Marseille Madness: Sacrilege and Spontaneity

In the summer, my girlfriend and I spent one amazing holiday touring the Mediterranean coast of France.  In Marseille, we visited a pretty impressive crypt at the Abbaye de Saint Victor.  As we were the only two people in the crypt, we were afforded the liberty to behave in ways that would otherwise be considered malapropos and irreverent.  And I guess it was this unusual circumstance that aroused our collective imagination.  We set out to make a short-film-slash-digital-postcard home.

The short film was meant to be narrative.  The simplistic plot, as best as I can remember it, might be laid out as follows:

1. Boy 'rescues' Damsel from some vague intimation of danger.
2. Damsel and Boy express their love in the conventional fashion.
3. Damsel, for reasons as unapparent as the danger in which she arbitrarily found herself at the outset of the narrative, renders unconscious her new-found lover and exits the crypt alone and liberated.

The film was to flow somewhat like a comic strip, the plot-points above functioning as three distinct 'frames.'

Sadly, this ingenious collaboration was cut short by two inopportune circumstances:  Firstly, a tour group arrived.  We continued to film, as discreetly as possible, before the second untimely circumstance completely halted our progress: The camera battery died.

I hadn't watched any of the raw footage until a few days ago, and viewing it was a delight.  The sound, especially after the tourists arrive, is hilarious-- 'Shh!'  'Hurry up!'  'Okay, ready?  GO!'  'They're coming!'  etc.  I almost wish I hadn't omitted the sound from the following draft.  In watching the raw footage and compiling it for this tentative release, I was struck by just how... appropriate this girlfriend is for me.



Back in the crypt, having given up on our impromptu project (as a result of circumstance), we were sitting in one of the seemingly-ancient wooden pews facing an alter, or whatever candle-ridden religious shrine thing.  We were seated quietly, and there were a few individuals engaged in prayer scattered in pews in front of us.  An older woman approached me, and said, "Excuse me" in French.  I reddened, like a child, the fear that she had observed earlier our outlandish antics overwhelming me like the rush of certainty. 

"Could you please remove your hat?  This is a place of worship," she said, solemnly with just a hint of reproach.  "Pardon.  Je suis désolé," I responded, and removed my fedora.  My relief was immense.

Another Imaginative Reading of My Un-Ostentatious Dress Shoes

Some months ago, whilst substitute teaching at an inner-city school in the Fort, I was bemused by a third grader who inferred that I was a father based on the shoes I was wearing.  Today, another third grader in the same city, upon seeing the very same telling shoes, remarked, "You look like you're wearing cowboy boots."  Such imagination my (I thought) obvious shoes do inspire amongst the minds of tomorrow.

David Foster Wallace's "Mister Squishy"

David Foster Wallace's running sentences [form] give me the sensation that I am trying to out-run mortality [content]:

The haunting pith of it all is buried deep in a deep, deep paragraph:

"The almost-35-year-old Terry Schmidt had very nearly nothing left anymore of the delusion that he differed from the great herd of the common run of men, not even in his despair at not making a difference or in the great hunger to have an impact that in his late twenties he'd clung to as evidence that even though he was emerging as sort of a failure the grand ambitions against which he judged himself a failure were somehow exceptional and superior to the common run's..."       (47-48)

Kurt Vonnegut & Stephen Crane: Text as a Function of Time and Maturity

There is a moment in Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five that has set my mind in a particular direction:

"...Another American volunteered to watch him [Billy.]  This volunteer was Edgar Derby, the high school teacher who would be shot to death in Dresden.  So it goes.

Derby sat on a three-legged stool.  He was given a book to read.  The book was The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane.  Derby had read it before.  Now he read it again while Billy Pilgrim entered a morphine paradise."  (125-26)

The 44-year-old high school teacher Derby, a foil intended in part to highlight the virgin youth of the other soldiers, taught Contemporary Problems of Western Civilization before going off to war.  Imagine his re-reading of Stephen Crane.

It is not a coincidence, of course, that in the chapters leading to the above passage, Stephen Crane was in my consciousness (for the first time in a few years.)  Crane's psychological realism-- the portrayal of his protagonist's abject terror in the face of combat-- subversively rejected the contemporary Romantic notions of war.  The Civil War after all was a war observed (at the beginning at least) by spectators who were enthusiastic to get a taste of the honor and heroism of battle from the vantage of their picnic blankets.  The rupture and alienation that marks Crane's masterpiece is akin to that which riddles Vonnegut's.

It is remarkable to consider the fact that Crane wrote The Red Badge of Courage at 23, without having experienced battle.  Vonnegut's character, Derby, is a high school teacher who had likely taught Crane's novel before the war, and who has-- by the time of his re-reading-- experienced modern warfare.

To get to the point, or, to return to the egotistic...  er... if I may. I was actually quite pleased that the postmodernist Vonnegut referenced the modernist Crane and in so doing, reinforced the association that was in my head at the time of reading Slaughterhouse Five.

The first time I read Crane was in Namibia.

I knew nothing of the novel, except that it was on the list of books one is supposed to read before attending university.  And I had not yet attended university.

My tactile memories of the particular copy I read, which was from a uniformly-bound set of 'classics,' trigger memories of the textures of my intellectual and emotional landscape at the time.  And also memories of the sensuous reality that was my experience in Namibia. (There was a family of baboons that were often to be found in a tree just outside the window where I read...)

A couple years later, in a classroom in Indiana, I encountered Stephen Crane in a class on American literature from Civil War to present:  T.S. Eliot, Hemingway, Flannery O'Connor, Joyce Carol Oates, and Vonnegut, for example.

Text = f (Time and Maturity)

Text seems, from the vantage of my current picnic blanket, a function of Time and Maturity.

Viktor Frankl on Success

Viktor Frankl, in the preface to the 1992 edition of his oeuvre Man's Search for Meaning, recounts the advice he often gives to his students in America and Europe:

"Don't aim at success-- the more you aim at it and make it a target, the more you are going to miss it.  For success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue, and it only does so as the unintended side-effect of one's dedication to a cause greater than oneself or as the by-product of one's surrender to a person other than oneself.  Happiness must happen, and the same holds for success: you have to let it happen by not caring about it.  I want you to listen to what your conscience commands you to do and go on to carry it out to the best of your knowledge.  Then you will live to see that in the long run-- in the long run, I say!-- success will follow you precisely because you had forgotten to think of it."

English Class Project: Conceptualizing an Original Song, Video

Having conceptualized and realized a short narrative film in the first session, and a music video to a pop song in the third, I wanted to take it just a bit further for session 4. The plan: to brainstorm a concept for an original song, to produce a simple recording of the song, and to create a music video for our song.

The first step, of course, was to brainstorm concepts for a song that could be effectively realized on screen. After deciding on the concept, we discussed ideas for the specific imagery of the song. In this way, we outlined the attitude and trajectory of the song. I later spent some time with our notes and my guitar, and transformed this outline into a simple pop song.

With regards to the video, I found the students' acting to be extraordinary. The scene with the goodbyes, for example, is wrenching. The Québécoise with the yellow rose who sings the second verse not only sings beautifully, but actually exudes the aura of a recording artist in the video. And the Russian girl's soliloquy in the third verse is delightful (cartoonish facial expressions and all.) The screen presence of my Saudi actor is, well, special. After a second or third viewing, one gets the impression that it is his profound awkwardness and involuntary eye movements that actually make the video.

This group of students was particularly keen, and I think the end-result reflects their hard work and enthusiasm.

I think "Another Summer, Another Lover," as an original collaborative composition and video project, clearly tops last year's Village Camps English class composition, Irregular Verbs, which has-- with 2,534 views in one year-- risen to the position of Most Viewed out of the 47 videos I have hitherto posted to youtube.

In closing, I have to say a special thanks to our inadvertent extra in the scenes on the train. Imagining a small crew of foreign youth bursting into song and dance at the cry of 'Action!' from your perspective as an innocent train passenger is, well, amusing.

Notes on Zadie Smith's White Teeth

It makes sense to begin a post-colonial narrative in World War II-- the moment that imperialism in the old sense died.

I found Marcus Chalfen to be a delightful foil-- with his anachronistic view that scientific progress equals moral progress. Even as such views (historically speaking) became increasingly untenable after the war, so did the colonial promise of assimilation for the Colonized prove more and more unreachable, imaginary.

Zadie Smith seems to get something of the process of acculturation, and her representations range from caustic and sardonic, to caricatural, to poignant. I love, for example, that Millat is unable to achieve Islamic fundamentalism as a result of his affinity for American gangster movies.

There is something at the same time charming, absurd, and profound in the narrative's revisiting the Nazi doctor, and juxtaposing his Sartrian existential questions with Archie's fate-making coin. The abruptness of this ending, to me, emphasizes the author's unwillingness to concede to meta-narrative (which is also evidenced in her mock-authorial voice.) Smith writes, “…like the independence of India or Jamaica, like the signing of peace treaties or the docking of passenger boats, the end is simply the beginning of an even longer story.”

Zadie Smith's "White Teeth"

I nearly gave up on Zadie Smith's White Teeth at page 85 or so, but pledged to stick it out to page 100. By then, however, I was taken in. These two passages represent samples of an elevated, mock-authorial tone Smith sometimes uses. I love it.

Around the beginning of this century, the Queen of Thailand was aboard a boat, floating along with her many courtiers, manservants, maids, feet-bathers, and food-tasters, when suddenly the stern hit a wave and the queen was thrown overboard into the turquoise waters of the Nippon-Kai, where, despite her pleas for help, she drowned, for not one person on that boat went to her aid. Mysterious to the outside world, to the Thai the explanation was immediately clear: tradition demanded, as it does to this day, that no man or woman may touch the queen.

If religion is the opiate of the people, tradition is an even more sinister analgesic, simply because it rarely appears sinister. If religion is a tight band, a throbbing vein, and a needle, tradition is a far homelier concoction: poppy seeds ground into tea; a sweet cocoa drink laced with cocaine; the kind of thing your grandmother might have made. To Samad, as to the people of Thailand, tradition was culture, and culture led to roots, and these were good, these were untainted principles. That didn't mean he could live by them, abide by them, or grow in the manner they demanded, but roots were roots and roots were good. You would get nowhere telling him that weeds too have tubers, or that the first sign of loose teeth is something rotten, something degenerate, deep within the gums. Roots were what saved, the ropes one throws out to rescue drowning men, to Save Their Souls. And the further Samad himself floated out to sea, pulled down to the depths by a siren named Poppy Burt-Jones, the more determined he became to create for his boys roots on shore, deep roots that no storm or gale could displace. Easier said than done...

(161-62)

Two sons. One invisible and perfect, frozen at the pleasant age of nine, static in a picture frame while the television underneath him spewed out all the shit of the eighties-- Irish bombs, English riots, transatlantic stalemates-- above which mess the child rose untouchable and unstained, elevated to the status of ever-smiling Buddha, imbued with serene Eastern contemplation; capable of anything, a natural leader, a natural Muslim, a natural chief-- in short, nothing but an apparition. A ghostly daguerreotype formed from the quicksilver of the father's imagination, preserved by the salt solution of maternal tears. This son stood silent, distant, and was "presumed well," like one of Her Majesty's colonial island outposts, stuck in an eternal state of original naivete, perpetual prepubescence. This son Samad could not see. And Samad had long learned to worship what he could not see.

As for the son he could see, the one who was under his feet and in his hair, well, it is best not to get Samad started up on that subject, the subject of The Trouble with
Millat, but here goes: he is the second son, late like a bus, late like cheap postage, the slowcoach, the catch-up kid, losing that first race down the birth canal, and now simply a follower by genetic predisposition, by the intricate design of Allah, the loser of two vital minutes that he would never make up, not in those all-seeing parabolic mirrors, not in those glassy globes of the godhead, not in his father's eyes.

(180-81)

English Class Music Video Project: Womanizer

For session 3, I wanted to do a music video with my class. In opening the brainstorming session, I told the students that we needed both a song and a concept for a video. At first, there were plenty of suggestions for songs the students liked, but no visual/narrative concepts to develop into a video.

For my part, I was hoping to persuade them to use Alice Cooper's 'School's Out,' which would have been perfectly appropriate for English-immersion summer camp. Particularly in my badass classroom. They did not buy it. I should have known that in the end Alice Cooper would not stand a chance against the Ubiquitous Britney. Ah, well.

I cannot help but say a word or two on the casting of this video.

I was elated to see the bravery of the Russian boy who agreed to play the role of Britney Spears in the video, particularly when he didn't balk at the idea of wearing not only a dress, but a bikini. I was then, as you would imagine, disappointed when he, wearing the dress, more or less refused to dance or to sing. I count this amongst my failures as director. And I paid for it later in the editing room, where I found myself with no shots of Britney lip-syncing.

The lead, however, was perfectly cast. This Saudi student is as charismatic on screen as he is in real life. After the production and initial screening of the video in class, he confided in me that it was not really possible for his family to watch the video. By Saudi standards, it is scandalous indeed.

Something might also be said for the brilliance of the Russian beauties (that is, the womanized), the random Turkish man in drag, and the Russian boy with the overactive tongue on the other end of the phone line (that was his improvisation, for the record. As if I would give such a direction!)

While I was disappointed by the slaps at the end, which are meant to be on beat, I was quite pleased with the cutting of the knee-to-groin segment.

Parapenting in Leysin

Camera clenched tightly, I managed to get a few shots of the Alpine magnificence whilst paragliding from the Berneuse (2100m.) Snow-capped amazingness, Lake Geneva, the lovely village of Leysin...! Even with my shoddy point-and-shoot, the view-- with just a smidgen of imagination-- is pretty breathtaking.

Advanced English Class Film Project

A short film created and shot by my advanced English class, first session:
The story is based on a well-known legend in Leysin: A sanatorium must be evacuated because of a snow storm, and one patient is accidentally left behind. He waits in the window, signaling with a candle, but no one comes for him and he dies alone. Legend has it that the ghost of the old man haunts the abandoned sanatorium in Leysin to this day.

The concept and story represent a collaborative effort of the class. I did the editing, with obvious input regarding the soundtrack. There appear the following pieces:

• 'Over the Pond' (The Album Leaf)
• 'Scarecrow' (Beck)
• 'Hello Adam' (from the Saw soundtrack)
• Saw final theme
• something from V is for Vendetta
• 'Sé Lest' (Sigur Rós)

(You can guess which selections were my choices and which were suggested by students.)

I was quite proud of the students in the end, and I think the film didn't turn out bad.

Photographs of the Tour de France

I took a few shots from the race last weekend in Aigle.
Below is the only front-runner I got a shot of. (Any idea who he is?)

Green Day's 'Holiday' and the flag-draped coffin in American society (and English immersion camp)

This past week in my English class, I used Green Day's 'Holiday.' I was exposed to this song recently while working with kids in France, where I was exposed to all sorts of pop culture that usually does not register on my radar. The song appealed to me-- it is catchy-- and even kind of got me thinking about Green Day, which is something I haven't done since the days I went to the Warped Tour every year...

In any event, I recently looked up the lyrics to 'Holiday' while searching for eligible songs to add to my campfire set. I was surprised to find a relatively thoughtful political lyric. I decided to teach the song in my English class.

I handed out a lyric sheet with several blanks. We listened to the song twice, and the students tried to fill in the missing lyrics. This was more difficult than usual, not surprisingly, as Green Day's lyrics are nearly incomprehensible even for a native speaker who spent some years in punk rock bands.

Next we discussed the imagery, the mood, and the themes of the song. We discussed the double meaning in words like 'company' and 'gag.' We discussed possible meanings of the title.

Finally, I explained the historical context for the line 'there's a flag wrapped around a score of men' and we read two pertinent news articles. The first was the April 2004 article from the Seattle Times about the photo (above) and the woman fired for taking it and allowing it to be published. The second was a February article from the New York Times reporting the change in the ban-- now such photographs can be published with the permission of the families of those photographed.

And, in homage, I have worked up an acoustic rendition of 'Holiday' for the campfire set. My version sounds quite folky. I wanted to do the inverse of Jimi Hendrix doing 'All Along the Watchtower'-- from rock to folk instead of the other way around. Like Jimi, I wanted to do a cover that people would not right away recognize as a cover. Oh, and I'm using some pretty interesting chord voicings that are almost discordant at times-- which, I think, is a formal choice that works well with the content of the song.

(Note: In class, we talked about the Green Day song as a protest song in the historical context of American protest songs-- Billie Holiday's 'Strange Fruit', Bob Dylan, etc.)

The Wire: Inevitability & Narrative (Season 1, Episode 6 'The Wire')

Shot of Omar's boy sprawled out on the car. Dolly shot-- vertical pan to the electric wire above (stolen electricity coming from a rowhouse across the yard.) Slow tracking shot follows the wire into Wallace's window. Wallace's alarm clock sounds, he gets out of bed, wakes up his 6 younger siblings, and does his best to prepare them and send them off to school.

This sequence, at the beginning of episode 6, is the very first we see since the brilliantly put-together sequence at the end of the prior episode, just discussed in my previous entry. The genius here is narrative.

Character Development

Although we have already seen enough of Wallace to recognize something of his strength of character-- his inquisitiveness, his trust, his general decency-- it is not until now that we are able to see into his habitation. And this view contributes greatly to our picture of Wallace.

We see that he is not only responsible for himself, but for six younger siblings. We are left to imagine the circumstances behind this responsibility, which is a far heavier burden than someone of Wallace's age should have to carry.

And we see the poverty in which he lives. The visual detail-- the mise en scène-- speaks volumes. The dirty mirror, the several mattresses on the floor, the kid sleeping on the couch, the juice boxes and potato chips, the spray-painted 'if animal trapped, call 396-6286' on the particle-board front door.

