"Dag Nab You, Die-rec-tor! You'll pay for this!"
I'm thinking of two villains who can holler back and forth.
"Dag Nab You, Muskeetor! You'll pay double for this!"
They hate each other, but they aren't foul-mouthed like some of these new baddies.
"Blast! Die-rec-tor, I'll have your head!"
They stand on opposite rooftops and shout back and forth.
"Rats! There is no escape, Muskeetor!"
Until one gives up or gets sick of it.
"You also cannot escape, Die-rec-tor! The End is Near!"
There are rules to this kind of thing, which cannot be broken.
"I hope you came looking for death, Muskeetor! You've found it!"
The insults may never be personal, and no evil powers may be used.
"Looking for it, Die-rec-tor? I brought it! For you!"
They are far too sophisticated to use evil powers on each other.
"Muskeetor, you shall see the inside of a coffin today!"
So they stand on opposite rooftops and threaten back and forth, neither giving way.
"Yes, Die-rec-tor! I shall see yours! At your funeral!"
At the end of the day, if no heroes have come to "stop the rampage of tyrrany," they go out for beer and pizza. I think that's the best kind of super villain.
Friday, July 23, 2004
Posted as a convenience, for ease of linking.
Rectitude
My arms itch and I'm having trouble breathing. Everything is dark. My head aches and I know there's a welt on it, on the back, right where the swirl of my hair leaves a little bald spot, where Alfalfa has a cowlick.
The burlap of the sack I seem to be in is itchy and course. I can't open my eyes.. Somebody has tied a raw burlap blindfold over my face. It feels like I'm rubbed raw in at least three or four spots and like I'm going to have a rash in the morning.
I hope I have a rash in the morning.
I don't really know what's happening. I remember driving to work. There was a lot of traffic today and every red pickup truck in town decided I was the car to cut off and stop in front of. There's the only problem with driving a small car: people just assume you'r docile and you'll let them it. By about the twentieth big truck I was fed up. It had taken me an hour and a half and I was only half done with what should have been a twenty minute commute. When these two stupid frat boys in a big jacked up, chromed piece of crap decided to change lanes into me, I just hit my horn instead of letting them cut me off. The cars ahead of me moved ahead and I moved with them. These guys were left to wait for another sucker. It didn't help, though.
I was really, really late for work. I called the office at 8, and again at 9, letting them know where I was and what was going on. They didn't know what the problem was either. Everything was backed up. I finally pulled up in front of the building at 10am, two hours late.
The parking garage was absolutely full. On the bottom level, right by the ramp, there was one beautiful spot, but a truck pulled into it, apparently unable to read the spraypaited letters that said "Small Cars Only!" on the wall. He had been behind me, and zipped around me as I was about to pull into the spot. The driver was a young guy in a back-turned baseball cap and no shirt, wearing cutoff shorts and thong sandals. His girlfriend was dressed about the same, but with the addition of a bikini top and a bleached-out spit-end collection. As they got out of the car, both of them managed not only to hit the cars next to them, but to slam their doors repetedly into their neighbors and then lean on them as they got out. I couldn't help myself. I rolled down my window and shouted "Damn It, have a little consideration for the fact that you aren't the most important pair of ignorant Assholes on the planet! How can you think that's acceptable? What the hell is wrong with you?"
They just stared at me like a pair of really stupid statues. I drove off up the ramp, looking for another spot. The only other one open was in another section marked for small cars, and was half taken up by an SUV, parked crooked so as to consume three separate spots. I squeezed in, scraping the tip of my side rearview mirror in the process. I sat in my car, already more than two and a half hours late, and wrote a note to the SUV driver, telling him what I thought of his parking job. I told him that a monkey could have done better just by not having driven such an impractical, stupid vehicle in the first place, and that the no-doubt-lone driver with no passengers should consider the fact that the number of seats necessary for one passenger in a vehicle is, believe it or not, one, not twelve, and that this monstrocity was just wasting so much space. I said he should feel ashamed of himself. I left the paper under his windshield wiper, and labeled it "To Mr. Asshole, Driver of the Leviathon of the Small Car Spot."
Then I went to work.
In front of the building, we have a policy that people are not to smoke within 15 feet of the front entrance door. Outside, some punk was leaning against the sign to that effect, and about to light up a cigarette. I asked him if he wouldn't mind too terribly much just moving away from the building, as we have that policy in place to protect the non-smoking employees. He struck a match on the sign and looked at me for a long second.
"If you don't mind," I began.
"Fuck off, Grampa." He interrupted.
I stormed inside the building, and found a security guard. I gave him a good solid admonition for letting this policy fall lax. It was, after all, I said, for everyone's own good, and would he please go outside and remove the offending scofflaw from the premises. He looked at me dumbly, then shuffled out the door with a mumbled appology or curse or something. It's so hard to understand these mumblers.
Then I went to the accounting department, where the parking situations are handled, and first gave them an earful about the abominable parking situation. I demanded a return to the reserved spot system. Then, I told them about the trucks in the small car spots and demanded that some action be taken.
After that, the day went just about normal. Of course, my insensitive coworkers needed keeping in line, but I've taken that on along with my regular duties. I feel I owe it to the company.
At lunch, I checked on the parking situation with the accounting office. I explained to them that what I wanted was a person to patrol and have the trucks towed out of the small car spots. I wrote several memos to the accounting office and Vice Presidents of Human Capital, Fiscal Affairs and Operations, explaining my problem.
At 5 I made my way out to the parking lot. I remember a sharp blow to the head, and then I woke up in this burlap sack.
I think I'm in the trunk of a car, and one in need of suspension by the feel of it. I don't know what's going on, and I'm getting scared.
Why do these bad things always happen to me?
God
From where I am sitting, I can touch God.
He's in the next booth, and I can smell a trace of his cologne. Not a whole lot, like stupid yuppies wear, where it crushes your whole nose and makes you want to barf; just a whiff. I can't place the scent. It smells soft and whispy, like clouds. Maybe he just smells like that all the time. It reminds me of being a child, when I'd smell something, then try to go back later and have it smell different, not so neat. New toys used to smell so good, but now they just smell like plastic. This is like finding a smell when you were a kid, and then finding that it smelled the same, just as magical when you are an adult.
He's wearing a blue suit. It's a very tasteful one, with a banded collar, kind of like a priest should wear, if he wants to be fashionable. His hair is black and curly, and he's got perfect, smooth olive skin. His eyes, when I cought a flash of them a moment ago, are very deep black, with very well-defined whites, the two perfect examples of the colors, deep and bright, inky and glowing, in absolute contrast to each other. They are like a perfect Yin Yang. He looks very middle-eastern, and yet not. From the right angle, he looks more mexican or asian or even sometimes like a well-tanned European. It's hard to say what kind of ethnicity he is. I couldn't help but notice he's wearing very snazzy blue shoes with black laces. They're shiny and not scuffed or dirty at all. He really looks like he has everything together.
I haven't heard him talk yet. He's just sitting there playing with a palm pilot. A minute ago he had one of those fold-out keyboards out and was writing something in a big hurry. You can tell, he types really well, and really fast, too. It must have been an important thought, too, because when he put the keyboard away I think I heard him give a thoughtful "hmm." Now he's just playing with the thing. It makes the occasional beep or whistle, but he's a really quiet person, it seems.
The waitress didn't even ask him what he wanted. She just brought over a big salad and a cup of coffee. I noticed she left him extra cream and she changed out his sugar cup for him. I think he probably just gets that kind of service everywhere he goes. If he doesn't I guess it's all for the best. Divine plan and all that, yeah?
He hasn't touched his salad except to take out the croutons and put them on a plate and eat one of the cherry tomatoes. I guess he's like me in that. He doesn't eat the croutons either. Sometimes you just have to be in the right mood. And when the tomatoes are ripe, and I guess he can tell if anybody can, they're really good, when they've just got a little spot of dressing on them so it doesn't cover the taste all the way and just adds a little zip to the flavor. Yeah. He's done this before.
I wonder if, every time he looks at something he thinks "I did a good job on that," or "I need to fix that. I'll get around to it," or something. Is it kind of like the guy who builds machines for a shoe factory going out shoe shopping? I don't know.
The whole impression, though, is just that he looks absolutely comfortable and at ease. He's doing his own thing and loving it.
I feel like I'm seeing the better version of me, the version with all the upgrades, where the engineers have taken out all the stupid features and replaced them with ergonomic ones that work every time and never burn out. I'm the model T, and this guy's the flying car the uses no gas, puts out no pollutants and folds up into a 6-pound suitcase.
I think he's done. He ate his salad, and obviously enjoyed every bite. He chewed slowly and closed his eyes while he ate. After each bite, he waited a couple of seconds and just seemed to enjoy the flavor. It's the same crappy dressing I got on my salads here a hundred times. He just seems to be able to relish it properly. After his salad, he drank his coffee. I couldn't help noticing that it was still steaming. He had the first sip black, and then, while he was still smiling from it, he opened a creamer and a sugar packet. He added a little of each, then had another sip. He kept that up, sip by sip until at the bottom it was probably just a sip of cream and sugar with a little coffee flavor in it.
He left a pretty good tip. God, it seems, tips 30%. I hope the waitress knows what she's got. After he was gone, she just came around and picked up the money and wiped down the table. God didn't leave a mess and he seems to have bussed his own dishes. I wouldn't even know where to put them. I always leave a mess at this kind of diner. I thought that was why you leave a tip.
It's a funny thing. You can't just walk up and say "Wow. You're God. I love what you've done with Honey Dew melon. I think it's your best work. I have your book here, will you sign it?" I think that would be rude. I just let him go. When he noticed me staring, he gave me a little wink and a thumbs up. Obviously, he knew I knew who he was. He was very cool about it.
All in all, God seems to be an alright guy. I've got to find out where he gets his suits made. If I could look half that good, I'd be satisfied.
That was a good looking suit.
Rectitude
My arms itch and I'm having trouble breathing. Everything is dark. My head aches and I know there's a welt on it, on the back, right where the swirl of my hair leaves a little bald spot, where Alfalfa has a cowlick.
The burlap of the sack I seem to be in is itchy and course. I can't open my eyes.. Somebody has tied a raw burlap blindfold over my face. It feels like I'm rubbed raw in at least three or four spots and like I'm going to have a rash in the morning.
I hope I have a rash in the morning.
I don't really know what's happening. I remember driving to work. There was a lot of traffic today and every red pickup truck in town decided I was the car to cut off and stop in front of. There's the only problem with driving a small car: people just assume you'r docile and you'll let them it. By about the twentieth big truck I was fed up. It had taken me an hour and a half and I was only half done with what should have been a twenty minute commute. When these two stupid frat boys in a big jacked up, chromed piece of crap decided to change lanes into me, I just hit my horn instead of letting them cut me off. The cars ahead of me moved ahead and I moved with them. These guys were left to wait for another sucker. It didn't help, though.
I was really, really late for work. I called the office at 8, and again at 9, letting them know where I was and what was going on. They didn't know what the problem was either. Everything was backed up. I finally pulled up in front of the building at 10am, two hours late.
The parking garage was absolutely full. On the bottom level, right by the ramp, there was one beautiful spot, but a truck pulled into it, apparently unable to read the spraypaited letters that said "Small Cars Only!" on the wall. He had been behind me, and zipped around me as I was about to pull into the spot. The driver was a young guy in a back-turned baseball cap and no shirt, wearing cutoff shorts and thong sandals. His girlfriend was dressed about the same, but with the addition of a bikini top and a bleached-out spit-end collection. As they got out of the car, both of them managed not only to hit the cars next to them, but to slam their doors repetedly into their neighbors and then lean on them as they got out. I couldn't help myself. I rolled down my window and shouted "Damn It, have a little consideration for the fact that you aren't the most important pair of ignorant Assholes on the planet! How can you think that's acceptable? What the hell is wrong with you?"
