Lewis Grossberger, the "Media Person" columnist for MediaWeek, is objectionable in a benign way
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Jim Knipfel Ruby Ridge Jr.
When they make the miniseries--and they will--the tagline is going to read something like, "They ain't got electricity, heat, or water. But they got dogs. And guns. And each other. What more did they need?"
So let's take a look at the circumstances that lead to [the standoff in Sandpoint, ID.] You're a kid. You've always been dirt poor, scraping by on whatever you can. Because of where you live, you have good reason to harbor a healthy suspicion of government and law enforcement. Your dad is crippled, and your mom is insane.
Then your dad dies. Three weeks later, the police show up and, in a move that seems to border on entrapment, take your mom away. Then they come back for the rest of you.
Yeah, I think I'd go for the guns and release the hounds, too.
The cops say they're not going to force a confrontation. "We're putting no pressure on the children," said Bonner County Patrol Sergeant Robert Rahn. "They haven't broken any laws."
Sheriff Phil Jarvis added, enigmatically, "I have a four-year term. I'm not going to force an issue with children."
Yes, well, that's all fine and good--so why are the police still there, gathering force and blocking off roads? And when family leader, [15-year-old Benjamin McGuckin,] agrees to meet with local authorities concerning the standoff, why is he taken into custody?
"They haven't broken any laws."
(As a sidenote: It was reported that Benjamin was an avid reader of survivalist magazines. Hell of a lot of good those did him, huh?)
Anyway, there's something very strange going on here. The mother (who is being charged with something the police won't elaborate on) is lured out of the house with a promise of "grocery money"--even though the family received 200 pounds of groceries from a local food bank the previous week. These kids can obviously take care of themselves (report after report tells how they "took down a moose not long ago")--yet the police created this standoff under the guise of "helping them" by taking them into state custody.
No matter how often local law enforcement officials insist they're going to avoid another Ruby Ridge, they sure seem to be doing everything in their power to create one.
(6/1)
Russ Smith Pass the Caviar, Katrina
I have no idea who writes The Nation's lead editorials--they're unsigned--but it has to be clear to anyone who subjects himself to a reading week after week that the left-wing journal would profit from a changing of the guard. It's not an exaggeration to suggest that a Collegiate or St. Ann's high school graduate would be better suited for the job.
The June 18 edit, "Bringing Down the Senate," is filled with so many jejune and laughably shrill declarations that even principled liberals must wonder: Why is there such a paucity of intelligent commentary from the "progressive" movement?
The piece begins badly enough with a tribute to James Jeffords, and Vermont, then completely disintegrates into a pile of gibberish that I'm sure wouldn't even find a place in Mother Jones. Let's start with the newly Independent Senator from Vermont, who has yet to address the fact that the Republican Party, including Trent Lott, has for years raised money for him to stave off Democratic challengers. The editorialist writes: "Thus, Jeffords effectively resolved the dissonance between the establishment version of business as usual in Washington and what citizens at large are perceiving with growing alarm and anger. People distant from Washington, it turns out, were not wrong about Bush. Thanks, Senator, for blowing his cover."
A short geography lesson for the insulated Manhattan Nation staff: A large number of the states Al Gore won last year--Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Delaware, Connecticut, Massachusetts--are far closer to Washington than George W. Bush states like Georgia, Florida, Texas, Ohio, Arizona, Indiana, Louisiana and the Dakotas.
Bush's political strategist, Karl Rove--the left-wing's vision of an evil James Carville--is described as a "small-town" adviser. I'd say congratulations are due Rove in that case. After all, he helped mastermind Bush's two gubernatorial victories in Texas and his presidential win, besting millionaire cosmopolitans like the devil's runner Robert Shrum, a man who preaches class warfare for the Democrats while raking in Manny Ramirez-size paychecks for his consulting services.
Paul Gigot, one of the four or five most lucid American political writers today, is described by the Nation as The Wall Street Journal's "hit man." Such an honor would hold more value if it were conferred by the slightly less strident New York Times, instead of a delusional weekly, but I wonder why Gigot was singled out: the Journal is blessed by similarly acute "hit men" like Robert Bartley, John Fund, Peggy Noonan, Daniel Henninger, James Taranto and Dorothy Rabinowitz.
