16
Mar 10

Top 25 2009

Sure, sure it’s March, but it’s time to announce my Top 25 most listened to songs of 2009. I got my first iPod in March, so March – March is my musical year. My friend Vodo thinks you can tell a lot about a person by taking a gander at their Top 25. I will leave the prognosticating to you.

  • Kick Drum Heart, The Avett Brothers
  • Doctor My Eyes, Jackson Browne
  • Smooth Criminal, Michael Jackson (I take no blame for this, it’s all The Tibbles. Michael Jackson’s been dead since June and they’re still obsessed with the music)
  • My Favourite Chords, The Weakerthans
  • People Got A Lotta Nerve, Neko Case
  • I’d Really Love To See You Tonight, England Dan & John Ford Coley (In my defense, I think this is played in one of my favorite shows, Time-Life Power Ballads Infomercial, or it might be Time-Life Songs of Love Infomercial)
  • Poetry Of The Deed, Frank Turner
  • Somebody’s Baby, Jackson Browne
  • Laid, James
  • Ill With Want, The Avett Brothers
  • Furr Blitzen, Trapper
  • Dreamtime, Darryl Hall
  • All the Young Dudes, Mott The Hoople
  • Fa La Freezing, My First Earthquake (I think at least 8 of these listens happened on Musical Night 09)
  • Song for Myla Goldberg, The Decemberists (I cannot listen to this song just once. It has to be at least two times in a row)
  • Live Fast Die Old, Frank Turner
  • Dan’s Song, Frank Turner
  • A New England, Jonah Matranga & Frank Turner
  • Polyester Bride, Liz Phair
  • Graceland, Paul Simon
  • Whatever Makes You Happy, Paul Westerberg
  • Against All Odds, The Postal Service
  • Home, Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros
  • Try This At Home, Frank Turner
  • Isabel, Frank Turner


15
Mar 10

The feminist takes a bath & her head explodes

As you may recall I am listening to The Feminine Mystique in the bathtub. If, sometime soon, you hear that they found my dead, bloated body in a the tub with blood running from my ears it will not be from a self-inflicted anything, it will be because my brain exploded from exasperation and rage.

Today while listening to The Mystique, as I like to call it, I learned about what a large role women’s magazines (think Redbook, Ladies’ Home Journal, McCall’s) played in not only perpetuating the mystique, but kind of inventing it. Like I mentioned last time, there was a shift in mid-40s in the way women were portrayed in these magazines. Women went from being career-minded to housewife-minded, and not just housewife-minded but to the point where any woman who wanted/sought a career was seen as masculine and a failure as a woman. A failure.

Not only that but the stories the magazines ran always, always had to do with housewifery — the fiction, the profiles — all of it. It was a popularly held belief that women didn’t care about anything “they couldn’t relate to.” She points out how even when they were writing about poet Edna St. Vincent Millay, it was about how she found such simple beauty in making a fucking pie or some bullshit like that.

Friedan digs in and tries to get to the bottom of what changed. After talking to a few female editors of the magazines, here’s what she found out: men came back from WWII. These men, having just suffered through the inhumanity of war came back and were looking for “home.” Not only did they oust the women as the editors of the women’s magazines they slowly changed the perspective these magazines offered. Gone were the stories of adventurous career women, gone was the fiction by Faulkner (I KNOW!), now all the stories were about how your one purpose in life was to get married, pump out some kids, and provide your family with a happy, clean home.

This search for and redefinition of home effected US society on a grand scale. Friedan pointed out how in the 30s and 40s the most famous Hollywood actresses were the sexy, siren, sassy broads and dames. Think Katherine Hepburn, Marlene Dietrich, and Bette Davis. In the 50s it changed to innocent sex kittens like Debbie Reynolds, Marilyn Monroe, and Bridget Bardot.

Barf.

