Bully Pulpit (No, Not Suburban Soliloquy)

This is the imagery I conjure when I hear or read the term "Bully Pulpit."  Yes, I know this idiom—Bully Pulpit—has been around for sometime, but its pejorative peal and ubiquitous use has given me reason, of late, to contemplate its odd meaning and derivation. The phrase is liberally strewn throughout our newspapers, and in this month's Rhode Island Monthly magazine the expression was set to ink at least three times within one article. And quite frankly, it's starting to irk me. 


Let's think about the vernacular. When I hear the word "Bully" (which I often do these days, especially in relation to school) I think: intimidation, coercion, threat, harassment, needling, confrontation. As in, "Eat sh*t, Dirtbag" (oh, the 70's!) followed by a swift blow to the noggin (and maybe a little dirt in the face, for good measure).  


And "Pulpit", well, there he is: Father Hazebrook lecturing from the second story wood-paneled platform. It was forty years ago, but I can still see him clear as day. Why in the world would we put a bully in the pulpit? (No, no, I don't mean Fr. H!)


A distinct disconnect.


Actually, it was—as it came to be—precisely the misuse (the attempt to bully followers into submitting to certain beliefs) of the church pulpit that inspired the modern day usage of Bully Pulpit.  


Here is a "Bully Pulpit" explanation from The C-SPAN Congressional Glossary:


This term stems from President Theodore Roosevelt's reference to the White House as a "bully pulpit" meaning a terrific platform from which to persuasively advocate an agenda. Roosevelt often used the word "bully" as an adjective meaning superb/wonderful. Roosevelt also had political affiliation with the Progressive Party, nicknamed the "Bull Moose" party. It got the moniker when Roosevelt ran for President as its candidate in 1912, after declaring himself as "fit as a bull moose."


(Consider the etymology here: "bully" as an archaic adjective—derived from 16th century Dutch "boel"—meaning lover, brother; also meaning: excellent, marvelous. Bully as an interjection: "Well done!")


And according to Free Dictionary a Bully Pulpit is "an important job or position that someone can use to persuade other people to accept their ideas."


I would like to note here that, historically, this Bully Pulpit verbiage was most popular during Teddy Roosevelt's (who coined it) and John F. Kennedy's presidency. The phrase is once again in vogue while Barack Obama enjoys the office. All three, Harvard graduates. All three, for different reasons, seemingly larger than life.


Not drawing any deductions or inferences here (although you may draw your own), merely pointing out "Bully Pulpit" as an overused term (as if you haven't noticed) with some rather ugly imagery. That said, I think it's time for our writers and reporters to get creative, dream up a new parlance, knock the bully pit off its high horse.


Here's a few of my suggestions for the Synonym List: "love lectern" or "peachy podium" or "swell stump"?? 


What do you think? Bully?!


(Now let's have some fun. Post your own spin on this phrase... post under the comments section below. I'll publish all idiom-synonym suggestions in my next entry [with the exception of "Friday Night Frolic"], and if you have your own blog, I'll post your link, too—and you can jump on your own bully pulpit!)

http://www.taxalishop.com/

"Friday Night Frolic" - Run Chicken Run

The Felice Brothers—from the Catskill Mountains to New York City subway stations, a recording studio in an old chicken coop, voices reminiscent of Dylan, homegrown, gritty rock and harmonies, now touring the USA—finding their way to Pawtucket, RI, at the Met Cafe, Friday night, October 29, 2010! 

I Miss My “ ”

My “ ” is gon. Wipd from its shiny black ky. 


Vaporizd into thin air; 


rubbd out lik a Mafioso rat by robust and ruthlss punching. 


Bginning with th uppr right arm, 


followd by its middl and lowr branchs, pummld colorlss, 


lik th middl C that I printd on th piano with indlibl markr whn I was just thr. 


Nothing bing prmannt. 


" "—A mathmatical constant, the slop of a tangnt lin (of a crtain function), th valu of a drivitiv; 


an irrational numbr of utmost importanc. 


(Not that I shall vr attmpt to us it as such.)


It’s tru—I undrstand now—how th “ ” is th most commonly usd vowl. Utilizd, consumd, xhaustd. I’v witnssd its slow annihilation 


at th hand of th oily skinnd undrsid of my lft middl fingr;


a lon swirling print complling vidnc.


Thoughtlss. Mrcilss. 


But what to com is mor troubling: th gradual dtrioration of T, who’s uppr right cap is missing; 


and th I! Oh my! A mr smudg at th cntr of th raisd bvld squar. 


What to do whn my grayd lttrs hav all vanishd?! Th aging mind drawing blanks. 


How will I find my way? Will th sound of th rat-a-tat tap carry m through—rkindling th addictiv, habitual lik movmnts of my tn rhumatic digits?


Lik a musician’s traind ar, a singrs cultivatd vocal chords? 


Whn all my comrads hav bn limnd bald, will I still hav a story to tll? A song to sing?


But just whn I wondr how I can b m without th lttr “ ”, I am succord by th stubborn blot of my lingring “I”,


my dtrmind vowl. A syllabl, a pronoun, an uttranc unto itslf.  

I wondr if this would qualify as Ars Potica? Profssor B?

"Friday Night Frolic" - It's Friday Night - Go On, Raise a Ruckus

What a girl would tweet if a girl could tweet. Rock me. 
Click HERE for more about Old Crow Medicine Show (the fab five).

Why I Don't Tweet

 

Artwork courtesy luclatulippe.com

I'm thinking maybe I should tweet. I'd probably get a lot more writing done if I were required to confine my words to no more than 140 characters. After about a year or so of daily tweeting, at a rate of at least once daily, I would have compiled 51,100 characters—enough to fill approximately seventeen pages of writing—and continuing at that feverish pace, it would take me about only seventeen years to write a book. A short book, albeit. Or five years to write an even shorter book. Like, maybe one you could wear on a necklace. Very. Short. 

A friend once invited me to tweet and so I did what any good friend would do—I tried it. One little tweet on Twitter. A chirp really. Truly, compared to other folks who tweet, a very weak chirp. I soon discovered that in the tweeting world of Twitter, one must be continually witty and chipper. One must be armed with sassy, snarky, sunny, sage somethings to say. If one does not tweet as such, then it's simply depressing to the reader. Or worse, boring. In other words, one must be very interesting. And I think that the only people in the universe that I'm most likely interesting (notice no "very") to are my children; that is, in terms of making dinner, driving them to a friend's house, helping with homework, making sure soccer, lacrosse, track, basketball, etc. uniforms are ready for the game. Yes, then I am most interesting. Further, there is the problem—and not a minor one—of multi-tasking, which many a twit does take, and I am not a very good multi-tasker. I cannot tweet and blog, text and talk, squeak and squawk all at the same time. I. Just. Can't.


Or I will start to look like this:

The other piece of this, a rather substantial shim, is how incredibly easy it is to instantaneously shoot off every random, banal, unfiltered, uncensored thought in one's head to the entire world. The whole world. Global, that is. I don't think, under any circumstance, this is ever a good idea. Take it from me. Not. Good. Idea.


But wait, did you all know that there are actually Twitter coaches out there? Yup, like this one and this other one, with all kinds of tweet tips for you. Hmmm. Maybe I'm going to have to rethink this twitting twister. I might get that book done in more like... fifteen years? Re. Think.

http://twittervideocoach.com/

What Children Draw (An Interesting Sociological Study... Perhaps)

Courtesy of Max

I thought I might be away from this space for a while, but a recent discovery over at Amazon sent me into a bit of a tizzy, spinning around on my heels, spouting all kinds of exclamatory words! Yep, like: Wha?! Huh?! Bwaaah! Get out!

First, a minor diversion and disclosure: the dining room is not nearly far enough away from the kitchen. In fact, I'm pretty sure Virginia Woolf was not envisioning the dining room when she wrote "... a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction..."  Somehow, in between Amazon and logging in here to speed blog, I find myself in my dining room—the new "room of my own" (being the only part of Woolf's equation that I am currently able to address)—sitting at this long, book and paper-strewn table, before my laptop, with an empty bag of Pepperidge Farm Sausalito Chocolate Chunk (milk chocolate macadamia, to die for) crispy cookies. I vaguely remember sauntering into the kitchen to fill my empty glass with water, but for the life of me I can't recall pushing open the door to the kitchen pantry. I dare say, perhaps it was the pantry that seized me, imprisoning me in its fragrant, shelf-lined walls, torturing me with its bags of treats and munchies. Wouldn't anyone break under such pressure? It's all a blur. Suffice it to say that it would be of tremendous help if the kitchen were much more than yards away from the dining area, if there were between the room of my own and the kitchen a series of obstacles, such as stairs, doors, streets, tunnels, valley's, mountains, and a large water source.

But that's neither here, nor there, so... back at Amazon I found a couple books of interest (the ones that sent me into a queer oscillation):

See... boys doodle. And girls doodle.

The above books are marketed to kids between 9-12 years old as arts and crafts, how-to books. Inside you'll find "Amazing Pictures to Complete and Create."  But do you notice anything odd here? Yes, that's true, The Girl's Doodle Book is blue. Hmmm.  The Boy's Doodle Book is red. Hmmm. Trying to keep the colors gender-neutral? (Wouldn't they then be green or yellow?) More  likely the intent is to distract one from the obvious with its subliminal color swap—you know: boys = blue; girls = a shade of red—as traditionally conceived within the color spectrum. Once deceived by the hue, the particular pigment, one may not notice what lies within. But look closer and you'll find the doodle images on the Boy's Doodle book red cover to be rather, um, masculine: Ship, shark, medieval knight in shining armor. And on the blue cover of the Girls Doodle book, just as you'd expect, doodles of a more feminine nature: tiara, unicorn, ballerina. (My apologizies for categorizing doodles in this manner, but—ahem—I just can't help it.)

Inside the red book are, among other things, drawings of 1) a mad scientist and mechanical feet, with the caption: Invent a robot; 2) space-suited men with guns, saucers flying in space and a goblin looking thing, with the caption: Alien invasion!; and, 3) armored warriors, with the caption: Make their shields scary. You get the picture (really, no pun intended).

Want to know what's in the blue book? ('Course you do.) Here are more samples: 1) a costumed princess in a theatre, with the caption: Shower the diva with flowers; 2) a table topped with a cake stand, caption saying: Create your perfect party cake; and, 3) French courtesans, and the statement: Give Mademoiselle big hair.

You know where I'm headed with this right? Look, I am not a bra-burner, I am not a self-proclaimed feminist (though I am a feminist)—only because I thought the women's movement (remember back when?) had equalized the sexes. Somewhat. To some degree. To some acceptable degree. A teensy weeny bit? But these books for 9 to 12 year olds, published in 2008, SCREAM sexism, blatant bigotry, partiality, chauvinism. (Really, Running Press Kids [publisher], did you not notice the obvious sexual stereotype here?) And despite the fact that I don't see myself as a self-proclaimed feminist, I must admit: I am the mother who bought my son and daughter, from the very beginning of time, gender-neutral toys/things. (Oh, hell, ok, I'm a FEMINIST!) Until they started making their own requests... for not so gender-neutral toys/things.  

And then I started to notice something in my own kids' doodles (w/out books or any other type of aid):

Sampling of the Little Man's doodles over the years:

Self-explanatory.

Self-explanatory.

Self-explanatory.

And the Little (lady) One's doodles over the years:

"Love makes the world go round."

Love is everywhere.

Cutest 'lil fellers. Love. Love. Love.

Do you know what's even more interesting than the books' content? Amazon's customer book reviews—all, incredibly, glowing accolade. "Excellent concept, fun!" charges one dad. "Amazing! Seems like it was created for my son!" states another. A mother proclaims that (paraphrasing here) she bought the "Girls" book for her daughters and friends, but really, she got it for herself. (Seriously?! Thanks for taking us back a few years.) "Fun!" cries another mom. "The illustrations are so nice!"  

Not one feminist outcry. Not one.

Yes, an interesting sociological study indeed.

Twenty-Four... and Leave a COMMENT Already!

“Because how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” ~Annie Dillard

1. I have moved my laptop from the kitchen to the dining room, where I am more than just a few paces from the refrigerator.
2. I just now learned how to burn music from an i-Pod to an i-Tunes playlist to a CD. It took me a good portion of the afternoon.
3. I just made my first submission (yikes!) to a literary magazine (which also consumed a good portion of my afternoon). It may take up to three months to hear back from the publisher, if in fact, I ever do.
4. Last night, at a neighborhood pig roast, in addition to some choice cuts I ate the cheek of a pig─also known as pork medallions.
   
   
5. Managed to get out for a long walk with my wayfaring friend L.
6. Tonight I am meeting my former college housemates. I think it's been nearly 25 years since I've seen the three of them. Bright. beautiful, funny, competent women. We shared a beach house, just blocks from the surf, during our junior and senior year at the University of Rhode Island. I can't wait to see them, see who they are today.

So, in addition to all of the mundane things that one does in a day, I had the opportunity to learn one new thing (the i-Pod odyssey); experience a third pig roast since the first where I met my husband (20 years ago this month!) and the second, where our children experienced their first (so a pig roast is always a sentimental affair); get some exercise—really, that's a feat—and perform some slight-of-hand, via wands and brushes and a certain shading to erase twenty-five years of aging—tada—before I meet the ole girls for drinks tonight (where such gathering will nicely round out a series of a nifty twenty-four hours).

About the pig roast (thank you so much P & M!):  Wonderful, salt of the earth,  interesting and entertaining hosts and fabulously fun and amusing company. Children watching in horror and awe at an entire pig slowly roasting on a spit is a real conversation starter, an opportunity to examine and evaluate our ways, customs, values. Vegan v. carnivore. Barbaric v. civilized, humane. Dead hog v. happy folks. Yes, a pig roast is one of those primordial events from which all sorts of interesting discourse evolves. (By the way, the pig's cheek is very tender and flavorful, quite delicious.) 

Oh, and Elvis performed, too! 

I will be busy with lots of classwork in the weeks to come, so I may not have the luxury of posting as often. But I know I will still return here whenever possible, as this blog is really the space that has become the "room of my own". So, I hope you'll stay with me, still check in from time to time. If you don't hear from me, you'll know why. But please, feel free to contact me, feel free to email, or visit me on Facebook (where fractured-sentenced and cryptic entries are acceptable), feel free to once again poke around on my blog and this time leave a COMMENT—yes, dialogue is good thing, people—SPEAK INTO THE MICROPHONE! Or give me a call. REALLY!  

And... HUGE thank you to Hubby, for permitting me to let the laundry go, the dust bunnies collect... for making breakfast this morning... for taking the kids out to dinner tonight... for not mentioning to me once that I've been on my laptop all day long. Je t'aime.