6/23/2008
Greetings from Santa Barbara, California. I'm in a $725 room at the Fess Parker DoubleTree Resort. I'm not paying for it.
Here for the Santa Barbara Writers' Conference. Believe it or not, John McCain is here, too. There are Secret Service guys everywhere--suddenly, you see janitors in hotel uniforms with wires leading to their ears, guys talking into their jackets. Some guy at the pool got busted, and the agents took his picture with a cell phone. "Say cheese," they told him. He ran away. Big terror drama.
I didn't meet him, of course. Cindy did. Eric and I were walking Chayo down the beach. How bad is my luck: at Disneyworld, Cindy meets Mick Foley, the wrestler. Here, she's doing laundry, and McCain walks by and says, "Hi, how ya doin'?"
Now she and Megan want to get him a copy of Devil's Highway.
We've been on the road for a week, and you would not believe all the stuff we've seen. I've kept almost 100 pages of notes. Can U believe that? Wastelander stuff. Will post soon.
Cocktail party tonight. My gig is tomorrow. Maybe McCain will come to it! Then to San Diego.
L
Saturday Surprise
Here for the Santa Barbara Writers' Conference. Believe it or not, John McCain is here, too. There are Secret Service guys everywhere--suddenly, you see janitors in hotel uniforms with wires leading to their ears, guys talking into their jackets. Some guy at the pool got busted, and the agents took his picture with a cell phone. "Say cheese," they told him. He ran away. Big terror drama.
I didn't meet him, of course. Cindy did. Eric and I were walking Chayo down the beach. How bad is my luck: at Disneyworld, Cindy meets Mick Foley, the wrestler. Here, she's doing laundry, and McCain walks by and says, "Hi, how ya doin'?"
Now she and Megan want to get him a copy of Devil's Highway.
We've been on the road for a week, and you would not believe all the stuff we've seen. I've kept almost 100 pages of notes. Can U believe that? Wastelander stuff. Will post soon.
Cocktail party tonight. My gig is tomorrow. Maybe McCain will come to it! Then to San Diego.
L
6/14/2008
As we pack up to hit the road, I got an unexpected e-mail from my pal Rohn Trieglaff in California. Apparently The Devil's Highway has become the #1 non-fiction best-seller in San Diego this week. That doesn't often happen for a book that is, let's face it, four years old. I told you something was happening out there. Must be my Father's Day present from The Great Beyond...or The Great Right Here. Tonight, as I grimly sit through the three hours of Chayo's first "ballet" recital with 1,000 moms, I will tell myself this over and over: #1 best seller in your hometown. #1 best seller in your hometown. Hope all the old gang sees that! #1 best seller....
Yes. And I got a warm e-mail from another of Teresita's great-granddaughters. The medicine is strong right now.
Think I'll listen to Louis Armstrong sing "Pennies from Heaven." I always see the eternal when I hear that song and that voice.
See you at Stuckey's in Nebraska--I'll buy you a pecan log.
L
Over the Hills and Far Away
Yes. And I got a warm e-mail from another of Teresita's great-granddaughters. The medicine is strong right now.
Think I'll listen to Louis Armstrong sing "Pennies from Heaven." I always see the eternal when I hear that song and that voice.
See you at Stuckey's in Nebraska--I'll buy you a pecan log.
L
6/12/2008
Bye-bye, y'all. I'm packing up the Little Brown van. I'm consulting AAA. I'm looking at ways west: floods, tornadoes, devatstation, lightning, weird killings, $5 gas. Must be in Santa Barbara June 24. Must be in Solana Beach June 26. Must be at Fishtrap July...uh...sometime in July. Must get home afterward to get to Breadloaf in Vermont, then to American University in DC.
I'm reverting to my joyous Wastelander mode for the summer. Fast supple bizarre poem-like notes. I'm kind of tired and kind of irritable and kind of fed up with angry immigration freaks and strange scary people and the daily grind. I'm working hard on the final draft of Into the Beautiful North. Although I dread the gas prices and the strangeness that seems to be consuming America right now, I think I'm eager to roll. You know me. I'm eager to skethc it out. I'm eager to see the eagles and the trading posts. "I'm a roadrunner, baby, you know what I am." --The Screaming Blue Messiahs.
Will I see you out there? Forgive me if I'm buried in bodies. I have been caught in crowds lately, and I feel awful when someone I love appears and gives me a hug and a peck on the cheek and then, when I'm done signing books an hour later, is gone without a trace. One day, I'll come home without any touring hype attached. I promise. Meet you at La Jolla Cove and we'll just watch the sea lions.
There seems to be a TV crew from New York planning to fly out to Solana Beach and film me. Why? I don't know. Maybe they want to get a gander at Prudence! Somehow, in the swirl of whatever is happening in the Solana Beach library, I'm going to talk with Judy Bell (remember, San Diego, the Theater Arts Guild?) about making a film of my short story, "Bid Farewell to Her Many Horses."
