This ain’t your grandma’s first lady…
arla Bruni-Sarkozy (born Carla Gilberta Bruni Tedeschi — I know, it’s a mouthful) has been on my radar lately. Carla (or C-diddy, as I affectionately refer to her) married French President Nicolas Sarkozy last February, which sent the world into a tailspin because of a teeny-tiny minor detail, which was that Sarkozy started dating C-diddy while he was still married to his former wife. In America, that kind of sh*t would never fly. I mean, we impeached a guy for a temporary blip involving a cigar and a blue dress, so… one can only imagine. But in France… eh. Just another day at the office.
But back to Carla, who just so happens to have quite the pedigree, what with having been named heiress to the Tedeschi family fortune (a lot) and having been born to a renowned concert pianist (her mother) as well as a classical musician and composer (her father). Coming from such a musically-minded family, it seemed fitting that once she’d had her run as a world-renowned supermodel and dated the likes of Mick Jagger and Eric Clapton (among others — I’m sure she’d rather forget The Donald, particularly The Hair), Carla turned to her own instrumental and vocal stylings and crafted her own music career.
C-diddy’s music career is now, understandably, eclipsed by her role as France’s First Lady. But it’s too bad, really. Quelqu’un m’a dit, her 2003 debut album, remains in heavy rotation on my iPod. And not just because the title song makes for a great accompaniment to a French grammatical lesson on the discours indirect. Her voice is raspy and rough around the edges, yet solidly emotive as it playfully jockeys with her acoustic guitar. I love this album. For me, she will always be Carla the folk-ish singer… who just so happened to marry that Sarkozy guy.
I checked up on Carla the other day, because I’ve been waiting for her to put out another French album (her second album was in English and contained poems by Auden, Dickinson, and Yeats, among others, put to music. Meh.). As it turns out, she put out a third, very français, album in July! Where the F have I been?! In dissertation hell? Oh yeah. Anyway, I’m excited. Also, I think it’s very admirable that First Lady Former Supermodel Bruni-Sarkozy ain’t just taking tea with the Queen Mum or attending Paris Fashion Week galas in designer dresses. She’s still channeling her creativity and doing solo projects unrelated to Sarko. And yes, of course, the fact that she’s Mme Sarkozy won’t hurt her CD sales, but… Quelqu’un m’a dit debuted at number one on the French Album Chart way back in 2003. That’s five years pre-Sarko. She had her sh*t together.
So you see, Carla wasn’t necessarily “trading up” by linking up with Sarkozy. Quite the contrary; I suppose one could argue that she is, in fact, slummin’ it with Sarko. (aww, poor, diminutive Sarko and his Napoleon complex…) Further proof: her family just sold their castle (what, your family doesn’t have a castle to sell?), the Castello di Castagneto (in Castegneto Po, Italy), for upwards of 10 million Euros. Apparently, the 40-room Castello wasn’t a quick sell.
“Yes, we have finally found a buyer,” said [Carla's mother] Marisa Bruni Tedeschi. “After all, we had finished with Castagneto Po, nobody went there any more,” she added.
The 40-room, 1,500-square-metre residence and grounds were bought by industrialist heir and father Alberto Bruni Tedeschi in 1952. The castle — repeatedly destroyed and rebuilt — is believed to first date from the year 1019. (Source)
Castegneto Castle -- just your typical family retreat
So anyway… I’ll let you know what I think of her latest album once I get it. Who knows. Maybe I’ll take one listen and deem her a total sell-out loser. But I kind of doubt it. I mean, check out her boots!
France's First Lady, knee-high to awesome.
Wacky Wednesday.
etween Cello Scrotum and 3-D porn, I am left befuddled yet highly entertained by the news snippets I’ve received today. And extremely grateful that there’s no 3-D Cello Scrotum.
Anyway, here are some prime excerpts from the story at The Times online regarding the Big Cello Scrotum Scandal (BCSS) of 2009:
What about female cellists, huh?! (Image: easyart.co.uk)
Until this week, cellists worldwide had reason to fear a terrible malady. Worse than fiddler’s neck, flautist’s chin or even the dreaded guitarist’s nipple was the condition known as “cello scrotum.” The condition was named in the British Medical Journal, and thereafter in an array of reviews of musician’s aches and pains.
Nearly all such reviews referred to a letter to the journal in 1974 from John Murphy, husband of Dr. Elaine Murphy, who noted that he had once come across a case of cello scrotum. But Dr. Elaine Murphy, now Baroness Murphy, has now admitted that the letter she drafted with her husband was a hoax, a practical joke that the couple have been “dining out on” ever since.
