Still on that Microcastle tish

It isn't often in conversation that I mention the fact that I'm one of the co-owners of the music blog Resonator Magazine (or, if you're one of the cool kids, which I most certainly am not, it's "Res Mag", because abbreviations are so hip for 2009, particularly if they're three letters long and, um, if there are two of them). This is for a few reasons. One is the fact that my writing there is done under the pseudonym of Shaun Bateman-an homage to a recurrent character in the fiction writing of Bret Easton Ellis, who, yes, I am always talking about.

The other is that, um...it's RESONATOR. It's not exactly like we're talking Superfamous IndieRock Review of Ye Musicks That Is For The Listenings, or anything like that. I mean, Resonator has had some mentions here or there...mentions which, if given the proper opportunity, or a few vodka tonics (which basically ends up equaling "the proper opportunity" when all's said and done), we will trot out and trump up again. And again. And again.

Ask me about the time NY Magazine mentioned us. Do it. And then ask me again, because I'll repeat it.

So that's why, when last night at Bookhouse, which has become my new favorite little Atlanta spot to nurse something which, when imbibed, will cause me to lose all fear of the police, I distinctly heard, in a booth across from my friends and I, discussion involving Res Mag. So distinctly, in fact, that my friends all perked up to listen.

I mean, one would assume that, were one to operate a music blog, that there's like one billionth of a hundredth of a chance that one person might read it, and that an operator of said blog could, potentially, be in the exact same room as said blog's one reader at some point. However, chances are exponentially better that you'd die in a fiery plane crash, and as a result I'm now I'm never, ever, flying again.

I use all of this as an overly-wordy intro to the fact that, though I feel that my writing on Res has gotten away from waxing intellisophical on whatever I'm currently listening to and moved more towards a "this is new. here you go. form an opinion" mindset, which I fault squarely on the fact that most blog-based music writing is awful, artless and has absolutely no grounds to call itself "criticism". This isn't to say that my music writing is, or has ever been, artful or well-done, but hell, at least I try. Tried. Try. Still try, honestly, just not as often as I should.

And that's why I wanted to point a little link to some musings I did over on Res recently regarding the album that was, and still is, tops of the year for me: Deerhunter's Microcastle.



I began thinking both of how totally Proustian (read as: bedroom-ridden and bedroom-written) most of the album's lyrics are, and how my favorite song on the album (and my favorite song of al of last year), "Nothing Ever Happened", is totally the first forward-motion on the album, conjuring, for me, thoughts of my childhood hometown of Marietta, Georgia, and my need/desire to escape it.

In fact, I actually wrote, over on Res, something akin to:

The lyrics, like “focus on the depths that were never there/eliminate what you can’t repair”, take the rest of Microcastle’s Proustian qualities of bedroom stasis and actually force it into a sort of hesitant motion, in which you get the feeling that the song is pulling Bradford, rather than operating under his direction.

Pretentious? Oh god yes I am. And I don't deny it. But, to me, that's a better analysis of a piece of music than 'HEY D00DZ CHECK DIS", which is what I'm seeing so much of in terms of blog music writing these days. I don't know, maybe that doesn't bother you. But also, maybe, you're really a damn LOLcat...in which case, AWWWWWWWW!

You can read the rest of it, if you so desire, and also hear "Nothing Ever Happened" and a few more Deerhunter songs, at Resonator. Res Mag. Res.

We really need to figure out what abbreviation we're going to use and stick with it.
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Fiction Contest...correction

Ok so I was super-wrong. Or "premature". Hey, I'm told it happens to everyone sometimes.

The Creative Loafing 2009 Fiction Issue is online RIGHT NOW. And you NEED TO READ "Medicine". And you need to do so immediately, if not sooner.

And you need to avoid the silliest photo of me ever.

I am going somewhere to learn how to teach myself to begin learning to not talk with my hands like that. I was discussing Bret Easton Ellis, probably. Since apparently that's all I ever do.
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The fiction contest

I'm not sure if Creative Loafing Atlanta has any intent on making the 2009 Fiction Contest winners available online (and if that happens, I'll update this), but I did want to say that the winning essay, Laurah Raines' "Medicine", was seriously heads-and-feet-and-tails above anything else I was given to read for the contest this year. If you are a publisher, and, um, you still have anyone working in your offices (too soon? too soon.), Raines, undoubtedly, has a collection of short stories in her that I'll go ahead and call "emotionally taut and moving, with more than hint of bite". You can blurb me on that now.

(I am going to avoid encountering, at all costs, the photo of my next to my bio in the Fiction Issue, which is out today and can't disappear fast enough, because, um, I think I'm supposed to look "wacky". I was sick, and I don't do wacky.)

As I've already said, there's a party for this whole thing going down tomorrow (Thursday, Jan 8th). I may or may not sign baby pictures.
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Simple Truths

On the left, me. On the right, miss Amanda waxmuseum Lauter.


Simple iChat truths.

originally posted over yonder.
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Best Books of 2008

So, I finally finished my "Best Books of 2008" list. And you can read that over here.

Rather than simply syndicate the whole damn thing, I figured...linkage is good. Linkage works. Tie all the projects together. All that jazz-hot-baby stuff.

However, I did want to throw up my top fiction and non-fiction for '08...which I, of course, am pulling directly from the aforementioned blog post elsewhere.

Favorite Fiction of 2008:

James Collins, Beginners Greek



This is the sort of book that's instantly a classic, both intellectually and emotionally, from the first word. Collins, a 49-year-old first novelist, writes the sort of inspiring, "love conquers all" story that parts the clouds on stormy days and reinvigorates the English language. This story, of executive-of-something (even he's unsure what he does) Peter Russell as he fumbles through his life and loves, chasing the realization that the girl in his head and heart isn't the girl he's married to, unfolds with the most jaw-dropping, breath-stopping prose you've read in ages. Everyone in Beginner's Greek is in love with someone else, and everyone's someone else is, also. A massive, glorious literary update of the black-and-white film romance, Beginner's Greek fills sloppy hearts with love of language, love of reading, love of celebration, love of love. Sheer brilliance.

Favorite Non-Fiction (or as close as anything comes to non-fiction these days) of 2008:

Dan Kennedy, Rock On



There are myriad books written on the music industry. This is one of them. This one, however, doesn’t stink -- in fact, as the title explains, it does, indeed, rock. What causes the aforementioned and proclaimed “rocking,” you ask? Former major music label marketing exec Dan Kennedy’s hilarious, self-effacing, and ALWAYS tongue-in-cheek observations on the crumbling insanity that is a 9-5 in the music biz. “Biz,” see, that’s an industry-type term. You learn those from perusing these pages. You also learn, for instance, that Fat Joe doesn’t consider crudités “food” when filming a video, that The Darkness should never be called a “joke” (to their faces, at least), and that Phil Collins, while overblown, isn’t a bad guy. All of these observations, and more, can be assimilated by you, the reader, and thusly you, too, can Rock On.


Ask me nicely and I'll tell you about the worst book I read in 2008. Both tact and my desire to never again be punched in the face by a book publicist forbid me from posting such things here.

Ok, I lie about one of those two above. I have no tact.
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POP.

So, I really should have posted something on this before (because if there's one thing I don't do nearly enough it's, erm, toot my own horn? That just sounds vulgar and like something I should in fact be doing far more often), but I've been pulled into (quite honorable) duty as a judge for this year's Creative Loafing Atlanta Fiction Contest, which is having the celebratory party at the Eyedrum in Atlanta this Thursday, Jan 8th, at 7 P.M. It is free and I will be there doing something that probably won't amount to much other than looking awkward in public, but I can tell you that I know who won and the winning stories are pretty much works of that magical short-story genius that results from being able to not be overly verbose and conjure words that have emotional punch and resonance.

No, really, these stories are good. I will tell you my favorite later (because I have a favorite and it was gooder than good. It was better.)

I've been waiting to see what sorts of horrendous lies that I've added to my bio actually get reprinted before I said anything on here, but, in the sake of timeliness, I'll link to the Facebook event page and just re-post whatever ends up in print and online about yours truly.

Since it is writ-and-thus-mote-be that I'll be "signing books", which, um, I haven't written yet, (I'm the only one of the three judges, the other two being Carmen Deedy and Phillip DePoy, both published authors, so that's one thing they both have over me, and Phillip has multiple last-name capitalizations and therefore TWO things over me), it has been suggested that I make print-outs of a childhood photograph of myself for autographing. This would, apparently, make me both feel more a part of the whole "the famous people are going to sign things for those in attendance" facet of the evening and also allow for the fact that I don't think Carmen Deedy will let me sign copies of Martina The Beautiful Cockroach. Specifically, it has been suggested I autograph prints of this photo:


There is a very, very sad, tragic and almost-kinda-halfway-funny-if-you-like-tortured-upbringing-tales story behind that photo, so I will probably just inscribe copies of Less Than Zero with "If I'd written this I would be even more into how awesome I am than I already am" or something else equally self-referential and partially true. Or maybe I will just pass out copies of favorite blog entries of mine. Or maybe I'll just sign my hand, lick it and rub it onto the hands of others as though it was a club-entry stamp and everyone was underage (see also: that Blues Traveler video).

Or maybe I will sign baby pictures of myself.
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So this is the new year....

Resolution for 2009: Finish best of 2008 list.

Yeah, I can start that tomorrow, right? The FIRST day of the new year doesn't actually count for anything.

I am sad, though, that I didn't miss the slutty hot mess that must have been Anderson Cooper and Kathy Griffin on CNN.

I'm going back to bed, with coffee, an awful book that both tact and my career forbid me from naming but that I am going to pretend was written by Meg Cabot because, though it was not written by Meg Cabot, not only is the cover done in the same super-cute quirky chick-lit-esque-but-with-brains-because-everyone-knows-it's-forward-thinking-to-assume-girls-can-do-math-and-don't-need-princes color scheme, and not only is the premise kinda the same (hey quirky kinda-screwed-in-the-head chick, you can find love too and then you'll be a-ok, even if you are a size 14 because that's not fat unless you're trying to size jeans at Forever21), but, for some reason, the thought of reading a Meg Cabot book right now in secret kinda intellectually gets me off a little similar to the way you put little chocolate pieces on your pizza when you think no one's looking and then scarf the damn thing down, and hunker down and probably listen to that Death Cab For Cutie album that I keep thinking about and pseudo-referencing but not actually wanting to re-download until now and just letting today pass by.

Don't assume my lack of super-enthusiastic "there's no 'I' in 'team' but there is an 'I' in 'all of these are my accomplIshments' " motivational calendar self-help-speaker-who-adds-everyone-on-Twitter 'whether you think you can, or you think you can't, you're right as long as you remember to always be closing' espousing is indicative of any lack of enthusiasm for 2009 on my part.

I just tend to think it's both unrealistic and, um, almost kinda slightly pagan, really (seriously...a drunken orgiastic gathering to celebrate...an almost arbitrary changing of numbers in increments of one?), to confine the potentials of life to a set grouped number of days. Honestly, something awesome could have happened at 11:59 pm yesterday evening and then it would have been 2008 and then wouldn't all the potential positivity of 09 have been wasted on one splurt and then oh god what's the point of living, etc? It's like resolutions-why only give yourself 365 days to do something good for yourself or others? The whole thing feels, to me, like the concept of "yes we DID" vs "yes we CAN". "Did" implies that all requisite accomplishments have been reached, whereas the potential of "can" is both powerful and infinite.

Can>Did.

But, whatever, I didn't major in math.

Or, to put it in the words of Kate Bush: "I just know that something good is gonna happen. I don't know when. But saying it could even make it happen."

Ok, granted, the song was about crazy-as-fuck Wilhelm Reich thinking that if he buried glowing objects in his yard the government wouldn't lock him away from his family, but the sentiment remains the same.

The sentiment. And the outcome.

As I wrote this, I received an email from Pizza Hut informing me that the "best way" to "spend" my "New Years Day" would be to order a pizza from (natch) Pizza Hut now-featuring "all-natural pepperoni".






















As you can clearly see, you know the processed fakeymeaty porky fattystuffs are now "all-natural" because there is WHEAT in the "all natural" logo.







Of course. Fifteen points to Oglivy or Wieden & Kennedy or whoever it was that makes like 100k more a year than I do to focus-group concepts like "Ok so if we attach a piece of wheat to the logo will it be immediately evident to you, Mr and Mrs Joe Pizzabuyer, that our pepperoni is now all-natural? Peeerrrrefect."

Actually, make that 20 points for the additional suggestion that I rush out right now, on New Years Day Morning or whatever it's called, to procure said pizza. Apparently, if one is to believe both Pizza Hut and Bono, all is quiet on New Years Day...other than the ringing of phones placing orders for the new all-natural super-awesome Jesus-cured-pepperoni pizza. Yes, Jesus is actually IN the back room of every single Pizza Hut, simultaneously (he can bi-locate, after all), curing the all-natural pepperoni. Jesus AND Bono. Same person. But only today. Only on New Years Day can one acquire said holiest of holy pork product. Again: you know it's holy because there's iconography of wheat in the logo.

If that's how I am supposed to spend my new years day? Then, yes, in fact, I am going back to bed. Me and Meg Cabot.

Not actually Meg Cabot. But I can pretend.
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