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Monday, March 29, 2004

Hold It 

So things are changing now. That's right -- we don't have a bathroom. The guys are here now, ripping it apart. We tore the cheap, plastic tiles off ourselves, but the guys are doing the real work. Putting up new drywall, tearing out the sink and toilet, ceramic tiling the tub. But today is Monday, day one, and today they're just tearing everything apart.

I don't know how many days there will be. Jessica estimates nine. All I know is today is day one, and I have no toilet. I'm sure that at this time tomorrow, I'll fondly remember having a toilet, using it, enjoying its cool, exhaustive faculty. Now I'm just carefully watching how much coffee I drink.

The last time I had to hold it a long time was the spring semester of my freshman year during high school, 1992. The fam took a vacation to Hawaii, and the flight left in the morning. So I got up, dutiful runner that I was, at 4:15 am, so I could get a run in. I think I relieved myself at 4:30 that morning. We went to the airport, took a flight to LA, layed over there for a while, then took a flight to Hawaii. At that point -- the flight to Hawaii -- I had to go. But I didn't want to go on the plane, so I held it. Then we landed, and prepared to get on a puddle-hopper to Maui. No bathroom in the airport. So I held it. I didn't *go* on the puddle-hopper out of spite. When it landed, I knew: "Christ, I've got to go now." Holding it was no longer a passive act. It was active, and it required concentration. The burn was so bad that I wasn't sure if I should hold it up or down.

It wasn't looking good for the kid.

So there we were, in the Maui airport, waiting for our luggage -- no bathroom. There we were, waiting for a taxi -- no bathroom. At this point, everyone knew of my dire need. The ride from the taxi to the hotel was 40 minutes long. It was coming to 8:30 pm, Hawaii time -- a full 20 hours since my pre-run excursion to the bathroom. The cab pulled up to the hotel, we got out, we got our luggage, we walked in, we waited to check in. We waited. I was sweating urine. My midsection hurt so badly, I was crying urine. My brother made noises to resemble Niagara Falls. My mother told me, "It's not good for your body, to hold it so long." We received the room keys. We finally found our room.

And my sister ran to the bathroom and shut the door.

Friday, March 26, 2004

Henry Hudson’s Killer 

Your former life came to haunt last night,
Teaching me to dance and smell
Dried beer for the first time.

We mined the meaning of clichés,
Cried for Kurt and Korea, and
Every failure earned.

This is where my wife found us:
You, ogling the clean carpet,
Fingering my new flesh,
I, too sober for the music,
Coming to every conclusion.

You, throwing the keyboard into the street,
Yelling betrayal,
I, flashing back,
It is the end of looking forward,

Leading Henry Hudson across the plank,
To his final discovery,
Allowing us to grow old,
And return
To our home bank,
Warm, bound, and guilty.

Monday, March 22, 2004

"They . . . they were some shots." 

The squad car raced up the wet road, skidding at the corner. Its lights were still turning and flashing, turning and flashing, when the cop got out. He ran to the sidewalk and pressed the first two fingers on his right hand into the flesh of the still neck on the ground. After concentrating for a minute, he looked across the street, picturing how it happened, hearing the far-off cry of the ambulance that would not be needed.

"It was that one," the man behind him said, pointing with his cane. "That one 'cross the street started firing.

The cop nodded, looking at the old man, seeing how the cracks in his face only faded into the background cracks of the buildings, the neighborhood, the city. The cop nodded again and crossed the street.

"It was that one," the woman in the large, flowing nightshirt said. "That boy did it. He started shootin'," she said from her porch, pointing her dripping popsicle across the street, from where the cop had just walked.

The cop frowned. He noticed the woman would not look at him. She would only look from body to body, and then wrinkle her nose at the old man.

"No it wadn't," the old man said. "I be standin' right here the whole time. It was that one. They argued, then he started shootin'. Cussin' an shootin'."

"No he did not," the woman said, barging down her steps. "I sat there and watched it. That one started the shootin'. That one."

