It's 5am on a Saturday and I'm watching this. The internet has made my life so weird.
Thanks for the surreality, Dolly H.
Thanks for the surreality, Dolly H.
April 4th, 2009
July 16th, 2008
D's summertime activities have produced more entertaining fare than my own. To wit:
Space Roke from Derek Jenkins on Vimeo.
(This is what happened after we watched Robinson Crusoe on Mars a couple weeks ago.)
Space Roke from Derek Jenkins on Vimeo.
In the year 2070, Colonel Blaze Blasterson crash landed on a strange planet. He's been stuck in that fiery wasteland for years, his only company a monkey named Reginald and a beat-up old karaoke machine. Slowly but surely, trudging across the desolate landscape in search of food and water, during their heartfelt duets under the stars, he and Corporal Reginald fell deeply in love. That all ended two years ago when Reginald was swallowed whole by a Flaming Blort. Left with nobody else to duet with, Blaze sings alone and dreams of his lost love. He's the loneliest man in the galaxy. Instead of being one of two "Islands in the Stream," he's found himself deserted.
In space, no one can hear you sing.
(This is what happened after we watched Robinson Crusoe on Mars a couple weeks ago.)
busyJune 20th, 2008
I'll just let this one speak for itself, friends.
Is there anything the Japanese haven't thought of?
Portable Karaoke Machine for Singing on the Fly
TOKYO (Reuters) - Love to sing? A Japanese toy maker will soon sell a portable, personal karaoke machine so you can belt out your favorite tunes anywhere, and without having to wait for the microphone.
The "Hi-kara" karaoke machine, by Takara Tomy, is a 7-cm (nearly 3-inch) cube which weighs less than a pound and works like a real machine.
Once the singer selects a song, which can be downloaded off the Internet or from special music cartridges, the lyrics come up on a 2.4-inch display. The machine also has headphones and speakers attached.
"Hi-kara" will go on sale in October for about $100, with song cartridges costing about $40 each.
Shigekazu Mihashi, marketing director at Takara Tomy, told Reuters the machine was aimed at youngsters who could not go into karaoke booths or parlors, which often serve alcohol.
According to Japanese law, youngsters under 16 must leave karaoke parlors by 6 p.m. while those aged under 18 can stay only until 11 p.m.
"Girls who are middle-school age and under can't go to karaoke parlors by themselves even if they wanted to sing, but now they can try it at home with this new karaoke machine," Mihashi said.
Japan is the birthplace of the first karaoke machine and the word is derived from the Japanese for "empty orchestra." Karaoke singing is popular all over the world, and especially in Asia where many families own personal karaoke machines and "KTV" lounges abound.
Is there anything the Japanese haven't thought of?
okayMay 19th, 2008
Sims On Stage Karaoke is about to change my life, and probably not for the better.
enthralledMarch 18th, 2008
Just watch, as an unlikely heroine appropriates Mariah Carey to unite the Bulgarian people.
Part I:
Part II:
Part I:
Part II:
movedMarch 16th, 2008
Last night D and I went to see Neil Marshall's new film "Doomsday," mainly because we needed to get out of the house, and we are both devotees of "The Descent." We'd decided before going in that we didn't really care whether it was brilliant or not; if it was a competent, bloody, "Escape from New York" ripoff, we'd feel we'd gotten our money's worth.
As the closing credits began to roll, I exclaimed, "I LOVE THAT MOVIE. I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT IT." Because I do.
The movie is, as the few U.S. critics who've reviewed the film all comment with some level of derision, a competent, bloody, "Escape from New York" ripoff. But what their sneer blinds them to is the way a new kind of director (and the two examples that come immediately to mind are both male Brits, interestingly—Marshall and Danny Boyle) is playing with his ability to render pitch-perfect genre movies that are a million times more intelligent and cinematically satisfying than the reels upon reels of derivative materials aiming flaccidly at some mythological "innovation" and "originality" inspired from beyond the formal boundaries of the movie form. And I mean "movie" as opposed to "film." The most thoughtful comments I've read on "Doomsday" all home in on how it's mired in its Movie-ness, and so fails to be (like "The Descent") what we would call a respectable Film. Matt Zoller Seitz writes in the NYTimes,
Yes. It is karaoke—and y'all know how I feel about The Karaoke—and it understands itself as such. Instead of grabbing an acoustic guitar and hitting the open mic with a bunch of soul-searching, navel-gazing "originalia," this movie decides to produce something people already know they want to hear, and explore where that preformed desire comes from. It's not just Entertainment for Entertainment's Sake, but a really smart pastiche of old—even outdated—popular forms injected with a dose of ingenious energy that animates those materials back into life. "Doomsday" is Shelley's Frankenstein, and it knows it. Its roots go way beyond John Carpenter and '80s punk to the British Gothic of the late eighteenth century—a good third of the action takes place in a revived medieval community housed in a Scottish castle, for Christ's sake. The Mad Max heroine battles an honest-to-goodness Black Knight. (And kicks his ass, obviously.) Back in "modern times," the castle had been drained of its historical force as a bastion of British primitivism by being transformed into an English tourist trap, humorously evidenced by the decaying "Gift Shop" and "Emergency Exit" signage. As in "Jurassic Park," the movie taps into the visceral thrill of seeing real barbarism burst through the veneer of commercial modernity. But Marshall's movie, true to its British roots, recognizes this experiment in stirring excitement in the hearts of disaffected modern individuals as a reprise of something popular writers attempted a couple centuries ago. "Doomsday"'s relationship to the Gothic tradition is like an awesome karaoke rendition of an awesome cover of something no one can really remember the original of—because the original doesn't matter to an audience in need of revival.
To put it another way, "Doomsday," like the Gothic novel (which I'm teaching right now, so you'll have to excuse the fact that I obviously have it on the brain), is committed to the idea that the memory of something can be a thousand times more affecting than an "original experience," whatever that means, precisely because it is fashioned for an audience who has no access to original experience because they've inherited an excess of experience. Everything in our world already comes from somewhere else. Go back to an "original," and if you're honest with yourself, you'll find it a disappointing derivative of something else just as disappointing. The only way to pursue meaning and satisfaction is to go forward—i.e. the karaoke bar, where cultural crap is revived night after night until, against the odds yet inevitably, something brilliant happens. The quintessential karaoke moment in "Doomsday"? When the leader of a tribe of neoprimitive Scots who have taken over a decayed Glasgow, during what Variety describes as "a sort of Burning Man-meets-Circus-Maximus setpiece," comes onstage and performs a stirring rendition of Fine Young Cannibals' "Good Thing" before they barbecue and eat one of the captured English soldiers. The Fine Young Cannibals were postmodern cannibals—their music (which I loved in middle school, and now) did to melodies what their band name did to the word "cannibal": drained them of viscera to transform them into endlessly reproducible forms, references enjoyable because of their alienation from anything truly stirring, which is to say frightening. But you send something like that into circulation, and eventually it is bound to return to the real, to be picked up as the theme song for some actual cannibals, returning the song to a home it never knew it had, making it more hilarious than ever before as it fuses with a kind of terrified hysteria absent from its so-called original.
I have to go watch a college basketball game now, so I'll wrap up by saying:
1. Screw The New York Times. If you don't get The Karaoke, that's your deal; it's not my problem you have no idea how to have fun in the 21st century.
2. I am so planning a course on "The Postcolonial Gothic," inspired directly by this movie.
3. If you can stomach blown-up bunnies and severed heads, go see this movie immediately and think about nothing but how much fun you're really having as you watch it. Then come back and tell me about it.
As the closing credits began to roll, I exclaimed, "I LOVE THAT MOVIE. I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT IT." Because I do.
The movie is, as the few U.S. critics who've reviewed the film all comment with some level of derision, a competent, bloody, "Escape from New York" ripoff. But what their sneer blinds them to is the way a new kind of director (and the two examples that come immediately to mind are both male Brits, interestingly—Marshall and Danny Boyle) is playing with his ability to render pitch-perfect genre movies that are a million times more intelligent and cinematically satisfying than the reels upon reels of derivative materials aiming flaccidly at some mythological "innovation" and "originality" inspired from beyond the formal boundaries of the movie form. And I mean "movie" as opposed to "film." The most thoughtful comments I've read on "Doomsday" all home in on how it's mired in its Movie-ness, and so fails to be (like "The Descent") what we would call a respectable Film. Matt Zoller Seitz writes in the NYTimes,
In terms of story, “The Descent” and “Doomsday” are as different as two genre films can be, but the falloff in artistic quality is still quantifiable. Where “The Descent” was a slow, quiet, exquisitely modulated, startlingly original film, “Doomsday” is frenetic, loud, wildly imprecise and so derivative that it doesn’t so much seem to reference its antecedents as try on their famous images like a child playing dress-up. Homage without innovation isn’t homage, it’s karaoke.
Yes. It is karaoke—and y'all know how I feel about The Karaoke—and it understands itself as such. Instead of grabbing an acoustic guitar and hitting the open mic with a bunch of soul-searching, navel-gazing "originalia," this movie decides to produce something people already know they want to hear, and explore where that preformed desire comes from. It's not just Entertainment for Entertainment's Sake, but a really smart pastiche of old—even outdated—popular forms injected with a dose of ingenious energy that animates those materials back into life. "Doomsday" is Shelley's Frankenstein, and it knows it. Its roots go way beyond John Carpenter and '80s punk to the British Gothic of the late eighteenth century—a good third of the action takes place in a revived medieval community housed in a Scottish castle, for Christ's sake. The Mad Max heroine battles an honest-to-goodness Black Knight. (And kicks his ass, obviously.) Back in "modern times," the castle had been drained of its historical force as a bastion of British primitivism by being transformed into an English tourist trap, humorously evidenced by the decaying "Gift Shop" and "Emergency Exit" signage. As in "Jurassic Park," the movie taps into the visceral thrill of seeing real barbarism burst through the veneer of commercial modernity. But Marshall's movie, true to its British roots, recognizes this experiment in stirring excitement in the hearts of disaffected modern individuals as a reprise of something popular writers attempted a couple centuries ago. "Doomsday"'s relationship to the Gothic tradition is like an awesome karaoke rendition of an awesome cover of something no one can really remember the original of—because the original doesn't matter to an audience in need of revival.
To put it another way, "Doomsday," like the Gothic novel (which I'm teaching right now, so you'll have to excuse the fact that I obviously have it on the brain), is committed to the idea that the memory of something can be a thousand times more affecting than an "original experience," whatever that means, precisely because it is fashioned for an audience who has no access to original experience because they've inherited an excess of experience. Everything in our world already comes from somewhere else. Go back to an "original," and if you're honest with yourself, you'll find it a disappointing derivative of something else just as disappointing. The only way to pursue meaning and satisfaction is to go forward—i.e. the karaoke bar, where cultural crap is revived night after night until, against the odds yet inevitably, something brilliant happens. The quintessential karaoke moment in "Doomsday"? When the leader of a tribe of neoprimitive Scots who have taken over a decayed Glasgow, during what Variety describes as "a sort of Burning Man-meets-Circus-Maximus setpiece," comes onstage and performs a stirring rendition of Fine Young Cannibals' "Good Thing" before they barbecue and eat one of the captured English soldiers. The Fine Young Cannibals were postmodern cannibals—their music (which I loved in middle school, and now) did to melodies what their band name did to the word "cannibal": drained them of viscera to transform them into endlessly reproducible forms, references enjoyable because of their alienation from anything truly stirring, which is to say frightening. But you send something like that into circulation, and eventually it is bound to return to the real, to be picked up as the theme song for some actual cannibals, returning the song to a home it never knew it had, making it more hilarious than ever before as it fuses with a kind of terrified hysteria absent from its so-called original.
I have to go watch a college basketball game now, so I'll wrap up by saying:
1. Screw The New York Times. If you don't get The Karaoke, that's your deal; it's not my problem you have no idea how to have fun in the 21st century.
2. I am so planning a course on "The Postcolonial Gothic," inspired directly by this movie.
3. If you can stomach blown-up bunnies and severed heads, go see this movie immediately and think about nothing but how much fun you're really having as you watch it. Then come back and tell me about it.
happyDecember 7th, 2007
People keep asking me who won Wednesday night's epic battle. Let's do as Gil Grissom would do and let the evidence tell the story, shall we?
EZ'S CREW: This is why they're hot.
( The Evidence )
So who won? I think the answer is clear. As always, the KARAOKE won. It shall not be defeated.
EZ'S CREW: This is why they're hot.
( The Evidence )
So who won? I think the answer is clear. As always, the KARAOKE won. It shall not be defeated.
coolDecember 5th, 2007
The following are actual emails sent and conversations had in the halls and classrooms of my department.
Me to my "Satire and Humor of the 18th Century" class:
Dr. Collins to her "African American Literature" class:
Student to me in class:
Me to student in class:
Student:
Me:
Me to my "Satire and Humor of the 18th Century" class:
Dear class,
Our end-of-the-semester party is officially on. I have reserved the back room of Jose's on Dickson Street from 6-8 pm next WEDNESDAY, DEC. 5. You've demonstrated your ability to reckon with the greatest minds of the 18th-century literary scene; now show me you can take your peers in the karaoke face-off of the century. Dr. Collins: YOU'RE ON.
The event organizers make the following request: "Please make sure to have your students arrive a bit before 6pm to start selecting songs and get situated. I'd hate for them to not fully utilize the time frame." These people are clearly professionals. I would hate for us to waste precious karaoke minutes as well.
Drs. Gertz and Tucker: you and your students are also invited. Please join us, if you dare.
All best,
EZ, a.k.a. Lady Z, Karaoke Queen
Dr. Collins to her "African American Literature" class:
Dear class,
I told you earlier that Dr. Zuroski challenged us to, and I quote, a "karaoke face-off of the century." Well, she has reserved a time and a place for said event--the back room of Jose's on Dickson Street from 6-8 pm on WEDNESDAY, DEC. 5.
If you would like to join me as I teach her a thing or two, we will be glad to have you all. I include at the end of this message what Dr. Zuroski or as she refers to herself, EZ, a.k.a. Lady Z, Karaoke Queen, said to her class about us. She has clearly been reading too much 18th-century literature. So, if you are free, come prepared to get down with the get down.
According to Dr. Z, the event organizers make the following request: "Please make sure to have your students arrive a bit before 6pm to start selecting songs and get situated. I'd hate for them to not fully utilize the time frame."
Oh, and for those of you who are taking both of us this semester, you have no choice. YOU ARE ON MY TEAM!!!!!!
Dr. Z's challenge to her class:
"You've demonstrated your ability to reckon with the greatest minds of the 18th-century literary scene; now show me you can take your peers in the karaoke face-off of the century."
Yes, you should be insulted and ready to sing like you have never sang before. Do it for all of those oppressed, disenfranchised, invisible African Americans you read about this semester.
Student to me in class:
"I'm really sorry, but Dr. Collins said I needed to be on her team for the sake of invisible, disenfranchised African Americans."
Me to student in class:
"What? Who has more invisible, disenfranchised African Americans than the 18th Century? In fact, have you seen ANY African Americans at all in the literature in this class??"
Student:
"Um...no?"
Me:
"Exactly."
ready!July 19th, 2007
Man, I've been lazy about LJing this summer. I realize this. I have no excuse. At some point, I'll pick it back up and report on actual adventures and, I hope, begin reviewing books again. Maybe I'll even write that last chapter of the NASCAR Chronicles. But when Life gets complicated, the Procrastination suffers.
What has not suffered, however, is my devotion to The Karaoke. Last night, new friend Mary lost her karaoke virginity with a barn-burning rendition of "Let's Hear It for the Boy," and Triple Threat Tucker busted out the Wreckx-N-Effect, because, as everyone knows, a wiggle and jiggle can make the night complete. And last weekend, I flew back to Rhode Island to sing at the gloriously seedy Murray's Pub of Pawtucket for a friend's bachelorette party. (The bachelorette herself nearly killed someone when some guy beat her to "The Humpty Dance," but she pulled it together like a pro and countered with a sublime "Mama Said Knock You Out.")
So I've been thinking about the Empty Orchestra, and how much I love it, and how I'm really glad that I'm turning 30 in a few weeks because it is the perfect occasion for a truly epic karaoke night where I can make everyone suck it up and sing because, seriously, it's the best thing ever, and even if you don't believe me it doesn't matter because it's my 30th birthday and if you don't sing you're really, really mean. (I realize there are some girls out there who cultivate this level of princessitude for more mundane occasions, such as a graduation, or the purchase of a new lip gloss, or Wednesday, but I find that if you save your inner princess for special occasions, people will do outrageous shit for you with very little needling and pouting on your part. And, honestly, I'm not a fan of the Needle and Pout. I will humiliate myself repeatedly on the karaoke floor, but the Needle and Pout I think beneath me.)
But my point is this: internet friends, wherever you are, I would like you to start compiling a list of songs you would sing if you could come to my birthday party, and tell me what they are, and promise you will sing these songs aloud at some point in the month of August. It doesn't have to be under the lights—it can be in the shower, or the car, or on the table of your favorite fancy restaurant. I would just like to know that, just this once, everyone is participating.
And yes—duets are not only allowed but encouraged.
What has not suffered, however, is my devotion to The Karaoke. Last night, new friend Mary lost her karaoke virginity with a barn-burning rendition of "Let's Hear It for the Boy," and Triple Threat Tucker busted out the Wreckx-N-Effect, because, as everyone knows, a wiggle and jiggle can make the night complete. And last weekend, I flew back to Rhode Island to sing at the gloriously seedy Murray's Pub of Pawtucket for a friend's bachelorette party. (The bachelorette herself nearly killed someone when some guy beat her to "The Humpty Dance," but she pulled it together like a pro and countered with a sublime "Mama Said Knock You Out.")
So I've been thinking about the Empty Orchestra, and how much I love it, and how I'm really glad that I'm turning 30 in a few weeks because it is the perfect occasion for a truly epic karaoke night where I can make everyone suck it up and sing because, seriously, it's the best thing ever, and even if you don't believe me it doesn't matter because it's my 30th birthday and if you don't sing you're really, really mean. (I realize there are some girls out there who cultivate this level of princessitude for more mundane occasions, such as a graduation, or the purchase of a new lip gloss, or Wednesday, but I find that if you save your inner princess for special occasions, people will do outrageous shit for you with very little needling and pouting on your part. And, honestly, I'm not a fan of the Needle and Pout. I will humiliate myself repeatedly on the karaoke floor, but the Needle and Pout I think beneath me.)
But my point is this: internet friends, wherever you are, I would like you to start compiling a list of songs you would sing if you could come to my birthday party, and tell me what they are, and promise you will sing these songs aloud at some point in the month of August. It doesn't have to be under the lights—it can be in the shower, or the car, or on the table of your favorite fancy restaurant. I would just like to know that, just this once, everyone is participating.
And yes—duets are not only allowed but encouraged.
July 11th, 2007
Alert procrastinator ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
atabei has directed my attention to this disturbing news out of North Korea:
And I'm thinking, Korean karaoke must be fucking awesome.
atabei has directed my attention to this disturbing news out of North Korea:NATION BANS KARAOKE BARS, INTERNET CAFES?
SEOUL (Reuters) - North Korea's security agency has ordered the shutdown of karaoke bars and Internet cafes, saying they are a threat to society, a South Korean newspaper reported Wednesday.
...
The North's Ministry of People's Security said in a directive that all karaoke bars, video-screening rooms and Internet cafes operating without state authorization must shut immediately, the Dong-A Ilbo newspaper said.
The paper did not say how it obtained a copy of the directive.
"It is so promulgated under the mandate of the Republic in order to crush enemy scheming and to squarely confront those who threaten the maintenance of the socialist system," the daily quoted the ministry directive as saying.
And I'm thinking, Korean karaoke must be fucking awesome.
May 10th, 2007
I finally finished grading the final exams for my 18th-Century Novel class. This semester I taught them Oroonoko, Robinson Crusoe, Pamela, Joseph Andrews, Evelina, The Castle of Otranto, Northanger Abbey, and the Utter Cultural Importance of National Karaoke Week. The last question of the exam was this:
If any one of the characters we've read this semester could experience the glory of National Karaoke Week, what would he/she sing?
Some of the best answers:
I particularly enjoyed how the suggestions for Pamela were pretty evenly split between a Richardsonian Pamela (Chaka Khan's "I'm Every Woman," Aretha Franklin's "Respect") and a Fieldingesque Pamela (Kanye West's "Gold Digger," Black Eyed Peas' "My Humps"). Could it be they actually learned something? ;)
If any one of the characters we've read this semester could experience the glory of National Karaoke Week, what would he/she sing?
Some of the best answers:
"Leonora [from the embedded story 'The Unfortunate Jilt' in Joseph Andrews] would undoubtedly sing 'Achey-Breaky Heart' by Billy Ray Cyrus. And if she were too depressed to sing, I'm sure that Pamela would step in and sing 'Like a Virgin.'"
"Joseph Andrews: 'On the Road Again,' 'King of the Road.'"
"Oroonoko: 'Buffalo Soldier'—Totally!"
"Evelina would sing 'Don't Stop Believing' by Journey because she is just a small town girl."
"Mr. B would sing 'She Bangs' (think the Hung boy from American Idol) to Pamela at his happiness of being able to finally have her."
"I believe Robinson Crusoe would sing 'All By Myself' by Celine Dion."
"Robinson Crusoe would sing Styx's 'Come Sail Away.'"
"Robinson Crusoe would sing 'Welcome to the Jungle' by Guns n Roses."
"Robinson Crusoe would have sung 'Eye of the Tiger' while killing the cannibals."
"Mr. B—'Let's Talk About Sex, Baby.'"
"Evelina: 'Who Is that Girl I See' from Mulan." (One of the identifications on the exam was the passage from Evelina in which she has her hair dressed in the city fashion for the first time, and she feels alienated from her own image.)
"Get ready for this. Imagine: Catherine and Henry Tilney are at their wedding reception party, which is, of course, a karaoke party. They say they have a special performance for their friends.... The orchestra starts to play the music from Grease, 'You're the One that I Want,' and Catherine and Henry sing and dance and look extremely adorable. The performance is a big hit, especially with General Tilney, who decides to become a back-up singer. :)"
"Oroonoko—'Love Stinks' by the J. Geils Band?"
"Theodore: 'Stayin Alive' by the Bee Gees (because this character actually lived)"
"Catherine—'Just a Girl' by No Doubt"
"Pamela would probably sing 'I'm Every Woman,' but her tune would change to Beyonce's 'Crazy in Love.' I also think Catherine would probably sing 'Crazy' by Gnarls Barkley."
"I think Pamela may have sung 'Eleanor Rigby' by the Beatles, but only during the part that she's locked away. Maybe after the marriage she would have sung something by the Beastie Boys, the fight for your right to party song...'cept she didn't really get to party with all those rules..."
"Robinson Crusoe would sing 'It's My Prerogative' by Bobby Brown."
"Evelina—'I'm Coming Out'"
"I believe Robinson Crusoe would sing The Police's 'Sending Out an S.O.S.'"
"Evelina's cousins, like our wonderful instructor, would sing 'Naughty Girls [Need Love Too].'" (I believe T. T. Tucker was responsible for releasing this information to the student body.)
I particularly enjoyed how the suggestions for Pamela were pretty evenly split between a Richardsonian Pamela (Chaka Khan's "I'm Every Woman," Aretha Franklin's "Respect") and a Fieldingesque Pamela (Kanye West's "Gold Digger," Black Eyed Peas' "My Humps"). Could it be they actually learned something? ;)
amusedApril 27th, 2007
In the past, I've expressed dissatisfaction with local karaoke joint You Know?? Uno!!. There's no real performance space, so on crowded nights it can be difficult to figure out where to stand for optimal glory, and the sound is sometimes so loud that you can't hear whether you're doing any justice to Susanna Hoffs in your rendition of "Manic Monday." Plus, if you get there too late in the night, you have to endure endless rounds of "You Never Even Call Me By My Name" over cocktails in plastic cups just to get your one Pat Benatar song in before closing. But last night, I hit YN??U!!'s early enough in the evening with my Karaoke Week partners-in-song, one T. T. Tucker and one Tracey K., to craft an optimal experience. I've come to appreciate the bar's completely perverse decision to pump only the vocal line into the street through outdoor speakers, so that all of Fayetteville can hear what you actually sound like when you mistakenly think you're channeling Dusty Springfield. And last night, my vodka gimlets, served in an actual lowball glass, went appropriately wonky in favor of vodka as the night went on. Most importantly, however, since we gave ourselves plenty of time to sample the bar's musical offerings, I finally realized what a fantastic collection they have. It's not quite up to par with Philly's Locust Bar, which is the only place (beyond my own living room) I've ever been able to do the Bangles' "In Your Room," but last night I was able to indulge in such perennially absent favorites as "I Hate Myself For Loving You" and "Naughty Girls Need Love Too." There's simply no excuse for a meager menu of Joan Jett and Samantha Fox at karaoke, and the folks at You Know Uno's seem to understand that.
T.T. was a true karaoke hero, seducing the winsome punks at the next table with his Prince ("Kiss") and Bill Withers ("Use Me"). In fact, the tattooed lads offered their own tribute to Mr. Withers in a riveting rendition of "Lovely Day"—imagine a cover by, I don't know, Blink 182, fueled by love and cheap beer—and the young lady accompanying them made my night when she pulled out "Don't Stop Believing." (I may have screamed that I love her too many times. I may have offered myself as her groupie. I don't really recall. In any case, her name was Kimberly, and I meant anything I said.) T.T. also brought the house down with his "Baby Got Back," which is why he's forgiven for trying to pimp me out to the dirty-dancing little dance floor pixie who haunted me for a while (before leaving me for some greasy frat boy, the fickle minx). When T.T. first agreed to a karaoke outing, he tried to play like he was only going to watch, but when it comes down to it, the man likes big butts and he cannot lie.
So how have you been serving the karaoke gods?
T.T. was a true karaoke hero, seducing the winsome punks at the next table with his Prince ("Kiss") and Bill Withers ("Use Me"). In fact, the tattooed lads offered their own tribute to Mr. Withers in a riveting rendition of "Lovely Day"—imagine a cover by, I don't know, Blink 182, fueled by love and cheap beer—and the young lady accompanying them made my night when she pulled out "Don't Stop Believing." (I may have screamed that I love her too many times. I may have offered myself as her groupie. I don't really recall. In any case, her name was Kimberly, and I meant anything I said.) T.T. also brought the house down with his "Baby Got Back," which is why he's forgiven for trying to pimp me out to the dirty-dancing little dance floor pixie who haunted me for a while (before leaving me for some greasy frat boy, the fickle minx). When T.T. first agreed to a karaoke outing, he tried to play like he was only going to watch, but when it comes down to it, the man likes big butts and he cannot lie.
So how have you been serving the karaoke gods?
satisfiedApril 25th, 2007
My depressing last post has been holding court in the Procrastination Lounge long enough. Since my Twilight Sad day, I've set up a 2-month trip to Chicago this summer to read 17th-century travelogues at the Newberry Library, with a beautiful sublet blocks from Wrigley Field. I also talked the Bank of Evil I Mean America into giving me back $200 of the $300 coffee penalty1 by repeating the words "excessively punitive" until they couldn't take it anymore. So things are better.
But that's not what I came here to talk about.
A benevolent email gnome has kindly informed me that we are in the midst of NATIONAL KARAOKE WEEK.
Yes, that's what I said.
I don't know how I nearly missed this glorious event. But now that we all know, I insist that you put on your lucky pants and start getting your set lists in order. KARAOKE WEEK, people. Seriously.
More to follow, obviously.
1Here's how to spend $300 on coffee in one week. 1. Make the fatal decision to bank with Bank of America. 2. Go to New Zealand and fail to calculate the exchange rate properly in your head as you buy everything with a debit card. 3. Return to the States and believe your online banking statement when it tells you that you have $60 in your checking account. Proceed to buy coffee every morning and afternoon with your debit card. 4. Realize several days later, after your check to the water company bounces, that when Bank of America reported that you had $60 they really meant you had -$5 dollars, so that, for each and every $1 cup of coffee you've purchased over the past few days, they have charged you a $35 penalty fee. Viola!
But that's not what I came here to talk about.
A benevolent email gnome has kindly informed me that we are in the midst of NATIONAL KARAOKE WEEK.
Yes, that's what I said.
I don't know how I nearly missed this glorious event. But now that we all know, I insist that you put on your lucky pants and start getting your set lists in order. KARAOKE WEEK, people. Seriously.
More to follow, obviously.
1Here's how to spend $300 on coffee in one week. 1. Make the fatal decision to bank with Bank of America. 2. Go to New Zealand and fail to calculate the exchange rate properly in your head as you buy everything with a debit card. 3. Return to the States and believe your online banking statement when it tells you that you have $60 in your checking account. Proceed to buy coffee every morning and afternoon with your debit card. 4. Realize several days later, after your check to the water company bounces, that when Bank of America reported that you had $60 they really meant you had -$5 dollars, so that, for each and every $1 cup of coffee you've purchased over the past few days, they have charged you a $35 penalty fee. Viola!
karaoke-riffic!February 16th, 2007
The BBC reports that a South Korean woman has set a "karaoke record":
If I were the competitive type, I would consider the gauntlet thrown. 60 hours of karaoke just doesn't intimidate me. Hell, it sounds like a warm-up. However, in the spirit of world peace, I'd prefer to call this woman and collaborate with her to establish a karaoke therapy foundation, through which we will perform, tirelessly and ceaselessly, to bring the joy of karaoke to the weak, suffering, and infirm.
I do wonder, though, why the article doesn't report the husband's response to his wife's gift of song. I fear it may have been, "KILL ME NOW."
A South Korean woman has set an unofficial world karaoke record after singing nearly 1,000 songs in just under 60 hours, reports say.
Kim Seok-ok dropped to the floor after her marathon effort, which she said she undertook to cheer up her sick husband.
Ms Kim picked up the microphone at a karaoke bar on Monday and continued until Valentine's Day evening.
She beat, by 36 minutes, the record set by a German man last year, South Korea's Yonhap news agency reported.
Ms Kim sang for 59 hours and 48 minutes, with a break of just a few minutes every hour, witnesses at the bar in Seoul said.
She did not even sit down, even though the rules say she can.
The 52-year-old said she did it for her 45-year-old husband who is fighting a brain tumour.
"Life may be painful, but face the challenge," she said. "I want people to live with hope like me.
"I wanted to send the message, for those who are living with patients in the family, that if you live cheerfully without being discouraged, it will give them immense strength."
If I were the competitive type, I would consider the gauntlet thrown. 60 hours of karaoke just doesn't intimidate me. Hell, it sounds like a warm-up. However, in the spirit of world peace, I'd prefer to call this woman and collaborate with her to establish a karaoke therapy foundation, through which we will perform, tirelessly and ceaselessly, to bring the joy of karaoke to the weak, suffering, and infirm.
I do wonder, though, why the article doesn't report the husband's response to his wife's gift of song. I fear it may have been, "KILL ME NOW."
chipperFebruary 1st, 2007
And if not, why not?
In yesterday's Boston Globe, James Parker reviews a new book on karaoke by Zhou Xun and Francesca Tarocco, forthcoming from University of Chicago Press. Now, I've never met the authors, nor this Mr. Parker, but it seems they not only understand but share my belief in the uniquely sublime power of karaoke in this, our age of postmodern cynicism:
I don't know if you're taking the piss, James Parker, but frankly, I don't give a damn. You have captured the haunted, tortured beauty that is The Karaoke. And Zhou Xun and Francesca Parker, wherever you are, I salute you, and look forward to the day we celebrate traded renditions of Pat Benetar and John Cougar Mellencamp with round after round of emboldening, confusing spirits.
P.S. Did I mention it's a snow day? Can today possibly get any better??
In yesterday's Boston Globe, James Parker reviews a new book on karaoke by Zhou Xun and Francesca Tarocco, forthcoming from University of Chicago Press. Now, I've never met the authors, nor this Mr. Parker, but it seems they not only understand but share my belief in the uniquely sublime power of karaoke in this, our age of postmodern cynicism:
As the book suggests, something of the mystery of karaoke is contained in its etymology: The word is a compound abbreviation of two Japanese words meaning "empty" and "orchestra." Karaoke is above all a space, an absence haunted by the missing vocal line. The instrumental accompaniment, generally a synthetic redaction of the original track, is ghost-music, tinkling with its own deadness -- and that unsung melody is spectrally beckoning, beckoning. The heart of the karaoke performer swells: Into this vacancy he must project his beautiful essence, his soul. He -- or she (karaoke knows no gender) -- may be emboldened or confused by alcohol; wild with a private grief; or, worst of all, suffering from a genuine desire to excel before his peers. Regardless, in the performance that ensues, something will be brought to light.
I don't know if you're taking the piss, James Parker, but frankly, I don't give a damn. You have captured the haunted, tortured beauty that is The Karaoke. And Zhou Xun and Francesca Parker, wherever you are, I salute you, and look forward to the day we celebrate traded renditions of Pat Benetar and John Cougar Mellencamp with round after round of emboldening, confusing spirits.
P.S. Did I mention it's a snow day? Can today possibly get any better??
September 25th, 2006
Some things I've learned during my time in Arkansas:
1. If a friend mails you a package decorated in art that proclaims "SATAN IS A LESBIAN," you will not receive it.
2. There is a world of difference between working for Wal-Mart and working at Wal-Mart, and it is best to respect this distinction when meeting, say, the spouses of new colleagues.
3. It is inadvisable to match an employee of the U.S. Air Force round for round in Jager shots at the karaoke bar in exchange for his singing "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," even though it obviously seems like a fair deal at the time, because you will inevitably reach that tragic moment of clarity in which you realize that in exactly 30 seconds or so, you will not be able to stand, you will not be able to speak, and you will not be able to extricate yourself from the karaoke bar and return to your place of residence without major assistance, so you must, before the impending loss of all motor skills including those involved in the operation of a cellular phone, send out some form of distress signal, so that some local hero will come to your rescue, namely your trusty friend KL, not to be confused with that other guy Kal-El, because not even the Man of Steel would perform the feat KL does in retrieving you and carrying you home as you, when not saying inexcusable things about his mother, engage him in the following philosophical conversation:
See? I teach the people of Arkansas, and they teach me right back.
1. If a friend mails you a package decorated in art that proclaims "SATAN IS A LESBIAN," you will not receive it.
2. There is a world of difference between working for Wal-Mart and working at Wal-Mart, and it is best to respect this distinction when meeting, say, the spouses of new colleagues.
3. It is inadvisable to match an employee of the U.S. Air Force round for round in Jager shots at the karaoke bar in exchange for his singing "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," even though it obviously seems like a fair deal at the time, because you will inevitably reach that tragic moment of clarity in which you realize that in exactly 30 seconds or so, you will not be able to stand, you will not be able to speak, and you will not be able to extricate yourself from the karaoke bar and return to your place of residence without major assistance, so you must, before the impending loss of all motor skills including those involved in the operation of a cellular phone, send out some form of distress signal, so that some local hero will come to your rescue, namely your trusty friend KL, not to be confused with that other guy Kal-El, because not even the Man of Steel would perform the feat KL does in retrieving you and carrying you home as you, when not saying inexcusable things about his mother, engage him in the following philosophical conversation:
You: Hey, is the "air force" a thing?
KL: ???
You: Like if I say, "the air force," does that mean something?
KL: Yes.
You: Huh.
See? I teach the people of Arkansas, and they teach me right back.
ever-learningJune 6th, 2006
Following four days of driving, Z and I arrived intact in Fayetteville a couple days ago. Our apartment is not yet ready, so we are camping out on the floor of another apartment for a few days, which I guess is fine since the truck bearing all of our worldly possessions won't be here until Saturday.
If you've never driven through the mountains of Western Arkansas, which I hadn't until two days ago, you are really missing out. I can't believe I live in such a beautiful part of the world.
I thought of you,madame_urushiol, as we drove past Russellville. We're officially neighbors now!
I don't really have any stories right now. To be honest, I'm kind of exhausted and disoriented and disinclined to write. But I can report some updates on the procrastination front, which, of course, is why we're all here:
If you use Firefox, I highly recommend installing the Stumble Upon plugin. It streamlines and organizes the process of random websurfing so that you can really go all day looking up stuff you never knew you needed to know. I have stumbled across many sites that are now at the top of my Favorites list, including:
PollyGlotto: A digital woman translates your text from English into a number of other languages and speaks them aloud. In other words, you can spend hours making Polly say dirty things in everything from Dutch to Chinese.
FullBooks: An eclectic archive of free full-text online books.
The Online Karaoke Machine: This one speaks for itself. If this site does not change your life, then you and I are not living on the same planet. Incidentally, it was here that I discovered that I have been singing Men at Work's classic tune "Down Under" wrong since I was, like, born. Apparently, the chorus goes, "You better run / You better take cover," whereas I always sang "You better run / You better take a bus." I maintain that my version still makes sense. Z thinks I am insane.
And this just in: Pee-Wee's Playhouse is coming back to TV! The Cartoon Network's Adult Swim will begin airing the complete run of episodes on June 10, including the amazing Pee-Wee's Playhouse Christmas Special, which we watched about once a week, year-round, in my house when I was growing up. Of course, I already own every episode of Pee-Wee's Playhouse on DVD, so I'm really more excited about the principle of the thing. I firmly believe that a world that televises Pee-Wee's Playhouse is a better world for all.
If you've never driven through the mountains of Western Arkansas, which I hadn't until two days ago, you are really missing out. I can't believe I live in such a beautiful part of the world.
I thought of you,
madame_urushiol, as we drove past Russellville. We're officially neighbors now!I don't really have any stories right now. To be honest, I'm kind of exhausted and disoriented and disinclined to write. But I can report some updates on the procrastination front, which, of course, is why we're all here:
If you use Firefox, I highly recommend installing the Stumble Upon plugin. It streamlines and organizes the process of random websurfing so that you can really go all day looking up stuff you never knew you needed to know. I have stumbled across many sites that are now at the top of my Favorites list, including:
PollyGlotto: A digital woman translates your text from English into a number of other languages and speaks them aloud. In other words, you can spend hours making Polly say dirty things in everything from Dutch to Chinese.
FullBooks: An eclectic archive of free full-text online books.
The Online Karaoke Machine: This one speaks for itself. If this site does not change your life, then you and I are not living on the same planet. Incidentally, it was here that I discovered that I have been singing Men at Work's classic tune "Down Under" wrong since I was, like, born. Apparently, the chorus goes, "You better run / You better take cover," whereas I always sang "You better run / You better take a bus." I maintain that my version still makes sense. Z thinks I am insane.
And this just in: Pee-Wee's Playhouse is coming back to TV! The Cartoon Network's Adult Swim will begin airing the complete run of episodes on June 10, including the amazing Pee-Wee's Playhouse Christmas Special, which we watched about once a week, year-round, in my house when I was growing up. Of course, I already own every episode of Pee-Wee's Playhouse on DVD, so I'm really more excited about the principle of the thing. I firmly believe that a world that televises Pee-Wee's Playhouse is a better world for all.
blahApril 24th, 2006
Reasons why Stephen Hock is a karaoke god:
1. Mama Said Knock You Out
2. Rock Me Amadeus auf Deutsch
3. Talk Dirty to Me
Yes, folks, it was another rockin' Sunday night at the Locust Bar.
1. Mama Said Knock You Out
2. Rock Me Amadeus auf Deutsch
3. Talk Dirty to Me
Yes, folks, it was another rockin' Sunday night at the Locust Bar.
waking upFebruary 1st, 2006
A colleague of mine has alerted me to the disturbing news from western Japan that Japanese teenagers have been subjected to a karaoke curfew:
Cruel, cruel world! I know I need not point out to my readers the sadistic irony of barring the kids from karaoke in the name of a "sound nightlife." I imagine hoards of zombie teenagers, excluded from the civilizing rites and rituals of belting out all-but-forgotten classics of the early eighties for a loving crowd of drunken strangers late into the night, forced to roam the streets of Osaka in search of ways to (in Peaches' words) fuck the pain away, like smoking crack and consuming human flesh.
Osaka prefecture Wednesday imposed a ban on youths under 16 going alone to any establishment with a karaoke machine after 7:00 pm in an effort to promote "sound nightlife for young people."
Cruel, cruel world! I know I need not point out to my readers the sadistic irony of barring the kids from karaoke in the name of a "sound nightlife." I imagine hoards of zombie teenagers, excluded from the civilizing rites and rituals of belting out all-but-forgotten classics of the early eighties for a loving crowd of drunken strangers late into the night, forced to roam the streets of Osaka in search of ways to (in Peaches' words) fuck the pain away, like smoking crack and consuming human flesh.
horrifiedAugust 25th, 2005
I'm not really supposed to be here because, technically, I'm working right now. But I was idly cruising the internet as one does while "working," and I discovered a Philadelphia-area karaoke site—according to which, Philadelphians are trying to form the world's first karaoke league.
So much cooler than bowling. I need a team.
So much cooler than bowling. I need a team.
excitedAugust 16th, 2005
1. I have an uncanny ability to channel Paula Abdul.
2. Gay men love it when a straight chick sings John Cougar Mellencamp, but not nearly as much as gay women do.
3. "We Built This City (on Rock 'n' Roll)" is a really good song.
2. Gay men love it when a straight chick sings John Cougar Mellencamp, but not nearly as much as gay women do.
3. "We Built This City (on Rock 'n' Roll)" is a really good song.
lazyJuly 5th, 2005
Over the weekend, El Presidente declared a mandatory July 4 karaoke outing for the Ladies. We went to Mirabar. Stoli gimlets were imbibed. Madonna was channeled. Lesbian hearts were broken. Only once did I miss my chair while attempting to sit down. But today, I'm not so good with the language. So I offer you a news item that pretty much speaks for itself.
Astrologist sues NASA for altering her horoscope by blowing up comet
( Article text )
(For more on the Ladies at Mirabar, please see today's press release at The Ladies Blog.)
Astrologist sues NASA for altering her horoscope by blowing up comet
( Article text )
(For more on the Ladies at Mirabar, please see today's press release at The Ladies Blog.)
groggyJuly 1st, 2005
I think I'll have The Sloganizer generate all my subject headings from now on.
The Ladies, now minus Alyssa, have once again left their mark on the world. What began as a simple movie outing turned into the night to beat all nights. I won't go into detail here, but let's just say karaoke was involved, and spontaneous dancing, and an old man (a very old man) repeatedly walking by our table to wiggle his pelvis at us, and a young man moved by "Drop It Like It's Hot" to offer me a graphic description of what it would be like to experience certain parts of his racially inflected anatomy in certain parts of my own (which was quite imaginative; he should write), and Simon receiving a full round of "props" for clearly being the biggest pimp ever to enter Pawtucket. (We did not explain that Simon was, in fact, a "Lady." We let him have his moment of alpha male glory.) Let me state for the record that the Ladies are not lewd. We did not solicit raunchiness. It's just the spirit of the karaoke that moves people, and that, in its own way, is a beautiful thing. Anyway, if you'd like the full story, you can read Mariana's account on the Ladies blog.
I've been thinking lately about how little I've been thinking lately. I am sure this is dissertation-related. I am so close to the end, but my mind is inexplicably resistant to just finishing the thing off. I have been unable to work for days. Perhaps it is plain discouragement in the wake of this latest round of directorial abuse. Perhaps it is the fact that once I finish the dissertation, I'll have to rename "Zugenia's Dissertation Procrastination Journal." (Speaking of which, I welcome suggestions.) Perhaps it is summertime ennui. Whatever it is, it's made my brain mushy and my writing is suffering all around.
In lieu of thinking, I've been reading YA literature. In lieu of deep thoughts, I give you brief reviews:
Tanith Lee, Piratica
My dad bought this for me during our London book-shopping spree in early December. He has decided to help me cultivate a section of my personal library devoted to books about girl pirates. (So far, the other books in the collection are Celia Rees's Pirates! and Joan Druett's She Captains: Heroines and Hellions of the Sea.) It took me a while to get into this book, which is one of those YA books that I would enthusiastically recommend to younger readers but not necessarily to other adults. But once I got into it, I had a lot of fun. It presents an exciting vision of a fictional British Empire in which women are the most interesting heroes and villains. Towards the end, there's an awesome girl-pirate sword fight between Art Blastside, a.k.a. Piratica, Queen of the Seas, and her nemesis, the insufferable and wicked Little Goldie Girl. Also, it includes the line: "Is none of England's crime in decent male hands?" No, not in this world, sir.
Bette Greene, Summer of My German Soldier
I read this as part ofdrucillamac's bookring. I read and loved this book when I was a kid, maybe 10 or 11, so I decided to give it another read and see if it holds up. I should point out that I remembered this book making me cry and cry as a child. I didn't have a very clear memory of the whole story, just certain scenes, but for years, whenever anyone has asked "What's the saddest book you've ever—" I've said "Summer of My German Soldier" before they can even finish the question. My point is that I am predisposed to be moved by this story, which is, as Drucillamac pointed out, quite melodramatic in some respects. That said: I began this book Wednesday afternoon, and teared up at the first mention of the German soldier's name (Anton—oh, Anton!). Then I took a break to see War of the Worlds (eh) and have some dinner, and I returned home and sat up in bed till 2am finishing it. And I cried and cried and cried. And cried. Let me state for the record that I don't cry easily at books. But this one is devastating. It wasn't like there was one climactic moment that let me get it all out in a cathartic rush; no, it is just quietly brutal from start to finish, in this mounting way, as it unfurls the bleak story of a talkative, unloved girl in a cruel, unloving world. It's the kind of world in which the little flashes of kindness and love actually hurt more than they offer relief. I hadn't remembered it like that. But I guess that's an appropriate way to narrate life in a small town in 1940s Arkansas.
From the last chapter, as the narrator watches her elderly and put-upon nanny, Ruth, walk away from her:
I watched her. It was like watching my very own life raft floating away towards the open sea. And yet somewhere in my mind's eye I thought I could see the faintest outline of land. Then it came to me that maybe that's the only thing life rafts are supposed to do. Taking the shipwrecked, not to land, but only in view of land.
Anyway, this book has definitely ensconced itself in my list of lifetime tearjerkers, along with "The Body" episode of Buffy, and Disney's The Fox and the Hound.
The Ladies, now minus Alyssa, have once again left their mark on the world. What began as a simple movie outing turned into the night to beat all nights. I won't go into detail here, but let's just say karaoke was involved, and spontaneous dancing, and an old man (a very old man) repeatedly walking by our table to wiggle his pelvis at us, and a young man moved by "Drop It Like It's Hot" to offer me a graphic description of what it would be like to experience certain parts of his racially inflected anatomy in certain parts of my own (which was quite imaginative; he should write), and Simon receiving a full round of "props" for clearly being the biggest pimp ever to enter Pawtucket. (We did not explain that Simon was, in fact, a "Lady." We let him have his moment of alpha male glory.) Let me state for the record that the Ladies are not lewd. We did not solicit raunchiness. It's just the spirit of the karaoke that moves people, and that, in its own way, is a beautiful thing. Anyway, if you'd like the full story, you can read Mariana's account on the Ladies blog.
I've been thinking lately about how little I've been thinking lately. I am sure this is dissertation-related. I am so close to the end, but my mind is inexplicably resistant to just finishing the thing off. I have been unable to work for days. Perhaps it is plain discouragement in the wake of this latest round of directorial abuse. Perhaps it is the fact that once I finish the dissertation, I'll have to rename "Zugenia's Dissertation Procrastination Journal." (Speaking of which, I welcome suggestions.) Perhaps it is summertime ennui. Whatever it is, it's made my brain mushy and my writing is suffering all around.
In lieu of thinking, I've been reading YA literature. In lieu of deep thoughts, I give you brief reviews:
Tanith Lee, Piratica
My dad bought this for me during our London book-shopping spree in early December. He has decided to help me cultivate a section of my personal library devoted to books about girl pirates. (So far, the other books in the collection are Celia Rees's Pirates! and Joan Druett's She Captains: Heroines and Hellions of the Sea.) It took me a while to get into this book, which is one of those YA books that I would enthusiastically recommend to younger readers but not necessarily to other adults. But once I got into it, I had a lot of fun. It presents an exciting vision of a fictional British Empire in which women are the most interesting heroes and villains. Towards the end, there's an awesome girl-pirate sword fight between Art Blastside, a.k.a. Piratica, Queen of the Seas, and her nemesis, the insufferable and wicked Little Goldie Girl. Also, it includes the line: "Is none of England's crime in decent male hands?" No, not in this world, sir.
Bette Greene, Summer of My German Soldier
I read this as part of
drucillamac's bookring. I read and loved this book when I was a kid, maybe 10 or 11, so I decided to give it another read and see if it holds up. I should point out that I remembered this book making me cry and cry as a child. I didn't have a very clear memory of the whole story, just certain scenes, but for years, whenever anyone has asked "What's the saddest book you've ever—" I've said "Summer of My German Soldier" before they can even finish the question. My point is that I am predisposed to be moved by this story, which is, as Drucillamac pointed out, quite melodramatic in some respects. That said: I began this book Wednesday afternoon, and teared up at the first mention of the German soldier's name (Anton—oh, Anton!). Then I took a break to see War of the Worlds (eh) and have some dinner, and I returned home and sat up in bed till 2am finishing it. And I cried and cried and cried. And cried. Let me state for the record that I don't cry easily at books. But this one is devastating. It wasn't like there was one climactic moment that let me get it all out in a cathartic rush; no, it is just quietly brutal from start to finish, in this mounting way, as it unfurls the bleak story of a talkative, unloved girl in a cruel, unloving world. It's the kind of world in which the little flashes of kindness and love actually hurt more than they offer relief. I hadn't remembered it like that. But I guess that's an appropriate way to narrate life in a small town in 1940s Arkansas.From the last chapter, as the narrator watches her elderly and put-upon nanny, Ruth, walk away from her:
I watched her. It was like watching my very own life raft floating away towards the open sea. And yet somewhere in my mind's eye I thought I could see the faintest outline of land. Then it came to me that maybe that's the only thing life rafts are supposed to do. Taking the shipwrecked, not to land, but only in view of land.
Anyway, this book has definitely ensconced itself in my list of lifetime tearjerkers, along with "The Body" episode of Buffy, and Disney's The Fox and the Hound.
sappyFebruary 22nd, 2005
Because I know you're all wondering:
Yes, I sang both "Hurt So Good" and "Son of a Preacher Man" last night. And nailed them, if I do say so myself.
Yes, I also sang something by Britney Spears before the night was over.
Yes, Kathryn and I picked up a bunch of professional women's football players.
Yes, it was the John Cougar Mellencamp that lured them in.
Yes, we all drank too much beer and sang "Livin' on a Prayer." Yes, it was awesome. Duh.
Yes, I sang both "Hurt So Good" and "Son of a Preacher Man" last night. And nailed them, if I do say so myself.
Yes, I also sang something by Britney Spears before the night was over.
Yes, Kathryn and I picked up a bunch of professional women's football players.
Yes, it was the John Cougar Mellencamp that lured them in.
Yes, we all drank too much beer and sang "Livin' on a Prayer." Yes, it was awesome. Duh.
pleasedFebruary 20th, 2005
I finally heard from sillygirl84, who is safely installed in Dunedin and getting a crash course in "Uni" drinking practices. I remember going through a similar process of education when I arrived for my year-abroad in Oxford. She described her first week as "the first real bender of her life"; I assured her it would continue until she left the country. Unlike her drinking buddies, however, she's also loading up on hard core history of science courses and setting up a seriously scholarly year for herself. A girl after my own heart—work hard, play hard, I always say.
(You can read more about Sillygirl84's kiwi adventures at her own LJ, which is much more entertaining than mine.)
My other sister, Kathryn, is on her February break (she teaches middle school in Rochester) and is on her way to spend the week with me in Providence. We have big plans to reinforce each other's work ethic, since I have a chapter due this week and she has a presentation to prepare. But, as I've said, work hard, play hard: I have big karaoke plans for us tomorrow night. One of the perks of living in Providence (and each one is precious, like drops of dew in a desert) is Monday night karaoke at Mirabar, a local gay bar. The bar is quite small, but arranged around a square dance-floor area that serves, on karaoke night, as a stage. There is a second level arranged like a square balcony above this stage, off of which enthusiastic audience members have been known to throw dollar bills at particularly outstanding talent, such as the woman who channels Tina Turner in her rendition of "Proud Mary." The sound system is enormous and quite good—not your everyday karaoke system, by far—and you sing into a cordless mic that allows you full mobility to move around the stage, serenade the bartender, even simulate the occasional lapdance for an adoring listener. Now, like any high-tech karaoke experience, Monday night at Mirabar does have its downside. For one, there is the pressure of following the likes of "Proud Mary" woman, or the myriad local drama students who come out to give their professionalized pipes a test-drive. Secondly, there is the penchant among Mirabar's Monday-night crowd for showtunes and country ballads. Add to this the extraordinarily long queue of singers, who have been storing up entire repertoires all week long, hoping to unleash them in a blaze of karaoke glory come Monday night (like I said, dewdrops in a desert), and you have to endure quite an exhausting evening just to share your shower-honed rendition of "Like a Prayer."
But it's worth it.
Update on recent for-fun reading:
Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Haruki Murakami
This is a fairly early Murakami novel, and he seems to be setting up some of the thoughts his novels continue to have about the life of dreams and the unconscious mind, and the line between that world and waking reality. The rules here, however, are a little bit clearer (which is not to say simple) than in his later novels; it's like he had to set up a technically coherent world here in order to take it apart in his later work. As such, this novel isn't quite the masterpiece that, say, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is, but it's still better than just about any other contemporary fiction out there. I remain committed to running away with the Murakami canon.
Holes By Louis Sachar
I really enjoyed this story, which is told starkly but with compassion—a perfect prose style for narrating the experiences of put-upon teenage boys. I loved the way mystery and legend unfolded and were woven into the events of the present—playfully, without being trite or contrived. The story was also much darker than I expected, knowing nothing about this book beyond that it had been made into a Disney movie. Now I'm really curious what that movie is like. The book is really pretty brutal.
sillygirl84, who is safely installed in Dunedin and getting a crash course in "Uni" drinking practices. I remember going through a similar process of education when I arrived for my year-abroad in Oxford. She described her first week as "the first real bender of her life"; I assured her it would continue until she left the country. Unlike her drinking buddies, however, she's also loading up on hard core history of science courses and setting up a seriously scholarly year for herself. A girl after my own heart—work hard, play hard, I always say.(You can read more about Sillygirl84's kiwi adventures at her own LJ, which is much more entertaining than mine.)
My other sister, Kathryn, is on her February break (she teaches middle school in Rochester) and is on her way to spend the week with me in Providence. We have big plans to reinforce each other's work ethic, since I have a chapter due this week and she has a presentation to prepare. But, as I've said, work hard, play hard: I have big karaoke plans for us tomorrow night. One of the perks of living in Providence (and each one is precious, like drops of dew in a desert) is Monday night karaoke at Mirabar, a local gay bar. The bar is quite small, but arranged around a square dance-floor area that serves, on karaoke night, as a stage. There is a second level arranged like a square balcony above this stage, off of which enthusiastic audience members have been known to throw dollar bills at particularly outstanding talent, such as the woman who channels Tina Turner in her rendition of "Proud Mary." The sound system is enormous and quite good—not your everyday karaoke system, by far—and you sing into a cordless mic that allows you full mobility to move around the stage, serenade the bartender, even simulate the occasional lapdance for an adoring listener. Now, like any high-tech karaoke experience, Monday night at Mirabar does have its downside. For one, there is the pressure of following the likes of "Proud Mary" woman, or the myriad local drama students who come out to give their professionalized pipes a test-drive. Secondly, there is the penchant among Mirabar's Monday-night crowd for showtunes and country ballads. Add to this the extraordinarily long queue of singers, who have been storing up entire repertoires all week long, hoping to unleash them in a blaze of karaoke glory come Monday night (like I said, dewdrops in a desert), and you have to endure quite an exhausting evening just to share your shower-honed rendition of "Like a Prayer."
But it's worth it.
Update on recent for-fun reading:
Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Haruki Murakami
This is a fairly early Murakami novel, and he seems to be setting up some of the thoughts his novels continue to have about the life of dreams and the unconscious mind, and the line between that world and waking reality. The rules here, however, are a little bit clearer (which is not to say simple) than in his later novels; it's like he had to set up a technically coherent world here in order to take it apart in his later work. As such, this novel isn't quite the masterpiece that, say, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is, but it's still better than just about any other contemporary fiction out there. I remain committed to running away with the Murakami canon.
Holes By Louis Sachar
I really enjoyed this story, which is told starkly but with compassion—a perfect prose style for narrating the experiences of put-upon teenage boys. I loved the way mystery and legend unfolded and were woven into the events of the present—playfully, without being trite or contrived. The story was also much darker than I expected, knowing nothing about this book beyond that it had been made into a Disney movie. Now I'm really curious what that movie is like. The book is really pretty brutal.
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