Today, I allegedly receive the first version of the new book cover. By Sunday, I get the red ink massacre of my manuscript. Cinderella and I will attack it on the laptop in motels all across this fine country. And Into the Beautiful North will come out and try to win your hearts in Spring '09. And then we can all go to the premiere of The Hummingbird's Daughter soon after that. Then, I guess, the next Hummingbird book will come out. And the graphic novel of "Mr. Mendoza's Paintbrush."
We will tear down this website and redesign it to reflect the Beautiful North Look, whatever that will be. I want to add audio. Would you like audio? I have so many recordings here--so many cd's of events, interviews, radio shows, songs, readings. They're just sitting in my cabinets. Why don't I let you hear 'em?
After all that, if luck holds out, we can go see The Devil's Highway.
What's happening? I don't know. But it is happening, whatever it is. Honestly, I'm just trying to roll with it. Make good art while I have my faculties. Be a good dad. Be a good husband. Look to the hills and plan my grand escape, my vanishing, where I can eat blueberries and watch elk on the rancho down the valley from my pal Sheriff Ogden. For, like Bob Dylan, "My heart's in the highlands." I think ol' Bob's talking about the mtns, sure--but he's also talking about Heaven. I'm with him on both counts.
So. Whew. I'm spinning.
I'll try to post The Wastelander here. I don't know if you even like to read it. But I like to write it. It's almost the only thing I really like to write, right now. The seven or eight readers of Wandering Time will know why.
In parting, I turn, as I often do, to our old friend David Grayson. He said something that seems to be the perfect reflection on bth Writing, Being and...well, Going. (See below.)
See you soon, L
"It is never far to the unfamiliar; at any moment the wild, the eerie, the mysterious may ruffle the stagnant pool of our mediocre days." --David Grayson
Playlist II
I'm reverting to my joyous Wastelander mode for the summer. Fast supple bizarre poem-like notes. I'm kind of tired and kind of irritable and kind of fed up with angry immigration freaks and strange scary people and the daily grind. I'm working hard on the final draft of Into the Beautiful North. Although I dread the gas prices and the strangeness that seems to be consuming America right now, I think I'm eager to roll. You know me. I'm eager to skethc it out. I'm eager to see the eagles and the trading posts. "I'm a roadrunner, baby, you know what I am." --The Screaming Blue Messiahs.
Will I see you out there? Forgive me if I'm buried in bodies. I have been caught in crowds lately, and I feel awful when someone I love appears and gives me a hug and a peck on the cheek and then, when I'm done signing books an hour later, is gone without a trace. One day, I'll come home without any touring hype attached. I promise. Meet you at La Jolla Cove and we'll just watch the sea lions.
There seems to be a TV crew from New York planning to fly out to Solana Beach and film me. Why? I don't know. Maybe they want to get a gander at Prudence! Somehow, in the swirl of whatever is happening in the Solana Beach library, I'm going to talk with Judy Bell (remember, San Diego, the Theater Arts Guild?) about making a film of my short story, "Bid Farewell to Her Many Horses."
Today, I allegedly receive the first version of the new book cover. By Sunday, I get the red ink massacre of my manuscript. Cinderella and I will attack it on the laptop in motels all across this fine country. And Into the Beautiful North will come out and try to win your hearts in Spring '09. And then we can all go to the premiere of The Hummingbird's Daughter soon after that. Then, I guess, the next Hummingbird book will come out. And the graphic novel of "Mr. Mendoza's Paintbrush."
We will tear down this website and redesign it to reflect the Beautiful North Look, whatever that will be. I want to add audio. Would you like audio? I have so many recordings here--so many cd's of events, interviews, radio shows, songs, readings. They're just sitting in my cabinets. Why don't I let you hear 'em?
After all that, if luck holds out, we can go see The Devil's Highway.
What's happening? I don't know. But it is happening, whatever it is. Honestly, I'm just trying to roll with it. Make good art while I have my faculties. Be a good dad. Be a good husband. Look to the hills and plan my grand escape, my vanishing, where I can eat blueberries and watch elk on the rancho down the valley from my pal Sheriff Ogden. For, like Bob Dylan, "My heart's in the highlands." I think ol' Bob's talking about the mtns, sure--but he's also talking about Heaven. I'm with him on both counts.
So. Whew. I'm spinning.
I'll try to post The Wastelander here. I don't know if you even like to read it. But I like to write it. It's almost the only thing I really like to write, right now. The seven or eight readers of Wandering Time will know why.
In parting, I turn, as I often do, to our old friend David Grayson. He said something that seems to be the perfect reflection on bth Writing, Being and...well, Going. (See below.)
See you soon, L
"It is never far to the unfamiliar; at any moment the wild, the eerie, the mysterious may ruffle the stagnant pool of our mediocre days." --David Grayson
6/10/2008
Where's my Busta Rhymes? Where the heck is my Busta Rhymes!!! Has anybody seen my BUSTA RHYMES?
I have enjoyed hearing from you about what you listen to. (Don't end sentences with a preposition.) Sarah suggested I should listen to The Dresden Dolls, but check out the "D" section, pal.
Here goes one last bit o' trivia. I like stuff like this. I like looking at my friends' cd/record/dvd/book collections. So thumb through my iPod.
