And the Lord said,

"stop your farcical aquatic ceremonies."
From The Waco Tribune-Herald:

Mourners filled the pews of First Baptist Church on Sunday night to grieve the death of the Rev. Kyle Lake, who was electrocuted earlier in the day as he prepared to baptize a new member at University Baptist Church.
Lake, 33, was stepping into the baptistery, a small pool used for baptisms, as he reached out to adjust a nearby microphone, which produced an electric shock, said Ben Dudley, community pastor at University Baptist Church. Several doctors attending the service because of Baylor University's homecoming rushed to help Lake, who collapsed, Dudley said.

As long as she can still take her shoes off and throw them in the lake...

Kate Bush's Aerial, her first album in 12 years, is, according to a New York Times profile, "split between a group of individual songs (the first CD, subtitled 'A Sea of Honey') and a suite (the 42-minute 'A Sky of Honey')." It reminds me of her best -- and most uneven -- album, Hounds of Love. I love my favorite Kate Bush songs to death (the aggessively feminine ones), and have no interest in many others (the aggressively witchy ones). I wish she had cleared more songs for dance-floor finagling a la "Cloudbusting" for Utah Saints' "Something Good," which is the greatest song ever written.

What say you?

Scooter goes down

I. Lewis Libby, Vice President Cheney's chief of staff, is formally indicted by the grand jury. The charges: one count of obstruction, two counts of perjury, and two of making false statements in the course of an investigation.

Capote vs In Cold Blood

In my first published film review in 6 years, I praise Capote for being almost everything In Cold Blood is not: searching and compassionate. Watching this movie did not make me like Truman Capote's writing appreciably, by the way.

Calling all lovers of paisley and owners of big sunglasses...

Some of my earliest music listening memories involve Jeff Lynne productions: that magical first Traveling Wilburys album, George Harrison's Cloud Nine, Roy Orbison's Mystery Girl. I knew even then that Lynne was a shitty dresser, and it was no surprise when Paul McCartney, eight years too late and three after bad-mouthing him, hooked up with him hoping for a hit (it kinda worked); but as long as I didn't have to listen to any ELO hits beside "Evil Woman" and "Xanadu" I could forgive his missteps. Here's my attempt at justice.

More hurricane nonsense

I'm back. Awakening Sunday morning around 5:30 after a fitful sleep, I turned on the TV just as Hurricane Wilma was making landfall. Then the shit really hit the fan -- a fan which kept spinning for almost four hours. At one point I sought refuge in the bathroom, afraid that one of my bedroom windows was going to blow. No damage to my property, but the storm's effects are unexpected, enormous, and slightly wearying to recount in this post-Katrina world. This is a pretty good recap.

Finally, I must be the only one in three county area of which South Florida is composed who has power.

Finally: a review of Liz Phair's Somebody's Miracle as sharp as mine. Hee hee.

Here we go again...

Thanks to Hurricane Wilma, posting will be light for the next couple of days. It's only appropriate that a hurricane season this absurd requires a name most commonly associated with a cartoon character.

"We are left to weight the balance of irony and forgiveness."

The always reliable David Thomson on A History of Violence, still my favorite movie of the year. Favorite excerpt:

Quite deliberately, I am not telling you the story of A History of Violence. That's because it employs a formula you've seen before, but gives it a radically new rhythm, one in which the atmosphere of the title is not just the energy that renews the country and which makes it safe and dangerous again. This film is a preparation for the uncertainty of the last few shots.

Thou shalt not resist ABBA

Then there's Madonna's new single, "Hung Up," about which I'll say little, except it's much more irresistable than it has any right to be, since it's, in essence, a sample of my favorite ABBA song* dolled up in club beats, mixing-board fader nonsense appropriated from Kylie Minogue's superior "Love At First Sight," and Maddie's increasingly helium-centric vocals. Is it better than "American Life'? Well. It's the difference between soy lattées and a bad hit of ecstasy.

*The ABBA song is "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)."

Truthiness

My colbertphilia continues. Dana Stevens has a slightly-too-automatically-cautious-but-still-good review of The Report's first episode.

