Shakesville

I really don't know how to feel about this.

Remember the guy that beat his three-year-old son to death because he thought he might be gay?

He's been sentenced to 30 years.

Fleischer's courtroom was awash in grief Friday as the judge sentenced Paris to 30 years in prison followed by 10 years' probation. Under state sentencing guidelines, the judge could have imposed anything from 23.3 years to life.

Paris will be eligible for release from prison after serving 85 percent of his sentence, or 25.5 years.

They'd better be keeping him for every second of that 25.5 years. And I hope he's getting some serious psychological treatment the entire time.

Little Ronnie died Jan. 28, six days after slipping into a coma with swelling on both sides of his brain. His mother, Nysheerah Paris, told police her husband beat Ronnie and slammed his head into a kitchen wall. Nysheerah Paris, 20, is charged with child neglect and could get 15 years in prison if convicted.

She first lost custody of her son when he was 5 months old because she overfed him, which made him vomit profusely, according to records kept by the Florida Department of Children & Families. Ronnie went to live with his paternal grandparents and father, only to return to the hospital with broken bones, records show.

The state eventually placed Ronnie with Faye Bing, a foster mother who told child welfare workers she would take the boy permanently if necessary, but Ronnie's parents married and were trying to satisfy the state's requirements.

Ronnie Paris Jr. took parenting classes, and a caseworker recommended the toddler's return. He died six weeks later.

See, this is the kind of thing that terrifies me about becoming a social worker.

Paris apologized to his family, the attorneys and the judge for bringing them into the courtroom. ``I loved my son dearly,'' he said. ``I wish I could hold him here. ... I never did anything to hurt my baby or abuse my baby in any way.''

Paris begged for mercy and described himself as ``honest,'' adding, ``I'm not a drug dealer. I don't wear my pants off my butt. I work hard for everything. ... I'm still mourning for my son's death. ... I'm sorry, ma'am, I don't have an answer for a cause or who did what.''

Fleischer clearly was conflicted. She said she didn't think Paris was ``an evil man,'' but added she didn't believe he was remorseful.

She said she thought the system had ``failed miserably'' in this case but that Paris was responsible for his own actions.

It's that lack of remorse that gets me.

I don't believe in the death penalty, but somehow, 30 years doesn't seem like enough to me. Maybe he could be rehabilitated; I don't know. His homophobia is obviously so strong that it borders on psychosis.

This is just one of those sick, sick cases that really depresses me.

(Energy Dome tip to Julie and Shakes. Cross posted. Sorry about the downer.)

Psycho Salon

[Warning: Some spoilers contained herein for American Psycho and Swimming With Sharks.]

Scott Lemieux, who I always picture as a little French kitten saying, in a dialogue bubble, “Le Mew,” is one of my favorite bloggers, to whom I don’t link nearly enough. But it turns out he doesn’t like American Psycho, neither the book nor the film, which I must admit gave me momentary heart palpitations. That is until I realized that I’m not sure I know any straight men who have liked the book, and precious few (Mr. Shakes, and…uh….) who liked the film. I’m sure there are some, but I don’t know any.* I do, however, know women and gay men who like both a whole lot.

Mr. Furious and I both read the book in high school, and we both loved it. When the film came out a decade later, we went to see it, and while people walked out, and Mr. Curious and Mr. Shakes (neither of whom had read the book) watched it with probably more perplexity than enjoyment, Mr. F and I were rolling in the aisles. I mean, it is a comedy.

The way I read it, as I noted at Mannion’s place when he wrote about Ellis recently, was as “a metaphor for corporate life. The unnecessarily detailed gore was boring, and I likened it to what I imagined to be the flesh and bones of mergers and acquisitions. I've held onto that first impression, and so I still like the book. (Corporate life didn't dissuade me, either.)” I was also never distressed by the violence against women, mainly because it wasn’t directed exclusively at women, but also because it served the metaphor in a way similar to that of Swimming With Sharks, which I’ve always found a disturbing but precise commentary on women in business. It’s entirely unexpected when, in the end, the two male rivals (named Buddy and Guy) decide to call it a day on their enmity, and instead of killing each other, they kill their female cohort, without a hint of remorse. But the shock gives way to an all-too-easily grasped comprehension of the why, even as one is aghast at their motives. We condemn it, but not because it is inexplicable. (For those who question whether this is a feminist film, note who narrates.)

Scott correctly notes American Psycho isn’t misogynist, in spite of feminist boycotts, but still finds the film a failure and the book barf-inducing. Mannion found the book a gimmicky failure. But Scott sees it as a critique of the Reagan years, and Mannion notes it failed as both satire and horror. They’re not necessarily wrong—I believe it did aspire in some way to be all those things—but perhaps there’s just not much else there for either of them to see, which is a problem with perspective, rather than the book itself (ditto the film).

Mannion notes, “Bateman doesn't have a soul to begin with, so who cares? He starts as a monster, and a not particularly interesting monster at that.” You see, when he reads the book, he identifies with Bateman, or tries to, and finds him lacking a soul, and, perhaps even more tragically, uninteresting. (Cue Oscar Wilde.) He looks through Bateman’s eyes, like a good reader is meant to, but the creepiness—and ultimately, the satisfaction—of American Psycho for me was that I felt Bateman’s cold stare on my skin.

I once worked as the marketing and operations manager for a firm so male-dominated that I was the only woman on an entire floor. For a woman who foolishly thought the gender wars in the corporate workplace were pretty much old news, it was an enlightening experience. I’d be lying if I said that there weren’t times I seemed to hear in the distance the faint revving of a chainsaw.

-----------------------

* Until you all tell me in comments, that is.

"Mr. President, you have to fight this war right or get out."

John at Blogenlust nails it.

And of course, this has been the problem all along, hasn’t it? A significant number of Americans have a lust for war and an unrivaled intolerance for sacrificing anything on behalf of warmongering, including and especially the lives of those fighting it. There was probably a way to fight this war that might have meant losing 2,000 soldiers in the first month, but also meant a much shorter endeavor. Instead, we’ve fought it half-assedly, trying to minimize casualties (on our side, anyway), and now we’ve still got 2,000 dead soldiers and no end in sight.

We want a war with no death, we want our blood lust satiated while spilling none of our own, and we want an empire without anyone noticing. Oh, yeah—and no taxes.

(As ridiculous as that sounds, that’s exactly what Bush has tried to deliver to the vast swath of America who wants exactly that.)

Filled With Christ’s Love

Pat Robertson.

What an absolute wanker.

Caption This Photo

Heh heh. Yeah, don't worry there, solider. That really was
a Senior Citizens' IHOP special offer plan you signed up for. Heh.
It wasn't an agreement saying we can send you back to Iraq old-timer.
Promise. Want to buy some wood? Heh heh.

Recommended Reading

Mannion and his pal Nancy Nall have an interesting discussion up over at The American Street about the latest Catholic church scandals, which, for a zany change of pace, don’t involve children, making them ever less nauseating to discuss. (Check out Mannion’s intro here before you head over.)

One of the reasons I’m recommending this piece (aside from its just generally being interesting) is because woven throughout it is the carefully drawn distinction between gay priests and pedophile priests—a distinction that many like to ignore, and one the church itself has been keen to blur as much as possible, as gays made a convenient foil when their own mendacious excuses revealed their complicity in the widespread abuse. It sort of seemed like we’d already (successfully) dealt with the whole “only pedophiles are pedophile priests” thing a few years ago, but now that the GOP is gunning for gays again, the ugly and erroneous conflation of gays and pedophiles is back, so we’ve got to set back to work again. Former alter boy Mannion does a pretty good job of it, tiring as it is to revisit these shores, which were just as rocky and inhospitable the last time we were here.

Tangentially, it’s often been discussed around here that the LGBT community needs its straight supporters, too, and while a lot of straight girls tend to discuss gay issues with some regularity, the straight boys aren’t always quite as forthcoming—many regular blogging Shakers, especially John Howard, being notable exceptions. (And no, Big Dogs…blaming gays for losing Dems elections doesn’t count, you pricks.) I mean, even the linked post isn’t really addressing gay issues, per se, aside from defending gay men against something from which they wouldn’t need defending in any kind of reasonable world, but it was notable that a straight guy was writing about it for a change.

So, what’s the problem, guys? There’s a group of Americans (who traditionally vote liberal in large numbers, by the way) that is currently being denied over 1,000 rights and benefits that any one of us straight girls and boys are guaranteed by 15 minutes at the City Hall, whether we mean it or not. Isn’t that worrisome? Shouldn’t we all be writing about that a little bit more, especially as the Right increasingly tries to crack apart existing Dem voter blocs by exploiting hatred of this community?

Come on, tough guys. If the author of the manliest blog with the manliest name (which I’m cribbing from Wolcott, so you know it’s true) can do it, so can you.

But... babies... all life is sacred... but... head explodes

Those wacky scientists are at it again. Working with stem cells even when Dear Leader don't like it.... you goofballs.

Researchers Fuse Skin & Stem Cells

WASHINGTON - Harvard scientists announced they've discovered a way to fuse adult skin cells with embryonic stem cells, a promising and dramatic breakthrough that could lead to the creation of useful stem cells without first having to create and destroy human embryos.

--snip--

The scientists said they were able to show in their early research that the fused cell "was reprogrammed to its embryonic state."

"If future experiments indicate that this reprogrammed state is retained after removing the embryonic stem cell DNA — currently a formidable technical hurdle — the hybrid cells could theoretically be used to produce embryonic stem cells lines that are tailored to individual patients without the need to create and destroy human embryos," said a summary of the research reported on the Science site.

That could lead to creation of stem cells without having to use human eggs or make new human embryos in the process, thereby sidestepping much of the controversy over stem cell research.

There. NO NEED FOR HUMAN EMBRYOS. Now, if we let these guys do their research, and they're actually able to do it without the little congregated mass of cells that you wingnuts have somehow decided is a living, breathing human being with a social security number and a Tivo, if we are able to do this, will you all kindly shut the fuck up and let this research go on? It's only the most promising advance in health care that we've had in ages... gee, we might figure out how to cure cancer...

The Harvard researchers used laboratory grown human embryonic stem cells — such as the ones that President Bush has already approved for use by federally funded researchers — to essentially convert a skin cell into an embryonic stem cell itself.

(Aside: Wow, that's incredible.)

There. See, you collective heads of knuckle? It's Bush-Approved. So do us all a favor; leave your bloody posters at home, and quit handing out your revolting literature. If you'd let these guys get some WORK done, we could have some actual advances in research, and you won't have to worry about your fictional preshus bebbuhs.

Stop being afraid of science.

This is a GOOD THING. Trust me.

And while I'm ranting, stop with the "Intelligent Design" crap, too. You're embarassing the rest of us.

(Tinky-Winky... Dipsy... Cross-Post... Po...)

Liberal Monsters

If only this were a joke, but it’s not. This adorable little book which recasts liberals as the monsters that children find under their beds is described as “a fun way for parents to teach young children the valuable lessons of conservatism.” What are those valuable lessons, you ask? Namely, that liberals will ruin your life! “Written in simple text, readers can follow along with Tommy and Lou as they open a lemonade stand to earn money for a swing set. But when liberals start demanding that Tommy and Lou pay half their money in taxes, take down their picture of Jesus, and serve broccoli with every glass of lemonade, the young brothers experience the downside to living in Liberaland.” Ah, yes. The familiar tale of liberals storming into privately owned enterprises and demanding that religious imagery be removed and forcing proprietors to sell something they don’t want to. What an age-old story. It’s about time someone turned it into a children’s book. Especially that part about taxes. Personally, on this one, I’ve always sided with Oliver Wendell Holmes, who said that he liked paying taxes, because, with them, he bought civilization, but then again, I’m just a stinking scary liberal with a radical lemonade stand-destroying agenda. I can only imagine what an absolutely dreadful burden taxes are to conservatives, who don’t like civilization, and want no part of buying it—unless of course it’s hoo-rah nation-building endeavors like the Iraq War, which is funded by…uh…oh yeah—tax dollars.

The publisher’s notes on this book also mention that it has been “[h]ailed as 'the answer to a baseball mom's prayers.'” Baseball moms. See that? They’re not filthy soccer moms. Soccer is an international game—a liberal game. But baseball is all-American. Ye-haw.

This book is recommended for children 4-8, which has apparently been identified by conservatives as the perfect age range to begin the indoctrination of children with hatemongering against their fellow Americans. Well decided, I say. You can’t start early enough helping children unlearn the intellectualism, logic, reason, and critical thinking skills that are foisted down their throats at that liberal brainwashing factory known as the public school system.

I just hope the author, Katharine DeBrecht writes some stuff for older kids, to undo the damage when they start learning about that great spook of monstrous liberals—science.

(Hat tip Political Wire.)

Gee, Ya Think?

Is Hagel the only Republican left with a brain? Apparently. And even he’s being a little slow on the uptake, only now starting to notice that Iraq looks suspiciously like another war we fought once…

A leading Republican senator and prospective presidential candidate said Sunday that the war in Iraq has destabilized the Middle East and is looking more like the Vietnam conflict from a generation ago.

Nebraska Sen. Chuck Hagel (news, bio, voting record), who received two Purple Hearts and other military honors for his service in Vietnam, reiterated his position that the United States needs to develop a strategy to leave Iraq.

[…]

Hagel said "stay the course" is not a policy. "By any standard, when you analyze 2 1/2 years in Iraq ... we're not winning," he said.

Interesting that one of the rare Vietnam War vets in the GOP is the one who doesn't continue to spew useless platitudes about how awesome we're doing in Iraq.

Meanwhile, ~~compulsive ideological hacks~~ Senators George Allen and Trent Lott both continue to insist we’re winning in Iraq. Don’t bet on it, bubs. “Winning” isn’t a subjective term like it is here in the United States. Hijacked voting machines won’t do anything against an insurgency, I’m afraid.

Somebody's Got a Case of the Mondays

(Hint: It's me.)

Did everyone have a nice weekend? Mr. Shakes and I had our typical Friday night, where we sit down to dinner and don't move from the table for hours, just talking and talking. I used most of Saturday to do not much of anything at all, really, and Sunday to go on a lovely date with Mr. S to see The 40 Year Old Virgin, which is both hilarious and very sweet. And I spent some time with a new friend, which was good.

What did you do?

W is for Women: Iraq Edition

In a move reminiscent of the ridiculous and arbitrary deadline set to get us into the war in Iraq, preventing weapons inspectors from completing their job, the Bush administration’s new ridiculous and arbitrary deadline set for the completion of Iraq’s constitution has resulted in another half-assed and dreadful decision.

U.S. diplomats have conceded ground to Islamists on the role of religion in Iraq, negotiators said on Saturday as they raced to meet a 48-hour deadline to draft a constitution under intense U.S. pressure.

U.S. diplomats, who have insisted the constitution must enshrine ideals of equal rights and democracy, declined comment.

[…]

"We understand the Americans have sided with the Shi'ites," [a secular Kurdish politician] said. "It's shocking. It doesn't fit American values. They have spent so much blood and money here, only to back the creation of an Islamist state ... I can't believe that's what the Americans really want or what the American people want."

Great fucking job. Turn the most secular Arab state in existence into an Islamic state. Fabulous. Exactly what do Bush-worshipping American evangelicals have to say about this, considering there’s a not insignificant Christian population in Iraq, who will now be compelled to live under Islamic law? And what does the W is for Women crowd have to say about this, considering that Iraqi women will now be subjected to Shariah, which would take replace the rights that women had under Saddam to marry and divorce who they wanted with a statute that would prevent women of any age to marry without their families’ permission? This is madness. In one fell swoop, they have turned back literally decades of women’s rights in Iraq.

When all other rationales for this war were proved devoid of substance, the Right yammered about a humanitarian intervention—and so did the hawkish Left. The last time I checked, women were humans, too, and they ought not to be left with less freedom than they had before we got there.

The Heretik has a round-up of women bloggers who wrote on this potentiality when it was first floated in an article in the NY Times.

Saturday Shakespeare Blogging

My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lip's red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun,
If hair be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
In some perfumes there is more delight
Than the breath with which my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,
Music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
The Bard is loved for many reasons, none of which I would ever seek to contradict, and yet I’m most drawn to his ability to find grace and beauty in imperfections, in flaws. I love scars and wrinkles, even as they’ve started to pile up on my own skin, because each tells a story, and our stories are what make us who we are. Shakespeare knew this. He knew people so well, and he loved them wholly, strange and difficult and complex creatures that they are, which is why his work holds up so extraordinarily after all this time. It’s not always easy to be someone who loves people, who can’t help but eavesdrop on conversations and make oneself invisible whenever possible because watching, unnoticed, is the best perspective. It leaves one uniquely perceptive, which can break down walls and create barriers in equal measure, and inevitably leads one to search tirelessly for connections with similarly constructed folks, connections that feel like the closest thing to perfection any person can experience, but so despairingly elusive, forged as they are between invisible people.

The life of a lover of people is filled with both great joy and great disappointment, the capacity to love beyond measure and a lingering melancholy that cannot be shaken, nor understood by anyone who stands outside the experience, as most do. It’s why Shakespeare could write both comedies and tragedies with such acumen, and why his work was always, even in his time, more easily known than he was.

(Back to politics shortly, I promise.)

Birthday Boy

Today is my Londoner Andy’s birthday.

If I were in London, I can tell you exactly what we’d be doing. We’d be meeting outside a tube stop—his choice, because when we make plans to meet, he barks orders at me and I never argue. It’s not because he’s rude or I’m timid; it’s just that he’s lived in London his whole life, and he knows every bus and tube route the way a chemist knows the table of the elements.

When we met, I’d throw my arms around his neck and kiss his cheek and he’d groan and yell at me for wearing my contacts when my eye doctor’s told me not to, and snarl at me for smoking. And I’d poke his side and tell him to shut the fuck up, even though he’s right. I’d make fun of whatever he’s wearing, though he dresses fine, just because that’s what we do.

I’d hand Andy his birthday present—a book about pop culture or Alfred Hitchcock, maybe—and he wouldn’t even open it, just hand it back to me and tell me he didn’t want it. “At least open it,” I’d tell him, and he’d moan but do it, then look at it and hand it back again. “Why did you buy this?” he’d ask, as if completely unfamiliar with the concept of birthday presents. “Keep it. Read it. I know you’ll like it,” I’d insist. “That’s not the point,” he’d reply. “I haven’t even read all the books I already own, and I don’t need another one staring me in the face waiting to be read.” So I’d be stuck carrying it around for the rest of the day.

Then we’d start walking to the nearest sushi place, and although we’re the same height, he’d be ten million yards ahead of me in no time. He’s not especially fast, and I’m not especially slow, but he walks down London’s ever-crowded sidewalks as if they belong to him—straight down the middle, determinedly, oblivious to the people he bumps who don’t get out of his way fast enough, never hesitating for a moment to notice their looks of shock at his clear violation of polite sidewalk etiquette. Meanwhile, I’d be weaving and dodging, side-stepping, apologizing, and slowly falling behind, convinced as I watch him surge ahead that Verve’s Bittersweet Symphony video, in which Richard Ashcroft walks over cars and never stops as people bounce off him like pinballs, was conceived after one of them saw Andy walking down the street.

Eventually he would stop, and turn impatiently back toward me, and roll his eyes and sigh, and I would burst into laughter while he glowered at me.

We’d stop into record shops and bookstores to browse, and point out things to each other that we think the other would find interesting. I’d buy something—a biography of Tennessee Williams, perhaps—just to have a bag to put his stinking present in, and he’d say, “I didn’t know you liked Tennessee Williams,” and I’d nod and head for the door, on to our next stop.

When we got to the restaurant, Andy would sit down, even if there was a “wait to be seated” sign; we’d place our order immediately, and he’d never take off his jacket. We’d talk about our families, and then films, and then TV, interrupting each other constantly with seemingly random nonsequitors, which make perfect sense to us. (No one has ever enjoyed dining with Andy and me.) Soon it would disintegrate into a rapid-fire exchange of Woody Allen lines, and then Andy would say, “Tell me something,” which I know is my cue to introduce him to a new band or film or book that I know he would love. “More,” he’d urge, when I had finished, and on I’d go.

All the while, I would look at him, hard, and try to see the differences in his face since the last time we were together, which is always far too long. I might see a new crease around his lovely coal black eyes when he smiles, a few new gray hairs. It’s the only way I remember how much time has passed, because I lose the sense that it’s been years as soon as the long stretch has been broken. And I would take a moment, if a quiet one presented itself, to think about how I made this friend long past an age when lifetime friends who know you so well are supposed to be made. Suddenly, unexpectedly, there he was, and I can hardly remember not knowing him.

And after the meal, we’d walk through a park, and sit on a bench. The conversation would wind and curve, and we’d both be laughing far too loudly, and if it rained a little, that would be okay.

Happy birthday, Andy. I miss you. I wish I were there.

xox

Frist Worst Doctor on Planet

How do I know this? Because in addition to making wildly incorrect diagnoses by video (see: Schiavo, Terri), he’s apparently also unaware of the difference between scientific theory and conjecture, a distinction one would assume someone who’s completed medical school would understand.

Echoing similar comments from President Bush, Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist said "intelligent design" should be taught in public schools alongside evolution.

[…]

"I think today a pluralistic society should have access to a broad range of fact, of science, including faith," Frist said.

Okay, faith isn’t fact. That’s sort of the whole definition of faith, in that it’s a belief in something not provable. Fact, on the other hand, is defined as something demonstrated to exist or known to have existed. Faith is also not a science.

Meanwhile, the AP manages to demonstrate once again why our media is completely useless, exemplifying both the lazy writing and determination to present both sides of any argument, no matter how ridiculous, as equally viable.

The theory of intelligent design says life on earth is too complex to have developed through evolution, implying that a higher power must have had a hand in creation. Nearly all scientists dismiss it as a scientific theory, and critics say it's nothing more than religion masquerading as science.

If one is attempting to clarify what makes intelligent design different from scientific theory, it would perhaps be wise to identify it as something other than a theory. Here’s a suggestion just off the top of my head: Intelligent design proponents say life on earth is too complex to have developed through evolution. Was that so hard?

Secondly, an intellectually honest statement about scientists’ critique of intelligent design would be: All credible scientists dismiss it as scientific theory. Not “nearly all scientists.” Any scientist who recognizes intelligent design as a scientific theory, considering it hasn’t meant the minimum requirements for being categorized thusly, is utterly lacking in integrity.

I don’t really give a flip if someone wants to believe in intelligent design, but it has no business whatsoever being taught in a science class. And my primary concern isn’t even about keeping religion out of schools, but about diluting a proper education with complete nonsense. This is no different than suggesting that a behavioral psychology class ought to include a section on astrology, because there are people who believe that the alignment of the stars and planets dictate our behavior. Fair enough if you want to believe in astrology, but that doesn’t mean it ought to be included in a psych course.

Just because disingenuous jags like Frist want to lower the level of public discourse by pretending that intelligent design belongs in a science class doesn’t mean the media needs to drag us all down with them. I’m not especially keen to live in a country of morons who have no idea that there’s a difference between a faith-based assertion and a scientific theory.

Harry Reid Recovering After Mini-Stroke

Senate Minority Leader Harry Reid has had a transient ischemic attack, otherwise known as a mini-stroke.

Senator Reid, who felt lightheaded and dizzy earlier this week, wanted to go back to work today. But he was persuaded by staff and family to take it easy.

No more information yet.

Get well soon, Harry. Our thoughts are with you.

What Falls In Between

Standing out back behind my office, a cool breeze cut through the warm, heavy air, and for a moment I could smell mulberries, the scent of which always takes me back to a time that I recall without words or much meaning at all—when I was still a toddler, and the tiny house we lived in had a backyard with a big mulberry bush. The moment got me thinking about memory, which is, perhaps strangely, one of my favorite topics of directionless, daydreamy contemplation. From the moment I was old enough to look backwards at a definable period, and realized there seemed to be a particular feeling with which I associated it, I began to wonder occasionally how I would remember the time I was in at the moment. I’d even make predictions, but of course by the time I was looking backwards, the predictions had faded, not to be recaptured.

I kicked off my sandals and walked barefoot in the grass while I smoked a cigarette, and I started to think about how I might recall this time, five or ten or twenty years from now. Will I remember hopefulness, anger, fear, which I seem to feel in equal measure? Will this, too, have passed, ending not with a bang but a whimper, and lay itself across my memory with less effect than I expect? The tones and shades of my memory of this time may well be influenced by how the nation chooses to regard it.

The years 1945 to 1960 are often referred to as a golden age of America, after boys who were ripped from the arms of their belles and sent to another continent to fight a great war against tyranny and despair, had returned home as men, as heroes, and set to work, every last one of them, grabbing the American Dream with both hands. On the GI bill, they went to college and found themselves good jobs in an expanding economy. Scientists in white lab coats and square, black-framed glasses toiled away, trying to pull ahead in the Space Race that had captured Americans’ imagination. Teenagers hung out at sock hops and neon-lit diners, girls longing for lavaliers and boys who wondered how to get laid. It was the dawn of suburbia, with fancy, new-fangled household gadgets to make life easier, and television, and TV dinners. Elvis’ pelvis was considered a scandal, and Marilyn Monroe a bombshell. Dad had a pension and the promise of a gold watch after 30 years, and Mom had a Frigidaire. And everyone was happy.

At least in the national memory, they were. That time was imperfect like any other, and perhaps even more so than most. Half a million of those boys who went off to war never came home—and some of them weren’t boys at all, but men, who left wives and children with desperate struggles in the place where their husbands and fathers had been. Some who had come home were never the same, their bodies or minds damaged beyond real repair. Segregation was about to come to an explosive ending (in the legal books, anyway), future feminists and gay rights activists were beginning to get restless with the political and cultural marginalization they experienced, McCarthy was on his Communist witch hunt, and we fought an all-but-forgotten war in Korea for three years and lost over 35,000 soldiers. There were back-alley abortions, and J.D. Salinger, James Dean, and the beatniks represented a side of popular culture that never quite made it onto Happy Days, a show that brought the nation’s memory of the era to life. The Cunninghams never had to find out that Elvis and Marilyn both died of drugs.

In each of our histories, outside of what we remember fondly, there are the things we just can’t recall, the things we choose to forget, and the things we’d forget if only we could. The same is true of our national memory; there are times we cannot forget, and shouldn’t, even if we wanted to—Nixon will always remain shrouded in shame, never to be celebrated as a good president. Reagan is another story—we seem to have become as forgetful as he was, and his lasting legacy is more positive than not in the nation’s memory, although it probably doesn’t deserve to be. And often, the way we feel about whether our presidents have been fairly judged when their tenure has passed confers an associated feeling onto the time itself. (How do you feel about the ’80s?)

President Bush is widely (and probably correctly) regarded as having been fixated with shaping his legacy from the moment he stepped into the Oval Office. He would like nothing more than to be The Man Who Democratized the Middle East, but it’s a dubious hope at best, at the moment. His adulators put his name on their cars and his initial on baseball caps, and when he has served out his time as our leader, they will put his face on silver coins and petition to rename schools and highways in his honor—his legacy is already well-defined among them. I can’t imagine hearing such hogwash for the rest of days; I fear as I am constantly reminded of how he managed to hoodwink so many people, it will overshadow what I want to take with me from this time.

I want to remember this time as one where the few who were never enchanted by his determined, bow-legged march toward historical prominence eventually won the day. I want to recall the optimism I still feel that this is a time which won’t forever change us all for the worse. I want to look back from someplace further ahead and think of the friendships that were forged in this troubled time, between people who found solace in each other’s worries and complaints and passion and madness and humor, between people whose names and faces might never have been known to one another. I want these to be more vivid in my memory than the visceral revulsion I had from his sneer, or my exasperation and embarrassment at his representation of us abroad, or my dread that the Middle East will be ever so much worse for our folly. Because I have such hope for remembering this time fondly, I feel like I am in competition with the president—will he be the one to define his legacy, or will I?

It’s a silly question, of course (for many reasons), but it’s how I feel sometimes nonetheless. In the end, neither of us will matter, nor the people who fervently admire him, nor the people who feel the same as I do. What will matter is what his legacy becomes in our national memory, determined by what falls in between now and then, whenever then may be. It’s impossible to know what will come. Imagine being able to forget an entire war, just to make our national memory what we want it to be.

For now, I’ll leave these thoughts aside. I’ll probably never think of them again—it was just a few minutes with my toes in the grass and a quick post about this strange little thought. Maybe one day they’ll come back to me on a breeze, smelling of mulberries, and I’ll happily realize that this time is one I like to remember, no matter what followed.

Funny Comedy Jokes

I just posted a Big McLarge Huge rant about a crass "joke" that was posted on a righty blog yesterday. It's pretty damn long (which is why I didn't cross-post), but I thought some of you might be interested.

Uh, it rambles quite a bit. Sorry about that.

I’m Moving to France

Not really, because I can’t speak French (aside from the kind one begs pardon for using, which isn’t really French at all), and I look silly in a beret. But I love this idea so much that it almost makes me want to pick up some French tapes, learn to love coffee, and up my cigarette intake by three packs a day:

Readers craving Homer, Baudelaire or Lewis Carroll in the middle of the night can get a quick fix at one of the French capital's five newly installed book vending machines.

"We have customers who know exactly what they want and come at all hours to get it," said Xavier Chambon, president of Maxi-Livres, a low-cost publisher and book store chain that debuted the vending machines in June. "It's as if our stores were open 24 hours a day."

Stocked with 25 of Maxi-Livres best-selling titles, the machines cover the gamut of literary genres and tastes. Classics like "The Odyssey" by Homer and Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland" share the limited shelf space with such practical must-haves as "100 Delicious Couscous" and "Verb Conjugations."

[…]

Regardless of whether they fall into the category of high culture or low, all books cost a modest $2.45.

I’m sure there are those who find the idea of being able to buy Baudelaire from a vending machine just the greatest indignity to literature ever delivered by humankind, but they’re wrong. (That was Tom Clancy.) The notion that great writing is beyond such commonality is a modern invention; Dickens wrote for the newspaper, his work published as serials just like Bridget Jones. The greatest writers of the western canon were never as pretentious as those who now collect their works on Ikea shelving, moaning about the horrors of pocket-sized printings and modern theatrical interpretations.

The great ones would have loved to find their books in vending machines for a reasonable price, because they wrote for people, common people, not for dusty, Swedish shelves.

Friday Blogrollin' Recommendations

Well, I totally didn't get my shit together today for Friday Blogrollin', so instead, I'm going to recommend some blogs which have been on my blogroll from the very early days of this blog, and encourage you to take a look, if you're not already familiar with them. Go say hi to:

Alternate Brain

Brilliant at Breakfast

Poetic Leanings

T. Rex's Guide to Life

Upon Further Review...

US Navy Attacked

Attackers fired at least three rockets from Jordan early Friday, with one narrowly missing a docked U.S. Navy ship and killing a Jordanian soldier. It was the most serious militant attack on the Navy since the USS Cole was bombed in 2000.

Another rocket fell close to a nearby airport in neighboring Israel, officials said. Jordanian and Israeli authorities said militants fired three Katyusha rockets from a warehouse in the Jordanian Red Sea port of Aqaba.

A group linked to al-Qaida claimed responsibility in an Internet statement. The statement purportedly from the Abdullah Azzam Brigades could not immediately be verified.

Don’t know what to say about this, really, except that Jordan’s on the shitlist of groups like al-Qaida because of their peace agreement with Israel and US-friendly government. Also, the Cole was attacked by suicide bombers, and 17 soldiers were killed, but this time, they attacked in a way that seems closer to what we’d regard as traditional warfare, and luckily, not as many lives were lost.

(I’m thinking oil prices might rise again because of this, too.)