Theoharides on the Apocalpyse

Hey, my Puddlers. Sorry for the lack of action or communication over the past week or so—writing up these hilarious lists, maintaining an absurdist based Twitter feed, and posting things to Reddit can really take the life out of you. I also went away for the Memorial Day weekend and I have some kind of idea swirling around for an epic post; something with "mud on it" as Delmond from Treme so recently said on a great episode of that show. I'm going to try to get it up here this week, but it may have to wait until next week due to my busy personal and professional life (plus the NBA Finals is taking up much of my attention).

Also, later this summer I will be taking a break from posting in order to finish my revision of Last Mound of Dirt so that I can begin pitching it to agents. This should also coincide with the redesign of the entire site, so stayed tuned for announcements regarding all of that. There is no Mad Men season this summer so I won't be doing recaps to fill in the space. Instead I may just post guest posts and small little updates or thoughts from myself. Nothing going over 300 to 500 words, though. We'll see. I may just give the entire world a vacation.

Anyway, this week we'll have a Mark Jack post on Friday and next week or the week after we'll make another stop in the mind of Puddles of Myself Special Guest Columnist, Erik Lilleby, who will share another personal story.

However, today, we have Mr. Alex Theoharides who has a few things on his mind:

Theoharides On America in the Age of the Apocalypse:

A Rant & A List (Let’s Call it Wednesday)

Alex Theoharides

The Rant (written, as all good rants should be, in the third person plural):

America the wonderful, we proclaim. Land of opportunity and of Thanksgiving. Jazz and Hip Hop. Steinbeck and Kerouac. Cracker Jacks and Micky D’s. Microsoft and Macintosh. Baseball and Football and Basketball (oh my!).

And yes, also the Land of the Apocalypse.

This past month, Americans have waited with baited breath for the earth to cave in beneath us -- our breath held not because we fear the end of the world, but because we secretly pine for it, longing to be witnesses to the end. How else to explain our obsession with crazed preachers and Mayan calendars, our deep-rooted affinity for movies such as Armageddon, Mad Max, Water World, I Am Legend, novels such as Cormac McCarthy’s The Road and Roberto Bolaño’s 2666, our bitterness that this past week didn’t end with earthquakes but with yet another proclamation -- the end is nigh, the end is nigh.

America’s obsession with the Apocalypse stems from our base understanding of ourselves, of our nation and its place in the history of the world. American children are taught to be dreamers, to live with a suspension of disbelief; the suspension being, of course, that America is the ideal society. Borne out of the linear dynasties of Greece and Rome and the United Kingdom, America, we feel in our heart of hearts, our bones, is the land that stands for all that is right in the world. Sure we protest the Wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Yes, we bemoan the actions (or lack thereof) of our political elite. Certainly, when we travel abroad, we feel contempt for our fellow stupid Americans. However, lurking just beneath our skin-deep criticism of our nation is our deep-rooted pride in the American Dream, in the Greatest Generation’s storming of Normandy, in the Beats travelling by jalopy from sea to shining sea.

We want America to go out on top. We don’t really care about the threat of global warning. We’re not good about conserving water, recycling, reusing, or reducing. And we secretly suspect re: (hope) that the rash of earthquakes, giant waves, hurricanes and tornadoes that have occurred over the last few years is a sign. A sign of what? Of the Apocalypse (cue somber music), of course.

Signs of the Apocalypse

Yesterday, two eight-year-old boys in front of me on line at the local Dunn Bros coffee shop, ordered Caramel Mocha Lattes.

Barry Bonds, without making a big deal of it, without even jamming a single needle up his sizable rear end, offered to pay tuition for the kids of the Giant fan in a coma.

The President of Urban Outfitters (yes, that hipster locale) has been making large donations to anti-gay politicians.

Lebron’s “The Decision” turned out to actually be good for the NBA.

A fetus has over 200 friends on Facebook.

A rash of horse herpes has forced a group of riders to practice their craft on … wait for it … stick horses.

Airline passengers got into a fight over a reclined seat.

And yes, I wrote a blog post about the Apocalypse.

Mark for Mark's Sake

It's been a long rainy week, my Puddlers, but we've made it to Friday.  The summer is looming in the distance, so lets try to enjoy these small windows to huddle up in our apartments and watch mist descend over the city, while we slowly drink beer and feel some sort of impalpable sadness.  All of that will pass soon and it will be hot in the morning and hot in the day. We will drink hot coffee in the morning and cold beer by dusk.  And things will be impossible and great as always.

I'm writing this intro after just rereading Mark Jack's post from today. I think it fits the mood of this week, this spring and everything going forward. Read and enjoy.

Oh, and RIP Macho Man Randy Savage. A truly formative influence on my life.

Now, here is Mark Jack.

The Arab Spring in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction

Mark Jack

Sometimes I find myself grinding my teeth down and shrinking my hands into little diamond fists from anger. I do not know why.

