Haiku 729B

By a dusty path
A soldier writes a haiku
Should anyone care

Private Eyes

The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective) promises to answer book-lovers' queries about literary mysteries -- especially of the salacious sort. James Joyce's sexual fetishes are explored today. Future editions ("in the coming days") will examine such questions as "Were Jack Kerouac and Gore Vidal lovers?" and "Why was Jerzy Kosinski fascinated by transsexuals?" I'm not sure I really want to know these things . . .

(via Maud Newton)

Wishing

Occasionally, when I have a spare minute, I like to type an open-ended phrase into Google just to see what words come up to complete it on the first few pages of listings. The results can be mundane or humorous, but they can also be poignant--or bizarre:

If only I could . . .

. . . fly
. . . reach them
. . . get one hit
. . . get into the corner of your head
. . . see the forest
. . . make money doing this [the classic blogger's lament?]
. . . change the past
. . . recall
. . . find drink lids that work
. . . get through this
. . . get organized
. . . be with you
. . . turn back time
. . . sit here and eat cake all day
. . . be one of them
. . . install it
. . . time travel back and 'police' patrons with my authority and flashlight at the Avalon Theater in Detroit where I was an usherette
. . . remember
. . . shit a golden brick
. . . assign the cat litter to a sub-folder
. . . Get Out of This Chair: A Support Guide for Survivors of Verbally Abusive Relationships
. . . strike her from my memory
. . . find a way in to this top secret facility
. . . come up with an article subject [amen]

Hmm. Some of these sound like decent story-starters.

Quote of the Day

"What is most depressing about 'The Passion' is the thought that people will take their children to see it. Jesus said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me,' not 'Let the little children watch me suffer.' How will parents deal with the pain, terror, and anger that children will doubtless feel as they watch a man flayed and pierced until dead? The despair of the movie is hard to shrug off, and Gibson’s timing couldn't be more unfortunate: another dose of death-haunted religious fanaticism is the last thing we need."

--David Denby, in The New Yorker

(link found at Fantastic Planet)

Call it a blook . . .

How to turn your blog into a book.

Despite the no doubt enormous demand for such a volume, I think I'll pass. To me, there's something absurd about the notion of reading a blog on paper. Imagine all those non-working links! The only thing I can think of to compare it to is reading the script of a film instead of watching it.

(via leuschke.org)

Why Gay Marriage Is "Wrong"

A friend forwarded me this list. (Warning: irony ahead.)

12 Reasons Why Gay Marriage Is Wrong

1. Homosexuality is not natural, much like eyeglasses, polyester, and birth control.

2. Heterosexual marriages are valid because they produce children. Infertile couples and old people can't legally get married because the world needs more children.

3. Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.

4. Straight marriage will be less meaningful, since Britney Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage was meaningful.

5. Heterosexual marriage has been around a long time and hasn't changed at all; women are property, blacks can't marry whites, and divorce is illegal.

6. Gay marriage should be decided by people not the courts, because the majority-elected legislatures, not courts, have historically protected the rights of minorities.

7. Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That's why we have only one religion in America.

8. Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.

9. Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.

10. Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That's why single parents are forbidden to raise children.

11. Gay marriage will change the foundation of society. Heterosexual marriage has been around for a long time, and we could never adapt to new social norms like we haven't adapted to things like cars or longer lifespans.

12. Civil unions, providing most of the same benefits as marriage with a different name are better, because a "separate but equal" institution is always constitutional. Separate schools for African-Americans worked just as well as separate marriages for gays and lesbians will.

Quote of the Day

"I know that I'm supposed to be carefree about [job] outsourcing because my labor is being freed up for more efficient, high-value uses. Until these uses appear, how do I pay the rent and buy food?

Where does this 'let them eat cake' mentality come from? We do not live in a country with social services that will see us through a long period of unemployment."

--Caroline Williams, letter to The New York Times

Freezes at Room Temperature

I took that Book Quiz that's so popular now, and it turns out that, of all tomes, I'm Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle:

You believe quite firmly that free will deserted you long ago and far away. As a result, it's hard to take responsibility for anything. Even though you show great potential as a leader of a small 3rd world country, the choices are all made ahead of time. You're rather fond of games involving string. Your fear of nuclear weaponry is trumped only by your fear of ice.

