Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Best and Worst Reads of 2008

2008 was not a great reading year for me. My busy teaching schedule and penchant for wasting time on Facebook and Wikipedia did not leave much time for leisure reading. Still, I read enough to compile the following lists. Enjoy.

The Five Best Books I Read in 2008
1. Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy
2. Redemption Falls by Joseph O'Connor
3. No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy
4. The Prestige by Christopher Priest
5. The Road by Cormac McCarthy

The Five Worst Books I Read in 2008
1. The Shining by Stephen King
2. Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
3. Sons and Other Flammable Objects by Porochista Khakpour
4. Ballistics by Billy Collins
5. Red Water by Judith Freeman

Monday, December 22, 2008

A Low-Tech Christmas Message

"The Journey of the Magi" by T. S. Eliot

“A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For the journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.”
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins,
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death,
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Facebook: A Low-Tech Complaint

Wasting time is no longer what it used to be.

When I was a kid, wasting time meant locking myself in my bedroom and drawing comic books based on the superheroes I had created earlier in the day on the margins of my science notebook. Of course, these drawings weren't much to brag about--today, they would make no one but Napoleon Dynamite jealous. And the superheroes weren't much more than lame X-Men knock-offs with cool names like Infrared and Xyster. Still, at the end of the day, the time I wasted on these comics bore some tangible fruits--even if the fruits, so to speak, were stacks and stacks of half-drawn comic books.

Much has changed since then. I no longer draw as much as I used to, and I have largely become disillusioned with the comics industry (aside from comic book movies, of course). So, I have found another way to waste my time. Unfortunately, this way bears less tangible fruit than a pack of Bubble Yum.

I am referring to that "social networking" website known as Facebook.

Don't get me wrong: I like Facebook. It has reconnected me with a lot of friends and classmates that I had already consigned to the pages of my past. Still, along with this promise of reconnection comes a lot of extra "stuff" that does little more than tempt me to waste time.

An example: The other day I spent twenty minutes of my life becoming a "fan" of various writers and pop culture icons. Why? WHO THE CRAP KNOWS!!!

Another example: Yesterday, I spent five minutes taking a quiz in order to find out which female character in Stephanie Meyer's Twilight I am most like. Again, why would I do this? Why should I care? I mean, I'm neither a fan of Twilight nor a female, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!!

Five more minutes of my life wasted. Thanks for nothing, Facebook.

Facebook is more than a "social networking" website: it is cyber-quicksand. If you are not careful you may wander in there and be swallowed whole...or, at least, lose the better part of an afternoon.

Ironically, the time I've taken to write this post about wasting time on Facebook is largely wasted time as well. I mean, whining about Facebook isn't going to change the world or make me a better person. Blogger, I guess, is just another patch of cyber-quicksand.

Thanks for nothing, Blogger. I should have stuck with comic books.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

Ballistics Misfiring: A Review

Billy Collins was the first contemporary poet I became familiar with when I began to take English studies seriously. His collection Picnic, Lightning was all the rage at BYU-Idaho in the Fall of 2001, and I still have a great deal of nostalgia for that volume of poetry.

At that time, 2001, Collins was the U.S. Poet Laureate. He was also undergoing a change of publishers—from the smaller University of Pittsburg Press to the much (much) larger Random House. His first book under the new publisher was Sailing Around the Room, which was something of a greatest hits collection and showcased very little of anything new. His next two books, however, were all original poems—yet for me to use the word “original” would be a kindly gesture. Neither Nine Horses nor The Trouble With Poetry and Other Poems showcased half the originality of Picnic, Lightning or The Apple that Astonished Paris, another of Collins’ earlier books. I found the poems in these newer collections to be annoyingly self-conscious and dull. Collins, it seemed, had lost his clever muse during his move to Random House.

Recently, I finished reading his newest collection of poems, Ballistics. Admittedly, I began reading this book fully expecting it to be a complete waste of time. Fortunately, Ballistics lived up to my expectations. Collins’ most recent poems are a mess of self-absorbed musings, unoriginal observations, pointless allusions to Chinese poets (real and imaginary), and—of course—the same bland Collins imagery. In short, it sucked. Ballistics brings absolutely nothing new to the table to poetry. The title poem, in fact, like the title poem in The Trouble with Poetry, is nothing more than yet another Collins poem about how much he hates contemporary poets and poetry. Excuse me while I yawn.

To be fair, Ballistics contains a few good poems. Unfortunately, while these poems are “good,” they are not very memorable. In fact, I’m having a hard time remembering—even with the aid of the table of contents—which of them I liked. There is one poem, however, that is so idiotic that it caused me to close the book and smack it against my forehead three or four times. Here is an excerpt from the poem, entitled “Despair”:

Today, with the sun blazing in the trees,
my thoughts turn to the great
tenth-century celebrator of experience,

Wa-Hoo, whose delight in the smallest things
could hardly be restrained,
and to his joyous counterpart in the western provinces, Ye-Hah.


See what I mean? Idiotic. I think Billy has finally sold his artistic soul to success.

Well, in honor of the crappiness that is Ballistics, I here reprint Percy Bysshe Shelley's "To Wordsworth"--a poem written to another great poet who sold out to the Man (and his money).

Enjoy.

To Wordsworth

Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return:
Childhood and youth, friendship, and love's first glow,
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine
Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert as a lone star whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar:
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude:
In honoured poverty thy voice did weave
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty.
Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve,
Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Two Poems About Death

Here are two poems I wrote yesterday. Death has recently begun stalking my English classes. In the past month four of my students have claimed to have had deaths in the family. Frankly, I find it a bit odd--so odd, in fact, that I'm beginning to find it all rather amusing. Does that make me a bad person? I can't say. What I can say, though, is that any relative of any of my students ought to be on his or her guard. Apparently I am bad luck.

The poems:

Another Excuse

Forgive me
if my sympathy
is running dry—

your’s
is the fourth death
this term.

My eternal
condolences.


A Teacher to His Absent Student

I can imagine you
sitting in some church
in central Kentucky

your dead grandmother
stretched out beside
the pulpit

her wrinkled face
only slightly more waxy
than it had been

in life.
Tell me, student,
what is it like

to look into
the grim grinning
face of death

and know,
bereaved, that you
have missed

my class?

