OH YEAH, THE METS. I only watched the first inning of the last game, a rare case of self-restraint. I'd been thinking of going to Shea. Maybe I should have, though I don't know how I could have stood it. The Daily News reports:

Deafening chants of "Let's Go Mets" rocked the big house in Queens an hour before the opening pitch.

The carnival mood - fueled by the Mets' dramatic win a day earlier - quickly turned to deathly silence as the Marlins pounded ace Tom Glavine like they were the ones battling for a playoff spot.

When the club first hired Glavine in 2003, I fretted that it was just another bizarre Met donation to the knacker's yard of expired talents. But after a bad start he played gutball reliably. He was the natural choice to bring it home Sunday. The pathetic response of the rest of the team was, alas, expected -- if you can't get more than one run in the first with Dotrell pitching that badly, what good are you? -- but Glavine hadn't started that badly since 1989. His face in the dugout afterward showed the exquisitely private agony of the big-game pitcher, jaw tight, eyes ablaze: how could I fuck up that bad? But he got no balm from the Shea faithful but a shower, nay, a hailstorm of boos.

Which was exactly as it should have been.

The reverse mojo enjoyed and suffered by Cubs and (til recently) Red and White Sox fans is historic. But Mets fans never needed a history of suffering. We were inoculated and immunized against the usual side-effects of futility by their awful first season -- hence their ironic early cognomen, the Amazin' Mets. Like potholes and crime, suffering is part of the Mets' DNA.

This made their "Miracle Mets" World Series win in 1969 enduringly singular -- not like any Yankee Series win, but a battered fist punched upward through despair. I still remember a WOR-TV promo of the time that played "The Impossible Dream" and showed the grizzled visage of Casey Stengel on the line, "That one man, scorned and covered with scars." It was about redemption for the underdog, as was "Ya Gotta Believe!" a few years later. Even in defeat, the Mets had become a belief system. The Yankee ascendancy that followed was fine for those who worshipped at that cathedral, but Mets fans remained lower-church Believers, praying for the return of the Miracle.

The 1986 team was allegedly it -- a harbringer of a butched-up National League dynasty in New York. But then came Strawberry's pre-season fistfight with Keith Hernandez (the only recorded case, a local sportwriter observed, of Strawberry hitting the cut-off man), then Straw swinging through an Orel Hershiser fastball in the NLCS, and then a deep miasma of Isringhausen, Jeff Kent, Saberhagen, Bobby Bonilla, Bobby V in a fake mustache, Kenny Rogers walking in the winning run in the 1999 NLCS, Timo Perez overrunning his base and Derek Bell pulling up lame at the wall in Game 1 of the 2000 series, Art Howe, Mo Vaughn's fat ass, etc.

We supp'd full with horrors then, and came to Shea ready to jeer. I saw "Captain" John Franco, the last World Series-winning pitcher on the team, greeted with cries of "OH NO!" when he came in from the bullpen. I saw grown men draped in vintage Mets paraphenalia dramatically jerking the thumbs-down from the upper deck. With no Miracle on the horizon, we still attended our lower church, but mocked the ceremony and splattered the celebrant. Yankee Stadium was never like this. Though we were acquainted with glory, we were used to ignominy, and when that was all we had we reveled in it. We knew how to lose.

In this same period, New York itself eschewed loserdom. It was Giulianified -- safe, and rich, and beloved of the nation. Even the Yankees (spit) gained fans in most major markets; during the regular season you could hear their bellowing in stadia from Seattle to Baltimore. No one loved the Mets except us. Our stadium was a toilet and our team was shit. We didn't give a damn. Shea was for locals. Families spread out on the cheap seats. When the season-ticket jerks fled for the suburbs in the fifth inning, we took their seats. Shea in its way preserved a piece of New York from before Giuliani time, where victory was not expected and you could express a negative opinion of management without getting thrown out.

The New Mets were our next great chance. Even last year's NLCS had a silver lining: fate had been cruel but the team was tough and local hero Willie Randolph had brought them a long way. Next year would be worth waiting 'til. Well, we saw how that worked out: a big-town beginning followed by a big-time collapse. "Jose Jose Jose" followed by Shinjo-level booing. Glavine out after one-third. Willie standing dull-eyed in the dugout. We began to see that our Mets were not what our mythology demanded -- neither a Miracle nor scorned nor covered with scars. They were overpaid journeymen shamefully bereft of the fuel we fans had thought they shared with us: hope.

The other day I saw some newspaper columnist giving us grief for not giving Glavine a gentler sendoff. Fuck him and fuck you. We are not like other fans, however long or short their period of suffering. We are the children of '62: born to lose, contemptuous of quit. We are impervious to dynastic bullshit and will cheer lustily for the Tribe to extend the Bronx goons' endlessly edifying ringless streak. And come April, from every section we'll let you hear how we feel, long and hard. We are not impressed by the new Shittyfield you offer us. We want blood. We want a manager who will bestir himself to get thrown out every once in a while. We want players who will dive for a grounder. We want a team worthy of our exquisite suffering. We want a Miracle.

