Leave It To Pnin

You are calling my phone again, but you never call twice, and I miss your call. I always seem to miss your call, and when you do not call me, I miss you calling me. The cellphone is flashing again, on the corner of the pale ceramic counter which floats in the shadows on either side of the sink, and I reach for the phone, but I have missed your call again. Call me again. I am standing in line with a loaf of French bread in my hand, a plastic bag of frozen peas, vine-ripe tomatoes, a jug of cranberry juice, I am fumbling for the phone in the pocket of my jeans, but I miss the call. You are calling me. You are calling me from your philosophy class and the labyrinth of the categorical imperative. You are calling me from the sale at the music store in the mall, from a clothes rack at H&M, you are calling me from your car and I am at the bus-stop, it is raining, it is snowing, it is sunshine and blazing, and you are calling me. I spill my thin styrofoam cup of chai, I drop my phone in the gutter by the wheel of the bus, I have missed your call. Call me again, call me, please. Call me, please, again.

"Umbrella" + Scott Simon Searching for illScarlett's version of Rihanna's hit single, I came across this version on some blog or other—and apologies to that blogger, whoever you are, because I can't remember where you are, anymore—the internet is wide. Anyways, this is Rihanna covered by a clean-living lounge singer, a man who has only one white blazer but carefully irons the lapels a couple times a week. He lives alone, in a small brick walk-up, and there are autumn leaves on the cobbled road outside. He waters his one plant, a large Boston fern he has had since he graduated from that university, and all his friends live in different cities very far away. This song, which was her song, he has made into a different song, not better, not worse, piano instead of hi-hat, him instead of her, and wonderful, of course. For when he opens his mouth, some see song, but others hear an intricate and ancient tapestry of rich hearts and longing hands, soul wide open to bare blue sky and the hail of life's clothyard arrows. No matter, the voice keeps singing, not an impersonal singer in some piano bar on the west side of the city, but a human heart full up to the brim with loving intention, lyrics, voice, hands and heart all saying, "I am here."

Vladimir Nabokov + Pnin This book reads like a Wodehouse novel without the shenanigans or the ridiculous demotic. That is, if Wodehouse's plots get a little bit fishy, then this novel's arc is a fish out of water, ill-at ease, a dead perch on the muddy beach of some Algonquin lake, and with about as much life. Of course, I spent years trying to land yellow perch, smallmouth bass, fresh water ling, anything, really, out of those small dark lakes which cut holes through the floor of the forests north of Toronto. And never got one, not even a pike. Which is to say that I appreciate having read this novel, and that I think Nabokov's subtle use of narrative flatness, his concious uniformity of tone, is a wonderful if rather extended exercise in prose. He's got some whistle-bait bits in here, and the required academia-bashing (Nabokov was a professor, after all) is lovely—

Tom thinks that the best method of teaching anything is to rely on discussion in class, which means letting twenty young blockheads and two cocky neurotics discuss for fifty minutes something that neither their teacher nor they know.

This novel was first published in The New Yorker of the 1950's, and if that doesn't tell you what kind of book this is around the gills, nothing will.

It's Alright, Andy! It's Just Bolognese!

(a) Three hundred years of books and the English language has produced only two perfect novels—Wuthering Heights, yes, and The Good Soldier. I'd like to read something a little more modern, plz.

(b) Baseball was put on television so that people would have a reason to get off the couch and go to work and never complain about anything ever again. Ever.

(c) Nicholas Angel is the best dressed character in a film this year and I'm not talking about him wearing that police uniform, I'm talking about those button-up shirts and that rigorously-focused fashion sense.

(d) "SWAN!"

(e) My brother is maybe getting a big white super-dog, a Great Pyrenees, and what I have to say is that I wish I was getting a dog. That I didn't have to walk twice a day. Or spend $100 a month feeding. And the whole plastic bag clean-up thing. I just remembered why I don't have a dog.

(f) Hockey is great. Let's have it begin sooner. And, John Ferguson, plz, for the good of the greater good, and lest I call in the League Of Shadows on you, resign.

(g) And then there is MINESWEEPER: THE MOVIE.

Mark Twain + No. 44, The Mysterious Stranger This is a hard book to nail down, not least because of its convoluted history. To be precise, this particular story under this particular title concerns the encounter between a young boy who calls himself 44 and the protagonist, a young printer's-devil named August Feldner. 44 turns out to be a bit of an amoral genie-like creature, able to conjure up anything, including breakfast from the Civil War era southern United States. Which is peculiar, because August Feldner lives in the middle of the Middle Ages. As 44's powers are revealed, the novel takes an existentialist turn not normally associated with the work of Mark Twain, and 44 declares himself to be merely the flipside of August Feldner, a sort of duplicate or dream self of the protagonist, a being which can do whatever it wishes, since, in a universe where nothing is real, all experience and objects are equally unreal, equally accessible, equally had, done, and disposed. The book ends with a clanging declaration from 44:

It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream—a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought—a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!

Which is all very well, but how did the thought among eternities called August Feldner imagine the typical conveniences of the antebellum Old South? The book ends up playing a little fast and loose with its own rules, which is probably why Mark Twain, a stickler for integrity himself, refused to publish it, though he wrote three versions (and one of them wildly divergent) around this theme. No. 44, The Mysterious Stranger reads like an especially bitter redaction of Twain's earlier and masterful (though flawed) A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur's Court. But whereas the dialect of that novel's protagonist served to illustrate his character and create humour and incident, the same dialect in the mouth of August Feldner is jarring at best, and, at worst, nearly inexplicable. Where the older novel successfully attacks religion, but recognizes the need for its replacement in the hearts of men, the newer novella merely dismisses religion and refuses to offer anything in its place. And where the older novel explored a rich if somehwat brutal two-way satirical effect, caustically delineating the negative effects of religion and humanity's mythologizing tendencies AND the short-coming of modern technology and its negative usage, the newer more bitter novel discredits not the teaching of religion, but its clergymen, and the resulting credulousness of the populace. Note, by the way, that while 44's magical activities are always validated, so, too, in the beginning of No. 44 are the either miraculous coincidences or flat-out miracles witnessed by the Church. I get the point that Twain is making, that the miracles are frauds, because nothing is real, and everything is therefore as real as one wishes, but, then, why does such clarification even matter as long as everyone gets whatever reality one wants, including the miraculous? And even getting what one wants does not matter, not, since what one wants is an illusion according to 44 and according to Twain's estimate of religion and the Church. This book is bitter and without true substance, and should probably be read only by hungry English majors in search of a thesis to ground some fairly barren existential observations.

