Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Ozzies
It is now official: Hollywood plans to remake every film that ever existed, beginning with The Wizard of Oz. I look forward to the 2017 remake of Le Voyage dans la lune featuring Zach Galifianakis as the moon.
Holy Harry
Is the Harry Potter series a Christian allegory? And if it is, does that mean I have to start worshiping Dobby? Because that little freak gives me the creeps.
I know the seventh Harry Potter film is coming up, and that I should be excited, and that this is the END OF AN ERA, but for me the Harry Potter era ended with book seven. Not that it was bad. It was just the last one. The film mean...very, very little. Getting excited about a Harry Potter movie is like getting excited over a half-inch snowfall. Not worth the trouble.
I know the seventh Harry Potter film is coming up, and that I should be excited, and that this is the END OF AN ERA, but for me the Harry Potter era ended with book seven. Not that it was bad. It was just the last one. The film mean...very, very little. Getting excited about a Harry Potter movie is like getting excited over a half-inch snowfall. Not worth the trouble.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Lox, Stox, and Barrel
This Sunday, I tried lox for the first time. "Lox" is a kind of cured salmon that can best be thought of as Jewish sushi, minus the rice and seaweed. You are required to eat lox on a bagel. This is an unwritten law, except in the state of New York, where it is a written law enforced by penalty of flogging.
Every Sunday, our dining hall--perhaps in an effort to atone for the rest of the week--puts out a brunch spread worthy of the name. You got your sausages, you got your scrambled eggs, you got your doughnut, and, if the "you" in this case is daring enough, you got your platter heaped high with lox.
For weeks, I was not one of those daring souls. Lox weirded me out. Pink, gelatinous, streaked with mysterious white stripes, it looked like it had come from the set of Star Wars. I averted my eyes and continued to the bagels, vowing that they day I ate lox would be the day I watched "Glee."
But a chance encounter changed everything. I was flying back to New Jersey when I struck up a conversation with my seatmate. She, a born-and-bred New Yorker, insisted that I should try lox. No, not should, I HAD to try lox. Otherwise I would go to my grave ignorant, unloved, and unhappy.
So I did. I picked out my favorite kind of bagel--a neon-yellow egg bagel, the kind that taste a little like challah--and piled it high with lox. This is harder than it sounds. Lox is sliced so thin that it took me nearly ten minutes of piling to get a measurable amount. Back to the table I went, carrying my lox and bagel like an authentic surly New Yorker on his way to a job he hates.
And...it was good! A little fishy, maybe, but that's understandable considering that it IS fish. Complaining that fish tastes fishy is as nonsensical as complaining that beef is beefy or chicken chicken-y. I ate it all and I'd do it again. In fact, I think I might smuggle some lox out of the dining hall beneath my hat. Today, I begin the arduous process of lox-proofing my baseball cap.
Every Sunday, our dining hall--perhaps in an effort to atone for the rest of the week--puts out a brunch spread worthy of the name. You got your sausages, you got your scrambled eggs, you got your doughnut, and, if the "you" in this case is daring enough, you got your platter heaped high with lox.
For weeks, I was not one of those daring souls. Lox weirded me out. Pink, gelatinous, streaked with mysterious white stripes, it looked like it had come from the set of Star Wars. I averted my eyes and continued to the bagels, vowing that they day I ate lox would be the day I watched "Glee."
But a chance encounter changed everything. I was flying back to New Jersey when I struck up a conversation with my seatmate. She, a born-and-bred New Yorker, insisted that I should try lox. No, not should, I HAD to try lox. Otherwise I would go to my grave ignorant, unloved, and unhappy.
So I did. I picked out my favorite kind of bagel--a neon-yellow egg bagel, the kind that taste a little like challah--and piled it high with lox. This is harder than it sounds. Lox is sliced so thin that it took me nearly ten minutes of piling to get a measurable amount. Back to the table I went, carrying my lox and bagel like an authentic surly New Yorker on his way to a job he hates.
And...it was good! A little fishy, maybe, but that's understandable considering that it IS fish. Complaining that fish tastes fishy is as nonsensical as complaining that beef is beefy or chicken chicken-y. I ate it all and I'd do it again. In fact, I think I might smuggle some lox out of the dining hall beneath my hat. Today, I begin the arduous process of lox-proofing my baseball cap.
Stroke of Genius
They say you can become a "genius" at anything merely by practicing for 10,000 hours. Terry Teachout disagrees. Me too. Otherwise, I'd currently be a genius at sleeping, when in fact I am hardly above average.
Up in the Air
This being the holiday season, when people fly hundreds of miles to see people they ordinarily wouldn't cross the street to shake hands with, it's fitting that the Daily Beast ranks the best big airports in America.
I fly less frequently than a one-winged ostrich with weight problems, but I've been through a couple of these 'ports: Cincinnati (#3), Los Angeles (#4), Salt Lake City (#6), Charlotte (#8), Houston (#9), Washington (#10), LaGuardia (#19), Philadelphia (#22), Atlanta (#24), and Newark (dead last at #27).
My strongest memory of any of these places is LAX, only because there was a bird loose in the terminal. I felt sorry for it. Being sucked into a jet engine is probably a better fate than getting stuck in the rafters of a Cinnabon.
And yes, Newark richly deserves its ranking. I've never passed through that airport without getting the chance to study its utilitarian decor at great, great length. As in "several hours length." Once I nearly had to overnight in Newark when my connection was running late. On my list of ideal places to spend the evening, the city of Newark trails somewhat behind that planet in the movie Perfect Dark.
I fly less frequently than a one-winged ostrich with weight problems, but I've been through a couple of these 'ports: Cincinnati (#3), Los Angeles (#4), Salt Lake City (#6), Charlotte (#8), Houston (#9), Washington (#10), LaGuardia (#19), Philadelphia (#22), Atlanta (#24), and Newark (dead last at #27).
My strongest memory of any of these places is LAX, only because there was a bird loose in the terminal. I felt sorry for it. Being sucked into a jet engine is probably a better fate than getting stuck in the rafters of a Cinnabon.
And yes, Newark richly deserves its ranking. I've never passed through that airport without getting the chance to study its utilitarian decor at great, great length. As in "several hours length." Once I nearly had to overnight in Newark when my connection was running late. On my list of ideal places to spend the evening, the city of Newark trails somewhat behind that planet in the movie Perfect Dark.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Lockout
Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Will.
Will who?
Will Schultz, who accidentally locked himself out of his room on a Saturday morning and is now standing outside the door in his slipper and underwear.
Ha! Sucker!
Who's there?
Will.
Will who?
Will Schultz, who accidentally locked himself out of his room on a Saturday morning and is now standing outside the door in his slipper and underwear.
Ha! Sucker!
The Cheat
How do cheaters cheat? They contact people like Ed Dante. I never realized how big the cheating industry was, nor how powerful a force for evil Google can be.
Rock On
Monday night and nothing to do. You know what this means: "The Thirteen Greatest Movie Performances by Boulders"!
Watching the clip from The NeverEndign Story reminds me how weird that film was. I mean, I'm all for letting your imagination run free, but there is a difference between letting it run free and letting it leap off the Cliffs of Insanity.
Watching the clip from The NeverEndign Story reminds me how weird that film was. I mean, I'm all for letting your imagination run free, but there is a difference between letting it run free and letting it leap off the Cliffs of Insanity.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Fired Up, Ready to Go
I have a horrible fear of burning to death in bed due to a malfunctioning smoke alarm. It'd be a pretty bad way to go, right? First, burning to death would be painful. Second, it would hurt a lot. Third, did I mention it would be rather unpleasant to have your internal organs turned to charcoal briquettes? Fourth, the investigators would find your corpse, still in bed, and assume "Here's an asshole who was too damn lazy to get up even when he was on fire. Good riddance."
Thankfully, last night I learned there is little-to-no danger of sleeping through a Graduate College fire alarm. I learned this because I was asleep when the fire alarm went off. The GC had sent out an e-mail announcing that the fire alarms would be tested between 5 and 11 PM. Stupidly, I assumed the test would come early in the day.
You know what they say about assumptions. But at least I'm not going to roast to death. Rip van Winkle couldn't sleep through a fire alarm of that magnitude. It sounded like a million vuvuzela-wielding South Africans had decided to celebrate a World Cup victory by invading my ear canal. Yeesh.
Thankfully, last night I learned there is little-to-no danger of sleeping through a Graduate College fire alarm. I learned this because I was asleep when the fire alarm went off. The GC had sent out an e-mail announcing that the fire alarms would be tested between 5 and 11 PM. Stupidly, I assumed the test would come early in the day.
You know what they say about assumptions. But at least I'm not going to roast to death. Rip van Winkle couldn't sleep through a fire alarm of that magnitude. It sounded like a million vuvuzela-wielding South Africans had decided to celebrate a World Cup victory by invading my ear canal. Yeesh.
Whiter Than White
I have always considered myself one of the whitest people imaginable. I don't mean anything racial by that, though it is worth nothing that my sun-starved skin is approximately the same color as Colgate toothpaste. No, I mean in terms of taste. I had thought myself to be the ne plus ultra of blandly radical mainstream culture.
But am I really? Let's go to the experts. I checked out the comprehensive list of "Stuff White People Like"--currently at 134 items--to see how many I actually do like. The results were very revealing. I liked the following:
Assists, Farmer's Markets, Wes Anderson Movies, Gifted Children, David Sedaris, Manhattan, Marathons, Breakfast Places, Arrested Development, Netflix, Sushi, Plays, The Sunday New York Times, Whole Foods, Irony, Apologies, Juno, Expensive Sandwiches, Standing Still at Concerts, Oscar Parties, Bottles of Water, Musical Comedy, Graduate School, T-Shirts, The Wire, Dinner Parties, San Francisco, The Ivy League, Grammar, Bumper Stickers, Sweaters, Facebook, The Onion, Hummus, America, Promising to Learn a New Language, Conan O'Brien, The TED Conference.
Whew! For those counting, that makes 40 out of 134, or a paltry 29.85%. I'm much further behind than I thought. Think of all the culturally acceptable things I have yet to like. Pea coats. Michel Gondry. Yoga. The Idea of soccer.
Worse yet, I've actually tried some of these things and found that not only do I not like them--I actively despise them. Camping. Frisbee sports. Tea. Traveling. Halloween.* My cultural stock is sinking lower and lower.
I need an intervention. Today, I vow to live life to its blandest by mashing together as many SWPL-approved activities as possible. Time to go snowboarding with my gay friend while wearing a vintage scarf and Ray-Ban wayfarers after having a difficult break-up with the Asian girlfriend I met at an ugly sweater party during my year off. Afterwords, we'll drink wine at a microbrewery in a gentrified neighborhood and talk about how our parents made high school miserable for us.
*Yes, one year removed from Chapel Hill, I can finally reveal the horrible truth: I hate Halloween. It's my least favorite major holiday. Not even a classic movie like The Nightmare Before Christmas can overcome its flaws. Thanksgiving has turkey, Christmas has Christmas cookies. What does Halloween have? Goddamn Smarties.
But am I really? Let's go to the experts. I checked out the comprehensive list of "Stuff White People Like"--currently at 134 items--to see how many I actually do like. The results were very revealing. I liked the following:
Assists, Farmer's Markets, Wes Anderson Movies, Gifted Children, David Sedaris, Manhattan, Marathons, Breakfast Places, Arrested Development, Netflix, Sushi, Plays, The Sunday New York Times, Whole Foods, Irony, Apologies, Juno, Expensive Sandwiches, Standing Still at Concerts, Oscar Parties, Bottles of Water, Musical Comedy, Graduate School, T-Shirts, The Wire, Dinner Parties, San Francisco, The Ivy League, Grammar, Bumper Stickers, Sweaters, Facebook, The Onion, Hummus, America, Promising to Learn a New Language, Conan O'Brien, The TED Conference.
Whew! For those counting, that makes 40 out of 134, or a paltry 29.85%. I'm much further behind than I thought. Think of all the culturally acceptable things I have yet to like. Pea coats. Michel Gondry. Yoga. The Idea of soccer.
Worse yet, I've actually tried some of these things and found that not only do I not like them--I actively despise them. Camping. Frisbee sports. Tea. Traveling. Halloween.* My cultural stock is sinking lower and lower.
I need an intervention. Today, I vow to live life to its blandest by mashing together as many SWPL-approved activities as possible. Time to go snowboarding with my gay friend while wearing a vintage scarf and Ray-Ban wayfarers after having a difficult break-up with the Asian girlfriend I met at an ugly sweater party during my year off. Afterwords, we'll drink wine at a microbrewery in a gentrified neighborhood and talk about how our parents made high school miserable for us.
*Yes, one year removed from Chapel Hill, I can finally reveal the horrible truth: I hate Halloween. It's my least favorite major holiday. Not even a classic movie like The Nightmare Before Christmas can overcome its flaws. Thanksgiving has turkey, Christmas has Christmas cookies. What does Halloween have? Goddamn Smarties.
Regular Joe
My favorite Onion headline is, has been, and always will be "Shirtless Biden Washes Trans Am in White House Driveway."* Little did I realize that the Onion would turn Joe Biden into a cottage industry.
*Though "Pacifist Linebacker Dodges NFL Draft" and "Jurisprudence Fetishist Gets Off on Technicality" run a close third and second
*Though "Pacifist Linebacker Dodges NFL Draft" and "Jurisprudence Fetishist Gets Off on Technicality" run a close third and second
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Five Ways to Class Up Your Hot Pocket
Drain out the meaty-cheesy filling and replace it with foie gras
Instead of microwaving the Hot Pocket, saute it in butter with a side of onions
Make sure to eat it with your Hot Pocket fork, not your dessert fork
Spend several thousand dollars to send your Hot Pocket to finishing school
At least wear a shirt when you eat it, for God's sake
Instead of microwaving the Hot Pocket, saute it in butter with a side of onions
Make sure to eat it with your Hot Pocket fork, not your dessert fork
Spend several thousand dollars to send your Hot Pocket to finishing school
At least wear a shirt when you eat it, for God's sake
It's A Happening
Remember M. Night Shyamalan? He once made spine-tingling blood-chingling thrillers like The Sixth Sense. Now, he directs hilarious send-ups of the thriller genre, laugh fests like Lady in the Water and The Happening. Wait, you mean they aren't spoofs? You mean he's serious? Oh, man. This is bad...
Yes, I know this is not exactly timely. But I think all directors--and all film critics--should be required to read this review, on pain of death.
