No Better Man Still Alive

This post starts with a confession. Tonight it was thunderstorming, and I sat on the couch drinking bourbon by myself and watching the Pearl Jam 20th anniversary documentary.

OK, there's more to it. In high school, I loved Eddie Vedder so much I wanted to be him *and* fuck him. Remind me to find you a photo of myself with long, straggly curls, cutoff Army pants, and Doc Martens--my sophomore year uniform.

Probably because of shame (and/or Netflix), it's taken me a few years to get around to watching 20. Also, I was nervous. Maybe like meeting up with a crush 20 years later and having to take a good look at them--and yourself--in the light of day, as it were.

But then the opening scene has Eddie on MTV wearing eye makeup and an outfit he'd borrowed from D'Arcy Wretzky of the Smashing Pumpkins, and I knew I was going to fall all over again. And I felt better about my continued appreciation for Ten seeing him perform those early shows in his Cramps and Sugarcubes t-shirts, or seeing "Fugazi" Sharpied on his arm for the Headbanger's Ball interview. Plus, there's the epic Vedder-Cornell bromance to warm one's heart.

Temple of the Dog fan fiction, anyone?

So it seems I've unearthed another root, one of those early experiences that shape your identity and inform your boners for decades to come.

To be fair (to me), I couldn't follow the last half of the movie (I vaguely remember Neil Young? Ticketmaster?) and don't talk to me about any Pearl Jam albums since Vitology. But somewhere in my heart (slash pants) it will always be 1991.

Poem for Two Decades of Flannels

"Don't call me daughter"
Eddie Vedder in a bra
Grunge is my gender

What a (Lot of) Feeling(s)

I did that thing again where I watched an old favorite 80s movie and was slightly horrified. Last time, I was disturbed by Danny Zuko and friends' misogyny (while still enamored of their cars and greaser fashion). This time, I was really excited to show my roommate a movie that had both of her favorite things in it--dancing and feminism--and ended up feeling like I should apologize.

Alex, the main character, still comes across as badass and empowered, the way I remembered her--a teenage steel worker and nightclub dancer with her own warehouse apartment, pit bull, and gracefully aging mentor--except when it comes to the romantic interest. He's a patron of the club where she works, who turns out to be the owner of the steel mill where she also works. He essentially stalks her, even jokingly "firing" her, until she goes out with him. In one scene, she declines his offer of a ride, so he follows behind her in his Porsche as she rides home on her bicycle. The image of her grim face, even as she is back-lit by his headlights, will not leave my mind.

The dancing was okay but, because it was the 80s, marred by surreal MTV-esque sets and waaaay high-cut leotards. Also, you know, uncredited dancing by Marine Jahan as Jennifer Beals' double.

Poem for Flashdance

She's a maniac,
Dancing like never before.
What's that even mean?

Alex fucks with a traffic cop "in a world made of steel" (Pittsburgh).

Also I'm just going to pretend it hasn't been almost a month since my last "daily" blog post, because even thinking about how far out of my groove I've gotten makes me want to procrastinate more.

Sons of Death

Last night I had the extreme good fortune to see a great Vermont band with a very cool history. Rough Francis is three brothers from Burlington who got together initially to cover Bad Brains. Somewhere along the way, they discovered their father's band, formed in Detroit in the 70s with his two brothers, called Death. Rough Frances started covering them, and then writing and recording original music, with their first album coming out a year ago (which you could maybe get from Riot House if not your local record store).

All this I learned from my current mystery bandmate earlier this week (more "mystery band" here). I am now even more excited to watch A Band Called Death, which has been collecting dust in my Netflix queue.

Haiku for Intergenerational Afropunk

Rock is in their blood
From Detroit to Burlington
Long live Death and Sons

At SXSW. Photo by Greg Beets.

Pair of Hearts

You'd think, given my recent experience with re-watching Purple Rain, that I would go into watching Grease expecting some surprising revelations about how this favorite film from my formative years shaped who I am today.

But I was mostly too distracted by the overacting, overt misogyny, and disco influence on Travolta's dancing to notice much more than "Hey, those T-birds are some snappy dressers."

Until I got to this scene:

I don't know how I didn't make this connection before, but I almost have Kenickie's exact tattoo.

For the rest of the movie, I kept an eye out for what else I had internalized from time spent with Rydell High's inhabitants. Definitely the boys' fashion sense and not, thankfully, their contributions to rape culture. A sexual proclivity for hot rods and their drivers. A deep yearning for a date who can dance or at least strut.

And the lyrics to this song:

Haiku for Hopeless Devotion

My head is saying, 

"Fool, forget him." My heart is 

saying, "Don't let go."

One of Us

Before coming to this tiny New England town, I couldn't have guessed how welcoming and restorative it would be after more than a decade in major cities. As much as I can claim any geographic place of origin, it was rural and suburban Minnesota, which I experienced as oppressive and depressing. Cities provided the noise, distraction, and adrenaline I needed to feel safe and alive. But I still felt isolated, in love with something I was not a part of.

Friday night, after a screening of Rock-n-Roll High School, I helped lead a Ramones sing-a-long in a church-turned-theater, the pews filled with friends and assorted weirdos belting out "Sheena Is a Punk Rocker" at top volume. It was one moment of many over the last two years that have felt like my life come full-circle. You don't even know in how many ways.

I might grow restless here and find my way to broader horizons, but in a world where connection and community have been so hard to come by, I'm content for now to just soak up the love and wear a mullet wig at every opportunity.

Haiku for February 7, 2014

In a former church
I finally feel at home
Gabba gabba hey

Circa 2002, Chicago. Foreshadowing.

Finding My Root

Last summer, in wishing Prince a happy birthday via haiku, I credited Purple Rain with helping form some of my early perceptions of masculinity. I watched it last night after not having seen it for many years, this time looking for clues about myself via the movie's portrayal of gender and sexuality. I made the following observations:

This is what I think a grown man's bedroom looks like.

This is how I think men who love women dress.

And this is how I think they dance.

This is what I think flirting is.

Also this.

And this is the most romantic five minutes in cinema history.

Haiku for a Tiny, Purple Role Model

He's not a woman,

Not a man. He is something

You won't understand.

This is my life.

I must be doing something right.

Jumping the Shark

Today's haiku by request from a loyal 17aDay fan, MM:

About a decade ago, in a Midwest Denny's, I watched a kid* draw on his place mat. There were planes flying over hapless stick figures, dropping bombs on them. The bombs were made of knives. The knives were maybe made of something else, like fire. Or tarantulas. I can't be bothered to remember exactly.

For all I know, that kid moved to Hollywood and made Sharknado.

Haiku for an Improbable-Weather-Related Disaster Flick

A child's crayon sketch
Of flying, exploding sharks
In theaters near you

*"Kid" is what I call anyone in their 20s.

Hallelujah, it's raining marine carnivorous fish.

Creeping Charlie FTW

I got nothing new,
But let me just direct you
To this comment.

<3

Stiff Little Fingers

Last night I crocheted white on white while watching Buffy on Netflix for about 4 hours straight because I am on a deadline to complete an art piece I promised to a local nonprofit for their auction, and this is a haiku about it.

Haiku for a Thursday Night Craftathon

Fingers cramping up
Eyes watering from the glare
This better be good

(Season 6, episodes 8 through 12, if you must know.)

Twue Wuv, or How I Learned to Equate Misogyny with Romance

Last night I watched an old favorite movie with some friends. We sat out on their lawn with the video projected onto the side of the house. It was nice to watch it with someone who had loved it and who shares my politics, so we could quote along and then criticize the hell out of it. For example, I hadn't realized how heavily the film's humor relies on characters' speech impediments. Westley taking time out from saving Buttercup to raise his hand to her (the consequence for women who lie) also made me squirm. Forget about passing the Bechdel Test. There are only three speaking roles for women, and they're a hapless princess, Miracle Max's wife (whom he calls a witch), and the old crone who boos at Buttercup in her nightmares.

Still, I laughed a lot and might inadvertently find myself saying, "Have fun storming the castle!" someday soon.

Haiku for The Princess Bride

"Inconceivable!"
I do not think that word means 
What you think it means.

HBD to His Purple Highness

Haiku for June 7, 2013

Watching Purple Rain
Taught me how to be a man.
Happy birthday, Prince.

Also, thanks, Mom, for making Prince movies part of my upbringing. Little did you know...

Ramblin' Guy

Yesterday was a day with no plans. I just did what I did.

A walk to the farmer's market, some housework, a leisurely drive with a friend and their dog, spontaneous dinner-making with another friend, finding myself on the bottom of a kitten pile, and watching boring TV in an overcrowded bed.

Sick

Haiku for April 8, 2013

Evil Santa film
Made by Finnish geniuses
Cured me of the flu

I was saying "boo-urns"

Haiku for April 6, 2013

Ken Burns likes to talk
Even when it's not his turn
Makes good movies, though