Audio blogging

Girl: Who are you?
Voice: I'm the Enchanting Wizard of Rhythm.
Girl: Why did you come here?
Voice: I came here to tell you about the rhythms of the universe...

When I first set up Manhole I intended to use it for audio blogging in addition to “normal” blogging (although I doubt “normal” blogging could be truly defined, assuming you even know what blogging is). Here and there I’ve talked about music, but never engaged in the actual audio portion of blogging about music. It’s like talking about art without actually showing the pictures, which is obviously incomplete.

For a while I’d looked around for a free and simple place to host audio files, but couldn’t find anything that suited me. So many places either expect a monthly fee or prevent you from linking to the files you’ve stored. Finally, I came across www.putfile.com (thanks to Adeline for linking to it on her blog), which provides a free file hosting service for pictures, audio, and video up to a certain amount. Free storage for 10 mb of music is modest, but well suited to my purposes.

For my first audio blog post I wanted to try something fun and unconventional: movie themes. I selected three movie themes that I have recently downloaded (click on the links to hear the song):

Theme From Bullitt

“Bullitt” (1968), is probably Steve McQueen’s greatest non-WWII flick, and the one film which best employs not only his swagger, but also his driving abilities. Set in San Francisco, Frank Bullitt is assigned to protect a mafia informant. When the informant is murdered, Bullitt sets out to find the killer while simultaneously trying to outmaneuver a corrupt and ambitious local politician. Bullitt is important to film history because of the use of real-time car chases. Prior to Bullitt, car chases were filmed at a higher film speed so as to make slow-moving vehicles appear to move swiftly. In Bullitt, the director went all-out with muscle car chases through the hilly streets of San Fran. Much of the driving was done by McQueen himself, who prior to making it in film raced cars for a living.

The main theme for “Bullitt” was composed by the great Lalo Schifrin, who among other things, did the soundtracks for “Dirty Harry,” “Hell in The Pacific,” “Kelly’s Heroes,” and the theme from “Mission: Impossible." Music has the ability to set a mood in film. Schifrin's composition gives "Bullitt" an aura of coolness throughout. The Jazzy compositions actually make Frank Bullitt seem more badass.

Theme From The Third Man

I wrote about “The Third Man” (1949) over at Melodrama in my movie list. It’s a noir film about a man in post WWII Vienna (played by Orson Welles) who is mysteriously killed in a car accident. When his friend investigates his death it becomes clear that he might not be dead at all, but in fact wrapped up in a mysterious spy plot.

The theme from “The Third Man” is very Viennese. Vienna is a very old and bizarre town. It’s the former capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. For all it’s outward Western character, there is also something Eastern and mysterious about it. I think this song, in a sort of gypsy-ish way, conveys that well. It’s all zither too, which is in itself very strange. What’s more strange about this song is how it has this creepy carnival atmosphere to it. It speaks of a place where the evil is hidden beneath the surface by a façade of pretense, but not so hidden that it doesn’t show through. This song makes me think of being pursued by someone unseen.

Hong Kong Blues

The song “Hong Kong Blues” is from the film “To Have and Have Not” (1944) starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. Adapted from the Ernest Hemingway novel of the same name, it’s not the story but the acting that makes this movie truly great. Bogart and Bacall are, as is often the case, phenomenal. But the song, performed by Hoagy Carmichael in a bar scene (much like “Casablanca” in this respect), deserves more recognition as one of the greater film songs. “Hong Kong Blues,” with it’s themes of displacement, drug abuse, and death make it a bit of an oddball – but that’s what makes it so great. It makes me think of a sweaty foreign barroom inhabited by characters like Humphrey Bogart; A derelict barroom full of down-on-their-luck nobody’s. Carmichael's slurred singing really adds to the feel of drunken lamentation present on the track.

If anyone has problems with hearing the tracks, let me know.

Arizona to Texas

We got up around 9:00 that morning and headed out on the road towards Flagstaff where we hoped to pick up some breakfast. It was a clear morning. It was good to be finally driving back towards the sun in the morning and having the sun behind us in the afternoon, too. It just felt more familiar. A. had to be back in NC by the 20th for a job interview and C. had to be back for school. We were trying to make the best time we could since we only had three days to make it home. We planned on stopping here and there at several places, but not for any long period of time. At this point in the trip it became more about getting home than anything else.

Along the way, C. began to notice crows sitting ominously on the side of the road. They were everywhere. C. somehow got it in his head that this was a single crow that had been following us the entire time.

In Flagstaff we stopped off at McDonald’s and I got one of those ginormous plates of breakfast food. I wouldn’t normally eat crap like that, but there was so much of it. Plus, it was cheap as dirt and packed with nutrients my body was aching for. A Styrofoam plate with fake looking scrambled eggs, a round piece of processed sausage, watery grits, and some toast with ketchup-packet jelly. After eating the “food” I squeezed out the leftover jelly and ate that. And a cup of orange juice, too. I hadn’t had orange juice for a long time.

A murder of crows was gathered by a rain puddle behind the McDonald’s. They were fighting over something lying facedown in the puddle. C. and I watched them as we let our food digest.

Next stop was Meteor Crater. I was skeptical of this place, mainly because I knew that it would probably be expensive to get in. We got off the highway and drove a good four or five miles through empty expanse, spotting only Indian ruins and the occasional elk. I’ve heard tale of wild camels inhabiting these parts. Apparently, the U.S. army utilized them in the 1850s as a means to transport supplies to California, via Texas, during the height of the gold rush. The idea was first seriously suggested by, of all people, Jefferson Davis, who was then Secretary of War. When the Civil War broke out, the camels became the property of the Confederacy, which were used to haul cotton into Mexico. After the war, wild camels were sighted all over the west, as far north as Idaho. The last camel sighting in Arizona was in the 1940s. We didn’t see any camels, but I’m sure they’re out there somewhere. There’s lots of territory for dromedaries.

Meteor Crater, sure enough, is a tourist trap. I told C. and A. to remain in the truck while I went up to see how much the hole in the ground would cost. The place is surrounded all around by a double barbed wire fence, which is to make sure you don’t get the notion to, say, attack the meteor crater with a division of troops. A big sign next to the ticket booth: “Adults 14 and up: $12.00.” Uh-huh. $36.00 for us to see the hole. This is one thing that disappoints me about Arizona. It would be so nice if people didn’t charge you to look at things it would otherwise be free to walk right up to. I walked back to the car, “36 dollars total for the three of us.” Nothing else had to be said. We all piled back into the car and drove away. Thirty six dollars is a halfway decent motel room, a hot shower, and a pillow. Or a full tank of gas.

We then made our way through Petrified Forest country. Fake, totally inaccurate representations of dinosaurs dot the side of the road. This is the old Route 66, so the side of the road is lined with great pieces of extinct American ephemera from the 1940s and 50s. Giant Indian arrows, once covered in light bulbs, stick out of the ground next to an overgrown service station. It makes me think of the days when people really traveled in this country. When there was no AC in the car and service monkeys pumped your gas and washed your windows. My mother came through here when she was six months old. I won’t say exactly how long ago that was, but it was a while back.

We began to see bits and pieces of petrified wood on the side of the road. They were behind a barbed wire fence and placed so as to look attractive to motorists. There were also these odd looking ladders sticking up from what was obviously a cliff. C. and I got to talking about whether or not these were cliff dwellings. C., highly curious, decided to pull over and investigate. He could kill two birds with one stone: get a gratis close-up picture of a piece of petrified wood and see a genuine cliff dwelling. Wearing loose, long shorts, C. less than nimbly wriggled through the barbed wire. For a moment, his shorts got stuck, tearing a fat hole. After making it through, he copped a few pieces of petrified wood and took what seemed like forever taking pictures of this one piece of wood. Not wanting to tear my pants for a rock, I stood on the other side and prayed no state troopers would show up.

Several cars driving by on the highway honked at us angrily. At least that’s how it seemed. Were we doing something wrong? C. hurried back to the truck and we drove off. The ladders went uninvestigated, although I doubt anyone could have scaled them without the rungs crumbling. A little ways down the road we came to a place that offered a tour of a petrified forest and “dinosaur park.” The man at the gate told us the fee was $10.00 per head. We looked at each other. We decided against it. Before we left, C. asked the man about the ladders down the road.

“Those indicate the presence of a niche in the cliff side where my people [the Hopi] communed with their ancestors.”

C. and I exchanged looks. Further down the road I looked at C. and said, “Did you know you were defiling sacred ground back there, pale face?” That’s why people were honking at us. C. was defiling their ancestors. That can’t be good for our chi, I thought. I can think of few things worse for chi than upsetting someone’s ancestors. Pitting my ancestors against Hopi ancestors would not be pretty: a whole mess of Scots, Brits, and Cherokee Indians against the whole of the Hopi nation.

Roughly fifty or so miles from the Arizona border we stopped at a Love’s truck stop to refuel and get some drinks. While inside, a very short and very smarmy Hispanic fellow whistled at A. and made some comment to her which I won’t repeat here. When she told me about it I just shrugged my shoulders. “Weird people,” I replied. It wasn’t the first time on the trip it had happened. Since he hadn’t touched her, I just dismissed it. Then she went and told C. Telling us he needed to go in and get a drink, C. went into the truck stop. When he emerged he had ketchup on his hands.

“Do you have blood on your hands?”

He smiled. “What? No! It’s ketchup. I had a hot dog. He had a hot dog.”

“Huh?” I furrowed my brow. “Who had a hot dog?”

C. calmly drove away. It wasn’t until we got on the interstate that it hit me. C. had smeared a hot dog in ketchup and thrown it at this man. All for whistling at A. It upset me that he had done this reckless thing. You don’t go throwing meat products at strange men in truck stops. For all I knew this guy was gonna hunt us down and kill us execution style. For several miles I kept checking the mirrors for a really short angry guy. No one. When we crossed into New Mexico I breathed a sigh of relief.

New Mexico is one of the more untouched parts of the country. Much of it is Indian reservations, primarily Navajo. Many beautiful bright orange rocks, cliff dwellings, and massive monuments stretch as far as the eye can see. The houses many of the Navajo people live in are pathetic. The tiny Navajo communities along the interstate look twice as run-down as the worst trailer park; scraggly dogs, ill-painted and dusty, crumbling sweat lodges. It really feels like Mexico.

In Gallup we stopped off at the local Wal-Mart. Sigh. Last year they were having a pow-wow in town and the pretty Navajo gals were handing out flyers up at the Wal-Mart. This year we missed the run-up to the pow-wow, but it was just as strange being inside there. There were these ancient Navajo grandmothers wearing what looked like black habits sitting in the Wal-Mart food court area. It was positively 19th century. I bought some spicy Kimchi noodles and chipped in for some Apple Juice to wash it down with.

For lunch we pulled into a rest area. This is the most destitute, run-down rest area I’ve ever been to. Built like a Pueblo house, it was surrounded by several stylized picnic areas designed to look like small Adobe dwellings. Well, I must say it captured the third world feeling: graffiti covered everything, the hot water didn’t work, and four out of the six toilets in the men’s room were out of order and reeked of waste. High winds were blowing through the valley, sending clouds of dust and sand through the rest area. We took shelter in one of the picnic areas, which was partially enclosed, and prepared what vaguely resembled a meal out of corn and baked beans. I made up a bowl of spicy noodles (my life blood is spicy noodle soup) which filled me with energy for the coming leg of the trip. On the whole, though, everyone seemed run down. I was also pretty strung out from being in the truck. We didn’t talk much while sitting there. Flies buzzed all over.

New Mexico, y’all have the worst rest area in the U.S.

