I heart Jean Gabin

For the girls, the gayz and all sorts of unrequited everywhere.

Yes, JJJ, thank you.

French, rumpled, a tad difficult perhaps.

But, we would like to think, worth it.

Boys Gone Wild, Volume 3

“…his smug overwrought self-righteousness became beyond unbearable. The endless rants, pompously stating the obvious, loving the sound of his own words to such a degree that the entire spectacle made me feel as if I’d caught some pathetic wanker en flagrante delicto.”

And guess what? That is actually a quote from another post below, about another boy whose descent into narcissistic frenzy had driven me to similar loathing.

So what in the hell is this new template? Boys gone suddenly crazy when given spotlight and adulation. Is it directly related to the new news cycle, endlessly looping, providing seemingly infinite platform for the infinitely inane?

Or does it have to do with our nonstop adulation of celebrity, stupidity and “reality,” urging everyone towards that glittering, climactic moment in the spotlight?

Probably all that and more. The simple narcissism of some who, sooner or later, start believing their reviews, their fans, their book jacket blurbs. Goodness, they think, I truly am the best of the best, the infallible one, the Second Coming of whatever came before, whether the First be Emiliano, Edward R. or Jesus himself.

I have the feeling that in the Reverend’s case he won’t end up fading offstage or being forced to fake a bit of humility as the previous two did. I imagine Robert Johnson [BET founder, billionaire and huge Billary surrogate who famously once referenced Obama’s hanging around the hood doing, you know, what those who hang there do] already trying to rustle up a gig for him. Pitching it as Dr. Phil meets Dancing With the Stars meets Tyra.

a very special gift

Thank you, Mr. Robeson. And thank you, "V."

The audacity of smokes redux

There was something about
the Obama pic below.

And it's not just the smokes.

Black and white, of course.

Almost oblivious to the camera.

As if they had more than enough going on in their own lives and minds.

Not distant, exactly, but serious, engrossed and engaged, but elsewhere.

No glitz, few props, except for Belmondo who was, after all, just playing at it.

And exceedingly comfortable in their own skins.

A very distant time and place.

Love at first sight

Totally my bad. Today. Again.

Yes, totes my bad is my new mantra, and that is clearly not a good thing.

The insane, inane political brouhaha over the weekend has finally forced me to switch off the cable news networks [where telly is generally parked, for background noise, such a depressing admission, but a fact forced on me by current socioeconomic circumstances] and turn to other, ever so slightly less inane, noise.

I’m afraid the bastards, hacks and whores who make up mainstream media, in their usual collusion with their political cohorts, have finally orchestrated an endgame scenario of intolerable fiction, stupidity and unbearably endless loops. At least for me.

I hate them for it, it has me consumed and, god knows, I have to stop thinking about it. And, thanks to Robert Reich, I can! He said it, now I don’t have to, and, to make it all the more seamless, he even uses the same template!!

So be it, and now I can move on to other, less soul-stealing subjects.

The audacity of smokes

Counterpoint.

The Max Factor Blues

I think one of the major reasons the Clintons are running such a disastrous campaign is their thoroughly ingrained belief that American politics, non-parliamentary and divisive, is, by nature, a zero-sum game. The fundamental assumption that you’re either with us or against us is just as basic to the Clinton mindset as it was to Bush. One can only “win” by destroying one’s opposition since they are irrelevant and expendable anyway, both in the campaign and in governance.

The mere thought that there might be some sort of paradigm shift, of whatever duration, is too horrible for Clinton to conjure. The fact that Obama’s campaign and supporters seem to be already operating within that new paradigm could be why her own campaign has been so supremely off kilter and reactive. She simply doesn’t get it. It is impossible for her, and that entire wing of the Democratic party, to imagine a system without entrenched elites, $15 million dollar “speaking” fees, poll-driven positions and thuggery.

