cheek

ROTFLAAG (*AAG = "And angering God")

2009-12-12T22:56:00.001-06:00

Stability Before Departure

2009-10-25T17:24:00.013-05:00

One of the last things Chester vomited on was my precious copy of Alan Dugan's Poems Seven: New and Complete Poetry. During those last weeks, I was tolerant of his vomitorium habits, and in this case I did my best to clean the book off -- though now its cover is curled into a cylinder. But -- today I took it down off its high shelf, flipped through it: one poem stuck to me, and possibly even explains his last moments.

Here's how it went: on Friday (10/9) -- after several days of nibbling at food then stumbling away -- Chet devoured his last meal (raw chicken livers) and never ate again. On Sunday he stopped drinking, and thereafter he became progressively paralyzed -- first his back legs, then his front. He was silent and stoic all the while, even giving me his "smiling eyes" and an occasional wink as I carried him around for a "window tour" or carefully placed him in his litterbox for a piss. He liked it when I was his slave, but he still didn't want me all up in his grill during hospice time. I kept putting out food and water, of course. He ignored the food, but would crane toward the water and try to rest his head over the bowl -- I ended up putting water in a saucer so he could do this more easily without drowning himself.

On Wednesday, I came home from work to find he'd pissed himself and tried to crawl away from his puddle. I cleaned him off with a warm facecloth, and put him in his litterbox again. I heard him pee as his head sorta slumped on its corner -- I ducked my own head to his level and said, "That's the stuff, eh Chet?" and he winked. Then I took him out, put my throbbing head in my hands, picked up the phone, cleared my throat fourteen times, and scheduled a euthanasia for the next day, at 3:20pm. Alice suggested I tell Chet about it, so that's what I did next, weeping like a chump all the while.

A few hours later, he started calling out to me. The first time he did it, I freaked: a full-throated meow coming from the paralytic in my bedroom. I turned him over and hung out with him, asking him what's up. He gave me this odd, intelligent gaze -- none of this blank-delirium stuff you hear about as cats slip into darkness. I could tell he didn't really want me crowding his space though -- he was never much of a cuddly lap cat -- but I kept myself nearby, and every now and then he would yell. Sometimes it would be two or three gaspy attempted meows followed by the real thing -- this became a reedier, more incompetent sound as the night went on. Like a poorly tuned kazoo. Eventually he would just turn his head toward me and open his mouth.

I tried putting water or tuna juice in his mouth with a dropper, but this fluid just ran over his cheeks. Several hours of this, interrupted by his occasional passing out -- and remember I'd already scheduled his euthanasia for 3:20pm -- I could feel grim death creeping into every crevice of our apartment, and I became nauseous & maybe a little delirious myself. Around 4am I was climbing the walls -- should I just call a cab and get him an emergency euthanasia? Is he in pain? What's he trying to tell me?

I tried to convince myself he was yelling the feline version of "God damn everyone in the whole fucking world and everyone in it but you, Carlotta." but I still had no idea: after years of being able to read his every vocal nuance, I couldn't do it now. At 11:20am, blank and dizzy myself, I had to use the bathroom, so I put my hands and head on him & said "alright Chet I'll be right back" -- he turned his head and opened his mouth again. When I came back to him, with the toilet still flushing, he was dead -- tongue out, rictus grimace, no breath, no heartbeat. All I heard was the saddest music in the world: my toilet's cistern refilling.

So anyway today, ten days later, I stumbled over that Alan Dugan book -- that last (literal) target for his bile before his decline, and found this poem, which maybe Chet selected for me before the end ha ha ha:

I have begun my freedom and it hurts.
Time opens out, so I can see its end
as the black rock of Mecca up ahead.
I have cut loose from my bases of support
and my beasts and burdens are ready, but
I pace back and forth across my right
of way, shouting, "Take off! Move out
in force!", but nothing moves. I wait
for a following storm to blast me out of here
because to go there freely is suicide!
Let the wind bear my responsibility.

Last words for Chester

2009-10-15T11:20:00.002-05:00

Hey Chet, Alice tells me I should let you know what’s going to happen to you before I bring you out the house. So here goes nothin’: you’re in a very bad way, and you ain’t gonna get better, so I’m taking you to be euthanized. That means you’ll have a needle in your leg, then you’ll die, except you won’t know it.

I have no idea what happens after you die, and neither of us is the type to comfort ourselves with paradise dreams, or a mirrorhouse of lives replicating into eternity. In all likelihood, you’ll just stop existing. But you’ll be preserved in my brain, plus the minds of many awesome folks who knew you through the years. Few of them will forget your cynical stare, your lust for nutritional yeast, your heroic slaying of bats, your galloping & chattering after laser-pointers, your hilarious fascination with the Beast With Two Backs, your dense luxuriation as deep fingers remade your lower butt. Chet, you’re like W.C. Fields crossed with Lawrence Tierney: – no curling into laps and purring for you! And only the best-quality folks loved you.

If you’re frightened about the end, well... so am I. Take comfort in the fact that I’m gonna die someday too, and I’ll be even more spooked when that time comes. I might be pouring piss out my boots, tell you what, and if there is that mirrorhouse I trust you’ll get reincarnated solely to laugh your ass off at my boot-piss. Today though, I’m carrying you down Lyndale in a box, and returning without you. Strange and sad, but despite all the grim indignities this week brought us, I’ll be celebrating your life in style. Dancing with tears in my eyes.

For cats like you, life is sunbeams, swagger, hunting, and voyeurism. Then... well this.

It's kinda like she's Joan Bennett in Suspiria!

2009-04-05T20:52:00.000-05:00

The town that made Margaret Thatcher.

Strange, though, that the policies she pursued, consciously or not, destroyed nearly everything her father held dear: the established order, stability, community. Can you see evidence of that destructive energy from the corner of North Parade? The longer you stand there the more you can convince yourself that you can. There was once a pub over the road and a Catholic church. The pub has gone now (though there is another, desperate-looking one a few yards along - the Nobody Inn). The view now takes in a vast Asda and a Lidl. There is not a family-owned shop in sight. In the absence of society, things can fall apart. Along the high street from the Methodist chapel in Grantham, every shop window these days carries a police notice: "Warning, handbag thieves operate in this area."

The End of the World

2009-04-03T01:09:00.002-05:00

Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot
The armless ambidextrian was lighting
A match between his great and second toe,
And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting
The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb---
Quite unexpectedly the top blew off:

And there, there overhead, there, there hung over
Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
There in the starless dark the poise, the hover,
There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,
There in the sudden blackness the black pall
Of nothing, nothing, nothing --- nothing at all.

:: Archibald MacLeish

Obviously it is the beginning of National Poetry Month. Should be pretty obvious why I started off with this one...

In the street

2009-03-31T00:05:00.003-05:00

Helen Levitt is dead at 95. Such a long, strange and secretive life, and her greatest work still yanks our heads around six decades later. As many of you know, I'm pretty cynical about photography as an "art". Levitt's one of the handful I've encountered who knew how to do it right -- simultaneously capturing and composing the sublime as it chalked the sidewalk or dandled menacingly off the porch. Her only peers as shutter geniuses are (were) Berenice Abbott and Diane Arbus, which suggests that women always have the jump on men in this medium.

Strib reader comment of the day

2009-03-30T16:24:00.001-05:00

"i'm not angry. i'm much too progressive, tolerant, and diverse to be angry. now if you'll excuse me, i have to go back to working, at my job, where i do things, that i get paid for, and then i use that money to pay taxes, which in turn pay for a senator, that i vote for every 6 years and would like to be represented by."

As far as I can tell, everyone in the world but me is closing ranks against Roger Cohen

2009-03-29T20:29:00.000-05:00

"I think it's partly my name. The 'self-hating Jew' things can come to the surface in some of the responses."
Jewish writer raises a storm in America with his report from a "tolerant" Iran

Even Rabbi David Wolpe of the Huffington Post is feeling a little daffy about it all.

Smell

2009-03-29T01:00:00.000-05:00

For reasons I can't quite figure out (though I like to blame my new Facebook account), I haven't posted here in, like, weeks. Maybe I'll start again, esp. with National Poetry Month starting next week. In the meantime, dig this article about Hollywood's smelliest actors (yes, literally).

Get pumped for the SUPER BOWL!!!!!!!!!!!

2009-01-28T15:47:00.002-06:00

[via Eyeteeth]

2009-01-28T11:23:00.000-06:00

"You know, they say they've got one hell of a band up in heaven. My brother Ronnie up in heaven is probably saying, 'Billy, what took you so long?' I'm sure they're catching up on things in heaven."

History!

2009-01-27T08:45:00.002-06:00

Simplex Fragrance Durian

2009-01-26T00:12:00.002-06:00

When I heard they made a durian condom, I mostly figured they created something with a durian's characteristic spiky texture. Or maybe even its odd but well-beloved flavor. But a condom that smells like a durian?? Says here "the fragrance will create harmonious, romantic & a special setting for love." They're not kidding about "special": those who have smelled a durian know that you must first locate a sex partner who will be turned on by a penis that smells like sewage garnished with onions and your grandma's bedpan.

Also you must locate a partner who doesn't mind a penis that is only 52mm in diameter.

Yule Log

2008-12-24T20:49:00.003-06:00

"Indoor gardening" with Jimmy Wales

2008-12-22T19:42:00.010-06:00

I was all set to donate a few bucks to Wikipedia during Misery Christmas 2008, even after wincing at Jimmy Wales's latest tool-o'clock shadow. BUT his desperate appeal letter commits a horrible error: he uses the verb "to grow" in transitive form ("we are committed to growing the free knowledge movement world-wide," he says). As I've mentioned before this construction -- when not referring to nails, hair, or plants -- is the province (and invention) of corporate assholes and Republican snake-oil peddlers.

