My Love/My Writing

by David Scott
It's been said that the only love that ever truly lasts is unrequited love. When I first heard that (and I'm not quite sure where I heard it), I dismissed it immediately as the defensive credo of the cynic. After all, the quickest and easiest way to deflect pain is to crouch slightly, tense up, and raise your fists about three inches from your heart. We do it all the time psychically, and the experts of this stance are called cynics, who wear their unrequited love like medals of honor around their necks. And if you don't dismiss these notions, if you play with them, like a five year old playing with a Zippo lighter and a pile of oily rags, you will become a martyr for your cause. And no one--no one--will mourn you. Not even other cynics. Because they know better.

So sure, I did my best to dismiss such a notion. But I couldn't quite leave it at that. There was something about those words--unrequited love--that resonated within me. So I pulled them apart and stretched them around like taffy. Unrequited love--love that is not returned. And then I had that moment of clarity where the gauzy sheen of the veil is lifted and I can see things for what they are. Ephihany. Love, true love, does not require outside energy to sustain itself. "Unrequited" becomes a superfluous descriptor. It's love, and only love that matters. We tend to confuse the issue when we're talking about one person loving another. For there are avenues of pain and sad knowledge that await the individual who embarks on knowing what it means to love somebody and not be loved in return. Keep in mind, I make no judgements on whether that is a journey worth taking. If experience is of value, then surely painful experience is the richest experience we can engage in. You can avoid it, but in a way, you avoid living.

The nature of unrequited love becomes clearer, however, when we talk about a love of something intangible. The love of an idea. If you can recognize beauty, the beauty behind the outward symbol, then you know what it is like to love the idea. The idea is that DNA strand that spirals upward, like gothic spires reaching towards heaven, creating the substance of whatever it is we find beautiful.

I think I've always understood the value of it, even if I never quite had the words for it. In the last couple of years of study, I feel like I have taken away a better understanding of how to pinpoint and articulate just why I am drawn to literature and writing. Why I connect. Why I love it.

I took a nonfiction writing class last year. Our text was a book called Word Paintingby Rebecca McClanahan, which I highly recommend to anyone who likes to string words together. One of her key refrains was to "pay attention." Her goal was to teach writers to use the tools of description to transfer what is in the heart and mind onto paper. I feel like I've learned a lot in that respect. (I have so much more to learn, however.) At any rate, I certainly pay closer attention to my word choices, deciding which ones serve me and which ones do not. Before reading this book, I considered writing to be similar to casting spells. A few arcane words, thrown out into the wind on a wing and a prayer, and presto! Hopefully you can pull a rabbit out of a hat. Thankfully, I learned that it's not enough to have intent (although intent is one of the most powerful forces in an artist's life). You must have a keen focus as well. Focused intent--a will and a way--is the true currency of the artist. You can have one without the other and still get lucky sometimes. It happens. However, when those kinds of spells go wrong, they really become spectacular disasters.

"Pay attention." Her words serve me well as a writer. It's almost too much to realize that they serve me well as a person, too. If focused intent is necessary for the writer to create works of purity, then the energy behind it must be love. (Unrequited love, mind you. This stuff ain't gonna love you back. If you need it to, if you need someone's praise, or a paycheck, or an award with your name on it, then you don't love writing. You are looking for something else and you will not find it here.) The love must be pure to ignite that brilliant white flame that melts everything into truth. Everything is connected. But you must pay attention. The details of life, the words people choose, the proper naming of things, the way a dog looks to a five year old boy, the way a boy looks to a five year old dog, a sunset after your heart has been broken, a sunset after your heart has mended. If you pay attention, not only will you become a better writer, you will find the love of life that drives the creative spirit. If you don't how can you recognize the beauty of the mundane? How can you possibly understand the importance of the trivial? It is all important, and if you discover that and feel that and love that, well, then you've got a reason to write, I believe.

There is only one reason to do anything. And that's out of love. Anything else is just asking for trouble. That's my primary reason for writing. My secondary reason is to fulfilll my obsession with communicating some piece of me to someone else. An essence that I can pour into word molds and harden into black ink (or pixels), that when read, become absorbed into the blood stream of another person. I don't ask for much, do I? Still, I know it can be done, because I've been on the receiving end of this "soul transfusion." When writing is pure and true, I receive a connection to another person. It does not matter if the person is alive or dead. All that matters is the physical manifestation of their consciousness. Their words.

How to Be a Fish in the Slipstream of Time-Space

by David Scott



In 2003 Harvard and M.I.T. researchers discovered that fish swimming upstream to spawn like the James Brown sex machines that they are, actually piggy-backed rides on eddies, pockets of water flowing against the course of the stream (Massachusetts Institute of Technology). Using these natural flows, the little fishies actually used less energy than they would have in more sedate waters. Instead they used the “found” energy of the eddies to accomplish their task, in this case, procreation. Scientist James Liao observed this phenomenon, noting that the flexible muscle and skeletal structure of fish allowed them to bounce from one eddy to the next in an amazing conservation of energy.

Humans too, have their own naturalistic struggles: the desire to find food and shelter…a loving mate…a decent parking space. Perhaps paramount is the need to organize information into meaningful chunks. The greatest existential question is a resounding “Why are we here?” (The second greatest question, of course, is: “Where the hell did I leave my car keys?” Alas, Harvard and M.I.T. still have no answers on that one.) So, while the answers may be unknowable, our central hope for knowing anything resides in accumulating experiences, then reflecting and decoding them. The greatest obstacle to this, however, is the powerful force of the time-space slipstream, to which we are all subject to.

Now you can’t see the current of time ebbing and flowing and carrying you along with the current. But it’s there. It’s visible in its effects on our visual and audio markers. A circle K that we used to buy comic books from when we were 8 is now a seedy tobacco shop. The poetic grandeur of the trees that surrounded Rev. Granger’s lawn have been excised and cut away, leaving only an ugly mob of stumps. Radio waves from 1984, their vibrations devolved into the ether, are reduced to entertaining subatomic particles in your formerly beige carpet. Somewhere out there, there are particles jammin’ to Nena’s “99 Luft Balloons.”

This silver, taut thread of time shoots through you. Tethered, you are pulled towards the vanishing point of the horizon. This is the promise of God. You will not stop. The journey is endless. And the journey, whether you like it or not, will refine you down into your prime factorizations. What is the sum of your life experiences? If all goes according to plan, you’ll never know. This is the merry-go-round of time. Welcome. Here is your complimentary nametag.


Assuming time is a force to make us keep our appointments, let’s also assume time is a force that keeps us from understanding our appointments. As we rocket towards the future, the past speeds from us twice as fast. Memory, both conscious and unconscious is warped by this effect and accumulated insights take greater energy to access. New experience assimilates old experience and what was knowable at one point becomes something all together different at another point in time. This is both exciting and disheartening. These buried memories, if we can dig deep enough to find them are encased in the silt of time, like some Rosetta Stone. If found, each one of us has the power to become Champollion. Fulfilling our destiny to seek knowing. To understand.


Recovering memories by time-travel is no easy task. But we might learn from the fish studied by the Harvard and M.I.T. scientists. Those fish used the counter-energy found in eddies to propel themselves upstream using less exertion than initially thought. Going back in time, an enormous expenditure of energy, to say the least, can be accomplished by finding eddies in the time stream, or in other words, finding currents of energy pointing towards the past. Once found and identified, we can hitch ourselves to these “time-eddies” and access memories hidden in the past.

