THREE POEMS
Ensouled
The first thought
A lacrosse mom
Wasted on sports and lawyers
A shadow puppet princess
Falling on the prison wall
Bone Frog
In a canoe pin
Peter Pan hat
How it becomes clear
In the parking lot
Of Target exactly
What’s waiting
At the
Vanishing
Point
She Waves
A gesture
At once parody
Of her position
As "Class Barbie"
And the strongest
Possible affirmation
Of it
It has come to my attention that several comments concerning UBU have been made on another, far more obscure website. Therefore, in order to insure the widest possible audience for my responses, I present them in this forum.
Cousin Geoff writes:
Why does UBU hate on Mark Maynard so much? It’s certainly entertaining.
Dear Cuz,
Entertaining, indeed. But then is UBU ever anything less? The truth is that I have been entrusted by Mark’s therapist with the delicate task of making appropriately deflating comments whenever Mark’s megalomania threatens to become pathological rather than merely annoying, which, sad to say, is only too often.
Mark [Member] asks:
And how’s your cite traffic, Ubu?
Dear Mark,
I assume that you, in you charmingly dyslexic way, are trying to make a veiled comment about the traffic citation I received approximately a year ago, which you have no doubt learned of through your contacts at the highest levels of government, including John Dingell and, you claim, the Pope. I have been absolutely transparent about my speeding violation, and although the speed limit at the location of my "bust" has since been raised to the level I was then traveling, I take full and complete responsibility for my careless actions of that night, and, what is more, have fully paid my debt to society. Therefore your clumsy attempts at blackmail and humiliation are doomed to failure. As for the identity of the passenger in my car, she is a private citizen, not (as has been rumored on various internet sites), the governor of either Michigan or Alaska, and as such is entitled to continued anonymity.
Always happy to relieve the public’s curiosity,
I remain
Yr Pal,
UBU
Advantage
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the gloom of the bar, but there she is, the ever distinctive Heather, wedged in the corner behind a railing. Things are pretty much in full swing already and I have to fight my way to her through the crowd.
"Hey, Heather," I say. "Funny, but I never pictured you as a wallflower."
Her glance flickers over me before returning to the dance floor. "Whatever. I’m just not getting into this."
Most of the old crew’s out there, her former running mates, Tekla as polished as ever, looking like a newly revised edition of The Preppie Handbook in her plaid pants, short jacket and white turtleneck, while Kathy, on the other hand, with her severe hair cut, striped button down shirt and corduroys suggests nothing more than a dyke gym teacher, an impression strengthened by the arm she’s draped carelessly around Sallie, who, as usual, is dressed in an extremely fashionable way that’ll seem dated in a year or two.
"I don’t know," I say. "Looks like people are having fun to me."
"Hmmmm." Heather sways a little as she turns to face me, those great grey eyes blinking, and I can tell that she’s already pretty wasted. "You. What are you doing here anyway? You’re not our year."
"Ah, nothing. I was just in the neighborhood and I thought I’d drop in and see what you crazy kids are up to."
"Hmmmm." She tips the glass to her lips before realizing it’s empty, then stares dowm, rattling the ice cubes. "Fuck. Buy a girl a drink, will you Charlie?"
"Sure thing, Heather."
"Vodka tonic." She stretches back to the rail, handing the glass out crookedly and I almost drop it. "Careful now."
The room’s even more packed and it’s an effort just to get across. Standing at the bar, waiting, a twenty between my fingers, I look back at Heather, and it’s strange to see her standing there, alone above the welter of the dance floor. Sure she had her moments of lassitude back in the day, but I remember her most vividly in motion, tearing down the hall, madly headed somewhere, or, indeed, dancing at a party. She was probably the best dancer I’ve ever seen off a stage – she’d do this move she called the jump back jack, which would leave us all literally openmouthed.
