ME OLD BOY, NOW! NRO makes much of an Iraqi child named after Dick Cheney. I suspect his parents hope that, by some naming magic (as when American parents named their kids "Prudence," "Victor," or "Elvis"), the young man will grow into a destiny similar to the original Cheney's, and profit from assaults on Iraq.
The family expects to name their next son George Bush. Well, there's a lot of coca just north of the border...
Wednesday, March 26, 2003
BY THE WAY: Notice I'm going in for headlined posts now, a la Andrew "forget Raines, the Beeb's the real enemy!" Sullivan.
Much bigger design innovations are pending, but I'm miserably sick and sitting in another Bethesda waiting room, so not just yet.
Much bigger design innovations are pending, but I'm miserably sick and sitting in another Bethesda waiting room, so not just yet.
RED BOROUGH, BLUE BOROUGH? Very strange Ron Rosenbaum column today in the Observer. He says we Brooklynites "sneer" at Manhattan residents because, in a terror attack, we would die less swiftly than they. I have literally no idea what he's talking about.
But who knows what the kind of conversation goes on among Professor Ron and his peeps?
Great to be alive in this high, unmean decade! But we must do something about irony!
What do you mean "we," old boy? You'll be incinerated immediately in a dirty bomb attack! Best leave irony to those of us who will only experience severe radiation poisoning!
Ha, ha! More non-French wine, chum?
Brrrr.
Then RR interrupts his transmission to tell us about the column he yanked before filing his current dog's-Sunday-brunch. It had to do with Rosenbaum's Hitler book and a TV special bearing a sub-title that came too close for comfort to one of Rosenbaum's. That sounds every bit as uninteresting as the substitute; why'd he switch? "With war about to start," he writes, "it seemed just too self-involved to devote an entire column to my own concerns. "
Then he writes about stuff he read in the New Yorkerand "Lunch with Farrar, Straus & Giroux editor in chief Jonathan Galassi."
If you want to know how New York intellectuals got so bad, you might start by viewing Pennebaker's "Town Bloody Hall" and reading some back issues of Commentary.But you know, it's a lovely day outside. Maybe you should take a walk instead.
But who knows what the kind of conversation goes on among Professor Ron and his peeps?
Great to be alive in this high, unmean decade! But we must do something about irony!
What do you mean "we," old boy? You'll be incinerated immediately in a dirty bomb attack! Best leave irony to those of us who will only experience severe radiation poisoning!
Ha, ha! More non-French wine, chum?
Brrrr.
Then RR interrupts his transmission to tell us about the column he yanked before filing his current dog's-Sunday-brunch. It had to do with Rosenbaum's Hitler book and a TV special bearing a sub-title that came too close for comfort to one of Rosenbaum's. That sounds every bit as uninteresting as the substitute; why'd he switch? "With war about to start," he writes, "it seemed just too self-involved to devote an entire column to my own concerns. "
Then he writes about stuff he read in the New Yorkerand "Lunch with Farrar, Straus & Giroux editor in chief Jonathan Galassi."
If you want to know how New York intellectuals got so bad, you might start by viewing Pennebaker's "Town Bloody Hall" and reading some back issues of Commentary.But you know, it's a lovely day outside. Maybe you should take a walk instead.
Tuesday, March 25, 2003
Finally caught up with that "See No Evil" article at Salon, in which Edward W. Lempinen says the Left should support the war because Saddam is a tyrant and liberals should be against tyrants. His article is the best portrayal I've seen of this case, which is usually presented in the degenerate "Why don't you go protest Saddam" form by the warbloggers.
Lempinen has a good point if he's talking about the wider mission of the international (or even internationalist) Left. As an old-fashioned Yankee liberal, I am sensible to the plight of the world's Amina Lawals. And in terms which for want of a better word I'll call humanitarian, it seems from that perspective anti-American not to help these people.
But I have to also take up another point raised by Lempinen at the outset: in pursuing liberal democracy worldwide, where do you start, and where do you stop? If your only motivation is "to help people," you'll never answer those questions -- you'll be too busy do-gooding. I'm a little more selfish, and directed, about it -- my first interest is in the health and survival of America -- as nation, and as idea. I also think that, in the long run, making sure that America sticks with the Founders' program would also be the best thing for the world's oppressed peoples, too. After all, we've done great things for millions of refugees from countries that we didn't even invade.
Lempinen, echoing Christopher Hitchens, says we must liberate Iraq even though we screwed up the region in the first place -- maybe even especially since we screwed it up, because that makes it all the more our responsibility. A noble sentiment, and if Bush and his administration were also saying this, I'm sure a lot of us would have more faith in the current enterprise.
