Thursday, June 26, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Negislation
Promoting travel by making it more expensive:
[T]he conversation turned to a piece of legislation that’s being pushed hard by lobbyists for big players in the tourism industry, the so-called Travel Promotion Act. The Act is supposed to create a $200 million fund to promote tourism, by levying a charge on visitors to the US. The charge is non-trivial – the estimates I heard suggested that in order to raise $10 a head to give to the travel industry’s promotional fund, the government will likely have to impose a total fee of $25 to cover administrative overheads.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Mmmm Monday... time to get out of bed
Get outta your lazy bed, by the jazz-band-turned-pop band Matt Bianco, live on Top of the Pops. Look carefully, that's Basia singing the female lead.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Geriatric animals
Fascinating article on the aging wildlife population in zoos:
The Golden Years have arrived at the nation's zoos and aquariums, and that is taking veterinarians and keepers, along with their animals, into a zone of unknowns.
Do female gorillas, now frequently living in to their 40s and 50s, experience menopause?
Can an aging lemur suffer from dementia?
How do you weigh the most difficult choice — between prolonging pain and ending life — when the patient is a venerable jaguar who's been around so long she's come to feel like a member of the family?
All of those questions hang on a larger one that, until recent years, has been left to educated guesswork based on limited evidence.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Unobvious note
There actually is a bank that isn't first: The Fifth Third Bank.
Does this mean they were the fifth bank to come in third?
Does this mean they were the fifth bank to come in third?
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Here I go again, pissing off would-be commentators...
Muslims against Sharia is pissed off at me.
I think this individual is a troll, and may even be properly considered a concern troll.
Here are a couple of things that don't add up in Muslims against Sharia's comment.
First: "We admit that most terrorists are Muslims [...]"
This statement is bogus. Most of the terrorists that we see on the nightly news are Muslim, but that's because most of the terrorists that American forces are dealing with are in Iraq and Afghanistan. Also this stereotype is further emphasized by Palestinian and Hezbollah attacks on Israel that receive press coverage in the states.
Look around. There are terrorists everywhere. Until recently there were terrorists in Ireland (Christian). In the 1970s and 1980s there were terrorists in Germany and Italy (both communist and US-sponsored). Currently in Sri Lanka there are the Tamil Tigers (Hindi). In Colombia there is the FARC (communist). There are lots more elsewhere. They usually don't make the nightly news because their political aims and political targets aren't sufficiently newsworthy for American audiences.
So right off the bat, this troll feeds anti-Muslim stereotypes.
Second, this troll makes a sweeping statement: "Where are all the so-called "Islamic civil rights groups" like CAIR, MPAC, ISNA, MAS, etc. who are quick to defend every Islamic terrorist, but are silent when Muslims in general are being denigrated?"
Now, I'm not personally familiar with these organizations, but I've at least heard of a few of them. I cannot believe that they are all terrorist sympathizers. This statement doesn't pass my BS-meter, and actually strikes me as a smear against these Muslim-American and Arab-American organizations.
Third, this troll denigrates several people who have been associated with Senator Obama and makes a claim that "Mr. Obama's website is insulting to hundreds of millions of people." Looks to me like someone is engaging in disingenuous hyperbole, and that the whole point of this comment is to smear Obama.
Update: If you feel the need to respond to my characterizations, please go to where the hubbub is.
I think this individual is a troll, and may even be properly considered a concern troll.
Here are a couple of things that don't add up in Muslims against Sharia's comment.
First: "We admit that most terrorists are Muslims [...]"
This statement is bogus. Most of the terrorists that we see on the nightly news are Muslim, but that's because most of the terrorists that American forces are dealing with are in Iraq and Afghanistan. Also this stereotype is further emphasized by Palestinian and Hezbollah attacks on Israel that receive press coverage in the states.
Look around. There are terrorists everywhere. Until recently there were terrorists in Ireland (Christian). In the 1970s and 1980s there were terrorists in Germany and Italy (both communist and US-sponsored). Currently in Sri Lanka there are the Tamil Tigers (Hindi). In Colombia there is the FARC (communist). There are lots more elsewhere. They usually don't make the nightly news because their political aims and political targets aren't sufficiently newsworthy for American audiences.
So right off the bat, this troll feeds anti-Muslim stereotypes.
Second, this troll makes a sweeping statement: "Where are all the so-called "Islamic civil rights groups" like CAIR, MPAC, ISNA, MAS, etc. who are quick to defend every Islamic terrorist, but are silent when Muslims in general are being denigrated?"
Now, I'm not personally familiar with these organizations, but I've at least heard of a few of them. I cannot believe that they are all terrorist sympathizers. This statement doesn't pass my BS-meter, and actually strikes me as a smear against these Muslim-American and Arab-American organizations.
Third, this troll denigrates several people who have been associated with Senator Obama and makes a claim that "Mr. Obama's website is insulting to hundreds of millions of people." Looks to me like someone is engaging in disingenuous hyperbole, and that the whole point of this comment is to smear Obama.
Update: If you feel the need to respond to my characterizations, please go to where the hubbub is.
Time to update Firefox
I'm always late to the party, even when I receive an invitation; but Firefox 3.0 is here.
Now that we have $4 a gallon gas...
You might want to read the essay where I wrote this:
The truth is, off-shore drilling will do nothing to lower fuel prices in the United States when the main force driving up fuel prices is increased demand in the so-called third world (especially since there really isn't much oil off our coasts).
Economically, suburbs and exurbs are not sustainable, as their very existence requires both a thriving metropolitan area and cheap fuel. Well gasoline is not going to become cheaper--although we might save on our long term costs by switching to hybrid cars. But... well I don't want to derail this entry too much by going into the state of our cities. Let's just say that my city, Rochester, gets by... but barely. Also, it is used to wearing a lot of hand-me-downs.
The truth is, off-shore drilling will do nothing to lower fuel prices in the United States when the main force driving up fuel prices is increased demand in the so-called third world (especially since there really isn't much oil off our coasts).
