“Christians talk about the horror of sin, but they have overlooked something. They keep talking as if everyone were a great sinner, when the truth is that nowadays one is hardly up to it. There is very little sin in the depths of the malaise. The highest moment of a malaisian’s life can be that moment when he manages to sin like a proper human (Look at us, Binx–my vagabond friends as good as cried out to me–we’re sinning! We’re succeeding! We’re human after all!).”

Walker Percy, The Moviegoer

Pardon me for not having done the usual this morning. I was prepping last night in order to conduct the very first interview for my Louis Armstrong biography, and today I spent six amazingly absorbing hours talking to George Avakian, who knew Armstrong from 1940 on and was his record producer in the mid-Fifties. Avakian, who was born in 1919, appears to remember everything that ever happened to him, and revels in sharing his memories with serious-minded interviewers who’ve done their homework. I had, and I filled up four cassettes with his detailed recollections of Armstrong, on and off the job. We’re not quite done yet, but I covered a lot of ground, and I expect to start writing the first draft of the prologue some time next week.

It isn’t easy to write a biography of a man you never met, even someone like Armstrong who left behind a substantial body of correspondence and reminiscence. By the time I started writing about H.L. Mencken, who died in 1956, everyone who had known him at all well was long gone, and I had to work from written source material alone. Though Armstrong died in 1971, there aren’t many people left who knew him well enough to speak with confidence about his character and personality, much less who collaborated with him closely enough to describe his working methods. Oral-history transcripts are precious, sometimes priceless, but the one thing you can’t do with them is ask the interviewees your own questions. When I turned on my tape recorder this morning, I felt as if magic casements were about to open, and when I turned it off late in the afternoon, I knew they had.

Anyway, my apologies for not posting my weekly Wall Street Journal drama-column teaser, which will go up shortly, along with today’s almanac entry. Now you know why, and I bet you don’t blame me one bit….

Last night the ipod played Lucinda Williams’s “Jackson” and the Breeders’ “Drivin’ on 9” practically back-to-back, which I thought was awfully clever of it. These are my two favorite songs about driving–songs while driving, really–dating back to well before I was a driver myself. Driving can be an opiate, and the narrators of both songs seem under its influence. They treat the names of their destinations like talismans, hopefully investing them with emotional significance the places haven’t actually yet taken on. Musically, both songs have simple, even na

– Erin O’Connor has discovered the wonder that is Shirley Hazzard’s Transit of Venus. She gets further than I ever did in explaining what makes the novel so palpably different from other books one reads, what gives it its unmistakable aura:

The novel cannot be read quickly and still be read well. Its nuance demands a dipping method of reading, in which the reader stops reading frequently to consider what she has just read, and in which the reader routinely disrupts her forward progress to reread a passage whose precision cannot fully be grasped at once. It’s a rare and exquisite pleasure to read this way and to be rewarded for it, a reminder that nothing is ever bland, and that the closer one attends to the details of life, the more there is to see, to know, and to feel.

I received for Christmas the Hazzard novel you never hear about, The Bay of Noon. I’ve read just a few pages and won’t be able to return to it anytime very soon. My brief initial foray revealed the fine writing and keen eye I would have expected–but not that, you know, that thing (snaps fingers). That thing is a rare thing. Truth be told, it would be a little disappointing to find out it’s replicable.

– Mr. Elegant Variation is multi-talented. I very much enjoyed his super-short story at Pindeldyboz. “The Everhappy Eterna Comfort Band

I accidentally (or, more accurately, in wretched impatience) posted my last item twice. As soon as I saw that this had happened, our blog service provider slowed down to more or less a full stop (please note that I am the last known blogger still using a dial-up connection, although these medieval days are numbered).

Fifteen minutes of tearing my hair out ensued, but I was at last able to delete one of the doubles. An hour later, they were both still appearing here. Now I’ve gone in and deleted the second copy, with no apparent effect on the appearance of this page. Presumably at some point they will both vanish; as soon as possible after that, I’ll marshal as much forbearance as I can and post the errant post–precisely once.

Long story short: I do know I appear to be repeating myself, thanks. Thanks.

What’s that you say? You already visited Colby Cosh today on my recommendation? Well, turn yourself right around and head back there if you want to see the snapshot of a festive Charles Bukowski gotten up all Tom-Wolfe-style that Colby found in a book once upon a time. Be sure to take in his reading of the captured moment, too–it’s amusing and rings awfully true.

Bonus materials: Bukowski v. Thomas in the Clash of the Tightest: History’s Greatest Drunks Square Off.

After careful consideration, and having duly consulted with my co-blogger, I’ve come to the conclusion that the mysterious proprietor of Outer Life is the Charles Lamb of our time, or the Charles Lamb of our medium–I’m not sure which, but he’s the Charles Lamb of something. His recent posting “Birthday at Buddy’s”–as observant, dry, and economical as his usual fare but somehow even more hilarious–is what pushed me over the fence from simply enjoying his essays to reaching for superlatives. If you aren’t already reading him, what are you doing with your life?

“Brithday at Buddy’s” begins:

The invitation arrived on Tuesday for a birthday party on Sunday. At 10:00 am. Bowling at Buddy’s Bowl-O-Rama. For a four year old. Bouncy and lunch to follow at the house.

Late invitation — strike one. Bowling for four year olds — strike two. 10:00 am on a Sunday morning — strike three. So I threw the invitation out.

You’ll want to read the rest.

Outer Life appears to have been around for about ten months. I’ve been reading it regularly for about two, which means there’s a nice plump archive for me to plunder greedily over the next little while. Some posts I’ve especially liked so far (both culled from a greatest hits list in OL‘s right-hand column called “Some Old Posts”–what, did he pick them by throwing darts?): “Mr. Tiki and the Boogie Boys” and “A Farewell to Golf,” which will no doubt strike some as an inconceivable sentiment (hi Dad!).

Good deed for the day: check.

UPDATE: Outer Life promises he’ll “keep a sharp eye on my sister.”

“One needs only to be old enough in order to be as young as one will.”

Henry Adams, Mont-Saint-Michel and Chartres