September 2002 Archives

Having mentioned one big event in the whole Writing Business--namely my sudden and still somewhat surprising Amazon.com presence--I feel I should take the time to mention another for those who aren't already in the know:

I'm cowriting a column for a brand-new magazine, The Readerville Journal.

The magazine debuts today--my wife's birthday--and I'm really excited about it. It's a big, shiny, publication intended for a national audience, and it features such things as an interview with Jeffrey Eugenides, author of The Virgin Suicides and Middlesex, short stories by Katharine Weber and Dan Chaon, articles by Chris Offutt and M.J. Rose, an appreciation of John Crowley, book reviews, choice bits from Readerville.com's online discussions, and a piece on the literary appeal of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

And the first installment of Loose Canons, by Paul Clark and Yrs. Truly.

I'm as surprised as anyone, honest. It started a couple of years ago when my original online hangout, doonesbury.com, got shut down. At my friend Kristjan's suggestion, I started posting messages at Readerville.com in my spare time. Soon I found myself discussing books, trading opinions about writers, and cracking jokes there on a regular basis. I also discovered that my sense of humor was improbably similar to that of one of the other posters there, and before long Paul and I were cracking similar jokes about the fact that our jokes were so similar. Apparently this act (dubbed our "Chang-and-Eng bit" by one wag) amused Karen Templer, Readerville's founder and proprietor, and when she decided earlier this year to release a print magazine based on the online site, she asked us to contribute to the magazine. And we said yes.

The weirdest thing about the whole business, of course, is that Paul, my partner in crime, has never laid eyes on me, nor I on him. We got into this thing via the internet, and that's how we've been continuing it ever since. We trade ideas via email (and the occasional post in Readerville), and until I have an excuse to go to the Chicago area, the only person in the family who can claim to have met him is Kelly, who attended a Readerville gathering in Chi-town a while back.

Speaking of my lovely wife, I must hasten to point out that the first issue of TRJ (note the subtle use of initials to indicate Insider Positioning) also features her first published work, a wonderful review of Philippe Petit's new book To Reach the Clouds. She's also got a short story appearing in one of the later issues, and I hope I won't be accused of gross prejudice when I say that it's a dandy. So all in all, it's been a pretty good birthday for her.

If you can't find it at your local newsstand, just click here, look it over, and subscribe.

I thank you. Kelly and Karen thank you. And Paul thanks you. At least, I'm pretty sure he does.

5:40 PM

"At last," I hear you cry. "An entry with actual content!"

Well, that's certainly true. I have received information which I'll be sharing here (and elsewhere on the site, once my web-savvy friends are done getting their OWN big project finished up... and yes, I'll be telling you about that one soon.)

The Verb To Bird now has a publication date: January 2003.

It also has an illustrator: Grant Silverstein.

It also has a cover, which you can see by clicking here.

And perhaps most frightening of all, it also has its own page at Amazon.com, which you can see by clicking right here. You can even pre-order it.

Woooooo.

I think this makes me a Real Boy now.

5:11 AM

As a former college radio dj/record store clerk/roadie/musician/record reviewer, I have no real trouble confessing to the sin of musical snobbery. The only music about which I have no opinion is music I've never heard, and if I have heard it, I'm quite likely to express that opinion. I can't help myself. When I'm at someone's house, I find myself looking at the CDs and hearing the voice of Barry from High Fidelity in my head: "Oh, lord--he's got Kenny G. Oh, lord, it's not just anyKenny G--it's the one where he inserts himself into Louis Armstrong's 'What a Wonderful World'! And you shook this guy's hand!"

So yes, music produces strong reactions in me. I'm proud of some, and ashamed of others. Of course, one of the great things about getting older is that your sense of shame begins to atrophy. Hence:

Ten Songs I'm Not Supposed to Like but Do Anyway:

*"Someone Saved My Life Tonight" by Elton John
Granted, "sugar bear" and "didn't you dear" don't rhyme, and Douglas Adams was right in describing Nigel Olsson's snare drum sound as "reminiscent of someone slapping a bucket with a wet frankfurter," but this is the kind of breathtakingly over-the-top balladry you just don't get since everyone went all ironic during the Reagan Era.

*"I Will Buy You a New Life" by Everclear
Art Alexakis is wrong. Money isn't "the root of all that kills"; the love of money is the problem. And I hear Art's sold his artistic soul for a mess of pottage, what with Gap ads and all. I don' t care. It's all about the crunchy guitars and the snide way he says "welfare Christmas."

*"Hummingbird" by Seals & Crofts
I like this one even though it's a cheesy Seventies acoustic mishmash of hallucinatory imagery, swelling strings, multiple time signatures, and quotations from the Bah'ai Scriptures. If you're gonna put together a great piece of harmony, sometimes people are gonna get hurt.