So, first of all, I’d never heard of “guitarist’s nipple,” either (am I alone with this?), which sounds incredibly unpleasant. I instantly picture a sort of nipple “tuner”… that must be tightened… ouch. Anyway, apparently musician-ing (?) proves detrimental to one’s health. And to one’s erogenous zones. Even the British Medical Journal said so!
I definitely wasn’t made aware of this information when I played percussion in fifth through ninth grades. Shouldn’t there at least have been a permission slip for my parents to sign or something? But no, unsuspecting, innocent band members were left to fend for themselves against the infliction of, oh I don’t know, Timpani Crotch or something.
On that (very discordant) note, let’s continue with the article:
In a letter to the BMJ, prompted by yet another reference to the ailment in the journal last month, the couple wrote: “Perhaps after 34 years it’s time for us to confess that we invented cello scrotum.”
Their letter of 1974 was in response to a missive from a Dr. Curtis regarding a skin irritation that he had seen among classical guitarists. After many hours with the instrument pressed against their chests, the musicians had developed guitarist’s nipple.
“We thought it highly likely to be a spoof and decided to go one further by submitting a letter pretending to have noted a similar phenomenon in cellists, signed by the non-doctor one of us,” the couple wrote. “Somewhat to our astonishment, the letter was published.”
I guess the British Medical Journal doesn’t follow up on physicians’ claims? I wonder if any (doctored) photo documentation of guitarist’s nipple or cello scrotum was sent along with the letters? For my part, I just did a Google Image search of “guitar nipple,” and the results revealed scary images that I’m pretty sure had nothing to do with guitars.
Oh, but here’s the best part of the Times article. In 1991, an American dermatologist and cellist by the name of Dr. Philip Shapiro questioned the legitimacy of cello scrotum in the Journal of the American Academy of Dermatology. Check out Shapiro’s words of wisdom:
“I wrote a letter to the editor saying the condition didn’t make sense. Being a cellist myself I knew that the cello comes nowhere near one’s scrotum. You would have to be doing something fairly extreme to get that by playing the cello,” he said.
He suggested that any such performance would not be tolerated in polite society. “Otherwise, given the angle of the cello, you would have to have pretty enormous bollocks,” he said.
But… wait a second. Does that mean there could be a condition called Cello Bollocks? Hmm. In any event, in closing, Shapiro offered a picture of himself playing the cello along with the following explanation:
“Just as people sometimes scratch their heads repetitively, some also scratch their genitals,” [Shapiro] said, “some of those people might also play the cello.”
So true. Hoaxes are so fun, though. Like that time when John McCain named Sarah Palin as his VP candidate! That was so hilarious! Good one, McCain — you totally got us!
Wait, what? Oh. Oops. Moving on…
And as if fake genital conditions weren’t enough, now we have to worry about fake genital “conditions” in 3-D, flailing sweatily at our heads! AHHHH!
Yeah, because porn stars aren’t scary enough in hi-def. Clearly. Pff. Umm, nice work 3-D techies, but I don’t really care to see mullet-man or chick-with-bruised-thighs three-dimensionally corkscrewing themselves together two millimeters from my line of vision. Or even two-dimensionally corkscrewing themselves together. Or even together AT ALL. But, in case you do, here’s what Wired online has to tell you:
Shooting will begin in April on what’s being billed as the world’s first 3-D erotic film, according to its producer.
Stephen Shiu Jr., chairman of One Dollar Production, says 3D Sex and Zen will push the envelope content-wise while helping thwart piracy.
“Just imagine that you’ll be watching it as if you were sitting beside the bed,” he told the South China Morning Post. “There will be many close-ups. It will look as if the actresses are only a few centimeters from the audience.”
The porn move is only natural as filmmakers like DreamWorks Animation’s Jeffrey Katzenberg hail new 3-D technology as Hollywood’s savior. DreamWorks is producing all its upcoming animated movies in 3-D, starting with Monsters vs. Aliens, which is set for a March 27 release.
3D Sex and Zen, with a reported budget of $3.9 million, is a sequel to 1991’s Sex and Zen, which was based loosely on 17th-century Chinese book The Carnal Prayer Mat by Li Yu.
It’s always the 17th-century Chinese mysticists that are so unfailingly hardcore. F*ck.
In which I dissect Beyoncé/Sasha Fierce’s hypothetical boyish existence. And find that it generally sucks.
t’s 10pm on a Saturday night.
