On March 19, 2011, United States and United Nations coalition forces launched 112 Tomahawk missiles against loyalist forces in Libya. While nominally “enforcing a no-fly zone” in order to prevent Colonel Muammar al-Gaddafi (Kadafy? Qaddafi?) from further tyrannizing his own people, the coalition missile strikes effectively bolster a band of rebel fighters who seek to overthrow the Libyan government. An admirable goal, if one ignores the rebel’s expressly anti-American views as well as strong indications that they have been collaborating with Al-Qaeda. At least they’re not slaughtering children and violating women. Gaddafi and his troops are.
The Pentagon calls the US military’s involvement in Libya “Operation Odyssey Dawn.” I think there’s a nice poetry to the image of dozens of rosy-fingered missiles streaking out from the horizon, illuminating the sky with violent light and promises of freedom. Four months ago in Tunis, fate and circumstance forced a vegetable seller’s hand. Today, in the same country where Dido once set herself on fire to mourn departed love, men now fight so that protest does not have to mean self-immolation. The Libyan battles are ones of epic allusions, if not proportions.
I enjoy these grand allusions. But there are ten year olds in America today who have never known America not to be at war. I wish that Gaddafi would stop harming his own people, so that we didn’t feel the need to blow things up anymore. And I can't help but wonder if we’re really helping. Two wars, I thought, was enough.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
VAE DICTIS
Know you’re self-ish.
A seal of approval should never balance a ball on its nose.
Sloth is not a sin when it has toes.
The only guns worth bearing are your arms.
Lion’s dreams must give us paws.
A filthy dollar’s made of stinky cents.
Money sometimes routs evils.
Homophones are mostly gay themselves.
Salted roads melt snow.
Snow, the blanket, warms.
Husky corn has corny husks.
Summer won’t last. Build barns.
Don’t burn your barns: only Faulkner does so well.
A mouse is not the king of mice.
A multitude of rulers is no good thing—carpenters prefer tape measures.
A teabag has no leaves worth reading.
Rome has seven hills, but so does New South Wales.
Cookies are sometimes food.
A bigger size means bigger sighs.
One buys more fries with dollars than with sense.
Lassie, too, can fall down well.
An elephant prefers a trackpad to a mouse.
Frankly, Franco’s full of fluff.
All toads lead to roads.
I fear the geeks, even wearing shifts.
Love before you leap.
Clear water melts even pillars of salt.
A pen has only so much ink.
A seal of approval should never balance a ball on its nose.
Sloth is not a sin when it has toes.
The only guns worth bearing are your arms.
Lion’s dreams must give us paws.
A filthy dollar’s made of stinky cents.
Money sometimes routs evils.
Homophones are mostly gay themselves.
Salted roads melt snow.
Snow, the blanket, warms.
Husky corn has corny husks.
Summer won’t last. Build barns.
Don’t burn your barns: only Faulkner does so well.
A mouse is not the king of mice.
A multitude of rulers is no good thing—carpenters prefer tape measures.
A teabag has no leaves worth reading.
Rome has seven hills, but so does New South Wales.
Cookies are sometimes food.
A bigger size means bigger sighs.
One buys more fries with dollars than with sense.
Lassie, too, can fall down well.
An elephant prefers a trackpad to a mouse.
Frankly, Franco’s full of fluff.
All toads lead to roads.
I fear the geeks, even wearing shifts.
Love before you leap.
Clear water melts even pillars of salt.
A pen has only so much ink.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Things are looking up
The game is starting up soon, but we don’t end up walking down to the stadium until half time. Funny to come all the way up here from New Haven only to miss the whole first half, but we’re up to no good and loving it.
We’re at the tailgate, and things are looking up. I have my sunglasses on because of, well, the sun. It shines down from somewhere in front of the picture and off to the right. The shadow of Ike’s green and black leopard-striped cowboy hat creeps up my leg. Despite the shade, the sun is warming up. My unzipped jacket, splayed open in the late fall cool, hangs loosely off my shoulders.
Jack’s face catches the brightness right on, which is to say, he’s squinting. But he’s smiling, too, and peering intently off to the right. Just beyond the edge of the picture, a Branford freshman wears a strange erection on his head: a scale model of Harkness Tower. Jack, though, thinks it looks like a penis. “DICK TOWER. DICK TOWER. DICK TOWER,” he shouts. Jack is drunk.
Ike’s mouth is wide-open, mid-laugh, Lexi’s hands are up and clapping, and my raised left hand is pressed against my forehead, just above a gummy, goofy grin. Sure, towers are phallic. But you’re not supposed to say it. Now Ike chimes in, “DICK TOWER. DICK…” The freshman up and leaves, but we don’t care. Now we’re all chanting it. “DICK TOWER. DICK TOWER.” Our spirits swell.
(Orientational metaphor)
We’re at the tailgate, and things are looking up. I have my sunglasses on because of, well, the sun. It shines down from somewhere in front of the picture and off to the right. The shadow of Ike’s green and black leopard-striped cowboy hat creeps up my leg. Despite the shade, the sun is warming up. My unzipped jacket, splayed open in the late fall cool, hangs loosely off my shoulders.
Jack’s face catches the brightness right on, which is to say, he’s squinting. But he’s smiling, too, and peering intently off to the right. Just beyond the edge of the picture, a Branford freshman wears a strange erection on his head: a scale model of Harkness Tower. Jack, though, thinks it looks like a penis. “DICK TOWER. DICK TOWER. DICK TOWER,” he shouts. Jack is drunk.
Ike’s mouth is wide-open, mid-laugh, Lexi’s hands are up and clapping, and my raised left hand is pressed against my forehead, just above a gummy, goofy grin. Sure, towers are phallic. But you’re not supposed to say it. Now Ike chimes in, “DICK TOWER. DICK…” The freshman up and leaves, but we don’t care. Now we’re all chanting it. “DICK TOWER. DICK TOWER.” Our spirits swell.
(Orientational metaphor)
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Sorry this is gross
Known primarily as the prime plot of real estate between Buttville and Scrotum City, the grundle is a space that has long arrested the imagination (and nose) of the American teenager. It is an essentially liminal space, a wizened haven between the body’s two most essential evacuation zones. Often the subject of locker room banter, the grundle has a long and storied history. There were grundles present for the moon landing. There were grundles on hand at the Diet of Worms. When Caesar crossed the Rubicon with his troops, thousands of grundles crossed with them.
The origins of the word are largely unknown. Could it be that its ultimate source is Grendel, the monster whom Beowulf slays in the eponymous Anglo-Saxon epic? An “infamous stalker in the marshes” (maére mearcstapa), Grendel terrifies and intimidates all who cross his path. Alternatively, some scholars speculate that grundle may be related to grundel, an 18th century term for small, bottom dwelling fishes such as the gudgeon and the loach. Such an etymology would at least account for the awful, awful stench that often emanates from the grundle after vigorous exercise. The most widely accepted theory, however, posits a connection to the Middle High German grundelinc, used to describe men “of base breeding sentiments.” The relationship requires no further explanation.
It is perhaps worthy of note that grundle is a gendered term; it refers specifically to the male iteration of what is known in the medical community as the perineum. Indeed, no woman has ever had occasion to refer to this region of her body in polite conversation. Yet the word enjoys, and will likely continue to enjoy, a considerable following. As South African American musician Dave Matthews once explained in a 2001 hit single:
The space between what’s wrong and right
is where you’ll find me hiding, waiting for you.
Long live the holy grundle!
(History of a word)
The origins of the word are largely unknown. Could it be that its ultimate source is Grendel, the monster whom Beowulf slays in the eponymous Anglo-Saxon epic? An “infamous stalker in the marshes” (maére mearcstapa), Grendel terrifies and intimidates all who cross his path. Alternatively, some scholars speculate that grundle may be related to grundel, an 18th century term for small, bottom dwelling fishes such as the gudgeon and the loach. Such an etymology would at least account for the awful, awful stench that often emanates from the grundle after vigorous exercise. The most widely accepted theory, however, posits a connection to the Middle High German grundelinc, used to describe men “of base breeding sentiments.” The relationship requires no further explanation.
It is perhaps worthy of note that grundle is a gendered term; it refers specifically to the male iteration of what is known in the medical community as the perineum. Indeed, no woman has ever had occasion to refer to this region of her body in polite conversation. Yet the word enjoys, and will likely continue to enjoy, a considerable following. As South African American musician Dave Matthews once explained in a 2001 hit single:
The space between what’s wrong and right
is where you’ll find me hiding, waiting for you.
Long live the holy grundle!
(History of a word)
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Creepy Kid
He shows up in costume, like the others. Tie-dyed shirt, eighties track jacket. I figure he’s supposed to be a hippie, but the look doesn’t suit him. Maybe it’s because he’s shaved his head, or because his pallid skin lacks the sheen of your average countercultural icon. Maybe it’s because he clenches his fists far more tightly than a hippie ever would. Or maybe it’s because his occasional sniffles remind me of wet rats. Whatever the reason, this kid gives me the creeps.
When I watch The Silence of the Lambs, I often sense that Anthony Hopkins intentionally looks at me when he talks about people he’s eaten. His pupils focus in on me, as if to say “Now you know my secret. Now you are implicated in my sin.” Each time this happens, I have to pause the movie. “Stop looking at me, Anthony Hopkins,” I reply in my mind. “And stop eating people!”
The way this kid stares into the light, there is a measure of Hannibal in him. He’s not just staring at the lamps. He’s staring at me. He sees through me. I can feel the spit of his disdain as it accumulates in his thyroid. He does not like it here. He does not want to talk.
From the nervous looks now circulating on the dark side of the table, I can tell I’m not the only one who sees it. Good old N., though, he keeps right on interviewing, his hulking shoulders hunched over a notebook full of questions.
“What is your greatest fear?”
Silence.
“Would you like me to repeat the question?”
Nothing but stare.
“Remember, you must answer every question.”
“What if I don’t feel like it?” he finally drawls.
He might as well have said, “I ate his liver with some fava beans, and a nice Chianti.”
(Flesh out a metaphor)
When I watch The Silence of the Lambs, I often sense that Anthony Hopkins intentionally looks at me when he talks about people he’s eaten. His pupils focus in on me, as if to say “Now you know my secret. Now you are implicated in my sin.” Each time this happens, I have to pause the movie. “Stop looking at me, Anthony Hopkins,” I reply in my mind. “And stop eating people!”
The way this kid stares into the light, there is a measure of Hannibal in him. He’s not just staring at the lamps. He’s staring at me. He sees through me. I can feel the spit of his disdain as it accumulates in his thyroid. He does not like it here. He does not want to talk.
From the nervous looks now circulating on the dark side of the table, I can tell I’m not the only one who sees it. Good old N., though, he keeps right on interviewing, his hulking shoulders hunched over a notebook full of questions.
“What is your greatest fear?”
Silence.
“Would you like me to repeat the question?”
Nothing but stare.
“Remember, you must answer every question.”
“What if I don’t feel like it?” he finally drawls.
He might as well have said, “I ate his liver with some fava beans, and a nice Chianti.”
(Flesh out a metaphor)
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Vonnegut
Robert Kennedy, whose summer home is eight miles from the home I live in all year round, was shot two nights ago. He died last night. So it goes.
Martin Luther King was shot a month ago. He died, too. So it goes.
And every day my Government gives me a count of corpses created by military science in Vietnam. So it goes.
My father died many years ago now - of natural causes. So it goes. He was a sweet man. He was a gun nut, too. He left me his guns. They rust.
-Slaughterhouse Five
Martin Luther King was shot a month ago. He died, too. So it goes.
And every day my Government gives me a count of corpses created by military science in Vietnam. So it goes.
My father died many years ago now - of natural causes. So it goes. He was a sweet man. He was a gun nut, too. He left me his guns. They rust.
-Slaughterhouse Five
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