July 23, 2012: What is it about Glen Campbell I love so much, anyway?! It's a rhetorical question, and I'm never sure whether you're supposed to put a question mark, so I always compensate by putting both an exclamation mark AND a question mark. How's that for conscientious?! (See?!)
Anyway, it's my kind of morning -- heavy rain, moody clouds and lots of thunder. The cats are being pleasant -- that is, the little cat is being sweet and friendly, but the fat one followed up pooping on the basement floor by vomiting in the kitchen. Still, they're better than some people I know, who poop everywhere!
And speaking of poop, I was recalling this great comment John Lennon made in some documentary, wherein he references that the quality of a given song he'd written on some day may have just been the result of his having had a good (dare I say, sound) bowel movement that day. And it makes sense, if you think about it. After all, what myriad details of living craft the precarious state of my emotions at any given time?!
For instance, this thunderstorm just set me straight, and now that it's clearing up I'm getting depressed. Frequent Blah-ugh! readers will (or won't) recall that I favor British weather to the skin-burning sun of modern summer, and any chance to be enveloped by the lovely hydraulic gauze of nature's natural sprinkler is, for me, just peachy keen.
On another note, I'm sitting here nude right now, as some of my regular Blah-ugh! readers may (or may not) realize, and I'm wondering if the front door being open constitutes my being some kind of public spectacle. It's certainly not my intention, as my regular Blah-ugh! readers would (or wouldn't) understand. It's just that I was about to shower when I was sucked into listening to this Glen Campbell album and felt compelled to let you know -- my regular (and irregular) Blah-ugh! readers -- that Glen is among the most underrated performers of the 20th century. Certainly, his is among my five all-time favorite singing voices, the others being Lennon, Lulu, Brian Wilson and Sam Cooke.
Anyway, I've got to go now. Put that in your pipe and smoke it! Don't forget to buy my Youtube video at this location, and watch "Space Case" if and when you've got the nerve ... And keep watching the flagpoles, because I note they're STILL all at half-mast and I have no F***ING idea why!
Showing posts with label Sam Cooke. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sam Cooke. Show all posts
Monday, July 23, 2012
Monday, February 7, 2011
Racitry vs. Bigotism: Which Makes Me Look Worse?
February 7, 2011: A lot of people don't know this about me, but I have no use for African art. In these awkward modern times we live in, of course, I hesitate to mention it because one will automatically assume I'm being racist, but here at the Blah-ugh! we strive for honesty, and though there is no bigotry in operation -- for God's sake, some of my best friends are (or at least have been) black -- I hope my intelligent, liberal-minded and breathtakingly virile readers won't misinterpret my artwork opinions for broad hatred.
This, of course, begs the question of what exactly constitutes racism. (And I could even add a question mark there, but I'm choosing not to.) Is racial awareness -- noticing differences that are race-related -- racism? Obviously there's a dictionary definition out there to settle such a question, but I'm not really in the mood to look it up right now (and, frankly, I don't see you getting off your ass to do it!).
In "The Autobiography of Malcolm X" (which I actually read twice to prove I wasn't a racist -- once wearing a Pendleton shirt) the author (and, see, while it's billed as an "autobiography," it's kind of a pretend one, if we're going to be technical; I just don't want to later be accused of bending over backwards to appear non-racist by omitting such a detail, you see!) ... Hmmm. Now where was I? ... Oh yes! The author points out a very interesting second tier of racism, wherein the White Man (if you'll forgive the expression) constantly differentiates between the races, i.e., "My black friend" or "There's this black guy in my reading club," but for no other descriptive purpose. It's an interesting distinction, for really, in a perfect world, shouldn't we not even notice if people are a different color, like on Star Trek?
It goes farther, of course, because many people aren't even aware of doing it. I've long marveled at the politicians and Right-wing liberals (yes, I've just created such an anomalie) who extole the virtues of colored folk with references to their being so "articulate" (as if it's some marvel) and "dignified" (as if it's a surprise), and of course the capper -- forever referring to a black guy as being a "gentleman" (I guess because it's patronizingly safe) ...
But, hell, I'm no better (except in most other ways). I'm can't deny that the differences stand out to me. Sometimes I wish they didn't, but then I wouldn't have as much material to write about.
(Of course there's the opposite side to this coin, wherein if one more black guy calls me "Sir" -- which I always feel is sarcastic -- I'm gonna start smashing my Sam Cooke records ... No, I'd never do that!)
Anyway, I think you get my point. And interestingly, I really have no use for Native American art either, although I like their casinos.
This, of course, begs the question of what exactly constitutes racism. (And I could even add a question mark there, but I'm choosing not to.) Is racial awareness -- noticing differences that are race-related -- racism? Obviously there's a dictionary definition out there to settle such a question, but I'm not really in the mood to look it up right now (and, frankly, I don't see you getting off your ass to do it!).
In "The Autobiography of Malcolm X" (which I actually read twice to prove I wasn't a racist -- once wearing a Pendleton shirt) the author (and, see, while it's billed as an "autobiography," it's kind of a pretend one, if we're going to be technical; I just don't want to later be accused of bending over backwards to appear non-racist by omitting such a detail, you see!) ... Hmmm. Now where was I? ... Oh yes! The author points out a very interesting second tier of racism, wherein the White Man (if you'll forgive the expression) constantly differentiates between the races, i.e., "My black friend" or "There's this black guy in my reading club," but for no other descriptive purpose. It's an interesting distinction, for really, in a perfect world, shouldn't we not even notice if people are a different color, like on Star Trek?
It goes farther, of course, because many people aren't even aware of doing it. I've long marveled at the politicians and Right-wing liberals (yes, I've just created such an anomalie) who extole the virtues of colored folk with references to their being so "articulate" (as if it's some marvel) and "dignified" (as if it's a surprise), and of course the capper -- forever referring to a black guy as being a "gentleman" (I guess because it's patronizingly safe) ...
But, hell, I'm no better (except in most other ways). I'm can't deny that the differences stand out to me. Sometimes I wish they didn't, but then I wouldn't have as much material to write about.
(Of course there's the opposite side to this coin, wherein if one more black guy calls me "Sir" -- which I always feel is sarcastic -- I'm gonna start smashing my Sam Cooke records ... No, I'd never do that!)
Anyway, I think you get my point. And interestingly, I really have no use for Native American art either, although I like their casinos.
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