Here's the question: why do they call it a tennis bracelet?
This answer is simple: because women's champ Chris Evert was wearing one in 1987's U.S. Open; the bracelet's clasp broke and the match was halted until the jewelry was retrieved. And the world looked at that bracelet and went, "Neat." So all thin strings of in-line diamonds in a regular pattern became known as tennis bracelets. Fair enough.
The corollary: why do tennis players wear so much jewelry? Every time I come across matches on the teevee, the women are wearing earrings, necklaces, and so on. Seems to me -- a former basketball player -- that putting something expensive and fragile on an athlete in play is kind of, well, silly. Possibly dangerous. I even looked up the ITF dress code from 2006 (the only one I could find online) to see what it said about jewelry -- most unhelpfully, there was nothing.
I remain puzzled.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
How to Write an Annoying Romance, by Victoria Alexander.
This list is pace my recent reading of "Secrets of a Proper Lady," which was not quite up to snuff.
1. Start with the Arranged Marriage plot, and add the Mistaken Identity twist, so that your main characters are lying to each other from the start.
2. Add a bunch of secondary characters whose only purpose is to make difficulties for no purpose whatsoever, then make them complain about how unreasonable the main characters are being on all fronts.
3. Have your main characters fall in cowardly, cowardly love all while taking every opportunity not merely to support their ridiculous charades, but to actually make them exponentially worse.
4. Reference Shakespeare and his hidden-identity plays as much as possible, so people realize the author is smart and is Playing With Sources rather than just Fucking Around. Nobody will be reminded how great Shakespeare's romances are in comparison to this drivel -- I promise.
5. Keep increasing the financial stakes at dramatic moments just to make your main characters twist in the wind as much as possible. Who doesn't like reading endlessly about that?
6. Make the conclusion the least promising wedding scene in history. For instance, when at the end of the ceremony the vicar (clearly appalled) mentions snidely that a kiss is customary, by all means have the bride and heroine respond: "I would rather die."
7. This may be the most important point of all: Definitely add as an epilogue a first-person scene where the author is forced to debate the subject of her next romance with a bunch of her past characters. Extra points if you mention that previously one of your characters has faded away and out of existence from an excess of two-dimensionality.
1. Start with the Arranged Marriage plot, and add the Mistaken Identity twist, so that your main characters are lying to each other from the start.
2. Add a bunch of secondary characters whose only purpose is to make difficulties for no purpose whatsoever, then make them complain about how unreasonable the main characters are being on all fronts.
3. Have your main characters fall in cowardly, cowardly love all while taking every opportunity not merely to support their ridiculous charades, but to actually make them exponentially worse.
4. Reference Shakespeare and his hidden-identity plays as much as possible, so people realize the author is smart and is Playing With Sources rather than just Fucking Around. Nobody will be reminded how great Shakespeare's romances are in comparison to this drivel -- I promise.
5. Keep increasing the financial stakes at dramatic moments just to make your main characters twist in the wind as much as possible. Who doesn't like reading endlessly about that?
6. Make the conclusion the least promising wedding scene in history. For instance, when at the end of the ceremony the vicar (clearly appalled) mentions snidely that a kiss is customary, by all means have the bride and heroine respond: "I would rather die."
7. This may be the most important point of all: Definitely add as an epilogue a first-person scene where the author is forced to debate the subject of her next romance with a bunch of her past characters. Extra points if you mention that previously one of your characters has faded away and out of existence from an excess of two-dimensionality.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Auto-mobiles.
From as far back as I can remember, cars have descended through my family tree. They bounce from branch to branch like significantly larger and more expensive acorns -- and not just along the usual parent-child channels.
My parents currently drive one Lexus (gold) they bought from my mom's parents, and another (white) they bought from my dad's sister. The Audi they had been driving for a decade passed on to my young cousin Alex, while my sister drives a Jetta she bought from another cousin. The very first car I learned to drive was a blue Honda CRX of the exact tortoise-like shape of a computer mouse or the ship from Flight of the Navigator, in which car at sixteen I experienced my very first solo accident: rear-ended by a Jeep when I stopped at a light. Rendered unreliable in my parents' eyes, the CRX was sold to my uncle, a more experienced driver.
The entire back hatch of the Honda had crumpled inward like a crushed can under the force of the Jeep's impact. I believe this caused my parents to overcompensate in the direction of automotive sturdiness, because I was subsequently given my great-grandmother's 1978 Pontiac Grand Am. We paid one whole dollar for it, and my great-grandmother bought a brand-new Subaru Outback, which was easier for her to get groceries in and out of every Sunday.
The Pontiac was a big, red, hulking, hard-edged behemoth made of steel and velour. The front bumper came to a point -- like a train's cattle prod, or He-Man's sword -- and was fixed to the body of the beast by a potent combination of duct tape and prayer. There was a yellow swipe of paint from an accident one of my uncles had been in before I was born, and a cigarette hole burned into the front seat from the days when my great-aunt was a rebellious, nicotine-fueled teenager. The trunk lock was hidden beneath a swiveling Pontiac logo made of still more steel, and the seat-springs in both front and back bench seats made passengers and driver bounce rhythmically, oceanically, on bumpy roads. Only the front two windows rolled down. It looked like this.
And oh, that car had an engine. It roared like nothing I'd ever heard before or since. There was probably way more power behind that mass of metal than anything a green teenager ought to be driving.
Not that I realized this at first. I remember taking driver's ed, and being constantly urged to go faster by my instructor -- which seemed foolhardy to my nervous young self. I could hit somebody! Somebody could hit me! There were two other driving students I knew in the backseat waiting to become accident statistics! No, it was obvious that only fools drove over 15 miles per hour. But then something happened. At this snail's pace I began to realize -- with astounding, irrational clarity -- that every time I hit the brakes, the brakes had already been hit. After a couple of easy maneuvers, I turned to my instructor. "Do you have a brake over there?" I asked.
"No," he replied.
So I was being taught the rules of the road by a man who would lie baldly to my face.
Something about this ruffled my feathers, and launched me into what was perhaps my one true act of reckless teenage abandon. I was not a drinker, not a smoker, and those cushy bench seats were useless for a girl who still worried that holding hands was frighteningly close to foreplay. Years of not acting out, not testing my boundaries, not pushing my parents to the brink welled up in protest, and somewhere deep inside of me a tiny red light went bing.
We came to a four-way stop.
I took my foot off the gas.
There was again that telltale moment of hesitation, then a stronger surge of pressure, and the car came to a gentle, natural stop -- unaided by any effort of mine.
The instructor turned to me. "Why didn't you stop?"
I looked at him calmly. "Why did you tell me you didn't have a brake on your side?"
"Just stop next time," he said.
"Fine," I said. And I did. But after that it became a relief to go from a crappy white Honda with secret deception brakes to a stalwart crimson tank that was as uncomfortable with acceleration as I was. Gradually I grew more confident -- the tragedy of growing older -- and realized that, although the car was huge and heavy, the engine was as strong as the frame and more than usually responsive. I grew attuned to the sound and the purr, to the slight rhythmic lag between my foot on the gas and the surge in forward motion. I remember the day half the fake wood strip on one side came off and bounced against the pavement, sending sparks up alongside me on the freeway bridge heading out of the city. At long lights I would worry that cigarette hole in the front seat; every now and again I would make sure the duct tape on the bumper was still holding. Friends cursed in astonishment when I told them no, those back windows don't roll down and no, there is no air conditioning. They were appalled -- but then, they drove normal, newer cars, purchased from strangers, unghosted with guardian shades. Their cars gave comfort to the body -- but I had solace for the soul.
My parents currently drive one Lexus (gold) they bought from my mom's parents, and another (white) they bought from my dad's sister. The Audi they had been driving for a decade passed on to my young cousin Alex, while my sister drives a Jetta she bought from another cousin. The very first car I learned to drive was a blue Honda CRX of the exact tortoise-like shape of a computer mouse or the ship from Flight of the Navigator, in which car at sixteen I experienced my very first solo accident: rear-ended by a Jeep when I stopped at a light. Rendered unreliable in my parents' eyes, the CRX was sold to my uncle, a more experienced driver.
The entire back hatch of the Honda had crumpled inward like a crushed can under the force of the Jeep's impact. I believe this caused my parents to overcompensate in the direction of automotive sturdiness, because I was subsequently given my great-grandmother's 1978 Pontiac Grand Am. We paid one whole dollar for it, and my great-grandmother bought a brand-new Subaru Outback, which was easier for her to get groceries in and out of every Sunday.
The Pontiac was a big, red, hulking, hard-edged behemoth made of steel and velour. The front bumper came to a point -- like a train's cattle prod, or He-Man's sword -- and was fixed to the body of the beast by a potent combination of duct tape and prayer. There was a yellow swipe of paint from an accident one of my uncles had been in before I was born, and a cigarette hole burned into the front seat from the days when my great-aunt was a rebellious, nicotine-fueled teenager. The trunk lock was hidden beneath a swiveling Pontiac logo made of still more steel, and the seat-springs in both front and back bench seats made passengers and driver bounce rhythmically, oceanically, on bumpy roads. Only the front two windows rolled down. It looked like this.
And oh, that car had an engine. It roared like nothing I'd ever heard before or since. There was probably way more power behind that mass of metal than anything a green teenager ought to be driving.
Not that I realized this at first. I remember taking driver's ed, and being constantly urged to go faster by my instructor -- which seemed foolhardy to my nervous young self. I could hit somebody! Somebody could hit me! There were two other driving students I knew in the backseat waiting to become accident statistics! No, it was obvious that only fools drove over 15 miles per hour. But then something happened. At this snail's pace I began to realize -- with astounding, irrational clarity -- that every time I hit the brakes, the brakes had already been hit. After a couple of easy maneuvers, I turned to my instructor. "Do you have a brake over there?" I asked.
"No," he replied.
So I was being taught the rules of the road by a man who would lie baldly to my face.
Something about this ruffled my feathers, and launched me into what was perhaps my one true act of reckless teenage abandon. I was not a drinker, not a smoker, and those cushy bench seats were useless for a girl who still worried that holding hands was frighteningly close to foreplay. Years of not acting out, not testing my boundaries, not pushing my parents to the brink welled up in protest, and somewhere deep inside of me a tiny red light went bing.
We came to a four-way stop.
I took my foot off the gas.
There was again that telltale moment of hesitation, then a stronger surge of pressure, and the car came to a gentle, natural stop -- unaided by any effort of mine.
The instructor turned to me. "Why didn't you stop?"
I looked at him calmly. "Why did you tell me you didn't have a brake on your side?"
"Just stop next time," he said.
"Fine," I said. And I did. But after that it became a relief to go from a crappy white Honda with secret deception brakes to a stalwart crimson tank that was as uncomfortable with acceleration as I was. Gradually I grew more confident -- the tragedy of growing older -- and realized that, although the car was huge and heavy, the engine was as strong as the frame and more than usually responsive. I grew attuned to the sound and the purr, to the slight rhythmic lag between my foot on the gas and the surge in forward motion. I remember the day half the fake wood strip on one side came off and bounced against the pavement, sending sparks up alongside me on the freeway bridge heading out of the city. At long lights I would worry that cigarette hole in the front seat; every now and again I would make sure the duct tape on the bumper was still holding. Friends cursed in astonishment when I told them no, those back windows don't roll down and no, there is no air conditioning. They were appalled -- but then, they drove normal, newer cars, purchased from strangers, unghosted with guardian shades. Their cars gave comfort to the body -- but I had solace for the soul.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Read and reread this speech.
