Reviewing the Reviewer: Part Three

Comments on a Review of A Book About the State of Reviewing Books

We don’t need this but here it is. I asked for it. You got it.

Wolcott vs. Pool vs. Reviews vs. Internet vs. jon.

http://www.tnr.com/politics/story.html?id=69e34cc4-6eb7-4c69-a5a7-24681dfac7c4

Wolcott makes me smile with lines like this:

“They tore the iridescent wings off Romantic poets for sport, and crouched in the hills like hyenas waiting for Hemingway to falter. Insidious by nature, they fluff up authors' reputations in order to fatten them up for the sacrificial kill: the young slain for failing to live up to their early promise, their distinguished elders dragged by their whiskers into the lair of the spider-queen, Michiko Kakutani, to be eaten. Even the most scrupulous and fair-minded reviewer is considered suspect, a discount knockoff of a real writer.”

Before we pop our corks, let’s get the glasses. Reviewing a book review about books about reviewing books was MY IDEA. I take full responsibility. But as you will see, there is no end in sight. Once we start down this road, we’re essentially fucked. Let me quote the great Frank Zappa:

“Most rock journalism is people who can't write, interviewing people who can't talk, for people who can't read.”

The same goes for books and those who write their reviews. The reviewers sometimes think they are artists who are above journalism. But bottom line they are writers. And some writers are no better and can behave even worse in public because they take themselves SERIOUSLY. They are men and women of LETTERS. They have drilled down to a granular level where they think they are the SALT. They think they are the SHIT. And they very well may be. Who knows? By definition I am a writer here because I have written this crap. And I may even be an artist. But only if my crap sells. You’ll have to skip ahead to the BONUS QUOTE at the end to find that out.

In fact, as a Certified Master of the Obvious, I see my work here is DONE. It’s a NO BRAINER. Let’s leave the way we came in. Before shit met fan. Previous to the serious. We’ll end with a quote and a comment because that’s the way we are now.

Here’s the great QUOTE and the lame COMMENT:

“The noise volume of this volubility explodes when Pool leaves the fenced-in confines of print and strays into the asteroid belt of Internet reviewing. Buffeted by the fraggy clusterfuck of hidden agendas, free-floating animosity, and arbitrary verdicts, she finds herself clutching her space helmet in the uncharted void.”

“As a serial book reviewer I enjoyed the piece. As a resident of the UK, I have to ask: what is a ‘fraggy clusterfuck’?” —jon turney

Well jon, the word INTERNET was a keyword; perhaps a hint; maybe even an epiphany foregone. They obviously have computers in class-consciously backwards countries like the UK. Or is your mind sodden by inhaling your morning PLATE O’ GREASE with BANGERS?

Try www.urbandictionary.com. You will find another keyword hidden there like some bullshit DaVinci Code. It’s INEPT.

BONUS QUOTE

“Art is making something out of nothing and selling it.” –Frank Zappa

Merry Christmas to all. And to all a good fight.

Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the Fourth

We encounter no more angels; we start planning ahead; we play castle keep.

Funny how insomnia can follow someone not only through a lifetime, but from one country to another. After a restless night and a substantial breakfast, I spend over an hour helping the B&B's owner figure out how to attach photographs to email, among other computer problems she has endured. I learn much about her, including the fact that she was once a cook aboard a merchant ship. An old man eating breakfast says his wife travels all the time, and she hates flying to/through the United States because her airport experience has included "being locked up in waiting rooms with armed guards." He seems not to believe me when I tell him I've never experienced anything like that. He also says that he's never really known his mother, who'd apparently abandoned him before settling in Phoenix after spending many years in Alaska.

Wanderings today include a visit to the Scottish Museum, which offers displays on the country's "geologic and societal evolution." The guillotine is especially interesting, though much smaller than I would have thought. I also wander, mostly by accident, into an old friars' graveyard in Old Town. Edinburgh is full of graveyards that are parts of the city rather than separated from it, something I've seen in places like Boston, MA, and Hartford, CT. Stepping through these cemeteries and touching the headstones reminds you of the impermanence of things, of people.

At some point in the afternoon I recognize that the previous night's restlessness was caused by mental preparation/ planning for the return to London, where I will spend one night before heading down to Dover. I have 2 nights in London for which I have no lodging reserved, so I'll have to take care of that as soon as I can.

I visit the castle today and am a bit disillusioned by the Disneyland-like quality of it all. I'm not sure of what I expected; perhaps I am more suited to castle ruins.

Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the Third

A basic continuation of Part, the Second. Here we leave the French angel behind; we settle down for a beer; we meet the Swede.

I leave at least the physical version of the angel behind and head up the Royal Mile, toward the castle, and drop into and out of various tourist shops, thinking all the while that what I see on the shelves is not unlike what I've seen in tourist shops in other places. Near St. Giles' Cathedral, which is a fine place if you are ever need a quiet place to rest, I pass a street musician who packs away his cell phone and begins strumming the opening guitar chords to Bob Dylan's "Knockin' on Heaven's Door." I know these chords because I have played them. I linger across the street waiting for the musician to sing, but when he doesn't, I turn right off the Royal Mile and find my way to Rose Street, in New Town (which, really, is simply less old than Old Town). More specifically, I find my way to a the Rose Street Brewery, just uphill from Princes Street, where I order a beer, sit down, and feel good to be off my feet for the first time in nearly 8 hours.

[Blog-entry interlude... I have often carried small notebooks on various travels. I have a few friends who do likewise (Tom, Shawn, and Lazlo, for example, though Lazlo generally carries scraps of paper onto which he records the genetic material for upcoming works of literary significance). I am not, however, one to bare said notebooks in public, just as I do not take my shirt off away from total darkness, and probably for the same reasons--embarrassment, a certain unwillingness to display too much information about myself. This certainly contributes to the lack of detail penned into my notebooks... On this late afternoon, however, I indeed had my notebook and pen on the table. End of interlude.]

