the Edsel's missing poetry

In the mid-fifties the newly-public Ford Motor Company sought a name for its soon-to- be-released experimental car, known in its design stage as the E-car. After in-house marketers came up with 300-odd names which were felt to be embarrassing in their pedestrianism, the company approached Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Marianne Moore, an icon of the popular culture, known as much for her wild passion for baseball and boxing as for her poetry. What Ford wanted was a car name that “flashes a dramatically desirable picture in people’s minds,” from a woman who seemed to know mainstream America. What they got was “Anticipator,” “Thunder Crester,” “Pastelogram,” “Intelligent Whale,” “The Resilient Bullet,” “Mongoose Civique,” “Andante con Moto,” “Varsity Stroke” and then, as her very last try for the name magic, “Utopian Turtletop.”

Understandably disappointed by Moore’s ideas, the company hired a marketing firm. When the agency forwarded a list of 18,000 possible names, it fell upon corporate executives to choose the best among them for final consideration. Every day an appointed panel of executives would assemble in an appointed projection room to watch as thousands of names were flashed across a screen in six-inch high letters, to oblivion unless someone shouted, “Stop!” and gave reasons for his enthusiasm.

None of the final contenders, neither “Corsair” nor “Citation” nor “Ranger” nor “Pacer,” made the grade in the end, and Ford returned to its earlier idea — one that had been rejected for years by the Ford family — and named the car after company scion, Edsel Ford.

Of course, the Edsel was a spectacular failure on many levels, marketing most notably. Later consumer surveys revealed that the public strongly disliked the name, associating it with Edson tractors, dead cells (batteries) and weasels.

Ode to a floater

Oh, squiggly line in my eye fluid, I see you there, lurking on the periphery of my vision. But when I try to look at you, you scurry away. Are you shy, squiggly line? Why only when I ignore you do you return to the center of my eye? Oh, squiggly line, it's all right. You are forgiven.
-Stewie from Family Guy

twiLight the horror

I'm compelled by admiration to link to Eric's post on our shared blog Not My Tribe. As a mother of girls in the thick of an Edward-the-dreamy-vampire lovefest, I felt particular pain upon reading his take on the Twilight phenomenon. I'm going to read the book this weekend, desperately seeking leeway to temper his indictment of those of us who've allowed our daughters to enter the seedy genre of 'tween romance.

A priesthood serving only beauty

If only everyone could feel the power
Of harmony like you! But no, for then
The world could not exist; no one would want
To spend time taking care of life’s low needs;
All would be given over to free art.
We are but few, we chosen, happy idlers
Who look disdainfully at petty usefulness
And form a priesthood serving only beauty.
Isn’t that so? But now I feel unwell. . . .


-Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, moments before his death, in Aleksandr Pushkin’s play Mozart and Salieri. Mozart died on this day in 1791 at the age of forty-five — allegedly at the hands of friend and fellow composer Antonio Salieri — while composing his final work, the Requiem. . .

The wit of Robertson Davies

""I am full of holy joy and free booze," said Cobbler. I feel moved to sing. It is very wrong to resist an impulse to sing; to hold back a natural evacuation of joy is as injurious as to hold back any other natural issue. It makes a man spiritually costive, and plugs him up with hard, caked, thwarted merriment. This, in the course of time, poisons his whole system and is likely to turn him into that most detestable of beings, a Dry Wit. God grant that I may never be a Dry Wit. Let me ever be a Wet Wit! Let me pour forth what mirth I have until I am utterly empty — a Nit Wit."
—from Tempest-Tost, by Robertson Davies, who died on this day in 1995

María está aprendiendo hablar español

"I'm going to learn Spanish!"

I've said this so many times that no one listens to me anymore. Whenever I proclaim my renewed intention to become fluent in Spanish, my kids roll their eyes and mock me for my lack of initiative, knowing that it will never happen. At least I think they're deriding me but, since they talk about me in their secret language -- Spanish -- I'm never sure whether I should be offended by their words, or proud that they are becoming proficient en español. I've shed tears in foreign countries because I couldn't speak Spanish but, still, I stand mute and embarrassed when my littlest daughter greets me after school. "Hola, Mama. Cómo está?" "Mmmmm, bueno? bien? mucho bueno? muchas bien? I'm good. How was school?"

It's not like I haven't tried to learn the language. From Spanish for Dummies to Lonely Planet phrasebooks to Berlitz and Rosetta Stone, I've tried. I've really tried. But somehow I get bored or discouraged and put my brand new books and CDs aside, vowing that I'll never visit another Latin American country again.

Well, my hope has been renewed. I've stumbled upon the perfect program -- LiveMocha. It's a cross between Spanish class and Facebook. The curriculum is divided into courses, units, and easily-digestible lessons. The lessons are divided in learning, reading, writing, speaking. For each writing and speaking assignment, other students -- usually native Spanish speakers learning another language -- provide instruction and feedback within hours, sometimes minutes. I have an opportunity to review the work of those learning English. I can engage in online chats with other students to become conversant, or help them become conversant in English. If I'm not interested in chitchat, I set my status to "busy" and study in peace.

LiveMocha offers courses in many languages (Russian, Chinese, Icelandic and Hindi to name a few) and everything is available for free.

A friend once told me that she attended a weekly Bible study to receive instruction and encouragement, to be challenged to think and grow, and to be held accountable by her teachers and peers. She said that reading the Bible and trying to be good on her own was futile. I recall thinking that it was unfortunate that she didn't have enough faith in herself to go it alone. Now I think I understand the concept of a support group as an impetus to lasting change. I am hopeful that Ana and Jorge and Mauricio and the rest of my new friends will inspire me to stick with the program.

Maybe I'll even attend Bible study at Our Lady of Guadalupe and kill two birds with one stone. Fluent in Spanish and righteous by the year's end. People are sure to run when they see me coming.

Three great finds

Souvenirs from my mini-vacation in Breckenridge:

1. Why I Write by George Orwell

2. Poet Sharon Olds' letter to Laura Bush

3. The Weather Underground, co-founded by Bill Ayers

Poolside haiku

a swirling eddy
frothy seaweed eyes emerge
disembodied head

Rocky Mountain medicine

Political language -- and with variations this is true of all political parties, from Conservatives to Anarchists -- is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind. One cannot change this all in a moment, but one can at least change one's own habits, and from time to time one can even. . .cocoon for long periods of time, away from televisions and computers, to spare oneself the exquisite torture of an American Presidential Election.
~George Orwell and Marie Walden

Am I happy Obama won? Yes. Do I think he'll bring significant change? No. The tender-hearted idealist in me is buried under mountains of rhetoric, hyperbole and outright bullshit.

I'm emerging slowly, squinting at the sun, trying to find Pollyanna.

¡Obamanos!