Listen to this poem using the player above.

From the Winslow Homer section of the National Gallery

Building The Boat

1.

in the beginning, it was obvious
they were building the boat to flee
resources were scarce
so they were meticulous in the
placement of each plank and the
sewing of each stitch in the sailcloth
carefully they provisioned the craft
and chose only such crew as wouldn’t
miss the homeland, having
no kin to leave behind
the boat was nearly complete
when the first earthquake hit
destroying most of the houses
in the center of town
that afternoon they dismantled the boat
using its planks to build houses
and covering the windows and doors
with the sailcloth to keep out the wind
in time, they sawed new wood for planks
sewed new sails and built a second boat

2.

no one saw the attack coming
certainly relations with the neighboring village
had been strained of late, but the dawn slaughter
of so many innocents startled even
the most cynical among them
fortifications were built from the planks
and uniforms from the sailcloth
they turned away from the surf
and waited for the next wave
behind the barricades
this time the boat-building took longer
there were fewer of them than before
and they had to range farther to get the wood
most of which they gathered at night
when it was safe — or at least safer —
to move beyond the town’s boundaries

3.

by the next autumn they’d finished
this hull was less glorious than the first
or even the second, having been built
from what wood was left
it was seaworthy, though,
standing in the harbor
waiting for those lucky enough
to have berths upon it
the crew had nearly finished loading the hold
when an argument started between the captain
and the chief shareholder
about the planned destination
one said west, one said south
and no entreaties by third parties
could convince either to relent
life went on much as before, and
the fully laden boat rocked on the tide

4.

the submarine nosed toward the wreckage
disturbing the fish who swam between the planks
through the sand kicked up by the sub’s propellers
the doorway to the hold was just visible
it was through this space that the divers slipped
sliding past a hang-hinged door, beyond
the reach of the sub’s light
the divers switched on their flashlights
to reveal row upon row of unopened boxes,
casks and barrels, all neatly tied, waiting

I just found out that the audio version of “Eating Godzilla” was accepted for the upcoming “New Classics” issue of qarrtsiluni. That issue will come out from May to June, with new work posted each day. Watch this space for updates, and thanks, qarrtsiluni!

UPDATE:When I got home today, there was an acceptance letter from Blue Collar Review. They’ll be publishing “Lillian Dupree & The Ballad of Frenchman Street” in an upcoming issue.

That’s two in one day after never having any success with individual poems before. Huzzah!

thethe poetry blog has a beautiful piece today from Sarah V. Schweig. You should go read it:

Waverly Gate

Show #150! Crazy, ain’t it?

Multi-instrumentalist Sadigursky just released Words Project III: Miniatures (New Amsterdam, 2010), the third in his series of releases combining contemporary poetry with improvised and through-composed music. In this interview, Sadigursky talks about his decision to use poems as an inspiration for composition; which texts lend themselves to his work and why; and what the various vocalists on his albums bring to the music. Learn more at samsadigursky.com.

LISTEN: The Jazz Session #150: Sam Sadigursky

If you’d like to buy this album, you can support The Jazz Session by purchasing it via the link below:

Sina Queyras, poet and blogger at Harriet, the Poetry Foundation blog, wrote an interesting post on the modern sonnet. In it, she mentions this erasure poem by Jen Bervin, from her book Nets:

When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

Wow. You can find out more at jenbervin.com, and here’s a link to Bervin’s book:

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Blackout

during the war he rode the English trains
asking strangers to wake him at his stop
they never did, and he’d find himself lost
in the blacked-out countryside
worried that the Brits would find him
and think he was a German spy
“They’d shoot ya,” he told me
holding on to the bar in the subway
and leaning against his wife
“My Ro,” he called her
they’d just been to the opera
to see Atilla, and now here he was navigating
the depths of this city, trying to
find the next connection and looking for help
to yet another stranger on a train
I grasped his hand as I led his Ro and him
to the shuttle for Grand Central
this time all the lights were on,
and no shots were fired

Listen to this poem using the player above. The music is “Crude Friendly” by Kevin Baird. The laughter is by Bernie and John.

Eating Godzilla

for some reason, we started with the tail
you’d think that would be the toughest part
but after we’d sliced away the scales
the flesh was surprisingly tender
and no, it didn’t like taste like chicken
well, maybe a little
but it also had that metallic
just-out-of-the-microwave aftertaste
probably from the lingering effects of the radiation
Kazuhiro had insisted on serving side dishes
despite our obvious inability to finish
the great green lizard in one sitting
so we’d sautéed Mothra in a sesame sauce
and served him (her? it?) in lovely
sculpted bowls that fit perfectly in the hand
I’d suggested also eating Raymond Burr
just for old times’ sake
but by this time he was more fat than meat
and who can be bothered to pare all that away
just for a few grizzled bits of TV lawyer?
anyway, after the tail was finished we
cracked open Godzilla’s skull to get at
what we thought would be
the salty brain encased within
imagine our surprise, then, when
the skull turned out to contain
thousands of Pez candies
in a variety of fruity colors
Iwai-kun suggested handing them out to the children
who’d naturally gathered ’round us
for a look at the sundered source
of their nightmares
you should have seen the smiles
on their faces as he
reached his hands into the skull
and drew forth the rainbow
of sugary delights
he tossed the Pez out like Mardi Gras beads
and the kids scrummaged for them, squealing

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Tea Ceremony Hurts Yours Legs

at 17, I studied the ancient art of tea ceremony
with my final host-mother
and a teacher who seemed middle-aged
but may have been just slightly older than I am now
I’m not sure about the sensei,
but one thing I do know is
tea ceremony hurts your legs
the insidious thing is that you
don’t even notice it at first
you’re too focused on
placing the bowl just so
the ladle along the crook
between your thumb and index finger
the sugary snacks on a piece
of pristine rice paper
floating above the tatami floor
after a while, it feels like
you yourself are suspended
above the floor, just slightly
is this enlightenment?
did I, at 17, achieve satori?
wait till my parents hear about this!
and it’s then, as you leap up
to spread the word
that you realize your mistake
and pitch face-down onto the mat
spilling your carefully whipped green foam
and crushing the delicate wooden ladle

Listen to this poem using the player above.

On July 19, 1955, poet Weldon Kees’ car was found on the Golden Gate Bridge with the keys still in the ignition. Shortly before, he’d told a friend that he wanted to move to Mexico to start a new life.

Where In The World Is Weldon Kees?

“It is still not known whether he killed himself or went to Mexico.”
– from a Poetry Foundation podcast about Kees

Or maybe both
perhaps all suicides go to Mexico
sit invisibly in the zocalo
and listen to the mariachi band
if unbaptized babies
are shunted off to limbo
and a beef jerky
can get you purgatory
why couldn’t a leap from the Golden Gate
land you in Guadalajara?

Thanks to Pierre Joris for the link.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Aomori

standing on the cliffs of Aomori
is like standing at the end of the world
one more step and you can take
a refreshing swim in the bay
if you survive the drop, that is
squint your eyes and it feels like flying
pine trees level with the top of your head
and the waves continuing their
thousand-year attack on the rocks below
I kept better notes than this
but they were lost in a flood
nothing so grand as the sea
winning that final victory
it was just that our washing machine
overflowed and submerged the basement
who would have thought
after a thousand years
it would be a load of laundry
that would finally conquer
the cliffs of Aomori?

David Budbill isn’t a hermit or a recluse or a misanthrope, although he chose four decades ago to move to a mountain and write poems and play the flute. The thing is, unlike the image that immediately conjures, Budbill still seems gregarious and connected and invested in friends and family. Oh, and he moved to the mountain with his wife.

While We’ve Still Got Feet (Copper Canyon Press, 2005) is a joyous collection of poems informed by the work of Chinese and Japanese recluse-poets and by Budbill’s own distilled observations. The poems are clear and often arresting, filled with wry humor and a refreshing matter-of-factness.

Budbill, who also publishes the overtly political and progressive e-newsletter The Judevine Mountain Emailite, sprinkles the occasional political commentary into his poetry. Of course, looked at from another perspective, his entire existence is a political act and a commentary on the system of consumption and greed that has grown up here on the same soil that provides the foundation for Budbill’s mountain home. Here is one example of Budbill’s combination of humor and insight:

It’s Now or Never

Eat, drink, and be merry, for
tomorrow you will surely die.

Get together with your friends.
Enjoy the pleasures of the flesh.

I’m pretty sure this is all we get.
I can’t be absolutely certain, but

of all the people I have known who
have passed over to the other side

not one has sent back any news.

At its heart, Budbill’s poetry is a clear expression of his vision of life, a vision to which he has remained true despite what I can only imagine are temptations to move back where things are “easier.” Budill is no recluse, no hermit — but he is a striking example of having the courage of one’s convictions, and the kindness to share those convictions with others.

Highly recommended.

In the realm of wrong answers, someone
always has the radio on.

– from “I Will Sing the Monster to Sleep, & He Will Need Me”

I’ve been watching the middle seasons of Stargate SG-1 again. If you’ve never seen the show, the premise is that there are Stargates that allow instant travel between planets. You step into one on your world and step out into some completely other landscape.

To get around the problem of having to invent new languages for every race of alien encountered, the producers cut the knot this way: They explained that a particular race of evil aliens had captured many humans from earth and sprinkled them throughout the galaxy to use as slaves. So most of the folks you encounter are human. And most of them speak English, albeit with some interesting variations in dialect. And no, that last bit doesn’t make any sense, but it sure is easier than having to learn Klingon.

Which brings me to John Gallaher’s Map of the Folded World (University of Akron Press, 2009). Gallaher has managed to create a language all his own using English words. Reading his poems, I felt like I’d arrived on some other world where the linguistic building blocks were familiar, but the physics of assembling them was completely different, surprising, otherworldly.