They just stared at me like a pair of really stupid statues. I drove off up the ramp, looking for another spot. The only other one open was in another section marked for small cars, and was half taken up by an SUV, parked crooked so as to consume three separate spots. I squeezed in, scraping the tip of my side rearview mirror in the process. I sat in my car, already more than two and a half hours late, and wrote a note to the SUV driver, telling him what I thought of his parking job. I told him that a monkey could have done better just by not having driven such an impractical, stupid vehicle in the first place, and that the no-doubt-lone driver with no passengers should consider the fact that the number of seats necessary for one passenger in a vehicle is, believe it or not, one, not twelve, and that this monstrocity was just wasting so much space. I said he should feel ashamed of himself. I left the paper under his windshield wiper, and labeled it "To Mr. Asshole, Driver of the Leviathon of the Small Car Spot."
Then I went to work.
In front of the building, we have a policy that people are not to smoke within 15 feet of the front entrance door. Outside, some punk was leaning against the sign to that effect, and about to light up a cigarette. I asked him if he wouldn't mind too terribly much just moving away from the building, as we have that policy in place to protect the non-smoking employees. He struck a match on the sign and looked at me for a long second.
"If you don't mind," I began.
"Fuck off, Grampa." He interrupted.
I stormed inside the building, and found a security guard. I gave him a good solid admonition for letting this policy fall lax. It was, after all, I said, for everyone's own good, and would he please go outside and remove the offending scofflaw from the premises. He looked at me dumbly, then shuffled out the door with a mumbled appology or curse or something. It's so hard to understand these mumblers.
Then I went to the accounting department, where the parking situations are handled, and first gave them an earful about the abominable parking situation. I demanded a return to the reserved spot system. Then, I told them about the trucks in the small car spots and demanded that some action be taken.
After that, the day went just about normal. Of course, my insensitive coworkers needed keeping in line, but I've taken that on along with my regular duties. I feel I owe it to the company.
At lunch, I checked on the parking situation with the accounting office. I explained to them that what I wanted was a person to patrol and have the trucks towed out of the small car spots. I wrote several memos to the accounting office and Vice Presidents of Human Capital, Fiscal Affairs and Operations, explaining my problem.
At 5 I made my way out to the parking lot. I remember a sharp blow to the head, and then I woke up in this burlap sack.
I think I'm in the trunk of a car, and one in need of suspension by the feel of it. I don't know what's going on, and I'm getting scared.
Why do these bad things always happen to me?
God
From where I am sitting, I can touch God.
He's in the next booth, and I can smell a trace of his cologne. Not a whole lot, like stupid yuppies wear, where it crushes your whole nose and makes you want to barf; just a whiff. I can't place the scent. It smells soft and whispy, like clouds. Maybe he just smells like that all the time. It reminds me of being a child, when I'd smell something, then try to go back later and have it smell different, not so neat. New toys used to smell so good, but now they just smell like plastic. This is like finding a smell when you were a kid, and then finding that it smelled the same, just as magical when you are an adult.
He's wearing a blue suit. It's a very tasteful one, with a banded collar, kind of like a priest should wear, if he wants to be fashionable. His hair is black and curly, and he's got perfect, smooth olive skin. His eyes, when I cought a flash of them a moment ago, are very deep black, with very well-defined whites, the two perfect examples of the colors, deep and bright, inky and glowing, in absolute contrast to each other. They are like a perfect Yin Yang. He looks very middle-eastern, and yet not. From the right angle, he looks more mexican or asian or even sometimes like a well-tanned European. It's hard to say what kind of ethnicity he is. I couldn't help but notice he's wearing very snazzy blue shoes with black laces. They're shiny and not scuffed or dirty at all. He really looks like he has everything together.
I haven't heard him talk yet. He's just sitting there playing with a palm pilot. A minute ago he had one of those fold-out keyboards out and was writing something in a big hurry. You can tell, he types really well, and really fast, too. It must have been an important thought, too, because when he put the keyboard away I think I heard him give a thoughtful "hmm." Now he's just playing with the thing. It makes the occasional beep or whistle, but he's a really quiet person, it seems.
The waitress didn't even ask him what he wanted. She just brought over a big salad and a cup of coffee. I noticed she left him extra cream and she changed out his sugar cup for him. I think he probably just gets that kind of service everywhere he goes. If he doesn't I guess it's all for the best. Divine plan and all that, yeah?
He hasn't touched his salad except to take out the croutons and put them on a plate and eat one of the cherry tomatoes. I guess he's like me in that. He doesn't eat the croutons either. Sometimes you just have to be in the right mood. And when the tomatoes are ripe, and I guess he can tell if anybody can, they're really good, when they've just got a little spot of dressing on them so it doesn't cover the taste all the way and just adds a little zip to the flavor. Yeah. He's done this before.
I wonder if, every time he looks at something he thinks "I did a good job on that," or "I need to fix that. I'll get around to it," or something. Is it kind of like the guy who builds machines for a shoe factory going out shoe shopping? I don't know.
The whole impression, though, is just that he looks absolutely comfortable and at ease. He's doing his own thing and loving it.
I feel like I'm seeing the better version of me, the version with all the upgrades, where the engineers have taken out all the stupid features and replaced them with ergonomic ones that work every time and never burn out. I'm the model T, and this guy's the flying car the uses no gas, puts out no pollutants and folds up into a 6-pound suitcase.
I think he's done. He ate his salad, and obviously enjoyed every bite. He chewed slowly and closed his eyes while he ate. After each bite, he waited a couple of seconds and just seemed to enjoy the flavor. It's the same crappy dressing I got on my salads here a hundred times. He just seems to be able to relish it properly. After his salad, he drank his coffee. I couldn't help noticing that it was still steaming. He had the first sip black, and then, while he was still smiling from it, he opened a creamer and a sugar packet. He added a little of each, then had another sip. He kept that up, sip by sip until at the bottom it was probably just a sip of cream and sugar with a little coffee flavor in it.
He left a pretty good tip. God, it seems, tips 30%. I hope the waitress knows what she's got. After he was gone, she just came around and picked up the money and wiped down the table. God didn't leave a mess and he seems to have bussed his own dishes. I wouldn't even know where to put them. I always leave a mess at this kind of diner. I thought that was why you leave a tip.
It's a funny thing. You can't just walk up and say "Wow. You're God. I love what you've done with Honey Dew melon. I think it's your best work. I have your book here, will you sign it?" I think that would be rude. I just let him go. When he noticed me staring, he gave me a little wink and a thumbs up. Obviously, he knew I knew who he was. He was very cool about it.
All in all, God seems to be an alright guy. I've got to find out where he gets his suits made. If I could look half that good, I'd be satisfied.
That was a good looking suit.
Friday, July 16, 2004
If you'll check the Alamo Drafthouse Calendar, those of you who are Sharon will notice that I was wrong about the date of "Wizard People Dear Readers." It is next weekend, but still at midnight. If you are going to go, which you really should, the live show is Friday. And there is a description of said awesomeness on the movie description page.
Maybe the Media is using political outrage to keep our minds off of the real issues, but if that's true, I don't know what the real issues are. The point is, that comic there is funny, and it keeps my mind off of the real issues.
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Terror Alerts:
Have you actually read this? I'll have to admit, it's been a while since I did. We are currently at an Elevated, or Yellow, or Bert level of Risk of Terror. This means we should be keeping an eye out and tackling suspicious people on the street because there is "A SIGNIFICANT RISK OF TERRORIST ATTACKS" everywhere in the nation right now. Think about that the next time you go to the grocery store. Remember: The lowest level of suspicion is really damn suspicious. You should never be less than fearful of brown people. That's the word from the government.
Have you actually read this? I'll have to admit, it's been a while since I did. We are currently at an Elevated, or Yellow, or Bert level of Risk of Terror. This means we should be keeping an eye out and tackling suspicious people on the street because there is "A SIGNIFICANT RISK OF TERRORIST ATTACKS" everywhere in the nation right now. Think about that the next time you go to the grocery store. Remember: The lowest level of suspicion is really damn suspicious. You should never be less than fearful of brown people. That's the word from the government.
You put the money in the bag and you jump it to the car
and you leave the little planet like you don'know who you are
If the bastards catch you, you can count on life in jail
but there ain't nobody watchin from the belly of the whale
but the money in the bag, babe, it calls out to your soul
It's the last thing that you dream about before you make parole
It's what you want and need in here, behind the yellow line
The lie is just so easy thinkin money makes life fine,
but you tossed the cash in quick and then you jumped into the back
If You Wasn't Here, You'd be Somewhere, Blaming Cash for What You lack.
and you leave the little planet like you don'know who you are
If the bastards catch you, you can count on life in jail
but there ain't nobody watchin from the belly of the whale
but the money in the bag, babe, it calls out to your soul
It's the last thing that you dream about before you make parole
It's what you want and need in here, behind the yellow line
The lie is just so easy thinkin money makes life fine,
but you tossed the cash in quick and then you jumped into the back
If You Wasn't Here, You'd be Somewhere, Blaming Cash for What You lack.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
"Just a moment"
That's how far the Ancients got, carving their ageless and senseless wisdom into a basalt crypt. Inside, it is rumored, lies the body of the only Ancient who stayed on Earth, the only one who didn't enter a coffee-powered stone space ship and whoosh his way to the stars. I don't know what this was actually supposed to say. Nobody really does, but we like to pretend. A man with more time and sneakyness than he knew what to do with finished the sentiment. He carved the letters below the originals, carefully in the same font, the same size, lined up perfectly. The sentiment is finished. The idea complete.
"Of Weakness."
That's how far the Ancients got, carving their ageless and senseless wisdom into a basalt crypt. Inside, it is rumored, lies the body of the only Ancient who stayed on Earth, the only one who didn't enter a coffee-powered stone space ship and whoosh his way to the stars. I don't know what this was actually supposed to say. Nobody really does, but we like to pretend. A man with more time and sneakyness than he knew what to do with finished the sentiment. He carved the letters below the originals, carefully in the same font, the same size, lined up perfectly. The sentiment is finished. The idea complete.
"Of Weakness."
I have, upon my thumb
A Bristly
Thistly
Gristly
Why-can't-I-Whistle-y
growth upon my thumb.
It calls out in the darkness
to the neighborhood
to Hollywood
I thought I Could,
Up to no good,
but for the growth upon my thumb.
It has a little name on it,
called Winston
Finston
Benson
Representson
Growth U. M. Thumb, esq.
A Bristly
Thistly
Gristly
Why-can't-I-Whistle-y
growth upon my thumb.
It calls out in the darkness
to the neighborhood
to Hollywood
I thought I Could,
Up to no good,
but for the growth upon my thumb.
It has a little name on it,
called Winston
Finston
Benson
Representson
Growth U. M. Thumb, esq.
Monday, July 12, 2004
Filling fixed. Back from vacation. 15 messages on work phone, all URGENT, all need me to get back to them by last friday.
'cause it's not like I recorded a message that expressly said I wouldn't be back until today, right? Oh. Wait.
I'd quit. I'd so quit. If it didn't mean I'd have nothing to do.
I stopped grinding my teeth about mid-way through last week. It felt good to wake up without that tight, ugly throb in my jaw. That was nice. I'll miss that.
