January 29, 2004
The Election Goes to the Dogs
The primaries in Iowa and New Hampshire have concluded, and the Democratic party has reached no firm conclusions except to get the hell out of New Hampshire, because it's freezing up there. If you are a Democrat, you are probably asking yourself a lot of questions about the remaining candidates. Who is the most honest? Who has the best chance of beating Bush? Who can fix the economy? Who has meaningful foreign policy experience? Who has been endorsed by Patch Adams?
Well, stop your worrying. I've been thinking very hard about this for a few days, and I have come up with a foolproof theorem for determining the candidate you should vote for. I have simply examined the candidates' physical appearances and personas, and matched them to the dogs they most resemble.
Yes, dogs. Man's best friends. The creatures that bring out our hidden feelings and strongest loyalties. As soon as you see which dog a candidate resembles, my Democratic friend, you will know if that man deserves your vote. And if by some slim chance you are still undecided, I have made the choice even simpler: I have, alongside the links to each of these dogs, added the American Kennel Club description of the animal -- with the candidate's name inserted at the appropriate junctures.
No, you don't have to thank me. This is what I do.
Gen. Wesley Clark's size makes it a wonderful candidate for people who live in small city apartments. The breed is very hardy and adaptable, but it must live inside a home or an apartment; Gen. Wesley Clark should not live outside. Generals are good travelers and can easily go anywhere with their owners.
Howard Dean makes a loyal and wonderful companion, but requires time and training. Dean is a basically calm, confident, and courageous candidate with a self-assured aloofness. Howard Dean is a powerful candidate with an inherent desire to protect home and family. Dean's strong will to work make it an especially good companion candidate. The behavior of Dean in the show ring should be controlled, willing and adaptable, trained to submit to examination of mouth, testicles, etc. An aloof or reserved Howard Dean should not be penalized, as this reflects the accepted character of the breed. An aggressive or belligerent attitude towards other candidates should not be faulted.
John Edwards was developed in the early 19th century to toll, lure, and retrieve waterfowl. The playful action of Edwards retrieving a stick or ball along the shoreline arouses the curiosity of the ducks offshore. They are lured within gunshot range, and the candidate is sent out to retrieve the dead or wounded birds. This medium sized, powerful, compact, balanced candidate is the smallest of the retrievers. Edwards' attitude and bearing suggest strength with a high degree of agility. He is alert, determined, and quick, with a keen desire to work and please. Many John Edwardses have a slightly sad or worried expression when they are not working. The moment the slightest indication is given that retrieving is required, they set themselves for springy action with an expression of intense concentration and excitement. The heavily feathered tail is held high in constant motion while working.
John Kerry is even-tempered, affectionate, loyal, and friendly, and makes an excellent family pet. John Kerrys are very neat candidates who clean themselves much like cats. John Kerrys require a great deal of exercise and should only be allowed off leash in a fenced in area. They are very agile candidates, able to jump great heights from a standstill. It is recommended that John Kerry owners have fences at least 6' in height.
A sensitive and intelligent candidate whose only purpose is to serve man as a companion. Responsive and affectionate with those it knows and loves but reserved with strangers or in new situations. Dennis Kucinich is sensitive, though, with definite likes and dislikes, but rarely, if ever, does he forget friend or foe.
Joe Lieberman is a natural hunter and should never be allowed to roam without supervision. Joe Liebermans traditionally hunted in packs, which required a comradely attitude towards other candidates. Joe Lieberman is laid back, sociable, and affectionate. It is a great candidate for children and adults of all ages. When there is nothing better to do, Joes sleep, and are not destructive when left alone. They turn on to food, but not necessarily to exercise. In temperament Joe is mild, never sharp or timid. He is capable of great endurance in the field and is extreme in his devotion.
The character and temperament of the Rev. Al Sharpton is of utmost importance. The Rev. Al Sharpton is a calm, confident, and courageous candidate with a self-assurance which sometimes is rather aloof toward strangers. Al Sharptons are highly intelligent, extremely reliable. They were bred to guard and protect. The behavior in the show ring should be controlled, willing, adaptable, and trained to submit to examination. The only acceptable colors for the Rev. Al Sharpton is black, or black with a few gray hairs. Any other color is to be considered a disqualification.
