The Whole Enchilada

I made chicken enchiladas yesterday. They were yummy! See?

Phairness Doctrine

I'm thrilled to see the backlash against Liz Phair of late -- that's been due for, what, 17 years? I've long, long been one of the Liz Phair dislikers -- I thought she was a cynical opportunist, an artistic fraud right out of the box. I liked "Stratford-On-Guy" (somewhat), but thought her masterpiece, "Exile in Guyville" -- her seminal, iconic, fuck-me feminist play-by-play that owed its very existence to the Rolling Stones' "Exile on Main Street" the way that "Ulysses" owed its existence to "The Odyssey" and "Ahab's Wife" (and "Lo's Diary") owe their existences to "Moby-Dick" and "Lolita" -- I thought it was decidedly mediocre. It was only because Liz Phair was who she was that it gained any legs at all.

Meta. Meta. Meta to the bone. That alone bugs the bejeezus out of me. The novelty of a young woman singing dirty songs and swearing and ginning up her posh Winnetka life with tales of the mean streets of Wicker Park (haha -- I think she spent a few months dicking around in Wicker Park in its heady early 90s days when there was a scene of sorts there, but she came from the rarefied air of Winnetka, not the whitebread gritty fauxhemia of Wicker Park) -- it was intoxicating to a generation of hipsters and scenesters and indie rock dickheads and [prefix of choice]-feminists.

And the thing is, as a con goes, Phair triumphed -- by and large, these folks swallowed the swindle (a few notable standouts were Steve Albini, who was onto it from the start, and wrote about it, famously referring to Phair and Urge Overkill and Smashing Pumpkins as "the three pandering sluts"). It was the Great Train Robbery, and Phair was Ronnie Biggs.

Liz Phair, Pheminist.

Anyway, I think Phair was conning people at the outset, which was why her subsequent efforts were so artistically bankrupt even as she did things like marrying her producer and tapping Pop music svengalis to try to spin off some more hits for her. But each effort brought ever-diminishing returns -- without the meta-album conceit to fall back on and frame her work for her, Phair's already-meager talents were worn threadbare, until the half-clad Indie Empress was finding herself without a stitch -- which wasn't something she was particular averse to, since it was part of her shtick, anyway. Like Sheryl Crow's sluttier younger sister, basically (and no doubt Crow offered Phair a kind of roadmap for that bland commercial empty success Phair was surely striving for).

Still, St. Liz was unassailable for such a long time (what I'd call the "Phairness Doctrine" -- basically, anything Phair did was apologized for and explained away), by the same acolytes and music journalists that had swilled the pop cultural Kool-Aid to begin with -- having already checked their aesthetics at the door in 1993, they had already invested their egos in her, and were reluctant to cop to the fraud without admitting that they were as full of shit as Phair was, or that they had been fooled.

Until now, apparently. In her latest musical debacle, "Funstyle," her acolytes are scratching their heads and wondering what the hell Phair is up to. Rapping on one of the tunes, lamenting the crass commercialism of the music industry (only lamenting it because her efforts to cash in had ultimately failed) and so on. Even Indie Rock Dickheads without peer like Pitchfork are what-the-fucking this latest release (as you can see here).


The challenge her fans and apologists face is accepting that they were duped at the outset (and Phair certainly deserves credit for tapping a perfect zeitgeist moment with "Exile in Guyville" -- she certainly was in the right place at the right time with that effort, pulling a Jedi Mind Trick on so many people). So, I'm enjoying watching and hearing people come to terms with this new album in various ways -- mostly centered around either denial (like "What was she thinking?") or a kind of qualified acceptance (like "Well, it's not SO terrible.") to angry rejection (like "She's insane. This is SHIT!") Charlatans, one and all, facing (or about-facing) an epiphany.

