The past few weeks have brought a lot of attention to my home state of South Carolina, for reasons that at first were terrible and horrific (the massacre of nine black church-goers at Mother Emanuel AME Church in Charleston by a horribly racist and evil little shit) and then, however fleetingly, hopeful (the sense of unity that took hold amongst blacks and whites in this state, not the "race war" that said little shit wanted to start). Then people started talking about the Confederate battle flag and...
Well, I've made my position clear on Facebook (as have a lot of my friends, pro and con) but I figure it could use re-stating here: the flag was put up in the early Sixties as a rebuke to the growing Civil Rights movement of that period, so even if you buy into the notion that the Confederacy wasn't somehow about slavery (which, btw, it was; I've been a Civil War buff all my life, and the evidence of intent on the Confederacy's part to preserve slavery is easy to find assuming you want to, if you're inclined the other way), the placement of the flag, first on the pole with the American and state flag (high over the capital dome in Columbia) and then afterwards on a monument on state-capital grounds, was a clear example of racial animus. It has no business on state or federal property, unless that property is a museum.
Which leads me to this: when it comes time to consider my MFA options, the states I'll look to with the most interest will likely be ones that never had any reason to fly the Rebel flag in the first place, much less as a symbolic gesture against basic human rights.
In a discussion we all had with our advisor, the point was made that, for PHD or MFA programs after grad school, it might behoove us to look outside of our immediate vicinity, if only because a Clemson degree might have some sort of novelty in, say, Harvard or Yale (not that I'm foolish enough to think either of those snotty snob-factories would take me in, but anyway). Schools in the South are well familiar with us mostly because of football (and depending on the season's fortunes, either they're well-disposed towards us because we can be beat or they bear resentment because we can't be beat). So me going to, say, the University of Georgia and saying "let me in your MFA program" (assuming they have one) isn't a shoe-in. Or maybe it is...I don't know what UGA's standards are. But they are the school where the members of R.E.M. met, so they've got that going for them.
I will look at schools in the South, naturally, especially those in and around New Orleans (I freaking love that city, and I've only been the one time). Also, I wonder if Vandy in Nashville might be an option, if only because their football team usually sucks and therefore I'm likely to end up having plenty of room to move around on a football Saturday (no offence, Vanderbilt). But I'd really like to try my luck north of the Mason-Dixon, to somewhere outside the Confederacy or the "border states": Missouri (Ferguson pretty much proved that the "Show Me State" was a Confederate state in all but name only), Kentucky (I'm sure they're lovely people, but there's Mitch McConnell), West Virginia (y'all was still part of old Virginia for the first couple of years of the war), Maryland, and Delaware (yes, Delaware was a slave state, if my 1960s World Book "map of slave states" is to be believed. Which would mean that was the last time anyone noticed Delaware for any reason). I realize that schools in these states might stumble across this blog o' mine when I start sending out resumes and say "hey, what's he got against Delaware?" To which I respond (because they might be the only places offering) "Not a damn thing. I love Delaware! It's so close to Philadelphia!"
There's the famous "Iowa Writer's Workshop" at the University of Iowa, which is justly famous for producing some great writers. Bet it's hella-expensive, though. Syracuse has a shared school color (orange) and George Saunders, but we were warned that picking a school simply because of someone in our field (in my case, creative writing) might not work out if said person is too busy to really help us, and I have to keep that in mind. Plus, there's cold weather to consider: I am not a fan of winter. I'm not a fan of summer, though. Spring and fall are more my speed, which is a shame because both are disappearing because of global warming.
At any rate, I don't ask much of my prospective MFA program: a good school but not too expensive, in a state with no former (or current) allegiances to the South which would cause it to want to fly a Rebel flag on state-owned grounds, with a professor who's good at writing but who can make time for me, and temperate weather all the year round. Is that too much to ask?
I will say that, for now anyway (because it could always change), I'm proud of my fellow South Carolinians (well, the ones not flying Rebel flags all of a sudden, anyway). We Southerners in general have often been the butt of national jokes, and the focus of a lot of opposition from others because of our clearly biased and horrific treatment of our neighbors (if said neighbors happened to have different pigment than ours, for example). We have a strong legacy not just of stubborn pride but of haunted pride, which permeates much of the literature of our region (there's the "two big Bills" Faulkner and Styron, Charles Portis, Eudora Welty, Flannery and Carson, Walker Percy and Roy Blount Jr., and so on), and I have at times been either ashamed or proud of my Southern identity. We is complicated for sure, but this time of national and state-wide mourning has shown me that we are better than we think we can be, when we really have to be. Now, at some point we'll probably go back to being gubbers and rednecks, but for now, for this moment, we're standing side by side with our neighbors, trying to love when it's easier to hate because love is so much more rewarding. For however long that lasts, it'll be a validation of our common humanity. The Charleston Nine will live long after the little shit that killed them takes his last breath and is dumped aside except by those who thrive on hate. Maybe I'll rescind my "no former Confed states" clause in my MFA search, because maybe the South deserves a little more credit than that. Maybe, anyway...
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Father's Day for the Fatherless
I don't know when exactly I became aware of the fact that my birth father wasn't in the picture. I know that, for much of my childhood, I looked to my grandfather on my mother's side of the family as a "daddy," and even called him such well until my sister (then a toddler) provided us all with the nickname that's stuck to this day: "Big Pop." That's my "half-sister technically, because she and my half-brother have a different father than I do, but we get on each other's nerves enough that we might as well be full-blooded relatives." Anyway, I know that, when I finally realized my father wasn't like other kids' dads (in that he wasn't a presence in my life), I began a tentative and ongoing quest to both seek him out and avoid him like the plague. I think that was born of both the urge to address this gaping hole in my personal history (my father's side of the family) and also my desire to fill that hole with anything other than what the truth might be, in case I didn't like that truth very much. My dad could be anybody, I decided, even a famous person that my mom had never probably had opportunity to run into (because we share a birthday, I thought John Lennon might have somehow fathered me, though that could be excused to my budding Beatlemania at the time).
I do know some basic facts about him, my real dad, including his name. I'm not going to share that name here, because I want the option (exercised since I was just becoming aware of my father's absence, and the attendant anger that triggered) of not having to look him up or have him looked up for me by someone who means well. I do know how to get in touch with him, as it turns out. But I'm still not sure that I'm at a place emotionally where that would be a good thing for me. So anyway, my father was some years older than my mom when they met, he'd been in the armed forces in Vietnam (my mom showed me a picture of him in Marine-looking uniforms, but I'm not 100 percent sure that's what he ended up in, though I do remember a sort of "yearbook" from Parris Island, the Marine training complex in SC), and he was pursuing some sort of degree at the same college she attended, which is how they met. When my mom showed me a picture of him in her yearbook, he had the whole "late Seventies" look going on (long hair, tacky moustache, leisure suit), and there was a menorah in the background, leading me briefly to consider that my dad was Jewish (it would explain my fandom of such Jewish entertainers as Woody Allen or Mel Brooks, perhaps), but as it turns out that was just a decoration in the library where he was posed. He had a motorcycle, he and my mom weren't a great romance by any means but they got together and later on, I came along. When I was born, he wasn't in the picture; my mom says that years later, he wanted to try and help raise me but my mom thought that would be unfair to me to suddenly have this guy that I didn't know in my life. I don't blame her for that or fault her one bit. I know it would've been an adjustment, and required a whole lot of explaining.
My dad, according to my mom, moved to the beat of his own drummer, and I think that's the most obvious thing I got from him. I've never been entirely comfortable with "received wisdom," I've always tried to be different (or if I wasn't trying, I was still different) from whatever the prevailing tone or opinion might be. Something that I got from him because of his absence was a ready identification with those who similarly grew up with an absentee parent, usually a father missing from the scene. I identified with John Lennon because of our shared birthdays and our absentee dads, and thought maybe that, if I became famous for something, my dad would see my name and once again feel like he's missed out on something (assuming he'd felt like that to begin with). I identified with Barack Obama when I learned that he was raised by his mom and her parents (his maternal grandparents), much like I was. I identify with Francois Truffaut because he had the chance to met his natural father and decided that it might be best to just let sleeping dogs lie.
I also read about famous folks whose fathers wouldn't win any parenting awards anytime soon (Brian Wilson's dad/band manager swindled his son out of millions in songwriting profits, Marvin Gaye's dad shot him on April Fool's Day). Whenever I hear someone talk about "family values," and how the father should be in the household (otherwise the worth of the children being raised in that household are somehow devalued), I get angry and defensive. I turned out fine, I want to say. Or at least 75%, more or less, on my good days...
But I want to end with talking about those fathers who stayed, among them some of my friends who have been or just now are becoming parents. I learned, thanks to my dad's absence, that a family doesn't have to be the basic man-woman-child(-ren) set-up. Even if you're a product of a single-parent home, or an adoptive set of parents, or what have you, you have a family, a legacy. You have value no matter who missed out on your childhood and adulthood. I might never take that step to contact my dad, but it won't be because I'm afraid he won't like or love me. It'll be my choice. I don't need to have my father, by his presence or absence in my life, determine mine, or whether I'll be there for any hypothetical kids that I have. I have a strong group of role models (beginning with my maternal grandfather) for how to parent, how to be there for your kids. I wouldn't be getting in touch with my father because I need a dad. It would be nice to know if there are any diseases on his side of the family that I need to watch out for, naturally, but I would want to get in touch with him if and when I'm ready.
At any rate, just be kind to each other (if we learn anything from the Charleston shootings, let it be that)
I do know some basic facts about him, my real dad, including his name. I'm not going to share that name here, because I want the option (exercised since I was just becoming aware of my father's absence, and the attendant anger that triggered) of not having to look him up or have him looked up for me by someone who means well. I do know how to get in touch with him, as it turns out. But I'm still not sure that I'm at a place emotionally where that would be a good thing for me. So anyway, my father was some years older than my mom when they met, he'd been in the armed forces in Vietnam (my mom showed me a picture of him in Marine-looking uniforms, but I'm not 100 percent sure that's what he ended up in, though I do remember a sort of "yearbook" from Parris Island, the Marine training complex in SC), and he was pursuing some sort of degree at the same college she attended, which is how they met. When my mom showed me a picture of him in her yearbook, he had the whole "late Seventies" look going on (long hair, tacky moustache, leisure suit), and there was a menorah in the background, leading me briefly to consider that my dad was Jewish (it would explain my fandom of such Jewish entertainers as Woody Allen or Mel Brooks, perhaps), but as it turns out that was just a decoration in the library where he was posed. He had a motorcycle, he and my mom weren't a great romance by any means but they got together and later on, I came along. When I was born, he wasn't in the picture; my mom says that years later, he wanted to try and help raise me but my mom thought that would be unfair to me to suddenly have this guy that I didn't know in my life. I don't blame her for that or fault her one bit. I know it would've been an adjustment, and required a whole lot of explaining.
My dad, according to my mom, moved to the beat of his own drummer, and I think that's the most obvious thing I got from him. I've never been entirely comfortable with "received wisdom," I've always tried to be different (or if I wasn't trying, I was still different) from whatever the prevailing tone or opinion might be. Something that I got from him because of his absence was a ready identification with those who similarly grew up with an absentee parent, usually a father missing from the scene. I identified with John Lennon because of our shared birthdays and our absentee dads, and thought maybe that, if I became famous for something, my dad would see my name and once again feel like he's missed out on something (assuming he'd felt like that to begin with). I identified with Barack Obama when I learned that he was raised by his mom and her parents (his maternal grandparents), much like I was. I identify with Francois Truffaut because he had the chance to met his natural father and decided that it might be best to just let sleeping dogs lie.
I also read about famous folks whose fathers wouldn't win any parenting awards anytime soon (Brian Wilson's dad/band manager swindled his son out of millions in songwriting profits, Marvin Gaye's dad shot him on April Fool's Day). Whenever I hear someone talk about "family values," and how the father should be in the household (otherwise the worth of the children being raised in that household are somehow devalued), I get angry and defensive. I turned out fine, I want to say. Or at least 75%, more or less, on my good days...
But I want to end with talking about those fathers who stayed, among them some of my friends who have been or just now are becoming parents. I learned, thanks to my dad's absence, that a family doesn't have to be the basic man-woman-child(-ren) set-up. Even if you're a product of a single-parent home, or an adoptive set of parents, or what have you, you have a family, a legacy. You have value no matter who missed out on your childhood and adulthood. I might never take that step to contact my dad, but it won't be because I'm afraid he won't like or love me. It'll be my choice. I don't need to have my father, by his presence or absence in my life, determine mine, or whether I'll be there for any hypothetical kids that I have. I have a strong group of role models (beginning with my maternal grandfather) for how to parent, how to be there for your kids. I wouldn't be getting in touch with my father because I need a dad. It would be nice to know if there are any diseases on his side of the family that I need to watch out for, naturally, but I would want to get in touch with him if and when I'm ready.
At any rate, just be kind to each other (if we learn anything from the Charleston shootings, let it be that)
Sunday, June 14, 2015
How I Spent My Summer Vacation (So Far)
Officially, it's not even summer yet. Seriously, look at the calendar. I'll wait...
See? The official start is something like a week off, and yet it's hotter than the dickens outside in my part of the world. Well, it's not that bad, really. But it's pretty humid-y at times.
I feel like this is my "First World/White People Problems" post, but I just don't know what to do with myself and haven't for about a month. School let out before May started, and I still have a couple of weeks before my summer class starts. In the meantime...
Bupkus.
I was hoping that all the time off would lead me to write short stories of amazing depth and skill that the literary world would have to take notice. Or at least write enough to fill out my prospective thesis-thingy which I will be hoping to turn in at the end of my grad-school journey.
But I've started a couple of things, have yet to finish them...which is fine. Really. I have plenty of time for that nonsense. Right?
At any rate, if you know me you know that this is a rare thing for me, to have so much time off (and indeed, besides the class I'm taking later, it's not time off that's ending anytime soon). I should be able to enjoy it. Hell, I've earned it. But...
Like I said, this is my "First World Problems" post: I've dithered about getting a job this summer, I could always do that. Also, I have been writing...just, it's non-fiction stuff that I've done in the hopes of placing said things with websites or magazines in the not-too-distant future. I guess I just like complaining too much to enjoy the breather.
And it *has* been nice to have a breather, don't get me wrong. I've been reading for fun (as well as reading towards an eye of adding some of the stuff as "inspiration" for my eventual thesis). Yesterday I spent about three hours in my uncle's pool, trying to soak up the sun while my cousin and niece splashed around me and called me "bad paddle cake" or "bad funnel cake" (derived from a day when they pretended to stomp me when I was laying down on the floor, calling me a paddle cake or funnel cake for whatever reason it is that a seven-year-old and a four-year-old come up with such nicknames). Today I have spent about four hours online. And when I get home, I'm going to get my William Styron on.
I checked out a book which collected some of Norman Mailer's letters recently and, while I didn't get far into the book, I did pick up on Mailer's enthusiasm for Styron's first novel, Lie Down in Darkness. I have that book, along with The Confessions of Nat Turner, and yesterday I picked up The Long March. I think it was well over a year ago that I read Sophie's Choice and thought "man, this guy is a great fucking writer!" I just haven't made time for his stuff since. Having read through the complete works of Charles Portis and a good chunk of Walker Percy, it seems only fitting to try and read some of my way through Styron's work. It may not have any influence on my thesis in the end, but that's not the only reason to read things.
Though it's a *good* reason...
Anyway, my legs and feet are starting to be sore at the end of the day, which means I should probably invest in some new shoes (I've had the pair that I wear regularly since about 2013, so probably time to get some newer ones). Network TV is summer reruns, I'm planning to keep up with The Daily Show up until Jon Stewart leaves but other than that it's Bar Rescue reruns and maybe a baseball game or two.
See? The official start is something like a week off, and yet it's hotter than the dickens outside in my part of the world. Well, it's not that bad, really. But it's pretty humid-y at times.
I feel like this is my "First World/White People Problems" post, but I just don't know what to do with myself and haven't for about a month. School let out before May started, and I still have a couple of weeks before my summer class starts. In the meantime...
Bupkus.
I was hoping that all the time off would lead me to write short stories of amazing depth and skill that the literary world would have to take notice. Or at least write enough to fill out my prospective thesis-thingy which I will be hoping to turn in at the end of my grad-school journey.
But I've started a couple of things, have yet to finish them...which is fine. Really. I have plenty of time for that nonsense. Right?
At any rate, if you know me you know that this is a rare thing for me, to have so much time off (and indeed, besides the class I'm taking later, it's not time off that's ending anytime soon). I should be able to enjoy it. Hell, I've earned it. But...
Like I said, this is my "First World Problems" post: I've dithered about getting a job this summer, I could always do that. Also, I have been writing...just, it's non-fiction stuff that I've done in the hopes of placing said things with websites or magazines in the not-too-distant future. I guess I just like complaining too much to enjoy the breather.
And it *has* been nice to have a breather, don't get me wrong. I've been reading for fun (as well as reading towards an eye of adding some of the stuff as "inspiration" for my eventual thesis). Yesterday I spent about three hours in my uncle's pool, trying to soak up the sun while my cousin and niece splashed around me and called me "bad paddle cake" or "bad funnel cake" (derived from a day when they pretended to stomp me when I was laying down on the floor, calling me a paddle cake or funnel cake for whatever reason it is that a seven-year-old and a four-year-old come up with such nicknames). Today I have spent about four hours online. And when I get home, I'm going to get my William Styron on.
I checked out a book which collected some of Norman Mailer's letters recently and, while I didn't get far into the book, I did pick up on Mailer's enthusiasm for Styron's first novel, Lie Down in Darkness. I have that book, along with The Confessions of Nat Turner, and yesterday I picked up The Long March. I think it was well over a year ago that I read Sophie's Choice and thought "man, this guy is a great fucking writer!" I just haven't made time for his stuff since. Having read through the complete works of Charles Portis and a good chunk of Walker Percy, it seems only fitting to try and read some of my way through Styron's work. It may not have any influence on my thesis in the end, but that's not the only reason to read things.
Though it's a *good* reason...
Anyway, my legs and feet are starting to be sore at the end of the day, which means I should probably invest in some new shoes (I've had the pair that I wear regularly since about 2013, so probably time to get some newer ones). Network TV is summer reruns, I'm planning to keep up with The Daily Show up until Jon Stewart leaves but other than that it's Bar Rescue reruns and maybe a baseball game or two.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Internet (a Play) ...actually, a poem
I don't consider myself a poet, but for one of my classes last semester we had the option of getting creative and so I chose to do so. I'm self-publishing this here because current events have caught up with some of the subjects (like the Royal Baby being born) and because I like it in spite of the fact that I'm working in a format in which I am not terribly comfortable. This format was inspired by Gertrude Stein's work, and I hope it's playful while being serious. At any rate, enjoy:
I
Internet
Inter net
In ter net
In her net
I sink, I find
Myself after long nights
Staring at photos
II
A play should consist of acts
Actors
Sets
Dialogue
Scripts
Audience
Internet has some, but not all
Of that
III
Meet the stars of the play
Of the interplay
Of the internet
Avatars all
(and really, who uses their
Real picture anyway?
IV
Someone
said
“Let
there be no love poems until
There
is justice between the races”
And
someone else said “At night, alone,
I
marry the bed”
And
yet another someone said “I am Dionysus, son of Zeus, come to
Thebes,
where my mother gave me birth, struck by lightning.”
V
This
is where the audience applauds.
VI
The
last century saw wars, famines, genocides, religious intolerance and wholesale
murder of entire groups of people. And they had the telegraph, the telephone,
the moving picture, the still picture, radio, and television. You really think
an email sent just in time can stop a war?
VII
Isn’t
it nice to think so?
VIII
I’m Henry the Eighth I am
I got married to the widow next door,
she’d been married seven times before
And every one was a Henry
(Hmm, makes you wonder
Why men keep marrying her
And why they keep turning out dead
It wasn’t a rock, it was a rock lobster!
IX
Now comes the part when I confess
Roman numerals past this point are
confusing
So I’d better make this count
A conversation is a conversation is a
conversation
Did I mention?
“A Poem for Speculative Hipsters”
Preach on, Baraka
Blast manifesto
Blast the manifesto
Blast the man with your festo
Fist-o
X
Okay,
after this point we’ll be taking
Suggestions
from the audience
Improv,
improve, im-prove
Mindless
chatter of the mindless classes
Autocorrect
my spelling, spilling
Aught
to correct Mickey Spillane
Puns,
puns, puns
No
fun (said Iggy, circa 1969
Ten
years before I was born
I
like old stuff, I make no apologies
Hipster
before there was hipster
And
now my hips are old
Puns,
puns, puns
Crisis
in the Middle East
Scott
Walker in the Middle West
The
Duggars breeding like rabbits
XI
Is
it unfair that I’m creeped out by them? No one talks about how such a religious
family fucked their way to TV fame, but seriously? Why do we assign morality to
celebrity? Aren’t the two mutually exclusive? If Tim Tebow could throw a
forward pass, would it matter how much he dry-humps Jesus? As I write this,
“the world is waiting for William and Kate to have their next child.” I crank
up “God Save the Queen” by the Sex Pistols, constitutional monarchy means “the
royals are figureheads” so who gives a shit?
XII
Truth
or dare
Dare
I
dare you to speak the truth
Puns,
puns, puns
Truth
is, I’m not a poet
Bet
you didn’t know that
Love
poems, love poems, I love poems
Just
can’t write them
See
what I mean?
Sacred
Profanity
Profane
Scarcity
I
would love to be in love
Or
at least in like
Online,
on the line
Line
on you, girl, hypothetical
XIII(?)
Love
is lovers love to lovers love
Meanwhile,
back at the ranch
See
you on the flip side
The
Cool Side
Standing
alone at the dance, watching the girls dance
I
have no business dancing
I
have no business writing poetry
I
have no business writing poetry about dancing
I
have no business dancing about poetry
“Dancing
About Poetry”
Hmm,
sounds like a title
14
Christ
the redeemer
Christ,
the redeemer
Christ,
it’s the redeemer
Sacred
profane puns, puns, puns
Love
to love you, baby
In
my head, I’m Marvin Gaye, singing “Let’s Get It On”
To
a girl, any girl
In
reality, online, looking at her pic
I
wonder if she likes or tolerates me
Or
if she even knows who Marvin Gaye is
15
This
was going to be a lot shorter and less neurotic
16
But
poetry should kill, poems should kill
In
the name of love?
Sure,
why not
Or
maybe love in the name of killing?
Nah,
Manson-esque
Girls,
girls, girls
How
did Motley Crue get in here?
Well,
while they’re here, confession time:
I
used to want to grow up to be Slash
Or
Sambora, or somebody with long hair and who could play
Guitar
Girls,
girls, girls,
They
seemed to like those guys when I was growing up
17
Never
mind I don’t like to let my hair grow out,
Nor
can I play any instrument
18
Have
I mentioned this was supposed to be shorter?
19
Like,
two pages, tops
20
In
the grand scheme of things, I can’t complain. I grew up not knowing my father,
but my mom did a great job and my grandparents were there to help. I was not
neglected, molested, abandoned, or rejected to any significant degree from my
family. So how can I be a great writer? I know alcoholism runs in the family,
but knowing is half the battle. I have spent time working enough customer
service jobs to know I don’t want to work in customer service anymore. I’ve
come close but never quite achieved deep and lasting love with a woman. I had
acne in middle school. Girls don’t like pizza-faces. I’m still aware of
lingering doubts about my ability to attract a mate, in my own mind. I’m funny,
which is a help, but sometimes I’m too funny. Women I like might not take me
seriously. Online connections are great, but I could go for the real-life ones
if I weren’t so shy. Terrified. Convinced I’ll fuck it up somehow.
21
By
the way, notice I switched away from Roman numerals?
22
Catch-22, Yossarian Lives
23
A
friend of mine said online
The
Roman Empire fell because they
Put
Christians in charge
I’m
tempted to reply that the Goths had more to do with it
So
we should keep our eyes on Hot Topic employees
And
Robert Smith from The Cure
24
I
have fears that I’m more interesting online
25
This
is where the audience applauds and leaves, satisfied with another great
performance onstage
Thursday, May 28, 2015
The Duggars Are Horrible, Horrible People
In what can only be described as one of the more unfortunate circumstances I've ever personally encountered, the news of Josh Duggar's past sexual molestation of five girls (allegedly including one or more of his siblings) broke while I was in the middle of reading Nabokov's Lolita. And for anyone who hasn't read the book but is familiar with the basic storyline, it's way more uncomfortable how much you're in Humbert Humbert's head when you're reading the book (as opposed to the suddenly not-that-bad Kubrick screen version from 1962). Ole HH is not an "unreliable" narrator; he's a pervy one. But the book is much more than just him and Dolores Haze having sex. Thankfully.
Nabokov's book is a work of fiction, and you can read it and enjoy it and not think that you're a bad person for doing so. 19 Kids and Counting was purporting to be "real life," and I can't help but think all those millions of people who watched the show could use a few thousand showers now to try and wash the stink of the Duggar family off of their collective bodies.
In the interest of full disclosure, I thought the show and the family were creepy long, long before this news broke. I remember one of the first times one of my relatives turned it to TLC and I saw this family in Arkansas who had way too many kids, all of them with names that started with the letter "J" (whether for Jesus or Jim Bob, I don't know). Jim Bob's helmet hair and Michelle's cult-member thousand-yard stare raised red flags with me almost immediately, and I tried to argue, time and time again, that this family was "not all there" mentally. Boy, do I wish that's all there was to it, that it was just a difference of opinion between me and my Socialist/Communist, anti-American ways and their borderline insane political views. Boy, if only that was all there was to it.
But of course, as we found out, it's not. The facts of the case (in dispute, but probably not by much at this point) are well known unless you haven't been following it or just shut it out because of how utterly disgusting it all is. In a lot of cases of celebrity or political scandals, the cover-up is worse than the crime. In this case, the crime is unforgivable, and the cover-up equally so. Whatever your stance on the Duggars' lifestyle choices, the fact is that they not only harbored a pedophile for well over a decade without seeking treatment or law enforcement, they did so at the expense of victims who could very well have lived in the same household with the perpetrator. How fucking Christian is that?
What's almost as sick as the crimes that the Duggars condoned with their behavior is the rush to defend them from some on the far right who see the case as "religious persecution" because the Duggars are so prominent in family-values circles. If your politics requires you to defend (against all evidence to the contrary) a person who rapes little kids, or a group who condones such behavior through their silence, you should really re-examine your life. I'm looking at you, Huckabee.
TLC is reportedly trying to work out a way to "save" the show, which is cynical in the extreme because the Duggars make them money (and all this publicity for the network). I've never been a big watcher of that channel to begin with, but I certainly don't plan on watching it anytime soon, especially if they bring back the Duggars in some form or another. It's exploitation, pure and simple.
I am not a religious person, but I do know a little Bible, and the part where "judge not, lest ye be judged" is ringing through my ears as I think and type this. But here's the thing: I'm pretty sure that I'll never do anything like what Josh Duggar has done, so I feel pretty comfortable judging him. Child molesters can't "pray" the inclination away, much as homosexuals can't "pray the gay" away. Josh Duggar needs treatment, his victims need treatment, and his parents need to have their platform taken away. That's just the way it is. Fuck the Duggars, they are horrible, horrible people.
Nabokov's book is a work of fiction, and you can read it and enjoy it and not think that you're a bad person for doing so. 19 Kids and Counting was purporting to be "real life," and I can't help but think all those millions of people who watched the show could use a few thousand showers now to try and wash the stink of the Duggar family off of their collective bodies.
In the interest of full disclosure, I thought the show and the family were creepy long, long before this news broke. I remember one of the first times one of my relatives turned it to TLC and I saw this family in Arkansas who had way too many kids, all of them with names that started with the letter "J" (whether for Jesus or Jim Bob, I don't know). Jim Bob's helmet hair and Michelle's cult-member thousand-yard stare raised red flags with me almost immediately, and I tried to argue, time and time again, that this family was "not all there" mentally. Boy, do I wish that's all there was to it, that it was just a difference of opinion between me and my Socialist/Communist, anti-American ways and their borderline insane political views. Boy, if only that was all there was to it.
But of course, as we found out, it's not. The facts of the case (in dispute, but probably not by much at this point) are well known unless you haven't been following it or just shut it out because of how utterly disgusting it all is. In a lot of cases of celebrity or political scandals, the cover-up is worse than the crime. In this case, the crime is unforgivable, and the cover-up equally so. Whatever your stance on the Duggars' lifestyle choices, the fact is that they not only harbored a pedophile for well over a decade without seeking treatment or law enforcement, they did so at the expense of victims who could very well have lived in the same household with the perpetrator. How fucking Christian is that?
What's almost as sick as the crimes that the Duggars condoned with their behavior is the rush to defend them from some on the far right who see the case as "religious persecution" because the Duggars are so prominent in family-values circles. If your politics requires you to defend (against all evidence to the contrary) a person who rapes little kids, or a group who condones such behavior through their silence, you should really re-examine your life. I'm looking at you, Huckabee.
TLC is reportedly trying to work out a way to "save" the show, which is cynical in the extreme because the Duggars make them money (and all this publicity for the network). I've never been a big watcher of that channel to begin with, but I certainly don't plan on watching it anytime soon, especially if they bring back the Duggars in some form or another. It's exploitation, pure and simple.
I am not a religious person, but I do know a little Bible, and the part where "judge not, lest ye be judged" is ringing through my ears as I think and type this. But here's the thing: I'm pretty sure that I'll never do anything like what Josh Duggar has done, so I feel pretty comfortable judging him. Child molesters can't "pray" the inclination away, much as homosexuals can't "pray the gay" away. Josh Duggar needs treatment, his victims need treatment, and his parents need to have their platform taken away. That's just the way it is. Fuck the Duggars, they are horrible, horrible people.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
The Five Most Underrated Beatles Songs of All Time
A little while ago, I indulged in something for which the internet is perfectly suited: namely, being a hateful jackass. I tore apart five of the songs from the musical group who, more than anyone else, has shaped my tastes in music since I discovered them about twenty years ago. John, Paul, George and Ringo could produce some stinkers, to be sure, but they also had amazing, amazing songs. You probably know the big hits, even if you don't (they're just in our collective subconscious). But what about the album filler that doesn't get the same love? Surely even the less-successful stuff has merit. Well, here are my five picks for the most underrated Beatles songs:
5.) And Your Bird Can Sing (Revolver)
This is a song that John Lennon referred to as a "throwaway," but that's unfair. On an album that saw the group experimenting, laying the groundwork for the much-hyped (and lesser) Sgt. Pepper, this was almost a throwback to early-period pop tunes, back when Lennon and McCartney really did write together (lyrically it's all Lennon, putting down someone who thinks that fancy belongings could bring them happiness, but musically it's sweet and rocking like an optimistic Macca rocker). It's a standout track on an album that is so much more satisfying than just about any of the albums that came after (and yes, I'm slandering the late-period masterpieces, but honestly who listens to The White Album all the way through, beginning to end?).
4.) Blackbird (The White Album)
I could be wrong about this song being "underrated," because I'm sure I'm not its only fan. McCartney in the late period of the group could be awfully syrupy in his lyrics (and indeed in much of his solo work), but this is a beautiful acoustic tune that, much like its side-mate "Mother Nature's Son," makes the first half of the second album in the double-album set (and on the same CD) a nice mix of relaxing and weird (if I'm not mistaken, "Helter Skelter" is also on the second disc). I tend to look down my nose at McCartney for his sentimentalism and cloying lyrics, but for once he gets it right.
3.) I've Just Seen a Face (Help!)
Remember the last time you saw someone, just a pretty face in a crowd, and immediately you started wondering what your lives together would be like? No, it's just me? Well, I don't know if I believe that, but this is the perfect song for that moment when you either see someone you want to get to know better for the first time, or when you finally realize that you want to with someone you've known for a little while. What sells the song is Paul's breathless vocals (I dare even the physically fit among you, with refined breathing control, to sing along and not get winded trying to keep up) and the slight country feel to the song. It's a beauty.
2.) I've Got a Feeling (Let It Be/Beatles Anthology 3)
I first encountered this on the Anthology 3 CD, and then there it was again on Let It Be. As contentious as the latter-day history of the group was (from the death of Brian Epstein in 1967 on, it was not a matter of "if" the Beatles break up but "when"), when they came together on a song that deserved it, the Fab Four could still blow the roof off the competition. This has the added bonus of being among the last times Paul and John alternated lyrics, with Paul taking on the gusto of the first set and John crooning about "everybody had a wet dream" in the second set. Either version is amazing (the Let It Be version is complete, while the Anthology 3 take descends into chaos and a premature halt but is still a beauty to listen to).
1.) The Ballad of John and Yoko (Past Masters, Volume 2)
"Christ you know it ain't easy...the way things are going, they're gonna crucify me." The balls of John to sing that some years removed from his "bigger than Jesus" controversy. It's a great look at John and Yoko's stormy wedding-and-honeymoon-period, during which they had "bed-ins" for peace, love, and to take the piss of the international press. Yoko Ono famously got blamed for breaking up the band, but any historian of the group could tell you that factors beyond her were the driving force for the group splintering when they did. I used to casually refer to her as a "witch," but then this little thing called "maturity" kicked in and I realized that she brought some much-needed happiness to John's turbulent personal life. This song, almost a solo project (the only other Beatle on the track, surprisingly, is Paul), is an absolutely great song from beginning to end.
5.) And Your Bird Can Sing (Revolver)
This is a song that John Lennon referred to as a "throwaway," but that's unfair. On an album that saw the group experimenting, laying the groundwork for the much-hyped (and lesser) Sgt. Pepper, this was almost a throwback to early-period pop tunes, back when Lennon and McCartney really did write together (lyrically it's all Lennon, putting down someone who thinks that fancy belongings could bring them happiness, but musically it's sweet and rocking like an optimistic Macca rocker). It's a standout track on an album that is so much more satisfying than just about any of the albums that came after (and yes, I'm slandering the late-period masterpieces, but honestly who listens to The White Album all the way through, beginning to end?).
4.) Blackbird (The White Album)
I could be wrong about this song being "underrated," because I'm sure I'm not its only fan. McCartney in the late period of the group could be awfully syrupy in his lyrics (and indeed in much of his solo work), but this is a beautiful acoustic tune that, much like its side-mate "Mother Nature's Son," makes the first half of the second album in the double-album set (and on the same CD) a nice mix of relaxing and weird (if I'm not mistaken, "Helter Skelter" is also on the second disc). I tend to look down my nose at McCartney for his sentimentalism and cloying lyrics, but for once he gets it right.
3.) I've Just Seen a Face (Help!)
Remember the last time you saw someone, just a pretty face in a crowd, and immediately you started wondering what your lives together would be like? No, it's just me? Well, I don't know if I believe that, but this is the perfect song for that moment when you either see someone you want to get to know better for the first time, or when you finally realize that you want to with someone you've known for a little while. What sells the song is Paul's breathless vocals (I dare even the physically fit among you, with refined breathing control, to sing along and not get winded trying to keep up) and the slight country feel to the song. It's a beauty.
2.) I've Got a Feeling (Let It Be/Beatles Anthology 3)
I first encountered this on the Anthology 3 CD, and then there it was again on Let It Be. As contentious as the latter-day history of the group was (from the death of Brian Epstein in 1967 on, it was not a matter of "if" the Beatles break up but "when"), when they came together on a song that deserved it, the Fab Four could still blow the roof off the competition. This has the added bonus of being among the last times Paul and John alternated lyrics, with Paul taking on the gusto of the first set and John crooning about "everybody had a wet dream" in the second set. Either version is amazing (the Let It Be version is complete, while the Anthology 3 take descends into chaos and a premature halt but is still a beauty to listen to).
1.) The Ballad of John and Yoko (Past Masters, Volume 2)
"Christ you know it ain't easy...the way things are going, they're gonna crucify me." The balls of John to sing that some years removed from his "bigger than Jesus" controversy. It's a great look at John and Yoko's stormy wedding-and-honeymoon-period, during which they had "bed-ins" for peace, love, and to take the piss of the international press. Yoko Ono famously got blamed for breaking up the band, but any historian of the group could tell you that factors beyond her were the driving force for the group splintering when they did. I used to casually refer to her as a "witch," but then this little thing called "maturity" kicked in and I realized that she brought some much-needed happiness to John's turbulent personal life. This song, almost a solo project (the only other Beatle on the track, surprisingly, is Paul), is an absolutely great song from beginning to end.
Friday, May 15, 2015
Mad Men-Boys
There is a movement afoot online that you may have heard of, which seeks to address the concerns of a community long used to seeing itself marginalized and reduced to stereotypical depictions in mass media. It's a movement that has many legitimate concerns, and I for one am proud to count myself as someone who hopes that this particular movement has an impact beyond the narrow scope of simply reforming its image and has an opportunity to effect real change in the world at large.
That movement, of course, is #BlackLivesMatter.
There's another movement online, either identified as "Gamergate" or "Men's Rights," that is just fucking stupid. Do I really need to expend more time on it?
Okay, maybe I should (really short blog posts aren't my thing, anyway): Men's Rights is a movement that prides itself on addressing a problem that doesn't really exist (much in the same way Fox News has been beating the drum for Benghazi, or your local preacher might against marriage equality). The problem, according to MR activists, is that feminists are taking over the cultural landscape and turning men into emasculated "female men" who can't possibly live up the exalted ideals of men of America's past. Men of valor and courage, like John Wayne (draft-dodging-during-WWII John Wayne), perhaps. I have to admit, I'm not terribly familiar with the core beliefs of the movement, but I kinda feel like I can bash them anyway. Because they sound to me more like whiny little shits than actual men.
The Men's Rights movement is like Al Bundy's "No Ma'am" movement from Married With Children, only even less funny. It sees a world in which men (rugged, heterosexual, tree-chopping-down men) are "under assault" from forces beyond their control. And they'd better best stand up for themselves, because those forces might just win and eradicate everything that's wonderful about men. The Nazis had the Jews, Men's Rights Advocates have women (or maybe "Women") to blame for everything that's wrong with their world. Yes, I just compared the Men's Rights thugs to Nazis. No, I don't take it back.
I am a product of a household with strong maternal figures (particularly my grandmother, who will absolutely cut a bitch if she has to). I have, at times, wondered if my lack of ability to land a relationship is somehow a result of having strong females in my life and finding them intimidating as a result (it's the old Freudian concern of whether or not I "want a girl just like dear old Mom"), and I'm not saying I've figured any of this out enough to change my relationship status anytime soon. But I think I'm better than the Men's Rights advocates in this respect: I don't blame my lack of a relationship on women. Also, I can actually hold a conversation with a real, live woman, even one that I'm attracted to. I'm pretty sure a lot of the Men's Rights thugs can't say that.
By the way, I'm using "thugs" pretty loosely here, but I think for once (as opposed to Fox News's overuse of it re: Baltimore recently) it applies here: these guys are bullies. A bully is, of course, someone who feels disenfranchised, and they lash out in response. A bully online is even worse than a bully in the flesh: at least a "real-time" bully has the stones to be a shit to you to your face. What I see when I hear about death threats against female game designers (the origin of the Gamergate thing seems to be insinuations that female gaming journalists slept with designers in order to get their information, or some other such nonsense) is a scared little boy lashing out with his keyboard at all the perceived slights of the world. I recognize that scared little boy because, sometimes in my past, it's been me. I think any internet activity from my darkest personal times can testify to that.
The internet can be an empowering tool for the voiceless, or those who feel that way. But it can also be a bullhorn which is employed to silence other voices even more. I'm not inclined to say "Men's Rights advocates should be shut up," or banned, if only because freedom of speech is the most important right in our constitution (no, being able to shoot off a gun is not as important). But there should be consequences for when speech crosses the line. I think also that the more someone I disagree with speaks, the more likely they'll say something that even their followers might find reprehensible. Men's Rights advocates have a forum, and I'm sure it's as batshit insane as I think it is. Eventually their sense of entitlement will be their downfall. I have to believe that, because it's often proven the case in the past.
It's part of a larger narrative that has taken hold particularly since Obama took office, this idea that we need to "get America back" from the socialists, feminists, or other such groups who are trying to render the America we grew up in irrelevant. Fact is, I think that's more dangerous than letting these idiots speak. Ask someone who wasn't in the majority at a particular epoch in our history what it was really like, and chances are it won't be all sock-hops and soda fountains. Americans have a tendency to not see what their actual history is, but what they want it to be. That's why Reagan could appeal to the notion of the Fifties being placid and bucolic, when in reality that decade was a time of upheaval (and also the birth of the modern Civil Rights movement). Men's Rights seems rooted in a "me, too" notion of oppression, as if suddenly being a (white) male in American society is a handicap. I'm a white male, I can tell you that I've never been harassed by the cops simply for standing out in a particular neighborhood. It's a counter-argument to people with legitimate beefs about the way that society and authority have treated them, and it's a false narrative rooted in paranoia and a fear of losing whatever power you have.
Did I also mention how fucking stupid Men's Rights guys are?
Anyway, some advice to my brothers in the movement, assuming any of them can read: chill out. Relax. Try actually talking to a woman for once in your life. Don't get mad, bro. Do get out more, and let the rays of the sun shine upon your pale, asshole exterior. Keep talking smack, because eventually you'll run off everyone who even thought about supporting you by being a dick. And finally, just fuck off already.
This is your kindly Uncle Trevor, signing off.
That movement, of course, is #BlackLivesMatter.
There's another movement online, either identified as "Gamergate" or "Men's Rights," that is just fucking stupid. Do I really need to expend more time on it?
Okay, maybe I should (really short blog posts aren't my thing, anyway): Men's Rights is a movement that prides itself on addressing a problem that doesn't really exist (much in the same way Fox News has been beating the drum for Benghazi, or your local preacher might against marriage equality). The problem, according to MR activists, is that feminists are taking over the cultural landscape and turning men into emasculated "female men" who can't possibly live up the exalted ideals of men of America's past. Men of valor and courage, like John Wayne (draft-dodging-during-WWII John Wayne), perhaps. I have to admit, I'm not terribly familiar with the core beliefs of the movement, but I kinda feel like I can bash them anyway. Because they sound to me more like whiny little shits than actual men.
The Men's Rights movement is like Al Bundy's "No Ma'am" movement from Married With Children, only even less funny. It sees a world in which men (rugged, heterosexual, tree-chopping-down men) are "under assault" from forces beyond their control. And they'd better best stand up for themselves, because those forces might just win and eradicate everything that's wonderful about men. The Nazis had the Jews, Men's Rights Advocates have women (or maybe "Women") to blame for everything that's wrong with their world. Yes, I just compared the Men's Rights thugs to Nazis. No, I don't take it back.
I am a product of a household with strong maternal figures (particularly my grandmother, who will absolutely cut a bitch if she has to). I have, at times, wondered if my lack of ability to land a relationship is somehow a result of having strong females in my life and finding them intimidating as a result (it's the old Freudian concern of whether or not I "want a girl just like dear old Mom"), and I'm not saying I've figured any of this out enough to change my relationship status anytime soon. But I think I'm better than the Men's Rights advocates in this respect: I don't blame my lack of a relationship on women. Also, I can actually hold a conversation with a real, live woman, even one that I'm attracted to. I'm pretty sure a lot of the Men's Rights thugs can't say that.
By the way, I'm using "thugs" pretty loosely here, but I think for once (as opposed to Fox News's overuse of it re: Baltimore recently) it applies here: these guys are bullies. A bully is, of course, someone who feels disenfranchised, and they lash out in response. A bully online is even worse than a bully in the flesh: at least a "real-time" bully has the stones to be a shit to you to your face. What I see when I hear about death threats against female game designers (the origin of the Gamergate thing seems to be insinuations that female gaming journalists slept with designers in order to get their information, or some other such nonsense) is a scared little boy lashing out with his keyboard at all the perceived slights of the world. I recognize that scared little boy because, sometimes in my past, it's been me. I think any internet activity from my darkest personal times can testify to that.
The internet can be an empowering tool for the voiceless, or those who feel that way. But it can also be a bullhorn which is employed to silence other voices even more. I'm not inclined to say "Men's Rights advocates should be shut up," or banned, if only because freedom of speech is the most important right in our constitution (no, being able to shoot off a gun is not as important). But there should be consequences for when speech crosses the line. I think also that the more someone I disagree with speaks, the more likely they'll say something that even their followers might find reprehensible. Men's Rights advocates have a forum, and I'm sure it's as batshit insane as I think it is. Eventually their sense of entitlement will be their downfall. I have to believe that, because it's often proven the case in the past.
It's part of a larger narrative that has taken hold particularly since Obama took office, this idea that we need to "get America back" from the socialists, feminists, or other such groups who are trying to render the America we grew up in irrelevant. Fact is, I think that's more dangerous than letting these idiots speak. Ask someone who wasn't in the majority at a particular epoch in our history what it was really like, and chances are it won't be all sock-hops and soda fountains. Americans have a tendency to not see what their actual history is, but what they want it to be. That's why Reagan could appeal to the notion of the Fifties being placid and bucolic, when in reality that decade was a time of upheaval (and also the birth of the modern Civil Rights movement). Men's Rights seems rooted in a "me, too" notion of oppression, as if suddenly being a (white) male in American society is a handicap. I'm a white male, I can tell you that I've never been harassed by the cops simply for standing out in a particular neighborhood. It's a counter-argument to people with legitimate beefs about the way that society and authority have treated them, and it's a false narrative rooted in paranoia and a fear of losing whatever power you have.
Did I also mention how fucking stupid Men's Rights guys are?
Anyway, some advice to my brothers in the movement, assuming any of them can read: chill out. Relax. Try actually talking to a woman for once in your life. Don't get mad, bro. Do get out more, and let the rays of the sun shine upon your pale, asshole exterior. Keep talking smack, because eventually you'll run off everyone who even thought about supporting you by being a dick. And finally, just fuck off already.
This is your kindly Uncle Trevor, signing off.
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