LAURAL'S DISH
Laural is our dog, my dog. Everyone else heads off to school, "people like me and Laural" stay home. He's a fine companion, but you have to understand. If he's having a really good time he tries to bite you, me, anyone. Not hard, just…similarly, if you're scratching his belly real good, but then shift to his (apparently less preferable) ears, he'll growl at you. The irregular spelling of his name results from the time that Alexandra and I were mulling the possibilities, in a tunnel in Newton Abbot, when we came across the graffiti: Laura L is a dog.
Laural loves to eat more than any living being ever created, and he will eat absolutely anything. We've weaned him from rocks but he once tried to eat an unopened can of Carlsberg Export. surprise! So his dish frequently has unusual things in it, bits of this or that, absolute treasures that others might consider slightly unfit for human consumption, for whatever stupid reasons.
Laural's Dish comes out on Fridays, before lunch, usually, but sometimes it comes out on Saturday, pre-dated to make it look like I'm all responsible and got it out in a timely manner.
Beneath please find my literary reflection of Laural's Dish:
25 February 2010
In The Winter of Our Discontent John Steinbeck has a throwaway line that's stuck with me now for nearly twenty years....something about "the front steps of sleep." Doesn't matter what the rest of it is, it was more or less a psychological geographical land survey...thing that made the point. Drawing my attention to that psycho-twilight where you're not exactly awake but you haven't quite fallen in yet, either. I recently read Rudolf Steiner, in The Occult Science, explain it in terms of your etheric body not quite breaking with your physical body in order to join your astral body, as in deep sleep. That may be right, and it's important, but it's never going to hit me with the immense recognition that the Steinbeck line did.
So Theresa and I were both very tired the other evening, so we went to bed around 7, as we occasionally do. She was sound asleep awhile later, and for some reason I kind of more woke up and then loitered around the front steps of sleep for a few hours. It's a place where meditations occur, ideas suddenly manifesting in a complete form, or just sneaking in for a second on the sides. Ideas that wouldn't normally associate coming together, like in the Glass Bead Game.
I'd been listening to the new Lynyrd Skynyrd record that morning. I know it's not exactly new, but it's new to me. I don't hit the music stores on a regular basis any more, so when I do...I'd entirely forgotten that there was a "new" Springsteen album that's been out nearly a year too, and picked it up at the same time, a week or two back. I never listen to the radio, I mainly pick up on new music from my children and younger brother, and none of them are into Skynyrd or likely ever will be.
They're a vanishing breed. Unrepentent, southern, unreconstructed...they were my favorite band for a few years in the late '70s, between Aerosmith and Jefferson Airplane. The plane crash had already happened and so they technically weren't a band when they were my favorite band, but I didn't latch onto them because of any teenage sentimentalism, but because they made a noise that spoke to me very directly. Honky-tonk loud, aggressive, but also thoughtful. Hedonism with values. I listened to the live version of "Free Bird" every morning my junior and senior years of high school. I've never had that kind of relationship with any other song, before or since, I still listen to it every year or two, and it never fails to move me, I remember listening to it on the way back from Berlin hoping that the engine held out (it did).
...something about the vanishing breed side of it wandered somewhere else...
In the winter of 1988 I was living in Ocean Beach, California (San Diego). I'd graduated from law school that May, and promptly failed to distinguish myself by joining the 2/3 of those who failed the summer bar exam. ( I figured out the next time that studying for it was the secret). There was a complex situation in California that I thought might progress best without me, so I headed home to my parents for Christmas a little early, in November, with a jaunt through Mexico.
I figured that I pretty much knew everything, but didn't; and my father noticed that I pretty much thought that I knew everything but didn't, and was particularly irritated that I hadn't taken any of his advice in a decade or so, and so compensated by offering increasingly enthusiastic and specific unsolicited advice. Our conversations at that time were not always entirely constructive, and so after one early morning discussion...
