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Daily Blah for... Tuesday, January 28, 2003
At Last, Some Worthy Causes
Never let it be said that I don't give credit to Bush when it's due, no matter how much the words may stick in my throat. $10 billion more to help fight the catastrophic AIDS pandemic in Africa is a damn good idea. As is $1 billion in research funds for hydrogen fuel cell cars. Of course, neither figure quite matches up to the scale of the problem it's trying to tackle, and the devil is in the details. You've got to wonder how much of it is going to filter through into the pockets of big corporate donors, as large amounts of public money are wont to do. The $10 billion for HIV inhibitors could be disproportionately handed out to pharmecutical multinationals instead of the makers of cheaper, generic drugs, while fuel cell "research" could be tied up in development hell in Detroit for decades. But even if they founder on the shoals of greed, it's worth setting these ships to sail in the first place. So -- ack -- thanks, George.
C'mon, Get Angry!
I'm watching Governor Gary Locke of Washington give the Democratic response to the State of the Union. The state of Democratic opposition since the party's November drubbing is lackluster, and this is no exception. True, Locke -- as the grandson of Chinese immigrants -- has a great story. True, he's hitting all the right notes, pointing out the greatest flaws in Bush's speech: privatizing social security and Medicare, tax breaks on stocks for the wealthy. But he's as timid as a church mouse. His voice is flat and quiet, and he smiles brightly at the camera like an American Idol wannabe, just begging for a crude British judge to tear his dreams to shreds.
Democrats, or at least their style gurus, have been infected with Hollywoodism. They think that if you put on a good show of opposition, well-lit, well-made-up and -- remember loves! -- smile smile smile, then you will win the hearts of your audience, and therefore their votes. They think wrong. Sincerity wins votes. Speak from your gut. If the party in power is tearing the fabric of this country to pieces, you don't smile. You get mad. You get Hulk mad. And you allow the impression that this righteous indignation is rippling just beneath your skin, restrained only by the demands of society and courtesy. Clinton did that; remember how he'd get just a little red-faced when discussing some evil Republican policy? Audiences knew he was slick, but they also felt his outrage. That, my dear Governor Locke, is how to win friends and impress people in politics. The country will put your party back in power when your party looks lean, hungry and power-ready.
A Belated ANSWER
A few blogs back, someone asked if I was a card-carrying member of ANSWER, an organization whose name apparently stands for Act Now to Stop War and End Racism. The answer is no, I'd actually never heard of them, although their eponymous aim sounds like something I'd be hard-pressed to argue against. Who doesn't want to stop war and end racism? The same anonymous correspondent then asked if I agreed with ANSWER's "party line" that "Bush is roughly on par with Hitler." No, I do not agree with that. Bush is no Hitler, just as Saddam Hussein is no Hitler, and just as Hitler himself was no Napoleon. No national leader in history is an exact copy of any other. You have to deal with each according to his record, and you do yourself a disservice if you start bandying around simplistic comparisons.
I think the implication of my anonymous correspondent is that I must agree with ANSWER, since ANSWER apparently helped organize the antiwar protest I attended the other week. I can't actually verify his (or her) assertion that the Bush statement is indeed ANSWER's party line; it's found nowhere on their website, and the only evidence he (or she) provided was a link to one rabidly right-wing Washington columnist. But that's beside the point.
Any attempt to lump peace protestors together under one simplistic heading -- oh, they're all ANSWER people who have this nutty view about Bush and Hitler -- is ostrich behavior, pure and simple. You can bury your head in the sand if you wish, but you're missing your chance to understand the true complexity of the situation. We're a broad church, we people who prefer peace to war. There are millions of us, from all walks of life; from all faiths, or lack of them. We range from the hardliners who think Iraq should never be attacked under any circumstances -- another point of view I disagree with -- to those of us who simply believe the United Nations should be given more than two months to inspect the whole damn country. What unites us is a feeling that the United States should not swagger around the globe like a loudmouthed, half-cocked cowboy. That such arrogance brings unintended consequences. And most importantly, that we would prefer solutions that do not involve body bags. Wouldn't you?
Smoke and Mirrors
Two of the worst Superbowl ads this year came from the White House Office of National Drug Disinformation -- sorry, Drug Control Policy. With about as much scientific legitimacy as was contained in Ari Fleischer's recent statement that Bush is as good for the environment as Teddy Roosevelt, these spots claimed that marijuana was responsible for teen pregnancy, and that some clean-cut guy on the subway was to blame for six or so deaths from beatings and bombs. Presumably the White House was trying to say he bought a dime bag sometime in his past. Or maybe he just worked for the CIA.
