Why Free Verse is Bad for Poetry

(Special thanks to guiser1.

Over the weekend, at a discussion group Zach and I go to, we were trying to decide what it means to be a pacifist. Most people said, "Well, I'm a pacifist -- but there are instances where violence is necessary." The consensus -- which I disagree with -- was that pacifists weren't violent unless they had to be.

Which, to me, is a lot like saying "I'm a vegetarian until I crave a burger."

When pacifism is watered down like that, pacifism is then no different from the concept of "good guy." Why even have the word "pacifist" if it's not going to mean someone who never resorts to violence? I also don't know that being a pacifist automatically makes you a good guy. I think that pacifism comes with its own set of philosophical problems.

Free verse is the poetic equivalent of a meat eating vegetarian who's also an ass-kicking pacifist. Free verse is this sort of catch-all category -- "I can't be bothered with rhythm or meter or stuff: I just want to use the Enter key a lot."

Free verse, I don't think, is poetry.

guiser1 tried to explain it to me like this: "Free verse is poetry that is based on the irregular rhythmic CADENCE or the recurrence, with variations, of phrases, images, and syntactical patterns rather than the conventional use of METER. RHYME may or may not be present in free verse, but when it is, it is used with great freedom. In conventional VERSE the unit is the FOOT, or the line; in free verse the units are larger, sometimes being paragraphs or strophes. If the free verse unit is the line, as it is in Whitman, the line is determined by qualities of RHYTHM and thought rather than FEET or syllabic count." But that dog don't hunt with me. Poetry that is based on irregular rhythmic CADENCE is really just...writing? Right? I mean, it's an essay or it's creative fiction with irregular spacing and the misguided belief that commas have no rules.

I think the question a poet needs to ask is: why does this need to be a poem? What does it convey in this form that it couldn't convey in a short essay or graffiti scrawl? Poets need to say to themselves, "Yes, I like my vulva; but does the world need to share my love?" And to that I would say: no. I'm sure your vulva is as lovely as a vulva can be. I, however, think it should remain a dark secret love. If it doesn't need to be a poem, then it doesn't need to be a poem. That doesn't mean you shouldn't jot it down. It just means you don't have to space it funny, or make up your own words. Essays are perfectly fine. Short little bon mots actually make you seem clever. Journal entries where it looks like you took a pair of scissors to it and pasted them haphazardly -- that's not poetry: that's arts-n-crafts.

Modern poetry, much like modern writing, has eschewed the universal for the deeply and troublingly personal. It's navel-gazing at its most irritating. And before you all start taking messages for me from the kettle -- hi: it's a blog. When I write a free-verse ode to my fat thighs or my vulva, we'll talk. Contemporary novels and poems are too locked up in the authors own personal lexicon and mythology.

'Course, who am I, right? Maybe you know something about the modern poetry that I don't. If you think you've got a pretty good defense of modern poetry then I'd like to hear it. The best and worst answers will get an entry of their own. Until then, I leave you with Gerard Manley Hopkins -- who will kick your ass because he has "Manly" in his name:

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

-- "Spring and Fall, to a Young Child"

Monty Python

I don't find Monty Python funny. At all. Not the parrot sketch. Not the ministry of funny walks. Not the cross-dressing or the bobby hats or the two guys who can't decide if they're having an argument or a contradiction. Or the Spanish Inquisition. I also don't find anything worth laughing about in The Holy Grail, Life of Brian, or The Meaning of Life. At this very moment, Zach is watching a movie about an Italian man who starves his girlfriend, and that movie is funnier than Monty Python. And the girl dies in the end.

Not even the Knights who say "Ni!"

Monty Python, to me, is funny only to people who don't have their own sense of humor or who don't believe in their own kind of funny enough to trust it. So instead, they haul out hour after hour of Monty Python quotes, complete with their own awful ideas of what an English accent might be, and they attack. Some think of themselves as jazz musicians, running specialized riffs on their favorite skits. Others are traditionalists. All of them are deeply and aggressively unfunny people.

I'm harsh only because I am fair and just. I will concede that 11-year-old boys who find Monty Python funny are forgiven, much like unbaptized babies were when Catholics still believed in the groovy idea of Limbo. Eleven-year-olds have atrocious taste in pretty much everything; but that's because they're eleven, and bad taste is nature's means of inhibiting reproduction. When those 11-year-old boys become, say, 31-year-old boys and they're still hauling out the Lumberjack song? There's a reason Johnson & Johnson invented hand lotion.

My distaste of Monty Python and Monty Python-related "humor" is linked, I think, to my fear of public performances by strangers. Many's the time I've been at a party or a birthday or a get-together and everything is going as well as can be expected for me in a roomful of people. I'm not much for crowds, especially when those crowds consist of a lot of strangers. And then, when one of those strangers pulls out a guitar, or a harmonica, or some sheet music? Instant nightmare, just add sing-along. There they are, singing or strumming or humming or harmonica-ing their little hearts out for all they're worth -- and it's usually awful. And everyone else starts clapping, and I don't want to draw attention to myself so I start clapping, only my heart's not in it and actually, truth be told, my blood pressure is now elevated as I begin scanning the rooms for nearest exits. Of course, I'm never near the exits. I'm usually near the chips or the snack items.

I'm also afraid that a public sing-along will ensue. My friend Lissa (with two esses) once dragged me to a party where I knew no one but her, and where we all sat in a circle and were called upon to contribute a blues ditty to some song one of the guys-with-guitar had started. I feigned choking on a bit of cheese cube and excused myself when my turn came around. Fortunately, that worked. I was willing to commit to a full grand mal.

It's the same thing with the Monty Python-ing: someone will say something about "strange women lying in ponds" and then someone else will get really excited because now personality is no longer a requirement for attention and they'll follow with "'elp! 'elp! I'm being repressed!" and then I've got an Anacin headache behind my right eye. These quote wars will go on for hours, complete with props sometimes and the bad accents I mentioned. These quote wars will go on for hours until finally I can't take it anymore and either I leave or start making my way to a Texas bell tower.