D
Dando Shaft; Dandy Warhols; Daniel Lanois; The Darkness; Daughtry; Dave Brubeck; Dave, Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich; Dave Harris; Dave Matthews; David Bowie; David Wilcox; The db's; Dead Can Dance; Dead Kennedys; Deae Meadow; The Dead Milkmen; Dead or Alive; Deaf School; Dean Elliott; The Dears; Death Cab for Cutie; The Decemberists; Deep Purple; Deerhoof; Deftones; Department of Crooks; Depeche Mode; Descendents; Detroit Junior; DEVO; DeVotchKa; Dianne Revves; Dick Hyman; Die Krupps; Dinah Washington; Dinosaur Jr.; Dire Straits; Divinyls; Dizzy Gillespie; Does It Offend You, Yeah?; Don Gibson; Donovan; The Doors; Dread Zeppelin; Dream Sybndicate; Dream Theater; The Dresden Dolls; Drive-By Truckers; Dropkick Murphys; Duke Ellington.
E
Earl Bostic; Echo & the Bunnymen; Eddie Beram; Eddie Cochran; Eddie Floyd; Edesio; Edith Piaf; Editors; Edwin Star; Ekome; El Gran Silencio; Electrafixion; The Electric Prunes; Elton John; Elvis Costello; Elvis Presley; Ely Guerra; Emerson Lake and Palmer; Eminem; The English Beat; Ennio Morricone; Enrique Bunbury; Entrance; Eric Gales; Esquivel; Eugene Ormandy; Eurythmics; The Exies.
F
Faith No More; Farley Jackmaster Funk; Fatboy Slim; Faust; Fear; The Feelies; The Feeling; Feist; Fergie; Fevertree; The Fields; Fields of the Nephilim; Final Fantasy; Fish; The Flaming Lips; Fletcher Henderson; The Flower Kigs; Focus; Foo Fighters; Frank Sinatra; Frank Zappa; Frankie Lane; Franz Ferdinand; The Fratellis; Fraternity of Man; The Fray; Fred Lowrey; Front 242; Frost; Fuel; Fujiya & Miyagi; Funkadelic; Futurhythm.
Eleven
I have enjoyed hearing from you about what you listen to. (Don't end sentences with a preposition.) Sarah suggested I should listen to The Dresden Dolls, but check out the "D" section, pal.
Here goes one last bit o' trivia. I like stuff like this. I like looking at my friends' cd/record/dvd/book collections. So thumb through my iPod.
D
Dando Shaft; Dandy Warhols; Daniel Lanois; The Darkness; Daughtry; Dave Brubeck; Dave, Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich; Dave Harris; Dave Matthews; David Bowie; David Wilcox; The db's; Dead Can Dance; Dead Kennedys; Deae Meadow; The Dead Milkmen; Dead or Alive; Deaf School; Dean Elliott; The Dears; Death Cab for Cutie; The Decemberists; Deep Purple; Deerhoof; Deftones; Department of Crooks; Depeche Mode; Descendents; Detroit Junior; DEVO; DeVotchKa; Dianne Revves; Dick Hyman; Die Krupps; Dinah Washington; Dinosaur Jr.; Dire Straits; Divinyls; Dizzy Gillespie; Does It Offend You, Yeah?; Don Gibson; Donovan; The Doors; Dread Zeppelin; Dream Sybndicate; Dream Theater; The Dresden Dolls; Drive-By Truckers; Dropkick Murphys; Duke Ellington.
E
Earl Bostic; Echo & the Bunnymen; Eddie Beram; Eddie Cochran; Eddie Floyd; Edesio; Edith Piaf; Editors; Edwin Star; Ekome; El Gran Silencio; Electrafixion; The Electric Prunes; Elton John; Elvis Costello; Elvis Presley; Ely Guerra; Emerson Lake and Palmer; Eminem; The English Beat; Ennio Morricone; Enrique Bunbury; Entrance; Eric Gales; Esquivel; Eugene Ormandy; Eurythmics; The Exies.
F
Faith No More; Farley Jackmaster Funk; Fatboy Slim; Faust; Fear; The Feelies; The Feeling; Feist; Fergie; Fevertree; The Fields; Fields of the Nephilim; Final Fantasy; Fish; The Flaming Lips; Fletcher Henderson; The Flower Kigs; Focus; Foo Fighters; Frank Sinatra; Frank Zappa; Frankie Lane; Franz Ferdinand; The Fratellis; Fraternity of Man; The Fray; Fred Lowrey; Front 242; Frost; Fuel; Fujiya & Miyagi; Funkadelic; Futurhythm.
6/07/2008
Eleven years ago, on this day, Cinderella and I got up at dawn. We were visiting Jonna and Steve in La Jolla. It was a classic June Gloom kind of Southern California morning--overcast and still. Everyone in the house was asleep.
We crept downstairs and went out the glass door to the small patio of Jonna's little gem of a garden. Dew was on the grass, and the small wooden bridge over the river-rock streambed could have been fording rushing mountain water.
