The Cat Litter Review

Lines written above

2012-02-22T15:18:00.000-08:00

Welcome Home Baby Daddy (previously published on the tumblosphere)

2012-02-22T13:24:00.000-08:00

I had a dream some time ago.

I had a dream some time ago. It was the second time that I woke up laughing out loud. In my dream I was standing in a baseball equipment store with a young black couple. In front of us was a wall of fielder’s mitts that extended upwards beyond the eye’s reach. Think of that dream sequence from “The Big Lebowski” when The Dude is standing in front of a wall of bowling shoes and Sadaam’s working the cash register. Except the wall is filled with fielder’s mitts instead of bowling shoes and I don’t remember who the cashier is..
The young couple are husband and wife, or maybe not. But the wife is extremely pregnant. She’s standing with her arms folded tight as her husband asks me what position I play. To which I respond, “I’m an outfielder.” He starts to pore over the gloves and finds the section for outfielder’s gloves. I can see his eyes start to bulge as he looks at them. He takes a deep breath, exhales with a whistle and a cringe, and turns to his wife: “Honey, these gloves are just too damn expensive.” She bites her index fingernail for a moment and snaps back at him, “THEN HOW WE GON’ CATCH THIS BABY?!” (pointing at it)
I awoke in the middle of the night laughing hysterically. My brother and I were sharing a room so I woke him up and shared my dream with him. In the weeks following I regaled many people with what I believed to be a rare funny dream. Then I came home after a summer away and Irene told me that she had gotten pregnant with my baby and aborted it. It was a .01 percent chance that it’d happen, coz of birth control n’ all, but I still thought about the dream…. gloves, babies, money, gloves, babies, money, condoms, babies, expensive……

Tropic of Cancer

2012-02-20T18:41:00.000-08:00

Reflections about my first favorite book

When I was in college there were a few writers that constantly came up in conversation. My friends and I were just beginning to dig into literature in a meaningful way and so we often, drunkenly, spouted off about the same literary giants, or so they were in our minds. Kerouac, Bukowski, and Henry Miller. I often spoke about Henry Miller. I first read Tropic of Cancer when I was in eighth grade; an oversight by my teacher, Mrs. Brundridge, who I don’t think ever read the book. If she had I’m sure she would not have assigned it to a twelve year old. My classmates were given different books to read, classics in every sense of the word, the kind of books that have tomes of literary criticism written about them, the kind of books that make English majors drool because they are loaded with allusions and metaphors and meticulous, perfect prose. I didn’t find that in Tropic. I found phrases like, “I will fuck you until you shit arpeggios.” I remember looking up the word “arpeggios” and not being able to find a definition because it was an Italian word (and I had a worthless dictionary). I remember going to my sister and telling her that I was reading something that was making my head hurt. I remember feeling guilty sitting in church thinking about drunkenly wandering through the streets of Paris while looking for whores….

Fourteen years later I just finished rereading Tropic. In that time I’ve read a considerable amount of books. Some of those books I have loved, some I hated, some helped pass the time. I read other Henry Miller books as well: Black Spring, Sexus, Colossus of Maroussi, Tropic of Capricorn. I came to a point of being fed up with Henry Miller. I had read too much about sex, America, the decaying human spirit, etc. I refused to finish the Rosy Crucifixion, I just didn’t see the point. For that reason, part of me was worried about trying to rediscover the first book in my life. Maybe it wouldn’t hold up, maybe it wouldn’t mean anything to me, maybe I was impressed because I was young and didn’t know any better.

Tropic explodes off the page. It’s not a book, as Miller says within the first ten pages, it’s a bomb. It’s a dangerous weapon written by a mad man in the midst of his most beautiful insanity. If a beast could write they might pen something like Tropic, not because it’s horrid, but because it’s primal. It’s as honest as a man can get. It’s a terrible, frightening work of the human mind. It’s completely inimitable. Reading Tropic, then and now, made me want to live, which is the greatest irony of it all! The whole book is about death, destruction, disease, pestilence, ugliness, futility, ennui, and yet he urges you through words, both direct and indirect, to live. The reason no one can duplicate a book like Cancer is because you would have to duplicate the man. You would have to clone another Henry Miller. The fervor, the zeal with which he lived is what he put into that book. It’s not about technique or any other word that can be used to judge a “standard” book, because he didn’t write a book. He had reached the end of something, whatever it was, and he had seen the world and determined what was and what was not. Then he wrote. He wrote until he made no sense, until he droned on for pages, until he took the English language and pilfered it for all that it was worth. As I read I couldn’t believe that anybody would be brave enough to do what he did. He is brave for writing such an incredible book, but also for truly believing that he was great and for admitting it and then admonishing himself for being preposterous and pretentious and all of this in the same breath, on the same page, maybe even the same paragraph. If a book like Tropic was written every year, the world might explode. Such a book can only come along once in a while and for good reason.

The observations above are those of a adult, but what did I see in this book when I was a child? I kept asking myself this as I reread, trying to figure out what drew me to such a strange novel. There are passages that I still don’t understand. There is poetic language that rants on for ten pages at a time. How did I sift through it at twelve years old? It comes back to the man himself. Henry Miller spends much of the book not being able to go home because he hasn’t one. He wanders around the streets at night taking in everything. I was extremely attracted to this idea. When I was in elementary school I was terrified of the dark. I’d invent illnesses to stay awake at night. I had a serious mistrust of sleep. I feared that something good or bad might happen in my sleep and I would be powerless to stop it or else I would miss out on some amazing opportunity. As I grew older this fear made me into a nocturnal creature. I think Tropic provided a blueprint for what to do with that fear, that excess energy that wouldn’t let me shut my eyes.

