“Happy Holidays” or “Merry Christmas”? While schools and businesses are far more inclined to use the former lest they offend someone, it turns out that, on this issue anyway, the United States is actually, you know…united.
According to Pew Research Center, 92% of Americans celebrate Christmas. A whopping 81% of non-Christians—including 87% of those with no religion, 76% of Asian-American Buddhists, and 73% of Hindus—also celebrate the holiday. Heck, nearly a third of U.S. Jews had a Christmas tree in their homes during the 2012 holiday season.
What’s more, when asked how stores should greet customers over the holidays, nearly half of Americans say it really doesn’t matter. “Merry Christmas” is preferred by 42%; 12% would rather hear “Happy Holidays.”
And this is all happening as the percentage of Christians in America is actually dropping.
So basically we have a cranky minority—around one in ten—who’s at least indirectly responsible for the terrible clichés we see every year on corporate Christmas holiday cards. Not to mention for creating a situation in which this sort of nonsense is taken seriously.
So go ahead. Say whatever you like. Chances are pretty good the recipient of your chosen holiday greeting will be totally fine with it. Even if it is “Merry Christmas.”
LET QUACKS, EMPIRICS, DOLTS DEBATE
T. S. Eliot
Let quacks, empirics, dolts debate
The quandaries of Church and State.
Let intellectuals address
The latest Cultural Congress.
Here is the true Contemplative,
Content to live—perhaps let live—
The Sage, disposed to sit and stare
With a vacant mind in a vacant square.
from The Poems of T.S. Eliot: Collected & Uncollected Poems (Volume I)
The first step, they say, is admitting you have a problem. Mine is albums and books—as in purchasing too damn many of both.
About halfway through this year I decided to exercise a little more control. I’ve got books on my shelves that I haven’t read yet, after all, and albums that I don’t even remember buying.
I know what you’re thinking: “But Aaron, how will I know what to think (and buy for all my music-loving friends this Christmas) without your annual review of the year’s best music?” Fear not. I didn’t say I quit cold turkey, did I?
So here are ten noteworthy albums from 2016:
Animals as Leaders—The Madness of Many
Brian Eno—The Ship
iamthemorning—lighthouse
Old Fire—Songs from the Haunted South
Opeth—Sorcerer
Red Fang—Only Ghosts
Steven Wilson—4½
Toska—Ode to the Author
Vijay Iyer and Wadada Leo Smith—A Cosmic Rhythm with Each Stroke
various artists—Day of the Dead
Oddly enough, there’s not a whole lot of diversity in this year’s list. Four are metal (two of which are instrumental), three are prog-ish pop/rock, one is ambient/pop, one is jazz, and one is a box set of Grateful Dead covers. But as Miles Davis once said, there are only two kinds of music: good and bad. And these, folks, are all good.
Though it’s been about ten years since I landed in Washington, I will always be an Alaskan. Lately, I miss it. A lot. Not enough to move back, but enough to think that the things that used to be the bane of my existence are now cause for nostalgia.
Like when I woke up this morning and it was pitch black outside. And it was about 22°, which made for a really cold morning walk. But when the sun did come up, it was with intention and determination: no matter what, it was going to be seen, dammit!
It all sounds bad. But it was so very perfect. Maybe it’s because I skipped out on my yearly trip home this year, or maybe it’s because I love winter more then I knew. To commiserate, I chatted with my sister at lunch. She filled me in on the -15° weather and the likelihood of ice fog. (Sounds terrible, right? It made me miss it MORE! Who doesn’t want to be bundled up inside with food and movies?!)
Then she sent me these:
I cannot tell you how much I miss daily backyard moose sightings. And Rosco (wearing his red collar above). And my sister. And Alaska.
I’m usually the first one in the office—sometimes by only 10 minutes or so, sometimes by a full hour. It’s the best time of day for catching up on emails, preparing for a meeting, getting ahead of a deadline. And, of course, for a little poetry.