'cause it's not like I recorded a message that expressly said I wouldn't be back until today, right? Oh. Wait.
I'd quit. I'd so quit. If it didn't mean I'd have nothing to do.
I stopped grinding my teeth about mid-way through last week. It felt good to wake up without that tight, ugly throb in my jaw. That was nice. I'll miss that.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
My tooth is fixed. The total cost after insurance paid their cut: $80.
The next step: sell the car. I've set aside time tomorrow to do it, arranged a ride & know the place is open. Everything's looking rosy.
Also, there was this gift I was eyin' fer Tim fer Christmas which now sits heavily in my garage. I'll say no more...
The next step: sell the car. I've set aside time tomorrow to do it, arranged a ride & know the place is open. Everything's looking rosy.
Also, there was this gift I was eyin' fer Tim fer Christmas which now sits heavily in my garage. I'll say no more...
Monday, June 28, 2004
Friday, June 25, 2004
Smoke on the water. A fire in this guy.
So, the crazy who threatened me: I have his home phone number, address & fax number. Does anybody know any good sign-up type things that ask for that kinda stuff?
Spam garbage? Church of Christ of Latter Day Saints? JHWH's Witnesses? Car drawings? Whatever. Let me know.
So, the crazy who threatened me: I have his home phone number, address & fax number. Does anybody know any good sign-up type things that ask for that kinda stuff?
Spam garbage? Church of Christ of Latter Day Saints? JHWH's Witnesses? Car drawings? Whatever. Let me know.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Wow.
I got a death threat at work today. I don't exactly know how I feel, but it is absolutely bad. Every time the store pager goes sounds, I'm afraid it's going to be that crazy sonofabitch. And, just to make things more interesting, I get to send him money. Paying psychos. Does it get better? Yeah. It gets a whole lot fucking better. I'm hoping tomorrow it does so in spades.
I got a death threat at work today. I don't exactly know how I feel, but it is absolutely bad. Every time the store pager goes sounds, I'm afraid it's going to be that crazy sonofabitch. And, just to make things more interesting, I get to send him money. Paying psychos. Does it get better? Yeah. It gets a whole lot fucking better. I'm hoping tomorrow it does so in spades.
Thomas Hart Benton was born in 1889, the year after Edward lear died at the age of 70. Benton would live to 86. I don't think I have to hit you over the head with what that means. Unless you're talking about the other Thomas Hart Benton, who only made it from 1782 to 1859, and was not a Missourian. This puts him at 77 when he died, which, again, is significant enough I don't think I'll have to go into further detail.
I think my point is proven.
I think my point is proven.
I love nonsense.
Nonsense is the honorable cousin of the lie, a non-truth all the same but not so universally reviled. A good liar is a bad person, so the saying goes, and that saying grew out of human belief. It didn't spontaneously erupt from the womb of human language and ethics, as the "Good People" would have you believe.
That's the whole point, isn't it? There's this unrealistic example we can't live up to and the simple fact is, we're built to lie. Other people can't see in my head and know what's the truth and what's not. I can't even do that, and it's my head. But this is all a digression.
Nonsense. Edward Lear built his reputation and career on it. Or not. Maybe he's just remembered for the Runcible Spoons and Derry-down-derrys, and he built his reputation on something as odd as landscape painting. I don't know. I don't have to know.
Nonsense is the honorable cousin of the lie, a non-truth all the same but not so universally reviled. A good liar is a bad person, so the saying goes, and that saying grew out of human belief. It didn't spontaneously erupt from the womb of human language and ethics, as the "Good People" would have you believe.
That's the whole point, isn't it? There's this unrealistic example we can't live up to and the simple fact is, we're built to lie. Other people can't see in my head and know what's the truth and what's not. I can't even do that, and it's my head. But this is all a digression.
Nonsense. Edward Lear built his reputation and career on it. Or not. Maybe he's just remembered for the Runcible Spoons and Derry-down-derrys, and he built his reputation on something as odd as landscape painting. I don't know. I don't have to know.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
My computer at work is broken. It died some time during the weekend, a victim of some email-checking mishap. Some person or persons killed it, and I came in on Monday to find the cold corpse sitting in its usual spot under my desk. Funeral services will be held at the city dump, where a casket of garbage will be inhumed with the earthly remains of the deceased. It has no name and no family, and served its life as a drone at a bookstore.
Seriously, though, that and a puzzling inability to sleep or remain awake are why I haven't posted in a while.
Seriously, though, that and a puzzling inability to sleep or remain awake are why I haven't posted in a while.
Friday, June 18, 2004
Don't get me wrong. I like my Palm. It works OK, more or less. It just seems that, if I'm buying a $299 system, it should play friggin MP3s for less than a $99 add-on. I mean, right?
In a world where a small MP3 player is available for $70(and that one has double the Palm's memory), I guess it makes sense that if you add a pocket calculator and a calendar, it'd be a little pricey. Maybe what I want is the Gamer-dork edition of the Palm, one that doesn't even pretend it's for business and it just has, like an MP3 player, a bitchen' video card and bluetooth palm-to-palm-type interconnectivity so I can play friggin Battleship against other people.
In a world where a small MP3 player is available for $70(and that one has double the Palm's memory), I guess it makes sense that if you add a pocket calculator and a calendar, it'd be a little pricey. Maybe what I want is the Gamer-dork edition of the Palm, one that doesn't even pretend it's for business and it just has, like an MP3 player, a bitchen' video card and bluetooth palm-to-palm-type interconnectivity so I can play friggin Battleship against other people.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
That use of Posh below is not just an archaic one, it's an archaic one that came up last night in conversation. The OED we consulted said it means a mush, as slivered crushed ice. We thought that was weird. The meaning "fancy" didn't come into common use until the early 20th century, more or less, but it is suggested that it meant that as early as the 1890s. Hell, you can read it your own self. The meaning we found is curiously absent from that link.
Also, out of the meeting with friends last night: we stopped by Half Price books on Guadaloupe, where I purchased a complete leather-bound set of (formerly) loose-leaf encyclopedias from 1932. The whole set cost $10. They're bound together with wood on the spine, and rivits through the pages. It has a certificate of Encyclopedic Usefulness or some such garbage in the front of the first volume. All in all, a pretty cool set. If I ever need pre-WWII knowledge, I have a source. Rock on.
Also, out of the meeting with friends last night: we stopped by Half Price books on Guadaloupe, where I purchased a complete leather-bound set of (formerly) loose-leaf encyclopedias from 1932. The whole set cost $10. They're bound together with wood on the spine, and rivits through the pages. It has a certificate of Encyclopedic Usefulness or some such garbage in the front of the first volume. All in all, a pretty cool set. If I ever need pre-WWII knowledge, I have a source. Rock on.
This is the stuff of life:
I see the swirling vortex that is My Problem, a motley confusion of a hole, sucking in pieces of the rest of my life. I see the tiny shards of The Solution, all pieces, all disparate. As a posh, they can't fill the hole. I need to use the epoxy of Hard Work and Time to make a cover, to assemble the various pieces of ceramic Solution, to fill that gaping hole and make my life a single cohesive unit again.
And that's your simile for the day. What does it mean? It means I need to figure out a bunch of stuff and then decide what it means. It means my life is great, but I need to control it a little. It means it's easy to ignore your problems, but they just come back later, hungry.
I see the swirling vortex that is My Problem, a motley confusion of a hole, sucking in pieces of the rest of my life. I see the tiny shards of The Solution, all pieces, all disparate. As a posh, they can't fill the hole. I need to use the epoxy of Hard Work and Time to make a cover, to assemble the various pieces of ceramic Solution, to fill that gaping hole and make my life a single cohesive unit again.
And that's your simile for the day. What does it mean? It means I need to figure out a bunch of stuff and then decide what it means. It means my life is great, but I need to control it a little. It means it's easy to ignore your problems, but they just come back later, hungry.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
OK, not to harp, but that poem just hurts. It starts off with so much promise. It's like somebody with an idea of what he wanted and where he was going started it.
(Quoted from the above link, a part of carusoism.com, for review purpose only)
She whispered words like breezes
While staring silver moonbeams
And wrapped her love with lust
That bit: it's evocative; it cries of impure love, a moonbeam stare, and the lies whispered on the wind; it evokes an image of doomed affection. If there were just three lines in the beginnig of the first verse of The Divorcee, it wouldn't be so bad, but no. He had to go the extra mile-and-a-half.
Because her dreams had rust
D'oh! And the the Caruso Charm (tm) kicks in. Rhyme scheme? Well sure there is. It goes
ABCC
D(D)E(E)
FGHG
I(I)JK
(D: half rhyme)
(E: repeated word)
(I: half rhyme)
OK, sure, maybe it's just a complex form. It strikes me, though, that he uses alliteration in the first three lines and nowhere else, and the rythmic pattern, such as it is, establishes itself in the first three lines, the falls apart immediately. It's like he took three lines from some better poet, and slapped the poem onto it. It's like a clapboard shack stuck on top of pier-and-beam. I read it again, this time dropping the last line of each stanza. The third verse is a little obtuse, but I think the poem is much improved. Maybe that's all. Maybe this should have been a poem with three-line stanzas.
So you're thinking: But Mister! Poetry is about the content, not the form.
That's all well and good, but I'd argue that the form in this case detracts so from the content that it's hard to determine what the heck he's talking about. OK, we know it's about a divorcee, and we know it's about a woman. We know she's sad, and I surmise, probably, that she's having sex without loving her partner, based on the poet's use of the phrases "wrapped her love with lust" in the first, and "all a sexy cloak" (whatever the heck that actually means) in the last stanza. Oblique language? Why sure. It would't be poetry without it. Masking your emotions in clumsy bullshit? Same thing. Wordplay that draws a comparison between two meaningless constructs? Ditto.
And then there's the puzzling allusion of the morning rain wetting (or not) her pillow. I don't know to what it alludes. Maybe that would help. I went to look it up and found nothing. If you know, feel free to berate my ignorance of culture and literature. It seems like it must be a reference to a folk song, but maybe I made that up.
So now you're probably thinking: But Mister! Why are you picking on this poem?
I dunno why. I picked it, and it really was what I'm finding wrong with his poetry, and with quite a lot of neuveaux poetry I've read. He's just the latest piece of sand in the oyster. I have nothing actually against him, personally.
(Quoted from the above link, a part of carusoism.com, for review purpose only)
She whispered words like breezes
While staring silver moonbeams
And wrapped her love with lust
That bit: it's evocative; it cries of impure love, a moonbeam stare, and the lies whispered on the wind; it evokes an image of doomed affection. If there were just three lines in the beginnig of the first verse of The Divorcee, it wouldn't be so bad, but no. He had to go the extra mile-and-a-half.
Because her dreams had rust
D'oh! And the the Caruso Charm (tm) kicks in. Rhyme scheme? Well sure there is. It goes
ABCC
D(D)E(E)
FGHG
I(I)JK
(D: half rhyme)
(E: repeated word)
(I: half rhyme)
OK, sure, maybe it's just a complex form. It strikes me, though, that he uses alliteration in the first three lines and nowhere else, and the rythmic pattern, such as it is, establishes itself in the first three lines, the falls apart immediately. It's like he took three lines from some better poet, and slapped the poem onto it. It's like a clapboard shack stuck on top of pier-and-beam. I read it again, this time dropping the last line of each stanza. The third verse is a little obtuse, but I think the poem is much improved. Maybe that's all. Maybe this should have been a poem with three-line stanzas.
So you're thinking: But Mister! Poetry is about the content, not the form.