I spent some time in college trying to write like Henry Miller. I tried these “experiments” with a tall can of Miller High Life, a joint and my laptop. I would quickly finish the joint and the beer and try to write for as long as I could without stopping. There are dozens of these files on my old hard drive and none of them make any sense, but that is the only way I could imagine someone writing the way Miller did. Who else could think like that, could use language like that so brutally and frankly? I gave up my experiments slowly but surely. First I removed the joint from the equation. Later the beer went too, and lastly I abandoned the idea of seamless stream of thought. I’m pretty sure I’m a better writer for it, but had I never tried it I probably wouldn’t be writing this right now. I wanted so badly to write like Henry Miller because his was the first writing I read that felt alive. Tropic is the kind of book that you are scared to read in a public place because you are worried that others can feel the words emanating from the page. The book has power. Had I never read Tropic of Cancer I don’t know if I ever would have cared about other books the way I care for them now. Now I’ve found other authors; authors that if I could write like them, I would sell my soul to the devil. Tropic, though, was the reason I went in search of those books in the first place. Tropic ignited something in me and fourteen years later the fuse is still lit.

Catching Holden

2012-02-13T23:32:00.000-08:00

Rereading Catcher in the Rye again and getting all bubbly...

It’s an interesting question: what was the first book that left a lasting impression on you? For some people, it’s Harry Potter. For others, it’s Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar––but for me, that book was Catcher in the Rye. It’s funny though, if you scan your friends’ facebook profiles, you might be surprised at how many people list CITR as their favorite book.

So what does this mean to me? I think it means that CITR continues to leave an impression on readers in the twenty first century. The book is still a solid staple of teenage angst, and continues to serve many readers as a sort of coming of age bible. The voice that is Holden Caulfield that emerged in the nineteen fifties continues to be a voice that speaks for my generation, and for teenagers growing up in the new millennium.

I’ve been living in China for the past six months, and I recently made a trip to Hong Kong. American books are scarce in Nanjing (my current home), so I made a point to look for some books to bring back with me. I went into the first bookstore I found and scanned the shelves. I found a pocket-sized copy of CITR. I took the book off the shelf, inspecting the ominous and familiar cover. The cover is a drawing of a carousel horse in the foreground, with an image of Central Park in the back. The color layout is a simple red and white. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve read this book multiple times now, or if the cover simply has a natural energy––but I have always been drawn to the look of this book. Anyway, I pulled a copy off the shelf and bought it, and the first opportunity I got I started reading it. I read the first paragraph of the book:

“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know was where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”

I immediately got drawn back into the voice that was Holden Caulfield. I feel like the first paragraph is all you need to determine whether or not this voice is going to hook you, or conversely, if it’s going to annoy you to no end.

The story itself is simple. It’s about a seventeen-year-old boy who’s just been expelled from a boarding school called Pencey. This happens right at the beginning of winter break, so Holden has three days to delay the inevitable return home, and the subsequent conversation he’ll have to have with his parents, explaining (yet again) that he’s been expelled from school for failing grades.

Without giving more away, that’s the basic gist of the plot. Holden walks around N.Y.C. while making various cynical observations about his environment, and the people who inhabit it. So what is it about this book––a book that can be feasibly read in a day––that gives it so much power?

For me, I didn’t realize how much of an influence this book has had over my life and my writing, until I reread it. It was like my brain had forgotten this book, and the fact that it has been central to my life and to my creative work. As I read through the pages this time around, I kept getting more and more bewildered, exclaiming to myself: I wrote a story just like this…this is the voice I’ve been using…this is the tone…the themes…the first person narrative…all of it. It was frightening. But it wasn’t frightening in some self-congratulatory way like: “Wow, I’m as good a writer as J.D. Salinger and I didn’t even know it.” It was more that I realized: “This little book that I read for the first time when I was fourteen or fifteen has had a profound effect on my life and my writing.”

One of my friends told me that Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer was that book for him––the book that got him started. But his relationship to Tropic of Cancer is a little different than my relationship to CITR, because he consciously remembered the influence of that book. I however, did not. Which makes me start to really think about how we have these experiences with great books or music of movies, and we store those experiences in our memory banks, allowing them to slowly take their place in our subconscious––and then we go about our daily lives, making decisions and thinking in certain ways that are heavily influenced by the art we’ve absorbed, and we don’t even know what’s happening. We’re not even aware of the connection––a connection that is still there, and is very much real.

It’s different from say, a song that had a particular influence over my life. It’s different because when I listen again to a song that I held dear to me, I usually associate that song to a way I felt. Of course there are associations that come back to me, like the place I was in, and the people I was surrounded by when revisiting a song, but a book…a book brings back different associations. Rereading CITR didn’t so much remind me of the way I felt, it more accurately reminded me of my mindset, and of the way I was thinking––of the way I ordered the world around me. CITR was a worldview that I adopted in my teens, and it’s a worldview that many teens adopt, without reading the book. This is the worldview of the young cynic––the individual suspicious of adults and their motives, and supremely suspect of their sincerity. To put it in Salinger language, every teen I knew had a “phony” detector, and the ones that didn’t were already phonies.

I think it’s also safe to say that I felt I had similarities to Holden Caulfield, but he’s such a relatable character that I’m sure many people feel the same way––even if it’s only an aspect of his personality that they can relate to. Of course when taken to an extreme, these affinities can be dangerous. The man who assassinated John Lennon had a copy of CITR in his trousers when he was arrested––but for the rest of the decently well-adjusted world, these feelings of affinity towards Holden are common and normal and natural. As is the same with all great works of art. Unforgettable movie characters, great songs, etc. The most popular stuff usually has a “me too” component to it.

To get back to the main point, while reading CITR, it felt like I was rereading myself. I was reading into my own worldviews that are either still valid, or are views that have evolved into (cough) a more “adult” mindset. But the power of the book still remains. I spend so much time being bombarded both voluntarily and involuntarily by forms of media that in the end mean nothing to me, but I would encourage anyone who has a special relationship to a particular book (whichever book that may be) to revisit it. I encourage you to reread that defining piece of literature with older eyes, just to see how it hits you this time. CITR certainly knocked me down once again in a good way––it reminded me of where I came from, and also how I have changed over the years.

I truly hope that I’m not a phony…but only time will tell.

Timshel

2012-02-01T11:22:00.000-08:00

I’ve loved reading since before I can remember. My parentssay that I made them read me The Big RedBarn more than any other book as a kid. Apparently I was very good at theanimal noises. From sounding out “moo”sand “woof”s, I graduated to the inevitable Dr. Seuss canon, which included myfirst encounter with censorship. TheLorax was always absent from my collection; it being a book about the evilsof deforestation and my father being a logger didn’t mesh so well.