Anyway, I was pleased to see both ads neatly skewered in today's New York Times. "Don't hold your breath waiting for the Superbowl ad that blames beer binges for teen pregnancies," it said of the first. And to the second ad's slogan -- "Drug money supports terrible things"-- the Times responded: "as does antidrug money, apparently." Touche.
Daily Blah for... Monday, January 27, 2003
Bowl of Blah
For a foreign national, even one who feels at home in America and has spent many years here, watching the Superbowl can be a bizarre cultural experience. This was the first year I actually paid attention to a good portion of the game. I was down in LA for the weekend and stopped by at some friends of friends in Van Nuys -- the belly of the valley beast -- on the way back. These friends of friends are true video geeks (that, by the way, is a compliment) and had a High-Definition projector set up in their living room. If you haven't seen HDTV yet, by the way, the difference is startling. Think of the first time you saw color television -- older readers only -- and you'll have some idea of how entrancing it can be to see a crowd scene on a living room wall in perfect detail.
The game was anything but entrancing, but the video geeks didn't care. They were there to watch the million-dollar commercials. And they didn't have long to wait. It amazes me how seamlessly television has blended football and commercials. I'm used to watching the other kind of football -- the one you play with your foot, remember? The original version? -- where the principle of television coverage is to absorb you in the game. You watch the match for 45 minutes at a time. You become entranced by the rhythm of play: short bursts of speed followed by gentle, probing attacks that often threaten to burst the game wide open. You need the slow moments for the fast moments to make any sense, just like you need the space between the notes for music to exist. It's a richer experience overall.
But with American football, a foreigner like myself could be forgiven for thinking the game was specifically designed for commercial television. You get a burst of speed, a clashing of helmets, a World-War-One-like amount of movement across the turf, and then it's straight into an eye-candy break. Flashy graphics. Explosive noise. Cute animals. Product. Product. Product. When that's over, it seems terribly hard to remember -- much less care -- what the teams were doing when we left them. The game's flow has not been so much interrupted as sliced, diced, pureed and inserted between cookie wedges like an overly stuffed quadruple Oreo.
And the commercials were barely worth watching either. Did anyone else notice an inordinate amount of ads for ABC shows? That means they couldn't sell many of the hideously expensive slots. The ones that did sell were for products that do well in any recession: beer and movies. I was glad to see glimpses of the new Matrix movies, but that -- along with football-shaped brownies and spicy chicken wings -- was about all I got out of the whole experience.
As the second quarter dragged on, someone suggested opening the blinds. The sun was setting over the suburbs of Van Nuys. For most of the rest of the helmet-clashing slices, I sat at the window entranced by the color-changing sky. It was very High-Definition.
Daily Blah for... Wednesday, January 22, 2003
All We Are Saying ... Is Give Garlic Mashed Potatoes A Chance
Like every other conscientious San Franciscan (there were around 100,000 of us, apparently, although this being San Francisco the official numbers are being officially disputed), I dutifully clocked in for a few hours at the big anti-war protest down Civic Center on Saturday. I've been to a few of these things now, and I'm starting to feel a little let down by the routine nature of it all.
I don't know what I'm expecting; the romantic dream of 60's-style protests with all their beautifully angry energy is, I suppose, still clouding my vision. It's just: why were the police so stand-offish and, dare I say it, bored? Why were most of the signs mass-printed? (Even the handwritten ones were mostly using the same tired old "no blood for oil" slogans). And most importantly, why was the whole thing so damn well catered?
There must have been a dozen food tents on Civic Center plaza, with fish and chips, hamburgers, BBQ chicken and garlic mashed potatoes. It seemed like half the crowd, at one time or another, were in those long snaking lines of people eager for deep-fried goodness. Far be it from me to suggest you can't eat and protest at the same time, but you have to ask yourself: what is the point of the march? Is it not a public relations exercise to promote peace? Should we not therefore try to make it look as much like the spontaneous explosion of democratic disagreement that it truly is, and a little less like a Jazzfest barbeque tent?
Daily Blah for... Tuesday, January 21, 2003
The Twain Shall Meet
Tai Chi and Upstairs Downstairs. The martial art and the jewel of 70's television. Neither were part of my world 24 hours ago, but -- thanks be to modern technology -- I now feel like I have a beginner's grasp of both.
