HA 28

Oh. What. In. The. Hell. Is. This.

Sorry for your inevitable chronic nightmares over this. HA HA!

ROGER EBERT'S CRITICAL DEFENSE


Film critic Roger Ebert has landed in some virtual hot water with gaming fans (via his latest blog entry) by stating that "videogames can never be art." The argument continues in the comment section, getting close to one thousand replies at the time of this writing, including one by yours truly.

I delight at this exchange of opinion, and it also gave me the opportunity to do a snarky poor Photoshop, which always delights me as well.

My suggestion for this lovely spring Sunday is that you not play videogames or read anything on the internet, but instead go view the lovely art all around you by taking a walk in your local park.

HEY, ASH-HOLES!

Hey, air travelers in Austria, Belgium, Croatia, the Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, most of France, most of Germany, Hungary, Ireland, northern Italy, the Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Romania, Serbia, Slovenia, Slovakia, Sweden, Switzerland, Ukraine and the United Kingdom! Having some fun there already? Only the most ruthless and travel-savvy of you stranded in foreign lands because of the belching Eyjafjallajokull glacier in Iceland may have already gotten home or closer to it because you didn’t wait for the skies to clear – you cleaned out an ATM, grabbed your bags, and were first in line to book a train, bus, or ferry, pushing aside stunned school groups, families with young children, grandmas in wheelchairs, and the hesitant and/or hopeful. A Famous Amusing Person Who Recently Did A Comedy Tour To Replenish His Divorce-Depleted Portfolio crapped out a few golden eggs and hired a private cab to gently speed him back to the land of his birth. But most travelers do not crap gold, and they do not have the money to hire a car or an elephant or an air-conditioned rickshaw to return home. For as long as the skies hang with teeny tiny bits of rock, glass, and sand, you are simply stuck. Iceland has turned you all into Ash-holes.

If I were there, I’d come by with freshly baked brownies for you all, but I’m here in Seattle waiting for an earthquake or something. So here are ten ideas to while away the time in the airport or train station or bus station, while John Cleese thumbs his nose at you all from the back of his luxurious Norwegian taxi, filled with delicious fermented trout, grovbrød, and akvavit, while lusty Scandinavian fur bikini models snuggle against his lanky frame in the backseat.

1. Figure out how many words you can make from Eyjafjallajokull. Ask your fellow strandees to chime in with their own languages. Winner gets to scream in impotent rage while the rest of you clap in admiration.

2. Fashion diapers out of old newspapers, stolen garbage can liners, and forgotten belts taken off at security for the reeking sodden-panted babies nearby. Everyone benefits.

3. Take photos of drooling sleeping people on the airport floor and post them to Twitter or Facebook.

4. Take a Nigerian bank up on their kind offer of monetary assistance.

5. Start a rumor that it’s not a volcano in Iceland causing the problem, it’s your brother-in-law’s filthy Weber grill.

6. Start an Airport Idol or Dancing With The Pilots show by the airport bar, record on your cell phone and up it to YouTube. Only Bjork or Sigur Ros songs, please.

7. Convince a wealthy local that you are long-lost family, and move in. Cry in joy a lot, then eat all their food and watch their plasma TV.

8. Locate a rare airport electrical outlet so you can charge your phone/computer; charge others money to use it. Get one of the cobbled-up diapers so you don’t have to leave the outlet.

9. Start your “oh-I’d-love-to-do-that-someday” backpacking tour of Europe immediately.

10. Consider a position in Polish government.

Always glad to help, I am.

GIVE US A KISS

Alright. Take a big breath and steady yourself. This video, creatively-yet-fairly edited by YouTube person HaggardMikesReviews, is one of the creepier things I've seen, but it brings up some real discussion points, as it's now going viral. These clips are compiled from a Canadian game show called "Just Like Mom" from the '80s, hosted by husband and wife team Fergie Oliver and Catherine Swift (now divorced, uh huh). Mr. Oliver has some serious boundary issues. Watch, and remember to bring your jaw off the floor afterward.