Just like time leaves a visual reference marker—the visible effects of change—it stands to reason that time-eddies have concrete visual markers as well. Remember, a time-eddy should represent an object or measurable vibration going against the normal current of time. Therefore, if we locate something that has not been visibly affected by the caress of time, then we have found our time-eddy.

Key to this task is locating a physical object that has a strong emotional resonance to it. Practicing on already-strong memories is a good way to exercise your time-traveling muscles. Re-watching a movie that you watched on your first date 16 years ago, for example, may propel you through the time stream so you can fully access the realness of such a moment again. Emotional markers, rarely unchanged by time, make the best vehicles.

When I play my CD with David Bowie’s “Modern Love” on it, I instantly travel to a warm December night in San Diego three years ago. It’s the same now as it was back then: a couple of notes plucked out of some guitar strings, the repetitive metronomic thump of the drums, and the opening line delivered in a rhythmic deadpan: “I don’t want to go out…I won’t stay in…Get things done…” And as Bowie’s voice ascends into a high-pitched, urgent whine, “I catch a paper boy, but things don’t really change…”, I’m back in 2002, taking the 163 back from Old Town. The Pacific Beach fog is curling in and around the palm trees and making everything cool and wet. Me and Shannon are singing along to Bowie at the top of our lungs and we both start to laugh when we’re hit with some of his stranger lyrics. “CHURCH ON TIME!!” we shout, then follow it up with a doubtful “MAKES ME party?” Is he saying “makes me party?” Undeterred, we plow through the goofiness enthusiastically, courageously unafraid to mumble nonsense when we don’t know the words. “It’s not hurrrrmmm-hurmmmm! It’s just La-Hoo-Da-Hurrrm! I’m still standing in the wind! But I never wave BYE-BYE!” Shout it out: “BUT…I…TRY….I…TRY!”

It’s important to note that handling a time-eddy is akin to handling an unstable chemical compound. Too much exposure can result in adverse effects for the user, such as becoming mired in the moments of the past. The intoxicating effects of nostalgia and sentimentality are potent, and potentially lethal. You run the risk of, as U2 famously put it, getting “stuck in a moment, and you can’t get out of it.” This is a true hazard and can actually keep the user from advancing forward in consciousness raising.

So, use time-eddies sparingly, record your experiences, and have fun! If you follow these guidelines, your inevitability will make more sense. I’ll see you on the flipside, little fishies!

Rachel Ray's Food Diaries

March 17, 2006-- Dear Diary, today I went condiment shopping! They have these ketchups that come in different colors, like blue. When I saw them, I thought wow, that's weird, okay. I was freaking a little, let me tell you. Still, I like to try new things and mix it up. Mix it UP! (Oprah told me I needed a catch-phrase and I'm trying out a few.) And get this! The ketchup still tastes like red even though it's blue. Wacky! I bought 6 bottles because I had a coupon where you had to buy 6 bottles to get the 50 cents off. I loves my coupons. I'll be the first to admit it.

March 21, 2006-- Oprah, Steadman, Dr. Phil and his wife Laura Schlessinger came over for brunch, only it was *after* lunch, so I called it "linner." Dr. Phil thought this was really funny. I thought he was going to choke. He kinda smells, not to be mean or anything. Note to self: stock up on Renuzit, orange blossom smell! I was going to cook sea bass in a cream and butter sauce, but I spent the entire day fishing and could not catch any. Sorry, gang! So we ordered pizza. Get the door, it's Dominos! Ha! Ha! We washed it down with cold Zima. Dr. Phil got very drunk and made a pass at me. I should call him "Dr. Grabby-hands"!

April 16, 2006-- Well, today was the holiest of holidays, Easter. And you know what that means! Easter egg hunt! I dressed up in a Easter Bunny costume and hid eggs for the children at the hospital. Boy, I've never seen a more dispirited bunch. Just because you're hooked to I.V.'s doesn't mean Christ didn't die for your sins, ya little brats! Show a little Easter spirit! I also made deviled eggs, which, made me uneasy, as I'm not sure if that was sacreligious. I'll pray on it later. Later, I invited some friends over for what has become a new tradition: watching hunky Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ." Yowza! I got plenty of passion for that lethal weapon, Mel! Mix it UP! We had nachos and my special recipe "passion fruit jello salad." Two words: Yum. Me.

May 1, 2006-- May day, the 1st of May. I call it "Ray-day" and it's all about me, girlfriend! I was invited to the Today show and I decided to make one of my favorites, Almond Macaroons. They turned out beautiful, but that bitch Katie Couric ate every last one. Well, I silently forgave her because she's had to deal with so much, like being older than me and not as pretty. Plus she has no hair. It's a wig. Not many people know that. Not that I'm judging. I'm not a judger of people. I just think it's incredibly dishonest for a newscaster to lie to the entire g-damn world like that. Sigh. Ya can't win 'em all. Al Roker stared at my chest the whole time. He is creepy and doesn't use his nose for breathing. Wake up, America! (How's that for a catch-phrase?) ;) :) :)

May 13th, 2006-- Hallelujah! I think I've hit on a catch-phrase! A really, really good one! I was eating some scrambled eggs with Tabasco with my good friend Oprah and I took a really hot bite. My eyes started to water and I flapped my hands. Oprah asked me if it was hot and I screamed (somewhat angrily, I admit): "Darn tootin'!" New Year's Resolution: Must say Darn tootin' as much as possible. I smell ancillary revenue from catch-phrase merchandise! Also, today I bought the new Tom Jones greatest hits cd, which put a big grin on my face for the rest of the day. Is Tom Jones one sexy mammajamma? Darn tootin'!

May 27th, 2006--Stocked up on supplies. I love shopping! I bought boxes of plasticware, well, knives and sporks, to be specific. The check-out lady tried to sell me spoons AND forks and I thought, no way, uh-uh, you buy sporks and it's like having a spoon and a fork in one utensil. You save money, you save time, and they're just darn cool. Who doesn't like sporks? They're funny and we can use a little levity in this mixed-up world. Am I right? Okay, maybe you don't like them, Dr. "I'm so important" Phil. But don't rain on my parade. I also bought generic cans of tuna, because, really, you *can't* tell the difference if you use enough cheese in the tuna noodle casserole. Hel-LO! Cooking rules 101! Sheesh, I'm glad I'm me and not Katie Couric. Darn tootin'. (Note: What if they made a spork where the handle was also a knife? They could call it a "sporife." Hmmmm, let's put that in Rachel's "What if" file.)

June 14th--Hooray! The first day of summer is here and I am ready with my tankini, my spf 45 and a six pack of Tab! Look out, tanning booth! I'm ready for my close-up, Cosmo magazine! I was thinking of ways to make my show more relevant and socially conscious and I thought about doing something to feed the homeless. Than I thought: nahhh, there's people who do that already. Bor-ing! So I thought, what about people who are stuck in traffic and are hungry? Who feeds them? Light bulb above my head time! Me, that's who feeds them! I'm going to have a whole segment of my show called: Get out of my oven and into your car! You know, like that Billy Ocean song. Hey, we could even have a segment with Billy Ocean. Like, whatever happened to that Billy Ocean guy? Is he homeless or what? Maybe we could feed him. Light bulb! New segment called Feed Billy Ocean! Note to self: You are a genius!

