Thursday, June 4, 2009

Happy Tiananamen Square Day!


Just in time for the announcement that a Chinese firm has most likely bought that rolling symbol of American testosterone, the Hummer, the Chinese Central Committee of the Communist Party is proud to present the 20th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square Massacre



Yes indeed, dear friends, neighbors and debtors in America, on this stirring occasion, somewhere between 250 (unlikely) and 5000 (high, but more than possible) Chinese protesters - mostly students and working-class family members - were shot, beaten and crushed to death by tanks and soldiers. Following this unfortunate occurrence, nationwide protests were quashed and dissidents gathered up for "re-education" by the People's Liberation Army.

Such sad measures were deemed necessary by the Politburo's Central Committee because of the disorder brought about by common citizens demanding - of all things! - a reform of government into a constitutional democracy, similar to that  of America.

America's response to the Massacre was to send James Lilley and James Baker and assure the Politburo that America would not officially condemn the Massacre, and would cooperate with the Chinese government to block or deport Chinese dissidents who sought asylum in the United States. Both promises were fulfilled.

This happy event made possible a new era of diplomatic cooperation between the two powers. Since then, an auspicious confluence of trade has enriched both nations. Companies like Nike, Wal-Mart, Disney, Hasbro, McDonald's, The Gap, Old Navy, Warner Brothers and many others have since benefited from the enlightened labor system of Laogai (convict labor). Truly, this day marks a great stroke of fortune for both nations!

In keeping with the sobriety of this occasion, the Chinese government humbly requests that no one remember it, speak of it, or let it interfere in any way with business as usual. 

Thank you for your cooperation.

Monday, February 23, 2009

20 Albums (Give or Take) That Changed My Life


Ganked from The Vault of Buncheness:




Think of 15 albums that had such a profound effect on you they changed your life or the way you looked at it. They sucked you in and took you over for days, weeks, months, years. These are the albums that you can use to identify time, places, people, emotions. They might not be what you listen to now, but these are the albums that no matter what they were thought of musically shaped your world.When you finish, tag 15 others, including me. Make sure you copy and paste this part so they know the drill. Get the idea now? Good. Tag, you're it!

Because can't think of only 15 albums, I've expanded that list to 20 and some change. In more-or-less chronological order, based on their impact on my life, these would be...


1. Cheap Thrills (1968) - Big Brother and the Holding Company

In a childhood filled with music (most of it either '50s doo-wop or '60s psychedelic), this album stands out for me as being the first "record album" I could recognize as such - mostly because it scared the hell out of me! Besides the throat-shredding antics of Janis Joplin, the album lodged in my memory for its Robert Crumb cover; the off-kilter nature of its brilliance literally made little-kid me sick to my stomach when I looked at it. I didn't understand the music at all (that came later), but in the late '60s, I would dart a glance at this album in creeped-out fascination, feel my tummy do back-flips, and look away again. To this day, Cheap Thrills remains the only album on this list that I do not own.


2. Alive II (1977) - Kiss

How did I miss the ascension of Kiss? When I hit 7th grade in 1977, half the kids at my Catholic school already adored the band, while the other half detested everything they stood for. Little horror freak that I was, I latched like a lamprey onto a band that sported blood-spitting, fire-breathing masked demonic personages; the fact that their music tapped into my inner demon provided an extra treat.

The flaming gatefold of the album and the thundering explosions dubbed into its background gave me expectations of hellish grandeur that few Rock concerts (including those by Kiss) ever quite lived up to. My friend Mike would put on Alive II when his mom was at work, and we'd air-guitar ourselves sick. Once, we even grabbed hair-spray cans and lighters, then ran around the house shooting fireballs at one another! Luckily, we didn't burn the house down or anything... Sure, I renounced Kiss by the time I hit high school, but during my 7th and 8th grade years, Kiss were my heroes.

3. In the Court of the Crimson King (1969) - King Crimson

I've always been a moody guy, but my fascination with gloomy romanticism probably dates to this album... this first record, incidentally, that I had sex to! Like many of my early musical adventures, this one was introduced to me by my father, whose appreciation for weird Rock shit gave me a cornerstone for my tastes even now. A morbid slice of prog, Court is a phenomenal musical statement wrapped in some of the dreariest lyrics imaginable. When I descended into adolescent angst, this album received heavy rotation indeed.

4. Songs From the Wood (1977)/ M.U. -The Best of Jethro Tull (1976) - Jethro Tull

My family used to take endless car-trips between New York and Virgina during the 1970s. On those trips, Dad would play various tapes. Somehow, these strange little albums by a weird Brit standing on one leg captured my imagination. I knew nothing about the Celtic Rock genre until I hit college a few years later; from that point onward, my Pagan roots have been watered by the likes of Steeleye Span, Clannad, Fairport Convention and Oysterband. Tull, however, became a mainstay of my music collection during the late 1970s and ealy 1980s, counterbalancing the libidinnous ferocity of Punk and Metal with the sardonic sweetness of Ian Anderson's lunatic band.

5. We Sold Our Souls for Rock 'n Roll (1975) - Black Sabbath

In 1978, I transferred from the hell-on-earth Catholic school where I'd discovered Kiss to the less-dysfunctional "special needs" school Quander Road, where I spent 8th grade ('78-'79). By that time, my parents marriage had fractured, and that trauma - mixed with social anxieties, spiritual upheavals, lousy schooling in Hawaii, a case of dyslexia that I learned about over a decade later, an awful temper and typical 13/14-year-old bullshit - had me begging my parents to send me to Quander. There, I discovered a wealth of new bands: Pink Floyd, AC-DC, George Thoroughgood, Van Halen... and Black Sabbath.

One of the creepier kids in Quander was named Rob Lippard. A tall, gangly dude with long hair and Charles Manson eyes, he spoke in Satanic gibberish and toted Black Sabbath albums everywhere. I'd heard of Sabbath by then, but it wasn't until I overheard "Iron Man" that I cribbed to that evil Blues sound. Naturally, I loved it immediately... and time has proven Sabbath to be the most musically enduring Metal of all. Although Priest, Rush, Maiden and so on are still fun for me, Sabbath sounds better as I get older. I received this album for Christmas (!!!) in 1979 or '80, and it remains one of my all-time favorites.

6. Unleashed in the East (1979)/ Sad Wings of Destiny (1976) - Judas Priest

The band most responsible for my dispatch of Kiss came screaming out of a recording I had dubbed off the radio. I'd been taping ELP's "Peter Gunn Theme" off WRXL in '79 when the DJ segued into this kick-ass live ripper called "Green Manalishi." I was floored. At first, I assumed the song came from the same live ELP album that had birthed "Peter Gunn"; a few weeks later, I discovered the truth, and Unleashed in the East became one of the first albums I bought with my own money. Ironically, Kiss' Destroyer had been the first. The Metal pounding from the Priest, however, put Kiss to shame, and I abandoned my first Metal love in favor of the learner, meaner Priest.

As influential as Unleashed was, however, it paled in comparison to Sad Wings of Destiny. By the early '80s, I had purchased Priest's entire catalog; of them all, Sad Wings was my obsession. When I descended into my gloomiest states, the damned angel on that album cover became my mascot. Some folks would later claim that such fascination was an inducement to suicide, but like any metalhead who's found grace through catharsis, I maintain that albums like Sad Wings actually avert tragedy. For me, the musical depths I plumbed with albums like that one helped me trawl through the Abyss vicariously. Without bands like Priest, Sabbath and other cathartic artists, I suspect I would have become far more messed up than I ever truly was.
7. Hemispheres (1978) - Rush

While Priest and Sabbath purged my inner demons, Rush opened the door to my imagination. My musical horizons were blown wide open when I first heard "The Trees" on - again! - WRXL in the late '70s. The combination of dizzying complexity and ripe yet sincere lyrical obtusions like "Cygnus X-1 Book II: Hemispheres" and "Circumstances" made Rush my go-to brain-candy band. I spent endless hours scribbling up D&D notes and bad poetry to the sound of Rush's albums, and to date, Hemispheres remains my favorite.

8. Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables (1980) - The Dead Kennedys

I'd heard Punk before 1982, when my friend Wally put Fresh Fruit on his turntable, but I'd never heard anything like this. Jello Biafra raved like Dudley Do-Right gone mad as some of the meanest, bone-jarring shit of its era buzzsawed through my consciousness. The Kennedys remained one of my mainstays throughout college, and their social outrage mirrored my own. When Reagan's Revolution spawned my eternal hatred for all things Republican (except my dad...), this album became the soundtrack for my dissent.

9. Big Science (1982) - Laurie Anderson

On my first day at college orientation, I met a cute girl named Chris. we hung out, and she took me back to her dorm room. I wondered if I was gonna get lucky; in a way, I did. Big Science (which she played for me that day) challenged my preconceptions about music in all the best ways. The first truly avant-garde album I'd heard at the time, it snagged the most eager-to-be-opened parts of my attention. Anderson's hypnotic witticisms entranced me; without Big Science, I doubt I'd have been nearly as receptive to Frank Zappa, Phillip Glass, Godspeed You! Black Emperor and some of the more arcane corners of my musical tastes.

10. Nothing to Fear (1982) - Oingo Boingo

I hated "New Wave" when it first came out. A Metal kid to the bone, I detested the faggy condescending twats who adored the stuff while looking down their pimply noses at the Rock I adored. One of the primary offenders raved endlessly about a band called "Oingo Boingo," a name I immediately despised, until... It was early 1984, and I was hanging out with some friends and this compulsively bouncy music cascaded out of the speakers. I began hopping around the room to it. "Who IS that?" I demanded; "Oingo Boingo," my friend replied. From then on, Danny Elfman's weird little experiment became - and remains - one of my all-time favorite bands. I even got to enjoy New Wave a bit more after that.

11. Fresh Aire I & II (1975) - Mannheim Steamroller

Yep - I like New Age Music. Blame that quirk of taste to thess little centerpiecea of Mannheim Steamroller's career. Almost unknown when they first appeared, Steamroller went on to become the synth-ditty gods of Christmastime via a series of cheesy holidays albums. Back in the late '70s and early '80s, however, they made far more tasteful excursions into instrumental mellowness. I was turned on to the Fresh Aire series around 1984, and it instantly appealed to the quieter side of my nature. I used Fresh Aire I and II as soundtracks during my art-school modeling career, and whenever I needed to relax or sleep, I used to put on a Steamroller mix-tape culled from the first two Fresh Aire albums. By extension, both albums blend seamlessly into one another, and so to me they're essentially the same album, continued. By the mid-80s, Mannheim Steamroller had become too cheesy for me and I abandoned the band. Still, I enjoy those first two Fresh Aire albums, and as much as I groove on dark mad thunder, there are times to just slow down and chill.

12. A System of Grooves (1983) - The Good Guys

A pack of Ska-Rockers from Richmond, VA, The Good Guys became one of my favorite bands during my stay in that city. Having had my consciousness expanded in Ska's direction by The Police and The Specials, I was utterly blown away by the mellow yet insistent groove thrown down by the Gore Brothers Chris and Harry. One of the nicest dudes I've ever met, Harry Gore was a guitarist of impressive virtuosity. I caught The Good Guys at over a dozen shows between 1983 and 1990 (around the time they disbanded), and I rarely felt disappointed.

Sadly, the Gores themselves were discourgaged by the refusal of the recording industry to take a black band seriously as Rock artists. Despite help from Fishbone and Living Color and an appearance on Vernon Reid's Black Rock Coalition album The History of Our Future, The Good Guys never scored a decent album deal. A System of Grooves was a locally produced EP - one that is, as far as I know, the only non-single album The Good Guys ever produced. It's a criminal shame, really.

13. Eat the Carrot, Break the Stick (1986) - The Ululating Mummies

Another locally produced album that never made it to CD, Eat the Carrot was a tape released by these quirky Richmond anarchists. Weaving Middle Eastern, Eastern European, Hippie Trance, Reggae and other slippery grooves into sprawling marathon jams, the Mummies really didn't translate well to the recording studio. Eat the Carrot only barely tapped into their mystique. Still, the album retains a fond spot in my heart, and my love for the Mummies - whom I saw live at every opportunity - led to my tastes for World Fusion, ecstatic dance, and weirdly amusing pagentry.

14. Indigo Girls (1989) - The Indigo Girls

My dad enjoyed '60s-era Folk, and I'd acquired a taste for artists like Simon & Garfunkel, America, Bread and Suzanne Vega as a flip-side to my darker impulses. When "Closer to Fine" hit the airwaves in '89 or '90, I picked up a copy of the Girls' second album - and was floored. Every track on the album cried out to me... hell, cried out for me. The album - combined with Psalm 69 by Ministry, Nevermind by Nirvana, Ten by Pearl Jam, Rid of Me by P.J. Harvey and the next three albums on this list - birthed my musical tastes for that decade. Although the Indigo Girls eventually wore out their welcome with me, their self-titled album raises chills on me every time.

15. Little Earthquakes (1992) Tori Amos

Ever heard one of those albums that sounds like the the worst night of your life? That was how Little Earthquakes hit me when I heard it back in '92 or '93. By then, my marriage, my life and my job were grinding my spirit away. A sense of responsibility that went way beyond anything I was getting in return had gripped me with an almost biblical tempest of guilty anguish. When I first heard "Crucify," I thought it was a new Kate Bush song; when I heard the rest of the album, I thought it was a soundtrack for my life. "Silent all These Years," "Winter," "Precious Things," "China" - I felt like weeping whenever I listened to that album... and occasionally, I did.

16. A Passage in Time (1991) - Dead Can Dance

Somehow, I originally got Dead Can Dance confused with Was, Not Was. This bizarre confluence may be traced to an alternative music magazine I grabbed out of a recycling bin around 1990, with articles featuring both bands. I never really cared for Was, Not Was, so when my bandmate George Midea asked me if I'd heard Dead Can Dance in 1992, I dismissed them as "too pop for my tastes." George, puzzled, recorded a few tracks from DCD on a mix-tape for me. My resulting astonishment led me to buy A Passage in Time just as I headed off to work at White Wolf in '93. To this day, that album remains a heavy-rotation staple of my collection. The shimmering darkness and transcendent beauty of that mad tapestry set the tone for my tastes from then on. My later fondness for World Trance, Gothic Ethereal and World Beat Techno can all be traced to the CD of Passage that I literally lasered clean during endless days and nights writing with White Wolf... and beyond.

17. A Slight Case of Overbombing (1992) - The Sisters of Mercy

Both credit and blame for my obsession with Goth-Industrial Rock can be laid at the feet of my '90s employers at White Wolf Game Studio. The "gothic punk" atmosphere of the World of Darkness where I plied my trade throughout that decade suited my musical inclinations perfectly, and although I'd already owned albums like The Sky's Gone Out from Bauhaus, Phantasmagoria from The Damned, Bloodletting from Concrete Blonde and Blast the Human Flower from Danielle Dax, no album captures the heady nature of that era like this best-of from The Sisters of Mercy. Everything rich and strange about Gothic Rock booms its way through Overbombing. Just as Sad Wings and Hemispheres became the soundtrack for my adolescence, Overbombing provided endless hours of pleasure and pain during my 1990s.
18. Play (1999) - Moby

Until Play came out, my feelings about Techno were lukewarm at best. Even albums like Delerium's Karma or Die Form's Suspiria de Profundis seemed too... sterile for my tastes. When I heard Play in the wake of my departure from White Wolf (and the Goth-Industrial thunder that went with that part of my life), this album was a revelation. Here was Techno merged with spirituality, a swirling synthesis of dance-floor beats, Gospel vocals and Classical flourishes that spoke to my soul in ways few other albums have. Yeah, the album eventually became an over-exposed relic of its time, but to this day whenever I need some achingly eloquent redemption, I often reach for Play.

19. The Incredible Soul Collection (2003) various artists

I've always enjoyed Motown and '60s-'70s Soul. With a few exceptions, however (like Sade's Promise or Maryin Gaye's landmark What's Goin' On), I've always considered Soul to be a singles-based genre, not an album-based one. Aside from a few best-ofs and the aforementioned album from Sade, I hadn't bought a Soul album until I ran across this collection while working the BNN music department. What a revelation that was! Every single song on this collection is a legend, and although I'd enjoyed many of those songs before, I reconsidered my earlier opinion and dove into Soul with a vengeance after I acquired this Collection. Whenever I need an old school pick-me-up, this album satisfies me every time!

20. Songs from the Gutter (2002) - Thea Gilmore

This was the album that saved my faith in Rock. A few years back, I'd totally had it with the Xeroxed corporate trash that passed for "rock" in the new millennium. I was listening almost exclusively to World Fusion artists and my old favorite albums when this raspy-throated chick ripped some Neil Young barbed wire off the nearest tree and used it to hang Rock by its scrawny little neck. Somehow, this gem found its way into Barnes and Noble's "in-store play" collection, and I was enthralled. The two-disc US re-released of Gutter came out shortly after I'd moved to Asheville, NC, and Gilmore's snarled challenge "When did You Get so Safe?" gave my soul a serious wake-up call. I love every song on this double album, and when I despair that Rock has given out its final gasp, I remember these Songs From the Gutter and realize that the hoary old beast still has a few surprises left.

And as an "honorable mention" entry, I'd add...

Haphazard (2004) - S.J. Tucker

I met Sooj by a combination of happy accidents in mid-2004. She handed me a sample single at FaerieWorlds, and my friend Jaymi later burned me a copy of the full album for my trip back home. I couldn't get the damned thing out of my CD player - or my head - after that. Although Sooj has gone on to release better albums since then (Sirens and Blessings, IMHO), Haphazard will always be the album that introduced me to one of my favorite people as one of my favorite musical artists... and, of course, anyone who follows this journal knows how that friendship has changed my life in other ways, too... :)



So - what are some of your life-landmark albums? The floor is open...

Monday, February 16, 2009

Gutzilla's Gutpocalypse: A Week That Will Live in Infamy


How NOT to spend a birthday week: purging yourself for roughly five days of literally gut-wrenching illness, the likes of which I have never endured before. This was Gutpocalypse, a sickness of awesome proportions that finally seems to have passed through my system as of yesterday... only to pass on - in a thankfully-lessened state - to Damiana's. At least we now have a pile of medications and some idea of what to expect. This past week, however, was terra incognita for us both. And if I never see such territory again, it will be far too soon. 

Was it a virus? Bacteria? I suspect it was a perfect storm of both. Although I had originally tagged it as the norovirus earlier this week, certain characteristics of Gutpocalypse - aka Godzilla - matched food poisoning rather than viral infection. Checking through possible vectors yesterday, we figured out that I had opportunities to be exposed to both ailments, yet people around me didn't seem to be affected nearly as badly as I was, if at all. The illness, too, transcended anything I've ever experienced before. I've had food poisoning, stomach flus, intestinal bugs and such before, but this... this monstrosity reared its head (or headed for my... oh, never mind...) in ways that dwarfed all previous comprehension.

Gutzilla appeared on the horizon like the echoing thunder-steps heard in the original film Gorjila (*): deep, resonant harbingers that could easily have been mistaken for something more innocuous. My appetite, usually hearty, had disappeared Monday morning. I chalked it up to deep work-focus, as Ravens in the Library had gone to layout and was in its first proof stage. By afternoon, when I left to go to Bryan's place to game, I realized I'd eaten a single bowl of cerial, two pieces of toast and a few cups of chai. Ravenous, I tore into the pizzas we'd purchased as game-munchies, then lapsed into a headache I attributed to over-reading, under-eating and over-stuffing. Upon my return home, I crashed hard and fast. That night, Dami suffered bursts of acid reflux that sent her coughing and vomiting for hours. I was so bleared out that I missed most of that. ">

Gutzilla appeared on the horizon like the echoing thunder-steps heard in the original film Gorjila (*): deep, resonant harbingers that could easily have been mistaken for something more innocuous. My appetite, usually hearty, had disappeared Monday morning. I chalked it up to deep work-focus, as Ravens in the Library had gone to layout and was in its first proof stage. By afternoon, when I left to go to Bryan's place to game, I realized I'd eaten a single bowl of ceriel, two pieces of toast and a few cups of chai. Ravenous, I tore into the pizzas we'd purchased as game-munchies, then lapsed into a headache I attributed to over-reading, under-eating and over-stuffing. Upon my return home, I crashed hard and fast. That night, Dami suffered bursts of acid reflux that sent her coughing and vomiting for hours. I was so bleared out that I missed most of that.

The Beast appeared Tusday afternoon, where a sluggish birthday turned ugly by about 3:00 PM. After eating a tuna-and-avacado sandwich, I felt queasy and vertiginous. By the time Dami got back from work, I was shaking and chilled. We decided to forgo a birthday dinner in favor of snuggles, but surges of vomiting and other unpleasantries sent me diving for the bathroom. Shortly afterward, I began shivering uncontrollably. I stood up to hit the bathroom - and my legs gave out. Dami helped me to the bathroom, which which I was to become my frequent residence for the rest of the week. I called my boss around 8:00 PM to let him know I would be unable to teach Wednesday morning's class. Fortunately, that class was to have been a full-period exam, so I sent the exam files to him and went to bed. Even wrapped in layers of clothing, blasted by a space-heater and warmed by Dami and our Pumpkin (also nicknamed "Medicine Kitty" for her propensity to lie purring on people who are sick), I shivered uncontrollably all night, leaving the bed long enough to void myself further, clean up, and repeat the process. I got some idea of just how sick I'd become when at one point that night I tried to open a bottle of Sobe energy drink and literally couldn't break the seal. That weakness, in some ways, scared me even more than the illness itself.

Wednesday dawned, and I felt slightly better. As I'd posted here, the (I thought...) aftermath of Gutzilla's rampage left me drained and sore. I tried to concentrate on the next round of Ravens proofs, but felt unable to focus. An attempt to eat toast ended with a few restless bites of something that smelled ashy and tasted worse. A cycle of naps had me feeling better - deceptively so. How little I understood...

Wednesday night, the Gutpocalpyse broke full-force. Like the 500-foot radioactive horror that torched Tokyo, like the chalices poured out upon the earth by vast and wrathful angels, pain and misery outside my spectrum of previous experience descended. Now, I've been stabbed, burned, tear-gassed, operated upon and cut by a chainsaw; I've had bones broken and fillings drilled and wisdom teeth removed and so when I say that nothing has ever hurt me like the surges of excruciation that hit Wednesday night, that's no small thing to describe. Thankfully, [info]chinchillagirl had vacated our sick-ward apartment by then, wisely deciding she didn't want to get infected. I'm glad she did. Shortly after dusk, the periodic discomfort that had ebbed and flowed all day turned into a tsunami of gastrointestinal horrors. Worst of all, however, was the pain as my GI tract simultaniously bloated, purged and tied itself in knots trying to dislodge whatever the hell was wrong with it. Anything I took was voided within minutes; anything I tried to use for relief proved ueselss. Medication, meditation, yoga, hot baths, heat pads... the worst part of all of it was my sheer helplessness. Well, that plus an intestinal tract with delusions of becoming a black hole of hypercompounded gravity physics, but you get the general idea. Poor Dami held me, watched over me and - at one point - drove out to find some medicine for me at 2:00 AM or so. Finally, we managed to drift off and get something resembling sleep.

Thursday, I was starting to get pissed. By this time, I was days behind on the Ravens proof, hadn't eaten solid food in days, had a belly swollen to trailer trash proportions, and was spending more time either asleep or in the bathroom than I was getting work done. Anger is a great motivator. A combination of stubbornness, periodic sleep and the sheer enthusiasm of reading Ravens cover-to-cover in an all-but-final form got me through another day of cramping, bloating and pain. As I told Dami that night, I'm not sure how much of that was due simply to getting used to the sickness and how much involved getting mad at it, but Thursday - though miserable - was considerably better than Wednesday had been.

By Friday, everything that had gone in had come back out. In an odd Zen sort of way, that brought a sense of serenity to the proceedings. It was payday, so we originally thought to perhaps go to an Urgent Care facility and blow whatever cash it took to finally make this damned thing go away. Instead, Dami brought her formidable Mama lore to bear, and returned from a long shopping trip with apple sauce, Gatorade, crackers, and bottles of medicines and herbs, including Valerian.(**) I took them by the handful, and dozed. When I woke, I felt distinctly better. As Friday is our date night, we settled in to watch The Protector when a funny thing happened: I noticed that I'd acquired an appetite. For the previous few days, the mere sight of food labels had made me nauseous; when Dami had cooked food for herself, it'd smelt burnt and sour to me(***), and nothing I ate tasted in any way appealing. Friday evening, though, I ate some apple sauce, nibbled and some crackers... and nothing happened! No run to the bathroom, no cramps, no boiling gut-bubbles surging through me - nothing! We enjoyed the movie, rested, then watched Clerks also and went to bed at a reasonable hour. Having finally finished Ravens, I was able to sleep the night through for the first time since Monday.

Which brings us to yesterday, when I woke up feeling like my old self again - worn-out, sore and drained, but otherwise healthy. Together, we cleaned the apartment thoroughly, ate a small but healthy brunch, went out shopping, planned to go see Coraline, and speculated about what Gutzilla's pedigree might have been.

Y'see, Gutzilla's Gutpocalyse shared elements of the norovirus, food poisoning, and various other gastrointestinal ailments we'd investigated. I'd had the opportunity to be exposed to several potential causes - Dami's Monday-night sickness, food poisoning via pizza or tuna sandwich, viruses on the bus or at gaming itself - but no one else around me (with the exception of one dude in our gaming group, who I think may have been a vector) appeared to get sick from any one of them.. and certainly not as sick. Eventually, we figured that I'd been hit by several things all at once, with the severity of the illness compounded by that abdominal collision. And so, we went off to run some errands...

...Whereupon Dami began to get sick.

So we came home, put her to bed, dosed her with meds, and started watching the signs.

Thankfully, she doesn't seem to have met Gutzilla. She certainly isn't well, and this time out I'm taking care of her. Maybe by catching things early and having some idea of what to expect, we can avoid a repeat of this week's worst effects.

For now, though, please send some healing energy to my sweetheart. She has been an INCREDIBLE partner these last few days, and without her (and Medicine Kitty), I don't even want to think of how much worse the Gutpocalypse might have been... 

Thank you, Belovedest, and be well!

And as for you, Gutzilla - hie thee hence! Go infest a gathering of Republican insurance CEOs or something, and leave honest hard-working folk alone! 


 

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* - Anyone who has seen this film in its original, Japanese-language non-Raymond-Burricized version knows that Gorjila is no kiddy film. It's a horror movie of the sort that only a nation that has been bombed and nuked to ashes could have conceived. Scenes cut from the Americanized Godzilla: King of the Monsters include people cooked to ashes by Gorjila's breath, screaming children with radiation burns, long panoramas of a burning Tokyo, and a woman comforting her sobbing kids with, "It's okay - we'll be with papa soon" just before they're vaporized by the beast's atomic breath. When I saw the real Gorjila in a theatre during its stateside release in 2004, the theatre was dead-shocked silent at the scenes of burning rubble and radiation carnage. Before its famous re-incarnation as Godzilla:KotM, Gorjila was a coping mechanism for a nation that had both inflicted and endured some of the greatest horrors in human memory. That fact has nothing to do with my stomach illness, but it's interesting anyway.

** - Old Mage fans ought to be amused by that one!

*** - Commonly a symptom of food poisoning rather than viral infection. 
 

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Ravens Excerpt: Five Weeks Out

She had rings on her fingers and bells on her toes and business to tend in the heart of the city. In dark, litter-strewn alleys, her jingling steps echoed from close walls of molting brick so that, even in their ecstasy-induced madness, the rooftop ravers could hear the sound.

Lights from distant skyscrapers blinked on and off, and the occasional flare of a match sent sparks shooting from her fingers where silver rings clacked against each other like skeletal birds in flight. Rats scuttled out of her way, their eyes small stars lining the gutters. She paid no heed to them, nor to the dancers above, and on the broken sidewalk her feet never faltered...

- from "A Tithe for the Piper," by Erzebet YellowBoy

Piper

Art by Echo Chernick


Ravens in the Library - Find out More


Five weeks today, almost to the hour, a crazy raven hatched in my brain and went cawing around our living room. This week, that project heads into Sherry's steady hands - and from thence, to the printers, and then out to you.

Cheers!

Friday, January 23, 2009

Sneak Preview from Ravens in the Library

Time only slows down for dying and speeding down empty highways. Winding thoughts of should-have-been are the only clocks when tires hiss with asphalt. Wise drivers know not to get lost there. Legendary ones just enjoy the ride. No one owns that moment, no matter what the automobile salesmen might try to say. You can flow into it, trudge long within it, and sometimes find Enlightenment because of it, but changing it is never going to happen.

Premonitions and chrome, they only reflect the angles you wish to see. This is even true when there is no hope that you will find out if the visions were true. Memories on the other hand are living things. There is no question that a life was lived.

Being murdered makes so many things so clear...


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- From "Mercury," by Elizabeth Jordan Leggett

Here's just a taste of the goodies gathered by our Ravens in the Library. As some of you may have seen, we signed Laurell K. Hamilton to this project yesterday, and she rounds out a roster of big names and new voices who've gathered their talents to help S.J. Tucker recover from her recent illness.

Elizabeth Jordan Leggett is one of those "new voice" contributors - a gifted author and artist whose work reveals just how rich 21st-century fantasy can be.

This story, and many others, appears only in Ravens in the Library. And although many Raven tales are reprints too, no other book contains the lineup of authors and artists you'll find within those pages.

Ravens in the Library goes to layout next week, and from there it goes to press in early February. I'll be posting more updates in this space as our release date nears. Come check 'em out, and please spread the word.

Thanks!

width="200" height="100" border="0" align="right" alt="Ravens in the
Library - Find out More"
src="http://sjtucker.com/images/ravens-animated.gif" />

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Happy Obama Day!!!




Whatever today brings, whatever follows for the next four years, today marks an historic event.

It isn't merely that Barack Hussein Obama is a departure from the Crusty White Man power archetype that sets him apart. While there will be plenty of ink, tears and pixels spilled on that subject (here, among many other places), the true significance of today's inauguration is that the system worked. After eight years of being told and shown that we were trapped within a literally rigged game of Cowboy Poker, we the American People stood up, took control, and brought the most unlikely viable(*) presidential candidate in living memory and chose him to represent us all.

As I wrote on my other blog yesterday, the greatest power of an American president is symbolic. S/he reflects the nation as a whole. With Barack Obama, we have chosen a man who symbolizes the hope, diversity, intellect, eloquence, activism and decisive change from the Old Way Of Doing Things (TM). That a man whose father was an immigrant from a poor and often despised nation, whose mother held old roots in this country's shame and promise, whose skin color reflects the slavery that remains this nation's second-greatest sin (**) and whose ballsy intellect embodies its bravest virtue could become our president says great things about our culture. It's not time to give up on us yet. And that, I think, is the most inspiring thing of all.

May Obama remain the symbol these desperate times demand. May he dodge every bullet (figurative and literally) and transcend his own failings. May this be the beginning of a new, enduring path for America and for our world as we enter the second decade of this new and challenging millennium. May all attacks against him fail and return against their senders with Threefold Return, save those launched in justice should he turn from his proclaimed path. May Obama the Man survive his vast potential of becoming Obama the Martyr, and may the Hope he represents become the gateway for a new and better age for us all.

Whatever happens from here on out, we stand on the threshold of a brand new era.

May Barack Obama, America and humanity as a whole prove worthy of this moment.

Blessings!






-----------------------

* - By this, I mean one who actually stood a chance of being elected and serving in office.

** - I count the Native American genocide as its greatest sin.

Thursday, January 8, 2009

RAVENS IN HE LIBRARY: AN ALL-STAR BENEFIT COLLECTION

Ravens in the Library - Add to Cart
Featuring Tales by:
Ari Berk
Holly Black
Francesca Lia Block
Phil Brucato
Sam Chupp
Storm Constantine
Charles de Lint
Ben Dobyns
Jaymi Elford
Neil Gaiman
Alexandra Honigsberg
Elizabeth Jordan Leggett
Shira Lipkin
Angel Leigh McCoy
Seanan McGuire
Kris Millering and Storm Wilder
Mia Nutick
S.J. Tucker
Carrie Vaughn
Catherynne M. Valente
Terri Windling

and others...

With Illustrations by:
Amy Brown
James A. Owen
Brian Syme

and others...

Edited by:
Phil Brucato
& Sandra Buskirk

Graphic Design by:
Sherry Lynne Baker
The Ravens in the Library Project, in connection with
"A Healthy Dose of Sooj"
and "Save Our Sooj" presents

RAVENS IN THE LIBRARY:
MAGIC IN THE BARD'S NAME

A Limited Edition Collection of Stories and Art dedicated to the health of S.J. Tucker

This special VERY limited edition has been compiled to defray the medical expenses and recovery of musician S.J. Tucker.

The collection will NOT be released in stores, and it is NOT downloadable! It will be available only as long as those expenses remain unresolved. After that, RAVENS IN THE LIBRARY will disappear.

Order your advance copy today... Before they fly away forever!

Add to Cart$25.00 includes shipping & handling
within the continental United States

Anticipated Release Date*: Feb. 22, 2009
Trade Paperback format
Color covers, B&W interiors
Self-Published by The Ravens in the Library Project

With Heartfelt Thanks to Ellen Datlow and all contributors.

* - barring delays in printing or production.

View Cart

Sunday, December 28, 2008

S.O.S. - Save Our Sooj


Good morning!

As many of you have heard (but many others have not), our beloved friend and bard S.J. "Sooj" Tucker has been in the hospital. At the moment, the cause of her distress remains uncertain, but appendicitis is the current diagnosis. In any case, her treatment has already been expensive, and will probably become much more so, especially if surgery becomes necessary. Like many independent artists, Sooj has no medical insurance. And like most Americans without medical insurance, this leaves her utterly screwed without significant help from friends, fans and loved ones.

And so, we're spreading the word about "A Healthy Dose of Sooj" - a fund-raising effort to secure treatment and security for our ailing friend. As the site reveals, this isn't a charity effort. Although donations are welcome, Sooj and her partner/ manager K are offering CDs, downloads, podcasts and other goodies in exchange for contributions. This way, you can help one of the country's brightest and hardest-working young artists survive a traumatic illness and you'll also get some kick-ass music for your own collection. Or - if you already have all of Sooj's albums - you can help spread the word and give the gift of Sooj to other folks. After all, Tucker is a grass-roots artist who spits in the eye of "The Big-Box Music Biz(TM." And that, my friends, is certainly worth supporting!

To that end, I'm also offering some of my own work as well. I haven't mentioned this until now, but I've been working with artist Bryan Syme on an urban fantasy webcomic entitled String Theory. Inspired, in part, by Sooj herself, String Theory follows a young bard named Meghan Susan Green as she discovers just how strange her world - and her talents - truly are. Bryan and I have been writing and drawing this project for months, and plan to go live with it as soon as we have 30 episodes ready to post. That goal is still somewhat in the future. Folks who contribute to Sooj's medical fund, however, can enjoy the following "sneak peeks" at this project-in-progress:

* Sponsors who contribute $15 to help Sooj will receive prints of five String Theory character modeling sketches, signed by Bryan. and I.

* Sponsors who contribute $25 to help Sooj will receive a signed print of an installment of String Theory, unlettered and signed by Bryan and I.

* Sponsors who contribute $50 will appear as characters within the strip, named and thanked at the bottom of the page when it appears. Those folks will also receive a print of that installment, signed by Bryan and I.

* For sponsors who contribute $100 or more, I'l create a fantasy version of you and make that character into a regular on the strip, with corresponding prints and credit (although rights to that character will remain attached to the String Theory property).

I'll be collecting donations via my PayPal account, then sending the funds to Sooj and K once I have the sponsor's address and so forth. Alternately, you could forward the funds to Sooj's own donations page, and then let me know what you contributed and where to send the prints. This adds a step, though, and may be harder to keep track of.

Either way, please help Save Our Sooj. In the absence of a working health-coverage system in our country, it falls to us to support one another - and, in sickness and in health, S.J. Tucker is one person worth supporting!

Thanks & Blessings!

Friday, December 26, 2008

Winter of Our (Dis)Content?

What a shitty Christmas… or is it?

Certainly, retailers would agree. The season of mass consumption that so many American (and European) companies use to pull themselves into the black is proving this year to be a black hole instead. Although the malls are still full (*1), people aren’t buying like they used to. Sales aren’t making projections, and the economic talking-heads are filled with gloom. Hell, even the “war on Christmas” crowd is quieter than they’ve been in years. Add that to the worsening global economy, vast swaths of investor fraud, a couple of shootouts, a crushed Wal-Mart temp and a forced miscarriage or two, and things look truly dismal this Christmas season.

Unless you take a good, hard look at our priorities and realize it’s about damned time they changed.

Now, I’m no Grinch. Pagan or not, I love the Christmas season. Regardless of the religious trappings hung around its neck, I’ve always enjoyed the festive bustle this time of year. I like the lights, the decorations, the Ranken-Bass cheesiness of it all. Hell, I even enjoy most of the music up to a certain point. To me, it’s appropriate even when it’s tacky. Looking at the real “reason for the season,” we see societies in the midst of winter who needed – and enjoyed – a reason to celebrate. Long before Catholic Churchmen decided to assign a December date to celebrate their savior’s birth (*2), people living (and dying) by Nature’s favor celebrated this season as a time of reflection, renewal, community and generosity.

This last part, however, has gotten a little out of hand.

Look, I love presents. Love getting ‘em, love giving ‘em. As anyone who’s read my oft-reprinted essay on presents (*3) knows, I enjoy both giving and receiving gifts. My family has always been a generous one, and my holiday memories involve large heaps of neat stuff under various trees. When I can, I add plenty of goodies to those piles myself; last year, with a few good paychecks in my wallet, I blew over two grand on my friends and family, and thoroughly enjoyed the process. So no – Scrooge McSatyr I’m not.

Still, I’ve worked more than my share of retail holidays, and I hope never to do it again. Each year, people and employers have grown more and more absurd in their demands. Staggering amounts of resources (natural and otherwise) go into staging an explosive and frankly unsustainable orgy of production, consumption and disposal. Trees, plastics, people, even land are used, then thrown away to feed “the Christmas Spirit.”(*4)

In a sickly ironic counterpoint to the words and deeds attributed to the Christ, people are often the first casualties of the modern “holiday season.” The appalling story of poor Jdimytai Damour and his grieving co-workers – topped off by the fatal shoot-out in a fucking toy store between a couple of gangsta assholes later that same day – underscores a litany of complaints familiar to anyone who reads the customers_suck community. The fact that Wal-Mart shoppers resisted leaving the store even after they learned that their greed had just murdered a man says all we really need to know about the nature of this insanity.(*5)

The insanity doesn’t begin or end with shopping, either. While evangelical hordes howl their pride about “the reason for the season,” corporate Scrooges & Marleys indulge in a more insidious “war on Christmas” – the one you won’t be hearing about from Bill O’Reily. For the last decade or so, the season that’s supposed to celebrate generosity and community has become the traditional time to lay off employees “for the greater good (*6).” Such annual “housecleaning” supposedly makes for a stronger bottom line at the end of the year. Fifteen years ago, this postmodern take on A Christmas Carol was an obscenity; now it’s expected that your “Christmas bonus” may be a pink slip instead. Too bad about the kids, huh? Drive yourself into debt buying those gifts, and then lose the job that was supposed to pay for them. Merry Christmas, dude.

The irony of this is sickening. Despite the Christ’s aversion to selfishness, Bebbie Jayzus Amen™ has become the patron saint of greed. A perfect example can be seen just a few weeks ago, when weeping employees at Aseptico, a local company, were laid off without warning or compensation; meanwhile, as people who thought they’d had stable jobs were escorted off the premises by armed security guards, their erstwhile CEO Doug Kazen floated off the Inner Sound on a cruise liner, schooling a well-heeled Christian group in the virtues of… wait for it… compassion and selflessness in business.

Ho, ho, ho, indeed. Where are Santa, Jesus or icebergs when you really need ‘em?

We can expect this coming January to suck even worse than usual. Low Christmas sales, combined with the insane traditions outlined above, will make for some pretty bloody bottom lines. It’s a vicious cycle, folks, and it should be telling us something.

It’s time to knock it off.

We must reassess our priorities, or they will be reassessed for us.

Two of the many elements that drew me to postmodern Paganism are the principles of cycles and consequences. The first principle asserts that Creation is filled with obvious and discernable cycles, while the second maintains that all things have consequences, usually revealed and manifested through those cycles. In contrast to the linear progression of Western science and religion (in which you start at Point A, move through Point B and finish up at Point C), these principles assert that “what goes around, comes around” – and that if you’re smart, you’ll watch those comings and goings for clues about how to live. It’s not rocket science, really – the doctrine shows up in everything from biblical psalms to Karmic sutras, folk wisdom and playground rhymes. For one insidious reason, however, the principle that “You reap what you sow” (*7) has been shunted aside for over a century.

And that reason is consumerism.

For the last 120 years or so, the human political struggle has been generalized as the battle between communisim (also called “socialism” by folks who don’t understand either one) and capitalism, the great forge of the modern world. (*8) Thing is, the greedy beast that wound up feeding on shoppers, employees and environments alike originally came crawling out of the catalogs and magazines of Victorian England (*9). For despite its age-old pedigrees, many of the “Christmas traditions” we know so well – including those piles of brightly-wrapped gifts – originated in Dickens’ London, Ground Zero for the true gospel of the 20th century: consumerism. Before then, holiday gifts were modest tokens exchanged between intimates, or displays of generosity (and bribery…) given by those who could afford them to those who could not. It was Victorian England that turned holiday gifts into cultural requirements, and linked spiritual celebration with economic necessity.

You won’t find consumerism listed as one of the soci-economic movements of the past century. Even so, consumerism is the basis for the current world economy, an economy which demands even-greater consumption of ever-greater amounts of goods by ever-greater numbers of consumers. Without a perpetual increase in consumption, however, that economy starts to tilt into the red. On paper, this concept is called “forecast profits” and “global trade.” In reality, it’s an unsustainable, unsupportable, and frankly insane form of economic suicide.

Everybody’s doing this. No nation is immune. From the theocratic sands of Saudi Arabia to the pseudo-communistic halls of Chinese government, consumerism literally makes our world go ‘round. Everyone is counting on everybody else to BuyBuyBuy in a ponzi scheme of global proportions. It’s all based on an expectation of endless consumption and endless expansion without collapse – a violation of several laws of physics and consequence. As Nature tells us, that which goes up will come down. The higher it goes, the harder it falls. And here it is, falling like winter snow.

I hope it’s not as hard a winter as it could be.

I hope we can stop being spoiled brats and learn to appreciate what’s truly important in life while we still have a chance to do so without complete disaster.

Personally, I think we’re getting a cosmic smack upside the head. As Dami and I were discussing yesterday, in a sad sort of way, the current crisis is good for us all. Because, friends and neighbors, the wheels are seriously coming off this bright little buggy of ours. When people are being shot and stamped to death in the name of Christmas cheer, we need new definitions and expectations about Christmas. When the world’s economy depends on a single holiday based around waste, it doesn’t take a Grinch to realize something’s wrong.

Whatever you call it, “the reason for the season” has got to change.

So, yeah - this is gonna be a scant holiday for me and mine. Almost everyone I know has been either pay-frozen, laid off or seriously beggared by this economic “downturn” of ours. For the first time in my 43 years, I’m not able to be with my family this year; even if I could, there’s no real money in my bank account to get them anything, thanks to a semester-long drop in enrollment at my college. Meanwhile, merchants all over Seattle are looking at their balance sheets and tearing out what little’s left of their hair because the old expectations are coming up short, thanks to the economy, the snowstorms, and a general lack of good old-fashioned cash-n-credit consumerism. The Godzillian bloat of St. Consumerism has left us all in the lurch this year, and if Little Timmy’s getting even half of his usual holiday horde, he’s the luckiest kid on the block.

And y’know what? I don’t think that’s a bad thing for us in the long run.

Like I said, I like stuff. I like giving and receiving. But if the last 10 years of writerly vagabondship have taught me anything, it’s that stuff is fleeting. It looks nice on the shelf, but when you need to pare down and consolidate, it really gets in the way. Ten years ago, I was a successful author and game designer with a great line of credit, a wonderful spouse, savings, investments, and an apartment – soon afterward a house – filled with cool stuff. Now, a decade later, almost all of that material stuff is gone, along with my former wife. What hasn’t been sold has been given away, thrown out, or stashed in storage somewhere. Aside for my book and CD collections, almost none of it exists in my day-to-day world. And y’know what? Although the divorce was painful and I still miss the person whom I had hoped was my lifetime partner, I feel no great loss over the lost stuff. Sure, financial stability was kinda nice. The stuff, though, was just stuff. I haven’t really missed it much at all. (*10)

So as yet another snowfall coats the Seattle streets, I think that yeah, we need this. It’s painful, but it’s good for us.

The current economic crash, this slide down Mazlow’s Hierarchy of Needs, the whittling of expectations from “I need everything in sight” to “I just realized what I truly need” – these are good things. We’ve all gotten spoiled in this Big Box world of ours, and it’s about damned time we recognized the need to cut back while we can still do so with relative ease.

Because, as Nature tells us, environments do correct themselves.

That’s what Winter is for.

It’s time for the earth to rest.

Maybe it’s time we gave consumerism a rest as well. Before the world we know is laid to rest by the greed we forgot to control until it was too late.

So take a deep breath, spend time with your loved ones, and let Creation’s cycles and humanity’s myths remind you what’s important in life.

Love. Balance. Sharing. And above all else, Gratitude.

For all its terrors, this Life is a gift.

Enjoy it, cherish it, and share it.



(As for Mr. Kazen: I refer you to the parable of Lazarus and the Rich Man. And may Bebbie Jay-zus shit in your stocking.)


--------------------------------

1. - Except here in Seattle, where the worst snowstorms in recorded history have paralyzed large portions of the marketplace.

2. - A date utterly at odds with the scriptural story in Luke 2:1-21… which, by the way, is the only gospel that treats the subject of Christ’s birth in any detail. The first mention of a December Christmas occurs in 354 AD.

3. - Which I’ll probably repost here later.

4. - A voracious entity of apparently Cthulhoid proportions.

5. - Don’t even get me started on the Third-World sweatshop labor used to create those endless acres of holiday junk.

6. - …of the stockholders, upper management, and other warriors of the Golden Parachute Brigade.

7. - See Job 4:8 and Galatians 6:7.

8 – This is a gross simplification, as it ignores imperialism, theocracy and fascism. Even those movements, however, have usually dressed themselves in the trappings and practices of either Capitalism or Communism since the 1800s.

9. – See Inside the Victorian Home, by Judith Flanders, to see just how much our ideas of “social propriety” have been governed by merchants who finance advertising and entertainment that tell us how dearly we need the things they produce.

10. – I do miss my former wife a LOT, and being able to travel freely, help friends out, and go to the doctor when I need to do so really didn't suck, either.

Thursday, December 25, 2008

Sunday, December 21, 2008

R.I.P. Sir Sable LePlume


Sir Sable lePlume (see entry below) passed over at 12:51 PM, Pacific time, at the beginning of Yule. Aside from a brief struggle at the very end, he was not in pain, and he died in Damiana's arms as I held them both and Pumpkin (our other cat) watched over us all. He was purring until the very end, and that went by quickly. It was snowing hard outside, and Steve Reich's "Music for Mallet Instruments, Voices and Organ" was playing in the background. He is resting peacfully now, and will be very dearly missed.

Snow and Mortality


It's been an interesting weekend.

As anyone who's seen the news (or the ground outside) knows, Seattle has been hit with its third snowstorm in a week. This one dumped roughly a foot of snow here in Cap Hill, then sheened it over with a coat of ice. Anyone going out on the roads around here is out of their fucking minds today, so we're gonna sit at home, watch movies, read, and...

Well, we've also been nursing Sir Sable lePlume, aka, The Cat Who Will Not Die. A 20-year-old long-haired black cat, Sable won my heart upon our first meeting last year. Cantankerous, fussy and utterly endearing, Sable embodies the truism that cats and people domesticate each other. Despite arthritis and extreme old age, Sable has - until this weekend - remained strong, alert and pretty much healthy for the entire time I've known him. He's survived strokes, fits, illness, moves, dogs, fur mats, stitches, clumsy people, and more years on earth than some readers of this blog. Sadly, he took sick a few days ago, and has since dwindled to a handful of fur, bones, dry skin and attitude.

We figured that Sable was on his way to the Great Passage Friday night. Thursday evening, he ambled over to our futon and laid down on it in a way he hadn't done in months. That morning, he could barely walk. After he stopped eating and bundled himself into a pile on the floor, we thought he was ready to pack it in. Friday afternoon, Dami and made him a warm bed on the couch, then (after he climbed off the couch) settled him on the floor in front of a heater. Blowing off our usual Friday date night, we placed a heating pad underneath him and started straw-feeding him water and milk, saying our good-byes to him as he seemed to slip into that borderland between this world and the next...

...until he got up and decided to stagger to his feet, walk across the living room and go to his food bowl. He collapsed there, though, so we fed him some more, took him back to the makeshift bed, and read there, more or less in silence, each of us with our hands on Sable, letting him know we were there.

As we started to nod off, Sable remained more-or-less conscious. He didn't seem to be in pain - just deeply tired. So we took him to bed with us, set him up at the foot of our futon with a space heater aimed at him, the heating pad still beneath him, and a thin blanket over him. Again, we let Sable know that we loved him, and that it was okay if he wanted to slip away.

I had problems sleeping that night. Sable and I bonded fairly early into my stay with Damiana. I've been one of the few people he allows to pick him up and hold him, and although his litterbox habits have sometimes gotten on my nerves(*), he's been an adorably stubborn companion. As recently as Thursday morning, his senses were so sharp that he could hear Dami and I whispering in bed (on the other side of a closed door) and demand loudly to be fed and watered in his favorite drinking-place, the bathtub. I've often remarked that Sable survives on a combination of wet food and attitude (until this weekend, he'd earned the nickname Food Hoover for his voracious eating habits), and that he's had more comebacks than The Who, The Rolling Stones and The Kinks put together. In his refusal to let age get the better of him, Sable earned my affection and respect. I love this cantankerous scrap of fur, and I will miss him deeply when he's gone.

He has not yet decided to go.

So about 3:00 AM, I was awakened by a feline sneeze. I reached down and felt Sable's head hanging over the edge of the mattress. Apparently, he'd decided to go have a walk, but couldn't quite get off the bed. Gently, I pulled him back onto the heating pad, tucked him back in, and began talking to Dami. Somewhere in the middle of our conversation, he pulled himself out from beneath the blanket by his front claws, and wound up almost hanging off the bed again. Despite all indications, Sable had continued to kick the Reaper's ass. Giving him water and milk and making sure he was as comfortable as possible, we went back to sleep.

The next morning, Sable pulled himself up, got off the futon, peed (on a pile of laundry next to the bed - ah well, it'll wash), and walked shakily but determinedly out to the kitchen. I put him in the bathtub to see if he wanted to drink from it, but he didn't seem to be interested in that. Clearly, though, he could see, was responsive to sensation, and was able to purr. His legs gave out again, though, so we cuddled him for a while, bundled him up, and set him back on the bed (this time a bit off from the heating pad). He seemed comfortable enough, so I went to an audition at the LRS(***) . Walking a fair distance for an off-schedule bus, I made it downtown just in time for the audition. Dami joined me downtown afterward, and we did some holiday shopping. As the snow began to fall downtown, we caught one of the last buses back to our vicinity and hiked back amidst a stunningly beautiful landscape of snow.

Sable was till on the bed, sleepy but aware. Again, we fed him, watered him, and curled up in bed, reading. As we fell asleep, he remained there, still cognizant and purring softly. As of a few minutes ago, he's still with us.

Now, under other circumstances, I might have decided to take Sable to a vet and put him to sleep. By now, he's stopped eating (except when fed by hand), stopped meowing, and seems unable to stand, much less walk, on his own again. Problem is, our roads have been covered in snow and ice since Thursday morning; buses aren't running out to our neighborhood, and a long walk in the cold while stuck in a cat carrier would be, we feel, more distressing to Sable than simply passing away at home in the presence of people who love him. He hasn't seemed to be in real pain - uncomfortable, but not in obvious distress - and... well, as of this writing, he just doesn't seem to be willing to die just yet. And after a hideous experience my sister had a few years back with a dog who seemed ready to die but wasn't(**), I'm not willing to put an animal down unless that animal appears ready to pass over or is in obvious pain. As of now, Sable is neither.

As I mentioned, I felt incredibly sad on Friday night. Sable has a dear place in my heart, and I kinda identify with the rugged little furheap. My affection for "the old man" runs deep enough for me to put up with his less-endearing habits, and as someone who's not always the easiest person to get along with sometimes, I can identify with that element of his personality, too. The last few days have also tapped into some old memories of my death-watches over Warren, my mother's late husband(****), and Salome, my 18-year-old cat who passed on shortly before I left Atlanta. For a while, I couldn't sleep. And then, after his 3:00 AM revival, a bit of reading and some quiet words with my Higher Powers, I realized that Sable's time of passing is his choice, not my responsibility. More to the point, I understood the values of silence and stillness. As an American in the Media Age, I feel so conditioned to constant activity and stimulation that it's often hard to recognize when it's time to slow down and be quiet. Sable is obviously choosing to take a little time before he goes. He's had plenty of opportunities to slip away quietly... and he will do so soon. Despite my sadness, though, I'm not willing to rush him along.

As a Pagan, I accept death as an inevitable part of Creation's cycle, not as some abhorrent thing. Even so, there's a cold quality to passing on. Symbolically, it matches the snow and ice now packed across our streets. The implacable beauty of mortality and snow defies our illusions of control. So for now, I contemplate both and savor the life that is so obviously and precariously a gift.


------------------
* - He left hard little "messages" on area rugs when he felt he hadn't received his share of attention... but at least he's done so in predictable places that are easy to clean up afterward.

** - Litle Red Studio, and it's okay. If the guy who was cast is the one I suspect was cast, I'd have chosen him over me, too.

*** - Buster had a huge cancerous tumor, and could no longer walk. My mom and sister took him to the vet, but it took three shots, almost five minutes and horrible distress from the dog before Buster passed over. No thanks.

**** - Another scrappy piece of work. I was with Warren when he passed on, and although that was a wrenching time on many levels, I'm very glad to have been there with him.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Unleashing on a Pet Peeve: "The Wise Ancients Believed [FILL IN THE BLANK]..."




The following is a response to a friend of mine, who had re-posted a third-party comment about what ancient Egyptians "really believed." As a postmodern mystic Pagan fantasy author who's spent decades with his face buried in occulto-spiritual/ historical texts and who has read a metric shit-ton's worth of "facts" regarding people and societies whose daily lives remain virtually inconceivable to us, I have a Kong-sized pet peeve regarding this sort of thing. Sure, we can make educated guesses about the "real facts" of bygone days. But - as the Internet reveals about the age we live in - the subtle totality of human experience and belief, even now, is a vast enigma, not a certainty.

-------------------
I'm gonna get smacked for saying this, but...

We have no earthly idea about who meant what to the ancient Egyptians. All we have to go on are a reconstructed language that was translated from a Greco-Roman transcription tablet found accidentally by French soldiers almost two centuries ago. The fragments of that language are based on suppositions, little bits of modern Egyptian interpretation, a predominantly male academic tradition, and a whole lot of guesswork. Even then, the fragments of authentic Egyptian lore are pictograms (often incomplete) gleaned from the few remaining fragments of temples and government records. Those pictograms are extremely basic, with little nuance, no distinct subtle grammar, lots of room from interpretation, and a very high percentage of erroneous interpretation.



Saying "the ancients really believed such-and-such" is an absurd proposition. Even when we have detailed transcriptions in still-living languages (say, the Bible), the "real" meanings behind an author's thought are suppositions at best. The idea of insisting that "the ancient so-and-so's believed [Bleh]" is as accurate as assuming that a Sino-Hindustanian visitor from the 25th century would know what you "really believed" because they'd read a reconstructed version of English based on fragments of a menu found at an excavated Dennys. In France.



Pet peeve on the loose! Run for your lives! :)

Monday, December 8, 2008

Late Celebrity You Miss Most? Wendy O. Williams




Question: RIP John Lennon. The list of sudden and unexpected celebrity deaths is long—Princess Di, Heath Ledger, Kurt Cobain, Marilyn Monroe, and many more. Which one affected you the most on an emotional level?

No question: Wendy Orleans Williams of The Plasmatics. (1949-1998)


One of my favorite rock bands to this day, The Plasmatics were a pack of musical terrorists who provided my first real taste of Punk Rock in 1980. I caught them on Tom Snyder's Tomorrow show, the first mass-market stage of the Punk invasion, thanks to some savvy music directors and Tom's snide willingness to play along with the insanity. Immediately, I was hooked, both on the sheer ferocity of the band and on the Kong-sized balls of its singer, Wendy O. Williams.

While many of the most visible Punk bands were (and remain) drunken goons, The Plasmatics had definite methods to their madness. One of the first bands to merge Heavy Metal with Punk Rock, The Plasmatics declared war on the materialistic excesses of American consumerism in general and the 1970s in particular. Although each member was a walking affront to society (especially tutu'd beanpole Richie Stotts and Haitian-giant-with-white-mohawk Jean Beauvoir), the band's lead shock trooper was busty Wendy, whose daredevil antics and ample charms both seduced and repelled mainstream America. Wendy sang like a trash compactor and castrated guitars with glee. The press - and fans - could not get enough of her. Neither could I.

Roughly 15 at the time I first saw them, I had finally found music that fit the smash-em-up mood of my adolescence. Thanks to a new school and a short-lived residency with my father ('78-'80 or thereabouts*), I discovered a succession of bands that blew my world inside-out: Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, Led Zepplin, Van Halen, Queen, The Sex Pistols, Rush, AC-DC, The Ramones and The Plasmatics, among many others. Unusually savvy for his generation, Dad had told me about the existence of Punk. He even rather liked The Ramones, and we planned - but never made it - to go see Rock-n-Roll High School together when it first came out. Dad had heard of The Plasmatics and Sex Pistols, and although he wasn't a big fan of their excesses, he seemed to respect their spirit. Intrigued, I caught the infamous Tom Snyder show episode featuring Wendy and Co., and was totally floored. I've loved 'em ever since.

It wasn't just that Wendy was hot, although that part certainly didn't hurt. What blew me away - then and now - was the raw daring of the so-called "Demon Queen of Destruction." In an era where few rock women even picked up a guitar, Wendy hefted chainsaws, guns and dynamite. She drove buses through walls of TVs, jumped cars loaded with explosives off of piers, and eventually skydived off a biplane (after wing-walking it) naked. She fought cops fist-to-face, and spat out war-cries against the status quo. An avowed vegetarian and animal-rights activist, she walked the walk even as she blew it to pieces. To this day, Wendy's life and career make most rock stars - male and female - look like utter pussies. How could I not love that?

The band's first several album-length releases - New Hope for the Wretched and Beyond the Valley of 1984, plus the EP Metal Priestess - (**) remain some of my all-time favorites. Sadly, The Plasmatics began to decline, first by releasing a fairly lame Metal album called Coup d'Ea't and a weird concept album called Maggots. By then, the band and its schtick were wearing thin. Wendy broke away for a solo career - jump-started by Gene Simmns and several members of Kiss - and that's when I finally got to see my beloved Demon Queen of Destruction live.

It think it was 1986, on her tour for Kommander of Kaos, that Wendy came to Richmond, VA. The fact that my friends in Death Piggy(***) were opening for her made the show that much more essential. How can I describe this? It was one of the most intense concerts I have ever seen, with bodies flying and danger swirling in the air. Wendy's fan base of skinheads, metalheads, punks, bikers, anarchists and gods-knows-what-else made for a wild and uncompromising mosh pit. I literally hung onto the stage for the first few songs, taking pictures, but when a H-U-G-E dude ripped me out of his way and flung me back several feet so he could have a better view, I decided to take my chances in the pit. If I had my flatbed scanner and photo albums here in Seattle, I'd post the shots I did get that night. As it was, the show wound up with Wendy topless (as usual), sweaty and cheered by a packed-house crowd. The next day, the local music reviewer wrote, "Weep, moan and gnash your teeth if you missed the best rock concert in Richmond this year." I didn't miss it, and I'm very glad for that.

Wendy more-or-less retired soon afterward, retreating to Conneticut with her former manager and long-time companion Rod Swenson. By then, her face had grown hard and her voice was almost completely destroyed. She worked as an animal-rights activist, health-food store employee, and occasional guest star on MacGyver(****). Aging apparently did not agree with her, however. On the same depressing week in which Rozz Williams of Christian Death hanged himself, Williams committed her final act of mayhem. Appropriately enough, she blew her own head off with a shotgun, after writing:

I don't believe that people should take their own lives without deep and thoughtful reflection over a considerable period of time. I do believe strongly, however, that the right to do so is one of the most fundamental rights that anyone in a free society should have. For me much of the world makes no sense, but my feelings about what I am doing ring loud and clear to an inner ear and a place where there is no self, only calm.

Rest easy, Ms. Williams. you earned it.

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* - This period also introduced me to roleplaying games. Dad lived in Springfield, Virginia at the time. Being shy and knowing no one, I spent a lot of time walking to Springfield Mall or listening to Dad's stereo, which was set to DC101 and WAVA105. Through the first pastime, I discovered the newly-released Advanced Dungeons & Dragons books and related miniatures; through the second, I discovered Hard Rock Music after years of listening to Top 40 stations or Dad's old '60s albums and Doo-Wop tapes. Sadly, the stores and stations of my youth are long gone, but the impact they'd had on me then remains strong.


** - This is not actually the cover of the album's original U.S. release, but it's the only one I could find online without lots of digging.


*** - The band that later morphed into Gwar. Their CD collection Smile or Die features photos I took at that very show, given afterward to Russ Bahorsky, who was in my Theatre Lit class at the time. (Thanks, Bunche, for giving me a copy of that CD!)


**** - Supposedly, she dated Richard Dean Anderson during part of the show's run. I recall reading about this, but haven't looked it up.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

"Information Should All be Free?" Really? Think About It...

The following is a response to someone on my "Has Rock Rolled" thread. I thought the whole "all information should be free" thing had gone out with the '90s. Obviously not, and so the issue is worth a larger discussion.

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I agree with you in theory about the MP3/Internet revolution. In most regards, it's been good for artists and fans, if lousy for an admittedly bloated record industry. Your "information should be free" statement, however, comes from from people who don't make their living creating intellectual properties - ie, music, books, etc. As one of the people who does make my living that way, my perspective is, shall we say, somewhat different. It's a nice idea in theory, but creating that "information" involves a LOT of WORK - inspiration, emotion, skilled labor and innate talent. And just as you wouldn't expect a stranger to come tile your bathroom, grow your food or fix your car for free, it's unreasonable to assume that an author or musician should just create neat free stuff for everyone with a computer.

File-sharing in small, consensual doses is viral marketing; on the scale it had attained before the Napster suit, however, it had become a one-sided "deal" in which hard-working musicians, producers and the labels that had put up thousands (if not millions) of dollars to record their work were having that work taken by people who were offering nothing in return. Sure, it's easy to say, "Dude, Metallica doesn't need a the money - they have plenty!" Thing is...

1: Metallica works REALLY GODDAMN HARD for that money. You think it looks easy? You try becoming a world-class musician, writing, composing and recording albums worth of material, than then spending most of your life on the road promoting it, playing it near-perfectly several hours a night for months on end. It's not easy, trust me. Just ask S.J. "Sooj" Tucker, who does it.

2: Metallica and their label spend thousands of hours and millions of dollars creating that material. Why do you think you should be entitled to have it for free? Just because of some shop-worn hacker slogan? Fucking please.

3. Metallica's label depends on the money generated by that "information" to pay its employees. If everyone suddenly downloads the music without paying for it, who pays those employees for their labor - and with what?

When you're talking about "information" like stories, music or artwork (as well as computer software), your "information" becomes someone else's labor - and very probably their living as well.

If those parties choose to share it for free (as I do when I blog), then that's cool. However, if you just download my books - books I had written to pay my rent and without which I could not eat - because you thought you had a "right" to them, then we, my friend, have a problem.

Ditto that - and square it - if you think you've got the "informational right" to take my work and claim it as your work (maybe even profiting from it) just because - hey, it should be free and unregulated. Now you know why copyright law exists. :)

You may still buy CDs from artist you support. Many other folks, though, don't bother. And who defines "support," anyway? "Yeah, I kinda like that dude's music, but it's not like I support him or anything." How does "that dude" pay the bills or get compensated for his labor if even a small part of his audience says something like that? And given that situation, why should he bother putting anything out at all? Is it his "right" to work for nothing so you can share it with 10,000 of your friends?

Sure, I believe in small-scale personal-use copying, especially when the source of the work is publicly attributed to the creator. There's s huge gulf, however, between that usage and a "totally free and unregulated flow of information" - a gulf that we're only now beginning to address.

And Sooj's work can be supported at itunes (under S.J. Tucker), at her website (http://www.skinnywhitechick.com/), and at http://www.cdbaby.com/.

Friday, December 5, 2008

End of an Era: Forrest Ackerman R.I.P.



Dammit.

Forrest J. Ackerman dies at 92.

Popular culture, geeky and otherwise, would not be what it is without the Ackermonster's gentle hand. If not for his groundbreaking fan clubs, his musem, his endless convention appearances, and most of all his magazine Famous Monsters of Filmland, the world might lack Star Wars, Close Encounters, White Zombie, Fahrenheit 451, "'Repent, Harlequin,' Said the Ticktock Man," and many other mainstays of geek and popular culture.

A generous, enthusiastic fan of weird and science-fiction media, Ackerman discovered (and sponsored) young Ray Bradbury, coined the term "sci-fi," made Boris Karloff, King Kong and Vincent Price into household names for thousands of readers (including George Lucas, Stephen Spielberg, Rob Zombie, Tim Burton and Yours Truly), and introduced those readers to everything from Kikaider to Harlan Ellison to A Clockwork Orange to Plan 9 From Outer Space. Much to Ellison's disgust, the term "sci-fi" has become the shorthand term for the most influential form of fiction in the last century. And throughout the near-century of his life, Ackerman not only witnessed the future he both feared and adored come to pass, he himself became an agent of its fruition.

Rest well, Ackermonster, and thank you for all you have inspired, created and shared with us.  



Has Rock Finally Rolled Away for Good?




Yesterday afternoon, I was listening to Pearl Jam's masterpiece Ten, when the thought hit me:

The early-mid '90s were the last time a Rock music movement really sounded interesting to me.

Let me clarify: I don't mean that I haven't heard a decent Rock(*) record since the '90s, nor am I indulging in that patented old-fart chestnut You kids today don't know REAL music - why, when I was your age... It's not that I like only the stuff that came out at the age when my musical tastes were supposedly set in stone. Nope. I've heard some pretty damned good Rock albums these last few years (Thea Gilmore's Songs From the Gutter, Muse's Absolution, Flogging Molly's Within a Mile of Home and The Sword's Age of Winters, among others), and really enjoy a number of recent artists (again, Thea Gilmore, Flogging Molly, Muse and The Sword as well as Placebo, Gnarls Barkley, The Decemberists, Nouvelle Vague, She Wants Revenge, and more). Still, I can't remember an explosion in Rock music that has really lit the world on fire since the early 1990s. Since then, even the best artists have been riffing on earlier achievements by earlier bands.

Really, think abut it: Thea Gilmore sounds like a distaff Neil Young; Flogging Molly is a direct descendant of The Pogues; Muse melds Queen with U2 and Pearl Jam, while The Sword records the best Black Sabbath albums that Sabbath never recorded. P!nk riffs on Madonna, She Wants Revenge riffs on Bauhaus, The Killers riff on Queen, and Gorillaz riff on everybody. Almost everyone in popular music these days sounds like earlier artists. I had hoped at one point that the Neo-Cabaret sound of bands like The Dresden Dolls, The Decemberists and The Ditty Bops would break into something larger, but... nope. The best Rock albums of the last decade or so have either come from older artists (Velvet Revolver**, the Rolling Stones) or from new artists who sound like older artists (Coldplay, Nickelback, Muse, Placebo, Flogging Molly, etc.).

The sad epitomes of this trend arrive with the hype over new albums from Metallica (Death Magnetic, their best in nearly 20 years because it sounds like what they did 20 years ago) and Guns-n-Lawyers... *ahem* I mean, the Axl Rose Ego Experience. Both dangle brand names with over two decades of shelf life, and while neither album is bad, exactly, they're just... OLD.

In contrast, think back to 1990-95: Nirvana. Pearl Jam. Nine Inch Nails. Ministry. Hole. L7. The Smashing Pumpkins. Tori Amos. The Indigo Girls. White Zombie. Soundgarden. P.J. Harvey. Alanis Morrisette. The Offspring. Live. Their names and music still have a classic sound to them. That's the last time I can recall turning on the radio and actually wanting to listen to it for more than a song or two. Yes, those artists were also riffing on the music they grew up with, but... I dunno, there just seems to have been something more exciting and innovative about the movement as a whole. Before the scene turned into Whiny White Boy Wave (Candlebox, Creed, Matchbox Fucking 20), heroined itself into oblivion (Ministry), or disappeared up its own ass (with The Smashing Billy Corrigans being the prime offender), there was a visceral power to the era's ROCK that reverberates even now. I didn't wanna pump my fist in the air to Ten yesterday because it came out during my impressionable teens - I was almost 30 when it was released. I found my heart pounding to every song on that album because it's still a great fucking album. I haven't heard its like in years.

I'm not saying there are no good Rock artists out there. I have yet, however, to see a movement where a torrent of artists combine into something memorable - a new "wave" of Rock that sweeps over the shoreline of popular culture again.

So, thoughts? Am I just getting old, or has Rock finally rolled itself out? What am I missing? Or is it Rock itself that's missing in the age of Rock Band?



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* - I'm not referring here to Hip-Hip, Soul, Electronica or Rap, although those genres seem pretty played out right now, too. The most intriguing artists in those arenas are mining their old influences to death as well - yes Kanye West, Joss Stone, Thievery Corporation and L'il Wayne I am talking about you.


** - Aka, the real Guns-n-Roses.