Because It's Saturday: Ann Miller

Many people have idols, drag queens especially. There's a lot to be said about the type of idols we choose, but mine is a natural fit: Ann Miller, queen of taps and all-around wonderful person.

If I can be half as sweet, tolerant, and tight-lipped as Ann was, I think I can probably die and go to heaven. She died a few years ago -- still sweet, still down-to-earth, still tight-lipped -- and it's my GREAT regret that I never got to meet her.

Here's Ann in "On the Town." Her life was full of tragedies, one of which that she was paired with lunkheads like Jules Munshin. Ignore that, get a kick out of her "kicking and spinning," and reflect a moment on a B-starlet who never kissed butt or talked sh*t. Ann, some of us cared deeply for you.

Some of us still do the "Ann Miller Hand Gesture," which I'll demonstrate again soon.


PS: Re-reading this, I realize it sounds funny. What I meant was that I ASPIRE to Ann Miller-hood, and I respect her immensely, but I do not think I come close to reaching her Ann-ness. Yet.

The Barthathon: "The Friday Book"

My first problem is that I'm not a huge fan of essay collections. I'm not much interested in theory, so long essays about postmodernism versus modernism are going to leave me pretty cold. Even when they AREN'T desperate and wanky.

My second problem is that I'm not a huge fan of "The Thousand and One Nights." I read the first volume in preparation for tackling "The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor" a few years ago, and I found the stories to be repetitive and colourless: cardboard characters, rudimentary motivation, and every woman described as somehow rivaling the moon in beauty...which is sort of hard to picture. I have no doubt, however, that my two fat "Penguin" volumes were heavily edited. Maybe I missed something.

Since I don't share Barth's love of (or rather, somewhat creepy obsession about) Scheherazade, I'm not absorbed by speculation about her menstrual cycle. Since I'm not very concerned with Barth's definition of "postmodernism," I'm not absorbed by his essays and lectures about the subject. In short, though it contains many wonderful insights, I wasn't awed by "The Friday Book" (1984) in general.

My basic stumbling block was the constant repetition of Barth's personal interests. These pieces were written and performed for diverse audiences, and therefore they tended to come back to the same themes and plunder each other (right down to individual quotations and the same set of phrases) without fear of being boring. This is to be expected, but it's obnoxious when you know what's coming next..."ah, it's that Khakheperesenb quote again." His quips and quotes were apt and brilliant the first time, but they get old the second time around.

Also (to continue my issues with the basic structure of the book) I got tired of his oft-repeated reference points: Virgil, Homer, Kafka, Borges, Gass, Borges, Joyce, Nabokov, Borges, Hawkes, Gardner, Marquez, Cervantes, Flaubert, Chaucer, Dickens, Borges, and Borges. These are important figures, and Barth obviously thinks about them an awful lot, but after a while his ruminations got tiresome.

In short: do not sit down and just read "The Friday Book" from cover-to-cover, especially not during a single week, with the almost Barthian desire to actually FINISH it on Friday. Which I did, because I'm on a mission.

If you pick and choose essays, however, I think you'll enjoy the book an awful lot. Barth has a unique, intelligent, and witty insight into the literature that he reads, teaches, and writes. His comparison of crab-art with historical novels is fascinating, and his many comments about "Chimera" have made me want to go back and re-read it...there's obviously more to that book than I'd thought.

He also has a strikingly individualistic approach to society, politics, and art; far from a knee-jerk leftist or reactionary, he seems to have charted his own path (much the way the heroes in his fiction do). Instead of either deriding or triumphing any particular point of view, he explains how the viewpoints work, how they don't work, and then he suggests methods of their improvement. I particularly like his comments about innocence:

One should be no great admirer of innocence, in either narratives, individuals, or cultures. Where it's genuine, after a certain age it's unbecoming, off-putting, even freakish and dangerous. Where it's false, it's false. To admire it much is patronizing and sentimental; to aspire to it is self-defeating. Let us admire--in cultures, narratives, and people--not innocence, but experience and grace.

I bet he was a great professor.