'Y'all want foster care? Then get those tiny little black asses back in bed,' Wallace snaps at the kids, in their morning sluggishness.

Narrative Genius

The narrative timing is brilliant. We are permitted to peer into Wallace's world just after he has committed an action (namely, pointing out Omar's boy) that cannot but lead to his death, given the discrepency between who he is at the core and what is required of him by his station and trade. The character is developed-- revealed, rather-- just at the moment when we perceive that his days are numbered.

Form

The long tracking shot that opens the episode-- from Omar's boy on the car, to the wire above, into Wallace's room-- establishes the connection between the violent death and the innocent kid, Wallace.

In the first two and a half minutes of the episode, I counted only four cuts. The shots are long. The emphasis is on character development and narrative development, not on ostentatious camera work or editing.

The Wire: Brevity and Brilliance (Season 1, Episode 5: The Pager)

At the end of Episode 5, Wallace (with Poot) comes across Omar's boy -- who was there at the stick-up -- and reports it to D'Angelo. These last four minutes of the episode are simply magnificent in terms of editing and storytelling.

The pacing of the cutting is beautiful. Shots of telephone keypads (fingers jumping the 5, of course!), phone booths, black SUVs, the unmanned computer tracking the pager clone, Wee-Bey with the handcuffs, the shots of Wallace's boyish face, and D'Angelo's-- less boyish, but slightly agitated-- portending, perhaps, that the man is not quite cut out for his line of work...

The rhythm of it all is like the rhythm of poetry. Even as Shakespeare transitions out of prose and into verse for certain significant exchanges (form highlighting content), so do the juxtapositions of frames and cuts (form) in these last four minutes signal developments consequential to the story (content).

These scenes out of context are not particularly fast-paced (particularly in the unfortunate era of CSI), yet what is accomplished in terms of plot is pivotal. The chain of pages and brief telephone exchanges-- that is, what we see-- is the proverbial iceburg poking out at the surface. Knowing the characters-- particularly D'Angelo, Stringer Bell, Wallace, and Omar-- as we do at this point, we realize what a game-changer these few pages and one-sentence telephone exchanges will actually be. And that is the real poignancy-- all this plot development has actually been character-driven.

The dialogue is brilliant-- so incredibly sparse. And the effect of the brevity is pretty terrifying. We understand, at least to some extent-- as do D'Angelo and Wallace (the former a bit more than the latter)-- the significance of what is not said. (Some time later, D'Angelo will ask Wallace what he thought would happen when he, Wallace, paged D'Angelo and pointed out Omar's kid to Stringer.)

And, if you'll forgive my adulation, that the human consequences are present in this four-minute sequence-- that they are to be read on the faces of Wallace and D'Angelo, and in the camera's zooming in on Omar's boy playing pinball, and in the cutaways to the unobserved computer-- is phenomenal, and why I am so obsessed with this show.

Also, in this four-minute sequence, we get another glimpse into the efficiency and power of the Avon Empire (or, perhaps, the Stringer machine?) It is exasperating to see over and again the naivete of the Baltimore Police Department with regards to this empire (Herc, in episode 9-- 'Maybe the whole thing's over and nobody told us. Maybe we won.')

And the last few shots-- D'Angelo waiting, looking pensive. Phone rings. Stringer: 'it's done. Nice work, cuz.' The lingering close-up of the payphone receiver as D'Angelo hangs up. D'Angelo walking away, furrowed brow. Camera goes out of focus. Cut to the unobserved computers and the anachronistic sound of dial-up internet. Computer indicates the duration of the call between Stringer and D'Angelo: 7 seconds. Fade out, bumper music.

Brilliant.

The Wire (Season 1): Particularly Poignant Moments

I hate television, but I am obsessed with the Wire. Recently, I've been working my way through season one again. I began watching the show a little over a year ago, and have long since finished all five seasons. In coming back to the first season for the second time, I find certain moments-- moments that I don't even really remember-- to be so positively literary and beautiful. I thought I might enumerate a few in this blog.

• Bubbles to McNulty: 'It's a thin line 'tween heaven and here.' (episode 4, 'Old Cases.')

McNulty is running late for his son's soccer game in the suburbs, and doesn't have time to drop off Bubbles (his confidential informant) in the projects, so he brings him along.

Bubbles is a man moved by goodness and loyalty; McNulty is an ego-maniacal bastard. These two characters juxtaposed against each other-- and against the middle class soccer-mom backdrop to which McNulty belongs-- is striking. ('Where in leave-it-to-Beaver-land are you taking me?' Bubbles quips.) The pinnacle of McNulty's self-absorption comes when his son interrupts the argument McNulty is having with his ex-wife about visitation-- 'Dad! Dad! Did you see [the goal I just scored]? Did you see?' We see just how full of shit McNulty is in his disingenuous reply: 'Yeah, I saw.'

Afterwards, when McNulty drops Bubbles off in the projects, Bubbles looks at McNulty and offers his philosophical conclusion: 'It's a thin line 'tween heaven and here.' (This utterance is the denoument to the climax of McNulty's lie to his son.) Clearly, the introspective Bubbles has been reflecting. McNulty is barely capable of introspection. Andre Royo's (Bubbles) acting throughout this exchange is stellar-- reaction, reaction, reaction. And it is these reaction shots that, in the broader context of the narrative, do so much for the development of the character.

The long, slow fade-out is characteristic of the aesthetic mark of the Wire. No razzle dazzle. No flash.

More moments to come. Stay tuned. x

Doing Britney Spears

I only recently came across Yael Naim's cover of Britney's 'Toxic.' (I was reading a bit about Naim, whose 'New Soul' I teach to my students.) Of course, I was super curious to hear the cover. Although I do not come from France, as does Naim, I was afterall just coming from France. And I, like Naim, am a moderately clever songwriter (with a penchant for irony) who recently did my own arrangement of a Britney song.

Naim does wonders with the particularly-maladroit Britney single.

In fact, I can't stop listening to the cover, which has a few times proven embarrassing when the inane lyrics and overly-familiar snatches of melody find their way out of my mouth: 'with the taste of your lips, so toxic...'

In any event, I've spent a few minutes doing a far-from-comprehensive review of literature, and I've found a few notable Britney covers that I thought I'd share:

• Franz Ferdinand's 'Womanizer' may be the highest profile cover of recent-Britney that I came across. Franz is freaky, as always. For me, it's just a bit too British Isles for my liking.
  
• Hypeful.com credits Timid Tiger with the third best cover of 2008 with their arrangement of 'Womanizer.' Not terrible, granted. But in my view, Timid Tiger's version doesn't touch my own chanson-inspired version.
• 'Toxic' was re-done for the second volume of Punk Goes Pop. Unfortunately, A Static Lullaby did not have the acuity (or inventiveness?) to drop that damn lick that is so characteristic and so tiresome. Yael Naim's accomplishment was to recognize a song underneath that God-awful violin.
  
• In my estimation, KMG, a Belgian group, is my most-formidable competition for best 'Womanizer' cover.
  

As you can tell, I am still in the American Village-detox stage. Je progresse lentement…

Jay-Z, Lil Wayne classroom decorations

Some kick-ass classroom decorations I found and put up today:
(Thanks to www.bionicteaching.com.)

And, actually, Jay-Z's new video is pretty cool.

I'm Back

I've essentially been in the wind since I came to France, which is pretty odd for me. Not only have I not blogged, I haven't even opened my RSS reader (let alone signed in to Twitter) in months. The break's been good, but I think I'm going to pick it back up.

In catching up:

I arranged a few of the pop-shit songs that I heard a million times a day working with young kids in France in aesthetic terms that made more sense to me. Then I put together a little video-- using my acoustic medley as soundtrack-- that pretty much sums up my experience with American Village. (It's eerily comprehensive, actually...)


And then there was that incredible week spent with a girl I love on the Mediterranean...

Oh, and now I'm back in Switzerland.

That's actually the long and short of it.

Expect more. In the present, of course. x

My Biggest Fan

So at the end of evening program each night, we have a 'warm down' (yes, it should be called a cool down) designed, as the name implies, to prepare the kids for bedtime. The warm down often consists of a guitar player playing a few mellow songs. I find myself in this role frequently.

After the first couple of songs, the other counselors will walk around and tap kids on the head, which signals that they can quietly leave and make their way back to their rooms. In this way, the room thins until there are just a few kids.

Recently, there was this kid who was constantly filming everything we did. The night the photo was taken, he filmed all three of my songs without a pause. He was the last kid to be tapped on the head, but he seemed perfectly unwitting of the circumstance that all his fellow campers had gone to bed and I was singing only for him. Of course, I was more than content to contribute to his countless hours of b-footage.

I love this photo.

Who Stole the Flag video

Here's a little video we put together to introduce our 'Who Stole the Flag?' counselor scavenger hunt.

During morning ESL classes, someone bursts into the classroom with my computer and announces that the huge American flag that hangs in Congress has been stolen. The kids watch 'the footage from the surveillance cameras,' which introduces three suspects.

The three suspects (and sometimes others) appear in a skit later the same day, before the scavenger hunt. The scavenger hunt unveils a clue that points to the thief.

The video is open-ended so that we can take the 'storyline' in different directions via the skit and the clues. The culprit may end up being Ace-bot, the Canadian, Georgette, or any other suspect we introduce in the day's skit (Cowboy Click or the Rabbit, for example.)

Samurai Warrior

Google: 'Vous Pensez au Suicide...?'

I found it pretty jarring to notice that the All-Knowing Google, who IS reading my mail incidentally, is under the impression that I am contemplating suicide. Um...?

(Click image for larger.)

Je commence à parler un petit peu le canadien...

Of course, in coming to France, I was looking forward to the chance to work on my French. It's only in getting here that I realize I will also be picking up an entirely new language. One of my co-workers is from Saskatchewan, and he speaks a whole different language-- Saskatchewanese. Here is a brief vocab lesson for those following along at home:

• bear spray: mace
• bunny hug: hoodie
  

More to come... Ciao. x

Snack Time

So I'm working at an English language immersion camp for French kids at the moment.

This past week, we had nine year olds, and their English was virtually nonexistent. (The vast majority of the kids had difficulty recognizing and responding to the question 'how are you?')

At four o'clock every day, the kids take a break from afternoon activities for a snack. They approach the appropriate window in the chateau and say, 'May I have a snack please?' The counselor then responds in the affirmative and provides some water and something sweet.

Two pretty great approximations of the requisite 'May I have a snack please' occurred when I was doing snack the other day. 'May I have a smack please?' seemed pretty great. But 'May I have some peas?' took the cake. I pictured myself responding in the affirmative and giving the kid a plate of peas, when all his friends had strawberry pastries.

American Badass in France

Bonjour, le petit pigeon

As you know, I came to France to clear my head.

As soon as I heard the news, I was… devastated. I didn’t know what to do. So I just bought a ticket.

I mean, my life has pretty much been defined by my love for one woman. And now… She is married. I came across the announcement in the Journal Gazette in the middle of the night a few weeks ago, after waking from a vivid dream. I was thinking maybe I could find her or a way to get a hold of her or at least some news of her. I never really suspected that she would get married. Or that I would learn of her marriage from the Journal Gazette's website in the middle of the night, after dreaming of her.

I still dream of her.

And so I’ve relocated into a vacant flat off the Blvd St Michel. It is bare, but beautiful still. Fifth story, wood floors, three sets of French doors leading out onto a tiny balcony overlooking the street.

And I have my guitar, which is how I’ve always made sense of the world around me.

The other day, a pigeon shat on my favorite grey coat. The simple gesture seemed somehow grander, so I took up the guitar.

I explored a certain musical motif which originated as a collaboration between myself, my bandmate Ben, and my housemate Nate (a famous musician in his own right.)

I have since relocated to the countryside, where I am currently taking residence in a forlorn chateau. The video represents something of my fractured world. There is sunshine, yes. And there is beauty, but there is a foreboding sense of loss that overshadows everything.

I am trying.

[from the pages of my journal. reprinted here for purely therapeutic reasons.]

Jude and the Illusion

Turns out there was a webcam running during a recent Jude and the Illusion practice, resulting in this sneak peak look into the creative workings of one of today's most-imaginative rock outfits.

Don't miss Jude and the Illusion at the Rollerdome (south) in Fort Wayne, Indiana this Wednesday evening at 6pm!

My Hips Don't Lie video

When the sun comes out after a long winter, I often find myself doing unaccountable things.

Adventures in Substitute Teaching: Sharkboy Bunny

The other day I'm doing science with Kindergartners.

Each student has a little paper bunny with a flap attached to the back so that it stands independently. The students color the bunnies before we move on to the experient: Using a flashlight, the students create, manipulate, and measure (with a ruler) different shadows with their bunnies.

There were some pretty great comments:

'Look at my bunny-- I colored him like a fruit salad.'

'My bunny's name is Sharkboy.'

'My bunny's shadow was 28 pounds!'

Dance of the Leprechaun

Another scene from that recent American roadtrip.

Adventures in Substitute Teaching: Daddies and Sitars

It might have been a substitute teacher who first pitched the show Kids Say the Darndest Things to CBS.

THIRD GRADE.
A third grader interrupts me-- evidently without noticing he is doing so-- 'Are you a daddy?'

I am put a little off-guard by his candor and curiosity, and I don't answer right away.

Of course, a discussion breaks out on the topic. One kid expresses his firm conviction that I am, in fact, a daddy. The boy who asked me astutely points out that 'some strangers don't got no people', which, I think, is his way of saying that I am not necessarily a daddy.

He, the originator of this edifying conversation, regards me for a moment further before concluding, 'He is a daddy. 'Cuz he wouldn't have them shoes if not.'

I laugh, and take a second to record the dialogue in my substitute teacher notes.

KINDERGARTEN.
A blissful afternoon spent teaching music to kindergartners. A brief video showing music instruments from around the world. A sitar player.

One little boy says, 'I saw that guy playing that at a restaurant.'

Thinking he might have seen a sitar player at an Indian restaurant-- but knowing just enough of the enigmatic ways in which kindergarten minds work not to assume-- I say, 'What kind of food?'

He looks at me a bit puzzled, as if straining to remember. 'The pepper kind...' he says, noncommittally.

I try to reconcile this odd description. Indian food contains peppers, right?

Remembering suddenly, he says, 'Actually, it was Chili's.'

Imagining History, Imagining Myself

Hooked On a Feeling...

In one whirlwind of an election year, I saw the following high-profile political personalities in person: President George W Bush, Bill Clinton, Hillary Clinton, Michelle Obama, Sarah Palin, Arnold Schwarzenegger, John McCain, and President Barack Obama.

Before I stood a few yards from the then-president Bush, I never really thought about sharing a room with a head of state. I am super-emo when it comes to history, though, and the feeling was stirring.

Of course, highly emotional experiences can have unintended chemical consequences... mysterious reactions... implications for the sympathetic division of the nervous system... forging inscrutable, often-paradoxical dependencies...

And so I grew more and more addicted to the experience of political groupie-ism. More specifically (I realize after some introspection), I grew addicted to the feeling of isolation that is inevitable at a political event.

An excerpt from my blog after the Bush speech:

...it was perfectly alienating when the president emphatically declared something to the effect of-- 'It was the right decision when we went into Iraq, it is the right decision now, and it will be the right decision forever!' Violent applause ensued. Despite my generosity, I could not join the standing ovation. I remained seated, trying to act natural. Yikes.

And from another entry after Michelle came to town:

Despite some bizarre prelude (including a nearly incoherent speech from a hopeful candidate for attorney general, an irresponsible claim that 'Barack is our hope', and a public recitation of the pledge of allegiance, believe it or not!), the event was amazing.

I would submit that Michelle's speech, though 'amazing,' was not quite so invigorating as the feeling of isolation ensuing from the preceding 'incoherent speech', the rapturous profession that 'Barack is our hope', and the saying of the pledge (which never fails to arouse in my mind a certain disdain for America, if only by implication.)

I chose Bush and Michelle to illustrate my point as their speeches, respectively, were the most exasperating and the most inspiring. Yet, in this one respect, my emotional response was the same-- isolation.

There's something inside me that resists joining in the anthem in unison. There's something about retaining individuality in the midst of a mob. I cling to my individuality. I've been called a contrarian, which is a fair accusation. In fact, I think it is this penchant in me to resist the pull of the imagined community that is so positively American. Even more patriotic than clinging to guns or religion.

At the Sarah Palin rally at the Fort Wayne War Memorial Coliseum, I experienced the apotheosis of my own personal, experiential transition from Bush to Obama. This, I guess, was to be expected.

The Sarah Palin Incident

Permit me the digression. I showed up way early. There were only 100 or 150 people in line in front of me, and it was a stadium event. Picture an unseasonably cold day to wait outside for multiple hours. You can imagine the ideological purity of those willing to brave the cold... And then there's me.

It didn't take long before the extremely unobtrusive blue button was spotted on my manbag-- Obama '08. Immediately, there were two Palinites in my face, threatening violence, demanding to know what I was doing there. I was taken aback by the display, but resolved to play the Gandhi. 'I'm not looking for any trouble.' A circle of people enveloped me. The ringleader, egged on by the crowd, persisted to spout intolerance and violence.

To be honest, I hadn't given a thought to the Obama button. It had been on my bag for a few weeks. It's not like I adopted it especially for the Palin rally. I suppose I was a bit naive not to consider with whom I was dealing...

In any event, inch by inch, I gained some ground. After several minutes of threatening yells offered just inches from my face (which I endeavered to keep equable), someone from the perimeter shouted above the din, 'let him speak!'

