Should have done it last week, but a classic poem is classic any time of year. Today I'll take a look at one of Edgar Allan Poe's finest works, "The Raven". Although many of us are at least familiar with the croaked chorus of "Nevermore", I doubt many people nowadays really understand the entire poem, or even try to. As an English major, I consider the art of translating poetry into understandable meaning a challenge. Here's to it. My comments are in italics.

*******

The poem's structure is trochaic octometer; eight feet per line. The rhyming structure is AA,B,CC,CB,B,B with the internal rhymes in each line. The "B" rhyme is always "Nevermore".


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —

"Forgotten lore" indicates something such as the dark arts, which makes us think of spirits in this context, perhaps. If we don't now, we soon will.

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter,"

This is not a typo. Spelling has changed since 1848.

                    I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
          Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

December, of course, is when the days are at their shortest. Traditionally it was associated with dark magic.

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

If it's not clear (and it wasn't when I first read this poem), Poe's talking about the embers of the fire glowing upon the wood of the floor's planks.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;

"Morning", in other words; the next day--

                    — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow —

He's reading, trying to forget his suffering.

                    sorrow for the lost Lenore —

Poe wrote a couple of other poems mentioning "Lenore". Was it a code word for a woman whom he loved, perhaps?

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
          Nameless here for evermore.

The italics on "here" really send a chill down my spine each time I read this.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

The window curtains, fluttering in the breeze. Purple is a color associated with royalty, and with death.

Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; —
This it is and nothing more."

Haven't we all done that? Said to ourselves, "It's just the radiator" to some strange sound?

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"—

What he means is that he wasn't sure he heard someone rapping.

                    here I opened wide the door; ——
          Darkness there and nothing more.

If you've seen the famous Halloween Simpsons episode, you remember that Bart asks rhetorically, "You know what would be scarier than nothing? Anything!" I respectfully disagree. This heightens the tension.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

You may have noticed the alliteration with phrases like "Doubting, dreaming dreams" and "entreating entrance". Some critics don't like it. I think it works well.

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" —
          Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is,

What that is there.

                    and this mystery explore —
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
          'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance

Deferential respect.

          made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien

Manner.

          of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door —
Perched upon a bust of Pallas

Pallas Athene being the goddess of wisdom.

                    just above my chamber door —
          Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

In other words, the Raven is serious, and this makes the narrator smile.

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

The bird is not a coward.

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Pluto is the god of the Underworld, or death.

                    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Never again; never. Perhaps some of these seem obvious, but believe me, they all add up to a mess of misunderstandings, which is why I'm explaining them each.

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
          With such name as "Nevermore."

He's amazed that the bird can speak, but he doesn't attach any meaning to its reply. This will soon change.

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered —
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before —
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
          Then the bird said "Nevermore."

This is when the narrator begins to believe that the raven is not just croaking without meaning. He interprets this to mean that the bird will never leave him.

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore —
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
          Of 'Never — nevermore'."

In other words, it means nothing. The bird just learned this word from a previous owner who was so melancholy that "Nevermore" was his constant refrain.

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore —
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
          Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

He's sitting before the raven, trying to understand what it means.

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
          She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Once again, his thoughts turn to Lenore and how he misses her.

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

Seraphim are messagers from God, the highest order of angels. They come with the scent of myrrh, perhaps, which again signifies death.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;

Nepenthe was a drug to induce forgetfulness. The narrator claims that the angels have sent the raven to give him respite and relief from his memories. "Quaff" is to drink.

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
          Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

The Tempter would be the devil; a tempest a storm.

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore —
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!"

The balm of Gilead is mentioned in Jeremiah as a cure for all ills. The narrator's pleading to know if he will ever be healed of his grief.

          Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

This repetition is deadly and harrowing to read. We want the narrator to find peace, but the raven manifestly denies the possibility.

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore —
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

This seems to refer to the Garden of Eden.

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
          Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting —
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
          Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
          Shall be lifted — nevermore!

To hear James Earl Jones read that last stanza in The Simpsons Halloween Special is truly to hear the full horror of the narrator's fate. To sit beneath the bird's shadow, his soul in agony, thinking of his lost Lenore forever.
 

Godel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid, Douglas R. Hofstader. © 1979 by Basic Books, Inc.

******

Kurt Godel was a twentieth-century Austrian mathematician who proved that all systems of mathematics which are consistent will include undecidable propositions. M.C. Escher was a twentieth-century Dutch artist whose lithographs play with our preconceptions of reality. Johann Sebastian Bach was a seventeenth-century German baroque composer and organist whose works broke ground technically and artistically.

What do these three men have in common? That is the theme of Hofstader's book, a masterpiece of modern philosophy which won the Pulitzer Prize.

Hofstader, a specialist in artificial intelligence, deals with a number of concepts in GEB: mathematics, computers and computer programs, music, Epimenides' paradox ("This sentence is false", a key concept in Godel's Theorem), our perception of intelligence, logic, Zen, molecular biology, translation and many other passing fancies, all of which he ties together brilliantly. Summarizing this book is nearly impossible, but it's an interesting and delightful journey throughout.

Of particular interest to mathematically challenged readers are the Dialogues interspersed with the narrative, which help illustrate the many points Hofstader makes. Most of these Dialogues feature Achilles and a Tortoise, who converse about various ideas in an interesting and amusing fashion. For instance, the first Dialogue uses these two characters and Zeno (a Greek philosopher) to explain why Achilles can never beat the Tortoise in a footrace. (Basically, since he has to cover the distance each moment that the Tortoise continues to move, he can never actually reach the Tortoise.) The second Dialogue, by Lewis Carroll, uses logic to explain why logic can't be used to prove anything. It's all intriguing and thought-provoking, although some may argue that it's just silly. My own feeling is that anything that provokes discussion can never be silly.

I must admit that there are large chunks of this book which I don't fully understand. Hofstader deals with some difficult concepts, and although he does his best to make them clear, they're of such a difficulty level that they remain fuzzy. However, the more I read, the more I understand--and this book was written to be read again and again.

I apologize; I hoped to write a better review of GEB, but it encompasses so much and does it so intelligently that I can't hope to give you more than a glimpse into its beauty. Highly recommended for everyone, even if much of it may seem obscure at first. Take your time. Read slowly. Enjoy.
 

I'm blowing my own horn today.

I had the idea for this story some time ago. I entered a difficult contest, "WYRM's Gauntlet--off season" , knowing that if I made it all the way to the finals that I'd have to write two stories. One had to be "spec fic", or some form of fantasy/science fiction/horror story. The second could be any genre.

Knowing going in that I'd have to write stories, I had a couple of ideas in mind for the spec fic story. Both of them, strangely enough, were inspired by my latest collections of Beatles music. You can find the first here, which I adapted to suit the prompt: "Living In Stereo" . Lest you think I may have cheated, let me reassure you that I didn't begin actually writing the story until the prompt was posted. As I said, I had two stories in mind, and I just chose to write the one which fit better with the prompt. It worked; I got to the next round.

Now I'm in the finals, and therefore I had one final story to write. I considered penning the next installment in my secret agent series (Jonathan Black, who has a folder all his own in my port if you're interested), but I didn't think that would go over well with this group. They're all fantasy lovers, you see. So I decided to use my other spec fic idea.

Before I actually began writing, my daughter and I attended a Regina Spektor concert. It was marvelous. She's a singer/songwriter/pianist with tons of talent and a quirky sense of humor. So for the encore, she played her song "Samson" solo on piano. And at the line "Beneath the stars came falling", the stage came up in a galaxy of stars over the backdrop and piano and walls. It was gorgeous. I knew I'd found my title, even if it's a little off topic.

If you're interested, I'd love reviews. I like it. I think it has a marvelous sense of wonder.

ID: 1604127   (Rated: ASR) Title: Beneath The Stars Came Falling  Description: A meeting of minds. Thanx to Regina Spektor for the title. By: Lynn McKenzie

(Oh yes--I have to turn it in Monday, October 12th, at 10 PM EDT. So if you could review it before then, it'd help. )
 

Adventureland, 2009, Jesse Eisenberg and Kristen Stewart. Directed and written by Greg Mottola. Rated R for drug use, profanity.

*******

This is one of those movies that moves right into my heart and curls up for a long stay. Set in 1987, which is probably a good part of the reason why I love it so, Adventureland is a story that talks about young people without making fun of them or idolizing them. Its hero, James Brennan (Eisenberg), has just graduated from Oberlin with a degree in Comparative Literature and Renaissance Studies, which doesn't help him get a summer job when his plans to tour Europe fall through. He ends up taking a job at the local amusement park in Pittsburgh, Adventureland, a family-oriented place which is not of particularly high quality. There he meets Em (Stewart), an intelligent and beautiful girl who seems to like him, but has family and relationship issues. The rest of the movie follows their relationship over the summer and is a typical coming-of-age story. What isn't typical are the characters.

James is a young man who's a virgin, but actually wants to fall in love with a girl before he has sex with her. Not that he doesn't have a sex drive; he's quite attracted to both Em and the gorgeously sexy Lisa P., who works in rides. But he's thoughtful, considerate and unaggressive, all of which make him unusual in today's typical comedy. His friend Joel is also intelligent, with a cynical wit which makes him one of the funniest characters in the film; but he realizes his own limitations with girls:

"I'm not a good-looking guy, and I'm poor. Girls aren't going to go near me when there's all these...yuppies around."

Every character in this film is outstanding in a different way. James' "best friend", Frigo, routinely punches James in the groin when leaving him and is a complete and total jerk. Connell, the maintenance guy who looks a lot like James Dean and who has a way with young women, is completely manipulative and phony, yet cares about his mother and comes away as worthy of our pity. Lisa P., at first the typical sexy stupid easy lay, turns out to be not as easy as we think, and is surprisingly nice. Bobby and Paulette, who run the park, are a scream as people who cut every corner to do everything they can to avoid having to give out "a giant-ass panda"; but Bobby comes through in a clinch for James when a customer is chasing him with murder on his mind. James and Em's parents, though in small roles and not terribly sympathetic, manage to stand out and act like real people instead of stereotypes for the most part. Stewart as Em is particularly brilliant; she's vulnerable, likeable, sarcastic and confused, but in the end, although she makes some bad choices, her love for James wins out. Stewart should get out of the Twilight series as fast as she can and stick to roles like this. She probably won't, which is a pity.

This is a comedy without big bellylaughs, but it has a sharp, quiet wit and love for its characters which really make it special. The dialogue is a scream. I long to quote you lines of it, but I don't want to spoil them for you. Just trust me when I say people with a brain will love it.

I loved the Eighties setting, of course, but my teenage daughter loved the film just as much because it's true to the way young people act and think. Yes, there are jokes about sex and even a few about bodily functions, and way too much marijuana use for my taste. Still, for the most part, the film's tasteful and achingly sweet. And the music is well-chosen, and incredible, of course. Any film opening with "Bastards of Young" and going on to Husker Du, Lou Reed and the Velvets, Nick Lowe, Expose, Wang Chung, Falco and INXS has to be brilliant.

I worked at Six Flags over Mid-America in high school, the summer of '79. I worked in Games, just like James and Em. I announced the same horse race game that James does his best to "take it up to 10" when he's announcing the winner. We would stand around and talk to each other and drink free Dr. Peppers every hour to keep us from getting dehydrated and play the jukebox and mime playing guitar and singing to "Fire Lake" and "Don't Bring Me Down" and "You May Be Right". Ah, the music. I loved that summer. The pay sucked and the costumes were ridiculous, but at least the games weren't rigged. And sometimes people even won those giant-ass pandas.

A highly recommended film if you're young, or were once young, or ever worked in an amusement park.


 

You may or may not be aware that the Beatles have just remastered their entire catalog for the first time on CD. They're still not on iTunes, but you can get brilliant sounding silver discs through Amazon, Best Buy, Target or that quaintest of relics, your local music store. Are there any of those left? It seems doubtful.

Yes, friends, the Beatles were of a different era, one where albums consisting of collections of songs were the predominant sellers and cherry-picking your favorite tunes was an impossibility. Although with the Fabs, most of their songs were released as singles...but the real fans knew the albums were fantastic. And the remasters are definitely worth buying if you are more than a casual fan. Students of rock will pick up Sgt. Pepper, the White Album and Abbey Road, of course. I've actually heard a couple of people calling themselves music fans who say they have no interest in anything before Pepper. Good God! Wake up, folks. The Beatles' early work has twice the energy of some of their later material and a lot more fun.

Confession time. My favorite Beatles album is one you've never heard of. Yes, I love Pepper and the White Album and Abbey Road and Revolver and Rubber Soul. And they're all better than this album. But my all-time favorite Beatles album, and one of the first remasters I bought, is...

...Beatles For Sale. From 1964. The only song you know from it is most likely "Eight Days A Week".

Why is it my favorite? Probably because it contains some of the first Beatles songs I heard. But the album as a whole has this aura of cheery melancholy which draws me in, every time. It's got lots of rockabilly guitars and semi-acoustic like electric strumming and harmonies out the wazoo and lyrics tinged by ennui and semi-despair. It's amazing.

Track by track:

"No Reply", Lennon. His first story song, about discovering that his girl is two-timing him. The "I saw the light" crashes in like thunder. Minor-key and awesome.

"I'm A Loser", Lennon. Even more amazing than the first track, a rocking Dylan-like number with harmonica and some of the sharpest guitar I've ever heard. John sounds about an inch from committing suicide. "Beneath this mask I am wearing a frown."

"Baby's In Black", Lennon (and McCartney). This is just weird, about a girl who can't forget her former deceased lover, so she dresses in black. You need to find someone less goth, guys. Country like crazy, and a "waltz", as John described it in concert.

"Rock And Roll Music", John. The Beatles rock Chuck Berry into the ground, with help from George Martin on piano. Love it.

"I'll Follow The Sun", McCartney. Eh. A slow ballad written in 1960 and dragged out to fill up space. It's OK, and fits the somber mood, but it ain't a classic. George's guitar solo is rather unimpressive, to say the least (consisting of four notes); he must not have thought much of it, either.

"Mr. Moonlight", John. Hands down my least favorite Beatles song. It's a cover, thank God. They just screwed up the arrangement with that cheesy Hammond organ and Arabian drum. Oh well. The outtake on Anthology is better.

"Kansas City/Hey Hey Hey Hey!", Paul. Back on track with this Little Richard number caught in one take. Scream it, Paul!

"Eight Days A Week", Lennon/McCartney. Features a fade-in, something new back then. A cute piece of pop, but hardly the best song on here. It seems much too sunny with all the other material.

"Words Of Love", John/Paul. Their only Buddy Holly cover, it's just as great as the original. What harmonies. What guitar work. And Ringo plays packing case. Ummm.

"Honey Don't", Ringo. A Carl Perkins cover, it showcases his melancholy rockabilly side. Good job, Ring. "Ah, rock on George for Ringo one time!"

"Every Little Thing", Lennon (I think). Kind of a nothing tune, really, but it does have tympani on it which is cool. Another sad song, although lyrically you wouldn't know it. The way John sings "Yes I know I'm the lucky guy" sounds like he doesn't believe it at all.

"I Don't Want To Spoil The Party", Lennon. Back on form with this downer rockabilly number. Again, marvelous guitar work by George and lovely harmonies from Paul. "Though tonight she's made me sad/I still love her...I've had a drink or two and I don't care..." Sticks right in my heart.

"What You're Doing", McCartney. The coolest thing about this is the drum riff swiped from "Be My Baby" and the guitar riff throughout. I do like the way Paul sings "Why should it be so much to ask of you/What you're doing to me", though.

"Everybody's Trying To Be My Baby", George. One more Carl Perkins cover so we don't forget our lead guitarist. They drenched his voice in echo for some weird reason. Astounding guitar work, natch.

And there you have it. Those first three songs and "Party" are four of my favorite Beatles songs. Not the best, not the worst. Just the ones that are my special loves.

And now I have them in stereo again, after all these years. Thanks, guys.
 

"Hello, this is Wanda Ellsworth with your Arts and Entertainment News. Our top story tonight: A major rennovation of Leonardo DaVinci's The Last Supper is now in the works to be unveiled sometime next year. Frank Noitall, the Milano curator in charge of the project, stated, "We feel it could look much better than it does now. We're redoing the painting to restore the integrity of the work according to what DaVinci would have wanted." When asked how he knew DaVinci's intentions, Noitall declined to comment.

"In a related story, replacement arms are being attached to the Venus de Milo, and Michaelangelo's Last Judgement will be completely recolored according to modern preferences."

Film at eleven.

There's been a lot of complaining about the new Beatles remasters, coming to your local record store (but not iTunes) on September 9th. Some want more bonus tracks. Some wish the mono versions had been included on the stereo albums, which I can agree with from my pocketbook's standpoint. But the major complaint about the remasters seems to be that they haven't been remixed--that is, the original balance and placement of the instruments and vocals has been left unaltered from the albums' original release on CD.

The attitude that the Beatles' recordings don't sound "good enough" in terms of twenty-first-century technology frustrates me no end, for a number of reasons. First of all, who arbitrarily decided that today's standards are the perfect blueprint for how recordings "should" sound? The public at large? A bunch of recording engineers? Producers? Record execs who want to sell more songs? I've been hearing a lot of static about modern-day recordings which are so compressed to make the sound louder that they've turned the resulting mixes into a bunch of noise. Sometimes you can't even hear the vocals without a lot of buzz, as I've found to my dismay on a few recent purchases. This is not what I want for the Beatles.

Apart from that, I actually like the stereo separation on most of their records (save the first two, which were never meant to be released in stereo, anyway). On "A Day In The Life", you can actually hear John's voice drift across the channels. Sounds marvelous in headphones. Very psychedelic. Other examples of stereo used intelligently include "Magical Mystery Tour", "The Fool on the Hill" and "Tomorrow Never Knows". These mixes don't need "improvement" by moving everything into the center and turning up the bass and drums. It would ruin the original intention.

My final argument is that experiments in remixing have already been tried. To my ears, they've not been successful; quite the contrary. Paul's double-tracked vocal on "Eleanor Rigby" got completely screwed up in the 1999 remix for Yellow Submarine Songtrack. Ditto George's vocal in "Only A Northern Song". The reason for this is that the Fabs recorded everything in four-track, and then often mixed that down to one track so that three more tracks could be used for overdubs, and so on. Trying to remix by going back to the original tapes vastly increases the likelihood of a tape going out of sync and creating results like the above.

Remember, too, that when you remix, you change what's discernable to the ear. If you increase the bass, you're going to make it harder to hear the guitars. If you bring out a piano part, you're going to muffle the vocals. And so on. The Beatles' recordings are like paintings; we've grown familiar with their sound over the years. If it's changed, it will be just like changing the hues in Michelangelo's paintings.

Bottom line: Leave those tapes alone, except for the remasters. You don't screw with Art.
 

I'll admit, I have very little experience with today's young adult (henceforward referred to as YA) literature. I use the word quite loosely. Based on the books that my teenage daughter has taken out of the library, and my occasional browsing there, the vast majority of books in this category are pretty bad. My all-time favorite was the one about the girl with the brother who thought he should have been a girl, too. Sure, happens all the time in my neighborhood.

Most YA books have plots about teens falling in love and having sex and getting pregnant or getting their girlfriends pregnant, or taking drugs, or cutting themselves, or having some sort of intense, life-threatening problem. Granted, teens do have these problems, and I'm not trying to say that these books should be censored or forbidden. But do most of them? I don't think so. Not like the situations in these books. Holy hell. They make soap operas seem like kindergarten.

I don't remember what I read when I was a teenager, with the exception of the classic just-say-no tome, Go Ask Alice. When I first read it, I thought, "Wow. Drugs are really bad. I'm not ever taking them." When I got older--like, by college--I read it again and thought, "Wow. What an obvious piece of moralistic, cautionary fiction." It's still entertaining in that light, but I sure wouldn't recommend it to my daughter. She's much more sophisticated than I was, and she'd see through it immediately.

Why do YA books always have to be moralizing about things, anyway? Boring, and fruitless. Maybe that's why most of them are so horrible. The only piece of YA literature I can think of offhand is The Catcher In The Rye. I'm not so sure that's aimed at teens, anyway. But it's excellent.

The following aren't really YA books, but pre-teen. They've stayed in my memory far longer than all the ones aimed at teens, however. Time hasn't dated them, either.

A Wrinkle In Time, Madeline L'Engle. This story succeeds on so many levels: as science fiction, as philosophy, as a tale of families and love. L'Engle's later stories in the series slowly descend into New Age treacle, but this one will stand forever. A classic struggle between Good and Evil, with a main character, Meg, who is far more realistic than your average YA heroine.

The Long Secret, Louise Fitzhugh. The sequel to the immortal Harriet the Spy, which I suspect inspired every female writer here over a certain age (ahem). This book breaks a lot more boundaries, though, discussing menstruation, divorce, and religious faith fully six years before that overrated "classic" by Blume, Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. It does it better, too.

A Bridge To Terabithia, Katherine Patterson. Confession time: I didn't read this until I had a child who had to read it in grade school. Doesn't matter. I would recommend this to every child of eleven or twelve that I know. It deals with friendship and has a nonsexual and nonromantic relationship between a preteen boy and girl, quite beautifully. Something happens midway through that shocked me far more than all the drug-taking and sex in the YA novels. Because I cared about the main characters, it had a great deal of impact. This book will make you cry, but you should read it.

The Gift of Magic, Lois Duncan. Duncan kind of went nuts later on in writing the sort of garbage horror novels for teens that I despise (e.g., I Know What You Did Last Summer), but this book deals with the paranormal in what is almost a believable way. Again, it's because you care about the characters that this story has an impact. Nancy has ESP and precognition, but it's handled tastefully and with a minimum of outsized drama. I liked it that she wanted to keep this gift hidden, and that her brother and sister also had unusual gifts, although more mundane. She, too, is dealing with a family divorce, and her struggles in adapting to her new situation make an interesting and touching story.

I wish more YA books could deal with teen problems without sensationalizing them. If you know of any that you'd recommend as a cut above the average, I'd love to try them. I'd hate to think that teens have so little to choose from in their particular genre.
 

House M.D.. TV series, 2004-present.

I am still trying to figure out just why I love this television show so much.

OK, so this won't be one of this blog's deepest entries, and perhaps it's stretching the definition of Art to include something so immired emmired inmired enmired stuck in pop culture as a Fox TV show. I might argue that The Simpsons, since it's lasted so much longer, is closer to Art than this.

Who cares. Anything that stirs emotions is worthy of examination. House M.D. certainly qualifies in that respect.

Some background. The show deals with the trials and tribulations of Dr. Gregory House, whom everyone, even his closest friends, simply addresses by his surname. He's a brilliant misanthrope who weekly meets a new challenging medical case which no other doctor can solve. After about fifty minutes and three commercial breaks, House comes up with the solution. Most of the time. Sometimes he's too late. But I've watched four seasons of the show, and I can't remember a single episode where he was flat out wrong. Feel free to correct me if I'm mistaken.

House is based on Sherlock Holmes, and the series definitely stresses the mystery aspect. I find it a challenge to find a solution before House and his medical team do. (Does?) Anyway, it's impossible since I'm not a licensed physician, but I'm enough of an aficionado to be able to at least make a stab in the general direction most of the time. Once I actually came up with the solution minutes before House. I felt so proud. So perhaps it's the medical and mystery aspects which enthrall me. I don't think that's all of it, however.

House is a fascinating character. In real life, he would be fired in about a week, no matter how brilliant he was. He sneers at patients, alienates them and acts as if they're lying idiots. The lying part is often true; the idiot part is only in comparison to House's brain. Everyone seems like an idiot next to him. Then again, he pops Vicodin every ten minutes or so and only has one close friend. Socially, perhaps he's a victim of Asperger's, although I don't think this possibility has yet been raised. Anyway, he's arrogant, obnoxious, sarcastic and thoroughly detestable...and yet I love him. Hugh Laurie, the former British comedian, is responsible for this miracle. What a talented man. I never would've known he wasn't American.

In recent seasons the show has slowly shifted away from the medicine and over towards soap opera. Chase and Cameron (former members of House's team) are sleeping with each other. Foreman is fired, rehired and may get fired again, for all I know. Newer team members Thirteen (that's all we know her by), Kutner and Taub all share their innermost secrets and troubles with each other, House and the audience. Wilson, House's best (and only) friend, has three ex-wives and fights with House about his current girlfriend. Cuddy, the hospital administrator, has a love/hate relationship with House and is trying to get pregnant. It seems a bit much at times. Still, the wit of the dialogue and the spark of the interactions keep me interested, at least so far.

I've always been a sucker for medical dramas, going all the way back to the Sixties with Chad Everett and Medical Center. St. Elsewhere in the Eighties, a precursor of House in many ways, was one of my favorite shows of all time. And M*A*S*H, of course. I await Season Six of House M.D. with great interest. Perhaps this season I'll beat him again to a diagnosis.
 

Throw Mama From The Train is not only a marvelous black comedy and homage/tribute to Alfred Hitchcock's work, it is a film that every writer absolutely must see. Not to learn anything much about writing as a skill, but to have a number of satisfying laughs when one recognizes situations that all serious writers have encountered.

When we first meet the protagonist, Larry, he's seated at his electric typewriter (the film was made in 1987) working on his new novel. Unfortunately, he's stuck on the first sentence. "The night was..." Hot. Humid. Sultry. He can't decide on the right modifier. At that point, my heart went out to him, especially when I learned that his ex-wife had stolen his previous novel and had a tremendous hit with it under her own name. Meanwhile, Owen, an unassuming student in Larry's writing class, is trying to write his novel, but his mother constantly belittles him and humiliates him. He decides that she must die. When Larry, who is trying to help Owen with his mystery novel, directs him to the Hitchcock film Strangers on a Train, all hell breaks loose.

Billy Crystal and Danny Devito shine as the harassed writer and his foil. Larry wants only to be left alone, but is shocked into action when he discovers that Owen has pushed his ex-wife off a yacht in Hawaii. All our sympathies are with the two, particularly because Owen's momma is such an unlikable woman. The late Anne Ramsey really shone in this role, her last, becoming a true monster who seems unslayable.

Some of my favorite writing scenes were in the class. We have Mrs. Hazeltine, who has written a WWII novel but hasn't bothered to do much research. "He pushed the button that made the sub go down," she intones. "Yeah, Dave. We showed those bastards." Another would-be writer, Mr. Pinsky, wants to grace the world with a book tentatively entitled "100 Girls I'd Like To Pork". "It would have pictures. It's a coffee-table book."

Anyone who loves black humor will love this movie. The casting, which includes Rob Reiner and jazz great Branford Marsalis in supporting roles, is inspired. The dialogue is sharp and at times deeply moving, such as when Owen shows Larry his coin collection from his late father. Best of all, the ending is satisfying and true to the tone of the story.

Highly recommended for all you writers out there--or anyone who enjoys a great comedy.


 

Song of the Day: "Childhood", Michael Jackson. See below.

************

The tragedy that is Michael Jackson's life is so heartbreaking that it stands as one of the most compelling arguments I can imagine against child exploitation and abuse. I have absolutely no doubt that Jackson would have been far happier and better adjusted had he been forcibly removed from his family at the age of six and had grown up to become a metalworker on a Detroit production line. The abuse his father put him and his fellow siblings through to become famous was not worth the damage it caused. The fact that he has outlived his son makes me want to charge him with murder, although it would never work.

I am not trying to lionize Michael Jackson. No amount of abuse can justify child molestation, if in fact it did occur. The problem is that we have absolutely no way of knowing now, unless some of Jackson's more famous child friends (such as Sean Lennon and Corey Feldman) come forward and confess. I don't necessarily encourage them to do so, not because I'm concerned about Jackson's image, but because it would be so damaging to them psychologically.

In my heart, although I would never have trusted my son with Jackson, I want to believe that he did not molest children. I suspect that what is much more likely is that he never really matured and sublimated his sex drive to the point where he really could sleep in a bed with boys and not do anything. At the least, though, he was guilty of horrendous judgment, and for that I was appalled at his behavior.

Much of this is beside the point, though. What is the real tragedy is the loss of Jackson's incredible musical talent. As a child, he stunned the world with his voice, stage presence and dancing skill, along with his brothers. "I Want You Back", with its magnificent bass line, would still today merely be a forgettable piece of bubblegum without Jackson's lead vocal, bursting with energy, fire and melodic command. It's obvious from the first verse that he had charisma to burn.

It didn't stop there, however. The Jackson Five had hit after hit that still energize listeners over thirty years later. "ABC", "Never Can Say Goodbye" and "The Love You Save" were all just as marvelous as "I Want You Back". With "I'll Be There", we were treated to a ballad made more poignant by Jackson's delivery and still unmatured voice. When Jackson went solo, it became obvious that he really didn't need his brothers to back him up. "Got To Be There" and his cover of "Rockin' Robin" were delightful, but only Jackson could sing a ballad to a rat with "Ben" and make it endure all these years later.

Jackson really began showing his talent once the Jacksons split from Motown, however. Their single for Epic, "Shake Your Body (Down To The Ground)", is awesome and gave us the first taste of what he could really do given freedom of expression. Ultimately, however, he must have felt tied down by his family, and he split from them more or less permanently to pursue his solo career. Off The Wall, his first real solo record, was both a declaration of independence and a statement that he was a real force to be reckoned with. "Don't Stop ('Til You Get Enough)", like "Shake Your Body", has a groove that just won't quit. "Rock With You" is a wonderful blending of disco and rock guitars in a swinging slow-dance number. "She's Out Of My Life" took a slow ballad and infused enough emotion in it to truly move listeners when it was released, although it became almost a parody in light of Jackson's later tendency to exaggerate his emotional numbers.

Thriller became the record that broke Jackson with a mass audience. If you weren't there, you have no idea of the impression it made. Millions of records sold, but more importantly, Jackson was on everyone's lips as THE major talent of the Eighties. Although "Beat It" with its heavy metal guitars and Eddie Van Halen's solo was credited with breaking Jackson with the rock contingent, it was really "Billie Jean" which broke the color barrier on MTV and got people listening. The famous moonwalk performance on Motown's 25th Anniversary special was just the icing on an incredibly tasty cake. No fewer than seven hit singles came from Thriller, and that's a record that's not likely to be broken given the current state of the music industry.

Unfortunately, this megasuccess seems to have had bad effects on Jackson's already fragile psyche. The stories of his peculiarities multiplied in part due to the backlash effect, and they caused Jackson to retreat even more into his own private world. Although Bad had several hits and in my opinion is a more consistent production effort than Thriller, it didn't sell as well. Future albums, partly because of the controversy over Jackson's private life, went even further downhill artistically and at the cash register. And eventually Jackson became both a joke and a reviled figure, a hermit lost in his own reality, with massive debts piling up due to his inability to mature and take control of his life.

"Childhood" is a song from what I think is his last listenable album, HIStory Vol. II. It's difficult for me to listen to due to Jackson's tendency to over-emote almost to the point of being ridiculous (his famous vocal "hiccups" are something else he overdid to the point of annoyance). By the time the strings finish playing and Jackson's done sobbing through the song, you feel as if you've intruded into far too personal a place. Perhaps that was his point, however. "Childhood" mourns what he never had, and as such, it illustrates his life far better than any autobiography ever could.

Have you seen my Childhood?
I'm searching for the world that I come from
'Cause I've been looking around
In the lost and found of my heart...
No one understands me
They view it as such strange eccentricities...
'Cause I keep kidding around
Like a child, but pardon me...

People say I'm not okay
'Cause I love such elementary things...
It's been my fate to compensate,
for the Childhood I've never known...

Have you seen my Childhood?
I'm searching for that wonder in my youth
Like pirates and adventurous dreams,
Of conquest and kings on the throne...

Before you judge me, try hard to love me,
Look within your heart then ask,
Have you seen my Childhood?
People say I'm strange that way
'Cause I love such elementary things,
It's been my fate to compensate,
For the Childhood I've never known...

Have you seen my Childhood?
I'm searching for that wonder in my youth
Like fantastical stories to share
The dreams I would dare, watch me fly...

Before you judge me, try hard to love me.
The painful youth I've had

Have you seen my Childhood....

RIP, Michael Jackson. May you find peace in the next world.
 

Stik says Gobble Up had an excellent Authors NL this week with lots of discussion about gender roles in fiction. Highly recommended. An interesting link she included:

http://bookblog.net/gender/genie.php

This "Gender Genie" will take samples of any writing and analyze it, then tell you what it believes the gender of the writer to be. It does this using a word frequency table; apparently some words are more "masculine" or "feminine" than others.

Well, I couldn't resist that. I absolutely loathe gender stereotypes, and I've often regretted that I didn't set up my WDC account with a gender-neutral pseudonym such as "Chris McKenzie". What would the Genie think of my work? So I got a few items, not having time to do the entire catalog, and plugged them in.

"Thinking Straight"   [18+] by Lynn McKenzie

Female

Interesting. I chose this one because the narrator is male--but he's gay. So does this mean I did a good job at pegging him, or is it reflecting my personal gender?

"Lead Me Not"   [18+] by Lynn McKenzie

Female

This is one with an all-male atmosphere. Didn't matter. That's a clever Genie.

"Try Not To Breathe"   [XGC] by Lynn McKenzie

Male

Now I could have guessed this, because to me it reads as if it were written by a guy. It's also the one story people have reacted most strongly to. Meaning...what?

"House of Wax"   [13+] by Lynn McKenzie

Male

I would've thought this would be female, but no. Again, it's a story readers tend to be enthusiastic about. So I was sure the next choice would be male, also.

""If Thy Right Hand...""   [XGC] by Lynn McKenzie

Female

Wrong! Perhaps it's because of all the "she"'s and "her"'s present. For some reason, those pronouns are feminine indicators. But not "he" and "his". I really wonder about this algorithm.

"One Night In Bangkok"   [18+] by Lynn McKenzie

Female

Again, from a guy's viewpoint, and one I thought was pretty masculine. Ergh.

"P.S. I Love You"   [13+] by Lynn McKenzie

Female

Another gay guy. Hmm. Maybe I should stick to them when writing from a guy's POV. I'm not much for macho guys, for sure.

"Supernatural Superserious"   [13+] by Lynn McKenzie

Female

A romantic story although it's from a male POV. I'm not surprised it was pegged female.

*****

Now I wanted to have some fun, so I plugged in the first couple of paragraphs from Silas Marner by George Eliot.

Male

What do you know! The Genie thinks George Eliot is male. Except "George Eliot" is the pseudonym for Mary Ann Evans.

You could have all sorts of fun, plugging in excepts from classic literature and seeing what you get. I suspect that this program is not all that accurate for anything except current writing, and perhaps not even that accurate then. It's fun, though. And again, I really wonder: Would people read my work differently if they thought that a guy had written it? Before you say no, consider George Eliot, or J.K. Rowling, whose publishers insisted she use her initials so that boys wouldn't be turned off to the Harry Potter series.

Man, we've got a long way to go.
 

Most people can usually agree on what constitutes a work of great art. How do we look at art in terms of the person who creates it?

Some artists, although they created magnificent works, were (or are) not particularly shining examples of human beings. Richard Wagner, for example. His operas are groundbreaking in their scope, particularly the Ring cycle and Tristan und Isolde. Wagner himself was an anti-Semitic bastard, however, and he used his works to promote his views about the superiority of the Germanic race. His works were not performed in Israel until 2001, and even today Holocaust survivors frequently protest their public performance. Does Wagner's background invalidate the artistic merit of his works?

Charles Dickens, until quite late in his life, was also anti-Semitic. Oliver Twist, a favorite of many, contains many passages about "Fagin the Jew". (Strangely enough, the real villain, Sykes, is never described as "Sykes the Christian".) For that matter, Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice has given many people the stereotype of the miserly Jew in Shylock, despite his famous speech ("Hath not a Jew eyes?") Too little, too late, say many, although Dustin Hoffman performed Shylock some years ago onstage.

Phil Spector, just sentenced to at least nineteen years in prison for second-degree murder, nevertheless produced many brilliant rock records which remain classics, such as "Be My Baby", "Da Doo Ron Ron" and his seminal Christmas record. Michael Jackson, who may or may not have molested young boys but who is certainly guilty of extreme lack of judgment, has given us enduring songs like "Billie Jean", "Thriller" and "Beat It". I don't plan to sell the records I own by either artist, although whether or not I'll buy any further work by them is another question. I'd be more likely to invest in Spector's work since I don't think he'll be able to enjoy the money. Fortunately, Jackson no longer owns the rights to Lennon/McCartney's catalog, so at least I don't need to agonize over those remastered Beatles releases.

Perhaps it's the passage of time which makes a difference. Wagner can no longer profit from performances of his operas, so I feel less guilty about listening to his music. I do think it's important to provide that context in his case, however, since so much of his work has that theme of racial superiority. Can you say that about more recent artists like Spector and Jackson, though? What about Pete Townshend, who was arrested for possession of child pornography? His defense was that he'd downloaded it from the Internet for research, and apparently the British courts found enough evidence to believe him since he was never formally charged. But on the chance that he abuses children, should I quit buying his records? Should I sell the ones I own?

It's a tough question when the artists are still living and profit by the sale of their works. I suppose the only answer is to consider each one on a case by case basis. In point of fact, it would take a pretty big moral lapse by an artist for me to seriously consider selling the works I might own by him or her. I don't seriously believe Townshend is guilty of a crime, anyway; again, just bad judgment.

And these things can go too far. Consider all the writers and actors who were blacklisted in the McCarthy days for the crime of having the wrong political views.

As much as I'd like to bring this to a neat conclusion, I can't do it. Artists are human, just as the rest of us, and as such aren't perfect. But I would not want an evil person to profit from his or her work, no matter how great the art s/he created might be. It helps to be aware of the context of the creator, however. Sometimes we don't find these things out until years later.
 

I finally saw Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch a couple of nights ago. I had been looking forward to this film for a long time. After all, it's a classic movie, both as a Western and of all time. I expected it to be violent, and sure enough, it was. However, forty years of time passing has rendered the violence a lot less shocking, unfortunately. Hell, Westworld was as bad or worse. But those were robots, so I suppose the blood there didn't count. It was almost like a cartoon, anyway.

Unfortunately, I came away from Bunch unsatisfied. The purpose of the violence seemed to be...well, to be there. To shock people by showing blood and gore and death. Now, compared to all the Westerns that came before, I grant that this film at least showed its audience what really happens in a gunfight. But it didn't take a moral stance about it, either pro or con. The characters acted out of character in their decision to fight for Angel, because quite frankly, they didn't seem to care much about him at all up to that point. They'd spent the entire film fighting with each other and trying to get money, and then in the end all of a sudden they're all willing to die for one of their comrades? I didn't buy it. Besides which, the acting by the supporting characters was just awful. They shouted half their lines and laughed inappropriately and sounded fake as hell. Holden and Borgnine did pretty well--Borgnine in particular--but the rest? Feh.

I'm not against violence in films, even the worst kind. A Clockwork Orange is one of the most violent films I've ever seen, still. But it makes a point about what it does to people. So does No Country For Old Men, or Bonnie and Clyde. At the end of the latter, when Bonnie and Clyde get gunned down, I actually felt upset, because I cared about them. I knew it would happen, but it still upset me. I never connected with the characters in Bunch.

At least it didn't seem to use violence immorally. The Saw or Hostel movies, which I admit I haven't actually seen, seem to use violence in an evil manner, actually glorifying in it. The intent seems to be "Can you take watching this?" Well, no, I can't, and why should I have to prove myself? People who enjoy that kind of gore are debased.

Worst of all are films that justify violence. The Dark Knight leaps to mind. The Joker is violent because he's crazy (or perhaps not), so it's OK for Batman to be violent to him in return. That makes me want to treat the filmmakers to some violence to see how wonderful they think it is then. Remember, just five years ago, we were torturing Iraqis in the name of homeland security, and no one said boo. You think they didn't know? I knew, from the time Abu Graib came in the news. Evil begets evil. We don't need films to champion its cause.
 

Science fiction is one of my favorite genres because it does something consistently that so few genres do: it deals with ideas of the mind. What if? is the basic question of every science fiction story which isn't simply a space opera. What if humans encountered another intelligence? What if a crisis caused the destruction of human civilization? What if we could read minds, or teleport, or travel to the stars? These are all questions that have been pondered countless times by science fiction authors.

Of course, it can be amusing going back to read old sci-fi novels and seeing what they predicted for the current day. They're almost always wrong, because human development is consistently slower than what's anticipated by their imagination. Nevertheless, sci-fi doesn't usually date, because the questions asked are the important part of the story, not the answers.

Following are summaries of four of my favorite writers of science fiction, and what I love and hate about each of them.

Isaac Asimov. My favorite. His are the books I consistently read more than any other author's, although he isn't the best writer of the bunch. Asimov was a PhD with a fearsome intelligence who knew a little bit about everything and spent most of his writing career penning non-fiction books which are mostly out of print. His novels and short stories, though, are what he'll be remembered for. His Foundation series, about the fall of the Galactic Empire and the millenium during which the Second Galactic Empire comes to fruition, is brilliant and coined the term "psychohistory", which might actually come to pass someday. Close behind are his robot stories, which introduced the Three Laws of Robotics to generations of sci-fi fans and have left their mark on the genre. My favorite series is the Elijah Baley/Daneel Olivaw set of stories about a detective and his robot partner, which combine mystery and sci-fi in a magnificent mix without cheating the reader.

Asimov wasn't perfect. He left women out of his stories almost completely until later in his career, and his style can be somewhat wooden. But it's also direct and simplistic, and it's left a great impression on my own work. If you give good weight, your prose doesn't always have to be elegant. That's what Asimov taught me.

Robert A. Heinlein. I have a love-hate relationship with his work. On the one hand, he was intelligent as hell and wrote exciting but thoughtful stories. (Both he and Asimov spend pages just recounting conversations about ideas--not people and not events--which are a joy to read.) His "Future History" stories are consistent and well thought out, and they pose difficult questions about people's responsibilities to themselves and to the world. Great stuff.

Heinlein, however, was a hopeless male chauvinist. His women are all drop-dead gorgeous, intelligent and usually physically strong, but they all defer to their male bosses and stay on the sidelines while the men make all the important decisions. Gag. He was also a hard-line libertarian, and his views crept into his fiction frequently--sometimes to the good, but often to its detriment. Still, his Expanded Universe collection offers some fascinating essays--and I can snicker where he got things wrong.

Spider Robinson. This guy's not in the same league as Asimov or Heinlein, but he writes about people much better than either of them ever did. His Callahan series, set in an unusual bar, is touching as few sci-fi stories are. "Shared pain is shared joy." That's a thought worth spreading around.

Again, like his mentor Heinlein, Robinson's awfully sexist. I sometimes think men write sci-fi so they won't have to deal with women. I can overlook it most of the time, though, for the fun his stories give me.

Ray Bradbury. The best of the bunch, in some ways, although I would call him more of a fantasist than a sci-fi writer. His works are pure poetry, with prose that makes my heart sing. Fahrenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles belong on everyone's bookshelves. The former has the greatest probability of coming true of any dystopia I've ever read, while the latter has beautiful stories about aliens in a similar vein to Tolkien's work. (Tolkien has been called a sci-fi writer. No way.)

Bradbury's biggest flaw is that he can get too gooey. Well, I think there are worse flaws. And try some of his horror stories sometime. I guarantee some sleepless nights.

I know I haven't touched on Clarke, but I've never really gotten into his work. I'd also recommend Alfred Bester and Philip K. Dick. But wherever you begin, science fiction can move you and make you think. That's a rare combination.
 

Song of the Day: The Beatles' entire catalogue.

***********************

September 9th, 2009, I am going to be one very happy camper. I am also going to be one broke lady.

If you haven't heard--and if you're an ordinary soul and not insane like me, you probably haven't--Apple and EMI are rereleasing the entire Beatles' catalogue on the above date, remastered for superior sound. Here are the things they actually did right:

1. They did not remix the songs; they left them alone, merely doing some very slight noise reduction and cleanup. See "You Can't Do That"  for my opinions on why this is a good thing.

2. They will be releasing the first four albums in true stereo for the first time on CD.

3. They will be releasing the original stereo mixes of Help! and Rubber Soul for the first time on CD. Not that I disliked George Martin's 1987 remixes, but for a collector like me, this is good news.

4. They will be releasing all of the original mono mixes in a boxed set, with two bonus CDs of odds and ends in mono. (This is where the remixes described in #3 will come in, as a bonus on the set.)

5. They will apparently not be boosting the bass and subjecting the songs to artificial compression to make them "sound better" for iPods.

6. They will be including the original artwork plus booklets filled with new liner notes, info and photos. For a limited time, each CD will also include a QuickTime file with a mini-doc concerning the making of each album. Or...

7. You could buy the boxed set of all the stereo CDs, which will include a DVD with all the mini-docs included above. I will only do this if it saves me money.

It truly appears that Apple did this right, for a change. I still have quibbles, though. They could've included the mono mixes along with the stereo albums; there's plenty of room for both. But they make more money this way, you see! I'll buy it anyway. I gotta have the mono version of The Beatles (The White Album). Also, there's no word on whether rare mixes like the six-bar outro on "And I Love Her" and the extra beats in the middle of "I Am The Walrus" will be included somewhere. I know you don't know what I'm talking about. Doesn't matter to most garden-variety fans out there, just us Beatlemaniacs. But that would be a nice surprise, if it happens.

Ah. Sheer bliss.

Now where am I going to find a whole lot of money?


 

Most of the music I listen to, while excellent, is very professional. Most recording artists go into the studio and polish until they have songs that are musically impeccable. Rarely, however, do they let their true feelings show through on the final record. Even artists like Dylan and Townshend, whose writing allows a lot of emotional expression, don't let all their pain and anger loose; they hold just a bit back. This is probably a good thing, because it would be almost impossible to listen to records that naked in emotion.

However, once in a while, an artist does let himself go, and when I hear it happen I get chills down my spine. John Lennon came close to it on his first and greatest album, Plastic Ono Band, which has a lot of chilling moments; but even then, he held a bit of himself back. There was one recording where he let it all out, though, and strangely enough (or perhaps not), it was a cover song: "Be My Baby".

Originally performed by the Ronettes, "Be My Baby" was a true gem of Phil Spector's production wizardry, with layers on layers of overdubbed strings and horns and phenomenal drumming by Hal Blaine. It's #22 on the top 500 songs of all time in Rolling Stone's list. When Lennon needed to record an oldies album due to a lawsuit (another story for another time), he decided to enlist his friend Spector to produce it and went out to L.A. to record it, taking along his new girlfriend May Pang. Pang wrote about the sessions in her book Loving John, and while I take most of the book with many, many grains of salt, her description of the chaos that went on there seems fairly accurate. It was from her account of Spector firing a gun in the studio one night and his general paranoid insanity that I decided he was completely capable of having murdered the woman for which he's currently on trial. Again, another story.

So anyway, most of the musicians at these sessions spent a lot of waiting time getting drunk, and John being in his self-described "Lost Weekend" phase frequently joined them. By Pang's own admission, when John drank, he got mean and morose. She doesn't describe the session for "Be My Baby", but I can imagine it.

Spector spent most of the sessions having the musicians lay down the instrumental tracks, then called on John to do the lead vocal. So John would've been well in the bag by the time Spector was ready for him. He would have sat or stood behind the mike, earphones on, mostly sloshed, thinking about Yoko. (Pang claims Lennon loved her, and he may have in a way, but reading the book it's obvious that Yoko was his one true love.) The tape rolls. An acoustic guitar strums the introductory chords. A bass joins it after two lines, playing the famous riff; then a piano comes in. Horns join on the next repetition, all playing the same riff softly, but the volume grows gradually. A high-hat clicks the next time through, and then the drums start pounding. Lennon's listening, perhaps swaying a bit; he coos his approval, his voice laden with echo. "Ow...Yeah." Then he begins to sing, very softly and sweetly.

The night we met I knew I needed you so
And if I had the chance I'd never let you go...

Going into the bridge, background singers coo wordless "Ahhh"s, and the drums pound.

So won't you say you love me, I'll make you so proud of me
We'll make them turn their heads every place we go,
So won't you...please...

The background singers come in: "Be my, be my baby", and John, his voice still controlled but with a noticeable slur, continues to sing.

Be my little baby... (My one and only baby)
Say you'll be my darlin', (Be my, be my baby)
Be my baby now...

His "Oh, oh, oh" back into the verse sounds like it's coming straight from the heart. There's a sharp decrescendo, and we're back to just the acoustic guitar and John's voice.

Come on baby, do it nice...
Ssss...low. That's right.

The bass comes back in on that riff, and John lets out an "Owwww" that sounds both sensual and anguished.

Oh, so nice. Can't stand it.

He half speaks, half croons the words, drawing his voice out for several bars.

The horns come back in.

It's too much. I don't know....

At the sound of the high-hat, he starts to yelp, the pain as he thinks of Yoko apparent again in his cries.

Drums thunder in. Oh now, baby baby baby...
And since the day I saw you, you know I was WAITIN' for you!

He screams this last line.

And you know I'm gonna adore you 'til eternity, yeah!
Oh BABY! Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby...

The chorus is going on in the background and John's screaming his heart out even more than he did on Plastic Ono Band, all his anguish and loss searing into the listener's brain. It never fails to raise the hairs on the back of my neck.

Come on, babe! Be MINE! Oh! Please, please, please, mama, mama...won't you please...

He continues to scream through the fade-out, and for once a fade-out is completely necessary; I couldn't stand to hear him collapse into complete drunken incoherency on a full-fledged finish.

I honestly think this is one of the most emotional recordings I've ever heard. It never got released in John's lifetime (except on an unsanctioned mail-order record which John sued to have yanked from circulation), but it's on the comprehensive Anthology boxed set. I highly recommend finding and listening to it. Anyone who could say after hearing that performance that John was happier without Yoko is either deaf or a fool.
 

Song of the Day: "When You Wish Upon A Star", Cliff Edwards. See below.

**********

Disney's Pinocchio is, in my opinion, the studio's greatest masterpiece of animation and one of the greatest animated films of all time. Perhaps THE greatest. I used to think Fantasia, which came immediately afterward, was their best, but I've come to rethink that opinion. Fantasia has long stretches which just aren't as good as Pinocchio is throughout--e.g., the Pastoral sequence--and the lack of a story means that occasional boredom sets in. Pinocchio is never boring, and the story it tells is one of Disney's best.

Pinocchio took the lessons that the Nine Old Men, then the Nine Young Whippersnappers, had learned from Snow White and improved on them. Every frame of this film is rich with detail, color, and life. In Geppetto's workshop, you can almost see every splinter on the floor, and every music box, cuckoo clock and carved pipe has its own special personality. When Geppetto dances in front of the fire in his nightgown, you can see the shadow of his body through it, backlit by the flames. The underwater scenes have the texture of real water; there are a couple of moments when fish swim away abruptly and the screen actually ripples. I still don't know how they did that. And, of course, the famous multiplane camera was used to great effect to show the village awakening in the morning, with layer upon layer of detail emerging as the camera comes closer in. It cost $48,000 to do that shot in 1939 dollars. They couldn't do it today; they'd have to use computers. Computers are great, but you lose the human touch. Pinocchio has it in abundance.

All this would be for naught if it weren't for the story, however. All of the characters are completely realized and have personalities all their own. Geppetto, his cat Figaro and fish Cleo, the wise and beautiful Blue Fairy, the comic relief villains Honest John and Gideon, and the real villains Stromboli and the Coachman, are all distinct, funny, scary and greedy. They're a delight compared to the tired sidekicks and villains of Disney today.

Pinocchio is the real accomplishment, however. The original book by Carlo Collodi, published in installments in Italian, details the adventures of a wooden puppet who is alive from the moment he's carved, and who is thoroughly selfish, mean and nasty. Collodi originally had him come to a bad end, but was encouraged by his publisher to reform the character and give him the happy ending of becoming a real boy. If Disney had made that Pinocchio into a movie, it would have sunk like a stone at the box office.

Instead, Disney chose to make Pinocchio an adorable innocent. He doesn't understand about right and wrong, and so often chooses the wrong course through ignorance. When waylaid by Honest John, the fox, and Gideon the cat, they easily convince him to become an "actor" (so they can sell him to Stromboli's puppet show) by painting it as an attractive life with candy and fine clothes. Later, when they catch him again and persuade him to go to Pleasure Island, he actually tries to protest but gets swept along by them. He's not evil, just agreeable and somewhat stupid--through ignorance, not mental incompetence.

Jiminy Cricket, the insect who chooses to be Pinocchio's conscience, is not terribly effective at preventing him from getting into trouble, but is a wonderful friend. He stands by Pinocchio even in his darkest moments and does his best to encourage the good qualities in him. In the end, he earns the badge the Blue Fairy awards to him. (Although "18 Karat" is not solid gold, Jiminy. )

As far as dark moments go, there are plenty. This is one of the scariest, if perhaps not the scariest, of Disney's films. The villains go unpunished for their crimes, alone among Disney villains. Pinocchio is threatened with slavery, death (becoming firewood) and being turned into a donkey to be sold for work. The scene where his companion, a despicable boy named Lampwick, is turned into a jackass is definitely the worst thing I've seen in an animated movie. It still gives me goosebumps to watch.

Even with all of the above, there's still so much that's excellent about this film. Both the score and the song "When You Wish Upon A Star" won Academy Awards. I sometimes get bits of the score stuck in my head; that's how memorable it is, with moments of amusement, terror and excitement. "Star" is a beautiful affirmation of hope, like "Over The Rainbow" both musically and in terms of its theme. The other songs, like "Hi-Diddle-Dee-Dee" and "I Got No Strings" (beautifully ironic) are catchy and hummable. The voice work is awesome; Edwards and Dickie Jones as Pinocchio shine, but so do all the others. Geppetto in particular is delightful. His absent-mindedness and devotion to his family are both amusing and touching.

I just love this movie. It's got a great message, it doesn't sugar-coat its terrors for children, the music is fantastic, and the animation is a work of art. Disney's greatest.




 

POTENTIAL SPOILERS FOR WATCHMEN NOVEL FOLLOW

I came to this much too late.

I should have read it twenty years ago, when it first came out. I remember seeing it in bookstores and wondering what it was all about. I should have read it when I was still relatively young and impressionable with strong veins of cynicism running through my idealism.

I never read it. Until last weekend, when because of all the fuss from the film, I got it from my local library (which wouldn't have dreamed of owning a copy when it was new, I'm sure). I put on my reading glasses--God, I hate reading comics with reading glasses!--and began reading, expecting nothing. After all, I'd heard about some of the characters and what kind of people they were. Despicable, basically. I came in expecting a nihilistic piece of crap which I'd put down after ten or fifteen pages.

I was wrong. I normally hate to say those words, but my opinion was so far off base that I have to, and I'm glad it was.

WATCHMEN is one of those comic books (or graphic novels, if you must) which truly is a work of literature. Attempts to explain why are mostly futile. I mean, if you describe the plot of Citizen Kane to someone who's never seen it, he'd probably say, "So?" This book has a texture and depth which can't be adequately summarized without sounding like a soap opera. Yes, most of the characters have despicable traits, but they also have good ones. Unlike other superheroes (and only one of the characters actually has super powers), they don't always know the right thing to do. Rorschach, for example, is the worst kind of vigilante: judge, jury and executioner all in one. Yet he is the only one who sees the injustice in the ending and tries to do something about it. Ozymandias wants to save the world, which causes him to do terrible things to justify keeping humanity from killing itself. Even the Comedian, who is easily my least favorite character, has a couple of scenes that show that he sometimes has doubts about his right-wing view of life.

