Long week so far already. All of the Haiti aftermath. The end of the Democratic Filibuster, whatever that even meant or accomplished. Tracey McGrady and Allen Iverson near the top of NBA All-Star voting (no knock on A.I. - I love the guy, am fascinated by him, one of my top five favorite players of all time, but its over). My dog has gone and it makes me remember how much I miss a dog, but how much my life right now is not suitable for one. Soon enough.
Soon enough, too, my time at my current job will end. This is my last full week. So I've been busy wrapping much up there. I will get you all new, good posts very shortly. I'm trying to think of worthwhile things to put out there for you all. I may have to fall back on music once again and write about Gene Clark.
I'll also hopefully be doing some filming this weekend for sketches and other material so look for that.
To bring this full circle, a friend of mine works for the International Rescue Committe and if you do happen to pass this space frequently or at all, help Haiti and her organization out by texting HAITI to 25383 to donate $5 to help the IRC offer medical care, water and sanitation aid to Hatians.
That's all from me and my pedestal for now. We're getting there - soon.
Now, the next installment of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt.
Liza
“I’m sorry about that guy,” Maggie says to me.
“Mike,” I say.
She laughs, tilting her head back so that it brushes the top of the fence rail.
“Yes, Mike.”
We’re sitting on the wood fence opposite the Checkmate. The wood is sturdy. What kind are these fences made of? Always thick and pointed at the ends to fit into the the slits of the posts. I look over to the historical building behind us. It’s painted green. I think it was some kind of school house during the colonies. What wood is it made of? It’s all slanted and I hated having to draw it in fourth grade.
“Why’d you want to sit out here Maggie?” I ask.
“I thought you said you didn’t mind.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I just wanted to take it in, take in the night.” She turns away. Her hair flipping almost violently. I follow her face. It’s dark and she looks angry. Ultimately, there is something appealing about my sister.
“Let’s just walk home,” I say. “Check on dad.”
“He doesn’t need any checking on.”
She’s terse and I’m hurt. She’s acting like a bitch and we’ve never even spent enough time in the same place together for her to treat me like that. We’re sisters, but who knew?
“You said…”
“No, you’re right.” She’s still looking back. Her hair has taken over her face so that it looks like I’m talking to this impossibly full mass.
“Alright, so let’s go.”
“I always loved this field.. It’s not big, but its got a few noticeable slumps, there are the thin woods and then the farm beyond. Have you seen it in the full moon?”
I shrugged. “I think so.”
“The way the light seems to come up from the grass, light given off by the earth and what that looks like.”
She’s bonding with me. Or she’s trying to. I think she’s going though something like I’m going through something. Our mother is dead. And I don’t know how it could get any more profound than that, but maybe mom being dead is only the beginning. I don’t know. I just started college.
“I think I know what you mean.”
“What about the fog? Have you seen it in the fog?”
“I’m sure.”
“You can see and hear George Washington’s ghost,” she says, turning back. She’s excited now, her hair illustrates her emotions. “I walked home from my friend Jen’s house one night. I think it was midnight and I was only fourteen. I had one cigarette.”
“You got away with that?”
She nods but she’s continuing. “I was a little nervous being alone. But when I saw the fog I felt this great comfort. You’d think I’d be scared, but it made my heart throb in a way I hadn’t known. I mean, you know how boys make you feel then.”
I laugh and look down at my sneakers. “Nervous and on fire.”
She grabs my elbow so strongly that it hurts a little. “Right, and this was different. Seeing the grass, the fog swirling past that old house, and feeling slightly cool but warm – it was like tonight – my heart became something new to me.”
She turns towards me, her greenish eyes drawn. She’s not frowning I see now. She’s just concentrated. I think she’s expecting an answer as she’s looking. I don’t know if I have one. So I stay quiet.
“Have you learned to enjoy moments like that yet?”
That pisses me off because its like she’s speaking to a child and I’m not a child. I’m eighteen and I’m not a virgin. I let Shane fuck me in his TrailBlazer. I wanted to call it making love, but it wasn’t. I liked his short and thick black hair. I liked the little freckles on his nose, his body. And that we could laugh sometimes – him more than me. But I didn’t love him. It was something I did. That was a moment. There were colors, grey, blue, orange numbers from the radio, a smell of some kind of cologne. Even words. “I’m nervous.” “Don’t be. I won’t fuck you over.”
“I think I’m learning.”
“Good.”
We both sit silent. Maggie has moved forward and she now stands leaning back. Crickets are chirping and a bit of mist hovers on the grass. Drunken stumbles and talk still come from the Checkmate. Headlights turn on from the street and people drive away on these dark streets drunk.
Now I want to piss my sister off. Its not just pissing her off, I want to know something.
“What happened to Jake?”
She keeps her face forward and starts walking.
“Come on,” she says. “Lets go see Dad.”
Showing posts with label Liza. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Liza. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Link Track
The title of this post refers to the old track-listing of the Beatles' White Album where between "Long Long Long" and "Revolution 9" there was a slight segue that received credit as a track. Its still in there as background talking, but no longer listed.
Irrelevant? Oh, you've got it.
I just want to use this space today to reference two sites that I go to quite frequently to read things and I actually don't browse the internet that often and, because I am super smart and was World's Coolest Dude 2007, that should be some HIGH praise.
The first is Bill Simmons "The Sports Guys'" page off the ESPN website. I reference Bill Simmons a lot on this blog and for good reason. He is one of the definitive, if not the definitive voice for professional basketball at the moment. His mailbags often produce great lines connected to sports and his podcasts feature a wide variety of guests from David Stern (NBA Commissioner) to Chuck Klosterman (overrated writer) to Adam Corolla. I value and admire his passion for basketball and hang onto his every word regarding it. You should buy his book (pictured above).
The second is What's Alan Watching. Obviously, I love Mad Men - its really the only TV show I have ever been invested in and truly paid attention to. Alan Sepinwall's website breaks down Mad Men (and plenty of other shows) and provides terrific insight into the very tight thematic nature that each episode of the show has. He also gets good interviews with the cast and writers that are valuable to read as well. So, check that out too if you are ever bored.
Coming up on this space, though:
I will be posting some of my ruminations on this whole Gilbert Arenas gun situation that is going on, as well as a general NBA storyline update for those sideline fans out there.
I will be posting a breakdown of the "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" movie starring the Bee Gees and Peter Frampton. In doing so, I will tie in the all-time movie feat: how do you make a stupid movie legendary. Watch how Bill and Ted fit in.
And, ah just because I am listening to it right now and loving it, I may have to write a review of the Van Morrison album Veedon Fleece, which a friend of mine just turned me on to.
So there is plenty coming up. Keeping checking here, because I'm going to be famous and its my promise to take you with me.
Just remember, "I'd be better off dead, than to live without you." Immortal words.
Now, the next installment of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt:
Liza
“So is it true?” Lindsey aks.
“Is what true?” She can only mean about mom. At least that is what I think she can mean.
“That you’re coming home because of…well…”
Yes and no.
“No, where did you hear that?”
“Mikayla sent me a message on Facebook.”
“She did?”
“So is it true?”
Lindsey is leaning in close to me like she always had a bad habit of doing. I can smell her Chanel. And Mikayla made up a lie to tell her, all the way from College Park, Maryland. This is exactly what I was dreading.
“Yes and no.”
“Oh.”
“Only for the funeral.”
“Oh,” she says. “Yeah, because it really would suck to be stuck back around here. I mean there is nothing to do. Where can you go from here?”
I have no answers for her. There isn’t anywhere you can go from here. The only place you can go is somewhere else and it is extremely important that you do that.
“How is your brother by the way?”
“James?”
“No. Tom. I saw him outside before with that girl, Natalie, you remember her. She was in his grade. Real pretty, real nice. She played clarinet. Karen wanted to be like her. Karen’s home too by the way.”
That’s who it was! I knew I recognized her face. She’s striking in the same way Eve is. Statuesque, glowing, a girl that should be on a magazine cover but would never let herself get photographed for it. That’s how I see Eve at least. I never knew Natalie. How does Tom? What’s gotten into him tonight? Gotten into us all? We should be going home shouldn’t we? I see James still by the bar. He looks drunk.
“Maggie.” I look over Lindsey’s shoulder to my sister who is talking to Eve. “Shouldn’t we go?”
“Are you alright?” Lindsey asks. She fondles her cell phone in one hand and pushes her hair behind her ear with the other. I don’t know what to say to her. She is my friend, I guess. I haven’t talked to her and Mikayla since I left, which wasn’t so long ago, and now that I’m back and everything is the way it is I don’t feel like talking anyway.
“My mom’s dead.”
“I know, honey. I’m so sorry.” The cradling of her cell phone from hand to hand.
Maggie is next to me now and she throws her hair over her head and ruffles it with her hands like she’s trying to add volume to it. My father is a dying movie star and my sister is just in her prime.
“What did you say, Liza?” She’s sizing Lindsey up. I know she’s been doing it since Lindsey came up to me.
