11 years ago
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
all my childhood heroes are being sullied
Our favorite frog, Kermit, just appeared in a Toyota "green" commercial hamming it up with American Idol contestants. It reminds me of Bruce Springsteen's ill-advised campaigning on behalf of John Kerry in 2004. When he clasped Kerry's hand and held it up in the air, I turned off the television.
A blessed half hour of television
Just went to my mom's home for a half-hour respite. Been having neck and shoulder issues and I desperately needed to lie down and breathe deeply. While doing so, I watched a PBS show about the adventures of a near-adolescent aardvark named Arthur and his friends Buster, his bratty sister DW and an assortment of other mammalian friends. I am beginning to realize this is hands-down my FAVORITE SHOW ON TELEVISION. It's like tea time, or like smoking a bowl, or like a deep-tissue massage. It's so relaxing. Really. I so-not-facetiously recommend it to anyone seeking some gentle, uplifting television after a hard day. Or during one. It is nicely written and morally edifying. Again, no sarcasm here. Give it a whirl.
The "law" in "flaw"
I got to hear a Supreme Court justice talk last week. It was pretty cool. He talked about many interesting things. Past cases, the role of the court in a democracy, the role of the press in covering the court. Why, despite some necessary mystery, the Supreme Court ought to be understood and questioned and open to the public.
But what was most interesting to hear wasn't what was said. It was how it was said. His way of thinking, sorting, balancing every thought with a counter-thought or variation on the original. Dilineating good from bad, then switching them up on you like a bored magician. Like all good, noncommittal lawyers, he is accustomed to thinking vertically, getting deep into issues rather than scraping meekly over top of them with a broken plastic fork like the rest of us. This type of thinking leaves one full, but not necessarily satisfied. Still, it was all very impressive.
Of course, the balding bench jockey has the luxury and mandate to think in such terms. His institution is one that, if democracy serves, sets the boundaries of what's permissible in a free society. He and his fellow robed wizards are tasked with taking and defending sides using precedents, hypotheticals, common sense and a choice of myriad Constitution-interpreting philosophies in order to reach a conclusion that is invariably angsty and unsatisfying, using a degree of intellectual elbow grease so indulgent, if his job weren't so hard and important, I'd say it's narcissism in need of some quaaludes.
Unfortunately, the rest of us don't have the luxury of masturbating for hours and days with any given political and social issue that comes before us. (In that vein, you might consider my blog a dirty whore. A two-bit trick. A dimestore pimp. CNN.)
We don't have law-brilliant (different than actual brilliant, I think) clerks handing us 200-page briefs about pre-emptive war, hanging chads, or extrajudicial detentions, briefs that some might consider a lifetime achievement.
I, for one, prefer boxers.
We've got to make do with headlines and analysis by average shmos, and some above-average shmos, as well as a dizzying rain of pictures and radio waves that more beat down than enlighten.
While watching his somehow cherubic jowels move, I felt keenly this gap in how he gets to think and interact with issues versus how I get to. I admit I was jealous. I wanted to go immediately to the nearest bookstore and purchase an LSAT book. I desperately wished to be able to sit and ponder issues and solutions and swim in the synapses of the great legal minds of yore. I'd rather come up with opinions after weeks, months, even years!?! of labor, rather than read a few headlines, proclaim something using the words "fuck" and "ludicrous," and then eat my bagel with tomato, onion, lettuce and cream cheese, and type a few uninspiring words while secretly harboring the fear that I could be completely and utterly mistaken.
Yep. I'd rather. But I can't. I'd rather be Shakira for a day. I'd rather be dancing with a ripped merchant marine named Sid. I'd rather have 51 percent ownership of the Baltimore Orioles. I'd rather buy my mom a house in her hometown. The list is real, my friends. Sadly, "rathers" are not.
So I stick with the simple things. Many of these simple things I find in numbers six through 8 of the Big Ten. In the so-called ethic of reciprocity, interest-free. Inside the wordy declarations of Europeans. Among portions and intentions and haughty assertions of certain manifestos and headlines of thoughtful publications. And in remembering little things my dad told me. Like when I tried not to pay a parking ticket. "Do the right thing," he said, well before Spike Lee came along.
