Saturday, July 31, 2010
Do They Sell Chair-y Pie?
Right next to my workplace, there's a store with a sign reading "First in the city to sell products with 0.0% trans fat." It's a furniture store. Either the owner has no clue what trans fat is, or he has a highly developed sense of whimsy.
Dandy in the Underworld
Though he died at the age of 47, Sebastian Horsley had a rich, full life nonetheless. Just check out the picture in his obit. Plus, any man who can say "I can count all the lovers I've had on one hand -- if I'm holding a calculator" is a man who has done some hard-core living.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Boy Scouts Redux
They Boy Scouts are still here. I passed at least two dozen of them on my evening jog. Where are they coming from? What do they want? And how can I keep them from from attacking me and stripping the flesh from my bones?
On consideration, only the first two questions are really pertinent.
On consideration, only the first two questions are really pertinent.
Science Is Cool
Programmable insects? Jets fueled by vegetable oil? Prosthetic limbs that can read your brain waves? DARPA looks at these absurdities and asks: Why not?
Won't You Be My Neighbor?
If this article is even half-true, then Mister Rogers deserves to become Saint Rogers straightaway.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Twitterific
Buzz Bissinger of Buzz Bissinger fame explains how he became a Twitter convert. In brief, he likes Twitter because it allows him to vent his all-consuming rage upon the world 140 characters a time.
Warning: Contains language strong enough to make Don Rickles' hair grow back and fall out all over again.
Double warning: Just in case you doubted the warning above.
Warning: Contains language strong enough to make Don Rickles' hair grow back and fall out all over again.
Double warning: Just in case you doubted the warning above.
It's That Time of Year Again...
Ah, Comic Con! Something in San Diego's air brings out the bizarre in people. Need proof? Take a look at the best of this year's street marketing campaigns.
Most seem cool, in a nerdy way. I highly approve of the garlic-bread truck. No science-fiction/fantasy festival is complete without a thick, moutherwatering slice of juicy garlic bread, dripping with...excuse me, I think that's a sign I need to eat dinner.
Most seem cool, in a nerdy way. I highly approve of the garlic-bread truck. No science-fiction/fantasy festival is complete without a thick, moutherwatering slice of juicy garlic bread, dripping with...excuse me, I think that's a sign I need to eat dinner.
Mini-Review: Parties and Politics in America
Parties and Politics in America is the political science equivalent of a throwback jersey; outdated, yes, but better than the current model. Clinton Rossiter's brief introduction to the history and function of political parties is worth more than a dozen stat-packed textbooks.
Rossiter's approach is qualitative, not quantitative; instead of calculating the inflation-adjusted median of the standard deviation from a fixed-point balance curve over a four-dimensional space time curve, he describes things in plain English.
Some of his insights are obsolete. The South is no longer firmly Democratic; isolationism still exists, but now tends to congregate on the left side of the political spectrum; the upper class is no longer a solid Republican constituency. And his statement that only a WASP can win the White House has been twice disproved--in 1960 and 2008.
But if the details are occasionally wrong, the big picture is accurate. Rossiter, after all, did not try to predict the future. He wanted to make timeless rules and not short-lived speculation.
What makes Rossiter remarkable is his admiration for our two-party system. You might argue that this appreciation arises from the fact that politics is profitable for a man like Rossiter. Yet in today's world, when "politics" is a harsher epithet than "pervert," it feels strange to read a stirring defense of political parties.
Rossiter admits that both Republican and Democratic parties are misshapen Frankenstein monsters, cobbled together from weird and conflicting constituencies. They have no real ideology; they simply try to get their man into office. But as Rossiter points out, our decentralized federal system makes ideological lumpiness a necessity. How else can you expect to unite a nation as diverse as America?
This is the lesson of Rossiter's book--no democracy without politics. Political parties act as go-betweens, connecting the individual to the faceless government. What's so bad about that?
Rossiter's approach is qualitative, not quantitative; instead of calculating the inflation-adjusted median of the standard deviation from a fixed-point balance curve over a four-dimensional space time curve, he describes things in plain English.
Some of his insights are obsolete. The South is no longer firmly Democratic; isolationism still exists, but now tends to congregate on the left side of the political spectrum; the upper class is no longer a solid Republican constituency. And his statement that only a WASP can win the White House has been twice disproved--in 1960 and 2008.
But if the details are occasionally wrong, the big picture is accurate. Rossiter, after all, did not try to predict the future. He wanted to make timeless rules and not short-lived speculation.
What makes Rossiter remarkable is his admiration for our two-party system. You might argue that this appreciation arises from the fact that politics is profitable for a man like Rossiter. Yet in today's world, when "politics" is a harsher epithet than "pervert," it feels strange to read a stirring defense of political parties.
Rossiter admits that both Republican and Democratic parties are misshapen Frankenstein monsters, cobbled together from weird and conflicting constituencies. They have no real ideology; they simply try to get their man into office. But as Rossiter points out, our decentralized federal system makes ideological lumpiness a necessity. How else can you expect to unite a nation as diverse as America?
This is the lesson of Rossiter's book--no democracy without politics. Political parties act as go-betweens, connecting the individual to the faceless government. What's so bad about that?
Fame!
Michael Munn knows fame. He has prayed with David Niven, swapped jokes with Richard Burton, swung with Frank Sinatra, and been run over by George Raft. How can an ordinary guy move in such lofty circles? Munn explains all.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Dream On
Can you rewrite your nightmares as pleasant dreams about bubbles and birds and babies and such? Screenwriters around the world must be regarding this idea with horror. Without nightmares, how can they write misleading dream sequences?
Hat Man
If the Pope wears a baseball cap, what team does he root for? The cheap answer is the Angels. But I suspect he might be a closet Astros fan. Just speculatin'.
Soccer Thought, Too Late for the World Cup
I, Will Schultz, have figured out why Americans will never like soccer. The solution came to me while reading Bill Simmons, of all people. One of his readers argued that Americans will adopt soccer because we love underdogs--and what dog could be more under than the American soccer team?
In rebuttal, consider the following thought experiment. Take a well-adjusted person who has never paid sports any attention. Let's say he decided to become a rabid sports fan. He needs to choose a team to root for in every major sport.
Let's assume a little more. He decides to pick his teams not by relying on his friends and family, but by reading up on sports history. After a few weeks of intensive study he's ready to make his decision (broadcast on ESPN and hosted by Jim Gray). Who will he pick?
One thing for sure: he's not going to choose the underdogs. In the NBA, he's going to pick the Lakers or the Celtics, not the Clippers or Kings. His NFL team is more likely to be the Steelers than the Lions. On the baseball diamond, he'll root for the Yankees; if he's adventurous he might cheer for the Red Sox or Dodgers.
People want their teams to have at least a chance of victory. No sane person would willingly choose to root for the Charlotte Bobcats. Why? Because the Bobcats will never, ever win an NBA championship. The voluntary Bobcats fan is consigning himself to a lifetime of perpetual disappointment.
So it is with soccer. Americans can't win, and so they won't even play. For my next act, I will solve hunger, bring about world peace, and get "Arrested Development" back on the airwaves.
Oh, and if this post makes you nostalgic for buzzing vuvuzelas, check out Spitting Image's take on the fine art of calling soccer games.
In rebuttal, consider the following thought experiment. Take a well-adjusted person who has never paid sports any attention. Let's say he decided to become a rabid sports fan. He needs to choose a team to root for in every major sport.
Let's assume a little more. He decides to pick his teams not by relying on his friends and family, but by reading up on sports history. After a few weeks of intensive study he's ready to make his decision (broadcast on ESPN and hosted by Jim Gray). Who will he pick?
One thing for sure: he's not going to choose the underdogs. In the NBA, he's going to pick the Lakers or the Celtics, not the Clippers or Kings. His NFL team is more likely to be the Steelers than the Lions. On the baseball diamond, he'll root for the Yankees; if he's adventurous he might cheer for the Red Sox or Dodgers.
People want their teams to have at least a chance of victory. No sane person would willingly choose to root for the Charlotte Bobcats. Why? Because the Bobcats will never, ever win an NBA championship. The voluntary Bobcats fan is consigning himself to a lifetime of perpetual disappointment.
So it is with soccer. Americans can't win, and so they won't even play. For my next act, I will solve hunger, bring about world peace, and get "Arrested Development" back on the airwaves.
Oh, and if this post makes you nostalgic for buzzing vuvuzelas, check out Spitting Image's take on the fine art of calling soccer games.
Strangers in Need
Question of the day: why do so many tourists ask me for directions? There have been at least half a dozen during the summer, and three today. I don't mind, though I do feel sorry for the chumps who think I'm giving them good advice. Mostly I point and grunt. Sometimes I no sympathetically.
I have given some (too much) thought to the matter. Here are few critical factors:
1. I'm wearing a tie. This gives me DC street cred.
2. On the other hand, I'm young-ish, which means I'm not important, which in turn means I probably won't act too condescending.
3. I walk slowly, making me easy to flag down.
4. My walk--a slump-shouldered, hunchbacked shuffle--looks amusing and, more important, non-threatening.
5. I look smart (This thesis was considered and rejected).
6. I am good looking (Rejected even faster than the suggestion above).
7. Unlike DC's many crazy people, I do not talk to myself as I walk (Rejected, because I do, in fact, talk to myself as I walk, making me look like the world's best-dressed schizophrenic).
8. Did I mention I have a tie? It's a really nice tie.
I have given some (too much) thought to the matter. Here are few critical factors:
1. I'm wearing a tie. This gives me DC street cred.
2. On the other hand, I'm young-ish, which means I'm not important, which in turn means I probably won't act too condescending.
3. I walk slowly, making me easy to flag down.
4. My walk--a slump-shouldered, hunchbacked shuffle--looks amusing and, more important, non-threatening.
5. I look smart (This thesis was considered and rejected).
6. I am good looking (Rejected even faster than the suggestion above).
7. Unlike DC's many crazy people, I do not talk to myself as I walk (Rejected, because I do, in fact, talk to myself as I walk, making me look like the world's best-dressed schizophrenic).
8. Did I mention I have a tie? It's a really nice tie.
At Sea
Thrilling story. Can't wait to see the movie. Though I assume some digital tweaking will be necessary to add in sea monsters, typhoons, tidal waves, et cetera.
How the Semi-Mighty Have Fallen
Ten years ago everybody wanted to be M. Night Shyamalan. He had a hit movie in The Sixth Sense, a cool name, and a reputation as an Innovative Young Mind Going Places--an IYMGP, in Hollywood parlance.
Eight years ago most everybody wanted to be M. Night Shyamalan. He still had his cool name, his reputation was going strong, and, with Signs, he had made a respectable alien invasion flick. Not as good as The Sixth Sense, everybody said. But even John Ford didn't knock every ball out of the park.
Six years ago most people wanted to be M. Night Shyamalan, or someone like him. Cool name: check. Reputation: check, though a bit tarnished. In retrospect, though, The Village was a bad sign. It demonstrated that his twists were staler than the ones moldering on the back shelf of Dunkin' Donuts.
Four years ago a lot of people would settle for being M. Night Shyamalan. Yeah, Lady in the Water was absurd. Yeah, his IYMGP reputation was gone. But that name! And that sweet, sweet Sixth Sense money! So what if he was making films about narfs and scrunts and...whatevers?
Two years ago The Happening came out, and most people decided that they were perfectly OK not being M. Night Shyamalan.
Now...he's still named "Night," which counts in his favor, but everything else has gone to hell. Rest in peace, the directorial career of M. Night Shyamalan. You were like a shooting star--you were lovely at first, but the crash and burn was inevitable.
Eight years ago most everybody wanted to be M. Night Shyamalan. He still had his cool name, his reputation was going strong, and, with Signs, he had made a respectable alien invasion flick. Not as good as The Sixth Sense, everybody said. But even John Ford didn't knock every ball out of the park.
Six years ago most people wanted to be M. Night Shyamalan, or someone like him. Cool name: check. Reputation: check, though a bit tarnished. In retrospect, though, The Village was a bad sign. It demonstrated that his twists were staler than the ones moldering on the back shelf of Dunkin' Donuts.
Four years ago a lot of people would settle for being M. Night Shyamalan. Yeah, Lady in the Water was absurd. Yeah, his IYMGP reputation was gone. But that name! And that sweet, sweet Sixth Sense money! So what if he was making films about narfs and scrunts and...whatevers?
Two years ago The Happening came out, and most people decided that they were perfectly OK not being M. Night Shyamalan.
Now...he's still named "Night," which counts in his favor, but everything else has gone to hell. Rest in peace, the directorial career of M. Night Shyamalan. You were like a shooting star--you were lovely at first, but the crash and burn was inevitable.
Monday, July 26, 2010
One From the Vault...
Maybe "from the museum" might be a more appropriate title. How better to celebrate the seventeenth anniversary of Jurassic Park than with Steven Jay Gould's essay on Dinomania?
As someone who suffered an almost crippling case of dinomania as a kid--most afternoons were spent pitting tyrannosaurs against pterodactyls in a gruesome struggle for control of the living room sofa--I understand where Gould is coming from. Like him, I've wondered: why do kids love dinosaurs?
Is it the size, the claws, and the fangs? Maybe...but then why don't kids pick a less-extinct fanged and clawed monster, like a crocodile? Somehow, playing crocodile in the backyard lacks the awesomeness of playing t-rex in the backyard.
Maybe, as Gould says, the fact that dinosaurs are extinct gives kids a feeling of safety. There's no danger of being eaten by an Allosaurus on the way home from school. Again, though, most kids--Floridians excepted--don't face the immediate danger of being devoured by crocodiles.
I got nothing. Maybe some stroke of genius will hit me tomorrow morning in the shower. Hopefully it won't hit too hard. The shower floors are quite slippery, and I would hate to spend the last week of my internship in a wheelchair.
As someone who suffered an almost crippling case of dinomania as a kid--most afternoons were spent pitting tyrannosaurs against pterodactyls in a gruesome struggle for control of the living room sofa--I understand where Gould is coming from. Like him, I've wondered: why do kids love dinosaurs?
Is it the size, the claws, and the fangs? Maybe...but then why don't kids pick a less-extinct fanged and clawed monster, like a crocodile? Somehow, playing crocodile in the backyard lacks the awesomeness of playing t-rex in the backyard.
Maybe, as Gould says, the fact that dinosaurs are extinct gives kids a feeling of safety. There's no danger of being eaten by an Allosaurus on the way home from school. Again, though, most kids--Floridians excepted--don't face the immediate danger of being devoured by crocodiles.
I got nothing. Maybe some stroke of genius will hit me tomorrow morning in the shower. Hopefully it won't hit too hard. The shower floors are quite slippery, and I would hate to spend the last week of my internship in a wheelchair.
You Know You Want It
Atlantic explains the strange but irresistible appeal of QVC. QVC: not just for grandmas anymore!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Ithaca, Here We Come
Graduated from college? Looking for a job? The Daily Beast is here to help with a handy gallery of "Best Cities for College Grads." Ithaca is number one, proving that Cornell leads in more categories than just "highest suicide rate among the Ivies."
Who Is Patricia Reichardt?
Mental Floss presents "22 Fictional Characters Whose Names You Didn't Know." Get acquainted with famous no-names like Edgar Mallory, Jonas Grumby, and Norville Roberts--respectively, the Monopoly cop, the Skipper, and Shaggy of Scooby-Doo fame.
In the "you learn something new every day" category: I knew the Pillsbury Doughboy was named Poppin' Fresh, but I was not aware he was married to Poppie Fresh. Honestly, I assumed he was gay.
In the "you learn something new every day" category: I knew the Pillsbury Doughboy was named Poppin' Fresh, but I was not aware he was married to Poppie Fresh. Honestly, I assumed he was gay.
Getting Snookered
The list of "sports that lend themselves to a wild rock n' roll lifestyle" looks something like this:
1. Basketball
2. Football
3. Baseball
...
18. Curling
...
39. Bass fishing
...
511. Snooker
Which makes the life of Alex Higgins, AKA "Hurricane" Higgins, so astounding.
1. Basketball
2. Football
3. Baseball
...
18. Curling
...
39. Bass fishing
...
511. Snooker
Which makes the life of Alex Higgins, AKA "Hurricane" Higgins, so astounding.
The Doors
Someone smashed the dorm's front door last night. Tried to, at least. Thank the lord for plexiglass. The door's bottom-right pane looks like a windshield seconds after a high-speed collision with a turkey vulture.
At first I felt anxious. Had some maniac tried to break in? Were they still lurking outside? Could they possibly be a disgruntled employee of the nearby Interior Department, that notorious haven for psychopaths?
Then I noticed that the broken glass bulged out rather than in. I understood immediately. Someone tried to make a break for freedom last night. They preferred life on the streets to another week in a dorm nicknamed "the cell block."
At first I felt anxious. Had some maniac tried to break in? Were they still lurking outside? Could they possibly be a disgruntled employee of the nearby Interior Department, that notorious haven for psychopaths?