Robert Frost's "Mending Wall"

I was talking with a co-worker and the topic rolled around to politics, and by extension, wars. And of course, you can't have a conversation about war and politics in the month of July, 2006 without Lebanon coming up. And if you chat about Lebanon for a good 3-4 minutes you're bound to hit upon Israel. And shoot, once the conversation veers towards Israel, heck, before you know it, you're talking about Palestine. I won't bore you with the details, except for this: my co-worker quoted the classic Robert Frost poem, "Mending Wall," ending his point with the line "Good fences make good neighbors," which I assume was a reference to the so-called "seperation fence" being constructed by Israel as a barrier between them and the West Bank. Like Frost's narrator, I didn't want to just come out and dispute the meaning of his statement. Instead, I urged him to read the poem again. With that in mind....

"Mending Wall"
by Robert Frost


Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Yeahhhhhhhhh, Didja get that Meme?

I was reading Thursdaynext's delightfully entertaining meme on her blog (see sidebar for link: Eyre Affairs) and I decided I would lovingly rip off the concept. Why? Because I have something important to contribute? No. Because I am lazy? Because I am creatively bankrupt? Yes.

5 Things on my desk:

1. a world band radio
2. a mug that says "I Shot J.R."
3. condensation run-off from my glass of water
3. The Edward Said Reader
4. a stack of Memorex CD-RW discs
5. a business card for Tokyo Love (it's a sushi place, gutter-minded)

5 Things in my freezer

1. cold air
2. ice
3. "All That Caramel" ice cream
4. a cookie sheet holding fresh blueberries
5. wrapped packages of meat

5 Types of connective tissues in my body

1. Blood
2. bones
3. cartilage
4. tendons
5. adipose tissues

5 Songs Recently Played on my iPod

1. Don't Look Back in Anger by Oasis
2. When the Sun Goes Down by Arctic Monkeys
3. My Doorbell by the White Stripes
4. Senegal Fast Food by Amadou and Mariam
5. Sin by Nine Inch Nails

5 Songs NOT on my iPod

1. Friends in Low Places by Garth Brooks
2. I'm a Whiny Bitch by Nick Lachey
3. I'm a Skanky Ho by Paris Hilton
4. I'll be There for You by The Rembrandts
5. Imagine by Lindsay Lohan

5 Things in my wallet

1. Driver's license with my pic that makes me look like a serial killer
2. BSU Student ID with my pic that makes me look like I'm high
3. 5 Subway cards with two or three punch-holes punched out on each one
4. a Movie Gallery card that I don't use because of late fees
5. a Vons card that I got in San Diego but can't use in Idaho because we don't have a Vons here.

5 Things NOT found in my wallet

1. Money
2. condoms
3. snacks
4. metaphors
5. placenta from my first born

5 Words found in "A Moveable Feast"

1. inaccroachable
2. framboise
3. Gertrude
4. rectal
5. thermometer

5 books on my shelf that I have NOT read

1. A Moveable Feast
2. This Side of Paradise
3. Uncle Tom's Cabin
4. Oliver Twist
5. Lady Chatterly's Lover

5 DVDs on my shelf

1. Moulin Rouge
2. Father Ted Season 1
3. Hotel Rwanda
4. French Kiss
5. Arrested Development Season 1

Excerpts from Graham Greene's "The End of the Affair"

This book is one of those books that ceases to be words on a page and instead takes up residence in the Byzantine corridors of my soul. Whether by chance or destiny, these pathways curve and loop unexpectedly, causing even the most ardent curiousity-seeker to give up and seek more rewarding surroundings. I sympathize. If I could join the exodus, I would. Instead, I have rooms decorated tastefully and singularly devoted to objects and ideas that suit me. Never let it be said that I was ever afraid to love unloved things. Maybe that's why my soul is my own and nobody elses.

As I was thinking these thoughts, I ran across a passage that eeirly echoed my own:

"The sense of unhappiness is so much easier to convey than that of happiness. In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism: this pain of mine is individual, this nerve that winces belongs to me and no other. But happiness annihilates us: we lose our identity."

Here are some other choice quotes:

"I would have liked to have left that past time alone, for as I write of 1939 I feel all my hatred returning. Hatred seems to operate the same glands as love: it even produces the same actions. If we had not been taught how to interpret the story of the Passion, would we have been able to say from their actions alone whether it was the jealous Judas or the cowardly Peter who loved Christ?"

"It occured to me with amazement that for ten minutes I had not thought of Sarah or of my jealousy; I had become nearly human enough to think of another person's trouble."

"I wanted to cry unobserved, and I went to the National Portrait Gallery, but it was the students' day-- there were too many people, so I went back to Maiden Lane and into the church that's always too dark to look at your neighbour. I sat there. It was quite empty except for me and for a little man who came in and prayed quietly in a pew behind. I remembered the first time I had been in one of those churches and how I had hated it. I didn't pray. I had prayed once too often. I said to God, as I might have said to my father, if I could ever have remembered having one, Dear God, I'm tired."

"I wrote at the start that this was a record of hate, and walking there beside Henry towards the evening glass of beer, I found the one prayer that seemed to serve the winter mood: O God, You've done enough, You've robbed me of enough, I'm too tired and old to learn to love, leave me alone for ever."

The Story of Jazz

A thrift store find, The Story of Jazz, by Marshall W. Stearns, was the first non-fiction selection for my summer reading. I had recently started watching Ken Burns' enormously entertaining mini-series, Jazz, on DVD, that I had checked out from the library (I'm on part 4) and I thought that this book might just be an illuminating companion piece. Still, a few caveats were in order. I'm a music whore and will give anything a listen, but I couldn't begin to explain musical vocabulary, let alone used in a jazz context. Plus, as a jazz neophyte, much of the music was new to me. The wonderful thing about jazz, however, is that there is a stunning array of accessible music that does not require anything beyond a pair of ears to hear the music and a soul to react to it. You don't have to know about blue notes, the tonal scale, syncopation and the like. The Story of Jazz does encompass the technical with the history and the history with the passion and this holistic approach makes this book essential for beginners.

Much of the book is dedicated to the influences that gave rise to jazz, in order to attempt a definition. The success of this book, it should be noted, is that it does all of this in a friendly, easy to read style. While not exactly "Jazz for Dummies," the text, nevertheless avoids the pedantic cadences of a specialized text book. Stearns makes clear in his introduction that he is an unabashed fan of jazz. His passion only accentuates his role as instructor and storyteller for this jazz primer. He does not fall into the simple trap of acting merely as a cheerleader.

The influences are as fascinating as they are diverse. Much has been made of jazz as a true American artform and Stearns outlines the musical forces that converge to make this happen. The slave trade brought Africans to the New World, and with them, their customs, rituals, and music. Most notable were the West Africans method of "call and answer"-- a type of communication where one leader would call out a statement and others would answer in response. This wasn't just a form of music, it was used in religious rituals, group councils, etc. The "work song" associated with the African slaves derived from this and made its way into Christian services (such as the Southern Baptists). It also became a key component of much of the new music that was to follow, such as the blues, jazz, and rock and roll. In music, the call and answer didn't have to be two spoken lines. The dialogue could be between voice and instrument. In the blues, a singer might wail: "My baby done up and left me..." and "answer" with a blast of harmonica (ba da da bump). I was cross-checking this with the entry on Wikipedia and the example they gave was of The Who's "My Generation." The call would be "People try to put us down..." and the answer would be "Talkin' 'bout my generation."