But perhaps the first indication that I was destined for alife partially spent nose-deep in a book was when my bedroom was beingremodeled. Moving my bed was too much trouble, so my mother stripped my sheetsand made a little nest on the floor of the living room, and there I slept forten days. I do not recall going to school during this period, though there’s noreason I shouldn’t have – the remodel was happening in the early fall. What Ido recall is one particular day sitting wrapped in several layers of sleepingmaterial, snuggled down with a box of Raisin Nut Bran and Salamandastron, the latest book in Brian Jacques’ Redwall series. I also recall finishingthat book in just over a day – about eight straight hours of reading, and twoboxes of Raisin Nut Bran.

I haven’t been able to devote eight hours to reading in avery long time now. Between running the bookstore book club, needing a new bookfor a staff pick every month, and trying to read more history, current events,travel writing and science books, my book selection is more or less made forme. But when I do have some time in which I might read whatever I like, I find thatI can’t decide what to read. I debate how much time I have, what I’m in themood for, what might double as a relevant one for the bookstore. About a monthago, I found myself needing something to read, so I finally picked up my copyof East of Eden, which I’d purchased almost three years ago, aftera friend in college suggested I read it.

It had been a long time since I’d read a novel – I readshort stories and essays now. I can get the idea of an author’s writing stylein 20 pages or less instead of 200. It was efficient and I’ve been able to readas much as I’ve needed to for work. But reading East of Eden was like sinking back into an addiction. Once I gotstarted I couldn’t stop. The book was like candy for me. I was reading it inhuge chunks; on the bus, at home at night, even walking to work, when thesidewalk wasn’t so icy it required my attention at every step.

I hadn’t read a work of literature in a very long time. MyEnglish major sensibilities absolutely loved East of Eden – every chapter had a new theme, or developed apreviously established one. Everycharacter was an archetype. The writing is rich and the imagery is beautiful. Thestory was an amazing retelling of Genesis, and Steinbeck’squasi-autobiographical approach was surprising and interesting. Maybe thesearen’t the reasons you pick up a book, but for me, they’re the makings of aperfect book.

I finished the book in the same way that I used to as achild – I shut it and immediately picked up the next one on my list,frantically trying to read as much as I could in my evening off. In spite ofmotoring on to my next book, the final scene of East of Eden stuck with me, as did the final word – timshel, Hebrew for “one may”. It’s pivotal in the book, and was a perfectending to such a fantastic book – I’m only sad that it took me this long toread it, but in doing so, I rediscovered what I first loved about literature –an escape from reality for a few hours, and, in a truly well-written book, a way to analyze human nature.

Not Quite Silence

2012-02-01T10:24:00.000-08:00

I can feel my eardrums.

A muffled snort from upstairs.
A crack of my wrist as I twirl my hair.

Another.

Skin on skin as I select a strand

(crack)

hair and wrap it around my thumb.

The crack of my wrist is joined with a syncopated *stit* as my thumbnail snaps over the knot.

Crackstit
Crackstit
Crackstit

Another snort.

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

I realize the hum has been underscoring all the little noises in my house tonight. Tying together the terrible offbeat symphony.

The third snort turns into the gutteral gUUuuuhuhhhhhhhh of sleep apnea.

Crackstit
Crackstit
Crackstit

A bus gears up far away.

Crackstit
Crackstit
Crackstit

gUUUUuuughhhhhhhhhhhhh

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

I can still feel my eardrums.

Songs Unsung

2012-01-23T13:35:00.001-08:00

The archers are checking their gills.

The kings are out of diesel.

The paper says you better set your will

With state-certified lawyer.

I'd like to see it all become real.

I'd like it if you could spell the spiral.

The vicars are all on the bus.

The losers are picking up snow now.

If you try to tie the top of a triangle to the end of a line,

It makes it so you can't tell time.

And that's all we ever wanted.

Messing with drugs is unkind.

There is no circular candy

In the center of our rooms.

Surrounded by posters and plaster

It's where we find God.

Or is it that God found us?

Either way we can never share it.

Some things are better left unsaid.

And songs remain unsung.

Joey Leg's Top Things of 2011

2012-01-23T10:37:00.000-08:00

Here are some of my favorite moments and things from 2011:

