This shall be a sign unto you.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Friday, July 22, 2005
Score Creep
I hate poetry Slams.
I want to like them. I really do. I like the idea of a national –if not worldwide by now- network of writers working together to hone their craft and support each other in their poetic bond… but sadly the competitive nature of the Slam -and the shallowness of those most devoted to that sad religion- makes that dream unobtainable. That’s right, Slam poets killed my dream. Jerks.
Poetry Slams are basically venues that encourage people with next to no talent to yell into a microphone, act like cheap aural copies of Joe Matt or Joe Coleman, and dredge up issues like "Racism is bad” and “You don’t know the real me.” I read once that Lawrence Ferlinghetti said that "Slam Kills Poetry…” I’m afraid he was right.
Don’t take my word for it… check out this opening passage from the rule book of a local Slam competition:
2004 was the last year of the point system (everyone wave good bye to it). Now we are switching to something a bit more simpler, yet more competitive….
The new season begins August 12th. There will be slams throughout the summer so get your skills sharpened.
See you...at the SLAM!
I mean, you've got to respect a “literary” outfit that manages to make a grammatical error in the opening lines of their rule book. Oh, and these "skills" that are to be sharpened? They’re essentially the ability to gesticulate wildly and to rap bad poetry... which is only slightly less annoying than yodeling Gary Snyder’s Turtle Island into a cereal box.
Don't expect anomie and metaphor to be paired, expect The Plight Of the American Smoker, or The Plight Of the American Barista or The Plight Of the American Single Dad or The Plight Of the American Goth Girl or… well, you get the idea. Nothing wrong with that sort of thing in a dialogue with people who can change things for the poor, white, black or whomever, but Slams are really just self-serving sermons; propaganda ministers preaching to the choir.
Again, from a Slam rule book:
What is the difference between slam poetry and poetry?
That's not the right question to ask. There is no such thing as "slam poetry" even though the term "slam poet" seems to have gained acceptance. Those who use the term "slam poetry" are probably thinking more of hip-hop poetry or loud, in-your-face, vaguely poetic rants. The more useful question to ask is "What is the difference between spoken word and poetry?" Spoken word is poetry written first and foremost to be HEARD. At any given slam, much of the work presented could be called spoken word.
Fuckin’ morons. Anne Sexton had a backup band. And you want a good example of poetry written to be heard? Check out the lyrical poetry of Sylvia Plath's Three Women: Poem for Three Voices.
The Slam, sad to say, is what poetry is now: people who aren't poets telling people who don't read poetry what poetry isn't.
Jerks.
I want to like them. I really do. I like the idea of a national –if not worldwide by now- network of writers working together to hone their craft and support each other in their poetic bond… but sadly the competitive nature of the Slam -and the shallowness of those most devoted to that sad religion- makes that dream unobtainable. That’s right, Slam poets killed my dream. Jerks.
Poetry Slams are basically venues that encourage people with next to no talent to yell into a microphone, act like cheap aural copies of Joe Matt or Joe Coleman, and dredge up issues like "Racism is bad” and “You don’t know the real me.” I read once that Lawrence Ferlinghetti said that "Slam Kills Poetry…” I’m afraid he was right.
Don’t take my word for it… check out this opening passage from the rule book of a local Slam competition:
2004 was the last year of the point system (everyone wave good bye to it). Now we are switching to something a bit more simpler, yet more competitive….
The new season begins August 12th. There will be slams throughout the summer so get your skills sharpened.
See you...at the SLAM!
I mean, you've got to respect a “literary” outfit that manages to make a grammatical error in the opening lines of their rule book. Oh, and these "skills" that are to be sharpened? They’re essentially the ability to gesticulate wildly and to rap bad poetry... which is only slightly less annoying than yodeling Gary Snyder’s Turtle Island into a cereal box.
Don't expect anomie and metaphor to be paired, expect The Plight Of the American Smoker, or The Plight Of the American Barista or The Plight Of the American Single Dad or The Plight Of the American Goth Girl or… well, you get the idea. Nothing wrong with that sort of thing in a dialogue with people who can change things for the poor, white, black or whomever, but Slams are really just self-serving sermons; propaganda ministers preaching to the choir.
Again, from a Slam rule book:
What is the difference between slam poetry and poetry?
That's not the right question to ask. There is no such thing as "slam poetry" even though the term "slam poet" seems to have gained acceptance. Those who use the term "slam poetry" are probably thinking more of hip-hop poetry or loud, in-your-face, vaguely poetic rants. The more useful question to ask is "What is the difference between spoken word and poetry?" Spoken word is poetry written first and foremost to be HEARD. At any given slam, much of the work presented could be called spoken word.
Fuckin’ morons. Anne Sexton had a backup band. And you want a good example of poetry written to be heard? Check out the lyrical poetry of Sylvia Plath's Three Women: Poem for Three Voices.
The Slam, sad to say, is what poetry is now: people who aren't poets telling people who don't read poetry what poetry isn't.
Jerks.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
"I'd be Happy if You'd Give the Word, Admiral."
Scotty died.It occurred to me -while I read countless articles about his death and life and that little death after Star Trek- that he seems to be most famous for peforming a fictional task he, actually, rarely performed... and for not replying to a famous line no one ever actually uttered.
He meant a lot to Star Trek fans... but he meant a lot more than that... and his epitaph should certainly be more than four lousy words.
James Montgomery Doohan was born March 3, 1920, in Vancouver, British Columbia. At 19, he joined the Canadian army; became a lieutenant in artillery. He was among the Canadian forces that landed on Juno Beach on D-Day. The Canadians crossed a minefield laid for tanks; the soldiers weren't heavy enough to detonate the bombs. At 11:30 that night, he was machine-gunned, taking six hits: one that took off his middle right finger (he managed to hide the missing finger on screen;pay attention... you'll see what I mean), four in his leg and one in the chest. Fortunately the chest bullet was stopped by his silver cigarette case.
After the war he enrolled -on a whim- in a drama class in Toronto. He showed promise and won a two-year scholarship to New York's famed Neighborhood Playhouse, where his fellow students included Leslie Nielsen, Tony Randall and Richard Boone, among others. He already had a career as a character actor when he answered the cattle call for a role as an engineer in a new space-opera-adventure on NBC in 1966. A master of dialects from his early years as a radio voice actor, he used seven different accents in the sesson before he settled on the Scotsman.
He inspired countless to go into engineering; he inspired many to go into space.
He was, by all accounts, a decent, gentle guy.
James Doohan died.
The word is given... warp speed....
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
When You're on Drugs
Evidently Rivers was a big fan of the British metal band in his formative years... go figure. Go know.I'm not, sad to say, a huge fan of Weezer's latest album, but I have to admit that their latest video is genius!
I'm not sure Weezer actually had anything to do with it... it's really just their latest single married to footage from Grim Reaper's 1985 video for "Fear No Evil..." but it works... even if just as a cool little bit of found-art flotsam.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Separated at Birth!
Long ago I submitted for your approval a gallery of pseudo-celebrities who were clearly (cue the Lalo Schifirin music) separated at birth! That was fun... though I think Victor French might disagree.
I've meant to post more of them every so often -honestly, I've thought of little else since then- but until today the best I could come up with was Flip Wilson and John Stossel... and that just seemed too obvious, and frankly insulting to you, precious reader... you deserve better.
Hopefully these were worth the wait... enjoy!
I've meant to post more of them every so often -honestly, I've thought of little else since then- but until today the best I could come up with was Flip Wilson and John Stossel... and that just seemed too obvious, and frankly insulting to you, precious reader... you deserve better.
Hopefully these were worth the wait... enjoy!
Sunday, July 17, 2005
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