Monday, November 17, 2008

Springsteen Cranks Out Another: "Working on a Dream"


This just in from Bruce and the gang:

Bruce Springsteen's new album "Working on a Dream" has been set for a January 27 release on Columbia Records. "Working on a Dream" was recorded with the E Street Band and features twelve new Springsteen compositions plus two bonus tracks. It is the fourth collaboration between Springsteen and Brendan O'Brien, who produced and mixed the album."Working on a Dream"

Song Titles:
1. Outlaw Pete
2. My Lucky Day
3. Working on a Dream
4. Queen of the Supermarket
5. What Love Can Do
6. This Life
7. Good Eye
8. Tomorrow Never Knows
9. Life Itself
10. Kingdom of Days
11. Surprise, Surprise
12. The Last Carnival

Bonus tracks:
The Wrestler
A Night with the Jersey Devil

Bruce Springsteen said, "Towards the end of recording 'Magic,' excited by the return to pop production sounds, I continued writing. When my friend producer Brendan O'Brien heard the new songs, he said, 'Let's keep going.' Over the course of the next year, that's just what we did, recording with the E Street Band during the breaks on last year's tour. I hope 'Working on a Dream' has caught the energy of the band fresh off the road from some of the most exciting shows we've ever done. All the songs were written quickly, we usually used one of our first few takes, and we all had a blast making this one from beginning to end."

"Working on a Dream" is Bruce Springsteen's twenty-fourth album and was recorded and mixed at Southern Tracks in Atlanta, GA with additional recording in New York City, Los Angeles, and New Jersey.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Best Line Ever

I read this in a student's essay today:

"The Constitution contains several laws, guidelines and amendments, but one of the most debated and controversial is the second amendment, the right to bear arms. When I say the right to bear arms I'm not talking about the upper extremities [of] a grizzly or polar bear, I am talking about the right to own firearms."

Even the blatant comma splice couldn't wipe the smile from my face. 
 

Friday, October 31, 2008

Are Men Allowed to get Tagged?

My blog was recently tagged by my sister-in-law Adrienne. I'm not exactly sure what it means to have your blog "tagged," but from what I can tell it is kind of like being picked early to play dodge ball on the popular kids' team. As one who was usually picked last in gym class, I feel I should take my current "tagged" status as a good thing. However, I can't help but notice that a majority of those who play this game of blogtag are women. Does that mean that I have been picked last? In other words, now that all of the cool bloggerkids--i.e. the women--have been "tagged," are blogtaggers now turning to the dorks--i.e. menbloggers--as a last resort? I think so.

Which brings me to my next question: Are men even allowed to be tagged? Personally, I am already feeling that if I even humor my sister-in-law's request to share my "unspectacular" quirks," the very threads that bind the universe together will be compromised. I can't have the end of the universe on my conscience. After all, one of my biggest quirks is that I have an

IRRATIONALLY GUILTY CONSCIENCE.
For example, I sometimes feel that I have to eat every last particle of food on my plate. I don't feel this way, however, because I sympathize for those in Africa who go without food. Rather, I eat every last particle because I do not want to be the one responsible for preventing them (i,e, the food particles) from fulfilling the full measure of their creation. I mean, how would you feel if you were a grain of rice who waited all of your tiny rice life to be eaten, only to be tossed down the food disposal like some piece of stagnant leftover?

Well, now that I'm in the process of unlacing the universe, I might as well reveal my other quirks. Of course, my wife tells me that everything I do is a quirk. What might make a better post is a listing of everything I do that is normal.

Anyway, here is the rest of my list:

I CANNOT FINISH A JUG OF MILK.
Something about the last half cup of milk at the bottom of the milk jug disgusts me. I'd rather go without milk than drink the nasty stuff. Fortunately, Sarah is kind enough to drink it for me.

I READ SIGNS OUT LOUD WHILE I DRIVE
Whenever I am driving down the road, I catch myself reading aloud words and phrases from road signs and billboards--any kind of signage that lines the road. I started doing this on my mission as a way to practice reading Portuguese. Now I do it out of habit.

WHENEVER I CLIMB STEPS, I MENTALLY RECITE MY VOWELS
When I was a kid, I thought that I could climb steps faster if I recited my vowels at the same time. It turns out, however, that there is no connection between vowel recitation and step-climbing speed. Nevertheless, I still mentally recite my vowels whenever I climb steps.

I REMOVE THE DUST JACKET OF A BOOK BEFORE I READ IT
I don't think this is a quirk, but my wife says it is. I believe, however, that removing the dust jacket of a hard-bound book before reading it is not only common sense, it is normal.

I WALK AROUND WHEN I BRUSH MY TEETH
I can't brush my teeth and stand still, so I tend to stroll around the apartment while I brush. Apparently, I also pace around in circles for five minutes after I come home from work. I'm not sure how that is connected, though.

Well, it seems as if I have satisfied the demands of the tagging. I'm also supposed to tag more people, but since I was the last kid picked, I guess I don't have to. Shucks.

Also, I know I'm supposed to post the rules, but I figure you probably know them already.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

An Epidemic of Excuses and No Dogs in Sight

Something must be going around the Cincinnati area. I've heard more excuses this past week from my students than ever before. It seems as if car accidents, car troubles, family deaths and sicknesses, hospitalizations, and computer crashes are following my students wherever they go. I am beginning to think that it is not safe to have me as a teacher.

Also, it was recently pointed out to me that dogs are no longer eating homework. Students today have a brand new dog: the flash drive! If they show up to class without their homework now, they simply state that the flash drive containing their work went through the wash, got smashed in their backpack, or (somehow) got pregnant.

What cracks me up most, though, about excuses is the presentation. Some students offer up an excuse and immediately you know its the only one in their repertoire--it comes out that easy, like an animal instinct. Other students take five to ten minutes to make their excuse. Usually, their excuses are prefaced with "I know this sounds like an excuse, but..." and concluded with a unsolicited recitation of their long (long) history of scholastic responsibility.

Of course, the worst kind of excuses are those that try to appeal to a teacher's sense of pity. These excuses are the classic sob stories, and they usually are made by the worst of student actors. It is no exaggeration to state that students who attempt the appeal to pity make soap opera actors and actresses look like true artists.

Anyway, the week isn't over and I expect a handful of excuses to come my way in the next twenty-four hours. If I hear a really good one, I'll pass it along.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

One More for The Road: A Review

So far I've been reluctant to recommend a Cormac McCarthy novel to anyone wary of literary novels or violence. Well, that's changed. I recently finished The Road, his Pulitzer Prize winning 2006 novel about a father and son's struggle to survive after Earth has been largely destroyed by some unnamed disaster. I highly recommend this novel for any interested reader. Don't be put off by the fact that Oprah endorses it. Even she can't be wrong all of the time. 

In many ways, The Road is unlike any other McCarthy novel. It doesn't have a lot of violence, and when it does it isn't particularly gratuitous. Mostly, this novel just sets the reader on edge. You feel fear for the two main characters, who are travelling south for the winter through a territory overrun by band of cannibalistic marauders. Every time they investigate an abandoned home or opened a strange door, you wonder if it will be for the last time. 

My only problem with this novel was the ending. I wasn't sure I liked it at first--probably because it did not unfold the way I though it would. It is neither as violent as Blood Meridian nor as anticlimactic as No Country for Old Men. In fact, the ending is actually kind of inspiring. 