Getting breakfast at The Pantry (Downtown LA) anytime of day
The time I decided to walk to The Pantry through a torrent of rain and showed up soaked to my undies to eat breakfast at night.
Playing guitar on the balcony of the W Hotel on Miami Beach during my sisters wedding. Overlooking the ocean and the city.
Chemex Coffee Maker
Counter-Culture Coffee – really good roasters
Straight-Razor Shaving
1978 GMC High Sierra
The cabin in DeLand, FL
Shooting at nothing without aiming
The Meat Puppets in Lubbock, TX then again in Orlando, FL
Karaoke-ing songs that are way too high for my vocal range/gender
Grails “Deep Politics”
Electric Kettles
Zojirushi Rice Maker
Charles Willeford
Philip K. Dick
Thomas M. Disch
Pro-tech Knives
Ruger Mark III
reddit
Cinemageddon
Garbage & Gold
Painted Hammock collab
Saying things in “Cuban”
Driving LA to Miami with two very good pals.
Breaking down in Navajo country.
The Hoover Dam
The Grand Canyon
Monument Valley
Flagstaff, AZ
Fry-Bread @ Four Corners
Riley’s Photos
Riley always being in a good mood and always down to have fun.
Santa, Fe with Rob
The night with Nursel (sp?) and the “WoW-Burner” couple with the nub-arm.
Our friends at the Flagstaff Hostel and “Ladies 80s” night
When in Rome - “The Promise”
Hospitality in Plano, TX
The Mecca on Harry Hines (Dallas) and their hubcap Cinnamon Roll
David Berman/Bob Nastanovich custom road-trip recommendations
Spontaneous drive to Gainesville to see David Berman read poetry
Talking to David B. about Sci-Fi, Society, his work, Women, Sex and Art over a dinner and beers in Gainesville.
Learning what “Soi Disantra” means
Random visitors at random hours (most recently Alex Cahlin and Andrew Kenward)
Gainesville hospitality on two different occasions
Chugging a capful of my cannabis olive oil in G-ville. Woke up to a hallucination.
The next morning finding out Jason woke up hallucinating as well.
Building a bookshelf for my books.
Sunn Sonaro Amplifier
Gibson SG tone
Andy Brauer guitar tech being coked out all the time and stealing little baggies from me. But doing really good guitar work anyway.
Taylor GS Mini
Seeing Ben Chasny 3 times (Pappy and Hariett’s in Pioneertown, CA/McCabes Guitar Shop in Santa Monica, CA/some place I forget the name in Brooklyn, NY)
My car breaking down in the middle of the desert after a night of drinking. The tow-truck driver knew exactly the problem, hit my solenoid with a club and we were back on the road.
Papa John Wesley’s company
Toasting a shot of Jack to the spirit of Jack Rose with Ben Chasny
The Eastern Columbia (unit 205)
Taking Jacob to “Japan”
Grand Spa in K-town and falling asleep in the heated floor room
Hearing the naked Israeli dude talk far too loud on the phone in the locker room of the Korean spa. “Mishpat, mishpat, tell him mishpat”
Nick’s Café and the amazing staff there (Julie, McCready and Ashley)
Nick’s Tomato Preserves and spiced Ham
Hoan Kiem in Chinatown and the incredible hospitality there (Lyn and Jenny)
Beverly Tofu House
The Apple Pan late-night Burgers and Coffee with Bob Wilson
Road-trip from Manhattan to Maine with Chuck Friedmann
Lobster Rolls
Fat Boy’s in Brunswick
Rabelais Bookstore in Portland, ME
Eric Lustbader book-on-tape read by Robert Forster
The Indian Killer VHS
“I wonder what it would be like to do it on a snoooooker table”
Congolais documentary on Archive.org
Cinefamily Volunteering
The kids at 826LA
Looking over the 101/110 in Elysian Park
Windowsill Herb
Just Say No
DTLA Rehearsal Space 24/7 for a month with Rocco, Abe and Schwartz
Urth Café DTLA during that month
Daikokuya
Jason offering my short-lived brother-in-law wine in Las Vegas and his response, “What, I look like woman?”
Mount Eerie “Song Islands Vol. 2”
13&God “Own Your Ghost”
Serengeti & Why? Collab
Making music with Mikey Bulanti
Jim’s Fine Car Service in Albuquerque, NM and their no-nonsense attitude
The Last Bookstore’s $1 Sci-Fi paperback section
Philippe’s French Dip Sandwiches/Coleslaw and Pie
Chinese Food in SGV
The Gamble House in Pasadena
Santa Anita Racetrack with Bob
Camping Joshua Tree solo
Camping/Hiking Point Mugu, Malibu, CA the days after the Japanese Earthquake Tsunami being woken up by the craziest winds ever.
Malibu Seafood Co.’s Clam Chowder breadbowl with Schwartz on a cold and damp morning
Spontaneous camping with Cameron Clark and overcoming the spike-strip with a wooden board at Point Mugu. Maybe the greatest success of the year.
The #19 at Langer’s Deli
God Of Carnage
Vaca Frita de Pollo at Versailles (special everyday)
Meeting Fred Willamson at New Beverly Cinema. Shaking his mammoth hand.
Meeting M. Emmett Walsh
Minnie and Moskowitz with Michaela followed by BCD Tofu House
Seymour Cassel’s incredibly humbling mustache
Lamb Stew @ Gabo Se with Yong Choi
Family Bookstore
Fifteenth Street Books, Coral Gables
Running into Thurston Moore in the street in SoHo. Asking him for food recommendations in the area. See next bullet.
Torisi Italian Specialties
Num Pang sandwiches
Cuddling with Michaela while receiving news about the Japanese Earthquake. Feeling really safe and comfortable. Knowing that I would’ve been there if I did the JET Program
Shojin Vegan Japanese Food
Bottega Louie
SugarFish on my birthday for FREE!
Meeting Tommy Chong and not being able to place who he is. Then figuring it out and wanting to jump off a cliff for being the biggest failure of a stoner ever!
Babycakes Vegan Cupcakes
Stumptown Roasters
Versailles Cuban Food (Miami not LA)
Being walking distance to Mojito Grill
Shooting 120 on my Pinhole
Strymon Pedal
Tubesville Technical Service
Peace Yoga Gallery
Working with my Dad
Working 5 minutes from the house I grew up in
Seeing my Mom and Dogs daily
Coming home for meals
“Three A’s” instead of Triple A
ATP Asbury Park w/ Dave Drucker
Chatting with Efrim Menuck and Edan Portnoy
Godzilla vs Smog-Monster
Cockfighter (book and movie)
The Shark-Infested Custard
Flow My Tears the Policeman Said
Mendocino Farms
LA Central Library
Spring For Coffee
Taco-Zone
Tacos Mexico 24/7
Rooftop Jacuzzi
Getting a back-massage from Laura while drunkenly devouring an egg sandwich at Le Sandwicherie
Club Deuce
Seven Grand Whiskey Bar
Being a Mexican Wrestler in Carlos’ MTV Commercial
Getting repeatedly whacked in the balls by Mighty Mike the Midget
A Lot of Things Different by Bill Anderson
Old Home Place by Tony Rice
Drinking beers with Elise Silver in the parking lot where Tacozone is.
Playing Paula’s house with my roadie Matt Schwartz
Ostrich Eggs
A day in NYC with Paula fucking walking everywhere!
Prospect Park
Playing acoustic guitar under a tree in Central Park
Spending a few hours with Liz in Central Park. Playing guitar and actually drawing a little crowd.
Evil Dead Trap
Life During Wartime
Blow Out
Oriental Rugs
The artwork and generosity of Steve Keene
Menthol Mountains blog
Godspeed You! Black Emperor w/ OM @ Fox Theater Pomona with Michaela Payne and being high as a kite off Olive Oil
Breaking Social Boundaries
Jasper
The place we ate at between Vegas and the Hoover Dam
The French kid in the pool at Monument Valley campground
Moving back to Miami
Renewing my faith in humanity
Meditating again
Being with people I love
Laying on the ground with my dog
Dashiell Hammett
All the crazy movies I’ve watched and all the people crazy enough to watch them with me
Dogtooth @ Cinefamily and then way too many times on Blu-Ray.
Pickling veggies and creepily offering them to people.
Fashion shoot for Rachel Miriam
Gitman Shirts
Quoddy Shoes
Penhaligon’s Fragrances
Colonel Konk shave soap
Alpaca fur blankets
Betty and Alex @ Eastern Columbia Front Desk
Good times with Bob Wilson at the summer camp where I spent a good chunk of my childhood.
Being reminded about all the creative people that I know and being inspired by their work.
Avoiding allopathic medicine
Being treated by the same holistic doctor that my dog goes to.
The power of holistic medicine.
The power of acupuncture.
That incredible Banh Mi place in Orlando with Katz
Getting compliments from homeless people.
Muji!
Rob Sobel’s letter he wrote me from China.
The Genius Clinic
Chicago accents

