if occasionally half-formed) theories about why entire populations will follow leaders or ideologies mindlessly ("mass psychosis"), and how it can begin to look normal to the people around them. This is true not only of one's neighbors in the local sense, but even geopolitically, and Berman makes a good case for why (for example) France didn't react with more alarm to Hitler's rise, rhetoric, and actions during the 1930s. He invokes this example to help explain why otherwise intelligent, open-minded people today can find ways to rationalize (even while not condoning, or justifying) various forms of terrorism.
Unfortunately, The Downfall is only playing in a handful of theaters nationwide. I live in New York City, and only the Film Forum (the most fervently "professional" of the many, many art house theaters in the city) is screening it, and not for long. So it's doubtful many people will see it, at least in the USA. But if you have any interest in history at all, I recommend it. Berman's book is good reading, too.
I just found two official sites for the film: http://www.downfallthefilm.com/ and http://www.the-downfall.com/
* Yes, today is also April 20th, but this is a coincidence. When you only work a few days a week, you tend to lose track of the date, and I didn't even realize today was April 20th until several hours after seeing the film. I probably would have stayed away if I had realized the significance of the date, although this being NYC, the neo-Nazi population is pretty thin...
Monday, April 18, 2005
I'm under doctor's orders, I'm afraid to over(h)eat
Note to self: Don't try running in the middle of the day when it's 74° outside. You're not that good yet.
Today was a working day. I listened to all of Dylan's Biograph while I worked - shuffled, but in its entirety. Biograph was the first boxed set of the "rock/pop" era, and I remember it receiving a good deal of media attention when it was released, back in 1985. Of course, I was eleven, so my perspective may not be perfect. But Dylan is an icon and all that - so it would probably have gotten attention no matter what.
Anyhow, fast-forward 19 years or so, when I finally get interested in Dylan. Why did it take me so long? Good question. After all, my record collection has its fair share of 60s icons - Kinks, Beatles, Move, Zombies, Beach Boys, etc., as well as countless more recent acts who cite Dylan as a direct inspiration - so you'd think I would have gotten into Dylan long before. I've owned copies of Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde On Blonde for at least a few years. But I didn't really get into him until my wife bought Love & Theft a few years ago, on reputation alone, and then left it, unopened, next to our stereo for several months. Out of curiousity, I cracked it open one day, and found myself hooked - transfixed, even, by some of the things I heard.
She's looking into my eyes, she's holding my hand
She's looking into my eyes, she's holding my hand
She says, "You can't repeat the past." I say, "You can't?
What do you mean, you can't? Of course you can."
This led me to a prolonged Dylan kick - and fortunately, Dylan's the kind of artist who can withstand a prolonged kick. I was particularly sucked in by Blonde On Blonde, where one fantastic track follows another. I can't recommend it enough.
But back to Biograph: One of the things that makes Biograph so interesting today (and, despite the fact that Dylan has continued steadily recording and releasing records since 1985, including stuff like Time Out Of Mind and Love & Theft that rank among his best, Biograph is still considered the definitive Dylan box) is how unorthodox it is for an anthology. The standard boxed set - not only in rock/pop, but now even in jazz and another genres - is to take a chronological approach to the artist being anthologized, and aim for a certain formula of hits, albums tracks, and rarities to make it appealing both to casual fans of the artist as well as diehards who will have everything except the rarities before buying the box. Ultimately, the compilers want to leave both diehards and casual fans feeling like they have made a good purchase. There is also almost always an intentional skewing of the material towards the artist's earlier, inevitably more prolific period, with a few later tracks thrown in just to prove that the artist is still alive and recording (or, if the artist is dead or the band defunct, to prove that they still occasionally entered a recording studio even after their 15 minutes were up).
The best intentions (and we're talking about record companies here) only occasionally result in a solid box. Off the top of my head, the 1993 Beach Boys box comes pretty close to being as good as a boxed set can be, although casual fan and diehard alike probably can't stomach most of disc 4. The 1995 Velvet Underground box, on the other hand, was clearly aimed at committed fans; if you could sit through 15 aborted takes of "Wrap Your Troubles in Dream", John Cale should have to send you a Christmas card every year. The 1997 Doors box started strong, but then ended with a bizarre final disc of "band favorites" - which looked an awful lot like an effort to the pad the size (and cost) of the box with a pointless disc of widely-available studio cuts.
Biograph, predating this formula, takes a different approach. First, the box isn't chronological at all. It starts with 1969's "Lay Lady Lay" and then tacks wildly between some of Dylan's earliest material and some of his (then) most recent. Second, it isn't afraid of include his later material, and that's despite the fact that Dylan's late 70s/early 80s material was nowhere near as lauded or appreciated (even today) as his more famous 60s and mid-70s material. In fact, there is a sizable legion of Dylan fans who don't think anything he did post-crash (1966) was worthwhile, but Biograph ignores them, too.
For an artist with as long and as varied a career as Dylan, this approach really works well. I just hope they don't wait too long to work the last twenty years of Dylan's career into a future release of Biograph. And before someone pops-up to belittle everything Dylan's done since Desire or Another Side or whatever, I have only this to say: it's a Dirty World.
Today was a working day. I listened to all of Dylan's Biograph while I worked - shuffled, but in its entirety. Biograph was the first boxed set of the "rock/pop" era, and I remember it receiving a good deal of media attention when it was released, back in 1985. Of course, I was eleven, so my perspective may not be perfect. But Dylan is an icon and all that - so it would probably have gotten attention no matter what.
Anyhow, fast-forward 19 years or so, when I finally get interested in Dylan. Why did it take me so long? Good question. After all, my record collection has its fair share of 60s icons - Kinks, Beatles, Move, Zombies, Beach Boys, etc., as well as countless more recent acts who cite Dylan as a direct inspiration - so you'd think I would have gotten into Dylan long before. I've owned copies of Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde On Blonde for at least a few years. But I didn't really get into him until my wife bought Love & Theft a few years ago, on reputation alone, and then left it, unopened, next to our stereo for several months. Out of curiousity, I cracked it open one day, and found myself hooked - transfixed, even, by some of the things I heard.
She's looking into my eyes, she's holding my hand
She's looking into my eyes, she's holding my hand
She says, "You can't repeat the past." I say, "You can't?
What do you mean, you can't? Of course you can."
This led me to a prolonged Dylan kick - and fortunately, Dylan's the kind of artist who can withstand a prolonged kick. I was particularly sucked in by Blonde On Blonde, where one fantastic track follows another. I can't recommend it enough.
