My Top Ten List of Christmas Movie (#1)

1. A Christmas Story

What other Christmas movie could claim the spot? What other Christmas movie is as well-written, well-acted, timeless, funny, heartwarming and inexhaustibly entertaining? I’d even go so far as to place this movie in my all-time top 25. Its importance in our cultural heritage is without question. You almost cannot think of Christmas without thinking of the phrase, “You’ll shoot your eye out.” Perhaps its pervasiveness is illustrated by TBS’s willingness to replay the movie for 24 hours straight from Christmas Eve through Christmas Day. I am unashamed to admit that on average, I watch about 18 of those 24 hours.

It’s great because it’s so real. It doesn’t sugarcoat the holidays, and when it verges on sentimentality, it throws in something like the infamous “fudge” event or a Christmas dinner at a Chinese restaurant with a butchered version of “Deck the Halls.” There may be no truer moment than this:



Honorable Mentions:

The Bells of St. Mary: Though a tad dry and at times boring, the grade school nativity play is so cute you’ll almost wish you had a young children at home to dress up like Joseph and Mary. Almost.

The Nightmare Before Christmas: This one’s hard to categorize. Certainly, it falters on creating that whole Christmas spirit thing (unless you like your Santas deranged), and it always made me more nostalgic for Halloween. However, it is one heck of a cool movie.

The Nutcracker: This might have made the list for the music, but as I’ve never seen it, I have no idea what happens in this movie beyond that fact that I can say, with near certainty, that it involves a nutcracker of some sort. Plus, this is known more as a ballet anyway.

The Stinker Awards:

Christmas with the Cranks: There’s no better way to induce nausea over the commercialization of the holiday season than by watching this movie. When Tim Allen (a Christmas movie mainstay) decides to forego Christmas and take his wife on a cruise when his daughter announces she will not be coming home for the holidays, the neighbors go nuts. What? The Cranks will not be celebrating the holidays? How inconsiderate does one need to try and take one’s wife on a cruise? The eventual bonding between neighbors does nothing to restore any sense of wholesomeness to this love song to Christmas hams, unchecked capitalism, and plastic, rooftop snowmen. Then again, what should I have expected from John Grisham and Chris Columbus?

Eight Crazy Nights: If you like crude fart jokes, start here. As a Happy Gilmour fanatic when I was younger and a proud owner of They’re All Gonna Laugh at You, I was predisposed to liking Adam Sandler. Nothing, however, can save this stinker of a film, especially not Sandler’s Opera Man rendition at the film’s conclusion.

Love Actually: Perhaps it’s all the infidelity. Perhaps it’s the Britishness of it (a Brit coming to Wisconsin to bang all the easy chicks? C’mon). Perhaps its because I first saw this movie in the theatre with my family (you can imagine how awkward it was to watch the pornography shoot scene with my mother sitting next to me). Whatever it is, I have never understood the appeal of this movie. Granted, I have only seen it once.

Miracle of 34th Street: This one will get me into trouble, I’m sure, but I have never been able to make it all the way through this one. Gosh, it’s so boring.

My Top Ten List of Christmas Movie (#2-#4)

4. The Muppet Christmas Carol


The second appearance of A Christmas Carol knockoff in my list, The Muppet Christmas Carol has that undeniable charm brought on by puppets doing Dickens. For me, this is the definitive movie adaptation of the Dickens’ classic, perhaps because I’m a firm believe in the dictum that everything’s better with Muppets. (Though I much prefer seeing the narrative play out in a tradition theatre play, complete with Christmas carols sung by the cast and the predictable plea for donations to a food pantry as the audience exits). Kermit can do no wrong as Bob Cratchit and Statler and Waldorf as Jacob and Robert Marley is a nice touch. Is there something slightly creepy about a world in which puppets and humans coexist? Certainly. Fortunately for us, the spirit of the Christmas overcomes it all.

3. National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation


Yes, it has it’s strange moments—Chevy Chase dressed in women’s robes stuck in the attic watching old family videos, a sewer backup that results in a methane-fueled explosion, some (perhaps deserved) neighbor terrorizing, charred cat remains, etc.—but there’s no better holiday movie to reminder that however strange your family, you have nothing on the Griswolds.

Best lines:

Eddie: I don't know if I oughta go sailin' down no hill with nothin' between the ground and my brains but a piece of government plastic.
Clark: Do you really think it matters, Eddie?

Clark: Since this is Aunt Bethany's 80th Christmas, I think she should lead us in the saying of Grace.
Aunt Bethany: [turns to Lewis] What, dear?
Nora Griswold: Grace!
Aunt Bethany: Grace? She passed away thirty years ago.
Uncle Lewis: They want you to say Grace.
[Bethany shakes her head in confusion]
Uncle Lewis: The BLESSING!
Aunt Bethany: [they all pose for prayer] I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands/ One nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
Clark: Amen.

Clark: [talking to attractive store clerk] Yeah, it is a bit nipply out. I mean nippy. What am I saying, nipple?

2. White Christmas

From the theatrical, purposely fabricated war setting of the opening scene to the “Sisters” lip-sync by Kaye and Crosby to the pleasant escapism of a holiday spent at a resort filled with artists and beautiful women (what a dream, huh?), this movie will melt even the hardest Scrooge-heart. Add to that Danny Kaye and Bing Crosby, two of the 50’s best entertainers, and Vera-Ellen, who for my money is one of the best dancers put on film, and you’re left with a holiday staple. There’s little better in this world than falling asleep on your mother’s couch just as Crosby leads the cast in “White Christmas,” and you nod off as the credits roll.

My Top Ten List of Christmas Movies (#5-#7)

(For the criteria used to determine my top ten, see Sunday's post)

7. Scrooged


In the original Christmas Carol, we can feel somewhat insulated from the lesson—not many of us have Scrooge’s money to withhold from the poor, and if the movie started seeking a new cast, many of us would probably make up the peasants snubbed by Scrooge. In Murray’s remake, though, the message seems much more immediate, even if we aren’t network executives. Perhaps it’s the quintessential late-80’s clothing that makes it feel more “current” or the ghosts that make it more scary (who would ever get into a cab with the ghost of Christmas past or share a drink with crusty, Jacob Marley stand-in Lew Hayward?). It’s Murray’s sarcastic humor that sells the creepiness. Murray, the holiday movie genius (his Groundhog Day would also make my list of top Groundhog Day movies). Maybe if The Nightmare Before Christmas had similar comedic relief from all the horror it would have made my list.

