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Archive for the ‘Rant’ Category

I’ve mentioned this before, but you may not have been reading carefully, so I will repeat: If you take yourself seriously as a writer, Why Oh Why must you have white words on a black background on your website? OUCH!

Jump back, Jack, Tina Fey got something to say:

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And again I say unto you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God

Matthew 19:24

In chess, we all know the bishop by the shape of the bishop and that it indicates a bishop’s hat.

Priesthood sounds wrong, but maybe that’s because I know what they’ve been up to. Then here’s the disturbing culture of repressed sexuality and misogyny, not to mention the rampant, hypocritical, life-damaging cover-it-up-to-protect THE PRIESTS AND NOT THE VICTIMS pedophilia.

I have seen the film The Magdalene Sisters and so should you. Since it’s a work of fiction, I urge you to google Magdalene Laundries and see what you come up with, all on your ownsome.

Of course, there is the Inquisition and the Crusades, but this post isn’t about the old-style tortures and abuses. I’m a modern woman, capiche?

We talked the other night at dinner about who makes the vestments and hats for the Catholic celebrity class—popes, bishops, archbishops, cardinals. I did find this, which is sort of interesting, but he is a collector, not a milliner.

When I see vestments that indicate a person is of rank within the Catholic church, I typically have a piss-poor reaction. This happens less here in Western Mass than when I lived in Ohio. When I grew up, you’d see the occasional group of nuns out to a restaurant or at the grocery store. I even used to work in a Catholic orphanage one summer when I was home from college. Yeah, me.

I did not set out to write this post today. Punning on the two cardinals set the ball rolling. Rolling right into what I have long pondered: how how how. I don’t mean to insult any of my Catholic friends. I want to respect your religion, but alas, I can only respect you and trust that you know how and why. That I much I got in me.

Now witness:

Is it real? Do these come in pink silk? That is something I could get behind.

I also like the hats that look like yarmulkes, the history of Catholics and Jews marrying each other in such great numbers right there (maybe you don’t know a lot of Catholics who married Jews, but HELL YES I do).

A fleet of pink silk hats with tassels—like pasties, you know.

And why aren’t the nuns allowed to wear bright colors like the rest of the clergy? Penguin suits, my god.

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The songs float in the ether, remnants of tunes carried to my ears. To hear fragments of such things as an adult is haunting in itself, like poetry, like electricity, like wind, snow, heat.

Family Movie Night has turned from features such as The Incredibles (I think everyone but me knows the entire script by heart) to somewhat more grown-up titles. Of course, the kids have their own viewing of almost anything they want nowadays and LOTR marathons abound on long weekends.

Last Friday night, before Paul’s long trip to Deustchland (which we affectionately call Deustchland über Alles), we had the pleasure of exposing the children to their first Coen Brothers’ movie, Raising Arizona.

While I’ve seen the movie more times than I can count and was aware of the song Ed (Holly Hunter) sings to Nathan Jr., I don’t think I ever paid as close attention as I did this time around.

Down in the Willow Garden:

We all sing strange lullabies to our babies, usually not knowing where they come from. I don’t know any murder ballads by heart, but I still sing All the Pretty Little Horses to my girls. It is a haunting tune, also sung in a movie—Silkwood—with Meryl Streep singing it to Cher as they swing on the front porch at night. That was the first time I paid close attention to it and was compelled to hunt down the lyrics (before the Internet!!!).

Even I didn’t have the heart to sing about the babies’ eyes being pecked out and I still don’t. My kids know the words as we have them in a few different songbooks. I suppose, then, mine has been a sin of omission.

There’s a tendency to make the lyrics of some songs more palatable, a revisionist move and one of the casualties of the Politically Correct movement that overtook everything about 25 years back. In children’s lullabies, it is a sign of our inability to cope with the underlying spirit of certain eras. Music IS history.

Here’s a book that bothers me (click on the link, okay my pets?). At first glance, it seems to be inclusive and embracing, I suppose because the people pictured are African American, but it actually robs the history right out from us. Cake is shown and butterflies come around (you’d need a copy in hand to see all of the pages). While some verses of the song cannot be attributed to slaves, some of them tell us what undoubtedly the slaves were not allowed to say in plain English, the code hidden in the words that tell it like it was. This is one way slaves communicated right under the noses of Whitey—through imagery and innuendo. Music was a survival tool and helped to convey information that helped people travel north to Canada (often coded as Canaan in spirituals) via the network of the Underground Railroad. To be able to sing one’s pain (which was more often couched in the stories of struggle from the Old Testament*) in a non-religious text was even more complex, as we can hear in the original lyrics to All the Pretty Little Horses. I cannot abide by the happy pictures in the book. The melody gives it away—it is a mournful song, of grief and sorrow—and the happy characters do not tell the story that the song is trying to tell us.

Read the afterward to the reconfigured lyric in Sylvia Long’s book of Hush Little Baby. The zeitgeist of political correctness was swallowed hook, line, and sinker by this author. While I find the new lyrics sweet and the illustrations quite pretty, to fear that our children learn EVERYTHING THEY NEED TO KNOW FROM ONE LULLABY’S LYRICS displays an immense hubris. To forget and sweep under the rug the richness of our folksong heritage is a crime. It is revisionist and points to our lack of ability to trust our parenting to have mettle and our children to have backbones.

As songs traveled and shifted across the ocean and up and down our country, words changed places within songs, jumped to other songs, were added and left behind. This is WHY they are folk songs—they belong to the people. The words may have been written down at times, but more likely not. To publish a book with revised lyrics is an entirely different matter. It is no longer a folk song. In this instance, it is the author’s whim. I wouldn’t mind so much if the original lyric was presented somewhere in the book, but her ENTIRE point is that the original lyric is–gasp–DANGEROUS to children.

Next two flicks on the docket for Family Movie Night? Rushmore and Down by Law and we all know about the songs in those.

Another one I used to sing to my babies. Let’s not shy away from death either. God bless Elizabeth Cotton.

*Wade in the Water is not just the story of struggle that harkens to the Jews in the Bible, but also contains the very symbolic language to which I also refer in this post. For instance, the colors that the “children” wear may have been worn by people helping the slaves cross north at different stops along the way. But you already knew that, right?

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What I was going to write was “fuckin’ A, it’s the Silos on youtube after all these years”…but I felt like it would be bad form to have the word fuck in my blog title. The day may come that warrants the use of the word as such, but even with all of the crap that the Congress expects us to eat, chew, and swallow, I have not yet felt the need. I did have my day on Facebook using the word fuck in my status update, but that was not a first; even children, teens, and the elderly read that! Egads man.

Actually, since nobody seems to read my Facebook updates, the news feed flying by by the milisecond as it does, here is what I posted:

Fuck you Wayne LaPierre and all of your ilk. Between the gun irrationalists and the rest of the GOP trying to make the fact of my anatomy some reason to legislate the hell outta my constitutional rights, fuck you. Saying fuck you feels offensive to me, but I’m gonna use a liberal meme and say the offensive thing is the behavior and lack of reasoning of the GOP and TEA partiers. What I’m doing is using words, not legislative action to shut people down. Our nation is being held hostage by corporate interests and lunatic fringe fear-mongering cavemen and women. I’m so tired of it. No wonder we feel defeated. I know I don’t have a million bucks spare to pay off a congressperson.
Okay, now that that’s out of the way, let’s get on with the raison d’etre of this post. THE SILOS! Relief….

If you liked that, I highly recommend listening to more of their stuff. Here’s another one of my favorites:

And another, prolly the only reason I have ever wanted to know Spanish. In the meantime, you can think of me as the girl who really knew how to use the word fuck, in English.

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You people are really obsessed with nudity. Just be naked. You won’t have to look around the internet for nude skiers and naked females so much. Quit it already. Get some mirrors in your house and take off your clothes. I mean it. All kinds of mirrors—wall mirrors, tall mirrors, hand mirrors, standing mirrors, beveled mirrors, antique mirrors. Have a party.

Also, you might want to try getting your own ass tattoo. You must be in an advanced state of boredom to keep popping over here to find such things. Ass tattoos? Seriously? Grow up and grow a pair.

Here you find yourself, at twinklysparkles’, where I might soon be removing my clothes the photos to which I don’t have the rights. INCLUDING the naked male skiers. There are 2 of them around here, you know. I am tempted to leave the pictures up, but I would first have to try to find who they belong to and get permission. See? This is my obsession. Copyrights. Yours? Nude male skiers.

Better yet, find yourself a nudist ski resort. Many likely exist in Sweden and Norway. They probably don’t even call them nudist ski resorts. It’s de rigeur over there, NORMAL. Those Nordic types walk around naked 24/7. This is what socialism begets after all.

If you do go, make sure you have some money because those places are a. cold, and you’ll need to invest in a lot of really high-quality winter clothing and b. expensive, due to those Norse types being Socialist and all. You’ll be helping them to pay for their high-quality health care and public playgrounds and public nudity, which I am sure is taxed at an exorbitantly high rate.

I feel much better now.

Turn up the furnace and carry on.

katherine_081111169_2

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Fuck you, Lance Armstrong.

I never got one of those bright yellow bracelets because frankly, it seemed very trendy. It even smacked of wrong. Everyone with a buck seemed to have one or more. Children of privilege. Grown-ups. The more, the better. And what were they made of? Junky plastic? Yes, silicone. Thanks, LANCE, for adding to plastic in the environment. Did you make sure that the poor people in factories in poor countries were paid a living wage to make a buncha [mostly] white Westerners feel good about donating to cancer research? Pretty soon everyone had a different bracelet of a different color and pattern for every different charity under the sun. Can’t Westerners just do the right thing without pointing out that they’ve done the right thing? Can’t you donate some time or money without getting a fucking medal? Fuck you.

Look, I know you are my friends and peers. I know you mean well. But you need to question the need for this kind of thing in the future. You need to examine the impact of your little trendy bangles and baubles and “gifts” to charity. Fuck yes. Yes fuck. Fuck. Yes.

I don’t really care if Armstrong was doping. I’m not a big follower of sports. I do appreciate athleticism. I remember reading a New Yorker article many years ago about Lance Armstrong. It was impressive. He was impressive. He IS impressive, doping or no doping. I remember that he was the most studied athlete in all history. On the one hand, it makes me puke, because FUCK YOU, what about women giving birth for centuries without drugs and all that people have had to endure with no accolades? What about war and poverty? Poor people in horrible conditions. The slaves in the hulls of ships. Slaves, period. The Holocaust. But no, we have to study the length of Lance Armstrong’s femurs and throw a buttload of money all over the place to show we care. The culture is so twisted and obsessed with celebrity and sports.

Now, what I’d really like is some dope for my fucking anemia. I can’t breathe my full breath, Lance Armstrong. I was riding today and I never got my breath. Fuck you.

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I like the pun in roundabout, because while this is an update of yesterday’s post, you’ll have to decide for yourself whether it is straightforward or not.

I asked a question yesterday on Facebook about Amherst’s new double rotary, aka Atkins’ Corner, and my pal, Baer, aka sweetmojo, sent me this link. It is a safe link to download and open (at least it was for me), but lotsa luck reading the damn thing. This is just how my friends are: thorough, leaving no stone unturned. Now I have to be responsible and read why I can’t have a bike lane in the roundabout. You know I’d rather rant than admit there’s a good reason Amherst does anything at all with my tax money. Okay, some of it was state money. I pay that, too.

I know we’re a little town, not a state capital or anything. I remember the bike lanes in Madison. I remember.

It’s not that I think it’s safe to make a bike lane in a roundabout necessarily. I just wonder why time and again when I see street improvements in Amherst, they do not include proper bike lanes. And everything else I said yesterday, too. But God forbid I should get involved in local politics. Remember how busy I am?

Maybe by spring they’ll complete the shared sidewalk/bike lane with some sort of entrance/exits for cyclists and I can see if it meets with my approval.

Props to you, Baer. You didn’t think I was gonna let facts stand in the way of my bitching, did you? That said, the divine biker in me bows to the divine biker in you.

This guy has a bike lane and he looks like he needs to chill the fuck out. They even painted it green for extra specialness. Lesson learned: happiness comes from the bike lane within.

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