Eric Little Died Last Month

For the last month I've been waiting to see a comment from Eric Little in my inbox, wondering how his busy school term was shaping up, and it wasn't until today that I found out he died. I had to go searching because I never knew anything about his family, and he didn't use his real name, but he died late August on his way to the hospital, a month ago.

Eric wrote emails that I rarely answered, shamefully, and selfishly. I knew how to yank his chain. I declined the one opportunity to actually meet him in May. I won't lie, I could get annoyed how everything became an obscure cultural reference somehow. He knew his Vladimir Nabokov and his '60s pop. The Dos Passos novels he convinced me to read just arrived yesterday. I cared for him. I think he was incredibly smart, very sad, trying to make contact. I think he was also a "good man."

I can't decide what to do for him, but I'll think of something. I can't accept that he won't be writing to me anymore.

I know Eric loved to trawl YouTube. I think he'd enjoy this clip of Pete Townsend and John Entwistle performing "Face the Face." He would know all the trivia and he'd be bursting to share it. Enjoy the video, Eric, and please write a long comment about what it means! Really, please, tell me what you think.

Life at the Moment

A quick catch-up:

• Avidly reading John Barth's "LETTERS," trying always to find the most comfortable spot to read it in: porch, balcony, couch, chair, bed, coffee shop, park.
• Meanwhile proofreading a friend's satirical self-help book.
• Also reading a book on composing white papers, since I need to produce one at work.
• And promising, at some point, to read the graphic novels that Ash loaned me last week.
• Editing down certain songs ("Pretend to be Nice," "Terrible Thought," "Heart be Still") for this Thursday's open drag night, and making scattershot plans for the night itself.
• Watching the rain, the wind, and the gradual cooling of each day.
• Tending my hand, which has gotten worse due to all this activity. Acting upon the realization that POSTURE has a lot to do with the pain, and alternating cold-and-hot soaking seems to help it.
• Getting back, eventually, to working on UPhold's "Road to Avondale" project, and writing on Octavia-the-Neo (once my hand has improved and I start reading a lighter book), and taking the next BusWalk Tour.
• Watching the second season of "Twin Peaks" and enjoying it.
• Praying that I don't need to walk in the rain until I can buy new boots on the weekend.
• Pimping for my neighbour's dog. Waiting for the right time to approach the resident squirrels.
• Saving money with a vague hope of buying a car next spring.
• Anticipating next month's Pridetoberfest, BBGG DJ gig, hallowe'en, birthday, and "Mother Mother" live show.
  
• Jus' relaxin'.
  

Creepy Pedro Reviews Some Movies

Fans of "der Creepy" will be pleased to know that, regardless of the limbo-state of his latest radio play, Mr. Pedro will be appearing in Genxine on a regular basis (in issue #7 you'll find his reviews of "Performance" and "Michael Palin's Himalaya.")

Photos: Squirrels, Authors, and Sad Old Queens

Looking for pictures? There are some new ones at Flickr, including some hard-won shots of Rudolph the terrifying squirrel. Enjoy!

An iTunes Word Search: "Star"

When a song contains the word "star," what is the songwriter talking about?

1. All Star Funk (Bootsy Collins)
2. All the Stars are Falling (The Tear Garden)
3. Beloved Movie Star (Stan Ridgway)
4. Biggest Star (The Elected)
5. Brightest Star (The Legendary Pink Dots)
6. Catch a Fallen Star (Marc and the Mambas)
7. Child Star (Marc Almond)
8. The Darkest Star (Depeche Mode)
9. Dog Star (Klaatu)
10. Dogstar Man (Meat Beat Manifesto)
11. Filmstar (Suede)
12. Flesh Star (My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult)
13. I've Told Every Little Star (Linda Scott)
14. Manic Star (Conjure One)
15. Moon and Stars (Nits)
16. Mothership Connection -- Star Child (Parliament)
17. She's a Star (James)
18. Soul Mate Rock 'n' Roll Star (Mary 5e)
19. Star (Curve)
20. Star (Erasure)
21. Star Spangled Banner (Red House Painters)
22. Starchild (Level 42)
23. Starless and Bible Black (King Crimson)
24. Starlight (Stars of Stage and Screen)
25. Starmartyr (My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult)
26. Stars (The Weepies)
27. Stars Ablaze (Red Ram)
28. The Stars on 11 (Yoko Casionos)
29. Stars on Sunday (The Legendary Pink Dots)
30. The Stars That Surround You (Monster Movie)
31. The Stars We Are (Marc Almond)
32. Starstation Earth (Banco de Gaia)
33. Stereostar (Madrid)
34. Superstar (Daybehavior)
35. Til the Stars Fall (Strange Advance)
36. Top Star (Komeda)
37. Vein of Stars (The Flaming Lips)
38. Wannabe Superstar (Ivana F.)
39. We Are All Made of Stars (Moby)
40. You're a Star (Josie and the Pussycats)
41. Ziggy Stardust (Bauhaus)