“Shouldn’t we go?”
“No more darts or Led Zeppelin?” She acts surprised. Lindsey peeks at her phone for a second. And over her shoulder James comes up to Eve. Eve looks a little coy and James seems big and is trying to nuzzle her. “I’ll get my coat”
“Everyone seems to be taking this well,” Lindsey says now that Maggie is gone. “I mean you’re all out drinking together.”
This hits me and pisses me off. I know it is strange and is probably wrong that we’re out doing this together. But Maggie didn’t make a joke about it and Eve didn’t question James about it on the walk down so Lindsey doesn’t have a right to say it like that to me.
“What are you doing home, Lindsey? I didn’t ask.”
She peeks down at the phone. “Just some things I forgot.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve got to go meet someone outside.” She leans in close with her sticky sweet smelling Chanel and gives me a hug that feels like I’m in seventh grade and Billy is trying feel my nonexistant boobs by his blue locker right before we go to the buses. “I’m so sorry,” she says.
“Thank you.”
She moves past me and out the front door. Maggie comes back over.
“Where’d Chanel go?”
I laugh.
“C’mon,” Maggie says. “Those two are staying. James said he’d bring Tom back.” She stops, looks towards the window. “I think Tom will bring himself back.”
We walk together and quickly wave to Eve and James. James doesn’t see, he’s leaning into Eve’s neck. But Eve gives us a small wave and sips her fizzing drink. Maggie and I move past the bar. She pulls up the collar on her coat. And as we pass the flapping wood door of the flushing bathroom, “Good Times, Bad Times” comes on.
“Right on cue,” Maggie turns back as she opens the door into the moist night. But stepping out she bumps into a guy. He’s wearing a thin grey sweater that fits him tightly. He looks down at her.
“Is this the elusive Maggie O’Donnell?”
“Big word for you, Mike,” Maggie growls. My skin tingles. My sister is a growling movie star.
“That’s a drink I’ll buy.” The guy smiles and touches Maggie’s shoulder. She looks disgusted.
We’re not safe home yet. Dad’ll have to wait.
Irrelevant? Oh, you've got it.
I just want to use this space today to reference two sites that I go to quite frequently to read things and I actually don't browse the internet that often and, because I am super smart and was World's Coolest Dude 2007, that should be some HIGH praise.
The first is Bill Simmons "The Sports Guys'" page off the ESPN website. I reference Bill Simmons a lot on this blog and for good reason. He is one of the definitive, if not the definitive voice for professional basketball at the moment. His mailbags often produce great lines connected to sports and his podcasts feature a wide variety of guests from David Stern (NBA Commissioner) to Chuck Klosterman (overrated writer) to Adam Corolla. I value and admire his passion for basketball and hang onto his every word regarding it. You should buy his book (pictured above).
The second is What's Alan Watching. Obviously, I love Mad Men - its really the only TV show I have ever been invested in and truly paid attention to. Alan Sepinwall's website breaks down Mad Men (and plenty of other shows) and provides terrific insight into the very tight thematic nature that each episode of the show has. He also gets good interviews with the cast and writers that are valuable to read as well. So, check that out too if you are ever bored.
Coming up on this space, though:
I will be posting some of my ruminations on this whole Gilbert Arenas gun situation that is going on, as well as a general NBA storyline update for those sideline fans out there.
I will be posting a breakdown of the "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" movie starring the Bee Gees and Peter Frampton. In doing so, I will tie in the all-time movie feat: how do you make a stupid movie legendary. Watch how Bill and Ted fit in.
And, ah just because I am listening to it right now and loving it, I may have to write a review of the Van Morrison album Veedon Fleece, which a friend of mine just turned me on to.
So there is plenty coming up. Keeping checking here, because I'm going to be famous and its my promise to take you with me.
Just remember, "I'd be better off dead, than to live without you." Immortal words.
Now, the next installment of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt:
Liza
“So is it true?” Lindsey aks.
“Is what true?” She can only mean about mom. At least that is what I think she can mean.
“That you’re coming home because of…well…”
Yes and no.
“No, where did you hear that?”
“Mikayla sent me a message on Facebook.”
“She did?”
“So is it true?”
Lindsey is leaning in close to me like she always had a bad habit of doing. I can smell her Chanel. And Mikayla made up a lie to tell her, all the way from College Park, Maryland. This is exactly what I was dreading.
“Yes and no.”
“Oh.”
“Only for the funeral.”
“Oh,” she says. “Yeah, because it really would suck to be stuck back around here. I mean there is nothing to do. Where can you go from here?”
I have no answers for her. There isn’t anywhere you can go from here. The only place you can go is somewhere else and it is extremely important that you do that.
“How is your brother by the way?”
“James?”
“No. Tom. I saw him outside before with that girl, Natalie, you remember her. She was in his grade. Real pretty, real nice. She played clarinet. Karen wanted to be like her. Karen’s home too by the way.”
That’s who it was! I knew I recognized her face. She’s striking in the same way Eve is. Statuesque, glowing, a girl that should be on a magazine cover but would never let herself get photographed for it. That’s how I see Eve at least. I never knew Natalie. How does Tom? What’s gotten into him tonight? Gotten into us all? We should be going home shouldn’t we? I see James still by the bar. He looks drunk.
“Maggie.” I look over Lindsey’s shoulder to my sister who is talking to Eve. “Shouldn’t we go?”
“Are you alright?” Lindsey asks. She fondles her cell phone in one hand and pushes her hair behind her ear with the other. I don’t know what to say to her. She is my friend, I guess. I haven’t talked to her and Mikayla since I left, which wasn’t so long ago, and now that I’m back and everything is the way it is I don’t feel like talking anyway.
“My mom’s dead.”
“I know, honey. I’m so sorry.” The cradling of her cell phone from hand to hand.
Maggie is next to me now and she throws her hair over her head and ruffles it with her hands like she’s trying to add volume to it. My father is a dying movie star and my sister is just in her prime.
“What did you say, Liza?” She’s sizing Lindsey up. I know she’s been doing it since Lindsey came up to me.
“Shouldn’t we go?”
“No more darts or Led Zeppelin?” She acts surprised. Lindsey peeks at her phone for a second. And over her shoulder James comes up to Eve. Eve looks a little coy and James seems big and is trying to nuzzle her. “I’ll get my coat”
“Everyone seems to be taking this well,” Lindsey says now that Maggie is gone. “I mean you’re all out drinking together.”
This hits me and pisses me off. I know it is strange and is probably wrong that we’re out doing this together. But Maggie didn’t make a joke about it and Eve didn’t question James about it on the walk down so Lindsey doesn’t have a right to say it like that to me.
“What are you doing home, Lindsey? I didn’t ask.”
She peeks down at the phone. “Just some things I forgot.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve got to go meet someone outside.” She leans in close with her sticky sweet smelling Chanel and gives me a hug that feels like I’m in seventh grade and Billy is trying feel my nonexistant boobs by his blue locker right before we go to the buses. “I’m so sorry,” she says.
“Thank you.”
She moves past me and out the front door. Maggie comes back over.
“Where’d Chanel go?”
I laugh.
“C’mon,” Maggie says. “Those two are staying. James said he’d bring Tom back.” She stops, looks towards the window. “I think Tom will bring himself back.”
We walk together and quickly wave to Eve and James. James doesn’t see, he’s leaning into Eve’s neck. But Eve gives us a small wave and sips her fizzing drink. Maggie and I move past the bar. She pulls up the collar on her coat. And as we pass the flapping wood door of the flushing bathroom, “Good Times, Bad Times” comes on.
“Right on cue,” Maggie turns back as she opens the door into the moist night. But stepping out she bumps into a guy. He’s wearing a thin grey sweater that fits him tightly. He looks down at her.
“Is this the elusive Maggie O’Donnell?”
“Big word for you, Mike,” Maggie growls. My skin tingles. My sister is a growling movie star.
“That’s a drink I’ll buy.” The guy smiles and touches Maggie’s shoulder. She looks disgusted.
We’re not safe home yet. Dad’ll have to wait.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Arts and Farts and Crafts
Alright, I know I said I was going to write about Jerry Seinfeld's MVP performance on Curb Your Enthusiasm from this past season. It was a worthy subject, but it seems to me that I had to hit it at the exact moment the season ended. The way things work now (especially funny things) you either jump on it or its over.So, I'm going for something a little more timeless (well, timeless for me because I talk about it all the time - and let's not mention thinking), which is my "review" of the classic Bob Dylan album "Self Portrait."