I would like to think that this is in some way generational and, therefore, inevitable. Her trajectory – from cowgirl-clad Goldwater supporter to Bill Clinton wife and regent – is typical of that sort of woman of that particular time. Some of them believed they had to cultivate a public persona of sweetness and light, overachievement and perfection. But they also believed, viscerally, that it was very much a man’s world, so, in her case, she hitched her wagon to one, all the while plotting her own place in that world.

And, since the playing field was crafted and populated by men, these women still believe that they have to play by the same old rules, much in the same way some women of a certain age cling to the same makeup, hair and fashion choices of their youth. In Clinton’s case, it’s still liquid eyeliner, orange lipstick and atrocious asexual St. John’s suits instead of, oh, probably Jonathon Logan jumpers from her salad days.

Once they entered the political [and business as well] arena, they clung to the old school ground rules , playing hardball as well as, or better than, the boys. So we have sweetness and light on the one hand, ruthless expediency on the other. And that, of course, is where her endlessly vaunted “35 years of experience” lie: learning, honing and practicing the Machiavellian arts of politics as usual. Thus that schizophrenic shape-shifting which only serves to strengthen the public perception of Clintonian duplicity.

I actually do know a few women just like her [and her cabal of Ferraro clone supporters]. Women who have no sense of their own core, who have been playing what they thought were the necessary [and sufficient] games all their lives only to end up enraged, embittered and confused. They have been so much immersed in whoring themselves out for a few crumbs of power and patronage they never noticed that the playing field, political as well as fashion, had shifted.

Sometimes, I’ve decided, a bitch really is just a bitch.

Blood Ties

There are so many reasons I’ve never wanted to write about this. Or even think about it, although I do, almost every day.

I suppose for some it’s like having a serious, probably life-threatening disease. The healthy survivor’s instinct to not be defined by his illness, rather to set it in its rightful place, just one more piece of his psychological and physical baggage. Total bullshit of course, except in the sense of forcing one to get the hell off the couch and on with one’s life.

The blood wasn’t just on the water by then – 40 years ago today - it was everywhere. In the air, raining death. Splattered across every piece of paper legislation, speech, report, note to whatever front. Eyes bloodshot from weed, rage, pain, death, and so much more to come.

For me, as for many, it began on that ellipse listening to those words, the deep comfort of being surrounded by a quarter of a million decent people of like heart. I was very young, carrying a sign, as we did, mine about equal housing, a sign that was almost as tall as I was. An overwhelming sense of having found, and come, home.

In my own family I was already discomfiting outsider. Too uppity [precisely] with my words and objections and inappropriate observations. But I was also middle child, perfect in every other way. Perfect sibling, perfect student, trying to balance the rejection engendered by my “views” with approval for my “successes.”

The five year arc that ended 40 years ago today was, for many, more than just defining moment. It forged, defined, bloodied and, two months later, destroyed much of the best of the best of us. Minds, hearts and bodies.

A personal arc written in acronyms, SCLC, SNCC, SDS [the latter short-lived, as full of shit as stupidity, and so very much like what passes for the left now]. And, even within, the polarities of turf and power had already begun tearing the possibilities of hope apart. Newer sensibilities, not afraid to use the rhetoric and tools of the enemy, taunted the “idealistic” agendas of those old school acronyms.

Soon a sense of chaos and unraveling took hold. But then, suddenly, a tying up of sorts. An incipient recognition that the blood spilled and spilling on foreign shores and urban streets was of a piece. Collateral, and often designed, damage from the wider war that was being waged by common enemy. The language changed with this recognition and, with this recognition and these words, more blood.

Read those words from April 4, 1967, one year, yes, to the very day before that day and you can understand how the stilling of that voice was necessary requisite for the 40 years that followed.

But there it still is, a silent cancer that still festers and grows, extending its parasitic reach within. The friend who once manned barricades now wittily dismissing the fallen in Iraq as being, after all, just the children of Nascar dads. The other friend who once posed fetchingly in red heels atop a tank in Nicaragua during the war, now supporting Hillary and screeching angrily, just like her candidate, at anyone who asks her why. Those whose despair has ossified into creed or academia or corporate boardrooms or soundbites.

There are a few of us left who fear the arc might be repeating itself, the cycle of despair, voice, wisdom, strength, blood, despair, surrender masked as irony. But the only irony I can find is that this time the ones with the bullets, billy clubs and napalm are those who, crippled by the pain that has consumed them, traversed that arc and are now unable to bear the sight of others daring to walk it, or the very few of us daring to walk it again.

Three faces of eve or robotic programming error?

Back again, god knows why.

I could almost be over politics if it were not for the unmitigated delight of watching HRC [or swampsow, her sobriquet over at my local] suffer the most nuclear, and televised, of meltdowns. Each moment is more precious than the next.

Trying to stuff Bill, her once vaunted silver bullet, back into the closet, most likely sending him comely interns to keep him occupied. Swerving in and out of various personas in that never-ending, and ever so pesky, challenge of “finding her voice.”

Should she cry, whine, bat her eyelashes and play the sweet Damsel in Distress being assaulted by the Big Bad Boys, the Unfair Media and, oh, that pervy Chris Matthews?

Should she play Schoolmistress Dominatrix, jabbing her finger, lowering her angry, angry voice to a testosterone-laced rumble?

Or how about Crazed Housewife Off Her Meds, arms flailing skyward, screeching at the top of her lungs, ranting maniacally about prophets of hope and the righteousness of despair.

It’s almost enough to get one out of bed in the morning.

A fitting tribute

Totally my bad last night, and I promise to never go there again. I had no bloody idea who 95% of those persons were, and I think that’s a good thing. I would do Cannes, though. Hint, hint.

As for tonight, I will confess to having “watched” the State of the Union Address, but only because we were liveblogging it over at The Cynic’s Party, which has more or less become my local. A lot of politics, smart people, drinking and very foul language. What more could one ask for? There was a Friday Night massacre at wonkette last week, so the party has decamped to the new bar, as one does.

But the fun part of the day was watching Patrick, Caroline and Uncle Ted adopt Obama just as I was awakening to my day, Teddy passionately declaiming as only he can. Masterfully skewering Hill and Bill, sneering at, mocking and burying all their lies, racist remark s and stupidities. The couple-in-waiting had clearly forgotten that one of the virtues of that generation of Kennedys is/was their ability to wage righteous, earth-scorching war, especially in the face of fatuous, self-serving parvenus.

And parvenus they are. Hills thinks all she needs to do is put a pantsuit on a Rovian dirty tricks strategy, and no one will notice. They will never understand that some people really truly do believe in one or two of the things they say they believe in, even a [very] few politicians. And when Bill outed himself on Saturday with the Jessie Jackson comment, they were off the plantation [irony intended] forever.

Parvenus because they only understand poll driven positions, pandering and pretense.

Parvenus because "Few men are willing to brave the disapproval of their fellows, the censure of their colleagues, the wrath of society. Moral courage is a rarer commodity than bravery in battle or great intelligence. Yet it is the one essential, vital, quality for those who seek to change a world which yields most painfully to change.”

Not that they could ever understand those words, but the person who spoke them, if he were still around, would have ruthlessly kicked them to the floor, grinned and never given them another thought.

Luckily for all of us, his brother did it for him today.

Maternity couture

It would appear that no one showed up this evening, at least no one who can dress themselves.

I also adore Cate, of course, and frankly this was the best I've seen. Balenciaga, I think, F2007, and you can't tell from the shot, but she's seriously preggers.

Also, my bad from the previous post: that was Jeremy from last year, although thus far my premise still holds.

Peacock alley

Yes, the horror of it all.

Thus far, this is the most interesting example of sartorial splendour I've seen.

