SLANDERRIFIC! Smears and spin work in similar ways. In both cases, the important thing is to get the story in play. Useful idiots will then do the heavy lifting for you.

To distinguish Ed Klein's The Truth About Hillary from the other 2,000 Hillary-is-Evil books released in the past year, someone leaked to Drudge the pre-publication money shot that Bill Clinton actually raped his wife, with Chelsea the wicked deed's poisoned fruit -- by which assertion Klein proves that the proverbial barrel has a false bottom, by means of which one can indeed sink lower if one is sufficiently motivated.

That such a slander would find a home at Drudge's place is of course no surprise. But, while the story seems crude, I perceive subtleties in the placement; perhaps, being of the sort that is always looking for the Good in his fellow man, I just wish to regard the story's facilitators as brilliantly evil rather than as simple thugs.

Whoever promulgated this filth seems to have taken the measure of the blogosphere, and judged that, while the more popular wingnuts certainly could not credit this story, they would yet be forced by that compulsive self-indentification which defines their type to prove, even as they discredited the tale, that they hated Hillary at least as much as the next wingnut; and, lest someone think that defending the Clintons from a lie were the same thing as defending the Clintons from such proven crimes as the murder of Vincent Foster etc., they would use the occasion for a vigorous Clinton-bashing. These slurgasms might excite among their Clinton-obsessed readers feelings of nostalgia and gratitude, and would perhaps move them to buy the gosh-darned book jes' to see what the feller was sayin'.

See, there really is no downside to saying anything at all, even the frankly unbelievable, about the Clintons. Except, of course, maybe they'll run out of slurs one day. Maybe these guys have a trade organization set up to prevent that.

Captain's Quarters does a nice job, flattering its readers by declaring that "vitriol" against the Clintons has "mostly disappear[ed]" in recent years (in which case he should maybe tell Arthur Finkelstein he's wasting his time), and concluding that the real villains in this case are anonymous sources and Klein's former employer, Newsweek magazine ("small wonder we end up with Qu'ran-flushing frauds from the magazine now").

Ankle Biting Pundits (tipped by Perfesser Mabuse hisself) are even better. The whole thing, they surmise, is a "trap" to get conservatives to overreact and thereby make Hillary look sympathetic. Besides, Clintons spread dirty stories, not clean-fingered conservatives such as ABP -- as, I guess, this dirty Clinton story is supposed to prove. (PS Juanita told the truth.) Altogether too brief a posting -- but fortunately for us, ABP has commenters, some of whom attack Hillary for being around when bad things were written about her, the fucking martyr ("I wonder how many episodes of 'Oh poor me' we are going to have to endure?? Like her little fainting spell awhile back...").

But my favorite (so far -- this thing is only getting started, and so many celebrated imbeciles have yet to weigh in) is Conservative Cat, who doesn't buy the rape part of the story, but does buy the part where Bill jokes about raping Hillary: "This is evidence of aggravated tackiness, not sexual assault. Not only is tackiness not at all surprising from Bill, we've already spent millions of tax dollars to prove that he is not a credible resource when it comes to stories about his own sexual activities." So this horrible, merely-half-true rape story is -- like so much else, for such people -- all about President Peckersnot. Semioticians and cryptographers will especially go for this haunting paragraph:

So, the only mystery here is why the Clintons would dignify the episode with any sort of rage. Of course, the only rage evidence we have is attributed to an anonymous source, which as we have seen is not exactly the best criterion for accuracy.

Who is trying to make it look like the Clintons are actually angry about starring in Ed Klein's lurid, public rape fantasy? We can't say, but it has something to do with MSM lies! For the Clintons never stop laughing at Ron Brown's death long enough to feel rage!

If, 100 years from now, people aren't getting doctorates in Clinton Studies (a branch of Abnormal Psychology), I will be very surprised.

SHORTER JAMES LILEKS: Why are all those Gitmo prisoners complaining? I had to watch Beyond The Sea! With gospel singers, yet!

SUMMER HOLIDAY #1. I grow weary focusing on the ludicrous when the glorious is all around us, bathed in warm sunshine. Over the coming days I will, among the usual road apple analyses, pay tributes to ten (10) great summer pleasures of the cultural variety, time-tested and road-ready.

