Man vs. Four-Star Hotel

Reading reports that Bear Grylls from Discovery Channel's Man vs. Wild staged scenes and spent nights in a motel while all the time leading viewers to believe he was roughing it killed a little bit of me today. The feeling of a little part of my insides dying was almost exactly the same as when I watched Mark McGwire's congressional testimony from 2005.

Before this, who else was cooler and more all-around badass than Bear Grylls. Look at his name! His first name is Bear, and his last name is Grylls! With a Y! Don't you wish your name were that cool?

And sure, the comments from people about how this makes Grylls all the more insane and impressive because he drank juice out of elephant shit or his own urine when he could have turned off the cameras and walked over to the catering table are worth something, but come on. This brings him down to just a level above the guys from Jackass who do that kind of stuff for kicks and giggles. I never thought it was just him out there alone because of the camera angles make it obvious, but I imagined Bear was all that more badass because as he kicked the Earth in the balls, he had to watch as fat guys holding boom mics and cameras got bottled water and Big Macs. I thought he withstood that torment for me, the viewer, even when he knew he could kill them and take their supplies by making some endangered snake spit venom in their eyes. I thought we had something Bear. What happened to that?

EDIT: I just read that Bear named his son Marmaduke. If it is true, and I completely believe it is, I don't feel as sad about the whole faking thing. Because naming your son Marmaduke is either 1) the coolest thing you could possibly do, 2) the funniest thing you could, or 3) something that requires larger balls than anyone in the world can contest. Bear Grylls deserves some Chuck Norris-esque jokes about him.

We Laughed In a Way People Don't Much Laugh Anymore

My seven day challenge in poetry went very well. I was both surprised and delighted with the way things rolled out. I didn't have any guidelines, besides finish one poem each day, and I'm sure the freedom from that helped me churn some out that didn't require as much work, but still, I finished. A couple of ones came out of this past week that I think are definite keepers. I am at a point that I feel excited about those two, but I don't feel like they are solidified yet - I haven't had someone come in and rip the shit out of them. I still need that. I think I'll take this coming week off from a challenge like that, but starting on the 5th, I want to pull another seven day stretch with some strict guidelines passed along from a friend. Should be much more difficult and probably more interesting in the end. I'll be writing in a place I've never written before that week because I'll be at the coast.

Then it is back to Chapel Hill.

I think I might take a stab at reviewing the new Minus the Bear album this week as well. Take care.

No one belongs here more than you.

I think I love Miranda July. I know she's considerably older than I am, but still. Just look at her. And even before I saw her stunningly beautiful photo (above) staring out from the inside-back sleeve of her first book, No one belongs here more than you, when I had only read the first few stories, I knew it. Miranda July can write and I love her for it.

Billed as a filmmaker, writer, and performing artist, July is best known for writing, directing, and starring in the 2005 film You, Me, and Everyone We Know. I haven't seen the movie except for a couple scenes, but I feel compelled to watch it now after reading her stories. The stories in No one belongs here more than you. are burdened by an overarching sadness that extends beyond the characters being down on their luck or in the middle of hard times. July's characters are crippled by a sadness that flows from within, and is coupled by irreparable breaks with the people closest to them. The mood is only deepened when, in many stories, a recognition scene of sorts is realized by the parties involved, and characters see and accept a doomed fate well before they act upon it.


Triumphs are short-lived and often questionably executed, like making money through giving personal fantasy sessions in the back of adult sex shops in Something That Needs Nothing, or connecting with a soul mate even if it means that person is a mentally challenged 14-year old student of yours in Making Love in 2003. The character's positive moments are rarely positive for any reason other than any human connection is a step forward. July's writing makes a strong argument that to be utterly alone is somehow better than to be in society but practically isolated. The latter offers the opportunity for torture - watching the world spin perfectly the same without your own input on it.

Almost all stories in July's compilation contain a theme of sex and sexuality. A 15-year old narrator is raped nightly by a 'dark shape' that is best summed up as a glowing orb. Best friends are lovers only when one is wearing a wig. In Majesty, a woman has reoccurring dreams of Prince William having sex with her at a party where low ceilings force attendees to crawl on all fours. However, the feeling of sadness and sex are never pried apart. While intercourse and sexual feelings may be euphoric to certain characters, it is never divorced from the relationship, from human emotion, and most importantly, from the situation in the story once the sex is finished.

July has supportive quotes on the back cover from two higher profile figures, Dave Eggers and David Byrne, and she is affiliated with the McSweeney's crew, I believe. She should have no problem getting any boost she needs to write. July's emotionally hurt yet fully open style is beautiful. Her stories, especially the longer ones, can really hit home, and can bring pains in the most terrible ways, making the heart and stomach feel bruised and vulnerable. Easily, this is the best fiction I've read this year.

The Books

I've been a reading machine recently. I leave one book in each room or place I frequent, and read only that while there. The basement is the domain of Freakonomics. Miranda July's No One Belongs Here More Than You: Stories is for the bedroom. So is Kay Ryan's Say Uncle. Driving to work is for Moby Dick, and while at work it is How the Mind Works by Steven Pinker. Those last two are accomplished through audiobooks. Herman Melville's classic is easy to follow as I drive down the freeway, but I find it difficult to follow where Pinker goes while I work. I haven't studied psychology at all, and it doesn't help that Pinker's work asks a lot of attention out of the audience when they can read through it with visuals at their own pace. Look for reviews when I finish these books.

Shit! Think! Shit! Think! Shit! Quick put me in the closet!

Pretty much the best news I could have gotten this week: R. Kelly is planning on releasing another 10 chapters of Trapped in the Closet. Hopefully we can learn more about all the characters of Kelly's hip-hopera. I have audio of all twelve previous chapters ripped to my iPod. I spent one night in the library last semester on the evening of an exam watching TitC instead of studying.

I can't wait for more lines like the title of this post, and another personal favorite, "A tear fell up out my eye." Hopefully there can be more of the midget as well.