Tuesday, December 25, 2007
The Queen's Christmas Message (2007)
Growing up, this was my favourite part of Christmas Day; the presents had been opened, dinner was cooking, and the mountain of shredded wrapping paper had been cleared away when, glutted with candy, I put down my Princess Diana picture books and everything stopped so I could watch the Queen's Message.
I was strict too; if anyone talked during it I'd shush them and everything, and not even a soft one either. Come to think of it, this may have been the reason the TV was banished from the living room.
I didn't make anyone stand when God Save The Queen was playing, though, but my great-grandfather and my grandfather would join me anyway, being Army men. My father was Air Force, and so didn't stand for anything; in fact, I think he must have been allergic to the display of respect, since he never did it himself.
As the song ended they would salute - in the Canadian way, of course - but I always used to salute the British way, which they were okay with, but which used to piss my father off so bad it was worth the smack he'd give me, out of the blue, about two weeks later.
Christmas really is a season of memories, isn't it?
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Sunday, December 23, 2007
Douchebag of the Year: The Republican Party
In a year of exceptional doucebaggery, a year in which asshattery truly flourished, it has proven difficult to choose one individual who stood head and shoulders above the others long enough to allow a clear shot at taking said head clean off.
The short list includes (in no particular order) many of our favourite douchebags, both long-term and newly anointed, such as Rudy Giuliani, Vladimir Putin, George W. Bush, Stephen Harper, Karl Rove, Ted "Totally Heterosexual" Haggard, Mitt Romney, Jerry Falwell, Mike Huckabee, Sam Sullivan, Rupert Murdoch, Alberto Gonzales, Mel Gibson, Larry "Wide Stance" Craig, Mahmoud Ahmedinejad, James Holsinger, Pervez Musharraf, and Dick Cheney; each of them, in their own way, added to the general douchebagginess of 2007 in some unique and special way.
The one (some would say lowest) common denominator the majority of these fine upstanding citizens possess is membership in the Republican Party, making their group win not only feasible but a veritable fait accompli. (I love using French - or Liberty, as many of them would call it - around these loathsome toads.)
From where I'm sitting the Republican Party is the fount from whence most of the hatred and intolerance in the world gushes; keeping in mind that a douchebag is both a symbol of oppression and a useless item which causes more harm than good, I can think of no more deserving winner for this singular honour.
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The short list includes (in no particular order) many of our favourite douchebags, both long-term and newly anointed, such as Rudy Giuliani, Vladimir Putin, George W. Bush, Stephen Harper, Karl Rove, Ted "Totally Heterosexual" Haggard, Mitt Romney, Jerry Falwell, Mike Huckabee, Sam Sullivan, Rupert Murdoch, Alberto Gonzales, Mel Gibson, Larry "Wide Stance" Craig, Mahmoud Ahmedinejad, James Holsinger, Pervez Musharraf, and Dick Cheney; each of them, in their own way, added to the general douchebagginess of 2007 in some unique and special way.The one (some would say lowest) common denominator the majority of these fine upstanding citizens possess is membership in the Republican Party, making their group win not only feasible but a veritable fait accompli. (I love using French - or Liberty, as many of them would call it - around these loathsome toads.)
From where I'm sitting the Republican Party is the fount from whence most of the hatred and intolerance in the world gushes; keeping in mind that a douchebag is both a symbol of oppression and a useless item which causes more harm than good, I can think of no more deserving winner for this singular honour.
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Saturday, December 22, 2007
1969: A Year In Review
1969 - the year I was born - has always held a great fascination for me; since we are shaped by the times we live in (and, in my case, by the media created in those times) it's always been a year I've regarded as special - and not just because it's the year I was born either, although in personal terms that does make 1969 the most special of them all.
The year began, as it ended, with the US embroiled in an unjust foreign war declared on the basis of specious intelligence; thank goodness people today have evolved beyond all that. Not that I was aware of it. I wasn't even aware of Sesame Street, the show that would have the greatest impact on my young psyche, which made its debut 18 days before I made mine.
