I’m just asking. Seriously. She’s a moron. Really, really, incredibly dumb.
But she’s also hot. No doubt about that.
For evidence of the former claim, just listen to her speak about anything semi-nuanced. For evidence of the latter, see below.
Pardon the interruption, but the harsh realities of life pre-baby have spoiled what was once a thriving blog site. Once I figure things out, I’ll jump back on this train and begin typing feverishly to provide updates on what’s been going on with me, as well as the always-biting social commentary you have all come to know and love. Until then, I have nothing for ya.
I think I’ve asked this question every time Coldplay has put out a new album, and after listening to a few tracks off their latest offering, Viva la Vida, I must do so once again: Why do people go crazy for this band?
On recordings, they’re OK at best. The band plays well enough, but their lyrics don’t make a lot of sense and sound more or less like something a decent high-school songwriter could pen. Chris Martin’s vocals are alright, but his fluttering falsetto annoys the piss out of me after more than two listenings of any song. At least he sings on key and in the proper pitch, though, which is more than I can say of his live performances.
When not aided by a skilled engineer, Martin’s vocals are a total mess. I’ve never once heard a live cut from Coldplay where Martin’s voice is as rich and melodic as it is on records. It sounds more like a wet fart on a hot day, to be honest. I don’t understand why he doesn’t sing in a lower key, because he sure as hell can’t hit the high notes you hear on recordings consistently enough to prove his voice doesn’t get a generous polishing from the engineer. And if a band is supposed to be one of the top acts around, I expect that its singer be able to drop vocals without any electronic modification.
So what is it about Coldplay that drives people to a frenzy? If anyone can explain it to me, I’d be forever grateful.
I apologize for my lack of blogging lately, but I’ve been dealing with something personal that I am just now prepared to make public. I am going to be a father. To another human. That I created, at least in part, quite accidentally but I suspect perfectly. Or so we’ve been told by the doctors.
The weight of those words — I am going to be a father — even now as I type and read them, and go over them again and again in my head, is staggering. To say Nicole and I are happy would do absolutely no justice to the totality of emotion we are now feeling. The only way I’ve been able to describe it to anyone who has yet to experience it for themselves has been to say it feels like running around barefoot in a thunderstorm. It’s kind of terrifying, the raw power of it all surrounding you. But there is also this ethereal joy that comes along with the terror and makes it impossible to stop even though you know it’s probably wiser to go inside and take cover.
That’s the best I can do right now, and if it doesn’t make sense I guess that’s because it’s not supposed to. For a long time I’ve had an odd relationship with words, depending on them to express whatever is floating around inside me yet understanding all along that they are, at best, an incomplete description of what is really going on, not reality themselves but a metaphor for reality. It’s times like these I wish we just communicated with each other through thoughts and ideas. You’d get a much better picture of what I’ve been trying to say.
And speaking of better pictures, this is what an eight-week-old fetus looks like. Developing baby? Kidney bean? You be the judge.
It seems there is nothing new media loves to harass more than old media, and believe me I get as big a kick out of it as any in the blogging world. Call me biased — as you should know by now, I welcome the charge — but I honestly believe newspapers and magazines do a solid job, for the most part, the obvious exception being the industry-wide carte blanche given to the Bush administration after 9/11 and during the buildup to the Iraq War by every journalist other than those working for Knight Ridder.
Mainstream television journalism, on the other hand, is just awful and by far the most egregious in its tawdry coverage of news events and seeming inability to hire journalists willing and/or able to conduct real interviews and ask real questions. The worst part is that TV journalists know they do bad work. How obvious was their guilt when, in the wake of Scott McClellan’s charges that the media failed the American people before the invasion of Iraq, hacks like NBC News Chief White House Correspondent David Gregory got all twisted up and felt it necessary to defend the work he and his colleagues did at that time, over and over again? I think such defensiveness, and a complete rewriting of history, falls under the Whoever-Denied-It-Supplied-It banner.
However, I’ve had enough of media critics — mostly those who blog — ripping on cable-news pundits like Chris Matthews, Keith Olbermann, and, yes, even Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity for not upholding high journalistic standards on their programs. People like Matthews and O’Reilly aren’t newsmen. They’re not even in the business of reporting the news. They are commentators. They comment on the news. Their roles — which I agree are far too big and far too ambiguous — are to offer their opinions on politics and current events. They are allowed to have stupid opinions, to be base and obtuse, to be hardheaded, to be annoying, to be wrong, to be unfair.
The inability of the public to weed through all the hot air emitted by these blowhards is the fault of the public alone. There is real news readily available from multiple sources — those newspapers and magazines mentioned earlier, some websites, etc. The problem is people are either too lazy to look for it or too easily bored because it isn’t presented to them by a screaming maniac surrounded by bright lights and loud noises.
Instead of seeking out the news, most people come home from work, plop down on the couch, turn on Countdown or The O’Reilly Factor and take every word spoken during that hour as infallible, ironclad truth. It’s easier and more entertaining to listen to and then regurgitate whatever Olbermann or O’Reilly says than it is to read the facts of a probably nuanced story and form one’s own opinion. But that’s not Olbermann or O’Reilly’s fault, just as it is not Jon Stewart or Stephen Colbert’s fault for being the primary news source of so many young people. It is Stewart and Colbert’s job to tell the joke, not to make sure the audience gets it.
Of course, it is fair to say that Stewart and Colbert admit they are comedians and little else, while those filling up space on CNN, Fox News, and MSNBC stand by the assertion that they are actually journalists. But, again, just because they assert something doesn’t mean we, as viewers with brains, eyes, and ears, have to believe it. Yet no one blames the public for being willingly misinformed and easily fooled. Better not to insult your audience, after all.
I suspect the high-and-mighty journalists and bloggers who damn cable-news punditry as the plight of American journalism are just annoyed that the talking heads they hate are more successfully reaching the masses than their dying industry. If they were honest, though, and if they were really interested in telling the truth, they’d point their anger where it belongs and leave those of us able to distinguish news from entertainment alone so that we can not feel guilty for getting a kick out of another Worst Persons in the World segment.
I had a friend in college — a very tall, very skinny, and very disheveled friend — with whom I often lamented the state of the world, and my boredom with everything going on in it. On one occasion, after he and I had just completed a solid four-and-a-half hour stretch laying on couches and flipping television channels, stopping only when an ample female backside graced the screen, we began discussing whether or not it was in our nature to be constantly bored, whether perpetual disinterest in our immediate surroundings was hardwired into our genetic codes, the same as his height or my lack of cranial tresses.
Of course, we grew bored with the conversation quickly and once again returned our attentions to the softness of those sofas against our backs. I cannot be certain, but I would bet an honest day’s wage that, at some point shortly thereafter, just as a wonderful nap was about to settle down upon us, another friend — this one wee and well-organized — came into the apartment and yelled at us for being so unproductive. This wee, well-organized friend often scolded us for our laziness. It was college, after all, a place where things got done, minds got molded.
“But we’re thinking,” we would say to no avail as the wee, well-organized friend threw his hands into the air and walked off in disgust, most probably to do homework or solve the riddle of cold fusion.
In the years since I last trudged the snowy quad of Syracuse University, the world has become a little less dull, if only because I’ve been too busy worrying about the relationship between my never-ending job search, ever-dwindling bank account and ever-augmenting pile of bills. In fact, I’ve shared a lot of my interests on this blog these last few months. In all honesty, even in the absence of paid labor, I have been pretty well occupied, at least mentally. However, the last three weeks of my life have been made up of some of the most boring days I’ve ever experienced. And it’s driving me crazy.
There is no moral to this story. There is no grand conclusion. There is only the declaration of this fact: I am once again bored. Won’t someone please give me something to do?
Call it commentary malaise. Call it political burnout. Call it whatever you want, but the fact remains I have not been seriously interested in anything topical for a few weeks now, hence the few-and-far-between blog posts recently.
The presidential campaign has fueled my blogging these last few months, as most people know and, possibly, lament, but I’m just bored by it at this point. I’ve become annoyed, rather than intrigued, with the Democratic race. It’s over. Done. The ship has sailed. All fat ladies have sung. I couldn’t get into the Rules and Bylaws Committee decision on seating Florida and Michigan’s delegates this weekend. I’m over crazy pastors saying crazy things in Church. I don’t care to analyze all the reasons the Clinton campaign’s arguments for staying in the race are baseless and sort of misleading. It’s all be said. It’s all be written. I’m just bored by it all at this point.
Along those same lines, I feel tossing my two cents into the debate over other current political shenanigans, like the Scott McClellan memoir fiasco, just seems tawdry and excessive. I have nothing new to add, and nobody is paying me to regurgitate the same opinions being spewed by other pundits at other news sources. There is no nuance at all to any issues lately, and the nuance is what gets me going.
That being said, I have nothing to say about anything else. I could regale the world with anecdotes of my to this point unsuccessful quest to find employment. But everyone knows the job market sucks, especially in the journalism world. Besides, it’s too depressing to live it all and then write about it.
I think the real crux of this whole situation is that it’s finally happened: I’m bored. I need something to fill my days. I need a job. I need to get out of the house. If anyone has any suggestions, please pass them along via e-mail. I need to get up outta this funk.
Busy with other stuff, sort of. Will blog again soon. Promise.
I got into a bit of trouble yesterday for writing a few words about a West Virginian dolt named Josh Fry, who was quoted in the Financial Times making pretty moronic, racist comments about Barack Obama. Fry’s statement seemed to imply that Obama — because of his race and his father’s Kenyan heritage — is not a “full-blooded American,” and that he would only feel comfortable with a “full-blooded American” in the White House. Obviously, I had to take a shot at Fry for being a complete dumb-ass. Even the countriest of bumpkins should know to keep their stupid and bigoted comments to themselves when in the company of reporters.
This caused a few nasty e-mails to find their way to my inbox. A handful of my “fans” backed up Fry, reiterating that Obama was not a real American because he doesn’t look like them or have a bland, Waspy-sounding name. The people who wrote these notes are clearly mentally disabled, so I chose to ignore them rather than dignify them with a retort. I will say I stand by my analysis of Fry’s comments, though. I’ve read them numerous times, and each time I’ve drawn the same conclusion: They are stupid, just like the person who uttered them. I cannot figure out any other way to read them.
However, I also received an e-mail that mentioned only these sentences, which I wrote about Fry, in addition to some tongue-in-cheek references to stereotypically redneck assumptions about Northeastern liberals like myself: “I am also wishing for your death and the death of all people who think and speak like you. You are what make this country an awful and embarrassing place, and things would be so much better if you simply didn’t exist.” The e-mailer fairly chastised me for publicly endorsing the death of another human being for no other reason than that I disagree with his views.
While I admit that my comments were harsh, I would like to take the time to say that they were not intended to be taken literally. The context and tone of the paragraph ending with those words is entirely satirical, and it was my intention that those words be viewed in the same light. As anyone who has ever met me knows, I am a pacifist. I do not wish for the death or harming of any person, or animal for that matter. I was writing metaphorically, if a bit hyperbolic as well. I was wishing for the figurative death of Fry’s views, not the literal death of Fry himself. I apologize to anyone who took my statements out of context.
That being said, I would also like to reiterate that I honestly wish people like Fry did not exist. The world, and this country in particular, would be a far better place without the stench of such ignorance permeating the air. That fact that so many citizens freely express racist sentiments without appropriate public castigation, and then blame it on “cultural differences” between the many diverse regions of the country, is a blemish on our society. I will always work to erase this stain, and if that means going over the edge of good taste at times, then so be it. As the old saying goes: You’ll never know how far you can go until you’ve gone too far. As far as I’m concerned, those are words by which to live.
I came across this column today, titled “Meatless Like Me: I may be a vegetarian, but I still love the smell of bacon,” written by Taylor Clark for Slate.com. As a vegan/vegetarian, I think it’s pretty right on in explaining to omnivores how we’re not all that strange. If you know a vegan or a vegetarian, check it out to get inside our bizarre, hippy brains.
For those kind-hearted omnivores who willingly invite feral vegetarians into their homes for dinner parties and barbecues (really! we do that, too!) … know that unless you’re dealing with an herbivore who is a prick for unrelated reasons, we don’t expect you to bend over backward for us. In fact, if we get the sense that you cooked for three extra hours to accommodate our dietary preferences, we will marvel at your considerate nature, but we will also feel insanely guilty. Similarly, it’s very thoughtful of you to ask whether it’ll bother me if I see you eat meat, but don’t worry: I’m not going to compose an epic poem about your club sandwich.
Which leads me to a vital point for friendly omnivore-herbivore relations. As you’re enjoying that pork loin next to me, I am not silently judging you. I realize that anyone who has encountered the breed of smug vegetarian who says things like, “I can hear your lunch screaming,” will find this tough to believe, but I’m honestly not out to convert you. … Read the whole article
I don’t personally agree with the author’s every sentiment — I’m a bit more intense about my veganism (though still not perfect), I’m far more sympathetic to PETA, I don’t wear leather anymore or use products tested on animals — but he does a hell of a job outlining the often awkward herbivore-omnivore social relationship. I got a kick out of it, at least.