Update 2: The Battle Against School Rages On

Dear readers, if there are any of you,

I have nearly returned. School ends in a little less than a week, and though I will still be quite busy, I intend to mix blogging back into the business of busyness. For now, I think it satisfying to note what books, along the way, I have stressed myself into reading: Winter Queen by Boris Akunin, Being Human Being by Jon Sands, The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills by Charles Bukowski, Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson, last year's The RC Review (Literary Magazine), Next Door Lived a Girl by Stefan Kiesbye, Decibels: Poems From the First Ten Years of the Volume Youth Poetry Project, Auschwitz Report by Primo Levi and Leonardo de Benedetti, 1984 by George Orwell, the collected stories of my creative writing class this semester, and finally, CyberDeth by Curtis Taylor and Todd Hester.

Now, a quick overview which will probably be repeated in full at various later dates:
Winter Queen: A mystery novel by Boris Akunin, of Russia
Being Human Being: A chapbook of poetry by Jon Sands
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills: A book of poetry by Charles Bukowski
Jesus' Son: A book of short stories by Denis Johnson
RC Review: A literary magazine put out by the University of Michigan Residential College, of which I am a part
Next Door Lived a Girl: A novel by Stefan Kiesbye
Decibels: An anthology of work by the Volume poetry group at the Ann Arbor's youth center, the Neutral Zone (note: I am biased, as I have work in it)
Auschwitz Report: A medical report on the conditions in Auschwitz compiled by two prisoners, as ordered by their Russian rescuers
1984: The famous novel by George Orwell
The collected stories of my creative writing class: I am not included, as I missed a deadline for submission, (so less bias!) but these are the works of my comrades
CyberDeth: The third book on Mark Heroic, by Curtis Taylor and Todd Hester--a childhood favorite of mine.

Hopefully I will get to them all by the time school resumes in January. All I can do is hope.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

Update

So, school's getting the best of me. But I haven't given in quite yet. That said, I have a significant backlog of books I have read but have not written about. This, I do not like. I have Poor Folk and Other Stories by Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Village of Stepanchikovo by Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes From Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Funeral Party by Ludmila Ulitskaya, and Moscow to the End of the Line by Venedikt Erofeev. As you can see, my reading has not only been Russian heavy, but rather weighted toward Dostoevsky as well. That is primarily because I am taking a class devoted to the reading of Dostoevsky. I am also taking a class on modern Russian literature. I am enjoying them quite a bit.

Right now I am listening to Andrew Bird's "Scythian Empires" and appreciating the art of whistling. It is an art, along with singing, which I have never mastered. The closest approximation of which I am capable is akin to the shriek of a kettle as the water begins to boil. That is, of whistling, not of singing.

In any case, I thought I should update my blog, just for the sake of updating. I have been slowly piecing together a review of Poor Folk and Other Stories though I completed that a good 1.5 months ago. Fortunately, my semester ends in a little over a month, so I will be able to catch up then. Until then, I may very well be silent. However, we can always hope that won't be the case.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

Winnie-the-Pooh

It looks like the nature of schooling is going to force this blog to be a once-in-a-while affair, but that'll make it all the sweeter when I do post. I'll shoot for once every two weeks, like dear ole' sis has been doing. But lest this digression turn into a diary entry explaining why I haven't posted, let's get to the meat of things.

Winnie-the-Pooh. I love you too. I purchased a pretty little yellow-covered copy (say ten times fast) for a strange reason--because my friends and I use the character names as nicknames for each other. Oh, which one am I, by the way? I oscillate between being Pooh and Eeyore. I likes mah honey.

So I figured I ought to actually read the book, given how much we refer to it. So I did. It was fantastic. Though I remembered most of the stories through their television counterparts, the actual writing and off-hand narration of the father-figure was excellent. Our introduction to Pooh in the first story goes as follows: "Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it" (3). Embedded in a narrative which is essentially an affirmation of a child's love for his toys and imaginary creations as well as a record of their interdependency, this is a glimpse at a different sort of experience. We see a child's innate lack of sensitivity to his possessions, the disregard that can accompany true and deep affection. (Picture obtained at http://kiddley.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/01/winniethepooh.jpg)

But I love Pooh for a wholly different reason, not at all related to any sort of over-analyzed social commentary. I love the logic. I don't know if I can explain it entirely without quoting a HUGE chunk of text, but I'd like to avoid doing that. It is, simply, the logic of a child translated into adult terms. See, if you have a copy available, the passage immediately preceding Pooh's climb up the tree in the first chapter. Other examples are scattered throughout.

The least impressive aspect of the book are the little chants and lyrics that come at intervals. I might just be spoiled by Brian Jacques' epic attempts in his Redwall books, but I've seen far more interesting and valid attempts at poetics in books for children. These are just lame.

The love in this book, the father's for his child, the child's for his toys, and the toys for each other, is what really pulls this together. There is an episode in the second part, in which Pooh is stuck in Rabbit's home. Pooh asks Christopher Robin, "'Then would you read a Sustaining Books, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in a Great Tightness?' So for a week, Christopher Robin read that sort of book [to Pooh]." It offers a sort of thematic cohesion which, while common enough in simplistic books, especially for children, feels all too fleshed out and real to be written off. Winnie-the-Pooh is worth your time, even if you aren't a child. Especially if you aren't a child.

I'll leave you with a little bit of wisdom from Christopher Robin: "'That's why he [Pooh] likes having it told to him again. Because then it's a real story and not just remembering'" (20).

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

The Bus Driver Who Wanted To Be God

I have been busily visiting classes, dropping those classes, and visiting new classes these past few days. Before that, I was busily moving back into the dorms. So I forgive myself for not posting recently. Fortunately, my friend Seth chose this time to publish his first contribution to my blog. Hopefully, it will not be his last. However, I simply couldn't let his post stand as the most recent piece on my own blog--so here I am.

A couple of days ago I finished The Bus Driver Who Wanted To Be God & Other Stories, by Etgar Keret. Those two or three of ye faithful who actually read every word written here will recognize that name from a previous post, What is Good Writing? I wrote a book review of his collection, The Girl on the Fridge in order to get a post at the Michigan Daily. I did not get the post, for reasons unfathomable (to me), but I did find an excellent author.

Etgar Keret does not disappoint here. The collection is essentially composed of 21 stories and one novella, but only fills 130 pages, (and it's one of those books that wastes pages in order to have pleasantly blank breaks between stories) of which 40 pages are the novella, "Kneller's Happy Campers." Fourteen are amazing, four are most definitely not, and three I am irresolvably ambivalent about. And "Kneller's Happy Campers" serves as an amazing bonus to back up the appeal. In my frank opinion, a 2/3 rate for a short story collection is really quite good, although I don't believe it matches the insane quality of The Girl on the Fridge, which is almost flukish in its ability to satisfy.

I'm having trouble thinking what exactly to say. Read it? Plus, a passage I love: "They used to execute people by electrocution, and when they'd throw the switch, the lights in the whole area would flicker for a few seconds and everyone would stop what they were doing, just like when there's a special news flash. I thought about it, how I'd sit in my hotel room and the lights would go dim, but it didn't happen. Nowadays they use a lethal injection, so nobody can even tell when it's happening" (8). Just read it.

Ms. Alaska, ready for the big job?

John McCain announced yesterday his choice of Alaska's Governor, Sarah Palin, as his running mate. Really, though, the surprising choice of a woman with about 20 months of gubernatorial experience and a few years under her belt as mayor of Wasilia (pop. 7,000), not to mention her distinguished reign as Ms. Wasilia in the mid-1980s, is entirely within character for Senator McCain, who hates to be anywhere without a good-looking (or rich) woman on his arm.

I, for one, think that Ms. Palin will make an excellent running mate for the gentleman from Arizona. After all, she's a wonderful conservative who understands how the needs of her 4 month-old Down's syndrome baby will be best served by a run for the vice-presidency. She rightly sees no conflict of interest in appointing former oil lobbyists like TransCanada's Mary Rutherford to be Deputy Commissioner of Natural Resources, especially when her biggest piece of legislation is a $500 million oil pipeline to the lower 48. And like all Republicans hoping for national office, she is not above abusing her powers for good, which makes it all the more unfair that Mrs. Palin is currently under investigation for attempting to fire her sister's husband, a state trooper, while the pair were in divorce proceedings.