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Huh?
The Associated Press wants bloggers to pay $12.50 to quote as few as five words from an AP article.
Not only does this show a level of cluelessness about the culture of the internet, it also appears to fly in the face of copyright law: everyone is entitled to fair use quotations of published works.
From the U.S. Copyright Office's web-site:
Update: Mark Glaser on all of this. (h/t Atrios)
Not only does this show a level of cluelessness about the culture of the internet, it also appears to fly in the face of copyright law: everyone is entitled to fair use quotations of published works.
From the U.S. Copyright Office's web-site:
The 1961 Report of the Register of Copyrights on the General Revision of the U.S. Copyright Law cites examples of activities that courts have regarded as fair use: “quotation of excerpts in a review or criticism for purposes of illustration or comment; quotation of short passages in a scholarly or technical work, for illustration or clarification of the author's observations; use in a parody of some of the content of the work parodied; summary of an address or article, with brief quotations, in a news report; reproduction by a library of a portion of a work to replace part of a damaged copy; reproduction by a teacher or student of a small part of a work to illustrate a lesson; reproduction of a work in legislative or judicial proceedings or reports; incidental and fortuitous reproduction, in a newsreel or broadcast, of a work located in the scene of an event being reported.” (emphasis added)I doubt that most of the AP's claims for remit from bloggers on the internets will pass legal scrutiny. The Stanford Copyright and Fair Use Center's web-site is v. informative and has a good section on Fair Use.
Update: Mark Glaser on all of this. (h/t Atrios)
Monday, June 16, 2008
USA wins 8-0
Team USA is competing for one of 3.5 slots for the 2010 World Cup. They just won their first qualifying game 8-0.
Here are the current standings.
Here are the current standings.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Projected projection changes
Poblano tweaks his methodology, and explains his changes. Regardless, the electoral landscape is looking good for Obama. Hopefully this keeps up
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Radio radio radio
Radio, by Felix the Housecat. Watching this video is like watching a movie in an incomprehensible foreign language... it tells a story, somehow.
Friday, June 13, 2008
No not my favorite band...
But I like this tune quite a bit. Good cure for those Friday the 13th blues.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Pacific state of mind
From 808 State.
I'm guessing this is the original video, since FSOL also had those old fashioned 'cool' computer graphics.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
The bestest and the brightestestererers
John McCain once wrote this:
It was a shameful thing to ask men to suffer and die, to persevere through god-awful afflictions and heartache, to endure the dehumanizing experiences that are unavoidable in combat, for a cause that the country wouldn’t support over time and that our leaders so wrongly believed could be achieved at a smaller cost than our enemy was prepared to make us pay. No other national endeavor requires as much unshakable resolve as war. If the nation and the government lack that resolve, it is criminal to expect men in the field to carry it alone.(h/t Brad DeLong)
Sunday, June 8, 2008
The perfect exam
[more]Philosophy Exam – First Year
Answer two questions
Two hours
1. Patch together some things you have heard in lectures, in no particular order.
2. Has this question vexed philosophers for centuries?
3. Create an impression of original thought by impassioned scribbling (your answer may be ungrammatical, illegible, or both).
Sunday morning cartoons
Rounding up De-Phazz weekend, this version of Viva La Felicita.
added: Blogger's posting into the future feature is not without quirks.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
The Shanghai Bridge incident
Old news, but posted for a friend: The Shanghai Bridge incident from 2007.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
Sports fans, fornicators, and pot smokers...
Someone has made of list of people who are going to hell. I only assume it is not all-inclusive.
But that said, I think they've covered almost everybody.
But that said, I think they've covered almost everybody.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Kos reconsiders caucuses
One thing I like about Kos is that he's willing to reconsider his biases when his biases conflict with hard reality. Case in point.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Dispatch
I often think of troubadours (cf.
cavalier poets), their metrical rhymes,
their passions (n.: the sufferings of a
martyr). They too wanted love—but burning
in the timbers of their desire was a
hope, that love would lift them above the mun-
dane and ordinary, that through love they
would become more like the gods—more alive.
Think, my friend, on how ordinary and
extraordinary love is—pause—then, breathe.
Your friend (and troubadour, of sorts)—s(d)h
cavalier poets), their metrical rhymes,
their passions (n.: the sufferings of a
martyr). They too wanted love—but burning
in the timbers of their desire was a
hope, that love would lift them above the mun-
dane and ordinary, that through love they
would become more like the gods—more alive.
Think, my friend, on how ordinary and
extraordinary love is—pause—then, breathe.
Your friend (and troubadour, of sorts)—s(d)h
Thursday, May 15, 2008
North Florida, 1998
When I return
in summer,
I return
to the summer rain—
thunder in the distance,
then near,
then rumbling
away.
If the trees could
they would shake themselves
like dogs—
every leaf is dripping.
And I walk
between the puddles
under the trees
to the field—
subdued sunlight
and grasses
and a moment
I try vainly
to grasp
from time.
Beneath the opening sky
the thunder soft in the distance
there is a peacefulness
which is caught
by the summer air
and fills
every crevice
inside.
in summer,
I return
to the summer rain—
thunder in the distance,
then near,
then rumbling
away.
If the trees could
they would shake themselves
like dogs—
every leaf is dripping.
And I walk
between the puddles
under the trees
to the field—
subdued sunlight
and grasses
and a moment
I try vainly
to grasp
from time.
Beneath the opening sky
the thunder soft in the distance
there is a peacefulness
which is caught
by the summer air
and fills
every crevice
inside.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Bestiality
“Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover, I courted sleep.”
— Robert Pinsky, from “Samurai Song”
1.
I could quote you—
I was told once that the rhinoceros
with its one horn was symbolic
of purity—
the rhinoceros was the unicorn—
but to me, the rhinoceros is rage—
“Your letter truly shocked me.”
2.
“Your letter truly shocked me.
And yes, it angered me as well.”
You could have accused me of arrogance,
of hypocritical self-righteousness.