Syria’s Bashar al-Assad has contending groups of black clad security forces arresting, then releasing, then arresting again scores of protestors and innocent—meaning indirectly involved—Syrians. The numbers of detained and possibly tortured are a matter of guesswork. Soccer stadiums are being filled. Soon, perhaps, these confused men in black will skip a step and make it easier on everyone by declaring whole towns prisons. The absurdity of it all in no way detracts from the seriousness. Just as Quadaffi, as silly as he is, as megalomaniacal as he has been in his revolutionary stance, has still been solely responsible for great suffering. As an American, the immediate response to the conflicts in the Middle East is to ask how we should involve ourselves.  Do we impose embargos? Do we intervene monetarily or militarily? Do we bring criminal charges and freeze the bank accounts of these dictators? Do we finally, after so much time ignoring it all, enforce the rule of law? As we ponder our options, we congratulate ourselves and our facebook groups, and we get it, and we see the youth, and we dream of beautiful reforms, which are just a siphoning off of potentialities.

And yet, what am I upset about? Am I upset? No. Not really. Just a little sad maybe. I’m not sure what understanding we may be generating and disseminating with the modern tools so often praised. Self-immolation doesn’t photograph as well after Thich Quang Duc, perhaps, but it’s still a powerful, almost primal protest. Guernica is maybe the type of understanding we need to focus on. We need to search for artistic understanding. Even if I am overwhelmingly informed of the atrocities in Libya or Syria or anywhere I do not feel that I am even close to understanding them, which too often means “mastery.” Perhaps it is better to not attempt realisms here; perhaps we are given too quickly to anonymous protestors and overcome by their adrenaline but not their confusion. We must seek to stare up at the twisted feet of the stumbling lady in Picasso’s painting and not understand, and not know, but at least to feel. I’m not sure how this can be politically implemented, but it’s a better start than the punditry we espouse and regurgitate now.

I can’t help but think that art is the only response to atrocity, to tragedy. Artistic response is the only response that, at least if done well, does not in some way diminish by encapsulation, the tragic event, as in explanatory news stories and the like. While I do truly believe this, I can’t help but think that Picasso’s painting did nothing to stop the Spanish Civil War and has never acted as deterrent, unless you consider its covering during Powell’s speech to the UN urging war with Iraq. Even then, Bush still bombed.

So I’m going on walks these days, angry, or at least a little on edge, and when I get home the news has some new terrible event that isn’t, maybe, new, but at least I could avoid it before and now I just feel so impotent.

Much of the readings of these revolts and protests center on a notion of revolution called the J-curve. Basically, if a closed, undemocratic society stays that way it will remain stable. However, as outside factors intrude, the country becomes open to raised expectations—economic growth, or access to the lifestyles of a more open society (through the internet, say). These expectations then run into the closed authoritarian political space. The dictator has two options, according to this theory: beat down the revolting populace and lower expectations, in a manner of speaking, or grant concessions that will bring about an at least temporary or convincing but illusory openness to society.

All of these things are so tired, and don’t really mean anything, and don’t lead to any understanding. Every field has some tired-ass J looking graph that illustrates only lack of insight. And just because I find it offensive that bourgeois expectations of material well-being would be understanding enough for revolt against violent and absurdist dictatorships doesn’t mean Egyptians don’t, in some even quite large way, just want new shoes.

So, look, I’m still just looking around at New York, peacefully existing, being beautiful and absurd, and the gap between what I experience and what I’m told other’s experience is so very frustrating, but I’m not sure we can really close it.

I believe we should all seek this.

Love,

Mark

Theoharides On Bridesmaids

Welcome to Wednesday, my Puddlers. Its been a rainy week here in New York, so that means there are plenty of actual, literal puddles to jump on, slide around in and pour down your pants. However, rain or shine there will always be Puddles of Myself to enjoy. 

I hope you all enjoyed the Fleet Foxes review from yesterday. Next week we will have the Top 20 Friendships of All-Time as well as our regular columnists Alex Theoharides and Mark Jack. I am still accepting any guest submissions to feature so please feel free to e-mail me at any time.

I just want to mention three links today. You may have noticed the tag-line on the page header giving a shout out to Sea Bean Goods and Real Sorbet. These are two culinary endeavors undertaken by great friends of mine and recommend that you throw your full support behind both. You can find links on the sidebar to the right.  Also, please check out Sam Skarstaad's new album. The first track alone is worth a download or just five streaming minutes of your time.

Now, I turn it over to Alex Theoharides to pick up the slack.

Theoharides On Bridesmaids or Why I Gave Up My Saturday Night to Watch Jon Hamm Act Like a Class A Richard

Alex Theoharides

First, a clearing of my rather snobbish nose: If I have to watch another topical George Clooney film about the war in Iraq or the state of the Economy, I might just have to write a blog post about how much I hate modern films (Oh crap, I think I just… ).  I’ve largely lost interest in movies as televisions shows such as The Wire, The Office, Mad Men, Friday Night Lights, and my latest craze, Sons of Anarchy, have consumed most of my viewing time. Movies are too long, too predictable, and quite often, just too damn run-of-the-mill. There are several better things I could do on a Saturday night—namely watch the NBA Playoffs, which, might I add, have been fantastic.