Artifact the First:

The Dictators, Go Girl Crazy!

Why aren’t they doing VH1 tributes to The Miamis or the Shirts or Just Water? They used to play CBGB back when, just like Talking Heads and the Ramones and Blondie, and they were pretty good. Well, they weren’t quite in the same artistic or social frame as the punk bands that did become famous, epochal, world-historic and all that. They were just a lot of goofy, trashy fun. Listen to their stuff if you can find it, and you might think, damn, maybe someone could have made something of this.

If the Dictators had to rely on Hilly Krystal, maybe they wouldn’t have gotten any further than a CB’s compilation album, either. But they had some of those back-door connections that, alas, have since been bricked off by that dolorous professionalism which has made all radioland a single conduit of soothing sludge. Around the time Sire Records was desperately giving a here-goes-nothin’ to a bunch of Hilly’s faves, the Dictators were on CBS Records. And when the CBs guys were just idolizing the Stooges and Blue Öyster Cult, the Dictators were playing shows with them.

From the current perspective, it is hard to imagine why grown men would have signed the Dictators. They had a young, suburban, pop-culture-soaked perspective, just as we expect all up and coming bands to have now. But youth and suburbia and pop culture were a great deal different then. Drugs and sex didn’t have to be approached obliquely or ironically. Everyone knew what the kids were up to, and it was mainstream culture’s job to ignore it and kid culture’s job to celebrate and enable it. The old and the new lived in the same space: your parents’ living room was cool if your parents weren’t home and you could get laid and wasted in it while the Strawberries and the Joe Franklin Show were playing in the background. You didn’t have to take things too serious. And you didn’t have to watch what you said about anything.

Now, in the rock culture of that time, you could just hint at this and everyone would get the message and things would be cool. What kept anyone else from making Go Girl Crazy! was – I guess – a self-preservation instinct. Most people don’t do everything they can conceivably get away with, especially not right out the gate; they save up their slack for special occasions when their social selves fail them, after which they will shamefacedly admit that they "fucked up." Then they’ll retrench, kiss a little extra ass, and thereafter try to keep the car on the road.

Go Girl Crazy! betrays no shame or even foreboding of shame. Fucking up seems, to them, a positive virtue. As it happened, the Dictators did have something in common with the CBGB bohemians they stood among but not of: they didn’t give a shit, and they thought they were smart enough to get away with it.

For example: It was one thing for the Stones to do "Brown Sugar." It was an outrage if you listened to the lyrics, but who could make out the lyrics? Besides, Mick had sex with black girls and gave Merry Clayton a job and all those hippies were down with Black Power anyway.

In contrast, the Dictators were whiter than White Castle (fucking look at them) and sang – in an intermittent, absurdly incompetent pseudo-Caribbean dialect -- about having sex with black girls as what it would necessarily be for most guys like them: a grotesque fantasy. "Religion will save you/Civilization’s at hand… Her clothes come from Ghana and she prays to the East/She doesn’t take the white man’s flak/I still drink my soda but I’m getting confused/sometimes I wish I was black."

For some reason you can’t find these lyrics online.

Part also of their absurd will to power is little-boy chest-thumping about being the next big thing ("I knocked them dead in Dallas/They didn’t know we were Jews"), and members of the master race ("First we check to see what you eat/Then we bend down and smell your feet"), and the inclusion of Handsome Dick Manitoba (billed on the album as "Secret Weapon"), a pro-wrestler manque who steps in from time to time to keep things from getting too slick. Handsome Dick is a treasure. He sounds like he just stumbled into the studio after three hours of barking at passing cars and delivers a stirring oration on his ring supremacy ("I don’t care who ya bring in here, daddio! They’re all comin’ undah the thundah of Manitoba!") and key spot vocals in songs like the magnificent "Two Tub Man" ("I’m never gonna watch Channel 13!" – ridiculous solo break – "Edumacation ain’t for me!" – ridiculous solo break).

