In which the calendar page turns over, thanks be

Less than two hours to go until I can finally kiss this shitstorm otherwise known as the Worst. October. EVAR. goodbye.

I’ve always dreamed of October, yearned for October, counted the months, then weeks, then days. October has been the month I wish would never end, possessing the mood, the weather, the colors and light, the soul, for lack of a better word, that I wish persisted for nine or ten months out of the year. How satisfied I would be to live on Planet October.

And if you had ever said to me that there would be an October that I’d find anything other than inspiring, healing, energizing, beautiful, evocative, head-clearing, comforting, enriching, and otherwise perfect, I’d have laughed in your face. Well, now I know better. Not only has this past month not been any of those things, it’s been complete rot from one end to the other, an unceasing thirty-one day karmic boot up the ass. My head is impenetrably fogged-in, my heart might as well be made of lead, senses duller than ditchwater, body wrecked, sleepless, no appetite, edgy as hell, and scared half to death - that’s how I’ve spent the month.

All through no one’s fault but mine.

Begone, October. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love you again. I hope so, but you might be fated to henceforth be the month of regret and bitter memory, to be only dreaded and gotten through with gritted teeth and hunched shoulders and tears.

___________________________

Wait a sec, Isabella Rossellini’s on Graham Norton, and as usual looks like she’s having the most fun of anyone in the room. Maybe October is attempting to redeem itself at the very last minute.

Still, I can’t bring myself to think of what November has in store. Truly.

In which -- oh, hell, I have no idea what this was

So this afternoon I'm sitting at the bar of the VFW I grew up in (I exaggerate only slightly, but that's a story for another time), having a beer with my dad and pretending to listen to whatever it was he was saying about "something something movie in color something made in black-and-white something something something Steve McQueen something Blob something wrong." His bottom dentures were a little loose, plus he mumbles, so that's all I got.

But also I was distracted by a bit of crosstalk between the bartender, Dana, and a couple of bozos in the corner. All I heard was the tail end of something Dana was saying, eight words that made my damn day:

"...was like Brigitte Nielsen crossed with Leslie Nielsen."

Context? Who the hell needs context for a mind-bendingly awesome juxtaposition like that? It doesn't matter if she was talking about a mother-in-law, a mentally challenged Great Dane, a righteous drag queen, or something she hallucinated while having painful dental work done. Provided the mental image it conjures doesn't make you flee blindly into traffic, you've gotta hand it to her, that is one impressive piece of description.

Head, Heart by Lydia Davis

Head, Heart

Heart weeps.
Head tries to help heart.
Head tells heart how it is, again:
You will lose the ones you love. They will all go. But even the earth will go, someday.
Heart feels better, then.
But the words of head do not remain long in the ears of heart.
Heart is so new to this.
I want them back, says heart.
Head is all heart has.
Help, head. Help heart.

- Lydia Davis

(from Varieties of Disturbance)

In which I am sure to irritate many people I love

But they can also bite me.

Memo to grammar cops: Back off!

The usually estimable Laura Miller is far too kind. This Jack Lynch can bite me. So can Laura Miller. I'm embarrassed on behalf of my Lynch relatives. If I was related to any Millers I'd be embarrassed for them too.

Yes, standards can evolve, but they are not to be capriciously discarded.

I admit that I may be overly sensitive after seeing "Amelia" this afternoon. The film has been criticized for its reliance on voice-over narrative, but the words are Earhart's, and function in the film not only to add emotional color but, much to Hilary Swank's and director Mira Nair's credit, to demonstrate what a deft and delightful prose stylist she was, and what a writer and thinker we lost along with the adventurer, feminist, and pioneer.

A friend of mine frequently said, in defense of unorthodox and trendy constructions, "Language is a tool." Of course, but our most relied-upon tools -- hammers, knives, shovels -- have changed very little over the years, and what changes there have been brought about much-welcomed improvements in design, durability, and efficiency. Change in the service of nothing but change, though, is sloppy and unreliable. The introduction of nouns like "blowback" is inevitable and often useful, but lapses like "rate of speed," "point in time," and "impacted" are merely lazy and indefensible. English is erratic enough without such challenges and offenses.

Old-fashioned? A crank? On this topic yes, I am, and proud of it. I prefer to think of myself as a traditionalist, not in the sense of excluding innovation, but in the sense that there are traditions that deserve to be preserved.

In which I discover some odd birthday buddies

Home sick, watching the 1980 remake of The Diary of Anne Frank with Melissa Gilbert.

