Top 10 Random Cultural/Sports Related Things of 2006


One of the things I loved about 2006.

10. Vince Young. It all started with the amazing Rose Bowl game last January, which we watched at Tina’s apartment, me rooting for UT because I “want to see a good game.” Well, we sure got one. And Mr. Young has made the Tennessee Titans the most exciting team to watch this year in the NFL, too. They bowed out of the playoff race just this afternoon, but they were fun to watch.

9. World Cup. Yes, it was marred by a poor effort from the U.S., bad officiating, and boorish behavior, but still, you can’t complain about three or four matches a day of world-class soccer for several weeks. Of course, the enduring image from this Cup will be Zidane’s headbutt on the Italian, but let’s not forget all the heroics and the graciousness of the host country up to that point. (And yes, I’m bummed out that the U.S. was unable to reach an agreement with Jürgen Klinsmann.)

8. Detroit Tigers. For much of the summer I watched them dominate the American League, but I couldn’t believe they’d actually do anything against a stacked Yankees team in the playoffs, let alone make it all the way to the World Series. It wasn’t until that 3rd game of the divisional series, when Rogers out-dueled the Unit to give the Tigers a 2-1 series lead, that I really started to think we might have something here. They went on to win and steam-rolled the A’s in the ALCS, but I don’t need to remind anyone
(or myself) what happened in the World Series. Still, a great year.

7. Little Miss Sunshine. In what was really another depressing year for movies, this one stood out as being meaningful, moving, and just a good couple of hours worth of entertainment. Since we live in the land of No Movies, it takes an extra effort to get out and see things beyond our little nest. This one was well worth it — and I honestly can’t say that about more than one or two other films for the entire year. Blech.

6. High Energy Constructs. While the rest of my trip to California to give a paper at a conference in Riverside was a blur of rental cars, hotel rooms, not being able to locate a bookstore, downing coffee and pastries and listening to overblown litspeak, the part of it that involved Michael Smoler’s new gallery in L.A.’s Chinatown was just perfect. Ever since I’ve known Michael — first in San Francisco, then New York — he’s talked about opening a gallery like this. The exhibits are fresh and cutting edge. The space is small but neat and well-organized. The owner/curator certainly brings “high energy” to the space and his vision. Highly recommended to anyone going through L.A.

5. Anderson’s Coffee. Perhaps I shouldn’t be putting this out there, since it’s such a great place and the tip was handed to me by an old-time Austinite who guards his favorite places like gold. But Pat’s moved to Denver, and I don’t think it’s much of a secret anymore that Anderson’s has the best damn coffee in these (or any?) parts. There’s just nothing better than waking up to some of their Kenyan, or French Roast, or whatever, and sipping a couple of cups down while having breakfast and listening to the radio in the morning.

4. The Wire/Deadwood. Both HBO original series, both excellent, both new obsessions over the past three or four months (in the case of the The Wire, even more recently). Just put it this way: you’d have to be a mope or a hooplehead to watch the first three episodes of either of these and not become immediately addicted.

3. Books on tape/CD. Over the summer, it was Flaubert, Chekhov, and Don Delillo’s vast masterpiece Underworld, which Tina and I both ended up reading, as well. On the trip we just took to Arizona, it was Cormac McCarthey’s No Country for Old Men and Phillip Roth’s The Plot Against America, the latter of which we still haven’t finished, but which is excellent so far. What a blast, though, to be driving through the actual landscape that McCarthy described in his book — Fort Stockton, Odessa, Van Horn, El Paso, etc. — while listening to the novel read out loud.

2. The San Marcos Activity Center. All right, so I get a tad upset at times during my bi-weekly racquetball games with a couple of local lads at the Activity Center. Sometimes, I even say things like “shoot,” or “darn it.” But it’s a great way to get the blood pumping and have some good, clean, competitive activity. Also, I go there to work out and swim, so sometimes I’m there three or four times a week. The center is a great deal, and especially convenient now that we’ve moved just a couple of blocks away.

