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Colum McCann’s Let The Great World Spin begins with Phillipe Petit high on the wire between the Twin Towers in August of 1974, but his symphonic novel (which recently won the National Book Award) is less about that transcendent moment than it is inspiration for what McCann himself attempts to pull off in 349 pages: a dazzling feat of literary gamesmanship, full of stunts and tricks, awe and wonder. McCann — who never names Petit, and inserts fictional characters into the historical event to suit his prolifically imaginative narrative — returns to the man on wire throughout the book but never reduces his act to easy metaphor. The closest McCann comes is when two men look out a bar window; he writes,

It was as if, looking out, they might’ve seen the walk re-enacted up there, on high. It was America, after all. The sort of place where you should be allowed to walk as high as you wanted.

McCann focuses instead on the lives of people who are unexpectedly linked by seemingly random events and coincidences that converge around Petit’s walk. There is a devout Irish priest who looks after a circle of prostitutes; a lonely Park Avenue woman grieving the death of her son in Vietnam; the judge who sentences Petit after he is arrested; an artist drifting from her husband and shaken by a brutal car accident; a hooker watching her daughter shoot up in front of her. McCann connects each of these people in exquisite, seemingly random detail, somehow avoiding contrivance. He’s after something profound about the ordinariness of lives breaking open into moments of extraordinariness. The book’s epigraph, from Aleksander Hemon’s The Lazarus Project, feels less like an inspiration than a dare: “All the lives we could live, all the people we will never know, never will be, they are everywhere. That is what the world is.” Let The Great World Spin tries to capture all of it, the everywhere-ness of the world (specifically New York, well-accustomed to standing in for the world at large), and if the book falters at points — his attempt to recreate a jailed prostitute’s inner monologue being one of the only acts of literary ventriloquism beyond his grasp — then one can hardly fault McCann for attempting the impossible. We weight the artistic over the technical anyway. And he can especially be forgiven because, like any great performer, he sticks the ending: a poignant, moving scene that connects young and old, life and death, encapsulating the epic sweep of the narrative into nine sublime words: “The world spins. We stumble on. It is enough.”

———————

Arsen Kashkashian, the buyer for Boulder Bookstore, wrote this excellent post about reading Let The Great World Spin at the time of his uncle’s death. Worth a read. As is the whole blog.

“Venison does make a great stocking stuffer.”

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This year’s seasonal addition to the Voreblog DVD library is A Colbert Christmas. (It joins Elf, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, A Christmas Story, The Office Christmas Special, Joyeux Noël, Bloom County’s A Wish For Wings That Work (on VHS), and Die Hard.) Featuring guest appearances by such musical guests as John Legend (whose song “Nutmeg” includes no less than five sexual innuendos), Willie Nelson (as a fourth wise man) and Elvis Costello (who has the misfortune of being mauled by a bear), A Colbert Christmas produces its own Christmas miracle by making us hate Toby Keith less. It also ends (spoiler alert!) with Santa Claus shanking a grizzly bear. (We’d like to see Frosty pull that one off.)

The special features include a “Video Yule Log” of burning books which can be played on a loop if, say, you wanted to play it in the background to amuse/offend partygoers.

In the words of Mr. Legend, We’re gonna go find a meg so we can nut it.

Fantastic Mr. Fox, flanked by loyal Opossum and demolitions expert Beaver.

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What else are we thankful for this Thanksgiving? Well, for starters, the superb Fantastic Mr. Fox. As children, neither of us read this particular Roald Dahl book, and we didn’t know what we were getting into except that it was directed by one of our favorites, Wes Anderson.

Fantastic Mr. Fox was filmed using stop-motion animation and wasn’t short on chapter titles, one of Anderson’s highly stylized tricks, to mark different scenes. The voices (George Clooney, Meryl Streep, Jason Schwartzman, among others) and dialogue are pitch-perfect. Of course Bill Murray would play a badger, of course Michael Gambon was the skinny, slightly-crazed and drunk corporate villain, and of course Owen Wilson was the Whackbat coach. (What’s Whackbat? See the film to find out; we promise it’s cooler than quidditch.)

