July, 2016

Saturday, July 23

I push my iPad to the side of my tray table and reach halfway over the snoring software salesman in the aisle seat. The stewardess hands me my ginger ale and I return to the business of grieving.

Gliding my finger across the iPad screen, I comb through picture after picture of Cabo, playing, pouting, sleeping and begging — in short, being the typical golden retriever that she was. My first dog. My first experience of love without condition and in my terrifying final months of alcoholism, my reason for carrying on.

~

One week earlier

Friday, July 15

It’s 6:30 a.m. and I awake to find Cabo standing in the middle of the dining room, confused and immobile. I open the patio door for her to go outside but she’s paralyzed with anxiety. I coax her, nudge her and finally carry her outside to see if she’ll walk and do her business, but her strength and energy are in rapid and obvious decline. At 14 years, I’ve seen Cabo through more than her share of injuries and health scares, but something is very different right now. In minutes, I’m piling her into the back seat while calling the veterinary hospital down the road.

I spend the five minute ride telling Cabo how much I love her. I hear myself thanking her for making me happy every single day of her life. She tries to stand in the back seat but eventually she lies down and sighs. I accelerate through a red light.

13738327_10204973734902128_2358874574490116594_o1Two veterinary technicians are holding a stretcher at the door when we arrive, but I carry her to the back room myself, lowering Cabo onto a stainless steel table as three vets busily encircle her.

“She had old dog vestibular disease a few months ago,” I offer, hoping that this is a passing recurrence of the canine version of vertigo.

“Sorry, but that’s not her problem today,” one of the vets says as she presses a stethoscope into one of the tumors on Cabo’s stomach. Her tone is grim.

“Why don’t you wait in here while we see what’s wrong,” another offers, leading me to a tiny examination room.

Ten minutes later that doctor returns and through her own tears, she gently breaks the news — the time has come to say goodbye. Cabo’s journey that began in a bright New Hampshire farmhouse full of 11 squealing puppies has reached its end in the back of a small animal hospital just north of San Diego.

The doctor leads me back to the stainless steel table. The vets and techs have all disappeared, leaving the room strangely serene. Cabo is wrapped in a fluffy white blanket with paw print designs, breathing slowly and staring off in the distance. One look at her tired eyes and I know.

It’s time.

I bury my head into her fur and whisper all those things we tell our pets when the Universe gives us the opportunity to say goodbye. The vet places one hand on my shoulder and with her other, she supports the weight of her own unborn child — a metaphor not lost in the moment.

Minutes later, with Cabo’s collar in hand, I shuffle bleary-eyed through the lobby, where a woman and her young daughter coo at their wiggly puppy. They grow silent as I pass.

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~

Saturday-Sunday, July 23-24

I finish my ginger ale, close my iPad and unsuccessfully try to sleep. At some point over the midwest, Saturday becomes Sunday and we finally touch down in Boston just after 7 a.m. Welcome home.

The neighborhoods around Fenway Park, once familiar tributaries of my daily commute, feel lifeless and eerie so early on Sunday. The glare of the sun disappears as I turn right into the entrance of the hospital, where a bored valet hands me a ticket, hops in my rental car and speeds off.

I pull out my phone and call my sister. “Hey.”

“Are you here?” she asks. “The priest is waiting.”

“Yeah, I’m downstairs. Where do I go?”

“The ICU is on the eighth floor. Just take the elevators to eight, go right and I’ll meet you at the door.”

“K.”

~

Friday, July 22

Sometime mid-morning, my iPhone buzzes. I’m just getting out of a meeting, so I push the call through to voicemail. Minutes later, I listen.

“Hey, call me as soon as you get this,” my sister says. I do.

“What’s up?”

“It’s dad…” she says. And even though I have no idea what’s about to follow, I know everything. I’ve been preparing for this moment for twenty years. My father, age 99, has slowly spiraled into dementia and other gathering health issues in the past few years and speaking with him earlier this morning, he sounded weak and disoriented.

Turns out that he fell backwards down the cellar stairs in our uncle’s house on Cape Cod. EMTs took him to the local ER, where Dad complained about neck pain. He never complains about pain but an MRI reveals why this time is different — he broke his neck in two places.

I knew it was time to fly home when my sister sent the picture of the medical helicopter hovering high above the trees en route to the ICU in Boston.

~

Sunday, July 24

I wasn’t prepared to see him like that.

13913994_10205133575258037_1918429536931858592_oIn a hushed, sun-drenched room on the top floor of the hospital lay my dad, tubes coming out of his mouth and his nose and a bandage on his head, surrounded by a bank of machines softly beeping. A broad-shouldered African priest with sad eyes stands by the bed and when he sees me, he envelopes me in a massive hug. “Courage,” he says.

I turn to the bed. “Hi dad,” I say as my chest tightens. “It’s me.”

Dad’s eyes open wide with recognition, tears welling as he tries to sit up, much to the distress of the nurses.

“Lie back, Joe,” one says to him with jovial familiarity, “You need to relax.”

“OK,” he says agreeably, though the tubes in his mouth render speaking a heroic task.

My sister, sleepless and frayed, holds my dad’s left hand as I reach into his right. The priest begins the Last Rites.

~

For the remainder of the afternoon, my sister and I sit on opposite sides of the bed, holding Dad’s hands and speaking softly to him as he drifts in and out of lucidity.

The day is not without laughter. At one point he awakes and my sister leans into his ear and asks, “Do you know where you are, dad?”

“No.”

“You’re in the hospital. Joseph and I are here with you.”

I am?” he asks with wide-eyed surprise.

“Yeah, you had an accident…”

“Oh, shit,” he mutters with the annoyance of a man who’s just realized he left his wallet on the train. And then he laughs at the absurdity of the moment. We all do.

~

July 26

Mali and I broke up on July 5 — ten days before Cabo passed. Looking back on that day, it seems quaint that I felt like my summer had just been ruined. The morning after Cabo died, she brings me a cannoli from the local market, hugs me and asks how I’m doing. It’s awkward and sweet and uncomfortable and reassuring.

Back in Massachusetts, I stay in Dad’s old bedroom in my sister’s house, my mind frazzled but my body still on Pacific Standard Time.  Mali calls me from California each night and chats with me until I fell asleep.  We talk about a future again, and after the past three weeks, it feels good to have hope for something.

“So how’s he doing?” she asks.

“He’s not in pain but he’s not eating, either, and there’s nothing they can do. So it’s just a waiting game at this point.”

“And how are you doing?”

“I’m OK. I mean, it’s brutal to see him like this, but I’m grateful that I can be here. What’s happening with you?”

“I don’t want to talk about me,” she says with mock annoyance. “Your dad’s in the hospital and you just lost Cabo. I want to talk about you, you goofball.”

She calls me “Goofball” all the time. In the darkness of the bedroom, I smile.

~

Wednesday, July 27

There’s a knock at the bedroom door. I look at the clock and it’s not quite midnight. I know what’s coming.

My sister is crying.

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~

Saturday, July 30

Because Dad served in both World War II and Korea, the Army sends an honor guard to the cemetery, who conclude the service by firing three rounds into the blue summer sky. You can barely hear the traffic off in the distance as the lone bugler plays “Taps.” The honor guard then fastidiously removes the flag draped over Dad’s coffin and fold it into a tight triangle, gingerly handing it from one to the other until it reaches the ranking officer – a Lieutenant Colonel, just like Dad.

He hands the flag to my sister and says, “On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”

As the throng around the grave slowly disperses, we see the funeral director, Dad’s old friend, brush away a tear.

~

Monday, August 1

I’m heading back to California, staring at new photos on my iPad — the photos of the first day I brought Cabo home, in the summer of 2002. My then-girlfriend and I brought home a brother and sister from the litter and we dropped by Dad’s on the way back to Boston.

As the puppies ran amok throughout his house, Dad beamed with delight. One of the pictures shows me holding little ten-pound Cabo in the kitchen, while Dad pats her head and smiles.

Looking at the photos, I’m transported back through time to a muggy, shirt-drenching summer night when I was 22 — just over a year after my mother had passed away. Dad and I sit in the front room, chatting as the sun sets. Abruptly, the fans stop and the lights go out. Summer power outage.

“Well, I guess that’s that,” I say. “I’m getting a beer. You want one?”

“Are you kidding?” he replies as if I’d just asked him if he’d like to pull off a fingernail. “The food will all spoil if you open the refrigerator.”

“Old wives’ tale,” I say. “I’m getting a beer.”

“Bullshit,” he says. “Be patient. The power will come back on soon.”

Five minutes later he caves, “OK, you can go get us some beers, but hold on, I’m going with you.”

“Why?” I say.

Hold on,” he replies, disappearing into the kitchen and reappearing with his emergency flashlight — his eternal vigilance a source of constant pride. “OK,” he says, “the beer’s on the bottom shelf. I’ll shine the light there so you can see it. Grab a couple of cans and close the door right away. Got it?”

“Yup.”

Got it?”

“Yes.”

He shines the light on the bottom of the refrigerator door. “OK, go ahead.”

I open the door and the flashlight finds a twelve-pack of Coors.

“You know,” I say as I begin retrieving cans, “I’ll bet the guy who invented the emergency flashlight figured it would go to way more important use than stuff like this.”

Dad’s not amused.

Chased by visions of rotting cold cuts and spoiled cheese, he shouts, “Close the door!”

