Friday, November 30, 2007

Friday Frank: A Cold Dark Matter; Trance Fusion



I love the floaty guitar solo in this piece. And I defy you to listen to it--while watching the dolphins' slow, spiraling dance and joyful surfriding--and not feel calmer and perhaps a little floaty yourself.

With Frank Zappa, Ike Willis, Mike Keneally, Bobby Martin, and company.

Bon Weekend, everyone.

(H/T bongolamp)

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Conversus Interruptus and Endless Right-wing Blathering: Is MSNBC All Tuckered Out?


It was probably at least a year ago when I e-mailed Melissa about one of her favorite (heh heh) teevee-talkers, the guy she'd poetically dubbed "a penis in a bowtie".

"Tucker is a changed man, M!" I wrote. "No more bowtie!"

Looks like we aren't the only non-fans. To paraphrase Frank Zappa, the price of gas is going up and Tucker's ratings are going down, which fact has not escaped the notice of network suits:


Olbermann's success doesn't mean that MSNBC is banking left. Officials there swear it. MSNBC Senior Vice President Phil Griffin has known Olbermann for more than two decades and says he's betting on his host's personality and sensibility, not his beliefs. It's a question of branding, he says.

"Keith Olbermann is our brand; Chris Matthews is our brand," Griffin says. "These are smart, well-informed people who have a real sense of history and can put things in context."

Clearly, though, the brand is evolving. Conservative Joe Scarborough is being moved to the morning to replace Don Imus. MSNBC opened talks — since aborted — with outspoken liberal comic Rosie O'Donnell. But what about MSNBC's other conservative talk-show host, Tucker Carlson? Is he part of that same brand?

"He is right now," Griffin says.

Tucker's audience--all two of them, and of course they're bloody Florida-based--is hoping to drum up a little support for the unbowed boor. Via TRex, behold the Save Tucker Carlson website:

This decision by MSNBC will silence a conservative voice, part of a move by MSNBC to swing left and become "FOX for the Liberals," dropping any pretense of objectivity or balance. Tucker Carlson is a conservative who brings a tone of civility and his unfailing good-humor to political talk television. Quirky and unpredictable, we love Tucker.


Good humor? Are they referring to Tucker's former costume? And I admit it, I laughed out loud at FOX for the Liberals. As TRex drily notes:


Things I secretly enjoy:

1. When Republicans inadvertently admit that Pox News is a GOP propaganda mill.

And:

Any guy willing to go on "Dancing with the Stars" and treat guests both left and right with spirited but congenial debate should not be purged in some ideological marketing plan.


2. When suddenly the Right's faith in free markets collapses like a federal levee because god forbid, one of their own is actually threatened. (See National Review Online and Lileks, James for further details.)

Guys, I hate to break it to you, but it's got nothing to do with ideology and everything to do with ratings. Tucker is the second lowest rated man in cable news. Only Glenn Beck ranks lower. Surely you see what the Free Market dictates here. He's not pulling his weight. He's just soaking up the television equivalent of welfare dollars. Off. With. His. Head.

Because people who won't pull their weight are just a drag on society, aren't they, Republicans? The way Ah wuz raised, you work hard, take care of your own, and you don't take handouts from nobody.


Someone should tell Mr.-Never-Heard-a-Sentence-He-Didn't-Want-to-Interrupt that it's time to tighten that matching cummerbund.

Also at Shakesville.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

TRex Roars

Go say hello to former Firedoglake Late Nighter TRex over at his new stomping ground. Might I suggest you hurry if you want to catch him while he's still being nice, heh heh.

The Rational Actor's Libertarian Fête



The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached.
-- from A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens


The Rational Actor's Libertarian Fête


Come now, the ever-bitterer winter wind
Reminding one and all what season nears,
And with it come the needs and wants of friends;
The plight--the suffering!--told of distant spheres.
Ah, what is there to do but shake one's head
And wonder at the choices people make?
They knew what they were doing. He made his bed.
Some people want to live life on the take.
I suffered; there were sacrifices made.
The roads I chose have led me to this place,

And all my efforts now will be repaid;

My just desserts spread forth before my face.

