Posts Tagged → Montana

The only exception is you can maybe plan on going to a bookstore but that’s it

Yesterday was a travel day. Sarah and I have found that it’s better, when you’re traveling, to consider any day when you have a flight as a day when nothing else gets done. That day is just for travel. Don’t try to meet anybody, don’t go see any sights, don’t go eat at any particular restaurants. Just pack and get where you’re going. The temptation is to cram as much activity into a trip as you possibly can, but there is no more sure-fire way to fuck up your itinerary’s hard deadlines than to try to do something immediately before or after a flight.

Plus, we’re both worriers and find the simplicity of having only one-thing-to-do-that-day comforting. Besides, sometimes a relatively simple trip can take up a surprising amount of time.

We left Sarah’s mom’s place at about 10:30 a.m., heading for the airport in Bozeman. We stopped to have lunch and to visit a dry goods store called Murdoch’s (not my idea — this was supposed to be a travel day, but Sarah’s mom needed, swear to god, cat treats). We arrived at the airport at 1:00 p.m. for our 3:00 o’clock flight, made it through security, and then hung out at our terminal. I read The Butcher’s Masquerade and listened to Talking Head’s Fear of Music, which has 11 tracks and came out in 1979.

I don’t mind airports the way a lot of people do. They’re expensive and crowded and the chairs should really be more comfortable considering sitting down is like the only thing everyone DOES at airports, but I enjoy having a moment to relax on an otherwise hectic trip.

I paused while listening to Fear of Music to talk to Sarah about the Talking Heads.

”I’m not trying to be confrontational here or anything, but what do people see in this band? Is it the satire? The comedy? Because I’m listening to their third record and … I don’t like the singing, I don’t like the lyrics, I don’t like the drums, I don’t like the guitar, and the production value isn’t spectacular. The whole first song is nothing but a bunch of white guys doing a we-just-discovered-African-music. The bass is good on a lot of songs, but the bassist is a one-trick pony when it comes to tone.”

Sarah oftentimes thinks I’m looking for an argument when I talk about books or music or movies — it can seem like I’m challenging her to defend a band that she’s not particularly nuts about, when really I’m just trying to voice questions that I’m asking myself. “You don’t have to listen to them,” she said. For her, music isn’t supposed to be a struggle. It’s supposed to be something you enjoy. If you’re not having fun, then why bother? Stop listening to it.

I don’t really have an answer to that question, other than I think it’s important to try things you don’t like. Especially in the realm of art. Art is there to challenge us, after all, and some of my favorite musicians are acts that I didn’t like at first but only came to enjoy after repeated listenings. Maybe I’ll wind up liking the Talking Heads — who knows?

Our flight took off at 3:00 p.m. Our seats were surrounded by stinky, invasive children. We landed at SeaTac at 4:00, having gained an hour in the air. We quickly deplaned and made our way to the light rail system, which brought us north to Lynnwood, where Sarah’s dad picked us up. It was about a 90-minute subway ride. After a quick dinner at the marina, we loaded up the boat and made our way to the island my wife grew up on. A 30-minute boat ride through smoke and choppy waves.

I listened to the audio of The Butcher’s Masquerade as we traveled and made a lot of progress before we finally arrived at our destination at around 8:00 p.m. Just like that, our trip, which mostly consisted of a 2-hour flight, managed to take up nearly 10 hours.

You can see why it’s better not to cram in activities on a travel day.

It is beautiful out here. Dark at night, and very quiet. It’s easy to get lost in your own thoughts.

I dreamed of a purple pillow that screamed at me. It was a large, square throw pillow with a face, and it had been screaming for a while. I went up to it and said, “I’ve had enough of your goddamned screaming, purple pillow. Enjoy being face-down.” Then I put the pillow down on its face and left it there, knowing it didn’t have the ability to right itself.

Everyone’s grandpa got one for Christmas one year and frankly it ruined that song forever

There was a big fire about a mile away from where we are staying. You could see it burning from the front porch. They put it out in fairly short order, but it’s still … unsettling to think about. Looking at a map of wildfires in the area really gives you a better understanding of where all this goddamned smoke is coming from.

