Eric Arvin's Blog, page 16

Radio Interview Coming Soon!

Eric Arvin author of SuburbaNights Thu Nov 8th 9PM EST 11/08 by StonewallLive | Blog Talk Radio

The List: Munsters, Hobbits, & Olympic Sexiness

1. So, the Munsters "re-imagining," 1313 Mockingbird Lane, looks interesting. Aside from darker clothing, the cast doesn't look very monster-like (Herman is no Frankenstein), but I hear they will definitely act like monsters, complete with cannibalistic dining habits. Portia De Rossi looks great as Lily Munster. The comedic aspect of the series is supposedly more Six Feet Under than original Munsters slapstick, and I think that will fit right in with today's cynical climate. The show's creator was also behind Dead Like Me and Pushing Daisies (love!).

2. The Olympics have been great, despite a "meh" opening ceremony. Maybe the sexiest games I've ever seen. I love how the divers' bikinis seem to get tinier with every games. And watching Oscar Pistorius was quite inspirational. Other highlights: Danell Leyva...and his butt.

3. Water polo is my new favorite sport. So deliciously grabby! I'm just not certain I'd want to play it. I want to keep my wiener and did I mention how grabby the sport is? Which brings me to a small complaint: more underwater camera action please. How are we supposed to understand a sport if we don't see every...single...angle?

4. Peter Jackson has announced that The Hobbit will indeed be a trilogy. I'm wondering if this means he will incorporate more of the tales from The Silmarillion.

5. I'm bringing me mom with me to the GRL Retreat in October in New Mexico. She's always wanted to go to Albuquerque and this way I don't have to stay in the haunted hotel room by myself. I just need to find a way to explain the cowboy stripper bar to her...and why I WILL NOT take her, no matter how much she begs.

6. Inspired by the Olympics, I have been thinking of starting a comedy set in Ancient Greece in the spirit of my Jasper Lane books. The story would focus on some randy, naughty, naked athletes in the games and a few of their fans. Archaeologists over the years have found graffiti on walls where the athletes prepared before the games that were the "Jonny is a whore" of their day. Cattiness never dies apparently, and I think that would lend itself well to my type of satire. And just think of the fun I could have with names. Oh, those wacky Greeks!

7. At the beginning of the year, as some of you may know, I set a few goals for myself and they have all been accomplished to some extent. I have a new living situation, I got some help for my foot, my epic manuscript was edited, and I have been working very hard on working out and getting my sexy on. So, now I am making three goals for 2013: I want to start a new career as a travel writer; I want to go to England/the British Isles; and I would like to get to Burning Man dressed as Brandon Flowers from The Killers' "Spaceman" video (Thanks, Stacey!). Next year is all about travel. Life is short. See as much of it as you can.

8. Mark your calendars! November 8th I will be interviewed on StonewallLive Blog Radio. I'll give you more info once I have it. I'm gonna be a star, Momma!! A star!!

Looking Back at the Music of 2010

Best CD I Bought in 2010 Not Released in 2010:

Joshua James, Build Me This
A muddy, soul-stained voice are at odds with James' angelic features, but it's a beautiful dichotomy.

A few that almost made my Top 10:
I have a strange point system when I do these lists and these three CDs nearly made my Big 10. Laura Marling's fragile and angry I Speak Because I Can; Annie Lennox's transubstantiation of holiday classics on A Christmas Cornucopia; and Sade's smooth and sexy Soldier of Love.

And Now, The Top 10:

10. Kylie Minogue, Aphrodite. I know! I was surprised it made my list too. But it's a damn fun collection of dance music.

9. Brandon Flowers, Flamingo. The Killers front man got a lot of flack for this CD, but I'm among the few who really liked it, and it only grew on me the more I listened to it.

8. Broken Bells, Broken Bells. Everyone's favorite new band earlier in the year.

7. Patty Griffin, Downtown Church. I purchased this without knowing it was covers of old gospel tunes. That would normally have sent up a red flag. But Griffin makes these songs sound mighty secular. In an interview earlier in the year, she admitted to not being a religious person herself and having the same response to gospel music as many of us.

6. Johnny Flynn, Been Listening. Johnny's second full-length CD and the second one to make my Top 10. That voice kills. The {insert big timer songwriter of your choosing} of the nu-folk movement?

5. Frightened Rabbit, The Winter of Mixed Drinks. Some of the best rock from across the pond since U2.

4. Mary Chapin Carpenter, The Age of Miracles. A quiet spiritual experience that steals upon you and draws from history and recent social and worldly upheavals to demonstrate its point.

