Taste Of Crystal Lake
The Mesomorph spent six weeks this summer in the quest for a car which would not humiliate him his Senior year of high school. Of course, five of those weeks were devoted to wearing me down.
This effort cost me considerable angst and a few bucks, a fiscal debt my younger son has pledged to repay and which is secured by his IOU that authorizes me to demand payment from his sole reliable source of income – also me. As for the psychological trauma, I’m on my own. All in all, it’s a tidy arrangement.
Other than ending his paternal siege (a ceasefire granted on terms poignantly reminiscent of those ending hostilities in Viet Nam), I garnered precious little from this endeavor – which goes far in explaining my determination to create this post from such thin gruel.
In any case, The Mesomorph and whatever money he earns now reside here.
And, just to clarify, this is the vehicle (pictured here newly purchased and, since the latest automotive acquisition, reclaimed by The Prodigal, its original owner) that, had he been forced to continue using, would have devastated his self-esteem and social standing.
The Mesomorph has always had discerning taste. Beginning at the age of seven, he routinely screened his parents’ clothing selections as we dressed for a special occasion, and, on occasion, archly put to us such queries as “Do those really go together?” and “Is that what you’re going to wear to the party tonight?” followed by suggestions that unerringly resolved whatever fashion faux pas he had spotted.
The most telling incident, however, occurred when he was eight or nine. In one of my desperate attempts to stimulate Da Boyz to read more, I offered them each a subscription to any magazine they chose.1 The Mesomorph selected Power Yachting, which featured vessels costing $2-20 million and which he not only read from cover to cover but also carried with him like a talisman. When his grandmother was visiting, he asked her if she would buy him that month’s Power Yachting centerfold (a starter yacht, priced at $4 million, give or take a stateroom). Grandma confessed that she was about $3,999,940 short. The Mesomorph, undeterred, asked if she would buy it for him — if she had the $4 million. She replied in the affirmative, laughing it off, and, I’m sure, considers the case closed. I’m certain, however, that The Mesomorph continues to carefully monitor Missouri lottery winners and should Gram’s number come up, she should expect her grandson, wearing a captain’s cap, knocking at her door within 24 hours.
Footnotes
- The magazine choices did exclude porn, Soldier of Fortune, The Ku Klux Klan Klaxon, and a few others — most of which I probably would have nonetheless bought for them if I had been convinced it would entice them to read. ~back~
Possibly Related Posts:
Google’s #1 Heck Of A Guy
One In 25,500,000
It’s Official!
As the Heck Of A Guy Blog prepares to enter its sixth month, Google, whose spiders had never listed a single page of the blog, has not only begun to index these posts but has, in fact, ranked this humble URL as the web’s #1 Heck Of A Guy.
Kinda, sorta.
In response to a one-week effort during which meta tags were fixed, sitemaps restructured, and fractured URLs repaired,1 Googlebot has begun roaming the files of the Heck Of A Guy Blog.
Admittedly, there are still more glitches than there are indexed pages. In fact, today, the only posts
that are searchable are the most recent posts when the initial indexing took place, from How To: Compare Costs Of Shipping Packages on July 19, 2006 to A Balcony For The Blogroll on July 27, 2006, and, for reasons completely unclear to me, The Prodigal’s Fishy Recipe: Dishwasher Salmon, which was posted 25 March 2006.
After prolonged trial and error, however, I believe I now have a handle on the remaining problems and have, in fact, installed another round of fixes that only await the next visitation from Googlebot to determine if they were effective – or if they wiped out any progress I had made to this point.
Incredibly enough, no one has yet written the rock anthem celebrating the sine qua non of success in this cultural epoch – top ranking on Google. I think, nonetheless, that there is a song to be sung, one that recognizes an analogous accomplishment and evokes the appropriate tone.
From the 1972 classic, The Cover Of The Rolling Stone The Cover Of The Rolling Stone The Cover Of The Rolling Stone, by Dr. Hook & The Medicine Show,2
But the thrill we’ve never known
Is the thrill that’ll getcha
When you get your picture
On the cover of the Rolling Stone.