But she’s not dancing now, and in fact there’s something disconcerting about her stiff posture, stolid and immobile as the indirect bar light crosshatches over the fixed curves of her body. It’s not that she doesn’t look great in her black tank top and patterned skirt an inch shorter than anyone else’s, those still breathtaking legs shimmering in black stockings – buy yet – there’s a time when a girl like Heather’s clothes can’t be too tight and a time when some things are better left to the imagination.
I weave my way back through the buzzing swarm, holding the drink protectively over my head.
"Finally." Heather immediately takes a long sip as a new song starts, another oldie from someone’s attempt to create a nostalgic soundtrack. "Disco," she snorts. "Like we ever listened to disco."
The vodka and tonic soon disappears, followed by several others, and I seem to spend as much time making my way to and from the bar as I do with Heather. She’d always been something of a party girl, but what she’s doing tonight doesn’t seem much like partying.
Eventually things calm down a little and people start circulating, a few of them finding their way to a glowering Heather, and soon, no doubt, regretting it.
"I’m so sick of this bullshit," she says as the latest turns away. "I am so out of here." She suddenly lurches for the door, stumbling almost immediately.
"Whoa there, Heather. Watch yourself," I say, stepping in front of her. "Don’t you think it would be a good idea if maybe I gave you a ride home?"
"Yeah, maybe." She squints at the smoke obscured exit sign. "At least give me a hand."
I take her elbow and half-steer, half-support her past the knots of people, some of whom call out to her.
"Yeah, all right, I guess that ride thing’ll probably work," she says when we finally reach the sidewalk. "Just don’t go taking advantage of me, O.K.?"
"Sure thing, Heather," I say, then add in my pallid Jimmy Stewart imitation "There are rules about that."
"Yeah, you were always kind of a pussy about it, weren’t you?" She laughs, holding on to the car door with both hands when I open it.
Even after I’m in the driver’s seat turned the key she still hasn’t gotten in. "Heather?"
"Yeah, yeah." She sort of pivots, squirming her way onto the seat, her tight skirt riding up to the top of her stockings.
"Heather, the door."
"All right, all right, give me a chance, will you?" She leans out unsteadily and slams it shut. "Jesus, Charlie, chill out."
"You still live on Hickory Hill?"
"Yeah, oh yeah." She works her finger through a hole in the upholstery. "Nice ride, dude."
"Hey, it’s getting you home." We’re out over the bridge and into the suburbs soon enough, no streetlights, the regular lines of trees on both sides flickering past like frames in a silent movie. "Pretty lame reunion, huh?"
"No shit." She lays her cheek on the window, eyes rolled up to the dark sky, humming softly.
We continue on in silence until I pull into the driveway. "So." She hasn’t moved, seemingly unaware that we’ve stopped. "You need a hand?"
"Yeah, for real, that sucked. And you know the thing is…" She lifts her head to look at me, leaving a smear of make up on the glass. "They were just so old, you know? Everybody was so fucking old."
We sit there, Heather swaying as if the car was still moving.
"You know what?" she says finally. "I changed my mind. Please do."
"Do what?"
"Take advantage of me."
Officer Tang Jun, quoted in the Shanghai Daily on police smashing a major cricket-fighting ring and netting a big time trainer: "Lin was famous among cricket fanciers. If Lin teased a cricket he could make it angry enough to beat even a stronger opponent. Lin was Shanghai’s No. 1 cricket teaser."
During the previous two presidential elections, the local Democratic headquarters was across the street from me, and I have to tell you the morning after the election was a pretty mournful moment. In 2004 they didn’t even come in that day to start moving out because they were just too depressed – we’d given it our maximum effort, won Michigan, but it didn’t seem to make a difference because of a single state, Ohio, and a few votes that may or may not have been stolen and/or suppressed. It’s probably a good thing that the HQ moved a few streets west where it is today because the parking is so much better there (a lot fewer tickets, I’m sure) but, damn, I sure would have liked to see the faces over there right now. They probably have silly grins on them like mine.