Why is this better than Brown Ploppy or Drunks with Guns? (Well, maybe it’s not so much better than Drunks with Guns, but we’ll leave that for a possible future posting.) Why is any particular outrage, up-to-the-minute or antique, memorable?

The weaker, but perfectly valid, of my arguments is songwriting. These songs are idiotic, but, as any fan of Uncle Dave Macon or Roger Miller or – oh sure, let’s bring them back into it – the Ramones knows, that’s not the same thing as bad. On the BÖC model of arena rock as fantasized by nerdish non-combatants, Go Girl Crazy! is as good as it gets. Adny Shernoff still turns a phrase as well as any working songwriter. If you can’t appreciate "That’s the price you have to pay/For eating burgers every day," well, you’re obviously suffering from a cultural deficiency.

The other argument, consonant with our summer-pleasures theme, has to do with an even less substantial commodity than songwriting: fun. The great thing about show business is its transparency. If you believe it, as the acting teachers say, they’ll believe it, provided you’re competent. If you’re fucking miserable, you can project that misery into your audience. And if you’re having fun, your objet d’art will be an objet d’fun.

Professionalism is a tricky subject in rock and roll. Acquire too much of it, and you’re not fun anymore. For the Dictators this wasn’t an issue. They had Sandy fucking Pearlman producing. All they had to do was be who they were. It isn’t as easy as it sounds, but somehow they managed. They didn’t punk out, even by the easy route of irony. Well, assuming snotty and ironic aren’t the same thing. And they aren’t. When Handsome Dick sings, "The fastest car and a movie star are my only goals in life," or Adny sings, "I wanna live a rich life/And I wanna die poor," yeah, it’s funny, but they aren’t kidding. Come to think of it, are there better goals? Oh, yeah yeah, community, society, family – no, seriously: what are they?

Shernoff thinks that the Ramones were more successful than the Dics because they were more focused, but sometimes you find gems in wandering that you won’t find in a hard-target search, and the ramblings of Go Girl Crazy! are sort of picaresque – adventures unified by a single, smartass point of view. All the songs, including the numbskull covers of "I Got You Babe" (as sung by a bunch of hypermacho geeks to one another) and "California Sun," are part of the adventure: a quest for the ultimate good time on a major label’s dime. Ridiculous solos. Too much reverb, at times. Giggling asides. Cars and girls. A sopor for the weekend. Growing up. Throwing up. Being the one not to let your sons become. You may choose not to believe in it, but don’t tell me for a second that it isn’t believable. Set me free; I might know better when I’m older.

FLASHBACK. Daniel Henninger re Medical Marijuana: "Liberalism to cancer patients: Drop dead."

Wait. I thought us liberals were high all the time, marching around Washington Square Park carrying FREE THE WEED signs... yeah, that was awesome... so, those were, in actuality, the conservatives? Like, wow.

Wait, wait. "The Supreme Court's liberal bloc -- Stevens, Ginsburg, Souter and Breyer..." But I thought Ginsburg was a big stoner! What? Oh, Douglas Ginsburg, right, yeah, wow.

"...with the support of Justices Kennedy and Scalia..." Hold on hold on hold ON. WHOA. SCALIA. So... wait a minute...

Never mind.

DEFINING VICTORY DOWN. You've probably had your fill of happy-Iraqi stories featuring strewn flowers, smiling children with all their limbs intact, puppies, and almost potable water. So have I, but I was drawn to read the latest example in National Review by the oddly constructed front-page link: "Basrans can almost see the arrival of a better tomorrow."

The author, Steven Vincent, "a freelance investigative journalist and art critic," returns to Basra after a year's absence, and the first change he notices is this:

...I can no longer wander the streets, take a cab, or dine in restaurants for fear of being spotted as a foreigner: Kidnapping, by criminal gangs or terrorists, remains a lucrative business.

Well, this could be good news in a way -- our newly-democratized brothers are becoming entrepreneurial, following the Russian Model of post-liberation economic opportunity.

Now that Saddam's fabled rape rooms are gone, Basran women also enjoy a new status:

As the religious parties flex their muscles, their various sheikhs and imams exert a steady, if unlegislated, pressure on women to cover themselves in hejab. Layla once wore Western-style clothing and a scarf; now she has to add a thin black tunic to appease Basra’s guardians of female virtue. “If you don’t abide by their wishes, they will harass you on the street — or worse,” she complains.