Yes, I've always wanted my own small island nation to rule--as sole citizen and benevolent dictator--and I do have some doubts about free will. And if I'm not exactly afraid of ice, I'm getting pretty sick of it here in late February. It's news to me that I like string games, though. (I am interested in string theory.)

I read Cat's Cradle years ago, during a Vonnegut period that also included Slaughterhouse Five and The Sirens of Titan. I still have the latter two sitting on a shelf, but Cradle has mysteriously disappeared. Time to get another copy, I guess. I remember the Ice Nine . . . .

"I Hate My Life"

What it's like to be well-educated, sane, have "friends" and still be homeless.

When Pigs Fly

Paper automata. Origami robots. Whatever you call them, for people who have everything, including time on their hands (that's emphatically not me), the Flying Pig offers amusing animated models to make out of paper. Cut out, glue and assemble. Actually, put away the scissors -- it's fun to just watch them ambulate on the website.

(via boing boing)

Random Acts of Poetry

Stone

I may have been this pebble
long before the earth
tore the moon from its heart,
or the blue boulders clashed
and tumbled off their edges.

Later, a Paleozoic moment
in a flooded cave:
I held a latent universe
rolled like a scroll
in trilobite synapses.

I knew nothing
but a salt solution then,
and crinkled sand,
and waves heaving epochs
against a vanished shore.

In me I keep the stone I was,
the lizard I became.
He is not dead, only sleeping
on some sun-warmed table rock,
digesting the dream of time.

Vocabulary Test

These are the "Top 25 Words [and phrases] for 2003" according to The Word Spy:

metrosexual
flash mob
google
poox
wife acceptance factor
man breasts
Generation Y
Google bombing
chickenability
pomosexual
jump the shark
bridezilla
leather spinster
toxic bachelor
bear jam
butt call
drink the Kool-Aid
librarian chic
irritable male syndrome
dead cat bounce
phishing
time porn
chewable liquor
earworm
salad dodger

I think I know what 11 of them mean. Pitiful.

The Cul-de-sac Club

Laptop aesthetics, anti-design and faux-Baroque: these are current trends in graphic design, according to eye magazine. But those are about the only bright spots on the scene, writes Adrian Shaughnessy: "Graphic design appears to have settled into a complacent middle age, content to be in the thrall of corporatism, branding, marketing, focus groups and quick-fix makeover culture. Even in its more radical guises, design has become self-admiring and masturbatory -- a condition utterly alien to innovation and the forging of new directions." Well, that's depressing.

I'm not quite sure what "anti-design" is, but I imagine my cobbled-together, Verdana-infested blog is an example.

Maybe designers could get some ideas by perusing the DeMoulin Bros. catalog of "Burlesque and Side Degree Specialties, Paraphernalia and Costumes," circa 1930. The catalog showcases a variety of bizarre contraptions, like this Whiz Bang Aeroplane, apparently intended for use in club initiation rituals. "We had one of the best nights ever," raves a testimonial blurb from someone at the "Brooklyn and L.I. Milk Square Club."

A "Milk Square Club"? I can't quite get my mind around that concept. The catalog is a reminder that there was once a massive culture of clubs and fraternal organizations in this country, long before the internet made it unnecessary to meet like-minded souls in physical space.

(links via things magazine)

Copy Right or Wrong

A widely praised, but completely illegal, remix of the Beatles' White Album is creating quite the copyright firestorm online, as Grey Tuesday explains. A "day of coordinated civil disobedience" is scheduled for February 24th, when "websites will post Danger Mouse's Grey Album on their site for 24 hours in protest of EMI's attempts to censor this work."

I have no idea who this dangerous mouse is, and I haven't downloaded or heard the Grey Album, nor will I participate in this protest. What I've heard about the album suggests that it is a genuine work of art, however. Seems to me that some kind of licensing arrangement would benefit all parties--EMI, the Beatles/Apple, Danger Mouse and the listening public. Paul? Ringo? If you're reading this, it's time to let out some slack.

