Consternatio

I wonder why it is that people look to the new year with optimism. There's no reason to think the new year will be any better than the old (see Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, subprime mortgage crisis, sinking dollar, health insurance crisis, Bush administration, etc.), yet we never fail to hope -- no, not hope, believe -- that relief, even bliss, is right around the corner. It's a little like the way everyone thinks they're going to heaven.

I've learned that new years are just that. New. And new isn't necessarily better. However, a new year is full of new days, and if you can grab a piece of bliss through the course of each day you'll likely be all right.

Et alia

You know you've turned the corner where aging is concerned when the annual lists of Best Music/CD/Performer/Band of the Year come out and you are unfamiliar with any of it. This is where I sit. Oh, sure, I used to keep up with the Cool Stuff, back when the B-52s were thought of as cutting edge, but somewhere along the way I just surrendered. I abandoned the hunt for the new.

Yesterday I received a CD from Amazon, though, and I was very excited. Go! by Dexter Gordon. It was recorded in 1962 or so.

Good stuff, and it will never grow stale.

Consternatio

For me, as a struggling novelist (what other kind is there?), two items in the recent NY Times “Year In Ideas” feature caught my eye. One said that hopelessness might be better than hope, when it comes to well-being. Apparently, for example, prison inmates who were sentenced to life without the possibility of parole fare better than those who are always thinking that the liberating phone call is right around the corner. Makes sense, really. The other said that perseverance might be bad for you. People who kept trying to achieve a difficult or impossible goal, in this study, had elevated levels of C-reactive protein (bad) compared with those who bailed out on the goal.

Persevering with hopefulness in the face of unbelievably bad odds pretty much describes what I do. Oy.

Opinatio

Somewhere I read, in the past few days, that having too many choices dampens quality of life. This is something I agree with. I've always thought that it would be much simpler if we all dressed in crisp coveralls with our names embroidered over the pocket. We could have a closet full of them, and getting ready for work in the morning would be a snap.

On the other hand, there are too many things in this society in which we have no choice at all. I won't name them. It's easy to think of quite a few.

Alas.

Observatio

I noticed that the five novels in the New York Times' list of the Ten Best Books of 2007 are all written by men. This is veddy veddy interesting because, as we all know, women are the primary book buyers in the U.S., and for the most part fiction is geared toward them. Am I wrong? Maybe you have not heard of Oprah?

I haven't read any of these five books yet, but I think there is an unspoken guideline being practiced in our culture. Male authors are the literary lions, female authors are the big sellers. Don't point to Grisham and King and Patterson and that lot to shoot my theory down; I'm talking generally. With some exceptions, men get the artistics kudos and women get the sales. That makes it hard for writers of both sexes if you think about it. If you're a man writing literary material (like me), the slots available for high art are few because those books don't do very well. If you're a woman writing the same, it's very tough to be taken seriously. If you're a man writing commercial novels, you're probably stuck with thrillers, suspense, or military because the gals have relationship stories covered. Chick lit changed everything.

I think the Times was making a statement, but I have to ask, why are men and women so different when it comes to what they read and write? Food for thought.

Et alia

Here's something upbeat and useful for a change. (I know my tone's been skewing cantankerous lately). Turns out that if you subscribe to Harper's Magazine, you have access to its entire history -- 1850 to 2007 -- on the web. All you do is register, provide some kind of code from your latest copy's mailing label, and you're in.

Whatever your special area of interest, you'll find a wealth of material from any era of American history after Harper's was founded: writing by Mark Twain, Henry James, Ford Madox Ford, Gertrude Stein, William Faulkner, Sylvia Plath, and thousands of others. This stuff can be used for research or entertainment, and you can even download .pdf files of the articles and keep them in your hot little memory stick forever.

Right now I'm especially interested in the American labor movement, so I'm trolling through the early years of the 20th century looking for Big Bill Hayward et al.

Kill some time; feed your mind.

