look there

down on the bottom.


no, a little further.


keep going.


look down, i said.


don't laugh, it's alphabetical.


just a little further.


hey, what's this? i know that guy. that guy on the bottom. we're friends.

p-fork and the big R

Okay, image analysis.

First, note the cute little parody here: empty boxes followed by a question mark. Ah, just like the website, you say. The one where you paid next-to-nothing for an album that... well, we'll get to that later.



Next up: More of the same.

Last: the twist. Oh, you clever people. Can't resist putting your stamp of approval on the thing, can you?

So what does this add up to? Substitution of style over substance? Cute referentiality that serves only as self-congratulation? Adulation of the political statement of the release (Yorke and Radiohead stick it to the man, as personified by the record label)?

I submit to you that these images add up to all of the above, and more.

But first, the album.

In a word or two, it is mundane. Wait, that wasn't quite right. Unlistenable. No, not that either. In Rainbows is a tame and rather trite effort from a band that you expect to give you more. Better.

But what sort of more?

Well, the sort of more that they always give--the reinvention of self, the same old soul-searching presented with enough self-deprecation and cynicism and paranoia to make it palatable.

Listening to In Rainbows is like getting that paper from the smart student (the one who actually talks in class) only to discover that they, too, wrote the thing at four in the morning, and it shows.

Boy does it ever show.

From the chincy tapping drums on Weird Fishes/Arpeggi, to the incoherent electro-junk drums of 15-step, the whole thing sounds like somebody's fourth grade brother stepped in behind the kit. This, though for me the most grevious offense, may not be evident to everyone. So let's look at the level of listenabilty.

Ah, yes. Do I remember a single hook on the album? Was there any lead-in that blew my mind? Were there any memorable lines? No, no, and no.

But what about the culmination of the songs, you say. Don't the big R eschew traditional song structures for a build-up that pays off toward the end of the song? Don't kid yourself; if you want build-up, go listen to mogwai.

So come on, P-fork. You can give the album a failing grade, or even a middle-of-the-road vote. But a 9.3? That's just admitting the truth: somebody is acting like a schill, all for the anti-label indieness of the release.

Please, for the sake of your own credibility, cut the hyperbole and call the album what it is: radiohead doing radiohead. An imitation of the real thing.

sleep

.















.

because

you can't stay away. here is part two. the great picture debate. parts three, and possibly four, forthcoming.

get sucked in here.

night

as in three readings in one night. busy. busy. busy.

but not bad.

charles d 'ambrosio.

and a pair of former a2 residents.

one of whom got a write up in the times just today.

anyway, always interesting to meet people who have published. and widely, at that.

babble babble babble. babble babble.

king

so it may seem weird, but i think i am developing a sort of fondness for stephen king. of course, when i say king i mean his books, but not necessarily the white-bread horror that he does so well. turns out the man can write engaging material that isn't all shock and awe.

i just finished the shawshank redemption, which moved well enough, although reading something after having seen the movie, no matter how long ago, is always a struggle against the residual images in your mind--king's narrator is a red-haired irishman who bears no resemblance to morgan freeman.

king also managed to bail me out of a slump near the start of the semester with his book on writing, creatively titled just that. he has a sort of appealing blue-collar aesthetic, and openly admits that while he doesn't write literary stuff, he can appreciate it, and frequently does, as the forthcoming best american collection shows.

king's opinion on the literary nature of his writing may have changed somewhat in recent years, though it is likely the way people look at him is what really has undergone a shift. i haven't read his latest, but it was reviewed in the times and its literary nature, for king at least, was one of the subjects bandied about. so yeah. the master of macabre. the henchman of horror. the pusher of poltergeist. and a challenging, prolific, and bestselling writer. would that we all had those problems.

poetry on the air

remember when people used to show up to listen to poetry? yeah, me neither. that was before my time. but still, look at the crowd ginsberg draws here at this reading of howl at washington square in 1966. you still can't listen to howl on the radio, though. some things never change.