They Were Careless People

My girlfriend has been making three of my four room-mates uncomfortable. On her lunch hour, twice a week, tops, she comes over to The House when she knows I am not at home and flips through the channels or pets my cat. The three room-mates all have the same complaint—"I'm sitting here, she comes over, starts watching Family Channel." They don't want her in the house when I'm not there. A valid point. I told my room-mates that I had told her she could come over, if she wanted, because her job is five minutes away, and spending time in a house instead of alone in front of a soulless white wall and a microwave seemed like a hospitable idea. Also, I think, a valid point. Theodore Roosevelt once said, "Courtesy is as much a mark of a gentleman as courage." There are other points.

1) If my room-mates didn't really know my girlfriend, I could understand their unease. But two of them have known her for two years, and the third room-mate has known her for three. 2) If my room-mates were unnaccustomed to having non-room-mates show up at the house, I would understand. But the house has a revolving door, and many people, girls, guys, have shown up and had unannounced and extended stays. 3) If my girlfriend was disliked by my room-mates, I might understand, but two of my room-mates are fine with her, while the third, disliking her, has disgraced himself in his dislike and no longer makes much reference to her. 4) If my girlfriend had been slanderous or dismissive of my friends, I would understand them being uncomfortable around her. But she has gone out of her way to be friendly and fair towards them. In turn, she has been viciously slandered and maligned by the room-mate who dislikes her, betrayed (perhaps mistakenly) by the second room-mate, and half-ignored by the third. 5) If my girlfriend had been ungenerous toward my room-mates, stingy in her courtesy, ignoring them, I would understand my room-mates. Three times, however, my room-mates have come up short on either rent or utilities. Three times my girl-friend has come to the aid of The House, and let me borrow from her line of credit. When I reminded my one room-mate of this, he merely responded, "Yes, but did she do it for you, or for me?" Who raised this boy? My girlfriend, by the way, has never mentioned or hinted to my room-mates or myself that she is in any way extraordinary or wonderful for rescuing The House, or that we are in any way obliged to her.

My girlfriend does not come around The House very much, anymore. Although I blame my three room-mates and also blame myself, I blame one room-mate very much more than the rest. I feel that my world, because he is in it, has grown smaller. His small-hearted small-minded selfishness has constricted the behaviour of my girlfriend and myself. He is vain and thus afraid and thus cruel, and his words are often cancer. He is unchristian. He has forced his limitations upon me, and made his limits mine.

In the beginning, before we rented The House, my future room-mates and I agreed on something called The Sixth Key. The Sixth Key, apparently, was a lot of bullshit talk on my room-mates' part. This key was to be particularly for the use of very good friends and girlfriends and boyfriends, for people who could make use of our house even when the pertinent room-mate wasn't there. Ours was to be a welcoming house. But our house is no such thing. The one room-mate has told his girlfriend that she is on no account to be at The House if he is not at The House. I have known his girlfriend longer than I have known him. The other room-mate's girlfriend once showed up at the front door, in the rain, and stood, shivering, refusing to come in, saying she would wait for her boyfriend to come to the door. I nearly had to force her to come inside. There is something wrong at The House, some malady unknown to me, and distressful. The House is a selfish zone, discourteous and divisive. And, for me, quite uncomfortable.

"They’re a rotten crowd," I shouted across the lawn. "You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together."

Lessons From Things

Some things are not other things. Red, for instance, is not white. Red, however, is definitely pink. Bicycles are not wheels, money is not evil, sin is a joke, but for me its divine, which is a lyric from a song about Crime And Punishment, which is a book, which is a means of travelling, which is bicycles. Although some things are not other things, everything is everything. Which is a song by Lauren Hill. Who happens to be black. And black is every colour, including red, white, pink.

Love this blog.

Shay As In Stadium And Bon As In Bon Jovi

Loving the wind and weather of it, the stubborn death-by-a-thousand-cuts of it, the (why not?) cock-sure nickel-plated refusal of the damn beast. No, I am not loving it. Spring will not leave. Winter and the wolf at the door? Never mind, we have a harlequin spring shuddering on the front steps, hot air and cold air blowing from the same bent-toothed smile every week, I swear. Stop it, spring. What ever happened to global warming, that faithful friend in hard times, that carbon-fueled creature-comfort of all warm-blooded mammals, God excepting those out of Africa for which global warming will be very hard future times? Global warming, that bubbling pot at the end of the super-heated rainbow, is not glittering very brightly in this corner of paradise—that is, the new definition of paradise, where the walls of jasper are replaced with piles of shoddy slush, the casting down of crowns is replaced with atypical road rage, and the sweet hosannas of the angels making perfumed numbers and visible song has been washed out with early advertisements for garden sales and, do not forget, late sales for over-looked Easter chocolate. And it is cold. And it is not cold. And the lawn in front of the steps is ice. And the lawn is an undrained pool of stagnant water and last-year's pine-needles, and, by God, will it never end? It will never end. Things feel like they are never going to—

Wonder Boys + Michael Chabon Reportedly written in seven months, this novel is a minor masterpiece, confident, sure, speaking with deliberate voice and sure-footed pacing. Seven months—but that is a bit misleading, surely. After his brilliant debut, his UC Irvine master's thesis The Mysteries Of Pittsburgh, Chabon's second novel was to be titled The Fountain. After five years, however, Chabon was still writing The Fountain. Advised to move on, he was having trouble dropping the novel, even after it zeppelinned to 1500 pages. Yet his failure to complete his novel becomes the success of his second published novel, Wonder Boys , where the protagonist's similar failure to complete his own seven-year's-in-the-making opus becomes the symbol of the protagonist's failure at life in general. Wonder Boys is the coming of age story of a fifty-plus year old Grady Tripp, a story of how a man's inner doppelganger can pull him down, indeed, perversely delights in pulling him down. Chabon quotes Conrad before the novel begins—"Let them think what they liked, but I didn't mean to drown myself. I meant to swim till I sank—but that's not the same thing"—he could also have used Saint Paul's self analysis: "That which I would not do, I do; that which I would do, I do not do." This is a story of conflicting pairs, even doubles set against doubles. Grady Tripp finds himself, at various points in the novel, opposed or acting against every other person which appears within its pages. And he loses every confrontation, decisively, despairingly. Like a fool, he is tilting at windmills, but the windmills are all of his own construction. Grady Tripp is his own victim, but, victimising himself, he is taking down everyone along with him. He is narcissistic and oblivious, always until too late, of the importance of other people. But Tripp's saving graces are threefold: 1) he's an interesting guy, as self-deprecating as he is narcissistic, and never narcissistic in his self-deprecation—for his novelist's eye allows no mercy towards himself, and thus allows his audience to feel quite merciful toward him; 2) he always receives the ample consequences of his actions—there is no escaping the jury of his peers, nor, apparently, a dog, a snake, or a tuba, all of which come back to haunt him; 3) and, lastly, Grady Tripp resolves to be a better man, to act upon his self-clarity, to not disappoint others, to be worthy of respect. And in all this, where is Grady Tripp different from the average reader of Chabon's novel?

