xtcian

bring your own boos

10/31/04

For years now, I've been the top Google search for the words I hate Halloween - which is really ironic, since it is my favorite holiday ever. The Google page leads to an entry from two years ago that has become a makeshift dumping ground for wronged Christians and people who hate giving candy to kids.

To which I say: what is wrong with you people? Outside of various weekends on Bourbon Street, this is the only day of the year when the city blocks off traffic so adults can make buffoons of themselves and kids can be so fucking cute that it makes you want to have them. In college, it was the one time of year that your girlfriend's uptight roommate would become a "sexy witch" and throw your libido into utter confusion.

I made a pact with myself at the age of eight that I would never go to a dress-up party without dressing up, nor would I miss donning a costume for Halloween. I have dressed as Tessa, as a clown, even Uncle Jessie in the Dukes of Hazzard.

This weekend we went to Meredith Tucker's "Dress As Your Own Parents" Halloween party, and I attended as my own dad, in my black tails, silver hair and a sewing needle standing in for baton. As chance would have it, the son of conductor Rainer Miedel of the Seattle Symphony was there dressed as his father as well, only he was in rehearsal clothes. Bizarre but true:

On Sunday, we had a casual get-together to carve the pumpkins I grew upstate this year, and getting the orange fuckers upstairs took the collective strength of both Sean and I, with the pumpkin held in a flannel sheet. One of them, I swear to God, was four hundred pounds at least. We gave that beast to Rick Gradone, who turned it into the face of the Picasso print hanging on our wall:

Mine was, in the old words of Chip, "beseeching a God in which I do not believe":

And then on to 7th Avenue parade:

It was a brilliant night off from politics, which will spin back into action tomorrow as many of my friends head off to swing states for voter protection. Bliss Broyard is going to New Orleans; my mom, Sean and Jordana are going to Youngstown, OH - and Tessa, Kelly and I are off to Reading, PA.

In the meantime, YAY FOR HALLOWEEN!

Em-Bb7-A-D

10/28/04

My brother Sean just wrote an excellent blog about the Ashlee Simpson lip-synching incident, using the metaphor of an unknown artist who, despite her talents, will never be famous. I think the metaphor is even bigger: as elements of culture become more and more automated, the odds of major fuck-ups like this are going to be increasingly more common.

Ashlee Simpson and George Bush have a distinct similarity: both were shown, on live television, to be utterly unable to perform their jobs without external aid. Simpson did it on SNL and Bush did it in the debates, but they are both examples of people who have been handled so much that they no longer have any sense of their craft.

Bush, in particular, has fallen mightily as a thinker and a debater on his feet; his 1994 gubernatorial debates showed him to be meaner than hell, but viciously articulate with his version of the truth. Ashlee Simpson probably never had any true musical experiences (other than seething with resentment as her sister got all the play), but there's no doubt she can carry a tune. But excessive isolation from the analog world has made them both unfit for live performance. She and Bush have to understand the day would come when they'd be forced to pick up a guitar, pluck out the chords, and sing.

Electricity, as the blackouts of 2003 showed, is not a constant, even in America. Computers, as Florida is proving right now, fuck up all the time. Humans, as evidenced by my hamfisted attempts at MIDI, put the wrong patch cords into the wrong slots all night long. If you are relying on any of the above, there will come a night when you will have to rely on your wiles and your talent by candlelight.

This is the reason why I hate being on Celexa, why we are getting solar power for our farm, and why the piano is so wonderful. I hate being beholden to a drug for my happiness, and the day may come when the drug will be impossible to get. I understand my addiction to electricity, so I will not be beholden to the North American power grid. And the piano? In the '70s, when an Iowan tornado would wipe out the power in our town, my dad always lit candles and played Beethoven.

My life depends so much on digital, but life itself is analog. Every few days I try to pick up the guitar and work out a current pop song so I can always have it at the ready in case all other sounds are silenced. Being a violin major was a major drag, but in case we're cut off from flow of electrons, our house will still rock.

sweet spot

10/27/04

Today's teens will have trouble appreciating the kind of history that was made in baseball last night; the year "1918" is a lot like the number "trillions" - it's nearly impossible to wrap your head around it. Maybe three or four Red Sox fans still alive remember anything about their last World Series. Tessa's dad, who was eight when the Sox won the series in 1918, might have remembered, but he died, alas, the week after 9/11.

Everyone thinks they love the underdog, but Americans rarely stick with them. Most U.S. sports fans love the Yankees and the Lakers, which, to me, is like cheering for the sun to rise. I always prefer teams with character and pluck, like the Denver Nuggets, the Baltimore Orioles and the New Orleans Saints. I'm guaranteeing myself a future with no world championships, but I can live with that. Thank God for the Tar Heels, or else I'd never know what it'd be like to win. Our 1993 Championship seems like an odd dream.

