With his undersold bout against Miguel Cotto coming up soon, it’s no surprise that Ricardo Mayorga has been running his mouth nonstop in the media. Mayorga’s got style, sure, but I’ve never cared much for guys that talk smack just to talk smack. I like the Kobe Bryants of the world. The killers. The guys that say things like this…
I just want them to keep bringing guys on and I’m going to strip them of their health. I bring pain, a lot of pain.
…and mean it. Either way, Mayorga does have a style of his own. You’ve got to love a dude who confesses that when prepping for his fights, he’s always drank, chain smoked, and…
with respect to women, had intercourse with my girlfriends.
I stood in the harsh electric light of that new tunnel, in Bombay’s Arthur Road Prison, and I wanted to laugh. Hey guys, I wanted to say, can’t you be a little more original? But I couldn’t speak. Fear dries a man’s mouth, and hate strangles him. That’s why hate has no great literature: real fear and real hate have no words.
…Shantaram, page 414.
I spent half an hour thinking about this, and I’ll tell you what…the bastard might be right. Can’t think of a single book. Apathy, maybe. Or negative hate, perhaps. Either way, hate does make for some pretty good tunes.
Its splendor was dazzling. The silks, muslins, velvets, capes covered with sequins, jewels, incessant popping of champagne corks, valets coming and going, and the continual murmur rich people generate when gathered in strength, all delighted me. “That’s how I want to be,” he said to himself, “even if it means putting up with this insipid music that seems to be going on forever.”
So I’m not the only writer in the family. Just the only unsuccessful one. My older brother, one of only three people in the world who’s taste in books and film I trust implicitly, has this wildly successful Cincinnati Reds blog over at www.RedlegNation.com, and just yesterday made his debut for ESPN.com. Check out all of his new posts:
Oh, and he’s a judge. And has been published in fifty billion magazines. And that makes me feel quite lazy. Go Redlegs.
…mind-screwing solo acoustic version of Thunder Road, track #5 from War and Roses: The Definitive Born to Run Outtakes Collection bootleg.
As though touching her
might make him known to himself,
as though his hand moving
over her body might find who
he is, as though he lay inside her, a country
his hand’s traveling uncovered,
as though such a country arose
continually up out of her
to meet his hand’s setting forth and setting forth.
And the places on her body have no names.
And she is what’s immense about the night.
And their clothes on the floor are arranged
I’ve always loved that, for a man whose personal history is wracked with the politics of upheaval, whose ancestral story makes Oscar-winning epics look pale and lifeless, he chooses to write…this. Wow.
Obsession of the moment: track number one from Joe Purdy‘s eponymous re-re-unreleased independent debut. At times he out Damien Rice’s Damien Rice, & that dissonant piano might be the most awesome backing instrument to the effeminate man’s folk tune since Patrick Watson‘s xylophone and handclaps in Big Bird In A Small Cage.
Alexandria: Why are you killing everybody?
Roy: It’s my story.
Alexandria: Mine too!
Now I know it’s getting late,It’s Friday night & the crowds are starting to fade away,And I know shouldn’t be here waiting on her,But I keep thinking any second she’ll be coming ’round the cornerAnd I should be in my room, & I should learn how to forgetWell she may be pretty, oh but someday I’ll get sick of her shit
I’ve listened to this album at least twenty times in the past two weeks. Earle just managed a coup for presidency of the Rock God Progeny club and poor Jakob Dylan got kicked out to busk on the street. Absolutely brilliant album. I’m officially obsessed, almost to the degree that I have been with his father for the last ten years. This is the album I’ve wanted Ryan Adams to make since 29. It’s so Zevon-esque in the simplicity, yet razor-sharp accuracy of the lyrics.
…& on that note, it’s Friday night & the crowds are starting to fade away.
“So Jimmy Baldwin tells me the plot of his book, and he says to me: the writing’s going well, but I just want to make sure it’s not one of those problem novels. I said: Jimmy, your novel’s about a Negro homosexual who’s in love with a Jew — wouldn’t you call that a problem?”
Seems to me that the only problem a writer should have is that the pen is over there.
Spider Crystal Ascension
The spider, juiced crystal and Milky Way, drifts on his web through the night sky
And looks down, waiting for us to ascend …
At dawn he is still there, invisible, short of breath, mending his net.
All morning we look for the white face to rise from the lake like a tiny star.
And when it does, we lie back in our watery hair and rock.
Though he’d never remember it, Mr. Wright once sat across a desk and gave me the best compliment a young, redneck poet could ever receive: “Hey, nice boots.”
“There was a time when reading wasn’t just for fags. And neither was writing. People wrote books and movies. Movies with stories, that made you care about whose ass it was and why it was farting. And I believe that time can come again!”
…Private Joe Bauers, Idiocracy
“And now my lights, they never go down,
They waltz the moon and stars for me now
So you can find some local libertine
To take your daughters out on the town
And I can feel it in my aging bones
How the sound of the rain mixes up
Into the fountains where I drank my hero’s blood
So I left you to find my very own hat full of rain”
Rock on, Tom Waits…