I noticed one of those historical markers in front of the bathrooms that read: “A battle was fought here between the Spanish and the Pueblo in 1599, which sowed the seeds of the Pueblo Revolt.” It was more like a massacre. The Acoma Pueblo, which sat atop a mesa visible from the rest area, was believed to be impregnable until the Spanish arrived in the 1590s. The Spaniards, in retaliation for the killing of 13 Spanish soldiers, were able to scale the mesa and kill 800 of the Pueblo Indians while sustaining only 12 casualties. In order to prevent further uprisings, all Pueblo males above the age of 25 had one of their feet cut off. We pass by these scenes of brutality ever day and don’t give them much thought.

The village is still inhabited today. Only fifty or so Acomans inhabit the village, but every year several thousand show up on feast day to celebrate their patron saint, San Esteban. It’s supposedly the longest continually inhabited city in the United States.

I fell asleep while in the back of the truck. When I awoke we were in eastern New Mexico, not far from the Texas border. As we drove into Texas I got to do something I’d always wanted to do: watch a thunderstorm roll across the horizon while listening to 10cc’s “I’m Not in Love.” Now, some of you might ask, “How is this something you’ve always wanted to do?” Well, the song “I’m Not in Love” is just a beautiful atmospheric song that happens to go well with watching thunderstorms out on the Great Plains. I read something that David Bowie said once: he heard the song when he was driving across the southwest, at night, with a thunderstorm in the distance, and it just affected him in a profound way. Since then I’ve always wanted to experience it. I think Bowie was right. The song and the thunderstorm went well together.

Texas is the South. They have Waffle Houses. The people have Southern accents, too. I was glad to be in the South again. We all were. Well, maybe not so much A., who doesn't care for the South, but C. and I were. That night we stayed at a dirt cheap $30.00 Motel 6. We ate rice, beans, and oatmeal cooked over a butane stove at 2:00 in the morning and watched “Cathouse” on HBO, which C. insisted on watching. Afterwards, I watched “Full Metal Alchemist" and went to sleep.

Tomorrow: Okla., Arka., Ten-I-See.

Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, you're no friend to me

I was going to write up a post about my exploits in Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas tonight, but I decided not to when C. passed the following news on to me:

A friend of mine from high school, and a roommate of C’s at college (I’ll refer to him here as C.J.), recently hit bottom. For some time we’ve known that C.J. was an alcoholic of epic proportions. Every time I’ve seen C.J. since high school he was either drinking at home or drinking in a bar or clutching a bottle. Last year at Halloween, when I was down at C.’s place to hang out, C.J. came home around midnight and immediately began drinking. It was a Sunday. He had classes the very next day. He popped probably more than a dozen beers. I had already gotten positively smashed that night, which is rare for me, but for C.J. this was a regular thing. When I crawled downstairs in the morning (literally, I felt like utter garbage. Never drink rum straight unless you are a pirate) there was a pyramid of over a dozen Budweiser bottles stacked with surprising neatness in front of the television set. That was just one episode, though. I’ve seen it many times.

C.J. has all of the many bottles of whiskey, scotch, rum, everclear, etc. that he has personally consumed stacked on top of the shelves in the apartment’s kitchen like they are trophies of past glories, and there are dozens of them. C.J.’s picture on Facebook (and if you don’t know what Facebook is I urge you to google it) is of him taking a massive swig from a bottle of Jack Daniels. Included in his profile are the following nuggets of wisdom: “‘I Got Fubared By Cornoa (sp) Extra’"-the words on the crown placed on my head the night I got so drunk I proclaimed the world was going to end, and then ran into the wall,” or “I am Beerman, and you are my trusty sidekick, The Whiskey Kid. Our mission is to rid the world of beer, one case at a time!” These are some of his favorite quotes. They would be funny if they weren’t so sad. The (sad) joke amongst my friends was that C.J. would probably end up destroying himself with alcohol.

This past Thursday, C.J. hit bottom. C.J. easily downed somewhere around, C. estimates, 18 beers in a matter of a short time (that is, less than a couple hours). When these were consumed, he asked C. to take him to the ABC store to purchase a bottle of whiskey. When C. refused, telling him he’d had enough, C.J. got into his truck and drove, drunk as hell, down to the ABC store where he was (somehow) able to purchase a bottle of whiskey. After miraculously making it back to the apartment, C.J. quickly downed roughly half the bottle of whiskey (straight from the bottle) in a matter of minutes. He then became enraged for no apparent reason. He took his guitar and smashed it against the walls and other objects in the apartment, howling like a madman. He tried to smash the television, but C. was able to prevent him. C. and M., the other roommate, tried in vain to calm him down. C.J. then began chucking bottles of alcohol all over the place. He went out on the apartment’s porch area and chucked an empty bottle at a car in the parking lot, showering it with glass. Not satisfied at the level of destruction, C.J. smashed one of his drinking glasses against the wall, and then attempted to destroy one of his flasks.

When food (chicken wings) that had been ordered earlier for dinner arrived, C.J. came to the door shirtless, wearing a cowboy hat, and clutching a bottle of half empty Jack Daniels. He paid, took the food, walked outside with the chicken wings, got into his truck, and peeled off into the night. C. and M. went out looking for him. They drove around for half an hour attempting to find C.J., but no sign of him was found.

C.J. returned the next day from God knows where, as if nothing had happened. And no one is really sure if he remembers what he was doing that night. And the sad thing is that his parents have no inkling that their son is a totally dissolute. Someone should inform them for the sake of his life.

My friends are planning an intervention for him soon. I can’t be there since it’s so far from home, but I wholeheartedly endorse the idea. If it fails, he’ll probably wind up dead.

Radio Country

An essay on the state of Radio Country:

Of all the musical genres today, country music is the most crass and wretched. At its roots, country music was something that was real; it came from the people. In the camp meetings, the one-room church rounds, and the slave spirituals. It had its roots in the music that everyday people sang when the field work was finished and it was time to thank God that you and yours hadn’t died form typhus or had been washed away by the river. It was a blending of the best of African and European musical forms: the lyrics and themes of Protestant Europe combined with rhythms and instruments imported by enslaved Africans. Before the genre “fusion” existed, country music was just that.

There are some who like to say that Jazz is the greatest thing this country has created music-wise, but Jazz wouldn’t be squat without country music. Nor would Rock n’ Roll, Rap, Blues, or any other absurd sub-sub-genre of music that exists today without the influence of country (sometimes called “roots music” for this reason). Yes, folks, it may seem hard to imagine, but 50 Cent owes his career to a bunch of Baptist crackers and black slaves who got together for evangelical camp meetings on the weekends.

Country music was the originator. And it feels good to be from the home of country music, from a land where cultural fusion has produced an explosion of art. All of the great stuff came from here. Artists like Bob Dylan, The Beatles, and virtually everyone in between were just taking Southern music and adapting it. It all started here.

And that’s what makes me sick about new country music. New country is nothing to be emulated, nothing to be proud of. It is mindless, cookie-cutter dribble that is churned out by soulless singers who look like models. The only way to distinguish today’s Radio Country from other prefab pop forms is the presence of a slight twang and perhaps the occasional steel guitar.

It’s all about image these days. You could never have a Hank Williams Sr. on Country Radio today. He ain’t cut. He doesn’t have huge pectoral implants or a baby face with absurd frosted hair and a neatly trimmed beard (Phil Vassar, Darryl Worley, I’m looking in y’all’s direction…I see you too Kenny Chesney, with you’re sleeveless t-shirts!). And the songs these male singers perform? Beyond wretched. Songs like “Redneck Yacht Club” and “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” are poisoning the airwaves. The amount of crap that is produced by the jingoist/war profiteer Toby Keith alone is just staggering.

And it’s worse with the ladies. Faith Hill, Shania Twain, Lee Ann Womack, Jamie O’Neal. All beautiful Aryan superwomen. They’re essentially models who can sing what they’re told, and through the magic of NASA-Nashville sound technology, actually seem like they can carry a tune. And their songs are little better than their male counterparts. I always cringe at Shania Twain’s “I Feel like a Woman” because it doesn’t even qualify as country, even when using the loosest set of criteria. And I know this will fall on deaf ears, but country songs shouldn’t have any “na na na’s” in them, either.

Johnny Cash, months before his death, released the song “Hurt” on his final album “The Man Comes Around.” Whether you’ve heard this song, or seen the video, or not, consider for a moment the symbolism. Cash, withered by age, looking anything but Radio Country-esque, is seated at a banquet. Interspersed with images from his life, and even images of Christ being nailed to the cross, Cash is praying like a man about to die. “And you could have it all,” Cash sings in his baritone drawl, “my empire of dirt. I will let you down, I will make you hurt.” Then we see cash destroying the banquet laid before him; he angrily pours out a cup of wine like it was filthy water. It was a rebuke, almost, a complete rebuke of what not only country music had become, but of the empty things of this life. Seeing that, and then not long afterwards hearing of Cash’s death, it was as if country music had both figuratively and literally died.

He was the last true great singer and songwriter of the genre. Cash embodied everything great about country, and pushed it to new vistas without betraying the true sound.

The only hope for country and roots music in general, lies in the lesser-knowns, those who are keeping the traditions alive while at the same time being truly innovative. But even among the great lesser knowns - names such as Robbie Fulks, Lucinda Williams, Steve Earle, Robert Earl Keen – there is nothing that can even begin to enter into the same realm that men like Johnny Cash and Hank Williams inhabit. With the death of Cash, is it likely that another truly great country artist will ever again win widespread acclaim? Or will true country and roots music be forever confined to the alt-country snobs, the college radio kids, and the roots rock weirdoes (like me)?

I can’t see it. As long as tastemakers dominate the industry, true country music won’t be heard on Country Radio.

How high is the water mama? Five feet high and risin’.

Up next is travel log: Arizona to Texas.

R.I.P., Man in Black

Deconstructing the unreconstructed fables of the reconstruction

I intended to post this when I was down in Atlanta, but I found out today that I’m not going on account of the gas being so astronomically high. Here it is, incomplete, and with today’s garbage added:

“I dont hate it,” Quentin said, quickly, at once, immediately; “I dont hate it,” he said. I dont hate it he thought, panting in the cold air, the iron New England dark: I dont. I dont! I dont hate it! I dont hate it!
~ Quentin Compson on the South, from Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!

I was talking to a friend the other day, a philosophy professor (who isn’t from the South). We got onto the subject of history, specifically American history, and he mentioned something about Sherman’s march. This always makes a Southerner somber. The name Sherman rarely gets a good reception among Southerners, let alone among the descendents of Indians he tucked neatly onto reservations. “Doesn’t that bother you?” he asked me. “What?” I replied absently, as if trying to avoid the subject. “Sherman’s march. Doesn’t that bother you?” I didn’t really have to think about it. “Hell yes, it bothers me.” He smiled his big grin and laughed. “I can understand that. Look at what he did. He burned your cities. You should hate that sonofabitch.”

And it cuts right to the heart of what it means to be a Southerner. It means to be a person who feels history and lives it – every day. At least I do, and it really doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that I’m a historian-in-training. Faulkner remarked on this in “Intruders in The Dust”:


"For every Southern boy fourteen years old, not once but whenever he wants it,
there is the instant when it's still not yet two o’clock on that July afternoon
in 1863, the brigades are in position behind the rail fence, the guns are laid
and ready in the woods and the furled flags are already loosened to break out
and Pickett himself with his long oiled ringlets and his hat in one hand
probably and his sword in the other looking up the hill waiting for Longstreet
to give the word and it's all in the balance, it hasn't happened yet, it hasn't
even begun yet, it not only hasn't begun yet but there is still time for it not
to begin against that position and those circumstances which made more men than
Garnett and Kemper and Armstead and Wilcox look grave. Yet it's going to begin, we all know that, we have come too far with too much at stake. And that moment, it doesn't need even a fourteen-year-old boy to think This time. Maybe this time
with all this much to lose and all this much to gain: Pennsylvania, Maryland,
the world, the golden dome of Washington itself to crown with desperate and
unbelievable victory the desperate gamble, the cast made two years ago...."

And I’ve stood there on that field. And I often find myself coming back to that moment I did not live and reliving it over and over again like it’s something that could be remade if it were just played out enough times. If you play a record enough, it begins to warp, and the song changes. It’s a sense of strange urgency and yearning in my heart that is hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t lived it. I know other Southerners feel this way. We all experience the competing emotions of pride for something we are hopelessly bound to – branded with, even – and with the shame that gets piled up on us because we were born here. So it’s almost a reaction against what those from the outside say and think about us.

It’s almost hard saying these things because people automatically think you’re some unreconstructed, intolerant, slack-jawed yokel. People think you want to return to the days of “step and fetch it” because you have pride in something and aren’t consumed with self-loathing or shame.

Shifting focus. A bad segue, I know.

I woke up at 5:45 today to the strains of Guns ‘n’ Roses’ “Paradise City.” Why did I get up so early, you ask? For the accurs’d GRE, the Graduate Record Exam, which all self-respecting grad school applicants must take in order to get accepted to most graduate programs these days. It’s a big fat scam. Studies have shown that, at the most, it is only about 6% accurate in predicting how well you will perform in your first year of graduate school. Not only that, but I’ve heard plenty of professors talk about how grades and letters of recommendation are more important than GRE scores. I remember talking to several professors at my graduation in May and one of them saying: “don’t worry about it. Just concentrate on the verbal section.”

Going through the process of applying and studying for the test has been a tremendous thumb tack of a pain in the rear end from start to finish. On top of that, the test is an absurd $115.00 (according to my currency converter, that’s 3,450 Mauritian Rupees). When added to my total costs of applying for grad schools, I’m looking at $300.00 just to see if schools are willing to consider me (9,000 Mauritian Rupees).

I took the test in this high security room monitored by somewhere around 85 cameras and a control guy who sat at a command console. It was like taking an aptitude test at Dr. No’s island fortress. Beforehand, I was made to empty my pockets of everything save my glasses and lock it away in a locker. No wallet, so the wire garrote + mini spy cam was out. No wristwatch, so the GPS locator/laser cutter was out, too. All that was left were my glasses. The fools. The one item they should have taken from me! Mwahahahaha!

There was only one other person there taking the GRE, a girl named Sarah from UNC who, incidentally, knew my cousin. “Does he have a big red afro? Oh, yeah! I know that guy!” Yeah, North Carolina is one big small town. We talked about our fears and expectations. To my dismay, she hadn’t even taken a practice test. She had paid $115.00 and not taken a single practice test. I’d taken five or six practice tests, both on paper and on my computer at home. It’s really not worth the money unless you put in some effort to practice. She was going into medical assistance, a field I really don’t know diddly about. When I mentioned I was going into history she looked at me funny. “Then why are you taking the GRE?” I have to. “For history? That’s stupid.”

Tell me about it.

She wished me luck and disappeared into the double-super-secret-hermetically-sealed security room where not even a gnat could fart without being zapped by microwave rays. When entering, you sign in and have your picture taken by an electronic eyeball thingy. Then, a big burly security guy leads you in and shows you your seat. When you leave for a break, you sign out and get ten minutes to use the water closet. Then it all happens again. I guess they’re afraid some look-alike or twin could come along and take the second portion of the test. It was most clever, but as the “Great Escape” has taught me, there is nothing that good ol’ American redneck engineering cannot overcome.

The GRE is administered by computer now, for all y’all old school folks (assuming any of you have taken it). It’s supposed to be easier this way, since the program finds a medium for each test taker by adjusting to the questions they get right or wrong. Sometimes, especially on the math, I could tell when I had gotten a question wrong simply by how easy the next question would be. There are also two written essay sections done using a rudimentary word processing program sans grammar and spellcheck. I rolled all over that section. It will go to some professor somewhere, who will grade it with two scores between 1 and 6 (probably a 6. He’ll look at it and be like: “Damn. My mind has sooo been totally blown by this person’s essay. I should make way for him or her. I should just retire now.”). It will then be shipped back to ETS and figured into my final score.

I was there for roughly three hours taking the test. After it was all said and done, my raw score for the verbal and quantitative came back immediately. The math was below average, which was no surprise. My verbal was well above the average by somewhere around fifty points, which suits me just fine. I may take it again, probably next month, but that’s not for sure. Four schools will receive my scores: UNC, UNC Greensboro, UNC Charlotte, and UVA (what I consider my long shot).

For now, I’m gonna think about what to post over at Trampoline Tricks and Jacques my body to Les Rythmes Digitales.

Oh, and the faulty link for the blog du histoire has been fixed.

Tuesday.

I went up to the university yesterday. It was an interesting day. Whenever I visit that school, it’s usually to see my professors, the only friends who still remain. What friends I did have amongst the student body (the few) have moved away to other things. There’s still a feeling of isolation tempered with a sort of belonging when I’m there. For all that I detest about that old school, I still almost prefer being there for some reason.

And it was the muggiest of all possible days. Just a “bleh” day. Tuesday, which means the Greeks were out in their bright colored t-shirts, emblazoned with the letters of their drinking society of choice. I was struck at how Greek it was becoming. Alpha this, Omicron that, etc. etc. amen When I was a student, the school put the Greek percentage at something like 36%, which everyone knew was bogus. It was more like 50% of the student body. Today it seems the percentage has grown. I found this somewhat disheartening, but what can you do when your school is mostly an exclusive country club? My school just procured several hundred acres of land to build a much-needed driving range and soccer practice field, and is looking to swallow up more land in the surrounding municipality to build posh on-campus living quarters. I couldn’t tell you how many homes it has swallowed up in town. They’re waiting for one elderly woman to die so they can swoop in and buy up her house for a sauna or something.

But what struck me most about the old U. was the obvious increase in the female population. When I was a student it was more or less 60% female. Today it seems like 75%, perhaps more. Don’t get me wrong, I am not dismayed at this. I welcome such a large population of women into a community that would otherwise be (insert the sound of wind blowing and tumbleweed rolling by).

The main reason I went up to the old alma mater was to see Francis Bok. He’s been in Podunk for three days giving lectures at my alma mater. I’d heard of Francis several years ago while researching a paper on the Sudan for an African politics course and was excited about being able to see the man I’d read about up close. He’s an amazing person.

Francis, a member of the Dinka ethnic group of southern Sudan, was kidnapped from his village by Muslim militiamen at the age of seven and made a slave. He lived in a state of slavery for ten years. In addition to being forced to work like a slave, he was treated worse than an animal. He was beaten regularly. His owner permitted his wife and children to beat him mercilessly almost on a whim. As late as 1996, Francis lived in a state of bondage. Then, one day, Francis simply ran away and never looked back. Despite being caught twice before, and being threatened with death if he were ever caught again, Francis desired freedom more than he feared death. Perhaps by divine providence (what Francis chalks up to “deliverance” by God), a kind-hearted truck driver found him and gave Francis refuge in his home.

Francis was then able to make it Cairo, where he got into contact with other Sudanese who were living in the United States. In 1999, he came to the U.S. and began raising awareness about slavery in the Sudan and elsewhere in the world. This was not without difficulty, since he had no formal education and spoke no English. But after six years of practice, and attending night school (he has yet to complete his high school education), Francis has become proficient in English and given many lectures all over the country.

He is a very humble man. He apologized profusely to everyone in the room on account of his English. I think his English is excellent, considering he’s only studied it for six years. People treat him like a celebrity. Before the talk, students were crowding around him like Paparazzi, attempting to take pictures and get his autograph. Since I have no camera, nor do I own a copy of his book, I remained seated while Mr. Bok was swamped. At 6’8”, he towered over everyone. During the talk he told his life story and discussed his efforts to aid not only those who were enslaved in Sudan, but the other 27 million enslaved the world over. He thanked everyone for reading his book, an act he considered a great service to him and the people of Sudan.

Much of the audience was made up of freshmen. You can usually tell them from their childish behavior. Half of them were carrying on, laughing, and having conversations with each other. A girl next to me was talking to another girl about something totally unrelated. It’s at these times I usually feel like slapping somebody, but my attentions were elsewhere. Throughout much of the lecture, my attention was half focused on Francis and half focused on a girl who was sitting in front of me. No, she wasn’t carrying on. She was, frankly, mesmerizing. Then Francis said something about Frederick Douglass: “until I met Coretta Scott King I did not know who Frederick Douglass was, I did not even know who Martin Luther King Jr. was.” That’s interesting, I thought, perhaps I’m experiencing history here. A modern day Frederick Douglass. Perhaps even greater. With the support of the United States behind him and all of the tools of modern technology, Francis Bok could easily equal and even surpass Frederick Douglass or Harriet Tubman.

But then my attention was taken back to this girl. Normally, I wouldn’t blog about something like this, because, to be honest, I see women I find at least nominally attractive every day. It’s just part of the way things work when you’re 23. I hesitate to compare it to animal behavior, but let’s face it. We’re all made from dust. Men are base, meat eating creatures that follow biological imperatives. But this gal was something else. Affecting. So I was studying her with both eyes while attempting to hear Francis with both ears. Since I neglected to bring my glasses, I couldn’t really see Francis anyway. But I could see her, so that’s what I did. There was nothing lascivious about it. She had nothing lascivious about her. It was just looking.

Then Francis charged those in attendance to go forth and work to raise awareness about world slavery. He received a standing ovation. The way he thanked everyone, silently, it was if he was bowing to everyone. In a way, I thought I was witnessing a saint. He truly is a great man. When the applause ceased, it seemed as if it continued, but it was really the rain falling like a barrage of marbles on the auditorium roof. That mugginess had become a drenching storm of tropical rain. It hadn’t rained here in weeks. Everyone made for the doors. Rain came gushing down from the gutters and even when standing under the portico you got wet. The girl disappeared into the crowd. I didn’t follow.

Just so you know: I’m not a weirdo stalker. I am a weirdo, but not a stalker.

I made for the library, where there was a sizable porch area. In the few seconds I was outside I got soaked. I decided to wait a few minutes to let the rain ease up. It didn’t. So I waited there for maybe fifteen minutes listening to my mp3 player and trying to look like a student (which isn’t hard). I was listening to “Waterworld” off the Handsome Boy Modeling School album, “So, how’s your girl…?” (which is appropriate since the theme is, well, water). Well, when it gets to the part where it says “For those that know me, indeed I like to flow,” the same girl who I was watching earlier comes walking by in her blue t-shirt, black dress, and flip-flops. And she had an umbrella. How perfect this was. How perfect that this very girl should walk right by me, on the other side of campus, as I’m waiting for the rain to abate with an umbrella. But what does Suley do? He stands there. And the girl walks off into the rainy night. Soy un perdedor.

This is a succinct summary of my existence up to this point, I must confess.

Well, when the rained eased up and I got home I found that the cable and internet were both out. I had intended to post this last night, but the dang cable company didn’t fix it until this morning. A weird, frustrating day came to an end without the soothing light of the internet. You damn right I was pissed.

Right now I’m listening to “Sweet Home Alabama” and feeling all stupid.

