May 28 2003
Beach(ed) Books:
No reccommended books this week. No time. Instead, here's a little thing I did for KQED radio on the mythic concept of "summer reading" (requires real audio).
Kevin's Mailing List
Where, When, How Much, What Flavor.
Kevin's Mailing List
Where, When, How Much, What Flavor.
No reccommended books this week. No time. Instead, here's a little thing I did for KQED radio on the mythic concept of "summer reading" (requires real audio).
Hey all. Arrived home from Cicago yesterday and slept nearly 10 hours. Must have needed it.
A few nights before, we managed to grab the last available seats for a production of Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind, a brilliant concept from the Neo Futurists theatre troupe. The actors write 30 two minute plays and agree to perform them all in 60minutes. Each play has a number hung from a clothesline above the stage. The audience yells out a number, the actors do that play, yell "Curtain!" then it starts all over again. At the end of the week, they roll a die and whatever number comes up is how many new plays the do next week. They've been doing this way for 15 years.
Oh and it's a blast. Its so neat I may have to import this idea to San Francisco. In my spare time.
Now I'm off again to get all inspired and dizzy and loaded down with free books at the Book Expo America conference, Carnaval for the reading set. I'll be in L.A. until Sunday.
What madness.
Chicago is big. Like very big. If it were a baby, San Francisco could fit snuggly in the waistband of its diaper.
More theater last night. This time, we took in a production of Miyagi!, a musical adaptation of The Karate Kid done in a tiny little theater right by the L. Hilariously fun. And I'm a huge Karate Kid fan. Not ironically, not in an "oh isn't that cute" sort-of-way. I love that movie. Pure of heart, devoid of snickering.
It's, dare I say, the best around.
Blogging live from Chicago.
Word.
My buddies and I took in a production of Concerto Chicago, a spoken-word musical performance about the racial and political history of the city at the Victory Gardens Theater. While the play was only ok, it reminded me that it's just plain wasteful to be in Chicago and not take advance of the great theater happening all over town. And I'm not talking about week's-pay-touring-broadway-tickets for a show you can see next summer in Topeka. I'm talking about homegrown plays to suit any taste and may cost you $15, if that. That's the kind of entertainment bargain that wrenches me away from DVD's and my ass indentation on the couch.
Word.
Off to Chicago for the weekend. Happy Memorial Day everyone! I feel like I should be humming a song about Memorial Day but I don't really know one. Do you?
I wrapped up reading Tim O'Brien's July July, a recommended book from last week via a longish in-bed read on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I can't recommend it enough. The story of a class reunion of sixties college friends thirty years later might leave you cold if, well, the 60's do. But like O'Brien's seminal book The Things They Carried, this one easily outdistances its demographic and deftly becomes more about capital letter themes like Aging, Memory, and The Passage of Time. The characters won't become your best friends but there's enough about them to hook you in. By the end, you're weeping for all of them and anyone you've ever known who gave up on life way before it gave up on them.
July, July by Tim O'Brien (Houghton Mifflin, $26 in Hardcover, 322 pp.)
July, July also whet my appetize for more novels built on brisk, confident storytelling. As I do every few months, I then turned to mystery writer Laura Lippman, whose career I've been following in a freaky, stalkerish way since we worked together at the Baltimore Sun about 8 years ago and her dad was a professor of mine at Johns Hopkins. Laura had just begun work on her first mystery, Baltimore Blues.
Since then, Laura's written 6 novels each better than the one before. Her heroine is Tess Monaghan, a private eye with a quick mind, a propensity for rowing, and a quiet cynicism for most of humanity. All of Tess adventures are set in Baltimore, where her dad is a liquor license inspector, her flirtatious aunt runs a feminist bookstore and her boyfriend Crow is a local musician.
Since I'm only an amateur mystery reader, I tend to stick to books that have a great sense of setting and a protagonist whom, even if I don't like, I'm intrigued by. Tess I probably have an out-and-out crush on, even though I know she'd be terrible for me. And I went to college in Baltimore, the wackiest city on the east coast, so I love its trivia and lore.
These things might mean nothing to you but I'd recommend Laura Lippman's books anyway. They're fun, intelligents reads, bordering on literary, but swift of plot enough to head your fingers clinched around their covers. The latest, The Last Place is on my night table now.
The Last Place by Laura Lippman
(William Morrow, $23.95 in Hardcover, 341 pp.)
