“Have you met the Compliment Guys?”
That’s the question bouncing around the ivy-covered halls and cinder-blocked walls of Purdue University these days. Every afternoon, these two determinedly upbeat kids get their kicks by sticking a smile to winter-chapped collegiate lips.
The formula? Just saying something nice. Read more, be inspired, spread the cheese.
I had never heard of him until he died. The Economist ran this obituary, and I’d encourage you to take a moment to read it.
Christopher Nolan was not just a writer. He was a maestro attuned to the melody of language. But, unable to speak due to a crushing case of cerebral palsy, the only instrument he was able to master was a stick taped to his forehead enabling him to poke out a word here and there on a custom keyboard. Sometimes it went as slowly as just a few words an hour, and that with the help of nerve-spasm dampening drugs and braces and lifelong love from selfless parents.
There are times when the efforts of the disabled, the downtrodden, and the otherwise less-advantaged are rewarded because they show stamina and strength despite the odds. Every parent knows this first-hand as we praise our children’s attempts to create and learn. Life is full of sliding scales and context counts; there is nothing wrong with this. But Christopher Nolan is doubly unusual, and thus doubly tragic. There is the first tragedy of the diseased disruption of any afflicted life. And then there is the second tragedy of the many body-bound works that will never be published. The briliance trapped in his brain, unable to find a vessel to mark the words, could have filled volumes. His writing stands on its own. As the obituary pointed out, I wouldn’t want to be Christopher Nolan. But still, I think I’d give a lot write like that. I think.
I love the Twentieth Century. Not only were we all famous for 15 minutes, a whole nation could exist for only a day.
Case in point: Ruthenia, which shone gloriously free on March 15th, 1939, the day after the Nazis left and the day before the Soviets rushed in. How does Mr. Warhol fit into this? He was the son of two Ruthene immigrants to the New World. Though born in Pittsburgh, he is the one-and-only famous son of the Sub-Carpathians.
Despite the Man with the Can, the Ruthenians are currently without a plan. And that seems to be just fine by them.
In a self-less act of self-denial of the cynical self, and in an effort to cultivate the warm little garden of love a-bloomin’ in my heart, I will not offer any of the disclaimers that I (as a former English major who is capable of reading and enjoying David Foster Wallace and who would otherwise be judged “Totally Awesome” by a jury of his well-read peers) really wants to drop right about now.
The bottom line is that this book tells a good tale (a bonafied true story!) about a homeless black guy and rich white guy who become best friends through the pluck and persistance of the latter’s freakin’ angelic wife. The story is remarkable, and it has left a real mark on the city of Ft. Worth, TX. I’m not saying that it’s for everyone, but anyone who ever laid a claim to a hope in The Lawd could use this book as quick test of the state of their soul. (I know mine could use some work.)
This interesting photo just popped up on the interwebs showing a fit-as-a-fiddle Vladamir Putin posing as a camera-happy tourist who just happened to bump into Reagan and Gorby touring Red Square.
Truth be told, he was a KGB plant, assigned to keep an eye on the propaganda machine which was in full swing as the leaders summited to great heights of love and understanding.
Golly, I miss those days. When I was a youngster, the good guys were grandfatherly ex-cowboys who thrilled my imagination with talk of Star Wars Missile Defense and a steadfast belief in Truth, Justice, and The American Way. The bad guys were part of an Evil Empire that was probably run by Darth Vader, though I assumed he never left his gulag-surrounded lair in deepest Siberia.
When we had to fight it out, we were polite about it. Discretion was always in order. Sometimes we’d send Ollie North to move a few guns into the swarthy hands of our simple, yet trustworthy friends south of some border or another. For more delicate tasks involving the French or other suspiciously-accented Europeans, we could count on our ally James Bond to drop in leaving things shaken, not stirred. Jack Nicholson really did need A Few Good Men. And when it came down to it, I was pretty sure that the whole G.I.Joe thing was just a little too perfect not to have a root in a top-secret reality where they were poised to strike if the Commies came a-knockin’.
And Red Dawn? No, not just a movie. Rather, it was a warning and a guide as to what to do when your country really needed you. Wolverines!
To anyone over the age of 45, please don’t tell me I’m wrong about any of that. M’kay? I’d hate to have to send the ninja’s after you.
As guitar pickers go, ol’ Lester has most of ‘em licked. But that’s not why I love him. I love him because nearly every piece of musical equipment that I embrace to lift met up when the times are tough, and the days are rough, and the sun just don’t seem to shine, was designed a little bit by him.
On the occasion of his 90th birthday, a film crew followed him around New York and put together the documentary Les Paul: Chasing Sound! If you like popular music (defined anyway you will) between the years of 1930 and 2010 you will find something to love about this film. Quite literally, nothing would sound the same without him. And he’s still got the chops, swinging that old ax every Monday night, taking another whack at life while he’s still around to chase his sound.
As you might have heard, U2 put out their latest long-player, No Line On The Horizon, to mixed reviews. After reading a few dozen of these, I did some head-scratching, soul-searching, and critical listening and I think I’ve figured out the common tie that binds the minds of the pen-wielding pundits: Magic!
Big fans of big music love it like a drug. It’s gets ‘em high, takes them to the next level. Opens the eyes, breaks open the head, transcends the temporal, touches the immortal. You know, it’s a trip. It’s Magic! We love it, and we bow down before it and the shaman that provides it.
The bands we love set expectations to provide this ecstatic experience with every taste of something new: The new single is the prophet’s latest epistle, the show is the ceremony where the rockstar is broken before you, collapsing on stage as one who has given his all for his art, for his fans. Amen brother. And if they let you down, it hurts.
U2 have tapped into that mystical magic as much or more than anyone else over the last 30 years. As Bono once said at the Grammy’s: “It is a gift, much more than it is a craft in our case. We depend on God walking through the room more than most. And God has walked through the room for us.” Their connection to the divine has always been there in the music, whether on the tip of Bono’s tongue or lurking in the back of Larry’s mind. Sometimes it comes out in a way that everyone can relate to (Pride In The Name Of Love! I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For! We’re One, But We’re Not The Same!), and sometimes it’s a little more personal.
And that’s what we’ve got on No Line: These songs grab your heart if your heart’s singing the same tune. They fall flat if it’s not. This last batch of tracks is a more focused thing, and it’s left some on the outside looking in, wondering what happened. For those on the inside, the magic is as real as it’s ever been.
Not to sound like I’ve got the world figured out, but those critics who love it are pretty comfortable when the focus is on God, and the reviewers left cold have their doubts about the whole thing. It seems that if you’re willing to listen with the Almighty on your heart, No Line On The Horizon is a beautiful thing.
Hey folks: The door’s always open. Come on in.
I’m catching on to this guy, thirty years too late. Hey, I was only a wee little three when the Two Sevens Clashed, so cut me some slack. I stumbled across this SNL performance that makes me wonder how much I’m still missing:
Many thanks to the fine Melvillain Blog for turning me on to this. Take a minute and read up on his write up.
Now this is getting exciting. For the second time this week, I’ve been able to blog about a book by an I author I know. Heck, the way I’m networking up the ranks of the media elite, I’d expect Danielle Steel & Rupert Murdoch to be ringing me up soon.
Up for discussion is Jeremiah (Kingtycoon) Methuseleh’s Raindrinker - The Murder’s March. (Buy yours today!) And I’m impressed.
I’m not just impressed in the way that you’re impressed by your buddy’s band ’cause you figured they’d really suck, but you went to the show to be nice and were surprised that they could actually all play their instruments together at the same time.
No, I’m impressed by the world that the formidable Kingtycoon has created. I’m impressed by the completeness of the vision. I’m impressed by the writing, the agility of the language, the craftwork, the book. I started it out of personal curiosity, but finished it out of fascination.
To be honest, I’m really not a big fantasy guy. Tolkien is still on my “To Read” list, and I know I’ll never get around to Robert Jordan no matter how many of my friends are devotees. But this book is also a book of ideas. Up for discussion are concepts of The Self , Identity, Duty, the Divine.
It’s fertile soul, well-seeded, and ready to sprout the already planned next 21 volumes to complete the story. Ah, ambition!! It is a beautiful thing!!