Map of the Folded World gathers momentum as it goes, and traveling through it I was quickly swept up into Gallaher’s deft use of language, not really needing to know what something meant so much as to hear how Gallaher had opened up the possibilities of the words by putting them next to one another in surprising ways:

I don’t feel it’s helpful to quote sections of his poems (although I started the interview with my favorite line from the book) because his poems are so dependent on being whole. To remove any piece for study under the microscope would be to miss the point. Gallaher is sculpting, constructing, imagining, transporting the words. Similarly, although I’m sure these poems would be captivating individually, Map of the Folded World is a book. It is held together by the strength of Gallaher’s imagination and by the cascading wash of the language. By the time I reached the end, I felt almost as though I could speak the language; as though I could understand what some of the natives were saying, and maybe even try to carry on a rudimentary conversation of my own.

I love clear, narrative poetry. For me, this is not that. What it is, instead, is something equally valuable and maybe more rare — a transformative experience that comes about through nothing but the careful placement of word blocks on a landscape of Gallaher’s own devising.

Highly recommended.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Tsurumigawa photo by Ivan Kurniawan

Tsurumigawa

ironically, we lived along the See Crane River
it sliced through the rice fields
that were just steps from the busy road

Tokyo and Yokohama and Kawasaki
are joined like an urban Cerberus
between them, hidden bits of unexpected farmland

bent old women in worn rubber boots
knotted bandanas around their heads
slop through the wet paddies

reaching crumpled fingers into waving rice
and plucking out the o-kome
the flesh of their people

in Ichigao, our town,
the women could have walked
a mile along the river

and treated themselves
to McDonald’s french fries
or the Colonel’s secret recipe

of herbs and spices
a bloodless invasion
leaving no cloud in its wake

I don’t think we ever actually
saw a crane on the river
that bore the bird’s name

like Oak Glen or Forest Heights
the name is simply a reminder
of what’s been taken away

gold flecks in green tea
gold plastic across the street
from the train station

and the Colonel standing there
arms outstretched, smiling
beckoning the cranes to fly to him

Good morning! Here are three things I’ve been thinking about this morning:

1. Has the “thumbs up” gesture completely replaced the “OK” gesture?
OR

2. Fats Domino turns 82 today. Huzzah!

3. The album Kassav’ au Zenith is, to my ear, one of the greatest live records ever made. If this album doesn’t dispel your blues, nothing will. But don’t take my word for it. Check it out for yourself:

Listen to this poem using the player above.

Enclosures

huddled under the umbrella
nestled in the sleeping bag
crouched beneath the spreading elm
encased behind the windshield

while the rain pounds
the hailstones plummet
the wind circles ’round
looking for a crack in the siding

it’s not an aversion to the elements
it’s the thrill of being protected
the joy at not being forced
into anything you don’t desire

Listen to the poem by pressing the play button above.

Gerry & Lenny

have the same vocal tic
an explosion of air from the nose
with the tongue in the back of the throat

each time it sounds like laughter,
a commentary on their own speech
then back or not back to the matter at hand

“I’m waiting for a Jew to turn Catholic!
Can you imagine a Jew submitting
to the goddamned pope? Jesus Christ!”

Like Lenny, Gerry stops in the middle –
in mitn drinen, they would say –
to tell stories and to follow tangents

Like Gerry, Lenny draws water from
a desert oasis and pours that water
into molds of his own design

“The Catholic Church has given the pope
permission to become a nun.
Just on Fridays, though.”

Gerry was born in Pittsburgh:
grew up with bituminous in his mouth,
ate the ash-gray snow

Lenny was born in Mineola:
within weeks, Sally was back on stage
and Lenny drifted from house to house

Gerry has been a poet laureate
and has won awards and prizes
and taught at prestigious universities

Lenny died on the bathroom floor,
syringe near his arm,
camera lens in his face

Michael Schiavo turned me on to the work of poet Aaron Belz. Here are two recent blog posts on Belz’s site that I enjoyed:

• in heaven
• america is so awesome

And this is the essay by Michael Schiavo on humor in poetry that sent me to Belz’s site.

I’ve started adding audio recordings of my poems. You can subscribe to an RSS feed of these recordings using this link: http://jasoncrane.org/feed/rss/?category_name=audio.

Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.

Miso Soup
(for Jennifer)

the only thing better than the taste of the sushi
is the lingering aftertaste
mixed with miso shiru and warm ocha
a sensation so rich
it’s almost another meal in itself
I always order one extra piece of unagi
and remember walking into Meiji Jingu
holding your hand
you gave me a book on Zen –
I was into that then –
and I gave you an atlas of our world
so we could choose the next destination
we sat in the kaitenzushi-ya in Shibuya
and watched the endless parade
of plates, daring us
in Nikko, we took a photo in an unexpected
tram car that was right there on the sidewalk
then climbed up all those stairs
to see the sanzaru
there were many little tremors and
the one big one
that had us scurrying for the doorjamb
just as the shaking stopped
and yes, there were cherry blossoms –
there always are –
right outside our bedroom window
and the cleaning man came by each week
and always seemed surprised to see us
we gave him our maple tree
(and you gave me its cousin years later)
I savor these moments and roll them around
on my tongue, heavy with the dusky taste
of shoyu and the tang of vinegar in the rice

Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.

Unknown man with small fish.

Some Poems Have Titles That Are Witty, Creative, Unexpected And Just Generally Better Than The Poems That Follow Them

This is one of those poems.

Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.

Hero

he pulled the sword from the stone
and it turned to ash(e)
he swung ’round to stare at the sun
in defiance of the natural law
the point of the needle
the twin spiral stairway
the walls fell and the enemy surged through
years before, he’d been stopped by white
unable to pass through the veil
while others’ backs were turned
and now, the final indignity
he swung ’round to stare at the sun
it burned away his memory
he pulled the sword from the stone
and it turned to ash(e)

Poet W.H. Auden was born on this date in 1907, and he died just a few weeks after I was born in 1973. In between he wrote some of my favorite poems, including this one, “A Walk After Dark,” which I set to music several years ago and titled Cloudless:

Cloudless (mp3, 4:07)

NOTE: Your hat may not exceed 15 mph.

Thanks to Zachary Pace at thethe poetry blog for the link.

Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.

A Blackfoot woman

I am not an Indian

My great-great-great-great grandmother
was a full-blooded Blackfoot Indian.
People say full-blooded not because
they have any proof,
but because it sounds wild, native.
If you do the math, that makes me
1.5% Blackfoot, and not very wild at all.
Say what you will about Ward Churchill;
he was right that all our accomplishments
as a country, all our technology, all our freedom,
all our music and poetry and art and dance and theater,
is being created on land that we stole from people
whose names we don’t even remember.
In college, my roommate’s best friend
paid less for his tuition because he was
above some arbitrary threshold
of Native American ancestry.
Not full-blooded, but bloody enough.
He was generously allowed
to learn quote-history-unquote
in a government building on the very land
his ancestors occupied before they became
little more than discount coupons for the state.
Another branch of my family has lived
in New England since 1638.
We never owned slaves, you’ll hear them
attest proudly, and it appears to be true.
Less lauded is my some-number-of-greats
uncle John Flanders, who served
with distinction in the army of Gen. John Sullivan,
helping to rid upstate New York of the Iroquois.
Sullivan’s troops burned and shot and hung and scattered
the people of many nations, including the Cayuga.
The army destroyed their town of Coreorgonel, and in its place was
established Ithaca, now a haven for higher education and
an oasis for studiers of organic farming and
Native American spirituality.
Living at Coreorgonel were the remnants of the Tutelo people,
who’d been forced from their homes
on the border of West Virginia and Kentucky,
and who were taken in by the Cayugas. It has been
112 years since any human being spoke the Tutelo language.
Sitting on a stage at the Tokyo Film Festival, director Chris Eyre
(of the Cheyenne-Arapaho, remember them?)
was asked by a member of the audience whether he preferred
to be called “Indian” or “Native American.”
“We have so many other problems to deal with
that we don’t have much time to worry about
what we’re called,” he said.

Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.

Entrances & Exits

Jason Lee Borders entered the world
on a late-summer afternoon in 1973,
sharing his father’s middle and last names
and containing a small flaw in his DNA
that he also shared with his father,
who, unlike Jason Lee Borders,
wasn’t strong enough to resist the genetic revolver.
Instead, he held it to his temple and pulled the trigger,
and a wash of alcohol broke through the levy
and swept the borders away.
Before the little boy drowned,
his mother crept through the window
and ran with him into the night,
gene still intact, waiting.

Jason Lee Gustavson entered the world
in a courtroom in 1979
after the requisite paperwork had been filed;
a new identity, a new life,
another in a long string
of relocations and reorientations.
By this time, even at his tender age,
he’d made one of the few choices
to which he’d remain true,
deciding early on
to leave his father’s revolver tucked in its padded box
in an unlocked drawer of the old oak dresser.
As it turned out, though,
his father wasn’t the only parent with a gift,
and generations of overflowing bathtubs
in the brains of his maternal ancestors
were slowly leaking through his own skull,
surrounding his spongy gray being
with a dark fluid that obscured light and memory.

Jason David Crane entered the world
at a kitchen table with his grandparents
in 1994 after a late-night session of salsa music.
They’d gone through all the family names
when his grandfather suggested the family
for whom an aunt had washed the laundry.
As a gesture to the father
whose name he was leaving behind,
Lee became David
and he became a man.

Jason-Lee-David-Borders-Gustavson-Crane
entered the world and left the world and
entered the world and left the world and
entered the world. His bathtub overflowed
and he sank beneath the water,
one hand clutching the smooth porcelain side.

Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.