Somewhere over the Rainbow

". . . Bush, speaking at a window and door factory . . . The artificial windows revealed an inviting blue sky. Bush portrayed a similarly sunny outlook with remarks that used 'optimistic' or 'optimism' seven times in 49 minutes. He repeatedly stressed the power of positive thinking as an engine of job creation."

Source: Bush Upbeat on Economy in Campaign Preview in Fla. (washingtonpost.com)

Quote of the Day

"Writing itself is the aim, for it is writing, not publishing, that transforms individual human experience. To write, even in obscurity, is worthwhile. As Samuel Becket put it, writing is a way of leaving 'a stain upon the silence.' "

Read more: The Invisible Writers

Personally, I think it's hard to think of oneself as a writer without a reader -- at least one! But I agree that publication (whatever we mean by that these days) isn't strictly necessary.

(link via The Word Foundry)

Jacko Smacks Prez

How to Create a New York Post Headline. The formula is revealed.

The Murdoch-owned Post is a birdcage liner, but I have to admit their headlines are often amusing and brilliant at saying a lot with a few words. My all-time favorite Post headline was HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR. Sex and violence with a stupid pun and a twist of the bizarre -- what more could you ask for?

If you mean what you say, do you say what you mean?

Not necessarily.

"The proof may be in the pudding, but I won't know until after I've eaten it. I'll eat the cake, too. But then, of course, I'll no longer have it."

Read more: A Loss for Words.

Word of the Day

susurrous (adj)

Full of whispering sounds

Though John was dismayed when his experimental film was projected upside down, the susurrous audience was clearly intrigued.

The Night I Joined the "Cirkus"

I am not making any of this up, and it wasn't a dream.

Last night, my Significant Other and I journeyed into Manhattan to attend a photographer friend's exhibit at a Midtown gallery. Afterward, we had dinner at a cafeteria-style steak restaurant, then decided to stroll down 42nd Street. Amid the Disneyfied tourist traps and neon-encrusted marquees, we came across the supremely tacky Palace of Variety, also known as the Free Museum of Times Square. The museum includes a theater, whose mission is to preserve the vaudeville and burlesque atmosphere of the "old" 42nd Street -- where peep shows and prostitutes were as common as today's plasma screens and Mickey Mouse tchotchkes.

We wandered inside to look at the museum exhibits, which were all of the Ripley's Believe It or Not variety: a stuffed, four-legged duck under a bell jar; the upholstered chair that a side-show fat lady used to sit on; a picture of a two-headed baby; etc. We noticed that the current show in the museum's theater was a performance by the "Bindlestiff Family Cirkus." We'd never heard of it, but, having time on our hands, we decided to buy two tickets (which were quite cheap by Broadway standards) and attend.

While we were waiting in line for the theater's doors to open, someone in a gorilla costume appeared and began to accost us. He/she kissed my spouse's shoe and gave me a short back rub. Okaaayy . . . . Then, just before we entered the theater, we were frisked and closely examined with a large magnifying glass by two men in clown-face.

I was beginning to realize that this would be no ordinary circus. (The "Cirkus" spelling should have been my first clue, I guess.) The inside of the small theater presented a distinctly seamy milieu -- black walls, worn bits of scenery and somewhat tattered red velvet curtains that rose up almost two stories from the floor-level "stage" to form the "big top." Steep banks of seats, some of which were covered with "leopard skin," accommodated an audience of about 100. It looked like a theater in a David Lynch movie –- think of the Red Room in Twin Peaks or the Club Silencio in Mulholland Drive.

My spouse insisted on sitting in the front row, which I knew could be trouble. I had a strong premonition that this was going to be one of those audience-participation spectacles.

Much of the show consisted of tawdry clowning and more or less conventional juggling and acrobatic stunts, all of which featured a high dose of sexual innuendo. The performers also worked in a number of political comments about the gentrification of 42nd Street and the current color-coded terrorism hysteria. It was entertaining and funny, but I had a nervous feeling that my moment was coming.

My time came with the arrival of Svetlana, an attractive blonde in a lizard-skin unitard who looked like someone out of an early James Bond movie. The MC introduced her as being from a part of the former Soviet Union that is now an independent country: "Tear-you-a-new-crack-istan." Her talent was spinning a dozen sequined hula-hoops around her undulating body as the live band played new-age bump-and-grind music.