ADVICE FOR CULTURE WARRIORS. Here's one of the reasons I have Daniel Larison on my blogroll:

Conservatives definitely should make more documentaries, but they should do so because they actually want to be filmmakers and want to tell stories. They should do this because they have a talent for doing it, which ensures that they will be doing the work that best expresses their particular gifts. Conservatives should not make documentaries just because that’s what leftists do and we need to counter their propaganda arm with one of our own. As much as it may stun certain folks to read this, left-wing politics prevails among actors and artists for the same reason that it prevails among most journalists: it is a kind of politics that initially fits very well with the kind of work that these people do, and these professions attract people who already tend to share these beliefs.

Unfortunately I found this March 2007 nugget via a deep link from a less canny Larison post, in which he focuses more intently on the problems faced by conservatives who want to do more than just shake their fists at Commie Hollywood and the news media, and less on their opportunities. Are there no Limbaughs? Are there no Liberty Film Festivals? More to the point, are there no Scaifes and Murdochs to finance them?

In both posts, Larison hits the point that a life in the arts is not conducive to raising a family, which object conservatives exalt. Just so. You're not usually going to find your eiron among family men -- except in sitcoms. In fact, I would say that the ironic role of the paterfamilias in your average sitcom from The Life of Riley onwards comes from the tendency in late American life to integrate all the necessary aspects of a community into a consumer experience. Theatre being a niche experience anymore, we have had to replant our truth-telling outsiders, however clumsily, in the middle of our suburban fantasies. In fact, you might say that the whole "anti-American" tendency of American popular art in the past several decades has been a reaction to that uneasy fit...

But that's what comes of reading too much of The American Scene: that way lies madness and Reihan Salam. (Warning to posterity: link evanescent.) So forget it and we'll make it this: trying to write or film or act or sing anything is a hard job, and making it pay is much harder. You have to make sacrifices, including doing jobs you don't want to do and living like you don't want to live. If you have the stomach for that, you might get somewhere, but it will probably take longer than your childish hopes and dreams have led you to expect. The payoff may take years -- indeed, it may never happen. Internalize that, and then let me know how badly you want to drag your ideology with you into glory.

This post is written at the finish of another damn class I've taken to try and realize my own dreams. I've been at this game a long time and the brass ring doesn't look much closer. I don't know as I've acquired much of anything in its pursuit except guts. But maybe guts, as Gunnery Sergeant Hartman once said, is enough.

A POOR EFFORT. There are tropes that come up in every schoolyard political discussion. Like "You liberals say you're against tyranny, so how come you didn't like when we took out Saddam?" You can ignore them, or muster the patience to answer them briefly. Or you can do like Jonah Goldberg who, offered a T-ball shot at an ancient libertarian comeback, swings his wiffle bat wildly, trips on his shoelaces, falls on his ass and smacks himself in the crotch:

I have zero desire to launch another Corner-exhausting debate on drug legalization. I will note — since many readers still seem unaware — that I am in the minority here at NR and the magazine has officially favored an end to the drug war for a very long time. For the record, it's my view that drug legalization (note: I'm for the gradual decriminalization of pot) will create more, not fewer, moms like the one discussed below. It's also my view that the constant leap to "What about alcohol!?" is not as boffo an argument as many readers believe it to be. Saying alcohol is really bad for people and ruins lives has obvious validity, but it doesn't advance the ball very far down the field by saying that therefore other substances that ruin lives should be made legal too. I think there are very strong arguments for drug legalization. The argument that we should be consistent and ban alcohol too is not one of them in my book.

I think he must be paid by the word because this is a very long way of saying, "Aw c'mon." Also, if someone among his colleagues or family really cared about him, he would tell Goldberg that phrases like "doesn't advance the ball very far down the field," "into the weeds," "it's late" and "I have to walk Cosmo" etc. don't embellish his arguments as well as he thinks they do. He should switch to "I'm drunk" or "fuck you," which have worked very well for me.

MORE ARTISTIC ADVICE FROM PEOPLE WHO CAN'T WRITE ENGLISH PROPERLY. It's Jules Crittenden's turn to yell about treasonous Hollywood. The central thesis, as we have shown at stultifying length in regard to its previous applications, is a non-sequitur, so we will devote ourselves here to the more obvious secondary signs of Crittenden's incompetence when addressing any subject more subtle than a car alarm:

The point has been underscored this week by “The War,” a documentary that for all its shortcomings has performed a great service, bringing to light previously unseen combat footage. That footage demonstrates what combat veterans and combat photographers know, but many filmmakers and ordinary Americans, innocent of that variety of carnal knowledge, do not appear to fully grasp. The most extraordinary things can be quite ordinary, the most unbelievable events playing out in matter-of-fact fashion. Without drama. Without irony.

They're really cute, if incomprehensible, when they get all aesthetic. Artists all over America will be interested to know that "the most extraordinary things can be quite ordinary." It's a pity Hemingway, Celine, James Jones, et alia, aren't around to hear this lesson: they might have then endeavored to raise their feeble efforts to the exalted level of TV documentaries.