In addition to the blues and its usage of call and answer, Stearns talks a great deal about "blue notes." Not having a strong musical background, I never really quite got it, but I'll try to at least share the stuff that I found interesting. The African influences were fascinating to me, and the blue note, as we know it in jazz, Stearns asserts, probably made its way from Africa. A Western classical scale has the basic notes that we use to sing and play music. My understanding of this is solely from "The Sound of Music." "When...you know the notes to sing... You can sing most any-thing!" You know the song. But Stearns writes: "it was discovered that Negro folk singers, and especially blues singers, have a consistent habit of hitting a note...that does not occur in the equal-tempered scale of classical music. They sing what is known as a 'neutral third,' that is, a note precisely between 'Do' and 'Sol'..." (327). A blue note, if I'm understanding this correctly, is a note played lower than a specific note that we would recognize on a classical scale. What's insanely cool about this, is that people could hear it, and enjoy it, but you did not have the ability to notate it and write it out in sheet music to just pass on. You had to hear it and you had to feel it.

Another key component (and I would say, this is THE key component of jazz) is improvisation. This doesn't seem like a big deal today as improvisation in music, dance, the arts, etc, is pretty well established as a credible method of expression. Before these musical forms that would converge into jazz became established, however, the tendency was to a play a march the way it was notated and not mess around. Jazz took that regimented, classical discipline and used it as a leaping off point for its music. New Orleans, the birthplace of jazz, had no shortage of marching bands during the civil war as an influx of Northern troops occupied the city. After the civil war, many of those army marching bands' instruments made their way into the general populace, introducing the sounds of a brass band to the rhythms and styles of the African music. Jazz great Buddy Bolden is first credited (around 1895) with taking the blues and adding brass to the mix of string and harmonica. Experimentation is at its root, improvisation, and without it, we would not have jazz or it's antecedents.

While all of this stuff (and more, much, much more)makes this an interesting book, the music itself is pure life and soul. I'd recommend picking up any Louis Armstrong cd because, imo, he is the one guy who represents the exhuberence and spirit of everything I love about jazz. His version of "Ain't Misbehavin'" might just be my favorite piece of music, bar none. There is an ineffable quality about it that vibrates within me like a tuning fork. Stearns points out that improvisation changes the character of each piece and that true virtuosos are so good you should be able to tell their general attitude toward life while they are playing. He specifically notes a exhuberant performance that Louis gave after his honeymoon. The possibilities for original artistic expressions are incredible. Now, I love literature and I love the written word, but something in Louis' playing resonates in a way that transcends words. His era (the early age of jazz) is my favorite era and my favorite style (hot). I haven't quite caught onto the later cool jazz, which is a little bit more removed, eclectic, and harder to figure out. A great resource would be your local library. Better libraries are bound to have extensive collections of jazz and you can't do any better than checking out Ken Burns' documentary and boxed cd set (entitled "Jazz".)

Miscellany

Stuff...

I've updated the links sidebar... Lots of bloggy goodness to check out.

I saw Superman Returns. GREAT, but the first super-hero movie that depressed me. I love that though. Lois has moved on, has a new relationship, kid, life. AWESOME. That's humanity, Supes, welcome to it!

Ever hear of that classic TV show, "Heat Vision and Jack"? No? Well, that's probably because it never aired. Ben Stiller produced this pilot that was never picked up. It stars Jack Black as Jack Austin, astronaut, who gains super-intelligence whenever the sun comes up. He rides a sentient motorcycle (think Knight Rider) that talks to him (voice: Owen Wilson.) Together, they are on the run from evil Ron Silver, as himself. No really. It's ho-larious. Check it out at youtube.

Also, check this out... guy trades paperclip... for a house? One of the coolest stories I've ever read...
Yahoo News

The Politically Correct Book of Job

by David Scott (based on a story by God)

Note: I'm a big ol' liberal, so I just want to point out, I'm laughing at myself. ;)

Once upon a time, in a land that would eventually be coveted for its oil-rich resources and strategic proximity to the Holy Land, there lived a man named Job. This man was enlightened, a free-thinker, empathetic, and always took the care to recycle. He had the utmost respect for Mother Nature, or as She was often known as: God or Goddess, depending on what gender aspect S/He decided to honor on any particular day.

Thanks to herbal fertility supplements, Job's wife had seven sons and three daughters. Although Job, the designated sperm donor, could not possibly understand the pain, suffering, and toil that was involved in carrying TEN freakin' children to term, he still managed to honor the Goddess within by handling the domestic duties involved in maintaining their home, thus setting a nontraditional example to others in the their land. It was the LEAST he could do.

Job owned the largest free-range, cruelty-free ranch in all of the land. He maintained a carefully balanced, symbiotic relationship with the earth and all the thousands of living things that called the land home. Job also had many employees, all of them enjoying a living wage, with health, dental, a 401k plan, and stock options. On Friday, they had Hawaiian t-shirt day.

His sons would often take turns holding celebrations and self-improvement workshops in their own homes, and they would invite their sisters to eat baked tempeh and falafel, to atone for the gender disparity. There they would indulge in a glass of antioxidant-rich red wine, which, in moderation, had been touted for its health benefits, or perhaps a cup of soy milk, if they were feeling adventurous.

One day a multi-cultural multitude of angels, representing every race, gender, and sexual orientation came before Goddess to perform lesbian protest haiku, which Goddess always enjoyed. It was Her second favorite thing, right after Ani DiFranco albums. The Adversary, or Dick Cheney, which is the direct translation from the Hebrew, arrived with them. They did not mind this as they realized that inside, Dick Cheney was a lost, litle boy who needed love and acceptance.

"Namaste, Dick!" Goddess greeted with love. "Where have you been lately? I was beginning to worry. The cheribum have been nervous. You never write, you never call..."

"Oh, I was out doing my thing...Strengthening the military-industrial complex, cutting funding for the poorest among us, making inappropriate homophobic comments. You know, the usual," Dick Cheny responded.

Goddess sighed and shook her head. "I sense great pain in you Dick. The longer you hold on to it, the more it will keep you seperated from the bliss of All That Is."

"That gets less inspiring every time you say it," Dick sneered.

"When I need inspiration, Dick, I always find it in nature. I mean, have you seen Job? Here is an individual who truly lives in the light and is always in touch with his true, authentic self. He always embraces positivity and good. Maybe he has a lesson which you could benefit from?" Goddess smiled encouragingly.

"You're kidding right?" Dick said with a smirk on his face. "Oh, this guy's living in the light all right, the light coming off of his new iPod. C'mon, it's easy to be positive when you go to bed each night, snuggling in between your 1000 thread count sheets and reading Deepak Chopra under the soft glow of the newly installed track lighting! Job's never known a day of true pain in his whole life. You take away everything he has and I'll give you another red-state voter."