As I sit with my beer while writing in my notebook, a short, stocky, brown-haired man walks into the bar. He, too, orders a beer, and he sits down at a nearby table, where he produces not only a notebook similar to my Moleskine, but a copy of Czeslaw Milosz's Roadside Dog, a book I not only own, but have read. My first reaction is to stow my pen and Moleskine, for I don't want to be the cliche' writer sitting over a notebook in a dark bar (even though I am). When I return from the bar with another beer, he walks over and asks if he can join me--he says that he has seen me writing, that we must have something in common.

He tells me he is Mark. I tell him who I am. He says he is Swedish, a university professor in Stockholm where he teaches comparative literature. I tell him I've seen what he is reading, that I've got a friend who's Polish and who likes Milosz. He says he is in Edinburgh for a seminar that somehow (I miss the exact title) combines Freud and "writing your life." Unable to get into the seminar, however, he has instead spent 3 days drinking. I tell him there are worse things.

He has a family--wife, daughter, son--but he hates the idea of being part of a family, that he can't stand things like family dinners. He'd rather drink or read (neither of which are bad activities, I think), but he does enjoy being one-on-one with his children. He says his father is an alcoholic and is ill, and that his family has never been "happy." He also says he and his daughter will soon see Bob Dylan in Stockholm. That his favorite movie is The Last Waltz, which he has seen 20 times but is always saddened by it because it reminds him of "more innocent times."

His son is quite the musician but often plays too loudly. He likes Emily Dickinson. And he tells me his wife has left him twice during their 20-year marriage. "But she has also returned twice," I tell him, hoping this is a bright side. He tells me that his country once believed it was God's favorite, and he doesn't understand how people can vote for George Bush twice. (Our favorite word, apparently, is "twice.") He rambles a lot. He mumbles. He repeats things. He leaves to call his wife, for this is her birthday. He offers to buy me a beer, which I foolishly decline.

And then he is gone, and I am gone. I walk immediately to a nearby Internet cafe' where I type some of this story and send it to Kominksi because I know he'll appreciate the progression from "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" to the Dylan concert to The Last Waltz. On my way back to my hotel room, I stop at a grocery store to dinner: pita bread, some hummus, beer.

Now, 9 months later, I wonder if he was an angel, too, just a different kind.

Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the Second

More interesting than Part, the First. Here we learn of Mary, Queen of Scots, see where Queen Elizabeth sleeps, and encounter a French angel.

I want to begin like this: First, let me say that I do not believe in angels, at least not the winged sort the Catholic family I knew as a boy framed into paintings and hung over the headboards in their bedrooms. But, because that is the first sentence of a short story I began many years ago, I cannot plagiarize myself for the sake of expedience. Also, because my second day in Edinburgh did not start that way, I will stay true to the meager and sketchy details scribed into my Moleskine.

Visited the Palace of Holyroodhouse, where the Queen of England sometimes stays. (Note: my sister would visit Edinburgh several months later, and she would be royally forbidden from visiting the Palace because Her Highness was actually there.) Spoke with Brian, a friendly guide, and he gave me a quick history of Scotland and Britain, as well as the religious history of the throne. Apparently, a Catholic cannot be king or queen of England. Wandering, I also wondered--just what does a queen do to occupy her time all day? In what is labeled as Queen Elizabeth's bedroom, the bed itself is enclosed in plexiglass, which makes me think that her true bedroom is somewhere else in the palace. I suspect that there are other, more modern rooms in the palace. I also see where Mary, Queen of Scots slept, as well as where David Rizzo, her personal secretary, was murdered.

Ah, yes: the angel.

As I left the palace, a young woman asked me to photograph her with the palace in the background. From her accent, I took her to be French. She was wearing, as I remember, a lightweight skirt, flat black shoes, and a blue denim jacket. (There must have been more--a blouse of some sort, and her legs were not bare). Her hair was long and blonde, and her cheekbones were naturally pink. She handed me her digital camera, and I took one photograph, then another, then asked her to check the images to see if they were suitable. She looked at the images. She smiled. She said this:

"The palace smiled nicely. That is all that matters."

That is a direct quote. I repeated it to myself. I stared at her and the palace. I would later write this in my notebook: "What a wonderful thing to say!" Such a statement, of course, indicates my high level of creativity and originality.

She thanked me, and I passed her again as we both lingered in the gift shop. She smiled so that her small nose rose slightly and her eyes shut lightly. She walked one way and I walked another, and I knew that no matter how I smiled in the future, I would forever know my smile was inferior.

Then, 15 minutes later as I sat in one of the Royal Mile Starbucks and consumed a coffee-and-cookie snack, I looked out the window and watched the angel walk up the street, her hands clasped behind her back, her white skirt and blonde hair brushed by the breeze, her face turned upward. If any person could be, she was joy. She also came into Starbucks, ordered coffee, passed by me and smiled her raised-nose smile, saying "hello."

I was happy with that. I am an old man, and such types of recognition and acknowledgment are gratifying. Then, when she was gone, I glanced outside and noticed a sign pointing to the Scottish Poetry Library--something I did not know exists but would plan to see the next day. I left Starbucks behind, turned uphill toward the castle, and walked into what was the beginning of a unique and odd experience.

Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the First

This is dull stuff. I spent 4 days in Edinburgh, and I enjoyed them all. There are, however, 2 experiences--both of which I find more interesting than the following drivel-- that will be part of a later post.