Observatio

Howcome everyone is shocked -- shocked! -- that the CIA destroyed videotapes of interrogators torturing a human being?* It's the CIA, man. They toppled the governments of Iran and Guatemala (how soon we forget), they tried to kill Castro with sploding seegars and poisoned wetsuits, and they mined the harbors of Nicaragua, flouting international law.

It's the CIA.

*See also "Ends justify means."

Opinatio

I was just leafing through a neighbor’s copy of the New Yorker (never subscribe to the New Yorker -- let a neighbor do it and take his copies when he’s done not reading them) and saw an ad for something called the Moth Storytelling Performances. Many things bug me (no pun intended) about the idea of Storytelling Performances. For one, the ad copy refers to them as “literary.” This seems inaccurate.

If you look the word up in an etymology dictionary, you’ll find that it was built to refer to “alphabet letters,” i.e., writing. In the 18th century it was nailed down to apply specifically to literature, but to my mind that means, again, writing. Books. Especially novels, poetry, and scholarly works. Not a kind of pretentious stand-up comedy. Every time I happen upon a storytelling event (usually a story on TV about storytelling), I see a man or woman of any race gesticulating wildly and overdramatizing their own autobiographies. It’s a derivative of the old monology fad of the nineties, which died even before Spalding Gray did. It isn’t literature.

As with what passes for “poetry” in the American mind nowadays (it comes to us in Slams, not slim volumes), “storytelling” is performance. It’s narcissistic, outlandish, self-indulgent, loud, artless, and ultimately boring. Where, in the past, a writer could guide you through the experience of her story like an orchestra conductor, the storyteller now hurls it at you like Gallagher and his watermelons. You need to be entertained, and what’s a storyteller to do if all he knows how to do is tell stories? There are fewer and fewer outlets for the written story, so he has to assume a persona and take to the stage, which is something called “acting.” He also has to compete with other storytellers in American Idol fashion and turn his art, if that’s what it is, into a shtick so he’ll stand out.

Why is every goddamn thing in ths country a goddamn competition?

I don’t know. This saddens me for some reason, and I can’t decide if it’s ironic or not that the sponsor of the Moth program in the New Yorker was Lunesta -- a sleeping pill.

Consternatio

If Iran suspended its nuclear development in 2003, as has been reported today, can we stop threatening to "take out" its nuclear sites? I for one would like to spend this Christmas season free of anxiety that WWIII is coming upon a midnight clear.

If we persist, it would have to be on the basis of Iran's hypothetical interference in Iraq (training tarists, importing IEDs, fomenting hatred of Americans -- as if Iraqis needed help on that front). I don't think that'll fly in the absence of the dreaded Nuclear Threat.

Then again, UN inspectors were on the ground in Iraq just before the war started. They were trying to tell us that there were no WMDs.

In these times, anything's possible.

Et alia

I used to be inclined to write about the political scene much more than I am now. It struck me, as I followed things with a zealot's intensity, that the more voices there were raising the volume of outrage, the better off our cause would be. Turns out, no. Too many voices make noise, and who needs more of that? These days I pay close attention but understand that my e-pamphlets (would Thomas Paine have a blog today?) are for my own venting -- for good health -- and persuade nobody. Which is fine.

I'm leaving much more room in my head for the appreciation of things like ideas (rather than their bastard child, politics) and music. Case in point. Not long ago I bought a tube-driven amplifier, which has made my CD collection sound utterly new. Listening to everything from Haydn to Elvis Costello on it reveals surprising details and nuances I'd never heard before, and this is good. Music is uplifting and doesn't disappoint. Democratic congressmen disappoint.

By the way, the titles here at Disce Pati will always be among four: Opinatio (opinions), Consternatio (confusions), Observatio (observations), and Et alia (all the rest). That'll make it much easier for me. I'm all about simplifying.

Now to some music on a Sunday afternoon...

Consternatio

If the hype is wrong, and the world at large is not craving freedom and democracy, are we guilty of force-feeding?

