Seeing Inglourious Basterds With My Mother: A Tale of Daring Filmgoing, Surprise Reactions, and Swedish Neutrality

Two Saturdays ago, over breakfast at a charming little Long Beach diner, I asked my mother if she wanted to see Inglourious Basterds, the latest Quentin Tarantino film. Knowing that she used to scoff at my opinion that Pulp Fiction was the greatest film of all time (it was, until October 1998) and not knowing of any Tarantino film she had seen, let alone liked, I assumed the answer would be no. And an abrupt no at that. Instead, she said yes. This was curious. I wanted to see it too of course, the colossal disappointment of Kill Bill 1 still in my mind (barely attenuated by the slightly better Kill Bill 2 and Death Proof). So we made plans to see it this past Saturday.

But first I had to figure out why she said yes. Mom and I had seen a number of films over the past few years. Going to the movie theater was a good social activity to do with her because of her general boredom with regular conversation. We had seen Michael Clayton and Dreamgirls and Public Enemies and Slumdog Millionaire, safe picks all of them - nothing that would make either one of us too uncomfortable. A Tarantino film would be a challenge. Not having seen a great movie since 2007 (There Will Be Blood), I was ready.



We bought the tickets for the 5:40 show at the Glendora 12. Nothing like spending the hottest day of the year in the hottest part of the region, with the smoke from two not-too-distant fires blowing our way. We had just enough time for early dinner at the Corner Bakery. I will just say one thing about this dinner: Did the Corner Bakery absolutely nail it with the Poblano Fresco sandwich (add the roasted chicken) or what?

No, I'll add a second thing about dinner. My mother, anticipating the next couple of hours of life, said with disdain: "Is this movie supposed to be a comedy?" The word "comedy" was spit out dismissively, like Dick Cheney mentioning the Geneva Convention.

"Yes," I said, "At least partly."

"A comedy about hunting Natt-zees?" she asked, visibly perplexed. (Hadn't she heard of Hogan's Heroes? The Downfall Hitler Parodies?)

"Yes." End of conversation.

We got to the blessedly air-conditioned theater and sit through some unremembered trailers. Somewhere in there I went to the concession stand to buy...Gummi Bears! The movie began.

(No need for a spoiler alert: I will not given any important facts or plot developments away. Assuming you know the basic premise and if you don't want to know, stop here and do not look at the next paragraph.)

(One more aside: Do I ever consider the fact that my mother could be reading this blog, that she knows about things like blogs and Google? No, I do not.)

The discomfort starts early on when there is a very graphic scalping of a character. I knew ahead of time that there would be graphic scalping in the movie. I didn't think my mother knew. Later, I would discover that she had fair warning of the scalping and subsequent disgusting scenes (from People magazine, no doubt). Every time there was a knife to a scalp or forehead, my mother uttered "Oh God." Still, I have to hand it to her. She never looked away from the screen. I always looked away.


My mother has good theater-going manners and didn't say anything else or communicate with me in any way until the film ended, except for the several times she scoffed (something right in between "Ha" and "Hmmph") at the unlikely or "silly" (I know what she thinks) plot twists.

As we left the auditorium and someone uttered the inevitable "I hope the xxxxx aren't xxxxxx" joke (won't spoil that one for you), I asked Mom what she thought of the film, expecting her to say "It was awful" or "It was silly" or - worst case - "It was stupid" in her bothered Swedish-infused English. Instead, she said "It was very good."

"It was very good." Quite simply the strongest words of praise my mother has ever vocalized. Quentin - consider this platitude bigger than any Oscar you've won or will eventually win.

My quick review: She was right. It was very good. Excellent, actually. The stink of KB1 and the still-disappointing above-averageness of KB2 and DP has been washed away in the Rhine, leaving behind only Carradine's corpse. Basterds is one of the best films of the decade.

Back to Mom's reaction. Immediately after "It was very good" there was a pause, two seconds at most. Then: "Too bad none of it is true." I'm not sure if she thought that the public school systems in Pennsylvania and New Jersey were so bad that I didn't get the true story about WWII and that I would completely fall for the alternate tale told here. Or if she just wanted to make sure that the Jewish avengers of Nazi horror don't get too uppity. You see, my mother married an Egyptian, so she naturally sided with the Palestinians in the various wars and Intifadas vs. the Israelis. In 2000, my mother actually rode a bus from New Jersey to Washington D.C. to show solidarity with her many central New Jersey Egyptian friends on their very own "Freedom Bus." As she told me before her journey, "If Jews shoot our bus, we throw rocks back at them."


Then, she got to specifics, praising the acting performances in the film, "Even Brad Pitt." She heaped extra praise on the lead Nazi, played by Christoph Waltz (above). I have to agree; he was impressive. But not everyone got equal praise. "The guy who played Hitler wasn't very good. I've seen better." The word "better" received the Dick Cheney treatment cited above. She based her claim on how "crazy" he portrayed Hitler and the fact he was "too tall." I'm not sure if she just thought he was a bad actor or if someone of the Fuhrer's magnitude deserved better. I know better than to ask certain follow-up questions.

Finally, she had one more complaint and this one was personal. As we turned from Foothill onto Wheeler and approached the so-far-un-burned La Verne foothills, she said "At the beginning of the movie, Hitler was standing in front of a map of Europe and there were swastikas in all the places that Germany controlled. There was a swastika on Sweden. That's wrong."

The subject of Sweden's (in)actions during World War II might be a sensitive subject to an actual Swede. Still, being only half a Swede and being born decades after the war, I felt justified in saying "They weren't exactly opposing the Nazis" in response.

My Mom then passionately said (and she never passionately says anything) "Sweden was neutral!"


