Sprung Rhythm & Blues

Latest evidence of my wanderings can be found over on Flickr in The Ides of March.

There was something on NPR the other morning about some guy who has written a verse novel about werewolves in Los Angeles. I turned it off in disgust, I'm not sure why.

I was walking through Sheridan Square yesterday on my way to see Last Year in Marienbad at Film Forum when I saw the first harbinger of spring: the street festival. I did not, however, buy cheap socks or enjoy $1 Thai food.

Remember the advice of Jolie Holland, friends:

Springtime, springtime can kill you
Just like it did poor me
Don't you see we're all hurt the same way
So get out, get out of your house.

{gc}

Happy Easter, Bunnies!

Ain't That the Truth, Sister

Recognize the Poison of My Heart

I was going to write about The Kills' latest album, Midnight Boom, until I read that Portishead, a band which, along with the likes of Tricky and Massive Attack popularized a sub-genre of electronic music known as trip-hop, had released the video for "Machine Gun," their new single (released in advance of their forthcoming record, Third--their first full-length recording in ten years). The song, propelled by Geoff Barrow's flurry of sixteenth notes played on and distorted through a drum machine (lending the track something of an industrial feel), is slightly different than what one might expect to hear from this group, even though Beth Gibbon's strangely inviting voice is still quite present.

Third is out on April 29 via Mercury.

[dr]

alien sightings

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Two Poems by Linh Dinh

Caption

Before photography, people didn't exist.
Blow it up, I'm in the doctored details

In this picture, and this one, I'm in
Each photo, in the cool blur, in the

Brown cloud, my tiny head redrawn,
My splayed limbs cropped. I hammed.

I'm telling you, I've slept many times
With near celebrities. True, I'm lying

Face down, here, in the mud, my pants
stained with too much clarity. My bones

May dissolve in a toxic tub, but long
As this photo shall last, I won't fade.

*

Not Quite Symmetry

Broke, I'd like to borrow your lower half,
Wear it for a day, to make some coins. I'd

Love to enter you, snug, but not through
The usual channel. You can invade me,

Feel my convexity, as I'm ventilated
By your absence, there, in the crotch.

My eyes shaded by your eyelids, I'll
Conform to your nose's architecture,

Breathe this life through your nostrils.

--as published in the March 2008 issue of The Brooklyn Rail

MFA! MFA! MFA!

Anywhere But Here (2007); acetate, wood, wheels, rope, spray paint.

My brother, Steve, has applied for enrollment in the MFA in Painting program at Hunter College. He's passed through the first round of the screening process; his formal interview with the art department is today. Please wish him luck!

Bling Bling Clink Clink

Congratulations to Reagan and Benny from your GMC friends and family! Pass the Bombay Sapphire...

America: the beautiful, the bad and the ugly

The beauty of the suburbs is that you're not stuck without a place to say, buy condoms in an emergency and you can often see the stars. The bad thing about the suburbs is that you're stuck. The good thing about the car is that it enables us to travel far distances in order to say, have sex (and experience scenes such as the one in this famed Ruscha photo). The bad thing about the car, besides oil, is that it relegates us to our individual, private spheres (and makes us lazy and fat, thus creating the need for more roadside Waffle Houses--a vicious yet delicious cycle). Road trip anyone?

The Fall of Man

Like so many New Yorkers, I've been trying to make sense of the sex scandal in which Eliot Spitzer now finds himself, and which has left New York in something of a political limbo. At first, I reasoned that the scandal was about the widening gap between our private and public lives, as well as the puritanical view of sexuality so prevalent in this country. But then it occurred to me that I was being far too easy on the disgraced governor, and that the issue was much larger than the role conservative value systems play in our lives. What is actually important, I concluded, is that Mr. Spitzer, a politician who rose to power on a platform of integrity and a seeming desire to end corruption from Wall Street to Albany, abused his power and took advantage of the faith given by constituents--wrecking not just a promising political career, but also humiliating his family in the process. (His wife, Silda Spitzer, has appeared at both of the governor's press conferences this week; she was seen earlier today with heavy eyes; it was clear that she had been crying.)

I should say that I am surprised at these developments, but given the nature of the allegations and his take-no-prisoners approach to crime as attorney general, I should have seen it all along.

