Oktoberfest on the Rocks

The sound of German Polka music isn’t something you’d normally hear while walking through a park in New York State. Neither is the sight of men in lederhosen and women in dirndl dresses, locked arm in arm, dancing to it.

But at Bear Mountain’s Annual Octoberfest, with four musicians on stage in knee-high socks and green suspenders, singing, “Yodaley-hoo,” such partying is all part of the day.

At the beergarden, under an array of tents, you can get your own stein filled to the brim with goldfrothy beer and sit at one of the many picnic tables, where whole families congregate to delve their stomachs into an array of German food: bratwurst on a roll with onions; smoked pork chops with apples sauce; stuffed cabbage, potato pancakes; pierogis and sauerkraut.

Bear Mountain’s 2006 Annual Octoberfest takes place in a picnic area beside a lake at the base of Bear Mountain. It celebrates the traditional Oktoberfest held every year in Munich, Germany. The Bear Mountain version runs from mid-September through the end of October every weekend from 12 to 6 P.M.

Octoberfest party crashers inhabit this wooded region and try to take advantage of any intoxicated party-goers. The vendors sell items completely unrelated to Oktoberfest: Christmas stockings embroidered with dogs and cats; baskets of plastic corn and leaves. Why not let a tattooist paint your skin with a temporary tattoo? Nothing says German Oktoberfest like tribal ink-marks. And then there’s Rebecca King, a middle-aged woman selling hideous chain-mail necklaces – necklaces made of interlocked metal rings. She sold cloaks too – as though togas just went out of style.

But you may find yourself drifting to the stage area like a cartoon mouse to the smell of cheese when you inhale the aroma of waffles. Follow your nose, and you’ll watch a apron-wearing teenager pour butterscotch and drop scoops of ice cream onto freshly-made Belgian waffles.

Check the time with Coo Coo clocks swinging their pendulums on a wall being sold by husband-and-wife John and Norma Costa, along with lid-covered steins engraved with traditional German scenes, such as the Oktoberfest parade in Munich. The Fest originated to celebrate King Ludwig’s birthday. And the lids – to keep out the flies back in those days.

Buzz your way over to the picnic tables and try the sauerbraten that falls apart in the mouth. The potato salad that tastes oniony. And the red cabbage that tastes like…red cabbage. But forget the nackwurst on a roll, which tastes like a barbecue hotdog.

But why not grab yourself a stein and plate of food and watch a drummer, accordion player, guitarist, and vocalist play traditional German polka songs? Listen to the belching screams of the intoxicated audience. Or dance beside other attendees wearing lederhosen and feather-tipped caps.

Of course, there arrives a time when the music stops as the sun meets the crest of the mountain, when the polka band and crowd hold their beer steins in the air singing, “Ziggy Zagga, Ziggy Zagga, hoy, hoy, hoy – GUUULP!...ahhh.

Letter to myself about review

Dear Dan of the past,
Your review of A Clockwork Orange sucks. I read three other reviews and they were much better. You explain too much in your review, as you do in a lot of your writing. Don’t explain, show. In addition, you should use “we,” “us,” and “you,” more to bridge the gap between you and the audience.

You went from beginning to end with hardly any comments or criticisms. You could have commented on why the movie, though bizarre, kept your attention, by showing scenes, such as when Alex beats Mr. Alexander and rapes his wife, all while he sang, “Singin’ in the rain.” You could have used dialogue to support your points, rather than it coming directly from your mouth.

You could have commented on Kubrick. You could have compared this to his other films or other directors of similar films. You could have said whether certain things worked in the film, such as the nudity. You could have analyzed Kubrick’s style: cinematography, lighting, etc., perhaps they were used as a metaphor for the film’s theme. The classical music could have been discussed in relation to the film’s structure and whether or not it was effective. Use as an example when analyzing style.

You could have analyzed the main character, Alex, and described scenes which show why you thought he was a character to root for even though he was a sadistic murderer. You could have analyzed the actor’s performance of this character as well.

The next time you write a review, you should do less explaining and more analyzing. The introductory paragraphs should include the setting, and that it was adapted from Anthony Burgess’ novel. In addition, these paragraphs should summarize the plot in a few sentences. Use scenes to explain your point. You may also want to begin your critique with the film’s inciting incident, in this case, when Alex is jailed.





(Establish whether or not you like film or not and structure review around that)

A Clockwork Crazy

If Ivan Pavlov and a soft-core-porn movie director filmed a movie to show how operant conditioning worked on criminals, they would have produced A Clockwork Orange – the story of reforming deviant humans. What I first saw was a young man’s face staring at me for about fifteen seconds. Strange. But that didn’t even scrub the bloody surface of the BEATINGS and BOOBS to come.

Alex deLarge, the leader of a four pack of spandex-and-black-hat-wearing men – Droogies – who walk around England beating the shit of out innocent people with clubs, such as their first victim: a dirty old man lying on the ground, drunk. But Alex is just a student living with his parents, while his friends seem to be in their late twenties.

The next scene is a collage of flowers and classical music. The juxtaposition would make most people giggle. And I actually began rooting for the Droogies when they saved a young woman from being raped by a pack of pirate-hat wearing men. But later, they rape a Mrs. Alexander and paralyze her husband, all while Alex toots, “Singing in the rain…”

Alex finally gets arrested. He murders a red-haired gymnast with a large penis sculpture. We cut to two years later. Alex has memorized the Bible and seems calmer. But he still dreams of murder and sex. He speaks with a priest often. He eventually seeks alternative treatment and is transferred to a Dr. Brodsky. He’s fitted with a straightjacket before a movie screen for multiple sessions. Metal clamps force his eyelids open. He is subjected to violent films of death and sex, all while listening to Beethoven’s 9th. At first he smiles. But then he gags. The sickest part is how the clamps force his eyes open, and how a doctor continually drips water drops in his eyes. And the way Alex’s mouth wrinkles back in fear.

Eventually, every time he sees a naked woman or violence, he grabs his stomach and keels over. Though he’s reformed and released, obstacles are conveniently placed in his way. Alex tries moving in with his parents but a man named Joe rents his room. Joe has become like a son to his parents. And he acts like one, forcing Alex to leave. It seemed strange, that they treat him more like a son than they do Alex. But it all fits with the dark drama.

Alex is determined to make his own way. But the old bum he had beaten recognizes him, and soon Alex is in a brawl with a crowd of old, smelly men. But – to the rescue! – are two Droogies, now police officers. They take him to the woods and torture him.

Alex survives but he meets encounters Mr. Alexander. He forces Alex to listen to Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, which drives him to commit suicide. In a hospital in bandages, Alex gains the public’s sympathy for being a government experiment gone awry. Though he’s recovering physically, no one knows if his noggin will revert to violence.

Blue

Blue,
I need you.
Like the blue
Ink pen I’m writing with.
Blue like a bruise.
Blue, what the fuck are you?
Tell me!
B L U E.
Letters, symbols, abstraction.

But I see you –
In Steven’s poem:
The blue guitar played by a man
Who can’t quite play things as they are.

I see you –
In most literature,
As a blue ocean,
Blue sky,
Blue light.
You represent life
Since you are the color of water (when clean).
And water is thought to be the source of earth life:
Amoebas, jellyfish, amphibians, dinosaurs, humans
Maybe that’s the wrong order.
And now you represent life to the American culture –
A four letter, single syllable adjective.

But did you have a say in what you symbolize?
No.
A human saw the ocean and grunted, “Blue.”
You are just blue.
You don’t associate with life.
You’re an abstraction, an adjective.
One of the primary colors.

In the color spectrum,
You are in the red zone.
When your red photons are absorbed,
Molecules dance and create vibrations
Which turn water blue[1]
I looked it up. It’s true.

Red, White, and Blue.
Blue: the coats of the Continental Army3
In the American Civil War who fought
For Americans’ freedom

Blue, in
1777 the Continental Congress of the United States
designed an official American flag –
white stars before a blue backdrop –
to symbolize the birth of a constellation5

Stars in outer space
Wink in the night sky.
But you are the hottest 6 –
Between 29,700 °C and 59,700 °C4

You are the blue in a candle flame burning at 1,400 °C[2]

Blue, you are:
Snow-covered field at dusk;
The halo around the moon;
Lightning that daggers across thunderous skies;
Sea coral;
Swordfish;
Blue spruce trees;
Bluegrass Kentucky
Bluegrass music
Blue grass that grows across Tennessee
That which swooshes the shores of the Gulf of Mexico.
That which laps against the banks of the Nile.
That which
That which cleanses sins in sacred Houses
That which cleanses sins at the Ganges

Blue:
A first prize ribbon;
Pool water;
Stove-top flame;
A husky’s eyes glaring at a
bloody, maggot-covered cat
glowing under a single neon street light.

Blue:
The twang on a guitar;
The tweet of a blue jay;
The silent screams of a man behind walls;
The cries, sobs, and sniffles at a wake.

Blue, you are:
Nose, ears, fingers, toes, numbed by winter winds;
Coldwater-numbed-lips;
Tear-filled eyes;
Veins on my hands;

But did you know if you were a human
And a pair of hands squeezed your neck,
Your face would eventually turn blue?
You could even die if your blood lost enough oxygen,
Then your whole body would turn blue.

You are not a human.
You are a blueberry.
I can eat you
I can feel you squish in my mouth
I taste you.

You are twilight skies I glare at.
You are the cloudless dome I look for when I step outside.
You are my favorite color, my favorite abstraction.






1 “1 E4K: Conditions in different temperatures.” Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. 4

Sept. 2006. 15 Sept. 2006.

[2] Braun, Charles, Sergei N. Smirnov. “Why is Water Blue?” Why is Water Blue. 1993.

Dartmouth College. 15 Sept. 2006. par. 1, 2

3 “Continental Army.” Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. 12 Sept. 2006.

15 Sept. 2006. .


4 “Conversion Calculator for Units of Temperature.” Temperature Conversion

Calculator. 2004. University of Exeter. 15 Sept. 2006.



5 “History of the American Flag.” History of American Fla. 2006. USA

Flag Site. 15 Sept. 2006. .


6 “Stellar classification: Morgan-Keenan spectral classification.” Wikipedia, the Free

Encyclopedia. 11 Sept. 2006. 15 Sept. 2006.

Sontag Response

I agree with Susan Sontag’s assertion that people tame art by interpreting so that they can feel comfortable (Sontag par. 19). People naturally make art their own; they subjectify it; they make sense of art to suit their personal lives. To leave art without extracting a meaning makes people uncomfortable because it leaves them with a lingering question. Humans have an innate need to make things logical.

Sontag is right when she says that writers interpret their writing and inject it with meaning. They must inject meaning because leaving it “as is” makes them uncomfortable (par. 20). Every writer sleuths out a theme and edits accordingly. Failure to revise scares most experienced writers because the audience might not “get it.” From my experience as a writer, I have to understand a first draft’s theme an edit accordingly. I feel that I have to chop away at the excess and uncover the meaning so that it won’t suck and/or be misunderstood.
But readers are prone to interpretation as well. Sontag states that “the interpreter” alters text (par. 12). Obviously, the reader interprets it in a way that makes sense to them. Despite there being an intended meaning, I believe the reader acquires the essential meaning behind a tale. That’s where the importance lies: not what the art is to the artist; but what it is to the reader. The artist had something in mind when they created their art, but may see it differently years later, such as the poet E.E. Cummings who edited many of his published poems.

I also agree with Sontag when she states that the modern way of interpreting tears away at art until it finds subtext. That the subtext is, as Sontag says, the true subtext (par. 13), isn’t necessarily true, however. Subtext is equivocal. It’s more a hypothesis than truth. The truth of art is whatever makes sense to the observer. The subtext is all the unanswered questions about the piece. They linger in the mind and never fit into any definite truth.

I agree with Sontag’s assertion that “interpretation is largely reactionary, stifling” (par. 16) and it “poisons our sensibilities” (par. 16). Our worldviews prevent us from seeing and experiencing art for what it is. Objectivity is gone. People must recover their senses (par. 24) so they can respond to art with body and mind rather than bias. People must learn to form opinions of their own, to cast aside other interpretations.

And I agree that people must shred away at the content so the art can be seen for what it is (par. 25) – to see it without bias, not for what they want it to be. Therefore, commentary, as Sontag states, should make the art seem real; and critiques must show what art is instead of showing “what it means.” (par. 26). I agree because people must form their own opinions on a work of art. And to hear or read a critique prior to viewing the piece poisons the human ability to experience it with its senses – without being self-conscious.


Sontag, Susan. “Against Interpretation.” Susan Sontag. 1964. coldbacon.com
15 Sept. 2006. againstinterpretation.html>.

Concert in the Park

He pounded the crowd for four hours with thunderous bass drum beats. One man. Three thousand people. Electronic violin harmonies hummed behind a façade of bassy thumps, buzzing, and echoey beeps and bleeps that blasted through the speakers as Paul straddled the helm with his turntables and disc players.

Central Park, New York City, was the site of Paul Van Dyk’s Politics of Dancing concert. That August evening the audience of men, women, and teenagers filled the football field to see this dance music maestro and hear his beats which garnered him the best DJ in the world title.

The stage flashed with red and orange strobe lights. The big-nosed thirty-something-year-old must have had the sense of hearing of a microbat. Paul stood behind an array of sound equipment: two laptops, two vinyl turntables, two compact disc tables. His hands hovered over the devices: one switched records on a table while the other adjusted the tempo on his laptop. Electronic bass drum beats BOOM BOOMed, forcing the audience to jump up and down and scream P.V.D., P.V.D.!

Clusters of the audience swarmed the stage’s front perimeter as the bass intensified. Paul bobbed his head and pumped his shoulders with the rhythm – BoomBoomBoomBoom ch*ch*ch*ch BoomBoomBoomBoom ­– while he held one earphone to his lobe and spun a record with the other hand.

Everyone raised their hands in the air in sync with the bass drums that beat like bombs through the speakers. Fog machines spewed grey clouds in the air. Stage lights shot green laser beams above our heads.

At several points, Paul paused the beats so there was no sound except for audience clatter. Then a drum roll grew, grew, and BoomBoomBoomBoomBoom! Airy echoes of electronic-induced wind instruments fluttered between the beats. Somnolent violin-synths glided over it all. The pause between the bludgeoning beats sent me jumping in the air, pounding my finger-pointed fist with the audience. Each time he paused the music, we knew what was coming next. We anticipated it like riders on a rollercoaster bracing for the gut-twisting fall to the bottom.

Around me, the audience jumped up and down, waved their hands in the air. They danced in the humid heat, kicking their legs up and down and bending their arms back and forth like some crazy aerobics routine; others held their arms out in a defense-like stance while their hips moved as though they were playing with invisible hula-hoops. And I could feel their ninety-eight degree body heat. As I joined in the dancing, I felt an adrenaline rush like I was running laps.

I could smell the audience’s body odor as I danced and elbowed between them, their faces smiling, oranged by a rainbow of stage lights. I jumped up and down, beat my hand in the air with everyone else Paul-van-Dyk, Paul-van-Dyk. I could feel the bass beats in my chest and the harmonized synths hum between my ears.

Everyone danced, everyone cheered for their DJ. Everyone enjoyed the same sounds, the same space.

Hello world.
Not much here yet. Unless you have a really big imagination.