The narrative the media has settled on for the moment is, wow, an African American has achieved the presidency, ain’t this really the country of opportunity. Don’t get me wrong, it a beautiful thing, but it won’t heal our racial problems in a stroke and it turns out the whole question wasn’t such a big deal after all, either for or against Obama. My eighty year old aunt, a staunch Democrat was for Hillary because she didn’t believe a black man could ever be elected. To me, a fifty year old, it seemed obvious race would be a major factor, both negative with the Bradley effect and positive with new, enthusiastic black voters. To my fifteen and seventeen year old kids however it was no big deal. This 21st century, although still riddled with racial inequality, is also graced with a color blind generation.
You can tell how nervous I was yesterday by looking at the blog, and I think we all were. At around eight I was still anxious — the electoral map looked a lot like 2004 – I mean taking Pennsylvania was a given for me. It wasn’t until Ohio went blue that the skies turned blue, too. Ohio! The gremlin of 2004, the place where McCain and Palin had been making so much noise fell into the Obama basket with very swift ripeness. Although it wasn’t declared until after Obama won, to see the other great bone of contention, Florida, go for Obama too was extremely satisfying. By that point it was clear that this wasn’t a squeaker or a stolen election but a serious beat down, dwarfing the tiny victories Bush took as a mandate for his imperial, king sized disaster of a presidency.
But this wasn’t just the end of the Bush fiasco, it sounded to me like the death knell of the Republican divisiveness, the culture war replaying of the 60’s tune that the right has been reprising since Reagan. They tried all the old riffs about socialism, lack of patriotism, effete snobs, etc, but this time only the deep south was dancing. I guess we’re all real Americans again.
And what about the Republicans? Are they going to give up on their cherished Lee Atwater/Karl Rove legacy of slander, swift boating and baloney? Does Elizabeth Dole’s loss despite the most reprehensible ad of the season mean they’ll turn their back on such base tactics? Will their insistence the last eight years that any disagreement with executive policy shows a lack of respect for the presidency and therefore America itself remain constant even with a Democrat in the White House? Will Darth Vader turn his back on the dark side of the force? In other words, don’t bet on it. The culture of hate, fear and loathing that has been so lovingly cultivated by the conservatives isn’t going to fade away in the face of a fragile little thing like hope. John McCain gave the best speech I’ve ever heard from him when he conceded, but the ugly booing and shouting and the gargoyle leer of Palin as she strutted the stage like a first runner up rather than a rejected loser are what we have to expect from the right in the future. My prediction – a Sarah Palin/Joe the Plumber ticket in 2012. Now that’s a concession speech I’d love to hear.
It’s not every day that you can wake up and say this is a day that for good or ill will live in history.
The pen scratch has been made, the oval filled, the line drawn, so to speak. And to me the line you draw when voting for Obama is the border line between hope and hatred, between reasoned judgement and mindless prejudice. We have such a chance in this country to erase the ugly defacement that the Republican Bush years (and it’s seemed like a century) have scrawled on our flag and the constitution. We have a chance to stop this endless war on all other countries and the planet itself. During the campaign Obama has shown himself to be an eminently reasonable, honorable and logical leader who never stooped to the Rovian tactics McCain was only too quick to embrace. The McCain campaign has tried every slur possible – radical, Muslim, terrorist, at last scraping the bottom of the barrel to trot out their stale postwar staple socialist, communist being presently out of the pale even for them. McCain and Palin have consistently claimed that, contrary to stated facts, Obama’s tax plan would raise taxes for everybody, while Obama has held off saying that McCain would, in all likelihood given his bellicose nature and philosophy, embroil this nation in another war. In the biggest decision a candidate has to make, choosing a running mate, Obama selected a seasoned vet who will help him govern while McCain was bullied by his handlers into nominating a publicity stunt who is unfit to lead. It’s very telling that the candidate who was insisting on the importance of experience went for someone with hardly any experience at all.
It’s also really pathetic when a party’s plan for victory rides on people NOT voting and the hope that people will vote for your candidate because they are too racist to vote for Obama, apathy and racism being two qualities the Republicans want to encourage in the American character.
