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August 3, 2009 - July 27, 2009

Tuesday, May 27, 2008


Here come the Seventies.

The fashions alone will probably kill us.

PSAYINGS.5A.19. All the kiddies are saying they want CHANGE. Of course, there's nothing new under the sun, and the would-be agents of change are usually trying to turn the clock back to a time they liked better. For example, this site has already had occasion to warn you about the nature of the change promised by the Hillary campaign when it was still riding high and not in fear of Obama. Part of Hillary's fall from grace is no doubt due to the large number of people who still remember the so-called "Golden Age" of the Clintons. Thus, the Democrat electorate has decided to look even further back in time -- to the Seventies -- which are being recreated for us at frightening speed by the power of mass nostalgia.

No, dears, it's not just the cyclical nature of world events. It's the fulfillment of a deep subconscious yearning of long standing by the Democrat power structure. They're obsessed with returning to the days before the Reagan Revolution, when they owned the presidency and overwhelming control of both houses of Congress. The last time that state of affairs existed was in the Carter administration. Note how many current circumstances reflect the conditions that were either immediate precursors of Carter's election or concomitant with his presidency:

1. The rash, irrational, and self-destructive determination by a head-in-the-sand Democrat Congress to defund a vulnerable ally we had spent much military blood and treasure supporting as part of a global foreign policy strategy. (THEN: S. Vietnam; NOW: Iraq.)


The Fall of Saigon. The Pelosi/Obama Vision of Departing the Green Zone.

2. The refusal to deal with a crisis in energy supplies -- and consequent runaway pricing -- by authorizing more nuclear plants and freeing the hated oil companies to develop new domestic sources of petroleum and more domestic refinery capacity. (THEN: The preferred socialist solution, a "windfall profits tax" that raised gas prices higher while all nuclear plant projects were stopped in their tracks. NOW: The preferred solution, a windfall profits tax that will raise gas prices even higher while still prohibiting domestic drilling, refinery expansion, and new nuclear plants in favor of the food-destroying ethanol boondoggle and various windmill/solar/hydrogen/Learjets-for-the-rich "alternative" approaches that will punish the poor for the purpose of "saving" a planet which is more-or-less impervious to our existence.)


1979 GAS LINES. A good thing we ousted the Shah
and ushered in the age of Ayatollah Khomeini and a
far more stable & devout muslim leadership in Iran.
Everything's been so much cooler ever since, right?



How we were taught to think of it. Of course, nobody took
a big toothy bite out of the cooling tower and nobody died.
Except for the American troops who have had to keep the
mideast oil flowing to electrify your nasty air-conditioners.

3. A Democrat "change strategy" for the future based on lowered expectations, draconian dis-incentives for consumption and economic growth, and a concerted effort to blame the capitalist system and ordinary Americans for the leadership's impoverished vision of the future. (THEN: Carter's "malaise" speech. "NOW: Obama's "we can't eat all we want" speech.)


Yes, we really can have it all back again -- the whole
liberating idea that what really REALLY sucks isn't
the Democrat in charge but US. READY, SET, GO...


Change is gonna be so goddam great, ain't it?

4. A weak economy created by Democrat market interventions and non-productive tax-the-rich schemes in the name of "social justice," whose destructive effects are nevertheless blamed on everyone and everything but socialist Dem policies. (THEN: the inflationary effect of ballooning Democrat entitlements cut loose from government budgeting authority -- Medicare, Medicaid, and a raft of "Great Society" giveaway programs. NOW: The collapse of the housing market and real estate equity created by Democrat programs designed to pressure private lenders into writing mortgages for people who couldn't qualify for them, plus the reckless insistence on adding still another socialistic and ungovernable entitlement, "Universal Health Care.")



The Misery Index. Just gotta love those Carter Seventies. Of course, we've done what
Wikipedia won't do: highlight the later rather than the higher or average index number.

5. A de facto -- and grossly hypocritical -- "Two Americas" approach for transferring the costs of Dem-created shortages and environmental impacts to ordinary Americans who are supposed to be grateful for government controls spun as egalitarian reforms. (THEN: the passage of CAFE standards which led to the manufacture of unsafe automotive junk called Pintos, Vegas, Mavericks, Chevettes, Pacers, and Gremlins for folks who could no longer afford to gas up Cadillacs and Corvettes. NOW: a nonstop propaganda campaign against SUVs and trucks, plus a renewed legislative push for stricter CAFE standards designed to push those who can't afford big Benzes and Bimmers into brand new high-tech, unsafe automotive junk that will get them killed saving 10 percent more gas.)


Less is more.


Even if it's a lot less.


And possibly fatal.



Like with this little "green" hottie for us masses.


But we've already acknowledged how cute
and virtuously dickless the little darling is.

6. A truly perverse (and, yes, absolutely unpatriotic) ongoing effort to reduce, marginalize and even criminalize the military so that it cannot be used in future to impress America's supposedly corrupt will on the superior barbarians who hate us. (THEN: a post-Vietnam military so politicized, under-funded, and demoralized that it failed humiliatingly to rescue 52 hostages in the FIRST Iran crisis. NOW: The vaunted Obama's stated policy of disarming American nuclear capability and destroying the greatest military force in recorded human history by decreeing surrender and abject withdrawal from a war already won under almost impossible and absolutely unprecedented political constraints.)