Yes, I know this is not exactly timely. But I think all directors--and all film critics--should be required to read this review, on pain of death.
Fun Zombie Action
If you asked me, "Will, if you had to pick four historical figures to combat a ravenous horde of the living dead," I probably would not have picked Kennedy, Nixon, Castro, and McNamara. This, presumably, is why I am not a highly-paid video game designer.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The Wall
You know how news anchors love to use interactive displays on election night? You've seen them--big, video-game-style screens, where one touch can turn a state from blue to purple to red.
Ever wonder what happens when they go wrong? When the anchor paws helplessly at a graphic of Michigan, only to find the screen has gone dead? Wonder no more. Sounds like John King needs a hug.
Ever wonder what happens when they go wrong? When the anchor paws helplessly at a graphic of Michigan, only to find the screen has gone dead? Wonder no more. Sounds like John King needs a hug.
Keef
Brilliantly imagined riposte from Mick Jagger against the new tell-all memoir by Keith Richards.
Can we agree that rock stars are loathsome people and be done with it? I can't think of a single one who was a decent human being. Heck, I can't think of many who deserve the title "human being."
John Lennon was an alcoholic, abusive jerk; Elvis was a spoiled momma's boy; Bob Dylan was and continues to be a cosmic prank played by God on an unsuspecting world. Maybe the guys from ZZ Top are nice, but I doubt it.
Can we agree that rock stars are loathsome people and be done with it? I can't think of a single one who was a decent human being. Heck, I can't think of many who deserve the title "human being."
John Lennon was an alcoholic, abusive jerk; Elvis was a spoiled momma's boy; Bob Dylan was and continues to be a cosmic prank played by God on an unsuspecting world. Maybe the guys from ZZ Top are nice, but I doubt it.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Mini-Review: The Conservative Mind
Russell Kirk is one of the biggest names in American conservatism. William F. Buckley might have been the charming face of the conservative movement, but it was Kirk's great brain that dreamed up its philosophy "The Conservative Mind" remains his best-known work, and with good reason.
First, a warning. Readers--especially conservatives ones--might want to pop a few Prozac before opening "The Conservative Mind." This is a book that might have been co-written by Eeyore and Puddleglum. Kirk originally titled it "The Conservative Rout," and every page, every sentence, every word exhales that gloomy spirit. This is a story of declines and falls, plural. Everything is bad. Everything is going to get worse.
Civilization might be sinking, but there are a few brave (or stupid) souls who insist on bailing out the boat before she goes under. These are Kirk's conservatives. He begins with Edmund Burke, the British statesmen who defended tradition against the ravages of the French Revolution. The cautious, pessimistic spirit of Burke was expressed in America by John Adams. According to Kirk, Adams believed that private morality was the key to good government--not exactly the most popular sentiment nowadays.
Some of the names in this book are familiar: Tocqueville, Disraeli, Walter Scott. Some are a little more obscure: Brooks Adams, George Santayana. And some are absolutely unknown: Maine, Mallock, Fitzjames Stephen. Interestingly, Kirk makes no attempt to claim Abraham Lincoln for the conservative cause. The Great Emancipator makes only a cameo in "The Conservative Mind." Indeed, Kirk rushes through the middle of the nineteenth century, stopping to nod briefly at James Fenimore Cooper.
"The Conservative Mind" is as much a polemic as a history book. Kirk is not just a historian; he fancies himself a sort of intellectual bouncer, keeping the rowdies from crashing to conservative party. Social conservatives are in, and anti-communists are welcome, but libertarians have to stand waiting outside the velvet rope. Their vision of a chaotic, progressive capitalism makes Kirk shudder in his tweeds.
Can modern conservatives learn anything from Kirk? Certainly, "The Conservative Mind" should be required reading for anyone who has ever confronted--or made--the argument that conservatives are brain-dead numskulls who wouldn't know their Condorcet from their Crevocoeur.
Be careful, though not to be overwhelmed by Kirk's gloom and doom. Remember that this is a man who talked about "Demon TV" and who referred to cars as "mechanical Jacobins." You can accept most his arguments without swallowing his anti-modernism. In this day and age, when everybody owns a mechanical Jacobin, you need to make some small concessions to the modern world. Kirk, of course, felt differently.
First, a warning. Readers--especially conservatives ones--might want to pop a few Prozac before opening "The Conservative Mind." This is a book that might have been co-written by Eeyore and Puddleglum. Kirk originally titled it "The Conservative Rout," and every page, every sentence, every word exhales that gloomy spirit. This is a story of declines and falls, plural. Everything is bad. Everything is going to get worse.
Civilization might be sinking, but there are a few brave (or stupid) souls who insist on bailing out the boat before she goes under. These are Kirk's conservatives. He begins with Edmund Burke, the British statesmen who defended tradition against the ravages of the French Revolution. The cautious, pessimistic spirit of Burke was expressed in America by John Adams. According to Kirk, Adams believed that private morality was the key to good government--not exactly the most popular sentiment nowadays.
Some of the names in this book are familiar: Tocqueville, Disraeli, Walter Scott. Some are a little more obscure: Brooks Adams, George Santayana. And some are absolutely unknown: Maine, Mallock, Fitzjames Stephen. Interestingly, Kirk makes no attempt to claim Abraham Lincoln for the conservative cause. The Great Emancipator makes only a cameo in "The Conservative Mind." Indeed, Kirk rushes through the middle of the nineteenth century, stopping to nod briefly at James Fenimore Cooper.
"The Conservative Mind" is as much a polemic as a history book. Kirk is not just a historian; he fancies himself a sort of intellectual bouncer, keeping the rowdies from crashing to conservative party. Social conservatives are in, and anti-communists are welcome, but libertarians have to stand waiting outside the velvet rope. Their vision of a chaotic, progressive capitalism makes Kirk shudder in his tweeds.
Can modern conservatives learn anything from Kirk? Certainly, "The Conservative Mind" should be required reading for anyone who has ever confronted--or made--the argument that conservatives are brain-dead numskulls who wouldn't know their Condorcet from their Crevocoeur.
Be careful, though not to be overwhelmed by Kirk's gloom and doom. Remember that this is a man who talked about "Demon TV" and who referred to cars as "mechanical Jacobins." You can accept most his arguments without swallowing his anti-modernism. In this day and age, when everybody owns a mechanical Jacobin, you need to make some small concessions to the modern world. Kirk, of course, felt differently.
Scientists Astounded by Amazing Duck Boy
Historians, looking back on the great American-Indonesian War of 2011, may regard this article as the spark that set the tinder alight.
November: A Semi-Pre-Retrospective
We survived October. Most of us, at least. But now comes November, the month that separates the men from the boys, the wheat from the chaff, the Beatles from Herman's Hermits. Technically, here came November, given that the month is already one-quarter over. Still, I think November deserves at least a quick look-over before we plunge into its last three weeks.
Before, I mentioned my obsession with ranking the months. November sits very high on my hypothetical list. Ahead of even October, it trails only monthly titans December and May on my list and in my heart. Why, you ask? At least I assume you are asking why. If not, why are even reading this post?
Let's start with the weak points. I admit that, weather-wise, November is nothing special. In fact it is often downright dismal. Cool weather is good, and a welcome change from the summer heat, but November is when the temperature shifts from cool to frigid. One day, you're walking around in a light coat, enjoying a pleasant breeze. The next day you're freezing to death despite wearing an entire sheep-worth of fleece. At the same time, November withholds the only thing that makes cold weather tolerable: snow. I have never seen it snow in November. January, February, even April, but never November.
Put these disadvantages out of your head. November has plenty of high points in spite of its miserable weather. Sports, for instance. November sits right at the confluence of college football, college basketball, the NBA, and the NFL. You can even watch the NHL if you are one of those hockey-loving Canadian freaks. Yeah, baseball is over, but nobody watches it anyway. Such is the dirty secret of America's past-time.
November means good movies. It's the month when the studios begin chucking Oscar chum into theaters in hopes of drawing the sharks of critical acclaim. Wow, that was a god-awful metaphor. Sorry. You know what I mean, though. No more overblown spectacles that spend $100 million to digitally enhance Brad Pitt's abs. Now we get the good stuff. Stuff like..."Megamind?" Ah, well, not every November film can be a winner.
Until now, I've ignored the ten thousand pound turkey in the room. No longer! Thanksgiving elevates November from "pretty good" to "great." Turkey Day is a day without school, without responsibilities, a day to spend listening to "Alice's Restaurant" and watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade with family.
And eating. And more eating. Rather than make a coherent argument, let me list the things that make Thanksgiving special: Turkey. Cranberry sauce. Gravy. Stuffing. Stuffing with sausage. Cornbread. Sweet potatoes. Mashed potatoes. French-fried potatoes. Candied yams. Yam candies. Regular candies. Apple pies, cherry pies, mincemeat pies, boysenberry pies. Pumpkin pie, pumpkin cakes, pumpkin cookies, pumpkin lattes from Starbucks.
I would write more, but I have a sudden and completely inexplicable craving for something with pumpkin. But I hope the point is clear. November: long may she wave.
Before, I mentioned my obsession with ranking the months. November sits very high on my hypothetical list. Ahead of even October, it trails only monthly titans December and May on my list and in my heart. Why, you ask? At least I assume you are asking why. If not, why are even reading this post?
Let's start with the weak points. I admit that, weather-wise, November is nothing special. In fact it is often downright dismal. Cool weather is good, and a welcome change from the summer heat, but November is when the temperature shifts from cool to frigid. One day, you're walking around in a light coat, enjoying a pleasant breeze. The next day you're freezing to death despite wearing an entire sheep-worth of fleece. At the same time, November withholds the only thing that makes cold weather tolerable: snow. I have never seen it snow in November. January, February, even April, but never November.
Put these disadvantages out of your head. November has plenty of high points in spite of its miserable weather. Sports, for instance. November sits right at the confluence of college football, college basketball, the NBA, and the NFL. You can even watch the NHL if you are one of those hockey-loving Canadian freaks. Yeah, baseball is over, but nobody watches it anyway. Such is the dirty secret of America's past-time.
November means good movies. It's the month when the studios begin chucking Oscar chum into theaters in hopes of drawing the sharks of critical acclaim. Wow, that was a god-awful metaphor. Sorry. You know what I mean, though. No more overblown spectacles that spend $100 million to digitally enhance Brad Pitt's abs. Now we get the good stuff. Stuff like..."Megamind?" Ah, well, not every November film can be a winner.
Until now, I've ignored the ten thousand pound turkey in the room. No longer! Thanksgiving elevates November from "pretty good" to "great." Turkey Day is a day without school, without responsibilities, a day to spend listening to "Alice's Restaurant" and watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade with family.
And eating. And more eating. Rather than make a coherent argument, let me list the things that make Thanksgiving special: Turkey. Cranberry sauce. Gravy. Stuffing. Stuffing with sausage. Cornbread. Sweet potatoes. Mashed potatoes. French-fried potatoes. Candied yams. Yam candies. Regular candies. Apple pies, cherry pies, mincemeat pies, boysenberry pies. Pumpkin pie, pumpkin cakes, pumpkin cookies, pumpkin lattes from Starbucks.
I would write more, but I have a sudden and completely inexplicable craving for something with pumpkin. But I hope the point is clear. November: long may she wave.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Five Reasons Why Traveling by Train Beats Flying
You can stick your head out the window and not run the risk of falling 30,000 feet
More time to savor the Jersey scenery
Easier to imagine you're on the way to Hogwarts
Significantly less chance of being killed by a high-flying goose
No mustache-twirling villain ever tied a damsel down in front of an airplane
More time to savor the Jersey scenery
Easier to imagine you're on the way to Hogwarts
Significantly less chance of being killed by a high-flying goose
No mustache-twirling villain ever tied a damsel down in front of an airplane
Friday, November 5, 2010
Look for the Union Label
I've figured it out. Grad school is not like a regular school. It's more like belonging to a union. In regular schools--from kindergarten to college--you learn things from teachers. In grad school, you have to pick up tricks of the trade from your fellow students. There exists a "grad school way of doing things," but nobody tells you what it is. You have to pick it up through experience.
Also, if you blab to the wrong people, you might get your kneecaps bashed in with a tire iron. Just a friendly warning.
Also, if you blab to the wrong people, you might get your kneecaps bashed in with a tire iron. Just a friendly warning.
Talking Turkey
This story contains what could be the quote of the year: "He's got a big turkey in his pants!" No, that's not a euphemism.
Five Biggest Surprises on Election Night
Confounding the polls, Rep. Jim Marshall (D-GA) came from 30 points down to lose by only 20 points
Libertarian congressional nominee Ed McCluskey (CA) gained a whopping three votes outside of his extended family
Sean Duffy won a congressional seat in Wisconsin, despite actually being a candidate for state auditor in Nebraska
After losing the general election, independent candidate Charlie Crist (FL) declared that he would run as a write-in in the post-general election
Chris Matthews broke his long-standing record for longest sustained on-air howl (18 minutes)
Libertarian congressional nominee Ed McCluskey (CA) gained a whopping three votes outside of his extended family
Sean Duffy won a congressional seat in Wisconsin, despite actually being a candidate for state auditor in Nebraska
After losing the general election, independent candidate Charlie Crist (FL) declared that he would run as a write-in in the post-general election
Chris Matthews broke his long-standing record for longest sustained on-air howl (18 minutes)
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Ka-Ching
Why did the Fed just pump $600 billion into the economy? If, like me, you find fiscal policy mystifying, this post might put you right. And if you do, in fact, understand fiscal policy, then I've got a call from a Mr. Obama who wants to speak with you.
Looking Ahead
I'm not going to comment on the elections, mostly because they speak for themselves. Specifically, they say "AAAAARGH WE HATE YOU!!!!!" That's fine. America has a long and rich tradition of such elections. FDR was elected in a "we hate you" election back in 1932. Ditto for William McKinley in 1896.
No, what I really want to talk about is 2012. Hey, wait, come back! You're sick of elections, I know. So is everybody not named Chris Matthews. But you got to take a look at this new CNN poll.
What does it tell us? First, it tells us that nominating Sarah Palin would be a disaster for Republicans. She doesn't stand a Blue Devil's chance in Chapel Hill of winning. Obama is at the absolute lowest point in his presidency. His allies just got booted out of Congress. His poll numbers are abysmal. His media supporters have turned on him. And he still leads Palin 52-44. That's no small number.
Second, despite much happy talk by Republicans, Obama seems safe from a primary challenge. 73 percent of Democrats want him renominated. That's probably enough to scare away Russ Feingold, Howard Dean, and any other potential spoiler. Obama will get a primary challenger regardless, but it's likely to be a retired electrician from Wyoming who thinks the CIA has implanted a chip in his head.
Third, the GOP field is open. True, the big four--Palin, Huckabee, Romney, and Gingrich--are the only candidates with double-digit support. But their combined support comes to only 67%. One-third of Republicans pick "none of the above." Also remember that most of this "support" is name recognition, so the "undecided" camp is probably closer to half the GOP electorate.
What does that mean? It means come on in, Tim Pawlenty, the water's fine. The more the merrier, Mitch Daniels. Join the party, Chris Christie. The fun begins now.
No, what I really want to talk about is 2012. Hey, wait, come back! You're sick of elections, I know. So is everybody not named Chris Matthews. But you got to take a look at this new CNN poll.
What does it tell us? First, it tells us that nominating Sarah Palin would be a disaster for Republicans. She doesn't stand a Blue Devil's chance in Chapel Hill of winning. Obama is at the absolute lowest point in his presidency. His allies just got booted out of Congress. His poll numbers are abysmal. His media supporters have turned on him. And he still leads Palin 52-44. That's no small number.
Second, despite much happy talk by Republicans, Obama seems safe from a primary challenge. 73 percent of Democrats want him renominated. That's probably enough to scare away Russ Feingold, Howard Dean, and any other potential spoiler. Obama will get a primary challenger regardless, but it's likely to be a retired electrician from Wyoming who thinks the CIA has implanted a chip in his head.
Third, the GOP field is open. True, the big four--Palin, Huckabee, Romney, and Gingrich--are the only candidates with double-digit support. But their combined support comes to only 67%. One-third of Republicans pick "none of the above." Also remember that most of this "support" is name recognition, so the "undecided" camp is probably closer to half the GOP electorate.
What does that mean? It means come on in, Tim Pawlenty, the water's fine. The more the merrier, Mitch Daniels. Join the party, Chris Christie. The fun begins now.
Over...Rated!
ESPN lists the 10 most overrated NFL players, as chosen by readers. Joe Namath seems a worthy number one. But Tony Romo as the third most overrated football player of all time? Come on, folks. He's overrated, yes, but he's not even the most overrated player right now. That title belongs to Carson Palmer. Only Palmer's terrific football name and grizzled, manly beard are keeping him off the bench.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Monkey Business
Either there is a very weird criminal on the loose in Vermont, or the long-feared primate uprising has begun.
A Reasonable Question
Because someone has to, the BBC asks "How is Keith Richards still alive?" In my opinion, the question is less a scientific than a theological one. He must have made a deal with the devil. There's no other possible explanation.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Mini-Review: Three Kings
First off: yes, despite the name, this film does indeed have four protagonists. This could be one of the most deceptive movie titles in history, trailing only Superbad, which was pretty decent, and Grease, which had nothing to do with ancient Athens.
The three--sorry, four--kings of the title are American soldiers stationed in Iraq during the last days of the Gulf War. Troy Barlow (Mark Wahlberg) is a family man from Detroit; Conrad Vig (Spike Jonze) is a hick without even a high school diploma; Chief Elgin (Ice Cube)works as an airport baggage handler when not in the Army; and Archie Gates (George Clooney) is a smooth-talking media liaison looking forward to retirement.
In the midst of the post-war euphoria, as marines celebrate their victory with drunken fistfights and as Iraqi soldiers surrender by the thousands, Vig and Barlow find a map pointing to a hidden stash of stolen Kuwaiti gold. Where they find the map, I won't say, in order to preserve one of the film's better gags. Let's just say that the map becomes the butt of many other jokes. Oops, I think I gave it away.
Our three--four!--kings load up their humvee and head to Karbala in search of their fortune. It's not the best time to be sightseeing in the Iraqi countryside. Though Saddam's army might have been smashed, the country is still crawling with Iraqi soldiers. Not to mention there's a civil war going on between rebels and Saddamite loyalists. And while our intrepid heroes might have their eyes on the prize, they soon find themselves in the thick of said war.
You might consider this film the evil twin of Saving Private Ryan, which was released a year earlier. The two movies have much in common. Both are unafraid of gore; if you have ever wondered what the inside of a bullet-punctured lung looks like, Three Kings will satisfy your curiosity. And both movies eschew the big picture in favor of the little guy; there are no grand battles, no scenes in the war room, only a bunch of sweaty, dirty men trying not to get shot.
I say "evil" twin, though, because while Saving Private Ryan is patriotic at heart, Three Kings is more interested in puncturing American pretensions. America is the good guy only in the sense that it's better than Saddam. In one scene, for example, the US army does its best to deliver fleeing rebels right into Saddam's hands.
Which leads to one of the most peculiar paradoxes in this film. Believe it or not, but the movie--released in 1999--seems to argue for re-invading Iraq. America is depicted as cowardly for abandoning the country after Desert Storm. It suggests that we invaded only because of Kuwait's oil; once that was secure, we skedaddled.
Flash-forward ten or so years. Now, America is blamed for staying too long, rather than getting out too quick. Now, we stayed, rather than fled, because of the oil. Three Kings is a fine film. I enjoyed it, and I'd recommend it to you. But it will do nothing to disabuse of the notion that, in Hollywood's eyes, everything America does is wrong.
The three--sorry, four--kings of the title are American soldiers stationed in Iraq during the last days of the Gulf War. Troy Barlow (Mark Wahlberg) is a family man from Detroit; Conrad Vig (Spike Jonze) is a hick without even a high school diploma; Chief Elgin (Ice Cube)works as an airport baggage handler when not in the Army; and Archie Gates (George Clooney) is a smooth-talking media liaison looking forward to retirement.
In the midst of the post-war euphoria, as marines celebrate their victory with drunken fistfights and as Iraqi soldiers surrender by the thousands, Vig and Barlow find a map pointing to a hidden stash of stolen Kuwaiti gold. Where they find the map, I won't say, in order to preserve one of the film's better gags. Let's just say that the map becomes the butt of many other jokes. Oops, I think I gave it away.
Our three--four!--kings load up their humvee and head to Karbala in search of their fortune. It's not the best time to be sightseeing in the Iraqi countryside. Though Saddam's army might have been smashed, the country is still crawling with Iraqi soldiers. Not to mention there's a civil war going on between rebels and Saddamite loyalists. And while our intrepid heroes might have their eyes on the prize, they soon find themselves in the thick of said war.
You might consider this film the evil twin of Saving Private Ryan, which was released a year earlier. The two movies have much in common. Both are unafraid of gore; if you have ever wondered what the inside of a bullet-punctured lung looks like, Three Kings will satisfy your curiosity. And both movies eschew the big picture in favor of the little guy; there are no grand battles, no scenes in the war room, only a bunch of sweaty, dirty men trying not to get shot.
I say "evil" twin, though, because while Saving Private Ryan is patriotic at heart, Three Kings is more interested in puncturing American pretensions. America is the good guy only in the sense that it's better than Saddam. In one scene, for example, the US army does its best to deliver fleeing rebels right into Saddam's hands.
Which leads to one of the most peculiar paradoxes in this film. Believe it or not, but the movie--released in 1999--seems to argue for re-invading Iraq. America is depicted as cowardly for abandoning the country after Desert Storm. It suggests that we invaded only because of Kuwait's oil; once that was secure, we skedaddled.
Flash-forward ten or so years. Now, America is blamed for staying too long, rather than getting out too quick. Now, we stayed, rather than fled, because of the oil. Three Kings is a fine film. I enjoyed it, and I'd recommend it to you. But it will do nothing to disabuse of the notion that, in Hollywood's eyes, everything America does is wrong.
The Future Has Made a Phone Call to Today
Breaking new...from the FUTURE!
The scientific, theological, and moral implications of this discovery are beyond my comprehension. But I do know one thing. My theory that Calvin Coolidge was a time-traveling extraterrestrial from the future--long mocked by my classmates--finally has some supporting evidence.
The scientific, theological, and moral implications of this discovery are beyond my comprehension. But I do know one thing. My theory that Calvin Coolidge was a time-traveling extraterrestrial from the future--long mocked by my classmates--finally has some supporting evidence.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
"It's Not My Trick, Michael..."
New Scientist presents the newest and best optical illusions. As Aristotle once said, "very cool stuff."
The 70s Are Back!
Remember Rick Perlstein? Smart guy, historian, subject of an anguished post on this very blog? Seems that he's currently writing a "political and culture history of the United States in the '70s." I guess Perlstein is slowly working his way through late 20th century America. What happens when he catches up with himself?
Anyway...as an appetizer for his upcoming book, he serves up an essay on the existing historical literature about the 70s. Conclusion: there's not a lot of there there. Perlstein thinks there is a gap in the literature just waiting to be filled by...wait for it...a new book by Rick Perlstein!
Really, though, if anyone is up to that task, it's Mr. Eric Perlstein. I might whine and criticize. But I'm going to buy the book, read it in a day, and thoroughly enjoy it. Even grad students can enjoy things, right? Or did we forfeit that when we received our first stipend check?
Anyway...as an appetizer for his upcoming book, he serves up an essay on the existing historical literature about the 70s. Conclusion: there's not a lot of there there. Perlstein thinks there is a gap in the literature just waiting to be filled by...wait for it...a new book by Rick Perlstein!
Really, though, if anyone is up to that task, it's Mr. Eric Perlstein. I might whine and criticize. But I'm going to buy the book, read it in a day, and thoroughly enjoy it. Even grad students can enjoy things, right? Or did we forfeit that when we received our first stipend check?
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Getting Goosed
Have you ever heard the sound of a million geese in flight? It's a good deal more terrifying than you might think.
I was out running this morning when, in the distance, I heard a jumbo jet crashing into an all-drum concert held inside a steel foundry. At least that's what it sounded like. There was a tremendous roaring noise that went on and on and on, never stopping, only getting louder.
Geez, I think to myself, have they finally done the sensible thing and nuked Trenton? When I got to a break in the trees I looked for a mushroom cloud on the horizon. No suck luck--but what I saw was even more frightening. Geese. Nothing but geese. A galaxy of geese, stretched across the entire horizon.
Now, I have a deep love for geese. On my wall hangs a poster with the inexplicable message "Who Cares About the Geese? Everyone!" But a million of anything is frightening. A million dust mites would be frightening. And a million geese is downright spine-chilling.
I went back to my run, but I now carried within me an icy sliver of fear. All those geese...what if they chose to turn against us? What if they descended on our airports en masse, crashing planes and grounding flights? The lesson: beware of geese. You never know what they might be plotting.
I was out running this morning when, in the distance, I heard a jumbo jet crashing into an all-drum concert held inside a steel foundry. At least that's what it sounded like. There was a tremendous roaring noise that went on and on and on, never stopping, only getting louder.
Geez, I think to myself, have they finally done the sensible thing and nuked Trenton? When I got to a break in the trees I looked for a mushroom cloud on the horizon. No suck luck--but what I saw was even more frightening. Geese. Nothing but geese. A galaxy of geese, stretched across the entire horizon.
Now, I have a deep love for geese. On my wall hangs a poster with the inexplicable message "Who Cares About the Geese? Everyone!" But a million of anything is frightening. A million dust mites would be frightening. And a million geese is downright spine-chilling.
I went back to my run, but I now carried within me an icy sliver of fear. All those geese...what if they chose to turn against us? What if they descended on our airports en masse, crashing planes and grounding flights? The lesson: beware of geese. You never know what they might be plotting.
Nerds!
To quote Mystery Science Theater 3000: "Even the AV club laughs at these guys."
For a useful antidote to Quidditch-related insanity, check out this reinterpretation of the Potter mythos. Warning: contains not safe for work language, unless you work at a swear factory.
For a useful antidote to Quidditch-related insanity, check out this reinterpretation of the Potter mythos. Warning: contains not safe for work language, unless you work at a swear factory.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
In a Hole, in the Ground...
...There lived a Hobbit who held an unfulfilling job as a paper salesman at Wernham Hogg.
My opinion? Great casting choice. Though I still think Gilbert Gottfried could have pulled it off.
My opinion? Great casting choice. Though I still think Gilbert Gottfried could have pulled it off.
Coach
A play based on the life of Vince Lombardi? Sure, why not. Too bad it isn't a musical. I would pay to hear musical numbers like "Let's Practice the Power Sweep Fifteen More Times" or "Goddamnit, Max, I'm Tired Of You Showing Up Drunk to Practice."
Friday, October 22, 2010
I Have the Best Name Ever for a History Textbook
The Dialectics of Comparative Discourse: A Phenomenological Synthesis of Meta-Tropes
Cliche Alert
Eric Cartman of South Park memorably described independent films as being about "gay cowboys eating pudding." Joe Queen explains how art-house movies are about so much more than that:
Sexually unfulfilled musicians are a fixture in arthouse films, particularly pianists. So are congenitally miserable Scandinavians and emotionally repressed Japanese. A proper arthouse film will often have an exotic animal, such as a dromedary or a yak, and it will sometimes feature a chatty dwarf who is wise beyond his years. Quite often the dwarf will be a bit cheeky. The Legend of the Cheeky Dwarf would actually make a very fine title for an arthouse film. It's surprising no one has yet tried it.
Sexually unfulfilled musicians are a fixture in arthouse films, particularly pianists. So are congenitally miserable Scandinavians and emotionally repressed Japanese. A proper arthouse film will often have an exotic animal, such as a dromedary or a yak, and it will sometimes feature a chatty dwarf who is wise beyond his years. Quite often the dwarf will be a bit cheeky. The Legend of the Cheeky Dwarf would actually make a very fine title for an arthouse film. It's surprising no one has yet tried it.
Assault and Battery
For the past few weeks, my car has been making a very peculiar sound whenever the engine starts. Imagine a fat guy getting gored to death by a yak with emphysema. Not too hard, right? And it get worse every day. Last week the little sucker took nearly half a minute to start. And now it sounded like the yak had contracted a nasty case of throat cancer.
My suspicion--confirmed through a scientific process known as "calling my dad"--was that the battery was dying. Or perhaps it was already dead, and now existed only in an advanced state of rigor mortis. Whatever the case, something under my car's hood was staggering toward a sickly, coughing end.
The solution was clear: I had to crack open another car and steal its battery. Turns out this is both impractical and illegal. And when something is illegal even in New Jersey, you know it must be really bad. Remember, this is a state that allows you to shoot people every other Tuesday.
The legal solution was clear: I had to take my car down to a service station for a double bypass battery transplant. Being incompetent at both car talk and social interaction, I was terrified by the prospect of having to talk to strangers about cars. Naturally, I turned to Wikipedia for help. I read the entry on "car." Then I skimmed the entry on "four-stroke engine." Then I jumped to "piston." And then to "Rip Hamilton," for reasons that will make sense if you are a fan of decaying pro basketball franchises.
I bring the car in. When the guy asks me what the problem is, I give him the yak-goring-man analogy, and he nods and says, "Oh yeah, the 'emphysemic yak.' That's shop talk for a busted battery." He brought out a defibrillator-looking thing to test the battery; after several jolts, as well as some mouth-to-mouth resucitation, failed to revive the battery, it was officially declared dead. It was survived by one radiator and two windshield wipers. In lieu of flowers, the family is asking you to make donations to your favorite televangelist.
Now the car runs as smoothly as butter, thanks in part to the butter I used to grease up the new battery. Hey, that's what Wikipedia said to do. They also said that sugar in the gas tank will make the car run more "sweetly." I'm off to see if it works...
My suspicion--confirmed through a scientific process known as "calling my dad"--was that the battery was dying. Or perhaps it was already dead, and now existed only in an advanced state of rigor mortis. Whatever the case, something under my car's hood was staggering toward a sickly, coughing end.
The solution was clear: I had to crack open another car and steal its battery. Turns out this is both impractical and illegal. And when something is illegal even in New Jersey, you know it must be really bad. Remember, this is a state that allows you to shoot people every other Tuesday.
The legal solution was clear: I had to take my car down to a service station for a double bypass battery transplant. Being incompetent at both car talk and social interaction, I was terrified by the prospect of having to talk to strangers about cars. Naturally, I turned to Wikipedia for help. I read the entry on "car." Then I skimmed the entry on "four-stroke engine." Then I jumped to "piston." And then to "Rip Hamilton," for reasons that will make sense if you are a fan of decaying pro basketball franchises.
I bring the car in. When the guy asks me what the problem is, I give him the yak-goring-man analogy, and he nods and says, "Oh yeah, the 'emphysemic yak.' That's shop talk for a busted battery." He brought out a defibrillator-looking thing to test the battery; after several jolts, as well as some mouth-to-mouth resucitation, failed to revive the battery, it was officially declared dead. It was survived by one radiator and two windshield wipers. In lieu of flowers, the family is asking you to make donations to your favorite televangelist.
Now the car runs as smoothly as butter, thanks in part to the butter I used to grease up the new battery. Hey, that's what Wikipedia said to do. They also said that sugar in the gas tank will make the car run more "sweetly." I'm off to see if it works...
Five Best Things About Fall in Princeton
Spectacular colors as the leaves turn neon pink and midnight blue
Great if you hate joy, happiness
Deathly pallor now seems somewhat normal
Heavy parka hides grotesquely out-of-shape body
Better than fall in Cambridge
Great if you hate joy, happiness
Deathly pallor now seems somewhat normal
Heavy parka hides grotesquely out-of-shape body
Better than fall in Cambridge
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Scary Sixteen
EW--that's Entertainment Daily, for those of you not up on your media acronyms--presents the 16 Creepiest TV Shows. Surprisingly, "Fraggle Rock" does not make the list.
Lost in the Library
To enter the Harvey S. Firestone Memorial Library is to enter a world of sadness, confusion, and pain. Statistics show that 73% of people who walk through the front doors never walk out. And the 27% who make it out are never the same. They will carry the scars for the rest of their life.
The above paragraph may not be true, but it makes a good hook, and my middle school English teacher taught me that the hook was the only thing that mattered. Now that you, the reader, are properly hooked, I will continue. You are hooked, right? Because otherwise my entire middle school education was a sham.
The Harvey S. Firestone Memorial Library to Harvey S. Firestone is nationally renowned for its squareness and grayness. "Architecture Today" named it the third most angular building in America, trailing only the Lincoln Memorial and the Transamerica Pyramid. Out front, there are rows and rows of bike racks, where grad students park their bikes and dream of the day when they can afford...well, maybe not a car, but a better bike. One with handlebar tassels.
Firestone has three floors above ground, three floors below ground, and one secret floor where the mole people live. Be warned: your cellphone will not get reception below ground. New York City could be wiped out by atomic meteors and you would be none the wiser.
The stacks are not well-lit, although the front desk does provide flint and tallow candles for a small fee. Rumors that a skeleton was found in the B floor stacks are complete nonsense. It was a mummified body--the flesh was still attached to the skeleton, and only a few bones were visible. Rumors that the A floor stacks are prowled by a Bengal tiger are, unfortunately, true. For a small fee, the front desk will notify your parents if you are torn to shreds by a savage feline.
You can find nearly every book in Firestone Library, including your third-grade composition book, the one that contained your magnum opus "Why I want to be a dinosaur when I grow up." In the rare book collection, you can find copy of the Bible autographed by God.
Don't forget to grab a lollipop on your way out! They come in three flavors: cranberry-raspberry, raspberry-cranberry, and cran-raspberry. Rasp-cranberry pops are sometimes available. On the way out, the guards will inspect your bag to make sure you are not smuggling any books. They will also require you to empty your lungs in order to insure you are not smuggling any precious library air.
Firestone Library! The library, the myth, the legend. Be sure to visit many times...assuming you find your way out the first time.
The above paragraph may not be true, but it makes a good hook, and my middle school English teacher taught me that the hook was the only thing that mattered. Now that you, the reader, are properly hooked, I will continue. You are hooked, right? Because otherwise my entire middle school education was a sham.
The Harvey S. Firestone Memorial Library to Harvey S. Firestone is nationally renowned for its squareness and grayness. "Architecture Today" named it the third most angular building in America, trailing only the Lincoln Memorial and the Transamerica Pyramid. Out front, there are rows and rows of bike racks, where grad students park their bikes and dream of the day when they can afford...well, maybe not a car, but a better bike. One with handlebar tassels.
Firestone has three floors above ground, three floors below ground, and one secret floor where the mole people live. Be warned: your cellphone will not get reception below ground. New York City could be wiped out by atomic meteors and you would be none the wiser.
The stacks are not well-lit, although the front desk does provide flint and tallow candles for a small fee. Rumors that a skeleton was found in the B floor stacks are complete nonsense. It was a mummified body--the flesh was still attached to the skeleton, and only a few bones were visible. Rumors that the A floor stacks are prowled by a Bengal tiger are, unfortunately, true. For a small fee, the front desk will notify your parents if you are torn to shreds by a savage feline.
You can find nearly every book in Firestone Library, including your third-grade composition book, the one that contained your magnum opus "Why I want to be a dinosaur when I grow up." In the rare book collection, you can find copy of the Bible autographed by God.
Don't forget to grab a lollipop on your way out! They come in three flavors: cranberry-raspberry, raspberry-cranberry, and cran-raspberry. Rasp-cranberry pops are sometimes available. On the way out, the guards will inspect your bag to make sure you are not smuggling any books. They will also require you to empty your lungs in order to insure you are not smuggling any precious library air.
Firestone Library! The library, the myth, the legend. Be sure to visit many times...assuming you find your way out the first time.
Conspiracy Theory
Turns out we came thisclose to President John W. McCormack. For those not in the know--that is to say, normal people--McCormack was Speaker of the House in 1963.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Question Worth Asking at 10:32 in the Evening
My mouthwash bills itself as "night mint flavor." How is that different from regular mint? What gives it that special "night" zing? The mind boggles.
Love and Hate: Malcolm Gladwell
I have never read a Malcolm Gladwell book. That makes me one of maybe six people. Everyone you know has read “Blink” or “The Tipping Point” or “Outliers,” and they think you should read it too. “You gotta read this!” they say, handing you a well-thumbed copy of “What the Dog Saw” in the manner of a Soviet dissident passing on samizdat. Malcolm Gladwell will change your life. He will Make You See Things in a New Way. He will Revolutionize Your Thinking.
This wild popularity has made Malcolm Gladwell a very, very rich man, wealthy enough to have me killed if he wanted. So I have to tread lightly here.
You might ask, Will, how can you judge Malcolm Gladwell? You admit that you haven’t read his books. What gives you the right to condemn him in front of your daily audience of three people?
I need to be more precise. I have never finished a Gladwell book. I started “Blink” and found it so god-awful that I put it down and curled up in a corner to cry. I did the same thing with “Outliers,” albeit in a different corner.
If Gladwell were a Batman supervillain, he would be called The Extrapolator. His M.O. is to take a seemingly random incident and inflate it to galactic proportions. Ever notice that many great Canadian hockey players are born in the first few calendar months? No, of course you haven’t. But Malcolm Gladwell has. Not only did he notice it, he devoted an entire chapter to it in “Outliers,” explaining it as the consequence of Canadiian youth hockey league rules. Or something.
But that's hardly enough extrapolation to satisfy Gladwell. In the Gladwell-verse, a mysterious realm locked beneath his goofy afro, everything is connected to something bigger. The story about the Canadian hockey league is no mere anecdote. It reveals the earth-shaking secret that…wait for it…success is often determined by outside factors!
You OK? I assume you fainted after reading that. It’s understandable. Malcolm Gladwell tends to make people swoon.
You might say, Geez, Will, this sounds a lot more like a hate-hate relationship than a love-hate one. Why don’t we all go grab our torches and pitchforks and meet at Malcolm Gladwell’s front door?
Because, as cognitive scientist and Robert Plant lookalike Steven Pinker has noted, Gladwell is deadly in book form but delightful when it comes to essays. Prevented by the word count from soaring to ridiculous heights of extrapolation, Gladwell drops his irritating tics—the cutesy catchphrases, the sloppy reasoning, the self-empowerment preaching—and gets down to writing.
And he does that quite well. If you don’t believe me, sample his story on espionage. Or try his intriguing comparison of teachers and quarterbacks. Or, staying on the football front, his comparison of football and dogfighting. Or his examination of the full court press in basketball. The fun never stops in a Malcolm Gladwell essay! Well, maybe in the one about dogfighting.
Still, I’ll give the last word to the critics. Sing us home, Craig Brown and Isaac Chotiner!
This wild popularity has made Malcolm Gladwell a very, very rich man, wealthy enough to have me killed if he wanted. So I have to tread lightly here.
You might ask, Will, how can you judge Malcolm Gladwell? You admit that you haven’t read his books. What gives you the right to condemn him in front of your daily audience of three people?
I need to be more precise. I have never finished a Gladwell book. I started “Blink” and found it so god-awful that I put it down and curled up in a corner to cry. I did the same thing with “Outliers,” albeit in a different corner.
If Gladwell were a Batman supervillain, he would be called The Extrapolator. His M.O. is to take a seemingly random incident and inflate it to galactic proportions. Ever notice that many great Canadian hockey players are born in the first few calendar months? No, of course you haven’t. But Malcolm Gladwell has. Not only did he notice it, he devoted an entire chapter to it in “Outliers,” explaining it as the consequence of Canadiian youth hockey league rules. Or something.
But that's hardly enough extrapolation to satisfy Gladwell. In the Gladwell-verse, a mysterious realm locked beneath his goofy afro, everything is connected to something bigger. The story about the Canadian hockey league is no mere anecdote. It reveals the earth-shaking secret that…wait for it…success is often determined by outside factors!
You OK? I assume you fainted after reading that. It’s understandable. Malcolm Gladwell tends to make people swoon.
You might say, Geez, Will, this sounds a lot more like a hate-hate relationship than a love-hate one. Why don’t we all go grab our torches and pitchforks and meet at Malcolm Gladwell’s front door?
Because, as cognitive scientist and Robert Plant lookalike Steven Pinker has noted, Gladwell is deadly in book form but delightful when it comes to essays. Prevented by the word count from soaring to ridiculous heights of extrapolation, Gladwell drops his irritating tics—the cutesy catchphrases, the sloppy reasoning, the self-empowerment preaching—and gets down to writing.
And he does that quite well. If you don’t believe me, sample his story on espionage. Or try his intriguing comparison of teachers and quarterbacks. Or, staying on the football front, his comparison of football and dogfighting. Or his examination of the full court press in basketball. The fun never stops in a Malcolm Gladwell essay! Well, maybe in the one about dogfighting.
Still, I’ll give the last word to the critics. Sing us home, Craig Brown and Isaac Chotiner!
Squirreled Away
The squirrels here are not what they seem. You might think you know squirrels--chittering little furballs that can never decide whether to cross the street. Maybe that's true where you live. Up here, though, the squirrels have mutated from harmless rodents into something more sinister.
First, they have no fear. Normal squirrels flee in terror when a person walks by. These squirrels sit and stare, practically daring you to come closer. "Want a piece of me, buddy?" they seem to say, no doubt in a squeaky Alvin-and-the-Chipmunks voice. Just walk on by. It's not worth the trouble.
Second, they will eat anything. I guess they learned this from watching college students. I once saw a squirrel gnawing on a buffalo wing. If that doesn't put the fear of God in your heart, I don't know what will.
Third, they have a disconcerting habit of popping out of trash cans. According to my back-of-the-envelope calculations, at any given time 73% of the campus trash cans are occupied by squirrels. Go to toss out an empty Cheetos bag and there are better-than-even odds that a squirrel will jump out and claw your face off. OK, that last part is poetic license.
Am I getting through to you? If not, let me make it explicit: the squirrels of New Jersey must be destroyed. They are probably plotting our destruction as I write. We must strike first. Time is running out...
First, they have no fear. Normal squirrels flee in terror when a person walks by. These squirrels sit and stare, practically daring you to come closer. "Want a piece of me, buddy?" they seem to say, no doubt in a squeaky Alvin-and-the-Chipmunks voice. Just walk on by. It's not worth the trouble.
Second, they will eat anything. I guess they learned this from watching college students. I once saw a squirrel gnawing on a buffalo wing. If that doesn't put the fear of God in your heart, I don't know what will.
Third, they have a disconcerting habit of popping out of trash cans. According to my back-of-the-envelope calculations, at any given time 73% of the campus trash cans are occupied by squirrels. Go to toss out an empty Cheetos bag and there are better-than-even odds that a squirrel will jump out and claw your face off. OK, that last part is poetic license.
Am I getting through to you? If not, let me make it explicit: the squirrels of New Jersey must be destroyed. They are probably plotting our destruction as I write. We must strike first. Time is running out...
His Airness
On the off chance that you were recently hit in the head with a rock, causing you to forget that Michael Jordan was the greatest basketball player in the history of basketball or of baskets in general, then this wonderful Davis Halberstam vignette will put you right.