3. Ray LaMontagne & The Pariah Dogs, God Willin' & The Creek Don't Rise. There are some songs here that will rip your heart out, even while you're mended by Ray's voice.

2. Various, Broken Hearts & Dirty Windows. A John Prine tribute album that kicks tribute album beeehind, with artists like Josh Ritter, My Morning Jacket, The Avett Brothers, and Justin Townes Earle.

1. Mumford & Sons, Sigh No More. Well, it's just amazing. Folkin' Roll. Again, the nu-folk movement shows the rest of the world how it's done. With harmonies that could fill a symphony hall and instrumentation that delves into genius, you should be ashamed of yourself if you don't get this CD. SHAME!

Eric Arvin: Gym Class Hero

I could have been a gym class hero. I could have been quite the athlete if I had had someone pushing me on. Instead, as a wee lad in wee lad school, going to gym class filled me with dread. How I survived school without an ulcer is anyone's guess. Like my will, my stomach must be made of steel.

I was a terribly shy kid. I always felt watched and judged no matter what I did. I knew there was something different about me, dare I say special, that the other kids just didn't get. During gym class I hated the games we were forced to play. They didn't fit with me, just as I didn't fit with my classmates. My grade school gym teacher, a hard man named Mr. King (he reminded me of a Ken doll), always looked at me as if he couldn't quite figure me out. It was a look of condescending curiosity just shy of a tsk-tsk and a shake of the head. And there be the problem. In truth, I think if I had been allowed to make up my own fitrness goals, doing the games and exercises that I liked and showed strength at, I would have excelled. Instead I got dodgeball and softball and blah blah blah. It was all very pedestrian. Mr. King was a crappy teacher. He didn't give much attention to those of us who might have needed it most. He had his little stars and I was not one of them.

I was always very active at home. I ran and biked and played volleyball in the front yard. I was quite athletic when left to my own devices and became a health nut with no help from school. It was at home that I picked up my first dumbbell and got all my sexy on. I had been impressed by the swollen and shocking muscle monsters I saw in the fitness magazines at the local Hooks Drugstore. There was no such encouragement in school. I found that my body took very well to my attempts at working out. When we had a fitness test one day in junior high I shocked my gym teacher - another man, shorter and rounder - and fellow classmates by boasting the most pullups. I had the strongs! This didn't keep me from being teased relentlessly, though. I was just too different, no matter how strong I was. And I was gay. Let's not forget that.

There were bright spots, though. In junior high I had a math teacher, Mr. Eckert. He was a hot number, early 20s. Coached softball. Had a fantastic butt. Wore khakis. Insane shaking when writing on the chalkboard. Anyway, I was still a shy little flower then. I had him first period so I would go directly to his class so as not to be teased by a group of boys who lived to torment me. Mr. Eckert always watched me. One morning, after finding my seat in the empty classroom, I caught him staring at me through the window at the door. He was curious. Yet unlike Mr. King, Mr. Eckert's curiosity had a gentle, almost fatherly quality to it. I have always been atrocious at math. Just awful. But Mr. Eckert was always patient. Later that year we had our final exam and he graded them in class. He marked a solid B on my paper. I gasped. That was the highest grade I had ever been given in his class. He looked up from the paper at his desk and smiled at me, then nodded. Mr. Eckert was my first older man crush. I wanted to solve HIS equation, if you get my meaning.

I never really found a gym teacher in high school or in college that I connected with, though. I don't think they're the type of people who easily connect with artsy folk like me. There always seems to be a wall there. Or it's like we're from two different worlds, staring back at each other with pity and fear. But the thing is, I do get it. In college I was supervisor of the fitness center and was there working out every single day. I grew me a very nice pair of chesticles and a sweet meat rack out back. In my books, when you come across a scene set in a fitness center, it's always based on the Horner Center at Hanover College. Weights and lifting I get. My hand/eye coordination is the issue. And now I think my lack of said coordination may have had its roots in the condition I inherited from my father. Wish I had known that then.

The Olympic Games is the only time I really understand the team spirit of sports, and that is because it focuses on the human will, on the spirit to go on no matter the cost, to compete for some bigger purpose. For betterment. In my school years, if there had been rowing or gymnastics or water polo or rugby - those are sports I could have gotten behind...and gotten BEHIND. Yeah. You heard me. Water polo...drooool... Or bodybuilding. Why isn't bodybuilding an Olympic sport? That should be a given. The whole point of the ancient games was the perfect male form. And  now I've gone off point. Oh well.