"Okaaaay," God said doubtfully (for He had switched to his male aspect so as not to marginalize the male angels in His company.) "While I don't agree with your viewpoint, I want you to realize I respect and honor it. I hope that by embarking on this learning experience, it will bring about positive chance within you." God paused. "Just don't kill him, Dick."

"Why the hell would I do that?" Dick responded, somewhat bemused. "How would that help me win my arguement? Just killing the guy?"

"I just wanted to make sure--"

Dick pointed his finger towards God. "You. Are weird." Then he turned into a giant winged monkey and flew away.

One day, when Job's sons and daughters were holding their harmonic concordance festival, a messenger came to Job, looking quite panicked.

Job started to feel his pulse quicken and a sense of dread racked his body. "We're not out of tofu, are we? Goddess, out with it!"

"It's worse, Job," the messenger said between breaths. "The oxen...the sheep... the beavers... They've been captured by Procter and Gamble! They're going to test their cleaning products on them, despite there being many cruelty-free alternatives to animal testing!

"Good Goddess!" Job exclaimed. "When did we get beavers?"

"Oh, Job, they're being murdered for their pelts. And what's more, your assitants... your assitants, Job..."

"They're being tested on by Procter and Gamble?"

"No, no, worse. They've formed a Young Republicans Club."

Job shook his head in disbelief. Then he looked squarely in the messenger's eyes. "We must be strong. Everything happens for a reason. I'm sure this will turn out for the best. After all--"

Before he could finish another messenger ran over and interrupted, in an urgent, but respectful way. "Um, excuse me, Job? Sorry to interrupt your wise speech, but I have to let you know that do to excessive use of chlorofluorocarbons, there is a hole in the ozone layer the size of Fleetwood Mac. I'm talking about all their members stretched from one end to the other. Through it, dangerous ultraviolet rays have given the donkeys skin cancer. I'm sorry, Job."

Job sighed and looked bewildered at all of this bad news. Still, he made an attempt at holding it together. "That's truly awful, my friends," he said weakly. "Perhaps we can start a petition, write impassioned letters to the editorial pages..."

Before he could finish, yet another messenger ran up to him. Job started to tremble. "Job, you need to sid down, old friend." Job pulled up a rock and the messenger kneeled before him. "I'm afraid I must tell you that your children have left this world, Job. They have ended one chapter and started another one, leaving us to continue on in this world."

"You mean... you mean they're dead?" Job stammered.

"As a doorknob, Job. They were burning something...incense, a sage stick perhaps, to clear the energies. That's when the fire began. If only the house had been up to code, Job, if only--" The messenger began to sob.

"There, there," Job said, trying to comfort through his own tears.

"IT HURTS SO MUCH, JOB!" the messenger wailed.

They hugged it out. Fifteen minutes later, they let go and Job said, "Did...did anyone survive, old friend?"

The messenger's face lit up. "Yes! Why yes, Job! Little Mandy made it out of the fire! Only one year old and she crawled out of there, the plucky little thing. Isn't that great, Job?" They both started to laugh.

Just then, Dick Cheney, in the shape of a large eagle, swooped down, picked up little Mandy in his talons and dashed her upon the rocks.

There was much wailing from Job and his three messengers. Job ripped his clothes off, gnashed his teeth, and pulled out his hair. "This...is...a...really...BAD...DAY!!!" Job shouted. Then he felt a calm wash over him. "But somehow, being naked makes it better. I will live in this moment with a grateful heart. I surrender my heart ot the love of Goddess! Blessed be!"

"Wow," Goddess sniffed. "That's just so moving. It needs music. When he says 'Blessed be,' the choirs should just swell. I'm telling you."

The angels murmured in agreement. Dick Cheney crossed his arms, perturbed. "I know what this really needs," he said in a sinister tone.

"Oh, Dick, you've been practicing your sinister tone! That's really quite good," She praised. All the angels clapped politely. "Really 'grrr,' scary. You have so many talents, big guy!" She beamed at him proudly.

"You're not even listening to me," Dick said sullenly. "You never listen to me!"

Goddess' back was turned talking to a group of angels. "I love Shakira!" she cooed, before turning around to face Dick. "Oh, I'm sorry, Dick," She said contritely. "What were you going to say? What does this really need,"she said, echoing Dick's sinister tone.

Dick stood there pouting. "I don't want to tell you now."

"Come on. I really want to hear."

"No, no, it's ruined."

"I was listening. I'm omnipotent. I hear everything!"

"Forget it!" Dick started to walk away in a huff.

"Please, Dick," Goddess implored. "I promise to truly, actively listen."

"Okay, okay," Dick said, his grin spreading. "This really needs... BOILS!!"

"Again with the boils!" God said, switching back to the masculine. "You know that's your solution for everything."

"Never underestimate the power of a good boil," Dick responded.

"Maybe...and this is going to sound crazy...maybe you should try encouragement, kindness, and love instead of fear and hate."

Dick put his hand to this chin and looked thoughtfully up at a cloud. "No, no, I think I'd like to just try the boil thing. Unless you think that my somewhat nontraditional viewpoint is in someway less valid than yours..."

God looked aghast. He pointed his holy finger at Job (index, for the curious). "Don't think I don't know what you're doing..."

"I'm just sayin'..."

"All right, all right, I'll give you another chance. I just sincerely hope you realize that I'm doin this for you, Dick. Because...I love you." God raised his hands up. "There, I said it and I feel better. And deep down inside I know you love me too."

"You. Are weird." Then Dick Cheney turned into a giant winged monkey and flew away.

That night Dick Cheney replaced Job's eco-friendly, non-toxic, organicaly made soap with a bar of Zest, made by Procter and Gamble. Job, being somewhat distracted by his recent losses didn't notice and used the bar to cleanse his entire body before going to bed.

The following morning, Job awoke in the monstrous shape of a cockroach. Which turned out only to be a misguided literay allusion. Then he woke up again, his body racked with geysers of pain. He was covered in boils. "Did you replace the soap?" he yelled to his wife, who was in the other room.

"No, why?" she asked, walking in. As soon as she saw him, she screamed. "GOOD GODDESS!" Then she composed herself, not wanting to hurt his feelings. "Ummm, that's a...that's a new look for you," she chirped unconvincingly.

Job began to cover himself in garbage.

"Oh, Job," she sighed. "Truly things are bad. You know there is always the option of euthanasia. Perhaps you are meant to move on and help the planet by depopulating it by one."

"Dear heart," he answered. "I don't mean to criticize or demean your point of view in any way, but I sincerely think that I need to honor Goddess by living in the sacred spirit. Maybe then I will find enlightenment.

"Yeahhhhhhhh," she said and walked out.

Job's three friends, Eli, Bill, and Zoe, all of varying ages, genders, races, and sexual oreientation, came over to comfort him. When they saw him, they were much repulsed and began to weep. They ripped off their clothes. "That is so sad," they all seemed to agree, "but somehow, being naked makes it better." Then they formed a healing circle and began to sing R.E.M.'s "Everybody Hurts."

After the third encore, Job found himself in serious need of a professional counselor specializing in grief and boil therapy. "I'm feeling less than abundant right now," he admitted, shakily. "Truly, the thought of divinity seems like some sort of illusion that I've wasted my life chasing all this time. I am alone in the universe."

