Slack Indeed

I really do like my Slacker Radio station, but today it treated me to the most absurd review ever - and it has some SERIOUSLY flawed reviews on tap.

Mixing heavy metal riffs with punk's fury, Van Halen were onto a whole new sound

Anything more antithetical to punk, than long haired metal men, I can scarcely imagine. Not that I don't love Eddie and - yes - even Diamond Dave. But the punks I knew said, "It's 1983 (or whatever the year) - can't you affor a ****ing haircut!???" as often as they said, "Can I bum a cig?" - so VH was not on anyone's list of must-have punk properties. Metal fans were a joke to the punks I knew. And when I married a hair metal front man - as much as my brother loved my ex husband - don't think I didn't take a few jokes about my thing for Hair Boys along the way (and still do).

For at least twenty years now, I have had to contend with people who think The Clash were punk rock. For fifteen or more, it's been the commoditization of pop as "punk", in everything from the sentiment "I am all about the leopard" to Avril Lavigne to (Lord help me to even say the words) Green Day. I once saw a movie in which Adrien Brody explained to me that The Who were punk.

I once thought that was perhaps the most baffling use of the term I'd ever heard.

This, though, goes right on the shelf beside The Who.


***


Mind you, I love Van Halen, and I love The Who, too.

Mind this, too, though: I am not now, nor ever have I been, a punk. There was punk music I liked, and much I was afraid of, growing up with a real one in the house. For me, punk's anger was manifest regularly, in the person of my brother, whose closed door did nothing to stifle That Noise. At 43 now, noise has a visceral, deep position in my own musical tastes.

But that doesn't make a punk. I never was one. Very, very few people actually have been, if the truth were told. And the label grows emptier and emptier and emptier.

The Who had some anger. They had politics. They had a lot to say, and Daltry could yell it wonderfully. Punk? As much as I.

Van Halen?

That's just BAFFLING. Not to say what I hope some will be thinking, that it's actually laughable.

...

Mixing heavy metal riffs with punk's fury, Van Halen were onto a whole new sound ...

...

Wow. No, it just doesn't get any less brain-twisting, reading it again. But then, I am insufferably narrow in what I allow the label and definition of punk, in my mind. A good ninety-nine percent of what "kids today" think was (or - HAH - is) punk never came even close. The Clash. Good heavens.

I don't even think TSOL is "really" punk - though they've made their share of a living on it, from people who do. What they don't know, and I do, is that TSOL was largely dismissed as kind of Romanti-Goth before the term had been invented. I remember seeing "Suburbia" (AKA "The Wild Side" - and a more suprising Penelope Spheeris joint I can tell you you'll never even imagine), seeing them performing, and having to be embarrassed - as the NOT PUNK girl - for LIKING them, because they were interlopers plopped in the middle of a movie about kids who "should have" hated them.

Even I knew (loving the band as I did) that TSOL wasn't what the punks I knew considered to be "loaded with cred" shall we say. Shoot, I sure knew Jack, with his Billy Idol costume design, was an actor, surrounded by "real" kids. He looked it. And so did TSOL, in a way.



Van Halen and punk's fury.

I have a feeling that one'll keep getting funnier and funnier. Can't wait for my next conversation with my brother. This could be good for a bit of breathless mileage.

Sheesh.

Hear Here

Perhaps my favorite comment on the State of the Union so far.

Nope.

Definitely my favorite.

Would You Like A Little Reductio With Your Ad Absurdum?

This is one of those stories which, like those by the Mac-haters, contains a discussion with merit and worth discussing, but which unfortunately is done no service by the ludicrous style of its delivery. In the end, the article as a whole ends up useless thanks to junk writing like THIS:

While a number of major countries are battling inflation and are alarmed by food and fuel price inflation, Bernanke is battling low inflation, or imaginary deflation, and is determined to inject US $600 billion to prevent low inflation and achieve higher inflation, as per the Fed's mandate to achieve full-employment. Bernanke's theory could imply that 10% inflation per year is better than 3%, 50% is better than 10%, and 100% is better than 50%.

...

Um.