This had been suggested before, but evidently failed to compel the ringleader. The yelling and intimidation had not subsided. This time, however, a few people seconded the suggestion and there opened up some scant space for me to defend myself.

Of course, I refused to defend myself in the way they must have hoped I would. I insisted, 'I'm not looking to stir up anything. I'm like you-- I'm just here to hear Governor Palin speak. She may be the next vice-president of the United States, afterall.'

Seemingly unconvinced of the benignity I professed, the ringleader proceeded to toss inflammatory challenges my way: 'How about that despicable Bill Ayers?' 'Barack Hussein is a socialist! Is socialism what you're after, then?!?' etc.

I admitted to the mob that if Obama were to get elected and if he then appointed Bill Ayers to his cabinet (a hypothetical scenario they insisted I address), that Obama would immediately lose me. This, as he promised not to do that.

I suggested, in an attempt not to seem ironic, that my fellow rally-goers see me as 'potential.' This actually caused a few of them to pause and consider. 'So you are an undecided voter, then?' I was pretty proud of my off-the-cuff response: 'Well, we're all undecided until we press the button, right?'

(Later, in telling this story, I was called out by Steve, who said that this response was disingenuous. Well, I rebutted, what I said was true at least literally. I mean, for example, if it had come out as an October surprise that Obama and Osama Bin Laden had had surreptitious sexual encounters, then certainly I would not have voted for Obama.)

In any event, I was simply trying my best to pacify a veritable mob. There were moments where I very ingenuously wondered if I was to encounter physical violence. Thankfully, I didn't in the end.

And so inch by inch, I gained ground until I was no longer seen as a serious threat. Sure, there were copious witticisms and verbal jabs lobbed my way, which circumstance was to be expected. And most of them were not overly inappropriate, save for a few audacious remarks. I actually heard someone say, 'What's the "n" in "change" stand for? N*****?' WTF! Although I certainly would have addressed a comment like that in 'real life', I was in no position to do so in this peculiar Other World.

Not long into the standoff, I was accused of being close-minded for wearing the button. The ringleader insisted that I take off the button, if I were in fact open-minded. I continued to pursue harmony at every turn, but I decided inwardly that I was not going to remove the damn button. I suggested that that was what was great about our country-- it was possible to wear a button as a form of peaceful expression without fear of violence or suppression. My audience remained dubious as to this argument.

I did manage, thankfully, to defuse the explosive situation in the end. And, believe it or not, I actually ended up conversing with some pretty thoughtful people. For example, one woman whom I met (and to whom I was introduced as 'the liberal') had been to several Republican conventions and had worked on Quayle's campaign back in the day. She was actually very generous and well-spoken. We were able to dialogue meaningfully about the issues that were important to us. And in her thoughtful responses to my questions, I felt like I could understand more how she was seeing things. It was great.

Another woman who was sitting just behind me in the coliseum, noticed my inauspicious button and expressed surprise and curiosity. She explained, though, that she 'got it.' Her son was in Bible college and was enthusiastic about Obama. She said that it was difficult for her even to imagine voting for a democrat. She was evangelical and culturally conservative. She had been raised that way. Then again, she observed astutely, so had been her son. I told her that my experience was very similar to hers. I come from an evangelical background and my parents are staunchly conservative. I told her that it had been a difficult election season as we have had to learn how to talk about things and engage in meaningful, respectful discourse. My friend did, in fact, 'get' where I was coming from.

Later, Congressman Mark Souder, a well-known douche-bag, in emphasizing the importance of voting (to paraphrase: we can have no influence in what happens in California or Ohio, but we can make a difference here in Indiana), called upon a verse from the Old Testament: '...as for me and my house, WE WILL VOTE MCCAIN / PALIN!' Naturally, I was pretty shocked at the Congressman's blasphemy, but delighted when my newly-found Republican friend leaned forward and said, 'That's not how I remember learning the verse.' I laughed and corroborated her memory, 'Yeah, that's not how I learned it either.'

Without getting into any of the inane things that Governor Palin offered from the stage, I think it's easy to see why I consider this event the apotheosis of my experiment in socio-psycho-political isolation...

Imagining History

Here is a thought that I have found to be compelling this election year, and stimulative to my imagination: My family have been in this country for several generations. Unless I am miscalculating, I am pretty sure that my family were here for the election of Abraham Lincoln. I love to imagine how my family may have seen Lincoln. To be crude, did they (some? all?) vote for him? Did they distrust him? Were they aware of what was going on around them? I have no way of knowing. Still, my imagination runs...

Similarly, I have roots in the German part of Switzerland. (These ancestors first came to this country as part of the Anabaptist movement.) Unless, again, I am mistaken, I am pretty sure I had family just across the border from Germany during the Reformation. I love to imagine how my ancestors might have seen this. Again, were they aware of what was going on? Were they resistant to the new ideologies? Or were they instrumental in the spread of such ideologies? Did these events cause rifts between my ancestors, my family? I love to imagine how things might have played...

Another thought: When my grandpa was my age, how was he experiencing American politics? Was he engaged? How did he see things? How did his experiences shape his views? My grandpa was 24 years old when Dwight Eisenhower was elected. You know, I'd love to read my Grandpa's blog from that year. I'd love to see his thoughts and impressions of history unfolding before his eyes... Of course, my imagination has to fill in these gaping holes.

My grandpa, in 2009, probably has no idea what a blog is. Which makes me wonder... Will my grandchildren have any idea who Sarah Palin was? I hope they have the chance to read right here what their grandfather thought of her. (Luckily, their great-grandparents were not bloggers, thus they don't have to read their dissenting views...)

But back to my grandfather. From what I can piece together, he was in Korea in 1950. I would give anything to be able to read about his thoughts and experiences... But he didn't keep a blog.

Right and Wrong

I know that I have tended to frame the argument in starker terms of right and wrong than I actually believe to be appropriate. Abraham Lincoln. The Protestant Reformation. Sarah Palin. Come on, man. We see what you're up to.

The thing is, who cares if my grandpa was 'right' or 'wrong' in his views of the Korean War or of Dwight Eisenhower (or perhaps more interestingly, Kennedy, who was just eight years later...) It'd be great to read what he was thinking at the time. It'd be great to contrast that with how he sees things retrospectively. And that's really the point of all this for me.

Righting My Wrongs

I have come to terms with the actuality that I cast a vote for George W Bush in 2004, after voting for Ralph Nader in 2000, (the skin behind my ears sufficiently damp.)

I was in Namibia surrounded by Europeans and Africans when I first saw the images from Abu Ghraib.

I still voted for Bush a few months later.

But to be perfectly candid, I began to pay attention in 2004. I kept up a little bit on politics before that, but in 2004, I became more stringent about it.

Having spent significant time abroad since the re-election of George W Bush, I have come to believe that it was not so much his election that decimated the image of America abroad but his re-election, which was seen (rightly, I now believe) as unconscionable.

When Bush resisted McCain on his torture bill, I was absolutely exasperated. At that point, I was finished with W, so to speak.

I first began to see myself as an active supporter of Barack Obama after Samantha Power came to town on November 13, 2007. She mentioned that night that she was working on the Obama campaign, which left a deep impression upon me. Power's book A Problem From Hell: America and the Age of Genocide, I want to believe, changed my life. The fact that Barack Obama, with whom I felt something of an affinity since the 2004 convention speech and his acceptance speech in Illinois, was looking to academics and experts (in genocide, no less, an issue that means a lot to me) and not party hacks was striking. The more I learned of Obama, the more I supported his campaign.

I remember my astonishment and excitement when Obama won the Iowa caucus on January 3, 2008. And so a narrative began...

From Bush to Obama

I love that my enumeration of high-profile political personalities seen in-person begins chronologically with President Bush and ends with President Obama. This was my experience, and it was full of wonderment and meaning. Even Indiana eventually went for Obama; even Indiana mattered.

In late December 2008, I commenced a road trip with three friends. We ventured west, to California ultimately, with just a rough-draft of an itinerary. It took a little more than three weeks. From L.A., I flew home for a few days before heading east to Washington D.C. for the inauguration of Barack Obama. The trip, as you would imagine, was epic. It was my first time out west and my first time in California. We saw the Grand Canyon. We spent meaningful time with numerous friends scattered between here and both coasts. From sea to shining sea. The trip ended at the inauguration of the new president. A great American moment.

What is obvious is this: January 2009 will almost surely be the moment in my life in which I loved America the most. There is some evidence, in my estimation, that Barack Obama will make a good president. I hope he does, for the sake of this country and for the sake of the world. Of course, many candidates with ample potential mature into mediocre presidents. Time, as they say, will tell.

Regardless, January 2009 will forever be an American moment for me. I'm glad, and grateful, to have lived it.

Oh, Kate Winslet

Was re-watching an old episode of Ricky Gervais's Extras with Ben, the episode with Kate Winslet:

I had seen the episode before but had completely forgotten about this exchange. I hope Kate's happy with her Holocaust Oscar.

I'm still bitter that Anne Hathaway was robbed. Justice is rarely done when the Academy is involved.

The Wrestler

The Wrestler means something to me that Requiem for a Dream and Pi will never mean. The Wrestler is character driven in a way unprecedented for Darren Aronofsky. It is subtle, deft, honest.

I was drawn into a world I would otherwise never have gone.

And I saw myself, the world which I know, and another I never would have known or even guessed in a fresh new way thanks to the film. Or, The Wrestler holds a place in my high esteem for the same reasons The Wire does. Or even Monster Camp, which was whimsical and hilarious.

The film is touching and poignant, and too true to be sentimental. Its attempt to create meaning in the face of mortality is laudable and universally relevant. In short, the film is beautiful.

Slumdog Millionaire

Resplendent. Shot after shot. The framing, the colors, the lighting...

The optics of this film really just are that good, good enough to atone for the film's shortcomings, which are numerous.

I was reminded-- naturally-- of City of God (another film wide-open to criticism for aestheticizing poverty.*) I was also reminded of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, which is as visually striking, and arguably even more ambitious for taking on an even more unlikely (I know, right?), more impossible story.

Of course, Slumdog Millionaire is impossible as a fairy tale is impossible. Diving Bell's impossibility is more mature, more grown-up.

I was also reminded, strangely, of Shakespeare. I mean, Romeo and Juliet is an aesthetic accomplishment above all, right? The plot is almost irrelevant-- or at least, the plot is not what is positively Shakespearean. It is not the plot which takes the breath away. It is language. It is the aesthetic.

And it's the same in Slumdog Millionaire. The outrageous plot and flimsy narrative (protagonist's episodic life-story coincides linearly with gameshow questions) seem forgivable in the glorious afterglow. What is salient-- or at least, what puts one off the scent-- is the magnificent visual juxtaposition of the gameshow and the slums.

So what if there is a disappointing Disney proclivity in the storytelling? What if the film is somewhat 'showy'? The music is exultant, by the way. And while the film is certainly not a great film, it is, in the end, a great film.

I mean, when those little kids are dancing on the train platform as the credits roll... !

* "poverty porn," according to a columnist at the London Times (thanks to Dennis Lim.)

TLC according to Eric: No Scrubs

Yesterday, I worked up some 90s hits on my guitar:

• Hey Jealousy (Gin Blossoms)
• Stay (Lisa Loeb)
• I'll Make Love to You (Boyz to Men)
• No Rain (Blind Melon)
• The Sign (Ace of Base)

One of my housemates and his girlfriend were about the house.  She put in a request for a TLC song that was unfamiliar to me.  I worked it up, though.  Unfortunately, they had left before I arrived at my interpretation of the song.  Thus, I decided to youtube it for her.  (I was alone when I began recording the video, but as it turns out...)  

Enjoy.  xx

Timbre

At the Grind. A veritable timewarp into my evangelical coffeehouse youth... An all-ages high-school dreamland of love, the Lord, and lattes. And high school ROCK. I was there for Timbre, that celebrated indie harpist who's played on every indie record that features a harp. Seemed like something I should check out.

To be honest, I expected a charming gimmick. A mediocre, run-of-the-mill writer wallowing about in those familiar minor keys of narcissism... But hugging a big, lovely, exotic instrument.

I was wrong. Timbre is no gimmick. She's for real.

The first thing that struck me was the movement from song to song. She opened with something in Latin, moved on to a Tim Burton-inspired number she wrote for a film. Then on to a sweet and sorrowful number in French. Then more Latin. There was an absolutely striking cover of Radiohead's 'Spinning Plates.' There was an unassuming song about a cheating lover. And then an idyllic Indiana-inspired song of fireflies and wrap-around porches... (If memory serves, this last number was an instrumental.)

The musical motifs were all various and beautiful, but the movement was simply enchanting. There was the theological, the fantastical, the personal, the linguistic (an avowed appreciation for language and an implicit belief in the inherent beauty therein), the geographical. And yet, somehow, there was coherence. It was magical, I'm telling you.

There is something in Timbre's musical sensibilities of the singer-songwriter. Something else resolutely indie. Some folk. But her sensibilities are also classical-- which is evident quite early in the way her chord progressions stray skillfully from the diatonic. (In chatting with her, I learned that she comes from an extraordinarily musical family. If memory serves, both parents are conductors, and she has a sibling named Tetra-- as in, the first four notes of the major scale. But don't quote me on this.)

In sum, Timbre's performance was enthralling and beautiful. You should go see her perform immediately.

(And if possible, you should invite her and her band to come over after the show and have a spaghetti party in the middle of the night, because they are fun people. And if you are really lucky, perhaps Timbre will set up her harp in your living room and add some magic to your housemate's band's impending record. Wow. What an experience.)

Joyce Carol Oates

Two tasty excerpts from Joyce Carol Oates's All the Good People I've Left Behind:

She had not showered at his place but had walked all the way back to her own. A foggy morning, but warm. Too warm. . . . In the cramped shower stall in her apartment she had spoken his name out loud and felt nothing, nothing, not even surprise or distress; not even disgust. (136)

***

He was a sculptor, he said; did she know what that meant?

It meant that everything was material, potentially: material in the basic sense of the word. It might begin by resisting but eventually it would surrender, if he chose to pursue it; otherwise it would be broken. Did she understand? He laughed, enjoying his own audacity. He might have been joking. Annie laughed, as if she believed he were joking. She had tried at first to talk to him about her own ideas, and about the paintings she liked in the museum, but he had dismissed them contemptuously-- and that Suzor-Côté, what a fraud!--the post-Impressionists had failed to come to grips with the structures that underlay everything, with the basic fact of life which was-- not life at all, but death. Everything else, Philip said, was fraud.

His sculptures were small, peculiar, quirky things, rather ugly, rather stirking. He called them "artifices." They were fashioned out of once-organic material, for the most part, things he found in fields or alleyways or trash heaps or in the gutter: the skulls of mice, rats, squirrels, even cats or dogs; stray bones; mangy bits of fur or hair. In his hands they achieved a quasi-living appearance. . . . though, Annie thought, staring at them, they were really a mockery of life, an ironic, cruel comment on the nature of organic life itself. "how ugly, how really ugly,' she said. "How horrible." Yet her tone was admiring, she had to grant Philip his subject, his style, his art. It was the first law of art, which Annie had long ago accepted: one must grant the artist his art. It was only the skill with which he or she executed it that mattered.

This was my first Joyce Carol Oates novel and I loved it. Sadly, I forgot to renew this item (and a few others) before the library had a chance to soak me in fees which I can't really afford. Seriously. In this credit crunch, I can't even get credit from the library.

Bon Iver

From a conversation with Luke about Bon Iver.

Luke: It's good winter music.
Eric: 'Bon hiver' means 'good winter' in French. So, yes.

Donald Miller's Account of the Inauguration

I've not really read any of Donald Miller's books, but he's a guy whose ideas I encounter a lot.

I've been following him on twitter-- particularly when I was in DC for the inauguration. (Just about everyone I follow on twitter was at the inauguration tweeting away-- including MC Hammer, Karl Rove, John Dickerson, etc.)

I guess Donald Miller represents something to a kid like me-- as in, 'y'all don't know what it's like to be male, middle class, and white' (in the Ben Folds idiom.)

I found his account of the day strangely touching. I cried a couple times. I also laughed a couple times... like at my fav line in the post: 'My fingers were so numb I couldn’t twitter.' (yeah, I was there and that's spot on.)

And also, by the way, it's amazing the bit about him incidentally standing by Wendell Pierce and then running in to him later at Dulles!

Adventures in Substitute Teaching: High School French

Today, for the first time, I subbed for a high school French class. I'd been waiting for this moment for some time...

I wrote 'Monsieur Brodoteau' on the board. (Authors and rock stars adopt stage names-- why shouldn't substitute teachers?)

I introduced myself in French, and launched immediately into an impromptu lecture on gender and sexuality in contemporary French film (a topic I'd been thinking a little about lately.) The class was an advanced class, and though perceptibly shell-shocked, seemed to catch the gist of my arguments.

My mini-lecture lasted no more than fifteen minutes before I rather abruptly concluded, and proceeded with the lesson as planned by the absent teacher: I pressed play on the VCR and we watched the second half of Disney's Beauty and the Beast in English.

Frost / Nixon

Richard Nixon is an epoch of American history that I feel quite removed from. I feel intimately acquainted with John Adams (thanks to David McCullough), Abraham Lincoln (thanks to Doris Kearns Goodwin), and Bill Clinton (thanks to Samantha Power.) Still, Nixon is something far off. Perhaps this is why I could only read Ron Howard's film in terms of George W. Bush-- 'When the president does it, that means that it is not illegal.'




