1. This morning, on the train, we saw a security guard and his dog.
The security guard was a young African-American man, and the dog was a muzzled German Shepherd. The two of them were alone, looking across the train platform. A couple of tough archetypes.
The German Shepherd leaned it's fettered snout over and nudged the Guard. He looked down, and the dog looked up at him.
The Guard brought his hand up behind the dog's ear, the still puppy-soft part, and ran his fingers through the dog's fur. The German Shepherd leaned in more, allowing the Guard better access to his coat.
The Guard smiled a little, leaned over just an inch or two, and spoke to the dog.
I was so disarmed by this unexpected moment of tenderness, that I had to look away.
2. Favorite word this week:
crum·my also crumb·y(krm)
adj.crum·mi·er also crumb·i·er, crum·mi·est also crumb·i·estSlang
1. Miserable or wretched: a crummy situation in the family.
2. I was looking out the window at a giant, fat squirrel as it scurried around a light pole. A pigeon looked on with indifference as the tubby little guy fretted near the power lines. The squirrel darted up to the pigeon and, startled that he was not alone, let go of the light pole and dropped out of sight. The pigeon just stared down with, what looked like, bored curiosity, and then went about his business.
I laughed out loud.
I don't know what happened to the squirrel. Did he fall to his death? Did he manage an escape? Is the universe trying to tell me something about the nature of comedy? Is the pigeon Society? Am I an audience, willfully unaware of painful fallout of the Bit?
Should I lay off the coffee?
3. Plenty of us make jokes about how stupid or incompetent we believe our spouses or partners to be. I'm in favor of some good natured ribbing, but occasionally, I taste the pill in the jam. Some jokes are a little too fresh, a little too snide and everyone feels a like they just wandered onto the set of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Trust me, taken too far, your joke at the expense of your dumb husband reflects worse on you.
4. The sandwich always comes with mayonnaise. No substitutions. Deal with it. (For you, Jan)
5. Favorite word this week:
heteroclite[ˈhɛtərəˌklaɪt]
adjalsoheteroclitic[ˌhɛtərəˈklɪtɪk]
(Linguistics) (esp of the form of a word) irregular or unusual
n
(Linguistics) an irregularly formed word
[from Late Latin heteroclitus declining irregularly, from Greek heteroklitos, from hetero- + klinein to bend, inflect]
1. I hate the first ten minutes of pretty much every play I see.
This changes in retrospect, as the play's world envelopes me, as I give myself over to the story. But I gotta get through the first few minutes.
Part of this comes from the strangeness of it. What am I watching? When a play begins, I have to wade through this new reality and get used to how the characters behave, how they speak, and come to terms with the fact that this is not a literal representation of anything. Even the kitchen sinkiest of dramas is still only an imitation. (Yes, I know about suspension of disbelief and mimesis, eggsetera, eggsetera. We accept this as common knowledge in discussions of why we tell stories or see live theater. Doesn't make it any less peculiar that we engage in this activity.)
This theatrical Uncanny Valley is still there when I see movies, but in a considerably diminished capacity. First, the story (usually) takes place in two dimensions - so my sensors are ready to see this as a removed or unreal situation. Second, any pretense towards literal representation is eased by the movie's ability use the real world. If a film calls for a park, they shoot in a park. They don't build a park that only kind of looks like one and then shoot in it.
**There are plenty of films that override this rule, of course. Depending on the type of story telling used (the writing, the style of direction, ect.) they may very well build a park or shoot on a sound stage. Part of the appeal of cinema is its capacity to make the unreal even more realistic. As movie sets and CGI become more advanced, the the divide between a presented reality and our potential to go along with it is reduced.
But when I sit down to see a play, nothing about the situation is real. No matter how the production attempts to create a realistic environment, it's not. The actors are saying words they've uttered night in and night out - yet they are pretending to make it up right there on the spot. (Which, by the way, is also bizarre. There is no other art form in which we expect this behavior. Imagine going to see a symphony and having the musicians pretend they are making it up as they go.) We are in the room with these people. I can't just sit back and let autopilot to take over, I have to pay attention to this three dimensional thing and damn if those first ten minutes don't make me sick.
Imagine going by yourself to a party where you don't know anybody. The first few minutes are going to be kind of agonizing right? That's what it feels like.
It's nobody's fault. I think this sensation is far more common than not, even with experienced theater goers/lovers. And perhaps hate is too strong a word.
3. I saw American Buffalo last night. The performances overall were strong, the set was great. My problem might be with Mamet.
In a most Mamet I have seen, there is an emerging patter. No one listens to what is said, and every line comes out with Tommy Gun Ratatatic speed. As I left the theater, I read the notes posted on the lobby wall - the gist being that in American Buffalo, poker is the game of life and the characters use Art of War mind-game tactics to get what they want.
Unfortunately, all of that was lost on me. How can I be expected to catch the stakes of a situation if none of the fallout ever lands on stage? If things start out at a rolling boil, you really can't get much boil-er. No one has to have some kind of Terms of Endearment emotional expulsion, but the total effect of yelling at the same level, rapid fire backing and forthing and not even a second to reckon what is happening left me cold.
3. Favorite word this week:
fu·ri·ous(fyr-s)
adj.
1. Full of or characterized by extreme anger; raging.
2. Suggestive of extreme anger in action or appearance; fierce. See Synonyms at angry.
3. Full of activity; energetic or rapid: the furious pace of the trading floor.
[Middle English, from Old French furieus, from Latin furisus, from furia, fury; see fury.]
1. I am not a parent. With my sister living nearby, and the amount of time I have spent with R & J (The Noble Savages), I have come just about as close as anyone can to parenthood without actually birthing a child.
I don't have intentions to become a parent, but I am very sympathetic to childfull people.
Once, after seeing Monsters, Inc., my sister remarked that the folks over at Pixar must have some real anxieties about kids. If you notice, movies like Monsters, Inc., Toy Story (1 & 2), The Incredibles, Up, and Finding Nemoall have similar themes about a child's capacity to bring great joy and extraordinary anxiety into the lives of its parents. Kids in Pixar films are not lovable, animatronicwhimsy-bots. These kids are destructive, selfish, thoughtless, slimy, moody, willful and loud (The 21st Century Seven Dwarves). In my experience, this is a pretty accurate representation.
And why wouldn't the Pixar folks have anxieties about children? EVERYBODY does. Whether we are a parent or child-free, the youngest members of our society fill us with terror. We are charged with their care. We have to do our best not to fuck them up. We have head off any early inclinations towards jerkdom, annoying kid-dom, or bullying. We have to imbue them with honor, a fantastic sense of humor, six languages, and a magnetic, yet casual cool that will bring them throngs of admirers. All without reaching across the table, taking them by the neck and shrieking "If you say 'Paul Bunyon' in that sing-songy little voice ONE MORE TIME, I WILL DISAPPEAR YOU."
I say 'we', here because it's not just the job of the parents to look after the kids. We are all responsible.
There is a cultural backlash against "Mommies" at the moment. People get up in arms because of the perceived "sense of entitlement" that appears to come standard with a Baby SUV. I've seen this entitlement in action, and it's distasteful - but a sense of entitlement is distasteful no matter who's wearing it.
Regardless of your status as Unchilded or Childed, there is something to be said for good manners. This doesn't mean we have to rush out and volunteer to babysit, or that we can't have mixed feelings about kids in general. But have some sympathy, chrissake. If a child screams at dinner, don't stare at the parents like they've somehow stolen your joy, or if someone is struggling to get a stroller through the door, hold it open. It's not gonna kill you.
Kids can inspire tremendous amounts of joy. Tired, sweaty, snotty, hard wrought joy. Can everybody just cut everybody a frickin' break?
2. The other day, J. took me down to the basement to show me a spider web. The night before, he and his dad had discovered it. From what I could gather, there was a dead bug wrapped in spider silk and Dad had some explaining to do about the violent beauty of nature. This made an impression with J.
"You want to see the Spid-oh?", asked J., still not a master of the hard "R".
"Okay."
"The spid-oh kowedanoz-oh spid-oh."
"Oh. It killed another spider?"
"Yeah. You want to see it?"
"Sure."
He took me by the hand. (I don't care if the kid is taking you to see a Fairy Ring or a pile of dog-doo, when a child takes your hand, part of you turns to sappy mush.)
We went downstairs and, after a little poking around, we came upon a cobweb. I doubt it was the same spider web from the previous night, but it still served as illustration.
He pointed a nervous finger at the clump of dust bunnies. "That's the spid-oh."
"Oh. I see."
We crouched in silence. J. leaned over to me and, in a tremulous whisper, said:
"Stay not close to it."
I looked at him. He then toddled upstairs to dump milk on his plastic dinosaur.
This past weekend, the Golden Globes aired, and I only knew about it because of all the Facebook status updates. Oh? The Golden Globes are on? Huh. Maybe I'll...nah...
The Globes went unviewed, my life remained unruined.
I might as well have watched them, though. On Tuesday, every news item or status update (including my own) was bombarded with a tid or a bit about the Globes - from fashion to speeches to strained relationship histories. The internet universe does not have breathable air - its atmosphere is the vapor billowing out of the Pop Culture Machine. If you are on Planet Google, you best take in a good lungful if you want to communicate with the other inhabitants.
It's not that I dislike Pop Culture. I happily swim in the snark infested waters. But after days, weeks, or months of involuntary interest, I'm exhausted. I find myself grousing about celebrities and internet memes, even when I have little to no experience with them. For example:
I haven't seen Avatar. I'm sure I'm missing out on all the lush beauty and predictable plot lines, but I just can't work up the steam for an afternoon of Na'vi. The very thought makes me want to take a nap.
I've seen two episodes of Glee. It was charming as Bacon Flavored Cotton Candy. But I never want to see another episode of people I don't care about singing and dancing. I can't take it.
Zach Galifianakis: You are funny and talented. You will be in everything for awhile. Then you will host the VMAs and become a comedic persona non grata until you a) Film a documentary about going back on the stand up circuit, B) Star in a movie loosely based on your rise/fall/ball cancer or C) Play a teacher at a boys school in a 1950's coming of age story. I have seen your future. I am weary of it already.
Jay Leno sucks, btw.
I know I have the choice to ignore these things. None of us are so thralled. But the bug light of pop culture is strange, fake, and beautiful. Its hum beckons us to ignore the porch light and flap our dusty wings right into the zapper.
2. Artists should have jobs and not in the "Get a job, Hippie" kind of way. I think it's necessary.
I've been observing from afar some arguments regarding an artist's expectation of a living wage from what they produce. If there are funds available, then the artist should be paid a reasonable fair-trade amount for the time, energy, and/or materials he or she put in. (This includes any future compensation for further use. i.e, royalties from a play.)
If the funds aren't available, the artist should weigh the importance of the job and whether or not the intangible benefits (fulfillment, resume credit, networking) are worth the time.
In any case, whether or not the artist is receiving ample monetary compensation, they should still have a job.
In recent weeks, I've learned more about wine. Part of what makes a particular wine good is struggle. The roots have to force themselves into silty earth, the skin has to withstand inclement weather. The result is (usually, but not always) good, complex, surprising wine. You can really taste the native terrain in a good wine - the minerals in the rocks nearby, the dank moss on the hillside.
The same is true for art - any kind. Art arises from its native culture. Some of my worst, most flaccid output has come from periods when I didn't need a job to support myself. I was left to wander the woods of my own artistic fancy without input or context of from the outside world. If all you do is art, where is your input coming from? What are you reacting to? Sure, you can read the news, but in order to comment or challenge the world, an artist needs to be of the world. A job provides connection and perspective.
1. Recently, I came across a term that I am unfamiliar with: Ableist.
Ableism is defined as discrimination against persons with disabilities. Ableist language is comprised of terms, phrases and words that support this discrimination. These words/phrases include (but are not exclusive to):
These are often thrown out as insults or as part of a larger negative assessment. This economy is making me crazy! That outfit is lame. The Catholic Church scandal crippled the faith of millions.
I'd like to state at the outset that I am against the use of language that oppresses anyone. As much as we'd like to denounce the power of words to hurt (Sticks and stones and so on with the bones...) they do. Language is a powerful tool in the creation of civilizations. It is a representation of how we as a culture view our own people, how we separate ourselves into tribes, and how we identify our individuality. Sure, actions speak louder than words, but words are facilitators of action.
Which is why I come to be troubled by the appropriation of terms as Ableist.
The human body is something we all have. Whether you love yours, hate yours, find yourself trapped by it, freed by it, have had it fail on you, have experienced a recovery - you own one. we all have a mind, too, one that perceives it's own space in the world and can conceive of a future and a past. A mind we use to express frustrations, expectations, or satisfaction with our bodies.
The body is the first thing we perceive.
Because of this, expression about our bodies can come in the form of the idiomatic or the metaphorical. We also convey our thoughts on our surroundings or feelings via bodily metaphor, for instance, in the song Amazing Grace: "I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see."
In this instance, the quality of blindness is used in the negative, and those of us who are physically blind are, in essence, excluded from a definition of normal (or, in the example of Amazing Grace, blessed).
This is where my problem with Ableist Language resides. Our language is full of idioms to describe our various mental, physical, and emotional conditions. These phrases draw attention to a particular state of being and evoke a wide range of response from fellow humans. If we remove the metaphor in favor of the literal, how do we encompass the vast possibility of a language's meaning? And, eventually, isn't everything, when coupled with negative intention, able to offend?
Say we replace, "Was blind, but now I see" with "was unseeing, but now I see." The quality of "unseeing" is still unfavorable...and there are plenty of the unseeing among us who might still find that offensive. Where does it end?
I believe in the potential for language to evolve. It should (and will, whether we like it or not. Otherwise we'd still be speaking Latin or Middle English. Whan that Aprill, with his shouressoote...LOL) The idea that we'd use once accepted terms to reference people of color is absurd. And I'm very much in favor of the equal use of gender specific pronouns rather than He or Him as universal.
A human being is a human being regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation, or physical/mental ability or disability. Use of language can take us leaps and bounds towards inclusion for all. I certainly do not advocate slinging the arrows of "Hey Retard!" in resistance to this inclusion. There is nothing post-modern or wry or ironic about that.
But my question is this: In the realm of metaphor, should my use of such language be removed entirely? And if it's replaced with something less charged or more literal, won't that rise to the same level of offense after a while?
1. Caramel is my favorite candy. In whatever form. Salted, especially.
2. The idea of God (or god) is a consistent preoccupation of mine. As hard as I try, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to get away from the thing, whatever you name it: Jehovah, Yahweh, The In Between the In Between, Zeus, Gaia, etc. etc.
To believe or disbelieve is not a relevant issue to me. The Grand Whatchamacallit, however any of us perceive it, manifests in the subject. Even Atheists have to agree on a set of terms when discussing what it is they don't believe exists.
It's a demonstration of our ability to question "Why" or "For What Purpose". For this reason, I don't think that Spirituality and Science are mutually exclusive. They start from the same place. When the feathers of orthodox or religious folks ruffle in regard to scientific inquiry, I can't help but wonder what the fuss is about.
I like trees. I have always liked trees, the way they look, the sound they make when the breeze rifles through their leaves. I like that they look like my lungs (and given my own lung issues in the past, it makes sense that I would contemplate them with some frequency). Trees breathe, like I do, only opposite.
Both are fractals, my lungs and the trees. Like ferns, like frost. African villages. In these villages, they construct their housing in a such a way that the whole village community looks like a larger version of an individual house. And inside the individual house is a tiny replica of the larger house - for the family's spirit selves. And inside that tiny house, they say, is yet another house.
The geometry of this, the math of it, the science, does not threaten my own (varying) perceptions of the divine. It actually brings me a great deal of comfort.
3. The Classic Caramel Cob is a terrible disappointment. Don't know what it is? Well, that's probably because you don't ever see anyone eating them in public:
Yeah...this is what it looks like.
And with this on the package, I would say this counts as an epic Snack Fail.
4. Favorite word this week:
ver·tig·i·nous(vr-tj-ns)
adj.
1. Turning about an axis; revolving or whirling.
2. Affected by vertigo; dizzy. See Synonyms at giddy.
3. Tending to produce vertigo: "my small mind contained in earthly human limits, not lost in vertiginous space and elements unknown"(Diana Cooper).
1. There are names that I am always terrified I will get wrong:
Dianne/Dianna Kristen/Kirsten
No matter how well I know the person, no matter for how long, every time I utter her name, the split second before I speak it, a flash shoots off in my brain shrieking "WRONG ONE."
I have a friend named Dianna. I know her name is Dianna. I wonder if she's ever noticed the barely perceptible linger on the nn's as I second guess her name. Every. Single. Time.
If your name is Kirsten or Kristen, I probably won't even say your name ever. I will just look at you as if I am about to, and wait for your recognition.
On top of it all, I called one of my students by the name "Glen" the other day. His name is Neil. He looks like a Glen, though, not at all a Neil.
I tend to mix those name up, too, Glen and Neil. They only have a couple of letters in common. Maybe it's because they are both astronaut names.
2. The other night, we heard choking sounds from the alley below. The gagging noises were accompanied by distressed bleats, and after a few seconds we headed out to the sidewalk.
She was writhing on the ground, in a tee-shirt and sweat pants, grabbing at her throat. A few police officers were there, a few onlookers. One woman in pajamas bent over her, trying to ask questions and calm her down. As the spectator population grew, the victim's panic increased. She moaned and clawed at her neck, occasionally rolling over to spit on the ground.
Cop cars arrived, an ambulance was summoned. In the flashes of activity, we could piece together the story: She and her boyfriend had been fighting (and drinking, too, speculated one girl), the boyfriend hit her and then took off.
We headed back upstairs. There was nothing for us to do, no way to help without getting in the way.
I don't know how it resolved itself, or even if it did.
When we got upstairs, I was shaking and started to cry a little. It's troubling to see someone in that level of physical or mental distress. As we stood, hovering on the outskirts of the small phalanx, I felt the impulse to help. But to do what? The pajama-ed woman with the calming voice was doing the only thing any of us could until the ambulance got there.
I'm glad we went down, though. Even if there was nothing more to be done, at least we didn't sit with our ears clamped up in the apartment. I don't want to lose the impulse to at least try.
1. All over the city sidewalks you can see the ghosts of tiny disasters. Nothing too radical or tectonic. Just evidence left behind that someone was recently disappointed. Or confused.
(Every so often, there will be a ghost of an advanced disaster. I once followed a trail of blood from dumpster around a block to the front door of a house. I Nancy Drewed my way to the conclusion that whoever it was had cut themselves on some glass and had to go for stitches. Of course, I never discovered the real story. Maybe there was foul play and I misread the clues.)
Often the ghost involves food:
A torn paper bag, surrounded by 4 oranges. One is half eaten.
An opened styrofoam container, skidded over with cake and icing. The icing is pink and blue. There is a large Reebok shoe print in the middle.
A hamburger with one bite out of it, resting on a short wall at the bus stop.
An empty Frosty cup on the ground. Five feet away is the actual Frosty.
Part of a CD by the curb.
A whole unopened package of sausage links resting in the sun.
I wonder what happened in the aftermath. What typhoon did the wings of that smirched cake set off?
2. Tonight, walking from Ashland to Broadway, I discovered a face up penny in the crosswalk. I almost passed it over. I've mentioned my preoccupation with face up pennies before, and being fairly superstitious, I turned right around in front of the coolster dudes at Schuba's and claimed it.
I figured this penny to be especially lucky since it was A) Beat to hell and B) in a busy cross walk. Luck builds with potential danger in retrieval. (I once saw a penny on the third rail of the EL tracks. Untold ecstasy awaits the brave.)
When I came up from picking it up, however, the bus passed me by.
I'm still holding out hope. Maybe I'll win the lottery tomorrow.
Speaking of which...
3. The Mega Millions Jackpot has advertisements like this up all over town:
Based on what I've heard as the nightmare lottery winners suffer in their post-win years, these ads offer a grim visual that I don't think the designers intended.
1837, cant word, origin uncertain, probably from some forgotten British dialect. Candidates cluster in Herefordshire, Gloucestershire, southern Cheshire and also in Sheffield. "The formation seems to be onomatopoeic, expressive of the notion of throwing down roughly and untidily." OED
1. The word Awesome is awesome. But I'm sick of using it as my go to word for when I like something.
Time was, Awesome was in league with Fantastic or Magnificent. It included a level of terror in its wonderment that made it exciting. But then the Valley Girls got a hold of it for a few years and now, here we are in the over-used, dried up sea of an Awesome that merely means Cool.
Maybe I'll start using Staggering more often.
2. No matter what mood you are in, a child waving from a window as you walk away is still poignant to excess. When a child waves to you from the window, you are not going to the bus or to the car. You are headed off to war, to the gallows, to find food for the family, to bring home a beloved pet.
Nothing small is happening when a child waves to you from the window.
I've quit looking back.
I just can't take it anymore.
3. Okay. So. For real. I need the instruction manual.
I've been taking myself apart, right, as a lark, to see if I could do it, and now - as you can see - (gestures to a living room floor covered with strange looking parts - some geared and mechanical, some misshapen and inexplicably wet) I'm having some difficulty putting it back together again.
I tried just doing the reverse of what I did when I took the whole thing apart but (laughs) THAT didn't work. I mean, nobody tells you that the Heart is going to expand. They could say it on the makers label, right, that could be helpful. "Product may expand if removed." There. Done. I'd keep the heart carriage in tact.
But I didn't know that and now I can't get Irony (holds up what appears to be a giant ball bearing) and Sarcasm (The same, only covered with spikes) to fit back up in the in the skull. Someone said that Sense of Humor is a binder for these guys, but, I dunno. I think it rolled off under the couch or something.
Just, please, quit looking at me with the "I told you so" and check the junk drawer in the kitchen to see if the manual is there. If it's not. Fack. I uh-no what I'm gonna do.
6. So much better than the movie. And all in minute and seven seconds. (Thanks to Joe G for the tip!)
5. Favorite word this week (I discovered this through the demon program StumbleUpon. Good luck ever using it in a sentence.):
heh, yeah, i accidentally posted the title random thoughts today without any random thoughts to go with it and i've ben sitting here for a while wondering if I should post anything at all and then joe g decides to post a comment on my title and i'm all like, fine I'll post something, but my thoughts are maybe even too random for random thoughts or perhaps i should create a segment called chaotic thoughts where I can post all that lizard brain bullshit about feelings and how i get really tired of shit i think i'm done with cropping up in the worst places but honestly even that, EVEN THAT is aggravating on a day like today when I have to look myself in the mirror and ask are you really an artist at all i mean look at yourself you purchased if you seek amy off of itunes and you weren't even drunk or anything and now when you look at your itunes recommendations you will be reminded of how you forsook your better angels for what winds up being a grammatical train wreck of a ditty about ms. spears getting laid by any and every but whatever why can't we leave britney alone for chrissake who are we to judge anybody for their choices and why they do things in the same situation would we not fall into the abyss of self love to the point of complete and utter self annihilation and die of cardiac arrest after years and years of mental illness and unceasing public scrutiny Mj why did you have to die for the sins of britney spears will you roll away the stone and save the pop idols from their ineluctable misery also i can't believe i spelled annihilation correctly on the first try
It. was. AWFUL. By now, the critics have let their opinions be known, so this is no secret.
I'm not a fool. The Transformers Movies have no pretensions to art and so my expectations are pretty low. And even then, EVEN THEN, friends, my desires were thwarted.
You know what I wanted to see?
I WANTED TO SEE SOME EMMER EFFING ROBOTS KICK THE SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER. I WANTED TO SEE OPTIMUS PRIME TRANSFORM HIS GIANT TRUCK ASS INTO A ROBOT AND STOMP AROUND AND SAY WISE SOUNDING SHIT AND SMASH THE BALLS OFF OF MEGATRON. I WANTED CHASE SCENES.
What I got was two and half hours of my life stolen as we watched the most ridiculous "plot" and "dialogue" force its way onto the screen and call into question English as an effective form of communication. A six year old could have written it. But they didn't, because a six year old would have done a better job.
I did my share of hooting and hollering. It's like a reflex. I can't help it. But it left me exhausted - spent from the roller coaster of aching disappointment and overweening enthusiasm.
Ef you, Michael Bay.
Also this week, if you are just waking up from your Lunesta/Captain Morgan bender, Michael Jackson died.
The King of Pop has not been on my radar for many years now. Once my Thriller madness wore off, I never regained my interest. At a certain point (after jumping about 36 sharks) he cemented himself in my mind as one of the most repulsive examples of public excess. His decrepitude made me lose my appetite.
I will say though, that the monstrous being we all pointed to and laughed at seems so separate from the Michael Jackson of old. I watched a few videos on the yootoobs and that kid was a genuine talent. Is it possible for anyone of watch these old clips and not shake their heads with "Boy, what a shame"?
I remember wondering as a kid (whilst in the throes of my slavish love), what the world would be like when he died. What a desolate, hopeless hunk of rock we would inhabit. The thought twinged my heart with urgency, I may have even cried over it. Please don't die before I meet
you.
Needless to say I never met Michael Jackson. And it is a peculiar feeling to be alive on a day you imagined as a child and have it be so different than what you expected.
Finally, I was made aware of this little item on Wednesday:
W. T. Fuck.
For serious? A gigantor hamburger loaded for bear at a mouth of a woman suspiciously made up to look like a dead-eyed blow up doll?
Look. I know sex sells (I should again iterate that I have no problem with sexual practices - orthodox or un - between consenting adults.).
It would appear oral sex sells even more. Why would that be? Because, Christ knows, if you shove seven inches of beef in its mouth you certainly don't have to hear it talk.
The use of a 3-Dimensional object in tandem with a 2-Dimensional image in order to highlight the 2-Dimensional image's inadequacy at expressing a whole idea.
For instance, in downtown Chicago there are ads up for the Field Museum's Pirate Exhibit. I noticed one the other day that appeared shattered by a cannon ball (These ads are up in glass cases). The over all effect subverted my preconceptions about the "stodgy" Field Museum with an attempt to show the "thrilling reality" of nautical fire power.
There's gotta be a word for this concept. The first reader to give me the word gets a prize.
(And, no, you can't make it up.)
2. I wonder when the first use of the phrase "By Myself" was. There must be a first time in the written word that this notion was scrawled.
What a brilliant and terrible day that must have been: Wow! I am a completely autonomous being, separate from the tribe with my own ideas and feelings!...oh. Wait. Fuck.
I have been grinding away at the same thing for twenty years and now the plan I thought I had a firm grip on just fell into an open sewer. Damn. That was my only copy, too.
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