The Curse of the Bambino is weirdly apt for my family, being a combination of sports failure and musical theater. The owner of the Red Sox traded away Babe Ruth to get some money to put "No, No Nanette" (containing the song "Tea for Two") on Broadway. Mixed with the execrable "Damn Yankees," it is a cautionary tale about mixing baseball with prissy musicals.

The Curse holds a lot of sway throughout the history of literature, but The Lifting of the Curse is an even more satisfying narrative. Found in the Bible, hundreds of children's stories and even in the quiet redemption of every fat person meeting their target weight, a curse lifted is, like rain and babies, one of the lasting gifts from the Gods.

And so we lived long enough to see it for the Red Sox. Honestly, my heart has always been with the Orioles and the Mets, but I appreciate how excruciating it has been for the Bosox. It's been said that George Will is such a nasty conservative because of the Chicago Cubs losing streak; perhaps they'll be next.

In this age of The Unthinkable Happens, it's nice to know that some unthinkable things are actually positive. In the midst of the Unthinkable Presidency, still charred from the Unthinkable Terrorist Attack, in an era when records fall, old friendships die, cruelty has no abatement, and we all live under the threat of a kind of digital mercilessness, it was humbling to experience this game. Under a lunar eclipse, it was truly once in a red moon.

note: the "Nanette" story is wrong; click here for a fascinating story about the Curse - thanks, Isaac!

navel, meet my gaze

10/26/04

Hey kids, it's time for Webstats Fun with the blog! Here is a list of this month's Most Popular Search Terms. Obviously, Misty May's ass is the gift that keeps on giving!

I'm sorry, would you like that in Pie Graph form?

How about site traffic usage by hour? These are done in Pacific Time, so add three hours for the East Coast. Looks like some of you sure like your whiny commentary first thing in the morning!

and a little bit at teatime too

How about my favorite comment from the last month? This was left on an ancient entry from Halloween 2002:

And now that I have your attention, I'd like to make a request: those of you who have never posted a comment, those just lurking, can you tell me who you are, and where you're from, and your favorite breakfast cereal and why?

I get all these hits from strange and wonderful places, but you don't say hello. It's making me sad.

Or are they all just robots selling penis pills?

*sigh*

punkins, the bean that's a fruit

10/25/04

Yes, it's true, I've been sorta "uncontrollably furious" of late, so let's kick back with a few more pictures from this past week, shall we?

First off, I was waxing theoretical last month when they talked about New Orleans taking a direct hit from a Category 5 hurricane. 15-20 foot floods of petrol and fire ants could be expected, so when I was in the French Quarter last week, I went to the balcony of the hotel to see what that would mean.

Here is an incredibly third-rate Photoshop quickie that shows how high a 17-foot flood in New Orleans would get (click image for bigger, but it's just as stupid-looking when larger):

At the Jasper Family Steakhouse in northern Georgia, Salem had recently unveiled a massive piece of folk art mural by local savant Billy Roper - love it or hate it (I think it's awesome), Salem is dragging art to the Appalachian masses one patron at a time (click for bigger):

Apparently this guy really hearts coal, and really hearts Bush/Cheney as well. Rotten politics but beautiful scenery in West Virginia:

The day after I got back, Scotty, Sean and I quickly absconded to the Egremont Country Club golf course, where I proceeded to suck green donkey dicks. Rotten golf but beautiful scenery in Western Massachussets:

In 2002, my pumpkin patch gave us a ton of little pumpkins. Last year, the patch gave forth nothing. This year, there are only about ten, but they are AWESOME. I heart pumpkins, I really really do.

PIPA longstocking

10/24/04

Perhaps all of you viciously-well-read leftist mavens out there have already read the PIPA report, but if you haven't, take a quick horrifying look at how skull-crushingly misinformed Republicans are, versus their Democrat counterparts. A very quick glance:

- 72% of Bush supporters continue to believe Iraq had WMD and/or a program to make them, even after the Duelfer Report (commissioned by Bush himself) has said the opposite.

- 60% of Bush supporters believe that MOST EXPERTS AGREE that Iraq was directly supporting Al Qaeda.

- 51% believe Bush supports the Kyoto Treaty.

- 58% of Bush supporters say that the U.S. should not have gone to war if Iraq didn't have WMD, and 61% of them assume, in this case, that Bush wouldn't have.

Now, if you're like me, you might be thinking, "how on earth do these knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers summon the mental energy to remember which end of the phone is for speaking?" but here at xtcian, we'd like to probe a little farther. Obviously, many Republicans come by their opinions honestly, using actual facts - I may disagree, but I appreciate their convictions. But for the rest of them... how can these Republicans be, as the pollsters kindly suggest, so "resistant to information"?

1. They're fucking morons. Could it be true that they are so swooningly chuckleheaded that no amount of data can leak through? The old saw says you never want to see how sausages and laws are made, but should we be just as afraid of the dinner conversation at a Republican home in Wichita, Kansas? The answers to the PIPA report are so disturbing that mere stupidity can't be the answer; the responses are too uniformally misinformed.

