Thanks to Lorne Michaels and NBC for re-running a seminal moment in TV history last Saturday: the first episode of SNL in its entirety (in its original running order, only missing, as far as I could tell, a "hosting next week" segment from Paul Simon). I'd only seen famous bits before ("Wolverines," Andy Kaufman/Mighty Mouse, "New Dad"), so it was highly cool to see them in their original context.
I know they meant it as a tribute/farewell to Carlin, but it's strange how (inevitably) tame the whole episode seems, 35 years on--especially Carlin's four separate monologues. I was dismayed and amused to learn that Carlin's baseball/football routine, which was new here, was already 6-7 years old the first time I heard it, and largely unchanged from the '75 version. The only semi-biting monologue was the last one, which aimed some deservedly low blows at organized religion. The rest felt very G-rated and "amusing."
You can tell it took the show a while to find its feet, and it's wild to see just how different a beast it was the first few weeks, and especially how much they crammed into the first episode. It's more like a weird revue than a sketch comedy show. Each of the two musical guests gets two songs. There's the Kaufman bit, the Valri Bromfield Lily-Tomlin-ish bit (was this funny in '75?), the Albert Brooks film (also not that funny), the three or four fake commercials (absurd more than funny), and the Muppets (trippy more than funny). What scant sketch comedy there is appears in short bursts--the longest, Aykroyd's home-security salesman thing, is probably about three minutes--and Carlin appears in none of the sketches. Chevy's Update is a little forced (and remarkably brief), and he and the camera are out of sync for at least three jokes; at least he has the presence of mind to poke fun at the awkwardness. A door audibly opens and shuts during Janis Ian's first song. Don Pardo announces the "Not for Ready Prime Time Players."
How funny was it in '75? There's a cynical part of me that says SNL was trying very hard to be cool: "Look, we're making fun of television pitchmen! Look, we're lampooning the evening news!" All I remember from the late-night TV of the mid-70s is old movies and Johnny Carson, so if one goal of SNL was to be different from anything else on TV at the time, it succeeded. Watching it from the comfort of my living room these many decades later, I didn't laugh, I'm sorry to say--but I did smile a lot, and I was transfixed. It's a piece of our culture. And all evening the Mighty Mouse theme has been in my head.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
George Carlin (1937-2008)
The news took the wind out of my sails. Hard to believe the old misanthrope was 71, and it's too soon for him to not be with us.
Carlin was one of the first comedians I remember laughing out loud at; a friend and I howled while listening to Carlin on Campus in the early 80s. Then I backtracked in his catalog and discovered Toledo Window Box and FM & AM and Class Clown, and I discovered he was topical too.
He was well known for recycling old bits time and again, and I regret that his stage persona turned into "bitter old man"--what he gained in edge, he lost in humor. But he was always good for reality checks, whether he was musing on the absurdities of English or railing at white people to stop being black.
We need more reality checks a la Carlin; I doubt anyone of his caliber will step up to provide them.
Carlin was one of the first comedians I remember laughing out loud at; a friend and I howled while listening to Carlin on Campus in the early 80s. Then I backtracked in his catalog and discovered Toledo Window Box and FM & AM and Class Clown, and I discovered he was topical too.
He was well known for recycling old bits time and again, and I regret that his stage persona turned into "bitter old man"--what he gained in edge, he lost in humor. But he was always good for reality checks, whether he was musing on the absurdities of English or railing at white people to stop being black.
We need more reality checks a la Carlin; I doubt anyone of his caliber will step up to provide them.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Jumping late onto the iTunes bandwagon: life (again) as a jukebox.
I don't own an iPod and don't think I'll ever have one: I feel little need to podcast, and I have other stereo components and music devices that fit the bill just fine. I still buy CD's and carry a zippable envelope of them in the car. Recently, though, I've discovered the pleasure and potential pain of downloading from iTunes. Given enough time and a bigger budget than I have now, I could do serious damage.
But even before iTunes--even when simply listening to a customized playlist on Media Player within the past couple of years--I sensed my listening habits had changed. Not the kinds of music I like, which have expanded, but how I hear it. If this were the 70s, it would be as though I had an expanded collection of 45's and fewer LP's.
