Sometimes, the best way to learn something about yourself is to make a connection with someone else.

I suspect my wife and oldest daughter understand this. Over the past several years, they have developed a close relationship in an unlikely way — by reading books. Most moms and their girls pal up over other, more traditional activities, like shopping for shoes or cooking. And though this pair shares those interests, their bond over books is strongest, right now.

It all started with the first Harry Potter, when Anna was 9 or so. They took turns reading it one summer, discussing it at length, loaning it to their friends, and, eventually, rereading it prior to the movie’s release. They cruised likewise through each subsequent volume in the series, as it was published, and never let up. They’ve since progressed to other similar fantasy books, including the Twilight cycle, and more. I suspect (and hope) that their hobby has become a habit that will continue for many years to come.

To be honest, I’ve always felt a twinge of jealousy over this relationship. Although I haven’t had much interest in the books they’ve read — and wouldn’t want to intervene for fear of changing the dynamics — I have relished the thought of sharing a similar experience.

My son, Will, my likely partner, had never shown enough interest in books to make this happen. He was too young to be swept up by the first wave of Hogwarts hogwash, and though I read the first few books to him at bedtime, he never developed an affinity for any of it. He has always enjoyed having me read books to him, especially adventure stories, and we’ve devoured quite a few over the years — everything from Treasure Island and the Hardy Boys series to The Bones on Black Spruce Mountain by David Budbill and The Neddiad by Daniel Pinkwater. All terrific books, mind you, but it’s not the same kind of give-and-take affair.

Occasionally a book has caught his attention, such as Dave Barry’s fluffy Peter and The Starcatchers or the lightweight Wimpy Kid diaries, and even more challenging novels, such as Go Big or Go Home, which he liked so much he wrote about it here. But he has struggled with reading, for many reasons, and so, few books seem to inspire him enough to invest his free time, or to involve me, in the way that Potter did it for Anna and Amy.

Until now, that is. Early this year, Will discovered The Lightning Thief, the first in the Percy Jackson & The Olympians series. And suddenly his attitude toward reading was transformed, in epic proportions, from apathy to absorption. His only struggle involved putting the book down, no matter the time of day, and he practically raced to finish it in time for the release of the movie — in fact, he declared (older-sister-style) that the family could not go see the film version over spring break until he had read all 375 pages. (He did finish it in time, by the way, and we did all go to the movie, which we thoroughly enjoyed.) Best of all, he decided to conquer the whole series, on his own, and asked me to join him.

You may be wondering (as I was, at first), what’s the hook? What made such a difference? Well, there are several causes I can point to, after having read the book and seen it adapted for the big screen. For one thing, Rick Riordan, the author, creates a fast-paced, fresh and funny take on the quintessential hero’s quest. Think Harry Potter meets Greg Heffley. It’s magical and mysterious, hip and humorous. What’s not to like about that?

Also, and this is important personally for Will and for me, Percy (whose full name is Perseus) has to deal with some learning and behavioral issues — for instance, he struggles with reading and sometimes experiences “moments,” as he says, “when my brain falls asleep or something and the next thing I know I’ve missed something, as if a puzzle piece fell out of the universe and left me staring at the blank place behind it.” As it turns out, Percy’s disabilities stem from the fact that he was born a demi-god, the child of a mortal woman and a Greek god — one of “the big three,” in fact — so he is better equipped for the ancient world than his own.

Sadly my own issues are far more pedestrian, though no less surprising, at least to Will. My confession to him, when agreeing to our mini “book club,” that I am a tediously slow reader was an eye-opener. He assumed that, because I have made a career out of reading and writing, I would speed past him as we moved through the series together. Truth is, my natural word-for-word pace is slower than average. In other words, I read every word — sometimes more than once — and only partly because I have to. Am I a slow reader because of my profession, or did I find a job that suits my, well, abilities? I don’t know, and I don’t care. It’s what I do and I like it this way. It’s an occupational hazard, yes, but it has put the two of us on a level playing field.

However, I think the biggest reason that Will and I have been captivated by the adventures of Percy and his pals is the author’s use of Greek mythology to tell his tale of heroism. Sure, plenty of heroes (super and otherwise) have occupied Will’s world over the years: everything from comic books about Superman, Batman and Spider-man, to the “Rescue Heroes” dolls he played with for hours as a little boy, to his obsession with the Star Wars trilogies, and, lately, to the sports heroes he talks about as if they were his companions. But all of these characters, real or imagined, are drawn, directly or indirectly, from the sources that fill the pages of the Percy Jackson books.

As any faithful Scribbleskiff reader knows, the Greek myths are my Achilles heel. (Pun intended, and here’s a reason why.) They are some of the oldest stories in the civilized world and they are packed with enough meaning and possibility to be as relevant and useful in Homer’s world as they are in Homer Simpson’s. In other words, mythology is the stuff that little boys (of any age) are made of.

And this distinction must have contributed to Will’s low interest in the Potter books. A story about adolescent wizards flying around on brooms and conjuring spells is fantastically (and lucratively) entertaining, for sure, but their world is make-believe and exists outside the realm of “real life.” On the other hand, reading about how a relatively normal kid must learn to live with his troubling legacy (he is not “just your average son of Poseidon,” after all), as well as the discovery that his disabilities are actually his strengths, must be more universally meaningful and gratifying.

At least it is to me. And to Will, who is clearly enjoying our voyage of discovery. He is already way ahead of me and has reached the point where he’ll say, “Dad, wait till you get to the part where [such-and-such] happens…” And when I ask, “Why, what’s going to happen?” He’ll simply reply, smiling slyly, “You’ll have to read it for yourself.” Sometimes, and this is most exciting to me, he’ll ask, “Where are you now? Did you get to the part about the blue food?” And I’ll say, “Will, there’s no blue food.” “Sure there is, Dad,” he’ll say confidently. Then he’ll flip my book open, thumb through a few pages, and with total recall point to one small paragraph early in a book he read three books ago and say, “here, see?” Will’s eagerness to lead, and my desire to follow, is proving to be the most palpable benefit of our new partnership.

All this talk of fathers and sons and books and mythology has caused me to reconsider a volume of poetry I received earlier this year but only partially read. And it’s caused me to reconsider the notion of relationships in general.

Called My Minotaur, the book is actually a collaboration between Keith Holyoak, a translator and poet, and his son Jim, an artist. (You can read more about the book, including an excerpt, here.) My Minotaur seemed intriguing, not only for the title and enigmatic cover, but also for the idea of it: combining poems and illustrations. It can be a potentially rewarding endeavor that, unfortunately, rarely pays off. Quite often the written work and the work of art (say, photography) are created separately and thus have little in common when commingled. The result can be inspiring but incoherent.

But that’s not the case here. The Holyoaks worked together to create this book, and nearly every tightly crafted, often terse poem sits opposite an equally skillful illustration. More important, many of the poems and drawings show a direct correlation, as with “In the Damp Cellar,” a brief poem of four couplets that is rendered by the artist as a stack of books, with each pair of lines written on the spines. It’s an effective way of giving greater depth to an otherwise brief experience. The same holds true with “Portrait of Jesse Villareal,” a narrative poem about two artists encountering, mingling with and interpreting the same subject matter (you can listen to and watch that encounter on this video): The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

In other instances, where the ties between the visual and literal are much harder to discern and more open to imagination, the works still seem to sprout from the same source of inspiration. These poems and illustrations interact with and react to each other on the page, rather than simply coexisting across the expanse of whiteness between them. And that is the source of their power and beauty.

This to me serves as the perfect metaphor for any good relationship, father-and-son or otherwise — especially one that’s collaborative (from the Latin, meaning “to toil together”) and thus becomes as varied and expressive, mysterious and linear, argumentative and harmonious, etc., as any of the entries in this handsome book.

I didn’t fully appreciate My Minotaur until I began my own literary relations with my son, though I’m not sure why. Perhaps the experience of interacting with Will for a common cause — his newfound interest in books, for instance — got me thinking, about the benefits of reading books, the importance of family ties, the necessity of coactivity, and so on. And maybe that’s the point: cooperation can lead to edification and growth. I suspect the Holyoaks would agree with this.

Right now my son and I are only co-readers. But perhaps some day soon my role with Will, who has also expressed an interest in (and shown some aptitude for) writing and creativity, will be transformed to that of co-authors, as well.