But back to Biograph: One of the things that makes Biograph so interesting today (and, despite the fact that Dylan has continued steadily recording and releasing records since 1985, including stuff like Time Out Of Mind and Love & Theft that rank among his best, Biograph is still considered the definitive Dylan box) is how unorthodox it is for an anthology. The standard boxed set - not only in rock/pop, but now even in jazz and another genres - is to take a chronological approach to the artist being anthologized, and aim for a certain formula of hits, albums tracks, and rarities to make it appealing both to casual fans of the artist as well as diehards who will have everything except the rarities before buying the box. Ultimately, the compilers want to leave both diehards and casual fans feeling like they have made a good purchase. There is also almost always an intentional skewing of the material towards the artist's earlier, inevitably more prolific period, with a few later tracks thrown in just to prove that the artist is still alive and recording (or, if the artist is dead or the band defunct, to prove that they still occasionally entered a recording studio even after their 15 minutes were up).
The best intentions (and we're talking about record companies here) only occasionally result in a solid box. Off the top of my head, the 1993 Beach Boys box comes pretty close to being as good as a boxed set can be, although casual fan and diehard alike probably can't stomach most of disc 4. The 1995 Velvet Underground box, on the other hand, was clearly aimed at committed fans; if you could sit through 15 aborted takes of "Wrap Your Troubles in Dream", John Cale should have to send you a Christmas card every year. The 1997 Doors box started strong, but then ended with a bizarre final disc of "band favorites" - which looked an awful lot like an effort to the pad the size (and cost) of the box with a pointless disc of widely-available studio cuts.
Biograph, predating this formula, takes a different approach. First, the box isn't chronological at all. It starts with 1969's "Lay Lady Lay" and then tacks wildly between some of Dylan's earliest material and some of his (then) most recent. Second, it isn't afraid of include his later material, and that's despite the fact that Dylan's late 70s/early 80s material was nowhere near as lauded or appreciated (even today) as his more famous 60s and mid-70s material. In fact, there is a sizable legion of Dylan fans who don't think anything he did post-crash (1966) was worthwhile, but Biograph ignores them, too.
For an artist with as long and as varied a career as Dylan, this approach really works well. I just hope they don't wait too long to work the last twenty years of Dylan's career into a future release of Biograph. And before someone pops-up to belittle everything Dylan's done since Desire or Another Side or whatever, I have only this to say: it's a Dirty World.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Exercise
Thursday afternoon, I took up running. Well, OK, I have made an attempt to take up running. It's too early to tell if it will stick. And, to be more forthright with my terminology, "jogging" is more descriptive. Anyhow, I managed to run 2 miles on Thursday afternoon, and felt pretty good about myself at the end. Definitely winded, with my chest feeling strained and my legs wobbly, but that was the point. I bought my Dell DJ along, clutching the 7 ounce metal box feverishly in my right hand for fear of letting it tumble to the ground accidentally, and blasting the Buzzcocks Operators Manual into my ears - an appropriately galvanic selection of songs to keep me going at a propulsive pace.
Reality's a dream
A game in which I seem
To never find out just what I am
I don't know if
I'm an actor or ham
A shaman or sham
But if you don't mind
I don't mind...
I want to back up for a second and talk about why I am running: Because my wife won a free iPod Shuffle at work. No, really. That's the reason. She already has an iPod Mini which she got for Christmas, and I have the aforementioned Dell DJ - which I bought for its superior battery power and cost when compared with an iPod - but I cannot deny the portability benefits, let alone the sheer gee-whiz factor embodied by the iPod Shuffle. It's slightly smaller than a regular USB mini-drive, yet it holds some 500 minutes of music (175 songs, in my case) and has a headphone jack built-in. It gets its entire charge from the USB port of my PC. It's ideal for physical activity because it is so small and light. It weighs less than a disposable lighter. And before you accuse me of shilling for Apple, I still think a DJ is a better buy than a traditional iPod. But I don't see any real competitors for Apple on the Shuffle front - and of course, mine was free, making it unusually attractive.
Like a lot of people, I can tolerate many more things when I have a diversion like a book or a magazine. When it comes to running, I'm already hauling around my own frame, so having such a small load to add for portative music removed my last excuse for not running.
Ironically, the Shuffle was a dud. After painstakingly picking out 500 MB of music to load, I couldn't get my computer to recognize it. I called Apple and found them surprisingly helpful; after 15 minutes on the phone they set me up to receive a replacement (which arrived the next morning). But by then, I had already psyched myself up for running, and I knew I couldn't back out to wait for a working Shuffle. Which is why you find me, in the first paragraph, grasping my DJ on my maiden run.
Back to the story: I'd been thinking of taking up running for years, because (A) it's a lot cheaper than joining a gym, (B) I can do it without walking to a gym, and (C) I don't have to see people at the gym. Are you detecting a theme in my thinking? I did belong to a gym and attend regularly, back when I lived in Beacon Hill, Boston, c. 1999, but my regular attendance was greatly aided by a roommate who went with me. It also helped that he nicknamed me "fatty", and that we had a third roommate who was locally famous for his determined inactivity - most notably weekend-long stints on our couch, dressed in his boxers and a t-shirt, and only broken around 8 PM on Saturday night so he could begin a night of carousing and consequently justify a second day on the couch - and if I didn't want to be grouped with him, gym attendance was mandatory. In the end, I went to the gym regularly for about six months before a job change made it impossible to get there regularly (I was suddenly waking up in the wrong state four days a week - and I don't mean I was hungover, I mean I was literally in Iowa). But I didn't really miss it. Gym equipment feels so industrial and unnatural (and, in a way, unsanitary) that I hated interacting with it. Plus, the scenery never changes - another thing running solves. While it was gratifying to see my arms and chest build-up (relative to my usual pasty self) I didn't think my overall health or energy was improved, Stairmaster or not, at a gym.
So, I ran on Thursday afternoon. By the time I tried to repeat the feat, roughly 15 hours later on Friday morning, the tendons running up and down the sides of my knees felt like knitting needles being pushed into my quads every time I bent my knees. I couldn't even walk down stairs or get up from a chair without wincing. I figured I could work this out by running, but no such luck. I made it about 3 blocks and quit.
My parents came to town that afternoon, in their first trip to New York in a year, and as it turned out, I got a decent workout walking all over Manhattan and Brooklyn with them over the next 48 hours. It probably helped to stretch out my legs, and the knitting needles seemed to have worked themselves substantially out by Saturday afternoon.
So, today, a few hours after my parents headed out, I made another attempt at repeating Thursday's efforts... this time, successfully. It felt good, and the weather (sunny, 70s) couldn't have been more cooperative. Despite getting my new iPod Shuffle working, I didn't bother to bring it with me, but instead enjoyed hearing bits of conversation as I ran past people standing or walking on the sidewalks I traveled, my favorite being two guys covered in plaster dust who (from the brief snippet of conversation I overheard) seemed to be heading to a bar to catch the tail end of happy hour because "she pours so much wine into the glasses". Next time, I'll see if I can figure out which bar they're talking about.
Reality's a dream
A game in which I seem
To never find out just what I am
I don't know if
I'm an actor or ham
A shaman or sham
But if you don't mind
I don't mind...
I want to back up for a second and talk about why I am running: Because my wife won a free iPod Shuffle at work. No, really. That's the reason. She already has an iPod Mini which she got for Christmas, and I have the aforementioned Dell DJ - which I bought for its superior battery power and cost when compared with an iPod - but I cannot deny the portability benefits, let alone the sheer gee-whiz factor embodied by the iPod Shuffle. It's slightly smaller than a regular USB mini-drive, yet it holds some 500 minutes of music (175 songs, in my case) and has a headphone jack built-in. It gets its entire charge from the USB port of my PC. It's ideal for physical activity because it is so small and light. It weighs less than a disposable lighter. And before you accuse me of shilling for Apple, I still think a DJ is a better buy than a traditional iPod. But I don't see any real competitors for Apple on the Shuffle front - and of course, mine was free, making it unusually attractive.
Like a lot of people, I can tolerate many more things when I have a diversion like a book or a magazine. When it comes to running, I'm already hauling around my own frame, so having such a small load to add for portative music removed my last excuse for not running.
Ironically, the Shuffle was a dud. After painstakingly picking out 500 MB of music to load, I couldn't get my computer to recognize it. I called Apple and found them surprisingly helpful; after 15 minutes on the phone they set me up to receive a replacement (which arrived the next morning). But by then, I had already psyched myself up for running, and I knew I couldn't back out to wait for a working Shuffle. Which is why you find me, in the first paragraph, grasping my DJ on my maiden run.
Back to the story: I'd been thinking of taking up running for years, because (A) it's a lot cheaper than joining a gym, (B) I can do it without walking to a gym, and (C) I don't have to see people at the gym. Are you detecting a theme in my thinking? I did belong to a gym and attend regularly, back when I lived in Beacon Hill, Boston, c. 1999, but my regular attendance was greatly aided by a roommate who went with me. It also helped that he nicknamed me "fatty", and that we had a third roommate who was locally famous for his determined inactivity - most notably weekend-long stints on our couch, dressed in his boxers and a t-shirt, and only broken around 8 PM on Saturday night so he could begin a night of carousing and consequently justify a second day on the couch - and if I didn't want to be grouped with him, gym attendance was mandatory. In the end, I went to the gym regularly for about six months before a job change made it impossible to get there regularly (I was suddenly waking up in the wrong state four days a week - and I don't mean I was hungover, I mean I was literally in Iowa). But I didn't really miss it. Gym equipment feels so industrial and unnatural (and, in a way, unsanitary) that I hated interacting with it. Plus, the scenery never changes - another thing running solves. While it was gratifying to see my arms and chest build-up (relative to my usual pasty self) I didn't think my overall health or energy was improved, Stairmaster or not, at a gym.
So, I ran on Thursday afternoon. By the time I tried to repeat the feat, roughly 15 hours later on Friday morning, the tendons running up and down the sides of my knees felt like knitting needles being pushed into my quads every time I bent my knees. I couldn't even walk down stairs or get up from a chair without wincing. I figured I could work this out by running, but no such luck. I made it about 3 blocks and quit.
My parents came to town that afternoon, in their first trip to New York in a year, and as it turned out, I got a decent workout walking all over Manhattan and Brooklyn with them over the next 48 hours. It probably helped to stretch out my legs, and the knitting needles seemed to have worked themselves substantially out by Saturday afternoon.
So, today, a few hours after my parents headed out, I made another attempt at repeating Thursday's efforts... this time, successfully. It felt good, and the weather (sunny, 70s) couldn't have been more cooperative. Despite getting my new iPod Shuffle working, I didn't bother to bring it with me, but instead enjoyed hearing bits of conversation as I ran past people standing or walking on the sidewalks I traveled, my favorite being two guys covered in plaster dust who (from the brief snippet of conversation I overheard) seemed to be heading to a bar to catch the tail end of happy hour because "she pours so much wine into the glasses". Next time, I'll see if I can figure out which bar they're talking about.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Telecommuting & fiction
This week I have remembered how boring telecommuting is, even when it's only 2 days a week. I had forgotten, which is inexplicable, as I was interviewed for an article on the subject two years ago where I talked about how glad I was to not be telecommuting anymore. Seriously - check out the article here.
Today being Wednesday, I didn't have to work today, so I spent the day running errands in my neighborhood and in Manhattan. As I have in the past, during brief periods where I wasn't working, I marvelled again at the difference between the world when everyone is working (M-F, 9-5) and the world at other times (evenings and weekends). There is a completely different vibe (for lack of a superior term) to the world during the workweek: people are fewer and friendlier; traffic is more relaxed; small talk is more enjoyable. It helps that the weather is improving. There are no leaves on the trees yet, but the sun is out, and I can get through most days with a light jacket and a fleece.
Today is my father's birthday, and I'm seeing him in two days, so I spent some time picking out a few gifts. I also went to Barnes & Noble in Union Square and the The Strand on Broadway looking for an inexpensive copy of Sinclair Lewis' It Can't Happen Here, a book I've wanted to read for the last few years (since learning that it was, if you can believe it, the inspiration for V), but it's only recently come back into print. I found an inexpensive copy, but unfortunately the typeface was awful - tiny and indistinct - so I passed. Do I sound like an old man? It was pretty bad, and I don't want my glasses getting any thicker. Instead, I ordered a used copy from Half.com that claims to be a 1970 printing. Perhaps the print won't be any better, but for $5 I couldn't really lose.
I don't think I've set foot in The Strand on Broadway since shortly after moving to New York in 1999. The last time I was there, it was the middle of summer, and they had steel, industrial-strength fans set up around the floor to try to cool the place down. It didn't work. Today was much better. I wound-up buying a book on New York City landmarks, which I'll use as a guide for walking tours (with my wife or friends in tow) at various future dates. I love seeking out the city's architectural, political, and cultural history - which is often more difficult to find than you might expect.
Speaking of books, I've finished 3 in the last 4 days. All are fiction, making them - combined - more fiction than I've read in the past year, if not the past two years. First was Graham Greene's Our Man In Havana. This was a friend's recommendation, as I've never read a Greene book. I sailed through it enjoyably. Judging from the plot summaries of other Greene novels included in the back of Our Man, this is a fairly archetypical plot for Greene, with intrigue set against a vaguely late- or post-colonial background. As someone who generally can't read enough history (which explains why being on a fiction kick is so unusual for me), this makes digesting it even easier. As soon as I finished it, I headed over to a used bookstore and bought the first two Greene novels I found on their shelves, which I hope to read soon. One is The Quiet American, which I saw in its film version a few years ago - highly recommended.
