From an exhibit at the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum in Cooperstown, New York.
http://www.baseballhalloffame.org
http://www.cooperstownchamber.org
http://www.baseballhalloffame.org
http://www.cooperstownchamber.org
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
I Pledge...
I was never a bright kid; at best, I was average. What you would call a child who once stole one miserable walnut from a supermarket display ("What's that bulge in your pants, Danny?"), but who thought he'd get away with it? A kid who looked twice before crossing the street but who still got run over by a car? What about that time, when on vacation in Cancun, Mexico, after jumping into the deep end of the pool—despite not knowing how to swim—I nearly drowned (many thanks to the burly American for saving my life)? "But these things happen to the best of us, Danny," I hear you saying. "After all," you continue, "you were a kid." I couldn't have known better, right? The point is that life, which is, ostensibly, a collection of experiences, need not—should not—be filled with such failures. In other words, I should have known better, I should have known that telethons weren't created to entertain people (*wink*); they were created so that good deeds could be performed, so that people could dress up and have somewhere to go. The problem I had as a kid—and, frankly, still have—is that I have some trouble relating to what people really need. I have trouble, and I don't think this has ever been clearer to me, understanding the messages and signals that are sent my way, as though my brain is inherently incapable of understanding the 4 billion+ people with whom I share this planet. (I exaggerate, of course, but you get the idea.)
A good example of this little quirk of mine is when, many, many years ago, I was watching one of the "Jerry's Kids" telethons, which, if I remember correctly, went on for what seemed like weeks, and its host, Jerry Lewis, in a fancy tuxedo, implored viewers to donate money with which to help children with some incurable disease. The program was something of a mish-mash of celebrities and musicians coming together for a good cause and a common purpose: helping the less fortunate. At various points throughout the show, cameras would pan over to volunteers working the phones, taking money from folks all over the country. My favorite part of the whole thing, the whole feeling of the program, was when Lewis would walk to the counter with bright, LED lights and say, "We've now raised $250,000 dollars!" Then the band would play, the studio audience would offer polite claps, and the motivation to participate would swell in me even more.
I wanted to help, to participate, and knew I had to do something. I picked up the phone and dialed the 1-800 number, after which I heard the volunteer's voice on the other end of the line: "Jerry's Kids! What's your pledge?" This was the moment that I had been waiting for all afternoon; the opportunity for me to give the only pledge I knew would not be denied: "I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America..." Before I could finish my pledge, the volunteer hung up the phone, and I was left terribly confused. How else could I have helped? What else could I have done? Had I failed so miserably as to not deserve a response? I still ask myself these questions, and I still frame my life, to some extent at least, in terms which only allow for victory and for loss—a particular view of my relations to others that leaves for much confusion and distress.
There will be one day, though, one far-off day, when I'll pick up a phone and the person on the other line will say, with all sincerity, Hello. It's good to hear from you.
*
And now, in no particular order, the Best Albums and Related Stuff of 2008:
Stereolab - Chemical Chords - [4AD]
Fleet Foxes - Fleet Foxes - [Sub Pop]
The Night Marchers - See You in Magic - [Vagrant]
Hot Chip - Made in the Dark - [Astralwerks]
Portishead - Third - [Mercury]
The Black Keys - Attack & Release - [Nonesuch]
Spiritualized - Songs in A & E - [Fontana]
Bonnie "Prince" Billy - Lie Down in the Light - [Drag City]
TV on the Radio - Dear Science - [DGC/Interscope]
Hercules and Love Affair - Hercules and Love Affair - [Mute]
Best Song: "On the Water," by the Walkmen
Best Song by a Band Called "The Black Kids" That is Not Comprised Entirely of Black Kids: "I've Underestimated My Charm (Again)"
Best Single: "Blind," by Hercules and Love AffairBest Compilation: Randy's 50th Anniversary - [VP Records]
Best Album Not Released in 2008: Damaged, by Black Flag
*
I'm here with you all, truly.
[D | R]
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Monday, December 08, 2008
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Rattle
The new issue of Rattle includes my poem "Everything & Nothing (TM)." Not, mind you, in the tribute to Cowboy & Western poets,(in that section, however, there's a poem by Red Shuttleworth, who I knew back in Vegas--he was part of the UNLV playwriting program, and let me tell you, he could have walked full-blown out of one of Sam Shepard's plays).
