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Wednesday, October 27, 2004
A certain blogger's certain boyfriend is turning a certain age that begins with 4 and ends with 0, thus entering into the realm of old age. (Your blogger has already reached this milestone.)
He's all tricked out today to celebrate his transition to a new stage of life:
Hawaiian shirt? Check
Dark socks? Check
If I can sneak up on him with the digital camera, I might be able to post evidence of his oldfartdom. (Er, except he's been dressing like this for about a decade, now.)
Monday, October 25, 2004
Well, there's something you don't see every day, Chauncey. (top photo)
In the penultimate photo you can see a sign supporting a dark horse third party candidate: Pujols for Prez.
Friday, October 22, 2004
The other day I wrote about the one plot of the modern novel:
So yesterday I saw this article, about how Gabriel García Márquez has published his first book in a decade, and made some last-minute changes because pirates were already selling half-price knockoffs on the street. The book is titled Memories of My Melancholy Whores:
The Guardian elaborates:
Damn. Does no one understand the meaning of quality anymore?
(Nights on end? What did they give that poor child?)
Which reminds me of an alternate ending to the modern novel:
4) Dullard learns something everyone else figured out decades before. Author is proud of his insight.
5) Other dullards swoon over the novelist's genius, award him pretentious literary prizes.
6) Public yawns, buys more Stephen King novels.
7) Stephen King sells enough books to buy Colombia.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Right now the skies darken over New York, and the earth trembles, for the Red Sox are 8-1 over the Yankees in the AL playoffs. Tomorrow the Cardinals play the Astros for the NL championship.
If the Cards and Yanks both win, this will make Michele Catalano my blood enemy.
But if they both lose, you know what that means: a Texas-Massachusetts World Series.
The geopolitical implications are formidable.
I can't get to Michele's blog. She's probably out buying more voodoo dolls, or sacrificial black chickens. Of course, it's only the fourth inning.
UPDATE: I tried to post this last night, but I couldn't get through to Blogger. Couldn't get to Michele's blog either. All I got was a restful white page. I figured that was the color of the nice, soft room they'd put her in.
But, today she seems OK with it. I suspect heavy sedation.
Although a Texas-Massachusetts brawl would've been interesting, we'll have to settle for letting the Cards win the Series. Woo.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Or, The 2004 Presidential Election Viewed as a Series of Vignettes from a Wretched Roman a Clef.
Slate asked a number of novelists who they were voting for, and why. You get one guess as to who's getting novelists' votes at a rate of about 8:1. Use it wisely.
I've not heard of most of these people. I hate mainstream (i.e., non-genre) novels. Modern novels seem to have a single plot:
1) Dullard is disappointed in his mundane life.
2) Dullard blames this on family/spouse/Society, rather than dullardism.
3) Dullard turns to substance abuse/wild sex.
4) Astonishingly, this fails to cure him of his dullardism, and his disappointment remains. Unless he kills himself.
This first quote gave me an idea:
I wish he'd have specified the "ugly, merciless" parts of No Child Left Behind, I thought to myself. Maybe they would make better reading than modern novels. And with that, horror was unleashed into the world. Are you ready for some ham-handed satire? Then let's begin:
The chimp-like face of President Evil lit with mad genius. "We shall demand 'adequate yearly progress!' he thundered, slamming his iron fist upon the proposed text of the ugly, merciless education bill. "Adequate yearly progress...adequate yearly progress..." The phrase ran around the room, whispered by the Zombie Legislators as they rocked to the chant. "Adequate yearly progress..." Looking closely, Senator Pure could see that the paper bore faint scorch marks where the President's hand had touched it.
"My fellow Americans," the President began in his most velvety tone, "I come to you tonight on all broadcast, cable, and satellite stations -- as well as all newspapers, magazines, websites, blogs, and cocktail napkins -- to announce the utter obliteration of Frangipanistan," and here his voice began to ring with the sounds of all Hell's bells, "a rogue state whose president refused to quit sheltering terrorist elements, and who, moreover, insulted my tie at the recent Summit of Central Asian States Who Better Damn Well Toe the American Line If They Know What's Good for Them." His voice rose to a chimp-like scream, "The United States Will! Not! Be! Mocked! USA! USA! USA!"
"Hello, and welcome to Punch, Counterpunch. I'm your host, Caesar Coxcomb, and tonight we look at the campaign through the eyes of some notable novelists. Our first guest is Rick Cranky. Rick, what is your assessment of the campaign so far?
"Corrupt, indubitably, indisputably, irreparably corrupt. Both major parties have polluted the so-called democratic process beyond any hope of recovery or redemption. Our political system is nothing but a giant sucking chest wound, a suppurating sore, a vast bowl of pus..."
"So, you think the only hope is in alternative candidacies, like that of Mr. Nadir?"
"I used to, but I read the other day that he actually accepted money -- dirty, filthy, putrid money -- to run his campaign. So he just as soiled as the rest of them."
"I see. So what's your solution?"
"Well, frankly, I'm hoping a comet will hit the earth. Ideally, it would only strike a glancing blow, and obliterate the United States. But if the whole world has to go it's not too big a price to pay to rid ourselves of the mephitic influence of money in politics."
"Well, thank you for those thoughts, Rick. And now to Candy Cornes. Will you tell us who you'll be voting for, Candy?"
"I'm proud to say I'll be voting for Senator Pure, Caesar. I just hope the election isn't stolen, like it was the last time."
"What makes you think it was stolen, Candy?"
"Well, no one voted for Evil! At least, no one I know. Not a single soul voted for him, so it must have been stolen!"
"In a recent column for the Washington Pillar, you said that you could not remember a more vicious political campaign. Can you explain?"
"Do I have to explain, Caesar? It's all the fault of the lying, murderous, thieving brown-shirted Nazi thugs of President Evil's party that there is so little civility in today's politics."
"Oh Ms. Pure! Ms. Pure!" Polly Pure turned at the sound of her name. "Oh, I am just so glad you could come to Europe speak to us ex-pats on behalf of your brother."
"Oh, I do hope he wins, instead of that terrible, terrible Evil man! It's getting so I can't go to a single soiree. Everywhere I go people are always telling me how much they hate Americans, and it's all because of our Evil."
"Oh, McDonalds, Starbucks, Robitussin!"
"You know, we Americans living abroad sometimes forget that the people at 'home' only see things through the right-wing dominated press. They don't get to see the unspun, unvarnished, ugly truth in the foreign media, like we do."
"Why, the other day I was at a cocktail party and this man I'd never met came up to me and asked if I was an American, and well I tell you, I knew what was coming but I said, 'Yes I am', and he went on to lecture me for twenty minutes about how rude Americans were, and how arrogant, and ignorant, and well, what can you say to that?"
"I mean you can't deny it, can you? Because we are rude, aren't we? And arrogant. Oh, how distressing. This man had the most beautiful manners, and he was very informative. He was telling me how people ended up in Guanamera because of the Patriotic Act. You know, he turned out to be a Saudi prince! He said they never have terrorism there, just a little problem with bootleggers. Oh, look, here comes Jonathan Frantic."
"Oh, Mr. Frantic! What a pleasure to meet you! I loved your books."
"Yeah, yeah, of course. Glad you could make it here to campaign for your brother. I'm especially looking forward to his health care plan and his education plan and his military plan, oh, and some damned fiscal responsibility for a change!"
"Well, I think--"
"Say, your sister-in-law is really hot. I love the way she doesn't comb her hair. Is she seeing anyone, that you know of?"
"I BEG YOUR PARDON!"
"Oh, hey, no need to explain. The caviar always gives me gas, too."
Professor Frouney turned from the blackboard and pushed her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose. "And so the conspiracy between President Evil, the Ku Klux Klan, and Crispy Cream is laid bare. Crispy Cream will offer free donuts in areas with large black populations, thereby drawing blacks from the voting booths. While they're enjoying their 'free' donuts, Klansmen disguised as Crispy Cream staff will steal their voter registration cards, and President Evil's victory will be assured. You have a question?"
"What does this have to do with creative writing, ma'am?"
Professor Frouney stared. "Why, nothing. Nothing at all. Yes, Ms. Schultz?"
"Your theory is very...interesting. Will you be writing a political satire?"
No, because I don't know anything.
"Then why the hell are you spouting off in Slate?"
"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean."
"Look up at the top of the page, dumbass. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get a drop slip."
"Thank you, thank you, and welcome to the annual meeting of the Overwrought Novelists Society. Our speaker tonight -- as I'm sure you're all aware! -- is Senator Pupidog, who is Senator Pure's running mate. I'm just so excited to be introducing one of the men who will be the avatars of our wishes and beliefs, the receptacles for our hopes, dreams, and aspirations, the masters of our fates and the captains of our souls, the very incarnations of our national being! And, God willing, they will save us from President Evil and his brainwashed followers."
"We're back with Punch, Counterpunch. Rusty Essenell is also pessimistic about the nation's future. Tell us about that, Rusty."
"Rick's comet is too good for us."
"Hello once again, children! Uncle Ham Dandler welcomes you back to the Fluffy Bunny Rainbow Hour. We're going to talk about violence today. Do you know what violence is? It's when you hurt someone. You know that's very bad. Children should never hurt anyone, for any reason. Neither should anyone else. It's bad for you to hit someone, and it's just as bad for your parents to spank you. So if they do, be sure and call 911 and tell them your parents are hurting you. And when the police officer shows up, ask him why he has that gun."
"And that, Caesar, is why I'm voting for Evil."
"Er, well, thanks Roger, for that, uh, dissenting view."
In the boardroom of the most secret, most powerful agency in America, Joey Katzenjammer turned to his fellows. "Ghastly. Horrible," he said. "And that fellow's a novelist?"
"Not only that, but he's one of ours," replied Mitch Nosener.
"What do you mean, 'one of ours'?"
"He's a screenwriter, too."
"Oh my God!" shrieked Harvey Einstein. "A screenwriter voting for Evil?"
"This is terrible," said Fred Flipper. "We can't have our people stumping for Evil. Why, this would take us back to the darkest days of the blacklist. We have to nip this garbage in the bud. I sure as hell won't be buying any of his scripts. What do you all say?"
"Agreed." "Yes." "Right."
"Let's think of this in terms of Huck Finn," Professor Maunders wrote in his article in the Custodian. "Huck is generous, concerned about the suffering of others, generally pleased with life, and interested in it. Tom Sawyer, on the other hand, is obsessed with a highly conceptualized view of the world, and imposing this view on others (the Sunday school picnic, Huck, Jim)... Huck is bold, curious, flexible. Tom is, at heart, afraid of the world, suspicious, ego-driven, incurious, and rigid. Our nation is engaged in a struggle to decide if it is going to be the United States of Tom or the United States of Huck. Is Sen. Pure, then, Huck? No, but he is more Huck-like than our current president, who, in an attempt to answer a complicated question ("What to do about terrorism?") with a simple answer ("Exterminate the brutes...") has led us into one of the bigger and more tragic Sunday school picnics in recent memory."[*]
"Why, David! What a nice surprise! I didn't expect to see you here!"
Novelist David Lionsden looked around in confusion for the source of the voice. "Uh, er, OK. Do I know you?"
The owner of the kind voice turned him around to face her. "Yes, dear. I'm your mother. Oh, David! How long have you had this shirt on?"
"Oh, Mom! I--I didn't recognize you."
"That's because you have your glasses on top of your head again, dear. There, now can you see?"
"Oh, yes, thanks, that's much---oh wow! Where am I? What are all these people doing here? I thought this was the men's room."
"No, dear, this is a polling place."
"Oh, is that what it looks like? This place has terrible feng shui, did you know that? But I'm glad to know it's a voting place. I didn't know what you'd be doing in the men's room. I thought I was having another one of those dreams, you know? But I was awake. That's what I couldn't understand. What if I'd gone into one of these little stalls! But what are you doing here?"
"I'm an election official, dear. Would you like to vote while you're here? Are you registered?"
"Uhhh, I don't -- oh, yeah! Yes I am! A nice girl at my publisher's helped me. But I don't know how to vote. I've never done it. Too alienating, you know? Is it hard?"
"Not at all. These 'little stalls' are the voting booths, and here's the---"
"Oh my God? What's this? Machinery??? I can't cope with machinery!"
"There, there...it's really very easy."
"Oh, good. But, but what's this? This -- this -- writing! It's so ugly, so alienating! I can't believe in that!"
"Sweetie, those are just the voting instructions."
Cissy Ingenue emitted another sigh, and checked her watch. The voting lines were so long! If it had been anything else, she would have just bailed. But this was her first time voting, and she was proud to be taking up her role as a citizen. "Wow, these lines are really long," she said to no one in particular.
"Tell me about it," said the woman ahead of her. "I've been standing in lines all day."
"All day!" Cissy wailed. "In this line?"
"Oh, no," the woman replied. "In other voting lines around town. This is my twentieth vote today."
"I see." Cissy hesitated. "But isn't that...illegal?"
"Oh, sure," the woman shrugged. "But I'd rather break a few stupid voting laws than see President Evil re-elected. It's not alarmist to say that if he's re-elected, it's the end of life as we know it. The seas will boil and the mountains crumble, and that's a fact. It's no exaggeration to say that boils and running sores will break out on the bodies of every American, and all the first born will be stricken blind. It's not a bit of hyperbole that the sky will turn as black as pitch and the sun will become as blood. Giant winged aardvarks will carry off the inhabitants, and the earth will crack and gorge forth armies of insurance salesmen and tax accountants. It's been scientifically proven that the fabric of space-time will implode and whole universe will be destroyed! So, who are you voting for?"
"Uh, well, I -- gosh! Is that the time? Gotta run."
"Our last guest is Thomas Ringer. You share Candy Cornes's concerns about the violent tendencies of the Repugnican Party, don't you?"
"I sure do, Caesar. I saw the face of the Repugnican Party the other day at the zoo. We were in the monkey house, and a guy in the crowd was wearing a Pure button. And one of the chimpanzees started flinging its doody at him! Because he was for Pure! Well, I knew that day that I couldn't vote for Evil, because he looks just like a chimp, and if a chimp would do that, so would Evil. I mean, it's totally logical."
[*]Almost verbatim from his actual answer. A good satirist knows when to get the hell out of the way. And so, sometimes, does a bad one.
The writers' quotes were edited to cut to the chase, but most of them have veins of rich, stupidy goodness I didn't have time to tap. One quote was unashamedly edited to bring its stupidity into sharp relief.
There were a couple of surprises. I disagree with John Updike's conclusions, but he was at least a grown-up, which most of the others didn't seem to be. There were a few besides Roger Simon voting for Bush, and a couple who said they didn't know anyone should be particularly interested in a novelist's opinion.
Roger's use of "Islamofascism" must have caused some heart palpitations among the others.
I was sure I'd seen this over at Roger's, but now I can't find it. Did he get cold feet in the end, and remove it? Stand firm, Roger! Remember the word of Gunga Dan: Courage!
Friday, October 08, 2004
Just saw Instantman on MSNBC's Countdown. I was lucky to catch it, since I only read Glenn's post about five minutes before he was on. That twerp from Daily Kos was also on, looking just terrible. Does he look like that always? Really, is he sick? Maybe it was just the lighting. Scott Johnson from Powerline rounded out the cast.
But I don't have anything to say about their performances. It was Keith Olbermann who needs his posterior checked. When introducing the new JibJab cartoon, "Good to Be in DC" (sung to the tune of "Dixie"), he said something like, "This time it's not based on Woody Guthrie, but on Stephen Foster." But Foster did not write "Dixie", Daniel Decatur Emmett did! Take that, lumbering Old Media dinosaur!
(As for the cartoon: it was funny, but I'd hoped to get through the campaign without seeing John Edwards's animated butt cheeks.)
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Lileks remarks on a Che Guevara doll he found in a card store. It's not like Lileks to miss a trick in googling a link, but he does. So I did it for him.
Here's a site where you can buy the Che doll:
Ah, post-modern ironic attitude. Har!
Che's part of the Little Stink -- oh, I mean -- Little Thinkers series of dolls, which includes Einstein, Freud, and artists like Monet, Kahlo, and Van Gogh, who I did not realize classed as "thinkers". ("Little Thinkers" might refer to the people who buy them in the belief that they're intellectuals, I suppose.)
The Einstein doll is cute:
He looks extremely irritated at the prospect.
I want a Nietzsche doll. Nietzsche -- or Stalin, take your pick. Could also be Hitler if you squint. There's also a Karl Marx.
The Freud doll plays music, just in case he wasn't creepy enough.
Hey, everybody, meet WEB Dubois, guest-starring on South Park!