I gotta say, there is something about the narrative arc of this film that offends me. So much depends upon a drunken conversation-- a fabrication of Peter Morgan-- and Frost's subsequent mention of the conversation the next morning at the outset of their final and pivotal session. (The conversation by this time has been completely forgotten by the ex-president.) Keep in mind-- the offhand remarks that precede the prior sessions function (in the film) as indicators of strategy, state of mind, and strength of resolve. And now the juggernaut Nixon has drunk-dialed his adversary the night before they're on to Watergate? After all that focus and resolution? I'm sorry, I'm not buying. If Richard Nixon is the intellectual giant that he is portrayed to be (and I have no reason to believe he was not, given my own vacuous historical ignorance) and if he is to be the embodiment of shrewdness and Machiavellian instinct, well... Nevermind.


There is little in this film for me-- which is really disappointing... and bizarre! (Usually I'm a sucker for the American history thing!) Though I have little conscious history with Ron Howard, I now suspect that I dislike his aesthetic. Guess I should have learned way back at Da Vinci (oohh Audrey!) Let us hope he does something a bit more satisfying with Arrested Development.


Oh, but Frank Langella's performance is really something. And to be fair, the film isn't that bad. It's probably worth a watch.

newspapers suck

An excerpt from the Washington Post, January 19th pre-inaugural edition: an FAQ entitled 'Where to Go, How to Get There and What to Expect.' Pretty striking sentence in response to the question of whether or not to bring along the kiddies-- 'If you have a large, incorrigible child who won't be bribed into a no-whining pact, it might be best to stay at home and watch on television.' How the bloody hell did that sentence make it past an editor?

I thumbed through a copy of the Journal Gazette yesterday whilst subbing. It turns out I haven't read the paper in quite a time. I was pretty amazed at some of the schlock. Not that the Gazette is anywhere near the caliber as the Post. Did come across a shocker from the AP-- Berlusconi's a douchebag.

patriotic shoe-throwing

Here is Steve patriotically tossing his shoes in Dupont Circle.

'Justice has been served.'

Doubt

Exceptionally tight and coherent. There is no 'what is this movie about?' There can be no 'what is the significance of the title?' From the opening sequence-- a sermon on the meaning of doubt-- the terms are apparent. There are three characters. And there is the theme, ubiquitous without being labored or tiresome. Exceptionally tight, yes-- ordinarily I don't like films that are this tight. But I loved Doubt.

Firstly, the pacing. There is a certain levity in the pacing that I didn't expect. Knowing the subject matter, I guessed that the film would feel heavier than it actually does. In fact, the film moves quite lightly-- there are plenty of great humorous moments that elicited some pretty hearty laughter from me and my fellow cinema-goers.

As to the acting, Meryl Streep and Philip Seymour Hoffman are GIANTS. I wonder if the film could have been carried by lesser actors. I'm glad that the question is just a hypothetical. Both Streep and Hoffman are absolutely delightful to watch in this film (unlike Hoffman in his other important film this season.)

There are all these strange diagonal shots of hallways and rooms, which are a bit obvious, but effective.

One aesthetic decision I found myself to be fixated on: At some point during the climactic scene, there is a dramatic pause in the heated dialogue between Hoffman's character and Streep's. During this pause, there is thunder. Of course, the thunder was inserted into the soundtrack in post. I'm not saying that I don't get the thunderstorm imagery, it's just that I think the imagery is completely superfluous. I mean, seriously! We get it!

Something that surprised me was the feminism thread in the film. Streep's character feels trapped in a world dominated by paternalism. The imagery of her world is explicit-- fathers, sisters, sons, daughers. She has learned a deep distrust for men, which seems to inform the unmoving certainty of her convictions. Her only recourse is cleverness-- 'to outmaneuver the fox' to paraphrase her words. The viewer is left to imagine under what circumstances this distrust has taken hold in the protagonist's worldview, and to determine if the distrust is reasonable, justifiable, useful...?

You might know that the play from which the film was adapted is contained within one act. The second act was said to be the inevitable conversation that ensued upon exiting the theater. To wit, did Father Brendan Flynn (Hoffman's character) actually do it? I knew this premise going into the film, and was still surprised by my emotional inclinations. Here we go.

I couldn't believe how unequivocally I felt Hoffman's character to be innocent. I expected to find myself caught in the middle, and I never was. Perhaps I am confusing 'innocent' with 'not guilty'-- the unavoidable verdict given the dearth of evidence. Nonetheless, my sympathies lie with the priest, in whom my confidence was not shaken by the imputations of the sister. So there it is. Let me emphasize-- it is the lack of equivocation in my emotional response that surprises me... which is probably why I was struck when Hoffman's character says, during the climactic scene, something to the effect of the following: 'If you're feeling certainty, remember it's an emotion-- not a fact.' It's as if the film were speaking directly to me at that point. [trailer]

sí se puede

A Perfect Way to Spend A Saturday in January

El Matador, Malibu.

Skiing in Colorado

Ben, Luke, and I shredding the gnar at Breckenridge. Experience the vertiginous bliss.

Creative Political Expression in a Burbank Bathroom Stall

Try to pronounce this witty neologism-- it's strangely satisfying...

microblogging the progress

Albuquerque, NM.

Wading cautiously into the world of Twitter... Microblogging the progress of the Great American Roadtrip. Follow me.

One hundred forty characters or less is a challenge for me and my verbosity.

2008 Political Personalities In-Person Recap

• March. George W Bush at the National Religious Broadcasters convention in Nashville. From the whitehouse.gov transcript: 'I was very young when I first learned about obedience to a higher power -- and my mother sends her best to you. (Laughter.) I am surrounded by strong women, and have been all my wife -- (laughter) -- and speaking about a strong and gracious woman, Laura sends her love and best. (Applause.)'

• Seven days later (the day on which Barack Obama gave his magnificent speech on race in response to the Jeremiah Wright business), Bill Clinton at the Grand Wayne Center in Fort Wayne.

• In May-- just before the Indiana primary-- Senator Hillary Clinton on the campaign trail. (Barack Obama and family were in town the same day at Headwaters Park, but my mom had planned a graduation party for me that day and wouldn't let me leave my own party to catch any of the event. Family first, right?)

• After a four-month European hiatus from my groupie-ways and just a couple weeks before the general election, I caught Michelle Obama in the Fort.

• Ten days before the election, I stood in line for many hours to see Governor Sarah Palin. I am shocked, in looking back through the archive, to find that I didn't blog about that incredible experience (other than a passing mention in an unrelated post.) I suppose I'll have to give an abbreviated version of the story retrospectively because it is just so darn blogworthy.

• Four days before the election, on Halloween. Senator John McCain with special guest Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger in Columbus, Ohio. I mean, what could be scarier?!
  

Soul Asylum, Crash Test Dummies, Gin Blossoms

'Runaway Train' (Soul Asylum)
A post-Nirvana remembrance of the 80's ballad-- which had long been ousted by 1993. The song is rife with double-entendre in my reading-- a nostalgic singer pining for the good ole days of certitude and excess. But the indulgent, wallowing lyrics are made right by the steady, straight-ahead four-four drumbeat. The anachronistic electric guitars in the chorus are neutralized by the timeless strumming of the acoustic guitar. I love this song.

'Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm' (Crash Test Dummies)
Incomprehensible anecdotes, outlandish vocals, aspirations to profundity. Self-consciously inarticulate and catchy. I remember having this cassette tape way back, but I am astonished when I listen to this song today. It is unbelievable on many levels.

'Hey Jealousy' (Gin Blossoms)
Today, as much as in 1993, this song rocks. I remember listening to Top 40 radio as an eleven-year-old kid, when a particularly cult-of-personality disc jockey played this song, expressed his opinion that the song was superb, and proceeded to play it again. Back to back to back, something like 13 times. He said he didn't care if he were fired, he loved the song that much. I felt a modicum of anxiety for his job security, but also a real exhileration. Experiencing all this in real-time, I felt like I was a part of history.

Images: Onething Conference and Hyde Park

Gotta say, I meant to take the whole conference thing seriously, but the sheer magnitude of it-- the Jumbotrons, etc.-- made that impossible for me. I just felt alienated. The image I snagged from the conference's website and used in yesterday's post captures my estrangement even more than I imagined: There are four Jumbotrons. There are countless heads-- a synecdoche-- representing individuals lost in a crowd. I especially appreciate how the 'One Thing'-- the thing the conference is supposed to be about-- is far off, buried in the image.

In talking this over with my travelmates last evening at an above-average microbrewery, Ben pointed out that that photo was probably taken by an 18-year-old amateur. Point taken.

A juxtaposition, if you will. Yesterday I came across two images taken at Hyde Park on election night. These images work on me in completely different ways...

At an event that was much greater in magnitude than the Onething Conference, there is a deeper respect for the individual in this photo. A few faces feature prominently before a backdrop of the blurred masses. On the faces are intent expressions of anxiety, hope, confidence, etc. One man folds his hands in an expressive manner, a man behind appears teary-eyed.

The second image-- of a Jumbotron-- is great. A representation of a representation. There is an ironic glare on the screen from a floodlight which produces a halo-effect. Even the angles in the image seem to suggest the precariousness of this whole business, the momentousness. No conclusion is foregone. The presidential-looking Obama projects gravitas and hope.

How one chooses to understand these three images (one from Onething and two from Hyde Park) in terms of historical context definitely informs one's emotional reaction. Many people at the conference think that what is happening there is momentous, imminently historical. I can't really say that that is not the case. I can point out, though, things that strike me with regard to the aesthetics.

Offbeat Sexual Imagery at Onething Conference

Last night I caught a bit of the evening session at Onething Conference. To be honest, when preachers get on stage and do their preachery thing, my mind tends to wander. That said, there was some imagery that I found to be pretty striking and bizarre. I cracked the notebook and recorded the key phrases that were too conspicuous for my pretty-lousy short-term memory to forget. Here are my notes, which are not quite verbatim but are offered in good faith:

'It [now, that is] is the great climax in history. God is consumating [something, can't remember what]-- He will finish what He began. He is waking up His church-- you-- have a role to play.'

Seems like God might be more of a gentleman when it comes to His lovemaking, I don't know.

(I'm not trying to be exploitative. I am definitely a fish out of water at the Onething conference, but I love to feel like a fish out of water.)

p3 Nashville Excursion

Having just commenced an American roadtrip (which I am predicting will be remembered as 'epic'), I am reminded of the video I made to document the p3 excursion to Nashville earlier this year. I did a final edit yesterday at a cafe in Kansas City before uploading it. The ping pong sequence 40 seconds in is pretty nice.

Family Video Project

This year, I put together a little video project for the fam for Christmas. I've uploaded it for the benefit of you who couldn't make it to Indiana for the premier (you in Sweden and Tennessee.) The video is a bit darker on youtube than it is in real life, but you can get a feel for it nonetheless. Enjoy. xx

Synecdoche, New York

As a lit student at college, I never really thought in terms of 'like it' or 'don't like it.' I was always sort of irked by my classmates who spoke in these terms. A prof would ask for impressions of a text, and these categorical responses would come up way more than they should have, from my wide-eyed idealistic perspective.

But Synecdoche, New York is a film that I do not like.

When I encountered Samuel Beckett's En attendant Godot at the end of a particularly busy semester, I didn't make it all the way through. I am reminded, in watching Charlie Kaufman's film, of the feeling I was left with in quitting Beckett's masterpiece: there is nothing that this piece of art can do to make me like it.

True, it may be that I am just not smart enough to appreciate Synecdoche, New York. I mean, I like heady, intellectual films as much as the next guy. But geez, Kaufman! Other than grasping a few obvious themes like mortality and sexuality, I was pretty lost. My brain felt like an over-tasked computer halfway through the movie.

Often when I don't 'get' a movie, I want to re-watch it. I want another chance to connect me some dots. Often a movie will leave me with a ton of questions regarding plot etc, which is absolutely fine. There is often in such cases an intuitive or emotional grasping of something, despite the lingering questions. I love the feeling that some great truth about life or love is shrouded behind a film's ambiguities. In Synecdoche, I'm not sure there is any profound truth. (I say 'profound' because there are some scattered, obvious truths about disappointment and love and choices...) Allowing for these, my opinion is that the film's grandiose vision falters in the end.

Also disappointing is Philip Seymour Hoffman's relatively flat performance-- give me The Savages, give me Charlie Wilson's War any day.

I'm left with the question-- HOW DID THIS MOVIE GET MADE?! There are big names involved, I get that. I will say-- and this is the best thing I'll say for it-- that this film is imaginative, which is no small thing.

Imagination does not guarantee anything, though. Brian Wilson had a fair share of imagination, and his most-imaginative endeavor proved to be rather destructive (even if absolutely brilliant.) Synecdoche, New York is a laudably imaginative endeavor that, in the end, fails to contribute anything meaningful.

Dana Stevens puts it aptly (as usual): '...Synecdoche is sad because it's a constant reminder, a ghostly double, of the great movie it could have been.'

All Roads Lead Home: Surprising Google Searches that End in This Blog

Was surprised to discover, whilst perusing my stats on google analytics, some of the things that people were searching that brought them to my blog:

I'm pretty much on the radar (front page, sixth hit) when it comes to 'sociological implications of dollhouses', for example:
And who would have thought I'd be the first hit for 'post-election 'racist status' on facebook'? The proof is in the pudding:
Honorable mention: Welcome to the person who searched for 'irregualr verb story' and ended up on my blog. I am a trained teacher, and I would be happy to help you with those tricky irregular verbs.

JCVD

I happened to see that JCVD was playing at the Cinema Center about an hour before the first showing, which was plenty of time to ensure that I was there. I wasn't going to miss this.

In the film, Jean-Claude Van Damme wanders into an armed robbery-- which is a brilliant way to toy with our expectations, our frame of reference. To be fair, I don't really have my own frame of reference when it comes to Van Damme, other than that which I have unconsciously imbibed without ever having seen a Van Damme movie.

In any event, the teaser for this latest film, which breaks his decade-long streak of going straight to video, is magnificent:

And the film is super fun.

I keep watching the much-discussed monologue that emerges, strangely, midway through the movie. A Van Damme soliloquy that demolishes the fourth-wall as if it were a literal wall... A soliloquy that demolishes the line between Van Damme the actor and Van Damme the character. A reflective monologue that attempts to get at the big existential questions: Fate. Determination. Will. Meaning. Worth. Gotta say, I could have done without the violins, but Van Damme-- it would seem-- can actually act. (I'm serious.) Grady Hendrix writes that the monologue is ''...a riveting five minutes of cinema because we are seeing Jean-Claude Van Damme transform into Charlie Brown.' It is a gripping five minutes, and Hendrix's quip is funny, though I don't really find the comparison all that convincing.

Certainly, the soliloquy sometimes descends into farce: 'It makes me sick to see people who don't have what I've got knowing that they have qualities too-- much more than I do. It's not my fault if I was cut out to be a star.' It's Van Damme's acting that somehow sustains the moment, despite the violins and the melodrama. The pathos is never quite ineffective, which may be difficult to believe in reading these excerpts: 'When you're 13, you believe in your dream. Well, it came true for me. But I still ask myself today what I've done on this earth. Nothing! I've done nothing! And I might just die in this post office hoping to start all over here in Belgium, in my country where my roots are. Start all over with my parents and get my health back. Pick up again, so I really hope nobody's gonna pull a trigger in this post office. It's so stupid to kill people. They're so beautiful.' Granted, that last bit about killing people is just over the top.

Perhaps the greatest lines of the monologue are at the end: 'I truly believe it's not a movie. It's real life. Real life.' I know that you're doubting me on this, but I'm telling you-- Van Damme pulls it off as an actor.

I've been reading about the film some, and I watched an interview of Van Damme and the director (which was good French practice.) For me, how Van Damme views the concept of the film-- or how he perceived the idea when he was first approached-- is the most interesting thing. Did he have anything to do with the original concept? Or perhaps he required convincing when he was approached about it? I imagine the answers to these questions speak to his self-awareness, which is something I find relevant here.

I'm more willing to go along with Grady Hendrix when he points out the balance the film achieves between 'dizzying meta-maze' and 'formula':
'While the movie is a dizzying meta-maze, JCVD also follows the Van Damme formula: An underdog with a ridiculous name must overcome incredible odds to kick people in the face and save the day. And in JCVD, the onetime action star with a ridiculous name does save the day (in a manner of speaking), kick people in the face (in a manner of speaking), and overcome incredible odds: the mess he's made of his own life.'

And speaking of the disaster that has been the life of the real JCVD, I find it impossible not to bring up the television erection:

That night after the film, my mates and I hit the club, and we were definitely 'doing the JCVD' dance-- hunched over, hands in front to obfuscate, etc. Great stuff.

Peeing Statues in Prague

Came across this video I shot of yet another amazing monument in Prague-- wooden statues, swiveling hips, penises in hand, peeing in a shallow pool shaped like the Czech Republic.

Barack Obama digs The Wire

Turns out Barack Obama's favorite television show is The Wire.

(Listen to Obama talk about Omar, his favorite character. Scroll down to the audio clips on the right.)

Winter Art Binge

Been sick a bit. Been a bit cold, snowed in and depressed. Been reading a bit (fiction filling the post-election vacuum) and also watching films, which is a lining that shines silvery. Seems a run-down is in order, so here we go (in reverse-chronological order)...

The Rage in Placid Lake: Incidental viewing last night at the West Drive. Elicited a ton of laughs, but cheap laughs. The whole 'meta' thing doesn't really work. In this case, it does make for dialogue that is hilarious even if said dialogue makes the excesses of Juno seem as true-to-life as the realism of, say, Raymond Carver.