...around 7:30 am I found myself walking on the road between Leesville and Alexandria, Louisiana. I'd taken the 20 minutes or so to walk from the west end of Leesville, where my parents lived, to the east end, where the road was, stopping only to pick up a traveller's-sized bottle of tequila at a gas station. I'd decided to head to Baton Rouge for a few days and faced with the choice of hitchhiking (very familiar hike from my LSU days, I'd probably done it 20 times) and getting into town in time to grab some lunch before The Bayou opened at one....or hanging around the Leesville bus station for a few hours waiting for a bus that would probably start off the wrong way and eventually end up in BR by dinner...wasn't really no choice to it at all. I had a friend of a friend in La Jolla who'd recently established a highbrow literary magazine, and who'd given me an advance on a few stories, so I had some money in my pocket, more than usual, actually. The articles didn't turn out very good, I'm sorry to admit, and the magazine folded after a few months.
So there I was walking down the road in soft morning sunshine, hitting on the tequila a little bit, and about the third car along, after maybe ten minutes or so, veers a little bit towards me and stops maybe 20 feet ahead. I never had any trouble hitchhiking, but you do need to be aware of the possibility, particularly when they damn near run into you, stopping. So I trudged the 20 feet, not particularly concerned but not entirely without misgiving, either.
Guy damn near fell out the door, throwing the door open, "Hey! We're the last of the marijuana growers!" he yelped. Deep country drawl. So in no time at all me and him and his brother were toolin' down the road at 7:43 in the mornin', shootin' tequila and smokin' our fool heads off. They weren't going to Alexandria, but instead dove south before that, but were going maybe 30 miles that way....I decided to take the ride as far as it would go, even though I would end up in very backwoods central Louisiana, roughly the same longitude as Bunkie, but on a country road without too many vehicles.
We were great friends by the time we got to their farm, where they lived with their mother and her mother, so I accepted an invitation to stay for a beer and listen to some music. It would fit my story best to say that we listened to a bunch of Skynyrd, but the truth is that they were fairly accomplished musicians and it was their renderence of Led Zeppelin's "Going to California" that stays with me to this day. It was very good, very simple and straightforward, and it's more their personalities, the way they were gonna go on doing what they loved to do regardless of times, fashions or consequences, that made my subconscious link with Lynyrd Skynyrd.
The beer obviously turned into a couple. At one point someone brought me a newspaper and I read that Bruce Hurst had signed with the Padres, but I couldn't interest anyone very much that I'd be watching him pitch at the Murph come spring, and we might contend. We eventually ran out of things to talk about-or got too stoned to talk about anything-and I decided it was time to blow on down the road.
The weather had taken a severe turn for the worse, not raining but it had just turned into winter. Fucking cold and gray, and cold wind blowing. After declining an invitation to "just stay here and party all night, and we'll drive you to Baton Rouge in the mornin'" off I set.
First though, there was a moment that nicely illuminated what a jackass I could be back in '88, and how I didn't mean to; and what good people Lynyrd Skynyrd people are: Upon seeing that I was determined to head on to Baton Rouge, and disinclined themselves to leave their nice warm well-stocked wood-paneled living room, The Last of the Marijuana Growers determined to lend me an overcoat. "You can just mail it back to us when you get to Baton Rouge, or get back to California, whenever."
We were standing outside and I was feeling the wind, and this struck me as a pretty damn good idea. So one of them went back inside and brought me out a coat. Now, I don't remember what I didn't like about the coat, but it just wasn't cool enough for me, somehow. I thanked them for the coat, but with that stoned clairvoyance they took in the entirety of the scene immediately.
They marched me right back in that house and pulled out all nine of the overcoats that they owned between 'em, and told me to take whichever one I liked. I swear. So I did, and it was a nice dark-and-light blue chequered goose down ski jacket. Chess King was the manufacturer, I believe.
I wore it around Baton Rouge for a few weeks, it was a good coat. I mailed it back to them in a good cardboard box when I got back to California. I included a nice letter offering to put them up if they ever got out my way and I meant it, but I didn't figure they ever would as I recall they'd only gone so far afield as New Orleans once; and a few minor presents from The Black (all-time all-star Head Shoppe, Newport Street). And that was the last I ever heard of the Last of the Marijuana Growers. I've wished them nothing but the best many, many times.
Here's some music I've been listening to this week:
Robert Plant – Dreamland He was on such a nice roll with this and Mighty Rearranger, I honestly have no idea what the point of the album with Alison Krauss was (I LOVE her vocal on Phish's "if I could", though).
