(^Title is a two-way street.)

This is just a note to let you all know that I will be attempting to write a speculative fiction novel in and throughout the month of November, from the 1st to the 30th. 1,667 words a day, which will be 11,669 words a week, which by the end of the month will be a 50,000 word, fourteen-chapter novel.  I've written a few thousand words in preparation (just outlining stuff and planning stages so far-- no actual prose until midnight Nov. 1st). I'm doing this for/with NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, an event organized by the Office of Letters and Light to encourage writers to shit out a bunch of words at once, essentially. Participants are encouraged to tell as many people as possible that they will be writing a novel in November. Presumably it will help when on the15th of the month I am tired and bored and disenchanted and 700 people are like "Oh, aren't you supposed to be writing a novel?" So yeah, if you see me figuratively getting high during the month of November, literally knock me down.

If you're interested, here's a little about what I'll be working on. Criticism, input, and abject loling are all welcome.

Inspiration: Octavia Butler's Mind of My Mind, Ursula K. Leguin's The Lathe of Heaven, Martin Amis's flair for the detached lol, Nathaniel West, Underworld's Second Toughest In the Infants, "dream argument", Carl Jung's writings about tarot cards particularly The Moon, the demolition of the Pruitt-Igoe building, NYC, the apocyphal Book of Judith, the simple poetry of Zork Games, and yeah, dreams.

If none of this grabs you, try this on for size: there's a character in the book with the first name "Cran." If you like my ideas and you like me, feel free to volunteer to pump me full of caffeine.  If you have impeccable grammar (mine's on the rocks), please spend December editing with me.

Mimi (Upuuzi)

Basi, bila kupoteza wakati na tuanze. Jina langu Emily; natoka Marekani. Nina miaka ishirini na nne. Ninapenda vitabu vizuri, vikundi Metali na chakula kwa Bara Hindi. Ninapenda sana kahawa ya rangi; ninakunywa yeye mno. Kikundi kangu ni Tenderhooks; mimi, Jake, Ben na Matt, tunapiga chombo cha musiki na tunacheka. Nina paka mwili; jina lao Bernard na Pagoda. Mimi ni Mbudisti, lakini mimi ni atheisti tena (mungo akimjalia, nitakuwa atheisti hata nutafa). Mchumbangu ni Matt; anafanya musiki Metali na Umemi (?) tena. Tulikutani mkahawani. Siku nenda siku rudi, tuna kuingiliano ya kimwili. Sisi wanapenda. Ninaomba kwenda Afrikani kusaidia watu chenya ukimwi na VVU. Kutowasaidia wagonjwa ni kujinga na dhaifu. Nitaharibu ubaguzi na nitafanya musiki roki hata nutafa!

as heather and summer do sometimes.

a = alf comic book

b = bambuti cuties

c = congolese humanitarian organizations, chubby kitty

d = david jones

e = endless upteens

f = fandangp (maybe it's a typo, but maybe it's some obscure underground tape band)

g = gameboy stickers

h = hetfield animated gif

i = indian food puns

j = jah murda

k = kathleen edwards "asking for flowers" chords

l = learning swahili

m = metatextuality

n = neil's bohr's cock (couldn't make this up)

o = oscar grouch anderson cooper

p = palmcorder vajna

q = quincy illinois flood

r = rancid chords (lol)

s = site:ilxor.com "take a sniff"

t = "the mathematics of love"

u = university of tennessee swahili

v = viking jackolantern

w = weedeater

x = n/a

y = n/a

z = zelda, zimbabwe (predictable)

Today is Pagoda's sixth birthday. This morning I hugged him and (ignoring his breath) gave him the following speech: "I have known you for six years. For six years you have been my friend. You are a fuzzy man. I love you."  He closed his eyes and stretched.

What follows is a pictorial tribute (aka a random sampling of 'Goda pics I found on my hard drive) to this amazing creature:

<3

I know I'm basically constructing a glass house here, but I admit I'm confused.

I've been thinking about what being a music critic means in our current cultural climate and essentially drawing a blank (apparently we're all confused -- Wikipedia's list of American music critics begins with Paula Abdul, concludes with Douglas Wolk and contains more piss-ant MP3 bloggers than you could shake a stick at).  The more criticism I read, the more the idea of being a critic (or, more loosely, the idea of professionally writing about music) strikes me as pointless and embarrassing.  Writers I used to love (Greil Marcus, Xgau, Savage) are infuriating me.  Disenchantment with criticism isn't new or unique, of course.  Does anyone actually enjoy reading it, aside from people in their early twenties who evangelize about Lester Bangs, pursue shitty jobs with magazines that will fail in three years, and bore their acquaintances with one-sided conversation peppered with things like "rockist" and "reimagine" and "Vampire Weekend"? 

When I first read Bangs, I found his style exciting, too, and it's not surprising to me that he's widely canonized (is there anything people love more than a dead rebel?). When I read him now, though, the style that used to strike me as heartbreakingly sincere now seems as contrived and pretentious as the writing that he seemed to be battling against.  The Ramones on first listen were far more exciting (as they continued to be for pretty much every listen thereafter), though in a similar way  -- "I could do this. We could all be doing this!" (Now that we all are, how awesome is it?  Now that everyone and their mom actually plays in a shitty band and writes retarded, overblown criticism, isn't it fucking amazing?  What a feeling!  Thanks, the seventies!) 

I don't blame Bangs, though, for the proliferation of bad working writers any more than I hold the Ramones accountable for the 100 shitty bands per square mile aping their style.  The worst thing about the current state of music criticism, to me, is not that too many people are writing, it's the style that the most-read writers are choosing to write in.  This, I feel, is the fault of a few poor imitations of Greil Marcus that landed on rich soil and sprouted a thousand heads.  These people would actually do well to try and mimic Bangs instead, because his is a style more easily imitated by stupid people (this is not a dig at Bangs, who was obviously a very smart guy).  While I like Marcus and think he is a good writer, I find a lot of his more grand theorizing really difficult to swallow (someone please convince me once and for all that the chapter in The Shape of Things to Come about Bill Pullman's face is actually an elaborate joke).  Would you rather see a Pitchfork writer or MP3 blogger saying "Hooray! I love Black Kids, they thrill me so hard and are gonna save the world", or would you rather hear a theory that the new Art Brut single is an actual robin's egg, explained as one of Plato's dialogues?  Neither one seems like anything I'd like to read in 1,000 years, but at least the former isn't up its own ass to the degree that the latter is.

What are these critics trying to do?  They are trying to assert their personalities.   Why are they doing that?  Because we hagiograph (give me a new word, I admit I need one) critics now, and consider music criticism an art in itself.  Is this point of view bad?  I'm not sure, but it certainly brews results that look hideous.

What should a music critic be doing?  I don't know anymore, but I feel that it's best when a critic writes something factual, whether he is dealing with himself, history or hardline crit.  I think the only non-nauseating excuses for music journalism are to educate an audience or express oneself.  I think a critic needs to decide where he stands with the canon and objectivity, and stick with it.  I think a critic should tacitly acknowledge the primacy of his subject, express himself with brevity and clarity, and, for extra credit, radiate sincere enthusiasm.  I think bizarro Marcus-esque theorizing is to be strenuously avoided, and that above all, and in spite of all this, a critic should not take himself too seriously. 

All I'm certain of is that the bright spots in a sea of annoying, pretentious bullshit* are, for me, the moments when a writer either beautifully and simply elucidates the way a song or band makes him feel (like John Darnielle here, but not everywhere) or explains something factual in lovely, clear prose (like Jon Savage at his best).

____________________________________________________________

*Re: bullshit.  If you are a critic, and you write for reasons other than to hear your pen rattle, please jettison these from your style:
--Conceptual reviews, unless astronomically hilarious.
--"The art of pretend forgetfulness."  Here is a real example: "...that silly religious one with the choir...what was it called? Just like a prayer, I'll take you there.  I can't remember what it was called. But you know the one I mean. Like A Prayer."  Well, you've just proven that you do know what it's called, so why pretend otherwise?  Are you trying to say it's forgettable?  Say it, then, and see what happens.
--Making a show of not understanding or not conforming to prevailing musical taste, or contrarianism for the sake of it, or attempting to draw attention to oneself by presenting a "challenging" opinion.
--Excessive anecdotage.
--Bigging-up of oneself as anything.
--The pursuit of vendettas (lookin' at you, Xgau).
--Ridiculously assumptive referentiality when writing for "the people."

^All of these, really, could go under the single word "pretension."

A dream of a bizarre, unknown musical classification system:  "E+" , the enharmonic equivalent of "J (the 'violet note')".  A diatonic scale containing audibly bubbling quinine.  Notation of all aspects of a sound:  timbre, volume, etc., a string of colorful cuneiform trailing from the Roman letter indicative of the note.  A whole step consists of two hand-widths, therefore an individual's system of intervals is unique to him.  Color and touch are everything.  Rhythm is a closed, mysterious world; only the hoary and tenured even approach it.  The more rainbows (scales) we push on (master), the more explode out beyond them.  We break into song (can't find key).  Parallel lines form a staff; a degree between any two of us.

My mind's little way of reminding me that I still don't "get" theory.

Drove 30 miles to work, changed all the Jack Johnson and 3 Doors Down and shit in the morning playlist to Diacon-Panthers, Royal Bangs, New Order, Talking Heads and the Clash, decided I didn’t need to be at work, drove 30 miles home practicing my yodel.  With hindsight: should have thrown some Steely in...?

So, essentially, you're telling me that people who don't follow rules don't follow rules?  Thanks a lot, asshole!!

Just a bunch of shit--

First:  I miss you, Cmac.  I guess this kind of disconnection is typical when you first move away from someone, but our lack of contact has grown tiresome and ridiculous!  Join me for some drunken activity, you legal-ass eggnoramoose.  I miss you, too, Bryce.  I promise I will learn chess notation (both kinds, in case).  I miss you, London.  I miss you, being able to stay up all night and coast through the following day (i.e. youth).  Some of you are doomed to stay on the other side of time, but that's for the best.  Chris, though -- I am forcibly pulling you through to this side.

Emily Dunlap (a genius) shot this movie last night.  It stars Sam Stratton (teaching us a ludicrous cheer), Mike Adams, and myself.  I say "aspie-est" in it, which is not really a word.  I don't think Sam is loving this video, but he will have to get over it probably.  Emily also coined the following nicknames for Mike and Mike:  Madams and Marroll.  Do pass it on, because it is brilliant and they hate it.

I am practicing fingerstyle so much!  But what will I ever do with it?

Brandon and I will maybe have a radio show.  Who knows what all crap we will play?

Alain Robbe-Grillet is dead today, and we never got to read Repetition in book club while he was alive.  That is ok.

Underworld are playing in HOTLANTA on March 28th at some joint called Center Stage!  When I received this news, I immediately and uncontrollably broke into that fist-pumping/exaggerated time-step combo that Eurotrash boys do up in the club.  (Haw, their current MySpace headline: "Hello to you soon!")

Current and all future listening:  "DIRTY EPIC."

I had just recently given up on ever seeing this band.  This is the kind of news that makes me hug myself and cry "skreee" in ecstasy.  I am ready to get saved by some deep haus.