First of all, most of my pleasures are guilty.
That said, I had to pick Lady Gaga for this post because the guilty pleasure she's given me is infectious. I like to say that it started as such and then became a full-on, paws-up, Little Monster passion, but I'd find it hard to declare to someone that I'm gradually learning every word to her songs. And until I have the balls to walk out onto the streets with my disco-bra on, I guess it'll remain a restrained passion, and a guilty pleasure.
Do I have to explain why it's guilty? My three roommates have football players on their walls. The only poster I've invested in this year displays Mother Monster's head transposed onto the front of a motorcycle, and it hangs above the foot of my bed. The roommates have yet to comment on it. At least while I'm present.
The pleasure part probably is owed some explanation. My best friends are metal-heads, I'm a metal-head, and all my other heroes are intellectuals and authors.
To get the obvious out of the way, who doesn't want to just dance to "Just Dance?" Yeah, and especially from the standpoint of a poet whose best friends are avid composers of technical death metal, it probably wasn't hard to write, but who gives a shit? Live a little.
But then we get to the part about disco sticks, meat dresses, drag kings, and "I'm a free bitch, baby." At times when I'm up until three in the morning listening to the Honors kids in the hallway doing their homework, making physics jokes, and having nothing to arrogantly pour about except their classes, Gaga is the angel who reassures me that there's sincerity left in the world. With enough effort, anyone can learn to use big words to show the world that they're special. It's not easy to discourage that. It takes utmost sincerity to dress in steak and sing about your vagina. Nobody would have the guts to do that just for attention.
Furthermore, too many people act like they don't sometimes want to take a ride on someone's disco-stick (or the feminine alternative). If Gaga can admit it on the radio, we can all admit it, and maybe we can all loosen up a little.
There's a sentimental side to it as well. I didn't have "Born This Way" growing up, and it came out just as I was finishing high school. I love Sylvia Plath and Suicide Silence, but what I need to hear when I'm feeling like a loser isn't The tongues of Hell are dull or What's it gonna be? Pull the trigger, bitch, it's I'm beautiful in my way, 'cause God makes no mistakes. Few artists simply make you feel like they love you. And if someone can get away with being a crazy bitch in front of the entire world for a living, then I can take a few risks.
Regardless, this hardly means I want to be seen mouthing the lyrics to “Dance in the Dark” while I'm working out in the gym.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Week 3: A summary of the episode of Aqua Teen Hunger Force, "Bible Fruits"
This episode begins as Frylocke (the giant order of fries) is disturbed by Master Shake (the giant milkshake) and Meatwad (the giant wad of meat) while checking his Myspace. When Shake becomes frustrated that Frylocke won't tend to the matter, Frylocke tells him that he's busy talking to new internet friends who happen to be coming over to visit that night.
Shake is wearing a Hawaiian button-down in hopes to charm the single female of the three guests, but, to his unpleasant surprise, she is a giant Tangerine. As the conversation begins, Shake recedes into the back of the house, disappointed, and leaves Frylocke and Meatwad in a situation that becomes very dangerous.
The visitors are fruits: Tammy Tangerine's two friends are named Burt Banana and Mortimer Mango. But this certainly isn't the worst shock accompanying the visit; Burt Banana soon points out the coincidence that they are all food, breaking bread, as GOD intended.
When Frylocke offers Burt a drink, Burt refuses, stating that he quit drinking a long time ago -- "Those days are over." The fruits begin recounting stories of the "dark ages," where they would go out and get drunk, then pick up a stranger or even a hobo and have crazy, debauched orgies. As Tammy begins to tell them about how Burt used to beat her, Burt slowly reaches for the rum... Until Tammy barks his name, and asks him about the beatings.