I implore you, Jimmy, please use another verb. "We are committed to expanding" or "We are committed to strengthening" or even (and this is just the lesser of two evils) "We are committed to empowering." So many alternatives... and you chose "growing". Makes me worry that your Foxophilia finally got to you.

In the meantime, I'll use my ten bucks to offset the growing demand [note proper usage] and diminishing supply of free food in the Twin Cities.

Life is a Walk Across a Field

2008-12-21T20:56:00.003-06:00

Adrian Mitchell crossed it.

[via]

Spontaneous Obama street party

2008-11-05T13:14:00.005-06:00

Jason's got a pretty good post about the Obama street party that erupted in my 'hood last night. I haven't been part of such a spontaneous explosion of joy and craziness since the UConn campus went nutso in the aftermath of Tate George's last-second turn-around jumper against Clemson in 1990.

Ante Up!

2008-11-04T22:41:00.002-06:00

Take minks off! Take things off!
Take chains off! Take rings off!

For those of you who are gearing up for major disappointments...

2008-11-04T02:27:00.004-06:00

...the answer is range voting. It's the only voting method that seems to contradict Arrow's Impossibility Theorem, which should bring joy to many cynical hearts. More to the point, it's the voting method most responsive to the public will, however kooky or rational.

Even the beloved instant-runoff voting system -- which for some reason strikes fear into the hearts of wingnuts -- can generate a counterintuitive and fucked-up result.

Alas, range voting will have to wait for some idealized utopian post-Mayan-Calendar future. Not a single elected official in the United States is known to endorse it.

Lowering Device

2008-10-31T22:38:00.005-05:00

Not anybody can be a gravedigger. You can dig a hole anyway they come. A gravedigger, you have to make a neat job. I had a fella once, he wanted to see a grave. He was a fella that digged sewers. He was impressed when he seen me diggin' this grave -- how square and how perfect it was. A human body is going into this grave.

In the old days it used to be four men. Two on each end with a rope, keep lowerin' little by little. I imagine that was kinda hard, because I imagine some fellas must weigh two hundred pounds, and I can feel that weight. We had a burial about five years ago, a fella that weighed four hundred pounds. He didn't fit on the lowerin' device. We had a big machine tractor that we coulda used, but that woulda looked kinda bad, because lowerin' a casket with a tractor is like lowerin' anything. You have to respect... we did it by hand. There were about a half a dozen men.

:: quote from Elmer Ruiz, a gravedigger, from Studs Terkel's Working.

What's yr costume?

2008-10-31T09:12:00.004-05:00

Once again, I'm not wearing a costume on Halloween. Let's face it: I can never be "costume guy" -- I don't pull off slutty very well (not in costume form anyway); I'm a terrible actor; and those rare times I don some sorta get-up I come off all stiff and annoyed, like a cat being forced to wear a bonnet. Or like "Chief" Calvin Coolidge above.

Anyway, Sylvia has the best costume ever: she's dressing up as a "bitch who hates kids and refuses to change out of her regular clothes."

Victoria Jackson: still firin' on all six cylinders

2008-10-29T21:24:00.001-05:00

If you still haven't decided how to vote in Minnesota's Senate election, let some of the wisest, most formidable Hollywood thespians sway you:

John Ratzenberger and Pat "fishin' for my breakfast" Boone are predictable, but don't let Victoria Jackson's kook-bimbo act fool you: she is absolutely nuts! Chuck points out her website, where, among other things, she calls Obama a Communist [I wish! -- ed.] who "bears traits that resemble the anti-Christ".

Or to quote Cliff Claven, "How would the Civil War had changed if Abraham Lincoln had octopus tentacles instead of a beard?"

quote

2008-09-29T21:33:00.002-05:00

Greedy taxpayers have to learn that this money is earmarked for conscientious wealth creators and their warriors, not for sloths with their heads stuck in the bargain bucket.

Brutal

2008-09-26T07:41:00.001-05:00

YouTube prankster thinks Lou Ski looks like Barack Obama

2008-09-04T14:34:00.003-05:00

Still, it's one of many great Soul Train line dance videos what's been uploaded there. Here's my favorite, a Keedah tribute!

Much discussion in room CH1OCH2O11

2008-08-19T20:33:00.002-05:00

Learn chemistry the Mark E. Smith way!
(Warning: This video features the most catalytic neon atom ever: despite her agonizingly brief appearance, she will always haunt your dreams.)

"The truth in art,,,the demons our in the boardrooms wearing suits"

2008-08-12T01:12:00.000-05:00

Found this crayon video for Old Time Relijun's recent single [sic] the "Daemon Meeting", thought you'd enjoy it too. Created by Chad Paulson:

Bear with Jar on head shot in busy town

2008-07-30T15:25:00.002-05:00

Here are some hilarious selections from the Strib's comment thread about the coldblooded murder of the bear with a jar on his head:

"Let's see you go a week with a jar on your head and see if your reasoning power suffers a little bit."
"We need to start treating our cops like Barney Fife and give them only one bullet!"
"I can only imagine how dead I'd be if I was shot every time I got a jar stuck on my head. A hint: It would be in the hundreds..."
"bears are like big rodents - too many of them now as no one hunts them like decades ago. the poor thing commenter might feel different if she/he has bears constantly in their garbage of buildings." [sic]
"If you would like to have every wounded, problem, or stupid animal to be relocated we can start shipping them all to metro for you. Bullet = $.49, cost to relocate bear with jug on his head so he can get shot by an hunter in 2 months = $1,000s."
"Get a Tranquilizer Gun in the next budget. What $200? Make a phone call, send an e-mail asking for someone with a tranquilizer gun to come to the assistance of the local law enforcement. It doesn't take 6 days to drive to Frazee."
"I've worked for the Minnesota DNR for 25 years now and when you come across a bear with its head in a jar you need to do 3 things and do them fast: 1.) Remove the jar 2.) Quick roundhouse kick (not enough to hurt, but hard enough to shock the bear for a moment) 3.) Unicycle downhill away from the bear and alert the local citizens that there is a very angry bear in the neighborhood and it's probably best to stay inside for a few months. Everybody wins."

The Caldor Rainbow

2008-07-22T21:08:00.007-05:00

Just for kicks, I investigated the late unlamented Charter Oak Mall in East Hartford, CT -- a seventies utopia where I practically learned to read, and where my childhood love for Elton John and Chic was fostered by them Papa Gino's booth jukeboxes. This small feature on the ex-mall at Deadmalls.com was a fun read (though I was more amused by the deadmalls.com t-shirts you can buy on the bottom of the page), yet I yearned for more...

That's when I happened upon this detailed, geeky historical profile which caused me to fall in love with the Caldor Rainbow, a blog that tracks "the retail rainbows of everyday discount stores." Right. The Caldor Rainbow is really a strange urban archaeology blog about the "big box" in its infancy (primarily in New England). I don't want to call it nostalgic, exactly, but it does seem to evoke a time when suburban sprawl seemed kinda fun and utopian, when a worker could build their career and lifestyle around a retail employer (see, for example, this sequence of photos and this beautiful coda). Just a great blog, I hope he keeps it going. The latest post is a visit to Dunkin' Donuts Store Number One in Quincy, Mass.

Amazon to authors: suck my left tit (my right's been removed for battle)

2008-07-22T01:14:00.003-05:00

The rapidly degenerating publishing economy has led to a strange, petty war between Amazon and Hachette:

The online bookseller has imposed extraordinary sanctions against the publisher, whose authors include the bestselling writers Stephen King and James Patterson. It is listing Hachette books but preventing the public from purchasing them by removing the "buy new" button from its websites. Titles such as the hardback of King’s Duma Key and Patterson’s The 6th Target have been affected with only "used" copies being offered for sale.

Amazon only seems to be applying pressure on really big titles -- Patterson and King et al. Yet one wonders whether the entire industry -- from scribbler to agent to publisher to printer to wack bullying online retailer -- has gone nutty, scrambling over wafer-thin margins in each transaction. The resulting catalectic sustenance chain leaves out the creator, go figure:

Mark Le Fanu, general secretary of the Society of Authors, told The Times that discounts demanded by the big retailers have been rising relentlessly, squeezing authors’ royalties. "Authors are being unreasonably penalised by Amazon," he said. "It’s right that publishers stand up to Amazon and don’t carry on conceding ever higher discounts.

"Authors lose royalties as the discounts get bigger. Amazon is playing this one hard. Authors are suffering as a result. If Amazon is only selling secondhand copies of books, the author doesn’t get any money from them."

So again, as always, writers are forced to aim for immortality rather than luchre.

Insert obligatory Ben Orr quote here

2008-07-16T01:08:00.002-05:00

Italian forced to re-take driving test because he's gay. He passes (again), but gets a one-year "disabled" license because of his "sexual identity disturbance." This leads to lawsuit and piles of money from the Italian government.

I can't remember if it was Bush's hand-stapled xerox from the Encyclopedia of World Biography or Berlusconi himself who said last week that Italy "is a country that loves to flagellate itself and make itself look bad."

[Empty post title] (I'll use "Tramp the Dirt Down" when she's finally pegs out.)

2008-07-13T23:08:00.003-05:00

State funeral planned for Lady Thatcher.

Except she's not dead yet.

Indeed, she is nearly two years younger than that Robert Mugabe! (OK I'll stop now.)

