"how are you?"
Music: The Jazz Butcher: Fischotheque . . . is that dreaded phrase from my lady therapist or my mother, but it means differently depending on the mouth of emission, though both are yoked in some strange imaginary I let seep in sleep. The telephone, also dreaded: "how are you?" My grandmother has fallen, again, and two days ago it was more than my mother said she could bear, although apparently it didn't faze the matriarch, who sleeps soundly without pills. Unless she is a therapist, when a mother asks "how are you" she's wanting you to ask. [11/28 edit: Granny is fine; she broke her arm but, as they say, she's "a tough ol' biddie" . . . they are at the doctor as I type.]
I just deleted a journaled rant about a rejection letter from The Quarterly Journal of Speech, because even I tire of my Charlie Brown routine (though I'll gladly email it to you for any "mines bigger" contests). It was a mean letter, and I posted it here in full with my translations, but this morning I thought twice about taking up all that space, and then I decided I would just delete my wound-licking and email the "blind reviewer" directly, so I did to tell him he was a Blue Meanie, and he replied quickly: " I would be honored to talk with you, although I'm not sure what more I can say about my reaction to the essay. My early work often provoked similar reactions . . . . Instead of hunting down the reviewers and chastising them for the 'tone' of their reviews, I learned to take the bad with the good, and perhaps to write with a bit more caution and humility." What word comes to mind? Ah, yes, it is another mouth of emission, the paternal mouth, the womb of the manly-man.
Speaking of wombs, Madonna has hatched another gay-themed album, Confessions on a Dance Floor, although if you see the insert it would have been better titled, Contortions on a Dance Floor, as Madonna's "spread" makes plain she is limber and easily impregnable. The music on the actual album is homologous: it's aural candy that makes you want to, well, dance that sublimation out, if not crawl right back up into the Madonna's womb (it feels, in other words, like a familiar "groove" to get into). The title track, "Hung Up," is the best of the bunch, with a catchy, stand-up-for-yourself dumping song that stresses the futility of waiting for love's severity. I can witness [sound of handclap]. This is supposed to be a "continuous mix" album, but each song is disappointingly discrete and sorta-half-ass moves from one song to another, so, therefore, it will be remixed into a remix album. I am just as anxious to see the photo insert on that one; will Madonna's toned legs sprout from her forehead? Regardless, each beat is an emanation of Ein Soph . . . . ommmmm---ha!
Speaking of remixes and paternity, Nick and Jessica have officially split up. It ruined my Thanksgiving because I was imagining how sad Nick must be to have realized that beauty, like love, is not enough and no matter how strongly you believe that other men (and women) envy you, in the end you are a vicariousness machine. You are a function and you function for us because no one really wants a Jessica, they just want to believe that they want a Jessica and you, dear friend, get to sustain that fantasy (I've yet to meet any individual who would want to be a Jessica, neither). Now what, Charlie Brown?
"How are you doing?" It's Sunday morning for Christ's sake.