The Long and . . . Long Road

More commuting fun. But I'll wrap it up quickly.

Lulurule #1 Old people and stay-at-homes should stay off the roads until those of us who MUST be on the roads--going to work--are at work or back home. This gives them from approximately 10 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. to drive and go to the store and get all of their many chores done. From 7 p.m. until about 5:30 a.m., the road is for everyone.

*Addendum: If you are old or a stay-at-home and MUST be on the road during restricted hours because that was the absolute ONLY time that you could get in to see the doctor (and was it really the "only" time, or were you just not trying hard enough? Hmmm?), for God's sake drive the speed limit! Just because you have nowhere pressing to be doesn't mean that the rest of the world doesn't have to be somewhere--usually somewhere they don't want to be. And don't give me that crap about what a safe driver you are because you drive an average of 45 in a 55 (what--no cruise control on those Buicks?)--I've seen you. You don't signal. And you could have a heart attack at any time, leaving you only with your cataracts-the-size-of-glaciers to get you safely off the road.

Lulurule #2 Same thing at the grocery store. Don't go to the store at 4:45 p.m. when you have all damn day to be at the store! Chances are that I've just left work, picked up my kid, driven through the bank, waited at McDonalds for a happy meal, and then realized that we have no milk and the kid will whine the next morning if he doesn't have milk for his long commute into school, and I feel that heavy, oppressive obligation to go to Kroger and pick up some milk and a few other fresh groceries, meaning I have to unload and then reload the kid--again--and fight with all of the other worker bees who have similar duties, and I don't want you in my way, too.

That's all! : )

Porn and Politeness

Don't get excited. It's just that in my 35 minute commute and desperate radio channel surfing to try to find something decent to listen to in the wake of the Bob and Tom station switching formats to horrible 80's music and ripping Bob and Tom out of the Central City market I heard THREE references to pornography on THREE different stations! The first was on NPR. The story was about a recent court ruling that upheld the right to make even the most hardcore (so graphic "that we can't even explain it here". Darn.) porn. Then the folks on the "rock" station were talking about Boogie Nights and Wonderland (which is the story of a 70's porn guy and his early death, I think). Then, finally, Bob and Tom (coming in scratchy on a station far from Central City) were talking about porn and I can't even remember what they were saying. I have nothing to say about it, only that it's everywhere and it was bizarre to hear so much of it in such quick succession before 9 a.m.

The thing that put me in a foul mood was not the porn, but the song clip from some whiny, wailing bastard that they played on NPR. It was awful! Imagine the most annoying, overproduced "alternative" musical drone, a nasal, depressed singer singing in monotone, and these lyrics:

"Life in slow motion, somehow it don't feel real.
Life in slow motion, somehow it don't feel real.
Life in slow motion, somehow it don't feel reeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal."

So now that song is in my head. Pull into the parking lot at work, and some wanker has not taken my spot, but parked right beside it (there are other spaces available for this person!), keeping me from easily backing in. As I approach the building, I find that two other pedestrians are approaching and we are threatening to reach the door at about the same time. Sometimes you really want to walk alone, dig? So as I approach the door, I slow to avoid a collision, and she slows, so I slow, and she slows until I muster up a totally fakey happy little arm motion and smile encouraging her to "FREAKIN' GO ALREADY!!!"

Once inside, three people converge on the elevators. The person who pressed the button is furthest from the elevator that is opening. The lone gentleman is right beside said elevator, and I am somewhat close behind him. Doors open. Instead of just walking the two feet in, he pauses (like a nice guy, fine!) to let the button pusher on, meaning I must wait until she crosses the ENTIRE lobby, and then he waits for me even though I am standing pretty much directly behind him! I say "please--go ahead" and he pauses . . . then starts. But, during his pause, I had started, so now we're both going for it, so he stops and I fakey laugh and say "please! GET ON THE FUCKING ELEVATOR THIS IS NOT VICTORIAN FUCKING ENGLAND." And then I have to ask them to push my button, as if they hadn't pushed it enough already!

This is when I hate the Midwest. All these people are just so good and so polite--salt of the earth? You betcha!--but, really, all they want to do is watch raunchy porn.