As always, there's a glitch: an R has been dropped from my name on the back cover, turning me into "Gegory." I swear, I've had more misprints in the last few years than a drunken compositor. Oh well.
{gc}
As always, there's a glitch: an R has been dropped from my name on the back cover, turning me into "Gegory." I swear, I've had more misprints in the last few years than a drunken compositor. Oh well.
{gc}
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Arrrgh!
Check out Ryan Stechler's Pirate's Christmas Carol, newly added to Elaine Equi's Holiday Album on Jacket.
It must be December--they're playing some really crappy Xmas song right now that samples the Beatles' "Got to Get You Into My Life." Heavy sigh.
{gc}
It must be December--they're playing some really crappy Xmas song right now that samples the Beatles' "Got to Get You Into My Life." Heavy sigh.
{gc}
Monday, November 17, 2008
my day
The lines on the highway, the horizon,
both sides of a debate. The flash of yellow in
rear view. Deer's guts splayed on the white.
Please discard your personal life here.
Teddy bear wears a Yankees T-shirt,
his feet are up the air. The trees are
bottom heavy. It is hard to be
creative on demand.
My food network is gone, fuzzy.
The cat is snoring. Where's my
bloody mary? There's nothing
quite like a woman in love.
—this poem is forthcoming on my personal blog
both sides of a debate. The flash of yellow in
rear view. Deer's guts splayed on the white.
Please discard your personal life here.
Teddy bear wears a Yankees T-shirt,
his feet are up the air. The trees are
bottom heavy. It is hard to be
creative on demand.
My food network is gone, fuzzy.
The cat is snoring. Where's my
bloody mary? There's nothing
quite like a woman in love.
—this poem is forthcoming on my personal blog
More News
Two of my poems, "Sea-Change" and "Ghazal (Not Guzzle)," are now online in the Fall 2008 Issue of BigCityLit. Huzzah.
I think I'm also reading at BigCityLit's release reading at Cornelia Street a week from tomorrow night...
{gc}
I think I'm also reading at BigCityLit's release reading at Cornelia Street a week from tomorrow night...
{gc}
If Only
I received an encouraging but firm rejection, via electronic mail, from the Kenyon Review.
Minutes later, I received an acceptance, also via electronic mail, from Copper Nickel.
If only all good news arrived, like winged Mercury, on the heels of bad.
{gc}
Minutes later, I received an acceptance, also via electronic mail, from Copper Nickel.
If only all good news arrived, like winged Mercury, on the heels of bad.
{gc}
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Awkward Restraint
My review of Heart Burns, the debut solo album of Against Me frontman Tom Gabel:
"Random Hearts" is an apt name for a random song—and album for that matter—that doesn't know what it wants to be. Heart Burns feels stuck awkwardly between a punk past and an uncertain future. Stripped of the backing of a rollicking punk band, the lyrics seem flat and immature, and frankly provoked some cringing by yours truly on my morning commute, as if a young white teenager were waxing poetic about the headlines of a newspaper he cannot afford to read because he is struggling to pay rent to his slumlord. Too obvious.
Gabel's strengths just didn't shine in this solo format. I wanted to have fun while cursing the establishment, but was too distracted. The lyrics just don't hold up, the contrast of his signature raspy voice is not enough to achieve the beautiful balance like in Against Me's "New Wave." Many of the lines sound like Gabel trying to give himself advice and convince himself of his political views—his old self, perhaps, as he is struggling on a "Conceptual Path" to form a new identity. He is utterly conflicted and alone, and not in a good way. (Perhaps he should study Elliot Smith.) It felt unsteady, unsure and a bit forced, like a summer fling, an indulgent experiment gone awry. It signals death, a death of punk perhaps, that Gabel should go on fighting against, not surrendering to.
However, I am still eager to hear him play live, along with his openers, at the Knitting Factory on my birthday, a week from today. I think without the barrier of the studio, his rawness will be more genuine, smile-inducing, and dare I say it, romantic (though I don't know if Gabel knows if he wants it to be). Either way, it will be a good night. I am sure.
There is one saving grace, one gem, on this quick, 7-song album. The track that works is called Harsh Realms. It is pure and simple and true (and also would sound better with a rocking punk band backing it:).
