Sarah’s Movie Rental Recommendations
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

Sarah's Movie Rental Recommendations

1. Spirit of the Beehive
2. Margot at the Wedding
3. Eagle vs. Shark
4. No Country for Old Men
5.  Darjeeling Limited
6.  Brand Upon the Brain
7. Sweeney Todd
8. The Savages
9. Color Me Kubrick.....A True...ish Story
10. Fay Grim
11. Control
12. The Painted Veil
13. Death at a Funeral
14. My Kid Could Paint That
15. Lars and the Real Girl
16. Eastern Promises
17. Hot Fuzz
18. This Filthy World
19. Enduring Love
20. The Machinist

Currently listening : The Midnight Organ Fight By Frightened Rabbit Release date: 2008-04-15

8:34 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

playing house

I was at my community pool yesterday. A bunch of rich white kids, all about 5 or 6, were building a fort with with lounge chairs and towels, etc. When they were done, the oldest girl, maybe 7, said, "Now let's play house. I'm the teenager!" Several other kids said, "Well, I'm the teenager, too." The older girl said: "Who will be the crazy mother?" A little boy responded: "I vote that our parents are dead."

This whole scenario delighted and shocked me. Who knew you could be "the teenager." Obviously, the best choice. That bit about the "crazy mother" and voting the parents dead made me almost choke on my "Tab."

However, I think my whole goal as an adult has been to live like a teenager with dead parents--theoretically.

An older woman I used to work with told me to I had to grow up. I told her that I surely did not. That was very confusing to her, but I don't intend to grow up. Growing up is a drag. That is why none of the kids picked the roles of Mom or Dad.

Somebody has got to be the baby, though;)

12:48 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Kadar Koli
Category: Writing and Poetry

Just wanted to announce the publication of a great new poetry journal (which I happen to have some poems in.)

kadar koli
(It means "whenever" in Slovene)

I thought I would tempt people to order one with a few choice lines from some of the amazing stuff inside:

From The Good Object Dismissed by Farid Matuk

My mother's best jokes are of old whores--my favorite
had worked the canals of Venice and so,
though retired, outswam an Olympian. Hitler
said "My eyes were like burning coal...

From Mid-State by Susan Briante--

Manhattan has become the Vegas casino
version of itself. Chicago is cold brick. San
Francisco is water spilling from a glass.

Once I tried to avoid Dallas...


From "winter in the mountains" by Jen Hofer--

downtown los angeles--it's still here

its shape
s no longer
the same shape. i
do not want...

From Yerba Buena Island: An Anagram in Three Parts by Susanna Kittredge--

Fuck forgetting. We are watching our  mad memories
...
We as poets are inherently skilled at
word games, heart games and similar propositions, but...

From A Brief Cosmology Detailing Earth's Formative Growth by Andrew Neuendorf--

All beginnings conceal destined endings; fathomless galaxies
are born chaotic dust. Eventually, fusion gathers
assorted basic compounds developing Earth's future gametes.

From Susquehanna by Dale Smith--

In Europe young men planned
a utopia on the banks
of the Susquehanna
properties freely shared
in sensus communis...


TO ORDER kadar koli:
http://www.habenichtpress.com/publications/kadarkoli.html

It is only $5! That is a literary value if I have ever seen one.

Currently listening : Tennessee Woman By Tanya Tucker Release date: 27 March, 1990

11:03 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Mystery Poem--probably by J.G.
Category: Writing and Poetry

5:01 PM - 2 Comments - 1 Kudos - Add Comment

A Day at the Ren Cen in 1982
Category: Life

When I was about 15, my friend B. and I decided to take the bus downtown instead of going to school. We called our "punk" friend D. and told him to meet us at the front door of the Ren Cen at noon. We decided we would dress like "business people" in case there were any of those people who are out looking for kids playing hooky around. I forget what they are called. Some kind of officers. I think we had a vague idea that downtown Detroit would be swarming with them. So I wore a grey pin-striped coat dress, brown spectators and a brown paisly silk scarf around my neck. I think I must have a imagined a downtown Detroit of 1947. I don't remember what B. wore, but we were in full-on playing dress-up mode. We knew what bus to take because my dad took the bus downtown to work every day of my life.

