David Bowie's Eyes

The most awesomest

2007-01-11T19:04:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I've been gone for a while, though I'm sure my absence has gone unnoticed. But I'm back now because I found the most awesomest video ever online. Maybe better than "Hey Ya Charlie Brown." But maybe not.

Politics as Usual, Sadly

2006-10-25T07:31:00.000-07:00

Here in flyover country rages one of the many battles for a Senate seat that could shift the balance of power in Congress in November. The battle is between incumbent Republican Jim Talent and Democratic challenger Claire McCaskill, and it resonates nationally not only because of the potential significance of its outcome, but because the campaign has featured some of the same disgraceful, disheartening tactics used around the country. Both Talent and McCaskill are running enough ads during the World Series (which features the St. Louis Cardinals) to single-handedly finance Major League Baseball's new labor accord. It is these ads that are so disgraceful and disheartening.

Factcheck.org, and indispensible and under-used resource for those wishing to limit the manipulative power of politicians, has authored a critique of several Talent ads that attack McCaskill. In those ads, Talent and his organization attribute several critiques of his opponent to the Kansas City Star when, in actuality, those critiques were uttered by McCaskill critics quoted in the Star. The difference is significant, obviously. According to the Factcheck report, Talent's campaign has not responded to the critique. According to another report, Talent has promised to pull the ads, but has yet to do so. I cannot help but anticipate that the ads are working, and that more potential voters will be manipulated by the mis-message than will be repelled by Talent's deceit.

The record of success is clear: look at the Swift Boat campaign in 2004, and the hatchet job Bush and his thugs did on John McCain in 2000. In politics, truth is what you make it. Which makes truth crushingly difficult to find.

Praise Be

2006-10-11T11:35:00.000-07:00

If you haven't read The Constant Critic, and you care about the health of poetry, do. This article lambasts compellingly the latest installment of Best American Poetry.

Dictionaries are our friends

2006-10-10T15:38:00.000-07:00

The poem featured today on Verse Daily is "Amazon Parable" by Jeffrey Thomson, and it was published in Quarterly West, a literary journal I have long admired. The poem is decent; it recounts the Amazonian legend of bees that, instead of stinging their victims, steal their victims' hair. But the poem isn't about the legend; it is, in the poem's words, about "the weight / the story carries." Good enough.

But I have a problem with the poem, and with Quarterly West (and Verse Daily) for publishing it. Here's the first sentence of the poem:

The bees that will strip every hair
from your head instead of swelling
your hands with a thatch of venom,

that will leave you bald and clean
and unstung, they are my subject
today.

Look at that word "thatch." Here's the OED's definition: Material used in thatching; straw or similar material with which roofs are covered; particularly b. that actually forming a roof, the thatching.

The subsequent definitions don't stray far; "thatch" meaning head of hair (and pubic hair); "thatch" meaning layer of matted debris atop a lawn; "thatch" meaning tall, coarse grass. So in what sense can "a thatch of venom" swell someone's hands? The word is simply misused.

I'm not arguing against the figurative use of language, obviously. But "thatch" provides no striking figuration of venom; it does not offer us a new or interesting way to see the bees' poison. It merely distracts. And any editor worth her salt should write the poet and say, "I like this poem, but could we do something about 'thatch'? It makes no sense." At which point any poet worth his salt should be humiliated that he used a word of which he did not know the meaning.

Caution: Your Lawn Is Not Your Own

2006-09-27T18:47:00.001-07:00

I'm not big on mowing the lawn. The control exerted on the carefully-manicured lawn has always seemed to be left over from the control exerted by the Puritans on the wilds of Native America: a small performance of the European's mastery over nature. The very concept of the lawn comes from England, where the cool, wet climate is ideal for the thick, lush, low-growing grass that has made it possible for the Brits to golf. The natural state of grass in this part of the world is tall: eight, nine, ten feet tall, too tall to see over. We turned that grass, of course, and replaced it with golf course grass, lawn grass. (See Michael Pollan's fascinating writing for more on this.)

Besides, the two-stroke engines on push-mowers are notorious polluters. Why exchange more CO2 for less green? I love to work in the yard: I planted a small garden this year, and I have waged war on the invasive plants in my back yard. Buy why mow?

I discovered today, though, that the choice is not entirely mine. The local forestry division sent us a letter informing us that we had violated Ordinance 59860: "HIGH GRASS AND WEEDS IN THE FRONT AND REAR." We have five days to remove the offending greenery of be forced to pay the city to do the same.

My reaction to this was two-fold. On the one hand, I hated the thought of being a bad neighbor; though the details in the letter were sketchy, it appears that a complaint was lodged against our vegetation. By whom, we don't know. But I hustled out when I got home from work and fired up the mower.

On the other hand, though, I resented the complainer, resented Ordinance 59860: whose business is my lawn but mine? I'm a country boy; I grew up in a land without lawn ordinances. You could cut your lawn with a herd of goats and no one cared, as long as the goats didn't crap on anyone else's lawn. Or you could let it grow until it was long enough to bale.

I learned today that my lawn is a space for social performance, not merely for the tending of flora. It is not a place where I exert my own control over my environment (you may grow! you may not!); it is, instead, a place where I exert the community's control over my environment, where the community exerts its control over me.

The List Grows

2006-09-24T14:24:00.000-07:00

Add to the list of poetry book contests I have not won Pittsburgh University Press's Agnes Lynch Starrett Prize. I have not won this prize a few times before, but I think that this time was the last. For the second time in three years, the prize was awarded to a graduate of the University of Pittsburgh's MFA program; this year's winner even lives in Pittsburgh. In the post-Foetry era, Pitt Press's lack of concern about such (perceived?) impropriety is stunning.

So I'm breaking up with them. I recommend to anyone in a similar position (save my friends with MFAs from Pitt, obviously) to do the same.

Cheers.

The Internet Has Reached Its Pinnacle

2006-09-14T21:05:00.000-07:00

This may be the best thing ever: the Peanuts gang updating its act. Without the internet, this little gem wouldn't make it much further than the dorm floor of the dweebs that made it; in this world, though, we can all get a taste. It's like the dorm room is now big enough to fit everyone who wants in.

Imagine the Wedding Reception

2006-09-09T10:02:00.000-07:00

Among the most memorable events of this summer's World Cup, at least to us scandal-loving Americans, was French star Zinedine Zidane's headbutt to Marco Materazzi's chest in the Italy-France match. At the time, rumors circulated that Materazzi had called Zidane's mother, an Algerian immigrant, some variation of "dirty terrorist slut." The story never held much water, but details of the event never emerged to eclipse it, either.

Now Materazzi has fessed up. We pick up the action as the two are running down the pitch; Materazzi is tugging at a wad of Zidane's jersey:

ZZ: If you want my jersey zat badlee, I will give it to you after ze game.

MM: I would rather have your sister. She's a spicy meat-a-ball-a!

ZZ: [muttering, wheels on his opponent]

MM: OOF!

Materazzi points out, and I imagine quite rightly, that similar taunts are uttered virtually every soccer match. In fact, I'm guessing that the six-year-olds that play at the Catholic school up the street from here are at least that rude to each other. But still: vive le Zidane for defending the family's honor!

Sweet Tooth

2006-08-30T12:48:00.000-07:00

The semester started today, and The Wife brought me a treat for the occasion: a Reese's Caramel Peanut Butter Cup, designed, I suppose, for those who eat a regular Reese's PBC and say, "you call that sweet?" My sweet tooth has a black belt, but this was almost too much for me.

Anyway. The wrapper for the candy bar advertised something called "WrapperCash," which, apparently, is "powered by ebay." "Get it!" the wrapper suggests.

Inside the wrapper is the 411 on WrapperCash. This particular wrapper is worth two points. I can go to hersheys.com and start a WrapperCash account, accumulating points with each wrapper; presumably, I can eventually use my WrapperCash points to buy something on ebay: something that has been shoplifted, for instance, or a piece of crap from someone's garage. Only with more points can I "Get it!" and more points only come with more candy, so.... I think I see where this is heading.

But here's my favorite part: below the WrapperCash instructions but above the code that I must enter online or via text message (txt mssg), is the following: "Candy is a treat. Please consume in moderation."

This is what capitalism has come to: big companies urging consumers not to buy their products in the very space used to encourage consumption. The message couldn't be more overtly contradictory. And yet no one seems concerned.

Faith and (T)Reason

2006-08-07T09:27:00.000-07:00

I have been listening lately, via Podcast, to Bill Moyers' Faith and Reason series, in which he interviews contemporary writers and thinkers on the relationship between faith, reason, and our contemporary social and political lives. It's a fabulous series, and I recommend it to anyone.

The subject is obviously relevant right now, given the rise in fundamentalism in this country and around the world. This clip from the Daily Show gives some sense of what we're up against: a lot of "faith," not much reason. Here's the Rapture Index to which one of the anchors refers. The people sitting around waiting for the End of Days can and do vote, influencing decisions about everything from international policy to school lunch programs. ("What would Jesus serve?")

The problem with the fundamentalist point of view is that it can justify any position. That belief in God strengthened, and did not ebb, in the wake of 9/11 is testament to the fact that faith is a distorting lens: it helps believers to re-shape an event to make it bearable. I remember hearing once my father ask my old-line Methodist grandfather why--I oversimplify here to compensate for hazy memory--God lets bad things happen to good people. "We can't pretend to know God's will," my grandfather said. This, the religious tell us, is faith.