"You know, Mike: for a guy who says he hates Monty Python, you seem to know a lot of their routines." Yeah. You know why? Because as soon as I out myself as a Monty Python hater, everybody feels like it's their job to convert me. "Wait," they’ll say, "you mean you don't like Confuse-a-Cat?" No. "The Chemist sketch?" No. "The Man Who Speaks in Anagrams?" No. No. A thousand times: NO. But of course, I'm not believed. I can't be right, they think. “But, you’re so funny,” they’ll say. “How can you be funny and not find Monty Python funny?” “Like this,” I usually answer. And sometimes, I’ll weep openly. So then they'll launch into their versions of their favorite sketches and there I am, trapped as surely as if they had a keyboard and a song. The thing is: you're not going to make me laugh. The guys who do it professionally can't even get me to crack a smile. It's probably for the best if you just assume I'm irrevocably broken and you go back to polishing your 16-sided die while humming "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life."

I hate you.

Crazy Mike's Wacky Book Giveaway Extravaganza!!!

This is the first in a no doubt ongoing series of posts. As I've mentioned before, I buy books. I buy books the way other people buy paper towels or napkins. I'll buy the same book six or even seven times. What this ends up meaning is that I have many copies of things I didn't even really like the first time. Like Absalom, Absalom!.

When asked to explain myself, I can only smile sheepishly and mumble something about covers. And yeah, you can't judge a book by it's cover, but a cover can make all the difference in how much time I want to spend with a book. So if I see a cover I like better than the cover I'm currently reading, I'll buy the same book again just to make sure I've got something prettier.

For example, this? Or this? It's clearly the second one, right?

I kind of love the new Penguin Classics editions, with the sexy black covers. They don't hold up so well to reading, though; the covers get scratched easily and they crease with a quick glance. The Penguin Classics right before these new guys (here's an example) are my preferred covers for reading. They've got an all-purpose prettiness; not too flashy, but easy on the eyes. Sort of like Sandy Bullock.

Oxford World Classics, though? I mean, Jesus. It's like they're not even trying. Not only do they have easily creasable covers, they're not very supple books at all. It's the reading equivalent of wearing burlap. Naked. After a bad sunburn. Two sizes too small.

What follows is an initial list of books that I currently am trying to part with. Here's the drill: you want it, just ask. If you're the first, it's yours. Try not to be a greedy gus about it; don't write to me all Veruca Salt-y with the "Now!" and the "All!" and the "More!" And keep checking back. As I unpack more books, there are bound to be more. I'll try to link to an image of the book that I have, so you know what you're getting into. Also: some of the books have my scribbles in the margins. I don't promise that said scribbles are at all illuminating; in fact, I'm pretty sure a lot of them might be embarrassing.

Mansfield Park (this one's calling Stuckinnv daddy)
I forgot to mention above the Luntzes of the book cover world: the new Modern Library covers. The art tends to be pretty nice. They hold up well to repeated readings. And the Modern Library Anna Karenina (more on that one below) has one of the best essays on the novel I've ever read by Mona Simpson. Why aren't they my favorites? I don't particularly like the color. That goldeny brown? Not so much. Anyway, this is a Modern Library Mansfield Park. As far as I'm concerned, and as I've written before (and will no doubt write again), this is Austen at her best. It's a dense novel with a troubling heroine, and has a lot to say about damage and loneliness, moral rectitude and the fluidity of ethics. Plus, it has Mary Crawford -- and Mary Crawford kicks about 17 different kinds of ass.

Jane Eyre
Another Modern Library edition, the cover image is nicely creepy if a little acontextual ("How do you spell acontextual?" "Uh, a-c-o-n-t-e-x-t-u-a-l." "Yeah, I know that George Thampy." "Was he that annoying Indian kid with the lispy speech impediment?" "Who loved Christ?" "Yeah." "Yeah." "I hated that kid." "So anyway, is acontextual hyphenated?" "No." "Are you sure?" "Yeah." "Because Word doesn't recognize it the way you're spelling it." "Who you gonna believe, Word or George Thampy?" "'Study hawd. Obey your pawwents. And love Jeethuth.'"): I don't think the girl on the cover is what Jane is supposed to look like. Jane Eyre is good; it's not, though, better than Villette in my opinion. And personally, I like the young, lively, locked-in-the-red-room Jane more than I like the "Reader, I married him" Jane. And there's a character named St. John, only it's pronounced "Sin-jin." In case you didn't know that before. I don't want you to be embarrassed that way I was embarrassed.

Wuthering Heights
This is a very weird book. And it's really misunderstood. Lots of girls who wear too much eyeliner and tattered fishnets while listening to gothy music think of this as some kind of timelessly romantic love story.

It isn't.

Wuthering Heights is scary and claustrophobic and not supposed to be romantic at all. Heathcliff? Not a good man. Cathy? Not a good woman. These are bad people, and they're not supposed to be seen as good. Why it gets taught that way again and again is beyond me. They're awful, frustrating, narcissistic and deeply damaged people. I think that's what Emily's trying to get across here.

In Cold Blood (Shula is always busy, yet always has time to take a little Capote off my hands)
I can't read this novel again. It's good; it's better, even, then it has any right to be. But it's harrowing and awful and I can't go through reading it one more time. I have two copies of this -- and I may end up giving away both. One of my favorite things about this book is Mom "Mrs." Clutter (who isn't around for very long, but totally steals every scene she's in). At one point, a young girl is trapped with her in the livng room while Mom Clutter goes on about how she loves tiny things. Another line I'm fond of is the way one of Nancy Clutter's teachers described her: "Nancy Clutter is always busy, yet always has time. And that's the sign of a true lady."

Don Quixote (this one goes out to Tadiera)
It's long. I mean, it's reeeeeal fucking long. And it's frustratingly episodic, rather than a smoothly flowing narrative. However, there are many scenes that made me laugh out loud, and the ending broke my heart for about a week. It's worth reading; it just may not be worth reading all in one sitting.

The Woman in White (Springbarb will help Marian foil Fosco)
This is one of the best books you will ever read. And it is definitely one of my Top 5 Books of All Time. It has everything: murder, madness, poison, a fat man named Fosco and a midget named Pesca. The love story isn't very interesting, nor are the lovers. But Marian Halcombe is the friggin bomb, man, and Count Fosco is one sexy fat mutherfuckin' foul guy. The only drawback is that this is one of those Oxford World Classic editions. Sorry.

