This One's On Me

After a series of podcasts and two more polished posts yesterday, I want to do a bit of a mixture of comments and thoughts, some links and then a  little more of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt, which is currently being pitched to literary agents around New York City - we will see if anyone bites. Now to the random assorted thoughts:

- The picture above is courtesy of the blog jonberrydesign. This guy has a pretty entertaining blog with some good photo documentation of his life.  And I mean, that picture - you don't get any more ridiculous than that.

- As if you couldn't tell, I loved the Allen Iverson documentary No Crossover: The Trial of Allen Iverson that aired last night on ESPN as part of the 30 for 30 documentary series.  I thought it was just absolutely perfectly done and was riveted for the entire sixty plus minutes.  To hear some insight on the making of the documentary, you can hear a podcast that Bill Simmons conducted with the director, Steve James at his website.

- While you are there, also listen to Bill's podcast with TV critic Tim Goodman from the San Francisco Chronicle.  Bill and Tim breakdown Conan's decision to choose TBS as his home over potential suitors in FOX and FX.  There are some really insightful comments to listen to. Its the second best podcast on the internet after Podcast of Myself.

- Going back to No Crossover: The Trial of Allen Iverson, I have been getting some positive feedback on the post and I just want to thank those of you who have sent your comments. Especially Adam Kalker who sent me a Facebook message out of the blue when he found the write-up via a Google search.  Its good to get that kind of news, so thanks again, Adam.

- Tomorrow the next episode of Podcast of Myself will be going up and it is a discussion with my friend and artist Janelle Sing. On the podcast, Janelle mentions a few websites that you may want to check out, so I am going to plug them here.  The first is her colleague and collaborator Andrew McNay who I have had the pleasure of meeting once or twice.  He also has another website that you can view here. The second reference that she makes is to Poppies and Posies, which is an event planning enterprise she recently did some work with, which we discuss on the podcast. So take a look at a few of these things and then take a listen to the podcast once it is up tomorrow.

- During my podcast with Janelle Sing, I left out a discussion that we were having prior to the actual recording and I want to connect that to my post on Joanna Newsom and She and Him from yesterday.  Now, prepare to indulge me here.  Janelle and I had been discussing the state of an "independant woman" in today's world and when a girl/woman is indeed an "independant woman."  Now, I am no feminist scholar and I have always been attracted to women who are strong and independant, but that term seems to have become lost recently.  When I say lost, I mean lost in the following way: Take the Joanna Newsom song "Good Intentions Paving Company".  That song ends with the following line "when I only want for you to pull over and hold me until I can't remember my own name." Now, of course, Newsom is a recording artist and she may be inhabiting different characters and speakers when she sings, but if we are to take the lyrics on face value, then it would see odd that a woman who I find to be bold, intelligent and in every way independent (though, of course I don't know her personally) is espousing losing herself in another identity. If you follow the narrative of the song, this identity is a man, which strikes one as absolutely dependent.  The point is this, that in the past 20 years or so, the idea of an independent woman has become such a commodity, a good to be stocked up, a badge to wear (Destiny Child, Beyonce, etc.) that is has lost the original ability to encapsulate a tender moment that all people share - a moment of true interaction, love, a moment of rest and solace with another person.  It is OK to lose yourself with someone else that you feel love for or are in love with and in doing so, you will not lose your independent woman badge. All you have to do is retain that terrific intelligence, boldness and passionate nature that so many independent women have.  I'd like to think that those items are beyond becoming commodities, but then again, no sentiment, idea or theme truly is beyond objectification.  In any event, that is a muddled thought for someone to get angry at or agree with.

- Sticking on the topic of podcasts, if you don't watch the Ricky Gervais Show on HBO, which is essentially an animation of his extremely popular podcast with Stephen Merchant and Karl Pilkington, you should really try to locate an HBO distributor and watch some of the episodes or track down the podcasts.  The most recent episode where Stephen and Ricky read out of Karl's diary is absolutely terrific.  They even make mention of a classic literary figure that gets overlooked (except in Joyce) Samuel Pepys.

- Baseball season has started.  Yankees vs. Phillies World Series rematch is imminent. Who is going to beat either of them honestly?

- Finally, the NBA playoffs start this Sunday.  I am going to try to give a comprehensive rundown and some picks either by Sunday or soon after before the series really start to dig in and take shape.  However, my initial impressions are that the Celtics look terrible; the Thunder are going to give the Lakers more of a run than people are letting on; Orlando may just upset Cleveland again because the offseason speculation is going to build and build to a fever pitch as the playoffs go on; the Spurs and Mavericks are poised to make a run with the Mavericks possibly coming out of the West. The Lakers may pull it all together, but they are going to have a tougher run this year than the past two years.  Every series is going to be entertaining as hell, though.  Watch it.

Now, the next installment of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt:

The traffic slowed up again at the turning light onto Nicolls Road.  Mr Kosciuzko looked at the Domino’s Pizza out of his window.  He focused on the logo and realized that it had been changed to Papa John’s – he’d passed it so many times. He leaned back in his driver’s seat and pushed his cap up as they idled. He caught Maggie O’Donnell’s red hair once more, it was almost unavoidable, just as was thinking of his daughter.  The fact that they did not speak, did not stop him from thinking of her. 
He rememered the phone call. She called him in the middle of the night.

“Dad?”

“What’s up, honey?” He pictured her in some sparsely furnished San Franciscan apartment with a red spiral staircase.

“I’m at the train station.”

“Where? Stony Brook?”

“No, Dad. Here.”

“What’re you doing there?” He’d felt the dryness of his throat.  He padded to get a drink of water.

“I don’t really know, Dad.”

The electric green light on the stove shone 2:14.  That meant 11:14 there.

“Are you alright?”

“I think so,” she’d sounded tired. He heard the station noise behind.  The sound of people talking in a large room with a high ceiling.  The sound of ongoing sound.

    “You sound tired.”

    “Dad.”

    “Is Lee alright?” He held a glass under the faucet.  It had nutcrackers on it.  Ellen brought them out when the weather turned and the holidays approached.

    “That’s the first time you’ve asked that,” she’d sounded impressed.

    He took a drink and pressed his hand on the counter.  His feet were cold.

    “Well, you don’t call me at two that often.”

    “I’m pregnant, Dad.”

    Peter cradled his glass against the armpit seam of his t-shirt.  He hadn’t known how to react.  He looked at his water in the dark.  He felt a great joy fill him – the same joy he felt when reading an eloquent sentence or seeing white blossoms on a tree in mid-April.  It was the feeling he had always though of as the melancholy of creation.  That same feeling Little Chandler had considered the melancholy of the poet’s soul or the artist’s soul as they stood before the easel or page.  He himself had never created anything but his children and he had not felt a melancholy at those moments – it was more duty and the heat of his loins.  But then, maybe the creation of a child was a prolonged melancholy – a melancholy of creation and of life.  Perhaps the throbbing he felt with the blossoms, the refined language and his children were all in fact that melancholy that is life.  Peter had sipped his water. He felt the moment he was in fill around him – his wife’s choice of glassware, the small window above the sink, the  draft on his feet.  He remembered to speak.

    “Oh, honey.”

    “Don’t worry, Dad. I’m going to take care of it.” Her voice had an edge.  She was attempting to assume responsibility, but it didn’t fit.

    “What does that mean?”

    “Dad.”

    “Does Lee know?”

    She was quiet and the noise of the station returned to fill the space. “Now you’re so interested in Lee.”

    The wind rattled the windows.  He’d heard the sound of branches brushing each other.  The last remaining wind chimes struck and sounded like a ghost.  He walked away from the window.

    “Honey, I can’t say I approve of this.”

    More station noise had filled the receiver; he thought he heard a woman announce a train going to Los Angeles.