Does Vector Prime Say, "My Way"?

This little kitten makes three! No, not that, please. No baby kittens. I have a little kitten, she is eight months old, white stripes around her eyes, Church-Yard is her name. I love the little beast. What a purr! Disturbingly, about a week before the appointment at the vet, she made serious eye-contact with me, burst into a luscious cackle and purr, and raised her ass as high as it would go. The beast was in heat. Anyways, all that's over, except for a big swollen cut on her belly and a cone around her head. Thing is, the vet gave me some pills, pills for the pain, and these little syringe-like devices for the inflammation. I CANNOT GET HER TO TAKE THE PILLS. She keeps spitting them back out. Pills pop out of her jaws, roll out of her back teeth, spill between her canines. You would not believe what I have to go through. There's the kicking, the grunts, the screams! Plus there's the noises the kitten makes herself, godsake!

CHURCH-YARD, YOU BE A GOOD KITTY!

"My Way" + Frank Sinatra Sinatra's flagship song, I always disliked it, that one. Humanism, yes, humanity, no. Paul Anka's words always seemed selfish to me. And the singer is so sure, so undoubting, of what he has accomplished, each charted course. His focus is so pure upon his own measure ("To think I did all that"), where is his measure of another man? He favourably compares himself only to those who were unlike him, those who kneeled, those who did not say what they felt. This is the singer's final curtain, the moment of judgement. This is for The Big All Time. And what does his song come down to? Not exactly an I-could-have-done-it-better—"Regrets, I've had a few / But then again, too few to mention / I did what I had to do". More of a Piss-off-then, isn't it? Not exactly an I-wish-I-had-done-more, because "I faced it all". Really there, guy? Everything out there? Nothing smoothed down or not-faced up to? And whenever the singer might have had a doubt or an idea that something different could have been done, well, "When there was doubt /I ate it up and spit it out". This is the boasting and the bragging ("And may I say, not in a shy way"), the anthem of a satisfied god, a being who through refusal to entertain self-doubt or consideration for others, achieves what he clearly considers to be the destiny, the perfection, of a life well-lived. And a lonely life, too. For the singer is singing his own praises, isn't he? No else seems to be around to sing them. This friend he addresses seems to be more of a judge than a companion, more a drawer, it seems, of the final curtain. The song's declared paen is to be true to oneself—"For what is a man, what has he got? / If not himself, then he has naught" but the implied sub-text of the song is that a man who so securely possesses himself possesses little else. Pure onanism.

As for the music itself, there's little wrong with it, certainly not to my untrained ear. If you like souffle and rich cranberry cake, you'll probably like the lush orchestration of this song. Sinatra's voice is strong and confident, of course. Not that he himself thought the song was all that hot.

"My Way" + Aaron Pritchett Saw this guy play at The Rainmaker Rodeo three summers back. Pouring rain, of course, and he sang this song, and it was good. Good not as in subjective—though I won't go so far as to say it was GOOD, as in ultimate truth and goodness—but good as in a well-written song well-sung. Country is not everybody's taste, certainly not acceptable to the indie or hipster crowd, and country like this is not even okay by the alt-country crowd. But that's an entirely different diatribe, isn't it? What I'm saying is that this song is the opposite of the song I wrote about above: this song is not about a man, but about a man worthily loving a worthy woman. Songs like this, on the edge of hot country, are what keep me listening to mainstream radio. Songs like this (did you hear that little bit of organ-sounding-ness, there), with their open hearts and firm handshakes, a strong glance in the street, and people opening umbrellas for each other in the rain, are what keep me favouriting the country song-list on a summer's night or while I do three days of dishes. Good songs, strong songs, unselfish.

Thank You, Joseph O’Callaghan

Slowbear The Great + "Banquet" What a beautiful song. The sincere and somewhat-desperate heart, stripped-down word after stripped-down word, has been cleanly filleted from the larger beast. The original gills and silky-sided stutter are gone. That song was diamond, but this song is also diamond. Merely more like your mother's tear-dropleted bracelet from grey-castled Glesca, than like those sharper flashes in a shiny-wristing Rolex, London, southside. Different glamours, I guess.

Quotes Won't Make Headlines Forever

New Year business still going on—which means that there are three more examples of unexpectedness yet to provide, aren't there? Based, of course, on the tenous image—not metaphor—I used last year, that there would be towers of unknowing in 2006, places (hopefully) of unpredictability. By which I mean not only unpredictable, but unpredictably unpredictable, a Rumsfeldian not-known unknown. The bit about six means nothing, merely a number I had used to tie in the photograph I posted in last year's entry. I don't try to tie the photo into the subject any more. What happens, happens. No more hot air for the sake of hot air, right? Sure.

Most Unexpected Animal: My sister owns a gorgeous grey Persian, a ball of fur which totters around on four pillar legs, a pushed-in face, hair in his eyes like a highland steer. Did I say bright blue eyes? Thing is, my sister also takes care of a bunch of fish, a three-legged dog—a three-legged dog, may I say, which happens to have four paws—a fierce fat orange cat and a white Darth Vader-breathing cat. Also, two little boys and a baby girl. And she's pregnant. The thing about the Persian is that it needs near constant grooming, and because my sister is always busy, the poor thing's fur knots up like an Irishman's stomach in England. So her husband offered me the cat, saying, otherwise, he was going to put the little beast down. I talked to my room-mates, and only one needed persuading, but then, at the last moment, my sister had a stormy change of heart, and the upshot is that the Persian is still trying to groom the sores off its back. But I was so enamoured of having a pet that when my brother told me of his friend looking for a place for five kittens, I rushed down to his friend's acreage and picked up the softest, stripiest, smallest kitten there. Hello, Church-Yard. And that—well—that was unexpected.