However, this past Saturday night there were no NBA games on, it was cold and rainy in Minneapolis (go figure), and after spending the previous few weeks in a state of extreme depression due to the demise of the Celtics, I owed my gal (henceforth known by her pseudonym Myrtle Schmeckpepper) a night spent watching a mindless chick flick. Which isn’t to suggest I don’t enjoy chick flicks. I have two sisters and I grew up watching Anne of Green Gables and Little Women and Little House on the Prairie and When Harry Met Sally and the Gilmore Girls and and and …  the list goes on. It only got worse in college, peaking when I spent a fortnight plowing through the first two seasons of the show Felicity (#unforgivable). In fact, I’d go as far as to say that after graduating from Skidmore College, with its 60-40 girls to guy ratio, I earned an advanced degree in Chick Flicks. I know why Love Actually can be perceived as arrogant male propaganda (really?, an Ugly Brit manages to score four sexually adventurous girls in a Wisconsin bar?). I could write a term paper on why Rory Gilmore (of previously mentioned Gilmore Girls’ fame) had to leave Logan in the show’s final episode to follow the Obama campaign (yes because that’s how journalism careers are made). And without breaking a sweat, I could tell you why Joey Potter (yes, Tommy Cruise’s cuddle buddy) chose Pacey Witter over Dawson Leery even though the show (yes, idiots, Dawson’s Creek) was named after him. It had something to do with this and this. Suffice it to say, it wasn’t particularly difficult for Ms. Schmeckpepper to convince me of the value of going to see a movie, especially when I read in Molly Lambert’s excellent Grantland teaser that it had the potential to become a female Caddyshack.

Please note, teaser alert begins now. Although anyone who thinks that Bridesmaids is the type of movie that needs a teaser alert is an idiot. (Sorry Matt, I promise I’ll stop calling your readers idiots soon, I promise)(after this one last time)(that’s right, you’re all idiots!)

Going to the theater is a rather miraculous experience in socialization. For some reason, if I’m watching a movie at home, and Ms. Schmeckpepper so much as fidgets in her seat , I feel the need to pause the program, shush her like that boy scout we all had in our third grade class who thought it was disrespectful to talk during the pledge of allegiance, and generally behave like a boor. However, within the rather sticky confines of a movie theater, I not only abide by any manner of sounds—the crunch of popcorn, the suck of straws, the ceaseless running of the mouth—I actually crave them, believing, naive schoolboy that I am, that they somehow add a certain quality to the experience, a sense of community, if you will. The crowd at Bridesmaids didn’t disappoint. I was out-gendered, easily 10 to 1.  The woman in front of me didn’t stop laughing from the moment the previews began. And the smell of buttery popcorn lingered over every seat. It was all so wonderful.

The movie was exactly what I expected it to be. Kristin Wiig, the only funny cast member left on Saturday Night Live, carried the performance from start (ladies, time to get your Hamm on) to finish (A Wilson Phillips’ “Hold On” dance sequence, need I say more). She played a downbeat woman trying to find love in this crazy world of ours, all while trying to be her best friend’s Maid of Honor. Like any Judd Apatow movie (and yes, I know he was just the producer not the director, but it was still an Apatow movie) the dialogue was fresh, the comedy raunchy, and the bit characters often stole scenes from the stars. In particular, Melissa McCarthy (yes, Sookie St. James from the Gilmore Girls) killed it, becoming, I hope, this summer’s Zach Galifianakis. The only unfortunate side effect being that right around the time she began to take her talents to South Beach (if her talents were diarrhea and South Beach was a white porcelain sink) on the silver screen, I realized I could never watch Gilmore Girls in quite the same way. And yes, I re-watch Gilmore Girls. And yes, I often do so on the Soap Network. Why? Who’s asking?

Other stellar performances include Chris O’Dowd as Wiig’s likable, and discreetly funny love interest (think Seth Rogen from Knocked Up, minus the Mary Jane and man boobs, plus a badge and a Scottish accent), Rebel Wilson and Matt Lucas as a social inept brother sister tandem, and … unfortunately that’s it. Many of the actors came across flat. Particularly, Wiig’s best friend in the film, who was played by the a little to good to be believable Maya Ruldolph, and her antagonist, Rose Byrne, who plays a villainous bridesmaid that tries to steal the role of Maid of Honor from Wiig. The flatness in both cases was not the fault the actors—it was the fault of the writing. The actors were given stereotypical roles (flustered bride, overeager and lonely rich young wife) and asked to make magic. They didn’t. I can live with that.

Bridesmaids was a fun, summer movie. It wasn’t great, and sadly, it certainly wasn’t a Chick Flick Caddyshack. It just wasn’t.

Final grade: B-

Puddles of My Guest Columnists Special: David Stern

Welcome back from the holy holiday week and weekend of the Judeo-Christian religions, my Puddlers. Today's post will be starting a run over the next few weeks of a few special guest posts contributed by the non-weekly columnists for the blog. As I've mentioned before, if you ever want to contribute some puddle of yourself to the blog, I would be more than happy to read, review and consider it.

Today's contributor is David Stern of the Sanctuaries who has been on the podcast and has contributed much to my very own life. He has decided to tackle the importance of one specific song and write about it with passion and a narrative—the two focal points of the Puddles of Myself aesthetic. I'll drop the introduction and let you enjoy today's Puddles of My Guest Columnist post.

My Experiences “On Fire”

David Stern

As an appreciator of music, one of the criteria I have—like many of you probably do—for assessing a song’s value to me is how it makes me feel.  Whether the feeling is noticed or is even consciously part of my assessment, the degree to which I feel any emotion and the degree of lucidity of the emotion are directly proportionate to the personal value I give a song.  There is certain music I listen to for the simple reason that I think it sounds cool.  Much of Alvin Lucier’s work is music that I approach with emotions off the court; it is there for sound and sound only.  Pop music however, operates in feeling.  “My Girl,” for example, is a song that has great worth to me because from start to finish it elicits something strong within me; when I hear those first guitar strings plucked over the teasing introductory bass notes and then the finger snaps drenched in reverb that seem to fill any room, it’s all rays of sunshine, nostalgia, warmth, and a few other clear and positive emotions (sometimes I think about Macaulay Culkin getting stung by bees, too). 