The cop looked from one side of the street to the other. The ambulance's siren now blared behind him, its red lights flashing over the block, reminding him of a concert, the moment before the band came out onstage, when audience members started clapping and asking each other if they could see the musicians yet. Sleepy heads poked out windows, splashed in red light, awake for a moment. We'll have to close off the street, the cop thought.

"I know what I saw. It was that one!"

"I saw the whole thing. It was him!"

Sunday, March 21, 2004

"Thank a teacher." 

I suppose it's a good idea to thank a teacher who has influenced you. But then I would wonder if the teacher would even remember me. Better perhaps to thank people who never thought they were influencing you at the time, but through the years, it's stuck. Either way, here we go:

Thanks to:

Jason Finch, who, while preparing a large batch of spaghetti, taught me to place a small plate between all four stove burners. That way, you can set a spoon on it without dirtying the stove-top. I've used this little tool ever since.

Moira Lynch, who asked me one day during high school, why did I stretch my lower legs with the "wall stretch" by leaning against the wall. She explained to me that she, instead, simply pressed her sole against the wall, and this gave her more control over the stretch. At the time, I railed against this interruption of my long-held stretching methodology. But now I use the new wall stretch, and -- I agree, Moira -- you feel the stretch slightly better that way.

Tim from Upper Crust, who taught me the joys of a soda-slushy on a hot day. Simply place a half-empty 2-liter soda in the freezer for a few minutes -- not too long or you'll kill it -- and wa-lah! Soda slushy! The best part of the soda slushy is that the part that gets frozen is the water, so all that glorious sugar and syrup is extracted for your drinking enjoyment.

Dan Orchard, who taught me to hang your garbage or food while camping (after wrapping well), so bears can't get to it. I've camped with lots of over-assertive campers before. You know the type. They so desperately want everyone to know that they are the camping experts, that they have to play teacher, and then act as if "Everyone should know this, I can't believe you don't know this." Orch never sunk to this level, and while I've never had to use his advice, I do remember it, as there are between 10,000 and 14,000 bears in northern Wisconsin. You never know.

Kelly McKnight, who taught me, on the day of my first cross country party of all time, the phrase, "a meal in a bottle". While I don't enjoy as many bottles as I used to, he was correct. A dark beer can make for a satisfying meal, thus erasing any desire for solid, nutritional digestion.

The guy at the Mobil station. You were just there for some beef sticks, a Dew, and a Crunch bar, but you saw that my credit card was rejecting, and you paid my entire $19.38 gas bill, and then refused to let me try the ATM for money or take your address so I could send you the money, as well as a full case of beer. I will, indeed, do something nice for a stranger.

All the smokers I've met and become friends with. You taught me the bite of the wind as we waited outside for you to finish your smokey treat. From you I learned the terrible, societal strike against the smoker -- the taxation, the removal from warmth, the dirty looks, and yes, that little thing called cancer. I never joined you in your unbreakable habit, but from you I learned compassion.

Uncle Mark, who embarrassed me out on the UW-GB trails. It is best to think things over, and keep one's cards close to the chest, no?

Julia from the creative writing lab. You're right. It's one thing to be honest with someone. It's another to stomp on their face while they're lying on the ground. Good luck with the travel novel. But quit reading the Kerouac. It's got to be your book.

The guy behind the counter at the now-closed comic book shop on Maryland. It's OK to have liked Tesla. I was a fan. You'll never know when you might run into another. We're all still recovering. It's nothing to be ashamed of.

Friday, March 19, 2004

Stop and Go, Go and Stop 

I've been trying to get here, recently. I even made it once . . . but then I read something so depressing I just couldn't bring myself to write. Time's been well-spread for me, lately, with most of my words going toward new chapters of STFL, new ideas for another little novel, and some over-thought, unfinished poetry. But everything's going to change soon. And not in the way you expect.

