The Death of Moses

On the monument that marks Thomas Jefferson's grave it reads:

HERE WAS BURIED

THOMAS JEFFERSON

AUTHOR OF THE

DECLARATION

OF

AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE

OF THE

STATUTE OF VIRIGINIA

FOR

RELIGIOUS FREEDOM

AND FATHER OF THE

UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA

Notice any glaring omissions? For a man possessed of a love/hate relationship with executive power, that is a fitting tribute to his ideals and accomplishments.

What, then, should one say about Charlton Heston? He was a man of certain political convictions (with which I do not especially agree), but he was mostly an entertainer. There is plenty of schlock in the Heston filmography - as there will be in any that spans so many decades. But there are a few gems, too. Here's what I would etch into his stone, if it were up to me (which, fortunately, it is not):

HERE LIES

CHARLTON HESTON

THE CHARIOTEER

WHO RAN ROUGHSHOD OVER ROME

A FALLEN STAR

IN WHOSE METEORIC DESCENT

SEAS WERE PARTED

TABLETS WERE SMASHED

AND

IDOLS WERE DESTROYED

A PLANET

AMONG APES

THE ALPHA MALE

AND

THE OMEGA MAN

FROM WHOSE COLD, DEAD FINGERS

YOU MAY PRY ANYTHING

BUT HIS PERMISSION

TO EAT SOYLENT GREEN

WITH A CLEAR CONSCIENCE

I'd almost prefer he were remembered for starring in teen comedies than for his sad, senile turn in Bowling for Columbine. According to Tina Fey - who's Greek - his movie posters in Greece were always changed to read "Charlton Heaston" because there "heston" means "to poop one's pants."

In any case, I hope he's someplace warm. With a fresh pair of slacks. And that's he sitting down when they tell him that the Second Amendment was probably referring to the arming of localized militias.

Captain Caveman

First bonfire of the season going up in flames tonight over at 81 Jones Drive. That's news almost good enough to balance out the grand slam the Braves used to beat the Mets this evening. Speaking of balancing out, I wish I could buy some carbon offsets to negate the atmospheric impact of tonight's festivities, but I'm afraid we'll have to put this one on my tab.

Don't wait up.

ROTFL with Rowlf the Dog

I would prefer to see Animal try his spasmodic hand at "Baba O'Riley," but this will do for now:



It's pretty much a toss-up whether that voice sounds stranger coming from Beeker or this guy:

Amber Alert: World of Warcraft has WMDs!

Correct me if I'm wrong, but we haven't caught the real Bin Laden yet, right? Right. Then, by all means, will someone in Congress please hold hearings to analyze the threat of virtual terrorism? Oh, we're already doing that? Super. That's only a slightly less wasteful use of tax dollars than the MLB steroid investigation. I can't wait for personal tax earmarking. Of course, our country could never handle anything that democratic (or mind-numbingly tedious). But imagine how jazzy the appropriation proceedings on C-SPAN would be if everyone had to pitch their budget to a wider American audience? There would be pie charts that could make you cry and PowerPoint slideshows to bring down the House. Spokesmodels, product placement, BeDazzling, and probably that "Tom" guy from all the Fuccillo ads. It's gonna be HUUU-GE...ly depressing. On second thought, I've got somewhere to be in Second Life; we should probably call the whole thing off. In the mean time, I think I'm sending my hypothetical kids to the apocryphal bible camp in Legoland.

Found Poetry for a Friday Night

I've read better explanations of found poetry than this Wikipedia entry, but it will give you the sense of it. Essentially, found poetry is exactly what it sounds like: poetry you find, rather than poetry you create.

I don't mean to give the impression that it is merely accidental, nor do I wish to take away from the discernment of the finder. As Oscar Wilde argued in The Critic as Artist, art is only half-formed by its creator. The remainder is forged in the mind of the audience. In the case of found poems, it takes skill to discover the diamond in the coal mine. After all, most writers (present company excluded) are horribly boring and their work does not lend itself to poetry, intentional or otherwise.

Poor translations are usually good places to look; instructional manuals for foreign products are a goldmine. One example that will almost certainly lose its effect out of context continues to ring in my head eight years after the fact. On the way home from studying abroad in England, I flew home by way of Gatwick. I walked on the moving sidewalk, carrying my luggage and the anxious feeling that I was undergoing some major transition. My senses were highly tuned. As the sidewalk disappeared under the floor, I heard a repetitive - but pleasant - female voice (intended, presumably, for the blind) narrate my life:

You're nearing the end
of the conveyor.
Start walking. Now.

I'm still not sure why, but it was empowering.

Anyway, I just noticed a mailer that my mom had tacked to her bulletin board. She volunteers at the local food pantry and this particular sheet displays the work schedule for the year. On the side, where the margin has constricted the length of the lines, is the found poem below, transcribed without a single change. I call it

From the Desk of God the Bureaucrat, A Memo Re: Suicides

Some who have been
regulars did not re-sign,
but I assume you want
to continue. If not,
please call me.

Chaos is Golden

I've kept a fairly long rant on "sports" in the offing for awhile now and maybe this weekend I'll finally bite the bullet.

