Today is the music edition of Waste Your Time on My Dime (part 2, I guess). I am currently going through a gigantic list of vocabulary words—trying to study them for the GRE that I am taking in three weeks. I can’t believe how quickly it has crept up on me…so anyway, this is my noontime reprieve.
NPR’s All Songs Considered
Since discovering this show as a podcast a year or so ago (in fact I think that it was last Christmastime’s “Best Songs of the Year” show that got me hooked), I have listened to it almost every single week. Today as I have been studying, I have been catching up on the last several weeks of the program and am again reminded how much I enjoy it. Bob Boilen, the host and DJ of the program, is a musician himself and unlike most radio personalities, his genuine tastes and interests are articulated in a way that make the listener want to be fans of the songs that he plays. His show is a wonderful mix of the old and the new. He takes time to give histories and make musical connections—often genealogies—of the songs and artists that he plays. This week’s show, for example, highlights the work of contemporary folk musician M. Ward. The show is awesome, though, because first, M. Ward himself is a guest DJ. Bob Boilan, a genuine fan of M. Ward asks questions of the musician that fans would want to know. M. Ward is also given the opportunity to play music that interests him which leads to an exploration of songs by Roy Orbison, the Beach Boys, My Morning Jacket and others. But again, the show is great because it peels the musical layers that are always present in recorded music back and allows the listener to peak into the cracks. Also, the concert series is both extensive and supurb. Really, really cool stuff.
Last.fm
Last.fm is many things. First and foremost it is an audioscrobbler database which means, basically, that, with your permission, it collects information from your computer’s audio player (WMP or Itunes) as you play your music and tabulates which artists and tracks you are listening to most and organizes this information in a fun format on their website. The fun part of this process is that it then connects you with people who share your same musical interests and you can check out the groups that they are listening to that you may not have heard of—so it is a gateway to finding new music. Also, you can have “friends” which allows me to see what my buddies are listening to. (Who would have thunk that Aaron Bell was a Justin Timberlake fan?) Finally, if you are away from a computer that has all of your music on it, you can listen to last.fm radio which plays tracks that it thinks you might like based on the music you are listening to that it has collected. Amazing! View my profile at http://www.last.fm/user/jwstone/
Pitchfork Media
Pitchfork is a music news site that focuses on—well—I don’t really know how to describe it. It’s not really what I would call an “indie” music website, although the majority of what it reviews and critiques might be considered independent. Honestly, I am not familiar with the majority of the bands that are highlighted by Pitchfork (I am not very cool, you know), but I do know that when I am familiar (or want to become familiar) with the bands, the writing is excellent and the reviews are fresh, honest and often really funny.
KEXP
KEXP is a Seattle based independent radio station that it just completely and totally cool. The website has a live, streaming radio feed which makes it a great place to hear new bands and old favorites.
Finally, there are a few (usually fan produced) band websites out there that I consider to be exceptional.
Chain of Flowers is the most comprehensive web source for Cure fans that I have ever come across. During times of high band activity, there is something new and cool almost everyday on the site. My favorite things about Chain of Flowers include the news section (of course) but also include things like the database of what has gotten played during specific tours and tour dates over the years. Anybody wonder what songs they played during the Phoenix tour of the Prayer tour? Chain of Flowers will tell you.
Green Plastic is a Radiohead website that allows for more straightforward access to Radiohead information than their official site allows. It is well done for many of the same reasons that Chain of Flowers is well done.
Ben Folds's official site is one of the few label based websites that I really like. The best part about it are the pictures that have been taken by Ben and his band on the road.
Weezer.com is another really great label based website. The only reason that it remains to be so good is that it is still written and maintained by Weezer side-kick Karl Koch. It used to be better—back when Weezer used to be better—but it is still a reliable source for the =w= fan in you. I do miss the old "Karl's Corner" days, though.
Finally, I have to mention Myspace’s one good quality. When Jon and I were playing around town with Lancaster a year or so ago, Myspace became a very useful tool of local music discovery and networking. There are some really great bands to discover in the Valley (and in your city too) if you look around a bit. Can’t say that I am really into Myspace as a social networking tool, though. Too much stupid crap out there that I don’t want to look at on people’s sites.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Waste Your Time on My Dime (part one)
I was thinking today about some of the magical things on the web that serve to distract me from doing productive things. This will be the movie edition of two other such posts to follow.
IMDB- If you love movies and don’t know about this site, then you should be ashamed of yourself. IMDB is the ultimate. You can search for movies by actor, director, writer, you name it! My favorite thing about IMDB is the trivia section that gives, well, trivia about the filming, script and behind the scenes factoids that movie nerds may be interested in. Dave Bertoglio loves the “goofs” section. It has rewards for the close watcher: continuity problems, on-screen set pieces, missing or mis-robed costume pieces (For example: When the Millennium Falcon is inside the worm and a tremor makes Princess Leia fall on Han Solo she says, "Captain, being held by you isn't quite enough to get me excited", Han Solo is mouthing her line. The original trilogy is absolutely rife with mistakes.), etc.
Dark Horizons- A movie junkie’s haven. This site has information on new movies, deals, trailers, interviews, rumors, etc. The writing is clever and well done and the focus is on the art of film making rather than the “stars.” In other words, this isn’t Access Hollywood or ET.
Kids in Mind- For those of us fed up with the MPAA’s twisted and corrupt rating system, this site gives the reader a break down of the movies content in three categories: Sex, Violence and Language. Each of these categories receives a rating from zero to ten (zero for nothing, ten for a vast abundance of). Pirates of the Caribbean received a 3.7.2, for example, whereas Nacho Libre got a 3.4.3. Then, each and every potentially objectionable part of the movie is explained (sterilely) so that an educated decision can be made about the movies appropriateness for varying audiences.
Rotten Tomatoes- We love Rotten Tomatoes at our house! This is the end of the line when it comes to the movie critical mass. Basically, the idea here is the collection and distribution of professional critic’s opinions of a movie’s watchability. Is your time better spent, as my brother-in-law Brandon is known to say, staring at a blank wall? Each review is assigned a positive or a negative value and a percentage is tabulated based on those numbers. If the total percentage exceeds 60%, the movie is considered “fresh” if it is below that, the movie is, of course, “rotten.” Never waste your money on a crappy movie again!
IMDB- If you love movies and don’t know about this site, then you should be ashamed of yourself. IMDB is the ultimate. You can search for movies by actor, director, writer, you name it! My favorite thing about IMDB is the trivia section that gives, well, trivia about the filming, script and behind the scenes factoids that movie nerds may be interested in. Dave Bertoglio loves the “goofs” section. It has rewards for the close watcher: continuity problems, on-screen set pieces, missing or mis-robed costume pieces (For example: When the Millennium Falcon is inside the worm and a tremor makes Princess Leia fall on Han Solo she says, "Captain, being held by you isn't quite enough to get me excited", Han Solo is mouthing her line. The original trilogy is absolutely rife with mistakes.), etc.
Dark Horizons- A movie junkie’s haven. This site has information on new movies, deals, trailers, interviews, rumors, etc. The writing is clever and well done and the focus is on the art of film making rather than the “stars.” In other words, this isn’t Access Hollywood or ET.
Kids in Mind- For those of us fed up with the MPAA’s twisted and corrupt rating system, this site gives the reader a break down of the movies content in three categories: Sex, Violence and Language. Each of these categories receives a rating from zero to ten (zero for nothing, ten for a vast abundance of). Pirates of the Caribbean received a 3.7.2, for example, whereas Nacho Libre got a 3.4.3. Then, each and every potentially objectionable part of the movie is explained (sterilely) so that an educated decision can be made about the movies appropriateness for varying audiences.
Rotten Tomatoes- We love Rotten Tomatoes at our house! This is the end of the line when it comes to the movie critical mass. Basically, the idea here is the collection and distribution of professional critic’s opinions of a movie’s watchability. Is your time better spent, as my brother-in-law Brandon is known to say, staring at a blank wall? Each review is assigned a positive or a negative value and a percentage is tabulated based on those numbers. If the total percentage exceeds 60%, the movie is considered “fresh” if it is below that, the movie is, of course, “rotten.” Never waste your money on a crappy movie again!
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Whaling in the 115 degree Desert
Its been a month or so since my last post and how I long for lazy summer days. Since my last post, I have finished my summer Shakespeare course (Merchant of Venice, King Lear, Measure for Measure, Henry VIII, and Much Ado for those of you keeping score), and make the trek up to my folk's house in American Fork. A few things about that first:
For the first time ever, I opened my eyes to that gorgeous drive. From the low desert of Phoenix to the forest environs of Flag to the high desert and strange reds, oranges and grays of Cameron and the gaping mouth of ole Grandy herself. Page, Glen Canyon, Kanab, Mount Carmel, oh my! I would imagine that living couched between Glen Canyon, Zion’s park and only hours away from the Grand Canyon would be every cliff junkie’s dream. I love how as you drive up the 89, between Mount Carmel and the 70 turn off, a creek (pronounced in my home town of Logan, UT as “crick”) accompanies you running north for miles and miles, not to mention the grassy mountain meadows and groves. Anyway—I am glad I finally noticed that.
My parents' house was lovely. It was so nice to relax and enjoy their company. Dad took us to see Nacho Libre--a highlight to be sure. "Choncho--when you are a man...sometimes you wear stretchy pants. It's for fun."
Tina and I did something different this trip. We listened to a book on CD. Chaim Potok’s The Chosen to be precise. It was a nice experience, an enjoyable novel and a great way to pass the time. Even better—I can count it as one of my Young Adult Fiction novels in this upcoming semester’s class. I also finished Richard Russo’s Empire Falls—-a great East of Eden-esque family epic. I really enjoyed it. I love books about regular people with regular problems. It takes a talented writer to make those regular things seem important and significant—-a lot like the way that we view our own lives: the significance is in the regularity. Anyway, I recommend it, oh thou thousands of my readership. Russo is the kind of author that inspires young wannabes like me to start writing that novel that they say everybody thinks that they have in them. I actually have what I think is a pretty good idea. Just like everybody else.
Another book I have finally been able to put a significant dent in because of the marvelous invention and never tiring vocal chords of the magnificent audiobook is Herman Melville’s Moby Dick (careful not to forget the ‘r’ in Herman, lest the old coot become He-man, which is actually not a bad nickname for someone with such magnanimous prose-power—“By the Power of Great-White-Skull!”). If you have never read, or never gotten past the first chapter of Ahab’s Monomaniacal Adventure here is a brief synopsis of what to expect: one chapter of excellent, steady moving plot between four chapters of another book titled Everything You Ever Cared To Know About Whaling’s Guide For Suckers Who Thought They Were Reading Moby Dick, One of America’s Treasures. It’s some heavy stuff--seriously, if you want to learn how to decapitate a sperm whale, Melville's your man. But—again, give me an hour in the car and I can knock off a good five chapters! Ahoy me hardies!
In other news, I am back to the grind of the grad school pursuit. I have narrowed my search to 10 or 12 schools and am feeling pretty good about my choices. The kicker becomes this whole GRE thing. I have good grades: a 4.0 over the last two years at ASU of my English and ed. studies, I think that I have a fairly decent writing sample and the ability to write decent personal statements—but that dang GRE! Why must it reveal my averageness when I have done so much to cover it up!? I bit the bullet and have been taking a $400 dollar prep course. As soon as I can actually talk myself out of my deranged osmosis-will-suffice study habits, I may actually make some good use of the money spent there.