I greedily reach in to grab two more cans, but I start dropping more than I’m holding. I hear cans rolling on the linoleum as I hurriedly slam the door shut. Mission accomplished.

Dad, refreshed at the mere thought of cold beer, skips over to the cupboard and points his light at a couple of cheap plastic mugs that he pulls down and we each fill ours with beer.

“Salud!” he says, and just like that, the power comes back on.

Dad roars with laughter.

“Gad! We were running around like a couple of dumbbells.”

“We sure were,” I say, following him back to the front room.

“Let’s leave the lights off and just savor the moment,” he says with exaggerated formality.

“Sounds good to me, Dad.”

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Posted in Memoir | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments

Clementine, Aloft

Time, Part 1

IN A PRESSURIZED CABIN, sometimes you forget that there’s sky above and below, that there’s air, so much of it you can’t take it all in, right on the other side of the steel cylinder in which you’re encased. You’re cleaving the atmosphere, you’re truly amazing, but this thing could still go up in flames, like the Hindenburg. You look at old films of the Hindenburg and think, They are so fucked. And they were.

I was on a flight coming back to the U.S. from Stockholm, reading a novel on my Kindle. It was the first book I’d read on my newly-bought device, and I was still getting used to the feature that lets you see what percentage of the book you’ve read and how many minutes you have remaining to finish it.

Dept. of Speculation, by Jenny Offill, is a short book, but even so, I was struggling with the fact that it seemed to take a while to get going. At some point it needed to take hold so that I was sure to commit to the story. While sitting there in seat 30D in coach, I was able to locate exactly the point at which the story’s central event arrived: It was 54 percent of the way through. The Kindle told me so.

Time remaining: 32 minutes.

When I looked up from the Kindle I saw the monitor on the seat back in front of me, which was now indicating how long there was left of my flight to Newark: 2 hours 14 minutes. That would certainly give me plenty of time to finish the book, maybe watch a free 22-minute episode of Louie (the time was indicated for me), take a short nap, and eat my Swedish sandwich.

So I did in fact finish the book, and the momentum felt as though it picked up enormously after the author hooked me with the coalescing event. Why had she spent so long setting things up, and was I being overly critical in feeling the tension should have been greater and earlier? It’s possible the figures at the bottom of the screen were making me more conscious of this, and more impatient, than I should have been.

The book was about the various mundane facets of a marriage, and something big had to eventually transpire in the marriage to make me interested. What happened in the story when the moment finally arrived was very sad, and there in the pressurized cabin, with the beverage carts squeaking by half-heartedly in the narrow aisles, everything took on a tinge of solemn significance. I looked at all the other heads poking up above the seats. There we were, hundreds of us, hurtling through the air at 546 miles per hour. We were 34,725 feet in the air. (The monitor told me so.) What if something disastrous happened during the flight and it was the end of our remaining time?

For everyone on the flight, their time remaining would be displayed as exactly 0. Percentage of life lived: 100. The story, entirely written and read.

Offill’s book is largely about choices and the things we contend with everyday in not being able to have life exactly as we want. It’s about the gambles taken in trying to swap one existence for another, the things that are lost when trying to switch horses, as they say, in midstream. Poor us, I thought. So much ambiguity. If we suddenly had to assess everything right now while the engines failed, what percentage of us would say we’d done things right? Did we commit where we needed to commit?

In fact, we landed, taxied successfully to the gate, and all survived. Percentage of life lived: still to be determined. Time remaining: up in the air. I got the car out of long-term parking and continued home. The navigator on my phone told me exactly how long it would take to get from the airport to my house. I watched as another countdown began.

The endless numbers and percentages give an odd, nerve-wracked perspective on time, as though to suggest that every moment is accounted for. Actually, I know this isn’t true. I waste a shit ton of moments. A better feature might be for the Kindle to tell us what percentage of a book we’ve understood, or how much we may have misconstrued. But no one has invented a device to do that yet.

Percentage of life changed by reading this book: undetermined.

Painting by incessantrealism

Painting by incessantrealism

 

Time, Part 2

Sometimes you miss the most important part of the story because your mind has gone elsewhere. The mind wanders like an old dog, or a lost highway. Something like that, anyway. And before you know it, someone is done with their story and there you were waiting for the heart of it and the heart came and went and passed you right by.

Old dog, lost highway. Actually, those aren’t the right images at all. If only we could go back to old dogs and lost highways. Now the mind wanders—wander isn’t even the right word, much too languid—like an electrified lab rat. It darts and pants, looking for answers, looking for rewards.

At a certain point I found myself, many evenings, watching TED talks on the laptop while doing a sped-up yoga workout on my bedroom floor. (The online yoga instructor calls it a “yoga shred.” Less time, faster results. I felt a subtle shame in taking part.) If there was a way to pack two forms of self-improvement into a half hour, after helping my child with homework and before Better Call Saul, I was going to do it. If there was a way to get the supposed distillation of some expert’s knowledge and passion in a roughly eighteen-minute presentation while they spoke into a tiny microphone affixed to their head, then I was going to reap the benefits. Let’s do this thing.

But unfortunately, night after night, I felt let down. Most of the talks I watched were simplistic and top heavy with advice, the stuff of mainstream magazine articles and pop psychology. And when I took a look at what many of the experts were doing, I saw they were, in a way, just taking apart their own work and shilling it for self-promotion. They were staying within the specified time limit and helping to spread the gospel of the TED brand.

It was a strange concept, this shrunken-down motivational-speaking world. Stranger still if you time-traveled and pictured certain people taking part. Because, you see, there were certain people—most, really—who I desperately would not want to see doing a TED talk. And trying to imagine it seemed to put things in perspective. I wouldn’t want to see Henry James out there with a little microphone, or Emily Dickinson (as pithy as she was), or Marcus Aurelius, or William Shakespeare, or Marie Curie. I would not want to see Martin Luther King Jr. giving a TED talk.

Marie Curie, not giving a TED talk.

Marie Curie, not giving a TED Talk.

Reader’s Digest used to sit next to toilets across America. The concept lives on. Shrink things down, carve out some message from the original source to bring the point home. But the source was so much better. It was longer for a reason. And if you’re never getting the full story, it’s possible you’re missing the best part.

At some point someone came up with memes. Someone somewhere slaps some text on an image, circulates it digitally, and this is meant to send a direct message, to instruct you, sometimes to inspire or rouse or needle you. Best-case scenario with these memes is that they remind you to read or do or listen to something you wouldn’t have otherwise. In times of social crisis, a meme can quickly make a necessary point. But most of the time memes just seem like digital-age versions of the old poster with the adorable kitten that says “Hang in there. It’s almost Friday.”

And there is the general heartbreaking shrinking of words themselves: c u 2nite. If you can’t even spell out the word “see,” how are you going to read an entire book of spelled-out words? It would be like climbing Mt. Everest with a backpack full of rocks and old typewriters.

Photo by Anton Babushkin

Photo by Anton Babushkin

In an article on Medium.com, a guy named Hugh McGuire wrote about the way he found himself, over time, nearly unable to read a book. He was too busy checking email and Facebook and Twitter. “While books have always been important to me on their own (pre-digital) merits,” he wrote, “it started to occur to me that ‘learning how to read books again’ might also be a way to start weaning my mind away from this dopamine-soaked digital detritus, this meaningless wash of digital information, which would have a double benefit: I would be reading books again, and I would get my mind back.”

I wanted my mind back too. Presence of mind. This felt increasingly important. Because all over the world, people are getting shot, getting bombed, and ice caps are melting and nobody seems to fact-check anything anymore. We are so fucked. Or at least sad and mad and confused.

Can the inside of me understand the inside of you?

One day in the dreariest part of a recent winter, I took a walk at the reservoir down the road. It’s huge, this place, and where the water is, there used to be houses and towns. They flooded people’s lives out and gave them a little money to move somewhere else. I made my way over the walkway, and there weren’t many others out on such a bitter cold day. Caught up in my head, I still managed to see a bald eagle. I’d accomplished that, at least. Down below and off to the left, the reservoir was solid ice. An older man stood looking at the eagles’ nest across the way, and I stopped and we talked about this and that. He said he came there every day to see the eagles. As I turned to go, he asked me if I noticed the sounds underneath the ice. Listen, he said, as you’re making your way back.

So I did. I walked a little and stopped and stood still and he was right—there was a whole world of sound going on under there that I hadn’t noticed. Pings and sighs, pops and moans. Sometimes a short, deep pulse, then a high, singing note, as though the noise were coming from another planet. I’d say that was language of a different kind, and I was being spoken to by a trustworthy source. It made me want to give up the talks and the memes and the quotes and go subverbal, preverbal. If everything was getting so abbreviated anyway, maybe it was better to just go the whole way and stop words. Maybe if you go back to a wordless source for a while you’re eventually able to read a whole book again, unhurried. You’re able to go back to words and sentences and paragraphs, the architecture of a whole interior world. And you read them on a page made of paper and nothing to tell you the time.

~

Time, Part Now

On another day—it was spring by then—I looked up from my computer screen and saw my daughter through the window out in the yard. She was occupied with something but I wasn’t sure what. I saw a flash of color against the sky. She was throwing a clementine into the air. She took some pictures of it as it had its moment, hanging there, the orange against the blue. Clementine, aloft.

So I walked outside to get the full effect, away from the computer screen, away from the house. I could take a picture of it myself, I thought. But I was tired of doing things like that, of trying to make everything my own. We may be fucked but there’s still time. Let time have its own way. Just look up at the clementine, I told myself. Then listen to the sound it makes when it falls to the ground.

