Day 7

We went furniture shopping for some of the afternoon today, trying to find both a mirror and dining room table.  Since moving into the house in 2008 we've made only sporadic efforts to decorate.  Next weekend, however, two of the wife's friends from work are coming over to dinner.  Their visit has sparked in us a renewed enthusiasm for making the house look...if not good, then at least not terrible.

I would way rather go to one large furniture than seven small ones.  Driving up and down Ventura Blvd looking for tables makes me thirsty.  On Ventura itself: several larger furniture stores about to close up shop, the recent economic downturn too much to bear.  "Stephanie's Psychic Services", on the other hand, seems to be okay.  The window display for Stephanie's business consisted of a large plastic "Hello Kitty" looking cat standing in front of dingy white backdrop.  Who goes to these places?

Obligatory Day Whatever Post

How much trouble is it to be involved in a fantasy baseball league?  I was just invited to join one.  Though I've never once played any kind of fantasy sports league (am I the only male in America who can say that?), I've always secretly been curious.  (I Am Curious: Baseball--the third in the trilogy of groundbreaking Swedish films.) Still, of all sports, baseball seems like it would require the most day to day work on the part of an owner.  On the upside, it would make me, you know, care about baseball, which beside undoubtedly making me a better American, would probably make the summer sports season more bearable.

I welcome reader input.

* * *

Stomu Yamashta--a musician that Dez, among others, would enjoy.  A Japanese jazz fusion drummer who rose to prominence in the 70s, Yamashta has recorded albums that sound to me like a mix of post-Bitches Brew Miles Davis and John McLaughlin's Mahavishnu Orchestra.  I found out about him by researching the music I heard in the soundtrack to Nic Roeg's Man Who Fell To Earth.  His CDs aren't available on itunes, but can be found on Amazon.  Worth looking into, if for nothing else that to get to experience album covers like this one....

A LITTLE Bit Crazy?

Not much time to post today, so I offer you this link, to a great story in the Wall Street Journal by novelist Tom Perrotta about 80s tennis great, Mats Wilander.  Contains all sorts of interesting bits, including this:

In his heyday, Wilander seemed to glide along the court without expending any energy. His secret: He doesn't sweat....   Wilander can teach for nearly four hours, in bright sun and 80-degree heat, in one cotton shirt and finish with just a trace of sweat under his arms. He drinks very little water and eats small meals. "My genetic makeup is a little bit crazy," he said.

Best Of Best Ofs

At Criterion Collection they now feature "Best Of" movie lists compiled by notable figures in filmmaking ("Top Ten" it's called).  The movies selected come only from the the Criterion Collection so you won't see, for example, The Godfather on anyone's list.  Still it makes for fascinating reading, not only for the recommendations themselves but for what light they and the attending comments shed on the people making them.  Richard Linklater's list has only made me respect him more; James Franco, on the other, comes off as even more of an irritating, self-satisfied 'artiste' than I had already imagined him to be.

Anyway, well worth browsing, if for no other reason than get to some ideas for movies to add to the netflix queue. Wes Anderson, Jane Campion, Joe Mantagena, Nicolas Roeg--they're all up there.  Check it out.  

Day Two

Tutoring last week I was asked to define the word "jejune."  When the student compared it with a definition in her book, there was a discrepancy.  Turns out, I've gone all these years thinking jejune meant immature/foolish, when it actually means something more along the lines of vapid, empty, lacking substance.  Never too old to learn, I guess.

Of course, I told the student her book was wrong.  (No, no).

* * *

Yesterday I jogged two miles for the first time in a year.  I've gotten pretty out of shape since I stopped playing tennis, but last fall I started running again.  I've been only running a mile and a half at a time; yesterday was the first time I got it up to two.  Then I came home and ate pasta and drank wine--just like the triathletes do!

* * *

Last night, watching Nature on PBS I decided that if I were forced to become some animal other than a human, I would be a snow leopard.  That's an animal I need to know more about.  You don't see many of them in California for some reason.  Maybe they don't like the political climate?

Day One

Well, really it's day two, but that's okay.

