Friday, December 29, 2006
GOV
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Distributed Intelligence
by Baron Bodissey
Wretchard has an absolute must-read post today called “The Blogosphere at War”. It’s a first-rate analysis of the new internet-based information system that is now maturing, citing the blogosphere as the engine of change in how news is collected, analyzed, processed, and distributed.A brief excerpt:
There is considerable interest in the idea that “blogs” are somehow able to offset the mainstream media’s (MSM) ability to sell a given narrative to the public, a power which is of considerable interest in peace and even more so in war. It is widely recognized that molding public perceptions through narratives is nearly as important in war as the outcomes on the actual battlefield. Palestinian Media Watch convincingly demonstrates that Arab and Muslim organizations have long made influencing international publics through print and broadcast media a strategic goal, especially in any confrontation with Israel. This effort has historically followed two tracks: the establishment of technically sophisticated media outlets like al-Jazeera to sell messages directly to audiences; and mounting information operations aimed at shaping the way in which Western Media outlets cover any issue of interest.- - - - - - - - - -
[…]For most of the Israel-Lebanon War of 2006 Hezbollah repeatedly accused Israel of atrocity and wanton aggression as a way of neutralizing its superior firepower; and little of this cant was rebutted in timely fashion. When on December 4, 2006 an Israeli think-tank release released a study, supported by imagery, showing that Hezbollah had fired its rockets from civilian localities all over southern Lebanon at civilian targets in Israel , the war had already been over for five months and Hezbollah had long achieved its public relations objectives. In pointed contrast to this ponderous performance, private individuals — bloggers — had managed to explode many Hezbollah atrocity accusations against Israel carried by the MSM in very rapid fashion. These blogger accomplishments included demonstrating that a wire service photograph of a bomb-damaged Beirut had been digitally altered to enhance both the smoke and the damage; that photographs of supposedly dead civilians posed artfully in the rubble were faked; and last but not least, the unmasking of an often photographed Lebanese humanitarian worker (The Green Helmet Man) as a brutal Hezbollah public relations agent callously arranging children’s corpses for maximum effect. While the actual effect of these exposes on the international diplomatic climate may have been slight, observers of the 2006 war in Lebanon had found their white knight. The rapid and often effective response of the blogosphere raised hopes that the Internet might provide a way to neutralize the massive Islamic investment in media outlets and information warfare cells.
What is the truth?The only statement I would question is this one: It is widely recognized that molding public perceptions through narratives is nearly as important in war as the outcomes on the actual battlefield.Delete the word “nearly”. Our success on the battlefield in Iraq and Israel’s success in Lebanon have been overshadowed by the enemy’s success in manipulating the news coverage of these events.Our soldiers are superb and their martial skills are the greatest that history has ever seen. But we may yet lose the war because the people who control the portals of public information are cowardly and treasonous.The information war has become more important than the bombs-and-bullets war.Since the politicians are in thrall to the MSM, the dedicated information warrior has to detour around them. This is where Wretchard’s analysis and the work of the 910 Group converge.Half of the task is the collection, analysis, processing, and distribution of information. The other half is what we do with it.The Counterjihad is a proactive alternative to the traditional passive acceptance of what our leaders do on our behalf. Our leaders can no longer adequately protect us; other means of protection are even now being formulated.Distributed intelligence can be an active process. It is forming new structures and strategies for countering the mujahideen in their attempts to suborn, infiltrate, corrupt, and destroy all that we hold dear.Read Wretchard’s whole essay. It will help clarify the situation.
Distributed Intelligence
by Baron Bodissey
Wretchard has an absolute must-read post today called “The Blogosphere at War”. It’s a first-rate analysis of the new internet-based information system that is now maturing, citing the blogosphere as the engine of change in how news is collected, analyzed, processed, and distributed.A brief excerpt:
There is considerable interest in the idea that “blogs” are somehow able to offset the mainstream media’s (MSM) ability to sell a given narrative to the public, a power which is of considerable interest in peace and even more so in war. It is widely recognized that molding public perceptions through narratives is nearly as important in war as the outcomes on the actual battlefield. Palestinian Media Watch convincingly demonstrates that Arab and Muslim organizations have long made influencing international publics through print and broadcast media a strategic goal, especially in any confrontation with Israel. This effort has historically followed two tracks: the establishment of technically sophisticated media outlets like al-Jazeera to sell messages directly to audiences; and mounting information operations aimed at shaping the way in which Western Media outlets cover any issue of interest.- - - - - - - - - -
[…]For most of the Israel-Lebanon War of 2006 Hezbollah repeatedly accused Israel of atrocity and wanton aggression as a way of neutralizing its superior firepower; and little of this cant was rebutted in timely fashion. When on December 4, 2006 an Israeli think-tank release released a study, supported by imagery, showing that Hezbollah had fired its rockets from civilian localities all over southern Lebanon at civilian targets in Israel , the war had already been over for five months and Hezbollah had long achieved its public relations objectives. In pointed contrast to this ponderous performance, private individuals — bloggers — had managed to explode many Hezbollah atrocity accusations against Israel carried by the MSM in very rapid fashion. These blogger accomplishments included demonstrating that a wire service photograph of a bomb-damaged Beirut had been digitally altered to enhance both the smoke and the damage; that photographs of supposedly dead civilians posed artfully in the rubble were faked; and last but not least, the unmasking of an often photographed Lebanese humanitarian worker (The Green Helmet Man) as a brutal Hezbollah public relations agent callously arranging children’s corpses for maximum effect. While the actual effect of these exposes on the international diplomatic climate may have been slight, observers of the 2006 war in Lebanon had found their white knight. The rapid and often effective response of the blogosphere raised hopes that the Internet might provide a way to neutralize the massive Islamic investment in media outlets and information warfare cells.
What is the truth?The only statement I would question is this one: It is widely recognized that molding public perceptions through narratives is nearly as important in war as the outcomes on the actual battlefield.Delete the word “nearly”. Our success on the battlefield in Iraq and Israel’s success in Lebanon have been overshadowed by the enemy’s success in manipulating the news coverage of these events.Our soldiers are superb and their martial skills are the greatest that history has ever seen. But we may yet lose the war because the people who control the portals of public information are cowardly and treasonous.The information war has become more important than the bombs-and-bullets war.Since the politicians are in thrall to the MSM, the dedicated information warrior has to detour around them. This is where Wretchard’s analysis and the work of the 910 Group converge.Half of the task is the collection, analysis, processing, and distribution of information. The other half is what we do with it.The Counterjihad is a proactive alternative to the traditional passive acceptance of what our leaders do on our behalf. Our leaders can no longer adequately protect us; other means of protection are even now being formulated.Distributed intelligence can be an active process. It is forming new structures and strategies for countering the mujahideen in their attempts to suborn, infiltrate, corrupt, and destroy all that we hold dear.Read Wretchard’s whole essay. It will help clarify the situation.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
BOOKSHELF
Anticommunism's Triple Threat A joint biography of Reagan, John Paul II and Thatcher makes good use of Moscow archives.
BY THOMAS J. BRAY
Wednesday, December 27, 2006 12:01 a.m. EST
It was, as they say, a close-run thing. Within the brief space of 26 months, attempts on the lives of the three leaders who would see the curtain ring down on Soviet communism--Ronald Reagan, Pope John Paul II and Margaret Thatcher--failed. If any one of the killers had succeeded, history might have turned out very different.
That's the thesis of John O'Sullivan's "The President, the Pope, and the Prime Minister," and it's hard to dispute. The British-born Mr. O'Sullivan, currently editor-at-large of National Review and a senior fellow with the Hudson Institute, covered the Reagan presidency as a Washington journalist, wrote frequently about John Paul II and served as a special adviser to Lady Thatcher. He weaves the major strands of their lives together in a highly readable--and mercifully concise--fashion.
It is tempting to say in retrospect that the Soviet Union was bound to collapse. But when empires collapse, it is usually a bloody business. And in any case, there was no such certainty. One of the more delicious parts of Mr. O'Sullivan's narrative is his recollection of what some of the West's leading peaceniks and intellectuals were saying at the time.
"That the Soviet system has made great material progress in recent years is evident both from the statistics and from the general urban scene," warbled Harvard economist John Kenneth Galbraith in 1984--even as Kremlin leaders were discussing what to do about their increasingly parlous situation. "Primitive," sniffed a New York Times columnist at Reagan's 1982 speech to the British Parliament, in which he predicted that the march of freedom would "leave Marxism-Leninism on the ash-heap of history."
And then there was Sen. Edward Kennedy's disgraceful visit to the Kremlin in early 1986 after Reagan had returned home in triumph from the Geneva Summit, where both sides pledged, in principle, to reduce nuclear arms. Mr. O'Sullivan cites a secret report by the deputy head of the Soviets' International Department that became available after the fall of the Soviet Union. In it, Mr. Kennedy is alleged to have expressed the thought that, "from the Democrats' point of view, all of this is very bad." He warned the Soviets that Reagan might "abuse a good thing for bad purposes," entering into arms-reduction dialogue while still pursuing "military preparations." The senator expressed his willingness "to suggest some specific ideas" to "keep increasing pressure on the administration." In a footnote, Mr. O'Sullivan notes that Sen. Kennedy's office says he had a "close working relationship" with the White House during his Kremlin visits.
Mr. O'Sullivan rejects after-the-fact attempts to make Mikhail Gorbachev the hero of the piece. Mr. Gorbachev's refusal to send the tanks into Eastern Europe in 1989, as citizens began to rise up against their governments, deserves praise only if "a Soviet leader is praised for not actually shooting his own people." And Mr. Gorbachev's effort at reform, which unleashed a tiger he couldn't ride, was intended to improve the communist system, Mr. O'Sullivan reminds us, not overthrow it.
But Mr. O'Sullivan is mainly out to tell a great story of how three people of seemingly ordinary backgrounds--three "middle managers" from the early 1970s, as he calls them--rose to greatness. He deftly sketches the economic revolutions under Mr. Reagan and Lady Thatcher that remoralized the American and British allies while undermining communism's claims to superiority. And he explores John Paul II's subtle but devastating cultural and religious war against communism in his home country. (Interestingly, Lady Thatcher, Mr. O'Sullivan's old boss, mentions John Paul II only twice in her memoir, and then only in passing.).
Mr. O'Sullivan's account of the 1986 Reykjavik Summit is particularly absorbing. It was at Reykjavik that Mr. Gorbachev rolled the dice, agreeing to the possibility of deep reductions or even the elimination of strategic and intermediate-range nuclear weapons in an effort to get Reagan to give up on his Strategic Defense Initiative. (Ultimately, no agreement was reached.) The book cites a Soviet note-taker's admiring assessment of Reagan during the lengthy, exhausting talks: "He is like a lion! When lion see antelope on the horizon, he is not interested, he go to sleep. Ten feet away, too much, leave it. Eight feet, the lion suddenly comes to life!"
In this instance, and in others, Mr. O'Sullivan makes good use of Moscow archives that were briefly available after the dissolution of the Soviet empire. But much of his narrative is a vivid account of already well-reported events. And Mr. O'Sullivan seems to go a little wobbly when trying to explain the convergence--and survival--of three such visionary leaders at a critical moment in history.
An early chapter is pointedly titled "Did God Guide the Bullets?" But notice the question mark. Near the close he writes: "It is a spiritual element that best explains [the three leaders] and their achievements," but then goes on to interpret the spiritual element as little more than their shared ability to replace fear with hope, perhaps evoking Franklin D. Roosevelt's formulation that "the only thing we have to fear is fear itself."
It seems as though Mr. O'Sullivan, by implying a secular as well as a providential explanation, is trying to have it both ways. But such puzzles shroud most of history's turning points.
Mr. Bray is a freelance writer in the Detroit area. You can buy "The President, the Pope, and the Prime Minister" from the OpinionJournal bookstore.
Anticommunism's Triple Threat A joint biography of Reagan, John Paul II and Thatcher makes good use of Moscow archives.
BY THOMAS J. BRAY
Wednesday, December 27, 2006 12:01 a.m. EST
It was, as they say, a close-run thing. Within the brief space of 26 months, attempts on the lives of the three leaders who would see the curtain ring down on Soviet communism--Ronald Reagan, Pope John Paul II and Margaret Thatcher--failed. If any one of the killers had succeeded, history might have turned out very different.
That's the thesis of John O'Sullivan's "The President, the Pope, and the Prime Minister," and it's hard to dispute. The British-born Mr. O'Sullivan, currently editor-at-large of National Review and a senior fellow with the Hudson Institute, covered the Reagan presidency as a Washington journalist, wrote frequently about John Paul II and served as a special adviser to Lady Thatcher. He weaves the major strands of their lives together in a highly readable--and mercifully concise--fashion.
It is tempting to say in retrospect that the Soviet Union was bound to collapse. But when empires collapse, it is usually a bloody business. And in any case, there was no such certainty. One of the more delicious parts of Mr. O'Sullivan's narrative is his recollection of what some of the West's leading peaceniks and intellectuals were saying at the time.
"That the Soviet system has made great material progress in recent years is evident both from the statistics and from the general urban scene," warbled Harvard economist John Kenneth Galbraith in 1984--even as Kremlin leaders were discussing what to do about their increasingly parlous situation. "Primitive," sniffed a New York Times columnist at Reagan's 1982 speech to the British Parliament, in which he predicted that the march of freedom would "leave Marxism-Leninism on the ash-heap of history."
And then there was Sen. Edward Kennedy's disgraceful visit to the Kremlin in early 1986 after Reagan had returned home in triumph from the Geneva Summit, where both sides pledged, in principle, to reduce nuclear arms. Mr. O'Sullivan cites a secret report by the deputy head of the Soviets' International Department that became available after the fall of the Soviet Union. In it, Mr. Kennedy is alleged to have expressed the thought that, "from the Democrats' point of view, all of this is very bad." He warned the Soviets that Reagan might "abuse a good thing for bad purposes," entering into arms-reduction dialogue while still pursuing "military preparations." The senator expressed his willingness "to suggest some specific ideas" to "keep increasing pressure on the administration." In a footnote, Mr. O'Sullivan notes that Sen. Kennedy's office says he had a "close working relationship" with the White House during his Kremlin visits.
Mr. O'Sullivan rejects after-the-fact attempts to make Mikhail Gorbachev the hero of the piece. Mr. Gorbachev's refusal to send the tanks into Eastern Europe in 1989, as citizens began to rise up against their governments, deserves praise only if "a Soviet leader is praised for not actually shooting his own people." And Mr. Gorbachev's effort at reform, which unleashed a tiger he couldn't ride, was intended to improve the communist system, Mr. O'Sullivan reminds us, not overthrow it.
But Mr. O'Sullivan is mainly out to tell a great story of how three people of seemingly ordinary backgrounds--three "middle managers" from the early 1970s, as he calls them--rose to greatness. He deftly sketches the economic revolutions under Mr. Reagan and Lady Thatcher that remoralized the American and British allies while undermining communism's claims to superiority. And he explores John Paul II's subtle but devastating cultural and religious war against communism in his home country. (Interestingly, Lady Thatcher, Mr. O'Sullivan's old boss, mentions John Paul II only twice in her memoir, and then only in passing.).
Mr. O'Sullivan's account of the 1986 Reykjavik Summit is particularly absorbing. It was at Reykjavik that Mr. Gorbachev rolled the dice, agreeing to the possibility of deep reductions or even the elimination of strategic and intermediate-range nuclear weapons in an effort to get Reagan to give up on his Strategic Defense Initiative. (Ultimately, no agreement was reached.) The book cites a Soviet note-taker's admiring assessment of Reagan during the lengthy, exhausting talks: "He is like a lion! When lion see antelope on the horizon, he is not interested, he go to sleep. Ten feet away, too much, leave it. Eight feet, the lion suddenly comes to life!"