That's all well and good, but I'd argue that the form in this case detracts so from the content that it's hard to determine what the heck he's talking about. OK, we know it's about a divorcee, and we know it's about a woman. We know she's sad, and I surmise, probably, that she's having sex without loving her partner, based on the poet's use of the phrases "wrapped her love with lust" in the first, and "all a sexy cloak" (whatever the heck that actually means) in the last stanza. Oblique language? Why sure. It would't be poetry without it. Masking your emotions in clumsy bullshit? Same thing. Wordplay that draws a comparison between two meaningless constructs? Ditto.
And then there's the puzzling allusion of the morning rain wetting (or not) her pillow. I don't know to what it alludes. Maybe that would help. I went to look it up and found nothing. If you know, feel free to berate my ignorance of culture and literature. It seems like it must be a reference to a folk song, but maybe I made that up.
So now you're probably thinking: But Mister! Why are you picking on this poem?
I dunno why. I picked it, and it really was what I'm finding wrong with his poetry, and with quite a lot of neuveaux poetry I've read. He's just the latest piece of sand in the oyster. I have nothing actually against him, personally.
Now I'm all kinda curious. I wonder what would happen if I wrote some lousy poetry. Let's find out:
note to a honey
darling,
I left for the store
when I come back, I promise
I PROMISE
I'll have milk,
eggs,
butter,
ham,
you know, the usual,
but I'm picking up batteries
and talc
and a toothbrush.
Did you need anything?
Anything but love, I mean.
Yours,
-MN
note to a honey
darling,
I left for the store
when I come back, I promise
I PROMISE
I'll have milk,
eggs,
butter,
ham,
you know, the usual,
but I'm picking up batteries
and talc
and a toothbrush.
Did you need anything?
Anything but love, I mean.
Yours,
-MN
OK, the frisbee poem is actually kinda sweet. I'm not saying there isn't a legitimate human emotion attempting to express itself through the poetry, and I'm not saying he's not a smart guy. I talked with him over the phone, so I know that, although he's a might long-winded, he's a decent sort and able to use the language effectively. I don't get what would possess a person to decide that something like
The cat
jumped over
the lazy mat
of the moon.
is poetry. He didn't write that, I did (but he did write this), but I don't claim that every use of the language is art. Sure, it's fascinating to participate in the endless masturbatory swirl that is babbling crap, but it's something eles entirely to believe, and I've heard him talk about this and he honestly believes this, that what you're doing is Art. I mean, good for ya' thinking that, but it's my place as a no-talent hack and a critic to find it, read it, and decide for myself whether I think it's good or not. My opinion: not good.
Hey! I have a comment system. Anybody else have anything resembling an opinion?
The cat
jumped over
the lazy mat
of the moon.
is poetry. He didn't write that, I did (but he did write this), but I don't claim that every use of the language is art. Sure, it's fascinating to participate in the endless masturbatory swirl that is babbling crap, but it's something eles entirely to believe, and I've heard him talk about this and he honestly believes this, that what you're doing is Art. I mean, good for ya' thinking that, but it's my place as a no-talent hack and a critic to find it, read it, and decide for myself whether I think it's good or not. My opinion: not good.
Hey! I have a comment system. Anybody else have anything resembling an opinion?
God Damn. Where was sweet Jesus?
It's like poetry, only worse. Now, in my defense: this guy called me to sell me his book. He suggests that, to get a good idea of hiswork , you should read the following three poems: This one, this one and this one. It's not like I picked the worst I could find. If I did, I would've linked to his phallic nanner poem. I don't know what to say. It's like reading broken glass.
It's like poetry, only worse. Now, in my defense: this guy called me to sell me his book. He suggests that, to get a good idea of his
My horoscope this week:
Until recently, Indonesians thought their country consisted of about 17,000 islands. But in February of 2003, an analysis of satellite images found more than a thousand undiscovered islands, bringing the total to 18,108. I suspect that you're on the verge of making a comparable breakthrough about yourself, Cancerian. There's much more of you than you ever imagined. Many previously unknown territories will soon come into view. It will be as if you have unearthed a new world right in the midst of the old one.
Until recently, Indonesians thought their country consisted of about 17,000 islands. But in February of 2003, an analysis of satellite images found more than a thousand undiscovered islands, bringing the total to 18,108. I suspect that you're on the verge of making a comparable breakthrough about yourself, Cancerian. There's much more of you than you ever imagined. Many previously unknown territories will soon come into view. It will be as if you have unearthed a new world right in the midst of the old one.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Monday, June 14, 2004
I've seen a lot of references to My Back Pages lately. I've had a different Dylan song running through my head, though. It's called Tombstone Blues. One specific verse keeps tickling the back of my mind:
Now I wish I could write you a melody so plain
That could hold you dear lady from going insane
That could ease you and cool you and cease the pain
Of your useless and pointless knowledge.
That's, of course, after the verse about selling roadmaps to the soul, which I also think is just pure genius. I just think this particular verse really speaks to the desire in those of us with sweetness and simplicity to try to make things better. I think it articulates the pain of being powerless.
And I'm sorry, 'cause I'm powerless.
Now I wish I could write you a melody so plain
That could hold you dear lady from going insane
That could ease you and cool you and cease the pain
Of your useless and pointless knowledge.
That's, of course, after the verse about selling roadmaps to the soul, which I also think is just pure genius. I just think this particular verse really speaks to the desire in those of us with sweetness and simplicity to try to make things better. I think it articulates the pain of being powerless.
And I'm sorry, 'cause I'm powerless.
It started with a quest to find the correct spelling of youse.
Then, I followed the links under that to a page which vindicates my viewpoint on the word "y'all" and its proper spelling (not ya'll, thanks much). It's an important word, or at least an important form to have, because it's darn confusing to have the singular and plural forms of "you" be identical.
Also, there's a link to a neat regional note about deletion of the initial w in 'ords, a practice 'ch'I find funny.
Anybody got anything to say? Nope? OK.
Then, I followed the links under that to a page which vindicates my viewpoint on the word "y'all" and its proper spelling (not ya'll, thanks much). It's an important word, or at least an important form to have, because it's darn confusing to have the singular and plural forms of "you" be identical.
Also, there's a link to a neat regional note about deletion of the initial w in 'ords, a practice 'ch'I find funny.
Anybody got anything to say? Nope? OK.
Friday, June 11, 2004
Cht'thschs, whom the hairless two-leggers call Meowsers, waits patiently in the bushes. Cht'thschs is coiled, watching the Enemy frolic. This time, there can be no escape. This time, Cht'thschs has a plan.
Pulling herself forward, paw over paw, she approaches the enemy silently. The bush does not shake, she does not scratch the ground. This day, the Enemy will know defeat. Once she is within six inches of the Enemy, only the leafy camoflage of the bushes separating them, Cht'thschs prepares her weapons. She flexes her paws and prepares for the battle ahead. The Enemy does not seem to notice.
Cht'thschs tenses, prepared to dispense death. In a swift, liquid motion taking less than a quarter of a second, too fast for the hairless two-leggers to see, she leaps, crashing out of the bushes and into the Enemy.
It flaps its horrible feathery leg, trying to fly, but she keeps her jaws locked in a death-grip. The Enemy, sensing its defeat, slows its useless flapping. Cht'thschs now brings her claws down onto its heaving body, rending flesh. The Enemy, its neck crushed and its body badly beaten, finally gives up.
Cht'thschs devours what little meat she can. Just as she is finishing and considering retiring for the afternoon, another Enemy lands nearby, eyeing her cautiously while scratching for edibles in the grass.
Pulling herself forward, paw over paw, she approaches the enemy silently. The bush does not shake, she does not scratch the ground. This day, the Enemy will know defeat. Once she is within six inches of the Enemy, only the leafy camoflage of the bushes separating them, Cht'thschs prepares her weapons. She flexes her paws and prepares for the battle ahead. The Enemy does not seem to notice.
Cht'thschs tenses, prepared to dispense death. In a swift, liquid motion taking less than a quarter of a second, too fast for the hairless two-leggers to see, she leaps, crashing out of the bushes and into the Enemy.
It flaps its horrible feathery leg, trying to fly, but she keeps her jaws locked in a death-grip. The Enemy, sensing its defeat, slows its useless flapping. Cht'thschs now brings her claws down onto its heaving body, rending flesh. The Enemy, its neck crushed and its body badly beaten, finally gives up.
Cht'thschs devours what little meat she can. Just as she is finishing and considering retiring for the afternoon, another Enemy lands nearby, eyeing her cautiously while scratching for edibles in the grass.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
I was about to gripe about the rain, but it's not 95 degrees outside. It's cooled off nicely, and the rain is refreshing. I'm going to need new tires before awfully long, but I'll burn that bridge when I come to it.
Like an old Sam Cooke song, it came into my head:
Another Tuesday mid-morning
and I ain't go nobody
I got some money 'cause I just went to the bank and deposited my paycheck.
Oh, how I wish I had someone to talk to,
I'm awfully bored at work.
Like an old Sam Cooke song, it came into my head:
Another Tuesday mid-morning
and I ain't go nobody
I got some money 'cause I just went to the bank and deposited my paycheck.
Oh, how I wish I had someone to talk to,
I'm awfully bored at work.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
So, here's what I've been thinking about lately.
There are, it seems, two attitudes about World War II, the one that happened in Europe and the Pacific. You know the one. It was, in essence, the end of World War I, only with bigger guns, more advanced technology and better airplanes. Ah, yes. Now we're on the same page. It's the airplanes that really interest me, or at least that started this line of thought.
WWII was the end of the age of heroes. It was the end, really properly the end, of the NeoClassicism that held Western culture in sway for about six hundred years, more or less. This gives rise to two ways of looking at the war itself, a "just-post" and a "very-post." Probably, there will be an "ancient history" view arise, but it won't be in my lifetime. It has already started, with the belief that the Holocaust was a myth. The generation who saw the people taken out of camps can't deny that there were people hurt, killed and destroyed. The next generation has the stories of that generation to listen to, and can still feel a chill. With my generation, it's really too easy for that to take on a mythical quality. It happens faster now, as evidenced by the "moon landing myth" myth. I'm not going to call it a full-fledged attitude yet.
The "just-post" attitude was shaped by three huge factors: the end of the worst economic depression the United States had seen outside of civil war; the end of the Edwardian era, which followed the Victorian era and all it entailed; and the absolute horror of what had just happened in Europe and Japan. Despite what we would believe, Americans were a humble people. We were (and are, I'd very much argue) still in the shadow of our parent country, England. The culture of England at the time was still influenced heavily by Victorian morals and values, both of which called for extreme modesty and knowledge of place. As one of a gaggle of bar-sinisters of the Former British Empire, America had a sense of shame. What needed to be done was done, and no glory was necessary for performing necesseties. The Great Depression only served to heighten that sense. Here we were, the misbehaved bastard children of England, and we were absolutely broke. Sure, the rest of the world was too, but the attitude of the day called for introspection, knowledge that it didn't matter what the neighbors were doing, so much, as long as you were taking care of your business. And we didn't seem to be. America of the fifties were young enough to remember that. The generation who were having babies in the decades succeeding the war remembered having nothing and remembered seeing that nobody had anything. They were raised by parents who, even vicariously, were still mourning the death of Prince Edward. They saw news reel that showed things that had never been done to men with huge, terrifying machinery and guns that were bigger then even the imagination can do justice. They knew the horrors of war more directly than any generation before them.