The three friends gasped in unison. "Whoa there, friend," Eli said compassionately. "That's just stinkin' thinkin'."

"Yeah, Job," Bill chimed in. "I know you're having a spiritual challenge right now, but let's not talk crazy."

"I'm not crazy!" Job spat. "My baby girl got smashed on the rocks by a devil-bird!"

"Oh, Job," Zoe piped. "If only you could see the negative energy coming off of you right now. It is like seriously affecting my vibration. I can't even see your heart chakra right now. It's like...you don't even have a heart. Man, that's creepy."

"Oh, so now I'm heartless...and creepy!" Job wailed.

"Wow, he is gone," Zoe murmured to Bill and Eli, who nodded in agreement. "Cuh-ray-zee," Bill sung.

"Well, Job," Eli asid. "It's like you have told us before. Like attracts like. If you're having negative thoughts, you're bound to attract negativity. You create your own reality."

"So you're blaming me?" Job asked, incredulously. "Don't you understand? It's me! I'm the most positive person in the world. I WAS the most positive person in the world. And weird, terrible crap still happened to me. I had nothing but pure thoughts of love and abundance. I was connected to the Infinite Source!"

"Think hard, Job, are you sure you didn't have any negative thoughts, perhaps even on the subconcious level? Something you're not even aware of?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know that? If it's subconscious, I'm not conscious of it, now am I?"

"Hoo boy, we need to clear his chakras," Zoe whispered to Eli and Bill. "Let's hold hands and form a chain." They turned back towards Job and Zoe began to loudly enunciate. "We're going to hold hands and form a chain, Job!"

Job backed away, shaking his head violently. "I don't want to hold hands! Life sucks! And have you watched Jay Leno lately? It's like he's not even trying!"

Realizing that Job was in a negative space and filled with dark energy, the three friends decided to leave and just psychically send him thoughts of love and healing. Just then, Eli's younger sister, Elly arrived. They told her the whole ordeal, which made Elly very sad.

"You guys," she admonished. "I know Job is in a dark place, but he doesn't need to hear words of discouragement!"

"Job," Elly said, walking towards the corner where he had curled up into the fetal position. "I know I'm just a teen and I haven't read all of the spiritual books that you have, but hear me out. I respect you so much. I've always looked up to you and thought, wow, that guy's got it together." Job grabbed his sleeve and blew his nose into it, loudly. "Listening to you," she continued, "you taught me that we are always connected to Source and that nothing can truly break that. You can choose to ignore that connection, but it cannot be broken. You can deny your divinity and your spirit, but you cannot eradicate it. YOU taught me that Job. You. Goddess is everything including the pain of the boils and the wings of the devil-bird that carried off Mandy. Everything that is, IS. The danger in life is to deny death. Because when you deny death, you deny life. And when you deny life, you deny yourself. And when you deny life, you deny---I'm sorry, where was I?"

"You lost me," Job said, confused. "Pain of boils, then something else... It was helping though."

Just then Goddess appeared in the shape of an enchanted water cooler. "Job," the voice echoed with majesty through the room. "It is I. The Source of all things. I have something important to tell you."

Everyone in the room gasped in awe. "A...talking...water cooler!" stammered Job.

But first, drink of me, everyone, for my water is pure, fresh from the springs of heaven, and free of chemicals and additives."

They all made an orderly line and filled their cups and drank of Her, and it was truly refreshing. It made them all seriousl renew their desire to clean up and protect earth's water sources.

"Thank you for the water, Goddess," Job said. "But I still cannot help but feel like a lost child in a 24 hour Wal-Mart. That is on fire. And all the doors are locked." Everyone frowned at the simile. "Why do you torture me so," Job wailed, his voice cracking.

Goddess turned into her human form and sighed heavily, for Job's plight was truly pathetic. She sniffed and magically created a box of Kleenex with which to blow her nose.

"Oh Job," she said. "Take a look around you. Look at the earth. The stars. All the wonderous creatures. Birds. Ice Cream. Anal sex. I created them all."

Job looked at her, somewhat confused. "And your point is..."

"Oh, Job," she said, turning away. "It's just...it's just... I worked SO hard on the, what do you call it, the universe. And...and..." Goddess began to cry. "I just, I don't know, I thought you might be a little grateful, that's all." With that she began to bawl.

"Hey, uh, hey," Job said tenderly. "I...it's not that I'm not grateful, it's just that..."

"I mean, do you know how long it takes to create a constellation? That's a lot of heat, Job. And then to put them into interesting shapes... I didn't have to do that you know. But I just wanted it to be... I wanted it to be special. For you, Job. I wanted it to be special for you."

At this, Job began to weep copiously. "Oh, Goddess, I'm sorry. I was truly being self-serving. I had my own human interests at heart and wasn't even validating the intrinsic spark of the divine that exists in everything. Please forgive me!"

Goddess smiled great big through her tears and they embraced, which was somewhat awkward for Job because he was afraid that the hug might be misconstrued in a sexual way.

After that, Job got together with his friends and formed a healing circle. Zoe cleared his chakras using a set of very powerful crystals and they all agreed to intend only positive things. Then they all played Scattergories.

Goddess blessed Job, returning the imprisoned animals back to the land where he nurtured them back to health, but not before taking pictures of their horrible mistreatment to use in PETA literature. Also, him and his wife decided to adopt a litter of crack babies, rather than to add to the already increasing overpopulation problem.

And so it was that Job and his family lived and prospered, taking comfort in being connected with the Source that is Goddess, and delighting in a state of abundance and love.

Dick Cheney eventually came to terms with his homosexuality, entering into a committed relationship with Gabriel. Job, and his family and friends held a coming out party and welcomed into their circle of love.

Guilty Pleasure Songs

For the last few months I've been in the process of transfering my cds over to mp3s. This is fun, and sometimes, an emasculating process as I confront some of the stranger songs in my collection. And I'm not talking about weird but cool cover songs by ska band Reel Big Fish. I'm talking about the creepy stuff. The embarrasing stuff. The stuff that would be humiliating to admit to in a case with the RIAA. "Yes, it appears on June 14th, 1999, you illegally downloaded the entire Britney Spears album 'Oops, I did it Again.' Is this true, Mr. Scott?" Me: "Yes, but I didn't enjoy it!" With that in mind, I'd like to present my top ten favorite guilty pleasure songs. The songs I secretly, and now publicly love. I won't hide in shame any longer. I'M HERE! I LIKE SPEARS! GET USED TO IT!

10.)"Blue (Da Ba De)" by Eiffel 65. Imagine a techno song with lyrics so singularly devoted to one color as to be perfectly suited for the talents of say, either Grover or Cookie Monster. (The song really works if you picture Cookie Monster.) But no, it's a group known as Eiffel 65 and the lead singer actually sounds eerily like...Adam Sandler? Listen to it if you got it and tell me I'm not wrong. The lyrics are absurd to the point where Beck would be envious, but with a singular focus to let you know that it's not just random non-sequitors. Adam, er whoever it is, starts the song with :"Yo listen up here's a story--About a little guy--That lives in a blue world..." and sure enough, that's what you get. And let's face it, when all is said and done, it makes more sense than "Hollaback Girl."

