There’s the “funny misheard lyric”—There’s a bathroom on the right, etc.—and there’s the possibly profound misheard lyric, where your interpretation gives new meaning that the writer didn’t consciously intend. For 23 years or so, I have believed the Replacements’ song “One Wink at a Time” contained this verse in this form:
A mail-order ring wrapped tight around a Singapore sling that night think to yourself, “He’s a moron” use me to lean against
But, according to the canonical Replacements fan site, it’s actually:
A mail order ring wrapped tight around a Singapore sling at night thinkin’ to yourself, it needs some more rum use me to lean against
What’s the more crushingly banal of the two? And who’s worse, the airport dingbat thinking the drink needs more rum and/or that he’s a moron, or the “he” being leaned against?
And is this second verse happening in some kind of decaying shag-carpet steakhouse, or a midwestern airport cocktail lounge, or at that little tiny tiki bar in Silver Lake?
The passengers aboard United Airlines Flight 998 were ordered to stay in their seats after the jet landed at Newark Airport on Saturday — they were being quarantined after one among them was suspected of being ill with the deadly virus.
More than 250 passengers aboard the flight from Brussels were held on the plane for almost two hours as Centers for Disease Control and Prevention workers wearing hazmat suits removed the passenger — a Liberian national who had vomited on approach — from the plane. His daughter was also removed.
The remains were buried on a hillside up a rocky dirt track on the outskirts of Iguala in six suspected graves, which were still fresh, a local official said, speaking on condition of anonymity. Investigators discovered the burned remains, which were put into bags, two officials said, asking to remain anonymous. It was unclear who the remains belonged to, they added.
Dr. Richard Sacra had worked as a medical missionary in Liberia but not directly with Ebola patients. Nevertheless, he contracted the disease. He was treated in isolation at the Nebraska Medical Center in Omaha then released after testing negative for the virus.
Early Saturday, he went to an emergency room in Boston with a cough and fever, said missionary organization Serving in Mission. He was afraid he might have pneumonia.
"We’re encouraged to lose our possessions. Music? Store it on the iCloud. Books? Store it on the iCloud. Movies, magazines, newspapers, TV—all are safely stored in the ether and not underfoot or stuffed in a closet. It’s a modernist monastery where the religion is Apple itself.
Meanwhile, those who have hung onto possessions are castigated, jeered at, and painted as fools.
The hit A&E TV show Hoarders identifies people with things as socially malignant, grotesque, primitive, dirty, bizarre. In a word: poor.”
“Why bother with space-devouring, planet-harming plastic objects when so much music can be had at the touch of a trackpad—on Spotify, Pandora, Beats Music, and other streaming services that rain sonic data from the virtual entity known as the Cloud? What is the point of having amassed, say, the complete symphonies of the Estonian composer Eduard Tubin (1905-82) when all eleven of them pop up on Spotify, albeit in random order? (When I searched for ‘Tubin’ on the service, I was offered two movements of his Fourth Symphony, with the others appearing far down a list.) The tide has turned against the collector of recordings, not to mention the collector of books: what was once known as building a library is now considered hoarding. One is expected to banish all clutter and consume culture in a gleaming, empty room.”
Dusk on Highway 6, a crescent moon hanging over a jagged line of the Sierra Nevada, a distant set of headlights miles up the road from me. The FM choices are few, but with night comes the faraway AM stations. I have heard strange and beautiful noises on these desert nights: Paiute chants from reservations, melodic static like a chorus of goblins, and especially the mystifying rockabilly program I picked up somewhere near Cortez, Colorado, in the summer of 1983.
I was driving cross-country, in my bright orange International Harvester Scout II—a rounded 1970s tank with four-wheel drive you needed to get out and turn on, with a wrench—and there was a scary-looking thunderstorm rising up over the San Juan Mountains ahead. A hillbilly guitar line jumped out of the speakers, with impossible levels of reverb. Howls of insanity and abandon followed, an ancient sound, far more terrifying and primal than anything produced by the punk-fueled rockabilly revival of the era. Another song followed, short and brutal, this time with lyrics so unintelligible that I could never figure out if they were Spanish, English or Martian.
