I'm not being mean, so don't take it hard

But this is a bad video for a great song. Where'd you go, Josef K?

Did I say a bad word about you?

Sultans!

I Forgot to Remember to Forget

Eco's Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana is like a Yakov Smirnoff joke: In America, people tell stories. For Eco, stories tell people! What a country.

In a nutshell, Yambo (protagonist) has lost his memory, and tries to find himself by reading all the books and comics of his youth. Good idea, and for a brief moment it seems like you could carry a book that way. But it quickly becomes obvious how futile this is for Yambo, and for Eco as well. How many obscure fascist comics does Eco need to reference before you get the idea that the number of books Yambo ever read doesn't add up to Yambo? Not that many. At least, not as many as Eco thinks it takes, sadly.

What kills this book is what kills the other Eco books, and this one doesn't have the salvation of a William Weaver translation. Great ideas, beaten to death in a storm of clunky writing. And lots it. However, it's a gorgeously designed hardcover, and looks good on my shelf.

I think of demons...

...for you.

That's an actual Roky Erickson lyric. I love Roky, but, really, I can't relate. But can you dislike "The Interpreter" or "Mine Mine Mind"? "Cold Night for Alligators"? "Reverberations"? Not if you're honest, you can't. He's a genius, even though sometimes it's like Tenacious D, but for real (like "Stand for the Fire Demon").

Without getting into the whole mental health part of his biography, I will say that despite his far-out cred, you're basically talking about blues-form garage jams with some unusual pentatonic solos on top. And his bridges, to be honest, are far out. So of course I loved I Have Always Been Here Before(thanks for buying it for me Rachel!).

That said, his music really fits well with stuff that came much later -- "I Have Always Been Here Before" is just steps away from Guided by Voices. (Who I just saw on Austin City Limits, and man that singer was drunk off his ass. I think I like them again.)

Everywhere's a beach...

The first little mini-track of the Magnetic Fields' Holidayis my ringtone. As an album, I think it's Merritt's best; nevertheless, I think Get Losthas a few songs that top anything on this album: "Famous" in particular. But not much better (listen to "Strange Powers" here).

What strikes me most about this album are the lyrical conventions -- especially the comparisons: "On the Ferris Wheel, looking out on Coney Island / Under more stars than there are prostitutes in Thailand [...] When we kiss it feels like a flying saucer landing." And the entire first verse of "Desert Island" is nothing but a list of comparisons.

So there's a showy lyrical effusiveness here, and I kind of like it. I'd have to agree with Bob on appreciating the lyric "I read your manifestoes and your strange religous tracts / You took me to the library and kissed me in the stacks." (Also thanks for Bob for introducing me to the Magnetic Fields in the first place.)

But the point of this effusiveness is unclear, or at least I don't get it. Maybe I could be clever and argue that there's some implicit comparison between ordinary life and "holiday" life through the album? I'd point out the Brian Wilson-inspired songs "In My Secret Place" and "In My Car" in my defence: maybe the songs, like a holiday (or a hide-away, or your car, or a desert island, ecstasy trip, etc.), take you out of the ordinary world and into a poetic, showy fantasy.

A Cannibal's Feast

Reviews of Hemingway's Moveable Feast usually focus on the deeply cruel portraits of Hemingway's emigre circle of artists -- not unfairly, especially considering the F. Scott Fitzgerald anecdotes. Papa eats his old friends and acquaintances alive in this one.

But what people don't seem to focus on is the amount to which Hem eats himself up -- he just tears through his Paris years in a wave of cynicism. And yet, despite this, there's an undercurrent of nostalgia for his simpler days, before he wised up and learned what an ass he and everybody else was. Ah, sweet memories.

I think it's unsettling that these stories are so unattached to the author's present; there's no rationale for them, just a free-floating bitterness that forces him to recast his earlier happinesses as if they were a kind of gullibility or blindness.

Don't get me wrong. The gossip's hot and vicious, and, at the end of the day, it's still Papa H: I think I'm genetically predisposed to really love his writing no matter what.

Lem!

Didn't have time to post earlier this week, but RIP Stanislaw Lem. One of my faves -- read Pirx the Pilot, the Cyberiad, and Star Diaries; enjoy; feel nerdy.

