I’m not kidde-ing around

If you don’t have one of these

in your home, get one. If you’ve got one, get more. Have at least one on every floor. Check them regularly. Replace them as needed.

I did all that, because foresight. But didn’t think all that much about it. Years went by and it was no big deal. Until it was.

I was sitting in my easy chair, easily reading Rolling Stone, when I heard from the basement “I need help.” It was the redhead. I stood up, picturing the redhead teetering as she tried to get a box down from a shelf. Thought about poking around for my slippers. Then I heard, “And bring a fire extinguisher.”

And I did (you would too). The kitchen extinguisher was actually by the basement steps, and as I was pulling it off the wall I could see the reflections of the flames on the wall down below me. Might have even felt a bit of heat. I pulled the fire extinguisher off the wall, or rather I ripped its mount off because I forgot about the strap holding it in (because I’m a monster-man and because adrenaline. You would too, again). Ran down and around and found my wife doing her best to move things away from a canister of MAPP gas with flames shooting out the top. Nice respectable-sized fire blossom about a yard around, I’d estimate. Amazingly it was isolated in the middle of the concrete floor, not a lick of flame touching any of the usual flammable stuff that anyone’s, everyone’s basement is riddled with.

I aimed the Kidde ABC and squeezed the trigger and it was out in one shot.

My wife, who works with MAPP torches in the creation of her gorgeous, incomparable art, made the one-time mistake of using a brand of MAPP regulator that announces it has reached its end of service life by setting itself on fire. She had initially – immediately, before calling for help – grabbed the extinguisher we keep in the basement, but found the trigger pull too stiff for her. So: redundancy in your safety equipment. I do it, so should you.

She told me this after the fire was out, as we both stared at the browned canister, covered in the powdered extinguisher material. So I took the one I’d just then realized she was holding, aimed it at the canister, and pulled the trigger. It went off, but I don’t regret that a bit, especially since I think the canister was still a little warm.

I was shaky, she was shaky. But still, foresight. She headed right out to the hardware store to buy replacements (fire extinguishers are one-shot deals, you know. I got no problem with that either). Still shaky, my next thought was “Hey! Facebook!” So I did. Then I poured myself two shots of Kentucky bourbon. Didn’t pour them to that little line, either. Went quite a ways past that.

When she got home with the replacements they got mounted, right away, ‘xactly where the old uns had been.

Have the foresight to equip yourself for emergencies. When the emergencies happen (and they will), use your equipment to do the things you need to do, precisely as you need to do them, without panicking. If you feel like panicking stop and take a deep breath, think about what you need to do, then do it.

Keep that clear head, and make yourself able to recognize when and if an emergency goes beyond the scope of what you and your equipment can handle. When that happens, get everyone and yourself the hell out of there and call for help.

If it’s a medical emergency – call for help, by all means, but also give help yourself if you’re at all able. If someone’s unconscious, first thing you check is whether they’re breathing. If someone’s bleeding badly put direct pressure on it, preferably with something that’s sterile or at least clean. If someone’s taken a fall from more than a couple feet off the ground, or been hit hard in any way that might injure their spine, don’t move them unless absolutely necessary. Absolutely necessary means fire, or worse; if that happens try to drag them in a straight line, keeping the spine and especially the neck as straight and as supported as possible. In all things keep yourself as safe as possible, because you can’t help anyone if you’re the next casualty.

I’d end the spew of advice here, except I hate ending on down notes. So try this: in addition to foresight and emergency preparedness and cultivating a cool head for catastrophes, also try changing up your habits every now and then. If you’re a coffee person, try tea. Try driving home a different route. Sleep on the other side of the bed. It keeps life interesting, and who knows you might find you prefer tea.

Oh yeah, last one. Adjust your car’s mirrors. The inside one is fine, but the outside two are wrong. Don’t take my word on it, read this guy.

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Richard III, uncovered

Shakespeare always walked a fine line with his treatment of monarchy. On the one hand, he knew that the lives of royals were deep and rich wells of entertainment; power, wealth, sex, and betrayal were as popular devices in fiction then as now, and these things all but defined the lives of the ruling class. But on the other hand, his career and his survival depended on pleasing the contemporary monarchy. From 1583 he wrote and performed plays exclusively under the patronage of the queen. Royal censors reviewed every manuscript and probably watched every performance. Ill-considered words and insulting portrayals of Elizabeth’s predecessors, lineal or otherwise, could rob him of his position and even his life.

