I only knew Aimee Mullins from her role in Matthew Barney’s CREMASTER cycle; this video of her TED talk helped fill in some gaps.
Also: I am totally coveting those legs she scored from Alexander McQueen. Seriously. They remind me of this sideboard my mom used to have, but in a far more awesome, less doily-covered way.
Also also: Best line? “Pamela Anderson has more prosthetic in her body than I do, and no one calls her disabled.”
TWO MORE “BIG ISSUE” ITEMS:
Print media and the Republican Party
I don’t really think that the “death” of print media and the struggles of the Republican Party have anything to do with one another, but they’re both on my mind today.
On the subject of print: There are plans afoot to preserve dead-tree media–among them, prohibiting free access to online news and preventing search engines from aggregating information from news sites. I know that some of you adore the printed word–and to be fair, I’m one of those twee ‘tards who really enjoys cracking open the Sunday Times with a good bagel and coffee. But I almost never get the chance to do that, and I doubt I’d miss it if the opportunity if it were taken away forever. Nor would I miss crap magazines and junk catalogs flying through my mail slot on a daily basis. Books? Maybe. But as I think everyone knows, I’m not the nostalgic type: bring on the change.
On the subject of the Republican Party: My one flirtation with the Republican Party was back in high school, when I ran for Speaker of the House on the Republican ticket at Boy’s State. (That was mostly because I hadn’t paid attention to politics ’til then and was simply joining the party I knew from my parents.) I appreciate some Republican ideals, like fiscal conservatism, but I was raised to take care of others–something that Republicans aren’t quite as good at doing as the Democrats.
For example: I think welfare is a pretty good idea. Not perfect, but necessary. My dad (like most Republicans) bitches about Reagan’s “welfare queens“, but I live in New Orleans, and I see welfare queens, kings, princes, and princesses everywhere I go; they may not be living the quiet, humble life my father would prefer, but they aren’t eating at Commander’s whenever they like, either. The fact that they’re doing the best with what they can get doesn’t bother me.
All that said, even though I’m definitely more of a Dem, I’d love to see the two major parties working together on things. I know that’s a tall order, given the vast, nearly incomprehensible machinery that each party maintains and depends on, but a guy can dream, right?
Anyway, this interview that Rachel Maddow conducted with Meghan McCain gave me a tiny smidgen of hope. When it shot across my RSS (probably via Towleroad), I clicked play and planned to let it run in the background, but I found McCain so engaging that I watched the whole thing. To be fair, she’s only 24, and as she says, she’s not running for office, but still, a guy can dream, right?
TODAY’S PERSON OF INTEREST
Alber Elbaz, fashion designer
Elbaz is very conscious of his weight, which influences his designs.
“I do things without décolleté, nothing is transparent,” Elbaz said. “I am overweight, so I am very, very aware of what to show and what not to show, and I am sure there is a huge link with being an overweight designer and the work I do. My fantasy is to be skinny, you see? I bring that fantasy into the lightness — I take off the corset and I bring comfort and all these things that I don’t have. What I bring is everything that I don’t have. This is the fantasy. This is the concierge that goes home.”
He also hates the idea of the ‘It’ bag.
“[T]here is nothing scarier than being ‘the designer of the moment,’ because the moment ends.”
—full interview at New York Magazine
Also of note: Elbaz’s unfortunately unembeddable “screen test” for New York Times Magazine.
First, thanks to all of you who emailed me about yesterday’s rambling post. The volume was kind of startling, given the fairly serious, philosophical subject matter. And you were all really thoughtful in your responses–far more so than I. One of you even pointed out that Isadora Duncan met her demise in an Amilcar, not a Bugatti, as legend (or that image I used) would have us believe. Perhaps you should take over the car blogging, kiddo….
Second, in unrelated news, Chuck Norris is a complete, utter douchebag:
When I appeared on Glenn Beck’s radio show, he told me that someone had asked him, “Do you really believe that there is going to be trouble in the future?” And he answered, “If this country starts to spiral out of control and Mexico melts down or whatever, if it really starts to spiral out of control, before America allows a country to become a totalitarian country (which it would have under I think the Republicans as well in this situation; they were taking us to the same place, just slower), Americans won’t stand for it. There will be parts of the country that will rise up.” Then Glenn asked me and his listening audience, “And where’s that going to come from?” He answered his own question, “Texas, it’s going to come from Texas. Do you agree with that Chuck?” I replied, “Oh yeah!” Definitely.
