20080429
20080428
HATE mail.
today, like any other day, i had multiple tabs open in safari. i was surfing all around, simultaneously watching my gmail-inbox tab, waiting for a number sandwiched in between two parentheses to pop up. finally i get it: (2) and i get extremely excited, stop what i'm looking at (sleepy kitties on youtube) and switch over to check the mail. oh how wonderful, someone commented on my blog today. it's nice to know that people look at it, even if they are angered by my 'uninformed' opinions. actually two people commented (see Myles and Nicoloff posting) and i thought it would be worthwhile to give an appreciative response. first off, i will just copy and paste the comments in this posting, for those of you who are lazy:
SNAKEOIL said (at 8:05pm today)...
In regards to Michael Nicoloff's poetry: just because you don't get it, doesn't mean it's not good.
SNAKEOIL said (at 8:12pm today)...
p.s. i bet you think american apparel is "omg so edgy!"
fake transgressive L.A. dumb ass
ANONYMOUS said (at 8:49pm today)...
For all yr smack about Eileen's hair--your should have seen Nicoloff's fantastic hair six months ago. I mean, fantastic! But wait!!--that would mean that you had actually attended some readings in the Bay Area and knew who Nicoloff was. Because he was there...and probably reading his great and really fast poems at several of them.
You should really check out this guy:
http://trainwreckunion.blogspot.com/
You'd be great friends. He's equally uninformed.
in response to SNAKEOIL, why yes, like, totally, like, omg, american apparel is like so edgy. i love their flashy rehashing of the eighties onsies, omg and i love that they are like totally all over the place now like so whenever i travel i can stop in and get some awesome dayglo leggings, omg, like totally, because like, sustainability most definitely means going global, fo sho, ah mah gah.
in response to ANONYMOUS, who i suspect is most likely the same person as SNAKEOIL (suspect is the word 'smack' and the time in which this last comment was posted, so close to the other two); well, you are correct, i have not seen Nicoloff's hair any other way than the way it was worn that sunday at 21 Grand. but, thanks to flickr, i have this great photo of his hair, and i'm only guessing that this is what you were referring to when you say "fantastic!"
i apologize for any offensive/uninformed criticism i have relayed over the internet. perhaps you feel as though i have provided the blind and dumb criticism that Roland Barthes once wrote about, but i have not once claimed to be an intellectual nor have i stated that i understand or do not understand anything whatsoever. all i intended to do, which i apparently was not very clear about, was criticize the performance of these poets. i find it sad that presently, to be considered an acclaimed poet (in any nationally or officially recognized manner) one no longer has to include performances on their resume. the only criteria necessary are physical publications. Homer's art of orally composed poetry is slowly dying.
SNAKEOIL said (at 8:05pm today)...
In regards to Michael Nicoloff's poetry: just because you don't get it, doesn't mean it's not good.
SNAKEOIL said (at 8:12pm today)...
p.s. i bet you think american apparel is "omg so edgy!"
fake transgressive L.A. dumb ass
ANONYMOUS said (at 8:49pm today)...
For all yr smack about Eileen's hair--your should have seen Nicoloff's fantastic hair six months ago. I mean, fantastic! But wait!!--that would mean that you had actually attended some readings in the Bay Area and knew who Nicoloff was. Because he was there...and probably reading his great and really fast poems at several of them.
You should really check out this guy:
http://trainwreckunion.blogspot.com/
You'd be great friends. He's equally uninformed.
in response to SNAKEOIL, why yes, like, totally, like, omg, american apparel is like so edgy. i love their flashy rehashing of the eighties onsies, omg and i love that they are like totally all over the place now like so whenever i travel i can stop in and get some awesome dayglo leggings, omg, like totally, because like, sustainability most definitely means going global, fo sho, ah mah gah.
in response to ANONYMOUS, who i suspect is most likely the same person as SNAKEOIL (suspect is the word 'smack' and the time in which this last comment was posted, so close to the other two); well, you are correct, i have not seen Nicoloff's hair any other way than the way it was worn that sunday at 21 Grand. but, thanks to flickr, i have this great photo of his hair, and i'm only guessing that this is what you were referring to when you say "fantastic!"
i apologize for any offensive/uninformed criticism i have relayed over the internet. perhaps you feel as though i have provided the blind and dumb criticism that Roland Barthes once wrote about, but i have not once claimed to be an intellectual nor have i stated that i understand or do not understand anything whatsoever. all i intended to do, which i apparently was not very clear about, was criticize the performance of these poets. i find it sad that presently, to be considered an acclaimed poet (in any nationally or officially recognized manner) one no longer has to include performances on their resume. the only criteria necessary are physical publications. Homer's art of orally composed poetry is slowly dying.
20080426
DUDETTE
DUDE
DOOD
DEWD
DUUUUDE
DUD (modern irish)
DYOOD
Oxford's definition of DUDE is
• noun N. Amer. informal 1 a man. 2 a dandy.
— ORIGIN probably from German dialect Dude ‘fool’.
DOOD
DEWD
DUUUUDE
DUD (modern irish)
DYOOD
Oxford's definition of DUDE is
• noun N. Amer. informal 1 a man. 2 a dandy.
— ORIGIN probably from German dialect Dude ‘fool’.
surgere tentamus.
whoa, i was kind of surprised to find this. i was in the glee club for a few years at westridge school (for girls), and this was my choral conductor (mr. stephenson). i despised his tie-dyed peace sign shirts and overt liberal personality, but most of all, i was extremely furious when he switched me from alto to soprano. i moped a lot and struggled with the high notes and then finally left. ironically enough, i'm singin some high notes as a tino sehgal interpreter in "this is propaganda" at the wattis, go figure.....
20080421
Myles and Nicoloff
I had heard of Eileen Myles before, but I wasn’t exactly sure from where. For some reason I placed her with the likes of Laura Mullen; a proper name, a white name, an intellectual name. It was windy today, like yesterday and the day before that. I ran toward the closed door at the entrance to 21 Grand in Oakland where Eileen Myles would read after an unknown angsty Michael Nicoloff. Before sitting down I headed straight for the bathroom, and on my way bumped into a greasy-haired woman dressed in a masculine way. She was talking to someone quite far away from the door to the bathroom, but alerted me that she in fact was waiting for it and that I would be in line after her. She looked away. After emptying my bladder I entered the white-walled room and sat in my red metal chair. A baby with the middle name Duchamp introduced Michael Nicoloff, the unknown amateur poet of Oakland who published the chapbook ‘punks’.
Nervously stumbling toward the microphone, Michael’s head hanging low for his entire set. Not once does he acknowledge the presence of his audience, perhaps to avoid an awkward moment or two where he would suddenly gain enough awareness to be embarrassed of his present situation. His eyes glued to his angsty words (punk, fuck you, Satan, Spinoza-sucking, nothing is real, the dick train). Yawn. As soon as he opened his mouth, all of his nothing words fell out in a messy vomitous stream, at 100 miles per hour. Uh, Michael, are you reading for me? Am I supposed to understand you? Or am I just supposed to remark at your impeccable spitting skills? I realize that secretaries who can type more words per minute are valuable to their employers, but I never thought that there was an incentive toward spewing out a high amount of words per minute. Each poem sounds the same, is read in the same monotonous voice, and abruptly ends in such a way that I am delighted to experience silence so that I no longer have to deal with the anxiety-inducing task of attempting to understand a word Michael says. Even Michael’s angsty cliché words must hate him, for they are most likely insulted by his total disregard for the whole thing. In his last breath, his last word, Michael spits out just as fast as anything else, a “thank you”, and runs off the stage.
After eleven minutes of i-pod DJing, Eileen Myles finally entered the spotlight, equipped with a witty prop; a black box. She joked that it had something to do with a bomb and then flipped the case open and grabbed a pile of papers. She began reading excerpts from her upcoming novel Inferno. A dim light shone over her greasy hair as she talked about some slick-haired man she once fucked in New York. I then realized it was she I bumped into waiting for the bathroom. And then just as quickly, I remembered it was her whose name I had come across in high school when I was first exposed to the quiet video works of a youthful Sadie Benning. As Myles continued reading, imagery of New York punk popped into my head, and so did dialogue from Andy Warhol’s from A to B and Back Again. She reads about sex, art, sex with punks, sex with business-men, typewriters, pill-popping prostituting sexy sex lesbian lifestyle, poetry, New York and ultimately this:
Nervously stumbling toward the microphone, Michael’s head hanging low for his entire set. Not once does he acknowledge the presence of his audience, perhaps to avoid an awkward moment or two where he would suddenly gain enough awareness to be embarrassed of his present situation. His eyes glued to his angsty words (punk, fuck you, Satan, Spinoza-sucking, nothing is real, the dick train). Yawn. As soon as he opened his mouth, all of his nothing words fell out in a messy vomitous stream, at 100 miles per hour. Uh, Michael, are you reading for me? Am I supposed to understand you? Or am I just supposed to remark at your impeccable spitting skills? I realize that secretaries who can type more words per minute are valuable to their employers, but I never thought that there was an incentive toward spewing out a high amount of words per minute. Each poem sounds the same, is read in the same monotonous voice, and abruptly ends in such a way that I am delighted to experience silence so that I no longer have to deal with the anxiety-inducing task of attempting to understand a word Michael says. Even Michael’s angsty cliché words must hate him, for they are most likely insulted by his total disregard for the whole thing. In his last breath, his last word, Michael spits out just as fast as anything else, a “thank you”, and runs off the stage.
After eleven minutes of i-pod DJing, Eileen Myles finally entered the spotlight, equipped with a witty prop; a black box. She joked that it had something to do with a bomb and then flipped the case open and grabbed a pile of papers. She began reading excerpts from her upcoming novel Inferno. A dim light shone over her greasy hair as she talked about some slick-haired man she once fucked in New York. I then realized it was she I bumped into waiting for the bathroom. And then just as quickly, I remembered it was her whose name I had come across in high school when I was first exposed to the quiet video works of a youthful Sadie Benning. As Myles continued reading, imagery of New York punk popped into my head, and so did dialogue from Andy Warhol’s from A to B and Back Again. She reads about sex, art, sex with punks, sex with business-men, typewriters, pill-popping prostituting sexy sex lesbian lifestyle, poetry, New York and ultimately this:
20080420
20080411
what is irony?
is it Thomas Kinkade's painting entitled 'Heading Home'? Let's all give a round of applause to Modern Painters for bringing Kinkade into the Artworld dialogue. I have some plans for you mister Kinkade, but i'll save that proposition for another day. On a different note, I was walking down College Avenue the other day, passing by the thick cloud of sweetened udder-milk hibernating in front of Bittersweet cafe, when I noticed their sidewalk sign in my path. It clearly stated that Bittersweet is now "proudly serving Starbuck's coffee". I laughed a bit and then realized the genius behind the words. I then proceeded to walk through the rank dairy cloud and up to the front counter only to find out that it was all a straightforward joke. Perhaps there are no geniuses out there after all.
(kinkade's description of his piece: I did not choose to show the warrior's face in my painting of the homecoming veteran. The hero of Heading Home is not an individual at all; he is the essence of the American soldier. We cannot tell whether he returns from Normandy, from Saigon, from Beirut. In a sense, he has spilled his blood on all those fields of honor.) hm..............................
20080403
Stone's Throw
Biting my nails while waiting in traffic to get into the city this morning, the radio turned on (yes, all by itself, you see, my cd player broke and ever since then the radio has a mind of its own and makes this harsh popping sound when it decides to turn on or off). Jennifer Stone came on (KPFA). I had no idea who this lady was, but her mature voice began to crack a little as she started talking about spring and birth and death and poetry and HBO...yeah, she's all over the place, but all in the right places. She's very poetic and knowledgeable about seemingly everything, and she enunciates every letter in every word with such care, it makes my ears tingle. She's sort of the female counterpart to Andy Rooney, but less crotchety. Sorry Andy.
At the end of each show, Stone remarks; "this has been Jennifer Stone with Stones Throw. Till next Tuesday at 3:30, go easy. And if you can't go easy, go as easy as you can".
At the end of each show, Stone remarks; "this has been Jennifer Stone with Stones Throw. Till next Tuesday at 3:30, go easy. And if you can't go easy, go as easy as you can".
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