This was an idea I had for a short story, but I decided to try it as a poem.

on Tuesday, all as one

on Tuesday, all as one,
every creature on earth
experienced a moment
of pure happiness

not the exhilaration
of acquisition
nor the momentary joy
of orgasm,

but a feeling that all
was in its place
and the way ahead
was clear

no babies cried,
no dogs howled,
and the sleepers sighed
and unclenched their fists

a smile stole
across the face of a boy
sitting beside
a baobab tree,

and two lovers
turned toward one another,
their quarrel
forgotten

babies born
at that instant
entered the world
quietly,

their mothers and fathers
exhumed
from beneath mortgage payments
and piles of bills

as the clinical beeps turned
to a tone
and she released
his thin hand,

a daughter saw
her father’s brow
un-knit and watched the pain
pass away

shafts of sunlight
fell
across the needed places
of the world

and on the other side
a starry night greeted
watchmen, nurses
and late-shift taxi drivers

voices lowered,
index fingers relaxed,
jaw muscles loosened
shoulders dropped

in the coffee shop
on the corner
near the library,
everyone was laughing

and the child hiding
in the boys bathroom
stepped out
into the school hallway

true, the moment passed,
but forever after,
strangers passing in the street
caught one another’s eye

and some would grin
and some would smile
and some would simply look,
knowing

Happy Presidents Day!

Citizenship 101

close the blinds
snuff the candle
fasten the shutters
douse the lamp
pull the shades
don’t ask questions
believe the lie
smile and nod
obey the law
cover your ears
shut your mouth
take your seat
toe the line
pull your weight
watch your language
step right up
place your bets
take your pick
know your place
keep the peace
respect your elders
follow the rules
take it easy
expect the worst
don’t ask why
clean your plate
eat your veggies
wipe your feet
find your name
get in line
sign right here
read the label
write this down
answer the question
raise your hand
recite the pledge
say your prayers
sit up straight
stop right there
do your chores
wash the dishes
do the laundry
empty the trash
mow the lawn
shovel the walk
walk the dog
mind your manners
stand your post
post no bills
salute an officer
straighten your tie
tie your shoes
bow your head
kiss the ring
don’t be late
tote that barge
lift that bail
pay your taxes
pay your bills
pay the fine
pay the piper
follow the crowd
tell the truth
name the names
reveal your sources
betray your friends
kill your enemies
respect the flag
swear your loyalty
sit back down
swear your loyalty
sit back down
swear your loyalty
sit back down
swear your loyalty
sit back down

Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.

Biography

I could do anything.

I want to do everything.

And so I do nothing.

Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.

Written on a lazy afternoon while overdosing on the poetry of Robert Creeley.

Creeley’s Balloon

Why can’t we feel the Earth going around the sun?
Why can’t we feel the world spinning?
I tiptoe on squeaky floors so as not to wake my son,
while the cat sleeps on his back under two sheets of paper.
Now I’m in bed, listening to a love song by an old Nazi
and reading Creeley, most of which I don’t understand.
On the cover of the book he’s grinning,
spent cigarette in his lips, hat on the back of his head.
I think he’s in a hot-air balloon, somewhere
over the western desert.
What is lighter than air?
What is heavier than sorrow?
Faded in the background, a mesa,
above it, a cloud,
captured by the lens for just that one moment.
Who snapped the photograph?
Who is the other passenger?
“It was at those times that I carried you.”
I used to find that so comforting
until I realized that “those times”
call for us to plant our own feet in the sand,
on this shifting ground that is spinning, whirling
around a sun in a galaxy
that is itself spinning
in a universe
that is growing into something we cannot explain.

And yet

there is Creeley, now long gone,
in his hot-air balloon, smiling at me,
and I tiptoe to the bathroom, and my son stirs.

Sadly, this Chuck D is a public enemy in some places, too.

Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.

A love poem.

The Soft Friction of Sliding Glass

On the living room carpet, after the prom,
she raises her pale arms in the light
coming in through the sliding glass door.

Understanding, amazed, he reaches down,
takes hold of the bottom of her sweatshirt,
and slides it up over her head.

For the first time, there is nothing between them
but air, skin and propriety.
He can’t believe that this diminutive, angelic gift is his.

He leans over to kiss her,
but even more to feel her skin
and the rise and fall of her breath.

They slide to the floor, arms around each other,
mouths and hands and thighs and stomachs
searching for every inch of long-sought completion.

For all that there have been many moments of exploration,
long afternoons desperately quiet in her upstairs bedroom,
it is these few moments that he will remember most.

Sitting quietly on the couch many years later,
accompanied by the gentle rush of a fan in the next room,
he will close his eyes and once more

feel her under him,
his palms remembering the soft friction of her,
his body still responding, even now.

I wrote about the amazing memoir Dock Ellis in the Country of Baseball (written with poet Donald Hall) back in June 2009. Then, thanks to poet Michael Schiavo, I saw this:

If you’d like to buy the book, you’ll find it here:

I found out Tuesday night that FootHills Publishing, a 25-year-old independent poetry press, is going to publish a collection of my work. I really can’t believe it. Huzzah!

Watch this space for more details…

I wrote this in Oakland, CA, in October 2008 while getting ready for my sister-in-law’s wedding.

Oakland photo (c) Jason Crane

Tomorrow the Wedding
for Amy & Michele

Tomorrow the wedding

      today hauling cans of soda,
      bottles of beer.

Phone: the Italian groom

      carrying a bouquet of balloons
      back to the apartment.

Meanwhile…

      eastern family, recently landed,
      descended from the pure blue.

Our temporary hilltop home,

      where we sit silently
      on the sun-warmed porch,
      looking out over Oakland
      at the glittering bay beyond.

Robert Redford’s Banker

makes perfect check marks
next to the names of Maui restaurants
that he’ll visit when the plane lands.

With measured strokes,
he moves money
from one worthy cause to the next.

The handwriting in his register
shows the passage of time,
a certain revealing tremor in the fingers.

A small picture of the actor –
in his halcyon days –
rests on the tray table next to a bill

from the banker’s club, a map of Maui,
and suggestions for avoiding problems
with Medicare and the tax collector.

He nibbles a deliberate biscotti
and counts to three on his left hand,
fingers pressed, one after another, against his thumb.

Perhaps he’s not counting at all, just
reassuring himself of his own tactile reality,
one not represented by ink on watermarked paper.

The plane touches down, the banker gathers loose papers
to his chest and moves off into the terminal,
searching for his connection, dreaming of the stage.

Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.

I wrote this over the weekend on the train from Albany, NY, to Rochester, NY.

Photo (c) 2008, Brian Cameron

Maple Leaf

ice flows on the canal
and I flow the opposite way,
bound west on two steel lines
toward my old not-home

now the water is a river
filled with half-wild islands
and on each piece of snowy ground,
a flock of waiting birds

Amsterdam, Utica, Syracuse —
ancient and exotic names
they have turned their backs
on the water and rails

further on now through fields
where sparse grasses and weeds
poke up through the snow
like drowning men’s fingertips

blowing snow, fog-like
makes of the rail line a dream sequence
empty nests wedged in tree limbs
empty factories with no hope of spring

for an instant, beside the tracks,
two men with rifles search the trees for prey
while nearby an empty backyard
where an empty swing set sways

Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.

Image (c) John Brodkin

bus stop effigy

bus stop effigy
low-wage lynching
victim waits
to move from one
rat hole to the next
stop on the line
with only ends
no destinations
no cessation
puffy down coat
conceals smoldering
fire in the gut
winter air hides
shamefaced blush

The thermodynamic arrow of time has always interested me, both as a concept and a phrase. I wrote this syllabic poem last year, my first such attempt. Thanks to Huw Price for allowing me to use the epigram.

Image courtesy of Rush W. Dozier, Codes of Evolution – the Synaptic language Language revealing the Secrets of Matter, Life, and Thought, Crown Publishers Inc., New York, 1992.

William Can’t Tell

Late in the nineteenth century, on the shoulders of Maxwell, Boltzmann and many lesser giants, physicists saw that there is a deep puzzle behind the familiar phenomena described by the new science of thermodynamics. On the one hand, many such phenomena show a striking temporal bias. They are common in one temporal orientation, but rare or non-existent in reverse. On the other hand, the underlying laws of mechanics show no such temporal preference. If they allow a process in one direction, they also allow its temporal mirror image. Hence the puzzle: if the laws are so even-handed, why are the phenomema themselves so one-sided? — Huw Price, from The Thermodynamic Arrow: Puzzles and Pseudo-Puzzles

chaos does not lessen
along the arrow’s path

and time cannot be measured
by order or its absence

the arrow flies forever
no pressure no resistance

thermodynamism
beneath the lives of every

woman, man and baby
throughout this blind creation

there is no bow, no hunter
no target, no intention

Sixty-Seven Unopened Videocassettes

Thirty years and fifty percent of my DNA
have brought me to a double-wide with a steep driveway,
tucked away in an enclave of trailers not far from the iron banks of the Ohio River.
She asks me to call her “nanna” because all the children do.
He’s missing most of his teeth – waiting for a new set of dentures.
I have no hook on which to hang this porch conversation,
this three-decade history lesson and game of tag.
So we talk about tobacco farming, long-haul trucking,
and spying on the Russians from within a cigar tube deep beneath the Mediterranean.
I learn about great-uncles and great-aunts and an extra uncle,
only to learn that money and land and other tragedies have driven wedges into this family, too.
I want to walk into the dining room like Antwone Fisher,
but the table is given over to Charlie Brown and Linus –
Christmas decorations awaiting transfer to their holiday destination.
There are sixty-seven unopened Star Trek videocassettes,
a bathroom crammed with history books,
lighters from the Navy,
a robe almost like the one I wear,
and an old shaving cup with a worn brush.
No matter what happens, I’ve erased the most terrible vision –
awaiting the end with the moisture of regret dampening my cheeks.
“The next time you come, darlin’, we’ll have chicken and dumplings.”

1. Listening to Depeche Mode’s Black Celebration album on the way to work is an interestingly bizarre way to start the day.
2. Dump truck signs that read “Construction Vehicle – Do Not Follow” are inappropriate far more often than they’re appropriate.
3. Rep. Duncan Hunter (R-CA) is a bigot. Enjoy!

I wrote this last February while thinking of my friend Julie White. She knits, cycles, gardens, teaches and other worthwhile things. Visit her blog.

It isn’t merely the fashioning
for Julie White

It isn’t merely the fashioning
of new meanings from the threads and whisps,
rather it is the intention, the

unsounded affirmation of a
relationship, woven into each
chosen strand and intricate pattern.

Pearls uncovered in the depths, the craft
rows back to shore, where it is met by
the warm wool and the gathering in.