Photo by Eva Donato

Photo by Eva Donato

Posted in Literature, Memoir | Tagged , , , , , | 5 Comments

The Final Popped Culture

In this much-beloved feature launched for the very final time, our editors and contributors each respond to a single cultural question.

As always, please, no wagering.

 

Five years later, what Weeklings essay has stuck with you the most?

 

Ashley Perez
My introduction to The Weeklings came about when then-editor Antonia Crane introduced a feature called Welcome Kink, an essay series that featured the good, bad, and amazing on kinky sex and kink culture. She worked with me for six months to get my essay ready for the series, as well as a lot of other talented writers. One of my favorite essays from that series is Seth Fischer’s essay, “The Skinner Box”, which brings together kinky sex, bisexuality, masturbating, and psychology. What more could you ask for? I think this is what The Weeklings can be most proud of; fearlessly bringing the best writing on every topic to a wide audience.

Janet Steen
I don’t know how to pick the Weeklings essay that has stayed with me the most from these past four years. So many still spark in my brain: pieces by Jennifer Kabat, Lawrence Benner, Sean Beaudoin, Henry Cherry, Jana Martin, Greg Olear, Melissa Holbrook Pierson, Sean Murphy, Derek Bardowell, Barbara Mansfield, Deirdre Day, Robert Burke Warren, and others. But I will complete my assignment by choosing one that resonates with me especially in these days of catastrophic news and foreboding election coverage: Nathaniel Missildine’s essay “Catching Us at a Bad Time.”  It’s a perfect example of the sort of essay I wanted to see at The Weeklings: nimble, questioning, unpredictable, baffled. Missildine tries to parse the strange, nonsensical texts his young daughter is sending him while also absorbing the horrible news of the day: beheadings of journalists and aid workers, murderous cops who escape indictment, school shooting rampages. And all of this from his bucolic expat life in France. It’s a piece that has questions but no easy answers, and that captures the feeling that this world is fucked up beyond understanding right now. “I don’t know where we go from here,” Missildine writes at one point. That line sticks with me in these strange days.

Kurt Baumeister
Top GOP Excuses for Romney Being a Loser,” by Elissa Schappell. The qualities I most admire about Elissa Schappell’s writing are her style and wit. From her short stories and journalism to her Facebook posts and Twitter tweets Schappell’s work embodies something I like to call “savage urbanity”, an acid wit (barely) contained by her eloquence. This rare quality is fully on display in Schappell’s short post mortem on the 2012 election. From “Lord Mittens” to “panda jerky” and “Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Who Doesn’t Want the Government in her Vagina” this piece shows Elissa at her best. And it points to one of the greatest attributes of The Weeklings as an endeavor: Freedom. People on the outside may not realize it but there was a lot of freedom in the content The Weeklings produced, a lot of room for individualism. There are other sites and magazines where this exists, to be sure; but in a sense The Weeklings was a little like an asylum run by the inmates, something any lunatic in his right mind can appreciate, something that will be missed. Beyond its content, this piece is memorable for me because Elissa is one of the first new (to me, at least) writers I admired when I began to pursue publication a few years ago. The fact that she was one of The Weeklings original contributors is, more or less, why I wanted to write for The Weeklings in the first place. And I’m very happy I did.

Hank Cherry
Rather than pick one essay, I offer one each by the four founders of The Weeklings. I’ve been reading Sean Beaudoin’s written work since we sat next to each other in Philosophy class back in college, me the younger student, him the wizened bulb ready to enter society and bend it to his will. Check out his excellent meditation on the Newtown school shootings, “Going Home.” Jennifer Kabat always directed light and diligent intelligence with particular concern for the arts, from her pieces came conversations that lasted long after reading. Read her brilliant “My Favorite Marxist” essay. Greg Olear presented a firm grasp of word-smithing but always with a particular zest, daring anyone to rob him of his love for Billy Joel while still remaining remarkably credible. And of course, Janet Steen offered real clarity of concept in her pieces while cloaking each essay with incisive poetry. Her offering, “The Gravity of the Situation,” will make you a better, smarter person. From them, others sprouted: Joe Daly, Sean Murphy, Michael Gonzalez, my friend Antonia Crane, along with many others (Bob Devine!!!). But if you’re here reading, it’s because of Janet, Greg, Jen and Sean. So l thank them now for giving us all the room to move. I, for one, am much, much better for the opportunity. And if you need something else, check out Hank Cherry’s sublime “Soul Seduction – The Bar-Kays” for an indelibly raw and vibrant commitment to musical appreciation. It should have been a contender! The Weeklings are dead! Long live the Weeklings!

 

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Litsa Dremousis
Choosing my favorite Weeklings essay is like choosing my favorite Top Pot donut or picking the cutest kitten in the box: damned near impossible. That said, I’m particularly drawn to Janine Canty’s “Don’t Blame Yourself”: A beautiful, blunt, bloody look at grief and the ways in which life seemingly targets each of us again and again. So vivid that reading it is like watching a film. And while, from a technical standpoint, Canty’s sentences occasionally need polishing, that’s one of the things I love about her work: she’s not precious and she’s true to her voice. Sometimes publishing feels like a round-robin, circle jerk, echo chamber where all of us know all of us know all of us. Canty, a nurse in northern Maine, knocked down the damned door with the weight of her talent and we’re each the better for it. She’s not one more MFA darling spending a paragraph describing a tree. (Seriously, guys: call it “a maple” and then move on. You’re not writing for Martians: we know what a fucking tree looks like.) I’ve never met Canty in person, but when I read her essays, I feel like I’m reading a supremely gifted friend. As for the end of The Weeklings, I guessed it was coming because all of us on the masthead and all the regular contributors are fortunate and tenacious enough to be supremely busy. Which doesn’t mean I won’t miss it. Writing for The Weeklings has been one of the favorite parts of my career. To a person, the aforementioned are not only superb writers, but kind and trustworthy. Goodbye, Weeklings. You were the meal AND the dessert and I always licked my plate clean.

Jamie Blaine
It’s difficult to pick from all the fifty greatest band names and drug-addled albums, from riffs on Bowie, Prince and GNR but I have to give it to Robert Burke Warren’s coming-of-age tale of lazy eyes, metal groups named Ickee Phudj and forming a punk-funk band with RuPaul called Wee Wee Pole. Sweet and nostalgic with a lot of soul — everything I love in good writing. For example, this line, when a reluctantly-grown-up Burke found himself playing songs at his son’s preschool. “And I always told them, to their astonishment, that skin, bones, and hearts are stronger when they heal.” Also that time Questlove played his song “Elephant in the Room” on Jimmy Fallon was pretty darn cool.

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Jen Kabat
I have four essays, not one, and death is truly what unites them. The first is Judy Juanita— a former Black Panther’s take on guns today. The Panthers took up arms; they armed others. They believed in their right to bear arms. And, Judy carried a gun in her purse. In a world where black men were being sacrificed in Vietnam, and doing-anything-while-black could be called a crime (to this day), the Panthers armed for defense and offense. Here she writes about her own gun and the power of guns, their poetic and psychic strength as well as their sheer horror. Her essay is as lyrical as it is nuanced and angry. To say I am proud of it isn’t nearly enough. It begins and ends with Trayvon Martin. The week I write this that essay seems ever more timely and urgent. And, then there is Sean Beaudoin’s essay also on guns and the inane/insane shooting at Newtown, CT where he went to elementary school and how to make sense of loss.  I still don’t know how to make sense of it, or any other. Finally as meditations on death that also try to comprehend loss and the unaccountable calculous violence leaves there is Nelly Reifler’s “Blue Spark.” Janet Steen always manages to circle around ideas in ways that slip in something unexpected— loss, family, hope, but death too… 

Sean Beaudoin
Well, if I were to get technical about it, the essay that has “stuck with me” the most is one that I still get regular hate mail about, even four years later. Who knew Beach Boys fans were so sensitive? Or I could pick all two years worth of Hank Cherry’s classic “Sunday Light & Word.” I’ll admit to being enamored with Vince Navy’s take on the moral legislation against having an opinion about Caitlyn Jenner that fails to be cloyingly positive. I also loved Jamie Blaine’s elgiac “Tuesday’s Gone, Ride On,” but in terms of most affecting as a piece of prose, I’m going to go with Bob Devine’s “Delmark Records 1965.” I solicited it, as Bob was college professor of mine and in-between lectures would sometimes tell cryptic little tales about his years interacting with iconic blues personalities, some of whom were my heroes, both then and now. It’s a great piece that sets you firmly in a very specific time and place that can never and will never come again. But it’s also a document, a story that might not have been told. If nothing else, in five years at The Weeklings I’m proud to have been a part of something whose greatest purpose might have been to give a platform to obscure voices, and archive stories that might otherwise have just disappeared.

 

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Greg Olear
We’ve run a staggering 1,320 pieces (!) since April of 2012. I just now scrolled through the list of titles, which runs to 64 pages, and it’s amazing to me how much good stuff we published. I wish Diana Spechler wrote more. I wish James Greer wrote more. I wish Whitney Collins wrote more. I wish I wrote less. I wish Big Ron Dantomine had taken off. I wish I knew why some pieces got a lot of hits, even if they didn’t deserve it, while other really great ones died on the vine. I wish we’d had a real budget, so we could have paid everybody and/or promoted the site more. As for which post has stuck with me, I’ll go with Lawrence Benner’s “The Island of Apples.” One of my favorite writers, Larry tends to write about weird, obscure stuff, or else come at current events at a particularly peculiar angle. But this post is about something so real, and so inherently sad, that I didn’t take it at face value until I was several paragraphs in. Just a sublime piece of writing.