Carter's Iran Rescue Mission. It'll be so gratifying to get back
to THIS level of competence by the U.S. Military, won't it? Eh?

Yes, we're ramping up for the big throwback. Kids who have always had everything they could possibly want are bound to just love the hell out of being told they're selfish little pigs who need to be punished. (SQUEAL! The new metrosexuality!) I'm not going to try to disabuse them of the joy the return of the Seventies will bring them in that respect. They're probably even too sunk in their bored ADDS stupor to realize just how fatal the new double-nickel speed limit will be to people who have a hard time staying awake despite the simultaneous inputs of iPods, iPhones, and MySpace transactions. That argument will have to wait for the grim new statistics about how many indispensable "Millennial Generation" centers of the universe have been scraped off the nation's roads after falling asleep at the wheel on highways designed for 70 mph cruising.

But what I can do is offer a glimpse of the sartorial hell that went -- and undoubtedly will go -- with the Neo-Seventies Obama Era. Actually, I can do that with a single link.

I can also offer them an anthem (ref. audio file). Maybe they can figure out some way to rap/remix/alternalize it.



They better. Or we're all completely screwed.





[Private message to Brizoni]


REAL TYPING. Nobody else pay any attention to this. The apprentice is in pain. The Boss is obligated to help.

This (above) is an exact replica of the machine 'Kinesis' was first typed on. Nobody hates typewriters more than I do. (Nobody!) I'm not even going to say it's good for you. It isn't. Typewriters are responsible for more bad writing than any invention since the ball-point pen. Just hang in there.

There's a poem that sometimes helps some poeple. (Well, not usually.) But it's all I can come up with.

The Wanderer

Often the lone-dweller waits for favor,
mercy of the Measurer, though he unhappy
across the seaways long time must
stir with his hands the rime-cold sea,
tread exile-tracks. Fate is established!

So the earth-stepper spoke, mindful of hardships,
of fierce slaughter, the fall of kin:
Oft must I, alone, the hour before dawn
lament my care. Among the living
none now remains to whom I dare
my inmost thought clearly reveal.
I know it for truth: it is in a warrior
noble strength to bind fast his spirit,
guard his wealth-chamber, think what he will.
Weary mind never withstands fate,
nor does troubled thought bring help.
Therefore, glory-seekers oft bind fast
in breast-chamber a dreary mind.
So must I my heart--
often wretched with cares, deprived of homeland,
far from kin--fasten with fetters,
since long ago earth covered
my lord in darkness, and I, wretched,
thence, mad and desolate as winter,
over the wave's binding sought, hall-dreary,
a giver of treasure, where far or near
I might find one who in mead-hall
might accept my affection, or on me, friendless,
might wish consolation, offer me joy.
He knows who tries it how cruel is sorrow,
a bitter companion, to the one who has few
concealers of secrets, beloved friends.
The exile-track claims him, not twisted gold,
his soul-chamber frozen, not fold's renown.
He remembers hall-warriors and treasure-taking,
how among youth his gold-friend
received him at the feast. Joy has all perished!
So he knows, who must of his lord-friend,
of loved one, lore-sayings long time forgo.

When sorrow and sleep at once together
a wretched lone-dweller often bind,
it seems in his mind that he his man-lord
clasps and kisses, and on knee lays
hands and head, as when sometimes before
in yore-days he received gifts from the gift-throne.
When the friendless man awakens again,
he sees before him fallow waves,
sea-birds bathing, wings spreading,
rime and snow falling mingled with hail.
Then are the heart's wounds ever more heavy,
sore after sweet--sorrow is renewed--
when memory of kin turns through the mind;
he greets with glee-staves, eagerly surveys
companions of men. Again they swim away!
Spirits of seafarers bring but seldom
known speech and song. Care is renewed
to the one who frequently sends
over the wave's binding, weary, his thought.

Therefore, I know not, throughout this world,
why thought in my mind does not grow dark
when the life of men I fully think through,
how they suddenly abandoned the hall,
headstrong retainers. This Middle-Earth
each of all days so fails and falls
that a man gains no wisdom before he is dealt
his winters in the world. The wise man is patient,
not too hot-hearted, nor too quick tongued,
nor a warrior too weak, nor too foolhardy,
neither frightened nor fain, nor yet too wealth-greedy,
nor ever of boasts too eager, before he knows enough.
A warrior should wait when he speaks a vow,
until, bold in mind, he clearly knows
whither mind's thought after will turn.
A wise man perceives how ghastly it will be
when all this world's weal desolate stands,
as now here and there across this Middle-Earth
blown on by wind walls stand
covered with rime, the buildings storm-shaken.
The wine-halls molder, the wielder lies down
deprived of rejoicing, warband all fallen,
proud by the wall. Some war took utterly,
carried on forth-way; one a bird bore off
over the high holm; one the hoar wolf
dealt over to death, one a warrior,
drear-faced, hid in an earth-cave.
Thus the Shaper of men destroyed this earth-yard,
until, lacking the cries, the revels of men,
old giants' work stood worthless.