It’s somewhat a surprise, then, that one of his earliest histories, Richard III, strayed so far from hagiography. Richard was one of the few truly unredeemable villains in Shakespeare’s pantheon: scheming, murdering, utterly devoid of sympathy. Ugly too. In his opening monologue, the one performed in the video above, and one that’s among the most famous from Shakespeare’s work (“Now is the winter of our discontent…”), Richard speaks in parallel of his villainy and his physical deformity. The audience comes to link the two, inseparably.

Richard was traditionally portrayed as a limping hunchback, although there’s little historical evidence of this. It’s certain that he trained as a knight and was active in combat, so he couldn’t have been too physically frail. And it’s almost certain he was a villain, although it’s arguable whether he was all that worse than most of his peers. All evidence points to his culpability in the murder of his nephews, the famous Princes in the Tower. But he was hardly the first monarch, nor would he be the last, to secure his throne through murder. And it was more of Shakespeare’s spurious anti-hagiography to depict the princes, who in reality were ages 9 and 12 at the time of their imprisonment, constantly outwitting Richard and belittling him to his face.

This fascinating intersection of fiction and history, of reality and reputation, becomes all the more compelling as archaeologists from the University of Leicester proceed with a plan to exhume Richard III from his presumed resting place, near to where he is said to have fallen in the Battle of Bosworth in 1485. Richard, the last English king to die in battle, was buried beneath a council parking lot in Leicester, in the East Midlands, UK.

The remains exhumed there show clear battle injuries, with a fractured skull and a barbed arrowhead embedded in the spine. It also shows signs of scoliosis, or curvature of the spine. It’s known that the modern-day carpark was the site of a long-ago razed Franciscan friary—precisely where history says Richard was interred. Forensic artists are already working on reconstructing his face, for comparison with portraiture, and DNA from the skeleton will soon be matched with that of a London man thought to be a descendant of Richard’s sister. We might know in the earliest weeks of 2013 whether Richard III has definitely been uncovered.

And what might come of that? I’ve argued here in the past against the destructive curiosity of disinterment, of the grave-robbing approach to history. I’m not religious in the least, but I do feel strongly that the dead should be left to rest, in all but the most extreme circumstances. Does this qualify? Maybe not, but something tells me Richard yearns to be uncovered. I don’t expect any CSI drama that will prove or disprove any part of his legend, except perhaps that demonstration of folklore’s exaggeration (in how a bit of scoliosis can transform into crippled, somehow demonic grotesquery). But maybe in dragging Richard back into the light, we’ll give him a chance to show us he was a man, and not quite the shuffling Machiavellian creature that Shakespeare would give us.

A coda: Lest I come down too hard on Willy Shakes
and his version of Richard, I’ll add this: I love that
play. Not only does the author show deft adroitness
in making the audience Richard’s co-conspirator
(that aforementioned monologue consists of Richard
explaining how and why he’ll seize the throne. He
offers no apology yet somehow gets the audience
nodding along with him)…he also gives his actors a
lot of room to flex their villainous muscles. His plays
are famously light on stage direction, and almost
entirely devoid of character description.Dialogue
alone reveals all. As he speaks of his pursuit of Lady
Anne (this after killing most of her family), he says,
“I’ll have her, but I will not keep her long.”
Sinister, maybe, but somewhat flat when read
without inflection. Now check out, soon as
you can, how Al Pacino delivers that line in his
plainly awesome 1996 move, Looking for Richard.
The way he cackles as he vows not to keep her
will send chills down your spine.

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I culture you: A cigar for the end of the world

How will the end come? If the prophecies be true, will there be roars and tumults, crashing and burnings…? Or will we all just blink out?

Call it 50/50 either way. Betting odds, enough, that I’m laying in one special cigar, on the chance that I’ll sense the onrushing doom, and have time to light up and enjoy my Partagas 1845.

I’ve often turned to Cifuentes, and Partagas, for fuming up my special occasions. I enjoyed one of these same 1845s on my last birthday. Couldn’t think of a better smoke for the apocalypse.

So that’s my plan then. Stand lock-still all December 21st, Partagas in one hand, lighter ready in the other. If the prophecies be true, if I’m to breath my last, then that breath will be kissed by Dominican maduro leaf.

And if not—if we’re just doing the ol’ Y2K shuffle yet again—I’ll smoke it December 22nd.

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Murder culture

Mass murder stains American culture and bleeds over the American psyche. Americans detest the fact that we breed this sort of thing, so horribly uniquely. We’re terrified it’s our national identity. So we react just as crazily in the aftermath, after our crazy underclass executes our innocents and our innocence. Being reactionary is also part of our national identity, so we spout off and beat our chests and shout out stupid things intended to advance agendas, but that just makes it all hurt worse.

I’ve heard and read today countless suggestions, demands, changes that are supposed to alter this murderous American nature. Or at least protect us from it. A lot of it is downright insanity. I don’t expect to see any of it implemented–not safer schools nor a working mental health system. Certainly not gun control. Not in my lifetime.

Because all of us know deep in our hearts, deep in that conflicted core of bloody Americana, that whether we implement all of those solutions or none of them, we’ll go through this again. It might not be in our nature, but it’s in our culture. It’s a deep infection that we’ve no idea how to cure.

At least, we’ve no idea how to cure it—yet. I shot down all the suggestions I’ve heard to date but ever the optimist, I hold out hope for an idea of a cure from someone who’s yet to speak.

Unless and until that happens we’d better recognize this: the next mass murderer is already planning his day. If one other living soul knows how sick he is, there’s a chance he can be stopped.

I so wish that had happened here. My heart bleeds for Newtown, Connecticut and for the victims of this unspeakable tragedy.

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RIP to two elder statesmen of the Arts

We lost two of the greats yesterday. We might console ourselves knowing they both lived to ripe old ages, and if they didn’t give us their all, in terms of their art, then they gave us so much that it’s impossible to tell the difference.

Dave Brubeck (December 6, 1920 – December 5, 2012), jazz pianist and composer. Probably our last remaining standard-bearer of the golden age of jazz. His massively influential Dave Brubeck Quartet recorded, in 1959, Time Out, the first jazz album to go platinum. Take Five, from that album, is still one of the most familiar and beloved jazz instrumentals of all time. On the strength of that composition alone we salute Dave Brubeck; and in honor of his entire body of work and of his extraordinary and full life, we wish him fond farewell.

Oscar Niemeyer (December 15, 1907 – December 5, 2012) was an award-winning and highly recognized architect, almost universally considered to be one of the fathers of modern design. A native Brazilian (his full name was Oscar Ribeiro deAlmeida Niemeyer Soares Filho), he was largely responsible for the architectural aesthetic of Brasilia, one of the few planned national capitals, and certainly the most beautiful, built in the twentieth century. He famously said that his designs were inspired by his native land, and in particular that his curves were an interpretation of the bodies of Brazilian women. Here in the States we’re most familiar with Mr. Niemeyer’s work thanks to one very important complex of buildings on New York’s East River. The UN headquarters stands as a global effort to create a cooperative human community. We recognize the arts, in all its forms, as central to that community, and we thank Oscar Niemeyer for his life of contribution and of service.

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I culture you: Music to write by

That headline comes with a huge asterisk: it’s music I write by. That’s all I can speak to. When I undertook to culture you on art, I began by telling you that art is subjective, emphatic period. That goes double for music, and double double, if Euclid allows, for music to accompany creation.

I like classical, but not all of the time. I like to drive to rock, many kinds. Jethro Tull goes well with yard chores and woodworking, interestingly enough. Reggae, punk, folk, classic country – they all take a turn on my play-list.

And none of that is likely, or reasonably expected to, impact your musical tastes in the least. If you like the same music I do, fantastic. If not I love ya just the same. My music’s mine, yours is yours, and although I’m willing to culture you up one side and down the other, I wouldn’t tell you what music to listen to.

Except when it comes to writing.

If you can write without a soundtrack, or even if you prefer to – fine. But if you need same background noise, then do as I do. Eschew anything with lyrics. You’re dealing in words, and can’t have the distraction of words on the air. Stick to instrumentals.

That still leaves you a universe of fine music to choose from. I encourage you to give it all a spin. But if you’ve come here for a shortcut, a pointer toward writerly music that will have you floating on middle Baroque notes while your fingers build your opus, then I can do that.

I don’t write by Pachelbel everytime, but everytime I do I write and write well.

But then in fairness, I share Rob Paravonian’s counterpoint opinion, not quite as pro-Pachelbel:

What is culture?
By one definition it’s a thriving petri dish.
That’s a metaphor for human culture for
only the most cynical among us.

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Plugging and playing

Update on the previously self-plugged blog experiment, The Plug and Play Life: Those playing along at home might remember that the goal was to breed long-format fiction with Tumblr, to see if a neverending story couldn’t be told, down through the scroll of a blog.

I wasn’t sure if it could, but I figured the only way would be to remove temporal context all together. Blogs are sampled, sporadically. That meant this story was going to be sampled sporadically. Every post had to hold up on its own, as a micro-flash peek into the larger unfolding story.

