Old News
The Times of London says the right wing is gearing up to trash Barack Obama.
LEADING Republicans believe they can trounce Barack Obama in the presidential election by tarring him as a shady Chicago socialist. They are increasingly confident that his campaign could collapse by the time their attack machine has finished with him.Yawn. Is this the best they've got? Grover Norquist and Newt Gingrich? How retro-1994. Plus, being called a "shady politician" by the right wing is roughly equivalent to being called ugly by a frog; in some GOP circles, you're not even considered for membership until you can list references by Jack Abramoff and Tom DeLay.
Grover Norquist, an influential conservative tax reform lobbyist, said: “Barack Obama has been able to create his own image and introduce himself to voters, but the swing voters in a general election are not paying attention yet. He is open to being defined as a leftwing, corrupt Chicago politician.”
[...]
“It will be easy to portray him as even harder-left than Hillary,” said Norquist. “Hillary could lose the election, but Obama could collapse. People already know Hillary and she is not popular, but the disadvantage for Obama is that Republicans can teach people who don’t know him who he is.”
Newt Gingrich, the former Speaker of the House and Republican guru, recently described Obama as the “most leftwing candidate to run since George McGovern” – a reference to the anti-Vietnam-war Democrat who lost 49 states out of 50 to Richard Nixon in the 1972 election. Norquist believes Obama’s questionable Chicago connections will stir things further.
It's also worth noting that these wingnuts give barely more than a passing reference to John McCain, the presumptive GOP nominee. That's because, to them, he doesn't matter. These guys aren't out to promote his candidacy; they have monumental issues with him as it is. Their tactic is to destroy the Democrat regardless of who the candidate is in either race, and with a candidate like Barack Obama, they will be even more desperate.
That's because they are in deep, deep shit and they know it. They are saddled with eight years of a disastrous Bush legacy and yet another tired old candidate who has the added handicap of being despised by the True Believers. So it's little wonder that they're going to dig up every little thing about Sen. Obama they can find and flail it around like fetish. We've already seen it with the flag lapel pin and the hand-over-heart stories, and it's only going to get sillier.
It's all very predictable and very tiresome. The only unknown in the equation is whether or not the Democrats will be able to counteract it. After all, these wingnuts are, if anything, the masters of efficiency; they wouldn't do it if they didn't think it would work as well as it has in the past.
(Cross-posted.)
RAMs and SHEEP
Douglas Schoen, a former advisor to Bill Clinton and New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg, recently wrote a piece for the Washington Post in which he claims that this year's election may be decided by a block of voters he calls "restless and anxious moderates," or RAMs. "Most come from the third of the electorate that identifies itself as independent, but some Democrats and Republicans have also joined this new bloc," Schoen writes. "These voters tend to be practical, non-ideological and unabashedly results-oriented people such as Gary Butler, 60, who lives in Show Low, Ariz. Both parties, he says, 'are way too far apart, and nobody is looking out for the good of the people.'" Pollsters love to come up with fancy new names for this year's swing voters, who usually are not that much different from swing voters in previous elections. They are political sporks, people who can't make up their minds if they are really Republicans or Democrats, liberals or conservatives, whether they are called yuppies, Reagan Democrats, soccer moms, security moms, NASCAR dads or office park dads. Pollsters love these people because they can charge clients in either political party enormous sums of money to explain how to reach them.
But this election is not going to be decided by RAMs or any of these other groups that pollsters and political consultants like to re-invent every election cycle. This election is going to be decided by the same people who decide every election. I call them Scared High-strung Easily-manipulated Egocentric Pinheads or SHEEP. SHEEP are flaky not particularly bright voters who make up their minds at the last minute and vote instinctively for whichever candidate promises them the most and frightens them the least. They are people like Betty Bukowsky, 49, who lives in Dinkytown, Minn., who told me, "There's a Presidential election this year?"
"Will you stop calling my house during dinner time?" another SHEEP told me.
SHEEP are barely paying any attention to the election now, though most have a vague idea that the candidates are "some black guy, the woman Bill cheated on with Monica-something and a really, really old man who was in World War II or Vietnam or something and still hasn't gotten over it." Most of them don't vote in primaries because they aren't quite sure what primaries are. As the summer rolls around, they will start to form concrete opinions about the candidates based on 30-second attack ads and jokes on late-night talk shows. And come November, this group is virtually certain to determine the winner of the presidential race.
SHEEP don't really know what they want. SHEEP may tell gullible pollsters they are looking for substance and straight talk and an end to partisan bickering but in reality they are like high school girls who say they want to date a guy who is smart and sensitive and dependable and really, really cares about them but go to the prom with the first guy on the football team who asks them. The last thing SHEEP want to hear is straight talk, no matter what they tell pollsters. They want a candidate who will tell them exactly what they want to hear and looks good saying it, someone who will protect them from scary things like terrorist attacks or universal health care. They want a candidate who promises to pay attention to people just like them and won't give away things to people who are not like them who don't deserve it because they don't work as hard and nobody should get anything for free.
The political parties don't need to hire expensive consultants to tell them how to reach these people. All they have to do is define their opponent in a way that will provide easy fodder for Jay Leno's joke writers, make good skits on Saturday Night Live and give pundits something to repeat over and over again, and the SHEEP will fall into line. And candidates just need to come up with snappy put-downs of their opponents and vague, feel-good slogans and avoid saying or doing anything that will become a popular YouTube video and get replayed endlessly on cable news stations.
Republicans already know how to reach these voters and most Democrats will probably never learn (except for Bill Clinton who just got lucky). By November the SHEEP will have decided that one of the candidates really icks them out and the other candidate isn't so bad. And SHEEP are never wrong. If the person they voted for turns out not to be so great after all, they will say that the alternative would have been so much worse. "Just imagine how bad things would be if the other guy won," they will say and all the other SHEEP will nod along.
Crossposted at Jon Swift
The Vaudevillian
[Sorry for the paucity of posts today; I'm just really busy. I promise, however, there will be a Virtual Pub tonight! While I'm running around, here's a reprint of a post from last April, The Vaudevillian. Enjoy!]
The world must have seemed a tantalizingly big place to John Edward Noble, because he fibbed his way into the military just to start seeing every bit of it he could as soon as possible. The misrepresentation of his actual sixteen years was, however, only one of two lies that made their way onto his induction papers, the other being that the son of Elizabeth O'Rourke of Ireland and John David Noble of Scotland was a German-Italian. Inexplicably, John Noble the younger would spend his entire life telling this lie, though at the time of his birth in 1878, there was nothing particularly to be gained by claiming a heritage of sauerkraut and pesto over one of cabbage and haggis. What sense there was to be made of this curious lie was not made while he was alive; there's no hope to make sense of it now, forty-nine years after his death.
Just pieces of him now remain—and not enough to know him well by proxy. Pictures, some newspaper clippings. Facts—a date of birth, a year of death, a wedding anniversary. His favorite joke. It's said that one's favorite joke says something about a person. John Noble's favorite joke was the one about the guy who complains to his buddy that his wife is a terrible housekeeper, just filthy; "I've got to move the dirty dishes every time I want to piss in the sink." A touch of appreciation for the absurd then, it seems. But mostly, there is just enough left of John Noble to draw an outline, with the rest to be filled in by supposition and imagination.
He was fiery—that much is sure. And he loved a good fight. It was a terrible habit that would stick with him throughout his life, yielding lost jobs but great stories. A man of small stature with an outsized need to prove himself, he was dishonorably discharged from the military service he had lied his way into, sometime just around his 20th birthday and the Spanish-American War. In later years, he would draw an imposing man into a fistfight on the bus, because the guy was eating a salami and "blowing his salami breath" at the irascible scrapper.
At 19, he married the 16-year-old Elisabeth Rogatz, forming a union that no one thought could possibly last; they were too young; they were foolish. And for more than sixty years, John Noble marked their anniversary by saying, "They were right—it's never going to last. I'm going to divorce her." It was a weirdly wonderful union that lasted until death parted them, just as they had promised each other it would, probably because it was such a perfect, peculiar match. His foul temper was nothing to her; the angrier he would get about something, anything, everything, the more she would laugh, and the more she would laugh, the angrier he'd get. He loved to bake, and once made her two cherry pies, which were still cooling when she came in and said, "Oh. I wanted apple." John Noble picked up the pies and flung them against the wall, sending Elisabeth into gales of laughter as he stormed out and pie slid down the wall.
Then again, maybe what made their marriage work was spending much of it separated as John Noble was touring the world.
(John Noble is the clown on the bottom, twisting his body into its own trapeze in the advertisement to the left.)
Small but incredibly strong, and flexible, he made a career for himself as an acrobatic contortionist. He trained with his aunt and his uncle, known as The Nolas, and for some time, the three of them worked together, ever pictured in the same order, with young John Noble on the right. After his time with The Nolas, which, one imagines, ended with the retirement of his relatives and mentors, he spent the next several years as a part of various acts, though none of them found him any measure of success beyond a living, no small feat itself in those days.
It wasn't until John Noble founded The Richard Brothers: Comedy Gymnasts that he began to make a name for himself, even if it wasn't his name. The other Richard Brother was not his brother, though they shared at least one notable trait in common—not being named Richard. From whence the name was taken is anyone's guess.
The Richard Brothers
The Richard Brothers toured for many years, traveling all over the world. In one of John Noble's notebooks, he keeps a record of their destinations, and he can be followed from Rockaway Beach to London to Australia and back again, until his penciled notes are suddenly obscured with newspaper clippings—adverts for and reviews of their shows. Over time, the Richard Brothers move from opening act to headliners. The comedy gymnasts could draw a crowd, ladies and gents.
And John Noble always came home to Elisabeth. During the years he was a Vaudevillian, they had two daughters—and later, as a complete surprise, a son, born when his sisters were already nearly adults themselves and his father's aging body was soon to end his career as a traveling acrobat. This son was called Gene, and he was my grandfather.
One night in 1958, John Noble said to his son, like him an ardent stamp-collector, "Gene, I can't die yet. I've got too much work to do on those stamps." Though John Noble was 80 years old, he was in perfect health, strong in body and mind. Gene said, "You'll live another ten years. What are you talking about?" That night, John Noble died in his sleep.
His granddaughter, Mama Shakes, remembers him to me, tells me of his beloved cat Tommy, tells me of the time he hit his head on the edge of a trampoline and came home with his entire head bandaged and one wee eye poking out. Some of these are simply stories she has heard, part of the oral tradition of our family, and I search for myself in them. What part of John Noble has passed to me?
I have felt him my whole life in my body, stretchy and bendy and able to contort itself into awkward pretzels. My joints, my tendons, my curving fingers—they are his. Gene could wiggle his ears; I can roll my eyes in opposite directions. I am short and strong, with muscled legs, like Mama Shakes and Gene—and John Noble, who wanted to see the world.
Looking through his things, the remnants of his life, on Easter Sunday, Mama Shakes pulls an ancient, flaking newspaper from a bag, and Mr. Shakes picks it up gingerly to look at it. "This is a paper from Britain!" he exclaims. It is a copy of The Performer, from May 1914, on the very precipice of World War I, and there is no hint in its pages of the imminent conflict. Mr. Shakes reads apartment listings for London and Edinburgh. He turns brittle pages gently. We look at advertisements for the Vaudevillians converging in London from all over the world.
"Isn't it amazing," says Mr. Shakes, "that ninety-three years ago, this paper was brought from Britain, and now here's a Scotsman, reading it in Indiana." As big as the world ever may have felt to John Noble, in that moment, it felt beautifully small to me.
The Vaudevillian, John Noble
Happy Blogiversary...
...to our beloved Angry Black Bitch, celebrating three years of Shark-Fuing the shit out of all injustice she surveys.
Harmonic Convergence
Passed on from a friend:
This is a year when both Groundhog Day and the State of the Union address occurred in the same week. And as it has been pointed out, "It is an ironic juxtaposition of events: one involves a meaningless ritual in which we look to a creature of little intelligence for prognostication, while the other involves a groundhog."
Happy Valentine's Day
He looks into the mirror and he sees
Not what I see; he sees himself in parts,
Just skinny arms or legs with knobby knees;
I can't relate when this view he imparts.
For I see arms which form for me a space
That leaves no other place I'd rather be.
And I see legs which tangle and embrace
My own, or lead him steadily to me.
He sees smile lines and thinks they add on years,
Mark age upon his fair and freckled skin.
I love each crease which on his face appears,
Content the cause of those lines to have been.
Each scar to him is flaw; to me is art.
A line upon the map where lies my heart.
I love you, Mr. Shakes. This day and always.
Shooting on Northern Illinois University Campus
Back in December, the NIU campus was shut down after graffiti referencing the Virginia Tech shootings was found in a bathroom. It wasn't enough. This afternoon, "a skinny white guy with a stocking cap" opened fire on a lecture hall. The gunman is reportedly dead, and 13 people are confirmed shot, no other fatalities reported at this point.
I don't even know what to say about this shit anymore. My thoughts are with those affected.
Homosexual Crackdown!
Petulant just sent me this article headlined "Gays to face new clamp," about some really nasty homophobic immigration laws being considered in Bahrain. Quite obviously not a funny subject, but the story itself is, well, it's funny in the same way 1950's antigay propaganda films like "Boys Beware" are funny.
A NATIONWIDE crackdown on homosexuals could be launched in Bahrain, including tougher immigration checks to stop foreign gays entering the country. It would include a study to determine how widespread homosexuality is in Bahrain.Crackdown and Widespread. I'm sure I've seen that movie. I believe it starred Rod Majors.
Defense and national security committee secretary Jalal Fairooz said he wasn't sure how the study could be done, since the Interior Ministry already bans "suspected homosexuals" from entering the country, but there are problems catching all those zany homos since they are thwarting the government's sophisticated homo-detection techniques by butching it up as they go through immigration.
"They look manly as they come to the airport, but when they get in they return back to their unaccepted homosexual attitude," said Mr Fairooz.Those sneaky queers! Obviously, Bahrain needs to get itself a gaydar!
"Homosexuals are found in huge numbers at hairdressing salons and beauty and massage spas, which the ministry regularly inspects."
However, he said many homosexuals were slipping through the net because the ministry was having problems determining if they were gay or not.
The End is Nigh—But Not Nigh Enough, Dammit
Between Bill's post last night and Petulant's post just below (did you watch that video?!), I am just inflamed with pulsating detestation for President Fuckhead again. One of the most aggravating things about this extended primary season is that I am so. fucking. ready to be rid of Bush, and I'm exhausted with talking about change, change, change—I just want that change to get here already!
WHY WON'T YOU JUST GO AWAY?!
Everyone on the planet probably knows by now that I hate John McCain with the fiery passion of ten thousand suns, and even his craptastic old ass would be an improvement on Bush, if—Maude forbid!—he wins the election. As much as I hate John McCain, and it's a whole fucking lot, I know at least his horrendothon of an administration would be vaguely competent, unlike the clusterfucktastrophe of an executive branch we've got running us into the ground now!
I'm so over Bush, it's not even funny.
From Day One, Bush was my worst bloody nightmare—a right-wing ideologue with no checks or balances, left to pursue every conservative wet dream with abandon—as much as he was the Golden Boy of modern American conservatives—a corporate shill with the affected demeanor of a country bumpkin, who could hold together the unholy alliance between Big Money and Big Religion, standing at the altar and giving the blessing to the crackpot marriage between the business interests who sought to get rich off the stupid sniveling sods who marched in hypocritical lockstep with the warmongers and the corporate mercenaries, as long as they were promised protection from radical feminists and kissing boys. The hideous underbelly of unfettered authoritarian conservatism—exposed by this perfect storm of cobbled-together allies, a GOP-led Congress, and a never-ending stream of media mouthpieces willing to demonize anyone who dared to dissent—has been absolutely revolting, a grotesque mosaic of avarice, antipathy, incompetence, and corruption.
And all along I've been accused of blindly hating Bush, as if there were not reasons, as if I did not watch him take this nation to war on false premises; watch him abandon the "right" war; watch him create millions of refugees; watch him play class warfare with his gilded tax cuts; watch him let an American city drown; watch his administration out one of our own spies; watch him sell We the People piece by piece in massive government-underwritten giveaways to Big Pharma and Big Oil; watch more than 1,000 signing statements undermine the law; watch habeas corpus be cast aside like day-old bread; watch the Geneva Conventions and our Constitution be treated like suggestions…
You're goddamned right I hate George Bush.
You're right if you think I found him an insignificant slip of a man who was unprepared for and undeserving of the presidency, whose history as a drunken dullard, constructed aw-shucks shtick, and careful positioning as the ordained man who would marry religious extremists with neocon corporatists made me want to puke from the moment I laid eyes upon his sneering visage.
You're right if you think that his leadership shames me, that every heh heh which has emanated from his condescending mouth has made my skin crawl, that I am utterly unable to find the merest shadow of anything to like about him.
And you're right that I fervently long for the day he takes his leave from governance and retreats to Crawford for good, where I won't give the tiniest, microscopic shit about him whether he is lost in a tragic brush-clearing accident and his body devoured by wild dogs before the search party arrives, or whether he lives out the remainder of his useless life in good health and happiness—either way, I don't care, as long as I never have to think about him for the rest of my days.
Yes, I hate him. But not blindly. I have reasons—more than I can bloody well count.
And I can't wait for the day when he will be gone for good, never to give me another thing to add to my list of his crimes and failures.
I can't wait to see him go.
Going, going…
Awesome: Jane Fonda Says Cunt on Today Show
LOVE.
Ensler: Amazing.Of course Meredith Viera had to apologize later in the show: "We were talking about The Vagina Monologues and Jane Fonda inadvertently said a word from the play that you don't say on television. It was a slip and obviously she apologizes, and so do we. We would do nothing to offend the audience. So please accept that apology."
Viera: And I know when it started, there were some A-list celebrities who came out to help you, but, Jane, you at first were not a big fan of the play, so what turned you around?
Fonda: Well, it wasn't that I wasn't a big fan; I hadn't seen the play. I live in Georgia, okay? I was asked to do a monologue called "Cunt," and I said, "I don't think so; I've got enough problems." [laughter]
Viera: But then you were invited to go see it?
Fonda: Yes.
Yeah, the people who are offended by "the c-word" are probably the same ones who still call Jane Fonda "Hanoi Jane," so I'm sure that apology will be accepted no problem!
Wev. Saying "cunt" on national television is one of the privileges of being 70 years old!
[H/T Michael K]
Jungle Love
In the spirit of Valentines Day, the Miami Metrozoo put on its annual show Sex Among the Animals.
Wait until Fred Phelps finds out about that last one. With any luck he'll be picketing at Busch Gardens and get eaten by squirrels.Hosted by zoo ambassador Ron Magill, the popular lecture attracted more than 400 people to see and hear the intimate details of how wild things do the wild thing.
''This is the fifth time in a row this thing has sold out,'' Magill said. ''And I'll tell you why -- everybody wants to hear about sex.''
[...]
Magill dropped plenty of nuggets of who-knew? information, such as:
• Flamingos like to have sex with others watching them. Two of the birds will get down while 30 others look on.
• Frogs sometimes do it with two or more partners at a time. Most animals are not monogamous, Magill said.
• Female pandas only have a three-day window each year to get pregnant. Zookeepers have shown the pandas films of other pandas having sex to get them in the mood.
• Tigers in captivity are implanted with birth-control devices so they don't over-reproduce.
• Some animals are gay, too. ''Homosexuality is found throughout the animal kingdom,'' Magill said.
(Cross-posted.)
Actual Headline
McCain refuses to pander. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! No, really. I swear it's real—look:
Now, I grant you, it's the Washington Times, but still. I mean, in further proof there is no god, or—if there is—s/he ain't paying attention, every person reading a print copy of that article should have been struck by lightning just for proximity to such flagrant mendacity.
May I submit as evidence that McCain does not, in fact, refuse to pander, the following items: serving as Bush's Real Doll, accusing the Democrats of partisan pettiness, acting as apologist for missing WMDs, pandering egregiously, cozying up to white supremacists, slandering other veterans, rolling over on torture, embracing all manner of crap, being a grumpy old asshole, hatin' teh gayz, and more, hatin' the womminz, and more, endorsing the teaching of intelligent design, licking Bush's balls on the Dubai Ports contract, lovin' K Street, and more, lovin' Bush some more, and more, lovin' Jerry Falwell, lovin' Bob Jones, lovin' James Dobson, being a whiny-ass titty-baby, making hawt foreign policy recommendations, and some more, being a general wanker, lovin' John Bolton, blaming Teh Clenis, threatening suicide if the Dems took Congress (still waiting for that one to happen), calling for common sense (ahem), wooing the Federalist Society, hiring unethical fucknuts to run his campaign, engaging in class warfare, talking crap about the war, being a flip-flopper on his own signature issue, being a hypocrite, being a rude idiot, being a dumb fuck, running a terrible campaign, opposing an ethics bill, getting humiliated by high school students, calling America a Christian nation, making a general ass of himself, living on Cloud Cuckoo, hanging out with Imus, butchering pop culture references, weaseling around concerns about his age, lying about his qualifications, and, finally, the jewel in the crown's case:
Does not pander? Does not compute.
The most hilarious thing about the story in the Washington Times, by the way, aside from the headline, is the picture they chose to accompany it:
"Me? Pander? Whaddaya mean?"
"Look—he's panderpooped his pants again!"
Love, Satan, and sliders
Welcome to Valentine's Day, also known in some circles as Satan's Holiday (and not to be confused with Halloween). Like most people, I've had a checkered career with the Hallmark-branded occasion. On one such night, an casual evening out (and accidental in that I'd forgotten it was Feb. 14) with a woman I had assumed was throughly unavailable (she had a boyfriend) turned into the start of an intimate relationship (she disliked her boyfriend).
However, it all ended (she went back to her boyfriend). So that Valentine's Day memory is somewhat barbed.
On another V-Day, someone I'd been seeing let me know that my services were no longer required. Check, please!
Peaks and valleys, to be sure. Impossible to ignore, Valentine's Day can be an emotional challenge whether one is involved or outvolved; it's like New Year's Eve in that respect, only potentially much more stormy. Those in a safe harbor this time of year - whether romantically attached or not - should count their blessings and spare a kind thought for those caught up in turmoil.
Lots of couples are dining out tonight, while others are scrambling for dinner reservations. My current policy is to avoid eating out on V-Day; the occasion turns into Amateur Night at many restaurants what with the crowding and the overtaxed staff and the consequent decline in service. To say nothing of elevated expectations. A quiet dinner at home - nothing necessarily fancy - is much preferred here. For those determined to step out, I suggest a fun, postmodern spin on the V-Day dinner: White Castle, replete on this day of days with tablecloths, candles, roses, and tiny square hamburgers.
You still have to make a reservation, though, so get on it if you're going.
(Cross-posted. With tiny hearts.)
On Valentine's Day: Another Side of Soul-mates
by Anonymous Shaker
On Valentine's Day, one's thoughts naturally turn to love (either the having or the not-having of), and this one has been doing so. I have not been in a romantic relationship in many years—by choice—and, for the most part, have been happy with that.
Recently, however, I have had reason to question my choice, as I have met an incredible person who makes my very soul sing. This was quite a surprise to me, because I was, as I said, not looking for any sort of attachment, much less meeting and falling in love with someone. It was a surprise to the person (to whom I shall refer as "A") in question as well, because A is married. The fact that A is married was, for some time, a limiting factor, in that I was not at all thinking of A as anything more than a friend.
That changed rather quickly, though, as I realized how much A resonated with me. And especially when I realized that A felt the same towards me. We had found each other, and each had found a soul-mate in the other.
Have you ever met someone, and instantly felt comfortable and familiar with her/him? Felt like you've known each other forever, even though you may not know each other's last name yet? That is what I see as a soul-mate. Not necessarily a True Love, but someone you know from All Time.
I believe that we each have lived many times before, and will live many times more, as our soul—the essence that is us—learns and moves on to a higher existence. I don't know this for fact, but of all the belief systems I know, this one makes the most sense, and resonates the most for me.
As we each move through Time and live the lives that we do, we tend, I believe, to meet up with some of the same fellow-souls over and over, and these are the souls that we recognize on first contact in each lifetime. These are the souls that have been important to us in previous lives, as friend or life-mate or even enemy. In any given lifetime, a particular soul-mate may well be a True Love, but is just as likely to be a lifelong friend.
Myself, I have been lucky enough to meet three—make that four now—of my soul-mates, and may well meet more before I move on to the next life (which will hopefully be a good long time ... at least forty years, please?). None of the first three have turned out to be what people usually think of as a soul-mate—not a life partner among them.
As to this fourth one? Well, it's too early to say. Chances are that A and I will not be "more" than friends in this lifetime—especially in the near future. If not in this lifetime, though, most certainly in some Future one.
But what person really knows what the Universe has in store for her/his life? That's what living it is all about ... the finding out.
