This week, my days have consisted of slogging through work feeling achey and poor, coming home to take a belt of generic Ny-Quil, and passing out ASAP. Last night, I changed that up a bit, as I sat on the sofa and watched the MD-VA basketball game (a nail-biter that should have been a blow out). Today, I am feeling passing fair, so I thought I would update the blog.
When I was cutting my teeth on the local music scene in B-more, one of my two favorite bands was Monkeyspank (the other was the highly theatrical, and totally ass-kicking, All Mighty Senators). Monkeyspank was a sight to see: a mop-haired, rail-thin, screeching singer and lead guitar player, channeling Jesus, the Devil, and Elvis through his voice and his guitar, lead a band that consisted of rhythm: multiple bass players and dummers. It was a screaming, driving, grab-you-by-the-core-and-make-you-pinball-around-with-total-strangers kind of sound. After a few years and a couple of albums: (Daemons Flew Out of My Mouth (a truly amazing piece of work) and Blue Mud), I guess the band realized they were all going in different directions, Monkeyspank existed no more. I saw Brian, the screeching guitarist, playing a guest appearance with a solo folky-chick at a bar in Fells Point, I heard him play with a roots-y kind of band, the Bolton Hillbillys, and then, as far as I could tell, he was gone.
On a whim this weekend, I was surfing around the internets, looking for any Monkeyspank info, when I heard that Brian was in Austin playing in a band called Combo Mahalo . No longer the screeching guitar god, Brian now plays with a Hawaiian band with an awesome sound. It's funny, when I heard him singing "Mystery Train" so many years ago, I should have seen this coming. But, I didn't.
By the way, I bought a CD--they sound awesome. Welcome back to the musical side of my life, Brian!
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
I Need to Get Paid
It's the last weekend in what seems like the longest month ever. For some reason--probably the way the holidays fell this year (all around the weekends)--I got paid around the 28th of last month. That, combined with the 31 days I must endure this month, the ridiculously cold temperatures that have inflated the heating bill, the outlandish price of cheese, the termination of the six-month introductory cable rate, and the dreaded Christmas charge card bills, have managed to leave me in my own little budget crisis (I think Monkey's experiencing one, too).As it always happens, however, February is short (although longer than usual this year (Leap, baby!)). Doesn't that mean I'll have lots of money left over after next month? Doesn't it? Huh?
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
This Train Goes All the Way to Romanticism
Writing with no topic in mind, with no clear purpose, is like performing a trapeze act without a net, like walking a tightrope across Niagara Falls, like sky diving without a parachute. Except for the fact that writing with no topic is not likely to result in your death. So, maybe it's not like that at all.
However, it is a bit thrilling, and a hell of a lot of fun, sometimes, to just sit down and bang away at the keyboard or push the pencil around and see what happens. You might end up with a really interesting tidbit here and there. You might end up with something close to a fully-developed, well-on-its-way-to-being-a-masterpiece first draft. You might end up with a turd.
For your sake, I am hoping for non-turd. But, maybe you'd like that. Who am I to judge?
I pause, staring at the keys. In the bedroom, Monkey's watch alarm goes off again. the second time in fifteen minutes (that makes sense). I hope it's nothing important she was trying to remind herself of, because she is not here. As a result, I am being repeatedly alarmed for no good reason. That is not good for the nervous system.
I am reading this book, lately: Sea of Glory. It's by Nathan Philbrick, who wrote Mayflower and In the Heart of the Sea, about the whale ship Essex, the sinking of which inspired Melville to write Moby Dick. The story of this book focuses on the US Exploratory Expedition of c. 1840-something, an around-the-world naval mission to map Antarctica and some of the South Seas, and to generally gather knowledge and earn laurels for the relatively new US of A. The captain of the voyage (the commodore, I guess), named Wilkes, was quite the worker, and he spent many hours gathering scientific measurements and doing captain-y stuff, the burden and worry of which caused him to pass out after taking a well-earned sauna somewhere in Tierra del Fuego. This was early in the voyage--after setting sail from Norfolk, they sailed to Madeira Island, then back west and around Cape Horn. They hadn't been to sea but a matter of months, and here this command figure is having something like a nervous breakdown.