I could be out with friends or something, but… why would I do a thing like that when I have pajamas and Swiss Miss With Mini-Marshmallows and internet and down slippers and crap TV?!?
Also, I’m somewhat anti-social.
Anyway, my mind has been reeling all day, and if I don’t do something to channel the energy, then bad things could occur. We do not want bad things to occur, right? Right.
So, instead, I’d like to talk about the bootylicious anomaly that is: Beyoncé Knowles. Or Sasha Fierce. Or Ms. (Jay-)Z. Or whatever the H her name is today. More specifically, I’d like to talk about her craptastic song, “If I Were a Boy.”
Despite the grammatically correct usage of the past subjunctive “were” in the title, I take major freakin’ issues with the lyrics of this song, most of which indicate that Ms. Fierce probably has a little more penis envy than she should really admit to her fans. I don’t think they’re ready for this (jelly). I mean, first she’s all bootylicious and shakin’ her T & A like it’s her job (which, OK, I guess it kind of is), and now suddenly she’s all, “If I had a pecker…”?! I’m all for exploring one’s gender identity and rejecting society’s generalized restrictions on gender performance, but… there’s a reason why “Celebrity World” (CW, not to be confused with The CW of Gossip Girl and ANTM fame) focuses so heavily on packaging and branding… Case in point: Britney. Britney shaves her head and she’s instantly deemed psychotic. OK, that’s not the sole reason for the psychosis diagnosis, but… it contributed. The viewing/listening public just can’t handle that sh*t. Sudden celebrity changes are the equivalent of being blindsided by a Sarah Palin VP nomination. A rapid downward spiral ensues, head-scratching-to-the-point-of-baldness occurs, and feelings of betrayal abound. Beyoncé, stop confusing your fans. You once demanded: “Say My Name (b*tch)!” But now, with your split-personalities, how the F is anyone supposed to know what name to say (b*tch)? If you’re going to market yourself as an @ss-shakin’ “Survivor” and “Independent Woman,” cool. But then don’t go daydreaming about boozing with the dudes and cruising chicks.
I just copied/pasted the lyrics to “If I Were a Boy” from a site that referred to the song as “Beyoncé’s new hard-hitting ballad.” Umm… “hard-hitting”? Like, when I hit my head hard against the wall in an attempt to knock the Fierce right out of it? Apparently, in a statement to reporters, B.S.-Fierce (sort of) explained: “Sasha Fierce is the fun, more sensual, more aggressive, more outspoken side and more glamorous side that comes out when I’m working and when I’m on the stage.” Hmm. Curious. Especially when considering the so very non-fun, non-sensual, non-aggressive nature of this lame-@ss song.
Anyway, here are the mind-numbing lyrics. Reader beware.
BEYONCE – “IF I WERE A BOY” LYRICS
If I were a boy
Even just for a day
I’d roll outta bed in the morning
And throw on what I wanted then go
Drink beer with the guys
And chase after girls
I’d kick it with who I wanted
And I’d never get confronted for it.
Cause they’d stick up for me.[Chorus]
If I were a boy
I think I could understand
How it feels to love a girl
I swear I’d be a better man.
I’d listen to her
Cause I know how it hurts
When you lose the one you wanted
Cause he’s taken you for granted
And everything you had got destroyedIf I were a boy
I could turn off my phone
Tell evveryone it’s broken
So they’d think that I was sleepin’ alone
I’d put myself first
And make the rules as I go
Cause I know that she’d be faithful
Waitin’ for me to come home (to come home)(Chorus)
It’s a little too late for you to come back
Say its just a mistake
Think I’d forgive you like that
If you thought I would wait for you
You thought wrong(Chorus)
But you’re just a boy
You don’t understand
Yeah you don’t understand
How it feels to love a girl someday
You wish you were a better man
You don’t listen to her
You don’t care how it hurts
Until you lose the one you wanted
Cause you’ve taken her for granted
And everything you have got destroyed
But you’re just a boy
So, OK, there’s this whole starter stanza that has a condescending tone toward Ms. Fierce-if-you’re-nasty’s definition of guys, which involves wearing what they want and having fun with other dudes who stick up for them when friendship duty calls and horrible stuff like that. Because girls totally can’t wear what they want and girlfriends suck and are not to be trusted and stuff. Clearly.
Then she oddly switches from the “dude friend stanza” to the Chorus, which hypothesizes how holier-than-thou Beyoncé would act if she were her own dude: she’d listen, she’d know “how it feels to love a girl” (homoerotic?), she’d “be a better man,” and it would totally be as good as it gets. She would basically complete herself.