Tomorrow is GRE Tag. So I’m gonna be down for a while. And on Friday afternoon I’m heading down to Hotlanta to see some family. I should be back by Saturday night. I may attempt a blog post from ATL as a sort of tribute to the Duhty South. If anyone wants to guest post anything over at Trampoline Tricks in J.Star’s absence, then send it to me via email at blancandrine-at-yahoo.com.

Visit iAbolish.com for more on Francis Bok and the anti-slavery movement.

Suley is out.

Los Angeles

When I awoke in the morning, I found my companions had already showered and gotten dressed. They were sitting watching television with bowls of runny oatmeal, waiting for me to get my ass in gear. There was a special report on the TV: “Be on the lookout for two Caucasian males of medium build, who, according to the police, have robbed the First Bank of San Miguel.” I didn’t think about this until I got into the shower.

Shyte! C. and I are two white males of medium build.

Not only that, but we had rolled into this motel extremely late at night and promised the innkeeper we’d be out really early. To make matters worse, the innkeeper hadn’t seen A., so it seemed there were only two of us staying in this motel room. The truck, with its bed cover and out of state plates (waaay out of state) seemed a little suspect, too. It looked like the kind of truck that two criminals or a serial murderer might drive, well at least in my mind it did. So while showering I became paranoid that a roadblock would stop us somewhere and we’d be held-up for questioning.

After showering and getting dressed I walked outside to have a look around. It had started raining and everything was sufficiently soaked through. It seemed like a bad day in the making. Thinking there might be at least a minimal continental breakfast – some places give you donuts and coffee and call it “continental,” other places at least offer a styro cup of coffee and call it just plain “breakfast”, but this place didn’t have anything. As I walked up to the office, I could see inside, and realizing there was nothing there, I withdrew my hand from the handle and began to walk away. At that moment, the innkeeper (the affable Indian guy) emerged from behind the counter and saw me. To me, it looked like I was avoiding him. As if to say, I didn’t know you were there. I intended to sneak into your office, bludgeon you over the head while your back was turned, and then steal all of the dead presidents in your safe – but not now. I need total surprise.

So as I’m walking away I try to look like I forgot something. Yeah, act like you forgot the key! Act like you were going to return it but only forgot it, yeah! So here I go, back to the room, patting my pockets repeatedly for a key. I only had four pockets, but I must have patted every part of my body. When I get back into the room, C. and A. look at me. I stare blankly at the wall. C. asks me if I heard the announcement about the bank robbery. Now he’s getting paranoid, too.

We decided to quickly pack up and make haste for Los Angeles. Everything got packed up and tucked away in the back of the truck. C. and I were careful to not be seen together outside while doing so. With everything in order, I made a last inspection of the room and piled into the rear of the truck to hide from any would-be coppers. Even though A. wanted to sit up in the front for this leg, it made sense for me to ride in the back. I figured a truck with two guys up front – both of which looked like really scary gypsies – would be more likely to get stopped than one with a guy and a gal. Plus, I always got uncomfortable with A. riding in the back since it looked like we had either kidnapped a woman or killed her and then stashed her body back there for later disposal. From behind, all you can see through the bed cover’s window are the person’s feet up against the glass. It just looks suspicious as hell.

Fortunately, there were no roadblocks anywhere. I became preoccupied by the novel “Woman in The Dunes” by Kobo Abe while back there. An excellent book. Reminded me of Dostoyevsky and Kurt Vonnegut. Riding in the truck bed, it’s all you can do to not fall asleep, and eventually I was lulled by the magic fingers-like vibrations. I awoke momentarily to see the Pacific Ocean for the second time. Blue. I then fell back into a dreamless slumber.

I was awakened by a loud clanging and the sound of wind rushing. What the hell? I looked to see the gate of the truck wide open, and the headlights of cars looking right in at me. The gate had just fallen open, shaken loose by the vibrations of the road. Everything was in danger of spilling out all over and causing general mayhem on an already crowded Monday lunch hour highway. I spun around and motioned to C. to pull over at the next exit. Pull! Over! I had to say this several times silently, since C. couldn’t hear me through the truck's window. I had to form each word perfectly. To drive my point home I pointed back at the gate. C. got the message and dove across several lanes of traffic to the exit. We pulled into a fill station and piled out to investigate. The air mattress we’d employed for comfort in the truck bed was pushing up against the gate. Not only that, but one of the flexible rubber straps that held the gate onto the truck had snapped. There was only a lock and another strap holding it on. After rearranging some things and pushing the mattress back to give the gate more space, we were able to shut it back securely. Fortunately, an inspection revealed nothing had fallen from the truck.

We were in Thousand Oaks, so I knew it wouldn’t be much further to LA. - the city which makes me think of many things. For one, it makes me think of G-Funk. That’s what immediately comes to my mind when I think LA. I think early 90s G-Funk from the likes of Warren G, Nate Dogg, and Montell Jordan. I think of Snoop Dogg with a fifth of Hennessy and Dre rockin’ Chucks - not Ballies. I think of Los Lobos, just another band from East LA. I think of Beck and Que onda Guero? So much great musical stuff. I tend not to think so much of Hollywood and all the vacuous pretty people whom I detest, but all the thugs, OG macks, and wannabe players who inhabit the 2-1-3.

And that’s what it is. It’s a city inhabited by people who are trying to get over, make pay no matter what the cost, and break off a big fat piece of mammon. And for all its absurdity and ugliness, I love it. If you’ve ever read the novel “Ask the Dust” then you’ll know what I mean.

We puttered into LA around two o’clock. Having experienced hellish traffic last year, and pressed for time, we had decided beforehand to only visit a couple of places in LA. The first was, *sigh*, yet another Vespa dealership. I love looking at Vespas, I even want to buy one, but C.’s obsession gets a little out of hand. The LA Vespa dealership is fairly nice, though. I checked all of the Vespa’s that were slated for engine work, but unfortunately not one of them was owned by any celeb. Parker Posey’s Vespa might have been photo worthy. Or perhaps Mischa Barton’s OC Vespa. Or maybe Keira Knightley’s. I could honestly care less about those people.

From there it was on to our favorite vintage clothing store, Iguana’s. After visiting last year, we’d been talking all trip about seeing it again. It’s the best vintage shop I’ve ever been to. C. and I regularly visit Goodwill stores to look at junk. For me, it comes from a love of ephemera that gets tossed out (i.e. “junk” as you insensitive philistines refer to it) and C. enjoys just rummaging through things. One thing C. and I do often is dumpster dive. We do it all the damn time. If we see something interesting poking out of a dumpster, we’ll go in there after it. If we see an abandoned house (and there are lots out in the country where we live) we’ll poke through it for interesting bits of ephemera. People just leave fascinating things behind as trash.

We had trouble finding the place. C. thought it must have gone out of business, but I insisted that we stop for directions (I am a man who is not afraid to ax for directions). So we stopped at a Carl’s Jr. to ask for directions. The staff inside was all Hispanic, and all female. The girl in charge had a ridiculous coif and her lipstick had been applied in such a way as to make her lips look like those of a clown. Her blue-ish eye shadow looked like wet paint. “Can I help you?” She pursed her lips and had this almost sassy bearing. “Uh, yeah, I’m looking for a place called Iguana’s.” She furrowed her brow. “A what?” I thought perhaps my Southern accent was hard for her to understand. I repeated the question, this time as standard as I could make it. “You’re looking for a what?” I sighed, but not audibly. I decided to go with what little Spanish I knew. “Una tienda. El nombre es Eewana’s.” She smiled. “Oooh! Si. Eewana’s. I think it’s on the other side of Van Nuys, but I’m not sure.” I thanked her and we turned around. Sure enough, her directions were correct. I felt so proud of my rudimentary Spanish vocabulary.

At Iguana’s, they take the choicest bits of tacky, dated clothes from the 70s, 80s, and 90s and sell it to stupid hipsters (of which I am probably one, but only slightly). There were some really fun shirts, including one commemorating Mötley Crüe’s world tour from 1987. I noted some really kick-ass jackets emblazoned with a Lenin-style image of Morrissey and another bearing the album title “Meat is Murder.” There was even a shirt featuring Elvis Costello’s “Trust” album cover. Unfortunately, it was sized for a woman. And the shoe section? Nothing but worn out Converse. And why is it that all of a sudden it’s so cool to rock Chuck Taylors? If I wear them they can’t be that cool.

After agonizing over whether or not to buy a shirt that had “cultural prostitute” on it, and ultimately deciding against it, we left to beat the oncoming rush hour. Words cannot describe how much I hate the highways in LA. It’s ten thousand times worse than I-40 between Greensboro and Winston-Salem or between Durham and Raleigh on the Friday before Labor Day. You just want to kill people. One asshole in a white Econoline van cut us off a couple times. I actually gave him the finger, even though he didn’t see it. I don’t usually do that. I was just fraggin pissed. You just feel like climbing out of the car and raving like a lunatic at these damn people. Ugh. Don’t let me live in LA. Ever. It’s a veritable Hellmouth.

We stopped off in Alhambra to change MacGyver’s oil. MacGyver had been making strange noises for a good part of the day, and he was in dire need of a transfusion. C. picked a gas station parking lot for this, which was a mistake. The attendant was watching us, so we attempted to conceal what we were doing. It didn’t work. The attendant got a little peeved at us. I went inside in an attempt to distract him. His first words were “I know your friend change oil. You hurry up or I call police.” I didn’t tell this last bit to C. when I returned to the truck, but I did tell him to hurry the hell up. After the oil was drained and MacGyver was infused with fresh anti-viscosity liquid, I puzzled over what to do with two empty apple juice jugs now filled to the brim with motor oil. It was illegal to just dump oil in a dumpster, but it was the only option I had. When I was sure the attendant wasn’t looking I chucked the jugs into a BFI dumpster.

As we pulled away I got paranoid again. What if this guy gets our plate number or something? When he finds the big-ass oil stain on the ground he’s gonna spoil our good Chi with some counter-Chi that we can’t possibly fight.

It took us another two hours of driving to get out of LA. It is impossible to beat the rush hour. Traffic was stop-and-roll most of the way, even out in the desert. By the time we got to Barstow the traffic, mercifully, cleared up. The truck stop we stopped at was fairly skanky. Some creepy truckers were pointing at C. and talking about him from across the room. I don’t know what was going on there, but it made us move faster. The bathrooms were untouchable. Imagine Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana. Now imagine Plaquemines Parish in bathroom form. That bad. While trying to finagle a hot dog from that metal roller thingy it had been spinning on since probably 1991, I dropped it on the floor. Sheeut. Since no one took notice, I picked up another and placed it in my stale bun. And there were no condiments. What the hell?

C. bought some trucker speed with the hilarious name of “Rocky Mountain.” When I asked why, he told me he intended to drive like the devil tonight and get well into Arizona. Foolishly, we decided not to top-off the tank. Barstow gas was hella expensive, and we banked on the gas being cheaper further down the road. As we went along, we discovered that the gas wasn’t getting cheaper, but steadily - no exponentially - more expensive the further we got into the Mojave. Running low and afraid we’d get stuck in the desert, we stopped at an Oasis in the middle of nowhere. The price? $3.87. Our jaws hit the floorboard. This was two weeks before Katrina shot up the gas prices. And even after Katrina, it’s still the most expensive I’ve seen for gas. 1.2 gallons was five dollars. That was all I was prepared to pay for. As I walked up to the cashier with grumbles on my lips, I noticed a sign that read: “Please do not complain to our employees. We have no choice but to be here. This business cost a fortune to build and costs a fortune to maintain, blah, blah, blah.” There was some junk in there about how they have to engage in highway robbery and how the running-dog employees were not at fault.

Whatever, leeches. I reluctantly exchanged my five dollars for their 1.2 gallons of gas and swore a silent curse on the place. Hopefully zombies will attack it.

On the 1.2 gallons we were able to make it across the AZ border and to a Love’s Truck Stop charging 2.49 for gas, which at that point seemed downright cheap. From there we ran and ran until we reached a KOA campground near Ash Fork. It was cold as hell up in the desert. Saw some excellent shooting stars, including one that was bright green. I’ve never seen anything like that before.

Once we were wrapped up in our sleeping bags, the cold melted away and we slept hard. That day had been taxing as hell.

Tomorrow: Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas.

Música extraña

Before I get into the music meme, I got somethin' to tell y'all: In J.Star's absence I'll be doin' some guest posting over there at the Melodrama Jukebox. I was thinking of approaching it like a blog putsch whereby I wrest control of the blog and set up a provisional revolutionary blog government. I'm considering nominating Saphenous for Blog Grand Vizier. Jenelle, I want to appoint you as my Minister of Dog-Blog Affairs. I, of course, shall be "Boss Blog."

In the event of a blog counterrevolution we shall all swallow cyanide-laced blog Kool Aid.

Here is the promised music meme:

1. How many cds, tapes, records, eight tracks, reel-to-reels, etc. do you own?

I own 226 cds, 80 or so cassette tapes, and I jointly own somewhere in the neighborhood of 1500 vinyl records with my dad. The number is probably higher than that, but counting them is at this point impossible since they are packed tightly into a large walk-in closet. Going inside of there is like spelunking. One day they will be all mine. And then one day after that, if they don't rot into dust and I somehow manage to procreate, they will belong to my son or daughter.

2. Last musical recording you bought (itunes count, too).

Laika and The Cosmonauts, Local Warming. It's instrumental Rock. 21st century recording methods meet 1950s and '60s surfer music. Performed by Finnish dudes. I'd kill to hear "Little Deuce Coupe" or "Surfin' Safari" in Suomi, but I don't think it's gonna happen.

3. Last album I listened to from beginning to end.

Alison Krauss & Union Station, So Long, So Wrong. "Can't you see it's killing me? I'm old before my time." I listened to it last night and now I'm listening to it again. Alison, Alison, Alison. My aim is true. Mmm-mmm-mmm. That woman's voice just...damn. Not only does Alison have the most heavenly voice, but this is about as real as popular Bluegrass gets without entering into the realm of "Radio Country." Her back-up band, Union Station ain't too shabby neither. There's some mighty fine a-pickin' and a-sangin' goin' on.

4. Six songs that mean a lot to me. Not album oriented? This one's for you.

• Sam & Dave - Soul Man. That song is just ill. Funky as hell. I feel like Sam and Dave were at church one day preaching and then decided to spontaneously break out in a funky jam session. The lines that get me are: "I learned how to love before I could eat," and "when I start lovin', oh I can't stop." I just love that little song.
• Rod Stewart - Every Picture Tells a Story. The title track off what is likely one of the best rock albums of all time. There was a brief time in the early '70s when Rod Stewart actually wrote excellent music. It wasn't until he started writing crap like "Da ya think I'm sexy?" that he really started to suck. "Every Picture" is just a stellar rock song that blends garage rock with mandolins. A coming of age story, "Every Picture" makes me think of all the travelling I've done all over the country and all the people I've met here and there.
• Allman Brothers - Melissa. Just a beautiful Southern Rock song. "The gypsy flies from coast to coast. Knowing many, loving none. Bearing sorrow, having fun. But back home he’ll always run to sweet Melissa..." I'm amazed at how Duane Allman can take two notes on a guitar and make them sound like Apollo's Lyre coming down from on high.
• Beck - Hotwax. Along with the songs Sissyneck and Where it's at from the album Odelay, I think this song accurately sums up my aesthetic: "Karaoke weekend at the suicide shack - community service and I'm still the mack." What we have here is a vision of a busted Middle-American landscape populated by ridiculous redneck white boys faking the funk. There's a breakbeat backed up by a dobro on this one, too. "Because I get down, I get down, I get down all the way." If I was dancing around the house I'd play this.
• Leonard Cohen - First We Take Manhattan. The answer to the question "what's the coolest song ever written?" Leonard plays the part of a revolutionary who promises "first we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin." The song is in the form of a series of communiques, like those that a terrorist organization might publish. As Leonard's grievances are read off, he says: "Ah, you loved me as a loser, but now you're worried that I just might win. You know the way to stop me, but you don't have the discipline." It's genius and catchy. Read the lyrics.
• Stevie Wonder - Don't You Worry 'Bout A Thing. "Eee! Eee! Check this out y'all..." Stevie begins this song with a stream of fake Spanish that I think is both hilarious and funky at the same time. If you can invent your own Spanish and then pass it off as real you've accomplished something. "I speak vvvery, vvvery, um, fluent Spanish." Whenever I hear this song I just feel good. Stevie can do that. He's got soul.

5. Songs or Albums I would consider my "guilty pleasure." These are the recordings you love but are afraid to admit it...

Well, among my albums is "Voodoo" by D'Angelo. I don't think white boys are supposed to like D'Angelo. I listen to it often 'cause D'Angelo has Soulacity. The song "Chicken Grease" is a stone groove. Among my assorted Mp3 tracks are the following:

• "Pony" by Ginuwine. Nasty.
• "Jump" by Kris Kross. Miggity miggity mack daddy! I've worn my jeans backwards.
• "Hot For Teacher" by Van Halen. Ahem. yes.

6. Who are the bloggers you are passing this on to?

Jenelle, Adeline, Saphenous, and Fitena since y'all are the only ones I know who have the time for such an exercise (i.e. you're not going on vacanza to the Black Hills or Greece or some other really nice place where the beer flows like water).

Oh, and Sweet too (Sweet, you can just post a comment or email me you non-blog-having-person).

"Boss Blog" Suley Out.

I am an anime character

My friends, I am officially an anime character. Well, at least that's what a couple of my friends thought of this pic of me from Mt. Shasta. That's inside the Caldera. I'm standing on top of the remains of a trashed ranger station holding my daito like an English lord. Lookin' all rakish and whatnot. Feel it.

Oh, and I said I'd put a picture of the grand canyon up. Jenelle's picture inspired me to demonstrate how utterly impossible it is to take a bad picture of the canyon:

That's the best picture I've ever taken with a disposable camera. It wasn't until I got waaaay down to the middle of the picture that I began to get dizzy. Yep. I Almost died. Fun times in Arizona.

Ophelia was kind of a bust here. Power's out down east, but we only had a little grayness and some light drizzle. This morning I was eating watermelon in the shower (yeah, I do that) while singing "Cecilia" by Simon and Garfunkle but replacing "Cecilia" with "Ophelia."

Commentary:

Saphenous: "White like Barry," as in Barry White.

Jenelle: Today I did the Morrissey Dance!

Sweet: I feel there is a lesson to be learned from Men Without Hats. We should throw away those who don't want to get funky with us while at the same time elevating those who do. And don't wear hats. And have lots of midget jesters with mandolins, too. Yes, I can dance like a "mofo" and act real rude and totally removed. None can claim these traits save moi.

Tomorrow is the music meme. I need to go count all of the records I own. It's gonna take a while. After that, the travel log. It's Los Angeles.

Them country boys on the rise

Standin' on a corner by my old high school,
I let this female call me a fool
I got on my knees and begged to the sun
And I knew that my manhood had begun
Boogie on, electric boogie, boogie on!
Embrace your brother, dance in the mud
Like a Palamino stud
Come along, hold my hand.

-T. Rex "Raw Ramp"

History blog has been updated.

Suley was laughing all day today. Just a-smilin' and a-grinnin'. Why, do you ask? Well, for one it rained today. Ophelia brought me some rain. Sweet baby, it rained down on me. It hasn't rained here in three weeks. The grass was all but turned to straw, but today we're finally getting some of that wet stuff.

Also, ol' Suley is ready for his GRE test, which will be adminstered next monday. I'm just pleased that I can finally get this thing out of the way and begin the real process of applying to graduate schools.

I had trouble sleeping last night, but right now I feel pretty damn good (mostly 'cause I'm wired on about five cups of coffee). I don't usually feel good like this, but when I do it's a real funky meltdown of sorts. I play music real loud and dance about like that midget in the "Safety Dance" video. I'm sure most of you have days like this where you feel like a Salamanda Palaganda ("Salamanda Palaganda, Oh Palamino Blue, Salamanda Palaganda, June's Buffalo too."). That's funny, the word "Palomino" has shown up twice in this post. Odd.

In response to the last comments:

Saphenous and Fitena: while I was searching for Maoist symbolism in "House of Flying Daggers," I came across an article that argues "Hero" is in fact a piece of Sino-Fascist propaganda:

So don't be too distracted by the extravagant color and painstaking choreography: Hero is, among other things, a Sino-fascist propaganda vehicle, an adoring paean to the Führerprinzip and the importance of recovering "lost" territories.

J.Star: I have swallowed pumice. Every time I gnaw on an eraser I swallow small amounts of pumice. It's delicious, and the lead is beginning to effect my brain.

Adeline: I have a long response to everything you've written coming shortly.

M: Again, I'm White like Barry.

I have an idea for a meme regarding everyone's music collection. More or less it would be along the lines of the last book meme. That's coming up soon. I might tweak it around a bit. I think y'all know who I'm gonna tag with this un'.

Oh, and the trip log shall be continued tomorrow. Probably.

Anyway:

Everybody look at your hands!

Warrior Woman

Jen Yu: Who are you?
Gou Jun Pei: I'm Shining Phoenix Mountain Gou.
Jen Yu: Gou? I hate that name. It makes me puke! Too bad you're named Gou. You'll be the first to feel my sword today.

Just so I can get this out of my system, I've decided to write up a post on Zhang Ziyi.

Ziyi was born on the 9th of February 1979 in Beijing, China. Her father, Zhang Yuanxiao, is an economist, and her mother, Li Zhousheng, is a retired kindergarten teacher. She has one older brother, Zhang Zinan. As a girl she studied dance. At the age of 11 she entered the Beijing Dance College and later at age 15 she was enrolled in the Beijing Dance Academy. Despite winning several awards and contests she quit studying dance and moved to acting. Ziyi was then enrolled in the China Central Drama Academy, where she studied for several years. A year after moving into acting she landed a role in a Chinese television program called "Touching Starlight," which allowed her to employ both her acting and dancing skills. At age 19 she had her film debut in the Chinese film "The Long Road Home," a simple love story noted for its cinematography. "The Long Road Home" allowed Ziyi the chance to flex her acting muscles in preparation for her big international debut.

Which came in 2001, when she appeared in the beautiful and badass "Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon" as Jen Yu/Jiao Long. Her portayal of the impetuous martial artist Jen Yu was impressive, especially in the kung fu department (she can run up walls!). What's most impressive (and I didnt' find this out until sitting down to write this post) is that Ziyi never had any formal martial arts training. Everything you see on screen comes solely from her dance training. That same year she had a prominent role as Hu Li in "Rush Hour 2." I didn't exactly love this movie, but the fight scenes were fast and over the top, which is what I like to see in kung fu films. During the production of the movie, Ziyi didn't speak any English. Jackie Chan had to translate everything that came from the director and then relay it to her.

Her next film of note is "Musa." This is the only one of Ziyi's fims that I own. I got it for Christmas a year or two ago. It's a fun epic film in which Ziyi plays the imperious Princess Furong, a Chinese princess being carried across china by a band of Korean exiles. In some ways, "Musa" reminds me of an American western film, especially "She Wore A Yellow Ribbon" and even slightly of "Rooster Cogburn."