My beefs with Phair were manifold -- false Indie Rock/Alternative; the meta-album template leading to her singular triumph; the lack of much to sing about or musical talent on her part; the shameless, calculated chasing after commercialism (while at the same time carrying her Indier Than Thou creds in her back pocket, like a hairbrush); the notion of Phair as some kind of ur-feminist icon "voice of a generation" (without actually carving out much in the way of new ground, beyond "fuck-me feminism" -- which isn't much of a feminism at all) -- all of these bugged me (and worse, how critiques of Phair were often derided for being anti-feminist, when really it was anti-bullshit -- I mean, The Strokes were as annoying to me as Phair was, when they had their day in the sun).


Anyway, it's cool to see this latest effort flame out so mightily, as it might finally bury Phair once and for all! Life's not Phair! Woo hoo! It's over. She's over. It took 17 years, but stick a fork in her: she's done.

Bahahah

This amused the hell out of me. Saw this at the bookstore! "Glutes." Bahah!

Heh

It amused me to parallel my other foot shot with this one...

Men are from Venus?

Saw this blurb this morning in SALON (which was, itself, tracking a study elsewhere)...

The takeaway: Men's happiness depends on having an emotionally-supportive relationship, while women's happiness depends on not being alone, period.

I agree with that on the guy's end of things. An emotionally-supportive relationship matters hugely to me -- it's a big reason why I had to pull the ripcord on my marriage with Exene: there simply wasn't that emotional support there; if anything, I felt like I was doing the emotional lifting for two people.

Bric-a-brackish

This weekend was alternately fun and harrowing; I didn't feel like I got a decent break during it, although I still managed to see two movies ("Inception" on Friday night, and "Despicable Me" yesterday with the boy -- I loved the latter, didn't like the former).

Got laundry done, had to deal with that leaky ceiling, cooked Mexican food Saturday and Sunday (tacos Saturday, enchiladas Sunday), took care of the boys, and had an argument with Exene for old times' sake (ha). Just a lot of stuff going on, and I didn't get any writing done, which always leaves me feeling unsettled and ill-at-ease. I'm on the front end of a stack of projects, and just need the proper breathing space to carry them out. Just don't have that breathing space, yet.

I want to get rid of that abominable sofabed we have. I want to take an axe to the fucking thing, replace it with a futon (how collegiate of me, no?) But for the needs of the moment, that's just about ideal. Simple, straightforward. Chop that crappy sofabed into flinders and be done with it. Exene doesn't want it, and the thing popped a rivet or two over the weekend (like imagine me opening the thing and hearing *ping* and seeing a rivet sitting there on the ground, and then the thing not properly closing anymore). I just want to get rid of it, but I have to time it right -- have it limp along until I can get its replacement in place. Voila.

My boys cuted me out all weekend; they're a couple of treasures. Such great kids. I took B1 to a karate class Saturday, which he sorta liked, sorta didn't (he doesn't like the shouting -- the ki-yah's and so forth). There's a closer karate place I may take him to, see if that one is more his style. Not sure.

I'd really like to find work I could do at home; that would be ideal. I mean, as an editor, I could probably cobble together a freelance enterprise one way or another, but it's tricky. Still, it would solve so much if I could do that, just be home with the boys. They'd be happy, and I'd be happy (provided I could make enough to support them).

Blender

B1 just said "A tornado is like the Earth's blender -- every time you see a tornado, it means Earth wants a smoothie. You always see tornadoes on hot days."

Love it!

Waterblogged

I talked with the super this morning, and it appears a drain on the floor above ours was clogged, blocked, or in some way not working, and my floor got leaky ceilings all over the place. They fixed it, and the leaking stopped. Just glad I had a few of those old plastic cat litter buckets around to catch the drips. Whew.

It's stopped, now, so now it's just a matter of drying rugs and towels and ShamWows! ; )

I'm going back to sleep; that leaky ceiling crap woke me up too early.

*Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*

Water, Water, Everywhere

WTF? I woke up this morning to dripping -- apparently the storm caused leaks in our foyer -- got two buckets holding the water. There's also some unspecified leak in the kitchen I'm trying to find. Ack!

Gee, I wonder if Exene'll still want this apartment unit? Bahah! My bet is "No."

After tending to it, I called the building maintenance. The balcony of the (empty?) unit above ours must've gotten a leak, and we're getting it, now. D'oh! Well, at least it's in the foyer, versus, say, over the books or the computer.

That was some storm last night!

Honorable Mentioned

I was pleased to see both of my published short stories (ack, yeah, all two of them -- I'm sooo overdue for a fresh publishing credit) of the other year were among the honorable mentions for the "Best Horror of the Year" anthology put together by editor Ellen Datlow. Nice to see that, since Datlow's not an easy sell on fiction (I know, since she's rejected more than a handful of my stories over the years), and for both of my stories to get a polite tip of the cap made me smile for a moment.

I think the long fiction I'm working on this year (and will be working on next year) will make a much-larger impression on people than those short stories, assuming I can get a publisher to pick them up. Always the big IF in the mix.

Just listening to the rain right now, the thunder. I should go to bed.

Sleepy

I'm not actually sleepy. I'm a bit caffeine-jazzed from seeing "Inception" (had a giant Coke Zero). Anyway, I found it to be a disappointing movie. I'll review it at Pirouettiquette.

It's thunderstorming right now, although mostly just raining. Soothing sounds.

Inception

So, I'm going to catch "Inception" somewhere after work. Haven't decided, yet. Someplace downtown. It's crazy-hot here today, and is likely to be so tomorrow, too. Ack. So glad I live next to the lake. One thing I will say about living in Chicago -- hug the shore! Don't go west. Stay by the shore, where it's about 10 degrees cooler than it is in the rest of the city. When it's mid-90s, it matters! Lordy, yes. Fucking HOT today.

I'll review "Inception" elsewhere.

Hopefully Exene won't be around this weekend. Bleah. Can't wait until I never have to say that again. Yeah! From "Bleah" to "Yeah!" in so many words! Baha!

My life actually is going to be so much better on my own. It's incredible to realize that. Maybe lonelier in some way, shape, and form, but since writing's "the loneliest profession" (wasn't it Hemingway who said that?) I'm really ready for that, honestly. I'll make use of that time to write -- that's the best thing about writing: you're never really alone. Hahah! But seriously, part of what drives me with my writing is building a better future for my boys -- that matters so much to me. If I can get things going with my fiction, I'll have single-handedly safeguarded their futures, and that matters more to me than anything I've done in my life. I want to do right by them.

It was the hardest thing for me to come to terms with splitting with Exene not because of her, but because of the boys. First I thought they'd be demolished by that reality, and worried that I needed to be there for them, but then I realized that being Happy Daddy was vital for their long-term health as much as it was for me -- they needed to see their dad happy and free and creative and vital, to be a good model for them. And in so being, I'll be able to create a good life for them, give them a head start, despite being a single parent.

I'm going to do better by them than I ever could as Exene's hired hand, truly. It's so clear to me. I'm free to be fully me, and there is power in that, and they'll see that and take heart in that, despite the change in their lives this will bring. I'm at peace with that.

Shrimps On Prozac?

Weird study I just saw today on SALON, basically showing that shrimp exposed to the main chemical in Prozac are more vulnerable to dying, for whatever reason. Several things about this -- I've been wondering for years about the role antidepressants play in suicides and murder-suicides, but the prospect of the chemical poisoning the environment by the way of urban runoff is creepy as well. The tip of the hat to brain parasites manipulating serotonin levels in shrimp is, of course, intriguing, too, given my lingering fascination with parasites. Parasites are tricky mofos. I'm forever amazed that dinosaurs had tapeworms, and those frickin' tapeworms survived the extinction of dinosaurs and migrated to mammalian species (no doubt because early mammals scavenged dinosaur remains and picked up the tapeworms, which then adapted themselves to mammalian bodies). That's an impressive (and horrifying) evolutionary feat. Don't underestimate parasites! Seriously. They. Will. Fuck. You. Up.

I've also long followed endocrine disruptors in the environment, too, which seem to come from plastics, creating false estrogens which may increase risks of cancer (and may be responsible for declining fertility in populations). Creepy shit.