Last night's show opened with a funny, if slightly overlong, segment called "The Word"—an obvious spoof of Bill O'Reilly's nightly "Talking Points," in which bulleted summaries of Colbertian wisdom appeared down the right-hand side of the screen as the fake anchor enjoined his audience to stop thinking so darn much. "Check gut," read one directive, as Colbert raged against not only the "word police over at Webster's," but against knowledge-gathering in general: "I don't trust books. They're all fact, no heart." Colbert concluded this segment with a kind of mission statement for the show to come: "Anyone can read the news to you—I promise to feel the news at you."

And.

The interview will be a tough segment to pull off on an ongoing basis; it's neither a sincere one-on-one conversation, as on The Daily Show, nor an Ali G-style stunt in which the interviewee has no idea he's being mocked. Where will Colbert's bookers go to find interesting and willing guests? Celebrities looking to promote a new book, record, or film may fear being made fools of, and even the most oblivious of self-loving blowhards (the real-life versions of the character Colbert himself plays) will get that the show's aim is satirical, and likely refuse to appear. Tonight's guest, Lesley Stahl, will presumably be as game to ridicule her own profession as Phillips was. But once The Colbert Report has cycled through the roster of self-deprecating news anchors, where will it go from there?

Also, check out Phoebe's blog for more Colbert links, followed by some nonsense about hockey--ignore that part.

Remember when Russians were threatening?

Well, now they're having trouble scaring off the Norwegians.

Grief literature

After reading this and Dennis Lim's essay, I got curious about Joan Didion's new A Year of Magical Thinking, "a meticulous chronicle of a wretched spell that began on December 30, 2003, when her husband, John Gregory Dunne, died of a massive coronary in their Upper East Side apartment while their only child, Quintana Roo, lay unconscious in an ICU nearby, stricken with pneumonia that had quickly developed into septic shock."

Didion helpfully includes her husband's autopsy and daughter's CT scan.

Since Didion's prose is at its best rather steely, I doubt the results are as morbidly exploitative as it sounds.

I've circled Didion for years; the only recent book of hers I've finished is the essay collection Political Fictions (the home of the most unruffled, meticulous account of how the right-wing conspiracy created Special Prosecutor Kenneth Starr and eventually impeached Bill Clinton I've read). A recent essay, "The Case of Theresa Schiavo," is also impressive. Miami remains a pungent read, a reminder of just how grisly living in South Florida was in the 1980's. Anybody read A Year of Magical Thinking yet?

That's what I call magic!

From Ananova:

David Copperfield says he plans to impregnate a girl on stage - without even touching her.

Yeah, but can he chew gum and play guitar at the same time?

'Open wide baby bird 'cause mama's got a big fat nightcrawler of truth'

I'm too tired to post anything of much value or complexity, but I will say this, The Colbert Report (or col-BEHR RAH-pohr) is the greatest piece of satire I can remember right now.

But Julian, your song is a crashing bore...

A rather frenzied singles roundup (it was done at the last minute). I'm shocked that the new Strokes song really sucks.

A party of many?

Roger Ailes has a very good post in which he essentially identifies the Miers nomination as a turning point for the Republican Party towards a Democrat style—though far more vicious, almost cannibalistic—of fragmentation and constant critical review from Republican bloggers and conservatives on the fringe of mainstream power.

The scuffle over Miers has exposed the right bloggers jockeying for (mostly imagined) positions of power once the Bush Era has ended. In 2004, there was no leadership fight within the Republican Party -- Bush was the unchallenged (though illegitimate) incumbent. The 'nuts did not have to back one candidate or another and ride his* coattails to glory. Back in 2000, most of the 'nuts did not exist as bloggers. So 2008 will be the first Presidential election in which the 'nuts will have to select a primary candidate and battle their fellow 'nuts who choose another contender.

He goes on to write:

The Miers battle is just a trial run for this ideological shakedown, and the 'nuts risk revealing their impotence if Bush's pick is approved despite their wailing. In any event, I'm looking forward to the day when the 'nuts start Swiftboating their fellow Republicans, and themselves.