Lately I’ve been working my way through Donald Hall’s Essays After Eighty. (Look, I know that essays aren’t poetry, but Hall is a former poet laureate, so it still counts, okay?)
Anyway, in “Thank You Thank You,” he writes about how it’s all right to be pleased when an audience loves you, but that you shouldn’t let it go to your head, saying that “it is best to believe the praiser and dismiss the praise.” Good advice. Hall goes on:
Poets have no notion of their own durability or distinction. When poets announce that their poems are immortal, they are depressed or lying or being psychotic. Interviewing T. S. Eliot, I saved my cheekiest question for last. “Do you know you’re any good?” His revised and printed response was formal, but in person he was abrupt: “Heavens no! Do you? Nobody intelligent knows if he’s any good.”
These days, that’s a downright countercultural response.
Best time to visit Yellowstone? When the temperature dips into the 20s. That’s when most folks don’t want to bother—but it’s not so cold you can’t enjoy it yourself. So this Thanksgiving, we eschewed the traditional turkey and trimmings for a quick trip to America’s oldest and largest national park.
The snow started falling by the time we reached Mammoth Hot Springs, which is only about six miles into the park from the north entrance.
The skies cleared shortly after that, but we hit a bit of a traffic jam on the road between Mammoth and Tower Junction. They were reluctant to move on accounta the slippery conditions and whatnot. So we waited. (Oh, and that dude in the middle? The one missing a horn? Easily a foot taller than me.)
But with the Lamar Valley looking this glorious—not to mention the bighorn, bison, coyote, deer, elk, pronghorn, and various and sundry species of bird making appearances throughout the day—it was totally worth it.
While on our way to visit the 9/11 Museum in New York City, we passed through a new, spectacular building – the World Trade Center Transportation Hub. It may be just a train station, but it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. The nearly $4 billion project is owned by the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey and replaced the original rail system destroyed on September 11. Designed by world-renown Spanish architect, Santiago Calatrava, the building’s exterior is intended to evoke a bird taking flight. The white-marble main hall (shown) features a ribbed ceiling rising 160 feet above the floor. Two grand staircases anchor either end. Retail shops (including an enormous Apple Store) can be found on two levels along with passages for commuters to access 11 subway lines. Like any large-scale project in Manhattan – especially one located at ground zero – Calatrava’s work is not without controversy. But whatever the critics have said, it’s a remarkable achievement and a glorious space.
After a four day stretch of eating I decided I’d skip breakfast this morning and give my body a little breather. Though there was a lot to reflect on this past weekend, my mother and I still managed to cook and devour more food than both of us thought possible, so much so, that I still feel full three days later. But to be clear, that first day was not the culinary highlight and, to be honest, never is for my family. Thanksgiving dinner is good, don’t get me wrong, but the picture below shows the true event in our house… leftovers.
From left to right, top to bottom, and chaos in between: stuffing, mashed potatoes, Schofferhofer Grapefruit (look it up then live it, love it, die for it), part of our 11 lb turkey, more stuffing, gravy, my Granny’s sweet pickles, caramelized sweet potatoes, sweet rolls, BUTTER, and cranberry sauce… in all their Tupperware, Pyrex, and Ziplock glory.
“The name’s Anderson. CK Anderson.”
Those who’ve met our fearless leader rarely question his nom de guerre, likely assuming some embarrassment over a given name – like Chester, say, or Cornelius. It rarely occurs to them that maybe, just maybe, he’s hiding something.
Oh, it’s nothing sinister or anything. It’s not like he’s a mob informant in the Witness Protection Program or a former Stasi agent. No, it’s about…the 1977 WIAA State 1A football championship.
Here’s the full story, in which QB “Kent” Anderson leads his team from a rocky 0-2 start to a Kingdome showdown with defending state champion Winlock. You’ll have to read the whole thing to see how it turned out. (Spoiler: Do you think our hero would’ve scored a date with a Spokane Lilac Princess if he hadn’t triumphed on the gridiron?)