After a 2-hour train ride from York to Edinburgh, I exit Waverly Station and confront not only cosmopolitan bustle, but the shadow of a castle built on top of and into an extinct volcano. It's quite the view, as though I've somehow left Kansas for Oz.

Once I find my way out of the train station (not always a simple task), I seem to be better oriented than I was in either London or York, though this might be because I spent more time perusing maps of the city before arriving. The B&B is supposed to be about a half-hour walk away, and I schlep my pack past the Sir Walter Scott Monument, then up, over, and down a steep hill to the B&B, where the owner, Alasdair, shows up shortly after arrive and admonishes me for not letting her know when I would arrive. She will come to love me soon.

I leave my room quickly, eager to begin exploring without having to carry a heavy pack. I am in search of the Royal Mile, which is not far from Waverly Station, specifically the Writers' Museum, where.... Yes, again the Moleskine is empty of details, as though only part of me had been there.

End of day one. Finis. Just like that.

The Newness of York

The 2-hour train-ride from London to York was comfortable and uneventful, and at York's train station I stepped into a damp grayness that reminded me of Oregon. As with my experience at Victoria Station, I was disoriented (or unoriented, maybe?), so I strolled through the gift shop and bought a city map. I had a reservation at the Clifton Bridge Guesthouse, though even with the map I was not sure of in which direction I should travel. I found my way to the city center, sitting at a table outside the Jorvik Center and drinking an overpriced cup of coffee purchased from a kiosk.

Still disoriented, however, I returned to the train station, then used it and the Jorvik Center as dual locations from which to figure out how to orient both the map and myself. (Could I have done this from my table outside the kiosk? Yes. And that approach makes complete sense now.) I also remembered something from the Guesthouse's website: a person could reach it by walking along the river, which turns out to be the Ouse, which lay between the train station and the Jorvik Center and which I'd already crossed twice.

At The Clifton Bridge, about a mile outside of the city center, Tony knew my name when I stepped in and said I had a room reserved--and he called me "mister." I liked that. He was friendly, told me a different way to get back to the City Center, let me know what time breakfast would be served, and told me to make sure I didn't leave without returning the room key. I assured him I would not.

After depositing my backpack, I headed toward the city not along the river but through "modern" York: and discovered W.H. Auden's birthplace along the way--didn't expect that. Also didn't expect to find an entrance to the City Center--an entrance as is passing through the city wall that surrounds the city. Here's what I found:



A city wall--one more thing that reinforced my belief that the joy of every journey is found as much in the unplanned and unexpected than in the outlined itinerary. So, I climbed the stone steps to the top of the stone wall, where at some point (there must have been a marker of some kind) I wrote in my notebook:

"In one section I find an even older remnant of a different wall constructed in about AD71, and the Romans left York around AD410."

I stood there for a long time wondering at the age of things, at how stone steps along the wall had been worn to smoothness by centuries of footsteps. And I remember the light mist that seemed so perfect.... I also found a gift shop (still on the wall) that I browsed until a group of loud Americans stomped up a stretch of wooden steps, with one man of the group telling the telling the shop-worker that "Your weather sucks here."

Wonderful....

The wall looks like this:



York itself was crowded with tourists, and I wrote that "the City Center itself is no more than an outdoor mall." True--but it was still England and not, oh, The Mall of America. And what, after all, should a city center be but the center of commerce? I found, of all things, a Starbucks, and I enjoyed a cup of coffee and a cookie there (more Starbucks in future posts), sitting down for the first time in nearly 7 hours. Through the front door I could see York Cathedral, which I admired from the outside because I refused to pay the entrance fee. (Note to readers: Some people admire my frugality; others are annoyed because I am cheap.)

The outside (free) part of the cathedral:



During my wanderings, I turned down a narrow walkway (I found that I discovered many things whenever I did this) and found an old church, which I greatly enjoyed and in which I lingered. Then, heading back to my B&B, I turned left down a quaint street and found the remnants of an old Norse Church--which I had passed by but not noticed in my trek from train station to B&B. In the dark, I sat in the park and watched some skateboarders, and again wondered at the age of things. Here's part of the Norse Church...


And another part:


And an old church (outside and inside) I stumbled upon by turning down a dark sidewalk....






After breakfast the next morning, I packed, checked out of my room, and walked back to the station to catch a train to Edinburgh, Scotland. The walk was perhaps half an hour, and I timed things to arrive at the station about 20 minutes before my train was scheduled to leave. Half way there, my backpack rubbing against my shoulders and pulling against my neck, I put my hand in my pocket and found.... my room key. Which left me with a choice: run back to the Clifton Bridge and turn in the key but possibly miss my train, or keep moving forward and mail the key back when I could.

Snow Falling on Geezers

The first Moleskine entry for my second day in London is this: "Visited Charles Dickens' house (also a museum), which is a wonderful place for any writer." Yet another example of terrible note-taking: What in the hell happened before that visit?

I should have started like this:

I awoke early, showered, and walked out of my room and into the B&B's small and simple lobby where a couple of small tables were set up for breakfast, looked out the window and saw that it was snowing. Breakfast consisted of hard-boiled eggs, toast, coffee. I ate as much as I could since my plan was to spend as little money on food as possible. then, with my daypack slung over my shoulder, I stepped outside, took the snow as a good sign, and walked several blocks to Paddington Station where I would catch the Underground.

Or maybe this:

I have stayed in hotel rooms in my life that were filthy, ugly, unsafe--pick an adjective. In Olongapo, Philippines, during martial law, I once spent a night in a room I could not leave between midnight and sunrise. All night a music-loop of about 20 songs played through a speaker in the ceiling, which was bad enough but made worse because one of the songs was Abba's "Dancing Queen." You listen to an Abba song all night long and see how you turn out in later years.... The room in which I slept last night is more of a cell than a bedroom, and while I can endure it, I would not bring my wife here: The bed is concave; the bathroom is the Yugo of bathrooms; the window faces an alley filled with trash and the brick wall of the building next door.