Soon after, in the midst of a conversation that turns blatantly evangelical, Burt asks for "a little bit of a full glass of that rum." In response, Mortimer takes the pint of rum (despite Frylocke's irritated reminder that it's his), and runs into the kitchen to pour it down the drain. Burt rushes into the kitchen, opens the cupboard underneath the sink, and begins working at the pipes, reassuring Mortimer that he is not going to dismantle the pipes and drink from the U-trap.
Burt quickly becomes frustrated at this attempt, and while Tammy apologizes for his behavior, he stands up in a rage and accuses her of flirting with Frylocke. Tammy then says sorry to Burt, on the brink of tears, and to calm him down asks him to pray with her. The two fruits kneel together and begin ferociously speaking in tongues. But this isn't enough to cure his thirst for rum, and after a few seconds he goes into a rage. Fearing for their safety, Frylocke and Meatwad go outside.
As Burt rampages around inside the house, Frylocke and Meatwad play checkers on the front lawn. Mortimer decides that it might be a good idea to just find Burt some drugs, and steps onto the front porch to small-talk with Frylocke, obviously beating the bush, hoping to ask if he has any. Frustrated with Mortimer's continuing story about how he cut off three of his fingers while trying to build a bird-house on drugs, Frylocke asks him if he remembers the cup they had been with earlier -- he's filled with crystal meth. Mortimer excitedly runs into the house to tell his friends that the cup has the drugs, and all three of them carnivorously spread out into the house to find Master Shake, who had abandoned his two friends to these unstable guests.
As the fruits search for Shake, Meatwad is seen sitting in a tire with two split wires in his hands. Frylocke instructs him to press them together. When he does this, the house explodes with the Bible Fruits and Master Shake inside, and we presume the fruits go to Heaven.
Shake is wearing a Hawaiian button-down in hopes to charm the single female of the three guests, but, to his unpleasant surprise, she is a giant Tangerine. As the conversation begins, Shake recedes into the back of the house, disappointed, and leaves Frylocke and Meatwad in a situation that becomes very dangerous.
The visitors are fruits: Tammy Tangerine's two friends are named Burt Banana and Mortimer Mango. But this certainly isn't the worst shock accompanying the visit; Burt Banana soon points out the coincidence that they are all food, breaking bread, as GOD intended.
When Frylocke offers Burt a drink, Burt refuses, stating that he quit drinking a long time ago -- "Those days are over." The fruits begin recounting stories of the "dark ages," where they would go out and get drunk, then pick up a stranger or even a hobo and have crazy, debauched orgies. As Tammy begins to tell them about how Burt used to beat her, Burt slowly reaches for the rum... Until Tammy barks his name, and asks him about the beatings.
Soon after, in the midst of a conversation that turns blatantly evangelical, Burt asks for "a little bit of a full glass of that rum." In response, Mortimer takes the pint of rum (despite Frylocke's irritated reminder that it's his), and runs into the kitchen to pour it down the drain. Burt rushes into the kitchen, opens the cupboard underneath the sink, and begins working at the pipes, reassuring Mortimer that he is not going to dismantle the pipes and drink from the U-trap.
Burt quickly becomes frustrated at this attempt, and while Tammy apologizes for his behavior, he stands up in a rage and accuses her of flirting with Frylocke. Tammy then says sorry to Burt, on the brink of tears, and to calm him down asks him to pray with her. The two fruits kneel together and begin ferociously speaking in tongues. But this isn't enough to cure his thirst for rum, and after a few seconds he goes into a rage. Fearing for their safety, Frylocke and Meatwad go outside.
As Burt rampages around inside the house, Frylocke and Meatwad play checkers on the front lawn. Mortimer decides that it might be a good idea to just find Burt some drugs, and steps onto the front porch to small-talk with Frylocke, obviously beating the bush, hoping to ask if he has any. Frustrated with Mortimer's continuing story about how he cut off three of his fingers while trying to build a bird-house on drugs, Frylocke asks him if he remembers the cup they had been with earlier -- he's filled with crystal meth. Mortimer excitedly runs into the house to tell his friends that the cup has the drugs, and all three of them carnivorously spread out into the house to find Master Shake, who had abandoned his two friends to these unstable guests.