1969 was the year evil media baron Rupert Murdoch began making his inroads into British media, with his purchase of News of the World, yet also the year the media's saviour was born, namely me; of course, in those days blogs, the Internet, and even the concept of pop culture were all just glimmers in various eyes, awaiting the One who would whip them all into a frenzy affectionately known as the Pop Culture Institute.
The New York Jets defeated the Baltimore Colts in Super Bowl III, President Lyndon Baines Johnson left office prior to the inauguration of Richard Milhous Nixon, and martial law was declared in Spain as The Beatles gave their final public performance (on the roof of Apple Records) which was included in their film Let It Be; the event later paid homage to in the U2 video Where The Streets Have No Name. And that was just in January!
February saw Yasser Arafat appointed head of the Palestine Liberation Organization, an oil slick fouled the harbour of Santa Barbara, California, and FLQ bombs fouled the Montreal Stock Exchange. In March Concorde made its initial test flight, Sirhan Sirhan confessed to killing Robert F. Kennedy while a week later James Earl Ray pleaded guilty to assassinating Martin Luther King Jr., NASA launched Apollo 9 to test the lunar module (later returning safely to the Earth), Golda Meir became the first female Prime Minister of Israel, and either Nixon or Kissinger hatched the brilliant plan to bomb the shit out of Cambodia.
In April the Harrier jet entered service in the RAF, 300 members of the Students for a Democratic Society seized the administration building at Harvard, and Charles de Gaulle stepped down as President of France; things got really interesting in May, when the Soviets landed Venera 5 on the surface of Venus where NASA's Apollo 10 flew within 15,400 m of the Moon as John Lennon and Yoko Ono were conducting a Bed-In at Montreal's Queen Elizabeth Hotel.
While still in bed in Montreal in June John Lennon recorded Give Peace a Chance (the first solo single by a Beatle), whereas an hour away in Ottawa the finishing touches were being put on Canada's National Arts Centre; at the end of that month, the event that would most profoundly effect the way I live occurred at the Stonewall riots.
In July Charles, Prince of Wales, was invested with his title beneath a vast perspex pavilion at Caernarfon, French was elevated to official language status in Canada, the first American troops were withdrawn from Vietnam, Ted Kennedy drove Mary Jo Kopechne to her doom at Chappaquiddick, Gloria Diaz became the first Filipina Miss Universe, and the Apollo 11 mission went to the moon and back.
In August Sharon Tate and her friends were murdered by Charles Manson and his "family", a suitably ironic prelude to the peace, love, and harmony promoted at the Woodstock Festival.
In September Libya's King Idris was ousted by Muammar al-Gaddafi, information about the My Lai Massacre was suppressed by a co-operative (or, if you prefer, collusive) media, and the Chicago Eight trial began; October saw the opening of the Beijing Subway, Willard S. Boyle and George Smith invented the CCD at Bell Laboratories (precipitating the digital age whose fruits we currently enjoy), Willy Brandt became Chancellor of West Germany, the first message was sent over ARPANET (which would later become the Internet, the greatest invention in the history of mankind), and Wal-Mart (among the worst inventions in human history) was incorporated.
November - as has already been discussed - saw the arrival of both me and Sesame Street; additionally, Seymour Hersh broke the story of My Lai, Apollo 12 went to the moon, the UK's BBC1 and ITV began broadcasting in colour, the US Senate voted against the appointment of Clement Haynsworth to the Supreme Court, and John Lennon returned his MBE in protest of British support for the Vietnam War.
The year ended with the murders of Black Panther Party members Fred Hampton and Mark Clark in their sleep by the Chicago police department, the fiasco at Altamont, and the Piazza Fontana bombing in Italy, all recently discussed on the Pop Culture Institute.
Among those born in this year: Christy Turlington, "Brian Warner", Jason Bateman, Dave Grohl, Jennifer Aniston, Chastity Bono, Paul Rudd, Renée Zellweger, Cate Blanchett, Steffi Graf, Ice Cube, Jennifer Lopez, Elliott Smith, Edward Norton, Christian Slater, Matthew Perry, Jack Black, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Gwen Stefani, Brett Favre, Trey Parker, Sean "Diddy" Combs, Matthew McConaughey, Ken Griffey, Jr., Jay-Z, Martha Byrne, and Jay Kay.
