Aww, it looks like the archive that hosted my old political blog (Anarchy for Anybody) went belly-up this year (I think roughly around the end of April). I worked hard on that site for a long time (particularly active from 1996-2001; I think sometime in 2000 I lost access to the direct FTP stuff I used to do to update the site myself, back in the day, and just made one last post in 2001 thanks to some friends and fans, and let it languish from that point on as a kind of archive of radical political thought in the 90s). Even at the end of my most active period with that project, I found refuge in fiction over nonfiction for my ideas -- that I found art was the best way of expressing my radical attitudes (just flourishes here and there, a sensibility, a sense of the possible -- I don't write polemics in fiction).
Still, 14 years is a long time for a blog, even if I hadn't been active on it for nine of those years, it still exposed a lot of people to new and different ideas (I remember it having something like 500,000 hits or more the last time I checked it, which is paltry in Net terms, but nice for a fringe political site -- I used to get comments from people who would write me expressing gratitude for that site). One of my essays (really, my most influential one, circa 1996) is still archived out there, which is nice to know. Everything else is apparently gone. I may have discs of the stuff saved somewhere (unlikely, anymore, after a few moves), but I've moved on from that stuff. Not in terms of my politics, which remain stubbornly small "l" libertarian and internationalist in spirit, but I've always been more philosophical than doctrinaire.
It's weird to think of that time and contrast it with the 00s, like how our political culture curdled in the face of right-wing extremism that's continued to hold our country back. We truly are falling behind. So many vital concerns I had then have become policy, now -- our country suspended habeas corpus, it is now a nation that officially tortures, we have secret prisons, etc., etc. -- serious breaches of liberty, carried out without hesitation or shame, or really much substantive debate. Sure, a lot of hand-wringing and navel-gazing, but the Beltway consensus seems to have accepted this as the "new normal."
In so many ways, the 90s seems like the last "good" American decade -- a time of peace and prosperity. Certainly the 00s did not begin auspiciously, and we're grinding along unsteadily in this second decade of the 21st Century as an imperial nation, desperately stratified economically, debt-ridden, deficit-laden, with an exhausted workforce and an overcommitted (and massive) military, with one-and-a-half political factions jousting for ever-dwindling voter market share (one group wanting to lead the nation the wrong way [the Republicans], the other unwilling to lead at all).
From my vantage point as an everyday citizen and political outsider, it's amazing to behold. But I console myself that bad times make for good art -- it gets the creative mind spinning, even as American life in the 21st Century is an affront to one's intelligence and a insult to the imagination. We are becoming a banana republic before our very eyes.
A decade ago, I'd comment about the "Youngstownification of the country" (and those of you from Youngstown surely know what I'm talking about) -- where ignorance was paraded about with pride, where things spiraled down into oblivion, and people would cheer the corrupt and the vile as heroes, and I see it continuing, maybe even accelerating. Maybe it's just a natural human reaction to political, economic, and cultural entropy. Maybe it's how people react when they don't even realize why they're fucked, or what's fucking them. I'm not sure. It's something, for damned sure.
Anyway, a4a is gone, but I'm still kicking, fuckers. ; )
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Vuvuzela Konzert
Okay, so there's one more week of World Cuppage left, but before it's done, I had to sling some more vuvuzela-related hee-hee...
Vuvuzela Konzert
*snicker*
Frankly, I think it violates the blaring spirit of the vuvuzela to actually play it, but it still amuses me.
Vuvuzela Konzert
*snicker*
Frankly, I think it violates the blaring spirit of the vuvuzela to actually play it, but it still amuses me.
Artful Dodger
I'm noshing on an Italian BMT (on Hearty Italian bread, with provolone cheese, naturally) from Subway at the moment. *nosh nosh* <-- see?
Beautiful day today -- mild, summery, sunny, lovely. A good walking-around kind of day, although I didn't have my camera handy, it was okay, because nothing jumped out at me (which is perhaps a good thing in Hyde Park -- you don't want anything or anybody jumping out at you down here!)
I was very pleased to learn that my good friend Corvina is getting a venue at ArtPrize! Yay! I stumbled upon that competition earlier this year and told her about it, said she should definitely submit something, on the off chance that she might get a venue (that's the real challenge with ArtPrize -- the venues are incredibly competitive and hard to get). And she got a venue! Her work is so solid, I'm really pleased she got in. Very, very cool. And what's even cooler is that the top 10 finalists win cash prizes for their works (and the prizes are phenomenally good). But even if she's not a finalist, at least she got in! Go get'em, Corvina! I'm so happy for her!
Beautiful day today -- mild, summery, sunny, lovely. A good walking-around kind of day, although I didn't have my camera handy, it was okay, because nothing jumped out at me (which is perhaps a good thing in Hyde Park -- you don't want anything or anybody jumping out at you down here!)