Then there was the movie "Hero," which impressed me mostly in terms of visuals. Since then I haven't seen any of her more recent films. I was told "House of Flying Daggers" wasn't that impressive. I was also warned by a Chinese friend that the plot is full of Maoist symbolism. I haven't found any evidence to support that, but I'll probably end up renting it eventually (if not just "sharing" it). I also want to see "Memoirs of a Geisha." I might fork over tha dollaz to see that in the theater. This one's gonna be in English, too. Ziyi has to speak English, but with a Japanese accent. It will be interesting, but I think she can pull it off.

So yeah, J. mentioned that he "loves her mouth." Yes, I love her lips. There's just something I simply adore about raven hair and dark eyes, too (reminds me of my mama I guess). I find that Ziyi has an elegant simplicity to her features. Sometimes I think she reminds me of Grace Kelly. They both have a similar appeal. Of course, I'm not comparing Ziyi's star to Grace's (even though Ziyi is my personal favorite of the two). Hey, she can't help that she was born with near flawless physical features! And I can't help that I find her alluring. It's just the way of the world I suppose.

I can't help that I was born an ugly white boy, either.

Suley let's forth a long sigh....

Four years on

It's eerie how much today is like that day. A a bright, cloudless, Carolina blue sky day. The leaves were just beginning to fall and the early morning air was cool, day. For some reason, I remember it being a little chilly that day, even though I can't prove that it was. But in my mind, I remember it being chilly.

On that day I was eighteen, very nearly nineteen. I was a freshman in college, just a couple weeks into my first semester. It was a Tuesday. That morning I made my way into the library early, around 8:00, to sit and study for a Wellness test I was having later in the day. I sat in a niche on the third floor by a huge vaulted window, one of several that dominates the facade of my school's library. It was a perfect day to sit there. Not only was the sky beautiful but the vantage afforded me a view of the campus' main commons area. That day, as with all Tuesdays, is a tradition at my school. The college provides free coffee, food (donuts, eclaires, fruit) to all students around the main fountain. It's a chance for students to meet up with faculty and each other - as well as a chance to for various campus groups to hold meetings.

The college coffee gathering that day was a special one. The school was celebrating its new stadium. I didn't know this at the time, since I really didn't keep up with what was going on, but the school band was set to march across campus, from the stadium to the fountain in full regalia. Now when I think about it, I get the image of the munchkin soldiers from Wizard of Oz. At around 9:00 the band came marching. A low rumble issued from the north end of campus. The sound of several hundred people marching and blaring instruments cut throught the silence of the small college town. I remember being somewhat impressed by the martial sound of the drums. The parade wound its way very slowly across the commons and came to a halt around the fountain where the school's president was set to give a speech. I wasn't paying much attention to it. I was too busy studying about boring Wellness issues.

At around 9:30, nodding off from sleep and incapable of studying any further, I got up to walk around. I went out to walk to "up campus" (that is, the area with all of the academic buildings). By this time, the group that had gathered around the fountain was gone. I didn't see anyone out on the sidewalk either. It was eerily deserted for the hour. 8 o'clock classes usually ended at around this time and the sidewalks tended to be clogged with kids coming and going. Yet there was no one. I climbed the stairs that led up to the religious studies department.

The floor was dark. To my left, a classroom was dark and the T.V. was on. To my right, the same. In fact, all of the classrooms on that floor were dark. I ducked into the department offices. The secretary and several professors were there listening intently to the radio. Everyone looked up at me.

"Did you hear?"

"Hear? What?"

Then it was all explained to me. The radio kept repeating it over and over: The World Trade Center has been struck by a second plane. At the time, I had no idea what was happening. When you think of an airplane striking a building you think of the Empire State Building getting hit by a B-25. It's a bad accident, I thought. Very bad. Two planes? A very bad accident. But then word came across the wire that another aircraft had crashed into the Pentagon. And another aircraft was unaccounted for. The nation's airlines had been grounded and the president was being whisked away to a secure location. Military jets were being scrambled. It had the feeling of something you'd see in a Tom Clancy movie.

Or, for that matter, a film like "Red Dawn." All of this was coming at me so quickly. I thought perhaps we'd been invaded or attacked by another nation. My initial thought was: This is a war. The Chinese have attacked us. They seemed the most capable of attacking us, so I assumed them. When you grow up in the Cold War you are conditioned to assume that any possible act of war or violence will more than likely come from the communists. World War Three. My chest felt tight.

"Is there a T.V. around?" They pointed me across the hall to the darkened classroom. I quietly opened the door and sat down. Everyone looked up at me as I came in. The professor had stopped teaching. A couple girls were crying audibly. I took a seat and watched the pictures on the screen: pictures of the jets crashing into the towers over and over. The size of the buildings, the deliberate course of the jets as they flew, the fireballs sending shards of glass, metal, and flaming debris cascading through the sky. A giant building burned like a lit cigarette. A flick of the finger would send that ash toppling to the ground.

"Holy shit" was all I could say. The people on those airplanes are dead. They're just dead. Extinguished. And the people in those buildings? I then knew it wasn't the Communist Chinese like I had initially thought. I knew then - in my gut - that it was a terrorist attack.

Several people mentioned that their moms and dads were up in New York or that they worked near the towers. People were genuinely terrified. Not wanting to be around these weeping people, wanting to get out, wanting to get out where I could really breathe (for at this time my chest felt like it had been twisted into a Gordian Knot) I made my way out of the classroom and back outside to the clear Carolina blue sky. I just walked, and as I walked north I looked up above the treeline, straining to see if I could see the smoke coming from these mammoth buildings that were on fire. I couldn't. The sky was quiet.

At Wellness class, which I nearly forgot about, the atmosphere was one of shock. The prof. cancelled our test and set about trying to prevent us from having some sort of angry knee-jerk reaction to all this. We should understand things, he said. But I was angry. I'm still angry. Every year on this day I look back and I get angry all over again.

I understand those who glorify death and violence as a sacrament. They're no different from any other nihilistic fascists that have murdered, raped, and were ultimately defeated in the course of world history.

And they will be defeated.

In time you can turn these obsessions into careers

Ahem, yes.

Ol' Suley and Sweet Daddy had this conversation via IM on the 8th of September, 2005:
(oh, an' sorry Sweet if you feel this reveals you're in a broken state re: womenfolk. I feel ya.)

.....

Sweet: I've wanted a relationship based on complementary personalities for some time.
Suley: Bah! You might turn out like Ribb.* And don't nobody want that.
Sweet: Heh. I don't know. I think I may need to be alone.
Suley: Retreat into the woods like a hermit for a few years.
Sweet: I don't know if I could deal with a relationship. People have so many expectations. I've never met a girl who'd want me for who I am. They always want what you can do for them.
Suley: True.
Sweet: Flatter, pay for...
Suley: That's what I got from C. and his old gal. People just want other people to service them in various ways.
Sweet: Save. Saving is big.
Suley: Save?
Sweet: Save them. Be their knight.
Suley: Money? Oh.
Sweet: I don't want to save anyone. I'm no knight.
Suley: I prefer to think of myself as a samurai. Wabi-sabi is so much cooler. Wandering, incomplete, desolate, yet beautiful. I can't save anyone.
Sweet: It's true.
Suley: I can't even save myself.
Sweet: It's all in their heads. Pointless, really.
Suley: I haven't thought about relationship particulars too hard. But I know most of it is just bunk set up by Oprah Winfrey and her allies in the Gyneocracy.
Sweet: She's a devil woman.
(flourish. All exeunt.)
.....

* We had a teacher in high school by the name of Ribb. He was a lonely man. Lost entirely in his intellect. Affable, but still somewhat withdrawn. He had no wife, no lady who loved him. All he had were his stories.

We are all sad Mr. Ribbs.

Time to sleep with my blunderbuss and a bottle of XXX whiskey.

Photograph

Oh, look what you’ve done to this rock ’n’ roll clown. -Def Leppard

On the eighth day - at least I think it was the eighth day - I got up in the tent and saw California sunshine streaming in through a tiny pinhole in the tent's rain cover. Today was the day I'd been waiting for all trip: San Francisco.

Last year on the "Road Warrior Challenge," we camped up on Mount Tamalpais in Marin County. While there we hiked up to the top of the mountain - where it takes on the appearance of an African veldt. Clouds were coming in from the sea. Here's a picture. Nice place. If you're ever goin' to San Fran be sure to see it (if you don't mind Mountain Lions and heavy clouds, that is).

Well, this year we weren't staying in a nice campground. We were in lousy Williams California with its pay showers and karaoke bars that go on into the night.... C. got up first and was practically folding up the tent with me in it. As I shook off the sleep I remembered that we hadn't paid for the campground and instantly went into gypsy-grifter mode. Perhaps, just perhaps, since this was a Sunday, no one would be around to take money from us. We quickly got dressed, threw everything into the truck, and pulled out as quietly as the rattling 10-year-old "MacGyver" could.

As we neared the gate, I ducked down so as to make myself invisible. I don't know what sort of effect this would have had, but I did it anyway. We coasted through the gate. No one. The bastards were closed! C. and I gave each other a thumbs up. That was $15.00 we could keep for more important things like gas, or parking, or paying the damn Golden Gate toll.

After stopping off for breakfast at McDonalds I fell asleep for a good hour or so. When I opened my eyes we were in Marin County, not far from the Golden Gate, driving south on the highway. I thought about all of the geological accretion it took to produce this place and the eventual catastrophic event that would probably sink it into the ocean. Most people don't know that parts of Washington State, Oregon, British Columbia, and Alaska used to be attached to California - that they were torn from the continent by the inexorable advance of the San Andreas fault and the constant bombardment of the west coast by island terranes. Islands from as far away as China are now folded into the coast of California like mortar, a process which has taken hundreds of millions of years. Even as California is compacted like mortar, it gets torn apart like crunchy vegetable lasagna. These are the lame things I think about when I'm getting ready to go to San Francisco.

So what makes San Francisco so cool, you ask? Well, for one, there's a little movie called "Bullitt" that stars a certain Steve McQueen. It's one of the coolest films ever made. McQueen drives a highland green 1968 Ford Fastback Mustang GT at an average speed of 90 mph through the hilly streets of San Fran in pursuit of two men who killed the witness he was assigned to protect. The chase scenes have this raw feel to them - the noise of the engines is throaty and almost palpable. McQueen does all his driving, too. All of his stunts. A real action star.

Then there was this channel that was around for a while, some of you may remember it, Tech TV. In case you haven't, Tech TV was the greatest geek television channel that ever existed. For serious computer nerds, tech nerds, video game nerds, anime nerds, and every other sort of nerd you could imagine, Tech TV was the channel. Besides Adult Swim, Tech TV was the only channel I watched for about two years. TTV was the only channel on tv that would show reruns of both "Thunderbirds" and "Max Headroom."

Well, TTV was based in the fair city of San Francisco - until it was bought up by the more image-conscious Comcast last year. Comcast purged all of the interesting hosts and shows from TTV and merged it with their asinine network "G4," which is based in L.A. But during TTV's Halcyon days, Leo Laporte was the affable maestro of the network, a sort of geek folk hero, and most importantly, there was the indescribably lovely Morgan Webb. I won't get into her, but let's just say she's yummy. That, and I can get obsessive. Scary obsessive.

Then there's all of the Asian culture. San Fran is "The Gate to The East." I loves me some udon, miso, calpico, ramune, and samurai on the side, y'all.

That day it was cold and foggy (surprise! surprise!) and the GG bridge was shrouded partially by a low-lying wispy mass of vaporized water. We drove up to the viewing area, up to the "Spencer Battery" overlook in the Golden Gate Rec. Area. When we got out of the car we found that it was not only chilly, but the wind was slicing through everything like a vorpal blade. A. was wearing very short shorts, and looking all Irish-pale as she does, she decided to hastily change into a more suitable pair of pants in the back of the truck before she caught the consumption. There was a cop looking on as she did so. I thank God he didn't notice the woman in the back of our truck committing what probably amounts to a serious misdemeanor.

Walking around up on Spencer Battery in the early morning hours is akin to a form of self-mortification. Cold, cold, cold. My ears got that feeling they only get in deepest January, but I enjoyed it. I like the cold, prefer it actually.

We then all piled into the front of the truck (not a comfortable position) in a vain attempt to pass ourselves off as commuters. I don't know what we were thinking, perhaps it was the wear of being on the road, but we actually thought we could get by with a carpool. During the week, carpools pay no fee for crossing the bridge - but this was Sunday. There ain't no damn carpool on Sunday in San Fran. There ain't no damn carpool anywhere on Sunday, unless you live in Podunk and you're going to church. Even then you don't get anything free - except maybe a free ticket to heaven or something. So C. pulls up to the toll guy and says: "Yeah, is there a carpool thing?" The guy didn't even look at us. "There's no carpool on Sundays. Five dollars. " All three of us collectively smacked our foreheads. Dumb Southerners! I could just imagine him laughing at us as we drove away, shaking his head and repeating "carpool" to himself like it was a terrific joke.

San Fran was there like it was supposed to be. It hadn't fallen into the bay. Yet. That's one of the things I love about the city. It's on the precipice, man. It could be levelled at any moment. I know that sounds awfully macabre, but I don't get to live dangerously, and to me, living in San Francisco seems like dangerous living. People freely choose to live there, knowing full well that it could just be knocked down in a Biblical-style earthquake. That's dangerous, That and just driving from point A to point B. Taking MacGyver up the hills through the city was a struggle to say the least. On several occasions it seemed like the truck would just give out and begin rolling downhill.

Since I wanted to visit the Kintetsu Mall, we decided to park in the same spot we parked last year - the Japan Center's garage. I had forgotten how expensive it was from last year - about $13.00 for six hours. I didn't care though. I was determined to not get pissed off about anything in Frisco. I refused to let money get in the way of the task of enjoyment.

Japantown (Nihonmachi) is probably my favorite non-touristy spot in Frisco that I've visited so far. We were lucky to have arrived during the Nihonmachi founding festival, which was just a simple street fair with a lot of Hawaiian music and Taiko Drum & Bass action. I've been to the Kintetsu Mall before, but didn't know anything about it last year when we came through. This year I looked in about every store and bought a book (Kobo Abe) in the Kinokuniya they have there (which is a very, very nice bookstore).

Afterwards we walked through part of the festival and into a great grocery store where I bought a rice ball, a bento, and packet of Fiber-in Energy drink. The rice ball was stuffed with some sort of fish. It was good, except there was a honkin' bone in there that made me gag. Back on the street, we saw a couple of dudes dealing in Katanas and Wakizashi. I considered snapping a shot of one of the blades they had, but a big fat sign that read "No Photos" was hanging ominously next to an unsheathed sword. Even though I was prepared to die, I didn't want the picture that bad. A true samurai knows when to pick his battles. Even so, if it came down to a contest of martial skill, C. and I are a veritable Double Dragon.

But yeah, cute gals up in Nihonmachi. Word. Only place I've ever seen a genuine yankee neechan kogal. Deluxe Beppins in loose socks. You gotta love it.

From little Japan we walked down to Fisherman's Wharf. I only wanted to get something to eat, but A. had never been before and wanted to try and buy some tasteless mementos for the folks back home. Man, was that place packed. On a Sunday, there must have been between five and ten thousand people down there. I picked up a basket of shrimp from Sabella & La Torre's outdoor seafood stand. C. and A., both overwhelmed by the crowds, suggested we catch one of the Muni trolleys (since A. wanted to say she rode a trolley. Oh, the touristy-ness of it!). I agreed since I needed a place to sit and pig out on shrimp. The ride was a buck twenty five, which ain't bad. It buys 90 minutes on any trolley. That particular line ran from the Wharf, up to Castro, and then back. As we went I realized that I looked like a cretin scarfing down my shrimp, so I offered the rest to C. and A., who devoured what was left of it.

We (unwisely) got off in lower Market, AKA "Ugly Town." All strewn with the homeless and drug-addled. "Why are we getting off here?" A. wanted to go to an upscale Puma store and C. wanted to visit an upscale Abercrombie outlet. Sigh. They both mentioned something about "region-specific merchandise." Whatever. The Puma store was some sort of "Hipper than thou" outlet managed entirely by kids younger than me. I tend to feel old a lot, but I felt really old in that place. I didn't know a single song they played in there. Crappy 808 garbage. I liked Moby when he was indie! And my shoes? Ratty Converse from beyond the era of Hair Metal - stuck out like a sore toe! I noticed they had a DJ booth complete with turntables in that place. Wtf? The excesses of capitalism.

I never go inside Abercrombie stores for several reasons. But that's another rant. While C. and A. went inside to sodomize their vast imaginations with the joys of crass capitalism, I hung out on the street outside and tried to look like a local. I got to see all of the weird city people, which is what I enjoy most. Once they finished wasting time in Abercrombie we walked back down to the trolley stop and hitched a ride up to Castro. While we were sitting at a traffic light, a car almost ran over an old woman trying to cross the street. One of the young girls in the car leaned out the passenger window and said to the woman as she passed by, "I wouldn't have walked in front of her like that!" The girls laughed and sped off. Do folks not have respect for their elders anymore or somethin'? I had half a mind to give that girl a slap.

At the last stop in Castro we got out and stood on the traffic island, unsure of where to go. The driver informed us we would have to wait another fifteen minutes for the next trolley back to the wharf. Then, a bone rattling BANG went off right behind us. Some guy, who had been filling his tire with air, over-filled it, causing it to burst. Everything in the intersection just stopped. People froze in place, all looking in the direction of this guy. He looked around sheepishly, waving his hands. "Sorry! I'm not a terrorist!" After this minor interference, everything went back to bustle, bustle, bustle on the human anthill.

On the ride back to the wharf I could tell that my companions were tired. Nobody said anything. It wasn't the last couple of days worth of walking up and down, just the collective weight of being on the road for over a week. I wasn't tired at all, in fact, I could walk around all day up and down on 90 degree angle streets if I had to. I just put on my headphones and watched street scenes rolling by. Eventually, C. spoke up: "I need some carbs," he said. "I smelled an Italian restaurant before we got down to the wharf. I wanna check it out."

Once we got back to Fisherman's Wharf we began walking towards the general area of C.'s Italian bistro. Fisherman's Wharf was still crowded. My advice to anyone who wants to visit San Francisco is to not go to Fisherman's Wharf. It's too crowded, hardly unique, crass, and the food ain't that great. You're better off at some greasy spoon than down in the human cattle yard of Fisherman's Wharf with its overpriced and dubious eateries. And it's not the "real" San Fran, either.

Well, C.'s bistro did exist. It was a nice hole-in-the wall place. After devouring calzone, C. felt much better. A. was still worn out, so after eating we decided to head back up to the Kintetsu mall and head out. I wanted to stay longer, but I knew that if we didn't leave in an hour or so we'd be making bad time. I briefly considered just staying in San Fran. I had enough money to set myself up in a cheap motel. I figured I could get a job washing dishes or something and just live out of a low-rent rat-infested motel room. That would have been an adventure, but with my grad school entrance exam coming up I couldn't just suddenly relocate myself almost 3,000 miles to the other side of the country.

On the way back we saw the sword salesmen packing up their wares. Now that the "no photos" sign was gone, I snapped a shot of their kick ass VW van, which was decorated by all manner of kanji characters, swords, and other neat crap (that roll of film hasn't even been developed yet 'cause I'm lazy). I think C. and I could have taken those guys.

We walked back up through the street fair. One vendor was selling velvet Toshiro Mifune paintings (imagine a velvet Elvis, but with a sword). It was tacky as hell, but so incredibly cool. Then we meandered around Kintetsu for 20 minutes or so. I tried finding something there to buy for the folks back home, but I second guessed everything I saw to the point where I ended up not buying anything. I'm not very decisive when it comes to shopping for other people.

The total parking fee was $14.00.

We managed to catch some sort of Sunday rush hour. Who are you people that go out in droves on Sunday afternoon? Ye Godless heathens! 'Tis a day of rest! Despite the traffic, we got out of the metropolitan area before dark. This year's visit to SF wasn't as fun as last year's. Next time I want to go by myself so I can more fully enjoy it.

That night, C. and I had a discussion about a B-movie we wanted to make. I suppose it was appropriate since we were driving towards Hollywood. The idea was this: an old west vampire flick. The four main protagonists were a sort of posse of vampire hunters; Kurt Russell as an ex-Confederate colonel, Patrick Swayze as an Indian (that's right, his most challenging role to date) whose tribe has been wiped out by vampires, Ving Rhames as an ex-slave turned Buffalo soldier, and Chuck Norris as a Kung-Fu fighting Texas Ranger (quite a stretch, I know). The four are drawn together to defeat a vampire lord/railroad magnate played by Willem Dafoe who holds sway over a prairie empire of vampires and zombies. We thought it would be cool if the vampires travelled around in a blood red train. Oh, and the badass/sexy chick is played by Zhang Ziyi. I figure she could be some sort of immigrant Chinese gal whose family was killed by Dafoe.

We were also talking about getting a cheap motel room. We all wanted a bed and a shower. For some reason, C. passed by several $30.00 Motel 6's. Eventually, as we got deeper into the wilderness, the cheap motels began to dry up. The best we could find was a "Western Inn" in the town of San Miguel. C. and I went into the office at around midnight to inquire about the price. A tall Indian man came to the window. The smell of curry and Indian food came pouring into the room. It was $55.00 for one night. We thought about heading on, but C. told the man our story. "We just need two beds and a shower. We'll be out by 8:00 in the morning." The man thought about it. "Okay, I give you 10% off." Knowing this guy was a haggler, I attempted to bring the price down even more. What did I do? I professed my love for Indian cuisine. "What is that? Curry? Smells really good. I love Indian food." He smiled. "Really? I'm not sure what my wife is cooking. We only eat curry occasionally. I tell you what, I give you 15% off."

Gypsy tip: when in doubt, flatter.

The room was the best we'd had all trip: microwave, min-fridge, coffee machine, iron. We had a good sleep that night.

Tomorrow: LA and points east.

afuera de mi soledad

Since everyone is all into publishing the things they write on their blogs, I figured why not set up a blog just for my boring historical stuff? It's just a place to post the research I did in college as well as the occasional new stuff I happen to look into. I'm trying to make it as interesting as possible.

Right now, I'm taking the last research paper I did as an undergrad and converting it into a more readable "History Channel" style narrative. When you do things like this in college you don't have the luxury of making it fun to read or embellishing the story with nuggets of interest. The whole spiel tends to be burdened down with a tunnel-vision-like focus that won't allow you to deviate one whit. While I enjoy the challenge of writing papers that are all business, I like writing history that has the feel of a narrative even more.

Elsewhere, Saphenous has picked up the "10 worst ways to die" thing from J. It's a good idea. It just needs another nudge to get going, though. I'll give it a big fat shove:

The 10 Worst Ways To Die as Suley Sees it (I'm about to get weirder than usual here) :

1. Being force-fed your own skin until you choke (has really happened)
2. Drown in a hog pond (happened)
3. To age rapidly like that Nazi dude in The Last Crusade
4. To be lowered slowly into a shredder of some kind (also happened)
5. The Blood Eagle
7. Ceti Eel from "Wrath of Khan"
8. Scaphism
9. Oral or anal impalement
10. Falling past the event horizon of a blackhole and into the singularity of mathematical nothingness (spaghettification, but then what?)

I'm out. Oh, here's the history blog.

The travel log will be updated within the next 24 hours. I hope.

Go.

Geraldo Rivera Booksplozion

Quote of the day: "CNN doesn't have roundhouses or throat-tearing."

Nor does it have Geraldo Rivera.

Is it just me, or is Geraldo larger than life? The night before last he stood before a T.V. camera in front of the Superdome, tears in his eyes, clutching a malnourished child to his breast. He was pleading with America for some kind of sanity. Yesterday, Geraldo was embracing members of the 82nd Airborne and hailing the incoming airlift like Noah at the end of the 40th night of deluge. Today, Geraldo was wading, knee deep, through polluted flood water and came to the rescue of a 71-year-old woman who had been stranded in her home.

Prior to Geraldo's arrival on the scene, the news media's princes of broadcasting were bedraggled and weary from days of weathering the storm's after-effects. When asked by Sean Hannity for more "perspective," Mississippi native Shepherd Smith replied, resignation in his voice, "What more perspective do you need, man!?" Shepherd had spent the past several days pleading for some sort of aid. The situation was obviously weighing on him. Fox's Steve Harrigan, stuck in downtown New Orleans and surrounded by armed men carrying rifles, knives, and hatchets, lamented that it was like "Mad Max."

But when Geraldo arrived, everyone just knew it would turn out right. And it did.

Today I saw Geraldo wrestle Tiamat and restore order to Heaven and Earth. And you know, if he could, he'd do it.

The man is everywhere. Any place where things are going down, Geraldo is there with his handlebar moustache and a rough-n-ready attitude. And he's not afraid to cry.

When the chips were down, Geraldo swooped in and saved America.

When I grow up, I wanna be just like him.
....

Well, I've been tagged for this book meme by J.star, so here goes:

1. Number of Books you have owned. I can tell you how many I currently own, which is 225. There are also seven or so books in my room that have been borrowed.

2. Last book I bought. The Woman in The Dunes by Kobo Abe. Bought it in San Francisco at the Kinokuniya bookstore. Abe does psychology wonderfully. Since reading "Crime and Punishment" I've loved both the examination of psychology and anti-heroes. This book has both.

3. Last book I completed. See above. Read it between San Fran and Los Angeles.

4. Five books that mean a lot to me. I have more than five. Not easy, but here you go:

• The Bible. Oh, he's lame. It's the greatest work of non-fiction, man! I am slightly biased because I studied it in college. How can you be educated and not have read the Bible? How can you claim to have taste in literature and not acclaim it? The books of Jonah and Job are both excellent. I also enjoy the book of John.
• Divine Comedy. Alighieri, baby. I own multiple copies of the Divine Comedy, all of them different translations. What to say about La Divina Commedia? It's just the most otherworldy thing ever. The copy most special to me was given to me by my father on my 21st birthday. It's a vintage edition (1948) and features dozens of engravings by Gustave Dore.
• The Redneck Manifesto, by Jim Goad. What a book! If Jim Goad were alive in the 18th century, he'd be a white trash Thomas Paine. "Don't you just hate 'em? Every gap-toothed, inbred, uncivilized, violent, and hopelessly DUMB one of 'em?" That's how Goad opens this little number, which points out that white rednecks are not only acceptable fodder for every racist "cracker" joke, but also blamed for every one of America's - and the world's - ills. Goad half plays at, half seriously calls for a poor white trash revolution against America's elite class. "Up, up, ye mighty trailer park!"
• The Name of The Rose and Baudolino by Umberto Eco. I love both of these books, not only for their writing, but for their historical settings. Rose is set in 14th century Italy, and involves a series of murders that are plaguing a Benedictine monastery. An English monk, Brother William of Baskerville (elementary!) and his neophyte assistant are called in to investigate this heresy - coolness ensues. Eco is known for packing loads of allusions into his work, as well as drawing heavily upon history. While reading, you are constantly going back to your history books to look up this or that event he refers to. Baudolino is a liar's tale set in the 12th and 13th centuries and is similar in style to Candide. The story gets increasingly more fantastic as it goes along. It easily equals Sinbad or the Arabian Nights.
• The Temple of The Golden Pavilion by Yukio Mishima. What scares me more than Mishima's nihilistic suicide fantasy? That I actually found myelf relating to the protagonist. It's "Crime and Punishment" all over again, yet in this the "punishment" comes first and the "crime" comes after. A great psychological novel. I quickly fell in love with Mishima's work after reading his biography in college. So far, this is my favorite.

Books I love but decided not to add because they're historical monographs: Ben Tillman and the Reconstruction of White Supremacy (when I write history, I want it to be as good as this), Crucible of War (a great monograph of one of America's forgotten wars, written with the skill of a polished novelist), and Alexander the Great and the Logistics of the Macedonian Army (concise, scholarly, well-argued. It's quite beautiful, really).

5. What are you currently reading? Another historical monograph, Hitler: 1889-1936 Hubris (Vol. 1). It deals with Hitler's early life and his rise to power, up to 1936. It's pretty damn good (near definitive) and dispels a lot of popular myths floating around out there about the Nazi dictator. I have yet to buy volume 2.

6. Who are the sucke...erm...bloggers you are passing this on to? Well, I feel awfully sorry 'bout this, but:

Heather/Adeline (just cause I'm curious)
Jenelle (again, curious and a little frightened)
M. (Mmm?)
Fitena (I wonder what they read in Mauritius?)
Saphenous ('tis not in vein, I hope)

Somebody? I know y'all are busy. Do it at your own leisure.

Geraldo was also temporarily the son-in-law of Kurt Vonnegut.

Tsunami, Katrina

Katrina, what have you done to my South?

Here is an article about how the problems in Mississippi are being overshadowed by the media's heavy coverage of New Orleans.

Kanye West: STFU. Your "Through The Wire" was pretty good, but you'll never be one of the great MC's.

Regarding the poor evacuation plan in New Orleans, Via Drudge:

Louisiana disaster plan, pg 13, para 5 , dated 01/00': The primary means of hurricane evacuation will be personal vehicles. School and municipal buses, government-owned vehicles and vehicles provided by volunteer agencies may be used to provide transportation for individuals who lack transportation and require assistance in evacuating'...

Those school buses today.

Why were the school buses not employed in evacuating those who were unable to move ahead of the storm?

Heather brought this to my attention, from Reuters:

"I am absolutely disgusted. After the tsunami our people, even the ones who lost everything, wanted to help the others who were suffering," said Sajeewa Chinthaka, 36, as he watched a cricket match in Colombo, Sri Lanka.

"Not a single tourist caught in the tsunami was mugged. Now with all this happening in the U.S. we can easily see where the civilized part of the world's population is."

Oh give me a break. First of all, let's totally forget to mention the many women and children who were raped in the aftermath of the tsunami. From a January 7, 2005 CBS report:

GALLE, Sri Lanka, Jan. 7, 2005

On a pilgrimage to a temple, the 18-year-old and her family stopped for a picnic by the beach. That's when the tsunami struck. Flailing in the water, the teenager heard a voice. "He told me to grab his hand, that he will save me," she said. She and the stranger were swept into a muddy river. When they reached a bank, he pushed her into a bed of brambles and raped her. "I screamed and told him not to hurt me," the shy teenager told The Associated Press. "He put his hands around my neck and told me that even if he kills me right there, no one will know."

Since the Dec. 26 tsunami, authorities have received many reports of sexual abuse - including attacks on children - at refugee camps and elsewhere.

And a May 5, 2005 report from Sri Lanka:

Already struggling to meet survivors’ basic needs, Sri Lankan authorities face a shocking new problem: sexual abuse of traumatised victims, including children.At least three other cases of child sexual abuse in relief centres have been reported since the tsunami struck, said Sujeeva Amarasena, chief paediatrician at Karapitiya hospital, the main one in the country’s south.Two gang rapes of woman survivors have been confirmed outside the camps, he said.

Authorities fear many sexual abuse cases at the camps could go unreported.

And as far as looting in Sri Lanka: Here, here, and here.

Colombo - Bodies of tsunami victims in Sri Lanka have been stolen from hospitals and "sold" to distraught relatives while fingers and ears of corpses have been chopped off to steal jewellery, press reports said on Friday.
...
Twenty thousand soldiers were deployed in government-controlled areas to assist in relief operations and maintain law and order after sporadic looting.
...
Looting had started and people were defending what was left of their possessions with cricket bats.

Yeah, real "civilized." Who cares about the tourists. The native Sri Lankans were too busy raping and abusing each other to worry about the tourists. And I won't even get into the decades-long civil war that devastated parts of Sri Lanka and killed tens of thousands.

And what about those naked natives who shot arrows at relief-carrying helicopters?

On a much less serious note, here is the first picture C. has sent me of the trip:

This is the ranger woman at Mt. Shasta. Note that she has not only a 12 gauge shotgun, but also an M-16 for bear killing.

Anybody know anything about Feng Shui housewarming gifts?

Update: if anyone has trouble viewing Heather's blog, let me know. It won't display properly.

They're tryin' to wash us away

Some good news from the Gulf Coast. The National Guard has now moved fully into New Orleans and is beginning to take control of the situation.

The French Quarter is relatively untouched. Jackson Square looks in good shape.

Fats Domino is alive!

Dozens of countries are pledging aid and money. Walmart, in a rare non-evil move, has donated $15 mil+ to the relief effort.

I can't say I'm "overwhelmed" like J.Star, but I'm still pretty shocked. I'm shocked at the sheer level of devastation. What can one really say? Coming from the standpoint of a scholar, I can say that this will be studied for years from many standpoints. Social historians will examine it from the perspective of class and poverty. Political historians will examine it from the angle of the relationship between local, state, and federal authorities and the responses they took. Cultural historians will examine the impact of this deluge on ethnic groups and cultures that existed within the backwoods areas of Louisina and Mississippi and how they were displaced. New Orleans will be without a doubt irrevocably altered. If the city isn't totally bulldozed and moved I won't be surprised. Maps will have to be redrawn.

But what became most apparent to me as I watched the images of suffering was this: was what I was seeing - the looting, the deprivation, the general disorder and breakdown of civil authority - merely a reaction to an extreme situation, or simply what already existed under the surface of the fabric of New Orleans' society? Is what we're witnessing an aberration, or merely the true culture of New Orleans' impoverished denizens - a culture of crime and desperation - propelled to the forefront by a catastrophe that removed all barriers to its emergence? Katrina knocked down what constituted the outward image of New Orleans and exposed the inner reality: immense poverty and crime.

All of the talk about race is beginning to anger me. New Orleans is 67% black. It's only natural that the majority of people you'd see in the images from New Orleans would be black. Just like the majority of folks you'd see in nearby Gulf Port Mississippi would be white (62% white), or in Biloxi which is 71% white - and those areas were just as badly hit There isn't some hidden conspiracy to strand only black folks in the city of New Orleans. Much of the government of both the city of New Orleans and Louisiana are black. We shouldn't fall into the trap of thinking that no one cares because they're black or from the lower class. Hurricanes don't care what color your skin is, or who you vote for, or how much money you make. Stop the damn finger pointing.

The last thing we need to do in a situation like this is to begin dividing people into groups.

"President Coolidge came down in a railroad train
With a little fat man with a note-pad in his hand.
The President say,
'Little fat man isn't it a shame what the river has done
To this poor crackers land?'"

-Louisiana 1927