This is the last thing I will ever post on this blog.

There, I said it. Now, for the good news: this is certainly not the last post I will ever write. I’ve just been, shall we say, converted. Found the grass to be greener on the other side. And wouldn’t you know that the culprit is Google? In my first post on my new blog, I explain why Google has once again lured me with one of it’s services. This time, it’s Blogger. And though it’s not much different than my WordPress blog here, I like that it links me up with many of my other Google services. But you can read all about that at the link posted above.

In any case, fear not. I will be trying to post more regularly over at my new blog (also entitled You’re a genius all the time…), and will occasionally re-posting articles/essays/poems from this blog to keep everything in one place. I hope that, if you’ve enjoyed reading my work here, you’ll follow me over at Blogger. (I’m looking at you, Mac, since I’m pretty sure you’re my only reader.)

It’s been grand, fellas. But now it’s time for me to go. Play me off, Johnny.

Summertime: An Elegy
For the poetess, CAM

Then I would pour myself
into bed with a bottle of wine
embrace the dull coldness
of the mattress and huff your
lingering scent on
my black and white pillows.

One of these mornings, you’re going to rise up singing
Then you’ll spread your wings, and you’ll take to the sky

It was December when you left,
and it fit to roll out of bed at
3 PM on a Tuesday, cough up
blood and gunk in the shower,
make a corned beef sandwich,
drink a beer and smoke a
cigarette and wait for the
phone to ring, perhaps step
out into the snow, listen
through the open window.

But until that morning, there’s a’nothing can harm you
With your daddy and mammy standing by.

Even now—and I’m sure
for months upon months to come—
the loss is more than enough
to render me a mass, writhing
alone on the floor.

But it is worth remembering
all that we were, all that we were not,
and all that we would’ve been.

A toast, in the presence of better men than I

Here’s
to us,

and
those
like us.

There are
damn few
out there,

and
most
are
probably
dead.

Placing a call to a woman, one month dead

After
thirty days,
there was still
a working phone
with an answering
machine,

sitting
atop two unopened
QVC boxes
in an otherwise
empty house.

“This is a
message phone.

No name,
no number,
no message,
no answer.”

Not a short story, essay, haiku or limerick

It feels, tonight, as though
I should be writing,
penning a short story,
a poem or two, an essay—
for God’s sake,
at least a haiku or limerick.

So I prepare my mind
for the task at hand in my
pseudo-traditional way,
scraping together a stiff drink
of gin and club soda and lemon
(as I am out of tonic and lime)
and heading outside to enjoy
this and a cigarette in the
cool night fog of summer.

I light with a cardboard match
from a hotel book, douse it
with the dew settling on the
table, and press my pen
to the paper. And wait.
And sip. And
drag. And swill.
And wait. And
pull. And gulp.
And blow. And
wait.

Finally, after the cigarette
is burnt to a nub, and there’s
not a gulp’s worth left in
my low-ball glass or a word
down on the page, I sigh
and lean back in my chair,
trying to figure out whether
that bright speck in the sky
is Venus or Jupiter. Eventually,

I open the white storm door
and head back inside, not yet
convinced that tonight was
not meant for writing, but
that I will need a bit more
coaxing before anything
spills out onto the page.

Quite frankly, I’m still waiting…

Naked Moment

There is nothing
on the screen
but a grainy image
of a Japanese man
in his metal-framed
bed.

He would later say
that in his bad dream,
he was fighting away
snakes of all shapes
and sizes, waiting for
none to latch onto him,
strangle him or poison him,
but flailing with all
his power.

But I could not see his
dream. All I could see
was him kick his metal bed frame
with a soft and rhythmic pang,
tear the tucked sheet out
from under the mattress,
pick up a pillow as a rock
and bash at the air
with murderous intent.

I felt as though
this bare moment should
not belong to anyone
but him, and that
I should not have seen
any of this,

and I clicked
off the TV.

An old compatriot of mine dropped me a line recently. A fellow poet – the below-mentioned “Mac” – thanked me for my comments on his work, but scolded me for being self-deprecatory of my own work: I had hinted at the fact that I had been experiencing something of a dry spell recently, then spit the last two lines of the poem below at him. Little did he know that his comment would spur me on to write for the first time since August. (If you don’t speak French, I suggest Google Translate.)

Un écrivain va mourir

In the midst of a group
of young academics discussing
Irish writers and their politics,
or lack thereof,
or the complications thereof,
or the pretension thereof,

I find that the thumb of my left hand
trembles uncontrollably, rattling
the page like boots sloughing
through the leaves rotting on the ground.
Those around me turn to look
as I pretend to search for a pen
or a book, until the fit ceases.

Hier, un écrivain est mort à son lit.

It is a drab November on Earth,
and though my years have been brief,
I feel as feeble as a man far advanced,
beyond the petty difficulties of literature
and romance,
but unable to tie his own shoes.

Aujourd’hui, un écrivain meurt à son lit.

You seem to think I’m modest about my work,
as though I’ve been clandestinely churning out
poems for the odd months that it’s been since
we last bantered and prated. But you should
know by now that I’m a real pig-headed bastard.
And that I’ve eked out five poems in as many months.

That’s one reason I admire you, brother.
If I were as prolific as you, Mac, I’d be
a god-damned writer by now.

“Take that!” I heard you blurt out from behind the shower curtain

I told her that I could
mix—by smell—the
best gin and tonics
she’d ever drink,

and she decided that
was enough to take me back
to her place for the night.

No mind that I had loved
her daughter only a
few years before,
or that she was twenty years
older than I and just-divorced.

I thought that I was going to
wake up the next morning with
another notch in my belt.

Instead, I awoke at 5 AM
on the bathroom floor
with vomit in my mustache,
an empty stomach and a cringing liver,
and a bruise on my chest from the toilet seat.

“Take that!” I heard you blurt out
from behind the shower curtain
at one point during the night.

Then I heaved another throaty
sigh, purged myself of my
remaining egotism, and passed
out on a lime-green bathmat.

But I started wondering: other than the kitschy charm of owning and playing LP’s, what is it about music’s first mass-distribution format that has audiophiles demanding the newest releases on vinyl? Is the record really a superior format, or have hipsters simply found another way to bolster their “trendier-than-though” appeal with Indy chicks everywhere? When I realized I hadn’t the foggiest idea myself, I decided to do a bit of research. And now, I intend to pass the fruits of that research on to you.

What’s the difference?

Vinyl is analog, CD is digital. What does that mean to sound quality? Well, let’s put it this way: sound, as we know it, is analog. That means that a dog barking, your child’s voice, and Mozart’s Symphony No. 4o all come to your ear as vibrations in the air, which when they rattle your ear drum, are interpreted appropriately by your brain. An audio file (such as your typical mp3) on the other hand, is merely a series of snapshots of those sound waves – 44,ooo snapshots per second, to be exact.  Here, I’ll give you two pictures and metaphor to clear things up rather nicely:

Vinyl LP’s are the original, hand-painted version of Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, while CD’s are a mosaic of the original, hand-painted version of Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. No matter how many tiny pictures you cram into the equivalent amount of space, it will never be exactly the same as the original product. Admittedly, the difference between the sound quality of an LP and a CD is not this drastic, but you get the picture…seriously, no pun intended.

What are the pros and cons?

I’ve already more-or-less stated that music imprinted on vinyl is truer to the original recording than that burned onto a CD, and many purists argue that this contributes to a warmer sound. Heck, some would even argue that LP’s are better because the larger dust jacket gives a better look at the album artwork…okay, whatever floats your boat. But what strikes do records have against them?

For starters, the audio produced by the partnership of LP’s and record players is vulnerable to distortion from an abundance of sources: dust, scratches, mold, and warping are the most frequent offenders. And, in spite of what some have tried to convince me, you can’t persuade me that the manner in which you play an LP contributes to the loss of quality. You’re dragging a needle over the surface of vinyl, for God’s sake!

On the other hand, CD’s may suffer from a slight deficiency in sound quality, but what they lack in fidelity they make up for in portability and permanency. Sure, you could scratch a CD if you really wanted to, but try scratching an audio file. Furthermore, CD’s make selecting a particular song  (or creating a mixed album of your own) a snap. Forget lifting a needle and ever so carefully placing it in the grooves between tracks – push a button and stop, pause, or skip to the next song.

So, the verdict?

Each format certainly has its strengths and its weaknesses. But you could say the same thing of hot tea and coffee. Or Pepsi and Coca-Cola. Or cats and dogs. The bottom line is this: some people prefer records, and some people prefer CD’s, and while they may or may not spit reasons or figures at you to explain their preferences, they shouldn’t have to. Personally, I see listening to music in general and listening to music on LP as apples and oranges. I love the fact that I have the technology to control an entire library of music, speeches, and radio shows with my finger tips. But sometimes I enjoy basking in the raw scratchy goodness of music the way that generations heard it for the first time: on a vinyl LP.

1. Flying Sharks: In mentioning the phenomena of “flying sharks” to a good friend of mine, he reminded me that these sharks do not fly, but jump, and that he could jump between two buildings, if he felt like it – “Which is more impressive, huh?” I rebut by declaring bullshit.

Honestly, there’s not much I can say that will make this footage any more impressive than it is. But I will add my two cents: the Great White Shark can grow to be up to 25 ft long and can weigh more than 2 tons. And, in the waters near South Africa, they can propel themselves as high as 15 ft out of the water. Observe:

2. José Alfredo Jiménez: El Rey. …all right, I’ll admit: this bullet-point is about music. And yes, I said I’d be giving you something a bit different. But bear with me – this not the music found in the big-band halls or Jazz clubs of posts-past. In fact, this isn’t music that I’d even considered part of my listening preferences until recently. But while listening to This American Life (you’ll notice this as a trend soon enough), I heard this song examined and translated. And, as you’ll soon understand, the egotist in me couldn’t resist adding this track – and José Alfredo Jiménez – to a list of my favorites.

So, lest I deny you greatness any longer:

El Rey, written and performed by José Alfredo Jiménez

Verse:
Yo sé bien que estoy afuera
Pero el día que yo me muera
Sé que tendrás que llorar
(Llorar y llorar, x2)

I am fully aware that I am out
But the day that I die
I know that you will have to cry
(Cry and cry, x2)

Dirás que no me quisiste
Pero vas a estar muy triste
Y así te vas a quedar

You will say that you did not love me
But you will be very sad
And that is how you will stay

Chorus:
Con dinero y sin dinero
Hago siempre lo que quiero
Y mi palabra es la ley

With money and without money
I always do what I want
And my word is law

No tengo trono ni reina
Ni nadie que me comprenda
Pero sigo siendo el rey

I have no throne nor queen
Nor anyone who understands me
But I continue being king

Verse:
Una piedra en el camino
Me enseño que mi destino
Era rodar y rodar
(Rodar y rodar, x2)

A stone on the road
Taught me that my destiny
Was to roll and roll
(To roll and roll, x2)

Después me dijo un arriero
Que no hay que llegar primero
Pero hay que saber llegar

Afterwards an *arriero told me
That one need not make it first
But one must know how to make it

Chorus

*arriero = a travelling vendor

(I realize that his mouth is not synched up with the singing. But, this is the version of the recording that I’d like you to hear, and this is José Jiménez. Get over it.)