And then she started talking politics, and that’s when the tiny explosions happened in my brain and hot, angry tears shot from eyes. Friedan quoted a speech Adlai Stevenson gave as a commencement address to the graduates of Smith College (you know the women’s college) called “The Purpose of Modern Women:”

You may be hitched to one of these creatures we call “Western man” and I think part of your job is to keep him Western, to keep him truly purposeful, to keep him whole. In short–while I have had very little experience as a wife or mother–I think one of the biggest jobs for many of you will be to frustrate the crushing and corrupting effects of specialization, to integrate means and ends, to develop that balanced tension of mind and spirit which can be properly called “integrity.”

This assignment for you, as wives and mothers, has great advantages.

In the first place, it is home work–you can do it in the living-room with a baby in your lap or in the kitchen with a can opener in your hand. If you’re really clever, maybe you can even practice your saving arts on that unsuspecting man while he’s watching television!

He finishes up with this rousing sentiment to the college graduates of 1955 . .

In modern America the home is not the boundary of a woman’s life. There are outside activities aplenty. But even more important is the fact, surely, that what you have learned and can learn will, fit you for the primary task of making homes and whole human beings in whom the rational values of freedom, tolerance, charity and free inquiry can take root.

Damn. As I listen to the book and learn more about the feminist struggle I get angrier and angrier. Why didn’t we ever talk about this stuff before? Why wasn’t The Feminine Mystique taught to us in high school. Because it should have been, it probably still should be.



14
Mar 10

My new favorite TV show has a lot of bad hair

As I type I am watching what is going to be my new favorite TV show. It is The Celebrity Apprentice. Feel free to unsubscribe from the RSS feed right now. Sharon Osbourne, Cyndi Lauper, Sinbad, and Bret Michaels? Oh hell yes.

Bret seals the deal. Obviously. I’m not sure why he has so much sway over my television habits, but he does. I wasn’t a big Poison fan either. Though I do remember singing a particularly memorable a capella version of “Talk Dirty to Me” in Jenny Trunnel’s driveway. I had the 45 and loved the hell out of that song.

Really, Sister #3 was the Poison fan. She papered her bedroom walls (at least the walls she was allocated under the Sister Shared Bedroom Wall Act of 1991) with pictures of Michaels and Poison. I think her sixth or seventh grade school picture prominently features a Poison t-shirt.

But in summer of 07 when Rock of Love first premiered I fell under the spell of Bret Michaels, and I cannot even figure out why. He has fake Barbie hair, his music is not my thing, and I’m not even partial to blondes at all. In fact, of all the hair colors blondes are my least favorite.

There’s a lot of bad hair on this show between the Don and Bret and Rod Blagoblahblah. But that’s beside the point.

The point is I am sitting here, a little giddy, at watching Bret Michaels fry up some burgers. What happened here? I wish someone could explain it.

P.S.POILER. Bret’s team Rocksolid just won the first task. And I feel bad for rooting for the men, and against Cyndi Lauper.



11
Mar 10

Any novel with a transgendered Prince impersonator is worth your time

When Catherine Madison falls in love with a boy named Thomas, the love is so complete and all encompassing that when he nicknames her Moonie it sticks so well that everyone takes to calling her Moonie. As is often the case in small midwestern towns, this one located in Nebraska, Moonie and Thomas marry soon after high school. However, the couple doesn’t get the happily ever after teenagers often dream they’ll get. Of course, because if they did why would there be a novel?

When Jami Attenberg’s The Melting Season opens, Moonie (I love the name Moonie Madison) is fleeing Nebraska in a snow store with a suitcase full of cash. Moonie’s not sure exactly where she’s going, but we know that anywhere is better than where she was — a small town with an insecure husband, a pregnant teenage sister, emotionally-absent father, and cold, alcoholic mother.

Eventually she ends up in Vegas, quite a shock for a girl who never traveled beyond the Midwest. There she checks in to a fabulous suite and quickly befriends Valka, a California florist with a penchant for rockstar imitators.

The two ricochet around Vegas sharing bits of their individual tragic stories. Moonie hints that she has a great, awful secret that she can’t even put into words yet because to do so would be to make it even more real. If you’re gonna have a character who is a little coy with the reader, this is the way to do it. Not once was I ever annoyed with Moonie’s inability to tell me exactly what the hell her problem was. This is a testament to Attenberg because generally I can stand a coy character for about 83 seconds.

Eventually, after having a sexual encounter with a transgendered Prince impersonator, Moonie pours out all her secrets to Valka. As is the way with books where the main character is running from her problems, Moonie eventually returns home to face her demons.

The problem here, is when she gets there the I’m not quite sure the demons are demonic enough to have caused so much strife. A lot of the Moonie’s problems stem from her relationship with her mom and how that reinforced a bond between Moonie and her sister.

I didn’t see the bond between Moonie and her sister, I was only told that it was there. Aside from one flashback that involves Moonie babysitting, they only talk on the phone and via text message. When Moonie’s marriage falls apart due to Thomas’ feelings of sexual inadequacy, her sister is nowhere to be found. So when Moonie stages a Jack Baueresque escapade in the middle of a Nebraska blizzard to rescue her sister, I was surprised.

But I shouldn’t have been surprised. When it comes right down to it, I really don’t know Moonie. I know about her marriage and her family, and that she doesn’t have any friends (aside from the one she made in Vegas). And I can’t tell if that’s the point or not. Moonie was so consumed by her relationship with Thomas that she never developed a personality outside of him. That, I understand. But because Moonie doesn’t know herself and never really gets to know herself, the reader doesn’t get a firm grasp on her which makes everything she suffers feel kind of. . . I don’t know, off.

It’s really too bad. The Melting Season is one of those books that’s fun to read, the journey is entertaining and engaging, but when you get to the end it leaves you cold and a little unsatisfied.



09
Mar 10

Answering the Googlers’ Questions XIV: A few about books and only one about sex

Is Jack Kerouac overrated?
Yes. I’ve read On the Road three times and still don’t like it. The Dharma Bums was unreadable.

Tweedy song about quitting job?
Dear Employer

How do I lose my virginity to my sister?
You don’t, unless you’re locked in the attic by your flaky mom and evil grandmother for like five years.

How to make an ugly girl pretty?
Take off her glasses, haven’t you ever seen a movie?

How tall is Jeff Tweedy?
I’m not sure, but I bet Robin knows.

Why does Jodi Picoult hate The Notebook by Nicolas Sparks so much?
I had no idea she hated the book. My guess is that she has taste and Nicolas Sparks writes crappy pap.

Are girls with tattoos easy?
Some of them are. Some of them aren’t.

Am I incapable of fidelity?
Yes, I believe you are.

Should a copywriter know the history and structure of language?
Yes.

What is the theme of My Happy Life by Lydia Millet?
That even when life sucks your attitude makes all the difference in how bad the suck is.

Why do boys love baseball?
I don’t know, it make them cuter? I’m not sure why boys who love baseball are cuter than boys who love football or hockey, but they are.

In the book The Road by Cormac McCarthy why doesn’t the author use apostrophes in the negatives?
Annoying writerly affectation is my guess.

Why don’t men like tall women?
Because they are insecure about their penises.



08
Mar 10

Do not be hushed

Today is International Women’s Day. To celebrate we should all point out sexism when we see it and not be hushed when people tell us we’re always pointing out things that are sexist. Do not be hushed. Never be hushed.

I’ve been listening to The Feminine Mystique in the bathtub the past few weeks. While it probably wasn’t the wisest choice when it comes to a relaxing listen, it was a smart choice in terms of educating myself.

The book, even forty-seven years later, is startling and depressing. Right now I’m at the part where Betty Friedan is explaining the way the short stories in women’s magazines changed dramatically over the course of ten to fifteen years.

In the late 30s the characters in these stories were women with careers. Of course, the were often in search of a man (hello Chick Lit), but still they had careers and were fulfilled by them. By 1949, the female characters in these stories longed only to be housewives, and often were housewives fulfilled by making their men happy, cleaning house, and that kind of thing. And in the early 50s it had come so far that not only were all the main characters housewives who relied on their husbands for everything, the career women were portrayed as temptresses, loose women, and, well, devils.

It has to be said, What The Fuck?

Of course as the short stories changed so did the prevailing wisdom about women and what they were good for. And what they were good for was raising good, strong men, and keeping house for good, strong men. Sociologists were saying how the ultimate in femininity was taking care of your home and family, college educations for women were a waste and only made them more unsatisfied.

Even typing about it makes me pulse race with anger. Can you see why this is not good bathtub listening? It makes me so angry.

And while things have changed, they have not changed enough. No. We still have a long way, baby. Take for instance, the Oscars last night. Eighty-two years of Oscar ceremonies and only last night in 2010 did a woman win for best director. It’s 2010 and we’re still having woman firsts. Fuck that noise.

We need to make noise. More noise. It is our duty, our job to point out sexism (and discrimination of all kinds) wherever we see it. Yes, we will be annoying. Yes, people will make fun of us. But you know what? Living in a society filled with negative images of women is more annoying. Living a in a society where with think “no means no” is the best way to prevent date rape (why not, “yes means yes?” we should seek consent in sexual situations and not wait for denial) is annoying. Living in a society where women have to be careful where they walk, what they wear, who they’re with, lest they unwittingly ask for it, is annoying.

And we need to talk about all this and more. We need to keep talking and not stop. Never be hushed.



07
Mar 10

Using the universe to exact my revenge

Around the turn of the century (I’ve decided to call the time period between 1999-2001 the turn of the century), I worked in customer service. The job was thankless but I met a bunch of great people — BFK, Al, the cutest girl on Earth™, and Michelle. We had a lot of fun.

But it was a big group and we had a coworker we particularly didn’t like. We’ve all had them. This particular coworker was short and kind of squat. She had the yellowy hair you get when you use peroxide to go blonde instead of something classy like Nice & Easy. She was fond of stirrup pants, smoking, and making other people feel bad about themselves. Even though our job was to take orders for software, she would often take her calls to, well, the next level. Or some level. I’m not even sure what that level would be called. This coworker would often get gifts from the people she took calls from. And not nice thank yous or anything like that, people who called to order software would send her flowers or Victoria’s Secret gift cards. No lie. This happened more than once.

I’m not sure what kind of customer service you have to deliver to get that kind of stuff. I do know that I didn’t deliver that kind of service because no customer ever sent me anything. I’m okay with that.

All these things weren’t even the worst thing about her. The worst thing about her is that she liked to smoke. A lot. Which is fine and dandy, but when she would walk to the back of the building where the smokers went she would whistle. Yes, whistle. And she’d always whistle “Yellow Submarine.” She was a loud whistler, and no matter where you were in the office you could hear her. Without fail you’d find yourself singing “Yellow Submarine” within minutes of her passing by. It was awful.

Right around now, I wish I still worked with her. This way I could con one of the tech doofs to rig up her computer so that whenever she moved her mouse the “Give me back that Filet O’Fish” jingle would pour from her speakers. And if there is any justice in this world, she spends most of March with that fucking jingle stuck in her head. If there’s any truth about energy and juju and vibes and what not, every time that song gets stuck in my head I send it zinging through the universe to her, wherever she might be now.



04
Mar 10

I am boring and I talk about my hair

I got my hair cut today. And colored (there are no pictures yet, because I still have ring around the forehead). It was long overdue. So long, in fact, that when I saw my friend Brendan at The Nerdery a few weeks ago the first thing he asked me was why my hair was normal colored. That hurt.

Since it had been seven months since my last hair cut, Jenny, the hair-cutting waif, needed a reminder of my hair-dos and don’ts.

Dos:
Lots of contrast
Reds are good

Don’ts:
No blond
No news anchor hair, if I walk out of the place looking like Diana Pierce there will be hell to pay.

In other news:

I learned how to make banana bread. I’m pretty sure it’s the best fucking banana bread on the planet. Since I’m not a baker (too much measuring and precision required), this is a personal triumph.

Also, I finally caved and bought myself a Chrome bag. I’ve wanted one for about 195 years. You know, because the bag is called Chrome and my name is Chromey.

March was supposed to be the month where I stopped being boring. I don’t know if that’s going to happen. You’ve been warned.



02
Mar 10

Yuck

Here’s my advice to you, if you ever find yourself in the vicinity of Ball Peen Hammer, slowly back away and then when you are a safe distance run for your life. Don’t let this confusing, dreary, dreck suck you into it’s whirling vortex of confusion like I was. Let my pointless waste of time not be in vain. Please.

Ball Peen Hammer takes place in a post-apocalyptic city where people are dying because of a strange plague. We’re not quite sure how they got the plague, just that it’s killing people. We also know that there is food and an antidote beyond the viaduct of this mysterious, chaotic city. Why the main characters aren’t high-tailing it to the viaduct is never addressed. Neither is why there is so much chaos, or how long they’ve been living in this condition, or why we’re spending our time reading a story where the creators haven’t bothered to answer any of the questions they asked.

What we get is a decrepit building where guitar-strumming Welton, who is dying of the infection, lives in the basement. He lives in the basement, I think, because of his mysterious job that someone told him he had to do. It involves dead children, mostly black children. At the top of the building, in the clock tower, is Exley, a young woman who seems to be in charge of caring for Horlick, a thirteen-year-old (even though he’s drawn like he’s nine) kid. Thing is Exley’s pregnant and looking for the father of her unborn child. The father, he’s in the basement telling his tale of woe to a new basement-dweller. Yeah, it’s Welton.

What follows, I think, is supposed to be a story about how these star-crossed lovers will risk everything in this crazy mixed up world to be together. Only they don’t really do anything besides state the desire to be with their mystery lover. Mostly this is a graphic novel that depicts two different sets of people sitting in a room talking. Riveting, both visually and narratively.

The problem with this novel is the author and the artist never grounded us in the reality of the world Exley and Welton were living in, leaving us to flounder in some post-apocalyptic indistinct city in America at some indistinct point in history. The journalist who joins Welton in the basement is toting an Olivetti typewriter. Why? Because there is no electricity? Because this is 1984? I have no idea. I grasped onto the typewriter because it was the only image that provided some sort of context for this confusing story.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve read a book that felt so utterly pointless. It’s hard not to be angry at a book where it seemed the author nor the artist had any idea what was going on. Who is The Syndicate that seems to be behind all the chaos? Did they cause the plague? Who is behind the murder of children? Why? Why mostly black children? Why doesn’t Exley take Horlick and haul ass to the viaduct to get the antidote? What about Welton? And these are just a few of the questions that are asked in the book and never get answered.

If they creators don’t know the story or why its being told why should anyone bother reading it? They shouldn’t.



28
Feb 10

Every minute is pure joy

Last night at Rock & Roll Bookclub somewhere between the homemade chili with chorizo and three different peppers and the divine butter cream chocolate dessert, I decided it would be a good idea to drink an entire bottle of wine. Ouch.

Waking up this morning was not fun. About half a cup of coffee into the day, I hopped onto the Internet and went over to Christa’s place where I read this:

This deserves a post of its own because writing for Minnesota Reads is my favorite writing stunt that I do, and Minnesota Reads is my favorite site on the whole Internet. Confession: I click on it every day at exactly 10 a.m. when I know the latest post goes live. I’m a total Minnesota Reads psycho stalker.

My heart exploded. Seeing that one other person loved MN Reads as much as I did made my face hurt I was smiling so much.

Like Christa, of all the crap I do on the Internet (for my clients and for myself) Minnesota Reads brings me the greatest pleasure. Every minutes I spend working on that site is pure joy. Even when I’m doing some mundane task like updating the events calendar, I’m happy doing it.

I’m someone notorious for not responding to e-mail. Ask any of my friends and family. But if an MN Reads’ reviewer e-mails me, I’m like Jodi on the spot. Instant responses!

I don’t have more that I really wanted to add. Just to point out that having someone else as into the site as I am makes it about 38,211 more awesome.


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