Saturday, November 30, 2002
a draft 5. title help?
"Winter Launch"
A grip on your wrist
Should never satisfy me,
but it does. Well,
we've built a box of silent tools
and a chat room protocol;
let's see if they float.
A burning twine-tether
as I walk backwards into the lake
is never slack, and you understand so neatly the water
is murky but clean
and vibrant bass hide in the weed-shade;
let's see if we float.
A grip on water is droopy
and it freezes my circulation:
what is numb is still mine with a dream of heat,
I have the love of men dying under snow.
"Winter Launch"
A grip on your wrist
Should never satisfy me,
but it does. Well,
we've built a box of silent tools
and a chat room protocol;
let's see if they float.
A burning twine-tether
as I walk backwards into the lake
is never slack, and you understand so neatly the water
is murky but clean
and vibrant bass hide in the weed-shade;
let's see if we float.
A grip on water is droopy
and it freezes my circulation:
what is numb is still mine with a dream of heat,
I have the love of men dying under snow.
The beginnings of Saturday.
So the Watertonian Thanksgiving has turned one-eighty, and the glorious schmaltz and nostalgia have finally set in. I spent the night out with various WHS friends at Poor Richard's Bar, and later at Mo's Diner with a smaller group from the larger bar-pool. Jim, Jon, Dave, Tim, Aamir, Steve, Roselli, Jon's friend from Alfred, Chad, who just moved (get this) TO Watertown to take up a new engineering job at Tyco (he's living in lovely Sackets Harbor), Spicer, Ryan Schwerzmann, and Dylan were all caught-up-with over beer and foosball in a very crowded bar environment. Laughing and retellings of age-old legends put me in good spirits, as did the discovery that I will have more time to spend with Laura over Christmas break than previously thought, which both rocks AND gives me time enough (in fact a better time frame) to travel the East coast in search of fellow Class of '02ers and their places of residence and/or socialization.
ITEM:
What is insipid today?
The foosball table at Poor Richard's, State Street, Watertown, NY 13601. So, this is the one decent bar in town, and known congregating grounds for people we both care and care not to see from the days of Watertown High. Granted, fooseball is traditionally played at the Dry Hill Ski lodge, where we were all schooled in this greatest of table-games over the successive winters of our youth, but the lodge is only open when there is ample snow to allow skiing. Thus, the foosing can often only commence at PRs. Their table, however, is pathetic. It has the potential to be terrific: it's a Tornado (I think) with high-quality steel rodmans, a three-man backline, great ball-control, and a highly satisfying sound that issues from the angled plastic backing of the goals when you rip a pull-shot. That said, for the past year and a half, at least, the front-middle attackman has been broken from the axle, rendering him/her almost useless in propelling the ball forward or backward (and most basic shots up front require his/her stability). Not only have they not ponied up the cash and effort to procure a new table, but tonight, to my disdain, we discoverd that the normal set of 9 fooseballs alloted for a $0.75 game had been reduced to 5! FIVE FUCKING BALLS!!! First person to 3 goals? No, thank you. The table was sticky with beer-reside, anyway, and the sauna effect was setting in. What a rip. I hope Dry Hill is open this weekend.
So the Watertonian Thanksgiving has turned one-eighty, and the glorious schmaltz and nostalgia have finally set in. I spent the night out with various WHS friends at Poor Richard's Bar, and later at Mo's Diner with a smaller group from the larger bar-pool. Jim, Jon, Dave, Tim, Aamir, Steve, Roselli, Jon's friend from Alfred, Chad, who just moved (get this) TO Watertown to take up a new engineering job at Tyco (he's living in lovely Sackets Harbor), Spicer, Ryan Schwerzmann, and Dylan were all caught-up-with over beer and foosball in a very crowded bar environment. Laughing and retellings of age-old legends put me in good spirits, as did the discovery that I will have more time to spend with Laura over Christmas break than previously thought, which both rocks AND gives me time enough (in fact a better time frame) to travel the East coast in search of fellow Class of '02ers and their places of residence and/or socialization.
ITEM:
What is insipid today?
The foosball table at Poor Richard's, State Street, Watertown, NY 13601. So, this is the one decent bar in town, and known congregating grounds for people we both care and care not to see from the days of Watertown High. Granted, fooseball is traditionally played at the Dry Hill Ski lodge, where we were all schooled in this greatest of table-games over the successive winters of our youth, but the lodge is only open when there is ample snow to allow skiing. Thus, the foosing can often only commence at PRs. Their table, however, is pathetic. It has the potential to be terrific: it's a Tornado (I think) with high-quality steel rodmans, a three-man backline, great ball-control, and a highly satisfying sound that issues from the angled plastic backing of the goals when you rip a pull-shot. That said, for the past year and a half, at least, the front-middle attackman has been broken from the axle, rendering him/her almost useless in propelling the ball forward or backward (and most basic shots up front require his/her stability). Not only have they not ponied up the cash and effort to procure a new table, but tonight, to my disdain, we discoverd that the normal set of 9 fooseballs alloted for a $0.75 game had been reduced to 5! FIVE FUCKING BALLS!!! First person to 3 goals? No, thank you. The table was sticky with beer-reside, anyway, and the sauna effect was setting in. What a rip. I hope Dry Hill is open this weekend.
Friday, November 29, 2002
Friday, leftovers, and back to the blog.
It's COOOLD up here in Jefferson County, and snow-blown.
The feast was of-feasts, and completely fuflilling in manifold ways. MMmmmmmmm. Luscious turkey, apple-cranberry-oatmeal casserole, brocolli casserole, yams with cinamon, biscuits, my mashed potatoes, stuffing, double-pumpkin pie, homemade whipped cream, fruit salad...
ITEM:
Seeing as how David Lynch's Mulholland Drive is perhaps my favorite film from the past few years, I thought I would mini-compile some of my less pretentious e-tracts on the film, originally posted a while ago at joblo's movie emporium. This argument is from last Winter, at the peak of my joblo/posting obsession, when a lot of the ideas and theories brewed up in me by the likes of Coyle and Knecht were e-sublimated into debates over the purpose and art of filmmaking. My perspectives in general have changed a lot in a year, but I felt at the time I was writing this, I was fairly focused, passionate, well-balanced, and consciously tip-toeing around pretention like a motherfucking Riverdancer. This exchange is between a Lynch-detractor with the moniker Bud Fox and myself. I cut out most of his postings here, but the entire argument can be found here in the JoBlo archives.
Anyway, here's the monster:
BUX_Fox:
Am I the only person Who Hated Muholland Drive?
My thoughts on this piece of shit, attempt to be artsy, waste of two hours of my life that I will Never get back:
Horrible, forced Acting
No direction
Pretentious
No Humour
Senseless suspense
The product of a mind (Lynch's) that has ingested too many drugs, and as a result no longer harbours the cabability, or creativity, to produce a sensible, semi-entertaining, competent story-line. A couple of characters; random occurences; and a few scattered plots connected by scattered dillusions and subtle hints does not a Movie Make!
Finding Genius in this film is like finding Genius in a cup of Raw Sewage-- yeah its different, packs-a-punch, and makes you a little edgy, but no matter which way you try to spin it, it is still Shit.
Muholland Drive 1/10
CrowTRobot:Here's the thing with Mulholland Drive. It is a brilliant film, and it has plenty to commend as such. You have to realize that, first of all, it's not so much the point of the movie to "put the pieces of the puzzle together." Lynch is all about expressionism, about exaggeration. Many people are attracted to his films because of this exaggeration, the "lynchian" aspect. Odd shot compositions, strange strange things. But that doesn't mean that his ideas are strange, they are actually pretty solid ideas, albeit disturbing.