    “I can’t stay here. I can’t have this.”

    “Why? Why can’t you?” He sat on the floor with the glass of water between his legs.  It hurt his knees and his lower back to sit on the floor.

    “Because I’ve got to go. This is who I am.  My train is here."

    “Sonya,” no response. “Sonya.”

    Mr. Kosciuzko picked up speed as the light showed a left turn signal.  He followed the slow sloping turns of the drivers ahead of him as they merged onto Nicolls Road under the train trestle and past the North Entrance to the university.  There were white flowers spelling out “SBU” by the North Entrance sign.   Peter pushed the limo up to sixty.  He imagined his daughter driving from the cornfields of Iowa across the Missippi, through the long blue grass of Kentucky and the mountains of Virginia before she landed snug in the nation’s capital.  She was like one of those wandering men from Old America, from the Depression or earlier, that he’d admired in old movies.  He imagined her, with her brown hair in a bun with hairpins, innocent, and a satchel over her shoulder. The difference was that she was his daughter and she wasn’t innocent and he didn’t want her to wander.  She had to wander and that was what he had wanted to encourage in her, albeit simply intellectually.  She wandered in her action and her decision and Mr. Kosciuzko saw that as a fundamental reaction to her pregnancy.  Sonya had loved Lee – maybe – but when she knew the child was inside of her, instead of life she saw the nails being driven in, the force of circumstance and responsibility.

Peter pushed the limo through stoplights until it reached the intersection of Nicolls Road and Nesconset Highway.  The trees on the side of the highway were still lush wth their deep summer green and Mr. Kosciuzko’s back felt hot.  He adjusted the air conditioning.  Sonya was like the rest of the kids of this new generation.  She was intelligent like Maggie O’Donnell sitting behind him.  Sonya was full of the same ambition too.  She wanted the entire experience of the world and had enough education to have a tangible view of the earth and history – the sphere of the plane graspable in ones hands, so that if you squeezed hard enough, the ruins of Rome, the pyramids of Egypt, the secrets of Confucius and Christ, the prehistoric mystery of a morning haze would all come bursting out, like the nectar of a fruit; they could drink it all.  However, it did not always work that way – more often than not, it was you that was gripped and compressed to the breaking point.  There were governments and taxes, financial institutions with mortgages giving you a way to buy a home and build a dream, but making you a servant to payments towards established orders.  The dreams of being a philosopher or musician died with the grocery bills and a leak from the upstairs bathroom.  He thought of Sonya coming home to her apartment after a day of work. What kind of kitchen table did she have? Did she have one? And if so, what bills lay waiting for her there?  Would these children know the value of something simple to get them past the vicegrip, the mess of their nectar?  Would they know the pleasure of a cold beer and the feel of finished wood on their forearms and wrists?  The stupid things that had shape and were real and not made out of the stars and spirals of imagination and ambition?

She and She

I am not usually a fan of female singers however, recently, I have found myself drawn to quite a few. Some women extremely so: Victoria Legrand (Beach House); some in passing: Neko Case and Jenny Lewis; some in simple pleasure: Zooey Deschanel (She & Him); and some barely at all: Joanna Newsom.

So, when the releases of Newsom’s latest album, Have One On Me and She and Him’s, Volume 2, coincided with each other, I thought it would be a perfect opportunity to not compare the two necessarily, but to offer parallel viewpoints on interacting with each album. For, as I hope you will see, one of these albums does not trump the other in any direct manner per say, rather they seem to serve as complimentary wholes to each other.  These are two women with strong voices, one perhaps more singular than the other, who have set up a vision of America in two very different ways with each having varying levels of success.  However, at the core, these albums are both American in every connotation of that word, which is to say, imperfect and open to many identifications.

First, is She and Him’s Volume 2.  This is an album that is entirely about maintaining one overall posture and mood.  The first song, “Thieves,” announces this fact perfectly well. There seems to be a thin haze in the production keeping the listener away from Deschanel’s swooning vocals, M. Ward’s  tasteful string arrangements and the near flamenco rhythm that is straight from a 1950’s prom (see “Under the Sea Dance” from Back to the Future).  This is the posture that Deschanel will proceed to hold for the remainder of the album, which is the idea of a neo-Patsy Cline, the woman singer for those new diners around eastern and western seaboard cities (see Diner).  And there is no one better than Deschanel to try to hold this posture. Her voice is full of confidence but can seem meek, bashful and hurt, as the song requires.  She may never be able to get away from her role as Summer in 500 Days of Summer, however that identity is used to great affect in her singing, whether intended or not.  The production keeps her away from you, just as the character was kept away from the protagonist and the actual audience (maybe to that film’s detriment).  But the one thing we can see are those wide blue eyes and we can hear that soft round voice that wraps the song in whatever allure she has been able to perpetuate through music and film.

Much of this effect is achieved through M. Ward’s production.  In the third song “Don’t Look Back,” Deschanel’s lead vocal is surrounded by backup chamber vocals and Pet Sounds/Wall of Sound drumming that makes the song seem like a cleanly edited 1950’s or 1960’s jingle. The songs are infectious and in fact, they give Deschanel’s vocals a smiling quality; it is almost as if she is smiling back on a whole tradition of music, which is early rock n’ roll, rock-a-billy and the country of Patsy Cline.  The issue is that by the time you are halfway through the album and have hummed more than a few hooks, you can’t help but feel that the songs lack a certain dynamicism that the originals contain.  That may be an easy sentiment to express: old better than new.  Most pompous and curmudgeonly rock critics express that in a few too many reviews and I am not a rock critic. However, when you are pointing so directly at a tradition of music, you have to meet that tradition head on in order to get your proper say in, to have your voice come through the mix that you enjoy so much.

That is not to say that Deschanel and Ward do not make the effort to meet the tradition head-on.  The sixth song, “Me and You,” conjures up an image of that moment when, walking by yourself, the evening has set in; streetlamps come on and the warmth of night feels comforting on your skin; you see people passing on the street, a child’s shout, everything is OK.  This is an album about postures and the seventh song, “Gonna Get Along Without You Now,” is the perfect evidence that Deschanel knows every inch and nuance of the posture she is holding.  Her voice lilts just where it is supposed to on the choruses, becomes short and conversational at points during the spring voices, all the while following along perfectly with M. Ward’s country shuffle.

There are also surprises in many of these songs.  The second song (and single) “In The Sun,” at first seems like a complete summary of Volume 1, until M. Ward inserts a strange guitar flourish that appears right before each chorus and, in its strange way, becomes a bit of a hook itself.  The ninth song, “I’m Gonna Make it Better” pulls off the classic Beatle effect of having a chorus that takes a turn that surprises the listener from the initial verse.  Ward plays some borderline late/post-Beatles George Harrison slide guitar throughout the entire song.  They also insert a playful third section to the song that comes out of nowhere but seems to fit directly in with the remainder of the mood.  It is all concise and clean, but surprising at the same time.

The whole album is enjoyable from beginning to end.  There are no week songs from beginning to end.  The arrangements are all precise, neat and at many times interesting and unexpected.  However, in the end, you find yourself drawn back to that image the music conjures up of an easy warm evening with streetlights, passing strangers and a child’s shout.  While you are there, you have to think that something about the ease of the situation that isn’t quite right.  Those diners that the first song “Thieves” might play in, like so many of Patsy Cline’s did, were not so often filled with ease as they were with strong, unpleasant coffee, and a hard smell of fried eggs and bacon. But maybe from the perspective of modern times, a morning in a diner with swooning vocals can provide is with that level of peace that we may often be hard pressed to find.

Yet, in the end, you still admire Deschanel for her ability to hold her balance and posture so well throughout the entire album.  You have to, because while to try to stand by her side, you wonder whether you are able to do the same since you’d most likely get uneasy at some point and fall.