Now, you are going to land in one of two camps here: appalled and disgusted, or aw-no-big-deal-that's-how-things-used-to-be. Overwhelmingly, the former camp is the more popular, according to comments and articles being written about this clip. What we can say for sure is that you just would not see this behavior on any television show now. Anyone who wants to blow it off as harmless is not recognizing it for what it is: intrusive, grossly inappropriate, and bullying, at best. At worst, we are seeing a man who may be getting his sexual jollies from this, and little girls who can't do a damn thing about it. "No" didn't even work.

It's not harmless. Think back. I will bet, whether you are a man or a woman, you can sift through your memory bank and recall the Yucky Hug/Kiss Adult in your own life. That was the guy (although sometimes it was a woman) who would always ask for some kind of physical affection from you upon seeing you, relative or relative stranger to you. Kids are pretty good detectors of Real Creep, and they don't do very well at faking emotion. They know that Yucky Hug/Kiss Adult is not good, like really not good, without being able to say or even know why. But they know. And you knew, didn't you, because you didn't want to give that hug or kiss that went on too close, too long, and made you feel bad. If you start talking about this with people, you will find it is incredibly, sadly common.

Not everything behind every YH/KA was sinister or sexual, surely. But grabbing physical affection or intimacy from a child is wrong. It teaches children that they have no control over their bodies, that saying no isn't going to matter, that adults have the right to tell you what to do in all ways. Other adults can encourage this, unknowingly reinforcing these ideas -- "Be nice to Uncle Joe! What's wrong with you? Give him a kiss right now!" because they recognize the awkwardness yet can't bear to say something or think something they don't really want to think. You cannot assume that a kid can process this as an adult would, like oh, just humor the guy and move on. It is a very different position to be in, and I think it makes children angry, confused, helpless, and sad, although they may keep a polite smile going. Children aren't chattel. All of them deserve our respect and need our protection, and it does us all a bit of good to not be so polite sometimes.

I'd like to think that MissSeven would've kicked Fergie Oliver in the fork, Just Like Mom.

HENRY MILLER & I AGREE ON ART

The only artists for whom I would make way are - children. For me the paintings of children belong side by side with the works of the masters. - Henry Miller


For me too.

MissSeven's self-selected art gallery, from her room.








MARK WILLIAMS, TOOL

Mark Williams, Tea Party leader:

"Please don't tell me I'm a Republican tool," he said.


OK. You're just a TOOL then.

Keep at it, stupid. Divide the GOP with your hatred and misguided idea that you can "take back" an America that doesn't just belong to you and your ilk; it belongs to everyone. Divide, divide, divide by getting dimwitted Sarah Palin to vomit out more foul rhetoric, by coming across as butthurt because things aren't going like you want them to, because you don't CONTROL ALL. Disturb the psyches of the people in the GOP who aren't radical messes, who wish to honor the WHOLE POINT OF THIS NATION by accepting differences in opinion and working thoughtfully together with others to work out solutions. Keep trying to say "our way or the highway," and keep using violent images and language like "target" and "aim" in talking about removing all politicians who don't think like you do. Keep sounding like the complete black-hearted miserable creep you are. Show everyone. You will strengthen the resolve of intelligent, strong, and determined people everywhere to rally AGAINST PEOPLE LIKE YOU, who can do nothing but choke real working democracy to death.

Fuck you, asshole. And that's from this mom of three who gladly pays every cent of taxes owed, and well remembers a time when people like you would've been considered national traitors.

COFFEE JUSTICE, FREE TODAY

Starting the day the SCOTUS way, with my new coffee mug purchased from the basement shop in the highest court in the land. Ah, hot, perfectly-roasted, slightly-smoothed-with-cream justice. There's nothing like it.



For the rest of you suckers, AFTER AND ONLY AFTER you have MADE SURE that you filed your taxes, you may take your very own reusable travel mug into any Starbucks today and they will fill it up with FREE COFFEE. Not one of the fancy lady coffees, though -- just straight no-frills coffee, ALL FREE. I am strongly considering bringing in one of those giant gallon-sized camping thermoses this afternoon, with a totally straight face and the statement, "I have to go to my daughter's Brownie meeting tonight."

