The bells rang hourly and sometimes in sudden moments of celebration. A baby was born or baptized. An elderly congregant’s hip replacement had taken. The nuns’ little Westie, Henry, a neighborhood icon and for one heady summer the ward’s “honorary” Democratic committee representative, had been returned to the church after accidentally (or boldly) boarding the Norfolk-Southern and falling asleep in a pile of mail bags. I tended to think that the dog had done it on his own. Up and left for a long weekend on the road. He was that sort of guy.
This morning, the bells rang brightly in an elegant version of “God Bless America.” The sunrise hung mutedly in the air, and I breathed slowly on the front porch. I waved to Henry when he walked by.
“And when your son looks at you and says, ‘Mama look, you won. Bullies don’t win,’ and I said, ‘Baby, they don’t,’ because we’re gonna go in there and we’re going to impeach the motherfucker.”
Now we got a ballgame, folks.
That’s U.S. Rep. Rashida Tlaib from Dee-troit talking to you. To us, all of us.
One of the great counter-narratives to what’s happening in the U.S. right now — to the story we tell ourselves — is that, actually, there are ways of prevailing against oppressive bad guys, even when they hold the most powerful seat in the land. They can be toppled, much like the sweetest wind can extinguish a runaway flame. It takes intent and vision and kindness and a lot of creativity. We’ll see it through.
I read 30 books in 2018, which is the most sustained stretch of reading I’ve done since maybe college. It was great to get back into the rhythm and discover some amazing works that I’d missed in the past. I’ve got a clear sense of what I want to read in 2019 — the types of books and the writers — and I’m thrilled to set off on those goals.
My favorite book in 2018 was Mason & Dixon by Thomas Pynchon. It was an extraordinary, immersive experience. I then reread The Crying of Lot 49, and now I’m halfway through Vineland, which will be the first book I finish in 2019. Gravity’s Rainbow is on my list for sometime next year.
There was also a three-book run of Philip Roths in the fall. I read American Pastoral and was absolutely spellbound. As soon as I finished it, I walked down State Street in downtown Chicago to buy The Human Stain. I picked up The Plot Against America back in Northeast Ohio, and had to briefly explain to the cashier why I was buying a book with a swastika on the cover.
Brave New Weed by Joe Dolce.
It Can’t Happen Here by Sinclair Lewis.
Influence by Robert Cialdini.
The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman.
The End of Your Life Book Club by Will Schwalbe.
Kill All Your Darlings by Luc Sante.
A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving.
The Quiet American by Graham Greene.
The Rise Of Theodore Roosevelt by Edmund Morris.
How to Stop Worrying and Start Living by Dale Carnegie.
Leisure, The Basis Of Culture by Josef Pieper.
Tribe of Mentors by Tim Ferriss.
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith.
The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson.
Tropic Of Cancer by Henry Miller.
Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders.
Mason & Dixon by Thomas Pynchon.
Dear God, What’s on the Second Floor? by Walter Holland.
How Music Works by David Byrne.
A Massacre in Mexico by Anabel Hernandez. (My review for the Cleveland Review of Books here)
American Pastoral by Philip Roth.
The Human Stain by Philip Roth.
The Plot Against America by Philip Roth.
White Noise by Don DeLillo (reread).
Almost Famous Women by Megan Mayhew Bergman.
Beatles vs. Stones by John McMillian.
Demand the Impossible! by Bill Ayers.
The Siege Of Harlem by Warren Miller.
Rabbit, Run by John Updike (not pictured).
The Crying Of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon (reread).
I’m a longtime supporter of the troubadours, the bards, even the rakish mountebanks who proffer wisdom and humor for the people. To quote one of the great beacons of my more writerly habits, Tom Robbins, “Humanity has advanced, when it has advanced, not because it has been sober, responsible, and cautious, but because it has been playful, rebellious, and immature.”
The reason I like ’em all is because they tend to be virulently anti-fascist and anti-imperialist in their creative work and public character. And they’re often very funny. This matters quite a lot to me. A keen wit and an incisive humanitarian commentary are how I arm myself and revel in life with my loved ones.
(Why am I writing this? Why is any of this happening?)
Take Raffi Cavoukian, for instance. He helped kick-start my interest in music back when I was knee-high to a scruffy mutt, and I haven’t stopped listening to whatever sonic innovation and good-time grooves I can find. It’s how I spend my time, collecting perspectives and knowledge and jokes. Music is a terrific vehicle for all of the above, as are things like “books.” I’m not sure if that word means what I think it means in your modern tongue, but “books” convey ideas and narratives and fantastical visions of what once was and what might one day be again. Selah.
Shout out to Phish’s 12/7/97 show, one of the finest examples of pure setlist flow and groovy, you-can’t-do-that-on-TV cow funk you’re bound to find out there in this world. Unless I’m mistaken, this is the sort of thing that soothes souls in trying times.
The opening suite is just marvelous stuff here. AC/DC Bag segues smoothly into the kinetic vamp of Talking Heads’ Psycho Killer, which glides effortlessly into ZZ’s Jesus Just Left Chicago. It’s a masterful opener, and it sets the tone for everything that comes later. (This is one of those shows, too, where I’d argue that the first set is *even better* than the deep kaleidoscope of sound in the second set.) It’s Ice -> Swept Away -> Steep -> It’s Ice is blissful insanity., for example.
Of course, like you, I come back to this show for the Tube -> Tube Jam. It’s one of the great funk jams in Phish’s live canon–and it came during the almighty Fall ’97 tour, that crystallization period in the band’s history when they shifted deftly from hyper-manic alien-geek prog improv to the aforementioned cow funk. To paraphrase one of my favorite writers on the matter: After climbing to the peak of New Year’s Eve run in 1995 and laying down cultural touchstones like the Clifford Ball and the Great Went, the band had nothing else to do but dance.
I had this quote written on a piece of paper and taped to my closet door through college, through two dorm rooms and a wonderful apartment on Court Street in Athens, Ohio: “The fundamental delusion of humanity is to suppose that I am here and you are out there.”
It’s from Yasutani Roshi, Japanese Zen master and the founder of the Sanbo Kyodan.
As time buzzes onward, I think about this idea more often.