Wednesday, April 28, 2021
Tribute to Leslie McKeown: Don't Let the Music Die
Yesterday when I was young
I played the game and never won
Thought rock and roll would bless my soul forever.
Songs of love and ecstasy
Remind me how it used to be
I thought those days would never end
But now it seems I need a friend
I remember all those days gone by
I remember all the faces
The old familiar places
CHORUS
Don't let the music die,
No our song could last forever
Don't let the music die,
Don't let the music die
And though we've said goodbye,
We could spend our lives together,
So as time goes by
Don't let the music die
Yesterday, the world was mine
I played the clown in pantomime
Or was it just a dream that's gone forever
Echoed voices from the past
Recall the songs I thought would last
And say "Those times will never die"
And the love we share's the reason why
I remember all those days gone by
I remember all the faces,
The old familiar places
CHORUS
Don't let the music die,
No our song could last forever
Don't let the music die,
Don't let the music die
And though we've said goodbye,
We could spend our lives together,
So as time goes by
Don't let the music die
When we were young we had our time
And we would drink
sweet talking wine
but now that it's over
All the songs sound out of rhyme
Monday, April 26, 2021
Shallow Reign: Once Too Much (1988)
Saturday, April 24, 2021
Bay City Rollers: Inside A Broken Dream (1977)
Turn the pages of a broken dream
Smiling faces, have they ever seen
Empty hallways, will they ever end
The fool again
Masquerading in a hyper dream
Fading shadows talk of their machine
Through the haze another cigarette
So much to say and to forget
Inside a broken dream I cry
Is love the reason why?
Inside an empty room I stare
At love that is not there
Life begins with your head in the dark
The chord of life reveals the final spark
Takes you nowhere then nowhere takes you back again
Bay City Rollers: Shang a Lang (1974)
RIP Les McKeown (11/12/55 - 4/20/21)
While browsing around for whatever random thing on Thursday, saw a feed from the UK Daily Mail that Les McKeown, former lead singer of the Bay City Rollers, had died on Tuesday, age 65.
Ah, my Lost Youth! My second-favorite Bay City Roller--after Eric--but the one most important to the band.
In 1976, I was 11 years old and did not have a favorite band. But some friends were suggesting that I should. I remember reading about "The Eagles" at the time and, when my family went to a local pizza parlor, I selected "Hotel California" from the jukebox---I'd never heard it before and I HATED it. Was I supposed to like this because everybody else liked it??
On New Year's Eve of '76, I was allowed to stay up late, and saw the Bay City Rollers on some end-o'-the-year music program... THAT sound was what I liked!!
They were my first favorite band; the first two albums that I ever owned ("Dedication" and their debut album). I was in Germany in the Summer of '77 when their album "It's a Game" came out, and my mother bought it for me. I played it constantly at my aunt's house that summer. And my older German cousin Susie filled me in on a little BCR background: They'd been big in Europe since '74 or so, with "Bye Bye Baby" their initial big hit in Germany. While there, I begged for every "Bravo" magazine that had them on the cover.
Back in the US by the fall of '77 (my first year in junior high), I covered my walls with their posters. When my father wanted to punish me, he forced me to take all of my BCR posters down. When my 7th-grade English teacher asked us for our favorite poems, I gave her the lyrics for "Inside a Broken Dream" by Eric Faulkner/Stuart Wood from the "It's a Game" album.
My favorite member of the group was lead guitarist Eric. But singer Les was always a close second. Eric was "soulful" and wrote songs, but Les was more overtly sexy (despite his "weird" teeth). (Woody and Derek, I didn't find attractive at all.) And Les's voice was the true heart of the band. As a kid, I didn't think about how distinctive his voice was and how important to the band's sound; at the time, I just knew that I liked what I heard. Listening to the BCR years later (as I still do), I especially think of his voice in "Strangers in the Wind" and "It's a Game."
Anyway, here are a couple of pics of the Bay City Rollers and Les, plus one of me in Germany, Summer of '77.