It may also be impossible for actors to feign the subtle expression of faces of men in combat, intent on their business, or in the extreme, utterly expressionless, evocative of the void. You can’t fake those eyes.

Yeah, and what was with that Daniel Day-Lewis pretending to be a cripple in that movie? He's not crippled! I saw him walking around at a gala once.

And of course, that old culture-warrior favorite:

Disclosure: I haven’t seen this movie, and don’t intend to spend my money on it.

But he will tell you his opinion of this film he hasn't seen. What a racket! Let's us liberals start a website where we analyze things we haven't seen. I'll start with the Complete Works of Balzac. It's great!

Summation: Artists can't get war because war is real, man. That's why we Citizen Journalists avoid all art. Yet we still have plenty of advice for you art fags. Bloggers -- is there any problem they can't solve?

EASTERN PROMISES. How did a director known for gut-busting horror become one of our great handlers of actors? In the beginning, when Cronenberg was transforming humanity for fun and profit, he didn't need much acting. But when he ascended into big-time filmmaking, Cronenberg inverted the perspective, focusing on human resistance to monstrosity. This had the rare effect of making his work both more marketable and more mature. In The Fly, even before his lab misfortune, Jeff Goldblum's Seth Brundle seemed eager to slip the surly bonds of mere humanity, and the film might have been another sly comedy of the New Flesh, but Cronenberg let love complicate his story, and the adventure became an agony, and even something close to a tragedy.

Lately Cronenberg has been escalating the moral stakes of his stories, and putting a greater burdern on his actors. He's been lucky with his actors, for the most part. In Eastern Promises, Cronenberg brings back Viggo Mortensen, the moral border-crosser of A History of Violence, as the tranformational hero. He is the Russian mobster who translates between the "good people" of London, portrayed by Naomi Watts and her part-Russian family, and the monsters of his mob, bossed by Armin Mueller-Stahl, whose depravity is indicated by his incapacity to express any feelings beyond contempt and anger. Mueller-Stahl's son, played by Vincent Cassell, has inherited the anger, but no talent for contempt -- petulance and insolence are the best he can manage. Mortensen has the contempt at existential levels, which may be why the boss virtually substitutes him for his real son -- a dangerous move for all concerned, as it happens.

The mob dynamics are fascinating, which may be why Cronenberg shows a lot of them, even though the action is supposed to be in the interplay between Mortensen's crew and the normals. The McGuffin is a baby left behind by a dying mob slave. The Londoners wish to save and redeem the baby; the mob boss wants whatever will best protect him, which may require its death.

That "may" is part of the problem. There is some dramatic merit, especially in the beginning, in keeping the necessity of the baby's death an open question. For one thing, it allows Mortensen's character and Watts' to interact on something other than strictly adversarial terms. Unfortunately, while Mortensen is superb, showing both the scars on his soul and the soft spots still remaining, Watts is just terrible. Her only identifiable character traits are those that have been announced by the other actors. (Are she and her BFF Nicole Kidman part of some bad actress sorority? Do they practice bugging their eyes and smiling slyly together?) This underrealized attraction leads to a silly motorcycle baby-chasing climax, which is even more ridiculous than it sounds.

I think Cronenberg saw in this story a way to further explore the moral divide examined in A History of Violence. But with a mob as thoroughly (though entertainingly) black and damned as this one, a heroine who is only pretty and well-intentioned, and a man standing between whose whole life is invested in not showing his true feelings, you don't have a moral divide, you have a moral silhouette. This may be why so much energy goes into the set-pieces, including the brilliantly choreographed bathhouse fight scene. They're fun to watch, but in the end they're just bloody filigrees. It may be that, in giving his actors more to do, Cronenberg has fallen into the trap of letting them do too much of what should be his job: inventing a reality that offers more resonance than scene-study exercises.

INDIE CRED. Tee fucking hee:

Brian is/was Ezra’s roommate. Sommer is Matt’s friend. Ezra is staying with Matt here in NYC while we are all up here for the Clinton Global Initiative. Alex and I are friends, as are Alex and Megan. Matt and Ezra and Megan went shooting together on Yom Kippur (bad Jews!), along with Dave, who is throwing a joint birthday party with Brian later this week. Also, Megan and Matt work together. And I used to work with Matt and still work with Ezra. And I think we are all Facebook friends.

Mithras:

High School Never Ends, It Just Changes Location

Liberalism's future Maureen Dowds and Tom Friedmans hash out their personal differences. You know, they'll still be miffed about stuff like this - and still think it matters - 30 years from now. Assholes.

It was bound to happen: as blogging became professionalized, dinks from good schools took pride of place.

Which is not to say that it isn't worse than it's ever been: Somehow I can't imagine Russell Baker and Murray Kempton filling column inches with lengthy chortles over their revels at Studio 54.

For you the punters, I believe the choice is clear. You can invest your time with these credentialed feebs, or hang out with the real people. Here is a photo taken from my writing "desk." It is not posed or nothin'.



