Boomer Petway's Smithsonian Exhibition

In case anyone ever checks this site any more, I have a new outlet for my shizz. Find it at The Big Green in the sex/healthz section.

http://thebiggreen.net

It is easy to forget how embarrassing high school can be. During a recent substitute teaching assignment, I was reminded of that fact when I attended a local high school’s Senior Day assembly, an embarrassing, Gong Show-like invitation for humiliation.

As my class entered the school’s auditorium, we were met by subtle manifestations of the anarchy that was soon to follow. Already the order envisioned and prescribed by the powers that be was proving to be a chimera. Students, who were expected to remain with their sixth hour class, began breaking off from their groups like so many sheep straying from the pack, searching for the greener grasses of their respective clique. We shepherds were rendered useless.

The embarrassment began promptly as seniors – two by two – walked the plank of the stage as their names were called. They were sometimes greeted with cheers, sometimes fits of laughter, and sometimes the crowds low-murmuring imitation of silence. All the symbolism intended – an individual’s movement into a new stage of life – was overshadowed by reminders of a sometimes debilitating social hierarchy. Instead of ushering in the future, the act dragged many students back into a past they’d likely rather forget.

What followed was an excruciatingly lengthy awards ceremony, broken up with musical performances by members of the senior class.

The awards allowed for several students to receive recognition for the intelligence and diligence that most likely ostracized them socially, but more often than not these students’ achievements were celebrated with cackles and insults from the underclassmen. After one student, an overweight female, won an academic award, a girl behind me joked, “They should give an award for the fattest ass.”

The same girl also opined that Debbie (name changed) should win the Most Annoying award for her two admittedly sub-par vocal performances. Debbie reminded me not only of the humiliation one can passively be subjected to in high school, but also of many high schoolers’ tendency to willingly put themselves in awkward situations. I fronted a musically-challenged punk band when I was in high school, so I can relate to the cringe-inducing naiveté of young performers. As Debbie began her first number, an American Idol-like karaoke duet with a friend, I felt embarrassed for her. Wearing a low-cut, medium length dress (most likely bought specially for the occasion) Debbie belted out slightly off-key notes with all the gusto of a William Hung. To make matters worse, the backing track began to lose faith in her as well, and was soon reduced to stuttering and skipping before the sound man stopped the CD, cutting the performance short. Amazingly, Lisa kept herself composed; and, after another slew of awards no one cared about, returned with a somewhat better acapella rendition of a song from “Phantom of the Opera.”

After yet another series of unnecessary awards, including the Elks National Foundation Most Valuable Student Scholarship and the Daughters of the American Revolution Good Citizen Award (seriously), an un-named rock band took the stage. Like any bad high school band, the four members of the group displayed bravado in their wardrobe choices, but not in their stage presence. After it became obvious to the audience that only one (maybe) member knew how to play his instrument, laughter from the seats led to red faces on stage. I couldn’t help but be reminded of myself when I observed the bass player: mowhawk, cut-off jeans, and high-top All Stars unsuccessfully covering up myriad anxieties and insecurities.

The assembly itself was an embarrassment. It was unnecessary, hurtful, and ultimately boring. But more troubling than those two and a half hours are the greater problems that the assembly symbolizes: time killing as substitute for education and students who don’t know how to handle themselves properly.

The time wasting was not limited to the three hours in the auditorium that day. Countless hours undoubtedly went into the planning of the assembly (one envisions multiple committee and departmental meetings), and a half hour was left over at the end of the day that students were required to waste back in their sixth-hour class. While school-wide and school-sanctioned time wasting such as this isn’t a regular occurrence, it can be seen on a smaller scale daily in individual classrooms. After a year of substitute teaching, I cannot tell you how many times I was paid to waste time: show a movie, pass out a cross-word puzzle, supervise an impromptu study hall. While several teachers did leave quality lesson plans, and others left these time-wasters because they did not trust in the abilities of a substitute, more often than not the lesson plan represented a trend rather than an exception. These simple plans often made my job easy (who wouldn’t want to get paid to watch taped episodes of “American Choppers?”), but they also began to worry me. Several times, while witnessing what appeared to be a comfortable and practiced malaise in students, I would ask them what they usually did in class. Their responses would regularly be to the effect of oh, we never do anything in here; and, despite the tendency of students to lie to substitutes, I often felt they were telling the truth.

So what has happened to our system that it allows such infuriating practices to continue? In the case of this assembly one could reasonably conclude that the administrators of the school inadvertently endorse such practices by engaging in these school-wide time wasters. Or perhaps, as someone who has sat through more than one woefully inefficient, ineffective teacher’s union meeting can attest, teachers are being over-protected to the point where the administration has no effective mechanism for censuring those who regularly fail to make their students’ education a priority.

Or maybe it’s the students. Maybe teachers have reverted to time wasters because when they attempt anything more constructive they are met with rampant opposition from disrespectful, uninterested students. Senior Day certainly lends credence to this theory. Young people who ‘excelled as students were subjected to the ridicule of those who hadn’t.

From where then do these behaviors originate? Explanations abound. The original sin theory posits that humans are simply born with the ability to be mean. In education circles, there is a train of thought ascribing poor behavior to poor teaching. Engage a student, they argue, and their behavior will improve. But at this assembly, I, like most students, was bored out of my mind. Yet I didn’t start cat-calling and mocking those on stage like many students did. Groupthink, perhaps? Many would argue this behavior is learned at home and that often students’ poor behavior, and consequently poor school performance, is a result of bad parenting. Personally, I’ve been developing a theory centered on young peoples’ identity – how they see themselves as basketball player, as computer nerd, as freestyle rapper, as bad-ass, but rarely as student.

Many theories address what happened at the Senior Day Assembly, but none fully explain it. Whether it is the system, the kids, or the combination of the two is unclear. What is clear is that this sort of thing shouldn’t be happening. As I edit the rough draft of this essay I am sitting in the technical drawing lab in a high school located in an affluent suburban district. Self-motivated students are quietly working in an auto-cad program, respecting me, each other, and focusing on their learning. There are students, teachers, classes, and even districts that have it right, but for every successful architectural design class there is no doubt a Senior Day: an embarrassment.

Furor and indignation continue to mount as Christians brace for the theatrical release of the evil spawn of Ron Howard and Dan Brown: The Davinci Code. As reported on this site, last week saw the Vatican officially renounce the film. This week, Movieguide.org's founder Dr. Ted Baehr sent an open letter to Christians similarly urging a boycott of the movie.
___________________________________

WE CHOOSE NOT TO SUPPORT BLASPHEMY

An open letter to Christians and people of good will about the upcoming film, The Da Vinci Code

We the undersigned are on record that we will not buy movie tickets for the film, The Da Vinci Code. The director Ron Howard has promised he is being faithful to the bestselling novel as he adapts it to the big screen. That means the movie will likely be blasphemous, just as the book is.

The book is a novel but in telling its story, it makes massive claims about Jesus Christ -- that He was not divine, that He was secretly married, and that the “New Testament is false propaganda.” We recognize that while the movie may give Christians a good opportunity to talk about faith issues, millions of people -- not familiar in the least with the Gospels -- could be spiritually poisoned with “false propaganda” against Christ. This is especially true of children.

Since every movie ticket purchased is a VOTE, saying, “Yes, Hollywood, make more movies like this!,” we choose not to buy a ticket for this movie. We choose not to support the blasphemy. While recognizing this is an issue of conscience and that people of good will may differ on how to approach the film, this is how we choose to act. And we ask Christians and all people of good will to consider doing likewise.

P.S. -- If you need more information to be familiar with the story to intelligently discuss it with your parishioners or acquaintances, please seek out good information. These sites will help you: www.thetruthaboutdavinci.com and www.davinciantidote.com. Or get the Da Vinci Code White Paper at www.movieguide.org.

Signed:
Dr. Ted Baehr
___________________________________

The Davinci Code White Paper mentioned above in the open letter really hits the mark with its scathing vitriol. The question it poses is an important one:

"In less than two months, war on Christianity will be declared. On which side of the battle line will you stand?"



Links:
http://www.humaneventsonline.com/article.php?id=14572
http://www.movieguide.org/?s=Books&s1=ViewBook&_id=8

Parents take notice: your children are not safe. This month marks the North American release of the film The Davinici Code, a film that the Vatican asserts contains “slanderous” offenses against Christianity and, more specifically, Jesus.

The film is an adaptation of the 2003 bestselling pulp novel by Dan Brown in which rumor was presented as fact. The novel has been described by Professor Patrick Reilly as “a farrago of nonsense” written in an “execrable style.” In the novel, Brown argues that Jesus did not actually die on the cross in order to save humanity, but rather fornicated with the holy Mary Magdalene, produced children, and lived out the rest of his days as a mere mortal.

Not surprisingly, the church is concerned. The fear is that the movie will result in a wave of dangerous speculation, according to Father Raniero Cantalamessa, Preacher of the Papal Household. Much like the supposed discovery of the unauthenticated gospel of Judas, the film may cause people to seriously think about their beliefs, and perhaps even reconsider them. In a time of moral uncertainty, rising secularism, and rap music the last thing people should be doing is speculating.