The DJ laughed maniacally, his voice echoing both from the modulation of the scratchy signal and whatever effect he used in his studio booth. He spoke an arcane 1950s’ style slang of Cholo Spanglish I recognized from the slick old guys with their Low Riders in San Diego and Chula Vista and El Cajon. There was an old car-hop diner called Richard’s out in then-rural Santee in San Diego County, and on Saturday nights the classic American cars and less-classic 1970s’ Low Riders would line the gravel parking lot, the proud owners hanging around and talking to their buddies, looking under the hoods at the gleaming engines beneath.
The Cortez DJ was somewhat in the style of Wolfman Jack and the other radio howlers of early rock ‘n roll, but he was also his own special kind of lunatic. The records were menacing, too: For every recognizable number by Johnny Burnette or Eddie Cochran or Wanda Jackson, there were three or four so resolutely bizarre and arcane that the DJ himself might’ve been performing them live, creating them with a Gretsch hollow body run through a theremin and bounced off Sputnik back to Earth.
Adding to this terrifying sonic mix were the lightning strikes from the thunderstorm, now right on top of me. For two or three harrowing hours, I crept southward on U.S. Highway 666 (since renamed by people scared of the Devil) toward Gallup, New Mexico, while giant white bolts exploded around me and a mix of violent rain and hail made it nearly impossible to see the road. At one point I saw what looked like a massive ocean liner (or a Jawa Sandcrawler) backlit by the blue-white glow of another crashing bolt. Only later did I learn this was the notorious “Shiprock"—the remains of an ancient volcano in the Navajo Nation. I was so was shaken and exhausted that when I finally reached a motel and got a room that I couldn’t sleep for another several hours.
I cannot be sure if this was the motel in Gallup where I finally rested so uneasily that night, but it looks right, and “Thunderbird” sounds right, too. On the corner was a phone booth, with the glass shot out, and when I walked out there to make a call home to California, I saw a knocked-over highway sign—two signs, actually, one of them a coveted U.S. Route 66 marker. Back to the Scout for my toolbox and the socket wrench set. I crouched in the highway weeds as the rain poured down, and I brought those signs home. Route 66 officially vanished a year later, but was already the subject of many nostalgic television features and newspaper articles in the early Eighties. (The signs are, I think, still at my sister’s house in Portland. She had nothing to do with that particular crime.)
Thirty years after that harrowing night, I’m driving solo from Bishop to my property up near the Nevada state line, and that music and that voice are right there with me, through the scratchy AM of a rented Hyundai hatchback. 660 AM. Twang and reverb, more country & western than full-on rockabilly, but then … yes, the alien hillbilly beat. Could it be the same lunatic? A recording, like the classic Art Bell show from 1996 I found on another station this same Labor Day Weekend night? The Internet should be a help, but it’s not: there’s a 660 AM that’s a Navajo station, but there’s nobody on the program schedule that matches “crazy reverb guy playing obscure and possibly alien rockabilly.” Mysteries of the Desert.
I’m still happily recovering from the failed launch of my environmental/nature online magazine, Greenfriar. It was a “self-financed startup,” which means I don’t owe anyone money and am free to go about my business, such as it is. But it also means I couldn’t hire any full-time help, or pay myself, or pay more than $50 for free-lance pieces, because “hope for eventual advertising money” is not accepted as a form of payment for rent, groceries, liquor, etc. I’m doing a little freelance, the sort of essays and columns I used to do for The Awl and Gawker, and I’m always halfway starting or plotting a book—but the reality is that I’ve only had two books published and I’m well into my 40s, so it’s unlikely I’m going to suddenly start churning out novels or non-fiction books. All of that is to say: What I’m working on is something that has grown out of the visions I had for the book Dignity, along with my longtime obsessions with the California missions, land conservation, the high desert, and the special satisfaction I get from walking around in silence, far away from all you people and your constant jabbering and tweeting, etc.