One must take stock in it, and accept
the gift for what it is, speech rendered,
unspoken, as textile manuscript.

Stone wall behind Robert Frost's house. Photo by Jason Crane.

At Mr. Frost’s

Bathed in
autumn
sunlight
on a
table rock
in the fallow field
behind
Robert Frost’s
stone house,
I’m reminded
of the poet’s
advice
to not press
the poems
too hard.
Sometimes sunlight
is just that,
and fallow fields
need only
sun, seeds,
water
and time.

Photo from the David Faust Collection

Long Haul
(for my father and his father)

it wasn’t easy keeping all those wheels on the road
another late-night diner and a nap in the cab
hauling one of the damned things was hard enough
it took a man to pull two

it wasn’t easy to raise seven of them
the boy was first and then six – six! – girls
you’d think we would have stopped trying
to make him a brother

and since he was a solitary boy even then,
he would put on his suit and walk down to the little church
that was happy to have an usher
an extra boy to pass the hat for what little there was

he wrecked the car, I made him replace it with college money
I wasn’t teaching him a lesson about responsibility
I was trying to hang on to my boy
the one who’d always had his eye on the horizon

and then later, when he was home from the service
we’d go down under the church to drink at the Legion hall
thick smoke in the air, cheap beer on tap
looking down the barrel of a one-stoplight life

it took a man – and I knew it – to leave
to drive and keep driving until he’d built a better life
to be more than I was and to do it with dignity
and I never told him, but I was proud

(Thanks to David Faust for letting me use a photo from his collection of St. Johnsbury trucks. That’s the company for which my grandfather drove.)

Hummingbird photo by Derek Scott.

Memorex Hummingbird
by Jason Crane

Memorex hummingbird hovers above the nectar cup;
animatronic woodpecker hunts for scuttling food.
Nature or Disney ride? Who can say?
Disconnected as we are from snow falling off branches.
I hold the binoculars steady and point out the Blue Jay
as it pecks the last leaf on the winter elm,
and through those lenses peek the unspoiled eyes of my son.
He shouts, “I see it!” and is rooted to the spot,
A sapling full of the coursing energy of the yet-to-come.

A small sampling of people for whom I’m thankful. Not complete and in no particular order, but worth writing. I may add to it, too.

Jennifer: 14+ years of putting up with me. I don’t know how she does it. Or, for that matter, why.

Bernie & John: It’s incredible to be unconditionally loved by your kids. Plus, they’re fun to wrestle with.

Mom, Dad and Gretchen: What haven’t we been through? Actually, skip that question, because I’m finding out that this year there are quite a few new and unpleasant answers. They’re always there, though, and that’s amazing.

Linda, Todd & Sarah, Tammy, Dick, Denise & John, Lynne & Mike & Jack & Grace, Jill, Jimmy & Karen: Couldn’t ask for a better family.

Carol, Amy & Michele, Sandy & Carol Jr. & Autumn, Dorothy & Ethan, Kit & Sue, et al: Couldn’t ask for a better second family.

Bernard & Dorothy Flanders: My debt to them can never be repaid.

Jeff & Leeann & Jake: They know how to be friends, which is a hell of a lot rarer than you might think. And one of these days, Jeff and I will have a very successful show together. Probably a strip-tease show.

Kevin & Jen & Momo: My oldest friend (and his wife, who would probably be disturbed to learn that she’s my second- or third-oldest friend). Uncompromisingly honest and loving people with a real cute kid.

Josh & Jen: Smart, funny and wonderful. Josh is always expanding my world, which is just about the highest compliment I can pay.

Team RocBike: You couldn’t ask for a better gang to ride with, blog with, and be positively influenced by.

The musicians, promoters and record labels who’ve made The Jazz Session possible: What can I say? “Beyond my wildest expectations”? Yeah, that about covers it.

Chuck & Bobby D: Never were two guys more accepting of my crazed need to wave at everybody. Plus, they pick good tunes.

Jo & James: Even kinder than they are talented. And they’re supremely talented.

Sue & Jenny & Katie-Kate & Elinor: Love ‘em, love ‘em, love ‘em. (And miss ‘em, too!)

Tom & Susan: Beautiful people who made Raymond Street just barely tolerable.

Satoru: Pops up when I least expect it, and is always welcome when he does. One of those people you know will be there when you need him.

Otto: He understands and inspires.

The members of the Rotary Club of Albany: Nice people doing nice things, as Harry Shearer would say. Except in this case, it’s true.

Photo by Ben Johnson, Sr.

I saw organist Gene Ludwig in concert earlier tonight, and wrote these three pieces while watching the show. If you’d like to know more about Gene, listen to my interview with him on The Jazz Session.

Gene Ludwig

1.

Gone deep inside, he slides
effortlessly across the organ keys,
never losing the sense of weightlessness
every earthbound mortal
longs for.
Unlike most, he isn’t held
down by gravity, not forced to
wear the chains of step-by-step,
inch-by-inch. Instead, he
gently leaves the earth, smiling.

2.

Perhaps he’s the local mortician,
skin made alabaster through
affinity with those he serves;
or an accountant, toiling away
until life’s energy winds down
like the gold watch they’ll give him;
he could be any one of a hundred
buttoned-up Rotarians in grey flannel suits,
friends with the mayor or with
the chief of police.
Then he sits down at the organ, and
joy springs from those ivory fingers.
He strips off the grey shell,
revealing the light at his core.
That light is the only thing
that reaches us faster
than his sound.

3.

Grabbing two handfuls of
electricity, he
naturally believes that life is beautiful, that
everyone has ready access to this
level of presence, this certain
understanding of the melody.
Doubtless, they all
would trade places
if they could, exchanging
Gene’s grace for their own.

A poem for my grandfather. The first letter of each line spells out his name.

Bernard Orrin Joseph Flanders, 1912-2009

Bent over one of many art projects, he is perhaps
eyeing a stitch in a pattern, or
running his hands across the smooth surface of a
nascent scrimshaw.
All of our houses have some
reminder of his artistry,
done on commission or by surprise,
or given over after a move to a smaller apartment.
Rarer pieces, such as the carved nameplates
resting from nails set
in doors of his own making, will
never pass from their owners’ hands, nor will our
joy dim each time we catch sight of
our names carved in the
soft wood.
Each of us holds onto whatever small treasures we’ve
placed so carefully in the bank of our memory.
He never seemed to understand the weight of his gift,
feigned embarrassment at our gushing praise,
lowered his eyes
and said, “It’s
nothing,
don’t mention it.”
Each of holds onto whatever small treasurers we’ve
received from him, ever thankful that his love has been captured in
stitching or ivory or wood.

It always starts with the rain and wind kicking up.
Clouds circle like vultures far out over the ocean,
higher than the sailors could see them,
if they were looking.

In a bar near Charity Hospital,
the TV shows the slowly spiraling storm,
but the sound is off and no one pays much mind
as the weatherman says “this is the one.”

In old westerns, the Indian lies prostrate,
ear to the ground, listening for the approaching hoof beats
of a warring tribe. If Donald Harrison, Jr., were to put
his ear to the ground, he would hear the low rumble of the future.

A factory in Texas made the guitar
that will be strummed when the horn should be sounded.
The strings are tight across the bridge,
like the cars and the buses and those on foot will be later.

Back on Frenchman Street, Lillian Dupree gets up from the bar
and starts for home, noticing that the breeze is strong.
She’s still in her scrubs after a long night taking readings,
listening for pulses and watching the moving lines.

This is the old part of the city.
The part the French built when it seemed like they’d be here forever.
As time and the storm proved, no one
is guaranteed this plot of land at the edge of the gulf.

First the French, then the Spanish, then the French again;
they all tried to conquer what could not be tamed;
tried to civilize the wild Caribbean soul of a city that was
never really part of this country, and yet is at the heart of it.

Perhaps it is that very separation, that very wildness,
that will make it easy for many to look away
as the bowl fills with unholy water like a rusty pot
left to decay in the tall grasses out behind the house.

Lillian Dupree is tired.
Tired of walking these same streets every night.
She wishes she could drive, or that she could afford to live
far enough away to commute.

She was born at this very hospital, born to a mother
who was born to a mother
who was born to a mother
who was born a slave.

Did you know that the last ever shipment of African slaves
from the continent came to this very city?
By that time, all the Africans you could ever want
were being mass produced in Virginia.

From a Facebook exchange today. You need to read the initial link for the rest to make sense.

Sonya posted a link.
The Tornado, the Lutherans, and Homosexuality

“What do you all think?”

Will:
WOW! I’m sure they’ll miss the overtones of this.

Graham:
Proclaiming truth and extending grace. It made me think of the verse in Proverbs 24:26 that states “an honest answer is like a kiss on the lips.”

Jason Crane
Remarkably offensive.

Meli:
sound thinking. it is a very serious problem for the church to feel she has the right to decide whether or not something is sin when God’s Word very clearly states that it is sin.

Jason Crane:
A gay man is stranded in a sailboat, and a wind comes up and he reaches shore; does that mean God loves gays?

Sonya:
Jason, I think the question for me goes back to the probability issue – what the heck is the probability of this just happening. The meteorologists happened to be clueless. That is where this differs to me a bit from an event such as a tsunami which is the result of an earthquake that was predicted and noticed, or a hurricane that was tracked for days. This sort of came out of nowhere and left to go nowhere…

And, yes, the answer is God does love gays. He loves us all. He just cannot be with sin.

Thank you also, for reading my page. I am grateful for your friendship!

Jason Crane:
I’m a big fan of Occam’s Razor. In this case, is it more likely that a meteorological event happened, or that an incorporeal invisible entity made a political statement by making the wind blow?

Plus, how do you know it wasn’t Zeus telling the world that he dislikes Lutherans? Or Vishnu declaring hatred for the Minnesota Twins? There is exactly as much evidence to support both those positions as there is to support a Christian reading.

And if logic isn’t enough: How does God loving everyone mesh with creating a potentially deadly tornado near a densely populated area?