Yes, Sarah Palin represents a change from the usual Republican model of governance. She opposes earmarks and federal pork so much that, as mayor of Wasilia, she began making yearly trips to Washington to get a piece of the action that brought a $400 million Bridge to Nowhere to the city of Ketchikan. Certainly, she is popular, something Republicans have been looking for since 2005. A recent poll shows that Governor Palin has an 80% approval rating in Alaska. But then, Rasputin could get poll numbers that high if he'd managed to rangle $1,200 checks for each Russian household out of an oil contract renegotiation.

One of the best parts of Governor Palin's appeal to conservatives is her family. Like all real Americans, Mr. Palin is a champion snowmobile racer with a fishing business and a job at British Petroleum. That job poses no ethical issues for the governor because it isn't in management. Sure. But enough about him. The former Ms. Wasilia has five children; my two favorites are the two sons who have nice, wholesome, American names, not like the foreign-sounding, celebrity-ish Malia and Sasha. I mean, of course, Track and Trig Palin. It takes a real commitment to education to name your children after an after-school activity and a branch of mathematics. I plan to do the same with my future sons, Al-Gebra and Javelin.

As president of the Wasilia PTA, I'm sure that Mrs. Palin gained the kind of experience it takes to lead the country in times of war and natural disaster; certainly she must at least know how to deal with blizzards. Between that, and her stint as governor in a state with fewer citizens than South Dakota (and the territory of Puerto Rico), it's clear that Sarah Palin will have the experience necessary to act as an emissary of American interests around the world, even in places like Russia, where she and Mr. Putin will no doubt find common ground as they commiserate about the cold things found in Russia and its former North American territory and laugh about all the fun you can have with oil kickbacks.

Some people might think that this choice undercuts John McThuselah's efforts to paint his opponent as an inexperienced political dilettante. After all, Governor Palin is exactly that. I think the Arizona Senator is worried that people might see him as TOO experienced for the job. Taking that into consideration, putting a novice just one heartbeat from the presidency is a brilliant move by a candidate who would be the oldest person ever elected to the office. It's just another example of the political savvy that led the McCain campaign into bankruptcy last summer.

Now let's not forget that Sarah Palin brings something to the table besides her good looks and only slightly tarnished reputation: Governor Palin is a woman! That's right, John McCain respects women so much that he's asked a political whippersnapper to be his running mate assuming, of course, that she will be too overwhelmed to defy him. Certainly this will bring legions of women, disaffected by Hillary Clinton's defeat, into the ranks of Republican voters this year. Because a "gun-toting, hockey playing" former beauty queen opponent of abortion rights is exactly the person Hillary supporters want to see in the White House. John McCain seems to think that those 18 million cracks in the glass ceiling were about the fact that a woman was running for president. They weren't. Those votes were about Hillary Rodham Clinton. She is a woman with unparalleled experience in politics who would make an excellent president. There is zero common ground between her and Governor Palin. Sure, millions of women are disappointed that Senator Clinton lost. That doesn't mean they'll vote Republican now that John McThuselah has been spotted with the young starlet Ms. Wasilia.

Senator McCain is clever. The machinations that led to this choice show a spark of ingenuity. But Senator McCain cannot seem to think things through. Otherwise, he wouldn't have shot himself in the foot by choosing the weakest running mate since Dan Quayle, who reminded us that "one word sums up the responsibility of any vice president, and that one word is 'to be prepared'." Sarah Palin is not prepared to lead this country, not at all. But given McCain's age, she may have to do just that.

Jimi Hendrix--Electric Ladyland

I finished Electric Ladyland by John Perry this afternoon. I must say, I was very impressed. In some ways his approach is more clinical than John Cavanagh's in The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, also from the 33 1/3 series. However, the detail only serves as evidence of his love for the material. He often says things like, "The first section of the solo (1:45-1:59) features...." (pg. 115) and refers us to a multitude of other songs and books we can look to for context. His pervasive specificity causes me to trust him, a trust which he borrows on near the end in order to attack certain views of Hendrix and the album in question. He may be right, but it devolves from an incredibly strong and objective work to mere opinion at that point. All the same, the first 120 pages (of 132) are so well written that we can forgive him that mistake.

I like the album, Electric Ladyland, less than I like The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, but I prefer the 33 1/3 on the former to the one on the latter. Sorry for that sentence formation, but I hope you follow me all the same. This one has all the affection displayed by Piper the book, but has more of a spirited discussion of the songs. Piper seemed deeply focused on the means of production, but Electric Ladyland covers all that without losing its focus on the songs themselves. The guitar is at the heart of Electric Ladyland (both album and book) and the instrumentals and music itself is of primary concern to the author, John Perry.

For example, in the wonderful "Track by Track" chapter, the longest discussion is about my favorite Hendrix song, (bar none) "All Along the Watchtower." Across 13 pages we read about Jimi's admiration for Dylan and Dylan's reciprocation of that feeling. "Dylan has talked more than once about his love of the Hendrix arrangement, his feeling that Hendrix's is the definitive version and his regret that Hendrix isn't around to cover his current songs" (110-111). As a fan of both Dylan and Hendrix, it was a warming section for me. But the story behind the music remains the story behind the music. The music is always front and center, and since Jimi was so much about the music, he just so happens to be dragged into the spotlight as well.

The "Track by Track" chapter had excellent balance, and it often took me the exact length of the song to read the given section. The rest of the book, covering topics like the album cover, a brief summary of Hendrix' rise to fame, and critical reaction to the album, were all interesting, but "Track by Track" was the real star. If one knows the basics about Hendrix (which I actually didn't) I think a reader could skip the rest of the book entirely and have a nice 50 pages or so. You would miss out on some cool writing, but it could be done.

On the whole, the book was excellent, and has restored my faith in the 33 1/3 series after the debacle of Meat is Murder by Joe Pernice. I plan to continue on from here.

But first, a few of my own words on the album: A very uneven thing. It's like Duck, Duck, Goose, only Mediocre, Mediocre, Brilliant. The standouts, for me, are "Crosstown Traffic," "Gypsy Eyes," "All Along the Watchtower," and "Voodoo Child (Slight Return)." The next tier is "Voodoo Chile," "Rainy Day, Dream Away," "1983," and "House Burning Down." As far as I'm concerned, the other eight aren't worth mentioning. Strangely, the book didn't really change my opinions on any of the songs, but merely reinforced the ones I had (even though it was more positive than me about the album as a whole). At the moment I can't think of particularly clever things to say about them, so I would just recommend listening to those eight songs for certain, but not wasting time on the others.

"I remember the first time I saw you
The tears in your eyes were like they was tryin' to say
'Oh Little Boy, you know I could love you
But first I must make my getaway."--"Gypsy Eyes" (pg. 90)

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

A Deer Hunter Caught In the Headlights in Crosstown Traffic

So, it's been a bit since my last post. The longest bit yet, I believe. I've been doing a lot of things that are hard to blog about, like pushing friends on swings and eating cheese and jelly sandwiches. All the same, excuses aside, I saw Deer Hunter two nights ago.

Deer Hunter is an emotionally exhausting film to watch. And simultaneously boring. A dangerous combination. You spend an hour wondering what the point is, and then the next hour not breathing for fear you will upset the fragile balance of the characters' lives. And you do have to consider the film in terms of hours rather than minutes, since it has three of the former. Too long. It could have been trimmed significantly without any harm coming to the plot.

It tracks three friends from their jobs as steelworkers in Pennsylvania to the jungles of Vietnam and back again. The three primaries are Mike (Robert De Niro), Stevie (John Savage), and Nick (Christopher Walken). If nothing else, the movie proved that Walken can act. I was most impressed by him, and least impressed by Savage, who just fades into the background.