Little Birdy Lulu

Given how far removed we are (or think we are) from our animal nature, it strikes me as odd that many, many pregnant women find themselves "nesting" in the weeks before a birth. It's an obnoxiously, if accurately, titled phenomenon, and here's a bit about it from the Pregnancy Weekly Web site:

Nesting Instinct
Around the fifth month of pregnancy, the "nesting" instinct can set in. This is an uncontrollable urge to clean one's house brought on by a desire to prepare a nest for the new baby, to tie up loose ends of old projects and to organize your world.Females of the animal kingdom are all equipped with this same need. It is a primal instinct. Just as you see birds making their nests, mothers-to-be do exactly the same thing. The act of nesting puts you in control and gives a sense of accomplishment toward birth. You may become a homebody and want to retreat into the comfort of home and familiar company, like a brooding hen. The nesting urge can also be seen as a sign of the onset of labor when it occurs close to 40 weeks of pregnancy.Nesting brings about some unique and seemingly irrational behaviors in pregnant women and all of them experience it differently. . . . They have also reported doing things like taking apart the knobs on kitchen cupboards, just so they could disinfect the screws attached to the knobs. Women have discussed taking on cleaning their entire house, armed with a toothbrush. . . . Cleaning the kitchen cupboards and organizing everything by size to the point that you make sure the silverware patterns match when it's stacked in the cutlery drawer.

I must say that I am doing similar things. At first I thought it was just my usual run-a-tight-ship nature, intensified by the burst of energy I get from the blessed! blessed! change of season (I am NOT good in the heat). But then I came to realize that it was out of control. My house, which is usually clean, gets pretty messy during the week. Not anymore. Little messes are ruthlessly contained each evening. Even my desk--usually a seething mass of un-dealt-with catalogs and unfiled bills--is shockingly orderly. "Duh!" I thought. "I'm nesting!"

The first time around, with Stevie, my nesting was much more physical. Kevin and I had just moved into the converted carriage house on Kevin's parents' property that was our little home. It had an A-frame attic space that was unused and practically screaming to be converted into a wonderful bedroom. Kevin got all over it, laying down a floor, putting up drywall, installing three skylights, building a headboard, shelves, etc. On the eve before Stevie's birth, I spent the entire day mudding drywall. Since this was, remember, an A-frame, much of the time mudding was spent sitting on the ground, reaching waaaaay in front of me where the wall met the floor, squishing the basketball-size lump that was my son. I went to bed at 9 p.m., awoke at midnight to go to the bathroom, and my water broke. Kevin had just gotten done after an entire day of labor, only to drive me to the hospital so I could start mine. We were a bit tired. Stevie was tired, too--tired of being squashed by his broody mother.

I didn't realize I was nesting then. It took Kevin's cousin to point that out to me when I wondered aloud just why the hell I was making a huge batch of potato salad from scratch in the final days of my final trimester.

This time around, I've gone house mad. Though not scrubbing all of the cabinet pull screws, I am in the process of replacing the cabinet pulls, which is a long process requiring loads of thought (and money! We need 35 of them, and they average $4 each!). I've started cleaning out the cupboards, which means Murphy's Oil Soap inside and out, a thorough cleaning of each individual piece of stemware in my "bar", and careful organization of what remains. This is not so hard, because I normally keep my cabinets pretty well organized and free of fluff. But now they have to be more like Super Clean and Organized.

Also, adding to the nesting hysteria, I am outfitting each and every naked window in my house with new curtains and rods. That quest will continue today at lunch, when I seek out the final few rods. I will finish the cabinets this weekend, too. I've already done the rec room part of the basement (carefully alphabetizing every last CD and checking strays for the correct content) and the pantry--like, ALL the shelves in the pantry, reorganizing food, etc. I may also take on the storage part of the basement, going through boxes of school lessons, craft supplies, and so many damn picture frames and mattes that I just don't know how I acquired that many picture frames and mattes!

The good news is, once again, that my house is already pretty clean and clutter-free. What I have planned is like waxing a clean car--not necessary for my mental health, but deeply satisfying in that 'can't-be-any-doner' sorta way.

One more thing--the quilts. Suddenly I am on a quilting rampage! I am sorting fabrics that will be made into people's Christmas gift quilts. I am finishing and batting and backing and basting all unfinished quilt tops, readying them for a surge of handquilting. I had Kevin bring up my quilting--AND nursing--chair and my special quilting light from the basement. I made a special trip all the way to Columbus on a weekend to buy . . . thread. Now I'm stocked, man. I am so ready.