As always, tell us what you think. Have you read either of these books? What are your stories from Greek mythology? Do you think artistic collaboration is a good idea or a bad one? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

All too often, as I’ve come to discover, it takes the death of a writer before I finally take a serious interest in his or her books.

Such was the case a few times in the past year or so. After hearing about the death of someone whose work I either knew in passing, such as John Updike, or had knowingly passed over, such as Jonathan Williams, I headed to the shelves, mine or the library’s, and began pulling out volumes.

Rereading Lucille Clifton is a blessing in disguise.

Sadly it is the case again this week. Lucille Clifton, a prize-winning Maryland-based poet who held several high-profile positions, including the state’s Poet Laureateship, died on February 13 after a long battle with cancer.

However, unlike most of the authors I’ve discussed in this space, I had a personal connection to Clifton that outweighed my interest in her public output. In other words, though I am fairly uninformed about Clifton’s books and their contents, a near-encounter with her more than a decade ago left me feeling we were somehow linked.

In early 1995, Clifton chose me to participate in a literary event sponsored by HoCoPoLitSo, a highly respected arts organization in Columbia, Md. On a whim, and at the considerable urging of my mother-in-law, I had entered a poetry contest for which Clifton was the judge — and the prize. The group of winners, which included a dozen or more pretty well-known local writers (and me!), was invited to give a reading with Clifton in May of that year, in front of a large audience.

I was thrilled. It felt like a vote of confidence, a real Sally Field moment for my burgeoning career in the literary arts. Even though I had read very few of Clifton’s poems — in fact, I (ever so wrongly) confused hers with Maya Angelou’s — I knew who she was and sensed that she already had a place reserved in the poetry Pantheon. I couldn’t wait to stand next to her at the podium.

Unfortunately, I never got the chance. Although I participated in the reading and had a great time — and even befriended a few writers with whom I later helped form the Wineglass Court Poets workshop, which still meets regularly — I never read with Lucille Clifton. As it turns out, she had gotten a better offer for that day: to give a reading for the Academy of American Poets at The New School in New York.

(Ironically, as I found out later, through the Academy’s newsletter, Clifton’s reading buddy that day was Hayden Carruth, my former teacher, longtime mentor, correspondent, and friend! Here’s a picture of them together, presumably discussing the merits of my poems.)

Although none of us could blame Clifton for choosing to read at a hip New York venue, rather than an indifferent interfaith center in Columbia, I still felt a little cheated. I secretly hoped I’d have another opportunity to meet her and say thanks. But none materialized and, sadly, none ever will. Still, the news of Clifton’s death has afforded me the chance to remember that happy day in May, and it has given me an excuse to read, and reconsider, some of her poems.

Clifton published more than a dozen volumes of poetry in her lifetime, as well as a memoir and many books for children. What I picked up from the library, though, was Blessing the Boats: New and Selected Poems 1988-2000, which seemed the most appropriate because it includes a selection of the poems she likely would have read at the HoCoPoLitSo event.

It’s a book I remember reading through when it was published in 2000, partly in honor of our “near miss” and because it won the National Book Award. But I didn’t remember much about its contents or my reaction to them until I opened it again last month.

What struck me immediately was how candid, emotionally raw, and confrontational many of her poems were. I had forgotten how inaccessible they had felt to me at the time, how alienating, because, though I tried, I just couldn’t relate to the subjects she celebrated (and, at times, railed against) — her working-class African-American heritage, her femininity and sexuality, her role as a wife and mother, etc.

With titles like, “poem to my uterus,” “poem in praise of menstruation,” “why some people be mad at me sometimes,” “slaveships,” and “my dream about being white,” these poems were almost too hard to read, let alone comprehend or enjoy, for a young man raised in a white, fairly affluent, privileged and protected world. Not that it should matter, but it did and, I’m afraid to admit, it kept me from delving much deeper.

But in rereading this book now, 10 years later, I have found a new appreciation for Clifton and her poems. Sure, I’m older and likely closer to the age she was when she wrote some of these poems. And I’ve also shared some of her storied experiences, namely aging and parenthood.

But, more to the point, what I’ve come to realize is that it’s not what she wrote about, but how she wrote it, that is most appealing. For one thing, she crafted her words in a spare, informal style, unadorned by traditional poetic trappings and often without punctuation or capitalization. And that honest simplicity is something I seek out in other writers (such as Li-Young Lee) and try to emulate in my own poems.

More important, what I see now is the fact that, in spite of her often combative tone, her poems couldn’t contain or conceal her humanity. In other words, in the face of even the harshest realities, Clifton maintains a warmth and kindness, and even a little humor, that disarms and delights. For example, among her “wishes for sons” are “cramps,” “a strange town / and the last tampon,” with “no 7-11″ in sight. Most of all, she hopes (as only a mother could),

let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.

Here’s another example, from an untitled poem in her book Quilting, that I imagine was inspired by the many encounters she had, and readings she gave, with folks like my friend Carruth.

when i stand around among poets
i am embarrassed mostly,
their long white heads,
the great bulge in their pants,

their certainties.

i don’t know how to do
what i do in the way
that i do it. it happens
despite me and i pretend

to deserve it

but i don’t know how to do it,
only sometimes when
something is singing
i listen and so far

i hear.

This is a sentiment that I think transcends its subject matter. Anyone who has accomplished a seemingly difficult task, one beyond all “certainties,” can understand and relate to this feeling of accidental triumph. Clifton’s gift, then, seems to be the ability to embrace her fears and harness them to solve the mysteries, large and small, she uncovers in life. And that’s a lesson that anyone — of any age, race, or upbringing — can learn.

I encourage you to get a copy of Blessing the Boats and read it all the way through. You may be surprised at what you learn and “hear.” As an incentive, I’ll leave you with the title poem from that collection. It seems like a fitting way to say thanks and farewell to a poet who, though I never met, nonetheless has become important to me — “despite me”:

may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back   may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that

As always, tell us what you think. Do you have memories of Lucille Clifton to share? Which poems or books of hers would you recommend to others? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more!

Hardly leading-edge technologists, we at Scribbleskiff are no Luddites, either. We try to keep pace with newfangledness as best we can, though our vantage point is often the middle, rather than the front or the back, of the pack.

We’ve been faithful bloggers for almost two years now, for instance, though this still makes us relative newbies by comparison to many (one of the first blogs to be termed a “blog” was reportedly started in 1997). We have a groupies’ page on Facebook, with a small but dedicated following (visit and join our ranks, please). Etc.

Electric Aphorisms, by John Roderick

But one techno-gimmick I just haven’t been able to flock to is Twitter. Sure, I signed up for an account awhile back, and I log on as often as I can, reading what the folks I’m “following” are saying, responding in kind to my “followers,” and so on. But I just didn’t see what all the chirping was about. Until now, that is.

Much has been written about the value, longevity, and inherent silliness of this relatively new form of “social networking” (I still haven’t been able to grasp that term, either). I’ve read articles ranging from the sublime (why it will endure, according to the Times) to the subversive (why it shouldn’t, according to The Oatmeal), with everyone praising and condemning Twitter, its peculiar format, quaint rules, and infantile terminology (for example, all updates, or “tweets,” as they’re called, must be written with 140 characters or fewer).

But still I couldn’t get hooked. I was lacking a proper introduction, a way into The Castle that made sense to me. And then I read an entry in John Roderick’s new book, Electric Aphorisms, and it all became clear:

Sometimes I worry that Twitter is an undignified literary format. Then I look to my inspiration, the great Bazooka Joe, and I am humbled.

Now, I’m not expert (or interested) enough to discuss the cultural significance of the so-called “Twitterati.” But I can say that what Roderick makes clear is, tweeting — in the right hands, at least — can be an art form. An invaluable one? Who’s to say? But it’s one that I find downright hilarious, that’s for sure.

Roderick is best known as the frontman for Seattle indie rock stalwarts, The Long Winters, a band I’ve had a crush on for years. His songs almost always reflect an understated pop sensibility: lo-fi but catchy, with lots of hooks, and lyrics that swing between touching and tongue-in-cheek. (You can see what I mean on this video, a new song featuring Kathleen Edwards and written for a local charity event.)

In late 2008, Roderick hopped on the Twitter bandwagon, transferring his musical gift of glib to the written word, refining and condensing it to fit within the limitations of the form. For a period of about six months, he posted an average of three times a day. And what he discovered in the process is that the essence of tweeting is its precise insignificance: a whole lot of nothing can be said in a tiny space.

