This is not political. This is grammatical.

"One person is not a troop." Thank you, William Saffire.

That individual soldiers are being referred to as "troops" has been secretly irking me for some time.

"...American presence of more than 160,000 troops in Iraq." New York Times
"...the addition of some 30,000 U.S. troops since February..." USA Today

Since finally vetting this, I'm relieved to know that my agitation is justified. (The scratched itch: what we all strive for in life. Am I right? Can I get a "Hells yeah!"?)


Troop, fighter, warrior, soldier...let's call the whole thing off.
Ok, that part was political.

This part, too:
An additional thank you to the Onion for its hard-hitting piece: "Bush Commits One Additional Troop To Afghanistan"

proud moment

Last night, while watching a rerun of "Corporate Crush" on 30 Rock [one of the best shows in recent history along with Curb Your Enthusiasm & Arrested Development (RIP)], I heard the most beautiful words:

"Hey! She dances like you! You dance like Liz Lemon!"

Feather in my cap. Thank you very much.

holy mackerel, mac

I'm in the middle of The Zen of Fish by Trevor Corson, and read this interesting snipit:

Sushi chefs divide all fish into three basic categories: red, white, and blue.
...Blue refers to fish that have silvery-blue skin, such as mackerel....Because the skin of these fish is silvery, sushi chefs also call them hikari mono, or "shiny things."
Sushi chefs began categorizing fish by color and shine in the early 1900s. Historians think that geishas in Tokyo's entertainment district may have been the first to popularize these categories by using them when dining with their clients. In Tokyo today, young people use a variation of the term "shiny fish" as a form of slang. They refer to girls who wear glitter and shiny clothes as "mackerel gals" because they look like shiny-skinned fish. In fact, mackerel have a reputation the world over for their ostentatious shine. In England, calling a man a "mackerel" meant he was a dandy; in France, it meant he was a pimp. It is from the latter usage that we get the term "mack daddy." (p. 154)

How could I not dig for more information?

From the Dictionary of American Slang:

mack n by 1887 A pimp; =mackman: …copped you a mack—Donald Goines [fr 15^th-century mackerel, “pimp,” fr Old French macquerel, perhaps related to Dutch makelaar, “trade, traffic,” hence ultimately to make, macher, etc]
See mac

mac¹ n by 1940s A mackintosh raincoat: His simple dream of naked girls in wet macs
See mack

mac² n by 1928 Man; fellow; =buster, jack ●Used in direct address, often with a mildly hostile intent: Take it easy, mac [fr the many surnames beginning with Mac or Mc]

mackerel See holy cats

mackman 1 n black by 1950s A pimp; =mack: …went back to…that young mackman?—C Cooper …a mere player masquerading as a mack-man—Village Voice 2 modifier: …for all his jackass mackman shit—Village Voice

From Urban Dictionary:

mack
mackerel
mac
Mack Daddy
mac daddy
mac daddy'n

via Bartleby.com:

Mawson, C.O.S., ed. (1870–1938). Roget’s International Thesaurus. 1922.
Class VI. Words Relating to the Sentient and Moral Powers
Section IV. Moral Affections
4. Moral Practice
962. Libertine.
procurer, pimp, pander or pandar, bawd, conciliatrix [L.], procuress, mackerel [archaic], wittol [obs.].

Who knew?

this may offend you

As a favor to a friend, I wrote up a review of a street fiction title, Flip Side of the Game by Tu-Shonda Whitaker. Figured I might as well get some extra mileage out of it.

From the back of the book:

Look out...cause here she comes!

Stepping to the forefront, award-winning author, Tu-Shonda Whitaker, proudly presents Miz Thing herself, "Vera Wright-Turner!"

"Don't hate the playah, hate the game!" is the anthem of this gold diggin' queen. Miz Thing is funny, passionate, and shoots it straight from the soul, as she welcomes you into her life of trials, tribulations, and triumphs of love.

After all, when she first greeted the scene, she was a newborn found in a plastic bag, crying in a trash dump, addicted to crack with a note that read: "Please forgive me, my mother's only fifteen." Well, that must've been a joke because, Vera's mother, also known as Rowanda Wright, is a chicken head that Vera Wants no part of. That is, until she meets six feet tall and deliciously fine Dr. Taj Bennett, who takes Vera on a journey that is one to be reckoned with; and this is just the beginning!

So, sit back, relax, and get yourself a drink or two, 'cause Vera has some Spike Lee-Hollywood-Oprahfied shit for ya ass!

You will soon discover that Flip Side of the Game is the story that the literary world has been waiting on!

My review:

For Vera Wright-Turner, life and love have been nothing but a "ma' fuckah". The first eight years of her life were spent surviving the Lincoln Street Projects with her mother and grandmother, both drug addicts whose first priority was their next high. Vera has seen and been through a lot, so, as she puts it, she "was born grown". She has every reason to cut ties with her past and all the people in it—no matter how good their intentions may be.

