Syntax of Things

Rolling On

I'd like to thank everyone for indulging my moment of blog identity crisis and for all of the comments and emails of encouragement.  I plan on riding out this little storm of frustration.  After all, where else would I be able to brag about the happiness I found in finally hearing what the defensive stridulation of a dung beetle sounds like?  {From Insect Sounds, first spotted at MeFi}

The Familiar Stranger

Writer and teacher James Sallis discusses the reading and re-reading of Albert Camus's The Stranger, one of the novels on my most re-read list:

It really is true that Camus's is a different novel each time I read it. I've little doubt that it was the novel's essential rebelliousness to which, reading it as a teenager, I first responded, and now I ask my students: Do you see a parallel between the manner in which Meursault holds emotion at bay, never seems able to do what is expected of him, and fails again and again to fit in, and the behavior of alienated adolescents as they begin to form themselves as personalities, to give a good imitation of being human?

Yes, we talk about the novel's philosophical background. I sketch existentialism's history, its literature, the disaccord between Sartre and Camus. But literature, I warn them (contrast Sartre and Camus here), is about people, not ideas, and the novel at hand is just that, a novel, an attempt to let us inside one man's head, and by no means a primer in existentialism. Flannery O'Connor once remarked that theme and meaning in a story are folded deeply into the heart of the thing, that they're not like the string on a sack of feed, where you just have to pick it out, then you can rip the story open and feed the chickens.

Listening to Voices

I've been having an ongoing conversation with one of the voices in my head, the one I call Ffej.  Ffej likes to look over my shoulder and force me to consider everything I do, every decision I make. For instance, Ffej might ask why I still sit down at this desk on a daily basis and do this.  Recently, I've been wondering the same thing.  I've had more than a passing desire to hit the Kill button on Syntax of Things, to become a passive participant, a reader instead of a poster.  What is the shelf life of a blogger anyway?  If a blog falls in the sphere...

Maybe it's because I've lost a sense of focus.  Sometimes it seems like I go on auto-pilot, like I'm doing this for the sake of doing it rather than developing a theme or an idea.  Or it could be that I'm pulled in too many directions.  Should I give up blogging about the music I love to concentrate on books?  Or vice versa?  Stop linking to stories about flaming piles of poop?  Do I forego the personal for the universal, after all I don't want this to be just another Web diary; who the hell wants to read a diary unless it's about a recovering addict who's been molested by a roving pack of three-legged kittens and who now spends his time painting faces on golf balls?

In truth, I started Syntax of Things without a focus.  All I wanted was a place to rant about things so that my wife would not be subjected to my vitriol on a daily basis.  And it worked.  We've never been happier.  But over the course of SoT's existence, I found myself drawn into discussions that mattered to me.  I became a devotee to the book blogs and the music blogs; I expanded my theme and before long this place became a daily repository of what I found interesting, be it movies, music, baseball, books, a royal disliking of Madonna, or Ken Jennings. Over time, I have linked to and been linked by most of my favorites, have received comments from many of them, e-mails from others, and all of this while maintaining a blog that concentrates on everything without focusing on anything.

That's the point.  Syntax of Things has no point.  No point of origin, no point of content, no point of existence other than the fact that I (and Ffej) enjoy being part of this primordial soup.  I appreciate knowing that some people return to this site on a regular basis, some inspired enough to drop me a line and tell me that they enjoy it.  I continue to find inspiration and ideas from the blogs I read, many of them, like mine, small fish in the large tank.  Gwenda and Little Toy Robot make me think about reading Science Fiction; Interstate Love Songs makes me want to visit Chicago; Pauly D. has made me laugh more on a daily basis than anything I've found on TV other than All in the Family reruns; Black Market Kidneys tries his best to convince me to give Bright Eyes a chance.  That's just scratching the surface.  I continue to find new blogs and add them to the Bloglines account and then watch as they either develop or fade into perma-cache. 

So have no fear (or be afraid), I plan on sticking around a while longer.  I want to listen to Ffej (and your) suggestions.  There's always room for improvement, a need to figure out if there's a way to quiet the concerns I have or make this even more worthwhile. In a few months, I'll be setting out on a new endeavor, possibly the most important thing I've done in my life.  I think it's important that what I plan on doing be read as widely as possible, and what better way than with this ready-made soapbox?  Stay tuned.

Been to the Desert

Sometimes you have to get away and see something vivid to remember why you even bother...

You can see more photos of my trip to the Anza-Borrego desert here.

Where Thieves and Pimps Run Free

I spent most of yesterday afternoon applying some elbow grease to the nooks and crannies of the SoT headquarters in anticipation of this weekend's houseguests, who will be spending a few nights here while their house gets de-termited.  This means that my Camper Van Cracker live review, complete with photos, will have to wait a few days.  Until then, check out this live version of "The Long Plastic Hallway" from Camper's new album, New Roman Times.  Along with a long story detailing the inspiration for this song, which included something about UFOs and David Byrne, David Lowery mentioned that the title of this song comes from the following Hunter S. Thompson quote:

The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side.

Beware of the Bright Sunshine

Today, everything is coming up pluses thanks to a rare good mood and the fact that once I've finished my eight or so hours at the grind I'll be heading over to the corner music store for an acoustic performance by one of my all-time favorites, Camper Van Beethoven.  Here's hoping they dust off some of the goodies from Telephone Free Landslide Victory, great songs such as "The Day That Lassie Went to the Moon" or "Mao Reminisces about His Days in Southern China."  Full report once I've recovered from my giddiness.  Anyway, the pluses:

+ It appears that Hunter S. wanted his cremated remains fired from a cannon.  "If the Thompson job were his, [Colorado firework impresario Marc Williams] said, he would probably blast the ashes from a 12-inch-diameter mortar 800 feet into the sky. Then a second, window-rattling blast would scatter them amid a blossom of color 600 feet across."  Damn fine idea.

+ Newsweek columnist Gersh Kuntzman investigates the banning of the sale of Alabama's state whiskey by the state of Alabama.  He makes the point that it's not just the official state whiskey that seems watered down:

The obvious watering down of Alabama's "official" symbols started in the early 1990s. In rapid succession, state lawmakers approved an official state reptile (the Alabama Red-bellied turtle, 1990), state shell (Scaphella junonia johnstoneae, 1990), state outdoor drama (William Gibson's “The Miracle Worker,” 1991—a great play, of course, but only when performed outside, apparently), state barbecue championship (Demopolis Christmas on the River Cook-off, 1991), agricultural museum (Dothan Landmarks Park, 1992), horseshoe tournament (Stockton Fall Horseshoe Tournament, 1992), historic theater (Alabama Theatre for the Performing Arts, 1993), outdoor musical drama (“The Incident at Looney's Tavern,” 1993), tree (Southern longleaf pine, 1997), quilt (pine burr quilt, 1997), wildflower (oak-leaf Hydrangea, 1999), amphibian (Red Hills salamander, 2000—does the Red-bellied turtle know?), fruit (blackberry, 2004), and, of course, spirit (Conecuh Ridge whiskey, 2004).

+  Update on a story I reported here a few weeks ago:  Nebraska's flaming pile of poop is no longer flaming.

+ Sometimes He really does work in mysterious ways.  I've prayed for years, "Please, please, nü metal has to go."

+ Rolling Stone reviews the new Clem Snide album, The End of Love.  I've listened to it twice now and all I can say is, I hope it grows on me.   

+  Grab yourself a copy of the latest issue of Harper's if for no other reason than to read George Saunder's story, "Brad Carrigan, American."

+ Under the fold:  Photo of the flaming pile of poop.  Wonder how this would look as SoT's new banner?

Can We Just Call Him D?

Dave Eggers hypergraphia is flaring up again.  The guy who seems to be everywhere at once is back at it with his semi-regular Spin column, "And Now, a Less Informed Opinion."  In this month's edition (not online yet), Eggers blames himself and other disloyal fans and lazy listeners for the demise of many a great band.  He offers a solution:

People like me are the problem.  We're the reason so many midcareer musicians have trouble getting or keeping record deals, why they have to do reunion tours and sell their early hits to beer commercials.  I've been listening to an album written by a 12-year-old when I should be listening to Jeff Tweedy, who has every mark of genius we can catalog.  I heard Wilco's A Ghost Is Born on a friend's stereo and it didn't knock me down on first listen, so I didn't bother.  This was morally bankrupt, of course, and I swear I will honor that album soon, but until then it's the way of the lazy listener, and the way of the lazy listener is contrary to the inherent contract that exists between a fan of music and those who create it.  We are all party to this contract, so it's good to review it from time to time.  Basically, the contract has always been the same: If the maker of music helps you, saves you, makes you feel powerful or smart or less alone or more willing to ask someone to kiss you, then you owe the artist.

He then presents us with the contract, which includes such clauses as:

Listener agrees that if he/she listens to music, he/she will be a passionate Listener.  Listener acknowledges that listening to music casually is acceptable occasionally, but passionate listening must be undertaken not less than 70 percent of overall listening time.  Music, when it's good, is passionate, which means listening, when it's right, must also be passionate.

For more Eggers, you can check out the Onion A.V. Club's interview with him. 

Across the Wire

Despite it being less than twenty miles from my house, I've been to Mexico only four times in the seven years I've lived here--three times to get drunk and buy cheap gifts in Tijuana and once to eat lobster in Ensenada.  I know little of that world just across the border other than what the news gives us, the typical stories about illegal border crossers or the drug trade.  Only occasionally do the stories detail anything remotely positive about the place. 

During weeks such as this when heavy rains bring the possibility of landslides, threatening million-dollar homes in rich San Diego subdivisions, I can't help but think of what has to be happening on the hillsides of Tijuana where makeshift shacks cling precariously to muddy earth and where television news crews don't dare to go.  That's why I decided to pick up Luis Alberto Urrea's Across the Wire, an eye-opening account of Urrea's numerous missionary trips into the barrios and poverty-stricken communities of Tijuana and northern Baja.  This book details the grim reality of the mostly forgotten, the little children with little hope, the mothers and fathers trying to make something out of absolutely nothing.  All the while, the skyline of San Diego, with all of its implied hope, looms in the distance, twenty miles but very far away. 

From the prologue to Across the Wire:

Remembering Hunter

Seattle Post-Intelligencer's Managing Editor David McCumber remembers a friend:

Most of the time, he simply wanted to share a laugh. As savvy and skeptical as he was as a journalist, it's easy to forget his almost boyish sense of fun. Sometimes, it meant firing .22 tracers from his hand-crank Gatling gun across the Woody Creek-Lanado Road when he got irritated at the traffic, or blowing an old Jeep pickup into thousands of pieces of flaming shrapnel on his back forty. Sometimes, it meant posing in his hot tub with Mona, an inflatable doll -- the only one of her plastic ilk, I'll bet, who earned a book dedication ("To Mona, who made this outburst possible").

Sometimes, it meant driving crazy-fast through a blizzard with the top down in one of his two ancient red convertibles, negotiating four-wheel skids on icy curves while fiddling absently with the stereo, trying to get the lyrics to the Cowboy Junkies' "Where Are You Tonight?"

Or posting crude steel vultures with glowing red eyes at the top of his driveway, or scattering dozens of plastic cockroaches in his refrigerator, or setting a large, live hog loose in a friend's restaurant dining room.

At the same time, his accomplishments as a journalist and literary lion were monumental. He will be remembered with the likes of Twain and Mencken -- and should be.

What's Going On?

From Yahoo: which of these is not like the other one?