During my sick week, I had to cancel appointments and events all over tarnation but I was most disappointed by missing Douglass Rushkoff's tour stops in San Francisco. Rushkoff, a respected technology author and critic, is the author of the new book Nothing Sacred: The Truth About Judaism, which just hit the shelves. In it, Rushkoff has written the book that I wanted to someday and has probably done it better.
Nothing Sacred accuses contemporary Judaism of losing its focus on spirituality in favor for an obsession with combating inter-marriage and raising money. It's a criticism long overdue. Rushkoff also presents bibliolical and halahahic (according to Jewish Law) evidence why this is a patently unjewish mode of thinking and offers alternative he calls Open Source Judaism. In Open Source Judaism, Judaism's sacred texts are constantly evolving based on the commtenary, thoughts and ideas of those make them part of their spiritual life.
Though I haven't dived yet and can't quite imagine how Rushkoff's ideas will work in practice, I'm fascinated by the project itself. And we are more than ready of a thorough reevaluation of what it means to be an American Jew. Bravo to Doug Rushkoff for his courage and conviction.
Nothing Sacred: The Truth About Judaism by Douglass Rushkoff
(Crown Books, $24.95 in Hardcover, 242 pp.)
Les Miserables has closed on Broadway after 6,680 performances and 16 years at the Imperial Theatre. That leaves only Phantom of the Opera left from the crop of big splashy musical happenings that defined Broadway in the 1980s.
Usually musicals, even ones that have made a bajillion dollars and run for decades, close after they start to lose money and it's clear that public interest is elsewhere. I haven't seen any mention of how Les Mis was doing financially but I can only assume some combination of these factors was the case.
Me, I've seen the musical maybe 3 times and loved it. My first car, a crappy 1978 Volvo station wagon had two cassette tapes in the front seat, AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" and the Les Mis Original Boradway recording.
I am no fan of the musicals but Les Mis got me interested (briefly) in the second French Revolution and the idea that Broadway can make an enormous work of classic literature as much fun as a rock concert. Purists scoff at this sort of thing, arguing that the movement started by Cats and amped by Les Mis and Miss Saigon made musicals less about theater and more about fancy sets and clever marketing. I couldn't agree more. Without Les Mis and its brethren, there would be no Mamma Mia and no Disney footprint on the Great White Way.
All true, all true. It just doesn't bother me all that much.
So I performed in Beth Lisick and Arlene Klatte's Porchlight monthly storytelling series. It went ok. I think I need more experience with a microphone and talking on a stage. Suzan noted that I pace a bit too much and flail with the mic, causing my voice to cut in and out, an opinion echoed by my friend Heather Gold, who performed as well. I never knew this.
Sigh. I know this shouldn't depress me but it did a little. I know its all part of creative evolution, to fine tune through experience what you already do well. But to do that you have to leave the honeymoon period of what you do, to acknowledge that not every performance is wonderful, not every time out will be your best. I know its just plain old reality, but I sure liked the honeymoon.
P.S. Everybody else was great. It was a quite an honor to be on the same bill as them.
My review of the upcoming romantic comedy Down With Love is posted on Filmcritic.com. A solid film and a better review than the microwaved prose treatment I served up in my review of City of God.
So this morning I open up the New York Times to a story called "Dating a Blogger" (reg. required) and starring back at me is a Brooklyn blogger named Deirdre Clemente whom I went to college with and directed in a freshmen play.
I'd ordinarily think this was a wild bit of news, especially over a bowl of Grape Nuts at 9:15 on a Sunday. However, something is in the water I drank back then (or recently) because this is the forth person I know from blogging or before who has been mentioned in that paper of record.
Let's review: My friend Maggie was quoted in some story about Gen X. fashions I'm assuming because she wrote a hilarious series about it for The Morning News. Buddy Josh Benton's CD Mix of the Month Club got some prominant mention and a picture that probably scored JB a bunch of dates. Megan Morrone, who is aparently the object of lust of teenage geeks everywhere, is a producer on Tech TV's The Screen Savers but in another life waited in the academic advising line with me at Johns Hopkins as another Writing Seminars major, searching for guidance.
One or two of these happenings and I think "how neat" and glow inside with smugness that I knew some soon-to-be-famous people. But three? Then four? That's just freaky.
The Barenaked Ladies, that wacky group of of Canadian musicans has their own blog, which I think is a splendid idea. As blogs increase in profile, popularity and (*gasp*) significance, more famous will feel the need to have their own. Many shouldn't. I never felt the need to open the craniums of Will Weaton, Adam Curry, or RuPaul and splash around. I'm sure they're all nice people, but life is short.
