Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Notes from the Florida Primary...
Best line of Mitt Romney's concession speech: "We need a President who's actually had a job in the real economy."
First yiddish heard on the campaign trail: Chris Matthews calling Hillary Clinton's celebratory speech for winning exactly zero delegates in Florida "chutzpah."
Best metaphor for Clinton's celebration pseudo-event: Andrea Mitchell calling it "a Potemkin Village."
Pictured above: the Potemkin White House.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Liveblogging Jury Duty
Ok, so maybe I'm not really "liveblogging" Jury Duty. It would have been the perfect thing to liveblog, especially because the whole liveblog genre is exclusive to uncanny things that are both too horrible to watch and too horrible not to. (See: Moment of Truth, Basic Instinct 2, or the presidential debates.)However, since serving on a jury is both an honor and a privilege, then it's an honor and a privilege to (probably illegally) tell you everything that happened in all its gritty detail. So here are some pre-recorded liveblogging-type field notes from the end of Day 1 of what could be at least two weeks in the belly of the beast.
- Do you know about that infamous dramatization/educational video of the history of human justice? Well don't expect it to work due to "technical difficulties." Seriously, I am sort of devastated that I didn't get to see this. I've only heard amazing stories about its depiction of the Middle Ages, with the burlap robes and the spooky dry ice atmosphere and Ed Bradlee walking out from behind a tree to narrate it with his bold, dead voice. But since I won't get called back to J.D. for at least another 8 years (or so they say), I may never have a chance to see this video myself. Youtube, where art thou when you need thou?
- When the presiding clerk asks you to turn off your cell phone because it interferes with the television sets, don't believe him. But don't question him either because you know he knows he's lying to you with his "magical" sense of how cell phones and TV sets work when they are in proximity of one another. He's just trying to keep the people under control.
- When you're informed that there's a computer room adjacent to the jurors' lounge, try to get one with a monitor and computer system. FYI The plug-ins haven't been updated since Windows 95, so don't expect to do anything relevant with them. Like liveblogging jury duty.
- You will hear somebody say a variation of the following countless times: "I know jury duty is inconvenient and painful, but..." followed by a simplistic argument that the whole world will fall apart if people stopped showing up for jury duty. Duh, really? This is nonsense, and characteristic of the lawyer's distinct ability to shift everything -- including Democracy -- from the system to you. What did Marx say? _____ is the opiate of the people? You can fill in the blank with whatever.
- Bring food and drink and try to find a seat close to the window and as far from the door as possible.
- You will be astounded by the number of non-English speakers who seem to slip through the cracks by just not saying a word to anybody. It's amazing to watch an attorney ask someone if they are OK with the fact that our system works on the fundamental principle of "innocent until proven guilty" only to be stared back at with a blank and vulnerable stare.
- You will also be astounded by both the number of people who assert that everything they need to know about the legal system comes from Law & Order, CSI, etc., and that they are incapable of sitting on a jury because they think that reality will never, ever be as good as TV. Seriously.
David Brooks goes ga-ga
It's no wonder the New York Times gave Bill Kristol a slot on the op/ed page. David Brooks has gone completely ga-ga for Obama.
After his callow youth, Kennedy came to realize that life would not give him the chance to be president. But life did ask him to be a senator, and he has embraced that role and served that institution with more distinction than anyone else now living — as any of his colleagues, Republican or Democrat, will tell you. And he could do it because culture really does have rhythms. The respect for institutions that was prevalent during the early ’60s is prevalent with the young again today. The earnest industriousness that was common then is back today. The awareness that we are not self-made individualists, free to be you and me, but emerge as parts of networks, webs and communities; that awareness is back again today.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
"...But the FCC rejected that, saying buttocks qualifies as both sexual and excretory."
From ABC's affiliate in Maine:
Bare Rear Could Cost ABC Stations $1.4M
Ladies and gentlemen, Bill Moyers on the man who knows everything an ass is meant to do because he is one, FCC Chairman Kevin J. Martin.