After reading about this, my first thought was, "Does this kind of thing happen anymore?" You know, this melodramatic swooning after a heavy labor. Do people do this? Or is this some Romanticized nineteenth-century PR? I don't know, but, in my estimation, these Dickensian, Bronte-like, Austenian reactions to stress are just so two centuries ago.
Of course, nowadays, look at what we do have: pop stars and movie men making the headlines. Oh, Britney, was that a good old fashioned swoon we witnessed two weeks ago? Oh, Heath, is this the post-modern version of fainting into the arms of your second?
Please, Muses, ye Gods that make folly of literature and life, bring back the Romance! Bring back the cravat and the petticoat! O, but we need a Romantic revival!! Yet, please, I have had enough of the Gothic. Thank you.
However, it is a bit thrilling, and a hell of a lot of fun, sometimes, to just sit down and bang away at the keyboard or push the pencil around and see what happens. You might end up with a really interesting tidbit here and there. You might end up with something close to a fully-developed, well-on-its-way-to-being-a-masterpiece first draft. You might end up with a turd.
For your sake, I am hoping for non-turd. But, maybe you'd like that. Who am I to judge?
I pause, staring at the keys. In the bedroom, Monkey's watch alarm goes off again. the second time in fifteen minutes (that makes sense). I hope it's nothing important she was trying to remind herself of, because she is not here. As a result, I am being repeatedly alarmed for no good reason. That is not good for the nervous system.
I am reading this book, lately: Sea of Glory. It's by Nathan Philbrick, who wrote Mayflower and In the Heart of the Sea, about the whale ship Essex, the sinking of which inspired Melville to write Moby Dick. The story of this book focuses on the US Exploratory Expedition of c. 1840-something, an around-the-world naval mission to map Antarctica and some of the South Seas, and to generally gather knowledge and earn laurels for the relatively new US of A. The captain of the voyage (the commodore, I guess), named Wilkes, was quite the worker, and he spent many hours gathering scientific measurements and doing captain-y stuff, the burden and worry of which caused him to pass out after taking a well-earned sauna somewhere in Tierra del Fuego. This was early in the voyage--after setting sail from Norfolk, they sailed to Madeira Island, then back west and around Cape Horn. They hadn't been to sea but a matter of months, and here this command figure is having something like a nervous breakdown.
After reading about this, my first thought was, "Does this kind of thing happen anymore?" You know, this melodramatic swooning after a heavy labor. Do people do this? Or is this some Romanticized nineteenth-century PR? I don't know, but, in my estimation, these Dickensian, Bronte-like, Austenian reactions to stress are just so two centuries ago.
Of course, nowadays, look at what we do have: pop stars and movie men making the headlines. Oh, Britney, was that a good old fashioned swoon we witnessed two weeks ago? Oh, Heath, is this the post-modern version of fainting into the arms of your second?
Please, Muses, ye Gods that make folly of literature and life, bring back the Romance! Bring back the cravat and the petticoat! O, but we need a Romantic revival!! Yet, please, I have had enough of the Gothic. Thank you.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
One Man's Valentines
Friday night, braving the brisk wind and single digits, Monkey and I headed down to a local bookstore to hear a reading by former Poet Laureate, the famously diminutive Ted Kooser. He has recently published a slim volume of poems that he had composed as valentines and sent out over the years to a list of recipients that eventually grew, according to Mr. Kooser to over 2000 people (all but two of them women). The book, appropriately, is called Valentines, and it is illustrated by a friend of Kooser's who lives two doors down from the Monkey House. Yes, it is a small world.
I have been a fan of Kooser's for some time, and I have enjoyed reading and teaching his poems, and hearing his thoughts on poetry and such in his less poetic writings. So, it was an excellent opportunity to hear him read.
It was a short reading, about a half an hour, but, it was great nonetheless. To hear him talk about his poems, and to hear him read, was a treat (and how often do you find yourself eight feet from a former Poet Laureate?). Monkey and I also got a couple of books signed, but that was a bit perfunctory (there were many people waiting). Of course, I most likely would have held a rather poor conversation with him had I the opportunity, anyway. It would have gone something like this:
Me: "Uh.... Hi."