“This has become an Iranian city,” contends Salaam Wendy, a Basra native who recently returned to his hometown for the first time since he fled to Canada in 1986. “In the ’70s and ’80s, you used to find bars, nightclubs, casinos — and no women wore hejab. Today, you can’t even find secular books or music CDs, the religious parties have such control of the city. This isn’t the place I remember.”

Possible upside here, too: unbridled capitalism living side-by-side with a revival of traditional values.

Many of the elected leaders -- though our guide is moved to "put 'elected' in quotes in deference to the cynicism of numerous Iraqis" -- are, to a great extent, "party hacks with zero concept of democracy." Plus, "electricity is still three hours on, three off, and sewage remains a nightmare." Unsurprisingly, given this, many of the Basrans to whom Vincent speaks seem less than satisfied, but Vincent hears more optimistic reports from members of the "more prosperous classes" and some elected -- excuse me, "elected" -- leaders. Also, the weather's really nice in Basra this time of year.

It's getting to the point where the Iraq mess -- or miracle, depending on your point of view -- is such a totem for politically-minded commentators that the actual state of its various districts seems absolutely irrelevant, even to the commentators themselves. Much of the country was blown to shit for specious reasons -- but one day it may be an economic powerhouse! Thus, in our age of endless spin, are the vagaries of life, the unpredictable shifts in the fortunes of the great and small, grist for anyone's mill, the product to be shaped into any sort of symbol one likes. Such products may be admired and even bought, but we should not forget that they are for decorative purposes only.

SHORTER OLE PERFESSER: I'm so mind-bendingly full of shit these days I have to remind people of my fabled "sense of humor."

UPDATE: "...I think that the Singularity is something to take seriously... The main point is that the dangers, in my estimation, don't come from the creation of a godlike (or demonlike) superhuman entity. Or at least, if such an entity exists, the threat won't be because of its intelligence... individuals with powers that would have been until recently regarded as godlike... expand beyond the earth beforehand... Mad! They called me mad!"

He didn't really say that last bit about being mad. But he did gesture dramatically in front of a couple of dynamos, I can tell.

Not liberal, not conservative -- merely transhumanist! Between this shit and his life extension obsession -- and, of course, his awful postings -- what an image of the Perfesser we may piece together: a lawyer who wants to live forever in a world of endless wars.

STADIUM SHOW. New York Mayor Richie Rich got a kick in the ass this week from Mssrs. Silver and Bruno. It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.

The West Side Stadium project is in serious trouble now that the Albany bosses have turned against it. The Bloomberg booster section is feeling very wounded. Sighs the Times' Jennifer Steinhauer, the non-vote "call[s] into question whether anyone can build big in New York anymore." She also bemoans the effect of regulations on the Roarkian urge to build, and even drags in the sainted names of Moses and Moynihan -- the former an ur-architect of urban sprawl (whose deserved reputation for fucking up the City has been successfully sloughed onto squeegee men by the City Journal crowd), the latter a lovely, old-fashioned New Yawk pol who was very good at bringing home bacon, and whose ghost may yet pull the planned Penn Station project into reality (which rennaissance was necessitated, of course, by the wrecker legacy of Moses), but whose posthumous opinion of this latest landgrab must eternally remain a mystery.

We do have some enlightened commentary from the New York Press, which has been excellent on the subject:

Whatever the real number of jobs the stadium would create—the Jets claim a dubious 7000—nobody denies that the vast majority will be seasonal, low-paying and without benefits.

Seasonal is the key word here. Even if you grant the project some wildly optimistic projections (35 conventions of three days each, 10 football games, assorted concerts and big ticket events) the stadium will still sit unused and empty almost eight months of the year. When full, the majority of the stadium's economic output is payroll, the majority going to athletes who are unlikely to live in New York full-time. Likewise, most revenue from concessions and merchandise goes to the companies that make them, which tend to be located in the South and Midwest. Money for t-shirts and hot dogs is economic development for Virginia and Pennsylvania, not New York.

