If I hadn't already come to a decision, this would be the endorsement which mattered most for me.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2008/04/16/politics/p070912D49.DTL&tsp=1
Also, New Brunswick is on fire.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao
Well, fuck. I've read a lot this year. At least 12 books in as many weeks, plus drivel packed texts and bullshit journal articles; all that, and a bullshit output of my own peaking at something like 20 pages a week. I'm not bragging, I'm establishing how addled my mind is, how blurry the rush of words past my senses has become. Even the books I wanted to read, even the one's I lead coups to have returned to syllabi they'd been removed from, they failed to generate the emotional impact they might have, had I been reading them at a marginally more leisurely and exploratory pace. The almost exception being Dalton Trumbo's Johnny Got His Gun, which I took care with knowing it was one of my best friends favorite books, and which insures an emotional response by beating the reader over the head with unbridled and justified rage for most of it's pages. Still, in the blur, it could only serve to remind me of why I appreciated novels, why I valued them, but not why I loved them.
I held great hopes for The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao before I'd even lain my hands on the book, having heard the author Junot Diaz on the radio sometime shortly after its publication, talking passionate and coarse about literature, comics, and nerdery. From the onset, an epigraph care of Galactus - Devourer of Worlds, I knew my hopes we're not ill founded. The follow up epigraph from Derek Walcott didn't exactly hurt either, but lets stick with my older and deeper rooted nerderies for a moment.
Diaz uses such nerdery to color the narrative, in much the same way that Nick Hornby used pop-music for High Fidelity, framing characters with references the way we (nerds, I mean, but maybe everybody) frame ourselves. But a simple parade of references to J.R.R. Tolkien, Alan Moore, and Dungeons & Dragons isn't enough to make me fall in love with a book (though it is a good start for a budding romance). The pyrotechnic quality this book had for me runs deeper, deeper than Hornby ever got with high fidelity, and far beyond the fact that familiar cultural references lend the story a familiar voice, as though a drunk buddy were laying it all out on a porch somewhere as the sun came up.
Diaz weaves together a story very much about life, about the sum value of one's life, about how context defines one, about atrocities against life, and about the role the written word plays in our lives. The reference points of comic books and escapism become the binds which hold the myriad threads of the story together, as well as familiar and friendly landmarks for those who've walked similar roads. The more I talk on the details, the more I lose sight of the whole. The whole is that Oscar Wao, in the end (an end which rests much of it's coda upon a single panel from Watchmen), has reminded me, profoundly, of what it is I love about novels.
What that is, exactly, I can't say... if I ever figure it out for sure, I'll let you know, but don't hold your breadth. For the time being, I'm content enough to sit for a moment or two, toasty warm, in the knowledge that my coals are glowing again. Soon enough I'll start asking questions, spinning in the blur, going nowhere, but not today.
I held great hopes for The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao before I'd even lain my hands on the book, having heard the author Junot Diaz on the radio sometime shortly after its publication, talking passionate and coarse about literature, comics, and nerdery. From the onset, an epigraph care of Galactus - Devourer of Worlds, I knew my hopes we're not ill founded. The follow up epigraph from Derek Walcott didn't exactly hurt either, but lets stick with my older and deeper rooted nerderies for a moment.
Diaz uses such nerdery to color the narrative, in much the same way that Nick Hornby used pop-music for High Fidelity, framing characters with references the way we (nerds, I mean, but maybe everybody) frame ourselves. But a simple parade of references to J.R.R. Tolkien, Alan Moore, and Dungeons & Dragons isn't enough to make me fall in love with a book (though it is a good start for a budding romance). The pyrotechnic quality this book had for me runs deeper, deeper than Hornby ever got with high fidelity, and far beyond the fact that familiar cultural references lend the story a familiar voice, as though a drunk buddy were laying it all out on a porch somewhere as the sun came up.
Diaz weaves together a story very much about life, about the sum value of one's life, about how context defines one, about atrocities against life, and about the role the written word plays in our lives. The reference points of comic books and escapism become the binds which hold the myriad threads of the story together, as well as familiar and friendly landmarks for those who've walked similar roads. The more I talk on the details, the more I lose sight of the whole. The whole is that Oscar Wao, in the end (an end which rests much of it's coda upon a single panel from Watchmen), has reminded me, profoundly, of what it is I love about novels.
What that is, exactly, I can't say... if I ever figure it out for sure, I'll let you know, but don't hold your breadth. For the time being, I'm content enough to sit for a moment or two, toasty warm, in the knowledge that my coals are glowing again. Soon enough I'll start asking questions, spinning in the blur, going nowhere, but not today.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Eliot Spitzer Does It With His Socks On.
Eliot Spitzer does it with his socks on.
I know this, not because I had any desire to know the coital footwear habits of the former Governor, but because the information was inescapable. The knowledge came to me despite my best efforts to avoid any television, radio, or print coverage of the scandal. Likewise through no efforts of my own, I know what the prostitute involved in the scandal looks like, what NJ high school she graduated from, what some of her classmates thought of her, and so on and so on....
I know nothing at all about the lives of Andy Habsieger, Thomas C. Ray II, David B. Williams, David S. Stelmat, Tyler J. Smith, Gregory D. Unruh, Michael D. Elledge, Christopher C. Simpson, Lerando J. Brown, William D. O'Brien, Juantrea T. Bradley, Dustin C. Jackson, Tenzin L. Samten, Laurent J. West, Phillip R. Anderson, Donald A. Burkett, Torre R. Mallard, Shawn M. Suzch, Ernesto G. Cimarrusti, David D. Julian, Robert T. McDavid, and Scott A. McIntosh, except that they (along with at least six other individuals whose names have not yet been released) at some point volunteered to serve in the United States military, and that, at some point over the 16 days since The New York Times broke the Spitzer sex scandal, their lives came to an abrupt end.
I had too look for this information. It wasn't difficult to find by any means, but the simple fact that I had to make a conscious effort to find out about their deaths means that, in the eyes of the media, and apparently in the eyes of the vast majority of Americans, their lives and the conflict in which they ended are of less importance than the former New York Governor’s feet.
What the fuck is wrong with us?
I wonder if the 28 individuals in question died instantly, of if some didn't have a moment to contemplate their impending deaths, and what they were dying for. I wonder if they comforted themselves with a beleif that they were dying for they're country, or met their end with outrage and the knowledge that the bulk of the citizens in the country whose service they died simply couldn't give a shit.
Sorry guys, we're talking about elected officials, prostitutes, and socks this week; guess you just had shitty timing. Should have died on a slow news week, or in the early years of the war, when it was still front page material. Variety is the spice of life, you know? What's new is what sells news, and there's nothing new in Iraq. Can't very well run a business telling the same story every day for five years, can you? Who wants to read the same damn story four thousand and three times?
Nobody, that's who.
There's nothing sexy about a body count.
I know this, not because I had any desire to know the coital footwear habits of the former Governor, but because the information was inescapable. The knowledge came to me despite my best efforts to avoid any television, radio, or print coverage of the scandal. Likewise through no efforts of my own, I know what the prostitute involved in the scandal looks like, what NJ high school she graduated from, what some of her classmates thought of her, and so on and so on....
I know nothing at all about the lives of Andy Habsieger, Thomas C. Ray II, David B. Williams, David S. Stelmat, Tyler J. Smith, Gregory D. Unruh, Michael D. Elledge, Christopher C. Simpson, Lerando J. Brown, William D. O'Brien, Juantrea T. Bradley, Dustin C. Jackson, Tenzin L. Samten, Laurent J. West, Phillip R. Anderson, Donald A. Burkett, Torre R. Mallard, Shawn M. Suzch, Ernesto G. Cimarrusti, David D. Julian, Robert T. McDavid, and Scott A. McIntosh, except that they (along with at least six other individuals whose names have not yet been released) at some point volunteered to serve in the United States military, and that, at some point over the 16 days since The New York Times broke the Spitzer sex scandal, their lives came to an abrupt end.
I had too look for this information. It wasn't difficult to find by any means, but the simple fact that I had to make a conscious effort to find out about their deaths means that, in the eyes of the media, and apparently in the eyes of the vast majority of Americans, their lives and the conflict in which they ended are of less importance than the former New York Governor’s feet.
What the fuck is wrong with us?
I wonder if the 28 individuals in question died instantly, of if some didn't have a moment to contemplate their impending deaths, and what they were dying for. I wonder if they comforted themselves with a beleif that they were dying for they're country, or met their end with outrage and the knowledge that the bulk of the citizens in the country whose service they died simply couldn't give a shit.
Sorry guys, we're talking about elected officials, prostitutes, and socks this week; guess you just had shitty timing. Should have died on a slow news week, or in the early years of the war, when it was still front page material. Variety is the spice of life, you know? What's new is what sells news, and there's nothing new in Iraq. Can't very well run a business telling the same story every day for five years, can you? Who wants to read the same damn story four thousand and three times?
Nobody, that's who.
There's nothing sexy about a body count.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
A Mission Statement of Sorts
I write a lot about my thoughts. Academically, I write about my thoughts on language and literacy, on education, and on the relationship between the written word and our lives. Professionally, I write about bands and comics, and I compose my thoughts on contemporary creators and the value of their works, or lack there of.
I've been giving some consideration to making a place for personal writing, a place where I might write about my feelings and passions, as opposed to more formal thoughts. Clearly, I'm not talking about the word vomit of adolescent diarists, or the uninformed rants of the overzealous self-appointed quasi-journalists who proudly categorize themselves as “bloggers”. I aim to talk about important feelings, like my feelings concerning Joe Queseda and Dan Dido, and how they are sacrificing the legacy of two of the 20th century's most significant and vibrant cultural institutions on the altar of corporate interest, or my feeling that a lack of casual social violence in America, and the greater phenomena of a lack of human intimacy, has undermined every level of our culture, from the simplest conversation to the loftiest work of ideological assessment. I aim to talk about simple passions, the brief moments of spiritual ignition I experience when I encounter a relevant and innovative work in any medium, be it television or music, comics, film, or that wayward and nearly forgotten form we call the novel.
Likely, I’ll also talk some about hockey, food, and the value of indulgence in perception altering substances. In my experiences with the myriad forms of human expression, the significance and value of a work rests as much upon the sum of the spectator’s idioms and lifestyle as it does upon the conjurer’s; for me, these interests simply come with the territory.
I've been giving some consideration to making a place for personal writing, a place where I might write about my feelings and passions, as opposed to more formal thoughts. Clearly, I'm not talking about the word vomit of adolescent diarists, or the uninformed rants of the overzealous self-appointed quasi-journalists who proudly categorize themselves as “bloggers”. I aim to talk about important feelings, like my feelings concerning Joe Queseda and Dan Dido, and how they are sacrificing the legacy of two of the 20th century's most significant and vibrant cultural institutions on the altar of corporate interest, or my feeling that a lack of casual social violence in America, and the greater phenomena of a lack of human intimacy, has undermined every level of our culture, from the simplest conversation to the loftiest work of ideological assessment. I aim to talk about simple passions, the brief moments of spiritual ignition I experience when I encounter a relevant and innovative work in any medium, be it television or music, comics, film, or that wayward and nearly forgotten form we call the novel.
Likely, I’ll also talk some about hockey, food, and the value of indulgence in perception altering substances. In my experiences with the myriad forms of human expression, the significance and value of a work rests as much upon the sum of the spectator’s idioms and lifestyle as it does upon the conjurer’s; for me, these interests simply come with the territory.
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