THE CHANGING of seasons can be especially welcome when life has not been going very well. Because the best fact pertaining to hard times is this: Things change. New seasons are solid reassurance of just how deeply rooted this fact is. Some places have four true seasons, but California really just has the one great switch, sun to rain and back again. Where I grew up, in the desert, the rain part wasn't much. Maybe that's why rain does not carry, for me, the gloomy associations it does for many.
I miss rain now just as much as I miss sun each February. It's October and hot. My spine didn't quite work well enough this summer for my garden care to compete with four months of pure Cali sunshine. The south-facing slope is Riverside-baked. Ten-foot cardoon skeleton. Strawberries leaves brown and crisp. Young lavenders are pulling in on themselves. The alyssum is all stem and seed stalks. Even the crabgrass is yellowed, though still cocky as shit. The Gambusia fish in the water garden are sick to death of having to rely on me to treat water for chloramines and add it to their habitat.
The Gambusias are waiting for rain and the plants are waiting and the worms are waiting and the dusty car is waiting and I am waiting for rain.
We humans can only be briefly in love with the feel of rain. It is exhilarating for a few dozen drops (more if you are in The Notebook or East of Eden), but irritating after that.
But the smell of rain! Ah! What is it? Is it made in the atmosphere or does it result from drops contacting the stuff of Earth? Is it an earthy smell or, like Steinbeck says, "the sweet odor of ozone"? How much of it can be replicated watering a dry yard? This would be a good test.
And the sound of rain! Really an orchestra of sounds: water drop percussion on every exposed surface. Floppy drumming on calla leaves, soft and absorptive concrete contact, pattering on windows while you sleep.
You can grow tired of rain--or sun, or snow. But a force of nature you haven't experienced in a while has magic. No point trying to remember what it felt like to be sick of rain, and longing for sun.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Hurston, Moses and the Responsibilities of Freedom
SUMMER BOOK REPORT
Moses, Man of the Mountain
Zora Neale Hurston
HERE CAME ZORA, to tell me a story I've heard thirty-three times and make it new. Moses, Man of the Mountain is the Exodus story, which I've heard each year on Passover, told in a 1930s southern African American voice. It's like Siddhartha's half-black half-Jewish cousin.
Hurston's biblical characters are not idealized. Aaron is flagrantly annoying; Miriam is bitterly asexual and petty (a far cry from the feminist hero of Debbie Friedman songs and lefty Haggadahs); Zipporah is kinda superficial; Pharoah is not an avataric demon, but a man flawed by grudges and pomposity. Moses is heroic, but in the manner of a real person: arguing with himself about the right things to do, mad at the feebleness of others, forever hated upon.
MOSES SUFFERS the burdens of leadership, and his poll numbers swing with the Israelites shifting fortunes. They are capable of idolizing him when things go well, but even happier to blame him when things go wrong, at which point they go on about how they were better off under Pharoah. Instead of assessing the man and what he has done or tried to do, they take a look around and wail, He's in charge! And everything sucks!
Leaders make sacrifices. Hair grays; privacy disappears and responsibilities never do. You might want to just go hoop with Malia or whatever, but the lives of other people are in your hands, and a true leader is acutely aware of the fact. For all the worry: you may never see the Promised Land.
THIS BOOK also concerns what my Bat Mitzvah speech rather bombastically called 'The Responsibilities of Freedom.' Much as a slave yearns to be free, and celebrates when freed, the moment of liberation is actually only the beginning of a rough climb. Just the unshackling is not freedom. The enslaved have been robbed of the opportunity to grow minds and wills of their own; the Israelites spent forty years in the desert battling to become free selves before they could enter the Promised Land.
Hurston writes:
Moses, Man of the Mountain
Zora Neale Hurston
HERE CAME ZORA, to tell me a story I've heard thirty-three times and make it new. Moses, Man of the Mountain is the Exodus story, which I've heard each year on Passover, told in a 1930s southern African American voice. It's like Siddhartha's half-black half-Jewish cousin.Hurston's biblical characters are not idealized. Aaron is flagrantly annoying; Miriam is bitterly asexual and petty (a far cry from the feminist hero of Debbie Friedman songs and lefty Haggadahs); Zipporah is kinda superficial; Pharoah is not an avataric demon, but a man flawed by grudges and pomposity. Moses is heroic, but in the manner of a real person: arguing with himself about the right things to do, mad at the feebleness of others, forever hated upon.
MOSES SUFFERS the burdens of leadership, and his poll numbers swing with the Israelites shifting fortunes. They are capable of idolizing him when things go well, but even happier to blame him when things go wrong, at which point they go on about how they were better off under Pharoah. Instead of assessing the man and what he has done or tried to do, they take a look around and wail, He's in charge! And everything sucks!
