“Now that we’ve established that poetry is work, let’s move on to questions of productivity. How much should a poet produce, ideally? As much as one half-assed garden, planted by a person with a drinking problem, who did not read the directions on the seed-packets very closely. Elizabeth Bishop only ever wrote one poem, a villanelle about an elk breaking up with her (“The Elk Breaks Up with Me”), and if I may say so she did very well with it. Wallace Stevens only wrote five poems, and every one of them was insured for one million dollars, like a famous pair of legs. The greatest living poet, Nicolas Cage, continues to amaze us by never having written a poem at all.”—Patricia Lockwood is my hero. (via yourmonkeycalled)
When I get back from CHSH, imma start hitting up my Bay area network to try to get some leads. It’s been far too long, this Jew wandering the desert and nary a golden calf in sight. I need to get back to the promised land.
Why are we so obsessed with records? They sound horrible. They are a pain to play. You have to be so delicate with them. The needles are always breaking. Impossible to find and replace.
But then at the same time I wonder why we have not maintained our latch on other dumb things from the past like 8tracks or cassettes. Equally as horrible to play and listen to. What makes records so different from the others?
Sometimes as a culture I don’t understand humans.
Whatchyou mean, “we”? I gave up my vinyl and turntable in ‘95. I’m most of the way through giving up books in favor of digital (there are just some that are impossible to get digitally). And I’m going to be relinquishing this physical manifestation shortly, just as soon as I can ascend to the ethereal plane. (Another seventeen sessions with my guru, Jimmy, is all he says it’ll take.)
“Hi there. Tonight, the role of Don Draper will be played by… me. Good ol’ recovering drunk and reformed pants-wetter Freddy Rumsen. Only in a few minutes you’ll see that the role of Don is now being played by cuddly old man Lou Avery, and that Pete will now be played by one-eyed Ken, and Joan will somehow filling Ken’s shoes, and Roger will be hosting a non-stop orgy in his apartment, and Pete will have gone completely native in LA while the actual Don Draper won’t fit in on either coast. And the only constant will be Peggy Olson catching grief from decisions made by all the men in her life, past and present.”—Sepinwall, giving me cause to smile this fine morning.
Such fun. A 20-row repeat with that level of ugh. Hard to get into a rhythm, especially when those k6 notations fall where most of the rows have a k7 (or k4 or k5 or…) Yeah. It’s a bear and it was incredibly painful as a chart. I’m hoping it’s easier now.
…when I used to pick up either a salt with cream cheese (never toasted, please) or a pumpernickel with peanut butter (always toasted, thank you) on my way down Montgomery St. to WebLogic.
One morning I went in and the “salt” bagels were little more than plains with three or four crystals of kosher scattered forlornly about the torus’s topside. I asked my guy what was the what and he said some district manager had come in and complained about the heart attacks on sale and demanded they cut down on the salt. Mind you, this was a chain - either named for a guy really into zoology or one who liked playing the violin - that continued to sell a slab of saturated fat on boiled bread quite happily. But a little salt? Oh, no no no.
So my guy spread a thin layer of that delicious saturated fat on the bagel’s crown and dipped it like a margarita glass.
“Rogers Park, as the neighborhood is known, is the attic of Chicago, where the city stores people it can’t use, but can’t get rid of, either. The main drag, Sheridan Road, is lined with adult care facilities whose residents sit outside on bus benches, smoking cigarette butts and cuddling headless dolls. Author Neal Pollack, who lived here in the late 1990s, called the locals “the sediment left over after you put the city of Chicago through a sifter.” There’s a hippie restaurant that has remained open for 38 years, even though everyone agrees that the food is terrible, the service is terrible, the kitchen is filthy, and the owner has no business sense whatsoever. There used to be a bar called The Ho, but it was condemned after the floor collapsed. When the Leather Archives and Museum outgrew its original location, in a more expensive neighborhood, the repository of S&M history found a new home in an abandoned Rogers Park synagogue. If you want to make a career out of being weird, this is the place. In Rogers Park, only the weird survive.”—
“It only takes two unscrupulous school district administrators to unravel the lives of nearly two dozen teachers in a Texas surburb. When administrators recruited foreign teachers from the Philippines, Mexico, Columbia, and other countries to accommodate the growing Latino population in a Dallas suburb, they allegedly promised to help secure permanent residency for teachers. Instead those teachers, the majority of whom have worked for years at the Garland Independent School District (GISD), are now facing deportation.”—
"According to Jones, Victor Leos, the GISD Human Resources executive director, committed a succession of H1-B recruitment abuse: he required would-be teachers to pay for interviews, orientation training, and took payment when they were hired. When those teachers made it to the United States, Leos told them to rent from his stepson, Paul Reudiger (a GISD teacher), who has a rental house. When the teachers needed an American immigration lawyer, Leos directed them to his stepdaughter’s law firm, which bills both the teachers and the school district. Jones said, “When the math teacher is confused, only Mr. Leos or his step-daughter at the Yu law firm are allowed to provide answers.”
An incomplete list. Hopefully, I will fill it out more before it is time ;)
If there were to be a funeral (there won’t) these are the songs I think I’d like sung:
I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair
You’re So Vain
Flexible (this one’s probably not as familiar to most of you and definitely not just by its title; it’s a B-side from Depeche Mode and one of my favorite dance songs ever…that means, Dance, you bastards! Dance on my grave!)
Context for my earlier joke…it is believed by many physicists and historians of science that Einstein really couldn’t quite manage the vector calculus required for General Relativity and that his first wife did the heavy math lifting.
(Please note my use of the qualifier, “many,” which, we all know, means this should be taken with a grain of salt. A grain which will, despite its size, nonetheless curve spacetime.)
According to mathematician and Einstein collaborator Ernst Straus, this is the anecdote that Albert most thought captured his essence:
We [Einstein and Ernst Straus] had finished the preparation of a paper and were looking for a paper clip. After opening a lot of drawers we finally found one which turned out to be too badly bent for use. So we were looking for a tool to straighten it. Opening a lot more drawers we came upon a whole box of unused paper clips. Einstein immediately started to shape one of them into a tool to straighten the bent one. When asked what he was doing, he said, ‘Once I am set on a goal, it becomes difficult to deflect me.’