But then s/he oddly non-transitions into the next stanza, which returns to the condescending tone and talks about the horrors of putting oneself first and making up the rules as one goes. Now, OK, relationships involve more than one person (well… not always, but…mostly) and there should be a good balance struck between the partners involved and mutual consideration and give and take and yada yada yada. I get it. But… since when did putting oneself first get such a bad rap, huh? I mean… d@mn. I think we could all use a little more of putting ourselves first, in my own humble opinion. Any time I’ve truly felt effed-up in my life, it’s because I got sidetracked from myself as a result of focusing my attentions too much on someone else and putting THAT person first. How can you be good with someone else if you’re not good with yourself? (and then, I inevitably wonder: “What if I’m NEVER ‘good with myself’? Answer: a life of solitude.”) So, again, as in Sasha’s first stanza of the song, s/he’s presuming that guys have it “better” than women in some fictitious way, when in reality, women *do* have those same choices Sasha F’ed-in-the-head mentions: we can wear what we want, we can stick up for one another, we can put ourselves first, and we can make up the rules as we go. And choosing to do those things would not be bad or shameful. Don’t we all make up the rules as we go along and feel things out? I mean, sh*t Beyoncé. Furthermore, what’s all that cr@p about the phone? You could turn it off as a guy, but not as a girl? What the F is happening here?!?
And then s/he non-transitions again and mentions how p*ssed s/he is because her dude ditched her and you better freakin’ believe she ain’t sittin’ ’round waitin’ for him to come back. I mean, she’s writing a song all about him and imagining how she’d act if she were him, but… she’s, like, totally over it. Because…
… he’s “just a boy”… and he doesn’t understand… how to love the multi-faceted Beyoncé Fierce Z Knowles. But… she says that he’s “just a boy” like it’s a bad thing, yet, she spent the entire song thinking about how she’d act if she “were a boy” — not if she were a man — so… what the freakin’ freak?!
This song sucks. It’s confusing in a non-sensical kind of effed-up, poorly written way.
And the only reason I even care enough to pog about it is because I’ve just recently started listening to non-NPR radio again (after, like, a 6-month-or-more hiatus), and the local pop station I sometimes switch on only seems to have about 8 songs on rotation (Britney’s “Womanizer” and “Circus,” Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance,” Taylor Swift’s gag-inducing “Love Story,” T.I./Rihanna’s totally rad “Live Your Life,” The Veronica’s “Untouched,” Katy Perry’s “Hot ‘n Cold,” and then Beyoncé’s piece of S). Apparently, this station is manophobic.
Anyway, so I hear “If I Were a Boy” every 8 songs, and the craptastic lyrics are enough to make me gnaw my freaking steering wheel.
I’ll save my commentary on Taylor Swift’s “I’m a princess who needs to be saved” lyrics for some other whiny post about sucky pop lyrics from women for women that seem to perpetuate the idea that women shouldn’t put themselves first and do what they want and adjust their lives accordingly, rather than sit around conforming to mainstream notions of gender appropriateness while waiting to be “saved” by a guy (whether they deny that’s what they’re doing or not).
Whew.
Breathe…
Kay. Better.
Night.
Johnny, be good
ohnny Hallyday appeared on VH-1 tonight. Rather than spout off about the French legend-that-is-Johnny H, I’ll spare you and, instead, offer you a simple Wikipedia link: 
Johnny Hallyday’s Wiki-dness. Basically, Johnny Hallyday is to France as Elvis is to the U.S.. Only, Johnny hasn’t left the building. Not yet anyway. Any more stunts like the one he pulled tonight, though, and he just might find himself digging an early tombeau.
Now, you’d think that maybe Johnny appeared on an episode of “Storytellers” or some type of J.H. laudatory special or something. But no. No, instead, Johnny made an attempt at PR suicide and decided it would be a stellar idea to appeal to America’s younger generation (what are they called, anyway? Gen-Y? are we on Gen-Z now? whatever) via the wellspring of all things respectful and music-conscious: “Rock of Love: Charm School.” Apparently, J-bird has joined forces with clothing designer Christian Audigier (of “Ed Hardy” designs) to create a line called “Smet,” which just so happens to be Johnny’s actual sir name. Smet. Curiously close to “smut,” don’t you think? Hmmm…
In any case, Johnny looked like his usual scary self. Only perhaps even slightly more so because he was seated next to Sharon Osbourne and confronted by women who generally communicate via body shots and the occasional plate-launch.