I think the movie's biggest problem was pacing. It still would have been a leisurely film if cut to two hours, but it would have hit harder in a shorter time frame. And, for the record, I don't mind long movies (Lord of the Rings, for example). I just mind this long movie. So, given that it received an Academy Award for Best Picture, I find it overrated. I certainly wouldn't watch it a second time. I'll admit that the middle hour is well above average quality, but it is so painful to watch that you have to be in a slightly masochistic mood for it to strike the right chord.

I'll say this much--I can see why certain people would like it, but I don't see it appealing to a majority of people. It just isn't that good.

Second: It's strange to write about something extremely famous and popular, because I know I have so little new to say, and what I do say can't make that much of an impact. That aside, I love Jimi Hendrix. I will soon have more to say on the topic of Electric Ladyland, as I am now 2/3 of the way through the 33 1/3 on it (making me 22 2/9 knowledgeable about it). But at the moment, I have to say how much I love the kazoo (actually just paper and a comb) on "Crosstown Traffic." If you don't know precisely what I'm talking about, please find it on Youtube or Last.FM and take a listen. Gorgeous.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

Pineapple Express

Ah, to be uncertain of the correct spelling of "pineapple." Makes you feel smart like nothing else.

Last evening I went with a couple of friends to see "Pineapple Express." From the moment we walked into the theater, I was disappointed. I was disappointed by the ultimately pointless opening sequence. I was disappointed by the easily amused audience. I was disappointed by the initial set-up, and I thought I was disappointed by the characters. Despite all that, the movie won me over in the end. About a third of the way through the film, I developed an affection for the protagonists, especially Saul. The main characters are Saul, a pot dealer, and his client, Dale. Dale is played by Seth Rogen and Saul is played by James Franco, with whom I am very impressed.

The movie developed from a little jumble of failed jokes into an innovative comedy. It has one of my favorite car chases of any film, and it laudably depicts criminals as people rather than plot functions. The movie really hits its stride when Dale witnesses a murder and turns to his dealer for help. From there it becomes an exponentially more funny buddy film (which isn't to say that buddy films tend to be all that funny). It comes across perfectly because you can blame a lot of the more extreme wackiness on the drugs, where in another film you might simply be left in awe of the stupidity displayed by the characters.

It works, but it doesn't work perfectly. And you still have to struggle your way through the first twenty or thirty minutes of non-laughable material. In the end, they pull it out and make it into something worthy of watching. And I do suggest that you see it--but not in theaters. It isn't worth quite that much. Overall, it is an uneven film redeemed by the characters that inhabit it and their lovable nature.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

Victory is Mine and The Way Things Are

Victory is mine. Google "Spencer Miles Kimball." I dare you. As of today, four of the top ten search results refer to me. I don't know how this happened, by what fluke I have arrived triumphant, but it pleases me.

What pleases me less is that one of the four hits is a poem I wrote in my freshman year of high school, and went on to have vanity published by www.poetry.com. It isn't that I'm particularly ashamed of the poem. Here, I'll reproduce it, just to prove how unafraid of your judgment I am:

A Story Is...

A story is a woven tapestry,
Composed of golden cloth and silver thread,
Eliciting both dread and rhapsody,
It's on our minds until completely read.
We are drawn in by characters and quirks,
Protagonist with righteous heart and mind,
A villain with a plan that just might work,
And thus the plot of story is designed.
We listen to the storyteller speak,
Or flip the pages of a classic book,
In an attempt to end a tale's mystique,
But you find new import each time you look.
A story's magic can give people wings,
To carry us away from earthly things.

In fact, the only lines I cringe at are the last two, which smack of a particularly late night at the grindstone and a rather high opinion of both myself and the art of words (only the latter of which is justified). Unfortunately, I've now seen too many Red Bull commercials to ever take the second-to-last line seriously. I can only picture someone chugging an energy drink and taking flight--not much to do with stories at all. Still, it is a nearly perfect sonnet, if nothing else.

But you say, "Spencer, that's online! You really paid to have that put online?" And I say, "No, silly person, I paid a website $50 to bind it into a book and mail it to me, even though I had the original." Here's the basic story, in long form. I found this neat poetry website which billed itself as the premier website for poets of our day. In my incredible naivete, I almost believed that. Well, I submitted this poem I had written for a school assignment, and received notice that they wanted to publish it in a collection of poetry, and would I like a copy? I was like, "Crap yes, send me a copy for the exorbitant price tag of $50." My parents paid for it on account of my birthday, so I was a happy little clam when it arrived. And, strangely, my poem was the first in the book. Now, I'm not saying it's a terrible poem, but if it is, so to speak, the best foot forward, and written by a 14-year-old, well.... It occurred to me then perhaps this might not be such a "premier" website. Still, at that time I only suspected that it could be vanity publishing. Then I was harassed for the next two years via e-mail about all the great poetry offers I was missing out on and the $100 value of the trophies I could buy for myself for a mere $20 and the poetry society I could buy a membership in. Well, at that point I was sure.

In my opinion, it's much cooler to have it out there on the web. The book is just boxed away somewhere, but in electronic form it is out there for anybody to read. Slightly scary, very exhilarating. That's the way things should be, and are.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

Sheriff of Hong Kong Meets MegaBlast: The Epic Battle For My Affections Continues

My favorite Captain Beefheart song may be his least avant-garde--"Sheriff of Hong Kong" off Doc at the Radar Station. It doesn't have much atonal instrumentation, just a gong. It is a peripatetic song, perfect for strangely cold August mornings and i-Pod Shuffles. The rest of the album is excellent as well, and I actually much prefer it to Captain Beefheart's far more famous Trout Mask Replica. But enough of music and back to heroes.

Today my sister e-mailed me a picture of Houdini with the message, "Thought you'd like this picture of Harry Houdini. I remember you always liked him." Uh, understatement. Houdini convinced me for a time that I was meant to be a magician. Long before my sister was obsessed with magicians' pamphlets, I was parading around our house with a hollow plastic wand and a hat with a secret compartment. In my day I owned at least three sets of magic guaranteed to blow the socks off any and all audiences, be they parents, siblings, or various combinations of the above. But my days of magic were short-lived, and I no longer aspire to spend my days hanging upside down in locked tanks of water.


Harry Houdini via Tom Sutpen @ http://tsutpen.blogspot.com/2008/08/vaudevillians-3.html

Receiving that message and the photo (reproduced above) reminded me of other childhood heroes, including Mark Heroic. I recently had the disappointing experience of re-reading the first novel in the series which bears his name, FlashPoint. As promised, I then continued on to read the second book, MegaBlast. However, upon finishing three days ago, I simply had no desire to write anything about it. Now I repent.

Note: MegaBlast is at least 2.7 times the quality of FlashPoint. That still leaves it struggling to breathe freely under the weight of its contrivances, however. The basic plot is that a criminal mastermind has stolen a set of mind control devices and is using them to take over an Air Force base. The reason he wants control of the base is that a new, chimpanzee-manned space shuttle is about to be launched there. The boys get involved because 1. They are in the first place entrusted with the specially prepared chimpanzee who will be manning the shuttle 2. They are stupid enough to hand the chimpanzee over to people just because they say they are from the Air Force base (but don't show ID to that effect) 3. It is suggested that they come to the base to straighten matters out (this is before the villain has actually arrived at the base and begun utilizing his mind control devices).

I don't wish to ruin the plot for you, but the boys are victorious (hence books 3, 4, and 5 of the series). They accomplish this through lies (see my face=obvious disappointment), luck, and a ridiculous amount of intelligence and brawn. Oh, but the intelligent character, R.J. Rowberry, is only smart at things like figuring out door circuitry and knowing the chemical make-up of thermite. He can't seem to make plans himself. The street smarts are all Mark, our perfectly average (5'8'') and eminently likable main character. As the book describes him, "He didn't get mad easily. Mark tried to overlook people's faults and concentrate on their good qualities" (26). Sometimes, he's sickeningly sweet and perfect. However, I can really forgive these things in a children's book. The blatant punctuation errors are less forgivable.

