Chances are, we've all got a little hick in us somewhere and some how we are all memebers of the Hick Nation. Regardless of color or creed or the nations that claims you as a citizen, you are also the a card carrying member of Hick Nation. If we humans can trace evolutionary lines back to chimps, then we most definitely can trace our family trees back to hick roots.
I like to think that cavemen were the first hicks. They were first at everything, so why not be the first hicks, right? Let's do an hick evaluation of cavemen. Okay, let's see here: they drew pictures of animals and killing animals on cave walls. Hicks hang heads of dead deer and prized dead fish on their wall. Cavemen left the carcasses of dead animals outside their caves and used the bones to fashion their simple tools. Hmm... Proud, contemporary hicks have at least one broken down vehicle in the drive from which they harvest parts or of which they swear they will one day make run. Cavemen yelled at other, opposing cavemen of different tribes and clans. Contemporary hicks yell at their neighbors in defense of the broken down vehicle in the drive and defend themselves as not being too white trash. Some hicks live in trailer parks. Some cave men live in clusters of tents while migrating to hunt the mighty mastadon. Hick like killing big game for the pure pleasure of exercising human might. Cavemen killed big game so they had something to nibble on in the cave and established the possiblity of human beings exercising might over the natural world.
Okay. Let's move ahead in time. The Romans. Man, now those people were some real fuckin' hicks.
Scientific evaluation of the Roman Empire to test for Hick Possiblities:
Roman orgies conducted by aritocrats and emperors. You ever been to a Kid Rock concert? Ever been to a weekend, country music festival?
Roman elite eating massive amount of food only to purge themselves so they could eat more (I think Octavius was renowned for doing this, though I have to check that). Ever been seen a hot dog or pie eating contest? That's definitely hick, a hick activity that most definitely includes our Chinese and Asian hick friends because I swear to all that is holy that some little asian person ALWAYS WINS the hot dog eating contest.
The most hick Roman activity: The Colosseum. Holy fuck, you don't get much more hick than that. Let's evaluate. Now, the whole reason for the Colosseum and all the games and killing of animals and gladiators actually had a point to it that makes a brutal, wicked sort of sense when you consider the Roman perspective. In those times, death was all around from wars to infant mortality rates. The Roman Empire wanted to exercise might over all people and the whole world, including the animal kingdom. So, Roman emperors decided that if they were to excerise this might then they would show it off in the colosseum and it became a form of entertainment. At first, the Romans just killed animals, but as the empire began to crumble due to Barbarian attacks from the north and exotic animlas from Africa running out with the added expense of getting them to Rome, which was becoming too expensive, the emperors found a new host of critters for the Colosseum. They were called early Christians. The perspective of early Christians and their beliefs threatened to totalitarian rule of Emperors because these people didn't believe that the Emperor was their god. So the emperors said, Fuck you, get in the goddamn Colosseum becaus I'm in charge. Good luck, fucker. The went on and on and the Colosseum still stands today with dorky tourists snapping pictures of it.
How does all of this make the Romans remotely hick? How is any of this hick? It's all about as hick as a gun rack in pickup truck.
Let me get this straight. There's this really big arena where we get a bunch of animals together then chase them and end up killing them. You ever seen a rodeo? When the animals run out we have people fight for our amusement. Hicks an undying passion for WWF wrestling. When the animals are become too expensive just to kill we show them off and what they can do and how they are beautiful. Holy shit, that's was we call a damn State Fair. And let's eat a bunch of shit while showing off the animals. That's the hot dog eating competition at the State Fair. Watch out for the little asain dude, he gonna win, he always wins, his stomach is specailly designed, he's a creature of a higher calling and truly unstoppable.
The hick associations don't stop there. Just about every culture has some hick to it. Don't make me get Egyptian about this. The Egyptians build big ass tombs for themselves. You ever seen a hick get upset about his dog dying. Holy shit he will weep and weep and then build some really gaudy tribute to his ol' bird dog named Butter. That's all that needs to be said on that one.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
It is 7:43 a.m. and I am up and at it and mulling over the same thought that put me to bed. For me, I consider thoughts like these both nagging and relevant. The nagging must be my subconscious imploring the relevance. In praise of directness: The genuis of music is itchiny every lump and bump and crease of my brain. This is because I am thinking of capital A Art.
When I was in college I was pretty sure I had some things figured out. Post college living and post graduate study taught me otherwise. Nonetheless, I can't help but think fondly about the last year and a half of college. That was the time that I was happy and confused and insecure at the same time. I wasn't sure about who I was as a person or what would become of me and my insecurity raged and raged like a bad case of crabs, but, back then, one thing was constantly on my mind: What is the highest Art form? Back then, I argued for poetry. I figured somebody in this culture needed to argue on behalf of poetry. In my then mind I figured, I knew, poetry was the great informant telling the human soul that it had a soul. I remember sitting in a kitchen in Maryville, Missouri with a girl who loved me and loved listening and talking about the highest art form. She was a sculpter and poet and nonfiction writer. I was a guy who was new to poetry who lived inside my mind for the most part. She knew about Art and had this amazing talent ot draw someone perfectly then write a stunning poem about what it was like to draw that person, the ability to write a poem about that so that the reader actually gave a shit about the person drawing and the person being drawn. The two of us talked and talked and talked about Art. In truth, the more we talked about Art the more we didn't have to talk about how we were growing resentful of each other. In truth, we were living high on the hog. We were in college and living on loans and playing house and all utopias come to an end. She gave up on me. I gave up on her. We gave up on us. Neither of us gave up on Art even after I moved to Minnesota and she moved to Texas.
I came to Minnesota to pursue a Masters degree in writing poetry. After break, my Masters degree has sixteen more weeks to it. Wham-bam-thank-ya-mam. Here comes the caboos to this train of thought: the purest art form, the most informant art form is one in which I am hardly capable of producing, music.
All writing is a shy attempt when compared to music. Music can transfix and derrange the mind. Very few works of writing can do that without someone wanting to take a break, get a drink of water, or scratch themselves. How many people take a break from concert? I'll add more to these thoughts later. As for now, I am off to listen to music and dream myself into the songs.
When I was in college I was pretty sure I had some things figured out. Post college living and post graduate study taught me otherwise. Nonetheless, I can't help but think fondly about the last year and a half of college. That was the time that I was happy and confused and insecure at the same time. I wasn't sure about who I was as a person or what would become of me and my insecurity raged and raged like a bad case of crabs, but, back then, one thing was constantly on my mind: What is the highest Art form? Back then, I argued for poetry. I figured somebody in this culture needed to argue on behalf of poetry. In my then mind I figured, I knew, poetry was the great informant telling the human soul that it had a soul. I remember sitting in a kitchen in Maryville, Missouri with a girl who loved me and loved listening and talking about the highest art form. She was a sculpter and poet and nonfiction writer. I was a guy who was new to poetry who lived inside my mind for the most part. She knew about Art and had this amazing talent ot draw someone perfectly then write a stunning poem about what it was like to draw that person, the ability to write a poem about that so that the reader actually gave a shit about the person drawing and the person being drawn. The two of us talked and talked and talked about Art. In truth, the more we talked about Art the more we didn't have to talk about how we were growing resentful of each other. In truth, we were living high on the hog. We were in college and living on loans and playing house and all utopias come to an end. She gave up on me. I gave up on her. We gave up on us. Neither of us gave up on Art even after I moved to Minnesota and she moved to Texas.
I came to Minnesota to pursue a Masters degree in writing poetry. After break, my Masters degree has sixteen more weeks to it. Wham-bam-thank-ya-mam. Here comes the caboos to this train of thought: the purest art form, the most informant art form is one in which I am hardly capable of producing, music.
All writing is a shy attempt when compared to music. Music can transfix and derrange the mind. Very few works of writing can do that without someone wanting to take a break, get a drink of water, or scratch themselves. How many people take a break from concert? I'll add more to these thoughts later. As for now, I am off to listen to music and dream myself into the songs.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Magazine Rejection
It would very heroic of me not to care about getting "slushed." Editors of big literary reviews consider themselves big people. Congratulations. You have been trained to find flaw, you have been trained to reject what you have not been tauught to apdikpreciate, you have been taught to dislike what you yourself have no written. This is the source of bad reviews.
Let provide an example.
A dear friend of mine recently got a review fom Kirkus. True to Krikus frm the review was bitchy, which makes me fgure this the following:
the reviewer is probably a failed writer, the reviewer can't hack rejection so he/she smacks down on writer who can write; an intern got shafzed with reviewing another book.
Please correct my grammar, Kirkus reviewer. Yes, you are a trade journal. One of the big four. When my book comes out, review it so I can get the standard abuse.
If the review were worth anything then the reviews would be accompanied by by-lines. Since this is not the case,then yyour entire staff should be considered at fault and at risk.
Let provide an example.
A dear friend of mine recently got a review fom Kirkus. True to Krikus frm the review was bitchy, which makes me fgure this the following:
the reviewer is probably a failed writer, the reviewer can't hack rejection so he/she smacks down on writer who can write; an intern got shafzed with reviewing another book.
Please correct my grammar, Kirkus reviewer. Yes, you are a trade journal. One of the big four. When my book comes out, review it so I can get the standard abuse.
If the review were worth anything then the reviews would be accompanied by by-lines. Since this is not the case,then yyour entire staff should be considered at fault and at risk.
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