Friday, October 15, 2010
Handwriting on the Wall
Turns out practicing penmanship is good for the brain. Looks like I owe my Catholic school teachers an apology. Forgive me, Sister Agnoricus. I never realized your cursive lessons would be so enriching.
Mini-Review: God, Church, and Flag
What made Joe run? How exactly did Joseph McCarthy, a bumptious judge from Wisconsin, become the most loved, hated, and feared man in Washington? For years, the short answer was “Catholicism.” Pundits claimed that McCarthy, an Irish Catholic, was buoyed by support from co-religionists, who—the pundits further claimed—were without exception die-hard red hunters. As usual, the conventional wisdom is wrong. Donald Crosby’s “God, Church, and Flag: Senator Joseph R. McCarthy and the Catholic Church, 1950-1957” explodes the myth that Catholics marched in lockstep behind Tail Gunner Joe.
McCarthy was hardly the model Catholic. Though he attended mass each Sunday, he was ignorant of even the most basic church teachings. His knowledge of Catholic social policy brings to mind Al Smith’s lament: “What the hell is an encyclical?” And while he certainly appreciated whatever support he got from Catholics, rarely—if ever—did he pitch his anti-communist appeal on a religious level. His speeches were often spiced with fiery condemnations of “atheistic communism,” but that was hardly unusual among red-baiters.
Joe didn’t think much about Catholicism. Strange as it may seem, many Catholics didn’t think much about Joe, either. Opinion polls found that large percentages of Catholics held no opinion whatsoever about McCarthy. Among those who did, the majority supported the senator—but so did a majority of Protestants, and by nearly identical margins. When McCarthy went into a spiraling nosedive after the Army hearings, his support among Catholics and Protestants dropped side-by-side.
Your average John Q. Catholic didn’t care much for McCarthy one way or the other. The real fight took place within the Catholic elite, the clergymen, politicians, and journalists who fancied themselves the voice of Catholic America. Some, like Francis Spellman—the New York cardinal whose unofficial slogan was “kill a commie for Christ”—embraced McCarthy. Conservative Catholic periodicals such as The Wanderer, the Los Angeles Tidings, and the Brooklyn Tablet did the same. They stuck with McCarthy even after his fall, transfiguring him into a Christ-like martyr persecuted for speaking the truth.
Every good word from the conservative Catholic elite was balanced by a harsh one from the liberals. Commonweal denounced McCarthy from the very start. America, published by the Jesuits, was so critical of the senator that the Jesuit superiors ordered the editor to stop writing about McCarthyism. McCarthy’s support among the conservative New York City clergy was balanced by opposition from the liberal clergymen of Chicago, led by the activist cardinal Bernard Sheil.
Yet it was mostly sound and fury; the Tablet’s rabid McCarthyism never translated into concrete Catholic votes. Why, then, did the myth of Catholic McCarthyism persist? Mostly because it meshed with existing stereotypes. Protestants believed Catholics to be ignorant and anti-democratic. McCarthy gave them a living symbol of everything they feared. No matter how much the evidence refuted it—in his 1952 re-election campaign, for instance, McCarthy did quite poorly among Wisconsin Catholics—the elite clung tightly to their preconceptions.
The final irony: the “sensible” elites were more to blame for McCarthyism than were ordinary Catholics. The Catholics thought little of McCarthy. The elite obsessed over him, and their loathing of McCarthy—mixed with a certain degree of admiration—made the senator an inescapable presence in the media. They broadcast his every move; they printed his every allegation. And when McCarthy grew famous from the attention, they shifted the blame to Catholics and washed their hands of guilt.
McCarthy was hardly the model Catholic. Though he attended mass each Sunday, he was ignorant of even the most basic church teachings. His knowledge of Catholic social policy brings to mind Al Smith’s lament: “What the hell is an encyclical?” And while he certainly appreciated whatever support he got from Catholics, rarely—if ever—did he pitch his anti-communist appeal on a religious level. His speeches were often spiced with fiery condemnations of “atheistic communism,” but that was hardly unusual among red-baiters.
Joe didn’t think much about Catholicism. Strange as it may seem, many Catholics didn’t think much about Joe, either. Opinion polls found that large percentages of Catholics held no opinion whatsoever about McCarthy. Among those who did, the majority supported the senator—but so did a majority of Protestants, and by nearly identical margins. When McCarthy went into a spiraling nosedive after the Army hearings, his support among Catholics and Protestants dropped side-by-side.
Your average John Q. Catholic didn’t care much for McCarthy one way or the other. The real fight took place within the Catholic elite, the clergymen, politicians, and journalists who fancied themselves the voice of Catholic America. Some, like Francis Spellman—the New York cardinal whose unofficial slogan was “kill a commie for Christ”—embraced McCarthy. Conservative Catholic periodicals such as The Wanderer, the Los Angeles Tidings, and the Brooklyn Tablet did the same. They stuck with McCarthy even after his fall, transfiguring him into a Christ-like martyr persecuted for speaking the truth.
Every good word from the conservative Catholic elite was balanced by a harsh one from the liberals. Commonweal denounced McCarthy from the very start. America, published by the Jesuits, was so critical of the senator that the Jesuit superiors ordered the editor to stop writing about McCarthyism. McCarthy’s support among the conservative New York City clergy was balanced by opposition from the liberal clergymen of Chicago, led by the activist cardinal Bernard Sheil.
Yet it was mostly sound and fury; the Tablet’s rabid McCarthyism never translated into concrete Catholic votes. Why, then, did the myth of Catholic McCarthyism persist? Mostly because it meshed with existing stereotypes. Protestants believed Catholics to be ignorant and anti-democratic. McCarthy gave them a living symbol of everything they feared. No matter how much the evidence refuted it—in his 1952 re-election campaign, for instance, McCarthy did quite poorly among Wisconsin Catholics—the elite clung tightly to their preconceptions.
The final irony: the “sensible” elites were more to blame for McCarthyism than were ordinary Catholics. The Catholics thought little of McCarthy. The elite obsessed over him, and their loathing of McCarthy—mixed with a certain degree of admiration—made the senator an inescapable presence in the media. They broadcast his every move; they printed his every allegation. And when McCarthy grew famous from the attention, they shifted the blame to Catholics and washed their hands of guilt.
The Five Best Things About Being a Grad Student
You get a free lunch ever day, as long as you are willing to stick with a strict "cookies and coffee" diet
Chicks dig neckbeards
Though the work might be hard, you can always console yourself by looking toward the future, when the work will be even harder
People expect you to be unhygienic, which really saves time in the morning
At least you're not a grad stu...ah, crap
Chicks dig neckbeards
Though the work might be hard, you can always console yourself by looking toward the future, when the work will be even harder
People expect you to be unhygienic, which really saves time in the morning
At least you're not a grad stu...ah, crap
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Call It
Joe Posnanski--the rarest of things, a sportswriter with original thoughts--lists the 32 best-ever sports calls. To quote Gus Johnson, "AWWWOOORRROOOGGGGHHHHH!"
Mini-Review: Suburban Warriors
Today, California is one of the truest-blue states in the union. A Republican presidential candidate is about as likely to carry California as a guy named William T. Sherman is likely to win an election in Georgia. Yet in the dim and distant past, California—at least parts of it—was conservative. Do you think it was sheer coincidence that both Nixon and Reagan called the Golden State home? Lisa McGirr’s short but comprehensive “Suburban Warriors: The Origins of the New American Right” returns California to the center of the right-wing universe.
As California was to the rest of the nation, so was Orange County to California. Once a sleepy backwater dotted with citrus farms and the occasional oil well, the OC underwent explosive growth—no pun intended—during World War II. Weapons manufacturers, eager to take advantage of the cheap land and convenient location, snapped up thousands of acres on which to build their factories. The resultant influx of workers hyper-charged Orange County, transforming it into a suburban megalopolis.
Many of these new migrants hailed from the south or Midwest; they came to Orange County carrying suitcases in their hands and conservatism in their heads. Once there, they meshed well with the old-timers, the oilmen and ranchers suspicious of anything resembling “big government.” The migrants also blessed Orange County with a touch of that old-time religion. Churches, especially evangelical ones, multiplied during the 1940s and 1950s.
What did these people believe? According to McGirr, they embraced the very same—sometimes contradictory—policies that underlie modern conservatism. Government was the problem, not the solution. The word “tax” should always be followed by “cut.” The decline of public morals was more than a nuisance; it threatened the very fabric of the nation. Communism was not an economic ideology—it was an anti-Christian theology and very possibly the anti-Christ itself.
These Orange County conservatives adopted as their slogan the principle “Organize, organize, organize.” At first they worked within pre-existing institutions, radical right groups like the paranoid John Birch Society. Eventually, however, they shed this extremist skin and began to take over more mainstream organizations. The California Republican Assembly changed rapidly from a moderate stronghold to a bastion of the far right. Political institutions were supplemented by religious ones; the first conservative mega-churches arose, not in the Deep South, but on the beaches of Orange County.