9.)"Mr. Roboto" by Styx. Oh sure, today such bands as Radiohead win all sorts of snotty awards with their concept albums about technology and alienation (OK Computer.) What many people so convienently forget is that Styx was alerting us all to the dangers of, um, robots, specifically one named Mr. Roboto. Dennis DeYoung sings: "The problem's plain to see: too much technology. Machines to save our lives. Machines dehumanize." Take that, Radiohead!

8.)"The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers. When I think of Kenny Rogers, I think of the now defunct Kenny Rogers Roasters, where they had delicious bar-b-q chicken and artery-clogging mac-n-cheese. Alas, Roasters went out of business, but we still have Kenny Rogers' cheesy music. And it doesn't get anymore cheesier than Kenny's "The Gambler," a song that has certainly convinced way too many amateur poker players that they did indeed, know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em. Which brings up the fundamental flaw of the song. HE DOESN'T ACTUALLY TELL YOU WHEN TO HOLD 'EM OR WHEN TO FOLD 'EM. He just says you need to "know when to walk away and know when to run." When is that, Kenny? WHEN?? He does tell us that "the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep." Well, that's helpful. Personally, I'd rather die of a heart attack after finishing off a delicious plate of Kenny Rogers' mac-n-cheese. Maybe there should be a song about that.

7.)"The Reflex" by Duran Duran. Duran Duran's lyrics have never made much sense. But no one has ever made such little sense with so much style and energy. When Simon LeBon belts out : "The reflex is an only child he's waiting in the park--
The reflex is in charge of finding treasure in the dark--And watching over lucky clover isn't that bizarre..." you can't help but thing that Simon has been drinking while reading Dylan Thomas and listening to Culture Club. No matter. He sings it as if he is imparting the greatest of truths, which somehow makes me scrutinize the lyrics even further, certain that once I get it, my third eye will open.

6.)"Convoy" by C.W. McCall. Back in the 70's people in the South lived for smuggling moonshine in semis across state lines. Pre-cell-phones, they would communicate to each other using CB radios. Again, it was the 70's. Everybody was stoned out of their minds. They would talk in codes and take on CB "handles" like "Pigpen" and "Rubber Duck." (See: Smokey and the Bandit.) Sometimes this required the assistance of monkeys. (See: B.J. and the Bear.) Sometimes, you'd have to write a country song about it. That's where C.W. McCall stepped in. A true visionary, McCall sang about "huntin' bear" way before N.W.A. rapped "Fuck tha' Police." The song is catchy, weird, and the chorus sounds like it's being sung by Muppets. Holy crap. I've just got an idea for the next Muppet movie. "The Great Muppet Convoy." The chorus goes: "We've got a great big convoy, rockin' through the night! We've got a great big convoy...ain't she a beautiful sight?" Yes, yes she is.

5.)"I've Never Been to Me" by Charlene. I think I'm the only one who remembers and loves this song to death. This is the song that Jim Steinman WISHES he could write. Charlene sings this soap operatic tale that puts Dallas, Dynasty, and The Thorn Birds to shame. What's more, she sounds like Barbara Mandrell while doing it. Sample lyrics that I feel compelled to shout out in the shower: "Oh, I've been to Georgia and California and anywhere I could run...I took the hand of a preacher man and we made love in the sun..." Charlene gets major Guilty Pleasure points for #1, not having a last name, and #2, when she gets to the penultimate section of the song, she doesn't sing it, she opts for speaking plaintively over the music: "Hey, you know what paradise is? It's a lie, a fantasy we create about people and places as we'd like them to be-- But you know what truth is? It's that little baby you're holding, it's that man you fought with this morning-- The same one you're going to make love with tonight--That's truth, that's love..." Thanks for clearing that up, Charlene.

4.)"Jessie" by Joshua Kadison. Ah, the early 90's. A time of musical upheaval. Nirvana. Nine Inch Nails. Joshua Kadison?? For those who don't remember or for those who just don't want to remember, Joshua Kadison was a one-hit wonder who favored melodic piano-based love songs. In other words, he was for people who thought Michael Bolton was too edgy. With "Jessie," Joshua pines over an ex-lover he just can't quite get over. He sits around, takes care of her cat and waits for her calls. Clearly a man with boundary issues, Joshua keeps on letting Jessie back into his life as she convinces him to "drink tequila and look for sea shells." Still, it's a wonderful fantasy that tells us that we can find love if we enable someone, and by the end of the song, I too, have fallen for Jessie.

3.)"Bad Day" by Daniel Powter. Currently on the C.I.A.'s torture playlist at Gitmo, "Bad Day" has that certain insidiously catchy quality that insures that if you hear it once, it becomes next to impossible to get it out of your system. It's the musical equivalent of a parasitic tapeworm. Ironically, I believe the song is supposed to be a source of comfort...an understanding nod of sympathy from one who cares. IMO, however, it comes off like a dismissive husband who was watching the game and was only pretending to listen to your problems. When taken ironically, the song becomes quite hilarious.

2.)"Two Become One" by Spice Girls. Yes, just when you thought I couldn't sink any lower. I publicly admit to having a Spice Girls song on my iPod. And it's not even "Wannabe," which is truly grating. No, it's a love song, and what's more, it's a love song for gettin' it on. You know what I'm talkin' about. The kind of romantic crooning reserved for the likes of Barry White. The type that is supposed to inspire erotic gymnastics. Well, nothing says romantic gymnastics like the Spice Girls. Over the course of the song these five British hotties seemingly challenge each other to see who can provide the dumbest verse. Winner: Posh Spice: "Any deal that we endeavor--boys and girls feel good together--Take it or leave it, take it or leave it..." I hope that's not the line she uses with David Beckham. The highlight of the song has to be towards the end though, as the Girls embrace social responsibility and turn it into an ode for safe sex. "Be a little bit wiser, baby, put it on, put it on--Cause tonight is the night when two become one.." Such is the incendiary lust-generating power of their music, it definitely needs a disclaimer such as this one.

1.)"Muskrat Love" by The Captain and Tennille. In the 70's, the Captain and Tennille were a popular musical duo that has yet to be replicated in terms of charisma, musical talent, and keen fashion sense. For that, we must be thankful. "Muskrat Love" is one of those songs that few musical groups would touch. For one thing, it's about muskrat love. This isn't a metaphor for something... Tennille is actually singing about two muskrats getting it on. What's more, it's a slow gentle love song sung with no hint of irony. Sample lyrics: "Now he's tickling her fancy, rubbing her toes...Muzzle to muzzle, now, anything goes as they wriggle..." This is probably a good time to point out again that it was the 70's and everybody was stoned out of their minds. They made pets out of rocks, fer cryin' out loud. It should be noted that the Captain and Tennille sequel, "Badger Fucking," did not enjoy the same success, despite being covered by Sinatra.

Fun with the GRE

I recently bought one of those study guides to assist those taking the GRE. I bought the Kaplan version because it looked the most inviting and it didn't cost thirty dollars. (Which is how I choose all my purchases.) My advisor told me not to worry about the quantitative portion of the test because it does not factor into whether they accept me into the BSU grad program (for English, at any rate.) So I'm totally ignoring that section, even though it feels weird. I can just see my advisor snickering to herself: "Ha! He bought it!" Right now, I'm concentrating on the verbal section.