I must say that fall is the perfect season to be in the final trimester. My lord I love autumn! I just got the official medical word that the two parts of my pelvic bone are grinding against themselves, which leads to constant discomfort, which makes me feel guilt-free about not exercising (beyond the irrational housework workout). We'll have two cords of wood stacked this weekend, and I can hardly wait for that first cozy and penetrating woodstove fire, the first wisps of woodsmoke. And, yes Hank, I'm ready for some football. So I feel completely, utterly entitled to sit in my chair, quilt, watch football, and wait out the rest of this pregnancy . . . when my decluttering and special projects and drape-hanging and shower-curtain making are done.

Did Lulu Poop in the Woods?

Yes.

If you read the first post about the cabin I lived in during most of my college days, you know that said cabin had no electricity, no running water, and, thus, no plumbing.

Similarly, the "main" house was also very rustic, but there were a few amenities. There was a gasoline-powered generator, for example, that cranked up electricity which was stored in four car batteries outside the door. These batteries could power a few light bulbs and, for a blessedly short time, a small black and white television set. Mostly, though, they powered my Tao landlord's power tools. Still, the use of any kind of electricity was exceedingly rare.

As for water, the main house at least had a "system" consisting of barrels and insulation and gravity. There was a barrel on the second floor that held rainwater. This gravity-fed water into pipes in the kitchen sink. Water drained directly to the outside. The bathroom was in the lower, entry-level of the house. This entry-level space consisted of a mudroomy bench, a large wood stove, an old bathtub, an old sink, and a greenhouse of sorts where kitchen herbs and stuff could grow. There were a few steps up into the main house beside the stove. Above the stove was another barrel of gravity fed water that was butted up against the stovepipe. This barrel was insulated and, in the cold months, the stovepipe would heat the water to a reasonable degree and one could take warm, gravity-fed showers and even wash hands in a real sink with warm water!

My cabin had no such luxuries. Water was carried in REI water bags and one of those picnic-type water carriers up the hill to the cabin. There was a kitchen sink for washing dishes that had no pipes--water ran directly out onto the ground. Of course, we used biodegradable soap! When you use water only for washing hands, brushing teeth, cooking, and washing dishes, and there's no chance of water continuing to run as you do these things, you don't use a whole lot. Usually I showered in the student center in Athens. In summer, as I wrote before, I often bathed in the creek. Occasionally, on very special occasions akin to comp'ny comin' on Little House on the Prairie, I heated up a large potful of water and washed my hair in creamy warm luxurious suds.

So . . . what about a toilet? There was an outhouse near the bottom of the hill behind the main house. It was made out of wood but, unlike the outhouse in your dreams, was screened on the private, uphill side (and the away-from-the-house side, too, I think) so you could look up into the woods. There was always a large population of spiders residing in the corners. The toilet bowl was a large plastic barrel encased in a wooden platform and outfitted with a toilet seat. You pooped right into the barrel and covered it with lime. Tao landlord had made some kind of opening in the bottom of the barrel and, somehow, things got somewhat composted before leaching their way into an even bigger hole underneath the barrel and then out into the earth itself. Nothing fancy, certainly, but relatively non-polluting and rarely smelly. It had quite the ventilation system!

One time, Jeff (my college boyfriend and longtime cabin roommate) and I had a party, and all of his mainstream, apartment-dwelling friends from Northwest Ohio came down. After a good amount of partying, one of his funnier friends made a visit to the outhouse. It just so happened that this was during a period of relatively heavy outhouse use. This is pretty gross, but I'm going to say it anyway. Because most butts are built the same way, the poop would form a sort of "mound". Jeff's friend, who was very high, had looked into the barrel, observed said mound, and made his way back up to the campfire. He commented on the mound, saying that, if you took whipped cream and "ringed" the mound most of the way up with it, it would look "just like Mt. Everest." You would've thought this was the funniest thing anyone had ever said, and we were sober as Lutherans. I swear.