Son of Rambow: Exquisite, adorable, sentimental in a way that is perfectly stomachable. I wouldn't have thought that my earliest childhood dream-- to be Rambo-- could be so sweetly reconciled with my belief in the primacy and purity of natural creativity. (Or, to be more meta, I wouldn't have thought that my all-Americana youth could be reconciled with the smugness of my self-conscious post-European outlook. Kidding.) Seriously, this film has charm, in a Michel Gondry sort of way. Make believe, not war. trailer

Love and Death: I've had Woody Allen on the brain as of late, and Love and Death is a fun film to revisit. Plus, I feel myself on the verge of a Russian-lit binge, so...

Lars and the Real Girl: I'm guessing this is the best major film of 2007 that I hadn't already seen. I mean, 2007 is the year that I got into not missing good films. The obvious thing is that Lars and the Real Girl is charming and sweet. Granted. And there's a certain appeal in the idea that the delusions of an individual may find remedy in a loving community. My thought, though, is that this film would function better as a short story than as a novel. The ideas are tight and coherent, but the pacing is slow. It's hyperbolic to liken the film to a SNL skit that has been expanded to feature length, but I think there's a kernel in that.

I Heart Huckabees: It was my first time. I know, right? Amazing film. I can't wait to watch this movie over and over for the rest of my life. And I can't believe I would find myself having such strong feelings about Mark Wahlberg. I never expected that.

Breakfast at Tiffany's (and selected short stories) by Truman Capote: I have never read Capote before this, and that's going to change. I connect to the author's preoccupation with the idea of home and its relationship to place, and the way in which the fragile notion of home is so easily disrupted by something external. (I have never seen Audrey Hepburn's stab at Holly, but somehow I'm guessing it disappoints...)

Annie Hall: Love is tricky business. Controversial thesis, I know. Here's a film in which to indulge when the feeling's right. (And besides that, I love anything that reflects or reaffirms my own prejudices with regards to the supremacy of one coast over the other.)

The Science of Sleep: A pretty good film that makes a less good film by the same director seem better. I think of the two films fondly in large part because Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is so surprisingly good. I guess I like the way that Michel Gondry imagines the various psychological processes he writes on, processes like memory (Eternal Sunshine) and imagination (the other two.)

La Vie En Rose: Here's a film I only rented because I was thirsty for some Marion Cotillard, who is a tall drink of water. Edith Piaf interests me very little. And you know Marion did beat out Ellen Page and Laura Linney for the Oscar for best leading lady last year. Anyway, the performance is (I hate to say) mesmerizing. It drew me into a story that I would not otherwise have been interested in. I also remember the photography in this film being pretty impressive. The film, though, fails to get far enough beyond that predictable narrative arc so commonly adhered to in biopics.

A Tale of Two Cities: The thing is, I recently saw the musical theater adaptation on Broadway, which was the impetus for my re-reading the novel. I've already blogged some impressions, etc. on the actual text. A word or two now on the relationship between the text and the Broadway adaptation. Firstly, the borrowing from Les Mis is extensive, and more than once brought a cringe to my face that night in the theater. (In the men's room during intermission, one random pisser nearby actually burst into 'Bring Him Home', which was received with general merriment.) I get it though-- I mean, I was first introduced to Victor Hugo and Charles Dickens freshman year-- Great Expectations and Les Miserables. There is a lot of common ground, shared preoccupations, etc. And of course, the French Revolution (as Broadway history has shown) plays well on the stage with an orchestra and a massive chorus. STILL, the borrowing of the new Dickens-inspired musical is a bit shameless.

In my view, nonetheless, there are really only a few themes that work in the strange medium of Broadway musical. Friendship and revolution are probably the most obvious of these. Love, to me, is rarely if ever explored in a way that is satisfying, (which is so disappointing as love must be the most-often explored theme in musicals.) A Tale of Two Cities the musical deals with revolution-- one of the themes with potential-- and the songs are actually not that bad. The actor doing Madame Defarge rocked it, and rattled my bones like Helena Bonham Carter sometimes does.

The other thing is, it's my first re-reading of A Tale of Two Cities since doing Dickens in England, which circumstance was definitely in my mind constantly.

Alright, wrap this up. I am- I might note- leaving out the two texts which are arguably the most important: The Lives of Others and The Wire. The German film left quite an impression, so much so that I want to view it again and write a bit more extensively on it. As for my favorite HBO show, I recently embarked on Season 4 (which I had been saving) whilst stuck up in the apartment with a nasty cold (the direct result of a recent misadventure.) Again, I am hoping to write more on The Wire soon. Until then... xxx

Hailing a Taxi in the Fort of Wayne

Last night, my brother, my cousin and I braved the brutal cold and walked to Starbucks. In our conversation the topic of Fort Wayne taxis somehow came up. It is December so they're free for a month, right? I said it'd be great to shoot a little video vignette of us trying to hail a taxi, and that if it were possible to hail a taxi in the Fort, there wouldn't really be a better place to do it than in front of the Starbucks on Jefferson.

At length, we finished our drinks and made for my apartment on foot. And the quick eyes of my cousin spotted a taxi turning onto Fulton (Fulton?!) I ran towards it, hand in the air. He saw me and stopped. I opened the door and said to the driver, 'Is it even possible to hail a taxi in Fort Wayne?' He said, 'I guess so.' I said, 'Wow, thanks. I was just curious.' As I shut the door, he gave me the finger, which I think was a bit disproportionate.

I let my family and myself down by not getting in the taxi. We were exactly three blocks from my apartment. A hailed taxi in Fort Wayne for three blocks on an unseasonably wintry December evening is like a dream. It's once-in-a-lifetime. And none of us had ever even ridden in a FW taxi. Dammit.

1st grade, 2nd grade, 3rd grade

Three exchanges from the week that almost make me want to be an elementary school teacher.

FIRST GRADE: (Students are listing what they want for Christmas, and coloring a picture of Santa.)
STUDENT: [in all earnestness-- serious voice, looking me in the eyes] I want to tell you something.
ME: [worried] Okay.
STUDENT: Santa is dead. He died a long time ago, in 1999. He got stuck in a chimney.
ME: [feigning incredulity] Really?
STUDENT: Yes, it was all over the news.

SECOND GRADE: (Students have just finished an activity and I've just asked them to turn their voices off. Student raises hand as I walk by, I look at him and he begins to speak):
STUDENT: Mr. Spreng, you smell nice.
ME: [serious face] Thanks, but it's really not the time to be talking.
ANOTHER STUDENT: [voice just above a whisper] Yeah, but you do smell nice.
ME: [finger over mouth] Ssshhh!

THIRD GRADE:
STUDENT: [raises hand, waits to be called upon] Mr. Spreng, are you a teenager?
ANOTHER STUDENT: It's true, you are tall like a teenager.

Prop 8: The Musical

A knee-slapping good time. Trust me.

Truman Capote

Nearing the end of Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's. Thought I'd offer up a word from the always-lovely Holly Golightly. In the vein (and idiom) of that artless blow-hard Polonius. Enjoy. xx

Holly lifted her martini. "Let's wish the Doc luck, too," she said, touching her glass against mine. "Good luck: and believe me, dearest Doc--it's better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear." (Capote 74)

***

"...Another thing, I've thrown away my horoscopes. I must have spent a dollar on every goddamn star in the goddamn planetarium. It's a bore, but the answer is good things only happen to you if you're good. Good? Honest is more what I mean. Not law-type honest-- I'd rob a grave, I'd steal two-bits off a dead man's eyes if I thought it would contribute to the day's enjoyment-- but unto-thyself-type honest. Be anything but a coward, a pretender, an emotional crook, a whore: I'd rather have cancer than a dishonest heart. Which isn't being pious. Just practical. Cancer may cool you, but the other's sure to. Oh, screw it, cookie-- hand me my guitar and I'll sing you a fada in the most perfect Portuguese." (83)

Oppression and Human Nature according to Dickens

Dickens's depiction of the French Revolution, if sometimes descending meaninglessly into caricature, remains compelling to the end.

Experience Film More Fully: Freezing My Way Through 'Transsiberian' (and maintaining a stringent ideological purity)

Last evening, I experienced the film Transsiberian in a more profound way than I experience most films. In fact, I think that my mates and I may have stumbled onto a novel way of entering into a film at a more experiential level...

I. Commitment to Bicycle
In order to preserve the perfection of this most recent Saturday afternoon (as perfection was defined here in this weblog last Saturday), I departed for the pharmacy yesterday on my bicycle. At bedtime the evening prior, I had experienced the early, portentous symptoms of a cold. In my foresight, I realized that I needed to obtain medicine in need of which I may or may not be the ensuing evening at bedtime. Nevermind the common sense implications of such a bicycle journey into the subzero temperatures (20 degrees Fahrenheit, 'sub-zero' internationally speaking), I wanted to maintain an ideological immaculacy, so I clenched my jaw and hit the streets.

I was rewarded for my intellectual consistency from the gods. Whilst riding south, the briskness of a prematurely bitter wintry afternoon stinging the pores of my face, the sounds of live music made their way through the thick walls of a forlorn carburetor store and the cotton / polyester blend of my beanie to my freezing ears. I regarded the forlorn carburetor store and gave into the spontaneous diversion. I stepped inside the cramped lobby, where a latino ska band was evidently rehearsing. There were a few latinos with beers pressed against the dingy walls looking on. I added myself to their number. The one nearest to me gave me a dubious, inquisitive look. The music was loud, and my throat a bit sore, so I responded with a hearty smile and a thumbs-up sign. I turned my eyes back to the band. When this same man regarded me a second time, evidently not having been satisfied with my initial gesticulatory reassurance, I repeated it. One of his companions nudged him assuagingly, seemingly convinced of my innocuous intent. I only stuck around to listen to the soothing sounds of latino ska long enough to fill my lungs with warm air and to take in the felicitous surroundings before re-embarking on my journey. I waved congenially to the latinos and said a silent prayer to the gods who were evidently smiling down on me.

During my bicycle ride, I thought of my kin in Sweden, whom I visited this past autumn, and with whom I spent my first Scandinavian Christmas a few years ago. At this latter occasion, I witnessed several bicycles making their ways through the snow with no sign of dismay. Although there was no accumulated snow yesterday in Fort Wayne, I felt a kindred spirit with my Swedish relations.

I arrived back at my apartment before sundown with cold medicine that I would undoubtedly require in due time...

II. Commitment to Art
When Steve called me earlier that afternoon and asked if I'd be interested in seeing the film that evening at the Cinema Center, and I expressed interest in seeing it, it occurred to us that we should just walk to the Cinema Center. After all, I'm just a six-minute walk from Steve, a fellow downtowner. Walking seemed both an obvious and an inspiring prospect.

Turns out, however, that the film was showing at Cinema Center Tech and not the Cinema Center on Main Street. Nevertheless, Steve, Simon, and I met at Steve's apartment and decided whimsically (one might say rashly) to walk to the cinema.

It was a long walk, and we arrived fifteen or twenty minutes late, our bones thoroughly chilled by the walk. But fortuitously, that circumstance only served to heighten the experience of the film, which of course follows a trainride across Siberia. It took the duration of the movie for me to recover from the chill contracted by the long wintry walk. The literal chill of the bones worked in conjunction with both the shivery Siberian imagery and the copious psychological chills manufactured nimbly by director Brad Anderson (of The Machinist fame.) In short, it was a very holistic experience.

The walk back provided us with ample opportunity to discuss the relative merits and shortcomings of the film. The three beers that I had smuggled into my man-bag provided us with some little restorative comfort, I guess, but only exacerbated my own perceived need for a warming shot of Russian vodka, as portrayed in the film.

In collectively exploring the possibilities for this new mode of experiencing a film more fully, it was suggested, for example, to watch The Machinist after forfeiting a night's sleep to enhance the viewing pleasure. Really, the possibilities are endless, and I would encourage you, the reader, to feel free to share any suggestions you may have here in this weblog.

The rigors to which I subjected my body yesterday in the name of art and ideology have taken their toll, and I find myself experiencing a sunny Sunday afternoon with congested sinuses and all the trappings of a common cold. But ideology and art sometimes call upon us for reasonable sacrifice, and I will continue to offer freely my health in exchange for enlightenment, adventure, and purity of thought.

An Idiot's Guide to Americana: Behavioral Spending and Grocery Aisle Spirituality

Standing in line at the supermarket the other day, I came across quite an artifact-- the digest version of the Complete Idiot's Guide to Christian Prayers & Devotions.

I was thrilled to make the discovery. In picking up the impressive volume for a perusal, I was delighted to notice that hiding behind the cultural gem was the digest version of the Complete Idiot's Guide to Quitting Smoking. Welcome to Americana.

The back of the modest publication read:
'You're no idiot. You know there's more to prayer than reciting the ones you learned as a child. Daily conversations with God help foster your relationship with Him, but sometimes it's hard to get started. This insightful guide offers words of inspiration from ancient scripture to modern times, to help you find your own words.'

I flipped through the flimsy TV-Guide style publication. There were prayers from such various sources as George Washington, Augustine of Hippo, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Anne Bradstreet, Thomas Aquinas, and Anne Brontë.

For all of that, I felt a slight tinge of ambivalence as to whether or not I should actually make the purchase. This, not just because of my literal poverty, but also with respect to an emerging doubt as to whether or not going through with the capitalistic exchange would actually contribute meaning to my spiritual life. I decided I would buy into the capitalistic experience if I could get in for $2 or less. In turn, I inquired of the cashier, 'how much is this?' She scanned the book, and reported $2.99. I initially stuck to my resolution and said I didn't need it.

However, my conscience kicked in. 'You know you would spend more than $2.99 if you found such an invaluable cultural artifact in any country other than your own.' My conscience was right, of course. So I recanted, and bought the book. Besides, I was spending upwards of $40 on booze.

Amazingly, there is a prayer from King Henry VI (p. 75) as well as a prayer from William Shakespeare's portrayal of said king in the play Henry VI (p. 46). This seems a bit like quoting Jesus, and then quoting the character of Jesus from Andrew Lloyd Webber's Jesus Christ Superstar.

Michelle Obama according to Annie Liebowitz

Ignoramus I can be, Annie Liebowitz only registered on the radar at the Miley scandal. This photo of Michelle Obama is the latest occasion wherein the photographer has arisen in my consciousness.

This photo is absolutely striking. It is the sort of photo that I have looked intently into and cannot easily forget.

Cannot easily forget even at half-four in the morning.

And to think I recently shook this brilliant woman's hand. Mrs. Obama, I mean.

Two and a Half of the Daftest Things I've Done Lately

My Filipino mates in Thailand used to call me Mr. Bean, which I am guessing does not really come as a surprise to you.

[Pictured: Chris and I rockin' it farang style...]

A couple days ago I was at Starbucks. I was just sitting down to enjoy my latte in a 'for here' cup, just turning my iPod off before putting it away, when I baptized one of my earbuds in my latte. Full immersion, baby. I quickly yanked it out, darted a look around to see that I hadn't been seen, and dried the earbud with a paper towel. It survived, or, you might say, was born again.

A month or so ago, I lost my GPS device. (That's right.) I was devastated of course. The thing is, I knew exactly when and where I saw it last. I knew that until that point, I had been storing it under the seat of my car. I wondered if it hadn't fallen out before I shut the car door or whether it hadn't been stolen, but then again-- I knew the last time I had used it, and there was no sign of vandalism.

Tonight, I bent my head down and looked under the seat. The GPS device was in plain sight. Rejoicing ensued. As did a rolling of the eyes.

Around the same time that I 'lost' my GPS device, I also lost the charger to my camcorder. As with the GPS device, I remember the very last time I charged it, which was at my parents' house. The lesson of the GPS makes me think I might retrace my steps a bit more closely... It sure would be nice to access that footage of my students that I shot in Europe, and the footage of Sarah Palin I shot at that rally where I nearly got my ass kicked for wearing an extremely unobtrusive campaign button on my man-bag.

I guess all these things just remind me of my Filipino mates in Thailand, and by extension my Thai mates in Thailand, which makes me sad and nostalgic.

Paradise Lost

I came across this stand on Madison Avenue. The amazing thing is that when I was in Thailand $1 converted to more or less 33 baht, and 33 baht was more or less how much I would spend in exchange for a super delicious meal.
Of course, I eagerly handed over a dollar at Madison Avenue. And the distinct taste in my mouth was delicious and spicy, but the aftertaste was tinged with a vague sense of loss...

New York in Photos

(Two Roadtrips, Two Consecutive Weekends: Part II.5)

the old crew:

Two Roadtrips, Two Consecutive Weekends. Part II: Connecticut and Beyond

November 6 - 10, 2008
A friend I met in China, one of Simon's students, is in the middle of her first semester at a university in Connecticut. As it was well time for her to receive some visitors, Simon and I headed east. The distance seems modest compared with the distances we traveled (respectively) in the same general direction the last time we hung out with our Chinese friend...


[I snagged this photo, which was snapped in China, from her facebook profile.]

Simon and I certainly know how to travel in style. Here's the four star establishment where we crashed in the middle of the night somewhere in Pennsylvania.
Here are a few photos from Yale, a lovely little school you may have heard of...
I split up with Nicole and Simon in New Haven, where I caught the train to New York.
New York photos coming soon... (Click here for part I of the 'Two Roadtrips, Two Consecutive Weekends' series.) x

to innovate

This is great fun:

Saturdays = Youth: Life as Composite, Clothing as Metaphor

My idea of a perfect Saturday these days is one where I don't have to get in my car.