When he with wise mind this wall-stone
and this dark life deeply thinks through,
the wise one in mind oft remembers afar
many a carnage, and this word he speaks:
Where is the horse? Where the young warrior?
Where now the gift-giver?
Where are the feast-seats? Where all the hall-joys?
Alas for the bright cup! Alas byrnied warrior.
Alas the lord's glory! How this time hastens,
grows dark under night-helm, as it were not!
Stands now behind the dear warband
a wondrous high wall, varied with snake-shapes,
warriors fortaken by might of the ash-spears,
corpse-hungry weapons--famous that fate--
and this stone-cliff storms dash on;
snowstorm, attacking, binds all the ground,
tumult of winter, when the dark one comes,
night-shadow blackens, sends from the north
rough hailstorm in anger toward men.
All is the earth-realm laden with hardship,
fate of creation turns world under heaven.
Here goldhoard passes, here friendship passes,
here mankind passes, here kinsman passes:
all does this earth-frame turn worthless!
So said the one wise in mind, at secret conclaves sat him apart.
Good, he who keeps faith, nor too quickly his grief
from his breast makes known, except he, noble, knows how beforehand
to do cure with courage. Well will it be
to him who seeks favor, refuge and comfort,
from the Father in heaven, where all fastness stands.

Yes, it's sad, and even sorrowful, and tragic, and moving, and immersed in searing desolation. But it can't compare with the agony of the man who has lost his computer, and must now bleed his soul's blood onto lined paper, with mechanical keys, or even a Bic pen. Yea, the path is dark, and it is my own dim memory I quote, when I repeat these dread lines:

[T]he wise one in mind oft remembers afar
many a carnage, and this word he speaks:
Where is the horse? Where the young warrior?

Where? Up shit creek. That's where.

I couldn't be more sympathetic. Not without a flagon of Colt .45 mead anyway.

Uh, get back to work. Wandering is for post-modern silly-asses.




Sunday, May 25, 2008


Memorial Day

An affecting memoir on film.

STILL HERE. It's the day we remember those who made the greatest sacrifices in uniform for our country. As I thought about it, I couldn't imagine a better year in which to highlight Proud, a modest movie from 2004 about the USS Mason, a WWII destroyer escort whose enlisted crew of 160 men were African-American. I saw it about a week ago, stumbling into it on a cable channel so that I missed the beginning and had a deal of catching up to do, because while it has a none of the cinematic brilliance of Glory, it has an altogether different quality which you have to watch through to the end to discern: a kind of innocence that contrasts sharply with the sometimes bitter subjects it relates.

The USS Mason was assigned to the North Atlantic convoys and experienced the danger of both U-boats and the extremely severe weather that brought many naval vessels to grief during the war. Ossie Davis (the last film project of the late actor-director-WW II veteran) narrates the experiences of the crew, and it takes a while to realize that this is not simply a filmic device but an authentic memoir of what occurred. The action proceeds not as a plot but as a series of anecdotes, mingling events of war with the characters and conflicts of the men involved.

I kept thinking as I watched, "This is not a good movie. What a shame." The interactions between characters are stilted, stagey, at their worst like a bad play, and all our glimpses of the families back home seem glossed with an overdone prettiness, which results eventually in a sense of unrealism and sentimental excess. "This could -- should -- have been so much better," I thought.

But I was wrong. I won't reveal the cleverest devices of the movie, but I will tell you that anyone who's had a close relative who was a wartime veteran will recognize at last the validity of the chosen narrative technique. The men who commit their own war experiences to paper as a memorial -- not as a bid for some Mailer-esque heavyweight writing championship -- tend to do it just this way. With the idealized eye of those who look back from far more experienced old age and see the good in the friends of their youth, the unforgivable acts of certain others, smoothing some of the rough spots along the way and spotlighting some of the key events, which are known to be key because they have been remembered and learned from throughout a long lifetime of reflection.

This movie dramatizes the memory of a virtuous and humble man, one who loved his country and wanted to serve her despite many provovations to the contrary. In the end, what appears in the telling to be a certain cleaning up of the facts actually confirms the solid values and honor of the narration. It's like listening to your own grandfather -- what he wants you to take from his hard-won experience, without all the clutter of real-world complications that so often obscure what's truly important.

Go find this movie and watch it. Note that I haven't given away any of the details. Behind the pride there is real courage, both physical and moral, real racism that had to be contended with, valorous behavior by black and white men, and a realization of casualties deserving of remembrance on Memorial Day that go far beyond flesh-and-blood wounds to encompass lifelong hurts which may or may not be salved by memorializing their pain with almost perfect dignity.

P.S. A CBS DISGRACE. Last Veterans Day, 60 Minutes chose to ignore any recognition of the U.S. military and focus instead on the twenty-something brats who are joining the white collar workforce. We noted it at the time as a suspiciously ill-timed story. Now, 60 Minutes has run exactly the same story this Memorial Day weekend. There can be no possibility that it's a coincidence. It is a deliberate, malicious slap in the face of our armed forces. The only mention of Memorial Day on the Sunday program was a self-absorbed reminiscence by Andy Rooney that dealt exclusively with the friends he lost in his own WWII experience, with no mention of the troops in Iraq and Afghanistan who represent the strongest antidote to the emerging plague called the "millennial generation." To CBS and the other sick narcissists of the MSM, the brave young men and women presently serving in uniform don't exist at all. (Oh yeah, there was a mention of Iraq -- another bad news story about the peril of Iraqis who "collaborated" with the U.S.) Andy Rooney wants a "new religion" that does away with war. It appears that until this ridiculous dream is realized, he prefers to stare haughtily down his nose at all things military, just like his corrupt fellow-travellers at CBS. All we can do is call them on their arrogance and their dishonorable omissions. And remember what they refuse to.