The film is visually stunning and the music catchy, but like Anderson’s other films, Fox sticks with the viewer because of individual moments. It’s hard not to tear up when Mrs. Fox tells her husband that she’s pregnant; it’s difficult not to laugh when Ash (Schwartzman) tells his crush that she’s a “disloyal” lab partner for flirting with Ash’s cousin Kristofferson in chemistry class; and it’s nearly impossible not to be struck (with awe? inspiration? the beauty of the wild world?) by the sublime moment near the end of the film when Mr. Fox and a wolf sharing a long distance fist salute.

Other perks? A Jarvis Cocker song; Mr. Fox’s versatility with Latin names; the rampant but child-friendly cussing; and Willem Dafoe’s character, a menacing rat, whose body and speech habits invoke Jesus from The Big Lebowski.

Those of you who are Wes Anderson devotees will note the striking similarities between Mr. Fox and Royal Tenenbaum (not to mention Danny Ocean), and likewise with Ash and Chas Tenenbaum. Of course, every Wes Anderson film bears some relation to one another, which in our book is only a good thing.

When not writing footnotes, Mike Allen (left) and Erik Brueggemann (right) are bodybuilders.

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by MIKE ALLEN and ERIK BRUEGGEMANN

This was an email exchange over a day or so by Mr. Allen and myself (Erik) – I have not fixed any typos cause they’re emails and who the hell cares – it also must be mentioned that one of us sent most of his from his phone and he doesn’t really like capitalizing (it’s too much work). We thank Ben for giving us this opportunity – I thank Ben for allowing me to listen to voicemail messages from Mike complaining that I’m dropping the ball and not getting this done. Mike thanks Paul Rudd.

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M -> E

What are you going to write about?

Are you seriously going to recommend that stupid Coolio cookbook?¹

I guess it couldn’t get much worse than the Kanye West photo or multiple plugs for Joseph-Beth that they’ve been hacking out.

E -> M

them crooked vultures, deadwood (just to see how many times I can say cocksucker² in a paragraph), barb johnson, and jerking off.³

M -> E

He just recommended Barb Johnson. Or was that another plug for where he works?

I was recommending Role Models to him back when it was new. He’s ignored me for nearly a year now.

How could you not find this funny?

E -> M

And I will continue to ignore everything you say – dude, the barb johnson event was last week. This week’s event is with, hold on – do you smell something – it smells like brimstone…

But – seriously, barb johnson writes better than 99% of the other writers out there. Except maybe pete dexter – spooner is hilarious. sample sentence:

“The fish sticks were about as appetizing as a plate full of limp dicks.” (I’m paraphrasing).

While we’re on topic: what about deadwood mike, isn’t that your thing – did you really want to lead off with role models? Really? It’s your bed champ – so which is your preferred method for deadwood absorption – is it the show or the book. Oh, wait? Do you still read books?

I would quote from deadwood (the book) about what a waste a certain bodily fluid is at it puddles on the floor but let’s just let you use your imagination: go get a thimble full of pond water, look at it under a microscope, and see those things – those are amoebas and they will die.

M -> E

Seriously? Barb Johnson is your pretentious-writer-posing-as-a-REAL-artist that you’re pushing now? Because I remember your infatuations with Ray Pollock (2008), Cormac McCarthy (2007), Chuck Palahniuk (2006), etc. etc. etc.¹*

Don’t judge me for picking Role Models. Paul Rudd is the most underrated actor in Hollywood. There I said it. He’s a poor man’s Jason Bateman for Christ’s sake.

I can definitely get down with some Deadwood —  you can NOT beat Ian McShane.  As evidenced by:

I also tried for about a year to get Ben to watch that. I think he rented the first three seasons of Charmed instead. What can I do?

E -> M

1) Pollack still stands, 2) mccarthy would be our dear friend penny, 3) palahniuk has been worthless ever since fight club – is your memory really that bad? It must be since you have forgotten paul rudds performance in – _________ ²* – although he was hilarious in I love you, man.

Ben tried to get me to watch charmed. That and sabrina – ben has a thing for witches – he always wants me to watch the craft with him.

M -> E

Yes, he was hilarious in I love you man. He was also hilarious in Knocked up. He’s great in Role Models. He even wrote the thing. And that douchebag from the American pie movies is even kinda funny in it.