After a minute or so of spinning, she announced, in a heavy Russian accent, that she needed help from a member of the audience. Guess who she picked?

Svetlana pulled me onto the stage and instructed me to spank her if any of the hula-hoops dropped to the floor. Eventually one did, of course, and she bent over. And, well, I spanked her, just once. The audience -- including my spouse -- found this hilarious. (You had to be there.) She did another dance, in which none of the hoops fell, and it was now my turn to be spanked. I bent over, facing the audience. "No, no, no," Svetlana said, shaking her finger. "You must turn around this way." So I pointed my posterior at the audience and she gave it a whack. Ha, ha, ha.

Next, Svetlana asked me to twirl one of her hoops around my arm while she had a brief conference with her assistant, Sylvia. She and Sylvia then went behind the curtain and began a loud, screaming argument while I continued to spin the hoop, alone on stage, for about a minute as the audience giggled. "You are so talented," Svetlana told me when she re-emerged.

She then handed me a dozen hoops and instructed me to throw them to her as she danced. If she managed to complete the dance without any of them dropping to the floor, I would be allowed to kiss her "on the ass." If any of them fell, she would kiss my butt. What did I think of that, she wanted to know. "That sounds fair," I said.

I did as I was told, good sport that I am, tossing each hoop as she gyrated to some pulsating Euro-disco. The hoops stayed up, and she bent over. There was a drum roll, and I looked over at my spouse, who was laughing hysterically. Then I planted a kiss on Svetlana's rear, to the accompaniment of a loud cymbal crash. She straightened up, grabbed my hand and we took a bow as the audience cheered.

Such was my moment in the spotlight. I know I will never hear the end of it.

Random Acts of Poetry

Wind

It's this storm time, spirit-sick,
that's to blame:

each hour falling like a leaf,
spinning through its vortex,

then lost in the frantic grass,
while the shaking foxgloves,

white and anonymous,
tear off their garments.

So the ineludible
dispersion of the morning

continues its whirling, flying off
past caring. Meanwhile

this jet of mud, of memoirs,
of ambition for periods of demand,

hits like a lightning strike
with one determined target:

He who calls on the sky
to transport a tingling.

The lines fall,
charred splinters,

and still the fields wave,
uninterested.

Beyond Their Years

These haunting art photographs of pensive children by Loretta Lux remind me of that old sci-fi classic, Village of the Damned. Somehow.

(via Maud Newton)

Paranoia

I seem to get a lot of Google hits from people searching for "Michael Gates." Whoever that is. Not sure what's going on -- maybe just some of the myriad MGs out there doing some ego surfing.

So Blue

Savoradin's photoblog showcases beautiful landscapes, seascapes, flora and fauna (mostly from around British Columbia, I think). Lots of blue there -- my favorite color.

Strange Days Indeed

As I was crossing the street in front of my condo tonight, a car skidded to a stop in front of me. The window rolled down, and a dark-haired guy poked his head out. I realized it was the proprietor of the plumbing-supply store down the block. What the hell, I thought.

"I want to thank you," he said. "I want to say thanks for all you've done."

I had no idea what he was talking about. This was someone I'd exchanged a few pleasantries with over the last few years -- not much more than "hi-how-ya-doin" when we passed on the street -- and I didn't even consider him an acquaintance.

I forced a smile. "Oh. OK. You're welcome," I said.

"I just wanted to say thanks," he said, then sped off. I was mystified.

Later, I found out that my wife had left him some muffins she'd baked, along with a note, because he'd cleared the snow in front of our building with his snowblower during the last blizzard. He'd also had a death in the family recently, according to a sign in the window when his store was closed for a few days last week.

Just one of those strange moments of connection that come at unexpected times.