At first, they suffered defeat. Many of the Orange County conservatives wore out their shoes campaigning for Barry Goldwater in 1964. When he lost in landslide, some of the OC activists withdrew from politics, but most kept right on working. Two years after the Goldwater debacle, the conservatives helped put Ronald Reagan in the California governor’s mansion. And two years after that they played a part in the astonishing comeback of Richard Nixon. The ultimate triumph came in 1980, with the election of Ronald Reagan as president.
The contours of this story have been explored before—the rise, defeat, and redemption of American conservatism. But McGirr tells it in a microscopic level. She interviews the men and women who went door to door for Goldwater and organized coffee klatches for Reagan. “Suburban Warriors” transforms the conservative movement from a vast, faceless philosophy into many-headed hydra, a people-powered movement that has endured, despite its setbacks, up to the present day.
As California was to the rest of the nation, so was Orange County to California. Once a sleepy backwater dotted with citrus farms and the occasional oil well, the OC underwent explosive growth—no pun intended—during World War II. Weapons manufacturers, eager to take advantage of the cheap land and convenient location, snapped up thousands of acres on which to build their factories. The resultant influx of workers hyper-charged Orange County, transforming it into a suburban megalopolis.
Many of these new migrants hailed from the south or Midwest; they came to Orange County carrying suitcases in their hands and conservatism in their heads. Once there, they meshed well with the old-timers, the oilmen and ranchers suspicious of anything resembling “big government.” The migrants also blessed Orange County with a touch of that old-time religion. Churches, especially evangelical ones, multiplied during the 1940s and 1950s.
What did these people believe? According to McGirr, they embraced the very same—sometimes contradictory—policies that underlie modern conservatism. Government was the problem, not the solution. The word “tax” should always be followed by “cut.” The decline of public morals was more than a nuisance; it threatened the very fabric of the nation. Communism was not an economic ideology—it was an anti-Christian theology and very possibly the anti-Christ itself.
These Orange County conservatives adopted as their slogan the principle “Organize, organize, organize.” At first they worked within pre-existing institutions, radical right groups like the paranoid John Birch Society. Eventually, however, they shed this extremist skin and began to take over more mainstream organizations. The California Republican Assembly changed rapidly from a moderate stronghold to a bastion of the far right. Political institutions were supplemented by religious ones; the first conservative mega-churches arose, not in the Deep South, but on the beaches of Orange County.
At first, they suffered defeat. Many of the Orange County conservatives wore out their shoes campaigning for Barry Goldwater in 1964. When he lost in landslide, some of the OC activists withdrew from politics, but most kept right on working. Two years after the Goldwater debacle, the conservatives helped put Ronald Reagan in the California governor’s mansion. And two years after that they played a part in the astonishing comeback of Richard Nixon. The ultimate triumph came in 1980, with the election of Ronald Reagan as president.
The contours of this story have been explored before—the rise, defeat, and redemption of American conservatism. But McGirr tells it in a microscopic level. She interviews the men and women who went door to door for Goldwater and organized coffee klatches for Reagan. “Suburban Warriors” transforms the conservative movement from a vast, faceless philosophy into many-headed hydra, a people-powered movement that has endured, despite its setbacks, up to the present day.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Love and Hate
Love and hate. They go together like razor blades and Halloween candy. Is a love-hate relationship even possible? The very idea seems silly. Doesn’t love dissolve any lesser emotion? And doesn’t hate do the exact same thing? In theory, then, love and hate should go their separate ways, and never should the twain meet.
Of course the above paragraph is nonsense. We all have love-hate relationships. We all have things we adore that nonetheless frustrate us time and again. You love The Monkees but feel guilty for listening to “I’m A Believer” ten times straight. You think Kobe Bryant is an all-time great, but wish he would stop doing that absurd fist-pump. You despise “Dancing With the Stars” and never miss an episode.
My name is Will Schultz, and I confess to my share of love-hate relationships. I’m going to tell you about a few of them. Why? To unburden myself. To make you feel better about the subjects of your love and hate. To tell a good story. And to explain why Bill Simmons is the only sportswriter I read, in spite of my suspicion that he is pure evil.
This will be a multi-part series, with installments appearing when you least expect it. Coming soon: the historian whose irresistible books drive me up my carrel wall.
Of course the above paragraph is nonsense. We all have love-hate relationships. We all have things we adore that nonetheless frustrate us time and again. You love The Monkees but feel guilty for listening to “I’m A Believer” ten times straight. You think Kobe Bryant is an all-time great, but wish he would stop doing that absurd fist-pump. You despise “Dancing With the Stars” and never miss an episode.