1. Blogging. I’m about five years late to the game, but it’s been fun to keep a blog over the past half a year or so. I even had my students at Texas State do it, with mixed results. Overall, though, a fun way to mark certain events and moments, jot down some poems or thoughts, and rant (although I almost never do that). Some of my favorites to read this year have been Andrew Neuendorf’s Ape and Coffee, Sarah Peters (both the daily and memoir), and of course my wife’s excellent and thought-provoking site.

I guess that’s it — last post of 2006! Happy New Year…

Some Poems — October-December 2006

Happy holidays, everyone…

Imaginary conversations while driving

No irritable reaching after
facts, reason

I say this, the dog’s out
the cat wants

what the cat wants. Dogged
by perceptions, imaginary

conversations while driving: Well, what
faces what. The sedge oh the sedge is withered

my coffee’s cold. Done world
of the harvest. Gulp.

Tightening scrotum,
grinding gears.

What was it like when we met?
Where was I the day

I was born? My mouth on
the tip of whatever

you put there, darling. Hold it
steady. Don’t want

to know where it’s
going. A dragon

sipped from the glass I left
on the floor while we

slept. The dragon was low
covered in gold that

glowed dully and over
the whole world wrapped.

When I woke I reached down
shook it

lifting the glass to
your lips. Woke you.

**********

Now

Now come the kids playing
basketball. Thump
of the dribbled

leather. Shadows
long. Years pass.
What

feel with
all of my body,
thump as it’s

past. TV murmurs on
hum of the freeway
dog barks. What

silence, how can it ever be
touched when even
our words seem

quiet beside it? Or
contain some part
talking another what’s

not said. An
ease of the gradual
noises that box us

into our rooms. Oh
you’re home hello
how was your day? The

words come easy as
rub but to really
feel is something

separate, a
different room. Come
here. Talk to me.

I’m listening. My
whole body, all
of my years.

**************

Guests

Anxiously awaiting our guests’
arrival. Peanuts
and mangos. God

they’re good. What’s
this? Did you bring out
the rumballs? Bring out

the rumballs. You won’t believe
how good. Where the hell
are they? It’s been

that kind of night. Farid
and Scott, Jeremy and
Leilani, finally

here they are, Micah
and Gina. Didn’t have to
bring beer, but

thank you. All of us
warm in the living
room, driven to go

outside. Just for
a moment, the dog
stands at the edge

of the circle, glances
from one to the
other, a quiet number

******************

Human, They Said

Love, love me.
Turn the radio off. Shut
laptop, set cell phone
to buzz.

Enough coffee left
for the morning? Like
that, to have felt love
an urgent afterthought.

It was nice, warm.
The guests arrived
eventually. The loud low hum
that we couldn’t identify
stopped.

Human, they said. Forgive us
this word. That it pass
our lips, touching all
who hear it.

Light. Wind. Waves
built of both on the
conduit of water.
Light. Wind. Waves.

*******************

Aesop’s Fable of the Hungry Man

Just don’t touch me right now,
I’m hungry

as Jack, desperate to lean
into with both fists

so purchased
one, another, a

third, even Sunday’s
warmth, even

golden. Is it
the last drop does it, finally

fills one past all annoyance
the last morsel substantial as

Google Apocalypse

All being ceases. Deserts electrify. Friends glow.
Averted birth canals. Dried energies. Fickle gravities.
Armageddon beckons. Creation destroys. Ever flown? Golden
Asses. Baby Christs. Demons everywhere. Flu germs.
Awaiting buzzsaws. Cockroaches, darling. Ever fired guns?
Affirmative. But can’t decide: Enough force? Groins
Atrophied. Breasts collapsed. Drowned elephants. Frozen geese.
Anybody barbecue? Calumny. Defiance. Enmity. Festering ghettoes.
Amazon burns. Comes down effortlessly. Fiery, glittering
Asteroids. Boiling comets. Darkness eating first gods.
Absent bedfellows. Cursed dreams. Evangelists forgotten. Google
“Apocalypse.” Believe clouds. Doubt eels. Forgive grandparents.
A bullet’s command: Dude, ever felt gaseous
Abbatoir? Back, coyotes. Dollars, environment. Flutes, graves.

