Gods Do Not Answer Letters

I was stunned this morning to learn about the death of John Updike. The news came sort of by accident (although I would have found out sometime later today), as I was flipping through today's newspaper. As varied and respected as his life's bibliography has been, I have not read any of his novels, and therefore cannot claim to be a fan of his, at least not yet. A few of his books have been on my reading list for quite some time, and I can only imagine that his passing will lead to a renewed interest and study of his work. However, I do consider myself an admirer of his writing, simply based on the two brief essays that I'm familiar with at this time.

This admiration stems from Updike's prolific work as not just a novelist, but as an essayist, a specialty that I've been fond of for awhile. The first passage came to me as a teenager, when I read Baseball: An Illustrated History, by Ken Burns and Geoffrey C. Ward. In the book, they reprinted Updike's account of being a spectator for Ted Williams's final home run at Fenway Park in Boston. The passage is beautiful, combining journalistic reporting with an atmosphere of unrepeatable history. The final line is utterly beautiful in describing the refusal by Williams to give a curtain call following the home run, despite the massive, pleading cheers from the Boston fans. Even as a teenager, long before my interest and studies of writing, I felt that the line was evidence of a great talent:

"Gods do not answer letters."

Just last week, I read "Extreme Dinosaurs," a contribution to National Geographic Magazine, reprinted in The Best American Essays 2008. Updike described various species of dinosaur, with intricate phyical descriptions and ruminations on their evolutionary traits and benefits. As with the baseball essay, he combined reporting with another intangible quality. What made "Extreme Dinosaurs" so compelling was his fascination with the subject. It's not often that a man in his seventies can write a provoking, intelligent article with a childlike enthusiasm for dinosaurs. It's also not often that a writer's skill can be evident in only a few pages of reading, but that's my view of John Updike. I can only assume that my future readings of his fiction will assert that notion, as well as adding new facets to my current (albeit minimal) knowledge of his style. Since "Extreme Dinosaurs" is so fresh in my head, the mental image I have is of an established writer who has seen everything and has nothing left to prove. However, even in old age, he has not lost any spirit, freshness, or passion. I cannot think of a better compliment.

A Noble Effort

The wave of highly awaited music releases got off to a phenomenal start this past Tuesday, with Merriweather Post Pavilion (Animal Collective), Noble Beast (Andrew Bird), and Get Guilty (A.C. Newman) being the major albums to drop. As has been the case for several weeks (thanks to Internet leaks and over-anticipation) the Animal Collective disc has posted universal praise, so much that it was rumored that Barack Obama was going to wear an Animal Collective pin below his American flag pin during the Inauguration. The latter joke aside, the record is stunning and rivals any major release of the past few years. However, my focus this week has been on Andrew Bird's Noble Beast. I've given it several listens, and I am torn between two reactions.

One, the album is impressive, and given Bird's track record (no pun), I'm fully convinced that he cannot release a bad album. This is not to say that his every output is a modern classic, but given his musical acumen (a history of classical music training; proficiency in multiple instruments; a strong singing voice; brilliant, often surreal lyrics, etc.), his intelligence wouldn't let a sub par record happen. My second reaction, based on what I've written above, is that Noble Beast is slightly disappointing, based on his last two albums.

The first album by Bird that I listened to was 2005's The Mysterious Production of Eggs, which remains one of my favorite albums ever. He combined fantastical, sonic-trippy melodies, his should-be trademarked whistling, and some of the most original lyrics ever:
"She says I like long walks and sci-fi movies/You're six foot tall and East-coast bred/Some lonely night we can get together/and I'm gonna tie your wrists with leather/And drill a tiny hole into your head."
2007's Armchair Apocrypha had more focus on the music, with the lyrics still borderline brilliant (namely "Plasticities"). The music on the album is tight and compact, not as varied as Eggs, but still carrying a kinetic punch.

Noble Beast works on both a lyrical and melodic level, but it still feels like something's missing. The opening track, "Oh No," is vintage Bird, complete with the whistling, a steady, infectious beat, and lyrics that would have fit perfectly on Eggs. The closing track "On Ho" (it's fitting that I quoted the song "Fake Palindromes" before) opens with some achingly beautiful violin work, yet another nod to his talents. While there certainly aren't any bad tracks, the middle of the album goes on auto-pilot for the most part. The music is reminiscent of his past albums, but it's missing 2005's lyrical risk-taking and 2007's focus on compact instrumentals. Overall, it's a recommendable album, and it's rare for a musician's latest work to be labeled as a good introduction to his/her canon. For an Andrew Bird novice, it would be a perfect disc to pick up or download. The music is far better than ninety percent of what's available today, and the new listener will in turn be blown away by his earlier efforts.

Great Music, Greater Cause

2009 is already shaping up to be a year filled with very noteworthy album releases, with Neko Case's Middle Cyclone dropping on March 3rd. In addition to this release, she is teaming up with her label, ANTI- and Best Friends Animal Society to spread the word on the first song off the album to be released, entitled "People Got A Lotta Nerve." The beauty of this is that for every blog that posts the MP3, five dollars will be donated to Best Friends. Click their link for more information, and check out the introductory video. The song is phenomenal, which should only fuel excitement for the rest of the disc.

MP3--"People Got A Lotta Nerve," Neko Case

The Highway Of Ideas

(Note: Now that I'm finally settled in my new apartment, posts and comments on other blogs/sites will be resuming on a regular basis. It has been a hectic few weeks, and I have quite a bit of catching up to do.)

In the interest of getting my first post of the new year completed, I recently checked out The Best American Essays 2008, hoping to find an essay or two to analyze, therefore getting back into a more disciplined posting schedule. There was an ulterior motive at hand as well. For the most part, I classify my posts as "essays," save for the occasional review, link, or announcement. So, what better way to get back on the essay train than by reading a collection of them? Granted, this can seem pretty obvious, perhaps even pointless, to a degree, at least in the sense of being a sort of revelation. There really is no revelation in that statement. It's no different than a painter becoming inspired by an afternoon walk in a gallery, or a woodworker getting ideas from a craft book. While inspiration can seem sweeter when found in unexpected places, sometimes, you have to take what you can get. Luckily, I didn't have very far to go. Adam Gopnik's introduction to the collection was affirming, as well as right, at least in my opinion and situation.

"The ideal essay has facts and feelings, emotions and thoughts, an argument about and an anecdote from, parallel and then crisscrossing, all over it. It is a classical form for short-winded romantics, a way of turning a newborn feeling back into a series of pregnant sentences (Gopnik xv)."

How true this is. My consistency with essays (and this blog, for that matter) sprung from a need to refocus on both kinds of writing, both fictional and non-fictional. Since I was in a fiction-writing dry spell at the time, I felt that essays would jump-start my creative practices, and so far, they have helped immensely. While I do my best to keep memoir essays and anecdotes to a minimum, Gopnik stresses that personal events and emotions are vital to the craft. Journalism (Gonzo aside) requires neutrality, while essay-writing can be more relaxed. As much as I have a tendency to apologize for my own notions of memoir/anecdote additions, I have to realize that their inclusions are not always forbidden. I think this goes back to when I interviewed Chuck Palahniuk while in college. I remember him shaking his head as he commented that "even teenagers are writing memoirs now." As long as my essays stay focused on the main subjects, a dash of personal reflections or asides, appropriately placed, are acceptable.

Gopnik cites three types of essays: review, memoir (already discussed above), and odd-objects. The latter is "perhaps, the, well, oddest of the essay forms, but one that thrives in strange places. This is the kind that takes a small, specific object, a bit of material minutia...and finds in it a path not just to a larger point but also to an entirely different subject (xvii)." Again, these classifications brought me some much-needed solace, since I think that a bulk of my non-fiction is a hybrid of review and odd-object. When I discuss older works, I hesitate to call them "reviews," since the statute of limitations (or, more simply, the "newness") has long passed. For example, writing on Casablanca falls into the essay category. Since the film came out in 1942, and hundreds have already written and discussed it, calling a new look on it a "review" would be greatly outdated. The notion of "odd-object" is one that I feel I've used pretty regularly. While I haven't written about any piece of art strictly as its own metaphor, I enjoy making somewhat odd connections between vastly different works. This may not fit the definition completely, but it's the best of the three categories which Gopnik lists.

With respect to editing and (most importantly) feedback, I'm going to be doing away with an annoying habit that I've developed. Usually, when I post an essay that I'm not particularly proud of, barely a day passes when I add my own comment, either apologizing for or rationalizing the poor effort. While I'm not absolving myself of sometimes subpar writing, I fully believe that "when the essayist goes wrong, it's with too long a trip down the highway of ideas (xxii)." I can think of a few instances in which I either tried to fit too much information into a single, short piece, or I didn't fully express the main theme of the article at hand. From now on, instead of immediately apologizing, I'll let readers take the good with the bad, and to comment favorably as well as negatively if needed. As I mentioned above, more readings and writings are forthcoming. In my haste to get caught up, reading a few pages like Gopnik's introduction has proven very helpful, not to mention affirming. As I'm sure I've mentioned numerous times here, my focus needs to be on quality.

Work Cited:
Gopnik, Adam. The Best American Essays 2008. Introduction copyright 2008 by Adam Gopnik.

A Curious Adaptation

(Note: Potential spoilers, depending on your definition.)


Last week, I went to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button on its opening night. As much as I love film, this was a rarity for me. My excitement stemmed from very hazy memories of enjoying the original F. Scott Fitzgerald story, which I read while in high school. The film version, directed by David Fincher, was very well made, and I was tempted to take the film at face value. However, my curiosity got the better of me--I decided to go online and re-read the original source. Now, with the story fresh in my head, I'm torn between my enjoyment of the film and my (possibly ill-founded?) annoyance at the major deviations between the story and the adaptation.


Naturally, it's understood that every adaptation cannot be one hundred percent faithful to a book or story, and this was a necessity in the case (no pun) of Benjamin Button. Fincher and screenwriters Eric Roth and Robin Swicord had to stretch a few pages into a feature-length film. For the most part, the basic themes are the same--how would someone react, adapt, and live life knowing that he/she is aging in reverse? While this question might seem more philosophical than anything, the story and the film progress naturally. Benjamin has no choice but to accept his fate, and the curious assumption is that middle-age is best, no matter which direction you're heading.


The differences between the story and film are equal parts inspired and unneccessary. The film is set in New Orleans as opposed to Baltimore, with continuous flash-forwards to the present deathbed of Benjamin's love, Daisy (originally Hildegarde, played by Cate Blanchett). This simple name change is puzzling. Is Daisy sexier than Hildegarde? Is it a cheapened homage to The Great Gatsby? In the story, Benjamin falls out of love as he grows "younger," with Hildegarde aging naturally. In the film, they do grow apart, only to be reconnected years later. The setting change also provides a needless backstory of Hurricane Katrina, which gets closer in the present film narrative as Benjamin's story advances. In my mind, this provides no additions to the story, not even a metaphorical one. However, partly related to the setting, the film does boast excellent castings of black actors playing black citizens. Yes, it's a very rose-colored look at 1920s Southern life, and yes, Benjamin's adoptive mother (the wonderful Taraji P. Henson) is more or less a servant. However, the film makes use of black actors and extras because they're people, and not because the script or scenes call for black actors. This is a small step in the direction that people like Spike Lee have been arguing for for years.

I could go on with more potential criticisms of the film/story differences, but I'd like to close with some praises. The production design by Donald Graham Burt is stunning, especially combined with the cinematography by Claudio Miranda. The early scenes feels like old photographs, with dimmed hues and lots of faded brown and beige backgrounds (these descriptions would be much better with DVD screencaps). The overall atmosphere "clears up," so to speak, as the decades advance. In one of the best examples, the 1960s scenes have a definite 1960s film cinematography feel. Also, it's always great to applaud the work of Brad Pitt. While this isn't close to being his best acting effort, I still feel that he's grossly underrated as an actor, since most of the focus seems to be on his personal life. Looking past the makeup and special effects, he does an engrossing job with what he has...that is, he does his best to incorporate the emotions of his various ages without going over the top. It's a nod to his versatility that he can show excellent range where there's the potential to have none.

Words and Image

In my attempt to eventually finish the Hunter S. Thompson canon (which is roughly halfway finished, give or take a few titles), I recently read Kingdom Of Fear. I had been planning to devote a post to Thompson for quite some time, and as I read the book, this realization struck me: writing about his writing might be very difficult. Someone like Thompson can be so clouded by his/her popular image that the actual output can be lost in the shuffle. This can happen often, depending on the writer. As talented as they were as writers, it's easy to simply visualize Jack Kerouac roaming around the country and F. Scott Fitzgerald throwing his lavish parties. With Hunter S. Thompson, the Raoul Duke/Johnny Depp-popularized mythology can take center stage quite suddenly, overshadowing the talent that made him popular in the first place. It's almost a Catch-22 (another literary idea which overshadows its origins, as Jonathan Franzen mentioned).

As much as I love Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas and The Rum Diary, I prefer reading the many essay collections written by Thompson. For one, it's one of my favorite mediums. Also (I'm sure this has been said numerous times), Thompson was one of the greatest essayists ever, even if the more appropriate term is "journalist." I imagine that non-fiction writing teachers may try to discourage students from the gonzo style--immersing themselves in the article from which they should remain impartially detached. The beauty of Thompson's life (based on his works) is that he had no choice but to be involved in a story. However, no matter how immersed he was, there's always the unspoken understanding (at least in my opinion) that he remained detached. This is even true when he explains the events that led to the "99 Day Trial," in which he could have been convicted of drug possession and sexual assault:

"I had been making cranberry and tequila, because the margarita mix had run out. I was in that kind of mood. Let's all have a few margaritas. And she--the sot--she belted them down. We all did, no doubt; that's what it was all about. Some margaritas to celebrate...We were on about the third jug in the blender, or fourth jug, or fifth perhaps, when we switched to cranberry juice, and she had been getting louder and more randy. She was making open cracks to Cat, asking 'Who are you to Hunter?' She grabbed me and said 'Who's this girl? Why is that other girl here? We don't need her around.'
Shortly after Tim left, I reached for the phone and told the Witness, 'Let's call a goddamn taxi for you.' As I dialed the 'T'--in 925-TAXI--she rushed over, knocking the phone down, and cut me off. It was a quick, startling movement. She leaped, surprisingly fast for a rhino, from five or six feet away (Thompson 140-141)."

Yes, at first glance, it's trademark Thompson: colorful events accompanied by mind-altering substances. But read it carefully. In a paragraph and a half, he's described a scene with journalistic, precise details, with slight humorous embellishment ("suprisingly fast for a rhino"). Even though he's personally included in the events, he never dominates to the point of being selfish or going away from the main point of the essay (granted, this is a very brief citation from a much larger piece). In the age of everyone writing memoirs, it's easy to say that almost every published work by Thompson is a memoir (per se), but it's honest journalism at heart. As he's quoted in the forward to Kingdom of Fear: "I am the most accurate journalist you'll ever read (xvi)."

As usual, politics come up frequently in the book. This will be no surprise to anyone familiar with Thompson, but he was not a fan of certain presidents (Nixon, the Bushes, et. al) or conservative ideologies:

"The news is bad today, in America and for America. There is nothing good or hopeful about it--except for Nazis, warmongers, and rich greedheads--and it is getting worse and worse in logarithmic progressions since the fateful bombing of the World Trade Towers in New York. That will always be a festering low-watermark in this nation's violent history (333)."

Passages like these reaffirm my belief that Thompson was among the greatest American patriots in the written language. It is possible to criticize politicians and government actions and still be patriotic. He was a staunch supporter of the first, second, and fourth Amendments, and in his writing, no matter how blistering his critiques of the U.S. government get, there's always a glimmer of optimism that things can improve. I'm sure that if he were alive today, he'd be cheering the departure of Bush and the arrival of Obama. However, he'd be just as hard on the new President has he was on the previous ones, even the ones he supported. This post might be rambling a little, but the beauty of Thompson's work is that it touches on so many themes and events, and the essay collections are next to impossible to "review" (not that a review was my intention).

Mahalo.

Work Cited:
Thompson, Hunter S. Kingdom of Fear. Copyright 2003 by Gonzo International Corp.

Casual Friday--Poetry VI

I'd like to begin this post with this poem, entitled Collections.

"Tuesday, normally the least important of the seven

The morning is windy and rainy, not hard, but enough to do the job.

The weekend was excessive, we lived like aloof royalty--

food eaten lustily, drink guzzled lustier. Our sweaters

were regal vestments, our dirty shoes were cobbled by peasants.

Monday rose, as did we, a mindless bustle of showerheads being flipped,

teeth hastily brushed,

the clothes and towels forming an unglamorous heap by the wall.

Tuesday morning--

The sun still hides as I shift out of bed to put the containers out for the collectors.

They collect what we want to leave behind.

I grumble as I drag out the compost bin. A collection of shredded receipts,

orange peels and moldy bread.

I think of the less fortunate, several days too late.

That bread would have been consumed, some children right now would cry for an orange peel.

Something, anything.

I drag out the trash bin. Aluminum foil, food wrappings, empty lighters.

The items cannot be categorized. In due time they will join their brethren:

the unidentifiable landfill mass of items no longer needed.

The final bin is recycling, an activity based on guilt.

Fifty years ago, everything was thrown away together, to be hauled off.

Never to be heard from again. Today we recycle,

a perverse "oops" offered to the world with a shrug.

The collectors take the items a few hours later, but not for personal gain.

Everything is separated, and we never see the likes of them again.

Until we start collecting again on Wednesday."

This is a pretty awful piece, and I'm actually pleased to note that I'm the author, since it exemplifies an excellent article recently published in the November 27th issue of The Stranger. In it, Paul Constant bemoans the sad offerings of Seattle's public poetry works, everything from the "Poet Populist" to "Poetry on Buses" (a similar idea used to be done for Chicago's Transit Authority, entitled "Poetry in Motion"--I cannot decide which is worse, title-wise: Seattle's laughingly minimalist description, or the feeble attempt at a lame poetry title for Chicago's program). Constant's complaints are that, even with the best intentions (to expose poetry to Seattle citizens who otherwise would never read it), these types of public programs celebrate bad poetry, written by bad poets:

"Karen Finneyfrock is a rare example of a slam poet who writes excellent poetry; for every one of her, there are a thousand people who should be ashamed to share their work with others (31)."

Given Constant's claim, why did I open this essay with one of my poor efforts? Even though I'm sharing it with whomever reads this blog regularly or may stumble across it, I know full well that it's not a great piece. I'm not a poet, I don't think I ever will be, and I would never dream of openly sharing something that I know to be bad, whether it be at a poetry reading or as a submission to a public arts program. I wrote the above poem while riding a bus to downtown Seattle, mainly to pass the time, and because I had the idea for it, since it was trash day. I'm only using it as an example since I never intended it to be read by anyone else. Above all, as a writer, I know I have an eye for my own production--that is, I know that's ready to be shared, what needs to be edited before being shared, and what should never see the light of day. Constant cites a few snippets of what he deems to be bad poetry, some of which can lead people to assume stereotypes of "poets:"

"...[Ananda Selah Osel's poetry]...is the kind of self-entitled Henry Rollins fuck-the-system bullshit that automatically makes everyone tired of angry young men and their viciously thin poetry. And his second-place finish (at the "Poet Populist" reading) means his dreadful work has an implicit endorsement from the city (31)."

Ouch. I'm not at all familiar with Osel's work, so I cannot readily agree with Constant's assessment. However, it's refreshing to read a take on a program like this written from the point of view of someone who obviously reads and understands poetry. I can only imagine that a City Hall press release would state the exact opposite, probably under the assumption that all poetry is good and worthy to be read. Public arts programs have their hearts in the right place, but the focus should be on quality, not on quantity.