As the fruits search for Shake, Meatwad is seen sitting in a tire with two split wires in his hands. Frylocke instructs him to press them together. When he does this, the house explodes with the Bible Fruits and Master Shake inside, and we presume the fruits go to Heaven.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Week 2: Walking Past a Hipster in the Bookstore
A thin protrusion in the cavernous brown aisle of bookshelves, he stands like some giant toothpick contorted to bend straight at the poetry section,
(Of course he's looking at poetry)
brown hair literally like an old, old brown mop hiding his sacred eyes from mine. There's a crevice between the back of his white V-neck and the ugly wood convergence of two shelves; I wash my vision over the towering geometry of aged poetry collections to my left and just past him, congested across the rows, congested like the aisle, wearing their enigmatic black rims and bold gold initials and names the same way this hipster wears his tattered jorts: I am legitimate. For a moment I feel some sick shock memory of sinus pressure, but like blowing my nose, I must take a baby bookstore step forward and poise to shuffle pelvis-to-ass past this weasel. And step, and step, and here I am at his side, and turn, and slide--
He rotates and blows a gust of his air onto me. I blink as we meet eyes, and I am blind in the Kingdom of Incense, I am churning in a wet haystack flushed with nag champa and marijuana and American Spirit smoke. Eyes snap open and I watch him take a lanky step to my left and once again bend his neck forward over that pallid V of exposed chest, browsing dopy-eyed and low-shouldered at the poetry.
Suddenly I'm alive again, like my pulse had ceased in his possession of scent.
Suddenly I'm awake again to the low shuffles and slithering voices that blow like the bookstore's breath, and to the dust and old paper smell. Now I am eye-to-eye with a stern, tight row of books. I take a glance back at the Hipster and seem to see him for his entire soul, which was just rolled into my nose in a gaseous form. He just turned the empty space behind him into a vagina and pushed me onto the Earth for the second time, and thinks nothing of it. And all I wanted was a quiet few minutes in the bookstore.
(Of course he's looking at poetry)
brown hair literally like an old, old brown mop hiding his sacred eyes from mine. There's a crevice between the back of his white V-neck and the ugly wood convergence of two shelves; I wash my vision over the towering geometry of aged poetry collections to my left and just past him, congested across the rows, congested like the aisle, wearing their enigmatic black rims and bold gold initials and names the same way this hipster wears his tattered jorts: I am legitimate. For a moment I feel some sick shock memory of sinus pressure, but like blowing my nose, I must take a baby bookstore step forward and poise to shuffle pelvis-to-ass past this weasel. And step, and step, and here I am at his side, and turn, and slide--
He rotates and blows a gust of his air onto me. I blink as we meet eyes, and I am blind in the Kingdom of Incense, I am churning in a wet haystack flushed with nag champa and marijuana and American Spirit smoke. Eyes snap open and I watch him take a lanky step to my left and once again bend his neck forward over that pallid V of exposed chest, browsing dopy-eyed and low-shouldered at the poetry.
Suddenly I'm alive again, like my pulse had ceased in his possession of scent.
Suddenly I'm awake again to the low shuffles and slithering voices that blow like the bookstore's breath, and to the dust and old paper smell. Now I am eye-to-eye with a stern, tight row of books. I take a glance back at the Hipster and seem to see him for his entire soul, which was just rolled into my nose in a gaseous form. He just turned the empty space behind him into a vagina and pushed me onto the Earth for the second time, and thinks nothing of it. And all I wanted was a quiet few minutes in the bookstore.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Week 1: Me and Writing
I'm one of two different people when I'm writing, depending on whether I'm being asked to produce an essay or forcing myself to write a poem (or short story, or whatever).
Both of them prefer silence. Both are easily distracted by noises and especially if words are being spoken. I can listen to wordless music when I'm writing to help me focus and that's it. When I'm trying to produce words and I'm being assaulted by other words, it just doesn't work.
