Saturday 12/14/24
I have hot water for the first time in I think three weeks as of yesterday and was able to take a shower without a game plan (as in, "Okay, are you ready for this mentally? We'll put a foot in first, then just go for it, soap first, then shampoo, soap will rinse off as shampoo washes out, then we're out faster; let's do this..."). The plumbers had planned to get here at eight on Thursday and stay all day, but they were done around one. While all of this--and things I've yet to get into on here--has been going on, I was running my stairs in the cold, coming back cold and wet, getting in the cold shower, and carrying on.
I wrote a piece on the rarely seen 1961 Hammer film, Cash on Demand from 1961, which is a sort of then-current twist on A Christmas Carol with Peter Cushing. Hammer had these thrillers with horror overtones, this being one of them. The Snorkel (1958) was another, also Never Take Candy from a Stranger (1960). From said piece:
Cushing’s presence sounds the horror note and death is certainly on the table, or at least we think as much in a film suggests The Friends of Eddie Coyle from over a decade hence, but resonates mostly as a Hammer one-off. Christmas can be a tense time of year, with the days growing shorter as we feel pressed for time with what we need to get done and also when it comes to our own mortality. There’s a lot of life in the Christmas season, but also much reckoning as to what one is doing with one’s life, what has passed, what remains, what can be done in the time that remains.
Director Quentin Lawrence includes just enough holiday sprigs—the odd decoration, some expressed hope for downtime—to conjure the Christmas season. The English liked—and still like—to tell ghost stories during this time of the year, and Fordyce—pre-robbery—left a great deal to be desired as a flesh and blood human. One great thing about horror is that it can jar us into epiphanies. Within the horror medium, those epiphanies often come to late—after all, someone is usually about to die. Fordyce finds himself favored with a reprieve—after enduring the double scare of being falsely accused, which was a wallop enough of a nightmare for no less than Alfred Hitchcock—and may go on to have his dancing day yet.
While the plumbers were working, I went to the MFA again. The Winslow Homer canvases have moved from one side of the American Wing to the other. I usually spend time with Driftwood, the last painting Homer completed, which he knew was to be his last.
There's no Christmas tree at the MFA this year, which is odd. I've noticed a downturn in Christmas trappings this holiday season, part of which I attribute to Thanksgiving coming so late. Rather than commence the season of Yule in full force that following weekend, with tree lightnings and the like, it was as if everyone waited for the following weekend, when we were well into December. But there's more going on, I feel, than a late start.
The weather has probably contributed something, throwing off the sense of timing of the year; as recently as last month you could wear shorts outside here in Boston. But again, I think there are other factors at work, too. Deeper issues that are more concerning. People are becoming less and less able to care about anything. As we become less human, Christmas fades because it's the most human of holidays and times of the year, if you want; a season that ought to be reminding us of our humanness and the value of humanness, both for ourselves and in what we can do for others.
It occurred to me that a whole book could be written about a day at a museum. With a focus on, say, ten or twelve disparate works, and what they add up to when experienced together on a visit to a museum, with the book also being an exploration of the museum-going experience itself and the role of museums across a number of fronts--artistic, mental, emotional. I'll think about it. There are a number of ways to do this. Arnold Hano had a book called A Day in the Bleachers, which is putatively about a guy who goes to Game 1 of the 1954 World Series, but it's about a lot more. There's a museum version of that book to be written, but one that would also be totally different.
"Thank You, Human--a Bedtime Story" is very close to being completely done now. It's very special. This happened quickly. The story is 2500 words long and I think that's going to be it. I'll keep reading it back and the story will likely go in either There Is No Doubt: Story Girls or The Solution to the World's Problems: Surprising Tales of Relentless Joy. Each year, I try to write a Christmas story. They're for my books, but I make a Christmas present of the new one to some people I know. This story isn't overtly a Christmas story, but it's in the spirit of the season. These are the first ten sentences of the story, which begins in medias res. Rarely is some variant on "Once upon a time" a natural way to begin a story. Here we have instant immersion. We care instantly. We don't ramp up to caring. People can care more and more and more as a story goes along, but you want them to care as soon as possible. And really, right away. And despite the story starting in the middle of things, even a young reader won't be confused or left behind. That's not easy to do. I mean, it's easy for me to do, but it's not something we often see.