• Some time over the past week I re-watched Vertigo. Anyone who knows me, knows I would choose Vertigo as my deserted-island film. And even though I know this, every time I watch it, it still kills me. The film has its faults. It's not worth any critic's time to try and defend against them, though, because what is on screen is so perfectly achieved, arguing over subjectivity just tires. I do think Hitchcock's opinion of Vertigo is odd. He often stated how he was attracted to making a film about necrophilia. And while Scotty was, indeed, in love with who he thought was a woman who died . . . . he was, in reality, in love with a fiction.

• I'm re-reading Niedecker's The Granite Pail. She writes in a style I've kind of abandoned for now, using a lot of space, emphasizing the deep image. I still like the deep image, but unless one is really talented and very dedicated, the use of indention can come off as "hiding" faults in the craftsmanship. When Niedecker's good, she's amazing -- and as "objectivist" as any poet could be. But when she's unclear, the poem seems inconsequential.

• There's this guy I talk to all the time now. And there is no tree tall enough for me to climb for him. Everything I do, he has done better. Who are these people, who constantly need to define themselves before your very eyes? If I say, "It's raining outside," he responds with, "Oh, you have no idea. Once, when I went to South Carolina, it rained five inches. Five!" For everything I say, "(I) have no idea." I've come to say things like, "I have no idea, but it's 4:30 right now."

• The hardest part about being a parent has to be seeing your kid suffer, and not being able to do anything about it. I don't think I'm going to be a very good parent in this respect.

• Have you ever known someone who won't, or can't, change, but they need to? Maybe they don't even realize it. I don't know why, but after some age, some indefinable passage, there's no way to tell them.

• "Gone, going, gone, everything, give a damn."

• I've known several people who have presented the "relative" argument to me: "It's all for the best. It all would have worked out in the end, no matter what." I'm sure I have been one of the proponents of this idiocy at one point in time. The thought is, the plan was for you to take A + B + V + Q = X. (X, being where you are now.) And the "relative" argument goes on, stating, OK, so you took A + B + V + M = Y. And, certainly, Y is different than X, but you're OK, it's all relative. In effect, they argue: X is congruent to Y. These are people who desperately want to believe there are always happy endings, that there are no real lonely people in the world, that good people cannot be irreparably hurt. These are people who could not imagine a world in which sometimes dumb luck was the only thing to change one's life.

Sunday, March 14, 2004

Belief in Mirrors -- draft 1 

“Can I borrow some change?”
Carmody asks me with his eyes
Staring at me like televisions,

Or security cameras
With the whole store watching:
A rally without sound
A rape without words.
Choreographed quarters
Spill out of every woman’s mouth:
Speech practice in America,
Be late or be
Violated.

“You’re dreaming,”
Nab says in
My ear behind the counter,
“This man of chapter
Titles, nibbles of sound,
This phantom limb of the people,
Raising an insistent index
Finger, pointing the way
Toward stars
Or asterisks.”

We watch Carmody out of the convenience
Store with his girl,
Any girl,
And I run,
But Nab pushes me
Into the corner,
My gloves raised,
“You’re speaking to the screen
When you’re speaking to me,”
And our friendship is thin
Turning on a disc,
Or a dime.

And I am defeated,
I am sorry, Nab says,
Presidents never apologize.
We clean up and we follow
Carmody to the party
With his girl under the cover
Of sirens and nightsticks
Beating into blankets,
She stands beaten, and suddenly
Away from

Carmody, who believes in magic,
If magic was a mirror,
Something small,
Portable,
Hidden,
Which he would take to the next state,
And gaze into
At all times.

Thursday, March 11, 2004

Loneliness in Sequins 

There's a moment that occurs during every sale -- I call it the reckoning -- in which the hurdle is presented. Here it is, the salesperson says: you know where it's placed, when it comes, how tall it sits . . . now will you jump?

