Buber for the new millenium.
Typing on my iPhone, I realize the difficulty of ‘i’ and ‘u’ being proximal.
06
Jul
B. Michael and His Truly Epic Shit
06
Jul
White Stripes - When I Hear My Name
Over the course of constructing a White Stripes mix CD for a would-be paramour, I realized that “When I Hear My Name” is by far my favorite White Stripes song. By far. There’s something narcissitic about self-effacement, as if the self were worthy of effacing. Also, rock to the max.
06
Jul
“ Every objective description, so called, implies an ethical background.
— Simone de Beauvoir
06
Jul
advice
If you want to be perceived as smart, you (obviously) need to know a little about a lot of things, and a lot about some things. But if you’re one of those people who wants to be able to make passing reference to most areas, a mistake I see people make all the time is picking an esoteric figure/group/etc to mention.
Say you’re talking about classical music (I don’t mean the era, but in general). To look smart to your companion, you pick John Cage as your favorite artist. This is too specific, because now your companion, who is more knowledgeable than you, thinks you know more than you do. Perhaps he even starts to ask you what your favorite piece is.
What you should have done is pick someone in-between. Obviously Bach or Mozart will make you look a philistine fool. You need to pick someone who isn’t so well known that you look stupid, or someone not known enough that you are questioned. In this case, you should go with Ravel or Rimsky-Korsakov. The conversation will flow more smoothly and you won’t be unveiled as a poser.
Other examples:
Russian Literature: Not Dostoevsky (too well known) or Bulgakov (too specific, but Nikolai Gogol
Film: Not Scorsese (too known) or Bunuel (too esoteric), but Kurosawa or Godard
Italian Cities: Not Rome or Montecatini, but Bologna or Siena
There, don’t say I never helped anyone.
(natface is a down-the-middle type.)
This is actually pretty good advice for the too-busy-to-read/listen/watch set. I just wanted to throw out some others and a few comments.
Others:
- Husserl, not Heidegger or Nietzsche
- Eggleston, not Cindy Sherman or Ansel Adams
- Jasper Johns, not Ed Ruscha or Rothko
- Messiaen/Charles Ives, not Schoenberg or Cage *shudder*
- Yo La Tengo, not Pere Ubu or Deerhunter
Comments:
- Bunuel is maybe my favorite filmmaker and I don’t think he’s too esoteric. He has a goddamn Pixies song written about him.
- Gogol is a perfect choice, although if you’ve ever taken a good Dostoevsky class in college and paid attention/are smart, then you can be a layman’s expert on him. Most people have not read anything other than Notes… and/or Crime & Punishment.
- I’m generally against boning up cursorarily on a topic in order to seem cool, yet I do it all the time; then again, that’s how I learn a lot of stuff. As they say, “Fake it until it’s real.”
06
Jul
Are you kidding me?
It’s been so long since I’ve gone running that I forgot which knee I put my patela band on. I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
06
Jul
06
Jul
Mountain Goats - Going To Georgia (plus some banter stick with it!)
I have two big hands and a heart pumping blood and a 1967 Colt .45 with a busted safety catch!
06
Jul
Belle and Sebastian - String Bean Jean
She asked me, “Do I need to lose a bit of weight?”
And I told her, “Don’t be stupid ‘cause you’re looking great”
And I call her String Bean Jean because the label on her jeans says,
“Seven to eight years old.” Well that’s pretty small
06
Jul
06
Jul
I think I'm going to write a song, today on my run.
It’s going to be called, “God Fucking Damnit I Wish I Was (sic) Your Lover.”
06
Jul
(fuckyeahexistentialism sells out its convictions with languour.)
06
Jul
“ The easiest time to add insult to injury is when you’re signing someone’s cast.
— Demetri Martin
All this fucking around on the Internet is the opportunity cost of doing some truly epic shit.
James Tate - The Radish
I was holding this really exemplary radish in my hand. / I was admiring its shape and size and color. I was imagining / its zesty, biting taste. And when I listened, I even thought / I could hear it singing. It was unlike anything I had ever / heard, perhaps an oriental woman from a remote mountain village / singing to her rabbit. She's hiding in a cave, and night has / fallen. Her parents had decided to sell her to the evil prince. / And he and his thousand soldiers were searching for her everywhere. / She trembled in the cold and held the rabbit to her cheek. She / whispered the song in a high, thin voice, like a reed swaying / by itself on a bank above a river. The rabbit's large, brown ears / stood straight up, not wanting to miss a word. Then I dropped / the radish into my basket and moved down the aisle. The store / was exceptionally crowded, due to the upcoming holiday. My cart / jostled with the others. Sometimes it pretended we were in a cock- / fight, a little cut here, some bleeding. Now the advantage is mine. / I jump up and spur the old lady, who's weak and ready to fall. / I spot a mushroom I really want. It's within reach. You could / search all day and never find a mushroom like that. I could smell / it sizzling in butter and garlic. I could taste it garnishing my / steak. Suddenly, my cart is rammed and I'm reeling for my balance. / I can't even see who the enemy is. Then I'm hit again and I'm / sprawling up against the potatoes. I've been separated from my / cart. I look around desperately. "Have you seen my cart?" I ask / a man dressed in lederhosen and an alpine hat. "I myself have / misplaced my mother's ashes. How could I know anything about your / cart?" he said. "I'm sorry to hear about your mother," I said. / "Was it sudden, or was it a long, slow, agonizing death, where / you considered killing her yourself just to put her out of her pain?" / "Is that your cart with the radish in it?" he said. "Oh, yes, / thank you, thank you a thousand times over, I can't thank you / enough," I said. "Schmuck," he said. The mushroom of my dreams, / of course, was long gone, and the others looked sickly, like they / were meant to kill you, so I forged on past the kohlrabi and / parsnips. I hesitated at the okra. A flood of fond memories / overcame me. I remembered Tanya and her tiny okra, so firm and / tasty, one Christmas long ago. There was a fire in the fireplace / and candlelight, music, and the crunch, crunch, crunch of the okra. / I have never been able to touch okra since that sacred day. / We were in the Klondike, or so it seemed to me then. Tanya had / a big dog, and it ate the roast, and we had a big laugh, but now / I don't think it's funny. I remember the smell of that roast, / as if it were cooking this very minute, and I can see Tanya / bending over to check on it. How did we ever get out of there / alive? and what happened to Tanya? I look around, peaches and / plums. I'm buffeted from behind. "Watch it," I say to no one in / particular. Eight eyes are glaring at me. "I'm moving," I say. / But I can't move. The rabbit says, "Tonight we will meet our / death, but it will be beautiful and we will be brave and not / afraid. You will sing to me and I will close my eyes and dream / of a garden where we will play under the starlight, and that's / where the story ends. with me munching a radish and you laughing." / I can't move," I said.
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