Speaker: Bobby Jindal, Gov. Louisiana (Repub.)
Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. [Applause].
I'll cut to the chase. Speak plainly. We got whupped out there last November. [Pause - no response] More whupp-oed than Jesus! [Pause]. Y'know, in 'The Passion of the Christ'!
[EVANGELICALS applause. The other person in the hall is silent.]
So - here we all are. The Republican party base. And to think those Dems said that we could hold our conventions in a phone booth! [Loud boos, jeers]. Well. I'd hardly call the Lynchburgh Pre-kindergarten Recreation and Rumpus Room a f***in' phone booth, would you?!
I'm sorry, mother.
I have been called upon to reconstruct the party's philosophy after - I'm speaking carefully here, y'know? - after that b****ard stole the f***in' election. I'm sorry - won the election. Are them words perty enough for you, Frank Rich?
In order to win the next election, we have to reaffirm our principles. Go back to what made this party great.
VOICE IN CROWD: Slavery? [confused murmurs]
JINDAL (flustered): Ah, no, no. Calm down.
VOICE IN CROWD: Gays out of the army!
JINDAL [amidst wild cheering]: I want, uh, real suggestions here. What are we gonna do next time? We can't just front up to the American people and say: 'No more gays!', can we? Folks? (Laughs nervously).
CROWD: No more gays! No more gays! No more gays!
JINDAL: Ah, yes - four more days! Four more days! I hear ya. Be quiet now. What do we like? Let's try and get a basic framework drawn up here. I'll draw a mind map. Republican Party: For. Anyone?
CROWD MEMBER: Playstation 3!
CROWD MEMBER: Twinkies!
CROWD MEMBER: Penthouse!
CROWD MEMBER: Han Solo!
CROWD MEMBER: Fartin' in my jacuzzi!
JINDAL: Right, right. Do we have any more, well, more policy-based suggestions? [Silence]. Ok, what don't we like? Reach deep into your conservative hearts - in the grand tradition of Edmund Burke and William F. Buckley Jr. - and tell me what we're AGAINST!
CROWD MEMBER: Hard words!
CROWD MEMBER: Weird food!
CROWD MEMBER: Spectacles!
CROWD MEMBER: Pussy little asian cars!
JINDAL (writing furiously): Hang on...pussy...little...cars...ok. We have, well, a lot of material here. A heckuva lot of material. We are gonna be a force to be reckoned with again. Hands up who want some Robin-Hood-equal-opportunity guy stealing our money while we're asleep? Huh?
CROWD MEMBER: You mean Jesus? [Hysterical whoops and screams. All hands go up.]
JINDAL: No - that's not who I meant, people! Hands up who like bad democrat man? [All hands go down].
That's the ticket. Those dems and their 'brains trust'. All that thinkin'! Well, we got a brains trust, too! Our very own brains trust! I am excited about the future of the Republican Party, people. Very excited. You'd better watch your back, Democrats!
CROWD MEMBER: I'm hungry.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Rock n' Roll Morals
SPEAKER: Good afternoon. I'm speaking live from Harvard University, where I'm attending a conference panel entitled 'Artistically-inclined Rock Singers Heinously Outraged at Liberal Explicitness' (ARSHOLE).
On the panel are ex-Poison singer Brett Michaels; ex-Soundgarden singer Chris Cornell; and current AC/DC singer Brian Johnson. Greetings, gentlemen.
ALL: Good afternoon.
SPEAKER: Let's start with you, Brett. How did ARSHOLE start?
BM: Well, we in Hair-metal, Hard Rock and related subgenres are tired of being willfully misinterpreted, and hence marginalised, by an increasingly coarse public.
SPEAKER: Care to elaborate?
BM: Certainly. I'm talking about the alarming tendency of the mainstream media to read unintended messages into our lyrics.
SPEAKER: Could you provide an example, Mr. Michaels?
BM: One of Poison's records, 'Open Up and Say...Ahhh!', was purposefully (I believe) characterised as a reference to an - in my view - deviant sexual practice.
SPEAKER: I see. And what was the record intended to be about?
BM: My desire to become a doctor.
SPEAKER: A...doctor?
BM: Yes.
SPEAKER: How long have you had this wish?
BM: For as long as I can remember. Since I was a child, definitely.
SPEAKER: You got waylaid, then?
BM: You could say that. I 'fell in with the wrong crowd', as the cliche goes - a crowd that seemed to think that injected illegal substances and cheating on one's current partner constituted a valid life plan.
SPEAKER: Did you find that your personality was altered as a result of the company you kept?
BM: Yes, regrettably. There is a certain post-performance demographic known as the 'groupie', for example...
SPEAKER: Please go on.
BM: ...a term which refers to a tradition where members of the band retreat to their trailers for meaningless sexual encounters with uncommitted women. After these experiences, I invariably felt cheapened. None of them wanted to discuss the music. There were times when thoughts of my poor wife almost prevented me from going on stage.
SPEAKER: Mr. Cornell, would you care to comment on this disturbing trend?
CC: I had a similar experience during the recording of our album 'Louder Than Love'. I spent several months crafting a song about the difficulties of empathy.
SPEAKER: What was the song called?
CC: 'Swallow My Pride'. As should be obvious from the title, it's about the desire of a caring partner to inhabit their loved one's subjective experiences.
SPEAKER: And the media attacked you?
CC: They distorted the song's meaning to suit their own perverted ends. [Transcriber's note: voice starts to quaver at this point]. I can't even say out loud what Kerrang! magazine claimed it was about. Sometimes I think Axl Rose was right about them. They misinterpreted him, too.
SPEAKER: And these misunderstandings dogged you throughout your career?
CC: Of course. There was a song called 'Mailman' on our album 'Superunknown', which contains the couplet:
'I know I'm heading for the bottom/
But I'm riding you all the way.'
That song was never the same for me after the critics got to it.
SPEAKER: What was 'Mailman' intended to be about?
CC: I would have thought it was obvious: it is a song about my appreciation for the good work done by the US Postal Service.
SPEAKER (Hesitant): So...how would you explain the 'riding' reference?
CC: That part is a dialogue between a postman and his van, spoken while riding down a hill. When I used to watch 'Postman Pat' as a child, I always thought that Pat looked happiest when riding down a hill in his smiling van. It's a love song, I guess.
SPEAKER: Thank you. Finally, Mr. Johnson: You believe that your quartet has been especially hard done by?
BJ: Without a doubt.
SPEAKER: Ok. I'll read out several of your song titles, and you can tell the audience what the actual - as distinct from the perceived - subject matter is.
BJ: I'd be glad to.
SPEAKER: Let's begin. 'Givin' the Dog a Bone'?
BJ: That's about my toy poodle, Latifah.
SPEAKER: 'Big Balls'?
BJ: That's about my ten-pin bowling career.
SPEAKER: 'Sink the Pink'?
BJ: That's about my hobby - billiards.
SPEAKER: 'Let me Put My Love Into You'?
BJ: That's about sharing cupboard space after getting married. It's a difficult issue.
SPEAKER: 'Cover You in Oil'?
BJ: I like to cook roast chicken. It's self-explanatory.
SPEAKER: Thank you, Mr. Johnson. May I ask you all what you're working on at the moment?
BM: I'm writing a concept album about the urgent need to reform the American Medical Association.
SPEAKER: Do you have a title?
BM: 'Spreadeagled'. That's a reference, of course, to the American Eagle - standing in for the country as a whole - and how thinly its resources are currently spread due to lack of healthcare reform.
SPEAKER: Mr. Cornell?
CC: I'm trying to repair the damage done by the previous reaction to my work, by recording a rock opera about the doomed love between a horse and a unicorn.
SPEAKER: What is this album called?
CC: Its working title is 'Impaled on my Massive Horn'. I think that brings the pathos of the subject through quite well.
SPEAKER: And you, Mr. Johnson?
BJ: AC/DC are recording a new single especially for ARSHOLE.
SPEAKER: Entitled...?
BJ: 'Tits Tits Tits'.
SPEAKER: What is this one about?
BJ: The joys of ornithology.
On the panel are ex-Poison singer Brett Michaels; ex-Soundgarden singer Chris Cornell; and current AC/DC singer Brian Johnson. Greetings, gentlemen.
ALL: Good afternoon.
SPEAKER: Let's start with you, Brett. How did ARSHOLE start?
BM: Well, we in Hair-metal, Hard Rock and related subgenres are tired of being willfully misinterpreted, and hence marginalised, by an increasingly coarse public.
SPEAKER: Care to elaborate?
BM: Certainly. I'm talking about the alarming tendency of the mainstream media to read unintended messages into our lyrics.
SPEAKER: Could you provide an example, Mr. Michaels?
BM: One of Poison's records, 'Open Up and Say...Ahhh!', was purposefully (I believe) characterised as a reference to an - in my view - deviant sexual practice.
SPEAKER: I see. And what was the record intended to be about?
BM: My desire to become a doctor.
SPEAKER: A...doctor?
BM: Yes.
SPEAKER: How long have you had this wish?
BM: For as long as I can remember. Since I was a child, definitely.
SPEAKER: You got waylaid, then?
BM: You could say that. I 'fell in with the wrong crowd', as the cliche goes - a crowd that seemed to think that injected illegal substances and cheating on one's current partner constituted a valid life plan.
SPEAKER: Did you find that your personality was altered as a result of the company you kept?
BM: Yes, regrettably. There is a certain post-performance demographic known as the 'groupie', for example...
SPEAKER: Please go on.
BM: ...a term which refers to a tradition where members of the band retreat to their trailers for meaningless sexual encounters with uncommitted women. After these experiences, I invariably felt cheapened. None of them wanted to discuss the music. There were times when thoughts of my poor wife almost prevented me from going on stage.
SPEAKER: Mr. Cornell, would you care to comment on this disturbing trend?
CC: I had a similar experience during the recording of our album 'Louder Than Love'. I spent several months crafting a song about the difficulties of empathy.
SPEAKER: What was the song called?
CC: 'Swallow My Pride'. As should be obvious from the title, it's about the desire of a caring partner to inhabit their loved one's subjective experiences.
SPEAKER: And the media attacked you?
CC: They distorted the song's meaning to suit their own perverted ends. [Transcriber's note: voice starts to quaver at this point]. I can't even say out loud what Kerrang! magazine claimed it was about. Sometimes I think Axl Rose was right about them. They misinterpreted him, too.
SPEAKER: And these misunderstandings dogged you throughout your career?
CC: Of course. There was a song called 'Mailman' on our album 'Superunknown', which contains the couplet:
'I know I'm heading for the bottom/
But I'm riding you all the way.'
That song was never the same for me after the critics got to it.
SPEAKER: What was 'Mailman' intended to be about?
CC: I would have thought it was obvious: it is a song about my appreciation for the good work done by the US Postal Service.
SPEAKER (Hesitant): So...how would you explain the 'riding' reference?
CC: That part is a dialogue between a postman and his van, spoken while riding down a hill. When I used to watch 'Postman Pat' as a child, I always thought that Pat looked happiest when riding down a hill in his smiling van. It's a love song, I guess.
SPEAKER: Thank you. Finally, Mr. Johnson: You believe that your quartet has been especially hard done by?
BJ: Without a doubt.
SPEAKER: Ok. I'll read out several of your song titles, and you can tell the audience what the actual - as distinct from the perceived - subject matter is.
BJ: I'd be glad to.
SPEAKER: Let's begin. 'Givin' the Dog a Bone'?
BJ: That's about my toy poodle, Latifah.
SPEAKER: 'Big Balls'?
BJ: That's about my ten-pin bowling career.
SPEAKER: 'Sink the Pink'?
BJ: That's about my hobby - billiards.
SPEAKER: 'Let me Put My Love Into You'?
BJ: That's about sharing cupboard space after getting married. It's a difficult issue.
SPEAKER: 'Cover You in Oil'?
BJ: I like to cook roast chicken. It's self-explanatory.
SPEAKER: Thank you, Mr. Johnson. May I ask you all what you're working on at the moment?
BM: I'm writing a concept album about the urgent need to reform the American Medical Association.
SPEAKER: Do you have a title?
BM: 'Spreadeagled'. That's a reference, of course, to the American Eagle - standing in for the country as a whole - and how thinly its resources are currently spread due to lack of healthcare reform.
SPEAKER: Mr. Cornell?
CC: I'm trying to repair the damage done by the previous reaction to my work, by recording a rock opera about the doomed love between a horse and a unicorn.
SPEAKER: What is this album called?
CC: Its working title is 'Impaled on my Massive Horn'. I think that brings the pathos of the subject through quite well.
SPEAKER: And you, Mr. Johnson?
BJ: AC/DC are recording a new single especially for ARSHOLE.
SPEAKER: Entitled...?
BJ: 'Tits Tits Tits'.
SPEAKER: What is this one about?
BJ: The joys of ornithology.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Rejected Inauguration Speeches
Although Obama's inauguration speech was co-written by the 27-year-old Jon Favreau, a number of speechwriters were reportedly under consideration for the task.
An envelope with two speeches, apparently rejected, was found on the lectern by an observant cleaner after Obama had finished speaking. They are reproduced in their entirety below.
REJECTED SPEECH #1:
'A Happy Day for Rapacious American Imperialist Dogs'
By John Pilger, author of 'Napalm America!'
Welcome, Americans, and thank you for taking time off from your sweatshop-exploiting purchasing frenzies to attend today.
I am being sarcastic, of course: I do not wish to thank any of you. This is because you have not participated in the democratic process.
Last November, you voted for, and "elected" [remember air quote gesture here] one candidate only: the dollar. None of you participated in anything resembling a democratic process. Voting, for you appalling bottom-feeding scum, is simply a process of electing your favourite mass murderer. Every ballot cast was like a dagger in the heart of someone from South-East Asia that you don't care about, and who probably made your shoes.
You all disgust me, but worse - you profoundly scare me. A goose-stepping cavalcade of heavily tranquilised matrix-monkeys would show more independence of thought than you violent, somnambulistic, bloodthirsty goons.
I stand before you as the perfect Manchurian Candidate. I will dedicate myself to achieving your depraved, violent goals - shovelling cash into the gaping maws of murderous client states.
The slogan for my presidency should have been 'Yes, I can' - as you have no wills of your own. And do you think electing my Doppleganger would have made any difference whatsoever, you Imperialist pawns?
So, repeat after me, automatons.
Overthrowing democratically elected governments? [Crowd will respond: 'Yes, you can.' Pause for laugh here.]
Cutting swathes of destruction through the ranks of our "enemies"? [again, remember menacing scare quotes here. Crowd will respond: Yes, you can.]
Using the blood of innocents as a delicious breakfast condiment and licking your lips afterwards? [Crowd will respond: Yes, you can.]
Thank you, rabble. You disgust me.
*
REJECTED SPEECH #2: 'Stop Voting for Nazis, you Pussies!'
By Daniel Pipes, author of 'Can't We Just Move the Arabs to Syria or Someplace?: Notes Towards a Solution to the Middle Eastern Conflict'.
Thank you, fellow Americans, for electing a closeted Islamo-Fascist to the White House. A 'negotiator'. [sneer here].
As everyone knows, negotiators love the Nazis. Underneath my stars and stripes lapel pin is a swastika - but you were all too appallingly stupid to notice. Blinded by your lazy liberal love of hummus and falafels.
Well, I love a falafel as much as the next guy - but you can't run foreign policy on the principles of a delicious deep-fried vegetarian chickpea-based snack.
The fact is, residents of the greatest country that the universe has ever known, you've been sold down the river by a bunch of liberals. Again. Idiots. All that stuff about 'love' for other countries - is that what you were expecting today? There are no other countries - only enemies. And most of these enemies speak other languages. Funny languages that don't make sense. And you should never trust someone who speaks funny. Have you people learned nothing from Liberace?
To my solutions. Our defence budget is far too small. Next year, every child will get a free handgun, their parents a free F-16. For America's strength cannot be summed up in its people, or its ideals, or its diversity. Our strength is in our military, eggheads. You know, in strong stuff. Made of steel. (I honestly can't believe I have to explain this.)
For those who think 'the pen is mightier than the sword', or some other defeatist crap: watch this. [Take bic cystal ballpoint pen and machete out of briefcase here; pulverise former with latter.] Bullshit!
We have been losing wars because we are weak. Korea? Not enough guns. Vietnam? Not enough choppers. Iraq I? Not enough remote controlled missiles. Iraq II? Not enough Hummers.
It's time to get real, America, so we can win this thing. [Spit in disgust here.]
See ya.
An envelope with two speeches, apparently rejected, was found on the lectern by an observant cleaner after Obama had finished speaking. They are reproduced in their entirety below.
REJECTED SPEECH #1:
'A Happy Day for Rapacious American Imperialist Dogs'
By John Pilger, author of 'Napalm America!'
Welcome, Americans, and thank you for taking time off from your sweatshop-exploiting purchasing frenzies to attend today.
I am being sarcastic, of course: I do not wish to thank any of you. This is because you have not participated in the democratic process.
Last November, you voted for, and "elected" [remember air quote gesture here] one candidate only: the dollar. None of you participated in anything resembling a democratic process. Voting, for you appalling bottom-feeding scum, is simply a process of electing your favourite mass murderer. Every ballot cast was like a dagger in the heart of someone from South-East Asia that you don't care about, and who probably made your shoes.
You all disgust me, but worse - you profoundly scare me. A goose-stepping cavalcade of heavily tranquilised matrix-monkeys would show more independence of thought than you violent, somnambulistic, bloodthirsty goons.
I stand before you as the perfect Manchurian Candidate. I will dedicate myself to achieving your depraved, violent goals - shovelling cash into the gaping maws of murderous client states.
The slogan for my presidency should have been 'Yes, I can' - as you have no wills of your own. And do you think electing my Doppleganger would have made any difference whatsoever, you Imperialist pawns?
So, repeat after me, automatons.
Overthrowing democratically elected governments? [Crowd will respond: 'Yes, you can.' Pause for laugh here.]
Cutting swathes of destruction through the ranks of our "enemies"? [again, remember menacing scare quotes here. Crowd will respond: Yes, you can.]
Using the blood of innocents as a delicious breakfast condiment and licking your lips afterwards? [Crowd will respond: Yes, you can.]
Thank you, rabble. You disgust me.
*
REJECTED SPEECH #2: 'Stop Voting for Nazis, you Pussies!'
By Daniel Pipes, author of 'Can't We Just Move the Arabs to Syria or Someplace?: Notes Towards a Solution to the Middle Eastern Conflict'.
Thank you, fellow Americans, for electing a closeted Islamo-Fascist to the White House. A 'negotiator'. [sneer here].
As everyone knows, negotiators love the Nazis. Underneath my stars and stripes lapel pin is a swastika - but you were all too appallingly stupid to notice. Blinded by your lazy liberal love of hummus and falafels.
Well, I love a falafel as much as the next guy - but you can't run foreign policy on the principles of a delicious deep-fried vegetarian chickpea-based snack.
The fact is, residents of the greatest country that the universe has ever known, you've been sold down the river by a bunch of liberals. Again. Idiots. All that stuff about 'love' for other countries - is that what you were expecting today? There are no other countries - only enemies. And most of these enemies speak other languages. Funny languages that don't make sense. And you should never trust someone who speaks funny. Have you people learned nothing from Liberace?
To my solutions. Our defence budget is far too small. Next year, every child will get a free handgun, their parents a free F-16. For America's strength cannot be summed up in its people, or its ideals, or its diversity. Our strength is in our military, eggheads. You know, in strong stuff. Made of steel. (I honestly can't believe I have to explain this.)
For those who think 'the pen is mightier than the sword', or some other defeatist crap: watch this. [Take bic cystal ballpoint pen and machete out of briefcase here; pulverise former with latter.] Bullshit!
We have been losing wars because we are weak. Korea? Not enough guns. Vietnam? Not enough choppers. Iraq I? Not enough remote controlled missiles. Iraq II? Not enough Hummers.
It's time to get real, America, so we can win this thing. [Spit in disgust here.]
See ya.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Bring me your tired, your huddled....
And now for another excerpt from the collection of odd accidents that was my childhood.
My elder brother was having a Barbecue at his place - an event that I, a devoted and practicing carnivore at the time, was understandably excited about. This time, however, I was at - there's no easy way to put this - cricket practice (a story for another post) - and I wasn't able to get to his place until everyone else had already arrived.
'Tim!' they all said, with that warm tone of welcome that adults use on children, and which children inevitably love (even if they pretend they don't).
'I just have to get changed, and I'll be right out', I said, greatly looking forward to the awaiting succulent hunks of charred meat.
I went into my brother's room (I had, with unusual foresight, brought a change of clothing for the occasion). Halfway through changing, I looked in the corner of the room and saw... a mysterious black bag. Can you, in your heart of hearts, blame me for opening it?
The bag contained a big, red, heavy bowling ball. Most children, on finding such an object, might think: 'wouldn't it be fun to roll this across the floor for a bit?'
Not I. Instead, I thought: 'wouldn't it be fun, and even a little flattering, to pose with the bowling ball in front of the mirror?' (I had a rather strange body image at the time, I think.)
So, I gingerly took the ball from the bag, and slowly walked towards the smoked full-length mirror, my posture resembling someone who had just gotten a gigantic arm made of lead unexpectedly riveted to their right side.
It looked pretty cool, I must say. With my index and middle fingers lodged in the holes, I preened awhile and imagined myself as the junior 10-pin champion of the universe.
Next, I truly went for the epic. Imagining myself as a perfect (and non-hermaphroditic) hybrid of Michaelangelo's David and the Statue of Liberty, I slowly extended my right arm above my head, and held it aloft with ball attached.
I should stress at this point that my brother used a 16-pound ball. 16 pounds is around 7 kilograms - approximately the mass of an adult human head.
Triumphant, reveling in my own titanic strength, I looked proudly at my straining, wiry, right bicep-tricep combo, capped with the magificent red sphere. But I let my marble/copper sculpted daydream run away with me, lost concentration for a small interval, and closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, I noticed that the ball was forcing my ball-gripping fingers into a direction that they probably weren't supposed to go. Without support, the bowling ball surrendered custody to its old master - gravity.
Or, to put it another way, I dropped the bowling ball onto my face. Which is not quite as much fun as it sounds.
Regaining consciousness on the floor in a pool of my own blood, I opened my eyes to a closeup view of the blood-covered sphere and thought: isn't that funny: my blood's exactly the same colour as the ball!
Just switch to everyone else's perspective for a second: quiet boy goes into room to change out of his gym gear. Emerges with mild concussion, smashed lips, and bloodied face.
I couldn't talk for several hours, which did make explaining rather difficult.
My elder brother was having a Barbecue at his place - an event that I, a devoted and practicing carnivore at the time, was understandably excited about. This time, however, I was at - there's no easy way to put this - cricket practice (a story for another post) - and I wasn't able to get to his place until everyone else had already arrived.
'Tim!' they all said, with that warm tone of welcome that adults use on children, and which children inevitably love (even if they pretend they don't).
'I just have to get changed, and I'll be right out', I said, greatly looking forward to the awaiting succulent hunks of charred meat.
I went into my brother's room (I had, with unusual foresight, brought a change of clothing for the occasion). Halfway through changing, I looked in the corner of the room and saw... a mysterious black bag. Can you, in your heart of hearts, blame me for opening it?
The bag contained a big, red, heavy bowling ball. Most children, on finding such an object, might think: 'wouldn't it be fun to roll this across the floor for a bit?'
Not I. Instead, I thought: 'wouldn't it be fun, and even a little flattering, to pose with the bowling ball in front of the mirror?' (I had a rather strange body image at the time, I think.)
So, I gingerly took the ball from the bag, and slowly walked towards the smoked full-length mirror, my posture resembling someone who had just gotten a gigantic arm made of lead unexpectedly riveted to their right side.
It looked pretty cool, I must say. With my index and middle fingers lodged in the holes, I preened awhile and imagined myself as the junior 10-pin champion of the universe.
Next, I truly went for the epic. Imagining myself as a perfect (and non-hermaphroditic) hybrid of Michaelangelo's David and the Statue of Liberty, I slowly extended my right arm above my head, and held it aloft with ball attached.
I should stress at this point that my brother used a 16-pound ball. 16 pounds is around 7 kilograms - approximately the mass of an adult human head.
Triumphant, reveling in my own titanic strength, I looked proudly at my straining, wiry, right bicep-tricep combo, capped with the magificent red sphere. But I let my marble/copper sculpted daydream run away with me, lost concentration for a small interval, and closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, I noticed that the ball was forcing my ball-gripping fingers into a direction that they probably weren't supposed to go. Without support, the bowling ball surrendered custody to its old master - gravity.
Or, to put it another way, I dropped the bowling ball onto my face. Which is not quite as much fun as it sounds.
Regaining consciousness on the floor in a pool of my own blood, I opened my eyes to a closeup view of the blood-covered sphere and thought: isn't that funny: my blood's exactly the same colour as the ball!
Just switch to everyone else's perspective for a second: quiet boy goes into room to change out of his gym gear. Emerges with mild concussion, smashed lips, and bloodied face.
I couldn't talk for several hours, which did make explaining rather difficult.
Friday, January 2, 2009
The Saint
The Obama photoshoot in the GoodWeekend a few weeks back was a little bit concerning, I thought. It was a great set - I spent about 15 minutes swooning over it - and it reinforced my crush, as it probably did for other readers.
But one photo stuck out: it showed Obama sitting with his crossed feet resting on a table. The caption described the holes in the bottom of his shoes, which had been made by all the walking that he had been doing during the campaign. It was the hardship that he'd been through that we were encouraged to see. The worn-out shoes became a shorthand for the man himself.
A similar thing happened with the 'news' that Obama is going to purchase a tuxedo for his inauguration. He only has one beaten-up one, apparently, which he purchased years ago. This is appealing, of course, but it's also fairly irrelevant.
Looking at the photos, I found it very hard to slough off the sense of awe that I felt, and feel, towards him. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that a large section of the population - me included - is 'in love' with him, insofar as one can fall in love with a stranger. This is a helpful attitude to have when you're supporting a campaign, but perhaps not so helpful when you're dealing with a sitting president.
It's hardly Obama's fault that he is, well, not exactly aesthetically or charismatically deficient. However, I think it will be a challenge for the world to judge his presidency in a disinterested manner. The Republican Party's 'Obama = Celebrity' ad worked, in part, because there was some truth in it.
Of course, the fact that it was nasty, paranoid & racist gave it a little help, too. God bless the GOP!
But one photo stuck out: it showed Obama sitting with his crossed feet resting on a table. The caption described the holes in the bottom of his shoes, which had been made by all the walking that he had been doing during the campaign. It was the hardship that he'd been through that we were encouraged to see. The worn-out shoes became a shorthand for the man himself.
A similar thing happened with the 'news' that Obama is going to purchase a tuxedo for his inauguration. He only has one beaten-up one, apparently, which he purchased years ago. This is appealing, of course, but it's also fairly irrelevant.
Looking at the photos, I found it very hard to slough off the sense of awe that I felt, and feel, towards him. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that a large section of the population - me included - is 'in love' with him, insofar as one can fall in love with a stranger. This is a helpful attitude to have when you're supporting a campaign, but perhaps not so helpful when you're dealing with a sitting president.
It's hardly Obama's fault that he is, well, not exactly aesthetically or charismatically deficient. However, I think it will be a challenge for the world to judge his presidency in a disinterested manner. The Republican Party's 'Obama = Celebrity' ad worked, in part, because there was some truth in it.
Of course, the fact that it was nasty, paranoid & racist gave it a little help, too. God bless the GOP!
Monday, December 29, 2008
$10 Chardy
I probably should add that I watched Alfie while drinking a bottle of rather cheap wine - a fact that might explain a few of the confusing thematic leaps of the last two posts.
American booty
The previous post made me realise that 'the film of the 1990s', American Beauty, will suffer the same fate as Alfie. American Beauty is the Alfie of our time.
If you watch AB now, you'll see how it's one of those films that's already dated appallingly. Just think: when we were teenagers, we cared about the disintegration of Kevin Spacey's marriage. He is JUST like Alfie. Mark my words: the film will turn up in the 'well made Hollywood Bombs of the 90s' series - just beside cutthroat island.
If you watch AB now, you'll see how it's one of those films that's already dated appallingly. Just think: when we were teenagers, we cared about the disintegration of Kevin Spacey's marriage. He is JUST like Alfie. Mark my words: the film will turn up in the 'well made Hollywood Bombs of the 90s' series - just beside cutthroat island.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)