Potpourri

This is the end of a month during which many writers undertake the mission to pen an entire novel in 30 days. It’s called NANOWRIMO (National Novel Writing Month, I think) and it’s supposed to . . . do something for a writer. Not sure what, though. Focus them? Instill some sort of discipline? Make them feel like they’ve actually written something worthy? I don’t know too much about the purpose or intentions of this month vis a vis the personalities of people who undertake this mission that has sometimes lasted a decade or more for writers. In the past, I recall this month was also used to grow a beard for men (and women, I suppose) in honor of something or to support some cause, though I might be confusing November with another -ember.

We lost Stephen Sondheim a few days ago. I hadn’t realized how many of his musicals I have seen in my life. I don’t know who will pick up the baton for this man. Maybe Lin-Manuel Miranda. I think if his heart hadn’t literally blown up in ’96, it would’ve been Jonathan Larson. If you’re on the fence about seeing the new musical tick tick Boom! you should get off that fence because it has got to be painful. (Catch the musical!)

I am getting my COVID booster on Thursday. Just in time for Omicron to possibly render it useless. Incidentally: Omigod > Omicron.

There is a documentary mainly about David Lynch’s art, narrated by him and in his own words. He doesn’t let us in on anything “juicy” or any sort of deep inside scoop on the dynamic person that he’s always been, although there is plenty of material on his early life and his introduction to filmmaking. But it’s really worth seeing it for his incredible art pieces alone. I thought John Lurie was an amazing painter; Lynch is phenomenal. The style of the docu. mirrors his own style of filmmaking: the macabre meets the mundane. That intersection is tremendous and, in my opinion, is frequently missed by his critics or people who don’t “understand” his films. It’s an esthetic that comes in as “ugly” initially but in its circuitous way communicates dread and beauty and fear and absolution in one hard, sudden face slap. As a young man, a wanna-be filmmaker myself back in film school at The University of Maryland, the biggest horror I enjoyed in Lynch’s films was the dreaded monotony of life. It has stayed with me ever since I saw Eraserhead at the midnight movies in 1983. A few years later, at my first real job (film projectionist) working for AMC Movie Theatres, I ran that print myself for midnight movies afficionados several weekends in a row. It was and is glorious. Speaking of Lynch, if you haven’t seen his daily weather reports on YouTube or other online avenues, please run and screen them now. Only David Lynch can make you laugh uncontrollably at the year-round, mundane, carbon copy-like weather of Los Angeles. You think it’s always sunny in Philadelphia? Hint: it’s PERPETUALLY sunny, mid 70s, warm, and clear in L.A. But when Weatherman Lynch delivers this Groundhog Day-like forecast, you will have had your day made.

I’ve finally decided it’s time for me to read David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest. Footnotes and all. His buddy, Franzen, apparently has a new one that is getting good press. Franzen’s Corrections didn’t do it for me. Neither did Freedom. I stopped reading his work after those two. Perhaps not a fair deal. And so it goes. In any case, aside from a handful of essays, I have never read DFW’s fiction work. It’s time.

This year I was thankful for some Pakistani young man who live-streamed on YouTube the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade from the ground at 53rd and 6th Avenue, I believe. His commentary was the absolute best. “Here comes the McDoonal Man. Another great balloon.” (Ronald McDonald above the McDonald’s float). “Wow, Astronaut Droopy!” (Snoopy float) I actually wish there was a giant balloon of Droopy. He always struck me as the creepiest cartoon dog of them all.

It’s the end of the world as we know it. And the beginning of the world as we don’t know it—mostly hot with waters rising and huge winds blowing, riddled with weird and savage viruses hidden in bat caves or patiently waiting for the ice shelf to melt. The kids are not alright. And I don’t feel fine, Michael.

This month, while would-be novelists were busy reaching their daily word count for NANOWRIMO and proudly announcing it on social media (is #amwriting still a thing?), I managed to log over 150 miles running and nearly 70 miles walking. I don’t care how cheaply made Doc Marten boots are (no shank, thin, cheap leather, squishy sole, pseudo-Goodyear welt), I logged 95% of those walking miles this month on my recently purchased 101 Vintage Smooth Leather ankle boots. They feel great and still look pretty much brand new. I am a Red Wing guy, but I have to admit the Docs are by far the coolest looking boots that, despite their shoddy construction, seem to hold up as well as my Red Wing Iron Rangers and Moc Toe Heritage 8875s. This one is for all you (none?) boot people. Maybe next month I’ll pen something on raw selvedge denim. For the other 2 people interested in that subject (Carter and I, not to be confused with Withnail and I).

The wonderful documentary about Anthony Bourdain is out there to be streamed. If you are as giant a fan as I am, I dare you to watch this with dry eyes. It is . . . heartbreaking and beautiful and tough to get through, especially toward the end. But it is all worth it. I mourn the great ones we’ve lost, but I am also happy to have had them in my life in some way.

In the last 8 weeks, I have nearly started obsessions with mushroom hunting and birding. The former is much cheaper than the latter, but fungi are modest and secretive. They don’t advertise themselves. And most of them in North Carolina, aim to literally kill you. (N.C. has the largest number of poisonous types of mushrooms in the nation. Or close to that.) Conversely, no avian—no matter how giant its size—has ever tried to murder me. Yet. True story here: in the waning days of October, when my mushroom-hunting mania had reached its highest levels, I went out after a rainstorm through the woods which surround my home. Not more than 10 minutes into my mission I came upon the most beautiful, tallest, prettiest group of fungi standing proudly next to a giant conifer not far from the path I was on. My plan immediately was to pluck those babies, get them into a frying pan along with butter, olive oil, and salt, and eat them with a slice of sourdough bread. I took a photo and put it through my mushroom-identification app. The results were instantaneous and concrete: “Destroying Angel—highly poisonous; try not to even touch it if possible! Very common to North Carolina.” According to the app, the death would come slowly (days to sometimes a couple of weeks after ingestion) and painfully (systemic organ failure, one by excruciating one the major organs would fail until death finally arrived). Respect. I guess the iPhone is good for one thing. In my case, it kept me from a Buddha-like demise.

Just yesterday I made, for the first time, an expansive Beatles list on my music app. I don’t know how many songs, over 8 hours’ worth. One small pointer, if you will (and you will!): do not run or exercise heavily whilst blasting The Beatles into your brain. Theirs is not good music for intense cardio. It’s too . . . I don’t know, too good an artform? Too brilliant not to intensely listen and get lost in? In any case, don’t try to run upwards of 7 miles in an hour with the Fab Four Obla-di Obla-da-ing their way along. It doesn’t work. For me, at least.

Succession is a wonderful, depressing, dynamic TV show. The insults are right up there with Armando Ianucci’s In the Loop and Veep. I look forward to it every Sunday.

I’m ending the year having read at least 22 books, give one or two more, according to my sometimes unreliable logs. I know it’s not impressive for others, but if you add up all the hours in my day that are occupied with things not related to anything fun or artistic or attached to any semblance of nature, and if you factor in that I am in the process of handwriting a new fiction novel (better get on that NANOWRIMO train next year, buddy boy!), it’s somethin’. Now, how much do I recall from those books?

During 2021 I have logged an average of 31 pick-ups of my iPhone per day and an average of 1 hr. and 8 mins. of daily phone usage. And this is for a person that hardly ever looks at his phone. I shudder to think how much time most people I know spend on these insufferably wonderful devices daily. Like stress, this screen time adds up daily, amigos.

This is the part where I usually say how much I want this year to be over and how I am at least sort of looking forward to the new one. Usually.

. . .

One last thing: this morning at 0526, while I was reading, an owl twice went through an elaborate sequence of hooting. It was so clear and loud, that I thought it was outside on my back deck, no more than 10 yards away. The early morning was so beautiful and cold and silent, that the complex sequence of her song resonated in the wooden frame of the reading chair I was sat in. I felt her song. It was a beautiful way to start an ordinary day that quickly became also beautiful. Someone ought to write a pop tune about that. I think U2 may have beaten me to that idea.

And so.