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Michael Parker's Journal
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Monday, July 31, 2006 |
Tomorrow, MTV turns 25. It doesn’t resemble the MTV I grew up with, which is probably a good thing because I would more than likely be spending far too much time watching it. But boy, was it ever a great era for music and music videos. To celebrate MTV’s birthday, here are some of my most memorable videos of those first years:
Billie Jean, Beat It, & Thriller--Michael Jackson.
Do You Really Want to Hurt Me? & Karma Chameleon-- Boy George
New Years Day & Pride (In the Name of Love)-- U2
Like A Virgin, Live at the MTV Music Awards
Lucky Star, Borderline, & Material Girl-- Madonna.
Our House-- Madness
99 Luft Balloons-- Nina
Love is a Battlefield-- Pat Benatar
Wham Bam!, Everything She Wants, Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go, & Careless Whisper-- Wham
Should I Stay or Should I Go-- The Clash
Stand or Fall, Red Skies, & One Thing Leads to Another-- The Fixx
Sweet Dreams, Here Comes the Rain, & Who’s that Girl-- The Eurythmics
Purple Rain, 1999, Let’s Go Crazy & When Doves Cry-- Prince
New Song & What is Love?-- Howard Jones
Shout & Everybody Wants to Rule the World-- Tears for Fears
Hungry Like the Wolf, Rio, Save a Prayer, Wild Boys, The Reflex-- Duran Duran
Rock Till You Drop & Photograph-- Def Leppard
Don’t Stand So Close To Me, Synchronicity-- The Police
Sunglasses at Night-- Corey Hart
Sharp Dressed Man & Legs-- ZZ Top
Cruel Summer & Venus-- Bananarama
What You Need-- INXS
Don’t You Want Me Baby? & Human-- The Human League
Down Under-- Men at Work
In The Air Tonight & Take a Look at Me Now-- Phil Collins
Footloose-- Kenny Loggins
Safety Dance-- Men Without Hats
Whip It-- Devo
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun & True Colors-- Cyndi Lauper
Boys of Summer-- Don Henley
White Wedding, Dancing With Myself, & Rebel Yell-- Billy Idol
11:35:46 PM  | |
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Sunday, July 30, 2006 |
What was most sickening about the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995 was the fact that Timothy McVeigh and his thug pal Terry Nicols parked their Ryder truck full of 5,000 pounds of explosives in front of the Alfred P. Murrah federal building in sight of an operational day care. 19 children lost their lives that morning.
Today’s Israeli bombing of a refuge camp in Qana in South Lebanon early this morning that killed over 50 people, more than 30 of them children, has the same sickening feeling. Terms that come to mind: Callous. Heinous. Thuggery. Blood-thirsty. Senseless.
The picture I have posted here is of a two-year old victim, wearing shorts and a tank-top very similar to those worn by my 20 month old son. He's covered in the gray powder of the blast. Kevin Sites, who took the picture, commented on how the child's clenched jaws and teeth were most visible.
Today, Israel lost all their credibility. Their decision to suspend aerial attacks against Lebanon for 48 hours appears farcical. There is no sincere condolences or offerings to determine the cause of the travesty. Rather, this seems merely a ruse to let the heat from anger's fire subside, the shortest delay of time feasible to the gluttonous warmongers before they can get back to the mission of re-shaping the Middle East.
If Israel, the Unites States, and Britain were serious about peace, they would shut down operations now, seek forgiveness, and show at least an ounce of remorse by getting themselves seated at the Peace table first. The sooner, the better.
Articles I have read about this tragedy:
Kevin Sites, "Killings at Qana"
Chicago Tribune, "Israeli attack all the talk in DC"
11:25:27 PM | |
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This just isn't good for democracy, no matter how you look at it.
From Glenn Greenwald’s Salon article, "Echoes of the Nixon Era."
In reality, Specter does not want to amend the mandates of FISA so much as abolish them. His bill makes it optional, rather than mandatory, for the president to subject himself to judicial oversight when eavesdropping on Americans, in effect returning the nation to the pre-FISA era. Essentially, the president would be allowed to eavesdrop at will, precisely the situation that led to the surveillance abuses of the Nixon White House and J. Edgar Hoover's FBI.