But this movie is important (and ranked this high) for its message, a simple message and one we need at Christmas: straighten yourself out or you’ll have some pretty screwed up shit to deal with.

6. Home Alone / Home Alone 2: Lost in New York


Because the two movies are so closely parallel (Young Boy – Parents + Dimwitted Crooks + House Full of Dangerous Things + “Guardian Angel” (Old Man with Shovel/Pigeon Lady) + Eventual Family Reunion Just in Time for Christmas = Movie Gold), I’ve decided to group these two movies together. I’d give the nod to Home Alone 2 for the Talkboy, the New York limo ride, the kick ass hotel suite, but how can I argue with the original? I must admit that nothing puts me in the Christmas mood better than watching to criminals gets their faces continually bashed in by the machinations of a cute eight year old. Perhaps these movies are partly responsible for and helped sparked my generation’s fascination with needless violence. Rockstar Games, thank Macaulay Culkin for all your success.

5. Elf


Will Ferrell can be annoying. Think Ricky Bobby or Phil Weston from Kicking and Screaming. In Elf, however, he creates such an endearing character, you quickly forget that this is the same comedian who frequently strips off his clothes in a cheap attempt at humor. Despite a predictable, maudlin ending, Elf is nearly flawless from the cartoonishly-designed North Pole to the department store fight to the bathroom rendition of “Baby It’s Cold Outside” to my personal favorite moment, his conversation with a fellow mail room worker (in the clip, it starts at 1:03). It’s Ferrell’s full-hearted and earnest portrayal of Buddy the Elf that makes this movie an instant holiday classic.

My Top Ten List of Christmas Movies (#8–#10)

Now that Madison has gotten its first snow accumulation and more and more radio stations are switching over full-time to Christmas carols, I feel comfortable finally posting my Christmas movie top ten. What follows are the films that never fail to put me in that Christmas spirit. Am I missing any? Does your list differ? If so, post your own list in the comments.

Guiding criteria: 1) Movies must take place during the Christmas season or make heavy reference to the holidays in some respect (thus, Hanukkah movies are eligible, though none made my list—sorry Adam Sandler). 2) Movies must foster a sense of Christmas spirit. 3) Movies must be feature-length. (Therefore, you will not find “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” or “How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” though they would all certainly make the list).

I will post three movies a day for the next three days. My number one will come on Wednesday (along with some honorable mentions and my “Stinker List”)

Note: Before you criticize too harshly, my list is more of a personal list based on how significantly each of these movies features in my personal conception of Christmas. In no way am I making the claim that The Santa Clause is superior artisitcally to It’s a Wonderful Life. However, for me, Tim Allen bests Jimmy Stewart in capturing the sense and spirit of Christmas (though Stewart kicks the ass of anything Allen has done with Rear Window). Here's why:

10. It’s a Wonderful Life:

For me, It’s a Wonderful Life is less of a Christmas movie, since I associate it with afternoons spent flipping between the movie on TBS and the football game on Fox while waiting on Thanksgiving dinner. Adding to that, I doubt I’ve ever seen the entire movie in one sitting, and perhaps the entire movie at all. Regardless, it had to make my list for lines like, “What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey. That's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon, Mary.” Also, I feared the retribution I’d receive from neglecting such an American “classic.” What better way to celebrate the Christmas spirit than by watching a suicidal Jimmy Stewart regain his zest for life? I suppose I have to be thankful that the movie didn’t feature one of his poetry recitals.

This movie calls out to the heart in all of us, because we all would like to think that the world would go to shit if we weren’t here.

9. The Santa Clause

What it lacks in overall quality and depth as an edifying film and in artistry in its Disney-slicked production, it makes up for in originality. There’s much to love in settling into the comfort of a nice broken-in pair of slippers and reciting all of Yukon Cornelius’ lines in Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but there is something equally magical in discovering a Christmas movie that doesn’t loosely rip off A Christmas Carol (ala It’s a Wonderful Life). Who doesn’t want a dad who part-times as Santa Claus? Beyond its schmaltziness, it does attempt to address the issue of a father afraid of being usurped and settles on the reassuring conclusion that whatever the difficulties, divorced parents can exist in harmony. Thank you for that, Disney. Now if they only wouldn’t have tried to turn the movie into a franchise…

8. The Polar Express:

As a child of the late 80s and early 90s, The Polar Express is a book entwined with my conception of Christmas. It was my love for the book that me filled me with trepidation about the film adaptation, especially after seeing the glossy, cheap animation in the previews. But for all its deviations from the book (I understand the story needed bulking up) and cheap adventure thrills to entertain the younger audience members (a train on a frozen lake? C’mon!), it’s a very solid Christmas movie, replete with views of the North Pole, new Christmas carols, and a great metaphor in the silver bell. I make no claims about the merits of the filmmaking (though the movie has some deliciously-haunting moments, such as the skipping record in the now-empty toyshop and the view of the department store window pooling light out onto the deserted street as the train glides past, as well as some great blocking). All I can say is it’s entertaining. Too high in the list? Certainly. But for a kid that loved trains and the book version, the movie didn’t have to do too much to win me over.

Key Scene: This heartfelt (if slightly out-of-touch) new Christmas song could put Grinch in a Christmas mood (though one wonders, now that we’ve all been “enlightened” about who really puts the presents under the tree, what the kid will think when there is no Santa to bring him gifts).

Greatest Rapper Alive?

Maybe not. But check this track. It'll get your grandma shaking her ass.

P.S. My apologies on the hip-hop swing this blog has taken. I'll return to poetry soon, and when I do, you'll get a heavy dose of Kay Ryan.

How Can a Mouse Be Dangerous? Like This...