I think I got a grip on that. I hasten to refuse to call it mastered; I’m not sure anyone living will master this act, it’ll require ingenious solutions that I haven’t come close to thinking of. But for the solutions I have thought of…I feel like I’m making good use of them, and I’m enjoying the story that’s rolling out because of it. Will you? I’ve no idea the answer to that but would move heaven and earth to know. For now I’ll just enjoy the illicit liberty of tapping out oddness like this:

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RIP: Hector Camacho’s Brain

Hector “Macho” Camacho is brain dead. The headline above may sound flippant, but with all respect to Mr. Camacho, to his friends and family and to his millions of fans, no flippancy is intended. I’m just trying to make this point: brain death is death. Disparate cells and organs, parts of the body that once made up a thrilling and flamboyant boxer, are still alive. They might remain so indefinitely, through extreme medical intervention. But make no mistake: the most definitive and irreversible phase of expiration has already occurred. There’s a body laying in a hospital in San Juan, Puerto Rico, but Macho Camacho has already departed.

Hector Camacho is one of the most memorable boxers of the ’80s and ’90s. He won championships in both the lightweight and junior lightweight divisions. He was known to be flashy and confident, quirky yet with a genius for self-promotion. All of that was backed up, however, with prowess in the ring. He was tireless and lightning-quick. His career record is impressive: 79 wins with 45 KOs, out of a total of 88 fights. Perhaps most memorably, he’s the man who ended Sugar Ray Leonard’s career, with a knockout.

Macho was not without his failings. As his boxing career wound down, he struggled with drugs and even petty crime. He was arrested in Mississippi in 2005 for burgling an electronics store and possession of ecstasy. He later violated his parole for that offense, and did some time. Earlier this year he was charged in Florida for assaulting his teenage son.

Hector “Macho” Camacho suffered brain death on November 20th, after being shot in the face and neck in Bayamon, Puerto Rico, in what might have been a drive-by shooting. It’s unclear at this time whether or how Camacho knew his attackers, or if he was a random victim. It’s worth noting that Camacho was shot three times in early 2011, in what was apparently an attempted carjacking, in nearby San Juan.

At last report, Camacho’s family is considering ending life support.

We say farewell, then, to Hector “Macho” Camacho. He was subject to chaos and brutality, and whether it’s right and proper that anyone should live a life like that in name of entertainment, we have to acknowledge that in our culture, that’s how it is. He accepted that burden, and willingly entertained us. Most importantly, he was a talented, glorious boxer, and he will be missed.

 

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Save the pupfish

What is culture?
By one definition it’s a thriving petri dish.
That’s a metaphor for human culture for
only the most cynical among us.

If you can intervene to stop an extinction, should you?

That’s a question that science journalist Hillary Rosner raises in the most recent issue of Wired. She places in evidence for our consideration the Devil’s Hole pupfish, Cyprinodon diabolis, an unlucky little piscine which holds a slew of sad distinctions: it was one of the first species declared endangered by the U.S. government, it’s one of the most endangered we know of, and its population is more confined, has a smaller range, than any other vertebrate on earth.

The entire universe of this variety of pupfish is contained in this deep desert aquifer. Their numbers have been plummeting since science first noticed them. At present there’s believed to be less than 100.

Rosner details some of the grim consequences of the fish’s plight, caused by both their low numbers and their isolation. Food is scarce in Devil’s Hole, and all of the pupfish population shows signs of emaciation. There’s also evidence of genetic strife, with some unfortunate mutations getting bred in at higher and higher numbers as the overall population drops.

It sounds like a downward spiral toward extinction, and it probably is. The spiral was touched off, quite unintentionally, by human intervention. Decades ago, Devil’s Hole was part of a much larger contiguous aquifer system, all of it teeming with life and jumping with pupfish. Nearby agriculture dropped the water table, leading to isolated aquifers like Devil’s Hole, and to the now-locked-in populations of pupfish starting to diverge genetically.

And here’s where we need to digress into semantics, because to understand what can and can’t be done for the pupfish, we have to understand what we mean when we say ‘species.’ Is the Devil’s Hole pupfish a distinct species? There are taxonomic differences, clearly visible ones and scientifically measurable ones, that make C. diabolis unique. Most biologists familiar with them would consider them at least a sub-species. That again might be semantical, but it seems close to definitive.

Or is it? One old, now mostly discarded definition of ‘species’ included an axiom that a species can only successfully breed within its own population. Yet we know that the Devil’s Hole Pupfish can breed with other ‘species’ of pupfish, from the surrounding desert region. Even with varieties so diverged as to have differing numbers of fins, the pupfish not only interbreed, but the hybrid populations actually thrive. Much more so, at least in controlled environments, than the “wild” pupfish.

