“We open our mouths and out flow words whose ancestries we do not even know. We are walking lexicons. In a single sentence of idle chatter we preserve Latin, Anglo-Saxon, Norse; we carry a museum inside our heads, each day we commemorate peoples of whom we have never heard. More than that, we speak volumes – our language is the language of everything we have not read. Shakespeare and the Authorised version surface in supermarkets, on buses, chatter on radio and television. I find this miraculous. I never cease to wonder at it. That words are more durable than anything, that they blow with the wind, hibernate and reawaken, shelter parasitic on the most unlikely hosts, survive and survive and survive.”

Penelope Lively, from Moon Tiger (1987)

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Breaking news: Social media is a cesspool.

But at least Twitter – that wretched hive of scum and villainy – isn’t all bad. Check out this thread from Lehigh University journalism professor Jeremy Littau on the latest media layoffs.

If you value accountable democracy, Littau says, we all need to step up. “[L]ook for ways to invest in local news because that is where it matters most,” he writes. “Good god, you think Washington is corrupt? Try City Hall. Some of the worst stuff I saw as a reporter happened there.”

So I did. Just this morning I re-upped my subscription to the Spokesman-Review, my local newspaper. It’s a solid paper, with good writing and fair reporting.

I know, I know – everyone likes to complain about “the media,” as if it’s some monolithic beast controlled by a cabal of socialist (if you’re a Republican) or alt-right (if you’re a Democrat) operatives hell-bent on world domination. But, as Littau points out, “The people in [the] industry, those still there and even those getting laid off, are trying like hell. They really are.” I believe him.

So hey – if you’re not “investing in local news,” maybe now’s a good time to start. I think you’ll find it’s worth it.

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Last November, I experienced Death Valley for the first time. I say “experienced” because, well…one does not simply visit Death Valley. There’s a scale to the seeming desolation that’s mind-boggling; a splendor that’s not at all obvious at first; a nagging sense that death is always just one stupid decision away.

More than anything, though, it’s the silence of the place – a silence you can actually feel. When I was in elementary school, our class took a field trip to the U.S. Naval Research Laboratory in Monterey, where, in their anechoic chamber, you couldn’t hear a thing, even the kid sitting right next to you yelling your name. But that was the absence of sound, not the presence of silence.

Turns out there’s a big difference. One morning on that November trip, the missus and I hiked out on the salt flat at Badwater Basin. The sun was just coming up, and, as the Panamints to the west began to glow first pink, then orange, we both felt it: a heavy, crushing silence descending onto the valley floor.

None of this has anything to do with anything, really, other than it’s what came to mind as I was reading this article on the late Thomas Merton, who chased “both the purity of silence and the need to break it.” We didn’t chase it; nevertheless, we found it. And it’s as terrifying as it is beautiful.

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Thing one: Despite its appearance, the word contumely* is not an adjective. It’s a noun, and, according to my copy of the OED, it means “(An instance of) contemptuously insulting language or treatment, scornful and humiliating rudeness.” Or, you know, how CK usually responds to my first drafts.

Thing two: The British equivalent of “knock on wood” is “touch wood.” Curious about its origins? Here’s what Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase & Fable says:

An old superstition to avert bad luck or misfortune or to make sure of something good; also when feeling pleased with one’s achievement or when bragging. Traditionally, certain trees, such as the oak, ash, hazel, hawthorn and willow, had sacred significance and thus protective powers, Properly these should be the ones touched, but this detail has largely passed into oblivion and any wood to hand is now used. Often, jocularly, the head is touched.

Thing three: The phrase “spitting image” is incorrect. It’s actually “spit and image.” Its origins are a little murky, with some claiming that it has roots in black magic and voodoo, others that it refers to God using spit and mud to create Adam in his own image.

Thing four: Radiohead’s OK Computer is a masterpiece; quite literally a perfect album. (Kidding! I’ve known that all along.) But maybe this is your opportunity to learn something new today. Give it a listen.

*Be sure to look it up to discover all the various and sundry ways to pronounce it.

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Speaking of critiques and criticisms (see yesterday’s post if you’re late to the party), I really do believe that there’s value in this kind of writing – when it’s done well.

Like, say, Molly Brigid McGrath’s thoughtful take on The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, the Coen brothers’ latest, which hit Netflix in November. I found the movie to be a remarkable piece of film-making; what’s even more remarkable, however, is the way so many people seem to get it completely and utterly wrong. McGrath pinpoints the problem – critics “seeing the world through culture-war-colored glasses” – then gets right down to business in explaining exactly why Buster Scruggs is such a “thoughtful, funny, and exquisitely crafted film.”

It’s a masterful work of criticism – cogently argued and beautifully written. So, you know, pretty much the opposite of my oeuvre.

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The whole sordid tale behind the rise and fall of Swinger’s Tiki Palace (with pictures!).

Will Lloyd makes a pretty compelling case for the return to simpler times:

Americans – particularly Americans in positions of power and influence in politics, the media and the academy – need to start smoking again. The sourness and fury that has stalked these frustrated power-brokers and tastemakers ever since 2016 is past the point where it can be resolved by ‘self-care’. The moment when the upbeat, glittering Obama years curled away at their edges to reveal the grinning orange face of Trumpism was the exact time they should of swapped their iPhones for a few cartons of cowboy killers.

Novelist and short story prize judge Benjamin Markovits on what makes for good fiction:

Teaching, like judging, involves a lot of nitpicking. Cut the intro (you’re just announcing intentions, you haven’t found your stride). Shorten some of the sentences, let the story do its own work. We don’t need all the heavy symbolism and explanations. Standard creative writing advice. Behind all this is a kind of faith: that the difference between a bad story and a good one is a thorough edit. I sort of believe that, and I sort of don’t. 

Speaking of reading and books and such, this is fascinating. I would add one other possible explanation, however: People want to appear smarter and more well-read than they actually are. Call me cynical, but you know it’s true.

They Shall Not Grow Old is playing in Spokane on January 21.

This is more than two decades old now, but boy, does it ever ring true for me. Best line? “Why…do those with the worst moral tastes so often have the best aesthetic tastes? Why is Sodom such a pretty city? Why do the nicest people live in Iowa?”

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Used to be – back in the good old days, before CK decided to crack down on all the fun around here – that I’d wrap up the year with a list of the best albums released over the previous 12 months. I don’t exactly have time for that right now, but I want to at least leave you with a handful of solid recommendations, suitable for gifts or for your own personal enjoyment. Each comes with the AB Seal of Approval™, which guarantees not only satisfaction and edification, but also spiritual fulfillment. Here’s what you and yours ought to be listening to over the coming holidays:

Art Ensemble of Chicago The Art Ensemble of Chicago and Associated Ensembles
Between the Buried and Me Automata I
Between the Buried and Me Automata II
Brian Eno Music for Installations
Prince Piano & A Microphone 1983
Steve Tibbets Life Of
New England Conservatory Symphonic Winds Night Songs: The Music of Richard Toensing 
Spiritualized And Nothing Hurt
David Sylvian/Holger Czukay Plight & Premonition/Flux & Mutability (remastered)
Steven Wilson Home Invasion: In Concert at the Royal Albert Hall

Merry Christmas, y’all.

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