If you've not yet had the pleasure of listening to any of DJ Danger Mouse's musical creations or collaborations (he's responsible for The Grey Album, half of Gnarles Barkley, and the production on Beck's Modern Guilt and The Black Keys' Attack and Release), you've been depriving yourself of some amazing music. For a taste, listen to what he does to Jay-Z's "December 4th."

Here's the original:

None too shabby. However, here's what DJ Danger Mouse (with some assistance from The Beatles) can do with a song of that caliber. Notice the change in emotion. Gone is the over-produced, tacky swell of strings. Gone is the phony bravado to be replaced with something much more heartfelt, organic, and frankly, far superior.

Now Dj Danger Mouse is back with an equally controversial project (as you can imagine, neither Jay-Z nor EMI, who holds the rights to the music of The Beatles, were overjoyed by Danger Mouse's appropriation of their music). This collaboration, which ropes together Sparklehorse and David Lynch, as well as a slew of musicians, is called Dark Night of the Soul, a very appropriate title for a very dark album. However, it's also very good. Before it descends into gothic rock, the first few songs indicate that Danger Mouse has not left behind the influence of The Beatles nor of The Beach Boys. At times creepy, at times depressing, but always inspired, you can find the entire CD streaming at NPR here:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=104129585

However, due to some legal issues, the CD has not yet been released, unfortunately. Here's the second and third tracks of the album (two of my personal favorites). The first features Gruff Rhys of The Super Furry Animals and is called, "Just War." The second is "Jaykub" and features Jason Lytle.

Rejecting Rogue

You can't flip on the television or surf the net without a picture of Sarah Palin popping on-screen. The hockey-mom, the lipstick-on-a-pig, the perpetrator of conservative wet-dreams the world over, Palin is pushing her book Going Rogue with a small-town book tour cutting through the small swatches of the counties carried by the McCain-Palin ticket in 2008 in states that (surprise!) will be battlegrounds in 2012. And guess what? The crazies are coming out to their local Wal-Marts and strip malls in support. It brings back a nightmare I frequently struggled through during the last campaign. This was that nightmare:

The nightmares are back again with the onslaught of this book tour, dredging up visions of the frightening 2008 campaign and conjuring visions of a 2012 run. (The New York Times offers a nice overview of the mayhem here: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/22/us/politics/22palin.html?hp). For anyone out there claiming it's impossible that she'll run in 2012, I disagree. She will run. She craves the attention far too much and the delicious hypocrisy of deriding a national media that just helped sky-rocket her book to the top of the best seller charts. Though my friend and former Obama organizer Kevin Avery will point out that she has less experience than President Obama, I contest that those things don't matter for a Republican. For a Democrat? Of course! But not a Republican with the backing of Fox News and a slew of grassroots support.

It's crucial for Democrats to recognize that there is a different set of standards (especially for a mixed-race president) and to accept these standards instead of arguing for a change to the rules of the game. She will run. It will be competitive.

By no means am I an apologist for President Obama, nor did I strongly support him during the campaign, but the simple-minded, hate-driven outpouring of support for someone like Sarah Palin should be frightening to any objective outsider. It's hard to not find fault with statements like these from people waiting in line to have Sarah Palin sign their copy of Going Rouge pulled from that New York Times article I linked above:

"Kevin Witzigreuter, 38, a Fort Wayne firefighter waiting in line next to Mr. Miller, chimed in: 'And he can’t even make a simple decision about what to do in Afghanistan. We’ve got men and women fighting overseas. Either man up and fight the war to win it, or get out.'"

Regardless of your stance on the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, it's irresponsible to suggest that taking the time to make an informed decision is a fault in one's decision-making abilities. I'm guessing too that no military family or soldier would call these types of decisions "simple."

Another quote: "'It’s more fun talking politics with people who agree with you,' said Lucy Vigmostad, who was celebrating her 18th birthday by being first in line in Grand Rapids."

Temporarily indulging the temptation to over-generalize, statements like these all-too-often seem to sum up the approach many Americans take toward political debate--what's the point of arguing with people? What could they possibly say to change my views? Who cares what they say or think?

Beyond that, it's a problem that stems beyond politics into our classrooms. It's becoming more and more rare to find students who engage with ideas and don't descend into stubborn ignorance or logical fallacies (or even are willing to change their perspective when presented with compelling evidence). It's the reason why Fox News has a large and loyal viewership that can completely ignore and dismiss organizations like Media Matters.

What I find most frightening, and what anyone should regardless of one's political leanings, is the uninformed, blind hatred spewed out by those who gather in lines at 3 a.m. and wait hours for Sarah Palin sign their books (and in one case, jeer her as she boards her bus, leaving some-300 families without a signed copy of her book after she promised to sign for 1,000 people). If you want to see a real horror film (at least a horror film for anyone in favor of level-headed informed debate, even with those who totally disagree with you), check out this clip from outside a McCain-Palin campaign stop:

I guess I aim this post more at my conservative readers, though I'm not sure how many people (if any) are conservative nor how many people in general read my blog regularly. I beg you, conservatives wherever you are and however you stumble upon this, to reject open hostility that works against the democratic process, to embrace logical debate instead of falling victim to ad hominem attacks or straw man arguments or slippery slopes or faults in causality. Palin is not the kind of divisive leader we need in this country. Whatever his faults, President Obama has made quite a bit of effort to bring bipartisanship into the White House by retaining some of President Bush's former advisers (to the frustration of some Democrats). Unlike Palin, he is engaged with what is happening in the world around him and takes the time necessary to make the well-informed decision. I stand in step with a lot of conservative and liberals who are frustrated over his policies, but I can respect his intellect and trust (yes, trust!) that he genuinely cares about leaving America much stronger than it was when he inherited it.