But they aren't. And here's the sticking point. The common plaint is, if you're against the war, it's just because you hate Bush, and that blinds you to the humanitarian benefits of the invasion.
OK, pal, ya got me: I do think the President is a very bad leader with sinister objectives. But I don't see why that should be irrelevant to this argument. The reasons why Bush is doing this are relevant, not for vague philosophical reasons, but because it will affect his follow-through.
To put it in an analogy, there have been any number of wealthy benefactors who found young guttersnipes on the street, took them into their homes, cleaned them up, fed them, and gave them nice clothes. Some of these benefactors were motivated by Christian charity to improve troubled youths. Some, though, just wanted to fuck them.
I see the removal of Saddam's tyranny as a large and potentially wonderful collateral benefit for the people of Iraq. But though they will benefit, I'm afraid we may not -- not when the cost of national-rebuilding and region-restabilizing becomes an onerous burden.
I really think it has been a bad mistake to cut ourselves loose of the world community -- and not for sentimental one-worlder reasons. The U.N. disarmament dance was in many ways silly and corrupt -- but so is most diplomacy, even much of U.S. diplomacy. And it still gets things done. It even boxed the Soviets into a corner, eventually. Non-war options work more slowly and less spectacularly than wars, of course. But I will take a Council, a Diet, or a Joint Resolution over a war pretty much any day of the week.
I read an item today -- where, I can't recall -- in which someone argued that Truman was wrong not to take out Russia right after the Second World War, since the Soviets didn't have the bomb yet. The author says that millions of lives would have been spared by this single, audacious act -- in the gulags, in the satellite states, etc. Perhaps. But do you think Truman, of all people, was being soft-hearted? Or did he tote up the potential costs of empire and find it unsustainable? Truman read a lot of history and loved to talk about it. Perhaps his vision of the future was a little more expansive than that of today's author. Perhaps he knew that if America kept a little humility, it could eventually change the course of history for the better -- but if it lost that humility, it would end up as just another imperial contender that perished in overreach.
I think Truman was right and Bush is wrong. I'm happy the Iraqis will soon be free of a tyrant's grip. Maybe that'll be the end of that -- dictator gone, case closed, let's go home. But I doubt it.
Lempinen has a good point if he's talking about the wider mission of the international (or even internationalist) Left. As an old-fashioned Yankee liberal, I am sensible to the plight of the world's Amina Lawals. And in terms which for want of a better word I'll call humanitarian, it seems from that perspective anti-American not to help these people.
But I have to also take up another point raised by Lempinen at the outset: in pursuing liberal democracy worldwide, where do you start, and where do you stop? If your only motivation is "to help people," you'll never answer those questions -- you'll be too busy do-gooding. I'm a little more selfish, and directed, about it -- my first interest is in the health and survival of America -- as nation, and as idea. I also think that, in the long run, making sure that America sticks with the Founders' program would also be the best thing for the world's oppressed peoples, too. After all, we've done great things for millions of refugees from countries that we didn't even invade.
Lempinen, echoing Christopher Hitchens, says we must liberate Iraq even though we screwed up the region in the first place -- maybe even especially since we screwed it up, because that makes it all the more our responsibility. A noble sentiment, and if Bush and his administration were also saying this, I'm sure a lot of us would have more faith in the current enterprise.
But they aren't. And here's the sticking point. The common plaint is, if you're against the war, it's just because you hate Bush, and that blinds you to the humanitarian benefits of the invasion.
OK, pal, ya got me: I do think the President is a very bad leader with sinister objectives. But I don't see why that should be irrelevant to this argument. The reasons why Bush is doing this are relevant, not for vague philosophical reasons, but because it will affect his follow-through.
To put it in an analogy, there have been any number of wealthy benefactors who found young guttersnipes on the street, took them into their homes, cleaned them up, fed them, and gave them nice clothes. Some of these benefactors were motivated by Christian charity to improve troubled youths. Some, though, just wanted to fuck them.
I see the removal of Saddam's tyranny as a large and potentially wonderful collateral benefit for the people of Iraq. But though they will benefit, I'm afraid we may not -- not when the cost of national-rebuilding and region-restabilizing becomes an onerous burden.
I really think it has been a bad mistake to cut ourselves loose of the world community -- and not for sentimental one-worlder reasons. The U.N. disarmament dance was in many ways silly and corrupt -- but so is most diplomacy, even much of U.S. diplomacy. And it still gets things done. It even boxed the Soviets into a corner, eventually. Non-war options work more slowly and less spectacularly than wars, of course. But I will take a Council, a Diet, or a Joint Resolution over a war pretty much any day of the week.