*"Mickey" by Toni Basil
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, oh god I love it so.

*"The Way" by Fastball
I salute what promises to be this particular one-hit wonder's one hit--its lyrics are like something out of a Billy Jack movie, but it sticks in your head like a velcro-covered leech.

*"Allentown" by Billy Joel
When Billy wrote this, the closest he'd been to a mine was probably breaking up chunks of cocaine with a razor. You can object to it on a number of levels--musically, it's pretty simplistic, and lyrically it's not exactly Woody Guthrie--but there's something about the bridge, the pounding piano, and the way Billy says "iron and coke [ha!], chromium steel" that makes it work. And just try to get it out of your head.

*"Shiny Happy People" by R.E.M.
All right-thinking fans of Mumbles and His Band are supposed to loathe this song, but I refuse to let the crowd sway me. It's a little pop gem. Kate Piersen! You are like a goddess unto me!

*"In the Air Tonight" by Phil Collins
So he stole the Oscar that Randy Newman deserved for "When She Loved Me." So he ripped off former bandmate Peter Gabriel throughout his music for Disney's Tarzan. So he's the anti-Christ. The fact of the matter is that if Phil had abandoned his solo career after recording Face Value and gone back to Genesis permanently, we'd all be oooohing and aaaahing over this one's spooky dynamics and now-legendary drum entrance. Face that fact.

*"Sister Golden Hair" by America
Let me be clear: I love this song. I don't love this song in some kind of campy, ironic, post-modern oh-it's-so-bad-it's-good way. I love it because it has big fat acoustic guitars and a beautifully Harrisonesque slide electric part over them, because it has a huge hook-filled chorus and resonant open E-major chords, because it has wonderful backup vocals and strange, sincere lyrics, and because George Martin's fingerprints are all over it.

*"Oh, Holy Night"
Every yutz who thinks he can sing tries to mangle this carol, but that says nothing about the song itself. And it makes a dandy cha-cha-cha, as a listen to Brave Combo's Musical Varieties will make plain. Happy holidays!

7:16 PM

Well, school has started and the rush has begun. Today I've got my usual classes--though I do have a pretty light load this trimester, I'll be the first to admit--followed by the read-through for the play I'm directing (Christopher Durang's The Actor's Nightmare) for our Black Box Theater, followed by an evening of dorm duty. Whee.

It occurs to me that I started this journal in the spring, the one season at WFS where I have no coaching or directing duties. Now that I'm getting set for my second year of Black Box direction, I'm wondering how easy it's going to be to keep the journal up-to-date while I'm spending so much of my time on the play. I guess we'll see.

It's not like the play's the only extra-curricular thing I've got going, either. I've got three new student advisees--nice kids, all, but I haven't had much chance to get to know them yet, which is something I'll have to do in the coming weeks. I'm the chairman of our school's Artist Series committee, tasked (boy, do I dislike that verb) to bring artists and performers of note to our school, and we need to get some dates and shows confirmed soon. There are a couple of debate tournaments in October and November that we may attend, but only if I can get the students who are interested to commit to it.

And then there's the whole writing thing. I've been asked to contribute a piece for a new essay collection about basketball in America, 1970-present. No word on when it's due out, but my essay is due around the end of October. I'll pass on details as they become available.

I've also got something else in the works for a periodical, but I can't tell you about it just yet. Watch this space.

Still no word on the official publication date of The Verb, either.

Damn. You'd think I could at least provide a modicum of entertainment OR information today, but apparently I'm unable to do even that. So here are a few crumbs:

*My fantasy football team is now 2-0, thanks largely to yesterday's dominant performance by my defense, the Buccaneers.
*I've figured out how to use my new computer's CD burner. Be afraid, be very afraid...
*I've gotten lots of quality baby time lately, having dandled both my little cousin Whitney and a friend's young daughter Blythe on my knee within the last three days. They're darned cute, but I'm still happy we called it a day after two.
*Speaking of the two, both boys are starting to express interest in playing instruments--the elder is looking to pick up saxophone as part of the sixth-grade band program (he may try trumpet or French horn, but I have a feeling his braces may interfere with that), while the younger is going for the strings program and is eager to try his hand at the bass. Thank god we bought a station wagon...
*Kelly and I discovered the difference between science-fiction fans and people who merely appreciate science fiction. In Roger Ebert's The Great Movies, he notes that he felt sure that in 2001: a space odyssey, the primitive humans were inspired to make tools by the sight of the smooth, regular, obviously manufactured Monolith. Kelly and I looked at each other and said, "No way! It didn't inspire them--it zapped their brains!" That's one of the things I love about SF; you don't have to go looking for symbolism when events can be refreshingly literal.

2:40 PM

A September day of blue skies, soft winds, and clear light, but one tinged with sadness. A day when I can say little that hasn't already been said by many far more gifted writers.