My name is Will Schultz, and I confess to my share of love-hate relationships. I’m going to tell you about a few of them. Why? To unburden myself. To make you feel better about the subjects of your love and hate. To tell a good story. And to explain why Bill Simmons is the only sportswriter I read, in spite of my suspicion that he is pure evil.
This will be a multi-part series, with installments appearing when you least expect it. Coming soon: the historian whose irresistible books drive me up my carrel wall.
Speaking of Taft
I wonder if this software could be employed to make him appear 1) slimmer and 2) slightly less dead. I doubt it.
My Dream...
A Twitter feed, written from the point of view of former president William Howard Taft, titled justtalkinbouttaft. Together, we can make it happen.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Rejected Opening Lines for Bobby Darin's Classic "Splish Splash"
Splish splesh, I was hittin' "refresh"
Splish splosh, I was havin' a nosh
Splish splush, I was listenin' to Rush
Splish splish, I was guttin' a fish
Splish sployce, I was readin' James Joyce
Splish splosh, I was havin' a nosh
Splish splush, I was listenin' to Rush
Splish splish, I was guttin' a fish
Splish sployce, I was readin' James Joyce
Sexy Sex
Harvard historian Jill Lepore takes a break from Revolutionary War history to address the subject of sex ed. What horrors await in this article? How about " a tiny, naked, bald homunculus who walks around with an erection"?
Mini-Review: The Social Network
Go see "The Social Network." What? You want more? Fine. "The Social Network," if you were unaware, is a movie about the founding of Facebook. Cue the jokes about "YouTube: The Movie" and "Google II: Electric Boogaloo."
The "hero" of our story is Mark Zuckerberg, a curly-haired Harvard undergrad obsessed with success. I add quotation marks to "hero" because Zuckerberg--played by the curly-haired Jesse Eisenberg--is the most unpleasant character to slink into multiplexes since Lotso Huggin' Bear. Arrogant and socially clueless, he sees nothing wrong with writing a computer program to rank Harvard girls by hotness.
That unsavory little creation catches the eye of the Winklevoss twins, a pair of strapping Abercrombie-models-to-be with a couple million bucks to burn. The Winklevosses want to build the online equivalent of a gated community: a social network site open only to users with the golden harvard.edu address. Zuckerberg is so enchanted by this idea that he promptly steals it.
What follows would be deathly boring in any film not scripted by West Wing muse Aaron Sorkin. Zuckerberg, funded by a cash infusion from his friend Eduardo, sits down and writes several thousand lines of code. Voila! Facebook! Thankfully, Sorkin's overcaffeinated style saves the jargon-y dialogue from the mortal sin of dullness. You almost forget that no one in the entire history of mankind has ever spoken like a Sorkin character.
The actors do a fine job bringing the hyperactive screenplay to life. Eisenberg captures the flat affect and clipped speech characteristic of computer creeps everywhere. Any college student will immediately recognize Zuckerberg as the weird kid who sits in the front row and pesters the professor with irrelevant questions about number theory. Justin Timberlake brings a boatload of panache to the character of Sean Parker, a shady online mogul who sees himself as Zuckerberg's Svengali.
Does this movie have a downside? Of course! No review would be complete without a laundry list of weaknesses. And here they are: no likable characters, a forgettable score, and an unexplained shift in the main character's personality from passive lump to scheming mastermind.
Forget those quibbles, though. "The Social Network" demands to be seen. Like that guy on campus you try to avoid, it will keep popping up in your "friend" queue until you give in. Do yourself a favor and accept the request.
The "hero" of our story is Mark Zuckerberg, a curly-haired Harvard undergrad obsessed with success. I add quotation marks to "hero" because Zuckerberg--played by the curly-haired Jesse Eisenberg--is the most unpleasant character to slink into multiplexes since Lotso Huggin' Bear. Arrogant and socially clueless, he sees nothing wrong with writing a computer program to rank Harvard girls by hotness.
That unsavory little creation catches the eye of the Winklevoss twins, a pair of strapping Abercrombie-models-to-be with a couple million bucks to burn. The Winklevosses want to build the online equivalent of a gated community: a social network site open only to users with the golden harvard.edu address. Zuckerberg is so enchanted by this idea that he promptly steals it.
What follows would be deathly boring in any film not scripted by West Wing muse Aaron Sorkin. Zuckerberg, funded by a cash infusion from his friend Eduardo, sits down and writes several thousand lines of code. Voila! Facebook! Thankfully, Sorkin's overcaffeinated style saves the jargon-y dialogue from the mortal sin of dullness. You almost forget that no one in the entire history of mankind has ever spoken like a Sorkin character.
