Art Talk: Hardy Party with the Overlords

O’Brien: I just finished reading “Jude the Obscure,” which may be the saddest book I’ve ever read.

Karellen: “Jude” isn’t sad, O’Brien. It’s one of the great comedic works of the English language, a veritable chuckle-fest from start to stop, if you find despair amusing, as I do. Plus, Hardy teaches an interesting lesson about women. Stay away from the mousy intellectuals; stick with the farm girls.

Mustapha Mond: I read “Tess of the d’Urbervilles,” and that was more than enough Hardy for one lifetime. He’s right up there with Dickens for writing soap opera drivel, as far as I’m concerned. Anybody want a watercress sandwich? I made a big old batch last tonight, so there’s plenty to go around.

Karellen: After having read “Tess,” I also read “Jude,” and “Jude” is indeed much, much better. Why young English majors are forced to read the former rather than the latter is just stupid, a true testament to the idiocy that leaks out of the ivory tower like dirty, smelly, pretentious pus. Mmmm . . . say, Mustapha, these are some good watercress sandwiches! I love the way you cut them in squares, diagonally, without the crusts. Well done, sir!

Wintermute: I actually chose to read “Jude the Obscure” after reading “The Mayor of Casterbridge.” So something drove me back. It’s pretty soap opera, yeah, but not so much drivel to me. It did have a list of mixed lessons at the end, none of which were clear: should we condemn society for creating a world where the mousy intellectual has no place in it? Or condemn the mousy intellectual for refusing to find a place in modern society. The farm girl (Arabella) was just as bad in her own way. Her presence begged the question of whether we are better off with the commonsensical farm girl or the mousy intellectual. Should you choose to do well and stay within your class or make the leap to another class and get thru all the suffering that ensues? The other important question was whether you are better believing in the God of the church and following the rules set forth, or following a code that you develop yourself based on your observations and views on the topic. Based on the ending, Hardy seems to tell you that it doesn’t matter one fat rat’s ass what you do. You go from one miserable situation to another. Then you waste away all by yourself.

O’Brien: That’s what I mean about being the saddest book I’ve ever read. Well, that and the fact that I have moved the time it took me to read it closer to death, with nothing much to show for my effort. The way I see it . . .

Wintermute: Shutup, O’Brien, I’m not done. So, for me, I guess the big unresolved question is: does the wasting away occur because society has no place accepting those who cannot live within its norms or is it because society should open up to new ideas and create a world where ways of doing things that are outside of the norms are accepted? Should Jude have changed himself or should society have changed to accommodate Jude? Or is the tragedy simply inevitable seeing as neither of the individual nor society really could change these aspects of themselves that differed without losing their fundamental nature?

O’Brien: Well, I think that it’s all a matter of . . .

Karellen: O’Brien! Zip it! We’re talking about Thomas Hardy here! Let the big boys speak, and you be a good fellow and go make us all some tea to go with these delicious watercress sandwiches that Mustapha brought us. Off with you! Chop chop! Go! Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted by that silly little Overlord? Oh, yes . . . those are all good points, Wintermute. There’s also the division of the intellect (let’s call it potential) to the body (let’s call it kinetic), and the inevitable subjugation of the former to the latter, by necessity. Or something. Pass me the chutney there, will you?

Wintermute: Here you go, Karellen. These truly are some great watercress sandwiches, Mustapha! Bravo! So, anyway, Arabella is the worse of the two women, the way I see it, being the calculating, manipulative one, but one is hard pressed to hold her responsible for that, given that she is subject to the same (well, differently, actually, but all part of the same larger structure) social restrictions/necessities. Her friends give her the advice of getting preggers, and getting her man that way, but that’s just the reality of the farm girl. In the end, it’s not the women who spell the downfall of Jude, but the conflict between what he would be ideally and that of which he is capable. He could, of course, stay in his attic, learning Latin, but the girl flashes him a smile and all that is physical about him trumps his intellectual pursuits, and soon enough, he’s beat. He can’t help it, because he’s not this purely intellectual being, but instead one possessed of intellect in conflict with desire, folly and physical need. I say “folly,” of course, which has its origins in “fool,” but that is not right. It’s not to indicate that his fall into the arms of a farm girl (or any other, for that matter) is the result of his own failing, but rather the natural, human desire to not spend the rest of one’s life in alone an attic, studying Latin. And, also, by “physical necessity,” I don’t just mean “poon-tang” (is that actually hyphenated? I don’t know), but also the basic needs of a job, food, shelter, etc. Which is what Arabella was dealing with as well. She gots to get hers, namsain?