Ready, aim, fire.

* Yes, his. It's the Republican Party.

Though Roger’s fantasy would be fun to see materialized, he’s overlooking several things. The first one is that modern American conservatism has relied on some form of another of McCarthyism to remain in or retain power. I can’t think of any conservative president of the post-World War II area that didn’t make his campaign and subsequent presidency about the fighting the “threat of” something or other—a perpetual war for perpetual peace. (A possible exception might be Eisenhower denouncing the very real threat of the military industrial complex, but that was in his farewell speech.) And Bush right now has nothing to fight against. He’s beaten terrorism into incognizance and the more he tries to rally the troops with Iraq talk—as he tried to do with that Stanislavskian satellite chat with soldiers—the more apparent it becomes what a failure of a commander he has been.

And the other factor that Roger overlooks is that the Supreme Court is difference. Bush could have appointed Browny, or Browny’s horse to head FEMA, and conservatives would not have cared. The court however has been a constant force of liberal democracy and a thorn on the conservative side.

Miers definitely shows the escalating weakness of the Bush administration within its party, and the power vacuum that it will leave, could possibly create much bickering, but I doubt it’s as permanent as Roger foresees.

blogging in Miami

Does anyone read blogs by people in Miami? Or know of any? I read one once by a Cuban guy that was kind of funny, but didn't have much staying power.

I'd like to try to work out some kind of community. No reason why all bloggers should live in Philadelphia or DC.

Let me know.

DOGS & CATS LIVING TOGETHER...MASS HYSTERIA!!

Andrew Sullivan, losing his marbles:

I fear we are close to the moment when our intellectual capabilities as human beings overtake our moral capacity for self-restraint. We are becoming too smart for our own good. We know too much, and have too much potential for massive destruction for major shit not to hit the fan relatively soon.

And the Academy Award goes to...

W for outstanding achievement in acting. From AP via Yahoo!:

It was billed as a conversation with U.S. troops, but the questions President Bush asked on a teleconference call Thursday were choreographed to match his goals for the war in Iraq and Saturday's vote on a new Iraqi constitution.

This is rather striking isn't it? (pun inteded)

More singles

Nothing outstanding in this week's singles roundup (except for a guitar hook on Ashlee Simpson's "Boyfriend" I'd love to hear sampled). Death Cab for Cutie once more prove that dreadfulness creates its own aura of respectability, in this case bolstered by sub-Bernard Sumner lyrics and a song title that evokes Pauline mysteries.

"P.S. No more public scatology"

The George W. Bush-Harriet Miers correspondence rivals that of John Adams and Thomas Jefferson's in its depth of vision, thoughtful engagement with constitutional issues, and pellucid wit. The thread title, taken from one of Bush's letters, would make a marvelous domain name.

I've never given a shout-out to Anthony, who in the last three years has amassed an extensive biliography of album and film reviews memorable for their freshness and originality. A casual glance at his archived reviews will reveal an imagination crowded and abuzz with impressions inspired by the albums and movies he's absorbed. I've always admired critics for whom clarity of thought is inseparable from the risk of looking foolish (Lord knows I lack this virtue); it's a tribue to Anthony that he rarely does look foolish. (He also does a stunning karaoke version of Maxwell's cover of the Kate Bush tune "This Woman's Work.")

I wish he posted more often nowadays. Now that he's publishing in the Miami New Times, I must start invading his turf.

Passion play

Excellent, woeful Rich Lowry essay on the inherent hypocrisy of the President's endorsement of Harriet Miers on her religious merits:

The White House and its allies have long argued that it is wrong to bring a judicial nominee's faith into the discussion about his merits, and any attempt to do so amounts to religious bigotry. When it was suggested that John Roberts's Catholic faith might be an area for inquiry in his confirmation, White House allies recoiled in horror.

Now the White House tells conservatives that Miers will vote the right way because she's a born-again Christian. This is the chief reason that some prominent Christian conservatives are supporting her, in a blatant bit of right-wing identity politics. They apparently believe her religious faith will determine what she thinks about the equal-protection clause, the separation of powers, and other nettlesome constitutional issues. As sociology, there is something to this — an evangelical is more likely to be conservative than a Unitarian — but to place so much weight on Miers's demographic profile, rather than her own merits and judicial philosophy, is noxious and un-American.

But don't worry: As soon as Democrats try to probe Miers's evangelicalism, these Republicans will be back to saying her faith should be off-limits

Christopher Hitchens said as much in a recent essay. Those confirmation hearings -- if Ms. Miers gets that far -- should be a hoot.

Carl Hiassen: Sage for the ages

Carl Hiassen ruins a compulsively readable Miami New Times story chronicling Miami in the big bad 1980's (when snowfall was illegal and quite common) by interjecting crabby remarks about the alleged soullessness of the decade:

Hiaasen, moreover, is wary of anyone trying to romanticize the bad old days. "There are no deep truths there," he says of that period. "It didn't produce a single great novel, a single memorable piece of rock music that I can recall, and damn few movies that are worth watching twice."

Let's see: Born in the U.S.A., The Prague Orgy, Let It Be, Scarecrow, Blue Velvet, Purple Rain, She's So Unusual, any Madonna or New Order single, Run DMC...you get the point. OK, it was a grisly period (hell, I lived through them), one from which we're still in many ways recovering; but Hiassen need not turn into one of the septugenarians decomposing on the porch of a South Beach hotel in 1982.

Too cold blood

Anyone who's read In Cold Blood want to give me encouragment? A hundred pages later, I'm unconvinced by its greatness. Capote's chunks of details fail to accrete into a Balzacian totality; his style seems a rather unglamorous form of fetishization (Which is some kind of achievement, actually). Most of what I've read is dull: it's like being on an ocean liner and watching waves lap the portholes.

Daphne Merkin fails to mention that Capote mastered this form of mummified hybridization to such an extent that, like James Joyce and Ulysses, he closed the door on his own followers. Who could (or want to) duplicate his achievement? Moreover, to claim that Capote came off better than "today's scoop-obsessed and elasticized [WTF?] journalistic standards" is wishful thinking; Capote lived with the consequences of his bad faith for the rest of his life, and probably hastened his death.

All the same, I can't wait until Capote opens in South Florida. Care to provide a review, Madame Flowers?

Cast a cold eye on death

Short interview with the old sinner Gore Vidal, now 80. Still emitting that charming air of patrician self-righteousness which manages to rankle on occasion (especially if you disagree with him), he seems resigned to his contrariness; having written about history for so long he's now ready to join it. Also: the more aloof he is, the more moving. When asked about the death of Howard Auster, his companion of 40 years, in 2003, he says:

For a year after his death, Vidal barely ate. "I became anorexic." I am so surprised that we sit for a moment in silence. How did he pull out of it? He smiles, witheringly. "I ate something."

Regarding his reputation for never admitting to a mistake, he demurs:

"Yes, I do. I think it's because I speak in complete sentences. That's considered un-American."

Note the beautiful austerity of the photograph; he looks (deliberately?) carved in marble.

Blowjob queens galore

Here's the Liz Phair review, and here's this week's singles rundown. This week's winner: Gretchen Wilson, Lil Kim, and Keyshia Cole

Polyester bride or blowjob queen?

A much fairer hatchet job on Liz Phair than Pitchfork's 2003 evisceration of her eponymous album, but still clueless. The weaker songs don't sound like Nickleback to these ears; "Wind and the Mountain," the album's best track, is hardly "we're-gonna-get-you-through-this Dr. Phil crap" (plus, the writer is unaware that Dr. Phil's method is You-will-listen-to-me-and-maybe-you'll-get-through-this). Since the release of 1998's whitechocolatespaceegg (her best album? I think so) Phair's great gift has been to marry reassuring chordal structures and melodies to increasingly conflicted riffs on domesticity, and while Somebody's Miracle isn't at that level (or at the level of its predecessor), the good songs are as surprising as the kind Amy Rigby churns out at such an alarming pace.

(Fans still want their blowjob queen back, though. Today the general manager of the university radio station lamented Liz's movement popwards. "I stopped caring when she hired The Matrix," he said, eyes tearing up. Keep in mind: he must have been 11 years old when Exile in Guyville was purportedly reminding him that he wasn't ever going to date women like the protagonists of "Divorce Song" and "Fuck and Run," so if he's thinking of stoning this painted bawd he'd best drop those rocks.)

Look for my review tomorrow.

George Will vs George Bush

In the most scorching philippic ever directed against a Republican president, George Will blasts the president's nomination of Harriet Miers:

In addition, the president has forfeited his right to be trusted as a custodian of the Constitution. The forfeiture occurred March 27, 2002, when, in a private act betokening an uneasy conscience, he signed the McCain-Feingold law expanding government regulation of the timing, quantity and content of political speech. The day before the 2000 Iowa caucuses he was asked in advance — to insure a considered response from him — whether McCain-Feingold’s core purposes are unconstitutional. He unhesitatingly said, ‘‘I agree.’’ Asked if he thought presidents have a duty, pursuant to their oath to defend the Constitution, to make an independent judgment about the constitutionality of bills and to veto those he thinks unconstitutional, he briskly said, ‘‘I do.’’

In essence, he's just called Bush impulsive and stupid.

My favorite line: "Under the rubric of ‘‘diversity’’ — nowadays, the first refuge of intellectually disreputable impulses..."

The right aflame

Looks like Harry Reid's finally demonstrated political savvy. The right and far right are outraged over the prez's nomination of White House Counsel Harriet Miers to replace Sandra Day O'Connor on SCOTUS. Here's Weekly Standard Editor Bill Kristol (aka, courtesy of James Wolcott, as the Cheshire Cat, thanks to his habit of smiling and twinkling even after being told his mother was raped by polar bears):

I'M DISAPPOINTED, depressed and demoralized....

I'm depressed. Roberts for O'Connor was an unambiguous improvement. Roberts for Rehnquist was an appropriate replacement. But moving Roberts over to the Rehnquist seat meant everything rode on this nomination--and that the president had to be ready to fight on constitutional grounds for a strong nominee. Apparently, he wasn't. It is very hard to avoid the conclusion that President Bush flinched from a fight on constitutional philosophy. Miers is undoubtedly a decent and competent person. But her selection will unavoidably be judged as reflecting a combination of cronyism and capitulation on the part of the president.

And that's just the first paragraph. Ignore the use of the passive-voice ("her selection will unavoidably be judged") and it's about as explicit an expression of Kristol and his ilk's disgust as we're likely to get.

Happy birthday, Phoebe. I'd have joined you guys if I wasn't barfing the camarones enchilados I ate for lunch.

A History of Violence

Go watch A History of Violence, the best film I've seen this year (so far). It's more shallow than ts defenders have claimed; David Edelstein's review is the only one which acknoledges that the film is in essence an exploitation film with de luxe filigrees ("Guilty pulp," he notes. "Here, you have your cake but choke on it, too."). Still, Straw Dogs it ain't. David Cronenberg's direction is his most assured since 1991's Naked Lunch, reminding me more than once of Fritz Lang's work in The Big Heat, another entry in the guilty pulp genre, lurid and bracing, with unpleasant things to say abou the relationship between violence and sex, and Lang's best American film.

As for acting, bouquets all around. Viggo Mortenson makes the transitions between cornfed Midwesterner and gangsta like the pro I never expected him to be; he's one example of an actor who knows how to move in character, a talent forgotten since the death of Burt Lancaster. Maria Bello quivers and rages with an intensity she's never quite shown before (her greatest moment: the look of disgust she gives Mortenson after their tryst on the stairs). As for William Hurt - well. If this had been a play, I would have given him a standing ovation. Imagine Sonny Corleone played by Margo Channing. His ham-on-rye-with-spicy-mustard performance summons the pity, terror, and comedy that the film's schematic, over-explicit script (its weakest element)