But Johnny’s been rather unfortunate looking all his life, in my humble opinion. You be the judge:
Well, there you go. If the above Johnny collage gives you nightmares tonight, I apologize. I just felt the need to prove the JH scary quotient.
I suppose that the French Elvis can afford to conduct side projects like random t-shirt lines and stuff. But how come he thinks that Gen-Z’ers will have any desire to sport the sir name of some washed-up, tweaked-out French dude?! let alone pay upwards of $100 for the d@mn thing. True story: the Christian Audigier/JohnnyHallyday/Smet cronies are charging $106 for the long-sleeved shirt below:
I guess I’m missing something.
Either that, or those “Charm”ing VH-1 girls slipped Christian Audigier a roofie and took over the pricing.
6 reasons why the 80s are truly, truly, truly outrageous
ot only do I love the 80s, but the 80s loves me back. How do I know that ours is a reciprocal relationship, you might ask? I know this because 80’s music, TV shows, and children’s toys continue to provide endless amounts of support and devotion to me throughout any and all aspects of my life.
Dude, I’m totally serious.
Proof: George “Father Figure” Michael appeared as my dance partner in a dream I had the other night, which I couldn’t help but pog (on and on) about yesterday. Also, Georgie graciously offered me two majorly invaluable pieces of info: a) when you shake your ass, people notice fast, and b) I don’t belong to you, and you don’t belong to me.
So you see, the 80s continuously informs my life and my approach to it. Here are some more examples — you know, just in case G-diddy doesn’t do it for you.
1) When I was in the second grade, I had a dream that Lionel Richie came to school with me for Show-’N-Tell. Everyone was jealous. Especially when we started dancing on the ceiling together. It ruled.
2) “Jem and the Holograms.” Enough said.
Showtime, Synergy!
OK OK, not enough said. Jem and her alter-ego Jerrica were, in no uncertain terms, my savior(s) throughout the 6th grade, when my mom was… well… exploring the most effective multi-faceted instruments of psychological torture to use on her three daughters. One of her favorites was the dating/support group known as “Parents Without Partners” (or P.W.O.P., as our mom trendily referred to it). Yes, P.W.O.P. was as pathetic as it sounds. Parents brought their kids to the dances. I’m not kidding. Within 60 minutes’ time, I had experienced enough trauma to last a lifetime. Needless to say, Jem and the Holograms’ daily 30-minute-therapy-session-via-strange-conversations-turned-into-songs basically granted me the serenity to accept that just because my mom was a co-dependent freak didn’t mean that I couldn’t function semi-”normally” or be truly, truly, truly outrageous. Even the b*tchy Misfits (who, let’s face it, had cooler make-up and more interesting clothing options than Jem & her cronies) provided a major sense of release and comfort each morning — especially the mornings after a mind-numbing evening spent observing flirty divorcées with lipstick on their teeth.
Also, I really liked the name Kimber.
3) Spirograph. How to relay my undying appreciation for the swirly, psychedelic stupendousness of the Spirograph??? I’m pretty sure that Spirograph and its rings taught me more about geometry and life’s calculatable outcomes than Donald Duck playing pool ever could have.
4) The Baby-sitter’s Club books. 
Holy cr@p. Ann M. Martin was pretty much my hero, particularly because the baby-sitters and I were both in middle school at the same time. We related, those baby-sitters and I. I got into the Sweet Valley High books for a while, but I found them annoyingly catty and somewhat predictable. The overwhelming majority of rude and unintelligent students at Sweet Valley High proved a bit discouraging for me. Plus, it was high school, and they were a bit advanced. Stoneybrook Middle School, on the other hand… WHOLE other story. Dawn, Kristy, Mary Ann, Claudia, and Stacey? Those were girls on a serious mission to create awesome activities and crafts to enrich children’s lives… and make some pocket money to buy even MORE supplies for even MORE awesome activities and crafts. It was a good mission, and I was a good girl. And I was also a baby-sitter. So I kind of liked to think of myself as an honorary member of the B-sC. (I was also delusional) Oh, and the first book I ever read in French was a French version of a Baby-sitter’s Club book (called, L’erreur de Sophie) that I got on a trip to Toronto, Canada, with my dad. In French, the Baby-sitters Club conveniently translates into Les Baby-Sitters. I know. It’s mind-blowing.
5) “Three’s Company.” Arguably the best situational comedy EVER. Not only did Jack Tripper break all societal conventions (OK, I wasn’t aware of that when I was a zygote, but still), but his sense of humor and certain facial expressions reminded me of my dad. 