Even the stupidest people get 300 points just for putting their name on the SAT test, but people who call themselves Republicans all seem to have decided to fuck that up too. While certainly a lot of Republicans have to be Idiots (not to mention their cousins Racist, Homophobic and Misogynist), I don't think we're dealing with outright dumbness.

2. Ye Olde Cognitive Dissonance. This theory has been trotted out a lot lately, and it seems to make a sick sort of sense. Basically, Republicans trusted George W. Bush so much that they won't allow themselves to feel like he has utterly failed them. While this makes GOP-followers seem frail and somewhat pathetic, it's actually rooted in narcissism; they CANNOT show any weakness, and to keep their hard-won exterior from crumbling, they choose to live in Bizarro-world.

Problem is, they're making us live there too. And the way they cling to their paper moons hanging over a cardboard sky makes me believe something much darker:

3. Republicans are the Equivalent of Battered Wives. They are the ailing wives living in the time before they are saved; they are still putting gobs of makeup over their latest shiner, they are wearing long sleeves to mask vicious bruises. They haven't got to the point where they will wake up to their own nightmare - they are still living in a dreamscape, inventing a world for themselves where their sadistic husband has every right to behave like a violent, rage-fueled sociopath.

Right now, Bush is that husband, and the majority of the Republican Party is the wife. They don't even know he has broken their arm; they actually believe that they slipped down the stairs. Oh sure, the neighbors whisper, their pew at church is sparsely-populated... but they don't understand, they don't fully understand the kind of relationship they have with their husband. He would never do anything to hurt me. He loves me. HE LOVES ME.

I can't raise a family around people like that. Here's to filling out your absentee ballots and getting these battered Republicans to a shelter where they belong.

negatively charged

10/21/04

I'm writing from the wilds of central Kentucky, in Jon Vaden's farmhouse built in 1798, twenty whole years before our farm was built upstate, and it feels good to be back among ancient surroundings. Along with Tessa (who flew back to New York from New Orleans) I've been on the road since September 7th, and there's only one more day between me and home.

My wanderlust is unquenchable, and I don't know if I could travel far enough or long enough to be happy sitting in one town for more than a season. One time back in 2000, Sean and I realized we hadn't been off the island of Manhattan in two months, and so I had to hop in my shitty car and drive to Rockland County just so my brain cleared.

taken with Tessa's Treo

Chopes has been a good companion on this trip, even though his Idiopathic Vestibular Syndrome© has made him walk into a few trees, he halfway fell into a sewer drain, and when he tries to eat something from your hand, he ends up eating your hand.

The weather has been intense, the politics in all these interior states has been exhausting, and I'm ready to be back in a city that finds intellect, sensitivity and nuance to be positive traits. I'm tired of holding my tongue everywhere I go. I'm going home to be an asshole liberal.

click on lightning for a tiny movie of yesterday's drive

wachet auf!

10/20/04

I'd like to make this desperate plea to all of us guys in our late 20s and into our 30s: can we please all stay friends?

I know this seems like a silly thing to ask, but now that I am gliding past my mid-30s, I fully understand the lure of inertia; it's just so easy to choose to NOT do something. In your mind, everything becomes a hassle, and when "fun times with your friends" starts getting lumped in there, I think you have to start asking yourself what you're put on this earth to do.

Much of it has to do with relationships: if the lure of possible sex with somebody new is taken out of the picture, then your loins approach every event with a subconscious "why bother?" You must fend off your blasé loins! Just because you've ended your search for a partner doesn't mean you can't still go to that ice hotel in Reykjavik!

Remember when we were in college, and the years after, when we used to take nonsensical trips to bizarre places after getting the day off work? Do you remember how we fantasized about creating a utopia of like-minded friends, buying land somewhere and having bi-annual get-togethers, continuing to have shared experiences so that we don't get fat, bloated and spend what little time we had left wistfully talking about the "good old days"?

I'm here to say FUCK the good old days. Yes, they were awesome. They were also treacherous, poverty-stricken and suicidal. We should make sure our lives remain interesting enough NOW so that we don't get puckered and slushy from stewing in the juices of our past.

Yes, I know some of us have kids. Too fucking bad. Yes, I realize your job takes up most of your time. You're boring me. Yes, I realize I have the kind of job that allows me to drive across the country every four months. Eat me. I'm not saying we should all be attending 3-keg blowouts on weeknights. I'm saying that we should all agree to have some sort of blast TWICE A YEAR at the very least.

These twice-a-year get-togethers should be well-planned, silly, exotic, full of liquor (or AA meetings), sports-related, architecture-related, I don't goddamn care. Just SOMETHING. ANYTHING to shove us out of the rut that we find comfortable, even if it is slowly killing us.

Before Salem came up to our Labor Day Jartacular, he said to me, "you know, I'm like you: we'd both drive 20 hours for five hours of fun." I had to remind him I've driven further for much less fun. Even during my 50-hour-a-week dot-com days.

I'm not holding myself up as some paragon of spontaneity; I've flaked on my fair share of great times because of some pretty lame reasons. But at least I fucking try. I hold a fantastic summer party upstate every year, and still, as we all age, sometimes it's like pulling teeth trying to get people excited. About ANYTHING.

You miss a weekend. Then you miss a party. Then you miss a barbeque. Next thing you know, you're watching "Matlock" at a nursing home and wondered what the fuck happened to all your friends.

Take back the night, you twenty-and-thirtysomethingers! Go to parties! When someone invites you up for a weekend in a bizarre place, do it even though it might suck! TAKE UP ALL OFFERS!

roadsigns to recovery

10/19/04

As I've oft mentioned before, I always visit Yahoo's Most-Viewed Photos page, as it gives you a perfect snapshot of America: pics of scantily-clad models, cute kittens in a basket, and Iraqis with their limbs blown off. Sex, pandas and gore, as Lars and I like to say.

But this picture has been in the top ten for a few days, and it's making me sick:

Wow, such deep irony. How fiendishly clever of the photographer to snap that picture at exactly the right moment. This kind of hackery would have been REJECTED by every photographer teacher north of 4th grade as utterly hopeless shit, but here, it gets emailed around the country by snickering Republican dads trying to infuriate their daughters over email.

And what do us progressive types get for Bush? Why, this, of course:

Y'see, I don't think that's entirely fair. If the compositionally and subtext-challenged photographers from the conservative camp get to provide dim-witted commentary about a nominee they don't like by using a conveniently-placed "DEAD END" sign, then we should be granted the same luxury.

And as such, I'm providing this:

Man, I'm always seeing those "TOTAL FUCKWIT" signs on the road these days. What an odd warning! TEE HEE!

secret life of Interstate 10

10/18/04

Okay, enough ranting for a few days. How about some pictures? Here's a few slices o' life from our journey from Los Angeles across the Deep South en route back home.

First off, every time you have a meeting in Hollywood, they offer you a bottle of water. Tessa takes one because she's Tessa, and I always take one for kidney stone reasons. Thus, we have termed our month in Sunny California as the "L.A. Water Tour":

When we pulled into Texas, driving a Prius with a Kerry/Edwards sticker, everyone thought we were helming a pod sent from Neptune. There was even some outright hostility, and several things I couldn't snap with the camera because I would have gotten my ass kicked. But these should give you an idea. First of all, we had THE ONLY SEDAN in THE STATE OF TEXAS. Check this out from various parking lots:

While in a home in East Texas, somebody's son was printing these off the Web:

These asinine "Support Our Troops" stickers are plastered over every goddamn SUV in the South, which is stunningly ironic:

I suppose it's better than this, though:

Thank God we made it to New Orleans on Sunday night, just in time to scalp tickets to my NFL team, the New Orleans Saints, playing in the Superdome. For not much money, we got seats on the 50-yard-line, even though my beloved Saints lost a heartbreaker. As I reminded Tessa, this field is also where Dean Smith won his '82 and '93 NCAA Championships:

On the way back to the hotel, I tried a time-lapse exposure in Jackson Square with the digital camera, and it finally worked. The shutter was open for five full seconds, which is why I look like I have a pole vault shoved up my ass (click pic for bigger):

Next stop: rural Georgia!

glurk vs. glork, round 10

10/17/04

Before we go any further, you have to watch the video of Jon Stewart destroying Tucker Carlson on CNN's "Crossfire". It's quick but violent, and can be seen here or here or here or here, or if you're a pussy, you can read the transcript here.

Pretty stunning, isn't it? It may have been the most incredible piece of television to air in the last five years, though its embarrassing frankness will never end up on those Best TV Ever® moments like when that guy threw the hatchet at the dummy's crotch on Johnny Carson. Nope, this will be filed away in CNN's "Let's Pretend This Never Happened" bin of self-delusion.

The upshot of this clip will be, well, nothing (of course), but like the Nixon/China cliché, this is the sort of smackdown that could only have been delivered by the least likely of sources, during the week when his book was at the top of charts. Jon had his moment, and he fucking used it.

The clip is uncomfortable-making. It throws away all the rules of television grace, and it might even seem a bit disingenuous of Stewart to tackle "Crossfire" when everybody knows the show is a farce anyway. What he did, though, was remind a few of us what it was like to feel "outrage."

Outrage, as a concept, was never given to us as children. My generation, if I'm still allowed to use that word, had cynicism bred into our DNA; it was innate. Baby Boomers had to come by their cynicism the hard way, but us? Like Leonard Cohen sang, we always knew "the dice were loaded," so none of CNN or Fox or MSNBC's warped behavior comes as any surprise.

Jon Stewart, however, is a very early Generation X-er, and is still capable of outrage. Deep in my gut, as I watched this show, I felt the embers flicker of a similar disgust, as though I had briefly woken up from a long sleep, and remembered a time when Walter Cronkite would provide a sure, solid word about the events of the day. I remembered what it was like to turn to the media for facts, and it was so, so painful to fully grasp how low we've sunk.

