McCain down 31 — in New York

10/27/2008, 2:11 pm -- by Steve | No Comments

Remember how, a little over a month ago, McCain was supposedly down only 5 points in New York? Well, now he’s down by just a little more. 31, to be specific. 62% for Obama, 31% for McCain. Doubled up.

If people are generally irrational creatures who make decisions based on emotional reasons they don’t understand, but rationalize after the fact — and I have a feeling that they are — then this election wasn’t decided by John McCain’s “dirty campaigning,” or so-called “lack of judgment” in picking Palin or suspending his campaign.

It was decided when people first checked out Obama and came away thinking that he understood them. That he spoke for them.

Once that switch was flipped, attacks couldn’t stick — he became a walking canvas for American hopes and dreams, the vague principle of change representing whatever a voter happened to want most. He’s not just a man, he’s a cult of personality.

People are most likely to wind up agreeing with you when you just present the facts and let them connect the dots in argument. Barack Obama just showed up — with his preternatural cool, his dusky baritone, and his meager resume — and let America fill in the blanks.

God help him. God help us.

Fill in the Blank with Chick

10/26/2008, 11:52 pm -- by Steve | No Comments

{democracy:306}

Four Weeks (Part Nine)

10/24/2008, 4:00 pm -- by Steve | 4 Comments

Read the series in parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Most airports are on the outskirts of large cities, surrounded by squat tracts of industrial zoning, often abutting the discolored shores of the local lake or ocean. Flying into Ithaca was a revelation. Gliding down amid the undulating hills and rolling, cow-choked pastures, all I could see were forests and farmhouses, until suddenly, the trees opened up on a tiny stretch of asphalt: this traveler’s version of the Great Valley, with marginally fewer pterodactyls.

Tom’s car had died shortly before our trip began, and so he picked me up in mine, the ever-reliable Purpletrator. From the tiny airport, we went to his laboratory, where I donned a lab coat and posed for several pictures holding beakers, pouring liquids, and doing several other things I am manifestly unqualified for. He left me at his apartment, where I showered and laundered; once his neighbor cut off his wireless signal, I gladly succumbed to the call of the nap.

For there wouldn’t be much time to sleep. 25-cent wings were on the agenda, followed by Monday trivia at a downtown bar. When I was planning my flights, I chose Ithaca over Rochester solely for the chance to join Tom and his team. Although we fell oh-so-short of victory, my trip was not totally in vain — my evening in Ithaca led, in part, to the flowering of Tom’s nascent relationship with his triviamate. Had I not met her that night, chances are very good that I would not have given insistent pro-Lindsey advice a month down the road. The evening was also memorable for an odd phone call that found me wandering around the downtown Commons, holding my phone at arm’s length while a friend spent five solid minutes laughing at me.

It had turned to Tuesday when I drove up to Rochester, Tom asleep in the passenger seat. He then drove right back to Ithaca while I packed my suitcase to go back west — this time New Mexico, via Phoenix.

Will you mind if I don’t tell you about my week there?

Were I disciplined enough to have written all this in August, I would have recounted in detail the scenic drives, hidden lakes, pleasant dinners — even the herd of mighty elk that thundered across the mountain pass in front of us. But instead it is October: three months since that week with Chloe; six weeks since we broke up. What can I say about the trip now? I had a lovely time. She and her family are wonderful people.

As time passes, actions and feelings piling up in its wake, our memories change in a way we cannot control. The past is seen only through the lens of the inevitable present. A delightful Christmas morning is tinged with sorrow after a sudden death, the valleys of a roller-coaster year are forgotten under the ether of nostalgia. What actually happened is not as important as how it is remembered, because only the second can ever change. Only the second makes a difference now.

The happiest moments, the perfect times, the days and nights you are surest of your fate and future: the joy they bring, though great, is never eternal, or immutable. And so the challenge of life is to risk the pain, to accept our transience and uncertainty, yet still choose to live — and love — with the abandon of the One who not only laid down His life for His friends, but commanded us to do the same.

Whither Bono

10/24/2008, 1:49 pm -- by Steve | No Comments

From the Guardian:

“A new writer will be joining the New York Times editorial staff, issuing literate meditations on the issues of the day. He’s Irish. He wears wrap-around sunglasses. And his name rhymes with ‘Oh no!’ ”

Well, no. No, it doesn’t. It rhymes with “I have mono!” and maybe “Check out my tonneau!” Trust me, I’m a limerick expert and I named my second (tonneau-less) car after the guy.

A little later in the article, the Times’ editorial page editor offers: “The problem with conservative columnists is that many of them lie in print.”

Oh! Like those famous right-wingers, Jayson Blair [NY Times] and Stephen Glass [the New Republic]? It seems the Times’ definition of a lie isn’t deceit: it’s disagreeing with them. Enjoy those sliding profits and declining circulation numbers.