I'll skip the usual slams on Bush's IQ and his "adolescent dependence on Vice President Cheney"--even The New Yorker's Hendrik Hertzberg has abandoned the notion that the President is the intellectual equivalent of Patrick, Joe or Max Kennedy--and move on to the weekly's requisite suck-up to John McCain. Savor this: "The Jeffords message, in that sense, is threatening to both parties--another invitation to independent figures, from Jesse Ventura to John McCain, to step clear of tired party labels and truly upend the status quo."
Once again, the facts: While McCain is a petty, egotistical man, bent on avenging his loss to Bush in last year's GOP primaries, he's still nominally a conservative who also happens to be pro-life, not normally a position the Nation admires. As for Ventura, his quasi-libertarian views have led him to praise Bush on many issues, such as tax-cutting and reduced government spending.
The Nation yearns for a Democrat who can lead the charge against the GOP in the next several years. Not long ago, I suggested Wisconsin Sen. Russell Feingold for that very role: I have virtually no intersection with Feingold's political mindset, but he's honest and, unlike Jeffords, a man of real principle. The Nation, however, has banished Feingold from its pages in recent months.
His crime: Feingold, expressing his opinion that a president is entitled to choose his own attorney general, without a smear campaign from the opposition, voted to confirm John Ashcroft.
In the Nation's isolated world, that stand was sheer heresy.
(6/1)
Alan Cabal Smoke Wars
The [ New York Post informs us] that shortly after 1 p.m. yesterday the Bryant Park Restoration Corp., the private entity that operates the park, put a ban on smoking in the southwest corner of the grounds, a nicely shaded area adjacent to 40th St. and 6th Avenue. This is particularly intriguing to me, coming as it does on the heels of the introduction of a bill by Assemblyman Alexander Grannis (D-Manhattan) to ban smoking on the grounds of nearly all parks and beaches statewide, and the recent announcement that an estimated 1,000,000 cars a day traverse the island of Manhattan during the business week.
Grannis is clearly nothing more than a showboating bottom-feeder politico trying to give the impression that he actually cares about people or does something to earn his outrageously inflated public salary. As for the Bryant Park ban and other ongoing attempts to stifle smokers in this town, they raise some interesting questions. If public health is really the issue, why isn't the automobile question being addressed? I know a lot of people who smoke, but I don't know anyone who sucks on exhaust pipes. Pound for pound, automobile emissions are infinitely more toxic and carcinogenic than anything found in cigarettes. The bogus science behind the secondhand smoke fraud was debunked years ago, and yet the campaign continues.
Who's really behind all this? I wonder, is there any financial connection between the big pharmacuetical companies that manufacture smoking cessation aids like nicotine gum and patches and the well-funded antismoking movement?
The draconian antismoking regulations in San Francisco were enacted in the mid-80s. Surely by now there must be some kind of statistical information available regarding the impact of this legislation on respiratory illness. Let's see the evidence. Or is this simply an effort to demonize a private vice, a la opium and marijuana?
(6/1)
Andrey Slivka Alcohol Abuse
Nineteen-year-old presidential daughter Jenna Bush, against whom police in Austin are considering filing charges after she was nailed using someone else's ID to buy margaritas at a Tex-Mex restaurant on Tuesday night, has obviously done nothing wrong. It's silly, first of all, that a 19-year-old woman can't legally buy a drink in this country, and there's nothing inherently vicious about using a phony ID, the acquisition of which is almost an American rite of passage.
Jenna Bush might be out of control, but the evidence for that--besides this incident, she was arrested for holding a beer at a nightclub earlier this year--is so far inconclusive. Drinking at college, and contriving illegally to purchase booze, are things that normal kids just do. It would be weird if they didn't. As an anthropological note for our readers in the provinces, moreover, I include this information: in New York City, minors often don't even need phony identification cards. Waiters and bartenders, in many cases, serve them unquestioningly. Manhattan's bars are stuffed with boozing minors, and I remember drinking publicly in New York when I was as young as 15. No shame. Underage drinking is just another one of those elements of urban culture that enriches life here in New York, the country's all-around best place and safest big city.
Here's the thing, though. If Jenna gets popped for this infraction, then the next time she gets caught committing such a nasty crime against humanity as drinking a beer, she might wind up spending six months in jail under Texas' moronic three-strikes-and-you're-out laws. There will be a bitter sort of comedy in watching her father and other suburban Sun Belt right-wing politicians suddenly turn against the brutal sentencing measures they've always supported, and start arguing for leniency in the punishment of underage drug users. Like Jenna Bush.