Phlegm with Authority

I haven't said much about Tom Waits' latest album, Real Gone, since its release last fall.  In fact, it took some time for me to warm to the album.  In most respects, it is typical of Waits' recent efforts, straying little from the stuff he's put out in the last decade or so.  But recently, the album has been getting heavy spin on my iPod.  Maybe it fits the mood of these shortened winter days of rain and gray, or perhaps the blues riffs provide a nice soundtrack to my recent nostalgia for sweet home Alabama.

I've been fascinated with Waits for some time now and I'm always eager to hear an interview with the man.  A recent one he did with American Routes is one of the better interviews I've heard with him in some time.  In it, he discusses his influences, the fact that he seems to be living his life backwards, "old man music," and the new album.  On the future of his music, he says, "I don't know.  Carrying it on I guess.  Breathing in, breathing out.  Keeping the music alive.  I listen to other people's music; I learned from it.  And I hope people listen to my stuff and learn from me.  So those are my dissertations."

Well worth twenty minutes of your day if you're a fan.

A Day of Spotting

NOAA never called.  I waited for their call, but it's hard to do storm spotting when you've got an ear out for the phone to ring.  I guess they have enough people eager to fire up their weather equipment so that they can monitor barometric pressure and humidity and wind velocity.  I have a thermometer and my eyes.

So today's storm was pretty typical of what one grows to expect from weather in Southern California:  moderate to heavy rain, wind gusts heavy at times, overly excited TV weathermen who wouldn't know a hook echo from verga, and lots of car wrecks.  Still, I didn't  hear one clap of thunder or see a single flash of lightning.  Thus, the event does not qualify as a thunderstorm in this certified weather spotter's opinion.

I documented {QT movie; no sound} some of the storm as the heaviest squalls moved into South Park just after noon. I'll be keeping this on my desktop for one of those mid-August days when it's been six months since the last drop of rain.  What good will my weather-spotter certificate be then?

Bush's Absurdity

Other than the fact that a man name Wead exposed G.W. Bush's past pot smoking (allegedly), I have a hard time giving a damn about the story.  On the other hand, I never thought I would hear the following four words come out of the man's mouth:  "Albert Camus said that..."  Strange days indeed.

Spot

I know some of you probably came here today because I mentioned on Friday that this site would be unrecognizable, hoping that instead of the generic design with the same old image of a cow field in California as the banner you would find an all new layout, perhaps a banner that wouldn't make you want to roll up the car windows to your mind.  Well, I'm sorry.  Let me just say that it wasn't from lack of trying.  I spent the better part of two days tinkering with templates, reading online help manuals, speaking and writing a language that I still don't comprehend, before I finally, at 7:51 p.m Pacific time,  nine minutes from a new Simpson's episode, gave up. 

If you had visited these parts between 6:38 and 6:41 p.m. last night, you would have seen the results of all of this work, a clunky layout with colors that clashed and text that required special glasses to read.  I realized at that point that I should leave the web designing to the people who can do it. 

Instead of wallowing in my inabilities, I decided to register as a NOAA weather spotter.  After scoring a mediocre 85 percent on the test (80 percent required to pass) I received this certificate.  Now I'll spend my President's Day spotting, or rather waiting for NOAA to call me to spot.  In any case, I'll be monitoring today's storm, regularly refreshing this page as I stare at the certificate to remind myself that I did accomplish something this weekend.

Gonzo Gone

Damn, damn, damn.  According to reports, Hunter S. Thompson killed himself.

Here's the Denver Post's story.

His final column was about a conversation with Bill Murray in which he discusses his newly invented sport, "shotgun golf."

Round and Round

My downstairs neighbor, a new immigrant from North Carolina, spent the afternoon watching the Daytona 500.  I know this because I asked, and because I could hear the drone of modified engines and the muffled accent of one Darrell or another as the race was being analyzed for all of the people who really want to know the intricacies of driving in a circle for five hundred miles.  I have no idea what the appeal of this "sport" is.  Despite being a Southerner--and by all rights, this is our pastime--I haven't the least interest in watching even if I were guaranteed a spectacular wreck every two laps.   My dad naps to NASCAR on Sundays and can tell you most of the drivers and what model car they drive, but thankfully, he hasn't stickered his car with his favorite's number.  Nor does he have the one with the cartoon character peeing on the Chevy symbol.  My dad just likes to nap and in his Sunday slumbers the process of osmosis has planted these names and stats, and perhaps the accent of a Darrell or two, into his brain. 