It was these types of thoughts that led me to utter the tongue-n-cheek frustration on Glenn Beck’s radio show, “I may run for president of Texas!”
— Norris on WorldNetDaily, via Chrisafer
Painting by JoAnne Castelli Castor at CastelliCastor.com
I mentioned a while back that I’m writing for a car blog. I haven’t posted a link to it yet, mostly because my work isn’t up to speed (no pun intended). Soon, though. Maybe.
Anyway, although I’m not that into “things”, learning about cars and consumers and the auto industry has been thoroughly engaging. Also: challenging, and not at all what I’d expected–and I mean that in the best possible way. I am 100% totally enjoying myself.
However, my crash course in auto industry history has raised a number of larger questions I’d never really considered, including this doozie: given today’s global economic turmoil, why are governments around the world so intent on saving the manufacturing sector–specifically auto manufacturing? Put another way: do we really need manufacturing to survive? Is that what makes for great nations?
Historically speaking, I’m not sure. Is manufacturing what made Greece and Rome great? Or England? Or France? Or Japan? Maybe. On the other hand, what makes New York great now? Not manufacturing, but the arts, media, finance, tourism. Assuming for the moment that it’s important for America to remain a major economic force, how many rungs down the ladder would we tumble if we lost manufacturing?
These are not rhetorical questions. I don’t have answers.
It’s fascinating to watch this ginormous issue play out in little ways from my new vantage point. Most of America hates the idea of bailing out the Big Three: “Laissez-faire economics!”, they shout. Folks on the other side of the fence yell the same thing–but with a caveat thrown in for automakers. It’s hard to tell if that caveat stems from concern for Middle America’s families or from nostalgia for America’s storied automaking past. In general, the auto industry supporters seem to loathe the idea of nationalized programs and bureaucracy–despite the fact that bureaucrats (i.e. Democrats) are the very folks coming to their rescue. Normally business-friendly Republicans are ready to let Detroit drown, mostly so they can get back at labor unions.
These conundrums become really apparent when the subject of healthcare comes up. Some pundits insist that healthcare is the cause of Detroit’s problems. (FYI, the automakers and their unions spend big bucks on healthcare for employees.) But the mere whiff of a nationalized healthcare system sends Detroit’s supporters into panic–even though to me, it seems that in the long term, such a program would reduce the companies’ cost of doing business and the employees’ cost of living. Of course, then we’d probably have to bail out the insurance folks…. Oh, wait: we already did.
In short, each side is arguing for a free-market system. One side just wants to make a tiny little exception for auto manufacturers. It’s fucked, I know, and fascinatingly so.
In defense of those pushing to bailout Detroit, the domestic auto industry is a huge one, and its failure would affect hundreds of thousands of people who work at factories, dealerships, suppliers–not to mention the media. (Pay attention to how many car ads you see next time you watch TV.) Also to be fair, the industry is heavily regulated–some might say hamstrung. I’d argue that it’s not so hamstrung that it hasn’t found ways to make mighty profits in boom years, but it’s still pretty restricted.
I really don’t know where I stand on this. My nonprofit, philanthropic instincts are at odds with my deeply Protestant work ethic. But what’s best for the public good?
I’m worried about Gaston. He makes 15 next month.
I’ve had dogs all my life, but somehow I’ve never had to deal with their old age. When I was growing up, my parents and grandparents managed the hounds, conveniently disposing of them when their time came. The ones I had in college and grad school either left with old roommates or met sudden, unfortunate ends–one at the hands of my stepmother, although she never admitted it. Oh well: that bitch is as dead as the one she ran over, so fuck her.
Gaston was essentially my first “adult” dog, and he was a total fluke. I was seeing this guy at the time, and we’d gone out for coffee, and it was still in the early stages of our relationship, when things were bubbly and giddy and hot. (He picked me up on the streetcar as we were on our way to school. It was charming.)