2. How does your work differ from other writers in your genre?
As a novelist, I don’t really have a genre—of my two published books, one is a dark comedy that very roughly follows the “diversity of perversities” style of satirical thriller written by Carl Hiaasen, but it also has the “tell much of the story in fake news accounts” trick that powers Dracula and Salem’s Lot, and most of the (few) reviews noted the snarky dialogue was of the Elmore Leonard/Raymond Chandler vein, which is a pretty terrific thing to get called on.
My more recent book, Dignity, is written as a collection of epistles from a modern-day Saint Paul sending encouragement and news to self-sustaining communities that pop up within half-built and abandoned exurban developments after the 2008 financial collapse. It’s utterly sincere and romantic. Which is to say: I believe that book. Very easy to write, too, although of course it was work. But an empty house in the desert and some Leonard Cohen or Antony & the Johnsons or Emmylou Harris could generally get me back to the haunted traveler who wrote that book.
And then there’s my non-fiction book about hiking up the California Coast, from the border fence at the Tijuana Bullring by the Sea to San Francisco. I did this in 2009 for HarperCollins, but the little Harper imprint that signed me was shuttered not long after I submitted my aimless first draft. And that’s probably for the best, because nobody at HarperCollins liked my first draft at all. (This has been my most successful book, financially, because I got to keep the substantial advance. Thanks, Rupert Murdoch!)
As an essayist or a columnist or (what I’ve really been) a blogger, the people who admit to liking my stuff tend to put it in the American Jeremiad school of half-humorous/dead-serious writing, which is a great compliment, because most of my favorite writers did their best work in that area: Edward Abbey, Hunter Thompson, Joan Didion, Mike Royko, Malcolm X/Alex Haley, Mark Twain, etc. And despite the fact that I “quit” journalism and blogging and any kind of periodical writing on a disturbingly routine basis, my full-time income has mostly come from this kind of work, to the point that I haven’t had a Real Job since working as a desk editor and rewrite guy at United Press International in Washington back in 1999.
3. Why do you write what you write?
I mostly write out of disgust and dissatisfaction. I want a beautiful life but I’m stuck in this Garbage World with you people.
Very slowly, I’m figuring out I probably should not waste any more time on writing. It seems increasingly passive and banal, the whole exercise. There’s real stuff that needs doing!
4. How does your writing process work?
Not very well. The truth is, I don’t really “believe” in writing. Not now, anyway. The writers I admired are almost all dead and gone. The kind of writing I like to read has fallen out of favor, or the current versions are pretty tired copies. Writing is a pretty disgusting way to make a living, when you think about it—it’s all to get people to “emotionally respond” to a headline so they’ll click on something, “share” it, and then close the browser tab a paragraph later because who cares?
There’s a whorish desperation to even the very few halfway-decent writers today. You either write about the same tripe everybody else writes about—Game of Thrones, Hillary Clinton, Silicon Valley, whatever new subculture is offended by its lack of persecution, a sports star, a wealthy rapper, the Tea Party, the new iPhone—or you make a stunt out of not doing that specific thing: Dark Matters: A Gamer Woman’s Journey Through a Year Without Using Light Bulbs In a Very Dark House, etc. The paucity of aesthetic morality throughout global civilization dulls the wits of even the sharpest satirists at The Baffler and The Onion.
5. What is your advice for those struggling to write and/or make a living from writing?
Give up! Really, why struggle with something that has so few rewards? Now if you just love typing so much and can’t stop, then type away. That’s fine, and better than watching the teevee or joining a bicyclists club or whatever.
But if it’s hard, and you’re not getting anywhere, don’t waste time or money on writing programs, writing seminars, writing workshops, books about overcoming writer’s block, books about how to read other books, books about how to sell books to book publishers, etc. Chances are, whatever you’ve got to say has been said before, and it’s probably been said much better, and any look at the bookshelves in your local independent bookshop will reveal that most of the shelf space goes to the deserving “old reliables”—along with gimmick-garbage throwaways like Four-Thousand Supermarkets: A Year of Traveling To 4,000 Supermarkets, gift books for Father’s/Mother’s Day, gift books for graduates, gift books for the home chef, gift books for the unemployed, gift books for the depressed, gift books for the recently divorced or widowed, gift books for pet owners, seasonal political books with snappy topical titles that repeat something the few buyers already believe, glossy magazines with many beautiful photographs of Scarlett Johansson and/or a new device of some kind, and various gewgaws that announce to co-workers and potential sex partners that you actively engage in the reading of books, because you are smarter than the people that just watch Netflix eight hours each night.