The thing that I find hurtful is that it’s OK to demonize gay people, but not to criticize the frankly crazy notion that an invisible being decides where tornadoes go based on conversations about individual sexuality.

Your comment under the article is “What do you all think?” If by “you all” you meant “you all who think the same way I do,” then you should be more specific about inviting only certain types of comment.

I have a soft spot for good vampire books. I love the original Dracula, particularly it’s fast-paced epistolary style. I also enjoyed the first few books in Anne Rice’s original series. And I’m sure that if I started Twilight or any of the other currently popular brooding-emo-vamp series, I’d guiltily enjoy those, too.

But Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan have written a larger, more intense book than the current crop of tween sensations. This is a vampire novel that strikes deep at the heart of our modern fears of terrorism and biological weaponry. The protagonists have all the technology of the modern-day disease fighter at their disposal, pitted against an ancient — but intelligently updated — foe.

For me, The Strain is just what vampire books are supposed to be. It is fast-paced. It’s villains are sometimes cunning, sometimes brutish. It’s heroes are flawed but basically good. And the odds are heavily stacked against them.

If I have one complaint, it is that volumes two and three in this trilogy are not to be released until 2010 and 2011. What a pain in the neck. (See what I did there?)

Yes, folks, these incredibly rare images depict me doing actual work on an actual vehicle. I am seen here hanging a tailpipe on the 1997 Ford Ranger my parents gave us. My assistant is clearly in violation of child labor laws.

Auto Repair 101 … or maybe just 1

]]> http://jasoncrane.org/2009/06/15/real-photos-not-edited-in-any-way/feed/ 0 http://jasoncrane.org/2009/06/13/book-review-dock-ellis-in-the-country-of-baseball/ http://jasoncrane.org/2009/06/13/book-review-dock-ellis-in-the-country-of-baseball/#comments Sun, 14 Jun 2009 02:05:46 +0000 Jason Crane http://jasoncrane.org/?p=1019

Donald Hall, one of the country’s great poets, writes with passion about Dock Ellis, one of baseball’s most colorful figures. If all you know about Dock Ellis is that he once pitched a no-hitter on LSD, then you need to read this book and learn the other 90% of his story. And if you, like me, have never heard of Dock Ellis at all, Hall’s engrossing account will acquaint you with a man who deserves wider recognition, as much for his constant support of the black community and his commitment to fighting drug addiction as for his on-field stats. Highly recommended.

the meaty slap of flesh on flesh
the pop of skin on skin
fingertips, the side of the thumb
legs a vice to hold the shells

the heart of the matter is a mix
of rhythm and freedom
of accompaniment and improvisation
of ancient order and modernity

then from the back of the stage
the trumpets kick in
and the bongocero drops his drums,
which fall to the stage with a thud

now it’s skin grasping wood striking metal
as the bell cuts through
the urgent stabs of the horns
and gives a lift to the dancers

gi-gi-go
gi-gi-go
gi-gi-go
gi-go

gi-gi-go
gi-gi-go
gi-gi-go
gi-go

I’m thrilled to announce the launch of a new partnership with All About Jazz, the world’s most visited jazz Web site. AAJ founder Michael Ricci and I have been working together for several years now, with AAJ hosting transcriptions of the interviews that appear on The Jazz Session.

Now we’ve decided to combine forces. That means The Jazz Session will be featured on the home page at allaboutjazz.com. We’ll also be working together to visit festivals on behalf the new TJS/AAJ partnership, starting this summer with the Tanglewood Jazz Festival and others. The idea is to conduct interviews right in front of the crowds who come to see the artists. Then we’ll bring these interviews to you after the festivals.

We’re also launching a widget for The Jazz Session that will allow you to display the latest episode right on your blog or Web site. I’ll be mentioning the blogs and sites that do this on episodes of the show, and also linking to them from this site. So if you decide to link to The Jazz Session, please let me know at jason@thejazzsession.com.

For more information on the new partnership, and for instructions on adding the widget to your site, please read the press release.

The Jazz Session hits 200,000 downloads

On the very same day that The Jazz Session announced its new partnership with All About Jazz, the show hit 200,000 downloads. I’m so proud of the show and grateful to all of you for supporting it. This is a true labor of love for me, and I hope it shows in the interviews.

PLUS:

Jason Crane interviews trumpeter Hugh Masekela about his 2009 album Phola (Times Square Records). The album finds Masekela in a quieter, more reflective mood — a decision he credits to producer Erik Paliani. Despite the more reserved surroundings, Masekela’s flugelhorn playing is as intense as ever. In the interview, Masekela discusses Miriam Makeba, music as a political force, and why he doesn’t play for fun.

LISTEN TO THE SHOW

Jason Crane interviews saxophonist David Sanborn. Sanborn is one of the few jazz players whose name is known even outside the jazz world. It’s fitting, then, that he’s using his new album Here & Gone (Decca, 2008) to bring a lesser-known jazz saxophonist into wider awareness. Here & Gone celebrates the music of Hank Crawford, a saxophone player and the principal arranger for the Ray Charles “little big band” of the 50s and 60s. Crawford’s playing had a huge impact on Sanborn, and Sanborn repays the favor with this thoughtful and soulful tribute.

LISTEN TO THE SHOW

Shortly after I got my new laptop, I decided I needed a new laptop bag to go with it. I’ve had a couple bags over the years — the Targus that everybody starts with (I got mine in 1996) and another bag or two. This time, though, I wanted to trade up a bit and get something that would really protect my System76 Pangolin from all the harm that can be dished out in a house with two young boys.

I was amazed at how many laptop bag makers there are. I started with a Google search and was quickly overwhelmed. One company I kept coming back to was Skooba Design, whose bags looked durable, intelligently designed (not by God, though), and attractive. Next I looked into companies whose gear I knew from cycling. The most obvious choice in this category was Timbuk2, maker of strong and stylish messenger bags for messengers and wannabes. I spent a lot of time looking at Timbuk2 bags and came close to buying one. Before I did, though, I decided to try asking around.

I posted a quick note to my Facebook account asking for recommendations. A few people made good suggestions, but I kept coming back to the Satchel by Skooba Design:

Outside

I bought the orange and grey version of the Satchel, and it’s a wonderful bag. First of all, it’s great to look at. Well designed, nice colors, and some snazzy touches such as the patented strap design and the color accents on the side zipper.

The outside is “ballistic nylon,” which I assume means it’s bulletproof, right? Whatever it is, it’s strong and resistant to pulls and tears, a fact one of our cats proved when he leapt on it recently and went to town before I could get it away.

The bag is also light. Really light. Without anything in it, it weighs just 44 oz. That’s nice because my laptop is a bit weighty, and I tend to also carry books and other goodies in the bag.

Inside

The lining of the various compartments is the same color orange as the highlight on the outside. I imagine that the other color combinations have different colors inside. I like the orange a lot.

The bag is divided into several compartments. The section for the laptop is lined with Skooba’s Air Square cushions, which you can see at Skooba’s site. These offer an impressive amount of protection for the computer without adding a ton of weight to the bag. (These same Air Squares are also on the underside of the shoulder strap, which is a nice touch.) The laptop pocket has an adjustable strap for a secure fit.

The middle compartment is where I put my books and papers. It’s roomy and no-nonsense. A panel with mesh webbing has a Velcro strap that can be opened to access a third compartment. I keep a set of headphones and the laptop power cord in these mesh pockets.

The outer zipper pocket is full of handy bits, including a hook for your keys, pen holders, a cell phone pocket with a Velcro cover, and another closeable pocket that will fit a CD or PDA. There’s also a mesh pocket inside, which is where I keep my cell phone charger and work ID. And did I mention the hidden water bottle holder? It’s tucked away behind a zipper on the side of the bag, so it’s there when you need it and not flopping around when you don’t. Nice.

On the back, the Satchel has a zipper pocket that would be useful for plane tickets or a thin folder of papers for a meeting. It also has a strap that will allow the bag to fit over the handle of a rolling suitcase at the airport.

Summmary

This is a very solid bag with great looks and great features. And as an added bonus, it’s made right here in upstate New York — in Rochester, to be exact. Cool, huh?

Highly recommended. For more information, visit Skooba Design.

UPDATE: I received a very nice message from Michael Hess, the president and CEO of Skooba Design. He added one point of clarification to the story:

“[I]n the interest of fairness and accuracy, the bags are designed and developed 100% here in Rochester, but manufactured offshore (an unfortunate competition-driven reality for most of our industry). We did used to make bags here, but nowadays the market has made that effectively impossible for products like ours.”

I thought this was lovely and powerful.

Genius.

I’ve now had my Pangolin Performance laptop from System76 for a month or so, and it’s time for a review. This won’t be one of those brilliant technical reviews that smart people write. This is just one guy’s experience with the Pangolin.

First of all, let me say that I like the laptop and I’m very happy to support a company such as System76 that’s committed to Open Source software. My laptop came with Ubuntu (Linux) 8.10 installed. I upgraded to the beta of Ubuntu 9.04 shortly thereafter. The upgrade worked like a charm.

Right from the beginning, the Pangolin and Ubuntu found the wifi network at my house. It also found and controlled my HP all-in-one printer with no problem. I was able to start surfing the Web right away, although I had to install a few extra things to make videos work on the Web. This is fairly normal for Ubuntu, and not difficult even for a non-geek like me.

The Pangolin has a nice screen. Bright, clear and easy to read. I do a lot of word processing and blogging and enjoy being able to see things. I give the Pangolin high marks in that regard. The keyboard is also responsive and easy to use, although I’ve noticed some clacking in the arrow keys and a (rarely) non-responsive “c” key. Obviously the “c” key works most of the time, or I wouldn’t be typing this.

The Pangolin’s case is solid. I’m not an enormous fan of the black finish on the lid, which shows more fingerprints than an episode of CSI. And the keyboard and surrounding plastic are much more white than they appear in the photo above, where they look a bit silver to my eye. So maybe 7 out of 10 for looks.

