First of all, is that not insanely daunting? Bob Dylan was only 34 when he released Hard Rain, where you hear that angry, mythical version of "Idiot Wind" at the end. The album that song is on, Blood on the Tracks, came out in early 1975, when he was still 33. I mean, that is insane to ponder, if only for a second.
Jack White is now 34. He has not released a comparable invective, but he is getting frighteningly close to Dylan's temperament during the Rolling Thunder Revue of 1975. I refer to his new band, the idiotically dubbed "supergroup" The Dead Weather. How could they be super? They have Jack White, and that is really it. Well, not really. Alison Mosshart of the great duo (oddly like The White Stripes) The Kills is the lead singer. Sort of. White gets the biggest applause from the audience when he emerges from behind the drums and sings, either alongside Mosshart or by himself. Then there's the Queens of the Stone Age guitarist and the bass player from The Raconteurs, another side project of White's, but one that was only interesting for a second.
His duets, or at least backup vocals, with Mosshart bring me to my point. They are beyond sultry, and I can't be totally unsure that the two aren't making out when they sing into the same microphone. This reminds me disturbingly of Dylan's duets with Joan Baez on the 1975 odd, peripatetic megatour, The Rolling Thunder Revue, that he headlined. The two would sing together on several songs at the end of Dylan's first set, and one or two at some point during his second set. (Remember when rock musicians did multiple sets? Me neither.) Their mouths would get so close together that many people at the time could not tell whether or not they were kissing. (And that would have been scandalous--it was a simpler time.)
Jack White writes very good songs, but he gets most passionate when he does covers. Listen to "Jolene" in any bootleg, but certainly on the Under Blackpool Lights live DVD, and you can easily see the difference in intensity and passion from White versus some of his own songs. His own songs are terrific, but it would be a stretch to call any of them "great." This doesn't bother me, though, because his covers are tremendous. When he plays "Death Letter" by Son House, I get scared because I have to check and make sure that an atomic bomb didn't go off on the next block. Also, his take on Burt fucking Bacharach's "I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself" explodes. He also does incredible versions of songs by Dylan, like "Love Sick" or "One More Cup of Coffee," or, seen also in the Blackpool DVD, "Outlaw Blues." The first of these songs came out when Dylan was 56. The Dead Weather's ferocious version of 1978's Street Legal's "New Pony," originally a plunky throwaway ditty, is another entry here, and Dylan was 37 when he wrote it.
White is only 34, so we can only wait to see where he goes. I hope that in fifteen years, more or less, he won't become a fundamentalist Christian. Maybe his whimsical but ultimately fruitless dalliance with the Roman Catholic seminary got that out of his system. Hope hope hope.
(Writers have a much different sense of time and age. The one example I know someone could cite is Norman Mailer, who was 25 when The Naked and the Dead was released. That book isn't that good, everybody, and he turned 35 before Armies of the Night, which isn't bad but isn't great, and was 57 when he published The Executioner's Song, his true masterpiece and an amazingly long (1,000+ pages, people) exercise in fiction/nonfiction about the life and execution of one Gary Gilmore, a stereotypically undependable ex-con and simultaneously Shakespearean tragic character. Plus, Cormac McCarthy was 52 when he published his "early" Blood Meridian, and 73 when he became a comically reticent and reluctant member of the "Oprah Book Club" with The Road. Don DeLillo, too, was 60 when the best American work of the last quarter-century, Underworld, came out in 1997, and was almost 50 when he first garnered national acclaim in 1985 with White Noise. So there you go. Safran-Foer sucks, so I won't even count him, or Dave Eggers or whoever.)
R
*(Disclaimer: Poetry might be the one exception, but that might be way too long ago to consider.)
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Where Have You Gone, Ted Kennedy?
HBO has been running a new documentary about Ted Kennedy, and I kept wondering, as I watched it, where he's been lately. I know he has a brain tumor and all of that, so I'm not talking about the actual Ted Kennedy. Where is his modern equivalent?
The real Ted Kennedy's main cause has always been health care, and he's consistently made that clear throughout his long tenure in the Senate. In fact, health care was a big part of his platform when he tried to challenge the then-incumbent president, Jimmy Carter, in 1980. First of all, how crazy is it to think back and understand that he actually ran against the incumbent Democratic president, who should not have had to worry about his party's nomination? I can't think of anyone since who threatened to run against the president, although I might be too lazy to think of one. Since then, at least, I don't think anyone has seriously tried.
I've mentioned before that I fear that Obama might become as feckless and dilatory as Jimmy Carter with regard to domestic policy. Say what you will about Ted Kennedy, but at least he became a hugely influential senator and champion of numerous causes, health care being chief among them.
When he spoke at the DNC in 2008, to the surprise and delight of many Democrats, he reiterated his devotion to the cause of universal health care for Americans:
"This is the cause of my life, new hope, that we will break the old gridlock and guarantee that every American, north, south, east, west, young, old, will have decent quality health care as a fundamental right."
I can't think of another legislator who could be so eloquent, let alone direct, about this issue. Who carries the torch now? Democrats have to placate moronic members of their own party (the Blue Dogs, obviously) and so have diluted the health care bill to such an extent that now even it limps. And I doubt it's covered.
So who has the balls to step up now? Waxman has already apologized for trying to be imposing. What about Kennedy's counterpart from Massachusetts, junior Senator John Kerry? I hope you're laughing, because if I start ranting about that bloodhound, I doubt you would even be able to chuckle after a few minutes. Who can Americans see now as a fierce advocate for health care in the Senate?
Ted Kennedy, our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.
R
The real Ted Kennedy's main cause has always been health care, and he's consistently made that clear throughout his long tenure in the Senate. In fact, health care was a big part of his platform when he tried to challenge the then-incumbent president, Jimmy Carter, in 1980. First of all, how crazy is it to think back and understand that he actually ran against the incumbent Democratic president, who should not have had to worry about his party's nomination? I can't think of anyone since who threatened to run against the president, although I might be too lazy to think of one. Since then, at least, I don't think anyone has seriously tried.
I've mentioned before that I fear that Obama might become as feckless and dilatory as Jimmy Carter with regard to domestic policy. Say what you will about Ted Kennedy, but at least he became a hugely influential senator and champion of numerous causes, health care being chief among them.
When he spoke at the DNC in 2008, to the surprise and delight of many Democrats, he reiterated his devotion to the cause of universal health care for Americans:
"This is the cause of my life, new hope, that we will break the old gridlock and guarantee that every American, north, south, east, west, young, old, will have decent quality health care as a fundamental right."
I can't think of another legislator who could be so eloquent, let alone direct, about this issue. Who carries the torch now? Democrats have to placate moronic members of their own party (the Blue Dogs, obviously) and so have diluted the health care bill to such an extent that now even it limps. And I doubt it's covered.
So who has the balls to step up now? Waxman has already apologized for trying to be imposing. What about Kennedy's counterpart from Massachusetts, junior Senator John Kerry? I hope you're laughing, because if I start ranting about that bloodhound, I doubt you would even be able to chuckle after a few minutes. Who can Americans see now as a fierce advocate for health care in the Senate?
Ted Kennedy, our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.
R
Monday, July 27, 2009
The Blue Dogs Need To Be Put Down
Blue Dog Democrats, if you don't know, are Representatives in the House who lean to the conservative side of major issues. Plainly put, they're Republicans who know they can't win as a member of the GOP, and so place their careers before their constituents.
This has never been more obnoxious than now, with the health care bill getting ready for a major vote. Wouldn't you know it, too? These pathetic politicians are, as I've said, putting their careers ahead of their party as well as those that they represent, and in this case ahead of progressive (see: intelligent, or at least thoughtful) legislation that would help millions of Americans who shouldn't have to pay for health care in the first place.
Socialism! Communism! Fascism! They all scream that universal health care is a slippery slope that could lead to any of these scary "ism"s. I'm quite sure that anyone who would do this doesn't know that communism and fascism lie at opposite ends of the ideological spectrum. I wouldn't be surprised, though, because they're idiots.
Georgia Representative Hank Johnson, not a Blue Dog, bemoaned his party's lack of movement on this issue. Poor Henry Waxman, one of my favorite congressmen, who bears a striking resemblance to a cartoon mouse, also had some harsh words for the conservative Democrats, saying, "We're not going to let them empower the Republicans to control the committee." Nevertheless, he realized that he needed their votes and had to give an apologetic press conference next to Mike Ross, a Blue Dog from Arkansas.
I've said it before, but enough with the conciliatory, pusillanimous tone that Democrats use all the time in Washington. I partly blame President Obama for this, because he's the one who wanted to ensure bipartisanship across the board. The problem is, though, that the Republicans won't meet him halfway because they only want to hamstring him into passing tepid legislation that would effectively maintain the sad status quo.
The real problem now is not these Republicans, but Democrats. The former has become a laughingstock, and thus irrelevant to anyone with two brain cells to rub together, but the latter needs to step up forcefully, finally. First of all, the elephant in the room are actually these Blue Dog Democrats, because they're are not really Democrats--let's make that clear. As I said before, they're really Republicans who want to keep getting elected, a la Arlen Specter. Take North Carolina Representative Heath Shuler: he's pro-life, anti-gun control, and also against gay marriage. Sounds like a Republican to me, no? If it looks like blah and smells like blah--you know what I'm getting at, I hope.
The Blue Dogs need to stop playing it safe, suck it up, and vote with their party--at least the party that they claim to, ahem, be a part of. Say what you will about Republicans, but they get things done. Awful things, but still--they passed all sorts of crazy shit when they were in the majority. And easily, I might add.
Now Democrats are in the majority, but conservative Democrats are actually rendering their dominance of Congress moot.
I have a solution. It may not be popular with the other side of the Party, but the Blue Dogs need to be euthanized. They all have broken antennae, or at least aspirations that impede what they were elected for, and thus need to be put down.
R
This has never been more obnoxious than now, with the health care bill getting ready for a major vote. Wouldn't you know it, too? These pathetic politicians are, as I've said, putting their careers ahead of their party as well as those that they represent, and in this case ahead of progressive (see: intelligent, or at least thoughtful) legislation that would help millions of Americans who shouldn't have to pay for health care in the first place.
Socialism! Communism! Fascism! They all scream that universal health care is a slippery slope that could lead to any of these scary "ism"s. I'm quite sure that anyone who would do this doesn't know that communism and fascism lie at opposite ends of the ideological spectrum. I wouldn't be surprised, though, because they're idiots.
Georgia Representative Hank Johnson, not a Blue Dog, bemoaned his party's lack of movement on this issue. Poor Henry Waxman, one of my favorite congressmen, who bears a striking resemblance to a cartoon mouse, also had some harsh words for the conservative Democrats, saying, "We're not going to let them empower the Republicans to control the committee." Nevertheless, he realized that he needed their votes and had to give an apologetic press conference next to Mike Ross, a Blue Dog from Arkansas.
I've said it before, but enough with the conciliatory, pusillanimous tone that Democrats use all the time in Washington. I partly blame President Obama for this, because he's the one who wanted to ensure bipartisanship across the board. The problem is, though, that the Republicans won't meet him halfway because they only want to hamstring him into passing tepid legislation that would effectively maintain the sad status quo.
The real problem now is not these Republicans, but Democrats. The former has become a laughingstock, and thus irrelevant to anyone with two brain cells to rub together, but the latter needs to step up forcefully, finally. First of all, the elephant in the room are actually these Blue Dog Democrats, because they're are not really Democrats--let's make that clear. As I said before, they're really Republicans who want to keep getting elected, a la Arlen Specter. Take North Carolina Representative Heath Shuler: he's pro-life, anti-gun control, and also against gay marriage. Sounds like a Republican to me, no? If it looks like blah and smells like blah--you know what I'm getting at, I hope.
The Blue Dogs need to stop playing it safe, suck it up, and vote with their party--at least the party that they claim to, ahem, be a part of. Say what you will about Republicans, but they get things done. Awful things, but still--they passed all sorts of crazy shit when they were in the majority. And easily, I might add.