We sat in the cold chairs and held hands near the potted lemon tree. And we watched the hummingbirds. They came from everywhere. They worked the blossoms over our heads, and they made their whirring sounds, and their small irritated and joyous kissing-sounds. Hummingbirds and bees. Not another sound in the world.
Then, a few hourse later, across the little faux-bridge, we stood on that postage-stamp vibrating green lawn, and we got married.
Evertyhing about us was against the odds. I, for example, might have been dead if left to my own devices. She found me at absolute rock bottom. No money, no hope, no family, no friends. Nothing. No one. Nowhere, man--I was "living" in a 400 sq. foot adobe hovel near the stadium in Tucson. One huge beetle-infested cactus in front, dirt all around, and demons and black midnight angels swarming around my head. It was doom. The only person who even knew I was dying was Brian Laird, the mystery writer. I had been destroyed by Teresita and the insanity of trying to live the life of the desert mystic. I had been destroyed by being abandoned by someone I loved with all my heart. And my career, what there was of it, had fled, burning as it sketched an arc of smoke to the desert hardpan.
I was so broke, so wiped out, that I only had enogh money in the bank to pay one more month's rent. I couldn't touch that $800. I had some pocket money from doing freelance writing when I could lift my head. I had a big bvox of Minute Rice, a bottle of tabasco, and two or three 49 cent cans of red beans. That's it. Tap water. At the worst time of it, I ate one bowl of rice--or rice and beans, yeah!--a day.
When Burger Kinf had a 99 Whopper deal, I prayed my thanks and splurged on a single burger a day.
Laird used to buy me coffee at The Cup, the writers' hang-out at the Hotel Congress.
The Great Mexican Fiance had told me I had failed to amount to anything--Across The Wire, The Fever of Being, In Search of Snow, and By the Lake of Sleeping Children weren't enough. Her sister, who had come from Mexico City to enjoy my hospitality and borrow money from me, chirped, "You know how it is--when poverty comes in the door, love jumps out the window!" And their whole family jumped.
So there I was. And Cinderella, intrepid Lois Lane female reporter for The Daily Planet (ok, the Tucson Citizen) had the writer-beat. Which is how we'd met in the first place. And she quickly realized that I was not able to get out of bed anymore. I know I wept through the entire month of June that year, sick and possessed. And she started waking me up on her way to the newspaper with a cup of coffee and a couple of fancy bagels. I was a little miffed--dying men want to sleep until the die. Why did I want to get up at 7:00? But the food helped, the coffee helped, but neither of those things fed me. It was Lois Lane.
I wanted to talk to her.
It was our friendship that made me return to the earth every day.
And we've been talking ever since.
So it's our eleventh anniversary today. And tomorrow is her birthday. We are far beyond presents and elaborate gifts--every day, even when I bitch and moan, is a gift. We don't miss that. So it will be a quiet celebration. Though, if I could find hummingbirds, I would bring them here.
And I'll probably have to watch a chick-flick.
Love, L
Playlist
We crept downstairs and went out the glass door to the small patio of Jonna's little gem of a garden. Dew was on the grass, and the small wooden bridge over the river-rock streambed could have been fording rushing mountain water.
We sat in the cold chairs and held hands near the potted lemon tree. And we watched the hummingbirds. They came from everywhere. They worked the blossoms over our heads, and they made their whirring sounds, and their small irritated and joyous kissing-sounds. Hummingbirds and bees. Not another sound in the world.
Then, a few hourse later, across the little faux-bridge, we stood on that postage-stamp vibrating green lawn, and we got married.
Evertyhing about us was against the odds. I, for example, might have been dead if left to my own devices. She found me at absolute rock bottom. No money, no hope, no family, no friends. Nothing. No one. Nowhere, man--I was "living" in a 400 sq. foot adobe hovel near the stadium in Tucson. One huge beetle-infested cactus in front, dirt all around, and demons and black midnight angels swarming around my head. It was doom. The only person who even knew I was dying was Brian Laird, the mystery writer. I had been destroyed by Teresita and the insanity of trying to live the life of the desert mystic. I had been destroyed by being abandoned by someone I loved with all my heart. And my career, what there was of it, had fled, burning as it sketched an arc of smoke to the desert hardpan.
I was so broke, so wiped out, that I only had enogh money in the bank to pay one more month's rent. I couldn't touch that $800. I had some pocket money from doing freelance writing when I could lift my head. I had a big bvox of Minute Rice, a bottle of tabasco, and two or three 49 cent cans of red beans. That's it. Tap water. At the worst time of it, I ate one bowl of rice--or rice and beans, yeah!--a day.
When Burger Kinf had a 99 Whopper deal, I prayed my thanks and splurged on a single burger a day.
Laird used to buy me coffee at The Cup, the writers' hang-out at the Hotel Congress.
The Great Mexican Fiance had told me I had failed to amount to anything--Across The Wire, The Fever of Being, In Search of Snow, and By the Lake of Sleeping Children weren't enough. Her sister, who had come from Mexico City to enjoy my hospitality and borrow money from me, chirped, "You know how it is--when poverty comes in the door, love jumps out the window!" And their whole family jumped.