“She’d gone from being really sick to being all better. And now it was time for her to leave.”
“Were they upset?”
“Who?”
“The people who’d taken care of her.”
“They wanted her to get better but they were also sad. But mostly happy. Sometimes we’re both at the same time.”
“I’m sad.”
“But we haven’t finished the story.”
“I know. I’m just sad she had to leave.”
“Me too. But let’s see what else happens because often there’s more to things than we think at first."
See? You're in the hands and heart of a storyteller. We're not doing any of the garbage here that these people of the system have to do because there's nothing else they can do.
I don't want to say too much about this, but I do wish to note it: On Wednesday, when I was coming back from Charlestown in the rain, I came up with what might prove to be an important idea that will allow me to cut out any reliance on these people--with all of their limitations and prejudices--but I'm still exploring the idea and thinking it through. I'm noting this for the when and where things are born, should it be relevant later for anyone wishing to know/picture.
My sister read "Big Bob and Little Bob," which I sent her back on her birthday and read it yesterday and texted me to say that it made her cry. Something like that I don't really see how you couldn't cry. Throughout. But then there's this crescendo--or a different kind--at the end which ties back into so much of what has happened over the course of this lengthy story--it's the first work in Big Asks: Six Novelettes About Acceptance--that just takes you out. I mean, it wrecks you. It's so beautiful. Then you go from "Big Bob and Little Bob" to "Finder of Viewers," and I'm not even sure how a person can handle that. Must work harder and get this--and so much else--done. Max out.
Will be writing--need to get to it fast--a piece on the year that Jerry Lee Lewis had in 1964, with his two live albums Live at the Star Club and The Greatest Live Show on Earth--which are very different from each other--and his triumphant performances in England both on TV and on the radio all the way up to his cover of "White Christmas" on Top Gear with Brian Matthew.
I hadn't worn a belt in years. I know. Anyway, for a while now, my jeans have been hanging down and, to be honest, I'm sure my ass pretty much comes out any time I stand. I try to be careful. But a couple days ago I thought, "You can't do this anymore, time for a belt," and discovered that I had gone from being a one-hole guy--you know what I mean--to a five-hole guy. Also a couple days ago: someone said that they saw photos of me from my sister's wedding in 2009 and I looked like a different person. What can I say? Stairs, will, strength, motivation, not drinking, eating well. I feel like doing/having two of those things (last two) is pretty feasible for most people and those two are enough to make a difference.
Found a download of the Smiths' complete BBC sessions. You'd think this would all be out on an official set, but it isn't. Downloaded what exists of a Who set from March 16, 1965 in London, a performance by them from French TV in 1966 in upgraded sound, the Teardrop Explodes' box set, Culture Bunker 1978-1982, and a six-disc set of recordings produced by George Martin from a wide range of artists.
Years ago I saw Bob Newhart perform. Somewhere in the last ten years. He didn't do any new material, which was to be expected, save this one little bit that was off-the-cuff. A police car or an ambulance drove past the theater, sirens blazing. Bled right through. Newhart stopped and said, "We'll just let him pass." People laughed. It was cool that he said something new, I thought, which for me was the most memorable part of the performance. I listen to his albums a decent amount. I think I'll re-watch The Bob Newhart Show soon.
College football bowl season starts today. I like bowl games. I know most people think they're pointless and silly, but the randomness of when they're on--it's like there's always a game on save on Sundays--appeals to me. I like when people compete and it means something to them, even if it might not be bigger than earning a victory in what's essentially an exhibition game that also counts towards a final record, even if we're just talking being 6-7 or 7-6. If someone cares about something--for the right reasons--I can usually care about it.