As for non-Stadium jobs, the influx of fans and convention-goers just isn't frequent enough to sustain new businesses. The 1994 baseball strike offered stark evidence of this: Sociologist John Zipp studied the impacts of canceled games on retail stores and found that the strike had no significant effect. In fact, in 17 of the 24 cities studied, retail sales increased.

As for the alleged extra income from "events" to be booked under the retractable roof, we are planning to expand the shit out of the Javits Center, an actual, successful venue designed for that sort of thing. (Hey, you think Chuck Schumer talked to Silver about this?)

Remember that when we talk about the West Side Stadium we are talking about a massive tax abatement for the owners-presumptive New Wherever Jets, after a steamrolling process that snatched the Hudson Yards from the real high bidder, Cablevision. This isn't a story of Master Builders brought low by little men, but of power brokers thwarted by power brokers.

This sort of thing goes on all the time in the world of City-soaking corporate juggernauts. Think of Detroit's Comerica Park, built largely with that city's taxpayers' dollars (though not to their profit) at massive expense -- which massive expense just keeps on coming in the form of extra soakage, as reported by Field of Schemes. (FoS is, by the way, an invaluable source of sweet reason on the topic of stadia shenanigans, countervailing the local papers' boosterish bullshit.) To this day Detroit suffers from all sorts of -- what do the freemarket guys call it? Oh yeah -- Unintended Consequences from the Comerica swindle. You think, once ground were broken in this proposed money pit, it'd be different here?

Interestingly, all this crud coincides with some massive early spending by Mayor Rich on his reelection campaign. Our airwaves are flooded with ads showing Real People -- from all walks of life! Of all colors and creeds! Talent vouchers secured! -- extolling the benefits of Bloomberg (the candidate, not the media empire). Some of you readers live here in town, right? How much enthusiasm do you see from actual ordinary people for this guy? What eloquent testimonials have you heard in the streets where these spots were filmed on his behalf?

In a just world, Bloomberg would be worried about assassination, not reelection. But New York is in a bad place right now. There are no fires being lit by any local populists -- how could there be, in a City increasingly populated by transients: rootless careerists, and immigrants who do not plan to stick around -- and so the political center -- not positioned between "left" and "right," but between "this gang" and "that gang" -- however rotten and mushy, yet holds. So you won't see massive uprisings and street demos of citizens hollering for, or against, the stadium in its hour of crisis -- because few believe it makes any difference. On this subject the street is dead. Let the big boys fight it out, we figure; we're busy trying to make ends meet.

We are but spectators at the great board meetings that decide our City's future. Still, given those terms, the recent reversal, and the pique apparent on the Mayor's normally smug face afterwards, was a pretty edifying spectacle.

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FUCK, I'M A LITTLE SHORT THIS WEEK...

SHORTER JAMES LILEKS: Fuck all you musicians who laughed at me in high school. You have failed to acquire bling, whereas I have a dog and a house, you rockstar wannabes with your frigging and fruging! Next, fuck all you arrogant poets who laughed at me in high school.

SHORTER OLE PERFESSER: Amnesty Whatever, fuck with me and some fat guy with a beard and George Bush and I will "fisk" you. There! That proves your irrelevance, Nobel Prize fucks.

SHORTER P.J. O'ROURKE: That Kerry fellow is quite the windbag! Remember me? You don't? Fuck you, I got paid.

SHORTER DANIEL HENNINGER: Michael Jackson, Kobe Bryant, Jimi Hendrix... Jesus Fucking Christ, people, do I have to spell it out for you?

SHORTER JOHN J. MILLER: I'm totally fucking nuts.

SHORTER CRAZY JESUS LADY: In heaven, everything is fine/In heaven, everything is fine/In heaven, everything is fine/You've got your good things and I've got mine.

THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE ECHO CHAMBER. Reader responses at OpinionJournal are always a treat, but when the article to which readers respond has nothing to do with the usual conservative boilerplate, they often become transcendent. The Met's Philippe de Montebello offers a nice, if slightly overcooked, explanation of the relevance of museums -- "unlike historical facts and events, works of art exist not only in the present, but also in the past, the past that transmitted them to us... the ultimate assurance of renewal and survival," etc. Lots of uplift, no apparent politics.

