Curses!

Apparently, I will not, in fact, ever be Poet Laureate of Minnesota. Governor Pawlenty vetoed the bill. I would like to deliver some rant against him for it, but if I'm being honest with myself, were I not a poet-type, I likely would not care either way. If the legislature, for example, were to overwhelmingly pass a bill in support of say, a Mime Laureate of Minnesota, and the Governor vetoed it, my reaction would overwhelmingly be, Who Cares?

It is not because I have anything against the arts, and I certainly DO believe the world would be a better place if people weren't so baffled by and afraid of poetry, but I tend to believe, somewhat, in the "separation of art and state." They seem to me like booze and pills -- like they shouldn't be mixed. Sure, you may feel good for a while... Right up until you pass out, puke on yourself, and wake up in the psych ward of the next county sporting a chicken suit and new tattoo, but really, no true good will likely come of it.

One thing that does bother me, however, is this: I am a practitioner of political moderacy, and there is an overwhelming assumption (in part because it is largely true) that the ranks of the poets in the country are filled to overbrimming with... How shall I say... "Lefties." Now... What kind of dilemma have I walked into here? Am I to be left permanently in limbo for my entire artistic life because I am acceptable neither to the liberals who permeate the arts, nor to the conservatives who will right me off at face because I'm attempting to be a part of the arts? What in the world kind of crackpot planet was I born onto?

Just a little "woe is me" to round out the day...

I know there are educators, writers, and others out there that might have an opinion on this... Speak up!

Bloodsport

It is my belief that everyone has, deep down in their souls, a morbid fascination with blood. Warmongers, peaceniks, children, cute fuzzy bunnies... All things visceral are signs of life, and possibly, the one thing assuring us of the existence of life is death, so anything involving, or impersonating the cessation of life, is naturally exhilarating. Sick. True. Possibly even immutable.

I am not a violent person, so my outlet for this bloodlust is hockey. More structured than Ultimate Fighting, less "Omigod, I broke a nail! I want a freethrow!" than Basketball. All my apologies to basketball fans, because there are a lot of you, but compared to hockey, it's ballet. I can't stay awake for a whole game. I'm sure many have similar gripes about the NHL, and I want one and all to feel free to vent them... With the exception of the token and tired, "At least there was a basketball season this year!" All pro sports in turn. ;)

The point of this is that I'm frustrated lately because it seems to me that love of sport -- of any kind -- has somehow become synonymous with intellectual frailty or inaptitude. I have lately been ashamed, for some undetermined reason, to talk sports with my friends in academia. So here it is, among all my book talk, dead authors, and quotes o' the day: If they televise the NHL draft, I'm totally watching it, and Patrick Roy is, in fact, the greatest goalie of all time.

--Ken Dryden is second for finishing law school and winning a cup in the same year... How's THAT for academia? He also wrote a stellar book called The Game which is worth reading for anyone even mildly interested in the sport. Smart hockey players? Believe it. --

I am a sad sap of a hockey fan realizing this week would signify, more or less, the final round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs, and to be honest, I just couldn't help myself. I'm sick over the whole thing... Bring it back!

En memoriam

Yes. Memorial day. Though I understand that technically speaking, this holiday is meant to be one of remembrance for veterans, and it is tempting for me to pontificate on the war and my sense of patriotism, I can't help but think of dead folks in general... Dead folks that I wish weren't dead. So -- here it is: Mardou's list of "People who I really wish weren't dead":

Jeff Buckley : Interestingly enough, yesterday marked the 8th anniversary of his passing. Jeff was a remarkably talented singer/songwriter and the son of '60's folk singer Tim Buckley. He drowned in the Wolf River in Memphis, Tennessee while there to record his second major album, "For My Sweetheart the Drunk" which was released posthumously under the title, "Sketches for My sweetheart the Drunk," due to its unfinished nature. This album, along with his earlier album, "Grace," may constitute two of the greatest albums ever made. I encourage one and all to check him out.

Jack Kerouac : Everyone knows of him, but so few know about him. Although it's controversial, I consider Allen Ginsberg's long life and inclusion in so many literature anthologies to be two of the greatest injustices perpetrated by God and the literati, respectively. Interestingly, were he alive today, Ginsberg would likely agree with me. Jack was considered, among his friends and fellow "beat" writers -- to be the heart, soul, and compassion of the entire movement. Ginsberg has said that Kerouac was the greatest writer among them. Although best known for his autobiographical prose and novels, Kerouac's poetry is also fascinating, and inexplicably, largely ignored. I recommend Pomes All Sizes, Mexico City Blues, and The Subterraneans.

Hunter S. Thompson : The man survived decades of alcoholism and drug use just to off himself when his life finally became somewhat sane? How anti-climactic. Damned shame. My plug here? The Rum Diary. Although it was the first book he ever penned, it was not published until recently. It contains all the trademark humor and wry outlook, but precedes his adventures into absolute absurdity and political punditry (it's a word now, dammit).

Virginia Woolf : She's just here because I'm curious to know what here opinion would be about the current state of feminism. I'd like to know if she'd be as shocked as I at the way it seems to be folding in on itself... Defeating it's own purpose, so to speak. A Room of One's Own was the work that hooked me.

Brandon Lee : No link, but let's face it. The guy was just really, really, really hot. Anyone who's seen "The Crow" knows that.

For some reason, that's all I can think of right now. Apparently, I am stuck on authors. I'm sure there's more, but I want everyone else to share their, "People who I wish weren't dead" lists. If I think of any that I've missed, I'll edit...

Succubi

Something about women bothers me. I don't know if it's the insecurity, the need for plastic boobs and bleach-blondness, or the squealing. I'm rather ashamed to be one sometimes.

While it's no secret that most women dislike each other, or that most women will say very openly that they prefer the company of men to women, I'm beginning to think that there's something wrong with me. I refuse to chain my husband to the wall in the basement as some reasonable substitute for a functional relationship, but for most women, forcing their men to behave is just as good as having a man who wants to behave all on his own.

It's true that the majority of my friends are men, and I've seen more than one broken, busted, reduced to jello by some insecure female. It disgusts me. I have no respect for women who have so little respect for themselves that they'll act like that. What self-determined woman would waste her time with a man who needs coralling? Not I. I see it as a personality flaw. A weakness of spirit. A billboard screaming, "I'm so convinced that I'm not worth being faithful to, that I operate under the constant assumption that my man is perpetually on the verge of misbehavior."

The impetus for all of this? Oldest story in the book: Close friend gets girlfriend, falls off the face of the earth. Anyone understand this? How is it that men aren't totally turned off by that kind of insecurity? Is it some kind of ego trip where they like to be nagged, hovered over, and generally harrassed? I'm in a quandary.

It's one of those problems that would be very easily solved by the rest of the world being just a little more like me, I think... get thee behind me, estrogen!

There's something in my eye!

Some wiseacre must then always say something like, "It's your eyeball," to which I'm usually tempted to reply with a swift uppercut.

It has dawned on me rather suddenly that this is a charming metaphor for life. We all mill about complaining that there's something uncomfortable in our life, just to find, unfortunately, that it is the life in our life that is tweaking, scratching, and paining us. So I thought, why not get official about the whole thing, start a blog, and indulge my human need to tell everyone what I think all the time?

It's a lovely entertainment of ego, and I plan on enjoying it immensely. More links, pictures, and goodies to come... I suppose I will post madly at first as well. My tendency is to leap headlong into projects and immerse myself fully until I overdose, at which point I abandon said projects entirely. In this case, I will try to pace myself.

Allow myself to introduce... myself... to the "me" world of the weblog.

Ha! I crack me up.