|
|
|
| April 30, 2004
Nat'l Poetry Month: The Impotence of Being Earnest
Sometimes, I find myself thinking of lines from my favorite poem. I usually don't even realizing I'm doing it. Certain phrases pop into my head. Each to each. Muttering retreats. Do I dare? I was about twenty when I first read it. I hated it. But it got inside my head and I kept going back to it. I still do. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot is my favorite poem, but my relationship with it has changed. What a strange thing that this poem meant so much to me. It was like Eliot took all of my neuroses and made a song out of them. Why, at twenty, could I relate so well to this? Impotence. Uncertainty. The inability to act because of fear. The bitter but resigned realization that I wasn't going to be the main character. The constant questioning of how I looked, or how I thought others saw me (preparing "a face to meet the faces that you meet"). The constant need to say the right thing, which often resulted in saying nothing while I weighed all possible options. One of the interesting things about the Internet is how we have these artifacts of who we were piling up. For instance, an old usenet posting of mine from back when I took a line from this poem for my signature. "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons." At 22, I was finishing up undergrad, looking for grad schools, working part-time as a research assistant in the library. Glenn and I had been together a year. We were planning on spending the rest of our lives together. I was stressed the way that college kids get stressed because they feel they have too much to do (18 credits in one semester is hard, but I've been through much worse since then). I laugh at that stress now. But look at that signature. I wore that line from this poem as a badge of being in too deep, of feeling I didn't have any more to give. Why did I take it all so seriously? I still love this poem. But I identify less with the speaker and more with the poet, if that makes any sense. Eliot's mastery, the beauty of his language and the way he gets the frozen, fearful Prufrock. I think he's having a little fun with it. He makes the myopic self-importance of neurotics sound beautiful but it isn't. That tension is what makes it a great poem to me. I care more about Prufrock than Hamlet, even if he doesn't know it. Maybe I'm not as earnest as I once was. It's good to take everything with a grain of salt. And, sometimes, a shaker. April 29, 2004
In other literary news...
 I think I'm in love with the latest Stanley Kowalski. Oh, and check out these Supermodel Personals!
Nat'l Poetry Month: Freaky French Forms
To those of you who don't like my little National Poetry Month celebration, all I can say is it's almost over. I've hoped the rest of you have enjoyed it. Tomorrow I'll close out the month with a little bit about my favorite poem. Villanelles and sesitinas are two forms that use repetition in interesting ways (for more details, see here and here). Sometimes, when writing in fixed forms like these, I pay so much attention to the rules of repetition that my imagination goes off and comes up with ideas and topics and phrasings I never would have otherwise. Since Elizabeth Bishop is my favorite poet, it should come as no surprise that her "Sestina" is my favorite of this form. Actually, at the risk of sounding conceited, my true favorite is one that I wrote about Martha Stewart. Something about the rigid, obsessive focus on placement of the form seemed so natural for her. The best known villanelle is probably Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, but my personal favorite is Bishop's "One Art" (though the Roethke on on that page is wonderful also). I love the way she talks about loss. I love how, in talking about loss, she talks about love (in parens). Its her subtlety that gets me.
{Insert Standard Disclaimer About How "I Wouldn't Normally Do This Kind of Thing But This One Was Cool" Here}
You are "Bowl of Oranges". You see life to more than what most people do and you genuinely care about people. You feel art and music is the sure way of lifting your spirits. You wish others could have appreciation like you do, but, unfortunately, you are probably the only one. Which BRIGHT EYES song are you? brought to you by Quizilla April 28, 2004
Ma You're Just Jealous
I bought the new Beastie Boys' single "Ch-Check It Out" today from iTunes. And the video premieres tonight at midnight on Launch. I've been a fan of the Beastie Boys since I first saw them on MTV's Nero's Eve Ball (with 10,000 Maniacs and the Georgia Satellites). I've seen them twice in concert. 
I grew up with them. And I mean that quite literally. They were stupid and immature and obnoxious when I was a teen. They grew and found new influences and new sounds. Paul's Boutique is one of the most underrated albums in hip-hop. Check Yr Head was the perfect mixture of hip-hop with the growing sound of the "Alternative Nation." Then, with MCA's conversion to Buddhism came a new political and spiritual awareness. They were the driving force behind the Tibetan Freedom Concerts. Perhaps the biggest and most personally gratifying sign that they had matured as people as well as artists was when they publicly apologized for prior homophobia in their music. Their new album, To The 5 Boroughs, will be released this summer. As its title suggests, the album is supposed to mark the Boys return to their roots and to the city that groomed them. Also, and this makes me very happy, Billboard reports that the album includes "calls to vote President Bush out of office." I, for one, can shake my rump to that.
Nat'l Poetry Month: My Favorite Lady in New York
Another sonnet that makes me proud to be an American is one written by Emma Lazarus in 1883, about the time my grandfather's grandfather set foot in this country. You may know a few of its lines very well. The New Colossus Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame, "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore, Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" I was thinking about this recently when I saw someone (maybe Ann Coulter or some other right-wing fembot) talking about liberals' "blame America first" attitude. I thought of this article from The Nation. Don't fucking call me unpatriotic. I just don't need a tattered plastic flag from Wal-Mart taped to the antenna of my SUV to show my love for this country and its ideals. April 27, 2004
You Get What You Pay For
One of the joys of my job is that once a year my salary (along with those of everyone else at the public institution where I work) is printed in a newspaper for all the world to see. Since budget cuts have precluded any raises in three years, however, it all seems like a waste of paper to me.
Gossip Makes Me Giggle
Tell me the image of a naked Angelina Jolie in a dressing room rubbing up against some Ralph Lauren towels isn't delightful. Is this bootylicious creation the start of a new trend in wax? Maybe they could re-engineer the Courtney Love figurine to pop little wax Oxycontins? April 26, 2004
The Hypocritical Oath
Whenever I need to track down a black sheep of the day, I should just look at what recent legislation Republicans are introducing. It would streamline the process. In Michigan, the GOP-dominated House passed a measure that would allow doctors to not treat LGBT patients. Will schools be allowed to expel openly gay students? Will cops be allowed to pick and choose who they protect and serve? I try and understand gay Republicans. I really do. But how can you defend a party like this?
Weekends Are for Learning
I spent most of the weekend walking through the tree bukkake that is DC at this time of year. I think I get more allergic to the stuff every year. Or maybe I'm just like my mother. She's never satisfied. Things I've learned this weekend:
April 23, 2004
Nat'l Poetry Month: Faces Red as Steak
For years poetry was a dead art to me. I'd been writing it since I could remember, but it wasn't until I met a girl named Jennifer in middle school that I took it seriously. Probably because she took me seriously. She and I listened to the Smiths and smoked cigarettes. When she read my poems, I felt like I wasn't alone. For her birthday one year, I gave her one of those composition books with the black and white speckled covers. It was full of poems I'd written for her. They were mostly about wanting to die and being alone and how much people suck but faith in love still being devout. Like I said we listened to a lot of Smiths records. In my head, these were just notes in verse meant only for her. Years later, when I was a freshman in college, I went with my friend to a reading at Georgetown for one of his English classes. I was shocked at the number of people who filled the room. I was quiet and unsure in the din of excitement before the program began. Where were these people before? Why were they all here? What strange world was this? Then she came out and read her work. Her poetry was alive, breathing heavily, real. It took me by surprise. I took it all in. Sharon Olds...I'd never heard of her before, but, I hadn't really heard of any poets who weren't dead. Poets to me were gone. Closed in dates between brackets in some anthology. I remember the nervous laughter when she read "Topography" and the awkward silence surrounding "Sex Without Love." I'll admit, I was shocked to hear this sort of talk at a Catholic university. At my own public institution, it wouldn't have phased me (too much) but there were probably nuns in the room. Nuns scare me. After the reading, I bought her book. I didn't get her to sign it. I was too shy. I devoured that book and then another and another. I shared them with a girl I was seeing, another Jennifer. She smelled of roses. Her kisses tasted like cigarettes and diet coke. She left me a voice mail of her reading "The Pope's Penis" while Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magick played in the background. She was my first. I wrote her poems as well, but these seemed different somehow. More alive. Or maybe that was me.
A Questions of the Modern World
Is it really shallow of me to keep looking at the gift I was given on Wednesday and think, but I'm not a secretary? April 22, 2004
From the makers of Weekend at Bernie's
This last weekend, Brian, Glenn and I met up with a friend of Bri's who was in town for a conference. He was a charming and funny guy full of great stories, including one that inspired this... 
Nat'l Poetry Month: Black Like Me
I'm not black. I never had any confusion about that. But when I went away to college, I discovered that most of the people there were white. Really, really white. It first hit me when people started looking over each other's high school yearbooks. It usually went something like this: Them: Wow, there were a lot of black and Spanish people in your high school. Me: I guess so. It looks like your school only had two black people in it. Them: Yeah, the Johnson sisters. Actually the first time I was really cognizant of any difference between my high school years and those of most other white kids was when I made my basic cable TV debut in junior year. BET's "Teen Summit" invited me and some of my classmates to talk about what it was like to be white and a minority in your school. The thing is, I never knew anything else, so it was just what it was. Aside from the yearbook thing, the biggest shock for me in college was how few of the white kids knew anything about black history. The list of black Americans that they seemed to know anything about was comprised of George Washington Carver, Martin Luther King, and Langston Hughes. Maybe that's an oversimplification, but I doubt many of them had knowledge that went much deeper. And don't get me wrong, Langston Hughes is wonderful, but there are so many other writers whose works deserve to be read and shared. One that I've been thinking about a lot lately is Claude McKay. His "America" is one of my favorite sonnets. Sometimes I think of this poem when my anger with our (mis)leaders wells up in my throat and I feel I have no words. I am fortunate to have his. April 21, 2004
"Where the Lord closes a factory, somewhere He opens a tax loophole for that corporation."
Famous Author Rob Byrnes asked, "How do you solve a problem like G.W.?" That lovely image of his inspired this: W's Favorite Things Tax cuts for rich folks and no stem cell research, Erasing the line between the state and the church, Dick Cheney's stump speech and the cash that it brings, These are a few of my favorite things Softball questions from my good friend Brit Hume, Sealing energy records and Mother Earth's doom, Forcing our labor to work like Beijing's, These are a few of my favorite things. Girls in white dresses, but not two together. Covering Miss Jackson's regions so nether, Making sure CEOs live lush lives like kings, These are a few of my favorite things When the truth hurts, When the mud slings, When I'm feeling sad, I simply remember my favorite things And then I don't feel so bad
Nat'l Poetry Month: Old Flames
One day this week, more than half a life ago, was the worst day of my life. On April 19, 1986, I was twelve. I was home alone. I was curious. I was smart enough to get myself into trouble. I was too stupid to stop before it nearly killed me. It was a Saturday. My mother was some all-day bingo event (yes, we're Catholic). My niece had just turned two, and my older sisters had gone to the mall with her to get things for the birthday party our family was hosting the next day. A few nights earlier, I saw Jack Palance and his daughter perform a trick on "Ripley's Believe It or Not..." It was a simple trick, really. Light a candle. Blow it out. Then hold a lit match just about an inch above the wick. There is something emitted from the wick just after it is blown out that will catch the flame from the match and relight the candle. I wanted to see it myself. I needed proof. I was home alone. I was twelve. I was playing with matches. You see where this is going. The trick itself was interesting. I knew the rational reasons, invisible gases and such, but I loved the beauty of it, how the flame seemed to leap from the match back to the wick. I was in the den, where some candleholders were attached to the wall. After each match burned down too close to my fingers, I shook it out and laid it on a stereo speaker. I guess that wasn't the best place for them, but I was focused on the trick. I wanted to see how far away I could hold the match, how powerful the attraction was. Being twelve and being me, I got distracted by something else in the house. I loved having the run of the house when no one else was there. It was still new--the trust and responsibility thing. I went into the kitchen to get a drink and then heard something interesting on the television in my mother's room. I walked down the hall and started watching some syndicated "Battle of the Network Stars" type show. I fell asleep on her bed. I guess it was the smoke detector that woke me. I'm not really sure. I can't tell what really happened or what I filled in with logic and assumptions. I smelled smoke and thought there must be a small fire. I saw how much smoke was in the hall and knew something much worse was going on. By the time I got to the kitchen, the wall that the kitchen shared with the den was engulfed in flames. The whole kitchen was black and dark. I stared at the flames moving across the kitchen ceiling towards me. This must have been when my hair was singed. I didn't feel it or even know it had happened until later when a paramedic looked me over and mentioned it. There's more to the story, but the important thing is that I survived and the house didn't. It was probably the most traumatic thing I've ever dealt with in my life: worse than my parents' divorce, worse than coming out, worse than any death or other major life change. Maybe because it was something that I felt I was wholly responsible for--not my family or genetics or time. I made a mistake and everyone I loved had to pay for it. Years later, when I found "My Story in a Late Style of Fire" by Larry Levis, I struggled with it. "You might still laugh to see all of your belongings set you free / In one long choiring of flames that sang only to you." It took a long time for me to understand that laughter. They say "that which doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." That's bullshit. It may make you tougher, but it doesn't make you stronger. Strength comes from within--only you can make yourself stronger. Some things in life are out of your control. All things in the past are. It took me a long time to reconcile that. But I wanted to explain this life to you, even if I had to become, over the years, someone else to do it. You have to think of me what you think of me. I had To live my life When I read that poem now, I see myself at 12. I could never have known that I'd end up where I am today. I could never have planned and plotted a course through the chaos of life to get here. And here is where I am. And happy. I don't know if I could ever put into words all the things I took away from that poem. I don't know if that's the point. April 20, 2004
Nat'l Poetry Month: Now For Something Completely Different
I wasn't going to include any of my own poetry in my little National Poetry Month celebration, but then I got a special request yesterday. My friend Meghan and I shared a deep and undying love for a certain teen witch's boyfriend (even though said teen witch treated him like complete and utter shit most of the time!). So one day I put my feelings into verse.  On the Greatness of Harvey Dear Harvey, my sweet Harvey Kinkle. You're the kind of man I think I'll always love. A heart so committed, it's blind to black hole heart of the witch which it revolves around. But she lies to you Harvey. Just look in her eyes and you'll see what I'm talking about— those strange happenings. I doubt anyone could love you more than I do, Harvey. Except maybe Meghan. You deserve better than that Sabrina— college days have made her mean, a witch in every sense of the word. Trust me, Harvey, love can be absurd. And when your heart doesn't have Salem's nine lives, you must be careful with just one. Don’t fall under her spell—your devotion is more magical than a love potion, a wiggle of nose, or sleight of hand. I love you Harvey Kinkle, understand? It's nice to know that I'm not alone in my love for Harvey Kinkle and the man who brings him to life, Nate Richert. Meghan and I spent many, many months trying to find out when and where Pinata: Survival Island was going to be released. This epic film would not only feature Mr. Richert, but also Nicholas Brendon, Xander from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. (In case you're wondering, it's been renamed Demon Island and has been featured on American Movie Classics since October--because it's truly a classic American movie.) In addition to Meghan and me, I believe a certain San Franciscan also has a thing for Mr. Nate Richert. Maybe we can form a club? April 19, 2004
Ray-Ray's is pimps too. Go on brush your shoulder off.
Until last night, I'd never been to Remington's, DC's big gay country western bar. But to see Double-R in charge on the mic, I'd even do the achy-breaky. Ladies, he was on fire. He's got a great voice, some killer moves, and is just about the most adorable thing you could imagine. Like he'd kill little kittens on the adorable scale. Dead. Fortunately, those drag queen Simon Cowell wannabes know talent when they see it. You know what that means. Semifinals are May 2, 2004 at 8:30 pm. I'm making signs with glitter.
Nat'l Poetry Month: Turn and Return
By far, my favorite poems to write are sonnets. There's something perfect about the form for my style. Long enough to get something going, short enough to still be intense, and with that delightful little turn towards the end--the volta. I remember first reading Paul Muldoon's "Holy Thursday" and loving it, especially the simple image of the waiter bowing "to his own absence" as the couple breaks up. I didn't understand the title for a few days. Then it hit me, Holy Thursday, the day before Good Friday, was the night of the Last Supper. It was their last meal together. I reread the whole thing. I saw the last stanza, with the ritual of the waiter cleaning after himself and arranging the linens, and I instantly thought of a preist after communion. I thought of priests and couples and marriage and divorce and bread and body and wine and blood and absence and presence and how so many of our daily events are just smaller versions of the same stories. When a piece of art works for me, I can revisit it over and over. Everyone has these: a song that doesn't wear out, a movie you've watched so many times you can recite it verbatim, a painting you love so much you want to wake up looking at it everyday. The poems I've been highlighting this month all have that in common. I carry them with me. They change the way I see the world.
Andrew Sullivan's Dog is Way Into Watersports
And here I thought I was the only one who knew this, but it looks like Tyler does too (and Tippecanoe!). April 17, 2004
Confessions of a Chickenhawk
Those bitties in the BK Lounge have brought the Subservient Chicken to the web. I'm hooked. Things I've ordered the chicken to do thus far:
April 15, 2004
Death and Taxes
Today, you may bitch and moan about paying your taxes. But unless you're one of the more than half a million District residents who has no voting representation in congress, at least be grateful you have someone to bitch and moan to. Maybe you could even do something about it.
Someone Woke Up on the Wrong Side of the Sun
Today, I woke up at 4:30 am. Yesterday it was 5:30. I'm turning into an old person who only sleeps four hours a night. And, in those wee hours of the morning, I've been doing art projects with yarn and shit. I'm turning into an old lady who doesn't sleep. Then again, I also was looking at porn, so I guess I'm not that much of a lady. I don't talk much about porn here even though I'm a big fan. Maybe I'm reticent because my sister occasionally pops in here. My porn interest is not something I'm particularly embarrassed about, but it's also not something I usually talk about over family dinners. Though there was that one time when my sister told me that she could look at what I was bidding on on eBay (I had no idea about that). The wave of crimson that washed over my face answered any questions about what that could include. It's hard being the baby of the family. Speaking of porn, I have to say I'm pretty damn excited about this project. I just hope there's a character like Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan. Or at least an Abby Fairgate Cunningham Ewing Sumner. I'm also picturing "Who blew J.R.?" cliffhangers. Or episodes where one of the guys gets caught having sex in the broom closet at the prom and then the school board threatens to hold him back a year and all of the other kids protest (naked) at the meeting and chant "Donny Martin Graduates!" And I really hope there's at least one scene where a main character removes his wig to reveal a large, gnarly scar. And then goes to have hot sex. Ever get the feelling you know entirely too much about unimportant things? April 14, 2004
Nat'l Poetry Month: This is Much Better than Love 1
I've owned up to a lot of crushes here. Jake Gyllenhaal, Roddy Bottum, Jamie Oliver, Mark Ruffalo, just to name a few. So I guess it's only fair that in honor of NPM, I mention my biggest poetry crush (among the living, at least)--Joe Wenderoth. I know exactly when it happened. I was finishing up my first year of grad school and was about to turn 25. One day in the library, I was reading the American Poetry Review. This photo was on the cover:  Sure, he was cute, in that generically alternative way. What got me was the Beastie Boys tee shirt. That he would appear on the cover of a prestigious literary publication wearing that shirt, well, that made early 20s me very happy. I read the poems inside and then tracked down his book Disfortune. He quickly became a favorite among contemporary poets. What sealed the deal for real was a few years later, when he came out with "Letters to Wendy." You should listen to them if you can handle adult language. These letters are funny and sexy and disturbing and funny and (if you are like me) will make ordering a Biggie a joy for the rest of your life. More can be found here, but I prefer to hear them aloud. Maybe it's my appreciation for the oral tradition. Maybe it's the pleasure of hearing the audience's reaction. Or maybe there's just something about hearing a guy you crush on saying, "today I needed a Biggie inside me."
Asked and (Eventually) Answered
I try to be responsive to people who email me questions, especially since I have said "I'll be sure to answer them." It may take two weeks, but I'll do it. MBC, I'm sure you've been waiting on the edge of your seat for these answers. If anyone else has a burning question, ask me. I won't say no. How could I? If you have a burning sensation when you pee, though, you should probably see a doctor. April 13, 2004
Nat'l Poetry Month: My Three Dads
Sorry, I've been a little slacker over the weekend. It was glorious though. And I highly recommend Intermission and L'Auberge Espagnole if you're in the mood for films. But back to my little celebration of National Poetry Month... Fathers are troubling things. I'm fortunate to have a wonderful father, perhaps the kindest man I know. That's not to say we haven't had our troubles, but I pretty much lucked out in the great family lottery. The following three poems are wildly different, as are the poets behind them, but they all address the strange, loving, and complicated relationship between father and child. When I first read Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays", I don't think I appreciated what sacrifice was. I was 19. Waking before 11:00 AM was a sacrifice. With age comes appreciation, and I suppose that's one of the things this poem addresses. Those last two lines are so haunting. I can't imagine a better phrase than "love's austere and lonely offices." It hangs in the air. *** What I love about Elizabeth Bishop is how she controls language to master chaotic things (e.g., losing whole continents). The flipside of that for me is Sylvia Plath who uses chaos to control. Ariel, the blinding whiteness of it all, the way her words fall apart. It's all so wonderful. Her "Daddy" is part nursery rhyme, part curse, part confession. The way she pounds those phrases, the Germanic roots we trip over. Powerful and amazing turns like "a bag full of God" or "A man in black with a Meinkampf look // And a love of the rack and the screw." A few months ago when I was in New York, my friend Jason (a wonderful poet himself) played a recording of Plath reading this poem. She had that pinched nasal smart woman voice of films in the forties, like Jennifer Jason Leigh in The Hudsucker Proxy. It changed the way I felt about the poem; it made it funnier. Or maybe it was just being there with him, laughing as we imitated her, all shoulderpads and Crawford-arched eyebrows. It was truly a seriously funny moment. *** Screw Lawrence Welk, when I think of waltzes, I think of Roethke. His "My Papa's Waltz" is one of those poems where the music takes over and I spin around the room. I don't have much to say about it, just that it's simple and complicated and that it means a lot to me.
Fingers Crossed
I was goofing off on the interweb when I saw it: one of my dream jobs, giving me a come hither stare. When is it time for a change? When is it time to make that leap into something new and exciting? Survey says now. Of course, I shouldn't be talking about this. I'm terribly superstitious. Please go knock on some wood for me. April 12, 2004
Sad, Sadder, Saddest
Sad: Creating a fakester on friendster.  Sadder: Not realizing that it's a fake profile and hitting on said fakester.... OK Nicolette, I really like what you wrote in your Saddest: Doing this FOUR TIMES: HIYA Sexy Cucumber HERE:)))), LOL..... The secret is April 08, 2004
Nat'l Poetry Month: Lana
There are too many wonderful things for me to say about Frank O'Hara. His Personism: A Manifesto alone made me fall for him (Lucky Pierre style). And while I have never been to Fire Island, I know that when and if I do go, I will be plagued with obsessive thoughts of death by dune buggy. I love this poem for many reasons, but an extra special one is that he made me a t-shirt based on it. Poem Lana Turner has collapsed! I was trotting along and suddenly it started raining and snowing and you said it was hailing but hailing hits you on the head hard so it was really snowing and raining and I was in such a hurry to meet you but the traffic was acting exactly like the sky and suddenly I see a headline LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED! there is no snow in Hollywood there is no rain in California I have been to lots of parties and acted perfectly disgraceful but I never actually collapsed oh Lana Turner we love you get up
