Meet Jane

In 83 days she will kill herself. Or so she claims on her maddeningly fascinating blog 90 Day Jane
Here’s her first post from February 5th

Today is day 90. How did it become day # 90? Well, I'm not really sure except that it's better than day 91.
With roughly 3 months to look at my life from a truly temporary perspective, I wonder what realizations i'll have. Will I suddenly become a sentimental person? Will I tie up loose ends? Will I rekindle relationships long forgotten? I doubt it, to be honest. It's not like I have terminal cancer or something. It's a truly selfish thing I do now (was that Dickens? ha ha) and I plan to live my life as I always had, but with this new perspective. I'll go to work, I'll have a social life, I'll date, I'll celebrate and then I'll check out.
I guess, though, on the day I decide this I should probably say why. Though, I simply can't define it. That's what this blog is for; to define through public record "why"?

This could be scary intense as we reach the end of April or start of May but it is a sign of our age, of the rampant cynicism deisbleif but also thirsst for fame that no one knows if this is a document of a young woman’s last days or merely an art piece.
Radar thinks it is the latter

Allow us to be early in suggesting that 90 Day Jane may be a viral marketing scheme for some amateur auteur's inspiration, that there may be a little evidence to indicate that she's simply a depressed and lonely twenty-something wage slave who finally figured out a way to really get someone to hear her. It's probably secretly sponsored by Zoloft.

On Jane's first blog post, the ubiquitous anonymous commenter left a short note stating that Jane wasn't from Hollywood, she was from Louisiana.

The comment pointed anyone who cared to Void, a weblog kept since 2004 by someone calling herself "Jane Q. Doe."

Like 90 Day Jane, Ms. "Doe" is 24. Just like 90 Day Jane, she says her occupation is "drone." Both Janes are dark-haired and well-built. Both Janes seem to have a thing for Fight Club. In her "About Me," 90 Day Jane references the movie in order to explain some of her motivations for suicide: "I mean, as an atheist I feel life has no greater purpose. My generation has had no great depression, no great war ..." Just a few days earlier, Jane Q. Doe wrote about seeing the movie for the first time, saying, "I saw fight club night before last. I was thoroughly amazed. I've avoided that movie since it came out as a 'guy movie' riddled with action, boobies, and guys beating the shit out of other people. Instead I was pleasantly surprised by intellect, insanity, and a HUGE THROBBING COCK."

A trip through Louisiana Jane's Void reveals a young woman who often sounds a great deal like 90 Day Jane, in general. It's easy to believe they are one and the same, but there's no concrete proof. Whether Jane meant for her countdown to suicide to be a really big show or not is moot. People are reading and watching.

Though this could be really fascinating (if I remember to check in, as I probably won’t) but I hope in 84 days she reveals that it was all just an exploration and meditation on life and death and what it all means and that she hasn’t actually taken the next step and figured it all out.

[UPDATE: Well I'm glad this has all been resolved and it was a hoax. Score one for cynics]

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The "Lowering of Expectations" Game

first contestant: Barack "The Chosen One" Obama's campaign staffer
from Wonkette:

David Plouffe of Team Obama sent out a memo today outlining expectations for tomorrow:

We fully expect Senator Clinton to earn more delegates on February 5th and also to win more states. If we were to be within 100 delegates on that day and win a number of states, we will have met our threshold for success and will be best positioned to win the nomination in the coming months.

There should be more of this kind of expectation lowering statements out there today so I'll try to find some more for you all. Unless I forget, which is always a strong possibility

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The End; A Work in Progress

January 30th- The Day America Died
(pardon my melodrama, I'm just actually really upset about the news right now)







I’ll be adding more songs to this as I remember they exist

Don McLean- American Pie

A long, long time ago...
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And, maybe, they’d be happy for a while.

But february made me shiver
With every paper I’d deliver.
Bad news on the doorstep;
I couldn’t take one more step.

I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride,
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died.

So bye-bye, miss american pie.
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Did you write the book of love,
And do you have faith in God above,
If the Bible tells you so?
Do you believe in rock ’n roll,
Can music save your mortal soul,
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

Well, I know that you’re in love with him
`cause I saw you dancin’ in the gym.
You both kicked off your shoes.
Man, I dig those rhythm and blues.

I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died.

I started singin’,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Now for ten years we’ve been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin’ stone,
But that’s not how it used to be.
When the jester sang for the king and queen,
In a coat he borrowed from james dean
And a voice that came from you and me,

Oh, and while the king was looking down,
The jester stole his thorny crown.
The courtroom was adjourned;
No verdict was returned.
And while lenin read a book of marx,
The quartet practiced in the park,
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died.

We were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Helter skelter in a summer swelter.
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter,
Eight miles high and falling fast.
It landed foul on the grass.
The players tried for a forward pass,
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast.