I especially liked this: "There were doubts that Britain's overstretched armed forces would have the numbers to line the route which a coffin would probably take to St Paul's Cathedral."

Slim. Shady.

2008-07-07T19:11:00.002-05:00

Tom Disch's final livejournal post, from last Wednesday. He killed himself on Friday.

Inflation/ Starvation/ Fun
Short of succumbing to the madness of anorexia, I doubt I am likely to experience actual starvation before I die. Nor, I'd bet, will most of those who visit this site. But I'd also bet that most of us have felt the pinch of inflation in our daily diet. I remember the rapid evolution of low-cost middle-class A & P into up-scale, twice-the-price Food Emporium with no practical difference except the prices and the phasing out of cooking staples, a process still barely begun in most supermarkets. The eventual goal is shelves stocked only with bachelor commodities--breadfast [sic] cereal, frozen entrees for dieters, and bellywash in small bottles. Cooking gas will be rationed in winter as people try to heat their urban apartments with their ovens. Etc.

I'm curious as to where we are on that scale now. How has your own diet been affected? I had sticker shock this week when I found that a "low-cost" lunch has climbed from $5 to $10/15 in just the last couple years. The Tv advertises a $5 slice of pizza as a bargain. I don't see how teens can get by unless they are dealing drugs or balling for dollars.

But that's just me. Maybe there have been no changes in your part of Omaha at all. Just curious.

The news that he offed himself hit me sideways: I always figured him for one of the hard-nosed class-conscious types who laughed at -- rather than courted -- death. I read 334 at a very young age (21?) and remembered it being rough going but vaguely Important -- dry modernism will do that to a boy. Reading its wikipedia entry suggests a reread is in order. Dystopian novels are like that: you return to 'em to see what came true, like picking scabs. I also enjoyed The Dreams Our Stuff is Made Of which was that rarest of SF books: a penetrating rant that skewered his own (presumably lucrative?) genre, yet his wit and authority (not to mention discerning brain) keep you enthusiastic and curious anyway. Very sad to see him go. I haven't even started on his poetry yet!

Here is last year's New York Sun profile on Disch, complete with fun obesity-poem quotes: Bard of Plump Love.

Another great tribute: The Child Knew Sin and the Snake Knew Love.

Stimulus. Package.

2008-07-06T01:40:00.009-05:00

The IRS stimulus checks seem to be causing a spike in web porn sales. I wanna say that cum hoc ergo propter hoc is a ~~phallus-~~ fallacy, but I bet this is one of the firmest correlations out there.

In related news, gas stations are increasingly turning to alcohol sales as a way to maintain profits, because booze -- unlike gasoline -- is clearly recession-proof.

Meanwhile, the super-wealthy are spurring the growth of organic food & mushy ethical products and stuff.

".... I triggered the pre-arranged signal..."

2008-07-02T19:10:00.002-05:00

Want to know if waterboarding is torture? Ask Christopher Hitchens.

In August's edition of Vanity Fair, you can read all about it, and see more photographs of the "wheezing, paunchy, 59-year-old scribbler", his head hooded, being subjected to this most terrifying of ordeals by veterans of the US Special Forces. A video is due to be posted soon at vf.com, though that may be a bit too much to bear.

So what did it feel like? Hitchens recounts how he was lashed tightly to a sloping board, then, "on top of the hood, three layers of enveloping towel were added. In this pregnant darkness, head downward, I waited until I abruptly felt a slow cascade of water going up my nose ... I held my breath for a while and then had to exhale and - as you might expect - inhale in turn."

That, he says, "brought the damp cloths tight against my nostrils, as if a huge, wet paw had been suddenly and annihilatingly clamped over my face. Unable to determine whether I was breathing in or out, flooded more with sheer panic than with water, I triggered the pre-arranged signal" and felt the "unbelievable relief" of being pulled upright.

The "official lie" about waterboarding, Hitchens says, is that it "simulates the feeling of drowning". In fact, "you are drowning - or rather, being drowned".

He rehearses the intellectual arguments, both for ("It's nothing compared to what they do to us") and against ("It opens a door that can't be closed"). But the Hitch's thoroughly empirical conclusion is simple. As Vanity Fair's title puts it: "Believe me, it's torture."

Everything is relative

2008-06-29T21:48:00.003-05:00

Not sure if anyone's pointed this out yet, but that crazy octogenarian Robert Mugabe is nine months older than Gore Vidal.

Mugabe is also older than Alexander Haig, Ed Koch, Barbara Bush, Flannery O'Connor, Sammy Davis, Jr., and Martin Luther King, Jr. And Malcolm X.

I could go on. He's just extremely old, a twitchy bonebag of paranoia and cognitive delusions. Perfect leader for Zimbabwe now!

Rock and roll never forgets

2008-06-29T01:27:00.023-05:00

Does anybody else remember the mighty Nebraska trio Mercy Rule? I still can't shuck these memories of the unbearably hot (and well-named) thrush Heidi Ore -- she always seemed to be pregnant back then -- and her nerdy, fertile husband Jon Taylor spreading snot, power-rawk, and goodwill among various tiny venues. Heidi's off-kilter bellow rattled the rebar of many a Madison all-ages club, while Jon enthusiastically jumped about, mining some serious eye-watery power chords. Great songs, good times.

Round about 2000, after three groovy albums and two children, Mercy Rule disappeared without a trace. I know their drummer, Ron Albertson, thereupon became a founding member of Liars (pretty decent band that turned feckless & godawful after he was booted in 2003), but what of Heidi and Jon?

I found the answer in this Daily Nebraskan article:

"Now, Taylor works at Bedient Pipe Organs, building pipe organs, and Ore works at the state foster care review board."

Now that's rock and roll heaven! It also turns out they've got a non-touring marriage-rawk project going called Domestica.

Here's another cute Daily Nebraskan article: Grounded by parenthood, Mercy Rule remembers early-'90s rock..

And here's why I loved them so, back in the day:

Let's count the rings around my eyes

2008-06-22T19:24:00.003-05:00

"This is my plea to all rockstars past, present, and future: If you ever write a book about rockstardom please, please, please, pretty please with cocaine and slutty groupies on top DO NOT spend pages explaining recoupable debt."

Ain't good lookin', but you know I ain't shy.

2008-06-21T22:48:00.005-05:00

"Here's proof you can't beat the system ... especially when it's the Bob Seger System!"

Young beardless Bob performing his finest song on some sixties TV show. (Sadly this was apparently televised before microphone stands were invented.)

Oh, Sherrie

2008-06-16T21:47:00.009-05:00

Hey look what I found: it's Steve Perry's Picasa Web Album! Here he is fooling around with his old girlfriend Sherrie Swafford circa 1981.

Do you know what hilarious phrase popped into my head immediately after staring at this photo for several minutes? "Nip and tuck." That's right. And the platelets migrated south anyway.

In related news, here is a feature on Journey's hot new Pinoy vocalist, Arnel Pineda (thanks Sylvia!):

[I still prefer Steve.]

Remember the olden days when Schoolly D. could sample "Kashmir"?

2008-06-13T00:51:00.002-05:00

It's mid-2008, and the signifying rappers are already sampling Coldplay and that fucking Swedish whistling song.

Capitalist running-dog quote of the day

2008-06-11T23:12:00.003-05:00

“Years ago, if you overdrew your account, we couldn’t wait to close your account and throw you out. Now we have to go find those people and bring them in, because they are really valuable folks to have.” [James Holly, CEO, Bank of the Sierra]

In related news, Minnesota-based U.S. Bank and TCF (plus San Francisco based Wells Fargo) have plummeted to the bottom of national consumer satisfaction polls over the past year.

Make U Move

2008-06-07T13:05:00.002-05:00

Forgot to mention: my review of Danielia Cotton's Rare Child was up at PopMatters this week.

Blink: the power of watching without helping

2008-06-06T12:28:00.009-05:00

Hartford police release video that shows bystanders ignoring 78-year-old hit-and-run victim

Very awful. But not surprising. In (limited) defense of these "inhuman" residents of my former burgh, I should mention that Darley and Latané demonstrated the Bystander Effect like forty years ago. (Reminds me of one of my own annoying experiences with the bystander effect, right here in Whittier.) Anyway, it's things like this that get me all wound up about the snake oil that Malcolm Gladwell is selling: you'd think someone would have "thin-sliced" into action a bit sooner here, right?

However, I do agree with Hartford Police Chief Daryl Roberts when he says "We no longer have moral compass." "Morals" or any sort of communitarian ethos are all getting chucked out the window as so many cities are subjected to the smog of neoliberalism.

Brad Rixmann: conjurer of nightmares

2008-06-04T16:06:00.002-05:00

Gore Vidal on his mom: "A drunken shit"

2008-06-01T22:29:00.004-05:00

Gore Vidal hits out! (against Truman Capote & his mom)

[Gore Vidal] has recalled [his mom] telling him, for instance, that rage made her orgasmic ("I forgot to ask her if sex ever did") and remarking that she was born only "because my mother's douche bag broke". Nina also informed him how, on the way to their honeymoon, his father had told her: "'There's something very important I want you to know.' I was so excited. He's going to tell me he loves me. But he didn't. Instead, he said: 'I have three balls.'" According to Vidal, his father "was in all the medical books".

"How old were you when you noticed Nina was behaving differently from most parents?"

Vidal laughs. "51."

"Come on."

"No. Really. I was a slow developer. The thing is, she was just atrocious. Everybody who knew her hated her."

"What did she do, exactly? Your grandmother said that when Nina walked in a room, it was like an evil spirit arriving." "Yes. This is her own mother saying that. You know what the problem was? It was racial. And I'll give you the race: Anglo-Irish. They are more vicious than most. She was a shit." He pauses. "A drunken shit."

And here he is -- just last week! -- offering us his best George W. Bush impersonation:

OK, now how many of them have cash bars?

2008-05-27T22:11:00.003-05:00

A great post from Barrett for those of us whose mailboxes are lately stuffed with nettlesome wedding invitations: I'm Lazy and I'm Kind of a Jerk

I can't believe that there are people so together that when they receive a wedding invitation, they actually RSVP, then go out and purchase a present, get dressed up, and attend the wedding. With a guest! Chances are, they don't even get drunk at the reception and knock over the ice sculpture either. These people are like aliens to me.

That plane's dusting crops where there ain't no crops

2008-05-26T22:12:00.003-05:00

Bob Coe died last October. "He was found dead in his lounge chair by friends visiting for their daily glass of wine -- every afternoon at 3:30, his son said." I didn't know Bob Coe ever existed until today. For years I just figured that the crop-duster in the North By Northwest scene below was just piloting itself.

"It's better to be likeable than talented."

2008-05-25T04:02:00.003-05:00

Utah Phillips has left the stage.

Here he is singing "The World Turned Upside Down":

Your tendril ocean bed achievements does not justify your abuse of privacy piracy act

2008-05-12T23:29:00.002-05:00

Check out this message board for some accounts of the bizarro-world academic conference about Mark E. Smith & the Fall, held last week in Salford. Needless to say the man himself couldn't let the conference alone: ended up drink-dialing* one of his sisters (both of whom attended, along with his mom), who handed her mobile phone to Grant Showbiz onstage (hence my "Telephone Thing" quote above). Anyway here's one choice account:

By the third session I think I wasn't alone in feeling Smithed out and the Frank Zappa fan (who seemed to model his appearance on FZ and the lead singer of Doctor and the Medics) completely lost me with his talk of Modernism. There was no path to his talk and I started to hallucinate. The guy on after him (Rob Chapman by my memory) was easier to follow but dropped more names than a pissed juggler and mentioned being a punk rock foot soldier at least 3 times.

Mr Wise was great to listen to. He spoke about Mark's house. He said it was always dark with only candlelight and there would be interminable waits for Elena to make soup that never arrived. He seemed a little twitchy about Mark's brooding presence over the day and was on the look out for a man near the back of the room with a false beard. He spoke a lot about Mark's beliefs; in the power of mesmerism and religious ones.

[snip]

Then CP Lee introduced Grant Showbiz. Grant spoke personally about his work with the Fall and it was fascinating stuff. Halfway through his talk, Mark's sister got up and handed her mobile over to him so he could speak to Mark. Apparently he was ringing to check up on things. Grant spoke to him on stage for a few minutes and reported back that it had been an interesting day etc.

[snip]

Conference stat - about 45 people there, including speakers. Mostly men aged 35 - 55 with one Bob Hoskins look-a-like and 4 or 5 women. Only one was delivering a paper.

Etc. etc. and there's so much more. For example Mark E. Smith's "black leather glove fetish," which came as a surprise to me, but probably explains this performance (immediately following Robert Plant!). Oh and I can't leave off without this choice Grant Showbiz quote: "If Billy Bragg and MES ever met the universe would explode." (but didn't it explode already? --ed.)

*This is purely a statistical inference.

2008-05-11T16:30:00.003-05:00

This is why I keep telling anyone younger than me, don't imagine you'll have it forever. Use it while you've got it because it'll go, it's sliding away like water down a plughole.

Doris Lessing calls her Nobel win a "disaster."

Some other classic Lessing moments:

The Kiss Precise

2008-04-30T22:43:00.003-05:00

For pairs of lips to kiss maybe
Involves no trigonometry.
'Tis not so when four circles kiss
Each one the other three.
To bring this off the four must be
As three in one or one in three.
If one in three, beyond a doubt
Each gets three kisses from without.
If three in one, then is that one
Thrice kissed internally.

Four circles to the kissing come.
The smaller are the benter.
The bend is just the inverse of
The distance from the center.
Though their intrigue left Euclid dumb
There's now no need for rule of thumb.
Since zero bend's a dead straight line
And concave bends have minus sign,
The sum of the squares of all four bends
Is half the square of their sum.

To spy out spherical affairs
An oscular surveyor
Might find the task laborious,
The sphere is much the gayer,
And now besides the pair of pairs
A fifth sphere in the kissing shares.
Yet, signs and zero as before,
For each to kiss the other four
The square of the sum of all five bends
Is thrice the sum of their squares.

::Frederick Soddy (Pray to Empson if you want this poem to be about more than what it's actually about.)

Strugnell's Bargain

2008-04-27T18:12:00.003-05:00

My true love hath my heart and I have hers:
We swapped last Tuesday and felt quite elated
But now, whenever one of us refers
To 'my heart', things get rather complicated.
Just now, when she complained 'My heart is racing',
'You mean my heart is racing,' I replied.
'That's what I said.' 'You mean the heart replacing
Your heart, my love.' 'Oh piss off, Jake!' she cried.
I ask you, do you think Sir Philip Sidney
Got spoken to like that? And I suspect
If I threw in my liver and a kidney,
She'd still address me with as scant respect.
Therefore do I revoke my opening line:
My love can keep her heart and I'll have mine.

::Wendy Cope (again!)

Spiderwoman

2008-04-23T00:12:00.002-05:00

Arachne starts with Ovid and finishes with me.

Her hair falls out and the ears and nostrils disappear
From her contracting face, her body minuscule, thin
Fingers clinging to her sides by way of legs, the rest
All stomach, from which she manufactures gossamer
And so keeps up her former trade, weaver, spider

Enticing the eight eyes of my imagination
To make love on her lethal doily, to dangle sperm
Like teardrops from an eyelash, massage it into her
While I avoid the spinerets -- navel, vulva, bum --
And the widening smile behind her embroidery.

She wears our babies like brooches on her abdomen.

::Michael Longley

Armed and Dangerous

2008-04-20T16:08:00.004-05:00

WANTED: CUPID, SON OF VENUS
If anybody sees Cupid loitering around,
he's my slave, a runaway.
There's a reward for information leading to his arrest.
Payment will be a kiss from Venus or, if you bring him in yourself,
you'll get more than just a kiss.
The boy's well-known. You can pick him out of any lineup.
Complexion: not white but ruddy. Eyes: piercing and fiery hot.
Voice: sweet as honey. Doesn't say what he means.
Intentions: bitter as bile. A con man,
a complete liar, a sneaky kid. Plays rough.
Lots of curly hair and a look that's asking for trouble.
Hands like a baby, but they can throw things.
Can shoot an arrow to hell and back.
Naked body but hidden thoughts.
Winged. Flies like a bird from here to there.
Lands on men's and women's hearts.
Armed with a small bow and arrow.
Arrow's short but it can reach the sky.
On his back, a golden quiver. Inside,
those little arrows have nicked even me.
All his weapons are dangerous, but the worst is the torch.
Not much light, but it can set the sun on fire.
If you catch him, tie him up, bring him here, and show no mercy.
If you spot him crying, watch out for tricks.
If he's laughing, drag him by the feet. And if he wants to give you a kiss,
look out! The kiss is bad news and the lips are poison.
If he says, "Here. Take my weapons,"
don't touch them whatever you do.
Those gifts are dipped in fire.

::Moschus (translated by Stephen Bertman)

Men Explain Things to Me

2008-04-20T15:27:00.003-05:00

Rebecca Solnit's latest must-read essay, Men Explain Things to Me gets at an annoyance I've harbored for years but couldn't articulate, other than to cut off the pencil-necked grad-school know-it-all boys by dropping my new catch-phrase, "quit didacticizin', bro" (and I'm a man, albeit half-lesbian on my mom's side):

Yes, guys like this pick on other men's books too, and people of both genders pop up at events to hold forth on irrelevant things and conspiracy theories, but the out-and-out confrontational confidence of the totally ignorant is, in my experience, gendered. Men explain things to me, and other women, whether or not they know what they're talking about. Some men.

Every woman knows what I'm talking about. It's the presumption that makes it hard, at times, for any woman in any field; that keeps women from speaking up and from being heard when they dare; that crushes young women into silence by indicating, the way harassment on the street does, that this is not their world. It trains us in self-doubt and self-limitation just as it exercises men's unsupported overconfidence.

[snip]

Don't forget that I've had a lot more confirmation of my right to think and speak than most women, and I've learned that a certain amount of self-doubt is a good tool for correcting, understanding, listening, and progressing -- though too much is paralyzing and total self-confidence produces arrogant idiots, like the ones who have governed us since 2001. There's a happy medium between these poles to which the genders have been pushed, a warm equatorial belt of give and take where we should all meet.

[thanks for the link, Jenna!]

Three Riddled Riddles

2008-04-17T01:52:00.004-05:00

(i)

I have nine legs.
I carry an umbrella.
I live in a box
at the bottom of a ship.
At night
I play the trombone.

What am I?

Answer: I've forgotten.

(ii)

You see me at dawn
with the clouds in my hair.
I run like a horse
and sing like a nightingale.
I collect stamps
and coconuts.

What am I?

Answer: I'm not sure.

(iii)

I taste like a grapefruit.
I swim like a chair.
I hang on the trees
and people tap my face.
rake my soil
and tell me jokes.

What am I?

Answer: I've really no idea.