Pop Apocalypse

A well-done hour-long radio documentary about the Beatles' American invasion in February 1964 can be found at WFUV 90.7 FM Public Radio. Click on Archives (on the main page) and then "Words and Music from Studio A."

~~~

"They came to bring us back to life! Out of the old nightmare, Dallas, Oswald, Ruby, cops, reporters, thru-ways, lies, crises, missiles, heroes, cameras, fear -- all that mishmash, and all of it dead. Look at you. They've brought you back to life. I couldn't -- not after November. Nothing could."
--Robert Hemenway (from the short story "The Girl Who Sang With the Beatles")

Guilty with an Explanation

Excuses, excuses. The The Metaverse Excuse-O-Mat generates 3.6 million different ready-made excuses designed to fit almost any type of personal foul-up. The justifications and explanations come in six categories: distraction, medical, insulting, moral failure and self-loathing. Most of them seem to include an element of apology as well. Here's an example of a self-loathing plea for those with a literary bent:

I am completely pathetic. You've reminded me-- oh, it gnaws at me in every waking moment-- that I have behaved once more like the brute I am. It would be more than just for you to never speak to me again. Say the word, and I will write an epic poem in apology.

I kind of like this "distraction" excuse, which sounds like it could cover a multitude of sins:

I got so caught up in tracking down the sinister forces that control our lives that I could hardly think-- and then my bank statement got screwed up. I am so ditzy sometimes! Anyway, I hope the weather cooperates this week.

Word of the Day

animadvert (v)

To remark or comment critically, usually with censure or strong disapproval. Used with "on" or "upon."

"If you are going to animadvert upon my nose ring, Mother," said Mariellen, "allow me to critique your collagen injections."

Bling-Bling

Lake Superior State University's Word Banishment selection committee has "emerged from its spider hole" with its annual list of words and phrases "Banished from the Queen's English for Mis-Use, Over-Use and General Uselessness." Read the press release here.

If I was a metrosexual, I'd be truly offended by this condemnatory list of my favorite words. I'd spill my hand-crafted latte on the committee members, or maybe sic my companion animal on them, LOL. How would that be for shock and awe? Really, I think such a list should be consigned to a sanitary landfill, where they'd have to sweat like pigs to dig it up again. No one should be punked by such Xtreme academic nonsense. And if I was an embedded journalist in harm's way, at risk of being captured alive by the enemy, well, I'd make sure my colleagues back at CNN did a exposé on those ivory-tower pedants. One of their ripped-from-the-headlines reports. Not exactly a "shots rang out" kind of story, but I'm sure they'd find smoking-gun evidence that this word list is just a ploy to draw attention to a university that no one's ever heard of. (Maybe I should print this out, stick it in one of those "place stamp here" envelopes and mail it to Lake Superior U.)

Quote of the Day

"Look around you. People are taking digital pictures. They're recording their own songs. They're shooting, editing, scoring movies. They're scanning artwork. They're writing essays. They're sharing stories, and recipes and patterns and ideas. They're supporting each other, inspiring each other, feeding and cheering and promoting each other. The only 'problem'? Oh my god, no one's making money off all these blogs and personal websites and zines and chats. So they can't be real. They can’t count. If they were any good, they'd turn a profit, right?"

(Read more at Everyday Matters)

Recipe for Success

The Amateur Gourmet shows us how to bake cupcakes resembling Janet Jackson's surprise Superbowl guest. Britain's The Guardian found this culinary innovation newsworthy here, and now CNN has picked up the story. Slow news day? Here too.

Free Association

Well, I'm losing it today; it's been a long week.

Instructions for a Bad Day

(1.) If the sun screen you erect in a tortured garden radiates a whorl of shadows, teardrop audits are in order. If balls of despair explode, a glass beaker will measure the outflow. Each milliliter equals one (personal) catastrophe.

(2.) You must sit far away from anyone who produces irritation fields, as these may induce sobbing and/or violent reactions. The mind should not be allowed to wander, due to its high sensitivity.

(3.) Place your thoughts at a distance from present surroundings, except in the following places: on steep hills, in dark tunnels, underground, or near sources of well-meaning interference.
Damp cellars must be avoided.

(4.) You will not experience ideal results under conditions of excessive antagonism, disgust, psychic vibration or emotional impact.

