Still Figurin' Out Who I Think I Am

This one's about a memory, showing work, and "I" poems.

"What song makes you think of a particularly fond memory? Bonus Prompt: What is your favorite misheard or misunderstood song lyric? When you hear it now when you're with your friends do you purposely sing it the wrong way just for the fun of it?"

Hey folks! It's Friday, and there's a lot to talk about, so let's celebrate!

Before I get started though, I'mma lead off with a confession and a half-hearted apology. I had a few weeks to prepare for this particular week of prompts in the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" ...but I tend to procrastinate, so as usual one of the last things I've done before I shut the lights off at night is try to come up with the prompts for the Music roundtables. And I hate coming up with prompts blah blah blah and I hate writing entries for my own prompts blah blah blah broken record blah blah blah...which is why I sent out two prompts last night. After struggling to come up with four halfway decent ones this week, I was on fumes last night and was just like "Fuck it, here's a prompt that's been used a gang of times already in one form or another, and I'm sick of this even though I'll be doing it again next week for a whole 'nother month." And of course as soon as I hit "send" and got comfortable, a more interesting prompt passed through my head full of notions. So, uhhh, like, sorry, and stuff, for double-prompting your inboxes. But hey, I like choices, and I'm sure you do too, so it's all good. Now on to my response(s)...

I, like probably a lot of you, have many songs that trigger different memories. Some good, some bad...but that's what music does to us. It doesn't cherrypick the moods it wishes to soundtrack for us.

For me, the song that first popped into my head was "Tarantulove"   by Hawksley Workman   (who, I'll say for the umpteenth time if you've been reading my opinions on various things, is the only man I would ever designate with the title of "Sexiest Man Ever").

Every single time I hear this I'm taken back to the scene where I first experienced Hawksley...downtown Buffalo, before the waterfront opened up (finally) and became the go-to party spot, the "Thursday At The Square" free concert series was the place to be. Sometimes they'd pull in some solid national acts, and sometimes the lineup would lean more toward regional favorites...in my opinion, the crowds paralleled this trend in that some people showed up because it was free live music in Niagara Square, while others just came for the atmosphere of drinking socially outdoors and I wish that stupid band would keep it down 'cuz I can barely hear you, ugh! Anyway...

So I headed down to The Square with my sister...Gord Downie from The Tragically Hip was headlining, and I'm a Hip fan so of course I wanted to go, and my sis was all "Whoo-hoo! Goin' to The Square! I don't even know who that guy is!" or somethin' like that. We were walkin' around, people watching and checkin' out the merch as the opener started his set. Whatever; neither of us had heard of him and we had plenty of distractions.

But the music was interesting...it was like a mash-up of Broadway show tunes and bubblegum pop with guitar noises that would've been out of place in almost any other song, and when I looked up to take notice the singer was doing this long-striding, almost lurching, sneak-up-on-you walk while his guitar gurgled and where he'd sorta end each forward step on his tippy-toe before taking another. It was like five thousand people suddenly had access to a penny peep show, and every time you turned the crank to advance the film the six-string would just sound naughtier and you'd be even more seduced by his charms, until it was over and your ears wanted a celebratory cigarette to commemorate the best sex they'd ever heard.

That's how I want to feel when I hear a new band or artist. I don't want to just be pleasantly surprised; I want to feel gratified like the night the geek like me lost his virginity to the Catholic school cheerleader he had no business being with. I don't want "Cool, I'll have to check more of this out later". I don't ever want it to end, and I want to learn more and hear more and let the entire experience interact with all my senses. There aren't a lot of singers who do that anymore...Hawksley Workman connects with the romantic in me, and the intellect, and the hipster, and all the other little pieces of me I don't often recognize. And it all started with one song.

"Writer Steve Cox says, 'Writing is like folding bed sheets or table linens; it can be done by yourself but it is much easier if somebody helps you.' Do you agree or disagree? Do you depend on others to help you with your writing? Or do you only show your work when it is done?"

Normally I'm not one to disagree when someone who is much more accomplished than me has something to say about how the art of writing should be gone about...and even though I've not heard of Steve Cox, I'm assuming he's credible because someone thought enough of him to consider that his words could be quotable (and no, I'm not gonna Google him...I trust you, Lyn's a Witchy Woman ). But however great this Cox cat might be, I'm willing to bet I'm more WDC-famous than he is, and because I know the password to get into and edit this ol' blog o'mine, I'm gonna have to go ahead and respectfully disagree with him.

See, for me it's pretty simple. I'm not a professional, and I don't get paid a lump sum every time I get the Your blog has exceeded the maximum storage limit error message telling me I've filled up another digital reservoir with kilobytes and megabytes of randomness and babbling. That means, for all intents and purposes, I'm just an amateur...a hobbyist. I'm doing this (as I've probably said a hundred times before- no exaggeration) for my own enjoyment first, and then maybe, hopefully, yours. It's not a team sport or anything like that, so I don't look for outside help...even if I were aiming for something higher or better or whatever.

