Girl in a Cage

The Stevens Code

Intrigued by a comment I made about Wallace Stevens' influence on the "H.R. Pufinstuf" theme song, I dispatched two interns from the Girl in a Cage offices in Boston to Hartford to comb through Wallace Stevens' papers for evidence. "But Stevens died in 1955!" They protested. I told them that sometimes in this business you've gotta follow your gut, no matter what the evidence says. They asked if I'd reimburse them for gas. I told them this was an internship, not a luxury cruise. Next they'll be asking for a freakin' midnight buffet.

The Stevens library does not allow photocopying, but my intrepid interns smuggled in camera phones, and though the phones can only record fragments of a page at a legible resolution, what they've sent back is nothing short of mind-boggling.

First, a handwritten fragment: "The Idea of Order At Living Island" ("Living Island" has been crossed out, with "Key West" written in the margins.) From the last stanza: "Oh! Blessed rage for order! Golden Freddy"...

The next, another re-titled draft, this one entitled: "The Mayor of Living Island" "And if her pointy shoes protrude, they thrill/To the sound of her cackle, loud and shrill/Let the flute play low, and rough/The only mayor/ is H.R. Pufinstuf."

And, yes, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at Witchiepoo": "IV: A boy and a flute are one./A boy, a flute/And Witchiepoo/Are one."

And this, just sent to my cell phone from that of my intern, Brandee: The Stevens Library still has its visitors sign their names and affiliations in a massive book dating to its opening in 1957. There, in March 1958, and again in April and May, is the signature of a graduate student in English from Yale University: Sidney Krofft.

For eleven long years the Krofft brothers must have nursed the dream of bringing Stevens' strange cosmology to life. But what does this discovery mean to us now? It must mean that first, Stevens, whose primary achievement (apart from a distinguished insurance career) was believed to be keeping otherwise unemployable English PhDs off the street with dense, incomprehensible verse, must now be reassessed as the creator of a mythos that continues to echo through popular and high culture alike. Surely now Stevens symbology must be compared to (and, indeed, found superior to) that of Yeats. What of the Rose and the Tower now that we have The Flute, The Witch, and the Dragon Mayor In White Go-Go Boots?

Perhaps just as compelling, scholars must now ask why Stevens' editors and estate continue to suppress his role in the creation of Pufinstuf? Why were all references to Living Island and its denizens edited out of Stevens' verse? And are there more clues to Stevens' authorship hidden in the Pufinstuf episodes? The investigation will continue.

13 Ways of Looking at Witchiepoo

Well, it's been a great Rocktober here at Girl in a Cage: daily readership has surged from 6 to 8.5! Yeah! I also figured out how to re-size the font so that people can actually read it.

Response to the My Left One For the Cure campaign has been underwhelming. Deb and Chris suggest that I might have gotten a better response if I'd sworn to never put a pink ribbon with your name on it on my left one, but that ship has sailed. I choose to interpret the lack of interest in the campaign as a sign that my eight-point-five readers are people of intelligence and discernment who prefer to make their contributions anonymously and reject the marketing of disease as a fashion accessory.

No calls from Salon offering to allow me to respond to Brendan Halpin's vituperative attacks on me. Thanks to Jim, though, at www.hanasiana.com for linking to that and probably single handedly accounting for driving my average readership to eight point five. I keep meaning to put one of those lists of links on the side with the other blogs on it...but sadly, I haven't figured out how to do that yet.

It turns out I'm not scared of Witchiepoo anymore. Far scarier is the bonus interview with grown-up Jimmy on disk three. He looks haggard and wasted and far far worse than Witchiepoo herself, who can't be any spring chicken but looks fantastic in her own interview. Though, admittedly, I'm used to seeing her with fake nose and chin. But still. And I can't quite figure out Jimmy's loyalty to Freddie. He's so annoying! I say give the simpering flute to Witchiepoo and live happily ever after! Also puzzling is the theme song: "H.R. Pufinstuf/Who's your friend when things get rough?/H.R. Pufinstuf/Can't do a little 'cause you can't do enough." What the hell does that mean? I've been trying for days to figure that out. It's like freakin' Wallace Stevens wrote the theme song or something!

Rock and Roll Top 3

So in response to a family member's interest in Slipknot and Pantera (Jesus, but that is some seriously unlistenable crap) I downloaded some old songs that used to be in the same family as metal. But they have lyrics that are semi-recognizable and a melody, so they are pretty far from the metal of today. Anyway, one thing I got was Highway Star, which is just 6 minutes of amazing rock and roll excess that probably deserves its own entry, but it got me thinking about one of the greatest rock and roll moments I ever saw. I'm not talking about concerts, but just individual songs or moments that were transcendently great.