Then I noticed that the broken glass bulged out rather than in. I understood immediately. Someone tried to make a break for freedom last night. They preferred life on the streets to another week in a dorm nicknamed "the cell block."
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Oh Baby
After this, what's next? A barbecuing game with a rack o' ribs-shaped controller? A gardening game with a watering can-shaped controller? A pornographic game with a...yeesh!
SimArmy
Article title: "Meet the Sims...and Shoot Them." Not about the horrible crimes some people--myself included--inflict on their Sims, but interesting nonetheless.
The Beautiful Game
At First Things, David Hart explains why baseball is the Platonic ideal of sports. This, I think, holds true only for pessimists--people who see life as long stretches of boredom punctuated with crashes of failure.
I take issue with two of Hart's claims. First: "So much of what a batter, pitcher, or fielder does is astonishingly improbable, and yet—it turns out—entirely natural." Watch Tim Lincecum unhook his arm from his shoulder every time he pitches, and try explaining the "natural" in that.
Second: "And something similar is true of the juncture of infield and outfield, where metaphysics’ deepest problem—the dialectical opposition but necessary interrelation of the finite and the infinite—is given unsurpassable symbolic embodiment." To which I respond, No, you're talking crazy talk.
But I still admit to being drawn in by Hart's argument. That's the weird thing about baseball. It is not at all exciting to watch, but it's thrilling to read about.
I take issue with two of Hart's claims. First: "So much of what a batter, pitcher, or fielder does is astonishingly improbable, and yet—it turns out—entirely natural." Watch Tim Lincecum unhook his arm from his shoulder every time he pitches, and try explaining the "natural" in that.
Second: "And something similar is true of the juncture of infield and outfield, where metaphysics’ deepest problem—the dialectical opposition but necessary interrelation of the finite and the infinite—is given unsurpassable symbolic embodiment." To which I respond, No, you're talking crazy talk.
But I still admit to being drawn in by Hart's argument. That's the weird thing about baseball. It is not at all exciting to watch, but it's thrilling to read about.
Newspaper Daze
First, before you read my piddling review of the Newseum, check out Andrew Ferguson's blistering take on the same subject.
Done? OK, now let me tell what I thought. First impression: big. The lobby features a Jumbotron-size screen flashing headline after headline, things like "War!" "Invasion!" and "Panda lectures at National Zoo." Apparently, the Newseum curators suffer from Air and Space Envy, the compulsive desire to hang flying machines in your lobby. How else to explain the Bell helicopter dangling from the ceiling?
The Newseum has six floors, each with its own theme. Or "theme," because the fourth floor's juxtaposition of Elvis Presley and 9/11 is hard to explain, unless you consider fat Elvis a catastrophe on par with the World Trade Center attacks. Second floor is...actually, we skipped the second floor. We were in a hurry. The Newseum closes at five, peculiar, considering how the media prides itself on its hyperactive work schedule. Remember, freedom always needs defending!
Third floor is "World News," necessary, because otherwise the museum would have to bill itself as the American Newseum--an unforgivably jingoistic name. This also gives the museum space to commemorate those journalists who have given their lives in the line of duty. No, none of them were killed by an overly aggressive Sean Penn.
Other encounters on the climb upward: the Edward R. Murrow shrine. According to one panel, Murrow's broadcast Harvest of Shame is considered "one of the best documentaries of all time," a Kanye-esque bit of exaggeration. Speaking of Kanye...his "Jesus Walks" blasts from the speakers at an exhibit on the First Amendment, followed by "Fight the Power" and "Rockin' in the Free World." Unfortunately, I was unable to find the "Bong Hits 4 Jesus" banner supposedly housed in this exhibit. Such a shame...
The default mode for most exhibits is self-congratulatory, but the one on 9/11--a two-story high panel collecting the front pages of major newspapers the day after--is affecting. And it gives a bracing reminder of one advantage newsprint has over digital media: no homepage can compete with the screaming urgency of a full-color broadside.
Across the way from 9/11 we found Elvis. Why Elvis? He wasn't a newsman. He never wrote a story, edited a paper, or blogged from his den. No, says the Newseum, but he was a newsmaker, so he deserves a spot. Their logic seems shaky. Every major event and personality of the past three hundred years has made at least some news. Doesn't that theoretically make anything that ever happened anywhere fit for the museum? Ah, what the hell. Elvis gets eyeballs. That's all that matters.
My friend and I managed to make the very last showing of "I-Witness," the museum's "4D" mediaganza. Still not sure what separates it from 3D. After all, we still had to wear those goofy glasses that somehow reduce my already non-existent coolness.
The movie itself was, as Andrew Ferguson notes, brutally interactive. The seats rock back and forth to simulate both a Revolutionary War-era boat crossing and a World War II bombing run. Seems strange that a gentle boat ride and a dogfight feel exactly the same, but never mind. There are some cheap 3D tricks: when a redcoat captain sticks his sword at the minutemen, we get it right in the eye. And when a patriot printer trips and spills his printing blocks, several come flying out of the screen, spelling out "FREEDOM." Michael Moore is more subtle than this!
After the thirteen-minute film we had exactly two minutes to browse the bookshop. We browsed at a frantic pace, grabbing, tweaking, and twisting every keychain we could lay hands on. At one point in our frenzied shopping spree, I saw a Korean family looking through a large, glossy book. Closer inspection revealed they were reading the "South Korea" entry in The Onion's Our Dumb World Atlas. I pray to God they knew it was satirical.
Final verdict on the Newseum? A little overstuffed, and a lot pompous, but I have no moral ground to criticize either failing. It certainly is the coolest museum I have seen, with multimedia flat screens out the gazoo. Visit it, but only if you have time to invest--at $20 apiece, tickets don't come cheap.
Done? OK, now let me tell what I thought. First impression: big. The lobby features a Jumbotron-size screen flashing headline after headline, things like "War!" "Invasion!" and "Panda lectures at National Zoo." Apparently, the Newseum curators suffer from Air and Space Envy, the compulsive desire to hang flying machines in your lobby. How else to explain the Bell helicopter dangling from the ceiling?
The Newseum has six floors, each with its own theme. Or "theme," because the fourth floor's juxtaposition of Elvis Presley and 9/11 is hard to explain, unless you consider fat Elvis a catastrophe on par with the World Trade Center attacks. Second floor is...actually, we skipped the second floor. We were in a hurry. The Newseum closes at five, peculiar, considering how the media prides itself on its hyperactive work schedule. Remember, freedom always needs defending!
Third floor is "World News," necessary, because otherwise the museum would have to bill itself as the American Newseum--an unforgivably jingoistic name. This also gives the museum space to commemorate those journalists who have given their lives in the line of duty. No, none of them were killed by an overly aggressive Sean Penn.
Other encounters on the climb upward: the Edward R. Murrow shrine. According to one panel, Murrow's broadcast Harvest of Shame is considered "one of the best documentaries of all time," a Kanye-esque bit of exaggeration. Speaking of Kanye...his "Jesus Walks" blasts from the speakers at an exhibit on the First Amendment, followed by "Fight the Power" and "Rockin' in the Free World." Unfortunately, I was unable to find the "Bong Hits 4 Jesus" banner supposedly housed in this exhibit. Such a shame...
The default mode for most exhibits is self-congratulatory, but the one on 9/11--a two-story high panel collecting the front pages of major newspapers the day after--is affecting. And it gives a bracing reminder of one advantage newsprint has over digital media: no homepage can compete with the screaming urgency of a full-color broadside.
Across the way from 9/11 we found Elvis. Why Elvis? He wasn't a newsman. He never wrote a story, edited a paper, or blogged from his den. No, says the Newseum, but he was a newsmaker, so he deserves a spot. Their logic seems shaky. Every major event and personality of the past three hundred years has made at least some news. Doesn't that theoretically make anything that ever happened anywhere fit for the museum? Ah, what the hell. Elvis gets eyeballs. That's all that matters.
My friend and I managed to make the very last showing of "I-Witness," the museum's "4D" mediaganza. Still not sure what separates it from 3D. After all, we still had to wear those goofy glasses that somehow reduce my already non-existent coolness.
The movie itself was, as Andrew Ferguson notes, brutally interactive. The seats rock back and forth to simulate both a Revolutionary War-era boat crossing and a World War II bombing run. Seems strange that a gentle boat ride and a dogfight feel exactly the same, but never mind. There are some cheap 3D tricks: when a redcoat captain sticks his sword at the minutemen, we get it right in the eye. And when a patriot printer trips and spills his printing blocks, several come flying out of the screen, spelling out "FREEDOM." Michael Moore is more subtle than this!
After the thirteen-minute film we had exactly two minutes to browse the bookshop. We browsed at a frantic pace, grabbing, tweaking, and twisting every keychain we could lay hands on. At one point in our frenzied shopping spree, I saw a Korean family looking through a large, glossy book. Closer inspection revealed they were reading the "South Korea" entry in The Onion's Our Dumb World Atlas. I pray to God they knew it was satirical.
Final verdict on the Newseum? A little overstuffed, and a lot pompous, but I have no moral ground to criticize either failing. It certainly is the coolest museum I have seen, with multimedia flat screens out the gazoo. Visit it, but only if you have time to invest--at $20 apiece, tickets don't come cheap.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Mini-Review: Modern Times
For years, this was the way the world worked: conservatives were pessimists, liberals were optimists. No more. Modern liberals fret about global warming, global poverty, and Barack Obama's popularity. Conservatives, though not exactly a sunshine crowd, nonetheless enthuse about the limitless potential of human creativity.
Reading Paul Johnson's "Modern Times," a history of the post-World War I world, takes you back to those grim old days of conservative pessimism. Some historians see the twentieth century as a sustained surge upward. Not Johnson. He finds the roots of modern history in Einstein's theory of relativity; corrupted by opportunistic intellectuals, relativity became relativism, the idea that there exists no eternal, immutable truth. From that doctrine sprang Hitler, Stalin, Mao, and a host of lesser ghouls.
To Johnson, the twentieth century is not a single story but rather a series of vignettes. A professional politician--Lenin was the first--takes power. He then embarks on an ever-more-ambitious program of social engineering, culminating either in civil war or genocide. Examples in the first category include Iran, Chile, and postcolonial Africa. The second category needs no explanation.
"Modern Times" is a throwback in another manner. Johnson believes in the importance of the individual; economic and social forces may shape history, but everything is ultimately the product of an individual's choice. Thus, there is a clear-cut cast of twentieth century heroes and villains. And Johnson has some very peculiar heroes. He admires the strong, silent leader; his favorite twentieth-century presidents are Calvin Coolidge and Dwight Eisenhower, and his admiration for Charles de Gaulle and Konrad Adenauer verges into hero-worship.
As you might have guessed from the Coolidge reference, "Modern Times" deals in iconoclasm. Johnson does not spare third-world saints like Gandhi from his poison pen. Indeed, most third world leaders--referred to as the "Bandung generation"--are universally dismissed as lifelong politicians more skilled in rhetoric than reality.
Johnson's goal is width, not depth, which explains the general lack of cultural history. Artists and intellectuals only appear in order to serve as punching bags. "Modern Times" refuses to acknowledge the existence of Elvis, the Beatles, Hollywood, postmodernism, and sports of any kind. Religion is missing. So is art. And you will have to search long and hard to dig up any mention of computers.
This is a forgivable failing, though, and it is hard to find fault with such an elegantly written, fiercely argued book. "Modern Times" is conservative history--not the history of conservatism, but history as told from a conservative viewpoint. Give it to any friend reading Howard Zinn and watch the fireworks explode.
Reading Paul Johnson's "Modern Times," a history of the post-World War I world, takes you back to those grim old days of conservative pessimism. Some historians see the twentieth century as a sustained surge upward. Not Johnson. He finds the roots of modern history in Einstein's theory of relativity; corrupted by opportunistic intellectuals, relativity became relativism, the idea that there exists no eternal, immutable truth. From that doctrine sprang Hitler, Stalin, Mao, and a host of lesser ghouls.
To Johnson, the twentieth century is not a single story but rather a series of vignettes. A professional politician--Lenin was the first--takes power. He then embarks on an ever-more-ambitious program of social engineering, culminating either in civil war or genocide. Examples in the first category include Iran, Chile, and postcolonial Africa. The second category needs no explanation.
"Modern Times" is a throwback in another manner. Johnson believes in the importance of the individual; economic and social forces may shape history, but everything is ultimately the product of an individual's choice. Thus, there is a clear-cut cast of twentieth century heroes and villains. And Johnson has some very peculiar heroes. He admires the strong, silent leader; his favorite twentieth-century presidents are Calvin Coolidge and Dwight Eisenhower, and his admiration for Charles de Gaulle and Konrad Adenauer verges into hero-worship.
As you might have guessed from the Coolidge reference, "Modern Times" deals in iconoclasm. Johnson does not spare third-world saints like Gandhi from his poison pen. Indeed, most third world leaders--referred to as the "Bandung generation"--are universally dismissed as lifelong politicians more skilled in rhetoric than reality.
Johnson's goal is width, not depth, which explains the general lack of cultural history. Artists and intellectuals only appear in order to serve as punching bags. "Modern Times" refuses to acknowledge the existence of Elvis, the Beatles, Hollywood, postmodernism, and sports of any kind. Religion is missing. So is art. And you will have to search long and hard to dig up any mention of computers.
This is a forgivable failing, though, and it is hard to find fault with such an elegantly written, fiercely argued book. "Modern Times" is conservative history--not the history of conservatism, but history as told from a conservative viewpoint. Give it to any friend reading Howard Zinn and watch the fireworks explode.
Ladies and Gentlemen...Andrew Breitbart
Call it a corollary of Moore's law: politics gets twice as weird every eighteen months. Two years ago, Mark Halperin and John Harris were complaining about the "freak show politics" pushed by the Drudge Report. Now we have Andrew Breitbart, next to whom Matt Drudge looks quite level-headed. For proof, read this Slate profile of the man who aspires to be the "Right's Ted Turner."
Don't Take My Word For It
I have many bad habits--nail biting, nose picking, uncontrollable homicidal tendencies--but none worse than my compulsive need to recommend books to other people. It leads to exchanges like this...
Bereaved: My mother just died.
Me: May I suggest Camus' The Stranger?
Which is why this article, on "The fine art of recommending books," is so useful. I recommend you read it. I also recommend any book by Jon Krakauer, but that's neither here nor there.
Bereaved: My mother just died.
Me: May I suggest Camus' The Stranger?
Which is why this article, on "The fine art of recommending books," is so useful. I recommend you read it. I also recommend any book by Jon Krakauer, but that's neither here nor there.
Be Prepared
DC is swarming with Boy Scouts. Khaki everywhere you look. Presumably, they're here to earn their "wheedling money from the federal government" badges, required if one hopes to make it to the level of Weasel Scout.
Also, did you know that Boy Scouts molt, a la snakes and crabs? Honest to God! I saw a gaggle of Scouts today; some of them had on the usual khaki, but a few were wearing green T-shirts. I deduced that the green ones must have recently shed their uncomfortable khaki carapace. Science!
Also, did you know that Boy Scouts molt, a la snakes and crabs? Honest to God! I saw a gaggle of Scouts today; some of them had on the usual khaki, but a few were wearing green T-shirts. I deduced that the green ones must have recently shed their uncomfortable khaki carapace. Science!
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Big Fish
Meet Jeremy Wade, host of Animal Planet's River Monsters, and a man who--judging from his job description--dreams of losing a minor appendage on every continent.
Tales of the Weird
"Supernatural nonfiction" is not the world's best-known genre. Nor is it one of the best-respected. To put it bluntly, nobody knows about it, and those who do know about it don't like it.
Deep down, though, don't we all long to read a good book about ghosts and think--even if for only a second--that it's true? Well, at least I long for that. If you feel the same, check out this list of the best supernatural nonfiction, or, as the literati say, SNNF.
I haven't read any books on this list, though they all sound suitably spine-chilling. I do, however, have memories of two books, "How to Catch a Ghost" and "How to Spot a Flying Saucer," which I read incessantly as a kid. Every summer included at least one--probably more--readings of each book.
Did I learn anything from them? I learned the four kinds of close encounter: sighting, physical evidence, contact, and abduction. I learned that the appearance of a ghost is usually accompanied by a swift drop in temperature. The most important lesson, especially to my impressionable young brain, was to never, ever go walking at night by a lake outside an abandoned military installation. Do that, and you're asking to get abducted.
Each book mixed practical how-to advice with real-life stories of ghosts and UFOs. Guess which part I enjoyed more. Other kids grew up with Captain Underpants; I grew up imagining the Mothman and the Flatwoods Monster.
Geez...the Flatwoods Monster. Just writing about him gives me the creeps. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to go hide beneath my covers.
Deep down, though, don't we all long to read a good book about ghosts and think--even if for only a second--that it's true? Well, at least I long for that. If you feel the same, check out this list of the best supernatural nonfiction, or, as the literati say, SNNF.
I haven't read any books on this list, though they all sound suitably spine-chilling. I do, however, have memories of two books, "How to Catch a Ghost" and "How to Spot a Flying Saucer," which I read incessantly as a kid. Every summer included at least one--probably more--readings of each book.