While many songs are successful in enhancing what you already feel, the real accomplishment—in my opinion—of “My Girl,” is that regardless of what is already going on inside me, my emotions are slaves to the music.  I think only the best songs, or tracks, have the ability to truly dominate you.  That said, no song has ever ruled me more completely than “I’m On Fire,” the sixth track off of Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A..

Before discussing this specific track, I want to talk about my relationship with the Boss.  At some point in high school, when I was less jaded to the idea of the “Boss”, I listened to every Bruce Springsteen album (with varying levels of attentiveness) starting with his debut, Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J., and ending with Tunnel of Love (thank you Napster, Morpheus, KaZaa).  Concerned at the time with only what was considered canonical, I was taking strides in expanding my musical knowledge… trying anyway.  Thing is, I never really fell in love with Springsteen.  In fact, I would say I did not like him very much.  To this day I find there is an element of cheesiness to some of his most appreciated music that I just cannot get over.  “Badlands,” “Atlantic City,” and “Glory Days” are all examples of songs that, to me, have overwhelming schmaltziness and pomp.  I felt that certain songs and sides of Springsteen were heartbreaking, but there was just too much filler for me to really consider him someone I love.  And while my suburban, upper-middle class Jewish high school self just couldn’t relate to his workman’s lyrics, I also found that much of them seemed forced and that they were easy candidates for ridicule.  “Really, Bruce?  By this point in your career you’ve been playing music professionally for over a decade.   Save the ‘I ain’t got a job’ crap.”  (“Working on the Highway” seemed to work almost magically but that is an entirely different Puddle.)

It wouldn’t be until a few years ago that some of Springsteen’s songs would strike chords in me.  Maybe I hadn’t developed the tools or musical muscle needed to appropriately digest what was happening on his albums until recently. “Stolen Car,” the last song on side three of The River, was the first one to really get to me.  On an intellectual level, I was impressed by the economy of its writing.  With the exception of a few chords starting with an E minor near the song’s instrumental fadeout, “Stolen Car” is made up of only G and C—I and IV in the key of G major (Wreckless Eric’s “Whole Wide World,” in E, is another song that contains only the I and IV chords yet it lacks the depth of “Stolen Car”).  The song also has a binary (AABAB) structure (until the fadeout) with the second B section being slightly altered and elongated. 

Then there are the lyrics.  Without divulging too much or going into detail, Springsteen paints a vivid picture of a love gone bad.  As almost everything the listener needs to know is in the first stanza (“I met a little girl and I settled down/ In a little house on the edge of town/ We got married and swore we’d never part/ Then little by little we drifted from each other’s hearts”), it is the narrator’s lack of specificity that makes the lyrics so relatable; we’ve only heard the first verse and we’ve all already lived “Stolen Car.”  By the time Springsteen describes his fear of disappearing in the pitch black night in the song’s last section, we are acutely aware of the withdrawnness and detachment a spoiled love can make us feel even from ourselves. 

Academic dissection aside, the track hits all the right nerves.  The simple lyrical content coupled with the sparse arrangement makes the narrator’s pain that much easier to feel.  My appreciation and love of “Stolen Car” comes from the sympathetic loneliness I experience after listening to it.  It’s the kind of song that I listen to, get inoculated by, and then ask “how did he do that?” after considering the unornamented material that was used to create it.

As a side note, I must admit a certain preference I often display for what I refer to as “songs that don’t do anything.”  This describes a purely musical aspect of different songs in which chords, verses and choruses, and other musical material seem to morph into each other.  Change seems to be brought on slowly and each section is a miniature meditation.  The antithesis of this is characteristic of songs by bands like the Who, whose chords are punctuating, intentional, and sometimes jarring.  Dana Carvey once joked that when some guitarists switch chords they look surprised as if having just seen a magic trick.  In my opinion, the Who are—and don’t get me wrong, I love the Who—an example of a band whose music lends itself to this “surprise.”  “Stolen Car,” on the other hand, has a certain languidness that my body agrees with, as do the title track off of Paul Simon’s Graceland and most songs by the Feelies (Neu is another great example of a band that employs this but then you’re getting into Krautrock, which I separate from most other popular music).  “I’m On Fire” has it, too.

The first time I ever allowed “I’m On Fire” to get under my skin was in January of this year.  My band, the Sancturies (plug!), were in Nashville recording what is going to be our debut album and companion EP.  During one of our mixing sessions we were graced with the presence of Jake Orrall, the singer, guitarist, and songwriter for Nashville garage wunderkinds Jeff the Brotherhood.  After chatting in the control room for a few minutes, Jake extended an invitation for the three of us Sanctuaries who were still down there to go to a show he was hosting near the studio.  As soon as the day’s work was done, we armed ourselves with 40s of Old English and headed over.