MORNING LAMENT

Oh, Couch Teen!
As I rise in the semi-darkness this morn
Rushing your siblings to their education
I see
You have left me
Cheese on the kitchen counter
English muffins, to go stale
Plates and cups and half-empty water bottles
A box of crackers on the living room floor
Two laptop computers humming away on my couch
An online game popping away on their screens
A backpack, a jacket, a crumpled-up pair of pants
Seven chocolate chip cookies, sitting still on a baking sheet
Crumbs all over the floor.

My frown sinks deeply, my ire deeper still
This
Shall not stand.

COUCH TEEN! I yell
COUCH TEEN!
WAKE UP!
GET UP NOW!
NOW!
My tone is sharp, insistent, I take no prisoners
COUCH TEEN, UP!
Mmmmpphhhfff, I hear
“Whaa..??”
I then fire off the list of transgressions, one by one
Like a white-haired judge, ready to hang a dude already and go home
I take no protest nor accept any possibility of teen sleep
I continue and mention that
I leave now and upon my return in approximately 45 minutes
All transgressions will have been rectified
All filth removed
Plates and cups in the dishwasher
Or else.

The garage door clambers up, then down again with a clatter
The stopwatch begins.

To school, sign in, kiss kiss, drive to coffee and breakfast sandwich
Tick tick tick
Driving up the hill to home
HMMMMM goes the garage door
Tick
I find
It all
Cleaned up
His bedroom door shut once again.
HA!

WALTZ DISNEY

Driving the kids to school this morning, quietly skimming through the neighborhoods that are just waking up to the bright grey clouds and a mist of rain, Elliott Smith's "Waltz #2" comes on the radio.

Mr12: (reading the radio display on the car dash) What's a waltz?

Me: It's a dance done to a song in three-quarter time, like one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.

MissSeven: Did Waltz Disney invent it?

Me: (big smile)



DAMN STRAIGHT, RINGO

"L'Osservatore Romano," the official newspaper of the Vatican, last weekend decided that the Beatles were pretty swell after all.

Ringo Starr's comment to CNN:
"Didn't the Vatican say we were satanic or possibly satanic -- and they've still forgiven us? I think the Vatican, they've got more to talk about than the Beatles."


Eeyup.

MINI-CONCERT BREAK: BROKEN BELLS MYSPACE TRANSMISSIONS

If, unlike me, you don't have two MySpace accounts and find out about such things, here's three lovely songs done live in-studio by the fab Broken Bells. Can't wait to see their show here at the Showbox next month. I sure covet those pipes on James Mercer, man.


Broken Bells - "The Ghost Inside" from Transmissions

MySpace Transmissions | MySpace Video



Broken Bells - "The High Road" from The MySpace Transm

MySpace Transmissions | MySpace Video



Broken Bells - "October" from The MySpace Transmission

MySpace Transmissions | MySpace Video

HA 27: OPRAH WINCE-FREY

Oh, Lauren Collins of the always-interesting New Yorker magazine. It's not the most exciting assignment, I am sure, to write a review of an exposé book (infamous celeb vulturess Kitty Kelley vs. Oprah Winfrey this time) that seems to expose very little about its subject. But, when you complain that Kelley makes clumsy racial references in her book, you then have in your review a sentence referring to Winfrey that begins, "Among other niggling sins..."

niggle

1599 (implied in niggling), possibly from a Scand. source (cf. Norw. dial. nigla "be busy with trifles"), perhaps related to source of niggard.

niggardly

nig·gard·ly [ níggÉ™rdlee ]

adjective (comparative nig·gard·li·er, superlative nig·gard·li·est)
Definition:

1. not generous: very reluctant to give or spend anything

2. small or inadequate: very small or inadequate in quantity

adverb
Definition:

in stingy way: in a miserly or stingy way

nig·gard·li·ness noun

Word Usage

Though the etymology of niggardly and niggard remains subject to debate, these words probably have a Scandinavian origin not associated historically with the origin of the offensive word Negro and its related offensive racist slurs, which are derived ultimately from Latin. Niggardly, then, is in no way a racial slur. However, the fact that the word sounds as if it might be one is reason to consider context very carefully before using it.

