A podcast about books, art & life — not necessarily in that order
Pat Sajak spells it out:
Is it just possible that there are those who are reluctant to criticize an act of terror [the murder of Theo Van Gogh] because that might somehow align them with President Bush, who stubbornly clings to the notion that these are evil people who need to be defeated? Could the level of hatred for this President be so great that some people are against anything he is for, and for anything he is against?
Here’s an invite to any of my NY/NJ-based readers: Ari Scott, a delightful singer-songwriter (and former official pre-VM girlfriend), is releasing her new EP I Can Open My Eyes at The Bitter End (147 Bleeker St., NYC) tomorrow night (Tues., Nov. 30) at 9:30pm! Join me, the official VM girlfriend, and a bunch of our friends at the show!
Also, buy Ari’s first record, I Was Only Just A Chorus Girl. It’s a blast.
Relatively uneventful Thanksgiving weekend. The official VM girlfriend cooked a fantastic meal for me, the official VM Mom and my college buddy Mark. There was duck, cornbread/chicken dressing, fig/zinfandel sauce, butternut squash soup, and a sweet potato pie to die for. And there were plenty of leftovers, as expected.
The weekend/vacation was punctuated by a trip to suburban Philadelphia for my 15-year high school reunion (small turnout, and I left my digital camera at a friend’s house, so no pix).
My new assistant just started today, so I’m trying to turn my pontificate-o-meter down. It’s hard work, but I’ll figure out how to shut up someday.
Timothy Garton Ash–who wrote a pretty neat book about the East German surveillance file that was kept on him–has a great piece in the Guardian about the voter revolution in the Ukraine:
Yet until Tuesday, many west Europeans probably did not even know that there was a presidential election going on in Ukraine. We were all focused on that other crucial presidential election, in the US. And, shamingly, Americans probably have done more to support the democratic opposition in Ukraine, and to shine a spotlight on electoral malpractices, than west Europeans have. Poles, Czechs and Slovaks have been more actively engaged, understanding how much is at stake.
What’s at stake is not just the future of Ukraine: whether it turns to Europe, the west and liberal democracy, or back to authoritarianism and Putin’s Russia. It’s also the future of Russia itself, and therewith of the whole of Eurasia. A Russia that wins back Ukraine, as well as Belarus, will again be an imperial Russia, as Putin wishes. A Russia that sees even Ukraine moving towards Europe and the west, has a chance of itself becoming, with time, a more normal, liberal, democratic nation-state. But at the moment, under Putin, Russia is launched on a different, worse trajectory, and western leaders have been united in their pusillanimity towards it. We have all been appeasers there.
Take a few minutes and give it a read.
To quote my own NBA preview:
The Pacers believe they were one knee-tweak to Jermaine O’Neal away from getting to the Finals last year, which avoids the reality that Ron Artest is a freaking maniac whom David Stern would’ve given his left arm to keep out of the NBA’s biggest stage.
And [Artest is] the #2 guy on this squad, although he contends that he’s the MVP of the league. Great talent, no head: the Jeff George of the NBA . . . I still don’t trust [the Pacers] under real pressure, because I think Artest will explode, and O’Neal’s too in love with his jumper (and a little too fragile).
So I was partly wrong. Jermaine O’Neal might not face much wear-and-tear this season, since he’s suspended for 25 games.
It was wrong of the fans to throw stuff at the Pacers. It was wrong of Artest to race up into the stands. It was wrong of Ben Wallace to keep trying to incite Artest by throwing a towel at him.
But it was really bullshit of Artest to lie back on the scorers table, put his feet up, cradle his head, and preen for the opposing crowd, after he and Wallace were separated. That must’ve burned his general manager’s ass (some guy named Bird) to no end, to see his player dump that much disrespect on the game.
I agree with the season-long suspension that Artest’s been handed. Given his history of wig-outs, he needs some massive penalty to show him that it’s time to start taking those meds.
Oh, and nice job selecting Dennis Rodman’s number for your jersey this season, dick.
A year ago today, I embarked on a 15-day trip to New Zealand (click over to the 11/03 and 12/03 archives for the wacky details). At the time, I was struggling pretty badly with a broken heart. During my two weeks on the other side of the planet, I discovered how the memory of joy and love can make a person whole. Before then, I’d always been the type to fixate on the past, on absent loves and blown chances. But 32 years of looking back was giving me a crick in my neck.
So, for two weeks, I got to rebuild love without having to center it on another person. It helped that I was in a different world, doing crazy-ass things — jetboating through a river canyon, helicoptering onto a glacier, table-dancing to AC/DC’s Thunderstruck, taking The Leap off a 160-foot platform with a rubber band attached to my chest, drinking Flatliners with Australians — that I never would’ve done in my familiar environment. Since then, just about every day’s been a wonder, a constant miracle.
After re-finding love in myself, I found it in someone else.
I’ve made great friends (but seem to have lost some others).
I’ve seen more of the country and the world than I expected to in the year since that trip: Las Vegas, Charleston, Orlando, Annapolis, Boston, the San Francisco-San Diego drive, Budapest, Stockholm, Copenhagen, London, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and numerous trips to NYC, with Brussels and Amsterdam coming up next month. Sometimes the travel wears me down, but I’ll take it over sitting at home week after week.
Sorry to sound all boring and unsnarky. The anniversary of the trip (which was really the first trip I ever took that didn’t involve family, friends, or work) got me thinking about all that joy, so I figured I’d share it a little.
Drink a Flatliner for me this weekend.
On second thought, don’t; you’ll just curse my name for the rest of the week.
I think this whole blackmail plot about Gary Sheffield’s wife’s sex-tape with R. Kelly is made up. I mean, there’s no way the tape is real. Think about it: the tape was supposedly made 10 years ago, but Gary’s wife would’ve been older than 15 back then. QED.
I’m not fat, I’m just big skeletoned!
How could you not read an article that includes the line: “Davis still believes in innovation. As one example, the company recently started making a folding coffin bed”?
Coffins for fat people. From a company called Goliath Casket. I can’t make this stuff up.
Tom’s Rhinoplasty
I have a new favorite site.