When we got there, I couldn’t believe how remarkably similar the interior made me feel to being at shows at Death By Audio in Brooklyn.  After all, this was in Nashville where everything had so far seemed alien to us.  Surrounded by tight clothing, beards, the stale stench of spilt beer, and hipsters getting down to crunked out raunch-rap, I was reminded of how Bard College felt when I would visit someone there after graduating from Skidmore: familiar soul, unfamiliar faces.  We had arrived in time to catch the last band, an admitted joke duo who played heavy metal and threw Monopoly money around while wearing suits.  Oh, and there was some fake blood.  In short, everything pathetic and everything fun about a show like that back home was exactly the same.  I was momentarily in Bizarro-Brooklyn.

The band’s set ended when I was about halfway done with my OE and the usual dispersing took place.  I had been expecting some more Major Lazer-esque music to start pumping out of the PA speakers but five minutes went by of overhearing chatter in the otherwise silent room where I could finally enjoy the wall I was leaning on as I treaded in 20 ounces.  As they tend to do when I am nearer to lubrication than moroseness (#stealingfromMadMen ), my eyes followed the movements of a dirty-blond and I wondered if she were the type of person she is because she has good taste or because tight-fitting clothing makes her ass look good.  I wanted to know if I could learn something from her if I ever decided to talk to her. 

And then it happened.  That never-changing barebones drumbeat beneath guitar arpeggios and the haunting synthesizer of “I’m On Fire,” brisk and chilling like January air, started coming out of the speakers.  The opening bars, screaming nothing but focus and forward motion, made me feel borderline psychotic.  By the time Springsteen’s cool, airy vocals entered, I was already as obsessed with whatever was in front of me as the narrator was with his female subject in the second stanza.  “Tell me now baby is he good to you/ Can he do to you the things that I do?/ I can take you higher/ I’m on fire.” I thought it was the perfect song for the moment but I would soon learn that it is the perfect song because it creates moments.

Now, there are always intangibles when judging a track.  This is why cover versions, live versions, alternate versions, and sometimes even studio versions (Tom Petty famously broke his hand by punching a wall after several failed attempts of recapturing the demoed vocal spirit for the song “Rebels” during the recording of Southern Accents) don’t retain the magic of whichever version you originally fell in love with.  The other thing about intangibles is that they are hard to describe.  Luckily, thanks to a rumor I read on the Internet there is a point of reference in the movie Badlands to help ease the ineffability. 

 For those who haven’t seen the movie, Badlands is about Kit (Martin Sheen) who charms the teenager Holly (Sissy Spacek) and, after murdering her father, takes her along for the ride on a cross-country killing spree.  Directed by Terrence Malick, the film uses the big sky backdrop of the South Dakota badlands to illustrate the dispassion of Kit’s violence and his matter-of-fact attitude towards the killings.  It is a well-accepted fact that Springsteen saw Badlands and that it inspired him to write the song of the same name as well as the title track from Nebraska.  According to one possibly erroneous messageboard post, the film also inspired the writing of “I’m On Fire.”  I’m not really concerned with the verisimilitude of some shmohawk’s online claims, but I do see some connections between the two works.

Starting with the obvious, the sweep of the Midwestern sky is present in the sparseness of the track.  There is a stillness in the song, like the stillness that passively observed Kit’s cruelty, that hangs above the male subject who is tempted by “a bad desire.”  In both film and song, the un-judging atmosphere is present before and after the story is told.

Lyrically, there is some ambiguity when it comes to who Springsteen’s character is referring to right in the first lines, “Hey little girl is your daddy home?/ Did he go away and leave you all alone?”  Clearly, the little girl whom he addresses with a rockabilly vocal rhythm is the object of his sexual desire.  But who is her “daddy?”  Considering the competitive sentiment of the second stanza, one might believe that it is the little girl’s suitor.  The fantastic video for “I’m On Fire” supports that idea and suggests that her daddy is really her sugar-daddy.  If the word “daddy” were to be replaced by a word that is not a familiar term for a father, one would be led to believe this even more strongly; the song would fall in line with a long list of others (Joe Jackson’s “Is She Really Going Out With Him” and the Beatles’ “This Boy,” to name a few) in which the male character not only yearns for the female, but also shows disdain for her current lover.  Keeping in mind the possible Badlands connection however, the little girl (she was a teenager, after all) and her “daddy” may very well be Holly and her father, respectively.  This notion adds a deeper element of desire and obsession to Springsteen’s character.  It would be one thing to question the love a peer of yours has for the girl you long after, but who has the audacity to compete with her father?

If the song was in fact inspired by Badlands, Springsteen did one hell of a job capturing nearly every aspect of the movie in such short time.  Kit’s sexual and violent desires, his psychosis outlined in the bridge (“Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby edgy and dull/ And cut a six inch valley in the middle of my skull”), and the haunting landscape are all in there.  If it wasn’t inspired by Badlands, then Springsteen was still successful in using the song as a vehicle for what happens to be the emotional composition of the film. 

 “I’m On Fire” is not the first song that has changed the complexion of a day for me.  Last March, I woke up one morning and put on Bob Dylan’s “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands,” had a mental breakdown and called in sick.  Though still an impressive feat, it was more of a function of the song’s mixture with borderline alcoholism, nascent depression, dissatisfaction with work, and the recollected loss of a promising person’s friendship and interest.  “I’m On Fire,” as I recently learned, has the ability to work alone (on me).

