If any of this matters, with a kiss, my friend, let me show you what love can do
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Pass Along Your Shorts
Today we read the story The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry to Joanie’s students, which later led to a brief discussion of which stories my former students remembered from their own sixth grade education (seven years ago). We had read Gift then, though they only vaguely remembered it. Neither had forgotten Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery, however, which is a story with real staying power.
It spun my wheels a bit, as I’ve been reading a lot of short stories as of late. I bought Stephen King’s new collection, Just After Sunset, which sent me back to King’s earlier stories, and eventually dove into the anthology The Golden Argosy, a collection of the “finest stories in the English language.” Argosy was published in the late forties, and it really is an excellent collection, holding up well even now and showing real foresight as to which stories would last, still being read fifty years later.
I have a special, abiding love for short stories, and I’m a bit of an elitist about it. I don’t hold with a writer who doesn’t write short stories, and doesn’t write them well (the one exception being John Irving…there’s always one, and Irving is a mountain of an exception, Jesus godalmighty). Over the years, I’ve taken particular pleasure in introducing students to exceptional short stories, which is an art in itself, selecting stories which appeal to young people, which grab them and hold them and stick with them long after they’ve left the classroom.
With all this steaming in my brain, I thought I’d share a few of my favorite short stories, and maybe inspire some to share their thoughts about a few of theirs.
In no particular order:
The Emissary by Ray Bradbury
Bradbury is my favorite short story writer, and there are dozens upon dozens to choose from, but this is the first story of his I ever read, and it holds a special place for me. I still think it among his best, with the fine sense of mounting horror, the perfect pitch of creeping dread, and that everlasting terror of the “thing on the stairs.” It is found in The October Country, Bradbury’s book of people who “are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts.”
One Trip Across by Ernest Hemingway
This story became the first part of the novel To Have and Have Not, but I always felt everything in that novel after Trip ended was crap. But this story is brilliant, Hemingway at his peak. Hemingway called it “a teenage work devoted to adultery, sodomy, masturbation, rape, mayhem, mass murder, frigidity, alcoholism, prostitution, impotency, anarchy, rum-running, Chink-smuggling, nymphomania and abortion.” It’s a helluva tale.
In a Grove by Ryunosuke Akutagawa
One of the finest stories ever written by one of Japan’s finest writers. If you haven’t read this, go buy a copy of Rashomon and Other Stories. The ending of this piece lingers long past the turning of the final page, the way only a handful of stories ever do. Akutagawa was apparently inspired by Ambrose Bierce’s story The Moonlit Road, but Akutagawa lifted Bierce’s shifting narrative device to beg the question: what is truth, and does it exist at all?
The Tears of Squonk and What Happened Thereafter by Glen David Gold
Gold’s story of a manic circus elephant who goes wild and murders a man by pinning him down and yanking off his head with its trunk is one of the most original and, yes, heartbreaking stories I’ve ever read. Originality points for the murder scene, but the heartbreak comes later, when the townspeople, in their outrage, demand the elephant be punished for its crime. And that’s not all, because the murder wasn’t a random occurrence…this elephant was out for revenge.
The Blue Hotel by Stephen Crane
Crane is often destroyed in high schools across the country by reading his short novel The Red Badge of Courage to weary, sleepy-eyed teenagers. Readily dismissive, most young readers never discover that Crane was one of the great short story writers in American history. This story, about a poker game gone wrong and the bloody fist-fight that ensues, is one of the gems of our literature.
The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Erendira and Her Terrible Grandmother by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Poor adolescent Erendira doesn’t hear the wind of her misfortune blow through the house where she lives with her grandmother, and woe to her, because that wind knocks down the candle Erendira forgets to put out, and the house burns down. Everything they own is gone, and Erendira’s grandmother holds the young girl entirely responsible for paying back the value of all the family possessions. To do so, her grandmother takes Erendira from town to town all over the country, and sells her as a whore. Out of such a scenario, only Marquez could weave a tale of love.
The Bear by William Faulkner
I am not, to be honest, a big fan of Faulkner, having read a good swath of his work and having yet to fall in love with any of it…save The Bear. If you never read anything else by old Will, read this, and stick to the first three parts of the story, which are where the story really happens, where young Isaac McCaslin hunts for the elusive, mighty and almost supernatural bear his family members have hunted for years and never caught. Part Four deals with the events of Go Down, Moses, the novel in which Faulkner inserted this story. The power of this story is what keeps me coming back to Faulkner, searching for more tales as strong and enduring as this one.