He long ago gave up discussing NASCAR with me. I guess you can see why.

Bored Bob

I wonder what the world would look like if Mr. Dylan had never taken up music.  Would he have made trigonometry appealing to the folk masses?:

I know there are groups at the top of the charts that are hailed as the saviours of rock'n'roll and all that, but they are amateurs. They don't know where the music comes from.  I wouldn't even think about playing music if I was born in these times... I'd probably turn to something like mathematics. That would interest me. Architecture would interest me. Something like that.

Waiting for the Storm

A Much Needed Infusion

If the good folks at TurboTax are correct, at some point during the day today, that which Caesar owes me and my wife will be automatically deposited into my account, meaning that instead of dinner at Denny's we might be able to upgrade to the Lobster Rojo tonight.  Nothing like the prospect of the Admiral's Feast and all of its fried food goodness to make up for a week of little sleep and too much work.  Not that I'm complaining.  And just because it's been a week of links:

--If you haven't already, check out Rake's recap of a Michael Chabon lecture.  And tell him I said hello.

--We'll be heading out to the desert in a few weeks to check out the desert bloom.  The San Diego U-T has a preview.  If you're in the area and want current observations from the Anza-Borrego State Park, call the blooming hotline at (760) 767-5311. 

--Must see video of a train smashing into a truck loaded with strawberries.

--The touring Kerouac scroll is discussed on NPR's All Things Considered.

--Feel like listening to some live music but don't want to leave the house? Check out pureLivegigs.  The Grandaddy show is worth the price of registration (free).  They do a nice cover of the Pixies' "Velouria."

--The Kings of Leon's new album will finally get its U.S. release on Tuesday.  If you can't wait, go here to listen to it in streaming form.  SoT recommended for a foot-stomping Friday.

--If all goes as planned, you won't recognize this place on Monday.  And I certainly hope that next week will be less about links and more about content.  You deserve that.

Time to Feed the Addiction

Finally, some good news.  Yahoo has opened registration for fantasy baseball. Like last year, I plan on forming a league, so if you're interested in getting in on the competition, leave a comment or drop me a line.  When the league is ready to go, I'll post a reminder.  Remember, we don't drug test.

Make It Stop

More random selections.  Work and insomnia are beating me down.  The three-day weekend can't get here fast enough.

--I have a lot to say about the cancellation of the NHL season, but does anyone care?  I've been surrounded by rabid sports fans my entire life, and I've known maybe one that actually followed hockey from opening night through the Stanley Cup playoffs.  Most of us hopped on the bandwagon sometime in March.  By that I mean that we would actually pay attention to the highlights on SportsCenter.  Now I guess we'll have to figure out something else to do with those five minutes.

--Remember the infamous Bartman ball?  You may recall that Harry Caray's restaurant purchased it and then blew it up in an effort to rid the Cubs of at least that part of its cursed history.  However, blowing it up wasn't quite good enough:  "Now, Harry Caray's plans to soak the ball's remnants in Budweiser and brew it up into a 'curse-ending sauce' that will be served on spaghetti to willing Cub fans next week."

--Super news!!!  Madonna's next album will have "a real hard rock feel to it."  Esther has been listening to and drawing inspiration from the rockin' sounds of the Darkness and Franz Ferdinand.  Can't wait.  {Somebody shoot me now.}

--"That genre is just dead as far as I am concerned."  George Michael quits the world of pop music.

--A San Diego talk-show yokel is offering $1,000 to anyone who will out a NAMBLA member. 