There were problems with this set-up, though, for me. The outhouse was far away--about 1/4 of a mile downhill through the woods! This made planning a necessity. When you first felt the urge to go, you'd better start walking, because bouncing down a hill in the last stages of poop labor with a toilet in mind is not the most biologically helpful way to retain solids. I must confess that there were a few times when I just didn't get on it fast enough. As a result, I really did have to poop in the woods, but I was very discreet. To properly poop in the woods, you need to dig a hole. Because there were a lot of big, yet manageable, rocks around, I would venture off to a part of the immediate woods where I didn't do a lot of walking, hoist a rock out of the ground, and dig down a bit further with a handy garden spade (if necessary). When finished, I burned the toilet paper in the hole (the lighter was conveniently located next to the spade and toilet paper) and covered it all with dirt and the rock. Don't worry--I never struck the same rock twice! This is how you should poop when camping, too--and stay far away from water (and bears).

The distance of the outhouse was also a problem in the winter months. You can imagine how irritating it must be to be all cozied up in a woodsmoke-smellin' cabin, reading a book, at night, while the wind howls and the snow swirls outside, and you have to poop. Boots on, coat on, trek to the damn outhouse. (Remember: going down means a 1/4 mile back UP, in the snow, in the dark.)

The second problem was the distance of the outhouse when all I needed to do was pee. I never went all the way down there for that. Instead, I peed camping style all over the woods. In the cold winter months (or on freaky dark nights) I squatted over the side of the porch, hanging on to the corner post. Toilet paper was deposited into a heavy-duty plastic bag (like a Target bag!) which hung on a nail on the porch. Periodically I started a fire and burned it.

The best thing about this kind of bathroom was not using water. We are the only species on the planet that cleans water in an energy-sucking way, craps in it, and then flushes millions of gallons away to be purified again in an energy-sucking way and deposited back into streams. As one of my former teaching colleagues so eloquently put it, we shit in our water glass everyday. And when you just barely pee, and maybe 1/4 of a cup comes out, we flush that away, too, in a mindless waste of 6-12 gallons of water.

In my dream house, I'll have an indoor toilet. Oh, yes, I'll have an indoor f&*king toilet! But it will be a composting toilet of some sort. Oh, yes, it will f&*king compost!

Next question?

On Music: Part II You've Got a Friend in Me . . . as long as you hate Randy Newman, too

I told Kevin about the James Taylor conversational sidebar and asked him his opinion of James Taylor. Of course, he agreed with me, stating that James was an over-hyped hack. My husband knows a lot about music, too—more than me, I confess, especially when it comes to specifics. I value his opinion. Especially when it meshes with mine, which is blessedly often.

He said that James Taylor rode the wave of really talented singer-songwriters like Joni Mitchell, Paul Simon, and Carole King. (I say that his marriage to Carly Simon didn’t hurt, either.) He was a cute guy with a good voice in the right place at the right time. Kevin spoke of him in the same way that he speaks about Clapton. That is not good news for James Taylor (I know—like he cares!).

The bottom line here is that music is THE reason that Kevin and I are together in the first place. We met at KZMU in Moab, Utah, a public radio station where we were both volunteer DJs. When he played Devo’s version of the Stone’s (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction during his otherwise kick-ass cowpunk and welfare music Lizard Skinner show, I took a second look at this physical manifestation of Lennon’s glass onion. This really cute onion. And I found myself a husband.

If Kevin had been a big James Taylor fan, or if I had been, we would never had dated, let alone gotten married. It’s a harsh world.

Yes, music is THAT important.

Think about it. Think about your spouse, your significants, your closest friends. One thing that you probably have in common is your taste in music. You might not like all of the same stuff, but I’d be willing to bet that you like most of the same stuff. (For those of you who don’t care much about music one way or the other, I bet those closest to you don’t care much, either.) How did you meet your friends and lovers? Was there music being played? If not, did you discuss music soon after meeting? Did you check out their CD and/or record collection when you first saw their pad? Were you happy, or did you see their extensive Styx collection and run the other way?

My taste in music has defined my friendships, my social status, and just me throughout my life. One of my first important musical moments occurred when I received AC/DC’s Highway to Hell for my 10th birthday. I still sang along to Grease with my girlfriends at slumber parties, but I was destined for rock ‘n’ roll. My girlfriends? Most of them were destined to buy Top Hits of the 80s! compilation CDs when they were older. We parted ways.