Sean Murphy
When I first met Sean Beaudoin, which is to say when I first met his writing, it was love at first sight. I suspect I’m not alone in this, but as a writer it makes my love, well, complicated. We read, often without reward, hoping to encounter that rare piece that will both inspire us and reinvigorate our passion for why we do what we do in the first place, despite the rejection, obscurity and annoying groupies (okay, mostly the first two). So it’s a tad awkward when you find yourself hating a writer a little bit because they are so good at what you try to do. Yes, it’s useful and refreshing and all that crap, but it’s also a reminder that we ultimately must measure ourselves not by clicks and likes but by our peers. However, all of these mixed emotions are forever redeemed by the first piece of his I read, “Ronald Reagan, The Greatest President Who Ever Lived.” It contains all the elements that make Sean’s writing so memorable and satisfying: humor, erudition, just the right amount of cynicism (easy to attempt, near impossible to pull off in an essay) and, most importantly, he did heavy lifting for those of us who wanted, no needed to write an essay exactly like this. Thank you, Brother Beaudoin, for writing this so I didn’t have to. On a personal note, the essay that will stick to me is this one, since it led to a note from Julie Newmar, and what guy doesn’t have a message from Catwoman on his bucket list?

Lawrence Benner
The Weeklings changed my life. I had been writing for thirty years off and on—(early years) sad shitty poems on cocktail napkins, (middle years) sad shitty unfinished novels, (later years) sad shitty screenplays—but when Sean invited me to contribute to The Weeklings I was terrified, because there were so many REAL writers on there, people who would instantly recognize how uneducated and naïve and mediocre I was, and they would undoubtedly laugh at me. But I encountered nothing but good will and acceptance and encouragement from all involved. It has been a great era, and I will miss it. Some of my favorites are: Greg Olear’s interview with Kate Arnoldi about the crisis at the border crossings, Janet Steen’s speculations about a homeless man on the roadside, Sean Beaudoin’s memories of a youth spent knitting, and Jennifer Kabat in Scotland talking whiskey. Also, Hank Cherry’s Sunday Sermon was a weekly favorite, also Jose Padua’s If the River was a Confederate Flag, and everything by Jana Martin, and Whitney Collins, and Nat Missildine.

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An INTERVIEW WITH RICHARD COX

Richard Cox spins a cyclonic yarn of a tale in The Boys of Summer, which releases September 6, 2016, from Night Shade. As equally driven by plot as it is character, Richard Cox’s latest allegorical science fiction novel registers an EF-5 in excitement and non-stop action that will suck you in from page one and leave you shaken and never looking at the world the same by storm’s calm, earning itself a spot on a shelf-end display alongside masters of the genre Stephen King and Philip K. Dick.

A supernatural thriller set against the historical backdrop of Terrible Tuesday, the April 10, 1979 Red River Valley tornado outbreak in Wichita Falls, Texas, The Boys of Summer tells the coming-of-age story of a band of boys, “survivors” if you will, four years later in 1983 as 13-year-old Todd Willis awakens from a trancelike comatose state endowed with remarkable abilities that, at first, seem only weird and more mature for his age to his newfound adolescent friends in his neighborhood.

As the summer months begin to wane, a series of terrible events befall the town of Wichita Falls that will tie the boys together for all eternity, a mystery awaiting in the ashes to catch fire once again. Flash forward 25 years later and a new threat is on the horizon in the small Texas town, a legend foretold in Native American folklore—something far more dire than the vortices of 1979, something apocalyptic and vengeful. When the borders between reality and fiction begin to merge, the boys-now-turned-men realize that Todd’s once exceptional gifts of youth were not merely unusual or resigned to their own misperception, but otherworldly, and the answer that may thwart the deadly consequences they now face.

If a future is to be held for any of them, the men must confront their childhood past. But are those days gone forever? Is it too late for Todd, Jonathan, Bobby, David, and Adam? Has the story’s ending already been written and what new evils and sheer madness will be unleashed by trying to stop it? And what really happened to Joe?

Seek shelter at your local bookstore to find the answer.

 

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THE BOYS OF SUMMER
By Richard Cox
436 pages. $11.99. Night Shade (September 6, 2016)
Amazon | Barnes and Noble
 

I caught up with Richard last week. The transcript of our conversation is below.

So, before we even start, let me just say, I really enjoyed this novel. Thank you for taking the time today for this interview. I want to get that out front and center for the reader immediately and it not be buried deep within the interview and covered with a concrete slab youd need a jackhammer to get to.

Well, that’s nice of you to say. I’m glad you enjoyed it. I appreciate that. As a writer the first thing you always want to say to that is why—why did you enjoy it?

The Boys of Summer is one of those novels that once you start, its super glued to your hands until the last page. Theres no putting it down. I missed seven meals and lost five pounds, and needed a literal shot in the ass at the urgent care center once Tawakoni Jims revelation sprang forth on the page like a ball of twisting fire. Actually, that was from a mysterious insect or spider bite I received the same day your book arrived in the mail. Even so, this is a rewarding read. A “who cares if Im dragging ass at work tomorrow, Im staying up to finish this” kind of novel.

That’s very flattering and obviously the effect you hope to have on a reader. That’s hopefully what the opening tornado scenes do.

The opening pulls you in from the jump. The first sentence for that matter: “If you believe legend, the city of Wichita Falls was doomed from its first day.” It was game on for me, as a reader, right there.

I had always heard when I lived there that “the Indians told white men not to build a town where Wichita Falls is because of all the tornadoes.” But when I Googled that, I didn’t find anything of the kind. I think people were creating their own legend, as people are wont to do.

Give me your elevator pitch. What is The Boys of Summer about?

The Boys of Summer is about a group of boys who descend into a summer of darkness in 1983, and who are forced to reexamine that darkness twenty-five years later when it returns to haunt their hometown again.

Why this story? Any particular motivation?

I think every novelist has a coming-of-age story in him, and this is mine. Even though the plot has nothing to do with anything that actually happened to me, I borrowed certain events and concepts from my childhood to bring this novel to life. However, the novel operates on many levels. One of them is related to the time frame of the story. It’s no accident the town is destroyed in 2008, for instance.

Let’s talk about that. You grew up in Texas, but now live in Oklahoma. Were you familiar with the events of 1979 in Wichita Falls, Texas? Was there any connection? The historical backdrop of Terrible Tuesday plays such a critical role at the onset of the novel.

My family is from the area, and lived in Wichita Falls during high school, but we didn’t live there when the tornado hit. However, we visited just a couple of days after Terrible Tuesday. The town was still off limits to non-residents, and in order for us to see the damage, my uncle had to drive to the city limits and pick us up. What I saw as we drove through a town that had nearly been wiped off the map—20,000 of the 100,000 residents were homeless after the storm—has stuck with me ever since.

That must have been pretty devastating to witness, even the aftermath.

It was the most damaging tornado in American history at the time, and wasn’t surpassed for more than twenty years.

How old were you?

I was eight. It’s part of the reason I became fascinated by the weather and eventually became a storm chaser. I was curious to write about how such an event would affect the town and the people who lived there.

So, you’re eight, you see this, the aftermath of Terrible Tuesday in Wichita Falls. Entire lives changed. A town nearly obliterated from the map. The characters in your novel are impacted when they are roughly eight or nine years old.

Correct. I wrote the characters similar in age to me because I wanted to write about cultural experiences of my own childhood.

And seeing that at your age obviously a bit of impetus to becoming a storm chaser later in life it sounds.

Exactly.

Tell me about storm chasing. What is the reality? I’ve seen Twister, but I don’t trust any film with Bill Paxton playing lead. Heard Goo Goo Dolls singing “Long Way Down” in the background. What’s it really like? Flying cows. Does that really happen?

Anything in a tornado that is transported through the air is done so in a rough and violent manner. Cows can certainly fly, but any winds strong enough to whisk a cow into the air are going to be in excess of 200 mph. That means the cow, instead of floating, would by flying by so fast that it would liquefy anything it hit.

So, let’s discuss the obvious. The title harkens back to Don Henleys 1984 hit by the same name, “The Boys of Summer.” I’ll be frank, not my Christian name, and say, I was a little skeptical as to how you were going to pull off the Don Henley song as a vehicle driving the story forward. I kept thinking, This is risky. How is he going to do this? But you pulled it off. Boy, did you pull it off. You reeled me in and I became just another fish on a hook waiting for my ride to the frying pan. Grease sizzling and popping below me. Tell me, why this plot device?

The funny thing is in the original drafts the song wasn’t included. It wasn’t part of the story. I just liked the title. But I was enamored with the idea of someone knowing about music that they shouldn’t have, how they would look like a genius having written it when they really hadn’t. And I lucked out that my time frame was 1983 and the song was released in 1984. Total luck.

In a way, it becomes the soundtrack of the story, but in a mysterious manner that is slowly revealed to the characters. Jonathan hears it, David, Bobby, Adam. Yet no one puts two and two together.

Yes, the characters never put it together, which seems curious as you’re reading it but which hopefully becomes clear later. I borrowed the idea from an episode of Otherworld, a television show in the 1980s. The characters inhabit an alternate reality, and in an episode called “Rock and Roll Suicide,” they form a band and play rock music hits from their world and become famous doing it. So I imagined Todd had been touched somehow by an alternate reality, what seems like the future when you first read the story, but which is revealed to be something else later.

This book is all about the reveal. And the adolescent magician at work in The Boys of Summer is none other than Todd Willis. Who is he?

Originally Todd was going to be the villain, because he would draw the other boys into a summer of darkness in 1983. And he still does. But now he’s more of a tragic figure, someone who was affected by the tornado in a way that changed him, and that he shares with his friends because he really has no choice

So, there’s Todd, who woke from a four-year coma. He’s the kid with the exceptional abilities; or, actually, he’s the only kid who realizes he has exceptional abilities.

Yes. Others do, but his is the most obvious and he’s the one who realizes it.

Then we have Jonathan and Bobby, David, Adam, and Alicia. And let’s not forget about Joe. Joe haunts the novel in so many ways.

Yes, I love how Joe “enters this story doomed from the first word.”

There are a lot of characters in this book that each play fairly significant roles in their own way. Thats tough to do, and really, I can only think of a few narratives that manage this well: It being one of them, which Booklist drew comparison to in its review, and Stand By Me, the film adaptation of The Body, also by Stephen King.

I was worried about balancing so many characters and rendering them believably and differently enough.

How you laid this novel out is no small feat. It starts out in 1979 and follows each character as they face the great tornadoes of Terrible Tuesday. That’s tricky and proves fatal to many narratives. Most novels can only balance two or three characters. You start with five and then add a few more along the way. Then you immediately switch to 2008, 29 years later. Then we’re in 1983.

Thank you for that. I hope others feel that way, because it could obviously become confusing. Many point-of-view characters and non-linear storytelling among several timelines.

Are you aware of the Booklist review from David Pitts? To quote Pitts: “This beautifully written supernatural thriller will no doubt remind some readers of Stephen Kings It, and perhaps also of Dennis Lehanes Mystic River, but make no mistake: this is no knockoff. Coxs story is vibrantly original and his characters are intricately detailed.”

Yes, I’m aware of that review and I’m honored he wrote that. It seems he took from the novel exactly what I hoped to achieve.

It goes back to the bond and simultaneously the turmoil boys have with one another at that age.

For sure. In the 1983 section, after the fight between Todd and Bobby, everything progresses very well for the boys, and then suddenly everything goes to shit. And is why eventually they make some very poor decisions.

Which is very much how boys can be at that age too. Roll around on the ground and punch one another in the nose, then go find a can of gasoline. Contrary to what my own children may ever come to believe, I, too, was once a 13-year-old boy, and the scenes and the dialogue that take place in The Boys of Summer, the nudie magazines, the hideout in the woods, the pack of Winston cigarettes and warm beer stolen from your dads stash, the fascination with fire and the lack of understanding of consequence, the admission of masturbation amongst friends and the one kid lying through his teeth he doesnt do it, this book nails it. This book takes on the universe AND the universal theme of being an eighth grade adolescent boy, and nails it. Occasionally I’ll tell my wife stories from my youth, and she’ll just stop me dead in my tracks and say, “Yeah, please don’t tell me anymore.”

Thank you.

Your book is wholly original, but there are the obvious nods to Stephen King, and even his alter ego Richard Bachmann. Was Stephen King an influence for you in any way? Note: I never put my ankles down near the bottom of the bed because I thought a small child named Gage was going to cut my tendons with a razor knife like was done to Jud Crandall in Pet Sematary.

Yes, I acknowledge Stephen King in several ways. Both directly on the page, and in references to his stories. Todd’s coma is reminiscent of The Dead Zone, and that novel is also mentioned by name. Then Jonathan believes he has come up with an original idea about a writer, Paul, who is held captive by a woman, Annie, who is his number-one fan.

Starring James Caan.

He has no idea at the time that he’s thinking of the novel Misery. This other reality is affecting him and he doesn’t realize it.

And Kathy Bates who seriously looks just like one of my seventh grade teachers. Same name too. Well, first name.

Don’t so many teachers look like that?

There’s one in every middle school.

Stephen King was a huge influence, but of course so is Philip K Dick. The underlying reality of the story owes much to him. And also is connected in ways to my third novel, Thomas World. And I’ve learned a lot from reading Jonathan Franzen. The Corrections wonderfully juxtaposes childhood with adulthood.

Okay, so here we go. Philip K Dick. A man who has been described as “The Man Who Remembered the Future.”

That’s a wonderful description of PKD.

I caught the connection with Thomas World too. Call it a shot in the dark, but I feel youre aware of what Elon Musk, founder of SpaceX and Tesla, recently said, “Theres a billion to one chance we’re living in base reality,” meaning were just characters living in someone elses simulation.

Oh, yes, I’m aware. I don’t know about those odds but I think it’s more likely we’re in a simulation than reality. I think there’s a 50-50 chance we’re living in an alternate reality of some kind. I’m fascinated with the idea and keep coming back to it in my fiction.

I was about to say, this novel, The Boys of Summer, and your past novels delve into this and similar themes.

Because what is fiction but an alternate reality? It’s difficult to write a novel and expect people to read it without acknowledging we are participating together in a shared alternate reality. But as I say in the book, in the end it doesn’t matter. You’re forced to accept the reality you’re presented. What else are you going to do?

Fiction is such a shared experience. Almost out of body.

Yes, and it’s hard for me not to acknowledge that directly to the reader. It seems disingenuous otherwise.

When I was reading The Boys of Summer, even though the storylines themselves are entirely different, I was reminded of a short story I wrote what feels like long ago in my early 20s.

What was the story about?

It was based on what I suppose you would call a campfire story my grandfather used to tell me when I was a kid and spent the night at his house. In a way, it was horror but it was also science fiction. Alternate reality. In a nutshell, a man is abducting children in the neighborhood and the authorities are unable to generate a lead on the case. Then, and I’m giving the story away here, a young boy from the neighborhood, only one of two children remaining, sees an elderly man leading a child to his basement which is below ground entirely. So the boy inspects the scene and enters the room with the other children when he thinks the old man is away. Except, what the boy doesn’t realize is that the elderly man knows very well the boy is snooping around. He’s written the narrative that leads the boy into the basement. The twist is that, this story is supposed to be a story, not an actual event. And the boy hearing the story realizes it is him in the story at the very end, except, it’s too late. He’s in the old man’s house. The old man is his grandfather. It’s been a while since I thought of it and I’m doing a hack job explaining it.

I love that. And very similar to The Boys of Summer. The act of reading the story creates reality for the characters.

Im not entirely convinced we aren’t living in some puppeteers high tech Atari game from a parallel universe, what with a certain candidate, lets call him Candidate X, this close to the White House and all. Not to get on the topic of politics, but youre a novelist, which makes you part of a certain secretive club of sorts; is Candidate X really just a character in a Carl Hiaasen novel and this is all some weird satirical portrayal of the perversity of American politics?

I wouldn’t be the first to suspect a certain candidate is entertaining us all with the greatest piece of performance art in the history of American politics.

It’s like I said to Sean not long ago, one day Candidate X (okay, the great unveil: I’m talking about Trump) is going to tweet to his followers and say, “You suckers. Im just messing with you dumb a––holes. This jokes gone too far. I cant take it any longer. Im secretly hijacking the election to drive the final nail in the coffin of the Republican Party.”

I have been hoping all this time that he’s doing exactly that. And will someday do that. And where will that leave those disenfranchised voters who refuse to acknowledge their own candidates are the ones hurting them?

That too. And they exist. It’s just so misguided with this candidate. There are real gripes people have and should have. I’m from a place that got smashed by free trade in the 90s. Devastating. Entire towns like ghost towns now. But righting the ship isn’t with the narrative in place on the Trump campaign trail at the moment. His appeal is not because of a logical plan, but a divisive, dangerous rhetoric.

That’s a good point. Both sides have had a hand in carving out the livelihood of middle America. I mean David dies at the end because the government doesn’t properly bail him out. There are no easy answers.

Let’s go there. Let’s scratch more than just the surface, shall we? Is this novel more than meets the eye? Is there an allegory eluding some readers?

There is definitely more than meets the eye. That the characters represent a wide array of social classes is no accident. That they live in a town where opportunity is nearly non-existent is also no accident. The only financially successful character has fled his middle American town.

David

David.

Wichita Falls could be considered the American middle class. It’s an average town in the middle of nowhere that everyone has forgotten. There was a storm of sorts that happened in the United States between 1980 and 2008. An economic storm.

I remember vividly the one from 2008. I spent six months looking for a job. I finally got a job writing proposals. Found out at my interview I accidentally applied for the job twice. They told me I was “persistent.” I said, “Yes, that’s it. Persistence.” The reality was I had put my resume in for over eighty jobs, and people just weren’t hiring. Firing, was the word. Hiring, not the word. Okay, so now I’m going to have to re-read this and see what I missed knowing this bit of info.

There’s a line in the novel where Todd is imagining a tornado destroying “discriminately” always hitting trailer parks and other low income neighborhoods. But that stuff is pretty subtle.

I do remember that line specifically.

Even my editor said, “Don’t you mean indiscriminately”? And I said, No. It’s on purpose. From a political perspective, certain groups going after the middle and lower classes. Again, very subtle. But purposeful.

You sly SOB.

One of the things I like most about the novel is the many ways you can read it, how nearly everything matters and not always in obvious ways. The adult characters inhabit different classes: the creative class, the lower-middle class, the middle class, the one-percenters. Notice none of the adult characters work in industry. All service jobs, nothing tangible. Well except Adam. He builds houses. But he’s going broke.

Photo by Kimberly Cox

Photo by Kimberly Cox

 

Building houses as the housing bubble bursts and the Great Recession of 2008 hits. I feel foolish now. Speaking of Adam. Seriously conflicted character. That guy gave me the heebie jeebies. The religious element mixed with this sexual torment caused by his parents. Ticking time bomb waiting to explode.

Exactly.

And we’re flash forwarding from 1979 to 2008. Not exactly boom times for the American economy. Son of a gun, I’m reading this again.

Yes, the present day scenes of the novel take place in 2008 for a reason that is important to readers who want to dig deeper.

History repeating itself. A storm even more dire than the first. Apparently being far removed from college has transformed me from a metaphorical reader back to a literal reader.

There are other alternate realities present. I mean, when David sees manila folders and gets chased down metallic hallways by fuzzy balls of lightning.

Apparently I’ll be reading this three times. Alright, well that about it does it for us. We’ve talked tornadoes, fiction, alternate realities, and fiscal irresponsibility. I appreciate you setting aside some time to talk. It’s been a pleasure and best of luck with The Boys of Summer.

Thank you so much for taking the time to interview me, and for enjoying the book.

One last thing. What’s the most destructive tornado possible? Technical classification.

EF-5 is technically the biggest. There’s a theoretical EF-6 but it’s not an official classification. Probably 315 mph is the wind speed limit.

In that case, The Boys of Summer registers an EF-5 for excitement and non-stop action, and apparently, also for allegorical qualities as it relates to historical economic downturns. If we’re talking theoretical, I’m giving this an EF-6. It was a page-turner all the way.

Well thank you.

You’re welcome. Enjoy the rest of your Labor Day weekend, and, uh, stick with tornadoes. I hear you guys had an earthquake Saturday in Oklahoma. Don’t be greedy with Mother Nature. Leave something for the rest of us.

 

wftornadorcox

Is this real or not?

 

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Spring, Again

I lace-up my running shoes and pull on my Dri-Fit shirt.

I fold my bandanna and wrap it around my forehead, spiky hair popping out like the logo for Shock Top beer, sans the sun glasses, big ass smile and orange hue.

I pop-in my ear buds and I fire-up the new episode of WTF with Marc Maron, who’s telling us about Garry Shandling’s wake.

Somehow every time I am ruminating about things, what might be, or has been, it seems to come back to Los Angeles, the city itself, someone there or how those lives are lived.

I was there, again, just weeks ago, it was warm where Chicago was not, and I ran under those piercing blue skies, shrugging off my lingering flu, and dreading my need to return home and re-embrace the cold that would be waiting for me.

I was however ready to re-embrace work, and my creative life, balancing day job, and writing, travel, telecommuting and finding peace with how it all might work together.

Maybe I’ve gotten ahead of myself though.

What’s important now is that it’s spring again, I am home, it is sunny, I have been ruminating on work and life, and I’m thinking that today I will run far, further than I have been anyway.

There was this moment when I decided it was time to go beyond my usual one hour loop – out to the totem pole and back – and follow the path that wraps around the golf course in Lincoln Park, and back along the lake, and I’ve been running that path again and again.

But why stop there?

What about adding another loop on top of that loop?

What about continuing on to Montrose Harbor, running around Cricket Hill and adding another ten minutes?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately as well, expanding outward, pushing myself further, exploring my limitations and the possibilities that might exist just beyond my grasp.

Why do I have time for this however?

I think I’m getting ahead of myself again.

So, let’s focus on Maron for a moment.

The tenor of the podcast so far is that of Shandling’s great desire, hence Maron’s great desire, to be happy on this earth, because what else is there, but that?

Which is why I should run, will run, do run.

It makes me happy.

So does the sun.

Again, it’s that time of year, and the fact is, the seasons affect my mood.

I don’t know when this started, or if it has always been a thing, but I do know that these days when the sun pierces the long grey Chicago skies, slices through my window and envelopes my desk or kitchen table, I smile, my happiness heightened and everything seems okay again.

It’s possible, that maybe I was always this way and I’m only realizing it now.

It’s also possible that maybe I’ve not been as happy as I thought I was, that I have been more beaten down than I allowed myself to acknowledge, suppressing these feelings, boxing them up during the long winter days and setting them aside until the sun would return to burn it all away.

I just don’t know.

What I do know, and what I’ve always known, is that I can lace up my running shoes, I can put on my bandanna, pop-in my ear buds, ruminate on Shandling and happiness and savor the sun beaming down on my pale face.

I head-up Dearborn, I cross into Lincoln Park and I encounter the Black-Crowned Night Herons who are making a home there.

They come to Lincoln Park during the spring to nest, hatch their chicks and move on, the twinning miracles of nature and birth evolving above our heads for months on end.

The city cut down the expanse of trees lining the path in the heart of the park which the Night Herons had flocked to in springs past.

Before they did this however, the city would fence off the trees in their entirety, and the big, gawky birds would have space to lumber around in and call their own.

I would have to run around the fencing and through the wet grass to get around them.

I would adapt to it, adjusting to this new reality, just as the Night Herons have done by choosing to cluster in a tiny thicket of trees near the entrance of the park, no longer free to roam, but unwilling, or unable, to move on from our neighborhood.

They have decided to make the best of the situation and take care of business.

This makes me happy too, though it isn’t all that makes me happy today.

My knee feels good, better than it has for years anyway, and my lower back as well.

I don’t know why this is the case, I’m thinner, not much, but it could make a difference.

Either way since I have to run, getting to do so mostly pain-free is a gift that has seemed too much to ask for in recent years.

This seems especially important right now as I move further into the park, nudging past what I’ve recently felt capable of, hopeful and fearful, but pushing.

This not being in pain, or not much pain, this is different too, and I’m sure I am jinxing it, but yes, this makes me happy as well.

Meanwhile, Maron is talking about Adam Sandler and Judd Apatow, and their performance at Shandling’s wake, while also gearing-up for the actual interview with Rob Reiner.

I’m on the dirt path by the lagoon now, the sweat starting to trickle down my temples, my sideburns damp, the gaggles of geese, not ducks, looking at me, but leaving me alone.

One time when I was running along this same spot with then toddler Noah in the baby jogger I said, “Look at the ducks baby,” and another runner yelled, “They’re geese.”

It may be that I’m free associating as I give myself over to the enterprise that is the run. The mechanics of one step following another, neck, shoulders, hamstrings, calves loosening, thoughts flowing unencumbered by the day’s stressors. But I am reminded of another afternoon when a small group of goslings were following their mother and father across the path and as I drifted passed them, one of the parents came charging after me, wings flapping, beak open and primed to defend its charges.

It was scary, but it also made me smile in its moment of intense and relatable weirdness.

So, there is the sun, the non-pain, the geese and all of their concomitant memories, the idea that there will be long run, and there is me crossing Fullerton, sweat flowing, happy, Rob Reiner talking about his new movie.

This is good.

It may not be Los Angeles or the beach, and there may be no surfing, or burritos awaiting me at the end of the run, but I am out here, alive, and running, and there is goodness, just a different kind.

I pass the driving range and heading under Lake Shore Drive, deeper into the park, and I’m in it now, the run, and the moment.

What I am not doing is thinking about turning forty-eight, how I am once again weeks away from a birthday or what that means in a life now flying by me.

I am also not thinking about how I am not at work, not as I run along the golf course, still feeling good, just not wrapping around the end of it, or turning back and towards the lake, instead striding over to Cricket Hill as planned, step by step, knee good, as Rob Reiner reminisces about Norman Lear and All in the Family and being so young once, though not anymore.

I’m not young either, not really, nor am I in Los Angeles, even if I wish I could be there running along the beach again, everything making so much sense, the last time I remember feeling any real clarity.

Instead, I am loping around Cricket Hill, and the soccer players and the rugby games and the high-schoolers running laps, and it is still sunny and anything is still possible as I loop back around, along the backside of the golf course, and the lake.

I pass a family of raccoons, raccoons seem to be everywhere this spring, and today someone is feeding them and it seems like that must be a mistake, but what do I care about that as I cross into the woods and back onto the path.

I cannot care because I am escape and I am at the totem pole and there is just thirty minutes left in this run, an hour having passed just like that, and Rob Reiner is still in my head, talking about Spinal Tap and Stand By Me, and I am running and its getting dark, and I feel good, happy.

Why am I so focused on happy?

Because I’m not, not really, but I don’t want to forget all of that Los Angeles goodness, thinking about work, the space between work, building shit, traveling, and the need to force myself to say this is life, live it, enjoy it.

Be Shandling.

It’s just that’s it all fucked now.

There is a new boss.

He didn’t want telecommuting or any work from home, and I fought it, but I said fine.   He didn’t want me to teach during the workday and I fought that too, but again, I said fine.

I tried to manage-up, to engage him, to be positive and forward thinking, strategic, things I’m so good at, but he ignored me, and then he told me there were redundancies, that I was the redundancy, and that I had to go, now, email shut-off, turn-in my elevator key and door card.

I am no longer wanted.

Seventeen years.

That’s how long I held that job.