Anyway, we were out having coffee, and I’d gone inside for something, and when I came back out, Gaston was there, scampering around this guy’s feet. And they both looked up at me with big, brown eyes, and the guy said, “Richard, you have to take this dog, you just have to,” and I was so smitten that I would have said “yes” to anything that came out of his mouth: “You have to wear this Cosby sweater, you have to try those deviled eggs, you have to jump off this cliff right now.” Of course I took the dog home. (I should point out that the guy dumped me two months later. Not so charming.)
The dog’s name was clearly Gaston. There wasn’t a tag or anything, but he had a roguish look in his eye, and it was obvious: Gaston. Over the years, I’ve called him many other things–some, not so complimentary. He sheds like a cheap wig, and it took ten years to housebreak him (and even today, he has his moments). Still, how could anyone not love that face?
Gaston’s age has been apparent for a couple of years. He’s been moving slower, he’s nearly deaf. His seizures are the worst, though. He’s had them all his life, but they’re more violent now. Out of the blue, he’ll let out a cry like nothing I’ve ever heard–a sharp, heartbreaking mix of pain and fear and sadness. His body goes rigid, and he usually pees all over the place, and all Jonno or I can do is just get in there with him, pick him up, and stroke his head until it’s over. In ten minutes or so, he’s usually back to being his normal bizarre self.
In pack terms, the other hounds still give him honorary alpha status, but they leave him out of their reindeer games. I suppose it’s their version of kindness. He’s still got a tiny spark of spunk, and I haven’t written him off yet, but I fear he won’t be around much longer. I’m doing my best to prepare.
RANDOM VIDEO OF THE DAY
On the one hand, you know, Depeche Mode: they’re still alive and kicking. Yay. And the song is bearable, if a touch predictable.
On the other hand, although the video is pretty damn creepy, somehow it’s not creepy enough. It starts out strong, and then we figure out what’s happening, and then we’re like, “Oh, I get it. Now what?” And then it’s over, and we’re all like, “Really? You’re putting together a video for Depeche freakin’ Mode, and that’s the best you could come up with?” It’s the cinematic equivalent of writing yourself into a corner: someone didn’t know how to end it.
As a kid, my family spent a lot of time in the car. Even though my hometown was on the small side, we drove everywhere: school, church, the mall. We even drove to places that were within walking distance, which drove me crazy. Out at the farm, my grandmother and I walked everywhere: to the general store, to the courthouse, to the post office, to check on the cows in the barn. That was much more my speed.
Anyway. Spending so much time in the car, we listened to a lot of radio, and whether we were on vacation or on a trip to the Piggly Wiggly, we could count on hearing three things: at least one song from Ronnie Milsap, one skit from Jerry Clower, and one plodding “Rest of the Story” segment from Paul Harvey. Just in case we hit a dead patch, my father had all three on eight-track. None of this made me anxious to climb into the passenger’s seat.
The radio landscape has changed a lot since then. Clower fell from favor ages ago (comedy cycles are short), and he died almost ten years back. Milsap has been touring the civic centers and casinos of North America, but I think he’s left the contemporary country scene to devilspawn like Carrie Underwood. Even Paul Harvey slowed down, though he’s been speaking out on occasion–or rather I should say he had been speaking out, because he died yesterday.
Much of America loved Paul Harvey, and to his credit, he knew how to work a radio audience. To me, though…well, his performance always seemed canned and planned. The schtick was far too schticky for my tastes. Listening to him was the audio equivalent of watching a film by M. Night Shamalamawhatever: you know there’s a “big twist” coming up, and you just wish he’d spit it out already. Okay, great, the monster terrifying the village was Santa Claus, and now we know the rest of the story. Can we please hit the McDonald’s drive-through?
Another problem: Paul Harvey was kind of a total asshat. And in a lot of ways, he was a posterboy for the anti-intellectual, anti-inquisitive political “philosophy” that Gingrich, Limbaugh, Bush, et al. have foisted on America for the past 15 years.
Many Americans–including my father–don’t care about all that. In fact for many–including my father–that down-home dumbassery was Paul Harvey’s appeal. In the coming days, those people will wax nostalgic about their youth, and how whenever Harvey was on the radio, they’d pause wherever they were, eagerly anticipating the rest of the story. Me, I was just waiting for it to end.
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