Until then, I'll say only that I'm intrigued to see how all of the hype and strife over the Beijing Olympiad will play out. Not only because my good friend Willis has a front-row seat for China's preparations, but also because of my own hypothetical sojourn in Europe or elsewhere next school year. And, then, too because of my basic interest in matters historical/national.

The modern Olympic Games has always been a fascinating exercise in the forced smiles of international public relations. And - modeling them as we did after the ancient Greeks - what did we expect? Though there are scholarly controversies associated with interpreting the available evidence, this much we know: many of the athletes were professional, many of the contests were brutal, and the shame of the losers - along with the pride of the winners - was etched into marble for all of eternity.

Wasn't - and isn't - it a wild presumption that sportsmanship, idealized or otherwise, could lead to peace? By what process of alchemy do we transform throwing elbows into throwing the olive branch? It is willful self-deception that allows us to believe that the occasional dignity with which individual athletes comport themselves could somehow overpower the militaristic impulse and blustery chauvinism of the countries they represent. Granted, the modern games were resurrected before Roid Rage and the humble proclamations of Terrell Owens, but it still strikes me as delusional. And why would we think that athletics could be an effective and healthy way to channel aggression and the competitive instinct? If anything, sports seem to amplify these tendencies. By 1896, most nationalists had figured out that sports could provide the rhythm for the drums of war, not a muzzle to drown them out.

Here we are in 2008, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But at this point, how could the potential for Olympic-induced violence be at all surprising?

Which brings me to a picture I noticed today on APOD:

Doesn't it remind you of this?

Now, I know I've spent some time talking about divergences here and here. But, unfortunately, the Convergences Contest over at McSweeney's has ended, otherwise I would have sent them this pair of pictures. The former comes from Mars (named, of course, for the God of War) and the latter has become one of our most cherished symbols of peace and - therefore - the goodwill spirit of the Olympic Games.

And the name of the Martian landscape: Aureum ("Golden") Chaos. Just like the Olympics.

Must Love Ads

Can't be too much kickin' around the ol' noggin this week. All that's coming out are these darn commercials. Check out this website featuring a contest of vintage ads for modern products. It's a historical mash-up! The best kind of mash-up! Further proof below with the remixed trailers for Mary Poppins and The Ten Commandments.

The Good, the Ad, and the Ugly

I already posted on one of my favorite commercials today. Here's one that really creeps me out:



When did Chester Cheetah become a James Bond villain, urging people to sociopathy? I remember when he was an EXTREME PARTY ANIMAL in the style of a "Poochie" or a "Slurms McKenzie." Now he's auditioning for the sequel to Funny Games.

These are a bit older, but worth a look (especially the second video). I don't eat Starburst, much less its "Berries & Cream" varietal, but I admire them for producing an instructional video for a dance craze that wasn't:

The Original:



The How-To:

Bullshit

Well, maybe I've been preoccupied chewing the cud, but I never saw this coming. In science's latest attempt to promote stem-cell experimentation - while negotiating the moral pitfalls of embryonic research - they've decided to create something that is part cow, part human. Yeah, I'm sure this will quell the public outcry against scientists run amok. Awesome job, dudes. While you're at it, could you cure the common cold? I'm thinking something nuclear might do the trick...

Weren't they getting fairly close to replicating this technique with skin cells? Hmmm. On the one hand, we could cure Parkinson's with dandruff. On the other hand, we could make advances in spinal injury repair with a herd of Moo-Men. I'm sorry: Bovine-Americans.

Ok, so the proportion is fairly insignificant. The embryos are only 0.01% "cow." Hell, if India doesn't mind covering that spread, why should we? But, then, isn't that ratio leaving open what Futurama-via-a-Twilight-Zone-reference called "The Scary Door"? Do we want to lend even a fraction of credibility to unfortunate modern phrases like "hot beef injection"?

Picture if you will a scene in a bar. Just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill American watering hole:

Man-Cow: Hey, darlin', got any cow in ya?
Woman: What? No.
Man-Cow: Want some?
Wing-Man of Man-Cow: High five!

Oh, the genetically-modified humanity! Did you see how he just...he just...extended his hand and slapped that other hand above his head? How could we live with ourselves if this future is now upon us? How now, indeed, brown cow?

Right. Well, I think I've made all the plays on words that I'm willing or able to muster. If you'd like to read something genuinely worthwhile on the topic of cattle, I highly recommend El Ranchero's excellent posts on sustainable consumption. I think I'll be pedaling this July to a farmers' market near me to try out some of his advice. And if I can't get any of the grass-fed beef, I've heard tell of a couple of bison farms in the Mohawk-Hudson Valley. It's gonna be Turnerific!

Smart Car

Still among the coolest commercials I've seen in my life:



Imagine if they'd used a Civic...

The Fingerpainting Stops Now

A group of nine third graders plot to attack their teacher. Much scarier than my post title would suggest. I should know better. Roger Waters warned against "dark sarcasm in the clahss-room." But maybe I do know better. Every year, first order of business is to reassemble my signature bit of architecture: The Fort. Going on 4+ years without a successful invasion. I speak softly and maintain a vigilant post atop the mighty walls of my impenetrable stronghold. It is my Helm's Deep. And if my Roosevelt pose doesn't work, The Fort is outfitted with a microwave (seriously) - good for popcorn and other treats so that I may kill them with kindness. I don't know about catching more flies with honey, but I know high-school juniors are suckers for a bag of Orville Redenbacher's Tender White.

Philly Cheese-Stakes

Barack Obama boasts higher numbers than his Democratic opponent in almost every conceivable campaign measure. Except for the crucial category of desperate maneuvers. Rocky? Really, Hill? You're going to compare yourself to a small-time, mush-mouthed, hired thug who LOST to the charismatic champ after brutally "going the distance"? Well, I can believe the thug part. Meanwhile, John "I will follow Bin Laden to the gates of hell" McCain is touring America with his one-man performance of Rambo.

How soon before someone with too much time on his hands points out that Apollo Creed was black? Not that I'm accusing Clinton of race-baiting. That would be cynical. No, she's just pivoting off the popularity of Philadelphia's favorite son. Is it even necessary to point out that Balboa is fictional? Kind of like Clinton's chances at a (legitimate) claim to the nomination...

Also, Philadelphia was recently voted as the least attractive city in the United States. It has nothing to do with what I'm saying, of course, but my friend Jake moved there not too long ago and I think it's worth noting. Coincidence?

For the record:

• Carl Weathers did his best work on Arrested Development, the onetime best t.v. show (and future movie?).
• Obama's recent attempt to pander to the bowling crowd was likewise a mistake. A "37," Barry? Serves you right for rollin' on Shabbos.
• I am not criticizing McCain's sacrifice as a P.O.W. Just capitalizing on the analogies to Stallone one can make with a casual glance at IMDB. I would prefer, however that he tone down the "gates of hell" talk. The concept of a "War on Terror" is tenuous enough without taking it to the metaphysical realm. And talk about your potential for a quagmire! Purgatory would make 100 years in Iraq look like a Weekend at Bernie's. Which, now that I think about it, undercuts my point. That movie felt unnecessarily long.
  
• Jake reads this blog and occasionally makes fun of me. He should know I can throw a punch, too.
• Obama should compare himself to another Philadelphia heavyweight: The Fresh Prince. If he adopts that theme song for even a week, the 18-30 vote will be a f&*%in' lock. "In West Philadelphia, born and raised..."

The Future of History

Not sure how much longer this video will be available (for free), but I wanted to pass it along before 'tis but a passing memory on the waves of time. It was very useful to me while explaining our country's "fratricidal bloodletting," as my one-time teacher Robert Dallek was wont to call the War Betwixt the States. Yes, very useful when attempting to introduce such a complicated topic to no less than ninety-five members of the "Millennial Generation" and their notoriously short attention spans.

The casualty stats come off a bit fuzzy, but the music (from Ken Burns' The Civil War, naturally) is gorgeous. Maybe there was some brilliant computational algorithm that allowed the video's creators to put it together quickly, but I doubt it. On the contrary, the graphic strikes me as a very well-researched and - when you reflect on the attention paid to minute territorial shifts on the front lines & the synchronicity of the various demographic components - very valuable classroom tool. I am far from being any kind of Civil War scholar. In terms of "buff"-ness, I'm afraid I'm at the ninety-pound-weakling end of the scale. But I can tell you that in four short minutes, my perspective was clarified. In fact, this video has contributed to my understanding of that time period only slightly less significantly than Buster Keaton.

She's Gonna Crush Obama

In terms of political satire, the now year-old contributions of Obamagirl definitely come from the shallow end of the pool. Like JibJab four years ago, each successive video demonstrates the law of decreasing returns. And - aside from the fact that their producers are likely not Obama supporters - at the end of the day, they're just not...good.

But don't take it from me. Take it from SCIENCE!

I find it odd that one of the lowest troughs in the reaction graph coincides with Bill's sax solo. Not sure I would have predicted that. That was on Arsenio. Remember The Dog Pound? That was an underrated show. Anyway: notice how the negativity increases in inverse proportion to the amount of clothes worn by Miss Ettinger. And not just among the gals. Guys, too. Take that, Pavlov!

Old Time Movie Hour

Just finished watching Buster Keaton's The General. Though I've shown it in class before and the students - to their credit - received it warmly, today was the first time I noticed a funny coincidence.

The action of the film is partially based on an actual Union raid involving the Western & Atlantic Railroad. Or, as it's emblazoned on the side of the boxcars: W. & A. R. R. Get it? War. That's neat-o.

If I could only watch one Civil War movie told from the southern perspective, this would be it. Yeah, I said it. Gone With the Wind is a bunch of hot air. Foul-smelling hot air. Rhett Butler, I'm looking at you and your false teeth.

So, if you'd like a painless introduction to silent comedies, I recommend Netflixing The General. Kino has restored it with a great soundtrack (listen for "Teddy Bears' Picnic" when Johnnie Gray is attacked in the forest by a foe worthy of a Colbert "Threat Down") and made it available here for what I think is a fair price for Keaton's genius: