Spring

I am forgetful in some ways. I forget how beautiful each season is, and I only remember once the season sprouts, thrives, wilts, or perseveres again, year after year. I am thankful for this forgetfulness.

The accumulation of years doesn't seem so bad right now. I feel like I learn a little bit more very year; Within the past year I've learned my way around a harmonica, how to bake french bread, how to pass the time when your landlady is insane and you have no money. Our avian friends become a little more known to me each year, as I struggle to label and file each of their unique songs, calls, and manners. Though understanding is permanently scarce, each year brings on more accumulation. This is a consolation.

I wish this was the case for everyone.

My Uncle is going back to prison. He was released not two years ago, and got into construction work shortly thereafter. As the need for construction work has slowed (and rightfully so), he accrued more time and less money. He sought old connections, threads to his not-too-distant lifestyle. And he started doing speed again. He was arrested two mornings ago, on the way back from an early morning (3 am) fishing trip.

I can't imagine what it's like to feel this desperate. My uncle's family was fucked before he ever had time to form. A cheat for a father and a mother too afraid to point out faults. He yearned for escape, he saw none, and he turned inward. He is no angel, and scarcely even a nice man. But I know he cried like a baby when I visited him in prison when I was eight (I offered to sneak a model car kit in for him. He was a serious auto-enthusiast, fitting for a motorhead). We talked about greek mythology the few times we talked at all; the fantastic exploits and the keenly human faults of the Olympians comforted him immensely.

It is blankly unfair that he will have to spend more time in prison for his self-inflicted wounds. I hate drugs, and I think my Uncle should have thorough and strict rehabilitation. But that won't be what happens. He will be thrown in a cage, told to behave, and forgotten.

The politicans and self-described pillars of our society would undoubtedly decry men like my Uncle. He has had children that he has not cared for, and they have followed his crooked path. His son is in prison. He is hardly friendly or admirable, but I can't help but stand by him.

The beauty of this spring throws my Uncle's imprisonment onto even greater relief. He is 62. I hope he makes it.

Concerning Mr. Bourdain

If I ever wrote a letter to Anthony Bourdain, it would look a lot like this:

Dear Tony,

This letter mostly concerns your claim that Veganism/Vegetarianism is a 1st world lifestyle, insinuating that I must live in a pleasure palace of cushy diversity, eating a cute little starfruit one day, a prickly pear the next, all the while behaving as if I do no harm and am holier than thou.

I guess I understand where you picked this attitude up. I've never met any myself, but I'm sure that prickley, snooty vegans exist out there. I hear about them on television programs, and it seems like every sit com features a wacky fun time psychic/vegan/new age-y character. I suppose it's easy to assume that these folks are it. Or maybe you've gathered that all vegans unanimously worship PETA, an organization so infantile and reactionary that we could easily both hate them (for different reasons, of course) together.

But regardless, Tony, you're going to have to accept that there are other kinds of vegans out there. I don't care what people around me eat--it's really no concern of mine. I think PETA is an irresponsible institution, seeking to guilt children into accepting a lifestyle that they don't really understand, maybe leading to health problems.

I do despise factory farming, though, and for all the ruckus you make about individuals carving out their own niche, it seems like you would hate it more too.

You would like to imagine that I would burn your house down for eating foie gras, but honestly Tony, I don't give a fuck. Eat a still-beating cobra heart for all I care, you're clearly okay with the decisions that you make. Maybe don't try so hard to be concerned with the ones that I make.

I've never spent summers in France. I don't dine at fancy restaurants. I don't dine at fast food joints. I'll probably never find my way to rural China to have a small banquet thrown in my honor. But if I do, You can be certain that I'll eat whatever they give me. I don't think that eating animals is inherently wrong. I just think that factory farming is bullshit, and I think that your smug, globe-trotting self should fuck off when it comes to acting like a goddamned streetwise cool daddy-o.

fuck you,

Heath McFarland

P.S: The Laos episode of "No Reservations" was truly heartbreaking. Thank you for showing what you did.

P.P.S: Nice sunglasses, you fucking dork.

Effort!

I am the worst about keeping up with what is considered a cool new record. I purposefully distance myself from such records, as my aversion to hollow breathless praise is as high as anyone else's. I'm just now getting around to Wilco's "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot." When I first heard it, I hated it completely, bored with the tepid, go-nowhere strumming and the lack of discernible structure filling in the blank for "experimental." But I think I get it a little better now.

This album sounds like a room full of people wanting to create but being completely depressed with everything they produce. The random noises panning left and right seem set to willfully destroy the song at hand, drawing attention away from their hated creations. That might not sell anyone on the record, but I actually find it infinitely more interesting and touching because of this resigned sort of nihilism. Feeling blank is the worst, and this record seems like an attempt to exercise such blankness. The lyrics appear to be full of non-sequitors, but occasionally a bit of honesty will shine through, such as on Radio Cure:

"Cheer up honey, I hope you can/ there is something wrong with me."

Okay, it's not Keats. But it's an honest statement, and it sounds like it's coming from someone desperate to connect.

Of course, I could be projecting my own perspective over the record (all critics do). I don't know anything about the band, and for all I know they're the cheeriest fellows on the globe. But the beauty of art is that the object created isn't static, and the conversation generated over the object is the stuff that spurs on movements. I may be getting it all wrong, but the record is a lot closer to me now than it ever has been before.

My pooch, Sadie, is also quite fond of the record. This post was originally going to be about records that you and your dog can listen to. Here's what I came up with:

The Beatles: Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
There are loads of great noises on this record, but the best is reserved for last: a dog whistle concluding the ringing piano chords of "A Day in The Life" (my favorite Beatles song, by the way). This is sure to cock their heads, and the looped gibberish afterwards don't hurt either.

Can: Tago Mago
Can were masters of one of my favorite genres of music: Incredible endless grooves with increasingly weird noises piled on top. The bedrock of drums and bass seem to churn endlessly on this record, culminating with the awesome "Halleluweh." Out of tune violins sawing away, strange percussion, Damo Suzuki's cooing of german/japanese/english, noises wrung from god-knows-what (the likes of which Pink Floyd only dreamed of using), all coming in for 20-30 seconds and then leaving. Dogs love it!

I was going to talk about Wilco's record too, but I've already done that. Thanks for reading!

2:16 am

What happens when you mix half a pot of tea, stretching, a workout, and Sleep's Dopesmoker at 1:30 am? A great forking time is what happens.

It's good to realize that you can at least exert a little control over yourself. You can realize that you have little muscles and tendons that you never even dreamed of, even at 23, or 39, or 64, or 12. It just feels good to move, and to think.

Not a lot of profundity here, but I felt like writing. Also, the picture up top is of Al's bass rig from Sleep (and Om too, I reckon). That's eight 15" speakers there. That's six more than most people use. Ridiculous. And completely appropriate, for a band with a song called "Dopesmoker" that writhes around a single theme for 60 minutes without once getting boring.

The Anarchist and the Waiter

Sometimes I just want to throw a fucking tantrum. I want to ignore all my scruples and ideals and just start flailing around, embarrassing myself fully in the meantime. I think that sometimes people see me as passive or naive or withdrawn. A good tantrum would really nail those perceptions straight to the cross.

Why a tantrum, you might ask? To answer, we must go to a certain restaurant on a certain Saturday night. My party (who will remain unnamed, for their own good) entered, and our host, the callous fucktard that he is, immediately says to me "Cambridge? Really?" (in reference to my shirt). One of my party, who studied in Cambridge over the summer, gave me this particular shirt. I tell this to our fucktard host. I am a little shaken, but okay, whatever, this hostess, he has proven himself to be a planter wart before, so I sort of accept it. But another incident occurs when ordering. I order the Masaman Curry. I suppose I pronounce it wrong, as he repeats it back to me "Masaman, huh" in a sort of "you are an idiot and I am your intellectual superior" kind of way. I decide here that if he gets smart again, I am going to do something crazy. Like maybe throw my food in the floor when he brings it. Or verbally berate him in front of other tables.

Luckily, nothing else happened. We sort of shorted him on tip, only going about 10% or so. But that was the extent of our revenge. And wouldn't you know it, after the passion had died down, I felt guilty. I mean, this guy is a waiter. A thankless profession, and one that, when insulted, is usually insulted in a manner that suggests master/slave relationships. That is to say, an insult based on degradation and dehumanization. I feel very uncomfortable with that kind of insult! I do not want to wear a monocle and express my superiority through my choice of fine tobacco and willingness to insult those who puncture my fragile, enlarged ego.

Although this might read as over the top, it's these kinds of petty divisions that keep so many obnoxious, hateful power structures in place. Let's face it, the waiter and I are essentially on the same side! We're hustling about, trying to keep it all together. That's not to say that he hasn't consistently pulled dick moves. He has. It's just that I see no reason as to why we can't just respect each other and not play the whole "let's punch each other in the arm" game. Can we do that? Can we do that, asshole-waiter? I sure hope so.

Typhaon

Those who die in myths experience satisfying and full deaths. They luck upon an acceptance and sense of wonder that many of us will not ever possess.

To illustrate, let's say a civilian happens to find that his home has suddenly become a warzone. We will assume that he is shot by a stray bullet during a minor skirmish. This bullet was manufactured by some winding branch of Lockheed Martin. It was created for profit and sold the world over. It will fund thousands of small skirmishes. This civilian's death is nothing more than a justification for the arms-maker to continue producing arms. There is nothing even close to beauty here. No freedom secured, or ideals battled for.

Now let's say you live around Mount Etna thousands of years ago, and you are witnessing Zeus and Typhaon's final battle. Zeus is remarkable, certainly, scarred from his own lightning and clothed in light. But he pales to Typhaon's horrific majesty. His bottom half is composed of the coils of hundreds of snakes, all hissing and writhing but without mouths. His top half extends to the heavens, dragon heads bolster each of his shoulders; his form is baffling, maddening, and yet not cruel. Suppose, in your rubberneckery, that an errant coil of Typhaon smashes into you, killing you flat while also slinging your body across the sparse mountain. Your death was by a remarkable creature; Typhaon was not manufactured, designed, or drafted. He was born, ignorant of his form or his potential. He had no idea that he would father the Sphinx, the Hydra, or the Chimera. No idea that his Titan siblings would shun him for simply being too monstrous. With a bit of perspective, you were killed by something remarkably beautiful and singular.

We have hidden death away in cupboards, transforming the monstrous into the mundane and the war into the "situation." It is a detestable state of affairs, and undoubtedly a state worth struggling against.

Comet Gain

I've started a lot of dead posts lately. One on harmonicas and their infinite uses, another on William Henry Pratt, otherwise known as Boris Karloff.

But kept running into dead ends. I felt like I was trying to affect something that I wasn't really feeling at the time. I researched Boris Karloff passionately on Sunday afternoon, but much of that passion (and the specifics that made that passion possible) have temporarily left. The harmonica bit felt too one-note, and I didn't really understand what my point was. Harmonicas are good? I think most people would agree with that.

During my glummery (invented word), I decided to pull out a few records that I haven't really listened to. One of those was Comet Gain's "Realistes." I bought this record on a whim, based both on the cool cover art and the idea of a patchquilt sort of indie-pop band; London guerillas with Rickenbackers.

I remember first listening to the album and thinking it was amateruish and forced. But tonight, something clicked. The lyrics and vocal mannerisms, which before I found cloyingly obvious, now seem charming and sweet. They are clearly in love with the Swingin' London sound, but also approach this era with a totally different, scrappy mindset. But what really hit me was this thought: "What right do I have to critique a band that is clearly in love with what it is doing?" They operate as a collective, have been a band for 17 years, and here I come along, some jerk from Georgia, thinking that I have the right to take a band's art and merely call it good or bad, filing it away for obscurity.

"Our mixtapes are memories for unseen histories," Comet Gain sing. This is the lyric that did me in. For me, every song that I have ever loved has a memory attached to it. Shared moments, intimate things. What Comet Gain embody best, for me at least, is the fun that a group of friends can have together. You put something together because you love it, and you let it be what it is without trying to gloss it up or make it more appealing to more people (There is, however, a difference between "glossing up" and "refining.").

I am aware that this post makes me seem a blaring sentamentalist. I cry in movies at the drop of the hat, and Kurt Vonnegut's short story "D.P." moves me terribly. I'm okay with that.

And for the three people who read this, I would love for you to post a song and a memory that is permantently attached to said song. Go!