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rededicating myself to the blog. stay tuned for, uh, stuff.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Great Paragraphs
My favorite moment in a book is when it starts to make sense to you. When you reach that point that something the speaker says or does or experiences unexpectedly moves you because, in that moment, it make sense in your life. I cherish such instances because even when that sense, that correlation, changes when your life changes, it will be forever tied to that moment in the story, and when you reread that book—which you should do if it meant something to you in some way—you'll always remember why, how, and what you felt, even if it may have sucked. From chapter 16 of The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
Even though it was Sunday and Phoebe wouldn't be there with her class or anything, and even though it was so damp and lousy out, I walked all the way through the park over to the Museum of Natural History. I knew that was the museum the kid with the skate key meant. I knew that whole museum routine like a book. Phoebe went to the same school I went to when I was a kid, and we used to go there all the time. We had this teacher, Miss Aigletinger, that took us there damn near every Saturday. Sometimes we looked at the animals and sometimes we looked at the stuff the Indians had made in ancient times. Pottery and straw baskets and all stuff like that. I get very happy when I think about it. Even now. I remember after we looked at all the Indian stuff, usually we went to see some movie in this big auditorium. Columbus. They were always showing
Columbus discovering America, having one helluva time getting old Ferdinand and Isabella to lend him the dough to buy ships with, and then the sailors mutinying on him and all. Nobody gave too much of a damn about old Columbus, but you always had a lot of candy and gum and stuff with you, and the inside of that auditorium had such a nice smell. It always smelled like it was raining outside, even if it wasn't, and you were in the only nice, dry, cosy place in the world. I loved that damn museum. I remember you had to go through the Indian Room to get to the auditorium. It was a long, long room, and you were only supposed to whisper. The teacher would go first, then the class. You'd be two rows of kids, and you'd have a partner. Most of the time my partner was this girl named Gertrude Levine. She always wanted to hold your hand, and her hand was always sticky or sweaty or something. The floor was all stone, and if you had some marbles in your hand and you dropped them, they bounced like madmen all over the floor and made a helluva racket, and the teacher would hold up the class and go back and see what the hell was going on. She never got sore, though, Miss Aigletinger. Then you'd pass by this long, long Indian war canoe, about as long as three goddam Cadillacs in a row, with about twenty Indians in it, some of them paddling, some of them just standing around looking tough, and they all had war paint all over their faces. There was one very spooky guy in the back of the canoe, with a mask on. He was the witch doctor. He gave me the creeps, but I liked him anyway. Another thing, if you touched one of the paddles or anything while you were passing, one of the guards would say to you, "Don't touch anything, children," but he always said it in a nice voice, not like a goddam cop or anything. Then you'd pass by this big glass case, with Indians inside it rubbing sticks together to make a fire, and a squaw weaving a blanket. The squaw that was weaving the blanket was sort of bending over, and you could see her bosom and all. We all used to sneak a good look at it, even the girls, because they were only little kids and they didn't have any more bosom than we did. Then, just before you went inside the auditorium, right near the doors, you passed this Eskimo. He was sitting over a hole in this icy lake, and he was fishing through it. He had about two fish right next to the hole, that he'd already caught. Boy, that museum was full of glass cases. There were even more upstairs, with deer inside them drinking at water holes, and birds flying south for the winter. The birds nearest you were all stuffed and hung up on wires, and the ones in back were just painted on the wall, but they all looked like they were really flying south, and if you bent your head down and sort of looked at them upside down, they looked in an even bigger hurry to fly south. The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody'd move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody'd be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you'd be so much older or anything. It wouldn't be that, exactly. You'd just be different, that's all. You'd have an overcoat on this time. Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you'd have a new partner. Or you'd have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way--I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it.