Remarks of President-Elect Barack Obama—as prepared for delivery
Election Night
Tuesday, November 4th, 2008
Chicago, Illinois
If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.
It’s the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen; by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the very first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different; that their voice could be that difference.
It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Latino, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled – Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of Red States and Blue States: we are, and always will be, the United States of America.
It’s the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.
It’s been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to America.
I just received a very gracious call from Senator McCain. He fought long and hard in this campaign, and he’s fought even longer and harder for the country he loves. He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine, and we are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader. I congratulate him and Governor Palin for all they have achieved, and I look forward to working with them to renew this nation’s promise in the months ahead.
I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton and rode with on that train home to Delaware, the Vice President-elect of the United States, Joe Biden.
I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last sixteen years, the rock of our family and the love of my life, our nation’s next First Lady, Michelle Obama. Sasha and Malia, I love you both so much, and you have earned the new puppy that’s coming with us to the White House. And while she’s no longer with us, I know my grandmother is watching, along with the family that made me who I am. I miss them tonight, and know that my debt to them is beyond measure.
To my campaign manager David Plouffe, my chief strategist David Axelrod, and the best campaign team ever assembled in the history of politics – you made this happen, and I am forever grateful for what you’ve sacrificed to get it done.
But above all, I will never forget who this victory truly belongs to – it belongs to you.
I was never the likeliest candidate for this office. We didn’t start with much money or many endorsements. Our campaign was not hatched in the halls of Washington – it began in the backyards of Des Moines and the living rooms of Concord and the front porches of Charleston.
It was built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give five dollars and ten dollars and twenty dollars to this cause. It grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generation’s apathy; who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep; from the not-so-young people who braved the bitter cold and scorching heat to knock on the doors of perfect strangers; from the millions of Americans who volunteered, and organized, and proved that more than two centuries later, a government of the people, by the people and for the people has not perished from this Earth. This is your victory.
I know you didn’t do this just to win an election and I know you didn’t do it for me. You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime – two wars, a planet in peril, the worst financial crisis in a century. Even as we stand here tonight, we know there are brave Americans waking up in the deserts of Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan to risk their lives for us. There are mothers and fathers who will lie awake after their children fall asleep and wonder how they’ll make the mortgage, or pay their doctor’s bills, or save enough for college. There is new energy to harness and new jobs to be created; new schools to build and threats to meet and alliances to repair.
The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even one term, but America – I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you – we as a people will get there.
There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won’t agree with every decision or policy I make as President, and we know that government can’t solve every problem. But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And above all, I will ask you join in the work of remaking this nation the only way it’s been done in America for two-hundred and twenty-one years – block by block, brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand.
What began twenty-one months ago in the depths of winter must not end on this autumn night. This victory alone is not the change we seek – it is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were. It cannot happen without you.
So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other. Let us remember that if this financial crisis taught us anything, it’s that we cannot have a thriving Wall Street while Main Street suffers – in this country, we rise or fall as one nation; as one people.
Let us resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long. Let us remember that it was a man from this state who first carried the banner of the Republican Party to the White House – a party founded on the values of self-reliance, individual liberty, and national unity. Those are values we all share, and while the Democratic Party has won a great victory tonight, we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress. As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, “We are not enemies, but friends…though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection.” And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn – I may not have won your vote, but I hear your voices, I need your help, and I will be your President too.
And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world – our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand. To those who would tear this world down – we will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security – we support you. And to all those who have wondered if America’s beacon still burns as bright – tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from our the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope.
For that is the true genius of America – that America can change. Our union can be perfected. And what we have already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.
This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that’s on my mind tonight is about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She’s a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing – Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.
She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn’t vote for two reasons – because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.
And tonight, I think about all that she’s seen throughout her century in America – the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can’t, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.
At a time when women’s voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.
When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs and a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.
When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.
She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that “We Shall Overcome.” Yes we can.
A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination. And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes we can.
America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves – if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?
This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time – to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth – that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can’t, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people:
Yes We Can. Thank you, God bless you, and may God Bless the United States of America.
Election Night
Tuesday, November 4th, 2008
Chicago, Illinois
If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.
It’s the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen; by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the very first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different; that their voice could be that difference.
It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Latino, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled – Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of Red States and Blue States: we are, and always will be, the United States of America.
It’s the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.
It’s been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to America.
I just received a very gracious call from Senator McCain. He fought long and hard in this campaign, and he’s fought even longer and harder for the country he loves. He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine, and we are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader. I congratulate him and Governor Palin for all they have achieved, and I look forward to working with them to renew this nation’s promise in the months ahead.
I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton and rode with on that train home to Delaware, the Vice President-elect of the United States, Joe Biden.
I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last sixteen years, the rock of our family and the love of my life, our nation’s next First Lady, Michelle Obama. Sasha and Malia, I love you both so much, and you have earned the new puppy that’s coming with us to the White House. And while she’s no longer with us, I know my grandmother is watching, along with the family that made me who I am. I miss them tonight, and know that my debt to them is beyond measure.
To my campaign manager David Plouffe, my chief strategist David Axelrod, and the best campaign team ever assembled in the history of politics – you made this happen, and I am forever grateful for what you’ve sacrificed to get it done.
But above all, I will never forget who this victory truly belongs to – it belongs to you.
I was never the likeliest candidate for this office. We didn’t start with much money or many endorsements. Our campaign was not hatched in the halls of Washington – it began in the backyards of Des Moines and the living rooms of Concord and the front porches of Charleston.
It was built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give five dollars and ten dollars and twenty dollars to this cause. It grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generation’s apathy; who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep; from the not-so-young people who braved the bitter cold and scorching heat to knock on the doors of perfect strangers; from the millions of Americans who volunteered, and organized, and proved that more than two centuries later, a government of the people, by the people and for the people has not perished from this Earth. This is your victory.
I know you didn’t do this just to win an election and I know you didn’t do it for me. You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime – two wars, a planet in peril, the worst financial crisis in a century. Even as we stand here tonight, we know there are brave Americans waking up in the deserts of Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan to risk their lives for us. There are mothers and fathers who will lie awake after their children fall asleep and wonder how they’ll make the mortgage, or pay their doctor’s bills, or save enough for college. There is new energy to harness and new jobs to be created; new schools to build and threats to meet and alliances to repair.
The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even one term, but America – I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you – we as a people will get there.
There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won’t agree with every decision or policy I make as President, and we know that government can’t solve every problem. But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And above all, I will ask you join in the work of remaking this nation the only way it’s been done in America for two-hundred and twenty-one years – block by block, brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand.
What began twenty-one months ago in the depths of winter must not end on this autumn night. This victory alone is not the change we seek – it is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were. It cannot happen without you.
So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other. Let us remember that if this financial crisis taught us anything, it’s that we cannot have a thriving Wall Street while Main Street suffers – in this country, we rise or fall as one nation; as one people.
Let us resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long. Let us remember that it was a man from this state who first carried the banner of the Republican Party to the White House – a party founded on the values of self-reliance, individual liberty, and national unity. Those are values we all share, and while the Democratic Party has won a great victory tonight, we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress. As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, “We are not enemies, but friends…though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection.” And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn – I may not have won your vote, but I hear your voices, I need your help, and I will be your President too.
And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world – our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand. To those who would tear this world down – we will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security – we support you. And to all those who have wondered if America’s beacon still burns as bright – tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from our the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope.
For that is the true genius of America – that America can change. Our union can be perfected. And what we have already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.
This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that’s on my mind tonight is about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She’s a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing – Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.
She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn’t vote for two reasons – because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.
And tonight, I think about all that she’s seen throughout her century in America – the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can’t, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.
At a time when women’s voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.
When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs and a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.
When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.
She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that “We Shall Overcome.” Yes we can.
A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination. And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes we can.
America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves – if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?
This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time – to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth – that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can’t, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people:
Yes We Can. Thank you, God bless you, and may God Bless the United States of America.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Rule No. 1: Naked Queens Are Trouble
Another day, anothing brilliant painting by dead French genius Jean-Léon Gérôme. This one is titled 
King Candaules, or Le roi Candaules in French.
The story, as Herodotus tells it, is rife with intrigue, betrayal, and high-level espionage. King Candaules -- dude in bed on left -- was bragging to his bodyguard Gyges -- guy in cloak on right -- about the beauty of his wife the queen -- luminous naked woman, center. The queen was so beautiful, said Candaules, that unless a man saw her beauty for himself (au naturel, as it were), he could never comprehend it. Gyges obediently agreed. No seriously, continued Candaules, you should hide in our room tonight and watch when she takes her clothes off, I'm telling you. And to Gyges this seemed like a terrible idea. But the king would not be put off, and Gyges had very little choice, and so here he is hiding in the royal bedchamber while the queen disrobes.
You'll notice, if you look at the queen -- and we should all be looking at the queen in this painting -- that she has her cloak raised, hiding her face from her husband. And that she is looking right at Gyges as he lurks shamefacedly in the shadows.
Because that is what happens: the queen notices Gyges, and realizes what her husband is up to (no self-respecting bodyguard would be idiotic enough to spy on the royal disrobing under his own motivation). She keeps her cool. The next morning, she summons Gyges -- nothing out of the ordinary about it -- and then informs him that she knows he's seen her naked, and on account of this insult to her modesty either he or her husband must die, and she doesn't particularly care which one it is. Gyges, again, pleads for her to change her mind, but she doesn't give in. And so Gyges kills Candaules, and marries the queen -- who is never named, by the way -- and this usurpation is what Croesus must atone for several generations down the line in Herodotus' Histories, which is why he was telling us the story in the first place.
Once again, it is the revelation of the female body that is central -- except here, it is a tragic and not a triumphal moment. The view of the naked queen is the moment that will required Gyges to become either a martyr or a murderer, and will lead Candaules to his self-engineered death; perhaps this is why she has her back to the viewer, who is thus spared the full power of her nudity. Moreover, look at Candaules, our title figure: he's way back in the shadows, screened by some uninteresting folds of drapery -- and he is looking at Gyges. This is clearly a man with a tendency to voyeurism: it is not the sight of his wife's perfect beauty that turns him on, but the sight of someone furtively glimpsing that beauty.
In Gérôme's vision, the brightness and nudity of the queen and her garments find their counterparts in the darkness and concealment of Gyges. The bodyguard seems to carry a darkness about with him, even as the queen seems to illuminate the room. Again as in Phryne we have the blue garment on the left, a white body in the middle, and a red cloth to the right -- just like the French flag, come to think of it. I need to say that again for emphasis: these two paintings are arranged just like the French flag, with blue on the left, red on the right, and a naked woman as the central white bar. Maybe this is why they caused such a stir. The flag-section here is smaller, limited to just the king and queen -- appropriate, since it is they who are the subject of the looming revelution. Gyges almost looks as though he is in a separate painting -- a Goya, rather than a Gérôme. Both he and Candaules are secondary figures; the queen dominates the frame.