Bumper Stickers II: The Apolitical Edition

10/24/2008, 12:00 am -- by Steve | No Comments

Walking to work…

		Designed For: The guy who’s tired of people only hating him for his personality. Insatiable front-runners. Hillary Clinton. Carl Pavano. Hey, At Least It’s Not: Pink. Chance He’ll Get Hurt: 90% (Boston); 75% (the Bronx); 0.01% (Phoenix)

		Wait, You Forgot: Overcompensate! It Was Also Her Year To: Turn without signaling; cut me off in a crosswalk One-Sentence Response: “Well, what’s left for next year?”

Third-Party Debate Is On, Apparently

10/23/2008, 4:37 pm -- by Steve | No Comments

According to this seedy-looking press release (complete with flanking swimsuit ad), the third-party debate will go on tonight at 9 pm EDT.

Nader’ll be there, because, really, what else does he have to do — and so will Chuck Baldwin of the Constitution Party. Looks like ol’ Bob Barr won’t show up, and McKinney might be out too. But, heaven help me, I’ll be here to live-blog it. Stop on back in a few hours!

Three Links (Vol. 9)

10/23/2008, 12:35 pm -- by Steve | No Comments

— I’m reading too many touchy-feely, wishy-washy, mealy-mouthed “come-to-Obama” stories from people who claim to agree with John McCain on the issues, yet simply can’t vote for him in the face of the irresistible force of Barack Obama’s personality. Well, here’s a pretty solid argument against him, although if you are like one too-honest law school friend of mine, the fact that it uses logic might just make it passÃ©.

— My morning Internet routine includes these three crosswords: USA Today, my local paper, and the LA Times.

— Have I mentioned I love McSweeney’s? Here is a short imagined monologue from a 39-year-old single wedding photographer. Not only will she “make you a DVD slideshow of your photos set to your favorite love songs,” but she promises to “cut the brake lines on zero limousines.”

Some previous favorites from the series include a particularly treacherous game of Risk, a particularly treacherous game of Clue, and an intervention staged by Christopher Robin.

Joe the Answered Chick Tract

10/23/2008, 1:00 am -- by Steve | No Comments

What did the Joes have in common?

If you picked “They were framed for crimes they did not commit,” you’re a winner!!

Yes or no, turkey?!

“Crap” Reaches Christian Expletive Hall of Acceptance

10/22/2008, 10:30 am -- by Steve | 4 Comments

–ATLANTA, Ga.

Angry and frustrated Christians can curse easier today as “crap,” long considered vulgar and sinful, was elected to the religion’s Expletive Hall of Acceptance.

“This is a big day for ‘crap’ and the Christians who can now feel free to use it to express even their most righteous anger,” said Rev. Jerry Johnson, expletive voter from the Southern Baptist Convention and longtime supporter of the punchy euphemism for defecation. “I for one look forward to hearing what the Bishop T.D. Jakes can do with this now-fully sanctified word.”

With the vote, “crap” joins “dang,” “heck,” “good grief,” and the still-controversial “gosh-darn” as first-ballot selections to the Hall. Not only does the decision pave the way for “crap” to be used with impunity in bulletin inserts, at church potlucks, and on the covers of countless shallow, doctrinally unsound books, but it also retroactively negates an estimated 350,000 threats of the use of soap in the mouths of impudent youngsters.

“The voters clearly realized that ‘crap’ is a true triple threat,” said George Ito, linguistics professor at Wheaton College. “The word combines the powerful release of a plosive consonant with the naughty tinge that comes from its mild vulgar meaning, and — most importantly to evangelicals — it has the benefit of not actually being, uh, the ‘s-word.’ You can’t get away with using that one unless you’re that darn Tony Campolo!”

“Golly, he’s a loose cannon,” Ito added.

The Hall was created in 1954 for two purposes: to recognize and honor those offensive words which had become so common that Christians gave up trying to avoid them, and to provide a convenient way to judge one another based on their words. “Before the Hall, it was anybody’s guess which words were okay; I didn’t know who should get a sneer and who should get a hug,” said Johnson’s wife, Mabel Lou. “The Hall just makes this judgment crap so damn convenient.”

“What? That one’s not okay yet? Oh dear me.”

“The difference between ‘shucks’ and ‘sucks’ may be just one letter, but it might just mean everything eternally,” added Rev. Jerry. “At least until next year, when we look at ‘sucks’ again. I think it’s got a pretty good shot actually.”

The Johnsons also noted that the vote on “crap” does not extend to the phrase “holy crap,” which is still “very, very wrong.”

In related news, “freaking” was denied acceptance yet again in this, its 20th and final year of eligibility.

A Syntax Question

10/21/2008, 10:26 am -- by Steve | 3 Comments

“Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo.”

This sentence is sensible and grammatically correct. Can you explain how (without cheating)?

Joe the Chick Tract

10/20/2008, 1:05 am -- by Steve | No Comments

{democracy:304}

Four Weeks (Part Eight)

10/17/2008, 4:00 pm -- by Steve | 1 Comment

Read the series in parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

To me, California has always existed in a sort of hazy myth. Crowded, temperate, and seismic; home of heroic, half-remembered President Reagan; it was as far removed from my marooned and icy New York youth as ancient Ur.

As a boy, I spent hours planning cross-country road trips, following the example of my father, who crossed the continent at 18 and has the unpaid San Francisco parking ticket to prove it (although, he quickly reminds me, it wasn’t his car). Not many years later, the state was home to my first requited crush, a kind girl from Napa who, it turned out, was by far my wiser. And after my college graduation, my first plane ride was there, courtesy of my grandmother, who gave me a week out West with several close friends, where we climbed Tahquitz and strung up Chinese lanterns in preparation for a wedding.

Seven years later, those not-so-newlyweds had three children, and visiting their home would not only allow me to see them all and return to the California of lore, but also to meet the only Bweinh!tributor I did not yet personally know — the delightfully rational Kaitlin. All told, easily sufficient motivation to weather a return itinerary that would wing me from LA to New York to Phoenix in just under 36 hours.

Have you ever returned to a place you loved, only to find that the utopian glow of nostalgia had made it only a modest imitation of the splendor you remembered?

Me too. But this wasn’t like that at all.

No, instead, returning was all the more wonderful. I had the autonomy to do whatever I liked (including a few trips to a sturdy swing set, as well as buying and devouring a surprisingly readable translation of Don Quixote) and repeated opportunities to help my hosts, which I particularly welcomed, since my entire July had begun to feel like one unending impingement on the kindness of others. I even had the good fortune to witness a late-night thunderstorm, rumbling down from the mountains in a pyrotechnic volley.

As always, the people were the highlight, full of grace and good humor whether we were slinging trash bags into the dump or playing games around a kitchen table. I have never yet regretted a day spent with a Tate (that winter evening we slept on the floor of the unheated lakehouse is another story), Lisa and I defied predictions of a heated melee, and Kaitlin proved even more engaging than her well-crafted (if sadly rare, on these pages) prose. Watching the four sisters interact was eerily like being with my three brothers, with only slightly more talk about fashion.

Before I flew out Sunday evening, the Tates took me to Sarah’s childhood home, where her mother treated us to a delicious dinner, then watched the kids while we headed to the beach. We walked the Santa Monica Pier, past the carousels to the very end, where the brisk sea breeze whistled through the lines of the men and boys fishing for halibut off the side.

And as the sun set into the endless blue Pacific, I ran through the sand and leapt into the crashing surf, plunging beneath the warm ocean, no longer just a legend. A few hours later, as I climbed aboard the plane back to my homeland, I could feel in my brow, taste on my lips, the salty dross the sea had left behind.

I taste it still. I will feel it again.

Mo-Neigh

10/17/2008, 1:12 am -- by Steve | 2 Comments

The silliest part about this story about a horse artist isn’t that his painting, “The Big Red Buck,” was selected to appear in a prestigious international juried competition.

It isn’t the art critic who wrote that the horse “clearly grabs me and holds me as I watch him paint with the fire of Pollock.” That’s just creepy.

No, it’s this quote from his owner “and assistant” — “It’s not about novelty anymore. It’s about his validation as an artist.”

Uh…yeah.

I did enjoy what one art curator said, although probably not for the reasons he intended. “There may not be a lot of thought behind the process, but one could also ask the same question about Pollock or De Kooning or Rothko.”

Well, yes. Yes, one could. In fact I do. Every time I look at their “art.”

If a horse can do your job as well as you can, you should probably consider another line of work.

Three Links (Vol. 8)

10/16/2008, 11:39 am -- by Steve | 2 Comments

— I am seriously considering live-blogging the third-party presidential debate this Sunday. I can’t even imagine what those folks will say, but I bet it’ll be more interesting than another Obama-McCain slapfest.

— Slate helpfully brings us an article on the etymology of “fail” as a noun. “The highest form of fail ”” the epic fail ”” involves not just catastrophic failure but hubris as well.”

— I can’t play golf in real life — or at least I was pretty bad the one time I tried — but I enjoy the new fully-functional online golf game at the World Golf Tour. The gameplay is startingly similar to NES Championship Golf, except with beautifully rendered landscapes replacing cartoonish trees. So I guess it’s not all better.