I was very pleased to learn that my good friend Corvina is getting a venue at ArtPrize! Yay! I stumbled upon that competition earlier this year and told her about it, said she should definitely submit something, on the off chance that she might get a venue (that's the real challenge with ArtPrize -- the venues are incredibly competitive and hard to get). And she got a venue! Her work is so solid, I'm really pleased she got in. Very, very cool. And what's even cooler is that the top 10 finalists win cash prizes for their works (and the prizes are phenomenally good). But even if she's not a finalist, at least she got in! Go get'em, Corvina! I'm so happy for her!
Damn
I just realized that I'm likely going to be on the road for the World Cup final (7/11) -- it's at 1:30 EST! D'oh! I might be able to just make it in time, if I time it just right!
There
1015 words this morning. Good words, too, mind you. I uploaded the files to my jump drive, so I can take it to work with me, maybe get some more done there.
Back in the saddle
I've gotten back into my early-morning writerly groove again; I'd tried to write at other times, but in our tiny apartment, with the boys jonesing for attention, I just can't swing it. So, for now, back to writing in the margins of my day. The morning is still the best, since I'm a natural early riser, and my brain is fresh, and there are no distractions (well, besides THIS, but I'm waiting for the old computer to warm up, so while it's doing that, I'm writing you).
Anyway, it's going well, this new piece. I've been easily clearing 1300 words a day, which is a decent clip for me. I would like to get over 2000 words a day, so we'll see how that goes.
I read an article in SALON about yet another memoir written by a privileged young woman (Sloane Crosley -- even her name sounds privileged, no?) Anyway, it left a bad taste in my mouth, highlighted the insider/outsider firewall that commands publishing. As somebody puttering around far, far outside that wall (heh, like a grubby, kilted Celt confronting Hadrian's Wall), it makes me peevish to see a 31-year-old with her second book out already, somebody with a perfect publishing pedigree (went to an elite liberal arts college, slummed around at an Ivy League school later, then miraculously got a job as a publicist -- indeed, New York City's most popular publicist, if you believe the hype (how does one get that job as a 20-something? Connections much?) And then, of course, a book deal (first book optioned out to HBO, and lord knows the fate of the second). And memoirs, no less. Well-connected from A to Z, reaping the rewards of it.
Sure, I'm envious. Why not be? What galls me is the retrofitting of such a fairytale history -- akin to adroit eraser rubs along the page to the theme song of the "Mary Tyler Moore Show" -- and we don't see the paperclip chain of connections, privileges, and opportunities that paved that golden road for her. Instead, we're to believe she did it all by herself. Not unlike that Russian spy gal who evangelized her pioneering spirit in America while taking Kremlin Kash to fund their lackadaisical spy mission in Cambridge. Bull-fucking-shit. Just once, I'd like to see somebody write "Thanks to my parent's wealth and connections, I got into the best schools, and because the Editor-In-Chief was a classmate of my mom's at Smith, I got a job at Fuckbird Publishing, where she introduced me to Celebrity X, who wanted me for her publicist as soon as she saw me, and blah blah blah blah." At least that would be honest and forthright.
As a member of the American Underclass (and let's be honest, here -- if you're making under $100,000 a year, if you've not gone to an elite school, if your parents weren't rich and/or connected -- you're a member of the American Underclass, intended only to be a spectator in our culture, not a participant -- anyway, as part of that, I chafe at seeing yet another memoir written by (and for) the children of privilege. I don't care that you trekked to Lisbon on a whim, Ms. Crosley. I hope nobody else does, either.
Alright, the old Dell's warmed up at last (my name for that computer remains "Shitbox"). I'm going to write the living fuck out of the story I'm working on.
Anyway, it's going well, this new piece. I've been easily clearing 1300 words a day, which is a decent clip for me. I would like to get over 2000 words a day, so we'll see how that goes.
I read an article in SALON about yet another memoir written by a privileged young woman (Sloane Crosley -- even her name sounds privileged, no?) Anyway, it left a bad taste in my mouth, highlighted the insider/outsider firewall that commands publishing. As somebody puttering around far, far outside that wall (heh, like a grubby, kilted Celt confronting Hadrian's Wall), it makes me peevish to see a 31-year-old with her second book out already, somebody with a perfect publishing pedigree (went to an elite liberal arts college, slummed around at an Ivy League school later, then miraculously got a job as a publicist -- indeed, New York City's most popular publicist, if you believe the hype (how does one get that job as a 20-something? Connections much?) And then, of course, a book deal (first book optioned out to HBO, and lord knows the fate of the second). And memoirs, no less. Well-connected from A to Z, reaping the rewards of it.