Friday, May 23, 2008


The Forgotten


ALSO-RANS. As you may have noticed, the Boss is cranky and, to be honest, he's bringing everybody down around here. It's not really his fault. The election campaign has become some kind of eternal purgatory that afflicts us all with disastrous candidates on every side. And there's no end in sight. So I'm going to do something different. Rather than weep and wail every day about the stupidity and duplicity and the boneheadedness and outright lies -- which we all know are inevitable, like some over-hyped History Channel Mega-Disaster -- I'm going to reach out a hand to the young'uns, specifically the ones our boy Brizoni referenced in an email to me:

They're heavily cynical, but cherish unflinching passion and belief... they love cool-looking mysterious stuff.... [They] fancy themselves literary, the type who will actually say things like "I like books," or "I love reading." Those who listen to NPR because they think that's all that's out there for smart people.

I'm thinking the media-savvy kids who still know what books are also believe they know everything worth knowing about pop culture in the twentieth century. They may feel a bit shaky about history over the long haul, but they're pretty sure they're up to speed on the pop celebs and media highlights of multiple generations before them. They know about Lucy and Jackie Gleason and Kurt Vonnegut, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Rod Serling, Andy of Mayberry, Frank Sinatra, The Brady Bunch, Jack Kerouac, Jack Benny, Ed Sullivan, Marilyn Monroe, Walter Cronkite, Orson Welles, Mary Tyler Moore, and Miami Vice. They've seen a ton of movies, and thanks to Nickelodeon, TVLand and dozens of Hollywood remakes, they're familiar with even minor Hollywood stars and myriad mediocre TV shows, including Gilligan's Island, The Beverly Hillbillies, the Flintstones, and the Dukes of Hazzard.

But all of these are really just samples. Those of us who are older know the incredibly important truth that in most cases, fame lasts only for a few years and then all but the very very lucky are, well, forgotten.

I could be dead wrong about this. But I'm betting that learning something about the forgotten ones might be something Brizoni's kids could get into. A way past the superficial shared blur of the pop media background they have learned to take for granted. The basic point: there was always more going on in the past than our easy generalizations suggest. Even the contemptibly familiar terrain that's become the consensus past of awards shows and retrospectives contains fascinating individual talents who were very much a part of people's lives and dreams whether we remember them anymore or not. Those are the people I'm going to focus on.

The criteria are complicated and I'll probably make mistakes. I'll pick some people that really are better remembered than I thought. And I'll pick some who maybe weren't that talented to begin with. But my list -- which is long and has been vetted by multiple representatives of three generations -- consists of people who were famous in their time and now seem to be no more than footnotes. You rarely hear their names, and when you do, most people draw a blank or can recognize them only as belonging to some specific media category, though not with any real knowledge of their work. Some of them should have been remembered but haven't been. Others were perhaps the Paris Hiltons or Grey's Anatomy cast members of their day, manufactured celebs who vanished with the turning of a calendar page. But they were all part of the sum.

You can see how difficult the selection process is. I'm happy to consider your nominations, but I will remain the final arbiter of who gets chosen and who doesn't. For example, a good friend of my approximate age nominated Noel Coward, because he thinks Coward's singular talent has been forgotten. I didn't put him on the list. Enough banging around on the Internet will eventually stumble across a man who lived his entire life as a star, whether or not his popularity stock is up or down at the moment. I'm really looking for the ones Brizoni's kids might never learn about despite their curiosity and adeptness at exploring the media. But as the series develops, I'm prepared to bow to good arguments bolstered by the evidence of observant commenters.

Let me know what you think. The first installment will be posted soon. Fittingly, the first entry will be someone almost no one remembers. But in all likelihood, you have seen him.





The Forgotten:
John Russell

The Lawman (1958-1962). He's on the left. The other one is Peter Brown.

REMEMBERING. I don't know why this had to be the first one, but it just always was. I was never that much of a fan of Matt Dillon -- and Chester, and Festus, and Miss Kitty, and Doc, ugh -- and even as a kid I grew weary of the fact that Dillon always got shot in the shoulder. Damn, the man must have had a hole the size of an apple up there after all those gunfights in Dodge. But Marshal Dan Troop, the Lawman, was believable somehow.

Why do I remember this guy as something special among all the TV western stars of the early sixties? I don't recall a single episode or plot of the half-hour series. I think it's that he was somehow more modern, in both his acting and his on-screen character. No bravado. But he was obviously a man. And he was the law. Excuse me. The Law. The way we'd all like to think the FBI is, only it isn't. Here's what his fansite (yes!) has to say about the show:

Asked at the 1998 Charlotte Film Festival about his best recollections of Lawman, Peter Brown answered, "John Russell, John Russell, John Russell. He was about as good as it got." At the 1998 Knoxville Film Festival, Peter described how John Russell took him under his wing and taught him how to act in front of a camera. Thus life imitated art. The format of the show called for Marshal Troop to be mentor to his young, inexperienced deputy. [In one aspect life didn't imitate art-- Peter was actually the better gun handler of the two although John was no slouch.]