The actors do a fine job bringing the hyperactive screenplay to life. Eisenberg captures the flat affect and clipped speech characteristic of computer creeps everywhere. Any college student will immediately recognize Zuckerberg as the weird kid who sits in the front row and pesters the professor with irrelevant questions about number theory. Justin Timberlake brings a boatload of panache to the character of Sean Parker, a shady online mogul who sees himself as Zuckerberg's Svengali.
Does this movie have a downside? Of course! No review would be complete without a laundry list of weaknesses. And here they are: no likable characters, a forgettable score, and an unexplained shift in the main character's personality from passive lump to scheming mastermind.
Forget those quibbles, though. "The Social Network" demands to be seen. Like that guy on campus you try to avoid, it will keep popping up in your "friend" queue until you give in. Do yourself a favor and accept the request.
Monday, October 11, 2010
A Taste of New Jersey
Apologies for the light blogging--I spent the weekend with relatives in New Jersey and did my best to escape any and all responsibilities. Now I'm back and badder than ever. Or at the very least, less good than ever.
My weekend was an extended exercise in gluttony on a scale not seen since the Roman Empire. I ate my weight in junk food several times over. But it was more than simple greed--it was a learning experience. It gave me the chance to sample some delicacies--or "delicacies"--unique to the Garden State.
First up, Taylor ham. It might sound like a country singer. Don't be fooled, though; Taylor ham is actually a sausage-like substance capable of clogging arteries at five yards. Imagine ham, only thicker, meatier, and with a stronger flavor. I ate it with maple-flavored sausages, which were meant to evoke the flavor of a pancake-and-pork-link breakfast scramble but tasted more like someone spilled Mrs. Butterworth in a sausage factory.
Second, doughnuts from Delran's L&M Bakery. I am never going back to Dunkin' or Krispy Kreme. I refuse. I am a convert to the church of L&M. All other doughnut shops are guilty of foul heresy. We also got doughnuts from Wegman's, the Yankee Food Lion. Not at all bad. They aced the cruller, always the true test of bakery prowess. A bad cruller tastes like styrofoam, only less edible.
Last, soft pretzels. The Northeast is famous for its pretzels. People come from miles around to buy paper bags loaded with slimy-salty Philly soft pretzels. As for these ones...eh...could have been worse. They delivered salted carbohydrate goodness. Really, what more do you want from a pretzel? A lecture in the political economy of nineteenth-century America?
Stay tuned for my mini-review of "The Social Network." To put it in mini-mini-mini review terms: good movie. Watch.
My weekend was an extended exercise in gluttony on a scale not seen since the Roman Empire. I ate my weight in junk food several times over. But it was more than simple greed--it was a learning experience. It gave me the chance to sample some delicacies--or "delicacies"--unique to the Garden State.
First up, Taylor ham. It might sound like a country singer. Don't be fooled, though; Taylor ham is actually a sausage-like substance capable of clogging arteries at five yards. Imagine ham, only thicker, meatier, and with a stronger flavor. I ate it with maple-flavored sausages, which were meant to evoke the flavor of a pancake-and-pork-link breakfast scramble but tasted more like someone spilled Mrs. Butterworth in a sausage factory.
Second, doughnuts from Delran's L&M Bakery. I am never going back to Dunkin' or Krispy Kreme. I refuse. I am a convert to the church of L&M. All other doughnut shops are guilty of foul heresy. We also got doughnuts from Wegman's, the Yankee Food Lion. Not at all bad. They aced the cruller, always the true test of bakery prowess. A bad cruller tastes like styrofoam, only less edible.
Last, soft pretzels. The Northeast is famous for its pretzels. People come from miles around to buy paper bags loaded with slimy-salty Philly soft pretzels. As for these ones...eh...could have been worse. They delivered salted carbohydrate goodness. Really, what more do you want from a pretzel? A lecture in the political economy of nineteenth-century America?
Stay tuned for my mini-review of "The Social Network." To put it in mini-mini-mini review terms: good movie. Watch.
Worse than Marmaduke
If there really is an all-powerful and all-loving God, than He has some 'splaining to do.
Mini-Review of Jonathan Franzen's Freedom Based on the First Eleven Pages
Freedom is great as an abstract concept. As a novel, it sucks.
Friday, October 8, 2010
I Don't Buy It
The worst insult a grad student can throw at a book is "I don't buy it." It's the ultimate diss. You reject the author's argument; at the same time, you make it clear you don't care much about the book either way. Even "I hate it" is gentler than "I don't buy it." Just a bit of friendly advice for those of you who have to deal with grad students.
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