The Best Music You’ve Never Heard

I picked up a remaindered book by Michael Connelly a month or two ago. The Narrows was published in 2004 and shrink wrapped with a DVD titled “Blue Neon Night: Michael Connelly’s Los Angeles.”

On it, Connelly tells a bit about the detective he writes about: Harry Bosch. Excerpts from his stories are read as the camera pans across pieces of LA, “A sunny place for shady characters.”

The most haunting jazz I have ever heard is on that DVD. During the title menu, a snippet of Lullaby, a song written by George Cables and played by Frank Morgan, is on a loop. Frank Morgan was Charlie Parker’s heir apparent and released the album Frank Morgan in 1955. The expectation proved to be too much for him and he self-destructed. For the next thirty years he ping ponged from institution to institution, “Every time they tried to send me to New York I’d go back to prison.” Finally, in 1986 (Morgan was 54), Leonard Feather told him, “just show up and do what you do, and the world will open up to you.”

We liked Frank Morgan’s music so much we’ve bought two CDs, A Lovesome Thing and Mood Indigo. We play Lullaby every morning and night.

“Bosch thought he knew nothing truer than the sound of a saxophone.”

He may be right

Controlling, Preventing, Wildfire in California and Other Pipedreams

I listened to the 27 October podcast of KCRW’s Left, Right, and Center as I do every week. They discussed the recent fires in California (and other political wonkish stuff).

In the program, the moderator Matt Miller (holding down the center) wondered whether preparations were adequate and whether money could have been better spent (rather than in Iraq) on a few more air tankers (retardant and water-dropping aircraft). During news coverage, all the firefighters he saw said they didn’t have enough air support. The California fires were “a gripping disaster.”

Robert Scheer of Truthdig.com (on the left) brought up that no matter where one looks: education, health care, or public services, the amount of money spent on those compared to Iraq debacle is chump change (no disagreement from me).

Tony Blankley (listing to the right) mentioned that he had lived in Topanga Canyon in the 1970s when fire came through and had been grateful for the fire engines coming in to save his house.

These commentators typified much of the debate about allocations of resources for wildland firefighting and its future in California.

First, no amount of equipment will stop a wildland fire in six-ten foot high chaparral in seventy mile an hour Santa Ana (foehn winds). Why no air support? The aircraft cannot fly in winds like that and if they could the dropped liquid would be blown away and dissipated before touching the chaparral (the ‘fuel’ in firefighting parlance). When conditions are right, there just isn’t enough of everything, including aircraft. [see a drop here]

Fires burning during Santa Ana conditions (humidity close to zero and winds over fifty miles per hour) go where the wind pushes them, often jumping mile-wide barriers such as lakes. The standard firefighting technique for such fires has been to keep them as narrow as possible and herd them to the Great Pacific Fuelbreak.

Second, as long as people want to live in the mountains, hills, and canyons of California, the most effective methods for preventing, lessening, and stopping wildland fire are not possible. Chaparral is designed to burn. During the wet winter months, it grows and uses as much water as it can. It goes dormant when the soil moisture drops. The plants’ waxy outer layer and resins within help keep the plant from wilting but it burns readily. In fact, many of these plants making up chaparral forests need to burn to regenerate. Before humans arrived some 10% of California burned annually (about 10 million acres each year).

When Portuguese explorer João Rodrigues Cabrilho (sailing for Spain under the name Juan Cabrillo) sailed along the coast of California, he noted the plumes of smoke from fires burning in the Santa Monica Mountains. The native population set fire to the mountains each year to have the plants resprout later and provide forage for wildlife and thus hunting for them. The Mexican Californios continued the practice when they arrived.

Let’s consider what led up to these latest fires. This summer had been one of the driest on record in Southern California. The drought stressed thousands of trees. Beetles killed many of those trees. Undergrowth beneath these dead trees has been allowed to occur. This lower stuff makes a perfect fire ladder to the dead branches above. On the lower slopes, waxy pyric chaparral which hasn’t burned for years due to effective fire control bides its time. Now toss in low humidity, high winds, and high-voltage powerlines waiting to arc, it’s a disaster smoking a cigarette over a lake of gasoline.

Americans usually think in terms of high priced-high tech solutions. California’s southern neighbors have lower tech methods. Pragmatic Mexicans have placed herds of goats into hilly suburbs to control the chaparral—and have far fewer catastrophic wildfires. In the higher areas where pine trees grow, logging will change the characteristics of the fire ladder by making openings where the fire comes down to ground level again.

Unfortunately, goats and logging aren’t ‘natural.’ As though million dollar homes, gardens, exotic trees, etc., were.

———————

And, just so you can say, you read it here first, look for gripping stories on CNN, et. al, about the massive Southern California mudslides coming to a television screen near you in January. “Why didn’t anyone see this coming?” the newspeople will ask.

We Don't Own a Boat


Two of the happiest days in one’s life are the day one gets a boat…

Mary had a sailboat. The storms during the winter had reduced the number of functional cleats to one. During Mary’s ownership, it sank twice (Note the black tube on the starboard side–this is connected to a bilge pump). If it got loose from its mooring, a possibility during fierce winter storms, we were liable to damage done to other docks and boats.

…and the other is the joyous day one gets rid of said boat.
We gave it away.

We Don’t Own a Boat


Two of the happiest days in one’s life are the day one gets a boat…

Mary had a sailboat. The storms during the winter had reduced the number of functional cleats to one. During Mary’s ownership, it sank twice (Note the black tube on the starboard side–this is connected to a bilge pump). If it got loose from its mooring, a possibility during fierce winter storms, we were liable to damage done to other docks and boats.

…and the other is the joyous day one gets rid of said boat.
We gave it away.

There's something you don't see everyday, Edgar

For reasons known only to sociologists and writers (fiction writers are free to make stuff up as long as it sounds plausible), Memorial and Labor Day Weekends provide the bookends to summer for Americans. In that time that we Americans define as summer, Clear Lake squeals (see my previous discussion in Anthropology 101), throbs with jet skis (euphemistically called ‘personal water craft’ as in ‘one more grating machine that you may use to annoy everyone else around you’ craft), ski boats, wake boarding boats, bass boats, explosions (for several days around Independence Day), and the occasional sailboat and kayak.

Life on the lake calms after Labor Day. The boaters become fewer and less boisterous.

Clear Lake is darned near idyll now. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful.

Barge brings a crane across Clear Lake

So when something like thing shows up, it’s interesting. Our lakefront neighbors are putting in docks. Three new docks are going in. They ain’t cheap either. One dock costs as much as a new home in most parts of the country. And it seems to be much quieter than our sounds of summer.

There’s something you don’t see everyday, Edgar

For reasons known only to sociologists and writers (fiction writers are free to make stuff up as long as it sounds plausible), Memorial and Labor Day Weekends provide the bookends to summer for Americans. In that time that we Americans define as summer, Clear Lake squeals (see my previous discussion in Anthropology 101), throbs with jet skis (euphemistically called ‘personal water craft’ as in ‘one more grating machine that you may use to annoy everyone else around you’ craft), ski boats, wake boarding boats, bass boats, explosions (for several days around Independence Day), and the occasional sailboat and kayak.

Life on the lake calms after Labor Day. The boaters become fewer and less boisterous.

Clear Lake is darned near idyll now. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful.

Barge brings a crane across Clear Lake

So when something like thing shows up, it’s interesting. Our lakefront neighbors are putting in docks. Three new docks are going in. They ain’t cheap either. One dock costs as much as a new home in most parts of the country. And it seems to be much quieter than our sounds of summer.

So, what happens next?

In Poetics, Aristotle called plot the “arrangement of incidents.” More informally, plot is “one damn thing after another.” It’s the answer to “what happens next?” In order for a story not to feel episodic, this has to be answered satisfactorily. Even if the next event is thirty years in the future, it has to feel right.

Crawford Kilian says, “[t]he plot of a story is the synthesis of the plots of its individual characters… If all literature is the story of the quest for identity, then plot is the roadmap of that quest. Every event, every response, should reveal (to us if not to them) some aspect of the characters’ identities.”

Every character in the story has a plot based on their ABCs—Agenda, Backstory, and Conflict (ABCs based on notes taken at Willamette Writers’ Conference at Eric M. Witchey presentation).

Agenda—everybody wants something.
Backstory—everybody has a past that brought him or her to this moment that created the agenda.
Conflict—what happens when one agenda bumps against another agenda.

I bring this up because I am stuck. I actually know what happens next. I’m just stuck on the conflict. The scene is too boring. Even I get tired typing it. People will throw the book (I know it’ll get there to be a book thrown) against the wall in its current state. The conflict is there. I just have to root around a little more.

Harry Splutter & the Lure of Hollyweird

When in doubt, have a man come through a door with a gun in his hand.” (Raymond Chandler)

Epi-soda 14

“Look out!” shouted Hermione shrilly while pointing and hopping from foot to foot.

“Wha?” said Harry and Weasel unanimously and also stupidly thinking that she might need to use the little witch’s room again.

“Mmmmph” mumbled Randalf the Russet Potato, who had somehow stumbled into Bumblebore’s lap, what with lacking arms for steadying himself and all.

“Garroff!” shouted Bumblebore irritatedly, having, seemingly, missed the ‘Look out!’ that Hermione had shouted a moment ago, and that the reader needed to be reminded of, since it occurred so long ago in the narrative.

“It’s Drano Fauntleroy coming through the terminal doors along with the Crabs and Boil and…oh no…he’s got a gun!” she shrieked.

Drano ‘Little Lord’ Fauntleroy, Crabs, and Boil looked resplendent in their Branchwater Security Agency uniforms. Branchwater, having been outsourced by the Bush Administration’s Transportation Security Administration to provide security at airports, was a subsidiary of KBR, a subsidiary Halliburton, who, in turn, were a subsidiary of Arbusto Energy and Dairy.

“A gun?” said Harry quizzically. “Don’t you mean a wand? We don’t use guns in the wizarding wor—”

“Freeze, slimeballs!” yelled Drano Fauntleroy.

Bang

Fzzzzwhzzzz. A bullet fzzzzwhzzzzed past Harry’s ear.

“Run!” she shrieked redundantly.

Hermione grabbed Harry and Der Weasel by the scruff of their scruffy necks and headed for the double-door—

“Did someone call me?” asked Bumblebore.

That’s double-door, grumbled the narrator somewhat irksomely.

“Oh, sorry. Carry on.”

After reading the previous thread of the story the narrator continued…

Hermione dragged Harry and Weasel through the DOUBLE DOORS [narrator looks around glaringly, daring any inane character to talk back] with the others watching before another shot rang out.

Bang

Fzzzzwhzzzz

“Feet, don’t fail me now,” cried Bumblebore.

“Wha’ about my bloomin’ arms?” Randalf the Burnt Sienna (the narrator having used all the Russet crayon in the box) moaned piteously.

Fzzzzwhzzzz

Bang (Whoops. Out of sequence. These things happen when all H-E-double-hockey sticks is breaking out.)

“Never mind,” yipped the Potato. He did the 100-meter dash through the double doors.

“Did we lose them?” asked Der Weasel as the group reformed outside near the curb.

“The white zone is for—”

“What now?” asked Harry out of breath. “They’ll be on us any time now.”

“Some great wizard you are,” sniffed Hermione discontentedly.

“Yeah,” Der Weasel chimed in redundantly. “Don’t even have a plan how to get us out of here, let alone to find the horcruxes.”

“Horcruxii!” shouted the others.

“Well maybe we could go over there.” Harry used his thumb to point at a hiding place past his shoulder.

Kerpow! Screeccccch ch ch ch. They all turned to see what had made the horrific and quite loud backfire and braking noises.

“Brilliant!” Weasel yelled enthusiastically.

There in the gloaming stood the Knight-Ridder Bus.

The door swung open and the attendant—

“Shun Standpipe!” piped Harry as he, Hermione, Der Weasel, Bumblebore, and Randalf the Orange clambered aboard. “I thought you were dead.”

“Nah,” drawled Shun. “I couldn’t miss the opportunity to appear in a little read blog now could I?”

Shun Standpipe closed the door behind the group as Drano, Crabs, and Boil crashed into the door’s glass. “Where to?”

“Get us out of this scene,” screamed Hermione demurely.

“Okey dokey.” Standpipe put the bus in gear.