When Chrisafer Takes a Daydream Too Far
 This summer's surprise pop hit could be the new EP from "The Other Bens," set to drop the first week in June. Comprised of Death Cab for Cutie's Ben Gibbard, veteran entertainer Ben Vereen, and Gigli superstar Ben Affleck, this unlikely trio secretly recorded five tracks for their eponymous debut over the last year and a half. Some may be surprised that the former Mr. J-Lo is branching out into a singing career, but Affleck assured us that The Other Bens is no vanity project. "I'm really excited to promote something that's not a crappy movie," he quipped. "No, really, I've gotten tired of acting and I think that was starting to show in my choices. This is fun and exciting and fresh, and working with the other other Bens restored my artistic spirit." "Not a lot of people know this," Affleck noted, "but Goodwill Hunting was supposed to be a musical. Matt [Damon] thought that might be too gay though, so we scrapped the songs. I don't really know that it would have been. I mean, if being written by and starring two handsome, athletic young men who lived together in a one-bedroom apartment in LA and being directed by Gus Van Sant didn't make it gay, would a few showtunes?" The Other Bens' first single "All Bets R Off" was produced by Ben Vereen's godson Usher. "It was great working in such a different genre," said Gibbard. "And you know, it's really true what they say. Ursher's got the skills that make ya booty go slap." No stranger to side projects, Gibbard added, "hopefully this will be as big of a success as The Postal Service. It's time the rest of Death Cab sees that I'm the fucking star." Industry insiders predict that the three performers' widely different fan bases will flock to the group's emo-dancepop-soul-standards sound. Affleck agrees, "I can't wait to go on tour. With me, Ben and Ben, you'll see an audience with urban hipsters, teenage girls, and little old ladies who remember when Ben V. used to dress up as 'Geraldine' back in the seventies." "That wasn't me. That was Flip Wilson, you idiot," Vereen snapped. Affleck smiled, "Whatever, dude. Whatever." April 07, 2004
Nat'l Poetry Month: Totally F-ed Up
In this post-nipplegate era, I certainly hope that people don't begin to undervalue the power of a well placed fuck. It would be a shame if Michael Powell and his pals at the FCC started clamping down on all the good curse words in poetry. Perhaps my favorite use of the f-bomb in all of literature is in Philip Larkin's "This Be The Verse" They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another's throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself.
Maintenance Note
My comments are all wonky. This would be when Jimbo says, "Move to MT, gurl." Of course he didn't have to install his and I'm not sure that I'm comfortable installing and configuring a Perl script on a web server. Maybe this summer? In the mean time, I'll just have to wait until the wizards behind the commenting system I use get off the arses and fix the problems. April 06, 2004
Nat'l Poetry Month: The Soul of Lingerie
One of my pet peeves is people who think poetry is all serious. It's not. Take this poem from The Really Short Poems of A.R. Ammons, for example. Their Sex Life One failure on Top of another I was reminded of this poem recently, in San Francisco's Cartoon Art Museum. They had a special exhibit on Dr. Seuss and among the materials was one of his first poems. I believe the accompanying card said that it came to him while shaving one morning after attending a rather pretentious party the night before: Mrs. van Bleck Of the Newport van Blecks Is so god damn rich She has gold-plated sex Whereas Miggles and Mitzi And Bitzie and Sue Have the commonplace thing And it just has to do. Good poetry, like a good joke, doesn't spare words or pull punches. It's precise. It draws its power from the way a phrase unfolds, the pleasure of its sound, and the strength of its images. The most skilled poets generally have at least one or two little-known poems that are astoundingly funny. You should seek them out.