In this instance, and in others, Mr. O'Sullivan makes good use of Moscow archives that were briefly available after the dissolution of the Soviet empire. But much of his narrative is a vivid account of already well-reported events. And Mr. O'Sullivan seems to go a little wobbly when trying to explain the convergence--and survival--of three such visionary leaders at a critical moment in history.
An early chapter is pointedly titled "Did God Guide the Bullets?" But notice the question mark. Near the close he writes: "It is a spiritual element that best explains [the three leaders] and their achievements," but then goes on to interpret the spiritual element as little more than their shared ability to replace fear with hope, perhaps evoking Franklin D. Roosevelt's formulation that "the only thing we have to fear is fear itself."
It seems as though Mr. O'Sullivan, by implying a secular as well as a providential explanation, is trying to have it both ways. But such puzzles shroud most of history's turning points.
Mr. Bray is a freelance writer in the Detroit area. You can buy "The President, the Pope, and the Prime Minister" from the OpinionJournal bookstore.
opinionjournal.com
http://www.jpost.com/servlet/Satellite?cid=1164881982714&pagename=JPost%2FJPArticle%2FPrinter
Is Jimmy Carter an anti-Semite? Shmuley Boteach, who styles himself "America's rabbi," argues in the Jerusalem Post that the answer is no:
*** QUOTE ***
Jimmy Carter is not so much anti-Semite as anti-intellectual, not so much a Jew-hater as a boor. The real explanation behind his limitless hostility to Israel is a total lack of any moral understanding.
Carter wants to do what's just. His heart's in the right place. He just can't figure out what the right is. He is, and always has been, a man of good intentions bereft of good judgment. He invariably finds himself defending tyrants and dictators at the expense of their oppressed peoples. Not because he is a bad man, but because he is a confused man.
Carter subscribes to what I call the Always Root for the Underdog school of morality. Rather than develop any real understanding of a conflict, immediately he sides with the weaker party, however wicked or immoral.
Israel has tanks and F-16's. The Palestinians don't. Therefore the Palestinians are being oppressed. Never mind that the Palestinians have rejected every offer to live side by side with Israel in peace and elected a government pledged to Israel's annihilation. Their poverty dictates the righteousness of their cause even if their actions speak otherwise.
*** END QUOTE ***
Boteach likens this attitude to that of marriage counselors "who always take the side of the wife in an ugly dispute in the belief that a woman, inherently weaker than her husband, is always the innocent and aggrieved party. Even where the evidence points to the wife as being violent and unreasonable, such arbitrators cannot conceive of the husband as anything but the oppressor."
But the "Always Root for the Underdog school" is even more perverse when applied to international relations. It's not just that to side with Yasser Arafat--or Fidel Castro or Saddam Hussein or Robert Mugabe--is to choose the wrong side vis-a-vis Israel, America or some other Western power. It is that to side with these dictators is to side against their own people, who are the actual underdogs in the situation.
Meanwhile, America-hating polemicist Robert Fisk http://news.independent.co.uk/world/fisk/article2097774.ece , in London's Independent, sings the praises of Carter, whom he describes as "the only American president approaching sainthood."
Is Jimmy Carter an anti-Semite? Shmuley Boteach, who styles himself "America's rabbi," argues in the Jerusalem Post that the answer is no:
*** QUOTE ***
Jimmy Carter is not so much anti-Semite as anti-intellectual, not so much a Jew-hater as a boor. The real explanation behind his limitless hostility to Israel is a total lack of any moral understanding.
Carter wants to do what's just. His heart's in the right place. He just can't figure out what the right is. He is, and always has been, a man of good intentions bereft of good judgment. He invariably finds himself defending tyrants and dictators at the expense of their oppressed peoples. Not because he is a bad man, but because he is a confused man.
Carter subscribes to what I call the Always Root for the Underdog school of morality. Rather than develop any real understanding of a conflict, immediately he sides with the weaker party, however wicked or immoral.
Israel has tanks and F-16's. The Palestinians don't. Therefore the Palestinians are being oppressed. Never mind that the Palestinians have rejected every offer to live side by side with Israel in peace and elected a government pledged to Israel's annihilation. Their poverty dictates the righteousness of their cause even if their actions speak otherwise.
*** END QUOTE ***
Boteach likens this attitude to that of marriage counselors "who always take the side of the wife in an ugly dispute in the belief that a woman, inherently weaker than her husband, is always the innocent and aggrieved party. Even where the evidence points to the wife as being violent and unreasonable, such arbitrators cannot conceive of the husband as anything but the oppressor."
But the "Always Root for the Underdog school" is even more perverse when applied to international relations. It's not just that to side with Yasser Arafat--or Fidel Castro or Saddam Hussein or Robert Mugabe--is to choose the wrong side vis-a-vis Israel, America or some other Western power. It is that to side with these dictators is to side against their own people, who are the actual underdogs in the situation.
Meanwhile, America-hating polemicist Robert Fisk http://news.independent.co.uk/world/fisk/article2097774.ece , in London's Independent, sings the praises of Carter, whom he describes as "the only American president approaching sainthood."
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Rapist Preys on Men
BAYTOWN, Texas - A rapist who has struck at least five times since April in and around Baytown has not only spread fear in this working-class community but also piqued the interest of those who study the criminal mind. The reason: He preys on other men.
That makes him something of a rarity in the world of crime.
"It's the least prevalent kind of serial rape, and largely underreported," said Jack Levin, a leading criminologist and director of the Brudnick Center on Violence at Northeastern University in Boston.
Levin and other experts say male-on-male rape sometimes stems from sexual encounters gone bad. But that does not appear to be the case with the rapist in this oil-refining town of 70,000 people about 30 miles east of Houston.
Instead, he methodically identifies and stalks young men and attacks them at gunpoint or knifepoint in or near their homes, according to police Capt. Roger Clifford. Sometimes he robs his victims, too, but rape appears to be the primary motivation, police said.
"This is certainly of interest, an interesting case," Levin said.
The U.S. Justice Department says one in 33 men in the United States has been a victim of a rape or attempted rape, compared with one in six women. Experts say men are far less likely to report a rape to authorities, because they fear being perceived as weak or see the attack as an assault on their masculinity. In fact, investigators in Baytown fear there may be other victims of the rapist who are too ashamed to come forward.
"There's a lot of emotional damage that goes with being raped, especially when the victims are men," said Lynn Parrish, a spokeswoman for the National Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network. But she added: "The best way to get this rapist off the street is for more people to come forward."
Victims have described the Baytown attacker as a clean-shaven black man, 18 to 21 years old, 5-foot-10 to 6 feet tall and about 200 pounds, with a shaved head. Police have released a sketch and are working with the FBI's behavioral sciences unit to develop a psychological profile. DNA testing also is under way.
Fliers with the sketch have been circulated around schools and Baytown's Lee College, with an enrollment of about 6,000.
That makes him something of a rarity in the world of crime.
"It's the least prevalent kind of serial rape, and largely underreported," said Jack Levin, a leading criminologist and director of the Brudnick Center on Violence at Northeastern University in Boston.
Levin and other experts say male-on-male rape sometimes stems from sexual encounters gone bad. But that does not appear to be the case with the rapist in this oil-refining town of 70,000 people about 30 miles east of Houston.
Instead, he methodically identifies and stalks young men and attacks them at gunpoint or knifepoint in or near their homes, according to police Capt. Roger Clifford. Sometimes he robs his victims, too, but rape appears to be the primary motivation, police said.
"This is certainly of interest, an interesting case," Levin said.
The U.S. Justice Department says one in 33 men in the United States has been a victim of a rape or attempted rape, compared with one in six women. Experts say men are far less likely to report a rape to authorities, because they fear being perceived as weak or see the attack as an assault on their masculinity. In fact, investigators in Baytown fear there may be other victims of the rapist who are too ashamed to come forward.
"There's a lot of emotional damage that goes with being raped, especially when the victims are men," said Lynn Parrish, a spokeswoman for the National Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network. But she added: "The best way to get this rapist off the street is for more people to come forward."
Victims have described the Baytown attacker as a clean-shaven black man, 18 to 21 years old, 5-foot-10 to 6 feet tall and about 200 pounds, with a shaved head. Police have released a sketch and are working with the FBI's behavioral sciences unit to develop a psychological profile. DNA testing also is under way.
Fliers with the sketch have been circulated around schools and Baytown's Lee College, with an enrollment of about 6,000.
Be the Boss, not the Hoss
Get down with Mr Brown
By David JenkinsApril 7 2002
James Brown: "When I first opened my mouth and started singing, and the girls started screaming, I forgot about everything else."
James Brown - Godfather of Soul, Hardest-Working Man in Showbusiness and First Minister of the New, Super-Heavy Funk - has never been known for false modesty, and today, as he addresses me in his deep, dark, hyper-gravelly voice, the Southern accent thicker than Mississippi mud, he's staying true to form: "Boxin' - ah was super-good. Football - ah was super-good. Basketball - ah was super-good. But none was mah callin'. Mah callin' was music."
Brown's verbal style is preacherly, his look relaxed. His thick, blue-black hair is still "fried and laid to the side"; his implanted teeth gleam out of his broad face. He sits legs wide apart, favouring a slightly bulging stomach, furiously tapping his silver-toed boots on the marble floor of his South Carolina home.
Brown was born black and dirt-poor 68 years ago - or 72, according to some sources - in Barnwell, South Carolina. He was, in fact, still-born; his Aunt Minnie breathed life into his body. When he was four his mother left for the north, and Brown didn't see her again until he was a star. He was farmed out to relatives, hustled jobs, directed soldiers to brothels, shone shoes and grew streetwise. His father did menial work - "If I'd been an obedient child and done everything my daddy want, I'd have been a filling station worker. Because that's all he was; he was lined up to be the hoss, not the boss. But I was not thinking about cleaning that car: I was thinking about how I could buy a whole fleet of them."
Today, outside his mansion deep in the South Carolina countryside, 10 or so cars - a Mercedes, a Jaguar, a Jeep, Cadillac, a Lincoln and a dark-blue Rolls-Royce among them - offer Soul Brother Number One a choice of transport. Inside, the living-room is the sort of living-room any self-respecting rock star should have - a vast chandelier dangles from the high ceiling; in the middle of the room, steps descend into what looks like a jacuzzi but is in fact a sunken bar.
Life seems pretty plush, though 10 years ago James Brown owed the Internal Revenue Service more than $9 million; but when, two years ago, he raised $30 million from Wall Street, secured by future royalties on such songs as I Feel Good, Sex Machine, Papa's Got a Brand New Bag, and Cold Sweat, the bond was given an "A" rating.
That's not, says Brown, necessarily a good thing. "Havin' that IRS problem kept me from having other problems. Because if they see you owe money, other people don't sue you. So once I paid off the IRS, I got 25 lawsuits for nothing. You don't have to do nothin', you just have to be who you are." This, effectively, has been Brown's defence against Lisa Agbalaya, a 36-year-old ex-employee who pursued a claim for $2 million off Brown for subjecting her to "a continued pattern of discrimination and harassment". Brown, she said, had grabbed her by the hips and boasted that he "had been given powerful testicles by the government"; he also urged her to wear zebra-striped underwear while he rubbed her with oil. Brown denied the claim.
It's not, naturally, that he has anything against sex - "When I first opened my mouth and started singing, and the girls started screaming, I forgot about everything else. Heh! Heh! I didn't want the money so much, I just wanted those girls." It's merely that he thinks "they" are out to get him. "America's a funny place," he says, sighing. "They will forgive you anything, except being successful."
But James Brown is a difficult man, and a genius and, like many geniuses, a monster of ego: "I've led this thing since 1965 - all the music from 1965 to now, 90 per cent of it has been James Brown. You have hip-hop, you have rap, you have disco - that's all James Brown." He is, he once told a colleague, "The only man who can do anything I want." This self-centredness can manifest itself in many ways. On a trivial level I'd flown the Atlantic to meet him on a specific day, and he cancelled - "Well, it's rainin'," explained an aide. On a more important level it gives him the conviction to produce great work. And on a more disturbing level it's contributed to the fact that he's twice been to jail, has been involved in several scrapes involving weapons, and has been accused of both wife- and woman-beating. In fact, Brown is on his fourth marriage. His first, to Velma Warren, in 1954, produced three sons. His second, to Deirdre Jenkins, in 1970, produced two daughters. His third, to Adrienne Rodriguez, in 1984, produced no children but a whole heap of trouble. His fourth, to Tomi Rae Hynie, a white 32-year-old Southerner who's the lead backing-vocalist of his current band, the Soul Generals, took place just before Christmas 2001.
But trouble and James Brown have walked hand in hand with success since 1949, when he was jailed for eight to 16 years for stealing from cars. While at the Alto Reform School, near Toccoa, Georgia, he played baseball against an outside team and met Bobby Byrd, the respectable son of respectable black parents. Byrd's parents vouched for Brown's eagerness to go straight; in June 1952 he was paroled and, with Bobby, set about making music. In 1956 James Brown and the Famous Flames had their first hit, that urgent exercise in soulful eroticism, Please, Please, Please. Brown went on to develop a stage show that's never been bettered for drama, dynamism and pyrotechnic dancing.
In 1967, he played to three million people at 350 gigs and sold more than 50 million records. He had 500 suits, 300 pairs of shoes and a private jet; the suitcase he carried gate receipts in was often filled with $250,000 a night. In 1968, during the riots that followed Martin Luther King's assassination, he appeared on television, pleading successfully for calm. In return, President Lyndon Johnson had him to dinner at the White House.
But problems were coming. Brown's Say It Loud - I'm Black and I'm Proud (1969) frightened off white fans, while his endorsement of Richard Nixon alienated blacks. There were, too, personal travails. In 1973, Brown's adored eldest son, Teddy, was killed in a car crash; he was 19. And though, in the 1970s, Brown carried on playing more than 300 gigs a year and recorded and recorded, he blamed his new label, Polydor, for failing to translate his success in the R&B charts into mainstream success. Debts began to mount. Businesses Brown owned began to fail. His music became less fashionable. And he began to believe that the FBI and the CIA had him under surveillance.
But it was not until 1988 that Brown imploded. In March he was arrested for beating his wife; as the year went on, he was repeatedly arrested on drugs and weapons charges. Finally, on September 24, Brown burst into an insurance seminar being held next to his offices in Augusta, Georgia, waving a shotgun and demanding to know who had used his personal lavatory. Police were called and a car chase ensued. Shots were fired into Brown's vehicle, and when police removed him from his vehicle, he began, they reported, to sing Georgia. PCP - a powerful hallucinogenic popularly known as Angel Dust - was found in his bloodstream; Brown claimed it had been planted. Offered just 90 days if he pleaded guilty, he refused and was sentenced to two concurrent six-year terms. He served his time, spiffed up the prison choir and on weekend visits Adrienne fixed his precious hair. In February 1991 he was paroled.
He continued to tour, record and get into trouble: more marital spats in 1994 and 1995, followed by the death in 1996, two days after liposuction surgery, of Adrienne; firearms and marijuana charges in January 1998.
Today he seems a happier man. He drags out a well-thumbed copy of Joel Whitburn's Record Research 1955-1972, and points to his own name and the hits that accompany it. "See? See? See? All those songs. I got three times as many now - I got more songs than anybody born. And that's by me changing the music from what Mozart, Schubert, Beethoven, Bach and Strauss had. They got what they got and mine - what God gave me - is mine. One's on the to-and-fro, for waltzes, and one's on the one and three, and the one and three is me. Which makes it different. I've got a new record, called The Next Step. I'll show you."
He pops a CD on, and out comes the unmistakeable voice of James Brown, singing Be natural!.
"Good and Natural," Brown declares, a beam on his face. "Goes with my environment: good and natural. See, I'm not into the drugs. They try to make out I am but I'm not. Never use nothin' but marijuana in my life."
Brown still does about a 100 shows a year. Given that he suffers from diabetes and is, as he says, "68, goin' on 100", how much can he dance now? Can he still do the splits?
"He did three at the same show just recently," cries Tomi Rae. "I was very concerned."
It's easy to laugh: here's the old crock, still trying to rock. But Brown is a phenomenon. His music was groundbreaking and his rhythms are still the most sampled of today, ornamenting thousands of rap, hip-hop and DJ-created tunes. It was Brown who created the sound, Brown who, as one writer put it, "would stand in the studio and tutor each musician, hector him, until he heard the improbable horn patterns, the bruising polyrhythms that danced in his head". Does Brown know where his inspiration comes from?
"They want me to do a lot of seminars," he says. "People would like to know what it is I'm doing and if they stay with me a long time, they'll get a sense of that feeling. I'm exact! Bam! But knowing - only God knows and I know. And I'm glad of that."
God alone knows, too, what makes Brown move in such mysterious ways. One moment we're talking amiably about his time in jail in 1988. Then, suddenly, he stops talking. The mood changes. He looks puzzled, worried, agitated. "I really wasn't ready to do no interview," he says and trails off. There's tension in the air. He wants to see identification.
I hand him the pass that lets me into The Sunday Telegraph's premises.
"Telegraph, huh," he says, a semi-smile on his lips. "Jenkins, huh. My second wife named Jenkins." It is, I blather, an old Welsh name. And, I say in desperation, I'm a minister's son.
The clouds lift. The sun shines. Birds sing. The Godfather of Soul is tickled. "Oh, that's good, that's good. That's one thing about ministers' sons and ministers' daughters, they're the funkiest. Because they're trying to get out from under that thing, you know? And one day I could be a minister - but I wouldn't want to be a minister unless I could not get paid. It's like being a politician, you should already be wealthy. Because you've got too much access to money."
Speaking of ministers, hadn't Brown met the Pope, back in 1987?
"Oh yes. That - that was an important situation." He pauses, broods. "Babe," he calls to Tomi Rae, "take them right in there and show them the Pope." He gestures towards a closed door. "You know, you're the first somebody's been in there?" "Yeah," says Tomi Rae. "We don't normally allow people in our home home. We're very private."
And here's his privacy: a small, snug room with a bust of Pope John Paul II - "He told James to keep on singing rather than go into the ministry 'cos he reached more people that way."
Brown's been as close to presidents as he has to the Pope - he's met at least four, including the current one. He thinks they have a terrible job: his 1974 song Hell ruminated on the nightmare of being in the White House. "I wouldn't want to be president. Because God made me another way.
"The point is to get to people's heart and people's soul - and the thing about me was all the soul I put in. I had to earn what I got, because I had nothing. N-o-t-h-i-n-g. But I had soul."
By David JenkinsApril 7 2002
James Brown: "When I first opened my mouth and started singing, and the girls started screaming, I forgot about everything else."
James Brown - Godfather of Soul, Hardest-Working Man in Showbusiness and First Minister of the New, Super-Heavy Funk - has never been known for false modesty, and today, as he addresses me in his deep, dark, hyper-gravelly voice, the Southern accent thicker than Mississippi mud, he's staying true to form: "Boxin' - ah was super-good. Football - ah was super-good. Basketball - ah was super-good. But none was mah callin'. Mah callin' was music."
Brown's verbal style is preacherly, his look relaxed. His thick, blue-black hair is still "fried and laid to the side"; his implanted teeth gleam out of his broad face. He sits legs wide apart, favouring a slightly bulging stomach, furiously tapping his silver-toed boots on the marble floor of his South Carolina home.
Brown was born black and dirt-poor 68 years ago - or 72, according to some sources - in Barnwell, South Carolina. He was, in fact, still-born; his Aunt Minnie breathed life into his body. When he was four his mother left for the north, and Brown didn't see her again until he was a star. He was farmed out to relatives, hustled jobs, directed soldiers to brothels, shone shoes and grew streetwise. His father did menial work - "If I'd been an obedient child and done everything my daddy want, I'd have been a filling station worker. Because that's all he was; he was lined up to be the hoss, not the boss. But I was not thinking about cleaning that car: I was thinking about how I could buy a whole fleet of them."
Today, outside his mansion deep in the South Carolina countryside, 10 or so cars - a Mercedes, a Jaguar, a Jeep, Cadillac, a Lincoln and a dark-blue Rolls-Royce among them - offer Soul Brother Number One a choice of transport. Inside, the living-room is the sort of living-room any self-respecting rock star should have - a vast chandelier dangles from the high ceiling; in the middle of the room, steps descend into what looks like a jacuzzi but is in fact a sunken bar.
Life seems pretty plush, though 10 years ago James Brown owed the Internal Revenue Service more than $9 million; but when, two years ago, he raised $30 million from Wall Street, secured by future royalties on such songs as I Feel Good, Sex Machine, Papa's Got a Brand New Bag, and Cold Sweat, the bond was given an "A" rating.
That's not, says Brown, necessarily a good thing. "Havin' that IRS problem kept me from having other problems. Because if they see you owe money, other people don't sue you. So once I paid off the IRS, I got 25 lawsuits for nothing. You don't have to do nothin', you just have to be who you are." This, effectively, has been Brown's defence against Lisa Agbalaya, a 36-year-old ex-employee who pursued a claim for $2 million off Brown for subjecting her to "a continued pattern of discrimination and harassment". Brown, she said, had grabbed her by the hips and boasted that he "had been given powerful testicles by the government"; he also urged her to wear zebra-striped underwear while he rubbed her with oil. Brown denied the claim.
It's not, naturally, that he has anything against sex - "When I first opened my mouth and started singing, and the girls started screaming, I forgot about everything else. Heh! Heh! I didn't want the money so much, I just wanted those girls." It's merely that he thinks "they" are out to get him. "America's a funny place," he says, sighing. "They will forgive you anything, except being successful."
But James Brown is a difficult man, and a genius and, like many geniuses, a monster of ego: "I've led this thing since 1965 - all the music from 1965 to now, 90 per cent of it has been James Brown. You have hip-hop, you have rap, you have disco - that's all James Brown." He is, he once told a colleague, "The only man who can do anything I want." This self-centredness can manifest itself in many ways. On a trivial level I'd flown the Atlantic to meet him on a specific day, and he cancelled - "Well, it's rainin'," explained an aide. On a more important level it gives him the conviction to produce great work. And on a more disturbing level it's contributed to the fact that he's twice been to jail, has been involved in several scrapes involving weapons, and has been accused of both wife- and woman-beating. In fact, Brown is on his fourth marriage. His first, to Velma Warren, in 1954, produced three sons. His second, to Deirdre Jenkins, in 1970, produced two daughters. His third, to Adrienne Rodriguez, in 1984, produced no children but a whole heap of trouble. His fourth, to Tomi Rae Hynie, a white 32-year-old Southerner who's the lead backing-vocalist of his current band, the Soul Generals, took place just before Christmas 2001.
But trouble and James Brown have walked hand in hand with success since 1949, when he was jailed for eight to 16 years for stealing from cars. While at the Alto Reform School, near Toccoa, Georgia, he played baseball against an outside team and met Bobby Byrd, the respectable son of respectable black parents. Byrd's parents vouched for Brown's eagerness to go straight; in June 1952 he was paroled and, with Bobby, set about making music. In 1956 James Brown and the Famous Flames had their first hit, that urgent exercise in soulful eroticism, Please, Please, Please. Brown went on to develop a stage show that's never been bettered for drama, dynamism and pyrotechnic dancing.
In 1967, he played to three million people at 350 gigs and sold more than 50 million records. He had 500 suits, 300 pairs of shoes and a private jet; the suitcase he carried gate receipts in was often filled with $250,000 a night. In 1968, during the riots that followed Martin Luther King's assassination, he appeared on television, pleading successfully for calm. In return, President Lyndon Johnson had him to dinner at the White House.
But problems were coming. Brown's Say It Loud - I'm Black and I'm Proud (1969) frightened off white fans, while his endorsement of Richard Nixon alienated blacks. There were, too, personal travails. In 1973, Brown's adored eldest son, Teddy, was killed in a car crash; he was 19. And though, in the 1970s, Brown carried on playing more than 300 gigs a year and recorded and recorded, he blamed his new label, Polydor, for failing to translate his success in the R&B charts into mainstream success. Debts began to mount. Businesses Brown owned began to fail. His music became less fashionable. And he began to believe that the FBI and the CIA had him under surveillance.
But it was not until 1988 that Brown imploded. In March he was arrested for beating his wife; as the year went on, he was repeatedly arrested on drugs and weapons charges. Finally, on September 24, Brown burst into an insurance seminar being held next to his offices in Augusta, Georgia, waving a shotgun and demanding to know who had used his personal lavatory. Police were called and a car chase ensued. Shots were fired into Brown's vehicle, and when police removed him from his vehicle, he began, they reported, to sing Georgia. PCP - a powerful hallucinogenic popularly known as Angel Dust - was found in his bloodstream; Brown claimed it had been planted. Offered just 90 days if he pleaded guilty, he refused and was sentenced to two concurrent six-year terms. He served his time, spiffed up the prison choir and on weekend visits Adrienne fixed his precious hair. In February 1991 he was paroled.
He continued to tour, record and get into trouble: more marital spats in 1994 and 1995, followed by the death in 1996, two days after liposuction surgery, of Adrienne; firearms and marijuana charges in January 1998.
Today he seems a happier man. He drags out a well-thumbed copy of Joel Whitburn's Record Research 1955-1972, and points to his own name and the hits that accompany it. "See? See? See? All those songs. I got three times as many now - I got more songs than anybody born. And that's by me changing the music from what Mozart, Schubert, Beethoven, Bach and Strauss had. They got what they got and mine - what God gave me - is mine. One's on the to-and-fro, for waltzes, and one's on the one and three, and the one and three is me. Which makes it different. I've got a new record, called The Next Step. I'll show you."
He pops a CD on, and out comes the unmistakeable voice of James Brown, singing Be natural!.
"Good and Natural," Brown declares, a beam on his face. "Goes with my environment: good and natural. See, I'm not into the drugs. They try to make out I am but I'm not. Never use nothin' but marijuana in my life."
Brown still does about a 100 shows a year. Given that he suffers from diabetes and is, as he says, "68, goin' on 100", how much can he dance now? Can he still do the splits?
"He did three at the same show just recently," cries Tomi Rae. "I was very concerned."
It's easy to laugh: here's the old crock, still trying to rock. But Brown is a phenomenon. His music was groundbreaking and his rhythms are still the most sampled of today, ornamenting thousands of rap, hip-hop and DJ-created tunes. It was Brown who created the sound, Brown who, as one writer put it, "would stand in the studio and tutor each musician, hector him, until he heard the improbable horn patterns, the bruising polyrhythms that danced in his head". Does Brown know where his inspiration comes from?
"They want me to do a lot of seminars," he says. "People would like to know what it is I'm doing and if they stay with me a long time, they'll get a sense of that feeling. I'm exact! Bam! But knowing - only God knows and I know. And I'm glad of that."
God alone knows, too, what makes Brown move in such mysterious ways. One moment we're talking amiably about his time in jail in 1988. Then, suddenly, he stops talking. The mood changes. He looks puzzled, worried, agitated. "I really wasn't ready to do no interview," he says and trails off. There's tension in the air. He wants to see identification.
I hand him the pass that lets me into The Sunday Telegraph's premises.
"Telegraph, huh," he says, a semi-smile on his lips. "Jenkins, huh. My second wife named Jenkins." It is, I blather, an old Welsh name. And, I say in desperation, I'm a minister's son.
The clouds lift. The sun shines. Birds sing. The Godfather of Soul is tickled. "Oh, that's good, that's good. That's one thing about ministers' sons and ministers' daughters, they're the funkiest. Because they're trying to get out from under that thing, you know? And one day I could be a minister - but I wouldn't want to be a minister unless I could not get paid. It's like being a politician, you should already be wealthy. Because you've got too much access to money."
Speaking of ministers, hadn't Brown met the Pope, back in 1987?
"Oh yes. That - that was an important situation." He pauses, broods. "Babe," he calls to Tomi Rae, "take them right in there and show them the Pope." He gestures towards a closed door. "You know, you're the first somebody's been in there?" "Yeah," says Tomi Rae. "We don't normally allow people in our home home. We're very private."
And here's his privacy: a small, snug room with a bust of Pope John Paul II - "He told James to keep on singing rather than go into the ministry 'cos he reached more people that way."
Brown's been as close to presidents as he has to the Pope - he's met at least four, including the current one. He thinks they have a terrible job: his 1974 song Hell ruminated on the nightmare of being in the White House. "I wouldn't want to be president. Because God made me another way.
"The point is to get to people's heart and people's soul - and the thing about me was all the soul I put in. I had to earn what I got, because I had nothing. N-o-t-h-i-n-g. But I had soul."
The Associated Press’s obsession with “significant” numbers and “grim milestones” produces one of their most vile articles ever: U.S. deaths in Iraq exceed 9-11 count.
They’ve obviously been watching and waiting for this magic number, to file a report like this—an empty-headed, amoral attempt to equate things that are not equivalent, serving a sick, anti-American left-wing agenda. Disgusting and ghoulish beyond belief.
BAGHDAD, Iraq - The U.S. military death toll in Iraq has reached 2,974, one more than the number of deaths in the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks in the United States, according to an Associated Press count on Tuesday.
The U.S. military announced the deaths of two soldiers in a bomb explosion southwest of Baghdad on Monday.
The deaths raised the number of troops killed to 2,974 since the beginning of the Iraq war in March 2003. The Sept. 11, 2001, attacks claimed 2,973 victims in New York, Washington and Pennsylvania.
Write to the Associated Press and tell them what you think about this.
They’ve obviously been watching and waiting for this magic number, to file a report like this—an empty-headed, amoral attempt to equate things that are not equivalent, serving a sick, anti-American left-wing agenda. Disgusting and ghoulish beyond belief.
BAGHDAD, Iraq - The U.S. military death toll in Iraq has reached 2,974, one more than the number of deaths in the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks in the United States, according to an Associated Press count on Tuesday.
The U.S. military announced the deaths of two soldiers in a bomb explosion southwest of Baghdad on Monday.
The deaths raised the number of troops killed to 2,974 since the beginning of the Iraq war in March 2003. The Sept. 11, 2001, attacks claimed 2,973 victims in New York, Washington and Pennsylvania.
Write to the Associated Press and tell them what you think about this.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
http://www.moistworks.com/
Check out this article- fascinating!>>
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Locust St.'s Chris O'Leary emailed the other week and asked if MW would be raising a glass to the late, great George W.S. Trow. I wrote back right away, saying yes, of course. Then I got ambivalent. He's an important writer to me, personally - his style and sentences made as much of an impression as whatever he had to say. And, of course, Trow had a great deal to say, and I agreed with a lot of it. More than that - I was always emphatic, but back when I was young and emphatic, Trow taught me that it was ok to be that way.On the other hand, what a shitty death; I'm not sure it's something to celebrate. I asked O'Leary if it was ok if I posted something from years ago instead. So, this is kind of old - it's from FEED, c. 2000, when I was twenty-seven, and not quite putting things together yet. It's long, and idiotic. But, because Trow did get to see his worst fears realized, I hope it's not inappropriate. Whatever the case, you should certainly listen to Johnnie Ray's "Cry," and if you've never heard Joe Bataan's cover, my advice is to listen to it on drugs.