January 28, 2004
Melodic Melfeasance
From the Department of Things Being As They Were: Mel Gibson has rejected the musical score written by Lisa Gerrard of Dead Can Dance for his new Jesus-and-the-Jews film The Passion of the Christ. Instead, he will be using a score written by John Debney, who has a long history with deity movies: he wrote the music for Bruce Almighty, as well as, um, Elf. Yes sir, when you say "John Debney," you think dignified and tragic, that's for damn sure.
You Say Goodbye...
For two days now, I've been receiving e-mails entitled "Hello" or "Hi!" from various addresses, most of them people I know. All of these notes contain really nasty viruses, which my faithful office server has been destroying. Still, it's disconcerting to have these diseased greetings popping up in my inbox every few hours. It's the title that gets me, that innocuous "Hello" from someone I know. I feel like I'm in some cyberspace version of a zombie movie: Friends come up to say hi, and then try to eat my face off. Weird, how I've gotten so acclimated to virtual communication that the betrayal seems personal, and a little unnerving.
January 23, 2004
Smoke Signals
This one goes out to all you Covenant kids fighting the man who would take your tobacco: An NPR feature on the smell of cigarette smoke, the "aroma of the 20th century." The piece aired on Wednesday night, and yesterday Andy and I were discussing it (we were on our way to profile a martial arts and Ultimate Fighting trainer for Pulse, but that's another story). Andy had only caught the tail end of the feature, and suspected that it was public radio's usual heavy-handed indictment of tobacco.
But I think it's actually a subtle, melancholy piece, remembering a time when smoking was not only socially acceptable, but a sign of urbanity, intelligence and sex appeal. Smoking was, yes, a cosmopolitan thing to do, and a first journey into adulthood. As one commentator puts it, smoking then seemed like a similtaneously youthful and grown-up act, "sucking the meaning out of the world and breathing it back out again."
These days it seems like the glamour and coming-of-age significance have been stripped from the cigarette pack, except in a few subcultures. Hipsters and artists still think of cigarettes this way, and so do kids in rural farmtowns like the one I grew up in. And then, of course, there's Covenant College, where the rules against smoking make it seem like a mark of rebellion and sophistication. Perhaps on Monday, I'll have time to think about how these factors influenced my personal addiction. But for now, I have actually work to do, and a Friday night of smoking awaits.
January 21, 2004
Yeaaagh!
Scary speech. Great remix. Nothing like a little Howard Dean meltdown music to get you through the cold day. (Thanks, James Lileks.) Now, if only someone could do a remix of President Bush's smirk from last night.
January 20, 2004
Twilight Run 2004: Iowa
The biased national news media continues to focus its spotlight on the frontrunners in the Democratic primaries, all of whom I think are named "John." But here at Wired Mesh, we're concentrating on a grander story, a triumph of the human will and the tremendous capacity for self-delusion. Yes, there is much celebration in the forest today, for Grandfather Twilight, aka Dennis Kucinich, has won a single Iowa delegate.
This is being hailed as a great victory by the Twilight campaign, whose Web site currently blares the optimistic if noncommital headline, "Kucinch: This Will Go to Convention." As the Iowa results were announced, Kucinich explained his strategy for winning the nomination:
"Some would think it's unwise to suggest that when you have 1% of the delegates that somehow you can take that as a springboard to the nomination, but I will say that kind of daring and fearlessness is what this country is actually looking for at this time... As I climb higher in New Hampshire and each successive state, and as the situation in Iraq continues to worsen, Democratic support for peace will be reflected in my campaign's success. I predict a brokered convention in July... we will either bring these other Democratic candidates into an identical position or we are going to sweep them aside as we go to the nomination."
Buoyed by this fresh burst of insanity, the Kucinich campaign is off to New Hampshire. "Now tomorrow, at 3:00 this morning," Mr. Twilight announced paradoxically, "I'll be on my way to New Hampshire to show you that I'm not going to miss a beat, waste any time or get any sleep." Because nothing inspires the confidence of a nation like knowing our leader doesn't get any sleep.
If you're still wondering what secret weapon powered the Twilight Express to its single delegate, you should see who offered his endorsement on Wednesday. Yes, it's that Pat Simmons. Of the Doobie Brothers.
January 19, 2004
There's No Times at All, Just the New York Times
You probably already know that the New York Times was founded by Adolph Ochs, a Jewish boy from Cincinnati who first created the Chattanooga Times, then ran off to the big city to change journalism. So this town has a close link to the Newspaper of Record; even the current publisher is related to dear old Adolph, that upstanding Chattanoogan.
Somebody needs to tell that to the Winn-Dixie cashiers around here.
The Winn-Dixie in St. Elmo stocks about three daily copies of the New York Times, in what I can only assume is a concession to the hippies and college professors scattered throughout the neighborhood. Friday morning, I decided to stop in and grab a copy before dropping Ryan off at work. I took the paper to the cashier, who looked at me with parental concern.
"Do you know that this is the New York paper?" she asked me, apparently concerned that I would sit down to breakfast and discover that my paper had no information about TennCare.
"That's why I'm buying it," I said cheerfully.
"I just wanted to make sure you knew," she replied.
I had forgotten about the conversation until this morning, when I ran into the Winn-Dixie in Hixson (City of Romance) to use the ATM and grab a pack of Camels. While paying for the cigarettes, I asked the cashier, "Do you have a copy of the New York Times?"
"The time?" she answered. "It's 25 minutes before nine. Have a nice day."
Sigh.
In other news, my office e-mail server is down. I feel very isolated, marooned in the Medical Mall.
January 16, 2004
Nothing Says "Friday" Like Zombie Haiku
I'm wandering off for a weekend of hanging with geeks: video games at Holton's tonight, reporting for Pulse on the Chattacon convention all day tomorrow. By Monday, I should be able to recite with some authority the name of Eowyn's parents -- assuming she had parents, and didn't spring out of somebody's forehead fully formed or something equally unpleasant.
In the meantime, I recommend you take a gander at Heaneyland, the blog that originally broke the "Dennis Kucinich woodland creatures endorsement" story. I've been wasting a lot of my post-pancake mornings here. Francis Heaney is a New Yorker who just finished producing an off-Broadway rock musical based on Oedepus, Metamophasis and Hamlet called We're All Dead. On his blog you will find the finest zombie haiku ("I walk the wide earth/ Barefoot through the deepest snow/ Lacking nerve endings"), the biographical hymns of Sri Chimoy, an anthropomorphized rolling purple trumpet, and the legend of Hansel and Grendel. Plus the color of his site isn't that different from the shade of my van, which brings a nice coherence to my posts today, if that sort of thing matters to you.
It's good to be blogging again.
Hixson, City of Romance
The Big Purple Van o' Love has been working extra shifts this week, as all the cars around her wither and die in the cold, being made of less sturdy stock than she. This is my fifth straight morning waking up at 7 a.m. to drive Rye-Diggity, whose van is busted, to Memorial North Park Hospital in Hixson, a nondescript strip-mall haven across the Tennessee River.
Since I am not due in my office until 10 a.m., I have been taking breakfast in the smoking section of the Hixson International House of Pancakes, which is located, oddly enough, across the street from the Hixson International Board of Jewish Missions. (The people of Hixson are clearly interested in foreign affairs.) I have spent this hour enjoying Endless Pancakes and reading the New York Times. (I found a Times box, after a dilligent Monday-morning search, outside the Hixson Post Office -- which does not bill itself as international, although it probably has more claim to the title than do the missionaries or the maple syrup-mongers.) I have then driven the DuPont Parkway to Erlanger, only to make the trip twice more in the afternoon, picking up Ryan from work and going right back to downtown Chatty to get April Roe from her office. I have spent a bit of time in Hixson before, but only now I am truly growing to appreciate its subtle beauty. It is the Paris of Tennessee, a city of romance where you can order your McDonald's Vaule Meal at the Wal Mart check-out lane.
My chaffeur services doubled last night when Josiah and April called me, shivering at a pay phone outside the St. Elmo KFC. Their truck died, so this morning I dropped Josiah and April off at their respective workplaces, then took Ryan to a variety of post offices -- and then off to Hixson, where we enjoyed about 274 pancakes and discussed the presidents of the United States. (Ryan likes Reagan; I have a soft spot for Harding.) Then I dropped him off too. This afternoon I will repeat the process in reverse (minus the pancakes). I'm thinking of starting the Big Purple Van o' Love Shuttle Service as an official company.
January 15, 2004
Sesame Street Becomes Newly Relevant
In honor of President Bush's exciting, expensive plans to establish a lunar base (a lesser person than myself would insert something snarky here, like asking whether Don Rumsfeld thinks the moon needs a regime change), I present you with a little song.
When I was a little kid, I used to cry whenever Ernie the Muppet would sing this piece. My mother worried about my emotional health.
January 14, 2004
Clifford the Big Red Dog, However, Supports Dean
Perhaps you are one of those sad little cynics who does not believe that Dennis Kucinich can bring a new era of peace to this great land. Perhaps you think he does not have enough endorsements from credible public figures. Perhaps you have not yet heard the revolutionary news...
Dennis Kucinich has been endorsed by all the animals of the forest!!!
And not only that, my friends. Kucinich has also been endorsed by the beloved children's book character Grandfather Twilight. Mr. Twilight gave the news to his creator and illustrator, Barbara Helen Berger, who conducted a wonderful interview with him. Really, I cannot begin to tell you how fantastic this interview is:
Berger: I heard the Gandhi Peace Award for 2003 was given to Dennis Kucinich.
Grandfather Twilight: True. When the whole deep forest heard the news, what joy! From the grassy roots to the tallest trees, we had a standing ovation.
It is probably important to remind you that I am making none of this up.
The Dreams in Which I'm Dying
And now it's time for that exciting monthly feature, News from Our Former Colonial Oppressors. Great Britain is apparently still recovering from the excitement of the annual race for the Christmas Number One, the top-selling single for the week of December 25. Why the most popular song should matter more on Christmas than any other day is an open question, but London bookmakers were taking bets on the outcome for weeks.
The eventual winners were Michael Andrews and Gary Jules singing "Mad World," a Tears for Fears cover that they originally put on the Donnie Darko soundtrack three years ago. (Since this track has been on just about ever lugubrious mix that Ryan Davidson has made in the last few years, I suppose this makes him the hippest man in England. Bend it like Rye-Dawg!) "Mad World" won despite being kinda old, really sad and having nothing whatsoever to do with Christmas.
This last fact was noted repeatedly by members of The Darkness, whose rocker "Christmas Time (Don't Let the Bells End)" finished second. "It's a great song," said lead singer Justin Hawkins said of "Mad World," "but how Christmassy is it? Not very is the answer, not very Christmassy at all." This unassailable argument was ignored by Britons, who apparently preferred to spend Christmas weeping and overdosing on sleeping pills.
Amidst this landscape of sorrow and malaise wanders our faithful Canadian correspondent Julian, who has been sleeping through his orientation lectures at Oxford. He has also been visiting several historical landmarks and, as usual, is unimpressed.
I've now had about three days of "orientation" here, very dreary. The usual condescending practice of reciting information we've either already received or will figure out for ourselves in the course of our studies. I did visit the Tower of London yesterday, but must say at the danger of appearing to be a cliched version of myself that I didn't find it particularly exciting. I only enjoy historical artifacts when I can touch them - if they're not going to let me bounce on Sir Walter Raleigh's bed I may as well just look at a picture in an encyclopedia. Of course, allowing me this kind of access would mean that the objects would deteriorate and might not be accessible for future generations, but a) future generations can take care of themselves and b) if they're interested in bouncing on my bed 1000 years from now they're welcome to it.
And there you have it: the news from London. The British are severely depressed, and boring in situations involving their beds. Another reason to see America first.
Ooh! Guitar!
I often receive comments and e-mails suggesting that I should blog more. Behind these requests is, I suspect, the mistaken impression that I am full of witty insights that I am withholding from the world. People meet me and see that I look gloomy and thoughtful, and assume that I am busy considering profound matters. Or they read this blog and enjoy something I have written in a moment of clarity, and assume that I am thinking interesting things all day.
This is, sadly, not the case.
Over the last 24 hours, for example, I have been thinking pretty constantly about how when I wear my gray knit cap, I look a lot like Adam Arkin on "Northern Exposure," and I'm not sure if I like that look. Whenever I pass a mirror -- or any pane of glass, really -- I think about this. I have also been doing a lot of thinking about when I should take a cigarette break, and whether it's worth the effort of walking to the parking garage, especially since smoking in the middle of the day might make me feel sick. Also the Darkness single "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" has been running through my head every few minutes.
If you would like to know more of this sort of thing, I will be happy to post it. Just let me know.