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POLITICAL RUMINATION OF THE DAY:
I like that both David Remnick in his defense of the New Yorker cover (on Charlie Rose) and Obama in his overall campaign message (if not in his response to the New Yorker cover) both assume and appeal to the intelligence of the American citizen. This is obviously the right rhetorical position to assume--and is, in every respect, superior to the prevalent assumption that what Americans need is a good dumbing down to. However, that said, this belief or attitude stands in some dissonance with the consistently disappointing (indeed, muteness-inducing) evidence of the polls. Recent findings indicate that 37% of Americans don't know that Obama is a Christian--with 13% claiming he is a Muslim, 17% claiming they've heard he's a Muslim but are not sure and, my personal favorite, 7% claiming they just don't have enough information to be sure. Combine this with reports that 43% of Americans still believe the Iraq attacked us on 9/11 and it is virtually impossible not to take the respect for American's intelligence as anything other than a cynically calculated rhetorical posture. Or a beautiful and necessary myth. Again, who really knows how the questions were phrased etc. But my goodness, it really makes the notion of an informed democracy seem about as preposterous as a world of steroids-free sports.
But perhaps, this ignorant, inert and ill-informed public is as much the consequence of low expectations as a rationale for them.
And with that most tentative of hypotheses, let's turn to our:
CRUEL REMINDER OF THE DAY:
Al Gore's Kennedy'-esque visionary challenge to wean ourselves entirely from oil within 10 years. Bold and wonderful for sure, but it just reminds you so acutely how different (and, of course, indescribably better) the last 8 years might have been had be been in office rather than the Ass Clown Prince aka Pretender in Chief. Imagine a president who responded to 9/11 by honoring the overwhelming public longing for some sort of bond-forging, pride-elevating meaningful collective sacrifice rather than by offering the "just keep shopping" mantra that we all received. Imagine leadership that dared to respect the intelligence and resources of our people by candidly addressing underlying realities and by challenging us to take the steps necessary to improve them--whether it be in the context of terrorism or the intimately related contexts of oil dependency and climate change.
One has to think that clear-eyed, honest, mature, intelligence-respecting, sacrifice-requesting, reality-based, solution-oriented leadership rather than the passifying proclamations of a Denier-in-Chief would help build a sense of pride and initiative amongst the electorate and make citizens feel like they are active participants in something bigger than themselves. And maybe, just maybe, that sense of being challenged, respected and involved would motivate people to be a bit less ignorant and bit more informed. Or at least: Isn't it pretty to think so?
I don't want to overstate it because sometimes ignorance and stupidity are just ignorance and stupidity. And sometimes Bubba is just Bubba and Beavis is just Beavis and Butthead is just Butthead. But it really does feel like most Americans have been treated like kids in a class from whom no one expects anything. And we all know those experiments where the kids arbitrarily designated "Gifted and Talented" fulfill those expectations while those arbitrarily labelled not gifted and talented regularly fulfill those.
LFAQ of th DAY:
0:39 AM ET
Obama Talks Terrorism And Drugs With Karzai
10:22 AM ET
How misleading a headline is that in a woefully ill-informed and incurious country? Will people misread it as confirmation that that Muslim terrorist presidential candidate who admitted to doing drugs once is plotting a terrorist attack and drug deal with some other Islamic sounding guy???
Was it a downer to go back to the empirical reality of societal ignorance after a stirring appeal to the possibility of an informed electorate or was it a much-welcomed dose of realism after a fatuous utopian pipe dream? Or was it a little bit of both and a whole lot of neither?
UNNATURAL SHOCK OF THE DAY: (Only 906 to go!)
A guy wearing “World’s Greatest Dad” T-Shirt to a sexual encounter with a minor. (I can't find the link right now, but honest to goodness. I read about this somewhere. I guess on the upside, at least he wasn't wearing a "World's Greatest Dad" T-Shirt to a sexual encounter with one of his children. Although I suspect that has happened at some point in this great land of ours.)
RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
She liked to, like, use the word "like."
P.S. OF THE DAY:
I am completely in love with the rhythm of that preceding line. Say it a few times out loud. It's addictive.
DESECRATION OF THE DAY:
Was having drinks on Wednesday at the Irish bar where we've been going weekly for the last 8 or so years after hoops. It's been getting louder and ever more gentrified and we have been contemplating finding a new weekly watering hole. But inertia has prevailed. In any event, I think the inertia may have finally been overcome--due in large part to the efforts of one "singer" who plugged in his electric guitar on the mini stage to "entertain" the bar patrons at 11 p.m.
If I say this may have been the worst musical performance ever, I am not being glib or hyperbolic. Indeed, in analyzing the awfulness of a vocalist's performance, one must remember that if the singing is ostentatiously atrocious, it can have the redeeming value of inadvertent comedy. Or if it is distinguished enough in its awfulness, it can assume anecdotal value by becoming entertainingly insufferable. But--as if obeying some complex pleasure minimization/displeasure maximization function--this singing was as bad as it's possible to be without becoming in any way remarkable. The singer's melodic (and perhaps spiritual) inadequacies were amplified by the soulfulness of the songs he selected. Some fine Neil Young fare. And Dylan's beautiful "GIrl From the North Country." How can a soul be drawn to such beautiful music and then insist on mangling it? What fatal lack of self-awareness could lead to this kind of an audio disaster? His insipid assault on our ears and souls inspired the following:
ONIONESQUE (SHALLOT LIKE) HEADLINE OF THE DAY:
GIrl From North Country Murdered in Chelsea Bar.
And the story would go on to say how she was murdered using an overpriced Ovation guitar, a microphone stand and a larynx. Witnesses said she was mangled beyond recognition.
UNNATURAL SHOCK OF THE DAY: (Only 905 to go!)
Bush tells G8 conference: "Goodbye, from the world's biggest Polluter!"
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/2277298/President-George-Bush-'Goodbye-from-the-world's-biggest-polluter'.html
Indeed, goodbye from the world's biggest asshole. His knack for making shockingly offensive, tone-deaf jokes about his most egregious failures and deceptions ("Hey let me look down here, I think the WMDs are under the podium.") make one's jaw drop in disbelief and one's spleen go into spasm. The frat boy princely cluelessness of this mean spirited and out of touch play actor is absolutely evergreen in its capacity to amaze and enrage. I regret that--with my thumb still damaged-- I only have one fist to sacrifice at the altar of his face. I will design a urinal puck with his picture on it.
IM CHAT OF THE DAY:
friendwhoshallremainnameless: da- dum dummmm.. da- dum-dum.
friendwhoshallremainnameless: da- dum dummmm.. da- dum-dum.
friendwhoshallremainnameless: da- dum dummmm.. da- dum-dum.
friendwhoshallremainnameless: da- dum dummmm.. da- dum-dum.
friendwhoshallremainnameless: da- dum dummmm.. da- dum-dum.
friendwhoshallremainnameless: da- dum dummmm.. da- dum-dum.
friendwhoshallremainnameless: da- dum dummmm.. da- dum-dum.
friendwhoshallremainnameless: da- dum dummmm.. da- dum-dum.
friendwhoshallremainnameless: da- dum dummmm.. da- dum-dum.
friendwhoshallremainnameless: da- dum dummmm.. da- dum-dum.
friendwhoshallremainnameless: da- dum dummmm.. da- dum-dum.
friendwhoshallremainnameless: da- dum dummmm.. da- dum-dum.
TCohn725: please. i'm busy.
friendwhoshallremainnameless: like I'm not?
AMAZING MOMENT OF THE DAY:
I was watching a fully improvised show at the Upright Citizen's Brigade between two people on an airplane flight. The characters established themselves as a womanizing, slightly belligerent sportswriter and a history teacher at Boston Latin who is fleeing charges of statutory rape. They establish that they are flying from Boston to LA--one to write a story about the Lakers, the other to flee the law--and they exchange views on this, that and the other thing. Then about bout 10 minutes into this meandering, but enjoyable conversation, events take a shocking and amazing turn. One of them, a propos of something I can't recall, asks the other about Y2K and the other says "that's bullshit, because everyone knows the real millennium is this year...2001."
Suddenly, a wave of gasps and shouts and nervous laughter makes its way through the audience as it suddenly dawns on all of us (including the performers) that these characters we've been listening to are on board one of the doomed 9/11 flights. It is a breathtaking moment of discovery. The audience and the actors are suddenly discovering, in an improvised out-of-the-blue moment in real time, a reality that changes everything-in a way that eerily evokes the terrible real moment of real human experience in which the actual passengers on that actual plane suddenly discovered that something was terribly amiss. The experience in the theater and the experience in that plane are, in a sense, mirrors of each other, equal but opposite vectors of staggeringly powerful spontaneous realization. One group discovering in real time that something has gone (dramatically speaking) terribly right. The other discovering in real time that something has gone terribly wrong. Really fascinating. The rest of the improv was locked into that irrevocable background reality and resonated powerfully against it (the most mundane comments assuming profundity through the terrible dramatic irony of our asymmetrical awarenesses.)
CONCEPT OF THE DAY:
A relationship unveiling. That is when after many consecutive years of celebrating someone's birthday, you decide not to even acknowledge it. Somewhere in some now distant life, a phone's silence solemnly rings.
QUIP OF THE DAY:
He makes me feel like Uma Thurman. And i don't mean tall and blonde. I mean stalked.
STORY OF THE DAY:
http://blog.washingtonpost.com/sleuth/2008/07/christian_sites_ban_on_g_word.html
Introducing Tyson and Rudy Homosexual.
QUOTE OF THE DAY:
"Problems don't age well."
-Jamie Dimon, CEO of Chase J.P. Morgan
RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
She was so obsessively detail oriented and so prodigiously gifted in the forest-for-the-trees department, that if she were to be eaten by a lion her last thought would probably be “You have something stuck between your teeth.”
A THOUGHTS ABOUT THE GREATEST TENNIS MATCH EVER:
Can't stop thinking about the Nadal-Federer match today. Really reminiscent of the way I felt after Ali lost to Frazier when I was a little kid. A champion/hero for whom I was rooting passionately, performing brilliantly against an equal and opposite adversary --in a timeless battle of styles--and coming up just, heartbreakingly short. Participating in a match that was instantly deemed to be among the greatest (if not the greatest) ever and experiencing the entirely unaccustomed and totally bitter taste of defeat. As I wrote a few days ago, I had been anticipating this epic showdown with an excitement I hadn't felt since that boxing match that took place in my childhood. And it turns out that not just the anticipation but the after effects are similar as well. Indeed, I don't think I've been as profoundly affected by any sports event since that memorable fight at the Garden on March 8. 1971--which, was incidently, my father's 43rd birthday. I think in many ways both agons truly transcended sport and achieved some of the power of tragic theater. Or maybe they only did so for those who experienced themselves to be on the losing end of the epic battle. I know this sounds a bit purple and hyperbolic. But it is genuinely how I feel. I felt I was transported to some place of relentless, exquisite tension and experienced a profound participation in greatness and loss.
Loss is more painful than victory. But arguably more profound.
Or at least that's what we on the losing side must console ourselves with.
Anyhow, enough. I know this bespeaks a totally unhealthy and ridiculously extreme emotional investment in something that has nothing real to do with my life. And that I sort of felt the same way as a little kid when I saw the invulnerable Gigantor (my first and only cartoon hero) crushed by a bigger monster/adversary. But so be it: It's nice to know that in spite of everything, a little part of my childhood lives on.
A few more thoughts:
That is unquestionably the best a human being has ever played tennis and lost.
There’s no more sense of inevitability to Federer ultimately breaking Sampras’s record. Sure, it remains likely. But Federer has never been shaken like this before and it remains to be seen how his will and confidence will recover. Losing while playing your best on your best surface is --especially for someone long deemed invulnerable--a profound alteration of the order of things and may have lasting psychological consequences. Federer may very well suffer something of an identity crisis--and the history of tennis is rife with people who fall precipitously from the top due to the tiniest of tweaks. (Borg quit after being unable to solve McEnroe, McEnroe quit after confronting the Sampras, Agassi, Courrier generation etc.). It takes amazing focus and belief to maintain the razor's edge that separates a champion from an incredibly gifted also ran. And while I have all the belief in the world in Federer's continued greatness, it remains to be seen how he will respond to this devastating loss and how he will navigate his way though this totally uncharted territory. Of course, in addition to the psychological component, there is the more substantial matter of Nadl's continuiing ascent as a player. And of course, the presence of other legitimate young threats like Djokovic. Things change awfully quickly in the tennis world and while if I were a betting man, I'd still expect to see Federer win at least a couple more Grand slam titles, it is by no means inconceivable that he won't.
I just couldn't bear to see the charming cyborg cry.
UNNATURAL SHOCK OF THE DAY: (Only 904 to go!)
I think I heard Ira Glass say he played in a weekly basketball game.
GRATUITOUS A-ROD BASHING OF THE DAY:
A few thoughts about the A-Rod-Madonna business.. First off, can you think of more iconically self-absorbed and hence boring couple (or should i say coupling?) than A-Rod and The Material Madge? It makes Alec Baldwin and Kim Bassinger look like a mutual, other-regarding, truly devotional pair. Hell, it makes Donald Trump and Donald Trump look like Orpheus and Eurydice. Second: Isn't it weird that Madonna is 20 years older than the Rod? Is that suggestive of a search for the mother or perhaps an implicit admission of homoerotic longing? A-Rod can't come out of the closet except by being romantically associated with a female gay icon almost his mother's age. Third: If, as A-Rod's wife alleges in the story linked above, the Kabbalah IS responsible for this ungodly pairing (and I certainly hope it isn't)--isn't it going to fan the flames of international anti-semitism like nothing since the protocol of the elders of Zion? And frankly, if the Jews (even the new age mystical Jews) ARE responsible for this atrocity, then the anti-semitism is probably richly deserved!
MOVIE COMMENT OF THE DAY:
Before the Devil Knows You're Dead. Quite brutally relentless, bracing and good. Phillip Seymour Hoffman: A fatter Leonardo de Caprio. Don't laugh. Look in the eyes and forehead. Especially in this movie. An OMG/eureka moment awaits you.
BRIEF STORY OUTLINE OF THE DAY:
He sees his lost love and tells her that every night in his dreams he talks to her and tells her that they shared one soul and cries. And then he realizes he is crying. And then he realizes he is dreaming.
MUSICAL COMMENTS OF THE DAY:
a)
Despite my newfound affection for Jonathn Schwartz and the singers of my father's generation, I still find Tony Bennett's voice annoying.
b)
I like Dan Bern's melodies and voice a lot but really don't like the cutesie lyrics. I don't think they're commensurate with the dignity of the music and the conceptual matter being addressed in the songs.
c)
Karen Peris of Innocence Mission. The voice of a diaphanous creature, half born, shimmering in the half light between time and eternity. Yeah...I like her.
LFAQ OF THE DAY:
Can one excel at being mediocre?
CONSUMER OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
I see an ad for the new Angus Third Pounder from McDonalds and I reflect back to childhood memories of when McDonalds launched the Quarter Pounder and then I think to myself: When are they just gonna come out with it: The Angus Pounder? Yeah, give me two Angus Pounders and a vat of corn syrup please. No, you know what: Supersize that for me, would you?
ADVERTISING OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
Whenever I see or hear the TBS tagline "Very Funny" it comes across as sarcastic.
A
MOVIE COMMENTS OF THE DAY:
Saw and enjoyed Wall-E. Pixar rocks. A few quick thoughts (warning, plot spoilers and, perhaps, mood spoilers ahead).
-Call me dark-hearted, but I really sort of liked the bleak severity of the unpeopled post-apocalyptic trash bound earth. Somehow, it had more dignity than the peopled, trafficked planet.
-I really sort of wanted Wall-E to fail to remember Eva at the end. Crushing as that would have been, it would have introduced a truly powerful element of tragic gravitas to the feel good narrative and elevated it from the realm of the wonderfully entertaining to that of the unforgettably profound. But it probably would have also led to the unnecessary traumatization of children everywhere and i really don't need that on my conscience. Plus it might have then verged on becoming just another allegory of a being who sacrificed himself for the good of mankind.
-By making WALL E much cuter than his female counterpart, the movie created an affective asymmetry that kept straight male adult viewers at a certain emotional remove. If EVA had more expressive eyes (like Bambi or whatever), I might have been more seduced by the love story and rooted much harder for WALL E to recover from his mechanical amnesia near the end.
-I liked the depiction of the soft, infantilized, helplessly fat humans orbiting in their perpetual pleasure drome and took that as an allegorical appeal to us viewers (lounging in our comfy seats with our tub-sized "medium" sodas and popcorn) to get off our fat asses and do something to save the planet before it is too late.
BRIEF NARRATIVE OF THE DAY: A night in the life.
I wind up a long day pretending I'm a gay guy or a woman so i can write convincing copy for Lip Fusion ads and then run off to The Four Seasons--bastion of Philip Johnson/Mies Van Der Rohe canonical modernism--for farewell drinks with a friend who has finally made it out of the pits of mammon where he has toiled thanklessly and fruitlessly for decades--in order to pursue a degree in architecture. I toast him in high style amongst his friends--a lovely batch of poets, photographers, trust fund philanthropists and the like. It is a moving and affirming affair.
I then head to the Upright Citizen's Brigade in order to fulfill the show watching requirement for my improvisational comedy class. I watch a bunch of expert practitioners of the craft and find that I while I am laughing quite a bit, I am seldom laughing at the same time as the other people. I can't tell if this is because I am anticipating the comedy, missing it and laughing late, laughing arbitrarily and then trying to retrofit a rationale for having done so or-- and this seems the most viable hypothesis--laughing at the fact that I am older that any of the other attendants' parents and wondering what on god's green spinning rock, I am doing here. I spot two underage classmates of mine and interrupt my reflection on the asynchrony of my laughter by buying them each a beer. They are tickled by the "awesome" quasi-avuncular, semi-illegal gesture.
After two pretty funny shows, I leave and grab dinner at the local Chipotle. As a hungry diner, I am enjoying the fare and as a partial owner, I am enjoying the rather vigorous late night business when an old homeless lady who somehow resembles both my great aunt Edna and my late great uncle Siggy wanders into the place and starts crying in front of me. Her breath is foul and is interfering with my appetite. Out of some hybrid of human compassion and a desire to get her breath away from my meal, I offer to buy her dinner. I make my selfish/humanitarian payment and then leave.
On the subway, I sit across from a guy with a huge (and, of course, paradoxical) Jewish star tattoo, a bike called le nomade and a lock called Lox. I am about to inquire at to the irony ratio behind the Judeo-centrically themed self-branding efforts when I spot an old friend/acquaintance who it so happens was raised an orthodox Jew and now has broken off to become a secular humanist computer scientist --a decision that has led his family to essentially disown him. We talk about life and the Knicks briefly before I have to get off at my stop.
On my way home, I decide to stop into Hagen Daaz to get a hot fudge mint chocolate chip sundae--you know, for the troops. On my way out of the store, a bunch of delightfully enthusiastic 20-ish young women excitedly ask me what I've ordered-- a gesture that I once might have interpreted as flirtatious interest --especially since I am wearing my dignified white suit for the Four Seasons affair--but now have the sense to realize is simply an expression of general good will flowing from an oral desire the imminent fulfillment of which I have absolutely nothing to do with.
As I finish off my sundae, I reflect a bit on feeling perpetually betwixt and between--like a sports-crazed, non prophetic Tiresias, who happens not to be blind--and then I head back to the apartment where I take the Lipitor, check the scores and scribble the thoughts.
RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
He was always just saying.
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17 MORE UNNATURAL SHOCKS THAT FLESH IS HEIR TO: (Only 907 to go!)
-Head-on collisions between text messaging pedestrians. (Thanks, Abner).
-LEGO-shaped fun snacks--to confuse kids everywhere about what to put in their mouths and what not to!
-The permanent campaign model of the Presidency.
-The walking cane as ironic hipster accoutrement.
-Jeans with holes in them costing more than jeans without holes in them.
-The use of Glade as a drug.
-The fact that amputated legs of albino human beings are now considered a good luck charm in Indonesia.
-McCain's applause line "smile" aka rictus aka facial misfire.
-Impeachment for lying about a blowjob but not for lying about a war.
-Paying $11 for the right to watch a half hour of promos and ads in the movie theater.
-A man auctioning off his life on Ebay.
-A very conventional production of Hamlet with an entirely unscripted ending.
- That some black people are evidently considering voting for John McCain.
-The Chrysler Building and the Flatiron Building being foreign-owned.
-A Pregnant Man.
-Ron Paul ending his presidential campaign.
-Doc Rivers outcoaching Phil Jackson.
-Athletes using Viagra as a performance enhancer.
http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/baseball/yankees/2008/06/09/2008-06-09_source_roger_clemens_host_of_athletes_po.html
(And I thought that whole "I take it so I can score whenever the manager puts me in the game" business was metaphorical!)
LFAQs:
Hmm. How do you run with an anvil in your pants?
Weird thing. I see on intrade that Hillary being the Dem. Nominee is still trading at 5% likely. Is there any way to read that other than translating into a 5% likelihood of Obama being assassinated?
Is it racist to suggest that any black person in America who votes for McCain should cease to be considered a black person?
Has a decision ever had less suspense surrounding it than Al Gore's decision to endorse Obama? (I mean who else was there to endorse???)
Is there any correlation between joining the walking lane instead of the standing lane on the escalator and success in the work place? Or compulsive punctuality? Or meanness of boss?
If as McCain claims, Obama has a September 10 mindset, does that mean that McCain has a 911 mindset? And if so, are we talking 911 A.D. or B.C.?
----
HOOPS, SUDDEN DEATH, TIM RUSSERT AND MY FATHER
ALARMING DISCOVERIES OF THE DAY:
a)
Looking in the mirror the other day, I discovered that after a lifetime of unthinking thinness and effortless ectomorphism, I have suddenly developed a curious and troubling resemblance to the pregnant man. This discovery triggered a hard core run through Central Park (ok, a mile and half of gasping and wheezing) --during which (I later learned from our great an glorious leader Google) I burned off about 2 of the 300 or so beers I've consumed since my last bout of exercise. This broken thumb better heal soon so I can get my bloating carcass onto a basketball court or else I'm gonna be flirting with a second trimester sized abdomen.
b)
While I'm basically the most hapless bargain hunter and failed frugalist I know (well, at least of my tribe), I bought Duane Reade three-ply quilted paper towels on the assumption that they were about the same thing as Bounty and that when I buy Bounty I am essentially merely paying for its enormous advertising budget. Shocking discovery: There actually is a huge difference between the products and my basic cynicism about the relationship between marketing and truth will have to be ever so slightly modified.
GLIB OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
The most shocking thing about Tim Russert's sudden death is the revelation that George W. Bush knew who he was.
IRONY OF THE DAY:
Mike Tyson is being investigated for putting up money for a hit on the guy who killed his friend. His murdered friend's nickname? "Homicide."
OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
Adoption. The joys of parenthood freed of the perils of genetic narcissism.
THEME OF THE DAY:
The inadvertent cruelty of Father's Day spam.
Father's Day has become for me, like Valentine's Day is for many people. A commercially sponsored stab through the heart. Indeed, while Father's Day, Mother's Day and Valentine's Day might be fake and contrived as holidays, they all have the power to cause very real pain.
NOTES FROM THE JOURNAL OF MOURNING: FATHER'S DAY REFLECTIONS
Yesterday was one of the hardest days of my life. I spent Father's Day at the unveiling ceremony (headstone dedication) for my father. In many ways, it was an even harder rite than his funeral. It is a strange and terrible thing to see a beloved person replaced by a stone.
The ceremony was short and simple and attended only by a handful of loved ones. We placed smooth stones and flowers on the gravestone. I think it was the way my father would have wanted it.
Afterwards, we went back to his house. I hadn't been there since I'd gone up to clean out his closets last August. It was so strange to be in Westport for Father's Day without him there. The house was filled with ghosts. Vivid memories of my last visit there on that ordinary Saturday in June last year, when he fell asleep for a nap. It was a beautful late spring day. Who would have ever guessed that it'd be the last time I'd ever see him?
I joined his wife and my half sister and her husband for the traditional Father's Day bagels and lox. My father's seat at the end of the table was--of course-- empty. A few photos of him were propped up as his material proxy. We drank Dr. Brown's Black Cherry soda and Dr. Brown's Cream Soda--his favorite drinks. My half sister and her husband showed a slide show of their recent trip to Asia on their laptop at the table. It looked like a beautiful trip. And it was nice to see the young couple so happy together and thriving in their lives. Still, it was very odd.
Afterwards, we watched the Tim Russert tribute on Meet the Press that my father's wife had Tivo-ed. I'd been thinking a lot about my father ever since Russert's sudden death on Friday-- partly because both the season and suddenness of his death acutely echoed my father's, partly because of Russert's much publicized book about fathers and sons and partly because I knew that my father would have been deeply saddened by news of the tele-journalist's passing, as Meet The Press was his favorite show and a religiously observed Sunday ritual.
We all sat down in the living room to watch; Russert's host's seat symbolically empty as my father's seat at the table had been just moments before--and his viewing chair in the living room was now. I reflected a bit on how news of Russert's death had gone from a total shock to a familiar narrative in about 2.2 media-mediated seconds for me...and I suspect the speed at which I assimilated the news and my relative numbness to it was due to the fact that it paled in comparison to the similarly sudden death that had shocked me almost exactly a year ago. I am not trying to suggest that my heart has grown numb to the suffering of others. Surely, I felt terrible empathy for his family and his loved ones. But in my cosmos, Tim Russert's death simply didn't mean all that much compared to the death that it brought acutely to mind. And, ok, I guess I have to confess that I never really bought into the myth of Tim Russert.
And so I struggled a bit as I watched. On the one hand, here was a man my father admired and respected. A man who spoke simply and powerfully of the unparalleled importance of father-son bonds. A plain speaking, likeable, honorable no-nonsense guy whose premature death my father would have surely lamented and whose thoughts about family my father certainly shared. Watching his memorial tribute was in so many ways an approprate way of honoring my father on Father's Day.
And yet... there was a little nagging critical voice in my mind saying "Tim Russert may have been a great guy. But he was not the great, relentless truth-seeker he was being made out to be. In fact, I remember countless times when I felt that his blunt and direct inquiries had entirely missed the point--or when I felt that he had let someone off the hook far too easily without the appropriate follow-up line of questioning. I do not think that this was because Russert was a bad guy or a vichy collaborationist. But I just don't think he had the intellectual chops or the critical tools to conduct more meaningfully revealing interrogations of powerful people and the media-political matrix in which they operated. Russert's inimitable incisiveness (or fair and balanced relentlessness) was the necessary myth of the the status quo . It allowed politicians (and other guests) to flatter themselves into thinking they'd passed some grueling ordeal. And it allowed the mainstream media to flatter itself into thinking there was an icon of true intellectual integrity among them. He was, in essence, a cherished good-housekeeping seal of approval for an essentially unself-critical culture. But enough.
Out of respect for my father, I made sure that basic human compassion prevailed. And while it was a bit hard to stomach the hagiographic tributes to this journalistic giant, this cardinal of compassionate confrontation, this pope of both politics and life--I focused on the obvious tragedy of his passing and allowed myself a basically generous assessment of his contributions to the nation, the species and the world.
And then--stripped of my critical defenses-- I went back to feeling really sad.
When I returned to NYC, the brutal finality of my father's absence his me anew like a sack of bricks. Something about seeing him, for the first time, represented by a headstone--and seeing it on the day (Father's Day) I most powerfully associated with him. I thought about this strange and mysterious translation of a life into an inscription. I thought about how, according to the Jewish faith, this unveiling (headstone dedication) was supposed to officially mark the end of the period of mourning. I thought about how that seemed a bit too tidy for my tastes and how little that idea resonated with my experience. And then I got into a fetal position and turned my attention towards the blessed opiate of NBA hoops.
APPOSITE ARTICLE OF THE DAY:
Obama finds refuge, identity in basketball
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080616/ap_on_el_pr/obama_hoop_dreams
So does Teddy.
QUOTES OF THE DAY:
a)
"I think he realizes what happened," Luke Russert said (Speaking of his grandfather, Big Russ.) "He's extremely sad. He said to me, 'He was the pitcher, you were the catcher and I was the umpire. We lost our pitcher.'"
Really moving.
b)
"As long as the rape is inevitable, you might as well lie back and enjoy it. "
http://www.jedreport.com/2008/06/mccain-answers.html
Isn't that what Bush-Cheney said to the country?
TRIBUTE OF THE DAY:
June 16. Bloomsday. The day on which Joyce's Ulysees takes place. Didn't want to fail to give it props.
MORTAL REFLECTION OF THE DAY:
June 15, his unveiling. June 23, his death. June 26, his funeral. March 8, his birthday. Thinking of how, over time, more and more of the little squares that comprise the calendar become indelibly associated with relationships and people who are gone. The anniversaries of old lovers. The birthdays and death dates of loved ones who've passed on. These little squares on the calendar become little markers of absence. Paper headstones.
P.S. OF THE DAY:
Saw that there was another sudden death today--albeit of a far less tragic sort. Freaking Tiger Woods beating Rocco Mediate. I was, of course, rooting hard core for the underdog Mediate who put up a heck of a battle. How could I not root for a guy looking to win his first major at the age of 45? More importantly, how could I not root for a guy named Mediate? (Media/Mediated/Mediation...I mean, cmon!) I couldn't help but think (in an attempt to leaven my spirits): Freaking Tiger. Another sudden death that breaks my heart.
RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
The couch looks empty without him.
----
ENTIRE LIFE NARRATIVE ELOQUENTLY DISTILLED INTO A SINGLE CONSUMER PURCHASE OF THE DAY:
A man on line at Duane Reade on Friday night with two cans of Red Bull and two boxes of Huggies.
QUOTE OF THE DAY:
"I stand by what I said about testosterone. it is sluts. And it also has ideas."
-Lauren Hutton
For evidence of the above quote, please see our...
RIVETING PERFORMANCE OF THE DAY:
http://www.monstersandcritics.com/people/news/article_1409574.php/Lauren_Huttons_sleepy_Bravo_award_speech_-_VIDEO
LFAQ:
Is the above referenced quote a) Delightful gibberish? b) Strangely profound? c) Both?
With gym memberships as expensive as they are, the economy apparently in recession and the benefits of personal fitness widely known and embraced, why don't more people do chin-ups on those ubiquitous NYC construction bars? (I'd probably get a lot fewer stares if they joined me!).
Given the fact that the wheel was invented some time at the dawn of man and luggage has been around for ages--why did it take until the mid 1980s or so for luggage on wheels to become a common thing?
How many people read the story of a man accused of following a woman into the ladies room and trying to block her exit and think to themselves “Damn. Why didn't I think of that?!?!?” (I know, a really creepy one, but you've really gotta wonder.)
When a subway car reeks of urine and you're holding your breath until the next stop where you can sprint out and change cars, but you notice that most of the people in the reeking car with you seem completely unfazed, does this mean: a) That you happen to be in the car for the olfactory-challenged? ? b) The other people in your car actually like the smell of urine? c) The other people in your car have just given up?
OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
If it smells like urine everywhere you go, you may want to check to make sure you didn't pee yourself.
RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
He was perfectly suspended between sincerity and irony.
NEW CONDITIONS OF THE DAY:
a)
Acid Reflex Disorder: To describe people whose natural instinct is to respond to any stimulus in a nasty and bitter fashion.
b)
Attention Surplus Disorder. People who are able to focus on a task or problem for so long that it actually proves to be maladaptive.
c)
Irritable Vowel Syndrome. Describes people often express disgust and disatisfaction by saying "Aaaah." or "Eeeeeh" or "Ayyyyy" or "Oooo!" or "Uhhhh!" (Needless to say, Irritable Dowel Syndrome is another matter entirely--and one far too indecorous for these pristine electronic pages.)
POLITICAL OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e78ZGBLmvuU
McCain's promise to America: I will veto every single beer. You don't need to be Homer Simpson to be concerned about this part of his platform. I mean really: Can you think of a more terrifying bit of news for the average American? This is certain to strike more fear into the heart of the electorate than any mention of terrorism possibly could.
MOVIE REVIEW OF THE DAY:
Finally saw Juno. It was sweet and pretty good. And I always love Michael Sera. But I couldn't shake the feeling that her character had been focused grouped for maximal idealized nostalgia among 30-something former punks.
RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
He always sounded as if he were politely thanking someone for being no help at all--which, one suspected, also accurately characterized his personal relationship to God.
CURIOUS MESSAGING SEQUENCE OF THE DAY:
Outside 777 Third Avenue, a sign reads: “Beware! As you enter this building you may be recorded by up to 37 surveillance cameras.” Then the first thing you see upon entering the building is a wall mirror with a sign on it that asks “Do you look your best today?” It might as well read "Primp for the spies!"
ASYMMETRICAL WARFARE OF THE DAY:
I am singing Mr. Tambourine Man sotto voce in a melancholic iPod-less state on the subway platform this morning when some girl listening to rap really loud on her iPod sits next to me and starts singing. Assaulted by her aggressively undulcet vocal stylings , I raise my Mr. Tambourine Man rendition to a slightly mood inappropriate volume only to realize that even this attempt to preserve the integrity of my experience is in vain as, sheltered by her ear buds, she can't hear a thing. A third woman-caught in the sonic cross fire-smiles awkwardly and steps away.
P.S. OF THE DAY:
Wouldn't it have been funny if we'd (the loud, socially insensitive inner city youth and the Dylan singing upper west side Jew) each turned to each other at the same moment and said “ Stop being such a stereotype!”
DISSENTING OPINION OF THE DAY:
Just read that June 20 is officially considered the Happiest Day of the Year. Happiest Day of the Year? All my stocks are plummeting. A 3-month long pitch (business courtship ex-nihilo) filled with brilliant campaign ideas ends with a dingleberry of an assignment. My thumb -after 4 months on the DL-has not healed properly and will probably need surgery. Happiest Day of the Year My Ass.
OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
Sometimes it seems that if it weren't for birthdays, weddings and funerals, people would never see each other.
DESCRIPTION OF THE DAY:
Mourning the lost world when we were safe and small together. Now blown apart. Long frozen time breaking up into tears and the overwhelming fluidity of experience. Walking down the street to get a drink.
RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
If he seemed perpetually, even at times desperately, elliptical, it was, he would have us believe, for reasons of essential ineffability rather than those of pretentiousness, inarticulacy or garden variety cognitive dysfunction.
UNNATURAL SHOCK OF THE DAY:
That I have been too consumed by natural shocks to really add to the list of unnatural shocks over the last few days. But I'm committed to my goal of 1000. There's no quit in me.
QUOTE OF THE DAY:
“Laughter is the closest distance between two people.” -Victor Borge.
STIPULATION OF THE DAY:
“Unless one person is laughting AT the other person, in which case laughter is arguably the farthest distance between two people.”
-Theodore Vegas
BRIEF MOVIE COMMENT OF THE DAY:
Edward Norton in Hulk. Yes, he's a terrific actor, but haven't we had our fill of him flexing his schizoid, extreme bi-polar performance muscle in Primal Fear and Fight Club?
NOTE TO READERS OF THE DAY:
I'm trying to keep it brief and light today blog-wise as today is the 1 year anniversary of my father's death and, frankly, I'm just trying to get on through. That said, I may have some thoughts and reflections more commensurate with the occasion in the next few days.
LFAQs:
If all the prominent cars in your life were parked on the street you were walking down would you even notice it?
Can you sneeze while vomiting?
I see that Obama is asking his supporters to pay off $10 Million of Hillary Clinton's debt. Wouldn't it be a smart campaign move to ask those supporters to pay off the debt of 10 million undecided voters?
LIST OF THE DAY:
The days on my calendar that are markers of absence; private memorials, paper headstones.
Jan 19, 20
Feb 14, 21
Mar 3, 8, 19
Apr 17
May 6
June 2, 9, 15, 16, 23, 26
July 4, 7, 11, 13
Sept, 27
Oct 5
Nov 10
Has any man included his own birthday on such a list?
STORY/EXISTENTIAL REFLECTION OF THE DAY:
I'm thinking about the story of this death row inmate who claimed to no longer be the person who committed the crime for which he's been convicted, so that if they were to execute him, they'd be executing the wrong man.
RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
The couch looks empty without him.
NOTES FROM THE JOURNAL OF MOURNING: THE ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY
6/22: Listening to my father's favorite radio show--the Jonathan Schwartz show-on the day before the anniversary of his passing. It turns out to be an unexpectedly apt memorial tribute. Carly Simon and Jonathan Schwartz. One of the voices of my era discussing her new album of standards from my father's era. They, lifelong friends, reminiscing about their fathers and their childhoods and taking us on a meandering journey of songs and stories that intersect--via long forgotten elements of my early emotional soundscape like Simon's "You're So Vain" and the Rolling Stone's "Angie"--with many memories of my own childhood and my own father.
For example, I am reminded that "Angie" was my favorite, obsessively listened to song when I was 13 and when, on our weekend visits, my father would take me stereo shopping (I honestly can't remember if we were shopping for him or for me as a bar mitzvah present, although I suspect it was the latter.) that "Angie" was the song I'd always ask the audio guy to play so I could judge how much I liked the speakers. And once I remember the guy giving me a hard time for picking such a blandly acoustic song since it didn't allow him to demonstrate the speakers' kickass sonic mid-range or whatever and I defended my depressive early adolescent choice by saying that that was the kind of music I liked so I really didn't care that much about what else the speakers could do. I remember the guy giving my father an "Am I right or what?" look and my father giving him a "Hey, that's what my son likes, what am I gonna do?" shrug. This, in turn, triggered memories of my father spending countless weekend hours taping music on his big reel-to-reel Teac tape recorder and, in his slightly slanted all cap handwriting, lovingly transcribing the contents of each recording onto both the interior and exterior of the large tape boxes--many of which now sit, along with the gloriously antiquated tape deck, in a small cell at Manhattan Mini-Storage that I simply don't have the courage to visit.
I am also remembering a few years earlier, when my parents were still together but there was some kind of sad pall over our home--playing "You're so Vain" on our little stereo turntable and hearing about someone taking his something "to Nova Scotia to see a total eclipse of the sun" and feeling all these tragically romantic things that I had to be too young to feel. And now as I think about it, I remember how listening to "Angie" on the car radio during visits with my father in the year or two after the divorce made me feel indescribably sad for him. And I remember feeling that same deep sadness whenever songs about break-ups would come on Casey Kasen's Top 40 or whatever we were listening to (first in the white VW Karmen Ghia with the black convertible roll-up top, then in the white and orange Ford Mustang and then in the used light blue Porsche 911 T with the beige corduroy seats and the fatal post-ignition knock.)--as if they spoke a pain he could never share.
I am listening to these songs and feeling just the remotest minor of what I'd once felt upon hearing them and reflecting on life and time and loss and on the part of me that is gone and the part of me that still lives on. I am listening to Jonathan Schwartz's stumblingly reverential assertions with a new, indulgent affection and I am loving the warmth of Carly Simon's laughter and I am surprisingly sad to discover that our three hours together are almost up and that I will soon be losing their company. And then this long meandering walk down melody lane ends improbably and almost eerily (via a Carly Simon anecdote about her relationship with the man who would be Yusef Islam), with their playing Cat Stevens' "Father and Son" and my crying as it reaches the lyric "Take your time, think a lot, think of everything you've got/For you will still be here tomorrow though your dreams may not."
6/23 In the background of my harried workaday consciousness, I am thinking about my father all day. I receive messages from friends and loved ones telling me that I am in their thoughts and I am, of course, deeply grateful. In the evening, at 7:30- the time I received the terrible call exactly one year ago-- I stumble--as if in a dream-- upon a solitary man playing mournful bagpipe music on a rock in Central Park. I stop and listen in silent observance until the loss feels brand new again. And then I go and see Hamlet.
P.S. OF THE DAY:
There were lots of powerful and uncanny things about seeing Hamlet on this solemn occasion, but I will say only this: That when Hamlet (played by Michael Stuhlbarg in this Shakespeare in the Park production) got to the line "and by a sleep to say we end/The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks/That flesh is heir to," I, feeling that heartache and those natural shocks a bit too acutely, inserted a barely audible and defiantly life-affirming "Un" before the words "natural shocks."
No, there's no quit in Theodore Vegas.
(OK. Sometimes, there's a little.)
DANGLING DESCRIPTOR OF THE DAY:
As uncomfortable as a Republican being dragged onto a dance floor.
OBJECT OF FASCINATION OF THE DAY:
That CIA walk-in informant who was responsible for the capture of Khalid Sheik Mohanmmed. He then received some or all of the promised $25 Million reward and was relocated somewhere in the United States under a new identity. What's his story? What's he up to now? Mystery Informant, if you are reading this blog right now (as I suspect you are), while lounging in your mansion after attending a McCain fundraiser or on the public library computer after catching up on the latest clebrity gossip or on your poolside laptop after a mid afternoon lapdance or in your pajamas in a break from your full schedule of internet dating or online canasta, just know that in addition to being a true hero in the war against Terror you also have the perhaps even more rarefied distinction of being The Teddy Vegas first Ever Object of Fascination of the Day.
ODD AND MOVING AUDIO-VISUAL DIPTYCH OF THE DAY:
Waching Cat Stevens/Yusef Islam singing Father and Son first as a son (and a godless pop star) and then as a father (and a devout muslim.).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jek6iP6AuAQ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4cpX1ZjuaiA&feature=related
WISH I HAD A CAMERA MOMENT OF THE DAY.
A white women pushing black baby in a stroller in a neighborhood where one is accustomed to seeing just the opposite.
RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY: (With thanks to creative collaborator T.K.)
He didn't just seize the day: He arrested it, booked it, indicted it, convicted it and made it his prison bitch.
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LETTER OF THE DAY:
I wrote the following letter to the NYT based on an observation previously made in this blog and, since it appears that they have decided not to publish it, I figured I'd post it here:
Recently, the U.S. Army confirmed that more U.S. soldiers had killed themselves in 2007 than in any year on record ("Suicide Rate for Soldiers Rose in '07", NYT 5/30). Of the 115 U.S. Army suicides reported, 32 of them had been committed by troops stationed in Iraq. While it is difficult to find figures to confirm this, it appears that -in what would be an excruciating irony--the number of troops who committed suicide in Iraq last year may very well be greater than the number of troops who were killed by suicide bombers.
Could one possibly ask for a more acute indictment of the moral clarity of our mission or of the material and mental preparedness of those brave individuals whom we've asked to carry it out?
Tragically, despite empty symbolic appeals on bumpers everywhere, we are not supporting our troops.
MORE UNNATURAL SHOCKS THAT FLESH IS HEIR TO: (Only 924 to go!)
Seeing the house you grew up in from the instantly accessible, totally impersonal perspective of satellite Google maps.
The Swiftboating-Waterboarding Axis of "Good."
The permanent campaign model of the Presidency.
The walking cane as ironic hipster accoutrement.
Jeans with holes in them costing more than jeans without holes in them.
Those Existenz ads that run during ESPN Sportscenter for a supplement that makes "a certain part of the male anatomy larger." (I suspect that in order to meet the legal standards for truth in advertising, that they do indeed make a certain part of the male anatomy larger: Only that part is the liver or kidney.)
The greasy film left in your mouth after a meal at Qdoba.
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Pet time-shares for the wealthy and noncommital
Corn-fed Steer.
Ralph Nader's relentless campaign to tarnish his own legacy.
Seeing Roger Federer with totally defeated body language.
The use of Glade as a drug.
The fact that amputated legs of albino human beings are now considered a good luck charm in Indonesia.
Athletes using Viagra as a performance enhancer. (And I thought that whole "I take it so I can score whenever the manager puts me in the game" business was metaphorical!)
http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/baseball/yankees/2008/06/09/2008-06-09_source_roger_clemens_host_of_athletes_po.html
The NYT's failure to publish my letter.
SOON TO BE UBIQUITOUS EUPHEMISM OF THE DAY:
I had no horse.
FOOTNOTE OF THE DAY:
The above phrase comes from the jockey of Big Brown, the overwhelming favorite to win the Triple Crown today at the Belmont Stakes but who came up with bupkis--and actually finished last. When interviewed about what happened the jockey, Kent Desormeaux, explained "I don't know what happened. He's the best I've ever ridden, but coming around the turn, I just knew I had no horse."
TRIBUTE OF THE DAY:
RIP Jim McKay. With whom I spent the five hundred Saturdays of youth and, in the summer of 1972, lost a big part of my innocence. (The Munich Olympics).
STRANGE REFLECTION OF THE DAY:
Saw "I'm Not There"--Todd Haynes' fractured po-mo Bob Dylan bio-pic. The film posits the death of a fictional Bob Dylan character and then tracks the loose storylines of his 6 internal personae (The Liar, The Poet, The Actor etc.). What was strange and dislocating was seeing the fictionally dead living person (Dylan) played by an actually dead actor (Heath Ledger.). Yet another of life's ironic inversions.
GREATEST THING EVER OF THE DAY:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rssxrTmpm48
An amazing performance of the best break-up song ever--and one of the most moving expressions of wounded pride, defiant anger and raw pain in any artistic medium.
PAINFUL EXPERIENCE OF THE DAY:
Seeing Father's Day ads popping up everywhere.
RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
His motto was "I don't like to whine, but they say you shouldn't hide your gifts."
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Posted 44 days ago
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ONLY 939 UNNATURAL SHOCKS TO GO!!!.
A bunch more unnatural shocks towards the realization of our glorious goal of 1000!!!
"Heckuva Job, Brownie"
Celebrity Super-Premium bottled waters
The Electoral College
The fact that the mirror that Michael Jackson looked into in "Man in the Mirror" didn't crack.
The sudden prominence of Xantham.
Plot spoilers in Coming Attractions and Movie Reviews
The comedic success of Carlos Mencia
Cheetos
Below the line advertising efforts/Paid undercover brand ambassadors.
Greg Popovich’s miraculously disappearing baldspot.
Bill Clinton going from being the first black president to the last racist president.
The distractingly variegated Chevron billboard in left field at the San Francisco Giant's AT&T Park
The corporatization of culture that leads to Candlestick Park becoming PacBell Park becoming AT&T Park and Cominskey Park becoming U.S. Cellular Stadium etc.
Randy Sowder passing up a contested jumpshot.
POLITICAL THOUGHTS OF THE DAY:
Really striking how gracious and big spirited Obama was in giving his historic speech last night and how myopically, defiantly. pettily egotistical Hillary was in refusing to concede what had already been lost. Sort of sad that the race between two excellent candidates devolved into a race between "an African-American man" and a "White woman"--and while I will not pile on the Clintons when they are down, I definitely hold them largely responsible for that becoming the case. Loved the fist bump Michelle "She's hot!" Obama gave her hubby on stage. That's gotta be the coolest moment in American political history.
(The gesture was every bit as hot as it was cool and suggested the radical possibility of a President and First Lady who actually enjoy having sex. With each other!!!)
But a few more words about Hillary (and again, the disclaimer, perhaps dismissible, that I'm not kicking her when she's down; a disclaimer about as credible, i suppose, as her claim that this election wasn't about her, it was about her supporters and her claim that she she is going to act only in the interests of what it best for the Democratic Party only just not right now.). It's really unfortunate that she didn't take that once-in-a-lifetime moment to to bow out gracefully on national TV and to elevate the interests of party unification and November success over those of personal pride. It is sad, because it would have allowed everyone to forgive and embrace her and celebrate the remarkable achievement of her historic campaign. Instead, we can only think of her legacy of petty narcissism and thwarted entitlement.
Which gets us back to the controversial comments the (not so) Good Reverend Pfleger made about the former First Lady. Lost in the to-do over the toxic racial component of his mockery was the essential underlying truth of his claim. He was exactly half right. Hillary did have a huge sense of entitlement about the presidency. It was hers. It was promised to her. She deserved it. And now someone was trying to take it from her. And she was screaming "Mommy, mommy make that mean man go away." But in truth, it had precious little to do with his being black. It had to do with his being not her.
I suppose at this point, I have a guarded optimism about Obama's chances--but in no way underestimate the huge challenges he faces. It's gonna be really hard to convince white working class Americans that he really "gets them" and is on their side. And it's gonna be really hard to persuade the electorate that this 46 year old Ivy League wunderkind is qualified to be Commander-In-Chief in a time of (unnecessary) war. And of course, there is stilll a lot of hatred, ignorance and racism lurking out there. Happily, McCain is an angry erratic nutjob. And happily Obama is tall and good looking.
HIGH ANXIETY EXPERIENCE OF THE DAY:
Toggling between that terrible "this is too good to be true" anxiety of imminent assassination as I watched Obama give his gracious, compelling and historic speech (never once mentioning himself or his race) and that terrible "this is too good to be true" anxiety of an imminently snapping hamstring or torn rotator cuff as I watched Pedro in his comeback outing. My heart was racing and I literally exhaled in relief when--nearly simultaneously-- Obama left the stage and Pedro finished the first inning. It was more suspense than one should be able to experience on TV.
REFLECTION OF THE DAY:
Mortal Daze:
The sheltering sphere has been smashed open and everyone staggers around, loss-startled, death-dizzied and deeply on their own--exposed to the end and to the unending.
Things persist. Everything is changed. And nothing.
MODIFIED PLATITUDE OF THE DAY.
Only the young die young.
ANECDOTE OF THE DAY:
I hear a woman from the advertising agency adjacent to where I work complaining that “the lawyers said we can get in trouble if we ask the music company to compose a piece of music that sounds like Bob Dylan and he then ends up complaining. So we have to find some other way of describing what we want. I hate lawyers.”
OVERHEARD IN MY HEAD MOMENT OF THE DAY:
“And Bob Dylan hates you.”
LFAQs of THE DAY: (Less Frequently Asked Questions)
How do you ask for a Bob Dylan soundalike song without mentioning Bob Dylan?
(Attempted answer: “Uh…can you give me something that has a 60s folk sound…very nasal vocals…maybe something that sounds like the singer dated Joan Baez and got into a motorcycle accident and created a big to-do by unexpectedly going electric? Let’s see…maybe you can work a harmonica into it and the intimation of a mid-career born-again phase? And umm… let’s see. Oh, yes…maybe some rambling lyrics that sound loosely metaphorical and profound to the extent that they are intelligible at all.")
Will the image of Michelle Obama giving Barack a badass congratulatory fist bump/pound be shamelessly exploited in hate-based, Fear of a Black Nation advertising by the Republican Party?
Will Hillary bow out of the race before the inauguration?
SPECIAL SIGNIFICANCE OF THE (OTHER) DAY:
Today--June 2--is the anniversary of my Bar Mitzvah.
PSYCHIC SNAPSHOT OF THE (OTHER) DAY:
From the schizoid life ot Theodore Vegas. Thinking about llife, loss, death, the anniversary of my bar mitzvah and the passage of time one minute and then screaming “Baby Make Wee-Wee!! Baby Make-Wee-Wee!!” in a shreakingly high quavering voice the next...and getting paid for it! (The aforementioned utterance was the "safe word"--nay, "safe phrase"-- for the squirrely animated character I play on the upcoming Adult Swim cult-classic-to-be “Superjail.”)
IRONY OF THE DAY:
It is truly ironic --but some would argue, strangely appropriate--that I celebrated the day on which I symbolically became a man by repeatedly screaming "Baby-Make-Wee-Wee!" in a high-pitched voice.
ENTERTAINMENT COMMENTS OF THE DAY:
a)
SNL has been brilliant lately. The best it's been in years. Kristin Wigg: Ingenious. The writing: inspired. Andy Sandberg: a no-talent ass clown—with cute hair.
b)
The Strangers
The Happening.
Do I detect a return to the most basic and primal notions of otherness and terror?
RIGHTEOUS THING OF THE DAY:
Indian Muslims Issuing Fatwa Against Terrorism.
http://www.thehindu.com/2008/06/01/stories/2008060159940800.htm
RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
He was a slow starter but that was nothing compared to the way he finished.
SHAMELESSLY SELF-PROMOTIONAL NOTE TO READERS OF THE DAY:
If you like this stuff, you can find more like it at:
www.nyc.com/people/Teddyvegas/blog
and:
www.teddyvegas.blogspot.com
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THE THOUSAND UNNATURAL SHOCKS THAT FLESH IS HEIR TO:
I was re-reading Hamlet's soliloquy the other day and savoring some of my favorite lines. "And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er by the pale cast of thought" is certainly one. And "...the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to" is another. I have certainly been feeling my share of those natural shocks in the past year: Loss, death, broken bones etc. And for a moment I thought about listing them and seeing if I could come up with 1000. But then I decided it would be far less morbid and masochistic and far more fun to try to come up with a complementary list: To wit: The thousand Unnatural shocks that flesh is heir to. And I figured I'd make it a collective Teddy Vegas interactive feature...so I could tap into the vast creative resources of my distinguished readership. So anyhow, before the native hue of my resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought (or mere laziness), let me get this party started. I'll throw down a handful of unnatural shocks and please please please help me reach my lofty goal of 1000 of 'em. (Or at least 50.)
The 1000 Unnatural Shocks that Flesh is Heir to Project hereby commences with:
1. Joan Rivers’ face.
2. Velvetta
3. Donald Trump’s hair
4. Donald trump’s being
5. The continued celebrity of Brittney Spears.
6. Pamela Anderson's breasts circa 1994.
7. Dip ‘& Dots: The Ice Cream of the Future
8. Hillary Clinton’s Laugh
9. Las Vegas
10. The Blackberry
11. Red Bull
12. Footprints on the moon.
13 Mass produced triplet strollers
14. Flava Flav
15. High fructose corn syrup
16. NYC Cranes
17. Continued claims of Robin Williams' comedic genius.
18. Focus Groups
19. "The War on Terror"
20. Liposuction
21. The designated hitter
22. HGH
23. Non-payment of Health insurance claims
24. Air Guitar Competitions
25. Ernie Anastos
26. Cowboy boots on Wall Street stockbrokers
27. Liquid Protein
28. Mobile Media Porno
29. Jocelyne Wildstein - NYC "Cat Woman"
30. E-Harmony or for that matter anything with E i.e E! Network
31. Cialis
32. Celebrity Designers
33. $50,000.00 Birthday Parties
34. Bluetooth wireless earpiece phones
35. Humvees
36. Vibrating belts for passive weight loss.
37. Talking car alarms
38. The Home Shopping network.
39. Botox
40. Pet psychiatrists
41. Alarm clocks
42. Reality TV
43. Blow up dolls
EXCRUCIATING IRONY OF THE DAY:
Two defense officials said Thursday that 108 U.S. troops committed suicide in Iraq in 2007. Which means, if my calculations are right, that, in the "war on terror", more troops were killed last year by suicide than by suicide bombers.
RANDOM SINGLE SENTENCE PORTRAIT OF THE DAY:
If he tended to put women up on a pedestal, it was only so that he could look up their skirts.
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Posted 55 days ago
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