My kids are out of school again today. This is becoming a regular thing. There have been holidays, teacher workdays, snow days, bad weather forecast days, and one power outage. It’s gotten out of hand. They’re off Monday too.
Part of this can be put down to the extended school year. Back in my day, school ended on Memorial Day and didn’t pick up again until Labor Day. Elementary school kids knew a freedom more expansive than their concept of time passage. Middle schoolers re-invented themselves, returning in the fall with a deeper voice and a few Led Zeppelin t-shirts. High school kids got jobs, went to science camp, or rehab. There was time to know an unshared existence.
The Germans may have lost the war, but they also lost the next war. After beating them twice, the rest of the Western world carried on their loser Prussian school system as if nothing had happened. Fredrick gave the Generallandschulreglement, and we still march on. Der Realschule is never satisfied. It wants year-round classes.
If you’re a male heterosexual and the same age as I am, you knew that the most important attribute a prospective childhood friend could boast were parents who sprung not just for cable, but for one or more of the handful of premium movie channels that ran rated-R movies. My parents wouldn’t pay for cable, much less HBO, so I had to seek out bad words and boobs.
The Cannonball Run was not rated R so the most it showed were nipples outlined through thin shirts, but my parent’s inconsistent puritan streak got wind of inuendo in the film so I wasn’t allowed to see it in the theaters no matter how many times I told them that Bernard’s and Tony’s parents let them go. Thankfully Tony’s parents didn’t talk to my parents about such things so one night at a sleepover at his house I got to watch it on the same TV set that would later find fame as the giver of Purple Rain.
Looking back through my now-older eyes, I have to say that it’s a fantastic movie. Rotten Tomatoes has it at 29% from reviewers. No surprise there. It was always a proud bridge and tunnel set movie. What’s surprising is that Cannonball got made at all.
I just got my October issue of The New Criterion. The magazine usually comes right before the beginning of the listed month, but this go round it didn’t. September passed and each October day as my wife and I ended our walk with a mailbox check I’ve made the same stupid semi-joke wondering if my “trending towards old Criterion” had arrived.
I’m not sure if the one I got today is the one I was wondering about. If you don’t get your copy, or if your copy is damaged, they have a number you can call “within 90 days of issue date for a replacement copy.” I only called two days ago and they told me to allow one to two weeks for delivery so this may be a lickity-quick replacement or a foot dragging original. Either way, I have another copy out there.
This week’s POETS Day enemy de jour de week is streaming video, not for affordably bringing entertainment of the highest and decidedly other quality to the consumer at a time and place of the consumer’s choosing, but for affordably bringing entertainment of the highest and decidedly other quality to the consumer at a time and place of the consumer’s choosing and making us soft. Our leisure is lurching towards too accommodating. They are waging war against our sense of what it means to have an event. When I was a kid, if you wanted to watch Knight Rider, you had to be on the couch at seven on a Friday night and turn the pliers to NBC or, and I swear this happened, your dad would tell you that it’s “No big deal,” because “They’ll re-run it over the summer.” Those were tough times, but we were tough kids; not like kids today, steeped in this post-anticipation dystopia where the universe virtually bends to their whims. What do millennials do with such a dulled sense of expectation, never to knowing the exquisite longing of flipping through the Sears Catalogue toy section? What’s it like to wake up Christmas morning to find there’s nothing left to unwrap? As P.J. O’Rourke wrote, instant credit killed the dry hump. Nobody saves up for anything anymore. They are raising a generation incapable of deferred enjoyment. So take a stand and Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. It’s your life and your weekend so why should you wai… hold on… I…
This week’s POETS Day hero de jour de week is streaming video, not for…
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Roy Campbell despised W.H. Auden. I assume the feeling was reciprocated.
During the Spanish Civil War, Campbell and his family on occasion hid Carmelite Monks in his house in Toledo from Loyalist communists backed by Stalin. It was a sprawling house and the monks not only took refuge, but stowed church documents there. He risked his life, as well as the lives of his wife and daughters, in doing so.