Specter's bill will have three troubling consequences if it becomes law. First, it makes lawbreaking legal. When the New York Times revealed last December that the Bush administration has been eavesdropping without judicial approval for the past four years, it meant that the president has been systematically violating a law that makes such eavesdropping a crime punishable by up to five years in prison. If laws are to have any meaning, then elected officials cannot simply violate them with impunity. Specter's bill not only virtually guarantees there would be no consequences for this deliberate, ongoing criminality, but rewards and endorses the president's lawbreaking by changing the law to conform to the president's conduct.
Richard Nixon infamously told David Frost in a 1977 interview that, by definition, "when the president does it, that means it is not illegal." Specter, in effect, wishes to make the Nixonian theory of presidential infallibility the law of the land. In the process, he also embraces a more modern and equally extreme theory of presidential power, and that is the second alarming implication of his bill.
10:30:40 PM | |
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Friday, July 28, 2006 |
Looking about the room, I realized how sterile it was, suffocatingly so. It appeared as if the housekeeper had just cleaned or I had just walked into an unlocked room to sleep off a long day. If I were staying here, I thought, my belongings would be laying about. The extra cash and change from the pants I wore that day would be sitting on the desk, along with my wallet. A bottle or can of caffeinated soda would be sitting on any flat surface along the major walking route in the room. Or, laying empty in the trash can. But there were no signs of any of these items. And about my suitcase. It too would be somewhere out in the open, either sitting under the writing curio or next to the dresser, or laying open on top of the suitcase stand. But no suitcase existed in these landscapes.
I noticed the dresser was the closest searchable object near me so I walked to it. I glanced to the high-top wood chair sitting tightly under the desk. It’s position mocked me. I have this habit of laying out the clothes I’m wearing the next day onto the chair. I place the button shirt squarely on the back, as if the chair were going to wear it. And I lay the freshly ironed pants on the seat in a manner so that it doesn’t disturb the folds and creases. But the chair looked like it too had been re-positioned by the housekeeper so that it looked unused for the next guests.
As my fingers fell upon the handles of the dresser, I caught myself pausing and drawing a breath. What if there are clothes in here but this isn’t my room? What if it is my room but I don’t recognize the clothes? What if it is empty? I was half believing all options could be a possibility.
I opened the top drawer. A noise blurted from my mouth that sounded more like a shrill cackle. My hands dived and rummaged through black socks, boxer shorts, and black and white under-shirts, all appearing to be new. I closed the door and opened the drawer underneath. It was full of swim trunks and high-priced athletic shorts, tanks, and ankle socks. I ran to the glass closet doors and slid the left side open. Hanging within were slacks and dress shirts and jeans from stores I had never shopped for in my life – Saks, Neiman Marcus, Banana Republic, and Abercrombie & Fitch. My eyes scanned the floor. Laying at my feet were an assortment of black leather shoes, square toed. Again, nothing here remotely spoke to my style. Primarily because I could never afford it.
Tucked away in the back of the closet was a large suitcase. I wrestled it out of the shadows and took it back to the bed. I returned to the closet and brought down the leather duffel bag I spied sitting next to the extra pillows and blankets. As I walked back to the bed, I quickly unzipped the bag and emptied its contents onto the bed spread. A thick black leather wallet sat atop the heap of accessories, toiletries, note pads, and pens. I snatched it up so quickly that other items went flying in all directions.
I sat on the edge of the bed looking at my trembling hands gripping the wallet. I caught another few deep breaths and opened the wallet. Staring back at me was a driver’s licence with a picture of a younger me. I could tell this because my face hadn’t been plagued with wrinkles or graying hair. Then I took a closer glance at the licence. I grew ill and lightheaded. Typed on the licence was the name, Mark Byatt. And the signature flared with such a natural stroke that it looked like it had been signed a thousand times in my handwriting. But I am not Mark Byatt. My given name is Tanner Armstrong.
11:43:49 PM | |
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Thursday, July 27, 2006 |
International war journalist Kevin Sites is one of the best on the web. His coverage is fresh and unique and his stories are meaningful. Consider these haunting pictures of an elderly woman and baby who survived Israel's missile attacks on the city of Tyre yesterday. Read his coverage of the bombing of Tyre in his piece called Precise Destruction.
In the beginning, I supported Israel. They had every right to go after Hezbollah in Lebanon. However, Israel has taken this too far, continuing to attack civilian areas and displacing tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of civilians by now, and creating a humanitarian crisis. The purpose of the war is quickly losing its legitimacy.
11:17:12 PM | |
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Carpenters bend wood. Fletchers bend arrows. Wise men fashion themselves.
--Buddha
10:43:18 PM | |
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Wednesday, July 26, 2006 |
I awoke from a sleep with no residue of dreams, not even hints of them. The bedside lamp was on, but emitting a dull white light that illuminated the ceiling. Either my eyes were adjusting or I was coming out of a drug-induced sleep because the ceiling was hazy. It was as though I were looking up from under the ocean’s surface or preparing to fall into it. I was not at home. I was not in any one bedroom I had ever been. It was a hotel room. It was obvious by its shape and amenities that swam into view—a black television sat perfectly in its wood shelving in front of the bed; the bed table by my head displayed a phone that had an overlay of instruction labels and a generic clock radio. It showed 11:40. Laying there, I could even feel the polyester and flame-retardant quilt I abhor.
I sat up. I immediately spied myself in the mirror. If I didn’t know myself I would have guessed this was not me. My hair was shorn and significantly graying on the sides. I was thinner; just barely on the healthy side of emaciated. Deep lines framed my forehead and shot out from the sides of my eyes, as if I had been squinting from the brightness of the sun too long. My eyes wore the astonishment of this grotesque and unexpected discovery. I looked away to avoid my eyes. A creeping horror welled up inside. A barrage of questions ransacked my mind: Why am I here? How long have I been here? What has happened to me?
I ran to the closed blinds and threw them open. They were mechanized so my movement triggered the motor and they opened the rest of the way by themselves. I was stories high above the ground, looking out at a city I knew in an instant as Las Vegas. The Hilton was spelled out in hot-red colored lights on a billboard larger than most hotels in the vicinity. Beyond the strip and beyond the city lights the night had come in upon the land and erased the very evidence of it, as if it had been consumed.
I began to shake, either because of the brisk air conditioning or the new fear that gripped my insides as I made the attempt to remember how it was I ended up here in Vegas. For the life of me, I could not remember a thing. I remembered my wife and immediately dove at the phone on the desk in front of the large windows. I dialed my home phone number automatically. One ring. Another ring. A third ring. I suddenly coughed, and shivered.
A sleepy voice appeared on the other end. "Hullo?"
"Janet, is that you?" I blurted.
"No. I’m sorry" the tired voice said. "You have the wrong phone number."
"That can’t be." I stammered. "Is this seven-zero-two-five-five-six-zero?"
"Yes, that’s my phone number but there is no Janet here." The female voice said on the other end.
I stared out at the city. The lights to the entire Sahara hotel complex just turned off, leaving a black void in the middle of the city. "Hullo? Are you there?" she questioned.
"I’m sorry," I said. My voice was shaky. "I don’t understand. This has been my phone number for the past eight years."
"That can’t be," the voice exclaimed. "I’ve had this phone number for over a year now."
"A year?" I exclaimed. "That’s not right. You’re mistaken."
"Who is this?" Asked the voice emphatically. "You....just...nevermind! Don’t call this number again!"
The click on the other end left me dumbfounded and listening to the annoying cloying sound of a phone call just terminated. "One year" kept ringing in my head. I had the sense of crying.
I placed the receiver back into its cradle then started looking around the room for anything that held the answers.
11:01:29 PM | |
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I finished my poem for the Under The Iron Sea poetry challenge, titled "Under the Hooves of Iron Horses." I thought that I'd submit it to OCHO but I don't know if the subject matter works. So I'm going to post the poem in it's entirety.
The iron horses of war prance and pose in front
of dramatically staged scenarios broadcast
the world over. Diplomacy metastasizes into
demands and accusations bellowed like choleric bulls
held back from fucking the cows on the other side
of the paddock. War has the facade of Revelation's
salvation, an Armageddon against evil painted like
Signorelli's "casting into hell the damned souls"
and you and I are the armored angels dropping
our human foes into the pit of horned devils
who pillage and torture and tear each soul
limb by limb. Yet war in the real light is merely
an economic device that bleeds capital out of all
the casualties. A fact we grow too accustomed to,
transfixed by duplicitous sets and special effects.
Under the fray of their hooves, we have relinquished
our voices and turned over our eyes. Though
unabashedly, we continue to swear we see
the angels flying out of heaven.
12:17:51 AM | |
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Saturday, July 22, 2006 |
A smile is an amazingly powerful thing, a device that has such sway over us. It can calm our nerves during a job interview. It can cheer up our down-in-the-mouth blues. It can cause us to fall head-over hills in love. It better helps us trust people who serve, govern, protect, instruct, and employ us. And you can just imagine that many or our famous vocal and film stars became stars because of a great smile. It simply has high selling potential. It simply endears us to people.
The power of the smile even is a primary concept in the Jewish mystical practice of Kabbalah. The concept is called "raising sparks." Rabbi David Cooper, author of the fascinating book God is a Verb, describes raising sparks as accomplishing "deeds of lovingkindess," through "being in harmony with the universe," and gaining "higher awareness." All of these acts, as you have probably ascertained, attempt to change the focus out and away from the individual and onto others. In other words, becoming more selfless and more aware of people around you.
In regards to smiling, smiling is considered one of the most basic tools one can use to raise sparks. It’s taught that if you smile at someone while walking down the street, especially someone who might need to see your magnetic and contagious smile, then they may continue smiling and sharing that smile while looking at others. That one smile reverberates out like a rock dropped onto a quiet lake. That positive wake isn’t stopped until it meets an opposing wake or the shore. The manufacturers of Breck Shampoo in the 70's and 80's marketed their product using a similar concept–you will use the shampoo; then you will tell their friends and they will tell their friends, "and so on and so on and so on." The key to the success of this tv ad was in multiplying individual cells as friends told their friends about the product. What started out as a single picture, became 2, then 4, 8, 16, etc until the whole screen was composed of individual pictures of women sold on the product. This is concept behind the power of the smile.
Regarding the power of the smile, William Shakespeare once wrote:"A smile cures the wounding of a frown."
He also knew that not all smiles were sincere, as he depicted in his character Gloucester, who reveals in an aside:
Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile,
And cry 'Content' to that which grieves my heart,
And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,
And frame my face to all occasions.
(3 Henry VI, III, ii)
Hamlet, also, learns a cruel lesson about deception after the terrifying visit of his father’s ghost. Hamlet observes: "That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain...."
On this last note, I’d like to introduce you to a smiling quiz that came across my desk yesterday. The object is to view twenty video recorded smiles and mark whether each smile is genuine or fake. Once you finish the test, the results will explain to you how you can tell when a person is smiling for real. The quiz is part of research by Professor Paul Ekman, a psychologist at the University of California. Take the quiz here.
Enjoy!
2:19:15 PM | |
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Thursday, July 20, 2006 |
My very good friend Rex submitted a fine poem for the Under The Iron Sea poetry challenge. I find the poem visually engaging and dreamlike. Upon informing him of this, he admitted that he did own a horse by the name of Dynamite, and the dreamlike aspect of it lies in the fact that no one seems to remember the horse but him, endearing him even more to its memory.
Rex is an excellent editor and one of the greatest humanitarians that I know. In his previous life, he used to own his own printing press and publish poets. Rex used to write over at his blogsite Ashekanaka last year. You can check out other beautiful poems, thoughts, and a few remembrances of his time in Vietnam as a soldier. He is a natural storyteller. (I’ve been on him for years to write a novel about his amazing and intriguing experience.)
Dynamite
The boy rode bareback upon the black stallion
Forever safe in his speed and sleight of foot.
The boy’s emotions flowed with galloping hooves
Of light that rode the river with no fear.
Surrounded by snakes in a terrible dream,
The boy cried, "Dynamite," and saw the horse
Leap the slithering beasts. Upon his back
They fled the desert mounds of snakes and sped
Toward the river’s edge and jumped it entirely.
The waves froze beneath the boy – and through
Green fields of wheat and hay the boy flew
Happily upon Dynamite’s back.
Not a word he ever spoke about his ride,
About his rising above his dreads and fears
As he rode upon the back of the mighty horse
That loved him back and gave him inner peace.
10:29:53 PM | |
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Hello World. I'm back. I'm renewed for another year.
9:52:23 PM | |
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Thursday, July 06, 2006 |
Pris Campbell, who writes over at Songs To A Midnight Sky, submitted her poem, Apple Pie for the poetry challenge. In a previous post about her poem "Trombone Angels," I said of her that her "poetry ...has a gentle awareness of the minute 'parts' without neglecting the vision of the vast whole. Whether she writes about her visit with Eleanor Roosevelt, the ghosts of her dead soldier brother, the memories of lovers of year’s past, the ravaging effect of CFIDS, or the old woman across the street dancing alone in the night, Campbell’s insights hint toward a wise and humane soul who’s forever opening doors for us to walk through. Campbell’s strength lies in relating the intricacies and impacts of relationships."
In "Apple Pie," she displays a spirit of innocent little-girl stubborness and defiance. It's fun to read and dream along with her young narrator. Poetically, Campbell has great alliteration and consonance in these lines. The "k's" "p's" and "d's" create a cadence the reader moves forward in.
Apple Pie
by Pris Campbell
In one of my past lives
when I wasn't busy being
Cleopatra or Ivan the Terrible,
I sailed with the Pilgrims
to the New Land. Only eight,
I watched dragons lift nightly
from frothing seas, fins
flared magestically like a
fat lady's fan, hissing
and slapping their tails
till the sun gods rose red
with rage every morning,
driving them back under.
My mother called me a liar,
washed my mouth out with soap,
but I'll say this:
there was no Plymouth Rock and
Priscilla never married John Alden.
She ran off with a good-looking Indian.
Her grandson snatched Custer,
made him skin and cook buffalo
for the entire tribe till he died.
The army generals made up that story
about Custer's Last Stand to force Congress
to do more about the 'Indian Problem'.
Now, if I were a liar, would I come clean
about all that stuff and mess up
everyone's apple pie vision of history?
****
Note: I am going to be on hiatus till July 15th. Please visit some of the great blogs that are listed on the left. You will be well fed.
11:41:29 PM | |
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J.B. Rowell, who can be found in the MiPo Poetry Community as well as at her own site Mom & Applie Pie, submitted the first poem for the poetry challenge inspired by the Keane CD, Under the Iron Sea. J.B. uses some great images. I especially like how the phrase "spitting out / thunder of hooves" evokes the sound of the ocean's powerful tide. Recognizing the "hollow eyes" of the clouds is also very visual. I also like the short staccato sounds of her lines. They mimic the noise of hooves, the gallop of horses.
iron horses
by J.B. Rowell
end of time not near
now and now
ongoing ocean churn
spitting out
thunder of hooves
wave after
wave manes beat
down in blue hues
our job simply to
stand again
face red
of reflected sunset
hollow eyes of clouds
brace for certainty
of next stampede and
iron undertow
If you would like to submit a poem, go ahead and do so. I will post any poem I receive that coincides with the theme of the CD cover and is noteworthy. And you can submit more than one poem as well. One of the reasons for posting the challenge is to inspire you to write. Art often awakens something inside of us. Images and feelings from our own experience fall out of the shadows and narrative is born as these components come alive in us. So if this artwork speaks to you, go ahead and write till your narrator has nothing more to say.
You have plenty of time.
Read the submission rules in this post. (Tomorrow, look for Pris Campbell's poem.)
12:46:10 AM | |
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Monday, July 03, 2006 |
My poem "On the Effects of Wind and Rivers" appears in the latest edition of Ocho, Volume 2.
Poets selected for this issue include the Grace Cavalieri (novelist, playwright, and MiPo columnist);Bob Marcacci (teacher); David Need (professor and MiPo columnist); Tom Blessing (editor); John Korn; Kari Edwards (award-winning poet, artist and gender activist); Scott Glassman; Barbara Nightengale; Birdie Jaworski (MiPo Radio pj); and Julie Carter.
To give you an impression of the quality poetry included within the pages, I compiled the first lines of each poem and arranged them into free verse. I'll title it "Random Thoughts" Enjoy.
Random Thoughts
Summer's desert wind has dried the fields
Where the day was a daughter.
I’ve been reading the newspaper.
I’m not always this way when completely falling down the case case.