Let this be, then, the year we celebrate
At the Rational Actor's Libertarian Fête!

Come in, have drinks; we've everything to please--
Our own self-interest, you'll be glad to know,
Means cocktails that are light on antifreeze
And bread with just the faintest melamine glow.
We're reasonably sure the Champagne flute
Won't leach a cloud of lead into each bubble--
Or Christmas-colored plastic cups might suit?
No need to thank the Chinese for their trouble.
It's quite a spread, when all is said and done:
There's corn--and beans--with tortured DNA;
The Monkfish, I am told, will surely stun;
There's penicillin in the shrimp souffle.
It's doubtful that the roasted pig will kill you;
Though, even then, the hospital will bill you.

Come now, the ever-bitterer winter wind,
Reminding one and all that all are one;
And so the needs and wants of nearby friends,
And suffering humans under a distant sun,
Become our needs and wants--it's all-impacting.
Each dollar saved becomes a lead-laced train
That sickens those too young for Rational Acting.
Each weakened law begets a poisoned grain.
And so the guests of honor at their Fête
May find their appetites are somewhat numb;
They'll hope the howling coming from the gate
Is not The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come,
His corrupted chains of debt stretched through the air,
Borne by toxic winds of laissez-faire.

D.N.T. 11/25/07


Also at Ezra Klein.

Friday, November 23, 2007

Friday Frank: The Today Show Interview; 1992



I believe this was FZ's last broadcast interview. He seems far quieter and (somewhat) more introspective than usual, telling interviewer Jamie Gangel that it was of absolutely no importance to him whether or not people remembered him--that he realized people like Reagan and Bush spent a lot of money to shape and cement their legacies, but he didn't care how, or even if, he was remembered. (Ironically, Frank was referring to Bush I, though of course he could just as easily have been talking about the current one, the mere thought of whom makes this Zappaphile shudder to imagine what Maestro would have to say about, ah, all this.)

How did he feel about the label "eccentric genius?"

"Eccentric, yes. Genius, maybe."

It's hard to watch this interview, especially the part where he demonstrates his then-groundbreaking work on the Synclavier, and not feel profoundly cheated--you always wonder what sort of brilliance Frank would be turning out today with the incredible technology we have now. It's hard to watch this interview and not wish he were still here, speaking out, shaking things up, and reminding us what being a real artist--a real American artist--is all about.

Happy Leftovers Day and Bon Weekend, everyone.

(H/T rohmer50)

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Happy Thanksgiving--How About Some Cheesey Comestibles?



A classic Monty Python sketch, and one of my personal favorites. With the brilliant John Cleese and equally wonderful Michael Palin.

On behalf of Robert and Sons One, Two, and Three, let me wish my readers a delicious Thanksgiving holiday and a relaxing afternoon off (one hopes, one always hopes).

Cheers and Bon Appétit,
Deborah

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

NY Jets Fans: Desperate to Score, or At Least See What Women's Breasts Look Like

What an appalling story. Oh, I'm quite familiar with the notion of people drinking and getting wild at football games: after all, I graduated from the University of Florida. (Although lately, that place is arguably more famous for Tasing students who mouth off at speaking events, and most recently, we learn, for shelling out $40,000--that's about $100 Canadian for you readers in the Great White North, unless the exchange rate has shifted even further southward since I last checked--to a disgraced ex-Attorney General for the privilege of having him bring Federal-caliber slime to that which is already a remarkably sleazy swamp.)

This, however, is yet another example of institutionalized misogyny at its most bald-faced: an entire section of the New York Jets' stadium--Gate D--would seem, these days, to be a de facto Girls Gone Wild audition, with raucous male fans using language that underscores the points Melissa made earlier today. Meanwhile, the team's security guards stand around, doing little if anything to put a stop to the situation, just smoking their cigarettes and detaining (and confiscating tape recorders from) any reporters who dare to ask questions about the outrage:

At halftime of the Jets’ home game against the Pittsburgh Steelers on Sunday, several hundred men lined one of Giants Stadium’s two pedestrian ramps at Gate D. Three deep in some areas, they whistled and jumped up and down. Then they began an obscenity-laced chant, demanding that the few women in the gathering expose their breasts.