And what’s the Republican response going to be should McCain lose? Looks like it’s shaping up as the standard fascist response to defeat — the stab in the back theory. In this case the treacherous blow is supposed to be inflicted by the "media," which somehow showed a liberal bias while reporting the news. Of course the most biased television operation in the history of the media, Fox propaganda, has been trumpeting the party line and nothing but for years, but never mind that, because the conservative temperament is allergic to any kind of contradiction, even if it’s reality itself that disagrees. Get used to the sneering, hate filled visage of Sarah Palin, folks, because that’s going to be the face of the Republican party for some time to come.
But, of course, my comments don’t mean a damn thing and my vote hardly does either. I knew Bush was a dangerous fraud eight years ago, but the electorate had to be beaten over the head with proof before finally coming around to see it. The vast herd that doesn’t like to think about much has been relentlessly manipulated by experts in direct marketing if not governing, and when that fails the Republicans have no qualms about lying, cheating and stealing to achieve power. Maybe it’s a good thing that we’re all so nervous about this election being stolen too, because that makes us all so determined to go out and vote and to guard our votes and to get really mad this time if we’re fooled again.
But in the end all I can really do is to hope that sometime in the near future there’s a United States Government that considers every citizen to be a real American, that doesn’t equate dissent with treason and isn’t controlled by religious wackos. Can that really be too much to hope for? I guess we’ll find out…..
Miffed customer wrecks store display
A drunken customer dissatisfied with a return policy damaged a display at an Ypsilanti Township Halloween specialty store, police said.
The man entered the Spirit Halloween at 2375 Ellsworth Road on Wednesday at about 4:30 p.m. to return a costume without a receipt, Washtenaw County Sheriff’s Cmdr. Dave Egeler said.
When the employee refused, the man knocked a Halloween display by the doorway to the ground and broke it, causing roughly $100 damage, Egeler said. He also damaged a fog machine.
The man appeared to be intoxicated and was with two small children, the clerk said.
The investigation is ongoing.
I know I’m not the only one who likes to read ghost stories this time of year. I usually stick to what I consider the classics – M. R. James, E. F. Benson, Oliver Onions, etc., from the Victorian/Edwardian golden age. I love Arthur Machen, but begin to have mixed feelings about his spawn H. P. Lovecraft and absolutely detest Stephen King and his fellow contemporary horrorists. Like a lot of contemporary culture there’s no ambiguity there, no subtlety, no style, no SOUL – just a lot of fake shock and awe special effects and computer generated monsters (Lovecraft’s creatures always struck me more like Godzilla style guys in rubber suits).
I don’t know why the Victorian/Edwardian era seems so right for ghost stories. Maybe it’s just that it was a period trying to crawl to modernity with the specters of the past grasping at its ankles, or the last time readers could believe that spooks plausibly existed. There’s a curious relationship between the Decadent movement and ghost stories, with Oscar Wilde’s classic Picture of Dorian Gray being exhibit A. Freud wrote of the uncanny, and the genre is certainly powered by the unconscious, sexual repression and repressed memory. I learned from a Wilde biography that Benson was a friend of his, a fellow "Uranian," but one who was not at all comfortable with his sexual orientation. I couldn’t help but think of that as I recently read through a marvelous collection of Benson’s horror stories, many of which featured a malevolent creature he describes as follows: "On the ground there lay a monstrous thing, half slug, half worm. There was no head to it; it ended in a blunt point with an orifice. In color it was grey, covered with sparse black hairs…" Hmmmmmm….. I guess sometimes a cigar is NOT a cigar. My favorite story of his is called "The Face," which features neither worms, slugs nor caterpillars, but is a masterful weaving of dreams, foreboding and the siren call of the open grave.
