Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

Otis the cat should survey the trees and birds, But he'd rather annoy me. Since the sentinel spruce and maples do not heed him, He licks the window in small circles. Nearby chickadees care little For these feline demonstrations. The cold weather snaps us to attention, And the snow falls silently while we watch From inside a creaky house, hoping for touches of lenient spring amidst the wintery chills.

Snow on spruce boughs, The second coming of a rabbit Disrupts the morning silence I think of you asleep miles away In clouded memories of fog Here in the snowy north, The temperature dropped to negative 25 Even the birds are silent, But the spruces still contemplate our Tiny backyard, unaware of our plights.

Reading Palookaville. Arkansas past midyear. I'm waiting for fall to begin. Far away from winter snows, Metaphorically and literally. In the enduring humidity, I turn away. I'd give anything for a cold rain or a sad autumn day. I think I just wrote lyrics to an emo song, circa 1996. Don't hold that against me. 2020 needs to end.

Guy Maddin's My Winnipeg is one of the oddest and most charming films I have watched since I started this project. In a love letter/rejection notice to his beloved hometown, he creates an oddball documentary that blends the fantastic and the real, while purportedly portraying Maddin's escape from the ever-wintry city. Personal history vies for space with historical vignettes, all filtered through a dream landscape that obscures reality. Maddin uses recurring characters, such as his mother, played deftly and domineeringly by Ann Savage (far removed from her femme fatale roles of yesteryear like Detour ), and himself, played by Darcy Fehr, usually asleep on the train that never can leave the city. The film has to be seen to be believed, and I highly recommend it. The eerie narration and dead pan humor of the narrator's script are worth the price of admission alone. I will mention a few other high points because I cannot capture them all. Here are a few key scenes/events/v...

Here I am again blogging less than I want, although I do have some things in the works. Right now, I'm just happy that the sun is out, the world is thawing, and the future is warm. This is one of the few "rules of three" that makes me happy. "The dates of the first and last frosts are matters of considerable import to the Ozark farmer, and he has many curious ideas about the prediction of these frosts." -- Vance Randolph in Ozark Magic and Folklore

Even though I am from northern Wisconsin and should be used to the cold, there is something insidious about this Illinois winter that cuts to the bone. Maybe it's the cold, gray days, the skies that seem to always be ready to dump more snow, or the insistent biting chill of the wind as it whips across the barren corn fields. The wind seems stronger here, sharper and more insistent, telling a different story than the wind of home. There is little shelter. There are less trees to protect your sensitive skin. "Grow a damn beard already. Wrap another scarf around your tender throat. I will get through. I will freeze your ass and numb your toes. Just give me a chance, any chance." Up north you can hide behind a tree or at least find a hill to block the growing transgressions of the wind. Here there are large trees, just less of them. A large corn crop assures that you will freeze. Yet I suggest we hold our heads up as the white fields and streets turn to a ...

Aches in the bones, moving slowly, my body refuses to cooperate Sick and sad over the cold weather; it's frigid out there waiting White winds blow white snow over white roads -- white The grey skies sit against heavy trees, laden with yesterday's batch. Twisted slivers of air, cold shards of temperature, ever dropping Except when it warms to snow. The supermarkets are full of shoppers trying to miss the weather, bundled up like yesterday's babies, blocking the aisles, hogging the warmth. I stand looking at boxes of fabric softener. Later, at home, I count my books and avert my gaze from the windows. Snow on the window ledge only strengthens the ache.

Folk has increasingly been the rule here at Snobbin' headquarters. When it gets really cold out, there are two consistent directions for the music hereabouts -- acoustic or metal. As it gets colder, (Temperatures are dropping into the negatives lately) the folk albums drop increasingly onto the turntable. While other Canadian folk bands have been covered on the blog, Whitehorse, whose tuneful melodic folk tunes have helped them make the Polaris Short List, has never been mentioned. Their album The Fate of the World Depends on this Kiss is a stunner; beautiful melodies, harmony vocals, and terse production help them stand above the rest in the increasingly crowded Americana field. Whitehorse consists of Luke Doucet and Melissa McClelland, who both had successful solo careers before teaming up. They have released two records, including The Fate of the World, and an earlier equally relevant Self-Titled Effort. Comparisons to the Handsome Family can be easily made, yet this husban...

I have a special affinity for limericks, perhaps because my grandfather was always reciting his favorite. He tended toward the whimsical, telling tall tales, reciting jokes, and attempting to scare me with made up stories about a monster that only killed fools known as the Flowage Fool Killer. I can only count a handful of times that I was scared as a child. The Fool Killer is undoubtedly the top scariest childhood memory I have. I recall several other instances. A man was knocking on the door in the middle of the night and I awoke scared. Apparently, he worked with my dad and wanted to stay at our house. My father didn't know him too well and sent him on his way. There was also a country road that I remember riding down with a sign proclaiming "Beware of the Fritz;" I never knew what the Fritz was, but it still haunts my dreams. I imagine now that it was a vicious terrier with a thirst for human blood and a penchant for melodrama. Being lost in East St. Louis with my f...

Not to sound cliched, but there is something different about the North Woods during a frigid winter. Heavy snow nestles in clumps on the median, pine trees are heavy with white, and dark, large crows crowd telephone lines. Small towns and hamlets find protection from encircling balsams. Greyish snow is caked on signposts from the morning plows, pushing, salting, and sanding the world into a shape more suitable to people's whims. The drifting snow covers doorsteps, as the wind whips and whirls outside. The temperature is only -1, but it might drop into the -20's. Even in Illinois, this stops traffic, closes schools, changes the day to day. Here it isn't as common as it once was, but it still creates less of an event. Cars don't start, and there are always more accidents on the first days after a snowfall. Yet as winter settles in, even the deer and birds seem to disappear, except at feeders. Of course, those crows remain, ever watching, ever circling. The worl...