The BBC and PBS are still relatively accessible to most Americans, so there is always respite from the sulfur-laced vitriol and quarter-baked waffle batter that passes for ideas on cable news, but the Stewart clip reminded me of much we have learned to put up with, and it was awful.

The problem is that Tucker Carlson found a niche for himself on the network, being the Alex P. Keaton bowtie-donning neo-iconoclast, and understood that if he played his part, he, his wife and his kids would have a nice income and possible book deals. If there had been room for a leftist counterpart, and if my neck were normal-sized, I would have jumped at the chance too.

But like all neo-con ideologues, he lost his shame sometime around the mid-to-late 90s. When Carlson criticized John Edwards for getting rich off of "Jacuzzi cases" - referencing a suit brought by the family of a girl whose intestines were sucked out of her body by a public pool - I knew he'd lost his mind.

In this clip, Jon Stewart, one of the legendary cool kids from a graduating year further in the past, has come back to school and reminded Tucker that he has lost his way. Stewart is taking a look around "Crossfire" like it was the old high school gym festooned with cruel posters about the opposing team, and can summon up nothing but disgust.

That's what happens when you go looking for outrage, and only find numbness and spectacle. The question is this: will we ever care enough to bring shouting matches like "Crossfire" to their knees? Do we even want a civil discourse? Baby Boomers were late adopters of irony; maybe us Gen Xers can muster up a latter-day conversion and finally find something to offend us.

UR 2Good 2B 4Gotten

10/14/04

Okay, so Sean responded to yesterday's blog by posting this on his own. I started writing a response, but then it got long enough that I'll just put it here:

Dude, your characterization of Bush's record on national security is woefully simple-minded. Yes, we were attacked, and then we attacked Afghanistan in return. Yet I'm 99% positive any Democratic (or Libertarian or Natural Law or Whig) President would have done the same. Fuck, even Jimmy Carter would have opened up a can of falafel-flavored whoop-ass on those soccer-field executionists.

But if you think the Taliban has no power, or that warlords aren't running roughshod over the country en route to supplying 75% of the world's opium, or that these elections really have legitimacy outside city limits, then you've been watching too much Fox News with Joe.

Also, Bush attacked Iraq, which in the estimation of every sane observer of Middle East politics and elder statesmen has actually INCREASED odds of international terrorism. Over 15,000 civilians have died - with perhaps 100,000 wounded - and almost 1100 American kids. It was a colossal, global fuck-up on a Biblical scale. The "elections" slated for next January, if they happen, will be a farce worthy of Molière.

And if you're going to credit Bush for having only ONE terrorist attack and none since, why doesn't Clinton get credit for having NO terrorist attacks? Let's also not forget it was 5 years between the first WTC bombing and the next mass-casualty event (the embassy bombings in East Africa). Bush hasn't had another terrorist attack because of some decent work by America's intelligence (which would have happened under any President), the de-centralized nature of the enemy, and, I suspect, a load of dumb luck.

What if we'd had a president that invaded Afghanistan and then put $120 billion into finding OBL and dismantling AL Qaeda units around the world? I mean, how frickin' awesome would that be? We'd be so far ahead on the "War On Terror™" that I might actually consider letting my future children go to school in Manhattan. As it is, I won't let them near the Brooklyn Bridge without a parachute and a chemical suit.

I blame Bush for this. He has given me dreadful anxiety about my family, you included. Most of this is the usual unresolved getting-beat-up-on-the-playground issues from the lonely streets of Cedar Rapids that have nothing to do with terrorism. My OCD put me in the loonie bin back in 2002, and I understand it better now. But Bush has fundamentally undermined our basic safety, and if we get hit again, the rest of the world will say "those fuckers had it comin'." The European papers won't say "We Are All Americans," it'll say "No Fucking Duh."

I know you feel the same way about him that I do, but you can't have any serious mention of the Bush Doctrine in your blog without owning up to what a horrifying piece of history he's made us live in. There is no room for apologia when it comes to that miserable punk-ass chimp.

o tempora, o mores

10/13/04

History is never kind to eras that look like the Dark Ages, and it runs roughshod over individuals from those eras. For instance, we view Londoners contracting cholera from a pump handle in the 17th century as a bunch of numbskulls, even though they were going on their best information.

Thus, I want it right here in black and white: I KNOW FULL WELL HOW STUPID WE ALL SEEM RIGHT NOW. Watching tonight's debate, future kids at the Radio and Television Museum will wonder how the election of 2004 was even close. "Did Bush have some sort of hypnotic control?" they will as their teachers. "Did everyone know something about Kerry that we don't?"

The answer is no. There are people in this country who think they have a steady diet of good information, and they viewed last night's debate and still thought Bush would have made a better president. Crazy? Yes, but true. America, like the world, is frequently messy and does just the opposite of what you might think. Where else but America could a movie like "Super Size Me" come out, and the company in question, McDonald's, makes a whopping 42% more profit than last year?