Karellen: “Poontang” is a little too Motor City Madman for my tastes, Wintermute. I prefer “pussy.” Otherwise, you’re spot on target.

O’Brien: Tea?

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Published in: on March 13, 2010 at 2:49 am  Leave a Comment  

The Gospel of Rock

Magnum Anvil: Little known fact, but Jesus Christ was documented as being a truly ace guitarist. Seriously! I looked it up! In the lost scripture known as the Extended-Adolescence Codex, Jesus chucks his day gig as a bazaar magician (“Hey, Paul, wanna watch me pull some loaves and fishes outta my hat?”) to hit the road with his band. They were called Nazareth, until they found out there was another band of that name, so they changed it to Nazareth UK. They were only so-so. Typical oasis band of the time. Decent shofar player, though, and Jesus really threw himself into it. Got a reputation as the hardest-working man in the biz. He’d play till his palms bled (his feet and side, too, which was weird). Graffiti started cropping out in the Roman outposts: “Jesus is God,” and the like. Chicks would swoon, and even the guys would brawl to touch the hem of his garment. There was a thriving trade in fake souvenirs–the platform sandals, the Shroud of Touring, etc–before he pulled a G.G. Allin and croaked it during a piece of performance art with a bunch of people looking on incredulously, wondering why he wouldn’t just shred and sing that “Do Unto Others” song that everybody liked so much. What a waste of talent, verily, verily. Yeah, Jesus really was the (Son of) Man, man.

Published in: on March 13, 2010 at 1:46 am  Leave a Comment  

Descent into Madness: Drunknard vs Everything (With Assists to Grand Marnier, Nicorette and Absinthe)

Drunknard: how come no one is ever online when i’m drunk and rambling here at night. i pine for the glory days, when upstate ether was a tussin-fueled 24-hour extravaganza of bile, hate and trailer park rocking trash. now this board is all bourgeois and boring… bunches of office monkeys arguing with themselves from nine to five daily. what about the night owls? what about the tussin drinkers, the lotus eaters, the winos and the wild children, the vapours, the fakers, the late night shakers and bakers, the makers of madness and mindfuck, the bad luck yuckapucks and the hucksters of sterling commentary and dromedaries heavy with crystal clear desert gold and the old tribes lies and wives who survive on highs? what about them, yo? why you office bitches control the gain now, huh? tonights meltdown brough to you by nicorette, grand marnier, and pure, real absinthe. accept no substitutes, motherfuckers. its worth the investment and the illegality and the heart palpitations and ministrations, the stations of the cross, the boss, the floss in the brain despite the pain, the limnal hymnal, the baptist bad trick, the equipoise and the altar boys, the trial balloons and cocaine spoons, the peridot and astronaut, its all there, prego, blended with a smooth italian sauce, of course, your loss if you don’t play the game at 11 P aMe, tired and sleepy like mister creepy cubicle monkey, whats a junkie to do, foo, you honkey motherfunky clerical donkeys?

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: whassup, give it up for the brother who thought about the mother of that poster girl, her world cut short for the sport of hipsters and their sisters, all them dead sluts with cuts round their necks, ‘cept their sex is all wrong, they’s boys singing songs ’bout the mouths of willing slaves who save their souls and lend their holes to violation, thats their station, see, the mystery is why the guys let other eyes capture the fantasy for free and reap the benefit of that foul shit on concert walls and downtown halls, for some sick band did some poor whore give up her life, not once, not twice, but countless times as fools with rhymes reload the screen the view the scene of cables wrapped around the necks of little girls who sold their sex for crack and lies and alibis, the girlie dies, the girlie dies, and hipster guys and their hip maids debate the posters that they made, i say, i sayed, or said, i said, that little jezebel is dead, and in her breathless death emotes, a concert she herself promotes, by dudes with issues of their own, she cant pick up the telephone while i sit here, i’m all alone, in some electric message zone, but fuck it, fuck it, thats the key, fuck her, fuck them, fuck you, fuck me, fuck all this shit, fuck italy, and africa, fuck zuider zee, fuck abraham, and sam i am, fuck truth, fuck lies, fuck candied yams, fuck all of this and all that too, i need a drink, fuck me, fuck you.

