xtcian

give gosh your glory glory

1/26/12

As a little piece of personal interest, here is today's a-propos-of-nothing question...

What time do you set your alarm for, in the morning?

And what time are you actually going to sleep at night?

elogium interruptus

1/25/12

Ten Sentences That Are Never Finished:

1. "Why I oughta-"
2. "For the love of-"
3. "C'mere, you little-"
4. "I have half a mind to-"
5. "If you do that ONE MORE TIME-"
6. "And now, pictures from our trip to-"
7. "You probably shouldn't grab its tail like th-"
8. "Oh god, I think I'm com-"
9. "Look, y'all, I've done this a hundred times befo-"
10. "The one think I really like about Dook University is..."

THANK YOU. Thank you VERY MUCH

'twas a dark ünd stormy nicht

1/23/11

Okay, I'm queuing up things to read after I finish the Hunger Games trilogy. Recommendations, o wise crowdsourced interweb of friends?

swansworth st. billingtits hoggfarthing-picklesdale

1/22/12

Looks like Tessa's article on HuffPo brought out some of the crazies, some of the crazies-masquerading-as-rational, and even the rational types who are somehow made crazy by this topic. My wife may disown my take on her thesis, but to me it's simple: if you live in a world where you are expected to take your husband's last name, you live in a sexist world.

Moreover, a world that naturally assumes that any children you have will automatically bear the father's last name... well, that's sexist too. Even if the mother fought the power and still goes by her maiden name. Those facts are simple, but the real question is this: does this particular sexism actually bother you?

To put it another way: you are allowed to determine if something pisses you off or not. You are also allowed to ignore certain slightly-imperfect aspects of our society. You are also allowed to change your last name if you want to, or if you don't care one way or the other. What you cannot ignore is this - a culture than constantly discards the mother's name is teaching your kids something about gender equality.

Often, mothers don't just lose one name, they lose two - their maiden name, and then their original middle name (when it's supplanted by the maiden name). Guys, put yourself in that position. Imagine getting married and contemplate taking your wife's name, and losing your middle name for good. My guess is that 99.999% of you contemplate it with an odd feeling of sickness, as though the mere suggestion were disturbingly unnatural.

Of course, the comments on Tessa's article were best when unintentionally funny, like this one:

"Like just about everything else these days this is yet another thing to tamper with. Sometimes it is nice to stick with the way its always been done if only for that reason alone. Not everything has to be changed all the time."

Yes indeed. Like slavery, stoning, and thalidomide.

Another one, carefully throwing baby out with bathwater:

"I can't believe the first thing the author and many other 'hyphenating' women feel is that taking your husband's name is patriarchal and sexist. Anything and everything is offensive if that is how you choose to view it."

Well, actually, no. Just the thing the article is about. The one you were responding to at.

And here's yet another genera, the "voice of authority" looming oe'r us all:

"The custom of children receiving the father's last name is a question of paternity. The mother is incapable of denying her role since she carries the child in her womb for nine months but the father may not even realize he has a child... If he gives his name to the child it means he has accepted his responsibilities as a father... A couple could just as easily take the wife's last name but that requires you come up with a rationale as to why that option is better than the standard approach."

First of all, in the age of DNA, paternity is no longer in question, nor is "giving" your name to a child. Secondly, Tessa's article is not asking anybody to take the wife's last name, she was discussing why we hyphenated Lucy's.

Ian Richard Williams, Lucy Kent Blake-Williams and Tessa Ellen Valentine Blake enjoy Catalina Island, summer 2011

Maybe I'm in the minority, but I had no problem discarding the notion that I needed Tessa to bear my name, or that Lucy had to use it exclusively. I honestly could not care less. Then again, I always chafed at the "ownership" tradition of marriage, such as the use of highly-visible wedding rings and codified childrearing roles within the relationship. It seemed like a relic from the 12th century.

Does that make me Johnny McEqualPants, an emasculated sparrow boy, snorting in asthmatic disdain at the barbarians who forced their wives to kowtow to their will? Or is it just luck that I happened not to give a shit? I don't know, but I'm pretty sure about this: whether or not you care, whether or not you kept your name or didn't, if kids take the man's name 95% of the time, that says something.

You may have a sentimental fondness for everyone in your family having the same name. You may simply like the tradition. You can even think it's a little unfair and be okay with it in this instance. But if the husbands were to honestly tell you how they'd feel about taking your name as the "JUST MARRIED" car drives away, that painful unease has a definition: sexism.

programmed by fellows with compassion and vision

1/19/12

I am a self-admitted homer; I think my friends and family are awesome, and try to trumpet their achievements as loudly as possible. Do I do this in order to bathe in some kind of reflected glory? Yes. Does that mean I'm an insecure twat whose momma didn't pay enough attention to him? Yes. Yes, it does.

Still, you can't deny the following amazing bits of culture:

1. Gideon Productions' off-Broadway play ADVANCE MAN.

My brother Sean, my sister-in-law Jordana and longtime inner-circle-sage playwright Mac Rogers have a psychological sci-fi thriller running at The Secret Theater right now, and it's going gangbusters. Here's what NYTheater had to say:
"Jordana Williams' direction is nothing short of fantastic."
"Sean Williams is brilliant-"
"After seeing the first marvelous show in Mac Rogers' Honeycomb Trilogy, I am eagerly awaiting the next two in the series..."

And here's Broadway World: "I don't want to give away too much of the excellently rendered plot, but the play is fascinating, suspenseful, and gripping..."

Culture Capitol: "...a perfect entertainment to ring in 2012."

It's Backstage magazine's Critic's Pick, Flavorpill's editor's pick, and this reviewer on Vimeo spends his whole video on it.

New Yorkers or people soon to be in New York - it runs until January 29. Buy tickets here.

2. THE OBAMAS by Jodi Kantor.

Our old friend Jodi covered Obama for the New York Times during his 2008 campaign, and then pulled off a rarity - got a great book deal on a complicated subject that is actually making the publisher money. It couldn't happen to a nicer person (along with her husband Ron and her daughter, who helped make Lucy's dinosaur pictures for the Jartacular!)

Yes, there's controversy. It won't please everybody. Jodi may not get a holiday card from Michelle Obama. But it's a massive achievement.

3. People You May Know by Greg Humphreys.

My old roomie, who many of you know, love, and have danced to, has a new album out, and it is STRONG. The first few tracks show a Tin Pan Alley jazz side we haven't seen from the Home Phries before, and the rest is vintage Greg. His voice is aging the opposite of normal - heading into a new clarity, gettin' better every song.

Get it here or here.

4. Strangers - hosted by Lea Thau on KCRW.

The former curator of the decades-excellent spoken word series The Moth has a new show on KCRW, and if Lea's doing it, it's going to be riveting. It's about "the strangers we meet, the strangers we become, and the 'strangeness' we might overcome" and you need to add it to your podcasts.

5. Duke Sucks: A Completely Evenhanded, Unbiased Investigation into the Most Evil Team on Planet Earth" by Reed Tucker and Andy Bagwell.

Sure, Will Blythe wrote a beautiful tome about the Carolina-Dook rivalry that remains on display wherever I happen to live, but a true down-and-dirty detailed analysis about exactly why Klown Kollege of Durham is so loathsome? It's one of those ideas you can't believe didn't exist already.

either Andy dunks it, or I block him, dependin' on who's tellin' the story, 1991

Reed and Andy - purveyors of the spot-on Tar Heel Bred, Tar Heel Dead podcast - break it down for you fellas, and it's just oh-so-satisfying. Oh yeah, and some dude you know might have written the foreword. Buy it here so you can get it when it drops next week.

6. Will Hyphenated Last Names Ever Be Cool? by Tessa Ellen Valentine Blake.

Yes, the wife is back on the Huffington Post and got the cover story again!

The subject therein is worthy of a whole other blog, so I'll leave it for now, but if you like her style - AND YOU SHOULD, SPORTS FANS - please click the red button with a heart logo that says "FAN" next to her name, won't you?

suffice to say I already have a heart logo for her

and we are the dreamers of dreams

1/18/12

Okay, this is the kind of thing that drives me quailshit bonkers. A very nice-seeming girl put together an excellent video comprised of one second from each day in 2011. Called "This is What Madeline Did", it's a great look into the life of a current twentysomething makin' it work in LA:

2011 from hey_rabbit on Vimeo.