Next up: Alcibiades, playboy heartthrob of the ancient world.
King Candaules, or Le roi Candaules in French. The story, as Herodotus tells it, is rife with intrigue, betrayal, and high-level espionage. King Candaules -- dude in bed on left -- was bragging to his bodyguard Gyges -- guy in cloak on right -- about the beauty of his wife the queen -- luminous naked woman, center. The queen was so beautiful, said Candaules, that unless a man saw her beauty for himself (au naturel, as it were), he could never comprehend it. Gyges obediently agreed. No seriously, continued Candaules, you should hide in our room tonight and watch when she takes her clothes off, I'm telling you. And to Gyges this seemed like a terrible idea. But the king would not be put off, and Gyges had very little choice, and so here he is hiding in the royal bedchamber while the queen disrobes.
You'll notice, if you look at the queen -- and we should all be looking at the queen in this painting -- that she has her cloak raised, hiding her face from her husband. And that she is looking right at Gyges as he lurks shamefacedly in the shadows.
Because that is what happens: the queen notices Gyges, and realizes what her husband is up to (no self-respecting bodyguard would be idiotic enough to spy on the royal disrobing under his own motivation). She keeps her cool. The next morning, she summons Gyges -- nothing out of the ordinary about it -- and then informs him that she knows he's seen her naked, and on account of this insult to her modesty either he or her husband must die, and she doesn't particularly care which one it is. Gyges, again, pleads for her to change her mind, but she doesn't give in. And so Gyges kills Candaules, and marries the queen -- who is never named, by the way -- and this usurpation is what Croesus must atone for several generations down the line in Herodotus' Histories, which is why he was telling us the story in the first place.
Once again, it is the revelation of the female body that is central -- except here, it is a tragic and not a triumphal moment. The view of the naked queen is the moment that will required Gyges to become either a martyr or a murderer, and will lead Candaules to his self-engineered death; perhaps this is why she has her back to the viewer, who is thus spared the full power of her nudity. Moreover, look at Candaules, our title figure: he's way back in the shadows, screened by some uninteresting folds of drapery -- and he is looking at Gyges. This is clearly a man with a tendency to voyeurism: it is not the sight of his wife's perfect beauty that turns him on, but the sight of someone furtively glimpsing that beauty.
In Gérôme's vision, the brightness and nudity of the queen and her garments find their counterparts in the darkness and concealment of Gyges. The bodyguard seems to carry a darkness about with him, even as the queen seems to illuminate the room. Again as in Phryne we have the blue garment on the left, a white body in the middle, and a red cloth to the right -- just like the French flag, come to think of it. I need to say that again for emphasis: these two paintings are arranged just like the French flag, with blue on the left, red on the right, and a naked woman as the central white bar. Maybe this is why they caused such a stir. The flag-section here is smaller, limited to just the king and queen -- appropriate, since it is they who are the subject of the looming revelution. Gyges almost looks as though he is in a separate painting -- a Goya, rather than a Gérôme. Both he and Candaules are secondary figures; the queen dominates the frame.
Next up: Alcibiades, playboy heartthrob of the ancient world.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
On Paintings and Prostitutes.
Until recently, I could not have distinguished Jean-Léon Gérôme from Jean-Claude van Damme -- unless the latter roundhouse kicked the former in his frippery French mustache. Yet through the miracle of Internet reconnaissance, with all its myriad trajectories and tangents, I wound up along an obscure trail that led me to the following sentence on Wikipedia: "Phryne before the Areopagus, King Candaules and Socrates finding Alcibiades in the House of Aspasia (1861) gave rise to some scandal by reason of the subjects selected by the painter, and brought down on him the bitter attacks of Paul de Saint-Victor and Maxime Du Camp."
(Note his self-portrait -- I was not joking about the mustache.)
On a whim, I looked up those three paintings. Here is the first:
Phryne Before the Areopagus.
The story behind this moment is hard to track down at first: supposedly, according to some sources, the nude female figure is Phryne, aka Alcippe, a daughter of Ares and a participant in the very first murder trial, in which Ares was acquitted of the murder of the son of Poseidon who had raped Alcippe/Phryne. This is apparently the reason why the rock upon which the Athenian court sat was titled the Areopagus, or 'hill of Ares.' Looking back at the painting, it follows that the rape victim's clothing is here being suddenly, almost violently removed in the middle of a public courtroom by a man who, if not actually her father, is certainly looking out for her father's interests, and not the girl's.
This is terrible. It is also nonsensical -- one glance at the painting is enough to convince me that it can't possibly be Phyrne/Alcippe, daughter of Ares. For one thing: where is Ares? The nude female figure is the only glorious thing in the scene; any godlike presence would surely be similarly noteworthy. From a narrative perspective, the heart of the myth is the moment when Ares is acquitted, and gives his name to the court. Yet the title of Gérôme's painting is not, as you see, Ares Before the Areopagus.
Besides, there is the matter of the whore.
You see, Phryne is also the name of a famous hetaera -- translate: courtesan -- who lived in Athens in the 4th century BC. She is rumored to have offered to rebuild the walls of Thebes, destroyed by Alexander the Great, on the condition that the resurrected walls then read: destroyed by Alexander, restored by Phryne the courtesan. Sadly, this verbal middle finger to Alexander was refused. Moreover, Phryne supposedly charged a customer for her favors based on how much she liked them (king of Lydia = national debt-level sum, but philosopher Diogenes of Sinope = the kindness of her heart) and is therefore a prime candidate for being the prototypical hooker with a heart of gold. (Diogenes is most famous for coining the term 'cynic,' thus proving that being cool got you laid even in ancient times.)
Moreover, the hetaera was once brought before the Areopagus as a defendant, and charged with profaning the Eleusinian Mysteries (the ancient equivalent of telling everyone what's in the center of a Mormon temple, but nevertheless while the charge was serious it was not an unheard-of crime). During her trial, Phryne's breasts were exposed to the court, either by herself or her defender -- and she was instantly acquitted.
Obviously, this is very much the story Gérôme's depiction is engaged with.
It is crucial to note that the difference between a hetaera and a porne, a common street prostitute with a pimp (yes, ancient Greece had pimps). A hetaera was her own woman, intelligent, charming, and educated as well as beautiful; technically speaking, the word hetaera translates merely to "female companion." Your male cohorts would be your hetaeroi, with no (okay, very little -- okay, some) sexual overtones. Moreover, a hetaera was expensive enough to be beyond the reach of ordinary men; Phryne was outspoken because she could afford to be.
Let's take one more look at that painting. The first bit that grabs your eye is the luminous pale skin of the female figure. If you look closely, you can see that her glowing body is the source of all the light in the room: the blue cloth she is no longer wearing is brighter closer to her body, and the deepest shadows are farthest away from her. The red robes of her judges are vibrant, and flicker as though their wearers have been literally set alight with her undoubtedly erotic power. In fact, the natural sweep of our eyes plays tricks on us here as it moves from left to right over the canvas. First we see the figure and its erstwhile covering, then the flame-like movement of the judges reacting, and then our eye is drawn back to the figure (by its arresting brightness) and it seems as though that cool blue cloak is a sheet of water waiting to douse her like a match dropped on dry tinder. As though she is dangerous.
Now, in more detail: Phryne is not entirely naked. She is still wearing a gold bracelet, a necklace, and a small red flower in her hair. Her entire body is exposed both to the court and to the viewer; a normal woman in this situation would be trying to shield her body with her hands. (In fact, the famous Venus statue of Praxiteles, also known as the Venus Pudica or Modest Venus, uses one hand to cover her naughty bits, and supposedly had Phryne as a model.) But our girl is hiding her face: she manages by this not only to imitate shame and modesty -- allowing her to seem virtuous when she is anything but -- but also to remain aloof and mysterious. You can see either her face or her body, but never both at the same time. This is an immensely alluring, canny gesture on her part.
As for the men watching, each and every one of them wears a different, individual expression. They are mocking, aroused, repelled, fascinated, sleazy, horrified, shocked, and amused by turns. One man has clapped his hand to his head in the universal (and, apparently, eternal) gesture indicating "WTF!" -- another is just as clearly pointing at her ass and discussing it with his neighbor.
Moreover, there is a shadowy figure who goes unnoticed at the far left of the painting. It took me a long while, staring intently at the digital reproduction, before I realized this person must be the priest who is the plaintiff in this case. And, in the center, balancing Phryne's own body, a tiny golden statue of Athena (there is an inscription on the pedestal). The heads of Athena, Phryne, and her defender (perhaps the orator Hypereides) form a line heading down and right, while the heads of the judges form a line moving down and left. The two lines meet just to the right of Phryne's body; I can't help but think that this is how at least part of her luminosity is achieved -- our eyes slide to her and then slightly away from her, as though she is too divinely beautiful for us to simply stare at.
***
Phyrne is not in fact our hetaera's real name. Her given name was Mnesarete, meaning "virtue-mindful," which is quite lovely, but not really conducive to success in her profession. Supposedly, the nickname Phryne, "toad," was given to her on account of her sallow complexion. She is anything but sallow here. I like to think, per Gérôme, that it was in reality her cynical temper and bitter tongue that gave her that name, as well as a large part of her appeal. If she had merely been a beautiful, well-behaved Greek woman, we would never have heard about her. I much prefer to think of her as the Dorothy Parker of the Athenian set, mocking those who deserve it and taking lovers as they pleased her body or her purse, or both.
A mystery remains: what on earth upset people so much about this painting? The stark eroticism? (Seems unlikely in 19th-century France.) I am attempting to dig up the critics' remarks.
Next up: King Candaules.
UPDATE: Still no luck on the scandal, but I have noticed one extra detail about this painting: the colors from left to right are blue, white, and read -- just like the French flag.
(Note his self-portrait -- I was not joking about the mustache.)
On a whim, I looked up those three paintings. Here is the first:
Phryne Before the Areopagus.The story behind this moment is hard to track down at first: supposedly, according to some sources, the nude female figure is Phryne, aka Alcippe, a daughter of Ares and a participant in the very first murder trial, in which Ares was acquitted of the murder of the son of Poseidon who had raped Alcippe/Phryne. This is apparently the reason why the rock upon which the Athenian court sat was titled the Areopagus, or 'hill of Ares.' Looking back at the painting, it follows that the rape victim's clothing is here being suddenly, almost violently removed in the middle of a public courtroom by a man who, if not actually her father, is certainly looking out for her father's interests, and not the girl's.
This is terrible. It is also nonsensical -- one glance at the painting is enough to convince me that it can't possibly be Phyrne/Alcippe, daughter of Ares. For one thing: where is Ares? The nude female figure is the only glorious thing in the scene; any godlike presence would surely be similarly noteworthy. From a narrative perspective, the heart of the myth is the moment when Ares is acquitted, and gives his name to the court. Yet the title of Gérôme's painting is not, as you see, Ares Before the Areopagus.