What this hurdle is depends on the sale. For many items it's price. One can watch 20 minutes of RONCO, with Ron cooking up every kind of meat on a spit one could dream of; one can learn about the ease, the convenience, the free gifts, how healthy it is, but eventually, the hurdle comes: how many monthly payments of $39.95 will it be?

Buying a car, the hurdle is sitting down in that chair, listening to all those little fees they don't mention in the ads.

I used to sell furniture over the phone. The hurdle I had to clear was not so much price, as it was delivery: "Do you folks have anyone to help carry in that 435-lb desk? Because this comes on a freight truck, and the driver only brings it to the back of the truck."

I think the toughest hurdle to sell, though, is that involving late-night dating phone lines. I don't mean phone sex -- that's a topic bizarre enough for its own post. I mean the ads that say, something to the effect of: "Ready to talk to hot singles in your area?" You've seen them. Any time between 10:30 pm and 5:00 am, these ads, featuring only the most beautiful people on earth, boast that you can always reach someone live right now.

What is the hurdle? The lack of logic. For example:
1.) Let's say one calls one of these local hook-up lines at 2:30 on a Tuesday morning. What do you talk about at 2:30 am on a Tuesday?
2.) The customer also has to move past the illogical concept of any of these beautiful people in the ads being on the phone (unless one finds it believable that a woman would do her hair and makeup, get in a slinky red dress, all for an anonymous phone call). Moreover, one must thoroughly accept the idea that with whom he or she speaks may not be beautiful, who they say they are, the sex they claim to be, etc, etc.
3.) The customer also must buy into the fact that all these people on the local lines are -- as the ads say -- exciting singles. In other words, one must ignore the question of, "If these people are so exciting, why are they calling up complete strangers?"
4.) Assuming the customer were able to make those leaps of faith, he or she must also be blessed with loads of confidence (or alcohol). Why? Because if the customer truly believes the people with whom he or she will speak are exciting, then the customer must see him- or herself as one of these exciting people. The sell here is about making people believe it's more exciting talking to strangers over the phone rather than in person.
5.) Then, assuming the ad can conquer all of these challenges in the mind of its customer . . . . The customer has to be so convinced of the singles line that he or she will pay for it. People actually shell out their hard-earneds for this torture.

Just who are these people who call the singles lines? Better yet -- what do they say to each other once they are connected? That's what I really want to know.

There's small talk: "How's it goin'?" "Beautiful day today, wasn't it?" God, this must be painful to sit through. There's got to be a few moments during the small-talk, when the urge to just hang up the phone must be nearly uncontrollable.

There's the idiotic: "So what are you up to tonight?" What the hell does one respond with? Is anyone who calls these lines doing anything when they make the decision to call the singles line? Will anyone really say, "I'm so lonely, I haven't talked to anyone but my work colleague in three days. I don't know anybody here. So I thought I'd call this phone number." Or would anyone say the opposite? "Yeah, I've been so busy lately! Life is just great! All my friends and I just got back from a party, I'm in the middle of a game of naked Twister, I have an after-bar to attend next door, but I just thought I'd call a stranger!"

There's locating: "So did you grow up here?" Ah, yes: what can we find that is common.

There's the embarrassment: "I've never called one of these before, have you?"

There's the idiotic blunt: "Wanna come over and party?" I suppose I could write a nice long rant on the appropriate use of the word "party" as a verb, but I think my opinion is already pretty clear, no?

The hurdle of the singles lines is really a chasm -- that which is between the pictures of beautiful people prepped for TV, and the reality of a strange voice on the phone; that which divides the introverts from the extroverts.

It's time to call my wife and thank her.

Wednesday, March 10, 2004

"My Best Friend" 

If the genie granted me a fourth wish, it would be to put a stop to all wedding invitations that read:

"Today is the day I will marry my best friend, the one I laugh with, live for, love."

It sounded fresh at first, but when was that? Now we're all off marrying our best friends. I don't know what prompts people to use this same cliched line, even when they've seen it on dozens of other invitations. It's to the point now, in which people don't think about the concept -- "this is my best friend and I'm so excited to marry him/her" -- but rather, they see everyone else doing it, and when their opportunity arrives -- like their place in a line of dominoes -- they use that same line.