One doesn’t need look far to see how easy it is to fall into the trap that speculation lays. Within the church, there are already those who appear mistakenly ambivalent about the film. “The Da Vinci Code might be a bad thing or a good thing for Christianity,” says Reverend Robin Griffith-Jones, who even went so far as to accept payment from the film crew in exchange for the use of his temple as a location for filming. He is not alone; deacons at both the Winchester and Lincoln cathedrals allowed Ron Howard’s film crew access to their holy interiors in exchange for money.

The result of these transactions could be a dramatic decline in believers. “Many people have taken this book very seriously. They believe it to be a new gospel truth, as it were, even though what Dan Brown says is actually a travesty of the truth” says Archdeacon John Guilles. The fear is that things will only get worse with the release of the film. Griffith-Jones, who already seems to have fallen under the spell of the movie before it has even been released, claims that “Films are extraordinarily captivating. They have a much more immediate impact than books, and leave an unforgettable image printed on your mind.”

People of faith are beginning to speak out. The Vatican has called for a boycott of the film, and several action groups have sprung up in an effort to discount this gospel according to Dan Brown. Several churches and cathedrals have hosted lectures debunking Brown’s claims, and a coalition of Christian churches has founded Davinci Outreach, a program that aims to proactively discount the Brown myth. Amy Welborn has been one of the most vocal opponents of the Davinci Code, publishing two Davinci-related books, De-Coding Da Vinci: The Facts Behind The Fiction and The Da Vinci Code Mysteries: What The Movie Doesn’t Tell You.

The challenge, according to Welborn, is engaging with these audiences in a meaningful way. “To be honest there is not much that an intellectual discussion is going to do to change these people’s minds. They are truly True Believers and largely immune to reason.” Amen to that.

Links (actually pretty good reads):
http://www.religionnewsblog.com/14471/The-Da-Vinci-Code--Christianity-fights-back
http://www.religionnewsblog.com/14467/Vatican-calls-for---Da-Vinci-Code---boycott

Long held up as the defining form of Christian transportation, the supremacy of the Pope Mobile is being challenged by a newcomer with revelatory name: the Porn Mobile, which is literally the driving force behind XXXChurch.com’s anti-pornography crusade.

And the competition has only just begun. In the April 15, 2006 edition of The Grand Rapids Press, Craig Gross, who owns and drives the Porn Mobile, announced that 2007 would see an even bigger and better Porn Mobile. The plan, which sources say is already underway, is to replace the existing model (a black Scion xB) with a 2007 Toyota FJ Cruiser. Gross, who is bracing for West Michigan winters after moving from California, cited the Cruiser’s four-wheel capabilities as one of its primary selling points.

The Pope Mobile has seen some changes in recent years as well, converting pagans even as it was converted from a Mercedes-Benz G-Class to the more contemporary ML-Series. While these style changes are noticeable, the function of the Pope Mobile necessarily limits its fashion. It is this function, however, that has earned the Pope Mobile the status of the supreme.

Both the Pope Mobile and the Porn Mobile seek to be vehicles of the word. Their efficacy can only truly be defined in terms of their ability to spread the gospel. The Pope Mobile, which routinely bears witness to hundreds of thousands of people, remains the most prominent and dominant automobile in the church.

The Porn Mobile is gaining ground however. In 2005 the Porn Mobile crossed the country. The climax of the crusade occurred in January, when the Porn Mobile made a stop at Mars Hill Bible Church in Grandville, MI. There, a throbbing crowd of over 13,000 faithful snapped to attention to hear Gross’ “porn pandemic” gospel.

The Vatican has remained tight lipped, or perhaps unaware of, the Porn Mobile, but if they intend for the Pope Mobile to remain the leader in Christian transportation, they would be wise to take notes.

Yeah for me. I got into grad school.

Finding myself with little cash and even less motivation, I decided to spend a good old-fashioned night in front of the tube. Specifically, I devoted almost four hours to watching the spectacle which is The Grammys. Years ago, with the award ceremony falling more and more out of touch with good taste in music, who actually won the silly awards became irrelevant. Instead, the ceremony has maintained its relevance by promoting spectacle, encouraging the performing “artists” to satiate their most outlandish desires – whether it be through elaborate stage performances or oft-times heterogeneous pairings of stars. This orgy of whimsy and ego often actually proves to be interesting to watch, much in the same way that bystanders will often curiously gaze at a burning car or wrecked train. Last night did not prove to be an exception. For no one’s edification but my own, here are the things that I found interesting about last night’s ceremony:

Madonna with The Gorillaz – The event started off with the most confusing pairing of the night. Madonna donned a late 80’s workout suit, featuring spandex and no legging. I suppose she was going for irony, but it isn’t ironic when you actually ARE middle aged. Due to poor reception on my television, I was actually unsure how The Gorillaz came to life. They appeared to either be puppets or cartoons appearing on life-sized television screens. Hologram technology may have played some role (that’s a joke). At one point Madonna walked behind one member of the band, and then in front of another, leaving the viewer to ponder how that feat was achieved so fluidly if, in fact, the images of the band were appearing on a screen. All things said and done, the collaboration was curious, but musically lackluster.

Paul McCartney – McCartney seemed to be the everyman of the evening, playing the piano, seriously rocking out, joining Jay-Z and Linkin Park on stage for another unlikely collaboration, and peddling credit cards via commercial breaks. As an Album of the Year nominee, Sir Paul was granted significant stage time. He used this time to play two songs. The first was “Fine Line.” It sounded old and slagging, much like McCartney himself. However, with his second song he sold himself to the young rockers watching at home by blowing the crowd away with the all-out rock of “Helter Skelter.” Old man seriously rocked, and by the end of the song he was in rare vocal form. Only a short time later, he joined Jay-Z and Linkin Park (ugg) on stage, once again seemingly selling himself to the youth. I’m still undecided whether McCartney overextended himself, or convincingly sold himself to a new generation of fans. In either case, he certainly reasserted himself into the viewers’ consciousnesses.

Mariah Carey – Mariah convincingly reclaimed the title of worlds-biggest-diva by outshining rival Mary J. Blige. Blige joined U2 on stage, hoping to recapture some of the magic that (legend has it) spontaneously took place in concert only a few months ago. This time around the magic was missing. Blige and Bono just couldn’t seem to stay in the same register, and at times seemed to be singing different songs. Mariah replaced the worlds biggest rock band with the tried and true gospel choir, and proceeded to throw down the diva gauntlet in a performance that will be remembered in diva circles for years to come.

Sly Stone – By far the oddest moment of the night occurred when Sly Stone, who has been out of the public eye for years, took the stage wearing a white/sparkly coat and pants, name engraved belt, black shades, and a giant white Mohawk (see picture above, courtesy of Stereogum.com). I’ve been getting into a few Family Stone albums, and I was psyched to see Sly. The most recent exposure I had to him was via youtube, where I watched a hilarious yet troubling 1970 appearance of his on The Dick Cavett Show. From the moment Sly joined Cavett on the set, it was clear that dude was cracked out of his mind. He could barely walk a straight line to his seat, and proceeded to give one of the most awkward and nonsensical interviews I’ve ever seen. Apparently, the reason Sly has been out of the public eye is because he has been continuously cracked out ever since. After a slew of musicians, including Joss Stone, John Legend, Maroon 5, will.i.am, Santana and Aerosmith, played a medley of Family Stone songs, Sly finally joined them out on stage. He proceeded to man a keyboard and quietly mumble along while Aerosmith and Santana rocked one of his jams. Word has it that as the show approached Sly was nowhere to be found. He eventually arrived and took the stage, but my guess is dude was off getting his crack on.

Kanye West – Kanye lived up to the megalomaniac hype when he and Jamie Foxx performed, what they referred to as, The Grammy Halftime Show. Complete with marching bands and ludicrous outfits, West seemed to once again prove that his ego, vision, production, and songwriting dwarf his actually ability behind a live microphone. Although Kanye can undoubtedly turn a phrase, he has come off sounding nervous and weak behind the microphone the three or four times I have seen him live. I think that is actually what makes Kanye so endearing to me. He is apparently an egomaniac, who obviously has the lyrical and production skills to back up his claims to notoriety. But behind the façade of street cred, Kanye seems to have a vulnerable and sensitive side that his live performances testify to. The same could be said about his lone acceptance speech of the night. His outfit was the ludicrous yet awesome ensemble you would expect a hip-hop narcissist to don. But when he took the stage he made a funny (in my mind) yet stupid joke that no one in the audience got, and proceeded to sound timid and nervous. If you’ve ever actually seen his Hurricane Katrina diatribe, you’ll know what I mean; his voice shakes and he sounds sincerely timid. The “bad joke” which I refer to was hilarious in its self-referential nature. After last year’s awards everyone assumed that Kanye was going to blow up if he didn’t win. In fact, he had publicly stated that he expected to win this year and would feel ripped off if he didn’t. After winning the first award that he had been nominated for, Kanye stepped on stage and humbly announced something to the effect that he had not expected this, and barely had time to think about an acceptance speech. As he did this he pulled an over-sized card from his jacket that was emblazoned with a large “Thank You List” on the back. In other words, he acted humble, yet made fun of himself by bringing this way-too-large (i.e. just like my ego, “y’know I knew I’d win”) card with him on stage. Classic Kanye. It was the only award he won.