Still, there were moments that warmed my heart. Blue Berzoni, the brawny character of the trio, refuses to listen to any song that doesn't have "Blue" in the title, leaving him listening to "Blue Suede Shoes" ad infinitum. Blue calls Rowberry such beautiful nicknames as "Fatberry," "Fishberry," and "Floatberry." RJ says of the new chimpanzee-manned space shuttle, "'From now on, space travel will be perfectly safe,'" and Blue responds, "'Except for Congo [the chimpanzee]. ...I bet nobody asked him'" (7). Sometimes he says precisely what I am thinking, and he is clearly the heart of the team. If the series were called "Blue Heroic" it might be a more interesting story. We'd get less of the inside of Mark's head, which is a saccharine jungle of virtuous feelings, and more of a complex lead character, with real faults and a real personality.

Still, on to book 3. Now that I've started on this path, I might as well finish. All the same, a lesson has been learned: childhood heroes are sometimes best left in childhood, where they can still be giants to look up to.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

Picture:

A room with hardwood floors, a wobbly ceiling fan, and all the congregated possessions of a nerdy boy's first nineteen years--a man backlit by boylight and frontlit by computerlight. One glowing comet sticker remains persistently attached to the ceiling, a faint reminder of the constellations which once graced these walls with the sweep of galaxies. It is too dark to see much at all, but in the closet lies a sword, in the corner is a Darth Vader piggy bank, and by the window hangs a second sword. Books of poetry, science fiction, fantasy, and Russian literature line the shelves. This is me, sitting in my childhood bedroom with dismay on my face. For I have been unable to Google myself.

Or rather, to Google myself and have any results turn up. You see, I've previously explained what sorts of challenges face a person with my name. Oh, I'm certain they can't compare to the plight of a John Miller or a Jack Johnson, but still, they sting. I quite simply wanted to create a place for myself on this world wide web which would, when wandering web-wise, be found by at least the person who created it. But still, after two (granted, short) weeks, I am still Where-In-the-World-Is-Carmen-Sandiego-ing myself and finding nothing. All this is temporarily discouraging, but no more so than the rain.

Ah, nasty rain! You monsoon-like spurt of spirited drenching which destroyed my precious notebook, soggy-ing the binding to the point of ripping! I despise you, because I must now give rest to the recording of ideas until evaporation takes its course and the correct balance of humidity is restored. Well, at least I still have this arena to write in.

So, to write. And to write, I must read. And I have read. Crime and Punishment has now been thoroughly devoured. It is time for a declaration. I love Dostoevsky.

I now understand why reading the first few pages of one of Dostoevsky's novels is not sufficient. The simple fact is that he asks for a large investment in return for a massive payoff at a later date. I had to wade through 200 somewhat tedious pages to be handed 350 pages of excellent prose.

A young man, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, (has a nice ring of alliteration) lives in a cramped, insanity-conducive apartment in St. Petersburg. He spends all of his time obsessed with the question of whether he is an extraordinary person, or just another ant among ants. This uncertainty regarding his quality plagues him, and he decides to test his mettle with murder. What follows this murder is the primary concern of the novel.

It is hard to know what else to say. In fact, I'm rather fearful of ruining any sort of plot developments because they are the reward you receive for your patience and dedication. However, it is a deeply descriptive novel of the sort which lends itself readily to imagination. Throughout the reader participates in the recreation of Petersburg in the 1860s, and the picture is startlingly realistic even without prior knowledge. One can live in this novel, as I did, for days on end. The characters can become your friends.

Which is one thing to note. I believe Dostoevsky has a certain brilliance with character, far surpassing his command of plot or commentary. They were all real, and I couldn't hate even one of them because they all had some redeeming feature, as human beings generally do. Dostoevsky exposes us to the worst and best in all people--that is his gift.

"What matter if no one will see you for a long time? The point lies in you, not in time. Become a sun and everyone will see you. The sun must be the sun first of all." (460 in the Volokhonsky-Pevear translation)

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

What is Good Writing?

Writing. I never spend much time on it. I can produce a large number of words in a relatively short span of time, but I can't start to worry about the quality. That leads down the dangerous, poorly paved path of perfectionism, which I know all too familiarly. We're basically old buddies who had a falling out. See, I realized I wasn't getting anything done with all my commas here, thesauruses there, and that my pal, perfectionism, was just holding me back.

This summer, I attempted to join my college newspaper, The Michigan Daily. Strange shame, I have not heard back. I assume this means they found me less than satisfactory, which is distressing to someone who prides himself first on writing. Ironically, I don't even read that publication. In fact, the only publication I've read consistently in the past many years is Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine. I don't even read that anymore.

In fact, I am an abysmally informed person, who largely relies on literature from the 19th century for his news updates. But that isn't the point. The point is, having been slightly snubbed, I look to myself for faults. But I am too in love with the way I think to see the problem. Thus, I here replicate my application book review, with the hope that you, my readership, might have enlightening views regarding why it failed so spectacularly to inspire a "callback."


Regarding Etgar Keret’s The Girl on the Fridge (Stories)

It’s tough enough finding time to do most of the assigned readings for classes, let alone to read for pleasure. But Etgar Keret’s The Girl on the Fridge is worth it. The quirky title tops a collection of 46 short stories translated from the original Hebrew, the longest of which are nine and seven pages respectively…double-spaced. The average is more like four pages, which is both ridiculously manageable and surprisingly rewarding.

Keret makes smooth use of his limited space, packing about forty clean narratives into 170 pages. Note the forty, because there are about six solid duds, which will probably leave you saying, “Huh?” Maybe someone out there finds them incredibly enlightening or moving, but they seemed to be an indulgence of the author, a kind of unnecessary, “Hey, I’m wacky. Check it out!” statement.

But when Keret is good, he is flawless. Some of his best stories do happen to be his longest, but that may be more coincidence than any real advantage provided by the additional space. The nine-pager is “Exclusive,” a mystery wadded up in a tight space. It doesn’t involve any corpses, (at least not directly) but instead centers on a girlfriend’s unexplained departure to the big city and a sledgehammer. Some of the first, intriguing words in the story are, “All women reporters are whores.”

The second longest story is “Not Human Beings,” a surreal trip into the Gaza Strip with the Israeli Border Police. Keret exercises magic realism here to effectively darken the tone of the piece and its discussion of racism in the Middle East. One character, upon borrowing a combat knife, says, “‘The compass on the handle isn’t working,’” and within the short form context of the work, a detail like that is everything. The broken compass on the weapon is a stand-in for the Israeli soldiers’ own moral compasses, crippled by a violent but pervasive racism.

The strongest story, however, is “Vacuum Seal,” another exercise in Etgar Keret’s essentially ubiquitous magic realism. Unfortunately, it is so short that explaining the premise itself would ruin the experience, and that would be unforgivable.

Throughout, it’s Etgar Keret’s detail that is most interesting. His pictures are frighteningly complete with a bare minimum of prose, so when he deigns to describe something further, it jumps out in sharp focus. The similes and metaphors he uses are epic in their sensibility, as when the narrator of the title story, “The Girl on the Fridge,” says, “The more he thought about it, the more his childhood seemed like a cavity in somebody else’s tooth—unhealthy, but no big deal, at least not to him.”

Keret tackles issues like love, racism, and suicide with a kind of reckless abandon. He is never squeamish, and seldom disappointing. If you can find the time for even a few pages a day, Etgar Keret’s The Girl on the Fridge definitely deserves that time.

END

So, that is my book review. Note that while my review may be in some way fatally flawed, the book which it reviews is most definitely not--I stand by my very high recommendation of it. For now, the question of the day is a slightly bitter, "Why am I not considered a decent writer by Daily standards?" Ah, to have answers.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

Short and Sweet

It has been a long time, relatively speaking. I blazed through my first ten days of blogging, posting basically every day (or posting twice in one day in order to make up for skipping). But now I am bogged down by my Russian literature course, and am kicking my way, page by page, through Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. I love Russian literature, but it takes me so much longer to read. Besides, it pays to be particularly attentive with it.