:: Martyn Wiley and Ian McMillan

Nocturne

2008-04-13T17:37:00.002-05:00

Round and round the shutter'd Square
I strolled with the Devil's arm in mine.
No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there
And the ring of his laughter and mine.
We had drunk black wine.

I scream'd, "I will race you, Master!"
"What matter," he shriek'd, "to-night
Which of us runs the faster?
There is nothing to fear to-night
In the foul moon's light!"

Then I look'd him in the eyes
And I laugh'd full shrill at the lie he told
And the gnawing fear he would fain disguise.
It was true, what I'd time and again been told:
He was old--old.

:: Max Beerbohm

[This is one of a small fistful of decent poems I found in this horrid collection]

Faith, wench, I cannot court

2008-04-11T00:11:00.002-05:00

Faith, wench, I cannot court thy sprightly eyes
With the bass viol placed between my thighs.
I cannot lisp nor to some fiddle sing
Nor run upon a high-stretched minikin.
I cannot whine in puling elegies,
Entombing Cupid with sad obsequies.
I am not fashioned for these amorous times,
To court thy beauty with lascivious rhymes.
I cannot dally, caper, dance, and sing,
Oiling my saint with supple sonneting.
I cannot cross my arms and sigh, 'Ay me,
Ay me, forlorn!' Egregious foppery!
I cannot buss thy hand, play with thy hair,
Swearing by Jove thou art most debonair.

Not I, by cock! But shall I tell thee roundly?
Hark in thine ear: zounds! I can f—-k thee soundly.

::[Author unknown.]

First published in Epigrammes and Elegies by "J.D. and C.M.", circa 1590. My guess is this was a common bawdy sonnet, but here finessed and reshaped by "C.M." -- the exclamation "by cock!" kinda gives it away. Apparently the Epigrammes and Elegies were ordered confiscated and burned by the Crown in 1599. "C.M." had already been murdered by this point, and "J.D." had yet to become an early imperialist legal theoretician, stationed in Ulster.

Did I mention that it's National Poetry Month?

Mood

2008-04-10T00:29:00.002-05:00

I got the 'noid
more'n old

Staggerlee -- me,
I shaken

hands with the void--
Please to meet you.

Betrayal'll
make you shoot

soon as see.
A shadow boxing

me in, this killing
feeling --

season of pigeon
extinct. It is late

enough perhaps to want
my old life back

or none at all --
Times like this should

outlaw what's unsaid.
And up

in the mind there
a burner

half-cocked, triggers
over, again, its dry fire --

Mercy, baby,
take hold a me!

:: Kevin Young

Paraphrase

2008-04-01T21:18:00.003-05:00

Of a steady winking beat between
Systole, diastole spokes-of-a-wheel
One rushing from the bed at night
May find the record wedged in his soul.

Above the feet the clever sheets
Lie guard upon the integers of life:
For what skims in between uncurls the toe,
Involves the hands in purposeless repose.

But from its bracket how the tongue can tell
When systematic morn shall sometime flood
The pillow--how desperate is the light
That shall not rouse, how faint the crow's cavil

As, when stunned in that antarctic blaze,
Your head, unrocking to a pulse, already
Hollowed by air, posts a white paraphrase
Among bruised roses on the papered wall.

:: Hart Crane

[I can't decide whether this is a poem about having a wank, or a wank about having a poem. Or maybe it's just about a hangover.]

The Motorcyclists

2008-04-01T01:20:00.003-05:00

My cuticles are a mess. Oh honey, by the way,
did you like my new negligee? It’s a replica
of one Kim Novak wore in some movie or other.
I wish I had a foot-long chili dog right now.
Do you like fireworks, I mean not just on the 4th of July,
but fireworks any time? There are people
like that, you know. They’re like people who like
orchestra music, listen to it any time of day.
Lopsided people, that’s what my father calls them.
Me, I’m easy to please. I like ping-pong and bobcats,
shatterproof drinking glasses, the smell of kerosene,
the crunch of carrots. I like caterpillars and
whirlpools, too. What I hate most is being the first
one at the scene of a bad accident.

Do I smell like garlic? Are we still in Kansas?
I once had a chiropractor make a pass at me,
did I ever tell you that? He said that your spine
is happiest when you’re snuggling. Sounds kind
of sweet now when I tell you, but he was a creep.
Do you know that I have never understood what they meant
by "grassy knoll." It sounds so idyllic, a place to go
to dream your life away, not kill somebody. They
should have called it something like "the grudging notch."
But I guess that’s life. What is it they always say?
"It’s always the sweetest ones that break your heart."
You getting hungry yet, hon? I am. When I was seven
I sat in our field and ate an entire eggplant
right off the vine. Dad loves to tell that story,

but I still can’t eat eggplant. He says I’ll be the first
woman President, it’d be a waste since I talk so much.
Which do you think the fixtures are in the bathroom
at the White House, gold or brass? It’d be okay with me
if they were just brass. Honey, can we stop soon?
I really hate to say it but I need a lady’s room.

:: James Tate

Want some of this?

2008-03-26T00:33:00.007-05:00

I don't know Finnish, but I do know "FN Browning M1900".

My informant tells me she smuggled weapons to the Whites during the Finnish Civil War.

Sigh. Good thing lust knows no ideology.

And anyway, the (presumably even hotter) Red "ammo dames" couldn't be bothered to have their studio photograph taken on the way to the drop.

But the tears on her cheeks are from laughter

2008-03-24T19:30:00.004-05:00

Those of you who admire my beautiful banner (a detail of Andrea Mantegna's grisaille Samson and Delilah) will likely be shocked (as I was) by that inscription on the tree: Foemina Diabolo Tribus Assibus Est Mala Peior, "When a woman is evil, she is three pennies worse than the Devil." Heh heh. I'm not a misogynist, really: I just can't read Latin. And I hate getting my hair cut.

Lots more detailed info on the painting can be found here

Shake your ass around my casket

2008-03-24T18:56:00.002-05:00

Lenin's Tomb has a great post about the widening life-expectancy gap in America (along class and race lines, of course):

Of course, the idea that biological processes are partially at the mercy of sociological processes has some disadvantages. It disrupts the heroic ideologies of capitalism, which seem to oscillate between the master race doctrines in which a small number of human beings are hardwired for supremacy and the protean doctrines in which one can with sufficient will endlessly remake oneself, boundlessly improve oneself, exuberantly adapting to the dynamic conditions of the market place through sheer strength of will. You get a lot of the latter in quasi-scientific business doctrines such as Neuro-Linguistic Programming. For them, as much as for a certain specious version of 'postmodernism', the body is a discursive fiction, not in the sense that our conception of the body is itself textual, but in the sense that one can just override bodily limitations through exhortation. Thus, one can work twelve hour shifts, eating miniature sub-standard meals at one's desk, without suffering a nervous breakdown or a heart attack or ageing ten years in one month, because of one's positive attitude to work and achievement.

less bulge at orig.

2008-03-10T01:24:00.005-05:00

Put out some fake vomit patties and delouse the barkeeps: it seems Salford is bracing itself for a major academic conference on the Fall.

The very idea!

Still I do love that there is a "mandatory" Fall karaoke at 10:30pm on the last day. And I also admire the chutzpah of Mark E. Smith font creator Paul Wilson, who will unload this bit of wank for the (presumably soused) attendees:

Paul Wilson: Mark E. Smith’s Handwriting and the Typography of The Fall

This paper argues that Mark E. Smith’s handwriting (and his use of a range of hand-rendered inscriptions) have been a distinct element of The Fall’s aesthetic throughout their career to date. It surveys the numerous appearances of Mark E. Smith’s handwriting through The Fall’s career—from scrawled ballpoint glyphs on vinyl sleeves to handwriting-as-typeface digital facsimile on CD covers - and attempts to articulate this particular parallel history, where Smith’s typography ‘...has ceased to be a quiescent channel for orderly, sequential argument and become an active visual medium for the complexity of thought.’ (Poyner 1999:73) From it’s first appearance as skewed, stylised proto-logotype (‘Bingo-Master’s Break-Out’ 1978) to chaotic and collapsed aphorisms (‘Hex Enduction Hour’ 1982) and, more recently, fax-paper and marker-penned out/underlining (‘Interim’ 2004), Smith’s orthographic articulation has proved as notable and characteristic as his vocal style and has often been subject to similar manipulation, transformation and reconfiguration. This perceived (visual) poetic sensibility and eye for verbal graphic language seems at odds - and a source of tension - with Smith’s admitted antagonism towards the formalities of graphic design (and designers) and his fondness for the everyday and the non-expert. Smith’s use of handwriting and elements of the hand-rendered/made (together with a perceived antipathy towards any writing technology more sophisticated than the typewriter) continually attempt, therefore, to relocate The Fall’s visual aesthetic towards a notional ‘primitive’, a concept he has professed a strong tendency towards since their earliest incarnation.

Garfield minus Garfield

2008-03-03T00:54:00.003-06:00

[via Mark P.]

Queen of the Headhunters

2008-02-25T00:18:00.004-06:00

Celebrate Headhunter Sylvia's 123rd birthday today by reading this hilarious brief account of her life.

In general she did not do dignity. Her lack of restraint as Ranee shocked serious-minded members of the Sarawak service - in 1930 the chief justice complained to his mother about the 'unbelievable amount of smut in Her Highness's conversation'. In 1946, after observing the Ranee dancing with two prostitutes in a nightclub and taking them back to the palace to paint their portraits, a visiting MP from Westminster concluded that 'a more undignified woman it would be hard to find'.