Vampire Weekend – Contra New pop album, kind of reminds me of the sillier Simon & Garfunkel stuff, the way the melodies jump around. Mainly listening to it coming out of Amelia's room, and now Alexandra's room.
Lynyrd Skynyrd- God & Guns Hell yeah I like it! I mean, this is a band that's never going to recover the glory of the Ronnie Van Zant days, and Allen Collins gave 'em a gentle aspect that was particularly appealing in such a raunchy outfit...but these guys, in their present incarnation, rock. You don't have to listen to it more than 2 seconds to know what band it is and that's the way it should be. It's a Skynyrd album and that's a blessing.
Bullet For My Valentine – Scream Aim Fire A couple people whose opinions I respect have suggested over the years that I might like them. I never bothered looking into it, I'm not really looking for exciting new bands at this point in life. They should have mentioned that they were Welsh. Now….a loud, obnoxious young Welsh band....yeah, I get that. I do like Welsh people, and they are, automatically apparently, obnoxious. They kind of range between a kinder, gentler, more tolerable Slayer and Bon Jovi with Suicidal Tendencies vocals. (the band, not Welsh people generally) Too bad they're already too big to play Exeter.
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BONUS: last of the movie update, in order of how violent they make you feel
19 February 2010
Half-term, all kinds of Newfins running around trying to get things, run things, demand ornery demands without consideration for middle-aged fathers who are sparing them at least the most obnoxious '70s metal. So I've had a good time this week (it's like a vacation, except that you don't go anywhere) but done no particularly interesting writing, except for maybe a little bit in my head. "Extended periods of contemplation, followed by brief periods of furious activity," that's how Hemingway described what he did. ...trace elements of contemplation in between. As if contemplation's worth anything compared to wild Newfins.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ynews/ynews_ts1137
You know how when a song you love comes on the radio...how you stop and relish the moment. We're at a point where everyone in America (except for the Supreme Court and their bosses in Exxon and Wall Street) wants to do something, and it's actually something good for the country. I sure hope we do it.
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...here's a little movie sumpin'....presented in....the radical which one I liked most format!
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Morning time, Myles was getting ready for school, a few weeks ago. I'm lookin' around without a brain in my head, like I wake up. Myles is sorting out his stuff-Pokemons and Star Wars and maybe a little homework, I don't know, as I say I wake up very slow...at least until coffee hits.
MYLES: Papa, you think the new Sherlock Holmes is the best one ever?
CLAYTON: Waaal, I think the best Sherlock Holmes was probably the old, '50s British tv show with....ah, what's his name, Ron Howard as Holmes.
MYLES: But of movies....you think that the new one is the best one?
CLAYTON: Well, there have been lots of Holmes movies...I haven't seen all of 'em....there was that Hammer one that was surprisingly good in the early '60s...late '50s?...and I've seen a few of the Basil Rathbone ones, they were pretty good...there was a thing in the '70s called Sherlock Holmes Smarter Brother that was really funny, but it was more about Gene Wilder than Sherlock Holmes....but....yeah, I'd say that I like the new one best. Robert Downey, Jr. was a really good Holmes.
(Clayton looks up and sees that Myles isn't quite satisfied)
CLAYTON: Yeah, and I've seen Sherlock Holmes vs Godzilla, and Sherlock Holmes vs. Mothra...and Sherlock Holmes defeats the Seventeen Elves, and Sherlock Holmes and Batman Knock Darth Vader into a Liederhosen Factory, and...
(Clayton looks up and Myles is just smiling. He's somewhat amused, but this isn't the sort of thing he's going to encourage.)
12 February 2010
THE LAST SUPERBOWL
Lost in all the excitement, a few hours before kick-off a genuine rock star (Fairport Convention bass player Dave Pegg) complemented my t-shirt from the stage . Ah, this old thing? It was a just an old Dylan tour shirt. Fun show, some of that positive old hippie vibe, some very experimental rock violin, some hoe-down, very earthy, some humorous posing in anticipation of the Super Bowl performance by the Who.
Speaking of Who....when they opened with "Baba O'Reilly" it could have gone a couple ways...when it moved into "Who Are You?" there was the fading hope that they were going to bust out with a very clear "who dat fuck are you?" lyric, slipping into a free form "Slip Kid"...but knowing how it all ended, could they have possibly put together a less imaginative, more predictable mini-set? At least they didn't bust up perfectly good guitars after that, and exit the stage amongst self-congratulating power signs...though they did seem rather smug, considering.
It was a great game. I know that I've already said this to anyone who will pay attention to me, but it bears repeating: That onside kick was the ballsiest call I've ever seen on a football field. It reminds me of how Pete Sampras used to just rare back and rip it up the T on break point, second serve, Wimbledon final or anywhere else; I hope it reminded President Obama that the Public Option on Healthcare is easily within reach on majority vote, through the budget reconciliation process...a lot of gambles are worth it, where there's a big payoff and you're dealing from strength.
I would only further announce my retirement from Super Bowl viewing. I have nothing further to accomplish in this field. Another Saints title? I'll leave it to the kids.
Well, I mean, this retirement, like my retirement from acting in film, could probably be reconsidered in light of the right offer...
My favorite is to just launch off and write whatever the hell I want, maybe with a general plot destination in mind, but there are a lot of ways to write, and basically sometimes you have no choice but to set things up. Then, obviously, there are a million ways to do that. Hunter S. Thompson is probably my favorite, the way he would set things up rhythmically, wind it all up and set it off down the road real fast, then take a quick breath break, and unload the bomb in a single sentence or less.
I've been thinking about this passage for several months now. It's very different than how the good doctor would have done it, and it strikes me as nearly unique in that it could have set up anything . Absolutely anything could happen at the end of this segment, even though the young man thinks he knows what he's doing and where he's going—to visit a German ascetic who lives in the forest as a Chinaman:
Joseph Knecht, then, tramped toward this hermitage, making frequent stops to rest, delighting in the landscape that lay smiling beneath him as soon as he had climbed through the mountain passes, stretching southward in a blue haze, with sunlit terraced vineyards, brown stone walls alive with lizards, stately chestnut groves, a piquant mingling of southland and high mountain country. It was late afternoon when he reached the Bamboo Grove.
--Hermann Hesse, Das Glasperlenspiel (The Glass Bead Game)
How propitious that now you're ready for anything, because I'm about to say some nice things about...
the TEA PARTY
The right wing of the Republican Party is the only interesting thing going on in American politics right now. The Democrats are divided between the populist/social libertarian wing who understand that the party is taking a beating because President Obama set hopes so high and has done little or nothing to address the peace, universal healthcare and economic justice movements that elected him; and the corporate wing that assures us that he has already done too much, and must instead now endeavour to do even less. The moderate wing of the Republican Party is never interesting.
And so the only interesting thing that's going on is the more conservative, less educated great unwashed, more rural side of the Republican coin. Wow, it's been a long time. Of course last time they got all excited and interesting they gave us Ronald Reagan, and this time they're all excited because they want to undo what he did.
That's true, but not quite fair. President Reagan established the economic blueprint whereby large businesses would devour smaller ones, and the greatest redistribution of wealth since the collapse of the feudal system was set into motion. This redistribution was from the poor, middle class and rich to the ultra-rich, as the rich scrambled to join the ultra-rich rather than fall back into the struggling masses. The concept being that the ultra-rich would establish the most extraordinary economy in the history of humanity, and that the extraordinary wealth that they created through industry (including ethereal industries like credit) would bubble right on out of the cauldron and fall gently down upon everyone else...like purple rain.
Of course only the first part happened: the ultra rich got ultra richer. Instead of everyone else benefiting they get (proportionally) less and less for their efforts.
There is-I must say-a respectable argument that this is not exactly what Reagan had in mind, or indeed what would have happened had he maintained a steady hand on the controls over the past decades. That argument would center on the real fact that it was not Reagan who made precious little adjustment to his initial controls between the years 1989-2010, other than to ensure that the economy continued to be fed ever more disproportionately to those who already had the most anyway. That dishonour falls upon the Bushes two, Clinton, and now Obama. I don't believe that argument, but it is not entirely unreasonable, and as a hypothetical historical argument it cannot be refused: perhaps Reagan understood his plan better than did his successors, and would have taken actions to assist the people who loved, and continue to defend, him most.
The people, in other words, that got screwed the worst by his policies; many of whom in the guise of the Tea Party are now most enthusiastic about reversing the course that he set.
I do not share the views of the majority of Tea Partyers-as I understand them-on women's rights, race relations, Afghanistan, campaign finance reform, healthcare, the environment, alternate energy sources, school prayer, handgun control, the end of drug prohibition, apartheid in Palestine, the credibility of FOX News, the aesthetic validity of bumperstickers referencing body functions...on and on and on, most political issues and many social ones. The truth of the matter is that on an issue-by-issue basis I would no doubt find myself arguing with the average Tea Partyer (I think; whoever that is) more than I would agree, but....
...BUT...I would probably enjoy the conversation more than discussing anything with a limousine liberal AND...
We would agree on the single biggest issue that's out there, the one that affects so many other issues in such a fundamental way: corporate hegemony of the American economy and political process. The issue that played such a central role in the election of President Obama, and one in which he has....let's just be diplomatic and say that he hasn't made an awful lot of progress.*
*If you think it's funny listening to the Tea Partyers blame President Obama for the corporate bail-outs initiated by President Bush....try listening to a liberal Obama enthusiast do philosophical acrobatics in supporting them. Conservatives blame Obama for continuing the policies of a president they elected; liberals defend our president for what he did by explaining that it was really a part of something else...that's apparently very difficult to explain, and that he isn't doing quite yet though, entirely.
Tea Partyers say that with Obama, at best well-meaning liberals got fooled again. Are liberals going to just stand there and say that the Tea Partyers are ripe to get fooled again themselves, and point at Reagan? Shouldn't we instead applaud the very important part that they've finally got right?
The truth is that the left end of the Democratic Party and the right end of the Republican Party have more fundamental agreement about the economy than in any time since...ever, maybe. This is in some part because of the changing demographics and dynamics and spectrums and alliances that all those really smart guys write books about, but mostly because the problem of corporate domination has got so far out of hand.
I personally applaud the Tea Partyers, and hope that they will play a major role in nominating the Republican nominee. We share a lot of common, important ground in macroeconomics and campaign finance reform.
5 February 2010
On Saturday morning Myles had a birthday party to attend in Newton Abbot, about 20 miles south. Theresa and I decided to walk to Dawlish, about 15 miles, and catch the train from there, to meet Myles after the party that evening.
It's a great walk, mainly. We put him on the train, then walked the few blocks from the station down to the River Exe, followed it around to the Quay, managed not to fall over on the totally icy iron footbridge though at one point I did have to grab a post and spin around in one of my cool skate moves, bought some stuff for a picnic along the way, then headed down along one of the tributaries that comes out of the double locks. You follow that along for a few more miles past Powderham Castle (a big sign out front says: "Powderham Castle, traditional home of the Earl of Devon"; then below that, "www.powderhamcastle.com" or something like that…just kind of struck me as funny) where semi-luminaries such as Meatloaf and James Taylor and Status Quo play in the summer.
That was a pretty muddy bit, and then there's ¾ mile of walking along the sides of little country roads that can barely fit one car on it, but at Starcross it opens up to the beach, and what the local tourist bureau (but no one else, not even the butcher) calls the British Riviera. From there it's a few more miles into the dilapidated carnival town of Dawlish Warren, by then you've gone about 12 miles.
So we shuffled into Dawlish Warren, tongues hanging out for a coffee, and having decided to go ahead and catch the train there, Dawlish being another…less than two more miles. But you get the coffee and sit on a nice bench with back-support looking out over the beach and the boats…mainly freighters on a day like this, a long way out there, a couple cool dogs run by sniffing at your ankles with their masters' apologies in their wake…we walked on to Dawlish, and that's probably the most beautiful part of the trip.
But that's not what I want to tell you about.
You put yourself out there, and there's bound to be a memorable, if not defining, moment to the whole thing. Fifteen miles? Nuthin' happened? Couldn't happen.
So maybe five miles into the trip, still on the tributary and a few miles shy of Powderham Castle, around noon, we decided to stop and eat. Kettle Chips and some brie and very nice rolls and…we couldn't find any decent lunchmeat by the Quay, so I got this incredible, awful, pretty good, ham that only aspired to being Spam. Sliced thin, yes, but it really wanted to melt all together and have weird spices introduced systemically. I almost got Spam instead, as a matter of fact-which I do every few years mainly as a joke, to remind myself of bachelorhood, and the glories of Monty Python-but I didn't.
We crossed a little bridge to an area in the middle of two tributaries. Seated on some big rocks, mainly dried in the (very decent for this time of year) sun. I was Swiss Army Knifing a roll and applying mayonnaise, and knocked over my can of Sprite "Fucking…." I muttered, more tentatively than usual, and the liquid poured down the rock right at me! "Shitting…" I yelped, without giving it much thought.
"Fucking….shitting…." When we relocated to the United Kingdom, I did anticipate that it might in some small ways affect my phrasing and linguistic sensitivities. I did not expect, however, that it would leave me sounding like some immigrant seaman cursing in English as a fourth language.
INCIDENTAL TO THE SUPER BOWL:
Yes, I'll be watching. Fairport Convention goes on at 8, probably finish around 10, should be home in time for half an hour of babbling before the opening kick-off. Apply one cup very strong coffee, game should end around 3 am. Ok.
LAST NFL GAME WATCHED: I think it was a Thanksgiving Day game in the early ‘90s, the Dolphins beat the Cowboys when some Cowboy did something incredibly stupid. What was it? Bat at an onside kick, or spike the ball on the five or something….
LAST SUPER BOWL WATCHED: Joe Montana > Jerry Rice era. I forget which one.
NUMBER OF PLAYERS PLAYING, THAT I CAN NAME: Peyton Manning. I used to have a poster of his father, Archie Manning, qb, New Orleans Saints; on my wall when I was a kid. My favorite moment of Archie's career, though, was at the end when they traded him to the Houston Oilers in hopes of getting him into a playoff game, and he couldn't run well anymore, but some group of giant klutzes was chasing him sideline-to-sideline-and-back anyway, and no one would get open, so in abject disgust he finally just intentionally grounded by gunning the ball as far as he could, directionless, UNDERHANDED, SUBMARINE STYLE, just as he went down under the stack of goons …and of course some receiver came flying across the field and pulled it in as he went out of bounds at the two. All of those years of bad luck, cancelled in a single play. I guess.
So it's fair to say that I've kind of lost interest in football somewhere along the way. It's a great sport, it's a fascinating sport, there's an incredible amount of thought that goes into it, it's like high-speed chess that hurts. Just that a lot of baseball and a little tennis take up what sports time I've got. Same problem with basketball, I love basketball but haven't watched an NBA game all the way through since Dr. J's last game, since that last shot fell short, bounced back off the rim.
But I think about the Jimi Hendrix mural at Fat Harry's, and people walking into the posts in Tipitina's, and they're having problems with the sound at Jimmy's and head downtown past Lee Circle because they play metal the minute they open at midnight at The Dungeon (unless you fall in the moat on the way in), and the fortune tellers in the French Market, and that balcony bar above Bourbon Street that's perfect to wait out the thunderstorm that comes every August afternoon at three, and that Brother who walked around The Quarter all day every day playing nothing but “All Along the Watchtower,” and the priest holding mass at St. Mark's in his Saints jersey, and the sacred bottle of Jack Daniel's in the Royal Orleans (only hotel ever mentioned by name in a Led Zeppelin song), and the starving artists in Jackson Square, the horses pulling around the tourists, those hotdog carts immortalized by John Kennedy O'Toole… and up Elysian Fields and cut back in past where Sir John's used to be, with the big lumpy couch in the middle of the floor and the Jagermeister Hall of Fame on the wall, and the quite presentable lawns of Metairie, and Hickory, Dickory, and Dock streets…could go back down Airline Highway to catch the ferry to Algiers, I think, maybe keep on goin' a little bit out into the swamp an' ketch me a gator….oooor…could jes head back Tip's 'n r'lax a liddo moe…
That's why I'm watching the Super Bowl. “For people from New Orleans,” I explained to Theresa, “it's like man landing on the moon.”
KICK DEM WHODAT MUTHERFUCKERS ASS BACK TO THEIR SORRY PONY PADDOCK!! Dumb ass sumbitches….WHO DAT?! GEAUX SAINTS!!!!!
(then, sauntering off, amiably sing-song): I pledge allegiance….to Professor Longhair…
Archive
2009
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