I could get down with what he's saying if this were bowling, and there was some kind of technical flaw in my approach that you noticed in warm-ups, where you could suggest an improvement before a big-money tournament. But no...I'm a novice, and maybe this entry will get 20 or 25 views, 30 if I'm really lucky, and I don't think anyone's gonna show up in front of my building with a contract hoping to publish my stupid blog with the conditions that I don't call it stupid and I don't swear and I'd maybe stop substituting the letter "g" for an apostrophe every so often with words ending in "-ing". I'm not holding on to any delusions about what I do when I'm here, and I'm not ceding creative control over my work anytime soon. So there you go, Mr. Cox, if that's even your real name. I'm guessing it's not though, and that makes me not like you just a little more, were I to have an actual opinion about you, my man.

Plus, folding a fitted bedsheet sucks absolute balls whether you're doing it by yourself, or with a helper buddy, or with four other people. As an old WDC friend who is no longer active here once said, and I paraphrase, "That [folding a fitted sheet] makes you like some kind of unicorn, doesn't it?"

"Ted Kooser commented in his book The Poetry Home Repair Book 'Readers of contemporary poems are attracted because the personal pronoun I is preeminent. The reason for this is people are really attracted to confessional poetry with the poet baring his soul than they are about poems that do not discuss hardships/life situations of some kind.' Do you agree or disagree with Kooser? Do you know a contemporary poem that is not confessional? Please share it with us."

I'm gonna say a lot of things in the next couple paragraphs that maybe for someone who writes often enough like me might sound pretty bad in this particular context. I'll start with Ted Kooser himself...another writer I'm not really familiar with and don't quite feel like looking up, although his name at least kinda rings a bell. I feel like I should know who a lot of these authors are, especially since I spent a couple years working in a freakin' bookstore of all places.

And on top of that, I probably couldn't name a contemporary poet or three if you paid me. And I like poetry. I like it more than mystery or sci-fi or chick lit. But my frame of reference ends right around the time of the Beat Generation. So I'm a bad person to ask about this, but because I'm also an American, I'm not afraid to open my mouth and tell you just how much I really don't know.

Here's my opinion on contemporary poetry versus, say, I don't know what else to call it, and "non-contemporary" just sounds too obvious, so let's go with "boring-ass traditional poetry force-fed to us and hailed as literary gospel in high school, when we really mostly didn't give a shit": if we're going by Kooser's metrics here regarding the usage of the pronoun "I" as an "appeal factor" to current generations, he's a bloomin' idiot. Dude, lots of poems throughout history contain "I" and are of a confessional approach. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...". Yo homes...that's about as "I" and straight-up fessin' as it gets. And furthermore, going back into the annals of history, instead of using "I" our forefathers tried to be slick and start off all biblical with shit like "Thou". "Thou shall not kill". "Thine heart is barren in your absentia." "Thy shan't front on thouest of thats." Tryin' to come off proper, like we didn't defeat the British in the Revolutionary War or whatever. #Murica

Now, like I said before, I'm not very familiar with contemporary poems or poets...or at least as much as I should be. I mentioned Hawksley Workman in an earlier segment of this entry, and I think everyone should own a copy of Hawksley Burns For Isadora   even if maybe it doesn't really count as poetry. And I'm sure he's probably not the ideal cup of tea for a lot of people who will come across this entry, but Saul Williams is one of the greatest writers (for my money) living today, and I don't consider a lot of The Dead Emcee Scrolls   to be considered "confessional"...at least not in the same vein as other artists he might be categorized with.

But I'm not altogether sure of what even my own frame of reference might be on this subject. I've probably written over a thousand poems easily over the last twenty-some years, and they can't all be confessional, right? So let's assume that I'm "contemporary" (with or without quotation marks; reader's choice) in that I don't adhere to traditional forms or methods or templates or what have you, and I've created works within the last few decades. In my head I don't think an item like "20 Minutes From Nowhere"  (shameless self-promotion) sounds any bit confessional, both in obvious terms and in ways seeking hidden validations. It's just creative writing, kinda like a poem and kinda not, and it says something that's personal yet not revealing; it's non-intrusive and it doesn't scratch my surface or dig into my ephemera. You'd have to really be trying if you wanted to learn more about me through those few lines.

Now, what was the point of all this? Uhhh, naw Kooser...sometimes you need to hush up when us younger folks are talkin'. Just because you've got a different level of fame than us doesn't mean you're the omnipotent truth-sayer of the written word in this day and age. Grab a seat on the bench next to ol' Stevie Cox , my man...witness how we evolutionize, modernize, and revolutionize the game. Thou musteth putteth that in thee pipe and smoketh it.

Musical Poetry break! My first experience with Saul Williams came as a part-time bookseller at a then-Waldenbooks...I wasn't a heavy reader but as I made my way throughout the store, , Said The Shotgun To The Head   (yes, I consider the title to actually start with a comma) always managed to catch my eye. Maybe it's because our store's "Literature" section (where the poetry was hidden kept) was about two feet wide by five feet high, and the book was oddly square-shaped and smaller than a trade paperback in height but wider than a mass-market paperback, with a shocking maroonish/purpley-red cover, and the back of it sucked in anyone who put hands on it with a short but powerful message:

The greatest Americans
Have not been born yet
They are waiting quietly
For their past to die
please give blood

The inside, upon just a flippant flipping through, looked more like a graphic novel or a Manga read minus the intricate illustrations. It wasn't published so much as it was designed; it was intentionally meant to be distributed as something that would grab you, pull you in with the urgency of a timebomb ticking, and when it reached its explosion point it stung immediately like the rush of a first kiss...but you knew just by the amount of pages left there was plenty more to come. You enter a very personal, very unique relationship when you start reading this book. It is intense; it's a journey...into love, into self.

I'll admit it...I'm a music snob, and I judge you based on your tastes in music. I'm not ashamed to say that I associate particular genres with feelings or stereotypes...well, not all the time, ok, but some of the time. And some of the music you might like that I don't is pretty predictable *cough**cough* country *cough*. Don't believe me? I have a chart   that can prove it.

Well, I'm no doctor baby...but most of these analyses   are spot on, like #18 and #24. And #22...that might explain me better than perhaps I can.

Bonus Prompt Time! Misheard lyrics...that's always a fun game! Nothing cuter than a little kid messin' up the lines to a popular song (except maybe a little kid jammin' out to a song and singin' suggestive lyrics that are too over his or her head, with feeling no less). Like, I don't know why I remember this, but in first grade on the busride home from school I recall singing "Centerfold" by The J. Geils Band   and I didn't even know that it was basically a reference to porn, nor did I really comprehend what a "homeroom angel" was...it just felt fist-pumpingly anthemic, so for a little while that was my jam.

Back in the day, when my blood ran cold
and my memory had just been sold.

Because it's Music Week in the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" , and because I was too lazy and unmotivated to actually write all week, I'm dumping my excess links now...because why the hell not? I don't remember how or why I came across this, but I know it was recent enough that I had saved it specifically for this week and it had something to do with Russia...they once considered these bands "dangerous"   and a threat to Communism. Ahhh, wasn't the Cold War good times? My favorite is the fear of Iron Maiden over "religious obscuritanism"...like, what does that even mean?? I mean, I know what they're trying to say and all, but man, how some things just get so lost in translation, I guess. And it was all fun and games until I remembered that after 9/11, corporate radio behemoth Clear Channel decided we'd all be safer as a nation if we didn't listen to certain songs  ...tunes like "America" by Neil Diamond and "Daniel" by Elton John, and everything by Rage Against The Machine. Yet somehow we still couldn't be saved from the Backstreet Boys, Nickelback, or MTV's TRL  , which once led me to very publicly exclaim "Carson Daly needs to step in front of my car after I've redefined Happy Hour." No joke...and that era was almost comparable to the Cold War, now that I think about it. And I don't even know if I'm being sarcastic anymore.

And finally, #lovewins. Yay America! And yay for all my LGBT friends, who have finally won the right to be married legally via the Supreme Court! Granted, I don't think the struggle is near the end- far from it, as the court of public opinion usually is the toughest and takes the longest to win over- but this is a monumental step toward equal rights and fair treatment for everyone, regardless of who you wanna spend your life with. It's a great, great day in our history...all week, as a matter of fact, but I won't bring up all the Confederate Flag bullshit because it should've been a dead issue once the North won the Civil War, relegating the darkest known racial/racist period of our country to a museum's attic, but I don't wanna ruin a triumphant day with my hatred of what should only have always remained an artifact. I will share this with you though, because it's funny...leave it to that bastion of "fair and balanced" wonder of journalism, FOX News, to go full moron, asking if "three people can marriage"   (and no, that's not a typo...I'm pretty sure if you listen carefully the anchor uses the word "marriage" either like it's some kind of hybrid verb/noun, or she's a caveman and hasn't discovered yet how to actually speak in full sentences). Only FOX would publicly say something so blatantly dumb and put that thought in the heads of otherwise (I'm sure) really nice people who just happen to take them seriously. Some preacher down in Texas who isn't fixin' to set hisself on fire (which, by the way, off-topic and all but whatever, I think that would be considered suicide, and I'm pretty sure the Bible says you'll go to Hell for that, but what do I know...I haven't prayed in probably 25 years or more) is probably already spreading the fear of threesome marriages and legal, sanctioned orgies among his congregation, while the Utah Latter-Day Saints are preparing for their Million Married March to Washington in support of polygamous marital unions...wonder what color car bumper magnet ribbons they'll choose for that. Nothin' like the Good Ol' Partyboys blusterin' about another holy war they'd love to start over somethin' they don't like, can't profit from, and didn't think of first. Yay #Murica, indeed...way to take the shine off of something so important to so many citizens. And if we don't happen to agree, that's ok with me  . Respect...hashtag that, y'all.

Ok, well, it appears my work here is done. Thanks, if you participated at all in any of our 30DBC mini-challenge roundtable discussions, and thanks especially to brothernature, ElaineElaine , and Prosperous Snow celebrating for hosting their respective weeks. Something something witty, something something tryna be funny, something something should do this more often, witty witty something. Peace, here's what I'm prescribin' babe, and GOODNIGHT NOW!!