The Night They Missed the Horror Show by Joe R. Lansdale
Lansdale said he set out to write a story “that didn’t blink.” Holy Christ, he did it. He begins with two hillbilly teenagers bored out of their minds. They skip the titular horror show at the local theater to get drunk instead. They come across a dead dog along the roadside, and in grotesque hick fashion they chain it to the bumper of their truck and drag it down the road for kicks. But Lansdale is only getting started, and where fate takes these boys is not for the faint of heart. This story never lets up, never lets go. It’s a bullet train, all the way through.
There are so many stories to share, so very many. I could fill page upon page with lists of my favorite Bradbury stories alone, and here I never mentioned my other beloved short story writers, Richard Matheson, Flannery O’Connor, Ivan Turgenev, Stephen King and Nathaniel Hawthorne, the great short work of Mark Twain, Sherwood Anderson, Edgar Allan Poe, or the fantastic postmodern work of John Barth and Donald Barthelme, or the unique and shadowy landscape of Paul Bowles. So much. So much.
If you know of a few worth reading, let me know. And what I find, I’ll pass along.
I Sure Wish I Could Yoddle!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Lucky Day: New Springsteen Single
Springsteen and the boys are releasing a new album in January, Working on a Dream. Below is the first single, My Lucky Day.
Check out the killer video of the band in the studio cutting this incredible track.
The first thing this song does is kick your ass.
It comes back later for your name.
Natch.
MY LUCKY DAY
In the room where fortune falls
On a day when chance is all
In the dark of fierce exile
I felt the grace of your smile
Honey, you’re my lucky day
Baby, you’re my lucky day
Well I lost all the other bets I made
Honey, you’re my lucky day
When I see strong hearts give way
To the burdens of the day
To the weary hands of time
Where fortune is not kind
Honey, you’re my lucky day
Baby, you’re my lucky day
Well I lost all the other bets I made
Honey, you’re my lucky day
I’ve waited at your side
I’ve carried the tears you’ve cried
But to win, darlin’ we must play
So don’t hide your heart away
Honey, you’re my lucky day
Baby, you’re my lucky day
Well I lost all the other bets I made
Honey, you’re my lucky day
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Pulling Into Nazareth
The conversation wound this way and that, covering the jazz education of Charlie Watts, the ever changing tempo of Max Weinberg, the question of how important the Eagles would be minus Don Henley (yeah, that’s right, Henley was the drummer). Finally, I brought up Levon Helm, who just may be my all-time favorite Keeper of the Big Beat.
My friend, sadly, had never heard of ol’ Levon (yes, this was most definitely a strike against him…our relationship is now, currently, on shaky ground). Which meant it was my obligation to educate him, and in doing so I found myself returning to my own collection of music from The Band.
You could do worse.
There’s a young faith healer, a woman stealer
He will cure by his command
When the music’s hot you might have to stand
To hear the Klondike Klu Klux Steamboat Band
Don’t you sweat it
Can’t forget it
The W.S. Walcott Medicine Show
Helm was the drummer for The Band, who had once been the Hawks and had been Bob Dylan’s backing band when Dylan stormed the world and went electric. After, the Hawks became The Band, and created a string of brilliant albums of American music entirely unlike any other group in history. They don’t sound like anyone. Not like the Beatles, not like the Stones, not even like CCR, which you might almost expect, given the deep influence of Southern roots music on The Band.
They got your number
Scared and runnin’
But I’m still waitin’ for the
Second Coming
Of Opehlia
Baby, come back home
They were, as a group, quite possibly the most talented musicians in rock and roll history. Robbie Robertson, Rick Danko, Richard Manuel, Garth Hudson, and Levon Helm. Each of them played multiple instruments, and their signature sound included their three vocalists (Manuel, Danko and Helm), weaving in and out of the harmony. Their music, built upon Americana, folk, blues, bluegrass, country and gospel was so vastly different from the rock and roll of the day (late 60’s and early 70’s) that it’s hard to place it even now.
Levon was an intricate part of that sound, providing a folksy, Southern drumming style and a voice that could move you, shake you and break your heart. Levon was the definitive vocal, the voice behind their greatest tracks: The Weight, The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, Up On Cripple Creek, Don’t Do It.