The origin of such faith seems clear to me: fear. Maybe more precisely: dread. How terrible to imagine that a child's death from cancer isn't part of a divine plan, but only a human tragedy, a biological phenomenon no different from a young rabbit's death of myxomitosis or an elm's death from Dutch elm disease. How heartbreaking to think that death is merely the cessation of a chemical reaction and not the transition of a consciousness from one form to another. But, as philosopher Colin McGinn points out to Bill Moyers, the desire to believe in something isn't a reason to believe in something.

We need to be consoled. The great appeal of Christianity (and, it seems, Islam) is the promise of consolation: faith that, despite the darkness, light will come. The problem, though, is that, as we look for that light, the room stays dark. If we accept the darkness and let our eyes adjust, we discover a world of consolations right before us.

Happily Stumbling

2006-07-29T09:33:00.000-07:00

I hate to admit it, but sometimes I feel as though I run out of things to look at on the web. There are times when I'd like to keep browsing, but I've already looked at all of my usual sites. What to do? (Something productive, you say? Shut up.)

But now that dilemma is a thing of the past, thanks to Stumble Upon, a web browser extension designed to help users find new and interesting ways to waste time on the internet. It works this way: you tell Stumble Upon what you like (say, birds, baking, and Al Gore), and then, whenever you run out of things to look at on the web, you hit the "Stumble!" button on your toolbar, and it takes you to a randomly-chosen site related to your interests. Like this one. Then you can rate the site (thumbs up or down) to improve future stumbles. Pretty cool.

Righteous Indignation is the Best Kind

2006-07-20T06:31:00.000-07:00

One day when I was in elementary school, a small, red-headed boy named Richie Amidon walked up to me on the playground and asked me if I wanted to be punched in the mouth. I was a savvy kid; I thought I could call his bluff, so I said yes. And then Richie Amidon punched me in the mouth. Our teacher made us both stay in from recess that week, a punishment which always seemed unfair to me: I, after all, had only committed the indiscretion of getting punched in the mouth.

So, when I read that Italy's Marco Materazzi has been fined and suspended by FIFA for receiving Zinedine Zidane's headbutt to his chest, I am filled with righteous indignation.

The Great Beyond

2006-07-09T15:01:00.000-07:00

You know you're avoiding something when you not only click on the link to the Russian site featured on your friend's blog, but you surf around once you're there, regardless of the fact that you don't even have the capacity to sound out the words. It's a fun site, though: random (in the true sense of the word, not the sense my students use) clicking led me to one page that was full of flags, apparently designed and posted by visitors to the site. Most were funny variations on this or that national flag; others were just excuses to pledge allegiance to pot. But here are two that caught my eye, based on the US flag:

The other one has a slightly different tone:

Sigh.

Dude, Where's My Ark?

2006-06-29T11:51:00.000-07:00

Morons around the world are rejoicing at the announcement of the latest (there have been many) discovery of Noah's Ark, this time on a mountain in Iran. According to some sources, the "discovery" was made by a group of Texas (surprised?) businessmen; others attribute it to "Christian explorer" Bob Cornuke. My favorite quote--and there are some beauties, believe me--is this one, ascribed to the aformentioned Texas businessmen: "I can't imagine what [the find] could be, if it's not Noah's Ark."

I imagine, of course, that he was shooting pistols into the air in celebration as he said it, and that he finished it off with a yee-haw! But seriously: to what question is "Noah's Ark" the most obvious answer?

Another stunningly stupid write-up of the non-event comes from the Christian Worldview Network. The folks over at CWN go to great lengths to point out that their articles are copyrighted, so I won't quote from this one. I will, however, point out that one of the sources they turn to to give these Ark ruins the thumbs-up for authenticity is none other than Mary Irwin, whose late husband was an Apollo 15 astronaut. Now, that's some competent journalism!

Sad State of Affairs

2006-06-06T10:11:00.000-07:00

Among the primary attributes of any young writer must be optimism: specifically, the sustained belief, no matter how illogical, that success is just around the corner. Certainly, the hoped-for success includes the creation of a beautiful poem or powerful short story, or even simply a well-wrought sentence, but most of us hanker for something else as well: publishing success. For poets, the dream stops at publication (and perhaps includes a few readings, maybe even a job opportunity); we don't imagine sales figures and movie deals. But the dream, even if it wavers, doesn't fail: if success doesn't visit tomorrow, well, there's always tomorrow. It's the only way to keep writing, revising, and submitting work.

But in the interest of driving out self-delusion, I offer Joseph Bednarik's "The Law of Diminishing Readership," from the latest Poets & Writers. Bednarik, the marketing director at Copper Canyon Press, presents some sobering insights, not the least of which are these, copied and pasted from the article:

In a statistical mood, I once estimated how many "good poems" were being produced by recent graduates of MFA programs. Keeping all estimates conservative, I figured there had to be at least 450 poets graduating nationwide each year. If each MFA graduate wrote just one good poem a year for ten years, at the end of a decade we would have 24,750 good poems--not to mention 4,500 degree-bearing poets, each of whom was required to write a book-length manuscript in order to graduate. New poems, poets, and manuscripts are added to the inventory every year.
In the fifteen years I've worked in literary publishing, over ten thousand manuscripts--checks attached--were submitted to contests sponsored by the publishers I worked for. From those manuscripts, fifteen emerged as published books--good books all, with each receiving review attention from local and national media, and several going on to earn accolades. In each instance, the net sales ranged from four hundred to twenty-five hundred copies.

So. Your chances, based on Bednarik's experience, of winning a contest are less than .15%. (Note the decimal--it's not a typo.) The chances of writing something truly good, I'd wager, are smaller.

Bednarik's driving question is a good one: why, in the face of steeply diminishing interest in "high" literature, is the "literary" writing community growing like algae in the Gulf of Mexico? And, more to the point, what can be done? His answer is simple: if you write, read. As much as you can. (Or at least buy. No one will know how many of those books you haven't read.)

It's good advice. And it offers us something to do besides gaze with a microscope at our chances of ever finding success, in any form, on this path. So I'm off to the local bookery.

Cheers.

Man on Man

2006-05-06T09:24:00.000-07:00

Despite Will and Grace and Queer Eye, our culture is still homophobic. A gay affair will cost you your job as governor, while a straight affair barely raises an eyebrow. (Unless, of course, you have pissed off the Republicans.) But American sports culture presents a strange paradox: while it is based on traditional ideas of masculinity and implied (and enforced) heterosexuality, it is also one of the few venues where intimate male contact is acceptable. A quick quiz: what's happening here, at the end of the Cleveland Cavalier's series-ending win over the Washington Wizards? Celebration or consummation?

Narcissists Only, Please

2006-03-27T17:52:00.000-08:00

Did you know that you can use Google to monitor the appearance of a subject (say, you) on the web? It's called a Google Alert, and it sends an email whenever your subject (i.e. your name) is mentioned on the internet.

Isn't that cool? And weird?

The (Trademarked) Madness

2006-03-25T10:52:00.000-08:00

It's high time I said a word or two about one of sports' great events, the NCAA Men's College Basketball Tournament. Much is written about the company time and office supplies wasted yearly on the event. I remember fondly a time in my life when I was a member of an English department with what I now believe to be an unusual proclivity for sport: even the head of the department entered our office pool. Since then, I have had little luck finding enough basketball fans in one English department to generate a worthwhile pot.

But I still fill out a bracket each year. I'm no great visionary, tempted as I am by the cool mascot, the likeable coach, the uplifting story. After the games in the Sweet 16 round, my bracket looks as though it has been struck by vandals. I've lost three of my final four teams (Duke, Kansas, and Boston College), and I found myself last night rooting against my fourth (UConn).

It wasn't always so bad. After the first round, I felt pretty good: I had predicted Wichita State's victory (I even had them in the Sweet 16), and had predicted upsets by Wisconsin-Milwaukee, Alabama, and NC St. I also had Georgetown beating Ohio State in the second round. I hadn't picked Bradley, of course, or George Mason or Montana, and I had picked San Diego State and Utah State. But still.

But that's the beauty of the Tournament: each surprise upset is a thrill, well worth the damage done to one's bracket. The run of teams like Bradley and George Mason are, for me, the best part. Imagine if there had been a nuclear event: 16 seed Albany holding on to beat UConn in the first round. Everyone's bracket would be decimated. But how cool would the story be?

Actually, the best part of this year's tournament may be the performance of mid-major teams: not only those that advanced, like Bradley, George Mason, and Wichita, but also those that acquitted themselves with tough play, like Pacific, Northern Iowa, and Winthrop. I'd like to take those results and shove them in Billy Packer's fat face. The migration of the country's best basketball players to the pro game has left the field wide open, and I'm consistently surprised when people don't acknowledge the fact. The other relevant fact is that good, team basketball can overcome superior, undisciplined talent. (See the Bradley-KU game.) So I hope everyone can shut up about Cincinnati not making the tournament. If Cincinnati made the round of 16, would anyone care? But Bradley making it: that's a story.