Most Unexpected And Ironically-Tinged Burglary: I would have to say that I definitely did NOT expect my girlfriend's car to get broken into—but nobody expects that, right? Least of all, my girlfriend. The thing is, I live in a section of Edmonton pretty close to this-or-that knifing at the bar, this-or-that beating in the street. My girlfriend lives in a calm older suburb a good twenty clicks away. I live in a neighbourhood where you can hear the police sirens almost every night in the summer. My girlfriend lives in a neighbourhood where the sprinklers all click-whoosh at the same time. I live in a neighbourhood where the houses, many of them, are falling into their own foundations, but my girlfriend lives in a neighbourhood where renovation isn't just a hobby, it's a reason to live after retirement. So when C told me that her Sunfire had been popped open on the drivers' side, and all her little brother's mix cd's stolen, and the surface of her car damaged to the extent of a thousand dollars, I was very taken aback. As far as burglaries or break-ins go, that was one I just didn't see coming.

Most Unexpected Re-Appearance Of My Childhood: Not a person, not a return to place, no. What about a toy? What about that trailer for Transformers? I just can't get over it. So ridiculous. The movie will be trash, but we will all be going, right? My favourite toy, of course, was a Transformer, a knock off red-and-white reproduction of Optimus Prime, with a little square black head and unbending red arms. I played with that thing in our gravel driveway in Ontario for two or three solid years, I think. Making little roads in the dust for the robot to transform down. "We'll need to make a special run to Autobot City!"

That's it, then, for unexpected moments, towers of unknowing. Next week, back to the semi-regular notes on music, words about books.

The Cloud Of Unknowing

Happy New Year, internet. What did you get for Christmas? Nice. What? Oh, a bookshelf, you know, IKEA. Arrested Development and A CAMERA! One of those small silver Elphs, I love it so much. And mince-meat tarts, and so much more, most of it, the best of it, making me smile even now. Now, last year, I wrote that this year would have better things to report. Now, 2005 was all autumn to me, or a ghostly year in God. Or perhaps the year was like looking through the viscuous chlorinated water in the swimming pool, bright colours, muddy shapes, the consonants in my ears eclipsed by brassy pool-side vowels. Sound and speech and act and thought were roughly distorted, slouching toward some unknown crossroads. Well, but nothing sinister happened. 2006 has been a Good Year. Good things happened. Also, some not so good. In 2005, I wrote that 2006 contained a few visible points of mystery, things unknown and sure to come to pass, six pale towers of unknowing. Less divertingly, stuff was going to happen, and I didn't know what the stuff was:

#1: Most Unlooked-For And Excellent Instant In Music: Many contenders, all worthies, most of them found on Camera Obscura's June release, Let's Get Out Of This Country, or, also, anything that Timbaland called a pie and stuck his twinkly finger in. Isn't "Maneater" ridiculous? Anyways, the most ridiculous moment in music is not the music but the picture that underpins the sound, which would be the video for My Chemical Romance, and their single, "The Black Parade". Where was there to go after the sweet sound and sincere follies of "Helena"? Everywhere, everyplace, seemingly. Never have I seen a video so chockful of itself and so mocking of itself, also. The truth is out there—believe the lie. A band like this, embodying every goth/emo visual trope out there, willingly upholding blatant cliché—even if MCR isn't self-aware, even if they aren't in on the joke, they have created a masterpiece, a place where everyone who likes MCR can both love them and laugh at them and laugh, with MCR, at themselves. And I love the opening, the arena-rock of it all, the voice contrapuntal over the piano. Don't you wish Weezer had done this business? We could have been sure of self-awareness, then.

#2: Most Unexpected Conversation Ever: Sometimes, you can feel like a fish out of water—know what I mean? I was privileged to take part of a ridiculous conversation about three wks ago, and here's a sample—one of about ten amazing conversational loops:

Person Who Is Not Orlando: I would like an apology.
Orlando: What do you want an apology for?
PWINO: I want an apology for the hurtful things you said to me.
Orlando: What hurtful things did I say to you?
PWINO: Well, I don't remember.
Orlando: Wait. Hold on. So you want me to apologize to you for something you don't remember?

There was a bit of a pause after that. Then, over the miles of bright telephone cable and plastic sheafs of coloured wire, my laughter.

#3: Most Unexpected Helping Hand What can I say about this one? Out of left field. Ten minutes from my girlfriend's, thirty minutes from the workplace, the clutch on my Galaxie 500 simply dropped. Well, I called up C and she drove me to work, because she always helps me, because that's what she does, because she's the BGE, and it's on her resumé, under "Volunteer" and "Charitable Activities". And she's helped me out so often, it's easy to slip and take her for granted. So, thank-you, C. But, also, others—for granted, that is—are easy to take. I've known S for around five years, now, and he loaned me, unasked, unlooked for, his CAA card for the tow to the mechanic, giving over most of a cold winter's day to helping me out, for no reason at all, really, except, I suppose, general goodness. Saved me a bunch of money, and more of time, and showed himself a good man to know, a friend to keep. Then, when my car broke down, again, in his driveway, let me keep it there, and his girlfriend drove us around. Wonderful.

Oh, hold on: the other three unexpected moments should be expected in the next post. Expect them.

Gloria In Excelsis Deo

To the readers who didn't stop checking back, thank-you. Specially to that large block from the Indonesia-ish area, and all les habitants from New England. Anonymous to anonymous, thank-you. It has been a long hiatus here in internet-land, but, as you know, or perhaps don't, I have no regular access to a computer. Not for foolishness like a blog, at least. Well, that situation should be fixed after Christmas.

Speaking of Christmas, merry ones all round. Merry Christmas to C, and Merry Christmas to P and L, to mom, and dad, and to The House Of Mirth, and Merry Christmas S and C and S and K and G, and J, too. Merry Christmas to the kitten, and to the picture of QEII on my bedroom wall. Merry Christmas to that cold snap in November, and Merry Christmas to getting my street cleaned of snow. Merry Christmas to going to the movies during the holidays, to strange candy and German pretzels, to good music and laughing under yellow lamps in that little room on 111 Street. Language fails, even Latin fails. Christmas carols for everyone, Merry Christmas to you all.

Father, May I Play With Danger?

My star-pound-number-sign Galaxie 500 died about an hour's drive from home last night, and therefore I did not update the previous post within the time limit I had promised I would. I love that car, but she has caused me nothing but grief this autumn, and, basically, anyone who offers me a foolish enough amount of money can have her. And by foolish, I mean something approaching ten thousand. Not that it was the car's fault—I blame the bitter winter weather, of course, but, most of all, I bitterly blame Canadian Tire for selling me a top-dollar Motomaster car battery. And by top-dollar, I mean a lot of money for a little peformance. Listen, the thing isn't supposed to be a typical relationship, ok? I mean, it's not even three months old, and its dying on me? Tried to start it, but no go, dice, cigar. Worked this morning , though, and tomorrow I'm off to Canadian Tire to get a new battery. So maybe this situation IS like a typical relationship. No prizes for this unlucky bug.

The Four Lads + "Istanbul (Not Constantinople" Their biggest song was something called "Moments to Remember" back in 1955, but, these days, their most famous song, eclipsing even the group themselves, would be this piece. Thanks to the cover by the as-my-wimsey-takes-me They Might Be Giants back in 1990, this song is still fairly well known, and it's a hummer, more catching than anything out there in the rye. This song is pretty much like all the best parts of those television ads shilling for every song ever. Well, maybe not the Jesus Jones ones, or the REO Speedwagon. I'm talking those slightly surreal ads for music by the Andrews Sisters, or Bill Haley & His Comets, or that guy whose voice breaks on "Splish-SPLASH, I was takin' a bath!", the stuff our grandfathers thought was pretty much white lightning—and you listen to some of this stuff, and only a fool would deny the energy, or the gloss, the sheer slick professionalism of these amateur groups with their ridiculous hits, the sheer gladness of the 1950's smiling stright out of a tune. This is a song for the iPod, really, but I wouldn't mind hearing it at a random party, either. I just wouldn't have the energy, the sheer slick professional body-moves, to dance along with it. Damn.

My Lucky Number Is Four Billion

You know what makes me the same as everyone else? I think I'm special. What, you do, too? Well, I'm not, I know I'm not, but, regardless, I keep on believing that I'm exceptional, and that belief makes me normal, regular, pedestrian, banal, evil. Well, maybe not evil—sorry, I guess that was just the Hannah Arendt leaking out of me. Or do I mean the pretentious?

Also, am I the ONLY chump out there who actually thought The Fountain was going to be based on Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead? This is two weeks old, but I know a guy who says that reading AR will turn you into an asshole for about ten days after reading her, guaranteed. Apparently, it can also turn you into an ignorant bag of claw-hammers for some years afterward, too. Did I say you? Because I meant me.

Hwæt! I'm updating this post in a couple of hours—make that a quadrilogy of hours—and this sentence, and the sentence after it, will disappear into some bleak and arid Google cache. Weaksauce.

The Smallest Things Are Crushing Me Now

All my room-mates—but especially the flaxen-haired Viking—are in love with the new addition to the household. That would be Church, as in Church-Yard, as in Elegy Written In A Country Church-Yard, the kitten on the right. Gorgeous. She's got all our hearts, and the crush crush crush is so comforting, now. Who doesn't love a kitten? Yeah, Satan, sure, but that particular entity is a Tin Man, oh my sons and daughters, and doesn't have a heart.

Other news: was that show really so long ago and far away? Further seems forever, when it comes to the last Saturday in October. Which was the Sloan show. "Who Taught You To Live Like That?" was the opener, "The Other Man" was a strong third, and "Ill Placed Trust" has to be heard—forget the ugly lyrics, it's a brass buttons sing-a-long for sure. They played plenty of the new (abso-ridicu-lutely loved "Golden Eyes") which is good, because I'm a fan of the new. Come back, Sloan. Everybody wants you.

&now4smthng Completely Diffy: that was a hard vertical drop the sidewalk pulled me into last night. Could have been the vertigo, but I'm thinking it was the Vanilla, as in ice, ice, baby, and so painful. I thought we banned this Kyoto business in Canada—where's my global warming? Have a good week-end, all. Lucky bugs win prizes.

The Cloud Room + "Hey Now Now" First heard this song around two years ago, autumn, crisp orange leaves sparkling across the bright green golf course. Chip shot to birdie the third hole, my first birdie ever, didn't even believe my brother as he stood up there on the sloping green, laughing with pleasure at my expression. I love my brother. Perfect day. A perfect song that day, a perfect song now. Who can resist that chorus?

There's a perfectly excellent everybody-singing-along video, too.

James Hilton + Lost Horizon Then, the year after, Goodbye, Mr. Chips, and, later, Random Harvest. But first, and maybe most famous, there was Lost Horizon. Actually, first there was Catherine Herself, published when Hilton was a mere twenty years old and still an undergraduate at Cambridge. The man wrote twenty-four books in all, besides contributing to stone-cold film classics like Mrs. Miniver and Foreign Correspondent, but it is for those three first-mentioned books that Hilton will always be remembered.

Lost Horizon starts out like every other lost-world adventure, like Rider Haggard's King Solomon's Mines, for example, or Burroughs' At The Earth's Core, or, of course, The Lost World, by Arthur Conan Doyle. Those peculiar events which made up the long journey to and through the lost world are recalled for this or that listener, who kindly passes them on (in a book, no less!) to the reader, who is duly enchanted, enthralled, exhilarated by the new men, strange faces, of which he or she is reading. Or perhaps the reader is just bored. I wasn't bored by this book, but I wasn't blown away, either. And what I require from every book, every author, is to be blown away, lifted up, absolutely delighted. Nevertheless, the book is well-written, well-plotted, and the method by which entry to the lost world of Shangri-La is gained is very spooky, an excellent fully-committed, fire-starting, bridge-burning device on par with the Arctic setting which opens Frankenstein. Once this device has been put in motion—well, the story has got to be told, now, and there will be strong consequences for all characters involved, perhaps even for the reader.