Now the half-time air was sweet perfume
While the sergeants played a marching tune.
We all got up to dance,
Oh, but we never got the chance!
`cause the players tried to take the field;
The marching band refused to yield.
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died?

We started singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Oh, and there we were all in one place,
A generation lost in space
With no time left to start again.
So come on: jack be nimble, jack be quick!
Jack flash sat on a candlestick
Cause fire is the devil’s only friend.

Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage.
No angel born in hell
Could break that satan’s spell.
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite,
I saw satan laughing with delight
The day the music died

He was singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news,
But she just smiled and turned away.
I went down to the sacred store
Where I’d heard the music years before,
But the man there said the music wouldn’t play.

And in the streets: the children screamed,
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.
But not a word was spoken;
The church bells all were broken.
And the three men I admire most:
The father, son, and the holy ghost,
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died.

And they were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

They were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die."

Bob Dylan- It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue


You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last.
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast.
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun,
Crying like a fire in the sun.
Look out the saints are comin' through
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

The highway is for gamblers, better use your sense.
Take what you have gathered from coincidence.
The empty-handed painter from your streets
Is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets.
This sky, too, is folding under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

All your seasick sailors, they are rowing home.
All your reindeer armies, are all going home.
The lover who just walked out your door
Has taken all his blankets from the floor.
The carpet, too, is moving under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you.
Forget the dead you've left, they will not follow you.
The vagabond who's rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore.
Strike another match, go start anew
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

for JRE
[addition #1]

Paul Simon-American Tune

Many's the time I've been mistaken
And many times confused
Yes, and I've often felt forsaken
And certainly misused
Oh, but I'm all right, I'm all right
I'm just weary to my bones
Still, you don't expect to be
Bright and bon vivant
So far away from home, so far away from home

And I don't know a soul who's not been battered
I don't have a friend who feels at ease
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered
or driven to its knees
but it's all right, it's all right
for we lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the
road we're traveling on
I wonder what's gone wrong
I can't help it, I wonder what's gone wrong

And I dreamed I was dying
I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly
And looking back down at me
Smiled reassuringly
And I dreamed I was flying
And high up above my eyes could clearly see
The Statue of Liberty
Sailing away to sea
And I dreamed I was flying

We come on the ship they call the Mayflower
We come on the ship that sailed the moon
We come in the age's most uncertain hours
and sing an American tune
Oh, and it's alright, it's all right, it's all right
You can't be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day
And I'm trying to get some rest
That's all I'm trying to get some rest

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The WGA Strike: Day [a lot] of [endless]

Ugh.
Anyway there is finally some news; Conan and Jay Leno are returning to television on January 2nd. In statements released they both say they're doing it for the non writers on staff so that they won't have to be laid off, which is noble and thoughtful I guess
Conan's statement:

With the New Year upon us, I am left with a difficult decision. Either go back to work and keep my staff employed or stay dark and allow 80 people, many of whom have worked for me for 14 years, to lose their jobs. If my show were entirely scripted I would have no choice. But the truth is that shows like mine are hybrids, with both written and nonwritten content. An unwritten version of ‘Late Night,’ though not desirable, is possible and no one has to be fired. “So, it is only after a great deal of thought that I have decided to go back on the air on Jan. 2. I will make clear, on the program, my support for the writers, and I’ll do the best version of ‘Late Night’ I can under the circumstances

Jay Leno's:

I remained positive during the talks and while they were still at the table discussing a solution. ‘The Tonight Show’ remained dark in support of our writing staff. Now that the talks have broken down and there are no further negotiations scheduled I feel it’s my responsibility to get my 100 nonwriting staff, which were laid off, back to work. We fully support our writers, and I think they understand my decision.”

I'm usually not up that late anymore so I'm not really caring but it is a very symbolic move (and one that seems to echo almost directly Johhny Carson's staying off the air for two months before resuming his show.)
[UPDATE INSERT: And apparently some writers do notsupport the decision and have vowed vengenance


But the writers aren't just sitting around- they're looking at changing the game by talking to venture capitalists and hedge funds about web start ups, as reported in the L.A. Times
Dozens of striking film and TV writers are negotiating with venture capitalists to set up companies that would bypass the Hollywood studio system and reach consumers with video entertainment on the Web.

At least seven groups, composed of members of the striking Writers Guild of America, are planning to form Internet-based businesses that, if successful, could create an alternative economic model to the one at the heart of the walkout, now in its seventh week.

Three of the groups are working on ventures that would function much like United Artists, the production company created 80 years ago by Charlie Chaplin and other top stars who wanted to break free from the studios.

"It's in development and rapidly incubating," said Aaron Mendelsohn,

[snip]

"I'm 100% confident that you will see some companies get formed," said Todd Dagres, a Boston-based venture capitalist who has been flying to L.A. and meeting with top writers for weeks. "People have made up their minds."

So far, the percentage of the guild's 10,000 striking writers who are in discussions with venture capitalists appears to be small. Any deal of this kind, however, could put pressure on the studios and help the writers' public relations campaign. Writers who are talking to venture investors say the studios would suffer a brain drain if high-profile talents received outside funding and were no longer beholden to them.

Mendelsohn and others said they would stick with their ventures after the strike ended.
(y’know if it ever ends)

[snip]
Most writers who have been talking with venture capitalists declined to discuss their plans on the record, saying it was too early to provide details. Yet an array of strategies have emerged from interviews with writers, investors and others involved in the process.

The groups modeled after United Artists (which eventually was bought by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Inc. and recently was revived with the help of Tom Cruise) envision creating and distributing programming for the Web and recouping their investments by selling rights to the most successful properties to TV networks or movie companies.

Some high-profile writers and technologists are trying to create a collaborative studio they hope would be officially sanctioned by the Writers Guild. They want to build on the popularity of strike-related videos on the guild-inspired blog UnitedHollywood, YouTube and elsewhere.

"We are uniquely positioned to take our case and new business model directly to consumers," said a leader of that effort, the primary writer on a TV show that was a blockbuster a decade ago. "This will be the officially sanctioned Hollywood union portal."

Others seek to create a privately owned studio that would develop episodic series for the Web. The studio could turn a profit even without cutting movie or TV deals if it developed an audience coveted by advertisers.

Dagres said he had met with one group focused on developing material for potential theatrical distribution and another concentrating on Web series.

At least two additional groups plan to create companies that would distribute material on Facebook or other online gathering places where they might quickly become popular.

Facebook director Jim Breyer, a partner at Silicon Valley venture firm Accel Partners, said he was weighing deals that would rely on Facebook's platform. "It is likely we will make investments in Los Angeles screenwriter/content-oriented companies in 2008," he said.

Accel and Dagres' Spark Capital are among four venture firms that have been meeting with writers since the strike began

Some of the writers who are drafting business plans said that if the strike had lasted only a week, they would have just gone back to work. But now they've had time to plot strategy -- and to realize that a prolonged strike with reruns and reality shows filling the airwaves might allow them to grab a wandering audience.

"The companies are pushing us into the embrace of people that are going to cut them out of the loop," marveled one show runner who is tracking the start-up trend but not participating.

"We are one Connecticut hedge-fund checkbook, one Silicon Valley server farm and two creators away from having channels on YouTube, where the studios don't own anything."

Of course I wish them luck and I'll support them (I'll take my fix where I can get it.) And are there still actual picket lines, especially in New York? it's supposed to be like blizzarding and stuff and that would be awful. But I guess this just goes to show that you can't affect real and lasting change just by hoping for it, that those with power won't just decided to give it up but rather you have to demand change and fight the vested interest.


(yeah I just worked a john edwards plug/barack bash into a post on the fly- i saw an opening and I took it and I won't apologize)

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Giustizia Mosse Il Mio Alto Fattore

FECEMI LA DIVINA PODESTATE,
LA SOMMA SAPIENZA E 'L PRIMO AMORE

Here's the 2nd part of our little mini trip through Dante's Inferno (because I forgot to do it yesterday.) Here's part 1 Cantos I-XIII if you missed


Canto XIV-XXIV

I saw myriad flocks of naked souls,
All weeping wretchedly, and it appeared
That separate sentences were meted to them.

Flat on their backs, some spread out on the ground;
Some squatted down, all hunched up in a crouch;
And others walked about interminably.

More numerous were those who roamed around;
Fewer were those stretched out for the torture,
But looser were their tongues to tell their hurt.

Over all the sand, large flakes of flame,
Falling slowly, came floating down, wafted
Like snow without a wind up in the mountains.

Just like the flames which Alexander saw
In the torrid regions of India
Swarming to the ground upon his legions,

So that he had his troops tramp down the soil,
The better to put out the flaming flakes
And to prevent them spreading other fires,

So descended the everlasting blaze
By which the sand enkindled, just like tinder
Under sparks from flint — doubling the pain.

Restlessly the dance of wretched hands
Went on and on, on this side and on that,
Beating off the freshly falling flames.

Eyed in this manner by that brotherhood,
I there was recognized by one who grasped me
By the hem — and cried, "How wonderful!"
And I, when he stretched out his arm to me,
So fixed my eyes upon his burnt-out features
Even his crusted face did not prevent me

From apprehending him in my mind’s eye,
And bending down my face to be with his

Canto XVII

And that repugnant picture of pure fraud
Came on, landing his head and his chest first,
But darting his tail out beyond the bank.

His face was the face of a saintly person,
So placid was the surface of the skin,
But his whole trunk was the shape of a snake.

He had two paws, with hair up to his armpits;
His back and breasts and both of his flanks
Were painted gaudily with knots and loops.

Tartars or Turks never wove a cloth
With more colors in background and design,
Nor did Arachne ever loom such webs.
[snip]
He called, "Now, Geryon, get up! Be sure
To make your circles wide and move down slowly:
Remember the strange weight that you now carry."

Just as a rowboat pulls out from its berth
Backwards, backwards, so that beast pushed off,
And when he felt himself all free in space,

There where his chest had been he turned his tail,
Stretching it out and waving it like an eel,
While with his paws he gathered in the air.

After this my teacher said to me,
"Stretch your head forward a little farther
So that your eyes may clearly catch the face

"Of that slatternly and smutty slut
Who scratches herself with shit-blackened nails,
Now squatting and now staggering to her feet.

"She is Thais the whore, who when her lover
Asked, ‘Are you very grateful to me?' answered,
‘Very! Why, extravagantly so!’

"But now our sight has had enough of this."

Up from the mouth of each hole there stuck out
A sinner’s feet and legs up to the calf,
The rest of him remained stuffed down inside.

The soles of both feet blazed all on fire;
The leg-joints wriggled uncontrollably:
They would have snapped any rope or tether.

Just as a flame on anything that’s oily
Spreads only on the object’s outer surface,
So did this fire move from heel to toe.

Canto XXI

With just the same rage and roaring of dogs
When they rush out on some poor passing beggar
Who stops dead in his tracks and starts to beg,

So these devils, from beneath the bridge
Shot out with all their prongs aimed at my guide,
But he shouted, "Stop being savages!

"Before you would impale me with your forks,
One of you step forward to hear me out
And then resolve to grapple me or not."

Alichino could not restrain himself
And, counter to the rest, said, "If you jump,
I wouldn’t come galloping after you;
"Instead, I’ll flap my wings above the pitch-pot!
We’ll leave this ridge and make the bank a shield
To see if all alone you can outsmart us!"

O reader, listen to the latest sport!
Each turned his eyes toward the other shore —
The first one was the fiend who most resisted!

The Navarrese picked his time perfectly,
Fixed both feet on the ground and in a flash
Leaped out and broke free of the fiend-in-charge!

Below that point we found a painted people
Who walked in circles with the slowest steps,
Weeping and worn in looks and overwhelmed.

The cloaks they wore had cowls drawn down low
Over their eyes, made in a similar style
As those that are made for monks in Cluny.

These are so gilded outside that they dazzle,
But inside, solid lead, and so heavy that,
Compared to them, Frederick’s capes were straw.
O mantle of unending weariness!
Once again we turned to the left hand,
Along with those souls rapt in their sad tears.

But with their weights the tired people trod
So slowly that we had fresh company
With every step we took along the way.
Then they said to me, "O Tuscan, you come
To this chapter of the sorry hypocrites:
Do not scorn to tell us who you are."

And there within I saw a repulsive mass
Of serpents in such a horrifying state
That still my blood runs cold when I recall them.

No more need Libya boast about the sands
Where chelydri, jaculi, phareae,
And cenchres with amphisbaena breed:

She could not show — with all Ethiopia
Nor the lands that lie surrounding the Red Sea —
So rampant and pestiferous a plague.

Among this cruel and miserable swarm
Were people running stripped and terrified,
With no hope of hiding-hole or heliotrope.

They had hands tied behind their backs by snakes
That thrust out head and tail through their loins
And that coiled then in knots around the front.

And look! A serpent sprang up at one sinner
Upon our strand and it transfixed him there
Where neck and shoulders knotted at the nape.

No o or i was ever written faster
Than that sinner flared up and burst in flames
And, falling down, completely turned to ashes.

And then, as he lay scattered on the ground,
The ashy dust collected by itself
And suddenly returned to its first shape.

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The WGA Strike: Day 29, I Think

boy this has been going on for a long time, a lot longer than I originally thought it would, so long in fact that the guy in the following video used to be the head writer for Chuck

or not.
The Internet and its legions of cute viral video starring animals stands in solidarity with the striking writers. From WGA Member and Colbert Report Writer Frank Lesser and featuring David Cross and Richard Belzer

Is your marriage/civil union or relationship suffering because of the strike? Christina Applegate and Samantha Who? writer Bob Kushell can help you survive your marriage

AMPTP's response? A new proposal. Now with coupons!



I have no idea how this'll all end. I guess it may depend on what type of writer would be writing it

Problem solved. I am sensing some hostility though...
(btw, my intro to that last video was meant to be a serious lament and was written before I saw Strike Life but it fit soo perfectly it was delicious. yay me.)


United Hollywood.

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Per Me Si Va Ne La Città Dolente

PER ME SI VA NE L'ETTERNO DOLORE, PER ME SI VA TRA LA PERDUTA GENTE

Yesterday when I first saw this article in the New York Observer about "Life in Knicks Hell", the illustration reminded me of Dante and his Commedia. Well, that and I was thinking about what circle of hell I would end up in (btw, besides the killers and tyrants in the 1st ring, the 2nd and 3rd rings of the Seventh Circle are going to be amazing- just think of how many cool sodomites and suicides there've been.)

Anyway I came across the engraving for the text from Gustave Doré, whose work I've always loved a lot(though I did not know he was so late) and decided to share them with you in a mini series on Sundays. Because what day is more appropriate to, in the words of Jim Morrison,"think about our eventual ends." This'll probably be a failed experiment but...
Here are Canto I-XIII from Inferno (and the image above is Botticelli's view of Dante's hell)

Halfway through the journey we are living
I found myself deep in a darkened forest,
For I had lost all trace of the straight path.

Ah how hard it is to tell what it was like,
How wild the forest was, how dense and rugged!
To think of it still fills my mind with panic

But not so when — to add now to my fears —
In front of me I caught sight of a lion!

He appeared to be coming straight at me
With head held high and furious for hunger,
So that the air itself seemed to be shaking.

Day was now fading, and the dusky air
Released the creatures dwelling here on earth
From tiring tasks, while I, the only one,

Readied myself to endure the battle
Both of the journey and the pathos,
Which flawless memory shall here record.

The demon Charon, with burning-ember eyes,
Gave a signal and gathered all on board,
Smacking lagging stragglers with his oar.

So I saw that brilliant schola meeting
Under the master of sublimest song
Who above all others soars like an eagle.

After conversing for some time together,
They turned to me with a cordial greeting:
With that, my master broke into a smile.
And then they showed me a still greater honor,
For they included me within their group,
So that I was the sixth among those minds.

This way we walked together toward the light,
Speaking of things as well unmentioned here
As there it was as well to speak of them

Just as the doves when homing instinct calls them
To their sweet nest, on steadily lifted wings
Glide through the air, guided by their longing,
So those souls left the covey where Dido lies,
Moving toward us through the malignant air,
So strong was the loving-kindness in my cry.

"O mortal man, gracious and tenderhearted,
Who through the somber air come to visit
The two of us who stained the earth with blood,

"If the King of the universe were our friend,
We would then pray to him to bring you peace,
Since you show pity for our wretched plight.

"Whatever you please to hear and speak about
We will hear and speak about with you
While the wind, as it is now, is silent.

And I, standing there to stare intently,
Saw in that morass people smeared with mud,
All naked, their faces lined with rage.

They beat each other not just with their hands
But even with their heads and chest and feet
And with their teeth ripped each other to pieces.

My own good master said, "Son, now you see
The souls of those whom anger overpowered.
I also want you to accept for certain

"That under the water there are people sighing
Who make the surface of the water bubble,
As your eye tells you whichever way it turns."

Mired in slime, they moan, "We were morose
In the sweet air made cheerful by the sun;
We bore within ourselves the torpid vapors:

"Now morbid we are made in this black mud."

My guide then stepped down into the boat,
And next he made me enter after him:
Only when I was in did it seem weighted.

As soon as my guide and I embarked,
The ancient prow pushed off, ploughing down
Water more deeply than it does with others.

Here at one spot there straightaway stood up
Three infernal Furies stained with blood,
Their bodies and behavior that of women.

Their waists were cinctured with green hydras;
For hair they had horned snakes and poison adders
With which their savage temples were enwreathed.

And clearly recognizing the handmaidens
Of the Queen of unending mournfulness,
He said to me, "Look at the fierce Erinyes:

"That one there on the left is Megaera,
And on the right is Alecto, wailing;
Tisiphone is in the middle." He ceased.

With her nails each one tore at her own breasts,
Thrashed with her hands, and shouted out so loud
That in dread I drew closer to the poet.

"Look here at Farinata straightening up!
From waist high you will see the whole of him."

I had already fixed my eyes on his
While he emerged with his forehead and chest,
Looking as though he held hell in contempt

And at the brink over the broken chasm
There lay outspread the infamy of Crete

That was conceived within the bogus cow;
And when he saw us, he bit into himself,
Like someone whom wrath tears up from inside

Inside here nest the repugnant Harpies
Who chased the Trojans from the Strophades
With foul prophecies of coming losses.

They have wide wings, human necks and faces,
Feet with claws, and big feathered bellies;
They shriek laments from up in the strange trees.

I heard deep wailings rising from all sides,
Without discerning anyone who made them,
So that, completely baffled, I stopped short.

I think he thought that I was thinking that
All of the voices from among the trunks
Rose up from people who were hiding from us.
...
"The answer I give you shall be concise.

"Whenever the violent soul forsakes the flesh
From which it tore itself by its own roots,
Minos assigns it to the seventh pit.

"It plummets to the wood — no place is picked —
But wherever fortune happens to have hurled it,
There it sprouts up like a grain of spelt;

"It springs into a sapling and wild tree;
The harpies, feeding on its foliage,
Cause pain and then an outlet for the pain.

"Like others we shall go to our shed bodies,
But not to dress ourselves in them once more,
For it is wrong to own what you tossed off.

"Here shall we haul them, and throughout the sad
Wood forevermore shall our bodies hang,
Each from the thornbush of its tortured shade."

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The Joys of Lesbian Lit

a second helping of poems by Adrienne Rich

November 68

Stripped
you're beginning to float free
up through the smoke of brushfires
and incinerators
the unleafed branches won't hold you
nor the radar aerials

You're what the autumn knew would happen
after the last collapse
of primary color
once the last absolutes were torn to pieces
you could begin

How you broke open, what sheathed you
until this moment
I know nothing about it
my ignorance of you amazes me
now that I watch you
starting to give yourself away
to the wind

For The Record

The clouds and the stars didn't wage this war
the brooks gave no information
if the mountain spewed stones of fire into the river
it was not taking sides
the raindrop faintly swaying under the leaf
had no political opinions

and if here or there a house
filled with backed-up raw sewage
or poisoned those who lived there
with slow fumes, over years
the houses were not at war
nor did the tinned-up buildings

intend to refuse shelter
to homeless old women and roaming children
they had no policy to keep them roaming
or dying, no, the cities were not the problem
the bridges were non-partisan
the freeways burned, but not with hatred

Even the miles of barbed-wire
stretched around crouching temporary huts
designed to keep the unwanted
at a safe distance, out of sight
even the boards that had to absorb
year upon year, so many human sounds

so many depths of vomit, tears
slow-soaking blood
had not offered themselves for this
The trees didn't volunteer to be cut into boards
nor the thorns for tearing flesh
Look around at all of it

and ask whose signature
is stamped on the orders, traced
in the corner of the building plans
Ask where the illiterate, big-bellied
women were, the drunks and crazies,
the ones you fear most of all: ask where you were.

From an Atlas of the Difficult World

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

Miracle Ice Cream

Miracle's truck comes down the little avenue,
Scott Joplin ragtime strewn behind it like pearls,
and, yes, you can feel happy
with one piece of your heart.


Take what's still given: in a room's rich shadow
a woman's breasts swinging lightly as she bends.
Early now the pearl of dusk dissolves.
Late, you sit weighing the evening news,
fast-food miracles, ghostly revolutions,
the rest of your heart.


Transit

When I meet the skier she is always
walking, skis and poles shouldered, toward the mountain
free-swinging in worn boots
over the path new-sifted with fresh snow
her greying dark hair almost hidden by
a cap of many colors
her fifty-year-old, strong, impatient body
dressed for cold and speed
her eyes level with mine

And when we pass each other I look into her face
wondering what we have in common
where our minds converge
for we do not pass each other, she passes me
as I halt beside the fence tangled in snow,
she passes me as I shall never pass her
in this life

Yet I remember us together
climbing Chocorua, summer nineteen-forty-five
details of vegetation beyond the timberline
lichens, wildflowers, birds,
amazement when the trail broke out onto the granite ledge
sloped over blue lakes, green pines, giddy air
like dreams of flying

When sisters separate they haunt each other
as she, who I might once have been, haunts me
or is it I who do the haunting
halting and watching her on the path
how she appears again through lightly-blowing
crystals, how her strong knees carry her,
how unaware she is, how simple
this is for her, how without let or hindrance
she travels in her body
until the point of passing, where the skier
and the cripple must decide
to recognize each other?

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The WGA Strike: Day 23 of...

Jill Sobule (love her) has shown her support for the writers with a song in their honor "We Are The Writers." I'm not sure yet but I still think I prefer Lisa's Union Strike Folk Song.

Slate has a good article about why labor negotiations are usually held at night. The short answer? People have to work during the day, though if there is a strike I would think no one would be working leaving plenty of time to hammer things out.

The P.R. War Continues
From United Hollywood: For the first time, high-profile actors are taking their talent directly to the Internet for a powerful show of union solidarity. The folks at SpeechlessWithoutWriters.com will be adding new videos every day, in both high-res and low-res versions. Here is "Anthem," the first one

But as you know huge celebrities aren't the only ones affected. And the strike isn't all parties and social events. "Each year, Hollywood produces a spate of network TV shows and a couple dozen feature films. With over 12,000 Writers Guild members, clearly not everyone is employed in a given year. While the mainstream media barrages us with images of red carpet and caviar success stories, the reality is that most professionals working in the entertainment industry are middle-class at best"
Here's a video about "Who's On The Line"

wow, that was really really sad, actually. Corporate sucks.
And the AMPTP's response? Jonathan Handel at Huffington Post has the exclusive video...er, no and that's what he sees as a problem

"like the dog that didn't bark, the real mystery is why the producers haven't produced. The AMPTP has created no YouTube videos of its own, opting instead for the old-media alternative of occasional paid advertising in the NY Times, LA Times and trades, and an op ed piece in the LA Times. I wish I could offer you a link to the AMPTP's new YouTube video -- like my headline promises -- but I can't, because there isn't one. The companies' strategy has been more NoTube than YouTube.

But why? With all their resources, why haven't the AMPTP companies produced and distributed video content of their own? It's not for lack of writers; the companies could use non-WGA writers if they wished, since new media is not a covered area, and in-house promotional activity presumably isn't either (and, in any case, the WGA agreement expired October 31 and is no longer in effect).

The only remaining explanation is that the studios and networks -- the country's largest media companies -- just don't understand new media, or they have carelessly allowed their representative, the AMPTP, to function without comprehending the importance of new media. Online, and on cellphone and iPod screens, is increasingly where the eyeballs are, not to mention the hearts and minds (thankfully, that's as anatomical as we need to get). Newspapers, and television, also matter, a lot; but ignoring a fast-growing, young-skewing medium makes companies seem stodgy at best, and ever more the villain -- or, "the man," if you prefer -- at worst.

yeah I think everyone is on the side of the writers. Though a day is coming soon that is really going to suck when there are no new episodes. Over at HuffPo again they have a quick list of what's left and what's gone and it's getting a little upsetting. Some that will affect me:

• Fox airs a fresh "House" Tuesday. After that, only three more new episodes remain, slotted for January-one of them following Fox's Super Bowl broadcast
• CBS'... sitcom [How I Met Your Mother] has similarly run dry
• The planned January return of Fox's "24" has been postponed indefinitely. Since only some of the series' 24 episodes have been shot, Fox didn't want to risk beginning a new season that might be interrupted. and finally
• ABC's "Ugly Betty," "Pushing Daisies" and "Grey's Anatomy" each have two new episodes to go. ABC's "Desperate Housewives" airs the last of its current stock of new episodes Sunday.The final new episode of NBC's "Heroes" airs Dec. 3.

  _ Fox's "K-Ville" has two new episodes left, with dim prospects for production to resume on this low-rated freshman drama. Well, at least that is a silver lining.

I guess soon there will just be the Youtube

yeeeaaahhh boiiiii. word

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The WGA Strike: Day 17 of...

Remember how I asked on Monday what the deal was with the writers for news? Well I got my answer yesterday when CBS news staffers authorized a strike (I like to think I inspired them because I'm oh so influential.) According to Rasmussen Reports 59% of those polled don't think the strike is affecting them. We'll see how they hold up over the next few weeks when they're bored and inside because of the cold and have nothing to watch. And in fact you can kinda guesttimate from this handy guide on the L.A. Times (or this more comprehensive one) when that dark cold day comes .
Either way it could be costing "the region" 21.3 million dollars a day and more importantly I know it's already affected me, I mean if there was no writer's strike then 30 Rock wouldn't have had to put on a live stage show and I wouldn't be upset because I couldn't see it and missed out on the amazing. Humph. unfair.

But this is a battle of heart and mind and in this clip the writers for the Simpsons take on someone who probably has no heart (and an evil mind) Rupert Murdoch and his lake of blood

(hopefully) Future President Edwards joins the fight and marches on the line with the strikers in Burbank

(god I really love that man)
The Studios and the AMPTP strike back with Roger A. Trevanti (Fred Armisen)

but the Writers respond once again (they are a creative bunch,)

y'know I love love love my Imaginary Gold Plated Baby Panda Bear- aren't they just tops?

But of course in all seriousness there are are a lot of people who're out of work right now, that may not have the best of holidays, Get Back in That Room has a list of about 454 people as of last week who are out of work(that I was going to post here but filled about 13 word pages) so knock on wood for things going well on Monday.

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Prelude to a Showdown

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The WGA Strike: Day 12 of...

I'm a little torn. So last night I was absolutely exhausted by was trying to stay awake for 30 Rock and The Office. I made it through 30 Rock but must have passed out before The Office because I woke up at like 9:26 very confused. So I know it won't really matter if I watch it online, but I vowed not to watch any "promotion" online in support of the writers and I really wanna see what may be the last Office for awhile.
Principles vs. PB and J.
While I debate this moral quandary here are a few videos about the strike
This was from the Saturday before the Strike hit but it's still hilarious and it has Raheem, I mean Fred Armisen. (good luck on the Amazing Race!)


Here's Joni and Susanna on the Picket Line

from the Picket line in New York it's "The Not Daily Show"

Finally as a counterpoint we have a "Very successful entertainment executive, who is also quite young for his position, on why scribes' strike is asinine."(from a Colbert Report writer)

And what's so weird is that I think last night I saw an ad for some show with blonde Rachel formerly of the Daily Show premiering on the 26th. Midseason replacements in November. Awesome.
but it's not all doom and gloom. while I was waiting yesterday I read an article in the New York Times Business section about how the strike can "serve as a second chance" for some shows-like Friday Night Lights!!-because, as the article says

"very soon the networks will begin running low on original scripted episodes of shows. Any new episode will become an increasingly valuable commodity. No network is going to waste bought-and-paid-for episodes. So the marginal shows will stay on until their episodes run out, which, in most cases, will mean sometime between now and the end of January...

In other seasons some shows like these, which have teetered on the ratings fence, might have been temporarily shelved or yanked off the air. Now, as Mr. Beckman noted, “they’re just going to be allowed to play out.” And as another senior network program executive put it, “We’re going to get a little extra look at some of these shows, and maybe they’ll help themselves.”

A show like “Friday Night Lights,” for instance, with its high critical praise and low ratings, could get a chance to break through in January, when it is likely to be among the few fall series with some new episodes left; the show started production early and managed to complete 15 episodes before the strike."

So if you're bored and are sick of watching reality shows just remember Friday Night Lights- it is amazing. (and if you can't do it for the show do it for Riggins and Saracen- i enjoy them.)

[UPDATE: I caved and watched The Office and that really was a "wow" terrific and tremendous episode. Damn near brilliant.]

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The WGA Strike: Day 9 of...

here's a fun little slideshow about food given by the celebrities to the strikers.

"Voices of Uncertainty"
From United Hollywood :"A tribute to the heroes of the AMPTP, who continue to soldier on in the face of almost unimaginable financial confusion. "

I think the people I feel the worst for are the people who work for this shows that are going to get laid off.
Well those workers and our society as a whole because without scripted television the Chris Crocker reality show is even more of a reality and people may actually watch it out of boredom ( i implore you people read a book! there are thousands of buildings all over the country where you can borrow any book you want, for free! or if you're opposed to the written word sign up for netflix or something, please) To be honest I had forgotten how happy I was not thinking or hearing about him. Then for some reason I watched this. i immediately regretted that decision. If you want though...Y'know he really seems like a long time ago, like summer. Here's to old news and 14:57

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Me.Want.Smash.World.

(the title comes from a saying that I may have started amongst my friends. it was based on The Hulk and how I assume when he went Hulkish he wanted to smash the world -I don't know I never read the comics/watched the show or saw the movie. But anyone my take on it was inspired by Shelden Williams who was an absolute beast and probably the strongest person ever, but he would never get angry until one game he had to be restrained after a hard foul and it was terrfiying and as I thought "Shelden.Smash. World. because I thought he could. Anyway long story short it's an expression of great rage/anger)

So. So. Does anyone know what the hell happened to Move Digital? the site where I stored all my mp3s for this site? the site that was working quite well when I uploaded my Antichrist playlist yesterday? When I tried to upload Live Forever last night for Stuck in My Head it was nonresponsive but I thought it was a temporary thing but I then try to access it today and poof a default page is parked there saying it's under construction. It's all really fucking annoying not so much because I had to pay but rather that all the files I had there for you, my beloved reader, or no longer as easily accessible.
But I'd never leave you in the lurch like that so rather than trying to find another server immediately if you want any of the mp3s that I've posted here on this site just send me an e-mail and I'll help you out.
It's all enough to make me wanna holler (an mp3 I would have posted there if not for the flying of some fly by night operation)


And yes I am comparing the rather annoying loss of my mp3 server space to the bleak plight in inner city ghettos.
[UPDATE 11/11: SO like i kinda thought/hoped on the site today was a message from Move Digital: "We are upgrading our service to serve you better. We expect to be back in 14 days or less." ok i accept that. all i wanted was an explanation.]

while we're on the subject of websites that are fucking up, and this may be just on my computer but does anyone know what happened to the L.A. Times? For the past day and a half when I've gone to the main site I've been greeted with a mess that looks like this

seriously wtfihweitwrn*?


*what the fuck is happening with everything in the world right now

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