The Unchosen

2006-02-27T13:02:00.000-08:00

Today I, like 927 other aspiring poets, received a "Dear Poet" letter from BOA Editions in regards to their A. Poulin, Jr. Poetry Prize. (Okay, we probably didn't all receive it today.) Actually, it isn't even a letter; it's a copy of the press release announcing the winner, Janice N. Harrington's From the Shadows' Darkness. Also announced were three runners-up, none of which was mine, nor any belonging to my friends.

I have no beef. It's hard to be upset about landing somewhere between #5 and #928 in the final rankings; enough is left to the imagination to make hope salvageable. But the Poulin Prize is a first-book contest, which means that at least 927 first-book manuscripts are drifting around the country, looking for a publisher. One of them is mine. The odds are hard to fathom. One would like to think that such competition means that only truly excellent books will be published, but I've read enough first books to question that logic. I hope Harrington's book is good, but I wouldn't bet on it.

I wonder, too, about the quality of those 928 manuscripts. Who's writing them? How many come from accomplished poets? How many are MFA theses? How many are by self-deluded poetasters in misguided emulation of Rod McEuen? Can 927 poets write between them ten good poems? It's hard not to wonder.

Still, I'm sure my manuscript was fifth or sixth, right?

Cheers.

Recognizing the Obelisk

2006-02-18T19:17:00.000-08:00

This from Terry Eagleton's After Theory:

"[A]llowing sensitive, politically idealistic young people to gather together for several years on end remains an imprudent policy. There is always a risk that education may put you at odds with the tasteless, clueless philistines who run the world and whose lexicon stretches only to words like oil, golf, power, and cheeseburger. It may make you less sanguine about entrusting the governance of the globe to men who have never been excited by an idea, moved by a landscape, or enthralled by the transcendent elegance of a mathematical solution. You may develop grave doubts about those who have the nerve to speak of defending civilization and would not recognize an obelisk or an oboe concerto if it were to slap them in the face. These are the men and women who prate of freedom and would recognize it only in the form of a hand-out" (26).

Discuss.

The Shootist

2006-02-14T20:46:00.000-08:00

It's hard not to be utterly engrossed by the recent story of Dick Cheney shooting his quail-hunting partner in Texas over the weekend. The obvious story is the cover-up, the possible scandal (after scandal after scandal) of who knew what when and just why the story took so long to surface.

But I think there's more. The story is stirring because it is believable, just believable, that Dick Cheney would shoot a man. Cheney is the sort of character who, in the movie version, would invite an old friend on a hunting trip in order to eliminate him in a "hunting accident." The actual accident gets us just a little too close to the simmering brutality that we all always sense as we look at him.

Divide and Conquer

2006-02-14T16:46:00.000-08:00

After months of tenuous negotiations here at DBE World Headquarters, an agreement has been reached to spin off this blog's obsessive blathering about football to the good folks over at blackygold.blogspot.com.

What does this mean for you, the consumer? Precisely this: if you want to waste your time reading about football, go there. If you want to waste your time reading about other things (like poetry, Dick Cheney's kill percentage, and the Westminster Dog Show) come here.

Cheers.

There We Went

2006-02-08T07:57:00.000-08:00

"Here we go, Steelers," is the favorite chant of the team's fans, a chant I'm sure rang through the streets of Detroit all last week. I said it once or twice, too, to my wife and dog, though neither seemed terribly interested. The wife adopted the Steelers as her team once they booted her beloved Peyton Manning from the playoffs, and she supported my here-we-going, but I suspect her allegiance was primarily a cagey attempt to keep my head from exploding on Sunday.

My head nearly exploded on Sunday, anyway, when the recently-potent Steelers offense managed nary a first down in its early drives. Ben Roethlisberger, despite his seeming calm leading up to the game, was obviously freaked out. The Seahawks offense was having more success (is anything in football less exciting than the West Coast offense? It's football's version of the 3-man weave), and it seemed only a matter of time before frustration set in for the Black and Gold. 7-3 Steelers at halftime, the touchdown coming on a run by Roethlisberger that we would later admit to doubting was a touchdown.

I did note, however, that the Steelers' play improved when I stopped sitting on the couch and instead stood in front of the TV, pacing into our little hallway when things got tough. I stayed standing for the rest of the game, and that adjustment was, I believe, the key to Steeler victory.

My head nearly exploded again--for a different reason--when Willie Parker broke the second play of the second half for a touchdown. I jumped up and down screaming. My antics made the dog hyper, and we watched the rest of the second half with a chew toy in one hand. Shortly after Parker's run, ABC showed video of Jerome Bettis, the venerable back who at night's end would announce a triumphant retirement, coaching the younger back: don't try to outrun the defensive back to the corner, Bettis told him. Get him going outside, and then cut it back. On his touchdown run, Parker left safety Michael Boulware ankle-deep in FieldTurf as he followed the Bus's advice to the end zone.

So, they did it. It was a win that highlighted the quality personnel on the team: the great passion they had for one another, the willingness to pull together and dedicate themselves to those closest to them. Sport at its best, no? I must admit to getting misty-eyed several times Sunday night, first at game's end, watching Bettis hoist the trophy, then again as footage of the players' interviews was played and replayed into the night. My heart swelled.

And so did the hearts of the 250,000 people who clogged the easily-cloggable streets of downtown Pittsburgh yesterday. The sourest skeptic should need no more proof of what that team means to that city.

And I will entertain no whining about the officiating in the game. Tough calls are a part of the narrative of every game. They are among the challenges that each team faces. So suck it up, Seahawks.

Cheers.

Pre-Game Jitters

2006-02-05T11:38:00.000-08:00

So the Super Bowl starts in a little under 4 hours. Earlier this week, the wife wondered aloud why I wasn't having more fun as the game drew near: I seemed serious, anxious, as though my job or a large wager rode on the outcome of the game. Nothing rides on the outcome for me, of course, except the momentary disappointment or exhilaration that is the only reward of any faithful fan. So I'm trying to regain some perspective, to remember how little Monday (and every day after) will change according to the final score today.

But the Steelers are easy to like, not just as a team but also as individuals. I'm fond of them. I want to see Bettis get his ring. I want to see Roethlisberger make good on his promise to Bettis. The Seahawks are difficult to dislike, but easy to forget. How would history be served by their victory? The Steelers have the story on their side; their narrative is better. They should win. And that's what makes it so tough.

Like any loyal fan, I am holding myself responsible for the outcome. I have gotten the Steelers this far by betting against them. I didn't think they could win two games in Cincinnati, and I certainly didn't think they would win in Indy. When they headed to Denver, I thought, "Well, it has been a nice run, but now it's over." Each week I resigned myself to a Steelers' loss; I was just happy to see them playing. But I can't sustain my (lack of) expectations. I feel as though they could win. And that makes me nervous.

Here's the thing: the Steelers have played in a superior conference against superior competition. While the Steelers played two games against both the Browns and the Ravens (and lost to Baltimore once), the Seahawks padded their record with two games against the Rams, Cardinals, and 49ers, three truly lousy teams. The trend continued in the playoffs: while the Steelers beat three of the league's best, the Seahawks beat a strong Carolina team after dispatching a Washington team that wouldn't have made the playoffs but for some miserable play down the stretch by other teams. The Steelers' defense is excellent, as is their offensive line. Roethlisberger is hot, and everyone is confident.

But I only need to look back to last year to remember why that confidence might be cause for concern. The Seahawks are an unknown quantity, which makes them dangerous, I think: it's hard to know what you'll get from them. Their O-line is among the best in the league (though perhaps unused to the 3-4 alignment and certainly unused to LeBeau's blitz schemes). Their defense led the league in sacks, a feat accomplished largely without blitzing. And, of course, Shawn Alexander was the league MVP this year, no small feat regardless of the competition. The Steelers have given up yards against running backs like Rudi Johnson this year, and they key to stopping the run has often been the offense: once the Steelers are ahead, opposing offenses stop running the ball.

So the game is a tough call, and not just because of the Xs and Os. But here are my thoughts: the Steelers will come out running the ball if the Seahawks don't blitz, running draws and screens to slow down the Seattle front four. They will try to slow the game down, keep the defense on the field, tire them out. They will try to confuse the Seahawks' linebackers, who are young. The Seahawks will try to chew up the Steelers with Shawn Alexander, to discourage the defense and put them on their heels. Polamalu and the middle linebackers (Foote and Farrior) will need to play well and with intelligence and patience, as Alexander is a shifty cutback runner. Expect the Steelers to try to punish Alexander, too, much the way that the Patriots's secondary did against the Rams' receivers a few years ago.

Ben must stay calm. Hasselbeck must get confused.

The beauty of sport is that anxiety and speculation must give way energy and action. And maybe that's why I haven't been having more fun: no energy for me, no action. My pick? Steelers, 27-10.

(If the Steelers lose, tell them I'm sorry.)

Cheers.