Divorce attorneys should start their filings with the line: "Today is the day Ms. Doe will divorce her best friend, the one she can no longer laugh with, refuses to live for, and most certainly does not any longer love."

Mr. Obstinate Important 

David Crosby was arrested last weekend for possessing a gun, two knives, and some pot. He's 62 years old. I used to really admire Crosby, but the more time that passes, the more easy it is to see the line between the past and the present, the idealistic and the pathetic. Crosby, who is a grandfather and has a young son of his own, sings harmony on a song entitled "Teach Your Children". I wonder if it will be easy for him to sing that song now. I wonder if he even thinks about the meaning anymore.

Monday, March 08, 2004

Ration on the Radio 

Whew! Glad we got that out of our systems. Now we can proceed peacefully.

So there's this guy on the radio right now, talking about butter, and how we should use it, but not margarine. And if we're at a restaurant, we should ask for purely pressed olive oil, not Crisco. And then he says we shouldn't eat pork, because the Bible says, and it (as well as butter, as well as decaf) puts poison in our bodies, and how unhealthy we all are, and if we don't watch out, if we don't watch out, we're all going to die! And I wish I could be in the studio, to say to Bible-health-man, "We're all gonna die, man. Even you. Even me. Say it with me: 'I'm gonna die.' Make you feel nervous? All tingley inside? I know. It's scary. OK, then we'll change it: 'I'm gonna die . . . but not yet.' Now go eat a cheeseburger." Whoever thought "go eat a cheeseburger" would be a slogan for living?

The dog's asleep, the cd's over, and it's time to start writing, which I've put off for long enough, now, the same way that running is only difficult before you get out the door.

Saturday, March 06, 2004

The First and Last of Politics 

I received a piece of blatant email propaganda from an acquaintance yesterday. Here's the original text with my reply spliced in, which will hopefully also stand as my opinion on this presidential contest:

On Sat, 6 Mar 2004 00:45:27 -0500 "NameDeleted" writes:
> For the past three years, George Bush has trampled upon the honor of
> the Office of the President with an unprecedented level of
> arrogance.

Perhaps.

> He has unilaterally withdrawn from multinational
> treaties. He has blatantly attempted to reverse affirmative action.
> He has deliberately dismantled the EPA.

Agreed.

> That's not even the half
> of it. He has lost 2.9 million jobs.

Oh, just him, huh? That had nothing to do with economic conditions, corporate decisionmaking, or a brand new global economy? George Bush personally fired 2.9 million people?

> He has left millions of children
> behind in education.

The federal government's contribution to education is equivalent to the peanut-seller's contribution to Major League Baseball's sales . . . yet you blame all of education's problems on the president? That's intelligent. That's thoughtful. That's fair.

> He has taken away healthcare from 200,000
> veterans. He has reduced Medicare benefits for thousands of
> elderly. He has raided the entire $2.6 Trillion Dollar Social
> Security Surplus. He has created the largest deficit in the history
> of the United States. These are undisputable facts.

Yes (except, are you sure they aren't "indisputable"?). And for those reasons, he should not be reelected. But what has Kerry done to fix those problems, which have been getting worse for years? What makes you think Kerry is the answer? Kerry's been in Congress forever. Seriously -- how can you be energized by this guy? Can you not see that he is part of the problem?

> The unfortunate consequence is that you, your family, and your
> neighbors are worse off today than you were three years ago. Not
> just from a financial perspective, but from a security perspective.
> Under Bush, Americans are killed by terrorist attacks every 30 days.
> Under Clinton, it was only every two years.

That is the biggest pile of bullshit ever emailed to me. The ads telling me they can grow my dick to two feet long contain more truth and ethical value than that statement. Your level of ignorance is appalling.

> But there is hope. And that hope is John Kerry.

Fuck that. I'll get to sleep some other way.

> John Kerry will
> help return prestige and honor to the Office of the President.

Oh, like back to the level of honor Clinton bestowed upon the presidency? Hopefully Kerry's "bestowing" won't also be a physical donation.

> He
> will make promises that are realistic and can be kept. To help
> John Kerry reach as many voters as possible I have agreed to become
> part of the Kerry Core.

News flash: he's a POLITICIAN. They only keep "promises" to the corporations that sponsor them.

> I am supporting John Kerry because America
> needs a president that will create jobs, provide affordable health
> care, protect our environment, fund our educational system, secure
> our homeland and reestablish the United States as the great country
> it was just a few short years ago.

Yes, and I'd like 365 days a year of sunshine, happiness, free pizza, and unlimited dark beer . . . but this is reality. The color of the sky in this world is blue.

> With your help we can all return this country to greatness. Please
> join my efforts to elect John Kerry President by making a
> contribution today. Thanks!

You can't send this crappy propaganda out and not expect to get a less than excited response. The truth of the matter is that we have two shitty candidates. What blows my mind is I hear all sorts of idiot conservatives on talk radio talk about how right they are, and how untouchable the president is . . . . And then I read all sorts of liberal BS, like this email, about how right the democrats are, and how they can fix everything. It blows my mind because most of the people spouting these dual shit fountains of manure are just as old, experienced, and educated as I am -- so they should know that politics is never as simple as "left beats right", or vice versa, as if life could be watered down to a simple choice between black and white, with no decisionmaking, no creative thought process, in between.

In other words, no thanks. I'll watch your bandwagon from the cheap seats . . . .

Carefully,


Friday, March 05, 2004

Pop Jealousy 

I took an upper-level poetry class last year. There were roughly 15 students in the class, which was led by a respected professor who remained very current on the genre and had published many of her own poems.

On the upside, the class was extremely informative and influential. While I could detect a sense of degree to the talent in the room, I think every student was a writer. That's not the case with intro classes, in which many students enroll, simply to fulfill a requirement or satisfy their curiosity. I read many different styles of poetry, and I learned about many different schools of poetry. What's more, I constantly felt like the "weak link" in the room, so I worked harder than ever to bring my work up to a level I would feel comfortable at presenting my work to the class (as that was a requirement -- the course was a writing lab). I left the class a better writer, I saved almost every paper or handout that I received, and I work more consciously on poetry from then on, than I did before the class.

That's a hell of an upside.

On the downside, I learned -- or gained a greater understanding of -- why so many people dislike poetry. Why? What's one thing that turns people off from poetry? I call it the "poetic attitude". By that, I mean the attitude that, "This poem is very 'deep' and symbolic and literary and to appreciate it, you must approach it from a very learned, liberal, academic experience, otherwise you simply would not understand."

For instance: on a daily basis, the prof asked everyone if they had any news on the poetry scene. What had we read recently? Who had we seen read? Etc, etc. If the class did not bring anything to the table, she would frown, shake her head, offer us all the interesting tidbits she'd learned, the poets she'd spoken with, and then she would chide us for not participating in the poetic community.

And she knew everyone. She'd met, spoken with, had a drink with, seen read at, edited a journal with, dedicated a poem to, received a phone call from, everyone, everyone, everyone. And when anyone in the class mentioned a poet, she would interrupt with a story about that time that she met him, or the person she knew who shared a cab with her, or etc, etc.

At times it was interesting, enlightening, or funny. But it always grew tedious. Then something funny happened. She asked everyone to bring in a recent poem they'd read that they'd enjoyed. I brought in a very clipped poem by Charles Tomlinson. I didn't particularly like the poem, but I respected it. I was in a very clipped mood. So the great day came. Everyone brought their poems. And one after another, we all read, interrupted only by the prof's effusive praise about how she loves this poem, or I'm so glad you brought in a Neruda, or etc, etc. When my turn came, I read the Tomlinson poem, and the room went silent. I looked at the prof. She was frowning, looking at the copy I had procured. Then she said, in her most definitive voice, as if this was to be the last word on the poem: "I have not heard of the poet." And that was that.