So what does all this mean? A thousand thousand men left their homes in America, fought a huge war, and came home. It means they didn't talk about it much more than they had to. It means a generation of men got a lot of practice saying "I just did what needed to be done." The people back home had an inkling what happened over there, and they had no desire to know more. Men died horribly in the mud. Men were killed in hales of bullets. The details were probably best forgotten. If there was any doubt of that, we need only look at Vietnam. As a nation, we're still stigmatized by what we saw reported there, and by what we've since heard rehashed over and over by the soldiers. War has always been horrible. In this century, we've learned to photograph it. Up until World War II, most men didn't talk about it.
But there were heroes. There were people whose stories were reported to the people back home. There were villains, whose names were reviled but respected. Sure, there were armies of faceless men, but there were men in the front. That's the "just-post" view. A million faceless grunts and a hero in the front. It's the classic view of war. It's how the Trojan war was reported. We know Hannibal, but we don't necessarily know the names of his sergents. Napoleon and his generals are known. Who were the men on the field? They were an army of men doing what they had to do. There's nothing wrong with that view. It's how human history has viewed war for millenia. Like, roughly three of them.
And now it's the future. Now, America is run by a generation who did not live through the worst economic depression in American History. It is being run by the generation who Won the biggest war ever, and don't you forget it. We've become proud. We've become loud sloganeers for our Great Nation. We won. Our fathers leveled two cities in seconds just to prove a point, and that's not counting the countless cities they leveled over the course of years to prove the same point. We inherited the power to do the same, and we turned it into the power to level the planet in seconds just to keep proving the same point. Victoriana? Why, it's kitch. It's collectible. Humility? Well, sure, it's a fine thing. The horrors of war? Far removed or as close as possible, thank you very much. We've seen people blown up, shot, beheaded and executed, and that's just on the news.
And we've started coaxing the stories out of the soldiers. We now realize that every single person who fought in that war and lived has a story. Many people are collecting these and publishing them. This is the foundation that will allow WWII to become the stuff of legend two hundred years hence. It already seems that any amount of information you have on the war is a pittance. You can't know everything, so you can't know anything. The information available is confusing and complicated.
What year did the war start? Why, 1941, of course, when America joined in. Or 1939, when Hitler invaded Poland. Or 1933, when Hitler came to power. Or 1919, when Germany was screwed by the Treaty of Versailles (justly or not, whatever you believe. They got screwed, which lead to them deciding to pull themselves up by their bootstraps). Or 1914, with the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. I'll stop.
The point: The classic view of WWII was of a few named heroes and a million faceless grunts; the modern view is of a million men, each with a story to tell.
That's what I've been thinking about lately. That, and work, of course. Always work.
There are, it seems, two attitudes about World War II, the one that happened in Europe and the Pacific. You know the one. It was, in essence, the end of World War I, only with bigger guns, more advanced technology and better airplanes. Ah, yes. Now we're on the same page. It's the airplanes that really interest me, or at least that started this line of thought.
WWII was the end of the age of heroes. It was the end, really properly the end, of the NeoClassicism that held Western culture in sway for about six hundred years, more or less. This gives rise to two ways of looking at the war itself, a "just-post" and a "very-post." Probably, there will be an "ancient history" view arise, but it won't be in my lifetime. It has already started, with the belief that the Holocaust was a myth. The generation who saw the people taken out of camps can't deny that there were people hurt, killed and destroyed. The next generation has the stories of that generation to listen to, and can still feel a chill. With my generation, it's really too easy for that to take on a mythical quality. It happens faster now, as evidenced by the "moon landing myth" myth. I'm not going to call it a full-fledged attitude yet.
The "just-post" attitude was shaped by three huge factors: the end of the worst economic depression the United States had seen outside of civil war; the end of the Edwardian era, which followed the Victorian era and all it entailed; and the absolute horror of what had just happened in Europe and Japan. Despite what we would believe, Americans were a humble people. We were (and are, I'd very much argue) still in the shadow of our parent country, England. The culture of England at the time was still influenced heavily by Victorian morals and values, both of which called for extreme modesty and knowledge of place. As one of a gaggle of bar-sinisters of the Former British Empire, America had a sense of shame. What needed to be done was done, and no glory was necessary for performing necesseties. The Great Depression only served to heighten that sense. Here we were, the misbehaved bastard children of England, and we were absolutely broke. Sure, the rest of the world was too, but the attitude of the day called for introspection, knowledge that it didn't matter what the neighbors were doing, so much, as long as you were taking care of your business. And we didn't seem to be. America of the fifties were young enough to remember that. The generation who were having babies in the decades succeeding the war remembered having nothing and remembered seeing that nobody had anything. They were raised by parents who, even vicariously, were still mourning the death of Prince Edward. They saw news reel that showed things that had never been done to men with huge, terrifying machinery and guns that were bigger then even the imagination can do justice. They knew the horrors of war more directly than any generation before them.
So what does all this mean? A thousand thousand men left their homes in America, fought a huge war, and came home. It means they didn't talk about it much more than they had to. It means a generation of men got a lot of practice saying "I just did what needed to be done." The people back home had an inkling what happened over there, and they had no desire to know more. Men died horribly in the mud. Men were killed in hales of bullets. The details were probably best forgotten. If there was any doubt of that, we need only look at Vietnam. As a nation, we're still stigmatized by what we saw reported there, and by what we've since heard rehashed over and over by the soldiers. War has always been horrible. In this century, we've learned to photograph it. Up until World War II, most men didn't talk about it.
But there were heroes. There were people whose stories were reported to the people back home. There were villains, whose names were reviled but respected. Sure, there were armies of faceless men, but there were men in the front. That's the "just-post" view. A million faceless grunts and a hero in the front. It's the classic view of war. It's how the Trojan war was reported. We know Hannibal, but we don't necessarily know the names of his sergents. Napoleon and his generals are known. Who were the men on the field? They were an army of men doing what they had to do. There's nothing wrong with that view. It's how human history has viewed war for millenia. Like, roughly three of them.
And now it's the future. Now, America is run by a generation who did not live through the worst economic depression in American History. It is being run by the generation who Won the biggest war ever, and don't you forget it. We've become proud. We've become loud sloganeers for our Great Nation. We won. Our fathers leveled two cities in seconds just to prove a point, and that's not counting the countless cities they leveled over the course of years to prove the same point. We inherited the power to do the same, and we turned it into the power to level the planet in seconds just to keep proving the same point. Victoriana? Why, it's kitch. It's collectible. Humility? Well, sure, it's a fine thing. The horrors of war? Far removed or as close as possible, thank you very much. We've seen people blown up, shot, beheaded and executed, and that's just on the news.
And we've started coaxing the stories out of the soldiers. We now realize that every single person who fought in that war and lived has a story. Many people are collecting these and publishing them. This is the foundation that will allow WWII to become the stuff of legend two hundred years hence. It already seems that any amount of information you have on the war is a pittance. You can't know everything, so you can't know anything. The information available is confusing and complicated.
What year did the war start? Why, 1941, of course, when America joined in. Or 1939, when Hitler invaded Poland. Or 1933, when Hitler came to power. Or 1919, when Germany was screwed by the Treaty of Versailles (justly or not, whatever you believe. They got screwed, which lead to them deciding to pull themselves up by their bootstraps). Or 1914, with the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. I'll stop.
The point: The classic view of WWII was of a few named heroes and a million faceless grunts; the modern view is of a million men, each with a story to tell.
That's what I've been thinking about lately. That, and work, of course. Always work.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
My horoscope from Rob Brezsny for the week.
"Dear Dr. Brezsny: Last night I dreamt I was returning home from a horrid date with a man who didn't even know my name. As I came into the living room, the heating duct flew off, and hundreds of rabbits started pouring in. At first I didn't mind, but then they started to attack me. Long story short, I was eaten alive by cute cuddly bunny wabbits. Comments? -Apparently Delicious Moon Child." Dear Moon Child: I think you're dreaming for the entire Cancerian tribe. Here are some possible dream interpretations. 1. You've been too nice for your own good lately. 2. Your extreme, almost manic fertility is leading you to do things that aren't healthy for you. 3. You should minimize contact with anyone who doesn't see you for who you really are, and you shouldn't indulge people who take advantage of your nurturing sweetness.
Damn. All three, even. Damn.
"Dear Dr. Brezsny: Last night I dreamt I was returning home from a horrid date with a man who didn't even know my name. As I came into the living room, the heating duct flew off, and hundreds of rabbits started pouring in. At first I didn't mind, but then they started to attack me. Long story short, I was eaten alive by cute cuddly bunny wabbits. Comments? -Apparently Delicious Moon Child." Dear Moon Child: I think you're dreaming for the entire Cancerian tribe. Here are some possible dream interpretations. 1. You've been too nice for your own good lately. 2. Your extreme, almost manic fertility is leading you to do things that aren't healthy for you. 3. You should minimize contact with anyone who doesn't see you for who you really are, and you shouldn't indulge people who take advantage of your nurturing sweetness.
Damn. All three, even. Damn.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
"At her front door I gave her cheek a kiss
Does life get any better than this?
Young Geeks in love."
-Little Bunny FooFoo & the Field Mice, Young Geeks In Love
Our second song. The last line. I'll tell ya', I've never written anything as sweet as that song manages to be. It was a group effort between four of the five "members," without the two "other members," or our "main singer." There are a buncha people in my band. Well, Adam's band, if you wanna be really correct. It was pretty much his idea (I think he was feeling his years, although he's still very young), told Dana that he was thinking of forming a band, and the rest, as they say, is a whole lot of work and time.
I didn't write the above song, by the way. I, and I love being able to say this, co-wrote it. It's one of, like, five collaborations I've been able to work on. They always turn out very well.
If things keep moving the way they're moving, they'll turn out well. What more can you ask?
Does life get any better than this?
Young Geeks in love."
-Little Bunny FooFoo & the Field Mice, Young Geeks In Love
Our second song. The last line. I'll tell ya', I've never written anything as sweet as that song manages to be. It was a group effort between four of the five "members," without the two "other members," or our "main singer." There are a buncha people in my band. Well, Adam's band, if you wanna be really correct. It was pretty much his idea (I think he was feeling his years, although he's still very young), told Dana that he was thinking of forming a band, and the rest, as they say, is a whole lot of work and time.
I didn't write the above song, by the way. I, and I love being able to say this, co-wrote it. It's one of, like, five collaborations I've been able to work on. They always turn out very well.
If things keep moving the way they're moving, they'll turn out well. What more can you ask?
Monday, May 31, 2004
Friday, May 28, 2004
Orson Scott Card, crafter of what lotsa folk is calling the "best SciFi book ever," on marriage. It's long, so be ready for that, but most writings that state a point and go about explaining it proper tend toward that.
I know that he, like the rest of the world, must google himself once in a while.
So, whatever happened to Robert Stefenino?
That's a name that I don't hear enough.
Whatever happened to Robert Stefenino, who played a bartender in a movie I didn't see?
I re-enabled comments, just on the off chance...(not that I'm holding my breath)
So, whatever happened to Robert Stefenino?
That's a name that I don't hear enough.
Whatever happened to Robert Stefenino, who played a bartender in a movie I didn't see?
I re-enabled comments, just on the off chance...(not that I'm holding my breath)
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Why should we hear about body bags and death, and how many, what's going to happen, and how many this or what do you suppose? Or, I mean it's... it's not relevant, so why should I waste my beautiful mind on something like that?
