The season finale is on in a couple of hours, and I have a fistful of notes from last week's episode as yet unpublished:
First off, is it just me, or was that the quickest resolution to a problem that begins: "I killed someone."
Did anyone else who watched the show think, OMG, Lisa Loeb has clearly not yet gotten a gig to dish in one of those VH1 Countdown shows? It's pretty sad when you're the opening act to a non-existent rock ensemble.
To stay on the subject of music, I learned that there is an absolutely needless cover of Cities in Dust making the rounds.
So, I think it became apparent, based upon Chuck's flippancy and Dan's self-centered dramatics, that girls mature more quickly than boyz. I've been told that before, but hadn't had concrete proof until this past week.
The corollary to that is that crying can get you anywhere with a boy. OMFG, did Georgina not have Dan wrapped around her little pinky finger by the end of the show!?!
Much of the drama could have been avoided if it hadn't been for the now apparent Van der Woodsen secretive nature. These ladies (and Eric) seem congenitally incapable of just sayin' what's up.
I have to admit to having some concerns about the naive turn that Penn Badgely's character has taken in the last couple of weeks. If you've got a character coming from the wrong side of the tracks, he's usually supposed to be a canny kid who will only sell out his values from necessity and not out of kindness. The kid from the wrong side of the tracks is supposed to be a tough, who can detect phoniness. And indeed, second-generation rocker Dan began his trail through the glitzy world of the Upper East Side and into Serena's heart by talking truth to the smart set. However, perhaps to contrast his grit with Vanessa's authenticity, he has become increasingly the ingenu, beseiged by a world that is beyond him. The final kiss with Georgina seemed, in this context, utterly gratuitous, and strayed from the fundamental essence of Dan... Whatever the case, if I'm Serena, I ain't takin' him back. Let him wait until he gets to Dartmouth for his next serious girlfriend.
Anyway, I think this weakness oddly enough reinforces the fundamental nature and, thus, the success of the show, that it is driven by an essentialist understanding of human nature and character rather than an existential one. The characters are in a constant struggle to maintain their identity, and find themselves constantly re-asserting themselves in an effort to achieve an equilibrium within their actions.
I must admit though to a strange, pimentoed nostalgia upon watching the past few episodes. There were times where the dialogue among Rufus and his brood came very close... but never close enough to replicating the brilliant repartee of Rory and Lorelai... and I thought, "The Gilmore Girls, now that was a show!"
Ah, I see it's time to get the popcorn a poppin' for the big finale! BRB...
Until then, I leave you with the exciting behind-the-scenes revelation of the week.
Anonymous... and anyone else who dares to use my comment section to accuse Bryan Adams of being a "Stupid Nerd!"
I don't mind repeating myself, but my readers might mind me repeating myself. Still, by provoking me on the subject of Maltese-Canadian Superstar Bryan Adams, you force me to repost the most utterly manly rock 'n' roll video ever made:
Anyone who plays with a knife and an apple while contemplating a sweet dame, just minutes before their eyes meet suggestively pretty much has staked out his claim on Planet Virile for eternity!
To momentarily join this quibble over definition, I would suggest that by definition, nerd does not actually imply intelligence... rather that a nerd is by definition, stupid, otherwise he or she would not have allowed him or herself to be boxed into the image of a nerd. I mean, isn't the whole point of Real Genius, the definitive work on this subject, that real geniuses don't act like nerds?
Further, the essence of being a nerd is narrow-minded devotion to studies and "book smarts" while in high school, thus describing much more a work ethic (vorwonklichheit) rather than natural talent or ability. This is harder to find nowadays, perhaps because of the excess pressure on kids to become "well-rounded" as part of the college admissions sweepstakes. In other words, yesterday's nerds are now today's humane society helper, food bank manager and liaison to the Wilmington-Huangzhou sister-city project.