I had heard the song several times after that night in Nashville but I hadn’t given it my full attention during those subsequent listens.  The song would be on when friends were around, when I was cleaning my room listening to Born in the U.S.A., or when I felt like hearing it but was preoccupied with other responsibilities (I had been obsessing over the completion of the Sanctuaries’ album).  This past Sunday was different.  I had come home from a short band practice at around 9:30, put my guitar and jacket away, and sat down to listen to music.  Our album and EP had just been finished and I could finally enjoy other people’s songs the way I am accustomed to (without any distractions or other activities going on) and give it my full attention.  The first track I put on was “I’m On Fire.”  Seconds after its fadeout, I was struggling against the thirst I had for forward motion but I quickly lost the fight.  My jacket was back on, iPod buds were in my ears and transmitting the song on repeat, and before I knew it I made a left on Broadway heading north.  I didn’t care or know where I was going but with my hood up and feeling insane I would walk straight until something got in my way.  I took Broadway up until it hit Union Square East and continued on through its transformation into Park Avenue.  About thirty-five blocks after leaving my apartment, what got in my way was Grand Central Terminal.  This whole time, listening to nothing but this one song, I felt hijacked; it wasn’t my decision to leave my apartment and it definitely wasn’t my decision to walk the three miles (roughly) that made up the entire trip.  I was a shell of a person, obsessed with reaching an unknown goal.  I turned left at 42^nd and then took 5^th Ave south until it met back up with Broadway at Madison Square Park.  I was soon back in Union Square, walking through it scared like it was the set of the “Thriller” video and watching skateboarders as if they were riding some alien vehicle.  I made my way down University, left on 8^th St, right on Mercer and then back home.  My iPod was put to sleep and, like nothing happened, I was answering my roommate’s questions about our slightly overdue rent check.  The rest of the night was completely normal.

In addition to the ways in which I’ve been affected by “I’m On Fire,” a remarkable feature it has—for me—is its freedom from context.  As fans of not just songs but of actual bands and artists, us listeners tend to either give or take away appreciation of works based on where they come from and the sometimes-cultural settings in which they are experienced.  On one side of the spectrum there is the whole, “every Beatles song is great” viewpoint (save for “Lovely Rita” and “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” I am admittedly mostly guilty of asserting this), in which an audience member gets wrapped up in the iconic nature of the greatest band of all time and dismisses what would be duds if other bands recorded them.  On the other side, a band like ABBA, despite having some fantastically written pop songs, often gets unfairly shrugged off for their associations with disco.  It’s true that songs, albums, and all other forms of art do not get birthed in vacuums, which is why I am so impressed by “I’m On Fire.”  Springsteen has never been an artist I have been in love with.  Although I now see his lyrics as portraits of a simple life and I adore a good bunch of his songs, I would never call myself a fan of his.  In a case where context seems like it should work against him, one of his songs has earned more of my personal appreciation and value than perhaps any other.

Mark the Herald

We've made it to another Friday, my Puddlers. I hope your week was as good as mine and even more relaxed. I recommend drinking a big beer this evening (24oz of Busch) and cranking up Joe Cocker's cover of "Darlin' Be Home Soon" by the Lovin' Spoonful. There's a reason that they're in the Rock N' Roll Hall of Fame.

I'll be on vacation next week, which means the blog will be inactive. However, there are plenty of subsections such as Puddles of My Podcasts, Puddles of My Miscellany and Puddles of My Guest Columnists to check out while I'm gone.  You can also follow my Twitter account for all kinds of spur-of-the-moment nonsense. We'll hit the ground running when I'm back and we have a couple special feature guest columns lined up for you, so don't worry about a thing.

Speaking of Puddles of My Guest Columnists, it's Friday, so its time to shine the spotlight on Mark Jack who squeezes your mindgrapes tighter than anyone else on the planet earth.  So, I step aside for a much needed vacation and allow Mark Jack to show you what's what:

-ISM


Mark Jack

More and more, less visibility troubles me, more or less. I have no idea about anything, and that feeling of ignorance, of profoundest ignorance is severely important to me.

At most we contort our faces away from the celebrity we are said to resemble and in our fear of recognition, define ourselves positively as some kind of opposition to an expectation; or, if subtly done, as Opposition in general

In order that our minds might separate the plethora of information—unformed and incoherent—in the world—which spatial definition, the world, is a priori dubious—we must admit to the existence of necessary archetypes. The celebrity, then, provides a ready and popular touchstone for description. One must not imagine, however, that any celebrity defines a certain navigational archetype more perfectly than any private individual. Of course, the more we perform departures—or similarly, comedic attempts at proximity[1]--and/or various escapisms, the more the navigational archetypes broaden and include more as mere variations on a theme.

We believe ourselves to be in an age incapable of total systems. We live in the age of monographs and specialization, of bits and pieces, of fragmentary Freud. Our philosophers are historians and our social critics think piecemeal Heidegger and Hitchcock. I am unable to see how this accomplishes anything other than a plastic totality, a tangle of tediousness.[2]

Basically, a man beside me looks like someone I should know, media-wise, and yet my only concern with him is that he has begun to cry after telling me that practitioners of the ghost dance were not made bullet proof as they believed.

In a few glances about, we find our ease in the familiarity to which our eyes conform the world, and we find that all these familiarities mean little and help us less and comfort us nearly none. For all these variations in the world, for all the difference that we cite in speaking of the world’s beauty, we remain idle Platonists.[3]

-Mark

---

[1] I’m thinking of the circuitously and variously fucked MTV show, “I Want a Famous Face.”