It's what most of us have to do. It is through these simple lenses that we have to see the world. It's not that we don't want to acknowledge nuance, relish working through contradictions and admissions of wrong or see the value in letting ideas evolve and be shaped by reality. It's just that, very often, we don't have the time or, given the oppressive nature of information these days, the inclination for much else.
But what was most interesting to hear wasn't what was said. It was how it was said. His way of thinking, sorting, balancing every thought with a counter-thought or variation on the original. Dilineating good from bad, then switching them up on you like a bored magician. Like all good, noncommittal lawyers, he is accustomed to thinking vertically, getting deep into issues rather than scraping meekly over top of them with a broken plastic fork like the rest of us. This type of thinking leaves one full, but not necessarily satisfied. Still, it was all very impressive.
Of course, the balding bench jockey has the luxury and mandate to think in such terms. His institution is one that, if democracy serves, sets the boundaries of what's permissible in a free society. He and his fellow robed wizards are tasked with taking and defending sides using precedents, hypotheticals, common sense and a choice of myriad Constitution-interpreting philosophies in order to reach a conclusion that is invariably angsty and unsatisfying, using a degree of intellectual elbow grease so indulgent, if his job weren't so hard and important, I'd say it's narcissism in need of some quaaludes.
Unfortunately, the rest of us don't have the luxury of masturbating for hours and days with any given political and social issue that comes before us. (In that vein, you might consider my blog a dirty whore. A two-bit trick. A dimestore pimp. CNN.)
We don't have law-brilliant (different than actual brilliant, I think) clerks handing us 200-page briefs about pre-emptive war, hanging chads, or extrajudicial detentions, briefs that some might consider a lifetime achievement.
I, for one, prefer boxers.
We've got to make do with headlines and analysis by average shmos, and some above-average shmos, as well as a dizzying rain of pictures and radio waves that more beat down than enlighten.
While watching his somehow cherubic jowels move, I felt keenly this gap in how he gets to think and interact with issues versus how I get to. I admit I was jealous. I wanted to go immediately to the nearest bookstore and purchase an LSAT book. I desperately wished to be able to sit and ponder issues and solutions and swim in the synapses of the great legal minds of yore. I'd rather come up with opinions after weeks, months, even years!?! of labor, rather than read a few headlines, proclaim something using the words "fuck" and "ludicrous," and then eat my bagel with tomato, onion, lettuce and cream cheese, and type a few uninspiring words while secretly harboring the fear that I could be completely and utterly mistaken.
Yep. I'd rather. But I can't. I'd rather be Shakira for a day. I'd rather be dancing with a ripped merchant marine named Sid. I'd rather have 51 percent ownership of the Baltimore Orioles. I'd rather buy my mom a house in her hometown. The list is real, my friends. Sadly, "rathers" are not.
So I stick with the simple things. Many of these simple things I find in numbers six through 8 of the Big Ten. In the so-called ethic of reciprocity, interest-free. Inside the wordy declarations of Europeans. Among portions and intentions and haughty assertions of certain manifestos and headlines of thoughtful publications. And in remembering little things my dad told me. Like when I tried not to pay a parking ticket. "Do the right thing," he said, well before Spike Lee came along.
It's what most of us have to do. It is through these simple lenses that we have to see the world. It's not that we don't want to acknowledge nuance, relish working through contradictions and admissions of wrong or see the value in letting ideas evolve and be shaped by reality. It's just that, very often, we don't have the time or, given the oppressive nature of information these days, the inclination for much else.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
It's time to stop using the term "make love"
It's time to stop using the term "make love" in public. Or in private, for that matter. It's blarghfh. It's inaccurate. It's painful.
I had just that misfortune while watching Anderson Cooper on a 60 Minutes piece about Simon Cowell. (Why Cooper is on 60 Minutes warrants a whole other story. Why Cowell is on 60 minutes deserves solemn acknowledgement that we are all doomed.)
Anyway, during the interview, Cooper used the term "make love." And it made me want to stab myself in the ears. It ought to be banished from the vernacular. It doesn't even accurately describe what's being made. I posit that, often, neither "love" nor its spare are made. The term is a relic, codified by our inability to be forthright and candid, reflecting our continued immaturity about the subject.
I understand that, for some people at least, "sex" is too naked a term. And "fuck" isn't exactly family-friendly. But between those two - and creative terms made up on an individual basis, or in rap and rock lyrics - we're covered. Let us, my friends, lay waste to this idiotic expression. Thank you. Goodnight.
I had just that misfortune while watching Anderson Cooper on a 60 Minutes piece about Simon Cowell. (Why Cooper is on 60 Minutes warrants a whole other story. Why Cowell is on 60 minutes deserves solemn acknowledgement that we are all doomed.)
Anyway, during the interview, Cooper used the term "make love." And it made me want to stab myself in the ears. It ought to be banished from the vernacular. It doesn't even accurately describe what's being made. I posit that, often, neither "love" nor its spare are made. The term is a relic, codified by our inability to be forthright and candid, reflecting our continued immaturity about the subject.
I understand that, for some people at least, "sex" is too naked a term. And "fuck" isn't exactly family-friendly. But between those two - and creative terms made up on an individual basis, or in rap and rock lyrics - we're covered. Let us, my friends, lay waste to this idiotic expression. Thank you. Goodnight.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Books and bombs
A touching tribute to an Iraqi bookseller killed this week by a car bomb. It's written like a dirge, mourning not only a man, but a city.
And another about Bush and his calls for social justice in Guatemala.
And another about Bush and his calls for social justice in Guatemala.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Porcupine Oddity
Today, I had to look up the meaning of the word "incantation." I vaguely understood it as some kind of chant, or whisper, or blessing but I couldn't get a fix on it even though I've heard it and read it plenty. I still needed a precise definition.
So I pulled it up on the Web and felt dumb when I finally saw its meaning spelled out, because I already knew it. That information was sitting idly somewhere in my brain, but I was unable to call it up.
This has happened several times this week and I'm hoping it's not some kind of premature dementia. That would suck. My gut tells me it's more likely all the television and the computering in my life. I think the endless stream of inane and unimportant information pouring into my brain has no exit and has settled and hindered access to certain parts of it -- like, the smarter parts -- and is slowly wearing it down and dulling my synapses like thick globules of arterial obstruction do to hearts. Symptoms: forgetfulness, inertia, incoherent blog postings, and a flimsy wrist. It is so bad, in fact, that I think of what a 1970s, cocaine-addled David Bowie might sing to me:
...Ground control to Porcupine
Your circuit's dead, there's something wrong--
Can you hear me Porcupine?
Can you hear me Porcupine?
Can you hear me Porcupine? Can you ...
Here am I floating round my tin can, far above the moon
Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do
Man, I love Bowie.
Anyhow, this is a public service announcement to you and to an over-Webbed and t.v.'d me to meditate, do yoga, exercise and be mindful or any combination thereof. It will keep at bay the inevitable insanity that comes with our Western generations' irresponsible overexposure to Britney Spearsish stimuli.
Now I am going to watch "The Office."
So I pulled it up on the Web and felt dumb when I finally saw its meaning spelled out, because I already knew it. That information was sitting idly somewhere in my brain, but I was unable to call it up.
This has happened several times this week and I'm hoping it's not some kind of premature dementia. That would suck. My gut tells me it's more likely all the television and the computering in my life. I think the endless stream of inane and unimportant information pouring into my brain has no exit and has settled and hindered access to certain parts of it -- like, the smarter parts -- and is slowly wearing it down and dulling my synapses like thick globules of arterial obstruction do to hearts. Symptoms: forgetfulness, inertia, incoherent blog postings, and a flimsy wrist. It is so bad, in fact, that I think of what a 1970s, cocaine-addled David Bowie might sing to me:
...Ground control to Porcupine
Your circuit's dead, there's something wrong--
Can you hear me Porcupine?
Can you hear me Porcupine?
Can you hear me Porcupine? Can you ...
Here am I floating round my tin can, far above the moon
Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do
Man, I love Bowie.
Anyhow, this is a public service announcement to you and to an over-Webbed and t.v.'d me to meditate, do yoga, exercise and be mindful or any combination thereof. It will keep at bay the inevitable insanity that comes with our Western generations' irresponsible overexposure to Britney Spearsish stimuli.
Now I am going to watch "The Office."
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