Second up was George Orwell's Animal Farm, a book I was somehow never assigned in high school like everyone else I know. I picked this up for $1 when I was buying those two Greene books, and briefly panicked that my edition (as frayed and yellowed as you would expect for $1) was missing the last few pages, but on closer comparison with an online version, it wasn't. As for the contents: The book is quite short, and I was able to read it in a matter of hours. Thanks to the history background - as well as constant references to this book in popular culture - I didn't need to spend too much time thinking the book through to understand it. Moreover, I have read Orwell's 1984 several years ago, and compared with this book, 1984 is profound. Animal Farm just bashes you over the head with its meaning repeatedly. But even in this post-Soviet world, the commentary hasn't become dated and the satire is still sharp. In essence: "Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss." I'm glad I finally read it.
Third, and just completed today, was Tom Perrotta's Joe College. I thoroughly enjoyed this - moreso because it's set amongst undergraduate life at Yale. The setting is the early 80s - I did my time at Yale in the mid 1990s - but the characters and scenery don't differ at all from what I knew when I was there. Descriptions of campus fixtures like singing groups, secret societies, and even Wawa are beautiful executed. It's sort of a coming-of-age tale. Half of the story takes place at Yale and the rest takes place when Danny (the protagonist) is home in New Jersey during the summer preceding his junior year and his subsequent breaks during that academic year. The book builds steadily and evenly, with a few moments of laugh-out-loud humor thrown in. If I had any criticism of the book, it's that too many serious issues appear to resolve themselves too easily. In fairness to Perrotta, that's my criticism of many works of fiction. I always want a tidy ending for the characters I've come to care about, but then I inevitably get annoyed by the sheer implausability of a tidy ending (like Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby - or This Side of Paradise). Life rarely, if ever, has tidy endings, even for things that work out exactly the way you want them to.
Today being Wednesday, I didn't have to work today, so I spent the day running errands in my neighborhood and in Manhattan. As I have in the past, during brief periods where I wasn't working, I marvelled again at the difference between the world when everyone is working (M-F, 9-5) and the world at other times (evenings and weekends). There is a completely different vibe (for lack of a superior term) to the world during the workweek: people are fewer and friendlier; traffic is more relaxed; small talk is more enjoyable. It helps that the weather is improving. There are no leaves on the trees yet, but the sun is out, and I can get through most days with a light jacket and a fleece.
Today is my father's birthday, and I'm seeing him in two days, so I spent some time picking out a few gifts. I also went to Barnes & Noble in Union Square and the The Strand on Broadway looking for an inexpensive copy of Sinclair Lewis' It Can't Happen Here, a book I've wanted to read for the last few years (since learning that it was, if you can believe it, the inspiration for V), but it's only recently come back into print. I found an inexpensive copy, but unfortunately the typeface was awful - tiny and indistinct - so I passed. Do I sound like an old man? It was pretty bad, and I don't want my glasses getting any thicker. Instead, I ordered a used copy from Half.com that claims to be a 1970 printing. Perhaps the print won't be any better, but for $5 I couldn't really lose.
I don't think I've set foot in The Strand on Broadway since shortly after moving to New York in 1999. The last time I was there, it was the middle of summer, and they had steel, industrial-strength fans set up around the floor to try to cool the place down. It didn't work. Today was much better. I wound-up buying a book on New York City landmarks, which I'll use as a guide for walking tours (with my wife or friends in tow) at various future dates. I love seeking out the city's architectural, political, and cultural history - which is often more difficult to find than you might expect.
Speaking of books, I've finished 3 in the last 4 days. All are fiction, making them - combined - more fiction than I've read in the past year, if not the past two years. First was Graham Greene's Our Man In Havana. This was a friend's recommendation, as I've never read a Greene book. I sailed through it enjoyably. Judging from the plot summaries of other Greene novels included in the back of Our Man, this is a fairly archetypical plot for Greene, with intrigue set against a vaguely late- or post-colonial background. As someone who generally can't read enough history (which explains why being on a fiction kick is so unusual for me), this makes digesting it even easier. As soon as I finished it, I headed over to a used bookstore and bought the first two Greene novels I found on their shelves, which I hope to read soon. One is The Quiet American, which I saw in its film version a few years ago - highly recommended.
Second up was George Orwell's Animal Farm, a book I was somehow never assigned in high school like everyone else I know. I picked this up for $1 when I was buying those two Greene books, and briefly panicked that my edition (as frayed and yellowed as you would expect for $1) was missing the last few pages, but on closer comparison with an online version, it wasn't. As for the contents: The book is quite short, and I was able to read it in a matter of hours. Thanks to the history background - as well as constant references to this book in popular culture - I didn't need to spend too much time thinking the book through to understand it. Moreover, I have read Orwell's 1984 several years ago, and compared with this book, 1984 is profound. Animal Farm just bashes you over the head with its meaning repeatedly. But even in this post-Soviet world, the commentary hasn't become dated and the satire is still sharp. In essence: "Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss." I'm glad I finally read it.
Third, and just completed today, was Tom Perrotta's Joe College. I thoroughly enjoyed this - moreso because it's set amongst undergraduate life at Yale. The setting is the early 80s - I did my time at Yale in the mid 1990s - but the characters and scenery don't differ at all from what I knew when I was there. Descriptions of campus fixtures like singing groups, secret societies, and even Wawa are beautiful executed. It's sort of a coming-of-age tale. Half of the story takes place at Yale and the rest takes place when Danny (the protagonist) is home in New Jersey during the summer preceding his junior year and his subsequent breaks during that academic year. The book builds steadily and evenly, with a few moments of laugh-out-loud humor thrown in. If I had any criticism of the book, it's that too many serious issues appear to resolve themselves too easily. In fairness to Perrotta, that's my criticism of many works of fiction. I always want a tidy ending for the characters I've come to care about, but then I inevitably get annoyed by the sheer implausability of a tidy ending (like Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby - or This Side of Paradise). Life rarely, if ever, has tidy endings, even for things that work out exactly the way you want them to.
Monday, April 11, 2005
The Mighty Battlecat
I'd like to take a minute to recommend an album a friend has recently recorded and released. Now, stop what you're thinking: This isn't a plug for some poorly written, badly recorded pseudo-garagerock angst-ridden adolescent-emulating effort by my closest friend. Not at all. For starters, while most of the band went to college with me, they've been recording consistently for a decade, and this is the first time I've paid attention to, let alone paid for, one of their efforts. While I have been friendly with half the members of the band since 1992 or so, we're not exactly BFF. Secondly, and much more importantly, this is a genuinely well-written, well-recorded, compelling effort. I've probably bought close to two dozen cassettes and CDs recorded by friends and friends of friends over the years, but this is undeniably the first one I've bought that stands on its own.