This is not punk. But punk is Gabel's heart. And oh, how his heart burns.
Speaking of frontmen and randomness, doesn't Danny looks scarily similar to the pregnant man? ;)
"Random Hearts" is an apt name for a random song—and album for that matter—that doesn't know what it wants to be. Heart Burns feels stuck awkwardly between a punk past and an uncertain future. Stripped of the backing of a rollicking punk band, the lyrics seem flat and immature, and frankly provoked some cringing by yours truly on my morning commute, as if a young white teenager were waxing poetic about the headlines of a newspaper he cannot afford to read because he is struggling to pay rent to his slumlord. Too obvious.
Gabel's strengths just didn't shine in this solo format. I wanted to have fun while cursing the establishment, but was too distracted. The lyrics just don't hold up, the contrast of his signature raspy voice is not enough to achieve the beautiful balance like in Against Me's "New Wave." Many of the lines sound like Gabel trying to give himself advice and convince himself of his political views—his old self, perhaps, as he is struggling on a "Conceptual Path" to form a new identity. He is utterly conflicted and alone, and not in a good way. (Perhaps he should study Elliot Smith.) It felt unsteady, unsure and a bit forced, like a summer fling, an indulgent experiment gone awry. It signals death, a death of punk perhaps, that Gabel should go on fighting against, not surrendering to.
However, I am still eager to hear him play live, along with his openers, at the Knitting Factory on my birthday, a week from today. I think without the barrier of the studio, his rawness will be more genuine, smile-inducing, and dare I say it, romantic (though I don't know if Gabel knows if he wants it to be). Either way, it will be a good night. I am sure.
There is one saving grace, one gem, on this quick, 7-song album. The track that works is called Harsh Realms. It is pure and simple and true (and also would sound better with a rocking punk band backing it:).
This is not punk. But punk is Gabel's heart. And oh, how his heart burns.
Speaking of frontmen and randomness, doesn't Danny looks scarily similar to the pregnant man? ;)
You See This Doorknob, Barack?
Barack, let me show you something important. This Oval Office doorknob sticks, and it can lock when you don't want it to. When that happens, you have to walk all the way around to the tourist entrance and stand in line. Mighty embarassing! I usually put a book there to prop it open. They'll bring you a thing called the Daily Brief, and that works good. Now, I don't know if they told you, but the house comes unfurnished. Not a stick of furniture. You can go to Ikea and buy your own stuff, like we did when the Clintons left, but you gotta put that together. We got some nice stuff here, and I'm sure we can agree on a fair price to just leave it for you guys. Here, let me show you the candy machine... --posted by Robert Basler, Reuters Oddly Enough blog, Nov. 10, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The American Photographer
A few years ago, while visiting the Art Institute of Chicago, I came across a self-portrait of an artist whose exposed chest was carved with the word, PERVERT--fresh and reddened; a leather S/M mask obscured her mouth, nose, and ears; delicately placed needles ran up and down her arms, directing the viewer to consider multiple sources of physical anguish; and she sat, with fingers interlocked, in front of an elegant, patterned sheet, which appeared to belie the artist's true intent (is this photograph about "perverse" sexual inclinations no matter the gender, or does the image aim to address the issue of violence against women? All or none of the above, perhaps?). I had forgotten the name of the artist by the time I left Chicago, but was never able to shake off the image, so graphic and shocking, yet also quite refined and careful.
Earlier this month I picked up a European magazine--the name of which I cannot bother to recall right now--dedicated to the arts, in which I read about artist-photographer, Catherine Opie, whose mid-career retrospective is now on view at the Guggenheim. The article on Opie featured a photograph of her son, Oliver, wearing a pink tutu and crown; a USC t-shirt rounded out this most unusual of outfits for a young boy. I appreciated how the soft light accented a part of Oliver's face, and how two other subjects, in soft focus, carried on with their own lives, domestic and seemingly inconsequential, in the background. The article also referenced Opie's self-portrait; I was immediately taken back to the halls of the Art Institute, to the wonder and awe I felt towards an artist whose bold moves towards the personal and private made me reconsider the idea of the body as change.