It was picked up by Gizmodo, and what happens? Inevitably, the first comment is some moaning dick who ensnarks his response with smug disdain: "Must be nice to have no obligations. My video would be shots from work and home for over 300 of those 365 seconds."

Arguing about anonymous comments on the internet is like complaining about the food in jail, but statements like this absolutely enrage me. I feel like I've spent my life having to defend myself against self-made bootstrap-pullers who take the moral high ground because people like me don't have "real jobs".

First off, this girl does work as a post-production assistant (hence the constant traffic shots) and a TV logger, which I only know because she felt like she had to deflect the job question on the original Vimeo page. She was nice about it, (even saying "now I should get back to work" to keep up appearances) but I won't be.

*AHEM* Dear everybody whose first reaction to this video is wondering why she doesn't appear to be gainfully employed: LICK BAT NUTS. Hating your job doesn't qualify you for sainthood, doesn't lend authenticity to your social critique, and in fact, calls your choice-making into question. If you are lucky enough to be making comments on the internet, you probably had a myriad of options, and if you picked poorly, you've only yourself to blame.

You can have a suck-ass day job and still have a big enough life to create a video like this one - you just need a little energy and imagination. For that matter, artists need to exist in this world as well, and they work furiously hard at their craft, even if they don't moisten a miserable work chair at 9am like you do.

And furthermore, WHY DO YOU CARE? Even if the video was made by a flibbertigibbet will-'o-the-wisp who never worked an honest day in her life, the video was still inspiring. Why does everyone spend half their time battling for status over everyone else?

Fix your life, know your limitations, or slouch towards Bethlehem; choose one. The rest is either sour grapes or gravy.

keep profanity alive

1/17/12

I know many of you - myself included - look at "online protests" and immediately think "oh fuck off, I'm at work, my lumbar region is whack, I just want something to take my mind off my gruel, so shove your high-minded principles up your ass and GET BACK TO ENTERTAINING ME!!!"

Being a guttersniping old sop who was a kid in the 1970s, I totally get it, but today's blog will be purposely not written to protest the sickening legislation that is SOPA and PIPA. Wikipedia, Reddit, and many other sites are going black today for the same reason. Read this or this for more information if you don't get what the fuss is about.

Seriously, having Congress in charge of what we can and can't do on the internet is like letting a passel of opossums do your estate planning. Contact your congressperson!

why pamper life's complexity

1/16/11

Alas, you must forgive me, my dear friends - it is taking me longer than usual to ramp up output of product here at xtcian.com... I had the flu and strep, of course, but followed it up with the stomach flu, and just when I was beginning to hold some food down, I sat through the UNC-Florida State game.

More than all that - and "all that" was pretty fucking bad, lemme tellya - I have been haunted by a script that was due several months ago. For some reason, it threw a spanner in my emotional works, and I just could not finish the last 15 pages.

I knew what needed to happen, I knew exactly what all the characters had to do, I knew what they would say, and the outline was right in front of me - this ain't rocket science. And still, wave after sandy wave of life spat forth, then retreated, and still, I walked around burdened like the Ancient Mariner. Kids had birthdays, the year changed, and still I slumbered under a cloud of sleet.

Then on Friday I just sat down for seven hours and finished it. Wasn't even that hard. WHAT the FUCK.

The sun shone forth, rainbows of colors appeared again, and two more stories popped into my brain, like the buds of peonies released by pruning back the overgrowth. Perhaps the gastrointestinal stuff and the writing were related. Sometimes your spirit is held captive by the flesh. As Morrissey summed up-

Does the body rule the mind
Or does the mind rule the body?
I dunno

England is mine, and it owes me a living

mum's the word

1/11/12

Eighty years ago, my mom was born in Boise, Idaho to a Mormon mother and a father who alternated between being a salesman, a butcher, and a purveyor of fancy chocolates. They quickly relocated to the area around Monterey Park and East LA, which was then a bunch of dusty farm roads, wild horses, orchards and the occasional sad oil well.

Her mother, my grandmother Klea, was not a natural at doling out affection and warm fuzzies - and since it was the beginning of the Great Depression, the times suited her peculiar sort of pioneer stoicism. She softened, to be sure, with the commensurate grace afforded to all elders who no longer have a chimney they need to hold up, but in her time, she was granite.

One time my grandmother had gotten a bolt of really nice fabric, meant for curtains or something, and made dresses for all three of her girls. She washed them and hung them over the woodstove to dry, and the line caught fire, burning them all to embers. My mom said it was the only time she ever saw her mother cry.

That kind of steely demeanor was great for survival, but it came at a price for my mother, as well as her siblings. There is a need in everybody who descends from Klea - a longing to be heard, a desire to be swooped up and rescued, a desperate need for everyone to hear our story and told that everything is going to be all right.

When I was a teenager, my mom told me of her first spiral into consummate depression. She was coming home from school, and walked into an empty house - her sisters had gone somewhere, and her mother had left, leaving no note. The totality of the empty house, the horrifying existential maw it opened up, utterly flattened her.

I told her I understood, and I did, as though I had some sense memory of it on a molecular level; I had been there by having come from her. Two years ago, I unwittingly recreated the scene for myself, and it has made me leery of the first few days of January ever since.

My mom honed her musical craft in secret, because back then, a woman had to sandbag, slalom and play a perfect hand if they were more talented than the men. She worked as a telephone operator - you know, the ones that used to wear the headsets and swap wires around a vertical board - and wrote music at night.

She got married at 25 to Bruce Riddle, a teacher/trombonist she was genuinely in love with, and they quickly had my brothers Kent and Steve. When she was 29, he fell asleep at the wheel while delivering woodwind reeds to another musician, and drove off a cliff. There she is, in 1960, with a two and three-year-old, and no husband. I have to think some part of Klea's igneous fortitude allowed her to keep going.

So my dad came along, two years later, and they began a tumultuous 23-year marriage with a string of miscarriages ending only in yours truly. My brother Sean and Michelle came pretty soon after that, and made a 7-member combined family that is loud, messy, and doing what every big family does: subconsciously building a semi-destructive culture that only we understand.

at our house in Cedar Rapids, IA

My mom was becoming the best-selling choral songwriter of her day (you probably sang one of her pieces in middle school choir) but if she hadn't been saddled with all of us - and a husband whose job precluded much of her wattage - she could have been independently wealthy.

My parents had one of the most protracted, ugly, soul-wringing divorces in North American history. I don't think either of them would deny it at this point. My mom said it was harder than losing her first husband, but that might have been the bizarre elasticity of youth. My dad has no interest in talking about it, and I feel the same way.

at the Trevi Fountain, 1981

bustin' the mid-80s with Steve

My dad remarried, but my mom has not, instead focusing (at first) on rewriting all the music textbooks in our schools - which she did - and then living with whatever child who inhabited the coolest town. Sean and I won that prize, of course, with Chapel Hill from 1993-97.

And now here she is, at 80, helping raise Sean's kids Barnaby and Marlena at their brownstone in Astoria. She can do it because she is still tremendously healthy, able to muster stairs with only slight kvetching, battling macular degeneration with the newest medicine, yet still able to see tiny musical notes on her Macbook Pro.

with Lucy, 2007

She and I share many traits, which has always made us good travel partners, and no doubt made many of our acquaintances (and my wife) roll their eyes in exhaustion. We both have a need to be completely understood, to leave no slight unexposed, to make sure everyone knows exactly how much we're suffering. We both respond to criticism with a knee-jerk "why don't you go fuck yourself" before softening up a half-hour later.

We've both been described as doleful pessimists, even though that's the polar opposite of the truth. We might have a negative crust, but I think both of us would absolutely stop living if we didn't always think something awesome was just about to happen.

And sometimes it does. When my mom turned 80 a few weeks ago, we all got on Google Hangout conference video to tell her she was "going somewhere" in February, and she was completely psyched. Then, on Christmas Day, we had all the kids lined up and they spelled out the letters to "HAWAII" as I projected a DVD on the screen, leading to yesterday's picture. Not only that, we said, but all 17 of us are taking her.

At the risk of repeating myself, I'm going to repeat myself: this is for you, mom, in all your squalor, in all your delight, in your messiness and charm and fucked-up rental cars and fabulous stories, your orange rolls and your wit, your heartbreaking talent and your sensualist thirst for the world. We love you and I love you.

here's to the silver sea

1/10/12

A bit of mise-en-scène photographic sleuthing for you lot today... can anyone (not in my family, or those who already knew) decipher what is going on in this picture?

(not shown: cheers from all others on couch, and a few more spread around the country)