In my ‘tween years, I listened to Judas Priest and the Scorpions and pasted their ugly posters all over my red-ceilinged room. I saw the horribly lovable Rock and Roll High School and got a live Ramones album. I saw Urgh! A Music War and got my first earful of the disturbingly wonderful Cramps. My teenage brother listened to classic (and, at that time, current) rock on Q FM 96 and I did, too. Still do. I vividly remember listening to Neil Young’s Hey Hey, My My on my brother’s treble-heavy truck stereo. I felt cool. Loving Neil Young still makes me feel cool. I watched Night Flight on the new phenomenon that was cable TV and was introduced to Bob Marley (legendary) and Grace Jones (um . . . interesting!).

When I was 16, I met my best friends Jon and Ted and my intense musical education began. And so did the social stigmatization. Music’s power to separate people into groups is remarkable. If you don’t listen to Hank, you ain’t shit. I listened to Hank—I grew up listening to Hank!—but I didn’t live Hank, so I was as good as out in Podunk High. In turn, I rejected those backward shitkickers for not getting The Jesus and Mary Chain, the Dead Kennedys, Swans, and the Sex Pistols. I hung out with the very few people who did. We dressed weird. Our social views broadened to the world outside of prom. I was one of the first people in the Midwest to pierce my nose, or so it seemed.

Out of high school, I went straight to Crazy Mama’s and Staches. I didn’t sneak in to drink; I snuck in to listen and to dance. I discovered the Butthole Surfers—THE band of my late teens and early twenties. I hung with other people who loved the Butthole Surfers, and Sonic Youth, and Mudhoney. We wore the same shitty Salvation Army clothes—ironically, the same clothes the former hippies and listeners of Jimi Hendrix, the Who, and the golden era of the Rolling Stones wore. My friends and I listened to—hell, well-nigh worshipped—those bands, too. And classic soul. And acid house. And rockabilly. And anything else that you’d never hear on the radio or be able to buy at some soulless, sell-out music store. No, you had to go underground to get this stuff. And by going underground, you became part of the underground. It’s this distinction that forges connections and the closest relationships.

Throughout our 20s, we looked like the people we listened to, we did the same hallucinogenic drugs as the people we listened to (no heroin, though, despite my fascination with the music of junkies. I saw the needle and the damage done), some of us were the people we listened to. Pretty much all of my boyfriends throughout this era were musicians. We had no interest in getting to know people who listened to whatever was popular then. None! Judgmental, huh?

It was, and is, so easy (and amusing) to peg what people listen to. Metalheads, Goths, Deadheads, Punks, and followers of Dave Matthews and Tobey Keith give it away with their clothing alone. Young people who are on a truly alternative musical path almost always start with drunken and embarrassing renditions of The End by the Doors at some skanky party. There are many pathways from there but, thankfully, they usually lead to something good. People who rarely venture far from the Top 40 are often woefully boring in all other aspects of their life, too. After all, if you’re willing to settle for corporate schlock, well . . . good for you. White boyz with their underwear aglow listen to Eminem—is there anyone else? Others might take a little longer in the reveal, but it’s rarely surprising. The varied group of people that I eat lunch with have offered no shockers when it comes to their musical preferences. And I judge them accordingly. Wink.

I've got to wonder if your personality and worldview is shaped by the music you listen to, or if your personality and worldview leads you to certain music in the first place. I’ve lightened up considerably in my acceptance of those who don’t listen to the blues, Zappa, and my beloved Velvet Underground, and even of those who prefer the Beatles to the Stones (both great), but find that the people closest to me are those with whom I’m most musically compatible. It’s undoubtedly because the soundtrack of my life is not just background music. It’s actually important to the plot and sets a tone. Think Rushmore. Think The Graduate. (Oo—this is a great time to start thinking about the all-time greatest movie soundtracks!) Shared music means shared experiences. If I meet someone who loves White Light/White Heat, Exile on Main Street, Exile in Guyville, or Maggot Brain, we have an instant connection.

When Kevin and I were getting to know each other, it was a relief to both of us when we realized that we had music in common. Here was this very non-descript looking guy (you might have pegged him for a Boston fan!) from the small-town Midwest, yet he knew music. He had ventured further musically than his upbringing required, and while he loved Tom Petty, and Led Zep, and The Allman Brothers, and Stevie Ray Vaughan, he had traveled further on, educating himself about the influencers of those rock gods—especially the bluesmen. He knew the deep tracks. He preferred multi-talented Chuck Berry to over-hyped Elvis Presley. I was sold. Even now, six glorious years later, we can entertain ourselves for at least an hour by hashing out the 10 best rock guitarists of all time. Drummers, too--Keith Moon is undisputed #1. Or having Kevin guess the "top ten heavy rock artists of all time" according to VH1. Good times.