As some modern philosophers are saying, there is no such thing as "humanity" or "civilization." There is only a world of billions of individuals ebbing and flowing into patterns that work, or don't.

Observatio

Thinking about this revised FISA law as I read about Oliver Wendell Holmes has raised an interesting idea. Holmes believed that "rights" exist only to the extent that the judiciary is willing to protect them. That is, what's on paper concerning, say, your privacy is only as good as the government's willingness to enforce the underlying law.

The new FISA, especially if it contains amnesty for the telecoms, is our government's way of saying that a constitutional right to privacy is passe. Cross-reference this with the quote from an administration official a while back, who said that Americans are going to have to get used to the idea of their communications being monitored. It's a fait accompli, and yet it's unconstitutional.

There will be more such adjustments to come.

Opinatio

The Amazon Kindle is here. It's supposed to revolutionize the e-book and hurry the demise, I would imagine, of the paper and ink book so that all the trees can live. Except for the ones we chop down and ship to Japan and China as lumber.

I don't like the e-book, frankly, because I love the analogue book so much. I love the way a real book feels in my hands. I love the smell of books, old and new. I can't imagine, except while on a trip, really, holding this cold piece of plastic and flipping pages with a thumb-button. I want to read in the bathtub, you see, and that would be foolhardy with a Kindle. I don't want seven hundred books in this one apparatus, I want my books on shelves where I can see them all and browse them and change their order or stack them differently. I like their different sizes and colors and textures, and I like seeing their titles on the spines, which write, in a sense, a narrative about my own life. The e-book is an appliance, and it costs ($399) about as much as a new stove.

Think about how many real books you can buy with four hundred dollars. (And as I understand it, the four large you put out for a Kindle is only the beginning of your costs. There are the books themselves at ten bucks a pop, and then the electronic subscriptions and transfer fees, etc etc that will all add up over time.) Conservatively, buying paperbacks, used books, and hardbounds on sale, you can expand your library by forty to sixty titles, and who reads that many books in a year anyway? (I do, probably, but I'm a writer and I read for a living.) You can also resell some of them when you're finished if you want. On Amazon.

Hey, what if somebody steals your Kindle? What if you drop it down a hole? Suppose you wreck your car and it gets wrecked too? You're out a hell of a lot of money.

I won't go into the limited formats the Kindle can read, but the main one is a propietary format, which means that e-books you buy on Amazon (that's the whole point, isn't it?) can be read only on a Kindle. The business mind strikes again.

Oh, and there's the tradition of sharing books. You can't do that with a Kindle, unless you lend someone the entire machine, and that's like loaning someone your wallet.

I don't know. It seems to me we're going to sacrifice one of humanity's most practical inventions in favor of an overly complex and expensive toy. A book is a means of delivering ideas, whereas the Kindle appears to be a means of delivering customers.

Opinatio

The great educator and philosopher, John Dewey, was all for American involvement in World War I. Until it was over, that is. He rejoined the ranks of pacifists like Jane Addams when he understood that the hype of making the world safe for democracy was just that -- hype.

More and more, as I watch the global situation unravel, I get closer to accepting the pacifist creed that no war is worth fighting. Any pacifist will likely agree that defense of a nation's sovereignty and existence is the only acceptable use of violence, but these days our wars are never in that category. Our wars are not only wars of choice, they are inherently destructive to our own national coherence. They don't unite, they don't affirm our values, and they don't achieve their self-declared aims. It's no safer here now than it was in March 2003, an irony that shouldn't be lost on any American.

Like Dewey, many of us who thought that firm, decisive action after 9/11 would pave the way for a world without terror, democracy in the Middle East, and tranquillity at home will come to change our minds when this is over. If it is over in our lifetimes.

Consternatio

Richard Bruce Cheney is in the hospital with an irregular heartbeat. I don't like the feeling of ambiguity that comes when I imagine his silent passing. As I always tell one who is dear to me as she waits for an inheritance, It's bad karma to root for someone to die, you know.