Newsom’s Have One on Me is a different beast, but one that provides its own privileged looks into American life along different points of the highway.  It is a triple album, so immediately, you know there may be points where the material is stretched. On this album, Newsom is very pleased to disrupt moods and to have the general flow of a song take an abrupt turn.  The lead-off track, “Easy” makes this desire pretty clear.  Newsom’s striking voice is paired up with cinematic strings, until a piano enters, then the piano builds and is joined by thumping drums that are right out of a prog rock track.  Throughout the song, about four different melodies start and then give way to a completely different one. Instruments appear and surprise you, like the horns that arrive late into the song.  The same is true, maybe even more so, for the following title track. What “Have One On Me” evidences is the ability that Newsom’s songs have to remain rootsy and feel like a window into some anachronistic backwoods America, while at the same time containing complicated string and horn arrangements.

These sonically complex songs are also balanced with quiet, mournful songs, touched with Newsom’s signature harp.  “Esme” is an excellent example of this type of song.  Newsom’s voice sings sweetly and plainly and not full of gimmickery as she can come off elsewhere on the album.  There is a sincerity here that is missing in other places.  This track is Saturday morning on a weekend trip to a cabin in the Adirondacks.  You rise from your bed, your lover still laying in the sheets, and walk to the window. There is a bright mist among the pines, but a sense of melancholy as you look through the glass because the weekend is already over at that point and you will have to be moving on to the next point.

Movement is captured extremely well on this album.  However, there are also times where Newsome overdoes it.  The middle section of the album seems to force its surprises on the listener.  This is most evident on “Baby Birch,” which begins in the vein of a traditional folk song – longing in tone and delivery. This is a welcome discovery after the shifting moods in the first five songs.  Initially, “Baby Birch” shares that virtue with traditional folk songs, which is the means of communication between people against the darkness in life.  But the song does not remain content and turns into a strange march filled with drums, claps and chanting.  Sonically, it sounds terrific, but it ruins the initial mood of the song rather than adding to it as a change of pace.

It would be hard to say that Newsom was attempting to write each of these songs with an idea of movement in mind.  However, as a listener, it is hard to ignore.  On “Does Not Suffice,” specifically, Newsom describes putting away objects into boxes.  The song itself is elegaic and feels like packing and moving on.  One can picture a hot afternoon in May, moving out of an apartment you had on a sidestreet in a small upstate town.  This is another instance where Newsom remains sincere and it works to her benefit.

The album is not completely separated into songs that are simple and sincere and good and those that are too busy and bad.  Perhaps the two strongest songs on the album are “Good Intentions Paving Company” and “Go Long.”  In “Go Long,” Newsom’s voice sounds more womanly than anywhere else on the album while she is singing about “the loneliness of you mighty, mighty men.”  Newsom paints an image of a small town with a sugar mill and fire pits.  The objects and the sentiment of the song are completely real and you can see a sepia toned town with workers shuffling past the fire pits to the mills.  The music remains relatively simple with the harp dominating overall.  The picking becomes more intricate towards the end and Newsom’s voice breaks from its simple womanly singing to peals of pleading, which elsewhere can become grating or gimmicky.  Here, she achieves a balance as she does on “Good Intentions Paving Company” with its driving piano that makes the listener immediately determined.  Newsom’s vocals are intricately layered and harmonized while she sings about the “tilt of this strange nation/and the will to remain for the duration” and provides some of the most literate and expansive lyrics since Dylan.  The percussion below the words is inventive and propulsive.  This song captures all of Newsom’s powers working together as one.  There are hooks all over the place, the lyrics are sincere but she uses here voice in strange dynamics as another instrument but she never grates.  Again, this is a song about moving and how our emotions and relationships are tied up in that movement.  Even the propulsive rhythm slows down and the song becomes holy, pensive and hymnal, but even then, there is some out of step percussion that steps in.  However, it makes you aware as a listener and the surprise is welcome.  The song feels important at every step of the way.

She should have finished the album with “Occident,” which is the closest a song on the album comes to a traditional ballad.  It is just Newsom, a piano and lazy, quiet drums that are used perfectly for atmosphere.  This is a song that is searching for redemption and remorse.  Like, “Good Intentions Paving Company,” it achieves an effect of seeming important, as though at any instance you listen to it, something profound is occurring in your life -  you feel compelled to look sideways into the sun and let the light fall across your cheek as though you are staring down something you can’t quite make out, you feel a poignancy you aren’t quite sure of.

That is what America is about: a poignancy we aren’t quite aware of.  Whether we are moving, like Newsom’s work on Have One On Me or smiling in place at a tradition of diners and highway anthems like Deschanel on Volume 2.  Newsom looks sideways at a bright object and makes music that suggests and unknown profundity, while Deschanel looks straight on a tangible object but finds it hard to articulate why it will remain important other than to provide us with a welcome posture and a high-level of enjoyment in reverie.  These are both imperfect albums from an imperfect nation that struggles to articulate itself, whether on the move or sitting at home, playing those albums from the basement – at each instance, we are groping at what is gold.

Podcast of Myself Episode 3

I had an action-packed weekend. My childhood friend Jeff came into town for the weekend and we treated ourselves to some good dinners and brunches as well as went to the Knicks vs. Heat game last night.  I should have a write-up of that game and some other general thoughts for you later today.  I also am still working on my She and Him/Joanna Newsom post, which I should have up here for tomorrow.

However, now I am giving you the third episode of the hit series known as Podcast of Myself.  In this episode, I welcome Willie Miesmer who is the guitarist for the band Tony Castles as well as a member of the band Boogie Boarder. In this episode, we touch on such topics as Willie's experience playing in the Tony Castles and in Boogie Boarder, the South by Southwest Music Festival, Larry Johnson's Four Point Play, the movie the Runaways and Kristen Stewart, Joanna Newsom, and the book The Blue Star by Tony Earley.  Parental discretion is advised.





Keep track of this space as I will be bringing you more of this always great and always new content.

Musta Got Lost

Alright, it's been a little bit between posts and I do apologize for the delay.  I've been working very long hours as I prepare to leave my job at the end of this week and it can get somewhat draining.  This weekend I also spent some time with my family in Atlantic City for my sister's twenty-first birthday.  I've never been to Atlantic City before, but I get its charm as a promise of an America that once existed at one point - the northeastern oceanside oasis.  However, there remains something ultimately American about its failing commerce and community butting right up against large and bright casino buildings and hotels.  Just a strange feeling overall.  It was a fun weekend and on the way back, I thought of a new post about the Replacements that I want to put up this week.  It is a little strange to right about the Replacements what with Alex Chilton just dying, but I feel that it is time to lift the veil on my thoughts of one of my favorite bands - perhaps the band that can speak best for me.

Anyway, in order to fill space, I thought we'd do a little Good, The Bad, The Ugly:

First, The Good:

- Obviously, the NCAA tournament.  The games have been literally insane.  I spent much of Sunday afternoon pulling my hair out amid the chiming of slot machines while I watched the genius of the Tennessee vs. Michigan State game unfold.  We have an up for grabs Final Four that could go in a variety of directions - namely four - but I see a Michigan State vs. West Virginia Final.  Something about Butler in the championship game doesn't seem right. Maybe in a few. And we all hate Duke.

- Eating this fish platter my dad ordered at a restaurant:

- Dwyane Wade's line from last night: 32 points, 7 rebounds, 6 assists, 5 steals, 3 blocks.

- The NBA playoffs coming up in general.  They are going to be legitimately exciting.

- Going to a great Knicks vs. Nuggets game last week and getting drunk in great seats.

- The Ricky Gervais Show on HBO.

- Warm weather.

- Jogging through Atlantic City away from the boardwalk.

- "Good Intentions Paving Company" by Joanna Newsom

- She and Him, Volume 2

- Elliot Smith's From a Basement on a Hill. Seriously underrated.

- Mad Men coming back in about six months.

- How to Make it in America. Baffling, entertaining, like unoffensive air just blowing across your face when you are exhausted on Sunday evening. That is what TV was invented for.

- The Nets just won their tenth game.  I like their young players.  They can turn it around. The kids playing in the park like Brook Lopez.

Now, the Bad:

- Breaking Bad. Nah, its actually great, but I just don't like the attention it takes from Mad Men.

- Getting five "Run, Forest, run" heckles while running on the boardwalk at Atlantic City.

- Baylor letting Duke win that game yesterday.

- The NFL Draft is now four days long.

- Blitzen Trapper album has not leaked yet.  I'm going to buy it anyway.

- I did not make it to the quarterfinals of the Amazon/Createspace Breakthrough Novel Award.  I'll post the comments when they come out.  This is not really "bad," more "indifferent."

- How to Make it in America going off the air.  I love that show.  Not really, I just want to upset people who hate it.

- Seeing actual human feces on the subway stairs.  Always surprising, always bad.

Finally, the Ugly:

No, but seriously, this week I am going to try to bring you two new music posts; the first podcast, now that I have my theme music all worked out and ready to clip in front of the podcast; and just general greatness as usual.

But for now, I am going to leave you with the next installment of From Here to The Last Mound of Dirt. We are picking back up in Part II, Section II of the novel.  The narrative has now shifted to the perspective of the limo driver who is driving the O'Donnell family to the cemetary for the burial. The driver's name is Peter Kosciuzko and he is a distant acquaintance of Ben O'Donnell and the rest of the family. As he drives the family to the burial, he ruminates on the nature of his own family, families in general and the history of the town they are all from.

Without further adieu, the next insallment of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt:


Peter Kosciuzko waited at the light at he intersection of Main Street and Gnarled Hollow Road.  As he waited, he itched his forehead with the hard, plastic bridge of his driver’s cap.  Peter pushed his hair back and then placed his cap back on his head. He looked out the window and saw a Blue Point Brewery sign lit up in the window of the Country Corner.  He would stop in there for a toasted lager once he was finished with work.  After driving to and from a funeral, he enjoyed sitting at a bar and drinking a dark, somewhat sweet ale. When he rested his lean forearms on the curved wooden edge of the bar counter, it eased his mind away from the death and mourning he was used to and brought it closer to the jagged, sticky surface of life.  Now, however, he had to steer the funeral procession through the town and out to the cemetary in Calverton – the military cemetary.

    The light at the intersection was the longest one in town.  The traffic on Main Street was much busier than the traffic going around the bend on Gnarled Hollow up to Old Town towards the high school and the Bryant Funeral Home.  Mr Kosciuzko’s family had lived in town for generations.  His grandfather was a young man when there were still farms on Gnarled Hollow and the tire factory stood across from the intersection where he now idled at.

    The light turned green and Peter eased the limo into the left turn.  It was important to ease a limo into a turn – a long slow roll of the wheel.  Peter had driven taxis, limos, coach buses and now limos again.  In between driving limos and buses, he had been a teacher of English, only briefly, at Nassau Community College.  Though he liked to imagine himself as a patient man, he did not have the patience to teach.  His thoughtful nature was best suited to a more private setting; to the front seat of a luxury sedan, where he could collect his thoughts and have them to himself as the yellow lines, mailboxes and house lights stretched and passed.

    Peter pressed gently on the gas to ease the limo up the hill of Main Street, which cut through the center of town.  The glare of the sun caught his eye and he had to pull down the mirror to block it.  He knew the roads so well that no maneuver felt dangerous to him, no small movement made him lost control of the car.  They passed Ben O’Donnell’s office on the left and the firehouse next to it.  The firehouse’s red, electric banner read the temperature: 68°. Peter Kosciuzko glanced in the rear view mirror at Ben O’Donnell.  He’d been at the party Ben and Connor had thrown for the firefighters.  It was after the old Setauket post office burned down.  It was a small post office, but it was the first one – an historical landmark.  And for a town that valued history so much, it was devastating.  So Ben O’Donnell threw a party for the firefighters.  It seemed like a bad idea, to get the town firefighters drunk, but somehow he got away with it.  He had that charm about him.  Mr. Kosciuzko knew from sharing drinks with Ben at the corner that if Ben O’Donnell grinned and said, “Hey, take a night off,” a man was more than inclined to listen; even the chief.  There was no food at the party, just cases and cases of beer.  They hooked up a record player to the station PA and played music.  Ben insisted on Billy Joel.  “Born to Run” had just come out and all the firefighters loved that.  Peter had loved that album too – Bruce Springsteen smiling and looking to his left with a scruffy beard. A handsome musician looking to the side like that made him feel that there was some answer out there, that there was a be to free; to be like the air. 

The party had spilt out to the street and even some of the cops pulled in to have a few. Rose O’Donnell wasn’t there.  She was at home watching their baby.  Ben was showing pictures of her to the firefighters and the cops with one beer in his hand and a second bottle of beer tucked into his pocket, making a little patch of moisture on his pocket.

They turned right at the intersection of Main Street and Old Main Street.  Peter Kosciuzko looked in the rear view mirror.  He saw Ben O’Donnell with his nose no more than a centimeter from the window.  He looked pensive, his pointed jaw was working and it gave his face a muscular look – like an actor.  Peter’s favorite actor had been Paul Newman and he thought that Ben looked like him, maybe a little more gaunt.  Ben’s jaw was less square too, but there was something going on behind the chinline and the face – there was character there.  Ben’s pensive look made Peter think that there might be some similarity between them, that they shared some inclination for wistful thinking.  Peter felt goosebumps rise on his skin and he knew that they were not the same. A school bus switched gears and groaned past the limo.  Mr Kosciuzko was not a social man, but he found himself in social settings, drawn to social men like Ben O’Donnell.  He liked a man that could tell a good story, though he could not tell a good story himself. There was a time at the Corner when Ben had been there with Connor – it was before the incident between them – and was retelling one of his night’s out with Billy Joel.  They were sitting at the bar near the wall, while Peter had sat opposite them near the bathrooms.
“So Billy knocks them dead. Finishes with ‘Only the Good Die Young.’ I was feeling good on the side of the stage talking to a blonde who was from Baltimore, no, Annapolis – she had that marble mouth way of talking.  Anyway, she was pretty – ˝

Conner put his hand on his shoulder and Ben pushed it off.

“But nothing to compare to Rose.  I just like playing around with these girls.  Billy comes off stage and says we’ve got to go to a party afterward at Studio 54.  I know I should be figuring out a train home, but I can’t say no.”

Ben took a drink from his pint.

“You see,” Connor had said, “you’re going to drive Rose crazy if you keep staying out.  Plus you can’t still be riding your motorcycle when you get like that. You’ve got to think about the family.”
Ben turned in his seat to Connor. “You did spend too much time with mom.”

Connor shook his head and took a drink.

“Anyway, we get to the bar and it’s the same crowd.  People doing blow all over the place and you know how I can’t stand to see that stuff.  But I just like the energy in a place like that.  Billy had two blondes with him – one was really fantastic looking – and walks up with Chevy Chase.”

Mr Kosciuzko had leaned into the bar to hear better, the waist of his jeans pinching his hips.

“From Saturday Night?” Connor said.

“That’s right.  So he comes up and Billy introduces him to me.  He’s a good looking guy.  I tell him that I like the Weekend Update stuff.”

“And what did he say?”

“He pretended to spill his drink and then gave me this big smile and said, ‘Thank you very little.’ I laughed because I liked the line and told him that Akroyd was wrong, that he wasn’t such a smug bastard.”