Bare Rear Could Cost ABC Stations $1.4M
The FCC defines indecent content as depicting or describing "sexual or excretory activities" in a "patently offensive way." ABC argued that "the buttocks are not a sexual organ." But the agency rejected that, saying buttocks qualifies as both sexual and excretory.So basically, the FCC had to argue what?
Ladies and gentlemen, Bill Moyers on the man who knows everything an ass is meant to do because he is one, FCC Chairman Kevin J. Martin.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Watching 'Moment of Truth' so you don't have to...
Over at Channel Alex's brother blog Cosmodrome "Magazine" - listed on Channel Alex as one of the Top 10 News Outlets Influenced by Me for 2007 - we liveblogged the last 31 minutes of Fox's new scintillating reality series "Moment of Truth" for those of you who couldn't make it past the first 29 minutes, or those of you who couldn't be bothered to watch it tonight. Click here for the transcript.
UPDATE: Just to state the obvious, only now that I am single do I get to do great things like live blog TV shows like "Moment of Truth."
R.I.P. Heath Ledger
I know this video isn't of Heath Ledger, but the actor's death at age 28 marks - in my opinion - the most significant loss of a young actor since the great River Phoenix. With all due respect to Brad Renfro. And Jonathan Brandis.
Heath's death struck me deeply because I respected him immensely as an actor. Beyond gay cowboys, or Bob Dylan in my #1 movie of 2007 I'm Not There, or even his upcoming and highly anticipated role as the Joker in The Dark Knight, Heath will no doubt be remembered for his enormous ability to play complex and varied roles.
But beyond fandom, his death struck me on a personal note, and I will tell you why. It is particularly painful because for the past two years Heath has been integral to a small though complex lie that I've been telling a lot of people. His death compels me to come clean with it.
See, it was about two years ago when I was shopping in a trendy men's clothing store on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, just a few blocks from the brownstone in which Heath, his then-wife Michelle Williams, and their daughter Matilda were living. It wasn't uncommon to hear reports from neighborhood friends that they saw Heath at this place, or Michelle at that place. And while they were trying to keep a low profile with the paparazzi - searching for some semblance of normalcy by living outside the bustle of Manhattan - they made presence in the borough known by lending their names to a local fight against the construction of a stadium and highrise apartment development not far from where they lived.
The store I was shopping in was a tiny hole in the wall, but it had some great clothing -- antique-style working jackets and expensive handmade neckties. It was fall, and like many fellow Brooklynites, I was in the market for a sweater. The sweater I chose was a nice seafoam colored cardigan, and I found myself checking out my silhouette in the mirror, because, really, it might take you more than a few minutes to ultimately decide that you absolutely must have that seafoam colored cardigan. I digress; but the truth is that I was completely oblivious to the fact that Heath and Michelle were not only in the store with me, but they were the only other people in the store besides my shopping partner and the cashier, and they were standing right the fuck next to me and talking to each other in Australian accents. I must be blind and deaf or inordinately smitten by my own image, because I didn't realize this until I left the store with my seafoam cardigan and my then-shopping partner, who slapped my arm and asked me: "Did you notice Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams were in the store with us?"
No, I said.
If you had been there and seen my proximity to the couple, I assure you, you'd be silently judging me. "You must be either pleasantly jaded by celebrity or a raving fucking lunatic asshole narcissist not to to recognize Heath and Michelle on Atlantic Fucking Avenue in Boerum Fucking Hill in Brooklyn." I assure you, dear reader, it is certainly not a case of the former. And I just can't live with the fact that I might actually be a raving fucking lunatic asshole narcissist.
So herein lies the lie. After the encounter, what is referred to by air traffic controllers as a "near miss," I started telling everybody that not only did I see Heath, but that he complimented me on my seafoam cardigan and wanted to buy one for himself. Unfortunately for him, I was buying the store's last one. Mind you, that story also includes at least two other minor personal fantasies: (1) that I have taste envied by the stars, and (2) that Heath and I wear would wear the same size cardigan.
Well, Heath, I don't really wear my seafoam cardigan anymore. It's nice, but the color looked rather dull just one season later. Plus, I've probably gained a few pounds since I bought it, so the sweater sort of stretches around the torso in a moderately unflattering way. So I just wanted to let you know that if I could bring you back by giving you my seafoam cardigan, I totally would. You were great, and will be missed deeply by us all.
Heath's death struck me deeply because I respected him immensely as an actor. Beyond gay cowboys, or Bob Dylan in my #1 movie of 2007 I'm Not There, or even his upcoming and highly anticipated role as the Joker in The Dark Knight, Heath will no doubt be remembered for his enormous ability to play complex and varied roles.
But beyond fandom, his death struck me on a personal note, and I will tell you why. It is particularly painful because for the past two years Heath has been integral to a small though complex lie that I've been telling a lot of people. His death compels me to come clean with it.
See, it was about two years ago when I was shopping in a trendy men's clothing store on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, just a few blocks from the brownstone in which Heath, his then-wife Michelle Williams, and their daughter Matilda were living. It wasn't uncommon to hear reports from neighborhood friends that they saw Heath at this place, or Michelle at that place. And while they were trying to keep a low profile with the paparazzi - searching for some semblance of normalcy by living outside the bustle of Manhattan - they made presence in the borough known by lending their names to a local fight against the construction of a stadium and highrise apartment development not far from where they lived.
The store I was shopping in was a tiny hole in the wall, but it had some great clothing -- antique-style working jackets and expensive handmade neckties. It was fall, and like many fellow Brooklynites, I was in the market for a sweater. The sweater I chose was a nice seafoam colored cardigan, and I found myself checking out my silhouette in the mirror, because, really, it might take you more than a few minutes to ultimately decide that you absolutely must have that seafoam colored cardigan. I digress; but the truth is that I was completely oblivious to the fact that Heath and Michelle were not only in the store with me, but they were the only other people in the store besides my shopping partner and the cashier, and they were standing right the fuck next to me and talking to each other in Australian accents. I must be blind and deaf or inordinately smitten by my own image, because I didn't realize this until I left the store with my seafoam cardigan and my then-shopping partner, who slapped my arm and asked me: "Did you notice Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams were in the store with us?"
No, I said.
If you had been there and seen my proximity to the couple, I assure you, you'd be silently judging me. "You must be either pleasantly jaded by celebrity or a raving fucking lunatic asshole narcissist not to to recognize Heath and Michelle on Atlantic Fucking Avenue in Boerum Fucking Hill in Brooklyn." I assure you, dear reader, it is certainly not a case of the former. And I just can't live with the fact that I might actually be a raving fucking lunatic asshole narcissist.
So herein lies the lie. After the encounter, what is referred to by air traffic controllers as a "near miss," I started telling everybody that not only did I see Heath, but that he complimented me on my seafoam cardigan and wanted to buy one for himself. Unfortunately for him, I was buying the store's last one. Mind you, that story also includes at least two other minor personal fantasies: (1) that I have taste envied by the stars, and (2) that Heath and I wear would wear the same size cardigan.
Well, Heath, I don't really wear my seafoam cardigan anymore. It's nice, but the color looked rather dull just one season later. Plus, I've probably gained a few pounds since I bought it, so the sweater sort of stretches around the torso in a moderately unflattering way. So I just wanted to let you know that if I could bring you back by giving you my seafoam cardigan, I totally would. You were great, and will be missed deeply by us all.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Classic British Humor Alert!
Take a look at these Customer Reviews of a Bic Crystal Ballpoint Pen. The comedy is so dry it makes me want to run out and buy some lubriderm because OY VEY my skin is cracking!
A fantastic piece of journalism!
From the CBS interview with David Crosby, in which the journalist projects the reader's voice and imagines that the reader actually knows (1) who Melissa Etheridge's partner was and (2) that she is no longer Etheridge's partner.
And just when you think David Crosby's life can't be any more dramatic, you say, 'Wait a minute - wasn't he the guy who donated sperm so that Melissa Etheridge and her then-partner Julie Cypher could have children?' He was … and it was his wife's idea
"I didn't ask him first," Jan said.
"You offered him first?" Braver asked.
"I did, and you know in retrospect, I have to honestly say the moment was so pure that I didn't have to question it."
Crosby didn’t question it, either.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
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