Footnotes
- We don’t know whether sacrificing those goats helped or not but better safe than sorry. BTW, if anyone knows where I can find a virgin or two, … ~back~
- Dr. Hook & The Medicine Show did make it, appearing on the cover of the March 29, 1973 issue of Rolling Stone magazine, Issue #131. ~back~
Possibly Related Posts:
The Spooklight Background
[This post is a follow-up to yesterday's Spooklight Story]
Growing up in southwest Missouri, I absorbed random ambient information about The Spooklight, coming away with a confused mix of fact and fiction, categories which were most often impossible to distinguish. The internet, however, has changed all that, greatly multiplying the amount of information and confusion.
In any case, The Spooklight was regarded by my cohort as a quasi-interesting, how about that? phenomenon, the significance of which was more or less equal with my hometown’s status as the birthplace of George Washington Carver and of much less import than the chances of that year’s high school basketball team in the Christmas Tournament. We were certainly aware of it, would occasionally trot out the story when friends from out of town would visit and conversation lagged, and were vaguely proud of it, but The Spooklight was strictly no big deal.
It never, for example, achieved the notoriety of Area 54, crop circles, or the Bermuda Triangle. In retrospect, it seems odd that hypothetical explanations of The Spooklight never, to my recall, invoked UFOs and aliens. Even now with the flood of data released on the internet, theories postulating an association between The Spooklight and UFOs are relatively uncommon. Some web sites, in fact, list The Spooklight as a cause of false UFO sightings.
There has never been a report of The Spooklight harming anyone,.
The History
Almost unanimously, the earliest stories of The Spooklight are attributed to the Indian tribes in the area in the 1800s. Often the specific date of 1836 or 1866 is listed as the first sighting.
The first printed account, depending on ones source, appeared in the Kansas City Star in 1936 or in a publication called the Ozark Spook Light in 1881.
Names
The Spooklight is also known as
- The Ozark Spook Light
- The Hornet Ghost Light
- The Joplin Ghost Light
- The Devil’s Jack-O’-Lantern
- The Tri-State Spook Light
Description
Timing
The Spooklight appears almost every night, most frequently between 10 PM and midnight
Appearance
- Most often described as a “ball of light”
- Orange is most frequently mentioned color but red, blue, green are also reported
- The light is very bright even when it appears to be far away
- The light is most often viewed as a single globe but may split into two, three, or more balls of light
- A 1983 investigation by the Ghost Research Society described the light is diamond-shaped, with a hollow center
Movement
- The orb floats and weaves between the sides of the road & travels from east to west along the road
- The light has been known to enter cars and buses
- It dodges people chasing it.
.
Location
Spooklight Road is eleven miles southwest of Joplin, Missouri, just past the village of Hornet, in the area where Missouri borders Oklahoma and Kansas. The light is most commonly described as being visible from inside the Oklahoma border looking to the west.
Legends
The Spooklight has been said to be
- The torch of a beheaded Quapaw or Osage Indian, searching for his head.
- The spirits of a young Quapaw couple who were in love but forbidden to marry because the man did not have a large enough dowry. The couple eloped and were pursued by a party of warriors to a cliff, where they leapt into Spring River to their deaths.
- The spirit of a miner, decapitated in a mining accident, carrying a lantern searching for his head.
- The spirit of a Confederate sergeant killed by cannon fire, who is searching for his head.
- A miner searching for his children kidnapped by Indians.
Explanatory Theories
A 1946 study by the Army Corps of Engineers concluded the phenomenon was “a mysterious light of unknown origin,” a non-explanation which appears to be, to this day, the consensus assessment of The Spookight.
The most popular explanation appears to be that the light is the results of reflections from car lights on nearby roads, including old Route 66, deflected by heat rising from the hills. The most popular retort is that The Spooklight was reported long before automobiles existed or the pertinent highways were constructed.
Another frequently voiced hypothesis is that the light results from will-o’-the-wisp, the name given to the emission of light that caused by the decay of wood and organic materials. According to reliable sources, however, the light given off by will-o’-the-wisp is not as intense as that reported from The Spooklight.
There have also been theories that the light arises from glowing minerals in the area, which would not explain the mobility of the light.
Another hypothesis is that the light is formed by electrical fields in areas where earthquakes and ground shifts take place.