I color writing purple when, even if it's "journalism", it tends this starkly toward ravishingly purple prose. Yeesh. Don't even get me started with EXCLAMATION POINTS in "journalism"! Good lord.

And it might just be a shame, too - because, stripped down to its dumbest essence, the point about inflation isn't bad in itself. But the hysterical hyperbole and outrageous misinformation (yeah: The Fed doesn't print the money, actually - gah) make this one a frustrating miss.

I Don't See London, But Guess What I Do See?

More readers from France than even stateside, by a margin of over 200%.

I love seeing the French landing here, even if they are bots, because I have gained THAT much of an affinity for the place, writing about their first king.

If my fifteen-year-old self only knew. In our house, "French" was a dirty word, and not because of the kiss, and NOT because of my folks. My brother and I were the anti-francophiles; surrounded by pink and green preppy girls (a large number of them named for that color green) who thought the adjective determined the Nth degree of romantic, and who thought the nation itself proceeded from the eighteenth century cartoon-like, fully formed in quisine and cigarette-hazed languid accents, defining a refinement they could scarcely even have named as such, having learned the admiration more by funnel action of the crowd than through any individual experience (... or interest). So we hated what they loved. To fully entrench the rule, it had its exception - the French marines; perhaps itself a conceit chosen less from depth of education than some known factoid or other and b*tchin' footwear or something.

If I had known then my first novel would CENTER on this center of my adoptive reverse-snobbery, I would certainly have been pretty torn. Torn asunder at the idea I really would write a book someday ... but about something I was so faux-passionately against.

It would have been worse than the knowledge that my future self would come to own a cat. (And then three.)


***


Yet, in its way, my lacking the years-deep background in adoration - er, or even deep respect, ahem - in fact served me to be a clean slate in coming to my subject. In this reverse-decision, if in nothing else, it's impossible to deny that subjects choose authors, not the other way around.

In the early days of my writing, I actually feinted a tiny bit from looking too French-loving. I would joke, "if you go back far enough, the French are German" - which isn't strictly speaking true, but which research did make at least a defensible statement to make (if not a purely nice one, born as it was out of franc-ambivalent defensiveness and denial).

But the deeper I got into my own reading (I have no honest gauge for any extent to which my WRITING has effect here), the deeper my subject's homeland and heritage got into me. The homeland he *created*. The heritage of nation which was his patrimony, and the heritage of name which lives now around the world, and has been on the throne of his country more than twenty times. And which caused me to write my book.

My people come from Europe in its many stripes, mostly the UK and Germany, but my family's name, at least so the story goes, was born in the Channel Islands, of a Norman and his love. Norman territory is so close to the seat in which my King made his start, I as a dork and a woman and a writer hear some kind of *thrum* in the juxtaposition. I don't need to count myself part of Clovis' line (it is enough joy to know one of my best friends can clearly do so), but I like the idea nonetheless - that, even if not in blood, some part of me extracts from that place that spawned my first book.

The king's name helped make what I am. I count my work a service, hoping I can claim some ghost of the same in return.


***

So hello, France. I love to see you visit.

They're Short Enough As It Is ...

... that I can't say I'm quite nuts about spending my weekends feeling sick. It's a waste of what should be good rest and good productivity - and here I am (a) wishing I could barf, and (b) planning how long before I can go to bed.

Mmm.

As it turns out - I can actually go up whenever I want to, and cuddle in, and if I feel like it I can hit the tube or some downloaded "Dollhouse" eps, in the comfort of my bed. Hm.

George, my wireless router, is making being sick one hair easier. What a little blinky prince of a guy George is.

Ever Have One'a Those Days?

Yesterday was just one of those days when I could do no right. Night before last, the tip of my incisor finally broke off while I was eating, and apparently I just do not operate well without a fully matched set of teeth. *Le sigh* In the morning, my day began with some travel planning for the boss; wanting to redeem some reward points, I hit the website and found an array of options. Sent them to boss for approval. Boss says, "I'll do this myself" and I feel rotten about basically offloading something he asked me to help with right back to him. Gah.

