Trifecta

Coming home from work today, I followed an SUV that had the redneck trifecta displayed on the back hatch. There was a metallic medallion which read "NRA" positioned just above the license plate. On the left side of the hatch was a decal which read " Put Christ back in Christmas", and on the opposite side was a decal of the Dale Earnhardt number 3. Guns, God, and NASCAR. What's not to like?

Milk

Saw Milk tonight, and found it to be a wonderfully made film, with a lead performance that is the best of year. Give that Oscar to Sean Penn--do it now, and save a little time during the Oscar telecast. Just when I think he can't surprise me anymore, he creates this living breathing character, who wasn't for one second Sean Penn. He completely inhabits the role, and unlike a few previous performances, such as his grieving father in Mystic River, I didn't see the acting. He covered the cracks.

Rather enjoyed the coming attractions before the movie. They try to tailor them to the audience--if you're there to watch an action picture, you are gonna get three or four action picture trailers. If you are watching an art film, those are the kinds of trailers you'll see. Given that the distributers probably figured a generous portion of the audiences for Milk would be gay, it was a little funny to me that the trailers were two ads for the Metropolitan Opera, and back to back Clive Owen pictures, with lingering emphasis on those baby blues of his.

John Updike

When I was a student in the creative writing program of Ohio University, an assigned text included the following passage, which rocked my world, and, frankly, made me despair of ever being a writer:

All the warm night the secret snow fell so adhesively that every twig in the woods about their little rented house supported a tall slice of white, an upward projection which in the shadowless glow of early morning lifted depth from the scene, made it seem chinese, calligraphic, a stiff tapestry hung from the gray sky, a shield of lace interwoven with black thread.

At the time, like many young pretenders to literary glory, I had no real voice of my own, and was busy grafting the freewheeling, Tom Robbins-like constructions onto my own small business one week, and the fragmentary prose of Richard Brautigan the next. The common thread of these prose models was that it was different from the prose I'd read before college. Young people like different. They often equate different with good, or better. Somewhere in there, the word "cool" lives. (I have no time for cool writing these days...I prefer precision. It's a maturity thing, I hope). I find "cool" to be easy writing, path-of-least-resistance writing. Which is why it is attractive to young writers, who want to be thought of as innovative, without earning that praise through work.

But then I read the above passage by John Updike, from his short story The Crow in The Woods, and everything changed for me. The precision (that word!) of it, the visual truth interwoven with the abstract concept forced me to understand the job of the real writer. It turns out the years have borne me out as an appreciator rather than a practitioner, but it was Updike who made me understand the pedigree  of a real writer.

I didn't read all his books. Frankly, I preferred his short stories. Years could go by between my readings of his work. But let's face it, it was a better world with him in it. When I walked through the bookstores, looking at shelves full of chick-lit, low-rent murder books, and romance novels, I could make myself feel better by remembering the literary world still had giants roaming the plains-- Updike was still pumping them out. Now a hole exists in the world.

Here's to a master, a suddenly absent friend: John Updike 1932-2009.

Douchebag Update on the Update...

Perhaps there is hope for Mickey yet...word comes today that he is not going to get into the wrestling ring with WWE's Chris Jericho. A spokeswoman sent an email around to the news agencies saying as much, adding that Mickey is going to "focus on acting. "

Notice, though, that unlike most such reversals of position, she didn't deny Mickey originally intended to do it. Neither did she say he was misquoted, or quoted out of context, or was joking.  No, she just said he wasn't going to do it, period. Sounds like he has some better representation these days, people committed to save him from his inner douchebaggery. Still, its a long time till Oscar night--stayed tuned for further Mickey Rourke trashiness. Douchebag meter backed off a few ticks...for now.

update on the Mickey Rourke Douchebaggery watch...

I speculated some time ago that the clock was ticking on how soon Mickey Rourke would return to the douchebag status he held for so long. He was a prime douchebag for the many years he was on top, and then he all but disappeared from view, and now with The Wrestler, and the attendant Oscar nomination for Best Actor, he has a chance to reinvent himself as a serious artist, a legitimate A-list contender. One might think that, like Travolta with Pulp Fiction, the Mick could parlay this into a mid-career renaissance, and change the way people regard him. But, as we all know, very rarely do people rise above their natures: 

News came Sunday that he intends to get into the wrestling ring with a real life wrestler, WWE's Chris Jericho. Nice! Excellent way to gain cred going into the Oscar voting season! The douchebag meter has just risen a few ticks.