One scientific methodology that appears to be employed with surprising frequency for the exploration of the nature of The Spooklight is shooting at it with a rifle. By all accounts, however, these attempts have had no effect on the light.
The Museum
The “Spooksville Museum” was opriginally owned by Leslie W. Robertson. It contained photographs and a collection of accounts about the light. There was also a viewing platform. Garland “Spooky” Middleton, who operated the Spooksville Museum in later years. Spooky carried a variety of refreshments and would rent binoculars and telescopes that were set up on the viewing platform. Upon Spooky’s death, the building the area was bought up by residents who closed the museum.
We Are Not Alone
There are several other lights around the world, some of which are also called “Spooklight,” that more or less resemble the Hornet Spooklight.
Possibly Related Posts:
Spooklight Story
Gather ’round the virtual campfire, cyber-campers & Uncle DrHGuy will tell you a tale from a time so long ago that DrHGuy was HGuyM1,1 which doesn’t scan nearly as well and loses much in the necessity of explanation.
Before we start, cleanse your minds of those classic urban legends (e.g., the insane killer with a hook for a hand who escapes from prison, the murderer hiding in the backseat of the car, the babysitter who starts getting creepy telephone calls only to discover that, when the police trace the calls, they’re coming from inside the same house, and the vanishing hitchhiker) that high school girls tell at slumber parties to scare themselves out of their pants and that high school boys tell high school girls to get into those pants. The source of this story isn’t a guy I met at church camp who told me it happened to his uncle’s best friend nor a cable TV show with a title along the lines of Mysteriously Strange But True Stories That Are Strangely Mysterious But True (& Will Scare You Out Of Your Pants).
I witnessed this myself.
By crackey
Once Upon A Time
Attending the University of Missouri School Of Medicine in the 1970s has, I suspect, little in common with making a pilgrimage from Southwark to the shrine of Saint Thomas à Becket at Canterbury Cathedral in the 14th century. My classmates and I did, however, practice the same storytelling ascribed to Chaucer’s pilgrims2 and did so for the same purpose, to elude boredom.
Thus it came to pass that I offered up to the group of my fellow medical students a Believe it or not phenomenon from my neck of the woods:The Spooklight.
The details I provided were simple enough:
Eleven miles southwest of Joplin, Missouri, just past the village of Hornet, in the area where Missouri borders Oklahoma and Kansas, there is a gravel road, which I’ve only recently come to learn is officially known as E50, that is locally known as “Spooklight Road.” The road is narrow and bounded on both sides by brush and trees and travels a rising and falling course over the hills.
In the daylight, the scene is pretty enough but nothing special.
At night, however, there are almost always at least a few cars parked along the road, waiting.
These folks are, of course, hoping to see The Spooklight. And, most nights, they aren’t disappointed.
The Spooklight has appeared here since the 1860s, typically taking the form of a bright light (sometimes described as a “ball of fire”) of a yellow-orange color, ranging in size from what one might guess would be a large flashlight to something the size of a bushel basket or larger, that seems to be at the top of the next rise. The light routinely moves to the left and right. Less often, it’s said to split into smaller balls of light or take on different colors (red, blue, and green). Those walking toward the light find that it disappears until, if they continue forward, it reappears behind them.
The Expedition
As one might expect, the predominant responses of my classmates to my story of The Spooklight consisted of jeers, speculation that the spectators may have imbibed too much local moonshine, aspersions regaling the diminished intelligence and high gullibility of hillbillies, and explanations ranging from mass hysteria to swamp gas and beyond.
My protestations that I had personally seen the thing were to no avail, especially when it became known that local teenagers viewed Spooklight Road less as an opportunity to explore paranormal phenomena than as an opportunity to explore each other’s bodies.
Naturally, a field trip was organized.
Out brave little group, two of my more sympathetic classmates, the spouse of one of those classmates, and I, made the five hour journey into the heart of darkness I like to call home, established a base camp at my parents’ place, and proceeded to Spooklight Road.
The Shining Of The Spooklight
By 9 or 10 PM, the four of us were parked, along with perhaps a dozen other cars, in the prescribed viewing area.