Thursday, April 22, 2021
Wednesday, April 21, 2021
Tuesday, April 20, 2021
Raw footage, George Floyd apprehension and death
Obviously Floyd had mental problems, or he was on something, or he wouldn't have reacted as he did. And Chauvin obviously didn't know how to properly deal with a mentally ill, aggressive suspect, or he wouldn't have reacted as he did. But was it "murder" or "racism"? I don't think so.
Monday, April 19, 2021
A Parent's Response to "Woke" Elite School
April 13, 2021
Dear Fellow Brearley Parents,
Our family recently made the decision not to reenroll our daughter at Brearley for the 2021-22 school year. She has been at Brearley for seven years, beginning in kindergarten. In short, we no longer believe that Brearley’s administration and Board of Trustees have any of our children’s best interests at heart. Moreover, we no longer have confidence that our daughter will receive the quality of education necessary to further her development into a critically thinking, responsible, enlightened, and civic minded adult. I write to you, as a fellow parent, to share our reasons for leaving the Brearley community but also to urge you to act before the damage to the school, to its community, and to your own child's education is irreparable.
It cannot be stated strongly enough that Brearley’s obsession with race must stop. It should be abundantly clear to any thinking parent that Brearley has completely lost its way. The administration and the Board of Trustees have displayed a cowardly and appalling lack of leadership by appeasing an anti-intellectual, illiberal mob, and then allowing the school to be captured by that same mob. What follows are my own personal views on Brearley's antiracism initiatives, but these are just a handful of the criticisms that I know other parents have expressed.
I object to the view that I should be judged by the color of my skin. I cannot tolerate a school that not only judges my daughter by the color of her skin, but encourages and instructs her to prejudge others by theirs. By viewing every element of education, every aspect of history, and every facet of society through the lens of skin color and race, we are desecrating the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and utterly violating the movement for which such civil rights leaders believed, fought, and died.
I object to the charge of systemic racism in this country, and at our school. Systemic racism, properly understood, is segregated schools and separate lunch counters. It is the interning of Japanese and the exterminating of Jews. Systemic racism is unequivocally not a small number of isolated incidences over a period of decades. Ask any girl, of any race, if they have ever experienced insults from friends, have ever felt slighted by teachers or have ever suffered the occasional injustice from a school at which they have spent up to 13 years of their life, and you are bound to hear grievances, some petty, some not. We have not had systemic racism against Blacks in this country since the civil rights reforms of the 1960s, a period of more than 50 years. To state otherwise is a flat-out misrepresentation of our country's history and adds no understanding to any of today's societal issues. If anything, longstanding and widespread policies such as affirmative action, point in precisely the opposite direction.
I object to a definition of systemic racism, apparently supported by Brearley, that any educational, professional, or societal outcome where Blacks are underrepresented is prima facie evidence of the aforementioned systemic racism, or of white supremacy and oppression. Facile and unsupported beliefs such as these are the polar opposite to the intellectual and scientific truth for which Brearley claims to stand. Furthermore, I call bullshit on Brearley's oft-stated assertion that the school welcomes and encourages the truly difficult and uncomfortable conversations regarding race and the roots of racial discrepancies.
I object to the idea that Blacks are unable to succeed in this country without aid from government or from whites. Brearley, by adopting critical race theory, is advocating the abhorrent viewpoint that Blacks should forever be regarded as helpless victims, and are incapable of success regardless of their skills, talents, or hard work. What Brearley is teaching our children is precisely the true and correct definition of racism.
I object to mandatory anti-racism training for parents, especially when presented by the rent-seeking charlatans of Pollyanna. These sessions, in both their content and delivery, are so sophomoric and simplistic, so unsophisticated and inane, that I would be embarrassed if they were taught to Brearley kindergarteners. They are an insult to parents and unbecoming of any educational institution, let alone one of Brearley's caliber.