Living just around the corner from Cherry Hill Market, I’ve found myself frequenting said establishment at a steadily increasing rate. This has invariably led to a growing familiarity with the employees of the market, and I now find myself on friendly terms with several of the cashiers. In particular, I find myself beginning to develop a man-crush on one of the employees who seems like friendship material, and have lately begun to engage with him in conversation centered around our shared interest in music. Unfortunately, a social barrier has developed between us because of his insistence in calling me Paul (apparently a quick glance at my license months ago yielded only a familiarity with my middle name) and my inability or fear to correct him after a few months of letting it slide. While social barriers seem to constitute an increasingly large portion of my existence, barriers in other areas have been breaking down all over the world. Two days ago I noticed my cashier-acquaintance wearing a T. Rex shirt – a band that I had recently been introduced to via a hard-drive music swap with a friend. The previous week this cashier and I had been partners in a short but lively conversation regarding the Euro-metal band Dungen, and I now found myself hoping to have a similar conversation about T. Rex. Problem though – I knew nothing about the group and only had heard a single album of theirs one time. So I raced home, added the folder to my itunes library, hit play, opened two tabs in Firefox, and proceeded to become an expert overnight. Barriers be damned!

Let’s trace and investigate how this expertise was attained (see diagram above). Several months ago I was invited by a friend to an invite-only bitTorrent site which instantly began to foster a relationship between my hard-drive and my impulses/desires. Two months later, after uploading 10 gigs to other users, I was granted three invites myself. One of them I relegated to my friend Andy, who has proceeded to take advantage of the sites wealth of music, including recently an early glam band named T. Rex. Enjoying the album, he recommended that I copy it to my external hard-drive which I had brought to his apartment for just such a purpose. Having returned the hard-drive to my computer, I was able to instantly add the music to my itunes library, play it, and upload it to my ipod which I listen to now as I write at a teacher’s desk in Northview High School (where I am working as a Substitute teacher today). So I had/have the music. But expertise required the ingestion and digestion of some background material. Hungry for such information I opened Firefox. Thanks to All Music Guide and Google, an amazing wealth of knowledge was made immediately available to me. So now, as I sit behind this teacher’s desk, I am able to listen to T. Rex on my ipod while mulling over the fact that T. Rex was the “primary force in glam rock” and that their popularity in the U.K. led to a period of “T. Rextasy” amongst fans, or that the groups leader, Marc Bolan, was a teenage model before forming the band (now that’s glam!). Thank God for the flat world.

Flat World you ask? I thought Aristotle had cleared up that debate years ago (according to the world flattener Wikipedia, in the 4th Century BC Aristotle was the first to provide physical evidence that the world was round). That the world has become flat is the central premise of Thomas L. Friedman’s new bestseller “The World is Flat.” A friend of mine – a burgeoning young global capitalist – recently lent me a copy of Friedman’s latest opus. Friedman, who has won three Pulitzers for his journalistic investigations of globalization, uses a clear and simple style to lay out his argument that several factors, including the comprehensive fiber-optic wiring of developing nations such as India (and yes, China!), have combined to level the global playing field – in effect flattening the world. According to Friedman, big businesses now have new markets and employees they can utilize, while small companies can network cheaply and throughout the world as if they were giant corporations. No longer is it impossible for an Indian company to collaborate directly with companies in larger markets. In fact, the process has become surprisingly easy. While Friedman’s style is simple and direct, his investigation leads to complex and often troubling questions about the future of The United States and the world.

The strengths of “The World is Flat” are found in its first half – in the investigation and subsequent reporting of facts, forces, and players that have contributed to this undeniable flattening effect. Perhaps the most interesting examination of the forces that “flattened” the world relates to the wiring of the world and India’s rise to outsourcing superpower via strategic capitalization on Y2K related services.

In the midst of the tech boom of the late nineties, telecommunications companies massively over-invested in fiber-optic wiring. These companies were banking on the boom continuing. For better or worse, it didn’t, and many companies, trying to recoup some of their losses, sold either the wire or the right to use it at bargain-basement prices. The result? The world was wired and communicating cross-world became more effective and affordable. Nowhere was the effect of this wiring more apparent than in India. As Y2K approached, many American companies were receiving apocalyptic forecasts of massive computer and infrastructure malfunctioning due to a short-sighted two-digit year designation in many computers’ internal clock. The process of fixing the perceived problem – manually reprogramming each computer’s internal clock – proved to be grunt work. Many companies soon found willing grunts in the form of young Indian programmers. And when India proved to be full of workers who were both efficient and accurate, American companies grew confident in the relationship. As a result, the outsourcing of numerous services and tasks found a new home in India. Today, when you call Dell’s customer service line and find a polite, well-educated Indian on the other end of the call, you have Y2K to thank.

During the first half of Friedman’s book, the reader cannot help but raise questions to him/herself – What about the U.S.? How does or will this effect ME? What about the human-rights violations seemingly inherent to the manufacturing process in these developing nations? Should I abandon Arts and Letters and instead get an education in Business or Computers? If I don’t will I be left behind? Is this a movement that I am okay with not being a part of? Would I be better off a luddite? Etc? And Friedman’s book should end when the reader is led to these questions. Instead, he trudges on for another two hundred pages in an attempt to provide some answers.

I’m not going to make the same mistake and attempt to provide any answers here. But perhaps it is time that we, as a nation, begin an honest dialogue regarding the apparently exponential effects of globalization. To this point, the conversation has been sputtering on the smoke-screen fumes of rhetoric, with both Republicans and Democrats trying to appease our country’s manufacturing base with unrealistic assumptions of the exclusivity of and rights to previously American jobs. A global market necessarily renders this rhetoric ludicrous and out of touch. Perhaps, as Friedman posits, we need to begin to debate “how” we globalize as opposed to “whether” we globalize. There is still a role for activism in this process, the arguments just need to become more mature and relevant.

In the meantime, I face a dilemma. Having broken down the necessary knowledge barriers between myself and T. Rex, I now face the social barrier of a real-life discussion with a certain local booze-peddler. If only Cherry Hill Market had a broadband connection, email, or even video conferencing. I bet the liquor stores in metropolitan China do! C’mon guys, the world is flat.

I now will subject you, the reader(s?) to banal commentary about random topics such as Don Cheadle, conspiracy theorists, why I actually should have built that Y2K bunker, a drama queen, and a pesky and prudish notion of the absolute.

* Today I went and saw Paul Rusesabagina speak at The January Series at Calvin College. He proved to be a decent speaker, who was able to communicate his can’t-miss-being-compelling tale fairly effectively. I felt embarrassed to be there. I know so little about so many of the terrible things that go on in the world, and I do so little to combat those things from happening. Prior to his speech, my mother kept trying to recall the bits and pieces of Hotel Rwanda that were still synaptically accessible in her aging head muscle. She prodded me to contribute and I refused. I quietly explained that I was terribly embarrassed that my knowledge of this mass genocide (which, incidentally, is one of many similar atrocities still taking place in Africa today) was limited to a popular film starring Don Cheadle.

* I’ve never been one for conspiracy theories. My roommate is a theorist of sorts, and a few of his friends might be considered die-hards. Much of my skepticism stems from the obvious fact that many of the theories are ludicrous, but perhaps the true source of my skepticism stems from the fact that I simply don’t think people are smart enough, cunning enough, or ambitious enough to actually pull off some of the schemes that those like Alex Jones detail on popular conspiracy theorist websites such as Info-Wars. Many of these theorists are obsessed with civil liberty violations and attacks on personal autonomy – and these are certainly worthwhile causes. For several years the reoccurring theory of George W. Bush as a truly evil, manipulative, and ultimately power-hungry would-be tyrannical dictator has been circulating amongst these sites. Obviously, legislation such as the Patriot Act lent some credence to these claims. But to me, GW was still merely the stumbling epitome of buffoonery that appeared incapable of such dictatorial aspirations. UNTIL RECENTLY. This whole NSA wire-tapping scandal has really forced me to reexamine GW, and perhaps more fittingly, the conservative machinery that is operating behind the scenes. Further emblazoning these fires of conspiracy claims is potential Supreme Court Judge Samuel Alito’s comments on the topic of Unitary power. WTF?, right? This dormant and understandably forgotten constitutional (???) presidential power has apparently been refashioned by the Bush administration to justify a presidential bypass of checks and balances. Add to that the now open dissatisfaction of Bush towards the McCain Torture legislation, and you’ve got yourself a real-life Big Brother. If only I had actually built that Y2K Bunker the conspiracy theorists were all recommending five years ago, perhaps I might actually have use for it in the near future.