And if you are a visual learner, or are just too busy to read, then this YouTube clip will do nicely.
Why am I blogging about a years-old basketball game? Hey, it's my blog, and I'll write about the mating habits of the Vietnamese horny toad if I want.
And if you are a visual learner, or are just too busy to read, then this YouTube clip will do nicely.
Why am I blogging about a years-old basketball game? Hey, it's my blog, and I'll write about the mating habits of the Vietnamese horny toad if I want.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Board Stiff
For the life of me, I can't figure out why the board game "Thinking Man's Golf" didn't catch on like a rhinovirus. Wait...perhaps because the title combines golf and thinking, two of the most boring concepts known to man.
Sadly, it might still be the best of the "12 most horrendous board game fails of all time." Seriously, what were the designers of "Don't Catch a Cold" thinking?
Sadly, it might still be the best of the "12 most horrendous board game fails of all time." Seriously, what were the designers of "Don't Catch a Cold" thinking?
See You In the Funny Papers
Scott Adams explains how to think like a cartoonist. Come for the anecdote about the french fry, stay for the life-changing advice.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Love and Hate: Rick Perlstein
When I grow up, I want to be Rick Perlstein. Commercial success, major awards, critical acclamation…the man has it all. “Before the Storm,” his history of the Barry Goldwater campaign, remains the definitive take on the subject. Topping “Before the Storm” would be like dethroning Wayne Gretzky as history’s greatest hockey player. It can’t be done. Perlstein’s second book, “Nixonland,” is—the cover blurb from Newsweek swears—the “best book ever written about the 1960s.”
What makes him so successful? Panache. He writes in a snappy style reminiscent of journalist-historians like J. Anthony Lukas and William Manchester. He has a golden ear for anecdotes. His narrative grabs you in the back of your brain and drags you helplessly from chapter to chapter. And his chapter titles are hands-down the best in the business. Consider the craftsmanship that went into something like “In Which Playboy Bunnies, and Barbarella, and Tanya Inspire Theoretical Considerations upon the Nature of Democracy.”
But my love for Perlstein goes beyond style. The man works in my wheelhouse—heck, he practically lives there. Among all the books that inspired me to study conservative history, “Before the Storm” ranks second, behind only the immortal “The Conservative Intellectual Movement in America Since 1945.” Perlstein helped create the modern history of conservatism, for goodness sakes. Without him, I’d be flipping burgers at the Burger King off I-95. My dorm room, my stipend, and my carrel all ought to be stamped “Courtesy of Rick Perlstein.”
Having covered the “love” part of this love-hate relationship, I’ll move on to the fun stuff. I could link to George Will’s review of “Nixonland” and be done with it. But that would be shirking my duty as a blogger. Read the Will review first, then come back here.
Finished? Good. I agree with every word. “Nixonland” is “compulsively readable.” Perlstein does have “a gift for penetrating judgments.” And, at the same time, he does tend “to catch the ’60s disease of rhetorical excess” and to “[pile] up jejune incongruities.” He is a tremendously gifted writer, granted, but gifts can be misused, and Perlstein often abuses his beyond all human decency. It is fair to describe Lyndon Johnson as “psychopathic”? Hardly.
My deeper criticism has nothing to do with language and everything to do with content. Perlstein never met an ideology he liked. As Will points out, Perlstein sees ulterior motives behind everything, motives that are invariably crass and usually racist. Liberalism is a smokescreen used by the elite to justify their elite-ness. Conservatism is a paranoid fear-fueled backlash. And don’t get him started on neoconservatism.
I’ll never give up on Perlstein. That doesn’t mean I have to cut him slack. Rick Perlstein, you are officially on notice with this blog.
What makes him so successful? Panache. He writes in a snappy style reminiscent of journalist-historians like J. Anthony Lukas and William Manchester. He has a golden ear for anecdotes. His narrative grabs you in the back of your brain and drags you helplessly from chapter to chapter. And his chapter titles are hands-down the best in the business. Consider the craftsmanship that went into something like “In Which Playboy Bunnies, and Barbarella, and Tanya Inspire Theoretical Considerations upon the Nature of Democracy.”
But my love for Perlstein goes beyond style. The man works in my wheelhouse—heck, he practically lives there. Among all the books that inspired me to study conservative history, “Before the Storm” ranks second, behind only the immortal “The Conservative Intellectual Movement in America Since 1945.” Perlstein helped create the modern history of conservatism, for goodness sakes. Without him, I’d be flipping burgers at the Burger King off I-95. My dorm room, my stipend, and my carrel all ought to be stamped “Courtesy of Rick Perlstein.”
Having covered the “love” part of this love-hate relationship, I’ll move on to the fun stuff. I could link to George Will’s review of “Nixonland” and be done with it. But that would be shirking my duty as a blogger. Read the Will review first, then come back here.
Finished? Good. I agree with every word. “Nixonland” is “compulsively readable.” Perlstein does have “a gift for penetrating judgments.” And, at the same time, he does tend “to catch the ’60s disease of rhetorical excess” and to “[pile] up jejune incongruities.” He is a tremendously gifted writer, granted, but gifts can be misused, and Perlstein often abuses his beyond all human decency. It is fair to describe Lyndon Johnson as “psychopathic”? Hardly.
My deeper criticism has nothing to do with language and everything to do with content. Perlstein never met an ideology he liked. As Will points out, Perlstein sees ulterior motives behind everything, motives that are invariably crass and usually racist. Liberalism is a smokescreen used by the elite to justify their elite-ness. Conservatism is a paranoid fear-fueled backlash. And don’t get him started on neoconservatism.
I’ll never give up on Perlstein. That doesn’t mean I have to cut him slack. Rick Perlstein, you are officially on notice with this blog.
History-Related Words I Never Want to Hear Again
Trope
Performative
Diachronic
Presentism
Creole
Dialectic
Normative
Structuralist
Synecdoche
Yes, these are real words, used by real historians without a sense of either irony or shame. I'm no less guilty than the next guy.
Performative
Diachronic
Presentism
Creole
Dialectic
Normative
Structuralist
Synecdoche
Yes, these are real words, used by real historians without a sense of either irony or shame. I'm no less guilty than the next guy.
I Get a Kick Out of You
Political Wire asks: is this the best attack ad ever? I'm inclined to say yes.
Talkin' Softball
Homer: Clemens, did I make the team?
Clemens: You sure did.
Homer: I did! Woo-hoo! Woo-hoo! In your face, Strawberry!
Clemens: Wait a minute, are you Ken Griffey Jr.?
Homer: No.
Clemens: Sorry, didn't mean to get your hopes up.
And other wonderful sports-related quotes from The Simpsons.
Clemens: You sure did.
Homer: I did! Woo-hoo! Woo-hoo! In your face, Strawberry!
Clemens: Wait a minute, are you Ken Griffey Jr.?
Homer: No.
Clemens: Sorry, didn't mean to get your hopes up.
And other wonderful sports-related quotes from The Simpsons.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Five Favorite iPhone Apps
SmugBastard: Sends an e-mail to all your contacts alerting them whenever you purchase a new iPhone app
Detonator: Causes your iPhone to explode like a fragmentary grenade (Note: good for one use only)
Tarantino Watch: Keeps you informed at all times as to the whereabouts of acclaimed film director Quentin Tarantino
Baconator: Gives you iPhone a pleasing bacon scent
iChat: Allows you to carry on conversations with a friend simply by speaking into your iPhone and holding it up to your ear to hear their response
Detonator: Causes your iPhone to explode like a fragmentary grenade (Note: good for one use only)
Tarantino Watch: Keeps you informed at all times as to the whereabouts of acclaimed film director Quentin Tarantino
Baconator: Gives you iPhone a pleasing bacon scent
iChat: Allows you to carry on conversations with a friend simply by speaking into your iPhone and holding it up to your ear to hear their response
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.
Spider Man
Damn spiders. Why they gotta build their webs right across the jogging trails? Every time I run, I tear down spider webs the way a wrecking ball demolishes houses. Makes me feel a little guilty, in fact. God knows how many innocent spiders now have to live on the streets, homeless, after investing so much time and effort spinning their web.
But let's bring the subject back to me, shall we? I'm tired of finishing my morning run wearing a mask made from spider webs. To solve this problem, I plan to create a "spider plow," a large and heavy stick that can be worn on the head. The plow will smash through webs before they hit your face. Genius, right?
I plan to start manufacturing spider plows next week. For a mere $50, you can get in on the ground floor of this invention. Think about it...it'd be like investing in Apple right before the iPod. Or investing in McDonald's right before the Happy Meal.
But let's bring the subject back to me, shall we? I'm tired of finishing my morning run wearing a mask made from spider webs. To solve this problem, I plan to create a "spider plow," a large and heavy stick that can be worn on the head. The plow will smash through webs before they hit your face. Genius, right?
I plan to start manufacturing spider plows next week. For a mere $50, you can get in on the ground floor of this invention. Think about it...it'd be like investing in Apple right before the iPod. Or investing in McDonald's right before the Happy Meal.
Mini-Review: The Anticommunist Manifestos
For a faith born out of books—the books of Marx, to be precise—communism was never very keen on literature. Fiction, or at least fiction not devoted to the glories of the Five Year Plan, was bourgeois. So were biographies and memoirs. Political texts were subversive. In short, everything not bearing the name Marx, Lenin, or Stalin, or praising one of those three, was verboten. Small wonder, then, that books proved such a powerful counterargument to communism. In “The Anticommunist Manifestos,” John Fleming treats on four books that battled the Bolshies.
Two of the titles, “Witness” and “Darkness at Noon,” might be familiar to history-minded readers. The other two—“Out of the Night” and “I Chose Freedom”—are more obscure than the post-Wham career of Andrew Ridgely. Yet in their day, all four were widely read, widely discussed, and widely condemned by communists and fellow travelers in America and across the world.
People often assume anti-communism was an American phenomenon. The archetypal anticommunist, Joseph McCarthy, was as jingoistic as jingoes come, and the whole idea of anti-communism seems to float in a red, white, and blue haze. In reality, it was as much a global phenomenon as the ideology it fought against. “Darkness at Noon,” the chilling story of a Soviet political commissar sacrificed on the bloody altar of communism, was written by Hungarian journalist Arthur Koestler and first published in France; it dealt a near-fatal blow to the fortunes of the French Communist Party.
“Out of the Night” by Richard Krebs (published under the pseudonym Jan Valtin) and “I Chose Freedom” by Victor Kravchenko were both exposes written by Soviet defectors. Both were published in America thanks to the work of dedicated anti-communists like Isaac Don Levine and Eugene Lyons (himself an ex-communist). “I Chose Freedom” made perhaps the bigger splash. When the French communist paper Les Lettres Francaises accused Kravchenko of fabricating tales about gulags, political executions, and mass starvation, he sued them for libel—and won, after a chaotic trial brilliantly retold by Fleming.
Whittaker Chambers’s “Witness” marked the end of an era for American anti-communism. Not that Americans no longer opposed communism. But the Communist Party, which had once been so vibrant, was by that time a moldering corpse. The Alger Hiss case and
“Witness” simply interred the body. From then on, the serious battles against communism would be fought on foreign fronts. “Witness” served as a rallying cry for this coming battle. Chambers, a communist-turned conservative and an atheist-turned Quaker, warned Americans that beating the Soviets would require more than topping them in the annual production of dishwashers. Victory in this battle would require faith, faith in God and in democracy. The perpetually gloomy Chambers feared that neither would take root.
In his book—actually more a series of essays, joined under the spacious anti-communist umbrella—Fleming retells these stories with elegance, intelligence, and a slight smidgen of humor. You feel drawn back to the 1940s, the age of the Popular Front, the age when it sometimes seemed that the only thing standing between America and communism was a few hundred bound pages.
Two of the titles, “Witness” and “Darkness at Noon,” might be familiar to history-minded readers. The other two—“Out of the Night” and “I Chose Freedom”—are more obscure than the post-Wham career of Andrew Ridgely. Yet in their day, all four were widely read, widely discussed, and widely condemned by communists and fellow travelers in America and across the world.
People often assume anti-communism was an American phenomenon. The archetypal anticommunist, Joseph McCarthy, was as jingoistic as jingoes come, and the whole idea of anti-communism seems to float in a red, white, and blue haze. In reality, it was as much a global phenomenon as the ideology it fought against. “Darkness at Noon,” the chilling story of a Soviet political commissar sacrificed on the bloody altar of communism, was written by Hungarian journalist Arthur Koestler and first published in France; it dealt a near-fatal blow to the fortunes of the French Communist Party.
“Out of the Night” by Richard Krebs (published under the pseudonym Jan Valtin) and “I Chose Freedom” by Victor Kravchenko were both exposes written by Soviet defectors. Both were published in America thanks to the work of dedicated anti-communists like Isaac Don Levine and Eugene Lyons (himself an ex-communist). “I Chose Freedom” made perhaps the bigger splash. When the French communist paper Les Lettres Francaises accused Kravchenko of fabricating tales about gulags, political executions, and mass starvation, he sued them for libel—and won, after a chaotic trial brilliantly retold by Fleming.
Whittaker Chambers’s “Witness” marked the end of an era for American anti-communism. Not that Americans no longer opposed communism. But the Communist Party, which had once been so vibrant, was by that time a moldering corpse. The Alger Hiss case and
“Witness” simply interred the body. From then on, the serious battles against communism would be fought on foreign fronts. “Witness” served as a rallying cry for this coming battle. Chambers, a communist-turned conservative and an atheist-turned Quaker, warned Americans that beating the Soviets would require more than topping them in the annual production of dishwashers. Victory in this battle would require faith, faith in God and in democracy. The perpetually gloomy Chambers feared that neither would take root.
In his book—actually more a series of essays, joined under the spacious anti-communist umbrella—Fleming retells these stories with elegance, intelligence, and a slight smidgen of humor. You feel drawn back to the 1940s, the age of the Popular Front, the age when it sometimes seemed that the only thing standing between America and communism was a few hundred bound pages.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Procra
I was going to write a witty introduction for this article, but then I decided to do it tomorrow.
Out in the Cold
Tomorrow they turn the heat on in our dorm. At long last...no more waking up with that slab-of-beef-in-a-freezer feeling. No more thawing out my socks over a bare light bulb. No more kindling a fire with pages ripped from Benedict Anderson's "Imagined Communities."