Saints and Sinners

2006-02-02T07:51:00.000-08:00

David Baker, the editor at Kenyon Review, has divorced Zoo Press, for whom he judged the Kenyon Review Prize for a First Book. The open letter describing the end of the affair can be found here: http://www.kenyonreview.org/news/krppletter.php

The upshot, though, is that Neil Azevedo, editor at Zoo, is a dirty skunk. A mangy skunk with patchy hair. And he stinks worse than a regular skunk. A mangy skunk who fell into a sulfur mine. In 2005 the press introduced another book prize, this one under the Nebraska Review heading. Editors at NR (Azevedo is one) were the judges. I, like hundreds of other young(ish) poets around the country, submitted to both prizes last year, and it appears now that Azevedo is in the wind (as they would say on NYPD Blue). Certainly, I'm not trying to say that Assholevedo is smoking cigars on the Riviera with the contest money ($25 for each contest), but I am saying that the man is a gutless worm. (And a skunk (see above).) I'd rather send my money to a crooked contest, one that uses its prize to reward alumni of its MFA program, than send it into a black hole like this one.

A bit of good, though, too: Cheryl Strayed, old friend of DBE, has just published Torch, her first novel, which I expect will be made into a movie, and which I expect will make her a star. (Though she's already rather a star.) Go to Amazon and buy it.
Now.

Cheers.

Time Warp

2006-01-29T09:05:00.000-08:00

The Steelers' trip to Super Bowl 40 comes ten years after their appearance in Super Bowl 30 (see how that works?) in 1996. I just saw clips on TV of Neil O'Donnell throwing candy-armed interceptions in a loss to the hated Cowboys. In January 1996 I was less than a year out of college, living with my parents and working on my uncle's dairy farm. The weekend of the Super Bowl I was in Pittsburgh visiting friends and trying desparately (and failing) to get a woman to like me. I savor the memory of being in the city that weekend, though: at the South Side Diner, eating pancakes served by a woman with the Steelers logo painted on her fingernails; attending a show by Pittsburgh favorites The Clarks that featured a stunning version of the Stones' "Paint It, Black." The lead singer wore a Chad Brown (or was it Greg Lloyd?) jersey, and the crowd erupted spontaneously and repeatedly in chants of "Here we go Steelers, here we go." It's not often that I feel caught up in something like that, but I did that night.

Here we go, Steelers.

Yeeeaaaaaaahhhhh

2006-01-28T16:08:00.000-08:00

The wife and I claimed a little more of our American birthright today: we subscribed to cable. This morning we were faced with the unenviable choice of watching snow-obscured reruns of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers or sitting around in dreadful silence. But now, thanks to the magic of technology, we can feast our eyes on all sorts of meaningless crap. Ain't life grand?

Cheers.

A Hatched Plan

2006-01-26T07:36:00.000-08:00

I just read that Richard Hatch, the winner of the first Survivor, was found guilty and taken to jail for failing to pay taxes on his million-dollar prize. But the crime makes a certain sense, doesn't it? After all, he won the money fair and square: by lying, by manipulating others, and by generally putting his own interests ahead of everyone else's. And millions watched, riveted. And now he's jailed for doing essentially the same thing? What a strange land we live in.

Cheers.

The Good and the Jerky

2006-01-23T19:41:00.000-08:00

Want to know why the Steelers are going to the Super Bowl? Two words: Dick LeBeau. Two more: Ken Whisenhunt. The co-ordinators have been stellar these past few weeks. In this space mid-season, I complained that Cowher was often outcoached. Not so these days.

On the same day, Kobe Bryant scored 81 in a game, the second-highest point total all-time. Writers for ESPN are calling it the NBA's greatest moment in years. I call it all the evidence you need of what an egomaniac that man is.

Cheers.

The Cutting Edge

2006-01-17T17:56:00.000-08:00

I can't help noting that, in the wake of the Steelers' victory over the (10-point favorite) Colts, much of the media coverage focused on the losers: the "failure" of a great team to meet its goal, Peyton Manning's inexplicably poor record in the post-season, the poor play of the line, to missed field goal, and so on. But I saw a Steelers team that looked more confident, more relaxed, and more prepared than the team it beat on Sunday. This was a Steeler win, not a Colt loss.

But I only saw the first quarter of the game. I had to leave early because the wife and I took in the US National Figure Skating Championships this weekend. We attended the Women's Free Skate on Saturday night and the Champions' Exhibition on Sunday afternoon. And it was very, very good.

Figure skating, like room sprays and thank-you cards, is something I never gave much thought to before I got married. But I like it. I like the men's less, though their power and skill is undeniable. The women's competition features the perfect balance of athleticism and grace. (I wondered at one point if my preference for the women's side represents a male insecurity--a latent feeling that figure skating isn't "manly"--but I don't know.) Sasha Cohen won, in case you didn't know. We were sorry to miss Michelle Kwan.

And can you think of a more made-up sounding name than Dick Button?

My weekend at the rink started me thinking about the Winter Olympics. I like the Winter Olympics, in some ways better than the summer games, even though many of the sports are kind of stupid: freestyle ski-jumping, snowboarding (like having skateboarding in the summer games), curling, and a whole bunch of sports that are essentially sled riding (skeleton, luge). Could there be a dumber sport than two-man luge? Only skeleton, in which riders lead with their heads.

But I love the attitude of the winter games. After all, any competition that involves a sport in which a broom plays a major role must have its priorities in the right place. (And could curling have come from anywhere but Canada?) I feel much closer to these games: I couldn't do much with the shot put or the clean and jerk, but I sure as hell could lie on my belly on a sled. In fact, I have.

Cheers

Jury Doodie

2006-01-11T19:12:00.000-08:00

Well, I spent the beginning of this week in that particular sort of purgatory that only a local government can inflict on its populace: jury duty. I reported on Monday morning at 8AM with hundreds of my closest friends to enter into a process more byzantine and mysterious than initiation into the Masons. Here's what it meant for me: I sat in a long, narrow room from 8AM until 2:30PM, waiting for I knew not what. Occasionally people would be called up to the front of the room, but it was never clear to me whether or not it was good to be called. At first I ached to be called, impatient to make my way through the process. (I had a well-rehearsed speech about why I think the justice sytem is flawed (based on a tip from a web site).) But, the longer I sat, the more I began to wonder if, if I waited long enough, I would simply be told to go home.

So I waited. I read the newspaper. I did the Sudoku, the crossword, the word-find, the Jumble, the Word Scrimmage, and the easy crossword that I never, ever do. I read the textbook for a class I'm teaching in the spring, but I must admit that one can only handle so much Roland Barthes in that setting. Occasionally I got up and wandered around, found a new seat. And then I was called. My parking receipt was validated and I (along with 40-some others) was sent to a courtroom, where the presiding judge told us to return for jury selection at 9AM the following day.

The next morning, we wandered into the courtroom and were arranged by juror number. I was lucky enough to get a seat in the juror's box, which had padded leather chairs that tipped back and swiveled. Most of the prospective jurors sat in the hard pews in the gallery. The voir dire (French for "excruciating boredom") began: a series of questions like, "Does anyone know the defendant?" "Does anyone know the prosecuting attorney? Do you think that you could set aside your relationship with the prosecuting attorney and judge this case fairly?" And so on, for four hours.

People anxious to get out of jury duty were easy to spot. They stood up and said things like, "I think I have seen the defendant around. She looks familiar." I was among those anxious to get out of jury duty, but I tried a slightly different tack. The defendant was a black woman charged with possession of crack cocaine. I raised my hand and said that my conscience wouldn't allow me to follow the nation's drug laws, which I believe to be unfair and unnecessary. The lawyers--particularly the public defender, a woman probably younger than I with big bags under her eyes--poked hard at that declaration. "You will get the laws from the judge," she said. "Do you think that you could set aside your beliefs and rule based on the law as it is given to you?" A sympathetic juror would have been a boon for her. No, I said. Not in good concsience.

I tried to use the word conscience as much as possible, because it's the truth: I don't see how anyone is served by the conviction of some poor crack addict. I also wanted it to be clear that I was choosing to not set aside my beliefs.

And this is the odd psychology of jury selection: the questions are asked in such a way that the right answer is obvious. The lawyer asks if you know any cops. You raise your hand and say that you dad was a cop. The lawyer says, "Do you think you would be able to set aside your relationship with your father and listen fairly to the tesimony of police?" The right answser is "yes." Saying no implies irrationality, or a lack of mental acuity, or some other defect in your character. Could you set aside your own history of drug use and judge this case based solely on the evidence provided? Of course I could; do I look like an idiot?

So it takes a sort of courage to say otherwise, to stick to your guns and insist that you are influenced by your experiences and beliefs. And you know what? I think that all those folks who say they aren't are lying.

And so I pat myself on the back and say that I got out of jury duty by telling the truth, and mostly I believe it. But I probably would have french kissed the bailiff if it would have gotten me out of there.

Cheers.

Happy Birthday to Me

2005-12-21T10:50:00.000-08:00

My wife, in her infinite generosity, offered this year to take me to a Rams game for my birthday. I enjoy following the Rams, though I wouldn't say I'm a fan: part of the fun, for me, is reading the hysterics in the paper on Monday morning following a game, or reading up on who among the Rams' front office left threatening voicemail messages for whom. (Which reminds me: the other night I stopped by the local Borders to do a bit of schoolwork, and saw a man who I suspect is a Rams exec. He was wearing a dark blue sweater vest with a Rams logo on the breast and a gold tie, and was fat in the way that only the really rich or the really poor can be fat. I mean, he could be measured topographically. And I'm pretty sure poverty wasn't the issue: he was reading yachting magazines.)