On the other hand, I've been keeping a flickering eye on "The Ladies" for about 7 years now, when my old college radio buddy Jeremy Hancock brought their first album "Gordon" to be played on our show. I've since seem them in concert several times and own most of their records. And while I think their albums are uneven and their sound plays better in clubs than stadiums, they were one of the few bands I listened to that I wanted to know more about as people instead of just rockstars. And when you're over 15, that's a rare thing. Put another way, I think the guys from Outkast are geniusness but I'm not all that interested in hanging out with them. They're too freaky and mystical and well-dressed to seem approachable. "Approachable" is crucial to BNL's appeal. The medium is perfect for who they are.
My friend Britton sent me this article on Melatonin which is aparently a natural way to assure yourself some quality sleepy time. I just know if it jives with the sleep patterns of someone like me who has been treated for sleep apnea, but I'm going to investigate.
The citizenry of Pamie.com just conducted a drive of books, cash and goodwill for the Okland Public Library system which is in danger of closed branches and reduced hours and services if the city's proposed budget cuts go through.
I got two warm feelings from reading this:
1) The web is a trememdous way to mobilize people quickly and efficiently for doing good. All you need is a high traffic site, a loyal readership and a pursuasive leader like Pamie with an itch. Also, the OPL made good use of their own web sites to indicate to members and concerned parties how they could best help out as well.
2) People love libraries but often take them for granted. On the one hand, have you ever met anyone who said "Eh, get rid of the libraries. I'd rather my tax dollars went to pothole repair?" I haven't either. But, of that same group, how many of us actually set foot in your local library branch? Regularly? Me neither.
I discovered recently that the San Francisco Public Library will not only rent me classic movies for a week at no charge but will ship any book, movie or CD I want from any of the city's branch to my branch, the one 3 blocks from my house. I've tried to get in the pattern lately of alternating between reading books I've got at home (and there are tons, with more arriving every week) and checking something out from the library. I may even start checking out books I own already. Its relatively painless and active library branches are harder to see as dispensible.
When did you last visit your library?
I caught a late screening of A Mighty Wind this Saturday and can't tell you how pleased I was. For the record, I am not a big fan of Christopher Guest's movies. Didn't care for Waiting for Guffman, couldn't stand Best in Show. Both of them I found only fitfully funny, a big laugh followed by a long period of uncomfortable silence. It's exactly how I normally feel in the presence of something that could be funny if the person telling the joke wasn't, at heart, an asshole.
In Guffman and Show, I got the sense Christopher Guest didn't think much of his characters. Sure, he found their silly preoccupations (dog shows, community theatre) cute, comically, a good mine. Genially obsessive people can be a hoot if left to their own devices. I just wanted Guest to move the fuck out of the way and let that happan.
These characters were plenty hilarious on their own. Instead, he gives each just enough time to make an ass of themselves and then moves on the next one. The result: None of them develop enough to be funny as people, but instead are funny as cultural-types: community theatre devotees, dog show enthusiasts, small towners, the unironic. The message: People who are crazy about community theatre and dog shows are funny because their concerns are petty and stupid compared to ours.
I don't find that funny, just mean.
The spiritual ancestor to all these films is of course,This is Spinal Tap (which was made by Rob Reiner, not Guest. Guest played the dim guitarist who insisted his speakers cold go up to 11.), made in 1984. Its hilarity (still, after about 63 viewings) eminates from how completely convinced this terrible band of heavy metal has-beens remain about their own talent and importance, how hard they work at being rock stars when they so clearly aren't anymore. Wind pulls the same trick yet but with a lighter touch. The three 60's folk acts who have assembled for a tribute concert in the present day still float on a raft of their own self-importance. Yet unlike the heavy-metalers who refuse to believe they're careers have been cast out to sea (Reiner clearly thinks they are nimrods), the three folk acts either have no interest in nostolgia, know folk ain't coming back and are a little grumpy about it, or are perfectly context to gut folk and parade around in the carcass for a few bucks. The comedy then comes from watching them poke at, bite, or run away from their own irrelevence. It's got vulnerability and a heart, which makes me laugh even more.
There are some great jokes, and Guest and Co. earn them all (Harry Shearer and bandmates talking about how they had to add the holes to their first records is just a riot) by creating funny characters in a vaguely sad situation and then letting them be. Instead of the cheap, shooting gallery humor of Waiting for Guffman and Best in Show, A Mighty Wind works by laying it on gently rather than being nasty for its own sake.
