Hollywood and NASCAR will cross paths this weekend at California Speedway, as
the #66 Haas CNC Racing Chevy will sport a special paint design promoting
the syndication launch of "According to Jim," in Sunday's Sony HD 500 Nextel
Cup Series race. The goal of this unique one-race sponsorship is to help
publicize that this breakout family comedy, starring multi-talented
film, television and stage actor Jim Belushi, will launch into
national syndication five days a week on Monday, September 18. (etc
etc etc)
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Why I hate press releases (or, "Find the phrase that has never, ever, ever before been uttered by anyone in the history of ever")
From Jayski:
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Lyrics that didn't sound nearly as offensive in 1976 as they do now:
Two of Mrs. Tamble's siblings drive trucks for a living, and her dad also drove a truck in his younger days, so it's only natural that she holds a special place in her heart for the songs of Red Sovine, who was to trucking songs what Chris LeDoux was to cowboy songs. Arguably, Mr. Sovine's biggest hit was one of his last, 1976's "Teddy Bear," a weeper of a hard-luck song that told the story of a crippled little boy (whose CB handle was "Teddy Bear") who lost his trucker dad in a wreck, and his mom is struggling to make ends meet. Teddy Bear was looking for someone to chat with on his late dad's CB radio, and told the narrator (Sovine) about all that he'd been through and how sad it was that he'd never get to ride in a truck since his dad died.
As it turns out, a bunch of other truckers had been listening in on the conversation, and when Sovine went to pick the boy up to give the boy a ride in his truck, he had to wait in line behind three blocks' worth of other truckers who also had the same idea. Sovine narrated in the song (somewhere in the same verse as "That little crippled boy was having a ball") - and try singing this in a karaoke bar with a straight face:
"I took my turn at riding Teddy Bear ..."
As it turns out, a bunch of other truckers had been listening in on the conversation, and when Sovine went to pick the boy up to give the boy a ride in his truck, he had to wait in line behind three blocks' worth of other truckers who also had the same idea. Sovine narrated in the song (somewhere in the same verse as "That little crippled boy was having a ball") - and try singing this in a karaoke bar with a straight face:
"I took my turn at riding Teddy Bear ..."
Monday, August 28, 2006
If Jayski reported on the demotion of Pluto:
Pluto out of Solar System? The Montgomery (Alabama) Journal-Times is reporting that The Solar System will be releasing Pluto from planetary duties effective immediately, with either Todd Bodine or Brendan Gaughan filling the seat for the remainder of the season. Pluto’s name has already been removed from Solar System letterhead. Pluto currently sits 38th in season points, and therefore has to qualify every week on speed. UPDATE – Pluto Out – A Solar System press release states, “We thank Pluto for its years of service to the Solar System, but after a series of discussions with our sponsors and other backers, it has been decided that in order to compete for next year’s Chase for the Championship, it’s time to go in a different direction. Effective this weekend at California, Todd Bodine will pilot the Christian Coalition/Cheetos/White Castle Chevrolet. Bodine brings years of experience to the car, and will mesh well with crew chief Philippe Lopez. Even though neither Lopez nor Bodine has ever won anything in previous Cup stints, we feel that the combination will point us in the right direction to qualify for next year’s Chase.”
Pluto to Morgan-McClure? Pluto is likely to replace Scott Wimmer in the #4 Morgan-McClure Aero Exhaust/Career Killer car for the remainder of the season, with an option for 2007. A high-ranking Morgan-McClure source said, “We were going to put Eric McClure in the car until Pluto became available.” UPDATE: NO – being told that this is NOT the case. Wimmer will see out the season in the #4 car.
UPDATE 2: Pluto is currently looking for a ride in the Busch Series, now that most of next year’s Nextel Cup rides have been filled, and the remainder are contingent on a driver bringing sponsorship. “I’ve got offers from several top-notch Busch teams,” Pluto said, “and I’m confident I won’t be waiting by the phone come January.” (8-28-2006)
Pluto to Morgan-McClure? Pluto is likely to replace Scott Wimmer in the #4 Morgan-McClure Aero Exhaust/Career Killer car for the remainder of the season, with an option for 2007. A high-ranking Morgan-McClure source said, “We were going to put Eric McClure in the car until Pluto became available.” UPDATE: NO – being told that this is NOT the case. Wimmer will see out the season in the #4 car.
UPDATE 2: Pluto is currently looking for a ride in the Busch Series, now that most of next year’s Nextel Cup rides have been filled, and the remainder are contingent on a driver bringing sponsorship. “I’ve got offers from several top-notch Busch teams,” Pluto said, “and I’m confident I won’t be waiting by the phone come January.” (8-28-2006)
Friday, August 25, 2006
FTA: Bramble Tamble Poetry Slamble, pp. 11-12
More selections from I Can't Believe It's Not Any Good! collection, c. 1998:
****
All the memories and fights, a mosaic or
sewn together like some sort of patchwork blanked
I sleep beneath.
****
How wonderful it would be!
How fantastic to be with you, or really,
anywhere that people give a damn about
subject-verb agreement.
****
Stop your crying. It's only the end of
your life.
****
Turn around. Show it all off.
Oh yeah.
****
Hello, old friend. It seems you've grown
some breasts in the seven years since we
last fooled around, that day I got hung up in
your yard.
****
I couldn't find a frame for it, but it's the
only picture that means anything to me now.
****
Because it rhymes with "vinaigrette," jackass.
****
Hey Nancy -
I'm just writing to tell you that you'd be
a lot more versatile if you'd wear something once
in a while besides that black sweater and polka-
dot skirt.
P.S. Oh, and Sluggo's shagging your aunt.
****
It's not commitment I'm scared of - it's you!
Put some make-up on!
****
All the memories and fights, a mosaic or
sewn together like some sort of patchwork blanked
I sleep beneath.
****
How wonderful it would be!
How fantastic to be with you, or really,
anywhere that people give a damn about
subject-verb agreement.
****
Stop your crying. It's only the end of
your life.
****
Turn around. Show it all off.
Oh yeah.
****
Hello, old friend. It seems you've grown
some breasts in the seven years since we
last fooled around, that day I got hung up in
your yard.
****
I couldn't find a frame for it, but it's the
only picture that means anything to me now.
****
Because it rhymes with "vinaigrette," jackass.
****
Hey Nancy -
I'm just writing to tell you that you'd be
a lot more versatile if you'd wear something once
in a while besides that black sweater and polka-
dot skirt.
P.S. Oh, and Sluggo's shagging your aunt.
****
It's not commitment I'm scared of - it's you!
Put some make-up on!
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
do not read.
This is the kind of cathartic, brutally self-analytical writing that you probably hate. It’s something I need to write, but it’s not necessarily anything you need to read. Please skip to other posts on this blog to avoid the car wreck you’re otherwise about to witness.
Call it burnout, call it malaise, call it brain cramp or writer’s block, call it abject laziness – whatever the name, it’s the reason behind the conspicuous lack of original posting in the last month. I’m not burned out on blogging – I love the opportunity to post what’s going on in my life, probably more so than you care about reading it – but it’s rather tedious to go into much detail about same when it’s a rather consistent routine.
Combine whatever you’d call it with my general apathy toward essentially everything right now, and it’d make for a stultifyingly dull read for you, my audience – my army of one, as it were. The fact is, I’m having a hard time caring about much of anything anymore (as I briefly alluded to in my Black Flag post somewhere below).
What’s not to love about my life? I have a beautiful son and wife, right? A house? A job? A functioning motor vehicle, recent gremlins notwithstanding? Food in the fridge? My health? Sure, when you put it like that, then everything else to follow would indeed come off as self-indulgent whinging, to borrow a phrase I saw elsewhere on this blog. (Spell-check says, “I don’t understand ‘whinging.’ Do you mean ‘whining’ or ‘whinnying’?” But this article lays the definition out pretty clearly – read the first two paragraphs before insomnia threatens to be cured.)
Ugh. Life isn’t perfect, is it? Has it ever been, since Adam and Eve screwed it up for the rest of us? In my antiquarian book stack, there exists an accounting text from 1878 that puts our condition fairly precisely in the first or second paragraph of the entire book – and keep in mind, this was 128 years ago, before the World Wide Internet and 24-hour quickie marts and porn-on-demand: “The prime condition of life is want.” Funny, though, how folks confuse “wants” and “needs,” often synonymizing the two terms. Maslow would probably have a field day with prioritizing today’s “needs,” wouldn’t he? (Spell-check: “I don’t understand ‘synonymizing.’ I have no other suggestions.” No, you probably don’t.)
Speaking personally and more directly to current events, I’m not talking about material excess. I can’t think of a lot that I really want for. That’s part of the reason that I’m unloading a lot of my stuff on eBay as of late, because really, what’s the point? I’ve overindulged in seemingly all material things my entire adult life, and it’s time to cut back.
The dichotomy of my life finds me torn between two ends of an axis. On one end is the me who operates by the maxim, "I'd be much more of a people person if it weren't for people." The individual stars that dot the sky of my life are wonderful people, but when speaking of the general populace at large, I think we're much better off without one another. I don't have the patience for the random person's various foibles, neuroses or tics. And I don't do idle chitchat - funny, since this blog is the very picture of idle chitchat - and I think that puts a lot of people off - people who I'm sure I'd otherwise have warm, close relationships with.