I recently learned that until the 17th century, only a very small percentage of the Russian nobility were able to sign their names. Coming from that, by the early 19th century they were already producing, from scratch, a national body of literature I consider to be the best in the world (as far as I've read, anyway). Turgenev's Spring Torrents and Tolstoy's Anna Karenina easily rank among my favorite novels of all time. Dostoevsky, however, has not yet made the cut. This is partially because, having started three of his novels, I have finished none. But perhaps that alone says something.

Still, this is one time when I am certain to finish a novel of his once and for all, so I'll finally know how I feel about him. I'm afraid he might be a little too conservative for me, to be honest. Still, I haven't entirely given up on him. It would be hard to, when I have a friend who champions him so ferociously and with such loyalty. In fact, this friend so wished to represent him well that she read aloud to me 100 pages of The Idiot. I would get a candy bar and a soda and just lounge away as she labored over a faithful recreation of the novel. But then the summer came, and I didn't have the impetus to continue on my own. How can you go from lazy spectator to willful participant in mid-novel?

So I have been working my way through Crime and Punishment these past few days, and that has reduced blogging to a thought in the back of my mind. Today, however, I took two hours to transfer my blog from tumblr.com to blogger.com. I chose to do this primarily because I was able to integrate my blog with all the nifty Google services and tools. And, I bought my domain name. I am now the proud owner, for one year, of spencermileskimball.com. An excellent investment, I hope.

Finally, two thoughts on movies I saw while evading responsibilities.

Jaws: Not quite as scary as I expected. In general, not what I expected. Thus, rather refreshing. More drama than horror, and far more of it takes place on land than I would ever have guessed.

There Will Be Blood: An excellent film, with amazing acting by Daniel Day-Lewis. The soundtrack is deeply ominous, and quite tense. Also, not what I expected. A good time for things I didn't expect, it seems. Note: significantly better than Jaws.

So, perhaps this isn't as short as I initially intended, but that seems to happen often to me. I'll be back shortly with my thoughts on Dostoevsky. 'Til then.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball

To Google

Because I adore Google so passionately, I've decided to transfer my blog here from tumblr.com. From this point on, I will be posting here. Plus, I bought my domain name, so feeling triumphant.

Sincerely,
Spencer Miles Kimball
www.spencermileskimball.com

Why I Love Firefox

Because I didn’t just lose my last post, which I thought I had after I closed my tab accidentally. Safari, if you open the last closed window, merely returns you a blank screen version of the window you closed (I just checked). I am a recent convert, but already I have been fully repaid for my faith. Thus, I love Firefox because it is better. Period.

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

The Shuffle Shuffle

Today I woke up early and took a long walk. This is new for me, as I’m generally satisfied with remaining in one room for the duration of my waking day. Recently, however, I purchased a beautiful incentive to find excuses to move—a silver iPod Shuffle. Cheap(-ish) in cost (not quality), shining to my raven eyes, it has captivated me so thoroughly that I go out of my way to make tiny errands that require walking.

This morning I loaded Exile in Guyville by Liz Phair, Elephant Eyelash by Why?, and Earthspan by the Incredible String Band (the last of which I learned about in Piper at the Gates of Dawn by John Cavanagh, from the 33 1/3 series). The ethereal voices of the Incredible String Band weaving with the melodic boredom of Liz Phair and the no-nonsense but somehow-geeky delivery of hip-hop artist Why? made a surprisingly excellent soundtrack to my walk. Though I didn’t listen to all of them and pressed the “skip forward” button quite a few times, I found real treasures.

Treasure #1: “Speech Bubbles,” (Why?) for one thing, has an excellent backing track. However, if you’ve read my other posts, it won’t be surprising that the reason I like Why? is for the lyrics. I am a huge fan of his/their (before releasing Elephant Eyelash Why? formed a band around himself) album Alopecia (2008) and it will probably make it onto my top ten albums of the year list, if I make one. So Elephant Eyelash was part of an attempt to fill in the back catalogue. It was made worth it for this song alone: “Rain is millions of tiny speech bubbles unused.” Beautiful, and what a way to look at the world! It is a song worth merely reading.

Treasure #2: “Canary,” by Liz Phair, has a mesmerizing and slightly irritating keyboard part, but it fits with the song. As far as I can tell, it is about a repressed rage at the idea of meeting someone else’s expectations and catering to their needs rather than one’s own. “I earn my name/ I come when called/ I jump when you circle the cherry/ I sing like a good canary.” The lyrics aren’t particularly impressive, but I don’t mind a bit. It works the way it is, after all.

Treasure #3: “The Actor” by Incredible String Band. The shifts from palpable melancholy to upbeat melancholy are beautiful. What is even more beautiful is the final shift, from that deep melancholy to a truly positive resolution. “Cigarettes in the airless twenties/ an estate well filled with dust/ In the evening reading Swinburne/ eating mightily with some false lust.” The changing choruses are powerful and the contrasts help to focus the song. Excellent.

I partially like the iPod shuffle so much because it allows me to replicate the way I behave with the internet: I get to skip the things I don’t like, but I am also forced to stumble a little in my blindness. And sometimes you stumble upon brilliance.

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

Speech Bubbles:
http://www.leoslyrics.com/listlyrics.php?hid=EbpRHSh%2BRCg%3D

Canary: http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/Canary-lyrics-Liz-Phair/9425CDF9CDCECD44482568A200283822

The Actor:
http://www.metrolyrics.com/the-actor-lyrics-incredible-string-band.html

iPod Shuffle: http://www.amazon.com/Apple-iPod-shuffle-Silver-Generation/dp/B000IHGJ50/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=electronics&qid=1217792581&sr=8-1

33 1/3 Meat is Murder by Joe Pernice

I’m as good as my word. I said I was going to read more of the 33 1/3 series, and so I did. Unfortunately, my second foray was into the pages of Meat Is Murder, which is not like most of the 33 1/3 series. It is different primarily in that it is fiction, and not really about the album at all. But—and this is the surprising bit—I knew that before I started reading it. I was hooked in the store by this lead-in on the back cover:

“One morning as I was jogging my way past the bronze plaque commemorating the deaths of one student and one motorcyclist, my necktie flapping like a windsock, Ray floored the brake pedal of his Dodge as he close in on me. Fifty mile an hour traffic came to a screeching, nearly murderous halt behind him. He leaned over and rolled down the passenger side window in one fluid motion. He dispensed with formalities while I marveled at the audacity of his driving and, tossing something at me, winked and said, “Here. I’m going to kill myself.” He pegged the gas, leaving a surprisingly good patch of rubber for such a shitty car. In the gutter, sugared with sand put down during the winter’s last snow, I saw written in red felt ink on masking tape stuck to a smoky-clear cassette: ‘Smiths: Meat.’”

I was caught by that stunning bit of bait, but it was probably the high-point of my experience with the book. Initially, I thought it was a straight memoir. Then, when I read a few reviews on Amazon, I accepted that it was fiction. Fine. But what bugged me most after I put in the time to read it was that that scene on the back is so terribly boring when put into context.

In fact, the whole thing is best described as boring and unfulfilling. It acts like a novel, but is in fact a sketch of 80’s life as a Boston teen. The plot seems to be a plot, but never follows through. No questions are answered. Instead, you get some mildly entertaining descriptions of people and places, and an all-too-convenient wrap-up at the end.

The style of writing isn’t bad, but it isn’t used to do anything worthwhile. This is, at best, the first half of a book. Where the second half is, I would like to know, because then it might be deserving of a read-through. We have a love-story which barely gets off the ground, and the story of a band that never actually gets together (yet). Oh, and some flimsy character progression that seems to be used as justification for ending the book after 102 pages.

There are a few moments of quality which make me regret disliking the whole. One is when the narrator discusses popular explanations for why four local kids committed suicide together: “My favorite came from this balding sixteen-year-old named Flaherty who later joined—and was subsequently asked to leave—the seminary: ‘They did it because of despair.’ No fucking shit.” (26) Unfortunately, these moments of humor are separated by large swaths of lackluster cliches and digressions that go nowhere.

I almost want to like this book. But I can’t. It just isn’t in me.

“I always enjoyed pegging the volume when I listened to headphones in public. I liked depriving one of my senses of the mundane and force-feeding it something altogether different.” (97 Pernice)

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

Another Paper Day, and Much to Avoid Doing

My lips are numbed with anticipation. Actually, they’re numbed because I went to the dentist, but I wanted to see how the alternative sounded. So, my lips are numbed with anticipation as I wait for something to break. I decide, for the sake of drama, that a little drool will leak down the corner of my mouth. Will I write my paper, or merely sit, fearing the paper I have yet to write?

Procrastination has been a tradition with me, ever since fourth grade when I broke down in tears over a Sherlock Holmes book report the night before it was due. It may be the cause of many tears and exclamations of, “Why me?” but it has also fueled some truly beautiful work. I know from discussions with friends and not-friends that other people feel this way as well, but it shocks me a little.

Why torment ourselves by leaving our work to the last second? Why would anyone be that foolish? For me, the answer is that I am most effective when I have the least to work with.

I remember Tetris, back when it was big in my family. During unfocused moments in school, I would catch myself tapping the tabletops as if to flip and flop the colored blocks floating, or rather falling, through my mind. My sister and mom were generally better than me, but I had one key skill—I was the comeback king. When I had three or four rows left to work with was when I played best. I could last that way for long, tense minutes as I dueled it out in two-player matches. The key is, I had to get to that point of desperation first.

I can’t help but wonder—if I were given only a knife and a loincloth, and set free in the wilderness, would I live longer that way? I suppose I’d be more inventive at least. And I guess it’s the same with the papers—I’m more inventive. I have to be, to write an eight-page paper in three hours. Magical things happen when you’re desperate.

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

Ponderings

100_0839
Originally uploaded by scozzens

First, the picture. I know I look a little deranged, but just interpret that as a sort of frenzied brilliance and we can all walk away happy. Taken by a good friend about nine months ago.

The Wind in the Willows is now in my possession in book form. I intended to read it online, but couldn’t bring myself to forgo the experience of having real, tree-killed paper beneath my fingers and my pen. So this afternoon I found myself, almost against my will, stalking the aisles of Borders like a predatory jungle creature in search of its next meal. I found it in Literature, my favorite section since I realized I had read all possible plot variations in the Fantasy and Science Fiction section at least twice. A $10-bill later, and I walk away with hours of potential enjoyment. I hope to “actuate” that potential soon.

My sister. Dear girl, but she’s got me beat. Google “Diana Kimball,” and she’s the first ten links you get, including an IMDb resumé for the short film she made in high school. Google “Spencer Kimball,” and you will find my great-grandfather, the one-time prophet of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (Mormons). Try to get more specific, Google “Spencer Miles Kimball,” and you get my Dad, an economics professor at the University of Michigan (that’s not even his name—he’s Miles Spencer Kimball). In fact, no search ploy I have tried has turned up any evidence that I even exist in the internet. It has begun to make me doubt if I am real. After all, I can’t even find this blog without directly inputting the web address. Maybe someday I’ll forget how to locate it, and then, poof, no more posts!

Ah, well. My lack of trust for the internet is nothing new. It just changes so fast, and I don’t like change terribly much. I don’t like evidence disappearing, information vanishing or mutating faster than I can keep up. It just tires me out. So blogging is kind of a peculiar thing for me to be doing. I suppose it is different because I’m on the controlling end of things. I trust myself to be stagnant, static, and stationary. Sort of.

Right now, I’m thinking about the picture of me again. I really like it, because it shows me when I’m most excited. That doesn’t happen as often as I make it sound. I suppose it’s friendship that brings it out in me—stick me with people I like, and I start talking so fast that I trip over words. It’s a sign of affection, and it’s about trusting them enough to look stupid in front of them. You know when I’m uncomfortable, because I’m very slow to speak, and when I do, I say everything in the right order.

Like here. I say everything in the right order, because I really don’t want to look stupid in front of you. But maybe, if we’re lucky, I’ll get to feel that the whole internet population is made up of my friends, and then there’s no telling how many grammatical errors we will find, together.

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

Pirates of the Caribbean 3 (Including Spoilers)

So, I finally saw it. I probably could have used my time better, but there’s no use crying over spilt milk. I knew people were generally disappointed with it, but I figured I might as well finish off the trilogy. After all, I watched Spiderman 3 and was pleasantly surprised by it (despite half a dozen friends telling me how much they hated it in advance).

This was no Spiderman 3. I remember seeing the first movie, The Curse of the Black Pearl, and being charmed by its humor. I even remember glimpses of that same charm in the second installment, Dead Man’s Chest. I didn’t love it in the same way, and yet I was certainly entertained. After all, at least they had Captain Jack Sparrow. This one, however, dragged on forever. I glanced at the clock after each flat, pathetic attempt at a joke, and there were many.

I know the exact moment I lost all respect for the movie. The leaders of the two opposing sides meet for a parley, and an uncharacteristic, sort of rock n’ roll soundtrack kicks in as the camera follows the good guys’ purposeful strides towards their waiting enemies. Proactive meets stagnant, rebel-with-a-cause meets bureaucrat. The stage is set, camera swings to the enemy—and Davy Jones is standing in a large bucket of seawater. A joke? Probably. One I was receptive to? No. It wasn’t good comedic timing, and it spelled out the word cheesy in neon letters.

But that wasn’t the worst moment. No, that was scheduled for ten minutes later, when Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann decide to get married during a battle. Oh, but they don’t just decide to get married—they get married right then and there by the power vested in Captain Barbossa, as they slash and stab away at the combined forces of the East India Trading Co. and Davy Jones.

And now I’m about to ruin the whole ending, right down to the nub, so if you have a misguided desire to watch it yourself, stop reading here.

When Will becomes the new captain of The Flying Dutchman, I was momentarily touched by Jack Sparrow’s sacrifice of immortal life for the sake of a friend. However, I was soon thoroughly disturbed by the denouement. Basically, Will gets one day ashore for every ten years he spends ferrying the souls of those who die at sea. And he asks Elizabeth to wait for him, to literally keep his heart safe, while he is away at sea. I don’t wish to sound overly noble, but I think I would have the decency to wish for consistent happiness for my true love, not just a tryst once every ten years. Let her be free and find some guy who can make her happy at least two days in every 3650. But I guess I shouldn’t lecture, since I clearly haven’t experienced such earth-shattering love in my life.

Finally, and this is a tiny thing, I don’t get what’s with the crabs who carry the Black Pearl from the middle of a desert to the sea. It is never explained as more than a ridiculous fluke, some sort of stupendous serendipity, but it really didn’t make any sense.

So, it kind of stinks. The only plot device the writers seem capable of employing is the double-cross, and so many people escape from “brigs” that I question their usefulness at all. The first hour is tedious, the second absurd, and the last half-hour merely pitiful. In other words, if you have miraculously escaped it this long, continue evading it as long as humanly possible.

I much prefer to remember the Jack Sparrow of the first movie, not the shadow he became in the third. I mean the Jack Sparrow who rode into my heart on the mast of a sinking boat, stepping lightly onto the quay of my affection. That is Captain Jack Sparrow. Not this.

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

Silver Jews

Lyrics. That’s why I love the group Silver Jews so passionately, with such fierce admiration. I’m thinking at the moment of their 1998 album American Water in particular, which I just finished listening to again. Their main creative force, David Berman, is also a poet, and it shows. The album begins, on “Random Rules,” with, “In 1984 I was hospitalized for approaching perfection.” I fell in love instantly.

I could just read the lyrics to Silver Jews and marvel at the wordplay, but I get to listen to Berman turn poems into songs (and not just crappy ones). That is something I can’t thank him enough for.

“Smith and Jones Forever” is a favorite for the line, “The alleys are the footnotes of the avenues.” You just have to hear him sing it. And they prove their instrumental chops with “Night Society,” which is a fine song, if lacking the lyrics I love so much.

“Blue Arrangements”: “I love your amethyst eyes and your Protestant thighs.” A funny rhyme, but also suggestive of the barriers set up by people between people. The album has depth, but also whimsy, and I have to respect that.

It has a touch of weirdness, and I can’t make sense of some parts—but in a beautiful way. At its very worst moment, I’m busy puzzling why I’m enjoying it so much, which isn’t a bad place to be.

The album ends, in “The Wild Kindness,” on, “I’m gonna shine out in the wild kindness/and hold the world to its word.” I’m not sure what that promise is. But I’m rooting for the world to give the Silver Jews their due.

“When something breaks it makes a beautiful sound”—“Blue Arrangements” (http://www.seeklyrics.com/lyrics/The-Silver-Jews/showall.html).

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

Mark Heroic and La Haine

Mark Heroic is a series for children. If it isn’t obvious upon learning the protagonist’s name, maybe the fact that the first three novels are named FlashPoint, MegaBlast, and CyberDeth respectively can convince you. Why am I reading a book for children? Because I have a nostalgic streak and because my Mom has a passion for getting rid of books periodically.

Last weekend we dragged a box of books down from my closet shelf. My mom, who knows my pack-rat nature, expected me to keep them all. I, on the other hand, expected them to be a bunch of books I had completely grown out of. We met halfway. I kept about fifteen, among them a trio of books with the title character Mark Heroic.

I have fond memories of Mark, and particularly of the third book in the series. Unfortunately, this is not the third book, but the first (FlashPoint, by Curtis Taylor and Todd Hester). However, even here I can see why I was drawn to Mark. When asked in the first chapter if he would ever lie, even if his life was threatened, Mark answers, “No, Blue [the character he is speaking to], I wouldn’t lie for anybody, no matter what they would do to me” (7). It spoke to me as a child, and it still has a faint echo somewhere inside my gut. As a child, I had an inordinate respect for the truth. I’m not sure that made me lie significantly less, but it certainly caused me more guilt when I did. In my book, my slightly child-mind-twisted book, telling a lie was worse than stealing, or even killing, really (after all, think how many heroes never have to tell a lie just because they kill instead). So Mark must have been the epitome of valor, just because he would sacrifice himself.

So it shattered me, even now, when Mark proved himself a liar twice over, for having told a lie, and for saying he never would. In a nightclub, threatened by two bouncers who are interfering with the teens’ investigation into a drug ring, Mark lies readily to save himself. He says to a woman, dancing, that the bouncer “‘wants you to drop the loser you’re with and dance with him’” (27). Of course, this causes the woman’s boyfriend to go temporarily insane and attack the bouncer, giving Mark Heroic and his pals enough time to escape. This is just twenty pages after he claimed he would die before lie.

Also questionable was the level of racism depicted. Mark is either one-half or one-fourth Lakota, and his grandfather (full Lakota) is another significant character in the novel. However, the grandfather himself constantly refers to his actions using cliches and stereotypes. As much as political correctness can seem overdone at times, media directed at children is a place where it should be applied in full.

Finally, the style is in keeping with a children’s book, with one exception. The requisite “brawny” character, Blue, “lowered his shoulder and charged,” (27, 28, 74) one too many times. That really bugged me. Enough said.

I still intend to read the series, (well, the three I have—I’m not going to go out of my way and buy the two I don’t have) but this has dulled my interest in powering through them quickly. I’d much rather watch movies like La Haine.

Today (or technically yesterday) I went to Askwith Media Library and rented two movies. And then a third, just because the mustachioed man at the desk asked me if I had the time. He suggested La Haine, and I bit. I am very, very glad I did. The last film the nameless mustachioed man suggested was a ridiculous one named District B13. It was a lot of fun visually, but had the depth of a tunnel painted on a wall. So La Haine was a big surprise.

It depicts a single day in the life of three French kids from the projects. A riot happened the night before, and one of their friends is in the hospital due to police brutality. The film describes the cycle of hatred and discontent in the projects due to the racism and lack of respect accorded to the inhabitants. One of the characters gets hold of a gun, and promises to kill a policeman if their comatose friend dies. It goes from there.

I loved it, and it definitely numbers among my favorite movies of all time. It’s somewhere in the top five or ten, though I haven’t decided quite where. I would say more, but would much rather let it speak for itself. One thing I can say is that I was surprised by my own reaction to it.

“It’s not how you fall that matters, it’s how you land.”—La Haine

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

Piper at the Gates of Dawn, Flickr, and A Picture of me by a Friend

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Originally uploaded by scozzens

Completion. I have now finished reading my little book on Piper at the Gates of Dawn. Remarks=many and varied. My style up to this moment=terse. No further.

So, I’m fairly certain I would not like this album if I had not read the 33 1/3 about it, by John Cavanagh. But that, combined with listening to it four times through in quick succession (certain tracks more times than that) has really allowed it to captivate me. Knowing the deep story behind the individual tracks and album as a whole was a distinct advantage. The only way I can imagine replicating that advantage for a different album is to read more of the 33 1/3 series, which I intend to do. Unfortunately, Amazon ratings on the series tend to vary widely, so it may be a hit-or-miss sort of thing.

John Cavanagh was an effective author for this piece. He inserted himself into the narrative, but in very candid and immediate ways. He describes his childhood confrontations with the songs on the album and his initial interpretations. This is key because of the childlike innocence and love of whimsy Syd Barrett infuses his music and lyrics with. I certainly encourage anyone listening to the album to have a Firefox window/tab devoted to displaying the lyrics so that you can appreciate the whimsy in all its glory.

The only issue I had with the writing was the significant number of digressions. At first they were short and quite interesting, but then they became slightly overwhelming and got in the way of the structure. The two primary chapters, “Side One” and “Side Two,” go through the tracks one by one, but in “Side Two” there are too many side discussions of the live performances they took part in—more than just providing a context for the pieces. “Side One” is perfect, because the few asides are very organic and short.

Overall, it was an excellent experience, going through and listening to the very things I was reading about. It also made me feel justified for liking Syd Barrett, even if the genesis of that affection was due to the spelling of his name.

Things I learned: The reason they played long, improvisational songs: “‘When they were playing at The Marquee, they were booked in for longer than they had a set. In order to get paid properly, they had to play longer. They extended their songs in a rambling kind of fashion and it turned out very popular and got more people!’”—Storm Thorgerson (cool name) (pg. 9). Also interesting, the quality of musicianship. Apparently, fairly low. Of Roger Waters, by Peter Jenner, “‘Roger was musically inept and had to be helped along. Not in a condescending way, I think it’s amazing how he was able to pick up and take the band after Syd left, given his musical realities. I think he did fantastically to eventually become a singer and a songwriter and the quality of the songs he wrote. I mean, absolutely, hats off to him.’” (64). Also, their drummer, Nick Mason, apparently couldn’t figure out how to do a drumroll, so their producer had to do it for him.

I don’t repeat that with any spirit of condescension, (especially since I don’t play the drums at all, and certainly can’t play a drumroll) but more out of awe and respect. It made me want to learn how to play the guitar almost as much as seeing Dinosaur Jr. live. Think what they did with the skills of amateurs and it can give anyone hope.

I quite liked the organization, actually going through song by song and talking about the production and evolution of each. I’m not familiar enough with the 33 1/3 series to know if that is a staple, but it probably ought to be.

For me, the best song on the whole thing is “Lucifer Sam,” especially when that surfy-sounding guitar kicks in. I love the refrain of “That cat’s something I can’t explain,” and it fits so very well with Syd’s vocals. I’ve already described my appreciation of “The Gnome” and “Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk,” but they aren’t the best songs on the album by far.

“Scarecrow” was redeemed by the book, which focused on the longing and darkness of the lyrics. As a song, I don’t adore it, but lyrically it is compelling in its portrayal of the loneliness of an inanimate object. It might be a better poem.

I feel like “Astronomy Domine” and “Interstellar Overdrive” are an inseparable pair. Their titles both suggest a fascination with the void of space, and both successfully invoke a sort of spaciness in their instrumentals. Each one introduces a side of the album, and it’s an excellent way to segue into the weirdness that is Piper. I am personally more partial to “Interstellar Overdrive,” but it’s kind of tiring to listen to.