In Alabama, "Gay is the new black"

I admit to paying too much attention to the goings-on in the old birth state these days.  Mostly, I'm interested in the fact that despite having extreme difficulties coming up with the funds to properly educate its children, the state sees fit to legislate morality like its everybody's business.  At last count, there are three anti-gay bills before the state legislature.  Of course, there's the ubiquitous anti-gay marriage bill.  And we've all read about the proposal to ban gay lit and plays from public institutions.  But they're also debating a bill that would prevent gay couples from adopting children.  Wayne Flint, a professor of history at Auburn University, said it best:  "After getting about as much as we can out of demagoguery on race, gays are now the subject of choice."

Ode to Homer

Some of you may watch this video of the judging for top American Eskimo at the Westminster Kennel Club's dog show and think to yourself that one of those cute and cuddly balls of hair would make a great pet, that they seem so full of personality, that one of them would keep you entertained well into your golden years.  While you could do worse, let me just say that the American Eskimo is a breed that needs to be approached with caution.  I speak from experience.

My American Eskimo, Homer, was an accident.  Elaine and I had no intentions of getting another dog.  We had a seven year old lab-husky mix and she was the perfect companion. Then we decided to visit a pet store, mostly with the intention of just browsing, killing some time. That's when we spotted this.  I warned Elaine not to pet him, not to take him out of his cage,  not to hold him.  She did all three. Six hundred dollars in three easy installments later we were the proud parents of a miniature American Eskimo.  No research of the breed, no consideration of the fact that we lived in a one bedroom apartment and that both of us worked full-time jobs.  He sucked us in with his beady little eyes, that afro of white fur, and the gentle wag of his tail.

Now four years into our Homer experience, I wouldn't trade him for anything (well, almost anything).  There are a few things about him that make him special.  Allow me to share:

A Million Little Projects

The self-proclaimed best writer of his generation, James Frey, author of the memoir A Million Little Pieces, will write the screen adaptation of Jake Coburn's Prep.*  It appears that Frey has been busy.  According to the same Variety article:

He's adapting [A Million Little Pieces] into a screenplay for Warner Bros...

[In addition] Frey is developing a TV pilot for 20th Century Fox and has written another book, "My Friend Leonard," a sequel to "A Million Little Pieces" that's due to be published in June.

{Story originally spotted on Televator, perhaps the only thing I've ever found useful on the elevator ride up to my office.}

* Not to be confused with the Prep discussed here.

Calm Before the Storm

Thanks to my futile efforts at catching up with work from the paying job over the weekend, I'm now up to my eyebrows in due and overdue tasks.  That said, this week at SoT might be one of hastily put together posts full of unorganized links.  Mostly stuff that I'm going to bookmark for myself to read when the flood waters recede and my life regains some semblance of calm.

--There goes the neighborhood.  I'm not sure if she'll be able to mine much vampire material out here like she did in the Crescent City, but there are definitely plenty of mummies and other stiffs in La Jolla.

--Some of you may remember that last year I spent a good two weeks of my life reading Infinite Jest and blogging about it.  That was nothing.  Michael Standaert is attempting to read all 3,352 pages of William Vollmann's  7-volume Rising Up and Rising Down, and he's going to blog his efforts.  I wish him luck. {via Conversational Reading}

--SoT recommends:  Clem Snide's new album, End of Love, comes out next Tuesday.  As a courtesy, the band has made one song, "Fill Me With Your Light," available for download.  I would also recommend checking out this live cover of Neil Young's "Albuquerque." {reminder from the always full of great things crabwalk}

--Also from crabwalk (scroll to the bottom of the post):  Some links to a few covers performed by the Decemberists, including this one of Echo & the Bunnymen's "Bring on the Dancing Horses."

--As if Maud wasn't already a favorite in these parts, now she's gone and supplied us with a link to a pimento cheese spread recipe.  Let me just say that one of the things I miss most about living in the South is the availability of p.c.  Out here, I've seen it in the grocery store once.  Must have been a special order for another Southerner because it soon disappeared from the shelf.  If you're wondering, nothing beats a pimento cheese sandwich (except maybe pickled okra).