I'm only about 20 pages in and I've already learned quite a bit about the test. For instance, it's a computer test and it analyzes how well you do on a question, adjusting the test based on your performance. What, am I being tested by Deep Blue or something? The very first question that is given to you is of medium difficulty as the computer assumes you're right in the middle of the curve. Miss it, they give you an easier one. Get it right, the next one is harder. And here's the thing: the harder questions are worth more points. Before I knew this, my brain was going through scenarios trying to figure out a way I could strategically miss harder ones just to get easier ones, but the system doesn't reward you for that.

The very first sample question stymied me. It was an Analogy question.

DIATRIBE: VITUPERATIVE ::

* flattery : sincere
* parody : lamentable
* equivocation : evasive
* dissertation : unasailable
* cliche : original

The fact that this was the first question and I didn't know it not only worried me, it pissed me off quite frankly. The analogy questions are all about the relationship between the two words. My problem is that I didn't know two of the words: vituperative and equivocation. (Question: Does anyone use the word vituperative? Answer: People in grad school, I guess.) Well, the sneaky GRE people KNOW that if you don't know a word, it's probably going to be something like vituperative. That's why they throw it in there. So, I looked them up and sure enough the relationship between diatribe and vituperative correlated to equivocation and evasive. Vituperative is, loosely, harshly abusive language; acrimonious. Equivocation means, loosely, to speak in ambiguity; having multiple meanings. After reading that, it made sense as I remembered the word "unequivocal" as having something to do with certainty.

The book was kind enough to give me a vocabulary list of the top 50 or so words that the GRE tends to test on. Some of them I knew (anomaly, enigma). Some of them I didn't (prevaricate, enervate). But most disturbingly, there were those I was sure I knew and was completely wrong. The word "prodigal," for example was something that I had gotten so wrapped in with the "prodigal son," that I was certain that "prodigal" meant returning. D'oh! (It means recklessly wasteful. Big difference.) Precipitate meant to cause to happen before anticipated; falling from a great height. What a bizzare word. I had a vague impression that to precipitate was to cause something, but the dictionary was way more specific. The moral of the story is that I need to look up all the words that the study guide gives me, regardless of whether I think I know them.

Anyways, I'm glad I picked up the study book. I clearly need it. Plus, it's fun to learn new words. Now I just gotta work "vituperative" into casual conversations.

Happy Independence Day, America!

Okay, I'm a day early. But I am crazy-busy this week and just wanted to note our Independence Day. Instead of musing effusively over what I love about America, I thought I'd just have excerpts from Henry David Thoreau. On the back of my Signet Classic's edition of Walden, there is a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson stating that "No truer American existed than Thoreau." And while everyone has their own American heroes (Thomas Jefferson is one of mine), I think Emerson's classification of Thoreau as a true American is solid. Here's some of my favorite "Walden" quotes...

"In the long run men hit only what they aim at. Therefore, though they should fail immediately, they had better aim at something higher."

"We are in great haste to construct a magnetic telegraph from Maine to Texas; but Maine and Texas, it may be, have nothing important to communicate."

"To make a railroad round the world available to all mankind is equivalent to grading the whole surface of the planet."

"Yet men have come to such a pass that they frequently starve, not for want of necessaries, but for want of luxuries..."

"The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of usawakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night. Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day, to which we are not awakened by our Genius, but by the mechanical nudgings of some servitor, are not awakened by our own newly acquired force and aspirations from within, accompanied by the undulations of celestial music, insead of factory bells, and a fragrance filling the air--to a higher life than we fell asleep from; and thus the darkness bear its fruit, and prove itself to be good, no less than the light. That man who does not believe that each day contains an earlier, more sacred, and auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has despaired of life, and is pursuing a descending and darkening way."

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately..."

"I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born. The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things."

"The universe is wider than our views of it."

"Nay be a Columbus to whole new continents and worlds within you, opening new channels, not of trade, but of thought."

"Yet some can be patriotic who have no self-respect, and sacrifice the greater to the less. They love the soil that makes their graves, but have no sympathy to the spirit which may still animate their clay. Patriotism is a maggot in their heads."

"If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them."

"Superfluous wealth can buy superfluities only. Money is not required to buy one ncessary of the soul."

"Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth."

"There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star."

Bastard out of Carolina

“Nothing left to do when you know that you've been taken.
Nothing left to do when you're begging for a crumb
Nothing left to do when you've got to go on waiting--
waiting for the miracle to come.” --Leonard Cohen


I had received far too many recommendations from people I respected to be surprised by how good Dorothy Allison’s “Bastard out of Carolina” was. But, there I was, at the end of the book, a little woozy, a little uncertain of the ground beneath me. The first couple of chapters were solid, exactly what I was expecting. One of the rah-rah quotes at the beginning was from one of my favorite authors, Barbara Kingsolver, who I consider to be one hell of a writer. There’s a certain down-home Southern-fried emphasis on familial relations coursing through the veins of her books, and I expected the same from Allison. In fact, over the last few years, I’ve enjoyed quite a few well-written family tragedies, such as Jane Smiley’s “A Thousand Acres,” Mary McGarry Morris’ “Songs in Ordinary Time,” and Jane Hamilton’s “A Map of the World.” All of them entertaining, but none of them as raw and uncompromising as “Bastard out of Carolina.” “Bastard” is the real deal, an authentic tale of love—wanting it, needing it, and making do without it.

On the surface, Allison’s narrative is about an adolescent girl, Bone, who attempts to survive the dark rage of her new stepfather, Daddy Glen, who’s jealous assaults put her in a physical and emotional hell. Allison’s descriptions of abuse are brutal… I went from compulsively flipping through pages, desperate to get to the next sentence, the next word… to reaching the next paragraph in horror and having to put the book down to take a breath before continuing. It’s rare when a book can stop me in my tracks like that—to get me that emotionally keyed into the character. When Allison is done with you, you taste the mixture of blood and dirt in your mouth and you feel the utter soul-aching sense of loss. Feeling is empathy, and empathy is a key component of relevant storytelling. It's what Allison does, and does well.

The sense of loss drives the book. Bone longs for a sense of love from her Mother that her Mother Anney can never give. Daddy Glen’s an empty, soulless shell whose desperate need for love destroys what it cannot have. Anney looks for connection in the eyes of Glen. This empty circle is a bitter, but useful lesson in the dangers of wanting what you cannot have, despite the perceived injustice of it all. An open hunger for love becomes possessiveness to the point where it is no longer about seeking possession--it possesses you. Sometimes love is not returned. Or maybe it is as I once heard it described: “One loves, the other condescends to being loved.”

And yet, Allison’s book is about survival. If these feelings are universal (and if you disagree, lucky you, you dodged a bullet somewhere in life and may your luck never run out), then the lesson seems to be, generate your own love. I do not feel that it is accidental that Aunt Raylene, the character who seems the most centered and well-adjusted is a character that has removed herself from the desperate pull that other human beings have on each other. She is not a hermit; she has family. It's not about isolation. But her own spirit is self-sustaining. In her past she has had to give up a lover. It has made her stronger. Maybe that is the lesson… you have to give up the need for love to cultivate your own. Allison’s words are tough and unsparing. She doesn’t sugarcoat anything. And yet, their transformative power gives the reader something that only the best and rarest literature can give: a glimpse of hope.

Because in the end, there is no miracle. In the end, we are the miracle.