Martin Scorsese led the standing O for Michael Moore. Sweet.
No, I haven't seen it. Maybe it's as evil as all our rightwing brethren say (doubt it). But he made Roger & Me. So God bless him.
God bless him too for his silly speech. I expect some will go apeshit about it (especially since he said "fictitious." Heh. Indeed. Fuck you). But shit -- Moore's right.
I liked Steve Martin's joke about him too. Some of us can do that -- enjoy conflicting ideas. Lucky us.
Sunday, March 23, 2003
BTW I am watching the Oscars now. It's a good, Chuck-Workman-like production. Steve Martin's funny, the glitz is edifying. I'll have to take their word for it that the set direction of Chicago is better than that of Gangs of New York. (Gangs is the only nominee I've seen.) It's nice to see you can still rely on the Oscars for distraction. I'm especially loving the tribute to Oscar musical numbers (is this Chuck, too?).
Oscar can make fun of itself, and other people can make fun of it, too, but when all's said and done, it represents admirably the big entertainment machine that has given pleasure to millions -- including even snooty Frenchmen like Jean-Luc Godard.
I know Hollywood is not too enlightened on digital copyright now, but as a celebrant of, and believer in, excellence wherever it occurs, I expect Hollywood will get that act together at some point. It's a huge nest of vipers, but it's also a huge nest of talent, and the latter, not the former, is its primary cultural tradition.
I mean, they're handling the short-speech thing well. That shows they've got something on the ball.
Oscar can make fun of itself, and other people can make fun of it, too, but when all's said and done, it represents admirably the big entertainment machine that has given pleasure to millions -- including even snooty Frenchmen like Jean-Luc Godard.
I know Hollywood is not too enlightened on digital copyright now, but as a celebrant of, and believer in, excellence wherever it occurs, I expect Hollywood will get that act together at some point. It's a huge nest of vipers, but it's also a huge nest of talent, and the latter, not the former, is its primary cultural tradition.
I mean, they're handling the short-speech thing well. That shows they've got something on the ball.
Just got back from my old home town Bridgeport -- home also of Joe Ganim, disgraced mayor, P.T. Barnum, celebrity mayor, and Jasper McLevy, five-term Socialist mayor (helluva town). Mom had a scare and is in St. Vincent Hospital, resting comfortably with good vitals, thanks for asking.
I was born in St. Vincent's, and hospitalized there at the age of 12 (my vitals are currently good, too -- again, thanks for asking -- though I currently have a vicious sinus infection). Physically the place is completely and rather nicely renovated, but when I walked in I felt a nostalgic twinge. Late in the visit, I walked out to get myself and another visitor some chow, and walked past my old grade school. Back then it was St. Patrick's. Boys wore charcoal grey slacks, green jackets with an "SPS" crest on the breast pocket, and green-and-grey plaid ties. If I could get one man-sized, I'd wear this every day. The girls wore green-and-grey checked jumpers, calf socks, and black patent-leather shoes. Yes, you saw the next joke coming, and I refuse to do it. There were two entrances, one marked BOYS, one marked GIRLS, and these were engraved in stone over the portals to Catholic indoctrination (the light stone building was built in 1922, by Freemasons, one expects), and for the first year at least we by God lined up when the old gnarled nun rang the big brass bell and lined up and MARCHED, single file, into the appropriate doors. We had corporal punishment, too, that first year -- kneeling on rulers and the like -- which, when Vatican II finally caught up with the archdiocese, was eschewed in favor of psychological intimidation (though I do recall Sister Mildred, exasperated with Willie Carpanelli's intransigence, knocking him out of his seat -- old habits die hard, ha ha).
In 2003 this building houses something called Maplewood Annex. It's not a Catholic school anymore. No one has knocked the crucifix from the crest of the facade, but the new school's mission statement says it means to "provide each student with the opportunity to attain his/her highest potential academically, socially, and cognitively," so a lot has changed.