It wasn’t long until our efforts were rewarded by the appearance of a small but distinct and unambiguous light some distance away but clearly on the same road, resembling the light shown in the photo below.3
This occurrence was, of course, a significant relief to me. Otherwise, the ridicule that would follow a no-show by The Spooklight would be devastating.
It was a warm night so we were outside, walking about or leaning against the car, watching the antics of The Spooklight, which were entertaining enough. It veered to the left, it veered to the right, it moved around, it did The Spooklight hokey-pokey.
Having been initiated as certified Spooklighters, we were jaded enough to begin discussing plans to return home when the light became brighter and seemed to move toward us. We stared at it because, well, it was interesting. Then, it unmistakably became bigger and brighter, increasing in size from that of a distant flashlight as seen in the photo to that of a basketball. But what captured our attention was its distinct increase in acceleration as it moved toward us. In another moment, the increase in size, intensity, and acceleration stepped up again.
It was at this time that our conviction that we understood how the world operated in general, along with our beliefs in specific scientific principles, dissolved in the acute, undiluted fear of impending doom. This is not an exaggeration. While I’ve treated many cases of panic disorder and heard descriptions of the conviction that catastrophe was imminent and inevitable, this is the only episode in my life when I was possessed of – and by – that sensation myself.
The “ball of fire” descriptions, which had seemed inappropriate to the spotlight we had watched throughout the evening now became all too apt. My last glance at that light, before I turned my back to join the others scrambling for the car, revealed an orange, glowing comet with a circumference larger than that of a large beach umbrella, leaving a trail of sparks behind it — and moving every more rapidly toward us.
And, suddenly, it was gone.
We pulled ourselves together and saw that the light had reappeared, diminished to its flashlight size and relocated safely down the road.
Without saying much, we left.
[Update: The Spooklight Background]
Credit Due Department
Top photo from stock.xchng
Footnotes
- ”M1″ translates as “First Year Medical Student” ~back~
- Chaucer set up the frame of storytelling as a suggestion of the Host of the inn where the pilgrims spent the night prior to starting out for Canterbury. In Chaucer’s words,
Ye goon to Caunterbury - God yow speede,
The blisful martir quite yow youre meede!
And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye,
Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye,
For trewely, confort ne myrthe is noon
To ride by the weye doumb as stoon;And in translation,
You go to Canterbury; may God speed
And the blest martyr listens to your need.
And well I know, as you go on your way,
You’ll tell good tales and shape yourselves to play;
For truly there’s no mirth nor comfort, none,
Riding the roads as dumb as is a stone; ~back~ - This photo was taken a different night, but at the same location and is a reasonable representation of what we saw. ~back~
Possibly Related Posts:
A Balcony For The Blogroll
I Adore Competent Women
While adoring competent women has proven gloriously rewarding, it is not without cost.
For example,
When a comment on one of my posts last week by Helen led me to an especially enjoyable web site, I composed a succinct yet thoughtful, sincerely appreciative, and, because I can’t help myself, thoroughly charming note of thanks only to discover that she had not left an email address.
Helen did however provide a URL which delivered my browser to her blog, Blogger On The Cast Iron Balcony. It seemed tacky to just grab the email address & run, so, I decided to read the most recent entry – just to be polite, you know.
Over the next four to five hours, I found myself perusing posts containing, among many other wonders,
- A casual reference to Godwin’s Law
- A simile based on the Amish quilter’s tradition of creating minutely flawed work
- The disclosure of a fondness for the music of Nick Cave.
- A recipe for ham hock risotto, which she improvised after reveling in the “silky, smoky, melt-in-the-mouth flavour explosion” of the dish at a fancy-schmancy restuarant
- An irrelevant digression1 that describes the same Excel 97 Easter Egg that I mentioned in The Google Calculator Easter Egg, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, & The Answer To Life (AKA “42″)
Cavalierly dispensed esoterica? Exquisitely good taste in underappreciated pop musicians? An intimate acquaintance with the Amish (or, alternatively, a deep knowledge of quilts)? Irrelevant digressions? Gratuitous presentation of the 97 Excel Easter Egg? It’s as though we were twins separated at birth – except for that ham hock risotto thing, the preparation of which inexplicably did not require a dishwasher or a Ziploc bag.