That's doesn't mean it has a happy ending, of course. That would have made the novel worthless. But it is the kind of ending that doesn't make you hate the world after you finish reading it. 

So, I'm still not sure if I like the ending of The Road. I wonder, for example, if McCarthy could have made his points more emphaticallyt if he had made the novel a full-fledged tragedy (catharsis and all). Ultimately, you'll have to form your own opinion of it. The more I think about the novel as a whole, though, the more I like it. 

But, as LeVar Burton would say, you don't have to take my word for it.  


Saturday, October 11, 2008

The Thinking Man's Western: A Short Review

I recently finished reading Cormac McCarthy's masterpiece novel, Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West. It tells the story of a young man, called "the Kid," and his experiences riding with the Glanton Gang, a group of scalp-hunters that terrorized Mexico and the Southwest in the years following the Mexican War. 

While I liked this book quite a bit, I hesitate to recommend it to anyone who is not up to the task. Many of the passages in the book are difficult to read and somewhat inaccessible. In fact, I doubt I would have finished it had I not been listening to it on tape. Also, as the title indicates, the novel contains a lot of blood.  If violence isn't your thing, skip this novel.

But if you aren't put off by its style and content, Blood Meridian has a lot to offer. In many ways, the novel reminds me thematically of Flannery O'Connor's Wise Blood--especially near the end, when the Kid's inability to escape the Judge, the novel's chief antagonist, seems similar in nature to Hazel Motes's inability to escape the figure of Christ.

Unfortunately, I hear Hollywood is attempting to adapt this novel to film. Hollywood has never been very successful at adapting unadaptable novels, and this novel is probably unadaptable. I also expect that a film version of Blood Meridian would essentially be unwatchable because of the violence. Some images, I believe, are best left to print.  

The Melodramatic Match: A Review and General Commentary on the Inspirational Sports Movie Genre

The inspirational sports movie genre is one of the most popular genres out there. For some reason, Americans love movies like Rudy, Remember the Titans, Glory Road, and The Rookie--even though these movies all share the same basic plot and characters. Usually, whenever a movie like those mentioned above comes to the theater, I roll my eyes and say something sarcastic about it. 

To my wife's surprise, though, I recently brought home a copy of The Miracle Match, an "inspirational" movie (originall titled The Game of Their Lives) about an underdog American soccer team and its experience at the 1950 World Cup. Admittedly, I knew the movie was going to be crap before I watched (I mean, it was from the makers of Rudy), but part of it was filmed in Belo Horizonte, Brazil, where I served my mission, and I was feeling nostalgic. 

To my disappointment, of course, only the last fifteen minutes of the movie took place in Belo Horizonte--and then only inside one of the soccer stadiums there. The rest of movie took place in two less exotic locales: Saint Louis and New York City. 

Over all, The Miracle Match is really not worth your time...unless you like movies that contain the following:
  • A highly predictable formula (i.e.--An underdog team, composed of misfits with strong personalities, defies all odds and beats a seemingly unbeatable foe).
  • An inspirational speech every five minutes or so (accompanied, of course, by inspirationally crappy inspirational "speech music").
  • Heart-warming messages about teamwork, brotherhood, determination, and courage.
  • Stock sports movie characters: the team jerk, the insecure leader (who ultimately finds his inner strength), the team goofball, etc.
  • An injury or some other physical ailment that occurs to a key player one hour into the movie, which temporarily threatens the team's chance of victory.
  • Former child stars.
  • An excess of slow-motion photography.
Of course, some of you may be saying, "Aww, Scott, you just don't like sports movies." 

Well, that's not entirely true. In my defense, I've compiled a list of "approved" sports movies. A lot of them are even inspirational. Here they are:
  • The Karate Kid
  • The Karate Kid, Part II
  • Rocky
  • The Natural
  • The Pride of the Yankees
  • Bobby Jones: Stroke of Genius
  • Chariots of Fire
  • The Cinderella Man (My favorite sports movie)
  • The Greatest Game Ever Played
  • Million Dollar Baby
  • Gentleman Jim
I am sure there are other great sports movies out there, of course. If you have any recommendations, let me know. 

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Canon Fodder

I am only days away from teaching another section of Introduction to Literature, which is one of my favorite classes to teach. Still, as I ready my syllabus, I find myself wishing that I had more control over what my students are able to read.

Not that any of this will mean much to a majority of my readers, but the reading list for my intro class contains, among others, the following works:


Now, let me make this clear: nothing is wrong with any of these works. I like each and every one of them.  However, I dislike the fact that they (and others like them) seem to be the only works ever in introductory anthologies. In many ways, they are rapidly becoming the literary equivalents of those pop songs that are always being overplayed on the radio--the "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" or "I Will Always Love You" of literature, if you will.

One rationale behind this unimaginative trend of over-anthologizing is the noble propagation of the literary canon, or that collection of literary texts that is meant to represent the best of the best in literature. Advocates of the canon argue (and I oversimplify for clarity) that certain works stand as artistic exemplars of their time and genre, and therefore deserve to be studied more than other similar works from similar periods. So, students now study Shakespeare's Hamlet or Othello, rather than Titus Andronicus or King Lear, because somewhere along the line someone decided that Hamlet and Othello were exemplary English Renaissance tragedies. Such reasoning, of course, further suggests that non-canonical works, or those rarely anthologized, are best left to the experts--or at least to those who respond well to the major works in the canon.

I'm not a fan of the literary canon, although I understand the reasoning behind establishing a pool of culturally significant texts. My main concern is that the great stories and poems of our time, such as those listed above, are becoming tiresome, used up, and worn out. The litery canon needs to be a vast collection of texts, and we need anthologies that aim for originality and variety. 

Please, all of you lazy anthology editors out there, don't let Flannery O'Connor or William Faulkner or William Carlos Williams become the Spin Doctors of literature studies. Stop this mad epidemic of over-anthologizing! Give variety a chance. 

Besides, I think I can stomach only one year more of student speculation on the fate of Connie and Arnold Friend.  

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

The Joys of Teaching English

Despite my recent spree of near blogflops, I've decided to post yet again this month. 

The summer quarter at the community college where I teach is coming to an end, which means I am in the midst of a grading frenzy. While correcting some final exams, I came across this ironic sentence, written by a student:

"Run-ons are one of the easiest grammar mistakes you can make, all you need to do is forget one comma or any other punctuation and you will be screwed."

The irony of it cracks me up every time I read it. Sentences like this one ease the pain of a teacher's salary. 