I could have said "My point exactly." To my mother, Sweden being neutral meant that they were against the Nazis. To the rest of the world, Sweden's neutrality during the war (and isolated incidents of helping out, or at least profiting from, the Germans) was a problem. I should also point out that Sweden did some nice things for the other side too. But I didn't say "My point exactly." Instead, I just stayed silent and planned this blog entry for the rest of the drive until I made the U-turn on the cul-de-sac and parked in front of the house that six of my closest relatives live in, a home that is roughly one thousand times the size of my own.

So that's the tale of Inglourious Basterds with my mother. Just a bunch of fascinating quotes and interesting reactions. As far as my own level of discomfort, I'll just say that there was one moment that I would have preferred to see without the person who gave birth to me sitting in the next seat but that moment was over in a flash.

Finally, as a screenwriter with no script sales to my name, I will see this movie again and pay close attention to two scenes: The opening farmhouse scene; and the French village bar scene. These are two flawless examples of character and plot development, tension building and releasing, and enthusiastic use of dialogue. As with the the CB and the Poblano Fresco, QT nails it.

Please Gummi Bear Please

Why didn't people tell me about Gummi Bears sooner? These things are awesome! Soft delicate sweet pillows of luscious tastiness. To think I've spent roughly half of my expected lifespan NOT eating these things every day...!

Note #1: Gummi Bears is not "code" for something else. I really am referring to the eurocandy of the same name)

Note #2: Although some other versions of the GB may be acceptable, I like the ubiquitous original Haribo brand version. And though I wish no ill will on fans of other gummi shapes (worms, fish, etc.) and other gummi flavors (sour), I'm more than happy with the original.


Please enjoy a new poem, Couldn't Call It Unexpected #6. This is my first poem written entirely on the iPhone.

There's an Elvis Costello reference in that poem title. I steal from the best.

The Man Who Wouldn't Smile: Thoughts on Family, Friends, August 13, and Breaheimfullerbar Hills

Fall must be on its way. I hear chanting in the stadium, half-muted tubas warming up to play those songs from the seventies (when you're in a college marching band, does it seem strange to be playing songs that, with just a few exceptions, were popular before you were born?). I run into new transfer students asking for directions to the "brick building" they were told to find (that narrows it down to about 47 buildings.) I recall my deep sleep from last night and realize that I'm finally getting those cool coastal nights I was promised upon subletting.

But then I look on the calendar and it's August 17. There's still a lot of summer. And as someone who will always prefer November to July, as someone who wishes February had 31 days and May had 28, I've got to not get ahead of myself. (I know - if February had 31 days, it would just push March and April and the rest of them forward and things wouldn't change that much.)

Speaking of August 17... last Thursday was August 13. In 1988, shortly before my first (of 3) moves to California, I wrote a poem called August 13th. It was a rambling, jaunty piece about my Minnesota life: 1984 to 1988 - four pivotal/seminal years of transition. I wrote that poem intending it to be a prologue to what was to follow - my life in California, my coming adventures as a new young man in a new new place.

To be honest, I was both excited and terrified in 1988. My family - far-flung in its international-ness since the day I was born - had fractured itself further the previous summer. My parents moved to Singapore on the day of my graduation from the University of Minnesota. The rest of my relatives were also far from me in the Twin Cities - the 96 or so relatives in Egypt, the four in Sweden, the three in Austria, the Disappeared Uncle in Parts Unknown, and, finally, the Others in Southern California. I chose to join the Others and attend California State University, Fullerton, entering their research-focused Masters' program in Psychology.

Normally, people don't come from nearly 2,000 miles away to pursue graduate work at CSUF. Sure, they may come from as far as Chino and Cerritos and Corona. But they don't generally come from Minneapolis. But there I was on a late August evening, orienting myself to this strange university by the freeway, with is boxy white buildings and its wholesome lack of tradition. I may have been a stranger to California and to Orange County in particular. I may have not known what the hell was happening in my life. I may have felt disjointed, disconnected from my friends (the ones I left behind in the cities I kept leaving), my new classmates, and my family. But really there was no better place/time to feel like an unknowing disjointed stranger than that college campus at that particular time.

By the time I settled in that fall - matriculating in Fullerton, residing in Brea, one town to the north, I have to admit that a geographical "home" was being built but in a haphazard way. My friend John from Minnesota joined me in Orange County. We made some new friends pretty quickly by indulging in late-night conversation at Denny's. And whether I accepted it or not, a good portion of my family was around me, dotting the hilly landscape.

My aunt and cousins were the first to arrive in California, back in the early 80s, settling in the city of Orange and eventually in Anaheim Hills. I lived in the latter place for a few weeks while I settled into California life and found that amazing apartment in Brea. It was a nice house, memorable for being smaller on the inside than it ever seemed from the outside. If I remember correctly (and I'm sure I do not), the house was on two different cul-de-sacs - dead-ends in two directions. Despite their Anaheim address, both cousins went to school in Fullerton, in the fancy college-prep public high school across the street from my university.

My sister and her new husband lived in a white-furnitured, white-walled, white-carpeted, white condo in Diamond Bar, north of the Orange County line, in an exotic land called L.A. County. They would eventually grow bored of their Mad About You couplehood and dive into Everybody Loves Raymond parenthood (with my mother playing the role of both grandparents).

We all lived in a mythical land called Breaheimfullerbar, straddling the L.A./O.C. County border and never more than a stone's throw away from the 57, the 55, the 91, and the inappropriately named Imperial Highway. Actually - make that Breaheimfullerbar Hills.

It was really a fruitless attemt at familial connection. It took all the effort in the world for the aunt to want to see any of the rest of us. The sister and brother-in-law would have been happy to never have to invite anyone up to Diamond Bar but eventually they had kids and realized that people liked to give gifts to their kids so they released the floodgates. No, without my own parents running the show, there was no point in pretending we were a unified force. Yes, I needed a family and yes I had a good friend (John) helping me along in the transition. But something was way off - the geographical structure was false, the center wouldn't hold...the college was an odd fit and Imperial Highway (the through-route between the families) kept burning down.