This being New Jersey, of course, the weather will probably take a turn for the scorching sometime in the next few days. We'll go from freezing to broiling in no time at all. I guess the heat could have its advantages. For instance, I'll be able to cook cheese steak hot pockets without a microwave...
This being New Jersey, of course, the weather will probably take a turn for the scorching sometime in the next few days. We'll go from freezing to broiling in no time at all. I guess the heat could have its advantages. For instance, I'll be able to cook cheese steak hot pockets without a microwave...
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
The Wheel of Time
I remember my first time reading Robert Jordan. The book was "The Wheel of Time," a chunky, compact novel whose eye-catching cover featured a man on horseback wearing what looked like samurai armor. I read it in one sitting. Then I read the next. And the next. And so on and on, until I had read enough pages of Robert Jordan to fill two good-sized Bibles and small Koran besides.
Did I like the stuff? I think I did. Though I recognized the derivative elements--might as well calls Trollocs orcs and be done with it--I liked the sweep and complexity of Jordan's world. Most of all, I liked putting myself in the story, imagining what my character would have done in this or that situation. Inevitably, I used my super powers to smash the bad guys, often in very bloody ways. My altar-ego never wound up with a girl, but that was OK. Girls were gross.
My flirtation--no, my affair--with Robert Jordan ended in the seventh book. This, as dedicated Jordainaires may recall, was when characters started traveling through the dimensional portals that inexplicably popped up everywhere. It was getting a little too weird. Plus, it was impossible to keep track of the dozens of characters without a guide. I realized this when I tried to explain the plot of the fourth book to my parents. It took me fifteen minutes alone to introduce the characters.
Now, years later, this article brought me back to those days. Though the author is right to describe the later books as "a study in inertia," it's good to relive my career slaughtering Draghkars and battling Gray Men.
Did I like the stuff? I think I did. Though I recognized the derivative elements--might as well calls Trollocs orcs and be done with it--I liked the sweep and complexity of Jordan's world. Most of all, I liked putting myself in the story, imagining what my character would have done in this or that situation. Inevitably, I used my super powers to smash the bad guys, often in very bloody ways. My altar-ego never wound up with a girl, but that was OK. Girls were gross.
My flirtation--no, my affair--with Robert Jordan ended in the seventh book. This, as dedicated Jordainaires may recall, was when characters started traveling through the dimensional portals that inexplicably popped up everywhere. It was getting a little too weird. Plus, it was impossible to keep track of the dozens of characters without a guide. I realized this when I tried to explain the plot of the fourth book to my parents. It took me fifteen minutes alone to introduce the characters.
Now, years later, this article brought me back to those days. Though the author is right to describe the later books as "a study in inertia," it's good to relive my career slaughtering Draghkars and battling Gray Men.
Mini-Review: The Politics of Rage
Artie Bremer wanted to kill Richard Nixon, only to find himself stymied by the layers of security surrounding the president. What’s a psychopath to do? Bremer was forced to set his sights lower; he picked as his target Governor George Wallace of Alabama. Upset by this turn of events, Bremer complained that shooting a governor would hardly win him the notoriety he craved. George Wallace was not just any governor. In “The Politics of Rage: George Wallace, the Origins of the New Conservatism, and the Transformation of American Politics,” Dan Carter explores how a gawky country boy became America’s most polarizing politician.
Wallace was born to campaign. Blessed with a nose for power, he made the right allies early in his career, chief among them the colorful populist James “Big Jim” Folsom. Yet their relationship eventually buckled beneath the weight of the race question. As a circuit judge, Wallace was known for his courtesy toward black lawyers and clients, but things changed when he entered the arena. After losing a gubernatorial contest to a race-baiting opponent, Wallace famously swore “I will never be outniggered again.” He was true to his word. Four years later he swept into the governor’s mansion, defeating his former mentor Folsom in a campaign flavored by the sour tang of racism.
Race meant everything to Wallace. Unlike some southern politicians, who seemed to be putting on their racism in an attempt to smuggle economic populism through the back door, Wallace could talk of nothing but “Negro inferiority.” His attitude—a combination of condescending paternalism and ugly bigotry—seems a throwback to the old days of the pre-Civil War south. But, in a classic case of being the right person at the right time, Wallace’s rhetoric found a sympathetic hearing in the 1960s, as middle-class Americans began to fear their society was breaking apart under their feet.
His first presidential campaign, a quixotic run against Lyndon Johnson in 1964, introduced him to voters outside the south—and they liked what they saw. Wallace captured a quarter of the votes in Wisconsin, another quarter in Indiana, and nearly half in Maryland. Running as the American Independence candidate in 1968, the governor won most of the Deep South but failed to achieve his goal of throwing the election into the House of Representatives. Would he have been nominated by the Democrats in 1972? An interesting question, but Bremer’s bullet paralyzed Wallace and made the question moot.
In the long, dark twilight of his career, Wallace changed his segregationist ways and begged for forgiveness. Carter does not speculate as to the sincerity of this conversion. Nor does he spend much time on it—Wallace the civil rights activist is banished to the book’s epilogue.
Though I enjoyed Carter’s book, I found plenty quibbling material. His description of “the southernization of America” in the 1960s seems more a case of “the nationalization of the south.” The South was not exporting its poisonous brand of racism; indeed, racial tolerance was rising, albeit slowly, painfully, and with a good deal of bloodshed. Which leads to my second complaint. Carter depicts Wallace voters and conservatives in general as being infected by the southern virus of racism. Yet there was a degree of social disintegration in the 1960s; there really was a rise in national crime rates. Backlash politics was fed by more than racism. Acknowledging that fact would have made this a much stronger book.
Wallace was born to campaign. Blessed with a nose for power, he made the right allies early in his career, chief among them the colorful populist James “Big Jim” Folsom. Yet their relationship eventually buckled beneath the weight of the race question. As a circuit judge, Wallace was known for his courtesy toward black lawyers and clients, but things changed when he entered the arena. After losing a gubernatorial contest to a race-baiting opponent, Wallace famously swore “I will never be outniggered again.” He was true to his word. Four years later he swept into the governor’s mansion, defeating his former mentor Folsom in a campaign flavored by the sour tang of racism.
Race meant everything to Wallace. Unlike some southern politicians, who seemed to be putting on their racism in an attempt to smuggle economic populism through the back door, Wallace could talk of nothing but “Negro inferiority.” His attitude—a combination of condescending paternalism and ugly bigotry—seems a throwback to the old days of the pre-Civil War south. But, in a classic case of being the right person at the right time, Wallace’s rhetoric found a sympathetic hearing in the 1960s, as middle-class Americans began to fear their society was breaking apart under their feet.
His first presidential campaign, a quixotic run against Lyndon Johnson in 1964, introduced him to voters outside the south—and they liked what they saw. Wallace captured a quarter of the votes in Wisconsin, another quarter in Indiana, and nearly half in Maryland. Running as the American Independence candidate in 1968, the governor won most of the Deep South but failed to achieve his goal of throwing the election into the House of Representatives. Would he have been nominated by the Democrats in 1972? An interesting question, but Bremer’s bullet paralyzed Wallace and made the question moot.
In the long, dark twilight of his career, Wallace changed his segregationist ways and begged for forgiveness. Carter does not speculate as to the sincerity of this conversion. Nor does he spend much time on it—Wallace the civil rights activist is banished to the book’s epilogue.
Though I enjoyed Carter’s book, I found plenty quibbling material. His description of “the southernization of America” in the 1960s seems more a case of “the nationalization of the south.” The South was not exporting its poisonous brand of racism; indeed, racial tolerance was rising, albeit slowly, painfully, and with a good deal of bloodshed. Which leads to my second complaint. Carter depicts Wallace voters and conservatives in general as being infected by the southern virus of racism. Yet there was a degree of social disintegration in the 1960s; there really was a rise in national crime rates. Backlash politics was fed by more than racism. Acknowledging that fact would have made this a much stronger book.
The Soul of the Game
Don't have time to watch the baseball playoffs? This handy guide has all you need in a nutshell.
Monday, October 4, 2010
The Bish
Yesterday, the mass at Princeton chapel was graced by a visit from a diocesan bishop. After mass, he stood at the front of the church, shaking hands with parishioners as they left. As I approached the bishop, I realized I had no idea how to address him. Can't call him "father"--he's been promoted beyond that title. Is "your excellency" right? What about "your grace"? "Your majesty"?
Unable to choose, I compromised. As I shook the bishop's hand, I gave him a vacant smile and grunted in a pleasant, polite way, the way you might greet a complete stranger at a wedding. The bishop looked a little of puzzled. But he probably gets stuff like that all the time. What can you expect when you wear a hat shaped like a fancy napkin?
Unable to choose, I compromised. As I shook the bishop's hand, I gave him a vacant smile and grunted in a pleasant, polite way, the way you might greet a complete stranger at a wedding. The bishop looked a little of puzzled. But he probably gets stuff like that all the time. What can you expect when you wear a hat shaped like a fancy napkin?
Mini-Reviews: Books About History
History is the neurotic science. It constantly questions itself, asking whether it has a meaning, purpose, or method. Historians write long, scholarly books arguing that long, scholarly books are useless. History also suffers an inferiority complex; it longs to have the respect given to “hard” sciences like physics, mathematics, even economics. Sometimes it all becomes too much. You want to shout “Enough! Stop the bellyaching! Get back to the archives!”
Two books—one short and casual, the other long and densely-argued—offer historians a way out of their mental bind. The first, Marc Bloch’s “The Historian’s Craft,” is as notable for its own history as for its argument. Bloch was a prominent French historian who served in the Resistance during World War II. Captured, tortured, and executed by the Nazis, Bloch made “The Historian’s Craft” his last testament. At the outset, he apologizes for his unscholarly style—his books and notes were lost during the invasion.
Bloch dismisses the notion of “history as science.” Nothing could be more ridiculous, he scoffs. His definition of history is simple: “It is the appearance of the human element.” Having defined history, he then seeks to explain its method. The historian might be compared to a big game hunter. His quarry is “the human element.” Its tracks are the documents left behind by past generations: government records, bills of sale, diaries, the junk of human existence. The historian follows these tracks and, with a bit of imagination, tries to summon up the humans who left them behind.
There are dangers in this hunt. Bloch warns that “a historical phenomenon can never be understood apart from its moment in time.” Context is everything. The historian should also take care not to explain a thing by that which came immediately before it. History, according to Bloch, is less a chain than a web, every event connected to every other event. The firing on Fort Sumter might have triggered the Civil War, for instance, but it is absurd to think the war might have been averted if the guns of Charleston had stayed silent. Most of all, Bloch believes that the historian should be accepting of ignorance. There are some thing that can never be known.
Written in a spare and elegant style, “The Hstorian’s Craft” clocks in at 197 pages. Compare that to Hayden White’s “Metahistory.” Open it and random and you stumble across a sentence like “A history might have an explanatory component, like the ‘legend’ of a map, but this component had to be relegated to a place on the periphery of the narrative itself, in the same way that the legend of the map was.” And so on for 400+ pages.
You might expect me to hate “Metahistory.” But I don’t. It core idea is so radical that it earns my respect in spite of the wordy prose that surrounds it. To summarize, White erases the line between fiction and nonfiction. We do not come by our “historical consciousness” through the careful collection of evidence. Instead, our vision of history is a “moral and aesthetic” choice. There is no “right” way to see history. There are only different ways of describing it.
Specifically, there are four ways to see history, each corresponding to a type of fiction. You can regard history as a Romance, in which mankind struggles against—but finally overcomes—its challenges. Or you can see it as a Comedy. In the Comic mode of history, everything happens for the best, and everything has a happy ending. Then there is Tragedy—the notion that man is doomed by the very forces and institutions he creates in order to survive in this world. Lastly, the Satirical view of history holds that “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” Why bother with anything? No matter what we do, in the end it comes to nothing.
Each mode has an associated ideology: Anarchist, Conservative, Radical, Liberal. And each ideology has a trope: Metonym, Synecdoche, Metaphor, and Irony. And each trope has a…you get the idea. If it seems overdeveloped, that’s because it is. White is too eager to cram everything into his four-by-four box. Still, if you can overlook references to Satirical Comedies and Ironic Tragedies, you still have a fascinating study of four great European historians (Michelet, Ranke, Tocqueville, Burckhardt) and four great philosophers of history (Hegel, Marx, Nietzsche, Croce).
I think White comes to the same conclusion as Bloch. Choose your style. Write your history. Let the philosophers worry about the meaning of it all.
Two books—one short and casual, the other long and densely-argued—offer historians a way out of their mental bind. The first, Marc Bloch’s “The Historian’s Craft,” is as notable for its own history as for its argument. Bloch was a prominent French historian who served in the Resistance during World War II. Captured, tortured, and executed by the Nazis, Bloch made “The Historian’s Craft” his last testament. At the outset, he apologizes for his unscholarly style—his books and notes were lost during the invasion.
Bloch dismisses the notion of “history as science.” Nothing could be more ridiculous, he scoffs. His definition of history is simple: “It is the appearance of the human element.” Having defined history, he then seeks to explain its method. The historian might be compared to a big game hunter. His quarry is “the human element.” Its tracks are the documents left behind by past generations: government records, bills of sale, diaries, the junk of human existence. The historian follows these tracks and, with a bit of imagination, tries to summon up the humans who left them behind.
There are dangers in this hunt. Bloch warns that “a historical phenomenon can never be understood apart from its moment in time.” Context is everything. The historian should also take care not to explain a thing by that which came immediately before it. History, according to Bloch, is less a chain than a web, every event connected to every other event. The firing on Fort Sumter might have triggered the Civil War, for instance, but it is absurd to think the war might have been averted if the guns of Charleston had stayed silent. Most of all, Bloch believes that the historian should be accepting of ignorance. There are some thing that can never be known.
Written in a spare and elegant style, “The Hstorian’s Craft” clocks in at 197 pages. Compare that to Hayden White’s “Metahistory.” Open it and random and you stumble across a sentence like “A history might have an explanatory component, like the ‘legend’ of a map, but this component had to be relegated to a place on the periphery of the narrative itself, in the same way that the legend of the map was.” And so on for 400+ pages.
You might expect me to hate “Metahistory.” But I don’t. It core idea is so radical that it earns my respect in spite of the wordy prose that surrounds it. To summarize, White erases the line between fiction and nonfiction. We do not come by our “historical consciousness” through the careful collection of evidence. Instead, our vision of history is a “moral and aesthetic” choice. There is no “right” way to see history. There are only different ways of describing it.