The band is Thunderegg and the album is A Very Fine Sample of What's Available at the Mine. You can buy it for $10 from Thunderegg.org. Or you can just visit the site and download some of the songs the band has demoed or recorded over the last few years; I particularly like "Hall Pass", the song of the week from March 14th. But the best cuts I've found are on A Very Fine Sample. Oddly, I even find myself paying attention to the lyrics - something I almost never do these days, no matter how good or bad the lyrics are. Only rarely since a friend played me "Holidays in the Sun" in the fall of 1992 while I was taking a much-needed break from a lousy first semester of college, and my whole concept of what made music great changed instantly, has a lyric stood out as strongly as this one does, from "The Mighty Battlecat":
So let's fast forward to when I'm thirty-four and I've rented a car to visit you and yours. I almost get lost on the ride across, but for once I take a right turn at the fork. I'll know you wound up with someone strong because your driveway is so long and I'll know that I won't dress like him and I'll hope that you won't rub it in. But injury would be insulted twice if you said the same thing that you said tonight, that you have warmest memories of times forgotten long and gone. Why couldn't I have been there to remind you all along?
No matter how many times I read this, it has the same effect on me, in that it perfectly captures a mood anyone who has ever loved and lost knows well: time goes on without you, and that time has already passed without you. The narrator is projecting into the future and thinking of a time when he'll be happy that the object of his affection has found her own happiness, but full of regret that it wasn't with him. The listener doesn't even know whether or not the narrator has lost the object of his affection yet, but you understand his sense of foreboding and unhappy focus. It's a perfect, bittersweet projection. It's "nostalgia for an age yet to come" (the Buzzcocks).
This is the same verse that inspired my post yesterday, but re-reading that entry today I sound like I am hopelessly lovestruck. Not so - I am happily married. (Well, I guess I am hopelessly lovestruck in that sense). But the mark of a great writer is the ability to accurately remind the reader of emotions he knows from his own experience. Thunderegg has succeeded beautifully here.
The band is Thunderegg and the album is A Very Fine Sample of What's Available at the Mine. You can buy it for $10 from Thunderegg.org. Or you can just visit the site and download some of the songs the band has demoed or recorded over the last few years; I particularly like "Hall Pass", the song of the week from March 14th. But the best cuts I've found are on A Very Fine Sample. Oddly, I even find myself paying attention to the lyrics - something I almost never do these days, no matter how good or bad the lyrics are. Only rarely since a friend played me "Holidays in the Sun" in the fall of 1992 while I was taking a much-needed break from a lousy first semester of college, and my whole concept of what made music great changed instantly, has a lyric stood out as strongly as this one does, from "The Mighty Battlecat":So let's fast forward to when I'm thirty-four and I've rented a car to visit you and yours. I almost get lost on the ride across, but for once I take a right turn at the fork. I'll know you wound up with someone strong because your driveway is so long and I'll know that I won't dress like him and I'll hope that you won't rub it in. But injury would be insulted twice if you said the same thing that you said tonight, that you have warmest memories of times forgotten long and gone. Why couldn't I have been there to remind you all along?
No matter how many times I read this, it has the same effect on me, in that it perfectly captures a mood anyone who has ever loved and lost knows well: time goes on without you, and that time has already passed without you. The narrator is projecting into the future and thinking of a time when he'll be happy that the object of his affection has found her own happiness, but full of regret that it wasn't with him. The listener doesn't even know whether or not the narrator has lost the object of his affection yet, but you understand his sense of foreboding and unhappy focus. It's a perfect, bittersweet projection. It's "nostalgia for an age yet to come" (the Buzzcocks).
This is the same verse that inspired my post yesterday, but re-reading that entry today I sound like I am hopelessly lovestruck. Not so - I am happily married. (Well, I guess I am hopelessly lovestruck in that sense). But the mark of a great writer is the ability to accurately remind the reader of emotions he knows from his own experience. Thunderegg has succeeded beautifully here.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Not being talked about
Of all the emotions you can hold inside, none is more difficult - in the way it eats at you and demands your full attention - than wondering whether the person you're thinking about is thinking about you. If I'm unusually angry, sad, or happy, there are many way for me to express those feelings. There are hundreds of books written on how to manage or channel those kinds of emotions. But when your thoughts are trapped speculating on someone else's thoughts - someone out of reach, mind you (otherwise we're merely looking at an unhealthy form of attachment) - what can you do? How helpless are you? Each cycle of "Is s/he thinking of me?" only leads to another, and the more you think about it, the worse it becomes, as the disproportionality of your focus compared to the focus you presume the object of your desire doesn't return becomes obvious to you. Unlike so many other emotions (with the sole exception, perhaps, of chronic depression) it feeds on itself.
You already know you can't spend your life wondering what someone else thinks of you - you hear that over and over as you grow up - but that doesn't mean you can't spend your life wondering if someone else is thinking about you at all, does it? Isn't that, ultimately, the difference between being attracted (in a physical, or surface-level sense) from being enthralled, or even in love, with another person? Or, to put it another way, "Does s/he even know I exist?"
I'm reminded of a line from The Picture of Dorian Gray: "There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about."
Anyhow, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, this is what I am thinking about.
You already know you can't spend your life wondering what someone else thinks of you - you hear that over and over as you grow up - but that doesn't mean you can't spend your life wondering if someone else is thinking about you at all, does it? Isn't that, ultimately, the difference between being attracted (in a physical, or surface-level sense) from being enthralled, or even in love, with another person? Or, to put it another way, "Does s/he even know I exist?"
I'm reminded of a line from The Picture of Dorian Gray: "There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about."
Anyhow, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, this is what I am thinking about.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
In poor taste
I received a DVD in the mail yesterday. While I participated enthusiastically in the 2004 campaign cycle, I'm beginning to regret some of the donations I made because I think my name has been sold to some real.. let's say "unusual" groups, and I don't use the term lightly.
The DVD is called "Confronting the Evidence: A Call to Reopen the 9-11 Investigation".
Normally, I would have ignored this disc and tossed it into my recycling bin. But the cover image bothers me so much, and it has for so long - not just in its appearance here but in the many ways I've seen it reproduced in the last three years. It's United Airlines Flight 175, a split second before it crashes in the south tower of the WTC. It's full of passengers, crew members, and a handful of terrorists. When this photo was taken, all (or at least most) of those people were alive.