But I didn't start either of those ways, so let's jump back to Dickens and his house, which looks like this:



The Dickens Museum is full of his personal relics: a drinking glass; a snuff box; a cribbage board; some of his clothing (he must have been a small man). There are photos of his children. Another item not in the Moleskine is that the museum was full of French schoolchildren who enjoyed running up and down the stairs or standing in front of the doorways so that I had to pass from one room to another with difficulty. One of their adult teachers was frustrated that the museum shop did not accept Euros; he then spent a good 10 minutes trying to get his credit cards accepted.

After leaving the museum, I wandered the neighborhood imagining Dickens doing the same, enjoying the the light drizzle the snow had become. I also took a picture of this pigeon:



Then, more by chance than intent, I found the British Library, where there are originals of the Magna Carta, works by Shakespeare and Mozart, hand-written lyrics by the Beatles.

Somehow, then, I ended up at Covent Market, where I visited St. Paul's Church and had a pasty for lunch. The last entry is this: "Then, later, I walk around near the Tower of London but refuse the entry fee. The place is impressive, as are the remnants of the Roman wall nearby." Here are pictures of the wall (left foreground) and the Tower (across the street).



That's it--incredibly incomplete, as if I had noticed no details of importance. What else is in the British Library? What's the significance of St. Paul's Church? WHAT WAS IN THE DAMNED PASTY?

Reviewing the Reviewer: Part Two

Rather than Dan. Stronger than Stan. And Van the Man.

While ruminating deeply over the exquisite consistency of Santa Cristina Sangiovese and making friends with my radical sign [which is Capricorn/Pisces for you ladies] the deja vus of The Cold Room where I sit draw me here once again. I've also had lunch with my Colleague of Sorts who is doing fine pre-arranging the candy plot twists and sweet characters in his next confection and novel resurrection.

With new Moleskins in hand and a new favorite band, we lunched at the North Beach Coppola Cafe Zeotrope where you can still buy a copy of One From the Heart and consume Carbonara for late Saturday breakfast. He departed on the train that evening headed for The Big Valley reading a killer Germanic book of despair. You can review his long journey into blight on the literary location mashups soon to be provided with Google's Where You At, Ishmael? program on Facebook if you like.

Meanwhile staggering over to the point, let's get our theme on here because it's totally sick, dude. With grand aplomb, my researchers burst in with big chests heaving and thongs snapping this afternoon so excited about their find and rightly so. Bidding them a seat together on my ample beanbag chair at the foot of my desk, I asked them to explain rather than writhing together in bliss.

"POETRY COLLECTION! ECCO! Bukowski! The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993! 576 pages! 1.8 lbs! New York Times! Written by Harrison!"

Throw in a dinner with Jack Nicholson and Orson Welles as background material reading from The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand. Now watch the Legends of the Fall guy try to tackle the Dirty Old Man on his own turf in his own house. Though Jim's need to conveniently consult a seemingly serendipitous fictional Frenchman to explain his Celine shock and awe filled me with surprise making me surmise that his head's going bad perhaps worse than his eyes, I totally buy Jim's overall take and love his Milosz quote because these are my guys. It's mostly a question of style and baby they've got it.

The girls got bored, said they were thirsty, and immediately needed to watch America's Top Model, leaving me with the parting words: "Shut up, Daddio! Read it you creep! Analyze in your sleep!" So follow their advice my friends. And call me if you're up late at night in mourning.

All My Friends Are Going to be Strangers

The title for this entry is not original, but is the title of a novel by Larry McMurtry (Lonesome Dove, The Last Picture Show, and so on). The title's implications, however, have, as of late, been leaving traces of fairy dust in the title-quadrant of my brain. Many titles--the names of stillborn novels and poems--have died there, undusted.

McMurtry's title bounced to the forefront several weeks ago when I attended a social function co-hosted by a woman I have been friends with for nearly 20 years. I was seated at a table watching and listening to celebratory commotion when I realized I had been nudged to a circle a bit outside of "close friends." Around the room like so many orbiting planets were new people, ones I did not know and will never meet.

Not long after that function, I was having lunch with someone I've known for nearly as long, and somewhere in our conversation he spoke of doing things that would take him to places I would never see. I again thought of McMurtry's title and how much truth there is in it, how people who seem so close might not be for long. I also remembered a photograph of my son and one of his friends in elementary school. The two boys smile into the camera, their hands clasping a large sign on which is painted "Best Friends Forever." But their paths diverged not long after. And, because for various reasons I am prone to sadness for this son, I found myself wishing for him a lifetime of friendships.

This all sounds, perhaps, more desultory and dramatic than I intend. Mostly, I wanted to write something about the title, and look where I ended up.

Book of Sighs

My friend Tom gave me my first Moleskine notebook in 2004. In it, I have chronicled three years' worth of various travels, excursions, and minor expeditions to the following, some more than once:

• St. Louis, MO
• Chicago, IL
• Portland, OR
• Kansas City, MO
• Martha's Vineyard, MA
• Boston, MA
• Providence, RI
• Phoenix, AZ
• Mendocino, CA
• Gualala, CA
• South Lake Tahoe, NV
• Hartford, CT
• Ely, MN
• San Francisco, CA
• Edinburgh, Scotland
• London, England
• York, England
• Canterbury, England
• Ouray, CO
• Woodstock, IL
• Elko, NV
• Tillamook, OR

I also have recorded certain quotations, such as these:

• From Pascal: "The last thing one settles in writing a book is what one should put in first."
• From Kierkegaard: "I can't bother to write what I have just written, and I can't bother to blot it out."
• From Chatwin: "To lose a passport was the least of one's worries: to lose a notebook was a catastrophe."
  