Heart of Darkness
This isn't the exact edition you'll get; I couldn't find that, thanks Amazon. Stupid search engine. Anyway: yeah. I don't get the hype around this book. My favorite Conrad is The Secret Agent (which you should totally read). But it's famous, and there's the Apocalypse Now connection which is a good time for a lot of people. If you take it and read it, write me and tell me what you thought. Especially if you liked it.

The Brothers Karamazov (Jules won't have to endure any awkward silences when she runs into Laura Bush!)
There's a married couple, Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, who have been translating a lot of the classic Russian writers of the 19th and early 20th centuries. They're really good when they translate Dostoevsky; they're the only way I can read him. However, they're not so good for Tolstoy (and more on that when we get to Anna Karenina). This is a Volokhonsky/Pevear translation. Also? It's one of Laura Bush's favorite books. My friend Steve and I think that Dostoevsky, who was a Christian, is writing against himself in the "Grand Inquisitor" chapter. Dostoevsky wants us to reach the end of that and say, "Well clearly: God." Instead, you reach the end and think, "No."

The Vicomte de Bragelonne (Shula will nurse this novel's many swordfighting wounds)
This isn't exactly what your copy will look like; it is, though, still an Oxford World Classic. The Vicomte de Bragelonne is part of the Three Musketeers series. They're silly and fun with the sword fighting and the "one for all and all for one!"-ing, and it's interesting to spend that much time with these guys. It's not my favorite Dumas. For that, you'll need to read The Count of Monte Cristo or La Reine Margot.

Absalom, Absalom!
I really don't think much of Faulkner. The Sound and the Fury is pretty exceptional; however, even a broken clock is right twice a day. I haven't been able to finish Absalom, Absalom! (which I used to confuse with O Calcutta!), so I'm only getting rid of one of my copies. If, when I get to it in my reading pile, it turns out that I still can't make it through, then you'll be seeing it on a list like this again.

The Mayor of Casterbridge (since it's going to live with Stuckinnv, this one won't be left on a country road)
I love Thomas Hardy. I would never want to be a character in a Thomas Hardy novel; you're bound for madness, some sort of awful sexual encounter, and death; but still, I do enjoy sitting down with The Mayor of Casterbridge or The Return of the Native, or Tess of the Durbervilles (and no: she isn't raped; and yes: I'll give you a smackdown if you think you can argue otherwise). My favorite Hardy of all time, though, is Jude the Obscure. The Mayor of Casterbridge was my first introduction to Thomas "Hap" Hardy through my high school English teacher (and secret crush) Mr. Bruce Kielsmeier. I hated the book then, much like I hated all assigned books then. Bruce, if you ever read this, I've mended my ways about both Hardy and Austen. Also: call me.

The House of Mirth (this one's gonna make hats for Desideratum)
Edith Wharton is an amazing writer. I don't know if there is anyone writing today who can match her. Lily Bart will captivate you, frustrate you, and ultimately break your heart. The movie version, with Gillian Anderson, isn't bad either.

Anna Karenina (Anna's got a new lover in Stuckinnv)
This is an almost perfect book. (The ending? Wellll...) (And not that train ending, that's not what I'm talking about). However, I'm not a fan of this translation. It's one by that husband and wife team I mentioned above; however, I don't think it does a better job than the Constance Garnett translation and in some places, I think it's actually inferior to the Garnett. It's not as bad as the Garnett/Maude rumble in the Bronx I wrote about earlier; it's just, I don't see the need to have this edition when I like the Garnett translation more.

If you get a chance, though, and you've already read Anna Karenina, do yourself a favor and read the Mona Simpson essay in this edition. I don't think much of Mona Simpson as a fiction writer, but she really gets this novel, and her love of it is palpable in this essay.

Entitlement

One of the guys here at [redacted], a guy I'll call The Beckoner, recently pulled an all-nighter. I call him The Beckoner because he has this habit, this I'm-high-powered way of beckoning you into his office. Try this with me. You'll be The Beckoner. I'll be me. As you're reading this, pretend to type on your keyboard.

MIKE: *knocks*

Now, without looking away from your screen (or your fingers, if you're one of those kinds of typers), raise your hand and beckon me in. Don't make eye contact. Don't look away from the screen at all. I'm clearly not as important as you, and you clearly don't have to treat me as such.

Yeah. I know. Plus? The Beckoner just turned 25.

My second or third day at [redacted], after being beckoned by The Beckoner, I said to him, "Hi, I know I'm new, and we don't know each other very well, but I don't know that you know how condescending and offensive that is."

"What?"

"That beckon thing you do. That I-don't-really-have-time-for-you wave you've patented there. It's demeaning. You look like someone who's young and ambitious; someone who wants to go far in business. I'll let you in on a little secret: you shouldn't treat your support staff like crap. You're not better than we are. You're actually not even more important than we are. In fact? We can break you. We'll misfile important documents. We'll forget to send that important package. We'll hang up on your clients and you'll look like an ass. So don't. When I knock, when someone else knocks, when the UPS guy knocks: look up. Make eye contact. Treat us like we exist."

And yeah. I said all of that. Word for fuckin word.

He took it well. Better than I expected (and I expected to get fired after that, but I couldn't stop). He still beckons sometimes, but not all the time. And sometimes? I forget to give him messages.

Anyway: the all-nighter.

The morning after the all-nighter, I come in and see that The Beckoner is still in the same Disco Stu outfit he had worn the day before: some sort of obnoxious purplish red shiny shirt and pin stripe pants. Again: I know. He's all scruffy, but not in a sexy way, more in a skeevy Chippendale dancer with some sort of wasting disease and a heroin habit kind of way. The other principals at [redacted] are really proud of The Beckoner. It's like he banged a stripper on the conference room table without a condom and not only didn't pick up some nasty social disease, but also didn't have to pay her. They're high-fiving him, slapping his back. He thinks he's done something important and noteworthy. My boss comes by my office and says, "Take extra special care of [The Beckoner] today. He done good."

First off: ew. "Take extra special care"? Are you kidding me? Secondly, I see no earthly reason to reward that kind of behavior. He stayed all night to put the finishing touches on a deal that will make rich, morally questionable men even richer and, yes Virginia, even more morally questionable.

