Signs You Might Be Living in a Red State

1. When putting gas in your car, the two good old boys in the wasteful gas guzzler across your way shoot you looks of pure hate. Apparently boiling over with rage because you have the gall to vote for a Democrat and publicly display said political persuasion to the outside world, they sneer at your Obama button while expressing their utter contempt for you and your candidate in dangerously, recklessly chain smoking too close to the pump. Apparently people like this love to play with fire---fire is an apt description of just what they might get someday, because behavior like this seriously risks igniting gasoline fumes and being blown sky high in the process.

2. A Democratic candidate running against the incumbent Republican representative for the House finds himself the target of an particularly caustic, harsh attack ad broadcast on local television. In it, the challenger currently leading in the polls finds himself being painted as a New York, tax and spend, ultra-liberal in the person of two grumpy old white guys who pepper their righteous indignation with heavy southern accents and countrified vernacular. All of this takes place as these antique bumpkins delivery their lines while lounging on the tailgate of a pickup truck parked somewhere in a heavily wooded rural area.

3. Though there aren't as many John McCain stickers on cars this time around as there were W stickers in excess four years ago, there are still more of them then you'd ever wish to see.

4. A friend of yours who has converted to Islam regularly receives hate mail.

__________________________

There are more, many more, but this will do for now.

American Street Day

You say today is Saturday?

Saturday Song

This Saturday's song is provided in tribute to Pink Floyd keyboardist and occasional lyricist Richard Wright, who passed away earlier this week. The song, "Summer '68" was an album track on the 1970 album Atom Heart Mother and though the track is located relatively early on in the group's discography, it is considered by many to be his best songwriting effort. Wright's material was never thought strong enough to merit a single, though his compositions did from time to time in the early days serve as B-sides. Of the later period Floyd, the Wright-penned song "Us and Them", which showed up on the monster hit The Dark Side of the Moon, probably is the most well-known.

As for "Summer '68", the song reflects Wright's severe sense of reservation regarding the free love, rock and roll lifestyle, and permissive sexuality of the period---referencing in particular the hordes of groupies who followed behind every touring rock group, eager to exchange sex for the ability to get close to a pop star.

Men of Good Fortune

 

    
       Men of good fortune
       often cause empires to fall
       While men of poor beginnings
       often can't do anything at all

       The rich son waits for his father to die
       the poor just drink and cry
       And me, I just don't care at all

       Men of good fortune
       very often can't do a thing
       While men of poor beginnings
       often can do anything

       At heart they try to act like a man
       handle things the best way they can
       They have no rich daddy to fall back on

       Men of good fortune
       often cause empires to fall
       While men of poor beginnings
       often can't do anything at all

       It takes money to make money they say
       look at the Fords, but didn't they start that way
       Anyway, it makes no difference to me

       Men of good fortune
       often wish that they could die
       While men of poor beginnings
       want what they have and to get it they'll die

       All those great things that life has to give
       they wanna have money and live
       But me, I just don't care at all

       Men of good fortune
       men of poor beginnings
       Men of good fortune
       men of poor beginnings
       Men of good fortune
       men of poor beginnings
       Men of good fortune
       men of poor beginnings

Friday Amusement

Today I simply do not have the energy to crank out a lengthy post. Instead of something serious, I'd like to submit two new sites that have provided me with some laughs.

1. Sorry I Missed Your Party

For all of us who enjoy living vicariously through other people, and then mocking them for their shortcomings, here's a wonderful way to do it. Sorry I Missed Your Party reveals that the digital camera revolution has proven that although you can document every detail in your entire life if you so choose, why would you ever want to?

2. Cake Wrecks

The worst designed cakes. Ever.

That's the Difference Between Wrong and Right

       That's the story of my life
       That's the difference between wrong and right
       But Billy said, both those words are dead
       That's the story of my life

       That's the story of my life
       That's the difference between wrong and right
       But Billy said, both those words are dead
       That's the story of my life

       Oh, that's the story of my life
       That's the difference between wrong and right
       But Billy said, both those words are dead
       That's the story of my life

Tagged!

Liberality tagged me, so I shall respond.

What songs are playing through the soundtrack of my life? Well, the short answer is---it varies.
But for the sake of this meme, allow me to list some of the albums and artists I've been listening to over the course of the past week.

1. Badfinger- Straight Up
2. Neil Young- Tonight's the Night
3. Sleater-Kinney- Dig Me Out
4. Portishead- Dummy
5. Nico- Chelsea Girl
6. Moby Grape- Wow
7. Maritime- We, The Vehicles
8. Lou Reed- Lou Reed
9. The Feelies- Crazy Rhythms
10. Garbage- Garbage

Seeking the Inherent God Spark

Someone at my other blog tore into me the other day for being unnecessarily harsh in my criticisms of other people. Apparently also a Friend, the poster admonished me for failing to adhere to the Quaker principle of seeking to find the divine within every human being. He or she raised a good point that deserves a response, and in that spirit, allow me to be completely honest. While I understand the spiritual intent of trying to find that which is God within all souls, I am unsure if the human and the divine are even slightly compatible with one another. While conceived as a means of encouraging people to get alone with each other, upon further reflection, I really don't think it's a realistic goal to aim for. Let me try to explain myself a little bit better.

Though I aim for perfection in my conduct and in my art, I can't say that either of them have even once reached the status of inherently divine. Divinely inspired, yes. Divinely perfect, no. Perhaps I'm just too skeptical these days. I wish I believed that humans were capable of reaching the heights of the divine, even slightly or for a brief moment in time. These days, I'm much more comfortable with believing that God's ways are utterly foreign to human ways. I'd rather they not mix even the slightest. It makes me uncomfortable to think that flawed humanity should even aspire towards such ends. Even striving towards such ends, no matter how noble the intention, is an untoward exercise which reminds me of nothing less than good old fashioned idolatry.

It's difficult, furthermore, to find evidence of God in people whose core, fundamental beliefs appear to be contrary to reason and logic. Many people who I associated with in my youth believe the polar opposite of what I do, both politically and ideologically. While they may be well-meaning or well-intentioned in what they assert, this doesn't mean they are any less wrong. The road to bad Presidents, unfit government, and hell itself is paved with good intentions and probably well-meaning conservatives to boot. I wish I knew the ways to make people act in their own best interest, but as we know well, free will leans towards educated guess and a guess is not divine certainty.

I take many such religious admonishments with a grain of salt. They too are often born out of the best of intentions, but in this rough and tumble world, many simply aren't feasible. For example, if I take the Quaker Peace Testimony at face value, then I should have nothing to do with war. Literally speaking, I shouldn't fight in any conflict, no matter the justification. I shouldn't contribute to anyone's war effort, even tangentially. I shouldn't even take a non-combat role in the proceedings. I am to be totally, wholly against armed conflict. In an ideal world, living a literal interpretation of this testimony would be easy. In reality, Quakers have frequently broken with the Peace Testimony to take up arms or, more often than not slyly pursued more nuanced positions when war has raged in their native lands.

Here, another example--everyone compliments the politician who takes the high road. If character and ethics were as contagious as the common cold, this approach might work. In great contrast, however, the politician who takes the low road, slings mud, and launches personal attacks on his opponent usually wins. Many of us seek to emulate the example of the pacifist, but when war breaks out, this philosophy quickly falls by the wayside, since there are any number of people willing to kill each other for material gain, financial profit, or in a spirit of patriotic, primal fervor.

In conclusion, while I acknowledge might be better served by cutting people a break every now and then, I've accepted there is divination, not divinity, in human beings.

A Brief Public Service Notice

Dear Readers,

Anonymous comments are the last refuge of the cowardly.

Either grow a pair and leave your name, or go vandalize public property with a spray paint can, which is kind of what your comments look like when placed on this blog.

Thanks,

Management.

