“he”/“him” A Canadian Prairie Mennonite from the '70s & '80s, a Preacher’s Kid, slowly recovering from a hemorrhagic stroke. I am not — yet — in a 12-Step Program.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Upgrade ... er, "Update"
A fella can say some funny things when his fever runs up to 105. Beth is suggesting we podcast my monologues. Here's hoping my second day on antibiotics shakes off the fever.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Books From The Bottom Shelf
I'm no longer a buzzing mass of aching nerve-ends — now I'm a spasmodically-clenched body desperately trying to exhume its own lungs (while still buzzing). These are not the ideal conditions for a consideration of dystopia, Cormac McCarthy's or anyone else's. Instead, I've reached for the bottom shelf (closer to the bed) where the heavier material lies.
“Heavier” certainly describes The Making of Star Wars, by J.W. Rinzler. The book weighs, by Yahmdallah's account, a full six pounds, but I'm guessing his muscles might not have atrophied to the same point as mine. It is one monstrous sucker, eclipsing our family's former title holder of heaviest book in the house: a “Precious Moments Family Bible” given to us anonymously, so that we have no way of knowing if the gift was a tasteless joke or presented in all seriousness. It, too, sits on the bottom shelf.
Little to say about TMOSW, really, except that it's a miracle that movie ever made it to the screen. I suppose that's a truism that applies to any flick that aspires to a loftier aesthetic than Mother Jugs and Speed. I reached two conclusions at the end of the book: (1) Lucas was (and probably still is) a man of colossal will, who benefited terrifically from externally imposed story and dialogue tweaking; (2) if there's anything about this movie you think I need to know, go ahead and whisper it in my ear, 'cos I'm through reading about it.
Next there's Alice Cooper, Golf Monster, brought to us by Coop himself and the two guys responsible for the authorized life & times of Sonny Barger, Hell's Angel at large. Polished this one off in a day. At first the prose threw me, and I couldn't quite figure out why. Then I looked back on some other recent musical “memoirs” — Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney. These accounts all have a similar sense of pace and straightforward narrative, even the tone is similar: “It happened like this. Funny, eh? I still laugh when I think about it.” or: “He/she was exceptional — a real original — and we'll not see their like again.” Verbal exchanges have a rehearsed quality, as if they were prepped for a talk-show. Strange to say, even Dylan and McCartney can't quite escape this template. I guess when it comes to music, the beholder is able to invest a vast amount of subtlety and insinuation between the notes. Even an unabashed straight-shooter like McCartney suggests alternate worlds with his craft. But these musical artists don't (can't?) transfer those same suggestive skills to prose.
250 pages seems a bit much for the material we're given, but if you're confined to bed and genuinely curious about what makes a guy like Alice tick, the padding is no big deal. Celebrities walk through the pages providing anecdotes, most of which didn't stick to my ribs. Coop is frank about his status as born again Christian so he doesn't bother to dish out dirt, except to admit he was an indulgent heterosexual lad prior to meeting his wife Sheryl. The lack of squalor is fine with me: ledger sheets of rock & roll excess start out amusingly, but slip pretty quickly into depressing waters. He credits producer Bob Ezrin with coaching him into several varieties of “Alice” voice. It also looks like Ezrin sat him down and laid out the rock & roll template for him, thus delivering Alice from the experimental noise of his band's first album, Pretties For You.
He's also really, really frank about his struggles with alcohol. And that's about it. Oh, wait: there's golf. Lots and lots of golf, which I know little about and haven't any passion for.
Moving on, I picked up The Dark Side of the Moon: The Making of the Pink Floyd Masterpiece by John Harris. If you're looking at these titles and thinking, “Does this guy not have a TV?!” the answer is, yes I do, but I have never subscribed to cable, so no “Behind The Music” for me, boo hoo. This book was a cheap remainder and gave me some idea how Syd Barrett created a difficult legacy for the remaining band members to surmount. I've only heard a few Barrett tracks (on this compilation) and if there is any reason why someone stone cold sober would bother giving any of them a second spin, go on and explain it to me. To my ears this was a band that figured out what to do once he was finally removed from the picture.
The Dark Side of the Moon is the album in which the Barrett-less “Floyd” comes into its own, quite ironically by playing off his public notoriety as an acid casualty. If pressed, the surviving band members will say a word or two about his tragic loss. But it looks like that's the only way they'll say anything: if pressed.