Melissa Gilbert and I share a birthday. Here are some of our other May 8-ists:

Harry Truman
Bishop Fulton J. Sheen
Edmund Wilson
Friedrich Hayek
Roberto Rossellini
Saul Bass
Tom of Finland
David Attenborough
Don Rickles
Gary Snyder
Phyllida Law
Sonny Liston
Thomas Pynchon
Peter Benchley
Ricky Nelson
Toni Tennille
Gary Glitter
Keith Jarrett
Felicity Lott
Chris Frantz
Bill Cowher
Janet McTeer

In which I make a bit of a commitment

Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

- Stevie Smith

tattoo by Nicole @ Puncture Tattoo Studio, Brooklyn NY Oct 16 2009

click pics to embiggen

In which the logistics of egg-borne good luck come into question

Friday morning, Joann is making her marvelous fluffy, cloud-like scrambled eggs. Lo, she cracks an egg that turns out to have two yolks. "Great," I say, "that portends good luck for you!"

A few seconds later she makes a sound. "What?" I ask.

"Another one."

"Another double yolk?!"

"Yeah."

Hmm. My wheels begin to turn. Does this mean Jo gets double the good luck? Or since half of the eggs are meant for me, should I get half (that is, one double-yolk egg's worth) of the luck?

Or, perhaps (best case scenario) it works like rolling doubles in backgammon. That would mean quadruple the initial quantity of luck, which I believe in any reasonable ethical system would be considered excessive and therefore it would be only right and good to distribute the 4x luck evenly between everyone in the immediate vicinity; i.e., Jo and me getting 2x the luck each. Even though I didn't actually handle the eggs until it was time to eat them.

But I did make the coffee. That should count for something, right?

In which it rains a lot and I drive a lot

The steady rain made the drive more tiring than usual. If it wasn't for some great tunes I would've ground my molars down to stumps before even getting to Breezewood. But on the up side, I did find a prime parking spot once I got here. Wonderful to see Piccolina again and Rocco for the first time. Oh, yeah, and Joann. We picked up right where we left off, as always. And I will be agog all weekend and beyond at the tremendous job she's done with the new apartment. It's absolutely beautiful and makes me feel very comfortable and nostalgic.

A bit disappointed, though, that because of the rotten weather I wasn't able to get a picture of my very favorite roadside attraction. On the PA turnpike somewhere between the two tunnels and one of the single tunnels, there's a large red barn with obviously hand-painted lettering on the one end. It says

WORLD OF PIGEON

I've been intrigued by this for years. Was there meant to be an S but it just turned into a classic case of fail, like we've all had when we're sure we can fit all the letters in, no need to measure, measuring's for sissies! only to be proven very, very wrong?

Or -- and I like to think this is the real story -- perhaps the fellow with the barn does have only one pigeon, and that one special pigeon is his whole world. Wouldn't that be a fortunate pigeon? And mustn't it be one hell of a pigeon, to inspire such devotion that someone would climb up on a barn and declare it for all travelers to see? Yep, quite a pigeon.

In which Hitch speaks for himself

Hitchcock interviewed by Tom Snyder, 1973. Newly recovered video.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6

In which I describe my somewhat underhanded method for getting your stuff moved

There's no need to describe here the irritation, dismay, and frustration of waking up on moving day and slowly realizing that all the friends who'd said "Sure, I'll help! What time?" simply aren't going to show. We all know the feeling. It's certainly got to rank among the top five grievances aired at Festivus gatherings around the world each year.

Now, to be sure, these pledges to lend a hand, and a back, to the task are frequently made in ill-considered haste, perhaps only out of a neurotic fear of appearing lazy or selfish, perhaps out of peer pressure, or unwillingness to disappoint. Those people need to take it up with their therapists.

And often that eagerly blurted agreement to help out is made with the best of intentions, only to be countermanded by genuine unplanned circumstances that place further up in the vaguely-defined hierarchy of social obligation. Things like appendicitis or indictment or a sudden opportunity for crazy monkey sex.

But we all know that by far the most common reason for the lack of people power on moving day is simply the classic flake-out. Your friends wake up and peer through the blinds and find that it's drizzling, or it's windy. Maybe they're hung over. Maybe they're experiencing acute existential paralysis and will barely manage to negotiate a day of eating Count Chocula and watching Green Acres reruns in their pajamas. Or they just forgot, the way they do.