Today I'll write about my health.  It's been poor.  It turns out I don't have a thyroid condition, or at least, if I do, my medication isn't helping.  I tend to get lightheaded and "glassy headed" after meals, especially after drinking coffee so my current operating thesis is that I have some kind of hypoglycemia.  Hypoglycemia can't actually be treated; it's more a matter of watching what you eat, trying to have a number of small meals (instead three large ones) and generally worrying about your body's blood sugar.  Essentially,  I'm not getting enough glucose to my brain.  Paradoxically, however, ingesting large amounts of glucose tends to trigger an override mechanism which also denies glucose to my brain.  Without glucose, the brain works not very well.  It also leads to feelings of worthlessness and depression (interestingly some people with hypoglycemia are misdiagnosed as being bipolar and put on anti-depression medication), something I have had to deal with in the last few months.

Anyway, it's all tedious and sad, especially because drinking coffee, which used to be one of my sure-fire ways of forcing myself to write, is now a big no-no.  (Turns out that a lot of what gives caffeine its power to wake us up is that it releases large amounts of glucose in the brain).  Of course, I'm still drinking it (in small doses, once or twice a day).  At the right time of day, if all the levels are optimal, it still has some effect.

Well this post has turned out to be kind of self-pitying.  I apologize.  I'm actually feeling better today; I've gotten better at regulating what I eat; not drinking orange juice breakfast helps a lot as well.  So maybe I'm on way up, and out, from under the shadow of this red rock.

I should put up some illustration above, right?  Because illustrations supposedly make people want to read your posts.  But here's the thing about that: I don't want to go look for an illustration that ties in to hypoglycemia.  So I'm not going to!

For some reason, though, I just had an idea that I should try to find a puppet that is used to teach kids about hypoglycemia.  Hypoglycemia Elmo.  THAT would be a good illustration.  Did you all see the Top Chef recently where they cooked with Elmo and Cookie Monster?  How great was that?  How much does it suck that Dale was sent home?  I really respect that guy this season; it's amazing how much he's grown up.

Ok, I'm out...

30 Days of Blogging

Starting today, I have resolved to write one entry in the blog every day for the next thirty days.  The entries will probably be short, and doubtlessly will many be trite(ish).  Nevertheless, the decision has been made.  The thirty days of blogs begin....

NOW

Oscar's "Best"

In honor of the Oscars, check out this list ranking all of the 82 movies that have won Best Picture--from worst to best.  Lawrence of Arabia is a little high for my taste, but at least Crash is where it should be.  A fun time-killer.

What Happened To Tony Soprano?

This insanely thorough and utterly convincing discussion of "Made in America," the controversial final episode of The Sopranos is a must-read for any fan of the show.  I won't spoil it in advance by describing its conclusions.  Suffice it to say, the whole multi-page post is well worth your time.

Is it even meaningful?

This discussion of Robert Hass's poetry has occasioned a mild brouhaha in the world of poetry. I have mixed feelings about both the reviewer and the poet (who, in the interest of full disclosure, I should add I worked with briefly in grad school), but I think it's generally a thought-provoking piece.

Sample excerpt:

The first line of Robert Hass’s first collection, Field Guide, which won the Yale Series of Younger Poets Award in 1973, is “I won’t say much for the sea.” This offhand repurposing of idiom, funny and insightful, is characteristic of his poems—of course he goes on to say a million things for and about the sea. Field Guide was acclaimed, as each succeeding book would be, for Hass’s facility in translating into poems what is ridiculously referred to as the “natural world.” In the first three poems alone, we find: steelhead, mushrooms, apricots, gulls, sea cucumbers, slugs, a walnut tree, ironwood, waxwings, pyracantha, cliffs, bluffs, artichokes, a salt creek, owl’s clover, lupine, berries, hawthorns, laurels, “clams, abalones, cockles, chitons, crabs,” salmon, swamp grass, and a skunk. The preoccupation with nonhuman life is inextricable from a compulsive onomamania: “Earth-wet, slithery, / we drifted toward the names of things”; “I recite the hard/explosive names of birds: / egret, killdeer, bittern, tern.” This impulse is explained, sort of, in “Maps”:

Of all the laws 

that bind us to the past

the names of things are

stubbornest

When Hass’s pintails and blue-winged teals are lined up in a row, the deftness of his observations almost rivals that of the haiku masters he has so memorably translated: in a restaurant’s tank, “coppery lobsters scuttling over lobsters.” But as the above verse suggests, Hass is also given to pedantic soothsaying, telling the reader how it is in tones that suggest he is just slightly winded from having jogged down the slopes of Parnassus. The poetry takes on the tenor of the lecture hall, the quality of prose statement: Of all the laws that bind us to the past, the names of things are stubbornest. Is this true? Is it even meaningful?

Ruin, I Promise, Won't be Mentioned Again

My friend and mentor, Dean Young is currently in the hospital, waiting for a heart transplant.  I publish these two poems as a miniature ode to Dean, who is not only a great poet, but a great man.  (For more information on Dean's health, including a link that will let you donate to help Dean's medical costs, go here.)

Acceptance Speech

BY DEAN YOUNG

This time I’m not going to say a thing   

about deity. It’s not the blizzard,

it’s three days after. Trinkle from thawing   

roofs, ruined crocus pronging through.   

Ruin, I promise, won’t be mentioned again.   

Trees, sure, still begging in the road, split

to the bole but this isn’t about the chainsaw.   

A pruning saw will have to do. The puppets   

aren’t hanging themselves in each other’s   

strings. Everyone’s easily identifiable

beneath the funny mask. Somewhere in Oregon,

Mary has another month to go, she’s comfortable   

in any position for thirty-five seconds. Lulu,   

we know you’re in there but no one’s   

blaming you for reluctance to come out.   

Poetry is the grinding of a multiplicity   

throwing off sparks, wrote Artaud

and look what that got him: toothlessness

and shock therapy. Your dad, who has the worst   

teeth of anyone I know, once ordered eggplant   

in a steakhouse. Do not order eggplant   

in a steakhouse turned out to be more   

than aphoristicly true. Do not spend a lot   

of time in an asylum writing cruel poems   

if you can help it, one Artaud is enough.   

In Kandinsky’s Blue 2, there’s a shape   

in two rows of shapes that seems okay   

although to the right’s a capsized canoe   

full of mathematicians, to the left a bow   

about to launch the killer astrolabe.   

By what manner is the soul joined to

the body? How about climbing a ladder   

of fire? No thanks. On TV, a rhino’s

lying in some red dust, munching a thorn.   

You wouldn’t think he could ejaculate

for half an hour straight, but you’d be wrong.   

See that cloud, it might weigh 10,000 pounds   

which is about average for a cloud.   

Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.

Tony says Mary is always writing about the sacred.   

Talcum powder, binoculars, this decimated   

planet. I know, a promise has been made   

but Tony’s been sick for years and no one   

knows with what. Flax oil, bark tinctures,   

corticosteroids. He’s not exactly someone   

you’d trust to drive your car, but still.

Something awful’s coming, isn’t it?   

Would it help if I said Amen?

Sean Penn Anti-Ode

BY DEAN YOUNG

Must Sean Penn always look like he’s squeezing

the last drops out of a sponge and the sponge

is his face? Even the back of his head grimaces.

Just the pressure in his little finger alone

could kill a gorilla. Remember that kid

whose whole trick was forcing blood into his head

until he looked like the universe’s own cherry bomb

so he’d get the first whack at the piñata?

He’s grown up to straighten us all out

about weapons of mass destruction

but whatever you do, don’t ding his car door with yours.

Don’t ask about his girlfriend’s cat.

Somewhere a garbage truck beeps backing up

and in these circumstances counts as a triumph of sanity.

Sleet in the face, no toilet paper,

regrets over an argument, not investing wisely,

internment of the crazy mother, mistreatment

of laboratory animals.

Life, my friends, is ordinary crap.

Pineapple slices on tutu-wearing toothpicks.

Those puke bags in the seatback you might need.

The second DVD only the witlessly bored watch.

Some architectural details about Batman’s cape.

Music videos about hairdos, tattoos, implants and bling.

The crew cracking up over some actor’s flub.