Here’s to a 2012 of equally fascinating things for us all!

DISPLACEMENT AND ICE CREAM IN PRE-TANG DYNASTY POETRY

2012-01-12T09:17:00.000-08:00

People nowadays tend to regard displacement as a modern-day phenomenon. In Chinese society however, displacement has been very real for centuries.

DISPLACEMENT AND ICE CREAM IN PRE-TANG DYNASTY POETRY

People nowadays tend to regard displacement as a modern-day phenomenon. In Chinese society however, displacement has been very real for centuries. China has always relied on a large bureaucracy, carefully selecting its scholarly elite through the imperial examination system. For various reasons however, officials were not allowed to serve in their home provinces, being transferred back and forth across the country during their careers. This made displacement so common in the lives of Chinas literati that it even had its own literary genre, the so-called 邊塞 (lit. “Frontier Fortress”).[1] This genre deals with the experiences of life in the border regions of the Chinese empire, especially in the arid regions to the North and West, often subject to extreme temperatures, populated with sometimes exotic and often hostile people. Many times, displacement also served as a powerful intellectual stimulant, for instance when Li Bai speaks of

“I lift my eyes to watch the mountain moon,

Lower them and dream of home.”

In “My Retreat at Mount ZhongNan”, Wang Wei writes

You have just arrived from my hometown,
And should know, had the winter plum tree
Before my latticed window blossomed yet?

Apart from precious gems of poetry, displacement lead to another remarkable achievement - it was in one of those frontier situations that ice cream was first mentioned. According to Meyer’s Kulturlexikon, ice cream was probably invented during the Spring and Autumn period, possibly even earlier.[2] It is believed that on his winter expedition against the Northern Hsiongnu,[3] General Ling Yüan could not finish his congee in time due to an enemy attack, and upon return from successful battle his congee was almost frozen hard. Still heated from battle, he found the beverage to be very refreshing, thus giving it the name 激精 (“cool spirit”).[4] Upon return to the capital, the dish was imitated by the Emperors cooks.

Later references, though scarce, can be found in the 韩非子, which speaks of “…the Duke of Zhou(周) bowing down for a cup of zhou(粥)，whereupon he compared it to snow falling in a winter’s night.” Sima Qian mentions one occasion where the Lord of Ch'u received a guest from the State of Chao “[…] at which the guest expressed his delight at the desert, cool as snow from Mount Shang and yet sweet as lillies from the river Hu.” [5]

The technical process of cooling food in ancient times still remains a mystery to this day, even though fragmented information has been accumulated, suggesting that a special underground storage device, made from conglomerated mercury and lead, would actually keep temperatures around zero degrees.[6]

Bowles goes even further by claiming to have found a manual describing the actual process of making ice cream in in the tomb of Emperor Huang of Ch'in, however the original manuscript was lost.[7] The only remaining evidence was the Chinese name for ice cream, so called ping ch’i-ling, taken from the title of the manuscript (冰激凌书)。

On the basis of Bowles fragmented research, R. Sober believes that the ping ch’i-ling, being an exotic dish from the border regions, might have enjoyed a short period of popularity during late Han dynasty, but that the delicate art was forgotten after the capital was laid in ashes by Li Peng.[8]

Later references are easily and too often confused with the 冰霜, an alcoholic drink from later dynasties.[9]

Bob Schwartz, in his Dong Chronicles, makes more than seven references to the ping ch’i-ling, scattered across various documents found in private collections. The validity of these claims however has yet to be proven.[10]

In 1927, a stone tablet was found in the small town of Donggua outside of Luoyang. Among the inscriptions found was a hitherto unknown version of the 论语 (Analects), which included the following line:

有朋自远方来食凌，不亦乐乎？[11]

The theory that 凌[ling] is simply short for ping ch’i-ling sounds plausible, as we come across it in another context: “By throwing his 凌 into a well, Ts’ai Yung showed his contempt for Tsung Po.”[12]

Even though Italians usually take credit for inventing the Gelato, or modern-day ice cream, sufficient evidence indicates that the Chinese have had a similar tradition dating back a very long time. As to the topic of this article, it shows that displacement influenced the development of ice cream, but also magnificent poetry like ‘…wildfires on Mount Huang, the icy streams of the Dragon river, dark snow caressing my white hair, spirits descending like shadows when I yearn towards the graves of my ancestors at Mount Ling.’ (Lu Xia).[13]

[1] See Lü Hsieh, One hundred flowers under a spring moon, transl. by Isaac M. Klein, Chicago Literary Review, 1957 IV, p. 56-59.

[2] Meyer’s Kulturlexikon, Verlag Mühe und Ohne, Berlin, 1899; p. 1356.

[3] Marcanti, Il duce di Chao e su ritorno, Rome 1887, p. 387.

[4] Another translation by Treptow translates it as ‘Northern Winds, gentle spirits.’ Treptow, Die alten Chinesen und das Eis vom Pitz-Palü, Merkel Verlag, Berlin 1938.

[5] Thus also the reference in Antonioni, The five fires of T’e Khuan Y’ien, Oxford University press, 1966, p. 788.

