Oh my; this is very good news indeed. The blogger formerly known as The Green Knight has returned. It is my very distinct pleasure to (re)introduce you to my friend Chet Scoville, author of The Vanity Press.
Welcome back, doll.
Knight in Shining New Armor
Question of the Day
Suggested by Mr. Shakes: Do you have any tattoos? If not, would you ever get one, and if so, what would it be?
Neither of us have any, although neither of us are averse to the idea of getting one (or more), either. I can't imagine what I'd get, although I often threaten to get a giant tattoo of Morrissey on my back, just to irritate Mr. Shakes.
Mr. Shakes irritates me in return by threatening to get on his back a soaring eagle, clutching an American flag in its talons, and a lion rampant on his chest.
Caption This Photo
President Bush gestures as he delivers a Labor Day speech at the Paul Hall Center for Maritime Training and Education in Piney Point, Md., Monday, Sept. 4, 2006. (AP Photo/Chris Gardner)
Happy Labor Day
Minstrel Boy posted a song for labor day, The Work O’ the Weavers, which is an old Scottish labor song, and, as Minstrel Boy says, “predates the industrial revolution and shows a working man's awareness of his worth.” He posted it with the hope that he might prevail upon Mr. Shakes to favor us with a reading in the manner of the Scots. And when the Shakers ask, the Shakers receive…so here it is, bagpipes and all.
Happy Labor Day to everyone. (Words below.)
We're all met together here to sit and to clack
With our glasses in our hands and our work upon our back
There's nae a trade among 'em who could mend or could knack
If it wasna for the Work O' the Weavers
There's soldiers and there's sailors and there's glaziers
An a there's doctors and there's ministers
An' them as read the law
There's them as count up money but they'd do no work at all
If it wasna for the work of the weavers
If it wasna for the weavers wha' would ya do?
Ya wouldna have no cloth tha's made o' wool.
Ya wouldna have no greens, nor your greys, nor your blues
If it wasna for the work o' the weavers.
There's folks tha'ss independant of another tradesman's work
For women need nae barbers and the dykers need nae clerk
But nae o' them could walk about wi'out a coat and shirt
For tha' they must come to the weavers
The weaving is a trade which never can fail
As long as we wear clothes for ta keep a body hale
So let us all be merry an' o'er a beaker of good ale
We will drink to the health of the weavers
If it wasna for the weavers wha' would ya do?
Ya wouldna have no cloth tha's made o' wool.
Ya wouldna have no greens, nor your greys, nor your blues
If it wasna for the work o' the weavers.
Doing My Patriotic Duty
President Shirky McShrugsalot:
“[D]ependence on foreign oil jeopardizes our ability to grow."One of the things I most detest about Bush is his tendency to speak about domestic issues as if he isn’t the fucking president. The unmitigated temerity of constantly talking about problems facing Americans as if he’s helpless to do anything about it—as if his hands are tied because we gosh-dern citizens don’t spontaneously just up and stop using oil, or stop being poor, or stop being unemployed—makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
"Problem is, we get oil from some parts of the world and they simply don't like us," he said. "The more dependent we are on that type of energy, the less likely it will be that we are able to compete and so people can have good paying jobs."
You think Americans need to be less dependent on oil? Then propose a serious solution and direct 1/10th of the bloody attention you’ve given to clearing brush and photo ops with snowflake babies to making it happen. If you need some help, maybe you can contact Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich. Or Swedish Prime Minister Goran Persson. Or me, at which point I’ll prepare a presentation complete with easily understandable note cards.
I’m happy to help, Mr. President, because I’m an American patriot. Just let me know what I can do to help you do your fucking job.
RIP Steve "Crocodile Hunter" Irwin
"Steve Irwin, the hugely popular Australian television personality and conservationist known as the 'Crocodile Hunter,' was killed Monday by a stingray while filming off the Great Barrier Reef. He was 44."
Oh My
I haven't watched Celebrity Duets, but after watching this clipmash of Little Richard's mad judging skillz, I might just have to tune in. That's some serious crazy.
(Via Dlisted.)
I’m Just Saying
So I’m reading this story about some idiotic demonstration by the KKK, where 30 of these utter dipshits “proclaimed hatred for blacks, Jews, gays and Latinos as they stood behind barricades at the Civil War battlefield where Abraham Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg Address,” and it’s pretty much just the usual nonsense. A bunch of people showed up to yell back at them, the cops outnumbered the Klansmen 5-to-1, etc. etc. etc.
But then there was this: “Several groups counterdemonstrated. Park Service spokeswoman Katy Lawhon said there were no major incidents; one man was cited for entering a restricted area carrying a rainbow flag.”
What’s that all about? It’s probably safe to assume that the area wasn’t restricted just to people carrying rainbow flags, but to everyone, so why on earth is the rainbow flag worth a mention? “There were no major incidents, except there was this one gay dude who caused some trouble.”
Probably part of the radical gay agenda, wouldn’t you say, Martha-Ann?
Oh, yes, Mabel. Those shifty queers are always up to something.
Yeah, I know that one stupid passage in one rather unnotable news story isn’t the end of the world, but it’s still irritating. It’s like when some white person’s telling me a story about, say, a cashier who didn’t give them the correct change, and they insert some caveat like, “…so the guy, who happened to be black…” (Which occurs more often than one might think, at least where I live.) And whenever I say, “What difference does it make what color he was?” they always give me the “Oh, it doesn’t. I was just saying” routine. Uh-huh. You were just saying it because you assume I’m a racist moran like you are.
And, inevitably, these tales of black cashiers who miscount change, or Latino waiters who fuck up an order, or Asian dry cleaners who ruined a shirt, are rendered completely moot when you steal the thunder of what their tellers were just saying. No one tells this story: “I went to the 7/11 and this guy gave me the wrong change, and I pointed it out, and he apologized and corrected the mistake.” There’s no there there. They tell this story: “I went to the 7/11 and the guy, who happened to be black, gave me the wrong change. And I had to point out to him that he screwed up. Can you believe it?” And the there there is not about a slight (and very common) inconvenience, the retelling of which takes longer than the actual incident, but a commentary on race—because there’s really no other reason to tell the story.
In the wake of the “macaca” debacle and Tramm Hudson’s “blacks can’t swim” comments, I wrote a post about privilege that led to a discussion about overt bigotry verses ignorant insensitivity. And one of the points I made in comments is that our society—from political wedge issues to pop culture—makes bigotry (racism, sexism, and homophobia) the default. Escaping them takes work—an active, conscious decision to thoughtfully engage and analyze the messages, images, and conventional wisdom we consume every day. Part of that means challenging seemingly “throwaway” comments like the one in the article and the statements made by people trying to disguise a race commentary as an innocuous anecdote, even if they don’t seem like that big a deal. When there’s no apparent reason for mentioning someone’s race, sexuality, etc. and it’s mentioned (or alluded to) anyway, it’s time to raise a flag, rainbow or otherwise.
What difference does it make that the guy was carrying a rainbow flag?
Oh, it doesn’t. I was just saying.
Ah. Well, you’re an idiot. I’m just saying.
(Crossposted at Ezra’s place.)
Sockpuppetry
The New Republic’s Lee Siegel, who described the blogosphere as “hard fascism with a Microsoft face” and claimed to be “overwhelmed by the intolerance and rage in the blogosphere. … This truly is the stuff of thuggery and fascism,” eventually coining the term “blogofascism,” has been suspended from TNR for sockpuppetry—commenting under the name Sprezzatura to defend his own virtue and lob invectives against his critics, as if Sprezzatura were not Siegel himself. (LeMew has archived some of Sprezzatura’s greatest hits here.)
What a douche.
Sigel’s problem started when he began bemoaning the coarseness of the blogosphere, attempting to marginalize bloggers by dismissing them as “thugs,” even though his conclusion was drawn by relying almost exclusively on comments and emails he received from the most vitriolic commentariat, as opposed to a realistic cross-section of the blogosphere, defining our whole by our margins rather than our center. Stinging from the nasty emails he received and apparently lacking a delete function, he desperately used extreme examples to typify the blogosphere as “the stuff of thuggery and fascism,” and, worse than that, he implied that the passion and aggression which in some way define the blogosphere were evidence of his pronouncement, as if being passionate and aggressive is intrinsically unethical. In fact, as practiced by the majority of the progressive blogosphere, uncompromising assertiveness is both ethical and decidedly useful. But its expression—brazen, immoderate, and sometimes even containing the F-word!—offended Siegel’s aesthetic. That was the blogosphere’s real transgression.
But once Siegel looked down his nose from the pedestal he created by substituting refinement for morality, he realized he’d left himself in a precarious position, balanced there all alone high above the uncivil morass he had deemed the blogosphere to be. Having equated politeness with integrity, he left himself no room for response except genteel missives, which don’t count for much in a mudslinging match. So Sprezzatura was sent out to do his dirty work instead. Better to have two faces than one dirty mouth.
Like R-Far, I don’t understand—and have never had—the compulsion to create an alternative persona to either praise or defend myself. There are some places I write, like Comment is Free, where the comments get pretty rough and inevitably devolve into ad hominem attacks and namecalling, and my solution is to, you know, not care. The idea to assume another identity to defend myself in the third person strikes me as just insanely preposterous, mostly because I’m averse to engaging in unethical shenanigans, especially futile ones; I’m quite certain pretending to be a sycophant wouldn’t change anyone’s mind, anyway. And, frankly, I’m not shy to say anything I think is worth saying under my own name.
Dear Mannion once said of this crusty old blogmistress: “When male bloggers talk about this, they don't discuss it as if there's a difference of focus. They see it simply as proof of the essential soft-heartedness—by which some of them mean soft-headedness—of women. Women aren't up to the hurly burly of political debate, is the implicit and sometimes explicit message. (By the way, if you happen to think this way, then you haven't read Shakespeare's Sister.)” And, the truth is, anyone, of either gender, who isn’t up to hurly burly of political debate in the blogosphere, who can only deal with criticism by hiding behind a mask, doesn’t belong at the table. That’s not to suggest that a preternatural indifference to unfair criticism should be a prerequisite for jumping into the fray, but instead preparation for the reality that things are going to get ugly sometimes—and a recognition that no amount of ugliness is justification for unprincipled behavior in response.
It’s not always easy to let everything roll off my back. Sometimes I’m just having a shite day and some asinine comment will get under my skin, and if I can’t just let it go, and instead feel unstoppably compelled to respond, “Fuck you, asshole,” then I do it. Under my own ID. Because that’s the way I roll, bitchez.
And according to Siegel once upon a time, that makes me the integrity-challenged rabble. Perhaps he’d like to revisit that sentiment. Decorum, I trust he has realized, is no substitute for integrity. For every ivory tower that’s built, there are a lot of dead elephants who aren’t fucking impressed.
Movie Recommendation
Fearless Freaks.
"A documentary on the evolution of the Oklahoma band The Flaming Lips." Released 2005.
Especially if you love The Flaming Lips, but even if you don't. I just caught this documentary on the Sundance Channel (I think; maybe IFC), and it was really moving for reasons I'm not even sure I can totally explain. There's something about those guys that's breathtakingly lovely, not just as musicians, but as people. It's the thing that makes their shows just an amazing experience, gratifying down to one's very soul.
When I leave a Flaming Lips show at a small venue like Chicago's Metro, the usual crush of people piling down the stairs to leave is different; you're not shoved, but carried along as if you're floating. Or maybe it just feels that way.
Is it really soft bigotry when expectations should be low?
Believe it or not, this was a headline story at CNN.com this morning.
When the definitive compendium of all that is vapid and wrong with television news is finally written (a multi-volume work, to be sure), the morning news "concert" concept instituted by The Today Show and dutifully cloned by its competitors will have a major chapter all to itself.
Related: Media critic Rick Kisonak takes morning news programs to task. Or to trash. Whichever.
(Cross-posted.)
The Virtual Bar Is Open
Come on in and belly up to the bar.
Have a drink, leave a link, tell us what you think.
(Sorry for the delay, Shakers. Speaking of being broke, our internet was cut off, but we're back online again, for now. Sigh.)
Home, Home on the Range
Hello, Shakers!
Well, I'm all moved in... it happened during a torrential downpour, of course, and chaos reigned... but at least I'm in the new home, and aside from a little water running down one wall due to a leaky sprinkler, things seem pretty jake.
Aside from the fact that I have no internet access. And I might not for a while. Argh.
So, postings might be sparse while I sneak in online here and there... my time in the office is going to be minimal for the next week, so I'll be in and out. Thanks for sticking with me, and MANY thanks to Shakespeare's Sister for keeping things chugging along in Spudville.
Caption This Photo
US President George W. Bush waves after speaking to the 88th annual American Legion National Convention in Salt Lake City, Utah. Bush predicted an apocalyptic future if the United States hastily quits Iraq, and warned Iran would pay a price for not freezing sensitive nuclear work.(AFP/Tim Sloan)
Shaker Meet-Up
A week from today, Mr. Shakes’ best mate MWS and his girlfriend N will be arriving for a much-anticipated visit, and we were thinking that the day after—next Saturday—would be a good time to head for the scene of the last Shaker meet-up. The invitation is open to anyone who’d like to attend. Just fire me an email (or leave a request in comments) and I’ll get you the info.
No Al Gore this time, but I can promise two very gregarious and highly inebriated Scotsman as entertainment for the evening.
Quote of the Day
“I’d like the country I grew up in. It was a good country. I lived in Washington, D.C., 400,000 black folks, 400,000 white folks, in a country 89 or 90 percent white. I like that country. We didn’t vote to change it.” — Pat Buchanan
What a charmer he is.
Labor Day
PSoTD tagged me to answer the question: What does Labor Day really mean to you?
It’s never really meant much of anything to me, besides a day off, but this year, it just reminds me that I still remain unemployed after getting laid off last year. It reminds me of the nine gazillion résumés I’ve sent out to no avail. It reminds me that my unemployment has run out. It reminds me how terribly broke and teetering on the brink we are, and how guilty and embarrassed I feel about my inability to get a new job. Not that I need to be reminded of any of these things, as they prey on my mind every day.
It’s a terrible feeling, the despair at being unproductive, coupled with the frustration of not being able to find employment and hence regain some control, some sense of pride and achievement. I mitigate the loss of workplace accomplishment with blogging; it helps me feel less useless, like I am contributing something, at least. But my labor has no market value, and so I still struggle, at times, not to feel worthless, even though my labor is.
I’ve never been the type to define myself by my job. I’ve worked since I was 15, and I was never reluctant to put in long hours, late nights ,weekends, whatever it took to get the job done well, but I never felt like my self-worth was predicated on my position or my salary. I didn’t feel better about myself with promotions or raises, and when I took a cut in pay for a more low-key job after a stint at a particularly nightmarish firm, I didn’t feel any different about myself, just a lot less stressed. But I never considered—never had to, until now—that even though what I earned didn’t matter, just the simple fact of earning something did. A recognition that my contribution, my labor, mattered. It was, literally, worth something.
Without the acknowledgement a paycheck provides, I feel rootless and disconnected from where I’m supposed to be, as if I’m in exile from the rest of the world, where people have a place and a purpose. And then there are the practical considerations of having no income—our life is tearing apart, and I feel helpless and desperate and it’s all my fault. Or so it feels, in spite of my best efforts.
I certainly don’t mean for this to sound, if it does, like my circumstances are unique or special. It is, in fact, because I know they're not that I'm willing to talk about this so plainly, though it's not especially easy. One of the worst things about being unwillingly unemployed for so long is that, after awhile, people stop asking how you're doing, how the job hunt is going. It's shameful, whether it should be or not, and it gets harder to speak about the longer it goes on. And, in a splendid little ironic twist, harder to get a job again, too, as that gap on the C.V. ever widens. Then one day you find yourself asked to speak about Labor Day, and it's tough to think of anything else but how you miss the grind of work that makes you gasp for it like a desert oasis.
So, being a purveyor of worthless labor, and an optimist, I guess I’ll just look at this Labor Day as an extra day to spend with Mr. Shakes. No matter what else is happening around us, that is always a good thing.
X-Ray Jesus
Well, it’s been a whole week since the last holy folk sighting, so we were due for another one, and Jesus has shown up just in time—inside the body of a Pittsburgh woman.
A 34-year-old woman in Pittsburgh, Pa., claims the image of Jesus appeared to her in a recent magnetic resonance imaging scan of her body, according to a Local 6 News report. Rhonda Hodge of Duquesne had several X-rays taken of her spine because of a bulged disc, which has been causing numbness in her neck and left arm. One of the images caught her attention and that of her friends and co-workers. "What went through my mind?" Hodge said. "Just surprise. Oh my God, that's the crucifixion." Hodge said there is no doubt in her mind that the image looks like the crucifixion.
I had some x-rays taken of my lower spine before surgery for a herniated disk a few years ago, and I didn’t see Jesus, although Mr. Shakes did note with delight, “Look, you can see your coont!” And indeed you could.
Holy folks Gone Wild on turtles, ultrasounds, chocolate, dying plants, sheet metal, trees, more trees, wardrobes, water stains, grilled cheese sandwiches, potato chips, plates of pasta, drywall, fish, and more fish.
(Hat tip Blah3.)