* Last night my friend Andy and I discussed Jens Lekman for at least an hour, possibly more. His latest album, a collection of previous work entitled Oh You’re So Silent Jens, is quickly becoming one of my favorite albums. Lekman simultaneously evokes comparisons of Jonathan Richman (smile and confirm) and Conor Oberst (wince and nod in admission). Like Richman, Lekman is a born conversationalist and song writer; he’s funny, charming, and insightful. His genius lies in his ability to craft intimate portraits of universal dilemmas and ennui. And like Oberst, he and his songs regularly suffer from overly melodramatic lovelorn bouts of melancholia. Confirming this comparison is the fact that in a recent interview with Pitchfork the sensitive artist began the interview by melodramatically stating his intention to quit making music and perhaps resume a career as a telemarketer, only to conclude the interview with an about-face admission that new music will inevitably be made in the near future. As Andy put it, he came off as a “drama queen.” Regardless, Oh You’re So Silent Jens is great. He is only 24 (what a youngster!), so perhaps the dramatic tendencies will soon give way to banal contentment, although that doesn’t sound very pleasing either.

* The James Frey saga continues to intrigue. Frey appeared on Larry King Live and during the show Oprah called in to voice her support for Frey, stating that his book was still an excellent read despite its blatant fallacies (my words – not hers). I still refuse to subscribe to that sort of reasoning. Perhaps it’s the prudish belief in the absolute that I was brought up with and just can’t seem to shrug off. Or maybe it is just because I don’t have a lot of patience for assholes or the unauthentic.

This holiday season James Frey seemed to play an increasingly large role in my life. No, I hadn’t actually read his Oprah acclaimed “Memoir” A Million Little Pieces, but I had been recommended the book by no less than three people, bought the book for my Sister-In-Law per her Christmas request, and perused Frey’s new book at Schuler’s one day. So much exposure and so much hype made me a little wary, so I chose to hold off on reading it. It turns out my procrastination has paid off, as Frey has been outed as a fraud.

My mother, a therapist, was particularly fond of the book because of its frank portrayal of a man in the grasp of substance abuse, and while Frey certainly may have been ingesting an illegal substance now and then, it appears he grossly exaggerated or down-right fabricated many details of his story. So, who cares? If it’s a good read, it’s a good read, right? I don’t know. According to The Smoking Gun article, Frey actually tried to sell an even more outlandish version of his manuscript as fiction, but could not find any publishers that were interested. He then revised the manuscript, marketed it as non-fiction, and found a buyer fairly quickly. In other words, his story was so unbelievable that it was not even marketable as fiction. As non-fiction however, and not without the help of Oprah Whinfrey mind you, Frey’s book struck the heart-chords of millions of Americans. So while publishers believed his book wouldn’t sell as fiction, it sold like hotcakes as non-fiction. Readers of non-fiction, especially this type of recovering addict non-fiction, necessarily feel a connection to the writer because of their belief and trust in that author. That is what makes Frey’s manipulation so egregious. People connected to his story because they believed him, but he was violating their trust the whole time. So in this case, it does matter whether his story was true or not. As Keith Phipps on the Onion A.V. Club Message Board put it “Sure, you can take the idea of ‘truth’ apart as much as you like, but at worst it's one of those necessary fictions we cling to so society doesn't fall apart.” In a way, Frey has exposed his readers to that necessary fiction. He’s also exposed himself as an asshole.

It will be interesting to see how this thing plays out, how those who read and connected to his story will respond. I smell a great Oprah show in the works.


The Original Headline I read at Boing Boing:
"Million Little Pieces" author James Frey told a million little lies?
The Smoking Gun sez,
Police reports, court records, interviews with law enforcement personnel, and other sources have put the lie to many key sections of Frey's book [A Million Little Pieces]. The 36-year-old author, these documents and interviews show, wholly fabricated or wildly embellished details of his purported criminal career, jail terms, and status as an outlaw 'wanted in three states.'


The complete expose by The Smoking Gun can be found here: http://www.thesmokinggun.com/jamesfrey/0104061jamesfrey1.html
The article is certainly more than a little subjective and biased (they seem a tad upset that Frey and his lawyer are threatening to sue), but it seems that their facts are in order.


The Onion A.V. Club Message Board post I cited above:
Lit theory vs. Oprah
I'm a lit theory veteran, having done time in the undergrad and grad trenches during theory's heyday in the early to mid-'90s. (Scars? I've got 'em.) And, yes, the author's dead, the idea of authenticity is bogus, etc. etc. But there's a difference between recognizing the disconnect between the written word and its writer and recognizing the difficulty of pinning down the idea of self and being able to call "bullshit" when someone goes on Oprah and claims things happened to him that simply did not happen. Sure, you can take the idea of "truth" apart as much as you like, but at worst it's one of those necessary fictions we cling to so society doesn't fall apart and, you know, dogs and cats don't start living together and whatnot.
Comment by: Keith Phipps at January 9, 2006 - 2:57pm

Last weekend, in a fit of manic jabbering and idea generation, my friend Carl and I began discussion of a collaborative writing project. After much talk, we agreed that it would be an interesting literary experience to have a group of individuals each write a short story based around an agreed upon but malleable plot. Based on our discussion of shared experiences in the Christian Reformed culture of West Michigan, specifically regarding the female members of the community, our first plot began to take shape. What we agreed upon was simple: a young man pretends to be a fundamentalist Christian in order to “pick up” or “score” with otherwise unattainable Christian girls. Our stories had to utilize this plot point, but otherwise could take any direction that we chose. Below is my stab at the project. I haven’t written more than a single short story since graduation, so if the prose is a bit purple I apologize. Read it if you like, or don’t read it and write your own. If you are reading this, you can probably assume yourself invited to join in the festivities. Write a story. We’ll share. If you’re not ready for this go around, stay tuned for future plots.


Song of Songs

I can only imagine the reaction of the congregation when the stranger made his prayer request. I’ve been there since, and it has helped to clarify the picture I have in my head. Most likely no jaws dropped, and only the unevenly tempered may have allowed their faces to betray their surprise. A few children may have giggled at the absurdity of the stranger’s request - that is, before they were censured by their parents. That’s only speculation though; Mary told me the facts and I’ve filled in the details. Perhaps that runs contrary to my duty as a man of science, but sometimes the facts, what we can see and know, fail to tell the whole story. It is not a fact that the hearts of the young women in that sanctuary fluttered when the stranger spoke, but it is a reasonable assumption.

It was a Sunday like any other Sunday in Solomon Township. The oak trees, uncommon in most parts of New Mexico, had begun to shed their leaves, and crackled bits of orange and red trailed their way through the door and into the narthex of the church. None of the congregants filing in seemed to notice the stranger, or at least no one acknowledged the fact that their small community had a visitor. A few children glanced his way curiously, but they soon lost interest in this rather unremarkable young man. His appearance belied no motives. In fact, his pressed trousers, white shirt, tie, and wire framed spectacles almost served as the uniform of the men in attendance. The service began as usual: hymns, readings, announcements, and liturgies. As was customary, Minister VanDess opened up the floor to prayer requests prior to his pre-sermon prayer. The stranger stood immediately and addressed the congregation:

“Good morning my fellow people of God. I have traveled many miles to be here with you today, and I wish to make my intentions clear to all. I have come to Solomon for one purpose and one purpose only: to find a good Christian Reformed girl to marry. I beseech you to ask the lord for his providence and guiding hand in this matter. Thank you.”

Again, I can only imagine the reactions of those in attendance that day, which incidentally was most likely the entire Township. Solomon is one of the few Christian Reformed strongholds existing in the America’s today, and is perhaps unique for its rather undiluted sample of Dutch Christian Reformed heritage. From what I can tell, based on the chicken scratches I frantically put to paper following my discussion with Mary, the stranger utilized the post-service coffee and conversation session to further explain his plight to various congregants. And based on that scattered small talk, the Township’s surprisingly efficient gossip chain was soon able to make some clear assertions about the stranger: he was young, was a seminary student in Michigan, was discouraged by what he viewed as the corruption of moral certainty in the large city from which he came, was desperate for marriage, and had come to the conclusion that only Solomon could offer the kind of pure and uncorrupted bride for which he yearned. Oh yeah, and in all ways he seemed to be the perfect picture of an upstanding, moral, and decent Christian man. Word of his honorable character spread quickly, as did so many other things later.


And so the courtships began. Initially the young man was only invited to sit with a daughter’s family during Sunday services. But eventually he would earn the family’s trust, and be allowed to escort the girl through the town.

The townspeople were not the betting type, but pressed to put money on which daughter the stranger would eventually pick for marriage – and it was soon apparent that the town would grant him his choice unchallenged – the safe bet was Mary.

I don’t know how the scenario unfolded for the other girls, how their inhibitions were stripped away, or how they came under the power of the stranger. I only know how it happened for Mary. She told me five months later.


