Word: thunderations
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Guero’s “Black Tambourine” kicked it all off. Bassist Dan Rothchild thumped with premonition while Beck gently swayed in shaggy clothes and a floppy hat that could have been in some futurist version of the Rolling Thunder Revue. Then Justin Stanley’s guitars galloped in and out-of-control hype-man Ryan Faulkner pranced around like…well, like Beck, circa...
...only thing predictable about a road trip, Matt and Andrew repeatedly told me, is that nothing is predictable. But in my week with them, a routine emerged: they would say how thankful they were to be able to take the trip, and then, like thunder after lightning, they would say that everyone in America who could should do the same thing. True, they’ll never really get America, just like no matter how hard they try, no one will ever know what Harvard students really want. But, Matt says, “between no understanding and a better...
...Where Shall I Wander By John Ashbery Some poets thunder and some poets sing. Ashbery just talks, sifting through the verbal detritus of civilization and making fascinating sculptures out of what he finds. His poems register pain, but at a distance, transformed into a funny wistfulness, as if it all happened a couple of years and a couple of good martinis ago: "It's really quite a thrill/ when the moon rises above the hill/ and you've gotten over someone/ salty and mercurial, the only person you ever loved...
...Getting to the S.S.A.'s headquarters involves a four-hour trek through fields of maize and forests of dripping bamboo, led by Shan guides who stop only to flick leeches from their boots. They sneak past Thai army border posts in darkness while thunder booms off the mountains, then begin the long final ascent of the cloud-raked ridge to which the S.S.A. headquarters clings. More than 2,000 people live here, mostly in bamboo shacks with thatched roofs. A tenth of Loi Tai Leng's population are soldiers at arms, claims the S.S.A., while the rest are dependents...
...Vincent is a natural nine-ball artist, his personality is strictly that of an adolescent eight ball. Not for him the dour reserve and cunning calculation of the traditional pool player, setting up his opponents for a hustle. He likes to announce his presence at the table with a thunder break. When he is on a hot streak, he boogies around the baize as if he were starring in a music video. To him, guile is a synonym for cowardice, and patience the deadliest of virtues. There is something funny about his knothead exuberance and something unsettling and dangerous about...