Um ... perhaps because I hadn’t been reading them? In all fairness there aren’t that many of them, but (a) they seem to be copying each other, leading one to suspect it’s one troll under multiple screen names, or (b) the few bad reviews there are seem to be the work of a boatload of poorly educated broads who have no idea how to compose a proper review.
My favorite childish outburst came from a genuine dimwit named Carol Cortazzo, who was "reviewing" (and we use that word so loosely it may not be in the same stratosphere), "We Are Love". Now, trust me I don’t really care if you have good reasons for not liking something, but this was her inane "review":
"From being amazing young Italian singers they have become imitations of American punk-looking, skinny nobodies who happen to have been blessed with great voices. We have enough no-talent teanagers here. We need more original talent. They should be themselves. I would not recomend this CD to anyone and probably will not buy their new CDs."Oooooh. There will now be a pause while we applaud Miss Cortazzo’s "sterile granny panties in a twist" grand diva-esque exit and peculiar spelling of the words "teenagers" and "recommend" and yell "Buh-bye!" at her cellulite-laden buttocks ... but really – none of that made a lick of sense. PUNK-looking? This group of teenagers? (see photo, above left) The least punk-looking group of teenage boys I can think of? And "skinny"? What, she’d rather they were all fat and clumsy?
Hey, but at least they had "great voices" – and you would have thought that her review of a cd of songs would have made mention of that, instead of picking on them for getting skinnier as they grew taller, which at least two of them did. Since they are – when last we looked – teenage boys. She may not like it, but she can’t get around it. Teenage boys grow up.
I’m not even sure I want to beat the broad up, Anonymous – this wasn’t even a review of the cd – I doubt anyone could figure out what had pissed her off, but it sounds insanely personal. Either that, or proof that women need to gobble down a handful of Midol before composing reviews of anything. Damn idiot sounded like one of them stood her up on a date or something.
I know, I should talk, since I seem to be complaining about everything too. My only explanation at the moment: in addition to a broken kneecap, the Sky Sadist knocked a filling out of one of my bottom molars and then laughed uproariously at the doubled pain. One emergency root canal later ... I sit in the office glumly opening one of my two lunchtime Chinese fortune cookies that reads, "Your winsome smile will be your sure protection." Really? You’re sure about that? I HAVE NO WINSOME SMILE RIGHT NOW, YOU IDIOTS!!! I can’t even open my mouth! [kapow!]
The other cookie: "You will be traveling and coming into a fortune." OK, that I can live with. I’ll come into a fortune and then travel without any sure protection. Lovely. Remind me not to carry cash.
My previous entry may have reminded some readers of Umberto Eco’s famous quote about lunatics in Foucault’s Pendulum:
A lunatic is easily recognized. He is a moron who doesn’t know the ropes. The moron proves his thesis; he has a logic, however twisted it may be. The lunatic, on the other hand, doesn’t concern himself at all with logic; he works by short circuits. For him, everything proves everything else. The lunatic is all idée fixe, and whatever he comes across confirms his lunacy. You can tell him by the liberties he takes with common sense, by his flashes of inspiration, and by the fact that sooner or later he brings up the Templars.
Or, in my case, "she". Fine. I claim lunacy with pride – probably caused by intense pain – having circled back around to the Templars two entries ago, in the Solomon and David discussion.
I also mentioned in a previous entry that I was reading Born of a Woman, by John Shelby Spong ... one of his comments led me to research another book and author, The Illegitimacy of Jesus: A Feminist Theological Interpretation of the Infancy Narratives, by Jane Schaberg – basically, her theory was that Jesus was actually the son of a Roman centurion and a product of rape, and I say "theory" only because I haven’t read the book.
What struck me, though, were the hideously evil posts from christians that followed the book summary: cursing her, damning her to hell, threatening to murder her, wishing they could burn her at the stake ... basically post after post of things so vicious and ugly your jaw just dropped. Jesus must be so proud of all these insane followers doing things he sure never did.
Nymphs
by: Evelyn Scott (1893-1963)
Normally I’m not a big fan of Evelyn Scott – after we tried to parse and otherwise evaluate her "Tunnel" (which had my U of M creative writing class muttering "ewww!" under their breaths) I didn’t think I would like anything she wrote– but I later changed my mind. This one I liked.
The drift of shadows on the mountainside,
Blue and purple gold!
Purple dust sifting through fingers of ivory:
Cool purple on ivory breasts.
I see arms and breasts,
Upturned chins,
Slanting through the dust of purple leaves:
Ivory and gold,
Bare breasts and laughing eyes,
That drift on the shadowy surf
And surge against the side of the mountain.
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