I hate public art.

At the southeastern corner of Central Park, there are two twenty-feet high welded metal constructions loop de looping over the sidewalk. One is painted pink and the other is striped with pastels. This aluminum mini-colossus is Franz West's The Ego and The Id.

From publicartfund.org

"The Ego and the Id" is internationally acclaimed artist Franz West's newest and largest aluminum sculpture to date. Soaring 20 feet high, the piece consists of two similar but distinct, brightly colored, looping abstract forms, one bubble gum pink and the other alternating blocks of blue, green, orange, and yellow. Each of the forms curve up at the bottom creating stools that invite passersby to stop, take a seat, and directly engage with the artwork. The sculpture is only truly complete once the viewer interacts with the work. The Ego and the Id is consistent with the artist's overarching desire to produce sociable environments for viewing art using his signature combination of whimsy and monumentality."

We came upon it towards the end of a damp November afternoon. The seats that invited us to engage directly with the work were very wet and I had no desire to "truly complete" the sculpture.

Sorry Franz. I hate your public art.

This isn't true of all public art, and might not have been true for this particular piece, had the day not been quite so wet and gloomy. If children had been there, gazing up, climbing over the bottom-most whorls of The Ego and the Id, while puppies gamboled up alongside Ugg-booted Fifth Avenites. Maybe if I hadn't read the placard**. Maybe if it were named The Ketchup and the Mustard.

But probably not.

We are surrounded by public art, in plazas, in parks. Some sculptures are dreadfully on the nose, others are totally oblique and without any sense of purpose. What's worse, is that often times they are accompanied by some artist's statement.†

Public Art should do two things^:

1. Reflect or Challenge its surroundings.
2. Allow the Public to do whatever the hell it wants to with it. (Short of destruction)

Here are two examples of successful pieces of Public Art that, quite literally, fit the above criteria:

Cloud Gate, Anish Kapoor


I love the Bean. Rumor has it that Anish hates it when people call it the Bean...well, too bad, Anish! You should have shaped it like a cloud or a gate if you wanted us to think of it as either. At least we are not calling it The Kidney.

The Bean is a triumphant example of Public Art. It reflects AND Challenges its environment. Because of the curves, you will never see a pure reflection of the city, your friends, or yourself. Depending on where you stand, you can see a kaleidoscope of earth, sky, city and people.

And the Public gets out there and does whatever they want. Everyone has their own ideas about what to do around The Bean. Take a picture, run through the hump (or, sure, Gate...whatever, shut up.), lie down. Everyone wants to see themselves and see others.

No one is being told how to respond to the art...they are just doing it.


Second, The Daley Plaza Picasso (or The Chicago Picasso).


This one rises up like a monster out of the concrete. The color reflects that of Daley Center and kind of dares the city to approach it, with its double-irised eye and exposed ribcage. The raked base gives it a sense of motion.

It also provides a slide and place to sit, if anyone wants it. Passersby, can do what they please.

So why do I hate The Ego and the Id?

I hate it for one reason. It has seats.

"Each of the forms curve up at the bottom creating stools that invite passersby to stop, take a seat, and directly engage with the artwork."

They don't just curve up and create "stools", there is a literal seat on the foot of each of these things. And that's why I hate it.

A few years ago, my nephew R. received a tree-house play set. It had it all, a tiny shack for the castaways, leaves on the tree, little rope ladders. It looked like a blast. He played with it for all of ten minutes, I think. Part of the problem was that the toy told him what to do with it, as my sister said, the play set was "overly determined".

I recall the same thing happening with me, too. My mom purchased a My Little Pony Pretty Parlor for me and I played with it non-stop for one day...and never picked it up again. I was much more interested in making a leg brace for my crippled dollhouse girl.

This is a fine line for toy makers and artists alike. How much is evocative, and how much is too vague. In the instance of The Ego and the Id, we have a vague piece of artwork that gives you instructions on what to do with it...once that has been fulfilled, then what? After having completed the artists vision, what about mine? I feel hemmed in by the expectation that I should sit. Now I'm bored and aggravated.

My basic philosophy is that all art, at its root, entertainsº (not "diverts" or "distracts"...the definitions for these three words have been confused, and to the loss of artists and audiences alike.). The trouble with The Ego and the Id is that it LOOKS like it will be entertaining, with all the bigness and the bubblegum pink.

And I hate it. Because it lied.



** By the way, can we all declare a moratorium on the use of the following words when describing what art is supposed to do: Invite, Engage, Childlike Sense of Play. These words don't mean anything anymore. What if someone tried to evoke an "Adultlike Sense of Play" or a "Childlike Sense of Brutality." Then we're getting someplace.

†Artists should be prevented at every turn from talking about their work. They are artists, not PR Reps or Art Critics. Instead of an explanation of context or inspiration, we are often treated to a grant proposal or plea for the art's worth.

^I am excluding Monuments from category. All you guys on horses and giant people sitting and glowering, you are safe.

ºNo. It doesn't JUST entertain, for any of you art dogs straining at your muzzles. It then communicates and then educates. In that order. If we're lucky.

Jerk.

Monday

Double Plus Google

As you make your rounds, from this blog to that blog, you may have noticed a shift in the word verifications as you prepare to submit your commentary. Instead of Bungst (n. Anxiety produced over the consumption of wheat based foods.) you get Army. Rather than Prib (v. To tickle from behind so as to gain physical advantage.) you see Bread.

What's this? These words already exist.

Never fear. When these words arrive in your word verification, trust that the good folks at Google have altered their meanings to create full new words. Don't worry yourself over the learnings of yesterday. Open yourself to the revised language of the future!


Exit |ˈegzit; ˈeksit|
n. A thing previously unspecified by sex or nomenclature. Esp. of babies, once gender and/or name is determined.

Bright |brīt|
v. To attack with an innocuous object.
Angela looked like she was going to bright me over the head with that roll of paper towels!