The album is quite good, though it isn’t in my top ten (I do have a literal running top ten). I’ve really learned to love it, thanks to this book. I wish all albums came with long books detailing their creation and providing massive amounts of context (even though I probably wouldn’t read them, just like I don’t watch the special features for movies) so I could love them just as much.

As for Flickr, my misadventures with it began two or three days ago. I went to get a Flickr account, and was displeased to learn I needed a yahoo account to sign in. So I got a yahoo e-mail account that I am never going to use, but still have to remember the password for. Then I had to sign up for Flickr separately, which is kind of silly if they are so connected that I can’t use my school e-mail or gmail account to sign up for it.

But this was only the first moment of frustration, as I desperately spent the next two hours struggling to post a picture to Tumblr. This, however, was not anyone’s fault but mine. I happen to be computer illiterate, a bit Amish, if you will. I still haven’t figured out how to add a picture to a text post, but was advised to use the caption of the picture post as a text post. As I’m in media res, I have yet to see how well it works.

Some closing words that ring for me, as the son of a professor: “‘If you had a light, it didn’t matter whether there was a window, so long as you could read your book! If you’re brought up in an academic world, you tend to create your own space as a child. The imaginary world is your saving grace.’”—Matthew Scurfield on Syd Barrett’s childhood (49 Cavanagh).

“Music seems to help the pain/ Seems to cultivate the brain”—lyrics to “Take up Thy Stethoscope and Walk,” from (http://www.pink-floyd-lyrics.com/html/take-stethoscope-piper-lyrics.html).

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

A Short Overcoat Worn in the Early 19th Century

So, I was searching to see if anyone can even find this blog, and made a serendipitous discovery. Apparently, my name stands for outdated clothing.

I was searching on Google, and wondered for the first time why some of my search words were highlighted in blue on the upper right. I thought perhaps they were hinting to me which words were most likely to restrict my search, (an excellent idea, by the way) but upon some subsequent clickage was led to Answers.com. There, I was told that my name (Spencer) is best defined as “A short double-breasted overcoat worn by men in the early 19th century.” It can also be “A close-fitting, waist-length jacket worn by women.” (http://www.answers.com/spencer&r=67). Ah, to be a piece of clothing.

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

A Picture I took While Hiking Once Upon a Time

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Originally uploaded by scozzens

Sid with a "Y"

As on all days I finish long papers, today I wasted a lot of time. Fortunately, my standards for time-wasteage are very low when I have a lot of work to do. That means I can include eating, sleeping, and reading excellent books as complete failures to accomplish anything at all.

Sadly, today I failed to fail by reading. That is to say, I only read a few pages of my most recent purchase. It’s a little book from the 33 1/3 series, which spends a little more than a hundred pages discussing a given album. A very cool concept, to my mind. I’m sure many people are already wise to it, but I can’t be blamed for being behind the curve—I only got into decent music about a year ago, thanks to my excellent roommate. Prior to that, my definition of a rockin’ tune was whatever had a loud enough guitar and power chords. In any case, this particular one is #6 in the series, (I couldn’t find an earlier one, though I am the kind of person who likes to go in order. At my favorite local Indian restaurant, I’ve been going straight through the menu for the past year—I have a long way to go) on The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, the first album by Pink Floyd.

Now, I’ve liked Pink Floyd since I heard The Wall. I Wikipedia-d them back in the day (I liked Pink Floyd even before I liked most good music), and discovered that their line-up had changed. I read about Syd Barrett, and based entirely upon the fact that his name was Sid spelled with a “y,” decided I liked him. However, a name is not enough to go on when making purchases, so I stuck to my two-CD set of The Wall.

As I tumbled my way through music history, in a weird sort of year-long free-fall, I did my duty and listened to Dark Side of the Moon, finally. I was entertained, but I didn’t fall in love.

But it’s hard not to love that which you’ve begun to understand. So I’m already liking The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, and I just started to listen to it a few minutes ago. For one thing, what an excellent title! Apparently, it comes from a chapter title of The Wind in the Willows (pg. 2-3 John Cavanagh). All I can say is, it makes me want to finally read The Wind in the Willows. The only thing I know about that book is that as a child I mixed it up with the Frog and Toad series.

Time lapse: I’m listening to “Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk” and wondering if this is what a hymn to words might sound like. Not the definitive hymn, or anything, just a hymn. A nice celebration of the way in which weirdness can by conveyed by wordiness. Or maybe it’s a sort of mockery of rhyming. It can be hard to separate mockery and celebration sometimes. “Doctor doctor!/I’m in bed/Achin’ head/ Gold is lead/ Choke on bread/ Underfed.” (http://www.pink-floyd-lyrics.com/html/take-stethoscope-piper-lyrics.html)

So far, my favorite song is “The Gnome.” I’m a real sucker for characters with names like Grimble Crumble (kind of sounds like Kimball—my last name!). Plus, I like it when people roll their “r“‘s.

Unfortunately, while I have now listened to the album once through, this story can’t really be completed until I’ve finished reading my book. Unfortunately, (part 2) I read four or five books at the same time, so there’s no telling how long it will be until I finish it.

Until then, the reason I like Pink Floyd’s original guitarist Bob Klose: “You heard the early things, you thought maybe it’s the Stones…and you recognise Syd’s voice, but it’s not Pink Floyd sound yet. It needed me to leave to do that. You know, that was quite an important step” (6-7 Cavanagh).

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball

Music and Simple Thoughts

I just looked at my sister’s blog for a spot of inspiration, or maybe to engender a little sibling rivalry. Well, a one-sided rivalry, because I don’t intend to tell her about any rivalry until I can actually rival her. And that requires having more than one post on my blog.

Right now I am listening to Nick Drake’s Five Leaves Left. Except for “Things Behind the Sun” off Pink Moon, I think I prefer Five Leaves Left. In general, Five Leaves Left is more melodramatic—something I appreciate more than I probably ought to. Just look at “Way to Blue” and the whining motif and you’ll see what I mean. Drake makes good use of the classical instruments, especially on “Cello Song” and “River Man.” In general, it makes the whole album feel darker than Pink Moon.

If that seems like far too simple an evaluation of an album, it’s only because anything else would be stretching beyond my limits. I am new to music in general, and while I’ve apprenticed myself to a friend who knows a great deal more, I’m still learning.

In book news, I began Night by Elie Wiesel on a recent trip to Chicago for the Pitchfork Music Festival. Of course, instead of reading straight through, I skipped to his Nobel acceptance speech. I suppose a certain eloquence is to be expected, but it still stunned me. The words that most struck me were in his assertion that “Human suffering anywhere concerns men and women everywhere.” I haven’t even read the book yet, but I’m already psyched by his perception and quality of character. He explains, just like Primo Levi, (possibly my favorite author and another Holocaust survivor) that “if we forget, we are guilty, we are accomplices.”

“We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must—at that moment—become the center of the universe.”—Elie Wiesel

Sincerely, Spencer Miles Kimball

P.S. Contact me with thoughts or constructive criticism at spencermileskimball@gmail.com

Opening Words

This past weekend I asked a friend if he wanted to start a blog with me. He said no, and another friend who was with us explained that people who write blogs simply like having this fantasy of an attentive audience. I said to myself, at that moment, that I am just the sort of person who wouldn't mind having a phantom audience hanging on my every word.

I am a student at the University of Michigan. I happen to be both very opinionated and related to a girl, a sister, even, who is very much into internet culture. Mixing those two circumstances together, you get me sitting in front of a computer screen right now, typing an introduction to what is currently a blank space.

Once upon a time, when I was fourteen, I had a website. It was just this aberration of pretended maturity, and it lasted about two days before I had a pang of conscience and took it down. Since then, I haven't made any attempts at spreading my opinions.

However, I think I have a niche, if only because my taste in media is so varied and apparently lacking in class. So I present my blog, which only has to last three days to prove I have increased my worth since I was fourteen.

Sincerely, Spencer Miles Kimball