Just be thankful I didn't include a picture of my bathroom. Wait; here is a picture of my bathroom:



And I just cleaned it. Finally, here is a picture of me and my buddies in the hood:



If you respect yourself, respect the scene, and respect the Fantastik with Bleach, I'm sure you will eschew those callow wonks and give instead your custom to rough customers such as myself. Honestly, what would you rather read? Something like this:

Sameer Lalwani looks at some of the stories behind the stories out of Burma. I think he's particularly smart on the role of new technologies.

Or something like this:

...Thence heav'd I the Maid acrosst the Table and ventur'd her Legs, which were Akimbo, untill they were Luxated; but at her Pudend found a Suppuration unknown to me, for all my Years of Learning; so vex'd, I rotated her and had my Way Anally. This Orifice was withal less than Hygenick, but there I understood the Nature of the Filth.

We offer this sort of thing every day, sometimes in modern English, and with links to Media Matters. We also have merchandise. Your way is clear, joy-poppers. This is the only blog that matters.

BORN TO LOSE. I don't think I have the gas to go to Shea and partake in Willie Randolph's "new season." Maybe if my lungs need clearing I'll go on Sunday and boo. I thank God that my years as a Mets fan and a Democrat have inured me somewhat to this kind of disaster. Still, Jesus Christ. They blew a 7-game lead in two weeks. I was stunned at first by Willie's sangfroid in the slump, but now I think his team was so freaked- and worn-out that he didn't dare spook them any further. I wonder what he thinks now. Poor Paul LoDuca seems to think he's going to pull the team into the playoffs by his teeth. Maybe he should pitch relief.

I believe Harvey Keitel speaks for all of us:



UPDATE. On the plus side, the O's have just tied the Yankees in the ninth on a triple by... Jay Payton. Sangfroid is over -- time to warm up the schadenfreude!

YET ANOTHER CODA. This sort of relates to the previous two posts: In the latest installment of their "debate," Andrew Breitbart engages in a B&D fantasy concerning David Ehrenstein:

If I could go back in time, I would go back to your childhood to beat up the boys who beat you up as you started grappling with your homosexuality. I'd go into your past to erase the "hate crimes" that now cause you to blame political conservatism for your deepest wounds. I want to breach the time/space continuum to find out what those young hoodlums were thinking when they went after you...

...at the end of the film, it's 2014 and I see that you and your partner have been nabbed by Chomsky-quoting al Qaeda fanatics who are getting ready to behead you in an abandoned auto factory in Michigan for the sin of brunching in Dearborn.

But the moment before they chop your heads off -- in the nick of time (just like in the Republicans' favorite show, "24," which we are grateful you guys allowed us to have) -- the good guys, in this case the U.S. Marines, bust through the doors to save you both. At this point, I will have drafted a powerful soliloquy for your character. It'll be a cinematic epiphany in which you show remorse for tilting at white, straight and conservative windmills...

Crumbs, Mary! Why don't you just kiss him already?

MY FAVORITE FOLSOM STREET COMMENTER SO FAR. The Folsom Street thing is still going strong. Among the hundreds of chest-thumping Christers expressing their outrage:

"'Gay' activists disingenuously call Christians 'haters' and 'homophobes' for honoring the Bible, but then lash out in this hateful manner toward the very people they accuse.” My own experience with these people led me to conclude that while Christians profess to “love the sinner and hate the sin” the extremists of the Angry Gay Left “love the sin and hate the sinner.” Responsible gay leaders should speak out against the poster, but they will not, fearing the vicious attacks from the hatemongers of their own community.

Before (and after!) he was Jeff Gannon, the author was gay-escort/wingnut/"reporter" James Guckert -- GOP press pool shill by day, "Bulldog" by night! Now he spends a large amount of his time denouncing "homosexual jihad against Republicans," which apparently includes exposing homosexual Republicans:

Larry Craig did not invent the toilet culture for which he has been accused. Gays did. Not only did gays invent anonymous rendezvous –- the practice is a significant part of the homosexual subculture.

Whereas Gannon/Guckert's encounters were the opposite of anonymous -- he got the names and the credit card numbers!

Much as I love the original, isn't it about time someone remade Advise and Consent?

UPDATE. Fixed the faulty proper name of Gannon/Guckert.

NIHIL OBSTAT. At Beliefnet, Rod Dreher is mad 'cause some leather folk made a poster for a leather event that imitates the famous tableau of the Last Supper.

Dan Savage has the absurdity of this well-covered. In a way, I can't get too outraged about the outrage or the outrage over the outrage. This is fine intramural sport for all of us with time on our hands, and the worst I can say about it is it helps keep Bill Donohue employed.

Slightly more annoying and instructive is Dreher's follow-up, in which he tells us that while a lot of conservatives denounced Ann Coulter when she called Edwards a faggot, liberals never return the high-minded favor. He invites liberal Christians to perform an appropriate auto da fe, and denounce some liberal foibles in the spirit of post-Folsom comity. Dreher seems not to have noticed that there is a whole, credentialed flock of self-proclaimed liberal columnists who spend many of their column inches on such exercises. As Gavin observes:

Among the many variants of this style is that of the nominally liberal columnist (such as Thomas Friedman or Richard Cohen) who finds himself continually forced by events to repeat conservative talking points and express disdain for his fellow liberals -- message: "This hurts me more than it hurts you." When executed well, this routine can be repeated weekly for an indefinite number of years.