TK: Hello."
(PAUSE)
Me: "Um.... You know that one poem you wrote? About your grandmother? 'Dishwater?'"
TK: "Yes."
(PAUSE)
Me: "Yeah. Um...wasn't that great?"
(TED KOOSER walks away.)
I have been a fan of Kooser's for some time, and I have enjoyed reading and teaching his poems, and hearing his thoughts on poetry and such in his less poetic writings. So, it was an excellent opportunity to hear him read.
It was a short reading, about a half an hour, but, it was great nonetheless. To hear him talk about his poems, and to hear him read, was a treat (and how often do you find yourself eight feet from a former Poet Laureate?). Monkey and I also got a couple of books signed, but that was a bit perfunctory (there were many people waiting). Of course, I most likely would have held a rather poor conversation with him had I the opportunity, anyway. It would have gone something like this:
Me: "Uh.... Hi."
TK: Hello."
(PAUSE)
Me: "Um.... You know that one poem you wrote? About your grandmother? 'Dishwater?'"
TK: "Yes."
(PAUSE)
Me: "Yeah. Um...wasn't that great?"
(TED KOOSER walks away.)
Thursday, January 17, 2008
The Only ________ Guy In The Room
I stand in front of my American Literature class, staring out at thirty faces that all look the same. Sure, some of them are female faces and some of them are male faces. Some of them have blue eyes. Some of them have brown eyes. The noises are different. The mouths. But, for the most part, they are all the same. The faces of young white middle class Americans.
And, here I am, an old white middle class American, leading a discussion on diction in Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God. And, I'm thinking, as we discuss the southern black dialect that Hurston captured so magnificently in her novel, "What the hell am I doing?" As I talk to them about playing the dozens, and the affinity of Hurston's characters for poetic imagery and euphemism, I'm mumbling to myself, "What an empty conversation."
At the same time, I am not thinking, "Gee, I wish we had some black kids in this class so we could really talk about this." It is a weird situation, for me, because I think, if I were them, I would be looking at this old white guy, thinking, "What the hell does he know?"
I mean, I have been in this generally homogeneous school and I have been at more heterogeneous schools, and, I have found that the discussion, the sharing, the learning, and the understanding is far more possible when it comes from a group of many kinds of people giving and taking, in an informed manner, in a conversation. I just don't feel that this conversation is as rich as it could be, here, but, I also feel that, as much as I try to do, I can't change anyone.
I don't know. Maybe this is an essentially unenlightened attitude on my part. And, don't think that I have given up on the concept of teaching for tolerance and social justice. But, it is hard sometimes to feel like anything is making a difference. I don't know why I am writing about this today, because I did have a pretty good day; when I sat down, this is what popped into my head.
And, here I am, an old white middle class American, leading a discussion on diction in Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God. And, I'm thinking, as we discuss the southern black dialect that Hurston captured so magnificently in her novel, "What the hell am I doing?" As I talk to them about playing the dozens, and the affinity of Hurston's characters for poetic imagery and euphemism, I'm mumbling to myself, "What an empty conversation."
At the same time, I am not thinking, "Gee, I wish we had some black kids in this class so we could really talk about this." It is a weird situation, for me, because I think, if I were them, I would be looking at this old white guy, thinking, "What the hell does he know?"
I mean, I have been in this generally homogeneous school and I have been at more heterogeneous schools, and, I have found that the discussion, the sharing, the learning, and the understanding is far more possible when it comes from a group of many kinds of people giving and taking, in an informed manner, in a conversation. I just don't feel that this conversation is as rich as it could be, here, but, I also feel that, as much as I try to do, I can't change anyone.
I don't know. Maybe this is an essentially unenlightened attitude on my part. And, don't think that I have given up on the concept of teaching for tolerance and social justice. But, it is hard sometimes to feel like anything is making a difference. I don't know why I am writing about this today, because I did have a pretty good day; when I sat down, this is what popped into my head.
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