So… once my papa was out of the house, JT was sort of like a surrogate dad for me. A really odd-ball, effed-up dad who pretended to be gay, and whose best friend was a hairy perv/drunk named Larry who basically lived at the Regal Beagle.I wrote a fan letter to the show when I was about 7 or 8 years-old, and Terri (Priscilla Barnes — the Suzanne Somers replacement in later episodes) sent me back a signed postcard picture of her that was rather “Glamour Shots”-ish and definitely NOT Jack Tripper, but I still tacked it to my bulletin board and paid homage to it daily.
6) “Solid Gold.” Who didn’t love Marilyn McCoo? Or gold lamé pants?!? That show was rad before RAD was rad. Not only were the Solid Gold Dancers phenomenal as they choreographically counted down the top ten hits, but my entire week culminated in the unveiling of Solid Gold’s weekly special guest performer, which I always hoped was Lionel Richie. Or Billy Ocean.
Clearly I watched too much TV as a child.
Oh wait… I still do.
There are a bajillion more reasons why I love the 80s and why the 80s loves me back, but I’ll save them for a future list.
In the meantime, this is another Monday list inspired by Ms. Anna at abdpbt.com.
Back on the chain gang…
hrissie Hynde and her Pretenders are performing at Farm Aid 2008 right now. I am watching it “live” via my sister’s huge-@ss LCD TV, which is properly Direct TV-ified. Which I never really care about except for cool, rare moments such as this. Chrissie Hynde is from Akron, OH, and I’m NOT from Akron, 
but I *am* from Cleveland, so… when I was little, that was close enough to make me feel like she was my second-cousin or something. “Back on the Chain Gang” was the first song that I recall really obsessing over as a little kid. Though, I must admit, cousin Chrissie’s dark raccoon-esque eyeliner kind of scared the S out of me, as did the whole chain gang imagery, both of which I consumed on a daily basis (along with David Lee Roth’s spasmic, excessive Lycra-clad “jumps”) through MTV. But that didn’t stop me from trying to learn every single word to that ding dang song.
I was a pretty naive 8-year-old, which happened to be when the Pretenders’ third album, “Learning to Crawl,” was released, which contained the brilliant “Back on the Chain Gang.” Some would argue that I’m still “pretty naive” — maybe even substantially more than just pretty naive — but as a child… I don’t know. I was definitely in my own world. I mean, I imagined soap opera characters adopted me and I turned trees into drive-thrus. Umm, and I ain’t talkin’ ’bout McDonald’s or Dairy Queen. Oh no no. In my world, there were library drive-thrus. And they were found in trees, but only the trees on my little dead-end street. And they pretty much rocked. And my Big Wheel was a freakin’ master at pulling up exactly at the precise spot where library-book-dropping would occur. (and by library-book-dropping I mean pine-cone-dropping.)
My world was also one where I was convinced (due to the inexplicable visual power possessed by music videos) that chain gangs were a commonality… it was just that they were specifically being hidden from my view. Kind of like how I knew my stuffed animals and dolls always had massive Kool-Aid and mac-’n-cheese fiestas (complete with piñatas) the second I closed my bedroom door. I’d try to catch them by sneakily opening my door at a snail’s pace, but… no dice. Those stuffed b@stards were just way too fast and strategic for me. And I was sure these slippery chain gangs operated in a similar fashion. To the point that I even envisioned my Cabbage Patch Kids rockin’ the chains and the striped jumpsuits. Shirley Odelia still looked pretty cute with her yarn pigtails and dimples.
Anyway, I just totally went on a tangent. My point is that, I don’t know why an 8-year-old should have known about the reality of a “chain gang,” but… you know, it maybe would have been nice for my family to inform me that stuffed animals and Kool-Aid weren’t involved. And that there was sort of a political slant goin’ on. Not that I necessarily would have understood that at 8 years-old, but still. Anyway, so some additional Pretenders-related info that I was also missing out on was the fact that their band members had changed since their second album (conveniently titled “Pretenders II”). And it wasn’t just ’cause a couple of them had some library books to read and return to the tree drive-thru, either. Unfortunately, it was because they had decided to overdose on drugs. So that sucked.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about where I was one year ago. It wasn’t a pretty place. Well, I was actually at Farm Aid 2007 in NYC one year ago. And that WAS a pretty place. But… psychologically speaking… I was not in a pretty place. And, one year later, local farmers still need support, and I’m still banging my head against the wall. And sometimes the floor. And pillows. And shower tiles. Anyway, my point is that… time passes, but I’m not sure I do. Or others do. I’ve never had a grip on Change. And, after all, aren’t we all prisoners stumbling along our own self-inflicted chain gangs? We’re slashed and split and dragged, at the mercy of our own will and our own demons… and how they don’t jive with the will imposed by Others, whether society or family or politicians or religions or… Or with the will to change.