Did I learn anything from them? I learned the four kinds of close encounter: sighting, physical evidence, contact, and abduction. I learned that the appearance of a ghost is usually accompanied by a swift drop in temperature. The most important lesson, especially to my impressionable young brain, was to never, ever go walking at night by a lake outside an abandoned military installation. Do that, and you're asking to get abducted.
Each book mixed practical how-to advice with real-life stories of ghosts and UFOs. Guess which part I enjoyed more. Other kids grew up with Captain Underpants; I grew up imagining the Mothman and the Flatwoods Monster.
Geez...the Flatwoods Monster. Just writing about him gives me the creeps. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to go hide beneath my covers.
Buzz Lightyear: Libertarian
Is Toy Story 3 an anti-Obama parable wrapped in a colorful animated package? David Harsanyi thinks so.
He loses credibility, though, by woefully misreading The Incredibles. Harsanyi thinks it was an anti-bigotry PSA: don't discriminate against superheroes! But every serious critic knows it was really about the perils of rampant egalitarianism. Come on, David. I expected better of you.
He loses credibility, though, by woefully misreading The Incredibles. Harsanyi thinks it was an anti-bigotry PSA: don't discriminate against superheroes! But every serious critic knows it was really about the perils of rampant egalitarianism. Come on, David. I expected better of you.
Plum Pudding
On a lighter note: look, funny parodies of the worst poem in American literary history!
Why David Corn Is Wrong About JournoList
Warning: politics ahead.
Liberal journalist David Corn defends the now-infamous JournoList against charges of conspiracy. He argues that JournoList was simply "progressive journalists hav[ing] progressive ideas and shar[ing] them with other progressive journalists," not some sinister left-wing media cabal. He makes a convincing case--convincing, but wrong.
Understand, I have no problem with the idea behind JournoList. If liberals want to get together and kvetch, fine. They have that right. No doubt many conservative journalists do the same thing.
I don't even have begrudge the JournoListers their sophomoric language. Yes, it is a little disturbing to see adults acting like gossipy teens gathered behind the gym after school. But journalists are verbal by nature. That's why they went into the news business: they get paid for their logorrhea. And because modern media demands some self-control (Glenn Beck and Keith Olbermann excepted) they need somewhere to rant. JournoList gave them an outlet.*
Corn nonetheless makes two false arguments. He writes that JournoList was populated by "predominantly self-identified liberals writing or working for self-identified liberal outfits." In reality, though, JournoList members came from mainstream publications like NPR, the Washington Post, Bloomberg, and Time. Corn is either 1) being very disingenuous or 2) tacitly admitting that many "nonpartisan" organizations are "self-identified liberal outfits."
Strike one. Strike two against Corn is his argument that JournoLists were swapping story ideas, not plotting to deliberately distort the news. Yet in this very column Corn cites a e-mail from Mother Jones' Jonathan Stein: "If enough people--people on this list?—write that the [Palin VP} pick is sexist, you'll have the networks debating it for days." Another JournoLister added "Say it with me: 'Classic GOP Tokenism.'"
If that isn't an attempt to manipulate the news cycle to partisan ends, what is? One journalist is encouraging others to cram the Palin story into a left-leaning narrative. And--at least from what appears in this article--no one disagreed. No one had any qualms about it.
JournoList isn't a scandal. It doesn't reveal anything we didn't already suspect. That's what makes it so disappointing--to paraphrase Dennis Green, journalists really are who we thought they were.
*On second thought, though, aren't these the same people who condemn the Tea Party for coarsening public debate? Most Tea Party signage is G-rated compared to the language on JournoList.
Liberal journalist David Corn defends the now-infamous JournoList against charges of conspiracy. He argues that JournoList was simply "progressive journalists hav[ing] progressive ideas and shar[ing] them with other progressive journalists," not some sinister left-wing media cabal. He makes a convincing case--convincing, but wrong.
Understand, I have no problem with the idea behind JournoList. If liberals want to get together and kvetch, fine. They have that right. No doubt many conservative journalists do the same thing.
I don't even have begrudge the JournoListers their sophomoric language. Yes, it is a little disturbing to see adults acting like gossipy teens gathered behind the gym after school. But journalists are verbal by nature. That's why they went into the news business: they get paid for their logorrhea. And because modern media demands some self-control (Glenn Beck and Keith Olbermann excepted) they need somewhere to rant. JournoList gave them an outlet.*
Corn nonetheless makes two false arguments. He writes that JournoList was populated by "predominantly self-identified liberals writing or working for self-identified liberal outfits." In reality, though, JournoList members came from mainstream publications like NPR, the Washington Post, Bloomberg, and Time. Corn is either 1) being very disingenuous or 2) tacitly admitting that many "nonpartisan" organizations are "self-identified liberal outfits."
Strike one. Strike two against Corn is his argument that JournoLists were swapping story ideas, not plotting to deliberately distort the news. Yet in this very column Corn cites a e-mail from Mother Jones' Jonathan Stein: "If enough people--people on this list?—write that the [Palin VP} pick is sexist, you'll have the networks debating it for days." Another JournoLister added "Say it with me: 'Classic GOP Tokenism.'"
If that isn't an attempt to manipulate the news cycle to partisan ends, what is? One journalist is encouraging others to cram the Palin story into a left-leaning narrative. And--at least from what appears in this article--no one disagreed. No one had any qualms about it.
JournoList isn't a scandal. It doesn't reveal anything we didn't already suspect. That's what makes it so disappointing--to paraphrase Dennis Green, journalists really are who we thought they were.
*On second thought, though, aren't these the same people who condemn the Tea Party for coarsening public debate? Most Tea Party signage is G-rated compared to the language on JournoList.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Miss Conception
Want to become a writer? Screw you! Sorry, that came out a little strong. What I meant to say is, you will most likely get screwed, at least in the business sense of the word. Sci-fi writer Charlie Stross is here to disabuse of some COMMON MISCONCEPTIONS ABOUT PUBLISHING.
He helpfully explains why books are as long as they are, what exactly editors do, and why so many books have god-awful cover art (short answer: it's not the author's fault). Unfortunately, he fails to answer the ageless question of why Dan Brown exists.
He helpfully explains why books are as long as they are, what exactly editors do, and why so many books have god-awful cover art (short answer: it's not the author's fault). Unfortunately, he fails to answer the ageless question of why Dan Brown exists.
Five Kinds of DC Pedestrians
Coal Mine Canary: Usually part of a tourist group, the Coal Mine Canary's job is to ensure the safety of his compatriots. When the Walk sign flashes, the Canary dashes across the street, looking like he expects to be run down at any moment. Upon reaching the other side he turns to his fellow tourists and spreads his arms wide, seeming to say, All clear!
Cannon Fodder: Head down, eyes on the pavement, ears plugged with an iPod, the Cannon Fodder marches forward in grim defiance of all known traffic laws. Crosswalks do not stop him. Don't Walk signs do not slow him. Nothing but a high-seed encounter with a Metrobus can shake the Cannon Fodder from his morning routine.
New Yorker: To the New Yorker, traffic is not, as the dictionary says, "the movement of vehicles, ships, persons, etc., in an area," but rather a never-ending conflict between motorists and pedestrians. The New Yorker treats all cars with the contempt normally shown only to child molesters. Drivers who cross the New Yorker--by honking at him, for instance--will receive a shower of four-letter words in response. And those words ain't "Hiya."
Middle-of-the-Roaders: The polar opposite of the Cannon Fodder, Middle-of-the-Roaders live in perpetual fear. Thus, when crossing the street, they worm their way into the center of the crowd. Presumably, those people provide a barrier between the Middle-of-the-Roader and the vicious taxi driver waiting to turn him into tomorrow's vending-cart burrito meat.
Will-o'-the-Wisp: Beware the Will-o'-the-Wisp. They are often encountered at night, or at lonely crosswalks. They walk against the light, when the sign clearly says Don't Walk. Of course, when they start crossing, there isn't a car in sight. But as soon as you try to follow them--BAM! You become yet another victim of DC's most malevolent breed of pedestrian.
Cannon Fodder: Head down, eyes on the pavement, ears plugged with an iPod, the Cannon Fodder marches forward in grim defiance of all known traffic laws. Crosswalks do not stop him. Don't Walk signs do not slow him. Nothing but a high-seed encounter with a Metrobus can shake the Cannon Fodder from his morning routine.
New Yorker: To the New Yorker, traffic is not, as the dictionary says, "the movement of vehicles, ships, persons, etc., in an area," but rather a never-ending conflict between motorists and pedestrians. The New Yorker treats all cars with the contempt normally shown only to child molesters. Drivers who cross the New Yorker--by honking at him, for instance--will receive a shower of four-letter words in response. And those words ain't "Hiya."
Middle-of-the-Roaders: The polar opposite of the Cannon Fodder, Middle-of-the-Roaders live in perpetual fear. Thus, when crossing the street, they worm their way into the center of the crowd. Presumably, those people provide a barrier between the Middle-of-the-Roader and the vicious taxi driver waiting to turn him into tomorrow's vending-cart burrito meat.
Will-o'-the-Wisp: Beware the Will-o'-the-Wisp. They are often encountered at night, or at lonely crosswalks. They walk against the light, when the sign clearly says Don't Walk. Of course, when they start crossing, there isn't a car in sight. But as soon as you try to follow them--BAM! You become yet another victim of DC's most malevolent breed of pedestrian.
Now It Can Be Told
"No other film, seen or unseen, can boast both Nazi death camps and the auteur responsible for The Nutty Professor." The saga of Jerry Lewis's legendary The Day the Clown Cried, as told by the lucky (unlucky?) few who saw it.
I Scream
Athletes retire, computers become obsolete, horses get put out to stud...turns out not even ice cream flavors are immune from the passage of time. Baskin-Robbins is retiring five classic flavors, including Campfire S'Mores and Caramel Praline Cheesecake. Also getting the hook: ice cream classic French Vanilla.
Vanilla? Are they really axing vanilla? On consideration, though, it kind of makes sense. When was the last time you ordered vanilla at a place like Baskin-Robbins or Ben & Jerry's? When you can get a scoop of Double-Chocolate Banana Mocha Fudge N' Nuts with a Creamy, Crunchy Candy Center, who needs vanilla?
Vanilla? Are they really axing vanilla? On consideration, though, it kind of makes sense. When was the last time you ordered vanilla at a place like Baskin-Robbins or Ben & Jerry's? When you can get a scoop of Double-Chocolate Banana Mocha Fudge N' Nuts with a Creamy, Crunchy Candy Center, who needs vanilla?
Tip to DC Tourists
Never tell your Metro sob story to a native Washingtonian. They will have zero sympathy for your tale of woe about waiting ten minutes for the Red Line to Shady Grove. They might even laugh at you. Chances are, they once waited two hours to catch that very same train. You aren't a real Washingtonian until you've stood alone, at midnight, on a seedy subway platform, waiting for a train that never comes.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Price Is Exactly Right
Perfection. The greatest--and most unattainable--of goals.
The 1972 Miamia Dolphins were perfect: 17-0.
The 1957 North Carolina Tar Heels were perfect: 30-0.
Rocky Marciano was perfect: 49-0.
And in somewhat less legendary terrain: Terry Kniesse was perfect on The Price is Right. Hey, that's no small accomplishment.
The 1972 Miamia Dolphins were perfect: 17-0.
The 1957 North Carolina Tar Heels were perfect: 30-0.
Rocky Marciano was perfect: 49-0.
And in somewhat less legendary terrain: Terry Kniesse was perfect on The Price is Right. Hey, that's no small accomplishment.
It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's...
Russians are a difficult people to shock. Remember, they were ruled by this man for the better part of a decade. But I imagine even the most jaded Yuri Q. Public might do a double-take upon seeing this.
Heart Attack on a Bun
Sports Illustrated presents the Top 10 Minor League Ballpark Foods. Judging from the grease and cheese, "Top 10" presumably refers to their fatality rate.
Electric Blues
To paraphrase Homer Simpson, the word "god" gets tossed around a lot these days. We have gods enough to fill a Greek pantheon and Valhalla besides. There are sports gods like Michael Jordan, movie gods like Steven Spielberg, and talk show gods like Oprah Winfrey. But only a few people deserve deification. B.B. King is one of those people. He is the undisputed God of the Blues.
The King--B.B. is a worthy heir to Elvis's title--played at Wolf Trap this weekend. And I was there. I had to be there. How often do you get the chance to see a god in the flesh? The Wolf Trap, despite its ominous name, has very little to do with wolves and nothing at all to do with traps. On its website, Wolf Trap is billed as a "performing arts foundation." Frou-frou language aside, Wolf Trap is actually a jumble of music venues located deep in the Northern Virginia wilderness. In NoVa, "deep" means "five minutes off the Beltway."
The performance took place at the Filene Center, an enormous wooden amphitheater that resembles a Spanish galleon beached on a grassy lawn. A lucky--and wealthy--few had seats up close to the stage. The plebes, myself included, sat on the hillside sloping down to the stage. Nearly everyone brought blankets, chairs, and coolers the size of Hummers. I sat on the grass. The theater offered chair rentals, but 1) they were expensive and 2) they looked like something Amnesty International would protest.
Who goes to see B.B. King? Aside from dweeby twenty-something interns with no knowledge of the blues beyond the Subterranean Homesick variety. The answer is: all kinds of people. B.B. has universal appeal. Most of the audience were middle-aged or slight past it. Most were white. But this was hardly the rule; there were black people, young people, young and black people even. Some parents have even brought kids as young as five or six.
There was even a hipster guy in tight jeans and a black hat. I mention this guy because I ended the evening hating his Animal Collective-loving guts. Dear sir: no matter how hip you are, it is polite to applaud when B.B. King takes the stage.
Before B.B. descended from on high, however, Lukas Nelson entertained us for forty-five minutes. Opening for a god is no easy act. Ask John the Baptist. Lukas, however, shouldered the task manfully, cranking out half-a-dozen country-bluesy tunes with flair. His backing band--bassist, drummer, and bongo player (?)--dug a deep groove and let Lukas run wild over it. He did. Not quite Angus Young wild, but wild enough to headbang, and wild enough to play his guitar upside down. At one point he even plucked the strings with his teeth. No joke! I wonder if his orthodontist covers him for any potential accidents.
Of the six songs I remember only one: "Hootchie Kootchie Man." While Lukas's voice was a bit too nasally--reminiscent of his father Willy--to capture the song's souped-up sexuality, he did as well as a skinny white guy could.
Then came the King. As a heavenly choir sang Handel's Messiah, the clouds parted and...sorry, got carried away. His band came out first and jammed through five minutes of smokin' blues. Doofus that I am, I thought their guitarist was B.B. himself. Geez, I thought, he seems spry for an octagenarian.
Then came the real King. May the good Lord grant me that vitality when I reach eighty-four. His only concession to Father Time was to remain seated during the show. Even sitting, though, he commanded the stage. It helped that the crowd cheered his every word. He could have said, "My name's B.B. King, and I just killed a puppy backstage," and the applause would have been overwhelming.
Of course he said no such thing. He was a charming host. He thanked everyone: the audience, the opening act, the backing bank. He told stories of walking eight miles to see a Tarzan film. He flirted with every lady in the front row. He condemned hip-hop artists for their misogyny. He joked about his medical staff, Doctor Viagra and Nurse Levitra. And when his drummer interrupted a story with a mis-timed cymbal crash, B.B. glanced back, grinned, and said, "You know I'm from Mississippi, don't you? And you know I carry a knife, don't you?"
Between the banter, he even played some songs. "The Thrill is Gone" drew the most applause, but I preferred "Key to the Highway," mostly because B.B. followed the lyric "So give me one more kiss baby" with a series of sloppy kissing sounds. "Just Like a Woman" was an old-fashioned blues number unlikely to find favor in today's politically correct climate. "Every Day I Have the Blues" was appropriately blue. And my favorite, "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean," was far spookier than any death metal song about hemorrhaging corpses and satanic rituals.
B.B. was in fine voice for the entire ninety-minute performance. He is eighty-four. Close your eyes, and you would have thought it was a twentysomething singing. His voice dug into each line, ripping it into ragged chunks of soul. Sometimes it rose to a bellow; sometimes, as in his lovely performance of "You Are My Sunshine," it dropped to a whisper. His guitar playing was...well, to quote from Almost Famous, it was incendiary. I lack the technical knowledge to describe its awesomeness.
Unfortunately, the performance was cut short by the real God, who sent some thunderheads rolling our way. Perhaps it was punishment for listening to the devil's music. As the thunder grew louder and the lightning brighter, the band just kept playing. Only the rain put a stop to things. When I left, B.B. was thanking everyone a second and third time. Pretty nice guy for a god and all.
The King--B.B. is a worthy heir to Elvis's title--played at Wolf Trap this weekend. And I was there. I had to be there. How often do you get the chance to see a god in the flesh? The Wolf Trap, despite its ominous name, has very little to do with wolves and nothing at all to do with traps. On its website, Wolf Trap is billed as a "performing arts foundation." Frou-frou language aside, Wolf Trap is actually a jumble of music venues located deep in the Northern Virginia wilderness. In NoVa, "deep" means "five minutes off the Beltway."
The performance took place at the Filene Center, an enormous wooden amphitheater that resembles a Spanish galleon beached on a grassy lawn. A lucky--and wealthy--few had seats up close to the stage. The plebes, myself included, sat on the hillside sloping down to the stage. Nearly everyone brought blankets, chairs, and coolers the size of Hummers. I sat on the grass. The theater offered chair rentals, but 1) they were expensive and 2) they looked like something Amnesty International would protest.
Who goes to see B.B. King? Aside from dweeby twenty-something interns with no knowledge of the blues beyond the Subterranean Homesick variety. The answer is: all kinds of people. B.B. has universal appeal. Most of the audience were middle-aged or slight past it. Most were white. But this was hardly the rule; there were black people, young people, young and black people even. Some parents have even brought kids as young as five or six.
There was even a hipster guy in tight jeans and a black hat. I mention this guy because I ended the evening hating his Animal Collective-loving guts. Dear sir: no matter how hip you are, it is polite to applaud when B.B. King takes the stage.
Before B.B. descended from on high, however, Lukas Nelson entertained us for forty-five minutes. Opening for a god is no easy act. Ask John the Baptist. Lukas, however, shouldered the task manfully, cranking out half-a-dozen country-bluesy tunes with flair. His backing band--bassist, drummer, and bongo player (?)--dug a deep groove and let Lukas run wild over it. He did. Not quite Angus Young wild, but wild enough to headbang, and wild enough to play his guitar upside down. At one point he even plucked the strings with his teeth. No joke! I wonder if his orthodontist covers him for any potential accidents.
Of the six songs I remember only one: "Hootchie Kootchie Man." While Lukas's voice was a bit too nasally--reminiscent of his father Willy--to capture the song's souped-up sexuality, he did as well as a skinny white guy could.
Then came the King. As a heavenly choir sang Handel's Messiah, the clouds parted and...sorry, got carried away. His band came out first and jammed through five minutes of smokin' blues. Doofus that I am, I thought their guitarist was B.B. himself. Geez, I thought, he seems spry for an octagenarian.
Then came the real King. May the good Lord grant me that vitality when I reach eighty-four. His only concession to Father Time was to remain seated during the show. Even sitting, though, he commanded the stage. It helped that the crowd cheered his every word. He could have said, "My name's B.B. King, and I just killed a puppy backstage," and the applause would have been overwhelming.
Of course he said no such thing. He was a charming host. He thanked everyone: the audience, the opening act, the backing bank. He told stories of walking eight miles to see a Tarzan film. He flirted with every lady in the front row. He condemned hip-hop artists for their misogyny. He joked about his medical staff, Doctor Viagra and Nurse Levitra. And when his drummer interrupted a story with a mis-timed cymbal crash, B.B. glanced back, grinned, and said, "You know I'm from Mississippi, don't you? And you know I carry a knife, don't you?"
Between the banter, he even played some songs. "The Thrill is Gone" drew the most applause, but I preferred "Key to the Highway," mostly because B.B. followed the lyric "So give me one more kiss baby" with a series of sloppy kissing sounds. "Just Like a Woman" was an old-fashioned blues number unlikely to find favor in today's politically correct climate. "Every Day I Have the Blues" was appropriately blue. And my favorite, "See That My Grave Is Kept Clean," was far spookier than any death metal song about hemorrhaging corpses and satanic rituals.
B.B. was in fine voice for the entire ninety-minute performance. He is eighty-four. Close your eyes, and you would have thought it was a twentysomething singing. His voice dug into each line, ripping it into ragged chunks of soul. Sometimes it rose to a bellow; sometimes, as in his lovely performance of "You Are My Sunshine," it dropped to a whisper. His guitar playing was...well, to quote from Almost Famous, it was incendiary. I lack the technical knowledge to describe its awesomeness.
Unfortunately, the performance was cut short by the real God, who sent some thunderheads rolling our way. Perhaps it was punishment for listening to the devil's music. As the thunder grew louder and the lightning brighter, the band just kept playing. Only the rain put a stop to things. When I left, B.B. was thanking everyone a second and third time. Pretty nice guy for a god and all.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Multiculturalism
On the corner of 17th and K Streets, you'll find a vending cart that hawks "espresso and burritos." Now there's a truly American combo--Italian drink, Mexican food. Somewhere else in this city there is, I hope, a vendor selling cocoa and calzones, or perhaps vodka and egg rolls.
Slusho
"The Rejectionist" peers into the collective consciousness of America and finds it populated by "renegade aliens, evil Russian scientists, and improbably large-breasted women." Wow. Maybe my novel about Katarina Goulash, a Martian masquerading as a well-endowed physicist from Vladivostok, isn't as original as I thought.
Daily Bread
I hold in my hand a loaf of Trader Joe's 100% Whole Grain Whole Wheat Bread. What really tickles me is that the package proclaims the bread's fiber content in no less than six places. Six! "Excellent Source of Fiber." "5g of fiber per slice." And if we missed those, the words FIBER is written across the package in size one billion font. Who, exactly, is the target audience for this bread? 90-year-old men with irritable bowel syndrome? Yeesh.
The Witching Hour
Washington turn weird after midnight. Or at least Foggy Bottom does. There's nobody on the street. No cars--only the occasional taxi. All the buildings go dark. Here or there you might see a lighted window, but that only demonstrates how empty everything else is. You always half-feel that someone is stalking you. It's quite an experience--maybe not one to have every night, but worth it once in a while.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
I Like Big Books and I Cannot Lie
If you had $75,000 to spend on books, what would you use it on? 50,000 copies of the Da Vinci code? Or one $75,000 biography that was made using a pint of its subject's blood? Nothing weird about that, after all.
Rock Lobster
The late David Foster Wallace--my precursor--tackles an unusual topic: the morality of eating lobsters.
Having eaten lobster all of two times in my life, I'm hardly qualified to judge whether lobster-consumption counts as a moral monstrosity. And I hate PETA on principle. Still, Wallace makes a convincing case that boiling a lobster alive should at least tickle our conscience.
Read this piece, and you'll understand the lobster scene in "Annie Hall" with a new perspective.
Having eaten lobster all of two times in my life, I'm hardly qualified to judge whether lobster-consumption counts as a moral monstrosity. And I hate PETA on principle. Still, Wallace makes a convincing case that boiling a lobster alive should at least tickle our conscience.
Read this piece, and you'll understand the lobster scene in "Annie Hall" with a new perspective.
Betrayal
Saw a T-shirt the other day--it read "We are all witnesses...to the bull[expletive deleted]." For non-basketball fans, this bon mot is a jeering reference to the LeBron James slogan "We are all witnesses." Obviously, the wearer was a jilted Cavs fan.
My first thought was, Wow, that was quick. He left less than a week ago and already you have T-shirts? But then I realized that some Cleveland entrepreneur probably had anti-LeBron t-shirts ready to go an hour before "the king" announced he was taking his talents to South Beach.
Which leads me to this hypothesis: the importance of any event is proportional to the speed with which it appears on a t-shirt. What I don't know is whether this relationship is directly or inversely proportional. Considering "Don't tase me, bro" was probably on a t-shirt less than five minutes after the guy got zapped, I'm inclined to think the answer is "inversely."
My first thought was, Wow, that was quick. He left less than a week ago and already you have T-shirts? But then I realized that some Cleveland entrepreneur probably had anti-LeBron t-shirts ready to go an hour before "the king" announced he was taking his talents to South Beach.
Which leads me to this hypothesis: the importance of any event is proportional to the speed with which it appears on a t-shirt. What I don't know is whether this relationship is directly or inversely proportional. Considering "Don't tase me, bro" was probably on a t-shirt less than five minutes after the guy got zapped, I'm inclined to think the answer is "inversely."
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Must I Paint You a Picture?
The National Portrait Gallery recently sponsored a portraiture contest--to be precise, the Outwin Boochever Portrait Competition 2009. The winning entrants, now hanging in the gallery itself, are well worth seeing. Don't take my word for it. You can see them all here.
Which ones do you like? In my cringingly humble opinion, "Laura" deserved its first place prize. "Always a Scout" made me chuckle, as did the punny "Duchess of Toledo." The gentleman portrayed in "Miss Priss" might be the most masculine man this side of the Old Spice guy. And "Jana" has a delightful psychedelic vibe; the painter seems to have found inspiration by dropping acid and leafing through a collection of Hieronymous Bosch's art.
Which ones do you not like? While it's certainly not bad, the frank nudity in "Portrait of Nell" did catch me off guard. It's like bumping into someone in a dark alley--they aren't necessarily a crazed murderer, but it's still not a pleasant experience.
Which ones do you like? In my cringingly humble opinion, "Laura" deserved its first place prize. "Always a Scout" made me chuckle, as did the punny "Duchess of Toledo." The gentleman portrayed in "Miss Priss" might be the most masculine man this side of the Old Spice guy. And "Jana" has a delightful psychedelic vibe; the painter seems to have found inspiration by dropping acid and leafing through a collection of Hieronymous Bosch's art.
Which ones do you not like? While it's certainly not bad, the frank nudity in "Portrait of Nell" did catch me off guard. It's like bumping into someone in a dark alley--they aren't necessarily a crazed murderer, but it's still not a pleasant experience.
OUTATIME
Though the phrase "time travel realities" might be an oxymoron, this article is still worth reading.
It also contains the sentence "Hiroshima was a pretty nice city for 350 straight years until somebody dropped a gigantic bomb on it," which I love for reasons beyond my articulation.
It also contains the sentence "Hiroshima was a pretty nice city for 350 straight years until somebody dropped a gigantic bomb on it," which I love for reasons beyond my articulation.
Norman Rockwell and the Uncanny Valley
Today, I boldly defied art critic Blake Gopnik and visited the Smithsonian American Art Museum's Norman Rockwell exhibit. Conclusion: Gopnik is an America-loathing monster. I don't really think that, but after spending two hours with Rockwell's cheerfully unobjectionable Americana, it seems like anyone who can criticize that stuff must be Facebook friends with Osama bin Laden.
The paintings in this exhibit come from collections belonging to Steven Spielberg and George Lucas. The film-making connection is more than a coincidence: Rockwell's paintings play like one-scene movies, complete with plot, characters, and special effects. Take one of his most well-known works, "Freedom of Speech," a preliminary version of which is housed in the exhibit. When you look at it, you don't see a painting. You see a story unfolding; you can't help but give names and backstories to the noble flannel-jacketed hero and the grumpy New Englanders around him.
Side note: in the original version, the speaker looked like a Hollywood star, with glowingly white skin and symmetric features. Rockwell roughened him up considerably for the final.
One peculiarity of this exhibit was that it occasionally caused me to laugh. Honest laughter, not mocking "Ha ha, this is utter crap" laughter. How often does that happen at an art museum? Rembrandt and Goya and Pollock and the rest of the gang inspire reverence, awe, and occasionally puzzlement, but they are hardly yukmeisters. Imagine how strange I felt, then, to giggle uncontrollably at the sight of this painting.
Like many good artists, Rockwell was especially interested in the act of creation itself; witness his famous triple-self portrait. So we get a painting of an writer hammering away at his typewriter, from which arises a ghostly image of Daniel Boone; a toymaker dabbing paint onto a red-white-and-blue whirligig; and a bearded, grandfatherly man making shadow puppets for an audience of enthralled kids.
My favorite picture--which, unfortunately, I can't find online--also dealt with the imagination. In the foreground sits a scrawny redheaded kid with glasses; he's reading a book and sitting on a couple more. In the background: a fairy-tale knight rises from his imagination. But beneath the knight's visor we see the kid's bespectacled, bucktoothed face.
OK, by now you probably wonder why this post's title references the uncanny valley. Rockwell often used real-life models for his paintings. In one case, he even got an old man to dress in drag and model the part of a shriveled town gossip. But in order to keep photorealistic blandness from creeping into his paintings, Rockwell added a few flourishes to his characters.
Thus, the figures look mostly human, but many have over-exaggerated features that immediately catch your eye. The kids look almost too scrawny, the old men too jolly, the starlets too leggy. At times it's unsettling.
But noooo, Blake Gopnik didn't feel the need to comment on the actual aesthetics of any Rockwell paintings. He had to yammer on about how Rockwell's art upheld the dominant social order and blah, blah, blah. What I'm saying is ignore the criticism and go this exhibit. If you're in DC, of course.
The paintings in this exhibit come from collections belonging to Steven Spielberg and George Lucas. The film-making connection is more than a coincidence: Rockwell's paintings play like one-scene movies, complete with plot, characters, and special effects. Take one of his most well-known works, "Freedom of Speech," a preliminary version of which is housed in the exhibit. When you look at it, you don't see a painting. You see a story unfolding; you can't help but give names and backstories to the noble flannel-jacketed hero and the grumpy New Englanders around him.
Side note: in the original version, the speaker looked like a Hollywood star, with glowingly white skin and symmetric features. Rockwell roughened him up considerably for the final.
One peculiarity of this exhibit was that it occasionally caused me to laugh. Honest laughter, not mocking "Ha ha, this is utter crap" laughter. How often does that happen at an art museum? Rembrandt and Goya and Pollock and the rest of the gang inspire reverence, awe, and occasionally puzzlement, but they are hardly yukmeisters. Imagine how strange I felt, then, to giggle uncontrollably at the sight of this painting.
Like many good artists, Rockwell was especially interested in the act of creation itself; witness his famous triple-self portrait. So we get a painting of an writer hammering away at his typewriter, from which arises a ghostly image of Daniel Boone; a toymaker dabbing paint onto a red-white-and-blue whirligig; and a bearded, grandfatherly man making shadow puppets for an audience of enthralled kids.
My favorite picture--which, unfortunately, I can't find online--also dealt with the imagination. In the foreground sits a scrawny redheaded kid with glasses; he's reading a book and sitting on a couple more. In the background: a fairy-tale knight rises from his imagination. But beneath the knight's visor we see the kid's bespectacled, bucktoothed face.
OK, by now you probably wonder why this post's title references the uncanny valley. Rockwell often used real-life models for his paintings. In one case, he even got an old man to dress in drag and model the part of a shriveled town gossip. But in order to keep photorealistic blandness from creeping into his paintings, Rockwell added a few flourishes to his characters.
Thus, the figures look mostly human, but many have over-exaggerated features that immediately catch your eye. The kids look almost too scrawny, the old men too jolly, the starlets too leggy. At times it's unsettling.
But noooo, Blake Gopnik didn't feel the need to comment on the actual aesthetics of any Rockwell paintings. He had to yammer on about how Rockwell's art upheld the dominant social order and blah, blah, blah. What I'm saying is ignore the criticism and go this exhibit. If you're in DC, of course.
Nothing to Sneeze At
San Diego pitcher Mat Latos recently suffered the most embarrassing baseball injury since Jose Canseco accidentally swallowed his glove.
Wide World of Wizarding
A few weeks ago, the much-talked-about, much-longed-for Harry Potter-themed amusement park opened in Orlando. It was probably the most anticipated movie-theme park crossover since Santa Claus: The Movie: The Ride back in the 1980s.
But is it any good? Can visitors imagine themselves strolling down the streets of Hogsmeade, munching chocolate frogs and saying things like "But Harry, if Dumbledore is right and the Hufflepuff goblet is Voldemort's sixth Horcrux, than will the Callyndor crystal be sufficient to defeat the Vurburbins of Moxmarto?"
The answer depends on who you ask. Slate disses it as "the park that should not be visited." They even hate the taste of the park's butterbeer.
The Daily Beast doesn't think much of the park either. A visit to Potterland gives the author a chance to reflect on how "experience" has shouldered aside "story" as the most important element in a theme park.
Don't despair, Potterphiles. The Washington Post (specifically a reporter for KidsPost its kids-only section) visited the park and found it quite nice.
My take? Eh. I'm not a theme park guy. Colonial Williamsburg was too intense for me. Anyway, even if I did enjoy theme parks, I'd probably choose to wait a few years, when virtual reality headsets will allow us to wander around Hogwarts from the comfort of our own techno-couches.
But is it any good? Can visitors imagine themselves strolling down the streets of Hogsmeade, munching chocolate frogs and saying things like "But Harry, if Dumbledore is right and the Hufflepuff goblet is Voldemort's sixth Horcrux, than will the Callyndor crystal be sufficient to defeat the Vurburbins of Moxmarto?"
The answer depends on who you ask. Slate disses it as "the park that should not be visited." They even hate the taste of the park's butterbeer.
The Daily Beast doesn't think much of the park either. A visit to Potterland gives the author a chance to reflect on how "experience" has shouldered aside "story" as the most important element in a theme park.
Don't despair, Potterphiles. The Washington Post (specifically a reporter for KidsPost its kids-only section) visited the park and found it quite nice.
My take? Eh. I'm not a theme park guy. Colonial Williamsburg was too intense for me. Anyway, even if I did enjoy theme parks, I'd probably choose to wait a few years, when virtual reality headsets will allow us to wander around Hogwarts from the comfort of our own techno-couches.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Least Succesful Lobbying Groups in Washington
NAUMRT--National Association of Unconvicted Murderers, Rapists, and Thieves
CRJ--Committee of Retired Jackasses
UCSP--Union of Cripplingly Shy People
BB"CR"F--Bring Back "Cop Rock" Foundation
TG--Ted Grimlow
CRJ--Committee of Retired Jackasses
UCSP--Union of Cripplingly Shy People
BB"CR"F--Bring Back "Cop Rock" Foundation
TG--Ted Grimlow
Classic Words from the Twenty-First Century
"But the bra should not be considered lingerie, he added. 'It is for partying and drinking.' "
Thursday, July 15, 2010
National Gallery
Like Rodney Dangerfield, the National Gallery don't get no respect. It often gets overshadowed by its brother museums. Painting, sculpture, and photography lack the whiz-bang fun delivered by, say, the Air and Space Museum. There, you can press buttons and flip toggles with abandon. At the National Gallery, if you lean a few inches too close to a Degas or Renoir, an overzealous security guard will scream at you. Where's the fun in that?
But visitors don't come to the National Gallery for the fun. They come to see the artwork, and there the National Gallery delivers. I spent two hours wandering through the West Building--it houses "classical" art, which is to say, art where you can still tell what the heck is going on. I enjoyed one hour and fifty-seven minutes of the experience. The three unpleasant minutes came when I was stalked by a rather unpleasant guard, but no matter.
For a starter, I sampled the German masters. Though Germany has a reputation for bloated bombast, these paintings were small, even humble. Many were simple ink sketches on plain paper. Of course, the masters did live down to some German stereotypes. All the artworks depicted either 1) the German people or 2) the German landscape. The exhibit included a few paintings from Caspar David Friedrich, whom I admire for his wild romantic style and his hilarious sideburns. Both his paintings involved a faint moon rising above some desolate Teutonic locale. Strangely, they reminded me a bit of the "Spaceman Spiff" episodes from Calvin and Hobbes. Some highbrow I am.
Then came a stroll through the nineteenth-century gallery. Here the paintings were bigger, bolder, more colorful. Lots of portraits of Victorian ladies and Victorian dandies; there were probably some instances where I mistook the one for the other. Unfortunately, I did not have time to take in one of my all-time favorite paintings, John Singleton Copley's "Watson and the Shark." Ever seen it? If not, hasten yourself to Wikipedia. It makes Jaws look like Finding Nemo.
My culture vulturing ended in a special exhibit of Allen Ginsberg. In addition to his beatniking duties, Ginsberg was also a pretty good photographer. Every shot was in black-and-white; strange in this day of digital cameras, but not unpleasant. A few particularly lovely photos depicted the view from Ginsberg's apartment window. One look at them, and you feel a sudden desire to move to New York City. My one complaint with this exhibit: a very unexpected full-frontal shot of Allen Ginsberg's little Buddha, if you catch my drift.
I tried to go to the modern art wing but got bogged down at the museum cafe. So I had a chicken sandwich and later recreated the artwork I missed by pouring laundry detergent onto my dorm floor.
Those two hours in the Gallery were good ones. The National Gallery is a broccoli museum--not delicious, but good for you and enriching for your intellect.
But visitors don't come to the National Gallery for the fun. They come to see the artwork, and there the National Gallery delivers. I spent two hours wandering through the West Building--it houses "classical" art, which is to say, art where you can still tell what the heck is going on. I enjoyed one hour and fifty-seven minutes of the experience. The three unpleasant minutes came when I was stalked by a rather unpleasant guard, but no matter.
For a starter, I sampled the German masters. Though Germany has a reputation for bloated bombast, these paintings were small, even humble. Many were simple ink sketches on plain paper. Of course, the masters did live down to some German stereotypes. All the artworks depicted either 1) the German people or 2) the German landscape. The exhibit included a few paintings from Caspar David Friedrich, whom I admire for his wild romantic style and his hilarious sideburns. Both his paintings involved a faint moon rising above some desolate Teutonic locale. Strangely, they reminded me a bit of the "Spaceman Spiff" episodes from Calvin and Hobbes. Some highbrow I am.
Then came a stroll through the nineteenth-century gallery. Here the paintings were bigger, bolder, more colorful. Lots of portraits of Victorian ladies and Victorian dandies; there were probably some instances where I mistook the one for the other. Unfortunately, I did not have time to take in one of my all-time favorite paintings, John Singleton Copley's "Watson and the Shark." Ever seen it? If not, hasten yourself to Wikipedia. It makes Jaws look like Finding Nemo.
My culture vulturing ended in a special exhibit of Allen Ginsberg. In addition to his beatniking duties, Ginsberg was also a pretty good photographer. Every shot was in black-and-white; strange in this day of digital cameras, but not unpleasant. A few particularly lovely photos depicted the view from Ginsberg's apartment window. One look at them, and you feel a sudden desire to move to New York City. My one complaint with this exhibit: a very unexpected full-frontal shot of Allen Ginsberg's little Buddha, if you catch my drift.
I tried to go to the modern art wing but got bogged down at the museum cafe. So I had a chicken sandwich and later recreated the artwork I missed by pouring laundry detergent onto my dorm floor.
Those two hours in the Gallery were good ones. The National Gallery is a broccoli museum--not delicious, but good for you and enriching for your intellect.
My Next Book: On Her Majesty's Infinite Ulysses
Check out this website, which will supposedly analyze your writing and compare you to a famous author. If nothing else, it's at least a tremendous ego-booster. Did you know I write like a combination of Stephen King, James Joyce, David Foster Wallace, and Ian Fleming? Apparently, I write high-tension thrillers about supernatural horrors and their relationship to the anomie of everyday life--and I do it all in stream-of-consciousness style.
Heck, let's plug this post into the website and see what it spits out. Hmmm...it seems I blog like Raymond Chandler. Could be worse. I could blog like H.P. Lovecraft: "Behold the twisted vortex of despair, the gaping maw of chittering madness, that some men dare call--in hushed and sepulchral tones--the Drudge Report!"
Heck, let's plug this post into the website and see what it spits out. Hmmm...it seems I blog like Raymond Chandler. Could be worse. I could blog like H.P. Lovecraft: "Behold the twisted vortex of despair, the gaping maw of chittering madness, that some men dare call--in hushed and sepulchral tones--the Drudge Report!"
Pok Tar, Gagh, Racht
No, the title does not refer to answers in the Jeopardy category "Sounds you make while choking on a bagel." If you were a true nerd, you would recognize them as various delicacies from the world of Star Trek. Of course, given that "Gagh" refers to writhing serpent worms, "delicacy" may be overstating the case.
But wait, there's more! Osol twist and pipius claw, gaspar and plomeek tea. Find them all on this website, a (seemingly) comprehensive list of Star Trek cuisine. It even features a recipe for making your own Klingon bloodwine.
And remember, as you read this, no doubt some nerd somewhere is shrieking, "What? They left off Gliptomic gel-fruit? SCANDAL!"
But wait, there's more! Osol twist and pipius claw, gaspar and plomeek tea. Find them all on this website, a (seemingly) comprehensive list of Star Trek cuisine. It even features a recipe for making your own Klingon bloodwine.
And remember, as you read this, no doubt some nerd somewhere is shrieking, "What? They left off Gliptomic gel-fruit? SCANDAL!"
RIP, Boss
Sean Wilentz remembers George Steinbrenner as a "meddling pain in the ass" who nonetheless warmed the otherwise dead and blackened hearts of Yankees fans.
Speaking of "baseball" and "valedictions," make sure to read John Updike's "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu," a minor classic about Ted Williams' last game at Fenway.
Speaking of "baseball" and "valedictions," make sure to read John Updike's "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu," a minor classic about Ted Williams' last game at Fenway.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The Grip
Washington is full of people trying to hand you stuff you don't want. No, not drugs or pornography. Much worse than that. They want to give you pamphlets about how the capitalist conspiracy is strangling the working man, or about how CFCs threaten our children, or about how Jesus Christ has returned as a Nepalese yogi.
No doubt these are pressing issues. That, I can't deny. But I really don't have time for them. And sometimes trash cans are hard to find, which means I have to walk to work carrying a brochure about the harmful effects of Arctic whaling on Peruvian immigrant orphans.
Thus, I have perfected "the grip." The grip is a posture guaranteed to keep people from shoving socialist agitprop into your hand. It's quite simple. Left hand in pocket; right hand clenches the strap of your man-purse. Sometimes your interlocutor is very persistent; in this case, you must avoid eye contact. If this tactic fails, your only hope to run away screaming like a Spanish soccer player who has been lightly tapped on the shoulder.
Jeez, the things you have to do to survive in the city!
No doubt these are pressing issues. That, I can't deny. But I really don't have time for them. And sometimes trash cans are hard to find, which means I have to walk to work carrying a brochure about the harmful effects of Arctic whaling on Peruvian immigrant orphans.
Thus, I have perfected "the grip." The grip is a posture guaranteed to keep people from shoving socialist agitprop into your hand. It's quite simple. Left hand in pocket; right hand clenches the strap of your man-purse. Sometimes your interlocutor is very persistent; in this case, you must avoid eye contact. If this tactic fails, your only hope to run away screaming like a Spanish soccer player who has been lightly tapped on the shoulder.
Jeez, the things you have to do to survive in the city!
Five for Reading
For those readers who feel compelled to pile more books on their Everest-esque to-read pile, this website will be either a godsend or a curse. Most likely both. Each day, it recommends five "must-read" books in a specific field, with a unifying theme for each week. Last week it was books on diplomacy; this week the theme is "mad world." Which, apparently, includes a discussion of the five essential books about libertarianism.
If I had to pick a specific field and five books to fill it, what would I choose? Hmmm...I'm not really good at anything, and I don't really know anything either, so I start at a disadvantage. I know! I wrote my senior thesis on Fulton J. Sheen. Without further ado, I give you the five best books on the electric preacher.
"America's Bishop," by Thomas Reeves--An excellent (and very readable) biography of Sheen, following Sheen from his obscure Illinois hometown of El Paso through his vibrant media career in New York City.
"Bishop Fulton J. Sheen," by Kathleen Riley--A more scholarly book, one that puts Sheen in context as an important Catholic thinker. The cover features a truly fantastic photograph of Sheen, in which he seems to be using his bulging bug-eyes in an attempt to hypnotize the photographer.
"The Passion of Fulton Sheen," by D.P. Noonan--Not really a good book, and packed with plenty of scurrilous rumor, but hey--it's hard finding five books on an undeservedly forgotten Catholic media maven.
"The Fulton Sheen Story," by James Conniff--I'm really reaching now. "The Fulton Sheen Story" is more picture book than biography. However, the reader will be pleased to learn that Fulton Sheen enjoys a spirited round of tennis each day.
"Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire," by J.K. Rowling--So I ran out of Sheen-related books. Sue me.
If I had to pick a specific field and five books to fill it, what would I choose? Hmmm...I'm not really good at anything, and I don't really know anything either, so I start at a disadvantage. I know! I wrote my senior thesis on Fulton J. Sheen. Without further ado, I give you the five best books on the electric preacher.
"America's Bishop," by Thomas Reeves--An excellent (and very readable) biography of Sheen, following Sheen from his obscure Illinois hometown of El Paso through his vibrant media career in New York City.
"Bishop Fulton J. Sheen," by Kathleen Riley--A more scholarly book, one that puts Sheen in context as an important Catholic thinker. The cover features a truly fantastic photograph of Sheen, in which he seems to be using his bulging bug-eyes in an attempt to hypnotize the photographer.
"The Passion of Fulton Sheen," by D.P. Noonan--Not really a good book, and packed with plenty of scurrilous rumor, but hey--it's hard finding five books on an undeservedly forgotten Catholic media maven.
"The Fulton Sheen Story," by James Conniff--I'm really reaching now. "The Fulton Sheen Story" is more picture book than biography. However, the reader will be pleased to learn that Fulton Sheen enjoys a spirited round of tennis each day.
"Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire," by J.K. Rowling--So I ran out of Sheen-related books. Sue me.
Ugh
Tomorrow afternoon, the dorm will temporarily shut off the air conditioning. Fun! For a small fee, management will provide you with a small dish of melted butter, in case you want to baste yourself while roasting.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Speaking of Soccer...
For those of you too busy to take in all 120 minutes of the World Cup final, this handy-dandy Lego version will prove indispensable.
The Soccer Question
Will soccer ever catch on in the United States? The World Cup, a month-long festival of spectacle and drama, is evidence it will. The World Cup final, a two-hour slugfest filled with yellow cards and histrionic flopping, is evidence it won't.
Soccer has a Jekyll-and-Hyde personality. Landon Donovan's goal is Hyde. The comical injury faking in the final--one guy got brushed on the shoulder and collapsed to the ground, screaming--is Jekyll. Right now, Americans associate soccer more with the latter than the former.
I don't think the 2010 World Cup changed that dynamic. You need proof? I watched the final game with some fellow interns. These were serious soccer fans, people who had followed the tournament from the start, people who had seriously advocated invading Ghana after Team USA lost. And even they thought the final game was terrible. They jeered the big lunkheaded ref and mocked the floppers the way Duke fans mock Carolina players.
A sport can't survive when the people who should be its biggest fans dismiss the players--all players, not simply the guys who play for teams they don't like--as whiny babies.
Does the low scoring in soccer make a difference? There seems to be a link between scoring and popularity; high-scoring basketball and football are popular, low-scoring hockey and soccer aren't. Why? Is it because Americans demand concrete proof of athletic dominance, while Europeans and other soccer-loving peoples are more willing to enjoy the aesthetic experience of the game?
Some people argue that soccer is socialist. And Thomas Friedman could spin a decent column out of a comparison between the soccer-watching experience and the football-watching experience. Soccer, at least on the World Cup level, is watched in massive open-air plazas, a communal experience that brings people together. Americans watch the Super Bowl cloistered in their own homes, alone or with a few family members and friends.
Hell, maybe soccer's just a stupid, boring sport, and we Americans are more discerning. After all, we gave the world basketball and baseball. We know sports.
In conclusion, I leave you with this YouTube clip, a summation of why basketball remains more popular than soccer in America.
Soccer has a Jekyll-and-Hyde personality. Landon Donovan's goal is Hyde. The comical injury faking in the final--one guy got brushed on the shoulder and collapsed to the ground, screaming--is Jekyll. Right now, Americans associate soccer more with the latter than the former.
I don't think the 2010 World Cup changed that dynamic. You need proof? I watched the final game with some fellow interns. These were serious soccer fans, people who had followed the tournament from the start, people who had seriously advocated invading Ghana after Team USA lost. And even they thought the final game was terrible. They jeered the big lunkheaded ref and mocked the floppers the way Duke fans mock Carolina players.
A sport can't survive when the people who should be its biggest fans dismiss the players--all players, not simply the guys who play for teams they don't like--as whiny babies.
Does the low scoring in soccer make a difference? There seems to be a link between scoring and popularity; high-scoring basketball and football are popular, low-scoring hockey and soccer aren't. Why? Is it because Americans demand concrete proof of athletic dominance, while Europeans and other soccer-loving peoples are more willing to enjoy the aesthetic experience of the game?
Some people argue that soccer is socialist. And Thomas Friedman could spin a decent column out of a comparison between the soccer-watching experience and the football-watching experience. Soccer, at least on the World Cup level, is watched in massive open-air plazas, a communal experience that brings people together. Americans watch the Super Bowl cloistered in their own homes, alone or with a few family members and friends.
Hell, maybe soccer's just a stupid, boring sport, and we Americans are more discerning. After all, we gave the world basketball and baseball. We know sports.
In conclusion, I leave you with this YouTube clip, a summation of why basketball remains more popular than soccer in America.
I'll Just End Up Jogging in the Cold November Rain
DC, in most respects, cannot compare to New York City. The district has blander architecture, less varied cuisine, and a much, much duller nightlife.* Yes, DC has its monuments, but I imagine maost people would swap a dozen Robert A. Taft Memorials for a five-minute stroll along the Brooklyn Bridge.
Yet DC has one advantage. I was out running this afternoon and got caught in a creeping rainstorm. A creeping rainstorm, unlike a squall, comes upon you drop by drop rather than in a single all-swamping deluge.
Anyway, as I jogged back to the dorm, I realized that DC is mercifully free from New York's obnoxious umbrella vendors. These are men with a built-in Doppler radar who materialize on street corners moments after the first drop of rain touches pavement. They are literally everywhere. And when I say "literally" I mean it. You can't walk five feet without somebody trying to sell you a $20 umbrella, one most likely held together with a liberal application of Elmer's.
No, in Washington there are no umbrella men. Sure, you get wet, but everything has its costs.
*Not that I, the man typing this at home in his pajamas, would know
Yet DC has one advantage. I was out running this afternoon and got caught in a creeping rainstorm. A creeping rainstorm, unlike a squall, comes upon you drop by drop rather than in a single all-swamping deluge.
Anyway, as I jogged back to the dorm, I realized that DC is mercifully free from New York's obnoxious umbrella vendors. These are men with a built-in Doppler radar who materialize on street corners moments after the first drop of rain touches pavement. They are literally everywhere. And when I say "literally" I mean it. You can't walk five feet without somebody trying to sell you a $20 umbrella, one most likely held together with a liberal application of Elmer's.
No, in Washington there are no umbrella men. Sure, you get wet, but everything has its costs.
*Not that I, the man typing this at home in his pajamas, would know
High (Pre)tension
Puzzled by Proulx? Dumbfounded by DeLillo? Angered by Auster? Uh...um...mangled by McCarthy? If you think modern literature has traded in plot for pretension and characters for cliche, then read "A Reader's Manifesto," a 2001 article by B.R. Myers.
I first came across it more than a year ago, and I've re-read three or four times since. To call it a "critique" is a criminal understatement; it is a complete evisceration. Myers' deconstruction of Annie Proulx's dense, unreadable prose is alone worth the price of admission.
Looking back at the preceding paragraphs, I confess to my cliches ("criminal understatement;" "worth the price of admission"), my failed attempts at cuteness ("plot for pretension and characters for cliche"), and my vague language ("came across it;" "to call it"). Which is more self-reflection than Paul Auster has ever done.
I first came across it more than a year ago, and I've re-read three or four times since. To call it a "critique" is a criminal understatement; it is a complete evisceration. Myers' deconstruction of Annie Proulx's dense, unreadable prose is alone worth the price of admission.
Looking back at the preceding paragraphs, I confess to my cliches ("criminal understatement;" "worth the price of admission"), my failed attempts at cuteness ("plot for pretension and characters for cliche"), and my vague language ("came across it;" "to call it"). Which is more self-reflection than Paul Auster has ever done.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The Horror...the Horror
Please welcome back the indispensable website This Is Why You're Fat! Simply looking at these photos will add five hundred calories to your daily intake.
Is it a sin to find some of these monstrosities tasty-looking? Personally, I think the Thanksgiving leftover sushi is quite clever.
Is it a sin to find some of these monstrosities tasty-looking? Personally, I think the Thanksgiving leftover sushi is quite clever.
"More Homer Simpson than Superman"
Dan Ariely explains behavorial economics in three bullet points. Before you get carried away, though, make sure to read Andrew Ferguson's critique of the "nudgeocracy" envisioned by Ariely and other behavioral economists. Then--to rebut the rebuttal--watch this TED video of Ariely. And THEN paint your face blue and pretend to be Papa Smurf. OK, perhaps that last one was unnecessary.
Two Left Feet
Short, humiliating story: I left the dorm early this morning to meet a couple friends for breakfast. It was raining, so I opened up my raggedy black umbrella and started sloshing north toward the Metro.
While walking, I tend to keep my eyes focused on the ground, so as to prevent even the remotest possibility of human contact. For once, my unsociability came in handy. I looked down and noticed that something seemed...peculiar.
My brain, slowed by the early hour and by the lack of food, ground its way through a complex series of equations and returned the answer: Will, you are wearing two mismatched shoes. In my hurry to get out, I had put a running shoe on my left foot and a beat-up old sneaker on the right.
The moral of the story? If you are me, you are an idiot.
While walking, I tend to keep my eyes focused on the ground, so as to prevent even the remotest possibility of human contact. For once, my unsociability came in handy. I looked down and noticed that something seemed...peculiar.
My brain, slowed by the early hour and by the lack of food, ground its way through a complex series of equations and returned the answer: Will, you are wearing two mismatched shoes. In my hurry to get out, I had put a running shoe on my left foot and a beat-up old sneaker on the right.
The moral of the story? If you are me, you are an idiot.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Fiddle Me This, Batman
Next time I see a street saxophonist busking at Farragut North, perhaps I should take a closer look to make sure it's not an incognito Branford Marsalis.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Fourth of July
Yes, when Independence Day rolls round, no city holds its collective head higher than Washington. The spirit of '76 courses through the city like a second Potomac. When the Founding Fathers gathered at the White House to sign the Declaration of Independence...what's that? DC wasn't founded til after the Revolution, you say?
Oh. So you mean Washington's only claim to fame on July Fourth is its big honking fireworks display?
What's wrong with that? Nothing, I say. High explosives are part of American history. And no city--with the possible exception of Detroit after a Pistons win--does explosions better than DC during Independence Day.
Two summers ago, I watched the artillery--er, the festivities--from across the river in Crystal City. But that's akin to the difference between watching the Super Bowl on a big screen and watching the Super Bowl at the Super Bowl. The spectacle is cool, and you appreciate its grandeur, but everything seems to be happening in miniature. You feel as if you could reach out over the water and flick away one of the Roman candles with your pinkie.
This year, however, I was closer to the action. Not on the mall itself--its prime location wasn't enough to offset the fact that the mall on Independence Day is more crowded than a rush hour Metro to Rockville. I walked across the mall the morning of the fourth. Already, people were putting out seats, setting up tents, and searching desperately for scraps of shade.
No, I watched from Cardozo High School, home of the Fighting Clerks. Intimidating! I met some friends early in the evening for a truly American meal of turkey burgers, baked beans, and blueberry pie. We then walked five minutes down to Cardozo and joined a crowd best described as "anarchic." People sat on the street, on cars, on fire escapes...they dangled from fire escapes and waved from the roofs--they formed an impenetrable scrum impenetrable to anyone smaller than an NFL linebacker.
It was an interesting and diverse bunch; Columbia Heights is home to Washington's increasingly and annoyingly vibrant hipster population, so there were plenty of tight jeans and white-framed sunglasses. One guy munched a turkey leg that looked like it came from a pterodactyl.
Fireworks started at 9:10. A little streak gold climbed the horizon, rising parallel to the Washington Monument, and burst into a billion green and red sparks. The crowd whooped. An orange blast went up, then a red, then a gold one that sprinkled down like a rainstorm sponsored by Mountain Dew. The crowd had now reached a state of permanent whoopation. I heard later that some fireworks exploded into pink hearts. I can neither confirm nor deny this rumor. Within ten minutes the fireworks were half-obscured by a grayish gunpowder smog.
What made the experience weird, even eerie, was the quiet. Not that the crowd was subdued. They were anything but. As far as we were from the mall, however, the fireworks made almost no sound. A faint popping noise was the most we heard. It could have been the sound of cherry bombs bursting a block away.
The crowd, obligingly inebriated as many of them were, tried to contribute their own background noise. A couple patriotic songs started up, staggered raggedly along, and collapsed before they reached the first chorus. "America the Beautiful" didn't make it past "purple mountains majesty." One bold girl managed to get through the entirety of "The Star Spangled Banner." Her achievement was met with applause, whoops, and shouts of "Amurica!"
Walking home afterward was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. If you had picked up some stranger and dropped them in Columbia Heights that evening, without telling them the date, they would likely have thought they landed in Sarajevo circa 1994. Snaps, crackles, and pops went off every thirty seconds. A few bottle rockets burst above the skyline. I felt an overwhelming urge to duck and cover.
My conclusion? Fireworks are always cool, no matter the place, no matter the time. But the fireworks of DC are the greatest of them all.
Oh. So you mean Washington's only claim to fame on July Fourth is its big honking fireworks display?
What's wrong with that? Nothing, I say. High explosives are part of American history. And no city--with the possible exception of Detroit after a Pistons win--does explosions better than DC during Independence Day.
Two summers ago, I watched the artillery--er, the festivities--from across the river in Crystal City. But that's akin to the difference between watching the Super Bowl on a big screen and watching the Super Bowl at the Super Bowl. The spectacle is cool, and you appreciate its grandeur, but everything seems to be happening in miniature. You feel as if you could reach out over the water and flick away one of the Roman candles with your pinkie.
This year, however, I was closer to the action. Not on the mall itself--its prime location wasn't enough to offset the fact that the mall on Independence Day is more crowded than a rush hour Metro to Rockville. I walked across the mall the morning of the fourth. Already, people were putting out seats, setting up tents, and searching desperately for scraps of shade.
No, I watched from Cardozo High School, home of the Fighting Clerks. Intimidating! I met some friends early in the evening for a truly American meal of turkey burgers, baked beans, and blueberry pie. We then walked five minutes down to Cardozo and joined a crowd best described as "anarchic." People sat on the street, on cars, on fire escapes...they dangled from fire escapes and waved from the roofs--they formed an impenetrable scrum impenetrable to anyone smaller than an NFL linebacker.
It was an interesting and diverse bunch; Columbia Heights is home to Washington's increasingly and annoyingly vibrant hipster population, so there were plenty of tight jeans and white-framed sunglasses. One guy munched a turkey leg that looked like it came from a pterodactyl.
Fireworks started at 9:10. A little streak gold climbed the horizon, rising parallel to the Washington Monument, and burst into a billion green and red sparks. The crowd whooped. An orange blast went up, then a red, then a gold one that sprinkled down like a rainstorm sponsored by Mountain Dew. The crowd had now reached a state of permanent whoopation. I heard later that some fireworks exploded into pink hearts. I can neither confirm nor deny this rumor. Within ten minutes the fireworks were half-obscured by a grayish gunpowder smog.
What made the experience weird, even eerie, was the quiet. Not that the crowd was subdued. They were anything but. As far as we were from the mall, however, the fireworks made almost no sound. A faint popping noise was the most we heard. It could have been the sound of cherry bombs bursting a block away.
The crowd, obligingly inebriated as many of them were, tried to contribute their own background noise. A couple patriotic songs started up, staggered raggedly along, and collapsed before they reached the first chorus. "America the Beautiful" didn't make it past "purple mountains majesty." One bold girl managed to get through the entirety of "The Star Spangled Banner." Her achievement was met with applause, whoops, and shouts of "Amurica!"
Walking home afterward was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. If you had picked up some stranger and dropped them in Columbia Heights that evening, without telling them the date, they would likely have thought they landed in Sarajevo circa 1994. Snaps, crackles, and pops went off every thirty seconds. A few bottle rockets burst above the skyline. I felt an overwhelming urge to duck and cover.
My conclusion? Fireworks are always cool, no matter the place, no matter the time. But the fireworks of DC are the greatest of them all.
Wide World of Art
Immense--and immensely fascinating--New Yorker article about Peter Paul Biro, art authenticator and fingerprinter extraordinaire. Read it in sips.
Grounded
Was prepping for my evening jog, when I pulled off my sock to find a nickel-sized blister. Oh. So that's what was hurting all day. I think the proper Rx is a brief break from running. For a new activity...how about jousting?
Fun in the Kitchen
What would Julia Child think of Pac-Man oven mitts, portable toasters, and egg cubers?
Also note: I originally read "Rabbit Mixer" as "Rabbi Mixer," which raises the interesting theological question of whether the Jewish spiritual leader is doing the mixing or being mixed himself.
Also note: I originally read "Rabbit Mixer" as "Rabbi Mixer," which raises the interesting theological question of whether the Jewish spiritual leader is doing the mixing or being mixed himself.
In Conclusion
Let's say you were convicted of some unspeakable crime--butchering a busfull of orphans, perhaps. What would you choose for last words? Something thought-provoking? Obscene? Amusing? For ideas, check out this very brief history of last words.
The best line goes to convicted murderer Charles Birger, who, when asked where he wanted to be buried, replied "“A Catholic cemetery because that’s the last place the devil would look for a Jew.”
A personal favorite of mine--not included in this article--came from George French. On his way to the electric chair, French turned to a newspaperman and quipped, "I have a fantastic headline for you: 'French fries.' "
Me? Not sure yet. But I hope and pray my last words will run something like this: "Well, I suppose one more slice of double-chocolate peanut butter cheesecake couldn't hurt."
The best line goes to convicted murderer Charles Birger, who, when asked where he wanted to be buried, replied "“A Catholic cemetery because that’s the last place the devil would look for a Jew.”
A personal favorite of mine--not included in this article--came from George French. On his way to the electric chair, French turned to a newspaperman and quipped, "I have a fantastic headline for you: 'French fries.' "
Me? Not sure yet. But I hope and pray my last words will run something like this: "Well, I suppose one more slice of double-chocolate peanut butter cheesecake couldn't hurt."
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Air and Space Muesum
Dave Barry described the Smithsonian as "America's attic." If so, then the Air and Space Museum is the dusty, cobwebby corner where all the cool junk is piled. You know, things like a stuffed armadillo or a human head preserved in formaldehyde. The museum is a junkpile, but the junk is amazing stuff.
Take the lobby. You walk in, look up, and see the Spirit of St. Louis dangling above you. Next to it hangs the carrot-orange X-1, the plane that shattered the sound barrier. Directly in front of you is an Apollo re-entry capsule with a pitted and scarred heat shield. Look left; you'll see a small pit crammed with enough phallic missiles to drive a gender-studies professor mad.
Fittingly, half the museum is "air" and the other half is "space," though the distinction gets a little blurry in some exhibits. But you aren't there to read the panels. You've come to gawk at rockets the size of skyscrapers and bombs big enough to blow Pittsburgh to pieces. The space section has plenty of both. A giant Minuteman missile thrusts out of the ground; next to it stands a hulking Viking rocket and a long, skinny space rocket. To put it simply: awesome!
Do you ever get tired of the tons of fire-spouting death-dealing machinery? Not really, no. My particular favorite was the DarkStar, an aerial observation drone that looks like a larval form of the spaceship Enterprise. The whole "unmanned aerial vehicles" exhibit was quite cool. Did you know the first UAV was a WWI-era biplane? The Allies stuffed it with explosives, pointed it at the German lines, and voila! Less agile than a Predator drone but no less explosive.
The museum offers a few options for those who yawn at phrases like "1,000,000 megaton nuclear bomb" and "speeds in excess of Mach 5." In the space exhibit, you will find some beautiful photographs taken by the Hubble telescope. And the museum's air side contains a long and fascinating history of WWI aviation. It's a long walk, but stick around to the end and you'll be rewarded with the wonderfully absurd sight of a Red Baron pizza next to a photo of the actual Red Baron.
Don't forget the gift shop!
Be aware of one thing. The SA&SM--as some probably call it--is always crowded. Funny thing about the crowds. The women usually look bored and the guys look fascinated. Ah, museums. They truly bring out the stereotypes in people.
Take the lobby. You walk in, look up, and see the Spirit of St. Louis dangling above you. Next to it hangs the carrot-orange X-1, the plane that shattered the sound barrier. Directly in front of you is an Apollo re-entry capsule with a pitted and scarred heat shield. Look left; you'll see a small pit crammed with enough phallic missiles to drive a gender-studies professor mad.
Fittingly, half the museum is "air" and the other half is "space," though the distinction gets a little blurry in some exhibits. But you aren't there to read the panels. You've come to gawk at rockets the size of skyscrapers and bombs big enough to blow Pittsburgh to pieces. The space section has plenty of both. A giant Minuteman missile thrusts out of the ground; next to it stands a hulking Viking rocket and a long, skinny space rocket. To put it simply: awesome!
Do you ever get tired of the tons of fire-spouting death-dealing machinery? Not really, no. My particular favorite was the DarkStar, an aerial observation drone that looks like a larval form of the spaceship Enterprise. The whole "unmanned aerial vehicles" exhibit was quite cool. Did you know the first UAV was a WWI-era biplane? The Allies stuffed it with explosives, pointed it at the German lines, and voila! Less agile than a Predator drone but no less explosive.
The museum offers a few options for those who yawn at phrases like "1,000,000 megaton nuclear bomb" and "speeds in excess of Mach 5." In the space exhibit, you will find some beautiful photographs taken by the Hubble telescope. And the museum's air side contains a long and fascinating history of WWI aviation. It's a long walk, but stick around to the end and you'll be rewarded with the wonderfully absurd sight of a Red Baron pizza next to a photo of the actual Red Baron.
Don't forget the gift shop!
Be aware of one thing. The SA&SM--as some probably call it--is always crowded. Funny thing about the crowds. The women usually look bored and the guys look fascinated. Ah, museums. They truly bring out the stereotypes in people.
"How to Make Fun of Indian-American Immigrants"
Niraj Chokshi takes Joel Stein to school--the school of ethnic stereotyping. The post is good, but the Bollywood video at the end is beyond belief, even by Bollywood standards.
A Face in the Crowd
There must have been a hint of magic mixed with DC's carcinogenic smog today. How else to explain this minor miracle? I was walking back from work when I recognized...someone I had passed on my way into work! The very same guy! No mistaking it! His candy-red bowtie was a dead giveaway.
Now, this doesn't sound like much. But this never happened--not even once!--during my last DC summer. I passed by hundreds, probably thousands of people, and never saw one of them again. DC, after all, ranks behind only New York and Philly in the surliness of its morning pedestrians. Everyone trudges to work with their heads down, eyes fixed on their feet. Who can blame them? Would you be happy going to your job as Vice Assistant Undersecretary of Agriculture for Boll Weevil Affairs?
So it was nice to get a touch of humanity. Who knows? If I see the guy again, I might even smile at him, instead of quickly and shamefully averting my eyes.
Now, this doesn't sound like much. But this never happened--not even once!--during my last DC summer. I passed by hundreds, probably thousands of people, and never saw one of them again. DC, after all, ranks behind only New York and Philly in the surliness of its morning pedestrians. Everyone trudges to work with their heads down, eyes fixed on their feet. Who can blame them? Would you be happy going to your job as Vice Assistant Undersecretary of Agriculture for Boll Weevil Affairs?
So it was nice to get a touch of humanity. Who knows? If I see the guy again, I might even smile at him, instead of quickly and shamefully averting my eyes.
Letter to LeBron James
Dear Mister Bron-James,
I recently learned of your free-agent status. Congratulations! I assume that, like all normal beings, your overriding desire is to get far, far away from the hellhole some call Cleveland. I heard you were looking at other NBA franchises, like the Chicago Bulls, the New York Knicks, and that New Jersey team that used to feature the bald guy who fell down and grimaced a lot.
May I offer an alternative? I hope you are sitting down, Mister Bron-James. Otherwise the dazzling brilliance of my suggestion might knock you off your feet. If you are not sitting down, I will give you a couple seconds to do so by filling the remainder of this paragraph with nonsense words: yarba durble doop de scoop galoop hurnh mung clung carba barba mutombo.
Mister Bron-James, I invite you to join the expansion team I am setting up in my cul-de-sac. I want you to play for the Templeton Road Terriers.
Why should you turn down offers from legitimate NBA teams with actual coaches, rosters, and payrolls, in order to play for a team that currently consists of myself, my cat, and my next-door neighbor Jimmy Kierzlowski? Allow me to explain.
Stand out from the crowd! If you play in Chicago, you will always be in the shadow of Bulls legend Toni Kukoc. If you play in New York, you will always be second bananafiddle to the Yankees. With the Terriers, your only competition for media attention will be Jimmy Kierzlowski. And if he ever gets too swell-headed, just remind him of the time he wet his pants watching “The Phantom Menace.”
Show me the money! I am prepared to offer you the maximum possible contract, which is equivalent to half of my allowance, supplemented by small donations from my grandmother. Yes, it is less than you would receive from, say, the Clippers. But the cost of living in Raleigh is very low. There is a bus stop less than five minutes from my house, so you won’t even need to buy a car!
Bright lights, big city! Speaking of Raleigh…the City of Oaks is a rapidly growing metropolis with a vibrant nightlife consisting of more than a dozen people. They are very friendly people and are eager to meet you. Plus, we recently opened a new Bojangles. Can New Jersey make you a similar offer? I think not. For the coup de grace—we are less than two hours away from Winston-Salem.
The team makes the man! Or in your case, the man makes the team! You can pick any coach you want, providing you pick my dad. And given our vast amount of cap space—Jimmy Kierzlowski is signed to a five-year, $2.33 contract—we can accommodate any player you desire. Want to play with Dwyane Wade? We can make room! Magic Johnson? We can make room! Peyton Manning? We can make room!
In the arena! Currently, we are without an arena. My next-door neighbors just bought a really mean dog, so we can’t use their basketball hoop anymore. However, my mom promised to buy a hoop for our house. Think of it, Mister Bron-James. An entire hoop all to yourself. Plus, our rec room has a Wii, so you can play Wii Fit to stay in shape during the offseason.
Make your mark(et)! Rumor says that Nike will pay you $50 million in endorsements if you become a Knick. Mister Bron-James, Nike is on its way out. It will soon be toppled by my new athletic-gear empire, SchultzTek3000KMegaX. If you play for the Terriers, I will build my product line around you, beginning with my latest invention: the Nutcracker, the Vice-Clamp Iron Grip No-Slip Jockstrap™.
I’m running out of impossibly banal clichés! What more do you want? Fame, fortune, and happiness? Wine, women, and song? Lions, tigers, and bears? All yours, if you play for the Terriers! We will make a statue of you out of pure gold! We will carve your smiling face on the moon with a laser! We will give you a potion allowing you to live forever, fly, and make women’s clothes fall off using only your mind!
We eagerly await your response. Of course, this is only true if you accept our offer. If you do not, let me pre-emptively say “Screw you, Mister Bron-James.”
Love,
W. John Schultz
Team President, General Manager, Point Guard and Mascot-for-Life
PS. A bit of bad news: you will need to bring your own uniform. You could theoretically share a jersey with Jimmy Kierzlowski, but given that he weighs 250 pounds and has a serious sweat-gland disorder, I recommend against it.
I recently learned of your free-agent status. Congratulations! I assume that, like all normal beings, your overriding desire is to get far, far away from the hellhole some call Cleveland. I heard you were looking at other NBA franchises, like the Chicago Bulls, the New York Knicks, and that New Jersey team that used to feature the bald guy who fell down and grimaced a lot.
May I offer an alternative? I hope you are sitting down, Mister Bron-James. Otherwise the dazzling brilliance of my suggestion might knock you off your feet. If you are not sitting down, I will give you a couple seconds to do so by filling the remainder of this paragraph with nonsense words: yarba durble doop de scoop galoop hurnh mung clung carba barba mutombo.
Mister Bron-James, I invite you to join the expansion team I am setting up in my cul-de-sac. I want you to play for the Templeton Road Terriers.
Why should you turn down offers from legitimate NBA teams with actual coaches, rosters, and payrolls, in order to play for a team that currently consists of myself, my cat, and my next-door neighbor Jimmy Kierzlowski? Allow me to explain.
Stand out from the crowd! If you play in Chicago, you will always be in the shadow of Bulls legend Toni Kukoc. If you play in New York, you will always be second bananafiddle to the Yankees. With the Terriers, your only competition for media attention will be Jimmy Kierzlowski. And if he ever gets too swell-headed, just remind him of the time he wet his pants watching “The Phantom Menace.”
Show me the money! I am prepared to offer you the maximum possible contract, which is equivalent to half of my allowance, supplemented by small donations from my grandmother. Yes, it is less than you would receive from, say, the Clippers. But the cost of living in Raleigh is very low. There is a bus stop less than five minutes from my house, so you won’t even need to buy a car!
Bright lights, big city! Speaking of Raleigh…the City of Oaks is a rapidly growing metropolis with a vibrant nightlife consisting of more than a dozen people. They are very friendly people and are eager to meet you. Plus, we recently opened a new Bojangles. Can New Jersey make you a similar offer? I think not. For the coup de grace—we are less than two hours away from Winston-Salem.
The team makes the man! Or in your case, the man makes the team! You can pick any coach you want, providing you pick my dad. And given our vast amount of cap space—Jimmy Kierzlowski is signed to a five-year, $2.33 contract—we can accommodate any player you desire. Want to play with Dwyane Wade? We can make room! Magic Johnson? We can make room! Peyton Manning? We can make room!
In the arena! Currently, we are without an arena. My next-door neighbors just bought a really mean dog, so we can’t use their basketball hoop anymore. However, my mom promised to buy a hoop for our house. Think of it, Mister Bron-James. An entire hoop all to yourself. Plus, our rec room has a Wii, so you can play Wii Fit to stay in shape during the offseason.
Make your mark(et)! Rumor says that Nike will pay you $50 million in endorsements if you become a Knick. Mister Bron-James, Nike is on its way out. It will soon be toppled by my new athletic-gear empire, SchultzTek3000KMegaX. If you play for the Terriers, I will build my product line around you, beginning with my latest invention: the Nutcracker, the Vice-Clamp Iron Grip No-Slip Jockstrap™.
I’m running out of impossibly banal clichés! What more do you want? Fame, fortune, and happiness? Wine, women, and song? Lions, tigers, and bears? All yours, if you play for the Terriers! We will make a statue of you out of pure gold! We will carve your smiling face on the moon with a laser! We will give you a potion allowing you to live forever, fly, and make women’s clothes fall off using only your mind!
We eagerly await your response. Of course, this is only true if you accept our offer. If you do not, let me pre-emptively say “Screw you, Mister Bron-James.”
Love,
W. John Schultz
Team President, General Manager, Point Guard and Mascot-for-Life
PS. A bit of bad news: you will need to bring your own uniform. You could theoretically share a jersey with Jimmy Kierzlowski, but given that he weighs 250 pounds and has a serious sweat-gland disorder, I recommend against it.
Weird Political Science
Need a laugh? Read this rib-tickler from Alvin Greene, the South Carolina senatorial candidate whose insanity grows more and more obvious each day:
Another thing we can do for jobs is make toys of me, especially for the holidays. Little dolls. Me. Like maybe little action dolls. Me in an army uniform, air force uniform, and me in my suit. They can make toys of me and my vehicle, especially for the holidays and Christmas for the kids. That's something that would create jobs. So you see I think out of the box like that. It's not something a typical person would bring up. That's something that could happen, that makes sense. It's not a joke.
Some will say this quote proves Greene to be nothing more than a nutsy freakazoid, funded by the GOP in order to discredit the South Carolina Democratic Party. I disagree. It's clear that Greene is an android sent by extraterrestrials to spy on human activity. And, I might add, a rather shoddy one at that.
Another thing we can do for jobs is make toys of me, especially for the holidays. Little dolls. Me. Like maybe little action dolls. Me in an army uniform, air force uniform, and me in my suit. They can make toys of me and my vehicle, especially for the holidays and Christmas for the kids. That's something that would create jobs. So you see I think out of the box like that. It's not something a typical person would bring up. That's something that could happen, that makes sense. It's not a joke.
Some will say this quote proves Greene to be nothing more than a nutsy freakazoid, funded by the GOP in order to discredit the South Carolina Democratic Party. I disagree. It's clear that Greene is an android sent by extraterrestrials to spy on human activity. And, I might add, a rather shoddy one at that.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
DC Observation
When I was in DC two summer ago, every T-shirt vendor was hawking Barack Obama t-shirts, key chains, hats, eggrolls, what have you. Now? Well, you see a lot less of that stuff. They aren't selling Rand Paul boxer shorts yet, but it seems Obama has lost the crucial DC street vendor demographic.
To Kill To Kill a Mockingbird
Think Atticus Finch is a sanctimonious bore? Then you might like this well-argued takedown of "To Kill a Mockingbird" in the Wall Street Journal.
I don't agree with everything it says. But after reading this article, I find myself concurring with Flannery O'Connor's assessment of "Mockingbird:" "It's interesting that all the folks that are buying it don't know they are reading a children's book."
I don't agree with everything it says. But after reading this article, I find myself concurring with Flannery O'Connor's assessment of "Mockingbird:" "It's interesting that all the folks that are buying it don't know they are reading a children's book."
Mini-Review: Toy Story 3
Is Toy Story 3 the greatest trilogy in film history? Sounds silly at first, but you can make a plausible argument for it. "Godfather III" dragged down the two masterpieces that came before. "Return of the Jedi" and its Ewoks forever besmirched the Star Wars saga. And you could argue--though I might disagree-that the Lord of the Rings trilogy was a wee bit too pompous. The Toy Story films, by contrast, have been stellar from start to finish, winding up with the latest entry: "Toy Story 3."
The familiar (plastic) faces are back: Woody, Buzz Lightyear, Mr. Potato Head, and so on. But while they remain unchanged by time, their owner, Andy, is grown up and on his way to college. Fans of "The Brave Little Toaster" may detect some similarities. Through a series of Pixaresque misunderstandings--that is, involving a mix of physical comedy and genuine nail-biting tension--the toys wind up donated to Sunnyside Day Care, where they find themselves in the velvety grip of a courtly Southern-drawling dictator named Lots-O'-Huggin' Bear.
This bears repeating, no pun intended. The villain's name is Lots-O'-Huggin' Bear. And yet despite this handicap, he is still scarier than 99% of the villains in modern films. I'd much rather spend an hour alone with the Joker than with Lotso.
This being a Pixar film, the toys hatch an ingenious plot to escape, which is animated in full Pixar style. There are wacky hijinks, most notably Buzz accidentally getting flipped to Spanish mode. There are amusing sight gags, as when Mr. Potato Head transforms into his flatter and more edible altar ego Mr. Tortilla Head. There are plenty of new characters, too, including a metrosexual Ken doll, a muscle-bound giant baby, and a freakish Orwellian monkey. Trust me, it makes sense once you see it.
And there are also a few moments of genuine horror. Be warned: this is NOT a kid's movie. Yes, it might be from Pixar, but little kids who laughed at "Finding Nemo" might wind up screaming in fright during one particularly harrowing scene. No, the target audience are teenagers, the kids who grew up like Andy. They won't be disappointed by this film.
The familiar (plastic) faces are back: Woody, Buzz Lightyear, Mr. Potato Head, and so on. But while they remain unchanged by time, their owner, Andy, is grown up and on his way to college. Fans of "The Brave Little Toaster" may detect some similarities. Through a series of Pixaresque misunderstandings--that is, involving a mix of physical comedy and genuine nail-biting tension--the toys wind up donated to Sunnyside Day Care, where they find themselves in the velvety grip of a courtly Southern-drawling dictator named Lots-O'-Huggin' Bear.
This bears repeating, no pun intended. The villain's name is Lots-O'-Huggin' Bear. And yet despite this handicap, he is still scarier than 99% of the villains in modern films. I'd much rather spend an hour alone with the Joker than with Lotso.
This being a Pixar film, the toys hatch an ingenious plot to escape, which is animated in full Pixar style. There are wacky hijinks, most notably Buzz accidentally getting flipped to Spanish mode. There are amusing sight gags, as when Mr. Potato Head transforms into his flatter and more edible altar ego Mr. Tortilla Head. There are plenty of new characters, too, including a metrosexual Ken doll, a muscle-bound giant baby, and a freakish Orwellian monkey. Trust me, it makes sense once you see it.
And there are also a few moments of genuine horror. Be warned: this is NOT a kid's movie. Yes, it might be from Pixar, but little kids who laughed at "Finding Nemo" might wind up screaming in fright during one particularly harrowing scene. No, the target audience are teenagers, the kids who grew up like Andy. They won't be disappointed by this film.
Reasonable Kind of Man
Interesting profile of David Brooks in New York magazine. Many, many people have been anointed as "the liberals' favorite conservative and conservatives' favorite liberal," but right now Brooks only nails the first part of that phrase. It's probably more accurate to describe him as "the liberals' favorite conservative and conservatives' least favorite conservative." Better than nothing.
One other thing stands out. Brooks talks a lot about his respect for the diversity of life, and how the mingling of multiple viewpoints is always a good thing. It's weird, than, that his ideal world sounds like it would be populated by people who talk, think, and act exactly alike...and exactly like David Brooks.
One other thing stands out. Brooks talks a lot about his respect for the diversity of life, and how the mingling of multiple viewpoints is always a good thing. It's weird, than, that his ideal world sounds like it would be populated by people who talk, think, and act exactly alike...and exactly like David Brooks.
Welcome to DC...
...where the temperature is no longer measured in degrees, but in the kind of metal that melts upon contact with the air. Today's forecast is tungsten.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Best. President. Ever
While I'm on a warpath, I might as well go after this Siena college "study" purportedly determining America's best president. SPOILER ALERT: It's FDR. Teddy comes in second, followed by Lincoln, Washington, and Jefferson. Surprisingly, Harry Truman, who has been making something of a comeback in these presidential polls, slips all the way to number nine. Obama is fifteenth; G.W. Bush is thirty-ninth. You find the full results--including rankings for qualities like "Relationship with Congress" and "Party Leadership"--here.
What do I think? I think this list is utter garbage, even by the low standards of "Best Presidents" lists. Yes, you can with some degree of certainty that Abraham Lincoln was a greater president than Warren Harding, or that Washington should rank above Andrew Johnson. You could even make some legitimate claim to organize presidents by category, sorting them into "Great," "Pretty Good," "Bad," and "Warren Harding" groups.
But this ranking is crap. To point out a few of its many flaws:
The categories make no sense at all. What on earth does "Background (Family, Education, Experience)" mean? Are they giving out points just for going to the right schools? Or are they rewarding presidents for rising above an adverse background? It's impossible to tell. For instance, J.Q. Adams ranks second in that category, presumably because he came from a political family and was the son of a former president. So why is G.W. Bush ranked thirty-six? It makes no damn sense!
Or take another category--"Luck." Again, what the heck does that mean? Should we reward a president for random circumstances? Should we penalize him because he was simply in the right place at the right time? I assume that's why they put Reagan third, because he was "lucky" enough to be around when the USSR collapsed. Which of course Reagan had absolutely nothing to do with. Hoover is dead last in this category. We all know how the Great Depression magically appeared out of the ether and destroyed his presidency. Nobody could have seen it coming!
The list has an obvious political agenda. Obvious is not a strong enough word. They might as well have put the Obama letterhead on top. For God's sake, it ranks Obama as a greater president than Reagan. People, Obama has been in the White House less than two years! He's probably still finding his way around the place! Yet he's already a greater president than the guy who ended the Cold War. Watch out, FDR. Your spot on top isn't safe as long as Obama's around.