Further evidence of my wife's generosity: not only did she buy me the tickets, she went to the game, as well. Granted, she brought a book about Marie Antoinette along, and, granted, her interest in the game peaked with a round of "spot the fatties" in the first quarter, and, granted, she dozed a little in the fourth--but still.

I had chosen this game carefully: in the fall, as I perused the schedule, this game stood out as a possible gem: the Eagles were coming to town. The Rams might well be out of it by then, but the Eagles were sure to be in contention for the playoffs. It was a chance to see Donovan McNabb (a Syracuse product), Terrell Owens, and the vaunted Eagles defense face off against the never-dull Rams offense. It was a can't-miss.

The starting quarterbacks on Sunday were Mike McMahon (dumped by the Lions) and rookie Harvard grad Ryan Fitzpatrick (who, in the fourth quarter, would be pulled in favor of journeyman Jamie Martin, who throws as though some of the bones in his arm have been surgically removed). Owens, of course, was long gone, as was Brian Westbook, the last vestige of the Eagles' offense. What remained on the field that day made the flatfoots on the Rams' defense look almost good. Neither quarterback threw for 100 yards, and the winning touchdown pass was thrown by McMahon to Mike Bartram, the Eagles' long snapper. It was that sort of game.

But I had a blast. A few rows in front of us sat a man in an Isaac Bruce jersey, wearing an Isaac Bruce hat. With every positive Rams play (there were a few), he stood and crowed and did a little dance. A nearby Eagles fan seemed unaware that the man was mocking him mercilessly, pointing and waving his Isaac Bruce hat.

From the stands, I could see the speed and precision of the game--its raw power and formidable complexity, the skill with which its choreography is executed. Football is beautiful because it speaks to our caveman and our artist. Its violence is primal, but its composition is strikingly sophisticated. Only live can this duality be fully appreciated.

The Lichtenberg Figures

2005-12-12T08:50:00.000-08:00

This weekend I began reading Ben Lerner's The Lichtenberg Figures, winner of the 2004 Hayden Carruth Prize from Copper Canyon Press. I received the book in return for entering the contest, and it has sat on my shelf, between Denise Levertov and Li-Young Lee, since.

The book is a set of untitled sonnets. I made it through perhaps four before giving up. I'm not sure if I am pronouncing a sincere aesthetic bias here, or merely my ignorance, but I found the poems impenetrable, and, at their penetrable points, dislikable. The first poem begins this way: "The dark collects our empties, empties our ashtrays." I can see the iambic pentameter, the figures of speech (personification, polyptoton), and the juxtaposition of big, poetical language ("dark") with frat-house vernacular ("empties"). The poem continues: "Did you mean 'this could go on forever' in a good way? / Up in the fragrant rafters, moths seek out a finer dust. / Please feel free to cue or cut // the lights." Why are the rafters fragrant? What is the "finer dust" finer than?

These questions can be chalked up to the mystery of subjectivity, to the pleasures of ambiguity (is the "you" in the second line the same person who is invited to "cue or cut // the lights"?). But the last line seals the poem's fate: "The chicken is a little dry and/or you've ruined my life." Here the poem gestures toward the direct emotional utterance (reminiscent of James Wright: "I have wasted my life"), but flattens the feeling with the self-consciously banal declaration before it, along with the ultimate capitalist conjunction, "and/or." The poem is so mired in its sense of irony and its boring deconstructionist anxieties about language that it can't get to the point. Or it doesn't have a point.

Here's an equally irritating passage, from the end of the fourth poem: "O slender spadix projecting from a narrow spathe, // you are thinner than spaghetti but not as thin as vermicelli. / You are the first and last indigenous Nintendo." Here we have the language of botany (held precariously in the poem; note that Lerner studied at Brown with science-poet Forrest Gander) fused to the language of pasta, capped with a lame observation about a bit of the language of commerce. What do we get when these various elements come together? Nothing, that's what.

Or so it seems to me. As I said earlier (and despite my salty tone), I feel as though I must be missing something. I have friends whom I respect who I know would like this book, and I have long admired the work of Copper Canyon. (Former editor Sam Hammill was the judge for the HC Prize in 2004.) Am I limited in my way of reading? Am I a dope? Is Lerner offering something more subtle and sophisticated than I am willing or able to discern? Discuss.

Cheers.

He Is Us

2005-11-30T13:02:00.000-08:00

From GWB's speech today: "Americans and Iraqis share the same enemy." He's right. That enemy is George W. Bush.

More Names For Your Babies

2005-11-28T20:52:00.000-08:00

I'm putting this in a separate post, so that interested parties don't need to read through a bunch of crap about a football game.

Here are some more names I have come across of late:

Jorvorskie Lane (RB, TX A&M): I have no idea how someone could make this name up. Perhaps it's the name of a Siberian town?

Kyler Hall (S, FSU): Not Kyle, not Skyler...would Skyle be better? What wouldn't be better than Kyler?

Jazzmen Williams (S, BC): This may be my all-time favorite name. Sounds like Jasmine, but not so sissy. I think I'm going to call my kid Trombonists. Trombonists Greene. Beauty.

Clinic

2005-11-28T20:37:00.000-08:00

I'm watching the Colts/Steelers Monday Night game, and let me say this: damn. The Colts have it. All of it. I am actually having a lot of fun to watch Manning run the show; it's hard to dislike the Colts, not only for their mastery of the game but for their collection of personalities: have you seen the ad with Peyton Manning playing the fan? It's priceless.

It's hard to imagine who's going to challenge the Colts in any meaningful way for the Super Bowl, especially now that homefield advantage seems inevitable. Not having to play in Denver or Pittsburgh or even Cincinnati will be a boon to them. I will say, though, that Manning is much less accurate if he's pressured and forced out of the pocket. (Who's not?) The trouble is getting to him before he eats you alive.

What's wrong with the Steelers? Here are a few things:
1. The corners are young. Good, but young.
2. Ben is rusty. He won't always be.
3. Cowher's playcalling. Sometimes he outthinks himself, which only provides evidence that he isn't all that smart.
4. Willie Parker isn't well-used. He needs space to run.
5. Offensive tackle is a troubled position.

How about the Rams' Ryan Fitzpatrick? I blew off grading yesterday to watch the Rams take it in the gonies for a half against the pathetic Texans. But no one could account for the Harvard rookie, who singlehandedly reminded the Rams that the season had not yet ended. And reminded the Texans that their season had.

Speaking of seasons ending: did the Chiefs' win this weekend prove that the Patriots' ship has sailed?

And what do the Chiefs do with Larry Johnson next year? (or is that question more relevant to Priest?)

I also (again, instead of grading) sketched out a potential bowl schedule. So far I misplaced Toledo, but got Louisville right. Man, what a fine use of my time. I must really hate to grade.

Cheers.

Don't Let Southern Rock Die

2005-10-20T09:27:00.000-07:00

A while ago, I downloaded (god bless iTunes) The Black Crowes' "Southern Harmony and Musical Companion." It had been a while since I'd listened to the Crowes, but I was beginning to realize that their songs would come to me occasionally, unbidden, like the memory of a great meal. And damn, was it worth it: the album is huge, mature, and full of soul. (Right now Chris Robinson is caterwauling in the background.) I overlooked SHMC when it first came out; I was young, and the album was too far beyond "Shake Your Moneymaker" for me to grasp its formidable strength. That first album had been my soundtrack for an otherwise dismal senior year of high school. As someone who had little nuance in his emotional life, I couldn't grasp the more nuanced second album. But I'm grasping it now, baby.

And speaking of grasping, I want to acknowledge Apple Computer's near-total mastery over me. Each new product they release inspires me to drool like a fat, hungry baby. This summer I bought the new iPod with the color display, and I love it. Each trek across campus is occupied with music (The Shout Out Louds, Bright Eyes) or Podcasts (On The Media, this really terrible Steelers podcast). Then came the Nano. Gurgle. Then came the Video iPod. Glub.

I spent an afternoon pondering the Video iPod upgrade (my wife--ever supportive of even the stupidest whim--offered to make it my Christmas present) until I realized that I wasn't that interested in spending 2 bucks to watch a video on a 4.5' screen, no matter how good that Fatboy Slim video with Christopher Walken is. I don't commute via public transit, which means I generally have something to do with my eyes. And, as my wife later suggested, we can always believe that music expands us and makes us fuller, richer people, but it's hard to believe that you grow much by watching reruns of "desperate Housewives."

Cheers.

Say My Name

2005-10-17T08:10:00.000-07:00

Football is a powerful force in American culture: each weekend, it grabs the attention of viewers around the country and the world, crossing socioeconomic and racial lines and inspiring all sorts of imitation: people playing football in the street, talking trash and practicing their touchdown dances. But one of football's most lasting contributions to American culture must be its players' names. How else would you explain the sudden glut of young LaDainians and Dontarriuses? I like to collect impressive football player names, and I'd like to log some of them here. I invite you to contribute. Foreign names are off-limits, but I'll accept names from all sports.

Here are a few to get us started:

Frostee Rucker (USC Trojans): The spelling indicates that he wasn't named for the Snowman, but for the slushy drink you can buy at the K-Mart food bar. Wouldn't you love to know that story?

