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Daily Bloggerback
Best of Blogs Round-Up: February 16, 2006
EDITED BY PIERRE TRISTAM/Candide's Notebooks
Non-disclaimer: We're liberal to the core, but we include in this daily blog review the political, the social, the cultural and the undefinable from the left, the right, the in-between from all over the globe. And we're suckers for good writing regardless of ideology. Clicking the link will take you to the original post.
Featured Blog I: White Myth
Cocaine Stupidity
Edgar Winter  /February 11, 2006
Some people say that coke makes them feel like they are invincible. So far as I can tell, these people apparently get much better blow than I do. When I'm on the sauce, I hardly feel like I can conquer the world, although I often do feel like I am on top of it. If there is anything that coke really makes you do in reality, it is make decisions that are completely idiotic and nonsensical. Take last night, for example.
After a nice little dinner with a bunch of friends, we headed on over to a bar to continue our carousing, conversation, and of course, coke snorting. After a "re-call" to the guy (we quickly ran out of our original supply, and had to call back again to get more), sure as sin, I found myself in the bathroom stall, doing bumps out the back of a Parliament, and lines off the back of my hand. A typical night in Manhattan, it seemed, until I got back upstairs. 4 shots of Patron later, and I could barely see 3 feet in front of me. At some point, somehow, greater wisdom prevailed--I found my coat from under a large pile, and quickly exited the bar, intent on walking home despite the fact that I was a good 20 blocks away. At that point though, I really didn't care. I just needed to get out, and get home, and there wasn't a damn thing that could be done about it. Read the rest at Cocaine Corner...
Featured Blogger II: Segregating Silliness
Time for White History Month
RAHELIO /February 14, 2006
This will sound weird for me, but I am proposing a white history month. For years I've heard whites ask rhetorically "what would happen we started white student unions, or had white history month?" They usually follow up the question with the tag line "we'd be called racists." Well, no more. White people, you are free to be as white as you wanna be. Form clubs in schools, dedicate premium cable channels to strictly white entertainment, and develop sports leagues where you can really shine unhampered by minorities. And, most importantly, find a month on the calendar to start white history month. I must admit, it isn't my idea. I came from an article by Adam Mansbach in the Boston Globe: "If race is the elephant unseen in the middle of the room, then whiteness is the ethereal jockey straddling its back. We need White History Month because white people, just like our black brothers and sisters, need a time to contemplate the nature of our identities." [Adam Mansbach] The best possible outcome would be that white people would consider themselves racially, instead of seeing themselves as a standard being without race and everyone else as exotic. Maybe then, when telling stories, they can stop describing whites as "guys" or "chicks" and blacks as "these black guys" or "these black chicks." Another benefit is the reduction of the white sense of victimization. They feel left out. Everybody has something special, a Spanish channel, BET, etc. White people aren't so lucky. If it weren't for NBC, CBS, and ABC there would be no white people on TV. I'm all for White Entertainment Television. It would be great to partion things that are exclusively white into a designated space, that way the public airwaves could reflect the public and W.E.T. could reflect whites. But, the truest benefit to white history month is that for all the other months children could study American and World history instead of a long series of events that tell how whites are responsible for everything under the sun.Read the rest at American Hot Sausage...
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VANPOEM |
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As One Put Naked Into a Cigarette Boat
Continue chiding, since it's part of the new aesthetic,
and parcel to our coming home, as if
we'd disappeared into the burning bush
that calls to those who sit vacantly in parlors
awaiting a fate freighted with song and dance.
I stroll while staring and raging
with difficulty at the stubborn sky.
On my honor I step a little distance
from behind the curtain, only to disappear
the moment no birds sing, which occurs frequently.
Leaves dustier than furniture, the sound
of sleeping grating through the cosmos,
my footstool, my only talisman.
It's been real, arguing on your behalf.
Gray cobweb shadow, falling, floundering,
finding a place to not be shy and think
boldly about the oldness of beauty, a place
to rest its weary insubstantial head.
It may be that I stand on the threshold
of the checkout line, unsure of what
to be impulsive about, which momentous emptiness
to spontaneously identify my alienation with,
what kind of languor to slide into
before being reduced to grubbing for credentials,
locked in that tumid late-afternoon skin,
effervescing in its sea of dreams.
And all the things hearkening back to it,
the boat ride to breaker beach
there at the end of one world
where it paid to rage at the stammering waves
that kicked and screamed solely for my benefit,
staged objections to the inexorable fact of me.
Look: I've installed a turnstile in my kitchen,
so your picture-postcard of desolation has no power over me.
In this doggy-dog world land is made motionless
and the broads are standing on the wharves
with some of that sipping whisky on those silver trays,
which we'd be a bear to pass up. You speak
of the old gods who've washed up on shore,
but I don't see them, don't hear their hue and cry,
though their maze awaits us, will amaze us.
Here, let me get this little rock out of my damn shoe.
Then we can talk about paddling off to parts unknown. |
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—Van Foreman |
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