Monday, September 22, 2008

Civil War Reenactors: Living the Low-Tech Life

One year ago, a gray-bearded reenactor approached me at an Civil War encampment and told me that I needed to take up reenacting because it "is the most fun you can have with your clothes on." I'm not entirely sure if that is true, but I think I understand where he is coming from. In a very admirable way, reenactors set aside the high-tech world of today and embrace--for a weekend at a time--the low-tech world of the 1860s.  True, what they do is eerily like what my daughters do when they play "dress-up"--substituting rifles and muskets for princess wands, of course--but they do it with zeal and sincerity.  No shame in that.

This past weekend I went to the annual Civil War encampment at Caesar Creek State Park in Warren County, Ohio. Encampments like this one bring together all types of people: curious suburbanites, country folks, history buffs, and even pseudo-medievalists (or those who go by names like "Beorynth" and believe Middle-Earth is a real place). And, in many ways, not much happens. Visitors tend to mill around the campsites, gawk at reenactors, snap photographs, and ask questions. Some reenactors talk your ear off, while others seem content to sit by the campfire and ignore you. This year, a younger reenactor approached me and wanted to talk modern baseball. He also wanted to smoke an 1860s style cigar and blow smoke in my face. We didn't talk very long. 

The trip had two highlights. The first one occurred when I was getting my photograph taken with a Robert E. Lee interpreter, and nearly got trampled by his horse. Alas, I didn't get seriously injured. I mean, it would have been cool to have been injured by both Robert E. Lee's horse and Stonewall Jackson's grave site in the same year. But, unfortunately, Traveller left no hoof-print on my back. 

The second highlight, of course, was the staged battle. Apparently, at this encampment, the reenactors take turns winning. This time around, the Rebels won the day. Had they been firing real ammunition, the results might have been different. The heavy-set fellow leading the Confederate charge, for example, likely would have been hit long before the skinny guy next to him. There also might have been a little more blood. Details. Details. Details. 

Throughout the day, I heard several reenactors talk about the importance of preserving history through reenactment. For them, performances of the past act as alternatives to the textbook. I'm not entirely convinced of the merits of this method, though. Unfortunately, many of them are caught up in the mythos of the Civil War. After the battle, for example, one Confederate reenactor approached the audience and gave an impromptu speech about the war in which he claimed that "no side was right, no side was wrong." He even went so far as to claim that no one won the war, which seemed fairly debatable to me. From my perspective, any fight that involves a side that seeks to destroy a nation and preserve a system of bondage has a wrong side. But that's just me. 

Despite their tendency to mythologize irresponsibly, I do admire Civil War reenactors and their desire to preserve the past in a participatory and low-tech way. As my 9/11 post argues, the past is full of lessons that we need to learn. Some of the most important lessons we have from our nation's past come from the Civil War era, and we need people who are willing to remind us of those lessons. Some reenactors, of course, are not the best teachers, but what they do has the potential to inspire others to look into the past and learn. For this reason, I hope Civil War reenactors keep up their weekend games of "dress-up." I mean, it is the most fun you can have with your clothes on.  

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

No Country For Old Men: A Recommendation

I've been in a reading slump ever since I finished Stephanie Meyer's premiere vampire melodrama, Twilight. Of course, I assume the slump came as punishment for reading that novel against my better literary judgement. As a form of repentance, I picked up Cormac McCarthy's No Country For Old Men. I finished the novel on Monday and I already feel my self-respect returning.

While No Country For Old Men is hardly McCarthy at his literary best, it is still a very good novel. In fact, I like that this novel is more accessible (that's a lit professor term for "easier") than some of McCarthy's earlier works. Unlike Blood Meridian, for example, No Country For Old Men doesn't settle in to an easy pace. Rather, it runs non-stop from start to finish. Indeed, with this novel, McCarthy gives lay readers the chance to experience how a master wordsmith writes a page-turner. Think of it as a novel by Harlan Coben's smarter older brother.

Today, violence and gore seem ever-present in art and entertainment. Like other McCarthy novels, No Country For Old Men is a bloodbath. Yet, unlike so many other works of violent art, this novel avoids exploiting and sensationalizing violence. If anything, it is a 309 page lament for a society gone sick with violence, selfishness, and greed. 

No Country For Old Men won't brighten your day, but it also won't bring you down to utter despair. After all, at its heart is a character most of us can identify with: an aging sheriff whose seemingly innate goodness works to stem the downward spiral of society. His presence in the novel is important, if only to serve as a reminder of what society could be if we all looked beyond our own selfish interests. As the novel's title suggests, though, the sheriff's kind is a dying breed. 

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Update On What I Saw Out My Window

Here's an update on what happened near us yesterday. After dinner, I got up to do the dishes only to see this apartment buiding surrounded by emergency vehicles. Oddly enough, we didn't hear any of them arrive. We learned what happened from a neighbor.

Police: Man shot at Fairfield apartment

Officers investigating second apartment shooting in as many nights.

By Richard Wilson

Staff Writer

Saturday, September 13, 2008

FAIRFIELD — A man shot at a Fairfield apartment complex was not conscious when he was flown by medical helicopter to the hospital Friday night, police said.

Police and emergency crews responded at around 5:55 p.m. Friday, Sept. 12, following a report of a shooting inside a unit at the apartment complex, said Fairfield police Sgt. Don Garrett.

Officers arrived at the scene and found a black male suffering from a gunshot wound, Garrett said. He was flown by Air Care medical helicopter to University Hospital in Cincinnati.

Police initially reported the male shot was a juvenile, but later Friday said the victim was an adult, but would not release his name, age and extent of his injuries. However, Garrett said he was unconcious when he was being treated at the scene.

The apartment building in which the shooting apparently took place was cordoned off by police caution tape late Friday night. A neighbor said she saw one man exit the building in a hurry and leave the scene with three other men in a green van before officers arrived.

Garrett said the shooting remains under investigation and did not release any other details.

Fairfield police also are investigating a shooting incident that occurred the previous night at the Heritage Glen apartment complex, located on Brookfield Drive about two miles north of Friday night's shooting.

At around 7 p.m. Thursday, Sept. 10, police responded to an assault where shots were fired at Heritage Glen. One man was treated for unknown injuries at Mercy Hospital, but police said he had not been shot. No suspects were arrested in the incident, police said.

According to Sgt. Jeff Sprague, the two incidents appear unrelated.

Friday, September 12, 2008

What I Saw Out My Window Today

Fairfield police investigating teen's shooting

By Richard Wilson

Staff Writer

Friday, September 12, 2008

FAIRFIELD — A teenager was shot at a Fairfield apartment complex and was not conscious when flown by medical helicopter to the hospital Friday night, police said.

Police and emergency crews responded at around 6:20 p.m. Friday, Sept. 12, following a report of a shooting at the apartment complex, said Fairfield police Sgt. Don Garrett.

Officers arrived at the scene and found a black male juvenile suffering from a gunshot wound, Garrett said. The juvenile was flown by Air Care medical helicopter to University Hospital in Cincinnati. The boy's name was not released and his condition was unknown, but Garrett said the boy was unconscious when being treated at the scene.

Fairfield detectives were at the scene investigating the incident.

For more on this issue, keep your browser here.

Contact this reporter at (513) 820-2122 or rwilson@coxohio.com.

 

Thursday, September 11, 2008

9/11 Revisited: Generations of Forgetting

Yesterday, I had a hard time talking with my English students about the legacy of the September 11 terrorist attacks--although not because of the difficult nature of the subject matter. All but four of them had been in the sixth grade when the attacks occurred. Only a few of them had distinct memories of the day, and fewer still remembered how easy it used to be to board an airplane. 

Sadly, this lack of personal insight into the 9/11 tragedy will become increasingly more common in high school and college freshman classrooms. Seven years ago, the national mantra became "We Shall Never Forget!" In many ways, forgetting has not been an issue for those who witnessed the terrorist attacks in real life or on television. In fact, most people who were old enough to realize what was going on in New York City and Washington seven years ago can tell you where they were and how they felt when they learned of the towers being hit. Such is not the case, though, for the rising generation, who have little or no memory of 9/11/2001. Unfortunately, they will never forget only because they have nothing to forget.

The old cliche is that history repeats itself. In reality, history follows no pre-established pattern.
Rather, generations of human society memorialize, politicize, commercialize, and sanitize the lessons they learn from times of crisis and tragedy...so that the rising generation can either misinterpret them (think Michael Bay's Pearl Harbor) or forget them altogether. 

Once, when I was in elementary school, I watched as a neighborhood girl pretended that a rivet on the inner wall of the school bus was a hidden Soviet camera. She kept yelling, "Dirty Russian! Unlike you, I can BELIEVE IN GOD!!!" I was born in 1980, and while I have this hint of a Cold War memory, I can't say I carry with me any of the important lessons of the Cold War era. My daughters, similarly, were both born after 9/11/2001. They will grow up in a world largely affected by the events of that day, but increasingly ignorant of its lessons. 

So, it is possible to argue that every generation is affected by at least two tragedies: the one it forgets, and the one it experiences because of its forgetfulness. 

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Proto-Lohan and the Killer Ostriches: A Review

12,008 years ago, a band of marauding horsemen upset an insecure cave man when they kidnapped his girlfriend, the first Lindsey Lohan look-alike in unrecorded history. So argues, at least,  the recent film 10,000 BC, which has the distinction of being the first prehistoric epic since Ice Age 2: The Meltdown.

I don't know much about prehistoric times, but something about the dramatic story of D'Leh (the insecure caveman) and proto-Lohan seems historically fishy. 10,000 BC was a long time ago, and I can only imagine that specific details of that era are sketchy at best. Likely, this film is just another excuse for director Roland Emmerich (Stargate, Independence Day, and--let's not forget--Godzilla) to work some more of his CGI magic. While 10,000 BC boasts neither a compelling plot nor quality acting,  it showcases enough photo-realistic mammoths, saber-tooth tigers, and killer ostriches to keep its audience entertained for 109 minutes. And believe me, folks: You have not lived until you've seen a killer ostrich tear through a band of marauding horsemen. 

Of course, audiences do not go to a movie like 10,000 BC for its compelling plot and quality acting. They go for its action, adventure, special effects, and leather-clad cast of models-turned-actors.  In this respect, 10,000 BC delivers up to a point. I would have liked to have seen more saber-tooth tigers in action, for example. I also kept hoping--just for laughs, of course--that the Lindsey Lohan look-alike would check herself into prehistoric rehab. 

Ultimately, 10,000 BC is is neither the worst movie ever made, nor the best. If you have a spare 109 minutes (as well as a desire to see killer ostriches in action), you might as well check it out. It isn't a complete waste of time--in the way that, say, Titanic is--but it occasionally comes really close. 

One more thing! 10,000 BC has a "twist" ending that sets a new standard for cowardly filmmaking. If I were a betting man--which I'm not, by the way--I'd be willing to bet at least five bucks that the ending was re-written by a test-audience. 

Just sayin'. 

  

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Ish-ish and the American Teenager

Over the past couple of years, the American Teenager has seized upon the suffix -ish and transformed it into the most undeniably original piece of slang since the "NOT!" of the early 1990s. Here is a brief sampling of what I mean:

Father: Hello, son. How was school?
Son: Good (noticeable pause) ish.
Father: Glad to hear it! Where's your mother?
Son: Outside (noticeable pause) ish.
Father: Where outside?
Son: I don't know. In the backyard (noticeable pause) ish.

You get the idea.  

Teenagers enjoy modifying what they perceive as the language of the establishment.  When I was a teenager, for example, I tried unsuccessfully to introduce the phrase "crap it" into everyday conversation. No one really knows, of course, why teenagers feel the need to modify a language that already has too many words and rules. The whole matter is beyond my poor power to reason.

Of course, some might argue that the American Teenager speaks Ish-ish" whenever he or she wants to seem coolly noncommittal or indecisive. Others might argue that their fluency in Ish-ish is a reflection of their collective fear of making certain decisions in such uncertain times. Personally, I'm not sure I buy any of these arguments. When I was a teenager, I used such phrases as "NOT!," "crap it," and the ever-monotonous "whatever" just to irritate my parents. I have a feeling that the popularity of Ish-ish stems from some similar desire.

The good news, of course, is that adults are beginning to use Ish-ish more often--and we all know that adult appropriation always marks the beginning of the end for the latest trends in American Teenager Slang. I mean, just remember the twinge of embarrassment you felt when your father first used the word "groovy" or "radical" around you. And don't forget the emptiness you felt in your soul when your mother first said something was "the bomb."  

So, adults, do the American language a favor and start speaking Ish-ish around your teenagers. There is still hope. If we begin now,  chances are Ish-ish will be wiped out by Christmas...or, at the latest, New Years (noticeable pause) ish

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Cut Down By the Confederacy

By a stroke of dumb luck, our last stop before returning home from our vacation to North Carolina was Lexington, Virginia--the final resting place of both Robert E. Lee and Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson. Civil War buff that I am, I visited both graves and paid my respects to the fallen Confederate chieftains. Unfortunately, old Bobby Lee is entombed in a large brick chapel that is only open at certain times during the day. What is more, the neo-Rebs who care for his earthly remains forbid any unauthorized photography his sarcophagus. Such is life.

Jackson's grave is much more visitor friendly. It is the centerpiece of an old memorial cemetery named after the general. According to a small sign at its entrance, the cemetery remains open from "dawn to dusk." My dad and I paid our visit shortly after dawn...and, sure enough, it was open.

Stonewall's final resting place is as much a shrine to the South's glory days as it is a grave. Towering over the tombstones of Stonewall and various other Jacksons is a massive pedestal topped by a stalwart statue. At the base of the monument, modern admirers have left rebel flags as a tribute.

While I am, to a certain extent, an admirer of Stonewall Jackson, I could not help but think that the massive monument was more a nostalgic memorial to the so-called "Lost Cause" than to Jackson, himself. No monument great or small makes the man or his legacy. Stonewall's life--the good and bad of it--is the only monument that really matters in the long run.

Funny story, though: the spirit of Stonewall--or the ghosts of the Confederate dead lurking in this cemetery--must have sensed my cynicism. While stepping off of the Stonewall monument, I snagged my big toe on something and received a sizable wound. Another instance of a Southerner drawing Northern blood? Perhaps.

Friday, August 8, 2008

Free as Running Water...

Today, my three-year-old and I watched one of the all-time greatest animated films ever: Race For Your Life, Charlie Brown! I remember watching this classic as a child, and it warms my soul to report that age has only improved it. Who cannot love a loser like Charlie Brown? Who cannot identify with his struggle to fulfill his destiny as a great summer camp leader?

In celebration of this great film, I'd like to reprint the lyrics of the film's theme song. In my opinion, it is one of the great forgotten classics.

It's a new day
We all can agree
That the sun shine's
Brought to you absolutely free

Free as running water
Fresh as morning dew
No matter who's the leader
When the sun sets down
It's gone Charlie Brown
So race for your life

Take a chance cause there's no second dance
Till it's a new day

I'll tell you a secret
You're about to face a test
And you'll have to do your best
Don't forget, just remember
Just remember, don't forget

Your life is free as running water
Fresh as morning dew
No matter who's the winner
If you try, we're behind you
Charlie Brown

Race for your life, Charlie Brown
Race for your life, Charlie Brown
Race for your life, Charlie Brown
Race for your life, Charlie Brown

By the way, if you haven't seen this movie, you can check it out in its entirety on YouTube. The first part is at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1JmqaMEbpSQ

Sunday, August 3, 2008

WALL-E and the Politics of the Heavy Hand

Art and politics have been going steady now for centuries, and their relationship will likely continue. Personally, I usually don't mind their coziness together; some of my favorite movies, novels, and songs have political undertones to them. But what irritates me is when political art abandons all attempts at subtlety (a feature I value highly in art) and becomes stultifyingly heavy-handed and (worse) preachy. Such art is the high school hallway make-out couple of its kind.

I've been thinking about the value of heavy-handed political art for about a month now. It began when I took my three-year-old daughter to WALL-E, Pixar's second self-indulgent adventure (the first being Ratatouille). I admit, the CG animation was great, the sound design was ingenious, and the robot love story was cute. But halfway through the film, the producers decided they had to start taking cheap (and ever trendy) shots at obesity and Bush Republicans (the phrase "stay the course" was used in regards to an inadequate national policy). To top it off, they turned the movie into another vehicle for the current celebrity cause, environmental preservation. The whole thing made me gag.

Don't get me wrong: I watched (and enjoyed) Al Gore's slide-show, and I'm all for saving the planet. I just bought a bike, for crying out loud! I even admire a nicely done political allegory. But I hate getting clubbed over the head time and time again--and WALL-E seems to take pleasure in wielding the club. Pixar needs to return to the subtlety of its previous works Monsters, Inc. and Cars, both of which carry environmentalist messages without self-indulgent melodrama and transparent political posturing.

The sad reality of the entertainment industry's infatuation with the environmental movement is that if going Green did not currently mean getting green (as in the greenback), then the environmentalist movement would be up a polluted creek without a paddle. Call me pessimistic, but I predict that Hollywood will soon find a new cause and Green art will go the way of all the other dead celebrity causes. We're not going to be the cause of this planet's destruction--Hollywood's fickle thirst for money will be.

In 1941, Preston Sturges filmed a comedy called Sullivan's Travels that was a brilliant "SHUT UP!" to those who criticized his films for not being political enough. In the film, he tells the story of a director who wants to make a politically important film, but keeps getting stuck making comedies. In the film, Sturges sends America an important message about poverty and compassion--but he also sends an important message to Hollywood: life is tough, and sometimes people just want to laugh. It a masterfully subtle work--and its one of my favorites. I'd recommend it along with I am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town--two other powerfully political films from the same era that value subtlety over the club.

A heavy-handed message--even if the message is an important one--rarely stands the test of time. In twenty years, WALL-E will be the dinosaurs that Ferngully: The Last Rain Forest has become. It'll never become great classic. Fortunately, though, the entertainment industry is not interested in making classics with enduring environmentally-conscious messages. The only green they care about is the kind that doesn't grow on trees.

Friday, July 25, 2008

Five Songs That Have Gotten Me in Trouble

Here are five songs that I have had bad experiences with. I'm sure many more songs have gotten me in trouble, but these are the ones I remember best. If I remember some others, I'll let you know--provided this doesn't become a blogflop. Enjoy.

5. "I'm on Fire" (Bruce Springsteen)--It was my turn with the radio on a youth temple trip to Chicago, so I naturally popped a Bruce Springsteen mix tape into the cassette deck of my then-bishop's van. When the Boss started singing about his "little girl" and whether or not her "daddy" were home, the Bishop rightfully ejected the tape, despite my protests. One of the young women present, surprisingly, sprang to my defense and suggested that maybe the Boss really was talking about the father of the "little girl." The bishop didn't buy it, and the mix tape went back into my backpack. To this day, I've never felt entirely comfortable with that song...despite its catchiness and ridiculously funny music video.
4. "Joy to the World" (Isaac Watts)--Once, when I was probably four or five, my older brother and I were watching the original Star Wars movie and became particularly inspired by the scene where Luke, Han, Leia, and Chewbacca get stuck in the Death Star's trash compactor. We commenced singing--at the top of our voices--"JOY TO THE TRASH COMPACTOR!" to the tune of a certain Christmas hymn we knew from church. Within minutes, my mom (who probably doesn't remember this incident) was at the top of the steps, scolding us (at the top of her voice) for irreverently changing the words of a sacred song. We quit, but the trash compactor scene still brings a smile to my face.
3. "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" (Celine Dion)--When this song came out, it became the darling of stake youth dances. I once made the stupid mistake of telling a girl in the stake, who was at the time stalking me, that the song in question was good song to dance to with someone you liked, because it was so long. Well, when the next stake dance came along, guess who was at my side as soon as the song began. I danced with her, of course, but to correct my mistake, I acted like a jerk for the entire 7 minutes and 37 seconds of the song. She quit stalking me after that, and she has said very little to me since. In retrospect, I could have handled the situation a bit better...but I have never been very good at that sort of thing. Interestingly enough, the song was co-produced by Springsteen's piano player, Roy Bittan. I guess it does have some redeeming value.
2. "I've Just Seen a Face" (The Beatles)--I made the mistake of associating this song with a girl in my first post-mission English class. Without the aid of this song, I probably would have let my crush on the girl fizzle out under the weight of my personal insecurities and overall shyness around her. With the song constantly playing on my CD player, however, I became a bit too obsessive about the girl (it was just after my mission), and I got up the nerve to ask her out on a date. The date turn out to be the worst date I've ever been on, and I still feel embarrassed for myself when I think about it today. Funny story, though: a few years after our horrible date, she started working at the BYU Bookstore, where I was already working as a janitor. For the most part, I kept up my guard and managed to avoid crossing paths with her. One day, however, I found myself walking toward her in an empty hallway. She seemed to recognize me, and uttered a friendly "hello." I pretended not to see her, though, and kept on walking.
1. "The Piano Man" (Billy Joel)--When I was about eight or nine, my sister and I spent one afternoon making posters with the old Print Shop program on my family's first personal computer. For some reason--it was probably her idea--we created a poster of a big beer mug surrounded by the phrase "And the mike smelled like beer," which we stole from Billy Joel's classic song "The Piano Man" (substituting "mike" for "microphone" because neither of us knew how to spell "microphone" at the time). Stupid kids that we were, we made the mistake of printing the poster and leaving it sitting around. When my mom found it, she scolded us (and probably sent me to my room) for making a poster about something that could kill people. This incident left a lasting impression on both my sister and me. We still talk about it and relive the shame of that horrible poster.

Saturday, July 19, 2008

10 Words I Hate (But Occasionally Use)

Here are ten words I hate, but occasionally use. Let it be known, however, that I only use a few of these words for their humorous effect.

10. Luscious: A lousy word, especially when someone uses it to describe poetry.

9. Glance: On its own, "glance" is OK. Pair it with "quickly," though, and it becomes idiotic.

8. Delicious: When used to describe food, this word is permissible. However, "delicious" becomes an abomination as soon as anyone uses it to describe a non-consumable. Music, for example, is not delicious. Pizza, in some circumstances, can be.

7. Warmly: I think this is a dumb adverb.

6. Moisture: I've spoken my piece on this word already. I still think it is a curse upon the ears.

5. Melon: I hate both the sound of the word and the taste of the fruit. Who wants to eat something with a name that mimics the sound of someone throwing up?

4. Truly: Truly one of the most overused adverbs.

3. Amazing, Awesome, or Totally: Utah and the mish turned me off to these words. Also, for the record, "awesome" translated into the Portuguese "Otimo" doesn't make it any better.

2. Utilize: This word is for people who want to keep up with the intellectual Joneses. I prefer the unassuming everyman's "use."

1. Wealth or Wealthy: I don't like the way this word makes my mouth feel when I use it.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Mr. Wilberforce Goes to London: A Recommendation

"Mainstream" Mormon cinema has neither produced a great film since 2004's Saints and Soldiers, nor a truly engaging and thought-provoking film since 2001's Brigham City. Evangelical Christian films--or at least those films marketed toward the Evangelical Christian demographic--have not fared much better. While I found the recent Chronicles of Narnia films--particularly Prince Caspian--excellent in almost every way, I thought 2006's The Nativity Story and The End of the Spear were dull, unimaginative, and relatively unengaging. Consequently, when I recently put 2006's Amazing Grace into my DVD player, I braced myself for another bad attempt at spiritual filmmaking.

As usually happens with me and my artistic pessimism, Amazing Grace proved me wrong. Not only is this film thought-provoking and inspiring (a word I use about as often as "amazing" or "breathtaking"), but it is quite entertaining. I highly recommend it. Unlike so many "spiritual" or "religious" films, it never slips into a maudlin piety or become overly hagiographic. In many ways, in fact, the films depiction of William Wilberforce's long struggle to abolish the British slave trade reminds of the David and Goliath-like storylines of Frank Capra's great Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town.

Amazing Grace, of course, is not without its problems. For example, some critics have suggested that the film could have given the efforts of blacks in the British abolition movement a more prominent place. While I am sympathetic to such criticism, I am reluctant to wholeheartedly accept it. The film, after all, is a biopic about Wilberforce, and not the whole of the British abolition movement. What is more, it does attempt to show the efforts of some blacks in the movement, specifically Olaudah Equiano. One of the most powerful moments in the film, in fact, occurs when Equiano, a former slave, takes Wilberforce on a tour of a slaveship.

Despite its problems, though, Amazing Grace is well worth the 118 minutes it takes to watch it. Give it a try.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Twilight of the Guffaws: A Review

The literary offenses of Stephanie Meyer are too numerable to account for in a review of this size. Her overuse of adjectives, adverbs, and crooked smiles is quite apparent to any seasoned reader, and this particular reviewer's opinion is that they--that is, the literary offenses--do not need additional exposure. Few would deny that Ms. Meyer is no Shakespeare. She is not even Edgar Allan Poe, who wears the laurels of America's best bad writer. Her writing--at least in her first novel, Twilight--is on a level higher up than, of course, internet fan fiction--but not that much higher.

I'm not here to quibble over Meyer's writing, though. It's bad, and everyone who reads her novels knows that. It is to Meyer's credit, however, that her writing can be so banal--and yet so entertaining. Yes, that's right. Meyer's writing is crap, but that doesn't stop you from turning pages. I am embarrassed and ashamed to admit it. I really am. In fact, I loath myself for not putting the book down after the second use of the adverb "frostily" (see pages 90 and 173). It will take some time before I can look myself in the mirror again.

Twilight is the story of Bella Swan, a seventeen-year-old geek magnet who can't walk three steps without tripping twice over her own feet. After moving to a perpetually rainy town in the American Northwest, Bella falls in love with Edward, a tortured, statuesque (not to mention "vegetarian") vampire who struggles to suppress his desire to eat Bella. Much of the novel is about the seemingly endless back-and-forth that occurs before this unlikely couple "hooks up," as kids these days like to say. Eventually, Bella and Edward engage in cliche high school romance: crooked smiles, kissing, cooing, love confessions, more crooked smiles, and, of course, tears. Finally, the novel ends with page-turning action and even a little blood spillage.

Not surprisingly, Twilight exhibits little originality; it is My So Called Life meets Dark Shadows on the set of Twin Peaks. And love stories between humans and vampires have been told before--remember Buffy and Angel?--and Bella and Edward bring little new to the table. So, why are people reading and enjoying Twilight? What makes it the popular success that it is? My wife suggests that the book attracts so many readers because Meyer nails the teenage girl psyche. Such an explanation makes sense, in many ways, although it hardly explains why I read (and [cough] enjoyed [cough]) Twilight. I mean, the book is really not my kind of love story (that is, neither lover dies in the end), and Meyer's monotonously bad writing style makes it difficult for me to read a page of it without guffawing two or three times.

Ultimately, I think I liked Twilight because...well, because I just liked it. That, perhaps, is Stephanie Meyer's greatest literary offense: she presents you with a horribly flawed novel (and let me drive this point home, folks, this novel is horribly flawed), and then compels you to like it for no other reason than that you JUST LIKED IT. The novel has too much gooey teenager romance (I don't recommend eating while you read this book--I gagged a few times), not enough violence (the novel's first-person point-of-view ultimately keeps the reader aloof from the story's most action-packed events), and definitely no terror (Bella's too tough of a protagonist to really be scared). But it has some charm, whatever that is.

Well, Stephanie Meyer can take her offenses to the bank. I am willing to bet that any sophisticated attempt to express admiration for this novel ends up sounding contrived and (WWSMS?) "excruciatingly" corny. Consequently, I'm going to quit embarrassing myself and draw this review to a close. I read the book. I liked the book--in spite of myself and my Masters Degree in literature. Those of you who wish to gloat about that fact, feel free. While you do, I'll be reading something tough and literary--so I can feel better about myself.
In fact, I've heard good things about some novel called New Moon...

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Election Anxieties Over

Recently, I have been worried about who I should vote for in America. Fortunately, the following endorsement has helped me make my decision! How lucky we all are to have celebrities tell us how to vote! What would we do without their crucial endorsements?

ENDORSEMENT: 2008

Dear Friends and Fans:

Like most of you, I've been following the campaign and I have now seen and heard enough to know where I stand. Senator Obama, in my view, is head and shoulders above the rest.
He has the depth, the reflectiveness, and the resilience to be our next President. He speaks to the America I've envisioned in my music for the past 35 years, a generous nation with a citizenry willing to tackle nuanced and complex problems, a country that's interested in its collective destiny and in the potential of its gathered spirit. A place where "...nobody crowds you, and nobody goes it alone."

At the moment, critics have tried to diminish Senator Obama through the exaggeration of certain of his comments and relationships. While these matters are worthy of some discussion, they have been ripped out of the context and fabric of the man's life and vision, so well described in his excellent book, Dreams From My Father, often in order to distract us from discussing the real issues: war and peace, the fight for economic and racial justice, reaffirming our Constitution, and the protection and enhancement of our environment.

After the terrible damage done over the past eight years, a great American reclamation project needs to be undertaken. I believe that Senator Obama is the best candidate to lead that project and to lead us into the 21st Century with a renewed sense of moral purpose and of ourselves as Americans.

Over here on E Street, we're proud to support Obama for President.

Bruce Springsteen

Monday, July 7, 2008

My Literary Offenses: Two Poems

Here are two of my poems that I have recently unearthed from the vaults. One was written during my days as an undergraduate; the other one is about them. Enjoy.

Poem #1
The Ballad of the Biker Knight,
or
The Incident at “The Hideaway” Bar

A Tribute to John Keats*

Astride his suicide machine,
The Biker Knight appeared.
He parked the bike beside the bar,
Dust billowed from his beard.

His cracked black leather jacket creaked
As he got off his bike.
An old man sat three yards from him,
Who asked, “You got a light?”

The knight, who wore his visor down,
Replied, “No, I don’t smoke.”
The old man grinned a mossy grin
And while he grinned he spoke:

“Sir Knight,” said he, “I do not ask
Thee for a light for me.
But rather, sir, I ask if thou
Dost have a light for thee.”

The Biker Knight ignored the man,
Confused by what he’d said.
“Your words, old man, ain’t making sense
Inside this Biker’s head.”

Despite the chill of this rebuke,
The old man still kept on.
He grabbed the Biker by the boot
And yelled, “Good Knight, HOLD ON!”

In rage the Biker grabbed the man
and pulled him to his feet.
He shook the old fart violently
Then knocked him to his seat.

The Biker watched the old man writhe
In pain and agony.
He turned to venture in the bar,
But stopped to hear this plea:

“Strong Knight,” the old man whispered faint,
“This warning I give thee:
“Beware the maid with wild eyes--
That Dame is sans merci!”

The Biker smirked, “What do you know
Of women—at your age!”
With that he kicked the man away
And entered in “The Hideaway”
To spend his Biker’s wage.

Inside the bar he heard the sound
Of Country music’s twang.
No one was there except himself.
The Biker snorted, “Dang!”

But just before he turned to leave
He saw a fairy’s child--
At least that’s how she seemed to him—
Her eyes were dark and Wild.

“Are you the tender of this bar?”
He asked, his visor raised.
She nodded “yes” and kissed his lips;
The Biker liked her ways.

“I’d like a shot of whiskey, doll,”
He said with knightly charm
The Fairy’s Child poured the shot—
The Biker saw no harm.

The drink complete, they left the bar
To breathed the outside air.
He placed his helmet on her head—
A garland for her hair.

“Let’s take a ride,” the Biker said.
“This ride’s one of a kind.”
Agreed, she sat in front of him;
He held her from behind.

The Fairy’s Child steered the bike—
Her lover had no clue:
His eyes were fixed on her alone.
He cried, “I love thee true.”

Those words he cried a thousand times
Until he could not peep.
His Biker’s brain turned into mush;
He fell into a sleep.

And as he slept he had a dream,
He saw a wrinkled face!
It was the old man he had met
Who’d warned about that place.

The old man’s eyes were empty holes;
His skin as pale as death!
He cried, “Dull Knight, thou foolish sap,
That dame hath poison breath!”

And then the ancient eyeless man
Displayed a savage sight:
“Behold the ruined men and boys
She used as nothing more than toys
To feed her appetite!”

The Biker Knight looked up and saw
Upon a frozen hill
Frail Biker Kings and Asphalt Dukes—
The victims of her will.

The ghostly roadside royalty
Reached out to touch the Knight.
A Biker King screamed out the words,
“Hey mister, got a light?”

‘Twas then the Biker Knight recalled
The words the old man spoke
Outside that bar called “Hideaway”—
He thought they’d been a joke.

The Biker Knight wept tears of grief,
And as he wept he heard
The old man’s voice condemning him
With fire in each word:

“Without the light that wisdom brings
You had no chance at all!”
I warned thee Knight about that Dame
Now she has thee in thrall!”

And then the Biker Knight awoke
Upon a cold hill’s height.
He was alone—his bike was gone—
The dame had taken flight.

He roams the world on two feet now
Across the Asphalt Sea.
In vain he seeks for solace from
That Dame who’s sans merci.


*And perhaps Brandon, too, now that he has purchased a suicide machine of his own.

Poem #2
Delilah

We have never met, but once I spent
the better part of an evening with the phone
pressed against my ear, my finger dialing
your number over and over again.

I had no good reason to call, no story
to tell, no particular request. My heart
had not been broken, was not bleeding.
I was just eighteen

and it was dark outside my window.
The red numbers on my radio never burned
so dimly, your voice never seemed
so far away.