Two notes here.
First, lets play with dolls!
Second, Quincy Jones and others are lobbying (apparently Mr. Jones is "begging") for the instatement of a cabinet position for the arts. There's a petition that you can sign here.
*drags over soapbox, stands upon it*
Ahem.
Arts funding is good for the economy, period. It reflects and improves upon the fields of education and health, and the arts are the ultimate expression of any culture. The majority of other developed, first-world nations (EU, I'm lookin' in your direction...) have Ministers of Culture, etc. to advise their leaders. Therefore, it stands to reason that if we want, as a nation, to be taken seriously as having anything other than a culture of warmongering and conspicuous consumption, this is a critical post.
Art is not a luxury. It is an imperitive. In the deadliest of wars, the most oppressive of regimes, during times of the greatest peril, there is art. If we are truly a world leader, how could we ignore this very human need, perhaps the most basic non-biological imperitive we endure?
*decend, remove soapbox*
Via Slog.
PS: In other Obama news, check out the new link: Obameter! Not so shabby for your first couple days, Sir...
Showing posts with label Obama. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Obama. Show all posts
Friday, January 23, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
"Pop".
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I'm sure he's unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he's still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He's so unhappy, to which he replies . . .
But I don't care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I've been saving; I'm laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I've got on mine and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; 'cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop's black-framed glasses
And know he's laughing too.
By Barack Obama, age 19.
*****
Oh, but he's not really the president.
Who the hell is Barry Soetoro anyway?
Oh, well.
Via Slog, HuffPost.
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I'm sure he's unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he's still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He's so unhappy, to which he replies . . .
But I don't care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I've been saving; I'm laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I've got on mine and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; 'cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop's black-framed glasses
And know he's laughing too.
By Barack Obama, age 19.
*****
Oh, but he's not really the president.
Who the hell is Barry Soetoro anyway?
Oh, well.
Via Slog, HuffPost.
Obama is beautiful world.
That was satisfying. I wish Lowery could have given the invocation as well...but, no matter. It's done. Let's all hug and get along.
In that spirit, I now present the yellow getting mellow:
In that spirit, I now present the yellow getting mellow:
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