Also of summer importance: the Rentals and Ozma—-two of the greatest summer bands of my youth have reunited and are touring the country together playing such favorites as Eponine (yeah, I know that is an ’03 clip, but such editing and sound quality!) and I Just Threw Out the Love of My Dreams (I know, not good editing OR sound quality—but that’s Rachel Haden and she is singing one of my favorite songs of all time with the heart and soul of Weezer, one Matt Sharp [parenthesis within a parenthesis—-yeah! See my "What Happened to Weezer" article--this blog's first post]). Ozma reminds me of being married with no kids which meant still being a kid which was fun but seems so long ago. For me they are the perfect punk-pop band--different from Weezer becasue when I first met them they were just kids. Plus, who wouldn't love a band who write songs about Back to the Future, Zelda, Natalie Portman and cover the Tetris theme? The Rentals remind me of being 18 and being a kid but feeling like an adult—-like I knew everything. Matt Sharp was always the funnest thing about seeing Weezer play. Both are great bands: if they come to your town you should go so you can tell me about it because they are coming here on a Sunday!
For the first time ever, I opened my eyes to that gorgeous drive. From the low desert of Phoenix to the forest environs of Flag to the high desert and strange reds, oranges and grays of Cameron and the gaping mouth of ole Grandy herself. Page, Glen Canyon, Kanab, Mount Carmel, oh my! I would imagine that living couched between Glen Canyon, Zion’s park and only hours away from the Grand Canyon would be every cliff junkie’s dream. I love how as you drive up the 89, between Mount Carmel and the 70 turn off, a creek (pronounced in my home town of Logan, UT as “crick”) accompanies you running north for miles and miles, not to mention the grassy mountain meadows and groves. Anyway—I am glad I finally noticed that.
My parents' house was lovely. It was so nice to relax and enjoy their company. Dad took us to see Nacho Libre--a highlight to be sure. "Choncho--when you are a man...sometimes you wear stretchy pants. It's for fun."
Tina and I did something different this trip. We listened to a book on CD. Chaim Potok’s The Chosen to be precise. It was a nice experience, an enjoyable novel and a great way to pass the time. Even better—I can count it as one of my Young Adult Fiction novels in this upcoming semester’s class. I also finished Richard Russo’s Empire Falls—-a great East of Eden-esque family epic. I really enjoyed it. I love books about regular people with regular problems. It takes a talented writer to make those regular things seem important and significant—-a lot like the way that we view our own lives: the significance is in the regularity. Anyway, I recommend it, oh thou thousands of my readership. Russo is the kind of author that inspires young wannabes like me to start writing that novel that they say everybody thinks that they have in them. I actually have what I think is a pretty good idea. Just like everybody else.
Another book I have finally been able to put a significant dent in because of the marvelous invention and never tiring vocal chords of the magnificent audiobook is Herman Melville’s Moby Dick (careful not to forget the ‘r’ in Herman, lest the old coot become He-man, which is actually not a bad nickname for someone with such magnanimous prose-power—“By the Power of Great-White-Skull!”). If you have never read, or never gotten past the first chapter of Ahab’s Monomaniacal Adventure here is a brief synopsis of what to expect: one chapter of excellent, steady moving plot between four chapters of another book titled Everything You Ever Cared To Know About Whaling’s Guide For Suckers Who Thought They Were Reading Moby Dick, One of America’s Treasures. It’s some heavy stuff--seriously, if you want to learn how to decapitate a sperm whale, Melville's your man. But—again, give me an hour in the car and I can knock off a good five chapters! Ahoy me hardies!
In other news, I am back to the grind of the grad school pursuit. I have narrowed my search to 10 or 12 schools and am feeling pretty good about my choices. The kicker becomes this whole GRE thing. I have good grades: a 4.0 over the last two years at ASU of my English and ed. studies, I think that I have a fairly decent writing sample and the ability to write decent personal statements—but that dang GRE! Why must it reveal my averageness when I have done so much to cover it up!? I bit the bullet and have been taking a $400 dollar prep course. As soon as I can actually talk myself out of my deranged osmosis-will-suffice study habits, I may actually make some good use of the money spent there.
Also of summer importance: the Rentals and Ozma—-two of the greatest summer bands of my youth have reunited and are touring the country together playing such favorites as Eponine (yeah, I know that is an ’03 clip, but such editing and sound quality!) and I Just Threw Out the Love of My Dreams (I know, not good editing OR sound quality—but that’s Rachel Haden and she is singing one of my favorite songs of all time with the heart and soul of Weezer, one Matt Sharp [parenthesis within a parenthesis—-yeah! See my "What Happened to Weezer" article--this blog's first post]). Ozma reminds me of being married with no kids which meant still being a kid which was fun but seems so long ago. For me they are the perfect punk-pop band--different from Weezer becasue when I first met them they were just kids. Plus, who wouldn't love a band who write songs about Back to the Future, Zelda, Natalie Portman and cover the Tetris theme? The Rentals remind me of being 18 and being a kid but feeling like an adult—-like I knew everything. Matt Sharp was always the funnest thing about seeing Weezer play. Both are great bands: if they come to your town you should go so you can tell me about it because they are coming here on a Sunday!
Friday, June 09, 2006
Gnarls Barkley= summer fun
Summer time is about harmless guilty pleasures—right ? This summer my guilty pleasure has a name and that name is Gnarls Barkley. Besides having an awesome first album with St. Elsewhere and a completely catchy single in Crazy—with a totally unique video, to boot—they are showing up in public in costumes like this, and with live remixes like this. Man oh man. It’s probably been done before—but I think that the R&B with hip-hop/sampling sensibilities is so cool! That the guys (Danger Mouse and Cee-Lo) have a sense of humor with their costuming and stuff makes the band even better. The other cool thing that I just read about them was that after 9 weeks they had their own single deleted from the top ten (as #1) to keep the public from getting sick of it and to make way for their next single. I don't think that anybody has ever done that before.
I hope to see them live.
I hope to see them live.
Monday, May 22, 2006
How Rindecella Slopped her Dripper: Spoonerisms
Spoonerisms are named after the Reverend William A. Spooner (1844–1930), an English clergyman who uttered them frequently and apparently involuntarily and are the amusing result of the transpositions of sounds in a pair of words or phrases:
He referred to Queen Victoria as "our queer old dean."
"We all know what it is to have a half-warmed fish inside us."
"Is the bean dizzy?"
"When the boys come back from France, we'll have the hags flung out"
"The Lord is a shoving leopard,"
"It is kisstomary to cuss the bride,"
"Mardon me padam, this pie is occupewed. Can I sew you to another sheet?."
"You have hissed my mystery lectures; you have tasted the whole worm."
A couple of other funny ones I found:
Rental deceptionist
Hollow your fart
A lack of pies
Enron: what a crunch of books.
hot Poles
We have a plaster man
you have mad banners
Candle with hair!
well-boiled icicle
Go shake a tower
Tease my ears
bound grief
He referred to Queen Victoria as "our queer old dean."
"We all know what it is to have a half-warmed fish inside us."
"Is the bean dizzy?"
"When the boys come back from France, we'll have the hags flung out"
"The Lord is a shoving leopard,"
"It is kisstomary to cuss the bride,"
"Mardon me padam, this pie is occupewed. Can I sew you to another sheet?."
"You have hissed my mystery lectures; you have tasted the whole worm."
A couple of other funny ones I found:
Rental deceptionist
Hollow your fart
A lack of pies
Enron: what a crunch of books.
hot Poles
We have a plaster man
you have mad banners
Candle with hair!
well-boiled icicle
Go shake a tower
Tease my ears
bound grief
Monday, May 08, 2006
Mickey Mouse Goes Camping
School is finally out… big phew. I think that I must have spent over 100 hours working on the paper that I turned in today to Dr. Perry (Milton). Today was version 2.0, Friday was the Rhetoric paper and version 1.7—having been through three separate rewrites with Vernon at the writing center (you bet I am going to use every resource). Anyway, I am feeling o.k. about things. If I do well on the paper, I might possibly get an A in Perry’s class and therefore gain access to a good letter of recommendation.
Anyway, two cute things happened this last week with Seth that are worth mentioning. The first fun thing was that I told him that we were going to be able to go camping for our ward’s Father and Son’s outing. I was explaining all of the different things that we would be doing—setting up a tent, going to the mountains, sleeping in sleeping bags. He was so excited. But then he got perplexed and said: “Daddy, what is a sleeping bag?” So cute. So I showed him what a sleeping bag was and told him how we would unroll it and put it in our tent and sleep in the mountains. He then said, “Daddy, if we try to sleep on the mountains, won’t we just slip off?” Clearly this boy needs a good camp.
Second, a few nights ago Seth was walking around with his hand cupped, as if holding something. We asked him if what he was doing. He said that he was holding “Mickey,” as in Mickey Mouse. It was classic imaginary friend material. He would ask him questions, set him down, pick him up, speak for him, etc. So, what do I think about this?
Mickey’s going camping, baby.
Anyway, two cute things happened this last week with Seth that are worth mentioning. The first fun thing was that I told him that we were going to be able to go camping for our ward’s Father and Son’s outing. I was explaining all of the different things that we would be doing—setting up a tent, going to the mountains, sleeping in sleeping bags. He was so excited. But then he got perplexed and said: “Daddy, what is a sleeping bag?” So cute. So I showed him what a sleeping bag was and told him how we would unroll it and put it in our tent and sleep in the mountains. He then said, “Daddy, if we try to sleep on the mountains, won’t we just slip off?” Clearly this boy needs a good camp.
Second, a few nights ago Seth was walking around with his hand cupped, as if holding something. We asked him if what he was doing. He said that he was holding “Mickey,” as in Mickey Mouse. It was classic imaginary friend material. He would ask him questions, set him down, pick him up, speak for him, etc. So, what do I think about this?
Mickey’s going camping, baby.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Sliding through the last week of the semester
Immersed in Milton and Burke, trying to exert myself in a way that produces some sort of semi-scholarly work, I am locking in for quite a week. My blog diversions have been a way of coming up for air. So, speaking of fresh breaths of that invisible, life-giving chemical:
Check this dude out: Jerry Douglas
I have been listening to a lot of Alison Krauss & Union Station lately (a lovely accent to my almost constant diet of Sufjan Stevens, Iron & Wine, James Taylor and the Shins of late). Douglas is, as you might have already seen, the acoustic slide guitarist for Alison’s band and the guy is amazing. I have been listening to the albums lately and couldn’t put my finger on what gave that unique twinge to the amazing slide soloing going on. When I saw them play on last Friday night’s Austin City Limits, I saw Douglas in action for the first time and was utterly floored. I am a guy who has severely dissed the twang of the electric slide heard in most country music, but this is a whole new thing (and I can stand the former much more these days too). Anyway, I hope you enjoy seeing this guy in action. If you like what you see and haven’t listened to much Alison Krauss, I recommend theses two songs to start you out:
This is from Austin City Limits It shows the bluegrassiness at its best.