I thought there would be some weird werewolf thing with Ben. Did you see his forearm in those photos from his trip to Cleveland? It looks like Popeye made love to a Chia Pet. Gross.³*

Ok, so what do we have now for the recommends?  Deadwood?  Role models?  Your Barb Johnson book?

Who knew this would be so much work?

E – > M

I believe we are missing some music – can you think of any outstanding music that came out this week? You know how ben is always talking about wilco.

This is work – probably why bens often fall flat but are genius when he doesn’t think about it (perhaps this is an allusion to something besides voreblog posts?¹** What do you think mr. Vore?).

M -> E

I would recommend downloading at least one song (I like No one loves me and neither do I) from the Them Crooked Vultures album.²**

There’s got to be at least one Josh Homme band for everyone and this isn’t a bad intro (heavier than desert sessions, lighter than queens of the stone age or eagles of death metal, less stoned than kyuss).

E – > M

I really have nothing else to day.

What have we learned? Mike likes to make fun of me and vice-versa and we both love to make fun of Ben. Mike and I enjoy the same things. Forced comedic efforts almost always fall flat.³** Doing this was like a homework assignment you procrastinate on until you’re forced to do it by vore+ (hence, my vore recommends post from months ago that was going to be called “babies” that I failed so miserably on and never did). I’m sorry ben and I hope you’ll forgive me but I have three kids. But I will recommend this to vore+ specifically: make a friggin baby – keep on trying and you’ll at least have some fun and burn some calories and you’ll be outstanding parents. And this to Mr. Allen – move in together for the love of christ. Stop dragging your feet. She will let you play with your G. I. Joe’s in your underpants at 2AM – colleen lets me, hell sometimes I even let her be Snake Eyes.

So, to close with – to ben and mike: get’r done.

That is all.¹***

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1.

2. fear not golden readers this is the only one.  I took the rest out.

3. sorry golden readers but ben opened the floodgates.

1* – it must be noted that Mike read Memory Keepers Daughter for fun.  So – I’m just saying.

2* – I really don’t know many rudd movies so I await mr. Leathers to fill in the blank.

3* - it should be noted that Ben is very hairy and he loves telling jokes like this: “I’m on Team Jacob cause I always root for the underdog”: and then he’ll nudge you, and wink and wait for you to laugh.  And I admit, that is one hilarious joke.**

** the joke is actually mine. Ben isn’t that genius.  And yes I do nudge him and wink after I make a joke.

1** – jerking off.  That was too easy.

2** – I would recommend purchasing the entire album at your favorite independent store.

3** – probably my attempts to create more humor by adding these points in at the last minute are also falling flat.

1*** – I will say this – you don’t often get friends like Mike or Ben and when you do you are friggin lucky.

Cleveland, here we are!

We have arrived at the residence of Sweeneyblog to be treated with, in no specific order:

1. Great Lakes Christmas Ale
2. “The Jay Leno Show”
3. Winnie the Basset Hound’s excessive gas
4. The “Kitten Mittons” (sic) episode from season five of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”
5. Delicious fruit crepes for breakfast
6. Insults about Erin’s body odor from young Eleanor

This afternoon we plan to go see Moses Cleveland!

Perhaps some live blogging (or joint-blogging!) may ensue!

Tonight: Erin tries to convince Ben to wear a shirt underneath his vintage Stockton jersey to the Jazz/Cavs game! (Ben promises to give it some thought!)

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“I am not a fan of books. I would never want a book’s autograph. I am a proud non-reader of books. I like to get information from doing stuff like actually talking to people and living real life.” — Kanye West

(Kanye’s third book, Through The Wire, comes out next Tuesday.)

Pete Campbell always gets to home base.

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Since Erin and I have been trying to have a baby for several months now, I agreed to get a semen analysis last week.¹ This is not something I imagined when I thought about the steps toward fatherhood. What man assumes he is fertilely defective?

The first embarrassing thing I did was walk into the wrong office. The lobby I entered had three sets of couples seated together: holding hands, talking quietly, smiling or staring at the floor. I walked past them to the front desk.

The woman behind the desk was drinking Diet Coke through a straw and reading People magazine.

“Hi, I’m Ben Vore and I have a 9:30 appointment for …” I didn’t finish the sentence.