One of them, the eighth-century poet Tu Fu, knew well that beauty lurked in sorrow and sorrow in beauty. Today, of all autumnal days, is a day to consider what he knew; here is Kenneth Rexroth's translation of "Jade Flower Palace."

The stream swirls. The wind moans in
The pines. Grey rats scurry over
Broken tiles. What prince, long ago,
Built this palace, standing in
Ruins beside the cliffs? There are
Green ghost fires in the black rooms.
The shattered pavements are all
washed away. Ten thousand organ
Pipes whistle and roar. The storm
Scatters the red autumn leaves.
His dancing girls are yellow dust.
Their painted cheeks have crumbled
Away. His gold chariots
And courtiers are gone. Only
A stone horse is left of his
Glory. I sit on the grass ad
Start a poem, but the pathos of
It overwhelms me. The future
Slips imperceptibly away.
Who can say what the years will bring?

2:47 AM

Well, it's a little early, but a happy Rosh Hashanah to one and all.

Religion has been on my mind a lot lately. Part of it is the season--the High Holy Days are coming, for one, and with the anniversary of September 11 coming up, thoughts of life and death are easily generated. Part of it is my own fascination with the topic; it's certainly true that religion tries to answer the most important question in human existence--"Is this it?"--regardless of the answers it provides. And yes, part of it is due to the antics of a rather irritating poster at my usual online hangout. He goes out of his way to insult the religious beliefs of anyone who doesn't subscribe to his own (very narrow) set of beliefs, and does so in a way that is strident, immature, and clueless. (For a guy who claims to go to hundreds of concerts every year, he has a real tin ear when it comes to the tone of a conversation.) He asserts his position so badly that I find myself sympathizing with anyone--everyone--who disagrees with him, regardless of whether my religious beliefs match up with theirs.

So I guess what I'm discovering is that my religious beliefs involve a basic commandment: Thou shalt not be such a goddam fanatic, OK? Lighten up!

I've dealt with believers of all religious stripes before, though. I've taught Catholic boys with ashes on their foreheads and Muslim girls in headscarves, Bible-thumping fundamentalists and Jews trying quietly to pass, agnostics and atheists, pagans and Mormons and Jains, oh my. Religion is a big part of the Woodberry life, too. Our headmaster was the dean of the divinity school at Duke for 15 years, and our school has both a required course on the Bible and required chapel services for the students. (I don't attend them very often. It's not a religious objection at all--I just want a few hours to myself on Sundays.)

And of course, I've probably made mention of my own ecumenical background. My mom was raised Jewish. Her sister married a Quaker and converted. Mom's brother married a Catholic woman who converted to Judaism. My dad was raised as an Episcopalian, but his father started attending a Baptist church late in life, while his uncle converted to Catholicism. In my own generation, I've had two Quaker cousins who married Catholics and a brother who got married in one of the biggest Baptist churches in Fayetteville. I got married in the Methodist church my wife had attended all her life, but after we moved to Virginia, she joined a Presbyterian church. And I've got a cousin who's celebrating his Bar Mitzvah in a couple of months.

But even with all this open-mindedness, these varying faiths that have sailed over my personal horizon to show their sails, I still find it hard to know what I believe. I'm a firm believer in evolution--how could I enjoy the beauty of Stephen Jay Gould otherwise?--so no matter what faith I profess, that alone means I'm no fundamentalist. In some ways, I like to think of myself as Jewish, but the sad fact is that I'm a Jew only according to the laws of Israel and--ironically--the definitions established by the Third Reich. I can't speak or read Hebrew; I don't celebrate Jewish holidays with anything but a passing nod; I know only a smattering of the rich and complex traditions of Judaism. Also, I've been baptized and confirmed (in the Episcopal church, back in '75), which sort of disqualifies me as a Jew (unless I convert, which sort of seems like gilding the lily.) Moreover, I gleefully celebrate Christmas every year, and the services I'm most familiar with are solidly Episcopalian in nature--but still, I can't honestly say that I'm a Christian. In the end, I simply don't believe that an omnipotent, omniscient, omnibenevolent Deity would have set up a universe where everyone prior to 33 A.D. was condemned to hell, necessitating a complicated and messy incarnation that could only be managed by the suspension of numerous laws of nature. And if I have this many objections to being a Jew or a Christian, joining the third People of the Book, the Muslims, would cause at least as many.

The text that has matched my philosophical questions most completely is the Tao Te Ching, but Taoism does lack a certain spiritual oomph somehow. It's more like air through which you move than like wind that moves you. Buddhism's philosophy has many comforting elements, but I also find its focus on escaping this world and, to be honest with myself, its emphasis on self-denial somewhat off-putting; if I wanted to focus on the next world and give up this one's comforts, I'd have joined a Franciscan monastery already. Hinduism is simply bewildering to me, a swirling mandala of gods, traditions, and heptosyllabic names, a faith that defies my understanding and even my pronunciation.

