Who knew the production companies really were evil?
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
Giving Thanks
It has been quite a week. It began normally and spiraled so far beyond any thing I thought possible. Let me begin with the beginning.
Mondays are Mondays--there is a reason Garfield hates them. Mine, however, are not usually too bad: I have the house to myself by day (ahhh, the quiet!) and Hubbers and I play Bridge with his folks at night. Before You mock me for the "ole fogey" game, I...oh, crap, there's no defense: I'm old. This particular Monday the In-Laws came to our place, so I cooked a chicken dish and boiled up some edamame, and part'ner Father-In-Law (FIL) and I proceeded to get our donkeys kicked by Hubbers and Mother-In-Law (MIL). Hubbers, being the sweet and conscientious man he be, handled the kitchen clean-up. A bit later, I noticed the garbage disposal was just a titch slow and gurgley. Then, as I went to the laundry room to gather my Unmentionables, I stepped in Lake Superiorly Nasty. Being a dog owner, my first thought was to blame the critters, but even they couldn't produce THIS MUCH liquid. The entire laundry room out to the dining table was a Mess. It turns out Hubs got a bit zealous and pushed ALL of the edamame shells down the disposal at once; this, of course, triggered the back-up of water through the washer hose. It took 17 thick towels to sop up the Lake. But it takes more than a Lake springing up in the house to quench our spirits!
Tuesday was Rock Band day. Not a bad day, all told--just loud. Somehow, though, mischievous elves must have broken into the kitchen because, as the sun set that evening, there were dirty dishes piled a mile high and crumbly crumbs scattered on the counters. This was a bit of a shock, as I had cleaned the kitchen thoroughly the night before. Still not daunting, though.
Wednesday evening is when the fun really begins. Brother #1 and SIL came over to rawk. I had too much of a headache to hang with the band, so I worked on din-din in my even messier kitchen--more dishes, crumbs, and towels everywhere. After the food I felt a little better and was just going to tidy a teeny bit (in prep for Thanx Meal the next day) before re-joining the group. And then I stepped in another puddle, this one distinctly doggy-made. My first thought was, "Dammit! I just put on these fuzzy pink toe socks!" The second was, "I'm going to kill those fucking dogs." You see, it has turned wet and my spoiled little pooches do not deign to dip their paws in anything remotely rain-covered. Despite extensive doggy books and doggy training and doggy whisperers, it has become An Issue. I did, however, refrain from killing my fucking dogs; instead, I disciplined them and put them outside while I went to get the carpet-cleaner vac. But I couldn't get the vac out because the washer had been pulled out from the wall so we could towel-up the water pool. And I couldn't reach the towels behind the washer either by hand or by tong, and stabbing at them with the broom handle just pushed them farther from me, so finally I used the handle to shove them as close to the wall as possible, letting me skootch the washer back into place enough to get the vac through the passage way. Now I should tell you about the carpet-cleaner vac: it is broken in two spots, the soap dispenser and the top of the water tank. But both of these problems are easily worked around--we use a spray bottle for the soap and just don't fill the water tank up to the brim. Well, as I went to spray the puppy puddle, the bottle jammed. I ended up carefully pouring a capful of detergent over the spot, then went to fill the water tank. As I filled the tank to its 3/4ths full position, I made a fatal error: I grabbed the tank by its handle. Up by the handle is where the hole is. Yup, You guessed it: tank tumbles to the ground, dumping water all over the kitchen. Now, my head is throbbing, my kitchen is covered in crap through no fault of my own, I have pee soaking into my living room carpet, the group is oblivious murdering songs at the top of their lungs, and I have caused the second Lake in 3 days, but have no towels left to clean it up. I use all my remaining kitchen cloths to wipe up the water, re-fill the tank, and finally clean the piss carpet. While I'm at it, I just clean the shizz out of the rest of the kitchen--after all, I have to do food prep yet that night 'cuz the next morning will be spent at the Cathedral where the Catholics have a service to commemorate a very Protestant holiday. Oh, well. I'm getting paid for it. Yet when I start to tell Hubs about the evening, after BIL and SIL leave, I weep--because there is also a STANK coming from the fridge that I have to find.
Thursday: Thanksgiving Day. The day itself goes well, despite having to be in downtown PDX by 8:30am for Mass, despite the garbage disposal acting up again when Hubs feeds it an orange peel, despite my annoyance at Bro #2 and his wife who try, at the last minute, to get the rest of the family (15 members) to change the time of dinner around their toddler's sudden nap, despite Hubber's Indian co-worker, who, upon meeting me for the first time, blurts out, "You look VERY different from your photos!" Photos which were taken a number of years ago--photos in which I am skinny. But there is joy and laughter and a general feeling of contentment. At home that evening, however, our friend Mt'nMan, a big dude who has been living with us for 9 months while he gets back on his feet, sits awkwardly in our rocking chair and SNAP! It is smithereens. So now I have a gigantic Rock Band box and packaging materials and broken rocking chair bits all over my living room.
Friday is a day for more family outings. The Gals and I see Enchanted (which is absolutely wonderful!) and it lifts my sinking spirits. That evening we are due at the In-Law's to see Coz J and her beau--the first time he is meeting the whole damn fam, poor dude. He was sweet and funny and kind, but upstaged.
And this is where it gets scary. We had to rush MIL to the hospital: she had no feeling or strength in her right hand and leg. For 18 hours, the diagnosis most likely seemed to be "stroke." They gave her a battery of tests, CAT Scans, and MRIs. Her potassium dipped to "critical" levels. The CAT showed a small lesion on the left hemisphere of her brain indicative of a minor past stroke, but the neurologist's reading of the MRI data ruled the "episode" a T.I.A., a kind of mini-precursor stroke. All said, MIL was in the hospital for 48 hours and 2 nights, struggling with potassium and numbness. The effects were not permanent, but she is looking at lifestyle changes.
And this is where I give thanks. I love my MIL dearly; she is one of my very best friends. I love her in a way I don't feel like I can love my own mother. She is a disciplined and creative thinker but indulgent with her affections, warm and effusive. Thanksgiving is a celebration of bounty, of harvest, of the richness of the soil and our toil upon it. I am thankful for the unchecked bounty of my MIL's love, of the wonderful times with her I have yet to harvest, and of the ways she helps me grow my self and my spirit. There is never enough Time, but I am thankful for the More we have been given. I am thankful.
Mondays are Mondays--there is a reason Garfield hates them. Mine, however, are not usually too bad: I have the house to myself by day (ahhh, the quiet!) and Hubbers and I play Bridge with his folks at night. Before You mock me for the "ole fogey" game, I...oh, crap, there's no defense: I'm old. This particular Monday the In-Laws came to our place, so I cooked a chicken dish and boiled up some edamame, and part'ner Father-In-Law (FIL) and I proceeded to get our donkeys kicked by Hubbers and Mother-In-Law (MIL). Hubbers, being the sweet and conscientious man he be, handled the kitchen clean-up. A bit later, I noticed the garbage disposal was just a titch slow and gurgley. Then, as I went to the laundry room to gather my Unmentionables, I stepped in Lake Superiorly Nasty. Being a dog owner, my first thought was to blame the critters, but even they couldn't produce THIS MUCH liquid. The entire laundry room out to the dining table was a Mess. It turns out Hubs got a bit zealous and pushed ALL of the edamame shells down the disposal at once; this, of course, triggered the back-up of water through the washer hose. It took 17 thick towels to sop up the Lake. But it takes more than a Lake springing up in the house to quench our spirits!
Tuesday was Rock Band day. Not a bad day, all told--just loud. Somehow, though, mischievous elves must have broken into the kitchen because, as the sun set that evening, there were dirty dishes piled a mile high and crumbly crumbs scattered on the counters. This was a bit of a shock, as I had cleaned the kitchen thoroughly the night before. Still not daunting, though.
Wednesday evening is when the fun really begins. Brother #1 and SIL came over to rawk. I had too much of a headache to hang with the band, so I worked on din-din in my even messier kitchen--more dishes, crumbs, and towels everywhere. After the food I felt a little better and was just going to tidy a teeny bit (in prep for Thanx Meal the next day) before re-joining the group. And then I stepped in another puddle, this one distinctly doggy-made. My first thought was, "Dammit! I just put on these fuzzy pink toe socks!" The second was, "I'm going to kill those fucking dogs." You see, it has turned wet and my spoiled little pooches do not deign to dip their paws in anything remotely rain-covered. Despite extensive doggy books and doggy training and doggy whisperers, it has become An Issue. I did, however, refrain from killing my fucking dogs; instead, I disciplined them and put them outside while I went to get the carpet-cleaner vac. But I couldn't get the vac out because the washer had been pulled out from the wall so we could towel-up the water pool. And I couldn't reach the towels behind the washer either by hand or by tong, and stabbing at them with the broom handle just pushed them farther from me, so finally I used the handle to shove them as close to the wall as possible, letting me skootch the washer back into place enough to get the vac through the passage way. Now I should tell you about the carpet-cleaner vac: it is broken in two spots, the soap dispenser and the top of the water tank. But both of these problems are easily worked around--we use a spray bottle for the soap and just don't fill the water tank up to the brim. Well, as I went to spray the puppy puddle, the bottle jammed. I ended up carefully pouring a capful of detergent over the spot, then went to fill the water tank. As I filled the tank to its 3/4ths full position, I made a fatal error: I grabbed the tank by its handle. Up by the handle is where the hole is. Yup, You guessed it: tank tumbles to the ground, dumping water all over the kitchen. Now, my head is throbbing, my kitchen is covered in crap through no fault of my own, I have pee soaking into my living room carpet, the group is oblivious murdering songs at the top of their lungs, and I have caused the second Lake in 3 days, but have no towels left to clean it up. I use all my remaining kitchen cloths to wipe up the water, re-fill the tank, and finally clean the piss carpet. While I'm at it, I just clean the shizz out of the rest of the kitchen--after all, I have to do food prep yet that night 'cuz the next morning will be spent at the Cathedral where the Catholics have a service to commemorate a very Protestant holiday. Oh, well. I'm getting paid for it. Yet when I start to tell Hubs about the evening, after BIL and SIL leave, I weep--because there is also a STANK coming from the fridge that I have to find.
Thursday: Thanksgiving Day. The day itself goes well, despite having to be in downtown PDX by 8:30am for Mass, despite the garbage disposal acting up again when Hubs feeds it an orange peel, despite my annoyance at Bro #2 and his wife who try, at the last minute, to get the rest of the family (15 members) to change the time of dinner around their toddler's sudden nap, despite Hubber's Indian co-worker, who, upon meeting me for the first time, blurts out, "You look VERY different from your photos!" Photos which were taken a number of years ago--photos in which I am skinny. But there is joy and laughter and a general feeling of contentment. At home that evening, however, our friend Mt'nMan, a big dude who has been living with us for 9 months while he gets back on his feet, sits awkwardly in our rocking chair and SNAP! It is smithereens. So now I have a gigantic Rock Band box and packaging materials and broken rocking chair bits all over my living room.
Friday is a day for more family outings. The Gals and I see Enchanted (which is absolutely wonderful!) and it lifts my sinking spirits. That evening we are due at the In-Law's to see Coz J and her beau--the first time he is meeting the whole damn fam, poor dude. He was sweet and funny and kind, but upstaged.
And this is where it gets scary. We had to rush MIL to the hospital: she had no feeling or strength in her right hand and leg. For 18 hours, the diagnosis most likely seemed to be "stroke." They gave her a battery of tests, CAT Scans, and MRIs. Her potassium dipped to "critical" levels. The CAT showed a small lesion on the left hemisphere of her brain indicative of a minor past stroke, but the neurologist's reading of the MRI data ruled the "episode" a T.I.A., a kind of mini-precursor stroke. All said, MIL was in the hospital for 48 hours and 2 nights, struggling with potassium and numbness. The effects were not permanent, but she is looking at lifestyle changes.
And this is where I give thanks. I love my MIL dearly; she is one of my very best friends. I love her in a way I don't feel like I can love my own mother. She is a disciplined and creative thinker but indulgent with her affections, warm and effusive. Thanksgiving is a celebration of bounty, of harvest, of the richness of the soil and our toil upon it. I am thankful for the unchecked bounty of my MIL's love, of the wonderful times with her I have yet to harvest, and of the ways she helps me grow my self and my spirit. There is never enough Time, but I am thankful for the More we have been given. I am thankful.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Miss Landmine, 2007
I'm not sure what I think about this. It certainly draws attention to a Serious Problem, but does it offer a Serious Hope? "Beauty" pageants in general are exhibitionist, but this one feels down right exploitative--the grand prize is a brand-spanking new prosthetic leg.
Still Crazy, Still Loveable
So Hubbers recently joined an Intel basketball team, of which he is the youngest member by a decade. One of the older gents thought they should give their team a real whiz-banger of a name, something to intimidate the other teams; the gent came up with Super-Heroes In Training.
That's right, beloved Blatherscopians, my husband plays for S.H.I.T.
That's right, beloved Blatherscopians, my husband plays for S.H.I.T.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Maybe Crazy, But Still Loveable
Overheard while Hubbers (always putting the "hot" back into "hot nerd") was online playing computer games with his bros:
"Dammit, I'm covered in A.T. guns!"
G*d, I hate when that happens to me.
"Dammit, I'm covered in A.T. guns!"
G*d, I hate when that happens to me.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Her Holiness
Working in a Catholic church, members often ask me if I "would ever consider converting." When I say, "no," the sweet, older ladies persist with, "What is standing in your way?" I politely answer that I see no reason why women cannot be ordained as either deacon or priest. The sweet, older ladies blanch as white as their up-dos and change the subject.
Well, the times, they are a-changin'.
Click here, here, and here for more.
Well, the times, they are a-changin'.
Click here, here, and here for more.
Blisssed Out
I have seen Heaven, and it is paved with Books.
I spent the weekend at Wordstock, Pdx's annual gathering of Word Nerds. It sprawls over the Convention Center, bon mots handed out like bon-bons, a maze of booths brimming with Publishing's jewels, and authors smiling hungrily at passersby.
There were cool indie publishing houses bragging about award-winners and latest "finds." There were alterna-book pushers and mega-chains representin'. There were workshops on writing, editing, publishing, promoting, and generally beautifying your masterpiece. There was stage after stage of these inventor-philosophers we call writers, each doing their best to discuss, enlighten, entertain, and leave their audience utterly entangled in their work.
I feel full.
I spent the weekend at Wordstock, Pdx's annual gathering of Word Nerds. It sprawls over the Convention Center, bon mots handed out like bon-bons, a maze of booths brimming with Publishing's jewels, and authors smiling hungrily at passersby.
There were cool indie publishing houses bragging about award-winners and latest "finds." There were alterna-book pushers and mega-chains representin'. There were workshops on writing, editing, publishing, promoting, and generally beautifying your masterpiece. There was stage after stage of these inventor-philosophers we call writers, each doing their best to discuss, enlighten, entertain, and leave their audience utterly entangled in their work.
I feel full.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Hilarious Or Horrible? You Decide
What child wouldn't want to enter a Magic Attic through books? And then beg his or her parent(s) for the matching doll? And then become addicted to phone sex?
Ahhh, yes, you read that correctly. Phone sex. Children.
When the Magic Attic series could no longer sustain the magic, their club folded, causing the phone company to re-sell their old telephone number. To a sex hotline.
Ahhh, yes, you read that correctly. Phone sex. Children.
When the Magic Attic series could no longer sustain the magic, their club folded, causing the phone company to re-sell their old telephone number. To a sex hotline.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Ain't English The Bees-Knees?
Fissilingual /FISS il ING wool/ adj * Possessing a forked tongue.
Lask /LASK/ v * To be afflicted with diarrhea.
Cully /KULL ee/ n * Someone who is easily imposed upon, especially by a woman.
Unasinous /yoo NASS in us/ adj * Equally stupid.
Pilgarlic /pil GAR lik/ n * A sorry-looking bald person.
Agelast /AJ uh last/ n * A person who never laughs.
Challenge: Can you write a story paragraph that ties all of these words together in an artful manner? I will post my attempt later in the week.
*As always, I give reverence to Novobatzky & Shea's Depraved and Insulting English for their collection of the obscure.
Lask /LASK/ v * To be afflicted with diarrhea.
Cully /KULL ee/ n * Someone who is easily imposed upon, especially by a woman.
Unasinous /yoo NASS in us/ adj * Equally stupid.
Pilgarlic /pil GAR lik/ n * A sorry-looking bald person.
Agelast /AJ uh last/ n * A person who never laughs.
Challenge: Can you write a story paragraph that ties all of these words together in an artful manner? I will post my attempt later in the week.
*As always, I give reverence to Novobatzky & Shea's Depraved and Insulting English for their collection of the obscure.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Word of the Day
Osphresiophilia /oss free zee o FIL ee uh/ n * Sexual excitement from smells.
"Being a perfume tester was a dream job for a woman with osphresiophilia, but Nancy's frequent trips to the bathroom began to raise some eyebrows in the lab."
Source: Depraved and Insulting English by Peter Novobatzky and Ammon Shea.
Knowing the eagerness with which my devoted Blatherscopians seek to expand their lingual dexterity, I will, henceforth, present a regular dosing of dialectical delights, straight from the forked tongues of Monsieurs Novobatzky & Shea. Yes, Loyal Readers, until such time as I am sent a cease-and-desist epistle, I shall hold the candle of language aloft in the darkness of a world in which "R U red E 4 2-dayz test?" constitutes a sentence.
And, in case anyone was wondering, that co-worker who constantly sprays saliva when he/she talks is sialoquent.
"Being a perfume tester was a dream job for a woman with osphresiophilia, but Nancy's frequent trips to the bathroom began to raise some eyebrows in the lab."
Source: Depraved and Insulting English by Peter Novobatzky and Ammon Shea.
Knowing the eagerness with which my devoted Blatherscopians seek to expand their lingual dexterity, I will, henceforth, present a regular dosing of dialectical delights, straight from the forked tongues of Monsieurs Novobatzky & Shea. Yes, Loyal Readers, until such time as I am sent a cease-and-desist epistle, I shall hold the candle of language aloft in the darkness of a world in which "R U red E 4 2-dayz test?" constitutes a sentence.
And, in case anyone was wondering, that co-worker who constantly sprays saliva when he/she talks is sialoquent.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
I Have Always Hated This Word
Moist.
Isn't that just...yuk....It makes my skin crawl.
But I am not alone! There are other people as neurotic as I. Maybe we could form some weird cult around our hatred of this word. Just a thought.
Isn't that just...yuk....It makes my skin crawl.
But I am not alone! There are other people as neurotic as I. Maybe we could form some weird cult around our hatred of this word. Just a thought.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Bitchy In Iraq Seeks Annoying Poly-Blogger
Of all the bizarre news from the front, this takes the sand-covered and explosive-filled cake. Be sure to read the entire thing; it just keeps getting weirder.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Another Tenor Thinks He's The Messiah
Am I the only one who thinks all tenors are donkey-holes?* But if I can push aside the mountainous egos of said high-voiced male singers for a moment (woo! That took all my Popeye-muscles), the ideology Mr. Gelb brings to the Met bodes poorly for We hungry, struggling, no-name singers. Me thinks it is a desperate attempt for the "most prestigious opera house in the world" (ahem!) to save face and actually turn a profit.**
*In the spirit of Full Disclosure, I must inform you, sensitive Readers, that Zerd's own BFF is a tenor; however, he already admits to being a d-hole.
**Because, somehow, less prestigious opera houses have managed to keep themselves in the black for years. Lyric Opera of Chicago, this shout out is for you, you sexy Opera Machine!
*In the spirit of Full Disclosure, I must inform you, sensitive Readers, that Zerd's own BFF is a tenor; however, he already admits to being a d-hole.
**Because, somehow, less prestigious opera houses have managed to keep themselves in the black for years. Lyric Opera of Chicago, this shout out is for you, you sexy Opera Machine!
Happy Hogwarts Wizard Outed
Dumbledore is gay, but in that very subtle English way. "Oh, the fan fiction!" laughs creator J.K. Rowling.
Monday, October 15, 2007
You Can Sing Along With "Buffy"--Or You Could Until Corporate America Found Out And Staked It
Why, when someone tries to do something fun and uplifting, does Big Corporate come along and squash it? Oh, Organized Crime is real, mes amis, and (with government blessing) tries to squeeze every cent out of Us that It can.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Happy Take Your Teddy Bear To Work Day!
This day is one of a handful of days during the year when I wish I worked in an office.
Bearfy the vampire slayer, today is your day.
Bearfy the vampire slayer, today is your day.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
To Be Filed Under "Are You F*cking Kidding Me?!?"
"We are no longer doing movies with women in the lead."--Jeff Robinov, Warner Bros. president of production. Mr. Robinov somehow feels Jody Foster (The Brave One) and Nicole Kidman (The Invasion) are to blame for the lackluster monetary performance of the films.
Go here for more.
Ooo! I just found this gem in a January 13, 2004 Time Warner press release: "Robinov is known for having a strong grasp on the taste and pulse of the moviegoing audience, for his team-building management style, his extraordinary work ethic, and for his outstanding relationships with both established and emerging filmmakers and actors. During his tenure as a Warner Bros. Pictures executive, he has overseen such major productions as the Matrix trilogy, "Swordfish" and "Cats & Dogs," and supervised his department's production of such recent and upcoming films as "The Last Samurai," "Starsky & Hutch," "Troy," the Harry Potter series, "Catwoman," "Constantine" and "Ocean's Twelve."" Italics, mine. Notice anything fishy about his "strong grasp on the taste and pulse of the moviegoing audience"? Like the fact that everything but the HP series and the 1st Matrix movie was an absolute bomb?
I'm going to write Warner Bros and then boycott all their shitty, shitty shit they call films.
Go here for more.
Ooo! I just found this gem in a January 13, 2004 Time Warner press release: "Robinov is known for having a strong grasp on the taste and pulse of the moviegoing audience, for his team-building management style, his extraordinary work ethic, and for his outstanding relationships with both established and emerging filmmakers and actors. During his tenure as a Warner Bros. Pictures executive, he has overseen such major productions as the Matrix trilogy, "Swordfish" and "Cats & Dogs," and supervised his department's production of such recent and upcoming films as "The Last Samurai," "Starsky & Hutch," "Troy," the Harry Potter series, "Catwoman," "Constantine" and "Ocean's Twelve."" Italics, mine. Notice anything fishy about his "strong grasp on the taste and pulse of the moviegoing audience"? Like the fact that everything but the HP series and the 1st Matrix movie was an absolute bomb?
I'm going to write Warner Bros and then boycott all their shitty, shitty shit they call films.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
"Librophiliac Love Letter"
Excuse me, I'm still wiping the crap out of my pants after looking at these lovelies. Who says Money can't buy Happiness?
Function Of Appendix Found! Unfortunately World Over-Population Makes It Superfluous
Poor Appendix. Sometimes a weird little body part just can't catch a break.
Monday, October 1, 2007
I Am Radiohead; Could You Be Radiohead, Too?
There is a Music Revolution birthing, and Radiohead is its dula*.
Correction: It's "doula," not "dula." Thanks, lovely Jenny!
Correction: It's "doula," not "dula." Thanks, lovely Jenny!
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Hardly "Irrelevant"
Marin Alsop, the first female conductor of a major U.S. orchestra, takes the podium at 8pm tonight. After years as conductor of our very own Eugene Symphony, Alsop heads the prestigious Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. Way to go, girl!I love her comments to the press: "I think the most challenging aspect," she says, "is people's need to focus on the fact that I'm a woman. It's really entirely irrelevant to what I do."
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
I Think I Can, I Think I Can
But this is no "Little Engine That Could"--this is a capital-M "Might". The consequences of this study--even if the study is eventually clarified or disproven--will be shattering.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Adios, librerÃa impresionante
Another--culturally important--casualty in the Store vs. e-Store Wars.
Halloween Came Early This Year
A host of scary things burst out of the mouths of presidents, administrations, and presidential-hopefuls recently.
Bewitched by President Bush's magical mumbo-jumbo
Republican presidential candidate (and Mormon!) Mitt Romney, July 7, 2007: "I know that it is popular today to be critical of the president. And he is not above making mistakes. But we should thank him for doing everything in his power to keep us safe. Against the objections of Democrats and even some in our own party, he pushed though the Patriot Act.* He made sure that someone was listening in when al-Qaida was calling. He made sure we were interrogating terrorists to learn how we could prevent attacks on our citizens." And then this gem from two days ago, Mitt Romney, Sept. 22, 2007: "We expect our elected officials to be good role models, not bad examples -- thank you, President Bush, for restoring personal integrity and dignity to the White House."
Rudy Giuliani spreads 9/11 over America like Cheez-Whiz on a cracker
Abandoning old ideals left and left, Rudy hopes to avoid the Kerry-esque label of "flip-flopper" by linking his changing "heart" to 9/11 and its aftermath. Most recently, Rudy thinks if he hadn't pushed gun control in NYC, maybe 9/11 wouldn't have happened. "I also think that there have been subsequent intervening events — September 11 — which cast somewhat of a different light on the Second Amendment and Second Amendment rights. It doesn't change the fundamental rights, but maybe it highlights the necessity for them more."
Speaking with a fork-ed tongue
President Bush on the "Jena-6"
"I feel strongly that there ought to be fair justice. And I just spoke out on it." Well said, sir.
Bewitched by President Bush's magical mumbo-jumbo
Republican presidential candidate (and Mormon!) Mitt Romney, July 7, 2007: "I know that it is popular today to be critical of the president. And he is not above making mistakes. But we should thank him for doing everything in his power to keep us safe. Against the objections of Democrats and even some in our own party, he pushed though the Patriot Act.* He made sure that someone was listening in when al-Qaida was calling. He made sure we were interrogating terrorists to learn how we could prevent attacks on our citizens." And then this gem from two days ago, Mitt Romney, Sept. 22, 2007: "We expect our elected officials to be good role models, not bad examples -- thank you, President Bush, for restoring personal integrity and dignity to the White House."
Rudy Giuliani spreads 9/11 over America like Cheez-Whiz on a cracker
Abandoning old ideals left and left, Rudy hopes to avoid the Kerry-esque label of "flip-flopper" by linking his changing "heart" to 9/11 and its aftermath. Most recently, Rudy thinks if he hadn't pushed gun control in NYC, maybe 9/11 wouldn't have happened. "I also think that there have been subsequent intervening events — September 11 — which cast somewhat of a different light on the Second Amendment and Second Amendment rights. It doesn't change the fundamental rights, but maybe it highlights the necessity for them more."
Speaking with a fork-ed tongue
President Bush on the "Jena-6"
"I feel strongly that there ought to be fair justice. And I just spoke out on it." Well said, sir.
President Bush on the economy
Reporter: Do you think there's a risk of a recession? How do you rate that?
Bush: You know, you need to talk to economists. I think I got a B in Econ 101. I got an A, however, in keeping taxes low and being fiscally responsible with the people's money ...
--Later, in the same interview--
Reporter: Mr. President, back to your grade-point average on holding the line on taxes.
Bush: I thought you were going to talk about the actual grade-point average. I remind people that, like, when I'm with Condi, I say she's the Ph.D. and I'm the C student and just look at who's the president and who's the advisor.
Indeed, Mr. President.
How can this not come back to haunt them?
From The Examiner: As for Obama, a senior White House official said the freshman senator from Illinois was "capable" of the intellectual rigor needed to win the presidency but instead relies too heavily on his easy charm. "It's sort of like, 'that's all I need to get by,' which bespeaks sort of a condescending attitude towards the voters," said the official, speaking on condition of anonymity. "And a laziness, an intellectual laziness."
Spooktacular horrors lie ahead.
*Italics mine.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Wii-Zerd!!!!!
What better way to embrace one's thirties than with an interactive child's toy? Since opening the box, I think the Wii has only been off when we sleep (but even then I have Wii-dreams...). Friday nite was a bash with silly friends playing silly games while drinking themselves silly. Favorite games (so far):
1. Bowling--like the real thing, only without the nauseating foot smell of the bowling alley! Also, with the Wii, I've broken 200 (yes, please adulate me) whereas in reality I average a 75 (awww).
2. Boxing--my flail will make you pale! Not a lot of butterfly, but a ton of bee.
3. Raymond's Raving Rabbids--there aren't enough words: incredibly odd, addictingly creative, cutely freakish, bizarrely buoying. I never thought hucking a cow 100 meters could be so deeply fulfilling. I also enjoy slapping singing rabbits.
Tantalizing, no? C'mon over and play!
1. Bowling--like the real thing, only without the nauseating foot smell of the bowling alley! Also, with the Wii, I've broken 200 (yes, please adulate me) whereas in reality I average a 75 (awww).
2. Boxing--my flail will make you pale! Not a lot of butterfly, but a ton of bee.
3. Raymond's Raving Rabbids--there aren't enough words: incredibly odd, addictingly creative, cutely freakish, bizarrely buoying. I never thought hucking a cow 100 meters could be so deeply fulfilling. I also enjoy slapping singing rabbits.
Tantalizing, no? C'mon over and play!
Friday, September 21, 2007
Happy Hobbit Day!
September 21, 1937, Tolkien gave the world The Hobbit. Yahoo! I'm going to celebrate by eating the way Hobbits do: second breakfast, here I come!
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
I Always Suspected Musicologists Were A Terror Threat!
President Bush and his so-called Patriot Act strike again.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Did Your Momma Ever Make Popsicles From Juice When You Were A Kid?
Mine did; she would make OJ or apple juice from frozen concentrate, then pour it into ice cube trays and re-freeze. Even though the treat was ghetto, we kids looooved it, largely because Mums had these super-fun sticks to put in the "Popsicle." The sticks were plastic, multicolored animals in silly poses. My brother, Bear, always chewed the end of his stick when he was done, then would complain because he had the shortest Popsicle.
At some indistinguishable point, those sticks vanished from our routine. And like so many aspects of childhood, I had forgotten all about them and our mad dash to the freezer every day after school.
Today, however, while poking around a tiny Antiques Mall in Forest Grove, I found the sticks. There is the basset hound with its droopy cheeks as blue as Elvis' suede shoes; the roaring lion safely in his minty green cage; the corn-yellow farmer putting along in his model-T; the foppish lion tamer in all his creamy goodness; and the swash-buckling pirate, fearsome in pink. One hundred and twenty-five pennies later I could take this Piece of my Past home.
I'm going to make juice-sicles tonight:)
At some indistinguishable point, those sticks vanished from our routine. And like so many aspects of childhood, I had forgotten all about them and our mad dash to the freezer every day after school.
Today, however, while poking around a tiny Antiques Mall in Forest Grove, I found the sticks. There is the basset hound with its droopy cheeks as blue as Elvis' suede shoes; the roaring lion safely in his minty green cage; the corn-yellow farmer putting along in his model-T; the foppish lion tamer in all his creamy goodness; and the swash-buckling pirate, fearsome in pink. One hundred and twenty-five pennies later I could take this Piece of my Past home.
I'm going to make juice-sicles tonight:)
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Hear, hear!
Musicians know their art can sometimes cost them their ears, so while this new EU directive may be good-intentioned, it is coming a few centuries too late.*
*Laugh if you will: In the 1990s, opera singers rehearsing in a Copenhagen park apparently caused a rare African okapi at the nearby zoo to collapse and die from stress. If you laughed, you're an asshole. Don't worry, I'm an asshole, too.
*Laugh if you will: In the 1990s, opera singers rehearsing in a Copenhagen park apparently caused a rare African okapi at the nearby zoo to collapse and die from stress. If you laughed, you're an asshole. Don't worry, I'm an asshole, too.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Dump Humpin'
Ok, the post title is cheesy, but definitely dirty, and I needed a title as dirty as la Dump. Why, a reasonable Blatherscopian might wonder, would Zerd be dumpster-diving? Surely her life is not THAT tragic?! Rest assured, beloved Readers: Zerd continues to walk that fine line between Class and Trash that so endeared her Readers to her in the first place. Non, mes amis: I merely needed to dispose of 2.5 cubic yards of nasty black rock. And NO ONE wanted it--I couldn't give it away, I couldn't recycle it--I had to PAY to return the uggo stuff to the beautifying hand of Nature. Whilst a-dumping, a Goodwill semi pulled into the spot next to me and spewed a staggering amount of crap: old sofas, clothes, random wood knicknacks, kitchen sinks. It was as moving a sight as a mother bird pushing her younglings out of the nest for the very first time. I started to get choked up, but then I realized I was just plain choking. G*d, the stench was acute!*
*Why is the stench/pain/misery/etc. never "isosceles"? A snack for thought.
*Why is the stench/pain/misery/etc. never "isosceles"? A snack for thought.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Yo-de-lay-heee-hooo
Who can resist the ululation of Nature on Labor Day? Hubbers and I sure couldn't--we had to drive our donkeys to the boonies for the sake of Love. A dear friend of ours decided to tie her knot in her ancestral home: The Big K: Klamath Falls: Hell With A Golf Course. Thankfully, some Wonder People from days of yore (aka college) were there and so we could be silly drunks together. Bride-friend looked Gee-Orgeous, and her wedding was truly American Traditional--she had it all: flower girl, fancy food, free booze (!), cloying-and-overly-long photo montage, DJ playing crappy music. Which is all lovely and fine, but it was completely impersonal. The whole shee-bang felt in no way about Bride-friend and her chosen Man-chop. It was textbook perfect, but totally unmemorable. Granted, that is my take on her wedding: what she thinks is faaaar more important.
Anyway, Hubbers and I had a really nice drive; some of our best conversations happen when neither of us can be pulled away by shiny, sparkly distractions. When we stopped for gas at Po-dunk Nowhere, we discovered that the 76 was also the local library/movie rental shoppe. It was the most bizarre juxtaposition of oil cans and books, instant cappuccino machine and books, powerbars and books, and cases of Bud and books. And the books were used (1) John Grishams, (2) Mary Higgins Clarks, (3) Janet Evanovichs, (4) Christian romance novels, and (5) Christian god-helping-you self-help tripe. They also sold T-shirts with slogans mingling pop-culture and holiness, like: Jesus died for MY SPACE in heaven. Ishy. What about being IN the world but not OF the world, you opportunistic business people hiding behind the cross?!?
Now that I am full of un-Righteous indignation, I shall go attack my yard! EEEEEEEEE!
Anyway, Hubbers and I had a really nice drive; some of our best conversations happen when neither of us can be pulled away by shiny, sparkly distractions. When we stopped for gas at Po-dunk Nowhere, we discovered that the 76 was also the local library/movie rental shoppe. It was the most bizarre juxtaposition of oil cans and books, instant cappuccino machine and books, powerbars and books, and cases of Bud and books. And the books were used (1) John Grishams, (2) Mary Higgins Clarks, (3) Janet Evanovichs, (4) Christian romance novels, and (5) Christian god-helping-you self-help tripe. They also sold T-shirts with slogans mingling pop-culture and holiness, like: Jesus died for MY SPACE in heaven. Ishy. What about being IN the world but not OF the world, you opportunistic business people hiding behind the cross?!?
Now that I am full of un-Righteous indignation, I shall go attack my yard! EEEEEEEEE!
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
I Dig My Yard!
No, seriously: I am digging my yard. The previous owners left a stunted jumble of grass, mis-matched stepping stones, river rock, shale rock, a mold-covered wood pile, wood chips mixed into the grass and shale, and the whole shee-bang was rimmed with railroad ties. Oh, and 3-3' strange metal poles cemented into the ground.
Thanks to the miracles of a Craig's List posting, total strangers came to grab all the railroad ties and river rock their grubby little trucks could carry. It is amazing what people will do when you put the word "free" in front of Crap. It was sooo easy*, I got lulled into thinking this whole re-landscaping project would be easy. Ha!
One of the exciting things I've discovered: the bed of shale rock/wood chips is supported by old miscellaneous stones sunken in mud. Who knows what else lurks beneath the bedraggled surface of my yard? It's an adventure! A really hot, sweaty, muddy, groady, blister-making adventure.
*But occasionally annoying. I received more than 300 phone calls in a week and a half--it's a good thing I specified calling hours (9am-9pm), otherwise WHO KNOWS what ungodly hours I would have heard the phone ring.
Thanks to the miracles of a Craig's List posting, total strangers came to grab all the railroad ties and river rock their grubby little trucks could carry. It is amazing what people will do when you put the word "free" in front of Crap. It was sooo easy*, I got lulled into thinking this whole re-landscaping project would be easy. Ha!
One of the exciting things I've discovered: the bed of shale rock/wood chips is supported by old miscellaneous stones sunken in mud. Who knows what else lurks beneath the bedraggled surface of my yard? It's an adventure! A really hot, sweaty, muddy, groady, blister-making adventure.
*But occasionally annoying. I received more than 300 phone calls in a week and a half--it's a good thing I specified calling hours (9am-9pm), otherwise WHO KNOWS what ungodly hours I would have heard the phone ring.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
You Have Been Listening To...
...The sound of one hand clapping. In a forest. With chickens. Or eggs (we're not really sure which).
Pausa e fini, certo.
Pausa e fini, certo.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
La Recipe Du Jour
INGREDIENTS
1 large conductor, or two small assistant conductors
Ketchup
Crisco or other solid vegetable shortening (lard may be used)
26 large garlic cloves
1 cask cheap wine
1 lb. alfalfa sprouts
2 lbs. assorted yuppie food, such as tofu or yogurt
1 abused orchestra
First, catch a conductor. Remove tail and horns. Carefully separate the large ego and reserve for sauce. Remove any batons, pencils (on permanent loan from the Principal Second Violin), long articulations and discard. Remove the hearing aid and discard (it's useless as it never really worked anyway).
Examine your conductor carefully - many of them are mostly large intestine. If you have such a conductor, you will have to discard it and catch another. Clean the conductor as you would a squid, but do not separate the tentacles from the body. If you have an older conductor, such as one from a major symphony orchestra or summer music festival, you may wish to tenderize by pounding the conductor on a rock with timpani mallets or by smashing the conductor between two large cymbals.
Next, pour 1/2 of the cask of wine into a bath tub and soak the conductor in the wine for at least 12 hours (Exceptions: British, German and some Canadian Conductors have a natural beery taste which some people like and the wine might not marry well with this flavor. Use your judgment.)
When the conductor is sufficiently marinated, rub conductor all over with the garlic. Then cover your conductor with the Crisco using vague, slow circular motions. Take care to cover every inch of the conductor's body with the shortening. If this looks like fun, you can cover yourself with Crisco too, removing clothes first.
Next, take your orchestra and put as much music out as the stands will hold without falling over, and make sure that there are lots of really loud passages for everyone: big loud chords for the winds and brass, and lots and lots of tremolos for the strings. (Bruckner might be appropriate). Rehearse these passages several times, making certain that the brass and winds are always playing as loud as they can and the strings are tremolo-ing at their highest speed. This should ensure adequate heat for cooking your conductor. If not, insist on taking every repeat and be sure to add the second repeats in really large symphonies. Ideally, you should choose your repertoire to have as many repeats as possible, but if you have a piece with no repeats in it at all, just add some, claiming that you have seen the original, and there was an ink blot there that looked like a repeat to you and had obviously been missed by every other fool who had looked at this score. If taking all the repeats does not generate sufficient heat, burn the complete set of score and parts to all of the Bruckner symphonies which should do the trick.
When the heat has died down to that of a medium inferno, place your conductor on top of your orchestra (they won't mind as they are used to it) until it is well tanned, the hair turns back to its natural color and all of the fat has dripped out. Be careful not to overcook or your conductor could end up tasting like stuffed ham.
Make a sauce by combining ego, sprouts, and ketchup to taste, placing it all in the blender and pureeing until smooth. If the ego is bitter, sweeten with honey to taste. Slice your conductor as you would any turkey. Serve accompanied by the assorted yuppie food and the remaining wine with the sauce on the side.
WARNING: Due to environmental toxins present in conductor feeding areas, such as heavy metals, oily residue from intensive PR machinery manufacture, and extraordinarily high concentrations of E.coli, cryptosporidium, and other hazardous organisms associated with animal wastes, the Departments for conductor Decimation (DCD) recommend that the consumption of conductors be limited to one per season. Overconsumption of conductors has been implicated in the epidemiology of a virulent condition known as "Bataan fever." Symptoms of this disorder include swelling of the brain, spasms in the extremities, auditory hallucinations, excessive longevity, and delusions of competence.
*Copied from Sounds & Fury.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Sexy 6
Today is the sixth commemoration of the date upon which Hubbers and I were Eternally United.
So far, so good.
So far, so good.
NPR Song of the Day
Among NPR's many wonders is the Song of the Day. Today's selection is remake of Tom Waits' Day After Tomorrow (I wasn't familiar--listening-wise--with Waits' style or substance), whose simple melody beautifully serves the poignant lines of a (any) young soldier. The lyrics haunt me, particularly in light of my own brother's experiences as a soldier in Iraq and Kosovo. Here they are (but will be immediately removed, if requested by copyright holder):
I got your letter today
And I miss you all so much, here
I can't wait to see you all
And I'm counting the days, dear
I still believe that there's gold
At the end of the world
And I'll come home
To Illinois
On the day after tomorrow
It is so hard
And it's cold here
And I'm tired of taking orders
And I miss old Rockford town
Up by the Wisconsin border
But I miss you won't believe
Shoveling snow and raking leaves
And my plane will touch tomorrow
On the day after tomorrow
I close my eyes
Every night
And I dream that I can hold you
They fill us full of lies
Everyone buys
About what it means to be a soldier
I still don't know how I'm supposed to feel
About all the blood that's been spilled
Look out on the street
Get me back home
On the day after tomorrow
You can't deny
The other side
Don't want to die
Any more than we do
What I'm trying to say,
Is don't they pray
To the same God that we do?
Tell me, how does God choose?
Whose prayers does he refuse?
Who turns the wheel?
And who throws the dice
On the day after tomorrow?
Mmmmmmm...
I'm not fighting
For justice
I am not fighting
For freedom
I am fighting
For my life
And another day
In the world here
I just do what I've been told
You're just the gravel on the road
And the one's that are lucky
One's come home
On the day after tomorrow
And the summer
It too will fade
And with it comes the winter's frost, dear
And I know we too are made
Of all the things that we have lost here
I'll be twenty-one today
I've been saving all my pay
And my plane will touch down
On the day after tomorrow
And I miss you all so much, here
I can't wait to see you all
And I'm counting the days, dear
I still believe that there's gold
At the end of the world
And I'll come home
To Illinois
On the day after tomorrow
It is so hard
And it's cold here
And I'm tired of taking orders
And I miss old Rockford town
Up by the Wisconsin border
But I miss you won't believe
Shoveling snow and raking leaves
And my plane will touch tomorrow
On the day after tomorrow
I close my eyes
Every night
And I dream that I can hold you
They fill us full of lies
Everyone buys
About what it means to be a soldier
I still don't know how I'm supposed to feel
About all the blood that's been spilled
Look out on the street
Get me back home
On the day after tomorrow
You can't deny
The other side
Don't want to die
Any more than we do
What I'm trying to say,
Is don't they pray
To the same God that we do?
Tell me, how does God choose?
Whose prayers does he refuse?
Who turns the wheel?
And who throws the dice
On the day after tomorrow?
Mmmmmmm...
I'm not fighting
For justice
I am not fighting
For freedom
I am fighting
For my life
And another day
In the world here
I just do what I've been told
You're just the gravel on the road
And the one's that are lucky
One's come home
On the day after tomorrow
And the summer
It too will fade
And with it comes the winter's frost, dear
And I know we too are made
Of all the things that we have lost here
I'll be twenty-one today
I've been saving all my pay
And my plane will touch down
On the day after tomorrow
Friday, August 3, 2007
First Thursday People
Wanting to feel cosmopolitan, I made the jaunt into town last evening to attend First Thursday, the monthly unveiling of new art works at area dealers. There was some lovely and playful stuff, particularly at the Augen and Froelick Galleries. One of the most arresting pieces was at the Elizabeth Leach: a pair of gigantic (12') banners with the image of a nuclear smoke-stack traced from composite pictures of fiery clouds; not that I would want that in my house, but as a social statement the piece definitely worked. There was also some crap, including Jeremy Iverson's "collection" of grey-scale collages...WHICH WERE ALL THE SAME!!!
But even more inspiring than the art itself were those who thronged out to see and be seen. Oh, of course there were Bluehairs a-plenty, smacking their gums each time they bent over their half-inch thick lenses to read the title plates, smilingly winding their rubber-wheeled walkers through the crowds. Then there were the Prettypeople: severely skinny women dressed Too-Cool-For-School in short-skirted beachy-bohemian dresses as brightly colored as the art around them, the men in white alligator shoes and black cashmere socks who refused to take off their $$$unglasses indoors. And then there were the Art-isans themselves: a man dressed in cropped pants made from an old canvas sail, tied with sailor's knots and topped off with yellow high-heeled sandals; a woman in a paper-mache dress with a large pink peony in her hair; a chubby dude discussing surrealism on the streetcorner, the several braids of his purpley-blue hair strung up through the top of a doll's head. These are people for whom "art" is not a thing, but a way to interact with the world.
But somehow, they just make me laugh.
But even more inspiring than the art itself were those who thronged out to see and be seen. Oh, of course there were Bluehairs a-plenty, smacking their gums each time they bent over their half-inch thick lenses to read the title plates, smilingly winding their rubber-wheeled walkers through the crowds. Then there were the Prettypeople: severely skinny women dressed Too-Cool-For-School in short-skirted beachy-bohemian dresses as brightly colored as the art around them, the men in white alligator shoes and black cashmere socks who refused to take off their $$$unglasses indoors. And then there were the Art-isans themselves: a man dressed in cropped pants made from an old canvas sail, tied with sailor's knots and topped off with yellow high-heeled sandals; a woman in a paper-mache dress with a large pink peony in her hair; a chubby dude discussing surrealism on the streetcorner, the several braids of his purpley-blue hair strung up through the top of a doll's head. These are people for whom "art" is not a thing, but a way to interact with the world.
But somehow, they just make me laugh.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Fuzzy Math
Isn't this kind of math just as comforting as a new puppy?
From Salon.com's War Room blogger Tim Grieve:
From Salon.com's War Room blogger Tim Grieve:
Asked today about a new Congressional Budget Office report that puts the price tag of the war on Iraq at more than $1 trillion, White House Press Secretary Tony Snow said: "Well, if you take a look at what happened on September 11th, 2001, it's estimated that the aftershocks of that could have cost up to $1 trillion."
As the Boston Globe notes today, former Bush budget advisor Lawrence Lindsey was fired back in 2003 after he suggested that the war in Iraq might cost as much as $200 billion.
Followed up by a good comment from a Salon reader:
"A" has nothing to do with "B", just as the cost of the war in Iraq has absolutely nothing to do with the price tag attached to the 9/11 attacks. Write this on a White House blackboard 100 times, Mr. Snow: "IRAQ HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THE 9/11 ATTACKS!"
Incredible. This from an administration that keeps lobbing the claim that Democrats will raise taxes and increase spending.
Incredible. This from an administration that keeps lobbing the claim that Democrats will raise taxes and increase spending.
Monday, July 30, 2007
The Avalanche Continues!
Dearest Blatherscopians, the Summer thus far has been unkind to me--Sickness has been the chasm dividing Me from My Best Self (aka, all the crap I've been waiting to do when the weather got better). Like so many dark times in my life, I have been heartened by a glimmer: the light of books. As I have vowed since the time of this blog's inception (nigh on four months), I shall discharge my full Reflections herein.
1) Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh--A wistful, yet unsentimental, remembrance of an Age with which modern Americans have little-to-no shared history: the dwindling life of the English Aristocracy in the days between WWI & II. Waugh's bitingly funny and skilled descriptions of this too-recent time of yore succeed when dealing with Humanity, but due to my ignorance of the aristocracy, I am afraid that I missed many of Waugh's intended reflections upon the workings of Grace in such a family. I found the prose elegantly tight, but the story felt lumpy to me--the dichotomy of narrator Charles' love for brother and sister Sebastien and Julia was misshapen , at times under-emphasized only to come to the fore with staggering zeal, then be shunted off again, barely worth commenting on. In this way, his characters were not so much dynamic as re-written every few chapters.Definitely worth the read, but overall it felt more like a visit to a museum than a transforming experience.
2.) Outlander by Diana Gabaldon--This is Book #1 of a (so-far) 7 book series combining historical romance, adventure, and a hint of sci-fi. And the series is HUGELY popular--Over 1,200 folks have taken the time to give their recommendation of this book on Amazon.com, averaging 4.25 stars. But I'm here to tell You, intelligent Readers, this is horrible shite.
General complaints: cardboard characters whose motives are paper-thin, belabored dialogue (alternating between ridiculously flowery and just plain ridiculous), overly descriptive scene setting that veers away from plot propulsion, and a wasteful (not to mention unbelievable) plot.
Specific complaints: I don't know about You, but I, for one, have a hard time believing that (a) a married WWII nurse sucked backed to mid-1700s Scotland could keep her wits in such a situation, so much so that can "move on" with her life, and four weeks later marry another man, and that (b) despite loving her first husband, she can gleefully abandon herself to her new husband (resulting in--I'm not kidding!--over 200 pages of sexual encounters, just during the honeymoon phase), feeling no twinge of regret or pain or loss, and that (c) this so-called marriage is held up to be the union of two souls in a Grand Passion, particularly when new husband is "forced to discipline" her; she fights, but the book graphically describes him overpowering and beating her, and that (d) this "modern" woman understands that this violence is only the result of the clash of two time-cultures, and so she forgives new husband and a day after the beating they are back in the sack; the plot only gets better from here. Suffice it to say, there's a lot of rape and attempted rape and then "healing" by way of cathartic-reenactment-of rape. Oh, yes.
What the popularity of these books means to society: we are all doomed, and too stupid to realize it. How in the hiz-ell can anyone be attracted to this kind of book as an entertainment, a wishful romance of a different life? WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH WOMEN THAT THEY THINK THIS IS THE HEIGHT OF ROMANCE? I think Natural Selection has some work to do.
1) Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh--A wistful, yet unsentimental, remembrance of an Age with which modern Americans have little-to-no shared history: the dwindling life of the English Aristocracy in the days between WWI & II. Waugh's bitingly funny and skilled descriptions of this too-recent time of yore succeed when dealing with Humanity, but due to my ignorance of the aristocracy, I am afraid that I missed many of Waugh's intended reflections upon the workings of Grace in such a family. I found the prose elegantly tight, but the story felt lumpy to me--the dichotomy of narrator Charles' love for brother and sister Sebastien and Julia was misshapen , at times under-emphasized only to come to the fore with staggering zeal, then be shunted off again, barely worth commenting on. In this way, his characters were not so much dynamic as re-written every few chapters.Definitely worth the read, but overall it felt more like a visit to a museum than a transforming experience.
2.) Outlander by Diana Gabaldon--This is Book #1 of a (so-far) 7 book series combining historical romance, adventure, and a hint of sci-fi. And the series is HUGELY popular--Over 1,200 folks have taken the time to give their recommendation of this book on Amazon.com, averaging 4.25 stars. But I'm here to tell You, intelligent Readers, this is horrible shite.
General complaints: cardboard characters whose motives are paper-thin, belabored dialogue (alternating between ridiculously flowery and just plain ridiculous), overly descriptive scene setting that veers away from plot propulsion, and a wasteful (not to mention unbelievable) plot.
Specific complaints: I don't know about You, but I, for one, have a hard time believing that (a) a married WWII nurse sucked backed to mid-1700s Scotland could keep her wits in such a situation, so much so that can "move on" with her life, and four weeks later marry another man, and that (b) despite loving her first husband, she can gleefully abandon herself to her new husband (resulting in--I'm not kidding!--over 200 pages of sexual encounters, just during the honeymoon phase), feeling no twinge of regret or pain or loss, and that (c) this so-called marriage is held up to be the union of two souls in a Grand Passion, particularly when new husband is "forced to discipline" her; she fights, but the book graphically describes him overpowering and beating her, and that (d) this "modern" woman understands that this violence is only the result of the clash of two time-cultures, and so she forgives new husband and a day after the beating they are back in the sack; the plot only gets better from here. Suffice it to say, there's a lot of rape and attempted rape and then "healing" by way of cathartic-reenactment-of rape. Oh, yes.
What the popularity of these books means to society: we are all doomed, and too stupid to realize it. How in the hiz-ell can anyone be attracted to this kind of book as an entertainment, a wishful romance of a different life? WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH WOMEN THAT THEY THINK THIS IS THE HEIGHT OF ROMANCE? I think Natural Selection has some work to do.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Freaky Animals Gettin' It ON: Another Sign of the Pending Apocalypse
Q: What does one call the foal of a mule?
A: No one knows--there's never been one before!
[Cue "impending doom" music.]
If this IS some kind of devil-donkey from demonic regions, I think I'm OK. I met Satan (or at least one of his closest followers) last weekend; he was really nice. I met him at the outdoor cafe of Ringler's Annex, just up the street from Powell's; some friends and I were sobering up when SatanMan sat down next to us with his gigantic black bulldog. His dog immediately curled up on my feet, so we got to talking. SatanMan has two large conical protuberances under the skin of his forehead (á la barely concealed horns), a long black goatee, and a floppy black plastic mustache inserted at the base of his nose. Also, his ears had been pierced so that the auditory canal was protected by a pentagram. No tail was visible, but he had lots of chains and spikes projecting from random parts of his clothing. Sweet dude, SatanMan.
A: No one knows--there's never been one before!
[Cue "impending doom" music.]
If this IS some kind of devil-donkey from demonic regions, I think I'm OK. I met Satan (or at least one of his closest followers) last weekend; he was really nice. I met him at the outdoor cafe of Ringler's Annex, just up the street from Powell's; some friends and I were sobering up when SatanMan sat down next to us with his gigantic black bulldog. His dog immediately curled up on my feet, so we got to talking. SatanMan has two large conical protuberances under the skin of his forehead (á la barely concealed horns), a long black goatee, and a floppy black plastic mustache inserted at the base of his nose. Also, his ears had been pierced so that the auditory canal was protected by a pentagram. No tail was visible, but he had lots of chains and spikes projecting from random parts of his clothing. Sweet dude, SatanMan.
There's No Place Like...Prison?
Former Philippines First Lady Imelda Marcos was personally responsible for capturing 4,000+ pairs of shoes; it appears that, like Dorothy, the legacy of Imelda's outlandish footwear has Transformative Powers. How else to explain Prison!: The Musical, complete with 1.9 million YouTube following?
Yes, that's right: the prisons are turning everyday into a musical for the murderers, rapists, thieves and their ilk. And that's a Good Thing. Everyday free exercise time is now poured into three hours of intense dance rehearsal, featuring songs from Sister Act, Michael Jackson, and others. Prison officials report a marked decline in violent behavior and greater success by former inmates once released back into society. Who says The Arts aren't important for the health of Society?
Yes, that's right: the prisons are turning everyday into a musical for the murderers, rapists, thieves and their ilk. And that's a Good Thing. Everyday free exercise time is now poured into three hours of intense dance rehearsal, featuring songs from Sister Act, Michael Jackson, and others. Prison officials report a marked decline in violent behavior and greater success by former inmates once released back into society. Who says The Arts aren't important for the health of Society?
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Comic-Con(fusion)
I'd just like to give a Shout Out to MGF* Deeluxegal, currently braving the tens of thousands of comic-crazed fans at Comic-Con '07. She is there to reprise her 2006-premiered role of "Barrista Girl," the saucy heroine of the opera based on Shannon Wheeler's cult comic Too Much Coffee Man. I hope she is seeing lots of Vulcans and Caped Wonders and Aliens, but with five shows in three days, I doubt she has time for much. But, golly, wouldn't it be exciting if she meets Joss!
Speaking of comics, I've read quite a few in the last month, and now, as is my due, I should like to reflect upon these story-vessels.
Hellboy, the collected comics, v.1-4 by Pdx dude Mike Mignola--Long ennobled with the title "Masterpiece", the Hellboy series is a much beloved (and awarded!) industry fave.
What I loved: the art--arresting and evocative, magnificent use of a very limited color scheme.
What I liked: the concept--a deformed imp adopted into mainstream American life; as per traditional comic lore, Hellboy (our lovable demonic hero) comes equipped with untold Powers and Possibilities--will they save the world? Or bring on Armageddon?
What I disliked: the shortcuts taken in both character development and general narrative; sometimes a picture is NOT worth a thousand words. Or a mere hundred. If they are the right hundred.
What this all means: Solid, engaging tale, but I prefer to reserve the title of "Masterpiece" for things that not only outstrip their current competition, but that elevate every aspect of the work.
Alias**, the collected comics, v.1-4 by Brian Michael Bendis--In 2002, Marvel Comics launched its first-ever "R-Rated" series about your average ex-superhero-turned-P.I., Jessica Jones. In truly subtle comic book form, Marvel announces the rating-raise from the first word: "Fuck."
What I loved: the character of Jessica was nuanced, tough yet womanly, and drawn fairly realistically (i.e. her boobs were relative to the size of her body). Also, wonderful use of a variety of art techniques to highlight different times/experiences in Jessica's life.
What I liked: characters were dynamic, and the stories spun traditional superhero mythology into a totally believable world.
What I disliked: the art--particularly when trying to convey deep, penetrating glances, but the faces just looked frozen or hung-over--sometimes left me a bit confused.
What this all means: a mature take on the superheros of childhood; very worthy way to kill some time.
Fray by Joss Whedon--Continuing the saga of Slayers vs. Vampires 500 years after viewers last left Buffy.
What I loved: Um, well...I'm a bit prejudiced when it comes to all things Buffy-Joss. So, despite the comic's many flaws, it was kind-of impossible for me not to love it. C'mon. It's JOSS.
What I liked: the art and story complemented each other well. I also loved how Joss kinda wipes the slate clean--because of Buffy's Season 7 actions, the world is a very different place for our new heroine. And to save the world, Fray has to face her own past. Ya gotta love a hook like that (at least if You're into pseudo-psychology, like Freud-lite).
What I disliked: some plot developments are a leeetle tooo obvious--we don't have any nifty music or camera pans to offer any Red Herrings.
What this all means: I heart Joss. And his mighty creations. Heart. Them. So. Much.
*My Good Friend, 'natch.
**No relation to J.J. Abrams' awesome-then-stupid TV show of the same name.
Speaking of comics, I've read quite a few in the last month, and now, as is my due, I should like to reflect upon these story-vessels.
Hellboy, the collected comics, v.1-4 by Pdx dude Mike Mignola--Long ennobled with the title "Masterpiece", the Hellboy series is a much beloved (and awarded!) industry fave.
What I loved: the art--arresting and evocative, magnificent use of a very limited color scheme.
What I liked: the concept--a deformed imp adopted into mainstream American life; as per traditional comic lore, Hellboy (our lovable demonic hero) comes equipped with untold Powers and Possibilities--will they save the world? Or bring on Armageddon?
What I disliked: the shortcuts taken in both character development and general narrative; sometimes a picture is NOT worth a thousand words. Or a mere hundred. If they are the right hundred.
What this all means: Solid, engaging tale, but I prefer to reserve the title of "Masterpiece" for things that not only outstrip their current competition, but that elevate every aspect of the work.
Alias**, the collected comics, v.1-4 by Brian Michael Bendis--In 2002, Marvel Comics launched its first-ever "R-Rated" series about your average ex-superhero-turned-P.I., Jessica Jones. In truly subtle comic book form, Marvel announces the rating-raise from the first word: "Fuck."
What I loved: the character of Jessica was nuanced, tough yet womanly, and drawn fairly realistically (i.e. her boobs were relative to the size of her body). Also, wonderful use of a variety of art techniques to highlight different times/experiences in Jessica's life.
What I liked: characters were dynamic, and the stories spun traditional superhero mythology into a totally believable world.
What I disliked: the art--particularly when trying to convey deep, penetrating glances, but the faces just looked frozen or hung-over--sometimes left me a bit confused.
What this all means: a mature take on the superheros of childhood; very worthy way to kill some time.
Fray by Joss Whedon--Continuing the saga of Slayers vs. Vampires 500 years after viewers last left Buffy.
What I loved: Um, well...I'm a bit prejudiced when it comes to all things Buffy-Joss. So, despite the comic's many flaws, it was kind-of impossible for me not to love it. C'mon. It's JOSS.
What I liked: the art and story complemented each other well. I also loved how Joss kinda wipes the slate clean--because of Buffy's Season 7 actions, the world is a very different place for our new heroine. And to save the world, Fray has to face her own past. Ya gotta love a hook like that (at least if You're into pseudo-psychology, like Freud-lite).
What I disliked: some plot developments are a leeetle tooo obvious--we don't have any nifty music or camera pans to offer any Red Herrings.
What this all means: I heart Joss. And his mighty creations. Heart. Them. So. Much.
*My Good Friend, 'natch.
**No relation to J.J. Abrams' awesome-then-stupid TV show of the same name.
Friday, July 27, 2007
I'll Take Passion Over Perfection Any Day of the Week
What captivates me in this video is the audience response. Here is a man with a moderate amount of talent (note: not a great talent, and little skill) risking it all for the chance to sing "Nessun dorma*" on Britain's Got Talent. You can see the judges and audience brace themselves when Mr. Potts announces that he is there to sing opera. By the time he is halfway through his selection, however, members of the audience are visibly weeping, others are cheering, whistling, and clapping, the deliciously snippy Simon Cowell is beaming. It is thrilling.
Opera (like all Serious--aka "Classical"--music) is said to be dying. Despite sexy marketing schemes aimed to "widen" the support base, audiences consist of old, white people. The general public doesn't seem to give a damn. Yet time and time again, I have witnessed a profound awakening when people are exposed to the raw emotion of Serious music, so often hid behind Hype and Hyperbole.
Hubby and I grew up in households that cherished Serious music, and these traditions were lovingly shared with us by our parents. Others of our friends did not. 15-year-old Hubby once brought home a school friend who had been raised on 70s & 80s metal; while they were hanging out, Hubby's father turned on some background music. It was Beethoven's Appassionata Sonata. Hubby noticed his friend had grown quiet; his friend's face was covered with tears. "Why didn't anyone ever tell me?" Friend asked. "How could there be this kind of beauty in the world and no one ever told me?" Later, in college, Hubby had a neighbor heavily into rap. After turning on Coolio's latest album, Neighbor burst out of his room, hollering to any one who would listen, "Man, are you listening to this shit?! Coolio is a fuckin' genius, man! I'd like to see someone else come up with this shit!" The song was "C U When U Get There," with Coolio rapping his own text over Pachelbel's Canon in D**.
So what is The Problem? Is it the Mystification of Serious music? Is it Snobbery on the part of over-zealous guardians? Is it the Disdainment of "Intellectualism" on the part of an ostracized public? How can we cut through the Bullshit and get straight to the Passion?
*"Nessun dorma" is THE most famous Tenor aria, period. It comes from the final act of Puccini's Turandot, when the character of Calaf battles wits with the princess, who attempts to discover her suitor's true identity. Translation (via the score):
No one shall sleep! Even you, o Princess, in your cold room, watch the stars, that tremble with love and with hope. But my secret is hidden within me, my name no one shall know... No!...No!... On your mouth I will tell it when the light shines. And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine!...You, I will win!
**You know, the one that always gets played at weddings.
Opera (like all Serious--aka "Classical"--music) is said to be dying. Despite sexy marketing schemes aimed to "widen" the support base, audiences consist of old, white people. The general public doesn't seem to give a damn. Yet time and time again, I have witnessed a profound awakening when people are exposed to the raw emotion of Serious music, so often hid behind Hype and Hyperbole.
Hubby and I grew up in households that cherished Serious music, and these traditions were lovingly shared with us by our parents. Others of our friends did not. 15-year-old Hubby once brought home a school friend who had been raised on 70s & 80s metal; while they were hanging out, Hubby's father turned on some background music. It was Beethoven's Appassionata Sonata. Hubby noticed his friend had grown quiet; his friend's face was covered with tears. "Why didn't anyone ever tell me?" Friend asked. "How could there be this kind of beauty in the world and no one ever told me?" Later, in college, Hubby had a neighbor heavily into rap. After turning on Coolio's latest album, Neighbor burst out of his room, hollering to any one who would listen, "Man, are you listening to this shit?! Coolio is a fuckin' genius, man! I'd like to see someone else come up with this shit!" The song was "C U When U Get There," with Coolio rapping his own text over Pachelbel's Canon in D**.
So what is The Problem? Is it the Mystification of Serious music? Is it Snobbery on the part of over-zealous guardians? Is it the Disdainment of "Intellectualism" on the part of an ostracized public? How can we cut through the Bullshit and get straight to the Passion?
*"Nessun dorma" is THE most famous Tenor aria, period. It comes from the final act of Puccini's Turandot, when the character of Calaf battles wits with the princess, who attempts to discover her suitor's true identity. Translation (via the score):
No one shall sleep! Even you, o Princess, in your cold room, watch the stars, that tremble with love and with hope. But my secret is hidden within me, my name no one shall know... No!...No!... On your mouth I will tell it when the light shines. And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine!...You, I will win!
**You know, the one that always gets played at weddings.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
The "W" Stands For "Wow"
One week ago, our President was schmoozing in Nashville, TN, the glitzy, trailer-park home of Country, when a question about music surprised him:
Q: Mr. President, music is one of our largest exports the country has. Currently, every country in the world -- except China, Iran, North Korea, Rwanda and the United States -- pay a statutory royalty to the performing artists for radio and television air play. Would your administration consider changing our laws to align it with the rest of the world?
THE PRESIDENT: Help. (Laughter.) Maybe you've never had a President say this -- I have, like, no earthly idea what you're talking about. (Laughter and applause.) Sounds like we're keeping interesting company, you know? (Laughter.)
Look, I'll give you the old classic: contact my office, will you? (Laughter.) I really don't -- I'm totally out of my lane. I like listening to country music, if that helps. (Laughter.)
Better Than "Co-lonoscopy Pie"
I heart the Wunderteam of Red State Update. Having grown up in the Hoosierland, these characters are near and dear to me. (Thank you to VideoDog!)
An Avalanche Of Books
For those of You who don't know, I've had this nasty sicko thing going on for quite a while now; I haven't been able to sing for 4 weeks, and am due to perform next week. Being the Neurotic Singer that I am, I went straight to the doc, who then confined me to vocal rest for the next few days. She also assigned steroids, enough that I might have to start waxing my chest.
In the meantime, I thought now might be a nice bit of time to, je ne sais pas, actually blather in my Blatherscope. So here goes: BOOKS!!!!
1. True History of the Kelly Gang by Peter Carey--Cutting to the chase, I adored this book. This is very close to that most illusive of all art-forms: a Perfect Book. Winner of the 2001 Booker Prize, Carey gives us Lucky Readers the "autobiography" of 19th-century Australia's most notorious outlaw, Ned Kelly. Accounting his life for his baby daughter, Ned begins, "I lost my own father at 12 yr. of age and know what it is to be raised on lies and silences my dear daughter you are presently too young to understand a word I write but this history is for you and will contain no single lie may I burn in Hell if I speak false." Carey sweeps the Reader away in the wonderfully athletic language, phrasing, and punctuation (or lack thereof) of a man on the run because of following his own honor. At the age of 14 1/2, Ned is arrested:
"Did I know he [the constable] asked me what were the penalty if I were convicted.
No.
It is death by hanging you little eff.[*]
Many more times would death be pronounced over me but on this 1st occasion I were least prepared I could hear some boys playing cricket in the yard across the road also the regular chink chink chink of a nearby blacksmith at his forge. My legs must of give way beneath me but I didnt realise I were sitting down till I felt the crib's cold hard cleats behind my knees.
Then I heard the mongrel laugh I couldn't see him properly no more than the white of his teeth the reflection in his big bug eyes but as he laughed I knew him weak and thus were comforted."
Carey, however, packages his narrative in documentary detachment, describing each of Ned's "parcels" (conveniently used as chapter divisions) of writing scraps by type of paper used, presumed writing utensil, and how (if) it was bound, followed by a brief, clinical summation of the parcel's contents. "PARCEL ONE: His Life until the Age of 12. National Bank letterhead....There are 45 sheets of medium stock (8"x10" approx.) with stabholes near the top where at one time they were crudely bound....Contains accounts of his early relations with police including an accusation of transvestism....A story explaining the origins of the sash presently held by the Benalla Historical Society. Death of John Kelly." Other "documents" form the untitled pro- and epilogues, giving the epistles the surreal tinge of bureaucratic filing, adding a thick sense of horror to how government deals with life.
An amazing feat of fiction. But be sure to brush up on your Australian slang:)
2. The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan--Haunting, infuriating, passionate, inspiring: this is the story of The Dust Bowl, those who survived it, and those who did not. Egan's heartrending prose justly earned him the National Book Award for non-fiction last year. This book was humbling--how could I not know about this disaster? I mean, I knew It was a part of The Great Depression (from which we are less than 80 years removed, Blatherscopians!), I knew some of America's land was extra dusty for a while, and I knew John Steinbeck wrote his searing The Grapes Of Wrath ** about a family escaping from It, but....I had no idea the magnitude of the actual disaster; I am appalled and in awe. "A Sunday in mid-April 1935 dawned quiet, windless, and bright. In the afternoon, the sky went purple--as if it were sick--and the temperature plunged. People looked northwest and saw a ragged-topped formation on the move, covering the horizon. The air crackled with electricity. Snap. Snap. Snap. Birds screeched and dashed for cover. As the black wall approached, car radios clicked off, overwhelmed by the static. Ignitions shorted out. Waves of sand, like ocean water rising over a ship's prow, swept over roads. Cars went into ditches. A train derailed....
That was Black Sunday, April 14, 1935, day of the worst duster of them all. The storm carried twice as much dirt as was dug out of the earth to create the Panama Canal. The canal took seven years to dig; the storm lasted a single afternoon. More than 300,000 tons of Great Plains topsoil was airborne that day."
The story of The Dust Bowl is Homeric tragedy: how Human Ingenuity turned to Hubris and stripped millions of acres of earth bare within two generations; the earth has just to recover as thousands of acres of the former Great Plains remain a drifting desert of sand. Oh....ARG!!! There are so many amazing parts of this history, but I don't want to spoil any of it. This book is both Good and Important (how often do those two adjectives coincide, eh?); I highly recommend it (on the High-O-Meter, it gets an 11/11).
Exclamation point!
Aww, crap, I have to leave for rehearsal soon. I will continue with the Avalanche of Books when I return. Until then, gentle Readers, meditate on balloon animals. Or whatever.
*Because the memoir is writing for his daughter, Ned refuses to use the actual swear words; instead, he says things like, "Get away from my adjectival horse, you b------d!" His faithfulness to this convention endeared him to me--that bit of stubborn protection made the character all the more human.
**Steinbeck's masterpiece has recently been turned into an opera by Ricky Ian Gordon. And I cannot believe it is any good--Steinbeck's story is already operatic, it doesn't need the extra schmaltz of Gordon's over-cooked melodies. Gordon is essentially a Musical Theater composer who wishes he had the grandiose vision for opera--but he doesn't.
In the meantime, I thought now might be a nice bit of time to, je ne sais pas, actually blather in my Blatherscope. So here goes: BOOKS!!!!
1. True History of the Kelly Gang by Peter Carey--Cutting to the chase, I adored this book. This is very close to that most illusive of all art-forms: a Perfect Book. Winner of the 2001 Booker Prize, Carey gives us Lucky Readers the "autobiography" of 19th-century Australia's most notorious outlaw, Ned Kelly. Accounting his life for his baby daughter, Ned begins, "I lost my own father at 12 yr. of age and know what it is to be raised on lies and silences my dear daughter you are presently too young to understand a word I write but this history is for you and will contain no single lie may I burn in Hell if I speak false." Carey sweeps the Reader away in the wonderfully athletic language, phrasing, and punctuation (or lack thereof) of a man on the run because of following his own honor. At the age of 14 1/2, Ned is arrested:
"Did I know he [the constable] asked me what were the penalty if I were convicted.
No.
It is death by hanging you little eff.[*]
Many more times would death be pronounced over me but on this 1st occasion I were least prepared I could hear some boys playing cricket in the yard across the road also the regular chink chink chink of a nearby blacksmith at his forge. My legs must of give way beneath me but I didnt realise I were sitting down till I felt the crib's cold hard cleats behind my knees.
Then I heard the mongrel laugh I couldn't see him properly no more than the white of his teeth the reflection in his big bug eyes but as he laughed I knew him weak and thus were comforted."
Carey, however, packages his narrative in documentary detachment, describing each of Ned's "parcels" (conveniently used as chapter divisions) of writing scraps by type of paper used, presumed writing utensil, and how (if) it was bound, followed by a brief, clinical summation of the parcel's contents. "PARCEL ONE: His Life until the Age of 12. National Bank letterhead....There are 45 sheets of medium stock (8"x10" approx.) with stabholes near the top where at one time they were crudely bound....Contains accounts of his early relations with police including an accusation of transvestism....A story explaining the origins of the sash presently held by the Benalla Historical Society. Death of John Kelly." Other "documents" form the untitled pro- and epilogues, giving the epistles the surreal tinge of bureaucratic filing, adding a thick sense of horror to how government deals with life.
An amazing feat of fiction. But be sure to brush up on your Australian slang:)
2. The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan--Haunting, infuriating, passionate, inspiring: this is the story of The Dust Bowl, those who survived it, and those who did not. Egan's heartrending prose justly earned him the National Book Award for non-fiction last year. This book was humbling--how could I not know about this disaster? I mean, I knew It was a part of The Great Depression (from which we are less than 80 years removed, Blatherscopians!), I knew some of America's land was extra dusty for a while, and I knew John Steinbeck wrote his searing The Grapes Of Wrath ** about a family escaping from It, but....I had no idea the magnitude of the actual disaster; I am appalled and in awe. "A Sunday in mid-April 1935 dawned quiet, windless, and bright. In the afternoon, the sky went purple--as if it were sick--and the temperature plunged. People looked northwest and saw a ragged-topped formation on the move, covering the horizon. The air crackled with electricity. Snap. Snap. Snap. Birds screeched and dashed for cover. As the black wall approached, car radios clicked off, overwhelmed by the static. Ignitions shorted out. Waves of sand, like ocean water rising over a ship's prow, swept over roads. Cars went into ditches. A train derailed....
That was Black Sunday, April 14, 1935, day of the worst duster of them all. The storm carried twice as much dirt as was dug out of the earth to create the Panama Canal. The canal took seven years to dig; the storm lasted a single afternoon. More than 300,000 tons of Great Plains topsoil was airborne that day."
The story of The Dust Bowl is Homeric tragedy: how Human Ingenuity turned to Hubris and stripped millions of acres of earth bare within two generations; the earth has just to recover as thousands of acres of the former Great Plains remain a drifting desert of sand. Oh....ARG!!! There are so many amazing parts of this history, but I don't want to spoil any of it. This book is both Good and Important (how often do those two adjectives coincide, eh?); I highly recommend it (on the High-O-Meter, it gets an 11/11).
Exclamation point!
Aww, crap, I have to leave for rehearsal soon. I will continue with the Avalanche of Books when I return. Until then, gentle Readers, meditate on balloon animals. Or whatever.
*Because the memoir is writing for his daughter, Ned refuses to use the actual swear words; instead, he says things like, "Get away from my adjectival horse, you b------d!" His faithfulness to this convention endeared him to me--that bit of stubborn protection made the character all the more human.
**Steinbeck's masterpiece has recently been turned into an opera by Ricky Ian Gordon. And I cannot believe it is any good--Steinbeck's story is already operatic, it doesn't need the extra schmaltz of Gordon's over-cooked melodies. Gordon is essentially a Musical Theater composer who wishes he had the grandiose vision for opera--but he doesn't.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Debussy Lives!
Arguably the ONLY Impressionist composer, Claude Debussy (1862-1918) created scads of heavily notated and editorialized works. Yet like so many hypocrites (and I mean You!), it turns out he did not Practice What He Preached. Tsk, tsk, Monsieur. Je ne comprends pas pourquoi on écritons la musique que on ne voulons pas suivre. Bien, c'est l'emploi de l'imagination, n'est-ce pas?
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Do The Sci-Fi Jive!
It seems like Sci-Fi has long been the realm of the Geeks: well, move over Geeks, 'cuz the Nerds are movin' in on your AstroStarTurf.* Only the Geeks have given such a bad name to the genre (here I am invoking images of skinny, pimple-headed boys lusting after purple alien mutants with big tits) that the Nerds refuse to acknowledge that they are even in the same hemisphere. This article from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer ** notes the rising popularity of once-marginalized "Science" Fiction--cheesy TV, movies, and books are now Television classics, Films, and Literature--then asking if this signals The End of Sci-Fi as the Geeks know it. From the new Battlestar Galactica to Serenity to Michael Cunningham's Specimen Days, Nerds are elevating the geeky discourse, transforming cardboard characters into real friends and foes, refusing to let a strange or otherworldly setting take the place of an actual story. Now, if You're like me (and I know You are, my loverly Blatherscopians!), You are wondering, "Would it be such a bad thing if it were The End?" I, for one, would never wish an End to the wonderfully awkward community of Imaginators creating new realms with their minds--it's the awkward part I would like to see made graceful. Gracefulness comes from comfort--comfort with one's self, one's mental capacities, and one's society. This requires the courage to examine one's self and current world in the hope to understand it, and possibly change it. Science ain't nothin' without Heart.
*Geeks have a vast depth of knowledge in a subject or area, usually related to the possibilities of science/mathematics/computers/military history/other inane, highly specific areas of history; this often borders on psychotic obsession. Geeks are marked by a lack of knowledge of current social convention (although many are fluent in Klingon dining habits or Arthurian jousting rules), including fashion, slang, and nominal conversational skills. Nerds are very similar to Geeks in interests, but have the general command of social skills and better hygiene. Also, due to this increased social awareness, Nerds will also champion the more artistic aspects of applied science, math, history, etc. in the form of the Arts/Lit/Poetry/Drama/Music/Dance, etc. Geeks might be among us, but Nerds ARE us.
**Does that seem like a horrible name for a paper to anyone else? As in, "the intelligence in Seattle is finished, done, kaput"?
*Geeks have a vast depth of knowledge in a subject or area, usually related to the possibilities of science/mathematics/computers/military history/other inane, highly specific areas of history; this often borders on psychotic obsession. Geeks are marked by a lack of knowledge of current social convention (although many are fluent in Klingon dining habits or Arthurian jousting rules), including fashion, slang, and nominal conversational skills. Nerds are very similar to Geeks in interests, but have the general command of social skills and better hygiene. Also, due to this increased social awareness, Nerds will also champion the more artistic aspects of applied science, math, history, etc. in the form of the Arts/Lit/Poetry/Drama/Music/Dance, etc. Geeks might be among us, but Nerds ARE us.
**Does that seem like a horrible name for a paper to anyone else? As in, "the intelligence in Seattle is finished, done, kaput"?
Monday, July 16, 2007
Sock-Puppets: No Longer The Innocent Pastime of Innocent Children
...Or even those annoying Fandango commercials. Now it's the domain of assholes on the Internet who create "a fake online identity to praise, defend or create the illusion of support for one’s self, allies or company." This isn't illegal (nor should it be, unless they are spreading lies to boost stock sales or some such nonsense), it's just embarrassing--how lame and insecure do you have to be to converse with your own alias in order to stroke your Ego? Par example: according to The NY Times, John Mackey, founder of Whole Foods, "wrote as Rahodeb, 'I like Mackey’s haircut. I think he looks cute!'”*Picture brazenly stolen from the blog/site of Pdx artist Khris Soden, whose stuff is awesome! Check it out! (I will, of course, remove artwork immediately, if asked.)
Sump'than Purty
Hey, Blatherscopians, ya know how I, like, like books? This exhibit* shows off some lovely forays into Book Making, including this book-box by Sue Allen, an artist from our very own Oregon. Ms. Allen captured 16 moments over 4 seasons in our very own Portland Japanese Gardens and committed them to these wonderful screen prints. The rest of the exhibit is full of fun thangs, like 3D books shaped like owls. Be sure to hop over for a quick peek.
*Thanks to Bookgirl for the link.
*Thanks to Bookgirl for the link.
Paying for Procreation
This gets a big "Hmmm..." from me..... The money goes solely to mothers, rather than families? What about average education/income of the sponsored mothers? Children of immigrants born on German soil are NOT considered citizens, and the citizenship process is lengthy and expensive, so this appears to entice "native" (i.e. Aryan) women to reproduce. The whole thing smacks of Orwellian Baby Farming. Don't get me wrong: I am a big supporter of government subsidies for children's' health care and education, as well as tax breaks for families (whatever the family make-up may be). It just seems like Germany is trying to combat a dwindling population of natural citizens by buying the wombs of the poor and undereducated.
The Decider Decides To Forsake Children
Plant this pretty little Bush in your garden and watch it grow! No Child Left Behind, unless Said Child can't pay out $250-$600/mo privately. Yes, friends & countrymen, this man is Divinely Inspired to do What's Best For Our Country.
Bitchin' Witches Rock!
I know many of you Blatherscopians have been Harry Potter fans since The Beginning; well, The End is nigh, and signs of its Apocalypse are among us: the 5th movie just opened in theaters (very pretty, I must say), actor-embodiment Daniel Radcliffe is old enough to show his Harry Potter in public, and wizards are branching into the Magic of Music. If you think punk rock is Magical.
Harry and the Potters, Draco and the Malfoys, The Whomping Willow, and The Remus Lupins all try to cast a spell on You with songs such as "Smoochey Smoochey Pukey Pukey" and "In Which Draco Malfoy Cries Like A Baby." This is an incredible punk-lit-music-nerd movement, the like of which has not been seen since...well, Wagner, actually. I heart the nerdy adoration of literature. Especially nerdy adoration that spills out as song.
Harry and the Potters, Draco and the Malfoys, The Whomping Willow, and The Remus Lupins all try to cast a spell on You with songs such as "Smoochey Smoochey Pukey Pukey" and "In Which Draco Malfoy Cries Like A Baby." This is an incredible punk-lit-music-nerd movement, the like of which has not been seen since...well, Wagner, actually. I heart the nerdy adoration of literature. Especially nerdy adoration that spills out as song.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
THE Must-Have Summer Reading List of the Year
...comes from The Onion, of course! Whether you are an atheist gynophobe, a devotee to nudie photojournalism, or are into historical fiction that re-visions the last generation of male mass-murders as sexy ladies, this list is For You.
Remember Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Books?
They just got a grown-up, pop-art twist*. Stenciled all over the sidewalks of San Fransisco's Mission district is a love story told in stammering snatches. You, the Reader, control the Fate of this he/she romance. "She Loves The Moon" (by art collective The Strangers) begins in two separate locations--either "She leaves her lonely apartment" or "He leaves his lonely apartment"--the characters will eventually meet, but events pull them apart; they have a chance for happiness later, but... [dum-da-dum-dum-Dum!] anything can happen in a choose-your-own-adventure.
I heart this idea! I kinda want to do this to my driveway/garden path. Probably won't, though: the Laziness always wins.
*Thanks to SiLLee for putting me in The Know!
I heart this idea! I kinda want to do this to my driveway/garden path. Probably won't, though: the Laziness always wins.
*Thanks to SiLLee for putting me in The Know!
Double Your Pleasure
That phrase really does sound dirty, doesn't it? Anyway, check out this lost marvel of the 1920s: a Steinway piano constructed with a double keyboard. (The Times link also has a brief video of it actually being played. And this link gives more info about the thang actually works.) I love this kind of crap! The Impossible is Possible when one dares to dream! Huzzah for the Human Spirit!
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Hiatus Happens
O Blatherscopians, my Blatherscopians! Can you forgive a 2-week snub? Like any other Petulant Supplicant, I have excuses to offer: Illness and Heat have me assailed. Forgive my pomposity; I am in a ridiculous production of Purcell's ridiculous 17th-century opera Dido & Aeneas--the appalling libretto (of the first English opera ever) is rife with phrases such as: "and make not in a hopeless fire a hero fall." I play the hapless hero--that's right, I'm a Big Boy now! This production, despite its gorgeous voices, makes me to incredibly frustrated that I have a hard time remembering that the rest of the world is Good.
Then I go home and read about the latest antics of the Bush Administration and the waves of despair almost crush me.
Yet Beauty remains in our ravaged world--a new Caravaggio has been identified; yesterday's sunset was magnificent; my dogs are still sweet--so I think I shall keep my chin held high for another Day.
Then I go home and read about the latest antics of the Bush Administration and the waves of despair almost crush me.
Yet Beauty remains in our ravaged world--a new Caravaggio has been identified; yesterday's sunset was magnificent; my dogs are still sweet--so I think I shall keep my chin held high for another Day.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Hurrah for Wackiness!
All you Blatherscopians know how Zerd loves her some Wacky. ('Specially Theatre-folk makin' the wack.) The commedia dell'arte is alive and well...in the Land Down Under.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Speedin' Thru The Readin'
Soooo, I have a bunch of reviews to post--somehow, for every book that makes it on to the official To-Be-Read list, I seem to stumble across other X-tras that must be read Immediately. But that is another (several?) post. This post is mostly to let you, my diligent readers, know that I have not abandoned you and posts will be forthcoming. Sooooo, this is a really Lame post. But your patience will be rewarded with pearls from my pen....Oh, yes. Pearls.
And there is lots o' other crap to ketchup on! My Tacoma/Seattle trip, what a slime monster Dick Cheney is, some solid movies, magnificent games, and the music of my life (that tiny thang). Oh, and I almost choked/stabbed my larynx To Death with a grain-sized stray piece of plastic that got into my s'ghetti at dinner tonight. All that flashed in front of my eyes was $$$$$$$$ (I've spent too much on my voice to go THIS way!).
In the meantime, here's this super-cool thang you can do with old, pallid books to get new, shiny books. And some seriously silly...well, you'll see. N-joy!
And there is lots o' other crap to ketchup on! My Tacoma/Seattle trip, what a slime monster Dick Cheney is, some solid movies, magnificent games, and the music of my life (that tiny thang). Oh, and I almost choked/stabbed my larynx To Death with a grain-sized stray piece of plastic that got into my s'ghetti at dinner tonight. All that flashed in front of my eyes was $$$$$$$$ (I've spent too much on my voice to go THIS way!).
In the meantime, here's this super-cool thang you can do with old, pallid books to get new, shiny books. And some seriously silly...well, you'll see. N-joy!
Sunday, June 24, 2007
For The Fun
Trippy, id'n it? Sculptor Richard Wilson somehow convinced a building owner to let him cut an egg-shaped hole in the structure and make it revolve. Wilson calls his piece "Turning the Place Over"--it doesn't get much more British than that.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Happy Summer Solstice!
In honor of Summer (the season, goofies, not Summer Glau the actress who played "River" in Joss' short-lived but brilliant TV series Firefly--obviously, you Sci-Fi heads), I want to pass on a list of Good Things (in no particular order).
1. Who doesn't love cake? Especially fancy-schmancy dancey-prancey cakes, such as People's Cakes From Every State. My favorite is #22 (Michigan). No, wait! My favorite is #13 (Illinois). No, wait! #20 (Maryland). Oooo #23 (Minnesota)! Or #27 (Nebraska). Or #30 (New Jersey). Also, #43 (Texas). And #47 (Washington). Nevada (#28) is funny--gotta love that in a cake. But #5 (California) is just plain creepy. And #14 (Indiana) looks like the roses are bleeding chocolate. Mmmmm....salvation thru salivation?
2. The quixotic struggle to remember forgotten books. This lovely blog aims to do just that. Ain't that sweet? Although, it really just makes me feel like our puny attempts at immortality are a vain show.
3. Exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!!!! 'Nuff said.
4. Shopping for pretties. Some of my favorite sites: Elsewheres (soooo many pretties!), Mighty Goods (which is how one finds the pretties in the first place), Kimbooktu ('cuz it fills my book-nerdy heart with glee), Nama Rococo (for all my wallpaper lusts--trust me, this is not your grampie's wallpapers), Shop SCAD Atlanta (support those starving artists!), Sparkability ('cuz children ARE our future--although spending that kind of money on playthings can generate my gag-reflex), and My Shoppee Bag (the clothes are cute, and the translations of Japanese into English are even cuter).
5. Colleen Moore's Fairy Castle. It's magical.
6. Surfin' the inter-web for blogs that make me laugh. Some of 'um are funny on their own merits (example: Jesus Christ's Cool Blog, all about his adventures with his lamb, Karen, and occasionally the Holy Ghost, Doris) and some of 'um are funny because I am a condescending bastard (example: this libertarian dude who talks about defending himself against his neighbor's nuke). Other good blogs: 50 Books (funny woman turning her wit on books and life--sample: "It's a kind of a miracle, isn't it. But, like, a shitty miracle." ); Opera Chic (hilarious scoops on the austere world of opera--h4xx0r style, omg).
7. The number "seven". It's my favorite.
8. Dawn Upshaw. She's a modern goddess. These are her two most perfect recordings: The Girl With Orange Lips and Gorecki's Third Symphony: Symphony* of Sorrowful Songs. Although, I can find no fault with her recording of Samuel Barber's Knoxville: Summer of 1915 (with which, I might humbly add, I ended my Master's Recital, for all of you whom I might not have alerted, or met, in time to come).
9. TED. (No, fellow Buffy fans, not her erstwhile robotic stepfather-to-be; g*d, you guys sure have Joss on the brain today!) As a big fan of Ideas, this organization is sewwwwww kewwwwl! I heart them. There is plenty o' great shizz on their site. Watch, watch, my monkeys! Other good spots for, ya know, thought: NPR (my heart explodes with love!), Salon, How Stuff Works (for all you inquistive minds out there), and Video Jug (which shows "how-to" videos on purty much anything you could wish). Neat-o, ya know?
10. Given how much I heart books, Powell's City of Books earns a shout-out, simply because it is...well...a frackin' City of Books. I can lose myself in there for days. I always carry a spare toothbrush, just in case.
11. Speaking of toothbrushes**....Flossing. For some reason, this nightly ritual has become supremely comforting to me. I know it's weird. I know.
Ahhh, nothin' says "solstice" like Listmania!
*I accidentally typed "Sympony" the first time around. Hee! Pony.
**The plural applies to "brush" not "tooth". The more you know.
1. Who doesn't love cake? Especially fancy-schmancy dancey-prancey cakes, such as People's Cakes From Every State. My favorite is #22 (Michigan). No, wait! My favorite is #13 (Illinois). No, wait! #20 (Maryland). Oooo #23 (Minnesota)! Or #27 (Nebraska). Or #30 (New Jersey). Also, #43 (Texas). And #47 (Washington). Nevada (#28) is funny--gotta love that in a cake. But #5 (California) is just plain creepy. And #14 (Indiana) looks like the roses are bleeding chocolate. Mmmmm....salvation thru salivation?
2. The quixotic struggle to remember forgotten books. This lovely blog aims to do just that. Ain't that sweet? Although, it really just makes me feel like our puny attempts at immortality are a vain show.
3. Exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!!!! 'Nuff said.
4. Shopping for pretties. Some of my favorite sites: Elsewheres (soooo many pretties!), Mighty Goods (which is how one finds the pretties in the first place), Kimbooktu ('cuz it fills my book-nerdy heart with glee), Nama Rococo (for all my wallpaper lusts--trust me, this is not your grampie's wallpapers), Shop SCAD Atlanta (support those starving artists!), Sparkability ('cuz children ARE our future--although spending that kind of money on playthings can generate my gag-reflex), and My Shoppee Bag (the clothes are cute, and the translations of Japanese into English are even cuter).
5. Colleen Moore's Fairy Castle. It's magical.
6. Surfin' the inter-web for blogs that make me laugh. Some of 'um are funny on their own merits (example: Jesus Christ's Cool Blog, all about his adventures with his lamb, Karen, and occasionally the Holy Ghost, Doris) and some of 'um are funny because I am a condescending bastard (example: this libertarian dude who talks about defending himself against his neighbor's nuke). Other good blogs: 50 Books (funny woman turning her wit on books and life--sample: "It's a kind of a miracle, isn't it. But, like, a shitty miracle." ); Opera Chic (hilarious scoops on the austere world of opera--h4xx0r style, omg).
7. The number "seven". It's my favorite.
8. Dawn Upshaw. She's a modern goddess. These are her two most perfect recordings: The Girl With Orange Lips and Gorecki's Third Symphony: Symphony* of Sorrowful Songs. Although, I can find no fault with her recording of Samuel Barber's Knoxville: Summer of 1915 (with which, I might humbly add, I ended my Master's Recital, for all of you whom I might not have alerted, or met, in time to come).
9. TED. (No, fellow Buffy fans, not her erstwhile robotic stepfather-to-be; g*d, you guys sure have Joss on the brain today!) As a big fan of Ideas, this organization is sewwwwww kewwwwl! I heart them. There is plenty o' great shizz on their site. Watch, watch, my monkeys! Other good spots for, ya know, thought: NPR (my heart explodes with love!), Salon, How Stuff Works (for all you inquistive minds out there), and Video Jug (which shows "how-to" videos on purty much anything you could wish). Neat-o, ya know?
10. Given how much I heart books, Powell's City of Books earns a shout-out, simply because it is...well...a frackin' City of Books. I can lose myself in there for days. I always carry a spare toothbrush, just in case.
11. Speaking of toothbrushes**....Flossing. For some reason, this nightly ritual has become supremely comforting to me. I know it's weird. I know.
Ahhh, nothin' says "solstice" like Listmania!
*I accidentally typed "Sympony" the first time around. Hee! Pony.
**The plural applies to "brush" not "tooth". The more you know.
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