So I think I know why I made an interesting impression on a friend of mine who attended that same psychology master's program. She told me recently (August 13, 2009, to be precise) that she had a clear memory of my presence at CSUF. She told me that I was always around, in the corners, writing something down, not smiling.

I defensively cringed at this good-natured feedback. Always around? Where else was I supposed to go? In the corners? Maybe - but I wasn't facing the corners. Writing something down? Poetry! Manifesto! Ideas for theses. Not smiling? Well...

Not smiling. I had been told that before. When I stalkerishly located (i.e., Facebook search) a person I knew in Minnesota back in the late 90s/early 00s, she told me that I was remembered as the guy who wouldn't smile. So clearly, despite 10 years passing between the latter and former person's recollections, I hadn't learned how to display my inner joy and utter happiness to the observing world.

So, on this most recent August 13, reminded of my lack of smiling, I attempted an escape. You see, the person who told me this is someone I greatly admire. And my morose public persona is not something I've voluntarily cultivated. I gave her excuses - due to my full lips and big face, it takes more work for me to smile visibly. She wasn't buying the invisible smile theory. Okay, it was just shyness I said - once I overcame the shyness, I was a big wide-grinning happyman, No, she knew the truth. I didn't smile on the first day of classes at Fullerton in August 1988 or the last day in June 1990.

She said that she remembers me being heartbroken over a lost love "back home." Now, this could have been one of two different girls back in Minnesota. The fact that I can't remember which one makes me think I wasn't really heartbroken. I don't know if I said this to project an air of mystery or to explain my shyness but it was all a front. My heart was open, not broken. My eyes were open, not closed. My mouth wanted to speak, to smile. And though there were some memorable exceptions, it (I) didn't speak, didn't smile.

And why is that? I've covered the topic of my childhood shyness, my Engligh-is-my-second-language status here in this blog. But I should have been over that by 1988. I was an adult, a grad student. I had been in a real-life true "relationship." I was an overly social person back in Minnesota. I not only had friends but I had enough of them that I would make weekly Top 20 Friends lists in my graph paper journals of the mid-80s. (Yes, this fact is kind of disturbing.) Why didn't I smile? Why was I a corner guy - sulking into the lined paper of my spiral bound? Why did someone else make the same observation 10-12 years later in my third incarnation as a Minnesotan?

Was it that my family life ended? Did I lose something - slowly, methodically, deliberately - in those transitional years beginning in 1986? (sister leaves, parents leave, I leave and I leave again and I leave again... years later... father dies and mother returns and I retreat and I build something new and I get married and I come back. Here. And then the new life, the new family, ends and whatever is its substitute seems eerily familiar.)

Last year, my work supervisor handed me my annual performance review. On one page were anonymous quotes from co-workers describing their work relationship with me. Most were positive. One quote shocked me. This person said "You wouldn't know it by his normal demeanor but sometimes at meetings Ali can be quite funny." I'm staring at those words right now determined to know who said it. Not because I disagree with him/her. But I just want to know what my normal demeanor is and why it's so shocking that I can be funny. Doesn't he/she read this blog? Has he/she not read the story of Grandma and her stockings... the Sbarro Incident... the Singer and the French Fries? I guess not.

On this year's annual performance review, there were no co-workers surprised that I had a sense of humor. No, the lack of notable statements made me feel kind of like a cipher, like rather than being taken for granted, I'm simply not being remembered. Time to change that.

On the subject of "annual reviews" - I mentioned earlier the poem I wrote on August 13, 1988 titled August 13th. I would do the same thing - write a poem called August 13th - every year on that date through 1997. A few of those poems were great ones, notable for their perspective how things evolved from one 8/13 to the next. Others were placeholders that didn't need to have been written. I'll try to collect them all and put them on the poetry blog.

But back to Breaheimfullerbar Hills. I was in the heart of that place yesterday. I met my Mom for lunch at the Brea Mall. Most of our lunch was spent with me refreshing my iPhone so I could give her updates on how Tiger Woods was doing at the PGA back in Minnesota. ("One stroke back after 16... they both bogeyed 17.... he lost.")

After the meeting with my mother (Brea, it turns out, is yet another in one of our many "halfway points" between La Verne and Long Beach), I later drove east down Imperial and farther south and east to meet that same person who told me just last week that I was "always around, in the corners, writing something down, not smiling." I would be meeting her for our second date in the 21 years we've known each other. Now, my time with her last night - from the initial ringing of the doorbell to the extended goodbye on Loretta Drive - deserves a blog entry and a wistful recollection of its own. But what's important to mention here is that apparently I am now smiling freely, that my mouth is not too big to smile, that my head is not too large to hold that smile, that my fractures are not too permanent, and that summer is not so bad even if I like the colder seasons better.

Breakdancing Career, Reconsidered

I was rereading my piece My Career as a Breakdancer - published in 2007 on the site Eclectica. Anyway, I think it's awesome. I think the whole story ties together in a fascinating way. It's mostly about two people absent from my life - my late father and my long lost friend Jim. But in the shadows are the ghosts of women notable in their lurk (always there) and in the writer's (my) decision not to mention them. There's the mother who didn't have a strong opinion on the lawnmower or the war.  Eventually the war meant something. There's the sister who exists only as invisible fourth car passenger. There's the first girlfriend and the first wife, plot-deviced into the ethers before their time. And there's me.

I Cut My Own Hair

I have something to admit.

I did something this morning. For the first time in my life.