She leaned in and finished it for me. “For a semen analysis?” she said in a whisper that was louder than normal talking. Behind me I imagined the men shaking their heads, thinking, Poor guy.

But am I really a poor guy? According to WebMD, “Up to half of all cases of infertility involve problems with the man.” What’s more, “Doctors arbitrarily diagnose infertility when a couple hasn’t conceived a child after 12 months of unprotected and frequent sex.” We’ve hardly been trying for 12 months. This was more of a preemptive test for peace of mind. (WebMD notes, “Male infertility testing can also spare women unnecessary discomfort and expense.” What husband doesn’t want to spare his wife unnecessary discomfort — lack of insurance coverage be damned?)

“You’re in the wrong place,” the woman informed me. “You’ll want to go back out those doors, turn right and go down the hall. The lab is the last door on your left.”

I exit gracefully.

The lab is tucked away at the end of the hall. I think of the mutant toys from Sid’s room in Toy Story, hidden away in the dark corners. I am not a mutant toy.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture what the room where I would ejaculate into a tiny cup at nine thirty in the morning would look like. It turns out to be like a mini-hotel room. There is a couch with, disconcertingly, a folded white bed sheet. A TV with built-in DVD player sits on a small cabinet. A radio is next to it, preset to white noise volume on an AM station. There is a lamp on an end table with a miniature wicker drawer where I am told to leave my cup. In the corner of the room is a nook with a sink and clothes hamper.

My doctor says, “When you’re done, just give me the thumbs up as you leave.” He gives me a thumbs up as if I need a visual reminder. Then he shuts the door.

I am left alone in a room with more pornography than I have ever seen in my life. Next to the TV is a DVD entitled Whispering Horses. (See “Correction.”) There is a stack of Playboy magazines in a bin below the end table. It is 9:38 a.m.

I have never watched a porno. (Magazines were a different story.) I have friends for whom this is an astonishing fact, and I have friends for whom this is not an astonishing fact at all. My first experience not-watching a porno was in seventh grade at my friend Aaron’s house. When it was clear what was being put into the VHS player, my hairless twelve-year-old armpits began sweating. On one hand I was intensely curious about what was going to be on that tape. On the other, I already knew the shame and guilt that would come with watching it. I was a very conflicted twelve-year-old.

I ended up not watching. First I sat facing away from the TV, then I pretended to sleep. My friends thought it odd I wasn’t joining them, but they didn’t pressure me. They were my friends.

Even though I didn’t watch the porno, I still felt riddled with guilt. I ended up telling my parents that we had watched a porno at the sleepover, only I said it in a way that implied I had taken part. Why did I do this? I think because I wanted to feel “normal” (every guy wanted to watch this, right?), and because I felt like I needed to be scolded.

What was clear to me even then was that lust was not love. My conception of the two was mutually exclusive. I subscribed to a sort of sexual gnosticism: lust, fully bad, was also the route that offered pleasure; love, fully good, was the route that offered the endgame of chaste, sexless thrills (like side hugs or eternal cheek kissing). I, of course, would be doomed to love. At the age of twelve, I believed I would marry a nice, smart, kind, compassionate — and forever homely — girl. I firmly believed this.

“What are you going to do?” Erin asked me after I agreed to the semen analysis.

“I think I’ll figure it out,” I said.

“But, like … how? I mean, what will you think about?”

We had just finished a series with our junior high youth group about sex, and pornography and masturbation had been topics of much conversation among the men. The irony of my situation was not lost on me.

I had been advised to remain abstinent for two to five days prior to my appointment, a task I (we) failed. At around 9:44 a.m., I realized this might be a problem. I didn’t have much in the tank.

At that point I put in Whispering Horses. It had the opposite effect: I am — and I thank God for this, though I wanted to curse him at that moment — someone who is not turned on by pornography. The magazines did not work either. I couldn’t not picture those women as daughters, sisters, wives and mothers.

I kept thinking, “You cannot fail at this. You cannot fail at this.”

At 9:53 a.m., I acknowledged that I was going to fail at this.

When I passed my doctor’s office on the way out, he looked at me expectantly. I gave him the thumbs down.

“Oh,” he said.

We rescheduled the appointment. I was told I could not be refunded my money but that I wouldn’t be charged for a second visit. This seemed fair to me.

I left Erin a voice mail informing her of my failure.