My poem -- and poet -- was not well-received because he was not popular. So be it.

The course went on, I learned to live with the poetic attitude, and the semester progressed. I was still very motivated to not fall on my face in the class, so I spent a great deal of time preparing an extensive, class-long presentation on a school of poetry I was to give (everyone chose a school to present for an hour to the rest of the class; my report ended up being around 15 pages). Apart from being intimidated, I also knew I would have to work hard to earn a B or A because this was my first class with the prof, who was well-known to the other students. See, I was her Charles Tomlinson poem. She did not know me. She had not read any of my work. She had "not heard of" me, as she had the other students. So my day came, and I surprised myself by scoring quite well. It was one of those legitimate A's -- it was a tough project, but you worked hard, you earned it.

But as time passed, only three or four other students prepared reports as long or detailed. "Where was the poetic work ethic to match all this attitude?" I wondered. Some students didn't even prepare research -- they simply hit the print button on their web browser, and handed in a four-page bio from an obscure website with no documentation. The prof didn't seem to mind. She had heard of these poets being presented. She had heard of the student presenter. A.

Sour grapes, I know. But the course moved on.

I didn't speak very often during the course. I also arrived from work, so I was always dressed up more than everyone else. So I stuck out a bit. I certainly didn't look or sound like a poet. And that was fine with me. But one day, I broke down. I just couldn't take it anymore.

We were going around the table, giving feedback on a poem. This was usually instructive, as people offered opinions on word choice, grammar, sound, enjambment, rhythm, subject, influence, structure, creativity, and the list goes on and on. On this particular day, the class seemed stuck on one point -- they disagreed with the rhyme in a poem (the poem we read contained some slant rhyme, but could still be considered a free verse poem). Everyone seemed to agree that the rhyme was . . . unpleasant. The looks on their faces as they discussed the rhyme of the poem was no different than the look of someone who just discovered what that funky smell was in the back of the refrigerator. Rhyming committed poetry's (or more accurately, "poetic attitude's") cardinal sin: it was out of fashion. So I sat there, thinking -- I'm not a fan of rhyming either. It can be annoying, as it draws the reader's attention away from the subject and focuses it on the end-line sound. It's hard to write; it can feel limiting. Nevertheless -- what about Shakespeare? What about Browning? What about Milton? What about St. Vincent Millay? What about Roethke? They all rhymed. Even if their work didn't make it to my desktop on a daily basis, I respected it. It was time to speak up. So I turned to the prof and asked:

"Why is rhyme considered such a negative?"

She drew herself in, her chest raised, and her eyes and voice gained a look and tone that implied, "The rest of us already know this, but . . ." Then she said: "Rhyming gives poetry a 'pop' sensation, lowering it to the level of a song. We can hear songs on the radio. It can be mindless." The class glowered in agreement.

So rhyming was no longer acceptable because it was too familiar with the popular. But wasn't the Tomlinson poem not well-received because it . . . was not popular?

So between the unpopular and the popular, lies poetry, all alone with its particular attitude to entertain itself.

But there is a lie within all this attitude. And that lie is desire. I'd wager my home that the vast majority of poets would delight in having a book of poems published. And I can't imagine any of these poets complaining if their books sold well. Rather, I think most poets would be ecstatic if their work became popular. Furthermore, I think that if Poet Joe's new book of poems was featured on Oprah, CNN, Dateline, and who knows what else, so that the non-poetry-buying public suddenly became interested, I think that Poet Joe would be on top of the world. And I don't think he would refuse any royalty checks.

It's easy to decry "popular" when you are not popular. No poet energized a crowd of people with a line like, "Shake it like a Polaroid picture." But there are thousands of people who will remember that line, but could not, if asked, name the US poet laureate. And, between you and me, constant reader, that drives the poets up the wall.

Thursday, March 04, 2004

Telephone Embarrassment 

My favorite part of my new job is verification. As a financial institution, we often have to ask for certain pieces of customer information to confirm with whom we are speaking. And there's nothing more fun than asking for someone's email address. Because 4 or 5 times out of ten, I unintentionally embarrass someone. I ask for their email address, and all the sudden they clam up. They know they have to give it to me, but they don't want to. And this 40-50% just can't bring themselves to speak the address to me; rather, they attempt to lessen their embarrassment by spelling it out. For purely hypothetical example:

"And could I have your email address please?"
". . . Uh . . . . OK, sure. C-O-O-L-G-U-Y-@uwq.biz."

OR:

"Could I have your email address, Mr. Davis?"
"Oh. Email? Um . . . sure. I-R-O-C-K-Y-O-U-R-W-O-R-L-D-@uwq.biz."

Sometimes, if I'm feeling spunky, I'll return with: "Thank you, Mr. Davis, I also show irockyourworld@uwq.biz in my database."

I'm sure all these people were confident and pleased with themselves when they signed up for their boisterous addresses. But something changes when you're on the phone with a stranger. It's like a prank caller getting *-69ed.

Wednesday, March 03, 2004

When the picture is more real than the subject. 

Today's celebrity news nugget. Fiction cannot compete with reality . . . except in this case, of course.

Simpson's Pregnancy Check

Dizzy blonde pop star-turned-reality TV queen Jessica Simpson was so convinced she was pregnant after she reading she was expecting in America's gossip magazines, she insisted on a check-up. The singer admits she fell for the rumors about herself after gossips mistook her longing for a pet dog as a strong hint she was about to become a mum. She says, "I think I said I wanted a dog and people thought I wanted a baby. I began to believe the rumors because I was very very sick. I ended up going to the doctor and being hooked up to an IV. I wasn't pregnant."


Monday, March 01, 2004

Take My Body Home 

It's 1:54, Tuesday morning, and I haven't found a reason to lay down yet. I know in a few minutes I'll wake the dog, we'll go downstairs, lay down down there, but I can't bear to think of what will happen then.

Into the City 

I take the Hoan bridge into the city. It used to be called "the bridge to nowhere" because people taking it out of the city would be dumped at the end of the port of Milwaukee into a small Italian neighborhood with few major streets and fewer landmarks. Several years ago the county added a small freeway to the end of the bridge that extends through my neighborhood, Bay View, through the small city of St. Francis, and into the city of Cudahy, so "the bridge to nowhere" went somewhere.

I used to live on the north side of town, except the people who live around here call it the east side, and I used to be able to see the Hoan bridge all the time, as it's visible from many places on the lake shore. One could watch the tiny dots of cars pass over the bridge to nowhere from miles away. But when entering the city from the north, one could not see any of its scope, as it was blocked by an antiquated freeway. So whenever I entered the city, it just eventually appeared around me without any sense of change or importance.

Back then I never did think much of the city. I remember taking a plane back to Milwaukee and seeing it from the sky, thinking, "That's it?" Suddenly, Milwaukee's terminal inferiority complex made sense: certainly there couldn't be anything so important or interesting in a city that looks like this. So there is a view from the shore, a view from the north, and a view from the sky.

But the view I have every day, now, coming into work -- entering the city from the Hoan -- differs from all the others. As my car climbs the Hoan, over the dirt and muck of the port, the entire city presents itself in front of me -- the brick-red lofts being built to the south; the low, industrial office buildings across the river to the west; the older historical buildings along the river's edge; the taller, financial skyscrapers of the east side of the river; and the sleek, granite precipices of the insurance buildings on the lake's shore. For a short moment as the car crests the top of the bridge, it is all there in front of me, as if I were sitting in the front row of a movie with the entire screen visible to me if I only keep my head straight so that I can see the whole thing.

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