3. Philadelphia. 1987. I saw Husker Du with Christmas opening. There was a local band on the bill called Electric Love Muffin. They played a competent, unremarkable set of pretty standard late-80's alternative rock in the Soul Asylum vein. Up till the end, the highlight of the set was a song called "drunk and horny." (Maybe it wasn't so great, but as I spent much of the 86-87 academic year in the former condition and all of it in the latter, it really spoke to me). And then, for their final number, some fat guy in a hawaiian shirt and sunglasses emerged from the audience and climbed on the stage. The band launched into a cover of "Highway Star" with the fat guy on lead vocals and completely tore the roof off the place. Nothing else they played sounded remotely like Deep Purple, they didn't otherwise have a lot of huge guitar solos, and who the hell was the fat guy? Fantastic.

2. Philadelphia. 1990. I saw the Ordinaires open up for Camper Van Beethoven. The Ordinaires were one of these bands that only musicians like--a 12 (or so) piece ensemble with violins, cellos, horn section, etc. They played 8-minute instrumentals that devolved into complete cacaphony around minute 5. They were competent musicians, but really incredibly awful. Until they launched into their instrumental cover of Led Zep's "Kashmir". They had all the instruments to do it justice, and everybody was great--horns, strings, the whole deal. I had never liked that song before, but with that band playing it, I finally got it. I really wanted them to keep playing it all night. Unfortunately, they finished and then played another one of their shitty originals. Even now, when I listen to the Led Zep version, it seems like a kind of pale shadow of the live version I saw.

3.Cincinnati. 1986. The Edge played at Bogart's on a Sunday afternoon or something, and their charismatic, if unusually large-headed lead singer announced at the end of the set that we should stick around for a special treat. The curtains re-opened on Human Zoo, with (male) lead singer Bevo resplendent in a purple dress and matching purple velvet witch's hat, standing with arms outstretched, while Cincinnati Punk Legend Karl Meyer played the opening notes to their greatest hit, "Signs." I don't know how long it lasted, but it certainly felt like it was at least 15 minutes. There was slithery dancing, there was simulated sex, and there was the hard rockin' that made the Zoo beloved by all who saw them. And did I mention the witch's hat?

TV roundup

Everybody Hates Chris--intermittently funny. The kids like it, and we all watch together, but, in the end, I don't think I'd make time to watch it on my own. I think it's a mark of how awful sitcoms have gotten that this one, which is a little above average, is getting all this attention like it's great.

My Name is Earl--O, how I love this show. I always thought Jason Lee was likeable but kinda limited (like Michael J. Fox, role model for the shorter man in the '80's) , but he's really quite good in this. They really manage to pull off a very tricky tone here--it's definitely a feel-good show, and it's about doing good, but it's not treacly or sappy. I like the fact that in the show, doing good is always difficult. Kinda like life. Doing good also always has immediate rewards. Completely unlike life. But what the hell--this isn't life, it's TV! And damn good TV at that!

The Colbert Report--Not as funny as The Daily Show, but I really enjoy it. There's something very appealing about the "Stephen Colbert" character--there's just something that makes a jackass who's completely convinced he's never wrong entertaining. Maybe that's why people like O'Reilly. I can't help wondering, though, if there are people who don't get it. And I kinda wonder what they think of it.

Today we bought the complete H.R. Pufinstuf DVDs. Sure, I smiled and went along and said it would be great fun to revisit this classic from my childhood. But the fact is, I was terrified of Witchie-Poo. I think I might still be terrified of Witchie-Poo. I may have to hide under a blanket because I'm "cold".

Weed: gateway to bad rock.