Here's the deal: unless you're curing AIDS, cancer, or world hunger -- there's no need to ever pull an all-nighter in the business world. No job is worth losing sleep and risking your health. No job pays you enough to sacrifice yourself in that way.

Especially this job.

The Beckoner hung around long enough in the morning to make sure people a little higher up on the chain of command saw him in his sweated-through finest. He buzzed me in to his office later, and beckoned me in sans eye contact when I knocked. He wanted me to get him a cab home. He needed to go get some sleep. He wanted me to know that he had pulled an all-nighter.

This is why I don't feel bad booking him in to middle seats on his upcoming cross-country flights. I also requested low-sodium vegetarian meals. And he's got a layover in St. Louis.

I warned him.

Alice's Right Foot, Esq.

Someone had a little trouble with her molt, and so now someone's hobbling around on five legs instead of her standard-issue six. Otherwise, she seems to be fine, as are the rest of the gals.

I know that absolutely no one but me is interested in the day-to-day struggles of Australian Walking Sticks.

Exotic Pets

There's little in the world sadder than a grown man with an exotic pet in public. An African gray parrot, say, or an iguana, or maybe a handful of ferrets. Especially when said sad guy hangs out somewhere in public with his exotic pet. Like, in front of the EatZis near my apartment.

There's this guy who, during the warmer months, would sit in front of the EatZis with his parrot, and then give everyone the stinkeye when they approached him about the parrot. But the thing is, he'd also give the stinkeye if you didn't fawn over his bird. That man irritates me. If your way of garnering attention from other people is to sit outside with your chinchilla, as if that were normal, as if everyone these days is walking around with a chinchilla or a box turtle or a hedgehog -- you've got some serious likeability issues. Having these exotic pets, and then parading them in public in your very own Kook Parade? I mean, come on.

So all that was to say that Tuesday, I became what I hate most. I was a man with an exotic pet in public.

Four, actually. My friend Scott who volunteers with me at the National Zoo's Invertebrate House brought me four Australian Walking Sticks in a little plastic critter carrier. Which means I had to ride home on the Metro with a clear box full of bugs in my lap.

I'm shy. Maybe a little reserved. At least in public. I like to be in control of any social situations I might find myself in. This is very difficult to accomplish when one is holding a clear box full of bugs on the Metro. I think because on some level I broke a societal rule by showing up in public with insects on purpose, society broke the rules right back and waved good-bye to my person space as they crowded around me, oohing and ahhing and ewwing as they all tried to peer inside. The longer I stood on the Metro with my case full of exotic pets, the more slaps in the face I received from karma. The questions got less and less about the bugs and more and more about me personally:

"What are those?"
"Where do they come from?"
"Are you going to take them for a walk when you get home?"
"I think I just saw one poo."
"You gonna teach 'em tricks?"
"Can you eat 'em?"
"If you were my husband, there's no way I'd let you in the house with those!"
"Your wife is going to have a fit."
"Hey, buddy, you'd better be ready to sleep on the couch!"
"How long you been married?"

Other people, people who want to share, but find they have no outlet, that's probably why they hang out with their exotic pets in public. It's their socially inappropriate way of saying, "Hey, I'm up for anything. I'm holding a snake! In public! And I'm wearing cords!"

Heaven forbid I ever become one of those people on purpose. But I am now the owner of some somewhat exotic pets.

So the Australian Walking Sticks are phasmids -- a fancy way of saying that they like to look like things they are. Like leaves or sticks or bark. The other cool things about my gals (Molly, Alice, Tamara, and Grace Jones) is that they reproduce parthenogenically. Basically, they never have to have sex with a male ever to make more of themselves. This is good news for militant lesbians; however, cloning like that can have problems. Any genetic issues the mom has are passed directly on to all the eggs, since the eggs are exact copies of the mom. Guys may not always be useful, but we're good for randoming up the genes, and that's a nifty way to keep things somewhat chlorinated in the gene pool.

Once I learn how to take pictures of things other than the inside of my pocket with my cell phone, I'll see if I can't post some pictures of my new brood. And, if I work things out right, in a year or so I'll have enough to TAKE OVER THE WORLD!!!

Or at least freak Zach the fuck out.

READING: The Forsyte Saga (cont.) (again)

Oh, Irene.

Loud Water Woman & Tongue Suck Girl

So, uh, writing's hard.

This stuff, that I do here, this is easy. But when I have to pay attention to things like plot and character and stuff? Wow. How do those guys do that? For instance, you know what I suck at? Describing people. What they look like and stuff. "He was tall, yet clean." That's about as good as I can get. "He had hair. It was brown." Or, "He was real, real, real good looking."

Yeah: I'm totally going to be famous.

I've been working on this book thing, and I have this goal in mind that I'll have a complete rough draft by the end of February. And I love how I picked the underachiever month, the one that can't even see it's way to being a full 30 days long. But there you have it: my goal. By February 28 I should have a finished book that needs to be edited. And then edited some more. And then, I'll no doubt cry, abandon the whole thing, come back to it like an abused spouse, cry some more, and finally either the book will be done or I will. I'm crossing my fingers that it's going to be the book.

I decided to try writing at the library today. For those not in the know, the Bethesda library is lovely, and has this quiet room in the back that's all glass-walled like the future. And quiet. Or supposed to be. Because it's the Quiet Room; I mean, it even say so on the door: No cell phones, no beverages, and no Fritos. Only I think the Fritos are supposed to stand in for all food. So there's this whisp of a blonde gal sitting two stations in front of me, and she has brought the loudest water ever. Every time she drinks from it, she squeezes the sides so it makes these gadawful popping sounds like rifle shots and I jump. I've tried eye contact. I've tried giving her the stink-eye. And I've made several exasperated-type noises, but to no avail. I think I will make this woman a character in my book and then have something dreadful happen to her. But she's already living with a pretty dredful dye job; what more, really, could I do to her?

Anyway, take that, Loud Water Woman.

There's a young Asian Mathlete in here with me (and that's totally not stereotyping; he's got graph paper, 2 calculators, and a calculas textbook the size of my head), and we've both been trying to get the attention of this other young woman who is making loud sucking sounds on some kind of hard candy. Or her tongue. The Nigerian man sitting directly across from me and to the right has joined the Mathlete and me in our Tell-Tale hate. I mean, can she not hear that? Does she think it's a soothing, gentle sound, this sucking noise she's making? 'Cause it's really, really not. It's actually really Really IRRITATING!

If I end up not being able to finish my novel, it's totally going to be because of Loud Water Woman and the Tongue Suck Girl.

An Internet Plea to Make Me Pretty

Maybe someone out there, someone smart in the ways of the Internet (like a young Sandy Bullock, say, or Angie Jolie) could give me a tutorial on how to purchase a domain name and all the things one would need to go with that.

I've got one in mind; I just don't know who to buy from -- and what all I need to make sure I have when I do finally purchase it. There's probably a really boring web-hosting conversation that could be had; and if someone is crafty in the ways of design: I'd like to have that conversation too.

So, come on Internet: make me pretty.

Are you kidding me?

Right now, as in at this very moment, there's a guy in one of the stalls of the men's room with a phone book and a dictionary.

A phone book.

And a dictionary.

I'll pee tomorrow.

READING: The Forsyte Saga

Meet the Forsytes. [insert Soap theme here...]

No, seriously: that's what you'll spend the first chapter doing when you start reading The Forsyte Saga. And you totally should. Go on. Click the link. Order the book. And then tell me all about ordering the book since I'm on a moratorium from book buying for this year. And probably the rest of my life.

I own four copies of War & Peace. Four. And three of them are the exact same edition I just linked to. The other one is a substandard edition, that looks like this. If you're going to pick up a copy of War & Peace -- well, first, drop me an email and I'll give you one of mine. But if you don't want me having your address, or if you can't wait, or if by the time you get to me I've given my two extra ones away, make sure you get the Constance Garnett translation rather than the Aylmer Maude translation.

"Dude, whatever. It's a long book. Why do I even care who translated it?"

Good question. I recommend the Garnett over the Maude for one scene: Count Rostov and Marya Dmitryevna dance something called a Daniel Cooper. I'll let Tolstoy/Garnett take it from there:

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The count danced well and knew that he did, but his partner could not dance at all, and did not care about dancing well. Her portly figure stood erect, with her mighty arms hanging by her side (she had handed her reticule to the countess). It was only her stern, but comely face that danced. What was expressed by the whole round person of the count, was expressed by Marya Dmitryevna in her more and more beaming countenance and puckered nose. While the count, with greater and greater expenditure of energy, enchanted the spectators by the unexpectedness of the nimble pirouettes and capers of his supple legs, Marya Dmitryevna with the slightest effort in the movement of her shoulders or curving of her arms, when they turned or marked the time with their feet, produced no less impression from the contrast, which everyone appreciated, with her portliness and her habitual severity of demeanour. The dance grew more and more animated. The vis-à-vis could not obtain one moment’s attention, and did not attempt to do so. All attention was absorbed by the count and Marya Dmitryevna. Natasha pulled at the sleeve or gown of every one present, urging them to look at papa, though they never took their eyes off the dancers. In the pauses in the dance the count drew a deep breath, waved his hands and shouted to the musician to play faster. More and more quickly, more and more nimbly the count pirouetted, turning now on his toes and now on his heels, round Marya Dmitryevna. At last, twisting his lady round to her place, he executed the last steps, kicking his supple legs up behind him, and bowing his perspiring head and smiling face, with a round sweep of his right arm, amidst a thunder of applause and laughter, in which Natasha’s laugh was loudest. Both partners stood still, breathing heavily, and mopping their faces with their batiste handkerchiefs.

"That’s how they used to dance in our day, ma chère," said the count.

"Bravo, Daniel Cooper!" said Marya Dmitryevna, tucking up her sleeves and drawing a deep, prolonged breath.
______________________________


Did you see what he did there? Everything about that passage is amazing and marvelous and should make you run out and get that copy of War & Peace along with The Forsyte Saga. Notice how towards the end of that passage, as the action of the dancing gets faster, the clauses get shorter? Can you feel Natasha's excitement at watching her father dance, that 12-year-old's pride when it's still okay to love your parents and your dad is dancing, do you see that? Dancing? Aren't you looking? And when it's over, I love that Natasha's laughter is heard above it all -- because it totally would. I love that Count Rostov's legs are described as "supple." I love that Marya Dmitryevna (who is called "The Old Dragon") doesn't dance so much as pulse in place. But what I love the most -- what sends a chill up my spine and what, I shit you not, makes me tear up every. single. time is that final exchange between the Count and the Old Dragon. Rostov is no longer Rostov -- he's the dance itself; he's Daniel Cooper.

In short, Count Rostov? Has totally brought it.

The Maude version? Meh. Natasha leads the applause -- but isn't heard above it. Maude says that Marya Dmitryevna "did not want to dance well" rather than the more lyrically carefree "did not care about dancing well." And at the end, Marya Dmitryevna simply says, "That was a Daniel Cooper!" Rostov isn't Daniel Cooper for Maude. And finally, Maude shows Marya Dmitryevna "tucking her sleeves and puffing heavily." Which I think robs Marya Dmitryevna -- and the scene -- of the dignity and kick-assedness that the Garnett translation bestows.

And that, oh my best beloveds, is why I think if you're going to read War & Peace, you have to read the Garnett. She cares about the characters more. Aylmer Maude blows.

So anyway. The Forsytes.

June Forsyte is engaged to marry a guy none of the Forsytes like so much. He wears a questionable hat that poor Aunt Hester mistook for a cat, which she tries to shoo from her chair. "She was disturbed when it did not move." When the novel opens, it is at a dinner in "honor" of June and this guy, Phillip Bosinney, of the questionable cat hat. Bosinney, being a Bosinney and not a Forsyte, is measured and found entirely too lacking:

"Like an artist for ever seeking to discover the significant trifle which embodies the whole character of a scene, or place, or person, so those unconscious artists--the Forsytes had fastened by intuition on this hat; it was their significant trifle, the detail in which was embedded the meaning of the whole matter; for each had asked himself: 'Come, now, should I have paid that visit in that hat?' and each had answered 'No!' and some, with more imagination than others, had added: 'It would never have come into my head!'"

And the Forsytes just get bitchier and funnier from there. The novel takes place towards the end of the Victorian era -- at a time when the 1800s are making their goodbyes, air-kissing, and promising to do lunch, real soon. They're wealthy, the Forsytes -- but they're nouveau riche and kinda on the tacky side, having made their money in industry. Money that's made by doing nothing -- by simply being given it -- has always meant more than money one had to soil one's hands to get. But at this point in time, there are fewer and fewer trust-funders and more and more folks who come from families where dad went to a job for the money. Here's another great scene that illustrates that point nicely:

"'What was her father?'

'Heron was his name, a Professor, so they tell me.'

Roger shook his head.

'There's no money in that,' he said.

'They say her mother's father was cement.'

Roger's face brightened.

'But he went bankrupt,' went on Nicholas.

'Ah!' exclaimed Roger."

Anyway. I'm only 60 pages in; it could start sucking. I really hope it doesn't, though, both because the last book sucked so much and because it's so good right now. There's trouble brewing in one marriage, and a father-son reconciliation in the works that could prove tricky for another character later on. Besides, I think a book can never suck if it has a line like this one in it:

"Timothy alone held apart, for though he ate saddle of mutton heartily, he was, he said, afraid of it."

PS: I have a crazy scheme in the works. I'll say more about it later, when there's something more to say about it than the fact that it's a crazy scheme. I'm mentioning it mostly because it means now one of you will soon say, "Hey, about that crazy scheme..." which means I'll have to keep up with it.

Keep me honest, my pets.

Review: Memoirs of a Geisha

Guys: like, she remembers a lot. And there's a geisha named Pumpkin.

It's beautiful to look at, this film; and that went a long way towards me not hating it necessarily. But mostly it's just really ridiculous, and for a long movie, the ending came much too fast without really resolving anything. She's a geisha, she's not, she's a geisha again, she gets caught having sex with some guy, and then she ends up with Ken Watanabe, who seems to be Japan's version of Mr. Big. Only maybe she didn't. It was tough to tell.

There's a huge dance number involving the world's craziest platform shoes and either snow or cherry blossoms. That's not important. What is important is that that scene was a chair, a bucket of water, and a welder's mask away from being truly awesome.

Now, the geisha named Pumpkin is awesome, but only when she's dressed like a 1940's tart, and I think maybe she isn't really a geisha. Like, she was going to be one, but then something happened. What? I don't know; the movie was difficult to follow, mostly because I kept replaying the dance scene with the platform shoes over in my head. How was she able to breathe with all that stuff flying in the air? And I didn't see a lot of dancing so much as she seemed to be artfully falling a lot. It's probably those shoes.

Dudes, I totally need a better movie. Like, soon.

READING: The Red and the Black (concluded)

Are you freakin kidding me, Stendahl? I read through the whole goddamned thing just so you could--

I guess I should break in here and say hi, if you have any plans of reading this novel for yourself; if my dire warnings and utter lack of enthusiasm for this 600+ page book have done nothing to dissuade you (because you've recently been diagnosed with something terminal, say, and want to make the days seem longer by reading The Red and the Black); then you might want to stop reading here. Skip down to a past essay. Read how James Frey is a lying asshat. I'm going to give away the ending.

So, turns out, Julien dies. I've been trying to figure out how to write about the end of The Red and the Black since yesterday -- you know, make it worth writing about and remembering and all that. Frankly: I can't. The Red and the Black is many pages of uninteresting, unlikable characters doing uninteresting and unlikable things uninterestingly and unlikably.

Julien stays at seminary for a while, and there are some complicated machinations about who Julien is aligning himself with. He's faking his way to making it by being smart without succumbing to learning anything. He's chameleon-like and formless, like Tom Ripley -- only Tom Ripley is actually enjoyable to read about (in a creepy, So-I-Married-a-Menendez way) and Julien is not. (I tried to think of witty and artful ways to end that sentence: "...and Julien is French" or "...and Julien is 20-miles-of-bad-road-while-listening-to-the-Beatles.")

Then, because Stendahl sufferes from "Why not?" syndrome, paying no attention to past plot contrivances or character motivations, he sends Julien off to woo Mme. Rênal again. And that goes real poorly; he barely escapes from her room and is shot at as he runs through the property; they may or may not have had sex. So then it's off to Paris to be some guy’s secretary.

It was around here that I truly stopped caring about the novel. I've read country-bumpkin-makes-good stories before -- and I've read them better. Both Anthony Trollope's Phineas Finn and Henry James's Princess Casamassima (a novel I'm not fond of, but would totally win in a death-is-not-an-option between it and The Red and the Black) work out better for the reader because, well, (a) Trollope and to some degree James are just better writers (though I wonder if Stendahl's poor showing here is a fault of the translation); and (b) both novels have interesting people to care about. We're really left all on our lonesome here.

So, while a secretary, Julien meets his boss's daughter, Mathilde, and falls in love with her (after being in love with Mme. Rênal and the bar wench). Dad isn't terribly keen on this, what with Julien not really being a peer and all, so his boss gives Julien a title so the marriage can happen. Mme. Rênal, though, is having none of this and tells Julien's boss the whole skinny about her and the Julesmeister. Boss flips, fires Julien, and calls the wedding off. Julien flips, shoots Mme. Rênal, and is arrested and executed.

Mme. Rênal? Dies of a broken heart three days later.

And that, oh my best beloveds, is how that irritating Paul McCartney song ends. Let's never speak of this book again. And let's hope the next book is better.

Now some of you out there may be thinking, "Hey, I'd like to read like a British Adventuress, too!" Well, you can. If you've got a book you'd like to read, and you'd like someone to read along with you, drop a comment or an email or an IM and let me know the book and when you'd like to start. If I own it, or can get it from the library, we're in business. My only requests are: (a) Easy on the sci-fi/fantasy; and (b) absolutely no Gogol and I get full veto rights on any suggested Kafka.

Next stop, Augusten Burroughs

When he's not banging hookers or having a gal snort cocaine off his penis, Frey shows a deep, and often sweet, reverence for the women with whom he is involved.

Dear Internet,

I'd like you to bring me a great job. A job where I'm paid well (but not too well; I don't want to appear greedy). A job where I get to write things I want to write and read things I'm interested in. I'd like to work with people who don't always comment disparagingly about the book I'm reading ("Oh look at Mr. Smartypants and his Jane Austen. Can I get you some teeeeea, Mr. Jane Austen Reader?"). I'd also like to work with people who are at least funny with the insults.

I'd like this job because I think I deserve this job. I mean, yeah, I dropped out of college; and sure, I don't have a degree of any kind, nor am I doing anything at all to rectify that situation. But come on Internet! Throw a self-educated, bookish, not-really-motivated-at-what-he's-doing homo a bone. Of the employment kind.

Oh, and something with one of those 401(k)s the kids these days are talking about. Turns out, I don't have one and I think I'll need it for when I get old next week and want to retire.

Yours truly,

Michael Bevel
Better Job Seeking British Adventuress

The Smell

The new apartment smells of old people. It's faint, yet persistent, like some nasal version of the tell-tale heart. "Do you smell that?" I kept muttering last night once we finally got settled in after the last boxes found their way home. "Old person. It smells like an old person."

In the 4+ years that Zach and I have been together, he's learned to either nod or ignore most of my superhuman abilities. I hear things that aren't there and smell things I shouldn't. "Is someone making cotton candy?"

"In our building?"

"Well."

"What, you think the circus has come to town and is staying here?"

"Don't you smell that?"

[resigned] "Sure."

"And there! Did you smell that? Cabbage."

"..."

It took 5 hours, a Ghanan, and two of the tiniest movers ever to get all of our stuff out of the high-rise we used to live in and into the new apartments around the corner. (And hi, Tiny #1? Next time, do that at home and not in my bathroom, since we're speaking of smells. Especially since I have to clean in there. Capiche?) Neither Zach nor I are independently wealthy; and we probably spent more than we should have; but I've gotta tell you: movers. All the way. They lift, they load, they unload -- they're brilliant. Plus, I got to pretend that I was Cathy Whitaker (before Dennis Quaid went gay and she started having the emotional affair with the president): "Do be a love and put that futon in the back bedroom...No, the back bedroom. That's ri-- no: further back than that."

Before I put this, my personal nomination for most boring journal entry, to bed, I should mention that at some point between the old apartment and the new I misplaced my copy of The Red and the Black. 'Course, I've got a couple other copies (because, you know, that sickness I have) -- but they have a lot of untranslated French. I'll give it the old college try as far as finding my copy tonight (for the whole one of you who might be waiting pensively to find out what happens to Julien -- who's now some sort of personal secretary for some other guy who I should have paid attention to when he was introduced at the beginning of the novel, only I didn't). If there's no luck, which would suck, since my whole "25 Books in 2006" plan is predicated on a very tight schedule, I'll just move on to book 2.

Oh, and in closing: incense? Scented candles? Anyone got some favorite smells they enjoy? And a way to purchase said smells? Hit me up in the comments section.

PRETTY!

and



Take that, Stendahl. If you don't straighten up and fly right, I'll just move on to something better.

READING: The Red and the Black (cont.)

Goddamn this is a frustrating book.

So, we left off on page 68 with Julien barefoot in Mme. Rênal's room. Oh, and he's crying which just isn't attractive. I mean, I'm a guy, and I like guys who are sensitive -- don't get me wrong. But I'm uncomfortable seeing it, usually. Tell me about it all you want afterwards; just don't do it in front of me. That and peeing are private affairs ("and God knows/none of your business" -- shiny penny for anyone who knows that reference).

So, Julien's sobbing, Mme. Rênal gives in, they get it on, and for the next... 60... pages... It's nothing but sex and whining between those two. Like, seriously: they fuck, he gets moody, she gets insecure, she cries, he gets moodier (lather, rinse, repeat) and know what, Stendahl? If I wanted to read that crap I've got diaries of my own, thankyouverymuch. It was uninteresting when I lived through it, and it's uninteresting now.

God.

This'll probably change again, but if you're planning on reading this book for yourself, skip all the way to page 129. All you need to know is that Julien and Mme. Rênal's love isn't to be. Oh, and that now Julien has decided to follow the black side of the title, which represents priestly frocks, rather than the red side of the title (which represents the military) -- even though that means he can't rise to power like Napoleon (the general, not the pig) (though the pig would totally be cooler).

That brings us up to where I am now, just shy of the ending of Book 1. Julien's at a seminary. He's making enemies because, duh, he's Julien and the book, though badly written, is not filled with idiots. He's also quickly gotten over his broken heart, re: Mme. Rênal, and has set his sights on a saucy little barmaid named Amanda Binet. Because, just like all of my ex-boyfriends, Julien has the attention span of a goldfish.

And let's talk for a minute about Julien as a romantic character. Stendahl, I think, wants us to believe that he's capable of falling in love, and that he did so with Mme. Rênal. But there's never a point where I feel that -- never an "against his will: love" moment. George Gissing pulls that off between Rhoda Nun and Everard Barfoot in The Odd Women, but Julien just seems far too cold and calculating. I don't trust anything he says or anything Stendahl says Julien feels. And that's a bad place to leave a reader. We're also in dangerous character dislikeability* waters here. Now, if you're Vanity Fair, the character dislikeability schtick works because the novel is broadly comic and Becky Sharpe kicks ass. In this novel, though: not so much with the funny -- unless it's some kind of dry and obscure French humor and hi: Jerry Lewis? I don't think it's that. Instead, we're stuck reading about people we don't really care about doing things that aren't very interesting to other characters we don't really care about.

I'm going to keep reading. If I don't, it's going to throw my whole schedule off. Plus, I've packed all my other books. And I don't know, maybe Stendahl's about to throw me a bone or something. I've still got -- *sigh* -- 250 freakin pages.

Stendahl? You're working my last nerve.
_______________________________________
* Yeah: I create language. I move mountains. I contain worlds.

READING: The Red and the Black

Julien Sorel is an asshole. And we've all dated him.

You know the type, he pretends to be soft, sensitive, in-tune with your feelings. He probably cries sometimes because this world was never meant for one as beautiful as him, but he tries to hide them in that way that says, "Look at me, I'm crying!" -- because he wants you to know how sensitive he is. He's moody, quiet. You never really feel like you get him; and you totally feel that not getting him is somehow your fault. If only I deserved him more, you find yourself thinking. Maybe if I showed him even more how much I care for him...

But the fact is, he's still an asshole. He's not sensitive to anyone other than himself and if you stop and think about it, the only times he really seemed in-tune with your feelings were times when you were mad at him and he talked you out of it, like that time he was supposed to call you to do something that one Saturday, so you blew off all your friends because he had said that it was really important that the two of you spent that time together, you know, he's got a lot of things on his mind, see, and really needs a friend -- someone who gets him -- because no one else really seems to, only he didn't call -- even when you left the house to teach him a lesson for 15 minutes, running to the store for a half-Coke-half-Cherry-Coke and a pack of Salem Lights (because you were dumb then and functioned under the illusion that smoking made you cool rather than phlegmy and stinky), and why didn't he call? 'Cause he was out late last night. He totally meant to show up or at least call but, you know, he didn't get home until 4AM or something and he's sorry. He didn't ruin your day, did he? Fuck, man, he's sorry; you guys'll totally get together another time, though, 'cause he still has some things to talk to you about. And the reason he's moody? Usually passive-aggressiveness, which, when you're in your early 20s, is some kind of freakin pheremone or something. And all those times he was quiet weren't because he was thinking deep thoughts that could only escape you. The truth is: he's just really dumb.

Julien Sorel is the anti-hero of Stendahl's The Red and the Black. When we first meet him, he's a lazy layabout, dreaming dreams of being Napoleon's BFF and making a fortune by joining the military -- just like his BFF Napoleon did. Only, turns out, this is France circa Bonapart's disfavor in France, and it's not a wise idea to be all, "Isn't Napoleon the dreamiest?" So, faking it to make it, Julien pretends like he's interested in joining the priesthood. And turns out, there's quiet a bit of status in being a priest, too, so it's not like he'd be compromising a lot of his dreams. Especially since all of his dreams involve getting a lot for very little effort.

Through some tricky dealing on his father's part, Julien ends up being the live-in tutor to the children of the mayor of the town, M. Rênal. It's assumed by many that Julien knows Latin; however, turns out, Julien only knows the New Testament in Latin, because he memorized it. There's a direct correlation between this scene and a scene from my own life when Young Bisexual Johnny had me convinced he could read tarot cards because his family was "steeped in magic." In my defense, I was very young (though Johnny was younger) and only half-believed him, not caring really, one way or the other, how skilled he was in the mystical arts. I just enjoyed spending time alone with him. Anyway, Julien only fake-knows Latin -- which ends up not really being an issue, since no one else really knows Latin, either. Julien ends up looking like a super genius.

Once ensconced in the family, he almost immediately begins a love affair with Mme. Rênal, M. Rênal's wife. One of the plot contrivances in a lot of novels -- not just 19th century love stories -- is infidelity, which I'm not so much with. It usually plays out the same way: the spouse being cheated on is described in terms that make him difficult to like, so the reader ends up egging on the affair: "Go on, Anna: your husband's an asshole anyway." The Red and the Black is no different -- only the reader ends up with a little bit of contempt for Mme. Rênal and M. Rênal because Julien despises them both a little. He's in this affair not so much because he loves Mme. Rênal, but because he likes the idea of sticking it to the man. Wait. That's not what I mean; it's not like Julien's gay or anything (though, when Mme. Rênal first sees him, she thinks he's a girl because he's so delicately beautiful). When Julien wants to stick it to the man, he wants to stick it to the man by sticking it to his bourgeoisie employer's wife. Which he hasn't yet -- though he's going to. Right now, where I've left off reading? He's in her room barefoot. I know: scandalous.

And that's where we are. If you find yourself wanting to read The Red and the Black yourself, and you don't have a lot of time, I'd recommend skipping ahead to chapter 6. All that happens in the first five chapters is a lot of description of the town and some business with some secondary characters which, so far, haven't really played out at all and anyway, even if they do end up being important, you'll pick up on that even if you don't read the first five chapters.

Where is this all going? Not sure. What I do know is that I don't know if I can deal with a whole novel that's nothing but Misogynistic Julien leading on and then pushing away Kinda Stupid Mme. Rênal. The writing is fine -- not as lovely as Flaubert's, but with a snarkier tone than Victor Hugo. And, like I said at the beginning of this paragraph, the repetitiveness is just on the verge of grating; let's hope something else happens, and soon.

Resolutions (+ a "piffle" renaissance)

I will not buy any new books in 2006.

Now, okay, yeah: I did just buy a book at Barnes & Noble. And, if all goes well, I'll be receiving this and this on Thursday. But the Stendahl was purchased with a Barnes & Noble gift card I received in 2005, and I bought the two lovely hardbacks in 2005 as well. But once those guys arrive, that's it. I'm done. Fineto.

I have wished every day for the past two weeks that both Zach and I were functionally illiterate. In packing up for the move (coming up this Sunday) (as in, in 6 days) (as in, we're never going to be packed), the bulk of our boxes have been books. And books are heavy. And bulky. And while I love them the way a fat kid loves cake, I don't love lugging them with me. Eventually, I hope, Zach and I will stop with the moving like we're cool enough to be gypsies and then we won't have to move our books again. 'Course, that will require one or both of us to have more than $0 between us. And we'll have to live somewhere that isn't paved in pure gold the way the D.C. area apparently is. And diamond encrusted. And unicorns.

Have I mentioned that our shitty two-bedroom apartment in Rockville (I'm not buying into this North Bethesda mishigas) is selling for $550,000. Plus condo fees?

But I digress.

So I'm not buying any more new books, and my plan is then to actually read the books I do own. And write about them. I'm not optimistic enough to think I can achieve something like 50 books in a year; I'll be happy with 2 a month. I'll also be surprised at 2 a month. Some stuff I write just for me, like this: I can totally do two books a month if I commit to reading during my lunch. That was a little peek into the workings of the steel trap that is my mind.

I'm starting 2006 with Stendahl's The Red and the Black. I own two other editions because I have a sickness. I own multiple editions of many of my books. I also own several of the same edition. Fortunately, I don't have to answer to you; I don't have to answer to anyone. However, as far as The Red and the Black goes, I think this edition is my favorite because of this note:

"This little disclaimer...is pure piffle."

Hi, did you see that? He totally hauled out an unironic "piffle." And it felt real good I bet. Which is why that's my other resolution for this 2006th year: I'm going to bring about a piffle renaissance. So keep your eyes glued to the "Hot in 2006" list. If my 'blog isn't on them, the word "piffle" definitely will be.