“Talk, talk, talk: the utter and heartbreaking stupidity of words.”
This weekend was pretty darn sweet. On Friday, Sam, Sarah, and I saw Wanda Jackson (and Sallie Ford and the Sound Outside) play at Neumos. Neumos as a venue is just fine. Nothing special. Wanda covered that base all by herself. A Saturday afternoon interlude of actual work consisted of giving a 4 hour “CULINARY TOUR OF SEATTLE”. This was just about the most absurd thing I’ve ever done for money in my life. Disorganization and chaos aside, redemptive qualities involved free food, free beer, and a hefty paycheck. Sweet.
In a supreme act of sensible maturity, later that evening I blew my entire paycheck taking Eric to Jazz Alley. Saw Lalah Hathaway and her band of musical savants. Bass guitarists always kill me. Lalah’s destroyed. Eric was more into the guitar player though, said he’d never seen anything like it live before (commenting on the guitar solo), which, I gather, means thumbs up! honey. Jazz Alley turns out to be this sultry basement theater filled with sexy sensuous people and sexy sensuous food and old school cocktails. good beer and wine list also. We had their clams with sausage. If you are ever in Seattle and want to impress someone, take them to Jazz Alley. but you should probably warn them about going to Jazz Alley possibly covered in grease and wearing a dallas cowbows hat and filthy denim. because you will not fit in so hot. nobody will care what you look like but you might feel like a doofus. a ala eric. On sunday I lounged in the sun and read Faulkner’s Mosquitoes. played with julien. Both were excellent activities. Good Sunday.
I am very happy about having my two seasonal summer favorites back in circulation. These favorites are WHITE clothing items and cocktails made with pimms. traditional pimms cups are cool with me too.
Mosquitoes is a funny Faulkner because it does not make you want to gouge your eyes out or knock your head against a wall whilst reading. In this particular rag, Faulkner’s style is much more Oscar Wilde with a touch of Nabokov. Stylized sensuousness and self aware witticisms. wicked. sometimes even delicately pretty. Not at all like his usual musical experiment in stream of conscious. Faulkner fiend that I am, it is crazy to read a book by the man that does not dwell in the grotesque shadow of rotting human heart. Mosquitoes is quite charming. It is one of Faulkner’s first novels– and so, I assume, he hadn’t fully developed his brutal signature. I’d say he’s barely stumbled on his subject matter (let alone style) with Mosquitoes. I am happy about this because I don’t think I am in the mood to absorb a Faulkner nightmare.
Most critics pan Mosquitoes. It certainly is no page turner. But I am not so much into page turners anymore. I like to obsess over the details. SO I do not care.
“Read, read, read. Read everything — trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write. If it’s good, you’ll find out. If it’s not, throw it out of the window.”
― William Faulkner