Check out this crazy lateral play from the end of a Division III game. I’m reminded of the beginning of Jack Spicer’s mystery novel Tower of Babel, in which a burned-out poet witnesses a loop-de-loop comeback not unlike this one at the college where he’s gone to seed, and is inspired to move back to San Francisco in search of the poetry “renaissance.”
for Frank O’Hara
The old man declined any breakfast cereal not containing the color purple. For a while, we were able to satisfy him with an off-brand cereal that featured little purplish O’s among a rainbow of green, orange, yellow, and red ones. But one morning he insisted the proportion of purple O’s to all the other colors was simply not acceptable. He shoved away from the table and stood by the window, brooding. We solved this problem by picking the purple O’s out from several boxes and sprinkling them in with the other O’s. Yet one morning his spoon, laden with cereal, paused on the way to his lips. He froze like that. When we asked him why, he patiently explained that the quality of purple in his O’s was a shade too intense, now that he had the chance to examine them carefully.
We spoke to him as he sat with the spoon poised a few inches from his wrinkled mouth.
Father, perhaps we’ve put too many purple O’s in with the others.
You don’t understand. It’s about texture and subtlety, an exact pigmentation.
Give us another chance, father.
No. It’ll never work. You’ll never understand purple, how terrible and beautiful and hopeless it is.
With some difficulty we managed to loosen the spoon from his grip.
I’ve enjoyed reading in the past week or so:
DENNIS TOWNSHIP, N.J. - A second-grader’s drawing of a stick figure shooting a gun earned him a one-day school suspension.
AVIGNON, France (AFP) - French prosecutors Tuesday requested a hefty fine and a civics course against a woman who planted a lipstick-red kiss on the pure white canvas of a two-million-euro artwork by US artist Cy Twombly.
In March of 1985, Clive Wearing, an eminent English musician and musicologist in his mid-forties, was struck by a brain infection—a herpes encephalitis—affecting especially the parts of his brain concerned with memory. He was left with a memory span of only seconds—the most devastating case of amnesia ever recorded. New events and experiences were effaced almost instantly.
An Open Letter to Readers
October 15, 2007
Dear Readers,
I’ve been participating in a charade for nearly eleven years, now. Quite frankly, I’m sick of it. You have all been a part of a sick joke that I began considering shortly after first getting on the air. At first, it was quite interesting to see how people would react when I would use twisted logic and poorly masked bigotry.
But eleven years is a long time to be living a fake life, and I can no longer tolerate this falsity. Even someone as fake as I tires out eventually.
Here’s the truth, I don’t care what people believe. Jews don’t need to be “made perfect” as I so arrogantly proclaimed to Editor & Publisher not a half week ago. I don’t even care if people are Muslim. Granted, I don’t know much about the religion or the people, but they are people. This is something that we cannot forget, they are in an abhorrent situation. These people are in need of education. Perhaps if we did not participate in causing them misery, they would not hate us so.
In fact, does it really matter whether we are Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Atheist, or even Pagan? We are one nation. One. We should not let petty differences separate us, we are all American, and should act in that manner.
And with that, my precious viewers, I bid you adieu. My career as a media figurehead is over.
Signed,
Ann Coulter
P.S. - Oh, and Bill O’Reilly is also just acting.
Haha, did it again. Oh, those silly web admins…they just embarrass themselves.
(Admins, check for an e-mail address in the CMS. Find it. I know you will.)
Wow, time’s just flying by this fall. Not that I didn’t expect it to with everything going on. Now it’s baseball playoff season, another issue of kadar koli is almost ready to go, and Tex State’s online litjo — which, I’m happy to say, includes a new poem by Nathaniel Mackey, as well as my interview with him, a review of his book Paracritical Hinge, and video of his reading at Alkek — goes live tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I thought this was hilarious — a list of the 50 worst songs of all time. Here’s some of my favorites, which I pulled out partially because they bring back pleasant, pop-fueled memories of the mid-Eighties:
23
COREY HART
“Sunglasses At Night†1984
If you look up one-hit wonder in the dictionary, this is what you’ll find
Over a keyboard riff that sounds more than a little like that of “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This),†the brooding Quebecois Hart mugged worse than Derek Zoolander as he extolled the virtues of going incognito. With its lack of anything resembling a human being playing an instrument, this is disposable synth-pop at its most bubblegum.
Worst Moment The chorus, in which Hart warns, “Don’t switch a blade on the guy in shades, oh, no,†was an attempt at tough-guy posing, but it made him sound like the musical equivalent of Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club. That is, not very tough at all.
[that hurts -- I modeled myself (and my haircut!) on this guy when I was a teenager]
19
MR. MISTER
“Broken Wings†1985
The thoroughly nasty sound of yuppie angst
“Broken Wings†is primarily annoying not for its anodyne mid-’80s production, nor for its lyrics, which make its central protagonist sound like someone you would seek a restraining order against (“You’re half of the flesh, and blood makes me whole,†he sings, reaching for the duct tape and the nail gun). It’s primarily annoying because it’s a four-minute intro with no song attached. When the booming drums finally kick in, they announce the arrival not of a fantastic chorus or an epic finale, but the greatest anticlimax in pop, featuring what can only be described as a synth bass solo.
Worst Moment The synth bass solo.
[we loved this song -- even though we also made fun of it]
18
CHICAGO
“You’re the Inspiration†1984
And you thought the Cubs were the biggest losers in this town? Wrong!
It’s hard to believe, but at one point Chicago were a fairly well-respected rock band. Then Peter Cetera joined, and they jettisoned any remaining street cred in favor of soft-rock ballads your grandmother would deem harmless. In this, their most egregious offense, Cetera’s gratingly affected and overmodulated vocals float over 1984 standard-issue electric piano, and a nation of greasy, awkward seventh graders slow-danced for the very first time.
Worst Moment That power-rock drum fill before the second verse, apparently designed to mollify hatas who thought the band had lost its edge.
[this song has always been lame, but it was a home-coming and prom slow-dance staple all through high school]
6
HUEY LEWIS AND THE NEWS
“The Heart Of Rock & Roll†1984
A celebration of rock music …by a band seemingly intent on destroying it
Less a song than a craven attempt to curry favor from drunken arena crowds trained to roar on cue when they hear their city’s name mentioned. Coming off more like one of your dad’s golf buddies than a rock star, Lewis rattles off a list of American cities in a monotone so bland that subbing in “Bakersfield†for “San Antone†would drive the fans wild, and hopefully distract them from the fact that the bar band–caliber music suuuuucked.
Worst Moment The second verse, when that cheeky Huey almost uses the word ass. Ah, 1984 — such a simple time.
[what else can you say?]
—incidentally, the number-one worst song is also from the mid-80s, but you’ll have to click the link to find out what it is…
Six Month’s Poem for T.
Wake up elated
thoughts of coffee
sunlight on fresh-
cut lawn, windows
open, breeze
our animals
this home.
–4.21.07
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