Fired |fīrd|
v. Humiliated by a Shakespearean taunt or insult in public.
[Etymology - Possible combination of archaic Fie (an exclamation of outrage or disgust) and modern slang use of Burn (to trick or insult)]

prick |prik|
v. To eat with visible disdain.

mur•ky |ˈmərkē|
adj. (Pejorative) Quirky or cute to the point of handicap.

crimp |krimp|
n. 1. A weeping wood sprite. 2. A man or woman so in love with a person or thing that they are unable to complete simple tasks like tying shoes or combing hair. 3. A bent whisk.

o•pen |ˈōpən|
v. To fall, by accident onto the most improbable sharp object in a vast expanse.
Can you believe it? On that whole tennis court, I fell on the the one unravelled paper clip right next to the net. I hope I don't have nerve damage in the soft of my arm.

soft |sôft|
n. The area just below the armpit on the upper arm.


Need a vocab lesson? Go Here or Here.

My Brain is Egg Smooth Today.

Not a wrinkle to spare. And bald, too.
I got dumbed in the night.
I'm lucky I got dressed. Or even knew what pants were. (Thank you guy at Walgreen's...and then Google.)

I've hired a typist named Kimberly to help me, since I forgot how to press the letters, or even what they mean. She seems nice enough, although I wonder if she's typing what I tell her to...I can't read either. I'll ask.

"Are you typing what I ask you to, Kimberly?"

She smiles and says, "Don't you worry."

"Type that so they know I asked." I tell her.

Kimberly looks at me and smiles.

I smile.

Kimberly smiles.

I smile.

Kimberly smiles.

Kimberly bursts into tears.

Unsure, I burst into tears.

I think I need to go home. I hope I remember my house number.




[Does anyone here know what's going on? She seems like an okay person and everything like that, but I'm worried that she won't be able to get home by herself. Is someone coming to pick her up? - Kimberly]

Insomnia

|inˈsämnēə|
noun
habitual sleeplessness; inability to sleep.

DERIVATIVES
insomniac |-nēˌak| |1nˈsɑmniˈøk| noun & adjective

ORIGIN early 17th cent.: from Latin, from insomnis ‘sleepless,’ from in- (expressing negation) + somnus ‘sleep.’


Knowing this does not make sleep come any easier.
No Lunesta tonight.

Pro•cras•ti•nate |prəˈkrastəˌnāt; prō-|
verb [ intrans. ]
delay or postpone action; put off doing something : it won't be this price for long, so don't procrastinate.

Looking this up just made everything seem all the more pressing.


It's curious what one thinks to eat in the middle of the night, with few or no options in the fridge. One lingers, 42 degrees wafting at the forearm in front of the open door, considering terrible experiments with mayonnaise and curry powder.

The door is shut and disaster is averted...until five minutes later when the door opens again. Maybe ranch and curry powder?

There are repeated visits to the icebox, as if, in 12 minutes of darkness, food has emerged via abiogenesis. No, it hasn't. There is no magnificent treat waiting, hidden behind the left over (forgotten) mashed potatoes...the Scrabble tiles of the refrigerator are all vowels.

Brussels Sprouts can't hurt.

Eight of them roll around in a bowl with yellow squares of butter. Yes. This is just the thing at 2:15am.


...

Aye me. How unsatisfying.

And work still beckons. An encampment of Focus sends up flares across the lake, as I skitter across the ice. I look into the night sky and see the Big Dipper. I could never make it out before. Smiling, I point straight up.

"Hey! Look you guys, it's the Big Dipper!"

Robert Falcon Scott, who is no stranger to lost directions, shakes his head and sends up another red flare.

"Oh...right..." I scurry further across the lake as the churning waters of Being and Time threaten to crack the ice from beneath.

Robert Falcon Scott barks at me "No more of that, now. Stop it this instant!"

Man.

The ice collapses behind me as I make it to shore. Snow melts away and I'm back in my apartment. No Robert Falcon Scott. No Snow. No Being. No Time.

Just wide awake with work tugging at my polka dotted pajama pants.

(Never you mind counting the P's in that sentence. Get to work.)

Yes, get to work. Right after I eat some more vowels out of the fridge.

Who is this dagger I see before me?

As the Christmas Season languished sometime in early February, Mom would pull down the Christmas Ornaments and scores of Santas from around the house. Then, with great care, she packed them all into boxes to stash away until the next year. But rather than tuck the decorations together in a way that might use the inner space of the boxes to best advantage, she would assess which bulbs, snowflakes, or angels would like to rest for a year with other bulbs, snowflakes, or angels. Which two decorations belonged together? Was the this Santa friends with that Elf? The Mr. and Mrs. Mouse (a Dickensian duo, made of corn shuck) must always be together, as should the Gingerbread brother and sister.

(This often caused me to wonder if she was right. What if the Gingerbread brother and sister were desperate to get away from each other but instead, were wrapped, year upon weary year, tight next to one another...Sartre had nothing on these sequined Christmas dolls.)

This kind of packing did not end with Christmas. When rounding up bits and pieces for storage, much concern was expressed over how my Donnie and Marie dolls would react to my barbie sized Princess Leia doll. It was wondered which books would communicate best with one another - probably not a good idea for The Giving Tree to room with Franny and Zooey, but Flannery O'Connor's Mystery and Manners might get on surprisingly with Samuel Beckett's Collected Plays.

In Pixar's Toy Story, the leader of the toys in Andy's room, Woody, holds a "staff" meeting to discuss the schedule change in in Andy's birthday party. During this meeting he asks his flock of toys "Does everyone have a moving buddy?"

I saw this film on my birthday in 1996, and when those words hit my ears, it was all I could do not to yelp out loud (This, on top of my total wonder at the film before me.). Yes. Moving buddies. This made absolute sense.

The act of personifying inanimate objects is not uncommon, in fact, we do it all the time: Grumbling at a car or a computer when it is acting up, descriptions of nature (I read on one of D.'s pages that she'd like to punch the newly fallen Spring snow in the face). We can make sense of the world around us with greater ease by attributing human traits to the skies, a rock, your iPod.

(Isn't it funny how those attributions show up when the object acts to our disadvantage in some way? Curbs are lying in wait to trip us - those evil little teenaged fiends. That Napkin just LEAPS from your hand, over and over just to make trouble on a second date.)

Some trouble may appear when it roams unchecked. Telling your computer to "Hurry the ef up", is one thing, but separating The Princess Bride from Silence of the Lambs in movie collection because "Well, they just won't have that much to talk about" is quite another.

Thanks to years of packing dishes, school papers, stuffed animals, clothes, and toiletries with the intent that they all "get along", the world is teeming with personalities, some helpful...some less so:

Forks: Sturdy, forthright fellows with lots to say.
Spoons: Sweet, soothing types who are just trying to help.
Buses: Big, oafish and lumbering. They apologize all the time and never mean it.
TVs: Mouths always open, staring, bi-polar. When they are turned off they are listless and uncaring, but when they are turned on they won't shut up until everyone is looking at them.
Driver's License: What a tattletale.
Shelves: Open, interested. But the taller they are, the harder they gaze down at you, daring you to climb them for whatever knowledge exists in that hidden book up top.
Drawers: Shut mouthed, clammy.
Beds: A good one just wants to hug you. A bad one keeps you awake all night, humming the theme song to the Andy Griffith Show and asking you if you remember "that funny line from that show with the guy in it."

At least one isn't lonely in this type of world. Now if you'll excuse me, my Shampoo and Conditioner are disagreeing over the Stimulus Package. The Shampoo is such a goddamn Neo-Con.

Up, Up and Away...III

10:41am CST

1. My Skymall is dog-eared. The previous passenger seemed to be very interested in Inflatable Movie Screens and the Hairmax Laser Comb.

2. They gave me some Lorna Doone's. I could eat shortbread cookies all day.

3. My nerves have calmed a bit and I can enjoy the Mars landscape surrounding the Grand Canyon. EXCEPT RIGHT NOW WHEN THE TURBULENCE IS SHAKING THE PLANE.

4. Bacon Egg and Cheese biscuit in my stomach = Volcano Experiment in 7th grade.

5. In a few minutes, I will have to go. We begin our descent and I will return to my state of terror. As the plane nears the Earth, I will stare out the window, and send encouraging thoughts to the pilots. "You're doing great. Good Job. Little shaky there, but okay. You're okay."

I am aware how unreasonable this is. But christ, what if I didn't do it?

Listening to: Flying Theme From E.T., John Williams (Which, as a matter of interest, helps)

Also heard on this trip (Some more helpful than others):

Great Fire, XTC
Last Love Song for Now, Okkervil River
Bad Liver and a Broken Heart, Tom Waits
Princes of the Universe, Queen
I Dreamed a Dream, Les Miserables
Undertow, Suzanne Vega
Here Comes Richard, Billy Bragg
Austere, The Joy Formidable
Now, Mates of State
Again & Again, Bird and Bee


Since I am away, I will be taking a break for a few days and returning to regular posting on Monday. If you are just desperate for content, check out the labels to the right or have a look at some of my fellow bloggers. Excellent thinkers and writers all.

Up, Up and Away...II

I haven't always been this freakishly scared of flight. Time was, it wasn't a bother at all.

Then, one flight about 10 years ago changed all that.

My sister was in film school in Tallahassee, Florida and every so often I'd make a sojourn down to see her. (I don't recall the exact circumstances of this visit. Perhaps it was her graduation.) On the second leg of the journey, the Puddle-Jumper I was riding flew through a fluke electrical storm.

The plane dove, righted itself. Dove again. 90 degree angles. Outside a sea of greenish black clouds churned. Electricity shocked the wings. The fingers of God cracked open the sky like a pistachio nut.

A woman in back shrieked. The girl next to me was a braver stripe. She cried silent tears as the flight attendant, crouched, juddering, gripped her hand. This is it. This is when my string is cut.

Then...it stopped. The skies cleared and we made our descent.

Everyone shook hands with the pilots on their way out.

**********************************************************
7:15am

On the plane, the flight attendant is a no frills, officious sort, which I like. She barks out our safety orders and then goes through a wry, weary spiel regarding flushing the toilet when one is finished.

We wait.

I hear every click and whir in the plane. We move forward.

Bing Bong. We've been cleared for take off.

My heart beats so fast. I can't run. There's no where to go.
I cannot reverse this.
Faster.
Go faster.
Hands shake.
Eyes drown in tears.
Faster.
Pick up speed.
I breathe hard and deep.
I try to hide my face away from the man next to me. He can't see I'm afraid.
Faster.
The plane tilts back.
My eyes won't close. I have to watch the ground.
My lips mumble the prayer I MUST SAY EVERY TIME.
In seconds, the world miniaturizes.
Perfect, sculpted dollhouses below and ant train traffic. The suburbs look like the Aveoli inside the lungs, winding cilia of cul-de-sacs and gated communities.
The plane turns.
Higher.
Higher.
Turbulence shakes the plane. I grip the armrest.
Higher still,
into the marigold sky.


Listening to: "Love Lockdown", Kanye West

Up, Up and Away...

This morning I am flying to LA.

I hate flying. Terrified of it. Under normal circumstances, I would be doped up, having pilfered a few Xanax tablets for occasions as these.

Not this time.

I’m not a screamer or anything. I am, however a heart-fluttering-lip-trembler. Ascent and descents are white knuckled terror rides.

But, By the Gods, aren’t I lucky! I got an email yesterday alerting me that I am on a Wi-Fi flight.

So, what better way to express my anguish than by live-blogging about it?

6:31am

I woke up at 3:45am, with a strange hangover. The Kerpatty boys made an impromptu visit last night bearing 40 Ouncers…what on Earth? I don’t drink beer very often let alone the "King of Them". That’s the risk I run when the whole sketch group I direct lives a block away. They keep me young, I suppose.

After a fitful sleep, I lurch out of bed and bumble around the apartment. No packing was done last night...so I toss whatever I can find in my suitcase. Clothes in the bag, boots, what the hell are we doing out there?…do I need a skirt or – whatever, I’m taking it.

I wash the dishes, take out the garbage and head out. Everything here? I haven’t even locked my door and the Magical Thinking begins. Transformers tee-shirt Rebar gave me for my birthday last year (To which I squealed like a child, put on immediately and have not flown without since)? Check. Book borrowed from Notnits, which he will never get back unless he wrests it from my cold dead hands? Check. Human Finger bone. Check.

I treated myself to a cab, down to Midway airport (“The K-Mart of Airports” as Jan calls it. And it’s true isn’t it?). The driver is a smiling fellow with a Spiderman knit cap. Walking up to the Walgreen’s to retrieve some cash I saw him slow down. He called in a dialect, “I’ll wait for you.” Two or three cabs had slowed down and beeped in my direction, but I denied them. His friendly demeanor won him the fare.

At 5: 15 the streets were nearly deserted. Billy Ocean’s "Loverboy" popped on my iPod as we drove past the Chicago Skyline. The view out my window spread out like the opening for a 1980’s crime procedural.

The airport wasn’t all that hectic. I don’t expect it to be anything other than what it is – A barnyard of nervous, enclosed travelers, all astonished at every inconvenience. I spot a group of Navy boys – can’t be older than 19 – all looking like they walked right out of 1942.

The nerves start to ramp as I get to the gate, and I am filled with the irresistible urge to consume. I wander the unsatisfying saran-wrapped options, picking up a shining baked good, thinking better of it, putting it down, snatching up another. Finally, I head to the McDonald’s and get a Bacon Egg and Cheese biscuit, knowing full well that I will regret it later. (Editor’s note: Indeed…I do.)

I am reminded of a performance piece I never followed up on – An actor smashing a giant plastic McDonald’s “M” while Ennio Morricone’s “The Ecstasy of Gold” plays.

I chuckle as I eat my breakfast. Take THAT, McDonald’s.

(When the first oily bite goes down, I can feel my heart Lub, wait a second and then Dub.)

The waiting area is packed. Taking the only free seat, I begin to type.

The woman next to me makes no effort to conceal her spying over my shoulder.

We start to Board. My heart grips.

Listening to: “Heaven’s on Fire”, Kiss

Relative favorite colors

(Unrelated note: This morning I overslept. I can't remember the last time I overslept so totally, with no hope of covering it up.

After a typhoon rush of sticky sleep [sleep has become a difficult knot to untangle. When I do sleep, I sleep HARD, hot dreams with posterized images of rabbits or searching for a hairpin or continued conversations about knuckles. The waking is so labored that at times I cannot remember if these conversations did or did not happen or if I found the hairpin or if that rabbit really was quite so pastel. It is only later that I realize there is no rabbit.] I wake with a gasp and glimpse the white daylight in my room. This is not 6am. This is not 6am. I pick up my phone - I have been using it as an alarm - and it declares, in that unforgiving sans serif font, 9:26. I have a meeting with a student in 15 minutes and here am I, still in my pajamas, unwashed, unkempt, and smelling like sleep [you know that smell]. Still in brushing off the fingers of the Dreaming, I tried to will time to reverse. It's the same impulse right after a car wreck or revelation of explosive information, the brain tries to heal itself and the rift your behavior has created by thinking, no it is NOT 9:26. It is NOT. It is 7:30. you only overslept a little. It is NOT 9:26. Time will reverse. [At this point, too, the other portions of the brain still waking up have emergency meetings in the the conference room over by the Medulla Oblongata over the whys and whynots of time travel in general. Best to keep them busy. I need to get dressed.] But it is 9:26 - 9:27, and the seconds are ticking even as I scurry around my apartment as if it is not my own, as if I have never been there before. Whose clothes are these? Who brought me here? No time for a shower I throw on whoever's clothes these are, pull my hair back and stumble out of the apartment, still bewildered, half-wondering where I'm going. Then comes the misty recollection that I am a teacher and these are my students and I owe it to them to be there early and show up for fucking meetings I set with them especially for the most timid and sensitive of the bunch - which is who I am meeting today. Could this cab driver STOP ADHERING SO CLOSELY TO THE SPEED LIMIT? Does he not know that when a body catches a cab in the morning that the body is probably LATE...aw, crap, he smiled at me and now I can hold no grudge. Turn! Turn! I run up the stairs, three flights, to my class room, 10 minutes late for my meeting, but I sit and give him my full attention. He is none the wiser...but I'm sure he is wondering why I'm so intense.

Even now I feel a little waterlogged.

Waterlogged with corn syrup.)

This was supposed to be a post about the relativity of favorite colors to objects and food. But it has been overrun by parts of the brain heretofore sequestered in the conference room over by the Medulla Oblongata.

Verdict on time travel still unresolved.

Very well.
I don't like blue or brown M&Ms. I eat them first. And then the yellows and then the orange. I eat the green last.

I got jipped on greens in this package.

My actual favorite color is red.

The Lexicon

Ever since I uncovered Google's plot to reshape our language through word verification, readers have come to the fore with new definitions. Some of you have been quite prolific.

Below is a sampling of the new vocabulary...pay attention. You will be quizzed on this at the end of the semester and it will constitute half your grade. No online college will accept you with anything less than a 1.25 GPA.


coate|'coe-ayt|
n. a person who indulges in sloppy seconds (Rebar)

alpacke |al•'pak•uh|
n. an alpaca with a degenerative spinal column disease (Jan)

ingrab |'in•grab|
n. an non-verbal inside joke between two or more people that involves the touching of one or more body parts. (Rebar)

bahstitc |'bah•stitk|
adj. inspiring violent contempt in others. (Notnits)

scromopo |'scrom•o•po|
v. to eat popcorn or other snack foods in large handfuls rather than one at a time. esp. in movie theaters. (-j-j-)

saging |'say•jing|
adj. the quality of being casually wise (Jan)

rehedu |re•'he•doo|
v. when you have to re-redu something. (Erica)

paeact |pay•akt|
v. When you get paid for acting. (Dianna)

euntions |'yoon•shuns|
pl. n. supplies for the upkeep of eunuchs. "If you forget to buy Fun-Size Snickers and other euntions, Kassim will not have the energy to guard the harem doors. (Notnits)

bu-lar |'byoo•lar|
n. a midget stripper. (D. Hall)

misin |'miss•in|
v. slang for being aware of the lack of someone's presence. (Dianna)

dencoman |'den•co•man|
n. person, neither friend nor relative, with whom one must share living space out of economic necessity. Ex. “Yeah, Josh is cool, but Leonard's only here because he answered the ad so he's really just a dencoman." (My Sister)

reshazi |re•'shaht•zee|
abbrv. n. (short for "Reshaped Nazi,") a WWII German soldier who has undergone extensive body modifications, possibly in order to confront Indiana Jones in a future sequel. (Joe G.)

pilstr |'pil•ster|
n. Slang. American slang for that guy that can hook you up with any type of prescription painkiller or antidepressant. (D. Hall)

admis |'add•miss|
n. A print ad or commerical that ends up on failblog.org; an advertisment that has spelling errors commonly known as "engrish"; a poorly thought out name for a company or product (Rebar)

deriatio |de•'ray•she•oh|
n. the ratio of negative versus positive stereotypes in a persons library of stereotypes. (Henri)

pricys |'pri•sees|
pl. n. (informal) extravagantly expensive small item, usually owned by children: I see all them la-dee-da kids leaving school with their cell phones and pricys. Org. Northern England (Uncertain origin…is it Jerry or “Not Jerrry”)

Undest |'un•dest|
adj. (Superlative) Even more under than under. (-j-j-)

Song for a Crappy Tuesday: February Covers Edition

As you leave the freezing house of the four sisters of February Tuesdays, it is the oldest who sees you to the door. She wobbles on her knotty joints but she insists that it is her duty to show you out.

Even though she is the oldest, she is the most youthful, with yellowy hair stringing down her back "to scare the neighbor kids into thinking she's a gorgon." She giggles at everything. It's hard to tell if it's all one big joke on her part, or if she teetering on the cliffs of true dementia.

Either way, she sure smiles a lot.

The Eldest Tuesday Sister, reaches the door and hesitates. She leans forward and wraps her arms around you - crushing the zip locked Jello left-overs foisted on you by the Middle February Tuesday Twin Sisters (they are pushy and have no compunction over dragging visitors into their squabbles. It makes for an uncomfortable lunch..which always seems to consist of pork and beans.).

"I wish you didn't have to go." She says.

You nod.

"I wish we could see you sooner." She leans back and brushes the hair from your forehead. "But some things we just have to wait for, I suppose. No helping it."

You nod again, and a wave of loss breaks over you. The last thing you want to do is make her cry, so you force a half smile and give a quick squeeze back.

In the car, you look up at the house. The Eldest Sister stands in the doorway waving. As you pull away, a loud witch's cackle rings through the air and in the rear view mirror the reflection of three little boys running away from the house flashes by.

You chuckle and gun the motor....you need to get to a gas station and fast.


Arcade Fire's "My Body is a Cage" - from their 2007 album Neon Bible - is easily one of my favorite songs of the past couple of years. Imagine my delight when I found a cover of it by Sara Lov.

Arcade Fire's version of this song, regardless of the powerful pipe organ and snare that accompany Win Butler's tortured voice, is so intimate it's almost uncomfortable. Like a soul (or whatever you want to call it) shrieking out inside the captivity of the body. It might be the result of my upbringing or my more religious proclivities that I would think the body and the soul to be so separate from one another - that the body is a prison for the greater self that resides within.

But, Christ, don't we all feel that way from time to time? As if something is calling out inside and no one can hear it?



Compare it to Sara Lov's version which, for all it quiet pianos and stringed backups, sounds more external. She, in the quiet of her suburban living room, sings in almost a lullaby...but she must be careful. Hush. No loud drums, no choirs. You'd best be quiet lest the neighbors hear your calls.

Or maybe she wants them to. The neighbors get just enough to ask, "What was that music coming from your kitchen?"

Then she can say, "What do you mean? I didn't hear anything."




***Yes, Jan, Your Kate Bush pleas have been heard...I'll have a surprise for you next week.

Notes to Self.

1. When the cable guy is downstairs waiting and you aren't wearing any pants, don't panic. Just put on some pants and go let him in.

2. If you are in a precarious state of mind, watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind will NOT make you feel any better.

3. Nobody else ate your granola bars. You're the only one who lives here.

4. Your experience of time is mutable and fleeting. A moment may seem like an hour and a day might pass without notice. All the more reason for you to get a clock in your apartment.

5. Cut AWAY from yourself. Not towards.

6. Its probably a good idea to close your shades at night. Or when your getting out of the shower.

7. Make sure you talk to people, if only to confirm you're still able to carry on a conversation without saying strange things like "Your experience of time is mutable and fleeting."

8. Lefty loosey, Righty tighty. Not "Why won't this open, smashy smashy."

9. We need butter.

10. Don't refer to yourself as "We".

Song for a Crappy Tuesday Evening: February Covers Edition (EVEN MORE SPECIAL BIRTHDAY EDITION)

Man. I'm not sure it could get more special than today. February Covers AND a Birthday? What's interesting is how many of those dear to me have birthdays on Tuesdays this year. Makes for some fun and somewhat painful birthday wishes. God, what if my song is totally meaningless to them? What if they listen to it and don't feel the same tremors I do?

This is worse than a mix tape.

Nevertheless, I need to hurl myself forward.

Today is CP's birthday.

CP is among the women of the West Coast contingent with Tina and Jan.

The first memory I have talking to CP is from my first year of college. My recollection might be a touch cinematic - She waltzed into the foggy coffee shop Kava Kane (where we spent most of our afternoons drinking grotesque amounts of coffee and smoking cigarettes...how the good people who owned Kava Kane ever tolerated us is beyond me), in a flurry of purple scarf and long black coat, was formally introduced and then made the brash announcement that she had never met anyone from the South who was intelligent. To this, I trumpeted my offense. (We were all given to blazing - if not a little uninformed- opinions in those days. The scene seems something akin to Sachs Cafe without all the Socialism and pamphlets.)

I had seen CP before around campus and she scared the living shit out of me - a gorgeous and and intense goth dream come true. Truth be told, I kinda hated her a little (Sorry, CP, it's true.) Who did she think she was, horning in on my friends, hanging out until all hours of the night? I'll show her.

It wasn't until several months later that she and I were left to our own devices when, hopped up on about three pots of coffee, we stayed up all night developing our own language. (I don't remember any of it, except that it was some combination of French, English, and Spanish, like Esperanto's cousin no one is allowed to talk about.)

Since then, CP has been, in many ways, the love of my life.

How do you tell someone who knows the very core of you just much they mean? How proud you are to know them, How you are better because of them, How you miss them so terribly, but still feel comforted to know that they exist somewhere on the planet.

With The Brunettes cover of "Love Song" by The Cure.

Say what you will about the Cure, this song celebrates and bemoans the ecstasy/agony of love. The Brunettes version caries with it the same tension of warmth and alienation...and with two voices. Lovely.

(I would just like to mention that it is genetically impossible for Robert Smith to sound happy. "Friday I'm in Love", The Cure's upbeat pop tune - while not entirely happy - sounds totally awkward to me. Like he's pretending to be okay so they'll let him out of the psych ward. Like a woman at the verge of tears on a blind date.)

Happy Birthday, Darling CP.

I can't find an embeddable video for Love Song from the Cure, but you can watch it here.



And Tina and Jan...I love you, too...I am better because of you...Thanks.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday: February Covers Edition

In Cintra Wilson's A Massive Swelling, she discusses the white-knuckled love a teen aged girl can have for her idols. It's a potent concoction, this love: equal parts adoration, ownership, jealousy, and self-hatred.

This section of the book is dedicated in part to letters she was given by a celebrity mail routing company. New Kids on the Block can't read everything, so companies are hired to sort, read, answer, and discard fan letters sent by the Great Hormonal Unwashed. In a couple of cases the fan mail comes from the pen of women in their forties (One is more sexual in nature, offering a good time, once all these teeny bopper girls have fallen away. The second writes that she is going to leave her desperate and unhappy marriage - kids in tow - to meet Jordan Knight of NKOTB, and the two of them will ride into the sunset of her broken longings. The first one, while a little creepy, is still considered healthy...the second one, well, isn't.), but for the most part the writings arrive in exactly the form you'd think: purple ink, drenched in Love's Baby Soft, little heart stickers all over the front and inside.

These notes are considered on the healthy end of the spectrum and Wilson describes the fantasy attached to such correspondence: A 14-year-old girl speaks of her unyielding love, and when Jordan or Donnie or Justin comes to town for the concert, he will see her dancing in the sea of plebeian riff-raff, lift her up from the maddening crowd and the two of them will fly off in his helicopter while her friends baste themselves in envy for all time. (This is a paraphrase here...your should check out the book for Wilson's acidic poetry.)

(I am no stranger to this fantasy. Although, I was never a NKOTB fan. I dreamed that members of Bauhaus would descend from on high and whisk me off to their lair of the undead. Same difference. I dare say no woman who has survived puberty's humiliating fire can claim never to have had an all encompassing - and unrequited - idee fixe.)

One of the best, and most overlooked, tributes to this love is "Superstar" by the Carpenters, from their 1971 album Carpenters. Karen Carpenter's voice coats the whole affair in her wholesome alto and, while the song itself seems benign enough, the lyrics betray a yearning for the Big Love to glance her way. The darkness really creeps in with bass note on the piano punctuating the middle of each verse.

(Also, I have a soft spot for the Carpenters since I can do a mean Karen Carpenter imitation at karaoke. I discovered this when I was in my teens, making fun of the Carpenter holiday standard "Sleigh Ride" at the dinner table. It was a hit, and I have cultivated this impression, still searching for that spontaneous laughter I got all those Christmases ago. Christ.)



The second form of teen fan letter Wilson presents, is considered "unhealthy". Written in black ink on notebook paper, the letter reveals - with striking clarity - a girl in crisis. She sits on the floor, listening to NKOTB over and over, wishing for something more, something larger, and her parents don't understand why her grades have plummeted, and no one can see her true self except that poster of Donnie Wahlberg on her wall. She wishes for death to end this craving. She has no one to turn to, save this sheet of torn notebook paper and the hope the Donnie will respond.

But he won't and her torture will continue.

So little can stop the black hole suction of a teen love turned in on itself. For those who recognize this kind of feeling, that deep well of hopeless thirst, you know there is no turning back from it. A girl must simply walk straight through, and hope to come out on the other side in a different galaxy.

About 15 years ago, the album "If I Were a Carpenter" was released featuring Carpenter covers from the likes of Cracker and the Cranberries. The jewel in the crown of this compilation is Sonic Youth's otherworldly cover of "Superstar." All that pristine longing in the original is ratcheted up to a state of tooth-grinding anxiety. In one fell swoop, the object of love becomes an object of fetish.

This is what it sounds like inside the swirling bowl of "Unhealthy Fan Letter" girl.

(And a note, if you have cats, don't play it for them. While at my parents' a few years ago, I played it on their hi-fi. The cat, Baby, freaked out and rolled on the floor, the victim of some unseen tormentor. I stopped the CD and he was fine.)

Apophenia

n. The experience of seeing patterns or connections in random or meaningless data.

The other day, on three separate occasions, T.S. Eliot was mentioned to me. The first was early in the day, during a meeting with a particularly precocious student (Not that referencing Old Possum is an indicator of precocity. Examples abound in which a reference to T.S. Eliot is not an indicator maturity beyond one's age...for instance, right now.) when he brought up the Waste Land.

The second was at dinner. I can't remember the context but a friend brought up Eliot again, and, if memory serves, it was in regards to the Waste Land. I even noted to him, "Hey, that's the second reference to T.S. Eliot I've gotten today...huh."

The third was during a play was saw later in the evening.

Now, it could be that the world is teeming with references to T.S Eliot that I had not noticed until being primed by my student to consider them. But, and this is nothing against our bastard American culture, after having a look around, it's not like the cashier at Walgreen's is looking across the counter at me to say "I will show you fear in a handful of dust."

(Gosh. Wouldn't that be something, though? I'd probably burst into tears and rush out, abandoning my already paid for Coco Puffs.)

In recent weeks, this has been happening a lot. Like, all the time. It's not just the references to T.S. Eliot, it could be anything - repetition of images, thoughts, words:

1. CP brought up the movie Harold and Maude. Within 24 hours, one of my students said they had just watched Harold and Maude the previous day. Before this, I can't recall the last time anyone mentioned Harold and Maude to me.

2. While organizing my office stuff, I pulled a tiny army man from a box. My friend MJ had used it in an audition for me and then given it to me as a keepsake. It had been in this little box since the summer. At dinner that evening, she told me that she had done the same audition piece that day.

3. On my way to a party this past Friday, I was struck by the memory of someone, X., I have not thought of in a while, except in passing. It occurred to me that perhaps he'd come to this party I was headed for, but wouldn't that be silly because he lives in LA now and isn't even friends with the people who were throwing the party. (Also...that would be awful. The past I have with X. is not a pleasant one.)

At the party, sitting next to E., she received a text message from a friend stating she was coming over and bringing a few friends.

E. announced it to the room and the question came "Anyone we know?"

She said, "I don't think so. Anybody here know X.?"

Every drop of blood inside me evaporated.

(As it turns out, he didn't come. He asked to be dropped off as he had other obligations. My blood grew back.)


4. I picked up an old New Yorker yesterday. Looking at the cover, I had a flash recollection of my friend Notnits and his consistent anxiety concerning his New Yorker subscription. Last night, while purusing status updates on Facebook - his came to the top of the screen:

"Notnits will never read all these New Yorkers."


And there are plenty other instances that I can't call to mind at the moment.

This is the sort of thing religions get started on (or John Nash got carted off for), the perception of an invisible connective tissue between ourselves and the word around. Usually, we are content to let that connective tissue (if indeed it does exist) remain dormant from day to day, and whatever tugs or pushes we feel are the simple, natural result of cause and effect.

It's when that connective tissue decides to wake up and quote Prufrock that alarm sets in.

What cylinders are operating in my brain?

In my childhood, it was not uncommon for me to converse with God. I'd ask questions and (once I had offered the caveat that he answer me in plain English I could understand and none of that Burning Bush business, thank you, I don't want to be stoned as a heretic in the town square.) "he'd" answer. It was usually simple stuff, knowing better than to ask why Hilter was allowed to live. Often, within a few days, I'd get some sort of answer to my question.

The recent rash of little flares and coincidences is very similar to the "answers" I'd get as a child. Like letters from a forgotten friend at Summer Camp.

Are they answers if I never asked the questions?

These days, I have some struggles with the existence of God. Any God. I don't begrudge an atheist for his or her disbelief, and I'd also prefer it if those more religiously inclined would refrain from their attempts at conversion. Some days I go so far as declaring the God of my childhood to be dead...other days I think it's just evolved. Whatever "it" is, I'm not sure our bumbling human brains (even the scientific ones) can express its ineffable nature beyond clumsy equations and scripture. Still...the It keeps showing up and tapping me on the shoulder.

Is my brain just shooting off some electrical buckshot or should I be listening to something?

And why is it always mundane little shit...can't I know what stock to buy or who will win March Madness?

Jeez. Why are visions so useless?

Song for a Crappy Tuesday: February Covers Edition

When you take your yearly trip to visit the four sisters of February Tuesdays, take a jacket. They don't like to turn on the heat or close the windows unless it's a special occasion. But they won't ever tell you what makes a special occasion, so it's rather a crap shoot.

You grumble to yourself as you pull up to their house. The "low fuel" light has been on for a few miles, and you hoped in secret that your hatchback would run out of gas before you got there. No such luck.

Great. Now you run the risk of getting stuck in their driveway. They don't own a telephone and there is not a gas station for miles.

Approaching the door, you notice the faded Christmas wreath still dangling from one steadfast twig. It still smells of pine, but when you reach in to the hole to bang the knocker, the remaining needles cascade to the front porch. The knocker lands with a "kank" on the door.

It is the youngest Tuesday sister who greets you. She shrieks, thrilled that you have come and you really didn't have to come all this way, but we're so glad to see you, and do you have a girl/boyfriend, and you look like you gained/lost weight, and we were so thrilled/troubled to learn that you found/lost a job, what flavor jello would you like?

By this point you are in the parlor, where the other three sisters are sitting. Situated about the room are plates of jello molds in a variety of colors. Oddly shaped forms are suspended in the mounds of primary colors...they might be meat.

You take a seat, and ask for the green jello, please.


I love covers.

I am a sucker for reinterpretations of popular songs, particularly when a musician puts their own stamp on it. If it just sounds exactly like the original then why bother? (Sort of like that shot for shot remake Gus Van Sant did of Psycho. It was an interesting experiment, but, I believe, a failed one.) When a song is turned around on its head through the visor of another artist, the cover can highlight moments of rage, vulnerability, or humor that may not have been present in the original.

So, this month is dedicated to The Cover.

I am a distant fan of Metallica. Never have I purchased so much as a single from them, but I still count "Enter Sandman" off of their "Black Album" as one of my favorites.



The build at the beginning gives me chills: it starts out with a lilting guitar, offering a sort of map as to where the melody is headed , but instantly the drums take over and the guitar goes from lilting to distorted, raising tension as the progression from before becomes halting - starting over and over, never resolving itself fully. Then, like a train out of nowhere, it roars forward.

Enter Sandman also takes plays off of our fears of sleep, contrasting the violent thumping of the music with lyrics like "Off to never never land" and the prayer "Now I lay me down to sleep" in the middle. Take it from me, sleep is fraught with all kinds of torments. Enter Sandman expresses this with preternatural insight.

And now, it's twin: Enter Sandman, by Apocalyptica.

I first heard this version during the opening credits of Neil LaBute's seething horrorshow, Your Friends & Neighbors. Part of the brilliance of this cover, is the removal of all the electric guitars and still achieving an intense level of distortion on an instrument usually associated with nerdy white girls. These guys practically rip the cello open. (Never mind the excellent use of it in Your Friends & Neighbors - take a thrashing hard rock release, combine it with the cello and in one fell swoop, we see that even when confined to something more "polite", our rage still exists and it will pop a string if we're not careful.)

Score 25 for band nerds everywhere. These guys rock.

Don't Be Evil. Be Ubiquitous.

One of the ways traditional colonization works is through the systematic restructuring of a culture's religion, rituals and language. While, Google does not appear to be forcing us to bow to a giant statue of Steve Jobs, I sense its loving imperialism every time I try to make a comment on a friend's blog.

Those confirmation words seem awfully close to actual language, don't they? I wonder if they are prepping us for their final nurturing takeover, capitalizing on our nostalgia for the Sniglet, by injecting a little vocab lesson with every snarky remark made on Blogger.

Below is a sampling. Memorize them. They are the SAT words of tomorrow.

(These are not in alphabetical order for two reasons. 1) You know how hard that is for me and 2) In the future the Alphabet will be considered classist.)

Lamplawk |‘lamp•lawk|
v. To lurk from one room to the next, without aim or purpose, over a three day weekend. –esp. in one’s own home. -What did you do over Memorial Day? -Just lamplawked around the house, mostly.


Enflanst |en•’flanst|
v. (often to be enflanst) Past tense of the verb-Enflanse. Filled with wonder and excitement while sweating copious amounts from any area of the body that normally remains dry. Occurs only in the presence of another. (Enflanse. v. To cause such a reaction) Darling, I was so enflanst by you that my chin was soaking wet.


Fragity |’fra•gi•tee|
adj. Exhausted to the point of telling the unspeakable truth to co-workers and authority figures.

Drefle |’dre•fl |
n. A thing of minor importance, but considered worth mentioning (-esp. to divert attention from the lack of one’s own knowledge on a subject of discussion)
v. To speak with intense gravity or weight over such a thing Did you hear Tom drefle on and on about why Charles Dickens faced North while sleeping?

Buryocle |bur•ee•’oh•kl|
n. A distant Aunt or Uncle who behaves inappropriately at a funeral. Also, a dirty limerick or song sung by such a relative.

Subvi |’sub•vee |
v. To partially undermine by doing nothing

Squacil |’skwa•sil|
n. An amendment to a will in which all potential heirs lose their claims to the decedent’s estate should a fight break out among them.

Bedull |be•’dull|
v. To remove all reference or evidence of former glory.

Huff me. I will make you high and more stupiderer.

While agonizing over an entry, I realized I couldn't put a thought together in any sort of meaningful way.

It happens to everyone. Yesterday's manifestos of growth and inner peace seem pale compared today's reality that the linolium in the break room couldn't get any more beige if it tried. Days in which all cumulative progress (mental, physical, emotional) seems to dissolve..voluntarily. We watch it happen. Like watching butter melt with bored fascination.

These days, hours, minutes exist - tick after indifferent tock - regardless of how unwanted they are. Struggling only tightens the grip.

So do attempts at making up metaphors.


Today, I am rubber cement.

I have an interesting smell. Things kind of stick to me and then fall off. I'm no good for permanent fixtures. If you get enough of me on your hands you can roll me into a rubber-ish ball. I won't bounce very well.

Today, I am Fruit Stripe Gum.

I taste really good at first and then call up fond childhood memories. In 15 seconds, my flavor will vanish.

Today, I am like a old bag of marshmallows in the pantry.

I am white, and hard, and forgotten except at Thanksgiving.

Today, I am a Word a Day Calendar.

You haven't turned me in 6 days. You'll rip out the last week in a stack and toss the the sheets into the garbage. You'll never know what Callipygean means, now. And I don't care. I am a Word a Day Calendar, not your AP English Teacher.

Today, I am one half of your favorite pair of earrings.

You keep forgetting that you lost one of me. You pull me out on special occasions, and the night is nearly ruined when you recall dropping it down the drain in the bathroom a year and half ago. For an instant, you think maybe you'll dig it out. But time is running short and you pick up another pair or earrings, swearing that you'll return to with a wire hanger to dredge out my mate.

This will go unremembered until your brother-in-law's wedding in three months when the exact same set of thoughts will occur to you.

Today, I am a subcutaneous lump.

You felt me on the soft of your underarm on Tuesday. By day's end, your feverish mind-that had nothing better to do-had built me up into cancer of the rarest and deadliest kind. You will lose sleep for tonight...but tonight only.

What you don't realize is that I have been there for years. I am a tiny piece of bone left behind the day Chris Decker hit you in the arm with a baseball bat in the second grade.

Today, I am the letter E.

I'm in several places at once.

Today, I am a person typing on a computer.

I type words and string them together. Students keep interrupting me to pick up their papers from last quarter. Suddenly, I run out of things to type.








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