I read an item today -- where, I can't recall -- in which someone argued that Truman was wrong not to take out Russia right after the Second World War, since the Soviets didn't have the bomb yet. The author says that millions of lives would have been spared by this single, audacious act -- in the gulags, in the satellite states, etc. Perhaps. But do you think Truman, of all people, was being soft-hearted? Or did he tote up the potential costs of empire and find it unsustainable? Truman read a lot of history and loved to talk about it. Perhaps his vision of the future was a little more expansive than that of today's author. Perhaps he knew that if America kept a little humility, it could eventually change the course of history for the better -- but if it lost that humility, it would end up as just another imperial contender that perished in overreach.
I think Truman was right and Bush is wrong. I'm happy the Iraqis will soon be free of a tyrant's grip. Maybe that'll be the end of that -- dictator gone, case closed, let's go home. But I doubt it.
CATS & DOGS ETC. At The Corner, Brookhiser chalks the snide attitude at debka.com up to "Israeli arrogance." And none of his colleagues called him an anti-Semite! Lemme check Sullivan -- nope, nothing there either. (But of course Brookhiser is not French.)
Actually I have met some Israelis who were all a pain in the ass in the same way -- insufferably superior and completely deaf to the opinions or needs of others. Of course that's not a Jewish thing -- most Jews I know are exactly the opposite. I put it down to life in a heavily militarized nation, surrounded by enemies.
How long before we start acting like that?
Actually I have met some Israelis who were all a pain in the ass in the same way -- insufferably superior and completely deaf to the opinions or needs of others. Of course that's not a Jewish thing -- most Jews I know are exactly the opposite. I put it down to life in a heavily militarized nation, surrounded by enemies.
How long before we start acting like that?
I forgot to mention that Bob Dole was on the plane with me last night. He traveled alone, coming back, I guess, from his guest appearance on the Letterman show. He's very tall, and has a lumbering gait, and his hair is a strange copper color, and his skin is weirdly dun-colored, like clay. He has remarkably large, flat ears plastered against his skull. He looks both old and not old, if you know what I mean -- if you don't I'll try to explain: he seems very alert and has the air of someone who's got things to do (something a lot of old people lose, of course), and is so used to dealing with the public that he cannot degenerate into Sansa-belt social torpor, but looks upon everyone he meets (ticket agents and Reagan Airport lobby personnel, in this case) as someone toward whom he should make at least an effort. (I know some codgers who don't even respond to 'hello.' Some younger people, too.) But of course no one's hair is really the color his seems to be; either it's a dye job, or the side-effect of special mineral compounds his D.C. Doctor Feelgood prescribes to keep him youthful. Also he has a rumpled face, like he's been working it so strenuously for so long that when he's not in front of the camera or the teleprompter or the Ladies' Home Auxiliary, the skin that fronts his skull settles into something like a horizontal pile of laundry. Dun-colored laundry.
Building 10 at the National Institutes of Health is just like I left it -- but with even more through security precautions. Metal detectors, wands, etc. at the very few access doors. Flyers posted reminding us that we are on ORANGE alert. The clinics are the same as I remember, though -- non-threatening fabrics and colors, friendly if slightly rushed staff, and folks of all sorts from all over America waiting for their piece of the Federal health-care pie. Even though most of them, like me, are getting treatment they most likely couldn't begin to afford anywhere else, they still behave like they're in a waiting room -- albeit a little more cheerful about delays -- slouching, lolling, thumbing through ancient magazines. The desk attendants play old soul tunes out of their iMacs and talk about home renovations.
I slept poorly last night. This respiratory infection has a vicious grip on me. I asked the clinic personnel if I could perhaps get treatment for this -- it's not sexy or clinically significant, but it is illness and this is a medical facility. They said I could "try" to get the ENT guy to treat me when I see him for my study protocol Wednesday.
My poor fever-clouded mind turned in on itself. Immediately I thought of Bukowski's Life and Death in the Charity Ward. "'We can't let you have any blood, Mr. Bukowski.' The nurse was smiling. She was telling me that they were going to let me die..." I get very blue and paranoid about (relatively) minor illnesses. I guess that's because all I ask of life is an even chance, and when I'm running a mild fever and blowing green party-balloons out my nostrils, I feel trammelled -- and for an all-or-nothing sort of fellow like me, trammelled is almost worse than totally wiped out. Because I still feel compelled to compete on the unsick level. It's just a cold, I tell myself, brace up. I try to have robust, friendly conversations, but no one can make out what I'm saying because my nose is so clogged, and every time I laugh I have a 20-second coughing fit, and the cough sounds like a dog barking underwater. I take a little stroll downtown, and after a few blocks I'm gleaming with sweat and my legs are all rubbery. At least when I have a tumor, I get to lie down.
Building 10 at the National Institutes of Health is just like I left it -- but with even more through security precautions. Metal detectors, wands, etc. at the very few access doors. Flyers posted reminding us that we are on ORANGE alert. The clinics are the same as I remember, though -- non-threatening fabrics and colors, friendly if slightly rushed staff, and folks of all sorts from all over America waiting for their piece of the Federal health-care pie. Even though most of them, like me, are getting treatment they most likely couldn't begin to afford anywhere else, they still behave like they're in a waiting room -- albeit a little more cheerful about delays -- slouching, lolling, thumbing through ancient magazines. The desk attendants play old soul tunes out of their iMacs and talk about home renovations.
I slept poorly last night. This respiratory infection has a vicious grip on me. I asked the clinic personnel if I could perhaps get treatment for this -- it's not sexy or clinically significant, but it is illness and this is a medical facility. They said I could "try" to get the ENT guy to treat me when I see him for my study protocol Wednesday.
My poor fever-clouded mind turned in on itself. Immediately I thought of Bukowski's Life and Death in the Charity Ward. "'We can't let you have any blood, Mr. Bukowski.' The nurse was smiling. She was telling me that they were going to let me die..." I get very blue and paranoid about (relatively) minor illnesses. I guess that's because all I ask of life is an even chance, and when I'm running a mild fever and blowing green party-balloons out my nostrils, I feel trammelled -- and for an all-or-nothing sort of fellow like me, trammelled is almost worse than totally wiped out. Because I still feel compelled to compete on the unsick level. It's just a cold, I tell myself, brace up. I try to have robust, friendly conversations, but no one can make out what I'm saying because my nose is so clogged, and every time I laugh I have a 20-second coughing fit, and the cough sounds like a dog barking underwater. I take a little stroll downtown, and after a few blocks I'm gleaming with sweat and my legs are all rubbery. At least when I have a tumor, I get to lie down.
Monday, March 24, 2003
Well, here I am in D.C. By the luck of the cheap-hotels-website draw, I'm staying at the Washington Plaza -- a massive, angled, Dead Zone of pastel carpets, dinging elevators, and polyester uniforms. I'm typing from a Kinko's which the bellman described as "nearby" -- a fifteen-minute walk in reality. At home that wouldn't bug me at all, but I expect the rest of America to conform to my stereotype of it: a fat-assed Valhalla where no one walks more than 40 feet for anything.
I always dread doing this NIH thing, even though it's the best thing for me. Short explanation: I have a rare genetic condition which the National Institutes of Health is studying. For the loan of my body a few days a year, NIH takes care of any little mishaps that are caused by the condition (e.g., tumors). So far I think I'm ahead on the deal, but who knows? Maybe years from now I'll discover that every time I came down here, they secretly shot me up with something that paralyzed my ability to earn decent amounts of money and talk to strangers. Well, it would be nice to have an explanation, anyway.
I think I'll go back to the room now and have a nice steam; it may loosen up some of the phlegm. Meanwhile I see that Andrew Sullivan is going after Frida Kahlo. Perhaps this sort of thing will earn him a gig at the New Criterion in his declining years, which should be coming along any day now.
I always dread doing this NIH thing, even though it's the best thing for me. Short explanation: I have a rare genetic condition which the National Institutes of Health is studying. For the loan of my body a few days a year, NIH takes care of any little mishaps that are caused by the condition (e.g., tumors). So far I think I'm ahead on the deal, but who knows? Maybe years from now I'll discover that every time I came down here, they secretly shot me up with something that paralyzed my ability to earn decent amounts of money and talk to strangers. Well, it would be nice to have an explanation, anyway.
I think I'll go back to the room now and have a nice steam; it may loosen up some of the phlegm. Meanwhile I see that Andrew Sullivan is going after Frida Kahlo. Perhaps this sort of thing will earn him a gig at the New Criterion in his declining years, which should be coming along any day now.
Whoa. Don't post drunk.
Last night I needed a respite from my two-week-old cold/sinus infection/Black Death -- the kind of respite only Budweiser can provide. Plus I'm going to Bethesda this week for my semi-annual medical review. So I'm a little delicate at the moment.
Nonetheless, in the future I will try and provide less rambling posts. I do owe you something -- you did type an address into a field, after all, and hit the "return" button, and that kind of effort deserves nothing but the very best I can give.
Last night I needed a respite from my two-week-old cold/sinus infection/Black Death -- the kind of respite only Budweiser can provide. Plus I'm going to Bethesda this week for my semi-annual medical review. So I'm a little delicate at the moment.
Nonetheless, in the future I will try and provide less rambling posts. I do owe you something -- you did type an address into a field, after all, and hit the "return" button, and that kind of effort deserves nothing but the very best I can give.
Gotta ask:
"'Huge' Suspected Weapons Plant Found in Iraq," says Fox News.
Question:
If Iraq had this WMD at its disposal, and knew we were poised to attack them for many, many months, why has this weapon not been used against our troops?
I think I know the answer already: "TRAITOR!"
"'Huge' Suspected Weapons Plant Found in Iraq," says Fox News.
Question:
If Iraq had this WMD at its disposal, and knew we were poised to attack them for many, many months, why has this weapon not been used against our troops?
I think I know the answer already: "TRAITOR!"
Sunday, March 23, 2003
I guess they're gonna do this Past Oscar Winners thing every year. And good for them. They deserve it. But it's a little weird that they're doing it before the writing awards. I mean, don't they normally get the scribes out of the way earlier than this? If I were less cynical, I'd say this was because the writers are better valued in Hollywood than once they were. I am not less cynical. (Than what? -- ed. Than anything.)
I'm glad chunky Marcia Gay Harden came out in an off-the-shoulder number. I'm also glad chunky Geena Davis came out, perioid. I'm just glad for chunk, period. So sue me.
The writer of The Pianist did nicely. Pedro Almodovar! Bless him, he's doing the antiwar thing too, but very apologetically. But let's stop a moment -- Pedro Almodovar won a fucking Oscar!
I'm glad chunky Marcia Gay Harden came out in an off-the-shoulder number. I'm also glad chunky Geena Davis came out, perioid. I'm just glad for chunk, period. So sue me.
The writer of The Pianist did nicely. Pedro Almodovar! Bless him, he's doing the antiwar thing too, but very apologetically. But let's stop a moment -- Pedro Almodovar won a fucking Oscar!
Peter. Fucking. O'Toole.
"As I totter into antiquity...." How wonderful to have a winner who can speak. "...and from whom I grab energy in handfuls." "You're very good. Good night, and God bless you."
This, my friends, is an actor. I loved that they began this with his Charlie Rose interview. I saw that interview, and O'Toole was marvelous -- especially talking about what a disastrous thing the dying of the repertory system in English theatre has been for acting. They should have played the whole thing. O'Toole is a treasure, not just to film but to Anglophone culture.
Someday I'll see that Nicole Kidman movie, but not because of her rambling speech.
She's good, though. Some good actors are smart, some, much less so. A funny thing about art, and about life.
Frank Pierson is funny. Who knew?
"As I totter into antiquity...." How wonderful to have a winner who can speak. "...and from whom I grab energy in handfuls." "You're very good. Good night, and God bless you."
This, my friends, is an actor. I loved that they began this with his Charlie Rose interview. I saw that interview, and O'Toole was marvelous -- especially talking about what a disastrous thing the dying of the repertory system in English theatre has been for acting. They should have played the whole thing. O'Toole is a treasure, not just to film but to Anglophone culture.
Someday I'll see that Nicole Kidman movie, but not because of her rambling speech.
She's good, though. Some good actors are smart, some, much less so. A funny thing about art, and about life.
Frank Pierson is funny. Who knew?
Adrien Brody did a beautiful job -- heartfelt, eloquent, everything one could want. I liked his interruption of the Oscar timeout much better than Julia Roberts'.
I also liked the shot of Cameron Diaz chewing gum while Eminem's collaborator accepted his award.
And I like the loosey-goosey behavior of all the presenters. This is supposed to be fun, so thanks to them for making sure the fun is brought.
I also liked the shot of Cameron Diaz chewing gum while Eminem's collaborator accepted his award.
And I like the loosey-goosey behavior of all the presenters. This is supposed to be fun, so thanks to them for making sure the fun is brought.
Boy, that didn't take long. Stupid cunt Ned Flanders jumps on Michael Moore: "I say send his privileged white butt to do taste-testing at that chemical weapons factory we just discovered. I'd like him to see if it's baby milk."
Interesting, isn't it, how Jesus freaks are so quick to propose violence against people with whom they disagree?
This from a guy who cries thanks to Jeebus that he has been relocated from New York to Dull-ass, TX.
Don't let the door hit your ass on your way out, hayseed.
Interesting, isn't it, how Jesus freaks are so quick to propose violence against people with whom they disagree?
This from a guy who cries thanks to Jeebus that he has been relocated from New York to Dull-ass, TX.
Don't let the door hit your ass on your way out, hayseed.
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.
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.
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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