Take A Drag Or Two

        Teenage Mary said to Uncle Dave
       I sold my soul, must be saved
       Gonna take a walk down Union Square
       you never know who you gonna find there

       You gotta run run run run run
       take a drag or two
       Run run run run run
       gypsy death and you, tell you what to do

       Margarita Passion I had to get her fixed
       she wasn't well, she's getting sick
       Went to sell her soul, she wasn't high
       didn't know things she could buy

       And she would run run run run run
       take a drag or two
       Run run run run run
       gypsy death and you, tell you what to do

       Seasick Sarah had a golden nose
       hard-nailed boots wrapped around her toes
       When she turned blue, all the angels screamed
       they didn't know, they couldn't make the scene

       She had to run run run run run
       take a drag or two
       Run run run run run
       gypsy death and you, tell you what to do

       Beardless Harry, what a waste
       couldn't even get a small town taste
       Rode the trolleys down to forty-seven
       figured if he was good, he'd get himself to heaven

       'Cause he had to run run run run run
       take a drag or two
       Run run run run run
       gypsy death and you, tell you what to do

I'm Made Out of Glue

        I'm sticking with you
       'cause I'm made out of glue
       Anything that you might do
       I'm gonna do, too

       You held up a stagecoach in the rain
       and I'm doing the same
       Saw you hanging from a tree
       and I made believe it was me

       I'm sticking with you
       'cause I'm made out of glue
       Anything that you might do
       I'm gonna do, too

       Moon people going to the stratosphere
       soldiers fighting with the Cong
       But with you by my side I can do anything
       when we swing, we hang past right and wrong

       I'll do anything for you
       anything you'd want me to
       I'll do anything for you, oh wow
       I'm sticking with you, oh wow
       I'm sticking with you, oh wow
       I'm sticking with you, oh wow
       I'm sticking with you, oh wow
       I'm sticking with you, oh wow
       I'm sticking with you, oh wow
       I'm sticking with you, oh wow
       I'm sticking with you, oh wow

Movie Review: The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

Director Tony Richardson is best known for the playful, wry comedy Tom Jones, 1963's Best Picture winner at the Academy Awards. Prior to that, however, Richardson made his name, with a series of black and white, modestly budgeted, critically acclaimed, free cinema inspired, kitchen sink dramas of which The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner Runner is one of the finest. Perhaps the reason why quality productions like this are frequently overlooked by the general public and appreciated only by movie buffs is due to the fact that UK cinema has struggled to find its own voice over the years. Talented actors, actresses, directors, screenwriters, and major players from Britain ended up frequently being snapped up by American studios after making a name for themselves in their native land. The allure of a substantial raise in pay and a chance to work in Hollywood, then as now proved a powerfully motivating force. Countries that cannot pay top dollar for their A-list talent are often plagued by wholesale defections and the resulting brain drain renders them hard pressed to maintain any sort of cinematic continuity. This phenomenon was also true during the late silent era of the 1920's as American studios hired away the best talent that Scandinavia and Germany had to offer.

Nonetheless, the UK screen enjoyed its own brief golden age which lasted from roughly the late 1950's until the mid 1960's. Free cinema, as it proclaimed itself, made a concerted effort to revolutionize film-making, drawing frequent inspiration from the movers and shakers of French New Wave, whose contribution to celluloid transpired simultaneously to its British counterparts--existing just across the English channel. Adherents to the new cinematic movement asserted that, prior to its existence, the British film industry and the dramatic arts had previously taken too narrow a focus. Films prior to the period were frequently set and based in the affluent, more supposedly cultured south of England, reinforcing strict class distinctions, bourgeoisie pretenses, and social inequality. Free Cinema, by contrast, believed that much of the country's cinematic output reeked of elitism, snobbery, and pretention, furthermore neglecting to even as much as acknowledge the daily life of the average Briton. British New Wave directors, film critics, and screenwriters: Richardson, Lindsay Anderson, Karel Reisz, and Alan Sillitoe turned their focus instead upon the industrial, grimy, hard scrabble, largely working class North of England.

Films of this period inevitably center on the life and resulting struggles of a frustrated, often dubiously moral angry young man from a working class background. In The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner, the latest specimen is Colin Smith (Tom Courtenay), a product of a dysfunctional home, squabbling parents, bratty siblings, and not all that much in the way of motivation. Refusing to enter the work force as a factory laborer--a demanding, physically taxing occupation, Colin instead would much rather live a meandering existence as a petty criminal. Justifiying his reluctance to secure a job, he is keen to point out the economic disparities between the management at the top and the workers at the bottom. Rather than take a low level role in the factory as his father did, Smith refuses to contribute his talents to what he perceives as an unjust, unfair, souless system.

In place of work, he prefers the thrill of car theft and stealing small sums of money. Predictably, as his successes as a thief multiply he pursues larger and larger targets. After absconding with a substantial amount of money from a baker's shop he is eventually caught by the police and promptly then sent away to reform school. While at reform school, his prowess as a long-distance runner grants him the attention of the Governor (Michael Redgrave) and head of the entire school. The Governor seeks to groom Smith to excel, insisting he direct his sizeable athletic talents towards winning a trophy at a cross-country competition, eventually to be held pitting the men of the reform school against the athletes of an upper-crust public school. Colin Smith, however, has other ideas, as we see by the end, shows himself to be thoroughly disinclined to be neither anyone's lapdog nor a pawn in the hands of his jailers.

Class conflict shows itself prominently in the film, particularly when the running teams from both reform school and public school meet shortly before the match. The public school athletes display impeccable manners and upper class accents, while the reform school lads make no effort to conceal their working class accents and unpolished decorum. The haughty mannerisms and behavior of the Governor and his associates stands out in sharp contrast to the reform school men who hold no such pretensions or aspirations.

Technically speaking, this film utilizes some especially inventive camera techniques, often indebted to the pioneering works of French directors Godat and Truffaut. Handheld camera shots pop up during a fight in the reform school's cafeteria and Richardson even uses some well placed double speed shots for the sake of comedic effect in an effort to brighten up an otherwise bleak film. Today many of these effects appear heavily dated or even cliche but at the time they were quite novel. Certain sequences resemble documentary filmmaking, hardly surprising since many directors of the free cinema era got their start in the genre. As such, it's understandable that they incorporated many disparate elements previously found only in documentary films. genre into feature films. While many of these technical innovations are run of the mill now, they were quite radically different from the status quo at the time, introducing a much rougher, more realistic element to film, emphasizing the social realism of the subject matter.

10 Years Later

It started innocuously enough. "It" started with medium sized card from "The Alumni Foundation" sent to my address, encased in a rather harmless looking white envelope. I very nearly threw it away, assuming it was either junk mail or a standard circular from the university I attended asking for donations. As I opened it, however, I realized the card was sent to remind me that this summer will be my tenth high school reunion.

How did they manage to find me?

I was, you must understand, not exactly someone who participated in school functions. Thankfully I was not I alone in that sentiment. The school administrators, being wise to this, provided us two options come pep rally day: go to the gym and cheer rah rah rah, or sit in the lunchroom and visit with friends. I almost always chose the latter. Having hit adolescent rebellion stage early I vocally and conspicuously boycotted just about everything. I never went to prom. I never went to a single school-sponsored dance. I never signed any pledges requiring good conduct. Instead, I frequently cut class when I could get away with it, particularly the days where we'd be forced to listen to another in a series of rambling motivational speakers.

I suppose what mostly gets to me is not that attending this function would mean that I was conforming and going against my ethos for the first time ever, it's mostly that I'd be around people who I had little to nothing in common with all of the four years I was there. People here are rather vanilla. Birmingham, though it has changed a little, is still a pretty conservative place and while it doesn't necessarily penalize the creatively inclined, neither does it particularly reward them, either. Most get married early here, dress up for church on Sunday, go to the meat and three for lunch after the service, then go home to take a nap. That's never really been my thing.

Attending would also provide some disconcerting revelations. Namely, not only have many of my classmates started to marry, as I mentioned above, they also have begun to procreate. If you knew many of these people in their teens you might seriously consider demanding that our government adopt a program of forced sterilization. I'm aware that in speaking in this manner I am assuming that no one reforms themselves with time and no one changes for the better. Maybe I'm just skeptical. Their children might turn out decently, but they'll likely be identical to their parents. Bland, conservative, inoffensive, and completely uninteresting.

So no, I don't think I'm going.

Question in Search of an Answer

Why do baby boomer aged female psychologists always wear shoes that look like this?

Any ideas?

Live! Comrade Kevin!

Some of you may recall me mentioning the interview I recently gave for a Quaker-related radio program. Entitled "Song of the Soul", the show is syndicated and simulcast on three separate radio stations---two in Wisconsin, the last in New Hampshire. And, thankfully for those of you who might wish to listen to it, the program is also available on streaming audio online.