Apparently John not only took his young costar under his wing, but enlisted him in a "conspiracy" to make Lawman a quality show despite the fact that at the time Warners was pumping out Western and detective shows like sausages from a meatpacking plant. They had to contend with hectic schedules, skinflint budgets and a myriad of writers and directors who were never given the time or money they got at other studios. The two stars, along with the producer Jules Schermer were the constants who maintained the high quality of the show and the consistency of the characters. Schermer complained that break-neck production schedules meant that directors had no time to take into account any of the subtleties of the script, including characterization. Apparently Russell and Brown both understood Schermer's perspective: "The success of the TV drama depended on establishing a particular tone. A television episode, he explained, 'is basically only an incident built up with characterization. If a director plays the characterization wrong . . . the total effect of the teleplay is destroyed.'"... Russell and Brown with Schermer, managed to keep that strong characterization, including an interesting and growing relationship between the two main characters in Lawman.

You can read more about him at the fansite, but I'm going to quote one more paragraph here because it demonstrates, I think, that even in the old hokey days of television we've come to laugh at the medium still possessed the power to burn through artifice and reveal the genuineness, or lack of it, of the people inside those tiny screens.

John Russell was born January 3, 1921 in Los Angeles, California. He was raised in a family with four other children, two sisters and two brothers, all of whom survived him. He attended the University of California where he was both a drama student and a student athlete. In 1942, he joined the Marine Corps where he received a battlefield commission and was decorated for valor at Guadalcanal. In 1943, he married his first wife Renata. [The marriage would last over twenty years.] He was honorably discharged from the Corps in 1944. In 1945, he was "discovered" by an agent in a Beverly Hills restaurant which led to roles in a number of B-movies [see credits list], generally as a villain or secondary lead.

"Villain or secondary lead." You see, that's how you get to be forgotten even if you've been "decorated for valor at Guadalcanal." That's why I remembered him above all the other western TV stars. When the Lawman left his office to go get the bad guy, his specific gravity was ten times greater than anyone else's. Even to a kid.

What I didn't know when I started looking for him was that he had also played a key role in the last great western Hollywood ever made. No. Not Unforgiven.(Someday I'll hack that piece of overpraised nonsense up the way it deserves, but not today.) The last real western made was Pale Rider, Clint Eastwood's flawed but still excellent reworking of Shane. I was shocked to discover at John Russell's fansite that he had played the part of Marshal Stockburn, the movie's equivalent to the Jack Palance character in Shane and, under Eastwood's direction, almost as mythic in his villainy as "The Preacher" who comes from wherever (?) to kill him.



If you read the user comments on Pale Rider at imdb.com, no one remembers who Russell is. They think he's a Lee Van Cleef lookalike. But Lee Van Cleef couldn't have played this part any more than Jack Palance could The Stockburn character works because he's every bit as skilled, experienced, and determined as a 60-year-old gunman could be, but he can also show the sudden fear of a brave man who knows that his number is unaccountably up. It's a key contribution to the movie. He doesn't run. He stands his ground. But he knows -- and through him we know -- that the Preacher isn't just a man. Stockburn would kill any man.

If you read further, you'll find that Russell was very ill when he made Pale Rider. He's no longer with us. But I, personally, can't wait to see Pale Rider again. Hats off to Clint Eastwood for giving the Lawman his final bow. And if you're an obsessive about trivia, here's what is still known about each and every episode of a series that honestly couldn't be more forgotten.

John Russell. Wish I could have met him. How about you?




Thursday, May 22, 2008


InstapunkLooneyTunes

Life in These
57 United States



A GOOD DAY TO BE DAFFY. Sometimes there just isn't that much to say about it all. Daily events play out exactly like an old-time cartoon, as a series of sight gags that defy explanation. Yesterday, for example, we had the great Democrat brains of the Senate demanding that oil executives tell them why gas prices are so high, as if the execs could do anything about OPEC -- or as if they should go politely out of business rather than pass their costs on to their customers. I suppose the bottom-line implication is that they should forego all future profits because the Congress isn't ever going to let them drill for non-OPEC oil or build any new refinery capacity. Their real responsibility is to take the blame when Congress and the whole DC establishment drives the U.S. out of business. Sure. That makes sense.


We thought Dick Durbin was especially effective in his interrogations.

Meanwhile, the selfsame Congress that wants to punish oil companies for high prices they can't control also decided to reward farmers for the runaway food prices which have been directly created by collusion between the farm lobby and -- ta da! -- Congress. I guess there's no political mileage in pounding the table for surtaxes on windfall government subsidies.


If we begged enough, don't you think we could
have one of those solid gold tractors too? Vern?

Events were unfolding just as sanely on the campaign trail, where Tom Harkin suggested that being from a military family makes one automatically a danger to the republic in high office, while Father Barack added his wife's campaign speeches to the lengthening list of things Obama about which it is "unacceptable" to speak. The dark warning to "lay off my wife" seemed to imply an unspoken "or else" that inspires a certain amount of wondering speculation. Is personal vengeance a task he'd delegate to old pals like Bill and Bernardine? Or would he himself become the righteous, smiting hand of God his adoring flock already believes him to be?