I ordered my Pangolin with the Core Duo T3400 2.16 GHz 667 MHz FSB 1 MB L2 (35 Watt). If I had it to do over again, I would have spent the extra $55 and upgraded to the Core2 Duo. That said, the build I have is plenty fast, as I’ll detail later. I have 2GB of RAM, a 250GB SATA II hard drive, a CD-RW/DVD-RW optical drive, and the Intel Wi-Fi Link 5300. Of all those components, the only one that feels a little cheap is the optical drive. It works just fine, but feels like very light plastic that wobbles a little in its slot.

One issue I have with the Pangolin is temperature. I have nothing technical or smart to say about it, but it seems to get pretty hot. I think, though, that I have more to learn about the fan management system in Ubuntu, so there may be more I can do to help with the temperature control.

I produce a weekly jazz interview show called The Jazz Session. Even when I made the show on a Mac, I used Audacity, so there wasn’t much of a switch to move to Ubuntu. The Pangolin is plenty fast enough to do all the multi-tracked audio editing I need to do. So much so, in fact, that it’s replaced my Mac completely. I do have one issue — there’s a lot of noise in the audio system. When I add the Pangolin to my mixer setup, I can hear a distinct buzz, which never happened with the Mac. I know it’s coming from the laptop because I can cause an attack in the buzz by hitting any key. I’m going to try to address this issue with a USB audio hub.

All in all, it’s a solid machine with everything I need to be productive and happy. I’d recommend System76 to others.

Jason Crane interviews vibraphonist James Westfall, bassist Dan Loomis and drummer Jared Schonig, known collectively as The Wee Trio. Their first record, Capitol Diner Vol. 1 (Bionic Records, 2008) features original music, jazz standards … and Nirvana. The trio explores the music they love through the lens of collective improvisation, and the results are fresh, fun and worth repeated listening. Find out more at theweetrio.com.

Listen to the show.

Full Circle Magazine is a free magazine for the Ubuntu community, available in PDF format. I helped edit Issue #24, which is now available for download in PDF format.

This weekend was the Ubuntu release party in the Finger Lakes, held in Waterloo, NY. You can read about it here. All in all, a very professional session.

As an added bonus, here’s all 700 lbs. of me in a seersucker shirt showing off my Linux laptop from System76 to a soon-to-be Linux user:

Yesterday I posted this uncharacteristic message as my Facebook status:

“Hey, all you opponents of gay marriage: F*CK YOU! (What? That’s not helpful? Oh, sorry. But, uh, f*ck you bigots anyway, OK?)”

This, as you might imagined, generated quite a few comments:

Dean Bowman at 1:36pm April 23: What about opponents of marriage?

Heather Dingman-Glenn at 1:40pm April 23: The majority of students at my school feel that all rights should be equal and are open to all kinds of relationships. However, I would say the boys have it worse than the girls. This is a high school where the majority of the parents are military.

Jason Crane at 2:48pm April 23: @Dean: I’m with you, man. State recognition of unions for legal purposes, and then let folks follow religious practices if they choose, with no state sanction or recognition whatsoever. (Unless, of course, you were just being funny.)

Wendy Ramsay at 2:59pm April 23: Snaps to that!

Julie White at 3:23pm April 23: Ideally, I think that the majority of the rights that come with marriage should just be given to people as basic human rights–you know, like health care, adoption for anyone who’s a fit parent and wants to make a family with anyone else–but as long as we live in a state that thinks that monogamous committed relationships should be rewarded, then … Read Morelet’s at least be equal about that. But in Julie’s utopia, no one kind of human relationship (as long as it’s consensual and doesn’t infringe on anyone else’s rights)would be privileged over another (I know, dream on)… off my soapbox…but this is why I actually have a hard time with the gay marriage issue…a lot of ambivalence.

Jason Crane at 4:07pm April 23: @Julie: Right on! Although I don’t think any of those rights should be given. We’ve already got them. I think we need to stop letting the corporate state take them away. But that’s just me being a punk. And shamelessly stealing from Utah Phillips.

Brenda Yarger Abel at 4:27pm April 23: Wow! Way to promote tolerance.

Jennifer Cornish at 4:59pm April 23
I’m strongly opposed to asshole marriage. Letting assholes get legally married just sullies it for the rest of us. It’s just sick. I mean, there are all kinds of statistics showing that assholes are behind the majority of domestic violence attacks, robberies, burglaries, bombings, wars and crappy BSG season finales. And I’m pretty sure that being … Read Morean asshole is very strongly correlated with being a pedophile. I mean, how can we let these people get married and (GOD FORBID) have kids? It’s like they ruin marriage for us decent people who just want to raise our non-asshole kids to be non-assholes. I’m not saying they should be discriminated against for being assholes. I mean, people can be however they want to be in the privacy of their own homes, but when public schools teach that it’s ok to be an asshole, that’s where I draw the line. Once we let them get married, they’re going to turn the rest of us into assholes too.

Jason Crane at 5:14pm April 23: Amen!

Jason Crane at 5:59pm April 23: @Brenda: It’s always hard to tell if someone’s kidding or not on this here Facebook. But in any case, I’m kinda over being tolerant of intolerance.

Jennifer Cornish at 7:57pm April 23: Is tolerance of bigotry ‘tolerance’? Interesting question.

Brenda Yarger Abel at 10:12pm April 23: Is it not possible to oppose gay marriage, without being intolerant of those who support it? Since bigotry, by definition, is intolerance of anothers beliefs religion or opinion, it would appear that the one F-bombing those who disagree would be a better example of the bigot.

Jennifer Cornish at 2:30am April 24: I think that by saying ‘Fuck You’ to gay-marriage opponents, Jason is being less of a bigot than those people fighting to take away the right for responsible, consenting citizens to get married and live their own lives in peace. I wouldn’t try to actively take away a bigot’s right to be a bigot.

Jason Crane at 7:13am April 24: Thanks, Jenn. You’ve said it better than I could have. I’m just tired of having people’s religious views imposed on my supposedly secular government. Discrimination and bigotry in the name of religious opinion are still discrimination and bigotry. No excuses.

Many people who are smarter than I have made the following point more intelligently, but here goes: You don’t get to shout “intolerance” when people oppose your bigotry. If you try to deny people their civil rights based on your religious preferences, then you are a bigot, and no one — absolutely no one — is bound to respect your point of view or shy away from denigrating it.

Jason Crane interviews the members of the trio Fly: bassist Larry Grenadier, drummer Jeff Ballard and saxophonist Mark Turner. Fly is very much a collective effort — the group operates with a leaderless philosophy in which everyone contributes equally. As a result, the trio has come up with some fresh and exciting sounds as they try new combinations and new ways to balance their respective instruments. All three musicians are very much in demand as sidemen, too. A full transcript of this interview is available at AllAboutJazz.com.

LISTEN TO THE SHOW.

Jason Crane interviews organist Barbara Dennerlein about her pipe organ recording Spiritual Movement No. 2 (Bebab Records, 2008). The album was recorded at one of Germany’s most famous churches in front of a very appreciative audience. In this interview, recorded before a concert in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, Dennerlein discusses jazz on the pipe organ; why organists should use their feet; and how she adapts to the challenge of seldom having her own instrument on stage.

LISTEN TO THE SHOW.

Dan Wallach wrote an interesting piece today titled Open Source vs. Disclosed Source Voting Systems, in which he discusses the need for open source software to be used in our voting machines if we’re to have any hope of electoral transparency. Here’s an excerpt:

Sometimes, working on voting seems like running on a treadmill. Old disagreements need to be argued again and again. As long as I’ve been speaking in public about voting, I’ve discussed the need for voting systems’ source code to be published, as in a book, to create transparency into how the systems operate. Or, put another way, trade secrecy is anathema to election transparency. We, the people, have an expectation that our election policies and procedures are open to scrutiny, and that critical scrutiny is essential to the exercise of our Democracy. (Cue the waving flags.)

And one more excerpt:

Voting systems, in this regard, are just like Microsoft Windows. We have to assume, since voting machines are widely dispersed around the country, that attackers will have the opportunity to tear them apart and extract the machine code. Therefore, it’s fair to argue that source disclosure, or the lack thereof, has no meaningful impact on the operational security of our electronic voting machines. They’re broken. They need to be repaired.

The entire article is worth your time.

Jen and I saw Los Lobos at The Egg tonight. The set list included Tejano classics, Jimi Hendrix, the Dead, and a whole bag of original music from one of the greatest bands of all time.

I said it. One of the greatest bands of all time. These guys are absolutely amazing, more than 30 years after it all started in East Los Angeles.

Here are some selections from tonight’s set list, in no particular order:

• Don’t Worry Baby
• Kiko
• Last Night
• Will The Wolf Survive?
• Volver
• Bertha
• Little Wing
• Mas Y Mas
• Manny’s Bones
• Are You Experienced?
• Ooh My Head

David Hidalgo still sings like an angel and plays guitar like the devil. And his squeezbox is the bomb!

Cesar’s got all the blues he needs and some cumbia on top.

Louie spent time tonight on drums during the tejano set, and then ripped out several guitar-god solos during the impromptu Hendrix medley.

Conrad Lozano? Love him. And who knew that he sang the harmonies on “Will The Wolf Survive?”

Steve Berlin took it to the woodshed on the bari.

Cougar Estrada kept it all together on the drums.

If all you know about Los Lobos is La Bamba, it’s time for you to experience the full reality. If they come anywhere near you, go see them.

Added “bonus” photo:

Kristi Gustafson from the Times Union took this photo of Jen and I at the Los Lobos show

Software journalist Bruce Byfield has an interesting post today about free software evangelism and why he keeps his mouth shut at parties.

I tend to feel — and act — this way regarding most evangelism. It’s usually not fun to have political discussions at parties because people have so few facts at their command. Maybe it’s my personality, but I find it very hard to have “discussions” between entrenched positions where there is no hope of movement.

There was an old man name of Crane
for poetry he was a pain
he thought it was worthy
I’d rather have scurvy
than listen to poets inane.

And the other, in haiku form…

Jason was Irish
a blight on his ancestry
he did not drink pints

As has been pointed out other places, this is not that good an ad for reaching people who know nothing about Linux or free software. It’s got a nice vibe and is worth watching. But it won’t do much of anything to bring more people to the idea of free and open source software.

Here’s a concise post on why Ubuntu is a good choice for netbooks:

Five Reasons To Put Ubuntu Linux On Your Netbook

My latest article for The Island Packet newspaper on Hilton Head Island, SC, is about singer Rebecca Kilgore and pianist John Sheridan. Read the article.

THE JAZZ SESSION #52: MARILYN CRISPELL. Jason Crane interviews pianist Marilyn Crispell about her album of solo piano pieces, Vignettes (ECM, 2008). Crispell made an early name for herself with Anthony Braxton, and she’s since amassed an impressive list of recordings that include composed and freely improvised pieces. In this interview, Crispell talks about the nature of improvisation, the particular challenges of solo playing, and the joys of Woodstock, NY.

Listen to the show at thejazzsession.com.

April is National Poetry Month, and Craig Wilson writes in USA Today that he’s found a new understanding and enjoyment of (some) poetry:

The charms of poetry have long been lost on me. Other than the odd Robert Frost offering —Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, for instance — most poems leave me perplexed. And not pleasantly so.

Did I sleep through that class in college? Or am I just a philistine? Probably both. I will embarrass myself further and confess I’m fond of poems that rhyme. Or at least kind of rhyme. At least make sense.

Then again I like my song lyrics to make sense. Is that too much to ask?

So I was going through a stack of books on my desk the other day and came across Poem in Your Pocket, a new book from Abrams Image. Makes sense. April is National Poetry Month.

Read the rest of the article.

I’m glad that Wilson was able to push past his initial misgivings and find some value in poetry. I don’t think you need to “get” poetry. I just think it’s worth giving it a try.

(Thanks to Harriet for the link.)

Look, I know the guy’s a centrist, OK? I know he’s not the Messiah. But I’m still quite disappointed:

In a stunning defense of President George W. Bush’s warrantless wiretapping program, President Barack Obama has broadened the government’s legal argument for immunizing his Administration and government agencies from lawsuits surrounding the National Security Agency’s eavesdropping efforts.

In fact, a close read of a government filing last Friday reveals that the Obama Administration has gone beyond any previous legal claims put forth by former President Bush.

Responding to a lawsuit filed by a civil liberties group, the Justice Department argued that the government was protected by “sovereign immunity” from lawsuits because of a little-noticed clause in the Patriot Act. The government’s legal filing can be read here (PDF).

For the first time, the Obama Administration’s brief contends that government agencies cannot be sued for wiretapping American citizens even if there was intentional violation of U.S. law. They maintain that the government can only be sued if the wiretaps involve “willful disclosure” — a higher legal bar.

The text above is from an article by Raw Story’s John Byrne.

I didn’t expect Obama to do the right thing on the war(s), or to be some great progressive leader. But I did expect him to at least break with the Bush administration when it came to respecting the basic tenets of the Constituion and U.S. law. Apparently that faith was misplaced. Sad.

By the way, if you want to help the Electronic Frontier Foundation do its good work in this and other cases, visit their Web site and toss them some money.

I don’t know enough about the interviewer in this video to say anything, but James rises above the interview setting to give some pithy, witty and probably fairly useful thoughts about writing poetry:

Now that you’ve seen the video, you might enjoy what Norton editor Robert Weil has to say about Clive James’ poetry collection, Opal Sunset: Selected Poems, 1958-2008.

Dan does his usual good job of chronicling the Albany poetry scene.

I am now quite obsessed with Robert Burns.

The other day I spent my lunch break sitting in a cemetery in Ravena, NY, reading aloud from A Night Out with Robert Burns: The Greatest Poems in a Scottish accent. (Well, I’m calling it a Scottish accent. Many would disagree.) It was fun. Really, really fun. This particular book is divided by subject matter: poems about women, drink, politics, etc. I read quite a few love poems and several about drinking. Then I read — for the first time in my life, I’m embarrassed to say — “Tam O’ Shanter.” What a riot!

I’m also reading Robert Crawford’s new biography of Burns, The Bard: Robert Burns, A Biography. It’s the first biography of Burns that I’ve read, so I can’t compare it to the many volumes that have come before, but the scholarship seems first-rate and the writing is compelling and fresh. It also doesn’t shy away from the political and religious underpinnings of Burns’ work, which I appreciate.

I’ve long been a fan of Old Blind Dogs, the Scottish traditional band. For a while, their lead singer was Jim Malcolm, a wonderful interpreter of the songs of Robert Burns. I just picked up one of his solo recordings, which I highly recommend. It includes his interpretation of “Tam O’ Shanter.”

Just today, I downloaded Eddi Reader’s album of Burns music, Sings The Songs Of Robert Burns:

Oh my. Oh my, oh my. What a voice. What an orchestral accompaniment. What a gorgeous album. Burns fan or not, you need this one in your collection.

I almost never print anything out anymore, which I regret every time the power goes out and I realize that virtually my entire corpus of poetry is inaccessible to me. But it does save enormously on paper, not to mention file cabinet space. I confess that I almost never save different versions (does it still make sense to call them drafts?) as I go along. My friend Todd Davis once told me that he learned the hard way never to over-write old versions with new ones, after an incident in which he only realized after he’d mailed a poem off to a magazine that the previous draft had in fact been superior. Fortunately, he had happened to email that version to his father, so he was able to recover it, but ever since, he said, he’s been very disciplined about saving each significant version as a separate file. I could definitely stand to become more organized about a great many things, but since I’ve never shared his experience of missing an earlier, discarded draft, I doubt I’ll be adopting this particular practice.

This resonated with me. I carry a little notebook with me when I’m out and about so that I can jot down ideas or write poems. The poems written in this notebook have a clear trail of revisions, crossouts and word insertions. But just like Bonta, I don’t save different versions of poems when I write them on the computer. And I think I probably should. I’ve already had the experience of wanting to go back to an earlier version of a poem, and I’ve only been able to do that when it was a piece I originally wrote in a notebook. I think I’ll start saving separate versions. Of course, that means coming up with some sort of naming and filing convention.

My initial idea is to save each poem in a folder with the same name as the poem, and then to use a YYMMDD_poem_title naming convention.

Technorati Tags: poetry, technology, word processing

My latest article for the Island Packet newspaper is a short biographical sketch of Bucky Pizzarelli. The posted piece is significantly shortened, but you’ll get the idea.

• Bucky Pizzarelli: Jazz Guitar Hero

Find out more at the Document Freedom Day site.

My son John tries out the new Linux laptop

I’ve been using my new Pangolin Performance laptop from System76 for a couple weeks now, and I’m impressed. It came with Ubuntu Linux installed, and all the hardware just works.

It’s true that Ubuntu is slightly less “out of the box” ready than the average Mac or PC, but only slightly. I had it out of the box and was checking e-mail and Web sites within minutes, and I was watching a DVD within half an hour, after downloading a few things. Installing new software is a snap. And it’s all free and open source, which feels great.

I’ve been a Mac user since Macs came into being in 1984, and I was a little nervous about taking a step this big. For example, my PDA is an iPod Touch, and I’ve been using Apple’s MobileMe cloud service to sync my contacts and calendars between my home computer, my work PC and my iPod. As it turns out, the completely free NuevaSync service does the exact same thing, except it use Google Calendars as its platform. I already use Google Reader, Picasa and GMail (for some purposes), so it was a snap to decide to export my calendars from iCal and import them into Google Calendar. I set up a free NuevaSync account, which took about 25 seconds, and then posted on my Linux laptop using the Google Calendar program (which is Prism-based, whatever that means). All I know is that the event instantly appeared on my iPod. But would it work the other way? Yup. I posted an event on my iPod, refreshed the Google Calendar, and there it was, immediately.

I’ve already been using the open source audio editor Audacity to produce The Jazz Session on my Mac, so I don’t even have to change software. Jen’s been using the new laptop, too, and she’s quite comfortable with it.

All in all, I think we’re ready to say goodbye to PCs or Macs and hello to the world of open source software. Wow.

UPDATE: A big “Huzzah!” goes out to my good friend Kevin Baird, who showed me the way to open source. It was Kevin who recommended Ubuntu, and he’s been slowly and steadily open-source-ifying me for years now, starting with Ogg Vorbis back in the day. Thanks,man!

The Menagerie
For Jennifer

I remember the menagerie –
red ants, cockroaches,
a dog that stole underwear.
Horned toad burying himself –
at least, we assumed it was a “him” –
under the bush beside the screen door.
Lime-green geckos clinging to
sun-warmed stucco, cooling
in the desert evening.
Blue plastic bowls with the name of
our furry practice child.

I remember the meeting –
front-row seats at a round table
just across the dance floor from the band.
Hesitantly approaching two women
and knowing instantly.
Suddenly the sets were twice as long
and the breaks twice as short.
I’d hurry to put down my saxophone
and continue the conversation.

I remember the desert –
long hike with fast-beating heart.
Brilliant moonlight washing over the hills,
air warm enough for shorts
even in the middle of the night.
The swelling drone of bees as they
awoke to the Sonoran sunrise.
A horizon so distant that we could watch
the sun pour onto the land like thick honey
filling the mountains’ bowl.

I remember the restaurant –
heart in my throat,
ring in my hand,
one knee on the hard tile floor.
You said “yes” and applause drifted over
to our table.

I remember the train –
exhausted after semi-circumnavigating the world.
Comatose kitten in a plastic box and
tired smiles as the train pulled away from Narita
and headed toward Tokyo, then north.
No jobs, no place to live.
All the world before us.

I remember the trees –
white cherry blossoms flowering
outside the second-floor window.
Early morning sounds of
baseball
from the sunken field below.
Waking at night as the house shook and
deciding there was trouble just as
the tremor stopped.

I remember our son –
watching in awe as life emerged
to the strains of Nat “King” Cole,
the same sounds that joined us together
in the desert now welcoming our newest bond.
Walking down the hall where the
others waited and bursting into tears.
“It’s a boy.”
Crying again with worry in those
first harrowing hours.
The same emotions repeated three years later.

Mostly, I remember you.

Melissa Harris-Lacewell and James Perry co-authored this piece for The Nation. Here’s an excerpt:

When New Orleans flooded in August 2005, the Democratic Party was a shambles, locked out of the White House, the Senate and the House of Representatives. For nearly a decade the Democrats played defense against a Republican onslaught initiated by Newt Gingrich’s Contract With America. After September 11, Democrats had joined with Republicans in giving President Bush unprecedented executive authority, thereby helping to erode civil liberties at home and authorize ill-advised aggression overseas. In 2004 Democrats were keenly aware that a solid majority of Americans believed it was unpatriotic to protest the Iraq War. So instead of articulating a clear alternative to Bush’s militarism, they nominated John Kerry on the strength of his record as a solider. Even so, they found it impossible to outmaneuver the existing commander in chief.

In August 2005 the Democratic Party had no clear leader, no identifiable platform, no winning national coalition and little political courage.

Then the force of Hurricane Katrina devastated the inadequate levees surrounding New Orleans. Americans watched as the city flooded, the power went out, and food and water became scarce. They watched as emergency shelters became centers of disease, starvation, agony and death. The nation watched in horror, but no mass evacuation began and Air Force One did not land. As the crisis wore on, the public became increasingly confused by and angry about the lack of coordinated response to alleviate human suffering and evacuate trapped citizens. As the waters rose, President Bush’s approval sank.

Read the rest of the article.

We had 15 or so folks at the house today for John’s third birthday party. After the party, a dozen of us headed to El Mariachi in downtown Albany for some great Mexican food.

Toward the end of the meal, my 6-year-old son Bernie had to go the bathroom. I took him to the bathroom and he entered the toilet stall, locking the door behind him.

When he finished going to the bathroom, he tried to open the door. I could see the handle moving, but the door didn’t open. After about 30 seconds, he started to panic. “I can’t get the door open, Dad!” He said. “Go get someone!”

I asked him what the lock looked like, and tried to calm him down by getting him to describe the mechanism to me. It didn’t really work, though. He was really in a panic and asking me to get someone. The stall and the door went all the way to the floor, so there was no way for him to crawl out.

I looked up and noticed that there was a two-foot space between the top of the stall and the ceiling. Next to the stall was a urinal. Not knowing what else to do, I climbed on the urinal and waved my hand over the top. Bernie climbed onto the toilet and reached up for my hands. I grabbed him and he tried to climb up the wall of the stall while holding my hands. I had no leverage at all, and I couldn’t exert much force to pull him up.

Bernie slipped back and almost landed in the toilet bowl. We decided to try it again. This time he got a little more traction on the wall and was able to climb up high enough for me to get my hands under his arms. Together we got him on top of the wall. I put one arm around him and yanked him off the wall at the same time as I jumped down off the urinal. We landed on the floor together and instantly started laughing at the ridiculouslness of the whole thing.

A classic Burma-Shave sign poem

From today’s Albany Times-Union:

Greenfield residents use touch of humor to push town for road repairs

By DENNIS YUSKO, Staff writer
First published: Tuesday, March 10, 2009

GREENFIELD — Denton Road residents have adopted an old advertising technique to protest the street’s poor condition.

Upset that the nearly 2-mile corridor straddling Greenfield and Saratoga Springs hasn’t been repaved in years, neighbors plugged campaign-style signs with balloons into nine bales of hay and planted them along the road.

In an echo of the old rhyming roadside ads for Burma-Shave shaving cream, the green placards form a jingle for passing motorists: “Try to avoid, The hazards here, And say out loud, Elections are near! A safe road, Is just a mirage, But we do have, A new town garage, Thank you Greenfield!”

Read the rest of the article at the TU site.

Thanks to Bookninja for the link.

I’ve been a Mac user since that was possible (in 1984) — first through school and then with every personal computer I’ve ever purchased. (Caveat: My parents purchased my first computer, my beloved Commodore64. The first computer I actually bought myself was a Mac.) Over the years, I’ve also used Windows in various jobs, although I’ve always tried to use Macs and even worked with our tech guys to convert Jazz90.1 to Macs when I was station manager there.

My good friend Kevin Baird, author of Ruby by Example: Concepts and Code, has long been an advocate of open source software and the Free Software movement. And while I’ve wanted to join him in that advocacy, I’ve never really been able to get my head around Linux.

Recently, though, Kevin recommended that I give Ubuntu a try. Ubuntu is a version of Linux that describes itself as “Linux for human beings.” Well, that sounded right to me, so I downloaded a CD version of Ubuntu that I could run on my work laptop without making any changes at all to the laptop. And you know what? It just works.

With that positive experience in hand, and needing to add a second computer to our home in advance of grad school and new jobs, I decided to order a Linux-based laptop. Of course, Linux (and Ubuntu) can run on whichever laptop you have, but I wanted a laptop that came right out of the box with Ubuntu installed. I Googled around and found System76, a company based in Denver, Colorado, that makes laptops, desktops and servers with Ubuntu installed. I decided on the Pangolin Performance model:

It should arrive sometime this week, so look for updates on my entry in the world of Linux.

Poet, teacher, author and Chicano activist Juan Felipe Herrera has collected some of his most provocative and autobiographical writing in this volume. These “undocuments” chronicle Herrera’s travels in the U.S. and Mexico, and his relentless search for the soul and story of a people.

Herrera’s poetry is shouted with an upraised fist at one moment, intoned with a somber brow the next. He has no illusions, but his best work is powered by a grand vision of the past and the future.

Some of the work is helped by a knowledge of Spanish, which I don’t possess. Even so, I had no trouble being caught up in the sound and spirit of Herrera’s writing.

We need more documentary poetry like this to capture the real history of this country, and of the peoples and cultures within it.

Highly recommended.

Joseph Moncure March wrote this tale of debauchery and deception in rhyming couplets in 1928, just before the world descended into the depths of the Great Depression.

Decades later, artist and author Art Spiegelman (of MAUS fame), found a copy in a used bookstore and fell instantly in love with the darkness and depravity of March’s lost classic. In 1994, nearly 70 years after the publication of The Wild Party, Spiegelman published this illustrated version.

March’s short, taut thriller beautifully captures the grim determination of a group of down-but-not-out actors, dancers and vaudeville performers as they use drink and sex to mask the depression of their everyday lives. Spiegelman’s woodblock-style illustrations add the perfect touch of dark sensuality that at times turn to stale, harshly lit reality. The poem builds to an inevitable climax of violence that nevertheless leaves the reader sitting up straight and waiting for the end.

William S. Burroughs said of The Wild Party: “It’s the book that made me want to become a writer.”

Highly recommended.

Fellow cubicledwellers, join us in solidarity against The Man. OfficeMax estimates there are 80 million cubicle workers worldwide. And they’d know, cause they’re trying to sell them all one of those mousepads that stinks. Imagine the collective bargaining power of 80 million people crying out for one thing: doors.

Scott Douglas’s memoir of his life as a librarian is hard to put down. So hard, in fact, that I took some additional bathroom breaks at various points just to keep reading.

Douglas loves libraries, but not for the reasons you might think. In fact, this look behind the curtain shattered many of my notions about who librarians are and why they choose to be librarians. (Hint: It’s not about the books.) I appreciated Douglas’s look at his profession as an example of public service.

Douglas is skilled at allowing his personality to come through without it taking over the story completely. Case in point: I was very surprised when he identified himself as a conservative Christian about halfway through the book.

Because the book is nonfiction, several of the storylines had less-than-satisfying conclusions, at least from my “Hollywood ending” point of view. That made the stories feel more real, though, even if they left me a little sad by the end of the book.

Douglas’s writing is fresh and fast-moving, and certainly worth reading for anyone interested in the secret lives of librarians.

Recommended.

Poet Nikki Giovanni was on Bill Moyers’ Journal last week talking about her new book of poetry, Bicycles. She also talks about bicycles as a metaphor for life and reads her poem, “Bicycles.”

Watch the show.

It isn’t merely the fashioning
of new meanings from the threads and whisps,
rather it is the intention, the

unsounded affirmation of a
relationship, woven into each
chosen strand and intricate pattern.

Pearls uncovered in the depths, the craft
rows back to shore, where it is met by
the warm wool and the gathering in.

One must take stock in it, and accept
the gift for what it is, speech rendered,
unspoken, as textile manuscript.

Today is Abraham Lincoln’s birthday, which seems like a good time to mention that back during the Civil War, two of my cousins were jailed by Abraham Lincoln for sedition. You can read the entire story in the March 2006 issue of Flanders Family News. (This links to a PDF file. The story starts on Page 9.)

Enjoy!

By the way, lest you interpret this the wrong way — I’m a big fan of Lincoln. But how could I pass up this story?

Jan Marin Tramontano

For the third time in as many weeks, I went to a poetry open mic last night. This one was the Live from the Living Room reading at the Capital District Gay & Lesbian Community Center on Hudson Ave.

The featured poet was Jan Marin Tramontano, an Albany-based poet and fiction writer. She read several poems about her trip to Paris and its museums from her book Woman Sitting in a Cafe. I quite enjoyed those poems, particularly a wry and observant take on the Mona Lisa. Tramontano also read several love poems, or as she described them, “love poems, self-love poems, and a love poem about our little boy.” All were very poignant, particularly those that mentioned her husband, who was sitting in the room.

Following the featured reading, a half dozen poets read a couple poems each. Dan Wilcox read a wonderful piece about wanting to read love poems to someone … a poet whose name I didn’t catch (but who I always see at the library where he works) read a funny poem about heaven as a gated community … and performance poet A.C. Everson recited a piece about what a bastard Cupid is. I read two recent pieces, “Luxury Hotel” and “Robby Burns’s Hat.”

I’m impressed with how diverse and active Albany’s poetry scene is. As I said at the reading last night, “I go to whichever poetry reading Dan Wilcox writes about.” Good advice, if I do say so myself.