Yo-Yoing Across the U.S.

One of the more profound effects of Thomas Pynchon's V. on my easily impressed reader's-mind was the concept of yo-yoing. Everyone did it, but Benny Profane, made an art of it. And Profane's take was also of immense proportions; when he yo-yoed, he created masterpieces.

It was up and down the Eastern seaboard, it was pinging back and forth between Times Square and Grand Central on the Shuttle, it was going south to Brooklyn and back up north to the Bronx, only to repeat the trip.

I don't yo-yo as systematically. Or, as erratically. I yo-yo on schedule. To and from, but that doesn't count since it isn't pointless, effortless. Then again, work can be pointless. In which case time spent yo-yoing to and from work would count. I digress.

I yo-yo on business, which sometimes reminds me of Fight Club - the opening scenes of corporate air travel in the U.S., with ubiquitous people and suits, destinations and hotels. But that does feel right. I check out. I bounce to D.C., then back. Then back again to D.C., and back. Then an off-shoot to Chicago, and back.

And I yo-yo on weekends, perhaps most effectively. Went down to Philly to visit Mr. and Mrs. Millions this weekend. NJ Transit to Mr. Millions's car, and on the way back Pennsylvania's SEPTA to NJ Transit, straight to New York Penn Station in two-and-a-half hours. I almost stayed on the train to go straight back, and come back, and go again...

Blast to the Past

Thanks to The Millions, I get a chance to remember books that I read a long time ago and continue to find inspiring - just like Hendrix to generations of guitar players.

In the meanwhile I have been to DC and back. I like that won despite my cynical approach to politics The low buildings and open sky are pleasant changes after getting holed up in New York.

Oddity on the way: the train slowed down as it approached the Philadelphia station. I took a break from typing on my laptop and turned my head left to gaze at the city. A little kid first flicked off the train, then threw rocks at it. I was so astonished I couldn't turn my head despite the stone flying towards me. What prompts a six-year-old boy to spend his Sundays waiting for a train so he can batter it with rocks?

Life is an interesting creature...

In the Meanwhile...

Blogging about blogging about blogging, at The Millions.

The Bathtub

It was about three to four years ago. I would get home. Roll a spliff. Grab a beer. Fill the tub. Drop in a Clash CD. Take a book. Sit in the bathtub, then lie down. Enjoy. The steam, the booze, the buzz.

That was then, and I was under the influence of J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey.

And tonight, after it took me an hour to get home thanks to an overcrowded poor subway, I hit repeat. The only exception being my old indulgences. Instead, I opted for a tall glass of bourbon and a leaking tub.

And, regardless, it was glorious.

Sober, Middle-Aged Young Rock 'N Roll

David Berman is not like most rock pros who get old, clean and lame. An exciting musician from the beginning of his career, Berman, 40, touches a new high with his band the Silver Jews' forthcoming album Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea.

The 34-minute record, which is scheduled to be released in June 17, is an abridged epic. I listened to the Silver Jews on and off in college and in NYC. Like many other fans of the band, my gateway drug was Pavement - and the fact that it's singer/songwriter Stephen Malkmus was a regular contributor to the band. But in Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea Berman shows to all who doubted his talent that there is good music to be made beyond Pavement - and, more importantly, that the band is not just a "side project."

The album covers a wide range of styles played on top of a solid indie-rock foundation. The philosophical lead song What Is Not But Could Be If kicks off the journey with a balanced mix of on-and-off hyper-active guitar line and Berman's musings on, well, as the title suggests, possibilities, risks and beginnings. The upbeat Aloyisius Bluegrass Drummer takes it's cue from its name's second word and flies through a whopping saga, offering insight to Berman's once drug-addled life, "Blooming, tripping, flowing under/Just as I once did" and wise observations, "At a 24-hour restaurant/Open 'til the end of time."