Connor laughed.

“His eyes got wide and then I slapped him on the back and we had a laugh.”

“Did you get to talking?”

“Yeah we swapped some jokes and he told me some of the ideas they were working on.”

“Was Belushi there?”

“No, I would’ve loved to talk to that guy.”

“Anything going to come out of it, Benny?”

Ben shrugged and finished his beer. He exhaled and stretched his back. “I’ll just keep talking, keep drinking, keep making jokes, keep working at our little practice here to keep Rose happy and then hopefully I’ll be earning my keep the right way.”  He tussled Connor’s hair and stood up on the rails of the bar stool. “Another, brother?”

Connor held up his glass.

Puddles of Myself?

This should serve as a sort of mid-week update. My last day at work is April 2 and I am being slave-driven until that date so that every ounce of work can be extracted from my body.  I have been listening to Joanna Newsom's Have One On Me and have been mightily impressed.  My sensibilities would normally clash with music like Newsom's however, on this album at least, it is very soothing and also inspiring in places.  You will find no better song this year or maybe this decade than "Good Intentions Paving Company," which is equal parts Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Todd Rundgren, Grateful Dead and, yes, Paul McCartney.  The arrangements are tasteful overall and I am only beginning to pay attention to the nuances.  I have to delve into Newsom's backcatalogue in order to gain the full arc of her career so far.  Hopefully I can expound on what it is about "Good Intentions Paving Company" that I enjoy so much - it is certainly something elemental, I just can't put my finger exactly on it yet.

In other news, Alex Chilton, died this week.  There is too much to say about this guy.  One of the more influential and subliminal rock song writers and performers of all time.  Much has been made of Big Star and its looming presences over indie music and "critic" music, but Chilton was truly one of a kind.  He was gifted with songwriting ability and also a poignant self-destructive streak that made him so appealing to intelligent and creative people (read underdogs) everywhere.  He may have captured the essence of early rock and roll in "Thirteen" without ever using an actual rock n' roll trope or at least outright "rock" atmosphere. Instead, through the gentle, walking melody and razor sharp lyrics, he caught for a moment that earnest and nervous sensation that lives inside of us throughout our youth and, very likely, most of our lives in some capacity.  This is something that I could talk about for pages and pages. And, seeing as I have not been thinking explicitly about Big Star in a long time, I may very well do.  There is something absolutely true in much of the Big Star work, whether it is the Chilton/Bell "collaborations" on #1 Record, or the ragged pop on Radio City, or the total deconstruction of one's own catalogue and image on Third/Sister Lovers. Like I said, we can go on for hours about a man who even Paul Westerberg wrote a song about, claiming "I never travel far/without a little Big Star."

Winning Time on Sunday was everything it lived up to be.  I woke up and decided I would eat Chinese spare ribs and watch the documentary and I did and I loved it.  The interviews were terrific and it was fantastic to relive the atmosphere of that Indiana/New York rivalry in the mid-90's.  There isn't as great of an abundance of personalities in the NBA as there was at that time and that rivalry is only a snap shot.  Or rather perhaps what made it so great was that there were so many tremendous personalities focused in one rivalry.  However much I enjoyed the documentary, I couldn't help but feel as though part of the entire story was missing. The documentary ends with "The Finger-roll" in 1995 and the realization that the early 90's Knicks teams were basically finished.  However, there is no denouement to the arc of the movie.  I felt as though the director should have put the rivalry in perspective: it was merely two teams who filled a void left by Michael Jordan. Perhaps that sort of message belongs in a Chicago Bulls documentary, but to me, both the 90's Pacers and Knicks were defined by the presence and absence of Michael Jordan, which, again to me, completes the entire story of that time period of 1994-1995 (the absence of Jordan) as well as those two teams and their stars.  Reggie Miller was a terrfic player, but the absence of Jordan allowed him to fill a certain superstar, clutch void that was left open.  However, it is very fitting that both the great rivalries of the 1990's focused around the New York Knicks and a revitalized Madison Square Garden.  It sort of makes you think of what we are missing right now with a usually non-frenzied Garden.  It is an arena that is the last of its kind and is just waiting to wake up.

Tomorrow the tournament starts and I may keep a journal of the first day of games with some of my impressions.  I was very entertained this past weekend by the Conference Tournaments and I am very curious about the the NCAA Tournament this year.  After having attended tournament rounds the past two years, I am feeling kind of lonely without knowing I'll be at a game.  There is something about knowing that all of those games are going on at one time, all of those team colors, the mascots, the student fans, the 7,000 or so players involved, that is so inspiring and dizzying.  It strikes me as something great about humankind, but again, I can't put my finger on it.  Maybe I'm just too damn tired.

On a final note, tonight I am going to post up my initial sketching for my next story whether it end up being a novel or not.  The very idea of doing this got me thinking about the legacies of writers and artists and the current means we have of communicating and spreading art. It seems to me that in the past, artists would be more reluctant to share their works in progress until they are complete, whereas now we have album leaks, we have MySpace pages that allow us to showcase our demo tracks, and we have YouTube  videos embedded in our personal pages to show rough footage of our films and comedy shorts.  So, maybe, as "an artist," there is something wrong with thinking it is a good idea to share the newest material and ideas that you have come up with immediately.   But, one has to think, as "an artist," that it is a perfect way to judge one's audience.  For instance, what I am about to post strikes very much of Fitzgerald and I am wondering what effect that will have on those who read it. If it lures them in for the narrative experiments I will cast on them later or if it turns them away as too artificial and owing to a writer who very well may have been better than  I am.  In any event, you are getting a priveleged look into the story that is developing within my skull at this very moment and perhaps I will not get to retain any mystery I may have; I lose all credibility as a J.D. Salinger figure or a godhead like Tolstoy or Joyce and become a shameless self-promoter.  However, something about me will sleep easy because I believe that all my gods all took shits and were self-promoters themselves, which is how they became gods in the first place.  They just had different languages and passages of communication to control and navigate.

See below.  You'll notice that the basketball references are anachronistic, but they will do for now, in the service of getting the story on the page.


Adam hadn’t met Claire when we first knew each other at school.  They only got together at the very end, right before we all graduated in that golden summer of 2007.  The summer of 2007 -when the sun shone brighter than any other summer in the history of the eastern seaboard; when employment and love were ripe fruits to be plucked at will and with Edenic ease.

No, I’d first known Adam in the late fall of a depressing first semester of sophomore year, when Virginia didn’t seem like the place for me.  I literally collided with him while I was jogging across campus. I was quitting cigarettes – I had been a smoker since fourteen and have since started again after ten years off – and he was running from the library back to his house with books curled under his arm.  We each landed on our asses on the red brick that all the campus walkways were made of.  His books scattered over the worn brickwork in the orange walkway light.  There was a navy blue bound version of You Can’t Go Home Again, a beaten paperback copy of The Red Badge of Courage, and a book called Celtics Pride: The Rebuilding of Boston’s World Championship Basketball Team by Bob Ryan, a sports writer I knew only because of my passion for basketball.

I deftly picked up the books and got to my feet as Adam slowly rose to his wearing a ripped grey sweatshirt that bore the name of our college’s rugby team.

“I’m sorry about that, buddy,” he said to me, slapping me on the shoulder and back. “I’m always in a rush these days.”

I waved my hand and handed him the books. “You from Boston?”

“No,” he said while simultaneously laughing a deep hearty laugh. “I just like this guy.”

“Me too.”

He gave another hearty laugh. “I’ve seen you around before haven’t I?”

“That’s quite possible,” I said.

He held out his hand. “Adam Sirch.”

I gave him my name and we shook on it.  He asked if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother if he could buy me a beer for knocking me down the way he did.  Never one to turn down a beer, I took him up on the offer and we rather strangely, at his insistence, jogged to a humble corner bar that conveniently separated the campus from the surrounding neighborhood.