D'Qwell Jackson (Maryland Terrapins): This name would have been ordinary and boring, if someone hadn't replaced the u with a w. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

D'Brickashaw Ferguson (UVA Cavaliers): I've seen some alternate spellings of this name, but all include the D'. Is this a trend? Will the next president to be impeached be D'George W. Bush? Will D'Karl Rove go to d'jail?

Sinorice Moss (Miami Hurricanes): This name means "Chinese Rice." Makes sense to me.

More soon. I invite you to contribute, gentle readers.

Tommy Gun

2005-10-16T19:01:00.000-07:00

I'm watching the Steelers' game on a tape right now, having already looked at the press wrap-up and stats for the game, and this is obvious to me: Tommy Maddox single-handedly lost the game.

And not for the obvious reason, the INT returned for a touchdown in overtime. And not for the other two interceptions, one of which led directly to a Jags' touchdown, nor for his fumbled snap. Maddox lost the game with his general suckitude as a thrower. Most of his passes have been short or behind receivers. While the boos from the Steelers' crowd seemed premature, he certainly didn't earn himself any credibility. I'm guessing that Ben's knee feels much better now.

It was a rough weekend all around. USC pulled it off against Notre Dame and Michigan clipped Penn State. While it was nice to see Florida State go down, Syracuse was humiliated by Rutgers, and Kansas State continued to stink against Texas Tech, the Loyola Marymount of college football. And then, today, the Bengals and the Ravens won. Yech.

Here's the rundown:

What's good:

LaDanian Tomlinson, who makes everything else happen for San Diego.
Rashean Mathis, corner for the Jags, who deflected (not blocked) a punt and won the game with his INT return. There was talk about the Steelers drafting him in 2003.
The Colts, who will pound and pound on the Rams tomorrow night.
The handsome Carson Palmer.
The Patriots lost. Always cause for celebration.

What's bad:

Touchdown Tommy.
The NFC North. (The Bears and Lions are tied atop the division. At 2-3.)
Miami's rushing game. (Chris Chambers was their top runner today.)
The Texans. Do they dump Carr at the end of the season and draft Leinart? I say they do, and Carr resurfaces in...Arizona.

Questions and comments:

Okay, so I was a bit hasty in jumping on the bandwagon for the Chiefs' D.
How does Matt Millen still have a job?
Can someone help me make a joke about the Vikings and their jackassery on Lake Minnetonka? It either has to do with sailing, or with the horns on their helmets.

On a positive note, CBS is currently showing a Walker Texas Ranger movie. Kick ass, America!

Sigh....NFL, Week 3

2005-09-25T20:42:00.000-07:00

I'm less enthusiastic to do the NFL post this week. I didn't see as much football today; it's grading season, and the essays are rolling in. But I made sure to be in front of the TV for the late game. Sigh. My Steelers looked pretty innefectual in their 23-20 loss at home against the Patties. The loss could have been worse, if not for a long touchdown to Hines Ward and a series of turnovers by Brady and the boys. Ben, in particular, seemed to lose confidence in the 2nd half before the final game-tying drive. The game wasn't pretty on either side, really; we'll have to see what happens when (it seems inevitable) the two teams meet at in the playoffs.

In the mean time, I raise my Yuengling to you, Massachusetts Chris.

My favorite stat of the game: Pats CB Chad Scott, a former 1st-round draft choice of the Steelers, was called for 2 pass interference penalties, for a total of 48 yards.

The Steelers' young corners, Ricardo Colclough and Ike Taylor, look great.

The Stink List:

Packers, 0-3. Poor Favre.
Cardinals, who lost Kurt Warner to a groin injury. He was replaced by...it doesn't matter. Some joker. Say hello, Matt Leinart. (Did you know that Leinart is taking only one class this semester? But he's teaching a master class in scoring with chicks.)
San Francisco, 1-2: Can't wait to see this team duke it out with the Cards twice this year.
Ravens, just for good measure.

The Scary List:

Bengals, 3-0 and atop the AFC Central.
Colts, 3-0: But why didn't they score against the Browns? Are they only scoring when they need to now?

Back to normal: Minnesota started its season this week with a pounding of poor New Orleans. Kyle Orton threw 5 INTs in a big, ugly loss. The Jests lost late. The Jags played tough. The Rams out-slopped the Titans for a home win.

Not normal list: Eli threw for 350 and lost. Miami won, beating the team who beat the Patties last week.

Rooks: Ronnie Brown had 100. Carnell Williams had 150. Damn.

I have high hopes for the Chefs/Broncos MNF game: this, as Groundskeeper Willie said, is the test for the Chief's D. And I think they'll produce, especially given Jake Plummer's all-around suckitude.

Cheers.

Just Like Hell

2005-09-25T09:57:00.000-07:00

Last night my wife and I went with our friends to the drive-in for a double feature: Flight Plan, the Jodie Foster thriller (Panic Room on a plane, essentially), and Just Like Heaven, the romantic "comedy" featuring Reese Witherspoon and Mark Ruffalo. Flight Plan was a bit silly, as psychological thrillers often are (how did the baddies come up with such a ridiculously baroque evil plan?), but it kept our interest: Jodie Foster breaks down compellingly, and Peter Sarsgaard is the new John Malkovich: magnetic and eerily cool.

But Just Like Heaven was the worst movie I've seen since I suffered through Serendipity a few years ago. The script contains more cliches than a Hallmark store: Witherspoon is a workaholic doctor who doesn't know what's important in life (apparently, it's not a fulfilling career, foolish mortals), and Ruffalo is a sad-sack landscape architect who has replaced his dead wife with cheap beer. When Witherspoon's character falls into a coma after a car accident, her family sublets her apartment--to Ruffalo. Coincidence? No way. The pair reaquaint each other with life (get it? Ruffalo's alive, but he's really dead inside. Get it?) and eventually--believe it or not--fall in love.

It might seem unsettling to think that your family may sublet your apartment while you're unconscious in a hospital bed, but hey--if it allows your free-roaming spirit to meet the perfect mate, who cares?

The film creates a bizarre world that's half Grey's Anatomy and half Beauty and the Beast, in which normal social conventions do not apply. In one scene, when a restaurant patron collapses, a ghostly Witherspoon coaches Ruffalo through a daring life-saving procedure involving a bottle of vodka and a sharp paring knife. The attending crowd seems unconcerned as, before saving the man's life, Ruffalo rambles wildly, seemingly to himself, and takes a long pull on the vodka bottle. No one seems to mind that this self-proclaimed doctor looks a lot like a schitzophrenic drunk.

Nor does the movie abide by its own physical laws: though Witherspoon can walk through walls and furniture, she can stand on floors and ride in cars. Hmm.

This morning's New York Times contained an article about the appearance of conservative ideology in Hollywood films. The first film mentioned? Just Like Heaven, in which the spirit of the comatose Witherspoon tries desperately to avoid having her plug pulled by her well-meaning sister. The argument could be clearer only if the character's name were Terri Schiavo.

Witherspoon and Ruffalo are both cool and funny, and neither deserves this fate: to wander the discount DVD racks eternally, rattling the chains of their bad decisions, lamenting the death of their hipness. Walmart clerks will wonder each morning who replaced the copies of Just Like Heaven with Election and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

Congratulations Marty and Mig

2005-09-20T19:58:00.000-07:00

Okay, so Rockstar INXS just ended, and I predicted the outcome: the old fogies in the band chose JD Fortune over Marty (a legitimate rock talent from Chicago) and Mig (an Australian with a stage career and incredible '60s style). JD fits the band fairly well (or, rather, fits the band's sense of what it was 20 years ago), and he cried when he won. Marty, the runner up, didn't seem sad at all. In fact, when INXS floated the idea of making him their opening act, it was clear that he had really won: he gets a world tour, and he doesn't have to sing "New Sensation." Ever.

Now, that's a winner.

NFL, Week 2: Sunday afternoon

2005-09-18T13:12:00.000-07:00

It's that time again: time for me to act like I know what I'm talking about regarding the NFL. Again, personal and geographical biases apply.

Steeler update: The Steelers dispatched the second AFC South team in as many weeks; the Texans never really threatened before losing 27-7. Willie Parker had another 100-yard game (111, to be exact), and Roethlisberger threw 2 more TDs. Most impressive for the offense, perhaps, was the success of the deep ball: Cedric Wilson (acquired to replace Plexiglass) had catches of 40 and 36 yards, and Antwaan Randle El had a 54-yard catch. Will those who blasted Cowher for replacing Burress with Wilson eat their crow publicly, or in private? The Steelers also sacked David Carr 8 times, including 3 by Troy Polamalu.

Aren't you tired of the Patriots? So were the Carolina Panthers. (My wife calls them the Pantyliners.) They whipped the Pats and made Brady look frightened. That D is pretty scary. The Pats play in Pittsburgh next weekend.

A Swing of the Pendulum: The 49ers (1-0) lost to the Eagles (0-1) 42-3. The 49ers, apparently, retired after last week.

Look Out: The Colts beat Jacksonville 10-3. It's frightening to think that the high-powered Colts are starting to win games with their defense. (Remember what they did to the Ravens last week.) A team with Payton Manning that can keep another team out of the end zone? Hello, Super Bowl.