Tension

after W.S. Merwin

How often thought of
meat taken to thaw
out of the freezer
slowly to soften from

brown to red on
kitchen counter we
wait for the meat doing
other things going

about the business of
our day there are dishes
laundry floors not
to mention mail the inevitable

phone call the meat
grows pink we test it
pressing a finger against
hump under plastic

wrap to see if there’s any
spot still hard we
unwrap the meat to
form into little patties which

sizzle on top of
the grill we slice
tomatoes and rip
lettuce off into

short strips put
buns on the griddle
to give them that
crisp hot taste

and wash it all down with
beer or water with
ice and then sit
at the table as darkness

comes. We make love. Stare
up at the ceiling
feeling our bodies
beneath us again there’s

a silence that radiates
out from the meat
in our bellies our
words

have a silence we
don’t hear what
we’re saying we have to
repeat what we said

the cat
crawls through the hole
in our saying we
grope as she slides through

our outstretched
hands longer and longer
we fall
into the silence the ceiling

drops and we swim
up from our meat
to the light that opens
to take us

* * *

As yesterday was St. Lucy’s Day, I also wanted to reproduce this poem by John Donne; a very intense and beautiful poem, one that seemed especially appropriate given all the recent news (and a nice counterpoint to the little ditty above):

A Nocturnal upon S. Lucy’s Day, being the shortest day

‘TIS the year’s midnight, and it is the day’s,
Lucy’s, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks ;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays ;
The world’s whole sap is sunk ;
The general balm th’ hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed’s-feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr’d ; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compared with me, who am their epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring ;
For I am every dead thing,
In whom Love wrought new alchemy.
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness ;
He ruin’d me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death—things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that’s good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have ;
I, by Love’s limbec, am the grave
Of all, that’s nothing. Oft a flood
Have we two wept, and so
Drown’d the whole world, us two ; oft did we grow,
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else ; and often absences
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death—which word wrongs her—
Of the first nothing the elixir grown ;
Were I a man, that I were one
I needs must know ; I should prefer,
If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means ; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love ; all, all some properties invest.
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light, and body must be here.

But I am none ; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
At this time to the Goat is run
To fetch new lust, and give it you,
Enjoy your summer all,
Since she enjoys her long night’s festival.
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year’s and the day’s deep midnight is.

in memorium kari edwards

Michael Smoler called this afternoon, thinking I had already heard that kari edwards died, which I hadn’t — being down here in San Marcos and far removed from the listserv buzzworld of any scene where such news reverberates. She died on December 2nd, which was her birthday, after a brief illness.

I knew kari in San Francisco. She and Michael were the first readers at the reading series in my apartment, which began in 2002. This was soon after kari’s first book, a day in the life of p, had come out on Sub Press. There weren’t many people there, but it was a wonderful reading. Afterwards, kari answered questions about her approach to gender, which to me is one of the most fascinating things about that particular book.

She was a fierce presence. Never one to back down from an argument or leave people nestled comfortably in their assumptions, especially when it came to questions of gender or gay rights. I believe that her prickly personality in regards to these things, as well as her quick rise in the literary world, were off-putting to some people in the po-scene. At least, when I visited her just prior to her and Fran moving to India last year, she was surprised to hear me say that she’d been an inspiration to a lot of people.

Including me.

She was a brave and beautiful soul. Difficult, at times, sure, but the bravest ones almost always are.

Here is an excerpt from p that seemed appropriate, somehow:

may the birds proclaim unclean sympathetic vibration for the sirens of the night

may the bugs and worms find a station that brings direct service to the
distant ones.

may I not stop before death or a photo copy of death.

may the books on the shelves preserve a hearty dust collection.

may phantasmic abundance accrue with a psychosis twinge.

may the objects too numerous to mention cease to cause consternation - cease to talk back in their continual banter - cease to swallow the heads of their previous owners.

may the street waiters in soiled clothes and may the floating paper winds find a score suitable to relinquish self serving components.