Break the news
Pepote Rouge is coming to town
We stand accused, Pepote Rouge, of bein’ hellbound
She can help us find our way and get across
You don’t know what you gained till you find out what you lost
And he sang while playing the drums. To watch him work was stunning. Every part of him is in motion, his hands whirring across the toms and snare, his feet stomping the bass, and his head swaying back and forth, snapping up to the mike to belt out the next string of lyric. He was intense in a way most people only dream of. He made you sweat just watching him work.
The Band’s music is a treasure. If you get a chance, buy a copy of their greatest hits. Or, if you’re thinking of a Christmas gift for someone who might like it, I’d suggest The Band: A Musical History. It’s a six disc compilation spanning their entire career. And trust me, the six disc are well worth it.
If you’re looking for just a few tracks to download, check out:
The Weight
The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down
Up On Cripple Creek
Acadian Driftwood
The Saga of Pepote Rouge
The W.S. Walcott Medicine Show
Rock on.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
You Gotta Read It
It’s no secret I spend a lot of my time reading.
Suggesting books for others to read is a delicate art. People are constantly asking me what to read, as if I walk around with a list of Everybody-Must-Read-This books (actually, I do, but that’s not the point). Each reader is unique, and generally I must spend a lot of time discerning a person’s particular tastes. I prefer to suggest something I’m certain they will like before handing them something I loved but which may not be their, as they say, cup of tea.
However, some books leap across boundaries. They fit right in with every crowd. They nestle into every soul, regardless of background, belief system, economic situation. These books are rare, but when I find them…well, I go looking for milk crates.
So I’m standing in the library the other day, perusing the shelves (yeah, I know, hard to believe, right?) and I fingered out a colorful spine I’d not seen before. A new book called Absolute Brightness by a man James Lecesne. The flap is intriguing, and I decide to give it the Test.
The Test:
Open to page one, begin reading.
If not interested by first paragraph, back on the shelf (the Test is particularly brutal for those books which open with one-line first paragraphs). If first paragraph suffices, keep reading.
If find suddenly losing track of the time, pages flipping by, book goes home.
I hate to admit it, but it is extremely rare these days for a book to pass all stages of the Test.
Absolute Brightness was one of those surprises. I was on page 8 before I even knew I was reading. The voice, fluid and immediate, was lively, entertaining and brutally honest. Like a well-trained band the narrative marched straight forward, never hesitating, never detouring, never shocking you out of the story. It captivated you, this narrator, held you steady, made you forget there were things to do in your life, appointments to keep, jobs to go to, beds to sleep in. What did it matter? There was a story being told here. A damn good one.
I want to tell you about this book, but there’s one problem. I don’t want you to have any preconceived notions about it either, because this is a special kind of book, and special kinds of books have a way of turning away folks with preconceived notions.
So here’s what I want you to do. Go to your local bookstore or library. Ask for Absolute Brightness by James Lecesne. I don’t know where you’ll find it, but it’s possible it will be in the young adult section. Don’t let that fool you. When you get it in your hands, don’t ponder the cover or read the back flap. In fact, tear the cover off (perhaps do this away from bookstore clerks and librarians). Crack it open to page one and start reading. Read the first chapter.
Stop.
If you feel I’m wrong, then so be it. Put it back (put the cover back on first). But if you think I’m right, or if you suddenly feel like nothing else in your life is important until you finish this book, then keep reading.
Buy it. Steal it. But damnit, read it.
You’ll thank me.
Promise.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
That's Not An Elvis Impersonator!
Today I saw the future of rock n roll...and he's only two feet tall...
No, she wasn't talking about no midget. Check it out.
This photo was snapped during the famous On the Lake Tour 1986. It was a special birthday party concert with a limited guest list. Only family and close friends were invited. They included:
The set list was as follows:
Friend of the Devil
Only the Good Die Young
I'm Gonna Burn Your Playhouse Down
Beer Run
Sweet Little Sixteen
The Boys Are Back in Town
Born to Be Wild
Tequila Sunrise
I'm the Only Hell My Momma Ever Raised
Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting
Cocaine
I've Got Friends in Low Places
Born Under a Bad Sign
I Can't Get No Satisfaction
Got My Mojo Working
Encore:
Back Door Slam
During the encore the crowd went wild:
Somehow these fans were confused and thought the singer's name was Paul...an honest mistake...they went wild during this lyric:
I'm the dust in your broom, one-hundred proof Everclear
I'm the crack in your ceiling, the funk you think you hear
I'm a three am phone call, a tank of gasoline
I'm the siren that stops at the end of your street
I am what I am
I am the back door slam
What a marvelous piece of history.