I cut my own hair. Not just a shave or a sideburn trim. I cut and styled and painstakingly analyzed every inch of my head.

Why? To save 26 bucks? Sure, that's a benefit. I never knew it was so easy! No, it started out innocently. I used my mid-level-barber-shop-quality clippers to trim the air around my ears and my sideburns. Then things were a little uneven. So I cut some more on that side and then some more on this side. And then I was perching my Macbook camera on the back of the toilet so the reflection of the door mirror revealed the back of my head.

So yeah. All those years I was paying women (three of whom I had crushes on) to cut my hair - I could have done it myself for free. And I would have been more consistent. And I wouldn't have attempted the failed fauxhawk experiment of 2004, as Carol Ann so bravely and Scottishly did. And all that money - $26 here and $18 there and $35 (!) after the Scotswoman switched over to the Gothy salon - could have been put to better use. Like maybe I would have bought that painting I saw in L.A. back in 2oo1 - Herve Villechaize's face centered on plush velvet, ornate decorations surrounding him.. and what's that? Eight netted pockets around the border, much like a pool table. They wanted $3000 for it. I think that's precisely what I spent on haircuts in this decade alone.

This is what I look like today, post-self-cut:





One song for the weekend and yeah it's them/him again. Enjoy:

Hey Baby, It's the 4th of August

It shouldn't take this long. No - two weeks should not pass between posts.

(Talking to myself: Ali, Facebook is NOT a substitute for Blueprint Blue.)

(Ali, don't let this happen again.)

Meekly, I vow to never let this happen again.

Let me give you a quick life update:

June: Nothing
July: Nothing
August: So far, less than nothing

But look on the bright side: September is birthday month. October is World Series month and basketballs season begins month. November is my favorite month. December is Christmas which has got to be better than last year.

Here's an example of this unrelenting ass-kicking summer:

I want to trade in my "clunker" for "cash" a new(er) car. Let's see - insurance is paid up.... car payments are caught up.... car is in pretty good shape. Despite my insistence (and supporting data!) that my car gets better than 25mpg, the government website informs me that my car gets a "real" combined city/highway mpg of 19mpg. The requirement for clunkers? 18.

Well at least the Timberwolves are being overhauled. Ryan Hollins! Jonny Flynn! New Coach!

And Mad Dog - Thanks. That was nice. (Jason - enjoy your new power forward. Or are you no longer a Clippers fan?)

Finally - did Steve Barone from Lifter Puller really praise my blog entry about Lifter Puller even after I inexcusably forgot to mention him by name? Thanks for the note Steve and yeah your guitar and keyboards work was pretty amazing.

Making Money With My Math: My Lifter Puller Regrets

So I'm sitting here having a typical Ali night: Downloading music pseudo-illegally through a website that appears vaguely Argentinian, eating pretzel goldfish, attempting to explain (with my eyes) to two cats that I'm running low on the dry food so they'll be getting more of the plentiful wet food which should not be a problem since they LOVE the wet food and merely tolerate the dry food. But they seem upset by this change in policy.

So I'm having this typical night and I'm counting down the days until the 24th (when I can get that dry food, when I can pass that smog test, when I can file that paperwork, when I can drive across that morning bridge with a sense of purpose) and debating whether I should really call my next big (and I mean BIG) poem Unincorporated East Los Angeles or if I should just not call it anything and not write it and just let it be.

So I'm sitting here and I realize my biggest regret. No - not the obvious regrets that have traditionally traveled through my brain at bedtime, culminating in lovely and poetic but kind of sad Top 10 Lists of Regrets. (Sample Top 10 List, circa August 2008: 10. Never asked Alicia out in 200x; 9. Never asked Romalyn out in 199x; 8. Never asked Cathy A. out in 1983; 7, Did ask Karen S. out in 1983; 6. Didn't see Fishbone at First Ave. in 1986, choosing instead to study for a midterm; 5. Didn't stay in Brea for a few more months in 1990; 4. Didn't stay in Minneapolis for a few more months in 1991; 3. Didn't wait another few months to move in with A.E. in 2007; 2. Didn't take that job in Minneapolis in 2006; 1. Repeat regret number X because that's the one I really regret and...) But no there's a bigger regret and this one doesn't involve a girl, a city, a job, or a woman. No this regret involved a band.

You see, I was THERE.

I was there.

The whole time. I was right THERE.

I was even invited to go see them once. Brett (hey Brett - accept the friend request; don't let it just hang there like a fished-for compliment gone unflung) said "hey Ali - I know I said I like hate and I hate everything else but you gotta see this band with me tonight at the Entry. Lifter Puller. I like them."

I declined. Yeah Brett was the coolest guy in Minneapolis circa 1999 but I wasn't that far behind and I thought I knew better. I had heard the dreaded P word bandied about about Lifter Puller. P as in Punk. And I held steadfast to my belief that all music was good and continually evolved but that punk was born in '77 with the Ramones and it evolved beautifully into the second Violent Femmes album in '83 and why bother after that? So Brett took my no and never asked again, never suggested a second time, never made me a goddamn mix CD/cassette to try and convince me that Lifter Puller was awesome. (I, on the other hand, never give up. For example, I still try to convince the world that Mark Eitzel is a fucking goddamn genius and no one believes me. They don't want to believe me. They never will believe me. But he is. He is. He is.)