It's a marketable schtick. But demands that others emulate it without pay are rather rich, especially coming from someone whose anti-gay animus is obvious whenever he mentions homosexuals.

This is the sort of thing that gives moderation a bad name.

A CLOCKWORK BREITBART. The L.A. Times has engaged David Ehrenstein (film nerd) and Andrew Breitbart (culture warrior) to discuss Hollywood and the War on Whatchamacallit. (First two parts up now.) We have gone round this particular mulberry bush many times before, but Breitbart's ravings are proving classics of the genre.

Most notable are Beitbart's mood swings between professions of conservative cultural impotence and professions of conservative cultural power. On the one hand he accuses "the politically correct architecture of the creative process in Hollywood," where "pro-victory voices are reflexively ridiculed, cold-shouldered and made pariahs of on the party circuit [! -ed.]," of "reverse McCarthyism" (Watershed! They're against McCarthyism now!). On the other, he declares that "my side has talk radio, best-selling books, top-rated cable news shows, blogs, Op-Ed columns and even the presidency to make our points," and that "millions of other American filmgoers" share his politics and find their needs ill-served by Hollyweird, despite record box-office figures.

At one point, perhaps a rare moment of equilibrium in his brain chemistry, Breitbart turns introspective on behalf of the Movement: "Yet the conservatives who defend and, to a great degree, prosecute this war [? -ed.] have only themselves to blame for not putting enough emphasis on popular entertainment, and refusing to get bloody in the trenches of Melrose and Vine," he says, before (alas) reverting to form and calling on Ehrenstein as a "gay expert on gays in cinema" to help him with a Hollywood "diversity" project.

There are many different ways to relieve a creative urge, and those of us who toil both in blogs and in other formats must be careful not to shoot too much of our wads on internet prattle. That's why I continue to hold out sympathy and hope for guys like Jason Apuzzo, whose rages against the Hollywood machine are punctuated by efforts to make the sort of movies he wants to see.

But as Breitbart's case shows, the pure culture warrior finds making actual culture a "bloody" business and beneath him. His talents are instead devoted to concocting syrups of outrage thick enough to suspend bombast-fragments like "heroin-addled reality star," "self-congratulatory award show pronunciations," and "Gulfstream-flying, eco-warrior billionaires" for the delectation of undiscerning goons. The hard work of pursuing a coherent idea from start to finish -- whether in a story, script, or even a blog post -- is for the gloopy ones, while the oomny ones use, like, inspiration and what Bog sends.

It seems clear that our culture warriors are not engaged in a war for culture so much as a war against it.

HOMAGE TO SHERLOCK HOLMES AND PHILEAS FOGG. Megan McArdle on some silly Times story on women who are uncomfortable dating men who make less money than they do:

Speaking as the Emissary From Your Thirties, you know that amazing guy who just got back from Africa and tells hilarious stories and dates, like, everyone you know? The one your best friend quit her job to go to Tuvalu with? The one who's been working on a really titanic novel for four years that he never quite finishes, and can't seem to hold down a long-term job? His dating prospects start heading rapidly downhill by his thirtieth birthday. By his late thirties, his studio apartment is getting very lonely at night. If he does get married to a woman more successful than he is, it's likely that their relationship will be controlling, resentful, and involve enduring quite a lot of contempt from her friends and family.

But it has nothing to do with money. [? -ed.] Men with some measure of success in their chosen fields have no problem finding spouses. And successful women have no cause to complain, either. After all, they have a bevy of unsuccessful but charming men to choose from, who will be more than happy to date them if they can overcome their biases. The unsuccessful men, on the other hand, are pretty much frozen out.

This is why I keep a cat.

McArdle's post is an odd mix of libertarian harshness and romanticism. On the one hand, it features a market explanation which seems to strike her as just. But the talk about loneliness and diminished prospects comes from some different kind of moral tale, perhaps a pamphlet or a children's story. One would hardly guess that our society is filled with people who, by her standards, are moral and economic failures. McArdle does acknowledge the existence of poor folk in a previous post on the same subject, but there the language reverts to econo-nerdspeak:

There is a growing male/female education and income disparity. But it is occurring several rungs down the SES ladder from the precious princesses in the story, clipping off price tags and hiding shopping bags lest He realize that she shops at Prada. This problem is afflicting mostly poor women, particularly black and latino women, who have seen their earnings prospects improve dramatically relative to those of the men in their communities.

In this demimonde, women suffer from the "problem" of improved earning power, while in the surface world we have companionless loser males with their Soup for One dinners and unfinished novels, clinging forlornly to precious memories of Tuvalu. It seems win-win, or lose-lose, depending on your perspective.