(I think there was a time before I was born when my dad was allowed to drive the car to work, but in my living memory, he was always "in the dog house." It was part of the twisted dynamics that made my parent's marriage work. They were married 49 years when my dad died. I like to think maybe the idea of making it 50 was just a little more than he could take.)

Anyway, while all the other kids were arriving at school, we were waiting at my dad's bus stop. (He had left about an hour before us, so there was no running into him.) Even taking the bus was exciting, sophisticated and exotic to us.

(Not so much anymore. I have taken it a few times recently and it is an exercise in not commiting hari kari. Public transportation in Detroit is really one of the circles of hell. Buses are full of the angriest, meanest people around, and developmentally disabled adults. I tend to associate myself with the latter group. Fights are constantly stirring about windows being opened or closed. That particular issue on a Detroit bus is a study in the tensest dramatic action I have ever seen: Fuck the hijacked bus in the movie Speed. Try opening a window on a Detroit bus when someone wants it closed!)

So, we get downtown, wander around the Ren Cen for a while. And then sit in one of the pod, sitting areas. Immediately a strange looking older teen guy walks into our "pod." We start talking to him, and it turns out he is on a kind of bender because in a few days he is shipping off to the the Army. Not really drunk as far as I remember, but probably on speed and pot or just a little crazy, and he was staying in the fancy hotel in Ren Cen, treating himself for a few days before boot camp started. He bragged that he had  M-80s in his backpack Well, I insisted that he light one off right then. Looking back, an entirely crazy thing to do, but we were playing hooky, and it hadn't been a very remarkable day yet. It wasn't terribly difficult to point this kid in the direction of doing something crazy. As I mentioned, he had just signed up for the Army.

(A little disclaimer here: I give total respect to the soldiers fighting for whatever ridiculous and mixed-up cause our leaders decide we should engage in, but from the view point of someone who is in a constant psychological quest to off the restraints of confused parental, educational, religious and vocational servitude, volunteering to abandon your personal freedom to a behemoth of bureacracy, hierarchy and sadism, ultimately led by politicians, well need I say more?)

So, he lit the M-80 off. In the Renaissance Center. The boom and blast echoed through the many-chambered heart of the misguided attempt at progressive architecture. The complex acoustics of the place directed the initial noise and echoes far from us. Security guards immediately started swarming above and below us, in circles around us. B. stood up and said: Run! I grabbed her arm and whispered sternly: Sit down. She sat down and we sat there like statues of two business women from the 1940s and one mildly insane future soldier for the United States of America. It only took about 20 minutes for the security people to calm down. This was 1982. Noone really had many thoughts of terrorism back then.

We ditched the guy and went to meet our friend at noon. He had a mohawk, camo pants and some kind of jacket with lots of zippers. That is how I remember him. He would probably take umbrage with this description and have different details about his style and look, but he was totally punked out. Nobody looked like this in metro Detroit in 1982. Okay, maybe 10 people at the most. So, we were not undercover for the rest of the day and noone seemed to notice or care.

That is until, we went to the bus stop at around 3ish to go back home and pretend we had been at school. Just as we got the bus stop, my dad walked up to us. I remember he said something really funny and nonchalant, but for the life of my I can' t remember exactly what it was. I would trade my house for that quote. I want to say it was something like: Hard day at the office? And then he laughed, and said don't forget to go to school tomorrow and walked away.

I was far more awed by my father's cool reaction than I had been by the soldier-to-be's audacity with the M-80.