The Return of Sarah

This article on The Daily Beast examines Sarah Palin's embryonic plans for 2012. I believe it is absolutely imperative that all right-thinking people keep her in the public eye for four years.

 She MUST be the face of the Republican Party. Fellow-travelers in the liberal world decry her as a disgrace, and say she should be discounted, but I disagree. She should be ushered right along into the furnace of public opinion. We need to see her constantly, as a reminder of the utter bankruptcy of the conservative movement, a movement that, though I disagree with much of their ideology, once had giants in it (William F. Buckley, Eisenhower, Goldwater, to name a few). 

It should be exposed to all how far their movement has fallen. Let's keep reporting on Mrs. Palin, guys. Let's keep her out front. 

http://www.thedailybeast.com/cheat-sheet/#cheatrow_2505

25 Things

I wrote this on Facebook, for one of those 25 Things About Me things. Usually, I avoid those kinds of things, but I was free one morning and decided to give it a whirl...(FYI to people who already read this: the original was just 20 things, but I've added a few more, so you can just skip on down... 

1. If you work in a corporate setting, and the management asks that everyone write a comprehensive description of their jobs, they want to fire someone. This should be obvious, these "humans" learned it at some workshop on how to fire people without being overt about it--but there will always be someone who says, " This is fucking bullshit!" and writes a half page. Encourage this person's view. He is right, and righteous, and he will be the one who gets fired. Let him wander away from the herd and get eaten by the lions. I once wrote 20 pages of job description. I violated my old writing prof's rule, which says " The way to be boring is to leave absolutely nothing out" I counted on boring. I am fairly certain no one read all 20 pages. And I got a raise. True story.

2. I am a night owl who always wishes he were a morning person. I envy the person who rises before dawn, goes for a run, makes breakfast, does some chores around the house, and then showers and goes to work. I consider that freakish. But I envy it. Going to bed has always felt like giving up on the day to me--so I do it under protest, and have ever since I was a child. Consequently, I average 4 hours sleep per night. At least 2 times a week, those early risers find me also outside in the predawn hours. walking the dogs--the difference is, I haven't slept yet.

3. I hate traveling. My curiosity about other places and cultures is astonishing minimal. Anyway, that's what Wikipedia is for.

4. I hated college back in the 80s, HATED IT, couldn't wait to drop out, even turned down a scholarship, I wanted out so bad. 30 years later, I dropped back in to erase that incomplete on my soul. And I found that while I have changed in many profound ways over those years, I still HATE COLLEGE! HATE IT! 

5. I haven't read a People magazine in over 10 years, or any entertainment magazine for that matter. I haven't seen Entertainment Tonight, or any of those types of shows in at least as long. I read the Arts section of the NY Times maybe once a year. I never watch awards shows--it isn't an active dislike, I just can't work up the interest. I don't judge those who like that sort of thing--we all have weaknesses. I just decided long ago to divorce myself from popular "culture." I actually had to ask someone a year ago who Lindsey Lohan was, which I consider a small victory. Even my movie theatre visits have dwindled to 3 or 4 a year. 

6. I am Midwestern and I embrace that. When I was young, I wanted to be a citizen of the world, like Hemingway, but ran into a fundamental problem with that goal (see #3). Now I believe if you can't get it in Ohio, you can probably do without it. I have cloaked myself entirely in Midwesternism: I refuse the offer of coffee the obligatory 3 times before agreeing to half a cup, but only if you've already got a pot going. I don't want to put you out. If a relative gives me money for a holiday or birthday, I refuse it the obligatory 2 times before reluctantly pocketing it. I am suspicious of NY and LA. I believe in stoicism. I want people to nut up. If I have fundamental doubts about the universe and my place in it, I assume -- rightly--that no one else cares, and get busy with my lawn care.

7. The death of the City Center Mall grieves me in ways I find astonishing. I can't pass the place without a pang of sorrow. I remember the optimism of its grand opening, how so many friends (some no longer living) worked there. I remember the interesting shops, the beautiful Xmas decorations, the constant activity. Now, when I walk through it, it reminds me of being in my grandmother's house a few weeks after she died--when it seemed as if the house died too, all motion having come to a halt.

8. I hate camp. I hate camping. Just pretty much anything with "camp" in it.

9. Last year I was mentioning Laurence Olivier to a group of my students, and saw the blank looks and realized none of them knew who he was. Didn't even bother mentioning Ralph Richardson. But I decided right there that though they say the world belongs to the young, I am not ready to cede it to them yet. Their horizons are much too narrow to given such a big thing. I am fairly certain I was aware of things not in my immediate orbit when I was their age. I am turning grumpy in my middle-age.

10. Having said that, I enjoy the company of my students, and young folk in general. I like their energy, and optimism--it helps mitigate my ennui and pessimism. 

11. I believe if you hunger for fame, there is something elementally damaged about you. But I still hope to famous one day. The number of college theatre students who graduate and head for New York reminds me of WWI soldiers mindlessly going over the top to charge the Hun, only to get cut down a few yards from the trench. I am warm and happy in my little trench, and have no desire to face the fusillade--some call this cowardice, but I call it wisdom. I belong to no pack, no herd.

12. People say money can't buy happiness. The people who say that are idiots. Rich misery is much better than broke misery. I have always believed I have no problems that 10k in my pocket couldn't cure.

13. Having come from a family tree with many alcoholics dangling from its branches, I am amazed I have no taste for booze whatsoever. Or coffee, for that matter. My drink preferences sort of got set by the time I was 10 years old--Pepsi, iced tea, lemonade. Don't understand wine drinking. The making of a highball after work is an alien act to me. If I never drink another beer in my life I believe I'll be ok with that.

14. Speaking of family trees, my mother's side came to America in the late 1600s, fought in Washington's army, got a large land grant to western Maryland, and established 10 generations of uneducated hillbillies on that ground, who had, by the time my mom was born, drank it all away, acre by acre. That side also seems to have had several profound brushes with law enforcement, the most sensational being my great Grandmother, who along with her lover murdered my great grandfather , was acquitted in a sensational trial, and lived to be run over by a train in her 90s. Through that side, I am related to JonBenet Ramsey.

15. As mentioned before, I am a midwesterner. I am also a liberal. These things are not, despite what the national media would have you believe, mutually exclusive. But I confess I am a liberal in the small town democrat mode--not for me the vegan, hemp skirt wearing protesters at WTO meeting. I cringe whenever I see Katrina Vanden Heuvel on the Sunday morning talk shows. I roll my eyes at Hollywood liberals like Tim Robbins. Woody Harrelson's lifestyle makes me guffaw with embarrassment, like watching Lucy Ricardo screw up the chocolate factory. I am green only when it is absolutely convenient, and can impact me immediately, like money. I believe in a woman's right to kill her unborn child (refuse to play semantic games)...I believe in government subsidies for arts, so long as they aren't Piss Jesus...I believe socialism is the most enlightened form of government, and though the world has never really seen it work well on the large scale, you see it all the time in small towns...

16. My favorite epithet for years was simply " Fuck You!"... lately it's become "Fuck Me!" Don't know what this says...

17. I find my belief in God leaking away, like brake fluid.

18.I believe every fight is a fair fight. To my chagrin, I am a hitter. If you hit me, I will hit you back. If you are a diseased 80 year old woman in a wheelchair, and you hit me, watch out, cuz I'm bringin' the thunder. 

19. I wish I'd never started smoking, and I hope I never quit.

20. When I learned I was diabetic, my first thought--no kidding--was to all the books I won't get to read because of a shortened life span. When I turned 50, I actually counted the number of dogs left in my life, by relative sizes: I have maybe 3 large dogs left, maybe 1 terrier. The number of cats is nicely fluid, thankfully, cats being what they are.

21. Dogs live in two worlds: Good Dog, and Bad Dog. That's all they know. They assume their default position is Good Dog, but are constantly looking for your affirmation of that fact. Once they've been sentenced to Bad Dog, they do everything they can to get off the schneid, and get back to Good Dog. Most people are like this too, but labor under the delusion that they are more complicated than that. All most us really want is for someone to muss up our hair and ask "who's a good boy?"

22. Except for my parents, there isn't anyone left alive who remembers the little boy I was some 40 years ago. We disappear twice over the years--the last one of course is our own deaths, but before that there is the slow erosion of who we are and were, grains of our past carried off by the deaths of loved ones and friends. For many years there was a phalanx of biddy aunts and rough uncles, all of whom knew me from diapered ankle-biter to sullen teen. But they are gone now. Everyone except my parents knows only the grown Mark. Some day, sooner rather than later, that little boy will disappear forever.

23. Note to non-smokers: you need to get over yourselves. You cannot stop me from smoking. You cannot stop me from smoking where you are. If you don't like it, you must walk, silently, away from me. I am standing right here. I'm not moving. And I may have another while I'm here. And the same goes for vegans. That cig followed a thick, bloody steak. Not remotely interested in your opinion on the matter...and I may do all this wearing fur. Fuck those seals.

24. I am an unabashed watcher of TV, though my tastes are narrow. I like a lot of the shows cable is throwing up there now--Mad Men, Damages, Dexter, True Blood, Burn Notice, Rescue Me, and a few network shows: 30 Rock,  24, House, Law and Order. Hate the CSI franchise, hate shows that ripoff other shows, like The Mentalist (rips off Psych), the new one Lie to Me (rips off House, as did several other shows, starring an enigmatic self-loathing lead, and a supporting cast of people who comment on his self-loathing). No reality shows, ever! Also, refuse to watch any show with an FBI profiler, surely the biggest boon to TV in generations. I bet there were never more than a dozen profilers in the history of the FBI, but there have been hundreds on TV, all psychically damaged by their gifts and way too young (and most under 30, female, and beautiful)-- which is funny, because in the real FBI, you are dogshit till your 40s.

25. I hate contrarians. 

So sayeth I.

Riddle

Fifty is my first, nothing is my second, five is my third, and five is my fourth. I can survive in the coldest weather, but cold will kill me. What am I?

The Changeover

On CBS Sunday Morning, there was a story on the changeover from the outgoing Bushies to the incoming Obamaniacs. Defying the usual change of administration protocol, when means empty safes, missing "w" on keyboards, and a general "you're on your own, figure it out yourself" mindset, the two camps have been collaborating on a transition plan which on its face seems encouraging.

But they are also gaming scenarios should an attack by terrorists happen early in Obama's term, and this gives me pause. It isn't a case of a joint plan--this is the Bushies giving the Obamas a plan to follow... and I can just imagine the bullet points:

Open in case of Terrorist Attack:

The following should be done in no particular order--

1. Round up the usual Arabs.
2. Torture Aggressively interrogate them.
3. Attack Iran. (1^st Fallback: Attack North Korea, 2^nd Fallback: Attack Arab country of your choice)
4. Suspend whatever civil liberties are left.
5. Demonize France. They are also the 3^rd Fallback option for attack.
6. Perform a quick maintenance on those undisclosed locations. Remember, Dick Cheney has a permanent lease on a few of them.
7. Should things calm down by re-election time, look for ways to stir things up again. Always remind the American people they are safe only through your vigilance.
8. Oh, almost forgot--attack Venezuela.
9. Treat all dissenting views as treason.
10. Call us should you need any help. You have our number.

winter

I will never have the inner resources it takes to embrace winter. Why I haven't moved to the South, I'll never know. Well, probably because I am a card-carrying Midwesterner, but if I were someone else, someone who has the energy to make such a life changing move, I would head south, and I mean SOUTH. I wouldn't be a snowbird--matching white belt and shoes just aren't in the cards for me--I would relocate completely, and leave behind the frozen north ( I am writing this as I look at the temperature meter on my laptop which is reading -9 degrees outside)

Whenever I've gone to Dixie, I feel at home. Whenever I watch a show that's set below the Mason-Dixon line, it draws me. Maybe in a previous life I was a cracker from Mississippi. Who knows. But heat and humidity never bothered me much. Frigid air and snow, however, can send me into a tailspin.

I would love to live someplace where there is no need for the tons of sweaters, mittens, and parkas that are stuffed in my closet. The Keys. Costa Rica. Cuba. That kind of south. Atlanta is too cold for me. People in Jacksonville still need jackets. No! I want to spend the last quarter of my life in shorts and a teeshirt. 24/7, 365

douchebags

The other day (and aren't all days "other" except this one?), I was reading an article about Robert Novak, the conservative columnist tagged by Jon Stewart as " The Douchebag of Liberty" (surely the funniest nickname in years). I got curious to see if Novak's picture would come up if I googled the word "douchebag"--and was a frankly a little disappointed to se that it did not.

However, what did come up was a lot funnier, at least to me. Page after page of photos of men wearing Body Armour shirts, or none at all, flexing their muscles, groping women at parties, drunkenly leering toward the camera. What made me laugh was the notion that these guys thought they were being recording at the height of their dudeness, or manliness, and instead,they  have been lodged in the ether for all time as "douchebags". It just got funnier and funnier to me. Each picture of a young man appearing to have the time of his life was  accompanied by a small caption at the bottom which simply read " douchebag". Here's one:

Here's a pair--they often travel in packs:

Star Wars

I hate Star Wars references. I really do. I don't find them funny, relevant, or interesting. Yet everyone under the age of 45 uses them. Please stop. The whole franchise is a mile wide and an inch deep, and if the recent remakes have taught us anything, its that the franchise is more akin to the Look Whose Talking series. 

Don't use them in my presence. I mean it. This is your last warning.

What a Difference a Year Makes

Sometimes poetry, or the need for poetry, flows out of me like prayer. Sometimes everything I see is a metaphor for something else, every sound that actually reaches my brain from the damaged rail of my deafness is some species of music that I can translate. Sometimes the simple fact of waking up and surviving a day dilates in my mind until it becomes a  universal figure, a bird's nest constructed of light and time. 

These are not those times, I'm afraid. Last January, I was taking a class on poetry-writing, and it unfroze my heart (though that metaphor would surely be excised on revision). All of a sudden, I was a tuning fork, or a lens--I couldn't stop writing poetry. Good (more than a few), bad (more than a lot), and mediocre (most of the time), 2 or 3 poems were coming out of me daily. Only a few of these reached class. But I felt young again. The morning erection of language woke me up every day.

Then, like the experience of patients in the film Awakenings, the drug began to lose its effectiveness. Finally, a year later, I look at the blank page and feel no connection to it. It is alien to me. I have difficulty remembering the excitement of the empty page, which, if I may wax grandiose, must have felt something along the lines of a sculptor looking at the possibilities hidden inside a block of granite.

This is why I don't really consider myself a poet. A professional. They work every day, like tradesmen. Amateurs, even gifted ones, need inspiration. The outside element of the classroom became my LDopa, and I seem to lack the energy of doing it for myself. This may be why I phased from writing to theatre all those years ago. I need the audience, shameful as it is to admit. In the class, I had a group of people (and prof) who gushed over my poetry--or criticized it. Either way, what I pointed to, what I aimed for, was the public unveiling, the reading. That being lost, making poems seems somehow empty. 

Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah nah nah nah hey hey hey--goodbye...

Somewhere in the back of what is laughingly known as his brain, George Bush, in his last press conference, realized he was coming dangerously close to saying " You won't have George Bush to kick around anymore." Is it possible that this man lacks enough sensory apparatus to appreciate there is virtually nothing in the last 8 years he can (or should) look back upon with pride? In fact, given my previous post, an exchange with him would probably sound like this:

" That was. without question, the worst two terms any President ever had, in the history of this great, God-fearing nation!"

"YEAH!"

True Enough Fact #1

No matter how one tries, and I have tried, it is impossible to insult a teenage boy. Actually, you can extend this to a college boy, as well. No matter what you say, they see it as some sort of validation. You can say, " That was without doubt the single stupidest thing I have seen in years!" and what you'll get back is a grin, a fist pump, and a loud " Yeah!" or "Woohoo!" In fact, the more idiotic the action by the teen, and the more acidic reaction from you, the louder the "Yeah!" becomes. Young males are generally untouched by shame.  

" What the fuck were you thinking?"

" Yeah baby!"

"Don't you realize this could affect your life for years to come?"

"Woohoo!"

" Don't you get it, that these old ladies are never going to recover from what you've done?"

"Rock!"

The only way I have found to short-circuit getting the "YEAH!" response, is to finish a comment with a gay reference, i.e., " That was by far the most idiotic display I have ever seen. I bet you're a pretty good ball-licker too"--you might get a " Y...what?"

Fredo II

A recent headline said Alberto Gonzales was going to write a tell-all book about the Bush administration. Now, correct me if I am wrong, but isn't this the man who said "I don't recall" 122 times in his Congressional testimony? What kind of book could this be? Obviously, one not too encumbered with facts, which, of course, makes it perfect for the Bush Library.