So there I was. And Cinderella, intrepid Lois Lane female reporter for The Daily Planet (ok, the Tucson Citizen) had the writer-beat. Which is how we'd met in the first place. And she quickly realized that I was not able to get out of bed anymore. I know I wept through the entire month of June that year, sick and possessed. And she started waking me up on her way to the newspaper with a cup of coffee and a couple of fancy bagels. I was a little miffed--dying men want to sleep until the die. Why did I want to get up at 7:00? But the food helped, the coffee helped, but neither of those things fed me. It was Lois Lane.
I wanted to talk to her.
It was our friendship that made me return to the earth every day.
And we've been talking ever since.
So it's our eleventh anniversary today. And tomorrow is her birthday. We are far beyond presents and elaborate gifts--every day, even when I bitch and moan, is a gift. We don't miss that. So it will be a quiet celebration. Though, if I could find hummingbirds, I would bring them here.
And I'll probably have to watch a chick-flick.
Love, L
6/05/2008
As promised, no literychoor today. No cosmic pensees on the writing life. Nope! Here, it's too hot for that. It's so hot, all we can think about is trivia! Trivia and tornadoes! So grab a cold drink, Cool Cats and Krazy Kitties and we'll have a platter-party. Here's what's on my iPod right now. A-C. I have variable tastes.
What are YOU listening to?
A
A.C. Reed; Aaron Copland; ABC; ABC Orchestra; Abhijeet; Adam & the Ants; Add N to (X); Adrian Belew; Aerosmith; AFI; Akufen; Al Caiola and his Orchestra; Al Green; Al Hirt; The Alarm; Alice Cooper; Alice in Chains; Alien Ant Farm; The Almman Brothers; The Amboy Dukes; Amigos Invisibles; Amistades Peligrosas; Amon Duul II; Amon Tobin; Amy Winehouse; Andre Williams; Andy Prieboy; Angelo Badalamenti; The Angels; The Animals; Annie Lenox; Anthrax; Antonio Carlos Jobim; Antsy Pants; Anuradha Shriram; Aorta; Aphex Twin; April March; The Arcade Fire; Arctic Monkeys; Aretha Franklin; Armand Van Helden; Armor for Sleep; Arpeggiators; Art Brut; Arthur "Big Boy" Cruddup; Arthur Brown; Arthur Fiedler & the Boston Pops; Arthur Russell; Artie Shaw; Ash Ra Tempel; The Association; At the Drive-In; Atari Teenage Riot; Aterciopelados; The Atomic Bitchwax; Atomic Rooster; Audioslave; Augustana; Axiom Funk; Aztec Camera.
B
The B-52's; Babasonicos; Bad Brains; The Bad Plus; Band of Gypsys; Band of Horses; The Bangles; Barbarella; Barrett Strong; Barry Adamson; Barry Louis Poliser; Basement Jaxx; Bauhaus; The Beach Boys; Beat Farmers; Beat Happening; The Beatles; Beau Jocque & the Zydeco High-Rollers; Beausoleil; Beck; Beirut; Belle & Sebastian; Ben Webster; Benny Goodman; Berlin; Bernie Krause & Human Remains; Big Audio Dynamite; Big Twist and the Mellow Fellows; Bill Bruford; Bill Hayes; Bill Withers; Billie Holiday; Billy Bragg; Billy Idol; Billy Mure; Bjork; Black Eyed Peas; Blacl Flag; The Black Keys; Black Mountain; Black Oak Arkansas; Black Rebel Motorcycle Club; Black Sabbath; Blancmange; Blind Faith; Blink-182; Bloc Party; Blodwyin Pig; Bloque; Blossom Toes; Blue Cheer; Blue October; Blue Oyster Cult; Bo Bice; Bob Dylan; Bonnie Raitt; Bonzo Dog Band; Bootsauce; Bootsy Collins; Bow Wow Wow; The Box Tops; Brian Eno; Brian Eno & David Byrne; Brian Wilson; Broken Social Scene; Bruce Springsteen; Bubba Sparxxx; Bubble Puppy; Buckethead; Buckwheat Zydeco; Buddy Guy; Buddy Holly; Buffalo Springfield; Burning Water; Buscemi; Butthole Surfers; The Byrds.
C
C.C. Adcock; Cabas; Cafe Tacuba; Caifanes; Calexico; The Call; Camper Van Beethoven; Can; Canned Heat; Captain Beefheart; Captain Beyond; Carlos Peron; The Cars; Cascada; Cat Power; Cat Stevens; Catherine Wheel; Cato Salsa Experience; CBS Orchestra; The Chambers Brothers; Chameleons UK; Changuito; Cheap Trick; The Chemical Brothers; Cherry Ghost; Chet Atkins; Chicago Transit Authority; Chris Butler; Chris Isaak; Chris Smither; Chris Whitley; The Church; Cairculus; Citay; Clap Your Hands Say Yeah; The Clash; Clifton Chenier; cLOUDDEAD; Clutch; The Coasters; Cock Robin; Cocteau Twins; Code Blue; Cold War Kids; Coldplay; Colin Hay; Comets on Fire; Count Basie Orhestra; Count Five; Crack the Sky; The Cramps; Cream; Creed; Creedence Clearwater Revival; The Cult; The Cure; Curtis Mayfield; Curved Air.