I hit the streets today underdressed for the cold, intentionally: What is way more interesting than summer or winter is the transformation from one to the other. I want to suck in the cold air, and feel the bitterness on my summer skin. The walk-- the rain, the cold, the change-- set my mind riffing on the following motif: life as composite. Let's do as Dickens does and use dress as a metaphor:

• shoes from Zappos, acquired on the way back from a roadtrip to Nashville, all but exhausted on the cobble-ways of Paris, Salzburg, Geneva, Zurich, Prague...
• blue socks... don't really match.
• crotch-hugging jeans
• Bob Dylan t-shirt, acquired for cheap in Bangkok, Khao San Road area
• Banana Republic zip-up sweater, birthday gift from my brother
• cashmere scarf, acquired for $5 on Madison Avenue in New York
  
• snazzy man-bag, acquired in Zurich
  
• Obama '08 button on man bag, given to me by a good friend after the Michelle rally in FW
  
• Banana Republic (brand whore, I know) umbrella, acquired before moving to England in preparation for the notorious weather
• on the iPod: 'Saturdays = Youth', recommended by some trusty friends at the West Drive

My idea of a perfect Saturday these days involves espresso, Fleet Foxes, literature, red wine, and a bicycle.

particularly tasty morsels: Dickens on society, social institutions

A couple tasty tidbits...

Borrow More.

Early this morning, I scavenged the bookshelves lining the living room wall of the seventh-story furnished chambers in which I currently reside. I landed on Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities. Inside the borrowed book, I found a folded clipping of the above cartoon from the New Yorker.

I write this to you from the downtown Starbucks, a few blocks from the seventh-story apartments, where I sip my espresso and savour my Dickens.

In the front cover of the book was inscribed the following aphorism from P.J. O'Rourke: 'Always read stuff that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it.' Charming. Sagacious.

pre-Revolution Paris according to Dickens

Our introduction to the streets of pre-Revolution Paris five chapters in-- as represented by a single striking image-- is one of the most memorable passages I've ever read:

Dover according to Dickens

Stumbled across this lovely passage in A Tale of Two Cities describing a town I lived near to:

The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever, sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable that nobody in the neighborhood could endure a lamplighter.

Jean-Paul Sartre, Ernest Hemingway, and Flannery O'Connor

So with the exception of the stray hundred pages of James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man that I managed to trudge through those last few days in Switzerland, I haven't been reading much lately. I suspect that is due largely to the intemperate quantities of political editorial that I've been ingesting. In any event, there's been some resurgence and I cannot help but annotate...

Les Jeux Sont Faits (Jean-Paul Sartre)
Such a tight narrative built on a few central relationships-- relationships constantly shifting as a result of circumstances and perceptions both within and beyond the control of the characters whom they affect. (Sound anything like Huis Clos?) That's right!, and all the talk-back to teleology that you grew to love in that work as well... Plot is a device to bring to light those gnawing questions of purpose-- the respective relationships between intention and action, desire and un-fulfillment, for example. All the big questions: Revolution. Revenge. Love. Class. Death. Afterlife. Existence.

The Old Man and the Sea (Ernest Hemingway)
(I accidentally read this one day recently whilst substitute teaching in a senior English class-- I just took it off of a bookshelf, read it, and put it back before punching the clock.)
A lovely modern myth. I know it is redundant to refer to the crispness in the prose, but... dammit! The language is so concrete. The images are textures to be experienced through the nerve endings in your fingertips.

Here's a passage that I found to be striking:

In the dark the old man could feel the morning coming and as he rowed he heard the trembling sound as flying fish left the water and the hissing that their stiff set wings made as they soared away in the darkness. He was very fond of flying fish as they were his principal friends on the ocean. He was sorry for the birds, especially the small delicate dark terns that were always flying and looking and almost never finding, and he thought, the birds have a harder life than we do except for the robber birds and the heavy strong ones. Why did they make birds so delicate and fine as those sea swallows when the ocean can be so cruel? She is kind and very beautiful. But she can be so cruel and it comes so suddenly and such birds that fly, dipping and hunting, with their small sad voices are made too delicately for the sea.

He always thought of the sea as la mar which is what people call her in Spanish when they love her. Sometimes those who love her say bad things of her but they are always said as though she were a woman. Some of the younger fishermen, those who used buoys as floats for their lines and had motorboats, bought when the shark livers had brought much money, spoke of her as el mar which is masculine. They spoke of her as a contestant or a place or even an enemy. But the old man always thought of her as feminine and as something that gave or withheld great favours, and if she did wild or wicked things it was because she could not help them. The moon affects her as it does a woman, he thought.


Wise Blood (Flannery O'Connor)
O'Connor's signature brand of grotesque humor-- often wandering into burlesque territory-- is always irresistible. This is the first novel of hers that I've read (there are only two), but I am familiar with some of her short stories-- that impossible artform where O'Connor is understood to be at her best.

Wise Blood is a striking cultural portrayal rooted in a specific time and place, but with implications stretching far beyond. It is insistent, even unrelenting. Its themes are not implicit, but the novel demands serious engagement nonetheless. The dots are never quite connected. Are we to take O'Connor's unforgettable, almost Dickensonion characters as allegorical figures? Perhaps. Except that their spiritual neuroses are so nimbly defined...

Faith. Society. Charlatanism. Redemption. Greed. Racism. Poverty. Bigotry. Blindness (which becomes such a poignant metaphor in the novel.)

An exert:

She could not make up her mind what would be inside his head and what out. She thought of her own head as a switchbox where she controlled from; but with him, she could only imagine the outside in, the whole black world in his head and his head bigger than the world, his head big enough to include the sky and planets and whatever was or had been or would be. How would he know if time was going backwards or forwards or if he was going with it? She imagined it was like you were walking in a tunnel and all you could see was a pin point of light. She had to imagine the pin point of light; she couldn't think of it at all without that. She saw it as some kind of a star, like the star on Christmas cards. She saw him going backwards to Bethlehem and she had to laugh. (219)

And another a few pages later:
That night a driving icy rain came up and lying in her bed, awake at midnight, Mrs. flood, the landlady, began to weep. She wanted to run out into the rain and cold and hunt him and find him huddled in some half-sheltered place and bring him back and say, Mr. Motes, Mr. Motes, you can stay here forever, or the two of us will go where you're going, the two of us will go. She had had a hard life, without pain and without pleasure, and she thought that now that she was coming to the last part of it, she deserved a friend. If she was going to be blind when she was dead, who better to guide her than a blind man? Who better to lead the blind than the blind, who knew what it was like? (228-29)

Two Roadtrips, Two Consecutive Weekends. Part I: Columbus, OH

October 31, 2008
Just days before the election, Teep and I hit the road to see the Straight Talk Express featuring Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger and Senator John McCain. (I mean, what could be more frightening on Halloween?)


Hank Williams kicked off the festivities. I can't help post this snippet of the timely hit 'McCain Palin Tradition':


Writing this post from a retrospective (that is to say post-election) vantage, I have to resist the elegiac rhythms my reflections at this particular point in history fall into... I still respect John McCain, despite everything.

Here are my favorite bits:

the future of the GOP

Melissa Block and Robert Siegel had David Brooks and E.J. Dionne on yesterday to discuss the election and its political aftermath. Brooks made some really insightful comments on the future of the GOP, particularly pertaining to the obvious (and largely Limbaugh-led) ideological conclusions that should not be drawn... but probably will be.

In turn, E.J. Dionne offered the following: 'I think Republicans should be required to sit in a room and read two years of David Brooks's columns.'

As a registered Republican (who knows that Africa is a continent and not a country), I couldn't agree more.

Facebook Politics

So I hate to admit it, but this whole post-election facebook status update thing is enthralling... Here are a few from my social network [including context]:

Martin [Czech classmate in Prague] is wondering whether Barack Hussein was really born in the US? some people question it. US Constitution is crystal clear about the consequence.

Shaun [Bolivia] is sure God doesn't care about any of this, except maybe CNN's new touch screen map, he thinks God's thinking he wish he would have come up with that!

Lorenzo [Rome] has seen that about 80% of his FB friends updated their status to comment on the election. He wants to join in in saying: GO OBAMA!!! : D.

Quinton [NYC] lol @ the millions of fake facebook friends that will be deleted from their black friends' account because of their "racist" status updates...the war has begun

Rachel [lit professor] thinks, "If only it were like winning the Super Bowl, and now we'd have the off-season, instead of having two wars and the economy to get out of the toilet."

Piper [Colorado] is getting my heart right to stand behind our new president in prayer...not necessarily agreement.

Ty [rockstar].....praying is the new losing.

Charlie [I don't remember this guy actually] is hoping sarah palin will stay in alaska from now on.

Ben [guy I knew from my punk rock days] is amazed at the different opinions of "Christians" on the election.

[Ben-- you mean the Republican party no longer has a monopoly on GOD?! Gasp!]

Amanda [grad student in Ohio] is overwhelmed by the HOPE.

Allison is obama all the way in Argentina! Revving up for the election party in 4th river, Argentina!

Andrew [bass player extraordinaire] Whoever wins, good luck.

Shashank [PhD student of politics at Harvard] and .... done.

Dan [Wisconsin] ... alright, you wanted him and you got him... just know that we're all going to have to live with the consequences.

Hannah [London] is smiling. Go Obama!

Heather [France] is going to Barack the casbah tonight! Thank you, America!

Marie [France] is happy that sometimes, news can make your day despite of the weather and the crisis, hope is in the air and the sky is blue...

Rob [Paris] is hoping that Obama can bring change to America but is not certain it is possible.

Eric [former bandmate] thinks it could be worse... we could a be living in Canada. But we're not... We're living in America! That's because we're Americans! Don't forget that,...

Amy [someone I barely know] reminds you "Everyone must submit himself to the governing authoritiies, for there is no authority except that which God has established." Rom 13:1-2.

I'm putting my foot down, Indiana!

At the time of writing, it is 2:10am and Indiana has not yet been called. It's a shame, but I've only tonight been reminded of something that struck me a few weeks back whilst watching Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain, one of my all-time favorite films. Inspired by Amelie, and mindful of the bizarre circumstance that Indiana has become a swing state, I decided to put my foot down or-- in Colbert parlance-- to put my state 'on notice':

Indiana, you have the chance to do the right thing. If you do, you at last stand the chance at retaining me in the long run. If not, you are dead to me. It all comes down to this. If not now, then never.

I should have told my parents, and the rest of my Republican family. It's my own little Great Schlep.

I don't mean to speak in such dire terms. Naturally, I am elated by this evening's transpirations.

Above all, I continue to live imaginitively... xx

having voted for change... (anticipating...)

bicycle life

So I’m sitting high on my newly-acquired cruiser-style bicycle, stopped at the light at Broadway and Jefferson. There’s a case of Czech beer on my crossbar and the sun’s going down. From the window of the pickup truck next to me, a man yells at me, ‘Lost your license, huh?’ Fair assumption, I think and smile. ‘Naw, that’s not it,’ I say, lamely. Actually, I am having a few friends over to my new seventh-floor flat to watch the presidential debate. And Czech beer goes well with politics, I guess.

***

Earlier that day, I had snatched up the cruiser bicycle at the Salvation Army store on Bluffton Road. Not only did it happen to be the last bicycle at the store, it also happened to be a damn hip bicycle and only cost $24.99. I had to take my car, though, to the boxstore to pick up a bike lock. Even so, I felt very populist, very vice-presidential for hanging out in a chain hardware store. (Next thing you know I’ll be droppin’ my G’s…)

As I was paying, I noticed a sign that read something rather obvious pertaining to customer service. Underneath the English words, it was also written in Spanish, French, Chinese (or was it Japanese?), and Russian. I chatted to the charming woman at the customer service counter who was ringing me up:

Me: It's interesting that that sign is in four different languages in addition to English.
Her: [looking up at me with what seemed a ‘knowing’ look] Yeah.
Me: You don't like that?
Her: [patronizingly] No.
Me: Do you speak a second language?
Her: [without skipping a beat] No, but if I was going somewhere else where I had to learn one, I surely would.

I was speechless. I felt like speaking truth to power, but it’s not really like the woman working at a boxstore is ‘the Man.’

Later, at the liquor store, I stepped up to the counter with the case of Pilsner-Urquell. I grabbed my wallet and noticed that I still had some Czech currency from a recent stay in Prague. I put on an innocent face for the woman at the counter and asked if it were possible to pay for the beer in Czech Crowns— pointing out that it was initially brewed in the Czech Republic. She fumbled around for a way to answer this novel request, not really sure if she should take me seriously. Sometimes you’ve just got to make your own story.

I’m new to downtown Fort Wayne. Most recently, I’ve been in Europe, but I’ve also lived on some other interesting continents. Initially, I’m from these parts, but the suburbs. Since moving downtown, I have already had my car towed once. It’s okay, I prefer the bicycle. I am looking for a city life. I have heard that there is one emerging here. I am buying in— guardedly, but reverently. I have learned that the ethic of place is powerful.

Michelle Obama

Yesterday, I was in the second row front and center at the Michelle Obama rally at the Grand Wayne Center. Despite some bizarre prelude (including a nearly incoherent speech from a hopeful candidate for attorney general, an irresponsible claim that 'Barack is our hope', and a public recitation of the pledge of allegiance, believe it or not!), the event was amazing. That is to say, Michelle was amazing. She was genuine and articulate. She was passionate, thoughtful, brilliant.

I took some video on my camera. Here's my favorite bit:


'The American people aren't asking for Washington to do everything. Folks aren't looking for a handout. They just want Washington to understand that their challenges are real. They want a Washington that stops talking a good game about family values and starts actually creating policies that value families. That's what Barack Obama "gets" and that's the kind of leadership he's going to bring to the White House.'

If you're interested, you can watch what I shot in its entirety here. Or read an amusing claim that Fort Wayne is in Obama's 'Top 40.'

Three Observations that will Enrich the Blogosphere

I.
These last couple of days, I've been tuning into the A.M. dial just to see what they're saying in that alternate universe. This morning, Glenn Beck said-- and while this is not a precise quote, I did pull the car over so as to take it down on paper-- 'I'd like to make a prediction: if Obama gets elected, this country will not last four years.' He went on raving-- gravely-- drawing analogies with the Weimar Republic and Zimbabwe and...

I am not one to rave myself, but I have to say I am tired of these guys being able to say anything that comes to their heads without accountability. I do not understand how their audience do not feel insulted. Anyway, the teleological purpose for these two paragraphs is to provide just a few square centimeters of accountability on the net. (It's all I can do.) And yes, I fully intend to reference this entry in four years (assuming the internets last.)

II.
So I bought a bicycle today from the Salvation Army for $24.99. I am stoked. After work, I swung by Lowes, where I regularly hang out,to pick up a bike lock. At the customer service counter, I noticed the sign was not only in English and Spanish, but also in French, Chinese (or was it Japanese?), and Russian. The following exchange took place between me and the charming woman at the counter-- and I hope you'll permit me to include subtext:

Me: It's interesting that that sign is in four different languages in addition to English.
Her: [looking up at me with a disgusted, knowing look] Yeah.
Me: You don't like that?
Her: [patronizingly] No.
Me: Do you speak a second language?
Her: [without skipping a beat] No, but if I was going somewhere else where I had to learn one, I surely would.

I was speechless.

III.
On the way home from Lowes, I caught a story on NPR (back to reality) on President Bush's plan to spend $250 billion to expand the bailout. The interviewee, who it turns out is a professor of economics at Harvard, said at one point-- and again, I pulled the car over to take this down-- 'There is no hyperbole that can overstate it.' Ha! I was really only half-listening to the interview, but I was struck by this line.

Brilliant use of hyperbole, professor. You've just made my blog. (I don't doubt he's flattered.)

Peculiar Prague Politics: Riverboats, Republicans, & Racism

Recently, I was on a riverboat in Prague with a couple mates from university. I was lucky enough to catch this brief extract of our candid conversation on the coming American election:



Obama-- an empty person? McCain-- a classic American hero? Change, or emptiness? The question of character. American national interest / Czech national interest. The Russia question. Palin-- an interesting choice? Better than Mitt Romney! Obama-- a black man, but not really black. (Black enough to be a president, but not black enough to be a rapper.) Senator McCain-- cross-party solutions. Lieberman-- once a democrat, always a democrat. (A post-communist perspective?) Reagan-- a strong hand, universally loved. Rush Limbaugh and the like-- a standing joke in American politics? Racism. Barack Hussein Obama: is he really qualified to be a rapper? Facebook groups-- 'Europeans for McCain' and 'Europeans for John McCain.'

A Tale of Love & Loss in Paris (Part I)

Love: (partie un)
I suppose you never really experience Paris until you experience love in Paris.

So there is this girl in my class. She is more beautiful than all the other girls, but she is a bit shy. I am always trying to talk with her. But she is shy. Every day she wears a dress. I have never seen her wear anything but lovely dresses-- one for each day of the year, it seems.

One day, during a break, I notice she's reading an article about Michelle Obama. I happen to be sitting next to her. I happen to be quite conversant on the topic of Michelle, ma belle. I don't delay.

In French (naturally), I ask her what she's reading. She takes the bait, and we are in no-time discussing the Democratic primaries. (It is June.) She expresses the incendiary idea that a woman cannot get elected in America (speaking, of course, of Hillary.)

At this untimely juncture, our professor recommences the class. I very much want to explore further the theme of gender and politics, and so I suggest to the beautiful young woman that she and I pick up this discourse at the end of class. She is acquiescent, and radiant.

And Turkish, it turns out.

There are two hours left of class. I'm stoked to talk American politics in French with a lovely Turkish woman, but I'm also deeply engaged in the French lesson. And two hours is a long time.

It is the last day of the course, and I don't want to forget to ask my professor to clear up an important cultural / situational question. A few days prior, I stopped by a cafe for a beer. I was in the mood for a Belgian-style white beer (une blanche.) The waiter was chatty, was asking me where I was from, what I was doing in Paris, etc. After some brief exchange, he asked me what I'd like to drink. I responded, 'Je prendrai une bière.' He returned after a few minutes with a pint of 1664, instead of the menu which I expected. I drank the beer, but wondered if the miscommunication had been my fault. I am looking forward to clearing this up with my professor...

At the end of class, I proceed directly to the professor's desk. I wait patiently whilst she converses with a couple students, and then ask my question. Turns out, I was right. Selon la prof, The waiter should have brought a menu, not a beer. He was wrong to assume I wanted a 1664. I am glad to learn I have not made a cultural mistep.

As the professor is concluding her thought on the matter, I remember the lovely Turkish girl with the Michelle magazine. Merde! I've missed my chance! How could that have happened? I'm so stupid!

I turn around, and there waiting quietly for me-- to my unspeakable delight-- is the beautiful Turkish girl. I smile. She smiles. We chat about politics as we descend the four floors of stairs together. She is intermittently taking bites from a yellow apple.

It is one o'clock and we've been in class since nine. As we come to the door, I ask her if she would like to dine with me. She gestures to her apple, calling it lunch. I say that an apple doesn't suffice for lunch. She explains that she has put on weight since her arrival in Paris. (Rich, fatty foods, cheese, etc.) A drink then, perhaps? I suggest, thinking that if she says no I will leave her in peace. But she cheerily agrees, saying a drink would be great.

So we walk. And we talk. Pleasantries and sunshine. We search for a cafe.

Since I was last in Paris, they've adopted a really cool citywide low-cost bike rental program. This comes up in our conversation. The Turkish girl confesses she has not yet rented a bike, as she always wears dresses and dresses are not so reconcilable with bikes. I say that I have noticed her dresses-- that 'tu es très jolie comme ca.' It's true. She says, 'merci.'

In talking with this charming girl I realize that I know almost nothing about Turkey, which is sad. I learn some things. For example, she tells me that Turkish Delight actually comes from Turkey. I always assumed it was like French fries or fortune cookies!

And as we walk, our conversation turns to literature, and film, and music. I am amazed to discover that we have so much in common. Her first favorite novel was Orwell's 1984. We exchange our impressions of Sartre, Camus, and Hemingway. English, French, American, respectively. And I'm falling quickly...

It turns out that she is working at the Louvre. (It is extremely difficult to get a position at the Louvre, particularly for foreigners.)

I decide I'm going all out. I tell her I know a place in the 7th where Sartre and de Beauvoir used to drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, and exchange profound ideas. She's totally into it.

I've walked by Les Deux Magots a million times. I've always wanted to go there, but could never really justify the somewhat exorbitant prices. Today is the day. We find a quiet table out front.

I spend $30 or so for a quiche and a glass of rose wine. Who cares? We sit and chat about Paris and literature and history. It is enchanting.

Two pleasant hours later, we leave. We walk towards the river and cross. I am amazed at how many reference points we share. From Victor Hugo to Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code. (I know-- it's strange that we have both read that!) We talk about Audrey Tatou as we walk by the pyramid in front of the Louvre (where the Holy Grail lies, according to Brown.) With film, it's the same thing. Amelie, of course, but also Jeux d'Enfants. (Marion Cotillard is so gorgeous.) There's There Will Be Blood and Closer. Natalie Portman! Music-- it's all Aretha, Ella, and Frank.

Bloody hell! It's all I can do not to be convinced that this Turkish Delight of a woman is not my soulmate. The city is as resplendent as ever-- the sunlight on the river, the lonesome accordion player.

After a long leisurely walk, she asks me if I have plans for the evening. She says that Turkey is playing Croatia in the Euro quarter-final and all her friends are getting together to watch the match at a pub on the Champs-Elysees. I'd love to go, of course, and I express this enthusiastically.

And so we part ways, covered in smiles, for a couple of hours. I retrace my steps back across the river, my head spinning with snatches of our conversation, and my imagination whirling with hope and desire...

Coming soon-- Loss: (partie deux)

An Underrated Gem from the Bygone Blockbuster Season

J'arrive

The other day, in the hallway of the middle school where I was subbing, I overheard a girl say to her friend as they passed me, 'Is that an adult?' My thought was, 'I know, right?!'

Funny how things sneak up on you.

My New Favorite Travel Writer

'More than anything in travel, I love the freedom to make my own mistakes, which you might also call independence.' -from Tim Wu's brilliant series on Mongolia.

Amen, Mr. Wu.

More About the Process

This is a follow up story to a recent entry on the process of songwriting.

I. A Genesis
A month or so ago, I found myself sitting with my guitar on the front steps of the Grand Hotel in Leysin watching the sun set. I sat and played for a couple hours, I think. At some point, I started to play two chords which somehow expressed something or spoke to something I was thinking or feeling or… I lingered on the two chords, experimented with them, developed them.

II. Recording the Preliminary 'Songwriting Snippet'
Not long after the two-chord motif struck me on those steps, I took time to catch on tape what I had up to that point so as not to rely too heavily on my faulty memory.

I had just finished doing my floor patrol. (I was working at a summer camp in Switzerland and it was my duty that particular night to see that all the kids were alright and sleeping.) I lit a few candles in my room, grabbed the acoustic, and opened GarageBand. It was evident from the start that the emerging song was to be rather faint or subdued. Even so, I was careful not to play too loudly as there were sleeping kids just down the hall.

I put down two identical tracks of the primary guitar line and panned them to the extreme right and left. I put down a third guitar track which consisted firstly of a sort of counterpart to the two-chord arpeggios of the primary guitar line and then an impromptu melody or solo. The whole process here was quite natural. There were no second takes.

After getting those three tracks, which I was certain would ensure that the potential song would not fade from the grasp of memory, I dumped the song to my ‘songwriting snippets’ playlist in iTunes and went downstairs for a midnight cup of tea.

III. Finding a Melody, a Meaning
The next week I spent in Bern with a friend whom I studied with at Canterbury. (I had just finished up work in Leysin.) Recognizing that I was in a favorable state of mind to write music one afternoon, I had a listen to the track entitled ‘Alpine Number 2’ on the ‘songwriting snippets’ playlist. I don’t think I initially intended to sing over the chords-- they sounded so simple and beautiful. Nevertheless, in that particular frame of mind in Bern that afternoon, I had the strong urge to sing over them. So I started to experiment with melody ideas.

This is where things begin to get interesting—at least in terms of my songwriting process. A start to the melody occurred to me and seemed apt, so I recorded that line. I sang a double of the track and added some heavy delay and reverb. I listened to what I had, decided it worked, and moved on. I had the first lyric – ‘these are the chords that I have for you’—and now I needed to find the next line. I found the melody and the lyric for the second line and again recorded it without knowing what would follow. Again, I doubled the melody but this time I minimized the ambient vocal effects. I proceeded to write and record the song line-by-line. The harmony, which begins at the third line, for example, was determined and sung before I began the fourth line, etc. As it turns out, there are five lines:

These are the chords I have for you
Goodbye
I know that I should not but
There’s a song in my heart
(Goodbye)

IV. The Role of Surrounding, Geography, Voyage
The tracks I recorded in Bern were added to the original GarageBand file (called ‘Alpine Number 2’) that was recorded the week prior in my room at the Grand Hotel in Leysin. (Remember-- there were kids sleeping in the historic building in the Alps the night I recorded what was intended merely as something to jog the memory.) In the demo, you can hear the sound of my bed creaking, which is actually really interesting…

The Grand Hotel is a pretty freaking interesting building. It was originally built as a sanatorium for tuberculosis patients a century ago. The idea was that the sunlight and fresh mountain air would contribute to curing patients who were rich enough to afford to come to Leysin (Affluent patients came from all over Europe.) To this purpose, there are huge balconies out onto which beds would be wheeled during the day. I recently watched an enthralling documentary on the history of Leysin and I’ve seen images and film of these patients at the Grand way back in the day.

My bed at the Grand Hotel was old. My bed at the Grand Hotel was creaky. And it was possible to elevate the top half where the pillow and torso would lie. The creaks from my bed in the demo contribute to the demo's meaning, I think.

Also there’s the idea of voyage. The guitars were recorded a week prior in a small French-speaking mountain village in the Alps. The vocals were recorded a week later in Bern— the capital city, a German speaking city nearly three hours away by train. (You’ve gotta take my word that this is a freaking huge distance in Switzerland!)

V. Some Timely Aesthetic Influence
It is not impossible to trace some of the musical influences that were fresh in my mind at the time of writing. I'd been listening repeatedly to the summer mixtape I compiled some weeks before. I detect some Leonard Cohen in the tone of the piece, Simon and Garfunkle in the guitar work and the vocal harmonies, and some Rufus Wainwright in the trajectory of the melody. Each of these artists was represented on the mixtape.

I'd like to go into a bit more detail on the Simon and Garfunkle-influenced harmonies. I wanted to find vocal harmony or counter-melody that felt as if it were pulling against the melody. Simon and Garfunkle are brilliant at this. For those of you who like to toy about with chords and melodies and harmonies, here's an example from my song: the third line of the song (which begins 'I know...') is sung over a G chord, the melody note is a B and the harmony is a Gb. [My apologies, I come from a punk rock / folk tradition that is quite weak on notation. I know there is a better way to describe what's going on, but that's all I got.]

VI. A Stab at Explication
I'm hoping to do something dangerous here. I'm hoping to put on my 'reader' hat and try my hand at some explication. Of course this is always precarious for an author... Take it for what it is. Above all, trust the story, not the storyteller.

Alright, so we have two chords with some slight variation. Simple arpeggios. There's a hint of sadness or longing, but a suggestion that the sadness can still be beautiful. The melody emphasizes the sense of longing, and the vocal harmonies pull against the melody, possibly indicating a feeling of conflictedness or ambivalence. The vocals are doubled and washed in effects, perhaps suggesting a reluctance or a fear of nakedness. The effects are pushed back at the only word that is actually repeated in the song-- 'goodbye.' These 'goodbyes', by contrast, sound so simple and naked and sweet.

Then there's the lyric. 'These are the chords that I have for you' insists paradoxically that any idea that is to be communicated is to be communicated through music, not words.

'I know that I should not but there's a song in my heart' is the most revealing lyric, I think. Firstly, there is an ambiguity there. Should not what? Should not say goodbye? Should not sing? Should not love? Should not be sad? Moreover, the use of the logical connector 'but'-- which implies a logical connection between the two clauses-- in fact does not indicate any evident logical connection. It could be that there is in fact a logical connection that is simply shrouded in the lyric's ambiguity, or it could be that logic proves itself to be of little value in navigating the emotional dilemma at hand.

In the end, this inability to express, this inarticulateness hangs over the song. The song effectively goes nowhere. It begins with two simple chords, strives towards a climax (at the vocals), and ends with the same two inescapably beautiful and illusive chords, the simple arpeggios. The lyric tries to express an idea but cannot get past the sweet melancholy of goodbye. A guitar solo tries to achieve resolution or climax in a way that the lyrics do not. The guitar seems to gain momentum at first, but soon fails, and leads back into the second simple 'goodbye.' The song ends just where it begins.

VII. Conclusion
In terms of process, the gradual coming together of this song seems to me to be particularly interesting. The guitars and the vocals were written and demoed in two vastly disparate places and surroundings-- yet there is a real coalescence and synergy. Most significantly is the completely novel experience of writing and recording the melody and lyrics line-by-line. This process represents a substantial break from my usual methods.

If you are still reading at this point, would you be so good as to take two minutes and nineteen seconds to give the song a listen?

Even in Sweden...

(a self-portrait I took at a cinema in Östersund depicting the great distances that my fame has traveled)

A Late-Night Lakeside Walk in Sweden, etc.

The airplane feels more and more like a womb to me.

I don't remember the first time I flew. I was a baby in my mother's arms on a flight to Colorado. I remember the second time, though. I was a kid flying to Florida for vacation. I can still remember the feeling of excitement and fear at taking off, and the simple curiosity the tray table stirred...

Later, I hated airports, saw them as bland and uniform like economy hotel rooms, and disliked flying because of the nausea I often felt in my head and stomach.

In the end, I guess I am too voracious a traveler to be stymied by mere motion sickness.

You should have seen me at 30,000 feet the other day-- my mind so clear, my heart so sure. I spent the duration of the flight writing, planning, dreaming...

I stepped out of the plane and into autumn. Stockholm. The change has never felt so abrupt. Nearly every day of the week prior in Switzerland was marked by sunshine. But in Sweden, it's definitely not summer.

Tonight, I'm sleeping alone on an island in central Sweden.

Just before 1 am, I grab a second sweater (I don't have a jacket with me) and take a walk. I was thinking I would-- walking home from the city along the lake was so satisfying a few hours earlier.

The wind on my face at the waterfront is so delicious. My cheeks must be quite red. It's brisk. I really have the feeling that I'm in Sweden, which is good because I am.

Sweden is pine and birch, cold reflection, deep dark waters. Sweden is pragmatic. Sweden is reserved. Sweden is quietude. Sweden is a clear black sky and the Northern Lights. Sweden is detox.

I'm singing to Don McLean's 'American Pie.' I'm singing into the wind. Some songs inspire such reverence in me that I religiously stay with the melody. I do not stray in search of clever or creative harmonies as I often do when singing with songs I love. Don McLean's masterpiece inspires this reverence. The song reminds me where I come from. It is one of of those rare moments where I feel proud of my own culture.

The flight from Geneva to Stockholm felt like just what I needed. The late-night lakeside walk felt like just what I needed. I only saw one person on my walk, which was not short. The loneliness was magical. It's late now, 2:26. I'm off to bed.

Leo and I

BELLA, LEO!!!

The Dark Knight and psychological realism

(It turns out the only negative thing about living in Switzerland is that you sometimes have to wait a few extra weeks to see movies you're excited about. It's a small price to pay.)

So let's get right down to it: The Dark Knight was certainly the most interesting comic book movie I've seen, even if it does not completely work aesthetically.

I had no issues with the plot. It was thrilling and fun. It was paced well. It called upon prior Batman knowledge, but didn't demand it. The turns seemed simultaneously surprising and inevitable-- which is just what you want. [Dent's flipping of the coin and then making a gift of it to Lois Lane (what's her name again?) and Lois's letter to Bruce Wayne both come to mind as examples of this.]

Moreover, The Dark Knight deals with question of truth and heroism in interesting ways that fall far outside of the conventions of the comic book movie. (That is, as far as my understanding of comic book conventions go, which is not that far.) See Dana Stevens's review for more.

The thing that really struck me and that I continue to think about is the use of psychological realism. The film seemed to insist that we take seriously the villains and their psychological development-- much more seriously than other comparable summer blockbusters demand. This is interesting, of course, but in the end it didn't work in my view.

The use of extremely close, lingering close-ups (for example, of Harvey Dent lying on his hospital bed) demand that we pay attention to the anguish and loss that ultimately shape the character. The problem with demanding such engagement is that there is so much incidental brutality in the movie-- every bit as much as one would expect from a summer blockbuster. But you cannot expect me to take seriously the psychological development of certain individuals (i.e. the villains and superheros) whilst asking me to treat the dozens of people dying just off-screen as less-than-individuals. It just doesn't work like that.

You can't ask me to turn my brain on, but then to ignore glaring incongruence just because it's convenient for you. This goes beyond the implicit contract between movie-maker and viewer.

There's more. The movie is a bit showy, which although requisite for the genre, works against what I see as the movie's main thrust (i.e. the psychological realism.) The use of humor may be quite entertaining and may demonstrate the skill of Heath Ledger, but it only emphasizes the film's deep rift. The most obvious thing, I guess, is the politics. With such explicit themes as terrorism, torture, and surveillance, it is impossible to ignore the ideological questions the film insists that we consider.

But it's exceedingly strange that we cannot ignore such things in a summer blockbuster! That's the point, I guess, and that's why this movie is so interesting and incoherent.

Earlier this summer, I saw the first showing of Indiana Jones at midnight. I didn't expect to take it seriously and I didn't. I was with friends and we laughed and applauded and it was great. Since then, it annoys me to hear people voicing such criticisms as, 'that film was so unrealistic!' Of course it's unrealistic! It's Indiana Jones! Have you seen any of the previous installments???

The Dark Knight, though, is something different. It aspires to more. It demands that we use faculties that usually hibernate for the summer season of big-budget blockbusters. I respect such ambition and I genuinely enjoyed the movie, but I do not hesitate to point out what to me are it's glaring shortcomings.

'History of a Boring Town' : On Less Than Jake

Yes, that's right-- I am really going to write a blog on Less Than Jake.

As it happens, yesterday I found myself in a lovely park along the river in Bern. It was a beautiful sunny day and the park was teeming with people. I sat underneath the shade of an old tree drinking a beer, listening to my iPod, and watching all the cheery people.

Less Than Jake came up on shuffle. (I was listening to my top rated playlist.) I found myself pumping the volume and connecting to the song emotionally in a way that surprised me. And thus, voila, we have the impetus for this blog entry: Why the bloody hell am I connecting emotionally to the music of Less Than Jake?

Hm...

Of course, it is no surprise that I connected emotionally to this music when I was in high school, and even those few awkward years beyond. Less Than Jake, at that time, was one of my favorite punk bands (yes, punk.) But yesterday??? Really???? I'm twenty-six years old!

As it turns out, yesterday was a peculiar wrinkle in time. I realized that my preoccupations are not altogether incongruous with those of the juvenile punk band. Shall we enumerate a few?

