The sound of music
Latha Venkatesh’s fingers, though frantic, were always careful. Venkatesh herself huddled over her musical instrument, the veena, as though listening closely to every sound coming out of it. As though the veena was continually on the verge of telling her something.
This was all at a carnatic instrumental concert which took place Sunday afternoon in the Union’s Little Theatre. Named “sur dhwani” (“the sound of music”) and sponsored by K-State’s Society for the Appreciation of Bhayativa Heritage and Arts, the concert featured Venkatesh as well as a mrindagam-player named Shiva.
Le Rouge et Le Noir
The singer was Breanna Stewart, a freshman in vocal performance. The song was “Superwoman.” The place was Bosco Plaza. The date was October 30. The weather was bad. The event was Be Bold Be Red, part of a national campaign to raise awareness of and oppose violence against women of colour.
Does anybody have any information on this show-stealing ginger, passing out flyers that were as bold and red as his coat? Feel free to use the comments to speculate boldly as to his identity.
The groups involved were Ordinary Women and Zeta Phi Beta, whose sorors were out in memory of Alheli Alcantara. Via Nobody’s Writing:
Alheli Alcantara’s body was found outside the Quality Inn on East Poyntz Ave. in Manhattan, Kansas Sunday. Her co-worker at Burger King, Deon Ross, has been charged in her kidnapping, rape, and murder.
Fine poetry IV
Look, whatever. I was waaay too drunk to remember anything from Auntie Mae’s Mighty Fine Poetry Night IV. What did you expect? Blogging <> homework. I did take some notes though. Let’s see what I’ve got here.
- Arrived late and was stuck alone at a table in the back where I couldn’t see anything. That’s what I get. Blake was just starting to read, so I skedaddled up front and took a photo.
- Chelsea Imers (?) read her “Humble Bumblebee” poem. It was “interrogative and inquisitive", I wrote.
- Then someone read a poem titled “To Whom It May Concern,” which was a letter announcing her resignation as an adult and affirming the happy simplicity of yesteryears. Best line: “I want love to be something felt with happiness, not sought after with distress.” Right? Nevertheless, Christ, what a downer. And what a great childhood! Though I can’t remember six years old being that much fun.
- Then Lauren Someone read “so you want to be a writer” by Charles Bukowski. I couldn’t tell whether this poem was facetious.
- Then, something called “Hell on Earth,” about war. Wtf is with people tonight? I arrived late expecting to catch the party in full swing. Instead, I’m hearing lines like “I’ve just been captured and am now a prisoner of war.”
- Then Adam read a poem about the conversations he has with people who, in casual conversation, find out he’s majoring in theatre. “I could use my training to act…like I gave a shit what you thought about my major.”
- Jimbo read a mosaic called “66506.” It had five parts. Jimbo lately looks like he drives a Harley. And that folksy twang he’s been affecting lately doesn’t help. OR DOES IT???
Anyway, here’s a picture of Blake and another one of Donna Potts, because why not. Enjoy your week!
The week we came into some free time
- We came to terms with our insomnia. Some of us had more trouble with this than others.
- We wondered how you found us.
- We resolved never to break our diet.
- We read the Collegian. At least twice.
No thanks to that preposterous bacon post, there were bunches of comments this week! Thank you, all! The comment of the week, however, goes to Tim Hadachek, after a post in which I voiced agreement with and support for his point of view:
- “ I feel like this is some sort of trap.”
I know, right? Was I serious? Was I kidding? Was I drunk? Who am I, really? And on to a more serious point for speculation: has anyone seen “robertlowelldunn” around lately? Aside from that, if anyone’s got any comments or suggestions or questions or wants to give me a piece of your mind, feel free.