I walked around the place, noted that the hurricane fence around our old recess yard was, in places, knocked down (one local kid was standing on a defeated stretch of chain-link as I passed), that the GIRLS and BOYS inscriptions were covered by whitewashed wooden canopies, and that there was some sort of play-set for the younger kids (we'd had only jump-ropes, wiffle ball, and childish cruelty to occupy us). I walked down Wells Street, where once we'd met Mrs. Gillespie or my Mom for rides home after school. The houses along that strip are downcast now -- clapboard chipped, paint worn, front walks cracked and weedy. The lower middle class, happy and comfortable in the McLevy days and even when I was a boy, is desperate and despairing now, though its children (and, at this late date, many of the parents) are unaware that it was ever any different, and cheerfully rove the downcast streets, looking for whatever joy the poor town has to offer.
At the diner a waitress and her friend smoked long cigarettes and chatted with me while the food was being prepared. Both had suffered great losses in the past year. The waitress' boyfriend had been shot dead. The friend's sister, after a long fight with drugs (during which she'd been shot, stabbed, raped, and kidnapped), succumbed to an overdose. "The whole family had just gotten together," the friend said. "We were laughing and happy. I guess God waited till we were together to take her for a reason."
The waitress said she was mad that her boyfriend had been taken. At whom? I asked. "I never thought about that before," she said.
When I came back to the hospital, a nurse put my Mom on a nebulizer -- a face mask connected to a tube that pumped light steam into her nose and mouth. There was some broncho-dilator mixed with the steam. She liked it, became giddy. She offered me the mask, tried to pull it from her face; we stopped her. "Lookit those soldiers on TV, racing to Baghdad," she said. "They're racing to get killed."
The train ride home was long and tedious. At one point a state trooper roamed the aisles slowly, looking into our faces.
I was born in St. Vincent's, and hospitalized there at the age of 12 (my vitals are currently good, too -- again, thanks for asking -- though I currently have a vicious sinus infection). Physically the place is completely and rather nicely renovated, but when I walked in I felt a nostalgic twinge. Late in the visit, I walked out to get myself and another visitor some chow, and walked past my old grade school. Back then it was St. Patrick's. Boys wore charcoal grey slacks, green jackets with an "SPS" crest on the breast pocket, and green-and-grey plaid ties. If I could get one man-sized, I'd wear this every day. The girls wore green-and-grey checked jumpers, calf socks, and black patent-leather shoes. Yes, you saw the next joke coming, and I refuse to do it. There were two entrances, one marked BOYS, one marked GIRLS, and these were engraved in stone over the portals to Catholic indoctrination (the light stone building was built in 1922, by Freemasons, one expects), and for the first year at least we by God lined up when the old gnarled nun rang the big brass bell and lined up and MARCHED, single file, into the appropriate doors. We had corporal punishment, too, that first year -- kneeling on rulers and the like -- which, when Vatican II finally caught up with the archdiocese, was eschewed in favor of psychological intimidation (though I do recall Sister Mildred, exasperated with Willie Carpanelli's intransigence, knocking him out of his seat -- old habits die hard, ha ha).
In 2003 this building houses something called Maplewood Annex. It's not a Catholic school anymore. No one has knocked the crucifix from the crest of the facade, but the new school's mission statement says it means to "provide each student with the opportunity to attain his/her highest potential academically, socially, and cognitively," so a lot has changed.
I walked around the place, noted that the hurricane fence around our old recess yard was, in places, knocked down (one local kid was standing on a defeated stretch of chain-link as I passed), that the GIRLS and BOYS inscriptions were covered by whitewashed wooden canopies, and that there was some sort of play-set for the younger kids (we'd had only jump-ropes, wiffle ball, and childish cruelty to occupy us). I walked down Wells Street, where once we'd met Mrs. Gillespie or my Mom for rides home after school. The houses along that strip are downcast now -- clapboard chipped, paint worn, front walks cracked and weedy. The lower middle class, happy and comfortable in the McLevy days and even when I was a boy, is desperate and despairing now, though its children (and, at this late date, many of the parents) are unaware that it was ever any different, and cheerfully rove the downcast streets, looking for whatever joy the poor town has to offer.
At the diner a waitress and her friend smoked long cigarettes and chatted with me while the food was being prepared. Both had suffered great losses in the past year. The waitress' boyfriend had been shot dead. The friend's sister, after a long fight with drugs (during which she'd been shot, stabbed, raped, and kidnapped), succumbed to an overdose. "The whole family had just gotten together," the friend said. "We were laughing and happy. I guess God waited till we were together to take her for a reason."
The waitress said she was mad that her boyfriend had been taken. At whom? I asked. "I never thought about that before," she said.
When I came back to the hospital, a nurse put my Mom on a nebulizer -- a face mask connected to a tube that pumped light steam into her nose and mouth. There was some broncho-dilator mixed with the steam. She liked it, became giddy. She offered me the mask, tried to pull it from her face; we stopped her. "Lookit those soldiers on TV, racing to Baghdad," she said. "They're racing to get killed."
The train ride home was long and tedious. At one point a state trooper roamed the aisles slowly, looking into our faces.
Between 100,000 (police estimate) and 200,000 (San Jose Mercury News estimate) anti-war demonstrators marched in New York yesterday. A quarter-million marched against the war in London. There were several other such protests around the world.
Here's the coverage from the warblogs. Instapundit, quoting someone named Jeff Jarvis:
Andrew Sullivan:
Rod Dreher at The Corner:
Volokh Conspiracy:
The new journalism, folks. The great ones can do it with their eyes closed.
Here's the coverage from the warblogs. Instapundit, quoting someone named Jeff Jarvis:
DENVILLE -- Holding signs that read "Honk if you hate Saddam" and "Honk if you support our troops," about 50 boisterous but orderly Denville middle school students held a pro-war rally Friday on Main Street.
Andrew Sullivan:
HEADLINE OF THE DAY: "Peace demonstrators in France stab 2 Jewish boys." - from the Jerusalem Post.
Rod Dreher at The Corner:
As I write this, a large throng of anti-war protesters are massed in City Hall Park, just two or three blocks from Ground Zero. Police are ordering them to disperse, telling them their demonstration is over. They are ignoring the cops. (no follow-up -- ed.)
Volokh Conspiracy:
An antiwar march is proceeding down the street outside my apartment right now. Lots of the protesters are holding antiwar signs from International A.N.S.W.E.R... In a strange coincidence, the protesters reached my neighborhood when I just happened to be reading news reports that Glenn Reynolds linked to over at Instapundit...
The new journalism, folks. The great ones can do it with their eyes closed.
Saturday, March 22, 2003
Things are moving right along. The last installment (for the time being, of course -- keep hope alive!) of alicubi's Crank Watch is up. It's called "The War At Home," and it's about some interesting second fronts opened up by the commentariat. The whole CW archive, and all the rest of our back catalogue, is still available, still.
I hope to get a comments feature up, but Blogger is new to me and I am disappointed to learn that the most popular of those third-party systems are closed to newcomers. How it hurts my pride to struggle with no-longer-new technology! If you have any suggestions about this (or anything else), feel free to drop me a line.
I hope to get a comments feature up, but Blogger is new to me and I am disappointed to learn that the most popular of those third-party systems are closed to newcomers. How it hurts my pride to struggle with no-longer-new technology! If you have any suggestions about this (or anything else), feel free to drop me a line.
Friday, March 21, 2003
In the beginning was alicubi, a web magazine edited by Martin Downs (chief) and Roy Edroso (cook & bottle-washer). Then came alicublog, an online journal for the editors' more time-sensitive, fragmentary writings. We hand-coded and ftp'd the contents on a more or less daily basis. It was a pain in the ass.
Alicubi is in limbo for a while. But Martin and I cannot stand the silence, and so have decided to open this alternate venue for our journal posts, utilizing the more convenient Blogger technology. Where it all will end, knows God.
Alicubi is in limbo for a while. But Martin and I cannot stand the silence, and so have decided to open this alternate venue for our journal posts, utilizing the more convenient Blogger technology. Where it all will end, knows God.
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