Interestingly enough the one contemporary ghost writer I’m enthusiastic about, Susan Hill, sets her stories in the Edwardian era. I first heard about her from a rather eccentric customer from Hawaii who loved ghost stories and would send me multi-page, capitol lettered missives written in pencil detailing the books he was looking for. He also wanted a movie called The Woman in Black, which he said was the scariest he’d ever seen, and so naturally when I found him a DVD I got one for myself, too. He wasn’t kidding, either, because The Woman in Black is a masterful, subtle masterpiece of mounting terror that’s far more disquieting than a thousand Saw’s. What my customer didn’t know was that it was from a long running play which was adapted from a book of the same name by Hill which is just as well done. It’s still available and I highly recommend both book and movie to those seeking seasonal thrills, and in fact I’m going to make my daughter and her friends watch it at the teen Halloween party that’s taken the place of trick or treating. This season also saw the publication by the Overlook Press of a charming miniature hardback of her latest ghost novella The Man in the Picture, another chilling effort worthy of the golden age and perfect for treating a like minded friend. Usually I mistrust historical fiction, but Hill is able to replicate the diction and mind set of an Edwardian in a eerily convincing manner that delivers her work from the perils of pastiche. Fortunately for my Halloween reading another customer brought in an English edition of an earlier out of print title of Hill’s called The Mist in the Mirror which I’m halfway through and is building up the chills in her usual masterful manner.
At work I’ve been working my way through The Virago Book of Victorian Ghost Stories. As the title suggests they’re all by women, with many lesser known gems, including works by faves like Mary Elizabeth Braddon, Vernon Lee and Violet Hunt. After a while it’s hard to find stuff in anthologies that you haven’t already read in other anthologies, but this one has some fresh material in it, not to mention a great cover with Rossetti’s Proserpine. Too bad you can’t get it in the U.S. any more, but there are copies around.
In the end I guess the song The Headless Horseman from Disney’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow probably sums it up best – "You can’t be a haint if you ain’t kind of crazed, I guess you’d say…"
My friend Karl from the antiques store called me up to ask me if I was interested in looking at some books in a house he was going to do an estate sale for. I’m always interested in estate sales, even thought I find that many people have accumulated a shockingly small amount of books over a lifetime. That was not true in this lady’s case, and in fact she’d accumulated a vast amount of almost everything, jammed into a fairly small house. It was really disconcerting to just step in there, with piles of stuff everywhere, most of it out and out garbage – dozens of broken coffee pots, bags of matches, bottle tops and clothe pins, indexed T.V. Guides and newspaper television supplement back to the sixties. She’d been a librarian and when her library computerized, she’d even kept all the thousands of old catalog cards. And then I found out they’d already been cleaning the place out for FIVE DAYS! When they first came in the door they could barely get in and found it largely impassible because of all the clutter.
Houses do reflect their owners and often you can feel the presence of a long time inhabitant even when they’re no longer around. Let’s just say the vibe I got was of extreme craziness – that kind of hoarding behavior is, after all, a form of mental illness, and one I have a propensity for. As Karl’s wife said it really made you want to go home and throw out a bunch of stuff.
The former occupant was no dummy however, and behind, around and on top of things were books, some of them puzzlingly obscure, many in gothic German, and a lot of mysteries and science fiction. I got some O.K. contemporary stock on the first floor, but it wasn’t until I reached the cramped shelves in the basement – almost impossible to get to without stepping on something that crunched beneath – that I found the gold. There were several shelves full of vintage 40’s and 50’s paperbacks, mostly in pretty good shape, and with some highly prized authors like Frederic Brown, Cornell Woolrich and Rex Stout, editions like Dell Map Backs, Gold Medals early Avons, and other cool stuff.
In the spirit of the season I grabbed for myslef a lovely little edition of Oliver Onions’s classic ghost story collection Widdershins, which she’d evidently lifted from the Flint Public Library in 1930, but despite the bounty I felt a little unsatisfied. Almost everyone, even (or maybe especially?) a little old lady who lives alone, is in possession of something sleazy and I don’t consider any book finding expedition complete until I’ve found an example, but I was despairing of discovering anything worse than pulpy until I found among the paperback Merit Book # 540 Vegas Wenches. As you can see, the cover is beyond classic and the back cover copy even more so. The only copy on ABE goes for $50, but I couldn’t give this baby up. I guess some book dealer will have to find it in a junk filled corner of my basement after I’m dead…