Word
So, if I understand what's going on in Massachusetts, the legislature is going to amend the constitution to outlaw gay "marriage" but institute a civil union thing that would have all of the state benefits of "marriage." In other words, "marriage" is a word that can only be used for straight people. I think gay people need to claim a few words too. Let's start with "sane." Speaking of words, I will never feel comfortable calling G. my "husband." First, it reminds me of animal husbandry and breeding and farms and dirt--none of which appeal to me. Also, it's etymology is just not something I'm down with. There is no master of our house. At least not until we get another cat. Black sheep of the day: G-Lo. I can't even get $10 on a scratch-off lately, but she hits the jackpot in AC. How is this fair? April 05, 2004
Nat'l Poetry Month: Shopping for Boys
Glenn and I both admitted this at one point, and I hope he doesn't get mad at me for sharing. There's something strangely attractive about boys who work in the grocery store. The way they help you carry your packages to the car. The way they stack the fruit in the produce section. The way they just exude that young and anxious and excited vibe. Randall Jarrell's "The Next Day" captures something about growing older that I love. I'm not really that afraid of getting up in years. Maybe because I have a sound skin care system to deal with fine lines and wrinkles. Maybe because I see what the alternative is and look forward to growing old rather than, say, dying. Whatever the case, there's something about the way Jarrell captures that moment of vanity, that realization of mortality, there among the most banal of things. Sometimes, in the grocery store, when picking out detergent, I think of him and this poem. And I'm always glad to be alive and aware of the life that I'm living.
Didn't We Almost Have It All?
Whitney and Bobby to star in their own reality show? Thus begins a whole new chapter in Bobbi Kristina's tell-all. She's got Frances Bean beat now for sure. Please, please, please, someone pitch the C-Lo reality project stat. ABC moves to avoid Star Jones wardrobe malfunctions. Quite possibly the most boring idea for a reality show yet. Do you ever get the feeling that some VH1 producers show the secret tapes of the David Gest-Liza Minelli show at their parties? I mean, if they're as gay as I think they must be. April 04, 2004
National Poetry Month
In addition to being the cruelest month, April is National Poetry Month. Don't worry--there's still time to buy all your favorite poets a card (or maybe just dinner, since they're probably starving). In honor of this, I am going to post a little bit about one poem every day for the rest of the month. Since it is also Math Awareness Month, I'd also like to take this time to remind you that math does exist. Elizabeth Bishop is one of my favorite poets. There's something about her control that I admire. She's almost like a chef or a chemist, precisely measuring each image so as not to ruin the mix. "Insomnia" was first brought to my attention at a talk Heather McHugh gave when I was a Lannan Poetry Fellow. That fellowship was one of the highlights of my time in grad school because of the fascinating lectures. Even though there are other Bishop poems that I like better ("In the Waiting Room" and "One Art," for instance) I'm highlighting this poem because it represents that time to me. It also strikes me for its brilliance of form--the way that last line reflects back on the rest of the poem, the way it mirrors a mirror. That's what I love most about poetry, the power of each part over the whole. April 02, 2004
From the Mouths of (Total) Babes
This IMversation between me and the niece makes me debate nature/nurture and taste in men and senses of humor... her: you know me: yeah? her: if you like Mark Ruffalo you should see Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind her: he dances in his underwear and wears emo glasses me: yeah her: its hotness me: that's the best advice i've heard all day her: well, it's only 10:22 AM Speaking of Mark Ruffalo, I neglected to point out that Jack looks exactly like Mr. Ruffalo--only without the hagged out look of a man forced to do a love scene with Meg Ryan, so better. Also, in the interest of even fuller disclosure, I look just like Laura Linney. April 01, 2004
Don't Dream It, Be It
One night in San Francisco, I awoke in a cold sweat from a dream (nightmare?) during which a certain blond tied me to a chair and cut off all my hair while explaining that it would be going to charity. Honestly, I don't think it's been this long since I was about two. Back then it was blond and curly too. Perhaps this is my subconscious telling me to do something about it. Or maybe it was just a contact high from all the hippie pot-smokers.
Responses to the Casting Call for the DC version of "worst. sex. ever."
"I'm sorry I've never had bad sex. I mean if I'm there, how bad could it be?" "There's no way I'm talking about my sex life. Then it would be on the record, and I really don't need that. I'm trying to make the leap to GS-16 next fall." "Sex? I don't have time for sex. I've been pulling 90-hour weeks. Maybe after the election I'll have time for some bad sex." "Oh sure, I work for the RNC. We're experts in fucking people really bad." "Well, there was this one time when I was a page in Strom Thurmond's office...." |
Sister Bernadette's Barking Dog: The Quirky History and Lost Art of Diagramming Sentences - Kitty Burns Florey  Sublimation Point - Jason Schneiderman 
|
||||
 
|