My Moleskine is about two-thirds full now, and I am using it to compose various and occasional descriptions of my trip to Europe. What I am finding, however, is a certain lack of detail. For instance, my first day in London I wrote that I had "navigated the underground to the area near the British Museum." I wrote of spending 15 minutes figuring out how to navigate through the subway tunnels, but I have not one note about what I saw in the museum itself.

Have you heard of the Rosetta Stone, for example?

Leafing through the notebook now, however, I see the same pattern for three years: overviews and highlights, nothing in-depth. Another example: I did not note that, on my second day in London, I awoke to a light snowfall. I have remembered, however, that most of my note-taking involved an even smaller, more portable notebook, and from that one I would transcribe my notes into the one now on the sofa cushion beside me.

So, before describing more about Europe, I need to find the original notes, to un-censor myself. Chatwin was correct: losing a notebook is a catastrophe for a writer. What's worse, though, is to have an incomplete notebook. (We will return to the idea of notebooks when I describe Edinburgh; you'll have to wait for that.)

Dead Man Talking

Kominiski beat me to the punch--or the post, anyway, about Mailer, someone who wrote plenty of books, none of which I've read.

I was in Border's yesterday afternoon thinking about that: yet another dead author whose books I've not opened. The most I knew about him was that he'd stabbed one of his wives. (William S. Burroughs shot one of his wives, though I'd like to think that both Mailer and Burroughs truly did love women when all was said and... well, "done" might not fit. Hemingway, an author many feminists apparently dislike because, I think, of how he portrayed and treated women, was at least polite enough to shoot himself. Does that mean he loved women more than the other guys?)

Like I said, I was in Border's, where I wandered around a bit thinking I'd like to buy a Mailer book, but how cliche' would that be, buying a book written by some guy who'd just died? Even the young clerks at the cash register would see through that ruse. Besides, I don't have room on my bookshelves for more books, and I've still got over 200 pages of A Tale of Two Cities to plow (or, for Dickens, plough?) through.

Mailer will have to wait. I've considered using the library every now and then, so perhaps I'll find him waiting for me there. Slate has an article of interest, if you've got the time. Of course, there will be articles everywhere, at least for awhile. That's how literature tends to work: Some guy spends a lifetime writing, then when he dies, people write about him, dissect what he said and wrote, place him in his appropriate place in the Canon.

And people like me, people who are old enough to know better, should've jumped the gun, been pro-active, been ahead of the curve, anticipated the value-added bring before it was even brought.

I Read the News Today...See Ya Norman

By Lazlo Kominski

Norman Mailer is dead.

Bukowski. Vonnegut. Milosz. All epic men. All now dead.

VHOPE must think I have barged in here like a drunk uncle with a flat tire looking for a beer and needing to use the phone then the bathroom two nights in a row. "Mind if I spend the night your couch looks empty thanks gotta beer?"

I will try to act like a guest. From the looks of things, we are all guests here. And as Jack Nicholson's character said in The Departed, "Act accordingly!"

Norman has checked out. We were on a first name basis though he never returned the favor since we never met.

This evening I picked up TOUGH GUYS DON'T DANCE.

"He might wash his hands after making love, but, no, I would not call him a swish."

Then ANCIENT EVENINGS.

"With or without a face, a dead and naked Egyptian does not look like a dead Asiatic. We have less hair on our bodies."

And then PICASSO.

"To the contrary, he was always reminded, and would remind others, of his extraordinary powers."

These books were opened randomly to a page. Quick scan and finger point. Boom.

Raise a glass. Sing a song. Drink it loud.

"Well some people try to pick up girls
And get called assholes
This never happened to Pablo Picasso
He could walk down your street
And girls could not resist his stare and
So Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole"

--Words and Music by Jonathan Richman as sung by John Cale

Notes and Thoughts on a Really Long Harper's Review of Tree of Smoke - D. Johnson - Hardcover: 624 pages. 2.2 lbs. (2007)

By Lazlo Kominski

Long review. Long book. Right up there with the big boys but not quite Against the Day at 1085 and 3.4. Anything longer than a Houllebeque novella is bound to tax an evening reading working man. Or even a fella.

Signed up for Harper's when the high school daughter came home with MAGAZINE FUNDRAISER materials. SO MONTHS LATER the first one hits my mailbox to the coffee table. I pick it up as a lifevest here in the living room's ESTROGEN POOL. Waterwings in the teen premenstrual and postmenopausal waves.

There are the Harper's articles, index, bits. So I read the Castro beard piece out loud to the soon to be ex-wife. She finds it surprising that Fidel could be so intelligent. This imploding dissolution comes as no surprise, I tell myself again for the tenth time.

I look in the back of the magazine finding there is an 8-PAGE ESSAY couched as review of Denis (Angels) Johnson's new book about Vietnam and so much more called Tree of Smoke. The reviewer says it starts with an idiot killing a monkey so I may actually BUY and READ this book. Just having finished P.K. Dick's Humpty Dumpty in Oakland with 250 pages, I am ready for a stretch book but my trainer says, "Stay closer to your weight class. Go 350 and let's see."

When you've looked back to think after four or five drinks that Dispatches and Waiting for Cacciato might be the two best books you've read and Apocalypse Now is the best movie, others unschooled in those works may surmise maybe you have some issues.

BOO-YAH! The Others don't listen to The Doors anymore. They probably think Tom Brokaw has equal footing with Dan Rather and the late great Peter Jennings when that ratty little starched preppie flunkie bastard spouted only establishment rhetoric in place of the news. He may write books of disguised propaganda in retirement, but he's no Walter Cronkite. He's barely a Katie Couric. Not that there's anything wrong with that. You know what they say.

They say this writer is a smoking whoring wino listening to loud music who is a drunk which is now a VERY BAD THING. But the 60s were more than sex, drugs, and rock and roll. There was a war to stop. I hear there is a war going on right now. On poverty, drugs, terrorism, oil, and democracy. New fronts are breaking out every day someone dissents or raises a red flag. War on coffee. War on tea. War on me.

So COUNT OFF! Sing the song. 1-2-3 what are we fighting for?

May your best country win. Ready, BREAK!

Bread and Water

On March 21, 2007, I walked out of London's Victoria Station and found that I was lost. Not in a bad way, just in a way.

I had landed at London's Gatwick airport a few hours earlier, made my way through customs, took a tram to to a train, and finally--and eagerly--disembarked in Victoria Station. This meant that the easy part was over, as I knew would be the case. Disoriented, I asked for help at the information booth where I was greeted by a tall black man who had hair to the middle of his back. Giving him the name of the hotel I was heading to, he helped me find the location on a map. I had looked at many maps before arriving, and I thought that I could probably walk from Victoria Station to the hotel; all I had to do was navigate to and then across Hyde Park.

"Can I walk there?" I asked.

He looked at me. He looked at my backpack. "You want to walk?"

I told him that, since leaving home, I'd been in one car, in an airport, on a plane, in another airport where I had to ride a tram to a different terminal so I could sit around and wait for another plane to a different airport, where I rode another tram to the train that had brought me to him--and I thought I should walk.

Really, all I said was, yes, I thought I might like to walk.

So, I walked, relying on my small map as I learned that while sometimes signs showing street names are on the sides of buildings, sometimes they are not but are lower, perhaps on a fence. Nevertheless, I finally reached Hyde Park, which is much larger than it appears on a map displayed on a computer screen.

Then I got lost in Hyde Park. I thought I had myself oriented; I thought I was smart enough to figure things out.

A digression: When I was four years old, my younger cousin and I walked out of my family's apartment in Harvard, Illinois, and wandered up and down the railroad tracks. I remember an old man carrying a lantern telling us we should go home. I remember riding home in the back of a police car. I remember the two of us being fed lunch (bologna sandwiches) when we got back to the apartment and then being sent to different bedrooms. I do not remember being found--standing in front of a bar, crying.

Another digression: The person I generally go backpacking with knows how to read maps. He knows north and south with his eyes closed. He has navigated a sail boat in the dark. When I go backpacking alone, I never leave the trail. I have never navigated a sail boat.

Remember the man at the information booth? I should have taken his advice: "Take a cab."

But, like most children, I at least do know what to do if I am lost in the woods: hug a tree. That way, someone will find you, and you will be rescued. There are many trees in Hyde Park, but I did not hug one. Instead, I sat on a bench near The Serpentine, which is an artificial lake. I watched a couple of men clean some rental boats. Some joggers jogged by, and I watched them.

I was already tired of my backpack. I was also cold, weary, and hungry. But, I did not cry as I had when I was four. Instead, I pulled from my pack a small container of water and a breadroll--leftovers from the dinner served somewhere between Dallas and London.

Ha! Isn't that pathetic! A fat old man sitting on a bench in London's Hyde Park, washing stale bread down his gullet with warm water. Who did I think I was--Oliver Twist? What rights did I have to such misery?

Okay. It wasn't miserable. It was, instead, a way to relax, to look closely at my map without walking, of letting myself enjoy the fact that I was not only not in a cubicle dealing with the bizarre nature of the corporate world, I was in London. Eventually, I continued walking, only to have some difficulty finding my way out of Hyde Park. Then, when I finally did escape, I spent another hour looking for my hotel, which must have been moving around somehow.

And the hotel? It was a pit. A dive. A dump. A firetrap. But, at least for a couple of nights, it would be home--and I had more in mind than spending much time in bed.

Dots, Connecting the

A reader of this blog-thing pointed out a thematic connection that I hadn't caught: the poem "Wanderlust" from August 8 and the idea of 'restlessness' from "Light Travels" on November 3. Funny how things connect without our knowing. Perhaps Lazlo's Muse ("Musings," Oct. 27), or at least her homely second-cousin, is at work....

Shawn Pittard's comment on the Nov. 3 entry reminded me of a line from "Walking," an essay by Thoreau: "...you must walk like a camel, which is said to be the only beast which ruminates when walking." Thoreau also differentiates between "exercise" and "walking," though you'll have to find the essay itself if you want to read what he says.

As I ponder how to begin describing my fairly recent journey to England and Scotland, the first thing I think of is walking--that's what I did. Miles. Many miles, starting with the moment I found my way out of Victoria Station in London. My shoes came home lopsided, I walked so many miles.

So, I think that when I start writing about that journey, I'll start with something like this: "On March 21, 2007, I walked out of London's Victoria Station and found that I was lost."

Light Travels

I am not sure of when I acquired a sense of restlessness. Perhaps it is a characteristic driven by DNA, though perhaps it is simply habit. A long time ago I spent over two years on an aircraft carrier in Japan, and the ship was rarely in port for more than two weeks at a stretch, so I got used to coming and going. Sometimes we would simply float around the ocean; sometimes we would visit other ports. If I wasn't working when we were tied to the pier, I spent my free time wandering, on the base and off. And, more often than not, I wandered alone, something that being the only boy in a family of seven made me quite used to. If I had been able to speak Japanese, I would have wandered farther than I did, but I have never admitted to being especially brave. I was comfortable walking around Yokosuka; I was always comforted visiting Kamakura.

