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?

via Newlin

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

Depeche Mode’s “Wrong”

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.

I came right out of Carnival and into what can only be described as grant deadline hell. (I wish I had more vivid, less 80s terms at my disposal, but it’s early, and I’m undercaffeinated. Gimme a break.) My last application postmark deadline is Monday, so I hope to return to normal by then.

Of course, as soon as I’m done with all that, I have to start prepping for a trip with the boyfriend, his mom, and aunt. I’m looking forward to the 10-day vacation, though in typical fashion, I’m already dreading the pile of work awaiting me when I get home. I don’t really excel at the whole “enjoying myself” thing, do I?

This morning–before heading out the door to teach young ones the wonders of hand-coding HTML–I’ve taken a few minutes to catch up on my reading. Here are a few of the tidbits that have caught my eye:

• James Dobson has resigned as chairman of Focus on the Family. Something tells me we haven’t seen the last of him, but we can hope, can’t we?
• There’s this kid I read every so often. He’s smart, funny, and a really great writer, and his voice…well, to have found it before he’s even hit 30 is pretty amazing. He’s also HIV+, and he’s hit some very rough patches lately–but he doesn’t really go for the sympathy vote. (Well, maybe a little, but it’s usually pretty subtle.) If you’re looking for something to add to your feed reader–you do use a reader, don’t you?–I’d recommend it.
• I adore Jennie–especially the beautiful excerpts she posted from Walt Whitman’s journals and her link to a lengthy but very thoughtful talk by Elizabeth Gilbert on the nature of genius.
• Project Runway‘s latest season is still stuck in legal limbo, but collections from the three finalists (no need for all those extra decoys!) still showed at New York Fashion Week. Take a gander: at least the clothes look better than the ones from the last cycle.
• I don’t have a real problem with pee-fetishists [safe for work!], but I prefer to feed my plants compost–or better yet, let them fend for themselves.
• I do not understand the Mima Mounds, but I want to–I want to understand the Mima Mounds.
• You know how you’re up late some nights–maybe you downed too much coffee, maybe you’re all stressed, whatever–and you’re watching some retarded talk show, and there’s this interview? And you wake up the next morning, and you’re all like, “Damn, did I see that?” And you totally did, but you had no proof? Well, now you have proof. My fave: this bit of weirdness, which I reference constantly–and which I remember watching during its initial airing.

via Choire

Brian as “Miss Loose Slots” + Me

So I survived Fat Tuesday–but only barely. Maybe it was all the secondhand smoke, or maybe there was anthrax in the air, but Jonno and I awoke yesterday feeling like utter crapola. I feel slightly better today, but I’m still coughing like freakin’ Camille.

Anyway.

If you weren’t here, you missed a magnificent day. The weather was perfect–seriously, perfect–and everyone was in a wonderful mood. Jonno shot some amazing pics (as usual), but I didn’t even turn on my camera. I did, however, videotape the entire Ste. Anne parade from the upstairs window. When my editing suite decides to cooperate, I’ll post it. Promise.

Carnival 2009 is nearly over. At last. I haven’t been that social, I haven’t roamed the streets, but the few balls I’ve had have been draining. (Hmmm.)

I don’t have much to offer today in the way of wit or intelligence. (Do I ever?) All I know is that I’ve got to sweep and tidy and possibly shave before company arrives at 9:30.

I also have to make a couple of posts to the website I work for. The website is focused on cars, so my editor asked me to come up with a guide for driving on Mardi Gras day. (Hey, it’s the best angle we could find.) I built it in the form of a GoogleMap, which you’ll see embedded above. You’ll probably want to click the “View Larger Map” link, since you can’t really read much in that tiny window. Anyway, for what it’s worth. Enjoy.

Also for what it’s worth: this short, not-too-awesome clip of the Ste. Anne parade walking up Royal Street. I hope to put together a better video myself, but at the very least, this’ll give those who’ve never experienced Fat Tuesday a glimpse of what it’s like for locals. (Note: sorority girls flashing for beads not included.)

See you on Ash Wednesday….

HOLY CRAP: That video I posted earlier? The one by Christeene called “Fix My Dick”? The first time I watched it, I thought, “I know that queen. Holy crap, I totally know that queen. He looks an awful lot like Paul Soileau…” Then I got distracted by something bright and shiny and forgot about it.

Turns out, it is totally my friend Paul, who was in New Orleans until Katrina, evacuated to Atlanta with mutual friends, and since moved on to Austin.

I like where his career is going. Low-rent is the new high-rent, y’all.