Whenever I despair about life’s pointlessness, I remember that one day Richard Gere is going to come carry me out of this paper bag factory.

With his characteristic wit — part haiku, part hi-jinx — Roderick used his Twitter account to provide a running commentary on a wide range of topics, everything from the boon of bachelorhood, and living the rock-and-roll life, to local Seattle and national politics, art, and pop culture. His perspective is often zany, off-kilter (and occasionally off-color), and insightful, just like his songs. Mainly, he’s just LOL funny. Judge for yourself:

It’s inevitable: first you take an interest in plants and gardening, eventually you find ceramic dancing pigs amusing.

* * *

I’m planting several Japanese Maple trees in my yard in anticipation of many stacks of delicious Japanese pancakes once they’ve matured.

* * *

When it’s my time to die, I hope that those closest to me realize that I’m only doing it facetiously. Just as I’ve done everything else.

* * *

When labor is cheaper than raw materials, you get the Chartres Cathedral, when labor is more expensive you get the 1977 Chrysler LeBaron.

Quite often, he speaks directly to my sense of humor and word-wonder:

Spent the first part of today searching for the grammatical derivation of Bread’s 1972 hit “Baby I’m a want you.” What is this “I’m a want”?

* * *

If you’re going to criticize my metaphors, be forewarned that the cat is out of the henhouse and cuts both ways!

* * *

I’m not some guy who just goes around correcting people’s grammar. I only correct the bad grammar.

There’s an everyman’s quality about these missives, too — or, at least, they reveal things that everyman has thought but would not necessarily admit:

My waffle-eyes are always bigger than my waffle-stomach, which is odd considering how closely my chicken-fried-steak eyes and stomach match.

What’s so rewarding to me is that Roderick figured out how to comment on the inanity of the technology while at the same time providing very insightful but totally useless comments about its users (and the rest of us, too). It’s the ultimate Scribbleskiff primer. Moreover, reading Roderick’s little brick of a book, which collects 365 of his messages, one per page, makes me wish I (and everyone else) could tweet in such a concise and cheeky manner.

Go buy Electric Aphorisms (you can get it here). It’s a great deal: for $15 you get the book and a “free” CD of musical “treats” from bands on the Barsuk Records label, many of which are on the favorites list at Scribbleskiff, like Say Hi, Ra Ra Riot, Mates of State, and more. And maybe it will inspire you to discover the “wit” in your Twitter feed.

As always, tell us what you think. Are you a fan of The Long Winters? Have you read any of John Roderick’s “aphorisms” on Twitter? What do you think about social networking in general? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

Flummoxed. Faltering. Discombobulated. Inarticulate. Dumbfounded. Dumbstruck. Nonplussed. Tongue-tied. Tight-lipped. Laconic. Hushed. Speechless.

In other words, dear reader, Scribbleskiff is at a loss for words this week. I’ve been so busy again, getting caught up in the rigmarole of regular life, managing (and being managed by) the important things, that I’ve been unable to get carried away by useless things. When that happens, I turn to other people’s words for inspiration and sustenance.

And what’s kept me going recently? A regular dose of “Daily Issa,” for one thing. Here are a few of his recent, ancient, timely bons mots that I’ve thumbtacked to the bulletin-board:

a bird making a nest
a temple being built…
when will they finish?

…

on the ancestors’ altar
without fail
a lucky wind blows

…

in the next life
don’t be a snake!
temple grounds

…

upon writing a note
of apology, ice
in my ink-stone

And here’s a shard of a gem by Olav H. Hauge, a new-to-me Norwegian poet whose collection, The Dream We Carry, was published by my favorite press, Copper Canyon:

There’s so much to think about here in this world,
one life’s not enough.
After work you can roast pork
and read Chinese poetry.

As Hauge once wrote, “A good poem should smell of tea. Or of raw earth and freshly cut wood.” Hauge offers words to live by, and poems you want to live with every day.

I’ve also been nibbling on some local, home-cooked verse by Steve Ward, the quieter half of the Ward Brothers, legendary decoy carvers. Though known in his hometown as “The Bard of Crisfield,” most of Ward’s poems were never published widely or even collected until now, under the cover of Closed for Business, which my dad gave me for Christmas. This finely carved, touching, little epigraph, in fact, was found written on the bottom of a Canvasback decoy:

The Record I Keep

It isn’t so much what my
neighbor may think
Though I value his friendship a lot.
It isn’t some record they’ve
Written in ink
That I want to keep free
From the blot.
It isn’t some tale people whisper
About the way I gather myself.
I want to keep evil and crookedness
Out of the record
I keep for myself.

And, for a little levity, I’ve been nosing through Fart Proudly: Writings of Benjamin Franklin You Never Read in School, which I picked up in the gift shop at Independence Hall last month, on a 5th grade field trip with Will. It’s full of funny, often bawdy bits of Franklin’s wit — including satirical essays, phony letters, cartoons, aphorisms, drinking songs, poems, etc. — much of it not worth a “FARThing,” as he stated, during his lifetime, but all of it worth reading and repeating. Like this pungent apothegm from Poor Richard’s Almanack:

He that is conscious of
A Stink in his Breeches,
is jealous of every Wrinkle
in another’s Nose.

I think I’ll let that be the final word, on this the penultimate day of the year. It’s been a gas, for sure. I’m looking forward to seeing your wrinkling noses poking around here in 2010.

As always, tell us what you think. Do you have any words of wisdom for the rest of us? Are there books or authors that inspire you during this hectic time of year? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

Dear Reader:

How are things with you? We here at Scribbleskiff have been very busy lately, preparing for and trying to enjoy the holidays. We’ve been trimming trees, decking halls, lighting lights, as well as reading, listening, sipping, supping, and writing ourselves silly. We ought to change our name to “Scrabbleskiff” it’s been so frenetic around these parts.

As a result, we’re once again running out of runway to be able to bring gifts to all our friends and relatives (and relative friends). The staff at this blog may be many things to many people, but we are not highly organized, thoughtful planners; we amble, we meander, we loaf along (we’re “Scribbleskiff,” damn it). Luckily, we’ve been making a list over the past year, keeping track of things we’ve seen or want to see more of, things we have merely skimmed, briefly heard or, in some cases, just heard about. So at least we know what we want to buy, even if we don’t know when we’ll do the buying.

And, in the spirit of generosity, we thought we’d share our list of ideas with you, fellow procrastinators. With Chanukah half over and only 10 days or so left until Christmas, we thought you might appreciate some gift-giving suggestions to please those last-minute, hard-to-buy-for recipients. Keep in mind the following recommendations are geared toward the person who has everything and needs nothing. (That’s the main reason they’re left until last, right?) Frivolity is the motto here, while “aimless” and “a waste of time” come to mind, as well.

But these notions are not mere triflings: our goal is to point out the novelty to the novitiate, to uncover something unusual, something you may not have known about but is worth having, though not necessarily something for the collector. All of these trinkets are readily available and should not require much effort to obtain. Most important, most of these items are on our wish list, too (hint, hint). Happy shopping!

For the Beer Lover
Not surprising, a number of breweries use this season of celebration as an opportunity to roll out very limited releases. I’m not talking about your typical “winter warmers” or Christmas beers, which are as numerous and varied as fruitcake recipes this time of year. No, I’m thinking of extra-ordinary malt-based beverages that are as unique as they are extravagant. Top of the list has to be Samichlaus Bier, an Austrian dopplebock that’s brewed only once a year (Dec. 6) and aged for 10 months before bottling. As such, it’s one of the rarest beers in the world (at 14% alcohol, it’s one of the strongest, too) and it’s the ideal gift for the adventurous beer drinker on your list. Also, because each vintage is unique and the beer is made to age in the bottle, it’s ideally suited for the collector. Best of all, it’s delicious. Serve with hearty dishes or dessert, especially chocolate.

Another exclusive elixir is Prestige de Nuits, from Brasserie Dubuisson. Aged for six months in Pinot noir barrels, this very complex Belgian pale strong ale is awash in flavors and textures — tart and fruity aromas, yet with a hint of toffee and caramel; a dry and slightly bitter initial taste that mellows sweet and slightly sour; a high alcohol content (12%) that’s kept in check by the yeasty, Champagne-like carbonation; etc. All in all, it’s a beer that’s so pleasing and easy-going you may almost forget such sudsy sophistication comes at a price — $45/750 ml — I said almost. Enjoy it with sweet, complex cheeses, such as Beemster Extra Old.