This would seem to point me toward atheism, but I can't manage to work up much enthusiasm for it. After all, what does it offer the human spirit? It doesn't even provide the pettiest of the comforts offered by most religions, namely the right to say "Nyaaah-nyaaah-nyaaah" after death. And it's still a religion. Oh, yes, very much so. Faith is belief in something that can't be proved, after all, and you can't disprove the existence of an omnipotent being who might just be really, really good at hiding from you.

So here I am, walking my own awkward and meandering Middle Path between belief and unbelief, and wishing fervently that all the believers and unbelievers would just calm down. Maybe this is all we get, maybe it's not. But if it is, we could sure do a better job of enjoying it together.

4:17 AM

Back on July 10th, I reported on the upcoming fantasy football season. (I'm sure all of you bookmarked that page with care.) At the time the season seemed full of wild but unspecific promise.

Now we're getting close to the specifics.

A week ago tonight, the ten owners in the Fantasy League of Gentlemen/Gentlewomen gathered online to draft this season's players. The draft would last fifteen rounds, and if we all chose quickly, the theory went, we could be done inside of three hours. Alas, when we began the draft at 8:30 p.m., it was pretty obvious that we'd be there a mite longer--only seven of us were online. One had already informed the commissioner, Dick Dinkle, that he would be late to the proceedings, while two others were struggling with computer problems. Unfortunately, none had prepared their teams for an automated draft, the usual procedure in such a situation.

This left us with a difficult choice: let the commissioner draft their early-round selections for them, or try to find another night on which all ten of us could log on at the same time. Since Labor Day was approaching, creating vacation havoc in our schedule, and since two of FLOGG's owners, Red Altower and Bug Grunt, have children in diapers, I for one did not expect that another night could be found. With the wisdom of Solomon (and a copy of the CBS player rankings in hand), Dinkle made the calls and drafted a handful of quality players for the Peace Corps, the Pitt County Pizza, and the Screaming Boiled Lobsters, whose owners turned up after a round or two and were generally happy with his picks--as if Kurt Warner, Shaun Alexander or Jeff Garcia would leave anyone unhappy. Alas, after round three, we lost Dinkle (and had to halt the entire draft) for about forty-five minutes when his computer went down. What with all the electronic angst, we ran a bit late, wrapping up just after midnight, but I was pretty happy with the way things went.

Before I even sat down at the keyboard, I had established a plan of attack for each round of the draft: One: get the best running back on the board--RBs are absolutely crucial, and usually spell the difference between a loss and a win; they're also drafted at a furious rate because they get injured at the drop of a hat, making it very hard to find a good one later in the season. Two: draft a quality starting quarterback. Three: try for another running back, unless a top-of-the-line wide receiver is available. From that point on, pick up a second wideout and the best backup backs possible.

It's a strategy born of last year's failures. To some degree, I finished ninth in 2001 because on draft day I panicked and used early picks on players at the less important positions--tight end, defense, and kicker--who don't usually score that much and are easy to obtain later in the season; this year I resolved not to draft any positions but the Big Three--RB, QB, and WR until the 8th round at the earliest. Alas, this year I was randomly assigned the tenth pick in the first round (and all odd-numbered rounds). The good news is that the draft order reversed in the second round and all even-numbered rounds. I thus picked tenth and eleventh, thirtieth and thirty-first, fiftieth and fifty-first, etc.

My first two picks got me the high-quality RB and QB I'd hoped for--LaDainian Tomlinson and Brett Favre--and when top-three receiver Marvin Harrison was available in the third round, I jumped on him. Unfortunately, my next few rounds saw me scrambling to fill my starting lineup. I was able to draft four more running backs, all of whom have question marks: Emmitt Smith, who's old, Antowain Smith, whose consistency is uncertain, Mike Alstott, who doesn't get that many carries, and Mike Anderson, who may end up blocking for another runner this year. Here's hoping at least one of them can put together a productive season. My other wide receivers have some potential: Rod Gardner, who'll catch a bunch of passes for pass-happy Steve Spurrier's team, Muhsin Muhammad, who may be the only offensive threat the Panthers have, and Koren Robinson, who may finally make something happen in Seattle. My backup quarterback is Trent Green--it might be a good thing that Favre is so durable--and I gambled a 14th-round pick on Washington's Danny Wuerffel, figuring he'll end up in the starting lineup at some point. The good news, however, is that even using late-round picks, my tight end is Denver's wily veteran Shannon Sharpe, my kicker is Super Bowl hero Adam Vinatieri, and my defense wears the red and pewter of the mighty Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

I'm ready for some football. But if someone would give Hank Williams, Jr., a quick karate chop to the larynx before this weekend, I'd be obliged.

12:10 AM