So at my job the store-manager is one of those He-she-it monsters and has a way of castrating men with her eyes. Part of me is scared by this super-human power of hers, and another part of me is oddly drawn to it. At any rate, I was chillin like a villain in my mini-van listening to the radio on my lunch break (my iPod has been out of commission until I put iTunes back on the lappy and I've learned to find things I love about the radio again). The song that made Sara Bareilles famous a year or so ago, "Love Song" came on and this wave of girliness surged through my veins. The next thing I know I'm rocking out, singing the lyrics as best as I could remember on the top of my lungs. Mid-way during my mini-concert in my mini-van I glance out of the corner of my left eye and catch He-she staring at me while she smokes a butt. No lie, she winked at me and smiled. Because I don't feel like writing you all a "Love Song" right now, here's Sara Bareilles covering one of my fav's from Mr. Otis Redding, (Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
For the puzzle and art lover in all of us
Cool Things in Random Places has some gems here, but the Crossword Facade is on my top ten to visit. It's right after Punkin Chunkin in Delaware on the list. In all seriousness my friends and I are going to Delaware to see this in November '09. . . only 232 days away. What? The World Championship PunkinChunkin website has a countdown. MotherPunkinChucker.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Because Fearless explained it . . .
and I love Fearless and his stories.
La Petite Vie
Alan Edward Butt
Love is the kindest
expression
of absence---
Or else
is a day
by the river,
in which by
motion
it becomes clear---
there have been
in an hour an
infinite train
of rivers, & which
did you want
to see? One
comes slowly
to realize
there is no evading things
(the heart will have
its way, though
its will go
unfulfilled),
& there is no shame
in this.
The pleasure in this world---
soft breeze, soft
thighs, a bit of music,
words, that make
a good sound---
suggest when taken
whole that the
thing
the body longs for
is not & never has been
some petite mort,
a true thing
known to grass
& the elderly man
with a kind word
in greeting. And
the woman saying
that she is about
to come, as in
going to arrive---
at last to fill
the body held so long
by stewards
in her name.
Celebrating St. Patrick's Day by giving y'all the same lesson in French that Det. Bobby, "Fearless" Smith gave Markie Mark's brother in Boomtown. La petite mort is the french expression for an orgasm. Its literal meaning is "the little death."
In the same first episode of Boomtown, Fearless tells another amazing story:
There was this wave way out in the ocean. He was just racing along having a great time. Sun light glinting, sparkling, just flying. Until one day he look ahead and he saw wave after wave in front of him crashing on the beach and he got scared. And this older wave in front of him said, "I know what your problem is. You've been having so much fun being a wave that you forgot you're just part of the ocean."
I'm one of the last people of my generation who has actually touched an 8-track. More specifically, this 8-track.
Favorite track from this album, In My Room. So in my room, on Fearless, I'm just catching waves (I literally own surfing sheets, they're pretty rad).
La Petite Vie
Alan Edward Butt
Love is the kindest
expression
of absence---
Or else
is a day
by the river,
in which by
motion
it becomes clear---
there have been
in an hour an
infinite train
of rivers, & which
did you want
to see? One
comes slowly
to realize
there is no evading things
(the heart will have
its way, though
its will go
unfulfilled),
& there is no shame
in this.
The pleasure in this world---
soft breeze, soft
thighs, a bit of music,
words, that make
a good sound---
suggest when taken
whole that the
thing
the body longs for
is not & never has been
some petite mort,
a true thing
known to grass
& the elderly man
with a kind word
in greeting. And
the woman saying
that she is about
to come, as in
going to arrive---
at last to fill
the body held so long
by stewards
in her name.
Celebrating St. Patrick's Day by giving y'all the same lesson in French that Det. Bobby, "Fearless" Smith gave Markie Mark's brother in Boomtown. La petite mort is the french expression for an orgasm. Its literal meaning is "the little death."
In the same first episode of Boomtown, Fearless tells another amazing story:
There was this wave way out in the ocean. He was just racing along having a great time. Sun light glinting, sparkling, just flying. Until one day he look ahead and he saw wave after wave in front of him crashing on the beach and he got scared. And this older wave in front of him said, "I know what your problem is. You've been having so much fun being a wave that you forgot you're just part of the ocean."
I'm one of the last people of my generation who has actually touched an 8-track. More specifically, this 8-track.
Favorite track from this album, In My Room. So in my room, on Fearless, I'm just catching waves (I literally own surfing sheets, they're pretty rad).
Monday, March 16, 2009
Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing
Another gem from Margaret Atwood.
The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.
I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can't. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape's been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it's the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence
that I can't hear them.
And I can't, because I'm after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don't let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I'll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That's what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.
Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They'd like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look--my feet don't hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn.
Beth Hart's One eyed chicken for some reason goes nicely here.
The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.
I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can't. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape's been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it's the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence
that I can't hear them.
And I can't, because I'm after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don't let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I'll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That's what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.
Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They'd like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look--my feet don't hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn.
Beth Hart's One eyed chicken for some reason goes nicely here.
C is for Cookie, that's good enough for me
To make up for the sad note my last blog ended on, here's a little something for nostalgia's sake.
And sharing cookies . . . well, that's even better than eating them alone.
And sharing cookies . . . well, that's even better than eating them alone.
Yep, Stanley, Neoliberalism creeps
. . . I had been reading essays in which the adjective neoliberal was routinely invoked as an accusation, and I had only a sketchy notion of what was intended by it. When one of these essays cited my recent writings on higher education as a prime example of “neoliberal ideology” (Sophia McClennen, “Neoliberalism and the Crisis of Intellectual Engagement,” in Works and Days, volumes 26-27, 2008-2009), I thought I’d better learn more.
What I’ve learned (and what some readers of this column no doubt already knew) is that neoliberalism is a pejorative way of referring to a set of economic/political policies based on a strong faith in the beneficent effects of free markets. Here is an often cited definition by Paul Treanor: “Neoliberalism is a philosophy in which the existence and operation of a market are valued in themselves, separately from any previous relationship with the production of goods and services . . . and where the operation of a market or market-like structure is seen as an ethic in itself, capable of acting as a guide for all human action, and substituting for all previously existing ethical beliefs.” (“Neoliberalism: Origins, Theory, Definition.”) Think Again, Stanley Fish
I will mention Twilight now, but this isn't a post about Twilight. I just wanted to bring up the fact that I got a cookie for reading the novel, from Marybeth and while my initial reasons for having to read the novel involved a shitty bet made with a manager at work, I made good on my bet for another more important reason: Marybeth asked me nicely to read the novel, and then after seeing my pained looked, told me she'd understand if I didn't. To have someone I've worked with and respected for nearly a decade first off ask me to partake in something that gave her much joy, well that was kind of her I realize. Second, she recognized that just perhaps it wasn't for me, and well she wasn't going to hold it against me. Can any person with half a heart in this world, understand truly while I read the novel? And in the end, because she knew how much I loved cookies . . . brought one in for me. She sat there in her house with 4 young children running around and thought, "Hey, I'll bring Tina a cookie." Truth be told, seeing her face beam as I we talked about the characters in the novel made her so happy, I could have done without the cookie. I'll be reading New Moon, for several reasons. I like talking to Marybeth about these sorts of things, and well I want to read about some werewolves and vampires fighting (hey Steph, did you happen to watch any of the Underworld movies or read the comics before you had that "dream" that inspired this franchise . . . just asking). Cookies are just the icing on the cake. (And yes, I used "cookies," "icing" and "cake" in the same delicious sentence.)
How the hell does any of this tie into Neoliberalism? Keep your pants on, I'll get to it. A few months back, I went to karaoke night with a good friend. We saw everyone's favorite karaoke singer, Mel, sing a duet, Bridge Over Troubled Water, with someone. This was itself a poignant moment for me, the last time I saw him sing, he was singing his usual, The Great Pretender. I got home that night after a few Amaretto Sours (a drink I don't usual get unless at an Asian Cuisine restaurant, they don't skimp on the alcohol) and looking back now, it was the sober part of me that got me into trouble. The sober part of me thought twice about tracking my wet UGGs upstairs, so I leaned on the door knob of the closed door as I took the boots off. Then the sober part of me realized that the semi-drunk part of me would be thirsty for water should I wake up during the night and that I should grab a bottled water from the front porch. So, and this may be where the sober part of me took a moment's rest, and the drunk part of me took reign, but with my body still crouched fixing my sock with my left hand, my right hand, already on the door knob earlier for leverage, turned the knob and swung the door into the right side of my face. I didn't swing it hard, but hard enough to knock me back in pain. I realized in the next two minutes as I sat on the steps leading upstairs with the cold, frigid air from the front porch sobering me up along with the pain, had I been one drink drunker I would have just sloshed my wet boots and all upstairs and fallen into bed.
The next morning, any hangover I had, was eclipsed by the pain I felt from the door incident. The huge welt on my face didn't make me feel like a vision of beauty, either. It was a Saturday, which I happened to have off, and I really don't know what one does on Saturdays, so when I woke up and saw the damage in the mirror, I decided it would be a day spent alone. To my surprise, besides the funny things I saw on TV or on the web that day, the other things that made me smile, were random texts from this curmudgeon I know. I remember getting the first one and before reading it thinking, "Please nothing too heavy today Mr. Intentional. I don't need any life-lessons right now." Instead, I learned about a few good movies that were out, and well, it wasn't anything specific, and I wouldn't dare say that anything this character says or does is ever general, but I was just happy for this quaint amount of human contact. I dare say for the way I was feeling that day, it was perfect.
And now for the tying together. Believe you and me, I could never have guessed that reading Twilight or opening that text, would make me feel good. Good in a way, that nothing in the world could have replaced--- human contact (communication), human connectedness, friendship. True friendship might have its own set of ethics, it might, but I seriously doubt there are any set rules governing friendship, either way friendship is beyond neoliberalism. And for all those romantics out there, if your lover isn't your friend (first and foremost) consider them a foe.
. . . the Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was that important to them; there ought to be as many for love. --- Margaret Atwood
I am about to point out a sad fact. In this neoliberal society, we have more words in our every day vernacular for "money" than "love." And I thought I would end this blog on a good note.
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