Mulholland Drive is foremost a movie about movies, particularly Hollywood movies and what makes them work or not work. The most important factor in hollywood has traditionally been sex appeal. Hence the focus on the female image. It's a film steeped in feminist film theory, about the Gaze and the tenuous relationship between voyeurism and film. If only a woman's image is needed to make a film work, then her voice/talent is negligible - hence the lip synching scenes.
AND ANOTHER THING, Lynch PURPOSEFULLY directs his actors to "act badly" in some scenes, like B Movie acting. And there is a point to this...1. they serve as a contrast to the scenes where the acting is riveting (the audition scene) 2. they play into the notion of women not having to be able to "act" in order to star in a movie, their image only being important.
Remember the two lesbian scenes? One is shot in darkness and intensely acted. The other is lit like a porno, and the women are in B MOVIE acting mode. These aren't mistakes, they're part of (IMO) a brilliant project that raises so many questions about the human act of looking, the male GAZE, popular entertainment in american history, etc etc.
It goes much much deeper, and there are SO MANY aspects of the film that I haven't even completely figured out yet, there are too many tangents and possibilties. But on the whole, it's a focused masterpiece.
I just hope, Fox, that I and others can convince you that even if you hate the film, you can't say that Lynch didn't know what he was doing. There are too many genious compositions and ideas flowing cohesively through the film, and this is no coincidence. I'm not saying you have to go watch it again. You gave it a shot, so no one can call you close minded. Just realize there MIGHT BE more to the film than you caught or were willing to catch, and that ideas can become another form of pleasure with practice and patience…
Bud Fox:
My thoughts on this piece of shit, attempt to be artsy, waste of two hours of my life that I will Never get back:
CrowTRobot:
Horrible, forced Acting?
see prior post
No direction?
This film was his entire project. He wrote and directed it, and had to scrap for a production company. His hand was in everything, and it was an incredible act of focused energy. The shot compositions are startling. The expressionistic sequences toward the beginning showing how decisions are made on a studio film being cast are incredible. The glass, the seperation, the ABSURDITY of it all is spot on. The fact that power balances swing on the taste of an espresso, and that lynch doesn't shoot the scene to make this a spoof, but deadpan serious, is, to me, brilliant. The symbols are freudian without being too simplistic. The lighting is superb. The suspense is incredible.
Pretentious
Just because a film takes risks doesn't make it pretentious. Lynch is a prettty humble and quiet guy. He doesn't make himself out to be a genious, this is just the way he sees the world. This is how he makes art. I don't think he affects any importance, or if he does, how do we know he does? If Michael Bay thinks he's making a meaningful picture with Pearl Harbor, HE'S being pretentious. but in either case we dont know. PRetention involves affecting more importance than one deserves. Just because lynch doesn't make hollywood movies doesn't make him pretentious. it makes him an artist.
No Humour? well, there is humor. it's dark humor, but its humor. it may not be your favorite type of humor, but it is humor. I found the espresso bit both bizarre and funny. I found Billy Ray Cyrus's cameo absurd and histerical. This is lynch's humor. It's okay that you dont like it, of course, just don't deny its presence. The phone conversation teh director has with his secretary about The Cowboy has a lot of sarcastic humor. Hell, I laughed. "What, should I wear my six shooters?"
Senseless suspense
There are many interpretations for the suspense scenes. The movie affects the trappings of a classic Hitchcock film, and other films of his era (the classic 50s hollywood era) because MD is a sort of commentary on the history of commercial film. There are innumerable hitchockian quotes in the film (Vertigo, Marnie, etc) because of feminst theory's interest in the great hitch's misogyny and technical geniuos, hence all the tension and mystery --hitchcockian echoes.
OR (takes a breath) THe tension is also about a dark and ugly mystery. The dead body rotting in the appt is a metaphor for the dark side of the human act of looking and coveting, of voyeurism. Of getting pleasure from looking at something, and movie studios making money off of this...etc
* * *
Okay, since you seem to be unconvinced that Mulholland Drive IS coherant, I'll try and summarize the ellipsis for you:
The film is a search for a female identity in hollywood: a brunnette has amnesia. Almost all of the action relates to the reconstruction of her identity, and she is assissted by a talented blonde hopeful actress, who is subsequently chewed up and spit out. In the meantime, hair colors are switched around, the blonde delivers an amazing acting "acting" scene when she tries out for the movie, there's a lot of lip synching, image image image, names of women get jumbled up, there IS a pattern here. I'm not just looking at abstract art and seeing my mother and a penguin (or something like that brilliant steve martin bit in L.A. Story), I'm using my brain and education to pick up on noticeable hints and ideas, and I can only surmise that they are part of Lynch's bigger aims with the project. But even if they aren't, that doesn't change the fact that the film IS rather coherent. It DOES end where it begins, in the back of the limo, with a restored identity.
MD is NOT abstract art, even if it does push the envelope of narrative cinema. It's hightly expressionistic and "lynchian" but it does have A narrative. Your problem seems to be that it doesn't have much of a "story" that wraps up nice and neat. The story is incidental to the higher aims of visual ideas, craftmanship.
The movie tries to establish, and rather clearly without spoonfeeding, the thesis that movies are dreams. One of the first shots is a fuzzy hand held view, supposedly first person, of a person falling asleep into a pillow. Many of the lines refer to Hollywood as "this dream place." I know you have dreams, bud, and they have their own fucked up logic. This is the same logic that Lynch has hijacked, to make the connection to films, which are so closely related to dreams. In the dark,watching images. It's the subconscious that harbors, along with the inspiration for making art, the darkest sides of our human nature, things that we are maybe afraid to confront/admit. Lynch is fusing dreams and hollywood into a movie, here. That much is evident.
With that dream logic, he is pretty much free to unload all his exaggeration, quirkyness, oddness, lynchianess. But he doesn't just unload it without rhyme or reason, he paints with loaded images and icons. Purses, blue cubes, keys, a blonde and a brunette who switch identities, lesbian erotica, glass, 1950s motives merging with modern LA.
I'm not making all this up, nor is it some random stringing up of various parts of the film. Whether he meant to or not, the film DOES have cohesion...and I am willing to give him credit for it, based on his prior work.
While the FILM does have a cohesive structure, Lynch does not provide simple answers to the complex questions he has raised. I think he'd rather let his audience think about what they've seen, and maybe he doesn't care if most people don't get it.
Compared to Minority Report, Mulholland Drive is much richer, much denser, and can afford to take more risks, because Lynch weaves his images under his own universe of odd-logic that is somehow plugged into the human subconscious. Minority Report's only real pathos is to make sure EVERYONE knows what EVERYTHING means, ALL the time. There aer no mysteries that dont get tidily cleaned up, and the mysteries arent even that interesting, they're cliche "whodunnits."
HOLD THE PHONE! SUDDEN INSPIRATION: I've got it - If there's a dead body in Minority Report, the film will spend its energy trying to get you to think about who killed her and maybe why. Things will be wrapped up nice and neat, drive home and feel good.
If there's a dead body in Mulholland Drive, the film will spend its energy making you think about why you looked at it even if you didnt want to, how it made you feel, and you go home feeling unsettled. Lynch examines phenomenon for which there may be no answer exexpt that they are. THis makes his work creepier than any second rate thriller. THIS may be why you don't want to get into his movies. They dont leave making you feel good about being human.