I don't know how to convince you to read this book. The art and the story are intertwined in a future tangent universe (thank you, Donnie Darko and Chy) which has Richard Nixon serving his fifth term in office. You hate Bush, man, Nixon was mostly competent. Chew on that. At any rate, Alan Moore and David Gibbons, writer and artist respectively, took the time to really detail that reality and make it come alive. They gave it an elaborate backstory and rationale. Gibbon's art comments on the action and elevates it to transcendent levels. I'm sure that additional readings will show me more and more details that I likely missed on my first time through.

Something else I noticed about WATCHMEN: There are almost no scenes of the heroes "in action"--saving people or fighting criminals. Most of the time, they're talking to each other or doing detective work. This is a brilliant stroke which goes beyond the typical comic book. I sat spellbound, hardly able to put the book down, for hours. I definitely plan to buy a copy.

It does have faults. The plot about the Comedian being Laurie's father made me gag. In real life, women do NOT tend to fall in love with their rapists. That is a misogynistic fantasy. Women in general seemed to get short shrift in the story, being mere love interests as plot devices. And the ending disturbed me, because it seemed to imply that sometimes the ends justify the means. I don't like to believe that. Although Lincoln did a lot of things during the Civil War that would have been impeachable at any other time. They were then, but Congress chose to look the other way--thank God.

Anyway. Too old or not, reading glasses or not, I plan to read this book many more times. See the movie? Probably not. I don't see how any film could approach the richness of this experience, and I don't really need to see it, anyway. It's all in my head.
 

In the Rotten Tomatoes forum, I've been pursuing a thread on poetry. It made me long to share a classic poem with you, one of my favorites, perhaps my favorite (at least today). You get the joy of reading my impromptu analysis based on my degree in English literature over twenty years ago coupled with my own random thoughts.

This poem is by T. S. Eliot. One of my favorite poets, although he was a traitor to his (and my) hometown by disowning it and moving to London, and was a virulent anti-Semitic bastard to boot. Not as much so as his mentor Ezra Pound, at least, who was not nearly as good a poet in my opinion.

My comments are in either italics or red (where the poem was italicized).

****************

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T. S. Eliot

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

From Dante's Inferno. The speaker is Guido da Montefeltro, condemned to the eighth circle of Hell for giving false council to the Pope. The Princeton Dante Project translates it as:

If I thought my answer were given
to anyone who would ever return to the world,
this flame would stand still without moving any further.
But since never from this abyss
has anyone ever returned alive, if what I hear is true,
without fear of infamy I answer you.

So it appears that Eliot is drawing a parallel between Prufrock and Guido, and that Prufrock inhabits a Hell of his own.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;

This imagery apparently shocked and offended a number of delicate souls. I think it sets an appropriately spooky mood.

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

I get a strong sense of abandonment and being alone here, despite being with Prufrock. Is he speaking to me, the reader? Or someone else? I always felt it was the reader.

Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

Telling us not to ask what the question is makes us all the more curious. We never do learn the answer.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

I like the way this refrain helps anchor the poem and give it some rhythm, which otherwise it lacks.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

Did Carl Sandburg write his poem about fog coming "on little cat feet" after this poem, or simultaneously, or before? I suspect it was after, but I'm not sure and am too lazy to look it up now. At any rate, it's a magnificent image. Eliot, of course, gave us Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats, which was responsible for the horror of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

"Face the face, got to/Face the Face."--Pete Townshend. The refrain of "There will be time" over and over gives me a sense of dread and foreboding.

There will be time to murder and create,

As an author, I love this line.

And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]

Here is our first image of Prufrock. We realize that he is middle-aged, concerned with his appearance, and dreading the public's view of himself.

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]

Obviously he's well-to-do also. He has a position in High Society, perhaps.

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

Oh, God, how I love this stanza. It just hits me in the heart for some reason. The rhyme of "universe" and "reverse" is inspired.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

The ennui in these lines is palpable. Of course, the phrase about measuring out one's life has become famous. I suppose that what Prufrock is "presuming" is to ask the overwhelming question.

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

I hate this feeling, of being categorized and fixed and under scrutiny. I understand this completely.

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

I have absolutely no idea how this relates to the rest of the poem, but it's marvelous. I have an image of a lobster, or a crab, rustling through empty oceans.
. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,

A reference to John the Baptist and Salome, who asked for the prophet's head as a reward for dancing for the king. Perhaps Prufrock is saying that he's also been a sacrifice for love.

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

The Footman is Death. The idea of Death snickering is both funny and scary.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

There's that question again, which never gets asked. Why Prufrock is so interested in such shallow people is beyond me. Then again, despite this poem, he seems rather shallow, too.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!

The story of my life!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I memorized this passage for a class in high school. I still have it memorized. Again, it's exactly how I feel about myself. I'm not a mover and a shaker; I watch the action from the side of the stage.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

The Allman Brothers got an album title from this line. Dare, Prufrock, dare.

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

That line is so sad.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

Someone said that this is a comment on Prufrock's aging. Sounds reasonable to me.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

The image of death again. Is Prufrock saying that he's been living with his illusions of life, and now he's awaking to die with realities? Could be.

I think this may be the greatest poem of the twentieth century. There are a lot of good ones, though. I'll come back another time with more.
 

Song of the Day: See below.

********

Happy 76th(?really?), Yoko. Wow, and you're still recording. Amazing. Here's ten songs I love about you.

10. "Mind Holes", Fly, 1971. This sounds like a wind chime. Truly. Close your eyes and listen to the acoustic guitars chime and your vocalizations echo through them like the wind. Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor me. But I hear it here.

9. "Why", Yoko Ono: Plastic Ono Band, 1970. Which is the guitar and which is your voice? You and John had an incredible duet with each other. Pure rock jamming. Listen to Ringo and Klaus Voormann getting into it behind you. What it must've been like in the studio that day. Five hundred mph, at least.

8. "Open Your Box", Fly, 1971. James Brown meets glottal stops meets sexy lyrics. No wonder it was censored.

7. "Yang Yang", Approximately Infinite Universe, 1972. What chords are those? I think they're some of the lost ones. Spooky. Guitar riffs to die for. You sent Elephant's Memory and John into hell somewhere. Wonderfully feminist words, too.

6. "Peter The Dealer", A.I.U., 1972. One of the best depictions of heroin addiction I've heard. No glossing over the ugliness that comes with the beauty. And completely singable.

5. "She Hits Back", Feeling The Space, 1973. You wrote this knowing John was leaving, right? Ironic of you to invite him to contribute that haunting guitar riff. You didn't take any shit from him, babe, just threw him out the door. Good for you.

4. "It Happened", A Story, 1974. What a beautiful acoustic ballad, and so painful. Your voice is full of love and sorrow. David Spinozza did his best, but he couldn't outplay John. Maybe that's why you never released this until John found it years later and said, "I'll make it a hit!" He couldn't, not even by dying. The world's loss.

3. "Walking On Thin Ice", single, 1981. The A-side that John was certain would break you with the public. The public is simple and narrow minded. You're so far beyond them you're in front. Anyone hearing this chilling and utterly danceable pseudofairy tale who is unmoved isn't worth bothering with. What a shame John couldn't hear the final result.

2. "I Don't Know Why", Season of Glass, 1981. The song you wrote the day after John was murdered. The hair on my neck still goes up when you scream, "You bastards! We had everything!" Ah, God, Yoko, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.

1. "Toyboat", Season of Glass, original 1981, remix 2007. Your version of this with Anthony is the most gorgeous arrangement of your voice I've ever heard. How anyone could listen to this and believe that you cannot sing...it breaks my heart, it's so beautiful.

Again, Yoko, happy birthday. Keep making music as long as you can. Some of us hear it.