The Last Crusade

ONE-HUNDRED POSTS!

*Spoiler Alert* In keeping with the blog's modus operandus, this post will be fairly absurd. And why not? The content ratio between "silly" and "serious" has been holding steady at about 5:1. Why bother getting all imperious now?

Like George W. Bush, I've been thinking about my historical legacy. And like George W. Bush, my ideas are pretty fantastic: large, fluffy fictions wrapped around kernels of fact. Which, in terms of proportionality and the origins of these thought experiments, makes perfect sense. I have exactly one semester of archaeology classes under my belt (kernel) and many hours of watching post-apocalyptic sci-fi movies (large, fluffy fictions). The result is that my ideas are more Brazil than Brian Fagan, more Thunderdome than Thrace, but that's a proportion I'm willing to live with.

Now, I'm not particularly concerned with the perceptions held by the next generation or even the next century. My focus is more millennial - think Futurama - in that I'm curious as to how I - how we - will be viewed by people a thousand years from now.

There's a fair amount of reasonable conjecture out there that says we might not make it another thousand years. Whatever. Something's going to survive. It might be a genetically-modified super race spawned by Angelina Jolie, but it'll be here. And when those pouty mutants pore over our leavings, what will they say?

First they'll say "These people were a little too into sharing." Or, as Michael Scott would so topically put it, "TMI."

By all reliable estimates people in 2008 are practically exploding with information. According to those who study such things, we are literally producing more data than we could ever process or use. Shoot, I can't even keep up with Oprah's Book Club. I'm only up to James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. Oh, he's just so brave. It's almost hard to believe what he went through. Don't tell me how it ends.

But after the future archaeologists get past their embarrassment of riches, they'll recreate our society in its entirety. And if the movies I've watched on the subject are even remotely accurate, the picture they develop will be drastically and hilariously distorted.

Here's hoping they come across this, my One Hundredth Post. And this, my celebration of the blog's One-Month Anniversary. God willing, a controversy will erupt over my intentions. Which milestone came first? What caused The Exorcist greater joy? Who the hell is Oprah?

And then opposing theological schools will spring up among the various acolytes of the religion inevitably inspired by this blog. A great schism! The Lunatics (who prefer to honor the blog's progress in months) and The Centurions (who maintain that the only proper measure for the blog operates on a base of "100") will rend the very sky with their jihads! The rivers will run red with the blood of infidels!

But I can't have any of that, no matter how cool it would look in CGI. So let me settle the debate once and for all:

The hundredth post is more important than the month-marker. But both of them are deeply, deeply insignificant. So put your Laser Uzis away, hop on your makeshift land-speeder/jet-ski, and ride your leather-wearing selves off into the sunset.

"You know, Dude, I myself dabbled in pacifism. Not in 'Nam, of course." - Walter Sobchak, The Big Lebowski

If You Blog It, They Will Come

I was walking through the heavenly Iowan cornfields of my mind recently when it occurred to me - with all the suddenness of a nineteen-year-old movie reference - that I have friends and family in cool situations doing interesting things.

Now if I were a true capitalist, then I could continue to play the part of the retailer, unloading all of their juicy news & insights right here for LOW, LOW PRICES!!!

But if I were a true capitalist, I probably wouldn't be working at a Catholic school, would I? Alas, alack, we Dickersons are almost pathologically bad at seeing and seizing financial opportunities.

So, true to form, I've contacted my contacts and asked them to ship factory direct. We're going wholesale here at TBKF.

Hopefully you'll be hearing from some of my distinguished guest bloggers soon.

"I have just created something totally illogical." - Ray Kinsella, Field of Dreams

Divergences Contest

It's probably stacking the deck to submit an entry into my own contest, but I'm currently watching The Last Waltz and it features a divergence that has always stuck in my craw.

Neil Diamond.

I know the monetary reasons for his being there. Robbie Robertson, who was ostensibly scared by the "numbers" of sixteen years on the road, was likely even more scared of the numbers in his bank account. So he left The Band to become a record exec. And to produce musical vortices like Neil "I'm Neil Diamond" Diamond. I calls 'em likes I sees 'em and he's a one-man talent sink.

Don't get me wrong. I like camp more than a Boy Scout and have - on more than one occasion - challenged my fellow samurai Willis to a "Duelin' Diamonds Karaoke Showdown." But cheese this strong has no place on stage anywhere outside of the Wisconsin State Fair. And it certainly has no business performing with the likes of Muddy Waters and Bob Dylan.

Behold, if you dare. And then dry your eyes.




