The sincere look of an asshole.

There are some people who are such gossip hounds, they care more about the gossip surrounding a relationship they are in, than the relationship.

And this same pathetic, loser, gauche, “selfie,” assholery defines our age, an age defined by editors and producers, not creative artists, an age defined by raunch, not love.

Boomers, who experienced the renaissance of popular music in the 1960s, are no doubt applauding the 7.2 million dollar juror decision against Robin Thicke, 38, and Pharrel Williams, 41, who stole Marvin Gaye’s Got To Give It Up for their boring and derivative Blurred Lines, which used the ubiquitous formula of big production sexy video to create a “hit” among the “cool” lemmings.

We are not bitter; we find this all hilariously funny, and we are not saying there should be no cakes and ale, or that no good music is written today, or that assholes only cropped up recently.

Marvin Gaye was shot to death by his preacher father.  Life is a roller coaster of moral ambiguity and it always will be.  We understand.

All musicians and artists steal. The Beatles were derivative.

Sex sells. Not today, but always.

We know. We get it.

But perhaps one of the reasons the 1960s was a renaissance of popular music was that there was a small window of time in which the creative artist was the producer, and called the shots.

And this is a good time to reflect at how fortunate we are to be running a blog where we can write a poem for the ages and publish it. For free. In five minutes.

We are fortunate, because the art and artist and the production of that art—writing, editing, publishing—exits as one, and is never mucked up by middle men.  With Scarriet, product and producer and production exist together—in a God-like way—in one, condensed, hyper-creative, white-light impulse, with no distractions (unless one counts the comments of Diane Roberts Powell.)  It is a creative person’s paradise.  And comments—honest and astute ones—are finally great for the truly creative person, as well, and not distractions at all.  Comments are good, finally; they do not belong to ‘middle man hell.’

So let us leave love to the lovers, not the rumors.

Let us leave music to the musicians, not the big industry producers.

Let us leave writing to the writers, not the big industry editors.

Thank you.




  1. Alan Cordle said,

    March 11, 2015 at 4:08 pm

    Hey hey hey.

  2. thomasbrady said,

    March 11, 2015 at 8:00 pm

    Speaking of God-like, it’s Alan Cordle! Who breathed Scarriet into life seven years ago. Hi Al!!!!

  3. Mr. Ooh Ooh Ooh said,

    March 13, 2015 at 2:39 am

    [And this same pathetic, loser, gauche, “selfie,” assholery defines our age, an age defined by editors and producers, not creative artists, an age defined by raunch, not love.]

    I wave my black bandanna in the air, I make that obnoxious rhythmic bellowing like a gorilla, and I shout “preach it, Tom !!!”

  4. noochinator said,

    March 13, 2015 at 11:14 am

    And let us leave politics to the politicians, not the literati.

    “My word to you is to go back to those ivory towers. If, from time to time you wish to hurl spitballs at politicians and statesmen, do so, but do not regard that as your principal task.” — Robertson Davies

    • March 14, 2015 at 10:07 pm

      Politics in poetry can be fun, but not if it’s a bloodless exercise in trying to make poetry serve a prosaic and didactic function. Dante’s constant score-settling in the Inferno gets tiresome after about the fifth or sixth instance thereof.

  5. March 14, 2015 at 10:19 pm

    The parody video Weird Al Yankovic did, “Word Crimes”, is actually a good deal more creative and original than Thicke’s song. Then again, Yankovic didn’t go the lazy route of throwing attractive naked women in a video to go along with a lazily ripped-off song.

  6. noochinator said,

    April 21, 2015 at 1:47 pm

    Speaking of cats, here’s a great cat poem:

    Cat Talk
    An anecdote re-told

    ‘The new tom at number twenty-five,’
    Said Malkin the cat to Tybaldina her friend,
    As they shared a soup-plate of milk,
    ‘Have you met him yet, and what is he like?’
    ‘Yes — on the tiles last night,’ Tibbles replied,
    ‘As it happened, but really, my dear, he’s a terrible bore,
    A dead loss — all he can talk about,
    It would seem, is his operation.’

    John Heath-Stubbs

    • noochinator said,

      April 26, 2015 at 11:20 pm

      More cat fun,
      Twelve in one!

      Charles Keating reads Robertson Davies’ story “The Cat that Went to Trinity”:

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