In any case… a brilliant, dynamic, majorly important writer committed suicide two Fridays ago, on September 12th. David Foster Wallace had apparently had enough and made a final “mercy” cry at the ripe old age of 46. Hanging was his method of choice. His wife came home and found him, hanging there, lifeless.
From previous pogs, this one in particular, you might recall that I am currently teaching an undergraduate writing course on the figure of the tortured poet (which extends to all types of artists, really). Well… to have DFW commit suicide at this moment… let’s just say, it spoke volumes to my students and me. One of them is now going to present on DFW for the required Oral Presentation during the second half of the semester. I would say I’m “looking forward” to it, but… that doesn’t quite sound right.
In any case, suicide is generally considered a taboo topic — among everyone, let alone in the classroom. But… it’s unavoidable in a course such as mine, where it just so happens that every single author that we’re reading either has a protagonist that commits suicide, or the author him/herself commits suicide. We just got done reading Vigny’s play “Chatterton,” which centers on the real-life 18th-Century poet, Thomas Chatterton, who really did commit suicide (via arsenic poisoning) at the tender age of 17. Chatterton then became a symbol of the tragedy of the misunderstood, underappreciated poetic genius, referred to and extolled throughout the 19th Century, most notably by Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Keats.
Well, Chatterton’s youthful brilliance and imagination has a legacy that is far-reaching and pitiable. DFW was no stranger. Most known for his 1000-page novel, Infinite Jest (1996), DFW also wrote several other works and contributed to magazines such as Rolling Stone, the New Yorker, and Harper’s. Following the success of Infinite Jest, DFW was interviewed by NPR’s David Lipsky and had the following to say on the subject of suicide:
I spent a week interviewing Wallace, after the 1,000-page novel Infinite Jest made his name. He was faultlessly polite. He lived alone with two dogs. He told me the best books were “a conversation about loneliness.” He said, “If a writer does his job right, what he basically does is remind the reader of how smart they are. Wake the reader up to stuff that reader’s been aware of all the time.”
He talked about being lonely, the fear that his tussle “with burly, psychic self-consciousness figures” might get so bad he’d do damage to himself.
He talked about a friend’s unsuccessful try at suicide, how it scared him off. He laughed. “I just, just — I knew that if anybody was fated to screw up a suicide attempt, it was me.”
In his retrospective on the life of DFW featured on NPR’s “All Things Considered” last Monday, Lipsky continued:
Well, [Wallace] succeeded. When someone very gifted kills themselves, it’s like the best student dropping out of high school. There’s the tragedy, but it’s set in a particular and personal fear: What are they seeing that we don’t? The loss to his family is impossible to imagine. The loss to us is easy.
No writer saw the era as clearly. Wallace’s readers counted on him to go on, progressing distantly but alongside us, filing new reports every couple of months, helping us remember how smart we were, inviting us into his crisper world. In his last book of fiction, he wrote a story about suicide, about “emerging from years of literally indescribable war against himself,” and ending with the sentence, “Not another word.”
So… what does one do after a thing like this? I don’t know. As Chatterton says in Vigny’s play, “I write. Why? Because I have to.”
Isn’t It Romantic?
ou know how, in the movie Ghost, Patrick Dirty-Dancer Swayze wraps his big man-hands around GI Jane’s as she fingers cold, slimy clay on a pottery wheel, while “Unchained Melody” freakishly turns on automatically in the background? Yeah, that’s not Romantic.
And you know how, in the movie Sleepless in Seattle, an oddly pudgy Tom Hanks desperately jets across the country in search of his excessively adorable son who had unrealistically managed to book a solo flight to NYC, only to find little Jonah atop the Empire State Building where he also stumbles upon Ms. Meg Goldilocks Ryan (wink wink An Affair to Remember)? Yeah, that’s not Romantic either (though it does have a pretty sweet soundtrack).
Oh, but you know how in the movie Sweeney Todd, my insanely talented and attractive boyfriend Johnny Depp/Mr. Todd goes a bit mad after the loss of his beautiful wife and daughter and for having been unjustly imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit? 