But instead you accused me of ignorance:
“I realized you [. . . ] don’t know me at all—how sad.”
You are the zebra who says,
“You are not like me,
your stripes are not like mine.”
3.
When I swam with the fishes,
I was mean and cruel.
Sometimes, when I caught my prey
I would nibble on its fins
and let it swim away—
knowing, slower,
it would never escape
the next predator’s gaze.
But there is no ill-will among the fishes—
life is too short—
in the depths, they say, is Leviathon.
What Leviathon is afraid of
they do not say.
4.
Yes, there was a change in tone.
In our notes we discussed plans
to spend New Years in New York City.
Where I was so kind and understanding,
I became callous, cold.
I criticized you,
and I criticized your life.
I wrote that “I never did want to fall in love with you [. . . ]
the primary reason is this: you are fucked up.
Your life is fucked up.”
I must have sounded
like a baboon
chiding
the lion.
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover, I courted sleep.”
— Robert Pinsky, from “Samurai Song”
1.
I could quote you—
I was told once that the rhinoceros
with its one horn was symbolic
of purity—
the rhinoceros was the unicorn—
but to me, the rhinoceros is rage—
“Your letter truly shocked me.”
2.
“Your letter truly shocked me.
And yes, it angered me as well.”
You could have accused me of arrogance,
of hypocritical self-righteousness.
But instead you accused me of ignorance:
“I realized you [. . . ] don’t know me at all—how sad.”
You are the zebra who says,
“You are not like me,
your stripes are not like mine.”
3.
When I swam with the fishes,
I was mean and cruel.
Sometimes, when I caught my prey
I would nibble on its fins
and let it swim away—
knowing, slower,
it would never escape
the next predator’s gaze.
But there is no ill-will among the fishes—
life is too short—
in the depths, they say, is Leviathon.
What Leviathon is afraid of
they do not say.
4.
Yes, there was a change in tone.
In our notes we discussed plans
to spend New Years in New York City.
Where I was so kind and understanding,
I became callous, cold.
I criticized you,
and I criticized your life.
I wrote that “I never did want to fall in love with you [. . . ]
the primary reason is this: you are fucked up.
Your life is fucked up.”
I must have sounded
like a baboon
chiding
the lion.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
aroundabout
It was not a poem,
in one sense,
it was a meta-poem,
a poem about poetry,
although the term “meta-”
comes from the Greek word “after”,
because Aristotle’s books on
metaphysics
were those written after
his books on physics.
Thus the word “meta-”
took on a life of its own.
So was it a poem about poetry,
or was it a poem after poetry?
In the South—southern United States—
we say when someone is after someone,
they are out to get them,
that is when they are after them
they means them harm.
So was it a poem out to get
poetry,
to do poetry irreparable harm?
Of course, then there is the idea “after”—
what is poetry if it comes after poetry,
is it still poetry?
is it more poetry?
Why isn’t it with poetry to begin with,
why does it come after?
If it is a poem written after a poem—
is that plagiarism?
isn’t that copying someone else’s
style?
isn’t that what it means: done after
Ezra Pound’s “Cantos”?
So who is the poem copying anyway?
And if it wasn’t really a poem,
but a meta-poem,
what was it: prose? a song?
a legal treatise on thirteenth century
Burgundy?
If it wasn’t a poem,
what was it after?
in one sense,
it was a meta-poem,
a poem about poetry,
although the term “meta-”
comes from the Greek word “after”,
because Aristotle’s books on
metaphysics
were those written after
his books on physics.
Thus the word “meta-”
took on a life of its own.
So was it a poem about poetry,
or was it a poem after poetry?
In the South—southern United States—
we say when someone is after someone,
they are out to get them,
that is when they are after them
they means them harm.
So was it a poem out to get
poetry,
to do poetry irreparable harm?
Of course, then there is the idea “after”—
what is poetry if it comes after poetry,
is it still poetry?
is it more poetry?
Why isn’t it with poetry to begin with,
why does it come after?
If it is a poem written after a poem—
is that plagiarism?
isn’t that copying someone else’s
style?
isn’t that what it means: done after
Ezra Pound’s “Cantos”?
So who is the poem copying anyway?
And if it wasn’t really a poem,
but a meta-poem,
what was it: prose? a song?
a legal treatise on thirteenth century
Burgundy?
If it wasn’t a poem,
what was it after?
Monday, May 5, 2008
“Naked,”
Naked,
like the heart is naked
when it admits
to the soul beneath
that it is on fire—
together,
they overwhelm the mind.
A nakedness
of longing.
A nakedness of desire.
And this is how I long to see you,
to hold you,
to touch you,
with every touch
a touch
of desire.
This love
is not for the weak
but for the strong—
for when the soul whispers—naked—
it burns and sears and turns and touches
every aspect
of one's life.
Naked,
is how I long to see you
and be with you
in heart, soul, mind,
as I caress
each and every part
of you—
no, nothing, nothing
undesired.
like the heart is naked
when it admits
to the soul beneath
that it is on fire—
together,
they overwhelm the mind.
A nakedness
of longing.
A nakedness of desire.
And this is how I long to see you,
to hold you,
to touch you,
with every touch
a touch
of desire.
This love
is not for the weak
but for the strong—
for when the soul whispers—naked—
it burns and sears and turns and touches
every aspect
of one's life.
Naked,
is how I long to see you
and be with you
in heart, soul, mind,
as I caress
each and every part
of you—
no, nothing, nothing
undesired.
Fear of nihilism
Another data point: fear of nihilism is a potent motivator of conservative religious and political beliefs.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Stop telling me where to live!
Atrios:
For some reason I'll never stop being surprised by the number of people who read a post which says something like "maybe it'd be a bit better if suburban developments didn't have a single access point" or "maybe it'd be a bit better if people could actually walk to the shopping center which is half a mile away but on the other side of the highway" and interpret it as "ATRIOS IS TELLING ME I HAVE TO LIVE IN MANHATTAN!!!/snark
Thursday, May 1, 2008
“At some point,”
At some point,
you start counting—
because for all your life
you want someone to love
and someone to love you.
And then, later,
you want to stop counting—
because for all your life
you want someone to love
and someone to love you.
you start counting—
because for all your life
you want someone to love
and someone to love you.
And then, later,
you want to stop counting—
because for all your life
you want someone to love
and someone to love you.
What is in a name?
People of Lesbos take gay group to court over term 'Lesbian'
Using the term lesbian to describe a female homosexual is part of our culture now. And I understand the desire to differentiate female from male homosexuals. But I also understand the plight of these islanders. They are victims of identity.Three islanders from Lesbos — home of the ancient poet Sappho, who praised love between women — have taken a gay rights group to court for using the word lesbian in its name.
One of the plaintiffs said Wednesday that the name of the association, Homosexual and Lesbian Community of Greece, "insults the identity" of the people of Lesbos, who are also known as Lesbians.
"My sister can't say she is a Lesbian," said Dimitris Lambrou. "Our geographical designation has been usurped by certain ladies who have no connection whatsoever with Lesbos," he said.
[...]Very little is known of Sappho's life. According to some ancient accounts, she was an aristocrat who married a rich merchant and had a daughter with him. One tradition says that she killed herself by jumping off a cliff over an unhappy love affair.
Lambrou says Sappho was not gay. "But even if we assume she was, how can 250,000 people of Lesbian descent — including women — be considered homosexual?"
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Exonerated after 27 years.
A Dallas man who spent more than 27 years in prison for a murder he didn't commit was freed Tuesday, after being incarcerated longer than any other wrongfully convicted U.S. inmate cleared by DNA testing.
From letters:
From letters:
Feb. 25, 1981: "I'm in jail while (her) murderer is walking the streets ... My Social Status in society is below you but I think everyone is entitled to justice don't you?"It turns out this was more than a wrongful conviction: Illegally withheld evidence probably caused a man who will be exonerated today to spend more time behind bars than anyone in the country cleared by DNA, the Dallas County district attorney's office and the Innocence Project of Texas said Monday.
June 24, 1984: "I don't know your `philosophy' of life, but I assume you wouldn't take a man's freedom just because you can. That's why I keep sending these letters to you in hope that you will realize that a grave misjustice has been done to me ... I've been locked up 3 1/2 years now and it's been really `frustrating,' but I won't allow anything to prevent me from obtaining what God gave me at birth and what is rightfully mine, my freedom."
How do you we a man 27 years back? How do we prevent this from happening again? What if he had been sentenced to die?Mr. Woodard, 55, was sentenced to life in prison in 1981 for the strangulation and rape of his 21-year-old girlfriend, Beverly Ann Jones.
But information that Ms. Jones was with three men – including two later convicted of unrelated sexual assaults – around the time of her death was not disclosed to the defense nor was it thoroughly investigated, said prosecutor Mike Ware, who oversees the Dallas County district attorney's office conviction integrity unit.
Evidence that could benefit a defendant is required by law to be turned over to a defendant, though there is no criminal punishment for not doing so.
Mr. Ware said Mr. Woodard received a "fundamentally unfair" trial. He said he believes the evidence is something that prosecutors at the time should have investigated, "or at least turn it over so the defense could investigate."
Before the district attorney's office agreed that the DNA that exonerated Mr. Woodard of the rape also exonerated him of the murder – in itself an unusual step – a forensic pathologist examined the file and concluded that Ms. Jones was killed about the same time she was raped.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
On Reagan
I came across the following essay I wrote several years ago, when I was known as Honorable Mouse. I thought I would resurrect and share:
On Ronald Reagan
After thinking I would say nothing, other than the usual platitudes—that Alzheimer’s is a terrible disease and I wouldn’t wish it on my bitterest enemy and how I understand, to some degree, what the Reagan family is going through—worthy of a leftist who hated living under the Reagan administration, I have read with interest the condemnations and commendations, the hagiography and historiography, the hero worship and the anti-hero desecration which has accompanied the death of Ronald Reagan. I have reached a few conclusions.
Ronald Reagan is God. A hungry god, a benevolent god, a god who will not be appeased until every building, every highway, every park, every coliseum, airport, petting zoo, municipal water authority, auditorium, dog, cat, and every person, every single human being, is called Ronald Reagan. His name must be everywhere.
And it must be everywhere because Ronald Reagan was the greatest President in the history of the world—its all down-hill from here, America! His face should be engraved on Mount Rushmore, indeed all of the faces on Mount Rushmore should be his—let there be five Ronald Reagans on Mount Rushmore, smiling at us benevolently.
Ronald Reagan single-handedly mud-wrestled Communism to death. He rode Gorbachev through Geneva like a cowboy on a mule—angry that the beast couldn’t go faster. He is single-handedly responsible for saving Central America from Communism—he ordered the killings of Communist nuns in order to save Central American school children from the harsh rod of Communist atheism. Central Americans, and we don’t know who the hell they are, rejoice whenever they hear Ronald Reagan’s name. They rejoice even more now that he is dead.
Ronald Reagan won World War II. He went down with his bomber over France, died, and was resurrected. He rescued Jews from the death camps. He told a young, impressionable Yitzhak Shamir, pointing towards the death camp guards, “Be like them.” It explains a lot.
Ronald Reagan was a chimpanzee’s best friend. Off camera, he would groom the chimpanzee and the chimpanzee him. Bonzo was always Reagan’s best hair stylist.
Ronald Reagan made a deal with the Iranians, as part of his clever plan to be friends in secret and enemies in public, to not release the Embassy Hostages until after he had taken the oath of office. Ronald Reagan agreed to sell arms to the Iranians in order to secure the release of American hostages in Lebanon, all the while saying, “We do not negotiate with terrorists”. Ronald Reagan thought Iran was, next to America, a better bulwark against Communism than Iraq. Ronald Reagan thought Armageddon should be between two peoples who believe in God, not between believers and non-believers. Non-believers made him feel funny, like perhaps there was more to life than simple platitudes and blind conservatism. He didn’t like them.
In a previous life, Ronald Reagan had been an aborted child. In this life, Ronald Reagan achieved enlightenment: he would oppose abortion and it would strengthen his political base. Ronald Reagan thought fetuses should have guns.
Ronald Reagan was all this and more—he would go out in cognito in his other identity as Don Regan to find out how his policies affected the working man. He was happy when they were poorer and more miserable—“At least you are not homeless,” he would say, “homeless people make me really mad.”
Ronald Reagan could never understand why people would be mad at him. The students at Berkeley when he was Governor, the AIDS activists, and anti-nuke protestors. Didn’t they understand, Reagan thought to himself, I’m not doing this for them, I’m doing this for my vision of America.
And what a vision it was: the shining city on the hill. A city of light and grace and beauty. Surrounded by squalor, and filth, and poverty. Unspeakable squalor. Forgotten squalor. Unimportant squalor.
That, Ronald Reagans everywhere, was Ronald Reagan.
On Ronald Reagan
After thinking I would say nothing, other than the usual platitudes—that Alzheimer’s is a terrible disease and I wouldn’t wish it on my bitterest enemy and how I understand, to some degree, what the Reagan family is going through—worthy of a leftist who hated living under the Reagan administration, I have read with interest the condemnations and commendations, the hagiography and historiography, the hero worship and the anti-hero desecration which has accompanied the death of Ronald Reagan. I have reached a few conclusions.
Ronald Reagan is God. A hungry god, a benevolent god, a god who will not be appeased until every building, every highway, every park, every coliseum, airport, petting zoo, municipal water authority, auditorium, dog, cat, and every person, every single human being, is called Ronald Reagan. His name must be everywhere.
And it must be everywhere because Ronald Reagan was the greatest President in the history of the world—its all down-hill from here, America! His face should be engraved on Mount Rushmore, indeed all of the faces on Mount Rushmore should be his—let there be five Ronald Reagans on Mount Rushmore, smiling at us benevolently.
Ronald Reagan single-handedly mud-wrestled Communism to death. He rode Gorbachev through Geneva like a cowboy on a mule—angry that the beast couldn’t go faster. He is single-handedly responsible for saving Central America from Communism—he ordered the killings of Communist nuns in order to save Central American school children from the harsh rod of Communist atheism. Central Americans, and we don’t know who the hell they are, rejoice whenever they hear Ronald Reagan’s name. They rejoice even more now that he is dead.
Ronald Reagan won World War II. He went down with his bomber over France, died, and was resurrected. He rescued Jews from the death camps. He told a young, impressionable Yitzhak Shamir, pointing towards the death camp guards, “Be like them.” It explains a lot.
Ronald Reagan was a chimpanzee’s best friend. Off camera, he would groom the chimpanzee and the chimpanzee him. Bonzo was always Reagan’s best hair stylist.
Ronald Reagan made a deal with the Iranians, as part of his clever plan to be friends in secret and enemies in public, to not release the Embassy Hostages until after he had taken the oath of office. Ronald Reagan agreed to sell arms to the Iranians in order to secure the release of American hostages in Lebanon, all the while saying, “We do not negotiate with terrorists”. Ronald Reagan thought Iran was, next to America, a better bulwark against Communism than Iraq. Ronald Reagan thought Armageddon should be between two peoples who believe in God, not between believers and non-believers. Non-believers made him feel funny, like perhaps there was more to life than simple platitudes and blind conservatism. He didn’t like them.
In a previous life, Ronald Reagan had been an aborted child. In this life, Ronald Reagan achieved enlightenment: he would oppose abortion and it would strengthen his political base. Ronald Reagan thought fetuses should have guns.
Ronald Reagan was all this and more—he would go out in cognito in his other identity as Don Regan to find out how his policies affected the working man. He was happy when they were poorer and more miserable—“At least you are not homeless,” he would say, “homeless people make me really mad.”
Ronald Reagan could never understand why people would be mad at him. The students at Berkeley when he was Governor, the AIDS activists, and anti-nuke protestors. Didn’t they understand, Reagan thought to himself, I’m not doing this for them, I’m doing this for my vision of America.
And what a vision it was: the shining city on the hill. A city of light and grace and beauty. Surrounded by squalor, and filth, and poverty. Unspeakable squalor. Forgotten squalor. Unimportant squalor.
That, Ronald Reagans everywhere, was Ronald Reagan.
Friday, April 4, 2008
lucida
These photographs are moments of movement—
Bedouin racing their arab stallions
across the sand—dancers walking through air
with the same ease as Jesus on water—
how can I translate this for you
these pictures of goalies mid-lunge,
of these racers caught without time
of these smiles made without effort—
you who have arrested my heart
forever paused in the shutter’s eye?
Bedouin racing their arab stallions
across the sand—dancers walking through air
with the same ease as Jesus on water—
how can I translate this for you
these pictures of goalies mid-lunge,
of these racers caught without time
of these smiles made without effort—
you who have arrested my heart
forever paused in the shutter’s eye?
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Much ado about nothing
Be afraid, be very afraid, of hackers!
The video, produced for the Homeland Security Department and obtained by The Associated Press on Wednesday, was marked "Official Use Only." It shows commands quietly triggered by simulated hackers having such a violent reaction that the enormous turbine shudders as pieces fly apart and it belches black-and-white smoke.First there's no money in it--almost all malware currently out there is designed to either garner personal information, or take over a computer so it can be used as a spam-bot (or both). Second, such an attack has not happened, and is not likely to happen. Regardless, everyone needs to take steps to better protect their systems and computers against hacks. Keeping supervisory command and control computers off-line seems to be common sense.
The video was produced for top U.S. policy makers by the Idaho National Laboratory, which has studied the little-understood risks to the specialized electronic equipment that operates power, water and chemical plants. Vice President Dick Cheney is among those who have watched the video, said one U.S. official, speaking on condition of anonymity because this official was not authorized to publicly discuss such high-level briefings.
[...]
The electrical attack never actually happened. The recorded demonstration, called the "Aurora Generator Test," was conducted in March by government researchers investigating a dangerous vulnerability in computers at U.S. utility companies known as supervisory control and data acquisition systems. The programming flaw was quietly fixed, and equipment-makers urged utilities to take protective measures.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
General Zod in 2008
Zod 2008 Campaign Headquarters
When I first came to your planet and demanded your homes, property and very lives, I didn't know you were already doing so, willingly, with your own government. I can win no tribute from a bankrupted nation populated by feeble flag-waving plebians. In 2008 I shall restore your dignity and make you servants worthy of my rule. This new government shall become a tool of my oppression. Instead of hidden agendas and waffling policies, I offer you direct candor and brutal certainty. I only ask for your tribute, your lives, and your vote.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
The monkey's paw
This little tale starts with the classic "It was a dark and stormy night.", which is longhand for "fantastically good".
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
This is just sad.
It seems that whales can live a long long time: 19th-century weapon found in whale.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
spam blogging and nota bene
This blog has been identified as a spam blog.
Just another headache. (The headache is having to do the word verification at the bottom of each post... which I invariably have to do twice. I can't tell when letters are capitalized or not--or maybe its a mild dyslexia.)
N.B.: I will be away from my computer starting early tomorrow morning. So minimal posting at best until I return. Sometime next week.
Just another headache. (The headache is having to do the word verification at the bottom of each post... which I invariably have to do twice. I can't tell when letters are capitalized or not--or maybe its a mild dyslexia.)
N.B.: I will be away from my computer starting early tomorrow morning. So minimal posting at best until I return. Sometime next week.
Discourse and Intercourse, I. Prologue
Poetry is a martial art—
its rhythms
are the rhythms
of combat—pacing—
its words
are etched with blood
with sweat
with body blows
its meanderings
are long arms
entwining
its punctuation
kicks,
trips,
hits to the head
its messages
conveyed
in the silence
after
the scream.
its rhythms
are the rhythms
of combat—pacing—
its words
are etched with blood
with sweat
with body blows
its meanderings
are long arms
entwining
its punctuation
kicks,
trips,
hits to the head
its messages
conveyed
in the silence
after
the scream.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Edmund the Confessor
The pay phone is broken.
The night manager reads the horoscopes
from the day before—
does he ever think,
“These aren’t for today.
They were yesterdays”?
I don’t know,
and I don’t know if the pay phone
has succumbed
to heart break, existential pain,
abuse, being used,
or if it's waiting for an assignation.
I hear a woman, at the phone next to mine, say,
“I’m here now”—
but I’m not,
I don’t know where I am.
My ink has already stained the bed spread.
The ink bleeds now
in the phone book.
I think Edmund the Confessor
will be waiting for me in hell.
The woman next to me gets up—
I think she’s disappointed.
I want to offer her a cigarette,
but more than that
I want to use the phone.
What am I doing here, I think,
because I know this shouldn’t matter,
yet it does
and I don’t know why
I just move on.
A king, I remember, must always be a king.
A lover, once consigned to the role,
must be a lover,
even if it's wrong.
The night manager reads the horoscopes
from the day before—
does he ever think,
“These aren’t for today.
They were yesterdays”?
I don’t know,
and I don’t know if the pay phone
has succumbed
to heart break, existential pain,
abuse, being used,
or if it's waiting for an assignation.
I hear a woman, at the phone next to mine, say,
“I’m here now”—
but I’m not,
I don’t know where I am.
My ink has already stained the bed spread.
The ink bleeds now
in the phone book.
I think Edmund the Confessor
will be waiting for me in hell.
The woman next to me gets up—
I think she’s disappointed.
I want to offer her a cigarette,
but more than that
I want to use the phone.
What am I doing here, I think,
because I know this shouldn’t matter,
yet it does
and I don’t know why
I just move on.
A king, I remember, must always be a king.
A lover, once consigned to the role,
must be a lover,
even if it's wrong.
Friday, June 1, 2007
the limit
“I confess to find
Myself astonished by the outskirts of things:”
—Sarah Hannah, from Cassetta Frame (Italy, circa 1600)
At first there were these little strips of wood,
then larger pieces, connected pieces—
I dislocated my jaw a few times—
large stretches of painted chamfered poplar
and when that picture frame was done—no rest—
my distorted mouth would open wider
for a rococo niello frame.
I wondered if I had swallowed some strange
emetic. For hours each day I retched
increasingly complicated pieces
carved gilded painted molded all designed,
or so it would appear, for some canvas
or photograph or painted panel.
(I began to feel incomplete.)
What was the meaning of this, this vomit,
that drove me away from my family
with my strange gurgling sounds of agony
and interrupted my work with visits
to my doctor, who, despite this piece
of walnut extruding from my
mouth, could find nothing wrong with me?
Perhaps my mouth became an artisan—
a form of glandular psychosis—
with dreams and ambitions and emotions
all unto its own, separated.
What could I tell the rest of me?
“Let’s stick together boys. The mouth
will come around. He’ll come around.”
But without my mouth to echo my speech—
strange how resonance adds authority—
parts of my body deserted me.
My left leg became a dancer,
jumping about in odd rhythms
and at odd times of day. My ears,
annoyed with my mouth, stopped listening.
Lame, deaf, and muted—spewing brushed alum-
inum with gold inlay—and writhing,
I had long lost what dignity
I may have thought I might have had.
I scolded my mouth, little good
that it would do: “It’s all your fault.
Why not make art? Why only frames?”
But we are all caught by the edges—
the edges between life and death,
hatred and desire, reason
and insanity, between breaths,
longing, friendships, loss, and heartache.
The border is where my heart gasps
and I redefine who I am.
I dance more often now, listen
more acutely, and speak more freely,
no longer hindered by spewed wood
(however beautifully ornate).
The absurdity of it all
confounds me. I should learn to paint,
if only to show off these frames.
Myself astonished by the outskirts of things:”
—Sarah Hannah, from Cassetta Frame (Italy, circa 1600)
At first there were these little strips of wood,
then larger pieces, connected pieces—
I dislocated my jaw a few times—
large stretches of painted chamfered poplar
and when that picture frame was done—no rest—
my distorted mouth would open wider
for a rococo niello frame.
I wondered if I had swallowed some strange
emetic. For hours each day I retched
increasingly complicated pieces
carved gilded painted molded all designed,
or so it would appear, for some canvas
or photograph or painted panel.
(I began to feel incomplete.)
What was the meaning of this, this vomit,
that drove me away from my family
with my strange gurgling sounds of agony
and interrupted my work with visits
to my doctor, who, despite this piece
of walnut extruding from my
mouth, could find nothing wrong with me?
Perhaps my mouth became an artisan—
a form of glandular psychosis—
with dreams and ambitions and emotions
all unto its own, separated.
What could I tell the rest of me?
“Let’s stick together boys. The mouth
will come around. He’ll come around.”
But without my mouth to echo my speech—
strange how resonance adds authority—
parts of my body deserted me.
My left leg became a dancer,
jumping about in odd rhythms
and at odd times of day. My ears,
annoyed with my mouth, stopped listening.
Lame, deaf, and muted—spewing brushed alum-
inum with gold inlay—and writhing,
I had long lost what dignity
I may have thought I might have had.
I scolded my mouth, little good
that it would do: “It’s all your fault.
Why not make art? Why only frames?”
But we are all caught by the edges—
the edges between life and death,
hatred and desire, reason
and insanity, between breaths,
longing, friendships, loss, and heartache.
The border is where my heart gasps
and I redefine who I am.
I dance more often now, listen
more acutely, and speak more freely,
no longer hindered by spewed wood
(however beautifully ornate).
The absurdity of it all
confounds me. I should learn to paint,
if only to show off these frames.
They Still Shoot Horses
They still shoot horses
who break their legs
tangled twisted
no more a race horse
no longer desired.
They train you
give you amphetamines
and they tell you who to kill—
the wife of a dissident in hiding
the ten year old son
of a minor official
whose loyalty is suspect.
You don’t know why you kill these people.—
you sight the scope
you calm your breathing
you squeeze
a puff of smoke
and it is done—
but you imagine
you have to imagine
a reason.
You tell yourself
these people are terrorists
these people are insurgents
but there are too many men who kiss their children goodbye
too many wives
too many children.
The reasons you imagine are lies
and you realize this
and it is the loneliest, most desolate night
of your life.
You remember a racetrack in your youth
a trampled jockey
the horse neighing in pain
silence both before and after
the firing of the gun.
who break their legs
tangled twisted
no more a race horse
no longer desired.
They train you
give you amphetamines
and they tell you who to kill—
the wife of a dissident in hiding
the ten year old son
of a minor official
whose loyalty is suspect.
You don’t know why you kill these people.—
you sight the scope
you calm your breathing
you squeeze
a puff of smoke
and it is done—
but you imagine
you have to imagine
a reason.
You tell yourself
these people are terrorists
these people are insurgents
but there are too many men who kiss their children goodbye
too many wives
too many children.
The reasons you imagine are lies
and you realize this
and it is the loneliest, most desolate night
of your life.
You remember a racetrack in your youth
a trampled jockey
the horse neighing in pain
silence both before and after
the firing of the gun.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
American Oratory
Kermit the Frog's commencement speech to Southampton Graduate Campus, 1996.
Stephen Colbert's 2006 commencement address to Knox College.
Fred McFeely Rogers 2002 Commencement Address at Dartmouth College.
Text of Mr. Roger's Congressional testimony, 1969.
I found the video through Oliver Willis.
Stephen Colbert's 2006 commencement address to Knox College.
Fred McFeely Rogers 2002 Commencement Address at Dartmouth College.
Text of Mr. Roger's Congressional testimony, 1969.
I found the video through Oliver Willis.
worthy of crime
Sao Paolo graffiti artists decorate a Scottish Castle: The Graffiti Project.
Barista provides context.
Barista provides context.
When Anubis
When Anubis places my heart
in front of Ammit and Thoth unrecords
my name from the scroll of the blessed dead
I will plead, pleading first to Thoth,
for the god of writing writes and unwrites
with sacred ink that has known no mistake
a hierography of all things
worth reckoning in their truest measures.
I will plead not for release, but for pause,
and should his plumed quill arrest
I will lie prostrate in front of Ammit
mumbling the litany of the guilty—
do not devour everything,
just that which is lacking inside of me—
and this petition will amount to naught
for I will have been adjudged.
Ammit’s crocodile tears will bring no cheer
when I no longer cease to be.
Perhaps Thoth might make a note,
“of insufficient literary or historical value”,
a note that, too, will be unwritten
in the golden scroll of the blessed dead.
in front of Ammit and Thoth unrecords
my name from the scroll of the blessed dead
I will plead, pleading first to Thoth,
for the god of writing writes and unwrites
with sacred ink that has known no mistake
a hierography of all things
worth reckoning in their truest measures.
I will plead not for release, but for pause,
and should his plumed quill arrest
I will lie prostrate in front of Ammit
mumbling the litany of the guilty—
do not devour everything,
just that which is lacking inside of me—
and this petition will amount to naught
for I will have been adjudged.
Ammit’s crocodile tears will bring no cheer
when I no longer cease to be.
Perhaps Thoth might make a note,
“of insufficient literary or historical value”,
a note that, too, will be unwritten
in the golden scroll of the blessed dead.
Jack Kerouac on the Road
A video excerpt from Kerouc's appearance on The Tonight Show with Steve Allen.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Nice work if you can get it.