Now, life is good. Vera has a tight circle of girlfriends, her Aunt Cookie and Uncle Boy, and the education and beauty shop paid for with her tried and true gold diggin' ways. She's had enough hard times, she has learned the hustle, and has no intentions of getting played by love and "stuck on stupid". Vera comes to realize, though, that no matter what distance she puts between herself and life in the projects, it's never very far away. When she meets Dr. Taj Bennett, her ways and plays get called into question. She has to decide if she's willing and able to face her past, take a chance on love, and risk ending up on the flip side of a game she thinks she has mastered.

Some of the transitions and turns of phrase in the book are a little awkward, but Vera's humor and the descriptions of her exploits and experiences definitely make this worth reading. Tu-Shonda Whitaker delivers a great story line, dialogue, and characters with both wit and grit.

---

While not all street fiction books are the same, they are often very graphic and gritty depictions of street life: violence & crime; drug dealing & use; gold digging & hustling. Definitely not for the faint of heart. Also not for those who have low tolerance for shoddy grammar, misused or misspelled words, and mangled idioms. [These due in large part to the "big" publishers not signing street fiction authors...who then self-publish their work sans perusal by a careful editor. If their are never erors in you're writing, than throw the first rock.] In comparison to a couple other titles I've read, Flip Side is actually pretty tame on both fronts. Even so, I have to share just a couple gems from its pages:

"...he had my fat ass stretched out like the hum of a Negro spiritual." (pg. 13)

" 'What is wrong wit ya'll niggahs?' Aunt Cookie said, slightly drunk, but trying to maintain her composer.'" (pg. 166)

If you find these examples too repulsive or distracting, you won't likely enjoy this book. I enjoyed this book. Once I got settled into the vernacular, the spelling and grammar didn't phase me much. Think big picture.

The primary audience for this book and others in the genre is African American women, but in correctional facilities, street lit is a huge hit with just about anyone who can get their hands on it. Men who admittedly never picked up a book when they weren't incarcerated chew through several of these titles a week. I purchased Flip Side of the Game and its sequel, Game Over, was because I wanted to see what the frenzy was about. At the time, there was a huge waiting list of guys wanting to read them, and copies in the library's catalog had all been checked out and lost—no doubt still circulating, but from hand to hand, outside of the controlled checkout system.

With self-publication, then word of mouth, and now a change of heart by large publishers, this genre has exploded within the last few years. There's been some controversy about it within the black community. I've also heard varying opinions from librarians who work in corrections about whether or not incarcerated individuals should be allowed to read these books because they are believed to promote a negative lifestyle or because the books are checked out and never returned.

My opinions on the library stuff (because cause you know you want 'em):

First, people live their lives the way they do for reasons beyond any book's influence. As lives evolve, tastes and interests evolve.

Second, supply the material that people want to read and supply enough to reasonably keep up with demand. Create scarcity and you get hoarding. Provide enough of what people want, and they might actually think that you value them, might actually return books because there are enough to go around, and might actually feel like they have a place in libraries.

Have you read any street/urban/hip-hop fiction? No? Well, at least give it a try or Erin "will do a Rick James pimp slap summersault on yo' ass! Understand?" (p. 6)

good stuff

I really dig Maynard from Tool and A Perfect Circle.

From an interview with the A.V. Club (Maynard's the fella in the high waters and bow tie):

AVC: You don't print lyrics, but you make them available online. Why not simply make them part of the package, like your artwork?

MJK: Reading is more of a left-brain process, and listening to music is a right-brain function. And the right-brain function is far more emotional and has softer edges, so when you first hear the album, you should hear it and feel it. When you start "reading" it, then you're thinking it, and you rob yourself of that initial impression of how the sounds affect you. [Laughs.] I'm going to burn some sage right now—I'm about to burn some incense for this conversation. But seriously, I believe that when you go into a gallery or a museum, the most powerful pieces are the ones that don't have the words in the corner that distract you from the larger piece. You know, if the Mona Lisa had "Eat At Joe's" in the corner, that's all you would remember.

If you're adventurous, try Aenima or Thirteenth Step. The melodies and phrasing are just...different and, well, good. Be warned: it ain't no James Taylor. Try just listening first without images and lyrics.

[It should be noted that Maynard cites Joni Mitchell as an influence. I think I can see (hear) that.]

sideways glance

One of my oldest and closest friends told me a while back that had we not known each other since middle school—had we just met now—we probably wouldn't be friends. She had also said the same of another mutual friend—a shallow, right-leaning, money-loving, prestige-seeking mutual friend, mind you. She didn't mean any harm in saying this to me or to say that she didn't value our friendship. Neither was she implying that either of our lives was better than the other. Just different...and a bit incongruous. That stung a little.

I recently watched Sideways and the relationship between Miles and Jack got me thinking about this again.

My friend is probably right. Our lives are different, our priorities are different, many of our values are different...but different to the extent that as strangers we'd repel or at least not recognize something in each other's personality that we'd like to pursue? Probably not the former. Probably the latter.

If this is the case, then how do such unlikelihoods happen and what makes them stick?

The hodgepodge that is your cohort in middle and high school and college is definitely a factor, but the friendship incubation clinches it. The friendcubation. If you're lucky enough to stay in one place for a good chunk of time in your life from puberty on, and if you're lucky enough to have one or more people along with you to wade through that sludge, you've likely picked up one or more friends that got special consideration. A second glance and second chance. (And, in some rare cases such as the mutual friend mentioned previously, a third, fourth...or twenty-eighth chance.)

There has to be some measure of mutual appreciation, some glint of goodness recognized between you and another person in order for a friendship to have any odds of taking off. But for all the distractions and deflections of life, and individual perceptions and realities, you may not glean this from an occasional encounter.

In the midst of madness, though, with these individuals you discovered loveliness:
A brilliant mind.
A new perspective.
A kind, compassionate heart.
A good sense for nonsense (the importance of which can hardly be overstated).
A guaranteed, tell-it-like-it-is opinion.
Patience.
Resilience.
A penchant for mischief.
Good company for lounging.
Good company for cutting loose to play and explore.
An appreciation for good humor (more specifically, your humor).

Loveliness like this makes you want to be better or take a chance on something you might not otherwise try. It can also provide respite from feeling like you have to be anything other than who you are. It draws out your own loveliness.

For all of these and more reasons, these are friends to hang onto when you can--when distance or diverging life paths don't drive too much of a wedge between you and them. The best friendships are those that are unexpected. The ones that beat the odds.

Hi, Steve,

[I've responded here instead of in the comments because I'm glad to hear back from you and I don't know how many would ever fish back that far to read this exchange.]

I didn’t realize until your reply that my “I hear you clucking, big chicken,” could be misconstrued as name calling, though I can see why it could be. I really didn’t intend that, so please read that as an unrefined “I concur”—so as to say that I agree with your basic premise. Also, I’m the first to admit that I can go whole hog after an issue, and in the process overlook the reality that another’s priority-of-the-moment may not necessarily jive with mine. I’m sure that you have a life off line. I’d also moved on, but I’m really glad you came by to talk after all.

Since starting this blog and sorting through my own motivations, I’m realizing that one means for the intelligent interaction that I’d been starving for is out here with you and others who are thinking and processing and sharing. So, to some degree, you’re right: “So what?” We’re all wending around, spinning wheels, trying to both find and impart meaning on and between lines. Sometimes we hit on something good; sometimes…not so much. I know I’ve written some stinkers.

At the same time, I’m a little surprised that you downplay your written “wanderings” when they’ve obviously either inspired or are inspired by enough conviction to creative generalism to coin the concept and spawn a lengthy manifesto. In my mind, it would seem that all of this pushes past hobby blogging and implies intent to...what? I don’t know. That was the cloud I was trying to pin down.

I could have been clearer about the intent of my rant.

My librarianship semantics example was more to illustrate the value of moving beyond philosophizing. So you clearly can move to action beyond philosophy in the off-line world. I can appreciate your accomplishments, and I’m sure you’re very successful and productive. I'd love to hear more about the nitty gritty of your efforts in publishing or other struggles or triumphs...and a lot less belaboring the legitimacy of creative generalism.

I lean more toward expression and discussion that present something raw or new or that rummages and plucks out gemstones to show them in a new light. The nonsensical is also very much appreciated. I prefer revelation to regurgitation.

CG is your baby. Go on and nurture it. If I was throwing stones, it was in the hopes of hitting upon something more of substance.

Exit Sign

Another by Liz. I cannot read this out loud with out coming close to tears. Ok, sometimes they do sprout, depending on my frame of mind. It's just beautiful.

It's because so many want it.
Some small endings make hearts
beat like helicopter wings,
forgetting the sense of things
as wicked, devastating, heart-wrenching.

It's because so many see endings
as originating beginnings;
think they'll be survivors.

Lounging hopefuls in the hall;
faces blazing in the light of the exit sign.
Someone actually said it...
it would be a massive disease,
a modern plague, no cure.
She'd be a survivor, so said her dreams.
She'd rebuild society,
was looking forward to it.

These were her dreams.

And I dreamt of silence,
of pure and isolated ending.
I woke up, not a survivor,
not a savior,
but a cave of uselessness,
and the morning was red
and vacant.

Both this and the cow poem are ca. 1995, but she's still putting out great things. Not the least of which is a squash-banana-pistachio-green bean rhinoceros.