Even though it was Sunday and Phoebe wouldn't be there with her class or anything, and even though it was so damp and lousy out, I walked all the way through the park over to the Museum of Natural History. I knew that was the museum the kid with the skate key meant. I knew that whole museum routine like a book. Phoebe went to the same school I went to when I was a kid, and we used to go there all the time. We had this teacher, Miss Aigletinger, that took us there damn near every Saturday. Sometimes we looked at the animals and sometimes we looked at the stuff the Indians had made in ancient times. Pottery and straw baskets and all stuff like that. I get very happy when I think about it. Even now. I remember after we looked at all the Indian stuff, usually we went to see some movie in this big auditorium. Columbus. They were always showing
Columbus discovering America, having one helluva time getting old Ferdinand and Isabella to lend him the dough to buy ships with, and then the sailors mutinying on him and all. Nobody gave too much of a damn about old Columbus, but you always had a lot of candy and gum and stuff with you, and the inside of that auditorium had such a nice smell. It always smelled like it was raining outside, even if it wasn't, and you were in the only nice, dry, cosy place in the world. I loved that damn museum. I remember you had to go through the Indian Room to get to the auditorium. It was a long, long room, and you were only supposed to whisper. The teacher would go first, then the class. You'd be two rows of kids, and you'd have a partner. Most of the time my partner was this girl named Gertrude Levine. She always wanted to hold your hand, and her hand was always sticky or sweaty or something. The floor was all stone, and if you had some marbles in your hand and you dropped them, they bounced like madmen all over the floor and made a helluva racket, and the teacher would hold up the class and go back and see what the hell was going on. She never got sore, though, Miss Aigletinger. Then you'd pass by this long, long Indian war canoe, about as long as three goddam Cadillacs in a row, with about twenty Indians in it, some of them paddling, some of them just standing around looking tough, and they all had war paint all over their faces. There was one very spooky guy in the back of the canoe, with a mask on. He was the witch doctor. He gave me the creeps, but I liked him anyway. Another thing, if you touched one of the paddles or anything while you were passing, one of the guards would say to you, "Don't touch anything, children," but he always said it in a nice voice, not like a goddam cop or anything. Then you'd pass by this big glass case, with Indians inside it rubbing sticks together to make a fire, and a squaw weaving a blanket. The squaw that was weaving the blanket was sort of bending over, and you could see her bosom and all. We all used to sneak a good look at it, even the girls, because they were only little kids and they didn't have any more bosom than we did. Then, just before you went inside the auditorium, right near the doors, you passed this Eskimo. He was sitting over a hole in this icy lake, and he was fishing through it. He had about two fish right next to the hole, that he'd already caught. Boy, that museum was full of glass cases. There were even more upstairs, with deer inside them drinking at water holes, and birds flying south for the winter. The birds nearest you were all stuffed and hung up on wires, and the ones in back were just painted on the wall, but they all looked like they were really flying south, and if you bent your head down and sort of looked at them upside down, they looked in an even bigger hurry to fly south. The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody'd move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody'd be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you'd be so much older or anything. It wouldn't be that, exactly. You'd just be different, that's all. You'd have an overcoat on this time. Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you'd have a new partner. Or you'd have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way--I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it.
Friday, April 30, 2010
get on the train!
A friend made a comment that he was interested in doing a movie double feature with, first, this:
And secondly, this:
And that seems appropriate, no? First, The Human Centipede involves people actually being sewn together, anus to mouth, in a line that forces them to share a digestive tract so, beyond victim number one, the only way to feed is to—excuse me while I gag—ingest the incoming, uh, load. (sorry).
So that's all literal and shit—with literal, ya know, shit—but, venture into the metaphorical with me in considering Sex and the City 2 as a story not far off from that of The Human Centipeded: Carrie leads the linked pack of flighty females who pretty much construct their own nightmares with their ridiculous antics and uninformed, emotionally-driven decisions, all the while ingesting that which she excretes—mostly-horrid fashion, bad relationship examples, and oh-my-God-shut-the-fuck-up-with-all-those-puns puns—only to have it pass through their own systems of pollution to become even more gunked up with nonsense and poor judgment to finally reach at the end, oh I don't know, Samantha, where it's crapped out on the floor in a pile of dumb fucking shit. So who's the evil doctor in the SATC 2 scenario? Sadly, peeps, we are.
Seth
And secondly, this:
And that seems appropriate, no? First, The Human Centipede involves people actually being sewn together, anus to mouth, in a line that forces them to share a digestive tract so, beyond victim number one, the only way to feed is to—excuse me while I gag—ingest the incoming, uh, load. (sorry).
So that's all literal and shit—with literal, ya know, shit—but, venture into the metaphorical with me in considering Sex and the City 2 as a story not far off from that of The Human Centipeded: Carrie leads the linked pack of flighty females who pretty much construct their own nightmares with their ridiculous antics and uninformed, emotionally-driven decisions, all the while ingesting that which she excretes—mostly-horrid fashion, bad relationship examples, and oh-my-God-shut-the-fuck-up-with-all-those-puns puns—only to have it pass through their own systems of pollution to become even more gunked up with nonsense and poor judgment to finally reach at the end, oh I don't know, Samantha, where it's crapped out on the floor in a pile of dumb fucking shit. So who's the evil doctor in the SATC 2 scenario? Sadly, peeps, we are.
Seth
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
sad
One of these days I'm going to write a book about all the pets we've had in the Plattner family. It totals somewhere at 15 cats and 11 dogs, all of them having contributed to lifetime moments of laughter, tears, frustration, and, above all else, unconditional love. But a book like that will take time and reflection in order to do them all justice. So, for this post, I just want to emote.
Last night, the second in a pair of my hometown Schnauzers, Pepper (bottom), The Wee Pep, passed away. Last summer, her brother, Jack (top), or Hungry Jack (yes, like the pancake mix, because, not a moment after he was born, the first thing he did was eat) fell into my pool, most likely as a result of a seizure, and drowned. I know that's very morbid and tragic and sad, but I'd like not to focus on their deaths (to start at least). I was, of course, devastated after Jack's accident, and I'm pretty bummed out now after losing Pepper. But, she was an old girl -- her 13th birthday was on the 22nd -- and she fell victim to pancreatitis and kidney failure, which Schnauzers are apparently the poster child for. But, beyond the sadness, I'm just kind of reflective.