We're getting better over here. The fever seems to have abated, the muscles no longer feel like they've been meat tenderized. I've still got the sinus aches and congestion, the sore throat but a pill/lozenge combination every 4 hours seems to do the trick.
I was able to venture outdoors today and spent the afternoon watching Powertool Races, which was like Spring Break thrown by the cast of The Road Warrior. Noah's audblog post (in .mp3 format) does it more justice than I could. He gave me a ride home.
I'm going to spend the rest of the day cleaning up, slowing down and getting ready to get back to work. Lots coming up this month. I want to be healthy and present for it.
Red Dirt Revival: A Poetic Memoir in Six Breaths by Tim'm West
(Poz'Trophy Publishing, $14.25 in paperback, 113 p. Available from www.reddirt.biz)
I've been lucky to get to know Tim'm West in the last few months when he sat on a panel I hosted on the Spoken Word movement here in the Bay Area. A poet, scholar, and MC with the hip hop group, Deep Dickollective, his first collection of poems, essays and letters is a linguisitic treat: visual, sharp, potent. West begins with his youth in rural Arkansas (where he remembered the old women digging up red clay to chew like tobacco), up through his education and studies in race, gender and the politics of language, arriving at his understanding of himself as a black gay man and an artist. It's a quick, tough, ultimately redemptive read. You'll be glad you did.
Red Dirt Revival is available through Tim'm's web site
July, July by Tim O'Brien
(Houghton Mifflin, $26 in Hardcover, 322 pp.)
I was finally able to get my greedy mitts on Tim O'Brien's new novel and started reading it right away. I've been a fan of his work since someone gave me a copy of The Things They Carried (to my mind, the 20th century's single best book about war) for my birthday, although I've never managed to read any of his others. Now, I'm about a third of the way through July, July and am remembering why I like his work so much.
The setting is once again the late 1960's, the characters soldiers, activists and college kids each effected by the war raging in Vietnam. However this time, O'Brien structures the story around a 30 year class reunion in July of 2000. Characters, have married, ignited old affairs and wept at the erosion of their dreams.
It sounded a little too much like The Big Chill in print but I'd forgotten what a master at structure O'Brien is. Instead of nostolgic, July, July feels almost preordained. If you never grow up, you'll just be an 18 year old with middle-aged responsibilities. And while his prose can seem overly functional at times, here it's perfect for keeping the large cast and their stories straight.
I've been reading this one during my illness, before bed. It's helped a lot.
Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach
(W.W. Norton, $23.95 in Hardcover, 292 pp.)
This probably wasn't a smart choice for a week when I too felt like a corpse. But Mary is a friend and I figured I had stalled long enough on reading her book. I'm almost done now and it's terrific. A lot of science yes, but Stiff still moves along and a good clip and with a great sense of humor. I'll hopefully finish it up today and then think about who I want to give it to as a gift? Should it be someone a little sick who would laugh? Or someone a bit timid who I could shock? You tell me.
This blog ain't exactly been thrilling reading as of late. And neither have I. Monday morning, I woke up with a sore throat and a headache that felt like a rodent was trying to claw its way out of my skull. A fever followed, along with freezing cold limbs but a hot forehead. Fevers are mean that way.
I haven't been able to work out all week. Meetings with the Canvas Cafe and work I planned on getting down had to be shelved. Yesterday I managed to attend my first Litquake board meeting and proceeded to shiver and cough the whole time, as if I was dethawing between sides of venison. I'll probably miss Jessa's birthday tonight and most likely the KFOG Kaboom on Saturday. Worst of all, I haven't been able to sleep once this week without waking up once every 87 minutes or so.
I know I'm supposed to lay low, to take it easy, to see this all as a sign that my body needed to slow down and rest. I'm just not feeling that generous toward the universe right now. I mean sure, it's great to have watched 5 movies in two days but I prefer, ya know, living.
I'm going to try and put up this week's recommended books tomorrow, only two days late. Hang in there with me.
"We are sick. We are sick. We are sick sick sick."
Kristin and I took in the Trash to Treasures show in Oakland yesterday which was way neat. Sadly there are no pictures on their website, which I just find silly. Then I came home and did a manic 2 hours of housecleaning which felt great.
Today I have the flu. Of all the luck.
I've always thought of myself as the world's least photogenic person. The picture you see here (taken, with skill, by one Ms. Mena Trott) is the only nice picture of me in existence.
Until today...
Rannie, who is now an unqualified master, took some phat photos of me at SXSW. At least half of these make me look way hot. I've got at least half a dozen here I'd feel ok, like, showing to someone.