Goodbye is All We Have
And if you can find it, Restless is a great song too
Check this dude out: Jerry Douglas
I have been listening to a lot of Alison Krauss & Union Station lately (a lovely accent to my almost constant diet of Sufjan Stevens, Iron & Wine, James Taylor and the Shins of late). Douglas is, as you might have already seen, the acoustic slide guitarist for Alison’s band and the guy is amazing. I have been listening to the albums lately and couldn’t put my finger on what gave that unique twinge to the amazing slide soloing going on. When I saw them play on last Friday night’s Austin City Limits, I saw Douglas in action for the first time and was utterly floored. I am a guy who has severely dissed the twang of the electric slide heard in most country music, but this is a whole new thing (and I can stand the former much more these days too). Anyway, I hope you enjoy seeing this guy in action. If you like what you see and haven’t listened to much Alison Krauss, I recommend theses two songs to start you out:
This is from Austin City Limits It shows the bluegrassiness at its best.
Goodbye is All We Have
And if you can find it, Restless is a great song too
Friday, April 28, 2006
NESsy: Our underwater ally
On Only Anything's second album SpaceCapers, Jon Thwaits busted out a cover of a tune from the NES video game Mega Man 3--that was 1994. In 2006 it has become an industry.
You can find Asian prodigies on the net working out the Mario theme on the piano or a guitar, high school bands rocking the "Mike Tyson's Punch Out" theme, and I just stumbled on this today.
Phoenix has the Minibosses. I can barely believe the close harmonies these dueling guitarists pull off (sorry about the swears in that last link, just leave the volume down until the dudes start rockin' Castlevania). I guess Jon and I should have followed that muse.
The Advantage from San Diego are pretty cool too.
What does this all say about my generation's music sensibilities?
I'm sorry, this post just keeps growing (and this is totally unrelated)--but I can't help but love this
(You'll love it too if you are into Ben Folds singing old Wham! songs with Rufus Wainwright)
You can find Asian prodigies on the net working out the Mario theme on the piano or a guitar, high school bands rocking the "Mike Tyson's Punch Out" theme, and I just stumbled on this today.
Phoenix has the Minibosses. I can barely believe the close harmonies these dueling guitarists pull off (sorry about the swears in that last link, just leave the volume down until the dudes start rockin' Castlevania). I guess Jon and I should have followed that muse.
The Advantage from San Diego are pretty cool too.
What does this all say about my generation's music sensibilities?
I'm sorry, this post just keeps growing (and this is totally unrelated)--but I can't help but love this
(You'll love it too if you are into Ben Folds singing old Wham! songs with Rufus Wainwright)
Thursday, April 27, 2006
revisted
The previous post has been hanging ominously at that top of this blog for a few weeks now. I have thought about writing something else just so the announcement of stupidity is subordinated by something else. But I can't help but continue to muse, unhappily on the topic. I do this for a few reasons. The first of which has to do with that feeling again being present today as I sat at the back of my grammar class. How can I feel so lost after sitting in the same class for 3 months with people around me who really seem to have caught on? What makes me different from them? So I can feel sorry for myself about this for a while, and I do.
But then I have to think about it from another perspective: How many students will I teach in the future who will be feeling this same way? Are we a majority or a minority? I think that (due to the same people always speaking up in class) that we have to be at least a small majority. I guess what I am saying is that as long as I don't let the "feeling of stupid" keep me from pressing ahead (which it, sadly, has done at times), then I have to remember the feeling—those of us on the cusp of knowledge, indeed, those of us who feel the chasm, are those who are the most humble and therefore the most teachable.
But then I have to think about it from another perspective: How many students will I teach in the future who will be feeling this same way? Are we a majority or a minority? I think that (due to the same people always speaking up in class) that we have to be at least a small majority. I guess what I am saying is that as long as I don't let the "feeling of stupid" keep me from pressing ahead (which it, sadly, has done at times), then I have to remember the feeling—those of us on the cusp of knowledge, indeed, those of us who feel the chasm, are those who are the most humble and therefore the most teachable.
Friday, April 07, 2006
the feeling of stupid
Part of the paradox of learning is realizing how much you really don't know. It is a scary, empty, cold and echoing emotion- the realization of one's ignorance.
Monday, April 03, 2006
there comes a call...
There comes a call for renewal. For reexamination; for action inducing introspection; for being stronger and taking courage. Over the weekend I felt that call . There comes a time to end equivocation. A time for the beginning of being firm in one’s mind . So I am beginning (v) at the beginning (n) beginning (adv?) now.
My goal is to write everyday (like he suggests)
My goal is to walk everyday
My goal is to read everyday
My goal is to trust everyday
My goal is to play everyday
My goal is to exercise…everything (mind, spirit, body, heart) everyday.
Part of becoming what I am hoping to become requires courage. I remember on my mission thinking the exact same thing—realizing that the success that I was waiting for depended largely on how I spent my time (self discipline) but had even more to do with my own belief in my personal capacity to be successful. Once I made it to that place, I had success. Strange, the arithmetic growth.
As such, this site is going to change again. It can’t just be a place of discussion on one topic. It must be a place for the discussion and exposition of all the various things that I am thinking about. I can’t sit down and write every day about how hard getting into graduate school is going to be—and I want to sit down and write every day. Not that I can publish everything that I want to write here... but at least there is the motivation of that potential.
See you tomorrow.
My goal is to write everyday (like he suggests)
My goal is to walk everyday
My goal is to read everyday
My goal is to trust everyday
My goal is to play everyday
My goal is to exercise…everything (mind, spirit, body, heart) everyday.
Part of becoming what I am hoping to become requires courage. I remember on my mission thinking the exact same thing—realizing that the success that I was waiting for depended largely on how I spent my time (self discipline) but had even more to do with my own belief in my personal capacity to be successful. Once I made it to that place, I had success. Strange, the arithmetic growth.
As such, this site is going to change again. It can’t just be a place of discussion on one topic. It must be a place for the discussion and exposition of all the various things that I am thinking about. I can’t sit down and write every day about how hard getting into graduate school is going to be—and I want to sit down and write every day. Not that I can publish everything that I want to write here... but at least there is the motivation of that potential.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
For all intensive purposes...
Spring break is winding down here at Stone central, and I didn't get as much done as I had hoped. I did get the annoyingly long and busy-workish "Teachers and the Law" final done, which doesn't seem like a big deal now, but would have been a bugger to have to deal with on top of my other school work.
At this point, it becomes a game of deciding what layers of my many responsibilities and preparations get shuffled through and brought to the surface for some attention. I did get a chance, today, to sit down and study a bit about the GRE Literature test. The Princeton Review has a pretty decent and easily read prep book that I have been perusing through (check that html link action!). I have pretty much decided that I will also be taking a general GRE exam test prep class (which will mean that the total amount spent on the GRE after the 3 previous times, the 2 upcoming and the prep class will hover around $1000). I will be talking to Dr. Perry about these things soon, but already think I know what he is going to say: retake it and do well.
One funny thing: While watching 24 episodes this week, one of the characters clearly said "For all intents and purposes..." It blew my mind. I immediately asked Tina if I was the only one that had been saying "for all intensive purposes" my whole life not knowing that it was incorrect. She, of course, didn't make that mistake. I discovered after some internetting that mine is a very common mistake. Much like "supposebly" and a million other ways that we mess the language up by speaking it, for all intensive purposes injured me...injured bad.
Just for fun, if any of the few of you that read this can think of any other mistakes like this, feel free to comment.
At this point, it becomes a game of deciding what layers of my many responsibilities and preparations get shuffled through and brought to the surface for some attention. I did get a chance, today, to sit down and study a bit about the GRE Literature test. The Princeton Review has a pretty decent and easily read prep book that I have been perusing through (check that html link action!). I have pretty much decided that I will also be taking a general GRE exam test prep class (which will mean that the total amount spent on the GRE after the 3 previous times, the 2 upcoming and the prep class will hover around $1000). I will be talking to Dr. Perry about these things soon, but already think I know what he is going to say: retake it and do well.
One funny thing: While watching 24 episodes this week, one of the characters clearly said "For all intents and purposes..." It blew my mind. I immediately asked Tina if I was the only one that had been saying "for all intensive purposes" my whole life not knowing that it was incorrect. She, of course, didn't make that mistake. I discovered after some internetting that mine is a very common mistake. Much like "supposebly" and a million other ways that we mess the language up by speaking it, for all intensive purposes injured me...injured bad.
Just for fun, if any of the few of you that read this can think of any other mistakes like this, feel free to comment.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Jonathan Stone’s Statement of Academic Goals
(here is the personal statement that I included today in my scholarship app)
Part of the undergraduate experience includes a sort of intellectual flailing in the rough waters of indecision and ignorance. The foil of the equation, namely decision and intelligence (hopefully leading to action) then becomes the rescue boat which, if found, carries the student toward a clear academic agenda. Finding this life boat took some time for me, but after nearly ten years in the water, I’m secure and sailing towards my goal: a tenure-track position in the field of English at a major university.
My experience in the modern academy is extensive, having attended five institutions, taking degrees from two of them, and currently being poised for two more from ASU. Because of sheer time spent, the university has lost its intimidation factor, which has given me the opportunity to view it for what it really is: an intellectual marketplace. More importantly, I see it now as a place where I really do fit; against the odds, I actually enjoy academia. In other words, I have moved from the busy market’s sideline—I now buy and sell everyday.
As a consumer of the academy, I have developed certain tastes. These tastes have been aged and informed by the time that I have invested into the institution. And like any critic, I believe that my tastes are unique, teachable and have a context that is applicable. So, when I say I want to teach English at a major university because I love to read and write, there are a variety of richer subtexts that accompany this somewhat trite declaration.
My experience in the system has led to much more careful choices, which has also led to a more deliberate academic experience than I had in my flailing days. For example, I know that I want to teach literature at an advanced level, but, because I am not yet there, I have sought out select classes that will allow me to interact with and learn from the best intellectual minds that our English department offers. I have moved away from taking classes merely for credit, and now have ulterior motives which have lead me to seek out more rigorous courses, this semester focusing on Rhetorical theory, advanced work in Milton and literacy studies. I find the process of decoding texts to be rewarding intellectually, and the scholars with whom I have selected to study are the expert decoders and deal with some of society’s most complex theories and texts. Likewise, I see myself as an advocate and teacher of writing and its many complexities, processes and theories. Accordingly, I have positioned myself in classes where those theories are taught and in situations where I can practice applying these ideas. Furthermore, I am currently the Online Writing Lab manager for the Polytechnic campus’ writing center and work everyday in person with students both applying these theories and honing my own understanding of composition practices.
I see in academia a need for better teaching, so in addition to my formal English studies, I have begun a diligent study of pedagogy. By the time I enter graduate school, I will have accumulated hundreds of hours teaching in real English settings—something that my peers will only be beginning to do when graduate school begins.
As I mentioned, my studies and instruction have led to an interest in the decoding of texts and a fleshing out of the many writing practices. These activities provide contexts for greater social questions and concerns. In other words, my studies have given me a broader perspective of the world and my place in it. This fact then also gives perspective for what teaching these subjects can do for the students who it will one day be my responsibility to instruct. I am committed to these students’ successes—they need not flail as long as I!
Finally, as I have tried to provide some of the subtexts for my scholarly interests, and speaking to my last point, I find within each of these areas, both writing and decoding texts, very specific needs to advance the academic conversation by the production of meaningful, student relevant research in the varying fields of English. As Barry Brummett, a rhetorical theorist, explains in his article Rhetorical Theory as Heuristic and Moral, A Pedagogical Justification (1984), the first audience of our research will always be our peers in academia, but our primary audience should be our students. They are the ones who will be wandering in their masses out into the society of which we profess to be scholars.