Brambles

2008-02-21T01:24:00.007-06:00

Elko posted two great lunar eclipse pics tonight: [1] [2]
Fascinating arbitration case for Wikipedia's waterboarding article.
Higher education gap may slow economic mobility.
Stanford drops tuition for families that earn less than $100,000 a year. I don't know any families that earn more than $100,000 annually, do you?
Why some companies prefer having unions. [via Bill, who declared upon reading it, "the devil won, right?"]
A year ago I wrote this summary: Pros and Cons of Barack Obama. My brother Dave adds another pro-Obama bullet point. Yet I still can't quite get round to Obama: too pro-business, charisma-bland, and ideologically ambiguous (meaning: conservative) for my tastes. Also, I'm still impervious to the bandwagon effect.
Don't believe the hype! If you needs to eat an almond, you gots to get it from Europe (like these upstarts). American almonds are now required to be "pasteurized" in creepy ways. Check out the Wedge Almond Action Alert and the Authentic Almond Project for more info and urgent petitions.
What are you reading right now? Featuring Nick Tosches, Nick Hornby, Craig Finn, etc. Lots of snoozers there, proving that fame (or being in Jim Walsh's rolodex) can make you very boring. Anyway (*yawn*), here's what I'm reading right now.

Orgasmatron

2008-02-18T00:31:00.004-06:00

Behold the world's most complicated vibrator:

You Light Up My Life

2008-02-15T10:24:00.002-06:00

Patti Smith sings "You Light Up My Life" on Kids Are People Too, circa 1979.

There Will Be Blood vs. The Man

2008-02-06T01:59:00.000-06:00

Wow, another one-word review from the Filthy Critic.

Here's the only other one I know about. What, you remember The Man, don't you?

No comment

2008-02-04T17:51:00.000-06:00

[see more at the UpTake]

We are all Keynesians now

2008-02-01T11:47:00.001-06:00

Decoding the Sex Diaries of John Maynard Keynes

Keynes obsessively counted and tabulated almost everything; it was a life-long habit. As a child, he counted the number of front steps of every house on his street. Later he kept a running record (not surprisingly) of his expenses and his golf scores. He also counted and tabulated his sex life.

The first diary is easy: Keynes lists his sexual partners, either by their initials (GLS for Lytton Strachey, DG for Duncan Grant) or their nicknames ("Tressider," for J. T. Sheppard, the King's College Provost). When he apparently had a quick, anonymous hook-up, he listed that sex partner generically: "16-year-old under Etna" and "Lift boy of Vauxhall" in 1911, for instance, and "Jew boy," in 1912.

[via Bookslut]

Margaret Truman has left us

2008-01-30T02:51:00.000-06:00

Margaret Truman has died at age 83. This is a bummer: I was at least hoping she'd beat her mom's record. Here anyway is a slideshow of her life. To answer your inevitable gauche questions: yes, I do think she was hot when she was younger.

Also, here's the classic letter her dad wrote to music critic Paul Hume (the most marvelous Presidential letter in the history of the office).

Mr Hume:

I've just read your lousy review of Margaret's concert. I've come to the conclusion that you are an "eight ulcer man on four ulcer pay."

It seems to me that you are a frustrated old man who wishes he could have been successful. When you write such poppy-cock as was in the back section of the paper you work for it shows conclusively that you're off the beam and at least four of your ulcers are at work.

Some day I hope to meet you. When that happens you'll need a new nose, a lot of beefsteak for black eyes, and perhaps a supporter below!

Pegler, a gutter snipe, is a gentleman alongside you. I hope you'll accept that statement as a worse insult than a reflection on your ancestry.

H.S.T.

But anybody with hands could have done as much

2008-01-24T01:29:00.000-06:00

"I have sex about once every five years. I've lived alone since I was 17. I am slightly tired. My life is not comfortable to me. But I am philosophical."

A.L. Kennedy just won the Costa book prize, for her new novel Day.

Ever since Martin Amis's brain fell out, and after I memorably drowned myself in a bleak river called Paradise, I've had no doubts that A.L. Kennedy is by all measures (esp. the grim and hilarious ones) our greatest living writer. Pretty decent stand-up comic too.

As for those five-year sacktime intervals: what do I have to do, A.L., send you a formal application?

[UPDATE: Day dream of a nightmare.]

Greed kills culture

2008-01-21T23:47:00.000-06:00

Commentary on the venerable Rex Hardware building (due to be demolished and resurrected as vulgar condos, cf. vacant eyesore Le Parisien up the street):

[via fiveoclockbot]

Dave Day, R.I.P.

2008-01-14T23:16:00.000-06:00

Two days before the birthday of his hero, Elvis, Dave Day of the Monks suffered a heart attack and massive brain injury. He has been taken off the life support system today. His work is done.

Thus Eddie Shaw announces the passing of the world's greatest garage-banjo player. Special thanks to the Bemidji Pioneer for providing the most thorough coverage so far. More at the Monks official site. Very sad.

Be prepared

2008-01-09T01:44:00.000-06:00

OK we all know now that a Boy Scout has foiled an assassination attempt on the President Maumoon Abdul Gayoom. But did you know that his official biographer (and apparent bong buddy) Royston Ellis was the dude that introduced John Lennon to Polythene Pam way back in 1963? Random.

I should also mention that Gayoom has been the Maldivian President since 1978. That seems excessive.

Top Tunes 2007

2008-01-08T01:26:00.000-06:00

Here are my top eleven records of 2007. Eleven? Yeah, eleven, 'cause I think Arrington de Dionysio really does have toehold in Hades and I can practically see him winking at me before he takes his icy dive.

AMY WINEHOUSE - Back to Black OK here the truth: I love Amy Winehouse because I identify with her, OK? I've got a more world-historical viewpoint on this astonishing record here.
FEDERATION - It's Whateva. Apparently there was some sort of "hyphy backlash", which prevented anyone outside the Bay from giving a shit about this loud, hedonistic, frequently brilliant record. Which is good, because if it became a smash hit (or caused the backlash), nobody would have taken it seriously, as I did. A great hip-hop album on its face, with hilarious & portentous conceits, politics, and sonic angles facing you on every corner.
THE NATIONAL - Boxer With bluebirds on their shoulders and drums batting them out of slumber, they're "half-awake in a fake empire," the best evocation of new love I've heard in years. Magnetic Fields with hyperactive beatz: almost like a dream.
ARCADE FIRE - Neon Bible. "I can taste the fear / Lift me up and take me out of here." The last time I felt this sort of emotion – radicalized, frightened, soul-churning – was when the Housemartins turned "I'll Be Your Shelter" into a Marxist gospel hymn. Every melody, shout, chant, and singalong here seems intended to lift us all unto the heavens, and I'd probably be up there too if only I could put out this distracting tongue of fire on my forehead.
THE FALL - Reformation Post-T.L.C.. "This is what it'll sound like / This is what it sound like!" Mark E. Smith looks a sad dissipated Chuzzlewit, yeah, but he doesn't sound like it, y'know? He still sounds 2007 which still takes me aback as I spin this record for like the five thousandth time this year. Those who wonder where the punk class of '77 would take its vision in thirty years: here's the only relevant place. Repetition, incantation, a Merle Haggard cover, even a stand-up comedy routine. Also there is an explanation for his entire career: "Systematic abuse, it is the truth."
WEAKERTHANS - Reunion Tour. With a title like that, you knew this was going to be one sad record. And so it is. Try not to shed a tear during "Virtute the Cat Explains Her Departure" (possibly the most striking indie-punk elegy I've heard, and it's about a cat!). Great writing as usual, but I only listen now when I need Canadian-style catharsis.
PISSED JEANS - Hope for Men. Great band name and album title for the only worthwhile Flipper homage I've ever heard. Very nostalgic: my cremaster muscle finally gets some exercise.
M.I.A.- Kala. I hear her quotation of the Pixies' "Where Is My Mind?" as a reference to the conclusion of The Fight Club, where a bunch of credit-card skyscrapers explode in unison. That's the spine-tingle moment this album constantly evokes – playful jubilation with a strong undercurrent of terror and anger. Fits the world's mood perfectly.
VON SüDENFED - Tromatic Reflexxions. Alternate band name: Souse on Mars, LOL. I think it was Kate Silver that first clued me in that this is actually Mark E. Smith's first pop album (if you likes your pop noisy, beatwise, and incantatory). "Fledermaus Can't Get It" was briefly my strike anthem back in September. "I can't get it now, but I can get it": very inspiring.
MIRANDA LAMBERT - Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. Is it my imagination or is Miranda the countrypolitan version of Amy Winehouse? Lubricious and vengeful, soused and insightful, Lambert gets to places Winehouse wouldn't dream of, with a more rousing hoedown soundtrack. Between "Dry Town" and the title track (featuring a jubilant burst of laughter at the end), this record is a more "rocking" variation of liberated hedonism (as lived by a woman), and I dig every tune.
OLD TIME RELIJUN - Catharsis in Crisis. At first I heard this as an unmitigated Old Time Relijun dud. Without spine-tingling baptismal anthems or sex-crazed stompfests, what do we have? Jazzbo pretentions, recycled bass lines, araboiserie, an overall stately pace. But then I noticed the all-too-accurate title, and remembered that Arrington de Dionysio intended this the conclusion of his Cold Water Trilogy (cf. map inside booklet). So now I consider this album his shed snakeskin, and await his wet reptilian rebirth on the other side of the Lethe.

