It is important, y'all, to give credit where credit is due, even if you didn't realize you were stumbling toward a conclusion that had been deftly mounted and broken in long before your time. It has been pointed out to us that Roland Barthes sorta-kinda wrote a way better version of my Girl Talk post way back in 1967. Whoops. I'm sure that I studied this at some point, forgot about it, and reinvented it while I was in hyperspace. That's the magic of higher education. I stand by my Girl Talk post; it was a lot of fun to write. I admire Barthes' work, but find it sorely lacking in Wookies. Really, this just adds to the validity of the whole shebang. This blog will return to its regularly scheduled programming shortly.
Let the Wookie Win / Girl Talk (The Master of Aggregates Society)
A note to all:
Guests, regular readers, today's post requires a bit of systems management. We're stepping out of our comfort zone and into the wonderful world of pop music. A little. For those of you who were directed here by forces beyond your understanding because you are interested in the new Girl Talk album (or because you subscribe to Roger Ebert's tweets (Thank you, Roger Ebert)), we invite you to stay, browse around. This is not a review. If that's what you're after, I will direct you here, and bid you good reading and good day, but there are, here (actually here), thoughts on the new Girl Talk album presented in a broader context, (that, I hope, rubs shoulders with public radio) so we hope you'll stick around for the conversation. For you, scholars, regular readers, I invite you also to click that little link. If you have reservations because it wasn't meant for you, here is your own link. It goes to the same place, but it's for you and as you're traveling you may experience the self-satisfaction to which you've become so accustomed. It's a good review, and as a preface to this post, it's a concise refresher of the method and history of Girl Talk. Enjoy, y'all. Shall we proceed?
C l i o , M u s e o f H i s t o r y a n d S o n g
"I ain't pass the bar, but I know a lil' bit"
Sometimes, scholars, the universe drops an idea into your lap. Usually, scholars, the universe does not then follow through by dropping permission to wax on about that idea on your public-radio-themed blog. On Monday morning, 15 November, I was not listening to my local affiliate. As I drove to work (In my 2005 base-model Chrysler Sebring, complete with big, squishy steering-wheel cover), I was listening to the new Girl Talk romp All Day. For those of you who have missed the event-itude surrounding this album drop, Mr. Girl Talk gave away (yes, for free) the tracks (or uni-track, if that's what you preferred) of his latest project here. He did so very, very early on that auspicious morning of 15 November. I suggest you go grab it if you haven't already.
Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story
The album kicks off with a mash-up of Black Sabbath and Ludacris. I imagine that most listeners did not then begin to experience bouts of excitement, fear, and resentment as they tried to figure out a scheme for writing about a matrix of near parallels involving Clio, Jay-Z, Homer, and Mr. Girl Talk (on their public-radio-themed blogs). For transparency's sake, I'll confess that I am imagining that scenario as we speak, and it's nice to see the lot of you so riled up over the oral poetry tradition and your public-radio-themed blogs. (May I link to your public-radio-themed blogs? And you to mine? (This may help with search engine traffic. (Everyone's a winner. (Thank you, Roger Ebert.))))
So, Black Sabbath and Ludacris, sure, why not, of course. Awesome, yes? Yes, awesome, and fun (though certainly not without it's internally critique-worthy elements as an album (again, for more on that I refer you to the links in the preface (you will not get a third link (whoops, you did)))), but who is the first voice on Mr. Girl Talk's latest opus? What are the first words breathed into our ears? "Hit me," says Mr. Jay-Z. "Hit me," indeed, scholars. Hit me. Indeed.
I won't drag out the connection here. Very simply, very naturally, and in a very scholastically insubstantial way, I thought, "Hey, you know . . . it's like Jay-Z is his muse or something."
We all know Mr. Girl Talk <3s Jay-Z. Duh. (If we didn't, now we do.) And then I thought something along the lines of, "that would make Mr. Girl Talk like a modern day oral poet, or something." Then I lit a cigarette, smoked it with my left hand, fed myself a piece of Turkish delight from the plastic container on the passenger seat with the other, and then Zeus (or Athena or one of those folks) drove my car while All Day shape-shifted. And then Chewbacca and I bumped the Millennium Falcon into hyperspace, and as the stars streamed by I thought,
"Wait, sir. You just wait. Stop the bus. I mean, okay. So it's like, yeah, he's invoking a muse, but what does this have anything to do with The Odyssey, really?"
(Wookie language in translation for ease of reading.)
"Well, Han," said Chewie, "I think you might actually be on to something here. Mr. Girl Talk is kind of an "artist" in the same way the Homer was "kind of" an artist."
"Go on . . ."
"Sure, I mean . . . Homer isn't taking credit for anything, right? The gods breathe into his lungs and he breathes out The Odyssey, amirite?"
"Right."
"And so Mr. Girl Talk––"
"––I think his name is Gregg Gillis."
"And so Mr. Girl Talk . . . Gregg Gillis . . . is just, you know . . . letting the party gods breathe in his lungs and then oops, All Day."