In the days, months, and years since September 11th, we've all seen footage of the attacks played out endless in news clips and documentaries. The images of the two towers billowing dark smoke instantly puts the same gnawing pit in my stomach that I've always gotten watching black and white footage of the empty shell of the USS Arizona leaning to one side and burning violently. You know you are watching something that has changed everything, and you are at a loss of words to explain exactly how. You just know things wouldn't ever be the same.
But these before-the-disaster photos and film footage have always struck me as even more tragic and difficult than those taken directly afterwards. While one can tastefully use footage of the twin towers burning to aid a broadcast or make a point, it is really impossible to do the same with footage capturing the moment before disaster strikes. To use a less drastic example, it's like the difference between pictures of President Kennedy and his wife deplaning at Love Field the morning of the President's death, against pictures of Mrs. Kennedy, in her blood-stained outfit, standing next to Lyndon Johnson hours later as he is sworn in. The latter picture evokes a flood of emotions: Sorrow for the death of President Kennedy; pity for a widow and mother with little fatherless children; and even pride in a nation continuing to function in such a dark hour. An even more difficult clip to swallow is watching the President's brother, Robert, rally his supporters hours after winning the California primary in 1968. He is understandably cheerful, with his smiling wife behind him. Minutes later, he'll be destroyed in what still seems, decades later, like a pointless, random act of violence.
These images and footage are so difficult - so much more so than actually seeing the twin towers finally collapse - because they capture a moment of impending doom, and effectively taunt the viewer with his own helplessness. I can't stop Flight 175 from hitting the south tower. When I see it, poised to strike and captured forever on film, I can only think of the lives of the people trapped on that plane, still breathing as the photo is snapped but gone forever by the time the camera is ready for another picture.
OK, now I'll throw this DVD away. If you produced it, please take me off your mailing list.
The DVD is called "Confronting the Evidence: A Call to Reopen the 9-11 Investigation".
Normally, I would have ignored this disc and tossed it into my recycling bin. But the cover image bothers me so much, and it has for so long - not just in its appearance here but in the many ways I've seen it reproduced in the last three years. It's United Airlines Flight 175, a split second before it crashes in the south tower of the WTC. It's full of passengers, crew members, and a handful of terrorists. When this photo was taken, all (or at least most) of those people were alive.
In the days, months, and years since September 11th, we've all seen footage of the attacks played out endless in news clips and documentaries. The images of the two towers billowing dark smoke instantly puts the same gnawing pit in my stomach that I've always gotten watching black and white footage of the empty shell of the USS Arizona leaning to one side and burning violently. You know you are watching something that has changed everything, and you are at a loss of words to explain exactly how. You just know things wouldn't ever be the same.
But these before-the-disaster photos and film footage have always struck me as even more tragic and difficult than those taken directly afterwards. While one can tastefully use footage of the twin towers burning to aid a broadcast or make a point, it is really impossible to do the same with footage capturing the moment before disaster strikes. To use a less drastic example, it's like the difference between pictures of President Kennedy and his wife deplaning at Love Field the morning of the President's death, against pictures of Mrs. Kennedy, in her blood-stained outfit, standing next to Lyndon Johnson hours later as he is sworn in. The latter picture evokes a flood of emotions: Sorrow for the death of President Kennedy; pity for a widow and mother with little fatherless children; and even pride in a nation continuing to function in such a dark hour. An even more difficult clip to swallow is watching the President's brother, Robert, rally his supporters hours after winning the California primary in 1968. He is understandably cheerful, with his smiling wife behind him. Minutes later, he'll be destroyed in what still seems, decades later, like a pointless, random act of violence.
These images and footage are so difficult - so much more so than actually seeing the twin towers finally collapse - because they capture a moment of impending doom, and effectively taunt the viewer with his own helplessness. I can't stop Flight 175 from hitting the south tower. When I see it, poised to strike and captured forever on film, I can only think of the lives of the people trapped on that plane, still breathing as the photo is snapped but gone forever by the time the camera is ready for another picture.
OK, now I'll throw this DVD away. If you produced it, please take me off your mailing list.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
I am unemployed.
Yes, I am unemployed now. Officially, as of March 31st, and with half of my severance already safely deposited to prove it. Of course, being a former employee of a large multinational, I've been hired back instantly as a consultant and am working two days a week. This will probably last for 1-2 months.
I started on Monday. So, I really only spent a single day (Friday) not working.
To coincide with my newly liberated schedule, I've gotten sick. Just a cold or something, but still annoying - fever, headache, sinus, etc. I probably caught it this weekend in Montreal (where it rained constantly). Today, while taking a much-needed nap, I was called for the third time in 2 months by a pollster asking 25 minutes of questions about the upcoming New York City mayoral campaign, and how I feel about one Democratic candidate versus another. Too groggy to answer "no" when they asked for me by (first) name, I tried to make the call go as quickly as possible, feeling slightly guilty about not properly considering the questions on the positions of each candidate on a myriad of issues, but also fully realizing that there is almost no chance I won't vote for Mike Bloomberg again in the fall.
By far, the hardest part of the call to answer was the question about my employment status. After 15 seconds of consideration, I said "part time". It sounded funny coming out of my mouth.
I've been on an avant garde music kick lately, becoming slightly addicted to records I bought due to their experimental rep but couldn't really stomach at the time. Interestingly, they all sound better to me now. This includes the first two Os Mutantes records - particularly the first - and the Brian Eno/David Byrne collaboration My Life in the Bush Of Ghosts, an album that has always run hot and cold to my ears. In a way, my three day-old addiction to these records reminds me of the way, perhaps 3 years ago, I was overwhelmed by the taste for a glass of red wine for the first time in my life, or the similar feeling I had ten years ago for a strong cup of coffee. Could "Panis et Circenses" just be something I had to grow into?
I also listened to Serge Gainsbourg's Histoire de Melody Nelson half a dozen times today (not so hard, as it's less than 30 minutes long). It's a record I've always loved, so it doesn't really belong grouped with the ones I just mentioned. Unless you consider that it is entirely in French, a language I don't understand, just as the Mutantes are in Portuguese, and the Eno/Byrne record consists entirely of vocal samples from in many languages. Since when did I value lyrics so little I didn't even care if could sing along in a language I know?
I started on Monday. So, I really only spent a single day (Friday) not working.
To coincide with my newly liberated schedule, I've gotten sick. Just a cold or something, but still annoying - fever, headache, sinus, etc. I probably caught it this weekend in Montreal (where it rained constantly). Today, while taking a much-needed nap, I was called for the third time in 2 months by a pollster asking 25 minutes of questions about the upcoming New York City mayoral campaign, and how I feel about one Democratic candidate versus another. Too groggy to answer "no" when they asked for me by (first) name, I tried to make the call go as quickly as possible, feeling slightly guilty about not properly considering the questions on the positions of each candidate on a myriad of issues, but also fully realizing that there is almost no chance I won't vote for Mike Bloomberg again in the fall.