The semantics of this become important in light of the idea, floated by a few of the biologists Rosner spoke with, that pupfish extinction might be averted. And averting it might be as easy as dropping into Devil’s Hole a few fertile females from nearby ponds.

That hasn’t happened yet, and it probably won’t happen anytime soon. Population management isn’t something we’re particularly good at, although we’re just now realizing it after thousands of years of trying. Science recalls with a shudder all the species we’ve wiped out under the rubric of ‘management.’  No way they’ll allow hybridization of the pupfish in the name of saving it, especially knowing that’ll mean the end of C. diabolis as a distinct species, or even sub-species.

I understand their point, but I wonder if they’re not missing the forest fire for the trees. We can save this species. By ending an isolation we caused.

In rebelling against the antiquated, destructive past methods of species management, the establishment of contemporary science opts for another way that seems, to me, just as antiquated. They opt to freeze nature in place, like it’s behind glass in a museum, like it exists in a world unmeddled with by man.

Sorry, but that ship has already sailed. The pupfish, like so many species, like our planet itself, has already been meddled with plenty. The meddling bell cannot be unrung.

So maybe the only solution is to re-ring it. To meddle further. To save a species by changing it forever.

It’s not something I’d advocate if I saw any other choice than inaction. And if I knew, as I do in this case, that inaction will almost surely lead to extinction.

It’s only a pupfish. Doesn’t even look all that tasty. But not only can we save it, but in saving it we might be trying out a new mindset, one that might allow us to save ourselves.


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Repelling boarders: an author’s guide to literary piracy

Intellectual property theft, just by virtue of that thunderous phrase, somehow sounds worse than any other kind of theft. It suggests, accurately enough, that those lowdown scalawags are stealing nothing less than the very issue of your mind. Given the choice you’d beg them to take your TV, your grandmother’s jewels, your millions. Just please, don’t take the intellectual property.

And then you go posting it all over the internet. Look, we’re in the golden age for the potential, if not always the reality, of copyright theft. Anyone desirous of impinging on the copyright privileges of authors, artists, photographers, and others aren’t hard pressed to do so—happily enabled by the same technologies employed by the content creators themselves to build and share their work.

Bottom line: if you’re creating intellectual property in durable form anywhere on this planet, you can be pirated. If you get famous enough, you will be.

If you take those facts as a starting point, you can begin to enjoy a different perspective on piracy. Indeed, a lot of authors are. Neil Gaiman, for one, gives a fascinating talk here, where he all but declares piracy good for business. Actually he does declare it, saying that he saw 300 per cent sales increases once he started giving books away. He points out that in places like Russia, where literature piracy is rife, he was able to build up loyal audiences long before his publisher got around to selling foreign rights and arranging for translations.

Author Peter Mountford goes Gaiman one step better. He says he’d prefer to get paid for his writing but when it comes down to it, he just wants to be read. And if he’s going to be pirated anyway, he’d just as soon be pirated well. So when he learned that his novel A Young Man’s Guide To Late Capitalism was being translated into Russian—and he was quite certain that no such translation had been authorized or paid for—he allowed himself to be drawn down a convoluted path where he spent months helping his rather inept pirate-translator figure out his word choice and nuance. It’s a fascinating story, told well in Mountford’s recent article for The Atlantic.

But with apologies to Mountford, there’s one who told a piracy story better. But then, Mark Twain was always peerless at storytelling.

In his long-delayed autobiography, he tells a multi-generational tale that starts in his boyhood, with a shy neighbor, whom he goads into climbing onto an icy roof in chase of some yeowling cats, and who ends up sliding down and, horribly embarrassingly, into the midst of the prettiest girls in town. It’s a very much Tom-Sawyer-esque story, which is probably why Mr. Clemens was still telling it so amusingly, close to 70 years later.

But he doesn’t share it in his memoirs for its own sake; it’s mere backstory. For some thirty years after the event, he received an invite from the paper Sunday Mercury to write for them anything he might fancy to write. They offered an irrefusable amount (Twain called it “over-pay” but adds “I did not say anything about that, for I was not so scrupulous as I am now”). He responds with the above-glossed story, “Jim Wolf and the Cats.”

Within a couple years, he says, that same story appeared in a southern newspaper, under the byline of a then-famous southern writer. When his own version was again published elsewhere in the following year or so, Twain was, he says, accused of stealing the southerner’s work. Twain says he never defended himself. “Few slanders can stand the wear of silence.”  He mentions elsewhere that he thought it best never to engage with slanderers unless you could get some large advantage from it.