Of course, since Somin and Taylor (I got more nauseous wading through Taylor's blog than I did when I saw the most recent Taco Bell commercial) could never quite extract their noses out of their yellowed copies of Atlas Shrugged while in high school, they appear to have missed out on the new philosophical wave that has transformed how we see our students today. It is sad, in fact, that they now find themselves having to revisit their traumatic experiences of high school in order to retroactively define an underclass that they have somehow managed to rise above today. In that sense, to still be talking about "jocks" and "nerds" reveals a certain atrophy, common among Objectivists, of all sense of social aptitude and whatever mysterious gland -- as Bill Richardson would say, "I'm not a scientist!" -- that allows the teenager to mature into adulthood.
Certainly, Multiple Intelligences theory is anathema to the ludicrous disciples of Rand, but, having taught high schoolers, it is a refreshing approach to understanding your students. Obviously, not everyone could be very bright, but almost without fail, those students who obtained the best grades were also popular and talented and often athletically capable. Those students who didn't do all that great were often wildly entertaining conversationalists, talented musicians or phenomenal athletes. While I was not much hung up on my disastrous high school years before teaching, the experience itself has reconciled me, at least in spirit, with many of the folks who I considered dreadful enemies and poseurs at the time.
The high school Objectivist attitude, however, as well as Murray and Co's crusade against Multiple Intelligences theory is founded on the belief that only one indicator of ability is valid, and that consists of some alchemic formula that combines SAT scores with GPA (Let's not enter the IQ debate here). Not only that, but also -- and this is the key to why Rand's disciples are so repugnant -- when this formula results in an equivalence among two people, the person for whom this score is the only thing going for him or her, gets the nod as the true genius, because it is by suffering persecution and marginalization that one truly demonstrates the promise of one's future achievement. The concept of "Nerd" which Somin and Taylor embrace is only valid, after all, as a revenge fantasy against people who have a lot more going for them. Hence, the rich asshole as the pinnacle of success in the "Stupid Nerd" world view.
Delving back into history, however, our friend John Galt is but an imperfect version of the Objectivist Uber-mensch. If Ayn Rand was so deeply in love with Mickey Spillaine it is because she realized, in the end, that Mike Hammer was the ultimate Ayn Rand hero. Which bodes ill for the "Nerds" of this world, because if Mike Hammer sees some sallow high court clerk in spats hanging on to a couple of extra bucks that he could've tipped Thelma at the breakfast buffet at Reeves, he's gonna pistol whip that little worm back into the '50s.
Ilya Somin I mean, come on... Anybody can be the object of constant ridicule in high school, but it takes a certain degree of ineptitude to be a loser in college. Especially a college full of former high school "nerds"! I mean sure, I got my share of chocolate swirlies in college -- but that's just the natural order of things when you're sharing a bathroom with the rugby team. This kid, though -- its like he had to make up "over 200 footnotes" just to keep him company in his lair. And the fact that he has clearly attained a degree of success in his chosen career path but still needs to fabricate "Stupid Nerds" to feel better about himself is pathetic. If anyone out there knows Ilya now, please let me know if he still recites the list of his test scores and all the colleges, grad schools, etcetera that have admitted him upon your first meeting. Thanx!
Trust Fund Scumbags and... the feelings of inadequacy generated by more successful bloggers reminding me how much younger they are... I sometimes have the impression that there was a kind of massive savviness shift that came about in the five years after I left college, for which the propagation of the Internet is largely responsible. Whatever it is, I notice that there's a huge network of professional bloggers all in their mid-twenties who seem to just naturally be able to handle the vast amount of information made available by the Web, and who, of course, generally made the decision to take low-paying journalism jobs coming out of college to begin with. My first regular access to the Internet began in 2000, and I sometimes wonder about the difference in attitude shaped by regular use of the Web in high school and in college. If one values being read above all else, and, suddenly, the mode of access to readership radically changes only after one's most formative years, the result and required adaptation can overwhelm at times. In light of this, one of the wonderful aspects of teaching high school is the ability to relive one's past bad decisions through one's students, and to detect in their lives -- and through one's investment in their development -- the great promise that the future holds.
To return to the bloggers themselves, though, this generation gap finally explains to me why there appears to be a consensus in the wonk community that Jay-Z is the greatest rapper of all time.