Resting on his laureates
To be perfectly honest I don’t really do the whole poetry thing. Sure, once in a while I’ll get schwasted on Everclear and burp out a couple of fragments that are evocative or loaded with imagery but I mean, that hardly counts, right? Nevertheless, the few pieces I have written would not exist if not for Jonathan Holden. I know his intro poetry writing class is considered an “easy A” but the truth is he provides a lot of helpful information for those in his class who are serious about developing their writing, and he brings a cheerful, supportive attitude to the class discussion, and what that does is it quells the new writers’ panic over having their work ripped apart by an imaginary panel of experts. His class is sort of a gentle coaxing into the art form. Anyway, whatever. I owe him heaps of thanks. One day this week I stopped by his office to do give him just that. And there he was, deep in concentration while scrutinizing what was clearly an important missive. I knocked, gingerly. Then I heard light snoring. Then this happened:
Immediately regretful, I textmessaged an authoritative peer in search of…forgiveness? Redemption?
Btw i just stepped into holden’s office and he was asleep but in a way that made it look like he was reading something important so i took a pic. I am so wrong. Plz don’t hate me.
I couldn’t stay and camp out. I had miles to go.
Brave new world
It used to be a simple time-wasting alternative to watching TV: show off your awesome by blasting your crush with insanely witty wall posts. Those days have long been over – nobody can just use Facebook for fun ever again; your profile’s basically gotta look like a screen capture from careerbuilder.com. On the bright side, one day you’ll be in a job interview, wearing the hell out of your chinos and your oxford and maybe a simple two-colour stripe tie that adds personality to your outfit, and the boss will be all “Where did you go to school?” and you can go “Facebook University. Let me show you my F.U. credentials.” And then I guess you can go get drunk on blush or something, I don’t care; just don’t drag me into it. I really need that job.
Site metrics, November 5
Way back in April I spent about four hours and 1,800 words blasting Star Parker and yet this “star parker is full of shit” google query is probably the first time anyone’s read that post. Meanwhile, for god knows what reason, “viennese oyster” (nsfw!) gets me several hits on a daily basis. What can I say? Thanks for reading, and alternately sorry if this site wasn’t quite what you had in mind when you googled “proper usage and care of the phallus” or whatever. Also, just for visitors who are new to The Hour Badly Spent: “ITALIAN METHOD” “KOBE TAI” “UPSKIRT.” You’re welcome, internet.
Everything old should just stay that way
Ever since I myself became an olde – which was a loooong time ago – I have been bored to death by the mindless geezerey tirades against all youth because their facebooking will abort the Islamosocialist apocalypse all over your illegal immigrants. Hobbies are just that: hobbies. Sort of like how kids in the 50s collected baseball cards and smoked Pall Malls and what exactly was wrong with that? I’d say more about it, but Tim Hadachek said it better here, there, and since it’s on the web, pretty much everywhere.
In which we realize we’d rather do something else Friday nights
Parties are so over. You’d normally think of them as just some deal where your parents are going out of town so you decide to have a friends over and you send McLovin out to score some booze. Not any more! Now they take “planning,” which sounds suspiciously like “work.” And as we all know, work just leads to poorly-timed firings. Some party, eh?
- “For students living in a house or apartment, a “formal night” can be a fun way to find an excuse to dress up and eat a delicious meal. The idea is simple: Invite a few friends, ask everyone to chip in a few dollars, cook a delectable dinner and make formal clothes a requirement. For the over-21 crowd, adding some fancy cocktails or simply using plastic cocktail or wine glasses for some well-loved Natural Light beer can help contribute to a classy atmosphere.” Why stop there? Why not invite your parents over too?
- Have a theme! My fun suggestions: togas, Communism, prom, or divorce.
- “A party theme that rarely gets old with college students is a classic dance party, especially with a good disc jockey. Dave Powers, junior in elementary education, has been playing host at dance parties for a little over a year and said they are always a lot of fun.
“Powers and his friend Ernie Straub, senior in construction science, act as DJs while their friend John Churchill, senior in music composition, provides the house. Powers goes by his DJ name, ironKIDZbread while Straub uses the name EIV.” When I’m at parties I also make sure people only refer to me by my screen name, “BlacksOnBlondes.”
Anyway, I guess the whole point of this is suck it Ella House, the whole “lets strategically place some bisexual hipsters under the strobe light and see what happens” is simply not enough. You need deejays and you need this guy to show up and you need to do this like now but please waive my cover this one time. You know I’m good for it.
Clothing purchases continue to incite existential angst
The poors can’t just run around naked, brandishing their tattoos and the scars they got from those hazy “prisoner of war” days. It’s simply unseemly. Moreover, without enough cash on hand to get the name-brand stuff that flaunts their successful assimilation, what should they do? Keep shopping, that’s what. Fall catalogues have been available for some time, after all. Some helpful advice:
- “Some say spending more money on a purchase for a better-quality piece is worth the price.” Thank you!
- “According to TheBudgetFashionista.com, people should look at every purchase with the “cost per wear” theory in mind. For every item that they consider buying, shoppers should divide the estimated amount of times they will wear the item by the price they are going to pay for it. The Web site gives the example of a $500 Burberry trench coat: The buyer planned to wear it 72 times in a year (three times per week for six months). She decided she would probably keep the coat for about five years, making the cost per wear $1.38. This cost, according to the Web site, makes the coat a wise purchase and worth the initial investment." Thank you again!
- “The Web site also explains a bad “cost per wear,” using the example of a $250 diamond necklace.” Fuck you very much; I stopped reading and stuck my head in an oven after the phrase “diamond necklace.” It’s a Pavlovian thing.
Whatever, maybe it would be better if we just all ran around naked. You first though. Don’t be shy; I promise I won’t make fun of you like last time.
These are a few of my favorite things.
Sometimes I draw with black pens – always black pens – on non-porous surfaces, and I press all eight of my fingers and each of my thumbs to it, repeating the image until it is barely there on my skin, an echo of what bright black blur it once was.
This is somewhat like poetry.
This is somewhat like falling in love.
Right now I can hear, too loudly, the sound of seconds, sliding past my eyes, and while they slip, everything kind of burns bright and fades, in rhythm, but not attached to skin, or whatever else.
This is kind of like dying.
I guess, it’s kind of like living, too.
I take drives out to cemeteries sometimes, and sometimes I walk. Cemeteries on hills are the best. And cemeteries near water (but not in or on). I like cemeteries with trees, and I like to run my hands over the old Indian graves, and old settler graves, and I like to write love letters to all the bodies, as they slowly crack apart and become simultaneously less meaningful and more full of meaning.
I guess this is why they call me,
The dark hour of the soul.
I love you,
3 A.M.
This is why you smell fat
A servicey tipster posted a few baconey links on my Facebook page. To be clear, I do like bacon, just as long as I don’t have to actually think about it. Once I get that image in my head — rust coloured-strips lacing a grimy pan, I remember how for a few minutes after they’re done frying they look like someone spit on them. But whatever, it’s still all right on a biscuit or something.
Anyway, since the tipster’s links included some simple instructions (“Now you have to blog about it – we’ve provided sex, food, alcohol, and bacon-related links. Irresistible.”) and I’m nothing if not a blog-whore (sadly, not as lucrative as real-life whoring), here we go!
Fine poetry announcement
Via Facebook:
I’m reasonably sure the underaged spoil-sport trying lamely trying to defraud the comely, venerable bartender was none other than professor Donna Potts, so thanks a lot. As for me, I don’t have anything to read as of yet so you’ll probably see me frantically scribbling what I remember of “The Welcome to Sack” on the back of a coaster. Then I’ll order some bourbon and forget to sign up to read anything, which is probably best for everyone anyway (announcing a standard of “fine” poetry obviously disqualifies me). What will you be up to tonight?
Housekeeping
I think I’m slightly in love with that poem Bonerkiller posted the other day. I’m also in love with the lunar rants from “robertlowelldunn” (what a wacky nickname, eh?), but not in the same way. It’s more of a “declaring my love out loud would mean coming out of the closet” way, and I don’t know if I want do do that. I just don’t know how to process all these new feelings. What I do know is that these two are terrific writers and I’m glad it only took two long hours of cajoling, bribery, seduction, and blackmail photos to persuade them to devote time to this dusty little corner of the blogosphere. For that I am immeasurably grateful.
We would like to hear from more of you! Do you have anything you’d like to contribute? Perhaps that term paper in which you got graded down for excessive profanity? Or maybe you want to rant about something you read in the Collegian? Or maybe you saw something silly the other day and took a photograph? Maybe your professor said something dumb and you wrote it down? Maybe you want to nitpick my grammar? Maybe you want to tell us all about the party you went to last weekend? Maybe you want to tell us all about the play you saw last weekend? Maybe you want to show us the poem you wrote last weekend? Maybe you hate this town because there was nothing to do last weekend? Whatever the case, let us know what’s on your mind! Submissions, if we get any at all, will be kept anonymous unless you say otherwise. Kthxbai!
The Girl Does Not Exist, Anymore.
I’m in love with a girl who doesn’t exist anymore,
of course, because she was never a girl,
and that is only what I called her
inside kilns.
I am in love with a girl who doesn’t exist anymore,
though I swear I saw her today,
working at a bookstore,
with soft curly hair,
slightly darker than
the color of hay,
perhaps — the color of rainy hay.
She had a small mouth,
and a butt chin.
She wore many buttons,
and though I don’t know what they represented,
I might assume they were declaring her allegiance
to a band, that was just on the verge
of selling out;
buttons which would soon be discarded.
I even knew the way she spoke,
high, and loud, and slightly too fast,
as though all the air was pushing itself against her lips,
(lips I am certain tasted like milk,
the bottom of which,
would fit perfectly
between mine).
I didn’t listen to the words that slipped between them,
too concerned with what her hands were telling me,
and the way mine ached.
I am in love with a girl,
who is, and is not, on the verge of seventeen.
She does, and does not, wear a blue pinstriped suit,
a cream silk shirt.
She may or may not wear
a strap from a bag I gave her
as a belt.
And the truth is,
I have turned into Humpert Humpert,
going mad with memories, –
which may or may not be accurate–
and the need to touch you,
though you no longer exist.
Res ipsa loquitur
Former Poet Laureate Billy Collins read to a full house at the Alumni Banquet Hall sometime last week.
After a delightful introduction from Elizabeth Dodd, Collins started with A Portrait of the Reader with a Bowl of Cereal, in which Collins’ poetic persona addresses an imaginary audience of one over breakfast.
Every morning I sit across from you
at the same small table,
the sun all over the breakfast things—
curve of a blue-and-white pitcher,
a dish of berries—
me in a sweatshirt or robe,
you invisible.Most days, we are suspended
over a deep pool of silence.
I stare straight through you
or look out the window at the garden,
the powerful sky,
a cloud passing behind a tree.There is no need to pass the toast,
the pot of jam,
or pour you a cup of tea,
and I can hide behind the paper,
rotate in its drum of calamitous news.But some days I may notice
a little door swinging open
in the morning air,
and maybe the tea leaves
of some dream will be stuck
to the china slope of the hour—then I will lean forward,
elbows on the table,
with something to tell you,
and you will look up, as always,
your spoon dripping milk, ready to listen.
Extra dimensions of a photograph, fading rapidly
There are any number of great reasons to get interested in a foreign language.
For me, of course, it was a Chicana named Lesley. We were both working at Brentano’s (imagine a snootier Waldenbooks) on the top floor of the Beverly Center.
"What are your favourite books," I asked, inevitably. It was the second time we’d seen each other. She had skin the colour of beach sand in the afternoon, and eyes like smooth, dark stones. She would always joke that she looked like Lilo (this one, not the Mean Girl). That evening it was near closing time and she walked me around the store, showing me her "staff picks," books scattered around the store with a small blurb written by one of my fellow booksellers. One of hers was Susan Orlean’s The Orchid Thief.
"What are you reading right now?" She walked me to a display at the front of the store and started telling me about The Lovely Bones.