But this isn't about Mark and his big gay heart that will never not remember. This is about Lifter Puller. This is about a Minneapolis band that existed between 1994 to 2000. I lived there form 1996 to 2002. I was THERE. They probably played locally 1,000 times. Yes, I'm exaggerating but I'm not about to go to fan sites and scour the old touring schedules to get an accurate count. Let's just say they were incessant about plugging in the amps and educating the local kids and women and men. (the song that follows is by Lifter Puller; the video, though entertaining, is not)



Half of Lifter Puller became 40% of The Hold Steady, a band that you know I like and I write about frequently. The Hold Steady have continued Lifter Puller's love of touring and I have happily seen them three times. But Lifter Puller is gone and they're not coming back (not everyone comes back.) In the final act of their final song on Lifter Puller's final album, a man (Nightclub Dwight) was killed and his club (The Nice Nice) was burned down. That's about as destructive as it comes. In the first song of the first Hold Steady album, a new gauntlet was thrown down and a new American history was laid down carefully, decade by decade. No one was going back.

The simple story would be that the strongest common link between the two bands is the obvious one: the songs / the songwriter / the singer. Craig Finn was there for both of them. And let's run through that story a little more carefully:

The songs: Brilliant in both bands. But kind of different. Finn has explained that The Hold Steady is the classic rock counterpoint to Lifter Puller's more experimental Punk. That's a good enough generality. But really the continuum between the two bands is cleaner than that. The songs are about boys and girls and women and men and drugs and drinking and rock and punk and crime and drugs (again) and girls (one more time). The songs are classic rock and classic punk and classic love and classic hate. I have no preference. I love both bands.

"Math is money and money is math. Leather vest and assless chaps" - Math Is Money, Lifter Puller

But yeah I had the chance to see them. I had the chance to sing along. In '96 when they weren't great yet but they were so so close. In '97 when there was no looking back. In '98 when Brett made the offer and I couldn't have made a bigger mistake. In '99 when - admittedly - I needed the punk and the rock. In 2000 when it neared its end and Fiestas and Fiascos, my likely choice for best album of the decade (Separation Sunday by the Steady will likely be #2) was released.

And where was I in 2000? I think I was listening to the quiet folk music and downloading Boz Scaggs 23 years late. Interstingly, six years later after hearing The Hold Steady, Fiestas and Fiascos was the first album I legally downloaded. Though I found genius and joy in its songs, the one Lifter Puller song I kept playing in those early discovery days was Viceburgh from one of the other albums. God, I could listen to that song every day of my life and I still wouldn't be sure if I envied the protagonists or was happy I never became then:

"Sad ravers in freight elevators, sucking on skyscrapers, living on Life Savers baby" - Viceburgh - Lifter Puller

It wasn't until THIS summer - the summer of whatever the fuck this summer is about - that I truly got into Fiestas and Fiascos. But I had my chance, nine years earlier when they released that masterpiece and toured for the final time. I had my chance but I stayed inside and played Scrabble. How would my life have changed? Would I have dove into a different kind of darkness? Would I have worn Indian fringes? Would I have moved to Brooklyn? No one knows.

The songwriter: Maybe Craig Finn knows. It's clear - to me, to others, but not to everyone - that the man is the greatest songwriter working today. And I mean truly working - constant touring, 3 LFTR PLLR albums plus countless singles and a perfect EP, 4 HLD STDY albums plus a live one and some other stuff. All in the last 12--13 years. And a thousand shows. PLUS he had to live the LIFE necessary to write those songs. And while I don't necessarily think he was Nightclub Dwight or the Man with the Japanese Hand Fan or Katrina or Juanita or Holly or Gideon or Charlemagne, he had to have been someone. And he had to have spent time at those places: 15th & Franklin and Mission Viejo and the LBI and the Nassau Coliseum and the Nankin and 66th & Nicollet and Osseo and Highway 169 and First Ave. and Santa Cruz and Bloomington and Jefferson Ave. and Dogtown and Payne Ave. (Full disclosure: I have been to ALL of those places except the LBI and Santa Cruz and I would have gone to Santa Cruz that one weekend in 2006 if Caroline had returned my calls.) So thanks Craig - you've made me happy. (the song that follows is by Lifter Puller; the video, though entertaining, is not)



The singer: I'm almost out of words and I can't find any good live Lifter Puller footage so let's just move into the present and the future to define Craig Finn: a live Hold Steady performance that wonderfully displays his black-framed squints and manic hand-singing AND a new video of an unreleased song, the smoothest/mellowest Craig had ever been and he still nails it so beautifully:





So I was there and I didn't go. I caught the later years of genius, years that will likely go on and on. I missed the beginning. That's all. It's not so bad.

Or....

Or is it?

Consider this: I actively paid money to see swing bands perform live in the nineties. I actively avoided Lifter Puller. I shall not be forgiven. I saw the goddamn Big Bad Royal Crown Squirrel Voodoo Daddy Revue Zippers and missed out on:

"Power to the people making money with their mouths."

and

"I like some funky drums and I hate some chunky drummers."

and

"We stepped out of the Jersey Pines, headed straight for the neon signs."

and

"Did you fucking fall asleep on the futon?"

"Woke up on 15th and Franklin with some straight looking chick and some prick she picked up from the Nankin."

and

"I want Nightclub Dwight dead in his grave and I want the Nice Nice up in blazes."

I will survive this regret. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow is a day with hope and potential. Tomorrow is mine. (Note: Sharona is coming back to Monk - for one episode!)

"Even if you threw like Vida Blue, I'd hit on you like Killebrew."

So I've spent this one regret, my biggest regret. I'm too tired to listen to anymore of their songs. It's past midnight. I must have other regrets. I will close the laptop and prepare the bed for sleep. I will close my eyes and make a new list in my head: Top 10 Regrets, July 22, 12:05am. Number 10. Never.....

Wait.

Maybe I can make amends on that one. Maybe I can do something about it. I have a picture to look at and a poem to reread. Then, I will sleep.

Laurie and Lou

In lieu of "new" material, here's a poem I wrote back in 2003 during my "celebrity poem" phase. In it I imagine the daily workings of the relationship between performance "art"ist Laurie Anderson and "sing"er/songwriter/ bon vivant Lou Reed. Back then some were suspicious of their relationship ("isn't Reed gay?" "isn't Anderson a lesbian who used to date Yoko?") (Apparently no and no. Or not anymore and not anymore.) Anyway, they got married in 2008. Let's celebrate their love but first let me apologize sincerely to Lou and Laurie for my assumptions about their personal habits. Enjoy:




Lou Reed says to Laurie
"I'll get the junk this time
I'm going to the store to buy some meat
Leg of lamb this time
I'll pick up the junk
From Petey by the elevated
Train in the sun
It's on the way home"

Laurie says to Lou
"Identity. Identity. Identity
There is a leg of lamb
Called identity"

Lou Reed says to Laurie
"I used to snap my fingers
The girls lined up like brownies
Manny with his boom box
Rudy and his bag of rocks
You know that was the first time
I heard anyone say 'Homey'
It's the ugliness I miss the most"

Laurie says to Lou
"What the fuck
Are you talking about?
I am an acrobat
I am a seamstress
I will make the uniform
You wear as you fall"

Lou Reed says to Laurie
"I'll get the junk this time
No need to call up
The guy with the goods uptown
Encyclopedia Brown
He's been inconsistent
Like Dillon in the movies"

Laurie says to Lou
"Approximate. Identity. Approximate
There is a tug of war
In our garden
Let's go see"

Lou Reed says to Laurie
"Doormen tipped their hats to me
From Brooklyn to the Bowery
I know that's small, but rock and roll's
Not everything, not anymore
Did Apollonia 6 write their own songs?"

Laurie says to Lou
"Repent. Reevaluate. Repent
There is a superstar named Fagen
He's eating breakfast by the pier
Word on the street
Is that the word on the street
Is ambivalence"

Lou Reed says to Laurie
"I'll get the junk this time
Leg of lamb and key lime pie
Cut the junk and cue the cry
The telephone is ringing
Is that my mother on the phone?"

Inventory

Creatures currently in my apartment: 3 (me, my cat, other cat)

Fans currently running in my apartment: 3 (window fan, ceiling fan, tower fan)

Conflicting digital time displays currently being displayed in my apartment: 4 (10:07pm on the cable box; 10:05pm on the Bose Wave; 10:09pm on the laptop; 1:59am on the stove)

What's on TV: Knocked Up

Pillows currently visible to me: 6 (4 bed pillows, 2 couch pillows)

What was for dinner: Granola (with raisins) and peach kefir

What I drove past 3 hours ago: Lakewood Center, on Lakewood Boulevard, in Lakewood, CA

Significance of Lakewood Center: It's a mall. Been there once before. I went to see The Jetsons movie with my friend Debbie on July 10, 1990, exactly 19 years ago to the day.

Significance of The Jetsons movie: I had been suffering from the first - and worst - case of insomnia in my life. Three straight nights of no sleep. Panic attacks in the night and during the day. Driving around the Southland in a daze. Seeking clarity and meaning in life. Debbie suggested a movie. I picked her up in Cerritos. I told her that I sincerely believed that I would never sleep again. I assumed that I would just stay awake and awake and more awake... until the body quit and the mind imploded. That I would never rest again, that my sleeping dreams were all behind me. Then, about halfway through the film, I fell asleep. I remember the joy I felt when I was gently poked by Debbie who told me the movie was over. The credits rolled and the lights slowly came to life. She had let me sleep and that I am thankful for. My insomnia was over.

What else I am thankful for: The flexibility and understanding shown today by Gabi at the credit union.

How quickly I realized that I was unintentionally driving past the Lakewood Center, a place I had forgotten about and never once considered again until tonight: 3 seconds

How quickly I figured out the July 10 coincidence: 2 minutes

Why I was in Lakewood: Happy accident

Where I went after that: Driving around, remembering. Then I came home.

Flavor of Gatorade G2 on the table next to me: Orange

What I am going to do next: Cookie, sleep

From Albatross to Marbles to Beckon: Ali Finds a Bunch of Old Poems and Papers and Shares His Enthusiastic Perspective

I have the day off. The weather is perfect. I'm well-rested, I've slept it all off. So how am I spending my holiday? Reading through my old notebooks and typewritten pages from (roughly) the years 1983 through 1993.

I have them stacked - 20 notebooks and/or folders high - in the high shelves of my kitchen. It's a strange sight - coffee mugs and drink glasses on the lowest shelf, plates and bowls on the next one up, dense notebooks filled with 3/4-attentive notes for psychology lectures and poems in the margins and back pages. Yes, I was a poet then. I tried my hand at writing fiction here and there. The poetry worked well. The fiction struggled.

I'm spending the day rereading the contents of my mind from 20+ years ago, hoping to gain perspective on where I find myself today. There are no clean/clear answers. There's a lot of longing in these poems. And surprisingly many of my attempts at humor back then still generate laughs today. But most of all there's a young man who took himself and his thoughts (moreso than his experiences) way too seriously.

Yes, some of it is poignant and direct. A poem called Sad Song, written on May 8, 1988, two days after the end of the longest relationship of my life up to that point, is sad and beautiful and heartbreakingly honest. If I could remember exactly where it is, among the giant paper piles in front of me, I would quote from it.

But I will quote from the poem that impressed one of my best friends back in 1984, a friend to whom I was very impressionable. The poem was called Albatross. We were going to name our literary journal after it. We never got that far. The opening lines of Albatross (12/2/84):

When morning arrives, let's all hold hands

And spit our existence into a pool of melted popsicles

And we'll wind up in intensive care

But who cares?

And we'll comb our hair with tree branches

Don't you dare...touch my hair

Okay, is it appropriate for me to critique my teenage self? First of all, the final two lines of the verse are fucking amazing. I slay the forced existentialism that preceded it (line 2 where I even include the word "existence"). I make the reader forget the wordplay (care/cares) and the fact that three out of six lines starting with "and" is two too many.

I was so proud of Albatross back in the eighties. Its one word title would signify the writer in me to the friends close to me, much like my creative mid-nineties self could be defined by those two one-word poem titles: Marbles and Bakersfield. (If any of you know the whereabouts of Marbles or Bakersfield, please let me know. I can't find a single copy of either one - electronic or paper.)

But who am I kidding? Sure, I wrote the occasional philosophical thinkpiece like Albatross. But mostly my 1980s poems were there to house the contents of my heart. Love poems - beautifully worded, forever unrequited. You see, my heart gave way to my head (still does) and my poems allowed me to think my way through every misguided crush, every appropriate crush, and every missed crushless opportunity staring me in the face. I mean - poetry aside - who would go out on a date with an alluring girl like S.M. and end the date by driving past D.L.'s house, all the while telling S.M. of his unrefined lust for D.L.? I would, that's who. It was April 1 1984, the day Marvin Gaye died. We went to see Footloose. And not only did I fuck things up by discussing my love for another girl, I outed myself as an apprentice stalker by driving past that other girl's house. Which was completely out of the way - at least six miles away from Doylestown. Six miles was a long way for teenagers back in '84.

This perspective that I have now, it was absent then. But I'm more of a blogger than a poet these days so let me just get it all out here in the open, in this forum, at this moment - Sue Morris, I sincerely apologize for making us drive past Donna Lutz's house on our one and only date. Oh and Marvin Gaye, I apologize to you too. On your death day, I sullied your name and your sexual legacy.

But I'm here to write about my poetry. Back to my pile of papers. What is this beautifully typeset collection of loose pages? Holy crap, it's The November Magazines!!?? My first attempt at anthologizing myself! On the title page, beneath the brilliant title, I write: 

What brought me here. A non-linear history in three chapters. A history of the great glorious Harvest Years (1985 through 1990 or, more liberally, 1983 through 1993).

So what did I choose to include in The November Magazines? I am both apprehensive and excited as I consider turning the page. If this collection truly does end in 1993, then it might just include Marbles and Bakersfield, though I believe the latter was written in 1994. Damn, that's a fact I should remember. Okay, turn the page:

Wow. I forgot about this. Centered, in glorious unknown font, I offer the reader two bookend quotes, from the qualified beginning and ending years I promised on the title page:

I never play basketball now - Paddy Macaloon, 1983

I used to shoot hoop - Snoop Doggy Dogg, 1993

Damn I had perspective even then. I even got the "Doggy" into Snoop's name. He wouldn't drop it until 1995.  Turn the page. It's the first chapter of a novel I don't remember writing. Wait a second - The November Magazines is NOT a poetry collection. It's the NOVEL I DON'T REMEMBER WRITING. Here's chapter two. And chapter three. 

And it's kind of awesome. I need time to think these pages through. Three chapters is a lot for me. Sure, each chapter bears little resemblance to the others. Each paragraph bears little resemblance to the others. No discernible plot. Just memories and more and more memories. It's a history of my life. And indeed it does cover those years. I'll give you the final sentence of each chapter. It will be sufficient. It will explain me to you (then and now):

You could have kept your promise of eternal love but you didn't. (end of chapter 1)

There is a blessing on the ground. (end of chapter 2)

In the November magazines, there's always a picture of you trundling up the riverside, walking back from your car, clutching the November magazines. (end of chapter 3, also the greatest sentence I've ever written)

One reason for my confusion: I recall being overly proud of the title The November Magazines and used it more than once. Whenever I anthologized or compliationed myself in the mid-90s, it was my go-to title.

More poetry. This is called The Night Before Thanksgiving. Written on the night before Thanksgiving (11/25/92). This one I remember every second of, every moment. I wrote it for someone I missed dearly in 1992.  I wrote it for someone I unreasonably avoided in 2009, as recently as a week ago. Sorry for the avoidance. Here's where I get the most direct in a generally indirect poem:

Just think somehow

Of pleasant thoughts of me

The man you remember

The solitude, the sender

Of all love your way

Anonymous and in decay, I miss you

Wow. Some things just don't change. I turn the page (real time) and there is another poem about the same person, the same fear and feeling. Wow, Ali, just because someone doesn't call you back within two days doesn't mean you have to go all fatalistic. From Dearest You (11/27/92, two days after the night before Thanksgiving):

Dearest you, do you still

Wear black against your will

Say words for sake of listening

To the blind forbidden thrill

To the deaf and deafening shrill

Yes, there should be a question mark somewhere in there. And yes, it's pretty great. Next, there's some claptrap (yes I used that word) about "that blessed year of 1989." Really, all that was blessed in 1989 was February and March and November and December. The rest of it I could do without.

I think it's coming.

Yes, chronologically, it had to show up some time. I found one of my great long lost poems. Marbles. 6/21/93. Let me read it now.

(Two minutes later). Surprisingly, not that good. But in a few places it shines:

you had the kind of broken smile

reserved for a metaphor writer

in the depths of the loneliness jungle

and

a gallon of heartache, a liter of will

can't be a writer if I can't buy a thrill

Yes, I did switch to not uppercasing the first letter of each line. It happened some time between November 1992 and June 1993. Since then I've alternated between the two methods pretty randomly. Please let Bakersfield be found soon. If Love Had a Halo. No. Swirl. Better. Ever the Fortunate Soul. Forgotten but pretty good. No Bakersfield in this pile. It's okay. Something has to remain lost or we wouldn't bother looking.