Now Democrats are in the majority, but conservative Democrats are actually rendering their dominance of Congress moot.
I have a solution. It may not be popular with the other side of the Party, but the Blue Dogs need to be euthanized. They all have broken antennae, or at least aspirations that impede what they were elected for, and thus need to be put down.
R
Sunday, July 26, 2009
I'm Not Drunk, But Thanks For The Concern
Some of the symptoms of multiple sclerosis mess with my motor skills. I've gotten used to people assuming I'm drunk, but let me explain why this happens and why I've come not to care about both those symptoms and the accusatory eye that I get from time to time.
MS fucks with my balance. I learned to get a cane to deflect perpetual critical eyes. The first time I knew I'd have to get a cane was at Delilah's, a great dive bar in Chicago that has since lost some of its charm due to the smoking ban. About a year ago, I was going inside with a few of my friends and had to show my ID to the doorman. So far, so good, right? Well, I wobbled when plucking my license from my wallet and the doorman assumed, understandably, that I was wasted. "Are you gonna be okay?" he asked, and then when I said that I was fine, he assured me, "Okay, because I don't want to have to kick you out at some point." Now, I could have explained that I had MS and all of that, but I didn't want to get into it. I just assured him I was fine and moved along.
Of course, to anyone who knows me this accusation is hilarious, because I don't drink. Anymore. I used to drink a frightening, almost (almost) comical amount. Whiskey was my drink, but I did not discriminate. Like the Lou Reed song says, "Whiskey, bourbon, vodka, scotch--I don't care what it is you got."
A few years ago--I think it was 2006 but I really am not sure, I checked myself into rehab in Maryland. At that point, my drinking had gotten out of control. I simply couldn't stop. I remember, during my last semester in college, when my then-girlfriend asked, "Why don't you just have three drinks, and that's it?" She really couldn't do it either--which is itself a bad sign--but I sheepishly agreed to try. Needless to say, this was not an option I could take. There's an AA aphorism that is right on the money, that says that one drink is too many and ten is not enough for an alcoholic. (I don't do AA, much to the chagrin of countless people, I'm sure, but I cannot abide the religious overtones and the need for a "higher power." I remember in rehab when they would say things like, "It doesn't have to be God. It can be anything, like Nature for instance." First of all, I hate nature--a Thoreau enthusiast I am not--and the ban on "humanity" as a higher power ended my association with that group. I'm sorry, but I don't believe in God, nor do I think that believing that humanity as a whole, which is mind-bogglingly impressive and thus qualifies as a "higher power," should be maligned and forbidden to be used as one. Amazingly, though, in Maryland, where I went, they didn't care much, which was shocking and wonderful. But I digress...)
So my balance is almost nonexistent, and occasionally I'll have a few days when I see double. Thankfully, this goes away eventually, but it does not help my coordination when it's active.
I have friends that drink--some copiously--but it does not bother me. I just hate the accusation toward myself of inebriation, especially since alcohol has been pathologically stricken from my palette of options. Actually, the only problem arises when I have a drink spilled on me, and then have to explain the smell to questioning eyes.
Rest assured, though--I can't (not "shouldn't") drink, and I couldn't even if I wanted to do so. MS has rendered my alcoholism nearly obsolete and inconsequential. This may seem specious, because a degenerative neurological disease should throw me into the throes (homonyms!) of a bottomless bender. I can't drink, though. If I did, I'd probably be absolutely covered in bruises, or a body cast, which ironically wouldn't constrict my mobility as much as you'd think. Plus, I've never broken a bone, so I think that if I did you could be suspicious.
I've also never been stung by a bee, so if I blow up like Martin Short in "Pure Luck," I probably need help.
So if I show up in a cast or with a hypodermic needle somewhere in my torso (hopefully not like Uma Thurman in "Pulp Fictionn"), then your suspicions might be valid, and I'd approve another round of intensive therapy, be it psychological or more conventionally medical.
Until then, you can rest assured that I'm not wasted. I just stagger regularly.
R
MS fucks with my balance. I learned to get a cane to deflect perpetual critical eyes. The first time I knew I'd have to get a cane was at Delilah's, a great dive bar in Chicago that has since lost some of its charm due to the smoking ban. About a year ago, I was going inside with a few of my friends and had to show my ID to the doorman. So far, so good, right? Well, I wobbled when plucking my license from my wallet and the doorman assumed, understandably, that I was wasted. "Are you gonna be okay?" he asked, and then when I said that I was fine, he assured me, "Okay, because I don't want to have to kick you out at some point." Now, I could have explained that I had MS and all of that, but I didn't want to get into it. I just assured him I was fine and moved along.
Of course, to anyone who knows me this accusation is hilarious, because I don't drink. Anymore. I used to drink a frightening, almost (almost) comical amount. Whiskey was my drink, but I did not discriminate. Like the Lou Reed song says, "Whiskey, bourbon, vodka, scotch--I don't care what it is you got."
A few years ago--I think it was 2006 but I really am not sure, I checked myself into rehab in Maryland. At that point, my drinking had gotten out of control. I simply couldn't stop. I remember, during my last semester in college, when my then-girlfriend asked, "Why don't you just have three drinks, and that's it?" She really couldn't do it either--which is itself a bad sign--but I sheepishly agreed to try. Needless to say, this was not an option I could take. There's an AA aphorism that is right on the money, that says that one drink is too many and ten is not enough for an alcoholic. (I don't do AA, much to the chagrin of countless people, I'm sure, but I cannot abide the religious overtones and the need for a "higher power." I remember in rehab when they would say things like, "It doesn't have to be God. It can be anything, like Nature for instance." First of all, I hate nature--a Thoreau enthusiast I am not--and the ban on "humanity" as a higher power ended my association with that group. I'm sorry, but I don't believe in God, nor do I think that believing that humanity as a whole, which is mind-bogglingly impressive and thus qualifies as a "higher power," should be maligned and forbidden to be used as one. Amazingly, though, in Maryland, where I went, they didn't care much, which was shocking and wonderful. But I digress...)
So my balance is almost nonexistent, and occasionally I'll have a few days when I see double. Thankfully, this goes away eventually, but it does not help my coordination when it's active.
I have friends that drink--some copiously--but it does not bother me. I just hate the accusation toward myself of inebriation, especially since alcohol has been pathologically stricken from my palette of options. Actually, the only problem arises when I have a drink spilled on me, and then have to explain the smell to questioning eyes.
Rest assured, though--I can't (not "shouldn't") drink, and I couldn't even if I wanted to do so. MS has rendered my alcoholism nearly obsolete and inconsequential. This may seem specious, because a degenerative neurological disease should throw me into the throes (homonyms!) of a bottomless bender. I can't drink, though. If I did, I'd probably be absolutely covered in bruises, or a body cast, which ironically wouldn't constrict my mobility as much as you'd think. Plus, I've never broken a bone, so I think that if I did you could be suspicious.
I've also never been stung by a bee, so if I blow up like Martin Short in "Pure Luck," I probably need help.
So if I show up in a cast or with a hypodermic needle somewhere in my torso (hopefully not like Uma Thurman in "Pulp Fictionn"), then your suspicions might be valid, and I'd approve another round of intensive therapy, be it psychological or more conventionally medical.
Until then, you can rest assured that I'm not wasted. I just stagger regularly.
R
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Cambridge PD & Gates: The Real "Amos & Andrew" (& some White Sox jubilation)
At the end of President Obama's press conference on, ahem, health care, Lynn Sweet asked a completely impertinent question that became inflammatory. Lest we forget, the press conference was about HEALTH CARE. Sweet's question, which was really a non sequitur, centered on Obama's reaction to the arrest of Professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr., of Harvard, by officers who thought he was a burglar.
Police in Cambridge, MA arrested Gates on July 16 on suspicion of breaking and entering. The problem was that Gates was "breaking into" his own house. Luckily, the incident ended quietly and without violence, so Bruce Springsteen doesn't have to write another song about racially-motivated police brutality.
The question itself ended the press conference about health care reform, which is incredibly important. It also dominated the news coverage of the event. Unfortunately, in the ensuing scatological maelstrom, aka shit-storm, the absurdity and irrelevance of the question was lost amid stupid news reporters who heard nothing but Obama's reaction to the bullshit "question." It effectively ruined what had been a substantive q&a. People, in general, have tunnel vision when it comes to sensationalism. They neglected to realize that Sweet's question had absolutely nothing to do with the conference, and that it only stoked the conservative pundits' appetite for anything that makes Obama look bad.
The Gates episode itself reminded me very much of the 1993 movie--nay, film--"Amos & Andrew," starring Nicolas Cage, Dabney Coleman, and Samuel L. Jackson. In that movie, local police open fire on Jackson because they assume he's a burglar breaking into a house in the all-white island community. However, he owns the house, and the "gun" he pointed at Brad Dourif was actually the fob to turn off his car alarm, which Dourif had set off. To save face, Coleman, the town's sheriff, conspires to have Cage, a small-time crook with an unhealthy proclivity for teenaged girls, act like a burglar who wants to break into Jackson's home. Hilarity ensues, of course.
I could draw the conspicuous parallels here between this movie and the episode with Gates, but that would insult your intelligence. Plus, I'm lazy, and still excited about White Sox pitcher Mark Buehrle's incredible perfect game against the Devil Rays.
Not to take anything away from Buehrle, but the defense deserves a lot of the credit for the feat. I love Buehrle, and always have, because he moves the game, which can be quite tedious at times, along at a rapid clip. He pitches like one of those batting cage machines. One after another ball he hurls. He relies on the defense to do its job and stop the opposing team from scoring runs. Dwayne Wade's Willie Mays-esque play against the wall to save a home run, and thus preserve Buehrle's perfect game, has received much applause, but I don't think it has yet gotten enough credit.
So, let's congratulate Buehrle on a great game and a historic effort, but let's also not neglect the vigilant defense that made the game all the more perfect.
R
Police in Cambridge, MA arrested Gates on July 16 on suspicion of breaking and entering. The problem was that Gates was "breaking into" his own house. Luckily, the incident ended quietly and without violence, so Bruce Springsteen doesn't have to write another song about racially-motivated police brutality.
The question itself ended the press conference about health care reform, which is incredibly important. It also dominated the news coverage of the event. Unfortunately, in the ensuing scatological maelstrom, aka shit-storm, the absurdity and irrelevance of the question was lost amid stupid news reporters who heard nothing but Obama's reaction to the bullshit "question." It effectively ruined what had been a substantive q&a. People, in general, have tunnel vision when it comes to sensationalism. They neglected to realize that Sweet's question had absolutely nothing to do with the conference, and that it only stoked the conservative pundits' appetite for anything that makes Obama look bad.
The Gates episode itself reminded me very much of the 1993 movie--nay, film--"Amos & Andrew," starring Nicolas Cage, Dabney Coleman, and Samuel L. Jackson. In that movie, local police open fire on Jackson because they assume he's a burglar breaking into a house in the all-white island community. However, he owns the house, and the "gun" he pointed at Brad Dourif was actually the fob to turn off his car alarm, which Dourif had set off. To save face, Coleman, the town's sheriff, conspires to have Cage, a small-time crook with an unhealthy proclivity for teenaged girls, act like a burglar who wants to break into Jackson's home. Hilarity ensues, of course.
I could draw the conspicuous parallels here between this movie and the episode with Gates, but that would insult your intelligence. Plus, I'm lazy, and still excited about White Sox pitcher Mark Buehrle's incredible perfect game against the Devil Rays.
Not to take anything away from Buehrle, but the defense deserves a lot of the credit for the feat. I love Buehrle, and always have, because he moves the game, which can be quite tedious at times, along at a rapid clip. He pitches like one of those batting cage machines. One after another ball he hurls. He relies on the defense to do its job and stop the opposing team from scoring runs. Dwayne Wade's Willie Mays-esque play against the wall to save a home run, and thus preserve Buehrle's perfect game, has received much applause, but I don't think it has yet gotten enough credit.
So, let's congratulate Buehrle on a great game and a historic effort, but let's also not neglect the vigilant defense that made the game all the more perfect.
R
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
President Obama, Health Care, & White-Trash Distraction
First of all, President Barack Obama is a natural-born US citizen, born and raised in Hawaii (for the most part). So the relentless whisperings, or, more accurately, caterwauling from many stupid Republicans remind me of the persistence of zombies. You think they're dead, but no--they stand up again and come at you with fangs dripping with blood. They're stupid. Let me repeat that for anyone who doubts the President's authentic birth record: they're stupid. Stupid.
Anyways, the big topic now that this stupid distraction means to hide is health care. The US, as has been repeated ad infinitum, is the only major civilized nation without guaranteed national health care. This is obscenely inexcusable. I've heard it said many times, but as long as health care is a "for-profit" industry, it cannot improve with regard to accessibility. We can nibble away at the huge problems with it, but we can't really get anything done as long as we hang onto the "single payer" handle.
Dumb people hear "single payer" and freak out. They think "me" when they should think "us." The frightening "single payer" is the government, of for and by the people yadda yadda yadda. Millions of Americans already on a "single payer" program, like Medicare, are happy with it.
Here's the problem, as I see it: such national health care programs focus on prevention rather than only treatment. This sounds bad, but only if you're dumb enough to go into a fugue state when you hear "single payer." Mind you, prevention does not supplant treatment. What it does is try to get at the crux of the ailment in question.
I have MS, obviously, and the treatment for it sucks. I've complained here and elsewhere about the use of interferons. They simply only delay the obvious debilitation that is the disease's main objective. Private, for-profit insurance companies love the existence of such endless treatment because it's expensive and, well, endless--a true, shamelessly greedy capitalist's dream. I embrace capitalism, and the competition that it advocates in order to improve upon past designs/models/etc. However, with regard to personal health, such competition impedes, rather than advances, progress.
Somewhere along the line, the country focused more on treatments than cures. I suspect it has to do with the treatment of AIDS that we've slowly been lulled into accepting while forgetting about the ultimate goal of its eradication. National health care would recalibrate our direction in this sense, and we could look for ways to lower or end costs due to prolonged treatment by curing some diseases.
Cures. That's what we should focus on, and not only treatments that will make pharmaceutical companies more profitable. When it comes to health, there should be no such thing as profit or even balance sheets. Obama knows this, especially since he is faced with a sick economy. He doesn't want to stanch the proverbial bleeding and let coagulation be the final word. He wants to find out why you/we are bleeding. Bank bailouts and everything else might not look like a "cure," but we cannot simply walk away from the problem.
We need to cure it. Obama knows this, and is trying to apply pressure both to the nation's gaping wound (aka health care) and to massively dumb Republican, and "centrist" Democratic, congressmen who want to scare Americans into further lethargy. Inaction now is not an option, though, and Obama wants to get us away from enemy fire, which in this instance are pharmaceutical lobbyists.
They should get out of the way and let Obama pass. They need not worry, because he's a natural-born American. Plus he's their president, so they should really GET OUT OF THE WAY.
R
Anyways, the big topic now that this stupid distraction means to hide is health care. The US, as has been repeated ad infinitum, is the only major civilized nation without guaranteed national health care. This is obscenely inexcusable. I've heard it said many times, but as long as health care is a "for-profit" industry, it cannot improve with regard to accessibility. We can nibble away at the huge problems with it, but we can't really get anything done as long as we hang onto the "single payer" handle.
Dumb people hear "single payer" and freak out. They think "me" when they should think "us." The frightening "single payer" is the government, of for and by the people yadda yadda yadda. Millions of Americans already on a "single payer" program, like Medicare, are happy with it.
Here's the problem, as I see it: such national health care programs focus on prevention rather than only treatment. This sounds bad, but only if you're dumb enough to go into a fugue state when you hear "single payer." Mind you, prevention does not supplant treatment. What it does is try to get at the crux of the ailment in question.
I have MS, obviously, and the treatment for it sucks. I've complained here and elsewhere about the use of interferons. They simply only delay the obvious debilitation that is the disease's main objective. Private, for-profit insurance companies love the existence of such endless treatment because it's expensive and, well, endless--a true, shamelessly greedy capitalist's dream. I embrace capitalism, and the competition that it advocates in order to improve upon past designs/models/etc. However, with regard to personal health, such competition impedes, rather than advances, progress.
Somewhere along the line, the country focused more on treatments than cures. I suspect it has to do with the treatment of AIDS that we've slowly been lulled into accepting while forgetting about the ultimate goal of its eradication. National health care would recalibrate our direction in this sense, and we could look for ways to lower or end costs due to prolonged treatment by curing some diseases.
Cures. That's what we should focus on, and not only treatments that will make pharmaceutical companies more profitable. When it comes to health, there should be no such thing as profit or even balance sheets. Obama knows this, especially since he is faced with a sick economy. He doesn't want to stanch the proverbial bleeding and let coagulation be the final word. He wants to find out why you/we are bleeding. Bank bailouts and everything else might not look like a "cure," but we cannot simply walk away from the problem.
We need to cure it. Obama knows this, and is trying to apply pressure both to the nation's gaping wound (aka health care) and to massively dumb Republican, and "centrist" Democratic, congressmen who want to scare Americans into further lethargy. Inaction now is not an option, though, and Obama wants to get us away from enemy fire, which in this instance are pharmaceutical lobbyists.
They should get out of the way and let Obama pass. They need not worry, because he's a natural-born American. Plus he's their president, so they should really GET OUT OF THE WAY.
R
Monday, July 20, 2009
Peggy Noonan: America's Kindergarten Teacher
I hate Peggy Noonan. It feels good to get that out of the way, so I don't have to dwell on it... For those who don't know who she is, I envy you. Her voice stays cloyingly, condescendingly soft as she brings together the fingers of one hand and appears to draw circles in order to emphasize her pointless point. I saw her again today on some morning show, and I could not help but consider her as a feckless, vapid emblem of passive-aggression that drives me, notoriously, up a fucking wall. What is it about passive-aggression that makes "type A" people go nuts?
Her cadence of speech alone makes me want to shake her like a bad au pair. Probably, she doesn't mean to talk down to whomever is unfortunate enough to find himself in her sights. Even if she does, there's a way to do that without inciting rage. Just ask PJ O'Rourke. He's funny and smart and a Republican. An old-school one, though, who admits to his liberal morality without hiding it, unlike a number of other prominent Republican politicians who prattle on about traditional values and morals and other nonsensical bullshit, only to be found much more depraved than previously thought.
For those who don't know her--again, I'm jealous. Noonan used to be a speechwriter for the Great American Swindler/Sleight of Hand Artist/Original Dunce (except for Ford, lampooned by Chevy Chase), Ronald Reagan. (Must I hear another laudatory effusion from someone who doesn't know that he is the one most responsible for the gigantic economic disparities in this country, and who credits him with ending the Cold War but neglects his insane greed and, most importantly and despicably, his coronation of the endlessly dumb religious right on the stage of American politics? I have to get out of this rant, because my anger at and hatred of Reagan is, like Chili's nachos, bottomless.) She also famously mocked Barack Obama's Senate campaign a few years ago. What a prognosticator she turned out to be: he's president now, bitch.
The worst thing about her, though, is her condescending voice. It's light and deliberately, frustratingly calm, and it pisses me off. Pat Buchanan, crazy and idiotic as he is, at least intones. And Glenn Beck, along with the other nuts at Fox News, can sound like the very children that Noonan is trying to calm. He says insane things, but she says dumb things in a voice that is Siren-like, in the Homeric sense. It placates and subdues you until you forget that her opinions are absolutely irrelevant.
When asked about health care, she said that the Congressional Budget Office said that the Obama plan was "gonna have a very bad effect on the economy." First of all, it or anyone in the CBO never said that. Secondly, you can't rely on a bobble head that once said that W was "normal" and that "intellectuals start all the trouble in the world." I think it's fair to say that Bush was clearly not an intellectual, so her point is both moot and frustratingly moronic.
That was five years ago, and she has not softened her speech, although that would reduce her to a perpetual whisper. Really, that wouldn't be so bad. Still, her aversion to national health care makes me want to scream in her face. There'd probably--definitely--be curses, which might make her blush and raise those fingers, but I would snap them like Harrison Ford's in "Blade Runner."
R
Her cadence of speech alone makes me want to shake her like a bad au pair. Probably, she doesn't mean to talk down to whomever is unfortunate enough to find himself in her sights. Even if she does, there's a way to do that without inciting rage. Just ask PJ O'Rourke. He's funny and smart and a Republican. An old-school one, though, who admits to his liberal morality without hiding it, unlike a number of other prominent Republican politicians who prattle on about traditional values and morals and other nonsensical bullshit, only to be found much more depraved than previously thought.
For those who don't know her--again, I'm jealous. Noonan used to be a speechwriter for the Great American Swindler/Sleight of Hand Artist/Original Dunce (except for Ford, lampooned by Chevy Chase), Ronald Reagan. (Must I hear another laudatory effusion from someone who doesn't know that he is the one most responsible for the gigantic economic disparities in this country, and who credits him with ending the Cold War but neglects his insane greed and, most importantly and despicably, his coronation of the endlessly dumb religious right on the stage of American politics? I have to get out of this rant, because my anger at and hatred of Reagan is, like Chili's nachos, bottomless.) She also famously mocked Barack Obama's Senate campaign a few years ago. What a prognosticator she turned out to be: he's president now, bitch.
The worst thing about her, though, is her condescending voice. It's light and deliberately, frustratingly calm, and it pisses me off. Pat Buchanan, crazy and idiotic as he is, at least intones. And Glenn Beck, along with the other nuts at Fox News, can sound like the very children that Noonan is trying to calm. He says insane things, but she says dumb things in a voice that is Siren-like, in the Homeric sense. It placates and subdues you until you forget that her opinions are absolutely irrelevant.
When asked about health care, she said that the Congressional Budget Office said that the Obama plan was "gonna have a very bad effect on the economy." First of all, it or anyone in the CBO never said that. Secondly, you can't rely on a bobble head that once said that W was "normal" and that "intellectuals start all the trouble in the world." I think it's fair to say that Bush was clearly not an intellectual, so her point is both moot and frustratingly moronic.
That was five years ago, and she has not softened her speech, although that would reduce her to a perpetual whisper. Really, that wouldn't be so bad. Still, her aversion to national health care makes me want to scream in her face. There'd probably--definitely--be curses, which might make her blush and raise those fingers, but I would snap them like Harrison Ford's in "Blade Runner."
R
Sunday, July 19, 2009
A Midwestern Respite (from the Midwest)
I live in Chicago. However, I was raised in Indiana, which I came to resent. Recently, though, I've had to come back because I simply can't get around that easily. Sure, there are taxis and such, but only dealing with stairs and an extensive hallway is enough to frustrate me.
So here I am, back in Indiana. On the one hand, it's refreshing to be able to traipse the land, at the mercy of whomever is at the wheel of course. Honestly, moving one fucking block satiates any restlessness that I feel relegated to the indoors. Here, of course, I'm at the mercy of those with cars aka mostly family, but I'm much more mobile. Sure, I know people in Chicago with cars as well, but for some reason it's much easier to be driven around outside of the city.
That brings me to a major point that many people overlook, or don't even think of: people who live in cities are actually more isolated, personally insular, and just plain lonely than those in the suburbs or whatever. This sounds very contradictory. After all, shouldn't a massive population feed a huge, pulsing, constantly active social network?
This seems very obvious, but in fact people in cities are among the most lonely citizens. I think Lester Bangs first said that. Anyways, I'm not saying that I was lonely or any of those wimpy sentiments. I'm saying that I hated being locked, figuratively but actually literally, inside my apartment. I mentioned Bauby before, and I felt like him if he were ambulatory.
Unfortunately, though, this means that we'll all have to wait for my oft-mentioned linen wardrobe that I keep mentioning. Does a hospital gown count? If it does, I need only wait about a month before I find out the answer to that.
So for now, I'll take a small break from the metropolis with a brief sojourn in suburbia. Sounds like bad times, but only if you think about it too much.
R
So here I am, back in Indiana. On the one hand, it's refreshing to be able to traipse the land, at the mercy of whomever is at the wheel of course. Honestly, moving one fucking block satiates any restlessness that I feel relegated to the indoors. Here, of course, I'm at the mercy of those with cars aka mostly family, but I'm much more mobile. Sure, I know people in Chicago with cars as well, but for some reason it's much easier to be driven around outside of the city.
That brings me to a major point that many people overlook, or don't even think of: people who live in cities are actually more isolated, personally insular, and just plain lonely than those in the suburbs or whatever. This sounds very contradictory. After all, shouldn't a massive population feed a huge, pulsing, constantly active social network?
This seems very obvious, but in fact people in cities are among the most lonely citizens. I think Lester Bangs first said that. Anyways, I'm not saying that I was lonely or any of those wimpy sentiments. I'm saying that I hated being locked, figuratively but actually literally, inside my apartment. I mentioned Bauby before, and I felt like him if he were ambulatory.
Unfortunately, though, this means that we'll all have to wait for my oft-mentioned linen wardrobe that I keep mentioning. Does a hospital gown count? If it does, I need only wait about a month before I find out the answer to that.
So for now, I'll take a small break from the metropolis with a brief sojourn in suburbia. Sounds like bad times, but only if you think about it too much.
R
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Hermitry
I've mentioned before how the oppressive heat and humidity aggravate many of my symptoms, but actually it's been quite mild here in Chicago. August should be predictably brutal, so I'm actually looking forward to my impending extended stay at Northwestern Memorial.
Truthfully, the real problem lies in my restrained mobility. My balance is absolute shit, and my legs feel like they could rust over like the Tin Man's in "The Wizard of Oz." Plus I have scrambled eyesight whereby everything looks like "28 Days Later." Stairs, too, are a bitch, so I avoid them whenever possible.
So, I remain indoors most of the time. My porch provides almost the only outlet to the outdoors. I must confess: I don't mind this, because I don't like nature much. (Logan Square has mosquitoes, people, and they're annoying and very disturbing if you think about what they do.)
Shunning society isn't so bad if you're as purportedly misanthropic as I seem. Really, though, my previously mentioned circadian schedule prevents gregariousness before midnight. I don't think many people mind, admittedly. Just kidding.
Nevertheless, I cannot do much during the day, let alone socialize. Come fall, though, if I'm measurably relieved of at least a few of these symptoms, I might look into moving in the daylight.
As for now, I am getting scarily serious about my Emily Dickinson-inspired white linen dress (see below).
R
Truthfully, the real problem lies in my restrained mobility. My balance is absolute shit, and my legs feel like they could rust over like the Tin Man's in "The Wizard of Oz." Plus I have scrambled eyesight whereby everything looks like "28 Days Later." Stairs, too, are a bitch, so I avoid them whenever possible.
So, I remain indoors most of the time. My porch provides almost the only outlet to the outdoors. I must confess: I don't mind this, because I don't like nature much. (Logan Square has mosquitoes, people, and they're annoying and very disturbing if you think about what they do.)
Shunning society isn't so bad if you're as purportedly misanthropic as I seem. Really, though, my previously mentioned circadian schedule prevents gregariousness before midnight. I don't think many people mind, admittedly. Just kidding.
Nevertheless, I cannot do much during the day, let alone socialize. Come fall, though, if I'm measurably relieved of at least a few of these symptoms, I might look into moving in the daylight.
As for now, I am getting scarily serious about my Emily Dickinson-inspired white linen dress (see below).
R
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Obama's Speech to the NAACP
Was it not eerily reminiscent of MLKJ, Malcolm X, JFK, FDR, and other noteworthy acronyms that I can't conjure right now? & you could almost see the dark, prominent cheekbones of Lincoln nodding in approval, and, strangely, the not-so-prominent ones of Bill Cosby.
R
R
Rereading
This will be short, because I still have no proper desk at which to sit and write. Currently, I'm in an armchair in the living room. It's not bad or overtly uncomfortable, but I don't feel as loquacious as usual. This might be a good thing, though...
I'm now of the opinion that rereading is more important than reading. As of yesterday, I started "Underworld" again and find it much more engaging than previously, and it was already (especially the prologue) fairly captivating. I already have read "Hamlet" far more than is normal, but I used not to even consider rereading novels. "Hamlet" is Shakespeare's longest play, but even so it does not come anywhere near the 800+ pages of "Underworld."
Of course there are thousands of books I should probably pick up, but I've become fairly resigned when it comes to a new book. No way could I even make a dent in the pantheon of the printed word. This may be disconcerting to new writers, but actually it's an incentive to be good, and not simply to churn out drivel, and I'm talking about "prolific" writers, or hacks to be more accurate, like Stephen King or JK Rowling or whoever. I'd include Marquez here, but I think he just seems interminable.
R
I'm now of the opinion that rereading is more important than reading. As of yesterday, I started "Underworld" again and find it much more engaging than previously, and it was already (especially the prologue) fairly captivating. I already have read "Hamlet" far more than is normal, but I used not to even consider rereading novels. "Hamlet" is Shakespeare's longest play, but even so it does not come anywhere near the 800+ pages of "Underworld."
Of course there are thousands of books I should probably pick up, but I've become fairly resigned when it comes to a new book. No way could I even make a dent in the pantheon of the printed word. This may be disconcerting to new writers, but actually it's an incentive to be good, and not simply to churn out drivel, and I'm talking about "prolific" writers, or hacks to be more accurate, like Stephen King or JK Rowling or whoever. I'd include Marquez here, but I think he just seems interminable.
R
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Sotomayor and My Rosie Perez Fantasy
From someone else, this could be misconstrued as racist, but I'm a card-carrying (not literally, unfortunately now that I reside in Logan Square) Puerto Rican, so I think it's okay: whenever I see prospective Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor on camera in front of the senators who will, eventually, confirm her, I have a Cartman-esque caricature that goes through my head. He used Jennifer Lopez, but I see only Rosie Perez, complete with her grating voice (it's funny for about ten seconds, and then it just burns).
Earlier, I watched Stephen Colbert steal the bit I'm talking about, whereby a fist with drawn-on eyes, etc., talks with a thick Latina accent. I don't really mind comedic plagiarism if it's done well, which is one of the reasons I like Denis Leary but revile Carlos Mencia. In fact, when I saw Colbert's mustachioed fist, I realized that I have had the same caricature flash through my head. Sotomayor is amazingly eloquent and prudently guarded in her remarks, but I cannot help but think that I half-expect her to shout "no you di'n't" whenever she has to answer an idiotic question from a Republican senator like Jeff Sessions.
Sessions is from Alabama, so his voice is already written off as valid in my opinion. Call me what you will, but I hate the South, and 95% of its denizens shouldn't be allowed to vote. What amuses me about Sessions, though, is that he reminds me of EB Farnum, the hapless and pathetic innkeeper from Deadwood (I've said it numerous times, but that is my favorite show of all time), when he talks. A Southern accent alone makes me think you're legally retarded as it is (sorry but it's true), and his muddled, high-pitched, shit-eating voice does not raise his IQ in my mind. It doesn't help that he actually is a moron. He's a white male Southerner, which thankfully is a distinction that is becoming so passe that most logical Americans think of the whole caste as "out of touch."
Still, though, when I heard Sessions talk, and I will not quote him because doing so would nauseate me, I could not help but wish Sotomayor would turn to him with her eyebrows raised, lift her left hand with fingers akimbo (you know, like they do--and I hope her nails are short, because that means she's ready to swing), and call him a "cracka" or some facsimile.
She's much too stately for that, unfortunately, so for now I'll just have to amuse myself with reveries of her removing hidden big gold hoop earrings and handing them off in order to do battle unencumbered.
R
Earlier, I watched Stephen Colbert steal the bit I'm talking about, whereby a fist with drawn-on eyes, etc., talks with a thick Latina accent. I don't really mind comedic plagiarism if it's done well, which is one of the reasons I like Denis Leary but revile Carlos Mencia. In fact, when I saw Colbert's mustachioed fist, I realized that I have had the same caricature flash through my head. Sotomayor is amazingly eloquent and prudently guarded in her remarks, but I cannot help but think that I half-expect her to shout "no you di'n't" whenever she has to answer an idiotic question from a Republican senator like Jeff Sessions.
Sessions is from Alabama, so his voice is already written off as valid in my opinion. Call me what you will, but I hate the South, and 95% of its denizens shouldn't be allowed to vote. What amuses me about Sessions, though, is that he reminds me of EB Farnum, the hapless and pathetic innkeeper from Deadwood (I've said it numerous times, but that is my favorite show of all time), when he talks. A Southern accent alone makes me think you're legally retarded as it is (sorry but it's true), and his muddled, high-pitched, shit-eating voice does not raise his IQ in my mind. It doesn't help that he actually is a moron. He's a white male Southerner, which thankfully is a distinction that is becoming so passe that most logical Americans think of the whole caste as "out of touch."
Still, though, when I heard Sessions talk, and I will not quote him because doing so would nauseate me, I could not help but wish Sotomayor would turn to him with her eyebrows raised, lift her left hand with fingers akimbo (you know, like they do--and I hope her nails are short, because that means she's ready to swing), and call him a "cracka" or some facsimile.
She's much too stately for that, unfortunately, so for now I'll just have to amuse myself with reveries of her removing hidden big gold hoop earrings and handing them off in order to do battle unencumbered.
R
Monday, July 13, 2009
Comcast v. You= Ticketmaster v. Pearl Jam
Earlier tonight, "Helen" (she hates to be called that like I hate to be called "Rich," but it's my grandmother's name, so it amuses me) and I were talking about the obscenely, disproportionately high service fees of tickets and ticket agencies, and how they make socialism look bad because competition is almost nonexistent with regard to ticketing. Clearly, theoretically, as a staunch capitalist, I would not mind this entrepreneurial chutzpah. However, the immense, bald greed that cannot be obfuscated poisons the whole enterprise as far as I can tell. Ticketmaster and music venues, in collusion with the artist in question, sign an evil pact whereby concerts sell out, so owners of the halls or stadiums are happy, Ticketmaster is happy because it can withhold the artist like hostages under guns. & of course the artist is happy because he/she/they get an economical brand of Stockholm Syndrome, where they get to keep their vapid, indulgent lifestyle. In extremely rare cases, actual artists have to accept Ticketmaster simply as a necessary evil that lets them pursue their true inclinations.
In 1995, Pearl Jam tried valiantly, but ultimately failed, to loosen Ticketmaster's grip on the concert circuit. The band canceled its summer tour because the promoting conglomerate would not lower its service fees, which could go as high as $7.50. Nearly fifteen years later, this amount looks laughable when juxtaposed next to today's service fees, the cheapest of which still can surpass this "small" service fee. Btw, there was no actual "service" beyond entrance to the venue. Not until recently could you print out your tickets yourself. Of course, not until recently could you even consider tickets as flippantly as you do now. In a way, I'm almost grateful to the MS for curtailing my attendance to shows. Almost. I still have two more concerts this summer: The Dead Weather and Lolla-fucking-palooza. No, three: Pitchfork too. Two weekends ago, I came dangerously close to getting tickets to see the Arctic Monkeys at Metro, my favorite venue, but one still under the heavy thumb of Ticketmaster.
God it pisses me off... Just for getting me all riled up, Helen(i) may have to be dragged to these shows.
But why did I think of this? Today I waited for the cable guy to show up and install both cable television and wireless Internet. Lo and behold, even though they (I say "they" because it was the main guy and his trainee, who was unsettlingly older than his mentor) showed up reasonably within the four-hour parameters that they gave me, which they ignored twice a year ago and which prompted me to "punish" them by patronizing the nauseatingly inferior RCN, Comcast still sucks. It's reliably unreliable. Our remote controls aren't very universal, the wireless router simply doesn't work, and its DVR is also evidently useless. Even as I write this, I have to use someone else's connection. Luckily, they haven't figured out how to password-protect their connection, or they're RCN customers.
Think about that, though: I'm looking at our wireless router right now, and all it does is sit there, motionlessly mocking me. But I've switched before, and suffered for it. Now I just lie down and accept the abuse, like Tina Turner back when she was only Anna Mae Bullock.
So brace yourself, LNE: you have to suffer through Lollapalooza because I have to accept Comcast. Sure, they're both about me (sort of--you should really be obsessed with Bat for Lashes, who's also playing, and Lou Reed deserves a listen from everyone), but someone else has to wince at least, just a little. Plus, I have yet to get you hooked on "True Blood," which I fear is going down the same sensationalistic death march as "Lost," which I never really liked anyway.
But I don't mean to digress.
Rick
In 1995, Pearl Jam tried valiantly, but ultimately failed, to loosen Ticketmaster's grip on the concert circuit. The band canceled its summer tour because the promoting conglomerate would not lower its service fees, which could go as high as $7.50. Nearly fifteen years later, this amount looks laughable when juxtaposed next to today's service fees, the cheapest of which still can surpass this "small" service fee. Btw, there was no actual "service" beyond entrance to the venue. Not until recently could you print out your tickets yourself. Of course, not until recently could you even consider tickets as flippantly as you do now. In a way, I'm almost grateful to the MS for curtailing my attendance to shows. Almost. I still have two more concerts this summer: The Dead Weather and Lolla-fucking-palooza. No, three: Pitchfork too. Two weekends ago, I came dangerously close to getting tickets to see the Arctic Monkeys at Metro, my favorite venue, but one still under the heavy thumb of Ticketmaster.
God it pisses me off... Just for getting me all riled up, Helen(i) may have to be dragged to these shows.
But why did I think of this? Today I waited for the cable guy to show up and install both cable television and wireless Internet. Lo and behold, even though they (I say "they" because it was the main guy and his trainee, who was unsettlingly older than his mentor) showed up reasonably within the four-hour parameters that they gave me, which they ignored twice a year ago and which prompted me to "punish" them by patronizing the nauseatingly inferior RCN, Comcast still sucks. It's reliably unreliable. Our remote controls aren't very universal, the wireless router simply doesn't work, and its DVR is also evidently useless. Even as I write this, I have to use someone else's connection. Luckily, they haven't figured out how to password-protect their connection, or they're RCN customers.
Think about that, though: I'm looking at our wireless router right now, and all it does is sit there, motionlessly mocking me. But I've switched before, and suffered for it. Now I just lie down and accept the abuse, like Tina Turner back when she was only Anna Mae Bullock.
So brace yourself, LNE: you have to suffer through Lollapalooza because I have to accept Comcast. Sure, they're both about me (sort of--you should really be obsessed with Bat for Lashes, who's also playing, and Lou Reed deserves a listen from everyone), but someone else has to wince at least, just a little. Plus, I have yet to get you hooked on "True Blood," which I fear is going down the same sensationalistic death march as "Lost," which I never really liked anyway.
But I don't mean to digress.
Rick
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Atheism: Be Not Afraid
I've mentioned this before, but some Chicago buses now display ads on their sides that say, "In the Beginning, Man Created God." Now, any non-cartoonish atheist will tell you that these ads only serve as provocations which make many a militant Christian salivate with the opportunity of violent rebuttal they see.
This is not to say that all Christians see atheism as a threat that must be stamped out quickly and irrevocably. Instead, these reportedly sane Christians often condescendingly say, "Oh, you'll come around." Such patronizing sentiments are as provocative as those annoying bus ads, and atheists have had to endure such claptrap for most of their lives, if they're anything like I am.
I was raised in a cloyingly Catholic household that became more contentious as I entered puberty. Obviously, my lopsided anger can be attributed to hormones and all of that, but only a bit. It is incredibly frustrating to be made to go to church when you scoff at most of the dogma preached during Mass (remember, I was raised Catholic). And the sermons/homilies...Ambien would be out of business if this were a theocracy. Luckily, and much to the chagrin of proselytizing baboons, it is not.
I can understand some of the angry atheists, who had to be force-fed such inanity, but they're missing the point. Eventually, this anger gets mixed up in theological arguments which, in themselves, are vapid. Many people probably cringe whenever they pass "God Is Not Great" by Christopher Hitchens in a bookstore (if they can read at all--just kidding). They see every dissenting view on their religion as a personal attack. It is not, unless you're a politician who insists on legislating by the book, and I don't mean "Robert's Rules of Order." No, many of America's current problems exist because numerous politicians want to govern by the Bible, which would be manifoldly stupid and actually quite dangerous.
Evelyn Waugh actually did atheism a huge disservice by having that previously-unbelieving patriarch convert on his deathbed in "Brideshead Revisited." Sure, death terrifies humans, but the inescapable fact of mortality should not, naturally, be associated with theistic avowal. He sucked anyway, and the aforementioned novel is bad too, so I don't get too worked up over his thoughts on the afterlife and atheism, etc.
Not to digress too much, but can't we dispense with the term "atheist"? It sounds very ominous, even though the etymology means simply, "without a god." Not your god, or, more explicitly, "God." No god/God. That's it. Why do Christians and Muslims insist, vigorously and vociferously, that their "God" is the best, and the only one? I could cite numerous, endless really, instances of ugliness born of these religions, which actually fight each other? It seems crazy to me that bloodlust overrides piety.
So I don't believe in god/God. So what? I'm not spitting in your face, which many believers, I'm sure, would ironically love to do to me. I agree that those bus signs are infuriating. They anger me, and I'm a supposed heretic who doesn't believe in God/a god/a God.
Many atheists cite Occam's Razor for their unbelief, and this is massively stupid. The simplest explanation, they do not realize, for their own existence, and that of the whole cosmos, involves one old man with superior intelligence. In fact, the universe is an endlessly complicated place, and none among us knows much about it.
One has to be careful when talking like this, because people will say, "So really, you're an agnostic, not an atheist." Again with the condescension... No, do not misunderstand me: I don't think there's no God, I know there's no God. How can I be so sure? Well, the known history of the world, thus far, agrees with me. We know of atoms and quasars and pathogens and so on. Nowhere in these very real things does "God" appear. I don't think I have to tell you why. Also, I don't believe in many other primitive, pre-Copernican ideas. The concept of "God" is merely a tradition, albeit a preternaturally tenacious one, born of humans' inability to deal with the finality of death.
And another thing: that whole "seeing's not believing, believing's seeing" aphorism is galatically stupid, simplistic, and has all of the intellectual weight of a nursery rhyme. It's such an arrogant assertion, to which I want to scream, "NO! SEEING IS BELIEVING!"
Still, even though I have to endure a constant barrage of condescension, I too am smart enough to loathe those bus banners while simultaneously agreeing with their point. How's that for impartiality? I do not want to convert anyone, so leave me alone.
I'll leave you alone (aside from the occasional snicker) in turn, and even join with you in hating those obnoxious bus signs. Know, though, that I also feel the same disdain for your Jesus-fish decal.
R
This is not to say that all Christians see atheism as a threat that must be stamped out quickly and irrevocably. Instead, these reportedly sane Christians often condescendingly say, "Oh, you'll come around." Such patronizing sentiments are as provocative as those annoying bus ads, and atheists have had to endure such claptrap for most of their lives, if they're anything like I am.
I was raised in a cloyingly Catholic household that became more contentious as I entered puberty. Obviously, my lopsided anger can be attributed to hormones and all of that, but only a bit. It is incredibly frustrating to be made to go to church when you scoff at most of the dogma preached during Mass (remember, I was raised Catholic). And the sermons/homilies...Ambien would be out of business if this were a theocracy. Luckily, and much to the chagrin of proselytizing baboons, it is not.
I can understand some of the angry atheists, who had to be force-fed such inanity, but they're missing the point. Eventually, this anger gets mixed up in theological arguments which, in themselves, are vapid. Many people probably cringe whenever they pass "God Is Not Great" by Christopher Hitchens in a bookstore (if they can read at all--just kidding). They see every dissenting view on their religion as a personal attack. It is not, unless you're a politician who insists on legislating by the book, and I don't mean "Robert's Rules of Order." No, many of America's current problems exist because numerous politicians want to govern by the Bible, which would be manifoldly stupid and actually quite dangerous.
Evelyn Waugh actually did atheism a huge disservice by having that previously-unbelieving patriarch convert on his deathbed in "Brideshead Revisited." Sure, death terrifies humans, but the inescapable fact of mortality should not, naturally, be associated with theistic avowal. He sucked anyway, and the aforementioned novel is bad too, so I don't get too worked up over his thoughts on the afterlife and atheism, etc.
Not to digress too much, but can't we dispense with the term "atheist"? It sounds very ominous, even though the etymology means simply, "without a god." Not your god, or, more explicitly, "God." No god/God. That's it. Why do Christians and Muslims insist, vigorously and vociferously, that their "God" is the best, and the only one? I could cite numerous, endless really, instances of ugliness born of these religions, which actually fight each other? It seems crazy to me that bloodlust overrides piety.
So I don't believe in god/God. So what? I'm not spitting in your face, which many believers, I'm sure, would ironically love to do to me. I agree that those bus signs are infuriating. They anger me, and I'm a supposed heretic who doesn't believe in God/a god/a God.
Many atheists cite Occam's Razor for their unbelief, and this is massively stupid. The simplest explanation, they do not realize, for their own existence, and that of the whole cosmos, involves one old man with superior intelligence. In fact, the universe is an endlessly complicated place, and none among us knows much about it.
One has to be careful when talking like this, because people will say, "So really, you're an agnostic, not an atheist." Again with the condescension... No, do not misunderstand me: I don't think there's no God, I know there's no God. How can I be so sure? Well, the known history of the world, thus far, agrees with me. We know of atoms and quasars and pathogens and so on. Nowhere in these very real things does "God" appear. I don't think I have to tell you why. Also, I don't believe in many other primitive, pre-Copernican ideas. The concept of "God" is merely a tradition, albeit a preternaturally tenacious one, born of humans' inability to deal with the finality of death.
And another thing: that whole "seeing's not believing, believing's seeing" aphorism is galatically stupid, simplistic, and has all of the intellectual weight of a nursery rhyme. It's such an arrogant assertion, to which I want to scream, "NO! SEEING IS BELIEVING!"
Still, even though I have to endure a constant barrage of condescension, I too am smart enough to loathe those bus banners while simultaneously agreeing with their point. How's that for impartiality? I do not want to convert anyone, so leave me alone.
I'll leave you alone (aside from the occasional snicker) in turn, and even join with you in hating those obnoxious bus signs. Know, though, that I also feel the same disdain for your Jesus-fish decal.
R
Friday, July 10, 2009
I Just Stabbed Myself
I know I've mentioned this in the past, but the needle I use once a week is huge. It contains an interferon compound called Avonex, an intramuscular injection. Briefly, I switched over to Rebif, a subcutaneous shot with a nifty auto-injector (administered 3 times a week, in various sites including the ass, which stained my sheets in a slightly disturbing manner somewhat reminiscent of Barton Fink's blood-soaked bed, but I digress), and then returned after I saw that Rebif was not as effective for me.I have a problem with interferons in general, because truthfully they simply delay the inevitable. As a matter of fact, "interfer[e]" is right in the name. It's a "treatment" that's "chronic," which sucks if your MS is as active and resilient as mine.
Use the Q-Tip for scale, and then you'll realize what I jab into my thigh once a week every week. It's huge, and technically not hypodermic, but it does conjure images of that scene in "Pulp Fiction" where John Travolta revives the ODing Uma Thurman by plunging a huge needle filled with adrenalin into her heart. Really, it's not that bad, but that snippet runs through my mind every Thursday night. (I switched recently from Friday, so as to get over the imminent flu-like side effects--chills, headache, and extreme weakness--before a Metric concert.)
Seriously, though, it's huge, and a bit unsettling that the process doesn't bother me anymore. I just stabbed myself, and I'm used to it. Welcome to the world of chronic illness. Diabetics do the same thing every day, and those with hepatitis also have to deal with interferons. Nevertheless, diseases such as these are not nearly as debilitating as MS, so if anyone tells you they have diabetes or hepatitis, think of this needle, remember that I have to use it every week, and scoff at their plight. A spray of saliva would be good, too.
I know many people have to deal with much worse. But still. Come on. That needle is fucking huge. Luckily, I had Little Teeth's frantic "OHM!" to prompt me to plunge with repeated incantations of "I don't mind it."
R
(By the way, we/I love you, Ammo...)
Thursday, July 9, 2009
I'll Sleep When I'm Dead...(Think Warren Zevon, not The Cure.)
This is not a morbid post. Nor is it a depressive, and subsequently depressing, one. Instead, it's about the inevitability and plain certainty of my circadian rhythms. I know that I wrote about this before, but I dealt mostly with the physiological side of it, and neglected to mention the strange mental effect that it has.
I've tried numerous times, and I've said this numerous times, to recalibrate my sleep pattern to a relatively normal 10am-12am schedule. I've compromised, and tried to reconcile this with a somewhat resigned, and aforementioned, nocturnality. This simplifies things way too much.
In fact, I can be quite lively in the morning, and during sporadic chunks of the afternoon, only to slump considerably at dusk. Until around midnight, when I inexplicably spring into action like I got a B-12 shot. I write, temper this with "writing" on this blog, read, watch horrible movies from the '80s, and listen to music or podcasts. By the way, I cannot understand some people's preference or love for audiobooks. This could degenerate into an extremely long rant on audiobooks in general and then I'll end up railing against the Kindle and so on, so I'll simply stop.
Eventually, I'll fall asleep around 5 am, only to wake up at 10. Then I'll be awake until about 5, when I'll crash and sleep until I'm poked awake for dinner, for which I usually have no appetite. This is more of a problem lately, because my last aparment was much too vast for me to get around efficiently, and subsequently I've been staying at my mother's house in Indiana. Wherever she or Ralph (her fiance emeritus, if you will) wants, I'll usually veto but ultimately eat. The problem is--I won't be hungry, and won't eat much. Fortunately, my sedate lifestyle precludes massive weight loss, and so I remain a respectable weight. Luckily, though, my brother Ryan, Anthony, and I recently moved into a new apartment in Logan Square that I absolutely adore, and which has a much more manageable layout. I like True Blood, though, and cable there will not be installed until Monday, so I'll stay in Indiana until then and enjoy my HBO. It'll be rough, though, because the state's nickname, "The Crossroads of America," truly validates my joke about why they call it that: because no one wants to stay, and ends up just walking all over it.
Now here is the ultimate case-in-point: it's about 3:30, and I want to watch "Barton Fink," which is on now. Around 5, I'll try to sleep, but fail, since an entire flock of birds have set up shop outside my window. (By the way, give me an ambulance or copious honking of horns, and I'm fine. This, though, throws me into a fugue state.) They start chirping around 4, and by 6 their tweeting becomes the object of my palpable ire, much like its compromised name's web phenomenon and bane of my existence, Twitter. By some unknown inclination, I'll fall asleep, until about 10am. Then I'll eat something easy, like granola or Yogurt, watch television and/or read (currently Shakespeare's "Henry IV, Part II," for the umpteenth time), and feel the Sandman, a la that Metallica song. However, I won't actually fall asleep until about 5, wake up for an unwanted dinner, or for the gym, around 7. Then I'll move, or not, like a zombie until about midnight. Then repeat.
This does have its advantages, though, because I actually read and write a tremendous amount. The only problem is that nobody knows this (except visitors, who know not what they will witness during the course of their stay), and so I'm sure I appear dilatory and just downright lazy or inactive. Not true. Like I said, I'm truthfully amazingly productive these days.
Just wanted to set the record straight, once and (hopefully) for all.
Rick
I've tried numerous times, and I've said this numerous times, to recalibrate my sleep pattern to a relatively normal 10am-12am schedule. I've compromised, and tried to reconcile this with a somewhat resigned, and aforementioned, nocturnality. This simplifies things way too much.
In fact, I can be quite lively in the morning, and during sporadic chunks of the afternoon, only to slump considerably at dusk. Until around midnight, when I inexplicably spring into action like I got a B-12 shot. I write, temper this with "writing" on this blog, read, watch horrible movies from the '80s, and listen to music or podcasts. By the way, I cannot understand some people's preference or love for audiobooks. This could degenerate into an extremely long rant on audiobooks in general and then I'll end up railing against the Kindle and so on, so I'll simply stop.
Eventually, I'll fall asleep around 5 am, only to wake up at 10. Then I'll be awake until about 5, when I'll crash and sleep until I'm poked awake for dinner, for which I usually have no appetite. This is more of a problem lately, because my last aparment was much too vast for me to get around efficiently, and subsequently I've been staying at my mother's house in Indiana. Wherever she or Ralph (her fiance emeritus, if you will) wants, I'll usually veto but ultimately eat. The problem is--I won't be hungry, and won't eat much. Fortunately, my sedate lifestyle precludes massive weight loss, and so I remain a respectable weight. Luckily, though, my brother Ryan, Anthony, and I recently moved into a new apartment in Logan Square that I absolutely adore, and which has a much more manageable layout. I like True Blood, though, and cable there will not be installed until Monday, so I'll stay in Indiana until then and enjoy my HBO. It'll be rough, though, because the state's nickname, "The Crossroads of America," truly validates my joke about why they call it that: because no one wants to stay, and ends up just walking all over it.
Now here is the ultimate case-in-point: it's about 3:30, and I want to watch "Barton Fink," which is on now. Around 5, I'll try to sleep, but fail, since an entire flock of birds have set up shop outside my window. (By the way, give me an ambulance or copious honking of horns, and I'm fine. This, though, throws me into a fugue state.) They start chirping around 4, and by 6 their tweeting becomes the object of my palpable ire, much like its compromised name's web phenomenon and bane of my existence, Twitter. By some unknown inclination, I'll fall asleep, until about 10am. Then I'll eat something easy, like granola or Yogurt, watch television and/or read (currently Shakespeare's "Henry IV, Part II," for the umpteenth time), and feel the Sandman, a la that Metallica song. However, I won't actually fall asleep until about 5, wake up for an unwanted dinner, or for the gym, around 7. Then I'll move, or not, like a zombie until about midnight. Then repeat.
This does have its advantages, though, because I actually read and write a tremendous amount. The only problem is that nobody knows this (except visitors, who know not what they will witness during the course of their stay), and so I'm sure I appear dilatory and just downright lazy or inactive. Not true. Like I said, I'm truthfully amazingly productive these days.
Just wanted to set the record straight, once and (hopefully) for all.
Rick
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Obama: Jimmy Carter 2? Hardly, but still...
Bipartisanship means nothing if one side is craven, and the other side is comprised of hobbled psychos looking for cudgels. You'd think these would be easy to find, because their knuckles comb the ground anyway. I could go on and on about the pathetic but still vociferous GOP, but I'm actually quite pissed at President Obama.
He waltzed into office with a vow of thoughtful bipartisanship, but it has become painfully apparent that Republicans have officially waved goodbye to reason and common sense. Their leaders, and especially the notoriously resilient John McCain (especially when he crashes and burns, literally, and ends up a POW), consistently batter what Obama was elected to do. Guantanamo? Closed, technically, but replaced with a more sinister Gulag-esque dungeon that will continue to babysit these purported terrorists.
Compromise always sounds like a magnanimous ploy. Eventually, though, the other side capitalizes on what they perceive to be a weakness. When Jimmy Carter was elected, he tried to pass a few bills that focused on some relatively tame water projects, but these bills never held water (pardon the pun) because Congress stalled them. The funny thing was, though, that Democrats controlled Congress. Like today, they ate their own young, and paved a way for the unbelievably reckless Reagan years, which only made the economic disparities of the time widen the gulf between the middle class and the upper class. Evan Bayh, from Indiana (state of my birth, unfortunately) looks distressingly like Russell Long, the Louisiana Democratic senator who originally opposed Carter on the water stuff. Not literally, obviously. Then, an avalanche ensued in which Carter's hands were tied by the Democratically-led Congress. This is beginning to seem painfully familiar, because Americans are starting to forget that Republicans are the real crazies. Now, Obama has begun to backpedal on health insurance policy, and this bothers me immensely.
Of course, he never campaigned on mandatory universal health care. However, the whisperings of the AMA along with large insurance companies make it only that much harder to negotiate with these greedmongers who panic whenever they hear the word "mandatory." When you stand back and take an empirical look at it, it appears insane that the AMA would cower underneath the vague threats of insurance monsters, because the tail now wags the dog. It actually is insane, and any pragmatic doctor will admit that the large conglomerates are huge stumbling blocks for what they really want to do. This says nothing of malpractice suits that have run amuck and make these doctors skittish as it is.
As a little personal anecdote, I will say that I had been covered by Blue Cross/Blue Shield of Illinois. (In the interest of full disclosure, I must say that in October of 2007, when given the choice, I went with the HMO because it was cheaper. In retrospect, this was a monumentally bad decision.) Since they denied my entry into the Northwestern/Rush stem cell trial, even after I switched to the PPO, because it is quite expensive, I had to switch to Medicare, which immediately approved my request. And here we are. I know that some doctors want the Porsche, the houses, and other material extravagances, but I believe that most are interested in actual medicine. Dr. Richard Burt, the Northwestern immunologist in charge of the stem cell trial, falls in this latter egalitarian category. Not to digress too much, but I remember receiving a phone call one day and being shocked that it was actually Dr. Burt. Up until then, I had spoken only with my prior neurologist's nurse. This may be a personal choice, but I can't believe that my previous neurologist was a narcissist unconcerned with the plight of his patients. In truth, he was probably preoccupied with the Alzheimer's patients that dominate his practice. But I digress, yet again...
It was a great decision for Obama to roll back the idiotic restrictions on stem cell research that Bush instituted. However, since then I find myself inexplicably rallying around, of all people, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, who heretofore had been only avuncular, and not in a good way. He has had enough with his own party's waffling, and now tells the members of his own party to ignore the insane opposition. If you have the numbers, and a real (not bullshit, like Bush's) mandate for action, why does Obama obsequiously court the crazy opposition? He still has three years before he's up for reelection, and substantive health care reform can negate any grumblings from Republicans if it's successful.
So why does he wait? Change is a slow process, admittedly, but it cannot be static, lest scum form.
R
(Obama is actually much better than Carter when it comes to foreign policy, thankfully. Hence the "hardly" in the title of the post.)
He waltzed into office with a vow of thoughtful bipartisanship, but it has become painfully apparent that Republicans have officially waved goodbye to reason and common sense. Their leaders, and especially the notoriously resilient John McCain (especially when he crashes and burns, literally, and ends up a POW), consistently batter what Obama was elected to do. Guantanamo? Closed, technically, but replaced with a more sinister Gulag-esque dungeon that will continue to babysit these purported terrorists.
Compromise always sounds like a magnanimous ploy. Eventually, though, the other side capitalizes on what they perceive to be a weakness. When Jimmy Carter was elected, he tried to pass a few bills that focused on some relatively tame water projects, but these bills never held water (pardon the pun) because Congress stalled them. The funny thing was, though, that Democrats controlled Congress. Like today, they ate their own young, and paved a way for the unbelievably reckless Reagan years, which only made the economic disparities of the time widen the gulf between the middle class and the upper class. Evan Bayh, from Indiana (state of my birth, unfortunately) looks distressingly like Russell Long, the Louisiana Democratic senator who originally opposed Carter on the water stuff. Not literally, obviously. Then, an avalanche ensued in which Carter's hands were tied by the Democratically-led Congress. This is beginning to seem painfully familiar, because Americans are starting to forget that Republicans are the real crazies. Now, Obama has begun to backpedal on health insurance policy, and this bothers me immensely.
Of course, he never campaigned on mandatory universal health care. However, the whisperings of the AMA along with large insurance companies make it only that much harder to negotiate with these greedmongers who panic whenever they hear the word "mandatory." When you stand back and take an empirical look at it, it appears insane that the AMA would cower underneath the vague threats of insurance monsters, because the tail now wags the dog. It actually is insane, and any pragmatic doctor will admit that the large conglomerates are huge stumbling blocks for what they really want to do. This says nothing of malpractice suits that have run amuck and make these doctors skittish as it is.
As a little personal anecdote, I will say that I had been covered by Blue Cross/Blue Shield of Illinois. (In the interest of full disclosure, I must say that in October of 2007, when given the choice, I went with the HMO because it was cheaper. In retrospect, this was a monumentally bad decision.) Since they denied my entry into the Northwestern/Rush stem cell trial, even after I switched to the PPO, because it is quite expensive, I had to switch to Medicare, which immediately approved my request. And here we are. I know that some doctors want the Porsche, the houses, and other material extravagances, but I believe that most are interested in actual medicine. Dr. Richard Burt, the Northwestern immunologist in charge of the stem cell trial, falls in this latter egalitarian category. Not to digress too much, but I remember receiving a phone call one day and being shocked that it was actually Dr. Burt. Up until then, I had spoken only with my prior neurologist's nurse. This may be a personal choice, but I can't believe that my previous neurologist was a narcissist unconcerned with the plight of his patients. In truth, he was probably preoccupied with the Alzheimer's patients that dominate his practice. But I digress, yet again...
It was a great decision for Obama to roll back the idiotic restrictions on stem cell research that Bush instituted. However, since then I find myself inexplicably rallying around, of all people, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, who heretofore had been only avuncular, and not in a good way. He has had enough with his own party's waffling, and now tells the members of his own party to ignore the insane opposition. If you have the numbers, and a real (not bullshit, like Bush's) mandate for action, why does Obama obsequiously court the crazy opposition? He still has three years before he's up for reelection, and substantive health care reform can negate any grumblings from Republicans if it's successful.
So why does he wait? Change is a slow process, admittedly, but it cannot be static, lest scum form.
R
(Obama is actually much better than Carter when it comes to foreign policy, thankfully. Hence the "hardly" in the title of the post.)
Monday, July 6, 2009
Saddest Thing I've Seen Since "Dancer In The Dark"
(or You're Gonna Miss Me, which I just watched)
Truly depressing email forward from my mother, and my reply:
Sent: Monday, July 06, 2009 2:47 PM
Subject: FW: Quiz for People who know everything
QUIZ FOR PEOPLE WHO KNOW EVERYTHING
This is a quiz for people who know everything! These are not trick questions. They are straight questions with straight answers.
1. Name the one sport in which neither the spectators nor the participants know the score or the leader until the contest ends.
2. What famous North American landmark is constantly moving backward?
3. Of all vegetables, only two can live to produce on their own for several growing seasons. All other vegetables must be replanted every year. What are the only two perennial vegetables?
4. What fruit has its seeds on the outside?
5. In many liquor stores, you can buy pear brandy, with a real pear inside the bottle. The pear is whole and ripe, and the bottle is genuine; it hasn't been cut in any way. How did the pear get inside the bottle?
6. Only three words in Standard English begin with the letters "dw" and they are all common words. Name two of them.
7. There are 14 punctuation marks in English grammar. Can you name at least half of them?
8. Name the only vegetable or fruit that is never sold frozen, canned, processed, cooked, or in any other form except fresh.
9. Name 6 or more things that you can wear on your feet beginning with the letter 'S.'
Answers to Quiz:
1. The one sport in which neither the spectators nor the participants know the score or the leader until the contest ends Boxing
2. North American landmark constantly moving backward. Niagara Falls (The rim is worn down about two and a half feet each year because of the millions of gallons of water that rush over it every minute.)
3. Only two vegetables that can live to produce on their own for several growing seasons. Asparagus and rhubarb.
4. The fruit with its seeds on the outside. Strawberry.
5. How did the pear get inside the brandy bottle? It grew inside the bottle. The bottles are placed over pear buds when they are small, and are wired in place on the tree. The bottle is left in place for the entire growing season. When the pears are ripe, they are snipped off at the stems.
6. Three English words beginning with dw. Dwarf, dwell and dwindle.
7. Fourteen punctuation marks in English grammar. Period, comma, colon, semicolon, dash, hyphen, apostrophe, question mark, exclamation point, quotation mark, brackets, parenthesis, braces, and ellipses.
8. The only vegetable or fruit never sold frozen, canned, processed, cooked, or in any other form but fresh. Lettuce.
9. Six or more things you can wear on your feet beginning with 'S'. Shoes, socks, sandals, sneakers, slippers, skis, skates, snowshoes, stockings, and stilts.
PLEASE DO YOUR PART... Today is National Mental Health Day. You can do your part by remembering to send this e-mail to at least one person.
Well, my job's done! Just don't send it back to me. I've already flunked it once.
Make your summer sizzle with fast and easy recipes for the grill.
Reply
|
Richard Cortazar
to Lisa, Ryan, Ralph, Dan, Charles, Tammy
show details 4:57 PM (5 minutes ago)
Reply
Follow up message
You must be joking. Forrest Gump could answer 2/3 of those.
Rick
Truly depressing email forward from my mother, and my reply:
Sent: Monday, July 06, 2009 2:47 PM
Subject: FW: Quiz for People who know everything
QUIZ FOR PEOPLE WHO KNOW EVERYTHING
This is a quiz for people who know everything! These are not trick questions. They are straight questions with straight answers.
1. Name the one sport in which neither the spectators nor the participants know the score or the leader until the contest ends.
2. What famous North American landmark is constantly moving backward?
3. Of all vegetables, only two can live to produce on their own for several growing seasons. All other vegetables must be replanted every year. What are the only two perennial vegetables?
4. What fruit has its seeds on the outside?
5. In many liquor stores, you can buy pear brandy, with a real pear inside the bottle. The pear is whole and ripe, and the bottle is genuine; it hasn't been cut in any way. How did the pear get inside the bottle?
6. Only three words in Standard English begin with the letters "dw" and they are all common words. Name two of them.
7. There are 14 punctuation marks in English grammar. Can you name at least half of them?
8. Name the only vegetable or fruit that is never sold frozen, canned, processed, cooked, or in any other form except fresh.
9. Name 6 or more things that you can wear on your feet beginning with the letter 'S.'
Answers to Quiz:
1. The one sport in which neither the spectators nor the participants know the score or the leader until the contest ends Boxing
2. North American landmark constantly moving backward. Niagara Falls (The rim is worn down about two and a half feet each year because of the millions of gallons of water that rush over it every minute.)
3. Only two vegetables that can live to produce on their own for several growing seasons. Asparagus and rhubarb.
4. The fruit with its seeds on the outside. Strawberry.
5. How did the pear get inside the brandy bottle? It grew inside the bottle. The bottles are placed over pear buds when they are small, and are wired in place on the tree. The bottle is left in place for the entire growing season. When the pears are ripe, they are snipped off at the stems.
6. Three English words beginning with dw. Dwarf, dwell and dwindle.
7. Fourteen punctuation marks in English grammar. Period, comma, colon, semicolon, dash, hyphen, apostrophe, question mark, exclamation point, quotation mark, brackets, parenthesis, braces, and ellipses.
8. The only vegetable or fruit never sold frozen, canned, processed, cooked, or in any other form but fresh. Lettuce.
9. Six or more things you can wear on your feet beginning with 'S'. Shoes, socks, sandals, sneakers, slippers, skis, skates, snowshoes, stockings, and stilts.
PLEASE DO YOUR PART... Today is National Mental Health Day. You can do your part by remembering to send this e-mail to at least one person.
Well, my job's done! Just don't send it back to me. I've already flunked it once.
Make your summer sizzle with fast and easy recipes for the grill.
Reply
|
Richard Cortazar
to Lisa, Ryan, Ralph, Dan, Charles, Tammy
show details 4:57 PM (5 minutes ago)
Reply
Follow up message
You must be joking. Forrest Gump could answer 2/3 of those.
Rick
"Kings": TV's Best Show, Unsurprisingly Canceled
It's only because of Ian McShane, who simply exudes royalty as it is. This will not astonish anyone who watched "Deadwood" religiously--like me.
The show is a modern update on the King David/King Saul story. It is beautifully shot, exquisitely written/adapted/updated, wonderfully acted, and endlessly entertaining. No wonder the dipshits at NBC canceled it. So sad, but quite fitting. Ian McShane has the Midas touch, in that everything he touches turns to gold. Unfortunately, like in the movie "The Gate II" (I'm pretty sure I'm the only one I know who's seen it), everything eventually turns to shit.
NBC's decision really ends primetime, which had actually been dead, or at least on life-support, for the last ten years. Damn that was a good show, though. Fuck! (And "Two and a Half Men" surges forward, to deliver more hackneyed and unfunny shit. So unfair.)
Rick
The show is a modern update on the King David/King Saul story. It is beautifully shot, exquisitely written/adapted/updated, wonderfully acted, and endlessly entertaining. No wonder the dipshits at NBC canceled it. So sad, but quite fitting. Ian McShane has the Midas touch, in that everything he touches turns to gold. Unfortunately, like in the movie "The Gate II" (I'm pretty sure I'm the only one I know who's seen it), everything eventually turns to shit.
NBC's decision really ends primetime, which had actually been dead, or at least on life-support, for the last ten years. Damn that was a good show, though. Fuck! (And "Two and a Half Men" surges forward, to deliver more hackneyed and unfunny shit. So unfair.)
Rick
Saturday, July 4, 2009
The 4th, "Milk," and Pathetic Fireworks
My mother is now watching "Milk," and I have my own thoughts on that movie and all that it imports--in short, I'm all for gay rights, vehemently, but I think the flamboyance of every "Gay Pride" parade, though entertaining and fun, really hamstrings what it's all about, a demonstration and celebration, not a spectacle of instigation. But I digress...somewhat.
It's the 4th of July, and I'm in Indiana. Fireworks plague nearly all states, but really annoy the sane, pragmatic citizens of states in which they are legal (eg Indiana, shockingly) and can be bought readily. It's actually the same argument I have for legalization of drugs, prostitution, gay marriage (admittedly innocuous in comparison) etc.: anything should be legal as long as it doesn't impinge upon the rights of others.
We have a gazebo in our backyard, and it could quite possibly go up in flames because of an errant bottle rocket or Roman candle. How stupid do you have to be to be excited/thrilled by an explosive display of random light? This says nothing of the troglodytes who enjoy the detonation of M-80s and sticks of dynamite, which offer nothing but a loud boom. You have to be legally retarded to find pleasure in these things. My dad, for instance, used to lob quarter-sticks of dynamite outside of windows in order to startle those indoors. Point made.
Even as I write this, projectiles and all manners of artillery explode outside. Again, I ask, how dumb do you have to be to want to recreate the sounds of war? I wish that anyone with an as-yet-unlit quarter-stick of dynamite will meet the same fate as the child in Jennifer Aniston's children's book in "Along Came Polly." That is, admittedly, one of my favorite movies, and you'll have to watch it to know what I mean.
R
It's the 4th of July, and I'm in Indiana. Fireworks plague nearly all states, but really annoy the sane, pragmatic citizens of states in which they are legal (eg Indiana, shockingly) and can be bought readily. It's actually the same argument I have for legalization of drugs, prostitution, gay marriage (admittedly innocuous in comparison) etc.: anything should be legal as long as it doesn't impinge upon the rights of others.
We have a gazebo in our backyard, and it could quite possibly go up in flames because of an errant bottle rocket or Roman candle. How stupid do you have to be to be excited/thrilled by an explosive display of random light? This says nothing of the troglodytes who enjoy the detonation of M-80s and sticks of dynamite, which offer nothing but a loud boom. You have to be legally retarded to find pleasure in these things. My dad, for instance, used to lob quarter-sticks of dynamite outside of windows in order to startle those indoors. Point made.
Even as I write this, projectiles and all manners of artillery explode outside. Again, I ask, how dumb do you have to be to want to recreate the sounds of war? I wish that anyone with an as-yet-unlit quarter-stick of dynamite will meet the same fate as the child in Jennifer Aniston's children's book in "Along Came Polly." That is, admittedly, one of my favorite movies, and you'll have to watch it to know what I mean.
R
Friday, July 3, 2009
Gotta Love the Brits
Wimbledon is on, and I watch it constantly. It syncs up nicely with my circadian schedule, in that it goes live around 4 in the morning.
Anyways, Andy Roddick, an American, beat Andy Murray, a Scotsman with the full support of the British spectators. They cheered him on throughout the match, but gave Roddick a standing ovation that reminded me of Rocky IV when he won. In that movie, a basic cable classic, Rocky goes to Russia to fight the marvel of Russian genetics--or eugenics-- Ivan Drago (played with steely reticence by Dolph Lundgren). Through his sheer persistence and refusal to go down, he wins over the crowd, and even the Russian premier in the balcony. The premier, by the way, is supposed to be a Gorbachev lookalike, and he even has a large cranial birthmark.
The Wimbledon spectators obviously wanted Murray to pull off an upset, but applauded Roddick's eventual victory with grace and noble humility.
Gotta love the Brits.
Rick
Anyways, Andy Roddick, an American, beat Andy Murray, a Scotsman with the full support of the British spectators. They cheered him on throughout the match, but gave Roddick a standing ovation that reminded me of Rocky IV when he won. In that movie, a basic cable classic, Rocky goes to Russia to fight the marvel of Russian genetics--or eugenics-- Ivan Drago (played with steely reticence by Dolph Lundgren). Through his sheer persistence and refusal to go down, he wins over the crowd, and even the Russian premier in the balcony. The premier, by the way, is supposed to be a Gorbachev lookalike, and he even has a large cranial birthmark.
The Wimbledon spectators obviously wanted Murray to pull off an upset, but applauded Roddick's eventual victory with grace and noble humility.
Gotta love the Brits.
Rick
Nocturnality
I know I've mentioned this many times, but I don't think I fully explained its depth.
I do almost nothing during the day. Vampirism is not much of a stretch, except for the whole "blood" thing. It's like a reverse-Cinderella thing I have going on here, and, like I'm tired of explaining, it's not symptomatic of depression, like being unemployed and aimless. No, it's pathological. For some reason, I'm much more active in the wee hours of the morning. After midnight, I become shockingly productive. This is when I do my writing, which mostly helps me maintain my sanity. I wonder if William Blake, hermetic as he was, did most of his best work at night. Many older writers talk about working in the morning. If I did this, however, I'd have to switch to a DaVinci-esque sleep schedule, which would probably be disastrous.
I've read interviews with Ernest Hemingway, for instance, in which he says that he would allot a few hours each morning that he would dedicate only to writing. (All right, naysayers, mock me if you will, but I like Hemingway. Except "The Old Man and The Sea," which I cannot stand, for its allegorical religious bent. Anywho, I like "For Whom The Bell Tolls" and especially "The Sun Also Rises," so kill me.) For me, when the calendar turns over at midnight, I spring into action. Between the hours of 12 and 4, usually, I'll write a bit, and maybe read if I'm not writing too strenuously. Sometime between 4 and 5, I'll pack it in and decide to try to sleep.
This has its own difficulties, especially now that I made a thoughtful decision to stay away from my Chicago apartment in Lakeview. The building there has a large foyer area with a stone staircase with nary a railing but for the two on the sides. Everything's all right until you reach the top of the staircase, where there are about two feet between the railing and the inner door. Each time I would slide toward the handle, I would have flashing thoughts of Meryl Streep falling down the staircase in "Death Becomes Her," or, later in the same movie, she and Goldie Hawn tumbled down the stone stairs outside the church. In the first instance, there was a broken neck, and in the second, there were shattered fragments of their respective bodies strewn along the steps. But I digress...
It's extremely difficult to fall asleep with birds chirping incessantly outside my bedroom. And to make matters worse, I have aggravated heartburn from lying down all day. Remaining supine is one of the ways I have to combat vertigo and consequent nausea--both MS symptoms that I have.
So, alas, this is one of many reasons why I'm glad that I can now move into a new apartment in Logan Square. (I'm told it's nice.)
R
I do almost nothing during the day. Vampirism is not much of a stretch, except for the whole "blood" thing. It's like a reverse-Cinderella thing I have going on here, and, like I'm tired of explaining, it's not symptomatic of depression, like being unemployed and aimless. No, it's pathological. For some reason, I'm much more active in the wee hours of the morning. After midnight, I become shockingly productive. This is when I do my writing, which mostly helps me maintain my sanity. I wonder if William Blake, hermetic as he was, did most of his best work at night. Many older writers talk about working in the morning. If I did this, however, I'd have to switch to a DaVinci-esque sleep schedule, which would probably be disastrous.
I've read interviews with Ernest Hemingway, for instance, in which he says that he would allot a few hours each morning that he would dedicate only to writing. (All right, naysayers, mock me if you will, but I like Hemingway. Except "The Old Man and The Sea," which I cannot stand, for its allegorical religious bent. Anywho, I like "For Whom The Bell Tolls" and especially "The Sun Also Rises," so kill me.) For me, when the calendar turns over at midnight, I spring into action. Between the hours of 12 and 4, usually, I'll write a bit, and maybe read if I'm not writing too strenuously. Sometime between 4 and 5, I'll pack it in and decide to try to sleep.
This has its own difficulties, especially now that I made a thoughtful decision to stay away from my Chicago apartment in Lakeview. The building there has a large foyer area with a stone staircase with nary a railing but for the two on the sides. Everything's all right until you reach the top of the staircase, where there are about two feet between the railing and the inner door. Each time I would slide toward the handle, I would have flashing thoughts of Meryl Streep falling down the staircase in "Death Becomes Her," or, later in the same movie, she and Goldie Hawn tumbled down the stone stairs outside the church. In the first instance, there was a broken neck, and in the second, there were shattered fragments of their respective bodies strewn along the steps. But I digress...
It's extremely difficult to fall asleep with birds chirping incessantly outside my bedroom. And to make matters worse, I have aggravated heartburn from lying down all day. Remaining supine is one of the ways I have to combat vertigo and consequent nausea--both MS symptoms that I have.
So, alas, this is one of many reasons why I'm glad that I can now move into a new apartment in Logan Square. (I'm told it's nice.)
R
Thursday, July 2, 2009
More Complaining About The Heat
Wimpy neurologists talk about "exacerbations" when talking about MS and heat. That clinical term, like nearly all clinical terms, stays clear of the nuts and bolts of the actual issue, which sucks almost unremittingly.
Not until the wee hours of the night do I feel like a functional, halfway normal human being. Before that, it seems that I writhe in my bed and silently endure an almost endless lethargy. This, I have to say for the millionth time, has NOTHING to do with simple depression. Rather, it is a pathological response to heat, humidity, and whatever else the sun diabolically brings with it.
A normal person gets up, a bit groggily, and by the afternoon finds that his energy level has dropped 25% or so. Someone with MS already starts the day with half a tank that never gets replenished, so by afternoon I, for example, am completely bone-dry when it comes to energy. I have nearly nothing more to give, and so I wait for the sweet embrace of death. Er, sleep. (Just kidding--I've said many times that suicide always seems like such a cowardly act. Rub some dirt on it, as a high school football coach might say, suck it up, and get up.)
Everyone loves summer. Not me. I feel especially proud of the fact that, even before MS was even in my lexicon, I much preferred autumn. Summer drags on, with only heightening discomfort, until fall blows on your simmering loins.
That sounds strangely sexual, but think of it in culinary terms. If that's still sexual to you, I suggest you consult a psychiatrist.
Rick
Not until the wee hours of the night do I feel like a functional, halfway normal human being. Before that, it seems that I writhe in my bed and silently endure an almost endless lethargy. This, I have to say for the millionth time, has NOTHING to do with simple depression. Rather, it is a pathological response to heat, humidity, and whatever else the sun diabolically brings with it.
A normal person gets up, a bit groggily, and by the afternoon finds that his energy level has dropped 25% or so. Someone with MS already starts the day with half a tank that never gets replenished, so by afternoon I, for example, am completely bone-dry when it comes to energy. I have nearly nothing more to give, and so I wait for the sweet embrace of death. Er, sleep. (Just kidding--I've said many times that suicide always seems like such a cowardly act. Rub some dirt on it, as a high school football coach might say, suck it up, and get up.)
Everyone loves summer. Not me. I feel especially proud of the fact that, even before MS was even in my lexicon, I much preferred autumn. Summer drags on, with only heightening discomfort, until fall blows on your simmering loins.
That sounds strangely sexual, but think of it in culinary terms. If that's still sexual to you, I suggest you consult a psychiatrist.
Rick
Murmur or Reckoning?
With recent rerelease hoopla surrounding the latter, I think REM's first LP still stands as the band's best work. Sure, Reckoning has "Don't Go Back To Rockville," "South Central Rain," and "Little America," but Murmur has "Radio Free Europe," "Pilgrimage," "Sitting Still," "Shaking Through," "Catapault," and--well, I could go on, but alas, I too was a little boy when it came out. Not yet one year old, as a matter of fact.
More on this later. (I think I'm still with Murmur, though. "Children of today on parade"? Come on. Wink.)
More on this later. (I think I'm still with Murmur, though. "Children of today on parade"? Come on. Wink.)
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Pathological Reticence
MS is horrible and debilitating and all of that, but it does have its benefits. I would be remiss and disingenuous if I didn't admit this. No longer do I have a reason to suffer through societal pleasantries, although this does not imply that I act rudely or mean that I exude truculence constantly. I can simply pick and choose who suffers through my occasionally soporific and insipid anecdotes. Still, I'm not completely free from the speech of others, of course. For instance, as a testament to my moderate but existent tolerance, I would never say, as Emerson said, "That which I can gain from another is never tuition, but provocation."
This past Saturday, I attended a friend's sister's "Open House" (Midwesterners know what I'm talking about; for others, this is a high school graduation, pre-collegiate party or gathering of well-wishers, family, and friends.) At this open house I sequestered myself in the pleasant sun room, and greeted whoever came in from the outside. Most of the people I had no problem with, and even thought they were delightful. One person in particular, though, I could never quite endure. A sense of entitlement emanated from him and his khaki shorts. I've said it many times before, but I suspect he's one of those people who actually have no internal monologue. Such people do exist, I'm convinced.
In the past, I'd have muttered a snide comment or have had thoughts of his vaporization and immediate nonexistence. At that moment, though, I didn't care. I really didn't. I fear this is how I would be at any school reunion. Endless greetings would meet only my silence. My reticence, though, would reveal my aloofness rather than a non-existent snobbishness.
I understand the irony of talking about being silent. Nevertheless, sometimes I just want to shut up, and I'm sure others feel the same.
Rick
This past Saturday, I attended a friend's sister's "Open House" (Midwesterners know what I'm talking about; for others, this is a high school graduation, pre-collegiate party or gathering of well-wishers, family, and friends.) At this open house I sequestered myself in the pleasant sun room, and greeted whoever came in from the outside. Most of the people I had no problem with, and even thought they were delightful. One person in particular, though, I could never quite endure. A sense of entitlement emanated from him and his khaki shorts. I've said it many times before, but I suspect he's one of those people who actually have no internal monologue. Such people do exist, I'm convinced.
In the past, I'd have muttered a snide comment or have had thoughts of his vaporization and immediate nonexistence. At that moment, though, I didn't care. I really didn't. I fear this is how I would be at any school reunion. Endless greetings would meet only my silence. My reticence, though, would reveal my aloofness rather than a non-existent snobbishness.
I understand the irony of talking about being silent. Nevertheless, sometimes I just want to shut up, and I'm sure others feel the same.
Rick
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