Sure, I'm envious. Why not be? What galls me is the retrofitting of such a fairytale history -- akin to adroit eraser rubs along the page to the theme song of the "Mary Tyler Moore Show" -- and we don't see the paperclip chain of connections, privileges, and opportunities that paved that golden road for her. Instead, we're to believe she did it all by herself. Not unlike that Russian spy gal who evangelized her pioneering spirit in America while taking Kremlin Kash to fund their lackadaisical spy mission in Cambridge. Bull-fucking-shit. Just once, I'd like to see somebody write "Thanks to my parent's wealth and connections, I got into the best schools, and because the Editor-In-Chief was a classmate of my mom's at Smith, I got a job at Fuckbird Publishing, where she introduced me to Celebrity X, who wanted me for her publicist as soon as she saw me, and blah blah blah blah." At least that would be honest and forthright.
As a member of the American Underclass (and let's be honest, here -- if you're making under $100,000 a year, if you've not gone to an elite school, if your parents weren't rich and/or connected -- you're a member of the American Underclass, intended only to be a spectator in our culture, not a participant -- anyway, as part of that, I chafe at seeing yet another memoir written by (and for) the children of privilege. I don't care that you trekked to Lisbon on a whim, Ms. Crosley. I hope nobody else does, either.
Alright, the old Dell's warmed up at last (my name for that computer remains "Shitbox"). I'm going to write the living fuck out of the story I'm working on.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Bus 2
Wow, the bus I almost took home was stopped ahead of the bus I actually took home this evening because of some kind of medical emergency. It stopped ahead of mine and there was a fire truck and an ambulance next to it. They let most of the people off the bus and I saw a defibrillator and a gurney trucked out. I guess a passenger had a heart attack, although I didn't stay to see -- when my bus was stopped behind that other bus, the driver opened the doors to let the other passengers on, and I got out and walked home, since it was close enough to get there.
Exene's still sick, as I said; she may be reacting to the antibiotics she's taking, although we'll see. The doctors are still up in arms about what exactly is wrong with her; she's going to see another specialist next week. Weird shit.
B2 accidentally stomped on my bad toe this evening, which made it bleed (again). Aargh! I knew what was gonna happen!
Exene's still sick, as I said; she may be reacting to the antibiotics she's taking, although we'll see. The doctors are still up in arms about what exactly is wrong with her; she's going to see another specialist next week. Weird shit.
B2 accidentally stomped on my bad toe this evening, which made it bleed (again). Aargh! I knew what was gonna happen!
Bus
There's a guy on the bus who is terminally preppie, and who somewhat resembles what's his name -- Christian Bale -- the kid totally looks like him except that it's is "American Psycho" incarnation. Anyway, it's disturbing to me, as he often hits my morning or evening commute, and he really calls to mind "American Psycho." This morning, I saw that he has a tattoo of his frat's letters at his ankle (which I could see because he's wearing his loafers without socks). That's astoundingly lame, like the lameness trifecta: ankle frat tat. And that he looks so "American Psycho," it adds to that psycho vibe even more.
Oh, and remember that couple I saw on the bus a few times, the leonine babe with the odd cheek piercing? (sorry, I'm not back-linking on it -- it was a month or so ago) I was wondering their ethnicity? Well, the guy is French, so odds are she is, too. I saw because he had his ID badge at his belt and I saw his name and where he works, and he's definitely French. I was pleased that I saw that, answering my own question.
Oh, and remember that couple I saw on the bus a few times, the leonine babe with the odd cheek piercing? (sorry, I'm not back-linking on it -- it was a month or so ago) I was wondering their ethnicity? Well, the guy is French, so odds are she is, too. I saw because he had his ID badge at his belt and I saw his name and where he works, and he's definitely French. I was pleased that I saw that, answering my own question.
More on Wonder Woman
SALON's Broadsheet groused about the new Wonder Woman duds, which I understand. Wonder Woman without her characteristic look is less wonderful! I wonder how long this look'll last?
Bored.
Let me just come out and say it: I AM BORED. Fucking bored. Damned bored.
I got used to that fix of World Cup action during my workday, and now I have to wait until Friday for the next match. WTF? Seriously. I'm so bored, I'd watch Brazil v. Portugal again. I'd watch England v. Algeria. I'd watch Paraguay v. Japan. Just to have something on during the workday.
I don't know what I'm going to do when the World Cup's over (July 11). How'm I going to possibly navigate my workday?
Oh, and you sourpusses who're like "How about doing your job?" -- I would point out that I came up with an elegant system whereby I actually managed to be more productive than normal while watching games. I worked it out.
But right now, I'm fucking bored. I'm going to be super-bored tomorrow, too. Lordy.
The last World Cup, I had my first real blogs (both of which were immolated by me around 2007, in a fit of blog-loathing). So I don't even have that to fall back on for comfort.