"I really miss Leia."
"Honestly, I don't want to hear about Leia anymore, Han. I thought this was "guy" time."
"Well, okay, so I get what you're saying. Black Sabbath, Katy Perry, M.I.A., The Doors, Kid Cudi . . . These are all party gods? Or great heros? And Mr. Girl Talk is just sort of letting all this happen through him? Don't you think he wouldn't jump at the chance to brag about his agency? Say, "Hey! Me! See this giant matchstick I made out of all these little matchsticks? I did that!"And the muse . . . the muse is Jay-Z?"
"Jay-Z as the muse was your idea, I was just trying to fill in the gaps."
"I mean I guess I'm kind of buying it."
"Again, Han, you're the one selling it, really, I was just trying to be supportive."
"So what does all this say about anything?"
"Well I think Mr. Girl Talk's agency is kind of irrelevant. I think it's also not so troubling if you can't work out all the one-to-one correlations. The kind of neat thing here is that Mr. Girl Talk is aggregating. And there's some really old precedent for that."
"Like The Odyssey?"
"Seriously, Han, do you ever listen to yourself?"
"No, not really. Turkish delight?"
"I'm good, thanks. Seriously though, Han. You're being lazy. How can you extrapolate this? What exactly is it that you do?"
"I fight in the universe on the good side."
"Okay, Paul, Earth to Paul. What exactly is it that you do?"
Then, scholars, I realized that I wasn't in hyperspace. I was on Route 66 headed west. What exactlyisit that I do? Well, I write a blog about public radio. Go on. Okay, well, um . . . I gather bits of information from here and there. Yes . . . I aggregate and analyze . . . Who else does that? Um . . . Jay-Z? No, he's the muse, you said that. (Actually, he does, in a way, but let's let him just be the muse for right now). Oh, right, ummm . . . Mr. Girl Talk? Yes! And who else? Me? Oh . . . me and . . . Homer? Sure, but who else? Umm . . . Don't be shy. . . . Um-um-um . . . Robert Siegel! Yes! And um . . . Ken Burns? TOTALLY KEN BURNS! So wait, like everybody? Well, maybe not everybody. But anyone in this topsy-turvy rickem'-rackem' world worth their salt. Anyone's who's trying to say anything in these fast times. So, wait, what does that say about agency? Motivation? Original artistic thoughts and what not? The signified and the signifier? Why are you bring semiotics into this? I just don't know anymore . . . It's okay to admit when you're wrong. Honestly, Italics, I don't think I ever really got much out of semiotics. If you had, you could probably bring this full circle to Logos or something else really impressive sounding. That's probably true. But most of all that stuff I learned in college has to compete with man-seeking ravens, and documentaries about baseball part two, and the universe, and divorce rates and China and the like. Well, listen, Paul. Sometimes, you have these ideas and it's important to try them out with a close friend. If you were smarter, or more driven, you'd have written a concise argumentative essay on the subject, done research, but if you were smarter, or more driven, there wouldn't have needed to be dialogue between Chewbacca and Han Solo, which, I daresay, is a first in academia. But what stone have we added to the temple of research? What was the point of all this? Sometimes it's just important to ask questions and draw correlations in a really naïve, childlike way, to get it all floating around in your brainy tissues and then let your dreams sort it all out. So we can blog about this on the public radio blog? Well, no. Why not? You didn't hear about it on public radio.
Time passes. Friday 19 November, 2010: Sometimes, scholars, the universe drops an idea into your lap. Usually, scholars, the universe does not then follow through by dropping permission to wax on about that idea on your public-radio-themed blog. Today, on All Things Considered (The Odyssey 2: Eclectic Boogaloo) a very nice man named Tom (sorry, Tom, I didn't catch your last name) reviewed the new Girl Talk album, All Day. I'm sorry, scholars, I did not pay close attention to the contents of that review. I had to see a wookie about an idea.
All Things Considered, again, you blossom like a lotus flower. Today, a British woman (not Robert Siegel) reported on the recent phenomenon of increased divorce rate in China (send your Curriculum Vitae to China c/o China). The rate has doubled in the last decade; now, almost one in five (one in five!) Chinese marriages end in divorce (up from about one in ten (one in ten!)). (American divorce rate still lingering somewhere around 700% (USA#1!).
But here's where it gets interesting fascinating:
A correlation is being drawn between the rate increase and the blossoming of the single-child generation (the British lady, who is not Robert Siegel, informs us that this, in China, is referred to as the Post-Eighties generation (the Me, who is not a British lady, informs us that, in My Mind, they are really into grunge music and irony)).
China begins to enforce population control. One kid, citizens, just the one! And this, according to the British lady, went along just swimmingly until a nation of only children grew up and couldn't love each other.
I love this story and I hate this story. I love this story because it makes so much sense. Think of the single children that you know and love (sorry, Carol, everyone's thinking of you (also, you're welcome, Carol, you self-involved nightmare)) and then imagine that China was populated solely by them (Carol(1,000,000,000)=China). Yikes!
I hate this story because I didn't predict it. I didn't say, "you know, scholars, one day China will be completely populated by spoiled little jerks (Carol, seriously though, we love you) that won't know how to compromise. There is nothing quite as lovely as welding the rebar of opinion, waiting a decade or so, watching as a news story comes along and pours the concrete, and then, one summer day, as you sit in your lawn chair and sip iced tea, you watch China cross your bridge one single-child at a time.
Alas, I welded no such rebar.
The good news, however, the British lady (not Robert Siegel) continues, is Happy Divorce Village. A gated community where––
Sorry, public radio. I did not have a "driveway moment" this time around. Sometimes I have to take the key out of the ignition and go to work.
I think, though, scholars, you'll agree that perhaps it's better this way. Happy Divorce Village. Period. How could it possibly be better than its name and all that its name implies?
Also, new GM stock, something, something. Remember the previous post? Neither. Do. I.
So some things have happened in the world of public radio since we last spoke, scholars (also, in the actual world). I took a little time off (it was my birthday (happy birthday)). NPR: fired Juan Williams, became target, resumed NPR. Since the inception of this blog, I've been careful not to bandy those three letters about willy-nilly ('N'; 'P'; 'R'), because NPR is a very specific thing, and public radio is a hydra––a golden-toned, cautiously dynamic hydra––with many fun and interesting heads, and only one of those heads can rightly be called NPR. Maybe it's more of a chandelier, public radio is. (Research on most appropriate metaphor forthcoming.)
We didn't feel as though we had much to add to the Juan Williams "thing" (journalism is dead, yada yada yada) and I had a hunch that it might not really matter in a few weeks. It didn't. But here's what it did, you guys:
It got me thinking I'd sure miss NPR (public radio by proxy) if it were gone, if Hercules (FNN (The Republican Party (woo, party!))), in some dystopian future had actually managed to cauterize its necks (pass legislation to end funding). (I'm not sure how this would have panned out if I had gone with the chandelier analogy, but I realize I've just made FNN Hercules and public radio a hyrda. I trust you to sort it out.) But here's what that did, you guys:
It got me thinking who the @#$% am I and what the @#$% am I doing? (Pardon my SHIFT+NUM). What business is it of mine to use this institution (an institution, scholars, it turns out, is actually people) as fodder for my self-indulgent blog? To be fair to us, we've had some pretty sharp insights, but largely the theme of this institution (which, if you'll remember, is us (people (people))) has devolved into, "I wonder if we can stay on topic?" Which is fine. To a point. I love folly as much as the next I, as you're sure you'll agree, but why, oh why, on 20 October, did I decide to write an editorial on pledge week that, quite frankly, could have been written by Dave Barry? (Nothing against Dave Barry, American Hero.)
Do you see that rug over there in the corner? That's the one I just pulled out. I'm sorry. But here's the thing about corners (other than the "thing about corners" that illuminates that four of them occupy a year):
Corners are easily accessible. Take a deep breath. The rug is just fine. Barry Bonds, ravens, et al.are nestled quite securely, and you may join them for the time being if you like. Sometimes Daddy needs to just sit for a goddamn minute and open a beer and read the goddamn paper without you goddamn kids goddamning all over the place isn't there something you can help your goddamn mother with?
We can put the rug back, is what I'm saying. We probably will in the very next post. We have short attention spans (see: informations), and we prefer to laugh while we cry and cajole our souls with glad tidings (Christmas is just around the corner). But let's talk about me for just a hot second in order to make our endeavors less about me.
I was in my car (go figure) and, lo, All Thing Considered––the veritable genesis of our primary purpose here in The Land of Blog––was surrounding me with informations (go figure).
There were no bees. Barry Bonds was elsewhere. Carl Sagan was still dead and Ken Burns was still alive, though Robert Siegel failed to mention either. There was, however, news:
Afghanistan: Still a war (an institution (actually people)).
Mysterious Missile: Spotted off the California coast, explanation yet to be uncovered.
Black American Males: Graduate high school with 50% less frequency than White American Males.
The New, Republican-Majority House of Representatives: Already behaving as expected.
President Obama: Traveling.
Volcano: Erupting.
The Economy: The Economy.
When the bare facts of our situation send a chill down my spine, I think, "Thank God for the bare facts of our situation." And then:
Robert Siegel reported on the Little Kid Reciting Billy Collins meme (remember that meme?) and not just in a "remember that meme?" kind of way. It turns out Billy Collins had a chance to meet Samuel Chelpka (Little Kid Reciting), and I'll try to frame the following in my most big boy journalist words:
My heart climbed out of my chest, sat on my dashboard, and sang Chaplin's "Smile" (and did a little softshoe (and I cried)).
So, thank you, public radio.
Do you see that tongue over there in the corner? It's not in my cheek.