There is a work-around for this problem, and while it requires a small investment of time, the payoff is well worth it. The key is to understand that, given the reasons that your friends are your friends, the qualities that brought you together in the first place, it should be obvious that they're not the sort of people you should be depending on for something like moving furniture. Backing up an alibi, creating a distraction, posting bail, donating a kidney -- they can be counted on, rock-solid, for important things like that. So just let them do what they do best and don't trouble them with trivialities.

Instead, you want some new pals, purpose-built for the job at hand.

And so about six or so weeks before your scheduled move, you should start attending AA meetings.

Don't worry, there's no need to abandon the cause of and solution to all of life's problems. Briefly considering it is close enough to the spirit of the thing, in my view. Just find a meeting at a time and place convenient to you, and start showing up. You don't have to share, just politely pass. Pretend to be shy, withdrawn, perhaps a bit disturbed. Do word search puzzles with a twitchy eye, or needlepoint while muttering the periodic table under your breath. But keep it low key, and when the inevitable swarm of people approach afterwards to introduce themselves and welcome you, stow the disturbiness and gratefully accept their proffered phone numbers. Nod humbly and try to suppress that predatory grin when, one after another, they say, "If you need anything, call me."

Oh, you will, and you will.

After all, it says Service right there in their logo, right?

So give it a few weeks, tune out as much as you need to, be cordial. You may even meet someone you enjoy talking with -- just try to remember not to invite them out for a beer. Cultivate an air of mild dysthemia, maybe with a touch of OCD , but avoid appearing needy. In fact, you want precisely to project the appearance of a needy person who is determined not to seem needy. It's easier than you think.

Finally, as your moving day approaches, mention it, and ask, as if it pained you more than tongue-kissing a light socket, if anyone might possibly be able to help out just for a little while, and how you don't have all that much stuff, and you'll make coffee. Try not to smirk when it occurs to you that you won't have to supply the traditional case of beer. A pizza might be nice, though, if it's past lunchtime.

Then prepare to be amazed, because damn! these people show up. In droves! Cheerfully.

And often they even bring their own coffee! And sometimes, donuts!

Not only that, for some reason they're really quick to organize into tiny task forces (Fish tank gang! Weight bench bunch!), and form bucket brigades as if driven by a hive mind. It's quite a thing to behold. And before you're even through with your first donut, all your stuff is neatly stowed in the U-Haul and you're ready to go. Upon arrival at your new place, your caffeine-infused new pals will have all your boxes toted and stacked in the appropriate rooms in no time, and any challenges posed by awkwardly-shaped furniture and/or peculiar hallway angles or doorway configurations will be cleverly solved.

Now, you ask, once your belongings are safely transported, the truck's been returned, and all your coffee-swilling minions have been plied with vast amounts of pizza and/or donuts, what to do with them? Clearly you are to thank them profusely, perhaps while wiping away an imagined tear. Make sure all the pizza and donuts are taken away with them. Wave wildly as they depart, shouting more cliches of gratitude, until they're out of sight and earshot.

Take a deep breath. Let it out. Go pour yourself a shot of Bushmill's from the bottle you stashed in the box of National Geographics. Congratulations! You've been moved!

But, I hear you asking, what about your former new teetotalling, furniture-hauling buddies? Not to worry. You're not likely to see them out on your rounds of nightspots, dives, beer gardens, and lounges, and if you do, well, a knowing wink and a nod will suffice. Should you run into one of them in a neutral setting, like a supermarket or therapist's waiting room, and they ask why they haven't seen you at a meeting lately, either assume a benign gaze and explain that you're attending meetings closer to your new digs, or shrug and say you've hopped off the wagon, probably for good, but you sure enjoyed the coffee and donuts.

In which Peter Bogdanovich recounts Alfred Hitchcock's elevator story

My own favorite memory of Hitchcock comes from an incident at the St. Regis Hotel in New York in 1964. After some frozen daiquiris had left me a bit tipsy and Hitch quite red-faced and cheerful, we got on the elevator at the 25th floor and rode in silence to the 19th, where, when three people dressed for the evening entered, he suddenly turned to me and said, ''Well, it was quite shocking, I must say, there was blood everywhere!'' I was confused, thinking that because of the daiquiris I'd missed something, but he just went right on: ''There was a stream of blood coming from his ear and another from his mouth.'' Of course, everyone in the elevator had recognized him but no one looked over. Two more people from the 19th floor entered as he continued: ''Of course, there was a huge pool of blood on the floor and his clothes were splattered with it. Oh! It was a horrible mess. Well, you can imagine...'' It felt as if no one in the elevator, including me, was breathing. He now glanced at me, I nodded dumbly, and he resumed: ''Blood all around! Well, I looked at the poor fellow and I said, 'Good God, man, what's happened to you?'' And then, just as the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, Hitchcock said, ''And do you know what he told me?'' and paused. With reluctance, the passengers now all moved out of the elevator and looked anxiously at the director as we passed them in silence. After a few foggy moments, I asked, ''So what did he say?'' And Hitch smiled beatifically and answered, ''Oh, nothing -- that's just my elevator story.''