I encourage conservatives (and liberals for that matter) not to see voting for the opposition as a concession or a loss if your only choice on the party ticket is someone like Sarah Palin. Think of it as a sign that you reject rallies where one feels comfortable shouting the n-word in reference to President Obama and the presenter (in this case, Palin) doesn't even pause to berate such hate-speech. Vote with this mindset so that America won't descend into the madness depicted above. (No, that clip was not a preview of the movie adaptation of McCarthy's The Road). Have the courage to engage with those of different viewpoints and the strength to make solid arguments and concede points when your arguments are weakened. If we let personal attacks and ill-informed views trump common sense, it won't matter who's in charge of Congress or the White House. There will be no country left worthy of government.

Why We Love Suspense Novels

Perhaps it is because I am coming to the final 15 pages of John Smolens' The Invisible World (review forthcoming) and my mind is given to such thoughts, or perhaps I'm feeling smaller than usual today, but a police car just quickly pulled a Y-turn on State Street outside the window of the coffee shop in which I sit, and I thought, "Boy, I wish I was hiding out from the police who are tracking me down to arrest me for the murder of a family friend for which I've been set-up."

Or maybe I'm hiding an important historical document in the satchel slung over the chair across from me that contains a map to a cache of hidden treasure kept in the little known catacombs underneath the State Capitol building just up the street from where I sit (though of course, my breakneck journey will take me to all kinds of strange locations and will introduce me to an incredibly old but extremely wise man who once worked for the CIA). Or maybe I'm on the run from a deadly assassin who's trying to recover a duffle bag full of drug money I stumbled across in the desert.

And then it dawns on me. This is why we love suspense stories and movies so much: it makes us feel special, different, set-off from everyone else. For us hunted ones, jobs no longer matter, we don't worry about missing our bus (or about our stolen bikes), we don't ever have to stop to use the bathroom, and it's acceptable if we go a day or two without showering. We look around the room at the coffee shop where we sit--to catch a breather and get off the street (and away from those meddling cops), maybe to change our clothes--and know that we have a secret that no one else knows about, except for our goofy friend (who provides comedic relief and keeps us grounded through what otherwise could be an overwhelming experience) and the attractive ex-government worker who somehow feels drawn to our brokenness, our shaky and broken personal history. Everyone else is reading the paper or bickering on their cellphones or worried about their exam in Psychology, but not us. We're on the run.

Being on the run embroiled in some plot that will resolve itself in a tidy two hour and fifteen minute film, has all the charms of life that make it worth living: you can dress up in costume, you forget about saving money for tomorrow because, frankly, if the bad guys have their way, there won't be a tomorrow. You get to eat every meal in a dinner and say very cool things like, "I will take this secret to the grave" and "I don't care what happens, Mary. I promised my mother I would do this for her, and I will." You get to stay in a new motel room every night.

In suspense thrillers, no one has ever stubbed her toe. No one has ever picked up dry-cleaning unless the blazer she was picking up had a clue left in its pocket. No one has ever gotten her period. And sometimes, that's what we want from life: the simplicity of a singular task, however dangerous; the permission to let ourselves throw out social conventions and feel emotions like fear and love and excitement in their most raw forms. Sometimes that's all we want, though we know it's impossible. And eventually, the book has to end. We know that.

It is far too late to still be up...

Flipping through back issues of Poetry, I came across this gem of a poem by Jill Osier, which I somehow missed the first time through. See? It pays to keep all these old journals around the house.

One More Thing

Making the circle larger, I can include
the green shed fading in the lot. Sometimes I think
we already have it. I think the world’s that big.
Then your dog dies, and the planets are more perfectly
imperfectly-shaped than ever. I’m not afraid?
How else to explain invention? In that story
where the man wakes up and can’t find his wife, now,
suddenly, their bed’s a moon, too big and too bright.

P.S. What are the rules governing reprinting poems from journals or books on private blogs? Violations of copyright, I’m guessing, but are we too small for it to matter? Even if we are, do you all, as poets, see this as a dangerous thing or do you welcome the wider audience? I guess if someone is willing to take the time to transpose my poem and post it on her blog, I should feel honored, which I would if it happened. And surely, no one would be in favor of posting unpublished poems by other poets on their blogs thereby nullifying first publication rights. Still, all this brings up some good questions. Is an online presence, regardless of the form it takes or where our words show up, a good thing?

Finally, I leave you tonight with my first two line poem:

It is far too late to still be up.
There's a chance I might be pregnant.

This Week’s “The GRE Is Ridiculously Hard, So You Are Not An Idiot” Review

Today’s Topic: The Metaphysical Poets (with debt to Patricia Beer’s An Introduction to the Metaphysical Poets)

Period of Influence: Ranges from Donne’s birth in 1572 (though he started writing twenty years afterward), to Marvell’s death in 1678.

Major Writers: John Donne, Andrew Marvell, Henry Vaughan, George Herbert

Chief Characteristics: As Beer notes, “There was a great variety of tone, ranging from Donne’s impatience—(‘For Godsake hold your tongue, and let me love’)—to George Herbert’s grateful surprise—(‘Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart / Could have recovered greenesse?’) (Beer 14). The expressiveness was aided by a new freedom in rhythm and less confined by strict traditional forms. In fact, the irregularity of their rhythms was most often the reason for their censure by those who preferred the smoothness of Elizabethan poetry (Beer 15-16).

In some of their poems, they argued as in Andrew Marvell’s “A Dialogue between the Resolved Soul and Created Pleasure” and Donne’s “The Flea” and persuasion is a major signifier of metaphysical poetry (Beer 19). (On a side note, one of the few questions I got right on my GRE Subject Test was an identification question—I was able to pick out Donne by his use of the word flea or tic or something like that). However, in this persuasion, the poets often resort to “the use of deliberately false logic” (Beer 20).

This is seen in “To His Coy Mistress”: the speaker knows of his mental superiority and hides what is on its face, a pretty morose and subtle threat, in beautiful language that would convince a simple-minded maiden. The main argument they put forth, which as Beer notes “is nearly always pointed to first of all as being characteristic of their work,” is comparison, usually through metaphor and simile (22). Their comparisons, unlike the Elizabethans, were “so original as to be startling, and at their best so functional as to be far more than decorative” (22). Famous comparisons? Donne’s soul to his wife’s soul as a pair of compasses and the rhythm of the pulse to that of a drum (which was made by Henry King).

Another major characteristic is the wittiness of the poets, which is hard to define and easier to recognize; Beer offers this definition: “a witty poet can think of more than one thing at a time” (25).

Finally, religion draws a clear line between metaphysical poetry and its precursor, Elizabethan poetry: “The development of religious poetry in the first half of the seventeenth century is one of the most distinguished contributions of the Metaphysical Poets to English verse” (Beer 28). Very few Elizabethan poets wrote religious poetry, but with metaphysical poets, earthly love and divine love were both major subjects of the poetry. Many of the Metaphysics were either progeny of clergy or clergymen themselves.

On Giving Up Verbosity for Lent Five Months Too Soon

“Undulation” is such a poet’s word. No woman has ever said in a darkened bedroom as her man slips his Levis from his waist and steps lightly toward the bed, “My body is undulating. Ride me like a wave.”

It is also true that no recipe has ever read, “Add the pasta to the pot when the water begins to undulate.”

And nine in ten people don’t even know what the word means.

Love and Other Games of Chance

Leslie invented a new game this past weekend. It’s called Costumed or Crazy? Here are the rules if you want to play along at home (though I guess you’ll have to wait until next year to join in). Over the Halloween weekend, you are to point out people and challenge your partner to guess whether that person is dressed in a costume or whether he simply prefers to wear strange clothing. It’s as basic as that.

After finishing our second marriage preparation course this past Saturday (which we must do in order to marry in the Catholic church), we relaxed with some Olive Garden soup, salad, and pizza. We spotted a gentleman dressed like this:

So… 50s greaser or high fashion?

Try this one:

Real hobo or drunken Freak Fest go-er?

Note: You may want to stay away from anyone who’s wearing an eye patch. No matter how much they look like a pirate, there’s a chance the patch is legit and covering up an empty eye socket. They might even show you the empty socket to prove it to you, which you do not want them to do.

Here’s another game, this one from a “special writers’-convention-only preview of Mathias Svalina’s forthcoming [though now I think it’s published] collection of children’s games, Play.” It’s billed as short prose, but I think his form could work equally well as prose poems:

ANIMAL CHASE
(for 5 or more players)

Two bases are marked off, at either end of America. Each child takes the name of an Animal. One child is It. He stands in the center of America & writers newspaper columns about the decline of America. He starts a radio show & becomes tremendously influencial. He begins to see himself as no longer It but the voice of the people. When he goes to sleep at night his mother tucks him in & whispers “Sweet dreams, voice of the people.” When his father drops him off at school he calls out “Have a great day, voice of the people.”

The Animals lurk in the darkness of the forest & the shadows of the demolished factories. When stray children pass the shadows they pounce on them. Licking the blood from their claws & beaks they whisper to themselves “I am Animal. I am Animal.”

When the first fame ends all the children trade names & a new child becomes It.

Anyone want to be the first one It? Anyone else have new games to share?

…Which Is Why I Hate Giving Readings

Turtle-neck aficionado Brigit Pegeen Kelly (center) poses for a picture
with Lucie Brock-Broido (left) and Tree Swenson (right).

She started with a joke or what I took to be a joke, thereby laying out her theme for the entire evening: “I’m from a very sad place,” Brigit Pegeen Kelly started, pausing for effect. “Central Illinois.”

I reached down for my knapsack, grabbing for my notebook. I had a sense that that was only the first of many gems that she’d deliver that night. I was right. To say she delivered jokes is a tad misleading; it was more natural and less self-conscious than that. It would be more accurate to say that she said things people laughed at.

This past Thursday, Brigit Pegeen Kelly, former Yale Series of Younger Poets winner and “one of the very best poets now writing in the United States” (at least according to Stephen Dobyns) gave a reading at the Helen C. White Hall at UW-Madison. Despite the dimmed lights, wooden podium, and desk lamp, it was clear that we were gathered in a large conference room made more depressing by the dampness that hung in the air. (Many of us had trekked through three straight days of nearly constant rain to get here). The ceiling was bubble-tiled and spotted with halogen lights, and the place was packed—I had to squeeze between two young men (undergrads?), both looking like they wanted out.

Pegeen Kelly kept with the theme she laid out in her opening “joke,” that of place, more specifically, that of her life living on a farm in rural Illinois. (She teaches at the University of Chicago, Urbana-Champaign). Before jumping into her first poem she explained more about Central Illinois. She set the scene: “There’s no place to dump things, no trees, no hills,” she explained. “I like the landfills… they give you something to look at.”

Pegeen Kelly’s outlook is a bit different than most. Over the course of the evening, she called a harsh windstorm that caused quite a bit of damage “kind of magnificent” and said this about a flood that covered the Central Illinois countryside two years ago: “It was so, so beautiful. It was like living in a land of lakes.”

She continued: “It was like the scene from Spirited Away—have any of you seen that?—the part where the train glides over the water…”

Here is the scene she to which she was referring:



For someone with such a strange outlook on things, the reading started traditionally enough. In a quiet, yet commanding voice she read an Emily Dickinson poem, which I now don’t recall, and followed that up with the poem “Killing Rabbits” by a writer who’s last name sounded like “Miroslaw.” Any ideas?

She moved into some of her work, reading “The Orchard” (“And I saw / That the horse was a dog. But the apples / Were still apples”)—she followed the poem with the clarification that “there aren’t any orchards in Central Illinois.” She moved on to “Rome.” (Find it here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20907).

One year, there was an ice storm, she told us. There’s always ice storms on rural roads, but due to the budget crunch, the city manager had decided not to buy salt for the roads, she said. There were 49 accidents. She said it without accusation, without irony. Just stating a fact. “The police office issued this statement,” she said. “Do not call the police unless you are mortally injured. There are no police to come get you.”

She read a poem about a wolf wandering through a village called “Fable,” which I really wish I could find. I did get down the last few lines. It went something like this:

He walked wide-eyed all morning
until he was beaten to death.

I went into the reading on a hot tip from a poet-friend—“I hear she’s amazing”—and because of that was expecting something akin to Ilya Kaminsky, a reading that is less a reading and more an experience. Sure, many people read better than Kaminsky, but when you go see him read, you understand the power of performance. Pegeen Kelly was not powerful. She wasn’t “an experience.” However, she was simply amazing.

Her reading might have possibly been the most enjoyable reading I’ve ever attended. I’m sure I’m not the only one who often finds it difficult to focus on the poems yet who always feels awkward when the poet goes “off the cuff” to tell us some back story or to set up the poem or to banter. Pegeen Kelly, instead, made her reading into a performance without performing but tying her poems and the poems of other authors together with the theme of place. All her setup stories had the effect of communicating a sense of what it means to live it Central Illinois. Listening to her was like reading a good non-fiction narrative, except this narrative lacked any naval-gazing, self-indulgence. It could be that she’s a natural story-teller, though none of her anecdotes were really stories or perhaps she spends as much time planning what she will say as she does writing the poems she’ll read.

She ended the performance by describing the stunted Central Illinois trees as broccoli (“Someone should get them on film”) and reading a poem written by her son when he was a young child. The poem started thus (or something close):

We should not use words.
Words can make anything…

“That is why I don’t like to give readings,” she said. Everyone applauded.

Thoughts on the Turtleneck

Some people wear turtlenecks because they don’t own scarves. Some people wear turtlenecks because they are about to engage in a modern dance presentation or they’re mimes. For some people, it’s a comfort thing. For others, their mothers told them to. Some people wear turtlenecks because its laundry day and all they have left is Aunt Marie’s Christmas present from two years ago. Some people wear turtlenecks because tomorrow morning, they will lower themselves into a supped-up Chevrolet and race around a track a ridiculous amount of times, though not many people wear them for this reason. It’s never wise to make fun of someone’s turtleneck. It could be hiding a scar and ex-boyfriend gave her one night with a paring knife when he came home sweating whiskey. Some people have a strange connection to their turtlenecks. A few have been to counseling. The large majority of turtleneck wearers are females between the ages of 45 and 60, half of which can be found, at this moment, sipping espresso in a coffee shop or felling trees for a logging company. A small percentage of turtleneck-wearers are homeless. A small percentage thinks they are flattering because they shorten the neck. They make the head seem like a surprise. What else will pop out of that covering you call a shirt? Virtually none of the world’s turtlenecks are short-sleeved, unless of course, they’re homemade. Virtually all of them are either white or black. But never yellow. Eight out of ten people “in the know” would not be “caught dead” in a turtleneck. But the more I think about it, the more I want to pull on a turtleneck and feel the warmth muzzle my throat. Even if I’m bucking the system.

Coming this week...

Along with other random posts, you can look forward to this week a review of last Thursday's Brigit Pegeen Kelly's reading at UW-Madison's Helen C. White Hall. (Wow, that was a mouthful.) Also, a new feature: Very Teachable Poems. After missing last week, I will have another “The GRE is Ridiculously Hard You are Not an Idiot” review. This time, it's Metaphysical Poetry.

In the meantime...

Ya’ll should check out Sarah Sloat’s blog when you get a chance to (thanks to Lisa for the tip). I have her blog linked in my blogroll. Here’s a found poem with text taken from one of her posts. It might give you an idea of how funny she can be!

Ode to Rudolf Diesel

I can overlook traffic and superfluous strip malls
but I can’t forgive the muzak
pumped like gas into parking lots and shops.

If we could ban smoking. If we
could mandate seat belts and child safety locks…

I think prohibiting consumer muzak would be a giant step
toward improving health care.

If we could invent the air bag.
If we can bomb the moon…

Of course, if forced to process Huey Lewis
and the News, I burst into gaseous flame,
I might find some good in that.

Animals Wearing the Skin of Other Animals? Sure. Why Not?

Erinn Batykefer recently introduced me to the craziest, most interesting and poetically-inspiring blog (MM—you’ll love this). It’s called Regretsy (found online at www.regretsy.com), based off the site Etsy (www.etsy.com). For those unfamiliar with Etsy, here’s a short description: “Our mission is to enable people to make a living making things, and to reconnect makers with buyers.” They bill themselves as “your place to buy and sell all things handmade.”

Regretsy’s motto, on the other hand? “Homemade? It looks like you made it with your feet.”

Basically, Regretsy scours Etsy and finds the weirdest and downright creepiest items listed for sale. For instance, perhaps you’ve been searching for the perfect mantel piece to let every random woman you bring home that yes, you do enjoy animals, though you prefer them to be dead, stuffed, and wearing the skins of other animals. If so, try “Fish in Squirrel Suit.”

Only 350 dollars? What a steal.

Let’s say you want your cat to feel the savage joy of pawing around a stuffed fetus. And let’s be honest, who wouldn’t? Regretsy (and Etsy) has you covered. For only six dollars, you could be the proud owner of such… interesting items as “Cat Nip Fetus Toy in Pink.”

So how does this relate to poetry? Why should I spend my time scrolling through a blog that, amongst other disturbing things, features handpainted demon-inspired hardcore porn? (You actually wanted me to post a picture of it? You sicko). How will this help me become a better person, which is the end goal of my blog? Here’s how: I have a mission, should you choose to accept it. Write a poem based off one of the items listed on Regretsy. I’ve already written one for the “Mink Skull Wrist Cuff and Corset,” but the rest are up for grabs. MM, I expect to see a poem (or a few lines) from you at least! I’d be interested to see what you all come up with, if you would indulge me. If anything strikes you, post your poems/lines in the comments.

Here’s the opening of my poem “Mink Skull Wrist Cuff and Corset” (it only gets worse from here):

My unbleached mandible, eye sockets looped
like empty ears, and wave-swept muzzle
off-white and warped as an Idaho potato,
you fit your doorknocker around my waist.

Open up. Take off your shirt and stay awhile.
Come see this crazy taxidermy…

Homie, We Major

So you want to be a major poet? You’ve come to the right place as I’ve located the four conditions necessary in becoming a major poet. (If that sounds daunting, don’t fear. You must only satisfy three and a half of them.) Editor and sometime poet W.H. Auden wrote in the introduction to his anthology, Nineteenth-Century British Minor Poets, this summation.

To qualify as a major poet:

1. He must write a lot.
2. His poems must show a wide range of subject matter and treatment.
3. He must exhibit an unmistakable originality of vision and style.
4. In the case of poets, we distinguish between their juvenilia and their mature work but, in the case of the major poet, the process of maturing continues until he dies so that, if confronted by two poems of his of equal merit but written at different times, the reader can immediately say which was written first. In the case of the minor poet, on the other hand, however excellent the two poems must be, the reader cannot settle the chronology on the basis of the poems themselves.

Disregarding the patriarchal and sexist “he” (sorry, Lisa), Auden’s guidelines make a fair bit of sense to me. I’m sure this line of thinking is not productive to a young poet, and to someone like Yeats, (who in my estimation, passes at least three of the four,) they probably arose naturally in his work. He didn’t sit down as a young poet thinking, “I must exhibit an unmistakable originality and vary my subject matter if I’m to be remembered.” I suppose I shouldn’t give these categories too much thought. However, Auden’s keys to greatness got me thinking about career progression, about how writers develop (or fail to develop) over the courses of their careers, and one notable exception stood out.

What about Jack Gilbert? Though he’s not been recognized, to my knowledge, as a major poet and is glaringly absent in my edition of The Norton Anthology, I can’t say I’ve encountered a poet who has better mastered the plain-spoken, confessional “I.” Even the slight takes on significance in the world of Jack Gilbert. Consider “Happily Planting the Beans Too Early” from Refusing Heaven:

I waited until the sun was going down
to plant the bean seedlings. I was
beginning on the peas when the phone rang.
It was a long conversation about what
living this way in the woods might
be doing to me. It was dark by the time
I finished. Made tuna fish sandwiches
and read the second half of a novel.
Found myself out in the April moonlight
putting the rest of the pea shoots into
the soft earth. It was after midnight.
There was a bird calling intermittently
and I could hear the stream down below.
She was probably right about me getting
strange. After all, Basho and Tolstoy
at the end were at least going somewhere.

Despite the quiet beauty of this poem and many of his others—try reading The Great Fires without grabbing for your loved one and holding him or her for the rest of the evening—he’d probably fail Auden’s standards of a “major” poet.

For one, he’s not been the most prolific. Aside from a publishing flurry in the past four years, he has had only three major books over the span of his 80+ years on earth: Views of Jeopardy (1962), which won the Yale Younger Series of Poetry, The Great Fires: Poems 1982-1992 (1996), and Refusing Heaven (2005), which won the National Book Critics Circle Award. (I leave out Monolithos only because its first half is comprised of poems from Views of Jeopardy. We can squabble over this minor point, but as an analogy, I direct you to Rolling Stones’ list of the top 500 albums. If I remember correctly, not one greatest hits album made the list. Instead, new, complete albums were given preference). This is all not to say he hasn’t written a bunch. I have no idea know if he has. However, he surely hasn’t published a great deal of work. I don’t disparage this; in fact, I encourage it. But regardless of my publishing inclinations (far too many books = watered-down quality), Auden would tsk.

Secondly, he doesn’t deviate wildly in his later two books from his core subjects of aging, grief, and isolation, and the form he funnels these ideas through is likewise unchanging. I was shocked when I opened Monolithos, after only knowing Gilbert through Refusing Heaven, to see stanzas! Apart from subject matter and a certain spunk (apparent in his early books—I have not had the opportunity to read all the poems from Views of Jeopardy though I have read Monolithos), which has been replaced with a sense of worldly exhaustion, his style has remained consistent and his work early work is largely indistinguishable from his later poems.

I will give him vision and style and maintain that in my progression as a writer, he was a major discovery. (Who knew Poets & Writers—where I first encountered him in a profile piece—could actually pay dividends?) But does he ultimately fail Auden’s test? Should we even spend anytime thinking about what this Auden fellow says? I know there are some Gilbert fans out there who must have a few thoughts…

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Your weekend song: Bang! Bang! by The Knux. Allow their coolness to wash over you. They’ll make you hip and groovy too. They’ll put that pop on ya like Redenbacher.



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The “Is that Really the Definition” Word of the Week:

past mistress—n. 1: a woman who is highly skilled, experienced, or expert at a profession, art, etc. : ADEPT.

Of course it is! What else could “past mistress” mean?

Breaking news: Poetry is impressed with my work...

but would rather I send it elsewhere, at least for now. Full story below:

In his blog The Projector is Ripping Your History (see sidebar blogroll), which I often read as self-flagellation or, more precisely, as a reminder of how little submitting I do of my own poetry, Keith Montesano lists a new publication nearly every time he posts. It’s amazing, astounding, and well-deserved, so I can’t begrudge him the success. Following his example, I thought I would post similar information. No, it’s not a publication, but a near-publication, which as any fledging poet knows is almost just as good: Poetry says they are “impressed” with my last submission, though nothing fits with the journal at the moment, and hopes I feel encouraged to send again… “after awhile.” Should I be excited about this, or is this a common “personalized” rejection from Poetry? How long is “after awhile?”

To give you an idea of Poetry, for those unfamiliar with the publication, here’s a line from the July/August 2009 issue (yes, I’m behind, but I’m still working through this massive issue):

“Ironing hung dejectedly over a chair, / gesture that comes from who-knows-where.”
—Elisabeth Eybers, “Poet as Housewife,” pg. 294

Though to be fair, here’s another line from that same issue, different poem:

“What elevator is this anyway, that even the prospect / of going down has made you high?”
—Kevin McFadden, “A Date,” pg. 301

Does the chair/where rhyme tap into what Christian Wiman (editor of Poetry) called “the tension between language and life?” I’m not sure. One thing I can say is that when I first started reading Poetry as an undergraduate, I found it painful and hard-going, mostly because cracking open the spine of the journal felt like I had pulled something down from my grandfather’s bookshelf. Everything seemed archaic and dusty. With Wiman taking over, the journal not only got a welcomed facelift—who doesn’t love the feel and look of the pages now?—but the quality of the poetry, in my opinion, has improved. And then, there’s the prose…

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A few small concerns: yes, this blog is still so new, there are a few glitches, namely the header (I will design one where the text overlain on the image is readable) and the fact that somehow this computer misspelled Lorrie Moore’s name twice. How could that have happened??? The flipside: the blog still has that new-blog smell. Breathe it in.

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For those friends of mine facing the GRE subject test in the next year, (I’m looking at you Lisa,) I have instituted this weekly feature: GRE Subject Test Review, Or, You’re Not Dumb, Literature is Just Very Hard.

Today’s vocabulary word: Aestheticism

Aestheticism signifies a group of British decadent writers deeply influenced by Pater (who came up often when I was studying for the GRE subject test—he must be important or something) who said that life had to be lived intensely, following the ideal of beauty. They are associated with l’art pout l’art (“art for art’s sake”) and asserted that there was no connection between art and morality. Instead of moral or sentimental messages, they believed art should convey refined sensuous pleasure (wahoo!) and rejected Ruskin’s and Matthew Arnold’s utilitarian view that art is something moral of useful.

Other belief include: art should have no didactic purpose but instead should be beautiful; “cult of beauty” was a basic factor in art; life should copy art; nature is crude when compared to art, and nature lacks design.

Characteristics of aesthetic writing: 1) suggestion rather than statement 2) sensuality 3) massive use of symbols 4) synaesthetic (correspondence between words, colors, and music)

Fore-runners of aestheticism: Keats and Shelley

Writers associated with aestheticism: Wilde, Swinburne (influenced by French symbologists), Rossetti

Wisconsin Book Festival: The Tweets

For part of one week every year, a city that bills itself as the cultural center of the Midwest hosts a slew of writers for the Wisconsin Book Festival. I went, and now, after this post, you can feel like you went too. What follows are tweet updates that I would have written had I a) kept a twitter page b) had text message capabilities on my cellphone and c) really felt that anyone cared at all what I had to say about anything. Too self-effacing? Ok, I'll give you that. But I also give you Wisconsin Book Festival: The Tweets.

(Note: To clarify for the twitter apostles out there, as I am unfamiliar with the twitter format for tweets, I will opt instead to post my "tweets" in the facebook status update format, which, I've come to understand, is recognized by MLA.)

Casey Thayer is at Avol's Books for Erinn Batykefer's poetry reading. First event for me, first event for the Book Festival. The crowd stirs with anticipation or discomfort: The chairs have no cushions and all the elderly notice and whisper to one another.

Casey Thayer News flash: Erinn Batykefer has just called me smart because I used the word "ekphrasis." Is it that easy to be seen as intelligent? I must be passing.

Casey Thayer hopes you all go to (and get the chance to read at) Avol's. Put it this way: arched doorways, a skylight, gloomy endless hallways, and used books. I am lucky to have gotten out of there without a backpack full of new purchases, especially given that I have had to start stacking books alongside my full bookshelf to my fiance's frustration.

Casey Thayer realizes that his "tweets" are probably way too long, character-wise, to be called traditional tweets. He will try to use abbreviations like "l8er" for "later" and "1erous" for "onerous," though he doesn't use "onerous" often, even when blogging, and agrees that the abbreviation isn't quite right.

Casey Thayer Erinn Batykefer reading on a scale of one (that being open mike nights at the feminist bookstore) to ten (that being any Ilya Kaminsky reading): nine.

Casey Thayer is at the Michael Perry/Loorie Moore reading. Alone among so many people who know each other and look like writers. Casey forgot to wear his ascot, or his shawl. No one talks to Casey.

Casey Thayer The Orpheum Theatre is beautiful and large. Up in front men with blinking red buttons over their hearts pace back and forth. What the hell?

Casey Thayer Two women behind me are talking about Michael Perry. "He's a wonderful reader," one says. "I love Michael," the other responds. Neither know I am listening in.

Casey Thayer Michael reads an essay criticizing writers who complain about their book tours.

Casey Thayer Loorie Moore starts by complaining about her book tour.

Casey Thayer On Friday, Casey is tired. He goes to the Wisconsin Academy People & Ideas reading but stays only until the poets and two fiction writers have finished reading. He attends a chili party and is nearly convinced to karaoke. Key word: nearly.

Casey Thayer Is it fair that when women write about wanting sexual connection they are empowered but when men do they same, they are creepy? I'm not too angry about this. I just wish I could write a poem about sex and not have people respond with "eww."

Casey Thayer Saturday! Chuck Rybak reading, then Verse Wisconsin small press panel.

Casey Thayer feels bad for Joel Friederich. He has some great poems. The problem? He's reading with the hilarious Chuck Rybak. It's so early, at least for poetry, that funny is what the audience is responding to.

Casey Thayer Chuck Rybak just said, "I googled myself," which, as he points out, sounds dirty.

Casey Thayer At the Verse Wisconsin small press panel, I feel the first wave of depression wash over me. Who reads these small presses? Will I toil in obscurity? Will I have to pay for my chapbook's press run?

Casey Thayer Salvation! Centennial Press. Check them out!

Casey Thayer While I am supposed to be at a panel led by editors and agents, I have instead retreated with a poet-friend to The Local Tavern. The Badgers are on TV and every time they score, which they do twice within the first 25 minutes of our arrival, we are given jello shots. The Buckeyes score and Austin asks, "Do we get a shot when they score? That's when we really need it." The bartender says, "I think I can arrange that." One hour later, I waddle in the direction of my bike.

Whew, that was a long and rambling post. I promise to keep my posts shorter in the future. If you have any observations or tweets to share about the festival, post them in the comments. Of course, this assumes that I will have a readership...

Black is the New Black

Why black? Well, if my fiance can be trusted, black screens use less energy than white, which is why we've made it a point to use blackle as our primary search engine instead of google (and why I've chosen the morose and oppressive black as the background color to my new blog). Check it out at http://www.blackle.com/ and do your part to save the world one search at a time.