A note: [The New York Times] buried the Jenna story on A20. The right-wing [New York Post,](http://www.nypost.com/) on the other hand, put Jenna on the cover. The great headline: "JENNA AND TONIC." The subhed: "Bush daughter in new booze incident as twin sister watched." That's some pretty amazing sensationalism: you would have thought the girls were having a drunken threesome with the bartender.
Another note: the Austin bartender who ratted to the police when Jenna hit him up is a sadistic prick, and should be fired. It wasn't enough to just tell the girl to take her phony ID away from him and leave him alone? He had to turn her in? What an asshole.
(5/31)
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William S. Repsher Rich White Folk: This Means You
There was a [truly bizarre Neil Strauss article] in The New York Times yesterday, about a new entertainment venue in the wilds of Tennessee called Skullbone Music Park, colorfully named after an adjacent small town famous for once hosting bare-knuckle brawls. But the "shocking" thing about Skullbone Music Park isn't its name, but the openly racist manner in which some fans are acting, hawking KKK materials from booths and sporting racist tattoos and the like--all in an atmosphere in which the Confederate flag is openly flown. Biker gangs, including the Hells Angels, have been known to party there. The bands mentioned in the article that have played there are the usual county festival suspects: Eddie Money, Nazareth, Charlie Daniels Band and Lynyrd Skynyrd.
The whole tone of the Strauss' piece insinuates that the park's owner, Allen Blankenship, has created a sort of wacky racist theme park where white supremacists can rock out to the has-beens of the nostalgia circuit in the wilds of Appalachia--while we sophisticated New York Times readers laugh at these backwoods yokels exhibiting all the character traits of the poor buffoons who got their asses kicked by Patrick Swayze in Road House. I say Blankenship is simply a man smart enough to know his audience--working-class white Southerners--who would be wise to downplay the more racist elements of his paying audience and simply do what he has been doing in terms of building a mid-level concert venue in the middle of nowhere.
Anyone who's spent time around bikers, or even the mythical trailer-park trash every New York Times reader secretly worships, knows a considerable amount of racist rhetoric is part of the terrain. Pete Agnew, the bassist for Nazareth, stated in the article that the show his band played at Skullbone "is the first gig we've played in the States where there aren't any black people." He's either lying or completely unaware of the audiences his band has drawn playing the small-town American bar and festival circuit over the past decade. Hell, I can recall going to see Elvis Costello and REM at Madison Square Garden and not seeing one black person there. That's just the way it is for a lot of white recording artists and their audiences. It seems that Skullbone's greatest nemesis may be religious locals who don't like the sort of riff-raff the park has attracted to the otherwise bucolic area.
As for the highly informed and erudite New York Times readers who happen upon this wonderfully quirky yet racially troubling article, I suggest they hitch up a trailer to the SUV and head down to Skullbone for the next REO Speedwagon show. It would probably be the most racially significant moment in their lives to realize that the toothless idiot with a swastika tattoo on his forearm isn't that much more frightening or annoying than the obese 48-year-old militant feminist next door with 10,000 cats.
(5/31)
Daria Vaisman A.O., What the Fuck?
I finally got around to reading [A.O. Scott's review] of Philip Roth's new novel, The Dying Animal, in last Sunday's New York Times Book Review, and felt a nagging sense of deja vu. Hadn't I read this before? Spencer Ackerman called me and confirmed my suspicion: "Martin Amis already wrote this lede!" he bellowed.
Yes he did, in May's Talk magazine, which has been on newsstands for at least a month:
"Philip Roth has recently been tampering with his introductory CV. Instead of simply listing his publications in sequence, he has corralled them into four different sections: Zuckerman books, Roth books, Kepesh books, and Other books... Later it strikes you that Roth has done away with chronological order."
And here's Scott's intro:
"At the front of his new novel, Philip Roth's 23 previous books are listed not in standard chronological order, but rather grouped by alter ego: 'Zuckerman Books' (including the recently completed trilogy of 'American Pastoral,' 'I Married a Communist' and 'The Human Stain'); 'Roth Books' ('The Facts,' 'Patrimony,' 'Deception' and 'Operation Shylock'); and miscellaneous 'Other Books' featuring one-shot fictional mouthpieces like Nathan Tarnopol ('My Life as a Man') and Alexander Portnoy."
