W. (2008)

Oliver Stone's habit of mining the recent and familiar for his fictionalized histories requires a leap from his audience. I think that the strengths of W. become clearer if it's viewed as an alternate history, if we pretend for a couple of hours that we're from a calmer, saner universe where George W. Bush was only ever the son of a President, a semi-public figure of fun, instead of a world-historical fuckup. Imagine, we say, just imagine what would have happened if Dan Quayle had become President! Or Jesse Ventura! Or worst of all George W. Bush! Someone that feckless and callow and lazy—what dystopia would reign!

Crossposted from Not That Critical.

That's a circle that turns round upon itself (Blossom Dearie)

I always liked Blossom Dearie, not only for her talent, which was formidable, but for her unique vocal instrument and sense of humor. It's probably unfair and condescending of me to take her voice and wit and public persona and from that presume to know her personality—but she always seemed bizarre, quirky, and very likable.



So how did I never realize that it was that voice, that unmistakable voice, that was behind a couple of the best Schoolhouse Rock episodes? It's like, I dunno, finding out your grandmother was in The Empire Strikes Back: Parts of the world that you adore were connected in ways that you never expected and therefore of which you were completely unaware; and seeing the connection for the first time makes the universe more satisfying and lovely.

He just keeps getting fucking cooler

It seems that President Obama, in Dreams from my Father, shares some anecdotes about a swear-happy friend; this means that the audiobook features the President of the United States using some of the least FCC-friendly words in the English language:

As an emotional 10-year-old, I wholeheartedly approve. As a profanity enthusiast and quondam performer, however, I must give the President a note or two: These words are the jewels of expression, and you're swallowing them. Maybe that's an artifact of embarassment at the impropriety, or maybe you're so cool you don't need to punch up the delivery, and getting all Brando-mumbly on shit and motherfucker just highlights how little you care about propriety.

Your badassery is never in question, sir; but I humbly suggest that, when you have the chance to swear for public consumption, that you enjoy it: "That guy ain't shit" is both indictment and dismissal, and you get to hit both of those notes by spiking that shit right on the downbeat; chew the word up and spit it out; practice it with a little bit of a sneer. You don't need to swing for the fences on each one—no need to channel Samuel L. Jackson like some Wagnerian profanity virtuoso—but you are the President of the goddamn United States: When you let out a motherfucker, it should have some heft.

Now to close out the Obama love with an image from the mad geniuses at Superpoop:

Train of thought

A reference to Ecclesiastes the other day reminded me that that is just about the only part of the Bible I can stand; it's just about the only wisdom literature I can stand. I think that's a function of the unusual authorial voice, expressing awe at the marvels of the universe with frustration and even rage. This isn't a register that's common in wisdom literature (as far as I know anyway; it's not something I pay much attention to; I could be completely wrong), so it in turn reminded me of where else this combination occurs, and succeeds: Instant Karma! And maybe the two don't seem to share much in terms of explicit themes ("All is vanity" vs. "We all shine on"), but they do share a joy in a difficult beautiful universe, a joy that we earn by moving through confrontation and anger: "Who in the world do you think you are? / A superstar? / Well right you are!" — straight into the infectious, sing-along shout-along chorus.

And with thoughts of Instant Karma! running through my head, I opened YouTube to give it a listen:

And that, finally, reminded me of something that needs to be reasserted every so often: Yoko is terrific; to hell with the haters.

Seriously, is she trying to avoid distraction, or is she actually blindfolded? Either way.

Itchy and toasty

Oh yeah, check out this shit, that's R-15 bitches.

One more small step on the road to non-homelessness.

Miscellaneous news

• I always like a good satirical hoax, especially a good satirical art hoax. While one understands the insulted reactions of the EU member countries (and Bulgaria probably has good cause), the larger points about fractiousness and long-held grudges and stereotypes and suspicions within the EU are things that they will need to address sooner rather than later. And of course it will come down, these things always do, Cerny almost certainly counted on that: To my mind, this is a conceptual performative piece, not an installation.
• Hopety? It's a little silly, but my juvenile fascination with impressive machines gets rekindled when I hear about the new presidential limo. Also I really like bad puns, sorry.
• It's been a sad week for science fiction screen icons: Patrick McGoohan, creator and star of The Prisoner, died Tuesday, and Ricardo Montalban, whom everyone knows as Mr. Roarke but who to geeks of all ages will forever be Khan Noonien Singh (KHAN!), died Wednesday. Until some enterprising mashup geek puts together a YouTube clip of Number 6 escaping from Fantasy Island, please accept this tribute to one of Montalban's other famous performances:

Ain't nobody's business but the Turks

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.