Holy cow, that's a lot of stars! And go figure that Marc Almond would be in there twice (with a "tragic" view of stars: superstars that are also falling stars, bright and distant) as well as My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult (sexy/'70s/pop-porn-film stars).

Otherwise, what do these songs say about star metaphors? Fame, prestige, apocalypse, fairy tales, ambition, specialness, spooky universal mystery, tragedy, and wishing.

John Barth in My City

I am deep in the thick of John Barth's "LETTERS," a novel that requires every inch of attention in order to digest. I am completely drawn into its elaborate conceits and the extraordinarily vivid world of its characters...almost TOO vivid. It is, after all, about the delicate line between fiction and reality, inspiration and fabrication. I constantly need to ask myself (much as the characters do): did this really happen? Is this a real place?

Presumably because it's (partially) related to the war of 1812, southern Ontario figures frequently in the book (in particular Ottawa, Niagara Falls, and Toronto), but usually in a sketchy way which implies that Barth didn't really visit during his research. When, on page 200, Lady Amherst writes about travelling to Stratford for the Shakespeare Festival, I got a creeping sensation...this book is getting awfully close to my stomping grounds. My mother and I were in Stratford just three weeks ago.

Then, suddenly:

...I was handed a sealed envelope with my name on it by one of the ushers. I was obliged to sit before I could open it. The note inside, in a handwriting I knew, read: "My darling: Dinner 8 P.M., Wolpert Hotel, Kitchener."

Yes, I LIVE in that city which Barth describes as "in the middle of nowhere." What's more, the "very European old hotel" is no doubt the WALPER Hotel, built in 1893 after a fire destroyed the original 1820's structure. The Walper is a grand old landmark where drag queens such as yours truly have, at various times, performed in "the improbably elegant German dining room on the second floor."

Given the way the book is going, I'm waiting to come across the character of Muffy St. Bernard IV, bastard offspring of Napoleon and Mary Shelley.

I'd Buy Anything By...Bootsy Collins

You need a lot of ingredients to make a genuinely funky stew, and Bootsy Collins provides two of the major ones: a cute/mischievous sense of humour, and a low end that sounds like vicious soul food defecation.

Bootsy's a brilliantly unconventional slap/wow bass player, and over the years he has developed a complex mythology to rival George Clinton's "Star Child" stuff...and at the same time he's managed to be surprisingly down-to-earth and make songs you actually want to LISTEN to. Clowns, aliens, werewolves, Casper, Bootzilla, platforms, star-glasses, and underneath it all a really sweet and approachable guy (so they say).

You can hear Bootsy on the mid-period Parliament and Funkadelic albums -- and he's even lurking around on some of James Browns' classic tracks -- but he's best discovered as a solo artist, particularly on his first two releases. He took the Parliament sound, boosted the Horny Horns, added a snappy "rubber band" quality, made it "friendlier," and even did some memorable ballads. Bootsy, I love you, baby-baba.

Here he is with the classic Rubber Band, coming out of his sheet to do a memorable space-bass solo:

Bootsy's put out some stinkers, that's for sure, but even the BAD stuff is redeemed by his enthusiasm and his eccentricity. Like the rest of the funkateers he manages to pull it all together every few years, update his sound, and release another gem. Case in point: "Play with Bootsy," a terrific song (and video) featuring Kelli Ali (also brilliant, also worth checking out). It's not "Bootsy's Rubber Band" anymore, but it's still Bootsy.

Albums to buy: "Stretchin' Out" and "The Name is Bootsy, Baby!" (his first two releases, both a combination of wild fun and sweet ballads). Albums to avoid: "What's Bootsy Doin'?" (has some good moments but is far too silly). For fans only: "Lord of the Harvest" by Zillatron (Bootsy becomes a sort of werewolf monster, teams up with Buckethead, and takes samples from "The Howling"...very strange but captivating if you stick with it).

Shamus 2

Ah yes, give me a game I can map and I'll be happy for hours. I didn't care much for William Mataga's "Shamus: Case II" back in 1983, but thanks to the joy of emulation -- and the instructions here -- I can finally enjoy the game. And win it. On the Novice level. By saving it an awful lot.

I couldn't find any online maps or spoilers for Shamus 2, so here are mine. I'm sorry the map isn't very pretty (click for a larger version).
And here are the spoilers: there are 38 rooms, the devilish "sliding ladders" start to appear in room 27, and the only way across room 20 is to fall down into the ingenious "hidden room" (17).

Room 38 contains a "detonator." After you've armed it you need to get back to room zero (which you can do in ten moves), at which time you're told that "The Shadow is dead on this level" and you start at the Intermediate level. The instructions say that you actually DO BATTLE with The Shadow, so I assume that eventually you do get to meet him.

It's a nifty game with neat cross-genre appeal, but the real joy for me is the joy of mapping. The higher levels are probably the same, maybe with different obstacles...YOU can find out!

Rudolph, Randolph, and Scamp

I'm sitting on my balcony and reading, waiting for my laundry to dry. Rudolph, the resident black squirrel, climbs down his tree and on to the grass below. He tolerates a bit of yelling from the grey squirrel who lives in a nearby oak, then runs across the lawn and around the corner. Autumn's coming and he's looking for food.

A few minutes later I see an identical black squirrel follow the exact same path. Either Rudolph is a magic squirrel or he's got a friend, who I decide must be Randolph. The names are easily confused but so are the squirrels; they're impossible to tell apart.

Eventually I hear a squeaking noise, the sound of claws on metal, and I see that Rudolph is foraging in the neighbouring building's eavestroughs. I see his tail rushing along, leaves flying out of the tough, and then he looks out. He might be accustomed to finding seeds or insects there. Randolph is on the ground, looking up. He effortlessly scales the brickwork, jumps onto the neighbour's balcony, jumps twice more to a window ledge and then a power line, and takes the powerline highway into the tree. Seconds later he's on the roof with Rudolph. I expect a fight but they work collectively, both of them scraping through the eavestroughs, leaves flying. It's hot outside and Randolph occasionally lies down for a quick rest, but Rudolph keeps him on his toes. I suspect there's some flirting going on here. One of them might be a Dolphina.

A third black squirrel, smaller than the others, jumps out of the tree. They push through the eavestroughs together. This is getting complicated; one will rest, the others will rush forward and backward, they'll look at each other, click sharply in the hot air, run back to search some more. Eventually the three run back to the tree and I decide that the little one is "Scamp."

Back to my reading. All is quiet until I see Rudolph and Randolph jump down onto the powerline again. This line is in a "V" shape, joining my balcony, the tree, and the neighbour's balcony. This time they're coming towards me, closer and closer, looking for the stale bread or crackers I sometimes leave here.

Rudolph makes a terrifying leap and lands on the railing beside me, then -- realizing that I'm there -- jumps OVER MY HEAD and on to the opposite railing where he climbs down and out of sight.

Randolph, however, is more curious. He stands on the railing only a few feet away, shifting east and west, stopping, lifting one paw up in a weight-lifter's stance, oscillating his vocal chords with the shiver of his tail. He is thin but incredibly muscular. I am amazed at the size of his claws, the breadth of his forehead, the strength in his coiled-up body. He isn't built like a rat at all. He is a compact spring, strong, intelligent. I had no idea that squirrels were so powerful; I know that sounds funny but it's true.

He is about three feet away from me, close to where my feet are propped up on the railing. He knows I'm there, even though I'm not moving. I wonder what he wants; he obviously hasn't been trained to beg for food, but does he have an innate understanding of human generosity? Or is he angry? Rabid? His eyes aren't friendly...I realize that squirrels only look cute because they want something or they're far away. I don't know what Randolph wants but his proximity and attention is nerve-wracking.

Then I notice that the other squirrel, Rudolph, is on the opposite railing a few feet to my right. I can't see both of them at once. They are both making that oscillating noise, staring directly at me from either side. This is like a coordinated attack. Scamp is on the powerline too but he isn't coming closer, he's fearful.

I have an overpowering urge to speak to Randolph, but I don't want to scare him. So I go "mmmmmm," without moving my lips. He stops fidgeting and stares. I go "mmmmmm" again. He stares, motionless. Huge eyes and ugly nose.

Rudolph runs away, and Scamp follows the powerline back to the tree they obviously live in. Randolph turns east, turns west, takes one more look into my eyes, and then he's gone too. Down the sheer vertical cliff of my balcony and into the tree.

The Barthathon: "Giles Goat-Boy"

The first time I read John Barth's "Giles Goat-Boy" (1966) I was totally baffled. It seemed like a giant mess of confusing, cyclic plots and satirical references, spelling out a grand and almost transcendent philosophy that I was just too stupid to grasp. The second time -- a few years ago -- I was impatient to "get the point," and I skimmed the dull parts in order to achieve that elusive transcendence. I failed again...but was even MORE intrigued. All of Barth's other books were digestible, after all...why should this one be any different? And if the theme was so complex as to be almost impossible to understand, it must be a REAL piece of wisdom!

Now that I've read the book for the third time -- and very carefully too -- I can say with authority that there's a very good reason why I never understood its philosophical point before: the book is way too long, way too complicated, terribly organized, and an almost complete failure in so many ways. To use one of its own terms -- which makes me a little nauseous to see one more time -- "Giles Goat-Boy" is flunkéd.

I warn you now that I'm going to give it all away. The book's central (hidden, poorly realized) theme is that of paradoxical opposites living together in sort-of-harmony, and the paradox of "Giles Goat-Boy" is that the IDEAS are interesting, but they are too complicated to be interesting to read. So I'll spell them out here (as best as I think I understand them), to at least save you the 800 pages of the book itself.

Oh, the superficial ideas are clever. They're BRILLIANT, in fact. "Giles Goat-Boy" is presented as a computer-generated biographical reconstruction, given to a professor/author whose initials happen to be "J.B.," and then published by a reluctant publishing company. Already we have the traditional Barthian conceit of an unreliable manuscript, pieced together from multiple sources, handed down through a long line of anonymous people, and ending with a suspicious final chapter which may or may not be fraudulent.

So "Giles Goat-Boy" is a sort of New Testament (actually subtitled "The Revised New Syllabus") which tells the story of a hero-to-be, a goat-boy whose life fits the pattern of mythical heroes and prophets...yes, it's that "heroic pattern" that John Barth later explores in "Chimera."

Like Bellerophon from "Chimera," the goat-boy (George) is convinced that he is a prophet, and he tries his best to fit the archetype of the hero/prophet. Also like Bellerophon, this goes poorly, because George himself is no heroic stereotype; he's a flawed human who was raised as a goat, he is just as confused and uncertain as the people around him, and his attempts to "fit the pattern" go horribly awry: how can a REAL person ever fit into an IDEAL?

Besides the "heroic pattern" element, this book's other conceit is that George lives in a world based around a "University" idiom. The countries are all "colleges," the prophets are "tutors," the newspaper reporters are "journalism majors," the wars are "riots." Written in 1966, the major conflict -- the "Quiet Riot" -- is between New Tammany College (America) and the Nikolayan College (the "Student Unionist" USSR). George -- self-styled "Grand Tutor" -- wants to end the Quiet Riot by disarming the technological/war/political machine embodied by a computer called "WESCAC" (and the Nikolayan "EASCAC" counterpart). Then he wants to lead everybody to "Commencement Gate" (enlightenment) by showing them how to "pass" (an uncertain term, sort of "do the correct thing" or "live properly").

The people that he meets -- and tries to "pass" -- are all representations of human ideas and stereotypes: Max, his mentor, a disaffected Jewish ex-Student Unionist obsessed with his own unworthiness; Leonid, a Nikolayan spy who so desires to be selfless that he is potentially selfish; Croaker, a Frumentian (African) savage who is essentially "the body" to Dr. Eirkopf's withered and emotionless "mind"; Stoker, the crass, tempting, and misleading "dean o' flunks" (devil); Peter Greene, the necessarily blind embodiment of all American vice and virtue; Ira Hector, the selfish industrialist; Chancellor Rexford, the man who leads the "campus" with charisma but accomplishes nothing; Dr. Sear, the jaded upper-class professional; and Anastasia...errr, sort of a compendium of female traits, I suppose.

George tries to tutor these people while fending off the threat of Jerome Bray -- a mysterious, inhuman, and truly disturbing co-claimant to Grand Tutorhood -- and carrying out a set of cryptic but typically heroic tasks assigned to him by WESCAC.

The first four hundred pages of the book are LOTS of fun. You get an excellent gloss of world conflict, relgion, and sociology as satirized within the "University" idiom. As an added bonus you also get a lesson in heroic tragedy with "The Tragedy of Taliped Decanus," a hilarious seventy page retelling of "Oedipus Rex" (in rhyming heroic couplets and '60s slang).

Then, having gone through his preliminary obstacles, George begins to tutor. He believes that, to pass, everybody must learn to create firm categories and distinctions: passing is different from failing, good is different from bad, east is different from west, selfishness is different from selflessness, etc. He discusses this idea with each of the people mentioned above, and solves all of his tasks using this method: boundaries must be moved apart, people must remain unyielding in their principles. He is 100% convinced that this is the correct way to "pass"...but he has some tiny doubts now and then that he can't nail down.

We read hundreds of pages of philosophical debate. George debates everybody. He discusses all the ramifications of his theory. He manages to convince everybody (and the reader) that rigid categorization is the way to "pass"...

...and then his solutions fail. Things get worse. His "tutees" are more flunkéd than ever. Barth is, I suppose, criticizing dogmatism.

After an extended period of moping, George realizes that he was wrong: people must FORSAKE all categories: boundaries must CEASE to exist, people must accept ALL principles. Passing IS failing, and vice versa! For another hundred pages he tutors all of the above people again, teaching them this new way to "pass"...despite his tiny doubts. And once again, while sitting through these seemingly endless debates, the reader is convinced that George has finally got it figured out...

...and then his solutions fail. Things get even WORSE. George winds up getting lynched, with a goathorn stuck up his butt, the fate (Barth is telling us) of those who see EVERYTHING in shades of gray, refusing to recognize extremes.

After an extended period of moping, George realizes that he was wrong once again: people must...errr, he knows EXACTLY what they must do! For a third time he tutors everybody, but gives them contradictory advice that doesn't seem to have a purpose.He still has lots of doubts, but those doubts no longer bother him. He engages in a series of very '60s sex/conception/womb moments with Anastasia, briefly short-circuits WESCAC, and finally drives the nightmarish Jerome Bray off campus (maybe).

And what is George's grand philosophy, the one you've read 800 pages to learn? Oh jeez, you better have read close, because Barth does a piss-poor job of explaining it. The best I can understand, George has realized that the world is full of necessary contradictions and paradoxes; fighting against paradoxes is failure, but bringing yourself close enough to the paradoxes so that you can see them clearly -- and yet accept them as unsolvable or irrelevant -- is the only way to pass...which is simultaneously failure, but that's just one of life's paradoxes, that nobody really passes or fails, because we're full of contradictions, and so is the world, etc.

As you can imagine, this is NOT the resolution of a self-help book. The thing is, when you're reading "Giles Goat-Boy," you are anticipating SOME sort of return, but what you get is a concept so complicated, recursive, and difficult to live with that not even the AUTHOR can explain it properly. Since George (and Barth) seem to believe that the concept is impossible to really grasp...well, he literally seems to give up trying. The book falls flat on its face.

Infuriating. Fatally flawed. Passéd and flunkéd...but maybe THAT is the point? ARGH!

Anyway, I'm so exhausted by this book that I can't talk about it anymore, but since this is "The Barthathon," how does it fit into his body of work? This is the first time he really tries (and fails) to understand male-female relationships. The heroic pattern is also explored for the first time (intentionally at least). You've also got twins, agonized impotence, and Zeno's paradoxes (which will come up again in "On With the Story," I believe). Nobody goes to Maryland or sails a ship, and in many ways this is the most "un-Barth" of all the Barth novels, but "Chimera" later gives us both a mythology-distilling computer and "Jerome Bray" (J.B. again?)