[2] I am filled with sweetness; bite me baby.

[3] Everything slides about…repulsive.

Theoharides On Fiction

I've got a special treat for you today, my Puddlers.  I mentioned last Wednesday that our new columnist, Alex Theoharides would be presenting some of his fiction on the blog in the near future. Well, that future has come a little sooner than I had originally imagined. Mr. Theoharides has bestowed a short story on us for today's post. This is a direction the blog will be shifting towards more and more as we move forward so if you enjoy this story or have any interest in submitting a story of any kind, please feel free to reach out to me and I will consider any ideas or submissions that you may have.

I encourage you to read Alex's story and post any comments on the blog. My stupid posts don't matter, its the fiction that ultimately matters.

Without further ado, here is Alex Theoharides.



Powderhorn Park


Alexander J. Theoharides

It really should be here by now … it says 7:15 sharp … well maybe not sharp but...what do people say?…be there or…but who knows these things…someone should really… no, I shouldn’t worry about it…Thomas says all I ever do is worry…he thinks I like to worry…I don’t know any more…

“Excuse me, excuse me, Ma’am, do you have the time?”

“Five after seven.”

“Thank you.”

Em shivered slightly and turned to look down Chicago Avenue. Everything was covered in a drab layer of snow and salt and dirt. The bus was nowhere to be seen and the street was empty except for a rust-colored car that had been abandoned under a pile of snow. Em heard the fizzling sound of the streetlight above her head. It blinked off for a second, then turned back on. “This city,” she muttered, “I just don’t know.” Then she turned and stared down Chicago again. There was still no sign of the bus, but she noticed an old Hmong man standing outside the laundromat, smoking a cigarette. For second, the man almost seemed to notice Em watching him. She leaned toward him. Is that his arm? I don’t like the…is he waving? She glanced up at the streetlight, accusingly. “It’s so dark out,” she said in a low voice. “These damn streetlights. I just can’t tell.” Thomas had told her that the streetlights were brighter now then they used to be. “They’re a waste of electricity,” he’d told her. “You can see their glow from outer space.”

“I have no intention of going to outer space.”

“That’s not my point. All I’m saying, is that it’s not the lights that are the problem.”

Em took a step toward the curb and placed her left hand on her forehead.

The Hmong man stared at her a moment longer, then he lazily flicked his cigarette onto the sidewalk and walked back inside the laundromat.

When he was gone, Em hugged her arms across her chest and rubbed her shoulders, trying to warm herself up. It was so cold…you can never trust these buses to come on time… the only people who ever take them are perverts…they stare at you when you walk down the aisle. Em stared suspiciously at the woman who’d told her the time. Women could be just as bad as men. People didn’t like to admit it, but it was true. Sometimes they were even worse. Em turned and looked behind her. She could just make out a group of schoolchildren ice skating under the lights in Powderhorn Park. Their movements were familiar and, for a moment, she tried to remember how to skate. What had Thomas told her? Balance is the key, you have to remember to keep your balance at all times … but there was something else too, something important. Em pictured Thomas lacing up her skates by the Lake Harriet bandshell. What was it? What did he say? She couldn’t remember; she could never remember anything anymore. Em shuddered slightly and turned away from the park. It’s a terrible place, she thought. I’m surprised mothers let their children skate there. After what happened with those two boys. She shuddered again. It’s horrible to think about. Those little monsters. Where did they even get the gun in the first place? And no one had caught them? The police probably watched them do it. I wouldn’t put it past them. They probably took pictures.

The woman standing next to Em cleared her throat and leaned toward her. “Are you from here? You don’t look familiar.”

Em started to nod, then changed her mind. She didn’t like the way the woman had asked the question. She knew the type. First they pretend to be friendly, then they follow you home and steal your television. Not that she had one. Thomas had taken it away from her because he said watching television made her nervous. All that talk of the president.

“It’s not my fault if he wants us all to become Muslims,” she’d told him.

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is. Did you know that he’s not even from here?”

“Where are you from?” the woman asked, smiling at her.

Em studied the woman. She was African—I guess they’re called black now—and she had a yellow shawl wrapped around her head. She had probably voted for that Obama. Of course, so had Thomas. She couldn’t tell him anything anymore. All those classes at the University…it’s brainwash, that what it is…first they take your money, then they…of course, he’s not such a bad boy…I just wish he’d stop…his friends waste all their time in coffee shops, they want to be writers…I just don’t understand…he was always such a nice boy and so handsome…Em trembled suddenly. She could hear the sound of footsteps crunching through the snow, footsteps coming toward her. She turned slowly and peered over her shoulder. No one was there.

“Did you hear me?” the woman asked. “I said, where are you from?”

“I’m not from here,” Em said. “I’m taking the bus to go see my Thomas.”

The woman smiled at her. “Is he your boy? Well, isn’t that nice?”