On the polar opposite of that axis, though, is the terribly lonely me. I continue to regret all of the mistakes I’ve made in my life. I have managed to do great harm to virtually every important relationship I’ve ever had – platonic, familial, romantic. Sometimes the damage is irrevocable, and sometimes they manage to return to a state of tenuous repair.
This damage is rarely, if ever, due to anything I have actively, consciously done. It’s the converse, really – I go a couple of days without saying hello to someone, and then days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months, and months into years. I have a tendency to disappear from people’s lives as a result.
Why is this, though? How can I go from someone who seems so very warm and caring and loving to someone who basically becomes a cipher? I don’t know, and I don’t know that I’ll ever figure out. And I hate that I’m like that, too. Here’s why.
A teenager’s mentality still exists to an extent in my consciousness: the desperate “need” to be popular, the desperate “need” for some sort of warmth in my life, which is probably more universal than it is confined to the teen years. I’ve always been jealous of popular people – at first, in high school, because I thought their popularity was highly undeserved, and now because I see how lucky certain people are, because they have the charisma and charm and all of that crap that attracts people like flies to a light.
Me? I’ve always been someone who’s believed that I should be popular by virtue of my own existence. (A completely preposterous notion if there ever was one, right? Read on.) I think this is a consequence of having my ass kissed for the biggest part of my adolescence and before because I was what they called “gifted.” Yes, a child needs to be told he is special, but when the praiser goes overboard with his or her praise, the child goes beyond having warm fuzzy thoughts about his own uniqueness and starts believing delusional thoughts about his own value as a human being relative to that of others. (“I’m more special than you are!”)
Take this blog, please. I do absolutely nothing to promote it – just the fact that it’s out there means, to me, that it’s better than 95% of the unholy mess of blogs that are out there, and that by that point alone, it should be drawing readers. I don’t care if you don’t care what I have to say, just as long as you’re here to hear it, and you come back often to not care some more.
And, of course, I can’t for the life of me understand why I get, tops, 8 visits a day. Of course, the blogosphere is essentially a huge vacuum of noise, and it takes true self-promotion to make what you have to say rise above the noise. Self-promotion is an anathema to me – I like to think that the quality of my writing is self-promotion enough. I’d rather spend an afternoon in the proctologist’s office than blow my own horn.
More relevant to this discussion: I can count on one hand the number of friends I still have (with fingers – plural - to spare), and to be honest, I’m surprised that they haven’t had me shot yet, although the rustling in the woods near my house every night unnerves me. The problem is the same as it is with this blog’s low readership numbers: I just don’t try. It’s not about trying hard enough, it’s about trying at all, and I don’t.
Do I love them, just as I love so many of the people who have touched my life for a short time only for them to watch me disappear into the ether? Absolutely. I treasure them very deeply. And whether you're a dear friend or a complete stranger, I thank you for reading this far.
Anyway, this self-criticism is careening out of control with no end in sight, so I'll cut it short by saying: All of this is a microcosm of the larger present crisis in my life, the details of which I’m still not entirely clear on, but it’s a panic that I feel inside myself.
Call it burnout, call it malaise, call it brain cramp or writer’s block, call it abject laziness – whatever the name, it’s the reason behind the conspicuous lack of original posting in the last month. I’m not burned out on blogging – I love the opportunity to post what’s going on in my life, probably more so than you care about reading it – but it’s rather tedious to go into much detail about same when it’s a rather consistent routine.
Combine whatever you’d call it with my general apathy toward essentially everything right now, and it’d make for a stultifyingly dull read for you, my audience – my army of one, as it were. The fact is, I’m having a hard time caring about much of anything anymore (as I briefly alluded to in my Black Flag post somewhere below).
What’s not to love about my life? I have a beautiful son and wife, right? A house? A job? A functioning motor vehicle, recent gremlins notwithstanding? Food in the fridge? My health? Sure, when you put it like that, then everything else to follow would indeed come off as self-indulgent whinging, to borrow a phrase I saw elsewhere on this blog. (Spell-check says, “I don’t understand ‘whinging.’ Do you mean ‘whining’ or ‘whinnying’?” But this article lays the definition out pretty clearly – read the first two paragraphs before insomnia threatens to be cured.)
Ugh. Life isn’t perfect, is it? Has it ever been, since Adam and Eve screwed it up for the rest of us? In my antiquarian book stack, there exists an accounting text from 1878 that puts our condition fairly precisely in the first or second paragraph of the entire book – and keep in mind, this was 128 years ago, before the World Wide Internet and 24-hour quickie marts and porn-on-demand: “The prime condition of life is want.” Funny, though, how folks confuse “wants” and “needs,” often synonymizing the two terms. Maslow would probably have a field day with prioritizing today’s “needs,” wouldn’t he? (Spell-check: “I don’t understand ‘synonymizing.’ I have no other suggestions.” No, you probably don’t.)
Speaking personally and more directly to current events, I’m not talking about material excess. I can’t think of a lot that I really want for. That’s part of the reason that I’m unloading a lot of my stuff on eBay as of late, because really, what’s the point? I’ve overindulged in seemingly all material things my entire adult life, and it’s time to cut back.
The dichotomy of my life finds me torn between two ends of an axis. On one end is the me who operates by the maxim, "I'd be much more of a people person if it weren't for people." The individual stars that dot the sky of my life are wonderful people, but when speaking of the general populace at large, I think we're much better off without one another. I don't have the patience for the random person's various foibles, neuroses or tics. And I don't do idle chitchat - funny, since this blog is the very picture of idle chitchat - and I think that puts a lot of people off - people who I'm sure I'd otherwise have warm, close relationships with.
On the polar opposite of that axis, though, is the terribly lonely me. I continue to regret all of the mistakes I’ve made in my life. I have managed to do great harm to virtually every important relationship I’ve ever had – platonic, familial, romantic. Sometimes the damage is irrevocable, and sometimes they manage to return to a state of tenuous repair.
This damage is rarely, if ever, due to anything I have actively, consciously done. It’s the converse, really – I go a couple of days without saying hello to someone, and then days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months, and months into years. I have a tendency to disappear from people’s lives as a result.
Why is this, though? How can I go from someone who seems so very warm and caring and loving to someone who basically becomes a cipher? I don’t know, and I don’t know that I’ll ever figure out. And I hate that I’m like that, too. Here’s why.
A teenager’s mentality still exists to an extent in my consciousness: the desperate “need” to be popular, the desperate “need” for some sort of warmth in my life, which is probably more universal than it is confined to the teen years. I’ve always been jealous of popular people – at first, in high school, because I thought their popularity was highly undeserved, and now because I see how lucky certain people are, because they have the charisma and charm and all of that crap that attracts people like flies to a light.
Me? I’ve always been someone who’s believed that I should be popular by virtue of my own existence. (A completely preposterous notion if there ever was one, right? Read on.) I think this is a consequence of having my ass kissed for the biggest part of my adolescence and before because I was what they called “gifted.” Yes, a child needs to be told he is special, but when the praiser goes overboard with his or her praise, the child goes beyond having warm fuzzy thoughts about his own uniqueness and starts believing delusional thoughts about his own value as a human being relative to that of others. (“I’m more special than you are!”)
Take this blog, please. I do absolutely nothing to promote it – just the fact that it’s out there means, to me, that it’s better than 95% of the unholy mess of blogs that are out there, and that by that point alone, it should be drawing readers. I don’t care if you don’t care what I have to say, just as long as you’re here to hear it, and you come back often to not care some more.
And, of course, I can’t for the life of me understand why I get, tops, 8 visits a day. Of course, the blogosphere is essentially a huge vacuum of noise, and it takes true self-promotion to make what you have to say rise above the noise. Self-promotion is an anathema to me – I like to think that the quality of my writing is self-promotion enough. I’d rather spend an afternoon in the proctologist’s office than blow my own horn.
More relevant to this discussion: I can count on one hand the number of friends I still have (with fingers – plural - to spare), and to be honest, I’m surprised that they haven’t had me shot yet, although the rustling in the woods near my house every night unnerves me. The problem is the same as it is with this blog’s low readership numbers: I just don’t try. It’s not about trying hard enough, it’s about trying at all, and I don’t.
Do I love them, just as I love so many of the people who have touched my life for a short time only for them to watch me disappear into the ether? Absolutely. I treasure them very deeply. And whether you're a dear friend or a complete stranger, I thank you for reading this far.
Anyway, this self-criticism is careening out of control with no end in sight, so I'll cut it short by saying: All of this is a microcosm of the larger present crisis in my life, the details of which I’m still not entirely clear on, but it’s a panic that I feel inside myself.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
The doggy hospice. (Or: We'll take Doggy to a nice, big farm!)
In spite of the voice in my head that practically screamed, “Bad idea alert!”, we have semi-adopted a third dog to go with our legacy dog and the little yippy bastard puppy that we have. It likely won’t be a long-term deal, though.
My in-laws have a house full of Pekingese dogs. The patriarch of that little pack is pushing 20 years old, which is 140 to you and me, as Lorne Greene would say in those old Alpo commercials. My in-laws inherited Benji from my wife’s grandma (and woe to me for not remembering if it was her maternal or paternal grandmother), who got the dog when my wife was a freshman in high school. This puts the dog no younger than 19, which is 133 to you and me.
Benji is hobbled, blind, deaf, incontinent and borderline demented. He’d really be better off being put out of his misery in a humane fashion, but no one on my wife’s side of the family really has the guts to take him to the vet to do the deed. And you know, I don’t blame them; I think I’d be afraid that my late grandma would haunt me if I had her dog put to sleep, and I really think that that’s the main stumbling block behind everyone’s apprehension toward a trip to the vet. It was Grandma’s dog! What kind of cruel, sick bastard has Grandma’s dog killed (humanely or no)? (Don’t look to me to save the day, either – just because she wasn’t family to me doesn’t mean she wasn’t family to my wife and her kin.)
Anyway, Benji just exists, having been operating in safe mode for a while now. He’s been circling the drain for years, but still keeps hanging on. It’s not really the kind of life a dog should have, but as I alluded to in the previous paragraph, who’s going to take him to have him put to sleep?
The idea was hatched last week that, because we have an outdoor kennel, Benji could live out the few remaining days of his life at our place. My wife’s dad’s eyes lit up at the thought of the idea – he didn’t have any interest in watching one of his animal companions die before his eyes, and he was the one least interested in having Benji put down.
So, for better or for worse, our kennel has essentially become a doggy hospice for the time being. With our luck, he’ll live another 10 years.
My in-laws have a house full of Pekingese dogs. The patriarch of that little pack is pushing 20 years old, which is 140 to you and me, as Lorne Greene would say in those old Alpo commercials. My in-laws inherited Benji from my wife’s grandma (and woe to me for not remembering if it was her maternal or paternal grandmother), who got the dog when my wife was a freshman in high school. This puts the dog no younger than 19, which is 133 to you and me.
Benji is hobbled, blind, deaf, incontinent and borderline demented. He’d really be better off being put out of his misery in a humane fashion, but no one on my wife’s side of the family really has the guts to take him to the vet to do the deed. And you know, I don’t blame them; I think I’d be afraid that my late grandma would haunt me if I had her dog put to sleep, and I really think that that’s the main stumbling block behind everyone’s apprehension toward a trip to the vet. It was Grandma’s dog! What kind of cruel, sick bastard has Grandma’s dog killed (humanely or no)? (Don’t look to me to save the day, either – just because she wasn’t family to me doesn’t mean she wasn’t family to my wife and her kin.)
Anyway, Benji just exists, having been operating in safe mode for a while now. He’s been circling the drain for years, but still keeps hanging on. It’s not really the kind of life a dog should have, but as I alluded to in the previous paragraph, who’s going to take him to have him put to sleep?
The idea was hatched last week that, because we have an outdoor kennel, Benji could live out the few remaining days of his life at our place. My wife’s dad’s eyes lit up at the thought of the idea – he didn’t have any interest in watching one of his animal companions die before his eyes, and he was the one least interested in having Benji put down.
So, for better or for worse, our kennel has essentially become a doggy hospice for the time being. With our luck, he’ll live another 10 years.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Skool is kool.
Back-to-school time again. Every year around this time, my close inner circle of acquaintances and I have roughly the same conversation about the supposed “earliness” of the start of the school year:
"Gosh, school is starting on the 14th this year!"
"Yup."
"Seems like it's starting earlier and earlier every year."
"Yup."
The Labor Day-to-Memorial Day school calendar of generations past is, for the most part, no more. Too bad, too, because those two days seemed to be pretty good benchmarks. Now school starts on some sort of arbitrary date like August 10 or 15 and ends sometime in May or June, and kids have to stuff three months of summer into about 10 weeks.
What kind of nerd was I when I was school-age? I had held false halcyon memories of my youth – warm home life! Popular! Athletic! - up until this week when Wife and I were going through a box of books for possible eBay sale. She pulled out a ½-inch thick geography book on Africa, from some long-forgotten series on the continents, and I recalled the summer before my 5th grade year, when I had the same series of books in my house. In the last month before school started, I decided that for extra credit – remember, this was in July, when most young boys my age were out riding their bicycles or eating bugs or whatever – I would write a report on each of the Canadian provinces. And, to give you an idea of my stick-to-it-iveness, I would burn out after Manitoba and not finish. This seems to be a recurring theme in my life to date (burning out, whether I’ve reached Manitoba or not).
The first child of one of my co-workers started kindergarten this week. Requisite tears were shed, etc. I can only imagine the basket case I’ll turn into when Son takes that first walk to the bus. That’s something I’m definitely not ready for, and I don’t know if any of us are ever ready for it. But she passed along a tidbit that, to be honest, made me wonder about the direction we’re all headed.
Her little girl’s first assignment in kindergarten was to come up with and memorize a five-digit PIN. Apparently, at least in her school district in Bloomington, the parents put money into an account, and then, through the use of this PIN, the student can use that money to buy lunch, pencils, etc. “It’s so the kids don’t have to carry money around,” my co-worker said.
“But then the bully will just beat the PIN out of them!” I protested.
(The grammar snob in me butts in with an aside: Please don’t ever say “PIN number.” That’s like saying “USA America” or “HIV virus.” Redundancy is redundant.)
Anyway, I don’t know making a 5-year-old memorize a PIN rubs me the wrong way, but it does. I don’t know why we have to track every last thing that all of us do, and I don’t know why it’s starting earlier and earlier in life. I do know that I don’t like it.
(Speaking of things I don’t know, I also don’t know why I laughed so hard at the cover of this week’s Weekly World News [“Osama captured by rednecks!”]. The accompanying picture was hilarious.)
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Answer to line of poetry about the Jug Rock:
In reference to the poem about the Jug Rock found here:
By the way, it's a sandstone formation on the west end of my old hometown that is apparently shaped like an old-timey jug. Here's a link to a picture of it.
Stick an "x" on it, and you've got the school mascot. That's right. Not Jug Rocks. Jug Rox. We were about 40 years ahead of the curve on that one, methinks. (And 40 years behind in everything else. Zap!)
By the way, it's a sandstone formation on the west end of my old hometown that is apparently shaped like an old-timey jug. Here's a link to a picture of it.
Stick an "x" on it, and you've got the school mascot. That's right. Not Jug Rocks. Jug Rox. We were about 40 years ahead of the curve on that one, methinks. (And 40 years behind in everything else. Zap!)
From the archives: Bramble Tamble Poetry Slamble, pp. 9-10
From the Poems for People Who Have Empty Lives collection, c. 1998:
****
Don't question me. You're not the one
who witnessed all the love letters falling
out of my crown.
****
So I've been exposed for what I truly am.
I admit it - that's just what I am.
If you still choose the path that I hope you haven't,
then could I have my pictures back?
****
Here's a list of songs that he's burned out on,
but I bet that he'd give anything if I were
there with him to hear them.
So would I.
(About the Captain. He probably still can't listen to Brendan Benson's "Maginary Girl" or that Lazy album or any number of other songs without wretching because I would play them repeatedly at top volume in Bart Villa right before this time.)
****
True love bears all things.
Believe it!
Love me! (for what I am.)
****
What the fuck is a Jug Rock, anyway?
****
(Page of poems I don't remember writing) - p. 10
She keeps on bitching about a "plan."
"Do you have a plan?"
No. My plan, as it were, is to persist
and subsist and survive as long as I can
Till it comes time to leave
And I can leave
And I can say, "This was my plan. Are you happy now?"
(My mom was ready for me to move out because I'd sit up all night and drink beer and write poems that I don't remember writing. [Shocking, I know.] "What's your plan?" she would ask. The above was the result.)
****
Hey, rock star.
Can you play that F# chord again?
That was awesome.
****
Oh, No I Don't.
I hope that Amy is happy.
(And in 1998, I didn't. But I do now. I hear her life is an ass, though.)
****
It was our song, but I'd guess that you've
never heard it.
****
Hey, bitch - it's not like I wanted to
get in your pants. I only wanted to dance.
(In a desperate attempt for any sort of female companionship at the town's only tavern - this was before there was a Mrs. Bramble Tamble - I asked a woman I had known a long time before if she'd like to dance. She got offended. We danced, but I may as well just have stayed sitting at the bar drinking alone. I believe that this was also the night that I came back to my mom's house afterward stumbling drunk and peed on the stairs. These were inside stairs, mind you. What's that about a "plan"?)
****
Don't question me. You're not the one
who witnessed all the love letters falling
out of my crown.
****
So I've been exposed for what I truly am.
I admit it - that's just what I am.
If you still choose the path that I hope you haven't,
then could I have my pictures back?
****
Here's a list of songs that he's burned out on,
but I bet that he'd give anything if I were
there with him to hear them.
So would I.
(About the Captain. He probably still can't listen to Brendan Benson's "Maginary Girl" or that Lazy album or any number of other songs without wretching because I would play them repeatedly at top volume in Bart Villa right before this time.)
****
True love bears all things.
Believe it!
Love me! (for what I am.)
****
What the fuck is a Jug Rock, anyway?
****
(Page of poems I don't remember writing) - p. 10
She keeps on bitching about a "plan."
"Do you have a plan?"
No. My plan, as it were, is to persist
and subsist and survive as long as I can
Till it comes time to leave
And I can leave
And I can say, "This was my plan. Are you happy now?"
(My mom was ready for me to move out because I'd sit up all night and drink beer and write poems that I don't remember writing. [Shocking, I know.] "What's your plan?" she would ask. The above was the result.)
****
Hey, rock star.
Can you play that F# chord again?
That was awesome.
****
Oh, No I Don't.
I hope that Amy is happy.
(And in 1998, I didn't. But I do now. I hear her life is an ass, though.)
****
It was our song, but I'd guess that you've
never heard it.
****
Hey, bitch - it's not like I wanted to
get in your pants. I only wanted to dance.
(In a desperate attempt for any sort of female companionship at the town's only tavern - this was before there was a Mrs. Bramble Tamble - I asked a woman I had known a long time before if she'd like to dance. She got offended. We danced, but I may as well just have stayed sitting at the bar drinking alone. I believe that this was also the night that I came back to my mom's house afterward stumbling drunk and peed on the stairs. These were inside stairs, mind you. What's that about a "plan"?)
Buy my stuff.
Just a reminder that I am still selling on eBay (which is what my mind's been devoted to these last couple of weeks thanks to this damned writer's block). Trying to post about 4 things a day, from CDs to old books to old pottery - it's really a cavalcade of deals. You may find something of interest there, and you may not. b9541 is the ID.
Also, more dumb poetry from 1998 forthcoming. I know, I know - bated breath, right?
Also, more dumb poetry from 1998 forthcoming. I know, I know - bated breath, right?
A great animated character once said, "Work sucks."
Another soul-crushing day at the Spirit Sapper.
I'm good for a job for about two years before I start getting happy feet and want to dance my way elsewhere. The first week of October is my two-year anniversary in my current position.
Doom is a jerk. I don't need to count the ways - he just is. I've detailed previously the magnitude of his idiocy, and I won't do it again. It's becoming all I can do just to show up in the mornings and sit through another 8 hours of his hair-trigger temper (when he's in a bad mood) or my forced laughter (when he's in a good mood) - I almost prefer the former, because then my laughter is genuine.
I can say, however, that I will eternally have at least one up on him - even if I completely lose all of my faculties, become blind, incontinent, have a stroke and am required to be under 24-hour care the remainder of my days.
Doom received some new modular furniture for his office yesterday. He felt like he was entitled, so OK. When he was out of the office, I snuck in, sat on his desk and rubbed my butt across it, all around. I'll leave it your call as to whether I left my pants up.
When the One Great Scorer comes to write against my name, He'll look at me, review the videotape, then high-five me and say, "That's how you play the game."
I'm good for a job for about two years before I start getting happy feet and want to dance my way elsewhere. The first week of October is my two-year anniversary in my current position.
Doom is a jerk. I don't need to count the ways - he just is. I've detailed previously the magnitude of his idiocy, and I won't do it again. It's becoming all I can do just to show up in the mornings and sit through another 8 hours of his hair-trigger temper (when he's in a bad mood) or my forced laughter (when he's in a good mood) - I almost prefer the former, because then my laughter is genuine.
I can say, however, that I will eternally have at least one up on him - even if I completely lose all of my faculties, become blind, incontinent, have a stroke and am required to be under 24-hour care the remainder of my days.
Doom received some new modular furniture for his office yesterday. He felt like he was entitled, so OK. When he was out of the office, I snuck in, sat on his desk and rubbed my butt across it, all around. I'll leave it your call as to whether I left my pants up.
When the One Great Scorer comes to write against my name, He'll look at me, review the videotape, then high-five me and say, "That's how you play the game."
Sunday, August 13, 2006
From the archives: Bramble Tamble Poetry Slamble, pp. 7-8
More bad poetry, from the Leaves of Crap collection, c. 1998.
****
6.28.86
What was I doing then?
Playing baseball, I assume. I was 11.
And the Flag broke up afterwards.
I have their last show on tape. It was that night.
It's probably worth 17 cents now.
****
You know I'm coming back for you.
I'll let you know so you can pack.
****
Kurt said, "I don't regret a thing."
I guess he never met the likes of you.
****
Two cedar boxes full of pennies.
I could roll them up and buy a pack of smokes.
****
I can't see how anyone can believe in
anything or anyone anymore.
****
I had an ambition, as recently as six hours ago,
to ask out and potentially lay each and every woman
I laid eyes upon, until I realized who I was
dealing with. It was a passing thing.
****
There was a time, as recently as three years ago,
when I would have gone out with Lucy.
****
Oh, Heidi. We're nothing more than two star-crossed
friends with our own problems that will eat us alive
if we're not careful. The fact that you try so hard
to be my friend makes me long for your friendship all
the more.
If you were here now, we'd split a bottle of brandy
and talk about how nasty the world is, and then you
could sleep in my bed and I'd sleep on the couch.
****
Morgan's in Germany now. Sieg heil and all that.
(Those last two bits were about long-lost Internet girlfriends - and by "girlfriends," I mean "friends who happen to be girls." I lost touch with both, because at this particular point, I was without Internet access. I found out later that Morgan got married. Good for her! Meanwhile, I wonder what ever happened to Lucy?)
****
6.28.86
What was I doing then?
Playing baseball, I assume. I was 11.
And the Flag broke up afterwards.
I have their last show on tape. It was that night.
It's probably worth 17 cents now.
****
You know I'm coming back for you.
I'll let you know so you can pack.
****
Kurt said, "I don't regret a thing."
I guess he never met the likes of you.
****
Two cedar boxes full of pennies.
I could roll them up and buy a pack of smokes.
****
I can't see how anyone can believe in
anything or anyone anymore.
****
I had an ambition, as recently as six hours ago,
to ask out and potentially lay each and every woman
I laid eyes upon, until I realized who I was
dealing with. It was a passing thing.
****
There was a time, as recently as three years ago,
when I would have gone out with Lucy.
****
Oh, Heidi. We're nothing more than two star-crossed
friends with our own problems that will eat us alive
if we're not careful. The fact that you try so hard
to be my friend makes me long for your friendship all
the more.
If you were here now, we'd split a bottle of brandy
and talk about how nasty the world is, and then you
could sleep in my bed and I'd sleep on the couch.
****
Morgan's in Germany now. Sieg heil and all that.
(Those last two bits were about long-lost Internet girlfriends - and by "girlfriends," I mean "friends who happen to be girls." I lost touch with both, because at this particular point, I was without Internet access. I found out later that Morgan got married. Good for her! Meanwhile, I wonder what ever happened to Lucy?)
A dramatic reading and analysis of Black Flag's "I Don't Care."
I had planned to put "I don't care" in a post and leave it at that, but I figured that that wouldn't get much play here. So, in the spirit of the inane lyrical analysis found in the book "Come As You Are" - the story of Nirvana, by Michael Azzerad, I thought I'd flesh it out my feelings a little bit and post the lyrics to the song of the same title by that seminal punk band, Black Flag. Remember, kids, apathy rocks. (Lyrics are in Arial boldface. My analysis is in this font.)
I don't care - gonna f**k you anyways
Here, the singer - I believe it's Dez Cadena, but I could be wrong (though it's definitely not Henry Rollins) - seems to be saying that in spite of the general apathy surrounding him vis-a-vis his crush on a particular girl, he's still going to give her a little action.
don't care - your boyfriend's here anyways
Of course, this action might come at a price. The singer might get the crap beaten out of him by his love interest's boyfriend, who appears to be "here," wherever "here" is. Perhaps they are at the Tastee-Freez.
don't care - is that a tampon on anyways
Also impeding the singer's progress toward bedding down the girl is the fact that it may or may not be the girl's time of the month.
don't care - well you're gross anyways
The singer here shrugs off his crush on the girl, rationalizing his moving on by saying that she's less than attractive (see below), but in reality, her boyfriend is there and she is, of course, enjoying a visit from Aunt Flo.
I don't care [x2]
(hahaha you're ugly)
Further rationalization from the singer, who was, as you recall, going to give it to the girl, but may have been shot down.
don't care - you're messed up anyways
And again. Ugly and crazy. Sometimes ugly girls can be crazy too. You expect it more from the pretty girls, though.
don't care - well you're a doggy anyways
Here, the singer seems to be reaching into the "unattractiveness" well once too often. The use of "doggy" here implies that the former object of his affection is rather mutt-like.
don't care - you got a dull place anyways
The singer here implies that the girl lives in Bart Villa.
I don't care - well you look like Raggedy Liz
Here, I always thought that the singer said, "Well, you look like Megan Williams." It would make about as much sense.
I don't care [x2]
The singer imparts further his lack of effort in caring at this point in the song, by which time the listener should also stop caring.
don't care - well you're gross anyways
Etc. etc. etc.
don't care - your boyfriend's here anyways
Etc. etc. etc.
don't care - well your parents are here too
A "Sixth Sense"-level twist on things to wrap up the song. This reminds me of when I had long hair - I believe I recounted this in a much earlier post on this blog - and my dad said, "I don't care if you want to be a girl." Really, he did care. Just the same, the singer also cares that the girl's parents are there, but he's really too cool to let on.
I don't care
Here, the singer once more drives home the point that he doesn't really want to impart any effort into caring.
Anyway, that's how I feel right now, except for the part about sex and the boyfriend and the parents and the dog show.
I don't care - gonna f**k you anyways
Here, the singer - I believe it's Dez Cadena, but I could be wrong (though it's definitely not Henry Rollins) - seems to be saying that in spite of the general apathy surrounding him vis-a-vis his crush on a particular girl, he's still going to give her a little action.
don't care - your boyfriend's here anyways
Of course, this action might come at a price. The singer might get the crap beaten out of him by his love interest's boyfriend, who appears to be "here," wherever "here" is. Perhaps they are at the Tastee-Freez.
don't care - is that a tampon on anyways
Also impeding the singer's progress toward bedding down the girl is the fact that it may or may not be the girl's time of the month.
don't care - well you're gross anyways
The singer here shrugs off his crush on the girl, rationalizing his moving on by saying that she's less than attractive (see below), but in reality, her boyfriend is there and she is, of course, enjoying a visit from Aunt Flo.
I don't care [x2]
(hahaha you're ugly)
Further rationalization from the singer, who was, as you recall, going to give it to the girl, but may have been shot down.
don't care - you're messed up anyways
And again. Ugly and crazy. Sometimes ugly girls can be crazy too. You expect it more from the pretty girls, though.
don't care - well you're a doggy anyways
Here, the singer seems to be reaching into the "unattractiveness" well once too often. The use of "doggy" here implies that the former object of his affection is rather mutt-like.
don't care - you got a dull place anyways
The singer here implies that the girl lives in Bart Villa.
I don't care - well you look like Raggedy Liz
Here, I always thought that the singer said, "Well, you look like Megan Williams." It would make about as much sense.
I don't care [x2]
The singer imparts further his lack of effort in caring at this point in the song, by which time the listener should also stop caring.
don't care - well you're gross anyways
Etc. etc. etc.
don't care - your boyfriend's here anyways
Etc. etc. etc.
don't care - well your parents are here too
A "Sixth Sense"-level twist on things to wrap up the song. This reminds me of when I had long hair - I believe I recounted this in a much earlier post on this blog - and my dad said, "I don't care if you want to be a girl." Really, he did care. Just the same, the singer also cares that the girl's parents are there, but he's really too cool to let on.
I don't care
Here, the singer once more drives home the point that he doesn't really want to impart any effort into caring.
Anyway, that's how I feel right now, except for the part about sex and the boyfriend and the parents and the dog show.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
From the archives: Bramble Tamble Poetry Slamble, p. 6
Previous bad poetry links:
pp. 4-5
pp. 2-3
p. 1
*****
The Friday night I lost my mind
I hired a secretary to do my dirty work
and laid out plans for a presidential library
in my name
*****
You'd trade it all in right now
if you could just find a pencil sharpener.
*****
1992 was a vintage year.
*****
With my right hand on the Bible
And my left clutching my beer
I swore to something last night
Damned if I can remember what it was
*****
12:32 a.m.
There's no place open this late
that sells index cards
Not in this town
*****
Dearest housemate,
I borrowed about 7 beers
I'll do the dishes next Tuesday in return, Mom
pp. 4-5
pp. 2-3
p. 1
*****
The Friday night I lost my mind
I hired a secretary to do my dirty work
and laid out plans for a presidential library
in my name
*****
You'd trade it all in right now
if you could just find a pencil sharpener.
*****
1992 was a vintage year.
*****
With my right hand on the Bible
And my left clutching my beer
I swore to something last night
Damned if I can remember what it was
*****
12:32 a.m.
There's no place open this late
that sells index cards
Not in this town
*****
Dearest housemate,
I borrowed about 7 beers
I'll do the dishes next Tuesday in return, Mom
Signs that your future with your present employer is in doubt: (Or, "Yeah, but what have you done lately?")
Despite his success the previous two seasons, having made Nextel Cup's Chase for the Championship as many times as Jeff Gordon and Dale Earnhardt Jr. combined, Jeremy Mayfield's employment with Ray Evernham partnership is circling the drain thanks to an awful season that shows Mayfield sitting 36th in points. The final series of nails may have been driven into the coffin over the last five days. From Jayski:
"Bill Elliott will be in the #19 Dodge that Mayfield has driven for EMS since 2002 this weekend at Watkins Glen International, according to the Nextel Cup entry list released by NASCAR on Tuesday. ... Mayfield, who said last weekend at Indianapolis he likely would not be at Evernham Motorsports next season, said he had not been contacted by Evernham about a switch. 'It's not professional, that's for sure,' said Mayfield, who crashed on Lap 82 of Sunday's race and fell out of the top 35 in owners' points that guarantee a spot in the next race. 'That's the way everything has worked around here for a while.'"
This shot across the Evernham bow was almost immediately followed by (again, from Jayski):
"NASCAR's official entry list Tuesday showed Elliott subbing for Mayfield, and the team later released a statement confirming the switch. It said Mayfield's long-term future with Evernham is undecided - but his name had been removed from the company letterhead."
Subtle, yes?
"Bill Elliott will be in the #19 Dodge that Mayfield has driven for EMS since 2002 this weekend at Watkins Glen International, according to the Nextel Cup entry list released by NASCAR on Tuesday. ... Mayfield, who said last weekend at Indianapolis he likely would not be at Evernham Motorsports next season, said he had not been contacted by Evernham about a switch. 'It's not professional, that's for sure,' said Mayfield, who crashed on Lap 82 of Sunday's race and fell out of the top 35 in owners' points that guarantee a spot in the next race. 'That's the way everything has worked around here for a while.'"
This shot across the Evernham bow was almost immediately followed by (again, from Jayski):
"NASCAR's official entry list Tuesday showed Elliott subbing for Mayfield, and the team later released a statement confirming the switch. It said Mayfield's long-term future with Evernham is undecided - but his name had been removed from the company letterhead."
Subtle, yes?
From the archives: The greatest country chorus ever written.
One beer-soaked night in Bloomington, c. 1999 or 2000, the Captain and I collaborated on this snippet of a country song:
Give me half a chance
And I'll drink myself to death
Ever since she left
You can smell her on my breath
I long to sway across the floor,
but bottles just can't dance
It ain't just infatuation,
it's a hundred-proof romance
Give me half a chance
And I'll drink myself to death
Ever since she left
You can smell her on my breath
I long to sway across the floor,
but bottles just can't dance
It ain't just infatuation,
it's a hundred-proof romance
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
From the archives: Bramble Tamble Poetry Slamble, pp. 4-5
From the I Know Why The Caged Rat Sings collection, c. 1998:
****
Well, are you?
"Are you fucking her?"
Perhaps, at the time, it seemed a ridiculous question,
but with distance, I can see why he'd think that.
"Again, I reiterate - are you fucking her?"
(He probably doesn't remember it, but this was from a conversation that the Captain and I had when I was living in my mom's basement. Mom had a neighbor who had a 13- or 14-year-old daughter who would flirt pretty aggressively with me. I had sense enough not to do anything about it, but the question was still asked, because really, I wouldn't have put it past me at the time, either. The "her" in question ended up doing OK for herself in spite of my rejections, I hear, but she had a very young child who died in the last year or so, which is awful.)
****
His dream was to own a Grand Prix.
He's 24 now. He owns a Grand Prix.
Now what?
****
Bart Villa was the most confusing, most
haphazard year of my life, except for the three
I lost. Why, then, do I miss it so horribly?
****
I keep on waiting
For her to drive by
Yeah, I barely know her
****
Christy came by the store. She's married and
has a baby now, but that never stopped me before.
I got her movies for her and she went on
her way; the aspirin overdose incident of 1992
still casts her in a different light.
****
It's all water under the bridge, but caution:
bridges freeze before roadway.
****
Modern mothers for obscenity!
(I think this was from something else that crept into my subconscious. Hope I didn't plagiarize anyone too badly there; if so, I apologize.)
(really, they get better)
****
Well, are you?
"Are you fucking her?"
Perhaps, at the time, it seemed a ridiculous question,
but with distance, I can see why he'd think that.
"Again, I reiterate - are you fucking her?"
(He probably doesn't remember it, but this was from a conversation that the Captain and I had when I was living in my mom's basement. Mom had a neighbor who had a 13- or 14-year-old daughter who would flirt pretty aggressively with me. I had sense enough not to do anything about it, but the question was still asked, because really, I wouldn't have put it past me at the time, either. The "her" in question ended up doing OK for herself in spite of my rejections, I hear, but she had a very young child who died in the last year or so, which is awful.)
****
His dream was to own a Grand Prix.
He's 24 now. He owns a Grand Prix.
Now what?
****
Bart Villa was the most confusing, most
haphazard year of my life, except for the three
I lost. Why, then, do I miss it so horribly?
****
I keep on waiting
For her to drive by
Yeah, I barely know her
****
Christy came by the store. She's married and
has a baby now, but that never stopped me before.
I got her movies for her and she went on
her way; the aspirin overdose incident of 1992
still casts her in a different light.
****
It's all water under the bridge, but caution:
bridges freeze before roadway.
****
Modern mothers for obscenity!
(I think this was from something else that crept into my subconscious. Hope I didn't plagiarize anyone too badly there; if so, I apologize.)
(really, they get better)
From the archives: Bramble Tamble Poetry Slamble, pp. 2-3
More from the 24 Years Old and Living In My Mom's Basement collection, c. 1998.
Vinegar memories of things I should have never done
I could have left her if I'd put my mind to it
But I'm nothing more than a jellyfish dwelling at the bottom of the ocean
My spine somewhere further along evolution
****
We had great sex, but she's from Ellettsville.
****
The silence of our neighborhood broken only by the
yelping of dogs, Sleater-Kinney, the hum of central
air, the roar of trains, the muffler technology of the
1984 Pontiac Trans-Am, the bugs, the bugs, the bugs.
****
I'm at a crossroads in my life. I could either
become a worthless drunk like so many who have
came before me, or I could make something of myself.
Massachusetts doesn't seem so far away now.
****
For, about Kate
I'm living in my mom's basement. She's living.
****
It's not a community. It's a town where dreams
collapse into dust, where the county fair baby show
is the fantasy of any 16-year-old girl.
****
All the bugbites on my arms make me look like
some ill-fated victim of projectile leprosy.
****
No, as a matter of fact, I don't
know that guy you're talking about,
but you've got a cute ass.
****
Stop trying to impress me. I'm easier than that - haven't
you heard?
Vinegar memories of things I should have never done
I could have left her if I'd put my mind to it
But I'm nothing more than a jellyfish dwelling at the bottom of the ocean
My spine somewhere further along evolution
****
We had great sex, but she's from Ellettsville.
****
The silence of our neighborhood broken only by the
yelping of dogs, Sleater-Kinney, the hum of central
air, the roar of trains, the muffler technology of the
1984 Pontiac Trans-Am, the bugs, the bugs, the bugs.
****
I'm at a crossroads in my life. I could either
become a worthless drunk like so many who have
came before me, or I could make something of myself.
Massachusetts doesn't seem so far away now.
****
For, about Kate
I'm living in my mom's basement. She's living.
****
It's not a community. It's a town where dreams
collapse into dust, where the county fair baby show
is the fantasy of any 16-year-old girl.
****
All the bugbites on my arms make me look like
some ill-fated victim of projectile leprosy.
****
No, as a matter of fact, I don't
know that guy you're talking about,
but you've got a cute ass.
****
Stop trying to impress me. I'm easier than that - haven't
you heard?
From the archives: Modesty. It ain't a city in California.
Another one from the Deep Blue Crap collection, c. 2000.
****
One day around lunchtime last week, I was running an errand for my place of employment. The radio in my car was tuned to a country station (it's the closest thing to pop I listen to these days). The station played two Conway Twitty songs in the span of about 45 minutes, "Tight Fittin' Jeans" and "I'd Love To Lay You Down."
I had a revelation at that point, a revelation that smacked me up harder than a mack daddy G being paid five large to drop da bomb on yo ass, yo, beeeee-yatch. (Editor's note: The author has no earthly idea what he just said. Please send tax-deductible contributions for a gangsta-to-English translator to his home address.)
Anyway, if you're familiar with the songs, think about them for a second. Consider how tame (some would say "lame") the following lyric from "I'd Love To Lay You Down" would be in the context of today:
"Standing in the kitchen
In your faded cotton gown
With your hair all up in curlers
I'd just love to lay you down."
Conversely, take the following lyric from one of your more popular records today:
"Shit, Christina Aguilera better switch me chairs
so I can sit next to Carson Daly and Fred Durst
and hear 'em argue over who she gave head to first."
The latter, of course, is what passes for "popular" "music" anymore. Why, then, do I get such a big kick out of the former?
(No, the correct is not "because I've turned into a big flaming prude.")
I reckon that if you pulled out your Funk N' Wagnalls and looked up the definition for "modesty," you wouldn't find Eminem's picture next to it. Then again, being anointed for sainthood by the entertainment media doesn't require having modesty as a virtue. Hell, "modesty" as defined by the gangsta set means having the decency to conceal your 9mm at a get-together or hootenanny or whatever the kids are calling it these days.
Therein lies the answer to the question I posed a few paragraphs earlier, an answer I'll also pose in the form of a question:
Does anybody else miss modesty?
True story: Back when I was first spening about 18 hours a day online before rediscovering my life, something that I used to do (and something I'm terribly ashamed of if I think about it for too long) was write pornographic stories. Of course, they wouldn't be called that anymore - we're big on being an all-inclusive society that likes to erase stigmas and welcome any and all behavior no matter how aberrant, so my stories today would have a nice shiny name like "erotic fiction." Call a spade a spade and a porno a porno - that's what it was, and I suppose I got pretty good at it.
I don't do it anymore, though, for a couple of reasons. One - writing those stories got really old really quickly; I think I exhausted every possible way of saying that he put his ... you know ... into her ... you know. All of the descriptive terminology in the world - for the record, my favorite was "pulsating" - couldn't hide the fact that as far as that type of writing goes, I was writing toward a dead end.
Most importantly, though, my entire value system has undergone a major overhaul since then; my moral compass is so new that it's still under warranty, and I'm still learning how to use it. (It's harder than, say, programming a VCR, which gets a bad rap as far as degree of difficulty goes - read the blasted directions!)
And, yes, this moral compass includes modesty, though you wouldn't know it if you were The Captain and saw me humping the air while my face is contorted into a look of insane lust whenever something like that Jessica Andrews video (the one where she's on the swing) comes on TV. (Don't tell my girlfriend.) But I'm trying.
I don't pretend to know whether a society's entertainment is a reflection of society or a bellwether of a society-to-be. This has been debated to death, and it's one of those issues on which we'll probably never reach consensus. Admittedly, I don't really get out enough to make that judgment anyway.
I do believe, however, that if you're talking solely in terms of modesty or the lack of it, it's more of a case of society aping what it sees and hears in music, movies, fashion (another field on which we place wayyyyyy too much emphasis) and whatnot. For instance, there was an article in April 23's USA Today by Olivia Barker about the rise in popularity of hip-hugging jeans. I doubt that Jennifer Lopez, Carmen Electra or Christina Aguilera, the three females pictured in the article, looked out across America one day and said, "Wow ... a lot of those young girls are wearing low-riding jeans! I think that could be the look for me!" And I defy anyone to tell me different.
Most saddening in the article, though, was the quote of a 15-year-old girl from South Dakota, a girl who really really really really wants to buy a pair of those jeans:
"It's a little more risky, maybe a little more sexy. Most jeans are just for normal wear. With low-riders, they head in a more lascivious direction," she was quoted in the article. (Editor's note from 2006: In light of recent reporting scandals at major newspapers across the country, perhaps we should call writer Olivia Barker on the carpet for this one, because most 15-year-old girls don't know their lascivious from their Missouri Compromise.)
Fifteen years old, and she's got an eye on turning the "sexy" meter up a notch. Roll your eyes, shake your head slowly, and sigh with me. Maybe I'm not in on the joke, but I don't think I care to know what the punchline is.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those nutcase alarmists calling for a return to bloomers (or, worse, a founding member of the near-satirical wrestling faction called Right to Censor): "That girl in South Dakota is going to get knocked up at 16 because she'll end up wearing those jeans!" I'm grounded enough to know that things like low-riding jeans on teenage girls are merely the "effect" in the cause-effect relationship of this particular big picture.
But I dare you to tell me that this sort of decay of modesty isn't harmful. I dare you to tell me that 15-year-old girls slutting around in "fuck me" jeans isn't the least bit damaging. (Isn't that what they really are? Do they serve any other purpose besides making the wearer even more appealing to boys and men alike? Hey, a lightbulb just went off: they're key to the most important element of the human psyche today - self-esteem! "I'll love myself more if guys want to have sex with me!")
Which brings us back full circle to the late Conway Twitty. The things he sang in his songs implied such a great respect and love for our fairer gender, all without bragging about the size of his (use your favorite term for male genitalia here - the default is "Little Twitty"), all without explicitly singing about banging that booty till the break of dawn or whatever. (No, not even in "Red Neckin', Love Makin' Night.")
That, my friends, is true modesty, and it's one of the sexiest things in the world.
****
One day around lunchtime last week, I was running an errand for my place of employment. The radio in my car was tuned to a country station (it's the closest thing to pop I listen to these days). The station played two Conway Twitty songs in the span of about 45 minutes, "Tight Fittin' Jeans" and "I'd Love To Lay You Down."
I had a revelation at that point, a revelation that smacked me up harder than a mack daddy G being paid five large to drop da bomb on yo ass, yo, beeeee-yatch. (Editor's note: The author has no earthly idea what he just said. Please send tax-deductible contributions for a gangsta-to-English translator to his home address.)
Anyway, if you're familiar with the songs, think about them for a second. Consider how tame (some would say "lame") the following lyric from "I'd Love To Lay You Down" would be in the context of today:
"Standing in the kitchen
In your faded cotton gown
With your hair all up in curlers
I'd just love to lay you down."
Conversely, take the following lyric from one of your more popular records today:
"Shit, Christina Aguilera better switch me chairs
so I can sit next to Carson Daly and Fred Durst
and hear 'em argue over who she gave head to first."
The latter, of course, is what passes for "popular" "music" anymore. Why, then, do I get such a big kick out of the former?
(No, the correct is not "because I've turned into a big flaming prude.")
I reckon that if you pulled out your Funk N' Wagnalls and looked up the definition for "modesty," you wouldn't find Eminem's picture next to it. Then again, being anointed for sainthood by the entertainment media doesn't require having modesty as a virtue. Hell, "modesty" as defined by the gangsta set means having the decency to conceal your 9mm at a get-together or hootenanny or whatever the kids are calling it these days.
Therein lies the answer to the question I posed a few paragraphs earlier, an answer I'll also pose in the form of a question:
Does anybody else miss modesty?
True story: Back when I was first spening about 18 hours a day online before rediscovering my life, something that I used to do (and something I'm terribly ashamed of if I think about it for too long) was write pornographic stories. Of course, they wouldn't be called that anymore - we're big on being an all-inclusive society that likes to erase stigmas and welcome any and all behavior no matter how aberrant, so my stories today would have a nice shiny name like "erotic fiction." Call a spade a spade and a porno a porno - that's what it was, and I suppose I got pretty good at it.
I don't do it anymore, though, for a couple of reasons. One - writing those stories got really old really quickly; I think I exhausted every possible way of saying that he put his ... you know ... into her ... you know. All of the descriptive terminology in the world - for the record, my favorite was "pulsating" - couldn't hide the fact that as far as that type of writing goes, I was writing toward a dead end.
Most importantly, though, my entire value system has undergone a major overhaul since then; my moral compass is so new that it's still under warranty, and I'm still learning how to use it. (It's harder than, say, programming a VCR, which gets a bad rap as far as degree of difficulty goes - read the blasted directions!)
And, yes, this moral compass includes modesty, though you wouldn't know it if you were The Captain and saw me humping the air while my face is contorted into a look of insane lust whenever something like that Jessica Andrews video (the one where she's on the swing) comes on TV. (Don't tell my girlfriend.) But I'm trying.
I don't pretend to know whether a society's entertainment is a reflection of society or a bellwether of a society-to-be. This has been debated to death, and it's one of those issues on which we'll probably never reach consensus. Admittedly, I don't really get out enough to make that judgment anyway.
I do believe, however, that if you're talking solely in terms of modesty or the lack of it, it's more of a case of society aping what it sees and hears in music, movies, fashion (another field on which we place wayyyyyy too much emphasis) and whatnot. For instance, there was an article in April 23's USA Today by Olivia Barker about the rise in popularity of hip-hugging jeans. I doubt that Jennifer Lopez, Carmen Electra or Christina Aguilera, the three females pictured in the article, looked out across America one day and said, "Wow ... a lot of those young girls are wearing low-riding jeans! I think that could be the look for me!" And I defy anyone to tell me different.
Most saddening in the article, though, was the quote of a 15-year-old girl from South Dakota, a girl who really really really really wants to buy a pair of those jeans:
"It's a little more risky, maybe a little more sexy. Most jeans are just for normal wear. With low-riders, they head in a more lascivious direction," she was quoted in the article. (Editor's note from 2006: In light of recent reporting scandals at major newspapers across the country, perhaps we should call writer Olivia Barker on the carpet for this one, because most 15-year-old girls don't know their lascivious from their Missouri Compromise.)
Fifteen years old, and she's got an eye on turning the "sexy" meter up a notch. Roll your eyes, shake your head slowly, and sigh with me. Maybe I'm not in on the joke, but I don't think I care to know what the punchline is.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those nutcase alarmists calling for a return to bloomers (or, worse, a founding member of the near-satirical wrestling faction called Right to Censor): "That girl in South Dakota is going to get knocked up at 16 because she'll end up wearing those jeans!" I'm grounded enough to know that things like low-riding jeans on teenage girls are merely the "effect" in the cause-effect relationship of this particular big picture.
But I dare you to tell me that this sort of decay of modesty isn't harmful. I dare you to tell me that 15-year-old girls slutting around in "fuck me" jeans isn't the least bit damaging. (Isn't that what they really are? Do they serve any other purpose besides making the wearer even more appealing to boys and men alike? Hey, a lightbulb just went off: they're key to the most important element of the human psyche today - self-esteem! "I'll love myself more if guys want to have sex with me!")
Which brings us back full circle to the late Conway Twitty. The things he sang in his songs implied such a great respect and love for our fairer gender, all without bragging about the size of his (use your favorite term for male genitalia here - the default is "Little Twitty"), all without explicitly singing about banging that booty till the break of dawn or whatever. (No, not even in "Red Neckin', Love Makin' Night.")
That, my friends, is true modesty, and it's one of the sexiest things in the world.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Salacious = full of salsa?
The Captain has joined the Great Blog Train, or some such. He's got a MySpace now. It will put my blog to shame, so I won't link to it here. Not without his permission, anyway.
The only gripe I have with MySpace is that I can't comment on anything I find on a MySpace domain without starting an actual MySpace account. Blegh.
Oh well. We're all probably better off, really. The MySpace vs. Blogger conundrum is a great metaphor for the way my life played out in the late '90s and early part of this decade. While the party is over at MySpace, here I am at Blogger all by my lonesome. If I started a MySpace dealie, I'd end up getting drunk, passing out and/or making an ass of myself. Which, you know, is the same thing I end up doing here, but at least I'm doing it alone.
The only gripe I have with MySpace is that I can't comment on anything I find on a MySpace domain without starting an actual MySpace account. Blegh.
Oh well. We're all probably better off, really. The MySpace vs. Blogger conundrum is a great metaphor for the way my life played out in the late '90s and early part of this decade. While the party is over at MySpace, here I am at Blogger all by my lonesome. If I started a MySpace dealie, I'd end up getting drunk, passing out and/or making an ass of myself. Which, you know, is the same thing I end up doing here, but at least I'm doing it alone.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
From the archives: Achy Breaky Crap
Another piece I dug up (see the intro to Bramble Tamble Poetry Slamble for more details). I used to be a lot bigger country music fan than I am today, and before that, I wasn't at all. In the interim, somewhere around 2000 or 2001, I wrote the following piece on that year's Academy of Country Music awards for my website. Notable only for my position at the vanguard of Dixie Chicks hatred, as well as use of the phrase "utterly turdo."
****
Achy Breaky Crap
Sorry about the delay in this article; although the Academy of Country Music awards show took place two weeks ago, it's taken me about that long to come up with enough synonyms for "turgid."
-------
There are two big annual awards shows on the country music calendar - the CMAs and the ACMs, as interchangeable as their acronyms. Two weeks ago, the ACMs were presented in Hollywood. While the ACM acronym stands for "Academy of Country Music," you could just as easily delete the "of" and say the "A" stands for "Allegedly" without sacrificing veracity.
The Nielsens might not have shown it, but this year's presentation was an unmitigated disaster. Top to bottom, the show was but a sad reminder of how far country music has gotten from its roots.
Selecting the beady-eyed Leann Rimes as host betrayed a dearth of good judgment on the part of the show's producers. She's spent a good portion of the last couple of months on the talk-show circuit, pissing and moaning about her record deal and burning bridges all around Nashville. It only figured that she would use her position as the show's host to continue down that path. Worse, aside from lacking any class whatsoever, Rimes was your typical self-centered brat, intent on self-promotion at the cost of focusing on anybody else. I don't know if she wrote her own material for the show, but it bombed badly, garnering absolute indifference from those in attendance (and, likely, those at home as well, if the reaction in my house was any indication). It would have been almost as worthwhile if, instead of Rimes, Lee Greenwood hosted and sang something like "God Bless The ACMs" - whereas my imagined scenario would have been just plain hokey, the real thing was just plain bad.
But who cares about hostess inadequacies and the overall presentation if the music delivers? As you might expect, that's part of the problem. Dwight Yoakam shined, playing his cover of Cheap Trick's "I Want You To Want Me" to an all-too-unreceptive audience. Other highlights were Montgomery Gentry and Brooks & Dunn, even if Kix Brooks did wear those shiny pants that should never, ever be worn in any situation, ever.
On the other hand, the barely pubescent Billy Gilman stank up the auditorium with his own inimitable brand of bombastic, overblown fluff. A bunch of nameless, faceless, dime-a-dozen artists and bands sang a bunch of nameless, faceless, dime-a-dozen ballads, and Kenny Chesney played that crapulent song that sounds just like that crapulent Tim McGraw song. (McGraw, thankfully, was a non-factor in this year's awards, else I'd have to have found a way to work "no-talent oversinger" into this piece, and I'm already about all adjectived out.)