And because I am still on this side of the podium, “they” is still me. Thus, my primary goal after graduation becomes to spend the next six or seven years of my life in a respected graduate program where I can thoroughly gird my learning. But, I am encouraged now because my sail is set; my vision has cleared, my intentions have solidified, and I have already entered the discourse.
Part of the undergraduate experience includes a sort of intellectual flailing in the rough waters of indecision and ignorance. The foil of the equation, namely decision and intelligence (hopefully leading to action) then becomes the rescue boat which, if found, carries the student toward a clear academic agenda. Finding this life boat took some time for me, but after nearly ten years in the water, I’m secure and sailing towards my goal: a tenure-track position in the field of English at a major university.
My experience in the modern academy is extensive, having attended five institutions, taking degrees from two of them, and currently being poised for two more from ASU. Because of sheer time spent, the university has lost its intimidation factor, which has given me the opportunity to view it for what it really is: an intellectual marketplace. More importantly, I see it now as a place where I really do fit; against the odds, I actually enjoy academia. In other words, I have moved from the busy market’s sideline—I now buy and sell everyday.
As a consumer of the academy, I have developed certain tastes. These tastes have been aged and informed by the time that I have invested into the institution. And like any critic, I believe that my tastes are unique, teachable and have a context that is applicable. So, when I say I want to teach English at a major university because I love to read and write, there are a variety of richer subtexts that accompany this somewhat trite declaration.
My experience in the system has led to much more careful choices, which has also led to a more deliberate academic experience than I had in my flailing days. For example, I know that I want to teach literature at an advanced level, but, because I am not yet there, I have sought out select classes that will allow me to interact with and learn from the best intellectual minds that our English department offers. I have moved away from taking classes merely for credit, and now have ulterior motives which have lead me to seek out more rigorous courses, this semester focusing on Rhetorical theory, advanced work in Milton and literacy studies. I find the process of decoding texts to be rewarding intellectually, and the scholars with whom I have selected to study are the expert decoders and deal with some of society’s most complex theories and texts. Likewise, I see myself as an advocate and teacher of writing and its many complexities, processes and theories. Accordingly, I have positioned myself in classes where those theories are taught and in situations where I can practice applying these ideas. Furthermore, I am currently the Online Writing Lab manager for the Polytechnic campus’ writing center and work everyday in person with students both applying these theories and honing my own understanding of composition practices.
I see in academia a need for better teaching, so in addition to my formal English studies, I have begun a diligent study of pedagogy. By the time I enter graduate school, I will have accumulated hundreds of hours teaching in real English settings—something that my peers will only be beginning to do when graduate school begins.
As I mentioned, my studies and instruction have led to an interest in the decoding of texts and a fleshing out of the many writing practices. These activities provide contexts for greater social questions and concerns. In other words, my studies have given me a broader perspective of the world and my place in it. This fact then also gives perspective for what teaching these subjects can do for the students who it will one day be my responsibility to instruct. I am committed to these students’ successes—they need not flail as long as I!
Finally, as I have tried to provide some of the subtexts for my scholarly interests, and speaking to my last point, I find within each of these areas, both writing and decoding texts, very specific needs to advance the academic conversation by the production of meaningful, student relevant research in the varying fields of English. As Barry Brummett, a rhetorical theorist, explains in his article Rhetorical Theory as Heuristic and Moral, A Pedagogical Justification (1984), the first audience of our research will always be our peers in academia, but our primary audience should be our students. They are the ones who will be wandering in their masses out into the society of which we profess to be scholars.
And because I am still on this side of the podium, “they” is still me. Thus, my primary goal after graduation becomes to spend the next six or seven years of my life in a respected graduate program where I can thoroughly gird my learning. But, I am encouraged now because my sail is set; my vision has cleared, my intentions have solidified, and I have already entered the discourse.
From time to time
Intimidation in advanced Literature classes is inevitable. There are always plenty of smarty-pants' as well as genuinely smart people in the class that seem to know more about the subject than I do. Or at least understand the discourse enough to sound articulate when they talk about the literature. I can usually combat this tendency with either becoming a smarty-pants myself, or by actually learning the subject well enough to make meaningful contributions to the academic discussion going on. I am having trouble doing so in my Milton class. If you have read Milton you know that he is prolific, complicated and very dense. My professor, a Harvard man, is a smart guy--and I took the class more because of his reputation than because of a Miltonist impulse. So far, just feel dumb. I don’t feel like I am among friends, and there are probably 50 people in my class, so shining brightly enough to encourage my instructor's praise will be a challenge.
*
Dr. Blasingame wrote me a nice letter of recommendation yesterday for a scholarship. He also mentioned that he knows some publishers in Utah, one of which is very famous, whom he said he would be willing to submit a finished manuscript from me. He has been such a great support to my budding interests in really all things literary. It’s got me thinking again about my short story series about my San Francisco mission experience. He mentioned that in order to submit something to these dudes, I would have to have a finished product...something at least 300 pages. I maybe have 25. Probably not even that, but still, I have started thinking about that again. I would like to significantly expand this work. I think that I will take a creative non-fiction class this summer, in fact I would really like to try to make the project part of my summer activities, among GREing, and finalizing where will be applying to grad school.
Anyway, I really have only written about two areas of the mission (the Mission and Palo Alto), and neither with a whole lot of detail. There is a ton of stuff that I could explore:
Petaluma, Marin, Foster City, the Sunset—let alone the some of the substories: Crabtree, Mclane, Hall, The Great Fall, etc. So anyway, encouragement sure is nice. From time to time.
*
Dr. Blasingame wrote me a nice letter of recommendation yesterday for a scholarship. He also mentioned that he knows some publishers in Utah, one of which is very famous, whom he said he would be willing to submit a finished manuscript from me. He has been such a great support to my budding interests in really all things literary. It’s got me thinking again about my short story series about my San Francisco mission experience. He mentioned that in order to submit something to these dudes, I would have to have a finished product...something at least 300 pages. I maybe have 25. Probably not even that, but still, I have started thinking about that again. I would like to significantly expand this work. I think that I will take a creative non-fiction class this summer, in fact I would really like to try to make the project part of my summer activities, among GREing, and finalizing where will be applying to grad school.
Anyway, I really have only written about two areas of the mission (the Mission and Palo Alto), and neither with a whole lot of detail. There is a ton of stuff that I could explore:
Petaluma, Marin, Foster City, the Sunset—let alone the some of the substories: Crabtree, Mclane, Hall, The Great Fall, etc. So anyway, encouragement sure is nice. From time to time.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Blueprints
I am in the process of rethinking this blog space. I just don't have enough time to be a critic I guess. I think that the far more interesting topic (at least for me) is whether or not a man of my intellectual deficiency can hope to get into a good English PhD program. That is my goal, and while I recognize up front that it is a lofty one, something drives me toward it. So off I go.
The question becomes whether or not this is a Kamikaze mission. It may be. There are definitely no guarantees, but this is where I stand as far as I can guesstimate:
1. The GRE- I am going to have to take this test for what will be the fourth time. Pretty sad, but the truth of the matter is that I need about a hundred more points on this bad boy to be in a competitive place.
My Score: 550 (Verbal)
Needed: 650.
Plus there is the whole issue of the English Literature subject test. Also known as the hardest test on the planet, even among current English doctoral candidates.
2. The letter of intent/personal statement- This little 2 page piece is the one chance that the multitudes of stuffy professorial types have of getting to know you. My last attempt bordered on the “exactly what not to write in a letter of intent” variety, now that I know a little about it. This piece, if done right, will not be easy and will be very time consuming. It becomes my task to personalize 10+ letters in a way that will make me seem like the best candidate for the particulars of that university. In other words, in principle, my letters to UC Irvine and the University of Washington will need to be very different. I need not only to show their board that their school is the perfect fit for me, but also that I am the perfect fit for them—that I will add something significant to their institution in my 6-7 years on campus. All that, and help them get to know me. Sheesh.
3. The single most important document that you will send (so the experts say) is your writing sample. I took Milton and Rhetoric this semester almost with the pure intent of both using the paper that I write for both of these classes as my sample, and getting these tenured professors to write me letters (which actually deserves the #4 here, but I will just mention it parenthetically instead). I am confident that these papers (after undergoing numerous rewrites in the writing center) will be the strongest piece of my application and will hopefully outshine my dismal GRE scores.
4. Finally, I am hoping that this double major thing that I am doing will also make me stand out. When I finish, I will be certified to teach English in High School and will have X number of hours experience in the English classroom to my name. I also have my past experience of teaching ancient texts from my seminary days, plus I have my current experience in the writing center, to boot. This has to mean something in the eyes of the graduate committee that will read my application.
And, if all else fails I will still have a job to start in the Fall of ’07 (hopefully).
So that is it. That is my plan of action. Currently, I am investigating my many school options. My plan is to go through at least the top 50 and see if I can’t find the best fits. We would be SO excited to go to a California school, and all of the UCs are great. I would also (Tina, not as much) to go east. Brown, Duke, Purdue, University of Chicago, all have great programs that might be a little too green for my pasture. But I’m not counting any out yet!
The question becomes whether or not this is a Kamikaze mission. It may be. There are definitely no guarantees, but this is where I stand as far as I can guesstimate:
1. The GRE- I am going to have to take this test for what will be the fourth time. Pretty sad, but the truth of the matter is that I need about a hundred more points on this bad boy to be in a competitive place.
My Score: 550 (Verbal)
Needed: 650.
Plus there is the whole issue of the English Literature subject test. Also known as the hardest test on the planet, even among current English doctoral candidates.
2. The letter of intent/personal statement- This little 2 page piece is the one chance that the multitudes of stuffy professorial types have of getting to know you. My last attempt bordered on the “exactly what not to write in a letter of intent” variety, now that I know a little about it. This piece, if done right, will not be easy and will be very time consuming. It becomes my task to personalize 10+ letters in a way that will make me seem like the best candidate for the particulars of that university. In other words, in principle, my letters to UC Irvine and the University of Washington will need to be very different. I need not only to show their board that their school is the perfect fit for me, but also that I am the perfect fit for them—that I will add something significant to their institution in my 6-7 years on campus. All that, and help them get to know me. Sheesh.
3. The single most important document that you will send (so the experts say) is your writing sample. I took Milton and Rhetoric this semester almost with the pure intent of both using the paper that I write for both of these classes as my sample, and getting these tenured professors to write me letters (which actually deserves the #4 here, but I will just mention it parenthetically instead). I am confident that these papers (after undergoing numerous rewrites in the writing center) will be the strongest piece of my application and will hopefully outshine my dismal GRE scores.
4. Finally, I am hoping that this double major thing that I am doing will also make me stand out. When I finish, I will be certified to teach English in High School and will have X number of hours experience in the English classroom to my name. I also have my past experience of teaching ancient texts from my seminary days, plus I have my current experience in the writing center, to boot. This has to mean something in the eyes of the graduate committee that will read my application.
And, if all else fails I will still have a job to start in the Fall of ’07 (hopefully).
So that is it. That is my plan of action. Currently, I am investigating my many school options. My plan is to go through at least the top 50 and see if I can’t find the best fits. We would be SO excited to go to a California school, and all of the UCs are great. I would also (Tina, not as much) to go east. Brown, Duke, Purdue, University of Chicago, all have great programs that might be a little too green for my pasture. But I’m not counting any out yet!