Mine won't be the only eyes that dead-stop on that word, Scandinavian etymology or not.

RUSSIAN INTO JUDGMENT

I admit it. I too on some days would like to return my children from whence they came, like that adoptive parent/brain trust of a gal in Tennessee did by putting her KGB-style-kiddie back on a place to Russia. The problem for me is that if I try to do that then my uterus would explode and the kid would complain anyway that the cell phone reception was bad from inside my mangled innards. What can a gal do, I tell ya.

KINKS KHARACTERS: BIG BLACK SMOKE

She was sick and tired of country life.
A little country home,
A little country folk,
Made her blood run cold.
Now her mother pines her heart away,
Looking for her child in the big black smoke,
In the big black smoke.

Frailest, purest girl the world has seen,
According to her Ma, according to her Pa,
And everybody said,
That she knew no sin and did no wrong,
Till she walked the streets of the big black smoke,
Of the big black smoke.

Well, she slept in caffs and coffee bars and bowling alleys,
And every penny she had
Was spent on purple hearts and cigarettes.

She took all her pretty coloured clothes,
And ran away from home
And the boy next door,
For a boy named Joe.
And he took her money for the rent
And tried to drag her down in the big black smoke,
In the big black smoke.

In the big black smoke.
In the big black smoke.




I’ve thought about this girl all my life.

Some characters live in your head like that. For me, the runaway dollybird in the Kinks’ “Big Black Smoke” still wanders the mod, pop-mad streets of mid-‘60s London, sometimes dozing, exhausted and pilled-out, in the back booth of a dark café, all stick-thin limbs, long shiny blonde hair, kohl-rimmed eyes with false eyelashes askew. Her cheap plastic boots are pulling apart at the soles, her coat dirty from the bus and the Tube and clubs and curbs. She might look 20 or 12, depending on the light, her skin still perfect and pale. She clutches her purse to her stomach unconsciously like some kind of shield, as her doe-eyes hazily blink over and across the crowds of the city, and no one looks back to her. She smokes her cigarettes nervously, in a mannered way, trying to look like she’s been a sophisticated city girl all her life, but chatters too much, gives too much away in the provincial accent that is always revealed.

When I was a little girl, I worried with her Ma and Pa, and hoped that they would find her and bring her home safely. When I was a teenager, I understand why she left her little town and wanted to follow her on the train and never look back. When I was an adult, I was able to see both the compassion and contempt for her in Ray Davies lyrics. She was kind of girl he would see flocking to London at that time hoping to get in on the Youthquake, and more often ending up briefly admired then thrown away like pretty tissue paper in a box, lining a present you didn’t really want in the first place. She would end up on a train back home, humbled, or get a job sweeping up at a pub or she might get pregnant or with great luck get work in a shop and share a flat with other girls like her. What was sure, in Ray Davies’ keen observation, is that she would not come out of it the same as she was, and her parents would have to take off their blinders to what she was to begin with.

The sound of the song, low-fi, booming descending bass line cleverly bringing the listener down down down with our dollybird, the church bells clanging for redemption of her country girl soul…so so smart. It chugs along like a jittery dirty train, with the plaintive pseudo-Slavic-folky vocals over the top, almost sarcastic harmonies far beneath. As the song ends, you hear Dave Davies' scratchy high voice calling out over and over “Oyez,” the traditional call to order in a court of law. It adds a deliciously dark and ominous ending to the song, and we wonder…what happened to her.

I’m still wondering, and I can still see her in my mind, still walking the rainy dark streets, alone, foolish, and beautiful. A two-minute study in character, Dickens updated to British Beat, from an awfully good songwriter and awfully good band. It’s my favorite Kinks song, you know.