The Taste of Bile: The Bears somehow pounded the crap out of the Lions this week. Last week, the Lions handled the Packers without difficulty. The Bears couldn't do anything against the Redskin Potatoes. The Vikings, everyone's choice to leap into contention in the NFC, took one in the gonies against the Bengals. It's a bad time to be a football fan up north.

The Taste of Bile, pt. 2: The Ravens plain stink. Against the Titans today, the team managed 14 yards rushing total. (Remember, Willie Parked put 161 up against the Titans last week.) It seems clear, after 2 weeks, that the Steelers' main competition in the AFC North is the Bengals, who suddenly look like th '99 Rams.

Rookie Watch: No catches for Heath Miller today. Matt Jones caught 2 for 7 yards. Carnell Williams ran for 128 against a tough Bills team.

Fashion Report: The new Bills uniforms are a great choice. That red helmet was terrible.

The Race for Matt Leinart: Who has the early lead on the first pick of the 2006 draft? The Niners looked like a worthy team today, but they wouldn't take a QB. Nor would many of the other early leaders: Bears and Browns have good young QBs. Would the Lions dump Harrington? Would the Texans dump Carr? The Titans, who could use an heir to McNair, did themselves the disservice of winning. Here's my dark horse candidate: the Cardinals. I'm watching their game right now, and, man, does Warner stink!

More soon.

Rockstar INXS

2005-09-15T08:27:00.000-07:00

Okay, I admit it: I'm into Rockstar INXS. I derided it early in the summer, when CBS was hyping it heavily; however, when friends of ours watched it while visiting us, I became hooked. It's rare among reality shows for its warmth and goodwill: the show contains only one asshole, and even he is well-liked among fans and fellow contestants. (Actually, it's beginning to look as though he's simply immature, which, for once, isn't seen as an asset.) This week, the four final contestants were winnowed to three; next week, the winner will chosen. (Not surprisingly, last night they dumped the last woman and kept three white men. The one black dude on the show did well, but he's long gone.) Here's the problem, though: the prize--being the lead singer of INXS--seems an anti-climax. Much better, I think, to do well on the show and lose, after the world has seen your chops, than to be stuck singing "New Sensation" for the next five years of your life. None of the singers remaining on the show (and this has been true for weeks) is INXS material. They all have too much ability. Marty, probably the most talented "rocker" (ick) left, won't win, and should be glad. His success could far outstrip INXS's.

Cheers.

Football Talk, Week 1

2005-09-11T12:38:00.000-07:00

Some initial thoughts on the first NFL week. Personal and geographical biases apply.

No worries: My beloved Steelers. Roethlisberger sucked all pre-season, but is 9 of 11 with 2 TDs today; third-string RB Willie Parker goes for 160 (don't forget the 48-yard reception); Randle El catches the deep ball; the D bends but does not break. Beautiful. Notice how quickly the game ended, too: pure Bill Cowher.

The hit parade: Former Steeler Plexiglass Burress had five catches and a TD in the Giants win. We'll see.

Incredible suckitude: A tie, I think. The Broncos lost to the woeful Dolphins; Chad Pennington fumbled six times against the Chiefs.

Scary-good: The Chiefs are pitching a shutout. No one needs to see that, given their potential on offense. Bills' D looks scary, too--and Losman looks decent.

Rookie watch: Derrick Johnson has been all over the field for the Chiefs. Heath Miller caught a TD on a day that no Steeler caught more than two balls. In Jacksonville, Matt Jones is doing his thing. He looks massive out there. And the second-highest (to Willie Parker) rushing total for the week? Carnell Williams.

Blech: Bears-Skins. Even the scoreboard was unwatchable. Bears have the inside track on the #1 draft pick in 2006--would they take Leinart?

More suckitude: The Packers gacked it up in Detroit. Or has Joey Harrington arrived? And speaking of gacking: the 49ers are alone atop the NFC West.

Which brings me to the next question: how much does a good coach mean? Ask the Niners. Ask the Dolphins. Ask Notre Dame.

Cheers.

The Truth of the Matter

2005-09-04T12:30:00.000-07:00

Kanye West caused a scandal a couple days ago by saying that George Bush doesn't care about Black people. Personally, I was shocked. How could a statement like that be scandalous? Is there a question about whether or not Bush cares about Black people? Obviously he doesn't. I don't think he even cares about seeming as though he cares about Black people. I assumed that West was reading from a White House press release.

God and Gasoline

2005-08-31T20:06:00.000-07:00

It's interesting to see how talk of God fades in the face of tragedy like the one in and around New Orleans. On 9-11, Americans were wronged, free to feel righteous. Today, though, no one can be blamed; there's no bad guy to make Americans feel like the good guys. I anticipate that eventually the God-talk will begin: that God saved this or that survivor, that God will support those who lost homes and loved ones. The logic here astonishes: wouldn't a benevolent God have held the levee strong? The devastation here is biblical: a city destroyed, its residents forced out or killed. But unless Bush is willing to call New Orleans Gomorrah, he'd better keep God out of his mouth.

And now Americans are whining on TV about paying $90 to fill up their SUVs. In Canada, Europe, and most of the developed world, $3 for a gallon of gas would be an incredible bargain. Now Bush is dipping into the strategic reserves to alleviate the gas pinch. (There's an ad on TV right now for a BMW SUV with 270 horsepower.) He might encourage conservation, even rationing, but no: he's giving the addict his fix. If Americans want this lifestyle, they need to be willing to pay for it.

Now go to Itunes and download Bright Eyes' "When the President Talks to God." It's free, and it's brilliant.

Snoop and Lee

2005-08-23T16:29:00.000-07:00

I just saw the Chrysler ad in which Snoop Dogg golfs with Lee Iacocca. The ad seems to want to play on the humor of the geriatric Iacocca golfing with an iconic rapper, but there's a problem: it's not funny. Pink plaid is never funny. As they make their way around the course, Snoop brags to Iacocca (in his trademark MTV Snoop-speak) about his new Chrysler; Lee can't understand Snoop's English, but he ends the ad by telling his partner, "I don't know what you just said, but I guess now everyone gets a great deal at Chrysler." Translation: Chrysler is no longer just for white people? Blacks now welcome at Chrysler dealerships? Any molecule of humor is crushed under the weight of this odd bit of racism.

And didn't Snoop pronounce "fo' shizzle" dead months ago?

Cheers.

Hoy means today

2005-08-22T21:43:00.000-07:00

Hi folks. I'm in the midst of a pre-semester freak-out--school starts next week--but I wanted to take care of something I should have done a long time ago: talk a bit about "Forever Endeavour," the latest album by NYC rock trio Hoy.

Hoy's namesake is singer/guitarist Greg Hoy, a transplant from Pittsburgh known best perhaps for his work with the late-great Pittsburgh emo outfit Sunday Driver. Hoy is a prolific musician: he's also a member of Yearbook (featuring fellow Sunday Driver Mike Knapp), and the brains behind the digital alchemy of Brainstorm Sheen. I've been following Hoy (the man, not the band) for years, since the days of Swell and the short-lived Absence of Grammar. With Hoy (the band), Hoy (the man) has done some of his best work: one perfect piece of hard-rock candy after another, sweet enough to rot teeth, each with the polish of a single. Hoy's voice is ballsy and natural (a long way from the early days), though the songs, not the singer, drive this album. At times I was reminded of "Animalize"-era KISS, which is a high compliment, but the band shares most of its DNA with bands like Fountains of Wayne and the Dandy Warhols: the heirs to the Cheap Trick throne. Nearly each track is single-quality; among the best are "Calling Amsterdam" and the first track, "2 Fingers Crossed." The only dog on the album is "Calling Tokyo" (apparently, the band enjoys phoning cities around the world), which really only weak in comparison to the tracks that precede it.

Hoy's website is www.hoyrocks.com, and "Forever Endeavour" is available on iTunes. Check it out today.

Cheers.

Good prose on poems

2005-08-14T10:53:00.000-07:00

Today's NY Times Book Review has a rarity: a good piece of writing about a book of poems. It's Dan Chiasson's review of W.S. Merwin's new and selected, "Migration." Chiasson is a hell of a poet in his own right; his first book, "The Afterlife of Objects," is sad, eloquent, and energetic, and one of my favorite books of the past few years. According to the bio in the NYTBR, his new book, "Natural History," will be out in October. The two titles suggest a theme, I think.

I liked Chiasson's review for two reasons: the writing is clear and specific (no elliptical albums here), and the author resists the urge to either lay laurels at the feet of one of the big shots of American poetry or lampoon him as a self-serious dinosaur. Instead Chiasson charts Merwin's growth as a poet, noting dominant thematic and formal elements and periods of the poet's strongest and weakest work. The review also offers useful insight, both positive and negative, on Merwin's trademark unpunctuated line. I recommend.

Cheers.

Redskin Potatoes

2005-08-13T21:08:00.000-07:00

With football season on its way, I have been listening to more sports talk radio in the car, which means that I've been listening to some stunningly stupid arguments. Stupidity is unavoidable on sports talk radio, but I'm chafing at some of the things I've been hearing (and reading on ESPN.com) in response to the NCAA's new policy banning "hostile and abusive" Native American mascots, nicknames, and imagery at its events (i.e. the NCAA men's basketball tournament). Sports people are up in arms, using words like "pride" and "tradition" to defend the presence of icons like U of Illinois' Chief Illiniwek and Florida State's famous horse-riding Seminole.