Monday, October 17, 2005
Fathers and Sons
Muted electronic beeping, shadows, and the sound of squirting jelly. I wonder if it’s cold as I watch it spread upon the smooth, rounding surface of Tina’s belly. The space of the propped open door, a golden rectangle of light. Concentrated. Glowing. First Born.
…but, silence.
“Dual-lobed placenta.” Nurse says. “See here where the cord is inserted between these two masses? Umbilical cords are typically inserted into a single placental mass.”
“What does that mean for the baby?” A whisper from my wife.
“A dual-lobed insertion sometimes means a dangerous delivery. Occasionally, the cord can detach prematurely and cut off the oxygen to the baby and cause hemorrhaging within the mother… but I am sure everything will be fine. We’ll just need to watch it.”
I watch the ultrasound screen. I see the lines that mean cord, placenta, blood flow—they ungulate and fold into each other: A river at its source, a tree truck; its branches.
My eyes turn back toward Tina’s protrusion, sticky and slick. For a moment I am Nostrodomis, a prophet, a soothsayer. I see shades of a 9-monthed future: Tina, legs splayed, blue, her eyes silently screaming: Lights, Doctor, Nurse, Blood, Chaos, but no child...
Suddenly back at Ultrasound my own eyes focus again on the fuzzy, grey screen. But now I see spine, eye socket, leg, toes and then… penis.
“Do you want to know the sex?’ Nurse says.
“It’s a boy,” I say.
***
My father is a singer of made up songs. I learned to sing my address and phone number before I could read. If I happened to stray, I knew my song “285 South 400 East!” It was sure to lead me home. Even then I knew the songs were silly—bits and pieces of real melodies, but twisted to serve a practical purpose. Like the notes of a little boy’s address or an harmonic offering of affection directed towards my mother. He sang me through Big Wheel park rides and puddle splashes, surprised and warmed with metaphor when I show him my smiling reflection in a dirty, stagnant, pool of melted snow.
Later, he disciplines, but hesitantly. I am Eldest. I remember a conversation he has with my mom about whether or not to use a belt for a grievous act of child villainy that I had committed. He doesn’t.
Later still, in a library adjacent to my school and his office I remember his face, a combination of consternation and fear as he searches the isles to break up my first kiss. One of his students had tipped him off… too late.
My dad paints. But his lessons were broad stroked—impressionistic. My dad writes. But publishing was never the motivation for our relationship. My dad teaches religion professionally, but he rarely, if ever, preached to me when I lived in his house.
My dad hates to camp. He can barely set up the damn tent. But we went anyway. At the annual “Fathers and Sons” church campout, I was humiliated that long after the neighboring family’s tents seemed appear magically like so many morning mushrooms, we would still be struggling and hammering, staking and yanking the mildewed, twenty year old tent that my dad said “worked great” on his honeymoon. The next morning we would leave right after breakfast.
One teenage evening, much later, I am up late messing around with the cat. Amidst the tormenting, the mutt-cat scratches me deeply across the wrist. I stumble out into the bathroom adjacent to my bedroom, pissed, and began cleaning the bleeding wound. My dad comes in to see what the matter is. Our eyes make contact in the mirror, and I pass out. I fall backwards toward the shower curtain. My back hits the edge of the tub just above my hips and I accomplish a handless backbend.
My fainting immediately transports me to a dreamscape. The dreams are un-stoppable, and full story lines play themselves out. There is a nauseating tug from the other dimension, but I resist. I hear the words. They drift into my gathering consciousness like disconnected memories or precognitions and the words are neither present, past or future. They are spoken tenderly by a distant voice that sounds like my own.
“Sweet... sweetheart! Sweetheart! Wake up!” I force my eyelids open and find myself in a place I hadn’t been in years: my father’s arms. In a moment it is weird and I wiggle out, “I’m alright, Dad. Why does my back hurt?”
***
Seth is almost two. He too sings songs and gives hugs and bold, slobbery kisses on the mouth. These kisses seem a symbol of his smallness. I will know the very moment when he is my little-boy-no-longer because of an announcement of his emancipation from them. Without shame, I call him “sweetheart.”
He sits this morning watching Dora, Boots and Blue. Weeks ago we discovered that he knew every single one of his letters, and he can count to the teens even though he skips 4 and 5. We hadn’t spent much time going over that stuff with him-- thinking it was too soon to start. It must be the T.V.
He looks at me, beautiful, and smiles. Earlier in the year, he bumped his face on the tile at grandma and grandpa’s house and chipped a little corner off of one of his front teeth. At first I was disappointed, but know now that it just adds to his charm.
“Hi daddy,” he says and then does his favorite new thing: He lifts his little hand and concentrating, rotates it from side to side, waving. He watches his own hand, as if to make sure that he is doing it right. Satisfied, he looks up at me with his nose squished, grinning:
“Wun, two, fee, six! Seben! Et-nine-ten, eeyeben, telve fiteen fiteen fiteen!” He says, and runs up to me throwing his arms around me.
“Oh, daddy. Lub.”
“I love you too, Seffers,” I say.
***
In a digital snapshot that sits in megabytes on my hard drive, a doctor’s hand is gloved and bloody. She lifts up the opaque, purple, shell-casing: a chrysalis. Two distinct lobes can be seen, while a crying, pink baby is nuzzled, sucking, in the background.
…but, silence.
“Dual-lobed placenta.” Nurse says. “See here where the cord is inserted between these two masses? Umbilical cords are typically inserted into a single placental mass.”
“What does that mean for the baby?” A whisper from my wife.
“A dual-lobed insertion sometimes means a dangerous delivery. Occasionally, the cord can detach prematurely and cut off the oxygen to the baby and cause hemorrhaging within the mother… but I am sure everything will be fine. We’ll just need to watch it.”
I watch the ultrasound screen. I see the lines that mean cord, placenta, blood flow—they ungulate and fold into each other: A river at its source, a tree truck; its branches.
My eyes turn back toward Tina’s protrusion, sticky and slick. For a moment I am Nostrodomis, a prophet, a soothsayer. I see shades of a 9-monthed future: Tina, legs splayed, blue, her eyes silently screaming: Lights, Doctor, Nurse, Blood, Chaos, but no child...
Suddenly back at Ultrasound my own eyes focus again on the fuzzy, grey screen. But now I see spine, eye socket, leg, toes and then… penis.
“Do you want to know the sex?’ Nurse says.
“It’s a boy,” I say.
***
My father is a singer of made up songs. I learned to sing my address and phone number before I could read. If I happened to stray, I knew my song “285 South 400 East!” It was sure to lead me home. Even then I knew the songs were silly—bits and pieces of real melodies, but twisted to serve a practical purpose. Like the notes of a little boy’s address or an harmonic offering of affection directed towards my mother. He sang me through Big Wheel park rides and puddle splashes, surprised and warmed with metaphor when I show him my smiling reflection in a dirty, stagnant, pool of melted snow.
Later, he disciplines, but hesitantly. I am Eldest. I remember a conversation he has with my mom about whether or not to use a belt for a grievous act of child villainy that I had committed. He doesn’t.
Later still, in a library adjacent to my school and his office I remember his face, a combination of consternation and fear as he searches the isles to break up my first kiss. One of his students had tipped him off… too late.
My dad paints. But his lessons were broad stroked—impressionistic. My dad writes. But publishing was never the motivation for our relationship. My dad teaches religion professionally, but he rarely, if ever, preached to me when I lived in his house.
My dad hates to camp. He can barely set up the damn tent. But we went anyway. At the annual “Fathers and Sons” church campout, I was humiliated that long after the neighboring family’s tents seemed appear magically like so many morning mushrooms, we would still be struggling and hammering, staking and yanking the mildewed, twenty year old tent that my dad said “worked great” on his honeymoon. The next morning we would leave right after breakfast.
One teenage evening, much later, I am up late messing around with the cat. Amidst the tormenting, the mutt-cat scratches me deeply across the wrist. I stumble out into the bathroom adjacent to my bedroom, pissed, and began cleaning the bleeding wound. My dad comes in to see what the matter is. Our eyes make contact in the mirror, and I pass out. I fall backwards toward the shower curtain. My back hits the edge of the tub just above my hips and I accomplish a handless backbend.
My fainting immediately transports me to a dreamscape. The dreams are un-stoppable, and full story lines play themselves out. There is a nauseating tug from the other dimension, but I resist. I hear the words. They drift into my gathering consciousness like disconnected memories or precognitions and the words are neither present, past or future. They are spoken tenderly by a distant voice that sounds like my own.
“Sweet... sweetheart! Sweetheart! Wake up!” I force my eyelids open and find myself in a place I hadn’t been in years: my father’s arms. In a moment it is weird and I wiggle out, “I’m alright, Dad. Why does my back hurt?”
***
Seth is almost two. He too sings songs and gives hugs and bold, slobbery kisses on the mouth. These kisses seem a symbol of his smallness. I will know the very moment when he is my little-boy-no-longer because of an announcement of his emancipation from them. Without shame, I call him “sweetheart.”
He sits this morning watching Dora, Boots and Blue. Weeks ago we discovered that he knew every single one of his letters, and he can count to the teens even though he skips 4 and 5. We hadn’t spent much time going over that stuff with him-- thinking it was too soon to start. It must be the T.V.
He looks at me, beautiful, and smiles. Earlier in the year, he bumped his face on the tile at grandma and grandpa’s house and chipped a little corner off of one of his front teeth. At first I was disappointed, but know now that it just adds to his charm.
“Hi daddy,” he says and then does his favorite new thing: He lifts his little hand and concentrating, rotates it from side to side, waving. He watches his own hand, as if to make sure that he is doing it right. Satisfied, he looks up at me with his nose squished, grinning:
“Wun, two, fee, six! Seben! Et-nine-ten, eeyeben, telve fiteen fiteen fiteen!” He says, and runs up to me throwing his arms around me.
“Oh, daddy. Lub.”
“I love you too, Seffers,” I say.
***
In a digital snapshot that sits in megabytes on my hard drive, a doctor’s hand is gloved and bloody. She lifts up the opaque, purple, shell-casing: a chrysalis. Two distinct lobes can be seen, while a crying, pink baby is nuzzled, sucking, in the background.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
What is there to like about baseball?
What is there to like about baseball?
My wife is the sports fan in our house. In fact, when ever sports becomes the topic of conversation, I tell my friends and new acquaintances that I am barely a man when it comes to sports. I played little league for a year and a half, got cut from the 8th grade basketball team, and swam in high school because there weren’t enough guys on the team. So, watching or following any sport is something that I only do in the case of a really exciting basketball championship, or in an attempt to “do something that my wife wants to do for a change,” or if I happen to be the only other barely-a-man in a room full of full-fledged men.
I suppose that I could see the general benefits in being a baseball fan. Baseball caps are fashionable—I own and like to wear at least two of them. There are plenty of statistics and history to memorize and regurgitate. Baseball cards can sometimes be fairly valuable, especially if your mom doesn’t sell your collection at a garage sale.
What is there to like about baseball?
Pretty much nothing. More fun has been had staring at a wall. But, seriously—what is the draw? The first major problem is the time commitment required by the average fan. The game itself lasts 3 1/2 hours, two more than absolutely necessary. Why have nine innings when five would suffice? At three hours a game, even if you only have 3 or 4 teams you follow at two or three games a week per team we are talking like 40 hours a week! I am sorry, but I have to work.
And also, where is the action? Every two hours or so somebody hits a ball that actually gets them on base, and even that is only marginally exciting, because nine times out of ten the inning will end before that player gets to advance, let alone score. Sure, there is the occasional homerun, but I tend to feel more contempt for these players than admiration. The Barry Bonds and Mark McGuires of the world seem to have some kind of unfair advantage over the rest of baseballdom. Who do they think they are hitting the ball so far when most everybody else mostly just swings.
Plus, baseball has to be the only sport when the defense pretty much just has to stand there and do nothing else and they are still effective. I know what its like. I have stood in right field for inning after inning with no ball coming in a direction even remotely close to where I am. I still got the same high fives and “way to look alive” comments on the way back to the dugout. So, if looking alive is the requisite for baseball defense, sign me up and pay me a million dollars: I am alive.
And grief!, the poor pitcher and catcher. I’ve seen the footage of that pitcher who gave himself a compound fracture by the simple act of throwing a ball over and over and over again at a target 15 yards ahead. Who’s idea was it to have one or two guys be the pitchers for a whole team? Why not rotate the players through and give each of them a shot at a strike out. At least that would give the guy in right field a chance to look a little more alive. And the catcher! Can you imagine squatting like that for any longer than two minutes, let alone the eternity that makes up a half an inning? I have only two words for you: knee surgery! Ok, one more—hemorrhoids! Poor, tortured souls (and bums).
What is there to like about baseball?
After a couple of attempts at writing an answer to this question, I have determined that there is only one real reason to like baseball, and the circumstance surrounding that reason can not be accomplished at home with a baseball game on TV. Finding a reason to like baseball can only be accomplished when you have been able to secure for yourself tickets to a real major league baseball game. The tickets have to be for seats in the lower deck of the stadium, unless you like nosebleeds because that’s what you’re to get one sitting in the upper deck of some of the country’s arenas.
Once you have got to the stadium and have found your seat, and stood and sang the National Anthem the reason for liking the sport will have already started to form in your mind. The first pitch will be thrown out by a war veteran or civic servant or movie star and then the game will begin. You will eat peanuts and licorice and drink soda or maybe beer. If you are lucky the stadium you are at will have a great snack section with two foot hotdogs or garlic fries or something else tasty and indulgent.
The first hit will be a foul near your section and you will see the struggle and shuffle of the fans to retrieve the ball. You will start hoping that the next foul ball comes to you. You will cheer (root, root, root) for the home team when they score or keep the other team from scoring. You will boo good naturedly when the other team scores. You will get worked up over a bad call and you might swear loudly at the umpire who made the call.
Yes, at a baseball game you become part of a tradition. You feel a little more American. You are a direct participating part of something that thousands, maybe millions of others are experiencing with you simultaneously. And that is really the only thing to like about baseball.
My wife is the sports fan in our house. In fact, when ever sports becomes the topic of conversation, I tell my friends and new acquaintances that I am barely a man when it comes to sports. I played little league for a year and a half, got cut from the 8th grade basketball team, and swam in high school because there weren’t enough guys on the team. So, watching or following any sport is something that I only do in the case of a really exciting basketball championship, or in an attempt to “do something that my wife wants to do for a change,” or if I happen to be the only other barely-a-man in a room full of full-fledged men.
I suppose that I could see the general benefits in being a baseball fan. Baseball caps are fashionable—I own and like to wear at least two of them. There are plenty of statistics and history to memorize and regurgitate. Baseball cards can sometimes be fairly valuable, especially if your mom doesn’t sell your collection at a garage sale.
What is there to like about baseball?
Pretty much nothing. More fun has been had staring at a wall. But, seriously—what is the draw? The first major problem is the time commitment required by the average fan. The game itself lasts 3 1/2 hours, two more than absolutely necessary. Why have nine innings when five would suffice? At three hours a game, even if you only have 3 or 4 teams you follow at two or three games a week per team we are talking like 40 hours a week! I am sorry, but I have to work.
And also, where is the action? Every two hours or so somebody hits a ball that actually gets them on base, and even that is only marginally exciting, because nine times out of ten the inning will end before that player gets to advance, let alone score. Sure, there is the occasional homerun, but I tend to feel more contempt for these players than admiration. The Barry Bonds and Mark McGuires of the world seem to have some kind of unfair advantage over the rest of baseballdom. Who do they think they are hitting the ball so far when most everybody else mostly just swings.
Plus, baseball has to be the only sport when the defense pretty much just has to stand there and do nothing else and they are still effective. I know what its like. I have stood in right field for inning after inning with no ball coming in a direction even remotely close to where I am. I still got the same high fives and “way to look alive” comments on the way back to the dugout. So, if looking alive is the requisite for baseball defense, sign me up and pay me a million dollars: I am alive.
And grief!, the poor pitcher and catcher. I’ve seen the footage of that pitcher who gave himself a compound fracture by the simple act of throwing a ball over and over and over again at a target 15 yards ahead. Who’s idea was it to have one or two guys be the pitchers for a whole team? Why not rotate the players through and give each of them a shot at a strike out. At least that would give the guy in right field a chance to look a little more alive. And the catcher! Can you imagine squatting like that for any longer than two minutes, let alone the eternity that makes up a half an inning? I have only two words for you: knee surgery! Ok, one more—hemorrhoids! Poor, tortured souls (and bums).
What is there to like about baseball?
After a couple of attempts at writing an answer to this question, I have determined that there is only one real reason to like baseball, and the circumstance surrounding that reason can not be accomplished at home with a baseball game on TV. Finding a reason to like baseball can only be accomplished when you have been able to secure for yourself tickets to a real major league baseball game. The tickets have to be for seats in the lower deck of the stadium, unless you like nosebleeds because that’s what you’re to get one sitting in the upper deck of some of the country’s arenas.
Once you have got to the stadium and have found your seat, and stood and sang the National Anthem the reason for liking the sport will have already started to form in your mind. The first pitch will be thrown out by a war veteran or civic servant or movie star and then the game will begin. You will eat peanuts and licorice and drink soda or maybe beer. If you are lucky the stadium you are at will have a great snack section with two foot hotdogs or garlic fries or something else tasty and indulgent.
The first hit will be a foul near your section and you will see the struggle and shuffle of the fans to retrieve the ball. You will start hoping that the next foul ball comes to you. You will cheer (root, root, root) for the home team when they score or keep the other team from scoring. You will boo good naturedly when the other team scores. You will get worked up over a bad call and you might swear loudly at the umpire who made the call.
Yes, at a baseball game you become part of a tradition. You feel a little more American. You are a direct participating part of something that thousands, maybe millions of others are experiencing with you simultaneously. And that is really the only thing to like about baseball.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Mr. Corgan and Mr. Smith
When I was about 14 years old, in the summer before my Freshman year in high school, my buddy Andy and I did what most young teenagers do who are searching for coolness and identity—we would sneak periodically into Andy’s older brother Joe’s room in hopes that some of his esteemed coolness would seep into us. Joe had just graduated from high school and the first thing that you noticed when you went into his room was that he was a fan of what was then called “new wave” music. There were posters from floor to ceiling. These posters featured all of the late 80’s prominent gloom rockers. Depeche Mode and The Smith’s Morrissey were featured prominently as were other, more minor characters. One group, however, outshined them all—both by total number of posters and by the distinct look of the individuals presented within. I speak, of course, of Robert Smith and his band the Cure. Here was a guy who managed, by appearance alone, to be both terrifying and beautiful. His music was also exactly that.
So we braved the tapes. The first songs I remember listening to by the Cure were those off their very first album (“why not start at the beginning?” we thought). “Boys Don’t Cry” was (though we hadn’t the experience then to describe it this way) was the epitome of post punk. In it you could hear elements of the Ramones and the Clash but it had something else too. I remember loving the title single off the album, and being perplexed by the song “Killing an Arab.” After listening for most of the summer, and becoming familiar with their library (especially their most current release at the time “Wish”) what ended up sealing the deal for me in becoming the mega-fan that I have become was the guitar. That same summer I took a special interest in learning how to play. The Cure’s songs were just simple enough that with some effort I could learn how to play almost any song by them that I wanted. This coupled with the formation of my first band “Only Anything” which consisted at the time of 3 other hard core Cure fans became the bedrock for what has now become a 10+ year following. They are my very favorite band, the one rock group that I would choose if forced to listen to only one band for the rest of my life on that proverbial deserted island. This might also have to do with the fact that their arsenal of tunes has to be in the 200s.
Anyway, a few years later I had become a poster child for early 90s rock and roll. By first hand experience I was a certified expert in what for others like me was the natural flow of music progression. Listening to the Cure made listening to other dynamically gloomy music something that wasn’t only natural but inevitable. Among other bands that I began gobbling was a Chicago based group called the Smashing Pumpkins. Almost immediately, Billy Corgan’s foursome became #2 on my list. Just like the Cure, the Pumpkins appealed to me on a variety of levels and languages. Like Smith, Corgan wrote songs that seemed to speak to that adolescent spirit that was in bloom within me. Both the Cure and the Pumpkins seemed to get the formula right, but did so without seeming to be trying to do so like other bands of the time that I loved to hate like Candlebox and Dishwalla. My first concert was a Lollapalooza stop in Phoenix. The Pumpkins and the Beastie Boys headlined—I seemed to be the only one there who gone to see the Pumpkins exclusively. Billy’s guitar playing blew me away and I had a new idol.
So, Siamese Dream literally became a soundtrack to my life. It introduced me to heavy music, and taught me how that dynamic could be moving without seeming overwrought like other metal bands seemed to me. When Mellon Collie came out it was like a gift of 26 more songs written just for me about my life. That same year The Cure released Wild Mood Swings, an album who’s songs my wife and I think back on as the songs of our courtship and early love.
So that was a long introduction to my intent on writing this little piece about my two favorite bands of all time. The real reason I wanted to write is that now, ten years later, the Cure is still going strong and the Pumpkins have broken up. Recently, Billy Corgan announced his intentions to reform his band. He said that he wants his songs back as if they have somehow, mysteriously left him behind. This announcement has been met with speculation and disbelief as in the last 5 years or so, he has severely alienated his former band mates, citing James Iha as the reason that the Pumpkins broke up in the first place and pegging D’Arcy as a raving addict. So what is Robert’s secret to success? Why has his band been around for almost 30 years and the Pumpkins broke up to the dismay of their leader after only 12?
Fans might say that it is because Billy is such a head case, but I would submit that Robert does and says things that are just as cold. Just a few months ago, without warning he fired two 12+ year members of his band (Roger O’Donnell and Perry Bamonte). According to their web sites, Roger and Perry still have no idea why Robert pushed them out.
I think that Robert realizes something that Billy might not. Robert Smith realizes that he is the Cure. It doesn’t matter who else is in the band with him as long as they can play or be taught to play the band’s catalog. Its Robert’s unique voice and guitar playing that make the Cure what they are. It could be argued that Simon Gallup, the bands bassist is also necessary to the sound—and I will give you that, but also say that he has been the only constant member of the band besides Robert for most of the band’s long history. In much the same way the Pumpkin’s drummer, Jimmy Chamberlin, is a necessary requisite for that classic Pumpkin sound. He too has been the only constant member of the band and he and Billy continue to be chummy and amicable.
I think Billy claims nobility saying that the Smashing Pumpkins can only be Billy, James, D’Arcy and Jimmy, but he has broken his own rule on numerous occasions replacing the drummer or bassist when breakdowns and addictions forced him to. So why not just reform the band with different members? The fans will miss the old members—I for one love James Iha—but we will embrace the replacements just as we have with the Cure. All we really want to hear is Geek U.S.A and Soma played live again.
So I can’t help but wonder what will happen here. With the less-than-successful release of his first solo album, Billy doesn’t seem to be creating any buzz or longing for his future plans with the general public. It is just me and the good, loyal Pumpkin fan base that will continue waiting and wondering about the return of Captain Zero.
So we braved the tapes. The first songs I remember listening to by the Cure were those off their very first album (“why not start at the beginning?” we thought). “Boys Don’t Cry” was (though we hadn’t the experience then to describe it this way) was the epitome of post punk. In it you could hear elements of the Ramones and the Clash but it had something else too. I remember loving the title single off the album, and being perplexed by the song “Killing an Arab.” After listening for most of the summer, and becoming familiar with their library (especially their most current release at the time “Wish”) what ended up sealing the deal for me in becoming the mega-fan that I have become was the guitar. That same summer I took a special interest in learning how to play. The Cure’s songs were just simple enough that with some effort I could learn how to play almost any song by them that I wanted. This coupled with the formation of my first band “Only Anything” which consisted at the time of 3 other hard core Cure fans became the bedrock for what has now become a 10+ year following. They are my very favorite band, the one rock group that I would choose if forced to listen to only one band for the rest of my life on that proverbial deserted island. This might also have to do with the fact that their arsenal of tunes has to be in the 200s.
Anyway, a few years later I had become a poster child for early 90s rock and roll. By first hand experience I was a certified expert in what for others like me was the natural flow of music progression. Listening to the Cure made listening to other dynamically gloomy music something that wasn’t only natural but inevitable. Among other bands that I began gobbling was a Chicago based group called the Smashing Pumpkins. Almost immediately, Billy Corgan’s foursome became #2 on my list. Just like the Cure, the Pumpkins appealed to me on a variety of levels and languages. Like Smith, Corgan wrote songs that seemed to speak to that adolescent spirit that was in bloom within me. Both the Cure and the Pumpkins seemed to get the formula right, but did so without seeming to be trying to do so like other bands of the time that I loved to hate like Candlebox and Dishwalla. My first concert was a Lollapalooza stop in Phoenix. The Pumpkins and the Beastie Boys headlined—I seemed to be the only one there who gone to see the Pumpkins exclusively. Billy’s guitar playing blew me away and I had a new idol.
So, Siamese Dream literally became a soundtrack to my life. It introduced me to heavy music, and taught me how that dynamic could be moving without seeming overwrought like other metal bands seemed to me. When Mellon Collie came out it was like a gift of 26 more songs written just for me about my life. That same year The Cure released Wild Mood Swings, an album who’s songs my wife and I think back on as the songs of our courtship and early love.
So that was a long introduction to my intent on writing this little piece about my two favorite bands of all time. The real reason I wanted to write is that now, ten years later, the Cure is still going strong and the Pumpkins have broken up. Recently, Billy Corgan announced his intentions to reform his band. He said that he wants his songs back as if they have somehow, mysteriously left him behind. This announcement has been met with speculation and disbelief as in the last 5 years or so, he has severely alienated his former band mates, citing James Iha as the reason that the Pumpkins broke up in the first place and pegging D’Arcy as a raving addict. So what is Robert’s secret to success? Why has his band been around for almost 30 years and the Pumpkins broke up to the dismay of their leader after only 12?
Fans might say that it is because Billy is such a head case, but I would submit that Robert does and says things that are just as cold. Just a few months ago, without warning he fired two 12+ year members of his band (Roger O’Donnell and Perry Bamonte). According to their web sites, Roger and Perry still have no idea why Robert pushed them out.
I think that Robert realizes something that Billy might not. Robert Smith realizes that he is the Cure. It doesn’t matter who else is in the band with him as long as they can play or be taught to play the band’s catalog. Its Robert’s unique voice and guitar playing that make the Cure what they are. It could be argued that Simon Gallup, the bands bassist is also necessary to the sound—and I will give you that, but also say that he has been the only constant member of the band besides Robert for most of the band’s long history. In much the same way the Pumpkin’s drummer, Jimmy Chamberlin, is a necessary requisite for that classic Pumpkin sound. He too has been the only constant member of the band and he and Billy continue to be chummy and amicable.
I think Billy claims nobility saying that the Smashing Pumpkins can only be Billy, James, D’Arcy and Jimmy, but he has broken his own rule on numerous occasions replacing the drummer or bassist when breakdowns and addictions forced him to. So why not just reform the band with different members? The fans will miss the old members—I for one love James Iha—but we will embrace the replacements just as we have with the Cure. All we really want to hear is Geek U.S.A and Soma played live again.
So I can’t help but wonder what will happen here. With the less-than-successful release of his first solo album, Billy doesn’t seem to be creating any buzz or longing for his future plans with the general public. It is just me and the good, loyal Pumpkin fan base that will continue waiting and wondering about the return of Captain Zero.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Why Folds Still Gets Five Stars
Entry # 2
If you are a Ben Folds fan then you know what I am talking about when I say that the man can do no wrong. On his latest release Songs for Silverman, Ben once again proves that success as an artist cannot be measured merely according to the parameters and terms of a critical or commercial agenda. Silverman is yet another example of why he doesn’t nor will he ever need those things to be a successful artist. Rather, his success stems from the ability he has to write melody after beautiful melody and present them within a familiar Folds package of the piano/bass/drum combination. Silverman, however, adds something to his repertoire that I don’t think was there before: true sophistication.
I have been a fan of Folds since shortly after the release of Ben Folds Five’s eponymous first release. The first song I heard off the album was “Underground” and it had all the right elements: It rocked (!), there were great vocals/harmonies, it was different (no guitar), and it had just the right element of humor in it (“Officer Friendly’s little boy’s got a mohawk, and he knows just where we’re coming from”). I got the album and found that it was loaded with the other element that is so crucial to my connecting with a band. It was my central argument in the Weezer entry and that is that the overwhelming sense and range of emotional ideas and feelings presented by Folds, Jesse, and Sledge. Song’s like “Philosophy,” “Best Imitation of Myself” and “The Last Polka” are still enough, I think, to make all the Emo-geeks pine, wishing that they had the ability to write songs that good.
The thing that makes Ben Folds so awesome, though (sadly, as apposed to Rivers Cuomo) is that he has continued to deliver. Most of you will at least have the band’s second album Whatever and Ever Amen for which the band received the most critical attention for their single “Brick.” Brick aside (and you almost always have to put singles aside, don’t you?) the album is full of more tunes that move and amaze. Part of the reason for this, and I forgot to mention this above, is that part of the Folds formula is that he almost always tells some sort of story in his songs. The most notable examples of this on Whatever are the songs “Missing the War” (probably my all time favorite BFF song), “Fair” and “Selfless, Cold and Composed” (My second favorite). I saw the trio for the first time while touring for this album at the Pima County fair just outside Tucson, and this sealed the deal. They were just as good: harmonies just as tight, charming, funny in person as they ever were on the album.
The band’s final release The Unauthorized Biography Of Reinhold Messner, made it hard to say goodbye. I mean, have you heard that horn section on “Army”? “Magic” (penned by Jesse), and “Lullaby” just added to the wealth and emotion of the first two releases.
When Ben Folds (finally) released his first solo album (Rockin’ the Suburbs) on 9/11/2001, I remember coping with what had happened that morning by going out and buying that album. Back was the Fold’s classic humor, (see the title song) the story format (“Zak and Sara,” & “Not the Same”) and the—sometimes very personal,—emotional tunes (“Fred Jones, Pt.2,” & “Still Fighting It”). If you had a chance to see Folds on the first part of that tour, you saw how diverse he could be, playing with 4 other musicians, and if you saw him on the latter part of that tour you saw this versatility raised to an exponential level as you helped Ben by singing those horns on “Army” because he was all alone on stage.
Just incase you missed them, leading up to the release of Silverman, Ben released three self produced EPs: Speed Graphic, Super D, and Sunny 16. All of which contain excellent, full-album worthy material. My favorites are the cover of The Cure’s “In between Days,” the solo version of “Give Judy My Notice” and the song about Ben’s now residence, “Adelaide.” My favorites tend to be fairly pointless in a blog like this, they are another one of those things that are like butts. Everybody’s… well you know.
Anyway, all of this has led me to the latest release from Ben Songs for Silverman. It was released at the very beginning of the summer, before the new Weezer, Beck, Coldplay, Corgan, before all of them, and better. As I stated at the beginning of this little blog turned essay is that Ben has moved from humor here to something even better: sophistication. The old format is there, even more so than on Suburbs, just listen to the sweet “Trusted.” What we have here, though, is almost a “growing up and stretching out” for Ben. He seems to be under less pressure to be comical (maybe he got that out of his system on the B-side from “Landed”). Weird Al’s cameo on the album is just back-up singer (“Time”). You get the sense that you are listening to a jam on “Prison Food,” and if you watch the making-of dvd that comes with certain versions of the album, you see that that is precisely what it started as. I can hardly believe that I am being gypped out of a stop on the “Odd Man Out” tour with Rufus Wainwright. For those of you who are fans and also have to miss, see if you can’t find Ben and Rufus doing Wham’s “Careless Whisper”—classic!
So in a nut shell, I am a big Ben fan. You should be too. If you haven’t bought an album since Whatever, get caught up! If you heard the new album and were like my friend (“I just couldn’t get into it, man”) give it another listen. For me, Folds is goodness.
If you are a Ben Folds fan then you know what I am talking about when I say that the man can do no wrong. On his latest release Songs for Silverman, Ben once again proves that success as an artist cannot be measured merely according to the parameters and terms of a critical or commercial agenda. Silverman is yet another example of why he doesn’t nor will he ever need those things to be a successful artist. Rather, his success stems from the ability he has to write melody after beautiful melody and present them within a familiar Folds package of the piano/bass/drum combination. Silverman, however, adds something to his repertoire that I don’t think was there before: true sophistication.
I have been a fan of Folds since shortly after the release of Ben Folds Five’s eponymous first release. The first song I heard off the album was “Underground” and it had all the right elements: It rocked (!), there were great vocals/harmonies, it was different (no guitar), and it had just the right element of humor in it (“Officer Friendly’s little boy’s got a mohawk, and he knows just where we’re coming from”). I got the album and found that it was loaded with the other element that is so crucial to my connecting with a band. It was my central argument in the Weezer entry and that is that the overwhelming sense and range of emotional ideas and feelings presented by Folds, Jesse, and Sledge. Song’s like “Philosophy,” “Best Imitation of Myself” and “The Last Polka” are still enough, I think, to make all the Emo-geeks pine, wishing that they had the ability to write songs that good.
The thing that makes Ben Folds so awesome, though (sadly, as apposed to Rivers Cuomo) is that he has continued to deliver. Most of you will at least have the band’s second album Whatever and Ever Amen for which the band received the most critical attention for their single “Brick.” Brick aside (and you almost always have to put singles aside, don’t you?) the album is full of more tunes that move and amaze. Part of the reason for this, and I forgot to mention this above, is that part of the Folds formula is that he almost always tells some sort of story in his songs. The most notable examples of this on Whatever are the songs “Missing the War” (probably my all time favorite BFF song), “Fair” and “Selfless, Cold and Composed” (My second favorite). I saw the trio for the first time while touring for this album at the Pima County fair just outside Tucson, and this sealed the deal. They were just as good: harmonies just as tight, charming, funny in person as they ever were on the album.
