This great bit from the Daily Show has been covered on a lot of blogs, but how come no one is asking why it was a faux news-show that actually, you know, what's that word I'm looking for...umm.. oh yeah, reported this? Where are the ostensiblyreal news institutions this? That's rhetorical, unfortunately. I think the answer is that no one expects too much of them anymore.
They are too busy covering Michael Jackson's funeral arrangements, or interviewing the woman who had her face ripped off by a chimp. Just imagine if it had been Jackson's chimp Bubbles, who attacked that woman?
Why is it that fake journalists like Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart, are 10x better reporters than allegedly genuine journalists like David Gregory, Cokie Roberts, Gwen Ifill, George Stephanopoulos, or even the sainted Tim Russert?
Maybe because they don't view their job is to actually find out the truth, but rather it's to be a press flack?
Comedy Central asks tougher questions than Meet the Press and This Week, and that's nothing short of pathetic. Katie Couric did an alright job with the Sarah Palin interview, but how hard is it to show someone is an uneducated idiot? South Park does that just about every week, and it's a friggin' cartoon.
I'm glad that some folks besides teenagers have noticed this.
The state of near-irrelevance American broadcast journalism finds itself in these days is entirely earned.
As some had noticed, I'd stopped
blogging regularly for a bit, and I've (obviously) started again. In the
past, I've been circumspect about writing much about my personal life.
I've never viewed my blog as a diary. I write for other people, even if I'm a
'character' in the story.
I like the story-telling, but I wouldn't blog if I knew it was read only by strangers. When a friend likes something I wrote, I like that more than lots of hits. It's the secret-handshake/in-joke for people I care about. I don't want to be a politician or a stand-up comic, but for folks I know, I want to be a seanchaí (there must be a Yiddish word too, but I don't know it).
I tend to want to do things that I'm really good at, that bring me joy, only for or with people I care about. I'll help anyone with their PC, but if I sit down to make it
really hum, or if I end up in a canoe with you, or if I tell you a story, then I like you. A bunch. Like when someone is willing to fall asleep in the car while you drive, it
means something.
I thought about all this, because as I mentioned, I'd
run into someone who asked me about my blog. It was my ex-gf, and I ran into her
on a subway platform. I was coming back from an appointment. She was on her way
home from her new job.
This is the woman I thought was “it”. An hour into our first date, it felt like I had known her my whole life. Whip-smart, with a
love of puns good and bad, maps, news, and The Godfather - both I and II. And if
she were around in Botticelli's day, Venus would just be a woman standing on a
clam-shell.
About a month after meeting, I was sure that Idid
want to know her my whole life. I first said “I love you”, around then too. It felt stupid to say anything else. One can say, “I
really, really, really,really like you”, only so many times.
The woman who my home seemed made for, who Brooklyn seemed made for. When she told me that
she'd always dreamed of going out with someone with my first name, I smiled,
but some years before, I'd
been
out in her hometown for work, and loved it in a way I couldn't put my finger on.
Now, back there with the girl I loved, everything seemed just right to me,
too — the sky, the trees, the coffee. I met the parents, the
siblings, and loved them all instantly. It felt like kismet or a
small
miracle (via online-dating).
I thought about our Netflix queue and what we we'd need for both
sunny and rainy days. We both disliked the beach and appeared to be
histologically
compatible (that's romantic, trust me). We planned some trips and shared the Times on Sundays – like those annoying couples you see in the ads on TV. When we kissed on the
rooftop of my building, fireworks were bursting overhead. I loved to shop for
the food she wanted to find in the fridge. A New York
romance catered by Fairway. As we'd walk on the bridge or Promenade, I felt the gods were smiling down upon me, upon us.
She interviewed
for a job that seemed perfect for her, and we'd talk about what it would be
like after she landed it. Everything was lining up. I'd tell her I love her, and she'd say “I love you more.” We'd daydream about our
future life together.
Now, was it all bliss all the time? No. We hadn't known each
other that long – only a few months, we didn't have identical tastes, and we're
not the same people. There were patches of turbulence. I have my quirks and
foibles, as does she, but I never for a second doubted my love for her. There
were crises, but she made me laugh all the time, I did likewise, and there
wasn't a day where I loved her less than the day before.
Meanwhile, I made sure her car had the little hammer to break
the window if it rolls into a lake, and I threw out my socks that had holes.
She could hang the toilet-paper roll any way she wanted
(even the wrong way), and it was fine by me. When I'd go to her place, the wheels of the train could
never turn fast enough to get me to her door. Her quirks I found either
endearing or discussable/workable, and I figured we'd work anything out
together, and I loved the idea of doing that; in all the time that heaven would
allow.
In August, I had to go to Florida
for a week for work. She drove me to the airport and by the time I landed and called her, I couldn't wait to get back, and she said the same. Tuesday, I got a text message saying she loved me so much that it hurt.
I sent her a picture of a 4-leaf clover for a job interview she had, and went
to bed late Wednesday night, after looking for the Pleiades meteor shower.
The hotel room phone rang at 7 AM on Thursday. She wanted to
break-up. Apparently, my quirks and foibles were not as endearing or
discussable/workable. I went to her place straight from the airport, but it didn't
really matter. This is how she felt, and her mind was made up.
I got un-friended on Facebook, and also got un-Twittered,
and un-LinkedIn. All the same day, I think. I sent her an e-mail or two, and
received essentially mono-syllabic replies, all confined to the subject of the
various reservations that would now need to be un-done.
So what does all this have to do with the blog?
When all this occurred, I was not a happy camper. I dropped 6
pounds in a week. A few weeks went by, and besides my noticing I had to use a
different hole in my belt, I realized that I had pretty much stopped blogging.
Several times a week, I'd have a post in mind, then just never get to it. I
figured I was just bummed, but after a bit, I realized what was up.
I posted nearly every day because I had
been writing for her, and the more I loved her, the more I enjoyed doing this
thing that I did well. It was me flexing my rhetorical biceps and, giving something to her too. Her love of language made it
extra fun. Now the idea of
that being a one-way street, just plain hurt.
Life went on. I tried to add a pound or two back to my frame.
Work got busier. I thought I should 'get out there', again, if only
because that seemed to be the standard advice.
When I saw her on the platform, I hadn't seen or heard from
her for a couple of months, which is what she clearly wanted. Because of
where we were, I intuited she must have gotten that job. I found myself going
over and saying “Hi”. And yes, she still beat Venus hands-down, no clamshell
required.
Not surprisingly, she was as surprised to see me, as I was to see her. She said I sounded out of breath. I was honestly puzzled, as I realized it was true. I told her I'd run when I heard a train
coming, which I had, but in retrospect, I think maybe I hadn't been breathing
so much as I walked over.
After a little chit-chat about why each of us were there, she
asked me why I'd stopped blogging. I was gobsmacked. I couldn't understand
why someone who wanted to have nothing to do with me, wanted to read what I
wrote.
A good part of me wanted to explain it to her. I don't know how many people have used the word “muse” in the New York City subway, but I was willing to be counted among them. But despite her apparent
curiosity, I saw the expression on her face, I knew her voice, and I'd heard
her order take-out more warmly than she was now talking to me. The drawbridge
was up. So I said something about being too busy, etc.
The train came, we got on, and the trite conversation
continued. As it happened, I was on my way to a date. A perfectly nice,
perfectly cute, charter-school principal, who I would have stood-up in a
heartbeat, to do what seemed the only perfectly right thing to do in that Broadway IRT car — take the ex-gf's
hand in mine and say, “Let's go home.” Both the words and my hand were
raring to go.
But I didn't say them, and my hand stayed by my side, as she
had the look of someone who, if not being held against her will, looked maybe
like a person who'd just won a 3-day trip to Secaucus . She wanted either one of
us to be somewhere, anywhere else; and the recognition of that, amidst the rush-hour crowd, really sucked.
But I did say, “I've missed you.” From the
time we met, I'd always been forthright with her; I had reveled in that “no
bullsh*t” policy, and I guess I felt I had to say at least one thing in this
conversation that was emotionally true.
It's a paradox of love that the things you feel you must say, only
matter if the other person wants to hear them — and if they do, then the particulars don't even matter very much.
“You didn't have to say that.” she said, shaking her head.
Her stop came before mine, and as she got set to get off, she said
something about us probably running into each other again. A prospect that she
seemed as likely to welcome as the plague. And I asked, “Would you like to
make that happen?” Honey badgers have got nothing on me.
“No,” she said, not breaking stride, and was out the door.
As the train rolled away, I realized I had a thousand or so things about her life I had wanted to ask, and tell her slightly fewer about mine. I
wasn't used to not having that time with her. I thought about the final scene in The Apartment. Having a million things to say, and all the time in the world to
say them. Rien n'est meilleur.
So the following day, I wrote her an e-mail, with a couple of those thousand things.. and got a reply a little later. She said that running into her in the subway was all too much contact, and I think she tried to use the least possible number of keystrokes in telling me.
So, not exactly like Mr. Baxter and Miss Kubelik. But I had begun to think about the blog again, and here we are.
Tutoring is going great. This past Saturday we were covering the difference between facts and opinions. We studied how facts require supporting evidence.
The kids had to write down several different facts and opinions, and explain why each was one or the other. One team of kids came up with "Peter is bald", and the supporting evidence was "He has no hair on his head" (My already pretty-sparsely covered pate had recently been shorn).
I think they wrote it at first, frankly to be a little snarky, and were in fact a little afraid to say it aloud, but when I made them do it, and they saw how much I was smiling, and how great it was that they 'got it', everyone laughed.
Funny too, was that since the day was warm, I happened to be wearing a t-shirt. As almost all these kids are Chinese, I don't think they regularly see grown-ups with arms with as much hair as a nice Jewish guy like me have.
Every time I got called over to a table to answer a question, some kid would be reaching out to lightly 'pet' my forearm. Some kids seemed to even ask for help as a ruse, solely for that purpose. Too funny.
My favorite thing though, was that there's a girl in class, who the week before, had been amazed to learn that there were words that meant a higher number than "quadruplets", which she knew - e.g., "quintuplets", "sextuplets", etc.
She asked me if I would make a list for her, up to 10. She quietly sat through the whole class, but at the end of class, she said, "Do you have my list?", and when I handed it to her, with "Kathy's List" written at the top, she broke into a huge grin, and hugged it to herself like it was a favorite book or doll.
I was in a doctor's office the other day, looking over a copy of Newsweek. It had an article that said, "A new book promises incontrovertible proof of the
afterlife." I had no idea that Newsweek and The Weekly World News had merged, but more importantly, the people at Parker Brothers must be ecstatic.
As they own the trademark for Ouija boards, their device
for communicating with the dead will no doubt be moved to a more prominent place
on a store shelf, instead of getting stuck next to "Clue" and "Hungry
Hungry Hippos".
New York treasure, Amy Allison will be opening for the sweetheart of the alt.country rodeo, Laura Cantrell in TriBeCa on Saturday night at the 92nd Street Y Tribeca, (200 Hudson Street & 212.601-1000).
As someone who has seen both women perform a slew of times, all I can say is, Go! Allez! ¡Vete!
Amy's album The Maudlin Years, was named by Elvis Costello as one of the top 500 albums of all time. Her latest album, "Sheffield Streets" has her duetting with Mr. Costello, as well as with Dave Alvin.
Best Voice –
Best of Manhattan 2005 “If Sonny Boy
Williamson played English horn, it would sound like Amy Allison's voice. Some
have compared the urban country-pop chantoozie's pipes to a dobro, a fiddle, a
musical saw or a very well-made duck call. But that's what it's supposed to be.
That's why God put her here: to be the nasal, mournful, short-breathed voice of
feeling so lonesome you could cry."
Maverick UK “Pop that bubbles like a lemonade fountain. Amy Allison writes songs of the
highest calibre. In another world one can imagine Elvis covering “Don’t String
Me Along” or Sinatra crooning his way through “Moonlight on the
Mountains.”
Laura Cantrell, has released several albums - all to great acclaim. The famous British DJ John Peel, said of Not the Tremblin' Kind, "My favorite record from the last ten years, and possibly my life."
She first gained fame as the "proprietress" of the Radio Thrift Shop, and is known for her phenomenal musical taste. She's recorded Amy's "The Whiskey Makes You Sweeter", and I would be very surprised if they don't sing together at the show. Both are phenomenal talents; I'm not being hyperbolic, and are very funny to boot. I'd never heard the word 'mishigas' said with a Tennessee accent, until I heard Cantrell say it.
Here's a video of the title track to Sheffield Streets. Amy's love letter to the town she lived in for a while in the '80s.
And here's a video taken at the Loretta Lynn tribute at Banjo Jim's - Cantrell doing a beautiful rendition of "Van Lear Rose".
I'm really at a loss for what to call Joe Lieberman. Hyper-schmuck? Super-douche?
And to that whole idea of "Let's be nice to him, Obama is demonstrating a new kind of politics", etc., I think Lyndon Johnson, and Don Corleone would all say the same thing to the President,
Here, is a picture of LBJ giving Senator Richard Russell, the famous "Johnson Treatment."
“The answer is of course, that it would be best to be both loved and
feared. But since the two rarely come together, anyone compelled to
choose will find greater security in being feared than in being loved.”
In other words, people can withdraw their love (and the commitments made in it. They find it harder to withdraw their fear.*
"Whatsa matter with you? I think your brain's goin' soft."
*I want to say here, as Machiavelli has gotten a bum wrap, and the term "Machiavellian" has now taken the meaning of devious scheming.. Machiavelli was writing to a prince, a political leader, about how to rule. He was not talking about about how to treat your friends, your wife, your kids.
Even though I live in Brooklyn, I still shop at Fairway, on the Upper West Side. Yes, there is a Fairway in Red Hook, but the one in my old neighborhood is actually easier and faster for me to get to (which is pathetic, and more on that in an upcoming post).
Anyways, apart from Fairway, something i do love about the neighborhood are the sidewalk book-sellers. There's a guy who has some tables at 73rd and Broadway who almost always has something that tempts me.
This weekend, as I got out of the subway and passed the book spot, I saw a copy of a biography of Stalin which for a few years I had been meaning to read. I looked at the inside cover - five bucks and in like-new condition. I wanted it, but didn't want to carry it as I walked through the supermarket (a rare time I was knapsack-less). So, I put it back down and went shopping. Street traffic was light, and the book was kind of buried in the pile, so I figured I was safe.
Thirty minutes or so later I came back on my way to the subway. I already had my five-dollar bill out. As I got to the table, I saw there was an older guy in a brown crew-neck sweater, looking over the wares. Just as I was about to reach for my book, he picks it up and starts thumbing through it. And who was this person, who had his mitts on "my" copy of "Stalin:Court of the Red Tsar"?
Why, it was none other than distinguished MIT professor, Noam Chomsky. I stood there, about 6 inches from him, while he took his time looking it over, seemingly front to back, starting with the preface. I have a legion of bones to pick with Dr. Chomsky, (about many, many things; but linguistics - no idea there), and it was about to be "go-time".
Fortunately for the fields of generative grammar and cognitive psychology, he decided to take a pass on it, and put the book back down on the table, giving me a look like, "Oh, were you interested in this book?" (It's amazing what you can figure out when you have 33 honorary degrees, and have been voted the leading living public intellectual.) I smiled back, promptly picked the book up, handed over my five-dollar bill, put it in my grocery bag, and headed home.
Actually, of course, it would have been cool had Dr. Chomsky bought the book. First, I'm not like that at all; second, he's 80 years old; and third, I prefer hardcovers.
From one of my very favorite films, Whit Stillman's, "Metropolitan". For those of you haven't seen it, it's essentially a Jane Austen novel, and as such, it's a comedy of manners.
It's not the stories that the characters tell, or even the situations they find themselves in, that reveals their nature - it's how they react . In this scene, the camera moves from character to character - telling you pretty much everything you need to know about each of them.
I don't want to spoil things for those who haven't seen the film, but I'm not revealing much to say watch Chris Eigeman (Nick) at 5:08 - 5:09. A sly bit of acting in 24 frames.
The other night, I caught a few minutes of "A Night to Remember". Ever since I was a kid, I had been a bit of a Titanic buff, so I always enjoyed the movie when it would come on tv.
Not a great movie, more of a good tv-movie, but full of decent British acting, and the effects are not at all bad for 1958. As a kid, it totally enraptured me. I would think it's hard to make a boring Titanic film.
Anyways, the movie touched on the fact that the SS Californian was only 10 miles away from the sticken ship, but of course, failed to heed the distress rockets, and their radio operator had just signed off for the night, minutes before the Titanic started sending the first S.O.S. in history.
So the Carpathia had to come from 54 miles away, by which time, the Titanic lay at the bottom of the Atlantic, and over 1,500 people had died.
Hindsight is always good, but it occurred to me as I watched, that if the captain of the Titanic, had put a few able seamen in a lifeboat, and had them row towards Californian, perhaps firing rockets as they did, they would have gotten the ship's attention and gotten them over there in time.
Oh well.
By the way, James Cameron did shoot some scenes involving the Californian, but they were cut because the movie was already long. Haven't seen the DVD, maybe they're on there.
If you're interested in the amazingly negligent/disastrous/baffling behavior of the Californian's captain, you can read the transcripts of the hearings that were held after the sinking, both in the U.S. and in the U.K.
"A ship is not going to fire rockets at sea for nothing", the Third Officer of Californian remarked almost to himself, and certainly to no effect, as they watched the ship in the distance, under the uncaring stars.