A direct link is provided below.

http://www.northernspiritradio.org/index.asp?command=showinfo&showid=466791705005

I am not going to listen to the interview at all because I'm extremely self-conscious, but hopefully those of you out there inclined to listen might tell me how I did in comments, if you wish.

In Other News

According to someone who left a comment, I

a) Am "So Oregon"
b) Smoke a copious amount of pot, but not too much
c) Am worthy of ridicule for both of those things

In reality,

a) I live in Alabama, but I guess I'm so Oregon if you count my sister who lives in Portland
b) I haven't smoked pot in three years
c) Consider myself well beyond the stereotypical bohemian sort. I assume the comment was left about my song choice and quite frankly, most people can't play Velvet Underground songs at all because Lou Reed often uses a very inventive kind of alternate guitar tuning. Most stoners I know wouldn't be motivated enough to figure it out for themselves.
d) Good try, though. If you need me to point out some easy targets for self-parody, I'll be glad to assist you.

Where I Am Every Saturday

At the American Street

Saturday Video

Had I not had friends in the UK at the time Mansun appeared on the scene, I likely would have never run across this group. They produced one quality album, Attack of the Grey Lantern, from which comes this single, "Wide Open Spaces", were a brief sensation in Britain lasting for a year or two, then released two more full lengths of deceasing quality before they ultimately disbanded.

They were total unknowns outside of their homeland and made no impact whatsoever in America. Mansun in their heyday did, however, provide an excellent example of late-period Britpop.

If You Close The Door

        one, two, three
      If you close the door
      the night could last forever
      Leave the sunshine out
      and say hello to never

      All the people are dancing
      and they're having such fun
      I wish it could happen to me

      But if you close the door
      I'd never have to see the day again

      If you close the door
      the night could last forever
      Leave the wine-glass out
      and drink a toast to never

      Oh, someday I know
      someone will look into my eyes
      And say hello
      you're my very special one

      But if you close the door
      I'd never have to see the day again

      Dark party bars, shiny Cadillac cars
      and the people on subways and trains
      Looking gray in the rain, as they stand disarrayed
      oh, but people look well in the dark

      And if you close the door
      the night could last forever
      leave the sunshine out
      and drink a toast to never

      All the people are dancing
      and they're having such fun
      I wish it could happen to me

      Cause if you close the door
      I'd never have to see the day again, once more
      I'd never have to see the day again, once more
      I'd never have to see the day again

Movie Review: Blow-Up

Italian director Michelangelo Antonioni's films criticize the vapidity and shallowness of modern culture, while simultaneously revealing a paradoxical attraction to its tragic emptiness. Artists, never prone to be self-satisfied nor blissfully unaware have established a long tradition of heaping scorn on society, painting it in dour, sterile, sickly shades. In Blow-Up we see the vapidity of modern life inherent in the lives of every character---perhaps most keenly through David Hemmings' burnt-out, rude, thoroughly selfish and self-absorbed fashion photographer. If the film were released now, reviewers would be quick to label the character sexist, misogynistic, and homophobic, yet despite numerous flaws the photographer also possesses a kind of rough charm and resulting roguish charisma that very nearly redeems his at times reprehensible conduct. This is precisely the point. Antonioni's Swinging London is a world both seductive and empty, full of pretty people, drug use, casual sex, and those who document the hollow superficiality of the proceedings in order to make their living. This is what has always struck me as ironic. To an extent we the audience are supposed to relate deeply to these characters. On the other hand, these very same people live lives of such unrepentant inhumanity that it's hard to feel sorry for them when they fail or fall short. Blow-Up effectively glamorized the nihilistic, hedonistic late 1960's, likely winning converts to its brand of gorgeously amoral Bohemia, but what many seem to have missed altogether is the film's bold condemnation of the undisciplined ethos of the period.

The only way for Hemmings' photographer character to escape from this anti-human universe-- a world which he has long since grown quite weary-- arrives, quite unexpectedly, in the form of a murder. In true Antonioni fashion, the crime is presented in such vague and indefinite terms that it's just as plausible that the photographer conjured the whole thing up out of thin air. Many critics far more talented than I have speculated in great detail as to the true nature of the director's cinematic intent in this important regard, so much so that I have little, if anything to add to the discussion.

In my own defense, however, one of the marvelous things about films like Blow-Up is that they invite an almost infinite number of alternate interpretations, each of which could quite easily be correct in their own way. In this way, the film questions the nature of reality itself, positing whether humans are even capable of making coherent sense of the senseless. As the photographer's friend and next-door-neighbor, an abstract artist, remarks about his paintings: they don't mean anything when I do them. They're just a mess. The meaning comes later. Some critics interpret this as Antonioni himself speaking through the character. In other words, in the process of creation, inspiration comes first, but only at the end is meaning and analysis even possible. If we are to accept this premise as true, we are to concede that in the act of construction itself, an artist's ultimate aim is to deliberately submerge himself in the creation of his work and procede from there, content to leave strict interpretation specifically for the critics and the audience alone.

Blow-Up is also a film about power, but to write it off as simply a character study of an alpha male character who dominates a procession of submissive females in a variety of different ways would be over-simplifing things considerably. As a damning indictment of the nature of fame and celebrity, it's plain to see that no one who dwells in the photographer's universe is cheerful or contented. Many aspire to be captured on film, parading themselves in front of him, begging for a break. In great contrast to this, those already in the business of modeling know far better. Weak, diseased, stunted, ill, pale---they are anything but happy and satisfied with themselves or their chosen careers. The photographer caustically and curtly dismisses them all as bloody bitches, revealing that even he himself is not immune to the negative effects of the sordid business.

What puts Hemmings' character in a position of power over almost everyone is that he has something many women desire, namely an ability to make models look aesthetically beautiful. As we have seen, these desires when fully actualized are nightmarish, not thrilling. Still, there is one prominent example where the photographer stands on equal footing with another character instead of having a decided advantage. This occurs when he meets the female owner of an antique shop on an errand of business. This time she has something he wants. After a frosty start, the two bond as the owner expresses her own deep dissatisfaction with the status quo, raising a rhetorical question for herself and the audience as to whether anyone is ever truly content with their lot in life. This kind of existential dilemma is commonplace in an Antonioni film, along with a cast of characters utterly paralyzed by boredom and ennui. Blow-Up's languorous pacing and the passive, unenthusiastic affect of the actors and actresses reinforces this overwhelming sense of crippling exhaustion.

Audiences sometimes think Blow-Up as somewhat of a challenge to digest, particularly since most commercial films instruct the audience what to feel, where to look, and how to think. In contrast, Antonioni's works substitute strict direction for individual choice. Though the viewer must accept the director's reality, almost everything else that passes before the lens is presented subjectively. Cinematic cues are infrequent and while the soundtrack emphasizes the emotional tone of each scene, music is used sparingly, quite different from most movies. I actually prefer it this way because the heavy-handed fashion of which much mainstream cinema, particularly American cinema, is structured reminds me of a parent lecturing a child in unnecessarily exacting detail, else the child miss the point altogether. Blow-Up certainly does make few concessions to the audience. For me, at least, multiple viewings were necessary to completely grasp the depth and breadth of its parade of images.

An intensely visual experience, the movie can at times hypnotize viewers with its skillful editing and equally inventive shot composition. The dialogue itself is minimal. There are no monologues nor much in the way of involved conversation. The players keep their discussions to a minimum and more often than not give the appearance of being pensive and otherwise preoccupied with their own private issues; this places the focus squarely on the visual display and on the source music, which, as referred to above, occasionally incorporates recorded music, but is frequently underscored by silence.

I'll Be Your Mirror

      I'll be your mirror
     reflect what you are, in case you don't know
     I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset
     the light on your door to show that you're home

     When you think the night has seen your mind
     that inside you're twisted and unkind
     Let me stand to show that you are blind
     Please put down your hands
     'cause I see you

     I find it hard
     to believe you don't know, the beauty you are
     But if you don't, let me be your eyes
     a hand to your darkness, so you won't be afraid

     When you think the night has seen your mind
     that inside you're twisted and unkind
     Let me stand to show that you are blind
     Please put down your hands
     'cause I see you

I'll be your mirror.

For Sarah Palin

Hey Grandma, you're so young
Your old man is just a boy

Been a long time this time
Been a long time this time

Been a long time this time
'round, this time 'round

Everything is upside down, upside down
Sure lookin' good

You're lookin' so good
You're sure lookin' good

Enter The Second Guessing

Pointing to McCain's momentary uptick in the polls, a few media commentators are now jabbing the finger of blame directly at Barack Obama for not picking Hillary Clinton as his Vice-President. Count me as another human being extremely sick of baseless media conjecture. Whether rooted in wishful thinking, quid pro quo favoritism, or genuine misunderstanding of the situation, this election cycle has shown us example after example that the supposed gatekeepers frequently have absolutely no clue what they are talking about. Not only that, but to these eyes the situation is getting much, much worse.

In other news, the story which broke at the first of the week that informed us Keith Olbermann and Chris Matthews would no longer be anchoring election coverage isn't as upsetting to me as it has been for some. I wish for the days of Walter Cronkite, Chet Huntly, and David Brinkley. Their stoic, impartial, and professional conduct puts most of today's "talent" to shame. The marked decrease in quality those who professionally analyze the news is direct byproduct of the increasingly divided attention of the viewing public. Until we demand better, we're going to be stuck with the inferior talent we have.

Atlanta Holidays

now are
landmarks

in a game of
orienteering for sport
pointing towards directions
we once traversed

a goal to be reached
on a long delayed

imaginary journey
directly due west

Odd twists and
turns towards
Ponce

But unlike a
fountain of youth

I am in search of a
fountain of peace.

I Do Believe, You Are What You Perceive

       

      Ba-ba-ba-ba, ba-ba-ba-ba
      Ba-ba-ba-ba, ba-ba-ba-ba

      I found a reason to keep livin'
      Oh, and the reason dear is you
      I found a reason to keep singin'
      Wow-woh, and the reason dear is you

      Oh, I do believe
      if you don't like things you leave
      For someplace you've never
      gone before

      Ba-ba-ba-ba, ba-ba-ba-ba
      Ba-ba-ba-ba, ba-ba-ba-ba

      Honey, I found a reason to keep livin'
      And you know the reason dear it's you
      And I've walked down life's lonely highways
      hand in hand with myself
      And I realize
      how many paths have crossed between us

      Oh, I do believe
      you are what you perceive
      What comes is better than what
      came before

      Oh, I do believe
      you are what you perceive
      What comes is better than what
      came before

      Ba-ba-ba-ba, ba-ba-ba-ba
      Ba-ba-ba-ba, ba-ba-ba-ba

      And you better come
      come-come, come to me
      come-come, come to me, better come
      Come-come, come to me
      Ba-ba-ba-ba
      Ba

Movie Review: Heavens Above!

John and Roy Boulting produced, wrote, and directed several of the finest British satires ever filmed. Incorporating clever social criticism, witty dialogue, and ever inventive premises, their films attracted top-notch talent--often the cream of the crop of UK cinema. Critically lauded and popular with audiences, the films of the Boulting Brothers proved time and time again that a modest budget was no roadblock to success. Like the Cohen Brothers that followed them, the Boultons used many of the same actors and actresses from film to film. Those who have seen two or three quickly pick up on the sight gags, running jokes, and director's trademarks that distinguish a Bolton Brothers movie from other movies of the period.

Heavens Above! was the third in a series of a ambitious trilogy which set its aim on major institutions in British society. The trilogy began with Private's Progress, a satire of the army, and was then followed by I'm All Right, Jack, which lampooned industry and trade unions. Heavens Above! is often considered to be the weakest of the three, largely the fault of its bizarre ending, which is silly, contrived, and altogether incongruous with the rest of the picture. It has been speculated that the Boultings simply ran out of ideas by its conclusion and couldn't come up with a suitable way of tying together loose ends. It's a real pity because the first hour and a half makes some remarkably philosophical, fully realized points that were obviously the product of much time and contemplation. Though the last few minutes render the film slightly flawed--one mustn't overlook the flashes of genius which are more applicable to today then they were forty-five years ago when the film was first shown to audiences.

While Heavens Above! was written primarily as a satire of the church, its screenplay incorporates some very blunt criticisms of materialism and consumer culture. A businessman, curtly dismisses the plea of a client who appeals to his sense of fairness and propriety. "There are no gentleman in business," he snaps. Even harsher are the wholesale condemnations of class conflict, congregational snootiness, and elitist attitudes. Vicar John Smallwood (Peter Sellers) upbraids his new parish, accusing them all of not being genuine Christians and living lives of spiritual flabbiness--totally unwilling to secure their own salvation in heaven due to their selfishness, laziness, and all around complacency. Through following the life of and the works of Smallwood, the focus of the film's most deliberately scathing commentary focuses squarely on the church itself for being just as asleep at the wheel and immobilized by inefficiency as its members. The Church of England's lethal combination of incompetent bureaucracy and marked hypocrisy constantly negates the very doctrinal mandates it preaches from the pulpit. The unassuming and unprepossessing Vicar Smallwood, by contrast, lives his life unashamed of what his superiors might think, speaks his mind no matter the consequences, and stands in great contrast as an example of a religious leader who walks the walk and talks the talk, too.

Though admirable in many ways, Smallwood's excessive piety and blind trust in the inherent goodness of mankind does lead him to make a major mistake. By taking into his pastoral residence a large, poor gypsy family used to making its living by unscrupulous means, Smallwood invites the scorn of his neighbors, influential members of his congregation, and his own superiors. The father of the family is a con artist, despised as little more than vermin by the locals, yet the Vicar's singular desire to reform the man's children, baptize the unconverted, and teach Christianity to the vulgar bunch of hooligans blinds him to the fact that they do not respect his hospitality, exploit his good nature, take every opportunity to steal, and run a variety of scams behind his back.

The idealistic Smallwood entices a rich widow in his parish to forsake her fortune for heavenly riches. Her substantial wealth is tied up in a company which manufactures a laxative advertised as a curative for all ills, which also happens to be the town's largest employer. After being accused by the vicar of caring more for the health of her earthly life than the status of her soul in the afterlife, the chastened woman decides to devote her share in the business to provide free food at market for all who would wish to have it. While at first the effort is perceived as an exercise in generosity, the combined efforts of the experiment in Christian charity drive the local grocery and butcher to the brink of bankruptcy. In addition, and with the purest of intentions, Vicar Smallwood uses a well-attended sermon as an opportunity to condemn the feel-good pill produced by the local factory as little more than a cheap replacement for the role of God in the daily lives of the populace. Smallwood's rhetoric becomes picked up by the press, distorted by hyperbole, and transformed into a major media sensation.

The resulting fallout causes the sales of the pill to drop dramatically, giving the company no other choice but to drastically reduce its workforce, laying off employees left and right. This in turn causes unemployment to rise as high as sixty percent in the town, giving rise to angry demonstrations in the street, a few choice bigoted remarks, and several open public displays of violence. Having no choice but to intervene, else this novel concept catch on across the country and bankrupt the entire nation, the British government insists that Vicar Smallwood be removed from his post and moved elsewhere. The widow ceases to furnish the good free of charge and the company is saved by a judicious name change.

The movie's most shocking declaration posits that if every person changed his or her lifestyle and in doing so underwent a religious conversion, living directly according to the purest wishes of Jesus Christ, the world would go broke. One can easily understand how genuine altruism combined with the demise of individual desire for profit and material gain could easily bankrupt the economic workings of the free market system if adopted wholesale. While the practice advanced by the rich woman is rooted upon the noblest of intentions, quickly the all-too-human tendency to take advantage of naive generosity rears its ugly head. A cautionary tale, Heavens Above! warns us the audience to be neither too trusting, nor too kind towards those who would take the selfless help of others and use it to serve their their own selfish gain.

I sincerely wish that Christian conservatives who advocate no separation whatsoever between the church and the state could see this film; incorporating religion into commerce proves to be an ruinous economic disaster. Those espousing a conception of Jesus as stodgy conservative fixture might do well to contemplate that the pure ideal of the religion they hold dear is, at its core, radically socialistic. Moreover, Heavens Above! argues that the role of religion for an individual is beneficial, but that if religion were adopted wholesale by everyone it would eviscerate the societal framework, plunging the entire planet into utter turmoil. The separate spheres of secular and religious in combination are not just deeply destructive, they are wholly incompatible with each other.

Parasite

Woman
latches on to her
latest significant other

quotes verbatim an
exaggerated litany of
his greatest hits minus

of course

the tragic missteps

her role as spokesperson for
a private P.R. campaign

unprepared for
heavy scrutiny
aiming for
easy ego-stroking

flattery famously conceals
desire for legacy absorption

parallel parasites
blind to their hosts

Movie Review: Cleopatra (1912)

Movies were still in their infancy when this, the second Cleopatra film committed to celluloid was filmed. In 1912, film grammar and shot composition had not been rigorously developed, nor put into place. Compared to the inventive cinematography and roaming camera work commonplace today, the early silent era was that of the more or less static camera. In this period, the camera was set upon a fixed point, the film was cranked, and the action took place in directly in front of the lens, often within the identical relative framework and perspective. Shot lengths extended for minutes at a time and cutting between scenes was quite minimal; shot changes occurred infrequently and were usually used only to introduce new characters or underscore important events. Today's audience might consider these films tedious, which is certainly understandable.

In other words, the potential of the medium had not been fully explored nor realized. Early works like Cleopatra aren't really much more than filmed stage plays. Cleopatra plays for little more than glorified theater, which is evident in the elaborate choreography, costumes, and frequently flamboyant overacting. The camera mirrors the precise location of where the attention and eye of the viewer would be drawn to naturally during the performance, and incorporates none of the modern techniques like cross-cutting, tracking shots, facial closeups, or their ilk. Movies of the early silent era suffer mightily from a lack of synchronized dialogue, particularly because it took several years for directors to transform the "limitations" of the pre-sound cinema into a unique world unto itself. Speaking for Cleopatra alone, even a judicious use of intertitles barely manages to keep the audience from massive confusion--a fast paced plot paired with numerous entrances and exits of major characters begs for spoken dialogue. Subsequent directors and screenwriters learned from this, deliberately keeping the plots of their films relatively simplistic and straight-forward.

In keeping with the nineteenth century style then still in fashion, actors and actresses performed with the exaggerated gestures and melodramatic postures that a contemporary audience frequently finds off-putting and campy. I consider it deeply unfortunate that so many people today assume that all silent film acting resembles this degree of excessive theatricality--they confuse its early days with the true-to-life techniques that had all but replaced them by the end of the silent era. As films became peopled less and less by stage actors and more and more by those who had no formalist training, acting became far more naturalistic. At the beginning, movies were overwhelmingly peopled with members of acting troops and classically trained thespians, but by the end of World War I, the idea of the movie star as we know it was born. Actors and actresses were recruited by studios with the criteria not focused on their experience on the stage but instead on their photographic propensity and unique, individual talents.

Much of this new talent was comprised of the lower ranks of society. With Judeophobia still a potent force in the American workplace, Jews found themselves locked out of a variety of jobs and, because they had few opportunities elsewhere, many took positions with film studios. Work in films was often the best opportunity Semetic peoples could hope to receive. Since cinema was considered a vulgar, base entertainment for the masses--vastly inferior to the stage, and above all not an respected art form (yet), the pioneers who began what eventually grew into a formidable film industry had much in common with one another. Many were were societal misfits, cursed with dysfunctional upbringings and unstable home lives, all running away to escape poverty and abuse for the promise of instant fame and steady work.

For those who wish to have a glimpse at the raw beginnings of what has now become a refined, complex art form, Cleopatra is worth a look. Those disinclined to watch to any degree would do well to avoid it.

Happy Birthday, Peter Sellers

Peter Sellers' life is a study in contradictions.

In his personal life he was a petulant prima donna, often intolerably arrogant and churlish on the set of his latest film, absentee at best as a parent, excessively fond for drugs and alcohol, and frequently physically and emotionally abusive towards his children and wives. However, in his life as a performer his talents as a mimic and his range as an actor were almost unmatched by anyone else in film history. He had a phenomenal ability to completely lose himself in the person of the role he was playing to the point that his real personality was nowhere to be found. Sellers felt far more comfortable adopting the guise of someone else, so much so that he frequently gave interviews completely in character.

Actors and actresses whose personal conduct was less than stellar and fraught with turmoil provide us with a challenge. If we base our opinion of them entirely upon their stature as matinee idols and box office successes--only by the images they committed to celluloid, then some would argue we are condoning their reprehensible personal conduct. Others think holding everyone to these exacting standards would necessitate dismissal of a great many movie stars, several of which, like Sellers, have improved the medium wholesale, and inspired new generations of cinema talent.

Conjecture and speculation aside, Peter Sellers would have been 83 today.

Fighting Against the Bounce

It came as no surprise to me that McCain's convention bounce equaled Obama's. Polling in every other Presidential election followed a similar pattern. Neither was I particularly shocked that the selection of Palin as Vice-President, despite substantial leftist backlash, went over well with the American electorate. Voters are suckers for a gimmick and even more susceptible to novelty. McCain's Vice Presidential selection was a little bit of both.

The governor of Alaska is entitled to a media courtship and the subsequent glow which befits any new player on the political scene. Once that honeymoon subsides, however, she will be called to task by the press to clarify her position statements and excuse her baggage. Democrats are fortunate that the election is still a little less than two weeks away. Expect polls to favor the Arizona Republican for the next few days, perhaps even a week, unless something drastic appears on the scene between now and then. As it was for Obama, so it will be for McCain.

The narrow nature of this race prompts me to respond directly to a major assertion of the Democratic nominee. To wit, Barack Obama advances an agenda of post-partisanship and bi-partisan compromise. I wish I believed that were possible. This country is as markedly and rigidly split along ideological lines as I have ever seen it in my life. While the partition of this country in terms of red and blue might be a bit of an oversimplification, I certainly recognize in my own city that liberal and conservative people disagree on almost every conceivable issue. The era of landslides and sizable majorities may be over for a good long while. If the fault lines separating Republicans and Democrats were few in number, then it might be easy to find a middle ground between the two. These days, liberals and conservatives disagree with fundamental policy stances, which reduced to a single sentence represent profound disagreement regarding the direction this country should be headed. A liberal America could not be more diametrically opposed to a conservative America.

In recent times, people have referred to this schism as evidence of culture wars. If only it were that simple. Culture is only one facet of a very complex gemstone. If only Obama's pronouncement which states that the divisions which separate us are merely illusory could be based in fact, instead of idle hope. If the Illinois senator is to be elected, he will win narrowly, capture a thin majority of votes, and stake no realistic claim towards governing with a mandate of the electorate. As we do live in a country heavily fragmented between blue and red, the true challenge for whomever wins will be to change the minds of the skeptical. This nation cannot stay at fisticuffs with itself for much longer. With the current recession we observe the first inkling that our power in the world is not infinite. We must come together under a flag of truce or our stature will continue to decline. We have never seen eye to eye at any time before, but it would be to our great benefit to find a way to work together for a common purpose. Democracy, as we have seen recently, is often an inelegant system. Messiness notwithstanding, we must work together in spite of the limitations of our system and the realization of our flawed nature as human beings.

Cool It Down

      Somebody took the papers
      and somebody's got the key
      And somebody's nailed the door shut
      and says, hey, what you think that you see

      But me l'm down around the corner
      you know I'm looking for Miss Linda Lee
      Because she's got the power to love me by the hour
      gives me W-L-O-V-E, oh

      Hey baby, if you want it so fast
      don't you know that it ain't gonna last
      Of course you know it makes no difference to me

      Somebody's got the time time
      somebody's got the right
      All of the other people
      trying to use up the night

      But now me, l'm out on the corner
      you know I'm looking for Miss Linda Lee
      Because she's got the power to love me by the hour
      gives me W-L-O-V-E, ooohhh

      Hey, if you want it so fast
      but don't you know honey, you can get it so fast
      But of course you know it makes no difference to me

      Oh oh, you better cool it down
      you know you better cool it down
      You know you better cool it down
      you know you better cool it down

      Oh oh oh, hey, if you want it so fast
      now look it, look baby, don't you want it to last
      But of course you know that
      hey, it makes no difference to me

      Oh oh oh, you better cool it down
      now baby, you better, oh, cool it down
      Don't you know you better cool it down
      you know you better cool it down

      You better cool it down
      oh baby, cool it down
      You better cool it down
      oh, you better cool it down

Taking a Break from the Heavy Stuff

only for today, I mean.

Attending meeting frequently lifts my spirits and today's gathering of fellow Friends succeed as it so often does, providing my life some desperately needed perspective. As a largely solitary person, I frequently forget the positive benefits of basic human interaction and the corresponding simple pleasures of a spiritual outlet comprised of fellow worshipers. Though as an introvert, contact with others frequently leaves me drained and exhausted, I nonetheless greatly appreciate and treasure the numerous blessings that the weekly ritual of socialization have to offer.

In great contrast to spiritual worship is the online-based, tightly-knit network of like minded individuals that I call my blogging friends. This morning, during the first hour for worship, I couldn't help but mull over the massive difference between the dual roles those two dynamics play in my life. They are polar opposites to each other, appealing to completely different parts of my personality and sides of who I am Two years spent perusing the blogosphere and making connections with others who daily put their thoughts and reflections out online for public display has given me a sense of perspective I didn't have before; I've come to a few pertinent conclusions about us: who we are, what makes us up, how we think, and what we espouse. To wit, many bloggers, I find, are loners, malcontents, eccentrics, and feel chronically misunderstood and underappreciated. We are certainly of like mind, but often too alike for our own good. Too much commonality is both a blessing and a curse. The sum total of unhappy people is a communal black hole full of frustration, anguish, depression, righteous indignation, and woe.

I read anywhere from forty to sixty blogs a day and in the two hours or so it takes me to plow through all of them, seldom do I find myself with my spirits uplifted afterward. What is more likely to result is elevated blood pressure and crushing despair, a direct result of being exposed to an exhaustive number of harangues on a theme, all railing against that which is wrong, that which is unjust and unfair, and that which is unlikely to change for the better any time soon. A certain amount of this is instructive and necessary, but in excessive quantity the resulting stress and pressure remove the fun of life and blogging. Though a part of me likes to play the part of the activist and feels obliged to decry the wrongs of the universe in an effort to set them right, I've come to understand this morning that I've crossed the threshold from purpose to pain. Blogging is, after all, supposed to be fun and instead it's been transformed to a guaranteed non-stop bummer trip.

This post is partially prompted by a friend who, seeing me with a smile on my face, while I was chuckling at some private joke over dinner Friday night, said quite pointedly--I can't remember the last time I saw you smile. As I paused to reflect upon what he said, I had to admit that it had certainly been many months since I'd found much humor in anything except for the dark variety. Lately I've found myself in a groove of gallows humor or snarky satire, the kind which is only amusing at all because its very premise is so bleak, grim, and above all, deadly serious. Today was the first time I laughed at something charmingly amusing and innocently humorous, the way humor should be, and not a derivative of sarcasm or mean-spirited banter masquerading as amusement. Laughing is something I think we all might consider doing more of more often. If life is always unpleasant--little more than an ordeal, then what's the point of living?

Saturday Video

Mazzy Star were perhaps the best known and most successful adherents of the early 90's dream pop movement. Incorporating elements of psychedelic folk, blues rock, and country, the group road the coattails of the alternative rock revolution into minor chart success. This song "Fade Into You" barely missed the Top 40 and picked up substantial MTV airplay, back when a single in heavy MTV rotation was a powerful force in determining eventual mainstream success. From the vantage point of fifteen years hence, this song has dated slightly and is very much of its time, but it remains a minor gem of the era.

Singer Hope Sandoval's lazy, echo-drenched vocals and guitarist David Roback's skillful, soaring slide guitar were perfectly matched for each other. "Fade Into You" may be best known due to the fact that it was included in the soundtrack of countless teen dramas and sitcoms. Perhaps it's understandable then that the track found itself incorporated into more than a few proms, slow dances, and adolescent romances.

*A commenter notes that the music sounds decidedly, in her words, "hypnotic." I completely agree.

Oh, It Looks So Good

Because it's made out of wood.

At The American Street.

Remember: No One Understands You

Listen -- I'm no role model. I don't give advice. But over the last couple of years I've received a lot of letters, all with the same questions: Kevin, how do you get started as a blogger?

And what advice do you have for someone trying to break in?

OK, here it goes...

First of all, I guess if you're in school, make jokes. Don't worry about it if your teachers like it or not. The only teacher you should listen to anyway is your English teacher. But not too much, because, remember --

NO ONE UNDERSTANDS YOU.

Education is not your friend. Neither is sleep; you won't need it where you're going. Instead of studying, try listening to tragically loud music daily. And be strict with yourself -- you gotta do it everyday!

You know, now that I think about it, I think it's very important to let liquor be the wind beneath your wings. Yeah, I guess I'd have to advise drinking a lot with guys like Calvin Renny and Terry Rockio and pissing out the back of a fast-moving truck.

Oh, and if a policeman goes by, try doing this under your breath: "Pig pig oink oink bacon sandwich at 2:00".

Now, get a lot of experience coming home drunk. Stand up to your dad; he may tower over you now, but as he begins to shrink, you pick your day.

It's very important that you begin to juggle lovers. Remember:

NO ONE UNDERSTANDS YOU.

I think it would be helpful to get a lot of dead-end jobs in warehouses with linear thinking racist pigs who will teach you only one thing: how to steal.

Did I mention piss out the back of a fast-moving truck? Oh, I did -- OK -- Then move to the biggest city you can find, get the smallest apartment you can find, keep your underwear in a bowl in the fridge, never answer your phone, never remember your family's birthdays, never make it home for Christmas, think a lot about vampires, death and sex with your friends' mothers.....or fathers -- you figure it out, I did.

Wear a crash helmet around just in case, watch your friends get married and grow beards to cover their puffy, compromising faces...then become a major force in the blogsophere.

I guess I'd have to say that that's my only advice.

Oh, It Looks So Good

      Now, if she ever comes now-now
     if she ever comes now-now
     if she ever comes now

     Now, if she ever comes now-now
     if she ever comes now-now
     if she ever comes now-now

     Oh, it looks so good
     oh, she's made out of wood
     Just look and see

     Now, if she ever comes now-now
     if she ever comes now-now
     if she ever comes now

     Now, if she ever comes now-now
     if she ever comes now-now
     if she ever comes now

     Oh, it looks so good
     oh, she's made out of wood
     Just look and see

Handicapping The Debates

Alright friends, you have seen the heavy groups. Now you will hear morning maniac music. Believe me.

It's a new dawn.

-Grace Slick at Woodstock
________________________________________

The Democrats have spoken. The Republicans have spoken. From now on out, expect a daily dose of attack-style politics and increasingly personal attacks. Nothing will be off limits, except of course, families. (And maybe not even then) When the total impact of the RNC shows up in polls at the first of next week, Obama's bounce will subside and I predict the race will again be effectively tied for quite a while.

Three weeks from today, the first Presidential debate will be held at the University of Mississippi in Oxford, Mississippi. I fully expect the race to be firmly deadlocked at the moment both speakers take their places behind the podium. For two candidates who have never been confused as experts at the discipline of verbal jousting, I recommend both begin honing their skills now. Cliches are in no short supply during any campaign and from the first debate forward, the phrase "acting Presidential" will find its way into everyone's summary and analysis of the proceedings. It will certainly be fascinating to observe who comes across sounding, acting, and behaving best in that regard.

This year, Democrats are negotiating from a position of strength due to the unpopularity of George W. Bush and the resulting deeply tarnished Republican brand. Obama's performance in the over twenty debates held during the Primary campaign reveal him to be a solid, steady, but altogether unremarkable debater. He did, however, improve greatly from contest to contest, and, if practice truly makes perfect, the exhaustive, lengthy run up to the general have given the Illinois senator a substantial advantage over McCain. Most of the fireworks on the Republican side did not involve the now official GOP nominee. Though there were a few prickly moments between the Arizona senator and former Massachusetts governor Mitt Romney, the Republican debates were relatively subdued and unremarkable.

If prior behavior dictates future conduct, McCain's responses will likely be the most heavily scripted, down to the attacks on his opponent. The cerebral Obama, by contrast, has rarely resorted to one-liners or blistering attacks in debate settings, instead intent on framing the context and resulting direction of the proceedings, this forcing others to fashion their responses within those specific parameters. Obama's strategy is wisely designed to make his opponent fight on his terms and on his territory. McCain's famous temper has been kept largely in check but in an extemporaneous format such as this, one wonders if we'll see any perceptible flashes of it. Obama's ability to shake off barbs and callous comments will likely be to his advantage again, though he has not been immune to firing back in exasperation when his patience finally reaches its end.

The 1980 election between Reagan and Carter was, statistically speaking, dead even by the time the debates. That's another analogy soon to see massive usage if this year's Presidential Election is as down to the wire as I suspect it will be. Reagan's command performance at those functions turned a close race into a complete landslide. The difference, however, between twenty-eight years ago and today is that the incumbent Democrat Carter was deeply unpopular, but voters were hesitant to exchange a known quantity for the risk involved in electing Reagan. Once assured that the standard-bearer of an opposing party could be trusted with the office of President, voters abandoned Carter wholesale. All Americans were looking for was an opportunity to feel comfortable ditching the current Chief Executive and starting a new course.

A strong performance in the debates would go far to shore up support and neutralize the nagging doubts in the minds of many voters about whether Senator Obama is up to the task. Whomever is elected certainly will have his work cut out for him. As I conclude, I am reminded of the words spoken by outgoing President James Buchanan when he passed over the reigns of command to incoming President Abraham Lincoln. "If you are as happy in entering the White House as I shall feel on returning [home], you are a happy man."

A Blast from the Past

After all the speculation, spin, and pontification this is kind of how I feel about Sarah Palin.

Your Face When Sleeping Is So Blind

Book Review: Team of Rivals

There is a myth prevalent nowadays that this epoch of partisan gridlock, interpersonal rivalry, and venomous criticism is a phenomenon peculiarly unique to this age and this age alone. It is fashionable these days to critique our times as more polarized, more intense, more nasty than at any other point before in our nation's history. History is, as we know, written by the victors, and time has a way of smoothing out the more unpleasant details of an era. As strife and turmoil gives way to placidity, so too are the unpleasant realities of difficult days obscured by a broad brush of accolades and triumphs. Any but the most obscene vestiges of internecine strife or popular upheaval often find themselves unreported in the final tally. To wit, anyone who thinks these hyper-partisan times are the worst ever in almost 300 years of the existence of the United States would be wise to consider a close examination of the way things were during the Lincoln Administration.

That a person routinely considered one of the most effective, most competent Chief Executives of all time could have withstood withering attacks from all directions, even among his most trusted advisers, escaping with his sanity firmly intact is a marvel unto itself. Then, as now, the President faced a variety of difficult challenges and was required on a constant basis to make a wide variety of snap judgments and often painful decisions. Then, as now, the President endured an almost constant barrage of criticism from the presses and bully pulpits of several influential newspapers. If you think the media bias in this day is excessive, you would be wise to consult how things were in the decade of the 1860's, nearly two hundred years ago.

Reading Team of Rivals provides an excellent opportunity to contemplate just how little has changed between then and now. Pressure on the President on all sides from a frequently hostile Congress? Check. Petty rivalry among cabinet members? Check. Embarrassing and unflattering details about the inner workings of the government leaked to the press for political reasons? Check. Rude, unflattering comments made to tarnish the reputation of the First Lady? Check. A high level official tendering his resignation, only to later withdraw it under heavy Presidential pressure? Check. Crucial decisions second-guessed by every press in existence and then promptly analyzed exhaustively for weeks afterward? Check.

I'm sure you get the picture by this point. It's a wonder that Lincoln was able to govern as effectively as he did when one takes into account the tremendous pressure and nearly constant drama which raged unabated in his own inner circle. Lincoln's saving grace was his ability to be slow to anger, quick to forgive, and loathe to hold a grudge. Honest Abe's nearly infinite patience and his skill at pulling together people of different political stripes and allegiances--many of whom hated each other passionately--showed an ingenious knack at mastering the minutia of human nature and interpersonal conduct. Lincoln had an innate talent as a master politician and benevolent peacemaker which, though it was the saving grace of a nation in the midst of a great Civil War, runs contrary to the innate temperament of who we are. Though we often take pride in our tempers and our fevered passions---though we lash out and fight back and speak fondly of uncompromising, bombastic, at times fiercely confrontation public figures, Lincoln knew instinctively that this kind of behavior and emotional display was as isolating and divisive as it was cathartic. This instinctive skill is how Lincoln secured the nomination of his party in the first place and then maintained his grip on power so successfully.


____________________________
Author's Note:

I know this much. I don't have the Lincoln-esque power of restraint, nor am I inclined to be magnanimous in the face of a slight or a defeat. The politicians I admire most are are occasionally caustic, frequently combative brawlers. This is how I was raised to be. In my family if you didn't hold strong opinions you'd find yourself unable to have a voice in the debates. My childhood was a prize fight and I had no desire to be counted out.

The Year of the Woman

Having consulted a variety of polls (and yes, I recognize that polls are often hardly authoritative sources) it appears that Obama's post-convention bounce has continued largely undiminished until today. The most interesting aspect of the race I've found, numerically speaking, is the observation that both the Senator from Illinois and the Senator from Arizona actually lost ground after they announced their picks for Vice-President. While Obama's reverse bounce was widely attributed to his refusal to put Hillary Clinton on the ticket. McCain's reverse bounce may well be a mild backlash against his choice of a total dark horse for the second on the ticket, scorning a more conventional pick.

While the media is doing an excellent job of revealing flaw after flaw and scandal after scandal with Sarah Palin, I pause to reflect for a moment about another statistic that jumps out at me this morning. To wit, over 80% of those surveyed believe that this country will see a woman as President within the next decade. I wouldn't disagree with that. Whether it will be a matter of course or a conscious pick on behalf of one party or the other remains to be seen. Hillary Clinton may or may not have put eighteen million cracks in the glass ceiling, but she has certainly established precedent.

Arguably, Geraldine Ferraro's poor performance as Walter Mondale's Vice-President in 1984 set the cause of electing a woman to high office back many years. Hillary Clinton's strong showing in the primaries has done much towards convincing skeptical party leaders that putting a woman at the head of the ticket is a strategy that can succeed. I fully believe that neither sexism nor gender bias were the primary factors for why it took twenty-four years to see both parties willing to place women in high positions of authority. The desire to secure power and attain control is far more potent a force than discrimination. Either party would eagerly run a zebra for President if it was thought that doing so would produce a resounding victory. The most interesting facet of this whole election year, in my opinion, is that Hillary Clinton's reemergence as a scrappy underdog did more to make the case for a woman to be President than had she ascended to the nomination without more than a token resistance. Her failure in the short-term will lead to a net gain in the long term for women in power. Paradoxically, her loss will likely pave the way for future female leaders in ways a victory never would. And in the end, assuming Obama fails to be elected, her close finish puts Hillary Clinton in a far stronger position to run again.

In contrast, it's easy to be cynical about the GOP's selection of Palin. It's quite a bit of an affront to those who have long advocated for women's rights, if one acknowledges that the Republican party likely would have never selected Palin if they had not felt they could win by any other measure. Gender as bargaining chip plays far worse on a national stage than gender as social statement. Thankfully, the American people are not fooled by this kind of empty political posturing. Seventy-five percent of those surveyed in a recent poll understand the self-serving motivation that drove the Palin nomination.

In a less contentious, saturated election cycle, 2008 might be qualified as the year of the woman. Instead, this shining accomplishment has been obscured by more pressing matters, or at least conflicts and fault-lines that attraction attention for more efficiently. A multitude of so many different issues is at stake this go-round that each fights for center stage and open acknowledgment in a public forum. Nevertheless, let's pause to reflect upon that what has been accomplished. For the first time ever, this country has come to terms with many of its ingrained prejudices--so many, in fact, that I can certainly understand those have grown weary and exhausted with the intensity of electioneering. Though the process has been at times harrowing, this kind of mass introspection is the only manner by which reforms will not only succeed, but remain. Ignoring for a moment the potent reforms still in need of cultivation, we might at all do well to reflect that we have made progress, much progress, towards advancing the cause of social evolution. Change is an agonizingly slow process that is best observed from a vantage point of years, not days, months, or hours. When a woman runs again for the top job in the land, whenever that shall be, we'll all take stock of our prior successes and our failures and evaluate both where we've been and where we need to go.

I Watched It for a Little While

Satellite's gone
up to the skies
Things like that drive me
out of my mind

I watched it for a little while
I like to watch things on TV

Satellite of love
satellite of love
Satellite of love
satellite of

Satellite's gone
way up to Mars
Soon it will be filled
with parking cars

I watched it for a little while
I love to watch things on TV

Satellite of love
satellite of love
Satellite of love
satellite of

I've been told that you've been bold
with Harry, Mark and John
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday
with Harry, Mark and John

Satellite's gone
up to the skies
Things like that drive me
out of my mind

I watched it for a little while
I love to watch things on TV

Satellite of love
satellite of love
Satellite of love
Satellite of love

Movie Review: Sunrise

Sunrise strikes an impressive claim to the best silent film of all time. Today's audience, which likely has never seen more than a handful of non-sound pictures, has a tendency to assume that all films of the silent era are impressively rendered and of high quality. Viewing a rather pedestrian silent next to this one will reveal, by contrast, exactly how groundbreaking and evocative a silent with high artistic quality is to most of its contemporaries. Cinematography alone shows Sunrise to be a masterpiece, showing what films were capable of revealing visually. Much cinema of the twenties could be a tremendously dull affair, utilizing the same basic camera angles, shot composition, facial closeups, and plot devices.

The relative ease of technology in this day and age has given rise to the age of the amateur, for better or for worse. In film's infancy, what required a massive amount of skill and a nearly Herculean undertaking on the part of the crew can be accomplished with a flick of a switch. The extremely primitive quality of movie-making in those days makes these revolutions in the craft ever more remarkable.

The best silents are, quite often, the ones which work within the confines of the medium, rather than trying to fight against its limitations. While some films of the period used strict narrative structure, particularly the historical fiction of D.W. Griffith, the most evocative films of the silent era are often its more expressionist works like Sunrise. Silent films could never hope to present a completely realistic view of life--that was a goal that could only be accomplished by the incorporation of sound. Instead of producing an exact facsimile of reality, the best films of the period gave birth to a profound dream-logic and corresponding visual beauty. Seeking to capture the ultimate fidelity of human interaction was a Holy Grail of sorts for the pioneers of the medium, a goal that many directors sought, but few succeeded in realizing. Filmmakers who instead set their sights towards creating poetry on celluloid like Murnau, often found themselves more successful in their efforts.

To be sure, the experience of watching a silent film certainly requires a kind of discipline totally foreign to today's audience. Without dialogue to advance a scene, plot and character development often comes across as maddeningly simplistic. Directors who attempted to pack too much into one movie found it frequently necessary to use an exhaustive number of intertitles. Even with a judicious use of them, films that overstripped the technical limitations of the medium still had a tendency to confuse and frustrate viewers with information overload. Films like Sunrise use only a skeletal framework of characters and action, placing most of the focus on what would today be called special effects. Then as opposed to now, these effects were never used gratuitously and never simply for the sake of creating a spectacle. They are integral to the film itself and even eighty years after the first release still radidate freshness and achievement.

By the end of the twenties, film technique and film grammar, a thirty-year process of slow, steady achievement, had finally been mastered. Ironically, just as the silent screen produced its masterworks, talkies appeared abruptly on the scene, changing every rule of the game. Sound technology in its infancy restricted camera movement and demanded clunky microphones and soundproof booths to effectively capture audio. Many of the breakthroughs that came to be in the year or so before talkies had to be scrapped for quite some time because they were utterly unworkable with sound. What is undeniably true is that the films of the pre-sound era reveal a world unto themselves, one utterly, beatifully alien to anything that came after.

Pictures

She showed me pictures. Most of them focused on the golden years before she'd engaged in twelve years of wedded misery. Since I am heavily self-conscious, camera shy, and not terribly photogenic, photos of me are rare. She, on the other hand, was a camera hog. A biographer will find his or her task considerably lessened when it comes time to compile the details of a life, if there is ample evidence of it. Visual representation of where she was and how she lived is certainly overflowing.

Preferring to have her life obsessively documented, her favorite past-time involved showing visitors the visual record of her riotous youth. I pictured her in the sorority house, some idle Sunday, putting together scrap books full of the physical representations of parties. If I had a dollar for every picture I saw her in some state of intoxication, hefting a beer, smiling a contented smile, I'd be beyond wealthy. Maybe I just don't understand those who would want to be Greeks. Maybe I never will. Though I went to a university where fraternities and sororities were such a non-factor that they only mattered to those who wished to join their ranks, I was still critical of their very existence.

I suppose I was raised differently. Both of my parents spoke fondly about college, but for neither of them were those times their repose. They were reasonably pleasant times for them but still rather transitory. By contrast, it was plain to see that her life had plateaued, whether willfully or as a matter of course around age twenty-one. This might explain her taste for men substantially younger than she was. She sought lovers at the exact age she wished she'd stayed. Many women yearn for the looks and the metabolism of their younger days, but few seek to negate the passing of time as judiciously as she.

Few people knew her exact age. It was somewhere in the early forties but if directly questioned, she rudely brushed off the question. I'm not going to tell you that, she'd say, annoyed. Women like that leave themselves open for for criticism, in my opinion. In my own life, I associate my youth with confusion, loss, and frustration. Though I do not wish to be ancient, the passage of years have been kind, kind in a way my youth never was. I have a hard time understanding those who romanticize youth, since to me it was neither especially joyful nor particularly rewarding.

I read Crime and Punishment recently. Dostoevsky's strongest assertion in that work is that only through suffering can an individual move towards self-actualization. I would like to believe that myself and indeed, if I look for it in my own life, I can find similar examples. Though I validate it in my own personal philosophy, I realize also it's a conclusion drawn from many of those whose life has been full of loss, grief, and upheaval. In my background research of the author, I surveyed several photographs of Dostoevsky. None of these radiates an air of contentment, joy, or celebration. In that era, one had to hold pose for several minutes so as not to ruin the glass plates upon which the image was rendered, so smiles are rare. I've only seen one photograph in that epoch of a smiling person, and the facial expression appears well-suited for her. She must have smiled often. Those for whom joviality in life was rare, however, are revealed with great expressive detail as the melancholics they were.

In picture after picture, she smiles with a kind of genuine warmth. With time, however, and the grind of a bad marriage, the smile is rendered more and more forced. She stayed for the same reason she smiled, refusing to acknowledge her mistake. As happens sometimes, an increasingly frosty relationship with him produced a fruitful windfall in cash. He may have been a poor companion, but he was a good provider--such a good provider, in fact, that she tasted the fruits of great wealth. I suppose I am different. I would sooner settle for genuine love and genuine poverty than a marriage for which affection had long ago left, leaving only the consolation prize of affluence. Twelve years of misery. Twelve years of sleeping with the enemy. Twelve years which could have been twenty or thirty had not the life of her child been threatened.

Get Over It?

In response to Brian Alexander's coverage of the Palin daughter's pregnancy, I have a few thoughts to share. While I can understand the author's exasperation at how much of a story this has become, I have to disagree with his conclusion.

I will concede him this much--the scandal reveals how much we are stuck in a state of arrested development when it comes to sex. The doctored images I've seen on so many blogs that reduce Palin to either a beauty pageant princess or a vacuous celebrity aren't nearly as amusing to me as they must be to some. They're juvenile and pander to directly the lowest common denominator and our worst impulses. Our unwillingness to be honest with the role sexuality plays in our daily lives is responsible for the kind of coy games we play with each other when it becomes an issue with a public figure.

However, thanks to the judicious work of the New York Post, we have learned that the father of the child apparently has a MySpace page. It doesn't reveal the baby daddy to be a particularly stellar character. Never before in the history of Western Civilization has there ever been such an effective way of reminding the world of the kind of asininity only a teenager can espouse. The king of culture or profundity he is NOT. He's a real catch. *sigh*

The real lesson to be learned from this is that birth control is the only effective way of managing teen pregnancy. My father and I are opposite in many respects, particularly in political allegiance, but he differs from conservative ideology in his unceasing support for birth control. When I was a child, he spent two years on the local Board of Directors for Planned Parenthood. This speaks volumes to me.

Look At You All