It's COOOLD up here in Jefferson County, and snow-blown.
The feast was of-feasts, and completely fuflilling in manifold ways. MMmmmmmmm. Luscious turkey, apple-cranberry-oatmeal casserole, brocolli casserole, yams with cinamon, biscuits, my mashed potatoes, stuffing, double-pumpkin pie, homemade whipped cream, fruit salad...
ITEM:
Seeing as how David Lynch's Mulholland Drive is perhaps my favorite film from the past few years, I thought I would mini-compile some of my less pretentious e-tracts on the film, originally posted a while ago at joblo's movie emporium. This argument is from last Winter, at the peak of my joblo/posting obsession, when a lot of the ideas and theories brewed up in me by the likes of Coyle and Knecht were e-sublimated into debates over the purpose and art of filmmaking. My perspectives in general have changed a lot in a year, but I felt at the time I was writing this, I was fairly focused, passionate, well-balanced, and consciously tip-toeing around pretention like a motherfucking Riverdancer. This exchange is between a Lynch-detractor with the moniker Bud Fox and myself. I cut out most of his postings here, but the entire argument can be found here in the JoBlo archives.
Anyway, here's the monster:
BUX_Fox:
Am I the only person Who Hated Muholland Drive?
My thoughts on this piece of shit, attempt to be artsy, waste of two hours of my life that I will Never get back:
Horrible, forced Acting
No direction
Pretentious
No Humour
Senseless suspense
The product of a mind (Lynch's) that has ingested too many drugs, and as a result no longer harbours the cabability, or creativity, to produce a sensible, semi-entertaining, competent story-line. A couple of characters; random occurences; and a few scattered plots connected by scattered dillusions and subtle hints does not a Movie Make!
Finding Genius in this film is like finding Genius in a cup of Raw Sewage-- yeah its different, packs-a-punch, and makes you a little edgy, but no matter which way you try to spin it, it is still Shit.
Muholland Drive 1/10
CrowTRobot:Here's the thing with Mulholland Drive. It is a brilliant film, and it has plenty to commend as such. You have to realize that, first of all, it's not so much the point of the movie to "put the pieces of the puzzle together." Lynch is all about expressionism, about exaggeration. Many people are attracted to his films because of this exaggeration, the "lynchian" aspect. Odd shot compositions, strange strange things. But that doesn't mean that his ideas are strange, they are actually pretty solid ideas, albeit disturbing.
Mulholland Drive is foremost a movie about movies, particularly Hollywood movies and what makes them work or not work. The most important factor in hollywood has traditionally been sex appeal. Hence the focus on the female image. It's a film steeped in feminist film theory, about the Gaze and the tenuous relationship between voyeurism and film. If only a woman's image is needed to make a film work, then her voice/talent is negligible - hence the lip synching scenes.
AND ANOTHER THING, Lynch PURPOSEFULLY directs his actors to "act badly" in some scenes, like B Movie acting. And there is a point to this...1. they serve as a contrast to the scenes where the acting is riveting (the audition scene) 2. they play into the notion of women not having to be able to "act" in order to star in a movie, their image only being important.
Remember the two lesbian scenes? One is shot in darkness and intensely acted. The other is lit like a porno, and the women are in B MOVIE acting mode. These aren't mistakes, they're part of (IMO) a brilliant project that raises so many questions about the human act of looking, the male GAZE, popular entertainment in american history, etc etc.
It goes much much deeper, and there are SO MANY aspects of the film that I haven't even completely figured out yet, there are too many tangents and possibilties. But on the whole, it's a focused masterpiece.
I just hope, Fox, that I and others can convince you that even if you hate the film, you can't say that Lynch didn't know what he was doing. There are too many genious compositions and ideas flowing cohesively through the film, and this is no coincidence. I'm not saying you have to go watch it again. You gave it a shot, so no one can call you close minded. Just realize there MIGHT BE more to the film than you caught or were willing to catch, and that ideas can become another form of pleasure with practice and patience…
Bud Fox:
My thoughts on this piece of shit, attempt to be artsy, waste of two hours of my life that I will Never get back:
CrowTRobot:
Horrible, forced Acting?
see prior post
No direction?
This film was his entire project. He wrote and directed it, and had to scrap for a production company. His hand was in everything, and it was an incredible act of focused energy. The shot compositions are startling. The expressionistic sequences toward the beginning showing how decisions are made on a studio film being cast are incredible. The glass, the seperation, the ABSURDITY of it all is spot on. The fact that power balances swing on the taste of an espresso, and that lynch doesn't shoot the scene to make this a spoof, but deadpan serious, is, to me, brilliant. The symbols are freudian without being too simplistic. The lighting is superb. The suspense is incredible.
Pretentious
Just because a film takes risks doesn't make it pretentious. Lynch is a prettty humble and quiet guy. He doesn't make himself out to be a genious, this is just the way he sees the world. This is how he makes art. I don't think he affects any importance, or if he does, how do we know he does? If Michael Bay thinks he's making a meaningful picture with Pearl Harbor, HE'S being pretentious. but in either case we dont know. PRetention involves affecting more importance than one deserves. Just because lynch doesn't make hollywood movies doesn't make him pretentious. it makes him an artist.
No Humour? well, there is humor. it's dark humor, but its humor. it may not be your favorite type of humor, but it is humor. I found the espresso bit both bizarre and funny. I found Billy Ray Cyrus's cameo absurd and histerical. This is lynch's humor. It's okay that you dont like it, of course, just don't deny its presence. The phone conversation teh director has with his secretary about The Cowboy has a lot of sarcastic humor. Hell, I laughed. "What, should I wear my six shooters?"
Senseless suspense
There are many interpretations for the suspense scenes. The movie affects the trappings of a classic Hitchcock film, and other films of his era (the classic 50s hollywood era) because MD is a sort of commentary on the history of commercial film. There are innumerable hitchockian quotes in the film (Vertigo, Marnie, etc) because of feminst theory's interest in the great hitch's misogyny and technical geniuos, hence all the tension and mystery --hitchcockian echoes.
OR (takes a breath) THe tension is also about a dark and ugly mystery. The dead body rotting in the appt is a metaphor for the dark side of the human act of looking and coveting, of voyeurism. Of getting pleasure from looking at something, and movie studios making money off of this...etc
* * *
Okay, since you seem to be unconvinced that Mulholland Drive IS coherant, I'll try and summarize the ellipsis for you:
The film is a search for a female identity in hollywood: a brunnette has amnesia. Almost all of the action relates to the reconstruction of her identity, and she is assissted by a talented blonde hopeful actress, who is subsequently chewed up and spit out. In the meantime, hair colors are switched around, the blonde delivers an amazing acting "acting" scene when she tries out for the movie, there's a lot of lip synching, image image image, names of women get jumbled up, there IS a pattern here. I'm not just looking at abstract art and seeing my mother and a penguin (or something like that brilliant steve martin bit in L.A. Story), I'm using my brain and education to pick up on noticeable hints and ideas, and I can only surmise that they are part of Lynch's bigger aims with the project. But even if they aren't, that doesn't change the fact that the film IS rather coherent. It DOES end where it begins, in the back of the limo, with a restored identity.
MD is NOT abstract art, even if it does push the envelope of narrative cinema. It's hightly expressionistic and "lynchian" but it does have A narrative. Your problem seems to be that it doesn't have much of a "story" that wraps up nice and neat. The story is incidental to the higher aims of visual ideas, craftmanship.
The movie tries to establish, and rather clearly without spoonfeeding, the thesis that movies are dreams. One of the first shots is a fuzzy hand held view, supposedly first person, of a person falling asleep into a pillow. Many of the lines refer to Hollywood as "this dream place." I know you have dreams, bud, and they have their own fucked up logic. This is the same logic that Lynch has hijacked, to make the connection to films, which are so closely related to dreams. In the dark,watching images. It's the subconscious that harbors, along with the inspiration for making art, the darkest sides of our human nature, things that we are maybe afraid to confront/admit. Lynch is fusing dreams and hollywood into a movie, here. That much is evident.
With that dream logic, he is pretty much free to unload all his exaggeration, quirkyness, oddness, lynchianess. But he doesn't just unload it without rhyme or reason, he paints with loaded images and icons. Purses, blue cubes, keys, a blonde and a brunette who switch identities, lesbian erotica, glass, 1950s motives merging with modern LA.
I'm not making all this up, nor is it some random stringing up of various parts of the film. Whether he meant to or not, the film DOES have cohesion...and I am willing to give him credit for it, based on his prior work.
While the FILM does have a cohesive structure, Lynch does not provide simple answers to the complex questions he has raised. I think he'd rather let his audience think about what they've seen, and maybe he doesn't care if most people don't get it.
Compared to Minority Report, Mulholland Drive is much richer, much denser, and can afford to take more risks, because Lynch weaves his images under his own universe of odd-logic that is somehow plugged into the human subconscious. Minority Report's only real pathos is to make sure EVERYONE knows what EVERYTHING means, ALL the time. There aer no mysteries that dont get tidily cleaned up, and the mysteries arent even that interesting, they're cliche "whodunnits."
HOLD THE PHONE! SUDDEN INSPIRATION: I've got it - If there's a dead body in Minority Report, the film will spend its energy trying to get you to think about who killed her and maybe why. Things will be wrapped up nice and neat, drive home and feel good.
If there's a dead body in Mulholland Drive, the film will spend its energy making you think about why you looked at it even if you didnt want to, how it made you feel, and you go home feeling unsettled. Lynch examines phenomenon for which there may be no answer exexpt that they are. THis makes his work creepier than any second rate thriller. THIS may be why you don't want to get into his movies. They dont leave making you feel good about being human.
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
a draft.
"smoke can dance to any time signature"
Someone had apparently started burning some rubbish.
The smoke suspended the world below it.
I was driving to the ski hill, freezing,
but it was brave enough to dance out there,
across the rural-ish road (on the outskirts of Watertown,
close to Brookside Cemetary and the mausoleum
where my maternal grandmother is entombed).
The beat/groove changed dramatically in the rock-calypso
song in the stereo.
The smoke's legs didn't falter as they vanished into atmosphere:
I know that dance went on.
My car's body was filthy, but the heater was coming to life.
"smoke can dance to any time signature"
Someone had apparently started burning some rubbish.
The smoke suspended the world below it.
I was driving to the ski hill, freezing,
but it was brave enough to dance out there,
across the rural-ish road (on the outskirts of Watertown,
close to Brookside Cemetary and the mausoleum
where my maternal grandmother is entombed).
The beat/groove changed dramatically in the rock-calypso
song in the stereo.
The smoke's legs didn't falter as they vanished into atmosphere:
I know that dance went on.
My car's body was filthy, but the heater was coming to life.
ITEM:
Here is the latest fragment to be added to the comi-tapestry known as "Binge Poetry," perpetrated on the world by various members of last Spring Semester's Poetry Workshop with Bruce Smith (not the NFL defensive great or the "gay shakespeare guy") at a reunion dinner two nights ago. Strom tentatively titled this piece "X," and I'll leave it up to you to figure out which line(s) were written by my hand. Also, I took some liscense and fudged with the line breaks/spacing —
x
copper jangling in a toilet bowl, I'm lost.
lights dipping and swelling in the bent window
like some psychedelic sine curve where x equals "God does not exist,"
where flowers turn to zero and become them.
The last word is the first.
Maybe you should just become a rabbi.
Maybe you should replace the coffee filter.
Wilt on the alphabetical torture line,
Whine over sharp truth and smells.
take the warm gloves down from the shelf
and drain the cider above the hearth.
It burns like cuts against your throat
and melts the middle of your cold.
Here is the latest fragment to be added to the comi-tapestry known as "Binge Poetry," perpetrated on the world by various members of last Spring Semester's Poetry Workshop with Bruce Smith (not the NFL defensive great or the "gay shakespeare guy") at a reunion dinner two nights ago. Strom tentatively titled this piece "X," and I'll leave it up to you to figure out which line(s) were written by my hand. Also, I took some liscense and fudged with the line breaks/spacing —
x
copper jangling in a toilet bowl, I'm lost.
lights dipping and swelling in the bent window
like some psychedelic sine curve where x equals "God does not exist,"
where flowers turn to zero and become them.
The last word is the first.
Maybe you should just become a rabbi.
Maybe you should replace the coffee filter.
Wilt on the alphabetical torture line,
Whine over sharp truth and smells.
take the warm gloves down from the shelf
and drain the cider above the hearth.
It burns like cuts against your throat
and melts the middle of your cold.
I woke up to snowfall, I think I will live. Conditioned as I am to the boarding school routine, I could not sleep past 930. Eager for cheer, I embarked (after Lucky Charms and OJ and mini- life discussion with mom) on some Watertown business.
Morning Errands:
A drive out Old Massey Street, the long way to outer Arsenal. Scenic utilitarian bridge over I-81 and surrounding blank farmland.
Walmart - cheap prices for MiraFlow™ contact lens cleaner and Irish Spring. I also picked up a copy of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation on DVD, for my own VHS dubbed copy, despite severe sentimental importance (many cold Colgate freshman-year end-of-Fall-semester nights were spent with a tuna melt and fries wrapped from the coop and repeated screenings of this classic, christmas lights on and the door open for Reetu and/or Julie to visit...sigh), has worn out it's existence. It has been my self-assigned charge/tradition, in Christmas seasons past, to watch Christmas Vacation at least once a day (it was later reduced to at least one scene per day), EVERY day, until December 25th. Now I can skip to any scene with the handy scene selection feature! EASE!
Blockbuster: Laura will be up to stay with me tonight, and she was hoping to rent a copy of Porgy and Bess, predicting that with dress rehearsals for Cabaret and major paperage due next week, she won't be able to attend either screening that Coyle has arranged. They didn't have the film, but I was blown away at the sudden complete rearrangement of the store's stock: all VHS and DVD titles have been de-segregated into an all out alphabetical mish-mash. While perusing the comedy section, you will find both a tape AND a disc version of (the abomidible) The Mask sitting SIDE BY SIDE (the DVD cover has a more nausea-inducing shade of peagreen than the tape: odd). I've always been freaked-out by the notion that new films (hot blockbusters and direct-to-video alike) are always pouring in, and there has to be some Machivelian/Darwinian (sp?) formula for determining how many copies of which films are kept, which are shifted to the "Previously Viewed" sale-rack, and which a sold for scrap plastic. Retrenchment, truncation, influx, exflux, acid reflux. Is there a list of films that can never been removed from the store? Classics that should always be available? Will On the Waterfront or Citizen Kane someday be heaved to make room for back-stock of Spiderman II?
Video To ROL:
My old rental stomping grounds, VTR was where I found delight many nights when I was in the early teens. They aren't a chain, so I'm amazed they're still in business. They have a more diverse selection than Blockbuster, but they didn't have PandB either, so I rented a VHS copy of Pink Flamingoes.
Finally, a drive to good old Dry Hill Ski Area to see how things were shaping up (I pass the mausoleum where my maternal grandmother is entombed). They're busy making snow, and the ski shop is open. Maybe I'll get to play some foosball and hang at one of the best old-fashioned ski-lodges/bar's in the world. This is where I learned to play foosball; it cost me many quarters. It's also where I played Shinobi and Spy Hunter back in the mid-80s. Oh, I do some skiing, too (or at least I did when I was younger). I still have not snowboarded.
Back home, refreshed. Mom is making pies and casseroles. I am no longer in a frozen state of depression. There are smiles on many faces.
While on the way out to the Hill, I was struck with a line I hope to use in a new poem:
smoke can dance to any time signature
Someone had apparently started burning some rubbish, or perhaps wood in their fireplace, and a trail of the smoke was wafting across the rural-ish road (on the outskirts of Watertown, close to Brookside Cemetary and aforementioned mausoleum). The music playing in my car was something early by 311 (from Grassroots), and the beat/groove in the song changed dramatically (one of the band's best trademarks) from harsh crunching to mellow muted guitar and shimmering percussion (now that I think of it, I think they song was track #7 "Taiyed"). The smoke's dance didn't falter.
more to come...
Morning Errands:
A drive out Old Massey Street, the long way to outer Arsenal. Scenic utilitarian bridge over I-81 and surrounding blank farmland.
Walmart - cheap prices for MiraFlow™ contact lens cleaner and Irish Spring. I also picked up a copy of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation on DVD, for my own VHS dubbed copy, despite severe sentimental importance (many cold Colgate freshman-year end-of-Fall-semester nights were spent with a tuna melt and fries wrapped from the coop and repeated screenings of this classic, christmas lights on and the door open for Reetu and/or Julie to visit...sigh), has worn out it's existence. It has been my self-assigned charge/tradition, in Christmas seasons past, to watch Christmas Vacation at least once a day (it was later reduced to at least one scene per day), EVERY day, until December 25th. Now I can skip to any scene with the handy scene selection feature! EASE!
Blockbuster: Laura will be up to stay with me tonight, and she was hoping to rent a copy of Porgy and Bess, predicting that with dress rehearsals for Cabaret and major paperage due next week, she won't be able to attend either screening that Coyle has arranged. They didn't have the film, but I was blown away at the sudden complete rearrangement of the store's stock: all VHS and DVD titles have been de-segregated into an all out alphabetical mish-mash. While perusing the comedy section, you will find both a tape AND a disc version of (the abomidible) The Mask sitting SIDE BY SIDE (the DVD cover has a more nausea-inducing shade of peagreen than the tape: odd). I've always been freaked-out by the notion that new films (hot blockbusters and direct-to-video alike) are always pouring in, and there has to be some Machivelian/Darwinian (sp?) formula for determining how many copies of which films are kept, which are shifted to the "Previously Viewed" sale-rack, and which a sold for scrap plastic. Retrenchment, truncation, influx, exflux, acid reflux. Is there a list of films that can never been removed from the store? Classics that should always be available? Will On the Waterfront or Citizen Kane someday be heaved to make room for back-stock of Spiderman II?
Video To ROL:
My old rental stomping grounds, VTR was where I found delight many nights when I was in the early teens. They aren't a chain, so I'm amazed they're still in business. They have a more diverse selection than Blockbuster, but they didn't have PandB either, so I rented a VHS copy of Pink Flamingoes.
Finally, a drive to good old Dry Hill Ski Area to see how things were shaping up (I pass the mausoleum where my maternal grandmother is entombed). They're busy making snow, and the ski shop is open. Maybe I'll get to play some foosball and hang at one of the best old-fashioned ski-lodges/bar's in the world. This is where I learned to play foosball; it cost me many quarters. It's also where I played Shinobi and Spy Hunter back in the mid-80s. Oh, I do some skiing, too (or at least I did when I was younger). I still have not snowboarded.
Back home, refreshed. Mom is making pies and casseroles. I am no longer in a frozen state of depression. There are smiles on many faces.
While on the way out to the Hill, I was struck with a line I hope to use in a new poem:
smoke can dance to any time signature
Someone had apparently started burning some rubbish, or perhaps wood in their fireplace, and a trail of the smoke was wafting across the rural-ish road (on the outskirts of Watertown, close to Brookside Cemetary and aforementioned mausoleum). The music playing in my car was something early by 311 (from Grassroots), and the beat/groove in the song changed dramatically (one of the band's best trademarks) from harsh crunching to mellow muted guitar and shimmering percussion (now that I think of it, I think they song was track #7 "Taiyed"). The smoke's dance didn't falter.
more to come...
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
Drinking Report:
I didn't drink tonight, not even one beer. This has not happened in quite some time. I have not been often drunk in the past few months, but I have not had a beer-free night in some time, either. Drying out at home. Mmmmm. Note to self: pick up some 1812 Ale tomorrow.
I didn't drink tonight, not even one beer. This has not happened in quite some time. I have not been often drunk in the past few months, but I have not had a beer-free night in some time, either. Drying out at home. Mmmmm. Note to self: pick up some 1812 Ale tomorrow.
Tuesday evening, Watertown, NY. Bitter cold air, bitter sad mood.
Fuck items, I'm gonna purge. I need to get this arctic sadness out of my stomach and sinuses. Normally, when I creep down Washington Street hill, driving past all the car dealerships, then the ex-Super Duper plaza (now Big M plaza) and WHS and the new Case Jr. High, and Jreck Subs, and then the new Dunkin' Donuts/Carvell store, etc I get all super-schmaltzy and sentimental. Somewhere between the downtrodden expressions of my father and my mother's endearing, continued belief in the great illusion of life, and the biting cold (which I usually love to feel on my skin), I just feel saturated with blue fucking sadness. And there's no better word than "sadness," trite may it be unqualified. Sadness sadness sadness. fuck.
I've come home after Colgate semesters, after a London Study group, and its always been a rush. I feel like after teaching, chaperoning, being responsible (mostly), and whatnot for a whole Fall trimester, I have too much perspective. I'm seeing more of the seams of life than ever before, and it's really painful to watch sometimes. I sat with my parents and my favorite high school english teacher at my sister's volleyball game (he has 2 daughters playing too), and it didn't seem mythic anymore. I was very impressed with the varsity team, they looked sharp (they may have even given the School Championship Team a run for their money). Then we had Art's Jug pizza and now I'm of course on the computer watching the Real World and thank god Laura signed on and is comforting me with just being her amazing self, and I have a couple books to go to sleep with by Italo Calvino. FUck, tomorrow there had better be snow and Bing Crosby, kisses and hugs, beer and the acceptance of north country delusions, else I'm in trouble.
Fuck items, I'm gonna purge. I need to get this arctic sadness out of my stomach and sinuses. Normally, when I creep down Washington Street hill, driving past all the car dealerships, then the ex-Super Duper plaza (now Big M plaza) and WHS and the new Case Jr. High, and Jreck Subs, and then the new Dunkin' Donuts/Carvell store, etc I get all super-schmaltzy and sentimental. Somewhere between the downtrodden expressions of my father and my mother's endearing, continued belief in the great illusion of life, and the biting cold (which I usually love to feel on my skin), I just feel saturated with blue fucking sadness. And there's no better word than "sadness," trite may it be unqualified. Sadness sadness sadness. fuck.
I've come home after Colgate semesters, after a London Study group, and its always been a rush. I feel like after teaching, chaperoning, being responsible (mostly), and whatnot for a whole Fall trimester, I have too much perspective. I'm seeing more of the seams of life than ever before, and it's really painful to watch sometimes. I sat with my parents and my favorite high school english teacher at my sister's volleyball game (he has 2 daughters playing too), and it didn't seem mythic anymore. I was very impressed with the varsity team, they looked sharp (they may have even given the School Championship Team a run for their money). Then we had Art's Jug pizza and now I'm of course on the computer watching the Real World and thank god Laura signed on and is comforting me with just being her amazing self, and I have a couple books to go to sleep with by Italo Calvino. FUck, tomorrow there had better be snow and Bing Crosby, kisses and hugs, beer and the acceptance of north country delusions, else I'm in trouble.
Toosday, hon. Slight hangover from cabernet, followed by one customary glass of Killian's at The Hour Glass with Larry.
ITEM:
The Poets' Reunion Dinner was a smashing success; guests included Kelly Engel (who helped make delicious veggie lasagna), Misha Patel (who hosted), Smudge (her amorous kitten), Betsy Drake, Josh Strom '02, Geoff "Brother" Kravitz '02, Casey Langel, myself '02, Courtney Hostetler, and (yes) American poet Bruce Smith, former visiting professor at Colgate University. This comprises a clear majority of the legendary Poetry Writing Workshop of last Spring semester, and pleasant conversations were had by all re: future, past, writing, embarrasments, books, grad schools, football, balakian-bashing. Smith, at our request, informed us of other literarily-notorious "bruce smith"s, one whose work Casey stumbled across while researching a paper for Coyle's contemporary theories course and whom (our) Smith tagged as "the gay Shakespeare guy." It was classic Bruce Smith. He has recently shaved his head, which makes him look slightly older, but no less distinct and American (he played college football for Bucknell, and can still put up two bucks and change, so I'm told). He's trying to get his first novel published, and had many genuinely interesting, not-in-the-least-bit-arrogant stories to tell about it and his strange credit history. He's still most grounded, humble, brilliant person I have met. Yay.
The dinner party soon gave way to a 13 and friends kegger, but several of us poets (Smith had left by this time, it was swell of him to come) retreated upstairs to add to "Binge Poetry," a communal, alcohol-fueled long poem that we hope to never complete. The best results are supposed to be group-emailed, and I'll post the best stuff here if and when it arrives.
ITEM:
No visit to Colgate is complete without slices, a trip to the new bookstore, and a parking ticket. Yes, I was nailed with a $40 parking ticket for attempting to hide my Accent behind the Sapperstein Center (where I was always told is nearly off-limits to Campus po-po). To assuage the stirring guilt inside, and my twisted need to pay off all debts before anything else can be even considered, I started to rev. up the old cognitive dissonance and I do not plan on paying it any time soon. I am concerned that since my old parking permit stickers are still stuck to my rear drivers-side window, that Campus Safety will know it's ME that parked their illegally, that's it will be ME who is dilequent in failing to pay it. What consequences will crash down upon me? Will I never see my transcript again? Will my liscense be revoked? I wish I didn't have a fucked-up relationship with my anxiety. I wish I were colder.
ITEM:
The Poets' Reunion Dinner was a smashing success; guests included Kelly Engel (who helped make delicious veggie lasagna), Misha Patel (who hosted), Smudge (her amorous kitten), Betsy Drake, Josh Strom '02, Geoff "Brother" Kravitz '02, Casey Langel, myself '02, Courtney Hostetler, and (yes) American poet Bruce Smith, former visiting professor at Colgate University. This comprises a clear majority of the legendary Poetry Writing Workshop of last Spring semester, and pleasant conversations were had by all re: future, past, writing, embarrasments, books, grad schools, football, balakian-bashing. Smith, at our request, informed us of other literarily-notorious "bruce smith"s, one whose work Casey stumbled across while researching a paper for Coyle's contemporary theories course and whom (our) Smith tagged as "the gay Shakespeare guy." It was classic Bruce Smith. He has recently shaved his head, which makes him look slightly older, but no less distinct and American (he played college football for Bucknell, and can still put up two bucks and change, so I'm told). He's trying to get his first novel published, and had many genuinely interesting, not-in-the-least-bit-arrogant stories to tell about it and his strange credit history. He's still most grounded, humble, brilliant person I have met. Yay.
The dinner party soon gave way to a 13 and friends kegger, but several of us poets (Smith had left by this time, it was swell of him to come) retreated upstairs to add to "Binge Poetry," a communal, alcohol-fueled long poem that we hope to never complete. The best results are supposed to be group-emailed, and I'll post the best stuff here if and when it arrives.
ITEM:
No visit to Colgate is complete without slices, a trip to the new bookstore, and a parking ticket. Yes, I was nailed with a $40 parking ticket for attempting to hide my Accent behind the Sapperstein Center (where I was always told is nearly off-limits to Campus po-po). To assuage the stirring guilt inside, and my twisted need to pay off all debts before anything else can be even considered, I started to rev. up the old cognitive dissonance and I do not plan on paying it any time soon. I am concerned that since my old parking permit stickers are still stuck to my rear drivers-side window, that Campus Safety will know it's ME that parked their illegally, that's it will be ME who is dilequent in failing to pay it. What consequences will crash down upon me? Will I never see my transcript again? Will my liscense be revoked? I wish I didn't have a fucked-up relationship with my anxiety. I wish I were colder.
Monday, November 25, 2002
Monday late afternoon.
A satisfying hour killing time was spent in downtown Hamilton, complete with a conversation with the one and only PhiLL Ramey about secret things. He was on his way out, so I browsed the incredibly diverse ranks of merchandice and picked up an Italo Calvino book, If on a Winter's Night a Traveller. Gary turned me on to Calvino; he sent me Invisible Cities a few months ago, and I am still reeling. Flynn recalls reading it a few years ago and not endorsing it at the time.
Digression: So if this blog is sorta like a diary— albeit public— how do I (or we) distinguish introductions, segues between different circles of friends, all the while considering the audience who will read this stuff (if anyone even does). Should I assume an ignorant audience? 'Cause if I do, then I'll have to start properly backgrounding these characters/real people and not just drop their names. Or should I just let their personalities emerge over time, as per a novel? Is this a novel or sorts? Should my only audience be my own mind? I don't know if a final answer can be quickly reached, but for now I intend to just drop names as I see fit, including surnames when I deem appropriate (say, in the case of multiple "john"s or "sarah"s or "kate"s). There are even two Flynns in my life: the person and the pool facility where I have worked for the past 6 summers. Character trees? Geneological maps? Timelines? I don't want to get bogged down. Fuck it.
ITEM:
So, this afternoon my channel surfing was arrested by the *New TNN, the second such happening in the past month (the first came a few weeks ago when I fucking flipped out when I found Slam Ball, a new televised sport in which undoubtedly down-on-their-luck young athletes play a seriously modified game of basketball in a caged-in cube. The twist: the area under the basket (the "paint" to you bball afficionados) is comprised of 4 trampolines that, when stepped or jumped upon, sink below court-level, allowing for the attainment of obscene "air" and videogame-like dunks. The contestants (or players, apparently the program has created a league, perhaps an attempt to create credibility for this amazing gimmick) wear head padding and other safeguards, since I don't think there are any body fouls, and you can travel/double dribble when you are on trampoline-territory - I couldn't take my eyes off the screen) . Today, it was John Peppard that caught my eye, because the grain of the A-Team episode I began to watch on the *NEW TNN seemed to be remastered, refocused, or somehow touched up so that its quality was superb. I thought I was witnessing a new A-Team reunion movie (which would be strange, since Peppard died a few years ago), but no. What threw me off, too, was this particular episode's setting: some vague south pacific island where two groups of indigenous tribes exist. Face and Murdoch get stranded on this island, while Hannibal and BA are brewing doubts about their mission (they're hired by some questionable dude who wants them to deliver something? alterior motive, getting some chain of islands under his control).
Noteable quotes from the episode:
Murdoch, as he addresses a group of the natives after diving "reason" from a clear plastic skull toy (it's a trial for two male tribe members who cannot get along) [paraphrase, but picture Murdoch's vague attempt at sounding "ethnic south pacific"]: ...We all know that huts are very important, and so each man must rebuild the other's hut. Until they are finished, they shall live as hut-mates and learn to respect one another, for we all know the words of the great god, Joe Nameth "hut, hut, huthuthuthut,HUT HUT HUT HUT HUT!". [and the crowd goes wild]
second, Hannibal [while on the radio to his employer]: The middle east can wait.
Oh, and now i'm hearing B.A. speak his mind about the natives' practice of slavery. Now Mr. T is 1-800-COLLECT's bitch.
A satisfying hour killing time was spent in downtown Hamilton, complete with a conversation with the one and only PhiLL Ramey about secret things. He was on his way out, so I browsed the incredibly diverse ranks of merchandice and picked up an Italo Calvino book, If on a Winter's Night a Traveller. Gary turned me on to Calvino; he sent me Invisible Cities a few months ago, and I am still reeling. Flynn recalls reading it a few years ago and not endorsing it at the time.
Digression: So if this blog is sorta like a diary— albeit public— how do I (or we) distinguish introductions, segues between different circles of friends, all the while considering the audience who will read this stuff (if anyone even does). Should I assume an ignorant audience? 'Cause if I do, then I'll have to start properly backgrounding these characters/real people and not just drop their names. Or should I just let their personalities emerge over time, as per a novel? Is this a novel or sorts? Should my only audience be my own mind? I don't know if a final answer can be quickly reached, but for now I intend to just drop names as I see fit, including surnames when I deem appropriate (say, in the case of multiple "john"s or "sarah"s or "kate"s). There are even two Flynns in my life: the person and the pool facility where I have worked for the past 6 summers. Character trees? Geneological maps? Timelines? I don't want to get bogged down. Fuck it.
ITEM:
So, this afternoon my channel surfing was arrested by the *New TNN, the second such happening in the past month (the first came a few weeks ago when I fucking flipped out when I found Slam Ball, a new televised sport in which undoubtedly down-on-their-luck young athletes play a seriously modified game of basketball in a caged-in cube. The twist: the area under the basket (the "paint" to you bball afficionados) is comprised of 4 trampolines that, when stepped or jumped upon, sink below court-level, allowing for the attainment of obscene "air" and videogame-like dunks. The contestants (or players, apparently the program has created a league, perhaps an attempt to create credibility for this amazing gimmick) wear head padding and other safeguards, since I don't think there are any body fouls, and you can travel/double dribble when you are on trampoline-territory - I couldn't take my eyes off the screen) . Today, it was John Peppard that caught my eye, because the grain of the A-Team episode I began to watch on the *NEW TNN seemed to be remastered, refocused, or somehow touched up so that its quality was superb. I thought I was witnessing a new A-Team reunion movie (which would be strange, since Peppard died a few years ago), but no. What threw me off, too, was this particular episode's setting: some vague south pacific island where two groups of indigenous tribes exist. Face and Murdoch get stranded on this island, while Hannibal and BA are brewing doubts about their mission (they're hired by some questionable dude who wants them to deliver something? alterior motive, getting some chain of islands under his control).
Noteable quotes from the episode:
Murdoch, as he addresses a group of the natives after diving "reason" from a clear plastic skull toy (it's a trial for two male tribe members who cannot get along) [paraphrase, but picture Murdoch's vague attempt at sounding "ethnic south pacific"]: ...We all know that huts are very important, and so each man must rebuild the other's hut. Until they are finished, they shall live as hut-mates and learn to respect one another, for we all know the words of the great god, Joe Nameth "hut, hut, huthuthuthut,HUT HUT HUT HUT HUT!". [and the crowd goes wild]
second, Hannibal [while on the radio to his employer]: The middle east can wait.
Oh, and now i'm hearing B.A. speak his mind about the natives' practice of slavery. Now Mr. T is 1-800-COLLECT's bitch.
Monday, Monday. This one isn't manic. In fact I feel quite...in limbo? in purgatory? floating? squatting? I don't really belong anywhere right now. Colgate isn't even really my surrogate home anymore, neither is my dorm/appartment at The School, but yet 135 Paddock Street, Watertown NY— my destination tomorrow— doesn't promise me any feelings of security, either. Who/where am I? Do I need to be defined by a homebase?
I'm lounging in CAH whilst laura attends Coyle's Jazz Age course, and I just solved a slew of html/blog snags so that my general template (while not in the least personalized) is how I desire. Note the addition of comments (also yet-to-be-personalized), and now note a pathetic tone within this post that itches at your centers of sympathy and pity: thus, you comment.
ITEM:
We watched Adult Swim last night, and I was disheartened. "Aqua Teen" and "Sealab" usually astound me, but last night was pathetic. Once, I could count on a great quotable quip like "I SAID, it's dodgeball time, bitch!" or "It feels like a koala bear is shitting rainbows on my BRAIN!" but nothing stuck out. All good things fade, I guess. Frost was right:
The questions that he forms in all but words
Is what to make a diminished thing.
- "The Oven Bird"
ITEM:
I have to figure out a self-contained three-week project for the three weeks of classes that abut the breaks of Thanksgiving and Christmas. There's no way the kids are going to be able to leave a novel or whatever on the 21st of December, and then jump right back in when they return early/mid January. The topics for the Fall term were first (and briefly) "Heroes and Monsters," and then "Art vs. Reality?" For the winter, I'm hoping to focus on the idea of "Wit" so we can laugh while we're trapped inside the intimate, cubicle-ish classrooms of Dann Academic Building with cold wind and (praying please!) snow outside. I'm hoping the (gorgeous, yet) uniform snow cover will leave certain easily-distracted students with less to gaze at out the window. Then again, some of these students are from certain areas of the world (say the Middle East) where snow is unheard of or rare, thus it will most likely fascinate hi...I mean them to no end.
Candidates for the "Wit" reading list:
Alexander Pope "Essay on Criticism" "Essay on Man" "The Dunciad"
Dryden "Mack Flecknoe" (sp?)
Swift "Modest Proposal"
Jane Austen Pride and Prejudice
-(this one's for sure, we already ordered the books)
Oscar WIlde ..Dorian Gray and/or Importance of Being Earnest
Possible Film Supplements:
anything Python -(we already screened Holy Grail in conjunction with ...Gawain , so perhaps some series clips? or Life of Brian?)
clips from Orlando
Clueless -(my first choice of an Austen novel was Emma , but there was no way to get everyone through it. i still think Heckerling's film is brilliant enough to be included in an Austen/wit/filmic discussion.)
Bill Cosby Himself
various episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000, seasons 2-10,
including: Pod People
Soultaker
Hobgoblins
Werewolf
The Deadly Mantis
Quest of the Delta Knights
I Accuse My Parents
Santa Claus Conquers the Martians
(this was on PBS last year!)
Visual Art Supplements:
Hogarth prints (if I can find any) "ribbons streaming out of her box" (study group in-joke)
The Far Side by Gary Larson
various magazine/internet ads that are clever enough to make me forget their real purpose.
I guess we're going to analyze humor 'til it's not funny anymore.
And then we'll have a laugh over our calloused souls. Tee fuckin' hee.
How do you spell "callous" ? If I were home (wherever that is) I'd have a dictionary
nearby. Seeing as how I'm at Colgate, chances of finding an O.E.D. are narrow.
more to come.
I'm lounging in CAH whilst laura attends Coyle's Jazz Age course, and I just solved a slew of html/blog snags so that my general template (while not in the least personalized) is how I desire. Note the addition of comments (also yet-to-be-personalized), and now note a pathetic tone within this post that itches at your centers of sympathy and pity: thus, you comment.
ITEM:
We watched Adult Swim last night, and I was disheartened. "Aqua Teen" and "Sealab" usually astound me, but last night was pathetic. Once, I could count on a great quotable quip like "I SAID, it's dodgeball time, bitch!" or "It feels like a koala bear is shitting rainbows on my BRAIN!" but nothing stuck out. All good things fade, I guess. Frost was right:
The questions that he forms in all but words
Is what to make a diminished thing.
- "The Oven Bird"
ITEM:
I have to figure out a self-contained three-week project for the three weeks of classes that abut the breaks of Thanksgiving and Christmas. There's no way the kids are going to be able to leave a novel or whatever on the 21st of December, and then jump right back in when they return early/mid January. The topics for the Fall term were first (and briefly) "Heroes and Monsters," and then "Art vs. Reality?" For the winter, I'm hoping to focus on the idea of "Wit" so we can laugh while we're trapped inside the intimate, cubicle-ish classrooms of Dann Academic Building with cold wind and (praying please!) snow outside. I'm hoping the (gorgeous, yet) uniform snow cover will leave certain easily-distracted students with less to gaze at out the window. Then again, some of these students are from certain areas of the world (say the Middle East) where snow is unheard of or rare, thus it will most likely fascinate hi...I mean them to no end.
Candidates for the "Wit" reading list:
Alexander Pope "Essay on Criticism" "Essay on Man" "The Dunciad"
Dryden "Mack Flecknoe" (sp?)
Swift "Modest Proposal"
Jane Austen Pride and Prejudice
-(this one's for sure, we already ordered the books)
Oscar WIlde ..Dorian Gray and/or Importance of Being Earnest
Possible Film Supplements:
anything Python -(we already screened Holy Grail in conjunction with ...Gawain , so perhaps some series clips? or Life of Brian?)
clips from Orlando
Clueless -(my first choice of an Austen novel was Emma , but there was no way to get everyone through it. i still think Heckerling's film is brilliant enough to be included in an Austen/wit/filmic discussion.)
Bill Cosby Himself
various episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000, seasons 2-10,
including: Pod People
Soultaker
Hobgoblins
Werewolf
The Deadly Mantis
Quest of the Delta Knights
I Accuse My Parents
Santa Claus Conquers the Martians
(this was on PBS last year!)
Visual Art Supplements:
Hogarth prints (if I can find any) "ribbons streaming out of her box" (study group in-joke)
The Far Side by Gary Larson
various magazine/internet ads that are clever enough to make me forget their real purpose.
I guess we're going to analyze humor 'til it's not funny anymore.
And then we'll have a laugh over our calloused souls. Tee fuckin' hee.
How do you spell "callous" ? If I were home (wherever that is) I'd have a dictionary
nearby. Seeing as how I'm at Colgate, chances of finding an O.E.D. are narrow.
more to come.
Sunday, November 24, 2002
Sunday, Sunday. afternoon
Item:
A three-state drive was completed in decent time, and I am sitting here at alma mater — CAH specifically— taking advantage of e-freedom. Meanwhile, unbeknowest to the students, e-sanctions have been lifted back at The School, and once I return to campus, I can update, procrastinate, expostulate, and hyperventilate with my new (and virgin) blog, daily.
There were vestiges of snow in Western Mass. and even here in WRCU broadcasting radius. Mom reported slowly over AOLIM that there is indeed a coating of snow at home, Watertown, as well. If it stays, I will be jolly; if not, merely well fed. Snow makes my mood sparkle like carbonation.
A classic car soundtrack:
Connecticutt -
Wilco Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Beck Sea Change
MassPike -
311 Transistor
I-90 New York -
Radiohead The Bends, Sigur Ros ( )
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So...a classic James Lewis Thanksgiving Poker Party is alledgedly in-effect at some point over break. This is a glorious thing.
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Beer: Brooklyn Lager, Brooklyn Nut Brown Ale, courtesy of the St. James Beer and Soda Emporium (the cashier guy threw in a complimentary Brooklyn Brewery pint-ish glass for free, a good move on his part as it, as well as their astounding selection, won my future patronage).
Item:
Poets' Reunion Dinner tomorrow night, most likely. Odds of American Poet Bruce Smith attending: 2/27.
Item:
Flynn's friends were all unique variations on Flynn. All good people, relaxed but sharp, friendly and with interesting intrests.
more to come...
www.thephiller.com
What is just insipid today?
Disney's Treasure Planet. "It's like Star Wars meets Treasure Island." Really? What's next, a product called Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich, byline: "It's like peanut butter meets jelly?"
Why not just call the new animated feature Demographic-Sensitively Titled, Animated One-Weekend Event?...probably because I just spent way too much time failing to arrange the grammatical structure of that lame joke title correctly. Still...
Item:
A three-state drive was completed in decent time, and I am sitting here at alma mater — CAH specifically— taking advantage of e-freedom. Meanwhile, unbeknowest to the students, e-sanctions have been lifted back at The School, and once I return to campus, I can update, procrastinate, expostulate, and hyperventilate with my new (and virgin) blog, daily.
There were vestiges of snow in Western Mass. and even here in WRCU broadcasting radius. Mom reported slowly over AOLIM that there is indeed a coating of snow at home, Watertown, as well. If it stays, I will be jolly; if not, merely well fed. Snow makes my mood sparkle like carbonation.
A classic car soundtrack:
Connecticutt -
Wilco Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Beck Sea Change
MassPike -
311 Transistor
I-90 New York -
Radiohead The Bends, Sigur Ros ( )
Item:
So...a classic James Lewis Thanksgiving Poker Party is alledgedly in-effect at some point over break. This is a glorious thing.
Item:
Beer: Brooklyn Lager, Brooklyn Nut Brown Ale, courtesy of the St. James Beer and Soda Emporium (the cashier guy threw in a complimentary Brooklyn Brewery pint-ish glass for free, a good move on his part as it, as well as their astounding selection, won my future patronage).
Item:
Poets' Reunion Dinner tomorrow night, most likely. Odds of American Poet Bruce Smith attending: 2/27.
Item:
Flynn's friends were all unique variations on Flynn. All good people, relaxed but sharp, friendly and with interesting intrests.
more to come...
www.thephiller.com
What is just insipid today?
Disney's Treasure Planet. "It's like Star Wars meets Treasure Island." Really? What's next, a product called Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich, byline: "It's like peanut butter meets jelly?"
Why not just call the new animated feature Demographic-Sensitively Titled, Animated One-Weekend Event?...probably because I just spent way too much time failing to arrange the grammatical structure of that lame joke title correctly. Still...