"The whole game's going to pieces," says Barnard, one of the four unwilling travellers to the monastery of Shangri-La. Young hot-headed Mallinson, missionary Miss Brinklow, and the too-unflappable American expat Barnard look to the bronzed and capable Conway to lead them out of the mysterious mountain valley in which they find themselves enclosed. But there is no escape, or the escape is deadly, or the escape is torturous and nearly impossible. The ancient orange-robed lamas of Shangri-La are guarding a secret only Conway comes to suspect. That secret is life and death. But this is not an adventure novel, unlike those novels of Burroughs or Conan Doyle. This is a contemplative novel. Outside the valley, the world is going to pieces. The five captives are literally fleeing an armed rebellion. Inside the valley, all is moderation. Inside the valley, there is life for those who love life, music for those to whom music is needful, the bodies of women for the men who enjoy those bodies. Inside the valley, says the lama who guides the outsiders, "We rule with moderate strictness, and in return we are satisfied with moderate obedience. And I think I can claim that our people are moderately sober, moderately chaste, and moderately honest." The people of the valley treat each other with near-unfailing courtesy. Etiquette, and not the rule of law, is the arbiter of the valley. Moderation is the watchword. But there's a perilous duality at work here—"The vast encircling massif made perfect contrast with the tiny lawns and weedless gardens, the painted tea-houses by the stream, and the frivolously toy-like houses" There is a feeling that it is the very chaos of the outside world which lends value to the hot-house climate of the valley: "But even such vague fears could only enhance the loveliness of the present". And there are other things, disturbing things. All the luxury and amenities of Shangri-La come from the same source of synthetic value as that of the outside world. There is a gold-mine in the valley, and it is this mine which pays for the life of ease enjoyed by the lamas. Technology, too, is catching up with Shangri-La; the new aeroplanes make travel possible almost to the very mouth of that valley. Soon, the little group of outsiders will face a choice. Soon, they must decide to stay in Shangri-La, or make the effort to leave this orderly paradise. If they go, there will be trouble; but should they stay, will there be even more?

"It Is The Forgéd Feature Finds Me"

Light is like a wedding ring right now. Gold and harmony, and Henry Purcell ("Let him Oh! with his air of angels then lift me"). My brother was in the city—class at university—and we went for a walk around the block, coffee cups in hand. T-shirt weather, don't you know? Trees standing about like brassy backlit giants, black arms shining in the bright light. People talk about seizing the day, but I'm no dead poet, and I say the day should be enjoyed like simple or complicated music or a favourite friend—just sit back, and enjoy the harpsichord-time of it all, the sweetly dense and intricate beauty of a moment. Am I wrong? I woke up this morning with sunlight on my face and the branches of the lilac tapping against my window. Made my girlfriend breakfast and then went back to bed. How can I describe perfection? Today is a strong unicorn, white-bearded Charlemagne, chariots of angels.

Btw, decent prize to anyone who knows why that horse on the left (my little four-inch bitty horse) is called Veillantif. Clues are in this post.

BLOGSPOT ATE THE REST OF MY POST AND I HATE YOU BLOGSPOT BUT I WILL STILL CONTINUE TO USE YOU! MORE POSTING THURSDAY MIDMORNING! YES! ABOUT ANDREW WK!

Andrew WK + "One Brother" Annoyed is what I am, though not at this song, never at this man, may pure-begotten care-bears bless him from their fragrant and magic-laden palaces. I ordered Close Calls With Brick Walls around two months ago and it never showed up—though, to be fair, that remains the only time I've lost money on the mail. Other albums, though, have ALSO failed to make their way to my door or my new address, and that is very frustrating, and makes me think nasty, black-haired thoughts. But the music, right? The music is what is important. Can this song be described with words? Oh, of course not, there is no making words mean music, or, if there was, we would all skip the song and merely read the words. Whatever. My words about this song will be a kind of story, a sort of scene, and, that, hopefully, will show at least a little to you of what this song shows a lot of to me. Why not?

So this song is you running in a tall-grass field beside a dull-roar highway, making the airplane with your arms as you run. The swish swish of the speeding traffic makes you run faster and faster, and, turning your head, you can see through the windows of the spinning minivans, hard-topped SUVs—blank faces blabbing into cellphones, dull children evaporating into DVD players. You and I are glad we are not part of that ghostly host, and we continue to run under a grey sky and beside that droning highway. Because Andrew WK is not the same Andrew WK as that eccentric man who wore white jeans and danced hoarsely in front of a piano, no. This is an older Andrew, tired of fetishizing the rock'n'roll lifestyle—or, at least, there is a part of Andrew which is tired of a part of rock'n'roll. Oh, he still parties hard, he still rocks, and so does this song, rocking harder than a schooner driving toward the Eddystone lighthouse. A strong vocal beginning, and so very few seconds in, the ship crashes through the chords into a full-blown anthem. And that bridge is amazing, la musique de rock performed by a crazy prince of casio. This is an anthem about trusting old friends, familiar waters, about committing to the craft, and not getting lost in the emptiness which merely defining yourself as a star will bring you. But not you and I! You and I, sailing beside that highway, that outwardly-emotionless traffic, we need that emptiness we see in others in order to validate ourselves, in order to draw attention to ourselves, in order to confirm our intention of being gods, all-valuable, all-knowing. Calling these people empty means we are full. Running beside them, craving and scorning their attention, we are lurching towards very dangerous rock. But Andrew asks us why we need to feed off of these others, and tells us we need to party hard with the people we started out with, the people who are a part of us, our originals. The old Andrew is still here, the music remains faithful to the original, but the man is so much richer than that old party-hard chord—the music so much deeper, wider, stronger than before. Those old songs were childrens' furniture, charming and bright. This song is a stone table, a bright lighthouse, a perfect roaring highway of a song. Love it.

This mp3, you should know, was found on I Rock Cleveland. Kudos to Bill and his Lakewood apartment.

"Frank-hearted Maids Of Rocky Cumberland"

If, for reasons parlous or unknown, you've been wondering whether your favourite black-and-white page (the one with the often-nonsense headlines and randomly posted pix) would EVER be updated or not, wonder no longer. Well, but it has been forever, I know. My visitor count is way down, even among the new faces, other minds. I can only assume that most people expect poison from standing water. My time away from this blog, I would like to assure you, has not been wastefully—er—wasted. True, there was that afternoon—all right, that week of afternoons—spent huffing Febreze in the garage. Did you know if you stare into incandescent lights and then turn your head quickly to stare at the night sky, you'll see a misty mauve fog of swirling stars? This quasi-eerie illusion is called The Purple Sea, which sounds like a Prince song and almost is. Casiotone FTPA will probably come out with a newer, synthier version of that sky for next year.

Seriously, I'm going to put the Febreze away, now. Just one more—ah. Yes.

Mitch Ryder + "When U Were Mine" Because I was talking about Prince. Because I mentioned Casiotone. Because this is like the end credits to all those movies where they freeze the final shot, and the hero has his fist just about breaking out of the frame (that's how high, hard, he is jumping), or the pretty girl just landed or just dumped the right guy, the wrong guy. Airplanes cutting across the sky, contrails in the autumn. A dusty DynoVoice singing sincerely, guitar swinging across the hips. That kind of song. I'm not saying I think it's good (I do), I'm not saying there aren't better covers out there (there are), I'm just saying this one is right for the moment. You should probably drive back to a little home where the lamps are cozy, the television is friendly, there're old magazines beside the couch and a plate of buttered rice or something better on the back of the oven. If you're lucky, like me, you'll even have a dark-haired girlfriend to kiss. This is THAT kind of song.