And this drives the Sweenster to get all sorts of peeved and, once he gets out of prison, he vows to revolt against the corrupt, ruling aristocracy (represented by the creepy old pedophile dude who gets his kicks out of keeping my boyfriend’s daughter locked up as a ward/future spouse)? And so he transforms himself into the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, complete with curious Scissorhands-esque hairdo and pasty skin, and turns his barber shears into little guillotines for his unfortunate clients? And then at the end (spoiler alert!) he finds out that his wife has been alive the whole freakin’ time, haunting the streets of London (and, subsequently, my dreams), and then he tragically discovers that, unbeknownst to him, he kinda hacked off his daughter’s head? Yeah, that was a bummer. But it also (quite literally) bleeds Romanticism.
So, here’s the deal… I have come to find that when I tell people that, for my Ph.D., I’m specializing in French Romanticism, the instant association is with frou-frou, flowery B.S. that’s unfortunate enough to have Fabio gracing the cover.
*FYI: my dissertation is not focused on a Harlequin Romance.
The French Romantics (capital “R”) represent a specific set of writers/artists/musicians/etc. (your basic dead white dudes, though there were occasionally some way cool women as well, e.g. Mme de Staël, George Sand) in early- to mid-19th Century who were searching for an identity in a post-revolutionary world. It was a time of industrialization and the printing press and mass media. Consumerism and paying-by-the-word suddenly became the main priority for publishers, and ideas, emotions, and aesthetics began to suffer for it. But the Romantics wouldn’t stand for it. They selected the almighty stage of Paris’s Comédie-Française theatre for their historic revolt against the aristocrats and the restricting rules of the Classicists. Up until that point, the Classicists dictated what was “proper” and “morally correct” to display on the stage, on the page, in art, and through music. For example, they forbade that a death occur on stage, deeming it too gruesome for the public good. Yeah, well, the Romantics felt otherwise. Feeling primarily repressed and unjustly treated by the ruling class, the Romantics felt unshakably misunderstood in a society whose focus was so intent upon materialism and production. Where was the place of the artist/poet in such a society? Answer: usually in his own mind. This led to an era of melancholy, malaise, depression, suicide, tragic stories of love and loss, etc. etc..
See how fun?!?! 
"La Liberté guidant le peuple," Eugène Delacroix, 1833 (Musée du Louvre, Paris)
Truly, I love it. And relate to it in my own tragic way.
So…there you go. Romantic with a capital “R” versus romantic with a lower-case “r.” One is a period that was intent on exalting the individual and decrying the injustices of society; the other is, you know, heart-shaped boxes of chocolate and bouquets of flowers and candlelit dinners and stuff.
Oh, and Fabio.
Poguetry in Motion
received an e-mail yesterday from my lovely friend G., who informed me that the word “póg” in Irish (Gaelic; pronounced “pogue” like “rogue”) means “kiss.” G. knows this because G. is an Irishman. Though I suppose it’s possible for non-Irishmen to know such information as well. Maybe even IrishWOmen! Anyway, isn’t that funny? Funny/annoying, not funny/haha, because I definitely did not intend for my little pogs to serve as little kisses. I’m not that sweet. 
If you ask nicely, they might write you a poguem.
The whole “pogue” pronunciation thing logically reminded me of the ’80s Irish punk rock band The Pogues. So I did a quick Wikipedia search, and check this out:
“The Pogues were founded in King’s Cross, a district of North London, in 1982 as Pogue Mahone—pogue mahone being the Anglicisation of the Irish póg mo thóin, meaning ‘kiss my arse’.”
Póg mo thóin!!! I like it. I need to ask G. how to pronounce the “thóin” part. There was another Pogue-related tidbit that amused me and, since I am sometimes semi-sweet, I thought it would be nice to share it with you:
“The first of The Pogues’ albums, Red Roses for Me, borrows much from the punk tradition of MacGowan’s previous band, The Nipple Erectors (later dubbed ”The Nips’).”
Between kissing my “thóin” and erecting nipples, I believe my deed here is done.
Happy Tuesday! :-)
Colbert 7/23/08: Nas
he first video below displays Colbert’s 7/23 report on racist propaganda broadcast by “Papa Bear” Bill O’Reilly and the Fox News Channel. Colbert also discusses rapper Nas’s new mission (and petition) to eradicate such atrocities. The second video below is the official video created for Nas’s new song, “Sly Fox,” which is unavoidably provocative and completely successful at creating awareness and kicking Fox News where it counts.
Colbert:
Nas, “Sly Fox” video:
