Musings: In the beginning...

[Note: These first two posts originally appeared on another free blog site, over the past week. After publishing them, though, I decided that this provider has better features, more browsers, good karma, etc. and republished them here.]



Chapter 1, Saturday, in which our hero emerges...
And so it begins. The luddite of the pen and the Blueline notebook emerges, digitized, into the landscape of the blog. It makes sense, perhaps. Living as he does in [unnamed dusty landscape college town, somewhere east of Shanghai but west of Peoria], he who walks the bad-driver-lined streets, always ready to emit a cri du coeur over glaring intolerance, anti-intellectualism, reckless disregard for the environment, bullyish religious fundamentalism, and just plain ol' bad taste--

Here is his forum.
Sign in, stranger.
Get ready to whine.

Chapter 2, in which our hero contemplates beard growth and bad drivers...

I have not shaved in, I think, eight days. [Ed. That is, yesterday, 15 May, it was eight days...] Oh, the slow life of a beard. It begins with such hopefulness, that first day or two of not shaving. Those first long sessions of follicle-gazing in the mirror. That feeling that within days I will look like, at worst, Freud, or at best, George Clooney in Syriana. But then the pace slows. You're just a guy looking in-between, all scratchy face, and uncertain grooming. But I persist for now. I'll keep you posted. Maybe I tough it out and end up looking charmingly bushy, or I change course and bust out the razor.

Today, driving in [college town, parts unknown] I was floored when a driver waved me in as I was trying to pull out of a parking lot. Sorry, generous drivers of this mid-sized burgh, but I am so used to being cut-off, or having a middle-digit waved in my face, that I was momentarily incredulous. God bless you, non-bad driver.

By the way, if any future commenters--look how blog-vain I am already--can identify where the title of this blog comes from without Googling, you have earned my limited but heartfelt esteem.

And though this blog purports to be a literate record, I will admit that I am hooked on Gray's Anatomy. Last night's [Ed. i.e. Sunday's] (melo)dramatic cliffhanger made me bounce off the couch. How could they have [non-spoiler! non-spoiler!]? He is my favorite character, after all. Bummer. Quelle bummer.

This entry is mediocre. I'll try harder to be more philosophical next time.

Books on the Nightstand:
Omeros by Derek Walcott [A reread for me. Breathtaking poetry. I met him once. He was delightfully curt.]

The Rule of Four by Ian Caldwell and Dustin Thomason [Oh, what earth-shattering secrets wait to be discovered in the musty confines of American university libraries!]

Currently Listening To:
Morph the Cat by Donald Fagen [Fagen is the only hope for American pop music. He rocked my world in Vegas in March. I have listened to this disc nearly every day since its release.]

The Birth Of Soul : The Complete Atlantic Rhythm & Blues Recordings, 1952-1959 [Disc 2] by Ray Charles. [I am not so dolorous when listening to Brother Ray. The way his voice cracks on "What Would I Do?" is sublime.]

Three Feet High and Rising by De La Soul [Classic hip-hop. Had this one in the car yesterday. Reminded me of when I had a clue about what was going on in popular music. "Three is the magic number," kids.]

Recently Watched:
Metropolitan (dir. Whit Stillman, 1990) [I love blue oxford shirts and grosgrain belts and pretentious conversation. I read The Official Preppy Handbook and was able to suspend my irony at times. Sue me.]

The Squid and the Whale (dir. Noah Baumbach, 2005) [This one had Whining Stranger written all over it: set in the 80s, family drama, corduroy blazers, writers, retro sneakers, and one mofo of a beard. Why did it have to end?]

The King of Comedy (dir. Martin Scorsese, 1983) [Loved revisiting this one. Rupert Pupkin, baby. "Better to be king for a night then a schmuck for a lifetime." Amen, Rupert. Amen.]