It's the same reason that anorexia rates go up whenever they do a Movie of the Week about it (hilariously called a "Jenny, Eat Something" movie by Vince Vaughn in "Swingers"). We are just bizarre, contrary, perverse beings.

But to try to apologize to our future brethren, let me just say that a) these are scary times, and b) the good guys, at last, put up a fight.

This third debate was a pale imitation of the first two, not as numbing as the second, and not the blowout of the first - but it'll do. Bush can't help that he looks like a monkey when he smiles, which is his only other emotion besides rage. When he started waxing evangelic about his prayer-time before sending kids to war, I wondered aloud: "does anybody but me find this really creepy?" Unbelievably, the answer turned out to be yes.

In effect, the debates have become the 3-point shot of American politics: the great equalizer. Months of spin, negative ads and 24/7 biased news coverage can actually be erased over the course of four and a half hours. In an era where very little except anti-depressants and soy lattés can be celebrated, this is cause for huge rejoicing.

O Future, please don't regard us all as rubes destroying your ozone and making bad hip-hop albums! There are some people here still willing to fight the good fight, and who have decided not to touch the pump handle. Please think of us kindly.

equus

10/12/04

I'm dreadfully sick with whatever Tessa had last week, and thus spent the last 36 hours in a Nytol-induced stupor. BUT... Tessa's Aunt Brenda woke us up at 2:30am last night to tell us that her horse Miss Chief finally had her baby. I've always wanted to witness the birth of a horse, so we stumbled out into the field, where the foal had already been delivered, and immediately began walking upright. It was pretty fantastic.

motor neuron speedway

10/11/04

There's an old saw that says "conservatives are liberals who have been mugged." I'd like to say that "liberals are conservatives who have seen their loved ones waste away from Alzheimer's and paralysis." You Republicans will find stem cells "ethically troubling" and "needing more research" until you actually watch a paralyzed family member stick a tube into their penis hole so they can urinate.

I mean, I guess I get it, if you actually believe the human spirit begins at conception. Personally, I don't care if you take all our sperm and eggs and make a super-race of whiny Scotsmen, but I respect your right to be squeamish about harvesting embryos for stem cells.

But mostly, you're just being inaccurate. The stem cells we'd like to research come from lines that ARE ALREADY AVAILABLE AND ARE GOING TO BE THROWN AWAY. Living in those tiny samples of tissue are the cells that could have saved Christopher Reeve this weekend, and will keep my mom from going blind before I have a child to show her.

Bush's pandering to the Religious Right has claimed another victim, and nobody will put the blame where it belongs. In the meantime, Reeve has died, and so has Jenifer Estess, two people I was SURE would make it. I was POSITIVE Chris Reeve would walk again, if only to make this country drop their prissy evangelical hang-ups and jump on the bus. I was POSITIVE Jenifer would get better, somehow sneak a stem cell into her breakfast, and emerge from her apartment to enjoy a Magnolia cupcake.

Instead, they die. And we sit around and wait for something that will never come from this President. I've tried every notion I could to get readers of this blog to vote differently (my current hero is Laurie from Manly Dorm), but think about this: if you get in a car accident tomorrow, and are rendered a paraplegic barely able to sip celery juice out of a straw, one of these Presidential candidates can actually do something about it.

stars at night - sure are bright

10/10/04

Greetings from Cut & Shoot, Texas!

Yes, it's a real place. Click here for our adventures last year, along with some cute pictures. We're in the neighborhood celebrating the 88th birthday of Tessa's grandmother Nonnie, who, upon asking how old she was, promptly said "one thousand."

I'm going to jot down a few notes about the 2nd presidential debate, even though it's probably old news to you fasty-fingers on the Internets. We were in the middle of southern New Mexico while it was on, so we cranked the satellite radio and listened to Kerry's rational discourse and Bush's hysterical blatherings under a crystal clear Milky Way.

In 1960, the televised debate between JFK and Nixon was called a landslide for Kennedy - but those who heard the debate on the radio gave the edge to Nixon. Not so much luck this time, as Bush clearly sounded unraveled and drunk on Rumplemintz, even on the fucking radio. There were debate moments that bred uncomfortable silence in the car, as both Tessa and I were wondering if Bush had actually eaten an audience member.

My feeling? If the debate had ended after 60 minutes, it would have been another Kerry shellacking. However, the last half-hour dragged, and Bush scored points just by surviving. I though Kerry didn't handle the abortion shit very well, but came through on stem cells. By the end, it was hard for me to tell who had "won," so I kept calling Sean on the cell phone for the dailykos mainstream TV wrap-up. As I suspected, it was considered a tie because Bush didn't actually blow a fuel gasket and completed a few sentences.

I think that's wishful thinking on behalf of some increasingly upset Republicans. The questions were almost point-blank directed at Bush's shortcomings, and I don't see how this debate will stop his slide in any districts that matter. I'd actually feel moderately confident about this election if I weren't sure the GOP has some nasty goddamn trick they're going to pull. Something worse than the Swift Boats, something worse than the Sinclair clusterfuck - and my guess it'll be a November Surprise, with little chance for reaction.