Glassware is another distinct, often overlooked bestowal for the bibulous on your list. As with wine, a good beer goblet can enhance the enjoyment of its contents. Unfortunately, the typical pint glass used by most bartenders is not well suited for the job. Primarily designed to serve as a tumbler, or top half of a cocktail shaker, this glass is durable and easy to stack but not much good for drinking good beer — its cylindrical shape lets the aromas and fizzy goodness escape. You need a vessel with some shape, like a tulip, that will trap the aromas and guide them to your nose and palate. A wine glass will do in a pinch, but why not furnish the proper beer glasses (not to be confused with “beer goggles”). Sam Adams recently introduced “The Perfect Pint,” a glass specifically designed for beer-drinking (you may read about it here). A set of four retails for $30. I’ve also seen beer glasses that are both functional and elegant for sale at places like Pottery Barn and, locally, Red Tree. Here’s a quick, concise guide to the basics, to help you get started.

Then, once you have your memorable malts properly poured, it’s time to sit down and watch “Beer Wars: Brewed in America,” an eye-opening documentary that offers both an insider’s look at the battle between breweries (both big and little) and a heady examination of the plight of small business in America. Think of it as a pint-sized “Roger and Me.”

For the Music Lover
In retrospect, 2009 could be called the year of the compilation, or at least be notable for marking its comeback. So often, the idea of getting a group of musicians together to celebrate an artist’s life or to provide the soundtrack to a movie sounds charming in theory but often falls flat on vinyl (or polycarbonate). You may get one or two real “hits” while the rest are, well, misses. This year, however, was different. Not only was there a greater-than-usual outfall of such records (as far as I can recall) but also a higher amount of quality issue. And since compilations are essentially mixtapes, offering an admixture of music that’s similar in sound or theme with enough variety to make it interesting, they make uniquely personal presents. Here are this year’s standouts:

• Dark Was the Night, 4AD, a double-CD benefit collection featuring songs by major and minor indie-rock all-stars, such as Feist, Ben Gibbard (Death Cab for Cutie), The Decemberists, Bon Iver, Grizzly Bear, The National, Spoon, and more.
• War Child — Heroes, War Child, another benefit collection, this time featuring new bands covering songs by their “heroes” — for instance, The Hold Steady rocking up Springsteen’s “Atlantic City” — often with help from the original artists.
• Ciao My Shining Star: The Songs of Mark Mulcahy, Mezzotint, a tribute album created as a fundraiser for Mulcahy (of Miracle Legion), featuring covers by everyone from Thom Yorke, Frank Black, and Vic Chesnutt, to Ben Kweller, Josh Rouse, and Juliana Hatfield.
• The Twilight Saga: New Moon Soundtrack, Chop Shop Records, a veritable who’s who of hip artists — including The Killers, OK Go, Editors, and Lupe Fiasco — all penned new material for this sparkling teen swooner.
• Live at KEXP Volume Five, KEXP.org, is what the name implies — a compilation of exclusive live tracks, recorded in studios at or affiliated with Seattle’s KEXP (Scribbleskiff’s favorite radio station), by a wide range of musicians, including DeVotchKa, Andrew Bird, MGMT, Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, Vivian Girls, and more.

As any reader of this blog knows, I have become single-minded, as it were, when it comes to digital music. I don’t pay much heed to full-lengths anymore — not right away, at least. I prefer downloading a song on its own first; then, if I like it, I might go back and buy the rest. Over this past year, I did that at least five times, and I can heartily recommend those decisions to you here, in no particular order (click the links to find out why):

• Merriweather Post Pavilion, Animal Collective
• The Hazards of Love, The Decemberists
• Embryonic, The Flaming Lips
• Goodnight Oslo, Robyn Hitchcock & the Venus 3
• These Four Walls, We Were Promised Jetpacks

But I still have an affinity for phonographs, as I have mentioned several times in the past. I have a large collection of LP records that I can’t bear to and won’t part with. Why? Music just sounds better played on a record player, and the album side provides the perfect amount of the music for any given mood. The problem with (or inherent beauty of, it could be argued) a turntable is that it must be connected to the stereo console to be of service. In other words, it is an anti-mobile device — until now, that is. I have recently encountered several portable turntables that are not only versatile and affordable but also elegant and nostalgical (like this handsome throwback). Now the audiophile on your list can live in the past, wherever he or she may roam.

What Scribbleskiff musical compendium would be complete (or completely gratuitous) without mention of REM? Although our favorite band did not release any new material this year, they did make two offerings that could serve as bookends to their career thus far. The first, the 25th anniversary Deluxe Edition of Reckoning, came out in June, remastered and including a second CD-ful of songs recorded live during their 1984 tour. Perhaps not their best record, Reckoning was certainly their best-known for years and, looking back a quarter-century later, it’s a clear-eyed indication of their star-making potential. A more recent release, Live at the Olympia (CD and DVD), captures the band’s gutsy five-night “rehearsal,” held live in Dublin in 2007, of new songs written for their most recent LP, the aptly titled Accelerate. (I’m sorry.)

For the Book Lover
Why does the book industry hold competitions? To sell more books, of course. The National Book Award may not be the most popular of all American literary prizes — that superlative belongs to the Pulitzer — but I think it usually points out the best new books. That’s especially true with poetry, and I always try to buy the winning volume each year, even if or especially if I don’t know the author’s work. This year’s winner was Keith Waldrop. Although I have read some of his poems, I’ve never nosed my way through a complete book. So I’m hoping to find a copy of his award-winning Transcendental Studies: A Trilogy under the tree (you can read an excerpt here).

In terms of new poetry books I’ve read, enjoyed, and in some cases written about, I can recommend Endpoint and Other Poems, the final collection of poems published by the late John Updike. Although Updike forged a lucrative career as a novelist, short-story writer, and essayist, it’s his poems that appealed most to me. There are several reasons why I think his matter will matter to you.  I was also dazzled by the bountiful bouquet of new poems that were distributed via e-mail, one day at a time, this past April in honor of National Poetry Month. Check out a sampling (with links) here. You never know, you might find something you like and (like me) want to track down the whole collection.

I also want to mention Poem in Your Pocket: 200 Poems to Read and Carry, a clever belles-lettric device created by the Academy of American Poets. The idea is simple: select a poem you like, tear it from the book, and carry it around with you all day to read alone or share with others. It’s an indispensable literary dispenser, ideal for the poet or poetry lover on your list.

Two other items on my list could serve to satisfy any books-and-music or books-and-beer connoisseur you may know. The first, By the Time We Got to Woodstock: The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Revolution of 1969, written by Bruce Pollock, a self-professed “player in the deviant subculture,” promises to be a rollicking chronicle of one of the most important years in the history of rock music. You may also want to eyeball, though warily (and blearily), Things Drunk People Say, a compendium of humorous, sometimes crass, and embarrassing quotes from a group of New York-based “boozy social butterflies.” Potty talk begets bathroom reading, I suppose. Fortunately, or unfortunately, there’s no index of names — yes, that’s where I turned first, wouldn’t you?

Seasonally speaking, the most interesting book on my coffee table right now is Christmas Miscellany: Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Christmas, by Jonathan Green. This little cracker is filled with tons of information, useless or otherwise, about Christianity’s second-biggest day.  Discover everything, from the origins of your cherished traditions — why stockings are hung on Christmas Eve, why we use evergreens as decorations, what a yule log is — to explanations of more arcane items — where myrrh comes from, who the real Santa Claus is, and why reindeer didn’t always pull his sleigh. No one sitting within reach of this book has been able to resist picking it up, and neither should you.

So there you have it, a sackful of Scribbleskiffian gift ideas, suitable for an assortment of holidays. Maybe, if you’re good, and you pick the right prizes for the right people, they’ll all re-gift them right back to you right away.

As always, tell us what you think. Do you have other, unique holiday gift ideas that you’d like to share? Who tops your list of last-minute shop-fors? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

Scribbleskiff is staying in port this week. We’re taking a little extra time to rest from the recent business of busyness, making a few needed adjustments after receiving an overload of plenitude (though we’re still not sure if fare was fowl or fowl was fare) and discovering an understockage of clever. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t readying ourselves for the next adventure. For instance, we’re keeping our weather eye trained on a rapidly approaching, unusually large front of seasonally heavy drafts — and we’re fully prepared to manage the deluge. We’re already hearing the alluring calls of holiday sirens adrift on the channel, as well, and we have been receiving reports of new books and sundry items worthy of gifting (and regifting) during the impending period of mirthfulness (click here if you want additional ideas). And much, much more.