A few other rankings make it clear: in the lists eyes, conservatives are evil and liberals are good. No exceptions. Even a liberal icon like LBJ is rated as the worst president ever when it comes to foreign relations. Yes, I realize Vietnam was bad. But the worst? Are you seriously arguing that Jimmy Carter had a better handle on global affairs than LBJ?
Perhaps my favorite--and by favorite I mean "least favorite"--thing is the category "Willingness to Take Risks." Presidents who took risks are higher than those who didn't. So living on the edge is always a good thing? I mean, it would have been awfully risky for JFK is he had decided to nuke Cuba during the missile crisis. Should he get credit for that? Risks are not inherently good. Sometimes the best decision is not to change things.
Gah! I can't go on. This list is so stupid, it makes me angry to realize I wasted half an hour getting angry about it. Take a look through and find your own favorite bits. Rest assured, you won't be disappointed.
What do I think? I think this list is utter garbage, even by the low standards of "Best Presidents" lists. Yes, you can with some degree of certainty that Abraham Lincoln was a greater president than Warren Harding, or that Washington should rank above Andrew Johnson. You could even make some legitimate claim to organize presidents by category, sorting them into "Great," "Pretty Good," "Bad," and "Warren Harding" groups.
But this ranking is crap. To point out a few of its many flaws:
The categories make no sense at all. What on earth does "Background (Family, Education, Experience)" mean? Are they giving out points just for going to the right schools? Or are they rewarding presidents for rising above an adverse background? It's impossible to tell. For instance, J.Q. Adams ranks second in that category, presumably because he came from a political family and was the son of a former president. So why is G.W. Bush ranked thirty-six? It makes no damn sense!
Or take another category--"Luck." Again, what the heck does that mean? Should we reward a president for random circumstances? Should we penalize him because he was simply in the right place at the right time? I assume that's why they put Reagan third, because he was "lucky" enough to be around when the USSR collapsed. Which of course Reagan had absolutely nothing to do with. Hoover is dead last in this category. We all know how the Great Depression magically appeared out of the ether and destroyed his presidency. Nobody could have seen it coming!
The list has an obvious political agenda. Obvious is not a strong enough word. They might as well have put the Obama letterhead on top. For God's sake, it ranks Obama as a greater president than Reagan. People, Obama has been in the White House less than two years! He's probably still finding his way around the place! Yet he's already a greater president than the guy who ended the Cold War. Watch out, FDR. Your spot on top isn't safe as long as Obama's around.
A few other rankings make it clear: in the lists eyes, conservatives are evil and liberals are good. No exceptions. Even a liberal icon like LBJ is rated as the worst president ever when it comes to foreign relations. Yes, I realize Vietnam was bad. But the worst? Are you seriously arguing that Jimmy Carter had a better handle on global affairs than LBJ?
Perhaps my favorite--and by favorite I mean "least favorite"--thing is the category "Willingness to Take Risks." Presidents who took risks are higher than those who didn't. So living on the edge is always a good thing? I mean, it would have been awfully risky for JFK is he had decided to nuke Cuba during the missile crisis. Should he get credit for that? Risks are not inherently good. Sometimes the best decision is not to change things.
Gah! I can't go on. This list is so stupid, it makes me angry to realize I wasted half an hour getting angry about it. Take a look through and find your own favorite bits. Rest assured, you won't be disappointed.
Warning: May Contain Art Criticism
Blake Gopnik, writing in this weekend's Washington Post, uses the opening of the Smithsonian's new Norman Rockwell exhibit as an excuse to write an extended critique of ol' Rocky. Now, lay aside the sportsmanship of kicking a guy who's been dead thirty-plus years. What exactly is Gopnik mad about? Rockwell is perhaps the twentieth century's least objectionable artist. Thomas Kincaid is more controversial, Kenny G more challenging.
And that's what irritates Gopnik. He writes: "The one virtue most nearly absent from [Rockwell's] work is courage. He doesn't challenge any of us, or himself, to think new thoughts or try new acts or look with fresh eyes." Gopnik makes three distinct charges against Rockwell in the Court of Art. From least to most damning:
1. Rockwell only illustrated one segment of American life. Gopnik blames Rockwell for excluding minorities like "Latino socialists, disgruntled lesbian spinsters, [and] foul-mouthed Jewish comics."
2. Rockwell gave the middle class what they wanted. His paintings pandered to their smug self-image; hence, he was a coward.
3. Rockwell never challenged authority. He was not a bold innovator like Emily Dickinson or Louis Armstrong. To quote Gopnik, "Rockwell panders, in the very substance of his pictures' making, to his public's fear of change."
Are these charges true? And even if they are, are they necessarily bad things? Let's take them one at a time.
Rockwell only illustrated one segment of American life. Yes, he probably is guilty as charged. But by Gopnik's accounting, this means any artist who fails to depict the totality of American life is a snobbish elitist. Sure, John Steinbeck might have written about Dust Bowl migrants, but what did he ever do for southern blacks? Yeah, Jacob Riis helped New York's urban poor, but he didn't even try to depict Chinese immigrants slaving away on Western railroads.
Rockwell gave the middle class what they wanted. Indeed he did. Just as Dickens before him gave the British middle and upper classes what they wanted. And just as Mozart gave the Austrian nobility what they wanted. Every successful artist gives his audience what they desire. Rockwell's sin is appealing to a "bad" audience--the white middle class--instead of a "good" audience consisting of highbrows like Blake Gopnik. Which brings me to the last charge...
Rockwell never challenged authority. So art is only legitimate if it attacks orthodoxy? But doesn't that create an orthodoxy of its own, the orthodoxy of anti-establishment? If the artist is REQUIRED to attack the status quo, than their attacks no longer reflect any vision or meaning, only a reflexive, spiteful, almost childish rebellion.
Heck, nowadays a truly rebellious artist would embrace authority. He would defend orthodoxy and stand up for things like liberalism, capitalism, and religion. And when you consider that Rockwell was painting at a time when those values started to go out of style among the culturati...you could argue that Rockwell was one of art's first rebels. So there, Blake Gopnik. I think you owe Norm an apology.
And that's what irritates Gopnik. He writes: "The one virtue most nearly absent from [Rockwell's] work is courage. He doesn't challenge any of us, or himself, to think new thoughts or try new acts or look with fresh eyes." Gopnik makes three distinct charges against Rockwell in the Court of Art. From least to most damning:
1. Rockwell only illustrated one segment of American life. Gopnik blames Rockwell for excluding minorities like "Latino socialists, disgruntled lesbian spinsters, [and] foul-mouthed Jewish comics."
2. Rockwell gave the middle class what they wanted. His paintings pandered to their smug self-image; hence, he was a coward.
3. Rockwell never challenged authority. He was not a bold innovator like Emily Dickinson or Louis Armstrong. To quote Gopnik, "Rockwell panders, in the very substance of his pictures' making, to his public's fear of change."
Are these charges true? And even if they are, are they necessarily bad things? Let's take them one at a time.
Rockwell only illustrated one segment of American life. Yes, he probably is guilty as charged. But by Gopnik's accounting, this means any artist who fails to depict the totality of American life is a snobbish elitist. Sure, John Steinbeck might have written about Dust Bowl migrants, but what did he ever do for southern blacks? Yeah, Jacob Riis helped New York's urban poor, but he didn't even try to depict Chinese immigrants slaving away on Western railroads.
Rockwell gave the middle class what they wanted. Indeed he did. Just as Dickens before him gave the British middle and upper classes what they wanted. And just as Mozart gave the Austrian nobility what they wanted. Every successful artist gives his audience what they desire. Rockwell's sin is appealing to a "bad" audience--the white middle class--instead of a "good" audience consisting of highbrows like Blake Gopnik. Which brings me to the last charge...
Rockwell never challenged authority. So art is only legitimate if it attacks orthodoxy? But doesn't that create an orthodoxy of its own, the orthodoxy of anti-establishment? If the artist is REQUIRED to attack the status quo, than their attacks no longer reflect any vision or meaning, only a reflexive, spiteful, almost childish rebellion.
Heck, nowadays a truly rebellious artist would embrace authority. He would defend orthodoxy and stand up for things like liberalism, capitalism, and religion. And when you consider that Rockwell was painting at a time when those values started to go out of style among the culturati...you could argue that Rockwell was one of art's first rebels. So there, Blake Gopnik. I think you owe Norm an apology.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
What Does Manliness Smell Like?
The answer is "cedar, vetiver (an east-Indian grass), pepper, grapefruit, orange and, rather unexpectedly, geranium leaves." Read on to find out more.
The Congressional Baseball Game
In the pecking order of sporting events, the annual congressional baseball game is significantly below the Super Bowl, somewhat beneath the MLB All-Star game, and a notch below a Valdosta State-IUPUI basketball game. But those events weren't available, and the CBG was. So I went.
I had heard rumors that tickets to the game had sold out. Impressive, when you consider the game is played in Nationals Park, which--according to Wikipedia--has room for 41,888 rabid Nats fans (if such things exist). Alas, the rumors were true only in the most literal sense. AVAILABLE tickets were sold out. In real-world terms, that meant there were just enough rowdy congressional interns to fill a thousand seats.
The fundamental question: are congressmen any good at sports? Scratch that--are they good at any physical activity more strenuous that shaking hands and slapping backs? Many of my fellow interns were dubious. So was I. In my mind, the average congressman was a portly white guy with an unfortunate combover and a belly that expanded like the federal deficit. Zing! How's that for political humor?
Wrong. Dead wrong. These congressman came to play. Specifically, they came to play baseball, which was good considering it was a baseball game. Yes, some of them had grown a bit old and gray, but they could still hit and field better than I ever could. OK, that's not a particularly high bar to jump. A blind quadriplegic could hit and field better than I ever could.
Special recognition must go to Joe Baca (D-CA), pitcher on the Democratic side. I scoffed as I watched him warm up. Unlike some of his younger, more athletic teammates, Baca really did have gray hair and a beer belly. But so what? C.C. Sabathia has the equivalent of two or three beer bellies, and look at him. Baca was neither Sabathiaesque nor Sabathiaetic, but he got the job done, pitching a complete game and limiting the supposedly potent GOP bats to five runs.
Don't give him too much credit for the complete game, though. It was forced upon him. Neither team had a relief pitcher.
In games like this, you come less for the on-field performance and more for the crowd. They did not disappoint. When I first arrived I mistakenly took a seat in the Democratic section. Only after a few minutes did I realize that everyone around me was 1) wearing blue and 2) cheering wildly whenever Baca struck somebody out. I hastily gathered by program and scuttled a few sections over to the red state crowd. Each congressman had their own clique. Some, like Georgia's Jack Kingston, even had matching t-shirts. A couple guys waved anti-Pelosi signs. Great fun was had.
One congressman had an anti-clique; a booing section, if you will. A bunch of young and earnest-looking people showed up with the sole purpose of booing Joe Barton, the congressman of "BP shakedown fame." Their shirts said "Barton" and had numbers that looked like they were written in oozing black oil. They carried signs that said "K Big Oil." To their disappointment, Barton never showed. Smart guy.
But their presence got me thinking. Why show up to a game simply to boo someone? Don't you have more constructive things to do with your time? Then I remembered, no, wait, this is DC, and they are probably interns. This is the most constructive thing they'll do all week, maybe all summer.
The game? Oh, yeah, it happened, and it was interesting and stuff. The GOP struck first, going up 1-0, but the Dems hit back and took a 4-1 lead going into the bottom of the sixth. They only played seventh innings--even vigorous, athletic congressman can't go forever.
The GOP rallied in the sixth and evened the score at 4-4. The red crowd was going absolutely bonkers, screaming, yelling, blowing vuvuzelas. Yes, one guy did bring a vuvuzela. Expect them soon at a sporting arena near you.
But the joy died quickly. In the top of the seventh, the GOP pitcher suddenly realized that he was not, in fact, a baseball player, but was rather a congressman trying to hurl a ball at sixty-plus miles per hour. And all of sudden the game turned into an office-league softball match. The Dems hit doubles, triples, and singles. The GOP fielders, tired after six innings, flubbed catches and throws like a collective team of Marv Throneberries.
The final score was 13-5, Dem advantage. As the Democrats cheered, the Republican side chanted "No-vem-ber! No-vem-ber!" But that night, Nancy Pelosi came out ahead.
I had heard rumors that tickets to the game had sold out. Impressive, when you consider the game is played in Nationals Park, which--according to Wikipedia--has room for 41,888 rabid Nats fans (if such things exist). Alas, the rumors were true only in the most literal sense. AVAILABLE tickets were sold out. In real-world terms, that meant there were just enough rowdy congressional interns to fill a thousand seats.
The fundamental question: are congressmen any good at sports? Scratch that--are they good at any physical activity more strenuous that shaking hands and slapping backs? Many of my fellow interns were dubious. So was I. In my mind, the average congressman was a portly white guy with an unfortunate combover and a belly that expanded like the federal deficit. Zing! How's that for political humor?
Wrong. Dead wrong. These congressman came to play. Specifically, they came to play baseball, which was good considering it was a baseball game. Yes, some of them had grown a bit old and gray, but they could still hit and field better than I ever could. OK, that's not a particularly high bar to jump. A blind quadriplegic could hit and field better than I ever could.
Special recognition must go to Joe Baca (D-CA), pitcher on the Democratic side. I scoffed as I watched him warm up. Unlike some of his younger, more athletic teammates, Baca really did have gray hair and a beer belly. But so what? C.C. Sabathia has the equivalent of two or three beer bellies, and look at him. Baca was neither Sabathiaesque nor Sabathiaetic, but he got the job done, pitching a complete game and limiting the supposedly potent GOP bats to five runs.
Don't give him too much credit for the complete game, though. It was forced upon him. Neither team had a relief pitcher.
In games like this, you come less for the on-field performance and more for the crowd. They did not disappoint. When I first arrived I mistakenly took a seat in the Democratic section. Only after a few minutes did I realize that everyone around me was 1) wearing blue and 2) cheering wildly whenever Baca struck somebody out. I hastily gathered by program and scuttled a few sections over to the red state crowd. Each congressman had their own clique. Some, like Georgia's Jack Kingston, even had matching t-shirts. A couple guys waved anti-Pelosi signs. Great fun was had.
One congressman had an anti-clique; a booing section, if you will. A bunch of young and earnest-looking people showed up with the sole purpose of booing Joe Barton, the congressman of "BP shakedown fame." Their shirts said "Barton" and had numbers that looked like they were written in oozing black oil. They carried signs that said "K Big Oil." To their disappointment, Barton never showed. Smart guy.
But their presence got me thinking. Why show up to a game simply to boo someone? Don't you have more constructive things to do with your time? Then I remembered, no, wait, this is DC, and they are probably interns. This is the most constructive thing they'll do all week, maybe all summer.
The game? Oh, yeah, it happened, and it was interesting and stuff. The GOP struck first, going up 1-0, but the Dems hit back and took a 4-1 lead going into the bottom of the sixth. They only played seventh innings--even vigorous, athletic congressman can't go forever.
The GOP rallied in the sixth and evened the score at 4-4. The red crowd was going absolutely bonkers, screaming, yelling, blowing vuvuzelas. Yes, one guy did bring a vuvuzela. Expect them soon at a sporting arena near you.
But the joy died quickly. In the top of the seventh, the GOP pitcher suddenly realized that he was not, in fact, a baseball player, but was rather a congressman trying to hurl a ball at sixty-plus miles per hour. And all of sudden the game turned into an office-league softball match. The Dems hit doubles, triples, and singles. The GOP fielders, tired after six innings, flubbed catches and throws like a collective team of Marv Throneberries.
The final score was 13-5, Dem advantage. As the Democrats cheered, the Republican side chanted "No-vem-ber! No-vem-ber!" But that night, Nancy Pelosi came out ahead.
LLaPoH
Slate reveals the winners of its contest to tweet the Declaration of Independence. The winner is great; personally, I very much like "We seek independence based on noble and universal ideas combined with petty and one-sided grievances."
The Fridge
Today, for the first time, I noticed a little orange sticker on my mini-fridge: "In Case of Emergency, Call ###"
How many fridge-related emergencies can you think of? Only two come to mind. First, if the fridge catches on fire. But if that happens, I'm not going to mess around with the mini-fridge hotline. I'm going to call 911 and get the heck out of the room.
The second possibility: getting trapped inside the fridge. In that case, I concede that a fridge-related emergency hotline would be useful. Why, then, is the sticker on the outside? I'm not going to get trapped outside of my fridge.
My conclusion? I wonder how much the fridge hotline operator gets paid.
How many fridge-related emergencies can you think of? Only two come to mind. First, if the fridge catches on fire. But if that happens, I'm not going to mess around with the mini-fridge hotline. I'm going to call 911 and get the heck out of the room.
The second possibility: getting trapped inside the fridge. In that case, I concede that a fridge-related emergency hotline would be useful. Why, then, is the sticker on the outside? I'm not going to get trapped outside of my fridge.
My conclusion? I wonder how much the fridge hotline operator gets paid.
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