Arthur C. Clarke’s “The Nine Billion Names of God”

Kurt Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron”

John Cheever’s “The Swimmer”

On a slightly lighter note: this past weekend, I spent about an hour going through my overflowing bookshelves, weeding out those books I knew I’d not read again but might be able to put to good use at the New York Public Library. In the process, I not only pulled nearly fifty donatable tomes, but also some twenty-six other books I had either not finished or never even started, but would still really love to read.

Resultingly, I’ve consolidated those twenty-six onto a single shelf, and have effected a new-book purchase moratorium until I plow through those plucked lost gems. Based on the way I scarf down books, I don’t expect that to take more than a couple of weeks.

Arriving uptown last night fifteen minutes early for a rehearsal with my jazz septet, I popped into the neighboring Barnes & Noble to waste time wandering the piles of books. Thumbing a few in the “New Releases: Poetry” section, I was suddenly and intensely reminded that I love poems, that I have since at least kindergarden, and yet have somehow fallen almost completely away from reading them.

With a bit of reflection, I was unhappy to realize the reason: over-education. Too much time deconstructing poems, picking apart the nuances of their language in an attempt to second guess the writer’s intentions and unintentions, had almost entirely robbed poetry of the joy of pure and simple reading. So, to remedy that, I’ll be falling back on the suggestion of Poet Laureate Billy Collins: reading a poem a day. Not analyzing and discussing. Not “unpacking”. Just reading. Reading and enjoying.

Don’t worry; I won’t be subjecting you all to those daily poetry choices. (Not most of the time, anyway.) But, on the off chance that some of you might similarly be inspired to rediscover a lost love of the form, here’s one to kick things off, by Laureate Collins himself, that sums up rather perfectly the bind poetry finds itself in today.

Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Seabiscuit is the first big-budget studio film in a long time that I’ve seen and subsequently thought: “I really wish I had made that myself.”

Remember that polo game, years ago, when Biff (that rat bastard) scored his winning goal on your defense, then lifted your girlfriend Delilah onto the back of his horse before galloping off to the country club’s dock and embarking, just the two of them, in his catamaran, leaving you forever behind in the dust? Remember how you’ve hated Biff passionately ever since? Well, finally, here’s you big chance to extract revenge: pit yourself against him in competitive feats of physical prowess, televised nationally!

Too good to be true, you say? Nay! Because my friend Caitlin is casting a new (and possibly quite crappy) reality game show called Bragging Rights, and will totally hook you up. If you’re a guy between the ages of 20 and 40, have a grudge (or at least can fabricate one convincingly and thereby fulfill your lifelong fantasy of making an ass of yourself on national TV), and want to win “valuable prizes”, send an email to braggingrights@atlasmediacorp.com, attn: Caitlin.

Sorry, Biff, but your comeuppance has finally arrived.

Last night, on a whim, we headed over to the New York Public Library, on the steps of which we had heard Sheryl Crow would be recording part of NBC’s Fourth of July special. Indeed, she was, and after standing in line for a little over an hour, we were packed into the tight space around the recently constructed stage. As it was more of a recording session with live audience than a real concert, it mainly consisted of the same few songs played over and over again; but because of the small size of that audience, we ended up some ten, fifteen feet away from Sheryl herself. My main conclusions:

1. The world needs more live music.

2. Sheryl Crow is teeny but hot, hot, hot.

3. Cyan is definitely going to start producing music videos.

I discovered this afternoon that, bundled with my Time Warner cable modem service, I apparently also receive Time Warner On Demand, a digital tv-based system which allows users to instantly pull up a wide variety of series and films on HBO, Cinemax, Showtime, and a couple of other channels. After watching the three Sex and the City episodes I missed earlier this season (replete with ability to pause for mid-show pee breaks), I’m convinced there may finally be something to give Tivo a run for its money.

Best. Song. Ever.