On the other hand, in Helen’s past two years of blogging, she has never used the word, “kinky,” she has had nothing to say on the art and science of ketchup pouring, and it appears that she has not accepted Leonard Cohen as her personal savior.
Further,
- She’s an unrepentant liberal; I’m just unrepentant.
- She ridicules intelligent design, the political right, and pompous sorts; I see no reason to restrict my ridicule to deserving targets.
- Her blog has a category called “Meaningless Twaddle;” my entire blog is … well, never mind.
While four hours may seem a suspiciously long time for me to spend doing anything, let alone reading a blog, regardless of its merit, I will point out that
(1) Helen’s blog adheres to the old school custom of link-heavy posts, and I’ve never met a link I didn’t like or which, it seems, I didn’t follow.
(2) Helen writes in Australian, a fact which forced me to decipher references to magazines, political issues, food brands, locations, etc to which she persists in alluding despite the fact that these items do not even exist in the universe of Crystal Lake, Illinois. 2
Conclusion #1
Helen and I are exactly alike except we’re completely different. This would perhaps seem a mystery (or just plain stupid) to the uninitiated but to those steeped in cosmology, Jungian archetypes, theological systems, string theory, and 1960s American sitcoms, the solution to this conundrum is precisely as obvious as it is inscrutable: Helen and I are the cyber-version of Patty and Cathy from the Patty Duke Show.
Yep, we’re Identical Cousins
Meet Cathy, who’s lived most everywhere,
From Zanzibar to Berkeley Square.
But Patty’s only seen the sight.
A girl can see from Brooklyn Heights —
What a crazy pair!
But they’re cousins,
Identical cousins all the way.
One pair of matching bookends,
Different as night and day.
Where Cathy adores a minuet,
The Ballet Russes, and crepe suzette,
Our Patty loves to rock and roll,
A hot dog makes her lose control —
What a wild duet!
Still, they’re cousins,
Identical cousins and you’ll find,
They laugh alike, they walk alike,
At times they even talk alike —
You can lose your mind,
When cousins are two of a kind.
Conclusion #2
Helen clearly meets the criteria for certification as an Adored Competent Woman, and her Blogger On The Cast Iron Balcony is hot stuff that is well worth the trip down under to read. Check it out.
Footnotes
- I know it’s an irrelevant digression because Helen labels it an “Irrelevant Digression” ~back~
- I also found myself affecting a pseudo-Aussie accent. Given that I grew up in the Ozarks, that six years of speech therapy were required to correct a childhood defect in my mumbling, and that my knowledge of Australian speech patterns is completely based on movies and TV, it should not have been a surprise that I sounded like the moderately demented love child of Paul Hogan and Mammy Yoakum, but I’m certain this exercise will come in handy should I ever feel the need to announce that I’m throwing a whole mess o’ shrimp on the barbie. ~back~
Possibly Related Posts:
Opening Impenetrable Clamshells
Today’s Quiz
What is this guy doing?
If your answer, sans profanities, is on the lines of
He’s trying to open one of those [multiple expletives deleted] plastic clamshells that encloses every piece of electronics gear I’ve purchased in the past five years
Then you’ve come to the right place.
And you’re not alone.
The Problem
In his ongoing role as Champion of Mankind in the battle of Humanity Vs Clamshell Packaging, DrHGuy has been ultimately victorious in each of his contests, but more than a few of these conflicts have been in doubt and the clamshell opponents, such as those pictured below, have, on occasion, drawn first blood – literally.
These tenacity of this packaging is the result of two factors:
1. An especially sturdy plastic polymer, originally developed as part of the Regan Star Wars initiative to serve as the basic ingredient of affordable, yet durable domes capable of deflecting missiles descending on second-tier cities1
2. Exquisitely diabolical design, including the use of double shells and the especially diabolical molding of the plastic shell around each component of the items packaged together (note the flashlight and batteries in the above photo)
This excerpt from the Consumer Reports Oyster Awards, a report that I heartily recommend as both enlightening and perversely entertaining, encapsulates the packaging industry’s treachery in one, grand prize-winning example:
The Hard Plastic Clamshell
This didn’t take the longest (9 min, 22 sec to open the Uniden Digital Cordless Phone Set–14 pieces with rivets between each), but it won because of all the sharp edges produced opening the package. The hapless victim couldn’t open the package with scissors, so he tried a box cutter, which was risky. He couldn’t pry the rivets open with a screwdriver, but used a razor blade to bypass and cut around them. He also sliced the instruction manual and nearly cut the battery wires.
Similarly telling is this quote from Christian Arbelaez, MD, a member of the Trauma Care and Injury Control National Committee of American College of Emergency Physicians, … serious hand injuries are occurring because of this packaging. Dr. Arbelaez goes on to note that in his own Boston-area ER, he routinely treats package-induced trauma – including tendon & nerve damage and cases requiring surgical repair – at the rate of one case each week except at Christmas when the pace accelerates exponentially.2
The phenomenon has, inevitably, precipitated the creation of a new term, “wrap rage,” defined as the anger caused by product packaging that is difficult to open or manipulate. This term is featured in my favorite quote describing this problem:
The crucible of wrap rage is, of course, the CD. It was universally repackaged in 1992, its old cardboard box replaced by plastic wrap with a zip-strip. The answer to our unwrapping prayers! Yet 12 years later, a pull-tab torn off in hand, we are still chewing through plastic like wild dogs.
“Wrap rage,” The Times (London, England), February 4, 2004
Is There No Hope?
Of course. Given the indomitable will and wondrous ingenuity of humankind, it seems to me, it’s an even bet that we can overcome these seemingly benign chunks of plastic.
And, happily, evidence exists that some manufacturers are attempting to balance their need to protect against pilferage, the multi-billion dollar motivation for using the Kevlar clamshells and their like, with customer convenience and safety. An outstanding example of packaging re-design is offered by Sherwin-Williams’ twist-and-pour paint cans.
Less dramatically, Hewlett Packard uses a variety of packaging for its inkjet cartridges, dependent on the sales point. While these items are still encased by plastic, for example, for those sellers that ask for it, HP ships them in cardboard boxes if one orders them directly from the website.
Such examples are, however, notable because they are unusual.
Solutions
Anyone attempting to open these devices without tools is destined for failure.
One can arm oneself with box cutters, razors, and similar cutting implements.
Other tools suggest themselves.
And things have a way of escalating …
Until they get completely out of hand
Which brings us to
The OpenX Tool
First, the OpenX Tool is not a miracle.
And, I suggest one not get too excited about the prospect that, as the web site claims, the ” OpenX® makes opening packages fast, safe and easy!”
Faster? – Probably.
Safer? – Well, if one follows instructions;
Easy? – Let’s not get carried away.
It is, however, a quantum leap better than anything else I’ve found.
The OpenX directions from its web site are self-explanatory.
And, finally, it seems worth mentioning that, at least when I purchased this thing, the packaging (you know what’s coming, don’t you?) cried out for an OpenX Tool to open it.
The OpenX Tool is available for about $5 with free shipping from the OpenX web site. Amazon also carries it at a similar price.
Footnotes
- Second-tier cities were defined as any metropolitan area other than Washington DC, which was to be shielded by a retractable dome constructed from transparent tungsten, a solution altogether too expensive to be used for purposes other than defending the sitting government ~back~
- Dr. Arbelaez’s interview is reported in Wired News: Tales From Packaging Hell, which I also recommend in its entirety, especially if the reader enjoys cockfights, movies about shark attacks, America’s Funniest Home Videos, and other entertainment in which pain and blood play prominent roles. ~back~
Possibly Related Posts:
Music Recommendation That Will Make You Want To Kiss Me
Anjani - Blue Alert
How We Met
In many ways, it was a day like any other. While browsing for merchandise at Amazon to nudge my total order over the $25 criterion to qualify for that all-important free shipping, I happened onto Blue Alert, the album by Anjani Thomas that I recalled had received some coverage in the pop music press because it was produced by Leonard Cohen. Being a full-fledged member of the Cohen cohort, I had casually planned to check it out and this accidental encounter seemed a serendipitous opportunity.
But you know how these set-ups never work out. Your best friend in high school introduces you to his cousin from Kansas City so you go out a few times but never really click. Then you go out a few more times and before you know it, you marry her – and then your life descends into a living hell that makes you long for the sweet release only death can bring. For example.
But hope, as it is wont to do, springs eternal so I was thought it was possible that Anjani and I might have a few laughs together in the form of three or four tracks enjoyable enough to justify transferring ten bucks from me to Jeff Bezos. Admittedly, I was only looking for a good time, not a long term relationship. But, hey, she was hanging out with Leonard Cohen so she was probably into that sort of thing, right?
Then, my interest was piqued by a phrase from Amazon’s Editorial Review of the album, which described Blue Alert as
… a collection of gentle music tinged with styles
ranging from Holly Cole to Tanita Tikaram
As it turns out, folks in proximity to me for more than 20 minutes are at substantial risk of being subjected to my adulation of Tanita – if they have survived my even more fervid adoration of Holly.1 When I read that implicit grouping of Anjani, Holly, and Tanita, my mind raced to the obvious conclusion – that’s right, I’m thinking foursome.
Why You’re Going To Want To Kiss Me2
My jejune sexual fantasies notwithstanding, this is music that is lovely, intricate, and intoxicating.
Many reviewers use adjectives such as “gentle,” “mellow,” and “low [amplitude],” to describe this album. It is true that one is unlikely to mistake Anjani’s contralto singing for a performance by Judas Priest or Iron Maiden. Such characterizations, however, are misleading in that they connote a semi-jazzy CD one plays as background music when the boss comes for dinner because it’s unobtrusive.
Such a categorization would be a tragedy. This is, in fact, an album that deserves to be played, especially the first time, when one has the time and psychological energy to hear the music and listen to the lyrics. Lord, now I’m making it sound like an intellectual task or, worse, an assignment. Let me reframe that into You (and you know who you are) deserve to listen to this album, especially the first time, when you have the time and psychological energy to hear the music and listen to the lyrics. Anyone that knows me knows that this is not a suggestion I make casually. (While I’m writing this post, for example, I’m also auditioning some new songs from a group called Let’s Be Honeys, checking CNN Headline News, and monitoring the clock to assure that I roust the offspring for chores in timely fashion.)
Lenny & Anji
OK, I know you’re wondering so let’s get it out of the way. It’s no secret (heck, even the Knight Ridder News Service knows it) that she was a keyboardist and backup singer for Cohen for 14 years and, yep, his lover for six of those years.
The tipping point for making this album, according to Anjani, came after she finished a vocal of one of Cohen’s songs; then, “Leonard said to me, ‘Now, could you sing it like you’re devastated on a shore with nothing left to give?”3 Anjani goes on that “All my tools went out the window, I actually was devastated at that point. Then the vocal just came out.”
Well, thank goodness she was devastated. The official Amazon blurb tells the rest of the story
After finding a few lines of Cohen’s handwritten lyrics lying on his desk one day (specifically “there’s perfume burning in the air/bits of beauty everywhere”), Anjani was not just drawn to them, the words inspired her to write a song in their honor (”Blue Alert”). After hearing the result, the Order of Canada-winning poet was so impressed that he eventually allowed her the chance to cull through both his published and unpublished works for additional lyrics.
Whatever.
The Music
In any case, Anjani’s husky, lovely voice and Cohen’s new (or previously unrecorded) lyrics4 are a perfect fit.
While Blue Alert stands independently as an album and is wonderful as an isolated phenomenon, it is enriched if the listener has some experience with Cohen’s own performances of his work. There is an obvious contrast between Anjani’s assured voice and Cohen’s. One of Cohen’s saving graces is his straightforward recognition and acknowledgement of the quality of his vocalizations, which he distinguishes as “a different kind of activity” than singing. Yet, it seems to me that the honesty of Anjani’s voice evokes Cohen’s own. (Oops, I’m not the only one. In skimming for another factoid, I just found this, arguably more poetic, quote from Brian Johnson, “And though Cohen doesn’t sing a note on the album, his voice permeates it like smoke.” Yeah, what he said.)