The shirt is horrid, the jacket "interesting," but what the hell is going on around Jeremy's waist? Some sort of old school punk truss?

Love the scarf, though.

Tilda

Yes, one of my favorite actresses in one of my favorite films which was directed by one of my favorite directors. She's also apparently nominated this evening.

And just to make things even more exciting - not to mention easier - I just found another site that shall be liveblogging, but with [easily pilfered] pics!

A programming note

As penance for my previous post, I thought I might address something with a bit more universal appeal and leave my rant on Hillbot for a later time. Perhaps sometime after midnight which, as some of you know, is Cocktail Hour in this particular purgatory.

I had thought of addressing the serious issues of whether or not the interwebs are destroying porn…how much I wish I could have been the PA for that French rogue trader and learned a truly useful trade…why Irish hitmen are so wildly incompetent…

But I’ve decided instead to liveblog the SAG awards tonight, sober, which should probably make any and all observations coherent but snarkier than they might have been otherwise.

Why I really truly despise Keith Olbermann

[Let this note serve as a more or less permanent caveat: my deepest apologies to those lucky readers who are inhabiting other, more pleasant parts of my universe and who will not be familiar with some of my current topics.]




Yes, the boy started out as a welcome counterpoint to all the other cowardly whores on CNN and Fox and MSNBC. He was an unabashed geek, loved baseball and clearly saw himself as Speaking Truth to Power. No mean feat when all the others, in all mainstream media outlets, were twisting themselves into obscene pretzels, scared witless by the fear mongering, wiretapping, career destroying Powers That Be.

But then the sad metamorphosis into misogynistic, preening narcissist. Righto. Déjà vu redux, sigh, for those of you who might remember another with similar trajectory.

As he became the darling of the Left, his smug overwrought self-righteousness became beyond unbearable. The endless rants, pompously stating the obvious, loving the sound of his own words to such a degree that the entire spectacle made me feel as if I’d caught some pathetic wanker en flagrante delicto. Not that I would rule out the odd bit of voyeurism, but this sort of public self-pleasuring should be confined to private, or certain public , restrooms.

He is constantly self-referential, and I picture him googling himself every 5 minutes as he has need to note any mention made of him anywhere in the universe. His silly obsession with the O’Reilly twit serves only to provide mirror for his very own brand of twitdom. Then there are the very nasty, offhand and occasionally vulgar “jokes” about the fair sex.

Yes, let’s face it. The young dweeb, all grown up, basking in the spotlight of his own glory and moral superiority, not to mention now having a chance to get back at the legions of girls who must have recoiled in horror at his fumbling advances.

Over-reacting, you might ask? But of course. It’s just that I am finally totally sick unto death of fatuous, self-engrossed boys who start out useful and then, unmasking in public, reveal nothing but their childish insecurities and narcissistic overcompensation.

So there [flouncing petulantly offstage, Jameson in hand].

redux

For a bit too long I’ve felt as if I’ve been scattering various discrete parts of my self all over the interwebs. Several too many blogs, each reflecting one small piece of the puzzle, an abundance of personas, avatars, sects, rants, passions and persons.

So of course we know the solution: one more bloody blog.

Some of the compartmentalizing was a necessary survival mechanism. The nature of my work, for example, often requires me to interact with real people in the real world who would hardly understand or appreciate my other passions.

And many of my most fervently passionate friends might be unsettled at the thought that I do, in fact, exist in the real world.

Since I spent my formative years inside the beltway – and many of the subsequent ones manning various barricades – politics will always be in my blood and heart. And I have always moved, rarely comfortably, between both worlds. Both worlds demand a kind of allegiance, a strict adherence to proper thought and agenda, a kind of obedience that I will always find abhorrent and impossible.

So I suppose I see this as some sort of coming out – disrobing as we might have said in the Parlour. And, yes, there will still be room here for foolishness. Sex and gossip, Balzac and low blows, footwear and flora, harlots high and low.