I had three other bosses along the way, all of whom I found ways to strive under, and not just strive, but excel.

I don’t feel panicked, yet, and there is even relief, which I feel guilty about.

But I don’t know what comes next.

I spent so much time planning and thinking before all of this, trying to make sense of what ought to come next, I just didn’t figure anything out.

When I was in Los Angeles things seemed like they might just make sense for the first time in a long time.

There is work and there is the cool stuff – travel and writing, books and conferences – and it may not look just like I want it to, but I could embrace it anyway, and I could also do less while doing so, focusing on what works, and what makes me happy.

It seemed possible, all of it, instead I ended-up with nothing.

Yet, it is sunny, well it was, it’s dark now as I move past Fullerton again, and along the lake, my knees good, and my back, my birthday is looming.

I’m almost home, my long run coming to an end.

The house is empty, which is also nice, and also makes me happy.

But things need to be done too, there is no work for the first time in twenty years, and I have to make sense of it.

Still, someone will want me, something will break and the sun will shine.

I will be run.

I will be happy.

There will be work.

And things will make sense again.

 

raverun-200903_0

 

Chicago, May 2016

 

 

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Deaths of Distant Friends (or, John Updike Fucking Rocks)

John-Updike-3

 

I.

 

My relationship with John Updike was a complicated one in that it didn’t really exist. Or did it? With writers, it’s tough to say.

We can have connections, important ones, without ever meeting. They can be solitary admiration societies, one-way friendships of sorts. Or, they can be more conventional, involve shared human interaction, whether written, spoken, or (rarer still) the social graces required of real physical proximity. To be clear, though, John Updike and I were not friends, one-way or otherwise. But we did meet, once upon a time…

“John Updike fucking rocks,” I shouted at the darkened sky, doing my best impression of a nineteen-year old in the parking lot at a hair-metal concert. Honestly, that was the effect I was going for. And I’m positive I achieved it.

My friends Tom and Maria, and I had just gotten off the T at Government Center. It was cold and drizzly. The sky full dark, the lower air bright with lights from small storefronts and the blocky government buildings. There were people everywhere, some on their ways home, others headed out to eat or drink. We were on our way to Faneuil Hall for a reading, John Updike’s reading.

A little man in a fedora and trench coat scurried past, shifting his gaze for a quick appraisal of the caterwauling lunatic to his right. (That would have been me.) A glance and the little man was gone, a retreating shape against the night.

Some bean counter out to kill my fun, I probably thought. Which would have seemed a reasonable enough conclusion, I guess, for a bean counter like me, given a one-night-only furlough from his corporate prison on the sixtieth floor of the Hancock Tower.

“John Updike fucking rocks,” I said again, perhaps not as loud, still largely undaunted by my own stupidity. I was practically daring the little man to respond even as he faded into the distance. And he did, with the slightest nod, a sign of resignation, an acceptance that my lunacy would continue whether he wanted it to or not.

“Kurt, that was him,” Tom said, with a chuckle.

“What? Who?”

“Updike. That was him.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Maria agreed.

You may wonder how old was I then? Late twenties, something like that. I could probably figure it out if I had to. I was married (or close to it), living in Salem, home of fake witches and nightmare traffic. My future former wife, Sara, where was she that night? Somewhere, yes, definitely, obviously. But somewhere else, somewhere not with me. By that point, Sara had tired of literary events. She’d had enough of writers talking about writing as they went to see writers read their writing, as they sometimes got drunk and acted undignified in public. The whole scene was a real fucking drag for Sara, this writing hobby of mine. She had referred to it as that years before; something I was destined to never let her forget, something in the years since I’ve never let myself forget.

The marriage ended not so many years later. Two? Three? Five? I could figure it out, but would I sound horrible if I said it didn’t matter at this point? Even worse if I said I was glad she’s gone? Would I sound ridiculous, then, if I copped to still missing her once in a while? Or would that all simply sound human?

I’m not sure what I was thinking about at that moment, that night near Faneuil Hall, almost certainly not Sara. Maybe I was wondering whether that had really been John Updike, inventing scenarios in my head, one-way conversations as to what the great man had been thinking as he scurried away…

So this is what Rushdie was talking about? The fucking lunatics and their fatwas? This is what it’s all about, the fucking fatwas, and now they’ve come to America, to Boston? How I long for a simpler time, the years of my youth, the 30’s and 40’s and 50’s, before the world was broken, when all was still new and good, when liquor was cheap and we didn’t know smoking killed us.

I’ll need to call the police, of course, once I get to Faneuil Hall. And my agent to harangue her for not sending a car. The T? Riding the fucking subway at my age? God, and now I have to read. Okay, I can do that. But then the questions? And some asshole grad student (or two or six) trying to impress me, take me down a peg, or both? Or, what about this would-be executive over here? Maybe he’ll rush the stage. What if he’s armed? God, I hope they have security at Faneuil Hall. I really may need to call the cops. And after all that I’ll have to sign books. This is no way to spend a winter’s eve, not when you’re John Updike, icon of American literature, that’s for sure.

This wasn’t the real John Updike, though. This was a character, built of facts and rumors, biases and opinions. I still hadn’t met the real Updike yet. Rather, I’d glimpsed a little man scurrying away in the night, been told that was Updike, and created a backstory for him. I would meet the real Updike, though, a little later.

 

II.

 

I’ve only read one book by John Updike. Perhaps his most famous, the first in what eventually became the tetralogy of Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom, that book is Rabbit, Run, and I’ve actually read it twice, once for kicks, once for class. In my unscholarly opinion, Updike was a very talented stylist who wrote about topics I found (and find) uninteresting. Even the best attribute of Updike’s work, his prose, doesn’t always do it for me. At times, there’s no edge to Updike, almost as if he doesn’t care, as if writing is more a job than anything else.

Still, the man was incredibly successful as serious writers go. A major literary figure before I was born, he remained one until his death, and probably will long after mine. In this sense, there is some connection between us, tenuous and common as it may be. There were other connections, though, important if only for idiosyncratic reasons; connections that fleshed out the opinions I had of Updike, the constructed character I carried in my head as I approached Faneuil Hall.

There was the sage input I’d received from a grad school professor in the late nineties who told me to “Quit trying to write like Updike,” a goal (writing like Updike) that couldn’t have been further from my mind. In fairness to the instructor in question, he seemed fairly obsessed with the great man, not as an admirer of Updike’s work so much as his fame. The professor in question would pepper us with mentions of golfing with Updike, a veritable duffing bromance I expect amounted to one trip around the links many years before. This professor wrote page turners and screenplays, screenplays turned into page turners and page turners become screenplays. The entirety of his writing advice had to do with fame and monetary gain, the trappings of being a successful “author”, a word poisoned for me by its connection to this professor. In retrospect, he reminds me a bit of Donald Trump, if Donald Trump were a writing professor. This guy talked about stakes a lot, about always raising them in fiction. He made the same joke about grilling steaks again and again.

Then there were the days my wife and I spent with her friend up the coast in Ipswich, a place Updike had lived as a younger man. By that point he’d moved along the North Shore to Beverly Farms (and a mansion, I’m sure). And why not? All those books, many of them best sellers. The film options (The Witches of Eastwick, for example). After many years, Ipswich gossip still teemed with stories about John Updike, stories relayed by my wife’s friend, a life-long resident. She’d played with Updike’s children, looked on from a distance as he philandered around that small town, watched him eventually leave his young family and move, literally, down the street. So went the stories from my wife’s friend, so grew the legend of John Updike in my mind, a man who by circumstance and hearsay I became inclined to dislike, or at least to dismiss as boring and bourgeois, not worth my interest. Hence, my mock hysteria at the prospect of seeing him read. Sure, I was going. He was John Updike. But I was going with a chip on my shoulder, a little bit of insurance against disappointment.

The funny thing about Updike being bourgeois is that’s what I was becoming more and more myself, my career in finance advancing with those many halcyon midnights spent at that office in the Hancock Tower, my bank accounts getting fatter, writing time thinner, the act of writing itself growing more difficult until I stopped completely after I finished my MFA.

 

III.

 

There used to be a Waterstone’s by Faneuil Hall. The floors and floors of books and books, now all gone I think, turned into a food court or a fitness club, a Bloomie’s or a Macy’s. At that point, it was still a book store. That was where Updike went after the reading, to Waterstone’s to sign books.

The line for Updike was the longest I’d ever seen at a signing. It still is. The queue snaked from floor to floor of the store, through Science and Religion, Fiction and Children’s, doubling back on itself time and again. We’d been near the end of the line, but Tom and I had decided to stay, to wait. And eventually we’d gotten our chance, nearing the table where John Updike sat.

By the end of the evening, the Waterstone’s employees were imploring customers not to talk to Mr. Updike or make him sign too many books. The facts that should have been obvious: It was late at night, long after closing time. John Updike was nearing seventy. He was tired. People were imposing on him. And I watched as people continued to empty out their duffel bags and approach with their stacks of ten or fifteen books, watched as Updike signed them all without complaint, answered their questions about working at The New Yorker, whether he knew Cher and Jack Nicholson, the same questions he’d probably heard a dozen times just that night. Apparently, the Waterstone’s staffers were good at making blanket requests, bad at actually seeing them fulfilled. And Updike wasn’t going to do that. These were his fans. He was going to sit and sign.

We finally made it to the table, first Tom then me. I set the book I’d just purchased, In the Beauty of the Lilies, on the table before him. He took it in both hands, turned it and opened it, flipped to the title page. His pen descended, made its marks, as it had perhaps a thousand times that night, possibly millions in his life.

“Thank you, Mr. Updike, it’s an honor,” I said, star-struck, reclaiming my book, by that point feeling more than a little self-conscious about my bad manners earlier.

After all that waiting, after the liquor had worn off, I’d been forced to consider the reality of Updike rather than the abstraction of the character I had invented. He was an elderly man out on a cold night, sitting there, signing books. I hoped he wouldn’t recognize me. All I wanted was to get out of there.

“Well, I do fucking rock, don’t I?” he said, winking as Tom circled back, laughing, amazed.

And we stood there, the three of us, just three guys, three fellow dudes, as the rest of the world faded, as the last few people waiting in line disappeared, the store around us vanished, and all that was left were three writer dudes, laughing and laughing.

“I fucking rock, too,” said Tom.

“Well, you can goddam bet I rock, that’s for sure,” I added.

“Fucking rock,” said John Updike, “You guys fucking rock.”

 

IV.

 

Now that Updike is gone, dead nearly a decade, his fictional lilies wilted, swept away. Now that the rabbit has run and reduxed, been rich and at rest, we must reassess. We must deal with the reality of John Updike rather than the character constructed of myth and innuendo, the fiction that is fame, even such little fame as accrues to writers.

There are actually two things I remember about Updike’s work, two things that have stayed with me, and probably will until my death, I hope many years in the future. I think that’s all we can ask of most writers, as writers ourselves; or not ask really, but hope for, that some small bit of their work will stay with us in a meaningful way. For me, with Updike, the first is the beginning of Rabbit, Run.

“Boys are playing basketball around a telephone pole with a backboard bolted to it. Legs, shouts. The scrape and snap of Keds on loose alley pebbles seems to catapult their voices high into the moist March air blue above the wires.”

The rhythms, they’re what get me. “…Legs, shouts. The scrape and snap…” returns to me from time to time. No, it’s not the beginning of Lolita (though Updike clearly learned something from Nabokov). Still, it’s pretty good. It’s poetry, yes? Poetry become fiction.

The second thing that stays with me is the title of a later story of Updike’s, “Deaths of Distant Friends”. The lyrical beauty of that title—and more the truth of it—grows in my mind. The connections between people, the unavoidable loss of those connections, the sadness and joy that come with their memory.

I haven’t seen Tom and Maria in nearly a decade. It’s been even longer since Sara and I parted ways. As for John Updike, there was never a connection really, the end of the signing story an obvious fabrication. Admit it, though, you wanted that as much as I did.

Yes, I did meet Updike. And, yes, just as I said, I didn’t really know him. We weren’t friends. Except for the way certain people and events can fill our memories, can seem insignificant at first, then grow as the present retreats into the past.

I think of John Updike from time to time, of that night I met him, now years ago. More than Updike, I think of the people I’ve mentioned here and so many others, realities gone to the place all realities must, the shadow land of memory.

Beyond the veil, beyond our spent efforts and other, mortal failings, there can come visions, recognitions bright enough to change the way we see the world. These realizations are made still more magical by the fact that we had no cause for marking their consequence, nor that of the memories that spawned them, no obvious reason to do so when once we lived them, many years before.

John Updike

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Protecting Pop’s Pilloried Plagiarists

IT IS HARD TO IMAGINE, but in popular culture, the notion of originality was not always held as an artistic ideal. Today, we elevate musicians who write their own music; we view it as a badge of their artistic integrity. Anything less than absolute originality, however, and the artist faces a barrage of criticism. The practice of sampling, even with legal permission, is attacked with a vocabulary of crime. It is “theft,” it is “stealing,” it is “ripping someone off.” But there’s something positive to be said about creative sampling. To dismiss it as uninventive and lazy is reductive.

In Shakespeare’s day, the key to good writing was imitation – and this was in a period of artistic output that England has arguably yet to supersede. The words of Ovid, Virgil, Horace, Cicero, Seneca and Homer echo through the era’s writing because that was what readers wanted. Almost every Shakespeare play has a plot that can be traced back to one – if not several – earlier sources. Wyatt and Surrey simply translated the works of Petrarch in order to achieve sonneteering success. In Ancient Greece, the practice of using, echoing and adapting earlier works was known as imitatio – a writerly virtue that carried through into Renaissance Europe.

Consider the scent of rosemary as an analogy. Used in the 16th and 17th centuries to block the stench of plague, rosemary became a scent with foul associations in early modern London. Now, rosemary has no such connotations; it is a pleasant smell. Conversely, the art of imitation has soured from an artistic ideal to a rotten malpractice.

M.I.A.’s 2007 hit “Paper Planes” blatantly lifted the thumping opening riff from The Clash’s “Straight To Hell,” the B-side of 1982’s “Should I Stay Or Should I Go” (One Direction thought they’d take the riff from the A-side in 2012). The Youtube comments under “Straight To Hell” reveal the anger and indignation that M.I.A stirred with her sampling. The language is conditioned by a lexicon of theft and violence; “blatantly stole,” “ripped off.”

The etymology of “plagiarism” is also rather telling: the word stems from the Latin “plagiarus,” meaning “kidnapper, seducer, plunderer.” The dominant modern attitude to sampling paints The Clash as M.I.A.’s victims, not a band that legally sanctioned her use of their old riff. One Youtube comment reads: “I love both ‘Paper Planes’ and ‘Straight To Hell,'” which is absolutely not allowed. We are encouraged to choose a side in cases like this: the imitator or the imitated.

 

[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ewRjZoRtu0Y[/embedyt]

 

[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bkyCrx4DyMk[/embedyt]

 

But is not the very act of selecting old melodies as components of a new song one of artistic invention? Look, also, at what M.I.A. does with the riff. It is taken from a song about the tragedies of the Vietnam War and recast in a positive, celebratory light. She takes it a few notes higher (more pop-friendly) and draws it across the whole song, rather than using it only as an introduction. M.I.A. breathes new life into an old, once-obscure riff.

David Bowie frequently took from other songs and cultures. But Bowie, patron saint of music, never stole; he “borrowed.” Of course he did. As Greg Kot wrote for the BBC in January 2016: “[Bowie] had a long history of … borrowing from relatively unknown artists.” Or, as Dylan Matthews wrote for Vox: “Bowie borrowed from his past.” The music icon certainly lifted from songs, but he did so creatively. “Let’s Dance” begins with the opening to ‘Twist and Shout’, but the sheer audacity of the juxtaposition of rock ‘n’ roll and disco music allowed Bowie to pull it off. He made the old melody his own, if only for the year of 1983.

This action of “borrowing” generously cast upon Bowie is something modern artists also deserve. When Kanye West and Jay-Z took a part of Otis Redding’s vocal from “Try A Little Tenderness” and looped it over their 2011 single “Otis,” it wasn’t for lack of creativity, but rather the opposite. The rappers created a catchy and inspired homage to Redding, as opposed to having merely looted a dead man’s canon of work.

 

[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BoEKWtgJQAU[/embedyt]

 

[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UnPMoAb4y8U[/embedyt]

 

Those people deeply entrenched against modern artists bringing forth part of an older song into the realm of new music should consider the pedagogic function of sampling. The YouTube culture of announcing what has brought you to a certain song or video shows just how curious some Kanye West and Jay-Z fans have been. In the comments section under Redding’s “Try A Little Tenderness” one user asks: “Who came here from ‘Otis’?,” while another announces: “Here because of Kanye.” One can even find evidence of Kanye fans being converted – or, if not converted, then acquiring a new taste for Redding’s music. A YouTuber writes: “I came here from ‘Otis’ by Kanye and Jay-Z, this one is better, RIP Otis.” Perhaps we rely somewhat on the sampling practices of modern pop artists to introduce young fans to the musical greats of the past.

It is also satisfying to think that, through sampling, many unwitting pop fans are in fact enjoying the musical efforts of artists long gone. When the chorus of Pitbull’s “Don’t Stop The Party” would play in clubs in 2012, people were actually dancing to Toots and the Maytals’s “Funky Kingston.” Most probably didn’t know it, but they were.
[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i0vFid2tKbI[/embedyt]
[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U79o7qwul48[/embedyt]
We should look to Bob Dylan as the master of ‘borrowing’. He took from songs that barely anybody knew. The speaker in “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” famously begins each verse with a question for his “blue-eyed son.” For instance: “where have you been,” “what did you see,” “what did you hear,” and so on. Look back to one of the oldest traditional ballads in the English language, “Lord Randall,” probably written before 1600. In each verse, the speaker asks a different question for “Lord Randal, my son,” such as “where ha you been” and “what met ye there.” Dylan hardly pilfers the tune, but he very much takes from the lyrics. But Bob chose his battles wisely, for the fans of Jacobean balladry were either dead or sparse in number.

 

[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ex-m-eEKsg[/embedyt]

 

[embedyt] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0l-bCT0OedQ[/embedyt]

 

Music’s most canonical figures have engaged in the practice of sampling or “borrowing,” and often at the peak of their careers. When an artist looks to draw from other songs, this does not evince a dearth of creativity but a refreshing belief that the music that has preceded them is part of their toolkit. Since the time of ancient Greece, the reputation of imitation has risen and fallen. It is about time that it rises again.

Posted in Appreciations, Monday Rock City, Music, The Arts, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment