Things I don’t want to hear again

I could do without hearing the following statements, ever again:

:: “It’s all part of God’s plan.” (Gee, when I was in management, I was always told that planning had to flexible. Joe Schmoe the manager at Pizza Hut has to be flexible, but God must execute every single detail in his plan, with no deviation? That make sense?! And why are we just cogs in some omnipotent being’s plan, anyway?)

:: “That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.” (Well, that horseback-riding accident didn’t kill Christopher Reeve, but I don’t think it exactly made him stronger.)

:: “God helps those who help themselves.” (Generally, I don’t like homilies about God wherein God is made to be a bit of a jerk.)

:: “God never gives us more than we can handle.” (Well, actually, he does. In fact, we have a word in our language for “that moment when God gives us more than we can handle”. That word is death.)

:: “We don’t negotiate contracts during the season.” (Way to go, Sabres!)

OK, I’m done.

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I hate our political discourse.

[I feel like ranting about politics a bit, so rant I shall. Move on if you don’t like it when I get in this mood.]

I don’t read Glenn Greenwald all that much anymore these days, primarily because it gets so depressing. I’m glad he delves into the cesspools of what constitutes political discourse in this country, because hey, every dirty job’s gotta get done by somebody, but still, eventually I just can’t watch anymore. So I actually followed a link from Lance Mannion to one of Mr. Greenwald’s posts, and sure enough, I wanted to vomit about halfway through it. I’m not sure if it was the quotes from actual transcriptions of “professional” journalists almost swooning over the manliness of Fred Thompson or the idea of Rush Limbaugh, he who cannot seem to make a marriage work at all, lecturing America on how they should be raising their children. (And then there’s the appalling rejoinder to Greenwald spat out by Ace of Spades, who is apparently some sort of “humorist” on the Right.)

And this comes minutes after I read this article about Antonin Scalia’s fetish for Jack Bauer, who is as completely fictional as any of Fred Thompson’s “manly” movie or TV roles. Because, you know, look how many times Jack saved the world by doing questionable things. (Hey, Scalia, there are these people in TV called writers, and stuff happens on TV shows not because someone in the show does something, but because the writers wrote it that way. That second-season moment when Jack threatens to kill the terrorist guy’s family on TV? The one that’s faked? That tactic worked because the writers wrote it that way. So if you’re wondering “What would Jack Bauer do?”, the answer is simple: he’d do whatever the f***ing script tells him to do.)

And before that, I read Rudy Giuliani blathering on about how when he’s President, we’re going to “stay on offense” in the “War on Terror”, as if the geopolitics of terrorism and fundamentalism can be reduced to the sides of a sporting event (and heaven forbid he actually spell out what “staying on offense” actually means, since I don’t think anybody can seriously maintain that we’ve spent the last six years doing nothing but playing defense, and to less than encouraging results, either). And don’t get me started on my confusion about just where Giuliani’s national security gravitas came from, because I’m damned if I can figure that out.

And way back when we had the “Why didn’t the men rush the guy! After all, I certainly would have!” crap over the Virginia Tech shooter. And so on, and so forth, ad infinitum.

I am so staggeringly tired of macho fantasy masquerading as serious political discussion these days.

OK, rant’s done. Back to more mild-mannered stuff.

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Saying Mean Things about Piers Morgan

So we’re watching the first episode of this year’s iteration of America’s Got Talent, a show which I enjoyed last year because I like goofy acts of the sort that get featured on shows like this; the things that people discover they can do and then hone to a fine talent can be really touching, amazing, or hilarious in the best (and, frankly, worst) way. But I’m reminded also of what a colossal ass Piers Morgan is, and I was about to write a big rant about the degree of his assness, but then I remembered that I ranted about him last year, so I figure this year I’ll just satisfy myself each week by writing something mean about Piers Morgan.

For those who aren’t watching the show, Piers is the resident BluntBrit of America’s Got Talent. Every competition-style reality show, it seems, must have a BluntBrit amongst its judges, because, obviously, Simon Cowell was the original BluntBrit. Never mind that Simon Cowell is a record producer who fronted the show Pop Idol in Britain, the show that actually inspired American producers to come up with American Idol. Anyone who actually watches American Idol knows that (a) Simon knows what he’s talking about, and (b) he’s not nearly as mean as his reputation suggests. Not so Piers Morgan, who is only there because he’s got the British accent. He’s there for no other reason than to be a BluntBrit.

So anyway, here’s this week’s Something Mean about him: I hope that Piers Morgan is bludgeoned into unconsciousness and then dropped naked into the Australian outback, where his body would be slathered with enough beef gravy to attract a pack of starving feral dingoes.

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Grrrrrrr….

To all Buffalo-area drivers:

1. Stopping behind a vehicle that is stopped at a Stop sign does not constitute stopping at the Stop sign yourself. You do not get to immediately follow the guy stopped at the Stop sign ahead of you when it comes round to his turn in the Right of Way rotation.

2. If you are turning left, and there is a turn lane present, then get thy ass into the turn lane.

3. It’s the law and all, so you’re not supposed to be talking on your cell phone while driving. I’m willing to give a pseudo-pass to people who talk on their cell phones when on the open road, but not at intersections and absolutely not when you’re in a parking lot and you are backing out of your friggin’ space.

4. The number of cars that actually look cooler when a spoiler is attached to the rear is far, far smaller than you might think. The number of cars that actually look stupider when a spoiler is attached to the read is far, far greater than you might think. So, for the guy who put a spoiler on his 1991 Ford Taurus, for the love of God, your car looks idiotic. It’s a 1991 Ford Taurus. I don’t care if you give it a pair of quad laser cannons and soup up the engine until it makes point five past light speed, it’s a 1991 Ford Taurus. Nothing you do will make that car look cooler.

5. Speaking of right-of-way issues, please folks, just remember that if we got to the intersection at the same time, the vehicle on the right goes first. Don’t wave me through; just pay attention to the right of way and go, because I’m expecting you to go and it screws me up when I suddenly realize you’re not going and realize that you’re waving me through. Just go, OK? I promise I’ll wait. What am I gonna do with the fifteen extra seconds when I get to my destination?

OK, that’s enough car stuff for today. Thank you for listening.

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This post contains pure, undistilled dumb. Handle with care.

Reading jaw-droppingly stupid stuff by people who really ought to know better is de rigeur in Blogistan, but I’ve got to note the staggering incidence of no fewer than three glaringly stupid statements from the last week or so. It’s like a Perfect Storm of Stupid. I’ve mentioned two of these already, but it’s just such an amazing thing to see such a concentration of idiocy out there, I figured I should gather them in one place.

First, there’s Mark Helprin’s idea that copyright should last forever:

Once the state has dipped its enormous beak into the stream of your wealth and possessions they are allowed to flow from one generation to the next. Though they may be divided and diminished by inflation, imperfect investment, a proliferation of descendants and the government taking its share, they are not simply expropriated.

That is, unless you own a copyright. Were I tomorrow to write the great American novel (again?), 70 years after my death the rights to it, though taxed at inheritance, would be stripped from my children and grandchildren. To the claim that this provision strikes malefactors of great wealth, one might ask, first, where the heirs of Sylvia Plath berth their 200-foot yachts. And, second, why, when such a stiff penalty is not applied to the owners of Rockefeller Center or Wal-Mart, it is brought to bear against legions of harmless drudges who, other than a handful of literary plutocrats (manufacturers, really), are destined by the nature of things to be no more financially secure than a seal in the Central Park Zoo.

Sample response, from John Scalzi:

What would happen, almost inevitably, is that copyrights of any value (positively, negatively or ideologically) would be secured by a few large private repositories, who would jealously police any new content they believed infringed on their copyright portfolio. One suspects that most of these repositories would also be publishers themselves, who would publish on terms advantageous to them (i.e., works for hire and/or assignation of copyright to the publisher after the death of the author). If you don’t think it would happen, look at the actions of media companies today and the content protection groups they fund.

My feeling on copyright is that it should last for the life of the author, and not one second longer. Copyright expires as does the author. The sound of an author exhaling her last breath? That’s the sound of the public domain getting larger. Or at least, it would be in my world.

:: TIME Magazine’s movie critic, Richard Schickel, on blogs:

Let me put this bluntly, in language even a busy blogger can understand: Criticism — and its humble cousin, reviewing — is not a democratic activity….French critic Charles-Augustin Sainte-Beuve, a name not much bruited in the blogosphere, I’ll warrant….We have to find in the work of reviewers something more than idle opinion-mongering….They need to prove, not merely assert, their right to an opinion. ….At the recent Los Angeles Times Festival of Books [] blogging was presented as an attractive alternative — it doesn’t take much time, and it is a method of publicly expressing oneself (like finger-painting, I thought to myself, but never mind).

A representative rejoinder, from Lance Mannion:

Most reviewers of classical music are trained musicians, and most art critics have some training as painters. But the rest of us—and I get to include myself because, like I said, there are newspapers who’ve paid for my blather—got the job despite our credentials, or lack of them, not because of them. We were able to convince some editor desperate for copy that we could fill the space with words that would come together in a fairly intelligent fashion without getting the rag we’re writing for sued in the process.

Critics don’t have to be able to do the work they critique. They have to be able to appreciate the best of the work and be able to explain why and how what they’re writing about at the moment measures up or doesn’t measure up. In other words, they have to be a good audience and they have to be able to write well. They have to have good eyes, good ears, some experience using them, and a clear and snappy prose style, qualities that you don’t have to be taught, even if they can be taught, which is debatable. You don’t have to go to a special school, you just have to school yourself.

Exactly. Critics aren’t grown in gestation tubes until maturity, at which point they’re sprung from their nutrient-rich environments with their knowledge of film or literature or music or whatever already in place.

:: I mentioned the first two items here and here. The third, however, has gone unmentioned here, until now. Behold the stunning wisdom of Ann Althouse:

And why does reading even need to be a separate subject from history in school? Give them history texts and teach reading from them. Science books too. Leave the storybooks for pleasure reading outside of school. They will be easier reading, and with well-developed reading skills, kids should feel pleasure curling up with a novel at home. But even if they don’t, why should any kind of a premium be placed on an interest in reading novels? It’s not tied to economic success in life and needn’t be inculcated any more than an interest in watching movies or listening to popular music. Leave kids alone to find out out what recreational activities enrich and satisfy them. Some may want to dance or play music or paint. Just because teachers tend to be the kind of people who love novels does not mean that this choice ought to be imposed on young people via compulsory education. Teach them about history, science, law, logic — something academic and substantive — and leave the fictional material for after hours.

I would quote this rejoinder, but really, it needs to be read in full. Let me just note that Althouse reveals herself in all her malignant idiocy as soon as she states that reading literature “is not tied to economic success in life”. First, the notion that education should be nothing more than glorified job training is nauseating in the extreme coming from anyone, but coming from a professor should result in immediate expulsion from ever teaching anyone again. But second, last time I checked, the entertainment industry in this country was a pretty large source of economic activity, and the act of reading fiction is a pretty big factor there, isn’t it?

You’ll all pardon me now; I need to scrub away the stupid.

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GAAAAAAAAAA!

Yes, I’m going to complain about American Idol. Scroll past this if you’d prefer to believe that a smart and level-headed fellow like myself shouldn’t be watching such pop tripe.

Melinda Doolittle blows Blake off the stage every time she opens her mouth to sing. Blake is a one-trick pony, and it’s not even that great a trick to begin with. Ugh.

OK, I’m done.

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Mr. Jaw, meet Mr. Floor (part deux)

I often think that the Right in this country is living in some kind of dream world, and the reason why is stuff like this idiotic thought by John Derbyshire:

As NRO’s designated chickenhawk, let me be the one to ask: Where was the spirit of self-defense here? Setting aside the ludicrous campus ban on licensed conceals, why didn’t anyone rush the guy? It’s not like this was Rambo, hosing the place down with automatic weapons. He had two handguns for goodness’ sake—one of them reportedly a .22.

At the very least, count the shots and jump him reloading or changing hands. Better yet, just jump him. Handguns aren’t very accurate, even at close range. I shoot mine all the time at the range, and I still can’t hit squat. I doubt this guy was any better than I am. And even if hit, a .22 needs to find something important to do real damage—your chances aren’t bad.

“Count the shots”? “Just jump him”? “Even if hit, your chances aren’t bad”?!

My God, this guy — and anyone who has thought anything like this — is just living in a delusional fantasyworld where the things that people do in action movies or shows like 24 are actual options in real life. We might as well wonder why anyone didn’t just slip on a Ring of Power and then use the resulting invisibility to sneak up behind the shooter and then eviscerate him with their lightsaber. He probably thinks that in the face of a massive explosion people can outrun fireballs, too.

I hate this kind of crap. I really do. I hated it a few weeks ago when those British soldiers were released by Iran, and a number of right-wing bloggers actually seemed disappointed that they hadn’t been murdered. I hate that Derbyshire has the audacity to bring up Flight 93 (“Did we learn nothing?”), as if the situations were in any way similar. I hate the impulse, the ever-constant reflex, to blame victims for everything: it’s your fault for not leaving the city when the hurricane came, even if you had no means and nowhere to go if you did. It’s your fault for not getting a better job, even if you applied and applied and applied and no one was hiring.

And it’s your fault this guy was able to shoot as many people as he did, because your actions didn’t match the hypothetical macho-man fantasies of a guy who once engaged in a conversation with Jonah Goldberg (Mr. “I’ll have my book done just as soon as my readers are done researching it for me”) about why the victims of the Titanic didn’t just float to safety on armoires and hutches, and who thinks that women hit their peak of attractiveness just after puberty.

Tell me again about right-wing civility. Please.

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O for a problem that this solution would solve!

So I’ve been selling books on eBay lately (link to my auctions is over there in the sidebar). When I sell a book, I generally just slip it into a bubble-mailer, seal the envelope and tape it shut for good measure, and address it. Then I figure postage by weighing it on a kitchen scale (we have a nice digital one that does the job perfectly), and plug that weight into the form on USPS.com. Finally I simply slap on the number of stamps that will get the item there, and drop it in the mailbox at work.

Except apparently this will no longer work for heavier books, because I did not know that according to “heightened security measures”, if you’re mailing something that’s more than sixteen ounces, you are required to hand it to a retail clerk at a Post Office. In other words, no dropping items into the mailbox anymore.

So today a package of mine with a single book in it was actually returned to me, with a note attached explaining all this. Now I have to take this package to the post office tomorrow and hand it to the clerk, whereupon we will have the following conversation:

CLERK: Is there anything liquid or perishable in here, sir?

ME: No. It’s a book.

CLERK: Any insurance of verification of delivery?

ME: No, thank you.

CLERK: OK. [puts package onto the pile of outgoing stuff] Need any stamps?

ME: Got any of those Star Wars stamps?

CLERK: No, but we have the Great Moments in Frozen Food series.

ME: OK, fine.

CLERK: Have a nice day.

That’s all that will happen. Believe me, I’ve mailed enough books through the years that I know whereof I speak. So how is this in any way to help with “security”? It’s not like the mail clerks are going to assess my package for its potential bad-stuff-containing possibilities right then and there; surely the package will be scanned at some point in the mail-handling process, but as all the mail ends up at the same place eventually before being redistributed again, who cares? How will any of this prevent someone from hollowing out the pages of a book, Andy Dufresne-style, and mailing nefarious items that way?

This is a stupid, stupid rule.

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