Over what turned into several Budweisers, we found out that we had quite a bit in common: both of us were avid readers, though he admitted that he had not read as widely and as seriously as I seemed to have; we both wished to do something with the words we had collected, namely to write some of our own; while we both admired and hoped to be novelists, he wrote for the college newspaper, The Eagle, while I collected my terse and melancholy poems and short stories for future publication.  I told him I admired newspapers but didn’t think that I could ever write for one.

“Nonsense, man. You could.” He slapped me on the back.

However, what we both loved was basketball.  It turned out he loved it even more than I.  The bar had a television bracketed lazily in its front corner, right above its slim liquor selection.  That night happened to be a Thursday, so there was an NBA doubleheader on TNT.  During the first game – Celtics vs. Cavaliers – we each complimented Lebron James’ obvious athleticism and marveled at Rajon Rondo’s large palms and complete control of the ball at the point. “Not even Isaiah could do that,” Adam remarked. “He is like Nash with Michael Jordan’s hands.  He might be better than Chris Paul.”

As we each reached about a six-pack during the second game – Denver vs. Portland – we debated if Carmelo Anthony would ever win a title. 

“These Denver teams are good,” Adam opined, “and he does need a point guard who can make threes like Billups.  They need a center, though.”

“He has a unique skill set,” I added.

“Yes! He’s not Pippin or Gervin or Irving.  But he’s also not English or Chambers.  He has some kind of weird DNA.  He can handle and he can shoot threes.  Who is he?”

I shrugged.

As we walked out the door and into the still, mild night, we shook again.

“If only the Blazers could still throw outlet passes like in Walton’s day.”

I agreed and then thanked him for the beers.  I told him that I would have to get him back very soon.
“It’s nothing.  We’ll see each other around.”

We went our separate ways through the quiet southern suburban neighborhood.  A guy and a girl were leant up against a car and I bummed a cigarette from them.  I walked and smoked looking up at the clear night sky and thought that maybe things could get better in some way.  I finished the cigarette, started jogging and somewhere in the distance a dog barked.

Though the campus was small, Adam and I didn’t run into each other until the following semester.  I had just finished a mid-term on French novels.  Exhausted of Stendhal, I was looking forward to a beer.  As I was exiting campus, a biker screeched to a halt right by me.  It was Adam.

“Hey don’t I know you?” he said.

I laughed and nodded.

“That’s right. You’re the guy that owes me those drinks.”

“Guilty,” I said slapping his outstretched hand in greeting. “Let’s go.”

So, he wheeled his bike along as we walked to the same bar that we had first shared beers at. It was the first Thursday of the NCAA basketball tournament, so the bar had the games on its dusty TV.  We sipped our beers and watched the earnest tempo of the college game unfold.

Adam had been very busy.  Besides playing winter league for the rugby team, he had gotten a chance to write for the town’s newspaper covering sports. He pulled a folded copy of the day’s issue out of his back pocket and pointed to an article he had written recapping the season of the town’s high school basketball team – they were one of the most storied programs in the valley.

“It’s good work,” he said. “The people that work there are nice enough.  It might help me get a job writing in D.C or New York after all this is over.”

We both agreed that “all this” would soon be over and we each took a moment to think about that fact.

“What you been up to anyway?’ he asked.

I told him that I had a serious workload with my courses for the semester but that I had still been writing.  I had even submitted one of my less brooding stories in to the English Department writing contest.

“Fantastic,” he clapped the bar. “You’ll have to let me read it.  I have a good editorial eye these days.”
The maize afternoon light began to turn to the periwinkle of twilight and the last afternoon session game ended, bringing the local news on. We both decided we had had enough daytime beers and that it was time to move on.

“Seriously, though,” Adam said, getting on his bike, newspaper sticking up against his back, “let’s hang out soon.  Not let all this time pass.”

“You got it, man.”

We shook and he took off back up the hill towards the campus. The spring air was moist and through the pleasant haze of the beers I had drunken, everything seemed to be beginning.  Maybe it was just that annual feeling of spring – or quite possibly the right amount of beer – but as I looked at the overhanging branches in the neighborhood, their buds turning all different shades of purple and green, all objects seemed to fit right into place: the planters on the windowsills, the flags blowing above front door frames, the cleanly painted shutters and even the black and off white contrast of driveway and sidewalk.  It was a picture of promise or of the reminder that things could be good in some way. I tucked my books snugly under my arm and picked my stride up as evening fully set in.  I decided I would sleep well that night and nod off to the squeaking of sneakers on a college basketball court.
Adam and I did see each other more frequently after that.  In fact, we soon became fast friends.  That semester ended in a rush and we did our fair share of partying.  He introduced me to his friends on the rugby team and I introduced him to my motley assembly of sports obsessed friends.  That summer, instead of returning to our respective homes, we stayed in town and got jobs.  He worked at the paper and at a running shoe store while I worked at the school library and did shifts at the town brewery, which yielded a stead supply of ales and lagers that we drank in great quantity throughout the heat of the summer.  There were quite a few of our friends around and we had a great time riding our bikes to each other’s houses, jumping in the river and staying up to all hours of the night to get at least a taste of cool air.  One night, an acquaintance of ours threw herself a birthday party.  Adam and I proceeded to entertain and annoy nearly all of the guests by leaving a series of absurd and comic notes in various places all over the house: the freezer, the utensil drawer, between beers in the fridge, the butter container, in bags and under dishes.  As people found the notes and either laughed or rolled their eyes at us, I finally felt comfortable at my life in Virginia.

Like most college experiences, the last two years flew by. Adam and I continued our antics at school.  He continued writing for the paper and I even joined the literary magazine.  We each took a semester abroad and only communicated through hand written letters.  He was an honest friend, and the enthusiasm and enjoyment for life he expressed in his letters encouraged me to look for the same in my own experiences. When we returned together, we lived together in a house with two of our other friends.  It was a stone house and the owners had kept a terrific garden with vegetables that we tried to maintain, even though it usually filled with bottles and other beer debris.  People often joked about how we were inseparable and in many ways we were, but it wasn’t until the very end of college that he met Claire.

Claire had light brown hair and lived in an apartment above a separated garage at one of the suburban homes near the school – that house happened to be very near to ours.  Claire woke up early on weekends and during the week and babysat for the family that lived in the main house.  She jogged by the river in the middle of the town and bought bread from the bakery.  You could see her running with a bag of bread on some mornings if you chose to get up that early. Claire also had dark brown sloping eyes and a controlled smile that always seemed to be on the verge of breaking loose and letting her white teeth shine out.  Her skin was tan and lightly freckled – she looked like she was born on a boat. However, she grew up with two older sisters on a farmhouse amid the hills of the eastern part of the valley. It was that house and the small creek that ran through its backyard and crop fields that won Adam over.

    We had been invited to a big party at Claire’s family home at the end of our senior year.  Claire’s sister played mandolin in a folk-rock group that was actually quite big in the stretch of cities and colleges from D.C. to Atlanta. Although we had seen Claire around and had even had short conversations with her, neither of us really knew her.  I had been seeing a girl named Emily who ran the magazine and it was starting to become serious, so there was no real reason to get to know that many other girls.  And Adam, he was too energetic, too strong, too interested in so many things and girls to ever fix his eye on one thing.  But that night, as we parked his Jeep and got out of the car amid the almost deafening echo of the crickets in the hills, we each looked up to Claire’s family farmhouse.  There was a feeling that was almost palpable, that almost walked out of the car with us, and that was the feeling that this night was to mark a new era in both of our lives.

    “Shit,” Adam had said. “Two more weeks.”

    “It won’t seem that short.”