Another of Barth's virtues is his ability to clarify his points after the fact, and to admit when he's changed his point of view. Since these essays were written over a twenty-year period, it's unsurprising that he'd change his mind about a few things. Barth DOES have experience and grace, and both traits come through in this rich (but clunky) book. Skim it, carefully read the selections that interest you, and then go and explore those amazing authors he so desperately loves.

All the traditional Barth themes are here, and expounded upon, and repeated, and then analyzed...multiple times. His autobiographical memories of twinhood -- he was named "Jack" and his twin sister was "Jill" -- shed light on a number of his literary obsessions and foreshadow (if I remember correctly) parts of "On With the Story." He also exploits a theme that was only first explicitly mentioned in "Sabbatical," that is, the occasional need to go back in order to go forward.

I was ALMOST Elected Governor of Massachusetts!

Jon Whitney just told me that people in Massachusetts are driving around with a "Don't blame me, I voted for Muffy" bumper sticker on their cars.

Apparently I got 44% of the vote in last year's gubernatorial race...and I didn't even know the issues! I didn't attend a single debate, I didn't raise funds, and I need to look back-and-forth several times between open web browsers before I can figure out how to spell "Massachusetts."

I'm going to re-ignite my campaign right now, and I'll start by giving the people exactly what they want: a recording of Joan Davis singing -- you guessed it -- "Massachusetts." You'll love it! You'll love me! You'll even build me a Governor's mansion!

PS: I now consider Jon to be my personal campaign advisor, as he's already getting me up to speed with the American political process. He just taught me that it's not a "Governor's race" (as I posted yesterday) but is, in fact, a "gubernatorial race," which sounds like a joke but it isn't!

Next up: Fahrenheit-to-Celsius conversion.

To Those Who Destroy Saplings

Ever since I've started walking (instead of driving), I have come to appreciate trees. I used to climb them as a child but I don't remember THINKING about them...if there were no more trees to climb, I would have done something else instead (like read the books that the trees were cut down for).

But now I see them differently. During these increasingly hot summers, a tree-lined road is a blessing. They also serve as windbreaks, and homes for birds and squirrels, and they're beautiful things: they make a sound, they have a complexity, they have a visual softness. The big ones are older than you and I, and they're still going strong...strong enough to rip up our sidewalks and tear down our phone lines when they die and fall.

And yet, every major construction project in Waterloo has involved what appears to be a blithe disregard for trees. Many of the old trees on the west side of King street have been removed to make way for Uptown development, the Bauer Lofts destroyed some really beautiful foliage, and Waterloo's upgrading of the sewage system around the University resulted in the destruction of (probably) hundreds of trees. These places are bare now; the wind blows too strongly, the sun is too bright, and the animals...?

Maybe those trees were dying or something. Maybe, if construction companies were required to somehow protect the trees, they would just refuse to do these worthwhile projects. Or maybe it's laziness, short-sightedness, and indifference...I think it's the latter.

Whenever ten trees are cut down, developers see it in their hearts to plant a single sapling. That's at least SOMETHING, and it's heartening to see these little trees grow every year. But then...

...some drunken yahoo comes along and kicks them down. There is a special place in hell for these scumbags, and I imagine that place is full of nubile saplings, and full of girls who they want to impress, but when they kick the saplings they accidentally vomit instead. Sadly, life is not hell, and over the past month many of the saplings along King Street -- ones that had been growing for five years or so and were ALMOST strong enough to withstand a kick -- have been broken in two and their corpses removed.

Every day now, I walk past half a dozen little piles of sawdust where the saplings used to be. The City probably won't bother planting more. Strong, living things were killed for no reason whatsoever, and the future will be very hot indeed. This is sad. I HATE people who kick down saplings.

I'd Buy Anything By...Butthole Surfers

They were my guilty young-adult pleasure, a mixture of virtuosity, insanity, incompetence, and drugs. I remember many a night spent with like-minded friends, laughing hysterically to "Kuntz" and gazing at that baby on the back of "Locust Abortion Technician." I almost got into a car accident while listening to "Lonesome Bulldog," and I once punished a hung-over acquaintance by playing "Jimi" while driving him home.

The Butthole Surfers were my party soundtrack, my "altered state" soundtrack, and my late-night drive soundtrack. They scared me with "Cherub" and amazed me with "John E. Smoke." I just couldn't believe that human beings could behave the way they did...and I'm still baffled. I can't listen to them without wondering "why?" and then, seconds later, "how?"

I can't say I'm as in love with them now as I was then -- we've all gotten older, of course -- but they still make me happy, and I'll still pick up their music unconditionally.

And now their cover of "Hurdy Gurdy Man." When I watch this I imagine that the entire band smelled, and not just because they shared a stage with "Ta-da the Sh*t Lady."



Albums to buy? That's a hard one, but I'd single out "Hairway to Steven" as instantly accessible though still very much "Buttholes." Albums to avoid? "Electriclarryland," which sounds a bit tired and desperate. For fans only? Anything live.

Soundproof Your Floor and Your Head

I see from my blog stats that lots of people are looking for soundproofing tips. They come here because I've whined about living in a duplex with wooden floors, holes in the walls, and a barking dog.

I've already explained the importance of stuffing "tundra foam" (or some other foamy substance) into baseboard-cracks, and filling up smaller cracks with "DAP Quik Seal" (or some other sealant). This stops higher-frequency noises (like chatter) and cigarette smoke from drifting in. If you find that your wooden floors have small cracks in them, you might considering putting down a thick rug...I know that the holes from my neighbour's apartment travel underneath my hall and bedroom floors.

But what about the thumps and the barking? I can't block that stuff out of the ENTIRE apartment -- we share a huge common wall that seems to actually TRANSMIT sound -- but I have two techniques for getting to sleep.

First, a box-fan. Get one that's a little bit noisy (but doesn't rattle) and put it outside your bedroom door, in between you and "the noise." If low-frequency bumps are traveling through the floor (as they often do), the fan will not only block atmospheric noise but will also help jam the "floor-signals." If your bed is transmitting those frequencies from the floor and into your mattress, try putting over-stuffed pillows under the bed's legs.

Second, earplugs. If earplugs have never worked for you before, I bet it's because you either didn't buy the right ones or you didn't insert them properly. I'm using "Rexall" foam plugs. I twist them into little cone-shaped corkscrews, pull on the top of my ears (to open the ear canals), push them inside (in the direction of my nose, which seems to work best), then hold the plugs until they untwist and expand. They aren't exactly comfortable -- and hearing your own heartbeat can be disconcerting -- but I've gotten used to them.

And hey, throw out the earplugs when they start to get gross. Fresh ones work the best.

Pridetoberfest II!

All my energy these days is devoted to preparing for "Pridetoberfest II!" You simply have to come: I'm DJ'ing again, along with the fabulous J.P. And I hope you're as thrilled as I am that the B-Girlz are signed up!

And when I say I'm "preparing" for it, I mean I'm working on the "no-hats" hairdo, getting the music together, and learning to iron organza without melting it (much). The outfit is finished and is still awaiting a name...when you see it, let me know if it should be called "Ilsa on Ice" or "Cinderellastein."

This Saturday, 7pm at the Karlsberghaus. Let's have FUN!

Taxi Dancers

Lawrence Morris Markey joined The New Yorker at the very beginning, and as of 1928 he was still writing his weekly "Reporter at Large" column. His reportage would be stopped in 1950 by a rifle bullet, long after he'd left the magazine and started writing novels.

I look forward to his articles because -- as I've said before -- they're often the only serious note in an otherwise flippant magazine. As part of his "New York Interiors" series, Markey explored the places that New Yorker readers rarely went: flophouses, tugboat cabins, construction sites, phrenologist's offices, choir practice. On April 21, 1928, he investigated a dance hall and -- in particular -- the lives of taxi dancers.

I'm fascinated with this by-gone profession, and I'm happy to hear that it still exists in so-called "Hostess Clubs." I hope they make more money these days; the women that Markey interviewed were making three cents a dance. By the 1930s, Anita O'Day was singing about "Ten Cents a Dance," so I suppose they'd gotten raises.

Markey really brings "The Happiness Hall" to life, along with its customs:

Lack of ventilation and the activity of so many bodies made the heat grow in the room. The saxophone player removed his coat. The faces of the girls were flushed. The odors of bay rum and cheap perfume became thick and unpleasant. In the short interval between dances, the girls talked idly with their partners or, deserted by their partners in the middle of the floor, roamed about in search of others. It was not rude, apparently, to complete your dance with a girl and promptly walk away from her. The girls accepted the custom with good grace.

And what about the men?

They did not seem like people out for a gay lark. There was no romance in their presence. The procedure was altogether businesslike, and well-ordered. Perhaps the men were, for the most part, the lonely inhabitants of hall bedrooms. Perhaps they came to "Happiness Hall" for no more sinister purpose than to find, for a little while, an acceptable semblance of that pleasant society which all men desire. They did not look upon the girls with greedy eyes.

After having stilted conversations with some busy (and suspicious) taxi dancers -- it's "all about business," they say -- Markey gives a nod to the "working girl" of 1928:

The music was blaring again--the drummer and the pianist had their coats off now. The men standing around the walls were mopping their foreheads. The girls were dancing--they would dance until one o'clock. I suppose only a few of them were able to forget that tomorrow they would be at their counters in Bloomingdale's, or Macy's, or Gimbel's.

These women were paid so little that they pretty much HAD to have a secondary source of income, whether it be gift-giving boyfriends or a "night job."

iTunes Word Search: "Cat"

In honour of all those who do NOT have noisy pets (and while my OWN pet waits eagerly for the last drop of milk in my cereal bowl), here are the "cat" songs that showed up on my iPod yesterday:

1. Alley Cat Song (Holly Cole)
2. Big Electric Cat (Adrian Belew)
3. Boss Cat (Marc and the Mambas)
4. Burn the Cat (James)
5. Catnip Dream (Shonen Knife)
6. Cat's Eyes (Guillemots)
7. Catwalk (The Art of Noise)
8. Cool for Cats (Squeeze)
9. Facts About Cats (Timbuk 3)
10. Faster Pussycat (The Cramps)
11. Fat Cat (Bootsy Collins)
12. I Call My Baby Pussycat (Parliament)
13. Josie and the Pussycats (Josie & the Pussycats)
14. Long Way Down -- Look What the Cat Drug In (Michael Penn)
15. Macavity the Mystery Cat (Sarah Brightman)
16. Pink Pussy Cat (Devo)
17. Psychic Cat (Kelli Ali)
18. The Pussy Cat Song (Connie Vannett)
19. Pussycat Meow (Deee-Lite)
20. Six Cats on a Dead Man's Chest (Edward Ka-Spel)
21. Tommy the Cat (Primus)
22. Top Cat (Ramasutra)
23. What's New, Pussycat? (Tom Jones)
24. Wildcat Days (Bryan Ferry)

As is to be expected, most of these songs are not about actual felines. They're about sexy women, scrappy people, sly people, cool people, and rich people. So I guess I'm keeping good company, and I'd really better give her the milk she's asking for.

Underworld Slang: "The Lamster"

No, it's not a story about a cuddly rodent, it's another excerpt from The New Yorker's series about "underworld slang." Once again I leave the translation up to you.

A shaum I knew came over one day and told me the beef was in. My partner figured the rumble was too hot and to square himself he fingered me. I tried to connect for a roscoe but missed. Anyway, I went out to tamp up this partner of mine. I found him in a gin-mill playing Santa Claus for a couple of blondes. The dive was crowded but that was no hold-back for me. I declared my weight to the guy and called him a fink and then asked him to step out. He had to go then and right hands was trumps. I got this shiner for my end but I put him out of the picture. Somebody hollered "Jiggers!" and I lammed out the hammer and tack.

(This is from the April 21, 1928 edition).