My friends all know how much I love this album. It is considered one of the worst albums of all time by many and rightfully so. And I do have a reputation for loving albums that are considered "one of the worst albums of all time" or "shitty" or "I can't believe you like this shit, Domino. Put the sound on the basketball game on." I don't like these terrible albums in a means of connecting with the rock n' roll spirit of Lester Bangs and his appreciation of the underdog(god, a shout in the street!) or his preaching of the raw power (read: Iggy Pop) of simple rock and roll like the Count Five (their merits including wearing vampire capes on the back cover of their album and standing over a grave). I don't even like these terrible albums like one enjoys a bad movie because of its unintentional humor and because "it just can't be this bad, this is AMAZING (sound of shoving popcorn in the mouth)!" I like these albums and I like this album, because I think it can teach us something - there is something going on in "Self Portrait" underneath the mix of phoned in vocal performances, the baffling song choices, and the downright gems. As the narrator in the Bible said, "Let us begin with the beginning, and the beginning began with a bang. And there was light!"
A good friend of mine, we'll call him my freshman year college roommate, once said about the first song of Self Portrait, "All The Wild Horses," that if you heard this song start off an album today, you would think it was the beginning of the best album of all time. Freshman year roommate was right and he hates this album. Dylan doesn't sing a word on the song, it is slow western strumming with woman's choir voices building and mixing with a cinematic string arrangement. It feels like the beginning of the best western or best legend or tall tale of all time, which it is a sense is. This album is the Bob Dylan legend summed up in one sprawling statement. The songs are there, but they don't sound like the versions you know, like the live version of "Like A Rolling Stone, " which features the Band as tight as ever but Bob singing in his Nashville Skyline croon as if he were trying to humiliate his own signature song. Levon Helm and Rick Danko belt out backing vocals to try to pull the song into sincerity, and Robbie Robertson burns his guitar "King Harvest" style, but there is no hope, this isn't the snare drum shot song that "opened the minds of a generation (read: Bruce Springsteen on every bad 60's documentary you've ever seen), this isn't one of the meanest, loosest and inspired songs ever recorded, this is a singer knowing his myth and not falling for it as his audience as. Sure, there is no direction home, but it doesn't have to take a song to go to number 5 on the Billboard charts to tell you that.
Bob is even poking holes in himself and his peers. His cover of "The Boxer" is a downright insult if you don't have a sense of humor. Now, I like Simon and Garfunkel. I even love a lot of their stuff, but if there is a point where Paul Simon veered to the too self-serious (god bless his solo work "Papa Hobo" especially") it was in the Bookends/Bridge Over Troubled Water era and "The Boxer" is one of the pinnacles - although it is a damn fine song. Now, think about "The Boxer" in the hands of Bob Dylan. A song written by one of the best songwriters in the 20th century in the hands of one of the top 5 songwriters in the 20th century. The possibilities seem endless. However, when you hear Dylans' hobo bluegrass cover of the song, you literally see the song in his hands. He is playing with it, "The Boxer" becomes a wounded animal of a song, a wet bug, with Dylan poking at the wings, morphing it into something strange and different from what it once was, something less important. It's as if he's saying, "I can do it to my own songs and I can do it to someone else's. Look at your beloved songs now." This seems cruel, and it is. He is essentially showing his own power to make or break the music the audience loves.
Even the standards aren't safe. "Blue Moon" and "Let It Be Me" are both given Nashville Skyline renditions. They are sloppy and compared to other versions they are far inferior. However, they are fun. The drums on "Blue Moon" are terribly sharp, the piano is playful and the background singers are inspired. The same can be said about "Let It Be Me," there are are different electric and guitar parts, as well as an impossible sounding piano.
This brings me to the most important part about the album: it just sounds damn good. All the backing tracks and musicians, whether they are The Band or not, just sound so tight. Even the really terrible songs like "Early Mornin' Rain" have a terrific rhythm section. The piano on the entire album is really the revelation. And there are certainly gems: "All The Tired Horses," "Alberta #1," "Days of 49," "In Search of Little Sadie," "Little Sadie," "Copper Kettle," "Quinn the Eskimo," "Wigwam," and "Alberta #2." The version of "Quinn the Eskimo" is perhaps one of the best and most FUN SOUNDING songs of all time with Dylan screaming in his Nashville Skyline croon and his voice full of fuzz and the rest of the band playing as rollicking a backing track that they ever played with an especially inspired Danko belting out vocals. This song is the sound of a good time - when you think of a good party, you just have to listen to this song, your friends are there, there's whiskey and plenty of room to move around and there is a singer onstage who is having fun with a backing band that just knows how to do it.
Counter this with "In Search of Little Sadie" and "Little Sadie." This is the same song separated by only one song, which is a cover of an old standard, while "Little Sadie" itself is an old standard. "In Search of Little Sadie" is a full band version of the classic murder ballad, while "Little Sadie" is a standard blue grass reading. Why put the same song twice in span of three songs? Boredom? Sure probably. Proving a point? Sure probably. He could do it. Because you see that name on the album, the face on the cover? That's Bob Dylan. Here's the next album from Bob Dylan!
This the essential mix of the album. There are blatantly uninspired moments mixed with some of the best pure rock and roll, bar and folk songs you have ever heard. And no matter what direction you swing in, it just sounds so good. The album ends with two of the best songs, "Wigwam" and "Alberta #2." The former was made famous by "Royal Tenenbaums" with its sexy brass and wordless Dylan singing/moaning, but seriously professional drumming. While "Alberta #2" is just smooth bass and backing vocals, which some terrific Dylan harmonica and lyrics that are just so catchy that you know the song is as old as America.
Was Dylan lazy? Sure. Is this album terrible? By all means. However, you just have to look at the cover and the title. Self Portrait. The cover is painted by the artist himself during a time when he was still as popular as he had ever been. However, he'd crashed his bike and had hid out in Saugerties and made a country album and the 60's were over and he was getting a little older just like everyone else. So what was next? What was Bob Dylan anyway? A collection of standards and folk songs? Songs of the collective conscious? Inspiring generational defining songs? A message bearer? All of these things could be true if looked at in a certain light - just like his own self portrait. A lot has been made of Dylan dissembling and reassembling his own image and myth like the best artists do, but this was the first evidence that he was capable. Once his portrait was split into as many pieces as it was on this album, only then could he build it back together and progress (family man, maturing star, divorcee, outlaw) into the 70's.
Maybe that movie I'm Not There said it better and surely Cate Blanchett is a better lay and a better actress and man than I am. And maybe I just like this album so much because I listened to it a lot driving around upstate New York during the winter and the spring of 2007 (somtimes in love, sometimes in hate) with the windows of my 1997 Pathfinder open and singing the songs at the top of my lungs and blasting "Quinn the Eskimo" as loud as I could because it might make everyone loosen up a little. Despite all of this, in the end, this album depicts an artist and a human being as he saw himself at a certain point in his life - perhaps even more than the rest of his work. Worts and all, I will always take that over anything. Because even two shitty versions of the same song in the span of three minutes is better than something false from 1966. Because I'd like to think we're all closer to a 24-song double album that baffles than any kind of generational masterpiece. Maybe we'll get there, but until then we just have a series of self portraits.
Next: Music or Sports?
Now: The next installment of "From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt"
Liza
The bartender knew I was underage but he gave me a beer anyway. “It’s for Ben,” he said. Dad’s legacy is all over this town. How many people has he healed? How many people know about his accident when I didn’t know until just before? I should just enjoy it all. Tomorrow we are going to bury mom and right now it looks like everyone is doing alright. Maggie is playful playing darts with me and talking to Eve, though Eve looks worried about what James is doing. He wouldn’t do anything. That girl Jane was such an old girlfriend. But that oldest Gregors sister is so pretty, they all were. Anne was the closest one to me. Tom knew her somewhat.
Where is he?
I always loved this Billy Joel song. He’s one of my favorites. “Still Rock N’ Roll To Me” and “Scenes From an Italian Restaurant.” They all sound like New York. Long Island. Home. I never could believe that dad was friends with him. He must’ve been close to getting famous. The accident stopped him. That would make sense. Then again what do I know about it all anyway?
I’m standing holding my bottle. The wrapper is damp and peeling off. I can see the Bud of the Budweiser logo. This place is how I pictured it – wooden, messy, a dive. I didn’t expect the sawdust on the floor. It must be for atmosphere. James said he’d been sneaking in here since he was sixteen. He did look older, started growing facial hair when he was pretty young, well I was really young. I slide my right hand into the snug right pocket of my jeans and look around. Kids from my grade said they’d snuck in here too. I don’t really want to be seen. That would be sort of embarassing being home this soon after I went away and down here drinking. It would seem a little strange of all of us coming down here together the day before our mother’s funeral. But I think we all need this. I’ve been depressed since I heard the news and this has seemed like the longest day of moping. I need a little positive energy to go into tomorrow. I don’t know if I’ll even stop crying. Just thinking about the look of the coffin and the whole ceremony is making me tear up a little bit. I wipe my eye with my sleeve and feel a little water in my nose. My mother is dead so its OK for me to be home. People will understand. But its so hard in this town because once word gets out it soon gets distorted and then you’re pregnant or depressed or an alcoholic and in shame when you’re seen or your name is mentioned between mothers in the Stop N’ Shop.