• the disillusionment that comes with growing up
• a preoccupation with getting out of one's hometown
• anxious reflection (there is a lot of late night street walking in the songs)

Less Than Jake can be incredibly reflective, for being so ridiculous. (Sort of like me.) I want to be reflective whilst writing and I want to dance whilst performing or listening to music. Less Than Jake writes songs about disillusionment in major keys. To me, this seems much less melodramatic than singing about such things in minor keys. The result is rather reflective but light party music. Good on ya!

There is a line in one of the songs on 'Hello Rockview' (the album I listened to almost straight through yesterday) -- 'I still remember how I felt five years ago. And when I think of how things are right now, it's the same old song from years ago.'

Five years ago, I felt lost. I was drifting. I knew I had to get out of my hometown. I had not yet traveled, really. I knew that I needed to; it was a rite of passage. Since then, I have gotten out. In a certain light, I guess I'm surprised that I did.

Yesterday, I felt a bit lost. And I remembered my state of mind five years ago. Then there is this line in one of the songs-- 'you know, it's hard to leave your past behind.' Cliche, yes. But I connected to it.

The album finishes with a brilliant song called 'Al's War.' (Yes, I said brilliant.) The chorus goes 'sometimes I think I'm the only one who feels like going nowhere is like giving up.'

What a contrast-- the tranquility and the sunshine of the park. Shirtless kids playing football, using two well-placed rubbish bins for goal posts. And blaring in my ears, the angst-ridden attempts to make sense of things... But in major keys.

I'm still living in a major key, even if I feel a bit lost sometimes.

Photos from Switzerland

If you are interested in seeing more photos from my lovely stay in Switzerland, click here. I can't be bothered to upload them to the blog. xx

Something About the Process...

This is a story about my process as a songwriter, I think.

About a month ago, I was rapidly nearing the end of my contract in Austria. I was tired and I was savoring my final day off. I did not have overly ambitious plans for the evening. I really only had two objectives:

• to dine with some friends
  
• to write a song

I was enjoying dinner with the friends when I casually mentioned this second objective. My friends were inquisitive, so the conversation lingered.

I have been writing songs for my whole adult life. In my mind, songwriting is something that happened to me like puberty or adolescence. I guess that songwriting is one way that I dealt with the challenges of becoming an adult. Regardless of how or why I started writing songs, I have never stopped. And that is the important thing, I think.

There were times some years back when I would worry myself sick because I hadn't written a song in a week or a month. I worried that I had reached some sort of end. Sometimes I would try to force it--

The lesson was that there was nothing to worry about. After a week or a month (or a couple), the songs would again pour out of me. I have learned the lesson. Now, I don't worry. And I don't usually force it.

I see myself as someone who will always write songs. And I'm not worried.

I try not to take myself too seriously though. I see myself as one step in the process. In my mind, the whole thing is metaphysical or at least mystical. I remember Barbara Kingsolver talking about herself as a poet who just catches poems as she can-- before they disappear under the couch or blow away out the kitchen window. I believe that art is important, but that the artist is just one part of the process.

And that night-- towards the end of my stay in Austria-- I had a strong feeling that there was a song waiting to be written. I was thankful to have even a small block of time in which to chase it, to wait for it, to... I'm not sure the verb, the metaphor.

I shared some of this with my friends at dinner that night. And in doing so, I actually worried that I may have jinxed the timing. Some things should be left unsaid. Some things remain outside of one's influence. I even expressed this whimsical anxiety in a tongue-in-cheek way, and told them they'd have to check up on me later that night if they wanted to know how things turned out.

When I picked up my guitar after dinner, I did so courageously. I was actually conscious of courage. And I was conscious of my smallness in the whole process. I wasn't sure if it would happen or not.

It turns out that it did. I listened to a playlist on my iPod called 'songwriting snippets', the place where I store all the tidbit guitar lines and undeveloped musical motifs that occur to me. A guitar line-- which I remember writing in my room at the West Drive house-- seemed to correspond to an emotion or a thought. I recognized my place in the cosmos and went with it.

Within an hour or two or three (it's hard to say) I had the basic musical structure and a germinating lyric.

My friends with whom I had dinner visited my room at some point-- as was agreed at dinner-- to see if I was interested in joining them for a drink. And to see what had happened, or if anything had happened.

I must have been glowing a bit when I said that something had happened. I played them the basic guitar line and hummed what I had of the melody. They went off for a drink and I promised to join them soon.

Sometime after, another friend knocked on my door. She was hoping I could provide her with a brief tutorial on iMovie. I was glad to see her. As it happens, she is the inspiration of the song. I told her as much, filled her in on my evening's objective, and gave a preliminary performance of the fledgling song.

In the following few days, the lyrics sorted themselves out. Over this past month, I have refined the song as I've had occasion to. Specifically, I tweaked with the melody a bit and experimented with the tempo and some vocal harmonies. Yesterday, I got a garageband demo that I think captures the essence of the song the way that a demo should.

Yesterday was my final evening off before my contract in Switzerland expires. I didn't have overly ambitious plans for the evening. I love the symmetry in all this. I did want to capture a demo. I had tried once before a few weeks back, but I was not satisfied with the result. That version seemed to drag a bit.

Whilst recording, I had a feeling that I'd nailed it. After tracking, I dumped the song to my iPod and went for a walk. Fresh air is always requisite in such situations. I can remember the first time that I had the chance to record a demo in a 'real studio.' I was 16. After we tracked and mixed, we dumped the four songs to a cd and went for a ride in my mate's Honda Civic. The demo was shit, but the taste of accomplishment was so sweet to us.

When I record demos on my own with Garageband, of course, I just use the built-in omnidirectional mic on my notebook. Picture me sitting in front of the computer with my acoustic guitar. No wires anywhere. It feels so natural.

Last night, whilst I was tracking, it was raining pretty steadily in the mountains. I had my window open. This resulted in more noise than usual in the vocal track. I cut the track up a bit, and even experimented with some different gates on the track. The gates didn't really do it for me and I suspect I would have been better off in the end not to have cut up anything. But then again, the end-- the objective-- was a demo, which is exactly what I got. And I think it gets at the essence of the song, which is all you can ever hope for.

In the moment, I dumped the song to my iPod and stepped out into the Alpine rain. I was at around five thousand feet elevation, but I felt on top of the world.

Click here to have a listen.

Summer Mixtape

I have been inspired to create a mixtape to commemorate the summer of 2008. I put some thought into this. I haven't really taken a mixtape this seriously in a long time. On the other hand, these are just the songs that have resonated with me over the past several weeks; the playlist nearly formed itself.

My opinion of the mixtape is that it is pretty good, that the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. I would be thrilled to hear your opinion, whether or not it coincides with my own.

Salutations from Switzerland! xx

• Chase this Light (Jimmy Eat World)
• Oceans (The Format)
• Sleep on Needles (Sondre Lerche)
• O Valencia! (The Decemberists)
• No Surprises (Radiohead)
• Slideshow (Rufus Wainwright)
• A Hazy Shade of Winter (Simon and Garfunkel)
• Can't Take My Eyes Off You (Frankie Valli)
• Modern Nature (Sondre Lerche)
• The Engine Driver (The Decemberists)
• A Glorious Day (Embrace)
• Bird on the Wire (Leonard Cohen)
• Take It With Me (Tom Waits)
• Violet Hill (Coldplay)
• Imitosis (Andrew Bird)
• Blister in the Sun (Violent Femmes)
• So Nice So Smart (Kimya Dawson)

Me, Geneva, and Things More Broadly

My relationship to Geneva is rather tentative and strange. I don't really get the city. I have the impression that I am missing one piece of vital information that, if revealed, would result in everything clicking into place. As it is, Geneva just doesn't make much sense to me.

For one thing, I am surprised at how little German there is. I would expect to see, for example, more signs in German. I know-- Geneva is in the French part, but still. And it's not like the French influence is so pronounced. I spent what seemed like forever yesterday wandering around in search of a Parisian-style outdoor cafe. In the end, I found a few things that bore a faint resemblance, but...

What baffles me most, I think, is that Geneva is not a particularly beautiful city. It's certainly no Paris or Rome. And for my money, I would much prefer a Salzburg or even a Lausanne. The thing that I don't get about this seemingly conspicuous modesty is that the city is so filthy rich.

Granted, the natural beauty along the lake with the mountains in the background is quite stunning. But compare the architecture in this prime waterfront location with that on the banks of the Seine and-- well, there is no comparison.

In any event, yesterday I found myself in Geneva in eerily similar psychological circumstances to those of a year ago April:

• I was in Geneva alone.
  
• I had just experienced an incredible week in Switzerland.
  
• I was tired from roaming the streets and rather unsatisfied with the fruit of my roaming.

Both a year ago April and yesterday, I found myself in a similar state of fatigue and quiet exasperation when I came suddenly across the very same Starbucks. (Keep in mind-- it's not New York. There are not Starbucks on every corner.) Although I rarely frequent Starbucks in Europe for a host of fairly obvious reasons, both times-- a year ago April and yesterday-- I stopped in for some refreshment.

A year ago April, I took the time to fill out postcards that I had bought a week before in Rome. Postcards which I wouldn't actually get around to posting until the following week in Budapest. The idea of a postcard of Rome, written in Geneva, and postmarked from Budapest was irresistible.

A year ago April, I bought one of those Starbucks city mugs of Switzerland. I know, Switzerland is not a city, and of course the mug was overpriced, but nevermind. I was feeling quite taken by Switzerland (despite Geneva) and I wanted to commemorate my appreciation for this beautiful country whilst simultaneously asserting my own nationality in an ironic way.

Sometime since then, at the West Drive house in Indiana, my beloved Starbucks Switzerland mug was broken by one my housemates. I'm not sure which one.

When I stepped into the same Starbucks yesterday, and I remembered all that was in my head 16 months ago, the thought occurred to me to replace the broken mug. But I dismissed this thought pretty quickly. And that not just because it cost me over 10 Swiss francs ($9.57 US) for a coffee and a piece of chocolate truffle cake.

Although I gave Geneva a second chance yesterday, and although I did not fall in love with the city (as I do so often fall in love with the cities I find myself in), I did in the end fall into a surprisingly fulfilling state of reflection.

At some point during the aimless walking with little gratification, I broke out the iPod. This proved a turning point. The following songs (though not in this order) formed the catalytic playlist:

• 'The Engine Driver' by the Decemberists
• 'Slideshow' by Rufus Wainwright
• 'Chase this Light' by Jimmy Eat World
• 'Bird on the Wire' by Leonard Cohen
• 'Imitosis' by Andrew Bird
• 'Modern Nature' by Sondre Lerche
• 'A Hazy Shade of Winter' by Simon and Garfunkle

After roaming a bit more along the waterfront, I finally lay down in the grass just next to the lake. I was a bit warm from walking in the sun, but I soon became comfortable in the shade. There was a lovely breeze, and the clouds moved leisurely overhead. The lake, the mountains, the sun, the breeze, the clouds-- it was absolutely lovely. I used my rucksack as a pillow. My iPod lay on my chest. Deep, seemingly meaningful thoughts played in my mind at the slow reflective pace of the clouds overhead.

Alot had happened, of course, since I was last in Geneva. There was that Thailand adventure / romance, and I'd since earned a degree, for example-- but I have no intent to catalog such happenings here.

I reckon, in fact, that I won't delve very much deeper into yesterday's reflections than I already have. There is one thing, though...

I've been thinking about love and summer, and the relationship between the two. It seems to me that I am usually in the mood for love when the summer comes around. Perhaps this is the same for everyone and it goes without saying. Then again, I heard Garrison Keillor's voice in my head yesterday, talking about the Norwegian bachelor farmers of Minnesota, and the cold. Perhaps because I come from a cold place, I prefer to retire in the winter-- to hibernate -- and rely on my books and poetry for solace. I am a rock, an island. But when the summer comes around, and I get the hell out of Indiana (the cold place), my heart seems to revive to the prospect of passion.

Then again, words are trivial. And thoughts pass like clouds overhead. I love the various reference points that have not shaped, but have influenced my thought and development. I don't mean to trivialize or to be overly reductive in concluding with the couplet with which I feel I must conclude, but...

Summer lovin', had me a blast
Summer lovin' happened so fast

Afterall, it's a reference point.

A video snapshot from Austria: Kuwaiti sing-a-long, etc.

If you've ever led 80 kids from all over the world on an excursion to Salzburg-- And if you've ever taken part in a spontaneous sing-a-long amongst a group of zany but charming Kuwaitis on the coach to said excursion, then you'll understand the exhilaration and joy that this video tries so feebly to capture.

When you know the notes to sing...

It just had to be done.

Some Photos from Austria

I've finally posted a few photos from my five lovely weeks in Austria. There are more on Facebook, if you happen to be one of my 187 closest friends.

This shot comes from the tiny train station in Piesendorf, my beloved residence.

Here are some of my colleagues and friends.


This is the door to my balcony. I often sat alone gazing wistfully through these windows and listening to Simon and Garfunkle's 'The Sound of Silence' to get away from the madness of the campers.This photo was taken from my balcony. The tennis courts are ours, of course. Sadly, I forgot to snap this shot until my last day, which happened to be a cloudy one. On a clearer day, of course, the view was even better.

Also a balcony shot.
Our neighborhood in Piesendorf.

These next photos were taken in Salzburg.
You may recognize this from 'The Sound of Music.'
Dwarf garden, hell yeah.

Zell am See, the nearest and dearest town. Taken from my train window.
More Salzburg.
Those precious kids reflected in the water were ours. We took the lovely things on an excursion to Salzburg.

I am 17, going on 18.



Taken whilst on a hike nearby.

Irregular Verbs

I wrote this simple chorus and the first verse for the purpose of developing it with my advanced English class. I taught them the basic structure of the song and we sang the first verse and chorus together over the first week of intensive classes. After giving a sort of crash-course seminar on songwriting using the work of Frankie Valli and the Beatles, and examining my own 'Leather Bound Diary' for insight into the writing process, I split them up into two groups of three and had each group write an additional verse. The kids were all about it. We sang it together for International Skit Night. This morning, we shot this short clip. It's very Julie Andrews with those mountains in the backdrop.

The Verdict is In!

A Kiwi friend of mine just happened to have on her hard drive The Other Boleyn Girl, which was recently released to dvd. No more back and forth, it's now empirical:

I haven't yet watched Natalie's beheading, which could potentially yield further material.

the follow-up to that other video postcard from Paris

Click here for the original video postcard or here for another video I made awhile back using the music of Zebda. The earlier video is less sophisticated to be sure, but it's just as bizarre.

Coldplay haiku

A friend of mine had the brilliant idea to collect haiku responses to the new Coldplay record. I'm extending the invitation to you, beloved reader: Follow me.
Here are the haiku I have thus far contributed:

Brian Eno makes
all the difference, of course
(Precedent has shown.)

Cemeteries of
London rockin' the streets of
Paris in 6/4 .

Give me some dance beat
Underneath church organ pipes
I'm Lost in the groove.

Japanese lovers
are the topic of haiku
and Chris Martin songs

I like the first part--
vida la string arrangements
Yes! to rock guitar

Strawberry Swing? Nope.
'Wouldn't want to change a thing'
Except this song. Yuck!

photos from paris

The Unforgivable Sin

(Man cannot live on baguette alone.)

Drugs Are Expensive in Euros

I've just spent €49.99 for the complete third season of The Wire at a Virgin Megastore on the Champs-Elysées. As you can see in the picture, the dvd is the French version.

€49.99 ($76.69) is more than three times what I spent recently in purchasing the second season episode-by-episode, day-by-day on iTunes.

I know that more often than not I sound like an infomercial for Apple, but I gotta say-- Mr. Jobs, you're killing me. Why not offer the third season? Do you have any idea what it is to be a starving Apple-using artist in Paris with the dollar so terribly weak?

I mean, it's not as if I couldn't quit if I wanted to... Because I could.

Sean Hannity's Enterprise Expands into Internet Matchmaking... It's about time!

I was reading up on the recent 'baby's daddy' bleating on the Huffington Post when I thought it might be interesting to get the report straight from the horse's mouth.

Question: Does anyone find it jarring that Voice of the Martyrs is paying for ad space on Rush Limbaugh's site?! But nevermind.

I ended up checking in on my old friend Sean Hannity. Prepare yourself-- this is the reason for the post: It turns out that Sean Hannity has his own dating service called 'Hannidate.' The website boasts: 'The place where people of like conservative minds can come together to meet. Whether you are looking for a life partner, or just someone to hang out with, here you'll be able to find exactly who you are looking for, locally or around the world.'

And they're not kidding about that 'around the world' thing. I guess I find it difficult to imagine someone orthodox enough to subscribe to Sean Hannity's ideologically-motivated dating service to be interested in a 'life partner' who was born or lives outside of the motherland. Nevertheless, I found profiles for eligible conservatives in Phnom Penh and Cote d'Ivoire.

Personally, I'm bookmarking the page. I'm always on the lookout for a potential 'baby's mama.'

Thanks, Sean. You're a great American.

Coldplay album

It's interesting to hear Coldplay messing about in those 6/4 signatures... I mean, 6/4 is a precarious place for a rock band to be.

Republicans use the Google, too

That McCain is one savvy mofo. Don't misunderestimate him. Such a maverick not to get caught up in the partisanship of mac vs pc! And let me just be the one to say that one day soon, we're all going to miss Dub. Click here.

Radiohead Travesty

I am baffled by the following circumstance: Tonight I am in Paris. Tonight Radiohead is in Paris. But tonight, I am not seeing Radiohead in Paris.

Quelle tragédie.