When one woman appeared to be on the verge of obliging, the hooting and hollering intensified. But then she walked away, and plastic beer bottles and spit went flying. Boos swept through the crowd of unsatisfied men.

Marco Hoffner, an 18-year-old from Lacey Township, N.J., was expecting to see more. Not from the Jets — they pulled off a big upset over the Steelers. He wanted more from the alternative halftime show that, according to many fans, has been a staple at Jets home games for years.

“Very disappointed, because we’re used to seeing a lot,” Hoffner said.

[...]

Throughout halftime, about 10 security guards in yellow jackets stood near the bottom of the circular, multilevel ramp, located beyond the stadium’s concourse of concession stands and restrooms. One of the guards was smoking a cigarette; many fans do the same during halftime on the giant ramps, which are located at each corner of the stadium. Another guard later said they were not permitted to do anything about the chants at Gate D because of free speech laws. Yet when a reporter tried to interview two security guards after halftime, he was detained in a holding room, threatened with arrest and asked to hand over his tape recorder.

[...]

Such fan behavior is not uncommon at other sporting events in the United States, like Nascar races and the infield at the Kentucky Derby. There was even an infamous undressing in the National Football League’s marquee event: during the 2004 Super Bowl halftime show, a “wardrobe malfunction” exposed Janet Jackson’s right breast before a worldwide televised audience.

But the Gate D tradition at Giants Stadium apparently is unique to Jets games; the Gate D ramps are comparatively empty at Giants games. Perhaps forlorn Jets fans, who have rarely had a winning team to support, are seeking alternative entertainment on game days.


Ah, that explains it: those poor, disappointed little fans are just looking for some breastly comfort to soothe their tortured loser souls. Yeah, right.

(H/T Lisa in Baltimore)

Also at Shakesville.

Friday, November 16, 2007

Friday Frank: Sharleena; Barcelona, 1988



Such a wonderful Frank solo in this one. (Plus, Ike Willis is wearing a t-shirt that Robert will undoubtedly want for Christmas.) Enjoy.

And from the bamboozy wilds of Ruskinistan, let me welcome myself back to regular Friday Frank postings and wish my lovely, patient readers a delightful evening.

And of course, a very Bon

Bon Weekend, everyone.

(H/T bongolamp)

Morning Drive, Boys' Selection: David Bowie; Dead Man Walking

I've done it before--for the first ten years of life as a mother of one, then eventually three school-aged children, I battled the murderous traffic that lies between my rural outpost and their school in Tampa--but I have to say, getting back into the routine of a 50-minute commute to their school, this time in Saint Pete, is killing me proving, well, exceedingly stressful shall we say.

For this sort of medium-long road trip, you need entertainment and distraction (and no small quantity of caffeine, and a good radar detector). It's very important to only keep your favorite CD's in the car, too: that way, you can say to Son One, for example, Here, choose something good, and no matter what he selects, it will invariably make you happy as you wend your way through the chugging dump trucks and swerving SUV's stretched out before you as far as the eye can see.

This morning, as we approached the Sunshine Skyway, the normally glassy Tampa Bay was roiling like a pot of soup on high flame, and the winds whipped around us as we ascended. People were slowing down--probably because strong winds can make you feel as though you're losing your steering--but it was okay, because Son Two had chosen one of my all-time favorite-favorite Bowie CD's, and this was the track that was playing:



As soon as I heard that wonderful big guitar sound and thumpy bass, I knew I was going to sit down at my computer the minute I got home and dig through YouTube until I found it. Voilà! Not only did I find a clip of Dead Man Walking, but it's a recording of the very David Letterman episode on which I'd first heard the song, back in the late 90's. Bonuses: the exquisite Liv Tyler, who sweetly introduces David Bowie and then pantomimes a classic Wayne's World We Are Not Worthy bow. And then there's Maestro Bowie himself, who kisses Liv's hand and then grins as she kisses his in return.

Oh, and how badly do I want that Alexander McQueen frock coat that David's wearing? Almost as much as I want bass player Gail Ann Dorsey's outrageously gorgeous evening gown.

Also at Shakesville.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

This Blog's Reading Level

(My journalism and P.R. professors would shake their heads at such woefully and willfully unmarketable skills; contrarily, my high school English Honors teacher would smile ever-so-slightly, hand the thing back to me, and tell me to work even harder, because the English language is beautiful. And because if something is worth doing, it's worth doing well.)

Click here to find out your blog's reading level.

Friday, November 09, 2007

Friday Frank: Burnt Weeny Sandwich; 1969

Part I



I'm back, and so is Friday Frank. This wonderfully strange film short is the perfect way to begin the new season, I think. Parts Two and Three are below. Enjoy.

Bon Weekend, Everyone.

Part II



Part III



(H/T bongolamp)

Thursday, November 08, 2007

Today in Bathtub Government: Connecting the Aquadots

Good grief, I take a week off to move house, and all hell breaks loose in the world of imported toys, imported describing most if not all of the toys you'll find on store shelves.

I was going to attempt a gradual re-entry tomorrow, but after reading about the little plastic art-toy dots that turn into a potentially lethal date rape drug when swallowed, I thought, I can stand by no longer.

If you'll indulge me, let's go back a few days. It came to my attention that Consumer Product Safety Commission chairwoman Nancy Nord is in trouble, this time for allegedly accepting thousands of dollars worth of free trips from the very industries her agency is supposed to regulate.

I wrote about the CPSC and Ms. Nord recently; so did Weboy, who said:

Well, Nancy Nord is the Acting Head of the CPSC because the head of the CPSC resigned rather abruptly summer a year ago and Bush has done nothing to replace him (the CPSC has a three person directorate; with the party of the President essentially controlling the majority) since March, when he tried to appoint the former head of The National Association of Manufacturers (you know, people who might not like the CPSC) in his place. And why did the last guy resign, you ask? Oh, you know... to go work for a law firm that advises clients on how to... you know, avoid having to deal with the CPSC.

Now we hear that a popular Chinese-made art toy called Aquadots that made it into stores and homes all over the country--apparently escaping notice by the CPSC--is seriously poisonous:

The problem is scientists said the beads contain a chemical that the human body metabolizes into the so-called date rape drug gamma hydroxy butyrate. When eaten, the compound made from common and easily available ingredients can induce unconsciousness, seizures, drowsiness, coma and death.

Think the two stories are related?

No budget for testing; a chairwoman seemingly under some sort of directive to refrain from asking Congress for money to hire more inspectors and testing personnel; the same chairwoman accepting gifts from the industry she's supposed to be policing and holding accountable. The only surprising thing is that worse and more widespread incidents have not occurred--certainly there's little standing in the way of this ceaseless flood of cheap and toxic imports. The problem isn't new. I've been writing about it for over nine months now, and I wasn't the first to do so, either.

Yesterday, The President outlined what has been done to address the problem thus far:

Last year the United States imported nearly $2 trillion of goods through more than 825,000 importers -- and the vast majority of these imports are safe. Unfortunately, in recent months Americans have seen imports from toys to toothpaste to pet food recalled because of safety concerns. My administration takes this problem seriously. So in July, I issued an executive order establishing the Interagency Working Group on Import Safety. I asked this group to review the problem, and to make recommendations for actions that we can take to address it.

In September, this working group issued a report recommending that we change our strategy to ensure the safety of our imports.

Recommending that we change our strategy to ensure the safety of our imports.

Wow.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Happy Hallowe'en

This year, litbrit Glinda the Good Witch of the North, along with two Wicked Witches, read spooky stories to Son Three's classmates at the annual Hallowe'en Carnival. Nothing too spooky, though, since the Witches were also Mamas, and we didn't want to have our little goblins and Spidermen and Transformers plagued by nightmares (storybook women need our sleep too, you know).

I couldn't read this wonderful poem by Edgar Allan Poe, for example, to a roomful of six-year-olds, but I thought I'd post it here in honor of the day.

Carpe diem!

The Conquerer Worm

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly--
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama--oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!--it writhes!--with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out--out are the lights--out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

-- Edgar Allan Poe

The definition of Hallowe'en madness:
wearing a faux-fur skirt in Florida.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Honored


The move from St. Pete back to Ruskin is almost complete. In the distant past, when a phase of my life came to a close, I'd get all sentimental and weepy, reminiscing endlessly through rose-colored glasses and conveniently forgetting most of the less-than-peachy reasons said phase came to an end in the first place.

Tonight, though, I'm not weepy in the slightest--in fact, I'm thrilled to bits, having been notified earlier today that I'd won the Florida Netroots award for Best Writer.

There are some wonderful people I must thank.

It was Melissa at Shakesville (née Shakespeare's Sister) who first encouraged me to write online, for her popular blog, in this exciting new medium that puts the journal in journalism. And it was Ezra Klein (watch him Thursdays on MSNBC, on Chris Matthews' Hardball) who pushed me further, e-mailing me one day, out of the blue, to compliment my writing and ask why on Earth didn't I get with the program and install an RSS feed if I wanted to move past the year 2004; eventually, I became one of Ezra's weekend contributors. And shortly after Kenneth Quinnell spearheaded the impressive blog and wiki for the Florida Progressive Coalition and invited me to join, Michael Hussey brought me on board his Tampa blog, Pushing Rope (Michael, along with Stogie, was responsible for my nomination).

All these dedicated, talented, and of course progressive writers saw something I hadn't yet noticed, which is to say, they recognized a fellow word-wonk with outrage and concern to spare, and they gave me forum and no small amount of support. I'm profoundly grateful to them, and what's more, I'm honestly, giddily hopeful these days--for a very Blue 2008, and especially for the realization of our dreams for peace and progress.

Finally, an enormous Thank You must go out to my readers. Unlike its eponymous author, litbrit is a very young (as opposed to just rather young) blog, and my readership is small, still. But what an intensely wise and witty bunch this is! I hope I can continue to live up to my award and that you'll always feel free to contact me with suggestions or ideas; that TRex will continue to make me shriek with laughter in the middle of the night; that Minstrel Boy will keep raising the bar while managing to not make the rest of us look too terribly lazy; that oddjob will always know the story behind, well, everything and send me links to boot; that C in DC and Lisa in Baltimore will keep engaging my brain; that Darkblack will never run out of clever double entendres and great FZ clips; that jacqueline and Stephen will share their soulful thoughts with me forever; and most of all, that everyone will keep reading. And keep on keeping on.

Thank you, my friends. This little house would most certainly not rock without you, and I adore you all.

XXX
Deborah

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Leaving My Corner Without Losing My Religion

If a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind,
of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?

- Albert Einstein


I took this photo today, shortly after dawn, because I wanted to immortalize my little corner of this very little house before packing it all up for the Big Move tomorrow. We're going back to the house in the country, you see, though Ruskin is not so terribly "country" any more, since almost all of the orange groves and most of the strawberry fields have been bulldozed flat in recent years, making way for the rows of nearly-identical houses to which buyers continue to flock.

Never mind the hurricanes, damn the tornadoes: Florida continues to be a destination, not just for retirees longing for warm breezes and college students seeking warm beer and beaches, but families, too.

There is little agriculture and no industry in our town, not any more. Not really. It's mainly a suburban residential area these days, though Robert's property remains lushly beautiful with giant pines and oaks that were there in the early part of the previous century, when Ruskin was established as a hopeful experiment in socialist utopianism. The farming-friendly climate and isolation of the Gulf coast led Dr. George McAnelly Miller, a former Chicago lawyer and college professor, to purchase this patch of Florida, which in 1906 was densely wooded and virtually inaccessible to the city folk of Tampa and St. Petersburg (except by boat), and establish the Ruskin Commongood Society.

The town was a commune of sorts, and its principles were based on the writings and teachings of John Ruskin, an English socialist who maintained that higher education should be made readily available to the working class--a fairly revolutionary concept then (and, increasingly and sadly, now)--and that the social ills wrought by the industrial revolution could most effectively be eradicated through education. Education for everyone.

So it came to pass that Dr. Miller, along with the Ruskin Commongood Society, provided for and promoted this notion of liberal arts education for all, along with the teaching of farming techniques, the creation of art itself, and the sharing of blessings and burdens alike. This was the early-1900's South, mind you, and non-white people could not yet own land, even in Ruskin. Bearing in mind that women could not vote until 1920, though, Ruskin was--in the feminist and nonsectarian/inclusive religious senses, at least--a town that was rather far ahead of other Floridian settlements. To wit, an early Ruskin Commongood motto, followed by a bit of history:

Right Relationship
United Effort
Social Purity
Knowledge Unfettered
Industrial Education
New Thought

Individuality
Dignity of Labor
Ennobling of Character
A Home for Everyone
Link Head, Heart and Hand
Sex Equality

Throughout Ruskin’s early years, life was generally peaceful. People were notified of important events, such as a fire or a meeting, by a bell rung in the community center. There was no fire department, only a bucket brigade. The town church was nonsectarian. Services were held in the college’s assembly hall, and Dr. Miller usually read from his translations of original Hebrew and Greek Bible verses. A. P. Dickman ran the daily newspaper, and his daughter Pauline delivered milk to the local farms. Boys earned extra money by shooting alligators and selling their hides. The colonists built their own cannery, operating the whole process, including soldering the cans by hand, without outside assistance. By 1913, Ruskin had a local and long distance telephone system and electric light plant, and its cooperative store was doing a $25,000 a year business. The colony itself was expanded. Land was bought northward to extend the artesian belt and included more timber acreage, and purchases were made southward to add more truck farming and citrus land.

Cooperation was continually stressed. The colonists labored on public works projects to pay for their land, and college students worked in the fields and cooperative industries to pay for their education. The concept of the “common good” was the motivation for the colony. To this end, it tried to promote “social purity.” To keep the community pure, no liquor or cigarettes were allowed into the colony. Only whites could lease colony land. However, women had the same privileges as men.


And then there was World War I--an event that drained the town of its young people--and the closing of the Ruskin College, a terrible fire, the Great Depression, and the death of Dr. Miller. The Ruskin Commongood Society remained intact until 1967, long after the evaporation, from Ruskin's collective consciousness, of most of the original socialist utopian ideas on which the town was built.


As a result of George Miller's dream of a college within a supportive, socialistic community, the town of Ruskin was founded. Miller's cooperative community surrounding and supporting a socialist workers’ college lasted barely a decade. Nevertheless, the Commongood Society,though generally inactive, existed until October 1967, when it quietly dissolved. [...]

George Miller had depended on his wife’s brothers, three Missouri farmers, to help him finance and organize the colony, and because the community itself was colonized by farmers, Ruskin survived and flourished in an agricultural setting. In the process, the triumph of capitalism nearly erased memories of the town’s radical roots.


I moved to this town in 1987, when my future-husband Robert was starting his nurseries here, assembling the wooded land one parcel at a time, and growing thereupon different varieties of a certain ancient, exotic, and eminently sustainable plant that was, at the time, very new to many Americans: bamboo. Back then, Ruskin's population largely consisted of a handful of farmers--most of whom grew oranges, tomatoes, and strawberries; a few of whom, like Robert, grew ornamental plants--and those who worked for them.

Twenty years later, Ruskin is a place in transition, to put it gently; in fact, it's a patch of Florida that is irrevocably changed. Most of the town's fruit and vegetable farmers--those backbone-of-the-community types who had for years been suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous hurricanes and even more outrageous Free Trade-generated price undercutting by third world growers--succumbed to temptation, one after another, and cashed in on the real estate boom. This in turn led to the replacement of rows of fragrant orange trees with rows of quasi-Mediterranean-Revival-cum-Florida-Cracker boxes, one after another.

And tomorrow I shall return, to live there full-time, at least until the St. Petersburg house is finished.

As I sort through the clutter I've accumulated, not just on my hapless desk but all over the little rental house where the lease is now up, I admit to having mixed emotions about the place, as you'd imagine. Appreciating as I do the rich history of Ruskin and its liberal, socially conscious founders, I experienced some pretty sharp cognitive dissonance at seeing so many Bush/Cheney bumperstickers plastered everywhere in 2000, not to mention having my President Gore signs repeatedly yanked out of the ground or flattened by speeding, swerving pickup trucks.

Ruskin is no different from other growing areas, its residents having enjoyed high-speed Internet connection for years now. So I'll be no less able to read and write, though I'll be more grateful than ever that Robert preserved the massive trees and thick Palmetto that have grown on his land for a century--writers love privacy and quiet, and when home, at least, I won't have to look at all that rampant overdevelopment and destruction of nature. Who knows, I might even fight to save a tree or two and speak out on behalf of those who enjoy a little locally-generated oxygen with their imported orange juice.

Like the natural artesian wells that continue to flow, despite everything, irrigating the bamboo and sending it skyward, hope springs eternal.

Also at Ezra Klein.

Friday, October 26, 2007

Sex Pistols Sell Out (and Sell Out)


When I was a punky young thing trapped in the body of blowdried blonde advertising chick, I used to drive to work listening to Holidays in the Sun on my car tape deck and sing (okay, shout) along. The Sex Pistols were agreeably disagreeable, and they dared to flout authority with spectacular rudeness and bluster, something this well-brought-up girl could only dream about in Walter Mitty moments as she sat at her IBM Selectric, trying to think up clever ways to sell things--banking, for example, and ice-cream bars--that people needed and wanted anyway.

So I really have no moral leg to stand on when it comes to criticizing the Sex Pistols for selling out.

Not that I'm going to let that stop me, though. Oh, no. Because I'm more than a little irritated to learn that the band famous for flipping off what we post-Free Love youngsters continued to refer to as The Establishment have, in their middle years, been happily selling their souls to that very Establishment while signing over the rights to their back catalog to Universal Publishing Group. Which in turn has targeted Range Rover and British Airways, among others, to use Sex Pistols songs in their advertising.

Sex Pistols songs in their advertising.

For crying out loud. (As opposed to singing and shouting out loud.)

The band still plays the occasional club show, though, as they did at a sold-out private concert last night, at the Roxy in L.A., part of a warmup for the inevitable Sex Pistols Reunion Tour.

About 500 sweaty fans packed the Roxy Theatre for the private show, the group's first public performance in four years. The English foursome played almost all of their songs during the hour-long set, including their best-known tunes "Anarchy in the U.K." and "God Save the Queen."

The show was predictably a little rusty, with singer John Lydon (a.k.a. Johnny Rotten) forgetting the words to the first song of the night, "Holidays in the Sun." But he added some bonus lyrics along the way, notably "Paris Hilton, kiss my arse" in "Stepping Stone."

He also struggled with sound problems and the heat.

"It's hotter than (expletive) hell up here," said Lydon, 51, clad in a traditional Indian kurta, tartan pants and blue vest and guzzling red wine from the bottle.


I suppose it could've been worse--I'm picturing Johnny Rotten sporting a Just Say No t-shirt autographed by Nancy Reagan, drinking glucosamine smoothies between sets and appearing in Viagra commercials on MSNBC the following week.

Someone tell me I'm not getting old. Please.

I didn't ask for sunshine and I got World War Three
I'm looking over the wall and they're looking at me
Now I got a reason
Now I got a reason

Now I got a reason and I'm still waiting...

Thursday, October 25, 2007

What Next, the Sta-puf Mushroom Cloud?


So this is the new Terrorism Busters logo, as designed by one of the top secret, ah, graphic artists at the CIA.

No, this isn't a faux logo being circulated around the Intertubes, meant to promote some new movie starring Bill Murray and Harold Ramis. It is for real, though you would certainly be forgiven for wondering if it was something concocted by a wag at The Onion--that's the first thought I had when I saw it.

As Melissa said, it would seem The War on Terra has finally jumped the shark.

(Via Deeky at Shakes)

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

It's An Honor to be Nominated

I was surprised and delighted to learn that I've been nominated for a Florida Netroots Award for Best Writer. Genuine surprise and girlish delight aside, I am going to shamelessly ask for your vote all the same. (Embarrassment may indeed be part of growing up and being British, but living elsewhere in the hemisphere since age six seems to have dampened the old shame factor considerably--what can I say?)

There are only two days in which to vote, so please--as soon as you're able--e-mail Kenneth, President of the Florida Progressive Coalition, to support litbrit (that's me!) and this little corner of Left Blogistan, for Best Writer. The poll closes early Friday morning.

The entire ballot is posted at Florida Progressive Coalition's blog. Numerous terrific, talented, and deserving candidates--at least a few of whom are surely among your favorite reads--are nominated for awards, and I hope you'll support them, too. For your consideration:

Michael Hussey's superb Pushing Rope for Best National Blog.

Howard Troxler (of the St. Petersburg Times) and his Troxblog for Best Media Blog.

litbrit for Best Writer.

Florida Progressive Coalition for Netroots Organization of the Year.


Finally, let me thank everyone who takes a moment out of his day to stop by litbrit since its inception last year and share a bit of laughter, concern, outrage, and general appreciation for good music (and more)--oftentimes all in the same day*--and encourage you to peruse that ballot and check out the abundance of political passion and creative talent flourishing right here in the Sunshine State.

(And here you were, thinking we were all too busy getting suntans, drinking orange juice, and cultivating invasive Bushes to care very much about a progressive agenda. Wrong!)

* We are moving house this week and next, but posting will resume with gusto very soon, I promise.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Friday Frank: Dupree's Paradise; Stockholm, 1973



More 1973 goodness, with Jean Luc Ponty.

Bon weekend, everyone.

(H/T bongolamp)

Through the Looking Glass: A Striking New World

Defendant Michael Antonio Webb (6 feet, 3 inches tall, 315 pounds), of Columbia, MD, charged with second-degree assault on his girlfriend, which crime was witnessed in full by none other than a female police officer:

"Your honor, she asked to be hit in the face three times. Look, that's her over there--see? She's not disagreeing with me, so you know it's true."*

Anne Arundel County Circuit Judge Paul Harris, after acquitting Webb:

"You have very rare cases; sadomasochists sometimes like to get beat up."

In the messy world of domestic violence cases, often complicated by a lover's willingness to forgive, this one had a promising twist for prosecutors: Though the woman refused to testify against her boyfriend, a police officer said she had witnessed the attack in a Laurel gas station parking lot.

But Anne Arundel County Circuit Judge Paul Harris, in a decision that has victims' rights advocates crying foul, acquitted the man charged with second-degree assault after he was accused of striking his girlfriend three times in the face. The judge said that without the woman's testimony, he could not be sure that she hadn't consented to the attack. [...]

Byron L. Warnken, a professor at the University of Baltimore School of Law, said in many cases, key elements of a crime are often proved through "reasonable inferences."

"Unless he found that the officer was not credible, it appears that there would be enough by which a typical fact-finder, a reasonable fact-finder, would have found the element of second- degree assault to exist in that case beyond a reasonable doubt," Warnken said. "The notion that you can't possibly try this case without the victim there is incorrect. What would we do in a murder case?"


Unfortunately for rape and domestic violence victims nationwide, this judge is not an anomaly. And his conduct throughout--the wildly inappropriate comments, the specific directions to the jury that they must prove "the defendant's actions were not consented to by the victim"--strongly suggest a few disturbing notions. That Judge Harris is a deeply misogynistic creature, for one. That Judge Harris is behaving, and ruling, unethically and even unconstitutionally, for two and three.

* paraphrased based on the eye-witness report
** direct quoting of Judge Harris

(H/T Lisa S.)

Also at Shakesville.