We know he's got the necessary Bible training. But does he have a string-tie?

Not that the Democrats have any kind of monopoly on slapstick nonsense. The Republicans, who know they're facing open revolt from their conservative base because of eight years of profligate spending, were tripping all over each other to be first in voting for the $380 billion farm bill. Yep. That's gotta be the perfect way to serve the constituents and save the party.


Republicans have a strategy: "Go to hell. Go directly to hell.
Do not pass Go. Do not collect on your $380 billion sellout."

But at least McCain is having a good time, a big old barbecue (way to distance yourself from GWB, smart guy) with 20 old white guys angling for the VP slot and one young brown guy who's the very last person any clear-thinking Republican would want to yank away from his golden opportunity to show the country what entrepreneurial principles can do to save New Orleans and Louisiana from themselves. If he weren't a rock-headed, egomaniacal old coot, McCain would know that the best decision he can make in the 2008 campaign is to leave Bobby Jindal right where he is. And if he weren't a pandering tool of the Luddite, mankind-hating environmental lobby, he'd know that the best possible VP candidate he could find isn't a man at all, but the only governor in the country who has the guts to stand up and fight against last week's catastrophically corrupt designation of the polar bear as a threatened species.


Alaska Governor Sarah Palin. Something about Alaska. Maybe something
about women, too. Knowing that humans and animals are in this together,
not pawns to be manipulated
against one another in a lose-lose shell game.

I'm not even going to make the case for why Palin is the best choice. There's no point. It doesn't matter what anyone says this year about integrity and responsibility and principle. Absolutely everybody in the middle of the national political game right now -- including McCain, Obama, Hillary, and all their supporters, staff, and hangers-on -- is really just one laughably transparent character. But don't worry. I'll never tell who it is.



That's all for now, folks.





Things No One Wants to Admit

Jazz is dead, people. It died with these two addicts.

TIRED, AIN'T YOU? The Dark Ages are already here. Western civilization is exhausted and moribund. To some degree it doesn't matter how it happened, although possible causes are as numerous as the rational social-engineering constructs that have swept through the intelligentsia like deadly silent viruses for more than a century. What matters is that the thrust of creavity which animated civilization for 500 years is spent. Every form of learning and art in our society is stone cold dead. That's the real meaning of the term "post-modern." Europeans mostly know it, and that's why they have stopped having children. Americans mostly don't, but that's only because there's a certain illusion of momentum that goes with the loud, active lives we conflate with the term 'vitality.' We are still in motion, so caught up in our own hysterical overdose of sensory input that we haven't yet perceived the emptiness of everything we consume.

But it's over. Absolutely. Caput. Ironically, the American preoccupation wth all things racial -- and the real and false divisions created thereby -- has actually served to conceal from us the dire nature of our situation. For example, we -- all Americans, that is -- take pride in the transformative power of the musical traditions African-Americans invented, puffing out our chests at the way they have captured the world audience, without noticing that all the taproots, variations, derivations, and inspired responses have died.

Of all these, jazz is the crown jewel -- of both African-American and greater American twentieth century culture. It has been characterized as a great breakthrough, a step beyond the practiced mathematical brilliance of Bach and Mozart to the spontaneous and improvisational supra-mathematical genius of Armstrong, Ellington, and Davis. Maybe it was. Dead now. Cold, cold in its grave. Today's jazz afficionados are either old men or anarchical contrarians. They are no longer "the people."

The same is true of every other vein of supposedly life-giving African-American music. Motown is ancient history, a moment in time that incites nostalgia but no new artists. Rhythm and blues still sells records, but everyone knows who the icons are, and nothing new is being done. Black vocalization -- the determination not to sing written notes but everything around them -- has become a rank parody of itself, a sorry cliche observed slavishly (and for the most part, ridiculously) by the legions of the untalented who bid for nano-second stardom in the annual American Idol contest. As for the blues which started all these traditions, there's no one who will ever have the credibility of Blind Lemon Jefferson. Done.

Rock and roll is dead. Paul McCartney and the Rolling Stones still outdraw every band who came afterwards. And you can chart the gate receipts in reverse order of age. U2 still attracts bigger audiences than Radiohead. Rock and roll is dead. As a damn doornail.

Hip Hop has been the great surrender, the abandonment of actual music for pre-conscious apostrophizing. Which entirely suits our post-Christian culture. We are tired of the individual self-consciousness initiated by Socrates and so exquisitely refined by Jesus Christ. It's too demanding, too painful, too rapacious in its constant insistence on the awareness of others. Hip hop is the testament of the empty "I," the salami thin soul of those who envy the fame of Miles Davis without realizing for a second the death he was experiencing to set them free from all purpose and pain.

But Miles was hardly the only saint of the new religion of unconsciousness. Each form of art and learning has had its own savior/slayer. Art as painting is dead. Poetry is dead. The novel is dead. Formal classical music is dead. Philosophy is dead. Science as a particularized branch of philosophy is dead. Even the one genuinely new art form of the twentieth century -- film -- is dead.

Yes, I toss the term "dead" around quite a lot. What do I mean by it? That there is nothing left to aspire to, only a constant insistence that everything is drab, arbitrary, randomly hurtful, and rarely worth fighting against. That art in its most illuminated form is only a decorative collage of all the phony beliefs that obtained in the past. The prevailing message is always that harmony is an illusion, love is temporary and probably a joke, God is a hypothetical fantasy feeding brute sentimentality and violence, and life itself is just one damn thing after another, to be observed, sometimes measured, but taken seriously only by fools. Which is not to say that genuine humor ever enters the equation. Humor lives in juxtapositions. There is absurdity, which is funny if there is also meaning. When there is no meaning, there is only absurdity and therefore nothing to contrast it with. The joke that is life has no punchline.

That's the "post-modern" logic which turns everything on its head, defies analysis, and turns virtue into crime and vice versa.

But that's where we are. It's why the barbarians are massing at the gates. They have never needed to be conscious because their religion regards them all as drones in an obedient hive. With the sense of the hive, they have detected that we actually aspire to be like them -- even if it means our own punishment, suffering, subjugation, and death.

To the extent that you sympathize with them and make apologies for them, this is why. To the extent that you are not willing to fight them and die opposing them, this is why. If you have ever wondered why they stand for things you think you cannot abide -- violent abuse of women, totalitarian restrictions on speech and thought, wanton disregard of the value of human life, virulent anti-semitism -- and yet you find yourselves making allowances for them, this is why. You are so sick of being conscious that you can't wait to go "gently into that good night." And "good night" is the river that carries their faith through the ages.

Antidote? None. Unless you can find some way back to a love of life, past Picasso and T.S. Eliot and Samuel Beckett and David Mamet and Eminem and Phillip Glass and the New York Times Magazine to something like a new Renaissance.

Good luck with that.





Dog Bites Man:

'Sadly Nein' Finds
Anti-Semitism Funny


We don't know if this is Ace or not. But it might be.

GERMAN HUMOR. Free-association commenter Penny will be all over us on this one. She doesn't like it when we don't keep up with the rest of the blogosphere on a timely basis. She may have a point this time. The blog entry we're referencing goes all the way back to April 9. And it concerns Ace of Spades, who isn't exactly at the top of our list of estimable bloggers. (We'd like him a lot more if he used some of his ad income to hire a damn copy editor to correct his spelling and apostrophe errors -- its, it's, its, it's, its, it's not all the same, pirate boy.) What can we say? We don't pay all that much attention to the blogosphere. So sue us. Today, we're writing about old news. In defense of Ace. The "Me Too" king of the Internet.

Even so. Ace is frequently smarter than he is redundant and careless. And he made a perfectly good point about Obama's "Let's Talk About Race" speech:

So long as Obama's having that "open, candid" discussion about race we've all so long wanted to have, perhaps we can finally begin to address the virulent anti-Semitism infecting large segments of the black population while we're at it, huh? Or wait -- are we not having that "open, candid" a discussion?

Okay, true, that's the whole thing. End of post. (How else do you get to be Conservative Blog of the Year?) But what's interesting sometimes is what happens after the right harpoon has been cleverly sunk in the blubber of the whale. Here's what Europe's "Best Humorous Blog in 2004," from Germany, had to say in response:

That is, of course, an important matter for candid discussion because there are whole legions of Jews who work in menial jobs and get refused service at Cracker Barrel1 because of oppression by their African-American overlords. Not to mention that Ace gets his familiarity with the opinions of "large segments of the black population" not by actually spending any time with any non-imaginary black people but instead by sitting home during the day watching Fox News while large segments of the black population are working at actual jobs.

I especially like the phrase "whole legions of Jews." Has a certain Teutonic ring to it, doesn't it? But not as much as the part about how they "get refused service at Cracker Barrel1..." [sic] Yeah, that's what really steams all the Jews I know (and don't start with me, you Sadly Neiners; I do know some Jews). If it weren't for the Cracker Barrel thing, they'd be completely okay with the fact that the minority they've done more to help than any other ethnic group on earth, going all the way back to the earliest days of the civil rights movement, is delighted to parrot all the anti-semitic bile uttered by the likes of Louis Farrakhan and Reverend Wright. Particularly at a time when most of the 'civilized' Old World is blithely willing to give Adumjihad a pass on his stated intention to nuke Israel out of existence.

It's absolutely fine that another ethnic minority is voluble about the desire of many of its members to see you and your homeland wiped off the face of the earth as long as there are no embarrassing incidents at third-rate chain restaurants.

It takes a really discerning intellect to reduce a question like Ace's to irrelevant, contemptuous farce. One might almost say it requires a German intellect. Which is odd. Given that when I made fun of Sadly Nein's boast about its European awards and German origin, its bloggers were quick to point out that they weren't really German, just smarter-than-average Americans.

Guess what? I'm thinking you're Germans. I'm thinking you're goddam Krauts. Only a Kraut would be too arrogant to realize that this is one subject people with ties to Germany should know better than to be superior and dismissive about.

Fick dich.

P.S. If you're wondering about relevance, don't. Here's what's happening now.




Tuesday, May 20, 2008


Jimmy Stewart's
Hundredth Birthday


Yeah. I know that look.