-Barbara Bush, on Good Morning America, 3/18/03
(re-quoted from The K Chronicles, via Salon)
Touch not these curtains
your hand will be tearing
delicate tissues of thoughts and of things
call me not your cruel voice will be scaring
flocks of young visions on gossamer wings
leave me, oh leave me
for in your rude presnece
nothing of all my bright world can remain
thou art a blight to this garden of pleasants
thou art a blot on my beautiful brain
-Martin Farquhar Tupper, Sloth from Thousand Lines
-Barbara Bush, on Good Morning America, 3/18/03
(re-quoted from The K Chronicles, via Salon)
Touch not these curtains
your hand will be tearing
delicate tissues of thoughts and of things
call me not your cruel voice will be scaring
flocks of young visions on gossamer wings
leave me, oh leave me
for in your rude presnece
nothing of all my bright world can remain
thou art a blight to this garden of pleasants
thou art a blot on my beautiful brain
-Martin Farquhar Tupper, Sloth from Thousand Lines
Again, Rob, It came up this morning. But thanks.
Antibiotics have been miracle drugs for over 60 years, but their potency is fading as bacteria evolve to become resistant to them. This has led some British doctors to revive a medieval approach to healing: placing maggots in open wounds. Seriously. The creepy creatures are fast and effective in cleansing infections. I'd like this to serve as your operative metaphor in the coming weeks, Cancerian. As you strive to mend old psychic lesions, call on the wisdom of the past, even if it involves a cure that makes you a bit uneasy.
Stupid dreams. Stupid, stupid dreams.
Antibiotics have been miracle drugs for over 60 years, but their potency is fading as bacteria evolve to become resistant to them. This has led some British doctors to revive a medieval approach to healing: placing maggots in open wounds. Seriously. The creepy creatures are fast and effective in cleansing infections. I'd like this to serve as your operative metaphor in the coming weeks, Cancerian. As you strive to mend old psychic lesions, call on the wisdom of the past, even if it involves a cure that makes you a bit uneasy.
Stupid dreams. Stupid, stupid dreams.
Monday, May 24, 2004
I found this blog because the author of it and I have an interest in common. No, it ain't Deheoglons. 'Cause nobody on Blogger of LJ seems interested in them. Yup.
It ain't nobody's poetry interests, not my deheoglon treatement, nobody's interests but my own...
It ain't nobody's poetry interests, not my deheoglon treatement, nobody's interests but my own...
I'm reading The Heliand, a translation of the Life of Christ (via the Gospel of Mark) into the Saxon language and very much into its culture. It's what I was looking for before when I found that other translation.
It's about the Warrior Chieftan Jesus at Hill Fort Jerusalem. He is taken before Pontius of Pilotland, whom the Jews threaten with the disfavor of Fort Rome.
The thing that kicks my ass: they change the ending. Jesus comes back from the dead and they go storm the castle. 'thfk?
More as it develops.
It's about the Warrior Chieftan Jesus at Hill Fort Jerusalem. He is taken before Pontius of Pilotland, whom the Jews threaten with the disfavor of Fort Rome.
The thing that kicks my ass: they change the ending. Jesus comes back from the dead and they go storm the castle. 'thfk?
More as it develops.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
I heard this on the radio today in an ad for a group searching out the reasons black men don't vote. The sound clip was of a woman. She sounded disgusted through the whole thing.
The System was set up by White Americans... it was set up by rich, middle-class White Americans. (say this last as if you have a mouthful of bird poop, and it is the words rich, middle-class white americans)
Yes. My old nemesis, the rich middle class. Damn them. Damn Them To Hell!
The System was set up by White Americans... it was set up by rich, middle-class White Americans. (say this last as if you have a mouthful of bird poop, and it is the words rich, middle-class white americans)
Yes. My old nemesis, the rich middle class. Damn them. Damn Them To Hell!
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
His shift happened in mid letter this time. He seemed to start normally, but after giving the card numbers, I think the monsters took over.
i will like you to chage these card again i am sorry coz i made a mistake given you thecard details and here is the card details
-Card Details Cut-
PLS BILL THE SUM OF 1,500 DOLLARS ON IT AND GET TO ME AS SOION AS POSSIBLE SO I CAN ARRANGE FOR THE PICK UP THANKS
Mrs Kxnny
He's probably still stressed from the wedding (Miss Kenny is now Mrs. I didn't even get an announcement). I think I'll congratulate him on it in my reply. I'm so randomly amused.
i will like you to chage these card again i am sorry coz i made a mistake given you thecard details and here is the card details
-Card Details Cut-
PLS BILL THE SUM OF 1,500 DOLLARS ON IT AND GET TO ME AS SOION AS POSSIBLE SO I CAN ARRANGE FOR THE PICK UP THANKS
Mrs Kxnny
He's probably still stressed from the wedding (Miss Kenny is now Mrs. I didn't even get an announcement). I think I'll congratulate him on it in my reply. I'm so randomly amused.
Brezsny gives me a goal with a time limit, even. 'K.
Your symbol for the next four weeks will be the Great Wall of China. Centuries ago, it was a 4,000-mile-long defense system. In that respect, it was an apt metaphor for the formidable barriers you've built around yourself. But the modern version of the Great Wall is only one-third the size it once was, having been reduced over the centuries by people appropriating its stones for new building projects. This reduced state, I hope, is an apt metaphor for the way you'll be dismantling your defense mechanisms between now and June 20.
Your symbol for the next four weeks will be the Great Wall of China. Centuries ago, it was a 4,000-mile-long defense system. In that respect, it was an apt metaphor for the formidable barriers you've built around yourself. But the modern version of the Great Wall is only one-third the size it once was, having been reduced over the centuries by people appropriating its stones for new building projects. This reduced state, I hope, is an apt metaphor for the way you'll be dismantling your defense mechanisms between now and June 20.
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
Reposted For Freshness
Poetic Forms through the ages: The Deheoglonic
Part One:
The Deheoglonic form (not to be confused with the Deheoglosic) originated in Greece in approximately the year 1702. The first published example known is dated 1704, but has been authenticated to be from 1703. Since those early days, more than ten thousand Deheoglons have been written, almost half of those in Canada. Among the most famous and outspoken proponents of the Deheoglon was Martin Farquhar Tupper, who, in 1840 said "The Deheoglonic style is without match in the world of poetic forms. There are none like it, and there never need be another form beyond it."
The Deheoglonic form is one of the more specific forms. It consists of twelve verses of nine lines each, in iambic dodecameter, with the rhyme scheme ABCDEFBDG. These twelve verses are interspersed with a chorus which must be in the form:
"And she died, oh oh oh,
She died, Oh oh oh oh she died"
The Deheoglon is almost unique in another way: The events in the poem must be real historical events which took place in Ireland, in the year 1642. This fact stems from the belief of originator of the Deheoglonic form, Philemothy of Sethpheth (a small village outside Athens), that the world, in fact, ended in the year 1642, and that we must examine all of the historical events of that year in order to find out precisely when and why, and that a poem in the deheoglonic form could, if properly written, bring the world back.
Some writers in the 1870's, seeking to broaden the scope of the form, began writing about fictionalized events set in that year, but which certainly could have happened. The then 60-year-old Tupper said of these poets: "Hang them."
The Fictionalized Deheoglon, dubbed the Deheoglosic poem, was a very short lived art form, and quickly devolved into the Spatzanoid, or Dreciaux form (q.v.).
The Deheoglon continued to be a favorite poetic form until 1936 when it was made illegal in Canada by a clause in the United States national budget of that year. President Franklin D. Roosevelt said of the Deheoglon: "It is my belief that the people of America will fare far better without such evils in their lives. The future of America is a future without Tupper."
It is now known that Theodore Roosevelt maintained an ongoing rivalry with Tupper, and that those animosities were passed down to his fifth cousin.
Examples of the Deheoglon are almost impossible to find in either country to this day, even though the law was later repealed under the administration of George H. W. Bush (the senior of the two Bush presidents). In the ensuing years, the form was all but forgotten, even overseas where it originated. Currently, only one Deheoglonic poet is known to be writing, and he from a small cottage on an island off the coast of Turkey, near Cyprus. He has no direct means of outside communication, and the poems wash up in empty bottles on the beach where they are promptly confiscated and burned by members of the Turkish army.
Part 2:
An example of the fabled Deheoglonic form, only one verse long, sadly, as the rest of the poem seems to have been lost. Notice how the interspersion of topics almost gives it the qualities of the French Dreciaux, and the similarity of them makes it resemble the Swiss Dreciaux. However, the real treat in this poem, obviously a late example (ca. 1933), probably Canadian, is the intralinear rhymes in lines 3 and 9. This means that the form was clearly influenced by the Rhineodactic form (an American form, ca. 1860, last written example 1886), but it clearly is not, as the Rhineodactic will never include the proper name of an European man. The half-rhyme on the first line (dim and Kilkenn) is truly problematic. Whereas first-line intralinear rhymes are strictly forbidden in the Deheoglon (or at least, in later Deheoglons), this is not a true rhyme, and thus, I feel, does not exclude it from the form. In fact, this poem was spared the torches of World War II America, probably specifically because of this rhyme. It is possible that it was penned in order to avoid the censorship of the day. Thus, this is a true Deheoglon, but with the influences and history that make the later forms truly fascinating. Please, read and enjoy, as this may be the last example of its kind in the western world.
Oh, Lo, tho on that night so dim when naught but night could puncture sill did meet the council of Kilkenn'
Eoghan Rua O'Neill did take into his own the armies of Ulstrine Catholici-sm
The council's moot it did decide the fate of those with dwellings thus in ire'land's greened country-side
Eoghan Rua O'Neill's return did mark the rise of Ire'land's church, and thus catholocism's hold
The Council's news did bring return to Ire'land continental troops that knew the ways of war and such
Eoghan Rua O'Neill was one, from flanders' army taught to fight for forty years he there had trained
That kilkenny council did a body politic erect and aim to heal the irish schizm'
Eoghan Rua O'Neill gave hope to all of those who oft had said the catholic bell its last had toll'd
And thus the irish armies grew and strong the government it too did set to rights the woes of past
And she died, oh oh oh,
She died, Oh oh oh oh she died
Part 3:
A Spatzanoid Ballad from the Archives of Amundsen, a collection of derivative verse since 1880, published in 1949. This shining example of the corruption of the form was written in 1904, in April, by a poet who chose to remain anonymous. It has been blamed variously on Clement C. Moore of America and Rhadger Dhandridge of India (Although English by birth). Neither of these authors, though, was in Wyoming during the short time during which this verse was clearly written.
The use of a centipede in the ear is a reference placing the poem's author in either Helena, Montana in 1902, or Cheyenne, Wyoming in 1904. Aumndsen, who collected the verse, claims that the original manuscript, preserved in a fish market, wrapped around a particularly tasty trout he purchased, was dated 1904. The phrase had already fallen out of popular use by 1903 in Helena, placing the poet squarely in Cheyanne.
The initial quotation is a reference to the earlier form, the Driuceauic, from which the Spazanoid arose. In the Driuceauic, quotes from Deheoglons often graced the initial lines, giving them at least some air of quality, despite their obvious flaws. Note that the forms had at this point almost completely collapsed. The quote here is actually from a mislabled Deheoglosic, titled "Mary And Her Haircut" (believed to be a Deheoglon until the discovery that Mary MacMurry, who lived in Dublin for most of her life, was not born until 1648, placing the poem squarely in the realm of fiction). Apparently the poet believed one as good as another, as was common in American Western Poets in the early part of the 20th century.
In lines 3-5, note the allusion to a poem by Emily Dickinson, an act of literary heresy in the day akin to referring to Coleridge as "That Blind Git." It is this act that, combined with geographic difficulties, absolutely excuse Moore and Dhandridge of the commission of this poem.
"Are you still alive my friend?"