Specifically, there are four ways to see history, each corresponding to a type of fiction. You can regard history as a Romance, in which mankind struggles against—but finally overcomes—its challenges. Or you can see it as a Comedy. In the Comic mode of history, everything happens for the best, and everything has a happy ending. Then there is Tragedy—the notion that man is doomed by the very forces and institutions he creates in order to survive in this world. Lastly, the Satirical view of history holds that “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” Why bother with anything? No matter what we do, in the end it comes to nothing.
Each mode has an associated ideology: Anarchist, Conservative, Radical, Liberal. And each ideology has a trope: Metonym, Synecdoche, Metaphor, and Irony. And each trope has a…you get the idea. If it seems overdeveloped, that’s because it is. White is too eager to cram everything into his four-by-four box. Still, if you can overlook references to Satirical Comedies and Ironic Tragedies, you still have a fascinating study of four great European historians (Michelet, Ranke, Tocqueville, Burckhardt) and four great philosophers of history (Hegel, Marx, Nietzsche, Croce).
I think White comes to the same conclusion as Bloch. Choose your style. Write your history. Let the philosophers worry about the meaning of it all.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Networking
Twitter is death to social activism. Or so says professional dilettante Malcolm Gladwell. He thinks the real key to social change isn't the connectivity provided by Web 2.0. Instead, you need a close-knit circle of friends. Having never inspired a revolution, not even a small and bloodless one, I do not feel qualified to comment.
Pick Vick?
Is it right to root for Michael Vick? Bill Simmons thinks so. Only one thing I would add--for the past two years it looked like the Atlanta Falcons did themselves a favor by cutting ties with their former quarterback. Everyone said Matt Ryan was a big upgrade from Vick. Now, though, "Matty Ice" has taken a step backwards, while Vick is--for the moment--hot property. So who gets the last laugh? Vick or Atlanta?
Artsy-Fartsy
Snobbish but interesting piece on "smart art," AKA "Urban Intellectual Fodder," AKA "the movies, music, and literature that appeal to New Yorker readers."
Saturday, October 2, 2010
October: A Pre-Retrospective
Ah, October! Month of Halloween, and…uh…other things, most of them Halloween-related. Month of pumpkins, candy corn, and, if you live in Detroit, arson on a scale not seen since the Dresden firebombing. We
October has a special place in my heart. My long-term project—very long-term, set for completion in the year 2159—is to create a qualitative ranking of the twelve months. For the curious, May and December are at the top, January and August at the bottom. October ranks very high on this list. Allow me to explain my method.
When I judge a month, the first thing I account for is holidays. Months with good holidays get more points. For instance, December gets more credit for Christmas than September does for Talk Like a Pirate Day. Holidays with either food or presents get extra-super bonus points, allowing November to rise in the rankings despite its weak profile.
October can boast one of the “Big Three” holidays. Granted, in my mind Halloween trails far behind Christmas and Thanksgiving. Trick-or-treating lost its appeal the year I dressed as a Star Trek redshirt. I was chased by a dog, fell into a creek, and was nearly run over five or six times. And though I concede the deliciousness of Halloween candy, can you really choose Smarties and Snickers over turkey and Christmas cookies? No. You cannot. Still…it’s a holiday where people give you free candy. That counts for a lot in my rankings.
Weather plays a big factor. Temperature extremes are a big no-no. Thus, July is dragged down the list by its sweaty, buggy nights and sauna-humid days. February has too many days that make you feel like a human popsicle. October offers a nice compromise. It might get a little nippy, but remember that this cold weather comes after the oppressive mugginess of August and the neither-hot-nor-cold wishy-washiness of September. To me, October means clear blue skies, a crisp breeze, and leaves swirling underfoot. Plus points for that.
Don’t forget sports! August really takes it in the shorts, sports-wise. All it has is Major League Baseball. Does anyone even watch baseball anymore? Aside from a couple Cubs fans, of course, hoping that this might be the year the Cubs flame out in the National League Championship Series rather than the Divisional Series. Compare this with October. The month is stuffed with sports. You have college football, the NFL, and—the one baseball event people watch—the World Series. The NBA might start in October, but I feel too lazy to check that online. So take my word for it.
Also note that October has better music than any other month except December: “Monster Mash” and the soundtrack from “The Nightmare Before Christmas.” Those beat “Alice’s Restaurant” in my book. Speaking of which, where is my book? I talk about “in my book” so often, but I’ve never even read it. Perhaps I can find it on Amazon.
In conclusion, all in all, to sum it up: October is a top-four month. For the moment. Who knows? If I walk outside tomorrow and get hit in the eye with a leaf, it might drop a few notches. We won’t know the final answer until 2159. Stay tuned!
October has a special place in my heart. My long-term project—very long-term, set for completion in the year 2159—is to create a qualitative ranking of the twelve months. For the curious, May and December are at the top, January and August at the bottom. October ranks very high on this list. Allow me to explain my method.
When I judge a month, the first thing I account for is holidays. Months with good holidays get more points. For instance, December gets more credit for Christmas than September does for Talk Like a Pirate Day. Holidays with either food or presents get extra-super bonus points, allowing November to rise in the rankings despite its weak profile.
October can boast one of the “Big Three” holidays. Granted, in my mind Halloween trails far behind Christmas and Thanksgiving. Trick-or-treating lost its appeal the year I dressed as a Star Trek redshirt. I was chased by a dog, fell into a creek, and was nearly run over five or six times. And though I concede the deliciousness of Halloween candy, can you really choose Smarties and Snickers over turkey and Christmas cookies? No. You cannot. Still…it’s a holiday where people give you free candy. That counts for a lot in my rankings.
Weather plays a big factor. Temperature extremes are a big no-no. Thus, July is dragged down the list by its sweaty, buggy nights and sauna-humid days. February has too many days that make you feel like a human popsicle. October offers a nice compromise. It might get a little nippy, but remember that this cold weather comes after the oppressive mugginess of August and the neither-hot-nor-cold wishy-washiness of September. To me, October means clear blue skies, a crisp breeze, and leaves swirling underfoot. Plus points for that.
Don’t forget sports! August really takes it in the shorts, sports-wise. All it has is Major League Baseball. Does anyone even watch baseball anymore? Aside from a couple Cubs fans, of course, hoping that this might be the year the Cubs flame out in the National League Championship Series rather than the Divisional Series. Compare this with October. The month is stuffed with sports. You have college football, the NFL, and—the one baseball event people watch—the World Series. The NBA might start in October, but I feel too lazy to check that online. So take my word for it.
Also note that October has better music than any other month except December: “Monster Mash” and the soundtrack from “The Nightmare Before Christmas.” Those beat “Alice’s Restaurant” in my book. Speaking of which, where is my book? I talk about “in my book” so often, but I’ve never even read it. Perhaps I can find it on Amazon.
In conclusion, all in all, to sum it up: October is a top-four month. For the moment. Who knows? If I walk outside tomorrow and get hit in the eye with a leaf, it might drop a few notches. We won’t know the final answer until 2159. Stay tuned!
Friday, October 1, 2010
Mini-Review: Up From Communism
No one is loved—or hated—like a convert. The receiving side hails him as a hero; the losing side hisses him as a traitor. The higher the stakes, the greater the praise and damnation, a truth born out in John P. Diggins’s “Up From Communism: Conservative Odysseys in American Intellectual History.” Diggins follows four intellectuals on their path from the Communist Party to the National Review masthead, and a very twisting path it is.
Many historians have noted the ironic fact that the brightest lights of American anti-communism began their political lives reading the Daily Worker and singing the Internationale. Norman Podhoretz, Irving Kristol, Daniel Bell, Frank Meyer, and Whittaker Chambers were all among “Stalin’s gift to anti-communism,” as such defectors were popularly known.
Four other gifts—particularly rich ones—are the subject of this book. Max Eastman was a ladykiller who, in his spare time, published highbrow titles like Marx and Lenin: The Science of Revolution. John Dos Passos authored the U.S.A. trilogy, which dripped bitter radicalism in lines like “all right we are two nations.” Will Herberg was nicknamed “the Rabbi” for his encyclopedic knowledge of Marxist texts and his mastery of debate. And James Burnham was prominent enough in the Communist Party to receive a rebuke from Trotsky himself.
What drove these men from Joe Stalin to Joe McCarthy? Stalin takes much of the blame. All four men were repulsed by his brutality; the stunning venality of the Nazi-Soviet Pact was another heavy weight in the anti-communist scale. But their conversion was more than a gut reaction. For each man, the road to the right passed through his own soul. And each found shelter in a different room within the newly built conservative household.
The journey might have been easiest for Burnham. A student of realpolitik, he had embraced hard-headed realism in books like The Machiavellians. To Burnham, power was the only thing that mattered in world affairs; not surprising, then, that he became an ardent Cold Warrior and advocate for “liberating” Eastern Europe. Max Eastman was drawn by economics. Disillusioned by communism, he became a spokesman—his enemies would say shill—for free enterprise.
Dos Passos and Herberg took more convoluted paths to the right, each traveling down many byways before reaching their destination. Dos Passos had always harbored a faint blue streak of conservatism. It was an older kind of conservatism, the kind that regarded modernity as a wasteland smelling of gasoline. The man who once declared “organization is death” found a kindred spirit not in Stalin but in Washington, Madison, and Jefferson; Dos Passos became an avid historian of the Founding Fathers. As to Herberg, he concluded that religion was all that mattered. “The Rabbi” converted to Judaism and enlisted his debating skills in God’s cause.
Diggins seems a little bemused by all this. He wonders how four men, so evidently brilliant, could wind up in thrall to a “pompous young man” named Bill Buckley. Diggins also argues that the four men suffered a sort of mental arteriosclerosis in their later years, their conservatism becoming hard and dogmatic—as if communism was a flexible faith. Still, he tells their stories well, explaining Marxian dialectics and the Niebuhrian irony with equal ease. Consider this book a gateway drug to harder varieties of conservative intellectual history.
Many historians have noted the ironic fact that the brightest lights of American anti-communism began their political lives reading the Daily Worker and singing the Internationale. Norman Podhoretz, Irving Kristol, Daniel Bell, Frank Meyer, and Whittaker Chambers were all among “Stalin’s gift to anti-communism,” as such defectors were popularly known.
Four other gifts—particularly rich ones—are the subject of this book. Max Eastman was a ladykiller who, in his spare time, published highbrow titles like Marx and Lenin: The Science of Revolution. John Dos Passos authored the U.S.A. trilogy, which dripped bitter radicalism in lines like “all right we are two nations.” Will Herberg was nicknamed “the Rabbi” for his encyclopedic knowledge of Marxist texts and his mastery of debate. And James Burnham was prominent enough in the Communist Party to receive a rebuke from Trotsky himself.
What drove these men from Joe Stalin to Joe McCarthy? Stalin takes much of the blame. All four men were repulsed by his brutality; the stunning venality of the Nazi-Soviet Pact was another heavy weight in the anti-communist scale. But their conversion was more than a gut reaction. For each man, the road to the right passed through his own soul. And each found shelter in a different room within the newly built conservative household.
The journey might have been easiest for Burnham. A student of realpolitik, he had embraced hard-headed realism in books like The Machiavellians. To Burnham, power was the only thing that mattered in world affairs; not surprising, then, that he became an ardent Cold Warrior and advocate for “liberating” Eastern Europe. Max Eastman was drawn by economics. Disillusioned by communism, he became a spokesman—his enemies would say shill—for free enterprise.
Dos Passos and Herberg took more convoluted paths to the right, each traveling down many byways before reaching their destination. Dos Passos had always harbored a faint blue streak of conservatism. It was an older kind of conservatism, the kind that regarded modernity as a wasteland smelling of gasoline. The man who once declared “organization is death” found a kindred spirit not in Stalin but in Washington, Madison, and Jefferson; Dos Passos became an avid historian of the Founding Fathers. As to Herberg, he concluded that religion was all that mattered. “The Rabbi” converted to Judaism and enlisted his debating skills in God’s cause.
Diggins seems a little bemused by all this. He wonders how four men, so evidently brilliant, could wind up in thrall to a “pompous young man” named Bill Buckley. Diggins also argues that the four men suffered a sort of mental arteriosclerosis in their later years, their conservatism becoming hard and dogmatic—as if communism was a flexible faith. Still, he tells their stories well, explaining Marxian dialectics and the Niebuhrian irony with equal ease. Consider this book a gateway drug to harder varieties of conservative intellectual history.
O, Chocinco!
This story gives new meaning to the phrase "sexy cereal." Not that the phrase had a meaning in the first place.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
By the Way...
...If you wonder why I'm posting at 7 in the morning, there is a simple explanation, and it ain't "insomnia." My run was washed out by an early morning downpour. How to waste the sudden gift of an extra hour? Why not blog about it to a cold, uncaring world?
An Evening with David Sedaris
When I learned David Sedaris was coming to Princeton, my first thought was “How do I get free tickets?” Failing to accomplish that, I settled for my second thought, “How much do tickets cost?” The answer was $15, the price of a movie ticket plus butter-flavored popcorn. Very reasonable, I thought. How often would I get a chance to see someone who had been published in the New Yorker? Yes, I could go over to John McPhee’s house—he lives in Princeton—and peer through his windows, but both Mr. McPhee and the New Jersey police might object.
So I got my ticket. Cheapness always has a downside, which, in this case, came in the phrase “Standing Room Only.” But, I rationalized, do I really need a seat? Standing is an excellent way to burn calories. It keeps you from dozing off during the performance. It’s easier and less obtrusive if you need to leave to use the bathroom. Finally, there is a significantly lower chance of being called on during “audience participation” segments. The performers like to pick on the big spenders sitting in the front row, not the poverty-stricken grad students in back.
The performance began at 8. I arrived at 7:50 and immediately fell victim to class envy. The wardrobe of a grad student—OK, my wardrobe—has two settings: “Slobbish” and “Overdressed.” Not wanting to show up in a blazer and slacks, I opted instead for a T-shirt and shorts. It was my nicest t-shirt, a little black number with a purple-and-yellow stripe across the chest. I only break it out for classy engagements. As you might guess, it paled next to the casual-but-nice clothes worn by everybody else.
Speaking of “everybody else”…they skewed older than you might expect. Not that they came with canes and walkers, but the average age seemed somewhere in the thirties, with plenty of gray hair in evidence. Then I remembered that Sedaris himself is 53. I had always thought of him perfectly preserved at age 25, as so many of his stories take place in his college and post-college years. But no: not even the author of “Santaland Diaries” is immune to aging.