If that doesn't give you a hangover, then you might have a problem. Oddly enough, the cure for Neil Diamond? More Neil Diamond:

D.A.R.E. To Question Drug Policy

I've posted about this before, but this visual caught my eye:



It's an even more disturbing graphic when you take into consideration that a full quarter of our prison population (and one half of all federal criminals) are incarcerated for drug offenses.

The body of our laws has been cobbled together gradually in fits and starts, but nowhere does this Frankenstein's monster stalk the countryside with more terror than in the area of drug legislation. Maybe the the same scenario plays itself out in other aspects of jurisprudence, but I doubt it could be any more insipid. Our current drug policy is arcane, archaic, bigoted, and unethical. It is beholden to the pseudoscience of the nineteenth century and the corrupt influence of modern tobacco & alcohol lobbyists. It preys on our fears of immigrants and other marginalized groups. It diverts attention and resources away from the real problems of which drug abuse is merely a symptom. It puts our justice system in the same draconian arena with China and (aside from our only-slightly-more-disturbing policy regarding torture, which I plan to post on soon) I'm just not politically comfortable with bedfellows like these. But with the highest per-capita prison population in the world, maybe I should get used to it.

This is an excellent article from last year that takes into consideration several issues that should get a much wider press.

A favorite one-liner from Andrew Sullivan a few weeks ago:

Busy-bodies are now trying to ban the plant salvia:

"As soon as we make one drug illegal, kids start looking around for other drugs they can buy legally. This is just the next one," said Florida state Rep. Mary Brandenburg, who has introduced a bill to make possession of salvia a felony punishable by up to five years in prison.

Have you tried not making them illegal?

I don't know what will happen, but lately I've been thinking that our drug policy must be on drugs.

The Case Against Hybrids

Has there been a food trend in the past ten years lamer than the "half-dill" pickle? Partially cured, comprehensively flawed, it is an abject failure in both concept and execution. Served primarily at upwardly-mobile sandwich shops hell-bent on becoming bistros, the half-dill betrays the pretensions of its purveyors with all the subtlety and manufactured ambiance of icicle lights at midday.

Leaving aside the inherent cowardice of such an enterprise - its unwillingness to commit, its existential flip-floppery - let me address the thing itself. Cucumbers are delicious. As are pickles. One fresh and full with the bloom of youth, the other seasoned and spry with the spice of a life well-lived. The half-dill, on the other hand, is a man without a country. Neither bracing nor briny, its flavor exists only in an indefinite quantum state - with a finish more elusive than Sasquatch - and ultimately satisfies nobody, as if one were petting Schrödinger's hapless cat. Speaking taxonomically, it is more abomination than appetizer.

A cuke divided against itself cannot stand.

Even when compromise works well and everyone leaves the negotiating table having been fed, no one is fully satisfied and all have a bad taste in their mouths. The taste is similar to that of the half-dill pickle.

McObit

There will always be a part of you in the nooks & crannies of my heart, much to the chagrin of my cardiologist.

My Sister is Awesome!

And I don't care who knows it!

Check out what my cool big sister Kate is working on:

Story from Bangor Daily News here. Story from Portland Press Herald here.

Plastic from potatoes? I warned her that New England has a history of burning people for witchcraft, but she soldiers on unfazed.

Just another day saving the planet by researching the latest in renewable resources and reducing our dependency on foreign oil.

Question for Tuesday: My sister. Great environmentalist or the greatest environmentalist?

Discuss.

John Muir, eat your heart out.

The King is Dead

Michael Jackson's life has become so tragicomic that it doesn't really warrant commentary. I can only say - as a child of the 80s - that I thought he was cool back then and a lot of the music (helped along by luminaries like Quincy Jones & Eddie Van Halen) holds up pretty well.

People with no attention span, who see him only for the spectacle he's become, are ignoring the most poignant story arc of his life. It is not about the depths to which he's sunk, but the heights from which he fell. There are plenty of run-of-the-mill low-lifes out there. To Catch a Predator comes to mind. But how many of them could convince us that - no matter how damning the evidence might be - Billie Jean's kid is not their son? Fifty million albums later, that would've been some serious child support.

And as for people who refuse to acknowledge his import: you are either too young or too jaded to be honest with yourselves. If you were paying attention at all back then, you couldn't help but notice The King of Pop - even if only as a foil for your hipper, new wave tastes. And if you can't remember having an opinion one way or the other, then you are probably repressing memories or else you lived in a hyperbaric chamber.

Some anecdotes:

I still remember playing with an MJ Colorforms set, in which you could put him in different outfits, including the famous glittering glove, the red leather jacket, and the fedora. A lesser blogger would make a joke here about the irony of a little kid undressing Michael Jackson, but I won't give in to the temptation.

A good friend of mine in junior high school begged his mom for a pair of Jordans. She came home with a pair of "MJ" sneakers...made by L.A. Gear. I don't care where you're from, that's still funny. Check out the graphic on the box below. Kinda hard to project street cred in the low post with moves like that. Sh'mon!

And finally, not so much anecdotes, but further proof of the enduring quality of the grooves he brought into our lives:



And the ubiquitous viral video from last year that never really gets old:



Long Live the King.

This Week in Freud

This is my rifle,
This is my gun.
This is for fighting,
This is for fun.

Interesting report on a "guns-for-vasectomies" program in India. Seems like a story tailor-made for feminist theory. I wonder what other attempts at overcompensation will get thrown onto the dustheap. How about "Castrations for Cars"? "Obstetric Exams for Obelisks," anyone? Is this blog on? I'll be here all week.

Two roads diverged in a wood...

...and I - I took the cliché.

It's that time of the year again. Fourth quarter. Valedictorians all around the country will be digging out their parents' dusty copies of Bobby Frost, preparing to recite the first poem they think they understood with all the performative flare of a fax machine. What a shame that a solid poem has been Hallmarked™ beyond relevance.

Then they'll mix things up by finding a not-so-new way to say "follow your dreams" or "you can do anything you set your mind to" or "this is not the end; this is the beginning." Just once I'd like to hear something a little more punk rock. Or at least honest.

"Your dream to be a cleavage-bearing CSI specialist is idiotic."

"You will be able to accomplish some of the things you put your mind to, but they will probably not be your first choice. What about accounting? That's a good, solid career. The world will always need accountants. Your uncle Fred is an accountant. You remember Fred."

"This is the end of carefree fun. It is the beginning of student loans. Your brow will never be that smooth again. Unless you find a cheap botox hook-up...and by the look of the unseasonably tan faces out there, you're gonna need it."

And if you can't be honest, at least make the lie original and exciting. Though not technically a valedictory address, I've always loved Hugh Gallagher's college essay.

But if you really want to read some good writing, check out McSweeney's Convergences Contest. Not only are the pictures stunning, but the analyses are (usually) profound.

Today I thought of Frost AND McSweeney's when I noticed on my mom's kitchen shelf a book called Microwave Gourmet Healthstyle Cookbook. The author? Kafka. At least that's what it said on the spine. And it made me laugh. Further investigation revealed that it had been written by Barbara Kafka, but the joke had landed. I'm still chuckling as I think about Franz describing - in painstaking detail - the metamorphosis of a Hot Pocket. How about a Divergences Contest? It will consist of finding examples of pairings so incongruent, so asynchronous as to beggar the imagination. If anyone spots a good one, email me.

PS. No disrespect to Chelsea. She & I both graduated in the Class of '97. PeaceI'mouttahere!

Food + Public Singing = Heaven

Amazing comedy ninja entertainment at the mall. That's one retail center that won't be dying anytime soon.

One-Month Anniversary

Hey, it's been one whole month since I began TBKF or The Daily Ex or whatever the cool kids around the water cooler are calling it.

Too soon for nicknames? Probably so. Withdrawn, your Honor.

Yeah, the blog went over 1000 page views a little while ago, too. Thanks to everyone who made it happen. I plan on sending you both Christmas cards this year.

A lot has happened in one month. And I don't mean "a lot" in the sense that "a lot of meaningless thoughts have managed to tunnel under the barbed wire in my brain to arrive on the other side, blinking in the moonlight, forged documents in hand, hoping against hope they don't hear the sound of the camp alarm or vicious German shepherds in hot pursuit." (Sorry for the extended metaphor - I watched The Great Escape recently.) I mean "a lot a lot." Roomies Matt & Judi bought a home. I moved back to my parents' house for a few months while I wait to hear about the Fulbright teacher exchange. My brother-in-law John's Fulbright for Ireland came through! And in the past two days I went for two bike rides, meaning, in effect, that my back is basically healthy again. I credit the healing power of the blog. No, seriously: embedded within its very html structure is the sacred code of St. Adalbert. Couldn't secure the rights to any relics of the flashier saints. If you want Clare or Joseph of Arimathea, you've gotta pay top dollar. They're owned by Microsoft. But Adalbert's still a good one. Throw away those reading glasses! You won't need them here, friend!

I'm off to run errands. The four-dimensional world beckons. If nothing else, in one month's time, we have learned this about the blog: if it was ever going to turn into a werewolf, it would have done so by now.

Recommended by Dr. Mom

Update to this post. Apparently, the title of the book is actually Lincoln's Doctor's Dog. One out of three ain't bad. Sorry, Abe.

"Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together... mass hysteria!" - Dr. Peter Venkman, Ghostbusters

Good News for Michigan...

...God is shaped like a mitten:

There's a homeplace under fire tonight in the heartland / and the bankers are taking my home and my land from me / There's a big achin' hole in my chest now where my heart was /and a hole in the sky where God used to be.

- from "Heartland," by Willie Nelson & Bob Dylan

Another great photo from the good folks over at APOD. Yesterday's wasn't too shabby either.

July, July!

As a lapsed Catholic, the one aspect of following the liturgical calendar that I miss most is Lent. This may be surprising to learn since Lent is not exactly the "money" season when it comes to Catholicism. It is the season of repentance, of atonement, of purification through (mild) acts of self-denial. That's what I miss. Now, don't psychoanalyze me or refer me to websites that can help me satiate my inner masochist. It's just that I've always been attracted to asceticism. You learn about yourself when you are doing without. You tend to be more mindful. This is not so in times of celebration. Exhibit A: as a lapsed Catholic I feel no compunction whatsoever about enjoying all of the secular trappings of Christmas or the Easter ham that awaits me later. These will be thoughtless pleasures and, as proof, I can give you every assurance that this will be the most I think about them all day.

But Lent is not something to be undertaken thoughtlessly. It is for reflection. So how will I meet that need? The answer, of course, is to become a spiritual plagiarist and copy the ritual in both form and essence. I have chosen July. My sacrifice? I will not use my car. This idea came to me recently because it seemed like a compelling topic to write about for the blog (hmmm, already the blog is dictating the content of my life as opposed to the other way around...). I have not yet worked out the logistics, but I do think it's important to announce my intent. Any help/advice/suggestions/hilarious nay-saying will be very welcome.

PS. For those of you who care, the title of this blog post comes from a song by The Decemberists, who are, in my opinion, the best band working in America right now. And the song very much conforms to my criteria for aesthetic excellence.

And Another Thing...

Ok, so I guess I actually have three points I want to make about the Obama speech.

(3) Could the disparity between Obama - a professor of constitutional law - and Bush, who seems to prefer his reading material be of the Sunday-morning-illustrated-and-serialized variety, be any greater? Throughout his campaign, Obama has made a conscious, concerted effort to transcend the politics of race. And, in my mind, he has succeeded. From Andrew Sullivan, last spring:

My favorite moment was a very simple one. He referred to the anniversary of the March on Selma, how he went and how he came back and someone (I don't remember who now) said to him:

"That was a great celebration of African-American history."

To which Obama said he replied:

"No, no, no, no, no. That was not a great celebration of African-American history. That was a celebration of American history."

I wrote in an email to a friend the other day:

"I've got a poster of latter-day Malcolm X in my room at school and I've had students - white & black - ask me why I would have something like that up. And I tell them that his epiphanies in Mecca, among the multicultural pilgrims he met, are inspirational, even for me, a non-Muslim of European descent. It might be a small point or a silly gesture, but I think that impressionable minds should be exposed to a white man with black heroes. A straight man who gets mad when he hears the word 'faggot.' A...uh...male...... man who periodically wonders aloud how a school with a large majority of female students still seems to so overwhelmingly support boys' sports despite the fact that the girls' basketball team won the state tourney a few years back."

This is more than mere political correctness. It is a politics that reflects reality. As such, it is a far cry from the divisiveness of Bush/Cheney/Rove. And they hate it. Just as they hate anything from the "reality-based community."

In Obama's political vision, our interests, our goals are bound up with one another's. If the sanctity of my civil rights is contingent upon the principle of exclusion, then they are not rights at all. They are - by definition - privileges. In short: my rights cease to exist when you are denied yours. That's what I'm talking about.

Years ago, I was discussing civil rights with my esteemed friend and roommate, Sean O'Brien. Now, Sean's politics are much more sophisticated than mine and he made the point that he could see no evidence for anything like "self-evident natural rights." I concede the point. One has to suspend a fair amount of disbelief to buy into the tenability of the Enlightenment project in general and the American version of it in particular. So our government, which Sean would also (rightly) consider to be more plutocracy than democracy, is based in part - if not in toto - on a lie. But I still belief that it is - or at least has the potential to be - a noble lie. And, at the end of the day, I see in Obama's candidacy a chance to realize some of that potential, to make our union - in his words - a little more perfect.