BC is playing in the Pinstripe Bowl on December 28 against Nebraska. I think that's a good bowl game for them. Nebraska was only 6-6 but they played Ohio State close and did beat Colorado. The game is on a Saturday which is better than like 11 in the morning the Thursday before Christmas and the Eagles can put a nice stamp on a season that saw them moving back in a positive direction.
I love Derrick White's game. Complete player, smart player, clutch player, winning player. When I played hockey as a kid, my dad--who was always a keen observer--would tell me to watch how a given person played. Usually this was another kid. It can be someone on the Bruins or whatever, but typically it was one of my own teammates. And I would. I'd learn from them. It might be something they were doing away from the puck, or something pertaining to their motor. I'd say the same thing to people who play basketball about Derrick White. Watch that guy.
Is the full-length, unedited version of Elvis doing "Merry Christmas Baby" the greatest rock and roll Christmas performance of all-time? It's deserving of votes and right now, on the spot, I'd say it is. And James Burton. That's some down and dirty guitar. The song is about a guy who is alone on Christmas and yet still finds pleasure in listening to the music on his radio because it's that good. The way that Elvis sings this song, he could be listening to himself.
"My friends call me Snow Miser."
Okay: 1. Everyone appears to call you Snow Miser and 2. You don't really seem to like many people, which is understandable, but I very much doubt there's this tiered-system where some people say, "Hey, what's up, Snow Miser?" and others are like, "Oh, hello, Edward." Somewhat along the lines of Selena in To Walk the Night, I don't really see Snow Miser having friends, and I don't think we should count those little versions of himself that dance and do back-up vocals for his song of self.
I watched a new documentary on the New York Sack Exchange, the Jets' defensive line in the 1980s. I've written in these pages about how Joe Klecko deserved to be in the Hall of Fame, and how I was pleased when he did make it. Was sad seeing Mark Gastineau. He has so many physical and mental issues and you could tell he's had the latter for a long time--perhaps always.
I liked Gastineau as a player. He was fun. Sort of like football's version of Dave Kingman, though few are as glorious as the man known as Kong, of course. What I mean by that is both were specialists; Kingman hit home runs, Gastineau sacked quarterbacks. Neither seemed especially interested in anything else--though as I've said, I've found video evidence of Kingman laying down a bunt--and as one of his ex-teammates said in this new doc, it was as if Gastineau had no interest in tackling running backs, only quarterbacks.
You get the sense he was a brutal teammate to have, a constant source of disruption and drama. Should he be in the Hall of Fame? I wouldn't have a problem with that. He wasn't the player that Klecko was--Klecko could do a lot and was much more complete--but he was an impactful force for a while. I hadn't known how needy he was. You'd have thought Gastineau was this savage, macho type, but that's not the case at all.
The Jets are the worst franchise in the NFL. Even though it was back in the 1960s, you're almost taken aback now that they ever won anything. They were a fun team in the 1980s, courtesy of the New York Sack Exchange--a very cool nickname--and they had some offensive pop, too, with Ken O'Brien as the quarterback (there was that thrilling shootout with Dan Marino's Dolphins, for instance). One thing that was funny to me in the documentary was how often New England quarterbacks were on the receiving ends of those sacks.
It's taking me ages to get through the unabridged version of Mark Lewisohn's Tune In. I detest how he writes, how he thinks. I don't believe he knows anything at all about music as music. I think he's terrible. At the same time, The Complete Beatles Recording Sessions is a must-have. Well, I guess not now, because all of the information is on the web and it's not like Lewisohn has any insight into anything, but the book works because it's not Lewisohn trying to think and it's not Lewisohn trying to write, which he can't do at all. He's simply researching and sharing that research, which is the extent of what he can do. People have a feel for music or they don't, and I don't think he does in the slightest. I'll give some examples of this later on, but this guy is so damn creepy, too. The way he writes about the sexual activity of children is disturbing. He writes about it like he's describing his own fantasies. If I read that he was arrested for something along those lines, I wouldn't be surprised in the least.