Besides, there is the matter of the whore.
You see, Phryne is also the name of a famous hetaera -- translate: courtesan -- who lived in Athens in the 4th century BC. She is rumored to have offered to rebuild the walls of Thebes, destroyed by Alexander the Great, on the condition that the resurrected walls then read: destroyed by Alexander, restored by Phryne the courtesan. Sadly, this verbal middle finger to Alexander was refused. Moreover, Phryne supposedly charged a customer for her favors based on how much she liked them (king of Lydia = national debt-level sum, but philosopher Diogenes of Sinope = the kindness of her heart) and is therefore a prime candidate for being the prototypical hooker with a heart of gold. (Diogenes is most famous for coining the term 'cynic,' thus proving that being cool got you laid even in ancient times.)
Moreover, the hetaera was once brought before the Areopagus as a defendant, and charged with profaning the Eleusinian Mysteries (the ancient equivalent of telling everyone what's in the center of a Mormon temple, but nevertheless while the charge was serious it was not an unheard-of crime). During her trial, Phryne's breasts were exposed to the court, either by herself or her defender -- and she was instantly acquitted.
Obviously, this is very much the story Gérôme's depiction is engaged with.
It is crucial to note that the difference between a hetaera and a porne, a common street prostitute with a pimp (yes, ancient Greece had pimps). A hetaera was her own woman, intelligent, charming, and educated as well as beautiful; technically speaking, the word hetaera translates merely to "female companion." Your male cohorts would be your hetaeroi, with no (okay, very little -- okay, some) sexual overtones. Moreover, a hetaera was expensive enough to be beyond the reach of ordinary men; Phryne was outspoken because she could afford to be.
Let's take one more look at that painting.
The first bit that grabs your eye is the luminous pale skin of the female figure. If you look closely, you can see that her glowing body is the source of all the light in the room: the blue cloth she is no longer wearing is brighter closer to her body, and the deepest shadows are farthest away from her. The red robes of her judges are vibrant, and flicker as though their wearers have been literally set alight with her undoubtedly erotic power. In fact, the natural sweep of our eyes plays tricks on us here as it moves from left to right over the canvas. First we see the figure and its erstwhile covering, then the flame-like movement of the judges reacting, and then our eye is drawn back to the figure (by its arresting brightness) and it seems as though that cool blue cloak is a sheet of water waiting to douse her like a match dropped on dry tinder. As though she is dangerous.Now, in more detail: Phryne is not entirely naked. She is still wearing a gold bracelet, a necklace, and a small red flower in her hair. Her entire body is exposed both to the court and to the viewer; a normal woman in this situation would be trying to shield her body with her hands. (In fact, the famous Venus statue of Praxiteles, also known as the Venus Pudica or Modest Venus, uses one hand to cover her naughty bits, and supposedly had Phryne as a model.) But our girl is hiding her face: she manages by this not only to imitate shame and modesty -- allowing her to seem virtuous when she is anything but -- but also to remain aloof and mysterious. You can see either her face or her body, but never both at the same time. This is an immensely alluring, canny gesture on her part.
As for the men watching, each and every one of them wears a different, individual expression. They are mocking, aroused, repelled, fascinated, sleazy, horrified, shocked, and amused by turns. One man has clapped his hand to his head in the universal (and, apparently, eternal) gesture indicating "WTF!" -- another is just as clearly pointing at her ass and discussing it with his neighbor.
Moreover, there is a shadowy figure who goes unnoticed at the far left of the painting. It took me a long while, staring intently at the digital reproduction, before I realized this person must be the priest who is the plaintiff in this case. And, in the center, balancing Phryne's own body, a tiny golden statue of Athena (there is an inscription on the pedestal). The heads of Athena, Phryne, and her defender (perhaps the orator Hypereides) form a line heading down and right, while the heads of the judges form a line moving down and left. The two lines meet just to the right of Phryne's body; I can't help but think that this is how at least part of her luminosity is achieved -- our eyes slide to her and then slightly away from her, as though she is too divinely beautiful for us to simply stare at.
***
Phyrne is not in fact our hetaera's real name. Her given name was Mnesarete, meaning "virtue-mindful," which is quite lovely, but not really conducive to success in her profession. Supposedly, the nickname Phryne, "toad," was given to her on account of her sallow complexion. She is anything but sallow here. I like to think, per Gérôme, that it was in reality her cynical temper and bitter tongue that gave her that name, as well as a large part of her appeal. If she had merely been a beautiful, well-behaved Greek woman, we would never have heard about her. I much prefer to think of her as the Dorothy Parker of the Athenian set, mocking those who deserve it and taking lovers as they pleased her body or her purse, or both.
A mystery remains: what on earth upset people so much about this painting? The stark eroticism? (Seems unlikely in 19th-century France.) I am attempting to dig up the critics' remarks.
Next up: King Candaules.
UPDATE: Still no luck on the scandal, but I have noticed one extra detail about this painting: the colors from left to right are blue, white, and read -- just like the French flag.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
My Cups Runneth Over.
Here is a useful pamphlet on how to be the absolute worst lingerie saleswoman in the short history of one hopeful young lingerie buyer's life.
A clarification: when we say "worst," we do not simply mean "least successful at selling lingerie." Rather, we mean: "supreme at not only discouraging the customer from buying anything, but sending them running out of the store in tears, vowing never to return, and despondent about the current state of their body."
This is, needless to say, a far from everyday occurrence.
1. Don't ask right away if she needs help, even if she is rather listlessly fingering a bra on display and lingering pointedly near where you're obviously chatting with a friend and regular customer. No doubt you also give this woman your employee discount on your severely overpriced merchandise.
2. When you do ask if the customer needs help, exude irritation. When you learn what she's looking for, be sure to point out that you probably don't have it, but offer to fit her and show her to a dressing room anyway.
3. For the fitting, make sure the bra you give her is not only floral -- which she hates and is explicitly not looking for -- but made of a mesh as transparent as possible. Not even the nipples are going to be hidden here. Believe me, few things are more humiliating than standing with your arms outstretched in front of a total stranger in an unflattering bra with your nipples showing.
4. Leave her in the dressing room for at least five minutes, while you stand outside in the thirty-square-foot space and talk loudly about her with your friend. Because if anything is more humiliating than standing with your arms outstretched in front of a total stranger with your nipples showing, it is waiting to do so while the total stranger stands outside and discusses you with her friend as if you weren't there, and unable not to listen.
5. When you do deign to start the fitting, don't forget to point out that she's busting out of the transparent, unflattering bra. Has she put on a lot of weight lately? Also, she's clearly wearing it wrong. Does she wear her own bras that high on her back? How ignorant.
6. Offer to comb the store looking for the skintone, unadorned bra she has requested and specifically intends to wear underneath thin t-shirts in hot summer months. Leave her in the dressing room for another full five minutes.
7. Chat some more with your friend.
8. Assuming your customer has not already thrown on her own clothes and fled in instinctual self-preservation, bring back the six ugliest bras she has ever seen. Make sure at least three are covered in the lumpy details she is specifically hoping to avoid.
9. When she emerges from the dressing room thirty seconds later, having finally given up all hope not only of finding a bra in this store today, but also of ever being physically attractive to anyone ever again in her life, ask how the bras fit. If all has gone according to plan, she should mumble some small pleasantry with a noticeable catch in her voice and a telltale sheen in her eyes, before slinking out of the store with her head hung low in shame. Turn back to your friend, pull out the inevitable bottle of champagne from beneath the counter, and toast your success.
... I wish I could say the above was exaggerated for comic effect. Alas, it was not. I don't want to put the name of the store here, but enquiries will be swiftly and honestly answered.
A clarification: when we say "worst," we do not simply mean "least successful at selling lingerie." Rather, we mean: "supreme at not only discouraging the customer from buying anything, but sending them running out of the store in tears, vowing never to return, and despondent about the current state of their body."
This is, needless to say, a far from everyday occurrence.
1. Don't ask right away if she needs help, even if she is rather listlessly fingering a bra on display and lingering pointedly near where you're obviously chatting with a friend and regular customer. No doubt you also give this woman your employee discount on your severely overpriced merchandise.
2. When you do ask if the customer needs help, exude irritation. When you learn what she's looking for, be sure to point out that you probably don't have it, but offer to fit her and show her to a dressing room anyway.
3. For the fitting, make sure the bra you give her is not only floral -- which she hates and is explicitly not looking for -- but made of a mesh as transparent as possible. Not even the nipples are going to be hidden here. Believe me, few things are more humiliating than standing with your arms outstretched in front of a total stranger in an unflattering bra with your nipples showing.
4. Leave her in the dressing room for at least five minutes, while you stand outside in the thirty-square-foot space and talk loudly about her with your friend. Because if anything is more humiliating than standing with your arms outstretched in front of a total stranger with your nipples showing, it is waiting to do so while the total stranger stands outside and discusses you with her friend as if you weren't there, and unable not to listen.
5. When you do deign to start the fitting, don't forget to point out that she's busting out of the transparent, unflattering bra. Has she put on a lot of weight lately? Also, she's clearly wearing it wrong. Does she wear her own bras that high on her back? How ignorant.
6. Offer to comb the store looking for the skintone, unadorned bra she has requested and specifically intends to wear underneath thin t-shirts in hot summer months. Leave her in the dressing room for another full five minutes.
7. Chat some more with your friend.
8. Assuming your customer has not already thrown on her own clothes and fled in instinctual self-preservation, bring back the six ugliest bras she has ever seen. Make sure at least three are covered in the lumpy details she is specifically hoping to avoid.
9. When she emerges from the dressing room thirty seconds later, having finally given up all hope not only of finding a bra in this store today, but also of ever being physically attractive to anyone ever again in her life, ask how the bras fit. If all has gone according to plan, she should mumble some small pleasantry with a noticeable catch in her voice and a telltale sheen in her eyes, before slinking out of the store with her head hung low in shame. Turn back to your friend, pull out the inevitable bottle of champagne from beneath the counter, and toast your success.
... I wish I could say the above was exaggerated for comic effect. Alas, it was not. I don't want to put the name of the store here, but enquiries will be swiftly and honestly answered.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Masterpiece, my ass.
There are a few things I would like to say to Jimmy Stewart after my first viewing of Hitchcock's "Vertigo," and since I am trying to study for a Finnish exam I am going to write them first in Finnish and then retranslate. Because, let's face it, retranslated English is comedy gold.
Perkele, Jimmy Stewart! Minä en ollut koskaan katsonut "Vertigo"-elokuvaa. Aina minä kuuluin, että oli tosi hyvä elokuva, että näyttelijät olevat tosi rohkeat. Joo, kaikki rakastaa tätä elokuvaa.
Mutta en minäkään. Haluaisitko sinä miksi, Jimmy Stewart? Voisinko minä ilmoittaa? Koska sinä et ollut kilti, Jimmy. Elokuvan ensimäisessä osassa sinä rakastuit Kim Novakiin, ja oli ihmeellistä, oli kaunista. Mutta toisessa osassa Kim Novak kuoli, vaikka hän ei ollut oikeestaan kuollut, ja sinä tuli hulluksi. Sitten taas sinä tapasit Kim Novakin kanssa, ja taas rakastuit häneen. Mutta sinä halusit että toisen Kim Novakin tulla ensimäiseksi Kim Novakiksi -- sinä ostit vaatteet, sinä muutit hänen tukan vären! Hän ei ollut onnellista, mutta hän rakasti sinua. Sitten sinä oppit että ensimäinen Kim Novak ei ollut kuollut -- että toinen oli ensimäinen -- ja sinä päätit tappaa häntä! Ja tämä ei ollut ihmeellistä. Ei ollut kaunista. Nyt inhoan sinua, Jimmy Stewart. Minä menen katsomaan "Rear Window"-elokuvaa taas.
Oh, and by the way, there are going to be spoilers in this. Read ahead and save yourself the trouble.
Goddammit, Jimmy Stewart! I had never seen the movie "Vertigo." Always I heard, that it was a really good movie, that the actors were really fearless. Oh yeah, everyone loves this movie.
But not me. Would you like to know why, Jimmy Stewart? Should I inform you? Because you weren't nice, Jimmy. In the movie's first part you fell in love with Kim Novak, and it was wonderful, it was beautiful. But in the other part Kim Novak died, but she hadn't really died, and you went crazy. Then again you met Kim Novak, and again you fell in love with her. But you wanted the second Kim Novak to become the first Kim Novak -- you bought clothes, you changed the color of her hair! She wasn't happy, but she loved you. Then you learned that the first Kim Novak hadn't died -- that the second was the first -- and you decided to kill her! And this wasn't wonderful. It wasn't beautiful. Now I hate you, Jimmy Stewart. I'm going to go watch "Rear Window" again.
Perkele, Jimmy Stewart! Minä en ollut koskaan katsonut "Vertigo"-elokuvaa. Aina minä kuuluin, että oli tosi hyvä elokuva, että näyttelijät olevat tosi rohkeat. Joo, kaikki rakastaa tätä elokuvaa.
Mutta en minäkään. Haluaisitko sinä miksi, Jimmy Stewart? Voisinko minä ilmoittaa? Koska sinä et ollut kilti, Jimmy. Elokuvan ensimäisessä osassa sinä rakastuit Kim Novakiin, ja oli ihmeellistä, oli kaunista. Mutta toisessa osassa Kim Novak kuoli, vaikka hän ei ollut oikeestaan kuollut, ja sinä tuli hulluksi. Sitten taas sinä tapasit Kim Novakin kanssa, ja taas rakastuit häneen. Mutta sinä halusit että toisen Kim Novakin tulla ensimäiseksi Kim Novakiksi -- sinä ostit vaatteet, sinä muutit hänen tukan vären! Hän ei ollut onnellista, mutta hän rakasti sinua. Sitten sinä oppit että ensimäinen Kim Novak ei ollut kuollut -- että toinen oli ensimäinen -- ja sinä päätit tappaa häntä! Ja tämä ei ollut ihmeellistä. Ei ollut kaunista. Nyt inhoan sinua, Jimmy Stewart. Minä menen katsomaan "Rear Window"-elokuvaa taas.
Oh, and by the way, there are going to be spoilers in this. Read ahead and save yourself the trouble.
Goddammit, Jimmy Stewart! I had never seen the movie "Vertigo." Always I heard, that it was a really good movie, that the actors were really fearless. Oh yeah, everyone loves this movie.
But not me. Would you like to know why, Jimmy Stewart? Should I inform you? Because you weren't nice, Jimmy. In the movie's first part you fell in love with Kim Novak, and it was wonderful, it was beautiful. But in the other part Kim Novak died, but she hadn't really died, and you went crazy. Then again you met Kim Novak, and again you fell in love with her. But you wanted the second Kim Novak to become the first Kim Novak -- you bought clothes, you changed the color of her hair! She wasn't happy, but she loved you. Then you learned that the first Kim Novak hadn't died -- that the second was the first -- and you decided to kill her! And this wasn't wonderful. It wasn't beautiful. Now I hate you, Jimmy Stewart. I'm going to go watch "Rear Window" again.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Que Syrah Syrah ...
When I talk about this wine, I am supposed to put the winery name in all caps. SYZYGY. So there. It looks extra emphatic in bold.
It is harder to find a science-y wine in Fred Meyer than in Fremont, and harder in Fremont than it is in Kirkland, which shouldn't surprise me as much as it did. Of all the bottles I investigated, this was the only properly scientific-looking one, a dashing blue and orange label (here hot off the press) with a properly space-age sans serif font. The term 'syzygy' refers to the moment when three celestial bodies in the same gravitational system -- say, Earth, the moon, and the sun -- are in perfect alignment. (Among other things.) Supposedly this is when the winery harvests their cabernet sauvignon grapes, at a moment of eclipse in 2005. I mentioned this to friend Ray, who was properly (scientifically) sceptical: "It takes longer than the length of an eclipse to bring in a harvest." Nevertheless, the label pleases me, although it is less friendly than Educated Guess.
The new Cab Sauv is due out at the start of may -- the bottle I take home is a full, unblended Syrah from the -- say it with me now -- SYZYGY winery in Walla Walla. I spent my four undergraduate years in Walla Walla, and Syrah was one of the first reds I was exposed to, so I was hoping for something particularly special from this bottle of wine. It was pretty good -- rich, and full, and warming -- but it wasn't anything particularly stunning. Maybe I'll keep an eye out for the cabernet sauvignon in a month.
Syrah's history in the United States, interestingly, involves a group called the Rhone Rangers. They were initially formed in the 1980s, disbanded in the early 1990s, and revived before the end of the prior millennium. The entire purpose of this group appears to be the promotion of and education about the Rhone varietals in America, which includes links to various articles on same from around the country -- including this Australian article detailing how the source of Shiraz' peppery tone had been located by a group of Australian scientists. Considering this and the recent efforts to lock down varietal relationships with DNA tests in oenology labs around the world, a clear tension between Old World terroir-centered methods and New World science-tested methods begins to emerge.
It is harder to find a science-y wine in Fred Meyer than in Fremont, and harder in Fremont than it is in Kirkland, which shouldn't surprise me as much as it did. Of all the bottles I investigated, this was the only properly scientific-looking one, a dashing blue and orange label (here hot off the press) with a properly space-age sans serif font. The term 'syzygy' refers to the moment when three celestial bodies in the same gravitational system -- say, Earth, the moon, and the sun -- are in perfect alignment. (Among other things.) Supposedly this is when the winery harvests their cabernet sauvignon grapes, at a moment of eclipse in 2005. I mentioned this to friend Ray, who was properly (scientifically) sceptical: "It takes longer than the length of an eclipse to bring in a harvest." Nevertheless, the label pleases me, although it is less friendly than Educated Guess.
The new Cab Sauv is due out at the start of may -- the bottle I take home is a full, unblended Syrah from the -- say it with me now -- SYZYGY winery in Walla Walla. I spent my four undergraduate years in Walla Walla, and Syrah was one of the first reds I was exposed to, so I was hoping for something particularly special from this bottle of wine. It was pretty good -- rich, and full, and warming -- but it wasn't anything particularly stunning. Maybe I'll keep an eye out for the cabernet sauvignon in a month.
Syrah's history in the United States, interestingly, involves a group called the Rhone Rangers. They were initially formed in the 1980s, disbanded in the early 1990s, and revived before the end of the prior millennium. The entire purpose of this group appears to be the promotion of and education about the Rhone varietals in America, which includes links to various articles on same from around the country -- including this Australian article detailing how the source of Shiraz' peppery tone had been located by a group of Australian scientists. Considering this and the recent efforts to lock down varietal relationships with DNA tests in oenology labs around the world, a clear tension between Old World terroir-centered methods and New World science-tested methods begins to emerge.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
In Vino Veritas: Science, Wine, and Science-y Wines
Obviously there is a lot to be said about oenophilia, and in particular about the delightful absurdity of its vocabulary. It is easy to get distracted when your technical terms are words like "supple" and "hollow" and "chewy" -- which rightfully have no place in beverage descriptions -- and before you know it you're slinging around your favorite uncommon adjectives -- wistful! sly! insouciant! -- with a complete disregard for accuracy and comprehensibility. Nor does it help in the quest for clarity to note that many varietals have specific aromas that have been identified seemingly at random: for instance, the pencil box note in a glass of Cabernet Franc.
Much as I love this mode of language, I need some sort of anchor if my oenological leanings are to progress. For a while I stood by the German Rieslings, which are invariably delicious, but now I'd like to investigate the reds and the drier whites as well. But where to start? Even if you ignore the less common varietal grapes (Carmenère, anyone?) there's still no obvious place to begin. All you have to go on is a hunch and the impression made by the design of the label on the bottle. Therefore I have decided -- where is my triumphant horn section crescendo? -- to investigate wines with science-y themes.
It is entirely appropriate that the first wine I choose is called Educated Guess, from the Roots Run Deep winery in the infamous Napa Valley. The label approximates an old blackboard, with hexagonal molecular structures and chemical processes chalked out attractively in white on the black background. The winemaker's description is as follows: "Rich, ripe and focused with juicy blackberry and boysenberry fruit, all tied together with a creamy french vanilla middle and a lingering finish." Mine is much less evocative: delicious. Of course, they're talking about the 2005 vintage, and the bottle I tasted was the 2006, which appears to have a much stronger spice than the earlier bottle. For the first time, I have a sense of how the spiciness of a wine can play with both its fruitiness and its sugar level: the peppery note here provides a sharp opening note supported by the rich velvet tone of the fruit, and a smooth lingering sweetness binds the two together like a silk ribbon tied around a stack of love letters. In fact, the more I drink of it, the more I like it -- so much so that by the end of the bottle I have bestowed upon it the title of Favored Red, a title heretofore only possessed by L'Ecole 41's Recess Red.
The varietal here is Cabernet Sauvignon, one of the reds I am growing more interested in, and one which for years was thought to be descended from Roman grapes. However, more recently its true lineage (a blend of Cabernet franc and Sauvignon blanc, just as the name would suggest) was revealed by, of all scientific things, a DNA test.
Much as I love this mode of language, I need some sort of anchor if my oenological leanings are to progress. For a while I stood by the German Rieslings, which are invariably delicious, but now I'd like to investigate the reds and the drier whites as well. But where to start? Even if you ignore the less common varietal grapes (Carmenère, anyone?) there's still no obvious place to begin. All you have to go on is a hunch and the impression made by the design of the label on the bottle. Therefore I have decided -- where is my triumphant horn section crescendo? -- to investigate wines with science-y themes.
It is entirely appropriate that the first wine I choose is called Educated Guess, from the Roots Run Deep winery in the infamous Napa Valley. The label approximates an old blackboard, with hexagonal molecular structures and chemical processes chalked out attractively in white on the black background. The winemaker's description is as follows: "Rich, ripe and focused with juicy blackberry and boysenberry fruit, all tied together with a creamy french vanilla middle and a lingering finish." Mine is much less evocative: delicious. Of course, they're talking about the 2005 vintage, and the bottle I tasted was the 2006, which appears to have a much stronger spice than the earlier bottle. For the first time, I have a sense of how the spiciness of a wine can play with both its fruitiness and its sugar level: the peppery note here provides a sharp opening note supported by the rich velvet tone of the fruit, and a smooth lingering sweetness binds the two together like a silk ribbon tied around a stack of love letters. In fact, the more I drink of it, the more I like it -- so much so that by the end of the bottle I have bestowed upon it the title of Favored Red, a title heretofore only possessed by L'Ecole 41's Recess Red.
The varietal here is Cabernet Sauvignon, one of the reds I am growing more interested in, and one which for years was thought to be descended from Roman grapes. However, more recently its true lineage (a blend of Cabernet franc and Sauvignon blanc, just as the name would suggest) was revealed by, of all scientific things, a DNA test.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Diseased Ovines and Spilled Beer: Not a History of Scotland
The benefits of studying a foreign language are etc. etc. But also, there are tongue-twisters.
I once came across a list of Finnish ones. Finnish is a tongue with a relatively limited supply of phonemes -- in fact, to the Indo-European eye it looks as though a typist has fallen asleep on the letters k, p, and t -- which means the potential for the kind of repetition upon which the tongue-twister thrives is fairly high. Reading the list (with its handy translations) was a delight, and one in particular was so appealing a sentiment that I promptly undertook to memorize it:
Ääliö, älä lyö! Ööliä läikkyy!
Idiot, don't hit! The beer is spilling!
Now, the Finnish front vowels -- ä, ö, and always y -- bedevil an English speaker such as myself, but still it took very little time before this phrase was tripping gaily off my tongue. Among other things, it seemed useful: the impulse to prevent some drunken, thoughtless partygoer from upsetting one's own beverage -- say, onto the shoes or shirt of a person with whom one aspires to hook up -- is an abiding human motivation. But then again, is this phrase actually practicable? Doesn't its nature as a tongue-twister prevents its use in real life? After all, in English, if one should turn to a friend and say to them, "Pass the peeled poached pears, please, Peter," it comes across as repellently, abhorrently cute (NB: not the kind with puppies -- rather the kind with lisping children of adorable precocity and cherubism). And honestly the Finns are much less likely than the Americans to respond favorably to cute.
Also at issue here is the ease of repetition, which at length began to puzzle me. Finnish tongue-twisters rattle easily from my lips, but telling a simple anecdote in the same language is fraught with pitfalls; on the other hand my English has native fluency, but I cannot opine about the sixth sheik's sick sheep with anything approaching reasonable speed. Is this due to the difference between vowel pronunciation and the damnable fricative "sh" -- or is there in fact an inverse relationship between comprehension of a language and facility with its most deliberately challenging form? I am able to memorize the Finnish sentence as a mere progression of syllables -- almost as a musical rather than a linguistic phrase -- while I am forced to deal with the English one as a set of discrete units and images. And something about my awareness of these images short-circuits the relationship between my brain and my mouth. Bizarre.
But now, having brought up the idea of meaning, we can't get away from it. The meaning of a tongue-twister is an inherently paradoxical business. On the one hand, what the phrase means is entirely subordinate to the sound: 'the sixth sheik's sick sheep' is not at all the same as 'the sextile desert chieftain's diseased ovine.' At the same time, no legitimate tongue-twister strings words together randomly. There is always the pretense of a story, even if that story makes no sense. Case in point: Peter Piper. How in the hell did the peppers get pickled before being picked? Or take sinful Caesar, in whose time snifters had yet to be invented. And what happens to those anachronistic snifters when he proceeds to seize his knees? A further sampling from Finland proves this odd quality is international:
Vesihiisi sihisi hississä.
The sea-monster was hissing in the elevator.
Höyhen löytyi yöllä työpöydältä.
A feather was found on the work bench in the night.
What is really at stake here is nothing less than the purpose of language. Generally our culture falls into two camps on this topic: 1) language as code, as a means of carrying information that is separate from mere human memory, and 2) language as fantasy, as imagination, as symbolic somehow of the real (or some unreal) world. What tongue-twisters point to is the elusive idea of language as specifically aural, a notion which only a very few poets these days really remember, in our world of type and text and videography. Sound, for all our musicophilia, is growing increasingly less important to language: it's strange even to think that the great poets of the ancient world wrote and performed works of staggering length and complexity without writing any of it down. (So far as we know -- but Milman Parry makes a good case.) And somehow -- and it necessitates stating at the outset that I still don't quite know how this tangent struck me as relevant, but I can't get it out of my head -- I thought about action movies. The lines we all remember, the quotes that become cultural currency -- it's at least partially because of the sound. Our greatest and most recognizable action stars: Sean Connery, Arnold Schwarzenegger (way less awesome as a politician than an actor -- a sort of reverse Reagan), Clint Eastwood, Sylverster Stallone, John Wayne, Robert de Niro, Bruce Willis -- all of them have something distinctive in the way they speak, whether it's an accent (Connery, Scwarzenegger, Wayne) or merely an inflection (Eastwood, Willis -- who, come to think of it, kind of sounds like Clint Eastwood). Lines that have virtually no linguistic content out of context -- "I'll be back," "The day is mine, Trebek!" -- become verbal milestones. The cinema studies world is crying out for an aural analysis of the action genre and its contribution to characterization. Maybe this also explains the lack of similar stardom in van Damme and Segal. Sorry, guys, you just didn't have the right sound.
I once came across a list of Finnish ones. Finnish is a tongue with a relatively limited supply of phonemes -- in fact, to the Indo-European eye it looks as though a typist has fallen asleep on the letters k, p, and t -- which means the potential for the kind of repetition upon which the tongue-twister thrives is fairly high. Reading the list (with its handy translations) was a delight, and one in particular was so appealing a sentiment that I promptly undertook to memorize it:
Ääliö, älä lyö! Ööliä läikkyy!
Idiot, don't hit! The beer is spilling!
Now, the Finnish front vowels -- ä, ö, and always y -- bedevil an English speaker such as myself, but still it took very little time before this phrase was tripping gaily off my tongue. Among other things, it seemed useful: the impulse to prevent some drunken, thoughtless partygoer from upsetting one's own beverage -- say, onto the shoes or shirt of a person with whom one aspires to hook up -- is an abiding human motivation. But then again, is this phrase actually practicable? Doesn't its nature as a tongue-twister prevents its use in real life? After all, in English, if one should turn to a friend and say to them, "Pass the peeled poached pears, please, Peter," it comes across as repellently, abhorrently cute (NB: not the kind with puppies -- rather the kind with lisping children of adorable precocity and cherubism). And honestly the Finns are much less likely than the Americans to respond favorably to cute.
Also at issue here is the ease of repetition, which at length began to puzzle me. Finnish tongue-twisters rattle easily from my lips, but telling a simple anecdote in the same language is fraught with pitfalls; on the other hand my English has native fluency, but I cannot opine about the sixth sheik's sick sheep with anything approaching reasonable speed. Is this due to the difference between vowel pronunciation and the damnable fricative "sh" -- or is there in fact an inverse relationship between comprehension of a language and facility with its most deliberately challenging form? I am able to memorize the Finnish sentence as a mere progression of syllables -- almost as a musical rather than a linguistic phrase -- while I am forced to deal with the English one as a set of discrete units and images. And something about my awareness of these images short-circuits the relationship between my brain and my mouth. Bizarre.
But now, having brought up the idea of meaning, we can't get away from it. The meaning of a tongue-twister is an inherently paradoxical business. On the one hand, what the phrase means is entirely subordinate to the sound: 'the sixth sheik's sick sheep' is not at all the same as 'the sextile desert chieftain's diseased ovine.' At the same time, no legitimate tongue-twister strings words together randomly. There is always the pretense of a story, even if that story makes no sense. Case in point: Peter Piper. How in the hell did the peppers get pickled before being picked? Or take sinful Caesar, in whose time snifters had yet to be invented. And what happens to those anachronistic snifters when he proceeds to seize his knees? A further sampling from Finland proves this odd quality is international:
Vesihiisi sihisi hississä.
The sea-monster was hissing in the elevator.
Höyhen löytyi yöllä työpöydältä.
A feather was found on the work bench in the night.
What is really at stake here is nothing less than the purpose of language. Generally our culture falls into two camps on this topic: 1) language as code, as a means of carrying information that is separate from mere human memory, and 2) language as fantasy, as imagination, as symbolic somehow of the real (or some unreal) world. What tongue-twisters point to is the elusive idea of language as specifically aural, a notion which only a very few poets these days really remember, in our world of type and text and videography. Sound, for all our musicophilia, is growing increasingly less important to language: it's strange even to think that the great poets of the ancient world wrote and performed works of staggering length and complexity without writing any of it down. (So far as we know -- but Milman Parry makes a good case.) And somehow -- and it necessitates stating at the outset that I still don't quite know how this tangent struck me as relevant, but I can't get it out of my head -- I thought about action movies. The lines we all remember, the quotes that become cultural currency -- it's at least partially because of the sound. Our greatest and most recognizable action stars: Sean Connery, Arnold Schwarzenegger (way less awesome as a politician than an actor -- a sort of reverse Reagan), Clint Eastwood, Sylverster Stallone, John Wayne, Robert de Niro, Bruce Willis -- all of them have something distinctive in the way they speak, whether it's an accent (Connery, Scwarzenegger, Wayne) or merely an inflection (Eastwood, Willis -- who, come to think of it, kind of sounds like Clint Eastwood). Lines that have virtually no linguistic content out of context -- "I'll be back," "The day is mine, Trebek!" -- become verbal milestones. The cinema studies world is crying out for an aural analysis of the action genre and its contribution to characterization. Maybe this also explains the lack of similar stardom in van Damme and Segal. Sorry, guys, you just didn't have the right sound.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Adverjudgments.
So the love of my life and I were discussing Gmail's tendency to pluck terms from your email and regurgitate ads specific to those topics. Such as: Phillips Seafood By Mail. Cheerleading Software. Wholesale Japanese Koi. Some people, he was saying, find such things intrusive, an invasion of privacy. "It just grabs words. And besides," he said, "I appreciate the opportunity to learn that whatever it is I am writing about in my mail, I can get it wholesale. This cracker's defective."
"Use less pressure on the cheese. Besides," I replied, turning back to the matter at hand, "it isn't as though Gmail is actualling reading your mail. It isn't like it's judging you."
"What if it did?"
Charles thinks these could be called judgmertisements. I prefer adverjudgments. And this is my blog, so there.
Update: 4/22/08:
My Gmail account has starting feeding me adds in Finnish, based on the vocab lists I've been typing and mailing to myself from library computers. As attachments, mind. Gmail is spying on my Word attachments.
"Use less pressure on the cheese. Besides," I replied, turning back to the matter at hand, "it isn't as though Gmail is actualling reading your mail. It isn't like it's judging you."
"What if it did?"
- Are You Sure You Need That Extra Piece Of Pie?
- You Really Need To Smoke Less And Bathe More.
- Man, You Sure Are Dating Out Of Your League, Aren't You. Try Women Your Own Age For A Change!
- Nice To See You're Doing Something With Your Degree.
- They Make Videos Of That In Germany -- Click Here So I Can Say I Told You So.
Charles thinks these could be called judgmertisements. I prefer adverjudgments. And this is my blog, so there.
Update: 4/22/08:
My Gmail account has starting feeding me adds in Finnish, based on the vocab lists I've been typing and mailing to myself from library computers. As attachments, mind. Gmail is spying on my Word attachments.
Monday, January 14, 2008
I've Always Wondered ...
Because I am incapable of enjoying any activity without indulging in the overanalysis of same, I have been researching academic criticism on karaoke as a social and cultural phenomenon. My latest discovery is a brief essay by one Casey Man Kong Lum entitled: "The Karaoke Dilemma: on the interaction between collectivism and individualism in the karaoke space."
The piece is interesting, though full of sentences like the following, found on page 173: "The dual role that people are expected to play in the karaoke space helps to facilitate an obligatory bonding among the participants." (Because we academics have to make sure to use long dry words like 'obligatory' when talking about fun things, so people can tell we are taking those fun things very very seriously.) The author's thesis is fairly plain and well-argued: Asian culture, with its emphasis on the group (be it family, company, or broader society) is more inclined to favor karaoke than what he calls Anglo-American culture with its emphasis on self-distinction and individuality.
Karaoke, of course, is both an individual and a collective activity; singers are individuals onstage, but group members when they melt back into the amorphous mass known as the audience (which can be very amorphous indeed). CMKL argues that the individualized aspects of the pastime provide a literal and metaphorical voice for people in group-centered cultures, giving them a sense of freedom and release. For Anglo-Americans, on the other hand, karaoke invades the peculiarly American notion of having privacy in a public space: in this case, a bar, where getting up to sing might in some sense 'expose'* the performer to the critical gaze of the audience. In shopping malls and restaurants and other public places, we try not to make eye contact or talk to strangers; we preserve the illusion of being alone even in the midst of a crowd. Maybe this is also why Christmas shopping is so evil to us -- we can't possibly preserve the illusion of solitude in such cramped conditions. However, the logic behind these twin points -- the crux of the argument, really -- seems suspect. It almost suggests that collectivist cultures long to escape that collectivism, while individualist cultures cling to their individuality. Seems a little bit like a value judgment on collectivism vs. individualism.
My favorite point is when the author talks about the peculiarly American karaoke habit of getting an entire group up onstage to sing. CMKL puts describes this tactic as: "an attempt to use the group on stage to shield the individual performers from the public scrutiny of the audience members, some of whom are likely to be strangers to the performers" (175). This is, in my experience, exactly right, and justifies both the custom of the Everybody Song (getting anyone at all up for a song of the KJ's mischievous choice), and my absolute hatred for anyone who gets up to sing with more than three people.
This essay therefore also justifies my even more vitriolic hatred toward those groups who flood to the edge of the stage to watch and photograph their friends while they perform. It turns the karaoke bar into their own private fun center and excludes everyone else. Makes us feel unloved. Narcissistic bastards.
*I initially typed 'explose,' which I really think oughta be a word. Explose: to expose someone in a catastrophic, damaging fashion.
The piece is interesting, though full of sentences like the following, found on page 173: "The dual role that people are expected to play in the karaoke space helps to facilitate an obligatory bonding among the participants." (Because we academics have to make sure to use long dry words like 'obligatory' when talking about fun things, so people can tell we are taking those fun things very very seriously.) The author's thesis is fairly plain and well-argued: Asian culture, with its emphasis on the group (be it family, company, or broader society) is more inclined to favor karaoke than what he calls Anglo-American culture with its emphasis on self-distinction and individuality.
Karaoke, of course, is both an individual and a collective activity; singers are individuals onstage, but group members when they melt back into the amorphous mass known as the audience (which can be very amorphous indeed). CMKL argues that the individualized aspects of the pastime provide a literal and metaphorical voice for people in group-centered cultures, giving them a sense of freedom and release. For Anglo-Americans, on the other hand, karaoke invades the peculiarly American notion of having privacy in a public space: in this case, a bar, where getting up to sing might in some sense 'expose'* the performer to the critical gaze of the audience. In shopping malls and restaurants and other public places, we try not to make eye contact or talk to strangers; we preserve the illusion of being alone even in the midst of a crowd. Maybe this is also why Christmas shopping is so evil to us -- we can't possibly preserve the illusion of solitude in such cramped conditions. However, the logic behind these twin points -- the crux of the argument, really -- seems suspect. It almost suggests that collectivist cultures long to escape that collectivism, while individualist cultures cling to their individuality. Seems a little bit like a value judgment on collectivism vs. individualism.
My favorite point is when the author talks about the peculiarly American karaoke habit of getting an entire group up onstage to sing. CMKL puts describes this tactic as: "an attempt to use the group on stage to shield the individual performers from the public scrutiny of the audience members, some of whom are likely to be strangers to the performers" (175). This is, in my experience, exactly right, and justifies both the custom of the Everybody Song (getting anyone at all up for a song of the KJ's mischievous choice), and my absolute hatred for anyone who gets up to sing with more than three people.
This essay therefore also justifies my even more vitriolic hatred toward those groups who flood to the edge of the stage to watch and photograph their friends while they perform. It turns the karaoke bar into their own private fun center and excludes everyone else. Makes us feel unloved. Narcissistic bastards.
*I initially typed 'explose,' which I really think oughta be a word. Explose: to expose someone in a catastrophic, damaging fashion.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Exit -- Singing!
Let's face it: my current unbridled enthusiasm for karaoke singing puzzles even me. I've long since passed my choirgirl years, and anyway in choir one voice is rarely distinguished. Mine certainly never was. The times that saw me singing solo in the past were few and far between (a gay bar in Pasco, Washington, the erstwhile Liquid Lounge at the EMP in Seattle) and while I had enjoyed it, the wait-to-sing ratio was fairly high, and to have that many people watch you singing alone on your first few forays brings out the old nerves like nothing else I know. And nerves + singing = crap.
Part of it does seem to be slightly competitive -- given a mic and a screen with the lyrics, how close can your voice get to Janis Joplin's? At the same time, hey, nobody seriously expects me to be Janis Joplin -- it's karaoke, for crying out loud. Mere adequacy is considered overachieving.
Maybe that's the appeal: high potential for success with no penalty for being second- or even third-rate. That's the same reason I played on the drama department's intramural softball team three years running in college: we were so collectively bad that no one single individual could possibly be charged with ruining it for everybody, no matter how poorly one played. Every dropped fly and bobbled grounder was par for the course, while every caught ball and solid hit was cause for celebration.
Also, games with the Screaming Makitas (namesake rusty backstage electric drills which we used to build and strike sets) and karaoke can both be enjoyed while drinking -- the softball team's best and most practiced move was as follows:
1. Catch ball in left-hand mitt
2. Crouch
3. Place beer on ground with right hand
4. Emerge from crouch while pulling ball from left-hand mitt with right hand
5. Throw ball
When thoroughly practiced -- and we did drill this one -- this smooth maneuver was almost poetic in its graceful debauchery. Had Roman emperors played softball, this would have been in their playbook. Other intramural teams, though their score might double ours, were reluctantly impressed.
For the record, unlike softball, karaoke comes pretty naturally to me: I have a decent enough voice, and usually the wisdom not to afflict my audience with either lengthy, dull songs (I'm talking to you, Pink Floyd) or awkward, annoying ones (performing "Summer Lovin'" is, I believe, grounds for execution). But then, the hardest part of karaoke isn't the singing. That's just the most noticeable bit. Actually, the hardest part is the song choice. Not only range, vocal quality, volume, and mood must be considered: you also have a responsibility to your audience, to pick something with at least a minimal entertainment value for the listener who could care less who you are or where you trained or how much you've had to drink. Because this is not your insulated single-occupant bathroom shower on a late-slept Sunday morning: this is a bar with other people who came out to entertain and be entertained, and if you don't respect that it tends to show. Like the guy who thought it would be a good idea to knock back twenty Irish car bombs and then sing "Baby Got Back" despite never having learned all the words. Sir, you are a douchebag of the highest caliber, and if ever given the opportunity I will exchange all the whiskey in those car bombs for tequila, and then we'll see how you feel come morning. That pounding in your temples and the fuzziness on your tongue? It's called regret.
***
Karaoke tends to toy with the notion of celebrity. An example: Cher's "Believe" an artfully digitized product of one of those famous people with whom society has something of a love-hate relationship. We mock her, but we know her name. And when someone who looks kind of like Cher sings a terrible, catchy as hell song by Cher to which everyone has a reaction, be it affection or loathing -- well, there aren't many who can't get behind that at least a little bit. Think about it: you see the song choice on the monitor is "In the Ghetto." Wouldn't you prefer that guy with the wavy black hair sneering into his sideburns than the guy in the t-shirt with cutoff sleeves, his blond hair spiky and bleached to within an inch of its life? Wouldn't you rather that second guy sing "White Wedding" instead? Believe me, I've seen a Billy Idol lookalike sing Billy Idol, and it's a pleasure everyone should have at least once in their lifetime. It means that right there in front of you is a person who at least has a vague, instinctive handle on relationship between actuality and appearances.
Then again, having that Billy Idol lookalike sing "Hound Dog" or "Heartbreak Hotel" would be pretty good, too. There's always something to be said for playing with expectations. A good song choice is nearly always a good song choice regardless of the vocalist.
Singing a song that's as famous for the performer as for the performance also strangely reclaims popular music for the masses. Take that, Bon Jovi, it's our song now! And good karaoke songs almost have to be from the genre of popular (or at least semipopular) music. A song only you know is usually dull as dirt for anyone else to listen to, unless you're the absolute be-all and end-all, vocally. And even then, no guarantees.
It's an added complexity that a good song is not necessarily a good karaoke song, and vice versa. Examples of good songs that are terrible karaoke songs: "Orange Blossom Special" (all those musical breaks!), "Baba O'Reilly" (same), and just about every rap song ever recorded. (Because even when people think they know how it goes, they rarely do.) Examples of terrible songs that are good karaoke songs: "Believe," "Everything I Do (I Do It For You)," and anything by Wilson Phillips. Examples that fit both circles of our Venn diagram: "Son of a Preacher Man," "London Calling," "I Will Survive," "I Believe in a Thing Called Love," "The Gambler," "Space Oddity," and "Fat Bottomed Girls." But by far the title for Best Karaoke Song in America today is split between two contenders: "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and "Don't Stop Believin.'" Not only are these songs common in karaoke books, well-known, catchy, nostalgic, and easy to sing -- they are top karaoke songs because everybody on earth will sing along with either one. The entire bar. No matter if they're drunk or sober or tired or grumpy or whether they intend to get up onstage themselves. It's an amazing experience of unity and cohesion, small groups of total strangers coming together briefly for a common, albeit ridiculous, purpose.