I am very curious to hear what you all have to say about this, if anything. I know these thoughts are not new, but it's OK to be derivative. Some musicians have made mystifying careers out of it (I'll refrain from saying who). And throw in those great movie soundtracks!

On Music: Part I "Not-So-Sweet Baby James"

The other day at lunch we were discussing music when some idiot brought up James Taylor. I am that idiot. To paraphrase, I said James Taylor is an over-hyped hack. Others vehemently disagreed.

James Taylor came up because of Beck. I love Beck, but I didn’t like his album Sea Change (what I heard of it) because it’s pretty slow and boring and deals with breakups, and I’m past all of that. In an interview, Beck mentioned that he had listened to a lot of James Taylor albums either before or during the creation of his own album, and that he thought James Taylor was some sort of quintessential singer-songwriter.

I vehemently disagree.

Because I’ve been re-watching all of Sex and the City this past week, I’m going to turn into Carrie Bradshaw and say . . .

“I couldn’t help but wonder . . . can music be judged objectively? Or is musical beauty in the ear of the beholder?”

I know you’re dying to hear the answer, so here it is. Musical taste is subjective. Therefore, if someone calls your music “pure crap!” don’t sweat it. You probably don’t like all of their choices, either, and no one else’s opinion should ever—EVER—cloud your personal enjoyment of a song or any other work of art.

Does that mean there is no room for objectivity in music? No! See? No more confusion. Within any art form there are standards. Those who immerse themselves in the art form—let’s stick to music—become quite knowledgeable about what it takes to craft a great pop song, write an opera, or master a musical instrument. In their minds a musician like John Coltrane gets two big thumbs up; Ashlee Simpson . . . eh, not considered worthy of a dirty fingernail clipping, let alone a digit.

There’s another side to this story which, to me, is the really interesting part, and that is the role that music plays in our social lives and the formation of our personal identity. That’s in Part II.

Even though this isn't a vendetta against JT, his name came up and he's a good example of all of this. So let’s talk about James Taylor for a minute. He’s considered by many to be a musical legend, the picture-boy of the singer-songwriter frenzy of the 1970s. If you think this, fine. But tell me—how many great songs has Jim actually written? Stop and think about it for a minute. Time’s up.

Just a few, really, if you use the term “great” liberally: Sweet Baby James, Fire and Rain, Carolina in My Mind. Some of his biggest hits—You’ve Got a Friend, How Sweet It Is, Mockingbird—were other people’s songs. Flip is right—it’s not his fault that these songs made it big and are associated with him. But when you’re talking about great singer-songwriters, well, he’s a really good singer, but he’s missing half the equation there.

What is the equation? According to The All Music Guide to Rock, “. . . singer-songwriters put the emphasis on their material, rather than their vocal delivery, stylistic signatures, or musical backing . . . . Both the compositions and the arrangements are written primarily as solo vehicles, rather than with full rock ‘n’ roll bands in mind. . . . The material tends toward the introspective, sensitive, romantic, and confessional, though it is not as wholly self-absorbed as some critics claim. They are not singles-oriented artists (though there have been quite a few massive singer-songwriter hit singles), but craft albums as complete, flowing statements.”

You might think that I just don’t like the genre. It’s not my favorite, to be sure, but I listen to a good deal of it. Carole King’s Tapestry was and is totally great—the classic, the epitome of the genre. You want great, really great singer-songwriters? I give you Paul Simon! Van Morrison! Neil Young! Joni Mitchell! And old what’s-his-name . . . oh, yeah—Bob Dylan! My husband added Greg Brown. And I just thought of John Prine. And don’t forget about the dark side of the genre—Tom Waits. To me, all of these folksy folks (and Tom Waits) beat the pants off of James Taylor.

So what does this all mean?