Em nodded and opened her purse, pretending to look for something. Then she noticed the woman watching her and she quickly closed it again. If the woman had wanted to, all she’d have to do was reach out and snatch her purse. It wouldn’t be difficult at all. They were the only two people outside. Everyone else was hiding in their apartments, watching television. There was no one who could help her. Em stood up on her tiptoes, shivering slightly. A white van drove toward them and slowed to a stop. The driver rolled down his window. The sound reminded Em of something. What was it Thomas used to play? The oboe? The bassoon? Yes, that was it. She smiled. When he came home from school, Thomas used to spend hours locked in his room practicing.  One time, when he was sleeping, she’d slipped into his room and picked up the bassoon and started to play. The sound she’d made had been all wrong, she didn’t know what it was, the bassoon sounded just like it did when he played, but somehow she knew it was wrong. He’d told her as much when he woke up.  

“You’re not doing it right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure. It just doesn’t feel right.”

“How do I get to Portland and 43rd?” the driver of the white van asked, leaning out of his window.

Em glanced at the black woman, who shrugged her shoulders. Dark gray exhaust was pouring out from the back of the van. Em coughed into her hands. “Portland and 43rd?” the man repeated.

Em looked down at her feet, pretending she couldn’t hear him.

“Thanks, thanks for your time.”

As Em watched the van drive away, she squinted into the distant streetlights, the way she used to stare at the nightlight in the upstairs hallway when she was a little girl and her father was carrying her up the stairs, right before he would…and suddenly the street began to shimmer and dance almost as if it were alive and Em closed her eyes and let herself begin to slip. It was almost true, she thought, what they say about falling. But it wasn’t really. Something didn’t quite…She opened her eyes and turned to look for the bus again. It would never come. She should just go home. Her apartment was only a five minute walk away. The heat was still on. She could lie down on the couch and maybe have a cup of tea with some whisky in it. But it was Thomas’ birthday and he hadn’t even invited her this year. “After what happened, I didn’t think you’d be up to it,” he’d said.

“Of course I am. I come every year.”

Thomas didn’t want her to go anywhere anymore. This was the first time she’d left the apartment in three weeks. There was a Mexican boy, a real pervert, who delivered her groceries and her medicine and anything else she needed. She’d tried to tell Thomas about what the boy did, but Thomas never listened to her anymore. “I don’t like the way he looks at me,” she’d said, “he makes me nervous.”

“Everything makes you nervous.”

“He just stares for so long.”

“I’ll talk to him.

“Don’t you dare say a word, it’ll just make it worse.”

Thomas didn’t believe her, but it was true. She’d seen the Mexican boy looking at her. He probably knew those two other boys. He might have even helped them. They were all the same, they really were. Em nodded firmly. She’d have to keep her eyes on him. Again she heard the sound of footsteps walking toward her. She turned, then startled.

There were two boys standing right behind her.

One of them looked just like Thomas and the other looked just like the Mexican boy who delivered her groceries. But Em was wrong. The first boy wasn’t even really a boy, but me dressed in sheep’s clothing and the second boy wasn’t Mexican but Greek and, not that it mattered, but he didn’t really exist and never had. If anything he was a figment, you know what they say, a wandering poet can become anything at all. And in any case, we didn’t want to scare her. All we wanted to do was sit on the benches next to the lake and watch the kids slipping across the ice and pretend that we could still…not that she’d believe us…but we didn’t want to… not anymore. My friend said he recognized Em from somewhere, another lifetime perhaps? And, of course, I knew her well but I didn’t say that. Yes, that’s it, my friend said, I’ve seen her dancing alone in her apartment, two blocks south of Powderhorn.

Dancing? I asked

Well, really she was pretending to ice skate, you know, gliding on slippers across her hardwood floor, I saw her there the night those two boys…

I shuddered because of course I remembered that night. Were you there? I asked, knowing full well that he was.

My friend shook his head but I didn’t believe him…he could go anywhere, be everywhere, not that it mattered, he didn’t exist, never had. Suddenly, Em looked up at me…blue eyes, half open…she was older than I remembered…how are you? I asked…but I didn’t say that, not really, she wouldn’t have understood…instead I nodded at my friend, then turned toward her, spreading my lips apart in what felt like a smile but wasn’t. “Do you have the time?” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” Em said, turning away from us and looking for help from the black woman. But, just like my friend, the woman wasn’t really there, she didn’t exist, never had, and it was just the two of us standing under the dim street light, which flickered sometimes and made it seem like there were more than two of us there, as if she were there waiting for the bus and I was there too, waiting for God knows what, and at some point there had been an old Hmong man, leaning against the laundromat, smoking a cigarette and a black woman in a yellow shawl who knew the time and a boy who looked like a Mexican errand boy but was really a Greek poet who didn’t exist and never had, yet still managed to be everywhere at once. He was always there, he really was. Even on that night, with those two boys. Em looked back at me. Do you have to stay here for so long?…Where else would I go?…I’m not even from here, she said…That’s not true, I’ve seen you in your apartment…I just wish you wouldn’t stare…I can’t help myself…It’s my Thomas’ birthday, you see, and I promised I’d go…You can see the park from your window, you can see everything…He’s turning 26…It’s all lit up at night…This bus will never come…It’s a magical place…They tell you 7:15 sharp but…The city is reclaiming the space, making up for lost time, taking back the streets…Those boys, it was terrible, I could see everything…“I know you could,” I said, “I was there too.”

Em looked down at her feet. “It think its almost 7:15,” she said.

“Thank you,” I told her. Then my friend drifted back through the stillness and placed his hand on my back. “Let’s go man,” he said. Then we turned away from Em and walked in the direction of Powderhorn Park.