    He laughed. “You’re probably right.”

    I grabbed a case of beer out of the back seat and we shuffled along the dirt road up towards the house, which was lit against the darkness of the surrounding woods.  I could almost make out the vague, ignorant shapes of the hills.

    “Claire told me that there is a place behind the farm, up on the hill, called Judgment Seat,” Adam said. “She told me you can get a whole view of this side of the valley.”

    “That must be nice in the fall.”

    “Must be nice in the mist.”

    “When were you two talking about that?” I asked.

    He tucked the case of beer further under his arm and leant forward into his steps as we walked up the slope to the front of the house. “Some time when we were walking from the neighborhood to school. Our schedules line up like that sometime.”

    I nodded and we both stepped up to the porch.  The front door was open but it was covered by a screen door.  We could hear faint fiddle coming through the house.  Adam banged his hand on the green chipped wood frame of the screen. I looked over at Adam as he messed his hair around with his free hand.

    “You son of a bitch,” I said. “You’ve got a thing for her.”

    He frowned at me as if in disgust, then he smiled and, finally, he shrugged.

    Claire answered the front door with a chocolate lab at her side. She was wearing her light brown hair down and her sloping eyes rose slightly when she saw us.

    “Boys,” she said in her high sweet voice, “ you made it.”

    “Of course,” Adam said.

    She swung open the door and let us in. She already had a yellow plastic cup in her hand.   The cup had faded blue lettering on it as well as the faded blue shape of a sun.  It looked like a cup from her childhood.  We both assumed that it was full of beer.  She drew each of us in and gave us a hug.  She felt more relaxed and open then I could remember.  As she and Adam embraced, I saw that she kissed him quickly on the lips.

    Small flies flitted throughout the house, which smelled like a freshly lit fire and the moist dirt of April.  The whole house was made of wood and as we walked through the front room of the house back to the dining room, two other chocolate labs joined us, gently clacking their nails ahead of our steps.  In the dining room, to the right, there was a small room lit up by a blue light and there were carcasses of musical instruments and other accessories lain about: wooden husks of violins and guitars, wires from speakers and bass strings twisting like bare tree branches in the dim hazel. Adam and I followed behind Claire, but I had to laugh, because it was evident that Adam was slowing his pace from walking up beside Claire.  The fiddle music grew louder when we passed through the kitchen and out to the raised back porch.  Outside, the backyard was lit up by large white Christmas lights that stretched in a misshapen tee-pee from against the house and out to trees in the yard – creating a vague point at the center of it all, under which the grass appeared like the center of a town square from some warm southern village I had romanticized while studying outside one day.  Down below, we saw Claire’s two like haired sisters sitting with two guys.  One of the girls was playing the fiddle, while another played mandolin.  One of the guys had a bass that was plugged into a small amplifier, while the other tapped on a three piece silver drum set that fit right at home as close as it was to the row of kegs that were set up.

    “This is what you came here for, boys,” Claire looked back at us, leaning against the rainworn railing of the deck. “Lucky you got here early.”

    Adam stepped up to the railing next to her.  She turned sideways looking at him.  Adam faced out to the peak of light and the darkness where the hills rose up and the Judgement Seat rested. “We are,” he said.  I could only see the back of his head.

    The party grew as any party where there is plenty of beer will.  However, the air was perfectly mild and there was plenty of space to move around, which made this a particularly enjoyable party.  The music grew louder as more and more people I had come to know over the past four years circled past me under the white light.  There were no complaints from any neighbors and it seemed at times that Claire’s family home was the only home in the entire valley.  I wandered around the house, partly thinking of Emily, who was having her own farewell dinner with some of her closest friends, but mainly thinking of what I would do next.  I fumbled my way into a bathroom. The walls were covered with family photos.  There were pictures of Claire’s sisters playing field hockey when they were in high school and a picture of Claire on a horse with her father. Claire was wearing a cowboy hat.  Adam told me that both of her parents had died right before she started at school and that the house was willed to her oldest sister.  There was a picture of the three sisters and their mother dressed up for Halloween: Claire was a little girl dressed up as a cat, one of her sisters was Carmen Sandiago, and the other was a hippy. Their mother wore an old aviator’s hat and I imagined that she was Amelia Earhardt.  There were pictures covering every inch of the bathroom.  I nearly felt guilty relieving myself. Once I had, I took one more amazed look at the intimate wallpaper and wondered what it would be like to have a family – I imagined that it must be a good feeling.  I took my beer off the back of the toilet and walked back into the house.

I next found myself down in the vegetable garden admiring the clumped dirt of a growing onion.  Behind me, the creek murmured as it passed from one unknown point to another.  In front of me, my classmates danced in the light. The whole night – the trees, the grass, the air – was damp, like a late night and early morning in May usually are.  I grabbed a lawn chair and positioned it next to the garden, close to the light, but close enough to still hear the creek.  I cursed myself for feeling so melancholy and took slow pulls of my beer. There was a small square of pavement in the yard and a foursome were kicking around a rubber playground ball.  Each team of two were trying to knock the ball of the pavement by using their feet, but the receiving team could return or defend by using their hands or feet – it was an extremely modified tennis.  One errant kick sent the ball rolling down towards my direction, flicking up moisture as it went.  I stood and leant to pick up the slick maroon sphere.

“Well, look who’s feeling lonely.”

It was Claire.

I laughed. “Senioritis,” I said and flicked her the ball.

“That’s bullshit.”

“I’m kidding.”

Claire turned and threw the ball back over. “Let someone else play.”  She stepped closer to me.  I pulled a can of beer out of my jeans pocket.  I cracked the the aluminum and let it drip off before handing it to her

“Now, that’s the gentleman I heard about.”

“My pleasure,” I said.

We stood and looked at the creek together.  She pointed out a spot in the dark where there was an old stone bridge that led across the water towards the Judgement Seat.  The bridge wasn’t in any danger of falling apart, she explained, the white paint that one of the old farmers painted had painted was just terribly cracked, which gave it a look of crumbling and falling.  It was as sturdy as it had ever been.  I told her that I would have to admire it in the light.

“You can see it tomorrow,” she said.

“What time is it?”

“You two should just spend the night.”

“You’ve got a thing for him.”

She pushed me.  We were both feeling loose and playful from the pleasant air of the night and the drinks that we had.  A playful moment between a boy and a girl when they are drunk and have no interest in each other sexually can often bring about one of life’s closest intimacies. I put my arm around her. The creek bubbled and splashed, barely seen.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“He likes you too.”

She put her arm around my shoulder and squeezed.  Then, we walked back up to the party, our arms hooked together.  Adam was stationed by her sisters, watching them play and kicking his legs in delight.  Claire detached from me. She gave me one joyfully restrained smile and then turned her light brown hair away from me and walked over to him.

“You need one of these?” a classmate of mine handed me a cup of keg beer.

    “Of course.”

    I took the cup and walked up the staircase of the wooden deck.  Since we were staying all night, I decided I would find a quiet place to call Emily.

Winning Time

The title of this post comes not only from the new 30 for 30 documentary Winning Time: Reggie Miller vs. the New York Knicks, which premieres tonight at 9:00 PM on ESPN, but also because even on a rainy weekend we are approaching winning time.  The weather is getting warmer; we put the clocks ahead today and it is going to get lighter and lighter each days, which means that we won.

Also, this evening the brackets for the 2010 NCAA Tournament will be released.  This is a little bittersweet for me since UNC had an off year and will not be getting a chance to defend their title from last year - unfortunate.  However, everyone is a winner around this time of year with the abundance of basketball and excitement that will be on TV.  This Thursday and Friday are the two best basketball days of the entire year.  You can literally watch basketball from 11:55 AM to midnight on each of those days.  I have a meeting at Vogue magazine on Thursday, but after that you can rest assure that I will be pulling up a bar stool at some dark hole and watching basketball for the rest of the day. This week should yield at least one substantive post about this year's tournament - bound to be one of the weirdest of all time - and the NBA prospects/leading stars heading into the tournament - my love of Evan Turner has exponentially increased over the weekend - so look out for all that.

