Feeding Frenzy

I took a bunch of exposures of this scene, both with my DSLR and a macro lens and the G9. This one is with the G9, set on macro. Focal length was 22.0mm and the flash didn't fire, accounting for the blurred action. I like this one. The clarity of some of the others is just too gruesome. It's kind of like the dark side of the Discovery Channel. I usually post my photos on my other blog (http://bshapirophotography.blogspot.com/), but I figured this one has broader appeal. Ugh.

I had no idea yellow-jackets fed on dead birds. It did indeed appear as a frenzy. I think one of the cats, probably Charles, began the mayhem. There was a dead rodent close by, but the bees showed little interest. The morning should bring another ghastly revelation. Stay tuned.

Who is the bigger fool? The fool who leads or the fool that follows?

re: Inherent Vice by "Thomas Pynchon"

To very loosely reinterpret what Samuel Johnson said, hardboiled crime fiction is the last refuge to which a has-been writer clings.

The jig is up. The joke is on them. The genre withstands the alleged satire, and I, as one of the true believers, ain't buying it. Thomas Pynchon is a myth. A mere resurrection of Penelope Ashe perpetrated by J.D. Salinger.



I realize I am professing to be no more clever nor knowledgeable than those glass-house critics who judge a work before viewing or reading it, but, hey, if anyone told you life was fair and balanced, they were probably talking from the lofty and unreal climbs of Fox News.

But now is not the time for me to lay down my theory of crime fiction. It would take to long and put both of you to sleep. Suffice it to say, Raymond Chandler was a brilliant writer, and an inebriated, insecure kvetch, who, among other things, complained that his work wasn't taken seriously as literature. He should be smiling from the netherworld to know that the New American Library eventually thought differently. But crime fiction, hardboiled, noir, pulp or whatever you wish to call it, is nothing more than dimestore entertainment that more often than not delves into the dark recesses of the human psyche. To spoof it or to use it as a platform for satirical cleverness is to miss the point. The clumsy, moralistic writing of David Goodis or Cornell Woolrich is low art at its best. There are precious few passages in Michael Chabon's Yiddish Policemen's Union that approached the breezy pathos of the genre . But he, like Pynchon are, by nature and definition, antithetical to the genre. "Literature," with a capitol "L" should not mess with the truth. Leave that to the dimestore pulp writers. Hammett, Chandler and MacDonald did not write literature. Thank God for that.

* * *

The next day: I got up on my feet and went over to the bowl in the corner and threw water on my face. After a little while I felt a little better, but very little. I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat and a gun.

That's Marlowe talking. Phillip Marlowe, who usually worked for twenty-five dollars a day plus expenses, expenses being mostly booze and gas. It all pretty much sounds like the stuff of bad cliché movie-talk. Gumshoes and floozies. Tough guys with iron and strong arms with too few brains. But it's the real deal. Raymond Chandler was a bitter, frustrated man, who failed in business and married a much older woman. He's also one of the greatest American writers to have pecked at a typewriter.

This Pynchon thing bothers me and not just because I list being a curmudgeon as one of my personality traits. I may yet read Inherent Vice. The reviews, after all, call it Pynchon's most readable book. And that may be saying something. I have tried to read his previous work. Rare is the day I put down a book unfinished. Maybe I'm being too damned simplistic, but isn't the purpose of writing books to have them read? Why write impenetrable, unresolved fiction? Why test the reader's patience and power of concentration? And, why live in seclusion and mystery, as an enigma wrapped in a riddle? The Salinger routine is not onliy passé, it was burst wide open by Joyce Maynard, a great writer of limited output, by the way. In this age of confessional memoirs being found out as just so much whole cloth and characters like the once lauded JT LeRoy, what does Pynchon hide from? Does his scarcity from the public eye make him more of a LITERARY character? The word is in caps, and should be in lights. Hey, DeLillo hasn't been heard from for a while, maybe he'll take a stab at the genre-- a pastiche of the world of the private eye. Charles Bukowski wrote a book called Pulp, that was dedicated to "bad writitng." It was a send-up of... you guessed it... pulp fiction. It started off with promise and then degenerated into... bad writing.The only writers that have improved upon Chandler are those that have taken the genre seriously. James Ellroy once said that the first modern crime novel wasDostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment. It certainly has most of the elements. In addition to the title is the dark tone and tortured. Fear, desperation and anguish fill the story of a murder and a murderer. Raskolnikov's tale could lead one directly to Jim Thompson's Killer Inside Me. Ultimately, I am bothered because I like the genre so much. I don't particularly like it mocked or demeaned. Reviewers have called Inherent Vice a parody. Others have called it "stoner noir." Go to the source. No one wrote crime fiction better than Chandler.

And on a remotely related point, the cover article on today's New York Times Magazine is about the new Beatles' Rockband-video game. Why do I think William Gibson is suddenly become more relevant? Talk amongst yourselves. I'll get back to this one...

* * *
From the August 23, 2009 New York Times Review of Books:

Thomas Pynchon’s “Inherent Vice” — a psychedelic homage to Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler set in the last days of hippie-era Los Angeles, after the Manson murders have spoiled the vibe... Some readers will tire of this high nonsense, however, despite its skillful orchestration and period authenticity. Pothead humor, whatever its guilty pleasures, hasn’t evolved much over the last half century, and what was once its charming wackiness has succumbed to orthodoxy. It still relies on vast epiphanies aroused by fleeting trivialities and suddenly interrupted by junk-food cravings. One minute all the great puzzles have been solved, especially those that never puzzled anyone, and the next moment everyone’s pigging out on carbs and lighting their cigarettes from the wrong end.

A word or two for Lester

Les Paul has passed on, but Les Paul will never die. Not as long as there are guitar gods and the upstarts that worship them. Jimmy Page and Joe Perry. Beatle George and Jeff Beck. Keef and EC. Slash and T-Rex. Michael Bloomfield and Freddie King. Pete Townsend and Billy Gibbons. And on and on. The obits have been written. At 94, they were no doubt waiting in the memories of desktops for the day. Well, the day came yesterday. I need not reiterate the chronology and the highlights of a life filled with highlights, from "How High the Moon" to the Monday night gigs at the Iridium in New York. Funny, but damned near every picture I could find of Les, he was smiling. It really seemed like he got a kick out of life. And, why not? Here's a guy who invented the solid body guitar, or so they say. He took a 4X4 and electrified it, adding two halves of an acoustic guitar on either side, to make it look more conventional. They called it "the log" and it changed the way we make music. His namesake Gibson is both iconic and definitive. If you had to distill modern music to two people, I would put the money on Les and Leo. Les Pauls weigh a ton. The originals had chunky necks and caused more than one chiropractor appointment. But man, that sustain... the richness, and the power. Leo fitted the Stratocasters with the distinctive single-coils... hum is part of the charm. But strap on a Les Paul and crank up those humbuckers to eleven and conduct the current like a God. Eric wanted to emulate Freddie King. In the Bluesbreakers, he traded in his Tele for the LP, plugged it into a Marshall combo and turned that sucker up to the max. Then Peter Green from Fleetwood Mac followed suit, joining John Mayall's Bluesbreakers after Eric, and the baton was passed on...


Truth be told. I am more of a Fender guy. Call it a function of comfort and affordability. Gibson Les Pauls are beyond the pocketbooks of most mortals. The Michael Bloomfield reissue goes for a cool ten grand. Ouch. And then there is the fact that the Les Pauls are not as versatile as the Strats. They are more demanding and more virtuosic. They are lead instruments. I can strum a Strat, play it like Buddy Holly or thrash out chords like Keef on a Tele. The Les Paul stings. It pierces through the rhythm and takes over when need be. When all is said and done, Les Pauls are what we all aspire to play and play well. They have been copied, but never duplicated... just like the man they are named for.

So long, Les. Plug in and play out. Hit the echoplex and double track it. Say hello to Mary... and keep smiling.

WHAT MATTERS MOST

Arthur (King of Goats) had a little veterinary “procedure” today and was slipped a Mickey. He tried to pull out of it faster than he should have. The wonky legs were wobblier than usual. His mom was concerned-- gave him a bunch of that unconditional love. It works both ways, you know.

L.A. interlude

Knock-knock.

"Who's there?"

Armageddon.

"Armageddon who?"

Armageddon the fuck out of L.A.

(The Mortal Jivester)



The above "poster" for an imagined movie was created in response to something the Jivester sent me regarding what was and might be again, but it ain't right now. Cryptic? Yes, but it all makes sense in the context of our individual and collective memories of Griffith Park and what a careless cigarette did to over 800 acres of it. There are so many apocalyptic visions of the end of the world beginning and ending in the City of Angels so as to render most of them (beyond Nathaniel West) redundant. Many of them revolve around wishing and vengeance. The reference to Celine and Buk is not just surreal blather. Lady Death hires Nick Belaine to find Celine in Bukowski's "Pulp." And then, there's Don Henley admonishing us for thinking we can go back. You can't go back. You can never go back. Enjoy the weenie-roast. The soundtrack will be coming out shortly after the movie's release.

Quitting as a Higher Calling

Palin plans to push national agenda
Mark Thiessen
The Associated Press

Outgoing Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin on Saturday laid the groundwork to take on a larger, national role after leaving state government, citing a "higher calling"...

* * *

I promised myself I wouldn't make any more political comments... and I'm not, technically. In this case, I am neither reporting nor commenting on the news-- just quoting it, verbatim. I couldn't make this shit up. And yet, there are some folks out there who are buying into this. Amazing!

A Hero of Circumstance

Up until last week, I had only recently read the name A.J. Liebling in the New York Times Book Review. He didn't look like he could be all that interesting, what with his egg-shaped head, thick glasses and subversive looking glare. He looked like he might have known Ethel and Julius, or worse, Goering. I skimmed the review and saw he had something to do with the New Yorker. Last week, I got an email in response to one I sent out to the director of a Latino outreach program in Salem, (Oregon). He quoted Mr. Liebling without knowing his name, but rather having heard the quote in the context of a journalism class, spoken by his teacher.

"Freedom of the press is guaranteed only to those who own one."

The quote was sent as a matter of consolation and I felt compelled find out who said it.

A.J. Liebling Mr. Liebling also said, "I take a grave view of the press. It is the weak slat under the bed of democracy" and "People everywhere confuse what they read in newspapers with news." For the record, Mr. Liebling was a celebrated war correspondent during World War II and, among other accomplishments, coined the phrase, "Second City" for Chicago.

But his words on the press and its dubious function (not to report the news, but to make money) were particularly satisfying to me.

For the few of you that follow this blog at all know that last month, I posted a link to the first of a two-part article I wrote for a Salem "News, Art and Entertainment" monthly. I will not post a link to the second part. The publication, which will remain unnamed here, needed to edit my article. I cannot blame them for that. That is their job. What I submitted was about 1200 more words than they ended up printing. What I do blame them for is the shoddy way it was edited. Employing a Cuisinart to do the job would have made the finished result more coherent than what they came up with. The piece is choppy and seems, for all the world, or at least Salem, to conclude it was written by a functioning illiterate. As bad a job as was done--and it is very bad, indeed, I could almost excuse it, were it not for the fact that I was lied to. My experience with the first part of the article taught me to ask to see the edited draft before publication. The editor emailed it to me. As I say, the choppy, lack of flow was only too obvious. I was prepared to live with that. But the way my phrases and facts were arbitrarily changed and convoluted so as to create statements that were misleading at the very least and blatantly untrue at its worst, was beyond what I considered acceptable. I went through the edited text and made corrections and suggested changes to restore the accuracy and aid in bringing back a minimum of credibility to the article. I emailed it to the editor and he responded by assuring me that he "took another look at the article and incorporated all of your suggestions."

I wrote back, thanking him and waited patiently for publication.

I saw the online article first. Only two of the seventeen corrections and changes I noted had been made. I was fuming. The next day, I picked up a printed copy and found that none of the changes had been made-- not even the two that had been incorporated into the online version made their way into print.

Lorenzo Garcia Ceja -- at large

One of the more blatant examples appears right at the top of the article, where I recounted the murder on May 26 of Montez Bailey of Salem, who was shot in the head once, along with two friends who were also shot, but not fatally, by Lorenzo Garcia Ceja. In my original draft, I wrote that, "Three days after the shooting, Salem Police Department's SWAT Team raided the Ceja home, in the Northgate neighborhood. Lorenzo wasn't there. He hadn't gone back home after the shooting. As of this writing, he remains at large.

The edited (printed) version states that "A SWAT team raid of his family's homer turned up little. As of this printing, he remains at large."

I wrote to the editor saying that the SWAT Team turned up NOTHING! This is not an issue of discovery by degrees. There is no shade of gray here. Either the police found the shooter or they didn't. What could be inferred by finding "little?" Did the police find Lorenzo's dirty clothes? An overdue book from the library? Pray tell, a bullet? No! They found nothing!

The editor changed it on the online version to read, "A SWAT team raid of his family's home turned up no clues to his whereabouts."

Better, but still misleading. What did they turn up? I don't know and neither does the editor.

In the original draft, I wrote that, in contrast to Salem's Statesman Journal, the Los Angeles Times would never have so much as mentioned the shooting, let alone make it the banner headline story for three days running."

That statement became, "In Los Angeles, the daily paper would barely have noted the incident."

Huh?

Never mind that they shied away from mentioning the name of Los Angeles' only metropolitan newspaper, they changed "never" to "barely," completely changing the meaning of the statement.

I won't bore you with all the changes, but I can't discuss this issue without mentioning the last and best editorial faux pas. The second half of this two-part article was ostensibly concerned with "strategies and solutions." Toward the conclusion, I wrote about Salem taking advantage of research and resulting proposed strategic programs being implemented in other cities, like Los Angeles and Chicago.

"Clearly, one of the most cost-effective ways for Salem to reduce gang activity is to access the fruits of these programs and others that are already in place. It is of no small consolation in knowing we are not alone. If we don't avail ourselves of common experiences and resulting programs and strategies we ensure the destructive growth of the gang culture."

This statement was edited to, "One of the most cost-effective ways for Salem to reduce gang activity is to access the fruits of the cities that have dealt with gang violence before, but it requires a change in mindset."

What? Is it me, or does accessing the fruit of the cities sound like a definite un-politically correct call to action by Salem's Gay Coalition? I mean, I understand the need for cutting copy, but deleting all sense at the same time seems kind of self-defeating.

Those who know me know that I take the issue of gang violence very seriously. I spent a lot of time in Los Angeles working to reduce it. It was with this level of serious commitment I took on this writing assignment. I am not only discouraged by the utter lack of professionalism shown by the paper, but its complete disregard of not only the writers they employ, but its readers as well. Ergo, Mr. Liebling's words.

This may be the end of a very brief career in journalism. It is also the end of my taking anything in the paper in question seriously. Discretion should be telling me I should not bite the hand that feeds me, because although they only pay 10¢ a word, it is still better than nothing.

I'm betting on this not being read by the prevailing party.