A new standard by which to measure infamy.
William S. Burroughs’s monologue memorialized the captain of a sinking ship who dressed as a woman to get prime seating on a life raft. As measures go, this one barely registers on the modern Richter Scale of infamy. Think about it: this week alone, we’ve seen George Bush perseverate over his war of vanity, Abu Gonzalez play the fool to shield the boss, John McCain jest about bombing Iran — and then defend himself rather than apologize, and a psychotic undergrad turn a college into a slaughterhouse. Here in the 21st Century, one cowardly captain warrants less than a footnote.
But for some reason, Alex Baldwin ripping into his 11-year-old daughter hit a special chord for me.
See, I know myself well enough to say with near certainty that if I were President, I wouldn’t murder thousands of US soldiers and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis just to line the pockets of my rich friends. If I were the Attorney General of the United States, I would regard it as a position of trust, and I would try my best not to disrespect that trust. If I were a presidential candidate, I wouldn’t joke about killing thousands of Iranians, and if I were a depressed college student, I sure as hell wouldn’t buy guns and bulletproof vests.
But I’ve yelled at my kid, and that’s why Alec Baldwin’s tirade gets under my skin. Is that how I sound?
I don’t give a damn that you’re 12-years-old or 11-years-old, or a child, or that your mother is a thoughtless pain in the ass who doesn’t care about what you do.
That’s one of the tamer quotes. Then it dawned on me: he doesn’t know if she’s 11 or 12? Whaaaa?
Nope. I’ve never ripped into Jake like Alec ripped into Ireland, his daughter. Alec, you are such a dick.
Wait, that’s not quite what I wanted to say. It was this:
Alec, thank you for being such a dick.
D.
All I really need to know I learned in Cosmo
Time for another Cosmopolitan Thirteen! I’m eager to find out how the May issue will change my life. Will I discover at long last what I crave in bed? Will I learn the secret to perfect abs with Cosmo’s No Crunch Workout®? Could I find out what mysterious rules of attraction brought Karen and me together? And will I master the Surefire Technique That Takes You Both Over the Edge — Simultaneously®, whether we like it or not?
I’ll just be happy if this issue saves me hundreds of dollars on money-saving beauty tips. Like putting leftover guacamole dip in my hair for added shine and bounce — I am so there.
Follow me below the cut for a treasure trove of Cosmognosis.
“Worst ever”
On Keith Olbermann last night, an expert — a psychologist, perhaps? — cautioned against the use of hyperbole with regard to the Virginia Tech shooting. Paraphrasing: Some disturbed individuals will see this as a record to be broken.
In fact, this was no “record.” In the Bath School bombings of 1927, a disgruntled school board member inflicted a much higher death toll. But in the media’s questionable desire to make this into some sort of Guinness Book record, the Blacksburg tragedy has become “the deadliest shooting on a college campus.”
Maybe it’s the media’s fascination with homicidal madness. For them, Cho’s story, like that of all serial killers before him, will eclipse other far worse tragedies for days to come. Iraq is old news. Darfur is old news. Blacksburg is fresh — and since the victims were young, full of promise, and largely middle class, the media cares. Perhaps they’re giving the people what they want; perhaps they’re telling the people what they should want to know.
I’m pleased that some in the media, like Olbermann, have given attention to the victims. This obsession with the John Wayne Gacys and Ted Bundys of the world can’t be good. Every time I see another regurgitation of the Jeffrey Dahmer story on TV, I cringe. I think: Please, don’t do this. Let the man’s memory become a footnote. Don’t encourage the other LIVING sick bastards who want to play me-too.
Doesn’t the media realize that for some individuals the phrase “worst ever” is not a horror, but an invitation?
Fun stuff tomorrow, I promise. The new Cosmo wants to teach me and my wife how to reach orgasm together.
D.
Jonathan Gold wins Pulitzer!
Los Angeles Weekly food critic Jonathan Gold has won a Pulitzer for food criticism. Gold writes Counter Intelligence, a regular feature (variously at the Weekly and the Times, over the years) in which Gold explored LA’s ethnic holes-in-the-wall to the delight of many — including Karen and me.
When I get the chance, I’ll update this with snippets of Gold. Suffice to say the man richly deserves that Pulitzer.
***
When writing about food, the key to excellence is love. Passion. From Jonathan Gold’s 99 Essential L.A. Restaurants, take this, for example. Feel the love:
Wat Thai
At the northern end of drab, endless Coldwater Canyon Boulevard lies this massive, gold-encrusted Thai Buddhist temple, grounds crowded with parishioners, saffron-robed monks, and small children who run about as if the temple were a private playground. On weekend afternoons and during festivals, the air around the temple almost throbs with the smells of Thai cooking: meat grilling at satay stands, the wheat pancakes called roti sizzling on massive griddles, pungent, briny salt crabs being pounded for the ultraspicy green-papaya salad. This spread may be more or less the equivalent of the smothered chicken and collard greens eaten after services at some African-American churches, and it feels just as homely; the inexpensive Thai feast is open to everyone who cares to come. 8225 Coldwater Canyon Blvd., North Hollywood, (818) 785-9552, www.watthaiusa.org/engmenu.html. Thai.