On July 22, 1936, Republican militia murdered seventeen Carmelites in the streets, among them former guests of the Campbell house. Suspecting ties, militiamen searched though the home. The family, fearing such a possibility, was able to clean out crucifixes and icons from the house but there was no time to remove the trunk of papers from the monastery from the front hall. Peter Alexander, author of Roy Campbell: A Critical Biography wrote, “The search of the house was thorough, but though the militiamen leaned their rifles on the Carmelite trunk, they never thought of opening it.” Alexander points out that possession of a missal could have meant death. One of the communists found Campbell’s copy of The Divine Comedy and yelled “Italian!” and then quickly “Fascist!” Alexander again: “But Campbell, with admirable presence of mind, showed them some of his Russian novels, and so convinced them that he was neutral.”
If you haven’t read any of the Nero Wolfe mysteries by Rex Stout, you’ve deprived yourself of endless well spent afternoons. That’s why the books exist. They’re lunch to dinner length and engaging so you don’t nap away a day off.
My dad claims to have read them all though I don’t see how he knows. I’ve read ten or twelve, I think. Maybe I’ve read six of them twice or four of them three times. They’re not meant to be life changingly memorable. The plots are intricate enough to keep you guessing but evenly so throughout the series. They’re tuxedos; none of them impolitely stands out, interchangeable like a Bertie and Jeeves story, but with crimes more serious than pilfering cow creamers.
Murder’s not the thing anyway, at least for me. It’s the joy of spending time in the agoraphobic Wolfe’s brownstone with the orchids or in the study where every seat has an attending table to sit a beer on, stopping for a ham sandwich and a glass of milk with Archie Goodwin the narrator, or imagining the menu put out by Fritz Brenner, Wolfe’s live-in chef.
A good friend of mine used to say, “This is a very simple game. You throw the ball, you catch the ball, you hit the ball. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains.” – Ebby Calvin LaLoosh, Bull Durham
Sometimes a private Las Vegas based monitoring firm called U.S. Integrity employed by, among many others, the Southeastern Conference and the Ohio Casino Control Commission, calls their clients to report anomalous betting on Friday April 28’s Alabama v LSU baseball game placed at BetMGM at The Great American Ballpark in Cincinnati and based on that call, Ohio suspends betting on Alabama baseball on Monday May 1, soon followed by Indiana, looking into a suspicious bet of their own, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Kansas. Sometimes it comes out that there is video of the individual who placed both flag-raising Ohio bets talking to Alabama head baseball coach Brad Bohannon on the phone. Sometimes the university you root for fires their head baseball coach and announces more than introduces suddenly former Pitching Coach Jason Jackson as Interim Head Baseball Coach by Thursday.
Remember when you were a kid and every other kid in the neighborhood got a pony and you didn’t even know you wanted a pony but suddenly you had to have one? Everybody’s playing with ChatGPT. How did I make it all these years without a clockwork house elf serving uncanny valley made-to-order imitations of Metallica songs for my amusement? I asked it to do the Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday introductory paragraph for me this week. Courtesy of our soon to be overlord:
Write an intro paragraph like ordinary-times POETS Day.
Ah, finally it’s that time of the week again! It’s POETS Day, my friends! For those of you who may not know, POETS stands for “Push Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.” It’s the day when the office clock seems to slow down to a crawl and everyone is counting down the minutes until they can head out and enjoy the weekend. Whether you’re planning on hitting the town or just relaxing at home, there’s no denying the excitement that comes with the start of the weekend. So, let’s wrap up those last few tasks and get ready to let our hair down – after all, it’s POETS Day!
Write an intro haiku like ordinary-times.com POETS Day.
POETS Day arrives, A break from the daily grind, Weekend, unbound joy.
Yesterday was opening day. You’d think Major League Baseball would feature all manner of get out of work early fare for the first Friday of the season but it doesn’t. The earliest game starts at 6:40 ET. That’s a bit too late on the East coast and probably around midnight or so on the West coast, but I may be off there – the metric system never made sense to me. How do people play hooky to see a game that doesn’t start until they get off work? I don’t want to trot out “You’re either for us or you’re against us,” for MLB because they’ve been such a friend to POETS Day in the past, but I feel like they dropped the ball here. That said, baseball’s error is no excuse for you to lay down on laying down on the job. The weekend starts when you say it does. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Consider your boss and get your mind right. That’s the enemy. Hold nothing back. Dissemble, obfuscate, fudge the truth, and gleefully trespass whatever norms and delicate pieties are left to preserve our hopefully durable civilization. Nearly all means are justified by the urge to prematurely escape the bonds of employment and settle in at a friendly neighborhood joint to watch yesterday’s highlights and some pre-game blather, tap your fingers impatiently on the bleachers of a local ball park, realize that it doesn’t matter how the long the line is for a hot dog considering that it’ll be God knows how long before the first pitch, or heavens forfend, throw up your hands in frustration and watch soccer. It’s your weekend. Do with it as you will, but in homage to the mighty acronym may I suggest setting aside a moment for a little verse? It’s a particularly good way to pass time waiting on friends who may not run as roughshod over the delicate pieties and were not as successful as you were in engineering an early exit.
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The anonymous writer of the bio for Hilda Doolittle at the invaluable Poetry Foundation notes that the poet suffers from early success. “H.D.’s justified reputation as the greatest and purest imagist paradoxically led to a critical cage whose perpetrators either lamented the fact that she stopped writing perfect gems or persisted in discussing five and ignoring 45 years of poetic development.” She wrote remarkably later in life and while I’ve read bits from that period I’m not at all as familiar with the later as I’ve become with the earlier. Scholarship since the 1970s, no doubt to the delight of the bio writer, celebrates the whole body of her work as remarkable. “Helen of Egypt” (1961) is held out as particularly significant.
Call me a Philistine, but I’m currently interested in her early Imagist period and will persist in my admiration of five at the expense of what followed. It was Glenn Hughes, author of Imagism and the Imagists: A Study in Modern Poetry (1931), who first referred to Doolittle as “the purist imagist.” In the 1913 issue of “Poetry” a set of three poetic principles as put forth by the three original Imagistes: Ezra Pound, Doolittle, and her husband Richard Aldington.
[This entry is cross posted at ordinary-times.com]
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When most people think of a poet, what one looks like as they go about their business, they probably think of someone Byronic leaning over a battered wooden table, scribbling mid inhale on a loose sheet of paper, fingers inkpot stained, a girdle-tight vest over whatever style puffy shirt the modern mind thinks was always in vogue before mass produced mirrors, a vee of dark curls fopping over the upstage eye like a bunch of wine grapes, the interior of the tent improbably well lit by a single candle, and the air still redolent of gun smoke from day’s battle for Greek independence. Poets may not be of the Romantic school, but we think they should look like they are.
At a favorite holiday spot in Key West, he got into a voluble argument with Robert Frost on at least two different occasions, and once he slugged the man he considered the anti-poetic devil. Per Stevens biographer Paul Mariani, “So it began, with Stevens swinging at the bespectacled [Ernest] Hemingway, who seemed to weave like a shark, and Papa hitting him one-two and Stevens going down ‘spectacularly,’ as Hemingway would remember it, into a puddle of fresh rainwater.” He did manage to land at least one blow, apparently breaking his hand on Hemingway’s jaw.
In the mid-nineties I had the opportunity to tour St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. It sounds silly to say given the setting, but on viewing Michelangelo’s Pieta I had a near religious experience. There was no Coleridge mentally prompting me as he did his tourist at the waterfall, because no prompting was needed. It is sublime. Every curve and fold amazes. Mary’s sorrow hidden near one and a half thousand years in marble until one man set his gifts to reveal it is terrible to behold. I’ve never been stabbed so I can’t say for certain that the metaphor fits, but my reaction to the work was immediate, deep, and unexpected. Tears welled and ran down my cheek. It was not pretty.
The Pieta is a reminder of what man is capable of. It’s humbling and inspiring at the same time. We all have some creative bent we indulge. He may not be Michelangelo, but the hobbyist guitar player who’ll never quite get bar chords right is following that same urge towards the divine. As a race we strive towards a perfection we can never achieve, but the likes of Beethoven, Austin, and Yeats leave behind spectacular failures to remind us how close we can get.
The Columbo Game 