Before Jack and Pepper, we had another Schnauzer, Benny, who I loved just as much as any dog I've ever had. He was the fifth brother to four others: me, my triplet brothers and older brother. The day the triplets were brought home from the hospital Benny began a vigil, posting up underneath our cribs every night, ears perking every time one of us cooed or rolled or cried. As we went from crib to highchair to blanket on the floor, Benny was always there, ya know, just checking things out, making sure it was all OK like an older brother does. 12 years later in 1997, old age just caught up with Benny out of nowhere, as it seems prone to do with Schnauzers, who stay sprightly and competent to the end. He died on a vet’s table with his head in my mother’s hand, and he was buried under the big oak tree in Mulberry, AR with the rest of the Plattner pets wrapped in his favorite sheepskin rug.
We grieved for Benny for a while, not sure when anyone would be ready to get another dog. But, time passed and it came to that point where we were ready, and so rather than one dog, mom thought two would be better so they'd grow up companions. We kidded ourselves for a while thinking we get another breed, but I think we all knew in the end we'd just get Schnauzers, because we're Schanuzer people. They are, at any given time, protective, incredibly affectionate, temperamental, almost apathetically relaxed, and, like Hungry Jack especially, ornery. With all of that, they just fit in with my family.
So they were born, Jack and Pepper, the biggest and smallest of their litter, and thus we had two new kids in the house. And they were like new babies, younger siblings to myself, because they were sort of terrors. We loved them, but they tore up everything. Relentlessly teethed on everything from kitchen chairs, table feet, plunger handles and even the walls themselves, which they'd managed to dig a 3 inch hole in. But, despite all of that, I don't remember the anger or irritation. And maybe it was just because of who I was then. We got Jack and Pepper when I was 12 years old, on the brink of adolescence, which, it goes without saying, is inherently tumultuous. Compound that with being gay and frustrated and confused, and, well, yeah...not ideal.
So these dogs grew and matured as I did, changed when I did, lived and experienced as I did. We're talking about different levels here, obviously, but as I sit here now, contemplating their passing, they'll be forever linked to that period in my life when every day was about learning something new about yourself or the world or people or your friends or your family. And sometimes that was hard and really fucking shitty. And you hated yourself and you hated your friends and you hated your family because no one understood you, or you didn't understand them, and all you wanted to was to be settled. Settled like your dogs, who just played outside and ate their food and drank their water and wagged their tails when you walked in the door. And you could just sit down with them, they'd get in your lap, lick your face, and you would get a good solid ten minutes of love. No questions asked. And sometimes it was exactly what you needed in that moment. Just love.
But sometimes, most times, things were great. I had friends. Good friends. Great friends. And we'd always hang out at my house. Play video games. Make stupid movies that we still laugh at today. Form a band and record the dumbest songs you've ever heard. Watch movies and eat tons of food. My older brother would have parties and I'd get to be there, kicking it with all these college people, thinking I was so cool, even though I know I wasn't. But I'd just sit there on the kitchen floor with Nancy, my older brother's then girlfriend and now wife, with Jack or Pepper in my lap and me lapping up the experience, just like the dogs were.
Then all of a sudden we were all seniors, about to go to college, to part ways physically but not emotionally. And I was saying bye to my family and my friends and, of course, the dogs, my mom always joking she was going to send Pepper to New York with me so I'd have a friend from the start. And then nothing was the same, there were no constants. Without those constants the variables changed and thus so did the equation of my life, as least when I was in New York. That was until I would come home and there they'd be -- my friends, my family, Jack and Pepper. The constants were back, if only briefly, and all it took was Jack wrapping his front legs around my neck to give me a hug, or Pepper curling up in my lap begging me to rub her tummy and I was back, relieved, momentarily engulfed in the bubble of home that hadn't, thankfully, changed.
Now, at 26, I'm getting older, farther away from all of that, which is lamentable, but it's also life. Those constants that you rely on vanish, mostly for good, and you can do nothing but adapt. So the next time I go home, Jack will be gone, Pepper will be gone, and I'll have to struggle with the fact that the world that made me keeps losing its pieces and I'm not there to watch them go, to grieve the process, and then reconcile. I'm only left with memories. Really good memories. But that's a consequence of my choices, and, so, perhaps then I have my own process I have to begin to reconcile, that of watching my past fossilize while I begin to build a separate and very different future. Arkansas will always be home, or at least one home. And I'll never, absolutely never, absolve myself from the life and the people I have there. I guess it's just that...shit changes. People change. Dogs die and so does the past when that which made up that past is gone in the present. Or -- foregoing again morbidity -- let's just say the past changes. And, frankly, I hate change.
RIP my sweet little Pepper. At least your back with your Jack.
Seth
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
"I took a bite...and then I saw God."
I'm ganking this from my Facebook because a) something as monumental as The KFC Double Down needs all the overkill documentation it can get and b) the captions are really funny. I mean, like, so funny. Go ahead -- read them. See all the funny.
On April 12th, 2010, KFC released upon the world that which it needed most: a sandwich made entirely of meat. Cheesy bacon between two fried pieces of chicken, or, as Nojan described it, "modern America in a sandwich." Behold what happened when five intrigued, ravenous, bewildered and ultimately kind of sad individuals tried this feat of human determination for the first time.
The tomb.
The shroud.
And, behold, The Messiah.
Let he without shame take the first bite.
...and immediately regret it (but not really).
Wonder Hairtwin powers: activate!
Form of...
Rachel Rosenblit!
Things may seem relatively calm here, but two seconds later Rachel ate the chicken straight out of his jugular.
Note the Guy Fieri Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives “hunch” in this photo. Well done, Julie!
Like any good abused lover, I always go back for more when I know I shouldn't.
One bite left. Who should be so lucky to receive it?
Johanna. Always Johanna.
Who wants lunch?!
On April 12th, 2010, KFC released upon the world that which it needed most: a sandwich made entirely of meat. Cheesy bacon between two fried pieces of chicken, or, as Nojan described it, "modern America in a sandwich." Behold what happened when five intrigued, ravenous, bewildered and ultimately kind of sad individuals tried this feat of human determination for the first time.
The tomb.
The shroud.
And, behold, The Messiah.
Let he without shame take the first bite.
...and immediately regret it (but not really).
Wonder Hairtwin powers: activate!
Form of...
Rachel Rosenblit!
Things may seem relatively calm here, but two seconds later Rachel ate the chicken straight out of his jugular.
Note the Guy Fieri Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives “hunch” in this photo. Well done, Julie!
Like any good abused lover, I always go back for more when I know I shouldn't.
One bite left. Who should be so lucky to receive it?
Johanna. Always Johanna.
Who wants lunch?!
Great Paragraphs
It's been a while since I've posted a great paragraph, but, man, this one got me good. Better than just a paragraph, though, it's actually a singular sentence. And you know what a sucker I am for a good sentence. From One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcìa Marquez.
Aureliano Segundo was not aware of the singsong until the following day after breakfast when he felt himself being bothered by a buzzing that was by then more fluid and louder than the sound of the rain, and it was Fernanda, who was walking throughout the house complaining that they had raised her to be a queen only to have her end up as a servant in a madhouse, with a lazy, idolatrous, libertine husband who lay on his back waiting for bread to rain down from heaven while she was straining her kidneys trying to keep afloat a home held together with pins where there was so much to do, so much to bear up under and repair from the time God gave his morning sunlight until it was time to go to bed that when she got there her eyes were full of ground glass, and yet no one ever said to her, “Good morning, Fernanda, did you sleep well?,” nor had they asked her, even out of courtesy, why she was so pale or why she awoke with purple rings under her eyes in spite of the fact that she expected it, of course, from a family that had always considered her a nuisance, an old rag, a booby painted on the wall, and who were always going around saying things against her behind her back, calling her churchmouse, calling her Pharisee, calling her crafty, and even Amaranta, may she rest in peace, had said aloud that she was one of those people who could not tell their rectums from their ashes, God have mercy, such words, and she had tolerated everything with resignation because of the Holy Father, but she had not been able to tolerate it any more when that evil José Arcadio Segundo said that the damnation of the family had come when it opened its doors to a stuck-up highlander, just imagine, a bossy highlander, Lord save us, a highland daughter of evil spit of the same stripe as the highlanders the government sent to kill workers, you tell me, and he was referring to no one but her, the godchild of the Duke of Alba, a lady of such lineage that she made the liver or presidents’ wives quiver, a noble dame of fine blood like her, who had the right to sign eleven peninsular names and who was the only mortal creature in that town full of bastards who did not feel all confused at the sight of sixteen pieces of silverware, so that her adulterous husband could die of laughter afterward and say that so many knives and forks and spoons were not meant for a human being but for a centipede, and the only one who could tell with her eyes closed when the white wine was served and on what side and in which glass and when the red wine and on what side and in which glass and not like that peasant of an Amaranta, may she rest in peace, who thought that white wine was served in the daytime and red wine at night, and the only one on the whole coast who could take pride in the fact that she took care of her bodily needs only in golden chamberpots, so that Colonel Aureliano Buendía, may he rest in peace, could have the effrontery to ask her with his Masonic ill humor where she had received that privilege and whether she did not shit shit but shat sweet basil, just imagine, with those very words, and so that Renata, her own daughter, who through an oversight had seen her stool in the bedroom, had answered that even if the pot was all gold and with a coat of arms, what was inside was pure shit, physical shit, and worse even than any other kind because it was stuck-up highland shit, just imagine, her own daughter, so that she never had any illusions about the rest of the family, but in any case she had the right to expect a little more consideration from her husband because, for better or for worse, he was her consecrated spouse, her helpmate, her legal despoiler, who took upon himself of his own free and sovereign will the grave responsibility of taking her away from her paternal home, where she never wanted for or suffered from anything, where she wove funeral wreaths as a pastime, since her godfather had sent a letter with his signature and the stamp of his ring on the sealing wax simply to say that the hands of his goddaughter were not meant for tasks of this world except to play the clavichord, and, nevertheless, her insane husband had taken her from her home with all manner of admonitions and warnings and had brought her to that frying pan of hell where a person could not breathe because of the heat, and before she had completed her Pentecostal fast he had gone off with his wandering trunks and his wastrel’s accordion to loaf in adultery with a wretch of whom it was only enough to see her behind, well, that’s been said, to see her wiggle her mare’s behind in order to guess that she was a, that she was a, just the opposite of her, who was a lady in a palace or a pigsty, at the table or in bed, a lady of breeding, God-fearing, obeying His laws and submissive to His wishes, and with whom he could not perform, naturally, the acrobatics and trampish antics that he did with the other one, who, of course, was ready for anything, like the French matrons, and even worse, if one considers well, because they at least had the honesty to put a red light at their door, swinishness like that, just imagine, and that was all that was needed by the only and beloved daughter of Doña Renata Argote and Don Fernando del Carpio, and especially the latter, an upright man, a fine Christian, a Knight of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher, those who receive direct from God the privilege of remaining intact in their graves with their skin smooth like the cheeks of a bride and their eyes alive and clear like emeralds.
Aureliano Segundo was not aware of the singsong until the following day after breakfast when he felt himself being bothered by a buzzing that was by then more fluid and louder than the sound of the rain, and it was Fernanda, who was walking throughout the house complaining that they had raised her to be a queen only to have her end up as a servant in a madhouse, with a lazy, idolatrous, libertine husband who lay on his back waiting for bread to rain down from heaven while she was straining her kidneys trying to keep afloat a home held together with pins where there was so much to do, so much to bear up under and repair from the time God gave his morning sunlight until it was time to go to bed that when she got there her eyes were full of ground glass, and yet no one ever said to her, “Good morning, Fernanda, did you sleep well?,” nor had they asked her, even out of courtesy, why she was so pale or why she awoke with purple rings under her eyes in spite of the fact that she expected it, of course, from a family that had always considered her a nuisance, an old rag, a booby painted on the wall, and who were always going around saying things against her behind her back, calling her churchmouse, calling her Pharisee, calling her crafty, and even Amaranta, may she rest in peace, had said aloud that she was one of those people who could not tell their rectums from their ashes, God have mercy, such words, and she had tolerated everything with resignation because of the Holy Father, but she had not been able to tolerate it any more when that evil José Arcadio Segundo said that the damnation of the family had come when it opened its doors to a stuck-up highlander, just imagine, a bossy highlander, Lord save us, a highland daughter of evil spit of the same stripe as the highlanders the government sent to kill workers, you tell me, and he was referring to no one but her, the godchild of the Duke of Alba, a lady of such lineage that she made the liver or presidents’ wives quiver, a noble dame of fine blood like her, who had the right to sign eleven peninsular names and who was the only mortal creature in that town full of bastards who did not feel all confused at the sight of sixteen pieces of silverware, so that her adulterous husband could die of laughter afterward and say that so many knives and forks and spoons were not meant for a human being but for a centipede, and the only one who could tell with her eyes closed when the white wine was served and on what side and in which glass and when the red wine and on what side and in which glass and not like that peasant of an Amaranta, may she rest in peace, who thought that white wine was served in the daytime and red wine at night, and the only one on the whole coast who could take pride in the fact that she took care of her bodily needs only in golden chamberpots, so that Colonel Aureliano Buendía, may he rest in peace, could have the effrontery to ask her with his Masonic ill humor where she had received that privilege and whether she did not shit shit but shat sweet basil, just imagine, with those very words, and so that Renata, her own daughter, who through an oversight had seen her stool in the bedroom, had answered that even if the pot was all gold and with a coat of arms, what was inside was pure shit, physical shit, and worse even than any other kind because it was stuck-up highland shit, just imagine, her own daughter, so that she never had any illusions about the rest of the family, but in any case she had the right to expect a little more consideration from her husband because, for better or for worse, he was her consecrated spouse, her helpmate, her legal despoiler, who took upon himself of his own free and sovereign will the grave responsibility of taking her away from her paternal home, where she never wanted for or suffered from anything, where she wove funeral wreaths as a pastime, since her godfather had sent a letter with his signature and the stamp of his ring on the sealing wax simply to say that the hands of his goddaughter were not meant for tasks of this world except to play the clavichord, and, nevertheless, her insane husband had taken her from her home with all manner of admonitions and warnings and had brought her to that frying pan of hell where a person could not breathe because of the heat, and before she had completed her Pentecostal fast he had gone off with his wandering trunks and his wastrel’s accordion to loaf in adultery with a wretch of whom it was only enough to see her behind, well, that’s been said, to see her wiggle her mare’s behind in order to guess that she was a, that she was a, just the opposite of her, who was a lady in a palace or a pigsty, at the table or in bed, a lady of breeding, God-fearing, obeying His laws and submissive to His wishes, and with whom he could not perform, naturally, the acrobatics and trampish antics that he did with the other one, who, of course, was ready for anything, like the French matrons, and even worse, if one considers well, because they at least had the honesty to put a red light at their door, swinishness like that, just imagine, and that was all that was needed by the only and beloved daughter of Doña Renata Argote and Don Fernando del Carpio, and especially the latter, an upright man, a fine Christian, a Knight of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher, those who receive direct from God the privilege of remaining intact in their graves with their skin smooth like the cheeks of a bride and their eyes alive and clear like emeralds.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
pump pump pump
No ranting. No raving.
No denying. No crying.
No waxing. No waning.
No defaulting. No assaulting.
No hating. No harping.
No sadness. No madness.
Just acceptance. Just accession.
Just repose. Just (hopefully) one rose?
Just friends. Just fun.
Just love.
Just love.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
parents only kinda sort understand
I mentioned a few posts ago how I'd been following this kid Mikey on his blog, agayhockeykidslife. Turns out he's, like, super popular and his shit has blown up into a full website.
Anywho, bravo to him for that, but he had this post the other day talking about his relationship with his father. Closeted gay context removed, Mikey is a 17 year-old guy who plays varsity hockey for his high school team but can't seem to win the respect of his father no matter what he does or how well he plays (which, it should be noted, is seemingly quite well). His younger brother, Jake, however, is consistently lauded by his father, who makes special effort to go to Jake's hockey games but rarely makes an appearance or even acknowledges Mikey's efforts. From what Mikey has said about their relationship, it seems as though his dad holds a degree of deep-seeded resentment towards Mikey for having chosen hockey over baseball -- a sport he equally excelled at -- because Mikey's dad had a promising future as a baseballer in his younger years.
What I find so intriguing about this is is how undeniably cliche it is. And I certainly don't mean that in any sort of dismissive way (honestly, Mikey, I don't). I liken to how I found out in college that people I met actually went to high schools where the head cheerleader was blond and dated the quarterback and made fun of the band kids and all that shit. Like, Mean Girls actually existed. Because in my high school that just wasn't the case. Of course there were social groups that were segregated, but it wasn't based on any notions of superiority or archetypal caste systems. I didn't regularly hang out with someone in band because, hey, I wasn't in band. But if they showed up at parties or sat with us one or two days at lunch, that was fine. By conventional definition I was a "popular kid," but I was also deeply engrossed in the drama department. And I had friends who's high school experiences were just as juxtaposed.
I digress. Back to my point, which I realize may come across as obviously rooted in inexperience because, "Hey, Seth, you didn't grow up with a dad in the house," so I'll concede the good point. Still, I'm now ruminating on parent/child relationships as they develop in tandem with the development of the child. We all get that our parents, for better or sometimes worse, live vicariously through their children. And why shouldn't they? We are invariably reflections of our parents, of their ability to raise us, to influence us, to make sure that we experience everything we need to experience in order to be ready for the world. That's a lot of pressure. Put yourself in the position with your own child and tell me you wouldn't sit there and think "Damn I hope this kid does amazing things." Where it gets sticky is when a parent tries to force their kid to be someone they're not, or, as in Mikey's case, something they the parents were never able to be. All they and we (because, yes, we are that old now) can do is make sure the experiences are available to them, and then do our best and hope they don't make the wrong decisions. **Though select cases apply: I still say that my mother should have forced me to play piano when I was a youngin' despite my protest, because I deeply regret that I don't play an instrument, specifically that one.
So back to Mikey and his dad. I sympathize with the kid because he's affected by the situation, and why wouldn't he be? He can't, by any means, gain acceptance by the one person in his life who should be there to support him no matter what. Beyond cliche, it's also just so foreign to me. Now, I'm not saying I grew up in a household without pressure to do well. My mom, who is the most influential and amazing person in my life, was very much on me about keeping my grades up and doing well in, well, whatever I was doing. But, she never rejected me because I didn't do something I didn't want to do. So when I refused to take piano for whatever juvenilely conceived reason, she said "Okay." If I can find any semblance of what Mikey is going through, if anything, it's my mom's persistence is asking me when I'm complaining about my job or New York or boys or whatever to just say "why don't you just go?" And by that, she means go off and travel and see the world and sort of say "fuck it" for a while and relive a life she did when she was my age. I'd be lying if I don't think about it at least once every day...
So, all in all, I guess I'm lucky. Still though, Mikey's situation is sort of the beginnings of a pivotal and sometimes heartbreaking point in adolescence. I think one of the most confusing processes any kid can go through is the deconstruction or implosion of the fallacy of their parents. That is to say, our parents are imperfect human beings just like everyone else. Remember being, like, five and thinking that your parents really did know everything? They really were the smartest people in the entire world? Unable to make any mistakes. Immune to jealousy, resentment, insecurity? But then that day comes when it just hits you like a bag of sand that, shit, my parents are sometimes just as fucked up as I am, only they've had a longer period of time to learn how to manage being fucked up. And, as budding adults, we have to take that into account when dealing with them. So, in a case like Mikey's, while it may seem like absolute bullshit that his dad treats him the way he does, Mikey has to sort of acknowledge an insurmountable immaturity in his father. Mikey then becomes the bigger man, which feels inherently and uncomfortably backwards because the entire dynamic of parent/child changes in that moment. It's a loss of innocence and an apprehensive gain in responsibility. I remember a friend of mine once told me about the day she, only 17 at the time, realized she was smarter than her mother. And I thought...that kind of sucks. Personally, while I argue enough with my mom about, er, enough, she'll always know more than me. And I like it that way. Everyone needs a sage in their life. But, I know when she's wrong and I'm not afraid to butt heads and tell her so. I'll leave it at that, though. Any and all Seth-and-his-mom ruminations will better be left for my memoirs.
That was a hell of a ramble, but my fingers were itching to write, and that's what blogs are for, right?
Seth
Anywho, bravo to him for that, but he had this post the other day talking about his relationship with his father. Closeted gay context removed, Mikey is a 17 year-old guy who plays varsity hockey for his high school team but can't seem to win the respect of his father no matter what he does or how well he plays (which, it should be noted, is seemingly quite well). His younger brother, Jake, however, is consistently lauded by his father, who makes special effort to go to Jake's hockey games but rarely makes an appearance or even acknowledges Mikey's efforts. From what Mikey has said about their relationship, it seems as though his dad holds a degree of deep-seeded resentment towards Mikey for having chosen hockey over baseball -- a sport he equally excelled at -- because Mikey's dad had a promising future as a baseballer in his younger years.
What I find so intriguing about this is is how undeniably cliche it is. And I certainly don't mean that in any sort of dismissive way (honestly, Mikey, I don't). I liken to how I found out in college that people I met actually went to high schools where the head cheerleader was blond and dated the quarterback and made fun of the band kids and all that shit. Like, Mean Girls actually existed. Because in my high school that just wasn't the case. Of course there were social groups that were segregated, but it wasn't based on any notions of superiority or archetypal caste systems. I didn't regularly hang out with someone in band because, hey, I wasn't in band. But if they showed up at parties or sat with us one or two days at lunch, that was fine. By conventional definition I was a "popular kid," but I was also deeply engrossed in the drama department. And I had friends who's high school experiences were just as juxtaposed.
I digress. Back to my point, which I realize may come across as obviously rooted in inexperience because, "Hey, Seth, you didn't grow up with a dad in the house," so I'll concede the good point. Still, I'm now ruminating on parent/child relationships as they develop in tandem with the development of the child. We all get that our parents, for better or sometimes worse, live vicariously through their children. And why shouldn't they? We are invariably reflections of our parents, of their ability to raise us, to influence us, to make sure that we experience everything we need to experience in order to be ready for the world. That's a lot of pressure. Put yourself in the position with your own child and tell me you wouldn't sit there and think "Damn I hope this kid does amazing things." Where it gets sticky is when a parent tries to force their kid to be someone they're not, or, as in Mikey's case, something they the parents were never able to be. All they and we (because, yes, we are that old now) can do is make sure the experiences are available to them, and then do our best and hope they don't make the wrong decisions. **Though select cases apply: I still say that my mother should have forced me to play piano when I was a youngin' despite my protest, because I deeply regret that I don't play an instrument, specifically that one.
So back to Mikey and his dad. I sympathize with the kid because he's affected by the situation, and why wouldn't he be? He can't, by any means, gain acceptance by the one person in his life who should be there to support him no matter what. Beyond cliche, it's also just so foreign to me. Now, I'm not saying I grew up in a household without pressure to do well. My mom, who is the most influential and amazing person in my life, was very much on me about keeping my grades up and doing well in, well, whatever I was doing. But, she never rejected me because I didn't do something I didn't want to do. So when I refused to take piano for whatever juvenilely conceived reason, she said "Okay." If I can find any semblance of what Mikey is going through, if anything, it's my mom's persistence is asking me when I'm complaining about my job or New York or boys or whatever to just say "why don't you just go?" And by that, she means go off and travel and see the world and sort of say "fuck it" for a while and relive a life she did when she was my age. I'd be lying if I don't think about it at least once every day...
So, all in all, I guess I'm lucky. Still though, Mikey's situation is sort of the beginnings of a pivotal and sometimes heartbreaking point in adolescence. I think one of the most confusing processes any kid can go through is the deconstruction or implosion of the fallacy of their parents. That is to say, our parents are imperfect human beings just like everyone else. Remember being, like, five and thinking that your parents really did know everything? They really were the smartest people in the entire world? Unable to make any mistakes. Immune to jealousy, resentment, insecurity? But then that day comes when it just hits you like a bag of sand that, shit, my parents are sometimes just as fucked up as I am, only they've had a longer period of time to learn how to manage being fucked up. And, as budding adults, we have to take that into account when dealing with them. So, in a case like Mikey's, while it may seem like absolute bullshit that his dad treats him the way he does, Mikey has to sort of acknowledge an insurmountable immaturity in his father. Mikey then becomes the bigger man, which feels inherently and uncomfortably backwards because the entire dynamic of parent/child changes in that moment. It's a loss of innocence and an apprehensive gain in responsibility. I remember a friend of mine once told me about the day she, only 17 at the time, realized she was smarter than her mother. And I thought...that kind of sucks. Personally, while I argue enough with my mom about, er, enough, she'll always know more than me. And I like it that way. Everyone needs a sage in their life. But, I know when she's wrong and I'm not afraid to butt heads and tell her so. I'll leave it at that, though. Any and all Seth-and-his-mom ruminations will better be left for my memoirs.
That was a hell of a ramble, but my fingers were itching to write, and that's what blogs are for, right?
Seth
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
"we just need some time"
I don't usually take to my blog for activism, but with Don't Ask, Don't Tell in debate and most likely on the verge of "repeal," I just wanted to examine the language of the heavily assumed terms as explained by The Washington Post:
"President Obama's top defense officials will tell the Senate on Tuesday that the military will no longer aggressively pursue disciplinary action against gay service members whose orientation is revealed against their will by third parties, sources say. ...But Gates and Mullen are also expected to tell senators that it could take years to integrate gay men and lesbians fully into the military, defense officials said. Two appointees will be named to oversee a group that will draw up plans for integrating the armed forces, according to sources familiar with the Pentagon's deliberations on the subject. The planning effort is expected to take up to a year."
So, basically it could be January 2011 before even the "planning effort" is finished.
First off, I love that all of this requires a "planning effort" and secondly -- and most frustratingly -- letting gays serve openly in the military is described and considered an "integration." It's like we're an alien species that has to be steadily introduced into an order so as not to frighten or disrupt the natural way of life in the ecosystem that is the military. Seriously? How about if a gay man or woman wants to take a fucking gun, do what the government tells them to do, and risk their lives to serve this country in a way that they feel is just and appropriate, you just let them fucking do it without continuing to label them as something "other." A uniform is called a uniform for a reason. When you put it on, you are part of a group, a coalition, a collective whole, despite whatever the hell you do in the bedroom.
Integration my ass. I am, we are integrated. Why? Because I'm living and breathing right now. Won't it be great when one day we can all live without any fine print?
Seth
reference via Towleroad
"President Obama's top defense officials will tell the Senate on Tuesday that the military will no longer aggressively pursue disciplinary action against gay service members whose orientation is revealed against their will by third parties, sources say. ...But Gates and Mullen are also expected to tell senators that it could take years to integrate gay men and lesbians fully into the military, defense officials said. Two appointees will be named to oversee a group that will draw up plans for integrating the armed forces, according to sources familiar with the Pentagon's deliberations on the subject. The planning effort is expected to take up to a year."
So, basically it could be January 2011 before even the "planning effort" is finished.
First off, I love that all of this requires a "planning effort" and secondly -- and most frustratingly -- letting gays serve openly in the military is described and considered an "integration." It's like we're an alien species that has to be steadily introduced into an order so as not to frighten or disrupt the natural way of life in the ecosystem that is the military. Seriously? How about if a gay man or woman wants to take a fucking gun, do what the government tells them to do, and risk their lives to serve this country in a way that they feel is just and appropriate, you just let them fucking do it without continuing to label them as something "other." A uniform is called a uniform for a reason. When you put it on, you are part of a group, a coalition, a collective whole, despite whatever the hell you do in the bedroom.
Integration my ass. I am, we are integrated. Why? Because I'm living and breathing right now. Won't it be great when one day we can all live without any fine print?
Seth
reference via Towleroad
Friday, January 29, 2010
currently with Seth Plattnet
Song of the moment: "Ain't No Way" Aretha Franklin
Phrase I'm Using Too Much: "I want to go to there"
Over it: hah. duh.
Girl Crush: Leslie Knope
Obsession: NCAA basketball (seriously!)
Reading: Nine Stories
Phrase I'm Using Too Much: "I want to go to there"
Over it: hah. duh.
Girl Crush: Leslie Knope
Obsession: NCAA basketball (seriously!)
Reading: Nine Stories
Friday, January 8, 2010
color me bad
via ELLE.com
In another life, I could have been an amazing artist (or: a concert pianist, a gymnast, a downhill skier, a dancer, or zoologist), but a chronic lack of interest in practice and technique in favor of pleasurable free-handing led me to be one who just “dabbles.” Still, I owe any and all interest in drawing and painting to the very basic exercise of coloring. As in, a coloring book, a box of crayons, and my adherence—or lack there of—to the palette of the world. I still remember my older brother sitting me down at age 4 and teaching me how to color, instructing me to outline the object first, then color it in so I could better stay in the lines. That tiny bit of know-how was instrumental in the many accolades and awards I received for my coloring skills in the early years of elementary school.
Twenty-years later, RxArt is allowing me to indulge, once again, that small, almost Zen-like luxury of simply coloring, albeit on a more adult level. Now in its second volume, Between the Line: A Coloring Book of Drawings by Contemporary Artists is available to those adults who have since forgotten how joyous filling in a colorless image can be. With drawings by forty-eight artists including Takashi Murakami, Adam McEwen, Aurel Schmidt, and fashion designer Cynthia Rowley, there’s a picture and a style for any artistic taste—there’s even a few pages of stickers to play around with. I took the first picture in the book by McEwan and had a go on my lunch break. She’s got blue skin and green hair, but so what? I stayed in the lines, didn’t I? My older brother would be proud.
Both volumes of the contemporary artist coloring books are available online, or in the RxArt store at 208 Forsyth Street, New York, NY 10002 (212.260.8797).
—Seth Platter, Assistant Editor
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