[d\r]

Of Mice and (Other Four-Legged Critters)

Dinosaur BBQ, the Grand Marquis Coterie's dining establishment of choice, was recently inspected by the NYC Department of Health, and subsequently received a number of stomach-churning citations, including, but not limited to, the following:

• Evidence of mice or live mice present in facility's food and/or non-food areas.

• Evidence of rats or live rats present in facility's food and/or non-food areas.

At eighteen violation points, the restaurant missed the threshold of twenty-eight points, which would have triggered an official "Notice of Violation." According to the Department of Health, "(t)he violation point total is above the average violation point total of 14, for all NYC restaurants on their most recent inspection."

So, who's up for some ribs?

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"Forty years of solitude would have been enough." - Jorge Luis Borges on Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude.

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The GMC Video of the Week is "Nasty Dan," by Johnny Cash. Featuring Oscar the Grouch, it is pretty much the best thing ever. Also, I'd like to think that the song is about me.

Thanks to GMC Category A member, Marquis de Modig, for this week's selection. High five!

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I'm totally rocking the unironic ironic moustache right now. Photograph evidence of said facial hair configuration is not forthcoming. My apologies to all interested parties.

[d/r]

Rejection Guidelines

Don't blame bad timing (the "it's not you" routine
is tired). Don't invite us to send you something
else or say please try again (a video game death).
Don't say I like these but somehow they’re just
not quite there yet (Will they ever be ready?) No,
don't thank us for thinking of you. After all,
you are too busy, too good for paper and words.
Smoke our poems instead—reduce, reuse them!
Roll them up, put your lips to them, turn them
into a high. Inhale our burning ink, fill the room
with your laughter and smoke, tap, tap
our fallen images on your ashtrays.

Mea Culpa, Mea Ultima Culpa

Anyone who has been in a bookstore within the last ten years has noticed the surge in popularity of the memoir: from The Liars' Club to Persepolis and Fun Home, readers have taken to stories of drug addiction, physical abuse, sexual identity, and alcoholism - just to name a few of the tantalizing topics covered by memoirists - to the point where publishers have no choice but to respond. The troubling issue for writers, it seems, is how to tap into the demand for this kind of work without having to twist the truth, without having to stretch the details of their personal histories. Unfortunately, as publicly discredited authors like James Frey have noticed (his pseudo-memoir A Million Little Pieces, originally offered to publishers as a work of fiction, achieved notoriety after parts of the book were revealed to have been embellished), it may not be possible for the truth, that irrepressible notion so in demand by us all, to fit within the pages of a non-fiction manuscript--especially if one wants to see that manuscript sold.

Now comes word that another recently published and praised memoir, Love and Consequences by Margaret P. Jones, is fabricated; its writer has been exposed as a fraud. Jones, the nom de plume of a certain Margaret Seltzer, writes the story of having grown up in a foster home in South-Central Los Angeles, sold drugs, and was part American Indian (no one cay say that Americans don't appreciate the exotic). It turns out, however, that Ms. Seltzer grew up under entirely different circumstances, and that the details as expressed in her work were nothing more than lies.

In the end, what are our responsibilities as writers, whether or not we choose to write non-fiction? Is there room for the "truth" in the memoir/autobiography? Should readers care if writers take artistic license for the sake of creating compelling stories? And why do readers keep returning to these books?

Links:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/04/books/04fake.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin
http://www.slate.com/id/2134203/

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The GMC Video of the Week is "Ready for the Floor," by Hot Chip. The song, taken from the band's newly-released third album, Made in the Dark, is an absolute banger, replete with slinky, hip-shaking rhythms that are sure to make the kids dance with wanton abandon. The album itself features a handful tracks that can only be described as balladry at its beautiful best, especially when set in contrast to the bleeps and other percolating sounds that are heard on songs like "Hold On" and "Don't Dance."

Besides, how can you go wrong with a video that features the lead singer as the Joker?

http://www.hotchip.co.uk/site/

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Only twenty days and counting until Opening Day in Major League Baseball. I've got my MATTINGLY - #23 t-shirt all ready to go!

http://mlb.mlb.com/index.jsp

[D | R]

Footnotes on the Body

1. a spike of ice formed when water dripping or falling from another object freezes.