Her answer: "Is it?"

Observatio

I am coming to the sad conclusion that I’m no longer demographically relevant in our culture. My age, if you’re familiar with the old style, is L, and it seems like when you hit L in this culture you’re ready for the glue factory as far as mass media is concerned. It will shoot Centrum Silver ads at you, sure, and AARP spots and pitches for absorbent underwear and supplemental insurance, not to mention quick fixes for your inevitable ED, but it refuses to make art for you, or even basic entertainment.

Full disclosure compels me to admit that I’m a fiction writer who has had a book published, but getting the second nailed down is apparently impossible. That’s because, partly, I’m L and I swing outie genitalia twixt my legs, but it’s also partly because the prime American demographic doesn’t read novels much anymore, or at least not literary ones. These people go to movies and download music and play video games, and that pretty much covers their spare time.

Two examples: I recently rented megahit “Spiderman III” and came away going “Huh?” It was pure garbazh from start to finish, a mishmash of poor special effects imposed on a moronic plot. It made no sense, had no internal logic, touched on no themes more complicated than “be true to yourself” or “good conquers evil,” and didn’t even offer the campy artistry of an old-time comic book. It was just something shiny to look at for two hours, which is enough to fascinate the 18- to 34-year-olds in our withering land. There are currently several high-quality movies out that deal with the fiasco in Iraq, but they are flopping. Meanwhile, the grown-ups’ movie season has arrived, not that anyone would notice. It’s artsier offerings are sure to vanish without a blip on the radar, making room for something more beefy: “Aliens vs. Predator -- Requiem.” Look for it on Christmas Day.

The other example is Guitar Hero, and its new clone Rock Band, video games that make you feel like you can handle an axe. GH costs a hundred bucks, RB one-eighty, and “playing” the instrument in them bears no relation at all to playing the guitar. Ironically, you can pick up a “real” instrument, used, for a hundred dollars and learn enough chords to simulate (in your basement room) all your favorite guitar heroes. The basics of guitar are not that hard to learn. I guess the flaw in it is that no virtual world is created when you play one, so you’re pretty much stuck in your own grim reality afterwards, void of hope and prospects.

I probably sound older than L. In my day, we played baseball with broomsticks and bottle caps and we loved it!

Ho rinviato

I took nine months off to give birth to a notion. While I was out, I see that the world didn't improved one whit and in many ways is worse off than when I took my leave. "Disce pati" still applies, it looks like: Learn to endure.

For the record, I think I'm off the clever visuals and cutesy Boing Boing discoveries. Doesn't feel right for the times, really, if you're paying attention to what's going on out there in the national wilderness and global agora. I'm thinking what this country needs is a good five-cent contraceptive. We could stand to have the power cut for three-four days and see how we hold up without "Survivor" or Marie Osmond dancing her way into our subconscious. (Heavens, the TV writer's strike is making it hard enough!) It wouldn't take long to find out that we're not all that civilized, not too terribly enlightened -- in short, just like everyone else on earth, and that might be a good thing. American exceptionalism: Bad idea.

By the way, when are we going to start that fabled middle-class rebellion?

Not today. It's Sunday. The Pats are playin' the Eagles.

Kitsch'n Art

I wish I could take credit for a thing of beauty like this. It's made of seeds. I wonder what would happen if you watered it!

Zen Timewaster No. 639

We used to eat food

At least they used to try to make real food look appealing. Now the best food you can eat is the kind you grow yourself (and it ain't hard to do either).

I want one of these

It's a Tumbleweed Tiny House. When are we 'Murcans gonna realize we don't need 3000 square foot Be-home-eths to dwell in? OK, maybe never, but this example shows that a small house can ooze design and be completely functional. See also: MINI Cooper, Apple Mac Mini, etc. etc.

Dive Bar

I'm not at all sure what the eyeball over the pink cocktail means, but maybe it makes more sense after you've had a few drinks.