...and then this happened

well, you can't have everything all of the time. but some of the time, you can, if you look at it the right way. so even though our house looked like this after we managed to get nash to sleep one of the past few marathon nights, we still felt something like elation when he slept for 7 hours. hey, i'd push a broom around all day for that kind of sleep schedule.

let me also say that i am nearing exhaustion, or perhaps am far past it, teaching undergrads composition, which isn't a subject i ever knew anything about, anyway. let's just say that the papers are driving me crazy.

in other, happier, areas of life, it seems that the master of macabre, old stephen-who-can't-spell-his-first-name-right king is the editor of the best american short stories this year, and he picked a story from ye olde director of my mfa program. so look for it when the volume comes out soon: the bris, by eileen pollack.

last. the writing. slow going. fragments everywere. completion nowhere. 50 pages due by mid-november. only 15 logged. drama on the horizon.

Fenton

one man.

two images.

a title as forbidding as possible:
the valley of the shadow of death.

the crimean war.

and a controversy about the photos themselves.

enough said.

wrote a single-sentence email exceeding 300 words to no one and sent it, after much thought, to myself. rants are best kept to yourself unless you really want some else thinking about you in that particular sort of manic way that is naturally part of a rant.

had the most productive day of my short writing career sandwiched by two of the least. will not even begin to speak of this occurence.

flattered self that i was managing the obscene level of work the new semester demands, but stopped short of believing it.

hoped that no one will read or believe any of the material found in this dog-eared lost book, then thought better of it.

notch in the belt

meaning workshop, of course. my story went up and was treated kindly, constructively, if that is at all possible. came out of it with a lot of new ideas and direction for the piece. it took no more than the use flak for the second-person pov, so i won't complain there. so--now i don't have to workshop a thing until nov.

joy. utter. joy.

where do we come from, why are we here, where are we going?

tomorrow = first day of teaching

i know. I know. 

but there isn't anything i can do about it now. i am about as ready as i can be, which is good, i suppose, since i am about to be in charge of helping 18 freshman limp along the way to producing better prose. 

also, i'd better be prepared today--i teach at the very unforgiving time of 8:30-10:00 am. 

wish me luck. 

2 day teaching conference under my belt. feeling supremely confident in my insecurity as i begin to teach class next week. 

An untitled study for “Son of Gone Fishin,” by Donald Judd. (1981. Watercolor on paper.)

nonfiction

this telling the truth business is refreshing as anything. 

no fear of anyone calling your bluff, because you aren't bluffing. 

if they do call, you shove the cards down their throat. 

on second thought, it seems that nonfiction doesn't help with those tendencies toward sporadic violence. 

ah, the bittersweet kiss of rejection has--wait, something's off about that...

oh, right. nothing sweet about it. 

well then, the bitter kiss of rejection has struck again. 

learn to live with it, not to love it, but to deal. 

notes on fabrication, pt. 1

- don't go with prefab. stale old lies, even those that have worked in previous situations, are easy to spot. always go with fresh on-the-spot inventions. 

- the more inflammatory, the better. your opponent will be less likely to call your bluff if your lies seem impossibly outrageous. you can go too far with this, though, so be sure to test the waters of credulity before you go big. 

- mix a bit of truth with that escargot. this is a long-standing principle, as seen in children's games such as "two truths and a lie." you will find it is harder to spot a lie when artfully blended with fragments that really happened. 

- believe it, fervently. the easier it is for you to buy your own words, the sooner others will follow suit. 

- never, ever reveal what is or isn't true. like a magician, true practitioners of the art don't spill the secret workings of their tricks.

given a pecan log roll tonight. who knew those things were good? in fact, who knew those things even existed? my poor, sheltered life.

this is similar to an earlier experience i had with sopaipillas. don't ask me how people know about these things. they must live richer, unsheltered lives.