I'm a dance commando...

Two members of Gunrack get together again. Sweet, ain't it? It's been 10 years since I've seen Steve!

Ah sweet Bemidji.

Well, if I get my act together I'll post a picture or two of our Bemidji trip someday. It was a fun visit with Aunt Cami and brother-in-law Jacob.

But here's the lowdown: We stayed in a really hip 70s-style cabin on lake Bemidji, roasted near the fire, and watched some Olympics. There was also vegetarian food, and really good waffles. Then, we hurt ourselves skiing all over the place -- fun though! We recuperated in the hot tub and drank beers.

Also, I saw a really big woodpecker and a bunch (scraggly gaggle?) of turkeys -- thankfully no wolves, like the last time we went up north. Wolves are scary. No lie.

For Bob

I wasn't a regular at Discount Video, but Bob was. I do wish I'd run into Deneuve!

And for all that clatter about browsing, it was nearly impossible to browse there.

Stereolab at First Ave!

Rachel and I caught Stereolab at First Ave last night -- fun, as always. First Ave's changed itself around a lot, though, and I don't think they've got everything quite figured out. We thought the sound wasn't too great -- really muddy bass, really quiet vocals -- and that's really unexpected for First Ave!

I stood next to a bunch of interpretive dancers who danced like snakes on acid through everything -- even the DJ music before and after the show, and even during the silent parts between songs.

Company newsletter

The Minneapolis Star Tribune unveiled a new tier of advertising on their website today.... but I think it goes too far. There's practically no Strib branding left! Did GM buy the whole thing? "Unleash the power of corn" indeed.

--Phew! Back to normal on the 11th!--

Big Brother on CD

Not the TV show... Man. Our state GOP are a bunch of voyeuristic weirdos. Secretly collecting info on users viewing a cd promoting anti-gay marriage legislation, and then putting that info on a public website -- hopefully the DFL will take a look and get some free focus group info. Thanks, GOP!

Bemidji bound

We're headed to Bemidji (that's 4 hours north) for some skiing, ice skating, and maybe even curling! I'm excited!

Dearest dunce...

I think what had kept me from reading John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces for so long was that it was marketed (not necessarily by the publisher, but by well-meaning book pushers I've come across) as a comedy, and, worse yet, as a hippie comedy (I have trouble with poetry in LP liner notes, too). But I was finally pressured and cajoled into reading Dunces, and, having tested it on Rachel first, dove in, thank God.

And it was rewarding, in a dark, bitter way. Like Milky Way Midnight bars.

It's true that portly protagonist Ignatius finds solace in the words of Boethius, and it's true that his incredibly allusive and quasi-scholarly inner world lends depth and meaning to his daily life. But constantly the heart breaks upon realizing that it all depends on maintaining the self-delusion -- maybe the philosophy of the Consolation is just a mind fuck. Because, finally and unfortunately, I think the reader must in good conscience not only include Ignatius among the world's dunces, but must also, perhaps, accept him as the dearest and dunciest of them all.

Motown Mow Down

Make way for the bowl...

On The Historian

Recently finished reading The Historian. Not too bad, not so great: somewhere closer to Dan Brown (yech!) than Eco (yeah!). To put it on a more precise continuum, more like Club Dumas (not appalling!), but leagues ahead of pretenders like The Rule of Four (appalling!). I kept wanting it to be a metaphorical meditation on the beauty of handing down and receiving cherished books from generation to generation. It almost was about that, to its credit.

But it started me thinking about something that bothers me about this current fad of conspiracy books: what's with the ancient mysteries we could all discover with a little light research? Sure, a lot of it is piling on (Brown, etc.). I'm starting to feel that it's more about arguing for a more elevated place for genre fiction in the canon -- that even a Dracula thriller can be philosophical and meditative, maybe even ponder literary history. In fact, The Historian reminds me of moments in Chabon's Kavalier and Klay, especially in the way it cherishes/belittles older genre books (Bram Stoker, instead of Chabon's comics).

I love genre fiction in its own right, but sometimes all these references to ancient manuscripts and famous libraries, and master painters, and renowned architecture feels like putting a line of plaster sculptures down the hallway of a McMansion.