No. I'm no gym class hero. I could have been. With the right person behind me. With the right patient person there holding me up and saying 'Try again', I could have been decent. Maybe not an Olympian, but then, why not. I mean, hell, trampoline is an Olympic sport. And speed walking. Speed walking, for Nike's sake!! So, yeah. Maybe I could have been an Olympian. But I'm not. And I blame you, Mr. King.

...Hehe. I kid. I kid.

Looking Back at the Music of 2009

My 10 Favorite CDs of 2009 Favorite CDs from 2009

1. Strange Light, David Berkeley – The voice of autumn ’09 for me. Plaintive and beautiful. Key tracks: Glory, Sweet Auburn, The Only Broken Man

2. Draw the Line, David Grey – This generation’s Nick Drake. Key Tracks: Nemesis, First Chance, Fugitive.

3. Not Far Now, Richard Shindell – One of my favorite vocalists ever, and a powerful storyteller. Key Tracks: Gethsemane Goodbye, State of the Union, Get Up Clara.

4. Middle Cyclone, Neko Case – Loretta Lynn sung through a Lynchian drug haze. Key Tracks: Never Turn Your Back on Mother Earth, The Pharaohs, I’m an Animal. (Bonus points for Most Kick-ass Cover)

5. I and Love and You, The Avett Brothers – Sparse melodies and insightful lyrics. This is the one I see rising on my list as the years go by. Key Tracks: I and Love and You, The Perfect Space, Kick Drum Heart.

6. Ocean Eyes, Owl City – Uber infectious electronic pop, and the biggest surprise of the year for me. Key Tracks: Fireflies, Hello Seattle, On the Wing.

7. Give Up the Ghosts, Brandi Carlile – Full-throated and glorious folkin’ greatness. Key Tracks: Looking Out, Caroline, Before it Breaks.

8. Creaturesque, Throw Me the Statue – Funky synth pop with some killer hooks. Key Tracks: Ancestors, Pistols, Dizzy From the Fall.

9. Wait For Me, Moby – Some of the most beautiful, sweeping melodies of the year. Key Tracks: Pale Horses, A Shot in the Back of the Head, Mistake.

10. Noble Beast, Andrew Bird. The most literate CD I’ve purchased in a while. You might need a dictionary. Key Tracks: Tenuousness, Souverian, Fitz and the Dizzyspells.

One To Grow On:

Sunny Side Up, Paolo Nutini – That voice! My God, that voice! Key Tracks: Candy, Growing Up Beside You, Worried Man.

Favorite CD Purchased This Year, Not Released This Year:

Fleet Foxes, Fleet Foxes – “Beautiful harmonies” doesn’t go far enough. Key Tracks: White Winter Hymnal, Blue Ridge Mountains, Ragged Wood.

EXCERPT: Deacon Decides

My short from the Dreamspinner antho  Mr. Right Now , based on an experience I had on a flight to Australia. It's interesting for me to read over this and see how my writing style has changed. Enjoy! (And if anyone knows the said airline steward featured in this story, please contact me ;-))



Deacon Decides Eric Arvin

Deacon passed the rows of travelers in their identical blue seats with disinterest and something approaching disdain. The mothers and fathers, teenagers and grandparents, businessmen and vacationers of Qantas Air Flight 94 to Australia surrounded him. He had always hated flying, but not for any fear of disaster. No, Deacon simply hated being aloft with a herd of people he really didn't know, especially for hours at a time. His nature was rather reserved, and, for the most part, he was a loner. He had never been a big fan of crowds. But for Australia, for graduate school, he would do it. The adventure waiting for him at the end of the flight was well worth the torture of getting there.
He followed his traveling companion, Carol, to their seats. She was much more at ease. She loved people, adored them actually.
Luckily Deacon's was a window seat. He preferred to focus on the ephemeral qualities of clouds and traveling birds to the stolid presence of his fellow passengers.
It was as he was loading his carry-on into the overhead bin, other travelers pushing past him carelessly, that he caught the interested glance of a flight attendant a few rows down. Deacon noticed first that the broad-shouldered man was helping a little white-haired woman with her things while she was thanked him profusely in a thick, New-England accent. Deacon quickly sized up the man's features: strong jaw; clipped hair; and a deep chest-very attractive. He then promptly collapsed into his window seat, fearing he might have stared too long, though it had only been a few seconds. There was the connection, of course-any gay man would have felt it. It was a kindred attraction, so to speak. The flight attendant's eyes clearly expressed interest; he might as well have winked. Deacon, though, had never acquired any flirtation skills and always doubted his own gaydar. He was somewhat-
"-socially retarded," Carol said as she sat beside him. "Just say something to him. You're both gay." Carol was more attuned to such things. She could spot the one gay man in a crowd of ten as if he was wearing a scarlet letter. That was, in fact, how she had met Deacon.
"I don't know that. You don't know that." He definitely knew it, deep down in his strong, gay core.
"You always do this. You find a guy you think is cute and drool over him, but then never go for it." She started flipping through the in-flight magazine from the seat-pouch in front of her. "It's so irritating, because then you bitch to me about being lonely. And there's no one to blame but yourself, Deacon."
"Why would he be interested?" Deacon asked, already defeated. The plane was filling up and Deacon massaged his ear lobe, a nervous habit.
"Because you're gorgeous, honey. Everybody in school thought so. You were always the only one who couldn't see it."
Gorgeous? No, Deacon would have never applied that word to himself. He thought he could sometimes be nice-looking, but never gorgeous. Gorgeous was something reserved for underwear models and go-go boys in New York and Montreal. He had a nice body from years of exercise, a winning smile, and green eyes, but those were ordinary traits in a world that wanted the extraordinary. It was a world where everyone sought an Adonis, and every Adonis became a Narcissus.
He took off his thin, black-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day. A strand of his dark hair fell into his face and he swept it back. The flight attendant walked by just as Deacon looked back up. Deacon watched him. Not only did he have a well-built upper body, his thighs also looked large and muscular hidden beneath the tight, black slacks. Deacon imagined the man a rugby player (that being the only Australian sport he could think of). The man looked at Deacon and gave him a quick nod, making Deacon quickly look away. The acknowledgment terrified him.
"He looked at you. Right at you!" Carol said a little louder than he would have wished. "Why did you look away?"
"I don't know! It's what I do. My stomach goes into knots and I freak out." He sighed. "I'm going to die alone." He turned back to the window.
"Oh, the dramatics!" she said. "Besides, are you already planning a future with this guy? What do you have going on in that pretty head of yours? He probably just wants a fuck. You can find a boyfriend when we land."
Deacon shook his head and smiled. But the idea of "just a fuck" with the flight attendant was hot. He did have those huge, strong thighs, after all. He felt some fledgling desire begin to stir in him; some new restlessness.
The plane began to taxi down the runway.
In the air, all Deacon could think of were ways to atone for his lack of contact with the man. He chided himself mildly, making promises to do better. The same promises he had made on numerous other similar occasions at fraternity parties, bars, dinners. Nothing ever came of those situations either. He did go to the restroom once, hoping to bump into the flight attendant along the way, but had no such luck. Every time the man did pass by his seat, it was too quick to get a proper nod, though Deacon was caught looking plenty of times. The flight attendant eventually smiled at the attention. It wasn't as overt as a proper smile, but it contained a hint of possibilities. Deacon forced himself to smile in return. It took energy. His heart pounded as the grin stretched across his face. There was a sense of victory with that smile.
After that it was easier, as if they were friends or at least casually acquainted. The flight attendant came by more often, once with a couple of gift bags from business class, handing one to Deacon with inquiring eyes. "Here you go," he said, though there was a wealth of innuendo beneath that harmless statement.
"Oh my God," Carol kidded. "He loves you!" She jabbed him with her elbow.
It was about midway through the flight when Carol left her seat to use the restroom and stretch. There was a line, so it would be a while before she returned. They were gliding through night clouds, darkness the only thing visible from the window. Deacon was paging through one of the various airline magazines selling oddities he was certain he could never possibly need when the flight attendant sat down beside him in Carol's seat.
"My name's Joel," he said in a deep, accented voice. Deacon almost shattered into a million pieces at the suddenness of the situation. He collected himself, though, and shook Joel's outstretched hand. It was strong and firm.
"Deacon," he introduced himself. His heart pounded fiercely and he swallowed hard.
"You headed to Australia for uni?" Joel asked.
"Uh, yeah," Deacon stumbled out. "University of Sydney. Are you from Australia?"
"No. Auckland," Joel replied. "You should hop over there some time. You'd love it. There's a lot to see."
"Do you play rugby," Deacon asked. His conversation skills were usually much better, but they evaporated when faced with someone he found so attractive.
"A little bit," Joel said. "What about you? You're a big guy." He made a flexing motion with his arm. "You work out?"
"Yeah. When I can." In fact, that was a lie. Deacon made sure to work out six days a week, but he didn't want to seem obsessive about it.
"Well," Joel said as he rose. "You're very cute." And there it was. A phrase Deacon had never heard another man ever say to him, certainly not in the States, not in the small town in which he had spent his childhood.
"Th-thanks," was all his stunned self could muster. He was already beating himself up before Joel walked away. He wanted to shout "No! Wait! Come back!" but that would have been desperate and silly. And yet maybe that was what he needed to be. Maybe sheer lunacy was his only hope. But the moment had passed. The awkward conversation, if it could be referred to as such, was over, and there was no getting it back.
He replayed it in his mind like a humiliating reality program, inserting what he should have said here or what might have been better there. And why, for Christ's sake, when Joel complimented his looks, didn't he return the compliment? Anything! Even "Hey man, I think you're hot as balls, too!"
When Carol finally returned from the restroom, she could tell he was distracted. He couldn't bring himself to tell her why. Her criticisms, even in jest, stung.
"It's nothing," he said wanting to scream under the self-rage that was growing stronger by the second.
He kept his eyes on Joel, hoping for another second chance. He couldn't help hoping that the flight attendant would glance his way again. But it didn't happen. Joel didn't pass by as often as before.
"Where's your lover?" Carol asked off-handedly.
"We've split," Deacon joked, trying to keep the desperation from gushing out.
He kept quiet and still in his seat, dozing off occasionally, but he was awakened each time with a fresh sense of self-contempt for the way he handled the situation with Joel. He was all too aware of his true self, the desire and yearning, bruised and battered, of his conscience. He shifted in his seat as if some physical form was fighting its way out of him. Finally, Deacon could take the self-abuse no longer. He looked around nervously, standing up to get a better view of who surrounded him on the plane.
"What's wrong?" Carol asked, waking from her own nap. "What are you doing?"
Deacon didn't respond. His eyes were following a glimpse of tight black slacks and strong shoulders that was disappearing into the restroom.
This was his final chance. Without really thinking, Deacon decided to take it.
"I'll be right back," Deacon told Carol as he made his way to the restroom.
There was no one else in line. Fortunately, everyone was safely in their seats, asleep and still. If there had been others, Deacon might have given up the idea, scared off by a religious-fiend mother or a teddy-bear-hugging little girl.
Deacon's heart felt as if it might explode as he heard the latch click and the lavatory door slide open. Joel stood looking at Deacon, an expression of slight surprise on his face.
"What are you doing?" he asked. His eyes moved over Deacon, making him feel dirty and sordid. It was more enjoyable than Deacon expected.
"Being desperate and silly," he replied as he pushed Joel backward into the lavatory and shut the door behind them.

New Interview and Review

New interview: http://t.co/UbNGww7R AND new SuburbaNights review: http://t.co/oNCfu0HV

Looking Back at the Music of 2008

As you may know I am a huge music slut. It is one of those things that convinces me that there is more to our existence than this life. If there is a Divine, music is the Divine's language. At the end of every year I count down my top 10 favorite records from the previous 12 months. I thought it might be interesting to revisit some of these countdowns, starting with 2008. I have kept a countdown since 2005, but have lost those lists. Looking back, in all honesty, there are a few of these albums that would not make said list if I were doing it today. 


Top 10: 2008




1.
@#%&*! Smilers, Aimee Mann
Mann’s best collection since 1999’s Bachelor No. 2: or, The Last Remains of the Dodo, and that’s saying a lot. There’s an apathetic wit to her voice that simply cannot be copied. She can make something that might come off as silly or mundane in the hands of another songwriter, and turn it into a profound statement of regret. From the daring of a speed junkie (“Freeway”) to the desparation of the bored and lost (“Looking for Nothing”, “It’s Over”) to the warped narrative of a fairytale (“Borrowing Time”, originally written for Shrek 3), hers is the voice of America’s fumble into the 21st century.

2.
Viva la Vida, or Death and All His Friends, Coldplay
They might be the most important rock band since U2. Coldplay constantly offers intelligent rock music that’s as great to listen to as it is to think about. They have never put out a bad CD. Parachutes is still my favorite, but this one comes damn close. They tried a different route with this one: not as radio friendly, with massive shifts in temperament mid song. But it works. And Chris Martin is a poet. “Viva la Vida” is as fantastic a political song as I’ve ever heard, and “Death and All His Friends” is at first mournful and then inspiring.

3.
Promised Land, Dar Williams
Dar’s best work since 2000’s The Green World. She tackles everything from hypocrisy (“Buzzer”) to the environment (“Go to the Woods”), but as always with Dar, the strength is in the storytelling. And she’s a fantastic storyteller with a real gift for the rhyme. Her ode to reluctant but necessary personal change “It’s alright” hits very close to home, and “Holly Tree”, the tale of a farm widow, is a heartbreaker. There’s also a knockout remake of “Midnight Radio” from Hedwig & the Angry Inch.

4.
A Larum, Johnny Flynn
I’m a fan of Nick Drake and Alexi Murdoch and this young fella fits right in there with those masters. His songs aren’t as plaintive, though. There is something of that in his voice, a Celtish wail that’s perfect for a folk song. But he’s got a snarky wit to him as well. Songs like “The Wrote & the Write” and “Tickle Me Pink” are showstoppers in my opinion. Listening to this CD makes me think of one of my favorite books, Jamie O’Neill’s At Swim Two Boys. Maybe it’s the Joycian undercurrent.

5.
Day & Age, The Killers
Their previous CD, Sawdust, a collection of B-sides and rarities, was okay. Not great. With this CD I think they’ve very nearly topped Hot Fuss. There’s everything from synth (“Human”) to David Bowie-like glam rock (“Neon Tiger”) to just plain rock brilliance (“Spaceman”). It’s dance-inducing and fun, and in the end isn’t that all you want from a Killers album? Well, besides a picture of Brandon Flowers on the sleave.

6.
This is the Life, Amy MacDonald
What a knockout voice MacDonald has. I heard “This is the Life” on Graham Norton and had to get this CD. She’s only 19, but she can write a good tune. Her lyrics are way ahead of her age. Finally, a teenage rocker I can get behind. And did I mention her voice? Like Brandi Carlile and Neko Case, MacDonald’s is a voice that haunts you whether she’s singing about an infatuation with Jake Gyllenhaal (“L.A.”) or ripping on certain aiimless soccer wives (“Footballer’s Wife”).

7.
Our Bright Future, Tracy Chapman
I’m so glad to see her back in form. This is my favorite Chapman record since Telling Stories. Her soothing vocals lead us through the troubles of our times, and behind those vocals there’s a hint that everything will be okay in the end. “I Did it All” ponders a life lived to the fullest and its consequences, and the gospel-sounding “Save Us All” questions religious identity. It’s fantastic writing.

8.
Conor Oberst, Conor Oberst
Speaking of poets (and I did), I am dumbfounded by this guy everytime he releases something. It’s unfair that he has such muses at his command. Unfair! I don’t think I’m overstating when I say the guy is brilliant. This is his first solo record, but under Bright Eyes he has crafted some of the most personal songs I have ever heard. He keeps it up here with the easy-going road trip ode “Moab”, the clever and fun “I Don’t Want to Die (in a Hospital)”, and I get chills on the last stanza of “Danny Callahan.” I thought that song was going in a completely different direction until I heard those last few lines. They put a lump in me ol’ throat.

9.
All That I Intended To Be, Emmylou Harris
Girl can sing a sad song. She’s the best at them. And this collection has thirteen of them. Nothing beats her one-two punch of Wrecking Ball and Red Dirt Girl (so far), but this isn’t trying to reach those heights. These are simpler songs, more along the lines of Emmylou’s earlier stuff. Her remake of Tracy Chapman’s “All That You Have is Your Soul” sounds as if it was written for her. Her fallen angel voice fills in every inch of that song. And in “Sailing Around the Room” dying actually doesn’t sound half bad. In fact, it sounds kinda gorgeous!

10.
Oracular Spectacular, MGMT
This is the most consistently original CD I heard all year. Everything about it – instrumentation, vocals, writing, and song production – is so different than most of the stuff out there. It’s a psychedelic throwback with modern slang. In “Time to Pretend” the lead singer ponders getting high on heroin and fucking beautiful models, not giving two shits about the future. It’s one of the most nihilistic, yet undeniably catchy songs ever conceived.

And one to Grow on:

Volume One, She & Him
Zooey Deschanel sings lead in this duo (M. Ward is the other half). She sounds like something straight out of the 1960s, sometimes edging toward Motown, others with a more country flair a la Patsy Cline. It’s groovy stuff, relaxing and very “California.” And just for shits and giggles, go to Youtube and watch the video for “Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?” It’s a hoot.

Favorite CD not from 2008 that I bought or received this year:

South of Delia, Richard Shindell (2007)
This collection of remakes is a gorgeous showcase for Shindell’s haunting, ghostly voice. He’s a storyteller and he’s picked some humdingers to tell. My favorites: Jeffrey Foucault’s “Northbound 35” where he sings plaintively and quite profoundly “Grace is just the measure of a fall”; Bob Dylan’s “Senor (Tales of Yankee Pride)”; Woody Guthrie’s “Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos)”; and Josh Ritter’s amazing ode to struggle “Lawrence, KS.”

EXCERPT: SuburbaNights

A naughty little excerpt from my newest...


SuburbaNights



“EXCUSE me,” said the burly man as he stood in the open garage doorway. He was dressed in a brown delivery uniform that threatened to cut off circulation to his thick arms and legs. His face had a nicely trimmed dark beard, and he wore a brown hat.

Cliff had been moving boxes in the garage. He was dressed in a tank top and tiny useless blue jean shorts. He realized this was not the weather for such attire (his nipples were deadly from the chill), but the shorts just made him feel so damn sexy. His ass ate them up.

“Can I help you?” Cliff said. “A bit late to be making deliveries, isn’t it?” He looked the bearded man up and down. It was a familiar game. They were muscle men sizing each other up.

“I’m new,” the man said. “I got lost a while back. I was wondering if you might be able to help me.”

Cliff had seen this film before. He had been in this film before. And he loved it. “Sure. I can help.” He didn’t smile. He knew to keep it impersonal.

Cliff reached into the glove department of David’s car and pulled out a road map. He walked to the tool table slowly, letting his mass do the talking, and spread the map over the table as he bent over and spread his legs. He looked over his shoulder and gave the deliveryman admittance.

“What’s your name?” Cliff asked.

The deliveryman approached and stood just behind him. “Rock.”

“Of course it is.”

Cliff arched his ass slightly so that it was just past irresistible.

“Listen, man,” said Rock, “I’m straight. I just want directions.”

“Do you?” Cliff asked, loosening the jean cut-offs and letting them fall to the floor. Rock began breathing harder, looking angry.

Cliff backed his ass into the bulge in Rock’s pants, then moved his prized possession up and down the deliveryman’s package.

“I want that,” Cliff said. “I want that in me.”

“I told you,” said Rock, “I’m straight.”

“That’s not what your cock is saying. Shove it inside me, bitch.”

That tipped it. It made the deliveryman furious. In a frenzy, he began unbuttoning his pants. “You want this?” he said as his cock fell out and hit Cliff’s ass with a smack. “Fine. I’ll give it to you, you filthy whore. I’m gonna tear your goddamn ass apart.”

Rock grabbed Cliff’s shoulders with one hand and played around with Cliff’s hole with the other, pretending more than once as if he was going to relentlessly drive his dick inside, head to balls, only to let it slide between Cliff’s cheeks. Once he went as far as to get the tip of the head in the hole before ducking out. The teasing was driving Cliff crazy.

“Fuck me,” Cliff said. “Just fuck me!”

Finally, Rock pried Cliff open and slowly sank inside him. Cliff’s knees buckled from the force. He let out a cry as Rock—a straight man, no less—pounded his man-pussy like he was a pro in the League of Man-Pussy Pounders. If Rock had a porn name, it would have been Jack Hammer. Cliff could hardly see straight.

“Take it!” Rock said. “Take it all! Your hot man ass will never again tempt an innocent straight man.”

“Yeah. Teach me a lesson!”

“I’m taking one for the team!”

“Me too!”

Rock grabbed the two globes of Cliff’s ass and pulled them apart. He stuck his thumbs into the edges of Cliff’s hole so he could get his dick farther in, and he rutted like a beast, roaring and drooling as he went.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

There was a pause in the fucking. Everything was still. David stood at the garage door.

“Honey,” Cliff said, breathless and sweaty and unable to move from being so heavily penetrated, “I can explain.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” David yelled. He reached over and shut the garage door. “But I am going to teach you a lesson.”

He walked toward Cliff and Rock, undoing his own pants.

“Honey, no!” cried Cliff. “Not the… doublefuck! I’ll never survive!”

“Shut up, bitch!” David said.

He crawled atop the table so that he straddled Cliff. His own ass was a well-toned piece of art.

“Make room for me, deliveryman,” he said. “I’m coming in! Stretch him out.”

“My poor beautiful ass!” Cliff yelled as he was pounded by both men, his asshole being stretched beyond all recognition. Oh, the humanity!

The garage was nearly shaken to the ground by all the commotion happening inside of it. The hollering and savage cursing, the cries of mercy and of more! were punctuated at last by a great caterwaul that caused neighbors to look out their windows and lock their doors. Afterward, Cliff, David, and the deliveryman lay in a heap on the garage floor. There would be quite a clean-up.

Cliff wrapped his arms around David. “Thank you, baby,” he said.

“Happy anniversary,” said David, and he gave Cliff a kiss.

Just then came an obtrusive knock. David rose, pulled on his pants, and hit the button to the garage door. A man dressed in similar fashion as Rock but without the beard stood with a lascivious grin.

“I seem to have lost my way,” this new deliveryman said.

David looked at Cliff, who was grinning.

“You got me one too?” David said. “Aw, baby! You shouldn’t have.”

“Happy anniversary,” Cliff said. “Now, the two of you get in here. Let’s have some fun.”

A Summer of Ice & Fire

I have become obsessed with George R. R. Martin's gorgeous literary series A Song of Ice & Fire. Quite frankly - and I'm not the first to say it - it's the best fantasy since Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. There be so many amazing characters therein, more fleshed out than you will find in any Pulitzer Prize winner, enough political intrigue to entice the Washington Post, and - oh, yeah - dragons! There be dragons and witches and Faceless Men and battles that would make Peter Jackson jizz in his hobbit pants. It's breathtaking stuff.

I've been reading Martin all summer. Books one through five of a soon-to-be seven book series. I cannot put these books down, and at near or over 1000 pages each, I am seeing lords and ladies in my sleep. The first four books I bought came in one of those paperback sets so the print is teeny weenie and my eyeballs are a lovely shade of red. The HBO series based on the books, Game of Thrones (the title of the first book), is just as enthralling, with some wonderful writing, stunning sets, and perfect performances, especially from the great Peter Dinklage. It also has the coolest opening of any show on TV. I bow at the altar of Martin. His descriptive prose, while off-putting to some, is perfect for the fantasy genre. He's describing a world none of us have ever seen before. He needs to be descriptive. He is a master and his work will be read a hundred years from now.
...However...
As much as I love his writing and his style there is one thing that irks me. These books are filled with sex. That, of course, doesn't bother me. This is a grown up fantasy series after all. There are no Yellow Brick Roads, talking mice, or gateway wardrobes. There are pirates, but they're more prone to rape you and then cut out your tongue rather than chase you and your pixie around some island. Martin is very explicit with his sex scenes. There's not a lot of romance, but there is quite a bit of the knocking of the boots. Male/female couplings are, of course, present, as are a couple of intense lesbian scenes involving key players in the tale (with wet, dripping vaginas, I might add...ew), yet the male gay characters don't get so much as a kiss. In fact, their relationships are implied rather than shown, and that implication is lost if the reader is not looking for it. It is suggested in the books that Lord Renly and the Knight of Flowers are lovers, but the reader isn't privy to any affection between the two. The HBO series deals more explicitly with their relationship. The same is true for Lord Connington, an older gay lord and a very interesting character. One line implies he is gay, but that's all we get. There are other minor characters who we are told prefer the ween to the vagina, but we don't get any proof. Prove it, I say! I'm not saying I want a whole POV chapter revolved around a game of "hide the sausage" - this isn't erotica, after all - but a sweet romantic kiss wouldn't be too much to ask, would it?
The truth is, I believe Martin would be absolutely fine with writing scenes of affection between two men. I can tell that in his writing. It's the fantasy audience and the publisher that might be holding him back from doing so. Fantasy and sci-fi readers have a strange history of not being as open-minded as you would think when it comes to sex or romance. Remember, Star Trek never had a single gay character in any one of its 465 different series (and no, the Dax episode does not count. She was a slug!). For some reason the fantasy genre is not the most accepting of same-sex lovin'. That is changing, and I believe it's changing quickly, but it strikes me as bizarre that that barrier has remained standing as long as it has.
Still, Martin is an amazing writer. The third book in the series, A Storm of Swords, is now on my list of the 100 greatest books I've ever read. It's that damn good. If you're a fantasy fan, you will love these books. Hell, if you're a reader at all, you'll love these books. I cannot praise them enough. I'm going to have a hard time finding something to read after I'm through with the fifth book (I've only 100 pages to go) and an even harder time with the withdrawal and the waiting for books six and seven. Seven hells! I haven't been this obsessed with something since LOST.