So, we’ll be back next week with a fresh supply of aimless writing intended to distract you from your daily routine. Until then, here are a few of the best and most-read articles, in each category, posted over the past year. If you are a faithful reader (don’t worry, we’ve been making a list and we know who you are), then you may enjoy having the chance to riffle through them again. If this is the first time you have read a post at Scribbleskiff, then these will be new to you. Enjoy!

Beery Scribblings
Patriots of the Caribbean: Tasting Rum and Honoring America’s True Spirit
Not Near Enough: In Search of the Elusive, Authentic German Radler
New Adventures in Homebrewing, Or Lessons in How to Waste a Lifetime?

Bookish Babble
Of Poems and Promises, Meatloaf, Memories, and the Pleasures of Failure
What He Writes About When He Writes About Us: Rediscovering Ray Carver
Odysseus and Me: A ‘Bromance’ of Epic Proportions

Musical Musings
A Playlist of Indie Summer Songs to Help You Reach (and Rock) the Beach
Turn On the Web, Tune In to Your Favorite Station, Drop Down Menu
Look What They’ve Done to That Song, Man

So, there you have it, a Scribbleskiff sampler, the trifecta of trivial treats. As always, tell us what you think. Do you have a favorite post from this past year? Or is there something new you want to learn more about — a seasonal craft beer, for instance, a song by an unknown band, or a recently published poetry collection? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

What makes a writer write?

It’s a fairly simple question, fraught with complexity, that often birddogs me when I find myself enjoying something I’m reading, whether poetry or prose. What caused this author to choose this particular subject and expound upon it for 5, 500, 5,000 or 50,000 words? What compelled him or her to convey these thoughts to me, at this time, in this format? What, ultimately, was the inspiration for this thing I hold in my hand?

I think this way whether as a writer or a reader. Or maybe I think this way because I am a writer and a reader. On some level, all word-workers are perpetual novitiates, “gradual students” continually learning the craft of writing. As such, I am always on the lookout for clues about how something I read has been constructed, or if it provides better or different solutions for doing the things I do.

As for myself, I’m constantly bombarded by influences and stimuli, but I’m not always receptive to or prepared to handle them. The change of seasons, for instance, can unexpectedly open a floodgate of emotions and memories, causing me to make sentences at random in my my mind, with no apparent purpose: little descriptions of things I am observing (“the coloratura of autumn leaves,” “the symphonic arrival of a flock of geese”), an imagined dialogue between people who may not even exist, etc. During a recent morning walk I was so overwhelmed by an upwelling of words, almost-words, and whimsy that I had to stop what I was doing and start the recording device on my iPhone to capture the gibberish that was burbling in my head — fodder for some future use as a poem or a story, or even a blog entry, I hope, if I can make sense of it all.

Other sources of inspiration include other people’s works and words. As I have written previously (here, for instance), the haiku of 18th century Japanese poet Issa, which I receive daily via email, provide a rich (and endless) supply of nourishment. Just recently, I got two that resonated deeply with my current state of being: “honeybees –/but right next door/hornets.” Who doesn’t live that life these days, teetering between pleasure and pain?

And what about this keening little gem?

the pony also
sets off on a journey…
autumn dusk.

Each of these three-liners packs a wallop and stops me, wham! in my tracks. I must react to them, captivated by what they mean or might mean, and curious about what they seem to mean to me. But only for a moment. Then I set off again, seeking a little honeyed indulgence elsewhere (while trying to avoid the stinging rebukes of others) as I trod clip-clop toward the sunset.

I was reminded of my interest in the origin of inspiration while rereading Edgar Allan Poe’s spine-tingling tale, “The Cask of Amontillado,” right before Halloween. At one point in the story, Montressor, the narrator, recites the motto inscribed on his family crest: Nemo me impune lacessit. Now, I have read these words countless times but never paid much attention to their role in the story until my friend Scott scribbled them on my Facebook wall, in response to a query about which Poe tale was his favorite.

So, unsure about the motto’s meaning, I looked it up and was surprised to discover that it has nothing to do with a prominent Italian family (real or imagined) but belongs instead to The Order of the Thistle, a Scottish regiment in the British Army, and appears on the Scottish Royal Coat of Arms.

Why is this fact important? Well, for one thing this seemingly innocuous Latin phrase, uttered almost in passing, forms the crux of the story. Translated as “no one attacks me with impunity,” it proves to be both the death sentence for the insulting (and drunkenly oblivious) Fortunato, and the acquittal for the murderous narrator. It’s a chilling revelation.

More to the point, because Edgar Poe was adopted as a boy by the family of a Scottish merchant (the Allans), he would likely have encountered the motto somewhere in the household growing up. So it seems to me that mighty little phrase might serve as a source of inspiration for this cleverly twisted story. But which came first, the idea for the deadly revenge plot or an understanding of the implications of honoring those four words?

Not that knowing the answers here matter, really, either to one’s appreciation of Poe’s skills as a storyteller or to the effectiveness of the tale itself. But having such a puzzle to solve makes “The Cask” that much more pleasurable to drink in, at least to me.

Another incident that rekindled my lust for learning about the nature of inspiration occurred recently when I received a review copy of a new book with a provocative title, Beg, Borrow, Steal, by Michael Greenberg. Although promoted as a follow-up to his acclaimed memoir Hurry Down Sunshine, which I haven’t yet read, it was the wording on the other side of the colon, “A Writer’s Life” — along with the arresting photo of a disemboweled book on the cover — that hooked me.

I know, I know: never judge a book by its catchy subtitle or its expressive artwork. But I couldn’t help myself. As I said earlier, I’m always looking for new lessons on the ways of the writer, and this seemed to feed that need. So I dove right in.

From the get-go, the writing and subject matter were compelling and enjoyable, and I soon began to wonder (as usual) what inspired Greenberg to write this new book. After I got about a third of the way through, however, realizing that it was just a loose collection of personal anecdotes, I started to think, “OK, it’s interesting, but where’s it going?” (Mind you, I’m hardly one to demand strict adherence to linearity and cohesiveness; Scribbleskiff is the antithesis to such ideals. But, come on.)

As it turns out, each of the book’s brief, concise chapters began life in a column Greenberg wrote for the Times Literary Supplement. In other words, there’s no emotional arc to follow or narrative framework to uncover in this memoir — or any literary conceit of any kind, really. What Beg, Borrow, Steal offers instead are short, largely unconnected essays on a wide range of subjects — from family life and Jewish heritage, to racism and history, social commentary, literature, the movies, and even bird-watching in Central Park, to name a few.

Not the book I was expecting and hoping for, that’s for sure. I wanted what the press materials promised, a chronicle of “the life of a writer of little means trying to practice his craft.” I wanted to learn what motivated him as a writer, how he developed his prose style, what writers he read and was inspired by, why he chose to write a memoir instead of a novel, etc. What I got was a recounting of how much he fought with his father and brothers, or how he earned his keep doing menial and often humiliating jobs, or how he helped solve the rat infestation in his neighborhood, or how he was able to get approval from his daughter for publishing his memoir about her mental “crack-up” (the aforementioned Hurry Down Sunshine). Etc. In other words, mere fragments of autobiography.

Admittedly, I am not a fan of memoirs. I don’t often trust tell-all tale-tellers. Even when (and especially if) the subject is someone I admire, I find the act of reading about another person’s personal life to be like learning the secret to a magic trick — once the thrill is gone, it’s disappointing and uninteresting. Worse, I support the belief professed by my old professor, Hayden Carruth: “All writers are custodians less of our own pasts than of others’, and we must proceed with the nicest discretion and respect.” Stuff like this makes me cringe, and I probably would have passed on this book if I had figured out what it was right away.

Is it deceptive or false advertising? I don’t think so. More likely, I was looking for something that wasn’t there in the first place. A case of mis-marketing and false hopes, perhaps.

Besides, once I got past the notion that Beg, Borrow, Steal wasn’t so much about “a writer” but about “a life,” I actually enjoyed reading much of it. For one thing, it’s chockful of great writing — most pieces are well-crafted, poignant, informative, funny, emotional and, in some cases, as compactly written as prose poems. Some were too personal and emotionally raw for my taste — making me wonder, why would he want to publish such a thing? A few vignettes, however, left me wanting more and could likely serve as source material for a larger work.