“Honey, it’s ok,” she said when she called back. “You don’t have to go back again.”

I gave this some thought. “No, I can do it,” I told her.

A little later in the conversation she said, “This would be kind of a funny blog post. Too bad we can’t write about it.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Too bad.”

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1. The original version of this post did not have Pete Campbell’s picture, but upon watching episode 5 of season 2 of “Mad Men” this morning (“The New Girl”), we couldn’t help ourselves.

Ryan Mecum, author of Zombie Haiku and now Vampire Haiku, will read from his latest next Thursday evening at seven o’clock at Joseph-Beth Booksellers.

From Ryan’s Facebook feed:

Just in time for Halloween, you are invited to sit and enjoy some guy named Ryan Mecum read you his creepy, odd, yet somehow adorable poems about the things that go bump in the night.

Excerpts of Vampire Haiku will be read to the audience, as well as some other Halloween themed surprises! Questions will be taken! Books will be signed! Twilight will be mentioned!

Clear your calendar! This is not to be missed!

by MATT MASTERSON

Mr. Masterson and his musically defective son, Matt.

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EDITOR’S NOTE: Matt Masterson has very kindly invited Voreblog readers into his life over the past three weeks as we’ve attempted to salvage his musical soul. Today he delivers his verdict.

It’s finally time … time for me to save my soul … time for me to experience real music … to be moved in a way I have never experienced.

I am ready, I am willing, and I want this.

The first step is to admit I am a musical sinner. Then accept my savior and commit my life to them. But who? Who do I choose? Do I go classic and take the Led Zeppelin recommendation? Perhaps a trippy ride with Pink Floyd? Vampire Weekend sounds like they have potential.

This is my soul, right? I can do whatever I want to save my own soul. Why not try two albums and see what happens? Makes sense to me — two albums equals twice the opportunity for eternity. That’s it — that’s the decision. Two albums it is:

1. Radiohead – The Bends

This album was generously provided to me by Voreblog after learning of my severe dislike for Radiohead. The Bends was supposed to be my ticket out of the kiddy table of music and into the big leagues of musical enlightenment. On top of that, adding a little Radiohead to my musical portfolio would finally garner me the respect of my brothers that I so desperately want. I might finally be able to relate when Justin refers to some “sweet bass lick” or Brian sighs at the brilliance of the “musicality.” So with those expectations I jump head first into a full on Radiohead jam session.

In order to improve my odds of enjoying the album I decide to pair the music with one of my favorite things in the world: NCAA Football 2009 on Playstation 3. What could be better than rocking out while destroying Michigan by 40? So as I kick off “Planet Telex” begins and slowly lulls me into a state of contemplation. A strange thing happens as I work my way through The Bends … I hate it.  The lead singer’s voice sounds like Billy Corgan trying to sing after having his foot nailed to a board. Yes, some of the music rocks out and starts to get me fired up. But just as the emotion is starting to set in Radiohead insists on bringing me back down to a sullen, lethargic state of mind, sort of like taking too much cough medicine.

There are a few bright spots: “The Bends” is a really good song that pushes me to a two TD lead in the first quarter. There is something endearing and recognizable about “Nice Dream” but in the end Radiohead fails to capture either my imagination or soul. By the time the final note of “Street Spirit” hits my ears I feel … well … nothing. NOTHING!!! Why God?!  Why must I be destined to musical numbskullery? Perhaps my soul is forever destined to wallow in the depths of musical hell.

But wait … wait! I chose two albums! There’s still hope! I have one more chance at eternity … please let this be it.

Move me! Make we weep like a little child who can’t grab a stuffed animal with that damned claw. Make me so angry that I want to punch my sweet, wonderful wife.

Ok here we go:

2. Muse – Absolution

After a less-than-uplifting start to this soul-saving experiment, all my hopes for a happy eternity are left in the hands of a man named Leathers and his selection of Muse. The good news: I have never heard of Muse and have no preconceived notions of what to expect. The bad news: Radiohead took a piece of my soul with them.

So with that it’s time to flip on the UC football game, turn down the sound, and begin my journey into the world of Muse.

First impressions mean a lot and my first impression is strong. I can feel some muscles in my arms begin to move with each note from the piano. Yeah … this could work … I can do this…. Wait, what is that noise? That racket over top of that lovely piano and guitar combo?  That’s the lead singer, you say? What? Why? Is there some rule that musically talented bands must have whiny singers? Did I not get the memo on this?

Ok … I’m moving past this. Oooh wait, what’s that I hear? A synthesizer! Hello 80’s rock … heck yes!  Now this is a solid start.

“Stockholm Syndrome” is a kick-ass song that gets me fired up and ready to hit somebody. The middle part of the album is particularly strong with the aforementioned “Stockholm,” an appropriately named “Interlude,” and then “Hysteria.” By now I am officially emotionally invested and ready to fight someone … hell yes! This isn’t indifference … this is anger and darkness … this feels good. “Blackout” is another solid effort … the singer does slow well enough that it doesn’t piss me off.

The end of the album leaves me wanting the middle all over again. Nothing real strong to speak of with “Endlessly” competing with “Time is Running Out” as my least favorite song. “Fury” is a good song but doesn’t live up to its name or my expectations of wanting to run through a wall and eat puppies at the end.

So where do I stand? Is my soul saved? Yes and no. Sadly, I think I am stuck existing in a sort of musical purgatory. Radiohead made me a little angry. I just don’t get the attraction … the singer stinks and from my perspective they’re boring. It makes me angry that I am going to have to spend another holiday season listening to my brothers extoll their virtues while I sit by and wonder what the hell I am missing.

Muse has promise. I felt something … I felt energy and a sort of passionate fighting spirit that I don’t get out of most music.  That’s a good sign … but in the end I am left wanting something else … something simple and powerful…. something that is guaranteed to fire me up. So as I finish this post I am left to go back to my old habits and blare the one song I know will move me…

“Should have been dead on a Sunday Morning…”

God bless you, Creed.

Last week, in response to our most recent Voreplay, someone named “Soulless in DC” wrote to say that he had been accused of “not having a soul.” Why? Because he was indifferent to all things musical. “Is there someone to be truly excited about?” he asked. Not even Radiohead had stirred his heart, a fact that made Soulless’s brothers want to disown him.

That individual was in fact Matt Masterson. Matt’s a good friend of ours. And he needs your help.

Matt needs some joy and sunshine in his life. He needs to connect with his inner rock star. He needs to know that inner rock star exists. He needs to experience what the rest of us do when we pull onto the highway, frogger over to the fast lane and then roll down the window: The recognition that this very good moment can be made perfect only with the right soundtrack.

When Dante envisioned the heavenly realms, he used musical harmony as a metaphor for the harmonious existence of celestial souls in all of Paradise. Macrobius contended (in Commentary on the Dream of Scipio) that sounds from the heavens “had to be harmonious, for they were innate in the Soul which impelled the universe to motion.” And Slash from Guns & Roses once famously stated, “Whenever society gets too stifling and the rules get too complex, there’s some sort of musical explosion.”

Do you see where we’re going with this?

We pressed Matt on something, anything musical that has caused him to toe tap or head bob. He gave us this list:

1. David Gray  2. Keane  3. “Some shitty form of 80s rock”  4. Coldplay  5. Some compilation of Eminem and Jay Z,  and 6. Madden Football background music.

Shed your tears now, people, because we’ve got work to do.

What would you recommend Matt listen to? What album opened up your musical horizons? Which artist was your first?

This isn’t about having the right musical tastes. There are no “wrong” recommendations. This is about saving Matt’s soul. If it’s Tracy Chapman that gets him excited about life, then God bless Tracy Chapman and her “Fast Car.”

So think about it, then comment. Make the most persuasive case you can. Why? Because Matt has agreed to review all the recommendations, after which he will select the one he deems most promising. (This is why you should recommend one album in particular, rather than just an artist.)

At that point, we will purchase the album for Matt (or send him an iTunes gift card to do so himself). Matt will listen to the album and then write about its soul-transforming powers (or lack thereof) in a future Friday Recommends post.

So what’s in it for you? (Besides the satisfaction of potentially saving someone’s eternal soul?) If Matt picks your album, you win a free wallet picture of Voreblog. It’s a tasteful shot from our recent photo shoot with the one and only Jenny Beck.

You need this for your wallet!

And Matt needs a soul!

Comment posthaste!