By far, the hardest part of the call to answer was the question about my employment status. After 15 seconds of consideration, I said "part time". It sounded funny coming out of my mouth.
I've been on an avant garde music kick lately, becoming slightly addicted to records I bought due to their experimental rep but couldn't really stomach at the time. Interestingly, they all sound better to me now. This includes the first two Os Mutantes records - particularly the first - and the Brian Eno/David Byrne collaboration My Life in the Bush Of Ghosts, an album that has always run hot and cold to my ears. In a way, my three day-old addiction to these records reminds me of the way, perhaps 3 years ago, I was overwhelmed by the taste for a glass of red wine for the first time in my life, or the similar feeling I had ten years ago for a strong cup of coffee. Could "Panis et Circenses" just be something I had to grow into?
I also listened to Serge Gainsbourg's Histoire de Melody Nelson half a dozen times today (not so hard, as it's less than 30 minutes long). It's a record I've always loved, so it doesn't really belong grouped with the ones I just mentioned. Unless you consider that it is entirely in French, a language I don't understand, just as the Mutantes are in Portuguese, and the Eno/Byrne record consists entirely of vocal samples from in many languages. Since when did I value lyrics so little I didn't even care if could sing along in a language I know?
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
If you'll be my flotsam, I could be half the man I used to
This morning, getting ready for work*, I put on Dylan's Nashville Skyline. I know his fans consider this record a big letdown in Dylan's catalog, especially following Blonde On Blonde and the masterful John Wesley Harding, and while I can't defend the consistency of Nashville Skyline - or explain Dylan's "sweet" voice - I think the record is filled with great songs. "I Threw It All Away" and "Lay Lady Lay", in particular, stand up to anything Dylan has ever recorded.
One of the reasons people often write-off this record and assume Dylan wasn't firing on all cylinders when he put it together is its length. Clocking in at 27 minutes, it belongs in that rarified field of early Beach Boys records for cheating the consumer by delivering an album barely longer than a single LP side. As far as I'm concerned, that's a reason for greatness. As Don Was pointed out years ago, most people don't listen past the first 30 minutes of any record anyhow. When you're getting ready for work, it's nice to have an entire record you can listen to before you head out the door.
On the subject of length: whenever I listen to Nashville Skyline, I always skip the first track. Always. It's "The Girl from the North Country", a remake of an earlier Dylan composition, performed with Johnny Cash. Apparently, the record company had Dylan include it as (1) Johnny Cash was really big at the time (1969) and (2) they didn't think he should put out a 23 minute record, which he was apparently ready to do. The track is OK, I suppose, but it's kind of melancholy, and lacks the full arrangement of the rest of the LP. I always skip straight ahead to "Nashville Skyline Rag", a great way to kick off any record, even if I'd never claim it's the equal of "Like a Rolling Stone" or "Subterranean Homesick Blues".
This led me to think of all the first tracks I generally skip on various LPs:
* Yes, I got laid off last May, but oddly I still have my job as a fulltime employee. A ten-month layoff. Well, optional layoff. It's a long, boring story. My official end date is March 31.
One of the reasons people often write-off this record and assume Dylan wasn't firing on all cylinders when he put it together is its length. Clocking in at 27 minutes, it belongs in that rarified field of early Beach Boys records for cheating the consumer by delivering an album barely longer than a single LP side. As far as I'm concerned, that's a reason for greatness. As Don Was pointed out years ago, most people don't listen past the first 30 minutes of any record anyhow. When you're getting ready for work, it's nice to have an entire record you can listen to before you head out the door.
On the subject of length: whenever I listen to Nashville Skyline, I always skip the first track. Always. It's "The Girl from the North Country", a remake of an earlier Dylan composition, performed with Johnny Cash. Apparently, the record company had Dylan include it as (1) Johnny Cash was really big at the time (1969) and (2) they didn't think he should put out a 23 minute record, which he was apparently ready to do. The track is OK, I suppose, but it's kind of melancholy, and lacks the full arrangement of the rest of the LP. I always skip straight ahead to "Nashville Skyline Rag", a great way to kick off any record, even if I'd never claim it's the equal of "Like a Rolling Stone" or "Subterranean Homesick Blues".
This led me to think of all the first tracks I generally skip on various LPs:
- "Who Loves the Sun" on the Velvet Underground's Loaded. Beautiful record; lame first track. Or, at least, a track that pales next to everything else on the record (yes, even "Lonesome Cowboy Bill" -you got to see him in the rodeo!), particularly the restored "Sweet Jane" that follows. Now there's a song to kick off a record.
- "Sunday Morning" on the Velvet Underground's debut. What is it about the VU? I actually like this track a lot, but I think "Waiting for the Man" is (again) a much stronger way to begin a record. Interestingly, if you have the 1995 Peel Slowly and See box, you can tell that "Sunday Morning" was only prepended to this record at the last minute (it's handwritten on the tape box, while the other tracks are typed out).
- "White Light / White Heat" by... nah, just kidding.
- The first two tracks of Blonde On Blonde. What is it about Dylan? He's notorious for his inability to consistently discern his best work from his worst, and the choice of "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35" to open his arguably greatest record is a perfect example. Any way you look at it, this is a pretty weak song - like "Country Pie" but without the catchy riffs or lasting humor - and it's amazing that this made it to an LP while "She's Your Lover Now" never got out of the vaults and "Positively Fourth Street" was consigned to a 45. "Pledging My Time" is pretty good as an LP track, but also makes for a lousy opener. I go straight to Johanna on this one.
- The Kinks' Village Green Preservation Society. I love the title track, which opens the album. But I love the nostalgia and melancholy of "Do You Remember Walter", the second track, even more. It sounds upbeat, and the narrator is reminiscing of good times, but he's also talking about times that are not only gone for good but forgotten by many. It almost breaks my heart every time I hear it. I could probably write a book about the way this song makes me feel.
* Yes, I got laid off last May, but oddly I still have my job as a fulltime employee. A ten-month layoff. Well, optional layoff. It's a long, boring story. My official end date is March 31.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
What I am sort of reading
The pile of books next to my bed is ever-expanding, endangering my physical health each time I step out of bed and risk breaking my neck by trying to get my footing on a stack of paperbacks in lieu of the carpet. Some of these books I've read; some of them I've never opened; most I've started but gotten distracted by another book along the way. (I'm sure, by the time I finish this post, Strattera salesmen will be ringing my phone off the hook). Here's a list of the books next to my bed, and how far along I've gotten in each one.