For another thing, the book proved inspiring to me. Reading the best essays in the book — such as “Milk and Honey,” “A Tailor’s Fortune,” “Zebra,” “Hart Island,” “The Sanity of Darkness,” and “Sound Booth,” for instance — made me want to get out my pen and start writing. Or, at least, click on the recorder and start jibber-jabbering, as I so often do.

In the end, after reading through Beg, Borrow, Steal, I may not know what makes Michael Greenberg write what he writes. But I do see how, when he is truly inspired, he can convey a “writer’s life” that is worth reading about.

As always, tell us what you think. Have you read Beg, Borrow, Steal or Hurry Down Sunshine? What did you think of either book? Do you wonder what inspires authors — or artists of any kind — to create their works? What inspires you? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

I know it sounds kinda scary to say, but Halloween is my favorite American holiday. Or at least it tops the list of Holidays-With-No-Purpose — that is, celebrations that we all celebrate for no reason other than celebrating something. I mean, does anybody really care what Halloween’s all about?

I realize there are lots of explanations for why we “blockheads” carve pumpkins, dress up in costumes, and parade around the neighborhood doing tricks or getting treats (just click here or here, for examples). But knowing these facts has never really enhanced or impeded my, and now my kids’, enjoyment of this annual to-do. It’s not like the 4th of July or Thanksgiving (my favorite among the authentic holidays, by the way), where it’s as equally important to know the story behind the holiday as it is to celebrate it. But Halloween? Who gives a dead cat what it’s all about? You don’t need to. Just put on your William Shatner mask, go get some candy, and have fun.

That’s part of the attraction of Halloween, too. There’s really nothing to it, other than planning what to wear and doing a little decorating — in fact, it’s the only holiday where you are encouraged to show off, rather than hide, all the cobwebs and dusty furniture in your house. That’s basically it, though. There are no gifts involved (unless you count being “boo’d” by relatives). No big meals to prepare (though we like to wolf down “pigs in a blanket” before trick-or-treating). No guests to receive or clean up after (except, of course, the parade of friends, neighbors, and other kindred spirits stopping by briefly for a handful of whatever it is you have to offer).

What’s the main reason I enjoy celebrating Halloween? It’s simple: I like feeling spooky. I suppose I have a preternatural affinity for the supernatural. I’ve always thought it weird how much I am drawn to the inexplicable and weird (even the word weird). As a boy, for instance, the first thing I turned to in the comics was the “Ripley’s Believe It or Not!” And I devoured as many Hardy Boys and other similar books involving mystery and suspense as I could find; later, as I got older, my tastes ranged from the sublime, such as the adventures of Sherlock Holmes (especially, “The Hound of the Baskervilles”), to the bizarre — stories like “Hop-Frog” by Edgar Allan Poe or “Skin” and “Lamb to the Slaughter,” by Roald Dahl.

My afterschool TV-watching habits followed a similar pattern: reruns of “The Twilight Zone” and “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” held me rapt — though I always needed to watch an episode of “The Addams Family” as an ooky, kooky antidote (RIP, Vic Mizzy, we will miss thee). Even dopey episodes of “The Munsters” offered enough of a taste of the (though campy) macabre. Anything, I suppose, to avoid doing homework.

Perhaps that’s the most beguiling aspect of Halloween for me: participating in an activity that involves very little activity, for no real purpose — like sitting in the near-darkness, conning over a scary story by the flickering light of a freshly carved jack-o-lantern, with a bit of creepy music playing in the background and a glassful of some tasty fall beverage in hand.

If that sounds like the recipe for a fiendishly fun evening, then read on. Following are some suggestions — a grab-bag of new, adult-strength goodies, really — for enjoying Halloween the Scribbleskiff way. Enjoy!

Something to read:

Vampire Stories, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. These days, when it comes to pop culture, vampires are the new wiz kids. Harry Potter and his sorcerer friends have been superseded by a series of books, movies,  and TV shows — from Twilight and The Vampire Diaries to “True Blood” — that prove it’s cool to be a ghoul. But vampires were not always depicted as handsome, brooding teen heartthrobs with a dangerous overbite. In fact, as shown in this new collection of stories — most written before Bram Stoker had unearthed his infamous caped Count — the blood-sucking undead were anything but appealing and didn’t always take human form. Conan Doyle’s vampires include a heat-draining Eskimo spirit, a botanical monster, a reanimated mummy, and a parasite, to name a few. Better known as the author of Sherlock Holmes, Conan Doyle reportedly wrote many short stories involving supernatural and occult forces that were published but not very popular in his day. This book brings together nine of his lesser-known, though no less entertaining, vampire stories, including several featuring his famous detective (“The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire” is my favorite) that will please fantasy fiction fans and Conan Doyle loyalists alike.

Death Becomes Them, Alix Strauss. This entertaining new volume of social criticism, subtitled “Unearthing the Suicides of the Brilliant, the Famous, and the Notorious,” takes an up-close and personal look at the cult of celebrity suicide by examining the deaths of some of the most influential cultural figures of the past 100 years. By honing in on the final days in the lives of people as diverse as Virginia Woolf, Vincent Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Mark Rothko, Ernest Hemingway, Abbie Hoffman, Spalding Gray, and Kurt Cobain, Strauss can explore society’s morbid fascination with the act of suicide in general and provide an intimate portrait of the sad and troubled lives each of them lead. I suspect that, if he could, Conan Doyle would have this book on his night stand.

Something to hear:

Embryonic, The Flaming Lips. The “Flips,” as they are affectionately known among fans, are back with another offering of their unique brand of freaky/funny/funky/fearless psych-pop, and Embryonic may be their most inventive and disturbingly beautiful releases in awhile. If nothing else, it’s certainly the best Halloweenish album of the year — from the unsettling “childbirth” imagery on the cover to the wide-ranging weirdness of its output. It’s a heady witches brew of styles and sounds: I can hear traces of everyone from Isaac Hayes to Iron Maiden, Meddle-era Pink Floyd to The Doors, Animal Collective, and Sonic Youth, along with natural, found, and otherwise strange sounds, such as singer Wayne Coyne clearing his throat or that annoying, clicking interference cell phones cause on loudspeakers (I thought it was me at first). Sometimes all this occurs at once, as on “The Sparrow Looks Up at the Machine” and “See the Leaves.” But the band’s experience and talent guide them through this seeming maze of loose band-jams to find the right balance between the cacophonous and quiet moments, the manufactured noises and the delicate melodies, producing one of the most engaging, various, and enjoyable records to greet my pointy little ears this year. Be sure to splurge for the deluxe version, which offers, among other things, four bonus songs (including “UFOs Over Baghdad,” which is one of their tenderest since “Yoshimi…”) that serve as a sort of counterpoint to the chaos.

“My Body’s a Zombie for You,” Dead Man’s Bones, Dead Man’s Bones. I also want to mention this single, from a self-titled collaboration between actor Ryan Gosling, his friend Zach Shields, and several groups of musicians — including the Silverlake Conservatory of Music Children’s Choir here. Sounding a little like a clash between Roxy Music and The Mouseketeer Club, it’s a fun, seasonally appropriate doo-wop romp about supernatural love that will have you cheering “Z-O-M-B-I-E!” along with the kids at the end.

And be sure to check out the latest Scribbleskiff playlist at 8tracks.com (just click here and open in a new tab or window). It’s a Halloween-themed mix of 40 songs, old and new, designed to leave you bewitched, bothered and bewildered.

Something to drink:

The Great Pumpkin, Clipper City Brewing Co., and Imperial Pumpkin Ale, Weyerbacher Brewery. Despite the (growing) number of pumpkin ales on the market, I’m still not a fan of this style of beer. Many of the ones I’ve tried were thin, bitter, and dominated by only one or two spices (think cinnamon-flavored light beer). But these two royals are the best of the patch. Both are brewed with pumpkin in the mash, instead of a flavored additive, along with heaps of malts and hops, to produce a bold (8%-plus alcohol), hearty, warming tonic that looks and smells as sweet as pie. I’d also recommend Punkin’ Ale from Dogfish Head, which is slightly subtler and great for sipping as you sample your little urchins’ haul. Another noteworthy candy accompaniment is hard cider, which I reviewed in this space last year.

