June 14th, 2007

KK Dunn 5

 So Katherine, you have an interesting relationship with a certain Classic of American Lit.  Care to share as to how you formed this opinion , one with which I tend to agree, btw...but I'm easy.

Kernow not England

Okay, I'll admit it — I really, really loathe tourists (a hatred honed by my years of working at Tourist Central, the Smithsonian's National Air & Space Museum, and then moving to Vacationland two decades ago).  Yet when I go to Cornwall, I am one. 

So I'm a hypocrite; so run me over with your Hummer.

But I love Cornwall, especially the West Penwith peninsula, which reminds me (surprise) of the part of Maine where I live; rugged and beautiful and ancient and yes, overrrun with tourists.  I was therefore intrigued by this short piece on the rising Cornish nationalist movement, and the (I hope not very serious) terrorist threat posed by Cornwall's disenfranchised natives.  My friend Amy Hale, a Celtic scholar who specializes in Cornish studies, had given me some backstory on this situation several years ago, but this is the first time I've read about it in a major newspaper.  Very similar situation (and sentiments) to this part of Maine, where normal people can't afford to live anymore and the fishing industry is having its legs cut out from under it by numerous forces beyond our control. 


For those who remember Straw Dogs, there's probably a thesis subject in there, comparing the Peckinpah film (set in Cornwall) with certain works by Stephen King.
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A Real Puzzler

Once a Chechen rebel and a footsoldier of the Russian Mafiya met by chance on the neutral ground of a warzone whorehouse. They began boasting and arguing as to who could go the longest during sex before climaxing. Naturally, the only way to settle this argument was with a physical test, employing two convenient women.

But modesty bids us avert our eyes at this point, while all the other patrons of the establishment are placing bets. And so we'll never know:

Who came first, the Chechen or the yegg?
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Forty years ago today....

In the past four decades, you've worn out three vinyl pressings, an eight-track, two cassettes, and even a CD of SGT. PEPPER'S. The songs have their own neuronal circuits in your brain.

Here's Aimee Mann's essay on the theme, which I'm taking the liberty of reprinting in its entirety, since it's locked away from non-subscriber's to THE NEW YORK TIMES.


By Aimee Mann

Published: June 3, 2007

MY big brother was always the one to bring new music into the house. Until I heard the Beatles playing on his stereo in the basement, my favorite music had been Glen Campbell singing ''Galveston'' or my father playing ''Won't You Come Home, Bill Bailey'' on the piano.

I was young enough to giggle when my brother changed the words of ''P.S. I Love You'' tosomething more puerile, and four years later, young enough to think that ''Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band'' was really a band, and not the name of a Beatles record. In those intervening years, a transformation had taken place, and both the sound and the look of the Beatles had completely changed. Also, I was a little slow on the uptake, and didn't notice the name ''Beatles'' spelled out in flowers on the cover.

Is it a testament to the quality, or purity, or beauty, or timelessness of that record (released 40 years ago this weekend) that it appealed so thoroughly to an 8-year-old, one who had virtually no contact with pop culture? I could not have been more out of tune with the zeitgeist -- it would be two more years before I discovered radio, and even then I would have only the vaguest notion of what was out there. I bought my first LP solely on the basis of the cover (one of the reasons today I try to take extra care with the packaging of my CDs). It was pure dumb luck that it turned out to be Elton John's ''Madman Across the Water,'' still one of my favorite albums of all time.

But the favorite is, and was, and must remain ''Sgt. Pepper's.'' I had a love affair like no other with that record. My brother had bought it, of course, and when I heard it, I braved his wrath and smuggled it out to my friend's house so I could play it over and over. You'd have had to know my brother back then to fully understand how daring that was.

In a way, that record seemed made for children: the fun false mustaches that came with the package, the bright shiny outfits, the cheery melodies, the jaunty horns. The band itself seemed almost irrelevant -- scruffy mustachioed men in costumes, lost in a sea of collaged faces. I ignored them.

My ignorance extended to the opening song, which I took at face value as a real live introduction of the singer Billy Shears, who, whoever he was, became my favorite, with his dopey baritone, in humble gratitude for his pals -- bless them, it all was so innocent, those marmalade skies and winking meter maids (whatever they were.) The darkest moments were with the runaway girl -- although a throwaway line in ''Getting Better'' (''I was cruel to my woman, I beat her'') gave me pause. He beat her? What the heck? But hey -- things were getting better all the time, so I shrugged and let it go.

And then things took a weird turn: a nightmare cacophony of strings, someone blowing his mind out in a car -- what was that? Did he get shot in the head? What were the holes in Albert Hall? Things had gotten creepy and dark, and it lost me. I started skipping that last song.

I can't listen to ''Sgt. Pepper's'' anymore. As a musician, I'm burnt out on it -- its influence has been so vast and profound. As a lyricist, I find that my ear has become more attuned to the likes of Fiona Apple and Elliot Smith, and though the words of ''Sgt. Pepper's'' are full of vivid images -- Rita's bag slung over her shoulder, Mr. Kite sailing through a hogshead of fire, the runaway girl with her handkerchief -- there's an emotional depth that's missing. I'm ashamed to say it, but sometimes John Lennon's melodies feel a bit underwritten, while Paul McCartney's relentless cheerfulness is depressing. The very jauntiness I used to love as a girl feels as if it's covering up a sadder subtext. And what's bleaker than a brave face?

The whole experience is uncomfortable, like realizing you can beat your own father at chess or arm-wrestling. I don't want to go back and find that the carcass has been picked clean. Because I know without a doubt that ''Sgt. Pepper's'' changed the course of my life. If the magic is gone, it's only because first loves can't be repeated. When I was 8, I'd never heard anything like it, and I can honestly say that if I live to be 100, I'll never hear anything like it again.

Correction: June 13, 2007, Wednesday An Op-Ed article on June 3, about the anniversary of ''Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band,'' misquoted the lyrics of a song on the album. The line from the song, ''Getting Better,'' is ''I used to be cruel to my woman,'' not ''I was cruel.''

Aimee Mann is a singer and songwriter.

Back to me: I ask, Why not switch to something almost as tasty in the same groove?

But what?

Try Oranger's THE QUIET VIBRATION LAND. I don't think you'll be disappointed.

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Etymological immortality

I coined the word "ribofunk" about twenty years ago.

A Google search this minute brings up 14,900 citations.

That's pretty humbling and prideful. Creating a brand-new word that enters even a specialized discourse. Wow!

But my accomplishment is minimal compared to that of Gary Larson.

DISCOVER magazine reports that scientists have officially adopted the word "thagomizer" to describe the spikes on the tail of a Stegosaurus, based on one of Larson's cartoons.

"Now, this end is called the thagomizer...after the late Thag Simmons."