CRYJohnnie RayOkeh : 1961Available on: Cry!Bear Family: 1990[Buy It]
At twenty-year intervals over the course of the past forty-six years - in 1960, 1980, and again in 2000 - three writers associated with The New Yorker published separate installments of what, in hindsight, amounts to a unified theory of culture. Dwight Macdonald's Masscult and Midcult, George W.S. Trow's Within the Context of No Context, and, most recently, John Seabrook's Nobrow.Macdonald, who died eighteen years ago, was the archetype of old-guard intellectualism. Educated at Phillips Exeter and Yale, he served, at various times, as an editor of the Partisan Review, a film critic for Esquire, and a book reviewer for The New Yorker. But it was at Fortune that Macdonald cut his teeth, and Masscult and Midcult - which was originally published in the Partisan Review in the Spring of 1960, and for which he's best remembered today - can be seen as a direct reaction against what he learned there. Henry Luce's magazine empire - of which Time, Life, and Fortune were the cornerstones - was both the reflection and a contributing factor to the rise of a media-industrial complex which propelled America towards the condition of Empire in the 1930s. But the conditions that made Empire possible, Macdonald worried, also led to a homogenization in American life. Long before "atomization" had entered the sociological vernacular, he wrote that "the tendency of modern industrial society is to transform the individual into the mass man... a large quantity of people unable to express their human qualities because they are related to each other neither as individuals nor as members of a community. In fact, they are not related to each other at all but only to some impersonal, abstract, crystallizing factor.... The mass man is a solitary atom, uniform with the millions of other atoms that go to make up the 'lonely crowd.'"Macdonald wasn't the first to articulate the threat; rather, his was a popular distillation of Frankfurt School philosophy, much in the same way that Thomas Frank and The Baffler distilled the same school of thought for the dot-com generation. Nor was Macdonald the first to deal with the cultural fallout - a blurring of the distinction between Highbrow and Lowbrow culture that Clement Greenberg had written about twenty years earlier. But Macdonald was eloquent and impassioned, and the timing and scope of his critique, which is rooted in aesthetic considerations but encompasses the political, gives it a resonance that echoes well into the present day. Macdonald drew an explicit parallel between the "mass society" of the 1950s and Europe's totalitarian regimes, noting that both cultures "have systematically broken every communal link - family, church, trade union, local and regional loyalties, even down to ski and chess clubs - and have reforged them so as to bind each atomized individual directly to the center of power." For him mass culture is, in fact, a cult: In a fascist regime, the center of power is occupied by the cult of State, in Communist countries, by the cult of Personality, in an industrialized democracy, by a cult of the People enforced by corporate and governmental beaurocracies and maintained by an army of pollsters and statisticians.
"When one hears a questionnaire-sociologist talk about setting up an investigation," Macdonald wrote,
one realizes that he regards people as mere congeries of conditional reflexes.... At the same time, of necessity, he sees the statistical majority as the great Reality.... Like a Lord of Masscult, he is - professionally - without values, willing to take seriously any idiocy if it is held by many people... The aristocrat's approach to the masses is less degrading to them, as it is less degrading to a man to be shouted at than to be treated as nonexistent. But the plebs have their dialectical revenge: indifference to their human quality means prostration before their statistical quantity, so that a movie magnate who cynically "gives the public what it wants" - i.e, assumes it wants trash - sweats with anxiety if the box-office returns drop 5 per cent. "
The result, for Macdonald, was neither high culture nor folk, but a hopelessly muddled monster that absorbed everything from the avant-garde to the professional wrestling and turned it into a "Kulturkatzejammer" - a "midcult" that was at best a vulgarized reflection of high culture, and at worst a slough of kitsch and sensationalism. Not art, but something like the Soviet's Socialist Realism; an art for everyone and no one, aimed at the lowest common denominator. The alternatives, in his eyes, were to restore the class lines that allowed the original cultural elite to emerge, or to erect a permanent barricade between high culture and the masses. Borrowing a phrase from Stendahl, Macdonald pleaded with the "happy few" - those writers, critics, philosophers, composers, and architects sticking to their posts as guardians of high culture - to ignore the masses altogether, and asked that the "only public they consider... be that of [their] peers." A vague manifesto, to be sure, but a manifesto nonetheless. In comparison, Trow's essay reads like a suicide note.
CRYJoe BataanLatin Funk BrotherFania/Vampi : 1972[But It]
In order that everything should be reduced to the same level, it is first necessary to procure a phantom, a monstrous abstraction, an all-embracing something which is nothing, a mirage... -Kierkegaard, The Present Age Macdonald invoked Kierkegaard's specter as an example of the tide he was struggling against, but it wasn't until twenty years later that George Trow gave it a name - celebrity. Trow's celebrity is neither the self that supports the image, nor is it exactly the image itself; rather it is "[a] record of the expression of demographically significant preferences: the lunge of demography here as opposed to there." It lives in a history stripped of context, in which "nothing [is] judged -- only counted" and in which "the ideal [becomes] agreement rather than well judged action." And since it is neither mass nor man, but rather a reflection of statistical leanings, Trow doesn't trace its history in time, but rather plots it as a trajectory between two grids:
[As] the middle distance fell away, so the grids (from small to large) that had supported the middle distance fell into disuse and ceased to be understandable. Two grids remained. The grid of two hundred million and the grid of intimacy. Everything else fell into disuse. There was a national life - a shimmer of national life - and intimate life. The distance between these two grids was very great. The distance was very frightening. People did not want to measure it. People began to lose a sense of what distance was and of what the usefulness of distance might be.... The grid of national life was very large now, but the space in which one man felt at home shrank. It shrank to intimacy.... In the vast distance between the protection and the protected, there is space for mirages of pseudo-intimacy. It is in this space that celebrities dance. It is, in fact, almost impossible to distinguish Trow's idea of celebrity from his definition of television:
What is it?... Two abilities: to do a very complex kind of work, involving electrons, and then to cover the coldness of that with a hateful familiarity. Why hateful? Because it hasn't anything to do with a human being as a human being is strong. It has to do with a human being as a human being is weak and willing to be fooled: the human being's eagerness to perceive as warm something that is cold, for instance, his eagerness to be a part of what one cannot be a part of, to love what cannot be loved.
Within the Context of No Context, which is composed as a series of aphorisms and miniature essays, is unspeakably sad. Trow's sentences are short from grief. His italics bleed. He published the piece in The New Yorker, and largely disappeared from its pages, and public view, not long afterwards. Where Macdonald is motivated by self-interest, or, to be more generous, class or professional interest - it is, after all, the space of cultural guardians, which he himself occupies, that Macdonald is struggling to protect - Trow's concern is profoundly American. I'd like to imagine that, if we could somehow bring Whitman back to life to deliver his Democratic Vistas in person, it would be Trow we'd pick to pull him aside and explain that, ahem, things didn't work out quite as the old man had hoped.But Trow's roots aren't fundamentally different from Macdonald's. He, too, is a member of the old guard - the scion of one of New York's oldest publishing families - and a graduate of Exeter and Harvard. And though his prose is stronger, and his sympathies wider, he is eulogizing the same thing Macdonald sought to protect.* * *
John Seabrook comes from a similar background. An heir to the Seabrook frozen-food fortune (you can still see the brand, which no longer belongs to Seabrook's family, at your local supermarket), he studied at Princeton and wrote a master's thesis on Eliot at Oxford. But if Trow is a more generous version of Macdonald, Seabrook, who came of age in Tina Brown's New Yorker, is an entirely different animal. Like many New Yorker writers, he is a fine stylist - remarkably fine considering how unselfconscious his writing is; it seems to spill out of him wholly formed and unfiltered - and a keen observer of cultural mores. But Seabrook stands firmly on the other side of a cultural schism which the surface similarities to Trow and Macdonald don't quite bridge. For him, Macdonald's argument and Trow's lament miss the point."One of Tina Brown's gifts as an editor," he writes "was that she saw the American cultural hierarchy for what it really was [italics mine]: not a hierarchy of taste at all, but a hierarchy of power that used taste to cloak its real agenda." It's a revealing aside, not only because it firmly places Seabrook's position on a particular side of the culture wars, but because it doesn't allow for the possibility of taking any other side; it assumes - as Brown herself did - that the realization dictates a course of action. Namely, exploiting that very power structure for all it's worth. Thus, in Brown's hands the role of editor becomes that of trend-spotter and power broker, trading on The New Yorker's ever-diminishing collateral as a last remaining voice of cultural authority (ever-diminishing because a good portion of it was being siphoned off into Tina Brown's own account as cultural arbitrageur) to leverage her writers into positions of proximity to buzz, celebrity, money, and power - all of which increasingly began looking like one and the same thing.
Who's to say what's right these days?
What, with our modern ideas and products? -Homer Simpson
Needless to say, the writer's role changed as well. Seabrook's book is a collection of celebrity profiles he wrote for the magazine over the course of the past five years, stitched together with anecdotes about how he came to write about the particular celebrity in question. The segues consists of passages like the following:
Tina and [Ben] Goldberg [the CEO of Mercury records], I knew, had certain mutual (synergistic) interests. Mercury, it was shortly to be announced, would be putting out a CD series of New Yorker writers reading their work. They also supported similar charities... and were loosely attatched to the same circle of tastemakers in New York City. For me, accepting the assignment would inevitably mean functioning not only as a reporter, but also as a kind of broker in a negotiated relationship between Tina and Goldberg, who were themselves functioning as brokers in a negoitiated relationship between Si Newhouse and Polygram. I knew I would be wading a little bit deeper into the vast, tepid swamp of Buzz, with its surrounding cedar bogs of compromise. On the other hand, the idea of a rock prodigy - a kid who had learned to be a rock star from watching rock stars like Kurt Cobain on MTV - did sound like a good story.Seabrook is so forthcoming about compromises he's made in order to curry favor with Brown that it seems besides the point to fault him for making them. His book is, in almost every way, the most honest and eye-opening account of life at The New Yorker published thus far. But the fact remains that, where Macdonald spotted a blood-dimmed tide rushing his way, and Trow found himself drowning in the flood, a new generation of writers seems to have grown gills, and forgotten what dry land looks like.
CAN IT BE ALL SO SIMPLEWu-Tang ClanEnter The WuTang (36 Chambers)RCA : 1993[Buy It]
"It's not really about is this a terrible thing or is this a good thing," Seabrook told a radio interviewer, not long after his book was published, "because I don't really feel like I can make that judgment. But I can show people what's going through my mind as I think about these things." This sentiment would have outraged Macdonald, I think, and brought tears to Trow's eyes. But Nobrow is, in many ways, the direct manifestation of Trow's ideas. Take, for instance, Trow's invocation of the First World War:
Very rarely are [game show] contestants asked about the old history, the history before demographics became the New History. When this older, more distant world is invoked, it is made obvious that this world is mystifying and too difficult to be comfortable with. One game-show host asked a question about the First World War and then described the First World War as "certainly a military event of considerable importance." He was assuring his audience that the First World War was popular in its own day.and compare it to what Seabrook has to say about the Second:
The Wu didn't seem to know about anything that happened before 1975, which was around when they were born. If you told Ol' Dirty Bastard or GhostFace Killah about, say, World War II, he might say "Whoa, that's some marvelous-ass shit," as though history were just something to roll up in a blunt and smoke. But the Wu were real artists: they got that post-Jamesian flow of urban consciousness that goes through everyone's mind just right.
One might ask, when coming across a passage like this, whether "this is a terrible thing or not" should, in fact, be The New Yorker writer's concern. Seabrook would probably point out that the question has no antecedant, because in his world, the World War happened in a context that no longer exists. "The lie of television," Trow wrote, "has been that there are contexts to which television will grant an access. Since lies last, usually, no more than one generation, television will re-form around the idea that television itself is a context to which television will grant an access." That prediction seems to have come true a decade or more ago, with the advent of Letterman and Seinfeld. Today, the context of television has expanded even further: more and more, it seems, all the equipment one needs to go over at cocktail parties is an encyclopedic knowledge of Simpsons episodes. Come to think of it, seeing Seabrook cheerfully whore his way through the cultural wasteland doesn't bring to mind Trow's essay, or Macdonald's at all. Instead, it's a bit like watching the Happy Hooker wander through Hersey's Hiroshima, taking notes.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Locust St.'s Chris O'Leary emailed the other week and asked if MW would be raising a glass to the late, great George W.S. Trow. I wrote back right away, saying yes, of course. Then I got ambivalent. He's an important writer to me, personally - his style and sentences made as much of an impression as whatever he had to say. And, of course, Trow had a great deal to say, and I agreed with a lot of it. More than that - I was always emphatic, but back when I was young and emphatic, Trow taught me that it was ok to be that way.On the other hand, what a shitty death; I'm not sure it's something to celebrate. I asked O'Leary if it was ok if I posted something from years ago instead. So, this is kind of old - it's from FEED, c. 2000, when I was twenty-seven, and not quite putting things together yet. It's long, and idiotic. But, because Trow did get to see his worst fears realized, I hope it's not inappropriate. Whatever the case, you should certainly listen to Johnnie Ray's "Cry," and if you've never heard Joe Bataan's cover, my advice is to listen to it on drugs.
CRYJohnnie RayOkeh : 1961Available on: Cry!Bear Family: 1990[Buy It]
At twenty-year intervals over the course of the past forty-six years - in 1960, 1980, and again in 2000 - three writers associated with The New Yorker published separate installments of what, in hindsight, amounts to a unified theory of culture. Dwight Macdonald's Masscult and Midcult, George W.S. Trow's Within the Context of No Context, and, most recently, John Seabrook's Nobrow.Macdonald, who died eighteen years ago, was the archetype of old-guard intellectualism. Educated at Phillips Exeter and Yale, he served, at various times, as an editor of the Partisan Review, a film critic for Esquire, and a book reviewer for The New Yorker. But it was at Fortune that Macdonald cut his teeth, and Masscult and Midcult - which was originally published in the Partisan Review in the Spring of 1960, and for which he's best remembered today - can be seen as a direct reaction against what he learned there. Henry Luce's magazine empire - of which Time, Life, and Fortune were the cornerstones - was both the reflection and a contributing factor to the rise of a media-industrial complex which propelled America towards the condition of Empire in the 1930s. But the conditions that made Empire possible, Macdonald worried, also led to a homogenization in American life. Long before "atomization" had entered the sociological vernacular, he wrote that "the tendency of modern industrial society is to transform the individual into the mass man... a large quantity of people unable to express their human qualities because they are related to each other neither as individuals nor as members of a community. In fact, they are not related to each other at all but only to some impersonal, abstract, crystallizing factor.... The mass man is a solitary atom, uniform with the millions of other atoms that go to make up the 'lonely crowd.'"Macdonald wasn't the first to articulate the threat; rather, his was a popular distillation of Frankfurt School philosophy, much in the same way that Thomas Frank and The Baffler distilled the same school of thought for the dot-com generation. Nor was Macdonald the first to deal with the cultural fallout - a blurring of the distinction between Highbrow and Lowbrow culture that Clement Greenberg had written about twenty years earlier. But Macdonald was eloquent and impassioned, and the timing and scope of his critique, which is rooted in aesthetic considerations but encompasses the political, gives it a resonance that echoes well into the present day. Macdonald drew an explicit parallel between the "mass society" of the 1950s and Europe's totalitarian regimes, noting that both cultures "have systematically broken every communal link - family, church, trade union, local and regional loyalties, even down to ski and chess clubs - and have reforged them so as to bind each atomized individual directly to the center of power." For him mass culture is, in fact, a cult: In a fascist regime, the center of power is occupied by the cult of State, in Communist countries, by the cult of Personality, in an industrialized democracy, by a cult of the People enforced by corporate and governmental beaurocracies and maintained by an army of pollsters and statisticians.
"When one hears a questionnaire-sociologist talk about setting up an investigation," Macdonald wrote,
one realizes that he regards people as mere congeries of conditional reflexes.... At the same time, of necessity, he sees the statistical majority as the great Reality.... Like a Lord of Masscult, he is - professionally - without values, willing to take seriously any idiocy if it is held by many people... The aristocrat's approach to the masses is less degrading to them, as it is less degrading to a man to be shouted at than to be treated as nonexistent. But the plebs have their dialectical revenge: indifference to their human quality means prostration before their statistical quantity, so that a movie magnate who cynically "gives the public what it wants" - i.e, assumes it wants trash - sweats with anxiety if the box-office returns drop 5 per cent. "
The result, for Macdonald, was neither high culture nor folk, but a hopelessly muddled monster that absorbed everything from the avant-garde to the professional wrestling and turned it into a "Kulturkatzejammer" - a "midcult" that was at best a vulgarized reflection of high culture, and at worst a slough of kitsch and sensationalism. Not art, but something like the Soviet's Socialist Realism; an art for everyone and no one, aimed at the lowest common denominator. The alternatives, in his eyes, were to restore the class lines that allowed the original cultural elite to emerge, or to erect a permanent barricade between high culture and the masses. Borrowing a phrase from Stendahl, Macdonald pleaded with the "happy few" - those writers, critics, philosophers, composers, and architects sticking to their posts as guardians of high culture - to ignore the masses altogether, and asked that the "only public they consider... be that of [their] peers." A vague manifesto, to be sure, but a manifesto nonetheless. In comparison, Trow's essay reads like a suicide note.