Contributing musicians, vocalists and sound engineers all talk about what a solemn bunch of sods these guys were, and how they silently gave every struggling performer the impression they were failing miserably. Some of the band members are more genial than others, but there's no debating where Roger Waters stands in the likeability spectrum. Waters seems cut of that unique cloth of genius that knows precisely how to effortlessly piss off every single person within a thousand miles of him.
Again, lots of the written information will pass through my brain like so much mental Metamucil, and there's no good reason why it should stay. The stuff that registers, though, are exchanges between band members that, frankly, put them in league with Spinal Tap. See if you can't picture Nigel Tufnel relating this to the documentary camera:
“After (Smell The Glove), we had a bit of money and I bought a house in the country. I had two young children. (David St. Hubbins) sat down and said to me, 'I can't believe you've done this — you've sold out, I think it's disgusting.' Six months later, he went and bought a much bigger house in the country. I said, 'Remember what you said?' He said, 'Ah, yes — but that's because my wife wanted it, not me.' ... I found him rather hypocritical. That's what angered me about him.”
Go ahead and guess who's saying that about whom. After this anecdote, and several more like it, every single one of the band members (when pressed) refers to TDSOTM as the beginning of the end, even though it's the album that catapulted them into untold fame and fortune, and paved the way for a very lucrative series of records to follow.
And since I'm talking Pink Floyd, here's a Floyd-related memory...
“Heavier” certainly describes The Making of Star Wars, by J.W. Rinzler. The book weighs, by Yahmdallah's account, a full six pounds, but I'm guessing his muscles might not have atrophied to the same point as mine. It is one monstrous sucker, eclipsing our family's former title holder of heaviest book in the house: a “Precious Moments Family Bible” given to us anonymously, so that we have no way of knowing if the gift was a tasteless joke or presented in all seriousness. It, too, sits on the bottom shelf.
Little to say about TMOSW, really, except that it's a miracle that movie ever made it to the screen. I suppose that's a truism that applies to any flick that aspires to a loftier aesthetic than Mother Jugs and Speed. I reached two conclusions at the end of the book: (1) Lucas was (and probably still is) a man of colossal will, who benefited terrifically from externally imposed story and dialogue tweaking; (2) if there's anything about this movie you think I need to know, go ahead and whisper it in my ear, 'cos I'm through reading about it.
Next there's Alice Cooper, Golf Monster, brought to us by Coop himself and the two guys responsible for the authorized life & times of Sonny Barger, Hell's Angel at large. Polished this one off in a day. At first the prose threw me, and I couldn't quite figure out why. Then I looked back on some other recent musical “memoirs” — Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney. These accounts all have a similar sense of pace and straightforward narrative, even the tone is similar: “It happened like this. Funny, eh? I still laugh when I think about it.” or: “He/she was exceptional — a real original — and we'll not see their like again.” Verbal exchanges have a rehearsed quality, as if they were prepped for a talk-show. Strange to say, even Dylan and McCartney can't quite escape this template. I guess when it comes to music, the beholder is able to invest a vast amount of subtlety and insinuation between the notes. Even an unabashed straight-shooter like McCartney suggests alternate worlds with his craft. But these musical artists don't (can't?) transfer those same suggestive skills to prose.
250 pages seems a bit much for the material we're given, but if you're confined to bed and genuinely curious about what makes a guy like Alice tick, the padding is no big deal. Celebrities walk through the pages providing anecdotes, most of which didn't stick to my ribs. Coop is frank about his status as born again Christian so he doesn't bother to dish out dirt, except to admit he was an indulgent heterosexual lad prior to meeting his wife Sheryl. The lack of squalor is fine with me: ledger sheets of rock & roll excess start out amusingly, but slip pretty quickly into depressing waters. He credits producer Bob Ezrin with coaching him into several varieties of “Alice” voice. It also looks like Ezrin sat him down and laid out the rock & roll template for him, thus delivering Alice from the experimental noise of his band's first album, Pretties For You.
He's also really, really frank about his struggles with alcohol. And that's about it. Oh, wait: there's golf. Lots and lots of golf, which I know little about and haven't any passion for.
Moving on, I picked up The Dark Side of the Moon: The Making of the Pink Floyd Masterpiece by John Harris. If you're looking at these titles and thinking, “Does this guy not have a TV?!” the answer is, yes I do, but I have never subscribed to cable, so no “Behind The Music” for me, boo hoo. This book was a cheap remainder and gave me some idea how Syd Barrett created a difficult legacy for the remaining band members to surmount. I've only heard a few Barrett tracks (on this compilation) and if there is any reason why someone stone cold sober would bother giving any of them a second spin, go on and explain it to me. To my ears this was a band that figured out what to do once he was finally removed from the picture.
The Dark Side of the Moon is the album in which the Barrett-less “Floyd” comes into its own, quite ironically by playing off his public notoriety as an acid casualty. If pressed, the surviving band members will say a word or two about his tragic loss. But it looks like that's the only way they'll say anything: if pressed.
Contributing musicians, vocalists and sound engineers all talk about what a solemn bunch of sods these guys were, and how they silently gave every struggling performer the impression they were failing miserably. Some of the band members are more genial than others, but there's no debating where Roger Waters stands in the likeability spectrum. Waters seems cut of that unique cloth of genius that knows precisely how to effortlessly piss off every single person within a thousand miles of him.
Again, lots of the written information will pass through my brain like so much mental Metamucil, and there's no good reason why it should stay. The stuff that registers, though, are exchanges between band members that, frankly, put them in league with Spinal Tap. See if you can't picture Nigel Tufnel relating this to the documentary camera:
“After (Smell The Glove), we had a bit of money and I bought a house in the country. I had two young children. (David St. Hubbins) sat down and said to me, 'I can't believe you've done this — you've sold out, I think it's disgusting.' Six months later, he went and bought a much bigger house in the country. I said, 'Remember what you said?' He said, 'Ah, yes — but that's because my wife wanted it, not me.' ... I found him rather hypocritical. That's what angered me about him.”
Go ahead and guess who's saying that about whom. After this anecdote, and several more like it, every single one of the band members (when pressed) refers to TDSOTM as the beginning of the end, even though it's the album that catapulted them into untold fame and fortune, and paved the way for a very lucrative series of records to follow.
And since I'm talking Pink Floyd, here's a Floyd-related memory...
Change the Soundtrack
In my second year as a University undergrad, I was informed of a classmate who'd just suffered some bi-polar woes. I took the bus to the hospital to see how he was doing, and to collect a library book he'd taken out on my card (he'd never have revealed his troubles if it hadn't been for that damn book). I asked the receptionist if she could direct me to the psychiatric ward, and she pointed to a doorway. “Just go to the end of the corridor,” she said.
The corridor was very long, all white (natch) and entirely without windows or doors. I was the only one in it, and I walked its length at a very brisk pace. When I finally reached the door, it dawned on me why the corridor was such a strange bit of business: the psych ward was actually a building separate from the rest of the hospital.
The place had blue carpet on the walls and was suffocatingly warm. An orderly directed me to my friend, and we chatted for a bit. “C'mon,” he said. “Lemme show you the lounge.”
“The lounge” was brightly lit and much cooler than the rest of the ward. There was a universal gym in one corner, a stationary bicycle and a bunch of couches lining the walls. A blonde kid, aged about 15 or 16, was sitting on one of the couches with an orderly. The kid had a boom box on his lap and he was playing Pink Floyd's The Final Cut.
My friend made the introductions. “That's ___,” he said. “He tried to commit suicide.”
I waved. “Hey.”
He nodded back, then turned up the stereo. “This is great music,” he said to the orderly. “I played it when I needed the strength to finally go ahead and kill myself.”
The orderly gave him a pleasant smile. “Is that right, eh?”
My friend and I left the room. “Man,” he said, “that kid is smart as a whip, got everything going for him. Makes you wonder what's the matter.”
We walked back down the long corridor to the hospital, and my friend took me up to the incubator room to look at the babies. They cheered him up and gave him hope, he said. I thought about the guy I'd just met, someone who'd once been a baby that brought smiles to the faces of the elderly and infirm. I was certainly in no position to say what was “the matter” — God knows something was. But I couldn't help wondering if a voluntary change in soundtrack mightn't have given him a different kind of strength, the kind to hold on for just a little longer.
The corridor was very long, all white (natch) and entirely without windows or doors. I was the only one in it, and I walked its length at a very brisk pace. When I finally reached the door, it dawned on me why the corridor was such a strange bit of business: the psych ward was actually a building separate from the rest of the hospital.