The afternoon of my mother's wake I bought a Stetson at a pawn shop.
It took three years, but now they thunk a stone.
It just hangs on my tongue, not tumbling
move toward movement.
We study.
There are many ways to tell a story.
The characters looked over the audience.
His wings take up an entire row.
Somebody built a fortress right in the middle of our city.
One brother sees light.
Day reddens for a reason.
I’m not that girl in the flowered car.
What we do gets done to us
Once upon a time long, long ago.
Here is the Index of poets for each line:
1) Michael Parker 2) Grace Cavalieri 3) John Korn 4) Kari Edwards 5) Birdie Jaworski 6) Julie Carter 7) Julie Carter 8) Bob Marcacci 9) Tom Blessing 10) Barbara Nightengale 11) David Need 12) Scott Glassman 13) Karl Parker 14) Barbara Nightengale 15) Karl Parker 16) Barbara Nightengale 17) Karl Parker 18) Barbara Nightengale
8:22:54 PM | |
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Sunday, July 02, 2006 |
Many of you readers have been around to read my numerous accolades of the prolific film critic Roger Ebert of The Chicago-Sun Times. Though I have never officially met him--saying "Hi" at the Sundance Film Festival doesn't really count--I consider him a mentor. His reviews are poignantly meaningful. He has a solid grasp of U.S. and World history, U.S. and global politics, religion, social sciences, psychology, and simply an amazing understanding of the human struggle. More than not, Ebert’s reviews aren’t just about the components of the film, but also of the timeframe in which the film makes a imprint upon history.
Like his long-time film critic friend, Gene Siskel, who died of a brain tumor suddenly years ago, Ebert is a great champion of human rights. Off the top of my head, a few of his memorable reviews are: Mystic River, Ponette, Red, The Incredible Lightness of Being, Being John Malcovich, Bringing Out the Dead, Titanic, Schindler’s List, Hotel Rwanda, Crash, Saving Private Ryan, American Beauty, Munich, Eyes Wide Shut, to name a slight few.
In all, I appreciate writers who exemplify the meaning of humanitarian. Roger Ebert is such a writer.
Ebert has been battling salivary cancer for years now. He was in remission until this past month, when he underwent a second operation to remove cancerous glands. A sudden burst of a blood vessel sent him back in for an emergency operation today.
Josh Noel, Tribune staff reporter, noted the comments of the Sun-Times Editor in Chief John Barron in regards to Ebert: "Roger had bravely and successfully battled this stuff before and we hope and expect he does the same this time out."
My hopes are for a quick recovery and many more healthy years and extraordinary movie reviews.
Note: Ebert was awarded a Pulitzer Prize in 1975.
For access to Roger Ebert's film reviews, check out his extensive website here.
9:41:34 PM | |
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Saturday, July 01, 2006 |
Michelle Buchanan, pj for The Goodnight Show, has announced her latest poetry project/challenge. Titled "Operation Poem," she is asking poets to write a poem about a soldier who has lost their life in the war in Iraq. If you are interested, please read more details here.
p.s. The latest cast of The Goodnight Show is now available. Click on the link to go to the website for the show or click on "11" in the Goodnight Show window in my navigation bar. If you have not listened to these shows, you are missing great poetry and fun broadcasts.
2:01:14 PM | |
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In front of a vociferous crowd that was 80% behind England, Portugal stunned England, turning out the lights for what many said were England's best hopes at the World Cup. (I have been rooting for England, as well as the U.S., Mexico, and Italy, who plays Germany in the semi-finals.)
Both England and Portugal exchanged moments of impressive offense. England seemed to dominate play in regulation time, thanks to Crouch, Hargreaves, Terry, Lampard, Gerrard, Carragher & CO. And Portugal especially seemed the more aggressive in overtime. But it was Ronaldo who shined in the penalty kicks, blocking three sure-fire goals. In fact, though won alluded his grasp, he accurately predicted where the ball was going each time.
Portugal scored on 3 of 4 penalty kicks: Sabrosa, Pauleta, and finally Ronaldo's kick to far-right corner to seal the England's ugly fate.
To England: A great fight!
To Portugal: Congrats. Good luck with Brasil, if Brasil isn't upset! Boy, wouldn't that be something to write about.
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