For all its confusion, this analysis clearly posits marriage as the ultimate prize. I wonder if the many citizens who fall in and out of marriages, and in and out of economic stability, see it that way. No doubt many of them do -- which is why they keep trying -- but some may have determined that life's a bit messier than that. If the prospect of penury and an unattended deathbed disturbs them, so too might the prospect of a job they despise and a "controlling, resentful" relationship. One of the glories of a free society is that we may pick and choose our regrets. In econometric circles, where marriage, income per capita, and procreation are exalted data-points, this does not signify. But if you have found some happiness in this world despite your lack of resemblance to the ideal, you may know what I'm talking about.

UPDATE. Jules Verne character name corrected; thanks, Anon.

FIRST AMENDMENT UPDATE. Ahmadinejad speaks at Columbia. Much protest. Much coverage, largely negative (The New York Daily News headline: "The Evil Has Landed"). The Republic endures.

Just the other day National Review was telling us that "Ahmadinejad’s visit to Columbia has nothing to do with freedom of speech." Today at NR, Michael Rubin:

Lee Bollinger's introduction didn't make the news [in Iran]. But then again, why should it? Ahmadinejad's state-controlled press does not support such concepts as free speech and free expression.

I've noticed that, whenever they fail to cut off someone's mike, they murmur something like this about free speech as if it were some small consolation.

FTW. Mark Steyn complains about Fred Thompson's characterization of America's goals in World War II:

FDR didn't take America to war in 1941 with the "disinterested intention of liberating others". He took America to war not to end the Holocaust or free Belgium or build a democracy in Japan but for reasons of hard-headed national self-interest. All the rest was the happy consequence of victory. Likewise, America didn't topple the Taliban because it was suddenly overcome by a burning desire to see more women legislators in the Afghan parliament: That, too, was a happy consequence of a war waged for selfish reasons.

This is an interesting admission because many, many conservatives automatically discount the idea that opponents of the Iraq war might also be putting America's welfare first and foremost, and accuse us of other loyalties. In fact Steyn himself does this regularly. In 2003 he discounted antiwar protestors as "enthusiastically subscribed" to the proposition that "whatever the problem, American imperialist cowboy aggression is to blame," and earlier in 2007 he characterized the "Slow-Bleed Democrats" as more interested in embarrassing Bush than in winning "America's war."

Hatred of America, or of Bush, has been always been their default explanation for the astonishing fact that some Americans disagree with them, and as the number of dissenters increases Steyn begins to think that the war party just hasn't explained it properly:

An awful lot of Americans see Iraqis waving purple fingers at the polls and shrug, "Nice. But not worth dead Americans." To sell this struggle to the electorate, you have to frame it in terms of the national interest. It has to be a war consistent with American ideals but fought for selfish reasons.

The Administration actually did present a compelling, self-interested causus belli -- remember "one vial, one canister... to bring a day of horror like one we have never known"? But it turned out to be bullshit. The Happy Iraqi stuff was just the sweetener. The current Iraq explanation boils down to we're here because we're here.

Like the new-edition Steyn, I care much, much less about other countries than I do about this one. That's why I retroactively endorse America's go-slow approach to the Cold War, which left hanging an awful lot of Soviet subjects who might have been more quickly liberated -- or incinerated -- by a more aggressive strategy. I think it's terrific that Israel provides a homeland for the most persecuted race in the history of the world, but I mainly support it because its existence suits America's interests. I think it's neat that Nelson Mandela went from prisoner to President of South Africa, but for me the money shot was the establishment of a viable democracy in a continent riddled with kleptocracies. Our interests demand a world that is increasingly less likely to blow up in our faces, and the hornets-nest we have aggravated in Iraq seems to me a giant step in the wrong direction.

Go ahead and call me selfish. Patriots have endured worse.

UPDATE. Much contention in comments as to whether our support for Israel suits American interests. I think a better policy toward Israel would be helpful, but withdrawing support would be catastrophic, and whatever reasons obtain, we have enough catastrophe as it is. The subject will be worth revisiting.

THE DREAM IS OVER. Hog on Ice starts out yelling about the taser kid Andrew Meyers, and ends up yelling about how conservative bloggers can't get any play:

This is why the right-wing Blogosphere is dead and moldering but Markos Zuniga, who can barely write his name, is a multimillionaire. Compared to Zuniga, Malkin and Reynolds are obscure, marginalized, and pretty much impotent, and Pajamas Media...well, don't get me started.

We owned the Blogosphere a few years back, and we made stupid decisions and pissed it away. We went from omnipotent to irrelevant. And we have a national election coming up, we can't begin to match the left's Internet fundraising and informational horsepower, and we're doing absolutely nothing about it. We're not going to change any time soon, either. The scarier things get, the more every successful conservative obsesses on protecting his little rice ball. No one is forming new alliances or making any serious effort to consolidate conservative media power. And for damn sure, we are not going to have any Andrew Meyers.

Back in 2003, when Megan McArdle was talking about the wingersphere Mr. Ice mourns as a "very advanced, processing brain," it may be that hundreds, even thousands of bloggers took it seriously, and thought they were part of something larger than themselves, which would in turn make them large. It was to be the sort of utopia that conservatives -- whom I'm told are not big on collectivism -- can allow themselves to imagine: one in which individuals can avail a limited barrier to entry and make contributions that will both feed the borg and expose their own talents, thereby lifting them to glory or at least economic self-sufficiency. It was, in other words, punk rock for nerds.