Coincidence? Maybe, and if so, kudos to Scott. It's a hell of an observation--one you wouldn't expect from one reviewer, let alone two.
(5/31)
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Jim Knipfel Helping Make the Workplace Just a Little More Irksome
Bill Gates is in town today to plug the release of Microsoft's new Office XP system. I understand little about computers in general, beyond how to turn them on and type on them. I know little about this Bill Gates character or his company, and so have no strong opinions about him one way or another. One thing I do know, though, is irksomeness--and from [what I've read about the new program] ($239 for an upgrade, $479 for the whole sh'bang), the one solid thing it seems to promise is increased irksomeness.
Among the new bells and whistles included on Office XP (like things called "SharePoints," "task panes" and "smart tags") is new voice recognition software, which will allow users to open and close files, move things around and what have you, merely by voicing your intent.
Okay now. I think computer voice recognition technology is a fine idea. For people with disabilities, say, it's in fact quite a wonderful thing--or would be, if it worked very well. At this stage of the game it doesn't, really. But it's getting there. And who knows? Maybe Microsoft's new voice software works like a charm. I don't know.
But what I do know is this. For those companies that are willing to shell out the hefty per-machine fees, then struggle through the installation and debugging processes, their offices are going to face a sudden jump in noise levels, in muttering, in general annoyance and frustration. Every few seconds it'll be, "Oh! Oh! Open this! Close this! Go there!" From every desk and every cubicle. It'll sound like a goddamn lunatic asylum. And given the spotty performance of most voice recognition software to date--the mistakes it makes, the number of times you'll have to repeat yourself--there's a good chance a certain percentage of employees may end up in one.
As if cellphones in the office weren't bad enough. Well, I wish them well. Suckers.
(5/31)
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Jim Knipfel The Big Pay-for-Play Scandal!
So, the usually not-so-dimwitted Los Angeles Times broke [a big story yesterday] concerning the shocking, flagrant connection between payola and radio airplay for new songs. Record company promoters, according to the story, have arranged so-called "banks" for radio stations, allowing them to make "withdrawals" in cash and prizes (such as airplane tickets) in exchange for playing the labels' records.
In response to various incriminating papers uncovered by the Times, some fellow from Fairness & Accuracy in Reporting fumed indignantly, "What you have here is a smoking gun. This document confirms suspicions that critics have long had about potential tit-for-tat arrangements between independent promoters and radio stations."
And now there are threats of a government investigation that will "blow this whole industry wide open."
Radio stations being paid by record companies to play a certain song? I don't fucking believe that! Why, I thought that all stopped after Alan Freed got busted for doing it in the 50s!
Right. Radio stations are going to play the latest single from some grown-in-a-petri-dish boy band because they really really like the song, or because they sense the song is one for the ages, and thus deserves to get played.
Which, of course, explains the popularity--at least for a while there--of Bobby Goldsboro and Terry Jacks.
Well, here's a little fact of life (a couple of them, actually) concerning the way things work:
Not only can't you get played on the radio without paying someone, but you can't even get shelved in a Tower Records store without paying someone. And you ain't going to end up on the front tables at Barnes & Noble unless you pay someone. You ain't gonna be part of Oprah's Book Club unless you pay someone. Your sugary breakfast cereal ain't gonna get that child's-eye-level shelf space unless you pay someone. Your new DVD ain't gonna be featured on the front page of Amazon.com unless you pay someone. Your movie or tv show ain't gonna be profiled on Entertainment Tonight unless you pay someone.
(I have my suspicions about the Nobel Prize committee, too--but that's another story.)
The list goes on. Think of any major retailer. All the products they carry and where those products are placed in their stores is based entirely upon someone getting paid by the manufacturer to put them there. I thought this was common knowledge. (Of course, if it's not, I guess those crackerjack reporters at the L.A. Times are going to be busy for a while.)
Now, I'm not saying this is a right and good thing. Quite the opposite. In fact, I think it's as good an explanation as any as to why American culture has become such a vapid sinkhole of crap. But that's the way it is.
(5/30)
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William S. Repsher They Shoot DJs, Don't They?
[WFMU] DJ Glen Jones has officially broken the world's record for Longest Radio Program. He finished his marathon at 1 p.m. yesterday, after 100 hours and 40 seconds on the air.
It's somehow fitting that Jones did this over a Memorial Day weekend awash in a media blitz of Pearl Harbor nostalgia spurred by the new movie of the same name. His stunt brings back memories of marathon dance contests and college coeds jamming themselves into phone booths and sports cars. The strange thing is, I never did these things! I have no memories of them. Few people do, and the ones who do most likely aren't listening to Jones doing his thing with great trashy music on a community radio station.
But hats off to Jones, who, in accordance with the rules set forth by the Guinness people, wasn't allowed to pull the old DJ trick of throwing on album sides, or resorting to lengthy, bongload classics like "Stairway to Heaven" or anything by Yes, to increase downtime. Actually, this strange ruling may have saved him, as having to hit the "play" button on a different CD player every few minutes most likely kept him more alert than if he'd been allowed to play side two of Abbey Road followed by Rush's 2112.
In these days of passing fads and impermanence, Jones's feat brings to mind the American gumption and willpower our forefathers must have reached way down for when those damn Japs were bombing the hell out of us for no good reason. Or something like that--forgive me for anticipating our built-in cultural bullshit artists in their fawning editorials.
But, in seriousness, thanks to Glen Jones for tapping into that slightly off-kilter, shady area of the American psyche, where we miss feelings we never had and mourn a past we never really lived. Brian Wilson made a mint out of it with surfing, and now Jones has done the same for the lonely plight of the all-night DJ.
(5/30)
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Russ Smith Update: Bush Isn't Running Against Davis
Not surprisingly, [The New York Times took a dim view today] of the summit between President Bush and California Gov. Gray Davis. One couldn't be expected to believe the Times would endorse Bush's entirely sensible refusal to impose price caps on electricity in California: the left-wing daily has rarely come across a governmental regulation that it didn't support. So, policy-wise, it was business as usual.
But the Times' spin on the precarious politics of the "chilly encounter" was almost laughable (that is, if you sedated yourself before reading the paper). The editorialist writes: "President Bush and Gov. Gray Davis, who are deeply at odds on California's energy problems, have one thing in common--plunging approval ratings among California's aggrieved voters. Yesterday's meeting between the two did little to bridge the gap on energy and may have done even less to improve their political fortunes... For Mr. Davis, the issue is partly political. He is up for re-election next year and still has designs on the Democratic presidential nomination."
Davis' motivations are "partly political"? Please. At this point, Bob Torricelli has a better shot at the 2004 Democratic nomination. Davis is merely trying to hold onto his job. The [Times' "news" article] about yesterday's events, written by Todd S. Purdum and David E. Sanger, was typically misleading about next year's California gubernatorial contest. It was noted that Los Angeles Mayor Richard Riordan, a Republican, has been encouraged by Bush to challenge Davis; the fact that Riordan is polling even with the incumbent apparently wasn't thought to be a germane detail.
Note that the Times is prematurely attacking Bush, on a daily basis, in preparation for the presidential campaign that's three years away. It's obvious that Davis is the official with more pressing political liabilities. Bush may be drummed out of office in November 2004, for any number of reasons, but it's doubtful that California's current energy difficulties will be the deciding factor. Davis, however, who admittedly inherited a bad hybrid of a regulation scheme from Pete Wilson, was too busy planning an inaugural address to pay sufficient attention to his state's economic woes. That's why he's hysterical now.
Bush, who'd be smart to ignore the myopia of the media's reaction to Jim Jeffords' defection from the Republican Party--especially since control of the Senate could change hands once or twice more before the end of the year--has time enough to prepare for his own reelection campaign.
(5/30)
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Spike Vrusho Miceli to Connie Mack: Lose the Stupid Hat
Shea Stadium loge a few seasons ago, the San Diego Padres in town. Scant crowd, Mets up by three, a midsummer National League blur, steam heat. Nervy guy sits next to me--right beside me--in the late innings. Strange. Before long, he felt obligated to ask if I'd ever sat out in left. I said I had not. He said he was just a curious marketing guy. Works regional "venues" for big corporations. In charge of monitoring the Pepsi Picnic Area, that collection of horizontal boards beyond the leftfield wall at Shea, where occasional company picnics or group outings gather in cliquish circles, spill ketchup on their casual Friday garb and try to spell Agbayani. On many nights, you bring a Pepsi can or bottle, you get in free to sit out there and wait for Mike Piazza to hit one over your head and all the way to the U-Haul sign a couple thousand feet away from home plate. There is no truth to the rumor that Charlie Sheen showed up one night with 1500 Pepsi empties in an effort to secure the entire area so he could catch a home-run ball, as he tried to do one night with a blank check at Anaheim Stadium.
So this marketing guy says he's a longtime pal with the Padres reliever who's on the hill--Dan Miceli of Newark, NJ. Miceli's a well-traveled and underwhelming former closer/current setup man--a ham-and-egger, if you will--who is now doubling as the self-appointed unofficial shop steward and MLB managerial quality control expert. His comments to the papers in Miami--bashing Marlins skipper John Boles for his "stupid moves"--preceded Boles' second firing by the club, which went down this past Memorial Day afternoon in Pittsburgh. Tony Perez took over as interim manager, and Miceli absorbed his fifth loss of the year (his third in four days, making him 0-5) as the Buccos scored seven runs in the eighth.
According to Miceli's precepts of managerial qualifications, the fact that Hall of Famer Perez has "played the game" makes him okay for running a team. Book him, Dan-O.
Pepsi marketing guy had noticed my Pirates hat and laughed. Not an unusual response at Shea, but his next comment broke my 50-yard gaze with a red flag. "My buddy kicked your manager's ass." Wha? He then relates an unreported incident in which Miceli, frustrated by his apparent bullpen misuse during his 1996 season with Pittsburgh, violently pinned manager Jim Leyland to a cinderblock wall in the bowels of Three Rivers Stadium. All Leyland had done was lead the Bucs to three straight division titles to open the 90s. In '97, Leyland would lead Miceli's current South Florida teal brigade to a store-bought, nicotine-soaked World Series title. Apparently, even Leyland was not measuring up to Miceli's definition of a good baseball manager.
Here's a surprise--shortly after pulling the wrestling move on Leyland, Miceli's type-A clubhouse "personality" ass was promptly traded--to Detroit for a rag arm hurler and motocross nut named Clint Sodowsky.
The Pepsi marketing guy is grinning and shaking his head in that contemplative redneck style, right there in the civilized section of the Shea loge. "Pretty cool, huh?" I have no response. "Miceli's one bad-ass dude. He slammed Leyland good," he continues.
If only RC Cola had stuck around at Shea.
(5/30)
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Jim Knipfel Bad Party Favors
Last night, a pipe bomb went off in a Brooklyn Heights apartment building, blowing a hole in a basement wall, but injuring only the man who apparently built the device, 65-year-old Steve Alster. Alster was a guest at a party for a woman who, earlier that day, had graduated from the police academy.
According to [the Post story], "friends thought the bags he was carrying were a present." Or, as NY1 put it, "A man has been charged...after a pipe bomb he was carrying to a party...exploded."
"A pipe bomb he was carrying to a party"?
Why does that seem funny? I mean, I've been to some parties in my day, no denying that--but still. Or who knows? Maybe it was a present. Do we know if this new academy grad was training for the bomb squad? Maybe Mr. Alster just wanted to give her a pop quiz. Or, as a coworker put it this morning, "Maybe it's like 'Make Your Own Fireworks at Home and Save!' I bet he just wanted to liven up the party up a little."
Stranger still was the reaction of the building's neighbors and residents, who seemed somehow...disappointed. The owner of a nearby restaurant said, "I heard a single thud. It didn't really sound like anything exploding. I didn't hear any vibration or shock waves... Definitely it wasn't a huge 'boom' sound."
A building resident described it as sounding, as per usual, like "a big loud firecracker." Still, though, he didn't seem all that upset about it.
(On the bright side, at least nobody said, "It was just like that Pearl Harbor movie!")
There's something weird going on here. Alster was clearly an expected guest at the party. He knew the new graduate. And he was dressed--according to police reports--in Army fatigues. Add those things together with that shoddy pipe bomb, and you've got yourself quite a little story, should anyone bother to look into it.
I'll bet you a dollar no one does.
(5/30)
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Andrey Slivka Masses in Transit
A reader letter in today's New York Times in response to [Paul Krugman's 5/23 column] that arrogantly equated anti-sprawl environmentalism with anti-immigrant hatred is worth quoting from. I'm for immigration, but "immigration" can mean various things. It can mean allowing into the country only political refugees from problem spots like Sudan or, in my family's case, Ukraine. It can mean ensuring that immigration levels remain consistent with the maintenance of acceptable rates of population growth. Or it can mean--as corporate liberals and free-market conservatives seem to want it to mean--actively promoting an immigration-driven population explosion, in accordance with the desires of big business. In other words, sane human beings can reasonably disagree about how best to define "immigration" in pursuance of America's interests.
Anyway, here's the last paragraph of the letter in response to Krugman, from Dan Stein of Washington's Federation for American Immigration Reform: "Like a lot of others, Mr. Krugman apparently believes that one driving principle in immigration policy should be nostalgia. He also says immigrants are the custodians of the American dream. These are what he terms 'rational arguments,' while those who connect the dots from mass immigration and rapid population growth to urban sprawl he considers emotional and irrational."
(5/30)
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Russ Smith In Hillary We Trust
Considering that God is afforded the same respect by Democrats these days as, say, John Rocker or Karl Rove, it's shocking that Sens. Hillary Clinton and Chuck Schumer, not to mention Rep. Charlie Rangel, haven't upbraided the New York Yankees for the fine print on their home-game tickets. Under the "Rain check notice" the following is written: "In the event a legal game, as defined by Major League Baseball, is not played due to weather, an act of God, or any other reason, this rain check can be exchanged for the same price seat for either, (1) the rescheduled game, if any, or (2) any New York Yankees' home game within 12 months of the originally scheduled game, subject to availability."
No doubt Clinton, the lifelong Yanks' fan, will soon weigh in on the subject of baseball's inevitable gay Jackie Robinson--a benign enough position. But once that milestone is achieved, will God be banned from the bleachers?
(5/30)
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Jim Knipfel Subcontinent of Dr. Moreau
Those poor, bored, jealous bastards in Assam!
Just as New Delhi is starting to calm down, its residents finally accepting the fact that the Monkey Man was a hoax (or maybe they were just tired from all that running and screaming), another Indian province has chosen another animal, and come up with its own monster to panic about.
They're calling him ["the Bear Man,"] and in the past few days he's attacked more than 20 people. Though the specifics of these "attacks" remain vague, what residents will say is that the Bear Man is invisible, that he can pass through closed doors, he only comes out at night--and will flee whenever he's struck by a beam of light.
In response, according to one story, "Panic-stricken villagers have performed rituals to banish the "evil spirit" and some have formed vigilante groups."
While the Reuters account says that the police are stepping up patrols and keeping all-night vigils, a local Indian paper insists the police are dismissing the stories as simply another case of mass hysteria. Deputy Commissioner Kalyan Chakravarty was quoted as saying, "Such stories always create sensation among the villagers, who easily give in to superstition and ghost stories."
So why is this story getting so much coverage in the American press? Sadly, much of it seems to be the result of the Mondo Cane mentality, which formed the basis of dozens of grindhouse documentaries in the 70s--a case of "look at these crazy savages and their wacky ways! They'll believe anything!"
At first, admittedly, I thought the Monkey Man stories were funny, too--but as they rolled on, and as American journalists and commentators latched onto them, everything that came out about the Monkey Man suddenly was steeped in the same rancid air of smug superiority that arises whenever Americans talk about Third World countries.
Fact of the matter is, I'm more than a little jealous of those villagers in New Delhi and Assam. Things get hot and slow and boring, your life could probably be a hell of a lot better, what do you do? Create a monster, believe with all your heart that it exists, then go absolutely apeshit about it for a couple weeks. Now that's free entertainment!
Nobody seems to remember that the exact same thing happened, right here in America, in 1938, with a little help from Orson Welles. And on a smaller scale, remember the Mothman? The Grinning Man of Elizabeth, NJ? The Bush Beast in Northern California? Truth be told, I think a little widespread monster panic in this country might well do us some good.
(5/29)
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Andrey Slivka Big Gay A.L.
Like any other baseball fan I've got my suspicions about who the unnamed party could be (and actually, to extend the boundaries of speculation, I've always suspected that Don Zimmer's a big old queer). But in the wake of [Out ][editor Brendan Lemon's assertion], in his magazine's May issue, that for a year and a half he's been "having an affair with a pro baseball player from a major-league East Coast franchise," I'm convinced of this: when some big-leaguer does finally emerge from the closet to do the necessary work of rendering