Zen Timewaster No. 221

It's No Koan

Kinda makes you think, doesn't it.

Garage Sale Portraits, No. 14

(Artist: "Thos")

Random insult of the week

Dick Cheney wants to go hunting with you.

Simian Humor

Lancelot Link, eat your heart out.

Toys were more fun then

We used to have all kinds of toys that could burn, electrocute, poison, or maim you while using as directed. Creepy Crawlers was one of my favorites.

Too much time on my hands

Don't ask why, but I'll be painting a Russian tank this weekend. I used to love these little bottles when I was a kid. Passive glue sniffing might have affected my grades, now that I think about it.

Zen timewaster No. 344

Teaching chimps the martial arts is of dubious wisdom.

I want one of these

It's a Ford concept car designed by Marc Newson. I first saw it in Architectural Digest at least six years ago -- before the price of oil skyrocketed -- but lo and behold here it is again. Isn't it time for practical, efficient, but attractive cars in America? (The Prius is ugly, folks.)

Ford. Build this car!

Publishing = Pimping

I apologize in advance for this, but I experienced a blast of schadenfreude yesterday when I read William T. Vollmann's NYT review of Exit A, the new novel by Jarhead author, Anthony Swofford. I trust Vollmann, and it's clear from his remarks that this unfortunate book is a sin committed as much by the publishing business as by the writer, who should have known better than to write a "romance" after the critical acclaim of his Gulf War memoir.

It all goes to show that publishing today is all about name recognition and parlaying success into, if possible, a franchise. Once a name becomes recognizable, it will be pimped until it's overcome by other more current names, but in the meantime the author will have whored himself up the ying yang trying to give his publisher what it wants. Swofford, who by all accounts wrote an engaging book about his Marine Corp experiences in the first Gulf War, is now going to have a piece of two-bit entertainment (Scribner, $25.00) attached to his name when he might have carved out a niche for himself as a military anecdotist with a flair for irony. Thanks to Scribner, he'll likely be going down the tubes now. Unless, that is, a major motion picture comes of Exit A, starring Clooney and Ziyi Zhang. (Chinese and Japanese are interchangeable in Hollywood).

As harsh as his review is, Vollmann is trying to help Swofford. Maybe a career can be salvaged. Or maybe, in the end, it's all about the money.

Dive Bar

Car Toon

Zippy's driving his Metropolitan today. Subscribe to daily and Sunday Zippy here.

Random insult of the week

Before you came along we were hungry. Now we are fed up.

Dizzying

San Franciscans, or shut-ins of any stripe, will enjoy a nifty photo site called Vertigo...Then and Now. It compares locations from the Hitchcock movie, Vertigo, with images taken in 2003. Much has changed. Then again, not as much as you'd think.

Here are the shots of Castro and Market at 17th St.

1958

2003

Twisted

Took this today with my brand new Canon A540. Auto exposure, no fancy stuff.

Scary stuff

(From The Pulp Gallery)

Oh my God. When did monsters get guns!?

Training wheels

My father was such a sentimental sap. We always begged for a train set for Christmas, and he finally delivered one, one year: a War Train. Oh, how seasonally inappropriate it was, zooming around and around under the tree. It had a locomotive that shot missiles, a box car that flew into pieces when bombed, another box car whose top opened up and fired a rocket, and a flatbed car with a satellite mounted on it that would go whirling up into the tree when deployed. We obliterated most of our glass ornaments with these yuletide weapons, but the memories live on.

Yum yum eat 'em up

That's right. The fine print says "beef porcupines." I wonder if the spikes hurt going down.

Random insult of the week

The last time I saw a face like yours I threw it a fish.

Zen Timewaster No. 881

The soundtrack is particularly fitting.

Do the mash

I do believe I had every last one of these. Yes, I was a monster geek. I subscribed to "Famous Monsters of Filmland" magazine. Oh, how I wished I had been born a monster.

Model images via Wes Clark (not the famous one).