Currently listening : Records 1981-1989 By Christian Marclay Release date: 23 September, 1997

5:30 AM - 7 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

My Paper Route
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

When I was about 12, I had a best friend, Z, who was a super-motivated achiever--in her own way. Along with her training to be the first female professional baseball player, her chemistry hobby, and writing smutty variety shows, she had a paper route of about 100 papers. She spent all her earnings on that crap they sell in the back of comic books. Her bedroom was strewn with Miniature Safes, X-Ray Glasses, Card-shuffling Machines, Electric Coin Sorters and Lie-Detection Devices. I had no ambition, except for in pyromania, but wanted all that crap, too! So I went out and got a paper route. I think I had 50 papers and begged my parents for a yellow heavy duty bike, like every other paper deliverer used. Instead, my dad took my pink and white Schwinn no-speed, painted it yellow and took the flowered basket off the handle bars. Not only was I mortified to be riding such a lame bike around all the tough kids at the paper station, but I could barely peddle it up the hill with papers to the neighborhood where my route was. It totally sucked, and I remember saying these elaborate prayers that the paper station would catch on fire and that noone would get hurt and it would burn out before the fire fighters had to use their resources on it, etc. All so I wouldn't have to do my route. It wasn't all bad, though. There were some cool people on my route. I remember an old maid would invite me in for icey cokes on hot summer days and hot chocolate on cold winter ones. She was really interesting and kind and like noone I'd had ever met. Also, one of my classmates' house was on the street of my route. (I didn't deliver to her house. Her parents must have gotten the Free Press.) Anyway, she would often call me over while I delivered my papers and we would talk about Diary of Anne Frank--which we both were reading at that time.

Also, it seemed like back then, in the late '70s, people didn't realize what creeps a lot of adults were or something. Because, we, the 12-year-olds, were responsible for collecting the measly $2.50 a month from their greasy, greedy adult hands--which included ringing doorbells of a bunch of strangers and having people avoid you when you knew they were home, or giving you a part of the $2.50 so that you would have to keep track of how much they owed you. It was ridiculous. I hated the delivery part, but the collection part was totally asinine! They now bill them. What was the deal back then, were they too cheap to drop a postcard in the mail reminding them they owed the $2.50 a month for the friggin' paper. Then you would have to pay the station manager out of the money for the papers you delivered and your wage was whatever was left over. It was such a blatant taking advantage of kids.

Another part of the job that totally sucked was people complaining about not getting their paper when you did the stupid job everyday and wouldn't just ride by a house on your route. Also, a lot of these rich fuckers I delivered to were super specific about where to put the paper. It couldn't just be on the front porch. It was like,  put it in the milk box in the backyard--which entailed getting off the bike, opening the gate, etc. etc. What? You can't open your front door and pick up your paper?

So, anyway, the weirdest shit that happened during this period of my life was this old man in this giant mansion started claiming that he wasn't getting his paper. (His mansion was across from the Gamble mansion--of the Proctor and Gamble Gambles.) I couldn't possibly miss this house. I actually loved riding up to his giant castle. It was gorgeous and a delight to set my weary eyes upon. So, after he complained, I made sure especially that I was not missing his house. It was crazy making, really. So for one month he refused to pay, claiming he wasn't receiving his paper. I was furious and told him I was absolutely certain that I delivered his stupid paper every day, and somehow, I was sure he could give the 12-year-old the $2.50 so it wouldn't have to come out of my pocket. He closed the door on me, and I went back a week later and knocked on the door. I said, do you want the paper or not, because you are not getting it anymore if you don't pay me. I felt like throwing a rock through his stupid lead-glass picture window, because it seemed like another $2.50 I was going have to cover. So his middle aged son is hanging around behind him and he says, Come inside and we are going to put you on trial for non-delivery of the paper. My jaw hung open, and I just backed up, got back on my daisy Schwinn, and told them there was "no way would I set foot in the house with you creeps, and you can say goodbye to the Detroit News." That was it. They never called the News and complained or anything and I just cancelled them for non-payment. God knows what kind of freak show would have gone on in that sick manse with that decrepid old man and his lurking, smirking son.

Currently listening : Sybil By Troy Gregory Release date: 02 July, 2002

8:05 AM - 6 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

A Great Composer
Category: Music

My dad's hands were always seeking piano keys. At school events, he would try to get into the music room or find the upright backstage in the auditorium. At people's houses he would take a lap around the first floor to see if there might be a piano he had missed. He taught at two colleges and three community colleges during his life and found the rooms with the pianos in every one. He didn't need an audience, but didn't care if he had one either. If there was a piano, he would play it. When he worked downtown at Blue Cross, he would take his lunch break at the grand piano in one of the sitting areas in the Ren Cen. People assumed he was the hired entertainer and tipped him. He was once hired by a friend to play a luncheon at the Grosse Pointe Hunt Club. (Boy, do I wish I could have been a fly on the wall in that room.) His style was what I have learned could be called harmolodic. It was jazz with heavy, often blue, chords and changing (anti) rythms. It was not what could ever have been confused with popular music. It didn't sound like any other pianist I had ever heard, and really only since he died, have I heard similarities--with the music of Derek Bailey, although more wildly expressive and heavier, or Cecil Taylor, but with more of an emphasis on melody. I was always entranced and moved by it. I would generally stop what I was doing and get very still, so I could hear it better.

The Gnome restaurant was remodeled and turned into the Majestic Cafe in the early '90s. My dad met me there for lunch one day soon after it reopened. There was a beautiful grand piano there for one of the reopening celebrations. They probably hired an up-beat conventional jazz pianist for the event or maybe someone who played lite classical. But as soon as we walked in, my dad's attention was on the piano. I asked him if wanted to play, and he said, no, I'm here to have lunch with my daughter. I said, come on. I'd love to hear you play. I knew the owner from a short waitressing stint I did there and got up and asked him if my dad could play. He said, sure.

Well, Dad couldn't get there fast enough. He played raucously and elegantly, simply and then darkly and loud! for about 20 minutes to a half of an hour. I never knew what would happen when my dad played in a public place. It wasn't the type of music most people appreciated (or even could stand in some cases.) He could be asked to stop which I think he would secretly hate, but would pretend was funny.  But I think he had found his audience that day, an urban, sophisticated, artsy group. Everyone was silent and rapt. When he was done, he got a big round of applause. And he stood up and said, Prokofiev. As if he had been playing the music of Prokofiev. He never learned to read music, but could pick up any tune by ear and make it his own. He was playing his own composition that day, but I think felt really cool that he could make music that people would believe had been written by a great composer. Too bad he didn't realize he was a great composer.

8:40 AM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Remembering Larissa
Current mood: sad
Category: Life

Sad news this weekend about Larissa Strickland, of Laughing Hyenas and L Seven fame. She died of an apparent overdose of xanax in Florida. I knew her a bit in the late '80s and early '90s, saw her play with the Hyenas dozens of times. As an artist and musician, she was one of the most impressive people I have ever met. I stayed at her Ann Arbor-house many times, and she was constantly drawing, painting, writing songs and reading. I seem to recall her reading a lot of heavy Russian literature. Apart from her drug addiction, she was an incredibly productive person. She was so smart, talented and expressive. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. I remember her floating around the house in vintage slips, from the '30s and '40s, as if she was only partly commited to being in this world, in this time. She was doing portraits of friends in pencil, for a while, and they were truly inspired. I hesitate to even attempt to describe her performances with the Laughing Hyenas. She always seemed to be in a mesmerising trance, with her guitar channeling cries direct from her tortured soul. Her eccentric stage presence never failed to intrigue. She would lash out at the audience, accusing them of stealing her cigarettes and refusing to continue the show until someone returned them; or she would take a solo at the very end of a song and continue to play while all the rest of the band would have left the stage and packed up their stuff. She was always self-possessed and authentic, raw and composed. There will never be another person like her. The world is a duller, quieter, more repressed place without her here. She will be greatly missed.

Currently listening : Merry-Go-Round By Laughing Hyenas Release date: 28 August, 1995

5:42 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

love cats
Current mood: curious
Category: Pets and Animals

There are two cats in my neighborhood who I feel I know better than almost all my human neighbors. C and I refer to them as the bride and groom: one is all white and one is a tuxedo cat. They are beautiful, small and extremely agressive. They are always in a yard we pass on our dog walks. The bride seems to be waiting for us or any opportunity for a confrontation. As we near her yard, she charges, clawing the air and baring her teeth at us, two people, a rottweiler and a shepherd mix. I've seen the groom go from a peaceful sleep to attack-mode in a split second. My dogs seem excited by it and scared at the same time. They pull me toward the house, and then usually, pull me away. I admire these cats. They are more confident than anyone I know--human or animal.  In a neighborhood where one rarely sees people out of their homes, and most of the homes are unremarkable, the cats' house regularly has guys working on hot rods in the driveway. These cars have purple velvet interiors, red and god metal-flake paint jobs, raised engines. I wonder what owner and cats are like in their home. I like to imagine these guys talk baby-talk to their beloved cats and the cats curl up on their laps and purr. 

10:18 AM - 5 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

team sports, mean coaches and mortality
Category: Sports

I believe it was 6th grade, althought it may have been 5th, I was on a girls softball team. I was very depressed. My maternal grandfather was dieing of cancer of the esophagus (sp?).

(He was a perfect human being, to me. He seemed to have a great deal of inner peace, a silly sense of humor, and a Goliath of inner strength. He gave me careful and patient attention. He taught me about nature and math. I remember him demonstrating geometry and algebra for me when I was quite small and explaining how different plants seeded themselves and what bird migrated and which ones stayed for the winter.)

I was very uncoordinated in some ways. I remember being really good at shooting baskets, but in softball, I was always missing pop flies, striking out,etc. It had something to do with performing in front of others. I would just freeze up. I still do at times. I had a lot of friends on the team, but that didn't help. I remember one time up at bat in particular. I just couldn't swing the bat. I wanted to. I felt like I could get a piece of the ball, but I just couldn't make myself swing. Luckily, the pitcher kept throwing balls, so the first time up at bat, I walked. This seemed to really piss the pitcher off, because the second time up at bat, when I failed to swing, and she threw ball after ball, she started to taunt me. I remember her snarling: What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation? I was completely mystified by this comment. It took forever for me to unravel it. She was throwing balls, so I guess, it could have been assumed I was waiting for a better pitch. But, because I was so psyched out by the situation as it was, it seemed like she could see into my soul and knew I was unable to swing. I walked again--which is such a non-event. You aren't out, but you haven't really done anything worth a damn either. The coach of this team was a teenaged-girl named Emily Spear. She despised me. It was one of those lovely situations where you symbolise weakness to someone, and they hate weakness. She would constantly try to humilate me by not putting me on the batters' list and not giving me a position, even if we were short a person. I would have to remind her that I existed, and she would reluctantly add me to the list or put me in left field. She would constantly tell me to wake up or ask me loudly what was wrong with me after I missed a pop fly. It was really doing wonders for my self esteem and mood. Then one day she asked me if my brother was my brother. Suddenly, she couldn't be nicer to me. She let me play second base which I always wanted to play, and she let me bat second--which was perfect because there wasn't the horror of being first at bat, and you also weren't likely to be the third out, either. It was one of those weird moments of life when something that you had nothing to do with alters your life in a profound way. Almost like God reminding you how little control you really have. I started to get much better at softball, too. I was making base hits and getting people out at second. Even making double plays on occasion. We finally won a game one beautiful spring day. I ran home to tell my family, and the house was silent. My mom wasn't home, and my brother was in his room, but his music wasn't playing which was totally strange. I knocked on his door, and he opened the door and told me our grandfather had died, and our mother was making the arrangements. I had never seen him so subdued. I didn't know what to do with myself. I remember hiding behind the couch in the living room--a pointless act: noone was going to look for me. I had dreams for many years that grandpa would visit me to tell me he really wasn't dead. 

Currently listening : Hot Rocks 1964-1971 [DSD Remastered] By The Rolling Stones Release date: 27 August, 2002

3:58 PM - 2 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment