The Avalanche Continues!

Dearest Blatherscopians, the Summer thus far has been unkind to me--Sickness has been the chasm dividing Me from My Best Self (aka, all the crap I've been waiting to do when the weather got better). Like so many dark times in my life, I have been heartened by a glimmer: the light of books. As I have vowed since the time of this blog's inception (nigh on four months), I shall discharge my full Reflections herein.

1) Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh--A wistful, yet unsentimental, remembrance of an Age with which modern Americans have little-to-no shared history: the dwindling life of the English Aristocracy in the days between WWI & II. Waugh's bitingly funny and skilled descriptions of this too-recent time of yore succeed when dealing with Humanity, but due to my ignorance of the aristocracy, I am afraid that I missed many of Waugh's intended reflections upon the workings of Grace in such a family. I found the prose elegantly tight, but the story felt lumpy to me--the dichotomy of narrator Charles' love for brother and sister Sebastien and Julia was misshapen , at times under-emphasized only to come to the fore with staggering zeal, then be shunted off again, barely worth commenting on. In this way, his characters were not so much dynamic as re-written every few chapters.Definitely worth the read, but overall it felt more like a visit to a museum than a transforming experience.

2.) Outlander by Diana Gabaldon--This is Book #1 of a (so-far) 7 book series combining historical romance, adventure, and a hint of sci-fi. And the series is HUGELY popular--Over 1,200 folks have taken the time to give their recommendation of this book on Amazon.com, averaging 4.25 stars. But I'm here to tell You, intelligent Readers, this is horrible shite.
General complaints: cardboard characters whose motives are paper-thin, belabored dialogue (alternating between ridiculously flowery and just plain ridiculous), overly descriptive scene setting that veers away from plot propulsion, and a wasteful (not to mention unbelievable) plot.
Specific complaints: I don't know about You, but I, for one, have a hard time believing that (a) a married WWII nurse sucked backed to mid-1700s Scotland could keep her wits in such a situation, so much so that can "move on" with her life, and four weeks later marry another man, and that (b) despite loving her first husband, she can gleefully abandon herself to her new husband (resulting in--I'm not kidding!--over 200 pages of sexual encounters, just during the honeymoon phase), feeling no twinge of regret or pain or loss, and that (c) this so-called marriage is held up to be the union of two souls in a Grand Passion, particularly when new husband is "forced to discipline" her; she fights, but the book graphically describes him overpowering and beating her, and that (d) this "modern" woman understands that this violence is only the result of the clash of two time-cultures, and so she forgives new husband and a day after the beating they are back in the sack; the plot only gets better from here. Suffice it to say, there's a lot of rape and attempted rape and then "healing" by way of cathartic-reenactment-of rape. Oh, yes.
What the popularity of these books means to society: we are all doomed, and too stupid to realize it. How in the hiz-ell can anyone be attracted to this kind of book as an entertainment, a wishful romance of a different life? WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH WOMEN THAT THEY THINK THIS IS THE HEIGHT OF ROMANCE? I think Natural Selection has some work to do.

Freaky Animals Gettin' It ON: Another Sign of the Pending Apocalypse

Q: What does one call the foal of a mule?
A: No one knows--there's never been one before!
[Cue "impending doom" music.]

If this IS some kind of devil-donkey from demonic regions, I think I'm OK. I met Satan (or at least one of his closest followers) last weekend; he was really nice. I met him at the outdoor cafe of Ringler's Annex, just up the street from Powell's; some friends and I were sobering up when SatanMan sat down next to us with his gigantic black bulldog. His dog immediately curled up on my feet, so we got to talking. SatanMan has two large conical protuberances under the skin of his forehead (á la barely concealed horns), a long black goatee, and a floppy black plastic mustache inserted at the base of his nose. Also, his ears had been pierced so that the auditory canal was protected by a pentagram. No tail was visible, but he had lots of chains and spikes projecting from random parts of his clothing. Sweet dude, SatanMan.

There's No Place Like...Prison?

Former Philippines First Lady Imelda Marcos was personally responsible for capturing 4,000+ pairs of shoes; it appears that, like Dorothy, the legacy of Imelda's outlandish footwear has Transformative Powers. How else to explain Prison!: The Musical, complete with 1.9 million YouTube following?

Yes, that's right: the prisons are turning everyday into a musical for the murderers, rapists, thieves and their ilk. And that's a Good Thing. Everyday free exercise time is now poured into three hours of intense dance rehearsal, featuring songs from Sister Act, Michael Jackson, and others. Prison officials report a marked decline in violent behavior and greater success by former inmates once released back into society. Who says The Arts aren't important for the health of Society?

Comic-Con(fusion)

I'd just like to give a Shout Out to MGF* Deeluxegal, currently braving the tens of thousands of comic-crazed fans at Comic-Con '07. She is there to reprise her 2006-premiered role of "Barrista Girl," the saucy heroine of the opera based on Shannon Wheeler's cult comic Too Much Coffee Man. I hope she is seeing lots of Vulcans and Caped Wonders and Aliens, but with five shows in three days, I doubt she has time for much. But, golly, wouldn't it be exciting if she meets Joss!

Speaking of comics, I've read quite a few in the last month, and now, as is my due, I should like to reflect upon these story-vessels.

Hellboy, the collected comics, v.1-4 by Pdx dude Mike Mignola--Long ennobled with the title "Masterpiece", the Hellboy series is a much beloved (and awarded!) industry fave.
What I loved: the art--arresting and evocative, magnificent use of a very limited color scheme.
What I liked: the concept--a deformed imp adopted into mainstream American life; as per traditional comic lore, Hellboy (our lovable demonic hero) comes equipped with untold Powers and Possibilities--will they save the world? Or bring on Armageddon?
What I disliked: the shortcuts taken in both character development and general narrative; sometimes a picture is NOT worth a thousand words. Or a mere hundred. If they are the right hundred.
What this all means: Solid, engaging tale, but I prefer to reserve the title of "Masterpiece" for things that not only outstrip their current competition, but that elevate every aspect of the work.

Alias**, the collected comics, v.1-4 by Brian Michael Bendis--In 2002, Marvel Comics launched its first-ever "R-Rated" series about your average ex-superhero-turned-P.I., Jessica Jones. In truly subtle comic book form, Marvel announces the rating-raise from the first word: "Fuck."
What I loved: the character of Jessica was nuanced, tough yet womanly, and drawn fairly realistically (i.e. her boobs were relative to the size of her body). Also, wonderful use of a variety of art techniques to highlight different times/experiences in Jessica's life.
What I liked: characters were dynamic, and the stories spun traditional superhero mythology into a totally believable world.
What I disliked: the art--particularly when trying to convey deep, penetrating glances, but the faces just looked frozen or hung-over--sometimes left me a bit confused.
What this all means: a mature take on the superheros of childhood; very worthy way to kill some time.

Fray by Joss Whedon--Continuing the saga of Slayers vs. Vampires 500 years after viewers last left Buffy.
What I loved: Um, well...I'm a bit prejudiced when it comes to all things Buffy-Joss. So, despite the comic's many flaws, it was kind-of impossible for me not to love it. C'mon. It's JOSS.
What I liked: the art and story complemented each other well. I also loved how Joss kinda wipes the slate clean--because of Buffy's Season 7 actions, the world is a very different place for our new heroine. And to save the world, Fray has to face her own past. Ya gotta love a hook like that (at least if You're into pseudo-psychology, like Freud-lite).
What I disliked: some plot developments are a leeetle tooo obvious--we don't have any nifty music or camera pans to offer any Red Herrings.
What this all means: I heart Joss. And his mighty creations. Heart. Them. So. Much.

*My Good Friend, 'natch.
**No relation to J.J. Abrams' awesome-then-stupid TV show of the same name.