***
Anyone who's a karaoke regular inevitably develops a signature song or two. My friend Colin has "Sweet Caroline" down to an art form, and Binah can lock down "Brian Wilson" and "Walking in Memphis" with the best of them. In the past I have tended to default to "Bobbie McGee" because it's a showstopper and singing it as loud and as well as I can is something of a rush, provided I've had at least one good solid drink (even Janis couldn't sing Janis sober). Norah Jones' "Don't Know Why" has been getting a lot of play as well, because it is a song with the perfect ratio of effort (zero) to quality (lots). However, my current fanaticism for the karaoke art has led me more and more into new and uncharted territory. I tire of singing the same old things; instead, I have been branching out into songs that make me nervous (Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas") or which I love but am not sure I can sing (Frankie Valli's "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You", "If You've Got It, Flaunt It" from the Producers) or which I've had to badger the host to get into the book (Indigo Girls' "Galileo") or which I've just plain never seen anywhere before ("Mr. Cellophane"). Not all of these have been wild, runaway successes, but the risks have paid off enough to keep me trying.
The signature song and/or repertoire is not necessarily a motto, but they do tend to indicate certain things about a personality that might otherwise be unutterable. For instance, the list of songs I've heard Colin do more than once: "Wicked Game," "Sweet Caroline," "Mmm Mmm Mmm," "Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon," and "Melt With You." Binah: "Brian Wilson," "Faith," "Walking in Memphis." Teman: "Sympathy With the Devil," "The Gambler," and "London Calling." Charles: "Benny and the Jets," "Sledgehammer," "Kissing a Fool," "Mama," and "Believe." Me: "Son of a Preacher Man," "Galileo," "Bobby McGee," "Don't Know Why," "Long As I Can See the Light," and "Should I Stay Or Should I Go?" Themes develop with alarming rapidity, and one's musical knowledge and tastes are exposed to other regulars, who may or may not feel compelled to judge you on that basis.
If a regular patron at a karaoke bar has a regular song they perform, the other regulars almost entirely -- in, say, roughly 99% of cases -- will deliberately not sing that song (though exceptions can be made in the case of a regular's absence, or in a pair of regulars who trade turns on a particular song). It's considered poaching, and poaching of course is considered bad form. It doesn't matter if you do it better; it doesn't matter if you do it worse. It is simply not done.
At least, it's not done by those in the know. The quickest way for a regular to find out that another singer is a newbie is to hear them poach a regular's standard tune. I recall one time at an erstwhile karaoke night I heard some tone-deaf drunk guys -- and oh, the bane that is the tone-deaf drunk guy with poor song choice capabilities -- poach David Allan Coe's "You Never Even Called Me By My Name," usually performed late in the evening by a regular known affectionately as Big Al. Now, for one thing, Big Al sings this song beautifully, in a rich full velvet voice. For another, I'd never heard it until I started coming to karaoke, but thanks to Big Al it is now one of my favorite songs, one which causes everyone else in the bar to sing along. There are backup lyrics and everything. So to have this newbie, this rube, this asshole, show up and crap all over one of my favorite karaoke numbers in the most egregiously unentertaining way possible ... Well, it gets my dander up.
But now, I have to go sing. Further bulletins as events warrant.
Part of it does seem to be slightly competitive -- given a mic and a screen with the lyrics, how close can your voice get to Janis Joplin's? At the same time, hey, nobody seriously expects me to be Janis Joplin -- it's karaoke, for crying out loud. Mere adequacy is considered overachieving.
Maybe that's the appeal: high potential for success with no penalty for being second- or even third-rate. That's the same reason I played on the drama department's intramural softball team three years running in college: we were so collectively bad that no one single individual could possibly be charged with ruining it for everybody, no matter how poorly one played. Every dropped fly and bobbled grounder was par for the course, while every caught ball and solid hit was cause for celebration.
Also, games with the Screaming Makitas (namesake rusty backstage electric drills which we used to build and strike sets) and karaoke can both be enjoyed while drinking -- the softball team's best and most practiced move was as follows:
1. Catch ball in left-hand mitt
2. Crouch
3. Place beer on ground with right hand
4. Emerge from crouch while pulling ball from left-hand mitt with right hand
5. Throw ball
When thoroughly practiced -- and we did drill this one -- this smooth maneuver was almost poetic in its graceful debauchery. Had Roman emperors played softball, this would have been in their playbook. Other intramural teams, though their score might double ours, were reluctantly impressed.
For the record, unlike softball, karaoke comes pretty naturally to me: I have a decent enough voice, and usually the wisdom not to afflict my audience with either lengthy, dull songs (I'm talking to you, Pink Floyd) or awkward, annoying ones (performing "Summer Lovin'" is, I believe, grounds for execution). But then, the hardest part of karaoke isn't the singing. That's just the most noticeable bit. Actually, the hardest part is the song choice. Not only range, vocal quality, volume, and mood must be considered: you also have a responsibility to your audience, to pick something with at least a minimal entertainment value for the listener who could care less who you are or where you trained or how much you've had to drink. Because this is not your insulated single-occupant bathroom shower on a late-slept Sunday morning: this is a bar with other people who came out to entertain and be entertained, and if you don't respect that it tends to show. Like the guy who thought it would be a good idea to knock back twenty Irish car bombs and then sing "Baby Got Back" despite never having learned all the words. Sir, you are a douchebag of the highest caliber, and if ever given the opportunity I will exchange all the whiskey in those car bombs for tequila, and then we'll see how you feel come morning. That pounding in your temples and the fuzziness on your tongue? It's called regret.
***
Karaoke tends to toy with the notion of celebrity. An example: Cher's "Believe" an artfully digitized product of one of those famous people with whom society has something of a love-hate relationship. We mock her, but we know her name. And when someone who looks kind of like Cher sings a terrible, catchy as hell song by Cher to which everyone has a reaction, be it affection or loathing -- well, there aren't many who can't get behind that at least a little bit. Think about it: you see the song choice on the monitor is "In the Ghetto." Wouldn't you prefer that guy with the wavy black hair sneering into his sideburns than the guy in the t-shirt with cutoff sleeves, his blond hair spiky and bleached to within an inch of its life? Wouldn't you rather that second guy sing "White Wedding" instead? Believe me, I've seen a Billy Idol lookalike sing Billy Idol, and it's a pleasure everyone should have at least once in their lifetime. It means that right there in front of you is a person who at least has a vague, instinctive handle on relationship between actuality and appearances.
Then again, having that Billy Idol lookalike sing "Hound Dog" or "Heartbreak Hotel" would be pretty good, too. There's always something to be said for playing with expectations. A good song choice is nearly always a good song choice regardless of the vocalist.
Singing a song that's as famous for the performer as for the performance also strangely reclaims popular music for the masses. Take that, Bon Jovi, it's our song now! And good karaoke songs almost have to be from the genre of popular (or at least semipopular) music. A song only you know is usually dull as dirt for anyone else to listen to, unless you're the absolute be-all and end-all, vocally. And even then, no guarantees.
It's an added complexity that a good song is not necessarily a good karaoke song, and vice versa. Examples of good songs that are terrible karaoke songs: "Orange Blossom Special" (all those musical breaks!), "Baba O'Reilly" (same), and just about every rap song ever recorded. (Because even when people think they know how it goes, they rarely do.) Examples of terrible songs that are good karaoke songs: "Believe," "Everything I Do (I Do It For You)," and anything by Wilson Phillips. Examples that fit both circles of our Venn diagram: "Son of a Preacher Man," "London Calling," "I Will Survive," "I Believe in a Thing Called Love," "The Gambler," "Space Oddity," and "Fat Bottomed Girls." But by far the title for Best Karaoke Song in America today is split between two contenders: "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and "Don't Stop Believin.'" Not only are these songs common in karaoke books, well-known, catchy, nostalgic, and easy to sing -- they are top karaoke songs because everybody on earth will sing along with either one. The entire bar. No matter if they're drunk or sober or tired or grumpy or whether they intend to get up onstage themselves. It's an amazing experience of unity and cohesion, small groups of total strangers coming together briefly for a common, albeit ridiculous, purpose.
***
Anyone who's a karaoke regular inevitably develops a signature song or two. My friend Colin has "Sweet Caroline" down to an art form, and Binah can lock down "Brian Wilson" and "Walking in Memphis" with the best of them. In the past I have tended to default to "Bobbie McGee" because it's a showstopper and singing it as loud and as well as I can is something of a rush, provided I've had at least one good solid drink (even Janis couldn't sing Janis sober). Norah Jones' "Don't Know Why" has been getting a lot of play as well, because it is a song with the perfect ratio of effort (zero) to quality (lots). However, my current fanaticism for the karaoke art has led me more and more into new and uncharted territory. I tire of singing the same old things; instead, I have been branching out into songs that make me nervous (Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas") or which I love but am not sure I can sing (Frankie Valli's "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You", "If You've Got It, Flaunt It" from the Producers) or which I've had to badger the host to get into the book (Indigo Girls' "Galileo") or which I've just plain never seen anywhere before ("Mr. Cellophane"). Not all of these have been wild, runaway successes, but the risks have paid off enough to keep me trying.
The signature song and/or repertoire is not necessarily a motto, but they do tend to indicate certain things about a personality that might otherwise be unutterable. For instance, the list of songs I've heard Colin do more than once: "Wicked Game," "Sweet Caroline," "Mmm Mmm Mmm," "Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon," and "Melt With You." Binah: "Brian Wilson," "Faith," "Walking in Memphis." Teman: "Sympathy With the Devil," "The Gambler," and "London Calling." Charles: "Benny and the Jets," "Sledgehammer," "Kissing a Fool," "Mama," and "Believe." Me: "Son of a Preacher Man," "Galileo," "Bobby McGee," "Don't Know Why," "Long As I Can See the Light," and "Should I Stay Or Should I Go?" Themes develop with alarming rapidity, and one's musical knowledge and tastes are exposed to other regulars, who may or may not feel compelled to judge you on that basis.
If a regular patron at a karaoke bar has a regular song they perform, the other regulars almost entirely -- in, say, roughly 99% of cases -- will deliberately not sing that song (though exceptions can be made in the case of a regular's absence, or in a pair of regulars who trade turns on a particular song). It's considered poaching, and poaching of course is considered bad form. It doesn't matter if you do it better; it doesn't matter if you do it worse. It is simply not done.
At least, it's not done by those in the know. The quickest way for a regular to find out that another singer is a newbie is to hear them poach a regular's standard tune. I recall one time at an erstwhile karaoke night I heard some tone-deaf drunk guys -- and oh, the bane that is the tone-deaf drunk guy with poor song choice capabilities -- poach David Allan Coe's "You Never Even Called Me By My Name," usually performed late in the evening by a regular known affectionately as Big Al. Now, for one thing, Big Al sings this song beautifully, in a rich full velvet voice. For another, I'd never heard it until I started coming to karaoke, but thanks to Big Al it is now one of my favorite songs, one which causes everyone else in the bar to sing along. There are backup lyrics and everything. So to have this newbie, this rube, this asshole, show up and crap all over one of my favorite karaoke numbers in the most egregiously unentertaining way possible ... Well, it gets my dander up.
But now, I have to go sing. Further bulletins as events warrant.
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