The age of downloadable, "rippable" music strikes me as not something revolutionary but as a throwback to the eras when singles were a viable commodity. If you liked the hit, you bought the 45 and didn't necessarily buy the LP. Sometimes you had to buy the single, because artists often released songs for single issue only ("Suspicious Minds" is the first example that comes to mind). And back before LP's were a viable commodity, singles were definitely it.
So lately, I find myself less nostalgic about the passing of the CD era than I thought I would be. Over recording history, I think we've more often had music as a series of singles than as unified statements, and I'd rather think of the download era as power in our hands. Does this lead to a sort of "greatest-hits" skimming of an artists' catalog? Maybe. But with some artists, skimming is all that's needed. I can indulge my guiltiest pleasures (OK: early-70s AM one-hit wonders) one 99-cent song at a time and not have to suffer through inferior work.
The one-at-a-time method allows for an infinitely customizable "soundtrack" of one's life--ebbing, flowing, eternally in flux. Like, right now, my iTunes player is playing James McMurtry, soon to be followed by Dave Brubeck, Allison Krauss/Robert Plant, Fountains of Wayne, and Richard Thompson. I don't know what thread binds those artists together, and I don't want to know.
Yeah, that sounds exactly like my childhood. I just remember the radio was on a lot and my consciousness formed one song at a time. Perhaps downloading makes me, in fact, more nostalgic and not less.
But even before iTunes--even when simply listening to a customized playlist on Media Player within the past couple of years--I sensed my listening habits had changed. Not the kinds of music I like, which have expanded, but how I hear it. If this were the 70s, it would be as though I had an expanded collection of 45's and fewer LP's.
The age of downloadable, "rippable" music strikes me as not something revolutionary but as a throwback to the eras when singles were a viable commodity. If you liked the hit, you bought the 45 and didn't necessarily buy the LP. Sometimes you had to buy the single, because artists often released songs for single issue only ("Suspicious Minds" is the first example that comes to mind). And back before LP's were a viable commodity, singles were definitely it.
So lately, I find myself less nostalgic about the passing of the CD era than I thought I would be. Over recording history, I think we've more often had music as a series of singles than as unified statements, and I'd rather think of the download era as power in our hands. Does this lead to a sort of "greatest-hits" skimming of an artists' catalog? Maybe. But with some artists, skimming is all that's needed. I can indulge my guiltiest pleasures (OK: early-70s AM one-hit wonders) one 99-cent song at a time and not have to suffer through inferior work.
The one-at-a-time method allows for an infinitely customizable "soundtrack" of one's life--ebbing, flowing, eternally in flux. Like, right now, my iTunes player is playing James McMurtry, soon to be followed by Dave Brubeck, Allison Krauss/Robert Plant, Fountains of Wayne, and Richard Thompson. I don't know what thread binds those artists together, and I don't want to know.
Yeah, that sounds exactly like my childhood. I just remember the radio was on a lot and my consciousness formed one song at a time. Perhaps downloading makes me, in fact, more nostalgic and not less.
A walk in the neighborhood, and a clearing of the head.
Feeling refreshed and sweaty now after a pair of walks on this sweaty, overcast day, one with our dogs and one without--total of app. an hour. (Btw, yes, the new pic in the upper right is one of our dogs; she's striking a pose next to a paint can.)
Big revelation: sustained, vigorous exercise is the best thing for jettisoning evil thoughts. Who knew? Last night was almost a wash: with the young lady out of town at the beach this past week with her friends and me here, I nearly caved in to the "woe is me" line. But I caught myself and finally called a few friends before finding one who was around for dinner, and I drove up to meet him.
After a week of mostly chicken variations for lunch and dinner, what did I order? Wings. Of course! But they hit the spot. Well, they and three beers hit the spot. But I needed it. Good times: we watched a bit of the Braves game, chowed down, remarked ruefully on the passing of youth. This friend has been a friend since we were knee-high to a grasshopper--we grew up in the same subdivision for a while, graduated from the same high school, attended the same university for a bit. Our paths separated and re-crossed for 8-9 years, and now they've reconnected since I moved down here (almost nine years ago!).