D.
Can’t leave you on such a glum note.
I love Harper’s Magazine. Love it! Every issue makes me laugh, makes me think. Those effing ultra-tough crossword puzzles piss me off, but hey, that’s just one page. I can ignore it.
That Harper’s website has articles going back to June, 1850. Don’t know about you, but the idea of being able to view old issues back to 1850 blows me away. I’ve just been reading Aubrey De Vere’s “Adventure in a Turkish Harem.” Rather tame by 21st Century standards.
Oh — you’ll have to subscribe to Harper’s to view the old stuff, but it’s well worth it.
One of my favorite regular features is “Findings,” a compilation of scientific and biomedical discoveries reported in the preceding month. The May issue’s “Findings” yields this gem:
Genetic analysis of public lice suggested that the vermin jumped to humans from gorillas about 3.3 million years ago; since the lice do not have wings and cannot jump very far, a rather close encounter would have been necessary to facilitate the transfer.
And this gem.
Captive female koalas frequently engage in lesbian orgies, possibly as a result of some hormonal imbalance, or to attract males, or to relieve stress.
Now I know what I want to be post-reincarnation.
D.
The dazed post
First, to set the mood, some kind of mood, any kind of mood, today’s Random Flickr image:
(From diverken’s photostream. Amazing photographer — check him out.)
I’m in a mood. Dazed, stunned. I had to fast forward through most of Olbermann tonight because I have a hard time watching coverage of the Blacksburg shootings. What is it now — 32 dead, over 50 wounded? The only coherent thought I have is that Nancy Pelosi was right. This early after the shootings, silence is the only appropriate response. Nothing any of us say can lessen the grief of those families.
But others don’t share that sentiment, apparently — as documented in this Kos diary, asshats like Glenn Reynolds are already politicizing the tragedy. Also, now that we know the shooter was a Chinese National, how long will it take for racism to creep into the wingnut blogs? If I can’t even handle Keith Olbermann right now, you can bet I can’t stomach the wingnut blogs.
Listening to the news this morning, Karen overheard one of the talking heads asking an FBI profiler to comment on “this string of Asian gunmen,” or some such. String? Those kids at Columbine must have been hiding their Asian ancestry, and Charles Whitman must have been one of those blond Asians from Northern China.
The profiler, no doubt stunned by the question, said (paraphrasing), “I can’t comment on that right now.”
Neither can I. I can’t comment on any of it.
Maybe I would have been dazed even without the shooting. I worked nonstop from eight to four, saw thirty-four patients (Mondays are always hellish), then went to the gym and beat the crap out of myself for a while. Came home, made dinner, here I am.
And how was your day?
xxxxxo,
D.
Can’t. Blog. Must. Write.
2800 words so far today.
I may even finish the bugger this week.
Thanks, Tam!
D.
Winners of the Blogiversary Two Contest
Edwin!
Now, all I need to do is come up with prizes . . .
D.
Opposition to embryonic stem cell research: how is it not hypocrisy?
Last night, Karen and I watched a Law and Order episode about embryonic stem cell research. The perp, an ESCR researcher suffering from Parkinson’s disease, had tried to kill an Ann Coulter-esque demagogue who railed against the ESCR cause. He missed, killing someone else instead. On to the trial.
Despite this episode’s peculiar incoherence, the writers managed one good line. Cue the stereotypical Perry Mason scene where the perp, taking the stand, cracks under pressure. He screams at the Ann Coulter clone (and I paraphrase): I AM BETTER THAN A CLUMP OF CELLS IN A PETRI DISH!
Know what? I’m better than a clump of cells, and so is my wife, and my son, and each and every one of you. Each of the American troops in Iraq and Afghanistan is better than a clump of cells, as well as each Iraqi, Afghani, Taliban, and al Qaeda operative. Even George W. Bush is better than a clump of cells.
Wow. That was difficult to write. At least now, you know where I’m coming from. So here’s the question: why do pro-lifers loudly oppose ESCR but stay silent about the thousands of embryos destroyed every year as standard operating procedure at IVF clinics worldwide? Why is it evil to donate an unused embryo for medical research purposes, but okay to flush it down the drain?
Discussion and speculations below the cut . . .
Last day for the contest (update x 2!)
Scroll down a bit to enter.
Last night, I dreamed I was back at Berkeley (always a pleasant dream!) and I was asking one of the coaches, “Is 45 too old to try out for the wrestling team?” You should have seen the look on his face.
Remember last month’s post on the Body Mass Index? For those of you who are weight-obsessed like me, Monica Jackson has a fine three part series on dieting. Check it out.
Edited to add:
Make sure you check out Blue Gal’s Blogiversary cake TO ME!
And Cap’n Dyke has something special for me, too! Cap’n, ye can stomp me with those black leather boots any time ye pleases.
I had intended to write more tonight, but I’m wiped. Long, loooong week.
***
Quickie medical quiz for the night owls:
(And no fair googling)
Would you rather have saturnism or satyriasis?Â
D.