D.C. DONE DEAL

Last day in D.C. for fam vacation. The kids are tucked in asleep their hotel beds, I have finished with all preliminary re-packing for our early flight back to RAINY MCRAINVILLEBURGTON tomorrow morning, and I am so tired that tonight I would rather post a of picture of me passed out drooling than write much. However, that will have to wait until I am substantially more senile. Tonight's POS blog post will be a few photos snapped around town today.

Started out taking the spawn to the tiny hotel pool. Parents, if you didn't already know this, please note: there is nothing that kids enjoy more on a vacation than a hotel pool. Nothing. So save your money and your sanity and just go visit a pool. I'm not kidding, either. The Poolcation should be marketed, and I am not talking about those OUTRAGEOUSLY expensive Great Wolf places. Hotel + pool + the delicious novelty of ROOM SERVICE, where someone in a uniform brings food to you that is not on a paper plate and not served by a mother who says, "GOD! QUIT BICKERING AND JUST EAT!"

I cannot for the life of me figure out why this pool, about as big as my bedroom and at its deepest only 4', needs a full-time lifeguard. The tiny Asian girl with braces and a big smile sat there and watched us, sometimes rolling and stacking fluffy white towels. We were always the only people there. This must be the world's most boring job. Perhaps she studies or something.





















How many times did I say, "Stop splashing each other in the face," hmm? NO ONE CAN COUNT THAT HIGH.




















After the glory of the pool, we decided to head over to Georgetown. I had never been there before, but it sounded right up my alley: great historical architecture, cool shops, by the river, and even more cool shops. Georgetown is not easy to get to, oddly enough. There isn't a really convenient Metro stop nearby, unlike most of the D.C. area. And trust me, you DO NOT WANT TO DRIVE THERE. Oh, hell no, unless you like jammed tiny old streets, no parking, and aggressive drivers in expensive cars. No, walk in or do what we did which was take the Metro Blue Line to the Rosslyn station, walk a 1/2 block to a nice blue Georgetown shuttle and for a buck it saves you a mile of walking with your whiny pool-soaked children. You're welcome.





















First up on busybusybusy M Street was some lunch. We went to Clyde's of Georgetown, which despite being busybusybusy as well had a very friendly waitstaff and a local cheese plate that was MMM MMM MMM MMM. MissSeven and I then went into Anthropologie, and we oohed and ahhed at the loveliness of the clothes and home stuff and the big bed with the tropical palms used as a canopy. She asked if we could buy it and take it home. HA! I told her, but then allowed her to buy a pretty dish that reminded her of the ocean. The next stuff was the delicious-smelling LUSH, with its custom soaps that look like blocks of insanely-colored cheese. We splurged and bought one called Ice Blue and another called Sultan of Something, or something. Again, really friendly staff, which is something I never expect in touristy/rich/college areas.

All these days of walking around town in crowds and heat and whipping winds was kind of catching up with us all, so we decided to chill out with a short boat tour down a section of the Potomac, leaving from Washington Harbor. It was warm and people were displaying their feet.









































Sadly, when we got on the boat, we realized that it reeked of stale urine. Too tired to leave the Pee Boat, I opened up one of my LUSH soaps and actually rubbed some under my nose. When we got going the breeze helped to ameliorate the stench, and I tried to think that the liquid at my feet was simply river water. Of course.

Everyone along the river was cheering the scull racers. It seemed very preppy and such.





















Why, hellloooooo.










































The infamous Watergate complex, The Kennedy Center, and a passel of monumentals.



































































Reagan National airport and the bridges that remind one of the Air Florida disaster. YAY.









































Off the boat, walking back towards M Street. Here is something that used to have water, and now doesn't have water, and a Georgetown color pop moment.





















































Quickie food stops at FIVE GUYS Burgers and Ben & Jerry's, and a little walk through the quiet streets to marvel at the rowhouses. Just a few blocks from the craziness of M Street and it is so peaceful, other than a few desperate people searching for a parking spot to open up. We stopped outside a church for a moment of irreverence.



























Back on the shuttle, back on the Metro, back to the room, back we go, another trip done. And I never even got in the pool!

All in all, D.C. served us very well, and you really should come here sometime. It leaves you with a lot to think about, and thinking is good.