I object to Brearley’s vacuous, inappropriate, and fanatical use of words such as “equity,” “diversity” and “inclusiveness.” If Brearley’s administration was truly concerned about so-called “equity,” it would be discussing the cessation of admissions preferences for legacies, siblings, and those families with especially deep pockets. If the administration was genuinely serious about “diversity,” it would not insist on the indoctrination of its students, and their families, to a single mindset, most reminiscent of the Chinese Cultural Revolution. Instead, the school would foster an environment of intellectual openness and freedom of thought. And if Brearley really cared about “inclusiveness,” the school would return to the concepts encapsulated in the motto “One Brearley,” instead of teaching the extraordinarily divisive idea that there are only, and always, two groups in this country: victims and oppressors.
l object to Brearley’s advocacy for groups and movements such as Black Lives Matter, a Marxist, anti family, heterophobic, anti-Asian and anti-Semitic organization that neither speaks for the majority of the Black community in this country, nor in any way, shape or form, represents their best interests.
I object to, as we have been told time and time again over the past year, that the school’s first priority is the safety of our children. For goodness sake, Brearley is a school, not a hospital! The number one priority of a school has always been, and always will be, education. Brearley’s misguided priorities exemplify both the safety culture and “cover-your-ass” culture that together have proved so toxic to our society and have so damaged the mental health and resiliency of two generations of children, and counting.
I object to the gutting of the history, civics, and classical literature curriculums. I object to the censorship of books that have been taught for generations because they contain dated language potentially offensive to the thin-skinned and hypersensitive (something that has already happened in my daughter's 4th grade class). I object to the lowering of standards for the admission of students and for the hiring of teachers. I object to the erosion of rigor in classwork and the escalation of grade inflation. Any parent with eyes open can foresee these inevitabilities should antiracism initiatives be allowed to persist.
We have today in our country, from both political parties, and at all levels of government, the most unwise and unvirtuous leaders in our nation’s history. Schools like Brearley are supposed to be the training grounds for those leaders. Our nation will not survive a generation of leadership even more poorly educated than we have now, nor will we survive a generation of students taught to hate its own country and despise its history.
Lastly, I object, with as strong a sentiment as possible, that Brearley has begun to teach what to think, instead of how to think. I object that the school is now fostering an environment where our daughters, and our daughters’ teachers, are afraid to speak their minds in class for fear of “consequences.” I object that Brearley is trying to usurp the role of parents in teaching morality, and bullying parents to adopt that false morality at home. I object that Brearley is fostering a divisive community where families of different races, which until recently were part of the same community, are now segregated into two. These are the reasons why we can no longer send our daughter to Brearley.
Over the past several months, I have personally spoken to many Brearley parents as well as parents of children at peer institutions. It is abundantly clear that the majority of parents believe that Brearley’s antiracism policies are misguided, divisive, counterproductive and cancerous. Many believe, as I do, that these policies will ultimately destroy what was until recently, a wonderful educational institution. But as I am sure will come as no surprise to you, given the insidious cancel culture that has of late permeated our society, most parents are too fearful to speak up.
But speak up you must. There is strength in numbers and I assure you, the numbers are there. Contact the administration and the Board of Trustees and demand an end to the destructive and anti-intellectual claptrap known as antiracism. And if changes are not forthcoming then demand new leadership. For the sake of our community, our city, our country and most of all, our children, silence is no longer an option.
Respectfully,
Andrew Gutmann
https://bariweiss.substack.com/p/you-have-to-read-this-letter
https://nypost.com/2021/04/17/dalton-headmaster-quits-while-brearley-dad-writes-scathing-letter/
Sunday, April 18, 2021
George Jones: Stand On My Own Two Knees (1976)
I've tried everything I know to make you happy
Never knew someone could be so hard to please
Loving you is hard, and I'm not sure I'll make it
But at least I've learned how to stand on my own two knees
I've still got my pride, it's just that I misplaced it
Anyway, it's better lost, then no one sees
Maybe I'm not strong enough right now to hold you
But at least I've learned how to stand on my own two knees
It wasn't long ago you had me crawlin'
Oh, but look how far I've come, can't you see?
Well, I know I'm still not walking tall, but I'm trying
And at least I've learned how to stand on my own two knees
Yes, I know I'm still not walking tall, but I'm trying
And at least I've learned how to stand on my own two knees
Anne Sexton performing "Woman With Girdle" with her terrible band "Her Kind"
New Fridge and New Carpet
My fridge has been leaking for the past week, and I finally reported it. Turned out, it was serious and so I got a brand new fridge on Friday. (Reminded me of what I was thinking back in February while I was house-hunting: What do I do and who do I call and how much do I have to pay when stuff breaks down? With an apartment, you don't have to worry about it.)