“Ok, sorry sorry, Liza. My turn right?” Maggie taps my arm.
“Yep, no problem.”
“This is a marathon, huh?”
“It’s kind of a boring game.”
Maggie laughs and her hair flies back. My sister is beautiful in her own way. “I don’t know why guys like it. Jake used to…”
She still has her smile but it fades and she starts to frown a little. She holds a grin that is barely above straightlip.
“Anyway, let’s just finish. You need to be exposed to this kind of boredom. It consumes your college years and your twenties.”
“She’s right,” Eve adds.
“See,” Maggie says. “We have the wisdom of a married woman too.”
She winks and Eve laughs. I feel like I should laugh too but I’m not sure if Maggie was being mean or nice. I just take a litle sip and my beer is getting warm. I’m not good at drinking.
I see Eve looking back at James and I look back too. But I see the back door open and Tom is walking in with some girl.
Where’d he get to?
Monday, June 22, 2009
Brooklyn Invitational
Well once again it has been awhile between posts and I have let down whatever fair readers that I may have. Quite a bit has gone down in the past two weeks if you haven't noticed and believe me it has. Let's touch on a few: The Lakers win the Finals giving Kobe his 4th ring and putting him into another level on the all-time player list, the Penguins win the Stanley Cup giving hockey a great boost going in to next season, Nadal loses at the French and Federer ties Sampras for the majors record - not sure if this is a good thing, Conan begins hosting the Tonight Show and unleashing the comic mastery that is the Twitter Tracker and the Dana Carvey Show came out on DVD after 13 years of long waiting.The biggest item to go on for me in the past two weeks was The Brooklyn Invitational, an event I put on with my friend down in DUMBO. This event featured six bands and several artists showcasing their work at a great space down in DUMBO. There is not a lot going on there as far as nightlife, but there are a lot of gallerys and spaces that can be used to put on some great events, especially large-scale music shows and festivals. There will be more photos up from the event and we will be planning to do another one later on this summer and I will be posting information here or on a parallel blog that you will most likely be able to find.
Now, upcoming: post on Kobe, post on upcoming Mad Men season, post on some album or band that I feel especially compelled about (Grizzly Bear?). But now, here is the next entry in "From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt."
Liza
The rain has let up and I’m standing outside wearing my raincoat hood over my head. The afternoon is cool and it still smells like summer. The water in the pool has risen high, almost to the top of the rock ledges. I had to come outside to think. I suppose I could’ve just gone to my room and not given myself away by walking past Tom and dad like I did. But I did keep my calm in front of Eve when she told me about the secret I didn’t know. Why did it have to come from her? I love her but she’s not in my family. She is, but she really isn’t. She isn’t the same as all of us.
How is that your vision of your family changes? So many things are always supposed to change, friends, seasons, opinions, favorite ice cream, and even sex. The way you see your family isn’t. It does, though. First you know your mother and father because you need them. Then you know the number of people in your family because you know your brothers and sister. That stays for a while through car rides and fights and sharing bathrooms and dinner and getting rides places. Then everyone gets older – the secrets start coming out. You find out that your father is a good man but he has a past that is deeply flawed, and that’s OK because you find out that everyone does. And being the youngest you get to hear it all, hear all of the problems and the stories of your brothers and sister, the problems and bad things they’ve done. There is nothing of the original picture of family left. What keeps all of that together in a shape? How are you supposed to see it all when you get older?
“Liza, what are you doing in the rain?” Tom’s voice says.
I turn around and see him walking out the door.
“Oh, it isn’t raining anymore,” he says.
“Yep.”
He shuffles out and stretches his arms. I think he always liked weather like this. It would make sense because it sort of fits his demeanor. He is all kinds of rain and grey but he is also warm. He walks up to me by the pool with his hands in his pockets. His hair is wet and a bit blackish rather than reddish brown. Is he drunk?
“Well what are you doing out here anyway?”
“Just thinking.”
Tom spreads his legs apart and looks down at his shoes. They’re a nice pair of brown loafers; they seem comfortable. He was the neatest of us for sure. He and James were both neat, although James was always bounding around to a practice or running out with his friends could leave messes and things on the floor. Mom never came down so hard on him. Maybe it was because he took on so much. Tom’s shoes look comfortable but he looks messier than usual.
“There’s a lot to think about, huh?” He puts his hand on my jacket shoulder.
I pull my hood off my head and shake my hair. I look up at his face. He is looking forward, but he senses me and so his eyes drift down to me.
“Tom,” I ask. “What are you doing always riding the trains?”
He takes his hand off my shoulder and puts it back in his right pocket. He scuffs his shoes on the wet stones.
“There’s something about it. Something about that moment of travel, even though I’ll always bounce back from the city out here, when the train is moving I feel good. Having a beer and riding a train. Its very simple in a way.”
I nod my head. He’s very stern now thinking about it. I decide to put my hand up on his shoulder. “You could’ve asked me to come to mass.”
He turns down at me. “Don’t you ever think about anything simple?”
I don’t know what he means by that. He seems really curious, though. He wants to know. There are a lot of simple things in the world I guess. I mean don’t they say that you can break down the whole earth and the universe into different math formulas? Those formulas might be tough to understand but numbers are a lot simpler than stars and atmospheres and endless space. I don’t think I’m supposed to find joy in riding a train and drinking a beer. That doesn’t make sense to me. I want to jump into the excitement of the night at school. But then isn’t simple staying with mom, not leaving her alone. Not killing her.
“Are you drunk, Tom?”
He raises an eyebrow. “No.”
“You’re not like dad are you?”
“Don’t you love dad despite this? Don’t you understand?”
“Yeah I do.”
“No, I’m not like dad.”
He hugs me and I can smell beer. His clothes are wet too but he smells like church and faint cologne. The type that most boys smell like. Musk is what it’s called. Maybe this is what happens to family. We fall apart and bring it back together again. But we aren’t so bad. This is just what we’re changing into.
“I love you,” I say to Tom.
“Thank you.”
I open my eyes and over his shoulder, I can see dad standing in the doorway looking out at us and cradling his bottle to his stomach.
In the rain, I walk over to dad and his motorcycle. He put his glass down on the sopping sod and mud.
“Want to ride?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He regards the motorcycle for a moment. The rainwater is streaming down his nose and over his lips.
“You were so close with your mother. You know she’d never let you ride.”
“But why didn’t anyone tell me?”
He looks past me. I turn around and look at the open hole in the ground where the mourners are standing stiff like cardboard. I don’t even recognize any of them. The hole is filling with water. I hope mom won’t drown. She’s not a fish.
“It wasn’t up to us.”
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wilco (The Album)
It leaked and of course we all knew that it would, just as we all knew that Wilco would then put it up on their website to stream it for their fans for free, becase, hey, all things will leak so what's the point in pretending like it isn't out there.I will go on the record as calling Wilco my favorite band. As the definitions of my identity thin in possibility to those I know as I continue to grow older and be defined my choices and sensibilities, I can see now, that when being referred to as a friend or enemy or lover and most importantly an object, that my favorite band will be easily identified as Wilco. And you know what the beauty of this new Wilco album is? They already know that.
See the thing about a Wilco album is that it never sounds like any other Wilco album. Sure there are the binding qualities of Tweedy's voice, and the history arising out of alt-country that either allows you to see them tieing back to their roots or emphasizing their departure from them, but besides that, nothing stays the same from album to album. No tone is the same, no theme, nothing.
I won't go into album history here, because if you are reading this blog, you probably already know the album history. So I am going to jump into the newest album. Wilco (The Album).
We jump in with Wilco (The Song), which is probably the song that I have felt the strongest about in a long time, because it easily could have been written by any band about any band. Tweedy completely removes the subject from a song with a totally subjective title. This song is about the music of a band who encourages the listener to put on their headphones and listen to an album when things aren't going right. There is nothing marking Wilco out from any other band nothing that makes this song need to be called Wilco the song, it is simply called Wilco the song because it is. The only thing missing from this song is a refrain of the chorus where Tweedy simply goes, "Blah Blah, Blah Blah, will always love you." A friend of mine said to me in response, "Isn't that a bit obvious?" My response is that so was "Birthday." An obvious song does not make a bad song, sometimes an obvious song is neccessary to make us see how much we make of the particulars that make our music seem so special to US when really it is the shared experience of a band and headphones by everyone. Plus who can deny that electric keyboard you hear underneath the distorted guitar, the sounds of which haven't been truly heard since Being There.
Next we get "Deeper Down." Where you can hear where the band is really going. The polish of the studio is there. Plenty of pedal steel or maybe even slide guitar and Tweedy is totally involved in a character story of a boxer. Each section gives way to subtle noise and ghosts sounds that sound as if they were lifted straight from Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, and then once the noise fades we burst through with Nels Cline guitar lines that call to mind Sky Blue Sky and their live shows with none of the negative feelings that have been foisted upon Sky Blue Sky in particular, but merely the fluidity and organic nature of the band's sound that was missing from the heaps of artifice of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (which is not a pejorative description).
Fleetwood Mac dynamics explode onto "One Wing." This song has the band working at full force together and despite the studio glockenspiel touches this captures the live sound of the band. Their ability to be loud and to blend so many parts together. Those vibrous Nels parts, with the Jorgenson and Sansone organ and keyboard parts. You even get to hear Stirratt desperately trying to add high harmonies until it swirls into Nelse distortion (one of the best parts of latter day Wilco) until Tweedy hits a high note that fades into studio swirl.
The most interesting (maybe?) song is "Bull Black Nova" because people have already been comparing it to "Spiders (kidsmoke)" because of its bass driven nature. The difference in the two songs couldn't be more glaring. Whereas Spiders was Wilco playing a genre, saying that they could play krautrock, Bull Black Nova is that genre filtered through Wilco. It is here that Wilco is playing at the highest level of artistry. The form has been taken in by the artist and then ejected outward in the image of that artist. Bull Black Nova is a history of 70's and 80's German excuse for rock called kraut rock call pretenstion filtered through Tweedy and his love of American folk and his mastery of the modern murder ballad, which was first evidenced in Via Chicago. We all know that we are robots and not humans in the the latter day era of the non-christ, so instead of harping on it, give me distortion and give me the murder of one's girlfriend. Plus Tweedy screams.
"You and I". What can I say about the Feist duet? This song is pure 1974. You have to love it once again. Here we get the Wilco of Sky Blue Sky, but polished with the studio touches they had always known so well and we get a masterful lyric like "Oh I don't need to know everything about you. And you don't need to know that much about me." Something I think we can all attest to when hanging on the fringes of love or whatever we want to pass as love. Don Draper couldn't have said it better.
Next we get George Harrison "You Never Know". This comes straight out of a place I am not quite that sure of. The only thing about it is that I know it feels right. This song is better than "Monday" or "Got You (At The End of the Century)" because it isn't copping right off of the Stones. Plus Tweedy is not sermonizing here even though he is speaking to the little kids. Because yeah, everyone young always thinks their generation is the last and that their generation is the worst (I know I do) but he is saying it with a pounding piano 1964 couldn't have invented and those soothing vocals that Jeff Lynne was too dumb to moderate. This song may be so dumb that it isn't worth talking about for so many people, but for me I can't stop talking about it because "I don't care anymore" but "you never know."
"Country Disappeared" this might be the best song that Tweedy has ever written. Formulaic to the end of the earth, but so comforting and reliable in that. The rise and fall from chorus to verse. It is in the end a song. And the band is loose without a doubt, this is a band who is comfortable with each other. Before Sky Blue Sky was released, I told my friend that I hoped Wilco made the loudest album they had ever made because I had seen and heard what they could do live with Nels. They proceeded to make their quietest album. And this song is why; they needed to learn their band dynamics. Tweedy made Being There, not this entire band. This is something we all must understand about Wilco. And besides, Being There was fantastic, but it never broke its shackles as well as this song does.
"Solitaire." Double tracked John Lennon vocals. Acoustic guitar with Yankee Hotel atmospherics. If you are young and not moved by the lyrics to this song then there is something wrong with you.
Then we get Tweedy chanelling Faulkner and the Bible on "I'll Fight." Sure the tune is the same as "On and On and On" from Sky Blue Sky. But I see this as Tweedy knowing his catalogue. He knows that he's done it before and that you didn't like it. But here it is again, better with great organ and keyboards and biting guitars straight from "Getting Better." What else do you want? Maybe he got bored and repetitive. But this album does not suggest a band who is repetitive - it suggests a band who knows their limits and their history, the songs that people scream for them to play so that their night can be complete, better than any band out there - than besides Animal Collective who delete the tracks and music to their fans' favorite songs, which is perhaps what all fans and all people need in general in their lives. But those Animal Collective never had slide guitars and shimmering organs like Wilco on this song.
"Sonny Feeling." And you never thought they'd improve on Summerteeth? But they did, by mixing a standout from Sky Blue Sky (Walken) with "I Can't Stand It ," "ELT," and "Nothingsevergonnastandinmywayagain." Ah fuck, it, they pulled a Being There. And you gave up on them after Sky Blue Sky? Of course they put those little Beach Boy harmonies in there to shut you up.
"Everlasting Everything" brings us to some of the material touched on by Sky Blue Sky and much of Tweedy's work: "Everything alive must die." Tweedy has always been an elementary Tolstoyan at heart. Trying to find the essences of life, which all arise out of death, although he may get confused through his ego and the rock n' roll vocabulary. The production of this song does not suggest an understanding of the themes therein - at first. However, after repeated listens - ah forget it. I will not pretend that I know what this song reveals on repeated listens. What I know is that I like this song and that it sounds important and that they put church bell crashes on it because they felt like it. Glen's drumming has never been better because this song has "Poor Places," "Misunderstood," "Sunken Treasure" and "Hate it Here" in it. And you never thought about those bedfellows before.
So, in the end as the last notes of "Everlasting Everything" fade with the lyrics of everlasting love overcoming all. It is rare that we witness a band in the middle of defining its entire career and knowing itself in and out for good and bad. There have been a handful of bands who have and they usually made double albums because they were deep into drugs and not self-aware of their limits, they just knew them naturally. But Wilco has always been a band not based on natural feel. That died with Uncle Tupelo. Being There feels natural, but that is because Tweedy was guiding it toward natural. Being There is the ultimate of artifice, even more than Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, because at least there - although his songwriting was sure, the production was not sure (although it sounds it, plus his voice sounds less congested). Here Tweedy is sure. Wilco is sure. These guys know each other, they know the songs, they know the studio. They know what it takes to make a great album. For Tweedy (because Wilco will always be measured in Tweedy) this is a coup. Few rock figures have been able to bounce through self-seriousness and depression and light-heartedness as much as Tweedy. And here, just when you were ready to lose your faith in him - he shows you that he knows, because Wilco was always an experiment and it will continue to be, but this is a point for breath, this is when you assess it all. And again, who knows when it will all end?
I won't gush.
And now, "From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt"
Liza
The rain has let up and I’m standing outside wearing my raincoat hood over my head. The afternoon is cool and it still smells like summer. The water in the pool has risen high, almost to the top of the rock ledges. I had to come outside to think. I suppose I could’ve just gone to my room and not given myself away by walking past Tom and dad like I did. But I did keep my calm in front of Eve when she told me about the secret I didn’t know. Why did it have to come from her? I love her but she’s not in my family. She is, but she really isn’t. She isn’t the same as all of us.
How is that your vision of your family changes? So many things are always supposed to change, friends, seasons, opinions, favorite ice cream, and even sex. The way you see your family isn’t. It does, though. First you know your mother and father because you need them. Then you know the number of people in your family because you know your brothers and sister. That stays for a while through car rides and fights and sharing bathrooms and dinner and getting rides places. Then everyone gets older – the secrets start coming out. You find out that your father is a good man but he has a past that is deeply flawed, and that’s OK because you find out that everyone does. And being the youngest you get to hear it all, hear all of the problems and the stories of your brothers and sister, the problems and bad things they’ve done. There is nothing of the original picture of family left. What keeps all of that together in a shape? How are you supposed to see it all when you get older?
“Liza, what are you doing in the rain?” Tom’s voice says.
I turn around and see him walking out the door.
“Oh, it isn’t raining anymore,” he says.
“Yep.”
He shuffles out and stretches his arms. I think he always liked weather like this. It would make sense because it sort of fits his demeanor. He is all kinds of rain and grey but he is also warm. He walks up to me by the pool with his hands in his pockets. His hair is wet and a bit blackish rather than reddish brown. Is he drunk?
“Well what are you doing out here anyway?”
“Just thinking.”
Tom spreads his legs apart and looks down at his shoes. They’re a nice pair of brown loafers; they seem comfortable. He was the neatest of us for sure. He and James were both neat, although James was always bounding around to a practice or running out with his friends could leave messes and things on the floor. Mom never came down so hard on him. Maybe it was because he took on so much. Tom’s shoes look comfortable but he looks messier than usual.
“There’s a lot to think about, huh?” He puts his hand on my jacket shoulder.
I pull my hood off my head and shake my hair. I look up at his face. He is looking forward, but he senses me and so his eyes drift down to me.
“Tom,” I ask. “What are you doing always riding the trains?”
He takes his hand off my shoulder and puts it back in his right pocket. He scuffs his shoes on the wet stones.
“There’s something about it. Something about that moment of travel, even though I’ll always bounce back from the city out here, when the train is moving I feel good. Having a beer and riding a train. Its very simple in a way.”
I nod my head. He’s very stern now thinking about it. I decide to put my hand up on his shoulder. “You could’ve asked me to come to mass.”
He turns down at me. “Don’t you ever think about anything simple?”
I don’t know what he means by that. He seems really curious, though. He wants to know. There are a lot of simple things in the world I guess. I mean don’t they say that you can break down the whole earth and the universe into different math formulas? Those formulas might be tough to understand but numbers are a lot simpler than stars and atmospheres and endless space. I don’t think I’m supposed to find joy in riding a train and drinking a beer. That doesn’t make sense to me. I want to jump into the excitement of the night at school. But then isn’t simple staying with mom, not leaving her alone. Not killing her.
“Are you drunk, Tom?”
He raises an eyebrow. “No.”
“You’re not like dad are you?”
“Don’t you love dad despite this? Don’t you understand?”
“Yeah I do.”
“No, I’m not like dad.”
He hugs me and I can smell beer. His clothes are wet too but he smells like church and faint cologne. The type that most boys smell like. Musk is what it’s called. Maybe this is what happens to family. We fall apart and bring it back together again. But we aren’t so bad. This is just what we’re changing into.
“I love you,” I say to Tom.
“Thank you.”
I open my eyes and over his shoulder, I can see dad standing in the doorway looking out at us and cradling his bottle to his stomach.
In the rain, I walk over to dad and his motorcycle. He put his glass down on the sopping sod and mud.
“Want to ride?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He regards the motorcycle for a moment. The rainwater is streaming down his nose and over his lips.
“You were so close with your mother. You know she’d never let you ride.”
“But why didn’t anyone tell me?”
He looks past me. I turn around and look at the open hole in the ground where the mourners are standing stiff like cardboard. I don’t even recognize any of them. The hole is filling with water. I hope mom won’t drown. She’s not a fish.
“It wasn’t up to us.”
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
PROFESSIONAL
It is Wednesday night. Listening to a little Graham Nash and David Crosby "Frozen Smiles." Lost is on on Wednesdays and this is the perfect time in a Lost season to lose interest. I was not on the Lost bandwagon when it was first on, but got hooked in the summer of 2006. By hooked I mean I thought the show was amazing in that it could be broken down to the following dramatic interaction:Character A: "I have to go do something dangerous maybe?"
Character B: "I have to go with you."
Character A: "No, you can't come with me."
Character B: "You have to let me come with you."
Character A: (Grimaces) "Fine you can come with me."
Character B: (Smiles)
Character A: (HITS CHARACTER B WITH A GUN IN THE HEAD)
But since then, I am always disappointed with midseason and stop watching only to hear how amazing the last episode is. I mean, Lost is no great show, it may be the funniest thing on TV right now, though, and you have to love a show with an abundance of characters that they can just concoct and throw at you. Especially when back to back synopsis of the show's episodes are "Sawyer finds himself in a lie." and "Sawyer finds himself supporting his lie." That's where we should all be working.
P.S. : Buy or download the album "Nash and Crosby"
Now, "From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt":
Liza
The piano has stopped playing and I hear two pairs of footsteps. One goes up the stairs and the other continues walking down the hall and enters the den where I’m sitting reading Frankenstein for my fiction class. All freshmen have to take it. Eve emerges and doesn’t seem to notice me.
“Hi, Eve.”
She jumps up and puts her hand to her chest.
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry,” I say.
Eve begins laughing hysterically. Her laugh is somewhat musical. It rises and falls nicely.
“What?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing. I just can’t believe that scared me so much.”
She sits down next to me on the couch.
“What’re you reading?”
I hold up the book to show her.
“Ah,” she says. “I always thought that was such a boring book. I hate those epistolary novels.”
“You were an English major right?”
She nods. “Your brother and I were complete opposites. I’ve managed to get him to become a bigger reader. How do you like school so far anyway?”
I feel tears forming behind my eyes but I don’t want to start crying in front of her. Besides, I’m stronger than that. Even if it is my fault, I can’t let anyone know or see that it affects me. I’m not the little girl.
“I love it. It’s terrific.”
“Yeah? You don’t miss home? Or, well I guess there wasn’t so much time to.”
We’re both quiet. I know she’s thinking about mom too. Mom would never say too much about Eve. I’d try to get it out of her. But she’d always keep it simple. “She’s a lovely girl.”
Something generic like that from a woman who was capable of turning eloquent phrases and who could really get to the heart of something. “She’s a lovely girl.” It sounded like something from a Hallmark card.
“How are the guys?” Eve asks laughing her little music again. I can’t help but laugh too. There is something infectious about it. When did James first fall in love with her? After her first laugh? What is it even like to fall in love and to know you want to get married?
“There are some cute ones. Not so many on my floor but definitely in some of my classes. In this fiction class actually.”
I put the book down. I like talking to her. Something about it reminds me of talking to mom over coffee. She lightly hits my arm.
“What about your roommate?”
“I don’t know. We’re feeling each other out still. We had our first sort of heart to heart the other night.”
“Ah, one of those late night talks when you both can’t sleep.”
“Yeah, its tough when you hear people outside talking. There’s something about it.”
Eve smiles. “That feeling that something is always happening.”
That’s exactly it. That’s been the best part about it so far. The feeling of things constantly going on. People constantly talking or staying up late. There could be a party going on in every room. There probably isn’t but there could be. Lights are never off at college.
“Yeah,” I say. “Something always happening.”
We’re quiet again. I can see that Eve is staring at the white bookcase that the TV sits in. All of the books are still up on the shelves. The photo albums too. No one’s started packing this area.
“I can’t believe we’ve got to pack all of this up,” she says.
“I know.”
“Ben’s always been like this?”
“I never saw it so much, but that’s what I’ve heard. He’s always been funny and had his own way about him. You know. My mom kept him from doing a lot of spur of the moment things like this.”
“After his accident right?”
“Accident?”
“The motorcycle accident when he was drunk. Isn’t that what it was?”
I close the book. I never knew about an accident. All this time my family, all of them have been keeping this from me. James never told me. Tom never told me. Dad never told me. Not even Maggie who would’ve been the one to let it slip. But worst of all…. Not even after school. Not even when we were drinking coffee together.
The rain falls down. Everyone is holding black umbrellas and wearing black clothes. Maggie is wearing sunglasses. Eve and James are standing next to me squeezing each other’s hands. I watch the coffin lowering into the wet and almost black mud. My dress shoes squish on the grass and green blades stick to the shining patent leather.
I see mom’s picture. They have it standing above the hole. She’s young in it. She looks exactly like Maggie. She’s wearing a pearl necklace and smiling. You can see little lines by her eyes. Her red hair looks beautiful.
And there is dad behind the picture. He’s soaking wet. He has no umbrella. The jacket of his suit slopes down and looks too big for him. But he’s sitting on a motorcycle holding a glass with liquor in it. He looks at no one but me. He raises it up and the rain falls and runs down his face. He and I must share something.
Why couldn’t I know?
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Liza
Monday Night. Tired. Will talk Super Bowl this week. Maybe talk Little Feat or McCartney too. Below is the next section of "From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt."
Liza
I liked being the last one home with mom. We’d sit at the kitchen table like I’m doing now and have coffee together. I’d make it. We’d talk, both with our white and blue ceramic mugs in our hands. Tom bought them for her for mother’s day one year. It was my single after school cup of coffee and it was a time for mom and me to just chat. In the summer we missed that time to share. I was too busy going to see my friends. She’d stop me sometimes and try to get me to stay. But I had to go, even though I could hear and I guess even feel the sadness in her voice. It’s funny that you can realize and even feel those things and not act on them. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know why I did it. I just wanted to spend time with my friends before college. I knew mom was sick, but you never think that your mother is going to die.
It’s not sunny like it was yesterday. The clouds have moved in and I can see specks of rain on the skylight above me. The coffee is a little strong, not enough water. I always did that. The coffee at school is fine, although a little hot in those thin paper cups. The inside of the mug is grayish clay, which looks nice with the black of my coffee. James always asked me if I was a fisherman drinking my coffee black. I just like the flavor, the bitterness, and the strength. But he liked to tease me.
I don’t think that mom ever talked with Maggie the way she talks with me. No, its talked isn’t it? The way she talked with me. I was too young to really observe how they acted towards each other when Maggie was my age. And she was out of the house for so much of my time growing up that I could only really see on the holidays. I think mom was always hard on her. Maybe it was because they were so different but looked the same with their terrific red hair. And me with my strange blondish hair that no one in the family has.
“Maggie did you and mom ever just chat like girls?”
“Like girls?”
“I don’t know. I mean you know about celebrities and hair and I don’t know share with her your problems.”
“No, I don’t really share my problems with anyone. And I never did with mom. Celebrities?”
I look down embarrassed. She’s my big sister and sometimes I don’t know where to start with her.
“Yeah, like gossip.”
She laughs.
“You mean you never even shared your problems with Jake?”
She stops laughing and looks at me closely for a moment. Then she smiles and turns away.
If only I could talk to her that way. What happened between her and Jake? I thought they were going to get married. I was happy when James got married, but it’s different when you’re older sister is going to get married. Because even though James and I have always been closer, it was Maggie I looked up to. A sister who is successful and has an interesting job and gets to travel and sends you pictures of exotic places. “My older sister is on assignment in Siberia.” Then your friends come over and see pictures of this beautiful girl with lots of red hair and you hope you can be like that too. Well without the red hair of course.
The drizzle is falling a little bit more. It’s like a mist. Tom went out earlier for a walk. I hope he isn’t getting caught in the rain. Where did he go anyway? I see him the most but know him the least. He should’ve asked me to go with him. He’s always sneaking around going on his train rides, going for his walks with his funny and forceful stride. It’s strange to grow up and not really know one of your brothers.
I sip the coffee. It’s nice and bitter and hot. My tongue burns a little.
I’ve put the dishes in the washer after dinner. The kitchen smells like strong brewed coffee.
“Why don’t you sit with me and have a cup, Liza?”
“I’m sorry, mom. I’ve got to go meet Lauren.”
“Just a cup? Soon you’ll be gone. And it’ll be such an empty house.”
“Tom will come by. You know that.”
“I know but it’s not the same as talking with you.”
“Come on, mom.”
“Alright.”
She looked so disappointed in me. She just gave me a vacant nod. And I was so angry. Why did she have to put that on me? Why did she have to look so pathetic? And why couldn’t I see she was getting weaker? Wasn’t dad supposed to fix her? It wasn’t cancer, that’s what he said. I still don’t understand it all. You’re not supposed to feel guilty for spending time with your friends. Your parents are supposed to cope with having an empty nest, not die suddenly when they seem fine.
I didn’t kill my mother.
“Liza, is it true you killed your mother?”
“I heard that too. That she died of a broken heart because you moved out and went to school.”
“I wouldn’t have done that.”
“You all don’t understand. I didn’t do it.”
“Liar.”
I didn’t do it.
Liza
I liked being the last one home with mom. We’d sit at the kitchen table like I’m doing now and have coffee together. I’d make it. We’d talk, both with our white and blue ceramic mugs in our hands. Tom bought them for her for mother’s day one year. It was my single after school cup of coffee and it was a time for mom and me to just chat. In the summer we missed that time to share. I was too busy going to see my friends. She’d stop me sometimes and try to get me to stay. But I had to go, even though I could hear and I guess even feel the sadness in her voice. It’s funny that you can realize and even feel those things and not act on them. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know why I did it. I just wanted to spend time with my friends before college. I knew mom was sick, but you never think that your mother is going to die.
It’s not sunny like it was yesterday. The clouds have moved in and I can see specks of rain on the skylight above me. The coffee is a little strong, not enough water. I always did that. The coffee at school is fine, although a little hot in those thin paper cups. The inside of the mug is grayish clay, which looks nice with the black of my coffee. James always asked me if I was a fisherman drinking my coffee black. I just like the flavor, the bitterness, and the strength. But he liked to tease me.
I don’t think that mom ever talked with Maggie the way she talks with me. No, its talked isn’t it? The way she talked with me. I was too young to really observe how they acted towards each other when Maggie was my age. And she was out of the house for so much of my time growing up that I could only really see on the holidays. I think mom was always hard on her. Maybe it was because they were so different but looked the same with their terrific red hair. And me with my strange blondish hair that no one in the family has.
“Maggie did you and mom ever just chat like girls?”
“Like girls?”
“I don’t know. I mean you know about celebrities and hair and I don’t know share with her your problems.”
“No, I don’t really share my problems with anyone. And I never did with mom. Celebrities?”
I look down embarrassed. She’s my big sister and sometimes I don’t know where to start with her.
“Yeah, like gossip.”
She laughs.
“You mean you never even shared your problems with Jake?”
She stops laughing and looks at me closely for a moment. Then she smiles and turns away.
If only I could talk to her that way. What happened between her and Jake? I thought they were going to get married. I was happy when James got married, but it’s different when you’re older sister is going to get married. Because even though James and I have always been closer, it was Maggie I looked up to. A sister who is successful and has an interesting job and gets to travel and sends you pictures of exotic places. “My older sister is on assignment in Siberia.” Then your friends come over and see pictures of this beautiful girl with lots of red hair and you hope you can be like that too. Well without the red hair of course.
The drizzle is falling a little bit more. It’s like a mist. Tom went out earlier for a walk. I hope he isn’t getting caught in the rain. Where did he go anyway? I see him the most but know him the least. He should’ve asked me to go with him. He’s always sneaking around going on his train rides, going for his walks with his funny and forceful stride. It’s strange to grow up and not really know one of your brothers.
I sip the coffee. It’s nice and bitter and hot. My tongue burns a little.
I’ve put the dishes in the washer after dinner. The kitchen smells like strong brewed coffee.
“Why don’t you sit with me and have a cup, Liza?”
“I’m sorry, mom. I’ve got to go meet Lauren.”
“Just a cup? Soon you’ll be gone. And it’ll be such an empty house.”
“Tom will come by. You know that.”
“I know but it’s not the same as talking with you.”
“Come on, mom.”
“Alright.”
She looked so disappointed in me. She just gave me a vacant nod. And I was so angry. Why did she have to put that on me? Why did she have to look so pathetic? And why couldn’t I see she was getting weaker? Wasn’t dad supposed to fix her? It wasn’t cancer, that’s what he said. I still don’t understand it all. You’re not supposed to feel guilty for spending time with your friends. Your parents are supposed to cope with having an empty nest, not die suddenly when they seem fine.
I didn’t kill my mother.
“Liza, is it true you killed your mother?”
“I heard that too. That she died of a broken heart because you moved out and went to school.”
“I wouldn’t have done that.”
“You all don’t understand. I didn’t do it.”
“Liar.”
I didn’t do it.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Section 7 & 8 - Liza and Tom

It's been a hectic week. I have been trying to get a lot more work done on "From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt," as well as work on putting "The Journey Forward" on CreateSpace. I'm having trouble formatting my cover design for the CreateSpace templates. It's not really as easy as they make it out to seem when you read about it in praising articles and the visions of self-publishing grandeur you have in your head. I am going to work at it. In the meantime, to tide anyone who reads this over, I will post the next two sections of "From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt." I have some good rambling ideas for posts to come in the next few days or next week. This weekend, one of my oldest friends will be visiting from out of town so I have to pay attention to that. I want to write big posts about 1. Dwayne Wade - his never-ending greatness and his resurgence, 2. Role Models and the ascension of The State alumni to pop culture, 3. Red Rose Speedway (see above) and solo Paul McCartney for any doubters of the Pop Jesus. I will get these up as soon as I have the neccessary time to ramble them as well as any readers of my words that I type deserve.
Below find Tom and Liza's sections. You will have to scroll further down for Section 7 which is Liza and the Tom's section follows that. If you have any questions, feel free to e-mail me your complaints. Any mail is appreciated over here at Fuck City.
Enjoy.
Tom
I forgot how much I liked spareribs. I chomp into the grey-colored meat with its reddish brown crust or marinade on the outside. I’m ripping flesh and meat off the bone. Tissue too. Leaving it bare and grey with a few white marks that may or may not be from my teeth. The bone rattles on the old light-grey ceramic plates we’ve always used. There is a pile of four bones. Two are licked clean and two have pieces of chewed pale meat sticking to them. I’m a pale piece of meat.
James is talking.
“I think what we first should do is box up all of our old bedrooms. We can start that tomorrow. Then we work our way around the house. The moving truck gets here on Wednesday and they’re going to pack it that day and the next.”
“The funeral is on Monday?” Maggie asks.
James is eating his food and he nods.
“We’ll pack up the kitchen last right?” Liza asks.
“Absolutely. That way we can cook if we need to and have an area that’s not a complete disaster. Can you hand me the rice, honey?”
Eve passes the rice. But with her, there is something more. I want to say that she is swanlike in the way her arm raises, falls, rises again and slides the box of steaming rice. I think I’m in love with her and always have been since James first brought her home for Christmas. There was nothing like the way she looked on the wedding, though. She wore a white dress of course, but it was everything. The way her skin looked even more glowing in that way it has. Like honey in the sun or a bright penny but, no, lighter than that. And her hair was done in a certain way with strands threaded in a design I don’t even know the first thing about. I hate that he gets to live with her down in D.C. I still haven’t been to their house yet. I ride the train every Saturday and hope that a girl like her will come and sit down next to me and if she did, I know I’d have the courage to make her fall in love with me.
James again:
“Dad, did you really have to buy a new place so quickly? I hate to think that you just wasted some money by being brash.”
Dad is licking a sparerib bone. He turns to the Cutty Sark, which has about a third or so of its orangey liquid left. I look around the table. Eve looks concerned and so does James. Maggie tosses back her hair; she still has so much of it. Liza is quiet sitting next to Dad; she’s looking at her food.
“Jimmy,” Dad says. He rarely ever called him Jimmy. None of us did. “That’s the way I’ve always been. But didn’t you know?”
“Know what?” James says.
“Know that he was brash,” Maggie adds.
“No,” Dad is shaking his head. He lazily pokes his fork at a dark dripping piece of beef. “Didn’t you know that your mother was a magician?”
James looks at Eve.
“A magician, Ben?”
Dad nods and chews. Nods and chews.
“How do you mean, Dad?” Liza has piped up at the mention of Mom.
Dad looks over at her and smiles. He grabs the top of the Cutty Sark and begins to rotate the bottle. It makes that hollow sliding sound that glass makes on wood.
“She played a trick on you all, on anyone that has known us, and even on me.”
I’m confused. It seems like he’s going to drop a bombshell. But what kind of bombshell? What kind of secret is he toying around with? Or is he just playing, patting some dead rat around like a tomcat. That’s what his legend was. The big joker, the wit, the famous drunk. He has to be playing. My stomach feels bloated and it flips for a moment. Maybe Mom tricked him? An affair?
James is talking.
“What are you talking about, Dad?”
“The greatest trick of all that only your mother could pull off.” Dad is looking at Eve as he talks. “Making me seem like a respectable and successful man.”
I feel relieved. Everyone is rolling their eyes.
“C’mon, Dad,” Maggie says.
“No, Mags, it’s true. Now that she’s gone I can feel my old ways coming back to me. I’m becoming undone. All the stitching she did to fix me up over the years is loosening. She turned me into a doctor, but not a surgeon. That was her job.” Dad is standing with his plate in his right hand and the bottle tucked into his armpit. “I hope you will all come visit me at my new home. Feel free to bring any grandkids. You know how I always loved children. That’s what I wanted to be when I grew up.”
“Oh, come on, Dad,” Maggie says. “Don’t be like that.”
The faucet comes on and then there is thud of the dishwasher door opening. After that, it’s the clank of the dish and then the muffled close of the dishwasher. I hear Dad unscrew the bottle.
“I’ll be in the study,” he says.
We’re all quiet at the table. The Chinese food has consolidated into a lump in my stomach. I feel my skin bulge out and I’m tired.
Maggie is looking at James.
“What?” James says.
“Let him go through this.”
James plays with the food on his plate. He sighs. “I can’t just let him act like a fool. He’s got to take care of his money and himself now that Mom is dead.”
“This is how he’s grieving.”
“By reliving some sort of fantasy of himself from thirty years ago?”
“She’s gone.”
“I know.”
Maggie wants to speak but she remains quiet. James is home now and all of the feelings are starting to come back to me. The way he was always in control, trying to help everyone, taking responsibility. I’m looking at the grey bones on my plate. I love him and I’m glad he’s back. But I hate him for leaving and I hate that he’s going to go away again with his wife who I’m in love with. And I’ll still be here, riding the train, taking walks, stuck on this jut of land, which I’m tied to for some reason that I don’t understand.
I’m standing with my plate.
“I’m going to go for another walk.”
Section 7 - Liza
Liza
“Should we get Chinese food?”
I’m sitting with Dad at the kitchen table now. I see James, Eve, and Maggie outside. I’m not sure where Tom is. He was down here before but he must have gone out for a walk or something. Dad smiles at me.
“Never heard of it.”
He plays up his New York accent so that heard sounds more like hoid. I take this answer to mean yes so I walk over to Mom’s old desk, which looks out onto the backyard. There are still cluttered papers on the desk, notes of things to do. She had the date of Parents’ Weekend at my school written down on a blue post-it. The note is in my hand and I make a fist crumpling it. I feel the adhesive in my palm and I drop the ball of paper. It hits the light colored wood of the desk and bounces once. I see her old address book, beaten and colored by time and dust. The cloth flower print binding is frayed in so many places and there are all kinds of odd pieces of paper sticking out of it in different colors. I open it up and begin leafing through.
Anderson, Joan 101 Shaker Drive 631-689-4277
Christian, Terri 43 Colonial Way 751-0123
Hulse, Lindsay 2 Bay Street 689-8819
corner near Main
O’Donnell, Connor 22 Old Grey Road 631-941-9491
I’m past the S section when I see a small scrap of white paper pressed down in the nook where the pages meet the binding. The writing is in red ink and it looks like the writing of a child. “Mom- went to Shore Deli with James and Paul. Love, James” I put the paper back down in its nook and press the book with its worn out binding closed. Then I reach underneath the desk lamp to the ceramic envelope where Mom kept all of our takeout menus. I pull out the Eastern Pavilion one and begin to cry. I’m crying and crying and I can’t stop. I turn around back to the table and I slide the menu along the surface. Dad is looking at me. I feel the heat of my tears and the blood rising and filling my cheeks and the snot that is filling my nose, running a little bit down towards my lips. I pull a napkin out of the holder, which is a wooden house painted blue with a red roof and even one little puff of grey smoke coming out of a black chimney. Dad is looking at me.
“I don’t remember the food being that bad.”
I laugh and the laughter rises through my tears and I’m shrugging and holding the napkin upwards in my right hand. Dad is drinking. I don’t know what to do. But I hate this house with its brick chimney and because it’s so big and not small and wooden and sitting on a table. It sits on a small hill and is full to the brim of objects and memories.
I’m crying. Dad is drinking. And I killed mom because I went to college.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Section 3 and the Phillies on the cusp...

Welp, it's October 27th, 2008 and the Philadelphia Phillies might win the world series. I've grown up a Philadelphia sports fan for my whole life and seeing this would be magical, but not as magical as a magic trick most likely - although I saw someone reading a magic trick book on the subway today and I asked him to look at it and some of the tricks didn't seem so hard (it was a Dover Classic edition). If the Phillies do win, I will probably wax poetical about it tomorrow. For now though I am going to contemplate one of the great conundrums of any Philadelphia sports fan: do we take enjoyment in the fact that we have won, or do we prefer the great rage, tragic guilt, and comforting disillusionment that comes with having so many disappointments over the years and excuses to drink and wince as though we were being filmed in a movie. I'm going to think about it and drink a tall Busch beer.
On a side note, tomorrow night I am going to the listening party for the new Animal Collective album Merriweather Post Pavilion. I'll write up a review of that too so anyone that stumbles upon this space that happens to like that kind of thing can read it and enjoy it.
Section 3 of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt is below.
Liza
I hear James and Eve downstairs talking to Dad. I heard them ring and I heard all of their knocks. I like the sound of Eve’s voice. I always have. It’s so womanly, not girlish like mine. Hers is a voice that wraps around you; I can picture her calling kids in for dinner, or on the phone giving permission for a sleep over. Even going out to a store, a young wife calmly putting down some loser that tries to hit on her. A loyal woman with a warm voice. Sort of like mom. But Eve is so much more sleek and stylish. She’s young, alive, and beautiful whereas Mom is…
Never seen Dad like this before, though. No one has except Maggie but she was so young – barely three – and she probably has no memory of it anyway. He’s been drinking since I got here. He still has his normal look. The playfulness he always had that frightened Mom so much. That’s what Maggie told me at least. Why Mom got him off alcohol. There is something different about him, though. His hair looks whiter. You couldn’t tell if you just passed him in the street or if he was doing a checkup on you in his office. But I’m one of his daughters so I know. The circles under his eyes are bolder too. His skin is tan but his face looks purple. He looks like a haunted movie star – a failed celebrity. Pouring that scotch down his throat. Do all guys have that inclination in them, especially as they grow older? Even the ones that don’t drink have the inclination in them I bet; they just use it for something else. That’s why all men need a woman in one way or another. They need someone to control them, to trim the edges. Pull the bottle away from their mouths like Mom did from Dad. I look out the window. The beginning of September is always so beautiful here. The trees are overhanging the streets, canopies of the still full summer leaves, the colors only slightly showing. I see Tom walking up the street. Just got back from his Saturday train ride. He’s a little like an old man that way with his routines. Look at his walk. His strides are full of purpose; he leans forward but holds his shoulders slightly back letting his chest stick out. The collar of his shirt is a little crooked as he walks through the black gate. I can see everything from this room and always could. James and I got the rooms with the best views out into the slope of the front lawn. I turn away from the window and look at the emptiness of the pink walls of my room. I’ll have less stuff to move out since I already had to pack it all up to bring to school. Already I’m back. Some part of me knew that this would happen. That the empty nest would bring Mom to her death even though she was already sick. She could’ve held on longer had I stayed. I walk over to the small light colored-wood shelf along the wall next to my closet. There is a dark wooden dolphin resting on two small dark wood planks of wood. The planks are curved upward so that when you push the dolphin a little it begins to roll and arch as if it were plunging and rising out in the distance of the sea mimicking the waves. But this dolphin is dark wood and swims through the air and all I want to do is cry looking at it, because on the base of this contraption my name is inscribed with the year 1991 alongside it. Below the year is a heart and below that Mom is written. My eyes are becoming moist now and I have to walk over to my bed and lay down on my old purple comforter. But it doesn’t comfort me. I hear Dad laughing downstairs.
There are steps coming slowly upwards. I know their speed. Tom is walking up to his old room too.
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