DAVE.39.1-43. I never knew when Jimmy Stewart's birthday was. It was a surprise to discover in Mark Steyn's outstanding essay on the man today that it's only one day after my Dad's. Another dutiful Taurus. That's not all they had in common. But the coincidence moved me to look up an old post I wrote when I was blogging without a computer more than 10 years ago. Here it is:

Wednesday, July 2 (1997)

I took Chinese food to my apartment and ate sweet-and-sour chicken -- gloriously deep-fried -- while I listened to the news that Jimmy Stewart had died. He was eighty-nine. Just a few days before, I'd had a jovial argument about Stewart with the PP vet. I maintained that he was the greatest movie star actor of his generation. This was a fairly recent discovery of mine, since I'd always been in the camp of those who believed Jimmy Stewart was perpetually playing himself. The vet was of that opinion, too. But I'd been noticing -- in my cable TV watching -- that very few of the Hollywood movies from the big studio days seemed to be holding up in the late 1990s. Clark Gable's movies were practically unwatchable and were rarely shown anymore. The same could be said of Tyrone Power, Robert Taylor, Alan Ladd, and any number of other leading men. Henry Fonda and Spencer Tracy could be good, but often I had a distinct sense of them engaged in the ponderous business of acting. As pure stars, Gary Cooper and John Wayne were getting the yellowed look of an elderly bestseller.

Yet there remained something engaging about Jimmy Stewart movies. He was still interesting to look at on screen, as were Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant, and Robert Mitchum. But what distinguished Stewart, to me anyway, was the surprising diversity of the roles he played, a fact quite at odds with the easy assumption that it was always the same Jimmy we were seeing. Who would that Jimmy be? The sincere young idealist of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington? Or the desperate and damaged obsessive of Vertigo? No, comes the thoughtless response: it's the All-American nice guy of It's a Wonderful Life. But how close is that guy to the frightened, cynical pilot in Flight of the Phoenix, or the hard-bitten outlaw in Bandolero? All are covered, to be sure, by the intrinsic charm of Stewart himself, which endures somehow intact from Destry Rides Again through four decades of westerns, light comedies, suspense thrillers, and dramas. But what is the nature of that charm?

It's not as simple as 'goodness' or even 'niceness.' I believe it has more to do with the natural attractiveness of those who can be observed to be observant, to be capable of appraising situations and making decisions for themselves. (Not coincidentally, this used to be a prized American trait and may explain what seems so deeply American about Stewart.) The sense so many people have of Jimmy Stewart always being himself is half right. What they're responding to is the fact that Jimmy Stewart always brings to his roles a universal quality of self -- not necessarily his own -- that allows us to see the character thinking, working things out in a conscious and individual way. It is this depth of self that produces his emotions on camera, which can be intense, without triggering the suspicion that he's 'going for the Oscar here.' Well, at any rate, I'm a fan and I'm glad he had such a long good life.

Yes, it's an acknowledgment and not much more than that. For a beautiful treatment of Stewart as an actor, read the Steyn piece. It's well worth it.

Now. If you don't like family bragging, stop reading now. We don't do a lot of it here, because we don't like it either. But I'm going to do it today because I'm feeling nostalgic about my Dad, who died eight years ago. He was 14 years younger than Stewart, but also a WWII pilot, and they went to the same boarding school in Pennsylvania, Mercersburg Academy, as did I. (Along with Benicio del Toro, Robin Thomas, Franchot Tone, and Tom Drake.) In fact, James Stewart roomed with a cousin of my Dad's at Mercersburg and Princeton. Perhaps because of all this, I actually saw Jimmy Stewart in person, when he received an award from the Hasty Pudding Society in 1970. I was a freshman and not yet a member, so I sneaked in with the help of a kind steward and an understanding upperclassman. He was ten feet away, standing alone, waitiing to be called for the ceremony. Tall. Distinguished. Looked exactly like his pictures. All I had to do was walk around one couch and speak to him.

I chickened out. I left without invading his space. Sometimes I'm sorry about that. Mostly I'm not. He looked like a genuinely nice man, a private man. I didn't have anything to say to him other than that I was a fan and went to a school he had gone to. I think I caught his eye for one brief look and a smile. That's enough.

He left us all those movies, which are still a pleasure to watch. Only an ingrate would lament not having more than that.





A Break in the Action

Si, hombre.

NO JOKING ALLOWED. Just got a nasty email from Mrs. CP. "Where's the funny?" she asks. "You guys have gotten as depressing as everyplace else on the Internet. STOP IT!"

Sorry. It's a gray gloomy day in the neighborhood. We're only human. So here's what we were able to find in a desperate search across the web for "funny."

An Onion article about the terrible trauma to children caused by Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction.



A TMZ photo gallery that might be funny unless it's just plain loathsome.



A site about Engrish. Yes, it is. You know it is. Funny.



Many hours of funny in the form of the top 50 comedy skits of all time. Forget your angst. Enjoy.



And just in case you've forgotten why it's suddenly gotten so hard to find and be funny, here's an explanation of what funny is and why it's so damned inappropriate with the Messiah about to mantle us with salvation.



You see. There isn't going to be any more humor when the Obamillennium arrives. Laugh at Michelle and watch your own head go rolling down the street. So enjoy it while you can.




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