Oh, ouch. The arm is calling in "former" soldiers to fill in its thin ranks. This seems unwise to me in so many ways. And anyone who doesn't think there will be grumbling doesn't understand human nature (or rather, doesn't understand the American psyche . . . I'm not sure I believe in human nature much).
I think I can feel the grumbling already.
June 30, 2004
June 27, 2004
Fair Trade Coffee from Just Coffee
Here's how to make your coffee move more than you. Buy Just Coffee.
Both Green and Yellow
It seems to me that a political party that campaigns only where it will have no influence is no kind of party at all. The Green Party may be hoping to avoid being the "spoiler" and pick up some membership in the states where its influence is low, but this is frankly a giant step backwards, and another reason I can't tolerate their politics.
As much as it annoys me that Ralph Nader is running again in 2004, it annoys me even more the way everyone tiptoes around him as if they come too close, we'll immediately be at war with Iran and North Korea.
I doubt that I'll end up voting for Ralph Nader, but at least he has claim to convictions as powerful as the fundamentalist convictions held by W. Bush. I'm not particularly comfortable with the Kerry lump.
My question to everyone out there claiming that he's absolutely better than G.W.: How do you know?
And this is my question to Kerry as well. How do we know? Please make every effort to tell us how we should know you won't be as bad as this guy in the white house now. Please show us in great detail. And do it quickly, because time is running short.
As much as it annoys me that Ralph Nader is running again in 2004, it annoys me even more the way everyone tiptoes around him as if they come too close, we'll immediately be at war with Iran and North Korea.
I doubt that I'll end up voting for Ralph Nader, but at least he has claim to convictions as powerful as the fundamentalist convictions held by W. Bush. I'm not particularly comfortable with the Kerry lump.
My question to everyone out there claiming that he's absolutely better than G.W.: How do you know?
And this is my question to Kerry as well. How do we know? Please make every effort to tell us how we should know you won't be as bad as this guy in the white house now. Please show us in great detail. And do it quickly, because time is running short.
June 25, 2004
Officially Caring about Tennis: I Admire Sprem Too
Looks to me like Serena and Andy need to stand the hell down. It simply isn't up to any competitor during any event over which there is officiating to make such a call. Certainly, it is up to the competitor whether they decide to argue, be it in their favor or not. Whether it was in or out, the official is supposed to be the one making that call, not the athlete.
And it's pretty damn disingenuous for either Serena or Andy to be making statements like "no way would I have done that." What a large load of garbage. You tell me the first time either of them questions a call that goes in their favor and I'll be happy to take it all back.
Sprem deserves as much credit for staying mum as Venus. Neither one of them would be able to do a damn thing about the call anyway. As soon as officials start changing their mind, they lose what they need to make the call in the first place, and that's absolute authority.
When was the last time you saw Roger Clemens come charging off the mound after a called third strike, screaming, "No goddamn way, ump. That was obviously wide." And as lousy a free-throw shooter as Shaq is, I don't recall him ever getting into a ref's face with anything akin to "that was not foul, you idiot . . . he never touched me." As entertaining as those scenarious might be, it simply will never happen, and it never should.
And it's pretty damn disingenuous for either Serena or Andy to be making statements like "no way would I have done that." What a large load of garbage. You tell me the first time either of them questions a call that goes in their favor and I'll be happy to take it all back.
Sprem deserves as much credit for staying mum as Venus. Neither one of them would be able to do a damn thing about the call anyway. As soon as officials start changing their mind, they lose what they need to make the call in the first place, and that's absolute authority.
When was the last time you saw Roger Clemens come charging off the mound after a called third strike, screaming, "No goddamn way, ump. That was obviously wide." And as lousy a free-throw shooter as Shaq is, I don't recall him ever getting into a ref's face with anything akin to "that was not foul, you idiot . . . he never touched me." As entertaining as those scenarious might be, it simply will never happen, and it never should.
Officially Caring about Tennis: I Admire Sprem Too
Looks to me like Serena and Andy need to stand the hell down. It simply isn't up to any competitor during any event over which there is officiating to make such a call. Certainly, it is up to the competitor whether they decide to argue, be it in their favor or not. Whether it was in or out, the official is supposed to be the one making that call, not the athlete.
And it's pretty damn disingenuous for either Serena or Andy to be making statements like "no way would I have done that." What a large load of garbage. You tell me the first time either of them questions a call that goes in their favor and I'll be happy to take it all back.
Sprem deserves as much credit for staying mum as Venus. Neither one of them would be able to do a damn thing about the call anyway. As soon as officials start changing their mind, they lose what they need to make the call in the first place, and that's absolute authority.
When was the last time you saw Roger Clemens come charging off the mound after a called third strike, screaming, "No goddamn way, ump. That was obviously wide." And as lousy a free-throw shooter as Shaq is, I don't recall him ever getting into a ref's face with anything akin to "that was not foul, you idiot . . . he never touched me." As entertaining as those scenarious might be, it simply will never happen, and it never should.
And it's pretty damn disingenuous for either Serena or Andy to be making statements like "no way would I have done that." What a large load of garbage. You tell me the first time either of them questions a call that goes in their favor and I'll be happy to take it all back.
Sprem deserves as much credit for staying mum as Venus. Neither one of them would be able to do a damn thing about the call anyway. As soon as officials start changing their mind, they lose what they need to make the call in the first place, and that's absolute authority.
When was the last time you saw Roger Clemens come charging off the mound after a called third strike, screaming, "No goddamn way, ump. That was obviously wide." And as lousy a free-throw shooter as Shaq is, I don't recall him ever getting into a ref's face with anything akin to "that was not foul, you idiot . . . he never touched me." As entertaining as those scenarious might be, it simply will never happen, and it never should.
June 24, 2004
iRaq=iPod? Not Hardly
Ouch. Iraq.
A poster. Clever? Sure. I wonder what action, if any, Apple will take. My guess is they will issue a cease and decist of some kind. I'm not sure what rhetorical purpose is served by populating the popular iPod adverts with images of Iraq terror and war, except to make Apple somehow guilty of promoting the war by trying to sell a product. Um, no. I don't think that works. You cannot fight empty rhetoric--"Iraq=911"--with empty rhetoric--"iRaq=iPod."
June 23, 2004
June 22, 2004
Designs on the White House T-Shirt Design
Designs on the White House (DOTWHO) has posted the t-shirt design finalists. Some of them are kind of dopey and cliche, but others are really good, and all of them beat the hell out of the moronic, knee-jerk redwhiteandblue Kerry Gear.
What the hell would happen if a candidate decided their color was mauve or something?
What the hell would happen if a candidate decided their color was mauve or something?
June 18, 2004
President Bush visits Spokane
Someone please tell me, was he even here? My stomach wouldn't be so grumbly if I thought three or four of those thousand buck a plate finger-food meals was going to pay for the fuel in air-force one, or for the local police support, or for the use of the convention center. But no. It all goes to Nethercutt. Which is like some kind of hoodoo magic I simply do not get.
June 16, 2004
Seven Billion Peace Flags
Are you a designer? Believe in peace? Then design a peace flag for your neighborhood, or for the world.
Welcome George W. Bush
The Peace & Justice Action League of Spokane is turning out for a party in honor of our Commander in Chief. Join them, won't you?
June 09, 2004
Book : Genesis, Jim Crace
ISBN: 0374227306 { amazon | powells }
I find most book reviews troubling. Too many reviewers are simply writing entertainment--and it's too often snarky, not very entertaining entertainment. Too many want to be noticed. Too many don't want to be bothered to think. Too many would rather not be troubled with evaluation and end up summarizing. Maybe that's what we want in a review--snarky, self-interested infomercials masquerading as thought--but I really want no part of it. So I won't be writing any book reviews. Instead I'll write essays in which I feature books. Essays in which a book, be it a novel or book of short stories or cartoons or typographical misfortunes, takes center stage, but in which my purpose is not "to encourage acceptance of this current literary guru," or "to rend this well-respected author limb from frostbitten limb." My purpose may vary, as will the frequency with which I write essays. But when I am done with them, I will post here, on my website, on the Praxis pages (http://praxis.bainbooks.com).
Which brings me to the book Genesis, by Jim Crace. I didn't really choose to write about Genesis. It chose me, I suppose, by its very nature, or by my disappointment in its very nature. I was disappointed in part because of my adoration of Mr. Crace's book Being Dead { amazon | powells }. When I had finished that book I set about to make sure that everyone I knew would also read it, so that we might exchange knowing references to the book, or so that we might all be better able to live in this world. I still foist it on people when they say to me, "I'm bored. What should I read?"
"Being Dead," I say. "Oh, it is very good."
This new book changes none of that feeling. I still say Being Dead is in my top ten books list. My Desert Island Books list. Being Dead was simply like a perfect storm of good writing for me, a novelistic feat like one I would like to perform myself, the ideal combination of form, tone, metaphor, mystery, plot, and love. And it stoked one of my favorite methods of evaluating a book. When I ask myself, "Is this a book you wish you would have written?," if the answer is yes, if my primary gut reaction to the book is one of jealousy, then I trip through the pages like a six year old who's just discovered The Most Amazing Jungle Gym Ever, hoping that it will never end, that my parents won't show up to drag me home.
But Genesis? Oh, with Genesis I've run into nothing but problems. My first problem is with the title. Genesis. The title Genesis seems all too snide once I get inside the book. For you see here's the second trouble I'm having with the book. The conceit, which is that the protagonist, Lix, cannot help but conceive a child with every woman he sleeps with, is little more than tawdry. Oh, I know I'm asking for trouble by using that word. I don't want you to believe that I find anything about Mr. Crace to be tawdry. But the conceit, the idea that this is something upon which a novel can be based, does nothing but turn my stomach. It seems a joke, a kind of wink to people asking about his next novel. "Oh yes. I'm writing a book about a man who conceives a child with every woman he sleeps with. It's called Genesis." It sounds like a book written by a million MFA students in a kazillion MFA programs, and my response at first was, "You've got to be kidding."
But I was willing to give him this. After all, I was willing to live with the conceit of Being Dead, in which the two protagonists are dead and decomposing upon a beach. Perhaps he would pull this one around as well, and make it into something lovely.
But no. Genesis is trying to be to be just as clever as I thought it would be. It begins with Lix's most recent conception, on the night of the conception, and moves immediately backward to his first. Jim Crace is an incredibly talented writer, no question. Line by line the text is remarkable, but when the lines begin to build I begin to lose patience.
If I look closely at my annoyance I recognize that it has almost everything to do with the stillbirth of my child, Grace, on June 1, 2003. It's been over a year since her birth, but her presence in my life is tangible. Before Grace, I might have devoured Genesis. Before Grace, I might have given him the idea of perfect fertility, perfect pregnancy, perfect birth (followed by imperfect life, of course). But today I don't tolerate it, in fiction or non-fiction.
Maybe I'm just angry at the main character, Lix, for being such an insufferable asshole. He is the sort of man I hope evolution will do away with, but somehow manages to flourish. He doesn't apparently recognize the value of procreation, the mystery of life and birth. His obsessions lie elsewhere, with the garbage of vanity and the mistakes of love. He seems frozen in his own self-absorption, and I can't stomach it.
I can't stomach it so much that I'm tired of myself writing about it. In Genesis, instead of being jealous that he'd written a book I wanted to write, I found myself arguing with the author. "You've got that wrong. The world isn't that way. The world of your novel isn't that way. This is a misstep. No, no, and no."
But arguing with a novel is one of those follies I cannot allow myself to luxuriate in for long. So I'll move on to another book. I don't expect every Jim Crace book to be perfect anymore, and this will undoubtedly help me next time I take him on. Perhaps I will apply what I've learned here to other favorites of mine, to keep myself from despair. I like to think I am that smart, and that I'll be able to do just that. I'd like to think that I'm that smart, but I really doubt that I am.
Reviews Elsewhere
I find most book reviews troubling. Too many reviewers are simply writing entertainment--and it's too often snarky, not very entertaining entertainment. Too many want to be noticed. Too many don't want to be bothered to think. Too many would rather not be troubled with evaluation and end up summarizing. Maybe that's what we want in a review--snarky, self-interested infomercials masquerading as thought--but I really want no part of it. So I won't be writing any book reviews. Instead I'll write essays in which I feature books. Essays in which a book, be it a novel or book of short stories or cartoons or typographical misfortunes, takes center stage, but in which my purpose is not "to encourage acceptance of this current literary guru," or "to rend this well-respected author limb from frostbitten limb." My purpose may vary, as will the frequency with which I write essays. But when I am done with them, I will post here, on my website, on the Praxis pages (http://praxis.bainbooks.com).
Which brings me to the book Genesis, by Jim Crace. I didn't really choose to write about Genesis. It chose me, I suppose, by its very nature, or by my disappointment in its very nature. I was disappointed in part because of my adoration of Mr. Crace's book Being Dead { amazon | powells }. When I had finished that book I set about to make sure that everyone I knew would also read it, so that we might exchange knowing references to the book, or so that we might all be better able to live in this world. I still foist it on people when they say to me, "I'm bored. What should I read?"
"Being Dead," I say. "Oh, it is very good."
This new book changes none of that feeling. I still say Being Dead is in my top ten books list. My Desert Island Books list. Being Dead was simply like a perfect storm of good writing for me, a novelistic feat like one I would like to perform myself, the ideal combination of form, tone, metaphor, mystery, plot, and love. And it stoked one of my favorite methods of evaluating a book. When I ask myself, "Is this a book you wish you would have written?," if the answer is yes, if my primary gut reaction to the book is one of jealousy, then I trip through the pages like a six year old who's just discovered The Most Amazing Jungle Gym Ever, hoping that it will never end, that my parents won't show up to drag me home.
But Genesis? Oh, with Genesis I've run into nothing but problems. My first problem is with the title. Genesis. The title Genesis seems all too snide once I get inside the book. For you see here's the second trouble I'm having with the book. The conceit, which is that the protagonist, Lix, cannot help but conceive a child with every woman he sleeps with, is little more than tawdry. Oh, I know I'm asking for trouble by using that word. I don't want you to believe that I find anything about Mr. Crace to be tawdry. But the conceit, the idea that this is something upon which a novel can be based, does nothing but turn my stomach. It seems a joke, a kind of wink to people asking about his next novel. "Oh yes. I'm writing a book about a man who conceives a child with every woman he sleeps with. It's called Genesis." It sounds like a book written by a million MFA students in a kazillion MFA programs, and my response at first was, "You've got to be kidding."
But I was willing to give him this. After all, I was willing to live with the conceit of Being Dead, in which the two protagonists are dead and decomposing upon a beach. Perhaps he would pull this one around as well, and make it into something lovely.
But no. Genesis is trying to be to be just as clever as I thought it would be. It begins with Lix's most recent conception, on the night of the conception, and moves immediately backward to his first. Jim Crace is an incredibly talented writer, no question. Line by line the text is remarkable, but when the lines begin to build I begin to lose patience.
If I look closely at my annoyance I recognize that it has almost everything to do with the stillbirth of my child, Grace, on June 1, 2003. It's been over a year since her birth, but her presence in my life is tangible. Before Grace, I might have devoured Genesis. Before Grace, I might have given him the idea of perfect fertility, perfect pregnancy, perfect birth (followed by imperfect life, of course). But today I don't tolerate it, in fiction or non-fiction.
Maybe I'm just angry at the main character, Lix, for being such an insufferable asshole. He is the sort of man I hope evolution will do away with, but somehow manages to flourish. He doesn't apparently recognize the value of procreation, the mystery of life and birth. His obsessions lie elsewhere, with the garbage of vanity and the mistakes of love. He seems frozen in his own self-absorption, and I can't stomach it.
I can't stomach it so much that I'm tired of myself writing about it. In Genesis, instead of being jealous that he'd written a book I wanted to write, I found myself arguing with the author. "You've got that wrong. The world isn't that way. The world of your novel isn't that way. This is a misstep. No, no, and no."
But arguing with a novel is one of those follies I cannot allow myself to luxuriate in for long. So I'll move on to another book. I don't expect every Jim Crace book to be perfect anymore, and this will undoubtedly help me next time I take him on. Perhaps I will apply what I've learned here to other favorites of mine, to keep myself from despair. I like to think I am that smart, and that I'll be able to do just that. I'd like to think that I'm that smart, but I really doubt that I am.
Reviews Elsewhere
June 07, 2004
Mini: "The Act of Turning Over"
The act of turning over doesn't help you sleep. Nor do the sleeping pills. Or the alcohol. Nor does it help when you try to wake M, to press yourself against her so she'll know what you want. Oh, she knows what you want. But not since the early months of your marriage has it made any difference. In those days you could press or brush or sit motionless and both of you would wake at once, mouths pressed against teeth, carnivorously attempting to eviscerate the other, piece by bloody piece, joy by raucous joy. That's the thing, isn't it. The memory. It's too difficult to remember. Too goddamn painful. If she would just open her eyes. But the act of turning, the act of turning her. It doesn%92t help you sleep. And she knows what you want. So she turns away. You may as well get up. There will be no more sleep in this house. Not ever.
Mini: "Blue Eyes"
I was just sitting here thinking, “You know what? You should go down and get yourself some ice cream.” And then as I was thinking that I remembered that we don’t have any goddamn ice cream because the kid ate the last of it before he went back to his mom’s. So I get up and I go look at the bed, and there’s Shalla all wrapped up in herself like it must be minus twenty in here but I’m hot as hell. She always gets this way that time of the month, and dammit if I don’t want to spread her out all over the bed and to hell with that time of the month. But I don’t. Oh, you know I don’t. I just go into the bathroom and sit on the toilet looking at page three of the lingerie catalog. It’s a damn shame that this doesn’t do anything for me. I could wipe with page three and it would make me feel more than it does sitting here looking at it. Just looking, nothing else. Makes me want to sing like Frank Sinatra. Makes me sing all drunk and slovenly. Belting it out anyway. Too too hot.
June 06, 2004
Mini: “The Former American President”
The former American President approaches the tree with his axe. He doesn’t know yet if he’s going to cut it down or if he’s going to sit beside the tree and pull at the bark with his thumbnail. He’s done this before too, and both are satisfying, in their own way. He doesn’t know what he’s doing out here in the woods, and it all looks vaguely familiar. He sits beside the tree and examines the bark. He pulls away a fleck of bark with his thumbnail and he examines it. He flings the fleck of bark onto the forest floor. There’s an axe across his lap, and he touches the blade with his thumb. It’s a dull axe, but an axe need not be so sharp that it might cut your thumb should you choose to touch its blade with your thumb. And this axe does not cut his thumb. Instead he touches the metal, runs his thumb along the blade. He was expecting it to be cold. Shouldn’t metal be cold? Isn’t it cold? Isn’t it winter? It should be winter but the ground feels wet and warm, like Spring. The ground rolls off and away when he pushes it, like a comforter, and he pulls back the warm mossy comforter, pulls it away and settles in. It isn’t cold but there is nothing like a comforter up to your chin, snuggled into the forest, he imagines himself Mickey Mantle, or the great Babe Ruth. Why not? He snuggles up with his axe now, closing his eyes, ready.
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