Look, here's a printout of a letter from 1993 I was planning to mail to my friend John. Or my other friend John. Not sure. What's important is that I once truly, sincerely believed that Pain Makes You Beautiful by The Judybats was the best album of the first half of 1993. In retrospect, it's clearly Exile in Guyville by Liz Phair (release date 6/22/93 - the DAY AFTER I WROTE BAKERSFIELD). Sure, it's possible I just hadn't heard Exile yet (it's not on the top 5 list) and sure the Judybats were underrated but still.... I have Pure Guava by Ween at #3 so that could be #1 and.... wait, you probably don't care.

More stuff from the 92-94 era. Pretty good. Here's the awesome String of Pearls (132 lines of pure cleverness). Here's another letter to one of the Johns. In which I offer 11 alternate names for testicles (Judds, Dibbits, Clem & Phil). In which I ask "How many Long Beach Crips does it take to change the lightbulb?" (Yes Doggystyle had just come out. Yes I answered the question. Yes I can tell you that it takes 5 of them. No I cannot elaborate although I do so in the letter.)

No sign of Bakersfield (interestingly, it was originally called Riverside.) And suddenly we go back into the eighties. We move from odd-fonted early Word printouts to crusty typewritten pages. Something called I Wanna Be Degraded from 12/7/84. Five days after Albatross but a million years removed. I simply will not quote from it. I recover from whatever degrading angst was torturing me to write Walled City eight days later on 12/15/84 (Inside my walled city, I can look at the sky / I will always know that no one's looking down at me). Wordplay. Then - January 1985. One of my favorite months ever. It's when Kaari blew on the key. It's when"No Impulse Shopping" became a catchphrase. And these last two sentences will only both make sense to me. Some of you will get one; some of you will get the other. No one will get both. There will be a future blog post to explain everything. Yes, Kaari took the key - actually the entire keychain - and placed it in her gloved hands and blew on them with her warm breath.

One last poem because my fingers are tired. The Sun Never Shines for Darkness (2/4/85) in which I lament my advancing age and disappeared childhood. I was still a teenager. The opening lines:

I hate it when they call me "sir"

I'm only a guy with a life

I hate it when they call me "mister"

I'm just a guy who's real nice

From there I write a life story of a poem, from baby to boy to man to corpse, age impending and relentless. I'm a fatalist by the third verse and a reluctant atheist by the fifth. I realize now that the poem was inspired by an incident that happened to me at the movie theater where I worked. I was the ticket seller that night. A customer called me "sir." I was horrified. I felt old. That one perceived but not real slight inspired a carefully written, precisely metered 48-line poem (12 verses of 4, every third verse indented). Two decades later, a painful divorce would inspire maybe one poem and half a bad short story. Life.

I promised that would be the last poem. And it was. But I just found a note. The handwritten note is from me to my then-girlfriend Lauren. Judging from the sentiments expressed, the note is from the first year of our 3.5 year relationship. I read it and I am flabbergasted by what I wrote. Was I really that much of a smushy-voiced sentimentalist? Did I actually say "weekends" instead of "weekend" when I meant to say "weekend" because I was invoking the ex's lingo? Did I really refer to myself by her nickname for me (the nickname I hated) not once but twice, in two different forms? Did I really substitute the word "kiwi" for vagina? Yes to all of that.

And another note. To the same person. Written on the letterhead of my old Ventura County job. In which I leave my work number. Because she's sleeping in and I'm heading to work. This must have been when I was living in Newbury Park. Anyway, in the note, I propose marriage. I don't remember doing that. I don't believe she answered. We never made it that far.

Here's something called Beckon. It's a song not a poem so you didn't catch me in a lie. It's a song because I called it a song back then (in a note at the bottom). I can imagine singing it and I probably have, to myself, toward the microphone of the mid-priced boombox I owned then. It's from 10/2/85. I begin by repeating the line "My only other dream was too real to mention" 14 times. I then follow this with an eight-line verse. I know enough about myself to be certain that I wrote this about a dream I had about a girl named Gretchen. We worked at the movie theater in the summer of '85. She went away to college (St. Olaf, Northfield, MN) and I pined/longed for her. I never asked her out because I was a shy and shyness made for better poetry. I remember the dream. In it Gretchen and I drive across the Washington Avenue Bridge in Minneapolis, toward the east bank of the University. We go to the Big Ten bar and eat subs and drank beer. Some other people from the movie theater are there. This never happened in real life but I remember the dream so well even today.

When we worked together at the theater, we were both given performance evaluations by our boss, Mr. Engebretson (shout out to Mr. E!). I don't remember the range of the rating scale but I know that Gretchen's final score was 14 and mine was 8. Her score was the highest of everyone there. (Why did we so blatantly share our confidential scores? Oh because we were young and we didn't give a fuck.) My 8 was actually pretty good; Mr. E was a harsh reviewer. Anyway, that's why I repeated that line in the poem/song 14 times. And that's why the subsequent verse was 8 lines long. Because of our ratings. That little trickery of numbers and words sums up my relationships with females in the 80s (and half of the 90s and maybe my whole life if I think of it): a private joke, written in a private forum, full of meaning and obscure references, dripping with personal importance... never read or sung aloud to its intended recipient, almost never given on printed page to its intended recipient.

And then, four years later, when I did give another girl everything I wrote about her and she said "Is this about me?" as she sat upon the late, lamented mini-papasan chair from Pier 1, in the sunny second floor apartment at La Casa Brea in Brea, I couldn't just say yes. I had to give a qualified yes with a lengthy explanation. Could anyone have more blatantly walked into more missed opportunities than me? But there's a silver lining in all of this regret. Two silver linings, actually. One, at least I have the poetry. Two, some of those girls - they're still single. 

(I will be posting some of these old, long-lost, pre-Internet poems on my poetry blog - link at right - in the coming weeks/months/years. Happy Fourth)