The awards portion of the show was, of course, a travesty as well. Granted, I'm being a bit petty at this point - I thought that Toby Keith should have clenaed up instead of taking home a paltry two ACMS (for Best Male Vocalist and Best Album). It's just misfortune on his part to make it to the top of the mountain the same year that Lee Ann Womack's turgid "I Hope You Dance" topped the charts for 785 weeks. Womack ended up taking home about 27 ACMs for the ballad; her collaborators on the tune, Sons of the Desert, failed to capitalize on their residual Womack, as they lost Best New Group to the utterly turdo Rascal Flatts. And once again, the Entertainer of the Year has failed to entertain me, as I've never had a whole lot of use for the Dixie Chicks.
Perhaps the most telling tale of how far down the crapper the entire genre has gone was not a sin of commission, but rather a sin of omission: May 9, the date of the show, was the 12th anniversary of Keith Whitley's death. Whitley, if you're not familiar, was genuine country, a legend-to-be who drank himself to death before he reached his prime, a man who otherwise would have had the career longevity of a Haggard or Cash. (Or, at the very least, a Strait.)
It's sadly fitting, then, that the producers apparently found it appropriate to have Rimes fill time with inane blather about her rotten record deal or sing that turdsucking song of hers from "Coyote Ugly" (complete with dancers, whom we were "treated" to watching limber up), rather than cut out even 30 seconds of that crap to have someone say a single solitary word in tribute to Whitley.
Yes, 30 seconds! That's all it would have taken. Sure, you can toss a bone to the traditionalists by devoting 5 minutes to a segment honoring a country legend - Barbara Mandrell won this year's "Pioneer Award" - but when your genre can move those units hand over fist by going pop, who needs to remember that pesky past?
****
Achy Breaky Crap
Sorry about the delay in this article; although the Academy of Country Music awards show took place two weeks ago, it's taken me about that long to come up with enough synonyms for "turgid."
-------
There are two big annual awards shows on the country music calendar - the CMAs and the ACMs, as interchangeable as their acronyms. Two weeks ago, the ACMs were presented in Hollywood. While the ACM acronym stands for "Academy of Country Music," you could just as easily delete the "of" and say the "A" stands for "Allegedly" without sacrificing veracity.
The Nielsens might not have shown it, but this year's presentation was an unmitigated disaster. Top to bottom, the show was but a sad reminder of how far country music has gotten from its roots.
Selecting the beady-eyed Leann Rimes as host betrayed a dearth of good judgment on the part of the show's producers. She's spent a good portion of the last couple of months on the talk-show circuit, pissing and moaning about her record deal and burning bridges all around Nashville. It only figured that she would use her position as the show's host to continue down that path. Worse, aside from lacking any class whatsoever, Rimes was your typical self-centered brat, intent on self-promotion at the cost of focusing on anybody else. I don't know if she wrote her own material for the show, but it bombed badly, garnering absolute indifference from those in attendance (and, likely, those at home as well, if the reaction in my house was any indication). It would have been almost as worthwhile if, instead of Rimes, Lee Greenwood hosted and sang something like "God Bless The ACMs" - whereas my imagined scenario would have been just plain hokey, the real thing was just plain bad.
But who cares about hostess inadequacies and the overall presentation if the music delivers? As you might expect, that's part of the problem. Dwight Yoakam shined, playing his cover of Cheap Trick's "I Want You To Want Me" to an all-too-unreceptive audience. Other highlights were Montgomery Gentry and Brooks & Dunn, even if Kix Brooks did wear those shiny pants that should never, ever be worn in any situation, ever.
On the other hand, the barely pubescent Billy Gilman stank up the auditorium with his own inimitable brand of bombastic, overblown fluff. A bunch of nameless, faceless, dime-a-dozen artists and bands sang a bunch of nameless, faceless, dime-a-dozen ballads, and Kenny Chesney played that crapulent song that sounds just like that crapulent Tim McGraw song. (McGraw, thankfully, was a non-factor in this year's awards, else I'd have to have found a way to work "no-talent oversinger" into this piece, and I'm already about all adjectived out.)
The awards portion of the show was, of course, a travesty as well. Granted, I'm being a bit petty at this point - I thought that Toby Keith should have clenaed up instead of taking home a paltry two ACMS (for Best Male Vocalist and Best Album). It's just misfortune on his part to make it to the top of the mountain the same year that Lee Ann Womack's turgid "I Hope You Dance" topped the charts for 785 weeks. Womack ended up taking home about 27 ACMs for the ballad; her collaborators on the tune, Sons of the Desert, failed to capitalize on their residual Womack, as they lost Best New Group to the utterly turdo Rascal Flatts. And once again, the Entertainer of the Year has failed to entertain me, as I've never had a whole lot of use for the Dixie Chicks.
Perhaps the most telling tale of how far down the crapper the entire genre has gone was not a sin of commission, but rather a sin of omission: May 9, the date of the show, was the 12th anniversary of Keith Whitley's death. Whitley, if you're not familiar, was genuine country, a legend-to-be who drank himself to death before he reached his prime, a man who otherwise would have had the career longevity of a Haggard or Cash. (Or, at the very least, a Strait.)
It's sadly fitting, then, that the producers apparently found it appropriate to have Rimes fill time with inane blather about her rotten record deal or sing that turdsucking song of hers from "Coyote Ugly" (complete with dancers, whom we were "treated" to watching limber up), rather than cut out even 30 seconds of that crap to have someone say a single solitary word in tribute to Whitley.
Yes, 30 seconds! That's all it would have taken. Sure, you can toss a bone to the traditionalists by devoting 5 minutes to a segment honoring a country legend - Barbara Mandrell won this year's "Pioneer Award" - but when your genre can move those units hand over fist by going pop, who needs to remember that pesky past?
From the archives: Bramble Tamble Poetry Slamble
In our free time (ha), Wife and I have been doing a partial liquidation of all of the crap we had accrued in our single days, as well as since we've been married. To that end, I found a box in the garage that hadn't been touched since we moved in to our current quarters at the end of 2001. In the bug-riddled box was a notebook of mine from roughly the middle of 1998 that contained "poetry" "inspired by" the late Richard Brautigan. If you're not familiar with Brautigan, he was a rather unique poet and writer who came of age during the counterculture movement of the 1960s. (Not a hippie, though - he supposedly despised them.) Anyway, some of his poetry was short, one-line and two-line verses that drew their strength from his use of fairly inventive, imaginative metaphors. I dug him.
In between performing spider abortions and other bug detail, I looked through the notebook and thought, "Hell, with my recent writer's block, this would be a great thing to 'share' with my 'audience.'" It comes from a place that I had forgotten I'd been.
This is page one from the notebook, and I will post other pages later. These are selections from my life, c. 1998. My newest comments about these pieces (of s**t) are in itals, where necessary.
****
It's hard to conceive that anyone, let alone I, could
own a musical recording that features the song title
"Leechmaster."
(I don't remember what that album was. We're all probably better off not knowing.)
****
Saturday (1995?)
Saturday.
I'm sitting in Liz's living room. She's in her room, on the phone.
Her roommate Heather is vacuuming.
My heart rate increases. I break into a cold sweat and
begin shaking uncontrollably. Heather doesn't see me;
she'd think I was a freak.
I put my shoes on and go to Liz's room.
"I'm ready to go home."
I felt your presence. I had to call and come over and get my shit.
(Liz was as responsible as anyone for grabbing me by the hair and pulling me out of the awful, awful mess I was in emotionally at that point in my life. I met her in the waning days of the disastrous relationship I found myself in toward the end of '95, and it was the greatest thing that could have happened to me then. Though we had a bit of a falling out later on - mostly my fault - I still miss her.)
****
What it all boils down to is that it's about time
to get up off my ass and stop hovering in this state
of torpor and apathy and Indiana.
(And where would I have gone? You'll probably get a better feel for that answer in the ensuing pages of the notebook, to be posted randomly at various intervals in the future.)
In between performing spider abortions and other bug detail, I looked through the notebook and thought, "Hell, with my recent writer's block, this would be a great thing to 'share' with my 'audience.'" It comes from a place that I had forgotten I'd been.
This is page one from the notebook, and I will post other pages later. These are selections from my life, c. 1998. My newest comments about these pieces (of s**t) are in itals, where necessary.
****
It's hard to conceive that anyone, let alone I, could
own a musical recording that features the song title
"Leechmaster."
(I don't remember what that album was. We're all probably better off not knowing.)
****
Saturday (1995?)
Saturday.
I'm sitting in Liz's living room. She's in her room, on the phone.
Her roommate Heather is vacuuming.
My heart rate increases. I break into a cold sweat and
begin shaking uncontrollably. Heather doesn't see me;
she'd think I was a freak.
I put my shoes on and go to Liz's room.
"I'm ready to go home."
I felt your presence. I had to call and come over and get my shit.
(Liz was as responsible as anyone for grabbing me by the hair and pulling me out of the awful, awful mess I was in emotionally at that point in my life. I met her in the waning days of the disastrous relationship I found myself in toward the end of '95, and it was the greatest thing that could have happened to me then. Though we had a bit of a falling out later on - mostly my fault - I still miss her.)
****
What it all boils down to is that it's about time
to get up off my ass and stop hovering in this state
of torpor and apathy and Indiana.
(And where would I have gone? You'll probably get a better feel for that answer in the ensuing pages of the notebook, to be posted randomly at various intervals in the future.)
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