Some other items of business to address today:

- I got my hands on the new Joanna Newsom album Have One on Me, the new Gorrilaz album, Plastic Beach, and the Field Music album, Field Music (Measure). I'll be listening to all of these albums during this next week and may be giving a low down of at least one of  them. I am not a Joanna Newsom fan, but I am hoping to get into her from this album.  I have heard really good things about the Gorillaz album and I am overall very excited to listen to the Field Music album. Field Music is basically the brain child of David and Peter Brewis, two brothers who write excellent pop songs in the vein of a band like XTC.  Peter released an album with his side project The Week that Was in 2008 and it was one of my favorite albums of that year.

- I was just browsing through some of my bookmarks and I wanted to mention the blog of a friend of mine, Dan Shapiro. Dan went to Skidmore as well and here is his blog.  Very entertaining and mesmerizing site.

- My friend Janelle turned me on to the artwork of yet another Brown alumni over the weekend.  This alumni's name is Lauren Gidwitz and she has a fine website with her work.  You can visit it here. She definitely has a vision and aesthetic that I can relate to.

- Also stumbled upon this link as well, which was perfect for me.

As far Winning Time tonight, you can listen to Bill Simmons interview the director Dan Klores at his podcast website on ESPN.

Speaking of podcasts, I will be soon adding that element to this website as well.  I am just looking into the simplest and most direct route of recording and will then proceed with interviews and bull shit sessions with my friends and other local celebrities.  I basically just want to talk to people who are trying to create something and maintain an aesthetic belief while being faced with the harsh reality of possibly just being a loser - you know, people like myself.  I will of course be forcing the discussions towards basketball and the music I enjoy so there will bound to be plenty of arguments and empty beer cans. If you have any insights on podcast recording, please feel free to let me know.

The comedy shorts have not gone out the window.  We are re-recording one of the simpler sketches before the documentary tonight and will be conducting the more difficult sketches once we can catch some sunny weather.  Stay tuned for it all.

Always new content.

Now, From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt.  This is the last installment from the first section of Part II of the novel.  This concludes the "wake" portion of the funeral ceremony.  The next section picks up in the limo on the way to the cemetary and is told completely from the perspective of the limo driver:


The procession of the family continued solemnly.  The O’Donnells carried the casket through the lobby.  Douglas Bryant admired the family as they moved.  He was surprised how nicely the shape had fallen into place.  He liked the boy-girl-boy order that was reflected on each side of the casket.  It was a shame that Connor was not a part of the nuclear family, but the healing that might occur between the two brothers over this moment and ceremony was far more dramatic.  Douglas Bryant looked up at the portrait of his father.  This was why his father had gotten into the funeral home business: to help families reunite over a ritual.  That was the power the home had; families and individuals could connect with each other, could connect with something greater, something they always felt within themselves but could never really understand.  That was why there were death rituals, so that one could hope to make that greater universe understandable.  It wasn’t the most appealing profession, but it helped soothe people in its repetition and reliability.  Douglas watched Connor and Ben O’Donnell as they walked at the rear of the casket.  He had to admit that they did look very similar.  It was something in their faces, a childish quality, playful, yes, but also something adventurous, especially with their hair wispy and somewhat unkempt around the ears.  Funeral Director Bryant felt his heart skip.  If he could bring these two brothers together, then this job would have been a true success.

Douglas took a deep breath.  He looked at Eve.  This was the first he had ever seen of James O’Donnell’s wife in person.  He had seen her in the Herald in the “People” section towards the back of the paper.  There was a picture of the two of them with a  notice that they had gotten married, the ceremony was in Georgetown.  He found her to be quite beautiful and he wondered how old she was, how old they both were.  She looked to be about thirty.  Douglas thought they would probably have children soon.  Although, looking at her trim frame, he couldn’t imagine her gaining the creamy glow that a woman’s skin and overall appearance took when she was pregnant.  He remembered when Eileen, his wife, was pregnant with Frank.  He was never more attracted to her.  To Douglas, it was the greatest pleasure of his life that he loved a woman and was able to have a child with her, that simplicity made everything else bearable.

The main doors of the funeral home were open and Douglas could see the hearse parked outside.  Everything had been set up correctly and was going according to his vision.  The family would pass the casket into the hearse and it would be driven to the place of rest.  Once the casket was in the hearse, his job was over.  Douglas stood behind the O’Donnell family as they carried the hearse out of the funeral home and down the concrete steps.  He heard the constant whoosh of the car passing on Old Town Road.  The extended family and other well wishers were gathered along the steps as the family passed through with the casket to the back of the hearse.  Douglas remained on the top step.  He saw the fine polished wood pass partly, then fully, past the opened black back door of the hearse, the spare tire with its silver hubcap looking directly at him.

Funeral Director Bryant sighed and continued to listen to the cars.  He heard the back door of the hearse slam and felt the eyes of the mourners fall on him.

“Our service here is concluded.  The hearse will guide you all past the last residence and then out to the place of rest.  Kindly follow the procession and know that my heart and the hearts of all those at Bryant & Sons Funeral Home are heavy with your loss as well.”

The O’Donnell family remained near the hearse.  However, Ben O’Donnell shuffled up the stairs, Thomas followed him.

“Ben?” Douglas Bryant said.

“You did a good job.”

“Thank you, Ben.”

“For a real son of a bitch, I think I can understand you,” Ben said, smiling.

“I appreciate that, Ben.”

Ben turned and looked at Thomas for a moment. He turned back. “You and I aren’t so different.”

Douglas Bryant shuffled his black shoes on the cement step. “No.”

Ben held out his hand.  Douglas shook it.

“Thanks again.  You did a good job,” Ben said and walked away.

Thomas remained for a moment.  He held out his hand.  Douglas Bryant shook it.

“Thanks, Mr. Bryant.”

Douglas released his hand and looked up at Tom’s sharp face.  There was a kindness in it, but also something around the eyes that disturbed him.  Douglas felt himself lose his control.

“You’re OK, aren’t you?” he blurted.

Tom smiled and looked out to the cars. “I’d say so.”

“You know,” Douglas said, “people always had great things to say about you.  They just never understand why you were.  Well, why you did it.”

Tom continued to smile. “Thanks, Mr. Bryant.”

Douglas watched Tom turn away.  As he did, he paused for a moment.  Douglas followed Tom’s vision and saw a girl standing on the front lawn of the home.  Tom and the girl both stood frozen for a moment before Tom moved toward her on the far side of the hearse.  Douglas wanted to watch, but something from Tom’s tone made him turn away.  He listened to the sound of the cars in the road and turned his head back to the high school.  Douglas Bryant frowned and bowed his head.  He hoped his son would never come to the crossroads Tom O’Donnell had come to when he jumped in the frozen creek.  He hoped his son would forgive him for being hard on him.  Douglas breathed in the fresh air.  Frank would come to understand him someday, he hoped at least. However, Douglas Bryant thought, as he dug his hand into his pocket, all of the order he surrounded himself with and took pride in for years with his own father and the job he had been given seemed to fall by the wayside when he had to face his own son.  When Douglas thought of Frank, he felt a great swell of love within himself, but could never translate it into something real.  His hugs were false and his kisses non-existant.  The warm air blew the thin front strands of Douglas Bryant’s hair.  He grabbed onto the iron hand rail that split the front steps of the home and eased himself to a sit on the top step.

Douglas Bryant watched Tom O’Donnell talk to the girl on the grass.