In which I fantasize about a work-related emergency, in an old-timey radio drama format

"Oh sweet mother of god! Edmond Hoyle's name is misspelled in the subject heading of this bib record! Whatever shall we do?"

"Quick, call the Authority Control Specialist!"

"But, but, it's 8 pm, and Olbermann's on. Have you no heart, sir?"

"There's no room for heart when the accessibility of a record in the OPAC is at stake, dammit. Call him in!"

[whispers] "It's after 5:00, and you know he -- " [makes a tippling sound]

"Hell, at a time like this, if I have to choose between a beswizzled, delusional, eczemic authority control specialist with rage issues, a broken heart, and nothing to lose, or some teetotaling copy cataloger wearing a holiday-themed sweater, it's no contest. Call him a cab and get him in here on the double!"

The part of the tech services department head was played by Ed Asner.
The other part was played by someone else. Let's just say, oh, the actress who played Mimi on the Drew Carey Show.
The part of me would be played by Lawrence Tierney, because I'm that awesome.

In which Diamanda Galas rends my soul in twain and makes me beg for more

Over the decades I've been privileged to be an up-close witness to all manner of transformational rituals: shamanism, vodou and candomble ceremonies, the Catholic Mass, powerful S/M exchanges, trances, more. Each at its core is a means to gather and distribute energy, to summon it from its source, manipulate it or be manipulated by it. To shape it in ways that can breach constraints of consciousness and transcend physical bounds.

The priest, the two-spirit, the witch, the submissive, offer themselves as the conduit for the raw power of the cosmos, thereby making it available for the members of their tribe to touch and partake of it, for healing, guidance, celebration, renewal, catharsis. Their body becomes the portal that allows us ingress to the secret places.

Diamanda Galas last night was such an instrument. Embracing her ancestral links to the ancient mystery cults, and her quite possibly literal descent from the Erinyes, she glided onstage, opened her mouth and with it her soul and wrought transformation.

It sometimes happens when watching a performance that I experience a type of tunnel vision. Everything but the artist and the small space immediately around them fades into an indistinct murk, my peripheral vision stops working. It's like watching through a cardboard tube. Then a shimmering corona or halo appears around them. Often I will also experience a vaquely weightless sensation, as though every neural impulse is so tightly trained on the artist that things like feeling myself in physical space become superfluous.

Experiencing Galas was something altogether different. The hyperfocus was heightened, like looking through the wrong end of a telescope, and the aura effect was almost kaleidoscopic. That much was at least familiar. But elsewise it was completely wracking. Despite the volume, my ears were doing very little of the work. Rather, it was my sternum and my tailbone, my every last humming, jangling nerve, taut muscles, aching skin, and burning tears. For two hours I had not one instance of intellectual reaction; it was pure emotion, relentless disorientation, exhausting, and something akin to how I'd imagine open-heart surgery without anaesthesia would be.

Well into this morning I felt buzzy and boneless and like I'd been Rolfed by a walrus. And I remembered the brilliant Evelyn Glennie's TED talk, "How to listen to music with your whole body," and suddenly I got exactly what she means. By absorbing the music on that tactile, climatic, pure sensation plane, we go from being passive recipients of a handed-down experience to fully participating in creating the transformation, our transformations. Last night I was another instrument -- undoubtedly a drum, given the way I was beaten -- played from half a small room away to complete the performance.

Diamanda Galas is a shaman, a shapeshifter and trickster. Not the type who works by firelight or under a cat's-eye moon, though. She leads you into the hallucinatory meta-darkness of the sweatlodge or the deep labyrinthine caverns, and leaves you to find your way out. All you have to do is learn to hear with your body, listen with your soul.

Ralph Stanley - O Death

Diamanda Galas - O Death

And now I'm off to daydream about what a Diamanda Galas - Evelyn Glennie collaboration would sound -- and feel -- like.