Friday, January 2

Eric called and left a message, said the server was acting strange. When I logged in, a few hundred instances of the script that glues this site together were churning through infinite loops, whirring along in perplexed expectation of an entry I had failed to create for 2004.

It would be easy enough to draw a parallel to my own recent state of mind.

 

My sister's in the other room watching on The Two Towers with the audio commentary on. I walk through every once in a while and listen - it's fascinating, but I think she might be a little obsessed. I think that's probably ok - not to spend some part of your life going a little mad with Tolkien is to miss out on beautiful things. The films have become a part of that, I think.

Some of my friends have problems with the movies - I suppose I understand that, but ultimately they are such beautiful expressions of so much that I love in The Lord of the Rings, and such amazingly crafted works in their own right, that my lingering impulse to carp is overwhelmed.

 

I have been listening to some new things lately. Glen Phillips, for one - I never paid that much attention to his old outfit, Toad the Wet Sprocket, but now it seems like I should have. If you watched Leno the other night, he was the guy on the acoustic doing backup vocals for the Ataris. The wonderful people at archive.org have a bunch of his shows up.

Then there is this disc by the Willard Grant Conspiracy, 3 AM Sunday @ Fortune Otto's. I bought it because it was in a simple brown cardboard sleeve with a simple green logo on the cover, and because inside it says "Anyone who tells you they played on this, probably did." I don't know quite what I should make of it, or the half an hour of firecrackers and drums that fills the last track. I think I like it. It makes me want to know where they went next, and because it is their first album, I guess I get to find out.

 

While I wasn't looking, someone went and published Robert Heinlein's first novel, a manuscript rejected by publishers in the late 1930s and subsequently lost.

Sooner or later I'll read it.

Right now I'm reading Jared Diamond's Guns, Germs, and Steel and Neal Stephenson's Quicksilver. These are becoming parts of what I think about history, and history, while I would not claim that it is making more sense to me, is making itself more intensely felt than it has before.