From the time she was seven, and even to this day, it was clear that Mary was the most beautiful girl in all of Solomon. When the church school put on an adaptation of the birth of Jesus, it was always Mary who played the lead (fittingly that of Mary Magdalene). When the youth choir sung a number that required a solo, it was always Mary who was asked. But the townspeople, and specifically her parents, always encouraged meekness in Mary, and directed her to attribute her successes to God. At the time of the stranger’s arrival Mary had developed into a beautiful, graceful, and humble young woman, who despite her physical superiority to those around her, was always the first to sacrifice her well-being for that of another. When the stranger made his announcement, several townspeople assumed that Mary would be the first girl he approached, and that, because of her beauty and kindness, the stranger’s search would be short-lived. Mary admitted to secretly believing this as well. But as the weeks and then months passed, and as the stranger courted other young woman after other young woman, Mary admitted to feeling a slight tinge of jealousy. Her upbringing prevented her acknowledging her feelings in public however. When she saw the stranger at church or in public with a young girl, she merely smiled and tried her best to hope for the girl’s happiness.

Only when it began to feel like he had courted every girl in the Township except for her did he finally ask Mary’s parents for permission to sit with their daughter at church on Sunday. More relieved than anything else, Mary excitedly dressed herself in her finest dress for the occasion, and, one can only imagine, admired herself in the mirror before leaving for church that morning.

Later, in my office, Mary coyly told me how he whispered to her during that first church service, how he told her that God’s finest moment was when he created her, how he scribbled flowery psalms on the back of note cards and passed them to her secretly. She was instantly smitten by him, by his charm, by his knowledge of scripture, and by what she mistakenly recognized as his Christian propriety.

After church they went on a walk, as they did the following evening, and the evening after that. For the most part, the stranger kept the conversation light but interesting. He told her stories of his youth, his church, and his friends back in the city. Near the conclusion of each walk the stranger would resume showering her with praises as he had done that first day at the church. He again thanked the Lord for his fine craftsmanship, and sung her the psalms of David as they walked hand in hand.

During these walks he also took the opportunity to wow her with stories of the big city, and indicated that he one day hoped to show her some of the many wonders of God that existed outside of her own small community. She admitted that despite her love for Solomon, she wanted to see more of the world. And so he told her more about the city, more about his home. As he did this, he talked less and less about Mary’s beauty, and although she had been raised to be humble, she began to miss his flattering praise. This trend continued over the course of several walks and weeks, and she genuinely found herself missing his praises and secretly wondering what she had done wrong, why he seemed to no longer be interested in her beauty.

One evening during a walk Mary became so engrossed listening to the stranger’s stories of the city that she failed to notice it was getting dark and that they should have turned around to begin the trip home by that time. When she finally did realize this and they had turned around, night had enveloped them in its grip. The conversation eventually came to a natural end and they walked a few minutes in silence. In winter, Solomon came close to resembling the sparse and open deserts typical in that region of New Mexico. As they walked between the now bare limbs of the upright Oak trees, Mary’s thoughts began to fill in the expansive and empty space of their surroundings. She loved the stranger, she thought. She wanted to return to the big city with him, frankly Solomon was beginning to feel a bit stifling. But above all else she felt melancholy and ugly. She was tormenting herself over the stranger’s gradual omission of compliments when she finally broke down and confronted him:

“Now that you have grown accustomed to me, now that you have seen my skin up close, now that you have stared deeply into my eyes, do you no longer find me beautiful?”

The stranger turned away. Mary placed her hand on his shoulder, but still he did not turn back. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he turned back towards her. He had tears in his eyes when he addressed her:

“Only after several aborted attempts did I realize that words, those ugly little symbols and sounds that form our language, fail to adequately describe the beauty of God’s creation, specifically his paramount achievement: you. As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you.” Relief washed over her.

“Your eyes, so full of the magic of flight, are doves.” As he said this he took a step towards her and stared deeply into her eyes. She returned his gaze.

“Your neck is like the tower of David, built with elegance; on it hang a thousand shields of warriors.” He softly put his hand beneath her hair and placed it gently on her neck. She breathed deeply.

“Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon, and they drop sweetness as the honeycomb. Milk and honey are under your tongue; your mouth is lovely.” He placed his lips on hers. She closed her eyes briefly as his tongue slipped into her mouth.

Now he whispered: “Your two breasts are like two fawns, like twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies.” You can guess what happened next.


Did he actually say that bullshit straight-faced? That’s what she told me – I couldn’t make up that banal, sentimental drivel. So it went that Mary and I met five months later, at the abortion clinic I was working at that summer. The clinic was just south of the border, and because of restrictions state-side, was the only clinic her mother could find that performed late term abortions.

Despite Mary’s evident bulge, her beauty was immediately apparent. I went through my usual routine with her and her mother, asked the standard questions, check-marked the corresponding boxes, just like I had done with all the other Solomon girls before her. But this was the 15th Solomon girl in the past three months that had come to the clinic, and my curiosity prompted me forgo the standard protocol and ask Mary some questions alone. Under the guise of standard practice, I asked Mary’s mother to return to the waiting room prior to the procedure. It was then that Mary told me the story. She did so after much petitioning on my part, and she did so without tears, but instead with a stoic look of world-weariness and a matter-of-fact delivery. She recounted her story, but never once mentioned any of the other girls. Perhaps she was unaware that hers was not the only pregnancy that the stranger caused, or perhaps she chose not to know.


Six months after Mary’s abortion – and hers was the last – I set out one Sunday morning to visit Solomon Township. Curious, a man of science, I wanted to gather all the facts, know the truth about what happened in that town.

As an avowed practitioner of a procedure that I know many women are ashamed to have been a part of, I am used to former patients ignoring me during uncomfortable public run-ins. But things in Solomon were different; the girls looked directly at me, and even smiled quaintly as they would at any other stranger, but with an indifferent refusal of acknowledgement. I waved at Mary that Sunday of my visit. She looked through me and walked past me to talk with a girlfriend. I decided not to press matters and simply sat quietly through the sermon and hymns. After the service, I, like the other stranger from months before, lingered with a cup of coffee. While adding some fresh cream to my cup, I was accosted by a middle aged man who introduced himself and asked what brought me to Solomon. I explained that I lived a few miles south of the border, and had simply wondered up to attend the service. In response to his further inquiry I told him that I worked as a doctor at a Planned Parenthood clinic. He frowned at this news and politely explained to me that Christian’s believed that abortion was a sin, and was akin to the act of murder. As I was leaving, the same man rushed over and handed me a pamphlet: Embrace Life – A CRC Guide to Unplanned Pregnancy. I stepped outside to find the sidewalk had been covered with a fresh blanket of orange and red leaves. The scene was idyllic, but I was ill.


That is how this story ends. I’ll leave it up to you to pass judgment or blame on the characters of this tale, it is not my place to do so. I’ve done my best to fill in the details, to provide some continuity between the stranger’s dark deeds and the town’s pure untainted appearance, to shade grey in-between those black and white lines. But there are no more lines in this story to shade between, no more facts.

For yours truly, 2005 ushered in an era of unfettered access to quality music. With the aid of a broadband connection, an invitation to a private bitTorrent site, and an iPod, I was granted nearly instant access to any music imaginable. Perhaps as a reaction to the increasing pace of our technology based culture, the music I found myself retreating to was more mellow and soothing than anything I had previously listened to. As a result, this list is comprised primarily of mature music, which on first listen might almost border on adult contemporary status, were it not for the intelligence and creativity that a close listening reveals.

I wonder what my punk-rock high school self would think of this list. Would he/I laugh in the face of this music? Most likely, but I did not have access to music of that quality at that point in my life. Despite the obvious differences between the two styles of music, I can still loosely trace a relationship between the raucous punk rock of my youth and this music. Both challenge assumptions. While punk rock does it through the shouting or political slogans, this music does it with more subtly and grace. Perhaps this is the music that the punk rock kids make when they grow up. Or perhaps I have just become a boring old man, one who is too weathered to the world to shout about change and stick safety pins through my ears. Regardless, I feel that this is the best music being made today, and, as I discussed with a friend the other night, probably the best contemporary musical response to the history of rock music.


#1 Sufjan Stevens – Illinois

As a recent immigrant to and then emigrant from Illinois, I felt especially blessed to receive a new album from Sufjan Stevens focused around the prairie state. Song titles such as “Casimir Pulaski Day” warmed me up to this album immediately, and the music did nothing to deter the initial excitement. This album is the second in Stevens’ ludicrously ambitious project of writing an album conceptually based around each state in the union. His first in this series, Greetings from Michigan, was one of the best albums of 2003, and with Illinois he has taken his craft to a new level. Stevens has been slathered with platitudes over the last three years, as he has put out three consistently excellent albums during that span. The praise is justified.

Stevens is one of the finest songwriters working today. His boy genius I-play-every-instrument-ever-created-no-seriously-every-one mystique has only grown with this album. But beyond the amazing instrumentation, he has crafted a collection of intimate and often moving songs, using the history and geography of Illinois as his template. Perhaps the emotional climax of the album takes place early on with Stevens’ haunting portrayal of the renowned serial killer in “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.” Musically the track is melancholic yet beautiful, and the portrait that Stevens’ paints is truly striking: “The neighbors they adored him / for his humor and his conversation / Look underneath the house there / Find the few living things rotting fast / in their sleep, oh the dead.” But the song takes on a much more disturbing and thought provoking turn in the final verse when Stevens’ sings, “And in my best behavior / I am really just like him / Look beneath the floorboards / For the secrets I have hid.” Another track that has made a lasting impression on me is “Casimir Pulaski Day.” In this track Sufjan references an Illinois holiday in passing, instead focusing on telling a story about a friend dying of cancer. It is only near the end of the song we learn of the connection to the holiday when, after his friend’s death, the narrator says “On the first of March, on the holiday, I thought I saw you breathing.” These two songs are representative of what makes Illinois work, and what leads me to believe that any other state that Sufjan Stevens chooses as the framework of his next album will work as well. Yes, Sufjan clearly knows his Illinois history. But if we wanted a rote history lesson there are clearly better sources available. Stevens knows this. Instead of simply writing about the interesting aspects of the state’s history, he uses that history to ask universal questions about humanity, personal and intimate questions arising from the complexity of existence, and to tell excellent stories in the process.

Beautiful, haunting, and rarely trite, Illinois is an amazing album deserving of its numerous accolades.


#2 Calexico / Iron & Wine – In the Reins EP

The bold and saturated watercolor gracing the cover of this album serves as an apt metaphor for describing the music within. In the Reins is a lush and expansive record, yet it has the soft intimacy of a watercolor. The album couples the literary and whisperish songwriting of Sam Beam (aka Iron & Wine) with the full and dense instrumentation of Calexico. It immediately becomes apparent that Sam Beam wrote all of the songs for the album, but that it is clearly not a typical Iron & Wine album. The tracks he wrote for the album are some of his best. “A History of Lovers,” which rocks more than anything Beam has written to date, is clearly the highlight of the album. The song features a vocal melody which is far and away the most pleasing sound that has reached my ears this year; and when the triumphant brass joins in, you cannot help but feel that you are listening to something special. Other album highlights include a reworking of one of Beam’s earliest songs (officially unreleased but featured on the leaked demo he made prior to his first album) “Sixteen, Maybe Less” and the album opener “He Lays in the Reins,” which features the startling operatic vocals of Salvador Duran.


#3 Andrew Bird – The Mysterious Production of Eggs

The Mysterious Production of Eggs was an album that seemed to come out of left field, only to find a spot in my starting rotation. The mature and refined sound of Andrew Bird, coupled with the relative lack of blog hype, did little to accentuate this album in my increasingly expansive iTunes library. However, its alphabetical placement in said library, directly below A.C. Newman’s amazing The Slow Wonder, yielded a few accidental plays and subsequently won the album a spot in my mind and heart. Bird has been making albums for a number of years now, and although I still have not heard his previous albums, The Mysterious Production of Eggs hints at a songwriter who has meticulously fine-tuned his craft. The production of the album lends it an eccentric and curious sound, which perfectly complements the wonderfully inquisitive title. The album highlight is “A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left,” a song which bubbles with wonder and curiosity, features some of the best and most mysterious whistling you will ever hear, and wrestles with a History Channel panel’s statement that “You’re what happens when two substances collide / and by all accounts you really should have died.” Although only #3 on this list, this very well may be the album that I keep listening to well into the future – 2006 and beyond.


#4 My Morning Jacket – Z

Z snuck up on me and stole my heart. Having heard only snippets of My Morning Jacket’s previous album on NPR, I had written them off as a band doing something interesting, but something that I was not particularly interested in. Their big-band rock sound and ringing reverb seemed just a little too raucous and unfocused for my listening tastes. Z is a different sort of beast. Like its predecessor, Z features a number of highly charged rock songs and enough reverb to turn a pin-drop into something epic, but the album also features a graceful restraint and spaced out quality that makes it a unique listening treat. Influences abound. MMJ clearly derives much of their sound from southern and classic rock icons such as Neil Young, yet it is the influence of groups such as Radiohead and The Flaming Lips that make this such a multidimensional album and, consequently, such a rewarding listening experience. That said, the best track on the album is the traditional rocker “What a Wonderful Man.” The song features dense instrumentation rounding out the lower range, while a bright and colorful piano fills out the upper register. It is messy, shambolic, and rad as hell. The other highlight of the album is “Off the Record”, which begins as a reggae number, but smoothly transitions into chilled out two minute groove which might seem pretentious were it not for the context in which it appears.


#5 Rogue Wave – Descended Like Vultures

Rogue Wave began as Zach Rogue’s solo project but with Descended Like Vultures has become a full scale venture. Like Rogue’s previous album Out of the Shadow, Descended Like Vultures features excellent lyrics and interesting songwriting. However, unlike its predecessor, Descended Like Vultures is a fully realized and fleshed out incarnation of Rogue’s songs. The production is nearly epic – it is multilayered, dense, and much warmer than Rogue’s previous work. The standout track is “Publish My Love,” which features an epic guitar riff reminiscent of U2 but sets itself apart from those comparisons with its amazingly subtle yet powerful chorus. An excellent album which is still growing on me.


I feel bad about not spreading around more props, so here they are. Rounding out the top 10:

#6 The New Pornographers – Twin Cinema
#7 Stars – Set Yourself on Fire
#8 Clap Your Hands Say Yeah – Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
#9 Spoon – Gimme Fiction
#10 Wolf Parade – Apologies to the Queen Mary

All the kids are doing it. I am simply the latest to become ensnared. I am addicted to Sudoku. Last night I helplessly stayed up into the wee hours of the morning in the grips of a Sudoku binge. I became aware of Sudoku thanks to Will Short (sp?) - the puzzle-master on NPR's weekend addition. The game is basically an analytical brain-teaser. I suppose it is a better way to spend time than reading gossip blogs.

Try it at http://www.websudoku.com/
Learn the rules at http://www.sudoku.com/

I'd say about it, but I must start playing it. All this discussing has gotten me really worked up.

As with my film list, my book list contains a few titles that were published prior to ’05 but did not reach my hands until this year. The list is comprised primarily of contemporary fiction, which I find myself becoming more and more addicted to. This is either a blessing or a curse. Clearly, by focusing primarily on current trends I am ignoring piles of important literature from years past that would probably do me good to read. On the other hand, watching young authors develop before my eyes almost gives me a sense of belonging, as if I am part of this rebirth in contemporary fiction. My name does little to dispel that notion; it is an exciting time to be a Jonathan right now. This year’s list makers Jonathan Safran Foer and Jonathan Lethem join Jonathan Franzen in establishing a thrilling movement of young Jonathans crafting exciting and meaningful literature. Obvs. the Jonathan talk is tongue-in-cheek, but my excitement about reading good contemporary fiction is no joke.


#1 Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer (2005)

A chortle. A chuckle. A guffaw. Any of these would be suitable descriptions of the sound I emitted while browsing in a small Ann Arbor bookshop earlier this year. I had just picked up an interesting looking book (Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close) by an author I had never heard of (Jonathan Safran Foer) and was hooked immediately by the novel’s opening paragraph:

What about a teakettle? What if the spout opened and closed when the steam came out, so it would become a mouth, and it could whistle pretty melodies, or do Shakespeare, or just crack up with me? I could invent a teakettle that reads in Dad’s voice, so I could fall asleep, or maybe a set of kettles that sings the chorus of “Yellow Submarine,” which is a song by the Beatles, who I love, because entomology is one of my raisons d’etre, which is a French expression that I know. Another good thing is that I could train my anus to talk when I farted. If I wanted to be extremely hilarious, I’d train it to say, “Wasn’t me!” every time I made an incredibly bad fart. And if I ever made an incredibly bad fart in the Hall of Mirrors, which is in Versailles, which is outside of Paris, France, obviously my anus would say, “Ce n’etais pas moi!”

Safran Foer’s novel is narrated by Oskar Schell, a nine year old who, true to the dust jacket’s description, is “an inventor, Francophile, tambourine player, Shakespearean actor, jeweler, and pacifist.” As the opening paragraph of the novel indicates, Oskar is an extremely quirky and inquisitive young man. But he is also a troubled kid; he is coping with the death of his father who died in the September 11th attack on the World Trade Center. Sounds a bit corny, eh? I mean, that WAS a fart joke on the first page, right? And a nine year old whose father died on September 11th is just a little too melodramatic, yeah? Fair assumptions. But incorrect. Foer deftly uses his nine year old narrator to approach a delicate subject with earnestness and empathy.

The voice Foer utilizes in his narration, that of Oskar, is immediately mesmerizing and engaging. Foer has a history of utilizing narrators whom tinker, alter, and sometimes butcher the English language, and to great effect. His first novel, “Everything is Illuminated” features one of the most memorable voices crafted in contemporary literature, that of a Ukrainian translator named Alexandor Perchov, or as he is quick to point out “all of my friends dub me Alex, because that is a more flaccid-to-utter version of my legal name.” With Oskar, as he previously did with Alex, Foer is able to provide US readers with keen insights into our own language by showing us how it can be used, or misused, by non-native speakers or children.

This experimentation with voice and narration in American Literature is not a new idea, one only needs to read (or try to read) “The Sound and the Fury” to understand the tradition that Foer is following. But Foer takes other chances in his novel as well. Perhaps the most striking form of experimentation is his inclusion of photographs as storytelling devices. In fact, the beautiful and heart-wrenching final 15 pages functions as a sort of flip book, relying only on photos to complete the story. Foer certainly isn’t the first to incorporate pictures into his fiction, but his effectiveness at using them to advance the story is certainly brilliant.

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close was a clear choice for my favorite book of the year, and it is exciting to see young writers like Jonathan Safran Foer, almost a peer of mine age-wise, contribute to and begin to shape the tradition of American literature.



#2 Middlesex by Jeffery Eugenides (2004)

Eugenides is a master. I had the pleasure of reading both of his novels this year: Middlesex and The Virgin Suicides. The latter, his debut novel, was simply amazing. That novel told the story of a group of girls, the Lisbon sisters, who all committed suicide. The story, compelling enough, was brilliantly narrated by an unnamed group of neighborhood boys, who because they have mythologized the Lisbon girls, provide an extremely interesting, yet distinctly incomplete and fragmented portrait of the sisters. With his second novel, Middlesex, Eugenides once again has crafted a fascinating narrator with a clear and original voice; this time in the form of Calliope, or Cal, a hermaphrodite negotiating suburban adolescence just outside of Detroit in the 1960’s. This first hand narration allows the reader inside the confused and torn psyche of a young man/woman’s search for self and identity. Cal’s story is closely intertwined with the gender identity movement propagated by social psychologists of the 1960’s; in fact, she serves as a guinea pig for one such psychologist. The gender identity movement sought to divorce biology from identity, resulting in a better understanding of the transgendered and gay communities which were becoming more noticeable (as opposed to more prevalent) at the time. Cal, however, in her postmodern struggle and search for identity finds that she cannot deny that her biology is in fact a part of who she is. Eugenides writing is instantly mesmerizing; clearly, this is an amazing writer working at the top of his craft. Befittingly, Eugenides was awarded the 2004 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for this novel.



#3 Jimmy Corrigan by Chris Ware (2003)

Note: I recently picked up Ware’s new collection, Acme Novelty Co., and once again am finding myself blown away by his deft abilities and overwhelming melancholy. I will buy anything that Ware ever publishes.

Excerpt from prior post: “Jimmy Corrigan” tells the story of several generations of Corrigan men as they trudge their way through lives filled with equal parts drudgery and loneliness. The main character, Jimmy Corrigan, in addition to being the smartest (as the title indicates), is perhaps also the oldest and saddest kid on the earth. The story begins when Jimmy sets out to meet his father for the first and only time in his life. Although he is thirty-six years old, the loneliness and isolation that Jimmy has endured his whole life has left him socially and emotionally a child, and consequently an empty shell of a man. Emotionally Jimmy seems capable only of despair, while socially his conversation rarely eclipses an “Um, I guess” or, on occasion, a “ha ha.” In a series of flashbacks the reader learns of the equally depressing stories of Jimmy’s Grandfather, James Corrigan. James’ father begins the Corrigan family tradition of absentee fathers when he purposefully abandons his son atop a lookout at the Chicago World’s Fair. This tradition continues up until Jimmy the present tense of this graphic novel – when Jimmy Corrigan sets out to meet his father. While a Superman comic may have ended with the protagonist saving the day, Chris Ware chooses to end this story on the same bitter note that it started. Ironically, it is only after his father’s death that Jimmy learns the caring nature of the man he had set out to meet. That is some depressing shit. But there is beauty in sadness, and Ware’s glimpses into the human condition are a testament to that truth.


#4 The Fortress of Solitude by Jonathan Lethem (2003)

The first book (or half) of this novel completely enraptured me. Were it not for a slightly anticlimactic (form a writing and creativity standpoint) middle section and a not quite redeeming ending, this book would probably have been closer to the top of this list. The first half of this novel is Lethem’s semi-autobiographical recounting of his youth growing up in 1970’s New York City. Lethem’s alter-ego, Dylan Ebdus, is a sore thumb in a sea of healthy digits – a white kid in an all black neighborhood. Dylan, either as victim, viewer, or vigilante, serves as a vehicle for the author’s discussion of: yolking (a less sever form of mugging), interracial dating, superheroes, the birth of hip-hop and its relation to the fledgling graffiti movement, tagging, punk, estrangement, crack, funk, gentrification, comic books, abstract film, the state of public schools, petty theft, heterosexual reciprocal boy-on-boy masturbation, and more. A well-told documentation of a finite and memorable meeting of time and place.


# 5 Freakonomics: A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything by Steven Levitt and Steven Dubner (2005)

The title of this book sums up its contents quite well. Steven Levitt, on a genius grant, used his time to study anything that he found interesting, using the science of economics as his guide. Economics usually fails to interest me, but a rogue economist? F yeah. This guy uses statistics to scientifically examine interesting questions such as: If drug dealers make so much money, why do most of them live with their parents? And why, despite all the economists’ predictions of a youth-gone-wild-violence-spree did the crime rate in the United States unexpectedly drop in the 90’s? It is the questions and Levitt’s findings that make this book an interesting read. The writing, that of journalist Steven Dubner, is clouded by a dumbing down process, but Levitt manages to shine through.

Having only been to the cinema three times this year due to lack of companionship and self-esteem, rounding out a top-five list proved to be difficult. As a result, this least features a film or two that may have hit the theatres in ’04, only finding its way to my Netflix queue in ’05. The list is diverse; two documentaries and one puppet-based feature accompany two traditional films on my “Top 5 of ‘05” list.


#1 Murderball

Mark Zupan could kick my ass; neither his wheelchair, nor the fact that he is a quadriplegic would slow him down at all. I would seem the invalid, crawled up in the fetal position and crying. Mark, who like all Murderball participants lacks full use of all four of his limbs, is one of the main players in Henry Rubin and Dana Shapiro’s documentary Murderball, and is a testament to the triumph of will over physical restraint.

Murderball is the politically incorrect term for Quadriplegic Rugby, a sport created in Canada in the 1970’s. Mark is a member of the United States Paralympic Rugby team, a team that has dominated the young sport since its inception. This team, and its preparation for the 2004 Paralympics, forms the framework of Rubin and Shapiro’s film. Footage of the team’s competitions – wheelchairs wildly crashing into each other, often tipping over, players cursing each other out – would have been interesting enough to warrant documentation, but it is the individual stories that make this film so compelling.

Point in case: Joe Soares. Joe is considered perhaps the best Murderball athlete ever to play the sport, and is a winner of several gold medals as a member of the U.S. Paralympic Rugby team. However, Joe, old and no longer on top of his game, overstayed his welcome with the team and ultimately was asked to retire. Outraged, indignant, and boiling with competitive drive, Joe defected to Canada, where he assumed the head coaching responsibilities of the Canadian team. At the outset of the film Joe’s Canadian team, a fifth seed, upsets the U.S. team at a Paralympics qualifier, an upset the magnitude of which the sport had not seen. Joe is deemed a traitor to his country by the US squad (his former teammates), yet is viewed in almost mythological proportions for his ability to turn around the Canadian team as the Paralympics approach. Despite being a quadriplegic, he is a narcissist whose dogged selfishness makes him an instantly unlikable individual – when we witness him interacting with his non-athletic son, his obvious disappointment in his child is nearly loathsome – yet watching him on the screen is almost mesmerizing; he provides an incredibly accurate portrayal of the jock mentality, in spite of the physical constraints working against him.

The filmmakers tastefully approach the subject of paralysis and a wheelchair-bound lifestyle, avoiding clichéd sentimentality yet still recognizing the red elephant which is the shiny metal wheelchair. Rubin and Shapiro achieve this balance by including footage of the rehabilitation of a young man, Keith Cavill, who has just been paralyzed in a motocross accident, documenting the physical and mental debilitation such an incident necessarily leads to. Keith’s story is touching and emotional without being sappy or clichéd, and helps the viewer understand and appreciate the struggle that many Murderball participants went through just to get back home, let alone on the Rugby court. In a telling scene Keith returns from the hospital to find that his girlfriend and mother have updated his apartment with a wheelchair ramp, shower hoist, and other trappings of a wheelchair-bound life. His mother leads him through his apartment and Keith briefly feigns admiration before stopping suddenly and bluntly saying, “This sucks.” The viewer shares this moment – the striking reality of his plight – and it is seemingly desperate and hopeless.

Murderball is a practice is gestalt filmmaking; the final product is greater than the sum of its parts. The sport itself, the thrilling matches, magnetic characters, empathetic individual stories, and backstabbing drama, coupled with excellent footage and a quality soundtrack – including a well utilized Polyphonic Spree song – culminate to form the year’s best film.


#2 The Squid and the Whale

The Squid and the Whale is Noah Baumbauch’s reality based version of The Royal Tenenbaums. While the genius family of Wes Anderson’s picture dwelt in a storybook world of Anderson’s imagination, Baumbauch’s family traffic in the reality of 1980’s New York. The film primarily follows the story of the family’s two young boys as they deal with their parents’ divorce and neurosis, leaving behind a sticky trail of subversively placed bodily fluids, misplaced angst, and anger. The family members, all brilliant in their own ways, are also all brilliantly flawed. The shoestring budget on which Baumbauch operated, along with the typically beautiful photography of Robert Yeoman (Drugstore Cowboy, Rushmore), provide the movie with a gritty, American, 1980’s NYC authenticity. It is this authenticity, which lends the film sincerity and earnestness, that allows the viewer to empathize with the characters much more so than those in The Royal Tenenbaums.


#3 Rock School

Rock School chronicles never-was rock star Paul Green’s operation of an after school program he has appropriately dubbed “Paul Green’s Rock School.” Like his fictional alter-ego – Jack Black in School of Rock – Green is a failed rock star, a narcissist, and an embodiment of the sometimes loud, sometimes irrational, sometimes sloppy noise we know as rock music. Like Richard Linklater’s School of Rock, Don Argot’s film often focuses its attention on the personality of the teacher while utilizing the story-telling framework of a child band’s rise to notoriety. Many of the kids are certainly interesting in their own right, and their successful performance at a German Frank Zappa Festival is certainly a highlight of the film (yes, Frank Zappa), but more interesting is Paul Green’s antic knob tweaking and vicarious agony and ecstasy behind the scenes. An interesting character study, at least that is the way I remember it; I was pretty drunk.


#4 Walk the Line

Sticking to the plot of the song from which the movie draws its title, Walk the Line is the story of Johnny Cash and his attempt to become a better man for and because of June Carter. The film, while disappointing to some because of this limited scope, does an adequate job of telling this part of the mythological story of the Man in Black. The real draw, however, is the acting performances of Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon. Both are believable and alluring, and both deliver the definitive acting performances of their respective careers. And they sing too!


#5 Team America: World Police

While in no way do I consider Team America: World Police an important or meaningful film, it was one of the year’s most pleasant surprises for me. Having never been a big fan of Southpark, and writing off the stars of Baseketball as sophomoric, I wasn’t expecting much from this movie. Primarily, I was curious to see how a movie staring puppets would work. It worked well, as pure comedy. Apparently, some feel this movie has some sort of agenda, or a subjective social critique, but those people are idiots. This movie is meant to make you piss your pants from laughing, or at least get a sore stomach from trying not to. The puppets provide some of the humor, but the writing does the rest. The writers lambaste every aspect of the war on terror, taking cheap shots at both simple-minded presidents and vitriolic filmmakers, ultimately highlighting the propensity towards absurdity that our social and political structures seem to foster. Parker and Anastasio also wrote several songs for the movie, using as a motif the instant classic “America, Fuck Yeah!” Oh yeah, and in the unrated version two puppets engage in the infamous “hot Carl.” Fuck Yeah!

Don't soil your gym shorts kids, but Jonny O is getting ready to throw down! That's right, later this week, maybe even tomorrow, you loyal readers (all two of you!) will be smacked down by a ginormous post, the first in a three part top-5-of-05 series. Break out the rubber shorts because the floodgates will be opened.

Rusty - I stand corrected.

Boy, was that Thanksgiving weekend exhausting. All that time spent getting festive completely wiped me out. I had to take today off just to recover.

By the way Rusty, although all animals are generally annoying, cats are by far cuter than dogs!

For many, the holiday season is a depressing time of year. For perhaps the first time, I fear this may be true for me as well. Having returned to live in Grand Rapids, my proximity to my family no longer makes seeing them a particularly rewarding experience. What, then, do I really have to look forward to this holiday season? Gift cards?

Despite working at a shop that specialized in comic books for half a year, I took some small pride in the fact that I had never read a complete comic book. After all, what could a serious student of literature find appealing about clichéd superheroes masquerading around in boldly colored and childishly realized story-worlds? Yes, I could appreciate some of the mythology cultivated by comic-book writers of the past generation. Yes, I had a passing interest in the absurd and sexually deviant drawings of R. Crumb. Yes, I had even entertained the idea of reading American Splendor after seeing the movie. But these things did little to prepare me for the subtle emotional force of Chris Ware’s graphic novel “The Adventures of Jimmy Corrigan: The Smartest Kid on Earth.”

“Jimmy Corrigan” tells the story of several generations of Corrigan men as they trudge their way through lives filled with equal parts drudgery and loneliness. The main character, Jimmy Corrigan, in addition to being the smartest (as the title indicates), is perhaps also the oldest and saddest kid on the earth. The story begins when Jimmy sets out to meet his father for the first and only time in his life. Although he is thirty-six years old, the loneliness and isolation that Jimmy has endured his whole life have left him socially and emotionally a child, and consequently an empty shell of a man. Emotionally Jimmy seems capable only of despair, while socially his conversation rarely eclipses an “Um, I guess” or, on occasion, a “ha ha.” In a series of flashbacks the reader learns of the equally depressing story of Jimmy’s Grandfather, James Corrigan. James’ father begins the Corrigan family tradition of absentee fathers when he purposefully abandons his son atop a lookout at the Chicago World’s Fair. This tradition continues up until the present tense of this graphic novel – when Jimmy Corrigan sets out to meet his father. While a Superman comic may have ended with the protagonist saving the day, Chris Ware chooses to end this story on the same bitter note that it started. Ironically, it is only after his father’s death that Jimmy learns the caring nature of the man he had set out to meet. That is some depressing shit. But there is beauty in sadness, and Ware’s glimpses into the human condition are a testament to that truth.

I began “Jimmy Corrigan” while taking a break from reading “Gravity’s Rainbow”, hoping that a graphic novel would offer me a respite from the complex and convoluted style of Pynchon. However, much to my chagrin I found myself confused and frustrated by the opening pages of “Jimmy Corrigan.” Much of this difficulty had to do with the flashbacks, specifically their unannounced arrival and the confusion stemming from the name verisimilitude between Jimmy and his grandfather James. But on a more immediate level, I simply had difficulty understanding how to read the pages. Much like a novel, comic-books have a set of conventions, which skillful authors can either adhere to or manipulate to suit their purposes. While part of the beauty of Chris Ware’s work is the small details a close examination of his art can yield, I found myself attempting to read much to closely. Instead of swallowing the pane’s whole – graphics and text – I found myself first reading the text and then examining the pictures, a process which caused the story to move at a exhaustingly slow pace. To complicate matters further, I was often confused about which pane I should examine next. After arduously working my way through the opening pages I intuitively began to pick up on how to read the graphic novel. Once the light bulb clicked, I was off to the races – swallowing pages whole, gleaning emotion and meaning not found simply in the text. I began to realize that the panes, which had troubled me before, themselves helped tell the story depending on their size, shape, and location.

Although in its fledgling stages, the graphic novel movement is starting to gain momentum and respect. Despite the growing popularity of Manga, graphic novels remain relatively under the radar of most American readers. And perhaps because of Manga, there is a childish and low-art stigma associated with the form. As I perused the graphic novel shelves at Barnes and Noble I had some trouble finding “Jimmy Corrigan” amongst the stacks of serialized Manga, but finally I was directed by a sign to the “literary” graphic novels. This distinction proved apt. Chris Ware is generally recognized as the leading figure in the publication of “literary” graphic novels, and “Jimmy Corrigan” is widely hailed as the movements defining work. The artwork in “Jimmy Corrigan” is simply rendered and the colors are generally washed out. This style perfectly fits the subtle emotions and profound sadness of his story. From a literary standpoint, Ware knows his craft. Peter Schjeldahl, in his recent article “Words and Pictures: Graphic novels come of age” in The New Yorker, points out that Ware “exercises an encyclopedic command of literary and cinematic tactics – stream of consciousness, montage – with tropes that are peculiar to graphic art: often effect of stillness, such as a character’s blank takes, in which you sense mental wheels turning, and landscapes and cityscapes infused with droning dailiness.” Indeed, some of the most beautiful and thought provoking moments of “Jimmy Corrigan” occur when the reader is confronted with a simple close-up of a motionless character deep in thought, or a lone bird perched atop a street light.

“Jimmy Corrigan” proved immensely satisfying and also exiting to read. Part of the thrill of reading the graphic novel was in the fact that, for me, this was a new story-telling medium – and one that seemed rich with possibilities. Next up, upon recommendation, is Daniel Clowes, whose graphic novel “Ghost World” was adapted into one of my favorite films of the past few years.