CRYJoe BataanLatin Funk BrotherFania/Vampi : 1972[But It]
In order that everything should be reduced to the same level, it is first necessary to procure a phantom, a monstrous abstraction, an all-embracing something which is nothing, a mirage... -Kierkegaard, The Present Age Macdonald invoked Kierkegaard's specter as an example of the tide he was struggling against, but it wasn't until twenty years later that George Trow gave it a name - celebrity. Trow's celebrity is neither the self that supports the image, nor is it exactly the image itself; rather it is "[a] record of the expression of demographically significant preferences: the lunge of demography here as opposed to there." It lives in a history stripped of context, in which "nothing [is] judged -- only counted" and in which "the ideal [becomes] agreement rather than well judged action." And since it is neither mass nor man, but rather a reflection of statistical leanings, Trow doesn't trace its history in time, but rather plots it as a trajectory between two grids:
[As] the middle distance fell away, so the grids (from small to large) that had supported the middle distance fell into disuse and ceased to be understandable. Two grids remained. The grid of two hundred million and the grid of intimacy. Everything else fell into disuse. There was a national life - a shimmer of national life - and intimate life. The distance between these two grids was very great. The distance was very frightening. People did not want to measure it. People began to lose a sense of what distance was and of what the usefulness of distance might be.... The grid of national life was very large now, but the space in which one man felt at home shrank. It shrank to intimacy.... In the vast distance between the protection and the protected, there is space for mirages of pseudo-intimacy. It is in this space that celebrities dance. It is, in fact, almost impossible to distinguish Trow's idea of celebrity from his definition of television:
What is it?... Two abilities: to do a very complex kind of work, involving electrons, and then to cover the coldness of that with a hateful familiarity. Why hateful? Because it hasn't anything to do with a human being as a human being is strong. It has to do with a human being as a human being is weak and willing to be fooled: the human being's eagerness to perceive as warm something that is cold, for instance, his eagerness to be a part of what one cannot be a part of, to love what cannot be loved.
Within the Context of No Context, which is composed as a series of aphorisms and miniature essays, is unspeakably sad. Trow's sentences are short from grief. His italics bleed. He published the piece in The New Yorker, and largely disappeared from its pages, and public view, not long afterwards. Where Macdonald is motivated by self-interest, or, to be more generous, class or professional interest - it is, after all, the space of cultural guardians, which he himself occupies, that Macdonald is struggling to protect - Trow's concern is profoundly American. I'd like to imagine that, if we could somehow bring Whitman back to life to deliver his Democratic Vistas in person, it would be Trow we'd pick to pull him aside and explain that, ahem, things didn't work out quite as the old man had hoped.But Trow's roots aren't fundamentally different from Macdonald's. He, too, is a member of the old guard - the scion of one of New York's oldest publishing families - and a graduate of Exeter and Harvard. And though his prose is stronger, and his sympathies wider, he is eulogizing the same thing Macdonald sought to protect.* * *
John Seabrook comes from a similar background. An heir to the Seabrook frozen-food fortune (you can still see the brand, which no longer belongs to Seabrook's family, at your local supermarket), he studied at Princeton and wrote a master's thesis on Eliot at Oxford. But if Trow is a more generous version of Macdonald, Seabrook, who came of age in Tina Brown's New Yorker, is an entirely different animal. Like many New Yorker writers, he is a fine stylist - remarkably fine considering how unselfconscious his writing is; it seems to spill out of him wholly formed and unfiltered - and a keen observer of cultural mores. But Seabrook stands firmly on the other side of a cultural schism which the surface similarities to Trow and Macdonald don't quite bridge. For him, Macdonald's argument and Trow's lament miss the point."One of Tina Brown's gifts as an editor," he writes "was that she saw the American cultural hierarchy for what it really was [italics mine]: not a hierarchy of taste at all, but a hierarchy of power that used taste to cloak its real agenda." It's a revealing aside, not only because it firmly places Seabrook's position on a particular side of the culture wars, but because it doesn't allow for the possibility of taking any other side; it assumes - as Brown herself did - that the realization dictates a course of action. Namely, exploiting that very power structure for all it's worth. Thus, in Brown's hands the role of editor becomes that of trend-spotter and power broker, trading on The New Yorker's ever-diminishing collateral as a last remaining voice of cultural authority (ever-diminishing because a good portion of it was being siphoned off into Tina Brown's own account as cultural arbitrageur) to leverage her writers into positions of proximity to buzz, celebrity, money, and power - all of which increasingly began looking like one and the same thing.
Who's to say what's right these days?
What, with our modern ideas and products? -Homer Simpson
Needless to say, the writer's role changed as well. Seabrook's book is a collection of celebrity profiles he wrote for the magazine over the course of the past five years, stitched together with anecdotes about how he came to write about the particular celebrity in question. The segues consists of passages like the following:
Tina and [Ben] Goldberg [the CEO of Mercury records], I knew, had certain mutual (synergistic) interests. Mercury, it was shortly to be announced, would be putting out a CD series of New Yorker writers reading their work. They also supported similar charities... and were loosely attatched to the same circle of tastemakers in New York City. For me, accepting the assignment would inevitably mean functioning not only as a reporter, but also as a kind of broker in a negotiated relationship between Tina and Goldberg, who were themselves functioning as brokers in a negoitiated relationship between Si Newhouse and Polygram. I knew I would be wading a little bit deeper into the vast, tepid swamp of Buzz, with its surrounding cedar bogs of compromise. On the other hand, the idea of a rock prodigy - a kid who had learned to be a rock star from watching rock stars like Kurt Cobain on MTV - did sound like a good story.Seabrook is so forthcoming about compromises he's made in order to curry favor with Brown that it seems besides the point to fault him for making them. His book is, in almost every way, the most honest and eye-opening account of life at The New Yorker published thus far. But the fact remains that, where Macdonald spotted a blood-dimmed tide rushing his way, and Trow found himself drowning in the flood, a new generation of writers seems to have grown gills, and forgotten what dry land looks like.
CAN IT BE ALL SO SIMPLEWu-Tang ClanEnter The WuTang (36 Chambers)RCA : 1993[Buy It]
"It's not really about is this a terrible thing or is this a good thing," Seabrook told a radio interviewer, not long after his book was published, "because I don't really feel like I can make that judgment. But I can show people what's going through my mind as I think about these things." This sentiment would have outraged Macdonald, I think, and brought tears to Trow's eyes. But Nobrow is, in many ways, the direct manifestation of Trow's ideas. Take, for instance, Trow's invocation of the First World War:
Very rarely are [game show] contestants asked about the old history, the history before demographics became the New History. When this older, more distant world is invoked, it is made obvious that this world is mystifying and too difficult to be comfortable with. One game-show host asked a question about the First World War and then described the First World War as "certainly a military event of considerable importance." He was assuring his audience that the First World War was popular in its own day.and compare it to what Seabrook has to say about the Second:
The Wu didn't seem to know about anything that happened before 1975, which was around when they were born. If you told Ol' Dirty Bastard or GhostFace Killah about, say, World War II, he might say "Whoa, that's some marvelous-ass shit," as though history were just something to roll up in a blunt and smoke. But the Wu were real artists: they got that post-Jamesian flow of urban consciousness that goes through everyone's mind just right.
One might ask, when coming across a passage like this, whether "this is a terrible thing or not" should, in fact, be The New Yorker writer's concern. Seabrook would probably point out that the question has no antecedant, because in his world, the World War happened in a context that no longer exists. "The lie of television," Trow wrote, "has been that there are contexts to which television will grant an access. Since lies last, usually, no more than one generation, television will re-form around the idea that television itself is a context to which television will grant an access." That prediction seems to have come true a decade or more ago, with the advent of Letterman and Seinfeld. Today, the context of television has expanded even further: more and more, it seems, all the equipment one needs to go over at cocktail parties is an encyclopedic knowledge of Simpsons episodes. Come to think of it, seeing Seabrook cheerfully whore his way through the cultural wasteland doesn't bring to mind Trow's essay, or Macdonald's at all. Instead, it's a bit like watching the Happy Hooker wander through Hersey's Hiroshima, taking notes.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
'Rocky Balboa' Wins This Round
By Desson ThomsonWashington Post Staff WriterWednesday, December 20, 2006; Page C01
Who asked for this? Another "Rocky" sequel in which we learn, once again, that the Italian Stallion has too much heart to ever give up?
But in "Rocky Balboa," the sixth and latest installment, there's Sylvester Stallone again, sucking down raw eggs and pounding sides of beef to train for another prime-time bout. His opponent this time: heavyweight champ and insufferable braggart Mason "The Line" Dixon (real-life boxer Antonio Tarver), who's got something to prove. Sportswriters call him a chump who never really fought a tough contender. No one like that old warhorse, Rocky Balboa.
Old is right.
Stallone, creator and perennial star of what has become a 30-year franchise, is 60. He ought to be reaching for his AARP card, not his boxing gloves. As much as most of us loved 1976's "Rocky," which took three Oscars, including Best Picture, just as many groaned through the sequels that followed. Remember 1985's "Rocky IV" with the already aging Rocky up against a steroidal Soviet named Ivan? Or "Rocky V," the 1990 film in which Rocky was so punch-drunk he mistook his wife, Adrian, for his former boxing coach? As a pop-culture hero, Rocky was down and out -- or so it seemed.
And yet . . . and yet . . . this critic found himself sitting there in the darkened theater rooting for this movie to work. Just one last time. The odds seemed impossible -- just like Rocky's. There were reports of moviegoers hooting at previews. And sitting in the middle of fellow movie critics, the bloodlust felt palpable. One false move on the screen -- a moment of insufferable vanity, a misfired attempt at poignancy -- would be enough to knock this flick to the canvas. Watching "Rocky Balboa" suddenly felt like a tussle between old-time sentimentality and postmodern derision.
The verdict?
There were titters, yes. But to this viewer, sentimentality won by a knockout. "Rocky Balboa" comes out swinging as soon as the "Rocky" theme blares from the speakers -- that portentous anthem that has most of us picturing Philadelphia's First Citizen at the top of the steps of the Museum of Art, arms aloft.
But "Rocky Balboa," which brings back Burt Young (the irascible brother-in-law Paulie, who's a few knuckle hairs shy of Cro-Magnon when he drinks) but not Talia Shire (Adrian is dearly departed, alas), doesn't rest lazily on its own nostalgia. Written and directed by Stallone, it smartly reprises the atmosphere of Hollywood's yesteryear, when pug-ugly heroes played by Spencer Tracy, Robert Mitchum and Ernest Borgnine won audiences over with their burly souls. They had big chests, square mugs and they talked common sense -- when they talked at all. They were sportswriters, wrestlers, gangsters and boxers. When they walked, change jingled in their pockets. They saw things simply. They were working class -- or they came out of it. They were crude princes of the docks, the slums, the street and the screen.
And that's Rocky, with his slurry voice, his porkpie hat and two pet turtles called Cuff and Link. That's the guy who keeps an old chair nestled in the crook of a tree above Adrian's grave so he can sit with her for hours. He's the one who nurses the hurt of a grown son (Milo Ventimiglia), who's embarrassed by his sad-sack, over-the-hill father. He's the one who's reduced to sharing war stories with customers in the South Philly restaurant he owns. But he's no paragon of palooka virtue, either. When some punks taunt him, for instance, Rocky walks over to those disrespectful hecklers and takes care of conflict resolution the old way.
A guy like this needs to fight. Then comes the opportunity to prove his mettle: an ESPN computer-simulated match that suggests the old-timer might give Mason a run for his money. Cue the crowds, the trash-talking, the early-morning workouts and that glorious walk to the ring. In Vegas. Ten rounds. Mano a mano. But it feels like the first fight all over again. And suddenly a silly little movie built entirely on classic hokum seems to matter. Not just because it's one last roundhouse punch at the world of digital zeros and ones. Not just because it's another underdog story. It matters because this boxer taps into something deeper in our collective souls than the desire for entertainment. It's the hope that one day we're going to win big, too, after everyone's given up on us. It's as hokey as it's true.
By Desson ThomsonWashington Post Staff WriterWednesday, December 20, 2006; Page C01
Who asked for this? Another "Rocky" sequel in which we learn, once again, that the Italian Stallion has too much heart to ever give up?
But in "Rocky Balboa," the sixth and latest installment, there's Sylvester Stallone again, sucking down raw eggs and pounding sides of beef to train for another prime-time bout. His opponent this time: heavyweight champ and insufferable braggart Mason "The Line" Dixon (real-life boxer Antonio Tarver), who's got something to prove. Sportswriters call him a chump who never really fought a tough contender. No one like that old warhorse, Rocky Balboa.
Old is right.
Stallone, creator and perennial star of what has become a 30-year franchise, is 60. He ought to be reaching for his AARP card, not his boxing gloves. As much as most of us loved 1976's "Rocky," which took three Oscars, including Best Picture, just as many groaned through the sequels that followed. Remember 1985's "Rocky IV" with the already aging Rocky up against a steroidal Soviet named Ivan? Or "Rocky V," the 1990 film in which Rocky was so punch-drunk he mistook his wife, Adrian, for his former boxing coach? As a pop-culture hero, Rocky was down and out -- or so it seemed.
And yet . . . and yet . . . this critic found himself sitting there in the darkened theater rooting for this movie to work. Just one last time. The odds seemed impossible -- just like Rocky's. There were reports of moviegoers hooting at previews. And sitting in the middle of fellow movie critics, the bloodlust felt palpable. One false move on the screen -- a moment of insufferable vanity, a misfired attempt at poignancy -- would be enough to knock this flick to the canvas. Watching "Rocky Balboa" suddenly felt like a tussle between old-time sentimentality and postmodern derision.
The verdict?
There were titters, yes. But to this viewer, sentimentality won by a knockout. "Rocky Balboa" comes out swinging as soon as the "Rocky" theme blares from the speakers -- that portentous anthem that has most of us picturing Philadelphia's First Citizen at the top of the steps of the Museum of Art, arms aloft.
But "Rocky Balboa," which brings back Burt Young (the irascible brother-in-law Paulie, who's a few knuckle hairs shy of Cro-Magnon when he drinks) but not Talia Shire (Adrian is dearly departed, alas), doesn't rest lazily on its own nostalgia. Written and directed by Stallone, it smartly reprises the atmosphere of Hollywood's yesteryear, when pug-ugly heroes played by Spencer Tracy, Robert Mitchum and Ernest Borgnine won audiences over with their burly souls. They had big chests, square mugs and they talked common sense -- when they talked at all. They were sportswriters, wrestlers, gangsters and boxers. When they walked, change jingled in their pockets. They saw things simply. They were working class -- or they came out of it. They were crude princes of the docks, the slums, the street and the screen.
And that's Rocky, with his slurry voice, his porkpie hat and two pet turtles called Cuff and Link. That's the guy who keeps an old chair nestled in the crook of a tree above Adrian's grave so he can sit with her for hours. He's the one who nurses the hurt of a grown son (Milo Ventimiglia), who's embarrassed by his sad-sack, over-the-hill father. He's the one who's reduced to sharing war stories with customers in the South Philly restaurant he owns. But he's no paragon of palooka virtue, either. When some punks taunt him, for instance, Rocky walks over to those disrespectful hecklers and takes care of conflict resolution the old way.
A guy like this needs to fight. Then comes the opportunity to prove his mettle: an ESPN computer-simulated match that suggests the old-timer might give Mason a run for his money. Cue the crowds, the trash-talking, the early-morning workouts and that glorious walk to the ring. In Vegas. Ten rounds. Mano a mano. But it feels like the first fight all over again. And suddenly a silly little movie built entirely on classic hokum seems to matter. Not just because it's one last roundhouse punch at the world of digital zeros and ones. Not just because it's another underdog story. It matters because this boxer taps into something deeper in our collective souls than the desire for entertainment. It's the hope that one day we're going to win big, too, after everyone's given up on us. It's as hokey as it's true.
The Incredibly Strange Graduation of the Iraqi Anti-Rabbit Police Commando Geeks
We’ve turned Najaf over to the Iraqis, but this little vignette (reported by the Associated Press) makes it a bit difficult to feel enthusiastic about these forces being a civilizing influence.
“Transferring responsibility is an indication of the increased capacity of the Iraqi police and the Iraqi army,” Maj. Gen. Kurt Cichowski said at the ceremony.
But Cichowski added that U.S. troops would continue to provide support if called upon. “We will be quite literally just up the road.”
About 1,500 police officers and soldiers paraded on a soccer field, and other officers drove shiny new patrol cars and motorcycles around a dusty track ringing the field.
At one point, a small group of elite Iraqi special forces officers wearing dark green T-shirts stepped forward with a live rabbit and ripped it apart with their teeth.
The leader chomped out the animal’s heart with a yell, then passed around the blood-soaked carcass to his comrades, each of whom took a bite. The group also bit the heads off frogs.
Elite Iraqi forces have demonstrated their toughness by chewing on live animals during military ceremonies since the time of Saddam Hussein’s rule. It sounds so gruesome I immediately doubted the AP report.
But here’s a picture. (Do I need to warn anyone?)
And here’s another.
We’ve turned Najaf over to the Iraqis, but this little vignette (reported by the Associated Press) makes it a bit difficult to feel enthusiastic about these forces being a civilizing influence.
“Transferring responsibility is an indication of the increased capacity of the Iraqi police and the Iraqi army,” Maj. Gen. Kurt Cichowski said at the ceremony.
But Cichowski added that U.S. troops would continue to provide support if called upon. “We will be quite literally just up the road.”
About 1,500 police officers and soldiers paraded on a soccer field, and other officers drove shiny new patrol cars and motorcycles around a dusty track ringing the field.
At one point, a small group of elite Iraqi special forces officers wearing dark green T-shirts stepped forward with a live rabbit and ripped it apart with their teeth.
The leader chomped out the animal’s heart with a yell, then passed around the blood-soaked carcass to his comrades, each of whom took a bite. The group also bit the heads off frogs.
Elite Iraqi forces have demonstrated their toughness by chewing on live animals during military ceremonies since the time of Saddam Hussein’s rule. It sounds so gruesome I immediately doubted the AP report.
But here’s a picture. (Do I need to warn anyone?)
And here’s another.
Ricky JayRicky Jay (b. 1948) is an American professional sleight-of-hand artist, actor, and author. He is considered an expert on the history of magic and entertainment.
Performer
He was born Richard Jay Potash in Brooklyn, New York to a Jewish-American family. Ricky Jay is widely considered one of the most knowledgeable and skilled sleight-of-hand experts in the United States. He is now well-known for his signature card tricks, card throwing, memory feats, and inimitable stage patter. At least two of his shows, Ricky Jay and His 52 Assistants and On the Stem, were directed by David Mamet, who has also cast Jay in a number of his films. Jay has also appeared in productions by other directors, notably Paul Thomas Anderson's Boogie Nights and Magnolia, and season one of HBO's Deadwood as card sharp Eddie Sawyer.
Until recently, Ricky Jay was listed in the Guinness Book of Records for throwing a playing card 190 ft at 90 miles per hour (the current record is 216 ft, by Rick Smith, Jr.). Ricky Jay can throw a playing card into a watermelon rind (which he refers to as the "thick, pachydermatous outer melon layer" of "the most prodigious of household fruits") from ten paces.
Books
When not performing, Ricky Jay collects rare books and artifacts. He is the author of several books:
Extraordinary Exhibitions: The Wonderful Remains of an Enormous Head, The Whimsiphusicon & Death to the Savage Unitarians - a collection of 17th, 18th, and 19th-century broadsides [1]
Jay's Journal of Anomalies
Dice: Deception, Fate, and Rotten Luck
Learned Pigs and Fireproof Women
Cards As Weapons
Consultant
Mr. Jay created a consulting firm, Deceptive Practices, which provides "arcane knowledge on a need-to-know basis." His firm's clients are often within the stage, television, and film industries. He has worked with libraries and museums on their collections, including the Mulholland Library of Conjuring and the Allied Arts.
External links
When not performing, Ricky Jay collects rare books and artifacts. He is the author of several books:
Extraordinary Exhibitions: The Wonderful Remains of an Enormous Head, The Whimsiphusicon & Death to the Savage Unitarians - a collection of 17th, 18th, and 19th-century broadsides [1]
Jay's Journal of Anomalies
Dice: Deception, Fate, and Rotten Luck
Learned Pigs and Fireproof Women
Cards As Weapons
Consultant
Mr. Jay created a consulting firm, Deceptive Practices, which provides "arcane knowledge on a need-to-know basis." His firm's clients are often within the stage, television, and film industries. He has worked with libraries and museums on their collections, including the Mulholland Library of Conjuring and the Allied Arts.
External links
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
"Lanny Yap"
Mark Twain writes about the word in a chapter on New Orleans in Life on the Mississippi (1883). He called it "a word worth travelling to New Orleans to get":
We picked up one excellent word — a word worth travelling to New Orleans to get; a nice limber, expressive, handy word — "lagniappe." They pronounce it lanny-yap. It is Spanish — so they said. We discovered it at the head of a column of odds and ends in the Picayune, the first day; heard twenty people use it the second; inquired what it meant the third; adopted it and got facility in swinging it the fourth. It has a restricted meaning, but I think the people spread it out a little when they choose. It is the equivalent of the thirteenth roll in a "baker's dozen." It is something thrown in, gratis, for good measure. The custom originated in the Spanish quarter of the city. When a child or a servant buys something in a shop — or even the mayor or the governor, for aught I know — he finishes the operation by saying — "Give me something for lagniappe."
The shopman always responds; gives the child a bit of licorice-root, gives the servant a cheap cigar or a spool of thread, gives the governor — I don't know what he gives the governor; support, likely.
When you are invited to drink, and this does occur now and then in New Orleans — and you say, "What, again? — no, I've had enough;" the other party says, "But just this one time more — this is for lagniappe." When the beau perceives that he is stacking his compliments a trifle too high, and sees by the young lady's countenance that the edifice would have been better with the top compliment left off, he puts his "I beg pardon — no harm intended," into the briefer form of "Oh, that's for lagniappe."
We picked up one excellent word — a word worth travelling to New Orleans to get; a nice limber, expressive, handy word — "lagniappe." They pronounce it lanny-yap. It is Spanish — so they said. We discovered it at the head of a column of odds and ends in the Picayune, the first day; heard twenty people use it the second; inquired what it meant the third; adopted it and got facility in swinging it the fourth. It has a restricted meaning, but I think the people spread it out a little when they choose. It is the equivalent of the thirteenth roll in a "baker's dozen." It is something thrown in, gratis, for good measure. The custom originated in the Spanish quarter of the city. When a child or a servant buys something in a shop — or even the mayor or the governor, for aught I know — he finishes the operation by saying — "Give me something for lagniappe."
The shopman always responds; gives the child a bit of licorice-root, gives the servant a cheap cigar or a spool of thread, gives the governor — I don't know what he gives the governor; support, likely.
When you are invited to drink, and this does occur now and then in New Orleans — and you say, "What, again? — no, I've had enough;" the other party says, "But just this one time more — this is for lagniappe." When the beau perceives that he is stacking his compliments a trifle too high, and sees by the young lady's countenance that the edifice would have been better with the top compliment left off, he puts his "I beg pardon — no harm intended," into the briefer form of "Oh, that's for lagniappe."
Good Week For
Blind drunks, after a leading German brewery announced it will from now on produce beer bottles labeled in braille. Activists for the vision-impaired welcomed the news. “You often have no idea what’s about to go in your mouth,” explained activist Joanna Zimmer.
Bad Week For
Indian men, after a study found that up to 60 percent of the country’s males are too modestly endowed to wear condoms of the international standard size. Dr. Chander Puri called for a wider variety of condom sizes in India’s vending machines, “so people can pick a condom with confidence that is suited to their needs.”
Blind drunks, after a leading German brewery announced it will from now on produce beer bottles labeled in braille. Activists for the vision-impaired welcomed the news. “You often have no idea what’s about to go in your mouth,” explained activist Joanna Zimmer.
Bad Week For
Indian men, after a study found that up to 60 percent of the country’s males are too modestly endowed to wear condoms of the international standard size. Dr. Chander Puri called for a wider variety of condom sizes in India’s vending machines, “so people can pick a condom with confidence that is suited to their needs.”
Oregonian Battle!
Tom: Fair point. Opinion does belong in editorial, not the news pages.
Obviously, we disagree on whether the Measure 37 story was an editorial
or news story.
We don't have an ombudsman like we used to have. But you can contact
the public editor's desk. I'll have to dig out the right address and
will send it to you.
Ryan
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ryan Frank, staff reporter
The Oregonian
City Hall news bureau
Work: 503-221-8564
1320 S.W. Broadway
Portland, OR 97201
Fax: 503-294-5023
ryanfrank@news.oregonian.com
www.oregonlive.com
>>> "Pahlke, Tom D." 12/19/06 10:47 AM >>>
Your response is irrelevant. Editorials belong in the editorial
section, so people know they were written with a POV. That is my point.
Does the Oregonian have an Ombudsman?
tom pahlke
-----Original Message-----
From: Ryan Frank [mailto:ryanfrank@news.oregonian.com]
Sent: Tuesday, December 19, 2006 1:43 PM
To: Pahlke, Tom D.
Subject: RE: 12/19/06
Tom:
Yes, there are people who feel Oregonians were duped and they were in
the story. But so were others who feel differently.
Would you disagree that the Zidells, Swindells, and Hemstreets are a
split from the Dorothy Englishes of the world?
Ryan
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ryan Frank, staff reporter
The Oregonian
City Hall news bureau
Work: 503-221-8564
1320 S.W. Broadway
Portland, OR 97201
Fax: 503-294-5023
ryanfrank@news.oregonian.com
www.oregonlive.com
>>> "Pahlke, Tom D." 12/19/06 10:39 AM >>>
"Little old lady" "Corporate captains"- c'mon, you must be kidding.
Unfortunately, I doubt you are. The tone, heck the subject, of the
article is biased. Oregonian's were duped. Right?
tom pahlke
-----Original Message-----
From: Ryan Frank [mailto:ryanfrank@news.oregonian.com]
Sent: Tuesday, December 19, 2006 1:35 PM
To: Pahlke, Tom D.
Subject: Re: 12/19/06
Mr. Pahlke: Thanks for the note. What about that seems to be an
editorial to you? Ryan
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ryan Frank, staff reporter
The Oregonian
City Hall news bureau
Work: 503-221-8564
1320 S.W. Broadway
Portland, OR 97201
Fax: 503-294-5023
ryanfrank@news.oregonian.com
www.oregonlive.com
>>> "Pahlke, Tom D." 12/19/06 9:19 AM >>>
Mr. Frank, is this a report or an editorial? Does the Oregonian even
care about the difference anymore? Honestly.
>>
Late flurry of land claims hits Portland
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
RYAN FRANK
A little old lady sold Measure 37 to Oregonians in 2004 when she
couldn't split her forestland.
Two years later, Portland's corporate captains seem to think she was
onto something. Some of the city's most recognizable names have
followed
Dorothy English, 94, in asking the government for cash or a free pass
from regulations passed since they bought their properties.
tom pahlke
Obviously, we disagree on whether the Measure 37 story was an editorial
or news story.
We don't have an ombudsman like we used to have. But you can contact
the public editor's desk. I'll have to dig out the right address and
will send it to you.
Ryan
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ryan Frank, staff reporter
The Oregonian
City Hall news bureau
Work: 503-221-8564
1320 S.W. Broadway
Portland, OR 97201
Fax: 503-294-5023
ryanfrank@news.oregonian.com
www.oregonlive.com
>>> "Pahlke, Tom D."
Your response is irrelevant. Editorials belong in the editorial
section, so people know they were written with a POV. That is my point.
Does the Oregonian have an Ombudsman?
tom pahlke
-----Original Message-----
From: Ryan Frank [mailto:ryanfrank@news.oregonian.com]
Sent: Tuesday, December 19, 2006 1:43 PM
To: Pahlke, Tom D.
Subject: RE: 12/19/06
Tom:
Yes, there are people who feel Oregonians were duped and they were in
the story. But so were others who feel differently.
Would you disagree that the Zidells, Swindells, and Hemstreets are a
split from the Dorothy Englishes of the world?
Ryan
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ryan Frank, staff reporter
The Oregonian
City Hall news bureau
Work: 503-221-8564
1320 S.W. Broadway
Portland, OR 97201
Fax: 503-294-5023
ryanfrank@news.oregonian.com
www.oregonlive.com
>>> "Pahlke, Tom D."
"Little old lady" "Corporate captains"- c'mon, you must be kidding.
Unfortunately, I doubt you are. The tone, heck the subject, of the
article is biased. Oregonian's were duped. Right?
tom pahlke
-----Original Message-----
From: Ryan Frank [mailto:ryanfrank@news.oregonian.com]
Sent: Tuesday, December 19, 2006 1:35 PM
To: Pahlke, Tom D.
Subject: Re: 12/19/06
Mr. Pahlke: Thanks for the note. What about that seems to be an
editorial to you? Ryan
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ryan Frank, staff reporter
The Oregonian
City Hall news bureau
Work: 503-221-8564
1320 S.W. Broadway
Portland, OR 97201
Fax: 503-294-5023
ryanfrank@news.oregonian.com
www.oregonlive.com
>>> "Pahlke, Tom D."
Mr. Frank, is this a report or an editorial? Does the Oregonian even
care about the difference anymore? Honestly.
>>
Late flurry of land claims hits Portland
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
RYAN FRANK
A little old lady sold Measure 37 to Oregonians in 2004 when she
couldn't split her forestland.
Two years later, Portland's corporate captains seem to think she was
onto something. Some of the city's most recognizable names have
followed
Dorothy English, 94, in asking the government for cash or a free pass
from regulations passed since they bought their properties.
tom pahlke
Good Gravy
Intel, Saudi firms partner on e-Quran
SAN FRANCISCO (AFX) - Intel Corp., the world's largest computer chip maker, has partnered with two Saudi Arabian software companies to develop an electronic version of Islam's holy book and a training computer for teachers packed with the government-approved curriculum for schoolchildren.
Intel said Monday the projects are part of broader push to bring low-cost computing and Internet access to emerging markets and are only two uses for the Intel-designed hardware.
Intel Chairman Craig Barrett attended the product launch in Saudi Arabia over the weekend as part of an overseas trip to unveil wireless Internet technology that Intel installed in the small Egyptian city of Oseem. An Intel development center in Cairo designed the hardware for both Saudi Arabian projects.
The E-Quran is a small computer with wireless Internet access that contains the text of the Islamic holy book, audio recitations in 40 different languages and interactive interpretations of the material.
Intel said it partnered with Dar Al Rasm Al-Othmani, a software company focused on religious content that contracted with an outside firm to have the devices manufactured.
Santa Clara-based Intel said it had no plans to commercialize or brand the devices, which are powered by low-power Intel processors, which act as the calculating brains of computers.
The other product is called E-Curriculum and was developed with Semanoor, an educational software company. The device is a portable, Intel-designed computer that is integrated with software containing Saudi government-approved curriculum for kindergarten through the 12th grade.
Semanoor said the program is currently being implemented in public and private schools throughout the Middle Eastern country.
Copyright 2006 Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
SAN FRANCISCO (AFX) - Intel Corp., the world's largest computer chip maker, has partnered with two Saudi Arabian software companies to develop an electronic version of Islam's holy book and a training computer for teachers packed with the government-approved curriculum for schoolchildren.
Intel said Monday the projects are part of broader push to bring low-cost computing and Internet access to emerging markets and are only two uses for the Intel-designed hardware.
Intel Chairman Craig Barrett attended the product launch in Saudi Arabia over the weekend as part of an overseas trip to unveil wireless Internet technology that Intel installed in the small Egyptian city of Oseem. An Intel development center in Cairo designed the hardware for both Saudi Arabian projects.
The E-Quran is a small computer with wireless Internet access that contains the text of the Islamic holy book, audio recitations in 40 different languages and interactive interpretations of the material.
Intel said it partnered with Dar Al Rasm Al-Othmani, a software company focused on religious content that contracted with an outside firm to have the devices manufactured.
Santa Clara-based Intel said it had no plans to commercialize or brand the devices, which are powered by low-power Intel processors, which act as the calculating brains of computers.
The other product is called E-Curriculum and was developed with Semanoor, an educational software company. The device is a portable, Intel-designed computer that is integrated with software containing Saudi government-approved curriculum for kindergarten through the 12th grade.
Semanoor said the program is currently being implemented in public and private schools throughout the Middle Eastern country.
Copyright 2006 Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Monday, December 18, 2006
captainsquartersblog.com
You First
Kim Jong-Il has rejoined the six-party talks aimed at ending his nuclear-weapons program and opening North Korea for foreign aid and trade. The other parties have promised an end to sanctions and economic assistance if Pyongyang ends its development of nukes, but the Kim regime has challenged them to act first:
North Korea has said it would only consider scrapping its nuclear weapons when all international sanctions against it are lifted, as disarmament talks resumed here after a 13-month break.
Declaring itself "satisfied" with becoming a nuclear power following its first-ever atomic test on October 9, North Korea offered no signs of compromise at the six-nation talks Monday, according to officials who were at the forum.
Instead North Korean chief envoy Kim Kye-Gwan called, in his opening remarks to the talks, forUnited Nations and US sanctions to be lifted, as well as repeating long-held demands for help in developing a nuclear power industry.
So once again Kim has come to the table only to emphasize his intransigence. That, of course, is his opening position, but it won't be his final word on the subject. Kim came back to the table because he knows that China has just about decided to wash their hands of him, particularly him. Beijing found him useful only until he disobeyed them and made them look impotent by actually detonating his nuke earlier this year.
He's just about finished unless he can get the sanctions lifted, and he knows it. Kim survived three coup attempts in the 1990s with China as his ally, but he won't survive another with them disaffected from his regime. If he cannot feed his Army, they are likely to start looking for a leader who can, revered father or not.
What's worse is that the nature of the six-party talks almost guarantees that he will lose on this point. All five other nations want him to recommit to his previous disarmament plan and are not looking to take no for an answer. They will not allow Kim to wriggle off the hook; Japan will drive that more than the US. China and Russia understand that an end result of failure will be a nuclear and more militarized Japan, and they both want to avoid that more than they want Kim Jong-Il as a client.
North Korea will, in the end, give up its nukes. Whether Kim remains in charge at that point is the real question.
Kim Jong-Il has rejoined the six-party talks aimed at ending his nuclear-weapons program and opening North Korea for foreign aid and trade. The other parties have promised an end to sanctions and economic assistance if Pyongyang ends its development of nukes, but the Kim regime has challenged them to act first:
North Korea has said it would only consider scrapping its nuclear weapons when all international sanctions against it are lifted, as disarmament talks resumed here after a 13-month break.
Declaring itself "satisfied" with becoming a nuclear power following its first-ever atomic test on October 9, North Korea offered no signs of compromise at the six-nation talks Monday, according to officials who were at the forum.
Instead North Korean chief envoy Kim Kye-Gwan called, in his opening remarks to the talks, forUnited Nations and US sanctions to be lifted, as well as repeating long-held demands for help in developing a nuclear power industry.
So once again Kim has come to the table only to emphasize his intransigence. That, of course, is his opening position, but it won't be his final word on the subject. Kim came back to the table because he knows that China has just about decided to wash their hands of him, particularly him. Beijing found him useful only until he disobeyed them and made them look impotent by actually detonating his nuke earlier this year.
He's just about finished unless he can get the sanctions lifted, and he knows it. Kim survived three coup attempts in the 1990s with China as his ally, but he won't survive another with them disaffected from his regime. If he cannot feed his Army, they are likely to start looking for a leader who can, revered father or not.
What's worse is that the nature of the six-party talks almost guarantees that he will lose on this point. All five other nations want him to recommit to his previous disarmament plan and are not looking to take no for an answer. They will not allow Kim to wriggle off the hook; Japan will drive that more than the US. China and Russia understand that an end result of failure will be a nuclear and more militarized Japan, and they both want to avoid that more than they want Kim Jong-Il as a client.
North Korea will, in the end, give up its nukes. Whether Kim remains in charge at that point is the real question.
A friend's Dad wrote this book, I will let you know what I think after I read it -the story is crazy.
Memoir 440 PagesISBN: 1-59766-007-8Paper: $21.95
In prerevolution Laos, when people addressed someone older or of higher status, they referred to themselves as “I little slave.” Raised in this tradition of feudal politeness, and having subsequently received a Ph.D. in political science in France, Bounsang Khamkeo returned home in October 1973, not long after the signing of the Paris Peace Accords brought the war in Vietnam to its official close. Between 1968 and 1973 Laos was the target of one of the most massive bombing campaigns in history—the CIA’s secret war in Laos against the North Vietnamese communists. Convinced that the future promised brighter days for his country, Khamkeo joined the newly constituted coalition government in the Laotian capital of Vientiane. In the months that followed, however, he found himself witness to the corruption and eventual disintegration of his world. Seized by the Pathet Lao in the wake of the Communist revolution of December 1975, he survived more than seven years in prison under sometimes impossibly harsh conditions before finally being released during Communist thaw in the 1980s. He moved to the United States in 1989. I Little Slave is the account of his ordeal.
Bounsang Khamkeo was formerly a member of the Laotian Ministry of Foreign Affairs and worked at the Lao Mekong Committee of United Nations in Vientiane. He now lives in Vancouver, Washington with his wife, Vieng, and four children, and works as a behavioral health counselor at the Oregon Health and Science University.
“This memoir of the Laotian death camps is the first full account of the Pathet Lao’s secret jungle prisons. As gripping as A Cambodian Odyssey, it is a jolting reminder of the atrocities that states rush to commit once fanaticism—political or religious—rips off the precious shackles of human decency. What a miracle that Khamkeo survived to write the story.”
—Keith Quincy
The Islamophobia Circus Comes to Town
The European Union has identified the worst problem facing the continent—“Islamophobia:” Europe’s Muslims face rising ‘Islamophobia,’ new EU report warns. (Hat tip: WriterMom.)
VIENNA, Austria: A German Muslim says his neighbors suspect he is making weapons inside his mosque. An Austrian believer complains that some dog owners set their pets on her when they pass her on the sidewalk.
Such acts of “Islamophobia” are on the rise across Europe, where many Muslims are menaced and misunderstood — some on a daily basis — the European Monitoring Center on Racism and Xenophobia warned Monday in a new report.
The Vienna-based center, which tracks ethnic and religious bias across the 25-nation EU, said Muslims routinely suffer acts ranging from physical attacks to discrimination in the job and housing markets.
It called on leaders to strengthen policies on integration, and on Muslims to “engage more actively in public life” to counter negative perceptions driven by terrorism or violence, such as this year’s backlash to cartoons depicting the Prophet Muhammad.
“The key word is ‘respect,’” said Beate Winkler, the group’s director. “People need to feel respected and included. We need to highlight the common ground that we have.”
Since the Sept. 11, 2001 attacks, many of Europe’s nearly 13 million Muslims feel “they have been put under a general suspicion of terrorism,” Winkler said.
Yet, oddly enough, Jews are attacked four times as much as Muslims. This problem apparently pales in comparison to the unjust suspicion Muslims have suffered after the September 11 attacks, the Madrid train bombings, the London bombings, the Bali bombings, the murders in the Netherlands, the murders of hundreds of children in Beslan, the violent demonstrations against cartoons ... well, you get the idea.
LONDON — Jewish people are four times more likely to be attacked in Britain because of their religion than Muslims, according to figures compiled by the police.
One in 400 Jews, compared with one in 1,700 Muslims, are likely to be victims of faith-related hate attacks every year. The figure is based on data collected over three months in police areas accounting for half the Muslim and Jewish populations of England and Wales. The crimes range from assault and verbal abuse to criminal damage at places of worship.
Police forces started recording the religion of faith-related hate-crime victims only this year. They did so on the instruction of the Association of Chief Police Officers, which wanted a clear picture of community tensions around the country, following reports of Muslims being attacked after the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks and the July 7 London bombings last year.
However, the first findings, for the July-September period, obtained by the Sunday Telegraph under freedom of information legislation, show that it is Jews who are much more likely to be targeted because of their religion.
In London and Manchester, where Muslims outnumber Jews by four to one, anti-Semitic offenses exceeded anti-Muslim offenses. The figures do not record the faith of the offenders.
The European Union has identified the worst problem facing the continent—“Islamophobia:” Europe’s Muslims face rising ‘Islamophobia,’ new EU report warns. (Hat tip: WriterMom.)
VIENNA, Austria: A German Muslim says his neighbors suspect he is making weapons inside his mosque. An Austrian believer complains that some dog owners set their pets on her when they pass her on the sidewalk.
Such acts of “Islamophobia” are on the rise across Europe, where many Muslims are menaced and misunderstood — some on a daily basis — the European Monitoring Center on Racism and Xenophobia warned Monday in a new report.
The Vienna-based center, which tracks ethnic and religious bias across the 25-nation EU, said Muslims routinely suffer acts ranging from physical attacks to discrimination in the job and housing markets.
It called on leaders to strengthen policies on integration, and on Muslims to “engage more actively in public life” to counter negative perceptions driven by terrorism or violence, such as this year’s backlash to cartoons depicting the Prophet Muhammad.
“The key word is ‘respect,’” said Beate Winkler, the group’s director. “People need to feel respected and included. We need to highlight the common ground that we have.”
Since the Sept. 11, 2001 attacks, many of Europe’s nearly 13 million Muslims feel “they have been put under a general suspicion of terrorism,” Winkler said.
Yet, oddly enough, Jews are attacked four times as much as Muslims. This problem apparently pales in comparison to the unjust suspicion Muslims have suffered after the September 11 attacks, the Madrid train bombings, the London bombings, the Bali bombings, the murders in the Netherlands, the murders of hundreds of children in Beslan, the violent demonstrations against cartoons ... well, you get the idea.
LONDON — Jewish people are four times more likely to be attacked in Britain because of their religion than Muslims, according to figures compiled by the police.
One in 400 Jews, compared with one in 1,700 Muslims, are likely to be victims of faith-related hate attacks every year. The figure is based on data collected over three months in police areas accounting for half the Muslim and Jewish populations of England and Wales. The crimes range from assault and verbal abuse to criminal damage at places of worship.
Police forces started recording the religion of faith-related hate-crime victims only this year. They did so on the instruction of the Association of Chief Police Officers, which wanted a clear picture of community tensions around the country, following reports of Muslims being attacked after the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks and the July 7 London bombings last year.
However, the first findings, for the July-September period, obtained by the Sunday Telegraph under freedom of information legislation, show that it is Jews who are much more likely to be targeted because of their religion.
In London and Manchester, where Muslims outnumber Jews by four to one, anti-Semitic offenses exceeded anti-Muslim offenses. The figures do not record the faith of the offenders.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Ho, Ho, Ho! I Saw You Masturbating!A Special Message From Santa Claus
December 12, 2006 Issue 42•50
Season's greetings from your old friend Santa! My, oh, my, only 12 nights left until Christmas Eve! Things are getting so close now, we can hardly contain ourselves here at the North Pole. And from the looks of it, my young friend, we're not the only ones set to burst! Why, Jolly Old Saint Nick hasn't seen a Yule log this lit in ages!
Now, don't be shy. You know what Santa's talking about. You just couldn't wait to open your present this year, could you? Ho, ho, ho! Dear child, I saw you masturbating!
And it hasn't been just once either! Oh, no! Santa's seen you at least twice splashing away in the bathtub, three times in the attic with one of your mother's old art-history books, and more times than even he can count spread out like a stunned partridge on that beanbag chair of yours!
Why, old Santa might just have a heart attack if he popped out your chimney on that cold winter's night and, instead of milk and cookies, found his dear little pen pal shamefully hunched over the family computer.
Oh, what a naughty, prolific rascal you've been!
You see, dear lad, Santa's been keeping a list. Just like the one you keep in your head of all your favorite classmates. The one you've checked so much more than twice. Except when Santa thinks about his list, he doesn't rub his crotch feverishly against the smooth contours of his writing desk. Ho, ho, ho!
I see you when you're sleeping, child, and I know when you're awake. And, believe it or not, I even know when you're just pretending to sleep, but really have your rosy palms down the front of your britches.
Yes, I suppose you could say old Kris Kringle knows everything there is to know. Well, not everything. You did teach me a thing or two about scented body wash! Ho, ho, ho!
Tell me now, what do you want Santa to bring you this year? A bright red bicycle? Some fun new board games? Or should I just have the elves wrap up a fresh batch of those satin pillows you enjoy straddling so much? Or maybe St. Nick shouldn't bring you anything at all this Christmas. After all, Mrs. Claus knitted you a special pair of socks last year, and just look what became of those!
Oh, what ever happened to that sweet, freckle-faced angel we all loved so much? Such a bright little youngster, so good to your mommy and daddy, and quick to make friends. Now all you seem to want to do is play by yourself for hours on end. It makes everyone here at my workshop very, very sad. Why the reindeer haven't been able to keep down their feed since hearing about how you slap yourself around. And Mrs. Claus, do you know what she did when she found out? She cried. She cried for the first time in almost 700 years.
Where before we enjoyed visions of gumdrops and candy canes, now we see you, once so dear to us all, kneeling against a plastic chair, spitting on two fingers, and putting them lordy knows where.
I must say, the sights you conjure up while you lie in your bed have even Santa Claus scratching his head. I doubt any of the high-school cheerleaders have ever even set foot inside a boiler room before, never mind done anything like that!
And other things—other terrible, frightful things. If your outlandish fantasies didn't make me quake with disgust, I'd say you were the most creative child in the world.
Is it Clara? Is that who you think about when you rub yourself raw? Ho, ho, ho! Why she doesn't even know your name, dear child! You didn't really think you had a chance with her, did you? A pretty girl like that? But your face—it's covered in pockmarks, for goodness sake!
Don't cry now, little one. I'm sure some of the Barbie dolls you steal from your sister's room find you very attractive. I bet they hardly even notice your embarrassing stutter, or that pungent and sickly body odor of yours. Or even how pathetic you really are, my child. What a sad, lonely, feeble little shit you are, and how your life—your wretched little life—will be filled with failure after failure, both personal and professional, until the stench of disappointment and heartbreak grows so strong that you'll barely be able to breathe.
Well, it looks old Santa has to get back to work! Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night—except you, you sick little fuck!
Thursday, December 14, 2006
In college I knew a friendly Englishman named Nicholas Ward who favored wearing the same sweater for days and drinking Green Chartreuse http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chartreuse_(liqueur).
He also introduced me to one of the greatest slang terms for ejaculate of all time -"Gentleman's Relish"- which I was surprised to find is also a foodstuff.
Gentleman's Relish
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Jump to: navigation, search
The Gentleman's Relish
Gentleman's Relish is a type of anchovy paste. It is also known as Patum Peperium.
It was created in 1828 by an Englishman called John Osborn. It tastes very strong, very salty and slightly fishy and contains anchovies (minimum 60%), butter, herbs and spices. The exact recipe however has remained a secret and was passed down by word of mouth over the years. Today, only Elsenham Quality Foods in Elsenham, England is licensed to make it.
The traditional way of eating Gentleman's Relish is on thin slices of buttered white bread toast, either on its own, or with cucumber, or mustard and cress.
Gentleman's Relish can also be added to mince for a different-tasting shepherd's pie or to the mixture for fish cakes, potato cakes and croquettes. Alternatively it can be melted into scrambled eggs or be used as a topping for jacket potatoes.
Gentlemen's Relish is also the name of a play adapted from the novel Kingdom Swann by Miles Gibson. It was adapted for British TV in 2001, starring Billy Connolly as a Victorian pornographer and photographer.
He also introduced me to one of the greatest slang terms for ejaculate of all time -"Gentleman's Relish"- which I was surprised to find is also a foodstuff.
Gentleman's Relish
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Jump to: navigation, search
The Gentleman's Relish
Gentleman's Relish is a type of anchovy paste. It is also known as Patum Peperium.
It was created in 1828 by an Englishman called John Osborn. It tastes very strong, very salty and slightly fishy and contains anchovies (minimum 60%), butter, herbs and spices. The exact recipe however has remained a secret and was passed down by word of mouth over the years. Today, only Elsenham Quality Foods in Elsenham, England is licensed to make it.
The traditional way of eating Gentleman's Relish is on thin slices of buttered white bread toast, either on its own, or with cucumber, or mustard and cress.
Gentleman's Relish can also be added to mince for a different-tasting shepherd's pie or to the mixture for fish cakes, potato cakes and croquettes. Alternatively it can be melted into scrambled eggs or be used as a topping for jacket potatoes.
Gentlemen's Relish is also the name of a play adapted from the novel Kingdom Swann by Miles Gibson. It was adapted for British TV in 2001, starring Billy Connolly as a Victorian pornographer and photographer.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
I like to work for a while, and then do nothing for some period. Peter Boyle
Guess He Got His Wish.
RIP
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Ernest van den Haag (1914–2002)
In Memoriam
By George H. Nash
With the death of Ernest van den Haag on March 21, 2002, the conservative movement lost one of its most redoubtable intellectual warriors in the decades after World War II. And the University Bookman lost one of its longtime friends and supporters.
Like so many of conservatism’s postwar “founding fathers,” van den Haag was a former radical and refugee from totalitarian Europe. Born in Holland and raised in Italy, he was a twenty-three-year-old Communist and law student at the University of Florence when Mussolini’s Fascist government imprisoned him in 1937. He spent most of the next two years in solitary confinement. Upon his release, he made his way to France, where he briefly studied psychiatry at the Sorbonne, only to be arrested by the French as an “enemy alien” in the early months of World War II. In 1940, as the French regime collapsed before the Nazi onslaught, van den Haag escaped from his French concentration camp and crossed into Spain—literally dodging bullets along the way. From there he traveled to Portugal and thence, by ship, to the United States. It was an adventure reminiscent of the movie Casablanca.
When van den Haag reached America, his speaking knowledge of English was nonexistent. His first jobs were as a busboy and vegetable seller in New York City. Somehow he gained admission to the graduate school of the University of Iowa, from which he earned a master’s degree in economics in 1942. Returning to New York, he met Sidney Hock, whom he credited with converting him from Communism. “I was a youthful fool,” van den Haag remarked years later about his student days in Europe. After encountering Hook (who seems to have become something of a mentor) the immigrant from Italy abandoned Marxist radicalism forever.
After serving in the U.S. Office of War Information during World War II, van den Haag settled down to an academic career in New York City, including teaching positions at New York University, the New School for Social Research, and Fordham University. Although he earned his doctorate in economics at NYU, the fields of sociology, psychology, and social philosophy interested him more. During the 1950s and 1960s he was a rara avis in academia—a credentialed social scientist and unabashed conservative. Even more improbably, after being psychoanalysed he became a psychoanalyst himself—a profession that he practiced on the side for nearly three decades.
In 1957, while having lunch with Sidney Hook, van den Haag chanced to meet William F. Buckley, Jr., who sent him a copy of National Review. Before long, the learned professor was contributing articles to Buckley’s magazine, an association that endured for the next forty-five years. As his reputation grew among conservatives, so did his ties to the conservative insurgency. In 1960, he contributed to the inaugural issue of the University Bookman and remained associated with its work for many years. He was also an active trustee of the University Bookman’s sponsor, the Educational Reviewer. He belonged to the Philadelphia Society and served as its president in 1978–1979. In the 1980s, he was affiliated with the Heritage Foundation. At Fordham University he was the John M. Olin Professor of Jurisprudence and Public Policy for six years.
As a disciplined academic, van den Haag authored several provocative books, including such gems as The Jewish Mystique (1969), Political Violence and Civil Disobedience (1972), and Punishing Criminals: Concerning a Very Old and Painful Question (1975).
The latter volume established him instantly as a leading authority on American criminology. In the next two decades he acquired a reputation as one of the most formidable scholarly advocates of the death penalty for the crime of murder.
The emigré social scientist also published more than 200 articles. The short essay, in fact, was the perfect vehicle for his potent mix of fearless iconoclasm, relentless logic, and erudition. And fearless he was, challenging liberal and leftist sacred cows down the line: from the United Nations to the minimum wage, from sex education to pornography, from feminism to foreign policy, from Brown v. Board of Education to the handling of urban riots. At times, his defiance of conventional thinking bordered on the outrageous, at least to liberal sensibilities. Asked, in 1972, why he preferred Richard Nixon to George McGovern for the presidency, he replied briskly, “I would rather be governed by a knave than by a fool.”
As on the printed page, so on the public platform, van den Haag combined analytic trenchancy with a seemingly inexhaustible reservoir of pertinent expertise. The one-time law student loved disputation. He was willing, he said, to debate anybody about anything. In the 1980s he often did so under the auspices of the Heritage Foundation. Time and again, his opponents were both appalled and confounded by what one of them called his “irreverent unorthodoxy.” Like the Roadrunner in the cartoon, he always seemed to be a step ahead of his adversaries. By the time they had grasped the subtleties of his argument, he had sped on to another point.
William F. Buckley, Jr. once described van den Haag as a “tuning fork of reason in the cacophonous world of social science.” But not everyone on the Right liked the sound that his “tuning fork” made. In 1960 he startled readers of National Review with a defense of Keynesian economics. In 1979, again in National Review, he published a scathing critique of libertarianism. Idiosyncratic on the issue of abortion, he asserted that a human embryo was only potentially human during its first three months of existence. Hence he would allow abortions until a recognizably human fetus was formed. On these, and other, issues he was unafraid to be a deviationist.
Most troublingly for many conservatives, van den Haag throughout his career seemed impervious to the truth claims of religion. In 1950, he asserted publicly that religion could not be “logically justified,” although he granted that religion was a “useful” and “necessary” “opiate,” essential for the stability of a free society. This was a strictly pragmatic argument that he apparently never disavowed. He also strenuously rejected the idea of natural law. Nature does not tell us how to live, he countered; it merely gives us choices. “I do not know where nature got the authority to tell me what to do,” he declared. Asked a few years ago why he felt that murder was bad, he replied simply, “I feel it.” His intuition told him so. He added that he had not found a better answer.
Not surprisingly, in his later years, van den Haag—ever the contrarian—asserted (contra Christianity) that people own their lives and are therefore free to end their lives if they so choose. Although by no means a libertarian, he nevertheless contended in the late 1990s that people should have the “right to die” without governmental interference.
In essence, van den Haag’s was a deeply skeptical and secular brand of conservatism, grounded not in religious faith but upon a recognition of the limits of reason in the pursuit of social betterment. Perhaps, having nearly lost his life as a young man in thrall to an orthodoxy, he could never again commit himself to another one.
Or did he? Toward the end, his intimate friend William F. Buckley, Jr. discerned signs that the irreverently unorthodox émigré was mellowing on the subject of religion. In a letter to Buckley in the mid-1990s, van den Haag announced that he was a “convert” to Roman Catholicism “in substance but not in form.” “I stayed away for a long time from the Church,” he added, “except in the most formal sense, and I am only now making my way back.” How he reconciled this turn with his public positions on natural law and suicide, he evidently did not say. But in 2002, just a few weeks before his death, he requested a Catholic funeral, which in due course he received. In the end, this urbane and worldly scholar apparently saw—and at last transcended—the limits of his own agnosticism.
With his heavy European accent, trademark cigars, and aura of the bon vivant, van den Haag was an unforgettable figure on the conservative scene. But those who knew his writings will remember him most for his withering dissection of the pretentious political orthodoxies of our age. At a time when conservatism was out of fashion among the intelligentsia, he gave conservatives a bracing example of mental rigor, forensic tenacity, and the courage of unconventional conviction.
In Memoriam
By George H. Nash
With the death of Ernest van den Haag on March 21, 2002, the conservative movement lost one of its most redoubtable intellectual warriors in the decades after World War II. And the University Bookman lost one of its longtime friends and supporters.
Like so many of conservatism’s postwar “founding fathers,” van den Haag was a former radical and refugee from totalitarian Europe. Born in Holland and raised in Italy, he was a twenty-three-year-old Communist and law student at the University of Florence when Mussolini’s Fascist government imprisoned him in 1937. He spent most of the next two years in solitary confinement. Upon his release, he made his way to France, where he briefly studied psychiatry at the Sorbonne, only to be arrested by the French as an “enemy alien” in the early months of World War II. In 1940, as the French regime collapsed before the Nazi onslaught, van den Haag escaped from his French concentration camp and crossed into Spain—literally dodging bullets along the way. From there he traveled to Portugal and thence, by ship, to the United States. It was an adventure reminiscent of the movie Casablanca.
When van den Haag reached America, his speaking knowledge of English was nonexistent. His first jobs were as a busboy and vegetable seller in New York City. Somehow he gained admission to the graduate school of the University of Iowa, from which he earned a master’s degree in economics in 1942. Returning to New York, he met Sidney Hock, whom he credited with converting him from Communism. “I was a youthful fool,” van den Haag remarked years later about his student days in Europe. After encountering Hook (who seems to have become something of a mentor) the immigrant from Italy abandoned Marxist radicalism forever.
After serving in the U.S. Office of War Information during World War II, van den Haag settled down to an academic career in New York City, including teaching positions at New York University, the New School for Social Research, and Fordham University. Although he earned his doctorate in economics at NYU, the fields of sociology, psychology, and social philosophy interested him more. During the 1950s and 1960s he was a rara avis in academia—a credentialed social scientist and unabashed conservative. Even more improbably, after being psychoanalysed he became a psychoanalyst himself—a profession that he practiced on the side for nearly three decades.
In 1957, while having lunch with Sidney Hook, van den Haag chanced to meet William F. Buckley, Jr., who sent him a copy of National Review. Before long, the learned professor was contributing articles to Buckley’s magazine, an association that endured for the next forty-five years. As his reputation grew among conservatives, so did his ties to the conservative insurgency. In 1960, he contributed to the inaugural issue of the University Bookman and remained associated with its work for many years. He was also an active trustee of the University Bookman’s sponsor, the Educational Reviewer. He belonged to the Philadelphia Society and served as its president in 1978–1979. In the 1980s, he was affiliated with the Heritage Foundation. At Fordham University he was the John M. Olin Professor of Jurisprudence and Public Policy for six years.
As a disciplined academic, van den Haag authored several provocative books, including such gems as The Jewish Mystique (1969), Political Violence and Civil Disobedience (1972), and Punishing Criminals: Concerning a Very Old and Painful Question (1975).
The latter volume established him instantly as a leading authority on American criminology. In the next two decades he acquired a reputation as one of the most formidable scholarly advocates of the death penalty for the crime of murder.
The emigré social scientist also published more than 200 articles. The short essay, in fact, was the perfect vehicle for his potent mix of fearless iconoclasm, relentless logic, and erudition. And fearless he was, challenging liberal and leftist sacred cows down the line: from the United Nations to the minimum wage, from sex education to pornography, from feminism to foreign policy, from Brown v. Board of Education to the handling of urban riots. At times, his defiance of conventional thinking bordered on the outrageous, at least to liberal sensibilities. Asked, in 1972, why he preferred Richard Nixon to George McGovern for the presidency, he replied briskly, “I would rather be governed by a knave than by a fool.”
As on the printed page, so on the public platform, van den Haag combined analytic trenchancy with a seemingly inexhaustible reservoir of pertinent expertise. The one-time law student loved disputation. He was willing, he said, to debate anybody about anything. In the 1980s he often did so under the auspices of the Heritage Foundation. Time and again, his opponents were both appalled and confounded by what one of them called his “irreverent unorthodoxy.” Like the Roadrunner in the cartoon, he always seemed to be a step ahead of his adversaries. By the time they had grasped the subtleties of his argument, he had sped on to another point.
William F. Buckley, Jr. once described van den Haag as a “tuning fork of reason in the cacophonous world of social science.” But not everyone on the Right liked the sound that his “tuning fork” made. In 1960 he startled readers of National Review with a defense of Keynesian economics. In 1979, again in National Review, he published a scathing critique of libertarianism. Idiosyncratic on the issue of abortion, he asserted that a human embryo was only potentially human during its first three months of existence. Hence he would allow abortions until a recognizably human fetus was formed. On these, and other, issues he was unafraid to be a deviationist.
Most troublingly for many conservatives, van den Haag throughout his career seemed impervious to the truth claims of religion. In 1950, he asserted publicly that religion could not be “logically justified,” although he granted that religion was a “useful” and “necessary” “opiate,” essential for the stability of a free society. This was a strictly pragmatic argument that he apparently never disavowed. He also strenuously rejected the idea of natural law. Nature does not tell us how to live, he countered; it merely gives us choices. “I do not know where nature got the authority to tell me what to do,” he declared. Asked a few years ago why he felt that murder was bad, he replied simply, “I feel it.” His intuition told him so. He added that he had not found a better answer.
Not surprisingly, in his later years, van den Haag—ever the contrarian—asserted (contra Christianity) that people own their lives and are therefore free to end their lives if they so choose. Although by no means a libertarian, he nevertheless contended in the late 1990s that people should have the “right to die” without governmental interference.
In essence, van den Haag’s was a deeply skeptical and secular brand of conservatism, grounded not in religious faith but upon a recognition of the limits of reason in the pursuit of social betterment. Perhaps, having nearly lost his life as a young man in thrall to an orthodoxy, he could never again commit himself to another one.
Or did he? Toward the end, his intimate friend William F. Buckley, Jr. discerned signs that the irreverently unorthodox émigré was mellowing on the subject of religion. In a letter to Buckley in the mid-1990s, van den Haag announced that he was a “convert” to Roman Catholicism “in substance but not in form.” “I stayed away for a long time from the Church,” he added, “except in the most formal sense, and I am only now making my way back.” How he reconciled this turn with his public positions on natural law and suicide, he evidently did not say. But in 2002, just a few weeks before his death, he requested a Catholic funeral, which in due course he received. In the end, this urbane and worldly scholar apparently saw—and at last transcended—the limits of his own agnosticism.
With his heavy European accent, trademark cigars, and aura of the bon vivant, van den Haag was an unforgettable figure on the conservative scene. But those who knew his writings will remember him most for his withering dissection of the pretentious political orthodoxies of our age. At a time when conservatism was out of fashion among the intelligentsia, he gave conservatives a bracing example of mental rigor, forensic tenacity, and the courage of unconventional conviction.
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