Entries from May 2008 ↓

Kevin drum hits the nail on the head:

No political ideology lives in isolation. We judge communism by how Mao and Stalin implemented it, we judge 60s-era liberalism by how LBJ and the Democratic Party implemented it, and we judge social democracy by how Western Europe has implemented it. That’s how you judge movements: by how their real-life adherents put them into practice, not by reference to a utopian vision of how they should be implemented if only we lived in the best of all possible worlds.

There’s been a lot of this kind of thing coming out of the craven brood of neoconservatives who’ve spent the last seven years systematically driving this country into the ground. They’ve been working hard to disassociate themselves from the policies that they fomented, on the grounds that the standard-bearers of their ideology just did it wrong. This is how loathsome scraps of vile like Richard Pearl and Doug Feith justify themselves these days: the war was right, and we were right. Bush just fucked it all up.

Well, this is worse than ridiculous — it’s dangerous. It’s fantasy in the face of demonstrable fact.

I have to admit to some respect for the communist movement that grew up in this country at the turn of the century, in response to the capitalist reign of terror that reduced huge swathes of the population to nothing more than subsistence rats. The communists did lots of good work back then, and persevered in the face of terrible persecution — and defeat after defeat — at the hands of their employers and their government. However — there’s just no denying that every experiment with pure communism has ended in dictatorship and misery. Which isn’t to say that there’s definitely a causal relationship between communism and despotism — just that every attempt has demonstrated one, and we can’t afford to risk trying anymore.

I’d say the same thing about the brand of scorched-earth neoconservatism that found its way to the levers of power with the ascension of the Bushies. An economy in the tank, a falling dollar, an endless war, a burgeoning surveillance society: these are the fruits of the neoconservative revolution.

So give it a rest guys. We tried it your way, and suffered for it. Time to move on.

Argus the Fractal Ant, that craggy anchorite, uttered only twelve worlds in his whole life, all of them in the instant before his death. “I have never known a man,” said he, “more jackrabbit than ravine cold cuts.” And jabbed defiant antennae at an unfeeling sky, and gurgled, and died.

There were three in attendance that day: Pastafarian Joe, Call Collect Anteater, and Bloviator Prime.

Said Pastafarian Joe: “Well, isn’t that something.”

Said Call Collect: “Yes, by definition. The question is what.”

Said Bloviator Prime: “Eep.” For Bloviator Prime had run afoul some years ago of a troupe of malevolent gypsies, who grew weary of his incessant blather and cursed him with the Eep curse.

“It is my belief,” said Pastafarian Joe, “that Argus was railing against the apocalyptic glee of our divine oppressors.”

“Nonsense!” said Call Collect. “He was simply bemoaning his principled stand against non-hexagonal pancakes.”

“Eep!” said Bloviator Prime. “Eep eep!”

“Imagine, living one’s whole life under the thumb of a god who you are obliged to praise incessantly for the unremitting agonies he inflicts upon you,” said Joe, affecting his best doleful.

“Imagine living one’s whole life without the benefit of pancakes,” said Call Collect. “Or waffles. Or any form of breakfast pastry.”

“Eep,” said Bloviator Prime.

And so they held their hats in their mouthes, and bowed their heads, and said a prayer to all of the dead gods who clustered even now around Argus the Fractal Ant’s empty exoskeleton, keening their absolutions.

You know how, in the old Road Runner cartoons, Wile E Coyote, in hot pursuit, would routinely careen off the side of a cliff and then spend ten seconds running through thin air before he realized that there was nothing under his feet? And then fall? That’s Hillary Clinton’s campaign, more or less — except she stubbornly refuses to fall.

I don’t know why she’s doing this, or how — but I am sure that she won’t be able to keep it up. There is no mathematical way for her to win this nomination. None. You can suspend gravity for a while, but you can’t beat it. Ever. So it seem to me that a rational coyote/candidate, given an inexplicable reprieve from the laws of physics, would sort of creep carefully back onto terra firma and concede defeat. You may not have your road runner, but at least you’re not a tiny puff of smoke at the bottom of a ravine.

But … no. She seems absolutely intent on doing as much damage to herself as possible. A couple of weeks ago she donned her Cheney hat and said that obliterating an entire people (Iranian people, in this case) was “on the table”, in the current parlance of American jingoism. This week, after her should-have-been-decisive defeat/worthless victory in North Carolina and Indiana, she said, basically, that she’s a better candidate than Obama because she’s white, and poor white people like other white people more than they like black people.

Both of these statement are reprehensible, of course, but they’re also deeply strange coming from Hillary Clinton. She’s better, and smarter, than this. Her language smacks of desperation, yes, but also of insanity. She’s clearly come unhinged. Someone very close to her needs to lean over, and whisper into her ear, and lead her back to solid ground. Before she damages herself, and her legacy, beyond repair.

My mom was (gently) admonishing me the other day for all the filthy language I use on this blog. I am, needless to say, mortified. I had no idea she was even reading this thing. So I will definitely be treading more carefully from now on.

However — it’ll be difficult to ditch the epithets entirely, given all of the impotent bitching and excoriating that needs to be happen here. So I’ve decided to go with a simple substitution scheme instead. Here are some early candidates:

I think these alternatives strike just the right balance between stridency and prurience. As a test run, I’ve run them through a typical 50s-era sitcom plot — a hapless father trying to put together his son’s new bicycle on Christmas Eve:

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me, but I think this is awesome. It’s going to usher in a whole new era of swearing. And I will be its king. Bow down before me, potty-mouthes!

… but Mr Heston is perhaps best known for his role in the 1981 masterpiece, Planet of the Ten Commandments, in which he first uttered those immortal words: “Let my people go, you damn dirty apes!“

Came across this building while I was walking around DC the other day. It looks like something Dali would have designed, if he’d been an architect:

I’m sure there’s some sort of profound metaphor to draw out of this (the futility of human endeavor? our sagging moral standing in the world? the slow-motion disaster of age?), but it’s escaping me at the moment.

It is impossible to be cynical, even fake-cynical, about Barack Obama. He inspires me like no other public figure ever has.

When I first started working in DC, one of the first things I noticed was how nasty your average Starbucks customer is down here. You see it over and over again: the guy who stands in line oozing impatience, ostentatiously checking his watch, sighing loudly, staring daggers at helpless barristas. I was saddened by it. I was appalled. I was outraged.

Well, I have become that person.

Maybe it’s a desire to fit in. Maybe it’s the toxic effects of the hurly-burly atmosphere down here. Or maybe there’s been a latent Starbucks Asshole in me all along, just waiting to someone to come along and unlock it. Whatever the reason — I have zero patience for even the slightest delay these days.

One of the things I’ve discovered since my transition into Asshole is that there is a certain type of Starbucks patron who will always trigger one’s worst impulses. I call this person WPSP: Worst Possible Starbucks Patron. You know who I’m talking about. That glacial dawdling figure in line in front of you, sucking up vast acreages of time for absolutely no good reason.

You can spot a WPSP a mile away, and you will do everything in your power to get in line in front of them, knocking over old ladies and baby carriages and baby seals in the process. You will always fail, though. The cosmos does not favor Starbucks Assholes.

Here’s a profile of your typical WPSP:

General Characteristics

Usually a middle-aged woman with a fresh countenance, a kindly, open demeanor and a slightly ditsy, friendly, abstracted laugh. The kind of person who’d you love to meet outside the context of the line you’re standing in — but who, in that context, is the purest possible distillation of evil.

Drink Selection Methodology

Not so much a methodology as a kind of drawn-out exploration of options by committee — where the members of said committee consist entirely of the warring factions of indecision inside her head.

Worst Possible Starbucks Patron could be standing in line for an hour, with the drink menu in plain sight, possibly even talking over drink options with her friend (there’s always a friend). It doesn’t matter. Upon arriving at the register and being asked for her order, her eyes will widen in shock, and she will say something like: “Order? Me?” As if the whole notion of ordering a drink at an establishment whose sole purpose is to sell you a drink is so completely alien as to bewilder the entire field of human endeavor.

And then she will step back, and, with her hand resting lightly on her chest, stare up at the very large menu. She will say things like: “Oh, goodness! There’s so much to choose from!”, and “I wonder what a latte is?” and “Oh, I love cinnamon” and so on. These are delaying tactics. She is marking time until the decision engine in her brain chugs lugubriously to life, and begins the long winnowing process.

Pastry-Selection Methodology

This one is a killer, because, generally-speaking, WPSP wasn’t even thinking pastries when he walked in. At least with the drinks there was a vague background notion that a drink would be nice, so we weren’t starting from zero. But pastries … well, that’s a different world. A yummy world. In a display case. This is the point at which the demeanor of the Starbucks Asshole slips from annoyance into anguish.

Obliviousness

Another mark of the WPSP is her complete unawareness of the inconvenience she is causing you. The line could be stretching out the door and into the street. Three women could be giving birth behind her while a death metal Mariachi band plays Metallica/Sinatra mashups and soldiers exchange mortar fire with pan-dimensional hyper-intelligent Cthulu abominations. She is aware of none of it. Her entire attention is focused on the challenge of reducing the vast panoply of drink options available to her into that single, perfect choice that will bring total happiness and contentment to her corner of the universe.

Payment Method

This is perhaps the cruelest stage of all. WPSP has finally settled on a drink. WPSP has made his pastry selection. WPSP has completed the ordering process. You breathe a sigh of relief. You will soon be able to step up to the register and conduct the 15 second transaction you have spent the last quarter hour waiting for. He still hasn’t paid, of course - but, really, how hard can that be?

Well, all kinds of hard. There are three, and only three, scenarios here:

1. WPSP pulls out a swollen change purse from his bag and begins to laboriously count out the $6.32 he owes. He will have to sift through buttons and charm bracelets and old pictures and tiny desiccated rodent-balls to arrive at exact change. But he will arrive at exact change, by god.
2. WPSP pulls out a two thousand dollar bill and hands it sheepishly to the barrista. And then sheepishly asks for his change in ones, pennies, and deutchmarks.
3. WPSP pulls out a handful of half-used gift cards, and loudly announces how completely unaware he is of how much each one holds. So we’ll have to go through all of them, ha ha. Inevitably, twenty gift cards later, there is still a balance remaining, at which point WPSP will move on to option (1) or (2), above.

The WPSP experience is an exhausting time for Starbucks Assholes. I had one just this morning, and I’m still recovering. It’s enough to make one wonder whether life might be better for everyone if one would just stop being an asshole.