Absolutely nothing! It’s 94% my subjective opinion put forth on my blog. However, I am reserving the right to say that 6% of my little essay about James Taylor is objective. I’m being diplomatic. Music is something that I know a little sumpn’ about. I’ve been an avid listener since I was a child. I’ve compiled the material for and taught classes about popular music. I’ve read about it, had intense conversations with musicians and other music lovers about it, and seen a lot of performances. I named my kid after musicians.

So while I may sneer when a certain musician is mentioned, and even change my perception about a person ever so slightly for better or worse depending on who they like, I will concede that there is no accounting for musical taste. We like what we like. If you want to learn more about music—if you want to more fully appreciate it—you’ll open yourself up to it and really listen to it. You’ll discuss it with others. You’ll be open to others’ criticism of an artist that you love, yet not let their opinions dampen your enjoyment. And you’ll go home immediately and burn your James Taylor’s Greatest Hits album. Just kidding, of course.

Addendum! Last night--two days after this was written--I was watching football and guess who sang the national anthem? That's right! "One of America's Greatest Singer-Songwriters!" So that nails my argument. If someone who books singers for football games calls him great . . . well, that never holds up . . . except in the case of Paul McCartney. Ah, forget it.

I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm the Chairman of the . . . BORED!

Thank you, Iggy Pop.

Elijah Wood was being interviewed on Bob and Tom this morning. He's apparently going to star in a bio-pic of Iggy Pop! That should be very interesting.

Much, much more interesting than my own work which, right now, consists of me answering questions from schools regarding the content of our books. For example, do they 'avoid use of offensive or sexist language which may make implications about persons or groups based solely on their culture, ethnicity, race, disability, or sex?' And 'do these materials portray the various elements of the American society and culture in a way that contributes to mutual understanding and acceptance?' Is this the job of the textbook companies now? Oh, what I wouldn't give to be a total smartass in the face of questions like this.

I mean really. What do these folks expect us to say? But instead of just saying "yes" and moving on, I have to explain how our books don't engage in these Bad Things, which is not easy. Do you say "we never described women as 'bitches' or 'hos' even once!"? You see my dilemma. This is how I am spending my week. It is deadly boring, and I am ever on the lookout for distractions.

So I have been tossing around future topics for Rural Fetish. Among them:

1. My displaced analysis of subjectivity and objectivity in music, using the much loved/maligned James Taylor as a focal point.

2. Further stories about my life in the cabin. However, I don't know what to talk about next. It's easier to just answer people's questions, like 'where did you go to the bathroom'?

3. Who's going to stay home when the baby comes. Day care for both children will set us back over $1500.00 a month. Crazy.

4. Why a recent poll found that around 1/2 of Americans reject evolution. No--it's best to stay away from that one.

5. The recent "where are they now" query starring yours truly on my high school alumni Web site, and the phenomena of people who care about such things. The person who asked about me was a person I had to look up in the yearbook to remember.

Comments and other distractions are welcome.

It's Your World, Burb. We just live in it.

Burb, what a pity that your comments were slimed by slimy bloggers. That facial hair/vagina confusion post was great! Fearing that my comment would be buried, and knowing that I would probably drone on and on, I decided to post my comment here.

By the way, if you are wondering WTF, check out Burb's site at www.whywontyougrow.blogspot.com.

Before I get into it, what do YOU think of that Slate article, Burb? Posting a provocative article and posing its questions while not answering them yourself is, well, not very manly. Or were you just being polite? Seeing as how you are one of the only fathers who regularly reads our little circle of blogs, your comments would be most welcome.

First . . . the beard. I say ditch the goatees and go straight for the full, manly beard. Is there a man more man than you? No? Then grow a beard and prove it for those of us who are on the outside.

Second . . . men who can't get it up once they've seen their wives push one out. A baby, that is. This topic came up during our girl's day out to Athens! The overwhelming response in my car was, basically, "Fuck 'em! Stupid Madonna/Whore Complex-stewin' creeps!" But, having thought more about it, and not having read the original article that started it all, I'd have to say that maybe our judgement was a little harsh.

I personally can't imagine Kevin not being present for the birth of our children. I don't understand why fathers wouldn't want to be part of that experience. It's rare, and interesting, and, yes, 'special'. However, being present in the room and supporting his gal doesn't mean that he has to watch the baby emerge from her wildly contorted vagina! I can certainly understand why anyone would be squeamish about that--I wouldn't want to watch a liposuction, or knee surgery, or a colonoscopy. It's fascinating, sure, but kind of a big mess!

I also realize that it's tough for a loving guy to hear his lover bellow like a dying animal. Even with epidurals and C-sections, many women go through hours of labor. Those of us who stupidly chose to forgo drugs carry on for a loooooooong time. It hurts. You've heard comedians yammer about what it feels like--I believe it was Carole Burnett who said it felt like pulling your bottom lip over the top of your head. Bill Cosby related that his wife did nothing but yell obscene things at him--a routine that has become the annoying standard in every movie and TV show since. But neither one quite has it. No one has pulled their lower lip over their head, so it's tough to relate. But everyone has had diarrhea. Imagine the most painful diarrhea cramps you've ever had--when you're dreaming of a toilet, sweating, cold-sweating, and it feels like a very large man has his hands on your guts and is squeezing, twisting, and pulling. Got it? Now magnify by, oh 5-7, give yourself 10-20 seconds between spasms, and then don't poop. Never poop. Do not relieve yourself. That's the advanced stage of labor, baby. The "transition", as they so helpfully say. When you finally get around to telling the nurse-midwife "I have to poop", that signals the time to start pushing. NOW the baby is ready for the trip through the tiny tunnel! Hours and hours of increasing pain leading to near complete physical and emotional exhaustion, and now the baby decides he is ready. Yes, she is ready for you to put in more physical exertion than you've ever exerted in your life, just to "push! push! push!", feel her move about 1/8 of an inch and . . . then . . . slink back in about 2 feet.

After Stevie was born, I asked Kevin what it was like to be there. (I was in another world--a world . . . of pain. Boo hoo!) He wasn't grossed out by anything he saw--and he saw plenty, or by cutting the gristle-y umbilical cord, or all the blood, or anything physical. He said "I never want to see you in that much pain again." Awwwwww.

So I can see how the memory of watching and hearing a woman--your woman--give birth might creep into your mind and destroy the image of your gal as a pink lacy sexx thang. Her vagina is no longer your vagina. It is just one of millions of vaginas that do spooky things to bring more of whatever species into the world. It's a lot like breasts that are actually employed to feed babies--they are no longer perky bra-stuffers, waiting patiently for some frat boy to throw water on them so the carrier can wiggle around.They are swollen, rock-hard organic formula deployers, absolutely too painful to touch, and, on a fair-skinned gal, resemble a road map of rural West Virginia if West Virginia's roads were constructed of veins. A lot of men are grossed out by all of this. It's understandable!

But I would have a hard time understanding. It smacks too much of unfortunate (yes, unfortunate) men who, for whatever reason, cannot span the gap between their image of women as either virginal mamas or dirty girls. Most men don't get to this point in a vacuum--these messages are all around and have been forever--so it's tough to release the hounds in isolation. Still, it's an outdated, sexist notion that screws with healthy sexuality. Men (and women) can get beyond this notion! Perhaps the bile mentioned in the article is really meant for those men who don't just have the problem, but refuse to acknowledge that it is a problem. If a man only sees a woman's body in terms of his own pleasure, and can't reconcile the fact that vaginas and breasts are fun yet have a biological life of their own, he has a problem.

I think that many women are really tired of bearing the brunt of men's haphazard sexual views of them. For the most part, the women deemed most "fuckable" are those who constantly cover up their biological selves. They stuff goo-filled whoopie cushions under their rib cages to create absolutely unreal profiles. They scrub and lacquer and comb and shave until every last whiff and stray hair of nature is hidden. So when a woman does all of this and then some guy goes to town and deposits a very biological load of DNA into her vagina, and she goes through the natural process of pregnancy and childbirth, and then that same guy says "Ew!", it's quite annoying.

There's more I could say. I could say that I have a dual-purpose vagina and can happily report that one use does not negate the other. I could say that there are a lot of women who are disgusted by the dual-purpose of the penis and leave their husbands dreaming about BJs for the rest of their married lives because they just can't bring themselves to put that thing into their winterfresh mouths! (And we all know how frustrating that must be because "What man would want to go the rest of his life without a BJ once he's had one"? Huh? Boo-yah!) But I'll end by saying that it's his problem and his responsibility to get over it. And if he won't? (Don't) Fuck 'em!