Don't even get me started on what I'm reading and watching....
No Adjectives Tonight
What are YOU listening to?
A
A.C. Reed; Aaron Copland; ABC; ABC Orchestra; Abhijeet; Adam & the Ants; Add N to (X); Adrian Belew; Aerosmith; AFI; Akufen; Al Caiola and his Orchestra; Al Green; Al Hirt; The Alarm; Alice Cooper; Alice in Chains; Alien Ant Farm; The Almman Brothers; The Amboy Dukes; Amigos Invisibles; Amistades Peligrosas; Amon Duul II; Amon Tobin; Amy Winehouse; Andre Williams; Andy Prieboy; Angelo Badalamenti; The Angels; The Animals; Annie Lenox; Anthrax; Antonio Carlos Jobim; Antsy Pants; Anuradha Shriram; Aorta; Aphex Twin; April March; The Arcade Fire; Arctic Monkeys; Aretha Franklin; Armand Van Helden; Armor for Sleep; Arpeggiators; Art Brut; Arthur "Big Boy" Cruddup; Arthur Brown; Arthur Fiedler & the Boston Pops; Arthur Russell; Artie Shaw; Ash Ra Tempel; The Association; At the Drive-In; Atari Teenage Riot; Aterciopelados; The Atomic Bitchwax; Atomic Rooster; Audioslave; Augustana; Axiom Funk; Aztec Camera.
B
The B-52's; Babasonicos; Bad Brains; The Bad Plus; Band of Gypsys; Band of Horses; The Bangles; Barbarella; Barrett Strong; Barry Adamson; Barry Louis Poliser; Basement Jaxx; Bauhaus; The Beach Boys; Beat Farmers; Beat Happening; The Beatles; Beau Jocque & the Zydeco High-Rollers; Beausoleil; Beck; Beirut; Belle & Sebastian; Ben Webster; Benny Goodman; Berlin; Bernie Krause & Human Remains; Big Audio Dynamite; Big Twist and the Mellow Fellows; Bill Bruford; Bill Hayes; Bill Withers; Billie Holiday; Billy Bragg; Billy Idol; Billy Mure; Bjork; Black Eyed Peas; Blacl Flag; The Black Keys; Black Mountain; Black Oak Arkansas; Black Rebel Motorcycle Club; Black Sabbath; Blancmange; Blind Faith; Blink-182; Bloc Party; Blodwyin Pig; Bloque; Blossom Toes; Blue Cheer; Blue October; Blue Oyster Cult; Bo Bice; Bob Dylan; Bonnie Raitt; Bonzo Dog Band; Bootsauce; Bootsy Collins; Bow Wow Wow; The Box Tops; Brian Eno; Brian Eno & David Byrne; Brian Wilson; Broken Social Scene; Bruce Springsteen; Bubba Sparxxx; Bubble Puppy; Buckethead; Buckwheat Zydeco; Buddy Guy; Buddy Holly; Buffalo Springfield; Burning Water; Buscemi; Butthole Surfers; The Byrds.
C
C.C. Adcock; Cabas; Cafe Tacuba; Caifanes; Calexico; The Call; Camper Van Beethoven; Can; Canned Heat; Captain Beefheart; Captain Beyond; Carlos Peron; The Cars; Cascada; Cat Power; Cat Stevens; Catherine Wheel; Cato Salsa Experience; CBS Orchestra; The Chambers Brothers; Chameleons UK; Changuito; Cheap Trick; The Chemical Brothers; Cherry Ghost; Chet Atkins; Chicago Transit Authority; Chris Butler; Chris Isaak; Chris Smither; Chris Whitley; The Church; Cairculus; Citay; Clap Your Hands Say Yeah; The Clash; Clifton Chenier; cLOUDDEAD; Clutch; The Coasters; Cock Robin; Cocteau Twins; Code Blue; Cold War Kids; Coldplay; Colin Hay; Comets on Fire; Count Basie Orhestra; Count Five; Crack the Sky; The Cramps; Cream; Creed; Creedence Clearwater Revival; The Cult; The Cure; Curtis Mayfield; Curved Air.
Don't even get me started on what I'm reading and watching....
6/04/2008
I wasn't going to mention writing for a while, but the nice note from "Anonymous" about my identity made me think. How do I describe myself, how do I identify myself, etc. You know, am I a Mexican, an American, a Latino, a...a.... Look, I am a writer. What country is that? That is the country where I fly my flag.
Lately, I don't want adjectives added.
You know, for every "brilliant" or "handsome" or "funny" or "moving" or whatever description one could add, there is the just as easy "fat," "boring," "cliched" etc. I am Batman. I have a secret identity, and only Cinderella knows it.
As Larry Norman so rightly sang: "I'm only visiting this planet."