81 Rebmetpes: Latsyrc, Yadhtrib Yppah

Scritti Politti + "After Six" The Scritti Politti track which Fluxblog posted today is too good not to share. And, despite the fact that Matthew Perpetua gets 3000+ visitors a day and I average 150, and despite the nameless numberless scribblers who have also shared la musique de SP, I feel compelled to share this exact song—and for the following reasons. 1) Gold is useless, you know ("A piece of bread will buy a bag of gold"), for it cannot be eaten and the smell of the metal is bitter. BUT—if you hide your gold underneath your miserly lap, your nose will grow long and spiny, your fingers will curl in toward your palms, your double-lidded eyes will grow heavy and you'll barely be able to switch your tail as you fall asleep, a gold-hearted man turned a wicked dragon, guarding your secret until the sword of some thief blunts itself on your stony heart. Well, I don't want to be a dragon, you know. That being said, this is a rather small-hearted song—"Please keep your love away from me" or "Truth, shed your light where I can't see". 2) Again, we all saw The Ring. Sharing is survival. For example, Norman Greenbaum lives on forever in the opening few seconds of this track. Which is rather fitting, since "Spirit In The Sky" is also a gospel-inspired song turned on its side. 3) This song makes me happy in a very particular way, in a way which I was previously unaware even existed. A new kind of happiness! Drugs surely pale, religion often reduces, but for every good or pleasing or fitting song, there is a certain and peculiar shade of emotion elicited, which displays itself in the heart, soul, body, like a bird in the sun. And a bird in the sun is worth any amount of silent crows and tuneless jays in the brittle brittle forest.

Happy Birthday, Crystal. We love you. I love you.

"S-S-S-Sit." And The Dog Says, "What?"

There's your picture. She's shy and doesn't play. Afraid of hurting her paws, likely. Hisses at strangers. Accepting applications for new best friend ever since I left town. Whatever. What's that? No, not much. My time has been pretty evenly divided between Morinville, St. Albert and Edmonton. Not by choice, though. Listen, the mechanic called me up! Yes. Of COURSE about the car. No, this morning. So I went down right? Right. It passed the inspection. Legal to register, insure, drive and crash. Well, took about four hours divvied up between M Town and St. A before I managed to get all the papers in order, and then back to M Town again to pick up the car. Noticed some trouble on the brakes, though. What? No, it passed the inspection. Oh, I took it to the garage about three weeks ago, a little more. Supposed to be just three days. Brake-line was leaking, driver's side. So I get out of the car, right? And the mechanic who inspected the car comes over and notices my brake light is on. No brake fluid in the reservoir. I've seen that before. So he fills up the rez, I pump the brakes, and, just like three weeks ago, the fluid spurts out of the line and onto the floor. Oh, it was only a two-hour bus ride back to Edmonton, no problem. Getting back Sunday night is going to be tough, though. Says it won't be ready till Monday, now, and there's no buses back from M Town on the sabbath.

I am STEAMED.

Thomas H. Raddall + Pride's Fancy Best place at Grandma's house wasn't Grandma's house at all. I'm talking about the greenhouse, of course, way behind the garage. Three large spruce grew beside the front door of that greenhouse, and a middlingly large field, variously full of corn or cabbages or potatoes or sickeningly sweet squash, ran full up to the forest behind. Better inside, though. Blue morning glory bundled up the legs of the potting tables, or crowded and canopied under the large plates of glass. A dusty earthy smell in the air, and a soft-headed garter snake wriggling away between the new tomatoes and old-growth lily-of-the-valley. Grandpa in green rubber boots would vanish for half an hour, coming back from the corner store with a handful of chocolate bars and a thoughtful expression. "Your mother's calling you," he'd say, and we would essentially be booted out of the petunias and cucumbers and dill, and could play in the goldenrod, if we pleased. We were never called away from Grandpa for any real reason, just that Grandma figured four grandchildren rattling around his greenhouse for much more than an hour was enough disturbance for Grandpa. I'd leave the goldenrod early, though, and climb into the garage, where Grandpa had boxes and boxes of books, dusty softcovers smelling of mold and mildew, but the print was still crisp. There I read the Bhagavad Gita, and the poetry of Al Purdy, and over a hundred Harlequins, and Escape From Colditz and also an inelegant hardcover titled Pride's Fancy, which was my introduction to Thomas Raddall and the only novel of his which has stayed with me over the years. His Majesty's Yankees, I remember, was decent; but that is all I remember. Pride's Fancy, though, is still golden for me, covered with a fine ah-those-were-the-days that will never disappear from my heart. But, besides all that, this book, Pride's Fancy, is a decent novel. And that is something. Consider the opening line—

It began on the night we thought all was ended—the night we left Hispaniola for home, with the town of Cap François burning red behind us and the smoke alive with the flicker of the fires, and the darkness wild with shots and cries.

The prose almost swings into poetry there at the end of the line, doesn't it? Wonderful. The story is the usual bildungsroman, with a twist lifted from Wuthering Heights. Whereas that much earlier novel had Heathcliff as the evil genius paired with the novel's early heroine (yes, I realize I'm taking liberties with Heathcliff by relegating him to the role of mere genius, but, listen, it's a blog-post, not an actual essay), Raddall's red-haired hero, Nathan Cain, is paired with the Carribean refugee slash motherless Lia-Marie Dolainde as both are made to feel unwelcome in the heart of the local ruling family, aptly named Pride. Ten years later, the Pride family ships a privateer back to the Caribbean for pirating among the chaos caused by the slave rebellion across Hispaniola and Santo Domingo. Or has the ship really been outfitted to track down the long-buried treasure of the outcast Dolainde family? Nathan Cain knows, and so does Mr. Pride, and maybe Felicity Pride, Nathan's cold paramour, maybe she knows, too. But certainly Lia-Marie, hot and tropical, stowing herself away on the ship called Pride's Fancy, she does not know the real reason these New Brunswickers are heading to the Caribbean. She only wishes to return to the days which will never be again. But there's trouble ahead, I tell you, if they go. Will they go? Will they all go? They are going. There will be trouble.

MUSIC ON MONDAY. That okay?

School Starts Tomorrow, So NPTW*

*No post this week.

Horses, Scarcely Better

The lawnmower dies as I ease off the throttle. The last of the grass is finally cut. Eleven o'clock in the morning, the good summer sun sinking heavily into the trees. My brother picks me up on the avenue, and we load the lawnmower into the trunk of the Hyundai. Large patches of damp grass slip from the bottom of the machine onto the floor of the trunk. "Why didn't you clean it off?" my brother says. I shrug. I'll vacuum the car out when we get home. Perhaps not. My brother puts the key in the ignition and leans his head back. "Is that gasoline?" The lawnmower, I realize, is probably dripping gas. We head east, my brother turning left, right, right again, left again, and now we're on the road which will take us back to the town I call home for two more weeks. The trip will take us forty minutes, maybe longer. No turning. "Let's stop at McDonald's," I say. "I'll buy." We get out of the car, and, as he shuts the door, my brother wrinkles his nose and says, loudly, emphatically, "Man, this car smells like grass!"

The man in the truck beside us shakes his head.

Michael Dracula + "Destroy Yourself" I have no idea where to listen to this music. The car? Strictly headphones? Near as I can guess, 1963, in thin black slacks, across from a girl with dark make-up who is earnestly seeking the liberation of les femmes québécoise—that would be most likely-nearly-maybe the fitting place to hear this tune. But never the time and the place, and the music all together.

The band is releasing a debut full-length this October, and you can listen to a demo version of the lead single, "What Can I Do For You?", on the label's site. But this tune, "Destroy Yourself", is a simple tune, easily drummed up on a laptop or a four-track. The signature die-away voice and scattered bits of controller.controller guitar are something else, though, middle-of-the-road registers almost-but-not-quite cutting at the memory. Sounds like, then? Sounds like Tom Waits' favourite contemporary adult euro-pop, is what. Not as bad as you were hoping, not as good as you remember, but something there, always there, to make you listen again.

JFK has just been assassinated, Rigaud Mountain will soon see The Great Train Robber Charles Wilson, and the girl across the table is never going to go to bed with you. You squint through your menthol cigarette at the band in the background and think that if you hadn't gotten your hair cut so atrociously the day before, you might hit on the lead singer after the set. You're WAY out of your league.

Nick Hornby + "How To Read" Hornby writes a few words about words:

But I do not wish to produce prose that draws attention to itself, rather than the world it describes, and I certainly don't have the patience to read it. (I suspect that I'm not alone here. That kind of writing tends to be admired more by critics than by book-buyers, if the best-seller lists can be admitted as evidence: the literary novels that have reached a mass audience over the past decade or so usually ask readers to look through a relatively clear pane of glass at their characters.)

Hornby's influences bear him out—he cites Anne Tyler and Dickens among his greatest authorial inspirations, and if there are two clearer narrators of voice over language, please, show me. Hornby's influences also do NOT bear him out—um, Dickens, again? I mean, if there is a MORE famous scribbler of language for the sake of language, a man who created entire worlds out of words, please, then, show him, show her to me. Bleak House, please, the famous beginning:

LONDON. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes—gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

If this is not prose that draws attention to itself, well, what is? The three opening paragraphs of the novel do not contain, between them, a single complete sentence. The place, and not the people, are what make Bleak House so great. The medium and not the message, is what is remembered. Because, sometimes, the paint is also part of the picture. Sure, but was this very wordy Bleak House popular among les peuples? Please. This is Dickens we're talking about. Yes, of course this book was popular: it's still being filmed today!

Aye, There's The Rubdown

The Wolf Parade show was a bust. Do you think that "bust" is a positive? Let's ignore the obvious one there, please. I'm thinking of To The Moon Or. And Monday night's show at The Starlite didn't go near the White Lady. In fact, you would have thought there was a lunar eclipse. Listen, it was a great set, the sound was good, all the right notes, chords, strings, golden striking of golden guitars. Doors opened at eight. We were there at nine. Carey Mercer's band opened pretty much at eleven. And the Parade didn't hit the stage until midnight. What? Was this a New Year's show? This is not some big stadium concert here, this isn't a once-in-a-lifetime set, what is the fricking deal? Godsake, it was a Monday night! Get on the stage already! Let me put it this way: between the time the doors opened and the first band went on, I could have gone to dinner and watched a movie. Between the doors and Wolf Parade, I could have eaten dinner, watched a movie, gone bowling and STILL been back in time to watch the Parade set up. The music was great, but the show bit it big. Big big bitingness. I've got no use for you, bad show.

"Click Click Click Click" + Bishop Allen We all know the deal by now. One a month, right? To me, however, there was nothing coming close to their earlier efforts. Not in terms of matching up music and words. "Little Black Ache" is something else, after all, perfection of harmony and earnestness. "Things Are What You Make Of Them" still remains my favourite, but barely, barely, because "Click" in the same room as "Things" is like your two best friends at the table having two different conversations and you don't know who to pay attention to the most. Right now, I'm paying more attention to the newest friend.

The rest of the band cutting in at 1:04 is what makes this song, but 1:38 is just beautiful, too, like opening a dark cuboard, warm. Oh, 2:18, did you think I had forgotten you, no, you're the best—no, not the best, but equally elegant. This song deserves to be heard everywhere.

Foucault's Pendulum + Umberto Eco Posit: I read Eco's The Name Of The Rose. Exposit: I own a Penguin softcover of Eco's The Island Of The Day Before and a hardcover copy of his Foucault's Pendulum. Conclusion: Because I own copies of Island and Foucault, I refuse to buy Eco's Baudolino or The Mysterious Flame Of Queen Loana

Umberto Eco's passion for creating lists, if hindsight is anything to go by (and if not, what is?) was pretty much beaten into a corner by the powerful pyramidical plot structure of his first novel, The Name Of The Rose. Everything in that novel, and there is a LOT, is directed toward the conclusion of the story. Rightfully so, since the story is a mystery, unabashedly of the detective genre. I mean, the investigating monk is called William of Baskerville, for crying out loud. Eco not only pays his literary debts, he revels in the paying. But he revels in lists even more. And not one of Eco's novels, not since Rose, has had the neccessary structure to smooth down his hydra-headed digressions. I am on page 291 of Foucault's Pendulum, and I am bored stiff. Nothing has happened. The narrator, in a musuem which houses the titular subject, is recalling how he arrived in his hiding place. He's written a dissertation on the Knights Templar, apparently graduated from university, gone to Brazil and encountered voodoo, and is back in Italy working for a publishing house which wishes to start up a line of books pandering to an audience interested in the occult and conspiracies. Two hundred and ninety-one pages of interminable itemization of the occult and quasi-occult, but where is the plot? This book is the worst, Jerry, simply the worst.