Gigi asks "What does `Boo Fuckin Hoo' mean?"
Gigi my neighbor, a college student who gets me to write her papers for her, knocks and enters my apartment, opens my fridge, and calls: "Want one?"
She enters the room with two beers. I was mid sentence, writing in my Blog about Iraq 2 and the real meaning of the phrase Bush Doctrine. She drops a note: "What does Boo Fuckin Hoo mean?"
Three years ago, Gigi knocked on my door an introduced herself. She invited herself in, lit a joint, and casually went through my belongings. I had been unpacking and listening repeatedly to Cat Stevens Tea for the Tiller-man , speculating on meanings. She offered me her joint just as Stevens sang the lyric "Wine for the women who made the rain come"- and I asked if she would like some wine. Laughing, we ended on my sofa. At some point she told me she had herpes. Later she told me that she just said that so I wouldn't come on to her. Instead, somehow, she became my little sister in need of saving, and I became her big brother willing to do anything for her.
Now she explained finding the essay ad in the artist section of Craigslist.
"Well, " I said, "depending on context, `boo Fucking hoo', is just a more explicit 'boo hoo', a phrase used sarcastically when a person shows too much self pity."
"Yeah, " Gigi responded, "how's is my paper coming along?"'We' were finishing a paper that argues that the ending of Don Quixote should be changed. 'We' worked out an argument beginning with reference to a fictional essay11 about a 20th century writer who re-authors Don Quixote. "The text of ..are verbally identical, but the second is almost infinitely richer because Menard's work must be considered in light of world events since 1602."
There was also the historic precedent of Shakespeare's play King Lear, that had an adjustment to it's final scene. It was altered from a scene of absolute despair to a scene of possible redemption and rebirth. Hope is reintroduced into the ending of that play.
'We' conclude: In light of world events, terrorism, wars, economic uncertainty, disillusioned youth, Don Quixote's ending should be changed. Quixote should be presented as having no regrets for going after his impossible dreams.
"I need to spell check." I answered.
Then I mused: "It could also be a phrase of endearment."
Gigi lights up as I explain. "The word 'boo', as slang, can mean your lover, as in 'my boo'. So "Boo Fucking who'? ", could be a rhetorical question- Who are you making love to?' Much the same as male asking the woman he is with- 'Whose your daddy?' the goal is to have the other recognize your presence." "How do you come up with all this shit?" Gigi asked giggling in her pot fog. "Can you turn it into a 500 word essay?"
by Paul Grant (follower of Basho) 17
The short piece stands on it's own for what it is. If one wanted to find additional meaning, a hypertexed version of this essay can be found at http://extra-information4u.blogspot.com/2008/09/boo-fuckin-hoo.html
Friday, September 26, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
September Submission #3
Sometimes I really think natural disasters happen to weed out the gene pool. As I sit on my comfy couch and watch tv, I see tragedy in the southern states due to weather. I see this story time and time again.
I am so amazed that people try to "ride out " the storms. Who are these people?
I really wonder what is keeping them there? Is it the old battered house, that already looks like a hurricane hit it, or perhaps its all the wonderful salvage they have in their yard. Is it their old neglected half emaciated dog? Or is it that they just want to show the world how big their balls are for staying to "fight". The emergency workers plead, the politicians plead, they go on tv and say "leave or imminent death" but no, these people are above that.
Now here's my favorite part, the storm hits, and it appears to be laughing as it slaps these peoples houses. The horror, the water, the flying debris. The weathermen are risking life and limb and being filmed while they are half blown away, to get that perfect shot. The whole freaking town is turned upside down. To my amazement, these people make it. You see them waddling in filth ridden waters. It must be like that thing where a drunk driver never gets hurt in an accident but everyone else does... Then, the newscasters have a way of finding that one person. You know the woman, an older lady, with ragged curls, she's still wearing her floral moo moo, she's holding a cold beer in one hand, She is mad as hell that nobody evacuated her in time!
But alas that old lady is getting the last laugh at us, as our taxpaying dollars go toward rebuilding her run down house and giving her a standard of living higher than she has seen. She waits, and waits, for it all will happen again, maybe she can get a finished basement in the next house?
I am so amazed that people try to "ride out " the storms. Who are these people?
I really wonder what is keeping them there? Is it the old battered house, that already looks like a hurricane hit it, or perhaps its all the wonderful salvage they have in their yard. Is it their old neglected half emaciated dog? Or is it that they just want to show the world how big their balls are for staying to "fight". The emergency workers plead, the politicians plead, they go on tv and say "leave or imminent death" but no, these people are above that.
Now here's my favorite part, the storm hits, and it appears to be laughing as it slaps these peoples houses. The horror, the water, the flying debris. The weathermen are risking life and limb and being filmed while they are half blown away, to get that perfect shot. The whole freaking town is turned upside down. To my amazement, these people make it. You see them waddling in filth ridden waters. It must be like that thing where a drunk driver never gets hurt in an accident but everyone else does... Then, the newscasters have a way of finding that one person. You know the woman, an older lady, with ragged curls, she's still wearing her floral moo moo, she's holding a cold beer in one hand, She is mad as hell that nobody evacuated her in time!
But alas that old lady is getting the last laugh at us, as our taxpaying dollars go toward rebuilding her run down house and giving her a standard of living higher than she has seen. She waits, and waits, for it all will happen again, maybe she can get a finished basement in the next house?
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
September Submission #2
I recently completed a multi-day road trip-- eight hours a day of driving on our nation's interstate system. On a turnpike (which costs $9 to travel across) I started to get hungry for lunch. The first service plaza was just a few miles ahead, and the roadside sign helpfully explained the plethora of dining options available: McDonald's, Sbarro, Panera Bread Company, and Manchu Wok. What a delightful selection, I thought. Five Stars. So then I think but I should wait for the next rest area, which is only 22 miles further ahead, cuz then I 'll be even hungrier, so then I can eat more. Maybe even visit two of the vendors. And even if I wouldn't have such a magical combination of cafeteria style pizza-and-pasta, a sourdough bread bowl of chicken noodle soup, Orange Chicken and Cashew Shrimp on Lo-Mein, coupled with a Filet-o-Fish, I am sure that this expensive turnpike's next rest area will be pretty much the same cornucopia, maybe like Burger King, Cosi, Panda Express. Totally reasonable, right?
Well how wrong I was. The next rest area had a Hardees and Cinnabon. THATS IT. What primitive at the turnpike commission gave out the concession contracts? What, does he like not drive this far down the highway?
Now, I’m not really sure what Hardees is. But dammit if I haven’t seen Cinnabon before. The outrageous profileration of this Cinnamon-Bun-As-Entree Racket across this great land of ours is just a crime, and now its gone too far.
Don’t get me wrong, I've had my share of cinnamon buns in my life, but usually around four at a time, at Christmas breakfast at my Grandma's house, shoved to the edge of a plate piled high with Sausage, Eggs, Bacon, and Potatoes. When and how was this concept of cinnamon buns as a proper meal foisted on our society? How does one make a meal out of little cinnamon buns?? Order them in half dozen batches? Is there really an expectation that this would constitute a satisfactory midday repast? Needless to say, I didn't even stop.
The silver lining/gooey frosting of this doughy, microwaved dark cloud was the third rest area, some 75 miles down the road, which was like Heaven's own food court, and I was so starved that I was able to pack in a bucket of chicken, a Big Mac, and a personal pan pizza.
In a regular mall setting, such snack choices as Auntie Annie's Pretzels can be a delicious option to relieve the exhaustion of shopping, situated appropriately as a minor star in a glimmering fast-food constellation that is any decent food court. But on the highway, where I've been driving for like 2 hours without eating? I'm starving, and I cannot believe that I am expected to see the Cinnabon experience in the same light as a Wendy's, Pizza Hut or KFC. What's next, a roadside lunch of Orange Julius? Jamba Juice?? Please tell me that someone isn’t thinking of launching a chain of Scone bistros across this nation’s roadside dining pavilions (and then not throwing us an Arby's bone to balance it out).
Well how wrong I was. The next rest area had a Hardees and Cinnabon. THATS IT. What primitive at the turnpike commission gave out the concession contracts? What, does he like not drive this far down the highway?
Now, I’m not really sure what Hardees is. But dammit if I haven’t seen Cinnabon before. The outrageous profileration of this Cinnamon-Bun-As-Entree Racket across this great land of ours is just a crime, and now its gone too far.
Don’t get me wrong, I've had my share of cinnamon buns in my life, but usually around four at a time, at Christmas breakfast at my Grandma's house, shoved to the edge of a plate piled high with Sausage, Eggs, Bacon, and Potatoes. When and how was this concept of cinnamon buns as a proper meal foisted on our society? How does one make a meal out of little cinnamon buns?? Order them in half dozen batches? Is there really an expectation that this would constitute a satisfactory midday repast? Needless to say, I didn't even stop.
The silver lining/gooey frosting of this doughy, microwaved dark cloud was the third rest area, some 75 miles down the road, which was like Heaven's own food court, and I was so starved that I was able to pack in a bucket of chicken, a Big Mac, and a personal pan pizza.
In a regular mall setting, such snack choices as Auntie Annie's Pretzels can be a delicious option to relieve the exhaustion of shopping, situated appropriately as a minor star in a glimmering fast-food constellation that is any decent food court. But on the highway, where I've been driving for like 2 hours without eating? I'm starving, and I cannot believe that I am expected to see the Cinnabon experience in the same light as a Wendy's, Pizza Hut or KFC. What's next, a roadside lunch of Orange Julius? Jamba Juice?? Please tell me that someone isn’t thinking of launching a chain of Scone bistros across this nation’s roadside dining pavilions (and then not throwing us an Arby's bone to balance it out).
September Submission #1
My best friend tequila and I had a fight last night.
Either that or a pants burglar broke in and stole every article of
clothing below my waist.
What am I doing right Now? I'm surveying the damage wearing a
wrinkled blue dress shirt, Brooks Brothers tie, and not much else.
Look, there's a shoe.
Hello there Kitty. Are you enjoying the Chinese food that I purchased
from God knows where? Don't look at me like that -- you have every
right to be up on the kitchen counter. Right next to my belt and
underwear.
And you, Mr. Coffee machine. Your telltale filter with chopsticks in
the grounds explains that dreadful taste in my mouth.
Hmmm. Flashing lights on my cell phone. Do I dare check my outbound
call log? Not yet. In fact, let's shut that thing off. I learned
long ago that nobody worth talking to leaves a voicemail before five
o'clock.
Judging from the matchbooks and crinkled receipts, I was practically a
nomad last night. Golly, I wonder who "Debbie" is and why her phone
number is written on the back of my business card. Ditto that for
"Geoffrey".
Ah tequila, how I long for your sweet embrace.
Either that or a pants burglar broke in and stole every article of
clothing below my waist.
What am I doing right Now? I'm surveying the damage wearing a
wrinkled blue dress shirt, Brooks Brothers tie, and not much else.
Look, there's a shoe.
Hello there Kitty. Are you enjoying the Chinese food that I purchased
from God knows where? Don't look at me like that -- you have every
right to be up on the kitchen counter. Right next to my belt and
underwear.
And you, Mr. Coffee machine. Your telltale filter with chopsticks in
the grounds explains that dreadful taste in my mouth.
Hmmm. Flashing lights on my cell phone. Do I dare check my outbound
call log? Not yet. In fact, let's shut that thing off. I learned
long ago that nobody worth talking to leaves a voicemail before five
o'clock.
Judging from the matchbooks and crinkled receipts, I was practically a
nomad last night. Golly, I wonder who "Debbie" is and why her phone
number is written on the back of my business card. Ditto that for
"Geoffrey".
Ah tequila, how I long for your sweet embrace.
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