Another coworker and I were joking about it, talking about how we felt listless and irritable without our soccer fix. And then I found out that FIFA's store were apparently out of the Cameroon t-shirts I ordered. Yes, Cameroon were out of it (unfortunately -- I liked how they played, and it's fun to say "Cameroon" -- try it. Say it. Fucking SAY IT. See? "Cameroon."), but I can't even get a shirt? It's like the terrorists have already won. FIFA fucked me on that Cameroon tee as surely as they fucked England with that goal against Germany.
So, here I am, drinking water and eating a little bag of Cheetos, and I'm completely fucking bored. Oh, I guess I'll get back to work.
Also, I'd tune into NPR, but they're doing a fundraising drive, so there's THAT, too. WTF? It's like the Cosmos is busy trying to bore the fuck out of me, just to see what I'll do next.
I got used to that fix of World Cup action during my workday, and now I have to wait until Friday for the next match. WTF? Seriously. I'm so bored, I'd watch Brazil v. Portugal again. I'd watch England v. Algeria. I'd watch Paraguay v. Japan. Just to have something on during the workday.
I don't know what I'm going to do when the World Cup's over (July 11). How'm I going to possibly navigate my workday?
Oh, and you sourpusses who're like "How about doing your job?" -- I would point out that I came up with an elegant system whereby I actually managed to be more productive than normal while watching games. I worked it out.
But right now, I'm fucking bored. I'm going to be super-bored tomorrow, too. Lordy.
The last World Cup, I had my first real blogs (both of which were immolated by me around 2007, in a fit of blog-loathing). So I don't even have that to fall back on for comfort.
Another coworker and I were joking about it, talking about how we felt listless and irritable without our soccer fix. And then I found out that FIFA's store were apparently out of the Cameroon t-shirts I ordered. Yes, Cameroon were out of it (unfortunately -- I liked how they played, and it's fun to say "Cameroon" -- try it. Say it. Fucking SAY IT. See? "Cameroon."), but I can't even get a shirt? It's like the terrorists have already won. FIFA fucked me on that Cameroon tee as surely as they fucked England with that goal against Germany.
So, here I am, drinking water and eating a little bag of Cheetos, and I'm completely fucking bored. Oh, I guess I'll get back to work.
Also, I'd tune into NPR, but they're doing a fundraising drive, so there's THAT, too. WTF? It's like the Cosmos is busy trying to bore the fuck out of me, just to see what I'll do next.
Grumble
I'm jonesing for some fucking World Cup, and have to wait until Friday for my fix. Sigh. Next to the Olympics for me is the World Cup -- I love the international events, makes me glad to see the rest of the world. The US is so insular and parochial -- it's nice to see us out in the big, bad world.
So, Exene's still sick. She responded somewhat to the meds they gave her, but the symptoms haven't vanished -- still swollen glands at the neck, night sweats, sore joints, fever, loss of appetite. She's 121 lbs. right now. She's got some follow-up appointments with doctors. She's peeved. We'll see how it develops. All of the infectious disease tests they did (and they did a lot) came up negative. Not sure what to make of it all, exactly.
There's the Exene people think they know, and there's the Exene I know/knew, and there's whatever she actually is, somebody nobody but her actually knows. I know her better than anybody (including her family), but even I only know a sliver of whatever is actually going on behind the mask she wears. That Exene (or those Exenes) will be colliding in the face of something serious, healthwise.
I've been productive on some prose fiction -- a book I'm working on. I shelved the screenplay; it was nagging at me, and I don't want to pay to enter it into a competition only to lose and be out that money at a time when money's at a premium for me. I'm comfier in short story writing and novel-writing, so I'm staying in that primarily at the moment, even though the opportunities for me to be noticed seem as remote as ever. We'll see.
So, Exene's still sick. She responded somewhat to the meds they gave her, but the symptoms haven't vanished -- still swollen glands at the neck, night sweats, sore joints, fever, loss of appetite. She's 121 lbs. right now. She's got some follow-up appointments with doctors. She's peeved. We'll see how it develops. All of the infectious disease tests they did (and they did a lot) came up negative. Not sure what to make of it all, exactly.
There's the Exene people think they know, and there's the Exene I know/knew, and there's whatever she actually is, somebody nobody but her actually knows. I know her better than anybody (including her family), but even I only know a sliver of whatever is actually going on behind the mask she wears. That Exene (or those Exenes) will be colliding in the face of something serious, healthwise.
I've been productive on some prose fiction -- a book I'm working on. I shelved the screenplay; it was nagging at me, and I don't want to pay to enter it into a competition only to lose and be out that money at a time when money's at a premium for me. I'm comfier in short story writing and novel-writing, so I'm staying in that primarily at the moment, even though the opportunities for me to be noticed seem as remote as ever. We'll see.
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