Only four replies are posted, but they are choice. One allows that museums are alright "as long as no taxpayer money goes to the support of these institutions, which are valued by a very tiny slice of the electorate, this writer excluded. I now get all the culture I could possibly need from the Internet..." The next decries "revisionism": "Last year I visited a museum in my area where I found a lengthy written account of how the Europeans who came to the New World destroyed the continent with their guns and disease. There was not one mention of anything positive that they brought--not one." She suggests that the offending museologists relocate to "a Third World country that would be more to their liking."

The third recasts the discussion in terms of the Almighty: "Respectfully, regardless of their splendor and craft, artifacts are not sufficient for us to maintain our faith in mankind. Such faith has always been debatable. Christians say it's misplaced; rightly so, I believe. And, respectfully, these artifacts also do not reflect the ultimate assurance of renewal and survival." Guess What does?

Finally, my very favorite:

If everything is art, as seems to be the current contention, then nothing is art. It follows then that everywhere is a museum, so nothing is a museum.

OpinionJournal is in its way a work of art, or at least a piece of work: a fully-realized universe with its own logic, and where the characters are, to use E.M. Forster's terms, round: that is, their behavior is consistent without being predictable; indeed, they are capable of delightful surprises. I am always glad to meet them on the page, and wish that they could be induced to remain there.

"YOU DO HAVE FRIENDS, DON'T YOU?" "WELL... THE SUPER-FRIENDS." At Libertarian glossy Reason, Charles Freund examines the economics of modern movie-going, and implies that movies will soon be a thing of the collectivist past. I guess the Now People will spend their leisure hours blogging in 3-D while seated in chairs that look like giant hands or something.

Freund will remind greybeards of the days when television was going to destroy movies, but the commenters on Freund's post mostly wonder why anyone would want to be around anyone else while consuming their entertainment product:

50" Projection LCD, comfy chairs, full bar, TiVo, Netflix. Why would I want to go to a crowded theater and spend $20 when I can just wait a couple months and NetFlix it? Or Blockbuster, if I'm impatient?...

For the price of movie ticket, a coke and a popcorn in the theater I can go to Circuit City and BUY a DVD to watch at home where there are no lines… I get two arm rests all to myself. I can drink all the beer I want, and I can press pause if I need to pee. I can smoke a damn cigarette. And after the movie is over, there are no flyers for weight loss or pizza on my car. Honestly, I can't imagine why anyone goes to a movie theater unless it's neutral ground for a date or you're just so impatient to see the film that you can't wait for it to come out on disc. ["neutral ground"? – ed.]

It's not that I mind sitting in a comfy chair and watching a movie in a comfy chair, that's all cool -- and I even pay extra to see the movie on a bigger screen than normal with a better sound system. The fact is though, I don't like people walking between me and the screen -- and I enjoy people making any array of noises during the movie even less…The MPAA should focus on a pleasant consumer experience and find effective ways of dealing with patrons that are distracting…

Maybe the world is ready for a restaurant next to a DVD rental place with semi private soundproofed booths, flat-panel LCD's, and waitstaff to bring you food and beverages….

Often I think Libertarianism is something suburban dorks do when they don't have enough get-up-and-go to kidnap, murder, and mummify hitchhikers.

SHORTER OLE PERFESSER: Thomas "My People Suck" Sowell compares black people to rednecks. I agree with some guy that this is a slur on rednecks.

ALL ABOARD FOR FUNTIME. Sorry for the paucity of posts over the past several days. It has been a holiday, of course, whereby we celebrate our fallen men with a short parade and a long weekend. But my standards should stay above those of the common herd. I owe you, the dozens who regularly graze this little patch of internet, nothing less.

Despite my indolence I found something you might like, though: ADCANDY, where enterprising young mind-controllers invite the hoi polloi to enter advertising "slogan contests" for small prizes, and offer the submissions they have collected as consumer data to actual advertisers -- or, as they put it, "ADCANDY provides companies with the opportunity to view original ideas and consumer opinions at a fraction of the cost charged by traditional advertising agencies, market research companies, and focus groups."

This inspired me to submit several slogans to ADCANDY, including the following:

(for a coffee-company competition:)
CINNABON: The only good thing at the airport.
STARBUCKS: Go ahead, smash our windows. A hundred others will take our place!
DUNKIN' DONUTS: Breakfast and a bribe for the cops in every box.
KRISPY KREME: Why wait till noon to go off your diet?
PEET'S COFFEE: Starbucks has enough of your money.

I was particularly excited by their "non-profit" competition:

PBS: You owe us five cents for every Monty Python quote you ever used.
THE LIBERTARIAN PARTY: Brilliant, bad-smelling males of the world, unite!
THE DEMOCRATIC PARTY: In lieu of balls, some money would be nice.
ACLU: Join -- when the World Court convicts Jenna Bush, your children might get a few bucks.
THE PEACE CORPS: Justify a lifetime of money-grubbing with a few months feeding little black kids.

But I expect you can do better. So go ahead! They ask for your personal information, but the data-miners with whom they work probably have that already. The least you can get out of it is a frisson of creative non-compliance. And isn't that why we're here in the first place?

QUOTE OF THE WEEK: "Could it be that for every child with an imaginary friend, there has to be an adult with an imaginary enemy?"

Nice in and of itself, but it comes out of the Bill Maher thing and some incredibly stupid shit that a diarist at Red State wrote. Did you know that Bill Maher has the power to curtail Armed Forces recruitment? Shazam! I'm gonna ask Jon Stewart to get me a sports car.

FUN IT WAS. QUALIFIED APPROVAL I GIVE. Saw that big scifi movie everyone’s talking about. I found the dialogue unspeakable and, judging by their performances, so did the actors. Though I eventually rolled with the explanation that Anakin was primed to accept the Dark Side in any case, I was for a long time surprised that even a sullen mope like him could be snowed by such an obvious B-movie villain as Palpatine.

The sets were very attractive, though I was at times uneasy at the patchwork of style influences. Though the Jetson/Piranesi exteriors make some kind of sense, it is hard to see how a techno-Classicist society would produce such sybaritic, Southern California Pre-Raphaelite interiors. Maybe citizens of the artist class were smoking some kind of space weed. I suppose the mid-air water-ballet attended by Anakin and Palpatine is the design touchstone; if you can’t figure out what kind of civilization considers that a hot ticket, you may as well stop trying.

Still, there is one thing that excuses everything else, and that’s a good story. Revenge of the Sith is such a corker of a story that, having absolutely no affection for the genre, the style, the much-beloved and -merchandised characters, or the actors, I became engrossed, cared what happened next, palpably felt the coming of the resolution, and was satisfied at the end. That, as they say, is entertainment; and though Lucas is the opposite of my ideal filmmaker, I have to admit that he has this vital aspect of making pictures down cold. When Kenobe and Anakin chase each other along a toppling oil-rig that is running down a lake of fire toward an abyss, I can easily imagine D.W. Griffith nodding in approval.

Also, though it’s no Donovan’s Reef, it has some wicked cool fight scenes. And I liked the clones and the Wookies and that big lizard Kenobe rode and… oh hell, there goes my cred.

As my regular readers know, I am the sort of dark, ratlike creature who revels in marginalia and sneers at the common herd with their bourgeois reality shows and blow-‘em-up adventure pics (and their Christmas! And their presents with their gaudy wrapping paper!), but I am really glad to have enjoyed a popular film on its first run, especially after running into the stoned kid outside the theatre (a young Ratso Rizzo played by Gino from Bay Ridge) who asked if we had just seen the movie and then bellowed, "It’s really good, right? Youse t’ought it was good? Like as good as the old Star Wars movies? I seen it four times! And I can’t wait to see it again! I got the bootleg, right? An’ it’s so clear – like sometimes you see people getting up an’ they’re shakin’ the camera, but this was just, like, the movie!" (Bootlegs have been like this for some time; obviously this was the first movie he cared to buy in that format.) "But wait’ll you see it in the IMAX! Oh, man." (Gestures indicative of blowing-away) Had he seen it? "No, that’s not coming out till like November."

How can you not feel good about a movie after that?

What it has to do with politics of any kind I can’t imagine.

WHATEVER WORKS FOR YOU, BUDDY. "You could spin this out further and point out that it also makes adaptive sense for women to have a certain amount of difficulty having orgasms, because then they're more likely to seek out a long-term monogamous partner who knows their body well, which in turn dovetails nicely with the general female interest in having only one partner, the better to keep that partner around when the children come along." -- Ross Douthat, The American Scene.

SHORTER JAMES LILEKS: The specter of terrorism, of which I am poet laureate, has been replaced by the specter of Minnesota winters, and springs, and autumns. So cold, so very cold, and not even my imaginary friends from the 1940s can warm me. Soon I will make a run for the border. You'll find the wife and child in my "media center." Mother, give me the sun!

SHORTER CRAZY JESUS LADY: I wish 50s TV police drama stars would smite my enemies, for they are grandstanders. They should not congratulate themselves that way. They should put little cues for others to congratulate them into speeches written by me at $25,000-$50,000 a pop.

ALRIGHT, I'LL PLAY YOUR LITTLE GAME. I got suckerpunched by Kevin at Catch.com with another of them web things. Don't they realize that I weary of human contact? Ah, well, come lads, I'll have a frisk with you:

What is the total volume of musical files on your computer?

At home I have a dial-up connection (tracking links for my posts sometimes makes me feel like the guy who takes 4,000 years to say one word in I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream) and no iPod, except for the one IN MY MIND! So I have only the 20 or so files that came with this generously gifted computer (Butthole Surfers, T Rex, etc.) and 40 or so that I created myself, with which I will not afflict you good people.

What song are you listening to right now?

The iPod IN MY MIND! is playing Lou Reed's Caroline Says.

Last CD I bought?

A Jackie Mason live comedy CD. I had to learn an Israeli accent in five days for a reading and all I could find was Jackie Mason doing Peres and Sharon impersonations. I think I got away with it though.

Five songs you listen to a lot and which mean something to you:

Shopping Bag, The Penetrators. This Syracuse punk band from the 70s was about as raggedy-ass as they come (some of their members are still at it and I hope to write at length about them someday). Their Kings of Basement Rock reissue is pretty great. Shopping Bag starts off as a complaint about a bag-boy job ("When I was a bag boy, I got pushed around/Tryin' to earn some money to bring you all this sound") and then just becomes a rant about The Gong Show ("I seen all them judges and that Unknown Comic/If I ever see him live I'll grab his bag and vomit -- init"). The bellowed chorus -- "Shopping bag! Shopping bag! Spend your life in a shopping bag!" -- is pure moron glee. They sound like they're singing from the bottom of a lake into a Walkman. They are obviously drunk, marginally talented scuzzballs and they are having the time of their life. Which means that I can, too.

Mass Production, Iggy Pop. There is no grandiloquence like Iggy's especially when Iggy is in the grip of David Bowie, Berlin, bad love, bad metaphors, and a speed rush grinding painfully down into dawn.

The Broad Majestic Shannon, The Pogues. It's one thing to be a beautiful loser and another thing to be a beautiful loser who doesn't believe he has quite lost it all, and who offers his proof in glorious, gargle-voiced song.

Perfect Love, The Residents. Ree dee dee ree dee dee, ree dee dee dee dee. Ree dee dee ree dee dee, ree dee dee dee dee. "There's something I must tell you/there's something I must say/The only really perfect love/is one that gets away." Ree dee dee ree dee dee, ree dee dee dee dee. Ree dee dee ree dee dee, ree dee dee dee dee.

I'm Free From The Chain Gang Now, Jimmie Rodgers. The essence of American song is a story, preferably a sad one, preferably simple as water. It makes you feel, despite all contrary evidence, that people are worth listening to.

UPDATE. Oh, I'm supposed to invite people into this, aren't I? OK, the unfortunates are the Mighty Mighty Reason Man (har de har har), Majikthise, and Sisyphus nee Jules.