I'll Take Passion Over Perfection Any Day of the Week

What captivates me in this video is the audience response. Here is a man with a moderate amount of talent (note: not a great talent, and little skill) risking it all for the chance to sing "Nessun dorma*" on Britain's Got Talent. You can see the judges and audience brace themselves when Mr. Potts announces that he is there to sing opera. By the time he is halfway through his selection, however, members of the audience are visibly weeping, others are cheering, whistling, and clapping, the deliciously snippy Simon Cowell is beaming. It is thrilling.

Opera (like all Serious--aka "Classical"--music) is said to be dying. Despite sexy marketing schemes aimed to "widen" the support base, audiences consist of old, white people. The general public doesn't seem to give a damn. Yet time and time again, I have witnessed a profound awakening when people are exposed to the raw emotion of Serious music, so often hid behind Hype and Hyperbole.

Hubby and I grew up in households that cherished Serious music, and these traditions were lovingly shared with us by our parents. Others of our friends did not. 15-year-old Hubby once brought home a school friend who had been raised on 70s & 80s metal; while they were hanging out, Hubby's father turned on some background music. It was Beethoven's Appassionata Sonata. Hubby noticed his friend had grown quiet; his friend's face was covered with tears. "Why didn't anyone ever tell me?" Friend asked. "How could there be this kind of beauty in the world and no one ever told me?" Later, in college, Hubby had a neighbor heavily into rap. After turning on Coolio's latest album, Neighbor burst out of his room, hollering to any one who would listen, "Man, are you listening to this shit?! Coolio is a fuckin' genius, man! I'd like to see someone else come up with this shit!" The song was "C U When U Get There," with Coolio rapping his own text over Pachelbel's Canon in D**.

So what is The Problem? Is it the Mystification of Serious music? Is it Snobbery on the part of over-zealous guardians? Is it the Disdainment of "Intellectualism" on the part of an ostracized public? How can we cut through the Bullshit and get straight to the Passion?

*"Nessun dorma" is THE most famous Tenor aria, period. It comes from the final act of Puccini's Turandot, when the character of Calaf battles wits with the princess, who attempts to discover her suitor's true identity. Translation (via the score):
No one shall sleep! Even you, o Princess, in your cold room, watch the stars, that tremble with love and with hope. But my secret is hidden within me, my name no one shall know... No!...No!... On your mouth I will tell it when the light shines. And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine!...You, I will win!

**You know, the one that always gets played at weddings.

The "W" Stands For "Wow"

One week ago, our President was schmoozing in Nashville, TN, the glitzy, trailer-park home of Country, when a question about music surprised him:

Q: Mr. President, music is one of our largest exports the country has. Currently, every country in the world -- except China, Iran, North Korea, Rwanda and the United States -- pay a statutory royalty to the performing artists for radio and television air play. Would your administration consider changing our laws to align it with the rest of the world?

THE PRESIDENT: Help. (Laughter.) Maybe you've never had a President say this -- I have, like, no earthly idea what you're talking about. (Laughter and applause.) Sounds like we're keeping interesting company, you know? (Laughter.)

Look, I'll give you the old classic: contact my office, will you? (Laughter.) I really don't -- I'm totally out of my lane. I like listening to country music, if that helps. (Laughter.)

Better Than "Co-lonoscopy Pie"

I heart the Wunderteam of Red State Update. Having grown up in the Hoosierland, these characters are near and dear to me. (Thank you to VideoDog!)

An Avalanche Of Books

For those of You who don't know, I've had this nasty sicko thing going on for quite a while now; I haven't been able to sing for 4 weeks, and am due to perform next week. Being the Neurotic Singer that I am, I went straight to the doc, who then confined me to vocal rest for the next few days. She also assigned steroids, enough that I might have to start waxing my chest.

In the meantime, I thought now might be a nice bit of time to, je ne sais pas, actually blather in my Blatherscope. So here goes: BOOKS!!!!

1. True History of the Kelly Gang by Peter Carey--Cutting to the chase, I adored this book. This is very close to that most illusive of all art-forms: a Perfect Book. Winner of the 2001 Booker Prize, Carey gives us Lucky Readers the "autobiography" of 19th-century Australia's most notorious outlaw, Ned Kelly. Accounting his life for his baby daughter, Ned begins, "I lost my own father at 12 yr. of age and know what it is to be raised on lies and silences my dear daughter you are presently too young to understand a word I write but this history is for you and will contain no single lie may I burn in Hell if I speak false." Carey sweeps the Reader away in the wonderfully athletic language, phrasing, and punctuation (or lack thereof) of a man on the run because of following his own honor. At the age of 14 1/2, Ned is arrested:

"Did I know he [the constable] asked me what were the penalty if I were convicted.
No.
It is death by hanging you little eff.[*]
Many more times would death be pronounced over me but on this 1st occasion I were least prepared I could hear some boys playing cricket in the yard across the road also the regular chink chink chink of a nearby blacksmith at his forge. My legs must of give way beneath me but I didnt realise I were sitting down till I felt the crib's cold hard cleats behind my knees.
Then I heard the mongrel laugh I couldn't see him properly no more than the white of his teeth the reflection in his big bug eyes but as he laughed I knew him weak and thus were comforted."

Carey, however, packages his narrative in documentary detachment, describing each of Ned's "parcels" (conveniently used as chapter divisions) of writing scraps by type of paper used, presumed writing utensil, and how (if) it was bound, followed by a brief, clinical summation of the parcel's contents. "PARCEL ONE: His Life until the Age of 12. National Bank letterhead....There are 45 sheets of medium stock (8"x10" approx.) with stabholes near the top where at one time they were crudely bound....Contains accounts of his early relations with police including an accusation of transvestism....A story explaining the origins of the sash presently held by the Benalla Historical Society. Death of John Kelly." Other "documents" form the untitled pro- and epilogues, giving the epistles the surreal tinge of bureaucratic filing, adding a thick sense of horror to how government deals with life.

An amazing feat of fiction. But be sure to brush up on your Australian slang:)

2. The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan--Haunting, infuriating, passionate, inspiring: this is the story of The Dust Bowl, those who survived it, and those who did not. Egan's heartrending prose justly earned him the National Book Award for non-fiction last year. This book was humbling--how could I not know about this disaster? I mean, I knew It was a part of The Great Depression (from which we are less than 80 years removed, Blatherscopians!), I knew some of America's land was extra dusty for a while, and I knew John Steinbeck wrote his searing The Grapes Of Wrath ** about a family escaping from It, but....I had no idea the magnitude of the actual disaster; I am appalled and in awe.

"A Sunday in mid-April 1935 dawned quiet, windless, and bright. In the afternoon, the sky went purple--as if it were sick--and the temperature plunged. People looked northwest and saw a ragged-topped formation on the move, covering the horizon. The air crackled with electricity. Snap. Snap. Snap. Birds screeched and dashed for cover. As the black wall approached, car radios clicked off, overwhelmed by the static. Ignitions shorted out. Waves of sand, like ocean water rising over a ship's prow, swept over roads. Cars went into ditches. A train derailed....
That was Black Sunday, April 14, 1935, day of the worst duster of them all. The storm carried twice as much dirt as was dug out of the earth to create the Panama Canal. The canal took seven years to dig; the storm lasted a single afternoon. More than 300,000 tons of Great Plains topsoil was airborne that day."

The story of The Dust Bowl is Homeric tragedy: how Human Ingenuity turned to Hubris and stripped millions of acres of earth bare within two generations; the earth has just to recover as thousands of acres of the former Great Plains remain a drifting desert of sand. Oh....ARG!!! There are so many amazing parts of this history, but I don't want to spoil any of it. This book is both Good and Important (how often do those two adjectives coincide, eh?); I highly recommend it (on the High-O-Meter, it gets an 11/11).

Exclamation point!

Aww, crap, I have to leave for rehearsal soon. I will continue with the Avalanche of Books when I return. Until then, gentle Readers, meditate on balloon animals. Or whatever.

