It is not part of my spiritual make-up to believe that God “punishes” anyone. Or any political party. Or its denizens. That being said, I do think it’s pretty thought-provoking that the Dem Nash Con was met with sunshiny days and warm nights in Denver — a great place for 80,000 folks to gather in an open-air stadium and hear something inspiring. And, by contrast, the Repub Nash Con is going to take place during a cataclysm. A Katrina-esque cataclysm.
Okay, this Sarah Palin thing has me kinda stumped. I can only think of two scenarios that would explain someone so completely unqualified being chosen as a Veep candidate.
One idea is that John McCain is a complete, wildcatting moron. Or egomaniac. He either had the simplistic idea that a woman would take all the Hillary malcontents from the Dems, or he figures that he will look stronger and more capable if a female Dan Quayle is standing next to him.
It’s so much fun to contrast Dems with Repubs right now, because Obama is making the differences so strikingly clear.
While Obama — clearly confident with his choice — kept his selection for Vice President a secret until he wanted to reveal it directly, McCain’s choice is somehow being “leaked” to us now by “sources.” I guess the old guy wants to make sure all the chatter has subsided before he actually announces it. Old guys don’t like a lot of chatter, y’know.
The best line in Mary Poppins is when she says, “Enough is as good as a feast.” These are not words that I’ve necessarily lived by — particularly when there’s a full bag of cheezy poofs in front of me — but they do make a good case for sensibility. And tonight has been a good opportunity to ponder the various meanings of “enough.”
Barack Obama gave an incredible speech tonight, a sublime speech. He used the word “enough” to describe America’s feelings about eight years of Bush: Eight is enough. And how four more with McCain would be more than enough of that.
There was a lot of anticipation about Obama’s convention speech, about whether he would deliver enough. He did.
As we approach Barack Obama’s culminating speech at the Dem Nash Conv, I wonder how long it will be before the Evil Underlords of the Republican Party pull out the race card in all its fearmongering glory.
I guess I could be considered a racist, in that I can’t honestly say it makes no difference to me that Obama is African American. It actually does make a difference to me; I’m freakin’ glad he is, and hope that our electing this erudite and sensible man to the Presidency will send a message to the world — a world that our current administration has so dilgently and thoroughly alienated. I hope it will signal that America has regained its ethical compass and is ready to rejoin the world party. And bring snacks.
I don’t know if it’s my dream or my fear that everything in the world become musical theater. I’ll ponder that as we watch this hard-hitting intervention of a crystal meth addict.
Sorry about the tacky title; I kid because I love.
Matthew Mitcham is an Olympic diver from Australia who took gold last night. It was a surprise upset, because the Chinese diver seemed to have it in the bag.
What makes this extra interesting — sociologically, of course — is that Matthew Mitcham is gay and out. (more…)
An occasional gratitude list of writing that makes me glad.
1. Mad Men, season 1, episode 9 — in which Betty, the beautiful housewife, hoists a shotgun and takes aim at the neighbor’s pigeons.
2. Mad Men, season 1, episode 12 — which defines what it is to have an American identity, as expressed in “simpler” times.
3. The book of She Loves Me, the musical — whose music and lyrics (by the Fiddler on the Roof guys) are lovely, but whose book (by Joe Masteroff) is surpassingly unsentimental in its sentimentality.
4. Satan’s Alley — the “trailer” in Tropic Thunder for the faux film about two gay priests, courtesy of Robert Downey, Jr., Tobey Maguire, and Ben Stiller. You couldn’t have given your Brokeback Monastery a funnier title.
5. One Life to Live — I don’t know where they’re going with their Back-to-the-Future-on-steroids storyline, but I’m fascinated. And impressed.
As you may have read here previously, I’m in rehearsals for a show right now. I think the leading lady of this production is pretty fabby. While I was out spending the past 25 years being esoteric, she and most of the rest of this cast were continuing on in the theater. And accruing some mighty tasty stories.
At the bequest of FLL (Fabby Leading Lady) I will try and keep the crux of this story anonymous (though I feel the use of “Chuck” is essential . . . please think it’s a made-up name, and the real person’s name is Smedley).
It seems that FLL was starring on Broadway, opposite this Chuck character (who had quite the reputation as a real piece o’ work). One evening, during a quiet moment in the performance, Chuck whispered to FLL, “Will you please get through the show quickly tonight? I don’t want to miss my train.” Onstage. During the show.
FLL, without missing a beat, whispered back, “Chuck, I’m living my dream. I’m starring in a Broadway show, and I’m not going to speed it up so you can catch your train.”
“Chuck, I’m living my dream” is my new favorite phrase. FLL is a wonderful mix of the ingenuous and the been-around-the-block. And I feel both those things in my new favorite phrase; it can be said ironically or not. Or just in homage to the best aspects of Show Business. And Chuck.
It’s probably not a secret, but I love the Internet. If for no other reason than its ability to gush information. I don’t consider myself a research freak, but there are those times when you want/need to know something. And I’m old enough to remember when one was at the mercy of the family encyclopedia or an impatient reference-desk librarian if one wanted to know something.
Now I can find my info almost as fast as I can say Yahoo — and also get the information interpreted (that means wrong) and/or delivered by a drag queen. Which is not to say that drag queens are necessarily wrong. Far from it, I’m sure.
I’ve been watching the whole first season of “Mad Men,” as is my wont of finding out about a cable series after it’s been deigned wonderful and then marathoning my way into cognition. Some of the music they play over the closing credits of this late-’50s-themed show is a wowser. I always liked Rosemary Clooney’s sassy Italian-y numbers, like “Mambo Italiano” and even “Come-on-a My House,” and they played one I hadn’t heard before but instantly developed a jones for.
In typical un-P.C. Eisenhower-era fashion, the song is an English version of something with an Italian lyric of “bacia me, bambino” (”kiss me, baby”). I was having a hard time Googling the correct spelling; who knew those cool cats in the day spelled it “botch-a-me”? Once I zeroed in on the title, I figured it would be a piece o’ pound cake to get an MP3 of it, jack. But the best recording I could find of it was on YouTube, as the underscore to a li’l piece of swingin’ performance art. (”Performance art” is what you should call everything on YouTube that might otherwise give you nightmares thinking that someone was serious when they did it.)
I’m not sure what it says about the New Information Age that the linkage led me to this drag queen singing along to “Botch-a-me My Baby.” If I thought about it a while, I’m certain there’s some sociological insight to be gleaned here. It looks a little bit like a snuff film, or something done on an early Instamatic. And I have no idea why the letterboxing is on the wrong sides.
But I didn’t understand everything in “Twin Peaks,” either.