Lebron James It has dawned on me over the course of the NBA Playoffs that Lebron James has become unbearable. First there was the whole "I'm Jay-Z, Deshawn's Soulja Boy" flap. Then there's the gripes about every foul, and the expectation that he should be getting a Jordan call every time the ball leaves his hands. Then, there's his ridiculous rip-off of KG's awesome chalk ritual at the start of every game to show that he's just another pumped superstar. Not to mention, of course, his noxious disrespect for his mother.
For one, this suggests that Lebron takes himself waaaaaaaaaaaay too seriously. (I'm sorry, but when you're blessed with Gilbert and his wackiness, Lebron's attitude just seems totally out of place.) But the greater problem I have, is that it seems that Lebron is the first NBA superstar with no authentic bone in his body.
You will tell me, "Wait a minute, that was Kobe "bruised ribs" Bryant!" But, the thing is, Kobe at least is transparent in his attempt to model his game entirely upon Jordan's.
Lebron, just seems to have taken every solemn, Waltonesque cliche about "what makes an NBA superstar" and applied it to himself in the third person. I think the moment when I realized this was when, after dishing to Deltone "Does my face have a third dimension?" West for the game winning three in Game 4 against the Wizards, Lebron went on in his post-game interview to talk about (to paraphrase) "This is really Delonte's moment. He should have a lot of confidence that I trusted him to make the shot." There was, in his bizarre elaboration on how Delonte should feel great that Lebron trusts him, the element of Lebron writing the media's story for it. It was as if, not sure whether the media would pick up on the specific, "Lebron makes his teammates better storyline" he felt the need to underscore the point.
In any case, this moment has stuck with me and now defines my view of Lebron.
Now, ordinarily, I like to focus my advice on those QJs -- Quirky Jerky guys like me -- who just love staying single... like NO relations with the ladies. We're complicated enough as it is, why make them even more complicated, right?
But then, last week, I was making my usual rounds of the advice columns -- just a little research, capiche? -- and I saw this item from Tell Me About It about having the "Numbers Conversation" in your couple:
My boyfriend wanted to have the Numbers Conversation. I already know what you think about this generally. I was perfectly comfortable trading our numbers, but he has pushed the issue further, wanting to know more about the specific circumstances of each person on the list.
Some key points Carolyn makes:
But I know objectification when I see it. Your boyfriend is more concerned about mining your sexual details than he is about you as a whole. Otherwise he wouldn't be digging for such private, useless dirt.
He wouldn't be pushing, either; he'd not only respect your resistance, but you'd also resist less. In fact, if you and he had a trusting relationship, you'd both be giving up half of this stuff on your own in the course of routine conversation.
Now, maybe this is just "sexual bean-counting" for Ms. Carolyn "I-get-paid-to-do-this" Hax, but guys all know how important it is to establish where your ladyfriend falls on the Madonna-Whore continuum. Important life decisions -- and this is now backed up by research -- such as how long to plan on being with this lady, whether she can be the mother of your children, how much she should tolerate your infidelities, all hinge upon this knowledge.
Further, Ms. Carolyn "my-sage-advice-grows-like-sage-in-Provence" Hax fails to allow for what Supreme Court Justice Anthony Kennedy calls the "mystery of human life" -- in essence, "Different Strokes for Different Folks." In other words, what may seem like controlling and abusive behavior to some, may just be another's idea of kinky role play...
So, in a few words, then, I guess what I'm saying is that I pity this guy more than I fear him. Why? Well, he is obviously lacking the sound relationship vice of Yours Truly.
There are many ways to play the Numbers Game without coming across as pushy or controlling. By following my simple advice, you'll find the key to making the Numbers Game fun for both of you. Essentially, what we have here is a classic case of the famous "I want you to want to wash the dishes!" so aptly relayed in the Anniston-Vaughn vehicle, The Break-Up. Except, here we can rephrase the problem as being, "I want you to want to divulge seamy details of your past sexual history!"
Well, if you follow my advice, my friend, she will.
The first thing to keep in mind is that "Context is key." The problem we educators face is that even our brightest students will lack enthusiasm for learning if lesson plans and information is presented without context. Your challenge is to make the conversation meaningful by situating it in a meaningful context for your lady.
How often does she have to tell you "Pick up your dirty socks, asshole!" How many times have you avoided the conversation about "where we're going" merely because she told you "We need to have a talk."
Now, what if we reframed these incidents? For example, what if the moment you dropped your sock on the floor, she whupped your ass, and then said, "Pick up your dirty sock, asshole!" You'd only have to have that conversation once, am I right? It works with house pets; it works with you, too.
And what if, driving along the Interstate to Gary, you saw a six-car pileup blocking traffic heading up to Cicero and as the ambulance sirens wailed, she uttered, ruefully, "Sometimes I feel that's what our relationship is like." Wouldn't you want to have that talk, then?
Well, getting the goods on your mate's past paramours follows pretty much the same rules.
Queue up 1 or 2 good movies from Netflix, maybe with JeremyIrons, or one of those arty PeterGreenaway flicks. Every time you see something that either titillates or would provoke a surge of uncontrollable jealousy, say something like, "Wow, did you ever do that with Claude?" Caught up in a moment of fine cinema, misty-eyed by nostalgia for Claude, it is unlikely that she would be able to resist your interrogation.
Use a moment of intimacy to admit to something you've never done: "Wow, when I was with Claudine, we would always [insert lewd behavior that you would castigate in your mate here]." If she becomes appalled, then you know you have a keeper. If, however, this spurs her to up the ante with an admission of your own, then at least you have confirmed your worst doubts.
3. The word problem approach:
On a grocery run with your lady, she asks you to pick up some eggs. You say, "How many?" When she says, "Get a dozen", you can take the lead with words to the effect of "Oh, is that more or less than the men you slept with before meeting me?" If she says "Less", you can start accidentally dropping eggs on the ground until you finally arrive at the right number. If she says "More", Hell, buddy, you better just slam that whole egg carton on the ground and turn tail!
4. Corollary to the word problem approach:
You can also find out important details about your mate's past relations through eggs, by asking if she would like you to get "Brown" or "White" eggs, "Cage free", "Organic", "Omega-3 added" "Plastic" or "Pulp" cartons, etcetera.
The same smooth maneuvers can be practiced with fruit and pretty much anything else in the grocery store... just like in math class!
This final sample scenario follows from the trip to the grocery store. While many men might wrong-headedly think that the boudoir or the breakfast bar are the only places where one can discuss such matters, staging a scene in public can be a surprisingly effective way to get your lady talking the truth to you. Believe me, not 2 minutes into having you scream "I have a right to know what you did with Claude!" while standing in line for Chardonnay during the intermission of Il Barbiere di Siviglia, and you'll be getting confessions out of her like a Cathar from Carcassonne. Hint: This approach increases in effectiveness in proportion to your ability to recruit nearby onlookers to your cause. Remember, there's strength in numbers.
A few final words of advice: Rember, despite the proven effectiveness of all of the above approaches, technique without feeling is like swimming without water. You'll never get anywhere without these simple words: "I only want to know because I love you." On the other hand, as much as it honors you and behooves you to remind her of the feelings from which your inquiry springs, never, NEVER, NEVER use the following words when playing the Numbers Game: "If you loved me, you would tell me." Because, in the end, she doesn't love you. How could she, you jerk?
And that is why the wisest among us choose to remain Quirky Jerky.
Note about the video: Our opinion is that the use of this song was fundamental to the message of the post. Unfortunately, the video is crap and makes no sense, but it's the only one I could find on YouTube. One day, I'll learn how to put together my own videos, at which point I will replace the above with a less disturbing montage.
Just found out upon seeing the reprinting that they've adapted Brick Lane into a movie!!!! Still, it's beyond me how it could take over six months for them to release it in the US...
Anyway, it's nice to see good writers get success.
You Don't Mess with the Zohan is a morally repugnant movie. I have always wondered how Jewish teens and tweens got away with wearing militaristic Zionist T-shirts to school. It seemed, growing up in American Jewry that part of our socialization passed through a ritual worship of the IDF and Mossad. The below is a copy of a T-shirt print from my sister's high school wardrobe.
This perception of a technically superior Israeli military and intelligence apparatus that can teach us Americans how to wipe out terrorism once and for all has only gained greater force in the aftermath of September 11th. This is despite many bungled and damaging covert operations over the last ten years and increasing reports of sinking troop morale.
Spielberg's Munich most recently broached the problem of the persisting mythos of the Israeli superspy, albeit in an awful, heavy-handed movie, whose only saving grace -- that it was filmed in beautiful Malta -- was undermined by the more appalling fact that Spielberg apparently forgot that there were Jewishactors in Hollywood who could have filled some of those roles.
So, it is all the more surprising that Adam Sandler would choose to coast in for his latest effort on this outdated tall tale of Israeli counter-terrorist perfection in the cuddly story of a former Mossad agent who retires to New York, only to find his services needed in the dismantlement of a home-grown terrorist threat led by some Arab taxi driver (presumption of plot based on trailer) and his pals. It is more sad though than surprising that we have come to simply accept in our culture that Zionist militarism is an invariable positive, and that any Arab national sentiment is suspect and, at best, a potential negative.
So, in addition to calling for a Zohan boycott, I would also like to propose the following idea for an Adam Sandler movie (Any resemblances to Happy Gilmore or Waterboy are purely coincidental) to Hollywood: Don't Tread on Ayyub!
Ayyub is a Palestinian who makes it to Washington, DC, where his patience developed through waiting at checkpoints becomes a valuable commodity for lobbyists. Soon, he becomes the most sought after line-stander on the Hill. However, one day while standing in line, he overhears word of a secret plot by the AYPAK lobby, representing the interest of wealthy Zinconians in the US, to kidnap the Secretary of State and replace her with an AYPAK clone. The only way to stop them is to join the K Street softball league, where the stone-throwing skills of his youth would allow him to take down the powerful plotters within AYPAK. But, can Ayyub save US foreign policy and still win the love of the charming Senatestaffer whose boss is fiercely pro-Zinconian? Why not? After all, this is America!
For a while now, I have been nurturing a serious gripe about the silver screen. The movies once were dominated by glamorous, enigmatic and captivatingdames. And, then, somewhere along the way... something happened. Perhaps it was Julia Roberts... Perhaps it was Michael Bay... Perhaps it was Thelma and Louise... Somewhere along the way, less and less was asked of leading ladies, while the male leads somehow became man-crush-inducing charismatic.
Indeed, we are in an age where there is a mind-boggling proliferation of Cary Grants and Steve McQueens. We are in an age where the heady cocktail of machismo, presence, smolder and talent no longer sits on a dusty shelf by the Galliano in a bottle labelled Dirk Bogarde 1965.
No, in fact, it has been reported recently that 672 women got pregnant (including 16 over the age of 40) just as a result of seeing Shoot 'Em Up. Add that to the upwards of 20,000 men who came out to their wives or grown children after seeing Croupier, and you understand that we are dealing today with an unprecedented imbalance of masculine starpower on the silver screen. Not since the Renaissance has an art medium been this heavily lopsided towards the portrayal of masculine over feminine beauty.
In addition to Clive Owen, there is the versatile, adrogynous and finally earning a paycheck:
The "I don't care if it's about professional wrestling, as long as he's in it":
The man voted most likely to never have broken a sweat:
The guy you'd like to have as your best friend, but only if you didn't care about ever having a girlfriend ever again:
And the other guy you'd like to have as your best friend, but only if you didn't care about ever having a girlfriend ever again:
We are, by the way, deliriously happy to have seen the trailer for Pineapple Express and to realize -- not only that Paper Planes is ubiquitous in a good and much deserved way -- but also that James Franco has finally gotten a big screen role that exploits his strength as a comedic actor.
Now, it used to be that one could go to the movies and be much moved by the actresses -- what am I saying -- the icons!!! But now, quite frankly, the major actresses working in film today are interchangeable and innocuous. Can someone tell me the difference between Nicole Kidman, Naomi Watts, and Emily Watson? What about between Michelle Monaghan and Liv Tyler?
Not only that, interesting roles merely don't exist. As such, compared with male actors, very few women in Hollywood or in overseas studios are asked -- as Bertolucci famously required of the aforementioned Liv Tyler in Stealing Beauty -- to act through their "intelligent skin." This school of acting, of which -- among today's thespians -- Clive Owen is quite clearly the master, begot many fine performances from Isabelle Adjani in the 70s and 80s.
In Nosferatu, the combination of Kinski and Adjani formed perhaps the most beautiful pairing of human beings in the history of the twentieth century.
But where is today's Isabelle Adjani?
I realize that Adjani is still making movies, but that doesn't count. The "Gerard Depardieu rule" (La regle Gerard Depardieu) holds that once a French cinema icon makes his or her 25th film, every succeeding performance is self-caricature and thus, doesn't count as acting.
For a while, it seems some industry people were trying to have Monica Bellucci fill her stylish pumps, but then they realized that she's not actually an actress...
Cate Blanchett is clearly an exception, given that she has taken and stretched countless roles in many superb movies, including a particularly fascinating character as Bathsheba Hart in the 2006 film Notes on a Scandal (which I have not yet seen, but the Zoe Heller novel was one of the best of 2003). I have always had a soft spot for her among contemporary actresses, all the more since she does not have, to my knowledge, the annoying propensity of her contemporaries for taking off their clothes in front of Harvey Keitel...
While it would not be fair to say that she squandered her talent on the gimmicky I'm Not There and the overwrought Elizabeth the Golden Age... since after all, the greatest icons are also, a la Klaus Kinski, the most profligate with their talent... one has to admit that the quality of her performances, the sheer and obvious substance of her talent, dulls that certain whiff of ether that characterizes our Adjani at her finest.
(Also, she's no longer getting cast in sexy roles. I bet if she was French or even -- as Charlotte Rampling -- living in France, she'd be totally getting hot, sultryroles... )
And so it was that, resigned to have my movie-going become a purely homosocial activity replete with wistful man-crushes, that -- just the other day -- I went to see Forgetting Sarah Marshall. This was a perfect movie: the best comedy about love since Le Genou de Claire by Eric Rohmer.
Really, great things have long been expected of Jason Segel, whose Nick Andopolis is one of the most touching, painful, ridiculous and heroic characters ever to grace the small screen. And, finally, he delivers: with a brilliant screenplay about, essentially, Nick Andopolis all grown up.
As a whole, every element in the movie worked perfectly to depict the process of decristallisation that was the hallmark of Gerard de Nerval more lucid tales, taking the analysis of Stendhal before him and describing that process by which the illusions with which each gesture, each trait of the beloved becomes a premise for new transports crumble away and leave us with the recognition of ourselves, in a state of dereliction. Rohmer later worked magic with both Stendhalien and Nervalien dynamics. And now, Nick Andopolis reveals himself a modern day Pierrot, his lanky clown chasing illusions with sublime pomp and self-loathing. His Sarah Marshall is a masterpiece in watching the psychology of love dismantled and re-centered.
That dying love is rebuilt into a beautiful Chateau in Virginia Waters, with a parallel tale of nascent love and self-actualization underscores the sleek harmoniousness of Sarah Marshall's construction. The new beloved, unnamed in the title, and yet relentless in her ascent through the narrative, takes the form of the most beguiling female romantic lead since Catherine Deneuve in the Umbrellas of Cherbourg.
Wide-eyed... dark... wispy... umm... tough-minded and funny in a way that was much more real than the sort of screwball or flaky model heroines we have been spoon fed for quite some time now...
So, I never really watched That 70s Show... During its run, I was either overseas or obsessed with 7th Heaven. So, thankfully, Mila Kunis was never on my radar until quite recently... and it appears that her next movie will be one of those ubiquitous video game adaptations that don't really make much sense. But then, even Angelina Jolie and Daniel Craig had their Tomb Raider moment... and besides, she's Jewish! (She and James Franco -- so I can no longer complain that Hollywood is bad for the Jews.)
It will be good to follow the choices she makes with her career and how filmmakers use her admirabletalent in the future. Until then, though, I will have to wait until Forgetting Sarah Marshall comes out on DVD. It will be just like that time, many years back now, when, far from Claudine... she had told me that Jodie Foster was her favorite actress. So I would watch Maverick and Little Man Tate, pausing and advancing the tape in slow-mo, just to collect from Ms. Foster's apparition on the screen, that essence that drew Claudine's admiration, to capture from the actress, the woman who loved her.
And so shall it be from now: A patient, subdued appreciation for the woman who may save the American movie.
Wow, this really does raise some serious concerns about Obama's candidacy... I can't even think of anyprimaryraces where he has run up the kindofmargin we're seeing Hillary tally today!
If Hillary really cared about Florida and Michigan voters, would she really announce her imminent delivery of "the greatest speech ever" opposite the extremely close fourth quarter of game five between Orlando and Detroit?
In any case, you gotta give it to Senator Clinton, her sound economic policy arguments clearly got through to the good, hard-working folk of West Virginia...
You know, I'd be happy to concede these votes, too...
Meanwhile, all this time and so much to blog... we (or I, rather, since G_d only knows what ASM has been up to) haven't been neglecting our duties. Instead, we have been working -- rather contra-medium -- on a couple of long-form entries which should be ready for your perusal in the next couple of days. So stay tune for:
Senator Clinton unveiled her new strategy today via a YouTube video and Press Release:
They see in Hillary Clinton a candidate who understands the pressures they face. As they watch her tough it out against all odds, refusing to quit and continuing to compete against whatever the media and her opponents throw her way, they see a woman as tough and resilient as they are. They clearly want her to win. Her victory, I believe, is their victory.
Some people may think all that is crap. But such people have obviously never worked a day in their stinkin' (ecru or darker) lives!!!!!!
Meanwhile, the real victim, our foreign policy, and Obama's sterling vision thereof keeps sacrificing itself upon the altar of ludicrous campaign-induced litmus tests.
First, there was super-wonk and human rights community icon, Samantha Power...
Now, Algeria expert and brilliant analyst of the Peace Process, Rob Malley gets thrown overboard by Team Obama apparently due to having spoken with people in occupied Palestine.
It would be nice to, as usual, blame everything on the Jews and the extent to which the US Zionist lobby is the most asinine, self-in-foot-shooting organization that ever existed... but, for reasons that will be explained later, I am indefinitely forswearing any self-hating chic. But it just seems that there is some kind of establishment thinking in DC that requires that people who make foreign policy not talk to anybody who may be affected by our policies, and, more to the point, that they waste everybody's time engaging in blustery national security pissing matches.
Now, Samantha Power and Rob Malley are both pretty unique voices who seem to presage the awesome renewal in Obama's vision... this latest just reveals how painful the process changing the status quo can be. Having met RM, this feels -- of course -- even worse. The thrill of thinking that I was just one degree removed from Obama's foreign policy shop -- gone, baby, gone. Someone, get me some raki, stat!
Hillary Clinton just released this ad to persuade primary voters in Oregon:
Yes, People who love themselves love Hillary.
Isn't it fantastic that the only couple that may have gained more mileage through an orchestrated public relations effort to sustain the mythology of their victimhood is now out there campaigning for the Clintons?
Entitled, blessed with wealth, blonde, longstanding DC insiders, what don't they have? This just proves that the Natalie Holloway effect can also play out for the Washington press corps.
Hillary Clinton just released this ad, trying to persuade the superdelegates that she's more electable:
I hear that there's another one out there with Steelworkers instead of Firefighters, but I couldn't track it down. Still, same idea, I guess...
Now, can I just say something parenthetically for a moment?
(Okay, so when I see something like this, it makes me feel like a lot of people out there must hate me... ME personally -- okay, and probably also several of my close friends and acquaintances, not to mention former and future colleagues. It really hurts.)
I made it out a coupla days ago... You wouldn't believe how many vanity plates you can make in just one week. My ego was so worn out by the end, that I have been spending all the time since getting my freedom back either at the movies or sleeping.
Meanwhile, I see that ASM has definitely given up blogging for the highlife in Kitzbuhel. At least he won't want for vitamin D...
