Working Title: bitching/loving

Working Title: Bitching/Loving


there is an image of a beautiful lady sitting in the shower* that is evoked by a song titled "miss america" from blur's (an"english alternative rock band") sophomore effort, a long player often dubbed one of the first proper "britpop" albums. the ditty is whimsical, forlorn, snarky, brooding and... (of course) ironic.  the listener is treated with:  
                                                                                                                                                                   

                                                                                                                                                                                      

she's a well wisher and she wishes you well

wish away, wish away

she's no jellybean, she a jemima ho ho,
wish away, wish away

what frontman damon albarn was doing--perhaps--was leaving an ode to a gynoid or fembot nostalgia, or--better yet--denouncing it, as the satiristic tone of the lyric suggests. no matter, it's a hauntingly beautiful, trivial, and pitiful experience (could be likened to the embarrassingly painful "map" response from the 2007 south carolina miss teen u.s.a. http://whttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lj3iNxZ8Dww).

 

anyway, the title for the anglocentric album derived from stenciled graffiti that bore the phrase "Modern Life Is Rubbish" that albarn spotted whilst strolling down bayswater road in london.  he later said of the phrase that he thought it "the most significant comment on popular culture since 'anarchy in the uk'"1. the "rubbish" for albarn symbolized the accumulation of pulp over time that hinders creativity and progression.  much of the albums lyrics are directly praising modern suburban life in england whilst simultaneously denouncing the existence of the middle-class.  it also views modern america through a cynical lens juxtaposed with indriectly singing its praises. since english suburbia was very much 'americanized' by the early nineties, the songs of 'rubbish' insinuate alburn's admiration for it, without directly saying it. but of course the tool of irony is used liberally throughout the record, and this can both enlighten and elude the listener.

"jim stops and gets out the car,
goes to a house in emperor's gate,
through the door and to his room,
and then he puts the t.v. on.  turns
it off and makes some tea, says
Modern Life Is Rubbish"

the point of this jabber is to illustrate the point of comparing two unlike things not using like or as (like a metaphor) but also using like like a simile without directly comparing those two unlike things while employing that word. the two broad things in comparison are, of course, "bitching and loving." loving to bitch and (although a stretch) bitching to love.


it's for a similar reason that one can simultaneously praise something while bitching about it. how we love to hate something, like a man who detests shopping with his girlfriend, but loves watching her model various dresses, skirts... evening wear. or things we hate to love like guilty pleasure 90s pop rock, twinkies, happy ending spas. or just things we hate like waiting in lines, hair in food, food in hair, or the obnoxious dude sporting a confederate flag tattoo on his forearm who just might be a redneck. or the fact that an anonymous p4k (pitchfork media) reviewer--anonymous for no other reason(s) than the writer of this blog can't recall his name, and because the record review is no longer available from pitchfork (at the time of this writing at least) because belle & sebastian's miraculous third album 'the boy with the arab strap' received a preposterous rating of 0.2 out of 10. wtf? such a fervent display of misguided judgement almost makes one question pitchforks credibility. yet one can't scrap it b/c the vast majority of the reviews are decorously written and fairly scored. but again, things we hate to love...

so if one is a self-professed introvert,  or better yet a shy extrovert--the hard candy with a soft center--it can be both revealing and deceiving. no matter, the point of this epistle of grievances (and praises!) is to reveal that "i really know nothing." but no false modesty here, please.

alright, so i'll shut-up now and start talking. it's that time of a microwave minute, when each second feels like a minute. the things one experiences or sees and writes about can simply be a candid exercise. i don't mean it as criticism or complement, but merely as observation. such as the bar-hopping, bed-hopping, head-throbbing, and, finally, the wound-licking that soon ensues. and the cycle continues until there is something sacred to curtail it. in other words... it continues...

for he who lives in a glass house, should not throw stones. not that this writer can throw stones, i.e. i bitch about people being wasteful consumers, yet i have exhibited long stints when recycling was accomplished when it was convenient, ah um "congreenient." i could have been more keen about reducing my carbon footprint i know, or curtailing or stopping altogether the purchasing of shit one doesn't need. but to my credit i don't always throw stones. sometimes its bricks.

what's with these half crook folk? they are a farce, a chameleon to the person and/or situation that they are in. who are they? do they really have an identity? if one possessed the cunning of one benedict arnold, the conviction of anne hutchinson, the courage of john smith, the appeal of early scott walker, the elegance of grace kelly, the innovation of thomas edison, the buffoonery of paris hilton and/or  the sheer funkiness of sly stone, that could command sum respect.

one more soapbox rant (observation): those who regard themselves as social butterflies, but in reality are social fruitflies, a pest that is constantly humming in your ear, buzzing in your face. for instance, the 'job snob' chick, the one who fires the question "so what do you do?" only as lead for talking about themselves, about their high-profile internship, non-profit gig, side online store for supplemental income, free-lance art projects, steady "environmentally friendly" salaried job, whilst "writing a novel" and living off of daddy's trust fund (never mentioned). the one who takes the bridge job, the rebound job, that involves simple tasks regarded as menial tasks, the one that places packaging above content. or the dude who wears the gold leafed belt buckle that reads "open 24 hours," as a self-fulfilling prophesy, (correction) fallacy. (btw, i own that belt, but i got it on sale.) so this has now become a moot point; the juice is no longer worth the squeeze...

something special happens when people say foots instead of feet. it's incorrect but funny, and sometimes done on purpose. but then again often the people who need to understand sarcasm... don't.

*how's that for a hook, mr. h.l. mencken?%

% a stringent critic of american culture


1 this snippet of info on daman albarn's quote was derived form mark sutherland's "Altered States". Melody Maker. 21 June 1997.

brooding #12 & 35

i am 'on duty' on friday night (in-house-arrest, really, if one can call a spade a spade) at an isolated boarding school in the sticks, way north of philadelphia. i am nestled in a match-box sized look-out office painted in an imposing high-way sign green that really sets the scene... there are four (4) boxes of klennex, a stress ball, a stained coffee mug that reads: "this is what the world's greatest grandpa looks like," a fossil computer, a yellowing copy of john kennedy toole's  'a confederacy of dunces' and a swivel chair covered by a super-man towel. i can't even speculate as to why the latter item is in here. going on four hours now, i've developed an obsessive computer disorder, experienced drive-by friending on facebook, become "intexticated" on my annoyingly archaic phone (self-diagnosed 'smart phone' envy), and have developed post modern depression syndrome if i am deprived of any of the aforementioned items for longer than ten minutes. this is pitiful, admittedly, but for those of you who harbor a youtube attention span, here's hoping my plea wan't fall on deaf ears, blind eyes, closed minds, snotty noses or those too "cellfish" to actually read someones blog in its entirety. if you've made it this far, you're either a real friend or real bored. but you are real, nonetheless. 


today's caprice was simple; sometimes clarity emerges from the cloudiest doldrums of thought and spirit. a dear friend wrote a recent epistle that read something like "life has a funny way of leading one to a new destination even when we feel like we are being lead far away from where we want to be." and i take her written words in both literal and figurative form. today i was pondering the lyric "the dust blows forward n' the dust blows back (thanks in no small part to captain beefheart & his majic band's 1968 lp 'trout mask replica', one of the greatest album covers of all time in my humble opinion).

















but i digress: in other words, a half step forward, but heretofore a step back, and afterward a step & a 1/2 forward. something like the lyrics in the funkadelic ditty: "if you will suck my soul, i will lick your funky emotions," it's a raw and crude existence, (like a runner in a half marathon wearing baggy boxer shorts instead of true boxer briefs), but one that newbies can cut their teeth on and veterans can waddle in the bliss of knowing the wisdom that's gained not despite the suffering, but because of it. life is often suffering indeed, but it's the only time we really grow. (a grandma called missie relays this message rather often.) (that said, her logic is sometimes questionable; she once gifted my father at christmas her fire extinguisher because "she never uses it." moreover, once whilst riding in my car her seat-belt was not functioning. "not to worry" she affirmed. "i'll just hold it across myself for protection.")


i was on myspace tonight too (disclaimer: for music only ). elliot smith's 'angel in the snow' was the first number. 'needle in the hay' was the last. my plight today is to reverse that order....


autumn (september equinox to the december solstice) is seemingly a swell time to introspect. let's burn the leaves, and leave behind the burns.*




*this line is not to be misconstrued for any mawkish "maryjane" reference, please.