I’ll just come right out and admit it: When I bought Ever Since the World Ended, Mose Allison’s 1987 album for Blue Note, it was mostly for the three-saxophone lineup of Bob Malach, Arthur Blythe, and Bennie Wallace. That and the DownBeat review (five stars, by the way), which called the record “a perversely joyous affirmation of the possibility of not merely surviving but flourishing in an insane world by taking everything with a grain of salt, usually in an open wound, reminding yourself, as you grit your teeth, that there’s a joke in every episode of the human drama, no matter how sad it might seem.”
Turns out I should’ve bought the album because it was Mose Freakin’ Allison. But what did I know? I was just a college kid.
Ever Since the World Ended opened a, well…world of lyric possibilities that I, a self-serious student of jazz, hadn’t even considered. Here’s Allison poking fun at the music industry in “Top Forty”:
When I make my top forty
Big beat
Rock and roll record
Everything is gonna be just fine
When I make my top forty
Smash hit
Rock and roll disc
I’ll be the record company’s valentine
No more philosophic melancholia
Eight hundred pounds of electric genitalia
Then there’s “I Looked in the Mirror,” a meditation on aging:
I looked in the mirror this morning
And what did I see? Grey a-plenty
Could be the reason I’m not gettin’ any
And “Tai Chi Life”:
Give me that Tai Chi life
With the gently flowing motion
Every move the same devotion
Oriental magic potion
This guy wasn’t just a smart-ass, I realized. He was cool smart-ass. Like a subtler, hipper Weird Al Yankovic. And that was something to aspire to. (Like I said, I was young.)
Seriously, though, I think Mose Allison is as much to blame for my pitiful attempt at a writing career as anyone. I mean, I knew I’d never be as cool as he was. Or as good a musician. But maybe—just maybe—I could write like that: pithy yet artful, sardonic but not quite cynical. Look, I never said I’d actually get there. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying.
Mose Allison died last night, just a couple of days after celebrating his 89th birthday. There’ll never be another quite like him.
“pan y rosas discos is a netlabel out of chicago that focuses on experimental, noise, improvisation and weirdo rock.” If that isn’t intriguing enough for you, check out the next line: “we believe that music should be available to all people for free!”
And if that still isn’t enough, read their manifesto. I mean, sure, it’s earnest. And yeah, it’s full of non sequiturs and ad hominem arguments. But they have a manifesto! And they’re giving away music!
Seriously, there’s some pretty good stuff here, in particular the works by Caroline Park, Asha Tamirisa, and Brice Catherin.
In honor of Veterans Day—and mindful of Aldous Huxley’s maxim that “after silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music”—take a moment to familiarize yourself with Danish composer Carl Nielsen’s Symphony no. 4, “The Inextinguishable.” Paul Serotsky explains: “Nielsen started giving the work serious thought in Summer 1914, just as the dogs of the Great War were being unleashed. By the time he’d set pen to paper, a full year later, Mankind’s most determined attempt to date at pressing the ‘self-destruct’ button was in full swing.”
If you’re a veteran, thank you.
“Knavery,” wrote England’s King George III to Lord Shelburne on this day in 1782, “seems to be so much the striking feature of its [America’s] inhabitants that it may not in the end be an evil that they will become aliens to this kingdom.”
Our Helveticahaus friend and cheerful supporter, Craig Sweat, recently helped us out on our fall apparel photoshoot. Along with his assistant Chris Thompson, they made the most of our beautiful Manito Park location (as did our two brave in-house models, Courtney and Steven).
Since the launch of Helveticahaus in February of 2015, J. Craig Sweat Photography has donated several hours’ worth of professional expertise to benefit our philanthropic cause. It’s that kind of support that enables us to dedicate 100 percent of the proceeds from the sale of our Helvetica-inspired products to fund area graphic design student scholarships, the very first of which was awarded just last month. Thank you, guys!