Well, McArdle is now credentialed by The Atlantic. Hers would seem to be a typical careerist path; the odds on her success were never slim, but blogging gave her a nice promotional boost. Mr. Ice himself is an author, a harder row to hoe in any case. His blog no doubt helps him move his product. For a happy capitalist, that should be enough -- well, never enough, but sufficient to the cause.

Yet the great dream lingers -- in Mr. Ice's case, as ashes in the mouth, but for many others, younger or just less easily discouraged, it is tastier and stimulates the appetite. The sheeple who don't even know who Scott Thomas Beauchamp is will be shaken from their false consciousness by an invincible juggernaut of Citizen Journalists holding aloft the banner of Truth, and there'll be kegs enough for everyone at the afterparty.

Fond hope! Alas, reality is more strictly tiered than that. The ubiquity of the internet feeds into the conservative idea of unlimited opportunity, but when it comes to real dollars and influence, there are never more than a few spots open, and these usually go to graduates of "good" schools who have worked a time-honored career path. The addition of a blog credential to the CV helps, no doubt, and there may be a few affirmative-action hires of pure bloggers, but the great upheaval in which some of the brethren believe is not to be. To the extent that they are useful to wielders of real power, the Citizen Journalists will be quoted, stroked, and used as a force-multiplier for disinformation campaigns in need of some extra muscle, but when the hurly-burly's done they'll be put back in their box.

Writing's tough enough, and making a living at it even tougher; trying to topple power structures or build new utopias on top of that seems like a waste of time better spent cleaning up a sentence.

DERANGEMENT SYNDROME. "Why are you writing so much about Hillary Clinton? I don’t want to. I’d rather not, really. But she is everywhere in the news... Funnily enough, she is everywhere IN the news and NOT in the news." -- The Anchoress.

She also says the Hillary/Hsu story is undercovered. In other news, the Ole Perfesser is on his 300th bad Hsu pun.

I'm not a big fan of Clinton, but that's a lot of attention for someone who's supposed to be unelectable.

ARTS ROUNDUP. As long as I'm being arty-farty, I shall continue with the arts and the farts, with random observation from recent intake:

A Midsummer Night's Dream in Central Park. Pepys was right: it's a pretty stupid play. But it's sure-fire outdoors with good actors on a warm night. The lovers are the weak link, and for all their energetic ripping of ladies' garments I would have preferred some equally energetic tearing away of lines. Maybe Martha Plimpton's Helena was my problem. I had only seen Helena played as a mope before, and while Plimpton's tartness brought energy to her interminable lines, it lost the sympathy and sweetness that is the character's secret weapon. The twinned morganatic pairs were much better -- Keith David's Oberon, done up to look like Screamin' Jay Hawkins, was stolid and poetic, which suited because Oberon has great poetry and David has a great voice, and David's heaviness gave Oberon's fourth-act tenderness ("Her dotage now I do begin to pity") great power. And Shakes in the Park never stints on the clowning, so the rustics got to ham it up and keep us groundlings awake. Loved the goth fairy children, too, but next time, can we please have Mendelssohn?

Steal This Movie. I have to say it's fun to see the two leads from "Grounded for Life" as major hippies. But Vincent D'Onofrio's Abbie Hoffman is very like Vincent D'Onofrio's Law 'n' Order guy with long hair, denim, and drugs: I kept expecting him to arrest somebody. This item succeeds mainly as a posthumous curio, inspiring wonder that once upon a time one could sneak into the Stock Exchange and throw around dollar bills. Though I'm sympathetic to well-rendered nostalgia, I would have preferred that this movie follow the discursive method of Steal This Book or Woodstock Nation, which weirdly anticipated the style of blogs. (I would have especially appreciated the cinematic rendering of "God, I'd Like To Fuck Janis Joplin.") Then, for a pleasant change, we could have thousands of posts about how Vincent D'Onofrio is Fat.

Eugene O'Neill: Collected Shorter Plays (Yale University Press). Hadn't read them in a while and had a hankering. The Glencairn plays are like short stories for the stage, little projects with which the student of Professor Baker found his stage-legs. They're slight, stiff, disarmingly easy to get down, and clearly based on personal experience. It's amazing to contemplate that, two years after the last of these pleasantly stagey affairs, O'Neill wrote The Emperor Jones -- and, two years later, The Hairy Ape . It's as if O. Henry had suddenly become -- well, Eugene O'Neill. Where did this poet come from? Whence the grand scale? It's been decades since I read the Gelb biographies, but my forgetful guess is that, once he got a sense of his own stage power with the Provincetown Playhouse productions, O'Neill felt confident enough to start appropriating literary influences. It wasn't theft because it didn't sound like anyone else's stuff; the themes may have been cribbed from German Expressionist playwrights, but the argot of the Glencairn plays grew organically into the great soliloquies of Jones and Yank. This is a nice reminder that the development of any popular artist relies on the slipstream of influences that surround him, but if he is to get very far he must also contrive to bring along something that is wholly his own.

OLD MAN BLUES. It disturbed me, while downloading Loudon Wainwright III's Strange Weirdos, to confront the sidebar information that other purchasers of this merchandise also favored the soundtrack to "Grey's Anatomy." So it's come to this: Plush Pop for Then People. But I love LWIII and hoped he would drop a few barbs in the syrup nonetheless.

The songs shamble along, displaying LWIII's command of his writerly gifts -- crisply observed detail, wordplay, fluent appropriation of various styles, and juxtaposition -- without inspiring anything but vague appreciation for obvious talent. The production gives his songs musical settings that are technically appropriate to the themes, but this has the effect in most cases of double-underlining the point and writing notes in the margins. The one big exception sounds like a fortunate failure of the producer's energy: apparently no one knew what to do with "Lullaby," so they just made it sort of pretty, which beautifully sets off the opening: "Shut up and go to bed/put some pillow under your head/I'm sick and tired of all of your worries/shut up and say goodnight."

Unfortunately, after a while the songwriter runs out of energy too. I am forced to say that this happens throughout Strange Weirdos. For the first time that I've noticed, LWIII's maudlin streak isn't leading to anything interesting. On the title song, "It starts with a sentence that might last a lifetime" is very promising, but the next line, "Or it might all just go down in flames," betrays the promise.

It's always instructive when the best song on a weak album is the cover. Usually it's because the artists are relieved at last to cluster their talents around a dead certain winner. Peter Blegvad's wonderful "Daughter" gets a professional, respectful treatment from the band, and you can hear that respect in LWIII's voice, too -- along with everything else the song demands: awe and amusement, protectiveness and a premonition of loss.

I love LWIII's voice. I even love the arch tone in it, which may be a matter of necessity because LWIII so often sounds arch. It's most obvious when he tries to be bluesy or to "rock," or do anything besides sing the damn song. (This is the occupational hazard of an ironic romantic trapped in a musical idiom that tends to exacerbate romance -- the form being "singer/songwriter, late 20th century," which he still is in 2007.) From the perspective of Strange Weirdos, I begin to think that LWIII's propensity to strike poses with his voice is an admission of discomfort with the formats in which he's found himself -- or maybe even in the forms he's chosen for himself. Now he is an Adult Contemporary for real, his latest vehicle tooling smoothly like a refurbished roadster along highways outside major cities, the stranger side of his talent rattling contentiously under the hood.

Whenever he has dared to be his own weird self, though, he has been brilliant. "The Man Who Couldn't Cry," as weird as Daniel Johnston but with the coherence of great poetry, is the eternal, shining example. He's managed the trick many times, and once is enough to make you a genius in this game. He's capable of it even in his fussy old-man mode. "The Last Man on Earth," from 2001, is a superior version of Strange Weirdos's middle-age lament, "Doin' The Math." The newer song, done as a creepy L.A. lounge blues slide, is kinda funny but stews too much in its own resentment. "The Last Man of Earth" is cleaner, plainer, a throwback to the young strummer LWIII used to be. It has jokes, too, but most of them have a sharp tang that quickly pushes off any hint of self-regard. You don't have to relate to his condition: you can simply hear it. The recorded version is, alas, fussy and marred with underlinings, but I had the good fortune to hear him do it solo-acoustic on TV, and there the climactic passage had the force of a sharp slap:

Kids used to say their prayers at night
Before they went to bed
St. John told us that God is love
Nietzsche said he was dead
This thing we call existence
Who knows what it all means?
Time and Life and People
Are just glossy magazines

That last couplet, like the solitude of the hero in "One Man Guy" and other high achievements of ironic romantics, is a selfish dirty trick. Which is what keeps me listening to him.

MORAL EQUIVALENCE WATCH. Eric from Classical Values (hehndeeded by the Ole Perfesser) doesn't understand "How the hell did sex get put on the f---ing left?" After failing to mention the decades-long Family Values crusade of the GOP, he writes:

I don't think it is rational for Republicans to declare war on sex and to appear to embrace erotophobia, because of their traditional 'leave people alone' philosophy, but there's not a damned thing I can do about it except write posts like this. As to the Democrats, they see sex not as a form of freedom to be embraced, but as something to be manipulated to gain power.

This last assertion seems to come from thin air; the only thing in the article that relates to it at all is Eric's admission that conservative "erotophobia" presents an opportunity for Democrats.

Like much of the gibberish considered here, this offers a clue to conservative thinking. Consider this Classical Values post from the morning after the 2006 elections:

Thus, my concern is that even if this election was not about the war, there will be a major push to make it appear to be.

But in logic, if the election was about the war (which I do not concede that it was), why is it necessarily Bush's war? Why should the Democrats who voted to support it (and who claimed that there were WMDs) get a pass?

For a certain breed of Republican, the only thing that is ever bipartisan is their own mistakes.

SHORTER ROSS DOUTHAT: Conservatives were great until the liberal media started paying attention to them. Then they went crazy.