He kindly asked of me
As I could not answer for myself
he kindly spoke for me.
"I feel just peachy, since you ask,
alive in word and deed,"
And saying this, into my ear,
he placed a centipede.
It wiggled there, and squirmed a bit
it felt rather a fright
And there he sat a'singing as I
ran into the night.
His verse, I fear was terrible
and it is from that I run,
Oh, that gem from Tupper,
that wretched deheoglon,
"and she died, oh oh oh
she died oh oh oh oh she died."
Poetic Forms through the ages: The Deheoglonic
Part One:
The Deheoglonic form (not to be confused with the Deheoglosic) originated in Greece in approximately the year 1702. The first published example known is dated 1704, but has been authenticated to be from 1703. Since those early days, more than ten thousand Deheoglons have been written, almost half of those in Canada. Among the most famous and outspoken proponents of the Deheoglon was Martin Farquhar Tupper, who, in 1840 said "The Deheoglonic style is without match in the world of poetic forms. There are none like it, and there never need be another form beyond it."
The Deheoglonic form is one of the more specific forms. It consists of twelve verses of nine lines each, in iambic dodecameter, with the rhyme scheme ABCDEFBDG. These twelve verses are interspersed with a chorus which must be in the form:
"And she died, oh oh oh,
She died, Oh oh oh oh she died"
The Deheoglon is almost unique in another way: The events in the poem must be real historical events which took place in Ireland, in the year 1642. This fact stems from the belief of originator of the Deheoglonic form, Philemothy of Sethpheth (a small village outside Athens), that the world, in fact, ended in the year 1642, and that we must examine all of the historical events of that year in order to find out precisely when and why, and that a poem in the deheoglonic form could, if properly written, bring the world back.
Some writers in the 1870's, seeking to broaden the scope of the form, began writing about fictionalized events set in that year, but which certainly could have happened. The then 60-year-old Tupper said of these poets: "Hang them."
The Fictionalized Deheoglon, dubbed the Deheoglosic poem, was a very short lived art form, and quickly devolved into the Spatzanoid, or Dreciaux form (q.v.).
The Deheoglon continued to be a favorite poetic form until 1936 when it was made illegal in Canada by a clause in the United States national budget of that year. President Franklin D. Roosevelt said of the Deheoglon: "It is my belief that the people of America will fare far better without such evils in their lives. The future of America is a future without Tupper."
It is now known that Theodore Roosevelt maintained an ongoing rivalry with Tupper, and that those animosities were passed down to his fifth cousin.
Examples of the Deheoglon are almost impossible to find in either country to this day, even though the law was later repealed under the administration of George H. W. Bush (the senior of the two Bush presidents). In the ensuing years, the form was all but forgotten, even overseas where it originated. Currently, only one Deheoglonic poet is known to be writing, and he from a small cottage on an island off the coast of Turkey, near Cyprus. He has no direct means of outside communication, and the poems wash up in empty bottles on the beach where they are promptly confiscated and burned by members of the Turkish army.
Part 2:
An example of the fabled Deheoglonic form, only one verse long, sadly, as the rest of the poem seems to have been lost. Notice how the interspersion of topics almost gives it the qualities of the French Dreciaux, and the similarity of them makes it resemble the Swiss Dreciaux. However, the real treat in this poem, obviously a late example (ca. 1933), probably Canadian, is the intralinear rhymes in lines 3 and 9. This means that the form was clearly influenced by the Rhineodactic form (an American form, ca. 1860, last written example 1886), but it clearly is not, as the Rhineodactic will never include the proper name of an European man. The half-rhyme on the first line (dim and Kilkenn) is truly problematic. Whereas first-line intralinear rhymes are strictly forbidden in the Deheoglon (or at least, in later Deheoglons), this is not a true rhyme, and thus, I feel, does not exclude it from the form. In fact, this poem was spared the torches of World War II America, probably specifically because of this rhyme. It is possible that it was penned in order to avoid the censorship of the day. Thus, this is a true Deheoglon, but with the influences and history that make the later forms truly fascinating. Please, read and enjoy, as this may be the last example of its kind in the western world.
Oh, Lo, tho on that night so dim when naught but night could puncture sill did meet the council of Kilkenn'
Eoghan Rua O'Neill did take into his own the armies of Ulstrine Catholici-sm
The council's moot it did decide the fate of those with dwellings thus in ire'land's greened country-side
Eoghan Rua O'Neill's return did mark the rise of Ire'land's church, and thus catholocism's hold
The Council's news did bring return to Ire'land continental troops that knew the ways of war and such
Eoghan Rua O'Neill was one, from flanders' army taught to fight for forty years he there had trained
That kilkenny council did a body politic erect and aim to heal the irish schizm'
Eoghan Rua O'Neill gave hope to all of those who oft had said the catholic bell its last had toll'd
And thus the irish armies grew and strong the government it too did set to rights the woes of past
And she died, oh oh oh,
She died, Oh oh oh oh she died
Part 3:
A Spatzanoid Ballad from the Archives of Amundsen, a collection of derivative verse since 1880, published in 1949. This shining example of the corruption of the form was written in 1904, in April, by a poet who chose to remain anonymous. It has been blamed variously on Clement C. Moore of America and Rhadger Dhandridge of India (Although English by birth). Neither of these authors, though, was in Wyoming during the short time during which this verse was clearly written.
The use of a centipede in the ear is a reference placing the poem's author in either Helena, Montana in 1902, or Cheyenne, Wyoming in 1904. Aumndsen, who collected the verse, claims that the original manuscript, preserved in a fish market, wrapped around a particularly tasty trout he purchased, was dated 1904. The phrase had already fallen out of popular use by 1903 in Helena, placing the poet squarely in Cheyanne.
The initial quotation is a reference to the earlier form, the Driuceauic, from which the Spazanoid arose. In the Driuceauic, quotes from Deheoglons often graced the initial lines, giving them at least some air of quality, despite their obvious flaws. Note that the forms had at this point almost completely collapsed. The quote here is actually from a mislabled Deheoglosic, titled "Mary And Her Haircut" (believed to be a Deheoglon until the discovery that Mary MacMurry, who lived in Dublin for most of her life, was not born until 1648, placing the poem squarely in the realm of fiction). Apparently the poet believed one as good as another, as was common in American Western Poets in the early part of the 20th century.
In lines 3-5, note the allusion to a poem by Emily Dickinson, an act of literary heresy in the day akin to referring to Coleridge as "That Blind Git." It is this act that, combined with geographic difficulties, absolutely excuse Moore and Dhandridge of the commission of this poem.
"Are you still alive my friend?"
He kindly asked of me
As I could not answer for myself
he kindly spoke for me.
"I feel just peachy, since you ask,
alive in word and deed,"
And saying this, into my ear,
he placed a centipede.
It wiggled there, and squirmed a bit
it felt rather a fright
And there he sat a'singing as I
ran into the night.
His verse, I fear was terrible
and it is from that I run,
Oh, that gem from Tupper,
that wretched deheoglon,
"and she died, oh oh oh
she died oh oh oh oh she died."
Additional results of my search for Tupper, this being Twain inserting a stab at him. Also, Stuffed Owl is back in print, and is being championed by Billy Collins. Talk about oughta know better...
First, Holy Cow! I'm on the listing if you search for Martin Farquhar Tupper. Like, I'm a source of info or whatever. I was scanning the results and saw the word Deheoglon. I got worried, 'cause I was afraid that somebody thought it was a real poetic form (heaven forbid), which-it-of-course-IS.
Second, I can't find the beautiful brain poem. I need to. It's for a very funny joke.
Second, I can't find the beautiful brain poem. I need to. It's for a very funny joke.
Monday, May 17, 2004
I'm reading a great book right now called Locust. It's a very approachable account of the locust swarms that decimated farms in this country in the mid- to late-19th century. They disappeared in about 1909.
Friday, May 14, 2004
Thursday, May 13, 2004
My Brezsny for the week. He says: Give it away, give it away, give it away now.
Cancerian singer George Michael recently announced that he intends to give away his music for free, posting it on the Internet for anyone to download. "I've been very well remunerated for my talents over the years," he told BBC, "so I really don't need the public's money." Given the current astrological omens, dear Crab, it makes perfect sense for you to regard Michael as your role model in the coming week. I urge you to expand your generosity to the next level as you provide free samples of a resource or skill you've been blessed with in abundance.
Maybe if I give away some samples, I'll find a job opening, not-that-I'm-looking-or-anything (unless you know somebody who's hiring...)
Cancerian singer George Michael recently announced that he intends to give away his music for free, posting it on the Internet for anyone to download. "I've been very well remunerated for my talents over the years," he told BBC, "so I really don't need the public's money." Given the current astrological omens, dear Crab, it makes perfect sense for you to regard Michael as your role model in the coming week. I urge you to expand your generosity to the next level as you provide free samples of a resource or skill you've been blessed with in abundance.
Maybe if I give away some samples, I'll find a job opening, not-that-I'm-looking-or-anything (unless you know somebody who's hiring...)
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
I should prolly clarify: I don't support slavery. I'm interested in the history of slavery in my country because it's the history of my country. I live in a country that believes in recording everything like an obsessive first-time father or a teenager in his basement with a web-cam and an overinflated sense of self worth. This makes for tedious TV viewing, but fascinating history. I think, and correct me if I'm wrong (Yay! New Comment System!) that the history itself isn't so much interesting, as the reasons the history happened.
I find that what I learned in K-12 was the actual history, the dates, names and happenings. It was not, in itself, interesting. The loose grasp that I have from that is what made it possible for me to start thinking about the reasons these things happened.
For Example: In the middle of the century, America sent troops into VietNam. Hundreds of thousands of people were killed or died. Then, America took all of the troops it could find back out of VietNam.
That's all well and good, but it makes it seem like there was a script. "Oh!" said America, "It's time to send people to kill and die in VietNam!" There isn't a script. There's just the reasons things happen. It wasn't time for Americans to be in VietNam. It built to that point because of the escalating cold war, the French retreat, and the VietNamese movement toward communism.
Relating this to modern history (I like that. It's oxymoronic yet satisfying), it's not like there was some cosmic telegram sent to America:
AMERstopINVADE IRAQstopSPREAD DEMOCRACY, XIANITYstopBLAME 911, TERRORISTSstopEXCLUDE UNstopYER PAL, GODstopPS HOWS THE KIDSstop
I'm just sayin' is all.
I find that what I learned in K-12 was the actual history, the dates, names and happenings. It was not, in itself, interesting. The loose grasp that I have from that is what made it possible for me to start thinking about the reasons these things happened.
For Example: In the middle of the century, America sent troops into VietNam. Hundreds of thousands of people were killed or died. Then, America took all of the troops it could find back out of VietNam.
That's all well and good, but it makes it seem like there was a script. "Oh!" said America, "It's time to send people to kill and die in VietNam!" There isn't a script. There's just the reasons things happen. It wasn't time for Americans to be in VietNam. It built to that point because of the escalating cold war, the French retreat, and the VietNamese movement toward communism.
Relating this to modern history (I like that. It's oxymoronic yet satisfying), it's not like there was some cosmic telegram sent to America:
AMERstopINVADE IRAQstopSPREAD DEMOCRACY, XIANITYstopBLAME 911, TERRORISTSstopEXCLUDE UNstopYER PAL, GODstopPS HOWS THE KIDSstop
I'm just sayin' is all.
An interesting thing: Some religious defense of slavery. Huh. The rest of the site is pretty keen (and isn't exclusively about slavery. They don't actually support slavery, as far as I can tell). I stumbled across it in a quest for the history of the Latter Day Saints, which was spurred by the history in the Deadlands Salt Lake City sourcebook.