The new fridge inspired me to finally unwrap the red carpet I'd bought over a year ago and that had been sitting, rolled up, in my entryway. (Why not unrolled: I've been ambivalent about my place ever since I moved in in 2017. I took the old carpet out to the dumpster in 2018 or so. Bought the new one, left it sitting there, rolled up, in case I was about to move. Upon signing my new lease last week, finally decided: Why not unroll? What in the hell am I saving it for?)
Pink Floyd's "The Wall": What Would You Do?
I'd gone off to college at UT-Austin in August '83. Ginny ran away from home to be with me in Austin in October '83. Big drama, her father drove down to get her, etc.
While home for Christmas in '83, I still saw Ginny and we exchanged presents at her parents' house, but by that time it was already over; she'd met a new "best friend"---Cindy. (Back then, no one was outwardly gay, so she had a "new best friend.")
In the Summer of 1984, I came home to Azle after my first year in college. Since Cindy was now in the picture, Ginny felt she couldn't hang around with me unless Cindy came along. So, since we were all just "friends," I made an effort to include Cindy. One outing was a midnight showing of Pink Floyd's "The Wall."
I'd seen the film the previous year in college. Was moved and awed by the intensity of the film and wanted to share it. This viewing with me, Ginny, and Cindy: Ginny got upset during the extreme images in the last 15 minutes or so and walked out of the theater before the end of the film. I rolled my eyes at her departure and kept watching 'til the end. But Cindy got up and followed Ginny out.
My dilemma when thinking back: Should I also have followed Ginny out? Cindy's following her out demonstrated that she cared more for Ginny's feelings. My staying to watch the end of the film demonstrated that I thought Ginny was being silly and that I cared more to see the end of the film (which I'd already seen before).
Today: I'd still make the same decision. I'd stay for the end of the film. Even if jumping up and racing out to the lobby to get there before Cindy had thus won me Ginny's heart. Because I thought Ginny was being ridiculous and because I was astonished by this particular film and wanted to see it through to the end.
Just curious: What would YOU have done? Followed the girl you loved to show her how much you cared, or stayed for the end of the film?
Thursday, April 15, 2021
Poison by Susan Fromberg Schaeffer
Schaeffer was a close friend of Ted Hughes and Olwyn Hughes. She published this book in 2006, 8 years after Ted Hughes's death. It's a novel, though---all the names have been changed.
It's a 600-page book about the aftermath of Ted Hughes's death, and about his past life and relations with all of those he left behind. Including many passages about "Evelyn," aka Sylvia Plath.
Here's an early passage, excerpted from 3 pages that made me not cry, but weep---for the house, for the fox, for Sylvia, for Ted, and for myself:
She has the right kind of voice; few people have it. It is not a voice you can learn; you must be born with it, how well the house knows that, how often the house had seen people trying to coax a fox or a badger or a squirrel toward them, and the animals fled deep into the woods and avoided that voice, that dangerous sound; irrevocable that animal's decision as it thinks matters over in its den, whereas when the fox listens to Evelyn, she understands her. She moves closer to her; she waits, trustingly, almost trustingly, while Evelyn breaks off another piece of bread and then pushes it toward the fox, not as far as she pushed it the first time, and the fox comes closer to get the bread, has it in her jaws, but stops and contemplates Evelyn, puzzled, saying, "Who are you and why are you bringing me bread?" And Evelyn answers, saying, "Why not?" a response the fox finds entirely satisfactory, and as days pass and then weeks, the fox begins to wait for Evelyn, bounds forward when she sees her coming, and Peter, her husband, watches all this and thinks, Incredible, and does not know that he will never again see a woman who can do this, but he will find that out. Then he will have something to think about.
Too Little Money, Too Little Time
I pretty much gave up on home ownership today. Re-signed a 12-month lease with the apartment I've been in since 2017.
I tried, briefly. Got pre-approved for a home loan. Went to look at some houses. But then I was smacked in the face with the cold, hard truth: According to news accounts, the Austin housing market is THE hottest in the country right now. And I was priced out of even small houses way out in the suburbs, like Round Rock. (Even when I bid ABOVE the asking price, I was later told that I was, for example, the 5th-highest bidder. And two different realtors also suggested to me that I write a personal, "heartfelt" letter to the home-sellers...Really?? Like hell I will!)
The ultimate cold, hard fact that put a stop to my home search: Even if I'd been the highest bidder on a modest 1200-sq-ft home, say, out in Round Rock, and even after being willing/able to put a 10 percent down payment of $30K in cold, hard cash, I'd still be making a mortgage payment of $1900 per month until the day I died. $1900! I could conceivably afford that, but that wouldn't leave me very much extra money per month. For example: My car is currently paid off, but it's also now 10 years old; once I had to make car payments again---even LESS left over per month. And when you own a house, you own all that goes wrong with it: Would I have enough money to save each month to prepare for future major home repairs? No, I would not.
A former work acquaintance---older than me, who had recently bought her own home---lobbied for me to buy. But the house that she bought was 68 miles outside of Austin, and she pays $900 a month for it. I certainly AIN'T gonna live 68 miles outside of town! (It's not like in the Northeast, where 68 miles outside of NYC is...New Jersey or Connecticut! 68 miles outside of Austin is ugly, barren country reached by Interstate 35---an hour-and-a-half each way if you have to drive in to work each day. Aside from this completely unacceptable work commute, I, in my everyday life, want to be able to walk to a corner store; I want a supermarket and a library within a couple of miles, etc.)
After unsuccessfully searching for houses outside of Austin, I then tried looking for townhomes IN Austin... A similar dilemma: The ones in my price range were about the same size (1200-sq-ft) or LESS than I live in now. And they were all mostly in non-central parts of town, or in sketchy neighborhoods. And those mortgage payments were a couple of hundred dollars MORE than the rent that I'm currently paying. Paying MORE for a smaller, less-desirable place didn't/doesn't make sense to me. And lastly, I looked around for other rentals: Again, nothing was better than what I currently had.
If I were in my 30s, there would always be the long-term idea: After 20/25/30 years, it'll be paid off completely, and then you can relax when you're retired. Well, I'm in my 50s! Whatever I find will NEVER be paid off in my lifetime! So the mortgage payment is basically the same as whatever rent payment I make for the rest of my life. Given that fact, I chose $1375 + utilities in a part of town I like over $1900 + repairs/taxes in a random part of town or outside of town. And decided to stay where I was.
(An additional consideration, especially when considering a different rental place, was having to pack up all of my books and cats---I could have handled the books, but not all the trauma of getting the cats corralled. If/when I make another move, it's going to be to an actual home that I own, not another rental.)
Pictured: A new doormat from World Market that I ordered for myself a couple of weeks ago. At the time I ordered, I wasn't quite sure where it would be placed: New house, or...?
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As it is: Current apartment. An "Evil Eye" to ward off the Loud and Stupid and Crazy.
Tuesday, April 13, 2021
And then what happens?
The two volumes of Sylvia Plath letters (2018) are huge. Got 'em both for Christmas 2019, and am finally about halfway through the second one. It's April 1960. Plath and Hughes fixing up tiny new apartment in London after 2 years in the States. First child, Frieda, just born at home. Plath has first book of poems, "The Colossus," about to come out. Hughes has second book of poems, "Lupercal," just out.
You read thousands of pages of a person's letters since childhood and start to think to yourself around 1960: "And then what happens? OK, you're 28, you made it through college, and then Cambridge... You finally met someone you truly love and married him... The two of you work together to support each other's work and get published and get writing awards... You both try, and don't like, teaching in America and are brave enough to quit a secure path... Now back in London in the tiny apartment: Will you ever get a bigger place to live? Will you ever publish a novel? Will you and husband Ted ever be famous writers as you hope/think/dream?"
Even though you already know what happens.
I get into it, and then I check the dates on the letters and have to keep reminding myself of the tawdry, sad conclusion of the story (that I, ideally, as a reader am not yet aware of): "You'll get your big dream house in 1962. But then your husband will leave you and your two small children so he can fuck the wife of the couple who rented your old London apartment and whom you invited to visit your beautiful new house in May '62. Oh, and out of grief, you'll kill yourself in 3 years."
All that life, all that pride in family and intellectual work, all that struggle, all those plans...
I'm torn RE "Nature vs. Nurture" when it comes to suicide:
RE "Nature": Plath's father was intense, and he refused treatment for his diabetes---but does that make him suicidal? And Otto Plath's mother was institutionalized---because she hated the farm life in America after emigrating from Europe with family members. But she didn't kill herself. But then Sylvia and her son Nicholas did.
RE "Nurture": Plath's mother was described by most as kindly but as nervous and neurotic. In letters home, Plath described uber-extensively her every meal, her every movement practically. She wrote to her mother, even up until her death, two or three times a week. And in the "Letters" books, Plath also often repeated the exact same information in letters to other acquaintances---indicating some sort of obsessive quality. It's a wonder she got any work done, what with all the letter-writing going on. And Plath obviously felt the need to reconstruct her actual life, with all of its attendant ugliness, in her letters---re-configuring events to make them fit the tidy ideals of her mother.
Plath had very little experience outside of her upbringing in her small-town Massachusetts area. Her first experience outside of this enclave came in 1953, in New York City for her "Mademoiselle" internship. She was psychically horrified, and came home to her first suicide attempt.
As I'm sure she was later "psychically horrified" by the fact that her much-admired, much-beloved husband had not only been fooling around on her but had also gotten another woman pregnant. (A woman previously thought to be barren.) This kind of thing might happen all the time to those of us in the lower middle classes, but to Plath: How could this happen? Through her extensive knowledge of literature and the lives of authors, she was abstractly aware of how past male authors lived their lives. But was unwilling to understand that such patterns might also relate to her and her own husband---not in the tame '50s and early '60s!
Monday, April 12, 2021
Saturday, April 10, 2021
Friday, April 09, 2021
Writing won't get you out of this, Sylvia.
Sylvia Plath
Getting There (November 6, 1962) (Prose paragraphs by me.)
How far is it?
How far is it now?
The gigantic gorilla interior of the wheels move, they appall me --- the terrible brains of Krupp, black muzzles revolving, the sound punching out Absence! Like cannon.
It is Russia I have to get across, it is some war or other.
I am dragging my body quietly through the straw of the boxcars.
Now is the time for bribery.
What do wheels eat, these wheels fixed to their arcs like gods, the silver leash of the Will ---- Inexorable. And their pride!
All the gods know destinations.
I am a letter in this slot!
I fly to a name, two eyes.
Will there be fire, will there be bread?
Here there is such mud.
It is a trainstop, the nurses undergoing the faucet water, its veils, veils in a nunnery, touching their wounded, the men the blood still pumps forward, legs, arms piled outside the tent of unending cries ---- a hospital of dolls.
And the men, what is left of the men pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood into the next mile, the next hour ---- dynasty of broken arrows!
How far is it?
There is mud on my feet, thick, red and slipping. It is Adam's side, this earth I rise from, and I in agony.
I cannot undo myself, and the train is steaming.
Steaming and breathing, its teeth ready to roll, like a devil's.
There is a minute at the end of it, a minute, a dewdrop.
How far is it?
It is so small the place I am getting to, why are there these obstacles ---- the body of this woman, charred skirts and deathmask mourned by religious figures, by garlanded children.
And now detonations ---- thunder and guns.
The fire's between us.
Is there no place turning and turning in the middle air, untouchable and untouchable.
The train is dragging itself, it is screaming ---- an animal insane for the destination, the bloodspot, the face at the end of the flare.
I shall bury the wounded like pupas, I shall count and bury the dead. Let their souls writhe in like dew, incense in my track. The carriages rock, they are cradles. And I, stepping from this skin of old bandages, boredoms, old faces step up to you from the black car of Lethe, pure as a baby.
What is our responsibility for The Downtrodden?
And: At what point is enough ENOUGH? At what point are they responsible, at least partially, for themselves and their behavior?
The Homeless: (Whoops, sorry: "those experiencing homelessness"). If, for instance, an abused woman leaves her husband and home out of desperation and has to live on the street: THAT, to me, is someone in need of shelter sponsored by the city. But what if the person is merely an alcoholic or drug addict who doesn't want to work? Should that person be allowed to camp out on city streets? Or, make it one better: Austin just purchased a $6.7 million hotel to house "those experiencing homelessness." Do you really think that the addicts admitted to the hotel are going to be grateful for the safe space? Or, in their addiction, are they going to behave exactly as shittily as they did when living in tents under various Austin underpasses?
In truth: I've been in Austin most of my adult life, since 1983. There weren't homeless camping sites under every bridge in Austin until Mayor Steve Adler took office in 2015. What did the homeless do before 2015? Either took advantage of city programs or got out of town because they were forbidden to camp out.
Dear Adler: If you allow tents and sleeping on streets, they will come. If you give them a $6.7 million hotel, they will come.
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Black Voters: Why is asking for an ID to vote considered discriminatory? Are you too stupid to figure out how to vote, just like whites do? Why was the MLB game moved from Georgia to Colorado, which has even stricter voting requirements?
Dear Media: Stop promoting racial division when it's not warranted. Dear Blacks: Stop being told you're stupid by the Media.
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Illegal Immigrants: Most other countries have, and Trump had, the exact SANE policy: If you want to emigrate to a country, then stay home and apply legally. You don't come in mass droves, and you don't send your babies with coyotes and then drop them over a fence. Even Mexico has a stricter entry policy than the US, as does just about every other country in the world.
Dear Biden: If you don't enforce borders, they will come.
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Girl on My Roof: (Again today, for the fourth time.) If you have an "autistic" child, I'm sorry for your hardship, but... your neighbors aren't to be the victims of YOUR hardship. I don't want the pitter-patter of obnoxious feet above my head, and I certainly don't want your little shits in my backyard or in my home. If you have troubled kids, then you must make a special effort to take control of your kids---or else you can't live in a "regular" community.
Dear Apartment Management: If you allow this, it will continue. Stop allowing it.
Thursday, April 08, 2021
When your own mother doesn't like you
I'm now in my 50s, and my mother is about to turn 80. Last year, after 3 years of not speaking, I finally realized that I needed to put my grievances (childhood and otherwise) aside and make an attempt to spend time with, and communicate with, my mother before she passes. (Or else I'm going to really feel like shit.)
Here's the thing, though: Even as a kid, I was always an ebullient person, full of strong thoughts/feelings and beliefs. My mother did not respond to any of these feelings. She either ignored me or literally sneered at me. As an adult, I didn't have to be around that kind of constant rejection any more... except in severe cases when I desperately needed some emotional and/or financial help and I was forced to turn to her.
Given that my mother was often my only life-line when in desperate need, I feel grateful. I had no one else, and she was there. But in actuality: Even as we communicate today (visits on holidays and e-mail messages), she still doesn't like me.
An example: In late December, an apartment neighbor banged on my door and yelled at me after I'd told her kid to stop peering in my window and to stop roller-skating on the sidewalk outside my window. Having someone bang on my door and yell at me was scary. Thinking that my mother and I had a closer relationship, I shared my frightened feelings with her. Her response was that she had sympathy for the mother, and that I was always "angry" and "confrontational." That, pretty much, is the exact story of my emotional life. Boy, would it be nice to have someone to commiserate with!
It's sick. And I once cut off ties for 3 years because it's sick. Yet: She's my mother. It's not like breaking up with a stupid girlfriend, or something. It's blood and therefore much more serious and profound...and requires much more serious and profound patience, I suppose.
Job Up for Grabs
I'm very happy at my current job, but I still get Indeed job notices in my mail, just to see what's going on.
Yesterday, I found a very familiar job description: From the job that I quit in October 2019 because I found out that the newly hired 30-year-old male editor (with very little editing experience) was making nearly as much as I was---and I had 20 years of editing experience and had been at the job for over 5 years. When I left, that guy had been there for 9 months; and then 3 months after I quit, they hired a 20-something girl for my position.
When I saw the new job posting, I'd assumed that it was the guy who had left (he had a tech/marketing background, little editing, whereas the girl actually knew how to edit).
But, no, it was the girl hired in January 2020 who was leaving after a year. Moving to Seattle, as I discovered when I searched online.
Seeing the job posting brought up some memories, for sure. One, I actually liked that job! Some of the staff were 30-years inbred, but the job itself was intellectually challenging. I looked forward to going to work every day, and I enjoyed interacting with the researchers. At one point, I did see myself staying there until I retired. Which is why it was so mentally/emotionally shocking when I realized that the new-hire male with very little editing experience was being paid basically the same as I was. When I discovered that fact, though, I'd already been unhappy for the past year or more: My boss was an idiot, and several co-workers were long-time State workers who had been coasting for the past 20 years or more and were utter slugs---in a publishing environment where there were actual deadlines!
Maybe I'm most disturbed/perturbed because the "new girl" hired in January 2020 is giving up, so quickly and casually, a job that I valued and actually had thoughts of staying with through the end of my work years.
Julie London: More (1965)
Tonight, I tried to delete the Julie site altogether---no disrespect to her, but just to clean things up and get rid of stuff I'm no longer actively involved with. The files are embedded somewhere within my Joan Crawford site files, and I found some of them and deleted. But most---where in the hell are they?? It's annoying to still have web pages out there that are decrepit.
While trying to delete Julie London web pages, was reminded of how much I like her singing. (I literally get goose-bumps sometimes while listening to her. Which hardly ever happens. And, BTW, it was the goose-bumps I got watching Joan Crawford in "Rain" that first made me interested in HER back in '87 or so. Listen to what your involuntary bodily responses tell you!) : )
Here's "More" from her 1965 album "Our Fair Lady."
Sunday, April 04, 2021
Alan Jackson: Don't Rock The Jukebox (1991)
(Be on the lookout for George himself lurking in the background!)
Funny how things can change...
April 2019: I was making 52K and very unhappy with my university job (that I'd once thought I could stay in forever). Quit in October of that year with nothing else lined up, and then felt like the biggest loser ever while working temp jobs.
(Thank God for the movie "Bridesmaids" during this time!) :)
April 2021: I'm now making 62K and very happy with my job.
I still get job notifications sent to my mail just for the hell of it. One thing I just got from the university that I left: An editor job, with salary ranging from 40K to 50K! Ha!
Thursday, April 01, 2021
Last Ferry to Manly: Jill Neville
I first came across this book by accident back in the mid-'80s when I worked at the UT-Austin library. The front cover artwork was awful, the back cover photo was awful. As described on the back cover, the book is about an Australian who had come home after decades abroad. I couldn't have cared less about a '70s Australian woman trying to "find herself." But, perversely, I started reading just because it looked so awful---and it turned out to be interesting instead!
The author wrote lackadaisically, but well, about her slacker lifestyle and about experimentally fucking both a lesbian and an 18-year-old surfer boy. (Par for the course of short novels by 1970s feminists.) But then, when I got to page 40 or so... Turned out the book was actually about Sylvia Plath (Katherine Feldmann) and Ted Hughes (Lucan Feldmann) and Assia and Al Alvarez and the author's interactions with all of them back in early-60s London. (The author was an actual lover of Alvarez's and had sex with Hughes once at a party, and knew Assia Wevill socially--the Assia consensus then as now: she was "evil.")
At the time of first reading, I was excited about all of this inside information about Plath/Hughes secretly tucked into a book about an Australian woman and her "coming of age" as a 30-something in the '70s. (The Plath/Hughes angle wasn't publicized or mentioned at all on the cover.)
Lately, after reading the latest Plath bio by Heather Clark and the full Plath "Letters," I remembered this odd bit of history and started wanting to read it again, but couldn't remember the author's name, other than "Jill."
After days of searching online, finally found this book again after 35 years!