[6] Mandelson, Works Vol XIII, p.229-334; Research indicates that such devices might be found in the tomb of Qin Shi Huang, however full excavation still hasn’t been carried out to this day.

[7] After having been part of Professor Parker’s excavation team, Bowles later went on and served as an interpreter in the second Boer war. His documents, along with the original manuscript and the translation he was working on, were lost during a fire. See Henderson, Flames over Henley, p. 227-229, Fulham University press 1928.

[8] For an account of Hsiao Mau see Mayers, No. 56; Giles, No 344.

[9] Substantive research on the 冰霜 has been conducted by Penny Hu, University of Taipeh. However at present, only selected articles have been published.

[10] Among the works referred to are the 凌日记and the冰箱说明, dating back to Northern Wei and Jin, kept in the Colléctions des Moulines rouges, Arras. Long believed to be forgeries by later dynasties, these works have not yet undergone academic scrutiny.

[11] “Is it not delightful, when friends come from afar to share some 凌？”

[12] See Schlomo Herzog, Chinese Etiquette Vol. II, Bucuresti Verlak 1932.

[13] Translated from: Höhenflüge und Paraphernalia. Verlag Morgenröte, Wien 1997.

Mrs. Marlboro

2012-01-11T00:50:00.000-08:00

Smoking cigarettes as the last guilty pleasure in the universe––
Someone once told me that this stuff will kill you,

Smoking cigarettes as the last guilty pleasure in the universe––
Someone once told me that this stuff will kill you,
So I guess I think of it as a deathbed that I bring along with me
In my pants pocket––
I hear the voice of a woman singing when I smoke my cigarettes
I can see the silhouette of a beautiful woman when I blow the smoke out
I watch her curves take shape in front of me,
I watch this woman’s curves unravel in front of me,
But she is a beautiful woman, even if she only exists for a moment.
I blow a kiss to her with my smelly lips, and she returns the favor
When she crawls inside of my chest every time without fail––
I take her in like a drug and let her dance inside of me,
Since it’s the only dance I know.
I see a woman’s curves dissolve in front of me––
I see a woman dancing in the air,
I can’t see her face, but her curves go everywhere––
Every which way in the dandy band aid of a never bending day––
There is something she’s desperately trying to say,
But you have to have special lips in order to hear her voice,
It’s the sort of voice that reminds you why you’re here,
And her dance deepens my own voice every day––
Helping me along the way in my quest to sound more like a man.
I want to hold her curves properly as she dances silently
Inside of my mouth––
Inside of her mouth is a wad of sweet smoke,
And we kiss each other’s mouths
In order to exchange the most beautiful jokes.
My jokes are throat blows on repeat,
But her dance is always changing––
I love you Mrs. Camel, Mrs. American Spirit,
Mrs. Nat Sherman, Mrs. Dunhill, Mrs. Winston,
And I love you Mrs. Marlboro––
I love it when all of you dance down my windpipe slow
Since it’s the only dance I know––
And I try to dance as much as I can, so I never forget
What your curves taste like, and what your lips taste like
When they touch mine,
In the cancer of my crumbling infatuation.

The Form

2012-01-11T00:27:00.000-08:00

Mess with the form––

It’s important to know

How to mess with the form.

Mess with the form––

It’s important to know

How to mess with the form.

Write a poem about death,

And when you’re done with that,

Write a poem about

Catching your breath.

These are some ways to keep your lines fresh.

Avoid big words like invective––

Forget to remember that

All poets are unnaturally selected.

Write until your hand gets numb.

Write until your brain goes dumb.

Write until sunshine spills out of your skull.

Use images like bones, skulls, birds, and the moon––

Use phrases like a thousand, I wish, I want, and full bloom.

All of these devices are useful and usual.

Write a poem about death––

Write a poem about a pair of breasts.

Write it without using the word breast.

Always remember to try your best,

And if at all possible––

Try real hard to be depressed.

Undress depression like

A succession of secrets

Stuffed inside a dresser drawer––

Drink booze till the stench

Leaks out through your pores.

And forget about rhyming.

It’s all about timing,

And the last line of a poem

Should make the reader

Feel less alone.

Remember that this whole process is about loneliness.

It’s about

Waiting in grocery store lines

It’s about

The futility of trying

It’s about

Expressing the inexpressible

It’s about

Making your statements Hallmark delectable.

Remember to write in riddles––

Never say anything matter-of-factly

Being vague and elusive is a primary tactic.

This is a gradual process of dissolving yourself––

Just give yourself time to become someone else.

Write about roses/write through your poses/

Imagine your lover without any clothes on/

Practice the sestina the sonnet the song/

Devote great thought to right versus wrong.

I want you to write a poem about death.

I want you to give up on giving up cigarettes.

This will keep your face from looking too fresh,

And the lines on your brow will stay nice and darkened.

Remember that your I is a construct––

Avoid four letter expletives like shit, fuck, and cunt––

Don’t be provocative simply as a literary stunt.

Learn all the rules in order to break them––

Revel in your own self-induced isolation.

You have to learn to be alone––

Deeply question the concept of home.

Be appalled by technology and cellular phones––

Read everything out loud to gauge your own tone.

Write about love until your hands fall off––

Avoid clichéd lines like “her skin was so soft.”

And if you can,

Try and live in a Soho loft.

If you’re rich, try to look poor.

Read Charles Bukowski and romanticize whores.

If you’re a girl, read Sylvia Plath––

Write in your diary about how life is so drab.

I want you to write a poem about death––

This has everything to do with your future success.

The birds of my words are flying around,

But they crash into the moon and fall to the ground.

I’ve written her down a thousand times––

I’m trying to raise her right out of these lines.

I wish to express what’s deep in my chest,

But all that’s left is the smoke of cigarettes.

My dome of bone makes me feel so alone––

I write and I write to bring myself home,

But the more I write, the more I feel doomed––

I still stupidly think that something will bloom.

I’d like to write a poem about death,

But first I just have to catch my breath.

In The Beginning

2012-01-11T00:21:00.000-08:00

I get a massage in a mechanized chair.

For a moment I forget it’s not a person.

I get a massage in a mechanized chair.

For a moment I forget it’s not a person.

But once I remember what it is and where I am, I let the plastic parts knead my shoulder blades. I embrace the plastic parts whose movements are guided by electrical currents. They lull me towards a state of relaxation.

I close my eyes, slowly letting my facial disguise dissolve off my bones structure.

It’s the sort of face you make when you believe you have no future.

And I never wanted the wife life.

I never wanted a candy cane dame.

I just wanted a quiet place to sit, through the lazy hours of the day.

And as the children play, I rock back and forth in my chair.

Lighting my cigarettes––blowing smoke rings in the air.

When I was young, I believed I would do something spectacular.

Now I just wait for the fourth of July,

And watch the fireworks in silence.

30 Rock, Banal Profundity and Self-Actualization

2012-01-10T01:25:00.000-08:00

I, like almost every American my age give or take twenty-five years, watched a lot of television growing up.

I, like almost every American my age give or take twenty-five years, watched a lot of television growing up. To quote the late, great Howard Beale, “Right now, there is a whole, an entire generation that never knew anything that didn't come out of this tube. This tube is the gospel, the ultimate revelation…” And, actually, that’s the entire subject of this article: what the tube has taught us [While I’ll be the first to admit that the tube and film are different, it is somewhat ironic, as I’m sure Sidney Lumet would point out himself, that a film was preaching about the dangers of media. Inherent irony notwithstanding, Network is brilliant.].

Recently it was brought to my attention that I have an anger problem. I’ve had an anger problem for years, but I learned to deal with it in college to a certain degree [I smoked pot constantly and in the brief moments, when I was not stoned, that I actually got angry, I would simply stop talking so as to not make an ass of myself. (Which usually resulted in me making an ass of myself.)]. In the last couple of years, however, my anger has resurfaced due to some life changes (read: stopped smoking pot) and it has become noticeably worse. I wanted to change but I didn’t know how: I’m not religious, I’ve never been to a psychologist and there is only so much you can bring to your friends and family. After all they’re not being paid. For a while I assumed that I could just drink and channel the negativity into creativity, but it didn’t work. I needed help and it came from the most unexpected of places (although by now you probably should’ve guessed where).

I

A couple weeks ago a good friend of mine mentioned to me that he had noticed my anger in the past couple weeks more acutely than he had in the past couple of years. We are currently living in China and we are spending much of our time together. He spoke of how rapidly the anger comes and how quickly it dissipates or how quickly I expel it from my system via (usually) a rant involving any number of things. He danced around the word frightening without using it, but I think it was in his mind the entire time. I confessed to him that in high school my friends would call me “Angry Black” because I would lose my temper and try to fight someone or I would curse vehemently or I would sit sullenly for half an hour while everyone else played video games or something [My childhood friends’ favorite pass time was to make me as angry as possible and then laugh at me so as to maintain that level of anger. We had some great times.]. A few days after this conversation I was at a friend’s house who studies Chinese medicine. I asked her how the Chinese deal with psychological problems. Essentially I was trying to find out whether or not their were psychologists in China. She said there are, but they are practitioners of Western psychology. I found this dissatisfying. I would be happy to visit a Western psychologist, but it would feel strange to have an Easterner try to apply principles of psychoanalysis that weren’t part of their hardwiring/upbringing/culture. She then explained that traditional Chinese medicine treats the body when there is a problem with the mind. The Chinese believe that anger resides in the liver and that an unhealthy liver can throw your balance (qi) out of alignment. It’s not a cause and effect model (your liver isn’t unhealthy because of your anger or vice versa, one informs the other mutually). She suggested I take some herbs. I found this to be dissatisfying as well.

A few days later my friend and I were at a bar and the night took a strange left turn. A number of small, miniscule events put me in a foul mood and I kind of turned into a giant asshole for the rest of the evening. The next morning I awoke with an “anger” hangover and I realized that I had to do something. My (and I guess this is true for everyone) anger is kind of like when a car overheats; the car can no longer run and I have to pull over on the side of the road and wait to cool down. Most people have this happen every so often; I have it happen a lot. I was tired of waiting on the side of the road every couple of hours. I was tired of closing myself off to people and ideas and relationships and opportunities because I was angry. And I was plain tired. I took the first step and went online and began researching anger. I read for a couple hours and found some exercises and some thesis papers written about Chinese medicinal treatments and a few other things. I started doing the exercises and I took a mantra from a poem I really like and for the last week I’ve felt great. Whenever I feel the anger bubbling up, I recite the mantra. I still let myself feel anger of course. For one thing, I’m not perfect and for another, it would be completely unhealthy to suppress a natural feeling. What was more unhealthy was the way in which I had become habituated to dealing with this natural feeling. I’m certainly not cured (I‘m sure I‘ll lose my temper again), but I do feel better and I think the key was me at least dealing with the problem in a healthy way.

II

I recently watched seasons 2-4 of 30 Rock [Easily the shows golden era, although it’s probably more like seasons 1.5-3 with a few gems in season 4] in their entirety for the fourth or fifth time. The lead character is Liz Lemon, played by Tina Fey, who is a Show Runner for a Saturday Night Live-type variety show. Her boss and mentor Jack Donaghy, portrayed by Alec Baldwin, is based on Tina Fey’s former boss Lorne Michaels, the creator of SNL and the producer of 30 Rock. Liz Lemon is an “East-Coast elite” trying to “have it all”: the job, an apartment in Manhattan and a relationship. She constantly falls short. Jack is always there to pick her up and give didactic life lessons.