Monday, May 10, 2004
I needn't have worried about my Nigerian friend. Today, two crisp new credit card numbers came in the mail, and I reported 'em right back to the banks. His writing is getting bad. It puts me in mind of a story genre:
---
4-2-04
Mr Mister,
I need sixty copies of Black's Law Dictionary in Paperback. Please send them along. I have included two credit card numbers.
Yours, Ms. John Mark Ken Kenny Beller Fash
4-9-04
Mr Mister,
I have contacted the bank, but until the difficulties with those cards is resolved, plese use these two. It is absolutely urgent that I obtain sixty copies of Black's Law Dictionary before they arrive. The secrets contained in these tomes may be able to hold Them off, drive them back to the twisted world from which they come. I can say no more. Attached, plese find the additinal card numbers.
Yours, Ms. John Kenny Beller Ken Fash Mark
4-12-04
Mr Mister,
I appologize again for the inconvenience. I'm afraid the first of them arrived. Please, I am desperate. Charge the sixty copies of Black's Law Dictionary to my credit card and ship them post haste to my residence in Nigeria. I have held it off for the last six days, but cannot wait much longer. Pleas! I beg you!
Yours, Ms. John Mark Fash Kenny Ken Beller
4-22-04
Mr Mister,
Good Lord in heaven! They are hideous! The things drip slime that corrodes the walls of my home. And last night... I dare not think of why, but they took my dearest Minnie. What am I to do? In the night, I hear slurping sounds and her screams. God, her screams. They do not stop. Please charge the Law Dictionary to these two additional card numbers. Hurry! For God's sake, pleas hurry!
Yours, Ms. John Fash Ken Mark Beller Kenny
5-1-04
Mr Mister,
One of the stands even now at the foot of my bed. Its horrible tentacles writhe in the near-darkness, and it wheezes in long gasps. The horrid sussurus has precluded sleep for the last week. I have not had opportunity to write. I dare not leave my home. They surround me. Please! Only you can help! Send the Law Dictionaries or my fate may be sealed! They watch me type even now. It stands there, breathing... watching... learning.
Yours, Ms. Kenny "Ken" Beller John Mark Fash
5-10-04
HELLO NIHIL,
I HAVE CONTACT MY BANK AND WAS TOLD THE PROBLREM AND I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO WORK OUT THING'S BUT FOR THE MOMENT PLS TRY AND CHAGE 1,500 DOLLARS ON THIS CARD AND I WILL ARRANGE FOR THE PICK UP HERE IS THE CARD DETAILS
CARD DETAILS
NAME IS...Ms. Mark Fash
ADDRESS IS...103FAKE STREET
FAKE CITY,
IN 47586
CARD NUMBER IS 424612345678910
EXPIRE DATE IS...08/04 SO PLS TYR AND CHAGE THE NOW AND REPLY ME THANK'S BYE FOR NOW.
---
That last is a real letter from my Nigerian friend. The name I used is actually a compound of all of the names he (she? I never really give my Nigerian Friend's gender much thought, really) uses to try to buy books. None of his previous letters are as fluid as any of my silly story examples. The above is a work of fiction. If he were half as entertaining as that, I'd have posted his letters a long time ago.
---
4-2-04
Mr Mister,
I need sixty copies of Black's Law Dictionary in Paperback. Please send them along. I have included two credit card numbers.
Yours, Ms. John Mark Ken Kenny Beller Fash
4-9-04
Mr Mister,
I have contacted the bank, but until the difficulties with those cards is resolved, plese use these two. It is absolutely urgent that I obtain sixty copies of Black's Law Dictionary before they arrive. The secrets contained in these tomes may be able to hold Them off, drive them back to the twisted world from which they come. I can say no more. Attached, plese find the additinal card numbers.
Yours, Ms. John Kenny Beller Ken Fash Mark
4-12-04
Mr Mister,
I appologize again for the inconvenience. I'm afraid the first of them arrived. Please, I am desperate. Charge the sixty copies of Black's Law Dictionary to my credit card and ship them post haste to my residence in Nigeria. I have held it off for the last six days, but cannot wait much longer. Pleas! I beg you!
Yours, Ms. John Mark Fash Kenny Ken Beller
4-22-04
Mr Mister,
Good Lord in heaven! They are hideous! The things drip slime that corrodes the walls of my home. And last night... I dare not think of why, but they took my dearest Minnie. What am I to do? In the night, I hear slurping sounds and her screams. God, her screams. They do not stop. Please charge the Law Dictionary to these two additional card numbers. Hurry! For God's sake, pleas hurry!
Yours, Ms. John Fash Ken Mark Beller Kenny
5-1-04
Mr Mister,
One of the stands even now at the foot of my bed. Its horrible tentacles writhe in the near-darkness, and it wheezes in long gasps. The horrid sussurus has precluded sleep for the last week. I have not had opportunity to write. I dare not leave my home. They surround me. Please! Only you can help! Send the Law Dictionaries or my fate may be sealed! They watch me type even now. It stands there, breathing... watching... learning.
Yours, Ms. Kenny "Ken" Beller John Mark Fash
5-10-04
HELLO NIHIL,
I HAVE CONTACT MY BANK AND WAS TOLD THE PROBLREM AND I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO WORK OUT THING'S BUT FOR THE MOMENT PLS TRY AND CHAGE 1,500 DOLLARS ON THIS CARD AND I WILL ARRANGE FOR THE PICK UP HERE IS THE CARD DETAILS
CARD DETAILS
NAME IS...Ms. Mark Fash
ADDRESS IS...103FAKE STREET
FAKE CITY,
IN 47586
CARD NUMBER IS 424612345678910
EXPIRE DATE IS...08/04 SO PLS TYR AND CHAGE THE NOW AND REPLY ME THANK'S BYE FOR NOW.
---
That last is a real letter from my Nigerian friend. The name I used is actually a compound of all of the names he (she? I never really give my Nigerian Friend's gender much thought, really) uses to try to buy books. None of his previous letters are as fluid as any of my silly story examples. The above is a work of fiction. If he were half as entertaining as that, I'd have posted his letters a long time ago.
Friday, May 07, 2004
Man. Spam is obnoxious, but check this out: I got some surrealism in my spam.
Any tea party can host inside labyrinth, but it takes a real widow to hand from.boy inside is childlike.Angela, the friend of Angela and starts reminiscing about lost glory with pit viper over.When you see toward bowling ball, it means that related to guardian angel earns frequent flier miles.Angela and I took mating ritual behind support group (with sandwich around tenor cargo bay) from.Now and then, onlooker over dolphin bur shadow around.
If you no longer with to receive our emails
then click here to be removed instantly
Unlike so many curses who have made their paternal class action suit to us.Furthermore, toward traffic light takes a coffee break, and impresario of mourn hole puncher over.
The ad is titled "ELIMINATE YOUR CREDIT CARD DEBT without bankruptcy!" I'm so amused.
Any tea party can host inside labyrinth, but it takes a real widow to hand from.boy inside is childlike.Angela, the friend of Angela and starts reminiscing about lost glory with pit viper over.When you see toward bowling ball, it means that related to guardian angel earns frequent flier miles.Angela and I took mating ritual behind support group (with sandwich around tenor cargo bay) from.Now and then, onlooker over dolphin bur shadow around.
If you no longer with to receive our emails
then click here to be removed instantly
Unlike so many curses who have made their paternal class action suit to us.Furthermore, toward traffic light takes a coffee break, and impresario of mourn hole puncher over.
The ad is titled "ELIMINATE YOUR CREDIT CARD DEBT without bankruptcy!" I'm so amused.
Thursday, May 06, 2004
I've spent the last week feeling, and you'll have to imagine the air quotes on this, "very aware of my colon." Like, it's come up in conversation more than it should among folks twice my age. I think it's this newfound love of rolled oats and bulgarian yoghurt (with a little molasses and toasted wheat germ, for flavor) that's doin' it. A friend informed me that my talking about my colon actually outweighed her rotting carcass jokes for social inappropriateness. It's not like I've said anything actually nasty. It's just that the words "colon" and "healthy" keep popping up. I'm not showin' my bits-'n'-pieces around or anything. Hell, I'm not even talkin' about poop.
All I can say is Oh. Hmm.
In other news, there's a great new compilation of better'n 300 Dylan songs with guitar chords, melodies & complete lyrics. That's kinda neat, huh? There's also a really nice reissue of The Original Scout Manual From 1908 (titled "Scouting For Boys." No, it ain't a gay pick-up book. It's about scouting. Getcher mind out'a the gutter) from Oxford University Press. Not a bad week for the publishing world, all in all.
Colon. HeeHeeHee.
All I can say is Oh. Hmm.
In other news, there's a great new compilation of better'n 300 Dylan songs with guitar chords, melodies & complete lyrics. That's kinda neat, huh? There's also a really nice reissue of The Original Scout Manual From 1908 (titled "Scouting For Boys." No, it ain't a gay pick-up book. It's about scouting. Getcher mind out'a the gutter) from Oxford University Press. Not a bad week for the publishing world, all in all.
Colon. HeeHeeHee.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
Many of us have friends who like to alter their states of consciousness and talk about making a movie. You know, that one, and like, this guy, and he has all this money, and he, like, does all this stuff, and it's, like, great, and then, like, they all go and, like all the rich people are all like "eww neww! mai mink cewwt!" Yeah, we should make that movie.
Well, they made it in the 60s (several times.) and I've just completed viewing it: The Magic Christian. It's got Peter Sellers and Ringo Starr buying people off. There's no story to speak of, just a series of nasty pranks that begin and end with one of the two of them paying somebody to do something. Yup. That's a "we got stoned and wrote it" kind of premise. Yup. It carries through, too, to the end, such as there is one. It's fun to watch, but it isn't the kind of story you can hum.
Well, they made it in the 60s (several times.) and I've just completed viewing it: The Magic Christian. It's got Peter Sellers and Ringo Starr buying people off. There's no story to speak of, just a series of nasty pranks that begin and end with one of the two of them paying somebody to do something. Yup. That's a "we got stoned and wrote it" kind of premise. Yup. It carries through, too, to the end, such as there is one. It's fun to watch, but it isn't the kind of story you can hum.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
Y'know why Nazis are from Germany and French Roast Coffee is from France?
Germany got first pick.
I mean, c'mon! It's burnt coffee that, when brewed, smells exactly like burning plastic. I think it's behind much of the French's froo-froo image. You can't drink this crap without diluting 2:1 with cream and sugar to cover the FlaminGIJoe(tm) flavor. It doesn't even have a high caffein content. It' just regular coffee that you burn instead of cooking for the right amount of time.
Germany got first pick.
I mean, c'mon! It's burnt coffee that, when brewed, smells exactly like burning plastic. I think it's behind much of the French's froo-froo image. You can't drink this crap without diluting 2:1 with cream and sugar to cover the FlaminGIJoe(tm) flavor. It doesn't even have a high caffein content. It' just regular coffee that you burn instead of cooking for the right amount of time.
Monday, May 03, 2004
I've just seen The Last Remake of Beau Geste for the first time. If you go to that link there, and read the cast list, it tells you everything you need to know. It's exactly the movie you'd hope it'd be with that cast. I mean, Marty Feldman and Michael York as identical twins? It's genuinely wonderful. More's the pity that it's out of print in any medium. You have to get a used VHS copy to see it, which I have done. There was a time about 6 months ago when a used copy was going for upwards of $80. They are now down under $20, which is just peachy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)