The band’s final release The Unauthorized Biography Of Reinhold Messner, made it hard to say goodbye. I mean, have you heard that horn section on “Army”? “Magic” (penned by Jesse), and “Lullaby” just added to the wealth and emotion of the first two releases.
When Ben Folds (finally) released his first solo album (Rockin’ the Suburbs) on 9/11/2001, I remember coping with what had happened that morning by going out and buying that album. Back was the Fold’s classic humor, (see the title song) the story format (“Zak and Sara,” & “Not the Same”) and the—sometimes very personal,—emotional tunes (“Fred Jones, Pt.2,” & “Still Fighting It”). If you had a chance to see Folds on the first part of that tour, you saw how diverse he could be, playing with 4 other musicians, and if you saw him on the latter part of that tour you saw this versatility raised to an exponential level as you helped Ben by singing those horns on “Army” because he was all alone on stage.
Just incase you missed them, leading up to the release of Silverman, Ben released three self produced EPs: Speed Graphic, Super D, and Sunny 16. All of which contain excellent, full-album worthy material. My favorites are the cover of The Cure’s “In between Days,” the solo version of “Give Judy My Notice” and the song about Ben’s now residence, “Adelaide.” My favorites tend to be fairly pointless in a blog like this, they are another one of those things that are like butts. Everybody’s… well you know.
Anyway, all of this has led me to the latest release from Ben Songs for Silverman. It was released at the very beginning of the summer, before the new Weezer, Beck, Coldplay, Corgan, before all of them, and better. As I stated at the beginning of this little blog turned essay is that Ben has moved from humor here to something even better: sophistication. The old format is there, even more so than on Suburbs, just listen to the sweet “Trusted.” What we have here, though, is almost a “growing up and stretching out” for Ben. He seems to be under less pressure to be comical (maybe he got that out of his system on the B-side from “Landed”). Weird Al’s cameo on the album is just back-up singer (“Time”). You get the sense that you are listening to a jam on “Prison Food,” and if you watch the making-of dvd that comes with certain versions of the album, you see that that is precisely what it started as. I can hardly believe that I am being gypped out of a stop on the “Odd Man Out” tour with Rufus Wainwright. For those of you who are fans and also have to miss, see if you can’t find Ben and Rufus doing Wham’s “Careless Whisper”—classic!
So in a nut shell, I am a big Ben fan. You should be too. If you haven’t bought an album since Whatever, get caught up! If you heard the new album and were like my friend (“I just couldn’t get into it, man”) give it another listen. For me, Folds is goodness.
What Happened to Weezer?
Starmaster's Guide to Goodness
Entry#1
*I'm flattered by the comments this post keeps getting. If you're interested in hearing about my current musical interests please follow me on twitter and tumblr and check out my music posts over at www.muzzleofbees.com (see sidebar for links).*
So the year is 1994 and Jon Thwaits and I are working together at this po-dunky little dollar movie theatre. Mann Theatres is a perfect place for us to hang out, talk music, and get paid 4.25 an hour to do so. John Heidenreich had just told us about this new band that he happened to see and tape on Conan O'Brian a few nights before. The band was called Weezer and the lead singer was this short dude with long bowl cut hair and black framed glasses. The lead guitarist was sporting a Cub Scout hat and the bassist was off the wall, dancing and grooving around all to the tune of a song called "Undone." After watching that performance our 16-year-old lives were immediately changed for the better. What made the deal sweeter, was that we found their debut album to be full of other sweet, perfect rock songs that all at once delighted, moved and inspired us. We were hooked. Over the next few years I saw Weezer play at small shows 3 or 4 times. Each time we went to a concert, we were able to meet and hang with the band afterwards (not as their homies, but as loyal fans getting autographs and pictures). I was a member of the fan club and would talk with Mykel and Carlie often about their adventures.
But it wasn’t just being a fanboy that made Weezer so special to us. We loved their tunes. Every song on Blue made us want to be rock stars. Mostly because every song on Blue is amazing. Think about it for a minute. Maybe with only the exception of Buddy Holly, every song inspires some kind of unique feeling: Jonas, No One Else, Say it Ain’t So, Holiday, Only in Dreams-- There was something about those songs that changed me as a person. Seriously.
So I go back to the question I began this entry with—What happened? When Pinkerton came out, I was so pleased that in many ways they delivered again. I remember listening to it for the first time sitting in the bed of a pick-up the day it was released on some headphones. When that first solo on Tired of Sex went down, I literally had tears in my eyes. Why Bother, El Scorcho, Getchoo and as always some of the B-sides from the singles (from Blue: Susanne, then Devotion & I Just Threw Out the Love of My Dreams—so sweet) continued to speak to me on some other level. But I could hear something in some of those tunes. Something seemed a little funny. Too bad it had to be four years before I could find out what.
In 2000 when Green came out, I had such high hopes. Rivers’ only release between the two albums (American Girls) allured me with the hopes that my boys would be back in action. Hash Pipe was pretty rockin’ but when I bought the album on its release date I was devastated. What happened? Why does every song sound the same? Where are the sweet guitar solos? What happened to all of the emotion? It was gone. And I am afraid to say that for the most part it has never come back.
Maladroit was a little better. It has a few tunes on there that I really like: Burndt Jamb and Death and Destruction among them—but most of the songs still sounded like Green leftovers. To make matters worse, Weezer’s commercial success had skyrocketed during the last few years and so it seemed to me that they were being reinforced for writing crappy music! So aggravating.
Because I am not one to give up hope, when I started to read Karl’s descriptions of the new stuff being written for the latest album Make Believe, I got my hopes up again. Rick Rubin was said to be producing the recording, and I thought to myself, finally! This is going to be it! Even Pat Wilson, the coolest dude in the world, was dissin on the other albums and saying that this new album was the best since Pinkerton.
Then it came out. So, so sad. The only really good song on it (This is Such A Pity) is one that is a total departure from their regular sound—and this is why it is so good! Because their “regular sound” can now be summed up with crap like Slave, Crab, Smile…(sigh) maybe it’s the single word titles. I am out of explanations.
Unfortunately--and this is an update written several years after the initial post, the Red Album (with the exception of "I am the Greatest Man Who Ever Lived" and "Miss Sweeney" also was lack-luster, and Raditude? Wow. It stinketh through and through. (update: Hurley came out. I didn't even buy it)
So I pose these questions for discussion:
1. Why does a band who seems to recognize and be capable of writing really great, unique songs fill three albums with virtually the same song rerecorded with different lyrics?
2. What happened to the feelings that inspired Only In Dreams? Why haven’t they recorded a single jam song since OID when they must be the funnest songs to play on stage, and are by nature so emotional?
3. Can we blame Rivers?
4. Do you think there is any connection between the fact that ever since Matt Sharp left the band it has never been as good as it was to begin with?
5. Am I being too critical? Are Green, Maladroit and Make Believe actually some of the band’s best work? If so, how do you figure?
Entry#1
*I'm flattered by the comments this post keeps getting. If you're interested in hearing about my current musical interests please follow me on twitter and tumblr and check out my music posts over at www.muzzleofbees.com (see sidebar for links).*
So the year is 1994 and Jon Thwaits and I are working together at this po-dunky little dollar movie theatre. Mann Theatres is a perfect place for us to hang out, talk music, and get paid 4.25 an hour to do so. John Heidenreich had just told us about this new band that he happened to see and tape on Conan O'Brian a few nights before. The band was called Weezer and the lead singer was this short dude with long bowl cut hair and black framed glasses. The lead guitarist was sporting a Cub Scout hat and the bassist was off the wall, dancing and grooving around all to the tune of a song called "Undone." After watching that performance our 16-year-old lives were immediately changed for the better. What made the deal sweeter, was that we found their debut album to be full of other sweet, perfect rock songs that all at once delighted, moved and inspired us. We were hooked. Over the next few years I saw Weezer play at small shows 3 or 4 times. Each time we went to a concert, we were able to meet and hang with the band afterwards (not as their homies, but as loyal fans getting autographs and pictures). I was a member of the fan club and would talk with Mykel and Carlie often about their adventures.
But it wasn’t just being a fanboy that made Weezer so special to us. We loved their tunes. Every song on Blue made us want to be rock stars. Mostly because every song on Blue is amazing. Think about it for a minute. Maybe with only the exception of Buddy Holly, every song inspires some kind of unique feeling: Jonas, No One Else, Say it Ain’t So, Holiday, Only in Dreams-- There was something about those songs that changed me as a person. Seriously.
So I go back to the question I began this entry with—What happened? When Pinkerton came out, I was so pleased that in many ways they delivered again. I remember listening to it for the first time sitting in the bed of a pick-up the day it was released on some headphones. When that first solo on Tired of Sex went down, I literally had tears in my eyes. Why Bother, El Scorcho, Getchoo and as always some of the B-sides from the singles (from Blue: Susanne, then Devotion & I Just Threw Out the Love of My Dreams—so sweet) continued to speak to me on some other level. But I could hear something in some of those tunes. Something seemed a little funny. Too bad it had to be four years before I could find out what.
In 2000 when Green came out, I had such high hopes. Rivers’ only release between the two albums (American Girls) allured me with the hopes that my boys would be back in action. Hash Pipe was pretty rockin’ but when I bought the album on its release date I was devastated. What happened? Why does every song sound the same? Where are the sweet guitar solos? What happened to all of the emotion? It was gone. And I am afraid to say that for the most part it has never come back.
Maladroit was a little better. It has a few tunes on there that I really like: Burndt Jamb and Death and Destruction among them—but most of the songs still sounded like Green leftovers. To make matters worse, Weezer’s commercial success had skyrocketed during the last few years and so it seemed to me that they were being reinforced for writing crappy music! So aggravating.
Because I am not one to give up hope, when I started to read Karl’s descriptions of the new stuff being written for the latest album Make Believe, I got my hopes up again. Rick Rubin was said to be producing the recording, and I thought to myself, finally! This is going to be it! Even Pat Wilson, the coolest dude in the world, was dissin on the other albums and saying that this new album was the best since Pinkerton.
Then it came out. So, so sad. The only really good song on it (This is Such A Pity) is one that is a total departure from their regular sound—and this is why it is so good! Because their “regular sound” can now be summed up with crap like Slave, Crab, Smile…(sigh) maybe it’s the single word titles. I am out of explanations.
Unfortunately--and this is an update written several years after the initial post, the Red Album (with the exception of "I am the Greatest Man Who Ever Lived" and "Miss Sweeney" also was lack-luster, and Raditude? Wow. It stinketh through and through. (update: Hurley came out. I didn't even buy it)
So I pose these questions for discussion:
1. Why does a band who seems to recognize and be capable of writing really great, unique songs fill three albums with virtually the same song rerecorded with different lyrics?
2. What happened to the feelings that inspired Only In Dreams? Why haven’t they recorded a single jam song since OID when they must be the funnest songs to play on stage, and are by nature so emotional?
3. Can we blame Rivers?
4. Do you think there is any connection between the fact that ever since Matt Sharp left the band it has never been as good as it was to begin with?
5. Am I being too critical? Are Green, Maladroit and Make Believe actually some of the band’s best work? If so, how do you figure?
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