The place had blue carpet on the walls and was suffocatingly warm. An orderly directed me to my friend, and we chatted for a bit. “C'mon,” he said. “Lemme show you the lounge.”
“The lounge” was brightly lit and much cooler than the rest of the ward. There was a universal gym in one corner, a stationary bicycle and a bunch of couches lining the walls. A blonde kid, aged about 15 or 16, was sitting on one of the couches with an orderly. The kid had a boom box on his lap and he was playing Pink Floyd's The Final Cut.
My friend made the introductions. “That's ___,” he said. “He tried to commit suicide.”
I waved. “Hey.”
He nodded back, then turned up the stereo. “This is great music,” he said to the orderly. “I played it when I needed the strength to finally go ahead and kill myself.”
The orderly gave him a pleasant smile. “Is that right, eh?”
My friend and I left the room. “Man,” he said, “that kid is smart as a whip, got everything going for him. Makes you wonder what's the matter.”
We walked back down the long corridor to the hospital, and my friend took me up to the incubator room to look at the babies. They cheered him up and gave him hope, he said. I thought about the guy I'd just met, someone who'd once been a baby that brought smiles to the faces of the elderly and infirm. I was certainly in no position to say what was “the matter” — God knows something was. But I couldn't help wondering if a voluntary change in soundtrack mightn't have given him a different kind of strength, the kind to hold on for just a little longer.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
"I got the tuber-cu-lucas and the sinus flu"
Thanks to my non-hockey-fan readers for checking in with me, regardless of my seasonal obsession. You'll be happy to note it's all over: hockey season is finished, and since I'm not usually one to pay much atention to the game before play-offs begin, we've got nine months of hockey-free blogging to look forward to.
I have a few thoughts fizzing in my brain, waiting to escape and gas up the blog. I've been reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road, watching Children of Men, and musing about the overall shift in dystopia-think. I'll get to that in a day or two.
But first I've got to break out the ice-cubes of chicken stock and brew up some soup. Don't know why flu-season decided to strike at the beginning of June, but it did. If you want me, I'll be in bed. Bring a book you can read to me.
I have a few thoughts fizzing in my brain, waiting to escape and gas up the blog. I've been reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road, watching Children of Men, and musing about the overall shift in dystopia-think. I'll get to that in a day or two.
But first I've got to break out the ice-cubes of chicken stock and brew up some soup. Don't know why flu-season decided to strike at the beginning of June, but it did. If you want me, I'll be in bed. Bring a book you can read to me.
Gratuitous Hockey Post
Halfway through the first period as I was watching Ottawa struggling once again to figure out how to play this game with this team, I thought, "I wonder if the circumstances aren't just about right for another Steve Smith moment?" In a just world, this would never have happened to Chris Phillips, who was outplaying nearly everyone else on his team. But in a just world it would never have happened to Steve Smith, either.
I certainly enjoyed watching the Ducks play the last four games. They executed a forward rush that Ottawa never got a grip on (though there were signs in the first period last night that that had changed). The Stanley Cup is duly theirs, and I'm very happy for Randy Carlyle, Scott Niedermeyer, that Penner guy from the prairies ... even Chris Pronger!
I certainly enjoyed watching the Ducks play the last four games. They executed a forward rush that Ottawa never got a grip on (though there were signs in the first period last night that that had changed). The Stanley Cup is duly theirs, and I'm very happy for Randy Carlyle, Scott Niedermeyer, that Penner guy from the prairies ... even Chris Pronger!
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Lou Reed Interviewed
Somewhere there's a vault filled with all the silent tape — audio, visual, scotch — courtesy of Lou Reed interviews that quickly went sour. If there's a celeb who gets surly and clams up faster than Reed does, I don't know who it is (Harrison Ford, maybe?). This Telegraph interview comes off sounding like a 50/50 proposition, which in Reed-stats is pretty fine indeed. H/t to Advanced Theory.
Gratuitous Hockey Post
I now believe Anaheim is the better team, and I'm wondering if Carlyle isn't the better coach. Of course, "the better team" is a combination of any number of unquantifiable elements. But when the Ducks took to the ice in the second period, they were playing a very different game than they were playing during the first period. I'm thinking that Murray, for whatever reason, can't make his intermissions "work," while Carlyle clearly can and does.
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