Another quarter-century goes by, and Mr. Clemens is in London, enjoying the company of a few expatriate Yanks, some with similar literary interests. He mentions a young American who approaches he and his chums with a most tear-jerking story of a hungry wife and newborn child, and of a remittance check that’s gone astray. Some of Twain’s friends don’t believe a word of it, others including Twain are moved to tears and rush to fold money into the poor man’s hand. He’s back in a week, the timeframe he promised to return with his repayments, with more sad stories. The check still hasn’t arrived and now the baby is sick.

Twain not only presses more cash on the wretch, but takes it upon himself to help ease him of his woes. He takes him out on the town, buys him dinner and drinks and chats him up. Learning he’s a writer, he happily endorses the young man’s latest manuscript with an editor he knows.

The manuscript is accepted and payment is sent to the young man, but it arrives too late. The baby has died. All the money has been spent on doctors and medicine. Now there are burial costs. And his wife is still hungry.

Before Twain can reach for his wallet, one of his more curmudgeonly friends puts his foot down. The young man can have a few more pounds, he says, only when he can produce a baby corpse or at least a crying mamma. He takes a bit more pressure before crumbling and admitting – it had all been a sham.

Mr. Clemens is still processing the petty swindle when he learns that the young man’s recently published manuscript, the one he’d endorsed, was yet another version of “Jim Wolf and the Cats.”

It’s unclear as he writes it whether he was laughing about it. I know I was, but then I wasn’t the one being robbed.

How an author deals with such theft must be intimately personal. What works for one might not work for another. It’s easy for myself, or Neil Gaiman, or Peter Mountford to advise you to relax and accept piracy, accept you can’t do anything about it, and maybe even look within it for some advantage. But that advice might not be for everyone. I can see that.

So the only better advice I know, which sadly might not be possible for us all, still comes from the most unimpeachable of sources. Mr. Clemens advises you to wait a century then get the last word.

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I culture you: Proof of leadership

Jimmy Carter was a teetotaler. So was William Howard Taft. So was George W. Bush, and so was Adolf Hitler.

On the other team, among the men who enjoyed a drink or three while they won wars and led powerful nations, was Winston Churchill, Ulysses S. Grant, Ronald Reagan, Boris Yeltsin, and both our glorious Roosevelts.

Correlation isn’t causation, and I suppose it isn’t fair to say that abstention from the spirits somehow damages a man’s worthiness. It’s tempting though. A spot or two of whiskey, or whatever lubricant, opens up other channels of viewpoint. In vino there is veritas, but there’s a whole lot else in there as well. It’s a scrying glass for decisions about human character and human destiny. And lest you think I’m ignoring the destruction alcohol can bring, I assure you that’s integral to this process. A thinking drinking man knows he’s threading the needle, flirting with a wrecker of health and mental hygiene. That figures centrally in his calculations, and that makes him a better thinker and safer drinker.

We pour a glass to toast, to fete, to roast, and almost always to seal the kind of deals that require no signatures or witnesses. Just as shattered bottles launch proud new ships, shared bottles can launch understanding, meetings-of-mind, and very often partnerships and prosperity.

I suppose it’s the height of political incorrectness to urge drink for anyone, let alone everyone. Certainly anyone who’s forsworn the stuff, for whatever reason, deserves all the respect anyone does for personal decisions. Indeed, if they’ve turned their back on the aqueous vitae for reasons of health, then you better believe I wish them all the best with that. I raise a glass and drink heartily to it.

And while I’d never say that such folk disqualify themselves from leadership, not only because doing so would soar to greater heights of incorrectness; I do, as I say, think there’s some sharp and probing leadership quality set free in the hooch-caressed mind.

Whether it’s correlation or causation, personality tell or just my own rule of thumb, I can’t ignore it. Incorrect or not, I’ll admit to a mighty sigh of relief every time we avoid elevating a non-drinking man.

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What the world needs now is more frackin’ Cylons

If you’re not a sci-fi fan, then you’re probably not much interested in, nor have you seen, Ronald Moore’s 2004-2009 Battlestar Galactica series. And that’s a pity, because it’s not for nothing that Time Magazine has named it one of the 100 best TV shows of all time.

Superficially, the series was a remake of the 1978 ABC show of the same name. In terms of quality, the shows couldn’t be more different. Moore’s Battlestar featured intelligent, award-winning writing, and a story arc and climax that were nothing less than stunning. Set mostly in space, in claustrophobic ships and in the midst of a machine-versus-human war of extermination, the series smartly integrated topical themes like religion, terrorism, even abortion. It did so seamlessly, without preaching, without interrupting the story or noticeably mounting a soapbox. Like I said, the writing was that good.

But after the series ended in ’09 (and again, it ended perfectly) fans were understandably left wanting more, much more. Its cable network, SyFy (oh how I hate that cheesy name. It was adopted from the much more conventional ‘Sci-Fi Channel’ a few months after Battlestar ended) has already tried once to comply. The prequel series Caprica was set 50-odd years prior to Battlestar, and attempted to explain the events that set the Cylon (“cybernetic lifeform node”) war in motion. It wasn’t a bad show, but it wasn’t nearly as popular as the original, and SyFy cancelled it after only five episodes.

But SyFy has continued to hear the anguished cries (probably mostly mine. I’ve been anguishly crying a lot about this). And they’ve given us more Battlestar.

Allow me to introduce Battlestar Galactica: Blood & Chrome. Another prequel, this one is set during the height of the first Cylon war (yay, more space battles!). It will be primarily presented as a SyFy movie in early 2013.

But you don’t want to wait that long, do you? Me neither. So, I’m happy to say, Blood & Chrome will also premier as a 10-episode web series, although it’s not clear if those will be a serialization of the movie, or an adjunct. That’s okay though, because part of the Battlestar fun has always been the waiting, guessing, and anticipation.

In any case, some of that waiting is now over. The first two Blood & Chrome episodes are now available. And here they are. Enjoy!

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Election 2012: Final post

I could type another thousand words or so, but instead I’ll let this picture do my talking…

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Election liveblog (a long night ahead…)

Well here we go then. Polls have closed in a slew of eastern states (including my own) and the tabulations have begun. Let’s start digging into this thing…

11:17pm: Shutting this thing down now, with congratulations to President Barack Obama. Goodnight.

11:14pm: IT’S OVER. Ohio has been called for Obama, which takes him to 274 electoral votes. Congratulations, Mr. President.

11:11pm: Obama takes Iowa. That’s another 4 electoral votes.

11:04pm: With California closed, and its 55 votes in the president’s column, he’s over 240. Florida, Ohio, and Nevada all remain in play, and they can end this thing.

10:46pm: MN just called for the president.

10:38pm: Howard Fineman is reporting that the entire leadership of the Romney campaign has sequestered itself for the last hour or so, and is not communicating with the outside world. Suicide pact?

10:25pm: Despite the electoral picture, Governor Romney is holding onto a lead in the popular vote count. If this trend holds we might be looking at a split victory – never an encouraging scenario for national unity.

10:17pm: The paths to electoral victory for the respective presidential candidates is solidifying. Assuming that states like California break as expected (and that’s a pretty safe assumption), either Ohio or Florida will put Obama over the top. For Romney, he’ll need a LOT of contested states (most of which he’s currently losing in) to break his way. This thing ain’t over yet, but if Romney’s going to win, he’ll need something close to a miracle.

10:06pm: A new member of the senate next term: Angus King, elected in Maine. He’s independent, and refuses to say which party he’ll caucus with. Most interesting, he made filibuster reform a centerpiece of his campaign. Here’s wishing him success with that.

10:04pm: NBC is calling the electoral tally a tie at the moment: 162/162.

9:57pm: FLA is trending toward Obama. That win would be another huge surprise, and pretty much a deathknell for Mitt Romney’s presidential ambitions.

9:52pm: Obama takes New Hampshire. Decisively. This is my first real surprise tonight.

9:44pm: Elizabeth Warren has won Scott Brown’s senate seat in MA. Good on her.

9:39pm: Another big story tonight: the fortunes that have been wasted by fatcats who backed the wrong horse. Sherrod Brown’s win here in Ohio means that the Chamber of Commerce and Karl Rove’s house of political prostitution has spent $40 million for nothing. If Obama wins, that phenomenon’s increased by an order of magnitude. Sheldon Adelson and the Koch brothers will have spent a combined quarter billion dollars (at a guesstimate) tilting at their anti-Obama windmills. Stupid bastards might have well just have taken that money out and burned it.

9:36pm: ready to make this prediction: no matter who wins the big race, there won’t be any changes in the makeup of congress: Dems will hold the Senate, GOP will keep the house.

9:31pm: Wisconsin just called for the president, which puts him ahead in the electoral count for the first time of the night.

9:29pm: Revisiting Linda McMahon’s loss in CT – just read that in her final get-out-the-vote-push, her campaign was linking her – in a positive way (!) with president Obama. Never making any mention that she’s a member of the opposition party, or that she supports the challenger. That’s some shifty shit right there. She deserved to lose, and deserved to lose that $100 million she spent on this election.

9:23pm: Romney still ahead in the electoral count of states called thus far, but Obama has closed the margin to about 5. Very dynamic race at this point.

9:20pm: Florida is almost 80% counted, with Obama in the lead by just a couple thousand votes. Very much a must-win for Romney, especially with his mounting losses in the other battleground states.

9:16pm: Pennsylvania, with its 20 electoral votes, just called for the president.

9:13pm: Another as-yet uncalled state to keep your eye on: Virginia. If Romney can’t take Ohio he MUST take Virginia. If he loses both he might as well take off his magic underwear and go to bed.

9:10pm: About 30% of Ohio ballots counted, with Obama leading by nearly 200K. Still too close too call? Weird. But in any case, Romney’s chances in Ohio are slim, and if he loses here his chances nationally are slim to none.

9:05pm: Electoral tally now, depending on who you ask, is around 120 for Obama, 140 for Romney. Still rollin’ on…

9:01pm: Michigan just called for Obama. There goes one of Mitt’s last minute hail-marys. There goes, also, one of his paths to 270.

8:51pm: 22% counted in Ohio, and incumbent senator Sherrod Brown is leading challenger Josh Mandel by about 20 points. Looks like a stompin’ for our ambitious boy-man treasurer.

8:48pm: Addendum to that last – if there’s any other impact from the storm, we might thank the former FEMA administrator Brownie, who foolishly spoke up and in doing so only drew stark distinction between the Obama’s prowess for emergency management, and that of the previous administration.

8:41pm: Discussion underway (MSNBC) as to the political impacts of Hurricane Sandy. I’ve heard that Romney-defeat-apologists have already been quietly blaming Sandy for quashing GOP momentum. I’m not so sure. I think Romney’s defeat, if that’s what’s in the cards, was already in development, and quite self-inflicted. His gyrations in Ohio, where he tried to steal auto-industry votes away by outright misleading the electorate about Jeep and GM, destroyed any chance he had of winning this state. If Sandy had any real effect, it was only piling on.

8:36pm: At great risk to my stellar reputation, I’ll call attention to the prediction I made a couple weeks ago: I projected the president’s reelection, with a 2% margin in the general, and with a squeaky-close margin of 272 electoral votes. Standing by that, but starting to wonder if both margins won’t be much greater.

8:32pm: CT senate race just called: Chris Murphy defeats Linda McMahon. Go figure; she can’t buy a senate seat no matter how hard she tries. She’s probably hankerin’ to hit someone with a folding chair.

8:30pm: MSNBC again; just saw Charlie Crist totally calling out Fla. gov Rick Scott for voter suppression. And he has a point. Seems to me that Scott runs his state like he ran his company: very shadily, and probably illegally.

8:25pm: My own experience: 2.5 hrs waiting line for early voting day before yesterday. It was cold as hell, utterly boring, but it was worth it. Was happy to see very, very few people give up and go home before casting their ballot. The missus voted today at our regular precinct, and reported about 45 minutes waiting. This is all anecdotal, but I think it points to a record turnout.

8:22pm: In that same vein – Howard Fineman (MSNBC) just projected a 75% share of the Latino vote for Obama. Wow.

8:15pm: while we wait, let’s dissect. What conclusions can we draw from the possible outcomes of this election? To begin with, the president’s reelection will say a lot about the shifting demographics of this country. With the majority of the majority (whites) going for Romney, the changing racial makeup of the nation favors the president. Will that make the difference tonight? Too early to say. But as for the next presidential election, and the ones after that – when the aggregate minorities become the majority? That’s a different ballgame. If the GOP continues to alienate these populations, then they’re through as a party that can win national elections.

8:12pm: At this early point most states (and down-ballot races) are still in the “too close to call” category. A few of the early and most reliable states have been called: Vermont, Maine, Georgia, South Carolina – leading to a current electoral count of 64 for the president, 82 for the former governor. A long way to go for both.

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Election 2012 – liveblogging the results

This space is supposed to be reserved for only the most highbrowed discussion of art, literature, and culture. Yet again and again, we wade into the morass of political culture…probably solely because of our love of oxymorons.

So…once more unto the breach. The Deconstruction will be liveblogging the election returns tonight, as a way of putting a stake into this vampire of an election. Starting ’round about 8pm Eastern, and lasting until a winner is declared (or until it’s clear we’re heading for recounts and incomprehensible Supreme Court decisions), we’ll be bringing the snark.

So join us. Because really, who wants to spend such an important evening with Wolf Blitzer, right?

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