Opie's show at the Guggenheim is wide-ranging, naturally; such is the nature of mid-career retrospectives. The problem with such views into the recent past, though, is that it can be difficult to trace something of a narrative; dozens of photographs arranged within multiple levels of a museum do not necessarily tell a story. Thankfully, the success of American Photographer owes as much to the show's curator(s) as it does to Opie, as both museum and artist selected works that offer far more than what is safe and expected, far more than what would please the average museum-goer. In other words, this show is something of a challenge, a direct call to the viewer to think about underrepresented--not to mention misrepresented--subjects and ideas. In this respect, Opie's portraits of icons within the S/M and queer communities work toward a disruption against a definition of supposedly "alternative" modes of living; in Opie's photographs, love and desire occupy the same space once reserved for comparatively conservative, hetero-focused art (see Reubens, etc.).
As much as I found the portraits of her friends and the large-scale Polaroids of performance artist Ron Athey worthy and shocking in their own right (how else to describe a picture of a heavily-tattooed man with a string of pearls coming out of his asshole?), I was most moved by the subtle simplicity of shots depicting Minnesota landscapes and surfers in California. These later images speak of isolation as delirium, as the viewer is lost, in one moment, in a scene obliterated by wind and snow, only to be subsumed, in another moment, in the deep expanse of the Pacific Ocean. I caught myself smiling and nodding my head as I walked past these particular photographs, and thought, Yes, of course!
Catherine Opie: American Photographer runs through January 7, 2009
[D | R]
Earlier this month I picked up a European magazine--the name of which I cannot bother to recall right now--dedicated to the arts, in which I read about artist-photographer, Catherine Opie, whose mid-career retrospective is now on view at the Guggenheim. The article on Opie featured a photograph of her son, Oliver, wearing a pink tutu and crown; a USC t-shirt rounded out this most unusual of outfits for a young boy. I appreciated how the soft light accented a part of Oliver's face, and how two other subjects, in soft focus, carried on with their own lives, domestic and seemingly inconsequential, in the background. The article also referenced Opie's self-portrait; I was immediately taken back to the halls of the Art Institute, to the wonder and awe I felt towards an artist whose bold moves towards the personal and private made me reconsider the idea of the body as change.
Opie's show at the Guggenheim is wide-ranging, naturally; such is the nature of mid-career retrospectives. The problem with such views into the recent past, though, is that it can be difficult to trace something of a narrative; dozens of photographs arranged within multiple levels of a museum do not necessarily tell a story. Thankfully, the success of American Photographer owes as much to the show's curator(s) as it does to Opie, as both museum and artist selected works that offer far more than what is safe and expected, far more than what would please the average museum-goer. In other words, this show is something of a challenge, a direct call to the viewer to think about underrepresented--not to mention misrepresented--subjects and ideas. In this respect, Opie's portraits of icons within the S/M and queer communities work toward a disruption against a definition of supposedly "alternative" modes of living; in Opie's photographs, love and desire occupy the same space once reserved for comparatively conservative, hetero-focused art (see Reubens, etc.).
As much as I found the portraits of her friends and the large-scale Polaroids of performance artist Ron Athey worthy and shocking in their own right (how else to describe a picture of a heavily-tattooed man with a string of pearls coming out of his asshole?), I was most moved by the subtle simplicity of shots depicting Minnesota landscapes and surfers in California. These later images speak of isolation as delirium, as the viewer is lost, in one moment, in a scene obliterated by wind and snow, only to be subsumed, in another moment, in the deep expanse of the Pacific Ocean. I caught myself smiling and nodding my head as I walked past these particular photographs, and thought, Yes, of course!
Catherine Opie: American Photographer runs through January 7, 2009
[D | R]
Sunday, November 09, 2008
The One Three Eight (Beta)
The Autumn 2008 issue of The One Three Eight is live... it's not completely done. The Editors' Journal needs some new content (I'm working on that, as I sure my co-editor is...hint, hint). It's our unintentional all-women issue (which could only be unintentional, because the idea of doing a ghettoized "women poets" issue is frankly offensive).
In other news, I had a really, really nice weekend. Tomorrow, I have my observation. Ah, Monday.
{gc}
In other news, I had a really, really nice weekend. Tomorrow, I have my observation. Ah, Monday.
{gc}
Friday, November 07, 2008
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