Obviously not to scale.

I’m about half-way through The Butcher’s Masquerade. Holy cow is this an angry book. One of the most surprising things about this series is the anger, in my opinion. Carl is just straight-up murdering POWs, if you want to call them that. As bad as that is, he’s killing them while talking shit because he knows their families are watching.

Is it justified? Most people would say so. The aliens Carl is mercilessly slaughtering are the same aliens who destroyed Earth, the same aliens who subjugated the human race and forced everyone into a deadly competition for the entertainment of the rest of the universe. If those bastards don’t deserve to be the target of guerrilla warfare, then who the hell does?

Still, it feels like Carl has crossed a line. Somewhere between “blowing up that monster that’s trying to eat me” and “cracking jokes before curb-stomping some bitch.” It’s a level of violence that borders on “torture porn” — Carl just gave some mantis-lady a case of “enthusiastic double gonorrhea,” which sets a fire on her crotch that can never be put out. It’s horrible.

And I’m 100% with it.

These books are so popular largely because they tap into an anger that so many of us are feeling. I’m not a young man, but it does seem like these books are popular with young men. And, while it isn’t strictly young men who don’t normally read novels who are making this series successful, hitting that demographic has certainly helped. People in America are fucking pissed off, and we can see that same anger in Carl. We root for that anger when we see it.

I did wince, though, when Carl stuck the goose’s head in the garbage disposal.

Boy, did I not enjoy More Songs About Buildings and Food by Talking Heads. The album is from 1978. It has 11 tracks. I listened to it this morning while doing some chores around the house, watering plants, and hanging out by the stream. I tried so hard to find something to latch on to. But there just wasn’t much.

”Take Me to the River” is a legitimately good song. Groovy bass line, cool vibe. David Byrne is doing his best to keep himself in check with no unusual yips or squeaks, which must have been tough for him when the song was recorded. “Turn it down to about a 4, Dave,” his bandmates told him. “You’re at an 8 now. Cut that in half, okay? 50% less. That’s the sweet spot.”

That song, however, is disqualified due to its affiliation with Big-Mouth Billy Bass.

talking heads: 77 & the gate of the feral gods in smoky montana

Sometimes you’re by a campfire and, no matter where you sit, the smoke and ash blow right into your face. You get up and move, but the smoke seems to follow you. You move again. The smoke moves again. You curse and say, “This fucking happens every time I go camping.”

Well, that’s what it’s like in Montana right now.

Spokane, Washington, is apparently burning down (thanks to arson!) and the smoke is just … everywhere. It’s spreading across the northwest like a Lovecraftian haze, turning the horizon into a Japanese landscape painting.

Minus the boat.

If you haven’t seen the effects of these fires, you should check out some of the videos. Entire neighborhoods in Washington’s second biggest city are being reduced to ash.

I was talking to Sarah the other day about why I don’t think I’ve ever given Talking Heads a fair shake.

”David Byrne sings like he’s joking. Like, if I’m singing while I’m doing chores around the house, just faffing about not putting any thought into what I’m saying and just belting out whatever crap comes to mind, that’s what David Byrne sounds like.” I would guess that he really does put thought into his lyrics and vocal affectation, but he often comes across just sounding silly. I think he wants to sound silly.

When I was younger, music was something that I connected to on an almost visceral level. I liked artists who put passion into the way they expressed anger or happiness or excitement or loss. It was borderline offensive to me that other artists didn’t take it seriously.

”He’s up there dancing with a fucking lamp,” I thought. “Who likes this shit?”

I’ve never been able to hear Talking Heads without an accompanying mental eye roll. I figured it wasn’t fair that I disliked them without ever listening to them, though, so I’m going through their discography while I read Dungeon Crawler Carl.

I’m awfully glad that I got back into this series. The Gate of the Feral Gods has been a blast so far. I’ve got a lot of time to read while we’re in Montana, so I’ve made tremendous progress with it — I should finish the book today.

I got book 5 — The Butcher’s Masquerade — at a little bookstore called Country Bookshop in Bozeman, which is a fantastic little place and very well curated. My suitcase didn’t need the extra weight, but we all make our sacrifices.