An usher was showing people to their seats, though, obviously, I had no need for such a service. The world was my seat. I wasn’t like those bourgeois bluehairs with their fancy clothes and narrow minds. No, I was a rebel, a free spirit who stood wherever there was room to stand. At least that’s what I told myself whenever I felt my knees begin to buckle. No! Can’t collapse! Must keep standing to make a statement for free-spiritedness!
I don’t want to reveal anything about the performance itself. David Sedaris might sue. Therefore, I have heavily censored the next few paragraphs:
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX severed heads XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX warblers XXX XXXXXXXXX Elaine Stritch XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX gas chamber XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX vigilantism XXXX attempted rape XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ice pick XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX murder XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX crumbled ham dummy XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX burqini XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ripped his lungs out XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX airplanes XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX unicorn XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX the end XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Such was David Sedaris. A good time was had by all, me especially.
So I got my ticket. Cheapness always has a downside, which, in this case, came in the phrase “Standing Room Only.” But, I rationalized, do I really need a seat? Standing is an excellent way to burn calories. It keeps you from dozing off during the performance. It’s easier and less obtrusive if you need to leave to use the bathroom. Finally, there is a significantly lower chance of being called on during “audience participation” segments. The performers like to pick on the big spenders sitting in the front row, not the poverty-stricken grad students in back.
The performance began at 8. I arrived at 7:50 and immediately fell victim to class envy. The wardrobe of a grad student—OK, my wardrobe—has two settings: “Slobbish” and “Overdressed.” Not wanting to show up in a blazer and slacks, I opted instead for a T-shirt and shorts. It was my nicest t-shirt, a little black number with a purple-and-yellow stripe across the chest. I only break it out for classy engagements. As you might guess, it paled next to the casual-but-nice clothes worn by everybody else.
Speaking of “everybody else”…they skewed older than you might expect. Not that they came with canes and walkers, but the average age seemed somewhere in the thirties, with plenty of gray hair in evidence. Then I remembered that Sedaris himself is 53. I had always thought of him perfectly preserved at age 25, as so many of his stories take place in his college and post-college years. But no: not even the author of “Santaland Diaries” is immune to aging.
An usher was showing people to their seats, though, obviously, I had no need for such a service. The world was my seat. I wasn’t like those bourgeois bluehairs with their fancy clothes and narrow minds. No, I was a rebel, a free spirit who stood wherever there was room to stand. At least that’s what I told myself whenever I felt my knees begin to buckle. No! Can’t collapse! Must keep standing to make a statement for free-spiritedness!
I don’t want to reveal anything about the performance itself. David Sedaris might sue. Therefore, I have heavily censored the next few paragraphs:
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX severed heads XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX warblers XXX XXXXXXXXX Elaine Stritch XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX gas chamber XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX vigilantism XXXX attempted rape XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ice pick XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX murder XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX crumbled ham dummy XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX burqini XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ripped his lungs out XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX airplanes XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX unicorn XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX the end XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Such was David Sedaris. A good time was had by all, me especially.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
For Whom the Bells Toll
The sounds currently coming from the bell tower are indescribable. Imagine you took ten death row inmates, gave them each a cast iron bell, and said, "OK, fellas, fight it out. Last one alive gets parole." And just for kicks, imagine each inmate is tone-deaf. Am I making myself clear?
Mini-Review: Nightmare in Red
Pay no mind to its lurid title—Richard Fried’s “Nightmare in Red: The McCarthy Era in Perspective” is a fine, if limited, primer on American anti-communism. It’s not the best book on anti-communism. It’s not the best book on the Red Scare. It’s not even the best book on Joe McCarthy. But it’s the best short book on all three subjects.
Fried picks up the story shortly after World War II, when Americans began to realize that “Uncle Joe” Stalin might not be as cuddly as he seemed. The conquest of China by Maoist cadres added another ingredient to the simmering anti-communist stew. No surprise, then, that the Communist Party—which had enjoyed a brief vogue during the war—suddenly became less popular than syphilis. Politicians national and local seized the anti-communist issue as a cudgel to beat their enemies.
Some anti-communist warriors won great victories. Richard Nixon, for instance, made a national name thanks to his role in the Alger Hiss case. The urbane Hiss, accused of espionage by a dumpy ex-communist named Whittaker Chambers, turned out to have been part of a Soviet spy ring in Washington during the 1930s. More often, though, these hunts devolved into farces, more dangerous to the anti-communist cause than to undercover reds. Fried details some of the more lunatic cases: one father charged a candy company with pro-Soviet bias for printing a wrapper bearing a map of the USSR.
Yet when it comes to explaining anti-communism, Fried stutters. Certainly, the world scene contributed to public fears. Anti-communism spiked during the bleakest days of the Korean War. But Fried tries to argue that the driving force behind the movement was “conservative politics.” And how does he define conservative politics? As anti-communism. There you have it: anti-communism was the product of anti-communism.
Every history of anti-communism makes Joe McCarthy its centerpiece, and, once again, Fried delivers a mixed bag. Tail Gunner Joe’s story is retold in its sordid detail. The highs and lows—the Wheeling speech, the investigation of Owen Lattimore, the Army hearings, “Have you no sense of decency?”—are all touched. Still, the simple question of “Why McCarthy” is never answered. Why that demagogue at that time? Why him and not, say, William Jenner or William Knowland, who shared McCarthy’s anti-communism but not his vile personality?
“Nightmare in Red” is an excellent starting point. It’ss short and punchy; you can read it in a day or two. Don’t stop with Fried, though. Read “Not Without Honor,” a comprehensive—magisterial, even—history of American anti-communism by Richard Gid Powers. Or pick up David Oshinksy’s “A Conspiracy So Immense: The World of Joe McCarthy,” one of the finest biographies I have ever read. There is a world of literature on anti-communism, much of it quite good. “Nightmare” is only the beginning.
Fried picks up the story shortly after World War II, when Americans began to realize that “Uncle Joe” Stalin might not be as cuddly as he seemed. The conquest of China by Maoist cadres added another ingredient to the simmering anti-communist stew. No surprise, then, that the Communist Party—which had enjoyed a brief vogue during the war—suddenly became less popular than syphilis. Politicians national and local seized the anti-communist issue as a cudgel to beat their enemies.
Some anti-communist warriors won great victories. Richard Nixon, for instance, made a national name thanks to his role in the Alger Hiss case. The urbane Hiss, accused of espionage by a dumpy ex-communist named Whittaker Chambers, turned out to have been part of a Soviet spy ring in Washington during the 1930s. More often, though, these hunts devolved into farces, more dangerous to the anti-communist cause than to undercover reds. Fried details some of the more lunatic cases: one father charged a candy company with pro-Soviet bias for printing a wrapper bearing a map of the USSR.
Yet when it comes to explaining anti-communism, Fried stutters. Certainly, the world scene contributed to public fears. Anti-communism spiked during the bleakest days of the Korean War. But Fried tries to argue that the driving force behind the movement was “conservative politics.” And how does he define conservative politics? As anti-communism. There you have it: anti-communism was the product of anti-communism.
Every history of anti-communism makes Joe McCarthy its centerpiece, and, once again, Fried delivers a mixed bag. Tail Gunner Joe’s story is retold in its sordid detail. The highs and lows—the Wheeling speech, the investigation of Owen Lattimore, the Army hearings, “Have you no sense of decency?”—are all touched. Still, the simple question of “Why McCarthy” is never answered. Why that demagogue at that time? Why him and not, say, William Jenner or William Knowland, who shared McCarthy’s anti-communism but not his vile personality?
“Nightmare in Red” is an excellent starting point. It’ss short and punchy; you can read it in a day or two. Don’t stop with Fried, though. Read “Not Without Honor,” a comprehensive—magisterial, even—history of American anti-communism by Richard Gid Powers. Or pick up David Oshinksy’s “A Conspiracy So Immense: The World of Joe McCarthy,” one of the finest biographies I have ever read. There is a world of literature on anti-communism, much of it quite good. “Nightmare” is only the beginning.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Time to Take Out the Trash
The title is meant in the most literal sense possible. My garbage can is starting to breed small bloodsucking flies. If I wait any longer, the room will technically count as a landfill under New Jersey law.
SUPERSTAR!
"Onscreen, when Rajinikanth points his finger, it's accompanied by the sound of a whip cracking. When he becomes enraged, the director cuts to a shot of a gorilla pounding his chest or inserts a tiger roaring on the soundtrack." And more bizarre tales of SUPERSTAR! Rajinikanth, Bollywood's biggest star.
Make sure to watch the trailer for "The Robot." It looks like the bizarre lovechild of Bicentennial Man and Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers.
Make sure to watch the trailer for "The Robot." It looks like the bizarre lovechild of Bicentennial Man and Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Eh?
Actual book spotted in Firestone: "Politics in Saskatchewan." I assume that running from polar bears is a perennial hot-button issue.
Weather or Not
God has smiled on Princeton for the past three weeks. New Jersey weather is not known for...anything, really, aside from being gray and drab. Yet for twenty-odd days, we've enjoyed a bumper crop of sunshine and warm weather. I expected to spend my first month here swaddled in protective layers of cotton and down. Instead, I can walk down to the library wearing a t-shirt.*
Today, things changed. Today, winter came to Princeton. Not real winter weather, with cold and snow and frostbite, but the idea of winter. A foggy gray drizzle fell from morning until night. I kept waiting for the clouds to open and for the sun to dissipate the gloom, but it seems the summer sun is now stone-dead. So much for t-shirts. Time to break out the parkas, the scarves, the gloves, the beanie with the Carolina logo.
I feel a little anxious. It'll be the first time I've faced a "real winter" in a decade. Has North Carolina made me soft? Probably. Making it to mid-December without suffering hypothermia would be a moral victory.
*And pants. Most days.
Today, things changed. Today, winter came to Princeton. Not real winter weather, with cold and snow and frostbite, but the idea of winter. A foggy gray drizzle fell from morning until night. I kept waiting for the clouds to open and for the sun to dissipate the gloom, but it seems the summer sun is now stone-dead. So much for t-shirts. Time to break out the parkas, the scarves, the gloves, the beanie with the Carolina logo.
I feel a little anxious. It'll be the first time I've faced a "real winter" in a decade. Has North Carolina made me soft? Probably. Making it to mid-December without suffering hypothermia would be a moral victory.
*And pants. Most days.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Squirrely
On the way to breakfast, I saw a squirrel wrestling with an empty plastic bag. The bag was winning. Yet another argument for the eventual destruction of Mother Nature.
Mini-Review: Blessed Among Nations
Eric Rauchway’s “Blessed Among Nations: How the World Made America” takes a sledgehammer to the myth of American exceptionalism and, when that proves insufficient, picks up a crowbar and blowtorch to finish the job. America, Rauchway writes, is indeed special—but only by the good graces of the rest of the world.
Nineteenth century America was a promising start-up. Foreign banks, British ones especially, poured capital into the country, funding its westward expansion and its ever-growing railroad network. Surviving the Civil War enhanced America’s reputation as a good bet. Junius Morgan advised his son to “Always be a ‘bull,’ on America,” words that the young J. Pierpont took to heart. Money from Morgan and other bankers propelled the American economy from pushover to powerhouse.
Along with the flow of foreign money came another, much more visible stream: millions upon millions of immigrants. They came not because America was a mythic “land of opportunity” but because it was a land of actual, concrete opportunities, the manufacturing jobs created by European investment. What made this diaspora unique was not volume—Canada had a larger immigrant population by percentage. The difference was diversity. Immigrants to America came from Austria and Italy, Russia and Germany, England and Norway—a smorgasbord of humanity that, as Rauchway points out, precluded the development of working class solidarity.
America benefited from an early form of globalization, gorging on capital and labor from abroad. But, Rauchway argues, America has refused to pay its debt. Instead of acknowledging what we owe the world, we have done our best to throttle the very global network that made us rich. Our punishing tariffs and restrictive immigration laws have smothered the impulse toward globalization.
You—and certainly I—might not agree with Rauchway’s prescription. He thinks we need more regulations and an expanded welfare state, the better to soothe average Americans into accepting globalization. Still, even if his solution might be off the mark, his diagnosis is worth a look.
Nineteenth century America was a promising start-up. Foreign banks, British ones especially, poured capital into the country, funding its westward expansion and its ever-growing railroad network. Surviving the Civil War enhanced America’s reputation as a good bet. Junius Morgan advised his son to “Always be a ‘bull,’ on America,” words that the young J. Pierpont took to heart. Money from Morgan and other bankers propelled the American economy from pushover to powerhouse.
Along with the flow of foreign money came another, much more visible stream: millions upon millions of immigrants. They came not because America was a mythic “land of opportunity” but because it was a land of actual, concrete opportunities, the manufacturing jobs created by European investment. What made this diaspora unique was not volume—Canada had a larger immigrant population by percentage. The difference was diversity. Immigrants to America came from Austria and Italy, Russia and Germany, England and Norway—a smorgasbord of humanity that, as Rauchway points out, precluded the development of working class solidarity.
America benefited from an early form of globalization, gorging on capital and labor from abroad. But, Rauchway argues, America has refused to pay its debt. Instead of acknowledging what we owe the world, we have done our best to throttle the very global network that made us rich. Our punishing tariffs and restrictive immigration laws have smothered the impulse toward globalization.
You—and certainly I—might not agree with Rauchway’s prescription. He thinks we need more regulations and an expanded welfare state, the better to soothe average Americans into accepting globalization. Still, even if his solution might be off the mark, his diagnosis is worth a look.
We've Got You Covered
Joe Posnanski presents 32 great--if not necessarily "greatest"--Sports Illustrated covers. My favorites:
13. Bizarro Baseball--Because the look on Cartoon Jeter's face is, if not priceless, at least out of the price range of most families.
18. Jack Lambert--A man who can go trick-or-treating without a mask. Post-NFL, Lambert could have made a fortune selling mouth guards.
15. Brett Favre--Hey, remember when everyone loved Brett? When the Cheesehead Faithful toasted his holy name with brats and beer? This cover--Favre at work in whiteout conditions--is a nice reminder of those long-gone days.
13. Bizarro Baseball--Because the look on Cartoon Jeter's face is, if not priceless, at least out of the price range of most families.
18. Jack Lambert--A man who can go trick-or-treating without a mask. Post-NFL, Lambert could have made a fortune selling mouth guards.
15. Brett Favre--Hey, remember when everyone loved Brett? When the Cheesehead Faithful toasted his holy name with brats and beer? This cover--Favre at work in whiteout conditions--is a nice reminder of those long-gone days.
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