Then I came home and got a job delivering furniture before starting college, and I found that I was happier being in motion than not. Maybe, in that sense, college was good--I was always busy, since I also worked at night. I got married just a couple of years after the navy, and our first son was born not long afterward. Then I was busy for years after three more sons were born, after I returned to college for graduate school, after I started teaching part-time at night.

And still--restlessness, wanting to be moving, visiting, traveling, experiencing. Backpacking is good. Soccer was good. Riding my bike remains good. Occasional business travel has been good. Six months ago there was something very good: 13 days of solo traveling in England and Scotland. It was also a purely selfish act, and I'm now working on ways to describe the journey. Stay tuned.

Musings

The aforementioned Lazlo Kominksi recently awoke from a dream in which an attractive woman watched over his shoulder as he penned words of great wisdom and humor. (There are, of course, other details to the dream, details I am not at liberty to disclose since they are proprietary to Lazlo himself, and which will undoubtedly appear in one of his stories at some future date.) My initial reaction was that the woman was Kominski's Muse, something that Lazlo had considered before I did.

How lucky, I thought, for a writer to have such a Muse! (And if you were party to the details I have omitted, you too would think the same thing.)

How unlucky, however, are we writers whose Muse has been on sabbatical for quite some time. There was a time many years ago when I needed no guidance, no inspiration; words dropped from my fingertips nearly unabated. I would hear snippets of conversation and in an instant develop an idea for a poem. Or, words, such as "Almost Human," would join in my thoughts and become the genesis of a story.

Then, something happened. Or, maybe somethings. I got older, certainly; I'm sure that didn't help. My wife and I had more children, so I spent less time thinking about writing and more time changing diapers and tending to midnight feedings. I also stopped reading as much as I always had, so I became detached from language and the thoughts of other, better writers. I also left a wonderful job in San Francisco for a job in California's Central Valley, leaving behind lunchtime walks that took me into the city's energy and commotion. And, adding to the list, I no longer was closely associated with other writers, so I had no one to share ideas with.

Yes, Yes, I know--many writers are quite successful writing from rural Nebraska. And I certainly blame nobody but myself for my lack of literary production. For example, as I type this, I am watching the Colorado Rockies losing to the Boston Red Sox in game 3 of the World Series. I should be concentrating fully on these words, for invariably I will re-read this post tomorrow and find typos, illogic, and plain bad writing.

I should also be searching for ways to entice my Muse (male, female, unattractive or not) with promises of.... what? roses, candy, and wine? a foot-massage? No, those will not work. Perhaps what is needed is a promise of dedication--to the ideas that are out there, to the conversations waiting to be heard.

Wow! Some Flutter!

Yes, yes, I know: neither "wow" nor "flutter" apply to either a stereo receiver or a CD changer. But, I defend myself with poetic license.

If only briefly the other day, my SX-950 lived. I powered it up on a whim, and it surprised me (and my HPM-100s) with life--first the voices from NPR, then with commercials from the local "vintage rock" radio station (which, of course, plays more commercials than vintage rock). Soon, however, guitars and voices from the Grateful Dead's "Hundred Year Hall" filled the room, and I realized again what I have missed these last few years will listening to music in my car or through my Koss headphones. As the writer Lazlo Kominski remarked when I announced this glorious event, "Always test the life of your stereo with the Dead!"

I do not know, of course, if the SX-950 will be alive when I again coo and whisper to it. And, because my house is small and my family's ears insulted by my lingering affection for music that literally moves me, I must wait for 2 more days to find out.

The Nest and the Nestegg

Egangirl has been writing about the emptying of her nest. And while I can't assume to know how genuinely autobiographic her posts are, I nevertheless identify with some of her thoughts and ideas.

My own nest has been full for a long time: 3 of my sons are out on their own, leaving just the youngest to prowl through the house long after I've gone to bed. Years ago the house was full of commotion as the 6 of us battled for our turn in the shower, for the last cookie, for rights to the remote control. Now, with virtually no commotion, my son pretty much has claiming rights to nearly everything (especially the remote control).

You would think that having fewer mouths to feed would mean that I've got more money. We used to go through at least a gallon of milk every day. Now, a gallon lasts several days--but I've got no more money than I ever did. You'd think that little things--less milk, less hot water, fewer lunches--would result in my pockets being filled with cash. Not so. You'd think that my pitiful 401k plan at work would be overwhelmed by my increased contributions. Not so there, either.

How to Lose Without Even Trying

I would like to believe that the Cubs tried--I really would. I would also like to believe that these professional athletes are among the best baseball players in the world. Collectively, however, they seem to have forgotten that winning baseball games requires good hitting, good pitching, and good thinking.

My grandmother and I both will have to wait yet another year.

Random Thoughts of Staggering Ignorance

Because something must be written, I will write something....

• I am happy the Chicago Cubs have a (slim) chance to make this year's World Series. I watched them lose last night. I have watched them lose since I was a kid. As is true for pain and pleasure, the line between acceptance and hope is thin.

• My grandmother is 94, and she has been cheering for the Cubs for a long time. She remains hopeful. She was born on Easter Sunday, but her birthday has not fallen on Easter since.

• I am glad the Mets will not play more baseball this year. Refer to The Year in Sports for 1969 for further discussion.

• The book I am half-way finished with is titled Spook Country by William Gibson. Gibson works hard to come across as, I don't know--technology hip? But the plot is, for me, difficult to follow. Not difficult like Faulkner--so perhaps it's just dull.
  

• Next on the list is Moby-Dick, a book I read a long time ago and that recently begged to be removed from its shelf in City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco.
  

• During a visit to the east coast in 2005, my wife and I caught a ferry from New Bedford, Massachusetts, to Martha's Vineyard. As we were waiting for the boat, I spoke with a man working the docks, and he gave me a brief history of the area and Melville's travels in the region.
  

• Beneath Moby-Dick on my nightstand is Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities, which I've never read. Dickens may have been paid by the word, but he always seemed to use just the right words.
  

• I visited the Charles Dickens Museum in London in March. I got to see Dickens' snuff box, walking stick, and cribbage board. On one wall was a picture of Sydney, one of Dickens' sons, with this caption: "Sydney joined the Navy as a cadet, got into debt, and died young."
  

Wow and Flutter

Sitting unused and apparently broken is an appliance that has been with me for over 30 years: my Pioneer SX-950 stereo receiver, capable of delivering 85 watts per channel of wonderful music. It is a somewhat archaic relic of my past, something that I purchased in the Navy Exchange in Yokosuka, Japan. I had free time and disposable income then, and I spent hours evaluating stereo components--the frequency response, the wow-and-flutter, the distortion.

The 950 has been out of commission for awhile. A year ago it simply started shutting down after it had been on for 30 minutes or so, and then it just stopped working at all. Like what's inside of me, what's inside of that heavy wood-and-metal box is tired and probably dirty. It was once part of a nice family of sound: a Teac tape deck; a Technics turntable; two Pioneer HPM-100 speakers. The tape deck was discarded years and a couple of repairs ago; the turntable is boxed in the garage, sans needle, next to crates of record albums; the speakers are little more than tables for prom pictures and plants. The newest addition to the family, an adopted Pioneer CD changer, is 7 or 8 years old. I accept it, but I have never embraced it.

Oh: If I were a speaker capable of handling 100 watts of continuous power, I would greatly embarrassed to be standing like that.

Of course, along with spending over 2 years working beneath an aircraft carrier's steam catapults, those speakers are probably partially responsible for the slight hearing loss in my right ear. I played a lot of music--a lot of loud music--through those speakers. Led Zeppelin, The Who, The Rolling Stones, AC/DC--they were meant to be played loudly. Likewise, my small collection of Mozart, Brahms, and Haydn deserve good speakers even if the volume is lower.

Today, though, as part of the iPod-sucking public, I spend most of my music-listening time tethered to headphones or, worse (much worse), tiny ear buds that deliver music of such low quality I fear that young people today will think that's how music is supposed to sound. I also listen to music during most of my 40-minute commutes to and from work, but the speakers in my car are good enough only to let me know that I am missing something, something nice.

I want to get the 950 repaired. Perhaps there is someone in town who remembers how to fix such things, just as I'm sure there is a place where cobblers and coopers thrive. But, I know that such a repair would probably be as costly as buying a new receiver, so I hesitate because I have less of both free time and disposable income these days. I also have a wife, a simply wonderful woman who nevertheless not only does not see such a purchase as necessary, but who also has no desire to listen to loud music.

So, the 950 collects more dust on its silver face. The HPM-100s support photographs and plants. The Technics turntable--well, I don't know what it does. Perhaps it waits beside the crates of record albums for just that right moment.

Backpacking

On a recent backpacking trip in Northern California, I encountered this dead tree and the flowers around it. My digital camera isn't the best, but it's lightweight and did a pretty good job of capturing the scene, I think.



This second shot, though, is a bit better--most of the landscape is lost, but I like the emphasis on tree and flowers.

Scribble, Scribble

I decided to be a writer when I was 14 or so. The problem with deciding on such a thing at such a young age is that I never got good anything else. (Many people would suggest that I should've been a welder, that maybe my writing skills aren't that good.) I remember a family vacation about that time, and my aunt asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. "A writer," I said. She kind of looked at me and replied, "Why."

It was a good question, one that I'm not sure I've ever answered.

What have I written? Many things, really. I actually write for a living, though it's rather--no, very--drab corporate writing of the technical nature. No one really reads it, of course, but I figure it's a living. The same thing goes for blogs, I think--not many people actually read them. I mean, how much can you read in a day?

I have also written three novels: The Good; The Bad; and The Ugly. Well, those aren't really the titles, but that's how I've come to think of them. I started another novel a couple years ago, but I got to about 20-thousand words and realized I had nothing to say. I've also written several short stories, some of which do not embarrass me, as well as many poems. In fact, let's be brave--here's a poem.

Wanderlust

for Daniel

There were years when I was all motion.
Dust settled one day and grew excited the next.
Age changed me, of course, much as it will change you.
This is how life works, what my father and grandfathers
tried to articulate from behind whiskey glasses and cigarettes.
I didn’t hear them, just as you don’t hear me—this, too, is how life works.
Some things, though, you should remember: your mother’s birthday;
how we gather at Christmas; your brothers’ voices on Saturday morning.
Hear these if nothing else.

Sometimes, You Just Start Something

You reach a certain age, I guess, and you figure it's time to start something. All too often this happens too late in life--I've seen it. My father, for example. I always figured he died before he got around to even half the things he wanted to start. I never held that against him, though, because he was the kind of man who just did what he had to do. Then, though, I think he forgot that he could do anything but work and raise children.

Me? I've started many things--novels, bookshelves, irrigation systems in my backyard....

Now, any of us can start something like this. I've seen this, too: trying to find a good name for this site, I found that my first two choices were in use, but neither of those sites had any content. Only things like "here's my first entry," and "this is a test post." And someone began those sites several years ago. I think about them as I type this, thinking that maybe they had something better to say than I do, that something must have gotten between them and their enthusiasm. Or, maybe they simply forgot they'd begun something. That happens to me, especially when it comes to writing: I'll come up with great first lines for poems when I'm driving home from work, then I'll forget everything by the time I pull into the garage, pet the dog on his head, and sit down to dinner.

This is another start; we'll see if I forget about it.