Call Casey Kasem
Lately, I don't want adjectives added.
You know, for every "brilliant" or "handsome" or "funny" or "moving" or whatever description one could add, there is the just as easy "fat," "boring," "cliched" etc. I am Batman. I have a secret identity, and only Cinderella knows it.
As Larry Norman so rightly sang: "I'm only visiting this planet."
I don't know what this means, but I made the 50 Most Influential Chicago Writers List again. Uh. Am I a Chicago writer? That fascinates me, since I have been listed as a San Diego writer, a Tijuana writer, a Mexican, a Mexican-American, a Chicano, an American writer in Europe and Asia, a Colorado author, a Louisiana writer, a Western writer. I guess, though, if you live and work in a place, that's where you're from.
So, like, I didn't get in the top ten. But, um, let's see, I'm in the top twenty. I feel like The Electric Prunes looking up the charts at the Beatles. Still, I will admit a deep thrill. I love stuff like being on top twenty lists! What a hack I am! What a dork! (And every writer on earth who gets on these lists checks the names that scored higher with envy and chagrin, and the names that scored lower with profound rejoicing and arrogance.)
I'm #16. Maybe I can get a football jersey made and that can be my official writer number. I think it went up from the last time I was on the list.
Wasn't it Eeyore who said: "This writing business. Quite boring. Pencils and such."
Next blog post will have nothing to do with writing, or immigration. Trivia! Stupid pointless trivia! Because it's fun.
I'm not even writing right now--just reading pop novels and watching The Deadliest Catch on cable. Yeah, Skipper Sig! Yeah, Captain Phil! Yay, Captain Johnathan! Eric and I even bought baseball caps with the name of one of the crab boats so we can pretend we're crew members!
And I am wearing me masked wrestler shirt Grace and Clarke sent me.
Although it is all writing--if you are a wen-fu writer--there's no writing going on here at all. Just cats, dogs, kids, wrestling, Joy Division, monster movies, fishermen, gardens, housework, rainstorms, Obama/Clinton/McCain, reading, bird feeders, fan mail, loading 7,000 songs in the iPods for the summer trip. But no writing.
Yeah, right.
Yrs.,
The Electric Prune
My Garden Grows Helicopters
So, like, I didn't get in the top ten. But, um, let's see, I'm in the top twenty. I feel like The Electric Prunes looking up the charts at the Beatles. Still, I will admit a deep thrill. I love stuff like being on top twenty lists! What a hack I am! What a dork! (And every writer on earth who gets on these lists checks the names that scored higher with envy and chagrin, and the names that scored lower with profound rejoicing and arrogance.)
I'm #16. Maybe I can get a football jersey made and that can be my official writer number. I think it went up from the last time I was on the list.
Wasn't it Eeyore who said: "This writing business. Quite boring. Pencils and such."
Next blog post will have nothing to do with writing, or immigration. Trivia! Stupid pointless trivia! Because it's fun.
I'm not even writing right now--just reading pop novels and watching The Deadliest Catch on cable. Yeah, Skipper Sig! Yeah, Captain Phil! Yay, Captain Johnathan! Eric and I even bought baseball caps with the name of one of the crab boats so we can pretend we're crew members!
And I am wearing me masked wrestler shirt Grace and Clarke sent me.
Although it is all writing--if you are a wen-fu writer--there's no writing going on here at all. Just cats, dogs, kids, wrestling, Joy Division, monster movies, fishermen, gardens, housework, rainstorms, Obama/Clinton/McCain, reading, bird feeders, fan mail, loading 7,000 songs in the iPods for the summer trip. But no writing.
Yeah, right.
Yrs.,
The Electric Prune
6/03/2008
Morning, waiting for rain. My columbines are higher than my waist. The forsythia has turned the backyard into a jungle. And we are nearing the end of helicopter season.
Our madwoman eight year old, Chayo, has named the big maples in our back yard. King Ralph and Queen Sally are, she is right, quite regal. Big brutes that tower over the neighbors' trees. And every June, they unleash thousands of maple seeds with their little pterodactyl wings. They break free with the slightest breeze and spin through the air like confetti at an Obama rally. Or, as Chaypo points out, like helicopters.
How can the King and Queen do this every year with such aplomb? Create all these seeds with their amazing aerodynamic design, then launch them to fly all over the yards of all the long-suffering folks hereabouts? Because the most amazing this about the helicopters is that almost every one of them, unless intervened upon, will take today's coming rainstorm as inspiration and creat a tiny maple tree!
I come from the soutwest. We don't have all that much rain. And we don't have sufi maple trees so wild in their devotion that they rain down 10,000 new trees every year,between my dad's and my wife's birthdays. (My dad would have turned 93 yesterday.) If we were all to vanish tomorrow, a dense maple forest would explode out of my front and back lawns. By next year, it would be a foot high. If the helicopter I put in a pot two years ago is any example, the forest would be three feet tall in 24 months. The maple trees growing in my rain gutters would probably pry them loose and drop them.