Later in the morning, I call to follow up on an expense report. Boss has paid for a train ticket out of his own pocket, and our scan of the receipt is unreadable. Because of the nature of our employer, for audit purposes, it simply is not allowed to forgo a receipt, even for an expense of this nature under $50 - and so, since Boss no longer has the original, I call Amtrak to arrange a duplicate receipt.

Do you know, Amtrak charges TWENTY DOLLARS to provide this service???? Outrageous (and train travelers with expense accounts, be warned - that's pushing half the cost of the dang ticket itself - and of course, it's not an expense-able fee!). I approach Boss again, and he has to throw up his hands again - and it's not even twelve o'clock, people. I just forced a manager I really want to please to eat a travel expense personally - having already set him to tasks he wanted to put on my plate.

Stellar morning.

After this, it's more of the same - just moron, moron, moron, all morning long. At 12:30, my buddy K, our laid back hep cat, says, "your day gets a reset button; you will come back from lunch and it will be smooth sailing" basically.

Apparently, one needs an actual fairy godmother to fill the magic slippers, because though the level of "ugh" stopped ramping up, it didn't reverse, and it didn't even quite peter out. None of what went wrong was technically my fault, and I know that, but I'm the sort who, when I want someone satisfied at my hands, I don't feel good about their being served with mediocrity. Even if I'm just the bearer, I don't like handing over un-stellar messages. Or missing the meeting cancellation I apparently misunderstood, or not being able to answer a question with alacrity (or a positive response). I got these people thinking I am a rock star, and so average-to-meh performance doesn't make me happy.

Today, I started off with a good morning of follow up and taking names, but my visibility in front of my boss didn't change (and one doesn't tug the sleeve of an uninvolved party on administrivia to show off its being competently done), so the impression of yesterday still sat on my nerves.

I ended in good stead, efficient and things accomplished, with tons of follow though today. Still. Could hope for a more exhileratingly fulfilling time of it to come.



You know, and teeth. Ferengi-osity ... *Bleah*

Quote

This is about the best description of, and insight into, Tea Partiers I can think of:

Men often oppose a thing merely because they have had no agency in planning it, or because it may have been planned by those whom they dislike.
--Alexander Hamilton

Yep, that's about the size of it. Strangepersons fear The Intellect. *Sigh*

Mac Again

I don't know, I don't mean to be one of those puling brand haters, because I just don't care enough to whinge about something I don't even use (and, yes, I can see that the article is sharpening an ax) - but Apple really comes across like Big Brother sometimes ... It makes the appeal of their products even harder to grasp, for a dimwit like me. I don't get the staunchness of the loyalty to this stuff (though YES, of course I have heard the arguments; since the fact is, the arguments usually just serve as justification for what generally appears to be a much more subjective elitism, they don't mean all that much, at the end of the day). I mean: Apple had been using 5-point Torx screws for its MacBook Pros, not standard 6-point Torx screws."We did a little bit of research and found out that this particular screw has been patented," Wiens says. "It is illegal to import screwdrivers that can open this screw into the U.S. unless you buy it through Apple's sales channels. Apple sells the screwdriver for $40."

Really ... ? This is the enlightened, superior company? I'm still not partisan here, but I'm genuinely befuddled.

So

During the past six months, I have noticed a strangely large percentage of the people I know starting sentences with the word "So". The first time I encountered it was during the in-person interview for my job, and it was so unfamiliar and distinctive, it has struck me as ever stranger and stranger that this pattern seems to have not merely caught on, nor developed, but sprung fully formed from nothingness into the most astounding ubiquity.

I'm certainly old enough to have heard a few trends in speech patterns develop in my lifetime ("like, totally"), but this one was unheard-of one day, and has become everpresent every day since. And, no, I thought at first maybe this is just a linguistic tic amongst the people I work with: but I saw it on the NEWS tonight. It seems to be cropping up all over the place.

I don't mind it. But I'm fascinated, and I want to know why this happened, where it came from, how it's spawned so prolifically. (Prolificly? I'm not looking it up.)

Anyway. So.

Nova Nerding

Neil Degrasse Tyson is almost unbearably cool. And so are giraffes. Love. It.

American Idol? Who needs that? This is content. This is ENTERTAINMENT. Space suits and gross food and ani-mules. Woo!

Also

Can I be Nichelle Nichols when I grow up?

Heh. I know - keep dreaming. I do. Her career is sort of based on that being the point. (And growing up isn't, necessarily.)

Pioneers of Television

Soooooooooooooooo many resons I love public broadcasting.

Follow

By the way, I know I have more readers than I have followers, but if y'all don't mind I'd appreciate your hitting "follow" if you come much. I need all the support I can get during this querying process - and I know how pitiful seven looks! Not that I don't love my currently-advertised readers, of COURSE. I just need more of you on the bandwagon, m'kay? M'kay.

Mac Daddy

So the 8% drop in foreign holdings in Apple on this day where our own markets were closed and Steve Jobs announced his medical leave brings to mind a consideration outside his wellbeing, but which has made me scratch my head for years. Mac users have always confounded me because of this: the most loyal (morally superior, actually, often) of them have a brand snobbery which one hardly finds outside of your basic celebutante regarding her shoes - and yet an aspect many of them share in common is a disdain for consumers of OTHER kinds. I know a lot of Mac users who sneer at certain kinds of consumerism ... and yet, it is funny: they themselves actually embody it, in their superior disregard for The Great Unwashed - er, those of us on Windows.

It doesn't offend me, mind you. It just seems a kind of unusual irony, considering the source and the nature of the thing. Odd.

American Vitriol

I can't add to the mountains of words about the shooting in Tucson last weekend. But I would ask one thing:

Why is it the republicans and Tea Partiers think it is smart to respond to calls for civility with anger, outrage, and offense? HOW is it they think that is okay?

Deliver me from discourse, if this is its shape and nature.


I'm not precisely a government employee, but I do consider myself a public servant, and I for one wouldn't mind seeing the hatred and bloodlust for my kind ABATE. Good lord, people. Simmer the hell down.

Cure-ish-ative

Well now I *have* gotten some sleep. Sometimes, it's good to know my old ability to sleep whatever the circumstances remains intact. The headache has nothing to say about this rest, but it has been gotten, and the headache can't gainsay *that* at least. Now I'm bleary and slow, but that's not too bad. The afternoon is just giving way to dusk, and the dog is making sweet tired sounds at my feet. Light in the living room is softening; it is dim here now.

Not the worst day off.

Not the best headache.

I could cocoon on a day like this.

Oh, wait - I kind of did. Heh. If only X had been here to nestle into a day like this with me. That would have been perfect.

Not Resting

I need to be sleeping, but the caffeinne in that headache pill is keeping me from the possibility. I lay for a while trying to think lovely thoughts of X - of his being here on a day like this, the way we'd run errands, the way we'd sit and read at each other - but I am restless and unable to do right to myself.

The pills aren't working (on the pain) - but they are keeping me nattering. I "called in" on our writers' club meeting today, and can't seem to get down to un-business.

From my experience Saturday, going out when I knew my head was clanging with pain, I know at least I'm avoiding exacerbation. And the laptop is quiet, where turning on the TV would attack me - and reading a paper book would have me in glasses I have been fighting against for a week - but it isn't the brightest headache treatment. I know that. But it is so easy, so temptingly, time-wastingly present.

X tells me if he had headaches like the one I've been describing this week, he'd be grabbing a doctor by the lapels demanding relief.

I, of course, respond by abandoning my glasses, failing to lie down and rest, and pretending that a cocktail of acetaminaphen and ibuprofen, and leaving the TV off, are some sort of therapy. Meanwhile barfing out of my puling brain, knowing the result is drivel.

Hey, clearing the head of drivel must be good for what ails the brainpan. ... No ... ?

Ah well.

Time to try lying down again.

Then probably a stab at Chinese food, later. That might actually be a step up.

Headline

If I have said in the past that I am made of hope, and that headline on this page is one of meaning, it's true too that there are more ingredients. But the fallout is, I am full of ambition.

My drive isn't toward pinstripes and paychecks - that career thing so many people understand as ambition. I have more goals than one. There is my work - that at my office, yes; and that of my dreamier, unpaid kind, which might someday become more lucrative. There is my family and my dog - the ambition to become the woman they need in me, the kind heart, the dependable resource. There is my love - the need to have something to offer beyond the effable, because there are so many miles between us.

Chiefly, though, in terms of "real" ambition, my motivator is that work I'm seeking partnership for. My writing. My querying. My marketing and marketability. My confidence, and yes my product.

Hope is what ambition is made of, and I am a success waiting to happen. When someone takes advantage of it, together there will be rewards aplenty, even if I'm not Kirk Ellis waiting to happen. But certainly, if I *am*.

My hope in some of the places above quails, but my understanding of what I am as an author never seems to wilt nor question. I know my talents and my assets, and I know this is just "waiting" - there is no worry "it might not happen" for me.



My full has been out since October, and on November 12 I got the note about opening the document. If this is when the agent started actually reading, I'm eight weeks into potentiality here. Nerve wracking, but in the best way!

I have my hard copy queries qeueing. Now is when we begin overseas. UK options, a rich mine for me.

The path isn't unclear to me. I'm on it.

I can't wait to see who joins me.

The Horror of Loss

It's a long weekend, so timing is strange, and nothing is happening as normal. Not feeling well, I took a two hour nap today on the chaise, and just now I finally recommitted to cleaning the house.

I dropped my father's old transistor radio. Circa probably sometime in the 1940s, this was a mahogany colored bakelite little breadbox, and had still worked even as recently as when we were kids. It was fully intact, still had all components and tubes, and would even buzz quietly if actually plugged in and turned on. And I have shattered its case.

My instant response to this was to fall to the floor in shards myself, loud sobs, terrible tears.

I know that the loss of a thing attached to a man is fearful only because it is one less piece of HIM. Because it reminds us that as time passes, there will be less and less. It's not about the object; the object is a symbol.

My brother trades in symbols like that, saving what has been hidden, and calling it artifact.

My mom is able to ascribe symbolism to approximate objects - not the "real" thing from her childhood, she can still attach the immortality imbued in artifacts into new artifacts like the ones actually attached to memory.

I live surrounded by artifacts. The beautiful tables TEO has let me hold onto, which stood silent at the center of warm afternoons at her father's. The chair my sister-in-law upholstered, in which I sit typing right now. The television X left with me, and the DVD player he gave me the day my father died. The paintings of my grandmother, the globe, always beside this radio, which my dad had as a kid. There are pieces of my grandparents', parents', siblings', even my nieces' lives all over this cheering, welcoming house. They MAKE it cheering and welcoming. They make it feel "warm" to me in that ineffable way beside the point of temperature.

My very father's cremains, in his little dragon box.



This is why I could never in good faith (har de har) be a Buddhist. I'm a believer in the cult of Stuff.

Breaking my father's radio means there is one less (intact) thing of his in the world.

Maybe my brother's old advice - to bury some piece of it in one place, other pieces of it far away, in some archaeologically-impossible configuration - is the next response.

Now is not the time to contemplate disposal.

Now is the time to still the wracking horror, to sit in this good chair, to be glad of those things which do survive, to survey my blessings, to nullify my self-blame for something which isn't even a crime.

Now is the time to clean this house.

Now is the time to be glad of the father I had ... *have* ... who was so fine a man that the very loss of his childhood radio is occasion for such anguish. Tears and flapdoodle.


***


The anniversary is coming, and I'm surviving a lush case. What once was a radio had become just a piece of silent decor. I know better than that this is genuinely loss.

But I know enough, too, to experience this sadness, to know it for what it is. And to be so grateful I have so much to lose. How blessed my dad made me.

How like a little kid in the way I miss him.

So Full of Thoughts

I had things I wanted to write about tonight, but I also have a pretty bad headache. Why'm I online? Things to do. I have a birthday card to get out for someone wonderfully amazing. I have a baby shower card to make - and I had wanted to really make that personal, with a little poem or something. I had planned to inventory some things I have from my late Uncle, to figure out what to do with them.

How is it my life after work hours used to be so much more my own? Weird.