The essay-writer writes at night, partially because he's a procrastinator. I'm not sure if it's whether I've adapted to writing at 3 AM or because of some neurological correlation to fatigue or some living Romantic notion about the silently-flowing passions of the nighttime, but when it's dark out and I have some coffee, I produce really well-written formal material. But I am capable of formally writing when I have to in any quiet environment.
The creative writer writes whenever he pleases. It really is true that artists (or people who want to be artists, I'm either) get struck by inspiration at random moments. Sometimes my chest will fill up with deep emotion and I'll lie on my bed with my laptop tapping out a poem. The reason I don't write as many stories is because the deep emotion only stays for short amounts of time; I did manage to write one short story once that I'm rather proud of because, out of luck, my chest just got flooded with deep emotion for about a month.
The essay-writer writes in driven streams composed of bursts of writing followed by short breaks involving caffeinated pacing back and forth across the writing area while he thinks up the next sentence or so and tries to graph forward the essay's logic in his head.
The creative writer writes in bursts when first working on a piece. Generally when I'm writing a poem I sit with my laptop (occasionally moving to different places because I get sick of the same spot for more than about a half hour) and schizophrenically whisper to myself what I have written as I dart between the document and Thesaurus.com and push the thing out word-by-word onto the page. That's when I forget to shave.
Both revise. The essay-writer revises much less than the creative writer because I am generally dispassionate about essays and when I'm done with one I don't want to see it again. It's also because the way I write essays is a slow, cautious tread forward into my argument; no sentence appears without fitting into some previously-designed scheme. However, any creative piece I write sits in a document and I come back and back to it and continuously try to make it more perfect. I'm almost never done revising something creative I've written.
In both cases I start at the beginning. I can't not start at the beginning. I've learned that about myself. It's part of this sort of OCD I have.
Both of them prefer silence. Both are easily distracted by noises and especially if words are being spoken. I can listen to wordless music when I'm writing to help me focus and that's it. When I'm trying to produce words and I'm being assaulted by other words, it just doesn't work.
The essay-writer writes at night, partially because he's a procrastinator. I'm not sure if it's whether I've adapted to writing at 3 AM or because of some neurological correlation to fatigue or some living Romantic notion about the silently-flowing passions of the nighttime, but when it's dark out and I have some coffee, I produce really well-written formal material. But I am capable of formally writing when I have to in any quiet environment.
The creative writer writes whenever he pleases. It really is true that artists (or people who want to be artists, I'm either) get struck by inspiration at random moments. Sometimes my chest will fill up with deep emotion and I'll lie on my bed with my laptop tapping out a poem. The reason I don't write as many stories is because the deep emotion only stays for short amounts of time; I did manage to write one short story once that I'm rather proud of because, out of luck, my chest just got flooded with deep emotion for about a month.
The essay-writer writes in driven streams composed of bursts of writing followed by short breaks involving caffeinated pacing back and forth across the writing area while he thinks up the next sentence or so and tries to graph forward the essay's logic in his head.
The creative writer writes in bursts when first working on a piece. Generally when I'm writing a poem I sit with my laptop (occasionally moving to different places because I get sick of the same spot for more than about a half hour) and schizophrenically whisper to myself what I have written as I dart between the document and Thesaurus.com and push the thing out word-by-word onto the page. That's when I forget to shave.
Both revise. The essay-writer revises much less than the creative writer because I am generally dispassionate about essays and when I'm done with one I don't want to see it again. It's also because the way I write essays is a slow, cautious tread forward into my argument; no sentence appears without fitting into some previously-designed scheme. However, any creative piece I write sits in a document and I come back and back to it and continuously try to make it more perfect. I'm almost never done revising something creative I've written.
In both cases I start at the beginning. I can't not start at the beginning. I've learned that about myself. It's part of this sort of OCD I have.
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