And here's my recent past:

Best of 2001 [er (clears throat) that wasn't a very fun year]

Best of 2002 [heh heh, oh those Streets and their... "visceral sense of pathos" FETCH ME A TIME MACHINE SO'S I CAN EDIT THAT FOOKIN' TEXT!]

Best of 2003 [little did I know the Fiery Furnaces would sink so fast into my shitlist]

Best of 2004 [I still stick by this one all the way]

Best of 2005 [OK OK, I included 50 Foot Wave just so's I could get laid.]

Best of 2006 [THAT was a great year for music. Maybe the last truly great CD year.]

Best of 2024 [I've not heard any of these songs yet, but I trust my future self]

"He was the first one to discover we have poverty in America."

2008-01-03T15:57:00.001-06:00

That's Gore Vidal talking about John Edwards. More choice quotes in the interview below. (via Chuck)

Jim Beaver

2008-01-01T15:15:00.000-06:00

Just like everyone else (I hope), I was fascinated by two peripheral performances in His Girl Friday: the Vulcan-looking fellow who plays slippery gangster "Louie", and the lutefisk-voiced dude who plays sad-sack convict Earl Williams. So I looked 'em both up today, just for kicks, and stumbled upon the most unlikely hidden geek within the halls of IMDB.

The bios for both actors (Abner Biberman and John Qualen, respectively) were written by one "Jim Beaver", who should be familiar to Deadwood fans as Ellsworth, the grizzled prospector-with-a-heart-of-gold (above)! Judging from Beaver's own unique biography, this celluloid-devouring Vietnam vet is well trained in Hollywood gossip (wrote a bio of Jack Garfield early on), and clearly loves to document and verify the lives of peripheral character actors. So go look at all his voluminous old Hollywood trivia and gossip on IMDB, and marvel also that he was once Don Adams's son-in-law and remains Simone de Beauvoir's distant cousin ("Beaver" being an anglicized variation of "de Beauvoir": whip that one out to impress your friends).

"held aloft to the nations of the earth"

2007-12-26T00:12:00.000-06:00

It's kinda weird to see Raymond Pettibon making it big on the New York Times editorial page (an amazing piece, that: he was always a master of language on top of his drawing skillz). And notice how it secretly refers back to one of his old punk album covers:

Christmas in Heaven

2007-12-25T00:30:00.000-06:00

Sure, he was no angel here on earth, but that's the dance-instructing Seraph I hope to meet upstairs after I peg out. You'll remember, he remains unburied after having died last Christmas Day.

full of holes / check your pulse / blink your eyes

2007-12-22T23:45:00.000-06:00

The PopMatters Best Albums of 2007 list is up, and it's actually pretty interesting. Alcest! Lucky Soul! Miranda Lambert! Someone should definitely put a lid on the bamboo-munching trust-fund kidz at the Animal Collective (seriously, what gives?), and... OK that's the only mean thing I'll say here. So I shall say nothing more about the number one spot, which offers a prophecy that snoring utopian androids will soon take over the world.

My own contribution is the awesome soused slut at number eight.

He spits in the sky, it falls in his eye

2007-12-17T20:17:00.000-06:00

Another random expectorbration of links:

Eleven months ago I registered my cynicism about Barack Obama. He's done nothing since then to regain my vote, and even worse, Krugman's latest demonstrates that he's still a tool.
Filthy on I Am Legend: "It is horseshit."
Unforgiven: The American Tragedy of Ike Turner: "Like many other black American geniuses, Turner has been written out of the history he helped create." (via Taylor) (cf. also my asshole-genius theory.)
ClearChannel may have instigated the Bay Area hyphy backlash.
Kristin Hersh won't win any spelling contests in listing Sarah among those who've posted about the innovative though horribly misacronymed CASH music project (must-read: Steve Albini's "The Problem with Music").
Holy crap, look what song the Fall have suddenly started performing live again for this magical holiday season (here's the lyrics so you can sing along):

2007-12-11T21:38:00.000-06:00

Mickey Smith is currently taking photographs of microfiche in Minneapolis. I'd never heard of her before today. She is my new favorite.

Manly!

2007-12-10T23:12:00.000-06:00

Sarah tipped me off to this list of the Top Ten Most Manly Writers Ever. Even though it does include one queer writer and one bi typist (who slept with Gore Vidal!), these ten would prove to an unwary reader that there's an inverse correlation between manliness and talent. The only writer here that I consider a genius is Richard Wright (largely because he was soul-shaking Communist) (and I dig Jack London in theory: probably should catch up on him).

There are lots of egregious omissions, of course. Bukowski and Iceberg Slim were the first that came to mind here (surely they're manlier than Jules Verne!), and one commenter points out the absence of the manliest queer writer of all time: Christopher Marlowe. Not to mention the obvious hardboiled crowd (Cain, Spillane, Ellroy, Hammett), and one entertaining sci-fi kook, that commie-baiting polyamory pioneer Robert A. Heinlein.

Finally, why restrict the list to men? Edna St. Vincent Millay and Shirley Jackson were each manlier (and better writers) than that suicidal wuss Hemingway, am I wrong?

Peace Concluded

2007-12-10T00:17:00.000-06:00

Even though it's not currently on display, regular visitors to the MIA probably recognize the above John Everett Millais painting as a stiff and unintentionally witty example of his pre-Raphaelite skillz. But Jenna tipped me off to a fascinating extra dimension. That careworn but very hot wife at the top? She's Effie Gray, whose pubes and/or menstrual flow famously prevented legendary art critic John Ruskin from consummating his marriage to her six years earlier. The painting was completed two years after the marriage was annulled, and thus two years after Effie -- allegedly still a virgin -- moved on to consummate her own lust for Millais. According to the painting's extensive Wikipedia entry, Ruskin was an honorable cuckold: he believed the future would judge this work "among the world's best masterpieces."

Effie went on to bear eight children. Millais thereby began to churn out paintings and drawings primarily as a means of economic support, a development that Ruskin correctly labeled a "catastrophe." You can almost see the painter's soul departing, replaced by decorative expediency and formal technique, as the financial burdens attached to his posh lifestyle mounted. It's probably no coincidence that Millais is one of the few known illustrators of the Parable of the Pearl: "So also with you, seek his treasure that is unfailing, that is enduring, where no moth comes to eat and no worm destroys." That moth-eaten illustration is pretty weak, isn't it? Millais got the girl, but flaccid, neurotic Ruskin -- who stayed a blinkered genius but kinda went mad toward the end -- got immortality.

My favorite Consecrated Virgin returns

2007-12-08T20:17:00.000-06:00

Despite constant contact with Geritol-popping sadistic nuns as a young teen, I surprised myself later by developing a full-blown crush on one such Consecrated Virgin: Sister Wendy. You see, Wendy and I share a lust for art and the span of myth and history, and I'm certain we'd just collapse into a naked pile of mutual recognitions if we strolled a gallery together. So. You can imagine my excitement when I ran across this recent interview with her (via Taylor of course), which, despite its spiritual squishiness, still manages to convey yet another coded message to the world that she's opposed to the Vatican's policy on gay marriage:

We should respect our church, but never believe that the church has the last word. The church is saying "this", but I believe that sooner or later "this" will change. "This" is not the mind of our Lord. God is all love. It's a delicate balancing thing. The Church has changed it's position over the years, and because the spirit is with the Church, in the end the Church will always get it right. But in the end. The spirit of the Church is the meaning of love, which hasn't yet, perhaps, been fully understood.

I love that: But in the end.

Also, here's a brief but charming report of her recent visit to the Kimbell Art Museum: "'Oh, you darling man,' she said softly. 'He's so small and plain with a big nose. But all this is so unimportant. What is filling his heart is so moving.'"

"If you wet the flour before you throw it, it makes it harder for the victim to remove it."

2007-12-03T18:47:00.000-06:00

Here's some pointless holiday trivia: did you know that Harry Davenport -- who played "Grandpa" in the holiday classic Meet Me in St. Louis (left) -- was the real-life grandpa of Arthur Rankin Jr. (of Rankin/Bass fame)?

In other words, if the lusty thirtysomething divorcé Harry hadn't decided in 1896 to marry a well-bred vixen named Phyllis (who happened to be the daughter of McKee Rankin, "father of L.A. theater"), we might not have Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer as our mightiest pinnacle of holiday television entertainment?

I also notice that the matronymic "Rankin" has proceeded apace through Harry Davenport's descendants, which makes him an early Hollywood feminist. Also he was a co-founder (in nineteen-fookin'-thirteen!) of the Actors' Equity Association. But I digress, watch him rock Judy's body:

Get (Emotionally) Naked You (Male) Beezy

2007-11-26T20:58:00.000-06:00

Although I'll give props to the heartwave mimesis of Amy Winehouse and the play-partner revolution of M.I.A., only one 2007 record has consistently helped me through some recent treacherous emotional territory: It's Whateva by the Federation. I don't know what it is about hyphy, but it operates on me like sonic Paxil (I'm guessing: is Paxil the 18 Dummy of the middle classes?) and this is the best back-to-front single-artist hyphy record I've heard. And yes it was my pleasure and privilege to write it up for PopMatters.

For those who haven't noticed already, I should also draw your attention to two excellent recent additions to my blogroll: the Nation of Thizzlam and beer and rap.

Like it's a bad thing

2007-11-17T18:48:00.000-06:00

I like Gary Allan a lot, so I tried real hard to enjoy his sappy, overblown new record, Living Hard, or at least give it a fair listen. In the end I wrote a borderline thumbs-up review.