*Because the memoir is writing for his daughter, Ned refuses to use the actual swear words; instead, he says things like, "Get away from my adjectival horse, you b------d!" His faithfulness to this convention endeared him to me--that bit of stubborn protection made the character all the more human.
**Steinbeck's masterpiece has recently been turned into an opera by Ricky Ian Gordon. And I cannot believe it is any good--Steinbeck's story is already operatic, it doesn't need the extra schmaltz of Gordon's over-cooked melodies. Gordon is essentially a Musical Theater composer who wishes he had the grandiose vision for opera--but he doesn't.

Debussy Lives!

Arguably the ONLY Impressionist composer, Claude Debussy (1862-1918) created scads of heavily notated and editorialized works. Yet like so many hypocrites (and I mean You!), it turns out he did not Practice What He Preached. Tsk, tsk, Monsieur. Je ne comprends pas pourquoi on écritons la musique que on ne voulons pas suivre. Bien, c'est l'emploi de l'imagination, n'est-ce pas?

Faux Shame

I can't imagine this life.

Do The Sci-Fi Jive!

It seems like Sci-Fi has long been the realm of the Geeks: well, move over Geeks, 'cuz the Nerds are movin' in on your AstroStarTurf.* Only the Geeks have given such a bad name to the genre (here I am invoking images of skinny, pimple-headed boys lusting after purple alien mutants with big tits) that the Nerds refuse to acknowledge that they are even in the same hemisphere. This article from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer ** notes the rising popularity of once-marginalized "Science" Fiction--cheesy TV, movies, and books are now Television classics, Films, and Literature--then asking if this signals The End of Sci-Fi as the Geeks know it. From the new Battlestar Galactica to Serenity to Michael Cunningham's Specimen Days, Nerds are elevating the geeky discourse, transforming cardboard characters into real friends and foes, refusing to let a strange or otherworldly setting take the place of an actual story. Now, if You're like me (and I know You are, my loverly Blatherscopians!), You are wondering, "Would it be such a bad thing if it were The End?" I, for one, would never wish an End to the wonderfully awkward community of Imaginators creating new realms with their minds--it's the awkward part I would like to see made graceful. Gracefulness comes from comfort--comfort with one's self, one's mental capacities, and one's society. This requires the courage to examine one's self and current world in the hope to understand it, and possibly change it. Science ain't nothin' without Heart.

*Geeks have a vast depth of knowledge in a subject or area, usually related to the possibilities of science/mathematics/computers/military history/other inane, highly specific areas of history; this often borders on psychotic obsession. Geeks are marked by a lack of knowledge of current social convention (although many are fluent in Klingon dining habits or Arthurian jousting rules), including fashion, slang, and nominal conversational skills. Nerds are very similar to Geeks in interests, but have the general command of social skills and better hygiene. Also, due to this increased social awareness, Nerds will also champion the more artistic aspects of applied science, math, history, etc. in the form of the Arts/Lit/Poetry/Drama/Music/Dance, etc. Geeks might be among us, but Nerds ARE us.
**Does that seem like a horrible name for a paper to anyone else? As in, "the intelligence in Seattle is finished, done, kaput"?

Sock-Puppets: No Longer The Innocent Pastime of Innocent Children

...Or even those annoying Fandango commercials. Now it's the domain of assholes on the Internet who create "a fake online identity to praise, defend or create the illusion of support for one’s self, allies or company." This isn't illegal (nor should it be, unless they are spreading lies to boost stock sales or some such nonsense), it's just embarrassing--how lame and insecure do you have to be to converse with your own alias in order to stroke your Ego? Par example: according to The NY Times, John Mackey, founder of Whole Foods, "wrote as Rahodeb, 'I like Mackey’s haircut. I think he looks cute!'”

*Picture brazenly stolen from the blog/site of Pdx artist Khris Soden, whose stuff is awesome! Check it out! (I will, of course, remove artwork immediately, if asked.)

Sump'than Purty

Hey, Blatherscopians, ya know how I, like, like books? This exhibit* shows off some lovely forays into Book Making, including this book-box by Sue Allen, an artist from our very own Oregon. Ms. Allen captured 16 moments over 4 seasons in our very own Portland Japanese Gardens and committed them to these wonderful screen prints. The rest of the exhibit is full of fun thangs, like 3D books shaped like owls. Be sure to hop over for a quick peek.

*Thanks to Bookgirl for the link.

Paying for Procreation

This gets a big "Hmmm..." from me..... The money goes solely to mothers, rather than families? What about average education/income of the sponsored mothers? Children of immigrants born on German soil are NOT considered citizens, and the citizenship process is lengthy and expensive, so this appears to entice "native" (i.e. Aryan) women to reproduce. The whole thing smacks of Orwellian Baby Farming. Don't get me wrong: I am a big supporter of government subsidies for children's' health care and education, as well as tax breaks for families (whatever the family make-up may be). It just seems like Germany is trying to combat a dwindling population of natural citizens by buying the wombs of the poor and undereducated.

The Decider Decides To Forsake Children

Plant this pretty little Bush in your garden and watch it grow! No Child Left Behind, unless Said Child can't pay out $250-$600/mo privately. Yes, friends & countrymen, this man is Divinely Inspired to do What's Best For Our Country.

Bitchin' Witches Rock!

I know many of you Blatherscopians have been Harry Potter fans since The Beginning; well, The End is nigh, and signs of its Apocalypse are among us: the 5th movie just opened in theaters (very pretty, I must say), actor-embodiment Daniel Radcliffe is old enough to show his Harry Potter in public, and wizards are branching into the Magic of Music. If you think punk rock is Magical.

Harry and the Potters, Draco and the Malfoys, The Whomping Willow, and The Remus Lupins all try to cast a spell on You with songs such as "Smoochey Smoochey Pukey Pukey" and "In Which Draco Malfoy Cries Like A Baby." This is an incredible punk-lit-music-nerd movement, the like of which has not been seen since...well, Wagner, actually. I heart the nerdy adoration of literature. Especially nerdy adoration that spills out as song.

THE Must-Have Summer Reading List of the Year

...comes from The Onion, of course! Whether you are an atheist gynophobe, a devotee to nudie photojournalism, or are into historical fiction that re-visions the last generation of male mass-murders as sexy ladies, this list is For You.

Remember Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Books?

They just got a grown-up, pop-art twist*. Stenciled all over the sidewalks of San Fransisco's Mission district is a love story told in stammering snatches. You, the Reader, control the Fate of this he/she romance. "She Loves The Moon" (by art collective The Strangers) begins in two separate locations--either "She leaves her lonely apartment" or "He leaves his lonely apartment"--the characters will eventually meet, but events pull them apart; they have a chance for happiness later, but... [dum-da-dum-dum-Dum!] anything can happen in a choose-your-own-adventure.

I heart this idea! I kinda want to do this to my driveway/garden path. Probably won't, though: the Laziness always wins.

*Thanks to SiLLee for putting me in The Know!

Double Your Pleasure

That phrase really does sound dirty, doesn't it? Anyway, check out this lost marvel of the 1920s: a Steinway piano constructed with a double keyboard. (The Times link also has a brief video of it actually being played. And this link gives more info about the thang actually works.) I love this kind of crap! The Impossible is Possible when one dares to dream! Huzzah for the Human Spirit!

Hiatus Happens

O Blatherscopians, my Blatherscopians! Can you forgive a 2-week snub? Like any other Petulant Supplicant, I have excuses to offer: Illness and Heat have me assailed. Forgive my pomposity; I am in a ridiculous production of Purcell's ridiculous 17th-century opera Dido & Aeneas--the appalling libretto (of the first English opera ever) is rife with phrases such as: "and make not in a hopeless fire a hero fall." I play the hapless hero--that's right, I'm a Big Boy now! This production, despite its gorgeous voices, makes me to incredibly frustrated that I have a hard time remembering that the rest of the world is Good.

Then I go home and read about the latest antics of the Bush Administration and the waves of despair almost crush me.

Yet Beauty remains in our ravaged world--a new Caravaggio has been identified; yesterday's sunset was magnificent; my dogs are still sweet--so I think I shall keep my chin held high for another Day.