even my henchmen think i'm crazy

I've been thinking about dedicating some posts to cool (and legal) music I've discovered through my roaming the net, so here goes.

A few months back I discovered a song by Jonathan Coulton that has become my own little summer hit. The title of the track is "Skullcrusher Mountain," and it features a lovely, upbeat melody and Coulton's smooth, rich vocals. Coulton sings in an alt-country vein--somewhat like a less depressed Richard Buckner--and when the chorus hits, the music swells and his voice climbs the scale in a dramatic and moving wail. The melody is so catchy that you won't be able to stop humming it. I loved the track at first listen, but it wasn't until the second or third time I played it that I began to pay attention to the lyrics. At the end of the chorus, Coulton croons,

"If you could find some way to be
A little bit less afraid of me
You’d see the voices that control me from inside my head
Say I shouldn’t kill you yet."

And the way Coulton intones "I shouldn't kill you yet," you might, if you're not paying attention, easily assume he's uttering something along the lines of "And she doesn't love me yet."

Soon you realize that the song is sung from the point of view of a mad scientist whose victim is being held at Skullcrusher Mountain against her will. He tries to win her love by giving her disturbing gifts ("What's with all the screaming?"), and with chilling calm he notes that "this mountain is covered with wolves / Hear them howling, my hungry children / Maybe you should stay and have another drink and think about me and you."

It's a love song for the ages! And it's a fiercely infectious tune that, unlike all those other tunes that creep into your head and won't leave, makes for fine mental company while you are fixing a blank stare at the boss/student/coworker who hasn't noticed your glassy, unfocused eyes. Give it a hear; you can download it here. Let me know what you think.

(The above link should allow you to download the song directly, but Coulton asks bloggers to direct traffic to his site, as well. So go here to read his blog and learn more about his recordings.)

moogy blues

I start teaching classes tomorrow. Am I ready? That would be a resounding NO! Think happy thoughts between the hours of 10 & 12 and 2 & 4.

My little sister started her blog today. I'm so proud of her. Blog, Polly, blog!

Robert Moog died yesterday.

stoney end

Last night we celebrated Charlie's birthday at his and Roxane's new pad (which they've decorated beautifully, by the way). After cake and ice cream, many of us headed down to Tokyo Garden for karaoke. TG is the first place I ever sang karaoke some few years ago: my stab was at Hank Williams' "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry," and then I warbled what has apparently become my signature karaoke number, Laura Nyro's "Stoney End." I don't think I've ever actually heard Nyro sing the song, but growing up, our family collected and listened to many of Barbra Streisand's albums (now aren't a great number of things about me beginning to become clear?), and one of these was her 1971 release, Stoney End. This is the only version I know.

The album art is terrific: La Streisand sits atop a bordello-red antique sofa in the bed of a decrepit red pickup, which appears to have broken down at--you guessed it--road's stoney end. Streisand looks both pissed off and forlorn, huddled in some black gauzy wrap and staring at the viewer, whom she appears to blame for her predicament.

Stoney Endmay be Streisand's best album. Her earlier efforts established her formidable vocal stylings, and she proved more than capable to subdue broadway numbers and torch songs to her to her signature belt. She ahd turned "Happy Days Are Here Again" into a slow, haunting melody that evoked almost every emotion but happiness, and wowed audiences with her powerhouse performances of numbers like "Don't Rain on My Parade." Later efforts include disco dabllings and a slough of ill-advised duets. (Remember that one with Don Johnson?) But with Stoney End, she proved herself capable of taking on singer-songwriters like Joni Mitchell, Randy Newman, Gordon Lightfoot, and Carole King, who were then dominating the early seventies airwaves. Although not a songwriter herself, Streisand made these songs her own, and as you listen to Stoney End, you can easily forget that these were anything other than Streisand standards. In any case, the album is a collection of beautifully arranged and executed songs, with only a couple of poor choices toward the end.

But the highlight is the title track. Streisand isn't particularly convincing as a young woman "born from love," whose "poor mother worked the mines." Not does she sound like the type "raised on the good book Jesus." But she embodies a spirit of female liberation as well as any early seventies chanteuses, as she describes how "the fury and the broken thunder's come to match my raging soul." And when she sings the last instance of the chorus--"Mama let me start all over / Cradle Me Mama / Cradle Me Again"--she evokes both ferocity and helplessness. But as the chorus fades, you can imagine her jumping out of the bed of her truck and working her way across the desert expanse that begins at the road's stoney end.

