in the news

I always knew there was a reason to not use cellphones.

Also, an article by Columbia's own Ray Fisman (I think...) explains why Hillary's screwed even if she does win next November.

Two more reasons to cry over religion:
Boy who refused treatment on religious grounds dies
Calls in Sudan for teacher's execution

I was going to include here a Pope quote explaining that atheism "has led to some of the greatest forms of cruelty and violations of justice" in human history, but then I actually went and read this article about it, and it sounds worse taken out of context. I still find it pretty remarkable, though, that people would argue that atheism, despite the Stalins of the world, is more cruel than religion. I mean, we've got people all gung-ho about comparing Ahmadinejad (a devout Muslim) to Hitler (raised a Catholic, later used Christian arguments to justify his rabid anti-Semitism), and then we've got the Pope, leader of the church of the Crusades and the Inquisition, saying that lack of religion is the root of all evil.

So here, instead is my quote of the day, Bush waxing poetic about his role in the Mid-East peace talks taking place this week in Maryland:

"I work the phones, I listen, I encourage, I have meetings. I do a lot of things."

After all, he is the great decider.

on daemons

Thanks to Andy, I've now got my very own daemon (take a gander, just to the right there.) His name, apparently, is Achaean. Daemons, if you don't know, are the animals that each human has in the world of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials, of which The Golden Compass is the first of three volumes and soon to be a movie. Our daemon is the embodiment of our soul, but also our best friend and dearest, most trusted, companion.

Read this trilogy now, before the first movie comes out. You won't regret it. Well, unless you agree with the following enlightening review from clearly an avid fan on Amazon:

"DUSTURBING.NOT for children. books two and three are blatant anti-christian works that will truly disturb the age group these books are intended for. as an adult reader, there are also subtle disturbing hints of inappropriate relationships between adults/children in the text. i do not know if a child would pick up on this, but an experienced reader will surely infer these things. before buying read page 320 of book 3. sick."

We must have different editions of this book, because page 320 in my version is actually quite beautiful. Lyra, our heroine, has traveled all the way to the land of the dead in an effort to find a dear friend. She discovers a hole between that dreary, horrid world and another, and discovers also that all the millions of ghosts doomed to 'living' in the land of the dead for all eternity can fling themselves through this gash in the fabric between worlds, joining forces with those who are fighting against evil, and 'dying' in the process.

No one spoke. Those who had seen how daemons dissolved were remembering it, and those who hadn't were imagining it, and no one spoke until a young woman came forward. She had died as a martyr centuries before. She looked around and said to the other ghosts:

"When we were alive, they told us that when we died we'd go to Heaven. And they said that Heaven was a place of joy and glory and we would spend eternity in the company of saints and angels praising the Almighty, in a state of bliss. That's what they said. And that's what led some of us to give our lives, and others to spend years in solitary prayer, while all the joy of life was going to waste around us and we never knew.

"Because the land of the dead isn't a place of reward or a place of punishment. It's a place of nothing. The good come here as well as the wicked, and all of us languish in this gloom forever, with no hope of freedom, or joy, or sleep, or rest, or peace.

"But now this child has come offering us a way out and I'm going to follow her. Even if it means oblivion, friends, I'll welcome it, because it won't be nothing. We'll be alive again in a thousand blades of grass, and a million leaves; we'll be falling in the raindrops and blowing in the fresh breeze; we'll be glittering in the dew under the stars and the moon out there in the physical world, which is our true home and always was.

"So I urge you: come with the child out to the sky!"

politics, or, things not to think about when you can't sleep at night

This time, we'll start with the least offensive and work our way up from there.

Another quiz! Test your grasp on the ridiculousness of the political field in 2008.

Romney explains that appointing a Muslim Cabinet member would not be justified because there aren't that many Muslims in America. Really. I hadn't realized that appointments to the Cabinet were based at all on population quotas, but I guess I stand corrected, at least according to one of the Republican front-runners. Scary thought. And a stupid thought, considering that if you accept this quota idea to determine government, there certainly aren't nearly enough Mormons in the country to justify a Mormon president.

Last, the transcript of Maher Arar's testimony to the United States House of Representatives last month describing his rendition to Syria by the U.S. government while trying to return to his home country of Canada. This makes for truly sickening reading. The Center for Constitutional Rights filed suit on Arar's behalf against Attorney General (at the time) John Ashcroft and other government officials. Read more on Arar vs. Ashcroft here.

Also through the CCR, send Bush a copy of the Constitution as a gentle reminder of what he swore to uphold.

only in america

The new 2008 Hummer 3 Alpha gets a review in the Times.

A psychiatrist comes down hard on himself for temporarily selling his soul to the drug industry.

Christmas idea for the bookworms.

Christmas idea for the kiddlywinks. (At least if I were a millionaire.)

Sunday morning in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin saw a riot break out at a Kmart over store credit cards. Seriously.

the horror the horror

I am watching Jesus Camp this evening, and needed to take a break to get my thoughts together. It ranks right up there with some of the scariest things I've ever seen, and I still have half an hour more to go before the end. It's almost unbearable, and difficult to believe that people like this exist in the same nation as my beloved New York City. Exhorting children at the Kids on Fire Summer School and Ministry in Devil's Lake (really!), North Dakota to be willing to die in the name of Jesus seems not so far removed from brainwashing teenagers in Saudi Arabia into sacrificing their lives in the name of Allah.

"The Devil goes after the young. That's why we're trying to help you. We're trying to warn you. And while I'm on the subject, let me say something about Harry Potter. Warlocks are enemies of God! And I don't care what kind of hero they are, they're an enemy of God. And had it been in the Old Testament, Harry Potter would have been put to death!"
-Becky Fischer, pastor, Kids in Ministry International

Oh, and also, they pray for the devil to not mess with the microphones during worship meetings. Really.

So I had to go look up some MC Solaar videos on YouTube, just to recover from the scary evangelical stuff.











Also, here's Bill Maher & Co. on Jesus Camp.

And Australia's take on the horror show that is the Westboro Baptist Church.

And in honor of the WBC and the Bush-loving folk of Jesus Camp, an oldie but a goodie.

going home, 11.24.07

gail collins' presidential shopping list

Gail Collins, a relatively recent addition to the New York Times Op-Ed pages, is collecting a series of qualities she has deemed desirable, or undesirable, as the case may be, in our next president. A wish list or check list, if you will.

First on the list, loyalty. As in too much loyalty can be a really bad thing.

Second, exercise. As in, do you really want a world leader who gets more excited about his exercise bike than anything else?

I actually really like this Gail Collins woman. She has an interesting take on the political landscape without being overly derogatory a la Maureen Dowd and without taking herself too seriously, a la all the rest.

And that right there is something to be thankful about.

levine

Ricky
(Philip Levine, 7 Years From Somewhere, 1979)

I go into the backyard
and arrange some twigs
and a few flowers. I go alone
and speak to you as I never could
when you lived, when you
smiled back at me shyly.
Now I can talk to you as I talked
to a star when I was a boy,
expecting no answer, as I talked
to my father who had become
the wind, particles of rain
and fire, these few twigs
and flowers that have no name.

Last night they said a rosary
and my boys went, awkward
in slacks and sport shirts,
and later sitting under the hidden
stars they were attacked and beaten.
You are dead. It is 105,
the young and the old burn
in the fields, and though they cry
enough the sun hangs on
bloodying the dust above the aisles
of cotton and grape.

This morning they will say a mass
and then the mile-long line of cars.
Teddy and John, their faces swollen,
and four others will let you
slowly down into the fresh earth
where you go on. Scared now,
they will understand some of it.
Not the mass or the rosary
or the funeral, but the rage.
Not you falling through the dark
moving underwater like a flower
no one could find until
it was too late and you had gone out,
your breath passing through dark water
never to return to the young man,
pigeon-breasted, who rode
his brother's Harley up the driveway.

Wet grass sticks to my feet, bright
marigold and daisy burst in the new day.
The bees move at the clumps
of clover, the carrots --
almost as tall as I --
have flowered, pale lacework.
Hard dark buds
of next year's oranges, new green
of slick leaves, yellow grass
tall and blowing by the fence. The grapes
are slow, climbing the arbor,
but some day there will be shade
here where the morning sun whitens
everything and punishes my eyes.

Your people worked
for some small piece of earth,
for a home, adding a room
a boy might want. Butchie said
you could have the Harley
if only you would come back,
anything that was his.

A dog barks down the block
and it is another day. I hear
the soft call of the dove,
screech of mockingbird and jay.
A small dog picks up the tune,
and then tow-weet tow-weet
of hidden birds, and two finches
darting over the low trees --
there is no end.

What can I say to this mound
of twigs and dry flowers, what
can I say now that I would speak
to you? Ask the wind, ask
the absence or the rose burned
at the edges and still blood red.
And the answer is you
falling through black water
into the stillness that fathers
the moon, the bees ramming into
the soft cups, the eucalyptus
swaying like grass under water.

My John told me your cousin
punched holes in the wall
the night you died and was afraid
to be left alone. Your brother
walks staring at the earth.
I am afraid of water.

And the earth goes on
in blinding sunlight.
I hold your image
a moment, the long
Indian face
the brown almond eyes
your dark skin full
and glowing as you grew
into the hard body
of a young man.
And now it is bird screech
and a tree rat suddenly
parting the tall grass
by the fence, lumbering
off, and in the distance
the crashing of the waves
against some shore
maybe only in memory.

We lived by the sea.
My boys wrote
postcards and missed you
and your brother. I slept
and wakened to the sea,
I remember in my dreams
water pounded the windows
and walls, it seeped
through everything
and like your spirit,
like your breath,
nothing could contain it.

pre-thanksgiving roundup

Let's start with the bad, so at least things will get better.

We all know the military is hard up for cash, but this is ridiculous. Apparently the government is asking soldiers to return part of their signing bonuses if they haven't completed their full tour of duty. The reason they haven't completed their full tour of duty? Missing legs, arms, eyes, and other miscellaneous serious bodily injuries due to . . . serving in the military.

Saudi Arabia once again is proving its commitment to human rights this week (and yes, this is meant facetiously) by condemning a kidnapping/rape victim to 6 months in prison and 200 lashes for the crime of going out in public with a man not related to her.

New Jersey continues on its wobbly way to outlawing the death penalty.

Our dearly beloved president continues to talk like a bumbling idiot, or maybe an intoxicated frat boy.

Lauren has commissioned me to make a shawl for her mother's next birthday, and we spent a lovely half-hour this past Saturday picking out yarn for said shawl. Two sumptuous skeins of Great Adirondack Sirino in Maple Leaf, to be delivered to my apartment. I can't wait until they arrive and I can get started on this project!

I'm not quite sure how I'm feeling about Thanksgiving tomorrow. I've spent the last five Thanksgivings with various permutations of Chris's family, usually at his parents' beautiful apartment on Riverside Drive overlooking the Hudson River. And I miss them. A lot. His parents, I mean, much more so than him at this point. But instead I'll be heading upstate to spend the day with my beloved Arielle, and various permutations of her family, and I'm looking forward to this immensely. Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays, perhaps in part due to my fondness for sweet potatoes and pumpkin, but more due to my love for family and friends and warmth and wine and food and feeding these family and friends and etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. My contribution to the festivities? A New Zealand pinot noir, a Washington gewurztraminer, roasted rosemary cashews, and black-bottomed cupcakes. And just 'cause I love Ari so very, very much, season four of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Speaking of family, thank you cousin Eric for your very kind comments the other day! I'm glad and flattered that you read this stuff.

Lastly, Bookstore Patti was kind enough to email me about an upcoming event celebrating Philip Levine's 80th birthday. Philip Levine is one of my favorite poets, and I just might have to go home tonight and dig out something of his to post here.

odds & ends VII

My for all intents and purposes brother-in-law, Alec, makes television commercials. Pretty hilarious commercials, actually, at least the couple that I've seen. This is more of a spoof.

New Jersey moves ever closer to banning capital punishment.

I was watching Jerry Maguire on TNT the other day, I am embarrassed to say, and found myself thinking maybe football isn't so bad after all. And then I saw this article. New Jersey, you've still got a long way to go.

Ghosts in the machine. I found this article about a rogue cell phone really upsetting, in a creepy, haunted kind of way.

If you Google budweiser customer guess who's blog you'll find? I'm not quite sure how I feel about this.

A book came out recently called My Last Supper, and is a rather indulgent look at what some of the world's top chefs would want to eat their last night on earth. This kind of grossed me out, though I'm not quite sure why. I'd be interested to know what these chef's favorite foods are, maybe, but the idea of putting together a book around the notion that this is the last meal seems callous to me. This is probably because I've been thinking about the death penalty lately, and remembering an hour or so a few years back that I spent in a Barnes & Noble pouring over Last Suppers. When a book like this can exist in the world, a book like My Last Supper seems almost offensive. But there I go over-thinking things again.

maureen does it again

I've said this before and I'll say it again. I really can't stand Maureen Dowd. Today, in the context of the bitch-slapping that Clinton handed down to the boys in Vegas last week, Dowd can't help but sexualize the whole thing. Once again she emasculates the boys (Obambi, Breck Girl) and turns a powerful, intelligent woman into a dominatrix, relying on sex, not intellect, to tame the menfolk. What greater purpose does it serve to dish up Clinton in black leather, whip in hand, or to further infantalize Obama by explaining that his wife is a master of the "conjugal putdown"?

I know that Obama, Edwards, and Clinton all have their faults and shortcomings, but I honestly believe, however stupidly optimistic this may be, that one of them will be the president-elect come this time next year. Or perhaps one of the so-called second-tier Democrats still in the race. But either way, I'm pretty sure that Dowd doesn't want McCain or Giuliani in office any more than the rest of us diehard liberal New Yorkers, what good does it do to discuss politics in this way? Argue policy all you want, argue ethics, argue economics, argue something, anything, real. But why, oh why, write "Mistress Hillary started disciplining her fellow senator last winter." It just makes me cringe.

how times change

“These early ‘Sesame Street’ episodes are intended for grown-ups, and may not suit the needs of today’s preschool child.”

This on the packaging of the first two seasons of Sesame Street, recently released on DVD.

Huh. And here I thought we'd all turned out okay.

On another note, I was up too late last night watching Daily Show clips. Not having Comedy Central and kind of being oblivious to the fact that a lot of this stuff is on line these days, I just discovered this yesterday while reading about the writers' strike. That Jon Stewart, man, he's awfully clever.

obituaries, boxes, cat beds

I was perusing the New York Times yesterday afternoon, as is my habit, and saw Jerry Feldman's obituary, and felt for a moment as if all the air had been sucked out of my office. I barely knew the man but he was, back in the late '60s, my father's adviser and mentor at Berkeley. But then my father reluctantly left his graduate work to go off and be in the Navy for a few years and, afterwards, found it impossible to make the transition from boot camp and aircraft carriers and Guantanamo Bay back to the insulated ivory tower of academia. He fled California with my mom and hunkered down at the lake cabin in Idaho for a year, a year that would give rise to many of my favorite childhood stories -- the flooding lake and ensuing evacuation up to the Snyders' cabin, the car that had driven off the road into the lake, the mom-made crocheted potholders sold in the local grocery store, the idea of Dad doing construction work when he wasn't being all academic, Sue McBoyle's flaming marshmallow that nearly set him afire.

Jerry Feldman encouraged Dad to return to school, to move to Germany with the family in tow for a year's worth of research that would complete his dissertation and culminate, finally in a PhD from Berkeley and a tenured professorship at Barnard College and Columbia University's School of International and Public Affairs.

For some inexplicable or at least unknown reason, years ago, decades ago now, Dad moved a box to his Barnard office, up on the 4th floor of Lehman Hall. A cardboard box, plain white, unmarked. Somehow, after his death way back in 1993, this plain, unmarked cardboard box stayed in the office despite there being a new inhabitant. Professor Sloan very kindly stored this box the entire time I was at Barnard, but then finally, and ever so gently, suggested that perhaps I take it off his hands before I graduated.

My buddy Allison and I lugged the thing back to my dorm where I spent the next several days frustratingly mesmerized. Full to the brim with papers and notes, exams, syllabi and notebooks, almost everything handwritten indecipherable to me. (Word had it that a student once was busted at the Barnard Registrar's office for forging Professor McNeil's signature on something -- all because the registrar could read it.)

This box has been with me ever since, from dorm to dorm, from Morningside Heights to the Upper West Side to Philadelphia to Brooklyn, briefly to Queens, eventually to Washington Heights, where it has slowly, these past eight years, migrated north along Fort Washington Avenue to its current resting place at the back of my pantry closet. It is now oddly collapsed, concave rather than flat on top, roughly in the shape of a large cat. Nova has been fond of this box ever since I brought her home from the ASPCA back in March of 2000. She likes the places where it dwells: in the backs of closets, under beds, hidden away in the dark, protected from wandering hands and feet and loud noises and unwelcome guests.

Somewhere in the midst of all the indecipherable papers in this box, there is a typed letter. I have not read this letter since graduating from Barnard, but it was, to me, a beautiful and moving letter. It was the letter that my father wrote to the history department at Berkeley asking to be able to continue his work there. It was a letter that expressed his disappointment in a world capable of inflicting such damage as the Vietnam War, a letter that expressed his fears that he should not go into teaching, that he had no wisdom or understanding or knowledge to impart to anyone. In the end, it was a letter explaining that his time away from academia, in Idaho with my mother, had given him new balance, new confidence, and that he was ready. Ready to return to Berkeley, ready to pursue his research, ready to inhabit, again, a role in the lives of those around him.

Other than my mother, it was Jerry Feldman who most encouraged and influenced my father in his search for new-found peace and confidence, and who continued to offer encouragement and friendship throughout his academic career.

tancredo again

Tom Tancredo's vitriolic rhetoric seems to have no bounds, as evidenced by his new TV spot currently running in Iowa. In comparison, it kinda makes LBJ look like one of those dirty hippies.