As a general note, I don't do fiction well. I've always preferred history books, or at least nonfiction. I still read a few fiction books a year, but I have trouble finding the depth in fiction that I know is there, or at least should be there. Anyhow, about that pile of books...
Anyhow, I bought Woodward's book around this time. Unfortunately, I bought Eric Foner's massive tome on Reconstruction right around the same time (scoffing at the "abridged" version, to my own subsequent regret) and never made headway with either. (Foner's book left my bedside a few months ago and now resides in a bookshelf, normally the dominion of books I've already digested).
In this vein of Reconstruction revisionism, I'd gladly recommend the short and readable The Era of Reconstruction by Kenneth Stampp. It's worth noting that I was taught the more traditional "corrupt" interpretation of Reconstruction while in high school during the late 80s and early 90s in Massachusetts, which proves that Stampp's book (and others like it) might still be regarded as novel today. Certainly the repeated appearance of words like "carpetbagger" in the press during Hillary Clinton's 2000 senatorial campaign demonstrated that the traditional interpretation of Reconstruction remains widespread.
Not sure why this is still in the pile. It should probably be demoted to the box of books in the hall destined for the used book store.
On the subject of Eisenhower, here's one of my favorite quotes - not sure when he said:
"Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone; it is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children."
OK, I can't believe I just wrote so much about books I essentially HAVEN'T read.
As a general note, I don't do fiction well. I've always preferred history books, or at least nonfiction. I still read a few fiction books a year, but I have trouble finding the depth in fiction that I know is there, or at least should be there. Anyhow, about that pile of books...
- The Pity of War, Niall Ferguson.
- The Strange Career of Jim Crow, C. Vann Woodward.
Anyhow, I bought Woodward's book around this time. Unfortunately, I bought Eric Foner's massive tome on Reconstruction right around the same time (scoffing at the "abridged" version, to my own subsequent regret) and never made headway with either. (Foner's book left my bedside a few months ago and now resides in a bookshelf, normally the dominion of books I've already digested).
In this vein of Reconstruction revisionism, I'd gladly recommend the short and readable The Era of Reconstruction by Kenneth Stampp. It's worth noting that I was taught the more traditional "corrupt" interpretation of Reconstruction while in high school during the late 80s and early 90s in Massachusetts, which proves that Stampp's book (and others like it) might still be regarded as novel today. Certainly the repeated appearance of words like "carpetbagger" in the press during Hillary Clinton's 2000 senatorial campaign demonstrated that the traditional interpretation of Reconstruction remains widespread.
- Bob Dylan: Behind the Shades Revisited, and Bob Dylan: The Recording Sessions 1960-1994, both by Clinton Heylin.
- Franny and Zooey, J.D. Salinger.
- The Guns of August, Barbara Tuchman.
- Arguing About War, Michael Walzer.
Not sure why this is still in the pile. It should probably be demoted to the box of books in the hall destined for the used book store.
- The Declassified Eisenhower, Blanche Weisen Cook.
On the subject of Eisenhower, here's one of my favorite quotes - not sure when he said:
"Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone; it is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children."
- Herbert Hoover, Eugene Lyons.
- Jarhead, Anthony Swofford.
- Classic Albums: Ziggy Stardust, Mark Paytress.
- The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald.
- Catch 22, Joseph Heller.
OK, I can't believe I just wrote so much about books I essentially HAVEN'T read.
Friday, February 04, 2005
Random acts of kindness
I got to work today and made my usual detour through Starbuckson the way to the lobby (fun fact: there are two Starbucks in the lobby of my building, which always reminds me of the old Onion article about "New Starbucks to open in men's room of Starbucks"). Two women were ahead of me in line, and they were simultaneously being served at adjacent registers. One woman, the shorter of the two, was dressed in a dark, puffy coat and carrying a small bag over her shoulder, and had dark brown hair that looked as if she had just rolled out of bed ten feet away from where we were standing. The other woman was blonde, and tall - as tall or taller than I am (5' 11" or so) - and was well-dressed, looking like she'd spent an hour getting ready this morning. So, the messy hair girl gets to the register, orders her drink, and when it arrives, suddenly says, "I forgot my wallet." Pause. Long pause. As I am standing directly behind messy hair, I internally debate paying for her drink so I can get to the register and order my own drink, but the suspicious Easterner in me wonders if this is a scam she regularly pulls, ordering overpriced coffee and then announcing that she "forgot" her wallet to prey on thegoodwill/harried nature of Starbucks employees. It also occurs to me that she probably did just roll out of bed before heading out to Starbucks, which would explain how she could forget her wallet (and hairbrush, presumably).
Meanwhile, the tall blonde is still getting her order filled. I should mention that the two women do not seem to know each other. But as the long pause starts to turn uncomfortable, she turns to the register at which Messy Hair stands, and say, "I'll pay for it." She hands two dollars to the woman working the register, who then hands $0.21 in change back to Messy Hair! Maybe she thought they were friends. Messy Hair awkwardly gives the $0.21 to the tall blonde, says "Thanks", takes her coffee, and heads off to the confectionary stand. The two women don't speak again. As I leave a minute later, I see the tall blonde walking away, as Messy Hair heads to the same elevator bank I do (ultimately getting out on a different floor in my building).
I record all of this only because I can't figure out how I feel about it. Is the tall blonde a fool for paying for someone she doesn't know? Is Messy Hair ungrateful for offering only a "thanks" and not even making an attempt to repay (e.g., "Tell me where to send you $2") in some way, even if the effort is only token? Am I ungenerous in not paying for Messy Hair? Is paying for people like this unusual, particularly in Manhattan? Can I start "forgetting" my wallet and get free coffee? If so, I am going to start ordering more expensive drinks.
Meanwhile, the tall blonde is still getting her order filled. I should mention that the two women do not seem to know each other. But as the long pause starts to turn uncomfortable, she turns to the register at which Messy Hair stands, and say, "I'll pay for it." She hands two dollars to the woman working the register, who then hands $0.21 in change back to Messy Hair! Maybe she thought they were friends. Messy Hair awkwardly gives the $0.21 to the tall blonde, says "Thanks", takes her coffee, and heads off to the confectionary stand. The two women don't speak again. As I leave a minute later, I see the tall blonde walking away, as Messy Hair heads to the same elevator bank I do (ultimately getting out on a different floor in my building).
I record all of this only because I can't figure out how I feel about it. Is the tall blonde a fool for paying for someone she doesn't know? Is Messy Hair ungrateful for offering only a "thanks" and not even making an attempt to repay (e.g., "Tell me where to send you $2") in some way, even if the effort is only token? Am I ungenerous in not paying for Messy Hair? Is paying for people like this unusual, particularly in Manhattan? Can I start "forgetting" my wallet and get free coffee? If so, I am going to start ordering more expensive drinks.
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