Speaking of which, this laptop I'm on is the only piece of equipment transmitting anything Democratic or progressive for about a hundred mile radius. I'm on a landline connection at Tessa's uncle's place, and when Tessa and I talk politics, we have to shut the door and whisper. If they only knew the kind of liberal sites I was visiting under their very own roof!

Her aunt and uncle are absolutely wonderful people, and every time I get rabidly furious at the way Republicans have hoodwinked good, ordinary folk, I always think of them. The GOP Machine has taken advantage of their sweet nature, and there is no real going back; they have swallowed the pill whole. I love Tessa's extended family as I love mine, but I'm really glad both live in the "safe states" of Utah and Texas.

Speaking of which, here are a few more pictures from our digs:

P.S. It's late, and I don't know if the news is true, but Tessa and I are stunned by the reports about Christopher Reeve. Click here for our accidental dinner with such an amazing guy.

humidity: .006%

10/7/04

I am writing to you from a Flying J truckstop a few hours from Blythe, CA as we begin our trekward East. Tessa hates it when I fuck around on the internet while she just wants to get in the car and go go go, so I will have to make this brief.

In short, I have the following songs in my head, playing concurrently for TWO DAYS and it's making me batshit. They are:
"Anyway You Want It" by Journey
"Shower the People" by James Taylor
That Song by Avril Lavigne That Sounds Just Like That Other Song by Her
and "Good King Wenceslas".

Remedies, other than sticking a fast-food spork into my hindbrain, are much appreciated. And Bud, don't give me any more songs to deal with.

I would like to thank Ayr brand nasal saline spray and Allergan's Refresh Tears™ for getting me through this desert. How my pioneer forefathers did it is beyond me.

1,001 arabian reruns

10/6/04

Tessa has been really sick for the last couple of days, so when we got a meeting on the ABC lot yesterday, I had to perform our act solo. Here's the thing about being in a pitch meeting, or even a meet'n'greet scenario: it is exponentially better if you are part of a team. It's exactly like going to a bar - alone, you are Creepy McStalky, but with a pal or two, you're a gregarious man about town.

A husband-and-wife writing team is not without historical precedent in this town, but it is a throwback, or at least an oddity, in a town full of white 30-year-olds wearing the same Banana Republic untucked shirts, peddling their wares with a like-minded college buddy. I think the missus and I give a pretty damned good meeting, and I know this because I actually have fun at these things, and my bar is set pretty high.

No offense to the movie industry, but people in TV have their shit together. We have traveled through many barred gates, worn many guest badges, and broken bread with lots of people making your favorite TV shows, and I have found them to be among the sharpest tools in the shed. You can complain all you want about television, but making a show is an honest day's work, and it never ends until you get 100 shows in the can. These people know what they're doing.

I used to deride television, mostly because I felt betrayed by it. At some point in the early 1990s, some episode of "Home Improvement" or "Full House" made the whole medium go sour for me, and I swore it off for a decade. But I admit to being humbled by it of late, because I discovered the following:
a) even making a bad show is unbelievably hard
b) we are entering a mini-Renaissance of quality TV
c) like Scheherazade, you only get to live another day if the story you tell has a really good cliffhanger.

page of wands

10/5/04

Since people like talking about these debates the day after (and I want to hear what you think as well), then I'll go ahead and give another post-mortem to a debate that was definitely "mortem" in the "fun" department.

Give credit where credit is due: Cheney is no Bush. Cheney clearly knew answers to all the questions, even if 57% percent of it was a pack of lies. I found it excruciatingly difficult to believe that the two men had never met, and later on, it was proven they had. That was a major fuckup, seeing as they co-chaired a "prayer meeting," which could make Cheney look like more of a mean guy than he already is.

But Dick landed a few good jabs to the face, and performed about as well as an arteriosclerotic bag of gelatinous bones can be expected to. Edwards kicked him in the nuts several times, but the problem is Cheney's scowl makes it looks like his nuts have been pre-kicked for you.

I don't think Edwards won this debate; simple reminders about this administration's miserable record did, and Edwards happened to be the conduit. This is going to be a problem for the Republicans, as they can't run far enough away from the steaming pile of shit they left on America's living room rug.

I'm not getting cocky about the next two face-offs - Bush could easily look good due to the insanely low bar now set for him - but frankly, I'm surprised his people agreed to three debates. Clinton only had one in 1996, when he was running for re-election. In retrospect, that would have been a bad decision for Bush, who was clearly smoked in the last debate, and thus would have no redemption. But if he falters against Kerry again, it's going to be very bad for them. They might have to cut bait.

In the end, the impression I saw was Cheney as an angry old man who might have had enough with "dominating the world." I think the last four years have taken a toll on both him and Bush; both would never admit this, but some part of their subconscious wants out of this shit entirely.