Anyway, I had cabin fever and broke it. And the young lady should be back in town in a few hours. Yay!
Big revelation: sustained, vigorous exercise is the best thing for jettisoning evil thoughts. Who knew? Last night was almost a wash: with the young lady out of town at the beach this past week with her friends and me here, I nearly caved in to the "woe is me" line. But I caught myself and finally called a few friends before finding one who was around for dinner, and I drove up to meet him.
After a week of mostly chicken variations for lunch and dinner, what did I order? Wings. Of course! But they hit the spot. Well, they and three beers hit the spot. But I needed it. Good times: we watched a bit of the Braves game, chowed down, remarked ruefully on the passing of youth. This friend has been a friend since we were knee-high to a grasshopper--we grew up in the same subdivision for a while, graduated from the same high school, attended the same university for a bit. Our paths separated and re-crossed for 8-9 years, and now they've reconnected since I moved down here (almost nine years ago!).
Anyway, I had cabin fever and broke it. And the young lady should be back in town in a few hours. Yay!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The not-writing beast comes back to haunt.
Today before class, I saw Colleague C, who co-directs a writing program for our faculty. (It's a fairly unique program for a two-year college, in that its purpose is to encourage faculty writing and research through grants and mini-grants. Two-years are teaching-centric, of course, and the teaching load wears out a body, so it's heartening to see such a program in place. Full disclosure: I received one of said mini-grants in '06 and received course load reduction; it was awfully nice.)
But we were standing there in the library atrium, trading pleasantries, and CC asked me the question that's become the bane of my existence (the albatross around my neck?): "How's the writing going?" And I wasn't bothered that he asked me, because the last time we crossed paths, I was probably writing. But I had to be honest: "It's not." Which triggered anew feelings not unlike those in this post.
CC has a novel to his credit and has just closed the deal on his second novel, which'll be out at the end of the year. I don't begrudge him that one iota. Novels are hard as hell for this ol' boy, let alone short stories, so I tip my hat to anyone who can submerge themselves for that long. But then, he theorized it might be the last novel he has in him, because he's so wiped out from the "non-writing" parts of the process--by which I suppose he means editing, rewriting, proofing.
And I immediately remembered what I hate most about writing: the "non-writing" parts. The submissions, the stamps, the incessant waiting. And for what?
Just to be writing poems should be its own reward, and it has been before. But I dunno--I fear I've been away from it for so long that I won't be able to find that groove again. And all the time, I question how interested I really am in poetry anymore, whether I'm not writing in a niche for a niche audience.
I keep thinking of the Rilke line (is it from Letters to a Young Poet?) which advises the poet to look deep inside his heart and ask whether he must write--and I can't say that I must write, at least not right now. And it bugs the shit out of me, and I seem unwilling to do anything about it--other than bitch about how bad a person I am for neglecting my obligation.
But we were standing there in the library atrium, trading pleasantries, and CC asked me the question that's become the bane of my existence (the albatross around my neck?): "How's the writing going?" And I wasn't bothered that he asked me, because the last time we crossed paths, I was probably writing. But I had to be honest: "It's not." Which triggered anew feelings not unlike those in this post.
CC has a novel to his credit and has just closed the deal on his second novel, which'll be out at the end of the year. I don't begrudge him that one iota. Novels are hard as hell for this ol' boy, let alone short stories, so I tip my hat to anyone who can submerge themselves for that long. But then, he theorized it might be the last novel he has in him, because he's so wiped out from the "non-writing" parts of the process--by which I suppose he means editing, rewriting, proofing.
And I immediately remembered what I hate most about writing: the "non-writing" parts. The submissions, the stamps, the incessant waiting. And for what?
Just to be writing poems should be its own reward, and it has been before. But I dunno--I fear I've been away from it for so long that I won't be able to find that groove again. And all the time, I question how interested I really am in poetry anymore, whether I'm not writing in a niche for a niche audience.
I keep thinking of the Rilke line (is it from Letters to a Young Poet?) which advises the poet to look deep inside his heart and ask whether he must write--and I can't say that I must write, at least not right now. And it bugs the shit out of me, and I seem unwilling to do anything about it--other than bitch about how bad a person I am for neglecting my obligation.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
"The New Poem," by Charles Wright.
Wright lived for much of his childhood in my hometown, so I'm naturally a big fan. His best work is not normally this declamatory, but he does declamatory well. For me, this is a powerful rebuff to Hallmark-sappy poems.
***
It will not resemble the sea.
It will not have dirt on its thick hands.
It will not be part of the weather.
It will not reveal its name.
It will not have dreams you can count on.
It will not be photogenic.
It will not attend our sorrow.
It will not console our children.
It will not be able to help us.
***
It will not resemble the sea.
It will not have dirt on its thick hands.
It will not be part of the weather.
It will not reveal its name.
It will not have dreams you can count on.
It will not be photogenic.
It will not attend our sorrow.
It will not console our children.
It will not be able to help us.
Progress/regress report: summer term, week 1.
Actually, it's too early for much regress, but I full-on expect it next week--when the first batch of essays rolls in. (Or maybe it's stasis.) So far, both classes are fine; Comp I has 9 students, and they're very quiet so far. Or, they're not quiet exactly, but they aren't interacting. That will change tomorrow, if only for an hour, when they bring drafts for peer workshop. I hate to force camaraderie when the vibe isn't there, but by god, they will interact.
They seem like diligent little worker bees, and they're mostly paying attention, I think. But they're dry; not much energy flowing yet. I see a nasty trend starting, of getting to class right at the beginning or a few minutes late; can't do much when two people are on time. Even though it's in the syllabus, I better have a word with them tomorrow. Technically, I can't say much if they arrive within the first ten minutes, because I give them that much in the syllabus, but some folks are stretching it already.
Comp II, by contrast, is shaping up to be fairly lively, though I've had plenty of lively Comp II's before. For the first few classes, everything couldn't be better as long as we're talking. Then, when they sit down to write their essays and realize yep, this class requires work too, the ol' doldrums set in. In discussion, though, they seem open, curious--they're participating and seem properly sober about poetry. I made a mistake in assigning Jane Hirshfield's "The Lives of the Heart"--it's brilliant but daunting, and it requires big imaginative leaps. If you're not used to doing that, then of course it's gonna be a long slog. In contrast, though, they did just fine with "A Time Past" by Levertov.
When it comes to Comp II essays, though. they often do better with short poems than with 9- to 10-page short stories. Something about the stories invites plot summary and not analysis--maybe their length? Student panic/laziness? So far, I've been emphasizing the need to have a "lens" through which to write about (and talk about) a poem, whether that's metaphor, diction, connotation, imagery, or any of a thousand others. Here's hoping.
And this is the summer of the international student: I estimate 90% of my 25 or so students in both classes are from outside the U.S. Funny thing is, a good many of them will write better essays than my native English speakers.
They seem like diligent little worker bees, and they're mostly paying attention, I think. But they're dry; not much energy flowing yet. I see a nasty trend starting, of getting to class right at the beginning or a few minutes late; can't do much when two people are on time. Even though it's in the syllabus, I better have a word with them tomorrow. Technically, I can't say much if they arrive within the first ten minutes, because I give them that much in the syllabus, but some folks are stretching it already.
Comp II, by contrast, is shaping up to be fairly lively, though I've had plenty of lively Comp II's before. For the first few classes, everything couldn't be better as long as we're talking. Then, when they sit down to write their essays and realize yep, this class requires work too, the ol' doldrums set in. In discussion, though, they seem open, curious--they're participating and seem properly sober about poetry. I made a mistake in assigning Jane Hirshfield's "The Lives of the Heart"--it's brilliant but daunting, and it requires big imaginative leaps. If you're not used to doing that, then of course it's gonna be a long slog. In contrast, though, they did just fine with "A Time Past" by Levertov.
When it comes to Comp II essays, though. they often do better with short poems than with 9- to 10-page short stories. Something about the stories invites plot summary and not analysis--maybe their length? Student panic/laziness? So far, I've been emphasizing the need to have a "lens" through which to write about (and talk about) a poem, whether that's metaphor, diction, connotation, imagery, or any of a thousand others. Here's hoping.
And this is the summer of the international student: I estimate 90% of my 25 or so students in both classes are from outside the U.S. Funny thing is, a good many of them will write better essays than my native English speakers.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Free(d) Willie.
I'm still surprised and wanly amused at how the Mets let go Willie Randolph. I'm not surprised they did it, just how awkward and unprofessional they were about it. Randolph strikes me as a good manager, and I surmise he won't be unemployed for long. 2-3 years ago, he had the Mets on the right path, as the official line went, and now he can't catch a break. He gets fired after the Mets win three of their last four?
That Mets management sounds like a hot tranny mess, in any case. Buster Olney seems to have the right indignant attitude. Funny thing is, I don't think they're out of it yet. The Tigers seem to have turned themselves around after being lambasted for under-performing, and I bet the Mets follow suit.
As for the Braves...just when I'm ready to write them off, they also win three of their last four. With their 5000 injuries, they should by all rights be playing like the middling team their lineup suggests they are. The starting staff seems to be Tim Hudson and whoever else wants the ball. Jurrjens and Reyes have had their moments, though. Looks like the hitting has come around the last few nights, too.
I realize, in writing this, why I could never be a pundit for a living. That's too much reading. But I will go out on this limb: Chipper will not be able to maintain .400. His body (read: his "strained" quad, his knees) isn't gonna cooperate.
That Mets management sounds like a hot tranny mess, in any case. Buster Olney seems to have the right indignant attitude. Funny thing is, I don't think they're out of it yet. The Tigers seem to have turned themselves around after being lambasted for under-performing, and I bet the Mets follow suit.
As for the Braves...just when I'm ready to write them off, they also win three of their last four. With their 5000 injuries, they should by all rights be playing like the middling team their lineup suggests they are. The starting staff seems to be Tim Hudson and whoever else wants the ball. Jurrjens and Reyes have had their moments, though. Looks like the hitting has come around the last few nights, too.
I realize, in writing this, why I could never be a pundit for a living. That's too much reading. But I will go out on this limb: Chipper will not be able to maintain .400. His body (read: his "strained" quad, his knees) isn't gonna cooperate.
A burrito, a sick dog, and four hours of sleep.
At the moment, the song is "She May be White (But She be Funky)" by Howard Tate. Yep, that title says it all: not one of the soul legend's, um, better offerings. It's from his not-long-ago comeback CD Rediscovered, and it's kinda forced, sadly. I love the guy's voice but the backup doesn't do him proud--except for the last cut, a re-do of "Get It While You Can" which works just fine with piano only.
A burrito: first excursion to Chipotle Mexican Grill tonight, and it won't be the last. It's a fast-food/fresh Mexican stuffed-burrito place along the lines of Moe's, but 1000 times fresher and more flavorful. Yum, I say!
A sick dog: one of our critters has had some diarrhea problems (inside the house, unfortunately) but I think she's through the worst of it. Last night, and through the night, she had to go outside every hour or two, and she paced and got up/down all night long. She ate no breakfast and slunk back up the stairs, but she ate some dinner tonight after much prodding from me. So I take that as progress.
Now I think she's just worn out, because she hasn't moved from the living room in a couple of hours. But she also hasn't been jumping to go outside, so maybe the stomach's calmed down. I have some cooked white rice and cut-up carrots ready to go, and I'll try to slip her a little bit before the night is through.
Four hours of sleep: see above.
A burrito: first excursion to Chipotle Mexican Grill tonight, and it won't be the last. It's a fast-food/fresh Mexican stuffed-burrito place along the lines of Moe's, but 1000 times fresher and more flavorful. Yum, I say!
A sick dog: one of our critters has had some diarrhea problems (inside the house, unfortunately) but I think she's through the worst of it. Last night, and through the night, she had to go outside every hour or two, and she paced and got up/down all night long. She ate no breakfast and slunk back up the stairs, but she ate some dinner tonight after much prodding from me. So I take that as progress.
Now I think she's just worn out, because she hasn't moved from the living room in a couple of hours. But she also hasn't been jumping to go outside, so maybe the stomach's calmed down. I have some cooked white rice and cut-up carrots ready to go, and I'll try to slip her a little bit before the night is through.
Four hours of sleep: see above.
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