Other malt-based beverages that are eerily good this time of year include “Kentucky Mulled Cider,” using this recipe I received from Maker’s Mark, and a snifter of Sortilege, a liqueur made from Canadian whisky and maple syrup that I recently got as a gift (it’s like candy in a glass). I’m also dying to try an Obituary Cocktail, which features the E. A. Poe-approved elixir Pernod Absinthe and is, I hope, almost as alluring as amontillado poured straight from the cask.

So, there you have it, a half-dozen recommendations for spooking up your Halloween night. They may not help explain why you should celebrate this ancientest of holidays, but they should help make it more spirited if you do.

As always, tell us what you think. Do you have your own Halloween rituals? What’s your favorite spooky story or song? Is pumpkin ale the best drink for washing down a mouthful of candy? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

No one likes to fail. And yet everyone does, every once in awhile. Falling flat on your face is part of being human, though rarely is it anything but terribly embarrassing and painful. I have enough self-respect (well, enough left these days) to know that not trying — a nonattempt, so to speak — is almost more palatable than nonachievement. But, as the roadside church sign I saw the other day points out, “Falling down is not failure. Staying down is.”

Anyway, that seems to be the leading sentiment in this “Land of the Loss” in which we are currently living. These days there’s a certain cachet or majesty to being a washout and a disappointment. Even if for a brief (and shining) moment. Need proof? Just turn on the TV: The hit show “The Biggest Loser,” for instance, just began its eighth season, and TV personalities like Dave Letterman continue to line up to proclaim (hand on forehead, palm out), “Help, I’ve fallen and I can get up.” Laughing all the way to the bank, of course.

But I’m willing to go a step further and state that, sometimes, achieving failure is its own reward. In fact, I think failure with foreknowledge, or self-consent, or malice aforethought, or whatever you want to call it, elicits a grander satisfaction than unintentionally screwing up. In other words, failing, when you knew damn well you would do so, can feel really good. And here I will offer myself as an example.

Last fall, shortly after I learned that poet and critic Hayden Carruth, my old friend and mentor, had died, I set out to read all of his books in a single year. I had promised myself a long time ago that I would do this thing, put my hands on all his collections of poems and essays, his novels, and memoirs, and then read the entire lot. And I was going to finish before the one-year anniversary of his death. It would be my way of mourning and paying tribute to him, of repaying his patient generosity and good counsel over the past two decades. It sounded like a good plan, in any event.

And yet, from the moment I decided to tackle this project, I knew I’d fail — and fail miserably. There just aren’t enough hours in my day to allow for such an undertaking, I told myself, and I have too many other obligations, projects, and promises to keep already. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, as King Grover says. But what else was I going to do? What else could I do? I had to try.

So, I did. And, as I knew I would, I didn’t. Out of his 40-plus published books, I think I reread five from cover to cover. I think. I know I nosed into nearly all that I have on my shelf, which number around 15. I even ordered one or two new-to-me’s, though I finished neither of them. My plan also had included checking out the remainder from the library. But when I realized the difficulty in locating even a few (many of his books are out of print), I gave up that endeavor entirely.

As I said, it was a bust, all the way round.

However, I am here to exclaim that, at the bottom of my year-long bookish botch-up, I am feeling neither defeated nor deflated. Quite the opposite — I’m elated. Although I missed reaching my goal, my utterly unattainable goal, I’m nonetheless pleased. Why? Well, for one thing, I did achieve some measure of success — I knew ahead of time that I couldn’t and wouldn’t do it, and I didn’t. That’s something, right?

For another, the pressure’s off. Now that I’ve realized and acknowledged my underachievement, I can move on. A better man might not feel this way, but who am I kidding? At least now I can go back to rereading the books I didn’t get to — for example, Beside the Shadblow Tree, Carruth’s touching memoir of his friendship with publisher and poet James Laughlin, or Scrambled Eggs & Whiskey, the prize-winning book that includes several of his most wrenching, elegiac poems, such as “Testament” — and I won’t feel a bit guilty about it. In fact, my plan now is to reread his books — as many or as few as I can, that is — every year.

Which brings me to the other, bigger reason for feeling like such a delighted dud. Taking on this task not only reawakened the sublime joy I feel when encountering my friend’s words and thoughts, but it also stoked my enjoyment of the act of rereading itself.

Few people I know are active rereaders. And why should they be? It’s hard enough to make time for reading a book one time through these days, let alone to make a second or third attempt. Will we watch a rerun of “House” or “Desperate Housewives”? Maybe. But slog through Bleak House or House Made of Dawn again? Not so much. I am not passing judgment here. It’s just the way it is.

Now, I am an editor and writer by trade, which really means I am, by and large, a professional reader. And being a reader-for-hire inevitably means that I am called on to go back over some word or paragraph or entire manuscript that I’ve already read once (or, more likely several times). So it’s what I do and I’m used to doing it. Luckily, though, I like being a rereader.

Frankly, it’s part of my make-up. Perhaps it’s my inquisitive nature, or an innate inability to stay focused on one thing for too long (I think there’s a name for this dis-order), or a natural inclination to hopscotch from one thought (or book or song or Web site) to the next. In other words, my name is Scribbleskiff and I’m easily distracted — especially by something shiny and familiar.

A good example of this behavior occurred recently. While I was still faithfully (blindly and frantically, at this point) engaged in my quest to reread the Carruth canon, I stumbled upon a new poem by Donald Hall, an author I have admired for many years (and, not coincidentally, someone Carruth had recommended to me). Hall, who’s in his early 80s, hasn’t published much lately, so a new poem is a rare find. And, as it turns out, “Meatloaf”, which appeared in The New Yorker this summer, is even rarer — it’s a reprise of “Baseball,” a long poem he published more than 15 years ago in The Museum of Clear Ideas, a book I relished and still think about, but hadn’t opened in a long time. (You do see where I’m going with this, don’t you?) Naturally, I began rereading it, too.

I recommend The Museum of Clear Ideas to you, dear reader, because it proved influential to me, though I’m not sure I knew why in 1994. I especially admired the book’s title sequence, which is an homage of sorts to the Latin poet Horace (not unlike Ezra Pound’s controversial Homage to Sextus Propertius), though the main speaker is actually Horace Horsecollar, a minor character in early Disney cartoons. I was reading a lot of Latin poets then (still am, actually) and Hall’s recasting of ancient odes and themes into modern situations was inspiring.

I also liked “Baseball,” but for reasons that are less obvious. In the poem, which features nine sections of nine stanzas, each with nine lines of nine syllables (it’s a form Hall says he invented to aid in composition), the speaker (who calls himself “K.C.” or Casey) sets out to explain America’s pastime to Kurt Schwitters, a 20th century German Dada collage artist. I don’t care much for baseball, so the theme didn’t overly matter to me. However, Hall’s decision to incorporate elements of collage, juxtaposing and “gluing/ bits and pieces of world/ history alongside personal anecdote,” did.

This approach, making connections between seemingly disjointed and unconnected elements, was fascinating to my scatterbrain mindset. And it’s likely what caused me years later to pick up a copy of Lunch Poems by Frank O’Hara, whose brief, wild, conversational “I do this, I do that” poems inspired me to write a long series of “proems” (as I called them), which I worked on almost daily, off and on, for more than two years.

It’s only after having been away from Hall’s old poems for awhile, and encountering them again through the wondrous and delicious “Meatloaf,” do I realize what an impact they made. That’s how memory works, doesn’t it, leading us from thought to thought, with images and emotions running together, inexplicably making connections, without purpose or meaning, or so it seems.

In the end, then, rereading has some important benefits. For one thing, it enables you to reconnect with a writer or writers and uncover hidden or forgotten nuances and delights. And you can discover favorite authors at an earlier, less mature stage in their careers — for instance, while again thumbing through Carruth’s novel and first book, Appendix A, I glimpsed a writer just beginning to find the assured and impassioned voice that would emerge later and that I would come to admire. Rereading, then, can bring you back to where you started and set you off on new pathways, too.

Rereading also let’s you reconnect with your former self, often in unexpected ways. Upon opening The Sleeping Beauty, Carruth’s magnum opus, I was immediately transported back to where I was when I bought my copy, a first edition — in London, mid ’80s, wandering the used bookstalls off The Strand with some dear friends, on a lark, killing time, with nothing better to do. (Where have those days gone?) I remembered realizing that, though I couldn’t afford it, I had to buy that book and send it to Hayden to autograph, which he did — along with a characteristically apt comment that the damage on the spine looked like “someone had used it as a hammer to drive in nails.” It’s a rare first read that can elicit that kind of response.

Of course, I have no right to follow my rereading impulses, no matter who the author is. I have a large and growing stack of unread books that occupies more than a few tabletops in my house. (It’s a singular stack in my mind because all of its contents are categorized under one theme — “unopened.”) Let’s not even count the volumes interspersed throughout my bookshelves, the books that I’ve started then put back with high hopes of completion “some day.” Even frivolouser than being a rereader, it turns out, is being a buyer of books that don’t get read. Ah, so.

Recently a friend, glancing at several tomes held in my hand, asked how I come to find the books I read and write about. “I follow my nose,” I said, and I wasn’t being glib. Like a trained truffle-snuffler, I meander from one scent to another, often leaving a trail in favor of something stronger or more interesting, sometimes circling back to pick up an old scent again, until it goes cold once more. And so on, and so on, as the Faberge girls would say.

I don’t always find what I’m looking for in this manner, and that’s OK because sometimes I find exactly what I wasn’t looking for. In either case, such a calculated misstep is for me a delight that I hope, once I get back up, I never learn to correct.

As always, let us know what you think. Are you a habitual rereader? If so, what book or books do you revisit? Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.

Every year around this time I get up from my chair, walk over to the bookshelf, pull down a volume by H. L. Mencken, pick out a passage, read a few sentences, and start laughing out loud. It’s an odd old habit, I know, and one that I’ve been repeating for many years now. But I can’t help myself, and I wouldn’t want to if I could.

You see, September 12th mark’s Mencken’s birthday, and I like to celebrate “Der Tag” by thumbing through his 5,000,000-plus published words (that’s his lifetime estimate, though I’m sure with his several hefty, posthumous collections that number looms even larger). Reading through Mencken’s books is my way of pleasing his unruly ghost — an albeit more modest approach than, as was his request, to “forgive some sinner or wink your eye at some homely girl.” It’s also cathartic and edifying for me.

Mencken, an early-20th century journalist and cultural critic, is largely unknown to an American public that needs him now more than ever. With a caustic wit and a penchant for scathing commentary, Mencken challenged big government spending tactics, ridiculed the behavior of self-righteous politicians, fought hypocrisy, beat the drum for civil liberties — like free speech and freedom of the press — and continually (on purpose) underestimated the intelligence of his fellow citizens. Even though he’s been dead since 1956, his words still ring true today and often reverberate whenever someone invokes the spirit of one of his attacks.

To someone like me, however, who’s been a fan for several decades, the so-called “Sage of Baltimore” is a perennial supplier of great, guffaw-inducing entertainment, on any number of subjects. Which is why earlier this month, when I received a review copy of a new book — provocatively titled An Atheist Defends Religion: Why Humanity Is Better Off With Religion Than Without It — I raced for a shelfful of Menckeniana with even greater interest. How could I resist?

For one thing, Mencken was a lifelong, devout, and often outspoken, atheist. Religion and especially the religious were two of the biggest targets for his double-barreled typewriter (you can read some choice quotes here). As was often the case with the many mountebanks he sought to bring down, Mencken was unambiguous about his reasons for attacking the church: “Religion is fundamentally opposed to everything I hold in veneration — courage, clear thinking, honesty, fairness, and above all, love of the truth.” You can’t be more direct than that.

For another thing, being irreligious myself, I was intrigued by the argument implied in the book’s subtitle and thought it might be fun to speculate how Mencken might have reacted to it. I am not an atheist, I’m an agnostic — which just means I don’t know (or care) enough to take a stance in the great debate over the existence of God. Frankly, I can make a compelling argument on both sides, but I’m just too full of doubt to accept either doctrine. Religiously speaking, I’m a flip-flopper.

And that’s precisely the point that author Bruce Sheiman, the self-proclaimed atheist in the book’s title, seems to be making. He asserts that the debate about the existence of God is useless precisely because it can never be resolved to anyone’s satisfaction. It’s time for “hard-core believers” and “militant atheists” alike to move on, he says; it’s not important to figure out who’s right and who’s wrong. What matters more, Sheiman insists, is discovering “the value of religion” itself. In fact, he argues, you don’t have to believe in the existence of God to understand that “religion provides a combination of psychological, moral, emotional, existential, communal, and even physical health benefits that no other institution can provide.”

See, I told you it was provocative. And, I have to admit, it’s a fairly compelling read, especially to someone on the fence like myself. Sheiman eruditely breaks down his argument, chapter by chapter, piece by piece, to make the point that, despite an increasing dependence on science to generate the facts and information needed to fuel modern society, more and more people turn to religion to find fulfillment in their lives. In other words, the more we humans discover about “the basic formulations of biological value” in our lives — the imperatives of a full belly and compatible mates, for example — the more we seem to need expressions of “absolute worthiness” beyond ourselves: aka, the stuff of religion.

More to the point, to Sheiman at least, the need to believe in a God — or, more important, to repudiate God — is irrelevant and even meaningless. Rather, it’s the enduring value of religion, as a “cultural institution” (his emphasis), that is most beneficial to humanity. That seems like rickety scaffolding to me — can you really separate God from religion and still have it hold up? (See, I told you I was a doubter.)

So, I wondered, what would Mencken think of such a stance? Well, on the one hand I think it would make him smile. Although he despised religion, he couldn’t live without it. Like democracy, to which he also publicly denied an allegiance, religion served as an endless source of amusement for Mencken. Consider this postulate: “I am against religion because it teaches us to be satisfied with not understanding the world.” Sassy, but sound.

What about this one?: “We must respect the other fellow’s religion, but only in the sense and to the extent that we respect his theory that his wife is beautiful and his children smart.” Zing, again! And I could proffer many, many more.

On the other hand, I think Mencken would be howling mad over this book’s thesis, drubbing it mercilessly with reams of newsprint. Why? Because he was a rationalist, in the great tradition, and never prescribed value on (let alone believed in) anything he couldn’t see or touch. Truth-seeking was a deadly serious undertaking to Mencken, and the defense of any intangible, like love or religion, as he observed, is full of “logical imbecilities.”

Hear him out: “It is often argued that religion is valuable because it makes men good, but even if this were true it would not be proof that religion were true. … Santa Claus makes children good in precisely the same way, and yet no one would argue seriously that the fact proves his existence.” (Sorry, Virginia.)

Worse, he wrote, history continually points out the real beneficiaries of religion: “Religion is regarded by the common people as true, by the wise as false, and by the rulers as useful.”

Of course, the truth of the matter is, religion isn’t to blame — faith is. And Mencken defined faith as “an illogical belief in the occurrence of the improbable.” Therefore, the true believer, in his eyes, is “pathological,” “ill,” and “incurable.” Simply put, a believer (or even an atheist who is, in Sheiman’s words, “sympathetic to religious aspirations”) is “one who has lost (or never had) the capacity for clear and realistic thought.” As I said, Mencken could be scathing — and funny.

But I do think that there may be some merit in Sheiman’s argument, a “truth” that Mencken could not have foreseen. Yes, much has changed over the past century — from the Industrial Revolution to the rise of Modernism and the birth of the Information Age — to alter the way we view Man’s place in the universe and the role of God. Yet, as Sheiman points out, secularism is on the decline and atheism is dying. A Gallup survey showed that less than 5% of the American population say they don’t believe in some form of God, while the Economist predicts that the proportion of people belonging to the world’s top religions will rise from 67% in 1900 to 80% by 2050.

Why the change? As Sheiman says, science may explain why we exist, but religion shows us how to exist. And that, it seems, is far more comforting to most people.

So, the reality is, the world is filling up with all kinds of incurable believers, and you’ll either want to join them, as Sheiman seems to be doing, or beat them, as Mencken tried. I suggest you read this book, along with one of Mencken’s, to be able to decide for yourself how to act.

In the meantime, I’ll leave you with one of the birthday boy’s characteristically tightly packed bombshells:

To sum up:
1. The cosmos is a gigantic flywheel making 10,000 revolutions a minute.
2. Man is a sick fly taking a dizzy ride on it.
3. Religion is the theory that the wheel was designed and set spinning to give him the ride.

As always, let us know what you think. Have you read Bruce Sheiman’s book? Is it plausible, or even reasonable, for an atheist to defend religion? How do you think Mencken or any other critic might react to this argument?  Let us know by leaving a comment below.

And be sure to visit (and join) the Scribbleskiff page on Facebook (find it here), where you can partake in wall-to-wall conversations, find additional information and suggestions from readers, and more.