Profiting from profiling: The nice life of a female dealer (via TalkLeft)
The Latino drug dealers on the sidewalk below "Jennifer's" apartment in the Mission keep getting arrested. Not once a year or even every few months, but constantly. (If the city wanted to be efficient, it would just have its mail carriers do the arresting, since they're there anyway.) Off to jail they go, and then others fill their place, and then the first ones get released, and all the while the dealing continues.
Jennifer, who is white, and who dresses tidily and arranges flowers for a popular art gallery, talks about the dealers with clear discomfort. Not because they're troublesome or violent. It's more that she feels guilty. The police never arrest her.
Jennifer enjoys the flower arranging, but mostly it functions as a legitimate income to show the IRS. Really, she's a marijuana dealer.
In many ways, Jennifer's a typical one for the Bay Area: She sells a relatively small amount, she sells almost exclusively to friends and she draws a line between pot and harder drugs. What's atypical is that she's a middle-class she.
Why do some people resist reality?
Paul Bloom and Deena Skolnick Weisberg look at why some adults refuse to accept science. (via Pharyngula)
It is no secret that many American adults reject some scientific ideas. In a 2005 Pew Trust poll, for instance, 42% of respondents said that they believed that humans and other animals have existed in their present form since the beginning of time. A substantial minority of Americans, then, deny that evolution has even taken place, making them more radical than "Intelligent Design" theorists, who deny only that natural selection can explain complex design. But evolution is not the only domain in which people reject science: Many believe in the efficacy of unproven medical interventions, the mystical nature of out-of-body experiences, the existence of supernatural entities such as ghosts and fairies, and the legitimacy of astrology, ESP, and divination.
Noting the obvious
Valerie Plame was a covert agent at the time of being 'outed' by Bob Novak. (via Atrios)
Well worth reading: An exposé of SAIC, one of the largest government contractors.
An unclassified summary of outed CIA officer Valerie Plame's employment history at the spy agency, disclosed for the first time today in a court filing by Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald, indicates that Plame was "covert" when her name became public in July 2003.
Well worth reading: An exposé of SAIC, one of the largest government contractors.
It is a simple fact of life these days that, owing to a deliberate decision to downsize government, Washington can operate only by paying private companies to perform a wide range of functions. To get some idea of the scale: contractors absorb the taxes paid by everyone in America with incomes under $100,000. In other words, more than 90 percent of all taxpayers might as well remit everything they owe directly to SAIC or some other contractor rather than to the IRS.
tiger, jungle, fog
It is approached
as one would approach a tiger
in the jungle
in the fog—
what is this song you sing,
who is this lover you are leaving?
There is no need to explain
the particulars—fogs, jungles, tigers—
only,
in describing the path,
the particulars fade
to shadows and dust.
I want you—
who is this lover you are leaving?
as one would approach a tiger
in the jungle
in the fog—
what is this song you sing,
who is this lover you are leaving?
There is no need to explain
the particulars—fogs, jungles, tigers—
only,
in describing the path,
the particulars fade
to shadows and dust.
I want you—
who is this lover you are leaving?
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
A grieving father becomes disillusioned
Colonel Bacevich writes: I Lost My Son to a War I Oppose. We Were Both Doing Our Duty.
Not for a second did I expect my own efforts to make a difference. But I did nurse the hope that my voice might combine with those of others -- teachers, writers, activists and ordinary folks -- to educate the public about the folly of the course on which the nation has embarked. I hoped that those efforts might produce a political climate conducive to change. I genuinely believed that if the people spoke, our leaders in Washington would listen and respond.Bacevich's editorial reminds me of Major General Smedley Butler, who after retirement became a vociferous speaker against the military industrial complex (long before it was called the military industrial complex by President Eisenhower).
This, I can now see, was an illusion.
The people have spoken, and nothing of substance has changed. The November 2006 midterm elections signified an unambiguous repudiation of the policies that landed us in our present predicament. But half a year later, the war continues, with no end in sight. Indeed, by sending more troops to Iraq (and by extending the tours of those, like my son, who were already there), Bush has signaled his complete disregard for what was once quaintly referred to as "the will of the people."
[...]
To whom do Kennedy, Kerry and Lynch listen? We know the answer: to the same people who have the ear of George W. Bush and Karl Rove -- namely, wealthy individuals and institutions.
Money buys access and influence. Money greases the process that will yield us a new president in 2008. When it comes to Iraq, money ensures that the concerns of big business, big oil, bellicose evangelicals and Middle East allies gain a hearing. By comparison, the lives of U.S. soldiers figure as an afterthought.
Memorial Day orators will say that a G.I.'s life is priceless. Don't believe it. I know what value the U.S. government assigns to a soldier's life: I've been handed the check. It's roughly what the Yankees will pay Roger Clemens per inning once he starts pitching next month.
Money maintains the Republican/Democratic duopoly of trivialized politics. It confines the debate over U.S. policy to well-hewn channels. It preserves intact the cliches of 1933-45 about isolationism, appeasement and the nation's call to "global leadership." It inhibits any serious accounting of exactly how much our misadventure in Iraq is costing. It ignores completely the question of who actually pays. It negates democracy, rendering free speech little more than a means of recording dissent.
This is not some great conspiracy. It's the way our system works.
I spent 33 years and four months in active military service and during that period I spent most of my time as a high class muscle man for Big Business, for Wall Street and the bankers. In short, I was a racketeer, a gangster for capitalism. I helped make Mexico and especially Tampico safe for American oil interests in 1914. I helped make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City Bank boys to collect revenues in. I helped in the raping of half a dozen Central American republics for the benefit of Wall Street. I helped purify Nicaragua for the International Banking House of Brown Brothers in 1902-1912. I brought light to the Dominican Republic for the American sugar interests in 1916. I helped make Honduras right for the American fruit companies in 1903. In China in 1927 I helped see to it that Standard Oil went on its way unmolested.General Butler's book, War is a Racket is available to read online.
a question
Not that I mind it too much, but why is celery a staple vegetable in soup? And if there is a secret law (#149, perhaps) stating that all soups must contain celery, why isn't it cut into smaller pieces?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