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: maybe champagne would ease the pain of a rainy day that in no way made the way that we pass the day escape in quick time like escapes, get laid, some splayed broad satisfying the faded impulses betrayed by age and rage, this stage in the night is alright, why fight the plight of the poor fools using tools of inebriation and levitation, flying high, like my own wry guy, i dont know why, while flying high i try to be an upstate ether guy, no reply from the office wise, replies and sighs, let the signal fall and rise, as pictures of thighs and brides scroll by, by and by, my and my, why try i, buy me my, my my and i, i get by in the sty that i make as i bake like a blind eye letting in the light, but the sight that i fight in the night is alright, yet the plight of the right guys and wrong eyes and lost guys and found prizes blight all i see when i pee in the sea that i sail chasing tail and i turn and i stand on my own like some bone-addled coot in a suit at a desk while my chest it is filled with despair where my hair in the air should be waving like flags like the freaks fly from peaks as the weeks scroll along and the song the impales my old scales in the vales like a spear, like a year in the valley of fear, where the lord in his ford, in accord with the tales that we tell, we’re in hell, just as well, just as well, since the smell of the land of the lord, get onboard is as bad as the lad that had had himself gored by the facts and the acts that come free, with a tax, that the state sets and rates on the plates of the poor, in the war of the rich and the sons of that bitch that we call liberty, but we pine to be free, get in line, pass the time with the liberal crew, who support and report all the things that you do, i am drunk, but no punk, got no green day on tap, as i rap and attack all the spurious crap that we eat just like meat in the most holy seat where our god says we’re odd and then give up its seat to the clown dressed in brown, that’s the devil we know, it’s his show, let it go, feast on raven and crow, since the veal makes us squeal that its suffering is real, while the foul and the owl feel like nothing we feel, since they fly, since we’re wry, like the carnival crowd that’s allowed, and is proud, to be ugly and loud, in the suits that they choose as the festival comes, and we turn and we burn and we’re nothing but dumb animals in the thralls of the festival vibe, where we try and decide that the lives that we’ve tried are remiss, if we piss out the bourbon and gin, then again, we can’t win, we’re here lonely and then, we submit and we quit like the monkeys that work, in a box, with a fax, in a cubicle world, where we hurled out the bile in a style that is grand, let it come, let it come, let it fall on the land that we make, no mistake, take the rake, how it down, to the town where we found that our kids are all fucked, theres no luck for the suckiest schools that our kids sit in all day, we pray that the anomie rids them of goals for their souls and the holes that they fill, put the pegs on your legs, stomp on circles that beg squares to come, like the sum of the total eclipse, as he slips, and he trips on the carnival ships, filled with germs and with worms that the stewards have brought, god, i’m hot, quote a lot, that’s the answer to what’s on your mind as you find that your energy fails and you stare at the sun and you (blind) trim the sails.

{BIG INHALE!}

Drunknard: upstate ethernards? you fucking bastard desk jockeys, you piss poor excuses for free thinkers, locked in your jobs, using this site for daytime amusing, rather than nigh-time abusement? wake up! cast off your yokes! talk to me, wasted wonders of yore! take me from lonely shore! fight the good fight in the war! that’s what this board, yo, is fucking here for! and now, i’m going to bed. i hope i dont throw up and drown in my own puke. that just old, yo. although it would still make headlines, i know.

James Joyce: Oh, come on now, you blithering idiot. That doesn’t make any sense at all. Stop that, right now! Bad, bad Drunknard! Bad!