I don't understand the prices people pay for tickets or even wanting to see someone who is not very good at this thing they used to be good at thirty or forty or more years before. Why? I know the answer--people are not discerning in the slightest. They usually can't tell if something is good or bad. Almost everything is lost on everyone as what it is. You want to go see AC/DC in spring 2025 and you're going to pay hundreds of dollars for this? Again: Why? You'll get the babysitter, buy your crazily over-priced drinks, drunkenly sing along to badly played music from what's essentially a has-been nostalgia act.
What is the value in this? What is the musical value? The artistic value? The entertainment value? The life experience value? So you can get tipsy and shout out some choruses and hold up your phone to film this thing you'll never look at again? While about whatever memory you have of when you listened to AC/DC in 1980?
You could listen to some AC/DC soundboards from the 1970s when they were good for free, but none of these people are going to do that. It'd never occur to them. But they're such big fans, right? They're not really into anything. Stupidity? Pointlessness? Going backwards--which is so sad and depressing and limiting and cannot be done anyway--rather than moving forward? The big night out. Anticipating it for months. Sloppy and ignorant. And so limited. Why not choose something less limiting? If you really like AC/DC, this isn't the best way to partake of them. This is just the grind of the nostalgia machine.
If something doesn't contribute to me moving forward, I am not interested in it at all. People would be a lot healthier and the world would be much better if this was a general practice. The past is dangerous. It traps you in it. Then you get made over by all that happens while you're in this trap, and your reason leaves you and mental illness takes over. People don't have the tools and the awareness and the strength to undo this once it happens. Then they're just gone. Still here, but also gone. Move the fuck forward. Something from 600 years ago can be a part of moving forward. But you have to always be trying to move forward. Whether you're ten-years-old or fifty-years-old or ninety-nine-years-old. Forward, forward, forward. Otherwise you will lose yourself or never find yourself. Forward.
All of these empty hack pieces about the Dylan biopic. There's nothing in anything anyone writes. No ideas, no insight. It's the simplest shit. Telling you a plot or itemizing things in a documentary. These simpletons can't understand that there's no reason to read their magazine, their newspaper, their website. That you can get these basics anywhere. It's not writing. There isn't writing. Thees places just exist to carry the people they carry. That will go away and none of them will remain.
But as for the Dylan film: Why? Why go see this? If you're interested in Dylan, what could this possibly do for you? So it's for people who are not interested that in Dylan to watch someone imitate Dylan? Like seriously what am I supposed to do with this? What am I supposed to get from it? What is it supposed to do for me? I'd have to be ignorant, right, to enjoy this? I'd have to possess not much of a clue. But if I did, wouldn't there be so many other places I'd go instead for a Dylan-related experience? (And let's be clear: this isn't some gateway to truths beyond Dylan. It starts and ends with him.) Like to his music? Or to a great book if someone had written one, which no one has yet about Dylan. It's just a guy imitating Dylan. I think you have to be pretty simple to be like, "Yep, that's something I'd be into." There was that Buddy Holly film in 1978. Not a lot was known about Buddy Holly. You could sort of do this fanciful, apocryphal biopic in the Buddy Holly spirit, if you will, at that time. There's so much available information about Dylan. Really all you can do is not be convincing. And try and lure in the people who won't know one way or the other. And I'm not talking about facts, or not only facts. I'm talking about something ringing false and paint-by-numbers.
Read some Angela Thirkell. Listened to a couple Christmas episodes of The Whistler. Watched three episodes from season three of The Wind in the Willows: "Master Chef," "Fire at Toad Hall," "Unlikely Allies."
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