Edwards, in his final shot, was shown beaming, holding his two toddlers in each arm. Pundits and online polls may be blowing angel's breath up Edwards' ass, but I do agree the sunny side of the street is where 51% of voters want to be standing.

full-bodied, hint of playfulness

10/4/04

While the rest of us in the sniveling world of politics-obsession and celebrity-worship are arguing over our deck chairs on the Titanic, the kind, simple folk up in Napa Valley are finishing the 126-hour work week known as the Harvest. Some wineries are getting their charges up at 4 in the morning to pick grapes before the sun ruins them, and before any of them turn to raisins. Leave them even one day too long, and the 2004 Cabernet might totally suck.

We were up this weekend visiting my dad, who lives in St. Helena and is starting a wine of his own. Now, I share many things with my dad - a lifetime devotion to music, a soupcon of charisma, and occasional bursts of profanity, but wine is not one of them.

I turned 30 years old in Nag's Head, NC with Dana, Lindsay and Chip - and at breakfast the next morning, I made the following declarations:
1. I will never eat an omelette again because I HATE THEM
2. I have to admit to myself that I don't like wine that much
3. I now grant myself the permission to leave any social situation whenever I want.

Avoiding omelettes is easy. Leaving parties when I got bored was hard, because I was always sure that "fun" was just minutes away - but eventually that became second nature. But I really regret my ambivalence about wine, because everyone else in the world loves a nice glass of red wine, especially Michelle and my dad, who both speak about it the way I speak about- well, pumpkins, the Beatles or the Tar Heels.

But the vagaries of the wine business are endlessly fascinating. The way they graft the grape roots, burn fields with philoxera, and get all excited about specific years is pretty cool, and the bizarre shenanigans surrounding the business is almost cult-like.

Whenever I'm in Napa, I go into the wine cellars and ask to hold the most expensive bottle, because I think any liquid worth $4000 is worthy of a fetish. I'm the same way with exotic olive oils, impossibly expensive perfumes, and ancient Scotch - astronomically expensive fluids turn me on.

Anyway, it's the end of harvest season, and my dad was pouring his grapes into the de-stemming machine (which replaced stomping, much to my disappointment). He and his partner Richard Walton have named their wine (RW)2 after their initials, and my dad gave me some of their 2002 to taste. And by god, I will do my best to like it.

onward agnostic soldiers

10/3/04

We'd like to interrupt this blog's usual flow of high-powered whining, dime-store reflections on Celexa, self-revealing splurges of egregious starfucking, and turgid navel-gazing to bring you a PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT about voting in the upcoming election.

Yes, yes, I know shit like that is boring. But when you're dealing with a political party that will stoop to sub-bacterial levels in order to hold power, previously-ennui-filled citizens like myself have to pry themselves away from their Philip Pullman novels and be massively proactive. Consider it a ROAD TRIP for TRUTH and TEQUILA.

The TRUTH part comes when we keep some Republican operatives from talking a African-American family out of voting. The TEQUILA part comes when People With Brains win back the White House.

My heart resides in North Carolina, where we have had some of the most shady election maneuvers since Chicago corpses voted in the 1960 presidential race. The Republicans sent letters to black families and rural mountain folks that said, to some effect, "Please remember to vote on Tuesday. Also remember to pay any bench warrants or parking tickets."

Of course, they didn't outright say you would be cuffed for outstanding warrants (which would be a bold-faced lie), but you didn't need to. African-Americans and poor people stayed home, and election after election was given to Jesse Helms, one of the worst human beings ever to live in Raleigh (and there have been a lot).

In 2000, the state of Florida had election procedures that rated alongside Saddam Hussein's 2002 Popularity Contest. I'm here to tell you that shit ends NOW.

Anyone who doesn't think the GOP will send a fresh batch of goons to subtly terrorize voting areas in Ohio, Florida, West Virginia and Missouri have blinders on. We are the last line of defense against these assholes.

Do what Tessa and I did: register with The Election Protection Volunteer program. My dear wife speaks Spanish, so we will go to Ohio (or PA) a few days before the election to canvass families that may not know they can vote. We'll hand out the Voter Bill of Rights for that state, and give them all the pertinent information.

A few days later, we'll drive back, to actually stand watch at the polling sites themselves, with election lawyers next to us (or a 5 minute phone call away). We will make sure voters can actually get past the taunting crowds (if any) and help out those without identification.

Important fact: the EPV program is non-partisan. When I go to Ohio, I'm not going to wear a Kerry T-shirt, nor will I give my opinion on who to vote for, even if asked. The mere act of getting more people to vote in itself is a much stronger boon to my party than any naked electioneering.

If I see any of you in Ohio or Pennsylvania, and you mention the blog, I WILL BUY YOU A SHOT OF TEQUILA. Not the bad stuff, either - Cuervo 1800 at least.

Yes, this trip could be a hassle. Or it could be a blast. Either way, you will be more emotionally equipped to deal with the outcome of this election either way it goes because you won't be able to say you didn't DO SOMETHING.