Today, it was brought to my attention that the great 9513 Country blog thinks I'm really saying that Gary Allan has no balls. Although I do imply that Allan should utilize his pair of potent, massive balls to put out a decent, well-written, non-commercial honky-tonk record next time round, this does not mean he currently has no balls. The new album has placed his balls in jeopardy, sure. But he's still got 'em, as evidenced by the track "Like It's a Bad Thing", where he decides to remain a genius-singer bastard for three-odd minutes.

And to be fair, here is the 9513's own review of Living Hard which concurs with my PopMatters review on all points (except I love "Watching Airplanes" lots more than they do).

This is all my roundabout way of saying: where has the 9513 been all my life!? Duly added to my blogroll.

Quit it and hit it

2007-11-07T23:49:00.000-06:00

Peter Scholtes is leaving the City Pages. This in itself is no surprise -- that paper has been hemorrhaging talent since that blandiloquent bean-counter Hoff took over. But look at what we're losing here. Peter's music tastes are right-on, his history-geek tendencies have led to some pioneering archival efforts, he's the death-tribute master, and he's got balls of steel. He's a local treasure: and I fear for the pebble-sized soul of whomever is tapped to "replace" him at the new improved CP now.

There's a bit of odd synchrony in his departure. I moved here in 2000 with Peter's name in my pocket (courtesy his old Madison buddy Mark) hoping to become some sort of writer (zzzzzzzzz yeah I know). Just days after I moved into my Whittier apartment, I locked my keys in my car. This was about twelve minutes after I'd put my laundry in the washing machines. I was consequently locked out of my building (and thus the laundry room) for two hours. I'll spare you the horrifying details of how I retrieved them keys, but when that miracle happened I stumbled to the laundry room, expecting to find my wet clothes plopped in my basket as the next resident continued on with their wash. But no: both washers still full of my saturated clothes and topped-off frigid water: "Imbalance signal". Some full baskets on the floor. A tall, beautiful, gregarious woman was standing in the room next to her own basket, grinning broadly.

"Little trouble?" she inquired, smirking beyond the realms of decency.

"Yeah. Sorry. I'll see if I can get this sorted out for you," while I fished dense clumps of wet clothes out of the soapy broth.

"No problem, I'll come back down later," she laughed, and left. Just the most positive, happy laundry-disaster experience ever. I ended up hauling my laundry down the block to the Giant Wash, spending a few more hours re-washing and drying. Among the particulate masses that floated into the air as I whipped my jeans into shape were the fragments of Peter Scholtes' contact info.

Later at some soused Entry gig I discovered that the hot laundry-room woman was Allison LaBonne of the Owls! [And that beardo dude who lived with her is her lucky husband. Now he doesn't have a beard. But he's also in the Owls.]

The punch line is: Peter Scholtes' departing cover feature is also about the Owls, and Allison's the one piloting the boat on the new CP cover. A framing device, an odd coincidence, water water everywhere. Call it what you will. Just pass the Dramamine.

Speaking of owls, my first City Pages feature (back in the Steve Perry daze) was about the late great First Prize Killers, whose full length The Powdery Parade sounds even better in 2007 than it did in 2003 (believe it!). Plus it features the world's cutest owl on the cover.

In praise of suckulence

2007-11-05T11:40:00.000-06:00

My review of Faith Hill's new Hits package is up today at PopMatters. They altered my resonant phrase "automatic suckfest" to read "automatic festival of mediocrity", which I have to admit is a very hilarious edit.

Health care in Minnesota circa 1909

2007-11-05T00:29:00.000-06:00

I stumbled on this article while checking out yet another geeky-ghoulish cemetery website:

One of the saddest and most shocking stories related to the cemetery took place in 1909. That was the year that Hans Oftedal, his wife, and Nurse Siegel abandoned Cody Hospital, located at 3341 Nicollet Avenue. They left behind five infants in the care of two teen-aged girls. The girls had no food or supplies for the babies, and one of Oftedal’s last acts before he left town was to order the gas company to turn off the utilities to the hospital.

The Cody Hospital was what was known at the time as a “baby farm.” Baby farms were commercial enterprises that handled the placement of children in foster or adoptive homes. In some cases, the operators of the farms were paid a fee by the parent who was surrendering the child and also by the person who was receiving the child. The baby farms operated with virtually no regulation or oversight, and the conditions in many of them were appalling. In 1905, Minneapolis was known to have over 40 baby farms in operation, but city officials believed that the number had dropped to five by 1908.

Dropped to five because of mergers and consolidation, or dropped to five because it's just a sickening business? My guess is it's the former.

You must read these other Alley Newspaper article reprints for a window into the creepy, heroic, and/or poignant secret history of Minneapolis during those great-great-grandfather decades.

The Best Brain that Wouldn't Die

2007-11-01T01:17:00.000-05:00

Amy tipped me off to this exciting MST3K reboot & reawakening, spearheaded by Joel Hodgson, and featuring Trace, J. Elvis, TV's Frank, and Mary Jo:

Our first release is at this time a total secret, however – I’m willing to say it makes Manos the Hands of Fate look like Santa Claus Conquers the Martians in a car wreck with Eegah! with notes of peach.

(Please be Damnation Alley please be Damnation Alley please be Damnation Alley.)

But anyway, notice the absentees: Jim Mallon, Mike Nelson, Kevin Murphy -- geniuses all, with their own hilarious creative projects on the market. Is there factionalism afoot in the Grand Army of the Bot Republic? Is Joel really trying to snicker-snag on the righteous hilarity of his old buddies? (Won't work if Weinstein does Servo, I sez). BUT I'm not taking sides. Although Mike did move to San Diego for some bizarre reason, while the sturdy ale-swigging Kevin Murphy remains here. In fact here's this week's episode of Flak Radio, featuring Murphy's mighty self abreast the Minnesota sound waves and hopfields.

So break out the bottle bring on the crowd

2007-10-28T23:36:00.000-05:00

Just found out Porter Wagoner died tonight, smack dab in the middle of the third inning.

Certified purveyor of the good life

2007-10-24T23:46:00.000-05:00

Let me state for the record that I love the Miller High Life ads with cherubic hothead Windell Middlebrooks spreading that class warfare (by angrily removing his company's beer from the snobby premises). Still, anyone watching that lopsided World Series game tonight (and therefore concentrating on the other ads) can be forgiven for thinking that the entire U.S. consumer economy rests on a solid foundation of trucks, Nachos Bel Grande*, brokers, beer, and erectile dysfunction.

In related news: Human species 'may split in two':

Physical appearance, driven by indicators of health, youth and fertility, will improve, he says, while men will exhibit symmetrical facial features, look athletic, and have squarer jaws, deeper voices and bigger penises.

This is an interesting theory, but I wonder if Prof. Curry has fully taken into account Windell's Miller High Life redistribution strategy, and its likely effect on human evolution? A millennium of beer goggles would certainly demolish his central assumption about choosy sexual partners, would it not?

[*Speaking of devolution, I notice that "Whip It" is the soundtrack to that puzzling ad.]

Take Ozzy up the Khyber pass

2007-10-22T00:15:00.000-05:00

Lenin's Tomb on the mysteries of wealth creation:

Okay, so forget your measly interests for a second: what could I do with all that money? I'd spruce up the blog for a start, put an airbrushed picture of myself in the top corner, add polls and paid celebrity endorsements, buy ads in the New York Times. What else? Get a house, maybe some form of transport, buy all the books I've ever wanted. Maybe a bear, and some acreages of wilderness for it to play in. Perhaps engage in a few teenage pursuits like Richard Branson. Shack up with the Osbournes, take Ozzy up the Khyber pass. And I'd still not have spent more than a tiny fraction of it.

You know, with 6 billion people on the planet, $65.95 trillion amounts to $10,099.16 each. (Alright, it's 6.6bn now, so make let's say it would be $9,992.42 each). Did you get that much of a pay rise last year? Did you even get a pay rise, or is the Iron Chancellor trying to cut yours as well? Where the hell is all this money going? Who is doing what with it, and why aren't we told? I mean, I don't know about you, but I figure I did my fair bloody share, and I want a cut of that moolah. Alright, suppose we get over the Politics of Envy (Pinochet knew what to do with those who got too envious). Let us turn to the Politics of Compassion. There are 3bn people on the planet living in absolute poverty: that's half the population of the world. Many of these live in dynamic capitalist economies like India and Indonesia. 80% of Indians live on less than $2 a day according to the World Bank (who are making sure it's kept that way). The same august institution says that half of Indonesians live on less than $2 a day. But these are two countries that have followed orders, privatised, deregulated and liberalised. Of course, Indonesia notoriously had to go through a process of genocide in order to get there. Not to mention centuries of benevolent governance at the hands of colonial powers in both countries, which did admittedly kill a few tens of millions of people. But all of this mass murder was a temporary stop-gap on the way prosperity, and anyway - what are the fascist metaphors people usually use in this circumstance? Eggs and omelettes? Wheat and chaff? Chas and Dave? What can have gone wrong? The highest proportions of such a state of poverty are in Africa. Zambia has 94.1% of its population living in absolute poverty. Nigeria* - oil-rich multinational-friendly Nigeria - has 92.4% of its population living in absolute poverty. And, as well as this, there are tens of millions of people living on below $2 a day in Russia, Central Asia, and Eastern Europe.

Seriously, what gives? My guess, on the nickel'n'dime American level is it's lots of "I need to secure my children's future" investing (since the American dream's now dead), plus a booming luxury economy. Check out this year's list of new magazine titles for a peak into the latter.

*As for poor Nigeria, here's a gallery of its wealth creators. Cf. also this classic point-counterpoint editorial.