Leaders make sacrifices. Hair grays; privacy disappears and responsibilities never do. You might want to just go hoop with Malia or whatever, but the lives of other people are in your hands, and a true leader is acutely aware of the fact. For all the worry: you may never see the Promised Land.
THIS BOOK also concerns what my Bat Mitzvah speech rather bombastically called 'The Responsibilities of Freedom.' Much as a slave yearns to be free, and celebrates when freed, the moment of liberation is actually only the beginning of a rough climb. Just the unshackling is not freedom. The enslaved have been robbed of the opportunity to grow minds and wills of their own; the Israelites spent forty years in the desert battling to become free selves before they could enter the Promised Land.
Hurston writes:
[Moses] found out that no man can make another free. Freedom was something internal...All you could do was to give the opportunity for freedom and the man himself must make his own emancipation. He remembered how often he had had to fight Israel to halt a return to Egypt and slavery. Responsibility had seemed too awful to them time and time again.
THAT IS also a perfect example of how Hurston wrote. She chose simple words when fancy ones were not needed. Her version of the Exodus helped me think about two peoples, hers and mine, and the struggles they have faced in that long desert between Egypt and the Promised Land.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Of Strippers & Rappers
STRIPPERS AND rappers keep a curious symbiosis. In this "Rack City"-"No Hands" era, it is especially evident that rappers are great fans of strippers. Where the boast was once True pimp n****s spend no dough on the booty, it is now a point of pride to spend racks upon racks on the booty. One throws hunnids.
But despite their proud fandom, rappers--in thoughtful moods--view strippers with naive paternalism. Lil Wayne, as fanatical a stripper fan as there can be, and a critical thinker by his own estimation and mine, demonstrated this all too well in last year's "How To Love" video. The soft song was an admirable risk, and the video a well-made split narrative following two potential paths of a mother and daughter. Mother makes healthy choices and daughter becomes a smiling graduate. Mother makes poor choices and daughter becomes: a stripper.
The video is a variant on the tragic stripper fable. Due to hard life circumstances a decent woman must "resort" to stripping to feed herself or her children. She may be good, but her work is bad, and must corrupt and corrode her. In the "How To Love" video, bad daughter lets a skeezy white longhair take her home on what appears to be her first night dancing. He leaves money on the dresser and gives her HIV. I wonder how the accomplished pole dancers who work on Weezy's tour feel about this insultingly simplistic portrayal.
ALAS, THE SAME ATTITUDE underpinned Method Man's riveting 2005 documentary The Strip Game. Mef seems sincere in his mission to understand strippers, to humanize them. He and his film crew interview dozens of dancers from New York to LA. (He rainmakes on a few.) Their descriptions of their work run the same gamut most occupational interviews would: cynicism, enjoyment, burnout, professional detachment, amusement at the customer's expense, gratitude for having found lucrative self-employment. Some find the job titillating at times; others never.
Method Man sums up what he learned thusly:
Weezy and Mef and many of their ilk do respect strippers. (Many don't, of course.) But they can only officially articulate the "I respect that she's a hustler doin what she gotta do" interpretation. It would appear impossible to respect them for their talents as strippers. Controversial entertainers themselves, you'd think rappers would get it.
Indeed, many people who like rap--but can't quite accept that they do--employ similar mental gymnastics. Unable to reconcile enjoyment with disapproval, such types often end up listening to hip hop but belittling its makers.
I hope those shamefaced fans do buy the albums silly rappers make. And I hope the rappers keep tossing hunnids on those poor strippers. Let the dollar speak truth where the mind cannot.
But despite their proud fandom, rappers--in thoughtful moods--view strippers with naive paternalism. Lil Wayne, as fanatical a stripper fan as there can be, and a critical thinker by his own estimation and mine, demonstrated this all too well in last year's "How To Love" video. The soft song was an admirable risk, and the video a well-made split narrative following two potential paths of a mother and daughter. Mother makes healthy choices and daughter becomes a smiling graduate. Mother makes poor choices and daughter becomes: a stripper.The video is a variant on the tragic stripper fable. Due to hard life circumstances a decent woman must "resort" to stripping to feed herself or her children. She may be good, but her work is bad, and must corrupt and corrode her. In the "How To Love" video, bad daughter lets a skeezy white longhair take her home on what appears to be her first night dancing. He leaves money on the dresser and gives her HIV. I wonder how the accomplished pole dancers who work on Weezy's tour feel about this insultingly simplistic portrayal.
ALAS, THE SAME ATTITUDE underpinned Method Man's riveting 2005 documentary The Strip Game. Mef seems sincere in his mission to understand strippers, to humanize them. He and his film crew interview dozens of dancers from New York to LA. (He rainmakes on a few.) Their descriptions of their work run the same gamut most occupational interviews would: cynicism, enjoyment, burnout, professional detachment, amusement at the customer's expense, gratitude for having found lucrative self-employment. Some find the job titillating at times; others never.
Method Man sums up what he learned thusly:
I wanted to go up inside the clubs because I always felt like it was like this certain culture that nobody ever really on the outside can understand... The reason why the girls even feel like they gotta resort to the option a taking their clothes off for money...Picture a woman that gotta struggle with three kids by herself...she resorts to maybe going to the strip club, checking it out, and wants to take off her clothes for money because this is all she has left to do right here...So who are you to judge what anybody does to make their money.This is meant to be sympathetic. Heroizing even. But it paints the women as infantilized victims with only the merest speck of agency in their lives. The language of "resorting" didn't come from the interviews. It was what Mef expected to hear, so it was what he heard. He couldn't humanize his subjects enough to imagine that they might value or enjoy their work, though he values and enjoys it.
Weezy and Mef and many of their ilk do respect strippers. (Many don't, of course.) But they can only officially articulate the "I respect that she's a hustler doin what she gotta do" interpretation. It would appear impossible to respect them for their talents as strippers. Controversial entertainers themselves, you'd think rappers would get it.
Indeed, many people who like rap--but can't quite accept that they do--employ similar mental gymnastics. Unable to reconcile enjoyment with disapproval, such types often end up listening to hip hop but belittling its makers.
I hope those shamefaced fans do buy the albums silly rappers make. And I hope the rappers keep tossing hunnids on those poor strippers. Let the dollar speak truth where the mind cannot.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Nicki and a Lane of One's Own
Though I wanted my review to be just between me and Nicki's sophomore album, an interloper kept appearing. I found myself arguing with a straw man. In hipsterish dishevelment would he glance up from his Complex mag screen to hate upon Pink Friday: Roman Reloaded and pine for 'mixtape Nicki.'
His disdain crept in like a finger of frost, killing my enjoyment of tender annuals like "Starships" and "Masquerade." Nor could the solid rapping of "Stupid Hoe" please him; he facilely declared Nicki to be the stupid hoe, with her excessive weirdness and annoying voice. He called "Beez in the Trap" acceptable and gave "Champion" a mild cosign (though the latter came with open speculation about why Nas would thusly lower himself).
I will now muzzle the straw man so I can tell you how much I like this album. To placate him, I will begin where we most nearly agree.
When I (of course) pre-ordered the album and perused the track listing, I spotted "Champion," which purported to feature Drake, Jeezy and Nas. Imagine my delight. Within moments I'd cycled through the emotions, from thrilled anticipation to fear of dashed expectations to modest but fervent hope.
And indeed this song is really goddamn good. It opens on a soaring beat that sounds like a slow-mo finish line cross, arms aloft. "Chariots of Fire" for rap. Nicki sets the tone with a smooth blend of boast and ghetto-groundedness. Drizzy is no stranger to triumph and chimes in with Okay we made it to America and Nowadays blow the candles out don't even make a wish. And what's that I hear? Ah, the low smolder of the Jeezy growl! (I swear if Jeezy recorded Ulysses I could get through the shit.) Then Nas, the unimpeachable; one can but kneel and kiss the muhfuckn ring.
"Champion" also made me notice that Nicki's become quite the hookmistress. She's got the impactful wail on that song, a few licks learned perhaps from Gyptian for the islandy treat "Gunshot," the earborer "Right By My Side" chorus. I wanted to resent a pop&B song with Chris Brown, but resistance proved futile. If this is pop I'm getting really into pop.
The commonest naysayage about this album is exactly that: It's so pop, whines the straw man. I see it this way: Nicki composed a solid hip hop album, stacked with production, impeccable verses, the requisite guest spots. Then she got a bunch of sugary dancefloor beats, topped them with swag icing and rap sprinkles, and made the album half dessert. Hardly the worst thing.
It is understandable that most people prefer to hear Nicki rap rather than sing. That I get. But is not a rapper's top job to spit smart lyrics that sound slick? What part of "Beez" does that better than I'ma badbitch no muzzle or I am the ultimate Svengali/You bitches can't even spell that/You hoes buggin, repel that--both from straw man-dissaproved tracks? Could we not just as easily call "Beez" the pander and sappily sincere "Marilyn Monroe" or fantastically strange "Roman Holiday" the risks?
IN THE VIDEOPLOG EDITION: clips of aforementioned PF: RR tracks, my "Stupid Hoe" breakdown and cameos from the straw man.
Related posts:
Hey Nicki! Hey Nicki! Asthmatic Ode to Nicki Minaj
Millennial Rappers: The 2011 Albums
I will now muzzle the straw man so I can tell you how much I like this album. To placate him, I will begin where we most nearly agree.
When I (of course) pre-ordered the album and perused the track listing, I spotted "Champion," which purported to feature Drake, Jeezy and Nas. Imagine my delight. Within moments I'd cycled through the emotions, from thrilled anticipation to fear of dashed expectations to modest but fervent hope.
And indeed this song is really goddamn good. It opens on a soaring beat that sounds like a slow-mo finish line cross, arms aloft. "Chariots of Fire" for rap. Nicki sets the tone with a smooth blend of boast and ghetto-groundedness. Drizzy is no stranger to triumph and chimes in with Okay we made it to America and Nowadays blow the candles out don't even make a wish. And what's that I hear? Ah, the low smolder of the Jeezy growl! (I swear if Jeezy recorded Ulysses I could get through the shit.) Then Nas, the unimpeachable; one can but kneel and kiss the muhfuckn ring.
"Champion" also made me notice that Nicki's become quite the hookmistress. She's got the impactful wail on that song, a few licks learned perhaps from Gyptian for the islandy treat "Gunshot," the earborer "Right By My Side" chorus. I wanted to resent a pop&B song with Chris Brown, but resistance proved futile. If this is pop I'm getting really into pop.
The commonest naysayage about this album is exactly that: It's so pop, whines the straw man. I see it this way: Nicki composed a solid hip hop album, stacked with production, impeccable verses, the requisite guest spots. Then she got a bunch of sugary dancefloor beats, topped them with swag icing and rap sprinkles, and made the album half dessert. Hardly the worst thing.
Some of those pop songs happen to be great. "Va Va Voom" is a worthy successor to "Super Bass": bangingly superficial, and supportive of a cause dear to my heart, that of male objectification. "Pound the Alarm" could make me tear a club limb from limb. It contains this:
Which brings me to what I call The "Beez in the Trap" Paradox. It goes like so: if Nicki makes songs that flash the badge of hip hop cred (ooh a sing-songy old school chorus! measured, emphatic raps! manly swagger!) she is keeping it real. If she makes corny pop ballads or club bangers she is pandering and selling out.
Bottle, sip
Bottle, guzzle
I'ma badbitch no muzzle
Which brings me to what I call The "Beez in the Trap" Paradox. It goes like so: if Nicki makes songs that flash the badge of hip hop cred (ooh a sing-songy old school chorus! measured, emphatic raps! manly swagger!) she is keeping it real. If she makes corny pop ballads or club bangers she is pandering and selling out.
It is understandable that most people prefer to hear Nicki rap rather than sing. That I get. But is not a rapper's top job to spit smart lyrics that sound slick? What part of "Beez" does that better than I'ma badbitch no muzzle or I am the ultimate Svengali/You bitches can't even spell that/You hoes buggin, repel that--both from straw man-dissaproved tracks? Could we not just as easily call "Beez" the pander and sappily sincere "Marilyn Monroe" or fantastically strange "Roman Holiday" the risks?
Straw man may not like it, but there is an oft-corny popstar inside Nicki, and it has clearly been yearning to breathe free. Her pop efforts will fall flat on some ears, but I do believe this is the album Nicki wanted to make. Rap fans can be some conservative muthafuckas, and Nicki is pretty good at ignoring their shocked expressions every time she breaks code.
A rapper is not supposed to
dilute the brand by being too soft or weird or accessible. But Nicki could give
a fuck less what the rules are. Nor should an artist give a fuck what the rules are.
Nicki explodes out wildly in
every possible direction, no matter what happens to be in the way. For that reason she always
reminds me of the most important
thing: To thine own self be true. Always do you.
IN THE VIDEOPLOG EDITION: clips of aforementioned PF: RR tracks, my "Stupid Hoe" breakdown and cameos from the straw man.
Related posts:
Hey Nicki! Hey Nicki! Asthmatic Ode to Nicki Minaj
Millennial Rappers: The 2011 Albums
Thursday, March 22, 2012
"Shake N Fries" As Performed By My Hens
My writing game has been off due to...ya know. I'm getting it back, but meanwhile please enjoy these video offerings.
You might also like "It Was a Good Day" as performed by my hens.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
The Adventures of Chronic Pain Barbie
It's never a dull moment in the life of Chronic Pain Barbie! Her adventures include stretching all day, getting misunderstood & disqualifying for disability--all while lookin fly.
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