Ambiguous Allure: 80s Nostalgia

Who's the guy in shades? That's Tommy Tutone. Y'know, the guy that did 867-5309 (Jenny). Here's a song that seems to epitomize the early 80s, done up with the style and glamor of New Wave: jangly guitars, power-pop crunch, Raspberries somewhere in the DNA, perhaps even Byrds: yet plugging into the 80s Zeitgeist through its deliberate frivolity, its obvious jokiness. That's rock in the 80s for me: with a few notable exceptions, it was a decade of jokes. Remember Centerfold? Or Rockwell, that dazzling behemoth, crooning (I always feel like) Somebody's Watching Me? Van Halen got famous by crossing Led Zeppelin with Mel Brooks; see the Hot For Teacher video (& that's not counting the humorless & irrelevant Hagar Halen incarnation). The list goes on and on. As young as I was during the 80s, I still get nostalgic for them sometimes. It was an era in which all the significance which had accrued to rock in 60s and 70s (& which was to reappear in the 90s) dissipated. As in the 50s, rock was merely fun. Looking at videos from the 80s, one is reminded of a certain (like a) virginal innocence. Really, there is more substance in Breakfast Club than there is in most rock from this period. Yet, I find certain kinds of 80s music strangely alluring, mostly because it reminds me of being a kid again. Genius though he is, even Prince's videos from this period look pretty gauche and camp. Reliving the 80s can bring one back to a love of kitsch, its intellect-solving power. As somebody (I think Graham Greene) once said, it's amazing how potent cheap music can be. Amen, and here's to John Hughes, Pac-Man, and Men Without Hats.

Skinny Dipping in Darkness

Two babes ape grown-up
love in a rut in the Atherton
Hilton. It is dog-muggy July.
Endless unskilled fucking— no
buttons pressed, no deep sucks.
It is messy & clean, soporific
as skinny dipping in darkness.
He needs a glass of water; she
wants orange juice. TV is on.
It goes on & on like this for
days. He is ten sheets to the
moon. He flipped, he’s mad.
She is protecting him, her
insides geared to holding.
They do not know yet how
things become undone. They
think that a good come is a
come for good. Sun goes down.

PFS Presents Pictures, courtesy Timothy Yu

Coda

I would like to add a coda to yesterday's post. This is something I've always wanted to say publicly, and it dovetails with what I said yesterday. It isn't just that, in a very real sense, I owe my existence to the United States; the larger truth is that the United States is the best thing that's ever happened to/for Jewish people. We have enjoyed unparalleled freedom here and, especially on the liberal East Coast, unparalleled lack of anti-Semitic prejudice. I have lived my entire life as a Jewish man without ever having felt hemmed in, discriminated against, or shunned owing to my heritage. My own personal path has deviated very significantly from what my ancestors would have wanted; I'm always dating shiksas, I do not celebrate Jewish holidays (or even consider myself a practicing Jew), my life is filled with goyim, I even have a tattoo, fer chrissakes; nevertheless, having had a Bar Mitzvah, I call myself a Jew, consider myself a Jew, and I feel that it is really only in the US that I can do this and not run the risk of being mocked and/or hated. It is ironic that I'm always talking up anti-Semites like Pound, Eliot, Stevens, Cummings, etc.; but, to put things in perspective, anti-Semitism was very fashionable between the World Wars. The freedom my people have enjoyed in this country is reason enough for me to love it. I would not deny that we're going through a bleak period, but all nations go through bleak periods. And, while I'm certainly no fan of Bill O'Reilly, the fickle-minded Europeans who have decided to hate America are no better, in my book. Are we still riding the good karma we earned by saving the world from Hitler? Probably. But I think one hundred years good karma is utterly appropriate for such a deed. Now, I'm going to shut up, and tomorrow it's back to art. Thanks for listening.

Why I Do Not Address Politics Here

Several people in Philly have asked me why I do not address political issues on this blog. It has, in fact, been a conscious decision on my part not to do so. The primary reason is this: while I have plenty to say about politics, and specifically the political landscape in America, I have nothing original to say about this landscape. I feel roughly the same as every other dyed-in-the-wool liberal in this country. I hate Bush (enough to not even italicize his name), I hate his regime, I hate more or less everything he's done. Yet, at this point, even for a conscientious citizen, Bush-whacking is passe. We all know he's a crook and probably an imbecile, we all know that Cheney wears the pants in the family, we all know that this administration has gotten away with murder, deceit, and Constitution-abuse time and time again. The point is that very little can be done at the moment. We are all waiting for the 2008 elections, for some kind of new start to revitalize a flagging patriotism, a flagging sense of our own national dignity and destiny. I feel that preaching to the converted would be a waste of time, that "making my voice heard" is less important than speaking in an effective & timely way. I love this country very much; I owe it my life. My ancestors were Jewish peasants in Austria and Poland; had there been no US for them to emigrate to, they would almost surely have been wiped out in WWII. Thus, no Adam. Nevertheless, I choose to make my political statement simply by making a life for myself as an artist, in the midst of a mercenary society. Every poem I write and publish is a political act, whether I'm writing about language or Opera or sex or transcendence. Others have more interesting things to say about politics; I am happy to admit my naivete and talk about other things. A blog is a public forum, and me talking about politics would be like Hawking talking about terza rima. Do I rant & rave in private? Of course.

A Separate Peace

Its always surprised me that more people aren't into A Separate Peace. The book is widely taught; almost everyone reads it, either in high school or in junior high; yet it remains more-or-less unmentioned, by poets and other literary people. I love it. I can return to it over and over again and always find something new. I spent some time flipping through it yesterday. What struck me most is the deceptive simplicity of the story. Boy betrays boy, boy knocks boy out of a tree, boy dies. However, John Knowles skillfully adds layers of irony. The primary irony is that the dichotomy that fuels the book's momentum, war vs. peace, takes place in two or three places simultaneously-- between Gene and Phineas (the protagonists), between Devon School's traditional past and war-effected future, and, of course, in the wider world, WWII itself. In the context of the book, the most salient war is between Gene and Finny. It is a psychological war that turns tragically physical. I've always found Gene an amazing character, for the simple reason that despite his heinous crime, he goes about his business with seemingly little guilt. Even when Finny dies, Gene remains composed. It must be a WASP thang. A Jewish person would push Finny out of a tree, and then feel so guilty that he'd have to jump out of the same tree himself. Not to make broad generalizations..in any case, it is still, in its way, a beautiful and terrible book for me. Maybe not a poet's novel, as such, like Nadja or Her, but a moving testament to the awful power of jealousy and misunderstanding to wreak havoc in human life. Oy vey is meir...

Andrew Lundwall: Speed Demon #1

We came back from the reading on Friday, some of us tipsy. We all pretty much crashed immediately. I woke Saturday morning semi-comatose. I expected Andrew, sleeping in Steve's living room, to be similarly non compos mentis. Instead, he was bright, chipper, and ready with a new poem to show me. Andrew Lundwall, a Speed Demon for all time. This is the poem that Andrew somehow found the fortitude to write after a wild night out, and while the rest of us slept.

CHICAGO

chicago wind hair
spontaneously making noise
out there it's out there
plucked me from crazy wilderness
the sticks sniffling stoogey
o wild flower inebriated as a loon
what is it that spiritual graffitti
that follows you big lettered "poet"
through halls asteroid
upon halls asteroid hellishly
what in what gentle way
will i fuck her tonight
in her prime my twilit dancer
this place these prancing people
amongst them demonically cupie
my pulpit is shabby like dolls shaved balls
i'm ultimate lush reverend drunk
the killer the pubic hair
caught in your coffee
so irish feel my name kiss me
swim around you in august heat
and the one that asked of me
where's your girlfriend at
what's her answer
where's her tropic where are you
this alliance these vague conversations
about studliness and self-reliance
kerouac i wish i were free too
my lowell my crop my lover so pre-
occupied me i'm so so pre-cummy
and there's this everything hooking up
and you should be too harbinger
warped by your binge wrapped around
spooked in your haunted closet

Kerouac & Bukowski

My last day in Chicago, Steve & I watched two documentaries, one on Charles Bukowkski, one on Jack Kerouac. Seeing them together, back to back, was like seeing the mensch vs. the mooch. They are both fantastic writers, with one major difference between them-- Bukowski was able to function as an adult in the real world; Kerouac lingered for his entire adult life in a kind of post-adolescent limbo. This may explain why, ultimately, I found Bukowski more appealing. Here is a man who paid his dues on every conceivable level-- forced to work dead-end jobs, to find time to write (& drink) during off-hours, Bukowski nonetheless whipped and beat himself into artistic potency. By the time he got to write the poems & novels we all know him for, he had a great store of hard-won worldly (maybe sub-worldly) wisdom. Every word he wrote was informed by a great, decades-long struggle just to survive. Kerouac, fluid & beautific though he might've been, did not have to struggle this way. He let others (usually his family) carry him. Thus, Gregory Corso calling him a very intelligent baby may be taken more literally than might first be expected. Bukowski was tough; Kerouac was soft. Kerouac's natural gift probably exceeds Bukowski's; but, in literature, there's the gift and then the grit. On the grit level, there's no contest: it's game, set, and match to Hank. Of course, competitive thinking can be more than a little suspect, i.e. why not let Buk & Kerouac each have a separate, equal sphere. Here, what I am comparing is not artistic achievement but human achievement. That's what these documentaries were about; encountering these two writers as people. I found that on this level, Bukowski would be the man to talk to if you want straight talk about the real world bullshit that we all have to go through all the time. Kerouac is probably best met simply on the page. These two are equal, but separate, just like art and life. I, personally, have great sympathy for the mensch, so tough, so resilient. Though I still don't like beer.