I've started working out with this Tai Chi DVD with instructor Scott Cole. And I'm amazed, almost to the point of feeling guilty, by how much exercise I'm getting out of how little effort. Sure, some of the poses are hard to grasp at first, but try it twice. It's incredible how fast you learn. I'd never even considered Tai Chi before, and used to smile quizzically at the Chinese seniors who practiced it on the steps of the Columbia Journalism school every morning I arrived there. Today I take back a year's worth of quizzical smiles.
Upstairs Downstairs was also something I'd never encountered before. I was rather too busy being born halfway through its third season. But my parents always spoke of it in reverential tones, and the older I get -- and the further away I get from my homeland -- the more important such things seem. So today I started slogging through the first of five 14 hour-long DVD compendiums of the whole damn show, and got a head start on the rest with this excellent, in-depth episode guide. Like Tai Chi, it deserves its reverence. Updown, as it was apparently known to cast members, is easily the most detailed costume drama in TV history. It pays homage to the now-vanished concept of an English gentleman's home being staffed by a dozen servants (Gosford Park is a pale imitation by comparison), and takes us into one such home from 1904 all the way to its eventual sale in 1930. Service was a cultural system, a hierarchy designed to keep everyone in their place, yet also give them a sense of safety. It was nightmarish and comforting at the same time. And it is as alien to me as martial arts. Both have their moral ambiguities, I suppose (Tai Chi being partly designed to turn men into killing machines).
I didn't plan a day that melded such diametrically, almost comically opposed elements. I was just following my interests and curiousities. And yet it seems appropriate, this electronic meeting of east and west. Very global-melting-pot. Very turn-of-the-21st-century.
Daily Blah for... Monday, January 20, 2003
All the Way with MLK
What a good idea to have a federal holiday in the middle of January. This is just the kind of bleak, gray nothing time of year when we need a quick break. That, after all, is why Christmas and New Year happen right about the time light in the northern hemisphere is dimmest. Many of us haven't yet fully recovered from those celebrations.
Giving a day to Dr. King is as good as giving one to Jesus, in terms of getting a stressed-out populace to think about how nice it would be to relax and be more groovy with each other. Probably more effective than giving one to Jesus, in fact (cue a volley of hate mail). No, really, I believe that. King's message is more immediate and, in modern-day America, more unifying. It isn't tainted by a couple of thousand years of hatred and murder committed in his name, or by endless and terrible arguments over what he was trying to say in the first place, or by doubt over the true historical nature of the man. It hasn't attracted any unsavoury commercial elements. No myths -- about, say, some random fat guy with a big white beard jumping down chimneys -- cloud the original message. Just the memory of a man, cut down in his prime, who had a very specific vision, a very cool way of resisting the status quo, and whose efforts continue to transform a culture long after his death.
At the very least, you can't deny it's worth celebrating. So why is it still the case that only 30% of US companies gave employees paid time off today?
Daily Blah for... Sunday, January 19, 2003
A Clean, Well-Lit Country Of Your Own
The Commonwealth of Taylortopia, a small and beautiful South Pacific island, has enjoyed an eventful first 72 hours of life. Its population has swelled from six to seven million; its official UN description has gone from "inoffensive centrist democracy" to "New York Times democracy," whatever that means. And I, its democratically elected leader, have already had to make my first political compromise: I held my nose and reinstituted the death penalty to foil the rise of a right-wing opponent. At least Taylortopia's rainforests are safe. I point-blank refused to allow any kind of uranium mining anywhere on the island, no matter how much cash was waved under my nose.
No, I haven't gone ga-ga Emperor Norton-style. I've been playing Nation States, the hot new text-based web game from talented scribe Max Barry-- who created it when he should have been scribbling away at his new novel, Jennifer Government. What began as a bit of whimsy, an attempt to examine the intereaction of political systems, has swollen in a matter of months to a vast virtual game featuring hundreds of thousands of nation-players. It's about time you dived in and created that little country with the white picket fence you've always dreamed of, don't you think? Send me a telegram at Taylortopia when you get there. You're welcome in the South Pacific anytime.