It is certainly a complex experience for me to weed the garden now. Yes, I am lazy and don't like to weed, and my back is rotten and hurts when I do it. But that's not the point. The point is that I have to weed out a few hundred little trees. I guess it's Godlike (or at least Godzilla-like) to crawl around tearing trees out by the roots. But it also feels like some kind of sin.
No San Diego / Tijuana boy who believes in life could throw miniature trees in the yard waste bag and not feel shocked and guilty. Shouldn't I be finding some Chicago waste-space for them? Shouldn't I be sneaking down to the 'hood around my school and getting the kids and moms to plant them in the trash-lots?
I must confess to you that every time this happens, I think about putting five of them in UPS boxes and sending them to each of you. We could have Teresita Memorial Woods all over the country! You could have your Writing Meditation maple baby in your favorite pot on your kitchen windowsill. Something. Anything.
Well, you know me--I can't help but equate this with writing itself. Most writers I teach seem to have trouble getting something sprouted. But I tell you, once you give in the the literary "helicopter season," once you lie back and let the green fuse of writing/story/prayer/song/poem slide through you, the opposite happens. You start to srop forests. That's what you do when you edit--you know you might be pulling out a perfectly good King Ralph or Queen Sally. But I prefer to think of those glitches in the writing being edited out (when I'm in my good mind, not my self-flogging mind) not as errors, but as seedlings needing to be transferred to some lonely or blighted or barren corner in need of shade and green and birds and more rich oxygen.
Helicopters.
By the way, I have been corresponding with the wonderful Yaqui poet, Anita Endrezze. Tell me if this isn't Writing-Fu at its purest--or at least Hummingbird mojo. When I first started The Hummingbird's Daughter, I found myself on a plane seated next to Anita. We spoke of Teresita and medicine and the project. It was one of my first gestational moments. And now, when I'm starting the long work oif Hummingbird II, Anita writes to me out of the blue. I'm tellin' ya--helicopter season is upon us.
More trees!
Luigi
Our madwoman eight year old, Chayo, has named the big maples in our back yard. King Ralph and Queen Sally are, she is right, quite regal. Big brutes that tower over the neighbors' trees. And every June, they unleash thousands of maple seeds with their little pterodactyl wings. They break free with the slightest breeze and spin through the air like confetti at an Obama rally. Or, as Chaypo points out, like helicopters.
How can the King and Queen do this every year with such aplomb? Create all these seeds with their amazing aerodynamic design, then launch them to fly all over the yards of all the long-suffering folks hereabouts? Because the most amazing this about the helicopters is that almost every one of them, unless intervened upon, will take today's coming rainstorm as inspiration and creat a tiny maple tree!
I come from the soutwest. We don't have all that much rain. And we don't have sufi maple trees so wild in their devotion that they rain down 10,000 new trees every year,between my dad's and my wife's birthdays. (My dad would have turned 93 yesterday.) If we were all to vanish tomorrow, a dense maple forest would explode out of my front and back lawns. By next year, it would be a foot high. If the helicopter I put in a pot two years ago is any example, the forest would be three feet tall in 24 months. The maple trees growing in my rain gutters would probably pry them loose and drop them.
It is certainly a complex experience for me to weed the garden now. Yes, I am lazy and don't like to weed, and my back is rotten and hurts when I do it. But that's not the point. The point is that I have to weed out a few hundred little trees. I guess it's Godlike (or at least Godzilla-like) to crawl around tearing trees out by the roots. But it also feels like some kind of sin.
No San Diego / Tijuana boy who believes in life could throw miniature trees in the yard waste bag and not feel shocked and guilty. Shouldn't I be finding some Chicago waste-space for them? Shouldn't I be sneaking down to the 'hood around my school and getting the kids and moms to plant them in the trash-lots?
I must confess to you that every time this happens, I think about putting five of them in UPS boxes and sending them to each of you. We could have Teresita Memorial Woods all over the country! You could have your Writing Meditation maple baby in your favorite pot on your kitchen windowsill. Something. Anything.
Well, you know me--I can't help but equate this with writing itself. Most writers I teach seem to have trouble getting something sprouted. But I tell you, once you give in the the literary "helicopter season," once you lie back and let the green fuse of writing/story/prayer/song/poem slide through you, the opposite happens. You start to srop forests. That's what you do when you edit--you know you might be pulling out a perfectly good King Ralph or Queen Sally. But I prefer to think of those glitches in the writing being edited out (when I'm in my good mind, not my self-flogging mind) not as errors, but as seedlings needing to be transferred to some lonely or blighted or barren corner in need of shade and green and birds and more rich oxygen.
Helicopters.
By the way, I have been corresponding with the wonderful Yaqui poet, Anita Endrezze. Tell me if this isn't Writing-Fu at its purest--or at least Hummingbird mojo. When I first started The Hummingbird's Daughter, I found myself on a plane seated next to Anita. We spoke of Teresita and medicine and the project. It was one of my first gestational moments. And now, when I'm starting the long work oif Hummingbird II, Anita writes to me out of the blue. I'm tellin' ya--helicopter season is upon us.
More trees!
Luigi
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