In addition, many of the motifs, metaphors, and metaphysics from Cohen’s earlier corpus are, unsurprisingly, prominent in Blue Alert. “[I] Had to do time in the tower” from “Crazy To Love You,” for example, echoes the lines from Cohen’s “Tower Of Song,” and “Thanks For The Dance” is reminiscent of “Dance Me To The End Of Love” and, to my ears at least, seems almost a direct response to “Do I Have To Dance All Night” (See earlier post: The Best Leonard Cohen Song You’ve (Probably) Never Heard)
Love
Love is, indeed, the focus of Blue Alert, and Cohen’s words are of a piece with the sensibilities of his earlier work. He is ambiguous and ambivalent but never ambagious. Love is everything and not enough to save us. And the sex is good, too.
Enough blathering.
Listen
Four songs are available for listening at Anjani’s myspace.com
Lyrics
Some of the lyrics are so damn good, I can’t think of a better way to close to list a few lines and the complete lyrics of my favorite track, “Thanks For The Dance,” unencumbered by my annotations.
From “Blue Alert”
All Tangled up in nakedness
You even touch yourself
You’re such a flirt
Blue Alert.
From “Half The Perfect World”
…that fundamental ground
Where love’s unwilled, unleashed,
Unbound
And half the perfect world.
From “The Mist”
So will we endure when one is gone and far.
“Thanks For The Dance”
Thanks for the dance
I’m sorry you’re tired
The evening has hardly begun
Thanks for the dance
Try to look inspired
One two three, one two three one
There’s a rose in my hair
My shoulders are bare
I’ve been wearing this costume
Forever
Turn up the music
Pour out the wine
Stop at the surface
The surface is fine
We don’t need to go any deeper
Thanks for the dance
I hear that we’re married
One two three, one two three one
Thanks for the dance
And the baby I carried
It was almost a daughter or a son
And there’s nothing to do
But to wonder if you
Are as hopeless as me
And as decent
We’re joined in the spirit
Joined at the hip
Joined in the panic
Wondering if
We’ve come to some sort
Of agreement
It was fine it was fast
I was first I was last
In line at the
Temple of Pleasure
But the green was so green
And the blue was so blue
I was so I
And you were so you
The crisis was light
As a feather
Thanks for the dance
It’s been hell, it’s been swell
It’s been fun
Thanks for all the dances
One two three, one two three one
So?
So, listen to the clips. If you like it, buy the album and listen to it.
Then,
Pucker up, Buttercup.
Updated:
A Muse Amused?
It’s Pandoracious!
Anjani and Anjani Thomas: An Aside On Names
Anjani and Anjani Thomas are, for the purposes of the Heck of a Guy blog, synonymous names, both of which refer to the exotically lovely, dulcet-voiced singer best known for her Blue Alert CD and her long-term relationship with Leonard Cohen. I include this clarification on posts about Anjani-Anjani Thomas in part for the purpose of what the folks at Wikipedia call disambiguation (i.e., to positively identify for the reader and remove any doubts the reader might have about which Anjani of all the possible Anjanis is being discussed) and in part to aid and abet the search engines. While a rose is, famously, a rose is a rose, a “tea rose,” for example, is not exactly the same as a “rose” - especially to a search engine. Searches that include “Anjani” as part of the search terms may not produce the same results as the same search terms other with “Anjani Thomas” substituted for “Anjani.” Should any other Anjani, say one who has not produced a CD called “Blue Alert” or one who has not been associated with Leonard Cohen for the decade, I promise to do my best to make that identification clear as well.
Footnotes
- Both Holly Cole and Tanita Tikaram are subjects worthy of their own posts. And DrHGuy has not forgotten his promise/threat to post features about Leonard Cohen, the uses of poetry, and other topics, not to mention such thus far unmentioned but worthy themes as the comparative analysis of Paul Simon Vs Simon & Garfunkel, the list of female singers I want to sleep with even though I know they would hurt me and the chances of Tina Turner spending the night with me approximates zilch, the comfort and strength embedded in the poems of A.E. Housman, and the improbability of an adult American woman wearing a correctly sized bra unless she has been fitted for one by a lady of a certain age who speaks with a distinct