2. Furniture and photos are divorced from the attic. Does the movement of dust mean they are dead?

3. One thing the great poet confessed before biting into her doughnut: a good poem writes itself as if it doesn't care--never let on that within this finite space, your whole being is heavy with a need to emote infinitely. (Jenny Boully)

4. I am wet from waiting for a bus.

5. Thus, when the bizarrely costumed criminal known as _____________ appeared upon the scene later that same day, wielding a unique weapon capable of instantly ________ moisture in the air, _________ presumed he was actually _________, who had stolen __________ invention.

6. A man and his son

7. Recall the dream. The turtle does not like to be on his back
because that way he cannot carry.

8. The cries next door are both quieter and louder than before.
Somehow they made a chute too narrow for my garbage. Hoist.

9. Why should I kill myself worrying when I’ll end up just as dead? (Antonio Ricci)

10. Beluga whales craft long slow waves. The strain that follows the moan.

11. Set in post-World War II Rome, “The Bicycle Thief” tells a simple story well, relying for its impact on gritty realism and emotional verity. (Culture Vulture)

12. The man was caught lying in an alley by a citizen.

13. My icicle got stolen. It is vital for my job. Ladri. Ladri.

14. I. Spy with my little eye...

15. The chair and the bench are missing their stuffing. The holster, upholster.

16. The height of a sail, signals echo from ship to ship.

17. Marigolds! The marigolds were particularly lovely that year.

18. No need to reply to this mast of messages.

19. The yellowing of this photo. Sometimes saying the word lilac suggests a woman in white.

20. This plot synopsis is empty. Add a synopsis.

Dedo’s Notebooks

(Modigliani’s words are interspersed with those of Lunia Czechowska, who sat for one of his last portraits, not long before he died. This 1907 snapshot from his notebook is translated below.)

What I am searching for is neither the real nor the unreal, but the Subconscious, the mystery of what is Instinctive in the human Race.

He painted with such passion and fervor that the picture fell from the easel onto his head when he bent forward to try to view it close up.

I am also trying to formulate with the greatest lucidity the truths of art and life I have discerned scattered among the beauties of Rome, and as their inner meaning becomes clear to me I shall seek to reveal and rearrange their composition, I could almost say metaphysical architecture, to create out of it my truth of life, beauty and art.

This startled me. He was sorry to have frightened me and so smiled at me gently and began singing Italian songs to make me forget the incident.

We others (excuse the plural) have different rights from normal people, for we have different needs which place us above their morality. It is our duty never to be consumed by the sacrificial fire. Your real duty is to save your dream. Beauty too has some painful duties: these produce, however, the noblest achievements of the soul.

As a sitter you had the impression that your soul was being dissected.

To do any work, I must have a living person. I must be able to see him opposite me…

I can still see him standing before me now with his short sleeves and his tousled hair as he attempted to capture my features on the canvas.

Isn’t this the aim of friendship: to shape and exalt the will according to its bent, to reveal each to the other and to ourselves? Goodbye.

While I was preparing dinner, he asked me to lift my head for a few moments and by the light of a candle, he drew a beautiful sketch on which he wrote:

La Vita ~ un Dono: dei pochi ai molti: di Coloro che Sanno e che banno a Coloro che non Sanno e che non banno.

Life is a Gift: from the few to the many; from Those who Know and have to Those who do not Know and have not.

The Sincerest Form

I wish to be congratulated on my ability to hit "View Wireless Networks" fifty times before I finally manage to piggyback on to someone else's wifi (favorite wifi network name in my hood: "Fucking Pay For It." Second favorite: "We ARE Fucking Paying For It.")

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Cat Power's version of Michael Hurley's "Werewolf Song" is a very weak sister compared to Hurley's original.

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Green Mountains Review say they liked "Honeymoon W/Smoke" and to try again. The Indiana Review just says keep trying. So it goes.

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After seeing El Orfanato (by myself, alas), my sincere desire to make horror movies is stronger, and farther out of reach, than ever.

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Currently in rotation:

The Mountain Goats, Heretic Pride
Gogol Bordello, Super Taranta
Ben Webster, At the Renaissance
Mahler's Sixth

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A limousine driver, whose name I cannot remember, once said:

"The most important thing is concentration. Like, when you write a poem, you concentrate on the freaking poem, right? When they drive, most people do driving, twenty-per cent; good-looking girls on the side of the road, thirty per cent; and then coffee--of course, very much coffee--twenty-five per cent. What I am doing--fuck everything else--I am focussing on driving."

{gc}