I had always felt that I was similar to Liz Lemon. Witty, funny, cynical, bitter, temporal, temperamental (This seems awfully egocentric, I know.). And then I was watching an episode in which Jack meets Liz’s parents. He says to Liz, “No wonder you’re a sexually frightened know-it-all, you’ve had nothing but positive reinforcement your whole life.” For some reason when I heard that quote, for the four hundredth time, it clicked. That’s me. My parents always told me I could anything [This is in no way a critique of my childhood. I’m very happy that my parents raised me to believe in myself.] and constantly praised me and so I have this annoying little habit of treating conversations like trial proceedings. I correct people, I point out when their wrong, I attack instead of listen. I realized that I could never be happy this way because Liz was never happy this way. I used to think the idea of being similar to one of my favorite writers was a good thing, but watching the show again I realized I was wrong. Liz Lemon isn’t Tina Fey. Tina Fey has it all. She’s married and has kids and writes television shows and movies. Liz Lemon is a mess. She is a manifestation of Tina Fey that Tina wisely uses as a comedic device and not a life model. She’s the part of Tina Fey that was shed in order to actually become a happy and healthy and successful person. And then I realized that Jack Donaghy was another one of these manifestations. As much as he is based on Lorne Michaels, his ideas and speeches are the work of Tina Fey and a group of writers who share a similar vision. Liz Lemon is funny because she makes light of trivial everyday things, but Jack is inspiring. He has lived life and when he grips a glass of scotch and delivers a perfectly, poetic monologue, it is evident that he hasn’t wasted time or taken life for granted. If you were to marry these two personalities you would probably have something like a Tina Fey. Smart, witty, successful, urbane, knowledgeable, worldly…

I don’t want to be Liz Lemon. I realized all of this in the midst of my anger rehabilitation. I realized that my anger inhibits me from doing this; my anger makes me want to simplify the world or cram it into a convenience that fits my view of life. It forces me to not try new things. This is perfectly alright, and hilarious, for a television character, but for a real person in the real world, it is a dangerous (or at least stupid) way to live.

III

30 Rock is a brilliantly written and acted show. I think it’s the wittiest sitcom on television and it usually offers a wonderful critique, or at least a wonderful conversation, about modern America. That being said, I was extremely vexed by the fact that I had discovered something so profound and important to my personal development from a television show which isn’t exactly high art. But then, should profundity only come from high art or religious texts or weathered, spiritual people we meet in odd places? In the days following my revelation I started to see how much of peoples’ lives were focused on profundity and how much of it was banal. I was using Stumble Upon [An application that surfs the web for you. You choose your interests and install the button into your toolbar and when you click it, it takes you to random websites. Great way to waste time.] and I was shocked at the number of self-help pages on the internet and even more shocked at how many of them were terrible or cliché or totally obvious. Most good advice is obvious, and clichés, like stereotypes, exist for a reason, but this was ridiculous. Then I went on Facebook and I couldn’t believe the number of posts that were quotes or picture files with text that contained useful quotes or life-affirming truths. Hadn’t anybody considered the source? How much can a quote from the Dali Lama or a president or an author matter when you read it, post it and move on? How could 30 Rock prove something to me that I couldn’t prove to myself? What does it all mean?

Originally I thought the title of this piece was out of order, but I kept it because
I liked the way it sounded when I read it aloud. Now that I’ve thought about it, however, it makes sense. 30 Rock was always there, that was the constant. Then came profundity, which is always banal. We were taught in school that we hold certain truths to be self-evident and those truths comprise the shortened version of the list. We hold a ton of truths to be self-evident, like a staggering amount, and occasionally we’re reminded of them. We spend so much time trying to ignore our flaws and bury them behind excuses that we can’t see how simple it is, and we allow the truth to slip away. We have constant reminders posted on refrigerators and t-shirts and websites and encoded in television shows and movies and every media imaginable, and they all scream at us to change. As much as they can scream. It’s up to us to listen. Even if it is something as silly as a television show. Who knows how the world works? I don’t. All I know is that humans seek meaning and humans make meaning, the whole thing is manufactured. Instead of worrying about the validity of my thoughts (they’re all invalid), I should be happy I was able to find a solution. Any solution. Thanks to banal profundity, I became self-actualized (maybe I‘m jumping the gun there). Which means I have to go float on a cloud and ponder existence. Or maybe I’ll watch 30 Rock instead. Either way.

Life in a Ski Town

2012-01-05T07:52:00.000-08:00

Some thoughts on my life in Ski Town, USA. Presented here in limerick as Texas week gets under way.

Once a year a man comes here from Texas.

He routinely behaves like an ass.
He flirts with the help,
like he’s a young whelp,
at the same time passing some gas.

His wife only titters and preens;
she truly behaves like a queen.
Spending all of his money
and calling him honey;
she struts ‘round in absurdly tight jeans.

At least they’re only here for the winter;
they depart at the first sign of spring.
He tips his hat with a wink;
his spurs make a clink.
Off they go, the queen with her king.

As much as they irritate us,
Folks like this provide us with business.
So we grit our teeth and smile,
and after a while,
Pool our tips to pay for some Guinness.

At night the bars are all full
with kids just like us who pull
their mouths into a grin
each time tourists walk in
to our shops with small talk so dull.

“How’s the snow at the top?”
“How much’s the helmet from Poc?”
“You’re kidding, that’s nuts.”
As they shell out big bucks
for gear they’ll use once and then toss.

As much as they spend
it’s hard at month’s end.
To meet rent in the ‘Boat,
two jobs just keep you afloat.
And to landlords your money is sent.

Whatever cash is left over
goes to feed your version of Rover.
Pets sure cost a lot
but they give you a shot
with that girl from the next county over.

If by chance you have money to spare
after providing rent and pet care;
you head down to the bars
watching for drivers in cars
who’re safe on the roads. These are rare.

About two in the morning you’re drunk
and in a bit of a funk
you’re the only one single;
your friends’ve gone off to mingle
or retired with girls to their bunks.

So off home you trudge
in the snow and the sludge
and light up a joint-
here’s a good point,
At least no one wants some of your ganj.

If you’re lucky the next day you’re off.
Hungover, but early you doff
all your gear and go play
on the mountain all day
while at your friends working you scoff.

But karma’s a bitch
and due to a glitch
in the schedule you’re working
on a day that it’s dumping.
The snow’s perfect, but you have to watch.

Everyone’s having fun
and you’re pretty glum.
The chair swings around,
some kid falls to the ground,
and after the tyke you must run.

Despite all these woes,
plus your runny nose,

you make a vocation
out of most folks' vacation

So you stay right here
Year after year.
Life in a ski town’s not bad, as it goes.

-BW