The song is rife with camp value, and perhaps that is one of the reasons I find it so appropriate for karaoke. But even more importantly, I think that my vocal range encompasses most of it, and so it works as well as any karaoke number could for someone as tuneless as myself. So, on that dimly lit stage at Tokyo Garden last night, I did my best to go follow Ms. Streisand down the stoney end (the bar--with only three denizens beside ourselves--was itself a sort of stoney end). Given the rotten day I'd had up to that point, it seemed like the right road to take. Thanks to those of you who suffered through my rendition. Thanks for going down the stoney end with me, even though you never wanted to go, Mama. You never wanted to go.

all hail the hall of records

I have dealt with more than my share of hellish bureaucracy, and I'm sure you feel that you have, as well. Dealing with that shit drives me mad. But I have to give some snaps to those very humane humans at the Fresno County Hall of Records.

You see, recently I found myself needing to correct a mistake involving property taxes on our new house. Last year when we bought our lovely little home, I was very clear in requesting an impound account to cover the home insurance and property taxes. Little did I know that my mortgage broker--who in every other respect was exemplary--would flub up this simple request. It wasn't until earlier this summer that I evidence of this problem arrived in the form of a delinquent bill for the 2004-05 taxes on the home. (Previous bills had been sent to the previous owners.) In any case, I have been visiting and writing the folks at the F C H of R, and in every instance they have been helpful and informative. An example: because the taxes on the property were overdue, $200 in late penalties had accrued. But when I explained the series of mistakes that led to my having to pay the taxes late, the F C H of R folks readily waived the late fees.

Today I paid my last installment, and I needed a receipt for the payment so that I could get the impound account started with my current mortgagee. Even though my check had not yet cleared for the second payment (bwahahahaha...), the H of R people provided me with a document indicating that my taxes have been paid in full.

So I'm giving a shout out to the Fresno County Hall of Records. Thanks, guys. You've turned what I was certain would be a nasty experience into a rather painless one. The only injury I've sustained is to my checking account, but hey, that sucker has survived much worse than this. Sometimes you should ask my checking account to show you his scars.

two person army

Friday night I saw the White Stripes perform at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley. I was more or less unaware of the Stripes until SPIN magazine named Elephant the best album of 2003. I went out and got it, and was pretty blown away. I picked up their new album a couple months ago, and have been grooving to it, too. Still, I haven't really considered myself a serious Stripes fan.

The show was magnificent. White is mesmerizing as he struts around the stage, singing into a variety of differently placed microphones. He first appeared in a black costume reminscent of a 19th-century snakeoil salesman, but soon shed the overcoat and hat and sported a tight red t-shirt and black flared trousers. He alternated instruments, playing at least two different guitars, marimba, and piano. He milks his guitars for every ounce of sound he can squeeze, and his voice is a consumate rocker screech-and-wail. A typical complaint about the Stripes is that they have no bass player. But White plays bass and guitar--at the same time, and on the same intstrument. At times his voice recalls Robert Plant. Despite his costume (which he shed fairly early on in the show), Jack isn't prone to visual theatrics; his movement is controlled and measured. But his voice evokes plenty of drama.

But for me the real show stopper was Meg White on drums. Meg is often dismissed as a non-drummer--the less-than-kind argue that she can't drum at all, while those more generous are apt to charcterize her as a naïf. It is true that there is a primal quality to her drumming, not so far afield from the great Moe Tucker's pounding when she was drummer for The Velvet Underground. But Meg seems completely in control of herself, and, at times, of Jack, as well. She falls into a trance-like state in which she sways back and forth and flings her long hair back and forth across her face. Only occasionally does she seem to make eye contact with Jack, and when she does, she seems to be inviting a show down with her bandmate.

Our group included four straight men and a set of traveling binoculars, whose primary function was to close in on Meg's impressive rack. Now I'm not a tits man, but Meg's breasts are noteworthy, and her drumming only accentuates their amplitude. Even when her bongos aren't bouncing along with her drumsticks, however, Meg exudes sexuality. The simple motion of her hip moving up and down as she pumped her kick drum is saturated with eroticism. She created her own world with her beats, and I couldn't help but wish I could enter it with her. Watching her work her kit, and given the appreciative reception she received by the men in our group, I wondered why there aren't more women drummers.

The Stripes played all the tunes I'd hoped they would, including the singular covers of Dolly Parton's "Jolene" and Burt Bachrach's "I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself." The rest of the tunes ranged from the sweet ditty, "We're Going to be Friends" to the driving rock of "Blue Orchid." The Stripes cover a lot of territory, musically and sonically, and I was convinced that they are one of the great bands recording right now. If you get the chance to see them, take it. It will be the sort of show you can tell your envious kids grandkids about years from now.

hangin in myspace

I've been seduced by yet another online community. Myspace.com is a place where people who are either too lazy or too dim or both (like myself) to learn how to make a proper web page can create a personal profile with photos, a list of interests, a blog, and other features. You make "friends" in this cybervillage, and then you make comments about one another. From what I've seen so far, the comments tend to be pithy and cryptic. With the help of third-party software, myspace denizens can decorate their cyber-pads. So here's mine. Go for it. You know you want to.

By the way, surely you've noticed the way that everything related to computers and the Internet is becoming increasingly possessive in nature. The word my now precedes just about anything related to my computer. I save music files in a folder labeled My Music, while photos are stored in My Pictures, both of which are stored in My Documents. Everything is, of course, organized on My Computer. When I surf the web, I navigate to myspace, or My Yahoo!, or, to check anything related to my work, to myfresnostate.com. All this territoriality seems a little excessive; aren't we protesting a bit too much? Is the ownership of anything on my computer somehow disputable? Do I have to be reminded that the Yahoo portal page I see when I open my browser is mine? And how is it mine? I suppose the age of digital information has forced us to realize that issues of possession and self-possession are very cloudy. What we own and who we are are very much up for grabs. Perhaps this my-mania collective self-delusion: an attempt to continue to believe that we are self-contained individuals who can exert a measure of control over ourselves and all that surrounds us.

Or maybe my is just a catchy, cute prefix to all things cyber.

R.I.P. Barbara Bel Geddes

Barbara Bel Geddes was certainly best known for her potrayal of Miss Ellie, the matriarch of the Ewing clan on the 80s TV series Dallas. But she was also one of the best things about Alfred Hitchcock's 1958 film Vertigo. In the film Bel Geddes plays Margaret "Midge" Wood, the plaintalking, upbeat, and pragmatic friend to Jimmy Stewart's Detective Scottie Ferguson. A police officer on leave, Ferguson has recently suffered a traumatic near-death from a rooftop while chasing a criminal, and he suffers from the psychological malady that provides the film with its title. Midge tries to helps Scottie overcome his fear of heights and becomes alarmed and jealous when Scottie becomes obsessed with a mysterious blond named Madeleine Elster. Midge drives Scottie away when she paints a parodic self-portrait of herself posing as Scottie's mystery woman. If my memory serves me, her last scene in the film is when she brings soothing music to Scottie, who has suffered a complete nervous collapse and is recovering in a mental institution. In this scene she demonstrates her loyalty and attempts to atone for her insensitive joke.

Critics have warmed up to Vertigo since its initial appearance. Apparently it was neither a critical nor a commercial success, and it was only nominated for two academy awards: for sound and art direction. Over the years it has ascended movie critics' collective best ever lists, and one year, I recall it supplanted Citizen Kane as the best film ever made, according to one list. (These days I think The Godfather has become the new best-ever.)

Vertigo is a good movie, but I think it is better-suited to theoretical analysis than to watching again and again for sheer enjoyment's sake. North by Nothwest, Psycho, and Rear Window all strike me as better Hitchcock films. This is partly because of the film's ponderous quality--it's pretty damn long--but also because of Kim Novak's lead performance. Her take on the dual roles of Elster and Judy Barton is melodramatic, and the film demands much swooning, lip-chewing, and hysteria of both Madeleine and Judy. Still, Novak doesn't infuse these characters which much nuance, playing the sentimental heroines with a large dose of drama, but with too small a range.

Midge, on the other hand, is a much more developed character, even though she enjoys only a fraction of the screen time that Novak gets. In the scene where Scottie coldly chides Midge for painting the parodic picture, Bel Geddes finishes the scene with an utterly convincing fit of self-loathing: "stupid, stupid, stupid!" she says in self-recrimination, giving Midge a very different quality than her otherwise stereotypical role as chipper sidekick. I think it's the most moving scene in the film. And Scottie's cruel treatment of Midge in this scene evinces those darker qualities in the hero that will become central to the film's climax--is Scottie a victim of circumstance and others' machinations? or is he an impetuous, overly passionate man whose obsessions inevitably hurt those he should love?

I've seen Vertigo many times (it served as a textbook example of psychoanalytical and feminist film analysis in the graduate courses I took), and while I'm sure she was excellent as Ellie Mae (I never got into Dallas), I'll remember her as Midge.

Bel Geddes died Monday of lung cancer; she was 82. According to the AP obituary, she was nominated for an academy award for best supporting actress in 1948's I Remember Mama, and she was the first Maggie the Cat on Broadway in Tennessee Williams' Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

under the banner of heaven

First off, thanks to Joel, Lelly, and Airplaynejayne for their recommendations for not-too-hot-to-produce taste treats. I will try them all. I think you're on to something with your recipe, Miss Jayne. Perhaps you should start your own cooking show.

Last night I wimped out again, and John and I ended up at Los Panchos, a nearby Mexican restaurant I had yet to try out. (This Los Panchos is on King's Canyon, not to be confused with the Los Panchos on Fulton Mall, downtown). Apart from the really sweet server who was desperate to refill our drinks, what most impressed me was the amount and variety of food you get there. For example, I ordered the combo no. 1, which features a shredded beef taco, an enchilada, and a chile relleno. Normally these sorts of entrees are served with the usual rice and beans, as was this dish. But on top of rice and beans, Los Panchos provides you a scoop each of chile verde and chile colorado! This is my kind of combo plate! I'll be back for more of the same at Los Panchos--located in the FoodMaxx shopping center on King's Canyon Rd., just east of Chestnut--let me tell you!

Saturday night entailed a lovely barebecue in Cindy Loo Who's pleasant, green backyard. We had to leave early, however, to catch Much Ado about Nothing, the first show in the first season of Fresno's summer Shakespeare festival in Woodward Park. I read Lecram's review of the performance, and I pretty much concur: snaps for getting this thing going, so onward and upward, people.

But what's really been absorbing my every free moment for the past few days is Jon Krakauer's book, Under the Banner of Heaven. This is the creepiest, page-turningest, and most affecting book I've read in a long time. The book tells the story of the Lafferty brothers of Provo, Utah, who murdered their sister-in-law and neice in 1984 to fulfill a "removal" revelation that the elder Lafferty had received some few months earlier. Krakauer goes on to suggest that the Laffertys--who had been swayed by arcane and Fundamentalist Mormon (i.e., polygamous) doctrines--are products of a culture whose history is steeped in violence and revenge, antagonism toward the laws of the U.S., and a narcissistic tendency toward seeing oneself as the Lord's chosen, "the one and the mighty." That culture would be Mormonism more generally.

I was raised Mormon, and my ancestors include members of the early LDS church who crossed the plains and settled Utah in the mid-ninteenth century. Some were polygamists: one ancestor, Dominicus Carter, a man who helped to establish the city of Provo, had eight wives and fifty-one children. Shortly after serving a mission in and around Santiago, Chile, I left the church for two reasons. Firstly, I was coming to grips with the fact that I am gay, and the LDS church doesn't provide much consolation for its lesbian and gay members. In fact, it wasn't long before I came out at Brigham Young University that lesbian and gay students were given electroshock and other forms of aversion therapy to eradicate their homosexual thoughts and desires. Secondly, I was simply tired of trying to reconcile so much of what I felt was inconsistent and wrong-headed about Mormon doctrine. I had decided that there were more important uses of my intellectual energies than endlessly worrying whether playing with face cards or drinking Coca-Cola were sinful activities.

My split with the church was initially painful--I was somewhat of a relgious zealot throughout my childhood and teens--but I eventually moved past the pain and the anger and into a more balanced relationship to Mormonism. It's what I'm from, but not what I am.

Krakauer's book roiled those placid waters of self-acceptance by making me think about myself, my family, and the Mormon communities I grew up in, in light of what I was learning about these Lafferty brothers and their ilk. On the one hand, the church is very clear about fundamentalist Mormonism: it's wrong, and you can be excommunicated for believing in or setting yourself up as an alternative prophet, for practicing polygamy, or even for delving too deeply into the murky historical and theological waters that make up much of Mormonism's fascinating history. Faithful Mormon historians have been excommunicated for merely publishing information that the Church leaders find in any way threatening or faith-shaking. Still, Krakauer makes a persuasive case that the history and doctrines shared both mainstream Mormonism and Fundamentalist Mormonism are the sorts of ideas and beliefs that make the Lafferty brothers--along with the child-loving polygamists on the Arizona Strip; and Elizabeth Smart's abductors; and those who currently believe in setting up a city of God at the base of the much prophesied about Dream Mine in Salem, Utah--had recourse to when deciding to kill Brenda and Erica Lafferty in the summer of 1984.

The LDS church's strict policy of secrecy and selectiveness when it comes to Mormon history goes some way to explain the motivations and activities of such "fringe" types. Now, some of the historical details that Krakauer includes in his book have long been disputed. But much of what I learned in the book was completely new to me. My version of LDS church history has largely been the sanctioned version, and I'm fascinated--and disturbed--to learn that the account of Joseph Smith finding and translating the Book of Mormon that I learned while going to sunday school and BYU is woefully incomplete and skewed. Turning page after page of Under the Banner of Heaven, I kept telling myself, "I had no idea just how weird this religion is!" But that weirdness isn't necessarily frightening or repugnant. It's fascinating. If Mormons were simply allowed to learn about and assess their fascinating past, would disgruntled members like the Lafferty brothers find the need to establish their own much more fundamentalist and frightening versions of God's one and only true church?

Clearly, the book has given me a lot to think about. Most importantly, I feel the need to reassess what it means to have been Mormon or to have come from a Mormon background. And strangely, while I read the book, I found myself almost nostalgic for Mormonism, drawn to the weird religion and culture I so resolutely abanoned fifteen years ago. Not that I'm dying to go to church again (although a web search helped me learn that I live in the Fresno First Ward.) The places, people, and yet, even some of the events, that Krakauer describes are so familiar to me. I know this stuff, and, for better or for worse, I emerged from it.

And a final word on fundamentalism more generally: I don't get it. Riffing off what Krakauer confesses to at the end of Heaven, I may not know from whence I came or what will happen to me after death. I don't understand why bad things happen to good people, and I can't imagine what purpose, if any, our lives on this earth have. But I'm still having a pretty good time here. I can deal with the uncertainty. And the uncertainty is not only bearable, it's good. It sure beats absolute assurance and all the arrogance that comes with it.

toss it like it's hot, toss it like it's hot

Last night I made a meal for the first time in weeks. This heat wave has got me keeping a healthy distance from the kitchen stove, but I was just too tired of eating burritos and burgers. Both John and I were pleased with the results. Here is the recipe:

Pasta Salad with Feta and Snow Peas

1 lb. fusilli (or other short pasta)
4 oz. snow peas (destringed and sliced diagonally into 1/2 inch strips)
1 yellow bell pepper, cored, seeds removed, and cut into 1/2 inch dice
2 scallions, thinly sliced
1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro
1 cup crumbled feta cheese (about 4 oz.)
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons white-wine vinegar
1 teaspoon balsamic vinegar
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ground pepper

Cook the pasta in boiling, salted water, per package directions. Add snow peas during the last minute of cooking. Drain the pasta and the peas, and rinse in cold water. Combine all the ingredients in a large bowl, and toss to combine. Add Serve at room temperature or chilled.

I got the recipe from the ever-trustworthy Everyday Food magazine, which I have been subscribing to and cooking from for some time now. I have even gone to eBay to purchase early issues that I've missed.

Anyway, if you have any great summertime recipes for meals that require a minimal amount of interaction with either the stovetop or the oven, then pass 'em along.

Re: the Bread and Butter Pickles post from last week.
My friend Kathryn contributes the following to the name debate:

My mom says that she always called them bread and butter pickles because one should eat them on sandwiches. I'm not buying it.

Perhaps. But I'm thinking, if you can't trust Kathryn's Mom, who can you trust? Yet one more reason I plod through this baffling world, beset with fear and trembling...