So I read something about the Eagles the other day, and I was thinking about how that whole '70's-Southern California music scene--The Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Jackson Browne, Linda Ronstadt--produced probably the worst rock and roll music up until the Limp Bizkit-and-its-ilk craze of a few years ago. (And maybe that music's inherent suckitude doomed it from the start, but I like to think Ben Folds killed it with "Rockin' The Suburbs." God Bless You Ben Folds! Even if your cover of "Bitches Aint Shit" is creepy and disturbing! Just being white and singing those lyrics semi-ironically doesn't redeem the misogyny! Oh, but it's so darn catchy!)
Now you pretty much know that all of those '70's Southern California guys were smoking a ton of weed. This reminded me of students I had--bright kids who got bad grades because they smoked so much weed that they couldn't be bothered to do homework. Maybe, I thought, just maybe these musicians smoked so much weed that they couldn't be bothered to rock! Maybe the combination of a high THC level and the warm California sun just makes everything feel so groovy that rockin' becomes impossible! Now if they'd put that on the "Just Say No" ads in the '80's, they really might have put a dent in marijuana use! I can picture it now---white titles on a black screen, with a heartbeat soundtrack, and that guy who does all the political ads doing the voiceover..."The Pretender....The Long Run.....Tusk....and they say Marijuana is harmless." If they'd done that, they might have spared us the Dave Matthews Band! But no...
(The alternate explanation is that it's all Gram Parsons' fault, but I think I'll stick with the weed theory.)
(Also, I actually like most of the Lindsey Buckingham Fleetwood Mac songs, even if they don't rock...)

Dumb stuff I call my dog

So we got a dog recently. His name is Cooper. Since I work at home, I hang out with him a lot. And I realized that I call him a really weird variety of names.

Coop. (the old standby.)
Coop-a-Doop (somewhat more affectionate.)
You moron. (When he tried to leap in front of a moving car)
Coopenstein. (No idea, but I think it relates to the time that Burch Baskett called Chris Charleville "Friendly Chuckenstein" in the 8th grade. He called me "Brand Name.")
Herr Koopenheimer
Herr Koopenmeier (both to be delivered in bad German accent.)
Die Koopenheimer. (I guess sometimes he needs a definite article rather than an honorific.)
Tha Coopsta. (His hip-hop name. He's reppin' parkside, bitches.)
Sir Crappington
C. Crappington Hound
Crappington. All of these I deliver in a bad English accent, as though Cooper and I are florid, white-mustachioed, wealthy fat guys sitting in overstuffed armchairs in our gentlemen's club, perhaps reading the Financial Times and digesting the nice bit of beef with mustard we've just had. As we consider, perhaps, whether Fogg really will make it around the world in 80 days, I turn to him and say something like, "Well, Crappington, what news, eh?" He, in his turn, howls, which means, "I say, old man, I do believe the UPS man is opening the door of his vehicle down the block!"

Perhaps I need to get out more.

Looking For Free Publicity

So Salon (www.salon.com) has run not one but two articles in the last week in which a writer gets even with somebody who blogs about them. (http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2005/10/15/bug/index.html) and (http://www.salon.com/books/feature/2005/10/13/blog/index.html)

I have a novel coming out in January (Long Way Back, published by Villard, pre-order now and avoid the rush!) and I can use all the publicity I can get. At first I thought, well, I can just use my blog to start trashing high-profile writers, and eventually one of them will use Salon's bully pulpit to smack me down. I was busy composing a laundry list of insults (you know, something like "Oh, Amy Tan has a new book coming out--lemme guess: it's about a Chinese-American woman and her cruel, distant, but ultimately admirable mom!") (Or Gregory Maguire amazes by making the myths of our childhood something they've never been before: pretentious and dull!)

But then I thought, well, Gregory Maguire at least is local, and so he might just kick my ass in person, and that wouldn't really do, publicity-wise, unless we could get a headline in the Globe or something that said: "Literary Smackdown!" And anyway, I thought, I got an article published in the New York Freakin' Times! If I'm good enough for them, I oughta be good enough for Salon. But I suppose I could wait a long time for a blogger to really trash me--my auto-googling reveals that most people have generally nice things to say about me in their blogs. Maybe I could push this to Salon as a new angle.

But then I thought, why wait? Problem solved! I will simply trash myself in my blog, and then write an article for Salon about how haunting it was to read about myself in somebody's blog, and how my emotions teetered between flattery, resentment, and rage. Hopefully I can sneak at least two plugs for my new novel, Long Way Back, available January 3 in finer bookstores. Here goes:

I see where Brendan Halpin, whom I've previously described as "nasty, brutish, and short" has a new novel, Long Way Back, coming out in January. Oh, let me guess: some trite sentimentalism, some hackneyed plotting informed by his semi-literate, sitcom-drenched imagination, a couple of characters obsessed with popular culture. Lather, rinse, repeat. I can't believe this hack, with his workmanlike prose, gets to publish bloated short stories that would certainly be rejected from any literary journal not run by apes, and pass them off as novels. Oh, how I loathe Brendan Halpin. His first memoir, It Takes a Worried Man, revealed him to be simultaneously a simpering wuss who cried like a little bitch all the time just because his wife had a fatal illness, and an inveterate horndog who systematically denied women their personhood by objectifying them as "hot." Also, he doesn't understand the genius of Dan Fogelberg. His teaching memoir, Losing My Faculties, reveals all that is wrong with public education: it attracts mean-spirited burnouts like Halpin. His first novel, Donorboy, was given the Alex Award despite being a weak, gimmicky attempt to update the epistolary novel with cutesy emails and instant messaging. Donorboy's cardboard characters and sentimental plot would have embarrassed the writers from "The Facts of Life." Halpin is beneath my contempt, he is a dog turd on the shoe of the literary world. Stay tuned for more posts about how much I hate him.

Whew! That was strangely fun! Now if I can just craft the right Salon article: there I sat, surrounded by empty cans of seltzer and diet coke and the wreckage of a package of New Morning Graham-Wiches, googling myself, when I suddenly came across a blog entry full of such venom and bile that it took my breath away. What had I ever done to this "Brendan Halpin" to deserve such hatred? I knew I shouldn't, but I began checking his fine blog, "Girl in a Cage" every day just to see if my name was mentioned. And then, one day, I found out he was me. It was kind of like Fight Club.

Arms Charms

So when I'm king, along with certain songs being retired (like, say, "Satisfaction," which is a fine song I never ever want to hear again, except maybe for the Devo version...), I'd like certain rhymes retired. Now I'm thinking seriously about dance/romance, but I think arms/charms is worse, because "charms" is just not really a word that anyone uses like that outside of pop songs. I mean, who has ever said "I miss your charms"? If somebody said to you, wouldn't you wonder why they were obsessed with your bracelet? (Not that I have a charm bracelet....no, really...it's not mine, I swear...)

I was disappointed to notice it in The New Pornographers' "Bleeding Heart Show", which I've previously raved about. It also shows up in the Everly Brothers' "Dream" and Prince's "Right Back Here in my Arms." I know I've heard this rhyme like a hundred thousand more times than this, but for some reason my brain can't locate any more examples in the files. Anybody got any more examples? Or votes for any other rhymes that should be retired? (Spanish speakers: what about "bailar/gosar"? I think I've heard that one in pretty much every song in Spanish I've ever heard. But admittedly, that's about five CD's of mostly Cuban dance music and about a dozen Los Lobos songs.)

Dancing With Joey Ramone

So I'm completely obsessed with Amy Rigby's "Dancing With Joey Ramone." First of all, I love the fact that it's reminiscent of (I told you I was going to use that as much as possible!) the Ramones' own "A Real Cool Time," musically speaking.

And, I think I want Amy Rigby to DJ my next party, since she makes a hell of a set list for the party at which she was dancing with Joey Ramone: "Papa Was a Rolling Stone," "Hanging on the Telephone", "The Worst That Could Happen", "I Feel Alright," "Needles and Pins" "Gloria" "He's So Fine" "Charlie Brown" (the Coasters, or JFA? I'm guessing the former..) I suppose my only quibble would be "He Hit Me (And it felt like a kiss)," which is just too creepy to even be fun in a campy way.

But I really love that because it's such a powerful thing--for two minutes and fifty-two seconds, Joey's alive again, if only in our minds, which--I dunno, I may be unusually prone to be touched by stuff like that, but it's just so freakin' poignant to me. It's reminiscent of this Bruce Sterling story "Dori Bangs" which is an alternate history thing about how Lester Bangs and Dori...um, hang on..Seda, who I'd never otherwise heard of, meet and save each other from dying, when in real life, they died. The end of that story has stuck in my mind for the fifteen years since I read it. I get uncomfortable gushing sincerely about stuff I've read, watched, or listen to, but here goes: I hope to one day write something this beautiful.

"Two simple real-life acts of human caring, at the proper moment, might have saved them both; but when those moments came, they had no one, not even each other. And so they went down into darkness, like skaters, breaking through the hard bright shiny surface of our true-facts world.

"Today I made this white paper dream to cover the holes they left."

Is Reminiscent Of

So maybe because I'm copy editing the British edition of Long Way Back, I've been thinking a lot about little words and phrases. And it occurred to me that I was so effectively brainwashed by my years as an English major that I've probably used the phrase "is reminiscent of" a lot without even thinking about it.

I mean, "is reminiscent of" really means "reminds me of," but by removing the "I", you make it sound more authoritative. Thus, if I say "That Big Star song is reminscent of ELO" (which I actually thought I'd written, even though I didn't), I make it sound as though the ELO association resides in the song, rather than in my head. What a cheesy rhetorical trick! Now that I've figured it out, I think I'm gonna use it even more!