Daily Blah for... Friday, January 17, 2003
Bullitt By the Bay
I never watched the Steve McQueen movie Bullitt until I moved to San Francisco, which seemed fitting. I could not now tell you the plot or the names of the characters. In fact the only reason I watched it, being not much into gritty cop dramas or car chases, was for recognizable locations and the kind of strange jump cuts (McQueen drives down a street in Bernal Heights one moment; the next, he's in the Marina) which seem to go hand-in-hand with city-based cop dramas (see Inspector Morse). Two things I didn't expect: how little my fair city seems to have changed since 1968 (except for the hideous Embarcadero freeway, mercifully destroyed in the '89 quake), and how much of the famous car chase sequence seemed to have been shot within a few blocks of my house. This was confirmed for me today when I stumbled across this website, which meticulously -- some might say obsessively -- chronicles the Bullitt locations alongside photos of how they look today. I can't explain the mystery of why this is so exciting, except to say: here's my local supermarket, then and now! Here's where I walk to catch the cable car! And here's Steve McQueen driving down Francisco, a mere block from where I sit now:
The author also notes how many illegal left turns the bad guys make. As someone who recently had to pay the city $350 for making a left turn ten minutes before the posted times allowed, I can sympathize with the bad guys. There are way too many stupidly illegal left turns in this city.
Daily Blah for... Thursday, January 16, 2003
Air Phone Menace
From the E-mails That Give You Sleepless Nights Dept.:
Dear Chris: I am a pilot (of small planes) and want to be able to download weather maps anywhere, maybe while flying. (You are not supposed to operate a cell phone while flying, but if you are low and near a city it works). An internet-connectable cell phone with a sharp image would be great, but how do you enter internet addesses, operate a cursor and "click"?
I'll withhold the pilot's name and e-mail address lest the FBI become interested. But he should be ashamed of himself. How could anyone in this hyper-paranoid country even begin to consider using a cellphone while flying low over a city? And not just talking on one, which would be bad enough, but entering Internet addresses. Why not just take a crate of tequila up with you? Why not page through the Wall Street Journal while trying to navigate your way around the Sears Tower?
Daily Blah for... Wednesday, January 15, 2003
Only In San Francisco ...
I returned from lunch with a friend downtown today to find the following note under my windshield wiper:
Guess that's what I get for driving a hybrid electric car like the Prius. If you haven't already, you should probably get one before the novelty value wears out and people stop leaving lovely little notes on them. Oh, and you should probably move to the West coast, where Mother Nature and Selina live.
Daily Blah for... Monday, January 13, 2003
God Bless TiVo?
I fled last week's Consumer Electronics Show in Vegas so fast that my dust trail still hangs in the Nevada sky. I have no regrets about missing the Saturday portion of that nightmare. But here's one thing I wish I'd seen: FCC Chairman Michael Powell rhapsodizing about the TiVo he got for Christmas. "TiVo," he said, "is God's machine."
Excuse me? I mean, sure, I love my TiVo too. And I'm sure the company will be glad of divine protection, not to mention FCC support. Hollywood and the major networks are out for the blood of any machine that can record TV shows digitally and spread them freely over the Internet, sans commercials. But God's machine? What's with this administration? First we had faith-based programs, now we have faith-based programming? John Ashcroft starts each day at the DOJ with a prayer; now will Powell start each day at the FCC with a TiVo'd version of the 700 Club?
What really worries me, when it slips out in revealing little soundbites like this, is the superstition of the super-religious Bushies. That born-again zeal. It tends to go hand-in-hand with a conviction that the Second Coming is nigh, which is not the best attitude to take when dealing with, say, Iraq (home of the former city of Babylon, whose apocalyptic significance was much touted by that master of hallucination, St. John the Divine) or the U.N. (where the fundamentalist "Left Behind" novels tells us the Anti-Christ resides).
Not to worry, though. If Armageddon arrives, you can be sure we won't miss a thing. The Almighty will TiVo it for us.
Daily Blah for... Saturday, January 11, 2003
Pain Pain Joy
One thing puts my whining into perspective: the fact that my dear friend Fi, back in London, just gave birth to a hefty 8 lb 5 oz. baby boy today. Congrats to her and to mini-Fi -- now operating under the nom de vie Finian -- on a job well done. Again, I simply have no idea what it's like. Presumably I could try to find out by passing a bowling ball; alas, I don't own any of those either.
Pain Pain Pain
Awwrrrk! I pulled a muscle in my back last night, and now I'm in a world of hurt. (You know that stereotype about men being wimps when it comes to real pain? It's true. I admit it.) I just went for a massage in the Marina, which didn't help as much as I expected. I know, I know, I shouldn't have such expectations. The massage therapist suggested lying on a tennis ball, which sounds really good right now. Alas, I own no tennis balls. On the way home, I found the next best thing: a six-pack of cider. Not that I intend to lie on them. Although that sounds pretty good too. Mmmm ... cold bottle on back ...
Almost as bad as the pain now, I know, is the pain to come when I actually get old. I have no idea, but at least I'm aware of my cluelessness. I'm getting a pretty good free sample.
Damn these human spines. Why did we stand erect in the first place? Whose stupid idea was that?
Daily Blah for... Thursday, January 09, 2003
Dissing Las Vegas
Two things continue to mystify me about Vegas. One: why do people pay good money to gamble? You could get the same effect if you filled your living room with gaudy neon, swigged repeatedly from a bottle of Jack Daniels and invited your friends round to pilfer forty or sixty dollars out of your wallet every half-hour. Two: why do people pay good money to go to technology trade shows? You could get the same effect if you filled your living room with giant corporate logos, hit your feet repeatedly with a large mallet and invited your friends round to talk excitedly about empty shells of plastic intended to represent The Product Of The Future.
I'm in my booked-at-the-last-minute room at the Monte Carlo, possibly the worst hotel-casino on this godforsaken Strip (where they ask you if you want to pay cash for room service), suffering from trade show overload. Spent the whole day striding purposefully around the Consumer Electronics Show along with 100,000 other idiots and oh, my poor footsies. What did I get for my trouble? A plateful of plastic pasta primavera and a handful of eye-candy products that will look good in the pages of Time. No doubt I, and any journalist so inclined, could have tracked down just as much information about just as many cool new products at home in front of my computer, swigging repeatedly from a bottle of Jack Daniels. So why do we journalists so inclined do this to ourselves? Because everyone else does. Because we might miss something if we didn't. And maybe, just maybe, because it makes the rest of the reporting year feel like a breeze in comparison.
Daily Blah for... Tuesday, January 07, 2003
Steve Heil
To Macworld, then, to re-immerse myself in Steve Jobs' patented reality distortion field. Understand this: I am a huge Apple fan. I am typing this on a titanium G4 Powerbook as we speak. And I admire Jobs, though more as a businessman than a human being. But his State-of-the-Mac keynote, it occured to me today, reminds me of nothing so much as Nuremburg. There are the two towering, brilliant Apple icons attached to the imperial purple curtains. The adoring masses, carefully whipped into a frenzy of faith (cue lots of seemingly spontaneous "yeah!"s and "that's right!"s). The feeling of simply being right, of having better ideas than the big nasty (Windows) world out there, of being amongst friends. And the strong, noble-looking leader, a perfect stage manager who starts out quietly and carefully, slowly introducing new and polished items of worship, each one looking better than the last, until I'm on my feet cheering and stomping with the rest of them. Steve ... heil! Steve ... heil!
What else can I say? The new laptops are gorgeous. The keyboard that senses when it is dark and automatically lights up is a (key)stroke of genius. The new browser, Safari, is God's (and Google's) gift to Apple; if you own a Mac, you should download it this second. It doesn't work with Blogger, alas, but then Blogger is not very Mac friendly all-round. (Are you reading this, Ev? Where's the e-z link button? The spellchecker? Don't make me go use my PC ...)
All in all, Macworld is still the most enjoyable trade show my job makes me visit. Shame that I had to go home in order to book my CES trip this afternoon; I missed yet another chat with Jobs (sorry, Steve) -- and more importantly, I missed his old compadre Steve Wozniak dropping the bombshell that he hasn't converted to the uber-system, OS X, even as Jobs declared the transition to X "basically over." That's right, Woz still uses OS 9. I'm sure the two Steves have a lot to talk about.
Daily Blah for... Monday, January 06, 2003
From Baja to Balrog
I'm back from the beautiful silence of Baja California -- a highly recommended place to spend New Year, by the way -- and my house is literally shaking. There are workmen clambering all over the roof and some very noisy machine running outside. It's a deep bass noise with a wispy, misty hiss, like someone has opened up a tunnel to Hell. Ladders and ropes run past every window. Since I just gasped and blinked my way through the Two Towers last night, I'm picturing a passel of highly evil Orcs out there, conducting some kind of nefarious and destructive siegework. A sulfuric smell invades my nostrils. Bits of grit assault the window pane. They are chattering to each other in some inscrutable Orcish tongue. I dare not open the blinds. Where's Aragorn when you need him?
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