~~~

Ambiguous Moment

Does it have to mean something? The truth is, neither I nor
the others can really believe this has arrived: the half-remembered
self, the glance of light on every acute aspect of this
long-forgotten memory. This is our untied knot: the pale,
dying brightness that dilutes the afternoon landscape into a
monochromatic, ambiguous photo. Neither the gray hills nor
the blue sky relieve it, neither the blue nor the gray.

~~~

Blowing in from the West

You say this way is loaded with dangers, and I notice
the word "loaded." However, while they are implicitly
deeper than the result, they cling like black stickers
pasted to the sky. Up to this point, the echo, down
the corridors, passages and domestic interiors, has
been both connected and freely moving, and I'm
surprised by the places that are far from everywhere,
which move automatically to the outside. Can't you see?
Tomorrow is the time. Don't try to start the car or stop the
wrinkling of the sky. Don't try to block the cataract of tears.

Lost and Found

The amount of flotsam and jetsam that emerges from the melting snow around here is amazing. In addition to the usual rubbish, on just a short walk today I saw:

a car battery
a used condom (ew!)
a paisley pillow case
various bits of unidentifiable electrical circuitry and wires
a crude, medieval-looking broom made from what looks like straw tied to a tree branch (dropped by a passing witch?)
pieces of broken furniture
various misfit toys

It made me feel like an archaeologist on a dig, trying to comprehend some peculiar civilization.

Quote of the Day

". . . We are in a kind of crisis. As someone who is very concerned with empathy, I find this really horrifying. Our leaders are playing on our fears in ways that are incredibly damaging to our sense of who we are as a people, as Americans. When one thinks of what this country stands for -- what it stood for in the eyes of my parents, who came here with their hopes and dreams, and to see it twisted in this way and that we are becoming arrogant and mistrustful and intolerant of others. Not willing to engage in the kind of meaningful discourse that even in literary circles is becoming increasingly deadened because of these attitudes."

(From a recent interview with physician/poet Rafael Campo in The Morning News)

Overheard

Twenty-something guy on a city bus, talking into a cell phone:

". . . Then she started talking in girl talk and I couldn't understand what she was saying."

Word of the Day

incunabulum (n)

(1.) A book printed with movable type before 1501. (2.) An artifact of an early period.

Ethan described his first book as an "incunabulum," though it had been out of print for only two years.

Every Little Thing

This is Beatles month, the 40th anniversary (coming up on the 7th) of the American invasion.

Alan W. Pollack's "Notes on ..." series offers detailed notes on the entire Beatles catalog -- the sort of micro-analysis that is probably appreciated only by musicologists or true aficionados:

"The form [of "Across the Universe"] is clearly articulated but unorthodox in construction. At the high level it is close to the flat form of the folk ballad, in which a grouping of sections is repeated several times as a group, per se. The unusual touch here is the interpolation of what I've called the 'Mantra' before each refrain."

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da . . .

My favorite Beatles album is The Beatles (better known as The White Album), though in truth I love them all.

(via Incoming Signals)

This week's New Yorker has an interesting article about a new (but unauthorized) Beatles-related remix project called The Grey Album.

Strange Days Indeed

For a while yesterday and today, my other website, the one where I deposit various stories, essays and poems, was getting dozens of hits from a porn site. I went to the referring page to see what the deal was, and after s l o w l y scrolling to the bottom (past many distractions along the way) discovered that it was one of those automated link-trading set-ups. There was no direct link to my site, but apparently I was on the list of XXX sites that visitors are sent to whenever they click on the "next" button. How I got on the list is a mystery. Maybe I have a fan who's a porn-site webmaster? In any case, it seems to have stopped now.

The weird thing is that a fair number of these lusty visitors clicked on my literary whatnots, all of which are PG-rated at most. I wonder how far they read before they realized there weren't any good parts.

"What fun it is to pretend I am schizophrenic"

Shakespeare wrote, "Great floods have flown from simple sources." The opposite may also be true: The Dick and Jane Hamlet

(via boynton)

Random Acts of Poetry

Walk

The frozen ditches and weeds
break like glass beneath my feet.

This is testimony.
I have been here.

Not a ghost or an electric eye
floating in a cloud of vanity.

Not an aspect of solitude
spilled like tears across a page.

Not a memory or a masquerade
calling to mind some dead volcano.

My weight will matter here,
till molecules lose their fascination,

till the thawed earth splits open
and gulps like a greedy mouth.