* * *
Now, I think, I am supposed to somehow “pass this on” to some other people, but I’m pretty sure the people I have in mind will refuse to take part in such a morbidly vain exercise. Instead, I choose … Jim Newell, Salon’s politics writer and the 2013 world sex champion, and the talented Matt Welch, noted “libertarian of convenience” until the Koch Brothers shut down Reason due to moral bankruptcy. As always, “Blame Steve Coulter” for all of this.
I lost my quadcopter while flying it along the coast for a beach wedding and had a GoPro camera on it. The footage is extremely valuable to the couple so if you find it, please contact me and willing to pay a reward
There was a low-speed automobile collision outside my house this morning, as my kids were standing on the sidewalk waiting to be taken to school. Everyone involved had strange and generally wrong reactions, myself included. My boys screeched and then hugged each other, like nervous baby monkeys at the zoo. I watched the crash from the front doorway—two compact cars, neither going more than 20 miles per hour—and then went back inside for a moment to turn off lights. Then I went to the car that was most smashed up and helped the children get out. There were two little girls in car seats, in the back, and a girl not much bigger than my third-grader in the front. She was dazed and loudly complaining that she’d lost one of her shoes. The mother, in her late 20s at most, stood by the driver’s side door for a while, saying nothing. The guy in the other car got out, looked around, and sat back down in his driver’s seat for a moment.
Now the three kids were sitting on the sidewalk, and it seemed the oldest girl was at least a little bit hurt. Her right leg was bothering her, and her forehead had probably hit the dash, although it wasn’t cut. There was broken glass everywhere, and at least some of it embedded in her skin and maybe in one of her eyes. (Later I realize I don’t know where the glass came from. Did a windshield shatter? I hadn’t noticed.) The mom looks over the kids while I call 911. The dispatcher asks me a lot of questions about injuries, damage, is the street blocked, etc. I try to come up with answers, instead of saying Just send the paramedics over, the fire station is three blocks away. Then the mother is back at the car, wailing, “My car, my car! I worked so hard for my car!” Her children sit alone on the curb.
The driver of the other car—I think it was the driver, although it might have been another neighbor—is saying, “The car can be fixed, be with your kids.” There is an argument over who’s at fault, but I’m walking away now, it’s time for my kids to get to school. I tell the drivers that I’ve called 911 and the paramedics are on the way, and then I spend the rest of the walk to school telling my kindergartner that it’s going to be all right, the kids will be okay, luckily everyone was wearing a seat belt or in a car seat, etc. A police car passes us on the way and turns on our street, siren blaring. The ambulance is not far behind it.
Walking home, I wonder if I should’ve done something else … left my house open for the kids, offered them something? But if they were hurt, any of them, they should not be moving around, going up steps, right? Who knows. When I get back, a policeman on a motorcycle is just driving off, red and blue lights blinking, and I think of Terminator 2: Judgment Day, because that’s what I was watching with my older son last night. (His request to see the first Terminator, which is far more psychotic and violent and porny, was denied. As a compromise, I watched the sequel with him and skipped over the handful of disturbing scenes; it’s mostly cartoon violence.)
One cop in a cruiser remains for a little while. Another girl not much older than the one in the front seat is now there with the toddler, I guess she was called to come get her, while the mom accompanied the other kids to the hospital? Maybe a teenaged child from the same family, or the mom’s younger sister? She’s whining to the cop about having to stay there, and he says she needs to stay there for some reason.
An hour later, all parties and both wrecked cars are gone. Nothing remains but a lot of broken glass and sand poured over the oil and radiator fluid that ran all over the pavement. The street cleaning truck comes by, but of course the driver doesn’t steer a few feet to the left to get all this mess, because it’s Friday and they only do my side of the street on Friday.
Permanent ban on baby talk, old internet memes, etc. Yes yes, let he who never posted a LOLcat cast the first stone, etc. But it’s a new year, we are building a bigger readership (including actual adults!), and we will type like upright humans with opposable thumbs. So please pack that stuff away in your 2005-2007 tool box: teh, !!1!, interwebs, internetz, any sort of “z for plural” or other such internet baby talk.
Also, as I mentioned to some of you: No vulgarities in headlines, ever. (Google News has warned us, and readers don’t won’t giant FUCK YOUs on their screen when the boss walks by.) And keep the in-post profanity to a very bare minimum. If the vulgarity isn’t adding something interesting to the sentence, cut it—save the vulgarity for shock value or when there’s simply no better available word.
It’s a blog, so we don’t care if we reference something repeatedly. Ideally, the subject matter of items will vary a bit from post to post on the front page, but the cold fact is that we have very little to write about this year—a shrinking pool of loathsome people & their dumb campaign antics—and anything especially noteworthy is going to be written about in dozens or even hundreds of posts, and during these primaries we are going to hammer away at the same little box of bullshit news all day long every day. So keep it short, keep it funny, and remember that the post is forgotten by readers mere seconds after they see it and move on to the next thing. (This doesn’t mean people don’t love their Wonkette. They do. But it’s a cumulative response based on a steady stream of “funny-at-the-time” blogging, as you’ll see one day when you try to find “clips” on Wonkette & see nothing but old blog posts instead.)
You don’t need to schedule posts. I see a lot of terrorist “chatter” these days about planning out the posting on a blog. Please don’t bother. With three full-timers, one part-timer, two columnists, two video/photo people and two interns, we should have a constant stream of posts. A good example of this was our Iowa caucus day, with 60 or so posts in 24 hours, which means a post every 12 minutes or so—but in reality, that was about a post every 6 minutes over a dozen or so hours. If something is really super good and needs to be highlighted for longer, that’s what the “top” category is for. I’m also bringing back the WEEK IN REVIEW thing to highlight exciting posts again.
Why is it on Wonkette? A little question to ask before posting something.
It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it.
And with that Ed Abbey quote as a motto, Greenfriar launched this week. Come on by and read some good stuff about hiking, endangered species, mountain cabins, desert hermits, backyard chickens, urban forests and other stuff that makes life worth living.
Let’s look back to 2008 and briefly tally up the score: No one has been sent to jail, lots of you are still out of work, very few of the errors that led to the collapse have been corrected, and I’m guessing that most of you haven’t even gotten a thank-you card for that time you donated $4.7 trillion of your own wealth to save the world.
Five years into the continuing economic crisis, Jason Linkins has put together this guide to the books (including fiction), movies and other media that told the story of the collapse that turned so many middle-class people into poor people.
My book Dignity made this list, hooray, and I found a lot of stuff I missed when it was published, like this piece by Alex Pareene.
Hoping to turn the only relaxing part of air travel—the flight itself—into a claustrophobic death of the soul, Virgin Airways is introducing live stand-up comedians to some of its flights. Try walking out on these no-talent schmucks.
READING the William Burroughs’ book referenced below, I notice most of his dreams are about inept travel. And I remember most of my dreams are about inept travel. Why not note them, on this blog I’ve otherwise abandoned?
Last night: A modern train or light rail system, part BART and part Disneyland monorail. Train cars are massive, empty, and of course I wind up somewhere I didn’t intend to go. It’s Vancouver, apparently the very end of the line, many miles from the city center and the water. I note the red billowing “lobster scales” around the station’s white concrete exterior. This is apparently a popular design touch, and also somehow “sustainable.” Maybe they are stylized solar panels. I take a series of escalators. It is quiet and almost pleasant—but, as always, there is a sense of unease and impending disaster.
“We are in control, but I point out that this is precisely the most dangerous moment, since we can expect massive counterattacks from many quarters—CIA, KGB, Mafia, Vatican, Islam, Corporate Capitalism, the English, the Moral Majority. I propose myself as Director of Police and Counterintelligence, which will operate under one central command … no splitting into criminal, espionage, all that cross-purpose and confusion.”—William S. Burroughs, My Education