One of my favorite tracks - and it's hard to pick - is Suffering Jukebox. At first listen, it may sound like a washed-up love song. But after hearing it a couple of more times, the narrative of a small town sinks in, you notice the tale of a lonely jukebox that's "over in the corner, breaking down," taking on the "mad misery," "tendencies," "and chemical dependencies" of its patrons - and, naturally, its songs. Articulated by beautiful, humble, bluesy guitar riffs and Berman's wife Cassie's vocals , the song is likely to transport you to your favorite dive bar's jukebox. Mine would be Lucy's, of course. (Unfortunately, Lucy's classic and awesome jukebox was replaced by one of those MP3-playing machines, which are half as personable - if at all.)

The following three tracks - My Pillow Is The Threshold, Strange Victory Strange Defeat and Open Field - further exhibit Berman's philosophy with captivating lyrics commenting on his and the societies state of mind ("Tale is told of a band of squirrels/Who lived in defiance of defeat/They woke up in a nightmare world craving mediocrity/They said/We're coming out of the black patch/ We're coming out of the pocket/We're calling into question such virtue gone to seed" - Strange Victory Strange Defeat.)

The mellow phrase of the album bleeds into San Francisco B.C. Competing with Suffering Jukebox for the favorite spot, the track presents a Lou-Reed-circa-Transformer like audacity and humor in both its music and lyrics. The song is about a relationship (like Hanging Around), it is deeply linked to a city (like New York Telephone Conversation) and it is an effortlessly pleasant, bluesy tune (like Vicious). In the span of six minutes and 15 seconds, almost twice as long as any other song, Berman tells of a break up ("You don't make enough to provide for me"), comments on hipsters ("What about the stuff we quote believe") and haircuts ("We had sarcastic hair"), narrates a barbershop murder (result of a "killer" haircut), speaks of thieves ("I got a high-rise job down by the bay... there's not many locks and just one alarm") and resolves the aforementioned murder.

The last three songs culminate to a glorious finish, interfusing absurd accounts - of life in a Candy Jail, the launch of a Party Barge and a sincere plea for love that declares We Could Be Looking For The Same Thing - with collaborative singing by the Bermans. Cassie's sometimes energetic, sometimes longing vocals mesh with David's now prime tone to soothe and assure the listener. At the end of the brief saga that is Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea, you are left feeling that regardless of whether life's funny, sad or hopeful, it is all going to be OK.

PS: Reward for reading this far: Pitchfork interview with David Berman.

And Then I Woke Up

The past five months have been interesting. While I was busy getting used to my job, living with F.R.F., juggling other assignments and re-entering the beehive that is NYC, the world has shifted time and again.

I sat, read and watched - mostly in amazement and disbelief. Benazir Bhutto was assassinated as the U.S. scrambled to come up with a policy for Pakistan. Israeli-Palestinian conflict raged and dimmed - and then the Palestinians in Gaza breached the wall with Egypt to secure basic living supplies. Kosovo declared independence, reigniting tensions with Serbia. Kenya, once regarded a successful and stable African country, plunged into chaos following rigged elections. Turkey started cross-border raids into Iraq. Venezuela, Ecuador and Colombia came to the brink of war. Russia took yet another decisive turn away from democracy. Tibet erupted in riots against China's "cultural genocide."

In the meanwhile an alphabet soup of Wall Street inventions turned sour, dragging down once proud banks and the U.S. economy. The free world's leaders did little but watch as the primary season turned American politicians into mud-slinging demagogues. Republicans and Democrats alike were preoccupied with trying to out do each other on anti-war, anti-immigration rhetoric - while blissfully ignoring the realities of the Iraq War and the recession.

And here we are. I noticed today, after reading the New York Times story of U.S. Marine Eric W. Hall, that I am not immune to the barrage of bad news. After five blissful months of reading not-so-bright news, and sarcastically laughing at mankind's drama thanks to shows like The Daily Show and The Colbert Report, something ticked. Mr. Hall endured 20 operations to recover from an IED explosion in Anbar Province, Iraq, which left him with a limp and with a serious case of post-traumatic stress disorder. Mr. Hall left his native Indiana for Florida to relax - only to go missing a few weeks later. Unfortunately for Mr. Hall, his family and everyone involved in his plight - from Army recruiters to Vietnam veterans - he died a month later.

The NYT tactfully points out that the horrors of war are not limited to the battleground. As with Mr. Hall, every troop brings the war home. Some our luckier, others not. And then the nation's VP has the audacity to lay the blame on the troops for volunteering.

The Bush administration's handling of the war has been a military, strategic, economic and political disaster - not to mention the social and emotional costs, both in the U.S. and in Iraq. That, by the way, does not get the Democrats off the hook. They are also complicit in all the government's blunders by their inability to influence the course of the war.

But what is most frustrating is the politicians' undying dedication to not a cause - be it fighting terrorism, helping the military or securing democracy in Iraq - but a political capital for furthering poorly judged agendas. This is evident everywhere from Bush's delusional claims of progress in Iraq (as the local army takes a beating my Muqtada al-Sadr's Mahdi militia) and the war on terror (while Pakistan and Afghanistan are quickly slipping back into the claws of al-Qaeda) to the campaign-trail stump speeches of Senators John McCain, Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, who all use the topic to further their presidential ambitions.

I was inspired by Mr. Hall's story. It also reminded me of Turkey's problems with terrorism - the PKK - and the precious lives it costs Turks and Kurds alike. And then, for a second, I thought of all the other conflicts I read about, but often don't think about. I was overwhelmed. I hope there is still a chance for elected leaders worldwide to look beyond their agendas and address real matters that effect the nations they so patriotically purport to represent - and protect.

A Parody...

And they appeared. They came in suits and jeans. One showed up in a tuxedo. The other in a well-groomed botox. Yet she came with sagging cheeks, breasts and chin. There was the bold guy. The one in a fantastic red tie in a perfect Windsor knot. And there was the guy in a black knitted tie, knotted with a perfect dimple.

There was the man in black. And the men in black. There were ubiquitous girls in black dresses. There was a six-feet-five girl aged late-20s with a dashing gentleman of mid-40s. There were blond bimbos of young age and men in of old age. There were women who looked 30 and were 70. There were men who looked 70 and were 40.

I was in Manhattan. I was in an esteemed auction house, dressed in a gray suit, blue shirt, pink tie and brown leather shoes. I was ordinary. And so were my friends.

And within tripping distance of my hand, holding a martini with vodka and six olives, were pieces by Gauguin and Picasso, Matisse, Monet, Miro ... and, I'm illiterate, many other Impressionists.

I was on Cloud 9, yet it was an ordinary night. She leaned on her cane, walking lopsided with her daughter to her right. They canvassed paintings to buy. One million, million-and-a-half; the cheap stuff - up for sale during the day auctions. And then there were the unpriced gems, up for the evening grab.

We all swigged drinks.

And then, a friend tells me of a big burly guy in the elevator, about to stumble and keel over. And then, there I am, in front of an estimated $1 million to $1.3 million Matisse - wondering why it's part of the day sale, and figuring out that it's, well, too cheap - struggling not to stumble. Not to fall and put my blue crystal glass and five olives through this cheap piece hanging there like there is no tomorrow.

There is no tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day before the sale. And then, the pieces I admired and looked so keenly at - with not a buyer's but an admirer's eyes - are gone. Sold for pocket change.

The Dow fell 51 points Monday; the S&P 7.48; NASDAQ 15.20. Where is the art world going then?

"We'll only know in six months," a trusted friend told me. And as the art world ponders what is next, big banks fire their CEOs for billions of dollars of write downs (that is, net losses, my dear friends) and I toil 7:30 a.m. to god knows what time in the evening - days go by in a frenzied oblivion. Today, for example, I could not make time to call my best friend to congratulate her birthday. So, here it goes, E.E. happy birthday!

I love art. I love world. And what is becoming of it all, well, I've always loved the cheap stuff anyway.