Which are your favorites?
NOTE: I'm fed up with the Amazon affiliate pogram and have switched my allegiance to Powell's. Powell's is a legendary independent bookstore in Portland with a respected online business. Should you be interested in purchasing the books I mention here, Powells will handling your needs as well as Amazon.
Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Lethem
( Vintage, $13 in paperback, 311 pp.)
I recommended this one not too long ago because friends and people I admired had been raving. I finally promised a couple of them that I would read MB in exchange for them shipping a boxload of used books I had picked up on my last trip to Baltimore (you see how the addiction feeds itself...).
I finished it up a few days ago and while I can't say reading it was unfettered joy, it is nonetheless, funny, sweet, brilliantly conceived, and way way worth it. My friend who recommended it finished reading it in a day. It took me longer (as it always does) but you might rip right though.
The premise: Private detective with Tourette's Syndrome investigating the murder of his mobster mentor who took him in as an orphan. Think Raymond Chandler remade by the guy behind Welcome to the Dollhouse.
I've been told by more than friend that this is an unabashed "guys book", if that sort of thing matters to you--guns, hoods, late nights and flinty one liners. Decide for yourself. It's a great ride.
Red Ant House by Ann Cummins
(Mariner Books, $12 in paperback, 179 pp.)
I was assigned this debut short story collection for review and finished it pretty quickly while in New York. Cummins has had a bunch of stories published in McSweeney's. Dave Eggers is an admirer.
Her stuff is mostly set in the blanched out Southwest, on Indian resevations and in boarded-up mining towns. Most of the narrators are kids, who seem better at living than the adults. It reminded me a little of a magnificant film called George Washington which deals with these same themes and you get on DVD at most good video stores.
There's a few rocky patches in this one (as in Motherless Brooklyn...A theme!) but I never feel too bad about skimming in a short story collection. Overall, Cummins writes with a kind of simplicity that only gestures toward the rather large stockpile of creativity she seems to have at her disposal. The wierdness of the stories (and there is plenty) is played straight , which makes this a mature read as well as a fun one. Put another way, the weirdness made me want to read more instead of groan.
The Dive From Clauson's Pier by Ann Packer
(Vintage, $14 in paperback)
Packer's book set the lands on fire when in came out last year, winning over critics and readers alike. One of the morning chat shows made it a book club pick. It was a New York Times Notable Book of 2002. Now it's out in paperback which makes it the ideal time to pick it up since the hardcover, while well designed, was simply massive and cost a pretty nickel.
Carrie Bell, the protagonist, is 23 and has led a stable existence in Wisconsin as in engaged to Mike, her first boyfriend. After Mike is paralyzed in an accident, she begins to question the choices she made and what she owes those her life versus what she owes herself.
I haven't read this one although I'm mighty curious, even after just writing this little summary. Low plot/high character novels like this stand or fall on their execution. How much to you care about the characters and if the answer is "not much" then how intrigued are you by them? I'm not super familar with Packer's work but those one is sitting on a table in my living room, tempting me. I have faith it won't let me down.
As opposed to Motherless Brooklyn, DFCP would probably be considered a "girl's book," having a female protagonist, being about character and lacking in much gunplay. I find those descriptions pretty silly and point to the cover of any fiction book before I begin with one command "Tell me a good story." This looks like a good story.
So I think the White Stripes are my new favorite band. I first heard them on an episode of "To The Best of Our Knowledge" where a guy named Steve inserted his own bass track into one of their songs and made himself their bassist. This is only funny because the Stripes are a two-person brother/sister outfit from Detroit. See, they dont have a bassist.
When they, along with The Strokes, The Vines and all those other Rock-is-Back, hite-people-yelling music stormed the airwaves, I pretty much wrote it off. Call me overly suspicious but it seemed like some vaguely racist way of the music critics establishment treating hip-hop as a fad by saying "Had enough of that rap business? Good, cuz' we've got some real music for you now."
Well the Stripes have won me over. Their bluesy, mod-pop reminds a lot of early Kinks and earlier Rush (Don't laugh. Listen to the Stripes's "Dead Leaves on the Dirty Ground" and Rush's "Working Man" back to back.) Jack White has just the right kind of whine. Meg White is an amazing drummer who has only begun to reach her potential.
I hear they've got a new album out. Being the kind of fan who gets his "new music" info from NPR, I'm going to buy an older one and see how I like it.
Bookmark Now: Writing in Unreaderly Times edited by Kevin Smokler