I’d heard about the book before and had even recently read a critical essay on Salon, but something about hearing Lesley say it out loud stuck with me.
Math with a Moral
Assume a twelve-inch dick is sticking right out of your forehead. Just how much of it can you see? Since this is a cultural blog, I expect that many readers will be hesitant as to exactly how one might set up this equation. And maybe a few will ask, “Is this culturally relevant?” Let me express that it is my sincere hope that, while neither you or I really know the cultural relevance of this post, by the time I have finished, I will seamlessly suture this profound question to our glorious culture, with all or most of the pertinent quotes from both the Old and New Testament. And don’t bother with clever things like the angle of the dangle in trying to answer the question. To do so would miss the point. The answer is simple. You can’t see shit. This is because you have two huge balls hanging right in front of your face. Are you starting to sense the moral here?
Snarky Blogger Makes No Sense
Is it just me or does this sentence from slinkers’ recent review of Speech and Debate make no sense whatsoever?
Woven into the theatrical experience are cellphones, podcasts, and a large screen announcing and the titles of and setting up a theme for each act, each title alluding to an element of formal debate.
I thought about texting him and asking him WTF he was talking about, or leaving a scathing comment, and then I realized that the slinkers thing to do would be to make a blog about it. Now of course, one might argue it is an easily understandable sentence despite its grammatical errors (which I am pretty sure have to do with prepositions and possibly a conjunction, but that’s all I am going to say about that). However, it is from the all-mighty slinkers that I have learned that no one is above reproach for the minute errors they make in journalism, even if that “journalism” consists of blog posts fueled by vodka and adderral.
Now I’ve done my duty. I’m going to masturbate.
Edit: Wait, that was ten days ago. Has the statute of limitations or whatever passed for rebuke on grammar in journalism? Whatever. BOOBS.
Retort of the day
PJs smelled like someone went to a shit buffet and regurgitated. In front of the fan.
Overhear any cutting remarks today? Let us know!
Marx and the eternal return
Since I don’t really do weekends any more, I have to rely my Facebook feed and on (unwitting) correspondents to keep me posted with the news of the world. Last Friday, a couple of master debaters (I know, I know) turned 21 and in their honour, the roommates threw a “Communist party,” because clearly those are the kind of people who know how to celebrate. Via Facebook:
Glo and Shlee are turning 21, and we want YOU to come party it up.
Come dressed as your famous communist, bring your favorite beverage, and help us celebrate some bitchin’ birfdays.Trotsky or Al Franken…you make the choice.
there will be some drink, but byob to share, we’re collectivists here.
Working (wo)men of all countries, unite/drink!
dont be a Menshevick! see you there!
I received a special invitation: Read the rest of this entry »
Article on upcoming tap dance event edited by genius
I read this in the Collegian on page 8 of the Collegian and duuude, it like totally blew my mind, man. Because it seems like it would be fun to go see it, but what if you could, like, see it twice? In the same place? At the same time? I sat back and stared at the wall for a minute, slack-jawed, contemplating the universe’s infinite possibilities and just letting my mind just groove you know? Then a minute later I realized I was totally doing the exact same thing but not really a minute later but really in the exact same minute as before a minute later which got me to thinking, is this what it’s like to be a Tap Dog? If time is relative, could it also somehow link with the eternal return through the rhythm of metal-studded shoes skadiddlydoobopping up and down a stage at 7:30 as envisioned by a copy editor in Kedzie hall at 7:30 tonight? Cuz if not, what would you do; correct a copy editor? Whoa. Correct a copy editor. I am so fried, man. Just whoa. I’d like totally go see the show if I didn’t have to work.
[via the K-State Collegian]
Anonymous love letter
These are the search terms people used yesterday to find Slinkers.
Yes.
I can’t decide which is better.
“i want to buy a live ostrich”
or
“chicks with dicks for marriage”
Whoever you are,
I love you.
slinkers btw
slinkyrie
slinkerdoodle
slinkyboneur
slinkthinker 2.5
robertlowelldunn