What's next? whine the sports-mouths. No Minnesota Vikings? No Notre Dame Fighting Irish? No Michigan State Spartans?

Here's the difference: Notre Dame has an Irish heritage. Many Europeans who settled in Minnesota were Scandinavian. What's more, Vikings exist only in history, as do Spartans. The world still contains Illini, Seminoles, Utes (U of Utah), and Chippewas (Central Michigan), though considerably fewer of them than it once did. And the tribes referred to in these school names were not a part of the heritage of the school; they point, instead, to the genocidal legacy of the invading Europeans. These names are the equivalent of the animal mascots: lions, bears, wildcats, eagles--ferocious animals all. To the early Europeans in the Americas, the natives were ferocious animals, too. It's hard to imagine that Southeastern Oklahoma State University is honoring its pre-European heritage with the nickname "Savages."

Tonight I heard a talk-show host arguing that Native American mascots honored a brave, resilient people who have survived against great odds. Would that it were so. Movies are full of people surviving against the odds, people who don't show up as mascots: slaves, cancer survivors, survivors of holocausts in Europe and Africa, and so on. But it's unlikely that any of these will show up on the side of a football helmet or emblazoned across a cheerleader's sweater.

I applaud the NCAA for doing its part to promote a culture of respect; no good comes of treating one group of people as another group's mascot. Unfortunately, the NCAA has no say in the two most shockingly racist mascots: Cleveland's baseball Indians and Washington's football Redskins. The Indians' caps feature the visage of a big-nosed, grinning native (Chief Nockahoma? or was this the old Braves' mascot?); the Redskins' helmet features a less cartoon-like but no less appalling picture. Here they are, on cap and helmet:

Obviously, leagues and owners rely on the recognition of these team names and images; to change them would be suicide. But maybe not: a few years ago the NBA's Washington Bullets changed their name to the Wizards; immediately their merchandise became hugely popular. And teams regularly change the design, if not the names, of their mascots: remember Tampa Bay's Bruce the Buccanneer (the gayest mascot ever, incidentally) or the Bengals helmets that said "Bengals" on the side? I was thrilled to hear Tony Kornheiser, the smartest man in sports talk, offer a solution to the Redskins' problem: keep the name, but replace the image on the helmet with a picture of a redskin potato. Now you're not racist; you're delicious.

In the interest of contributing positively to the debate, I'd like to offer some alternative nicknames to the schools cited by the NCAA. Here we go:

Alcorn State University (Braves): Fighting Acorns
Central Michigan University (Chippewas): Ted Nugents
Catawba College (Indians): Awba Cats
Florida State University (Seminoles): Binge Drinkers
Midwestern State University (Indians): Flyovers
University of Utah (Utes): Mormons (almost too easy)
Indiana University-Pennsylvania (Indians): Jimmy Stewarts (he's from Indiana, PA)
Carthage College (Redmen): Hannibals
Bradley University (Braves): Cornstalks
Arkansas State University (Indians): Stag Beetles (hey, they're pretty tough)
Chowan College (Braves): Chow Hounds
University of Illinois-Champaign (Illini): Pillars (the I on the helmet kind of looks like a pillar)
University of Louisiana-Monroe (Indians): Crawdaddies
McMurry University (Indians): Furries
Mississippi College (Choctaws): Plantationers
Newberry College (Indians): The Recreational Boaters
University of North Dakota (Fighting Sioux): Sodbusters
Southeastern Oklahoma State University (Savages): Invaders

Cheers.

The Chompies

2005-08-07T08:57:00.000-07:00

A package from an old friend arrived recently at the DBE World Headquarters. Nate and his wife have lived in Germany for over two years, and they have made the best of it: occasionally we get postcards from Scotland, or Turkey, or Greece, or.... He has regaled me with stories of listening to American football on the radio while driving mountain roads in Sicily, watching the Tour de France, discussing US gun laws with incredulous Frenchpeople, and so on. If he weren't such a great guy, I'd probably hate him increasingly as the murderous Midwestern summer swelters on.

So, the package: it contained organic crackers from Scotland, chocolate-dipped cookies from Germany, a beautiful silk (?) pillowcase, and a demo CD by Nate's band, The Chompies. Calling The Chompies (that name is SO Nate) eclectic is like calling Dick Cheney unfriendly: a gross understatement. The disc starts off with two originals: the punky "Rat-Faced Boy" and the post-post-Dead "Entropy." The disc also contains traditional bluegrass ("I am a Pilgim," featuring Nate performing admirably on vocals and mandolin) and covers of The Ramones ("Suzy is a Headbanger") and The White Stripes ("Seven Nation Army"). But the centerpiece of the disc has to be "The Ballad of Godzuki," a Queen-styled mini-opera honoring Godzilla's cartoon sidekick from the 70s. That song best showcases the band's musical range and gleeful sense of humor. And with a name like The Chompies, it's got to be good.

So if you find yourself in Germany, Belgium, or France with nothing to do, check out The Chompies. North American tour dates are in the works, I'm sure, but nothing has been solidified yet. Folks who want to see The Chompies will have to get on the pickle in a hurry, before Interpol (the agency, not the band) shuts them down for copyright infringement. And not just for the covers; check out this business card:

The Art of the Blurb

2005-07-31T15:18:00.000-07:00

First, let me give a shout-out to leftover birthday cake. Can't get enough of it.

Each day I visit two poetry web sites: Poetry Daily and Verse Daily. I'm not writing to say anything about the sites' credibility--go to Foetry if that's the tune you want to hear. (Already I can feel the bile rising in the back of my throat. More on Foetry later, probably.) I see poems I like on these sites, and poems I don't. I think that's their point: to celebrate the aesthetic diversity of contemporary poetry. It's a good thing.

A few days ago, VD (that's unfortunate) featured a poem by David Petruzelli, whose book Everyone Coming Toward You has been published by the admirable Tupelo Press. The poem, "The Conch in the Next Life," was decent enough to prompt me to check out the author page. Below the brief bio of Petruzelli was a blurb of the book from Campbell McGrath, and it's this blurb I'm here to discuss. Here it is in full, as I don't want to risk taking anything out of context:

"I admire the calm, deliberative power these poems generate, image by image, tale by tale. Reading Everyone Coming Toward You is like perusing an elliptical album of sepia photographs soaked by a warm, evening rain. 'When I talk about remembering/this is what I mean,' concludes the poem 'Hallway', which closes a deft reconnoitering of the corridors of the past, a lyrical journey on which the reader is as likely to encounter W.C. Fields lost in the fog as fossil starfish shining 'like blaze marks.' Deeply ruminative, often narrative, sometimes mysterious, always smart, David Petruzelli bears articulate witness to the omnivorous appetite of memory."

Look closely at that second sentence. Doesn't that sound like a treat: get out your elliptical album (elliptical, from the Greek meaning "defective") and enjoy some rain-soaked photographs. What does McGrath mean here? I wonder if he knows. I'm sure I don't know. If anyone has any insight, I'd love to hear it. Maybe it's a record album, warped by the heat before a storm?

Here's the thing: I'd happily accept "an elliptical album of sepia photographs soaked by a warm, evening rain" in a poem. In that context, we might muse on the trickiness of that word 'elliptical,' the relationship to the past implied in the image of the wet sepia photos, or.... I don't know. I didn't say it would make a good poem. But the purpose of the blurb, as I understand it, is to COMMUNICATE SOMETHING about the book. It's not art. "Meaningful ambiguity" is not effective in a blurb. And I suspect this ambiguity to be meaningless.

So what am I doing here: trying to raise the standard for blurbs? Hopefully I'm doing something more. Hopefully I'm calling out those who write about poems using thinly-veiled nonsense to say nothing. People write stupid meaningless crap about poems because poems are art, and sometimes it's hard to know what to say about art. Art just is, right? But McGrath does Petruzelli's book a profound disservice by praising it with empty language. What do we know about the book from reading McGrath's statement? That the poems are about memory, and that some contain narrative. That's a hell of a blurb.

Cheers.

Greetings, Earthlings

2005-07-30T21:32:00.000-07:00

So this is the first post on the DBE blog.

A GM ad just came on TV featuring employees (a conspicuously diverse bunch) patting themselves on the back for creating a hydrogen-fueled car, which looked small enough to be crushed by either a Hummer or a Yukon. Way to go, guys! Way to go, too, to Honda, makers of both the Prius and the new earth-chewing Ridgeline pickup. Environmental consciousness, like everything else, isn't driven by principle; it's driven by profit.

I'm an adjunct at a private university. I live in a teeny house with my wife and dog. My wife works in retail. My dog works to get things out of the garbage. I'm not using my name to give myself a bit of latitude, but I don't plan to bash my students or my bosses, or to use this forum to out any co-workers, etc. Sorry.

Here's a picture of my dog:

I'm sure you'll see many pictures of my dog, as he is pretty much the best. During a recent thunderstorm, he was too afraid to go outside, and so he crapped on my notes for a class. Even that was adorable.

Come back soon for discussions of: rock music, poetry, professional football, and the pros and cons of cable.

Cheers.