Shaker Gourmet: Seared Scallops with Orange and White Wine

Our recipe this week comes from none other than our illustrious Blogmistress herself! 'Liss notes that it is: "one of my favorites, to make and to eat!"

Seared Scallops with Orange and White Wine, Served with Corn and Asparagus Risotto

* 6 sea scallops
* 2 cups corn kernels (from 4 to 5 ears of corn)
* 1/2 pound medium asparagus, sliced into thin rounds
* 1/4 cup long-grain rice
* 2 scallions including green tops, chopped
* 3/4 cup canned low-sodium broth
* 2 tablespoons heavy cream
* 2 tablespoons cooking oil
* 4 tablespoons unsalted butter
* 1 teaspoon chopped summer savory or thyme
* 1/2 cup dry white wine
* 1 teaspoon grated orange zest
* Salt and pepper

Melt 1 tablespoon of butter in small nonstick saucepan. Add the corn, the rice, broth, and summer savory. Season with salt and pepper. Cover and cook over moderate heat for 4 minutes. Add the asparagus and cook until the rice is tender, about 8 minutes. Add 2 tablespoons of heavy cream and cook over high heat until the mixture starts to hold together, about 1 minute. Mound the "risotto" in the center of plates and keep warm.

Slowly heat 1 tablespoon of the oil over medium heat in a large nonstick frying pan. Season the scallops with the salt and pepper. (We like more peppery and less salty.) Add half the scallops to the pan and cook until browned, about 1 minute. Turn and cook until browned on the second side and just done, about 2 minutes longer. Remove from the pan. Repeat with remaining scallops. Wipe pan.

Melt the butter over moderate heat. Add the scallions and cook for 1 minute (stir occasionally). Add the wine and orange zest. Cook until the sauce thickens slightly, about 2 minutes. Add the scallops and warm until just heated through, about 1 minute.

Transfer scallops to plate and enjoy!

If you'd like to participate in Shaker Gourmet--and I hope you do because we need recipes!--email me at: shakergourmet (at) gmail.com Include a link to your blog, if you have one!

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Blech

Meet the Young Republicans. Same as the Old Republicans.

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RIP Anthony Minghella


Oscar-winning director Anthony Minghella has died suddenly at age 54 of a hemorrhage following surgery last week to remove a growth in his neck.

Minghella was the director of some of the finest films of the modern era, including The Talented Mr. Ripley, Cold Mountain, Breaking and Entering, Truly, Madly, Deeply, and Mr. Shakes' favorite film, The English Patient.

Oh dear. Blub. He was one of my favorites. He's left us with extraordinary gifts.

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It Takes Strength to Be Gentle and Kind

Obama's speech, "A More Perfect Union," is here, if you'd like to see it. Ben Smith has the transcript here. I've only read it, I haven't watched the whole video yet, but it's very good—precisely the kind of eloquent and hopeful speech we've come to expect from Obama; I agree with a whole lot of it, and have some minor quibbles I don't feel inclined to detail.

There's one significant (to me) issue I have, and it's his failure to mention Clinton (at least in the prepared text), at whom some of Wright's invective was personally directed. It probably wouldn't bother me except for the fact that Obama's been a little ungracious to her on a personal level during this campaign. Clearly, they and their surrogates have provided plenty of reason for them not to like one another, and maybe they don't—but they are still colleagues and ideological allies at the end of the day. And, call me old-fashioned, but I still would like my president to treat people, even people with whom s/he has disagreements, with respect, despite Bush having spent the past seven+ years trying to make that expectation an antiquated notion.

I don't like it when I see Obama turn his back on Clinton, or refuse to look at her during debates. I don't like that he has failed to say he expects his supporters to vote for her if she gets the nomination, and has generally ignored issues of sexism—which I strongly suspect is not because he doesn't care about it (he is the father of two daughters, after all), but because he worries that its mention will remind people of his opponent.

It's an attitude that really rubs me the wrong way. One of the things I always really liked and admired about John Edwards was the fact that he was demonstratively respectful of his opponents. Even when he debated Cheney, who is arguably one of the most loathsome political figures in American history—but was also the vice president, the office of which deserved respect, even if the man who held it did not—Edwards looked at him when he spoke.


That says more about Edwards, ultimately, than it does about Cheney—which is something I feel like Obama hasn't quite grokked yet. He looked utterly contemptuous of Hillary when he would give up only "You're likeable enough," again, without looking at her save for a sideways glance, after she graciously noted how "very likeable" he is.


It's a decidedly unkind moment—and because, as Morrissey once so eloquently put it, "it takes strength to be gentle and kind," it also whiffs of weakness. I had the same feeling reading Obama's speech today, when he references "the white woman struggling to break the glass ceiling" and seems to be casting that sideways glance at Hillary, without actually looking at her.

The reason this is worth bringing up at all is because Obama is very likely to be the Democratic nominee, and, if he is, he'll be going up against John McCain, with whom he shares a long-running, mutual grudge. (Michael Crowley's got more in the current TNR.) McCain, despite being an enormous, belligerent asshole, is extremely well-liked—having, according to the latest Gallup polling, an incredible 67% favorable rating (!) among potential voters. Treating McCain with the same disdain Obama has been treating Hillary won't work. Cue the same complaints about haughty elitism that accompanied Gore sighing his way through debates with the thick-skilled Bush and Kerry treating the same intellectual slob four years hence with the contempt he deserved.

Bush wasn't as well-liked as McCain, and he's a war hero and an elder statesman, to boot—and that counts for something, sometimes more than it should, especially among the moderate demographic over which McCain and Obama will be fighting. Obama's got to be able to appear to like and respect McCain as a person, even if he doesn't. That's a political reality, even if it's a stinky one.

I'd love to see him get some practice by starting to treat Hillary the same way. It wouldn't kill him to note that she's more than "likeable enough." Actually, it would make him a lot more likeable, too.

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Assvertising

[Part 21 in an ongoing series: Parts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty.]

I'm honestly not even sure what to say about this commercial. It's another one from Burger King, who's a repeat offender in the Assvertising series and regularly creeps me out with their plastic-faced mascot/stalker:


This latest spot doesn't feature "the King," which is the best thing I can say about it. To describe it as sexist seems to miss the point; when Mr. Shakes and I first saw it the other night, I was just left slack-jawed with disbelief, while Mr. S. sputter-guffawed and exclaimed: "Fooking goods, ye've goot tae be kiddin' me!" He turned to me with raised eyebrows. "What did ye fink aboot that, Tschoobs?"

All I could manage was, "Morning tongue?!"


Transcript: [VO] Morning tongue—nothing to be embarrassed about. It's just your body building up excitement overnight, for hashbrowns filled with cheese. And when hot, crispy Cheesy Tots are on the BK Breakfast Value Menu, sporting morning tongue is perfectly natural. So go ahead—satisfy yourself, with Cheesy Tots from Burger King.
Just to make sure we're all on the same page with this sophisticated metaphor, dudez get "morning tongue" which can only be alleviated by "masticating" Cheesy Tots, much like a wank is the cure for a morning erection.

This:


…would be the precise moment in the commercial where they lost me. Because in this moment, they turned Cheesy Tots into something that I will forever associate with being rubbed on some douchebag's tiny dicktongue.



Grodius Maximus

Which makes me never, ever, want to eat Cheesy Tots. Or, frankly, anything else from Burger King.

Not that I've eaten there since at least the "I Am Man" campaign, anyway. Oy.

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Two-Minute Nostalgia Sublime

Ark II

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Question of the Day

Suggested by Shaker R. Skye: If life had a ctrl-f function, which would enable you to find anything you wanted, what would you find?

Probably a long-lost Danish friend of mine named Peter, who was an Eddie Izzard fan and had one of the greatest beards in all of bearddom.

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Feminism 101: Periods



And here I always thought it was my period!

Even though this is technically Woman 101, I'm filing it under Feminism 101, because I don't feel inclined to create a separate category of informative posts about the mysteries of boobies and cooters. I do, however, just want to take a moment to quickly address a myth about menstruation that has always aggravated me, but is now seriously grating on my last good nerve like a cheese grater to parmesan at the Olive Garden.

(And yes, sadly, it has reached a fevered pitch because a woman, and a post-menopausal woman at that, is running for president.)

"Ooh, touchy! You must be on the rag!"—First we need to deal with the fact that anyone who says this is an idiot, and not just because they have the emotional maturity of a zygote. The misogynistic "joke" here is predicated on the concept that women are "moody" when they have PMS, which stands for premenstrual syndrome. Pre. As in before. As in not having her period yet. For many PMS-sufferers, getting one's period alleviates some of all symptoms of PMS, particularly as regards irritability and tension. So the whole "on the rag" thing doesn't really make a whole lot of sense, for a whole lot of women. I suppose the sort of fuck-knuckle who uses a "joke" like this isn't too concerned about its medical accuracy, but I'm a pedant, so there you go.

My real gripe, however, is the general presumption, which is widely held, even by some of the most feminist people I know, that women who suffer cyclical irritability with their menstrual cycles get "irrational" and/or express anger about things that don't really bother them; it's just that they're being "sensitive" because of the whole period thing. The problem is that I've seen people using that erroneous presumption as an excuse to not deal with the issue about which anger is being expressed, including women themselves, who have been told over and over that their periods do make them irrational and sensitive and thusly feel inclined to exhort partners to "just ignore" them—a request often obliged with no small amount of self-congratulation.

Let's put this shit to bed right now: Women don't lose their minds when they have period-related irritability. It doesn't lower their ability to reason; it lowers their patience and, hence, tolerance for bullshit. If an issue comes up a lot during "that time of the month," that doesn't mean she only cares about it once a month; it means she's bothered by it all the time and lacks the capacity, once a month, to shove it down and bury it beneath six gulps of willful silence. Those are the things most worth paying attention to. (By both people involved.)

Such a bargain was struck at Shakes Manor many years ago, with a conversation that went something like this:

Liss: If I find one more of your trimmed whiskers in my fucking toothbrush, I will rip your throat out.

Mr. Shakes: Why is it oonly when yer PMS-ing that my filthy bathroom habits toorn ye into a raving lunatic, wooman?

Liss: Your filthy bathroom habits annoy me 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It's only when I'm PMS-ing that I lack the tolerance and inclination to bite my tongue.

Mr. Shakes: Oh. I get it noo.

He tries not to get whiskers in my toothbrush. I try to mention things before I'm at the end of my rope. If I get to the point where I'm hanging on by a thread, we both pay particular attention. That seems to work.

Oh, also? Not treating PMS like something about which I should be ashamed. I experience it. It makes me short-tempered.

There are things that make Mr. Shakes short-tempered, too—like being under the gun at work. We pay attention in the same way, then. He's not ashamed, either—not that anyone was ever telling him he should be.

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I Recommend Not Holding Your Breath, Either.

Amanda's written a good post which astutely notes that the media's fixation on the beliefs of Obama's pastor, especially after its yawning indifference to some of the truly alarming religious beliefs of erstwhile GOP candidate—and ordained minister—Mike Huckabee (as but one example), reveals a race-based double standard. (Matt T. Bastard has been all over it, too). Huckabee's extreme views on mixed-sex marriage, same-sex marriage, gay adoption, church and state, other religions, etc. got a total pass from a media that never bothered to note the guy was an unapologetic Dominionist, so their fainting couch routine over Jeremiah Wright's less-than-mainstream views is nakedly hypocritical.

Besides the double-standard in pearl-clutching, to which I have nothing to add, Amanda's post reminded me of something I wanted to mention about the whole Wright scenario; specifically, it was her opening rhetorical question: "Why the fuck do I know Obama's minister's name?!"

Why the fuck do I know Obama's minister's name?! No, really. Why? I don't know John McCain's minister's name. (But he does have a "spiritual guide".) I don't know Hillary Clinton's minister's name. I don't know John Edwards' minister's name. I don't know Mitt Romney's minister's name, and Romney was in a church that is actually out of the mainstream and "raised questions". I don't know George Bush's minister's name, but I know that whoever he is probably thinks I'm going to burn in hell for all eternity for the sin of being a feminist atheist.
Now, merely contemplating for more than a few seconds the incestuous intermingling of religion and politics in America runs the real risk of my turning my office into a vomitorium; I've met that ugly Frankenstein's monster face-to-face, of course, but my own experience notwithstanding, it's a principle about which I am so unyielding that I have found myself even defending Willard Romney, despite knowing he would be very unlikely to do the same for me. The point is, I literally could not agree more that a candidate's religion shouldn't matter.

But I do have a problem with the question "Why the fuck do I know Obama's minister's name?!"—because the reason I know Jeremiah Wright's name is that Barack Obama told me.

The first time most Democrats outside of Illinois heard of Barack Obama was at the 2004 Democratic National Convention, when he gave the keynote speech. It was there we first heard the phrase "the audacity of hope," and in interviews immediately after his much-discussed national debut, he credited his pastor with the phrase that he would also later use as the title of a book, saying his keynote speech (and his Christian awakening) was inspired by Wright's 1990 sermon of the same name. Naturally, Obama's intimacy with Wright's inspirational words has generated interest in Wright himself—especially considering the type of campaign he has run:
More than the other Democratic candidates for president, Obama has made faith a centerpiece of his campaign.

He has warned the left against ceding the mantle of religion to the evangelical right. He speaks of the church as an abiding force in American public life, from the Boston Tea Party through the abolitionist and civil rights movements. He suffuses his speeches with biblical allusions—"I am my brother's keeper" is a favorite phrase. And he has cast his generation of black leaders as modern-day Joshuas, after Moses' successor, who led the Israelites to the Promised Land.

Many of Obama's political views are "an outgrowth of his reading of some of the seminal parts of the Bible about doing unto the 'least of these' just as we would have done unto Christ," says Joshua DuBois, the campaign's director of religious affairs, paraphrasing verses in the book of Matthew. "He takes very seriously the numerous passages in the Bible that talk not only about poverty, but of people of faith taking God's words and extending them beyond the four walls of the church."
Running a campaign steeped in religious rhetoric has been a successful strategy for Obama; certainly his overt appeals to religious/Christian voters is part of the reason he has drawn the support of so many moderate conservatives. But it was always a calculated risk. Obama knew Wright would be a controversial figure in the mainstream, which is why Wright was reportedly disinvited from delivering the prayer at his presidential announcement—a bit of caution that now seems quaint, given the last week's uproar.

Lest anyone jump to my conclusion and presume I'm engaging in a bit of victim-blaming here—"That's what Obama gets for playing the game!"—hold your fire. Obama has more reason to play this game than most of the Democratic candidates who have preceded him. He came to Christianity (which yet remains the only acceptable religious option for presidential candidates) late in life, and he attended a Muslim school in his childhood (never mind that it was secular, nor that he attended a Catholic school, too). Making his faith the centerpiece of his campaign was one way to dispel the inevitable hang-wringing and irrational alarmism that were going to happen about his background—and have, like clockwork. To ignore this reality of the religiously-fixated American political system and culture (and its double-standard with regard to Democratic candidates generally) would be deeply unfair. And the fact that I do know Obama's minister's name, and not the others', says something about that reality. In fact, it's the whole point.

So, no—I am not remotely saying that Obama played a game he could have avoided, nor am I suggesting that he deserves whatever he gets for playing. The problem is an institutional one. It manifests and is constantly reinforced in a thousand different ways, including Huckabee the Republican getting a pass for his not-mainstream views while Obama's religious mentor is given a public colonoscopy, and John Kerry's religious views scrutinized for perfect alignment with Catholic teachings while Bush's religiosity is never questioned even if he routinely fails to go to church, and Amanda's and my religious views being used against John Edwards, and Romney's grandfather's religious beliefs being used against him, and the shitastic press coverage of all of the above, and the inexplicable refusal of candidates to say: "Fuck you, it's none of your business"—and American voters' obstinate, ninny-brained willingness to indulge this preposterous bullshit over and over and over and bloody over again with each election, because, evidently, we are collectively too stupid to distinguish between someone who is religious and someone who is ethical, because we are too daft and ignorant to acknowledge once and for all that religion is not the singular genesis of morality.

We know Obama's minister's name because he told us. And until we all grow up and decide we're really going to have a country with a genuine separation between church and state, and no religious litmus tests, we are going to have candidates introducing us to their religious mentors, and various other ways of trying to out-god each other. This would certainly be as good a time as any to revisit the wisdom of that habit and engage in a little self-reflection on whether it's actually helping our country in any discernible way.

But I'm not going to hold my breath waiting for that to happen.

* * *

Update: As if designed to prove my point, in the video Petulant posted of New York Governor David Paterson's swearing-in, Paterson first thanks the judge who swore him in, then: "I would like to thank Rabbi Schmuel Lefkowitz(ph), one of my dear friends, for coming and speaking here today, and also Monsignor Wallace Harris(ph), my pastor, for delivering that invocation as well." So now I know his minister's name, too.

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Another Hero Passes

(Posted by Kathy from Birmingham Blues)

Bruce Hilton, father of Tom and Steve Hilton of If I Ran the Zoo, passed away on Thursday. Their mother Virginia died in October 2007. Both of the Reverends Hilton worked on the front lines of the civil rights movement and continued to advocate for social and economic justice throughout their lives. They were strong supporters of LGBT equality and founded the Parents Reconciling Network. Bruce was the author of Can Homophobia Be Cured?, which graced my bookshelf for many years before I "met" Tom and Steve online and became part of the IIRTZ family.

There is a nice article from the University of Indianapolis alumni magazine detailing Bruce's life and career here. The San Francisco Chronicle did a feature on Virginia after her death. Go read them and be inspired by what two ordinary people can do when their lives reflect their passion for justice.

Tom and Steve, I'm so sorry for your loss. Your father and mother left a wonderful legacy -- for you and for us.

Shakers, you can send your condolences to Tom and Steve and their families here.

Cross-posted at Birmingham Blues and If I Ran the Zoo.

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Ever Closer to Marriage Equality

There's a good article in today's New York Times about the limitations of civil unions; three years after Connecticut legalized civil unions, same-sex couples are finding (quelle surprise) that "the measure had not delivered the equal rights it had promised." It's one thing to promise to guarantee "the same rights" as mixed-sex couples, but, in practice, it's not so easy; the regulations of public and private systems and services (e.g. healthcare, pensions, tax laws) recognize "marriage" but not "civil unions" as a determinative category for qualified participation, and administrators of those systems and services often have no idea what to do with "civilly unionized" couples. And that's to say nothing of the general second-class caste of civil unions.

Two bits of the piece really stuck out to me as bookends to the timeline of the inexorable progression toward full marriage equality, highlighting how in it we are at the moment.

First, there was the description of civil unions as a "political compromise that several states have made in recent years to grant rights to gay and lesbian couples while preserving the traditional definition of marriage as between a man and woman." With each passing year, the conspicuity of the undeserved privilege being protected to mollycoddle the delicate sensibilities of straight wankers becomes ever more pathetically hilarious. Within the next few years, only among the most reluctantly egalitarian sorts will there still be arguments mounted against same-sex marriage, invoking gods by various names (Jesus, Mohammed, Tradition) as thin veneers to lay atop the desperate insecurity about their super-special relationships losing the shimmering, golden glow that only denying equality to same-sex couples conveys upon their gloriously gilded unions.

Fifteen years ago, when someone said with a straight face (no pun intended) in a politically-mixed group, "Gay marriage will undermine the sanctity of marriage," I was usually the only (straight) one to greet that ridiculous assertion with a contemptuous laugh and a challenge to elucidate on what basis the premise was founded. (It's amazing how quickly you can change a mind when you make it realize it's spouting nonsense.) Fifteen years from now, it will be nothing but a punchline.

And then there was this:

Eli, who was conceived with the help of a surrogate, is now 5. When his kindergarten class was playing "Farmer in the Dell" recently, Eli grabbed the hand of another boy while his friends sang, "the farmer takes a wife."

Knowing that Eli has two fathers, the other children quickly adjusted, singing "the two dads take a child" instead.

"Without missing a beat," [one of Eli's fathers] noted proudly.
That's our future, right there. Inevitably.

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Caption This Photo


President Mondo Fucko makes remarks on the economy in Washington, Monday, March 17, 2008 (AP Photo/Gerald Herbert). "In the long run, our economy is going to be fine," Bush said. Awesome news. I'm sure all the people who are struggling to buy staples and heat their homes today will sate their empty bellies and wrap themselves as if in a warm blanket with the reassurance that everything will be fine in the long run.

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Two-Minute Nostalgia Sublime

Mighty Thor

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The Angst of Nerditude

William Kristol takes off on Barack Obama.

The more you learn about him, the more Obama seems to be a conventionally opportunistic politician, impressively smart and disciplined, who has put together a good political career and a terrific presidential campaign. But there’s not much audacity of hope there. There’s the calculation of ambition, and the construction of artifice, mixed in with a dash of deceit — all covered over with the great conceit that this campaign, and this candidate, are different.
The worst thing he can say about him is that he's a phony; he's just another shady pol with sleazy and unattractive friends; this whole thing about a "change" is all an act, and Bill Kristol hates it because... well, because it's not his crowd that's doing it.

So in fact, “Generation Obama” is just a fancy name for young activists for Obama. But the (remarkable) conceit is this: The “next great generation” of Americans can appropriately be called “Generation Obama.”

Now I’m actually a believer in the next generation, which one might call the 9/11 generation. Many of its members seem more serious and impressive than we baby boomers were when our elders were foolishly praising us, 40 years ago, as the best-educated, most idealistic generation ever. Many of the best of this young generation are serving their country — either in the military or otherwise. Some are in politics, working for various causes, liberal and conservative, and for various candidates, Democrats and Republicans. But surely there’s something creepy about a campaign claiming them as “Generation Obama.”
I guess Bill doesn't remember being part of the "Reagan Revolution" where he was one of the younger generation that worshiped at the feet of the master and went around the country like a Stepford version of "Up With People," trying to be a freshly-scrubbed counterpoint to the hippies, and was rewarded for his loyalty by getting to work for Vice President Dan Quayle, the Big Giant Head of Nerditude.

Unless I've missed it, I have yet to see Mr. Kristol write anything that examines Mr. Obama's positions on the economy, health care, education, foreign policy, or anything of substance. So far it's all been surface noise and petulant ranting about how Mr. Obama isn't what he claims to be. However, since Mr. Kristol has spent the last seven years or so defending a president and an administration that has made shallowness and artifice into an art form, the worst complaint that Mr. Kristol can come up with about anyone else who dares to portray themselves as something they are not (i.e. a boy from Andover-Yale-Harvard-Kennebunkport passing himself off as a brush-clearing cowboy) is that he's stealing his act.

The more I read William Kristol, the more I'm convinced that he had a really rough time in high school. He was never cool, and even though he probably never got stuffed into a locker at his elite Manhattan prep school, he more than likely nursed the typical adolescent angst at being left out of the in-crowd. Those kinds of hurts last a long, long time, and since we spend most of our adulthood trying to make up for the traumas of childhood, it's not surprising that he's spent his professional career trying to get back at the hip kids that ignored him when he was fifteen.

Update: Mr. Kristol might do a little fact-checking when he cuts and pastes material from another source. He repeats a story making the rounds on the internets that challenges Mr. Obama's truthfulness.
For one thing, it’s becoming clear that Obama has been less than candid in addressing his relationship to his pastor, Jeremiah A. Wright Jr., of Chicago’s Trinity United Church of Christ. For example, Obama claimed Friday that “the statements that Rev. Wright made that are the cause of this controversy were not statements I personally heard him preach while I sat in the pews of Trinity.”

It certainly could be the case that Obama personally didn’t hear Wright’s 2003 sermon when he proclaimed: “The government gives them the drugs, builds bigger prisons, passes a three-strike law and then wants us to sing ‘God Bless America.’ No, no, no, not God bless America, God damn America, that’s in the Bible for killing innocent people. ... God damn America for treating our citizens as less than human.”

But Ronald Kessler, a journalist who has written about Wright’s ministry, claims that Obama was in fact in the pews at Trinity last July 22. That’s when Wright blamed the “arrogance” of the “United States of White America” for much of the world’s suffering, especially the oppression of blacks. In any case, given the apparent frequency of such statements in Wright’s preaching and their centrality to his worldview, the pretense that over all these years Obama had no idea that Wright was saying such things is hard to sustain.
Except Marc Ambinder does a little research and finds out that Mr. Kessler just might be wrong about his facts.
The error is in trusting the source without checking.

The truth is that Obama did not attend church on July 22.

He was on his way to campaign in Miami.

(Here is some video evidence.) This was before he signed an agreement forbidding himself from campaigning in Florida.
And since Mr. Kristol's entire column seems to turn on this alleged falsehood, it kind of knocks the wind out of the rest of it, doesn't it?

Update 2: Mr. Kristol has inserted the following correction to the beginning of today's column:
In this column, I cite a report that Sen. Obama had attended services at Trinity Church on July 22, 2007. The Obama campaign has provided information showing that Senator Obama did not attend Trinity that day. I regret the error.
Fair enough...except he left the offending reference in the column.

(Cross-posted.)

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Talk to Your Mother

Last week I put up a post about Oklahoma State Rep. Sally Kern's rant against gays that was caught on tape. As expected, she got a lot of reaction to it, most of it negative. However, there's one person's reaction that is interesting, and that's her son, Jesse. Her single, 31-year-old musician son who's a teacher of metaphysics in Des Moines.

The son of a state lawmaker who has condemned homosexuality as a worse threat to the U.S. than "terrorists or Islam" said Friday he wants it known that he is "straight and not gay." Jesse Kern, son of Rep. Sally Kern, R-Oklahoma City, said information purporting that he is gay, which has appeared on several blogs, is damaging to himself and his family.

Kern, 31, said he feels the media has a responsibility to seek out the truth, then report it. Kern, who said he is affiliated with the Des Moines School of Metaphysics, said that he chooses to be celibate, but he is not homosexual. "First of all, no one's sexuality is anyone's business. It is not even my mother's business," he said. "I practice celibacy to give to my God," he said.

Kern said metaphysics helps teach him such things such as concentration, which has helped him keep focused with all the adverse publicity surrounding his mother's comments.

Kern said his mother's comments apparently were taken out of context. He has not chosen to listen to the audio version that has been disseminated widely throughout the nation. Kern's views differ from those of his mother, although he applauds her for standing up for what she believes, and thanks his parents for his good upbringing. His father is a Baptist minister in Oklahoma City.

He said the purpose of sex is reproduction, and it is the function of the animal body. "But we are more than animals, and we can use sex for a tool of deep relationship with another person." Kern added that what is more important than whether it be a relationship with someone of the same sex, is that there "needs to be honor in any relationship whether it is a straight or gay relationship.
Far be it from me to doubt his word about him being straight-and-not-gay, but I find it really interesting that the son of a Baptist preacher is teaching metaphysics and doing everything he possibly can to distance himself from his mother's point of view without calling her out in public.

It's not uncommon for politicians who are vehemently anti-gay to have gay children; Phyllis Schlafly and Alan Keyes come to mind immediately. Whether or not there's a connection between the two is speculative (in that the parent's response to having a gay child can manifest itself by being publicly hostile to gays, since they see it as an assault on their parenting; not that the child was "made gay" as an adolescent rebellion to the parent's views on homosexuality) but it certainly is ironic, and when it's revealed to the public, the politician usually responds by saying that it's a "private matter." Again, a heaping dose of irony, please, since these people usually make it their business to drag someone else's sexuality out into the public square for a flogging... and then scold them for flaunting their sexual orientation.

Whatever Jesse's orientation is, it does sound like he's got his head on straight compared to his mother.

(HT to Joe and Melissa.)

(Cross-posted.)

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The Virtual Pub Is Open



Thank the heavens it's Friday, Shakesvillians!

Step into the ginmill and name the libation of your choice.

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Travesty of Mirth

For your reading pleasure whilst I build the pub...

I was invited to hold a symposium with Yale drama students. The symposium was arranged by the genial head of the Department of Theatre Arts at Yale. I found myself entering (through a door marked EXIT) an auditorium considerably smaller than the Shubert but containing a more than proportionately small audience. I would say roughly about twoscore and ten, not including a large black dog which was resting in the lap of a male student in the front row. My own position was in a folding chair behind a folding table on which was set a tumbler of what appeared to be plain water and which I immediately discovered to be just that. Furthermore, the young faces before me were uniformly inexpressive of any kind of emotional reaction to my entrance through that side door marked EXIT. In fact, the only face that betrayed a real interest was that of the dog.

I am not much good at disguising my feelings, and after a few moments I abandoned all pretense of feeling less dejection than I felt. I was talking. I was making these tired old jokes that come off like the destitute man's Bob Hopeless at an encampment in some failed war. I found myself sinking lower in the folding chair, and that slumped position, combined with fits of wheezing, sniffling, and coughing, encouraged some of the small assemblage to get up and walk out on me, a thing that stirred in my heart no sense of the favorably providential. Still I continued to hear myself talking but no longer telling old jokes. I heard myself describing an encounter, then quite recent, with a fellow playwright in the Oak Room Bar at Manhattan's Plaza Hotel. I told them that this encounter had been inadvertent on both his part and mine, but since he happened to be my old friend Gore Vidal, I had embraced him warmly. However, Mr. Vidal is not a gentleman to be disarmed by a cordial embrace, and when, in response to his perfunctory inquiries about the progress of rehearsals of Out Cry I told him that its two performers, Michael York and Cara Duff-MacCormick, and the director, Peter Glenville, and the producer, David Merrick, all seemed a dream come true after many precedent nightmares, he smiled at me with a sort of rueful benevolence and said, "Well, Bird, it won't do much good, I'm afraid, you've had too much bad personal exposure for anything to help you anymore."

Well, then, for the first time, I could see a flicker of interest in the young faces before me. It may have been the magic word Vidal or it may have been his prophecy of my professional doom. At any rate, a young lady student of drama in the diminished group stood up to ask me if I regarded Gore's assessment of my present situation in my profession here in the States as a reliable one.

I looked at her in silence for a moment while wondering if I did so regard it, and I came to no conclusion about the question.

My eyes drifted from her face to that of the young man in the front row with the big black dog in his lap.

Laughter has always been my substitute for lamentation and I laugh as loudly as I would lament if I hadn't discovered a useful substitute for weeping. Usually I laugh longer than I should, as well as more loudly than I should. This time I cut short my travesty of mirth and said to the young lady, "Ask the dog."


[From Tennessee Williams' Memoirs, which I'm currently re-reading (again). My copy is a hardcover British first edition from 1976 that I picked up in a musty London bookshop for £3.50, which I adore, but a new edition in paperback is now available for pre-order, with an introduction by the splendid John Waters. I'll have to get that, too, someday.]

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Friday Cat Blogging

This is my pussycat, Miss Olivia H. Grumbles.



She is quite the roustabout, earning her keep around Grumbles Estate
with the most excellent mousing skills this side of Twopenny Lane!

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This Is All True

In the comments thread of my letter to Al Gore, Shaker Ruleoflaw said: "It is a fact—Superman wears Al Gore pyjamas."

Now, you know I don't like to have bad information running around on the blog, so I set one of my top secret sources (best in the blogosphere!) onto the case to see if the claim could be verified—and I think you're all going to be surprised by what my source discovered.



IT'S TRUE!

Superman really does wear Al Gore pajamas. (And pyjamas, too!) You heard it here first, Shakers.

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A geography of murder

There are some weeks, some months - actually, all of 2008 so far - in which the news seems generally more sinister and oppressive than usual.

In this particular week, the news out of St. Louis concerned the murder of an attorney, an assistant counselor for St. Louis County named Luke Meiners. According to authorities, he was killed in a house in the 5700 block of Waterman Boulevard, a house inhabited by one of the men accused of his murder. Meiners’ body was not discovered in that house, but in the woods outside Venice in Illinois.

As the linked Post-Dispatch article states, this would mark only the second time that this house on Waterman Boulevard was connected to the murder of a person whose body was removed to and found in Illinois.

That house was once occupied by a man named Curtis Thomas. In 1993, he was convicted of the decapitation of his wife, Lynn. Her body was discovered outside Litchfield, Illinois; her head was never found. It took three hours for the jury to convict Thomas, who is serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole. William Stage, a reporter for the Riverfront Times, published an account of the crime.

I knew Curtis Thomas once, though not well. We had what you’d call a retail relationship. Thomas used to run a newspaper/comics shop on Delmar Boulevard in University City; I think it was called “First Edition” or “Final Edition,” something like that. In those days, I was living just off Delmar and had little better to do with my money than spend it on cigarettes and Marvel Comics, and so I saw a great deal of Thomas. I remember him as sociable enough for my tastes, though perhaps a bit prickly.

In time, the shop changed hands. I moved to another apartment farther off the main drag. Life moved on, and I didn’t give Thomas a thought until he appeared in the paper, accused of having killed his wife in grisly fashion.

And I should have been happy to never think of him again, but along came this week, that house, another murder.

Speaking for myself - and keeping the very real grief of Meiners’ friends and family in mind - this has been one creepy week.

It’s a long way, I know, from reasonable and theoretical concepts like “a sense of place” to the horror story trope of homes remembering the deeds and lives that have passed through them, storing emotions and events within their very bones, imbuing the place with an essence of the past. Okay, so it’s a very long way, and superstition never looks good on anyone.

All I know is that that house on Waterman Boulevard is at the top of my list of places to avoid.

(Cross-posted.)

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