Among those who died include Violet and Daisy Hilton, Jan Palach, Boris Karloff, Thelma Ritter, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Osbert Sitwell, Judy Garland, Brian Jones, Rocky Marciano, and Jack Kerouac.
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The year began, as it ended, with the US embroiled in an unjust foreign war declared on the basis of specious intelligence; thank goodness people today have evolved beyond all that. Not that I was aware of it. I wasn't even aware of Sesame Street, the show that would have the greatest impact on my young psyche, which made its debut 18 days before I made mine.
1969 was the year evil media baron Rupert Murdoch began making his inroads into British media, with his purchase of News of the World, yet also the year the media's saviour was born, namely me; of course, in those days blogs, the Internet, and even the concept of pop culture were all just glimmers in various eyes, awaiting the One who would whip them all into a frenzy affectionately known as the Pop Culture Institute.
The New York Jets defeated the Baltimore Colts in Super Bowl III, President Lyndon Baines Johnson left office prior to the inauguration of Richard Milhous Nixon, and martial law was declared in Spain as The Beatles gave their final public performance (on the roof of Apple Records) which was included in their film Let It Be; the event later paid homage to in the U2 video Where The Streets Have No Name. And that was just in January!
February saw Yasser Arafat appointed head of the Palestine Liberation Organization, an oil slick fouled the harbour of Santa Barbara, California, and FLQ bombs fouled the Montreal Stock Exchange. In March Concorde made its initial test flight, Sirhan Sirhan confessed to killing Robert F. Kennedy while a week later James Earl Ray pleaded guilty to assassinating Martin Luther King Jr., NASA launched Apollo 9 to test the lunar module (later returning safely to the Earth), Golda Meir became the first female Prime Minister of Israel, and either Nixon or Kissinger hatched the brilliant plan to bomb the shit out of Cambodia.
In April the Harrier jet entered service in the RAF, 300 members of the Students for a Democratic Society seized the administration building at Harvard, and Charles de Gaulle stepped down as President of France; things got really interesting in May, when the Soviets landed Venera 5 on the surface of Venus where NASA's Apollo 10 flew within 15,400 m of the Moon as John Lennon and Yoko Ono were conducting a Bed-In at Montreal's Queen Elizabeth Hotel.
While still in bed in Montreal in June John Lennon recorded Give Peace a Chance (the first solo single by a Beatle), whereas an hour away in Ottawa the finishing touches were being put on Canada's National Arts Centre; at the end of that month, the event that would most profoundly effect the way I live occurred at the Stonewall riots.
In July Charles, Prince of Wales, was invested with his title beneath a vast perspex pavilion at Caernarfon, French was elevated to official language status in Canada, the first American troops were withdrawn from Vietnam, Ted Kennedy drove Mary Jo Kopechne to her doom at Chappaquiddick, Gloria Diaz became the first Filipina Miss Universe, and the Apollo 11 mission went to the moon and back.
In August Sharon Tate and her friends were murdered by Charles Manson and his "family", a suitably ironic prelude to the peace, love, and harmony promoted at the Woodstock Festival.
In September Libya's King Idris was ousted by Muammar al-Gaddafi, information about the My Lai Massacre was suppressed by a co-operative (or, if you prefer, collusive) media, and the Chicago Eight trial began; October saw the opening of the Beijing Subway, Willard S. Boyle and George Smith invented the CCD at Bell Laboratories (precipitating the digital age whose fruits we currently enjoy), Willy Brandt became Chancellor of West Germany, the first message was sent over ARPANET (which would later become the Internet, the greatest invention in the history of mankind), and Wal-Mart (among the worst inventions in human history) was incorporated.
November - as has already been discussed - saw the arrival of both me and Sesame Street; additionally, Seymour Hersh broke the story of My Lai, Apollo 12 went to the moon, the UK's BBC1 and ITV began broadcasting in colour, the US Senate voted against the appointment of Clement Haynsworth to the Supreme Court, and John Lennon returned his MBE in protest of British support for the Vietnam War.
The year ended with the murders of Black Panther Party members Fred Hampton and Mark Clark in their sleep by the Chicago police department, the fiasco at Altamont, and the Piazza Fontana bombing in Italy, all recently discussed on the Pop Culture Institute.
Among those born in this year: Christy Turlington, "Brian Warner", Jason Bateman, Dave Grohl, Jennifer Aniston, Chastity Bono, Paul Rudd, Renée Zellweger, Cate Blanchett, Steffi Graf, Ice Cube, Jennifer Lopez, Elliott Smith, Edward Norton, Christian Slater, Matthew Perry, Jack Black, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Gwen Stefani, Brett Favre, Trey Parker, Sean "Diddy" Combs, Matthew McConaughey, Ken Griffey, Jr., Jay-Z, Martha Byrne, and Jay Kay.
Among those who died include Violet and Daisy Hilton, Jan Palach, Boris Karloff, Thelma Ritter, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Osbert Sitwell, Judy Garland, Brian Jones, Rocky Marciano, and Jack Kerouac.
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Mini-Milestone: 1969
For the most part, I have rendered this blog with the utmost enthusiasm; there have been days, though, that have tested the limits of my endurance, whether emotional or intellectual or even physical. There have even been days, like yesterday and today, which came close to being all three. Over the past two years I have any number of times (and for any number of reasons) come thisclose to deleting the whole shebang; my cursor has even lingered near (though never over) the DELETE BLOG button. The longer I work at it, the more I put into it, the less appealing this option becomes; anyway, I soon get over myself, and the feeling passes.
What might seem to be a phoenix-like response of mine - rather than cleansing or rejuvenating - is actually profoundly self-defeating; the wholesale destruction of manuscripts, friendships, and even aspirations, invariably takes away more than it gives in return, and I have never not come to regret any such rash action on my part. This is why I haven't resorted to such a drastic step now with regards to the Pop Culture Institute, and also why I never will; in amongst all my clumsy attempts at evolution it seems that I just might have, however accidentally or unintentionally, evolved beyond the need to destroy. Each of these dalliances with deletion has served as a defiant affirmation, not only of the work I do here but also my ability to do it.
It's telling that the most important romantic relationship I've ever had has been with this blog; I've worried over it, been elated by it, and even occasionally even loathed it. Unlike the men with whom I've been romantic, though, this blog has let me worry over it, been in its own way elated by me, and never let my loathing become reciprocal. Despite my commitment to it, whenever I've needed space it's been offered without question, and upon my inevitable return it's greeted me with open... Er... Peripherals?
I've decided to start taking it a little bit easier, so as not to burn myself out. This blog was originally intended as a kind of workout for my writing; rather than a couple of leisurely hours of stretching a day, though, it's become something of an endurance test, like trying to compete in the decathlon while wearing anvils instead of shoes. The imposition of such strict discipline on a person who is essentially lazy may be necessary to help him realize his dream of someday not having to be a security guard, but it's really played Hell on my psyche. When a masochist says something hurts, it really hurts, and the last two days have been very painful indeed.
In the end, it's your warm words (as much as my love of the work) which invariably end up bringing me back. Mr. Gagne, of course, has been the best friend I (or it) could ask for, and is solely responsible for much of the look of this blog, being the one to teach me HTML, the literary equivalent of calculus; Mr. Davey, too, has helped me to shape its attitude with his own. Being added to the blogroll of Y|O|Y in March gave me my first shred of credibility, in that a total stranger liked my work enough to recommend it to others. Daniel, Eddie, and Javier have all taken to it enthusiastically in recent months, and offer input and insight (rather than adding insult to injury) for which I am deeply grateful; they are a brilliant foreboding of readers yet to arrive. Finally, there are the dozens of people who've crossed this path and, whether they've left their mark on this blog or not have left their mark on me, whether by bruises or lipstick traces...
~ MSM
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What might seem to be a phoenix-like response of mine - rather than cleansing or rejuvenating - is actually profoundly self-defeating; the wholesale destruction of manuscripts, friendships, and even aspirations, invariably takes away more than it gives in return, and I have never not come to regret any such rash action on my part. This is why I haven't resorted to such a drastic step now with regards to the Pop Culture Institute, and also why I never will; in amongst all my clumsy attempts at evolution it seems that I just might have, however accidentally or unintentionally, evolved beyond the need to destroy. Each of these dalliances with deletion has served as a defiant affirmation, not only of the work I do here but also my ability to do it.
It's telling that the most important romantic relationship I've ever had has been with this blog; I've worried over it, been elated by it, and even occasionally even loathed it. Unlike the men with whom I've been romantic, though, this blog has let me worry over it, been in its own way elated by me, and never let my loathing become reciprocal. Despite my commitment to it, whenever I've needed space it's been offered without question, and upon my inevitable return it's greeted me with open... Er... Peripherals?
I've decided to start taking it a little bit easier, so as not to burn myself out. This blog was originally intended as a kind of workout for my writing; rather than a couple of leisurely hours of stretching a day, though, it's become something of an endurance test, like trying to compete in the decathlon while wearing anvils instead of shoes. The imposition of such strict discipline on a person who is essentially lazy may be necessary to help him realize his dream of someday not having to be a security guard, but it's really played Hell on my psyche. When a masochist says something hurts, it really hurts, and the last two days have been very painful indeed.
In the end, it's your warm words (as much as my love of the work) which invariably end up bringing me back. Mr. Gagne, of course, has been the best friend I (or it) could ask for, and is solely responsible for much of the look of this blog, being the one to teach me HTML, the literary equivalent of calculus; Mr. Davey, too, has helped me to shape its attitude with his own. Being added to the blogroll of Y|O|Y in March gave me my first shred of credibility, in that a total stranger liked my work enough to recommend it to others. Daniel, Eddie, and Javier have all taken to it enthusiastically in recent months, and offer input and insight (rather than adding insult to injury) for which I am deeply grateful; they are a brilliant foreboding of readers yet to arrive. Finally, there are the dozens of people who've crossed this path and, whether they've left their mark on this blog or not have left their mark on me, whether by bruises or lipstick traces...
~ MSM
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Thursday, December 20, 2007
¡Feliz Cumpleaños! Infanta Elena, Duques de Lugo
Divorce can be a very uplifting time - the elation of kicking his cheating ass to the curb, for instance, I always find very invigorating - but too often people focus on the negative aspects of it; my humble suggestion, Your Royal Highness, is to do your utmost to find the good in your current situation, heal, and then move on.It doesn't matter what your parents think, and as for the impact divorce will have on your children, believe me when I tell you that a miserable marriage is way worse than a single mother any day. Believe me... I know whereof I speak. Believe me. (Or did I say that already?)
I'll get you started on your quest for the silver lining; consider it a birthday present... In the olden days a Princess - even a royal Princess - who couldn't play nice either got shunted off to a nunnery or else they locked her up in a drafty castle until she died of consumption; thank your lucky stars you live in 2007.
Now you try...
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Song Of The Year: "You Know I'm No Good" by Amy Winehouse
Musically, 2007 has been a great year for Amy Winehouse; personally...? Not so much.
Nevertheless, ever since the moment I heard it You Know I'm No Good has not left my iPod; I've already posted it, as we say, on the other side (namely, at Self-Loathario) so I thought why not post it here too, as part of my big year-end celebration? And since there's no one here but me and the cat, and she didn't say anything, that's what I did.
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Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Hottie Of The Year: Jake Gyllenhaal
Born on this day in 1980 - obviously a very good year - Jake Gyllenhaal is not only Hottie of the Year for this year, but last year, next year, any old year he wants really.
(Any suggestions for female Hottie of the Year should be left as comments here as quickly as possible; a winner will be announced before in one week. Unless, of course, I get no input - in which case I'll be forced to choose one on my own, and that may not go well.)
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Tuesday, December 18, 2007
"Dirrty" by Christina Aguilera
Way, way, WAY back in the olden days - I'm talking ten years ago now - Britney Spears was the perky little all-American girl everyone loved and Christina Aguilera was an over-the-top skank who seemed well on her way to dying with a needle in her arm and a dick in her mouth...
My, how times have changed; now it's Britney who's on suicide watch, weaning her kids on Mountain Dew, and generally doing her utmost to win White Trash Mother of the Year while Christina's found herself a nice Jewish boy, got married, and found herself in a family way - and in that order! So retro!
To celebrate both her birthday and her burgeoning waistline, here's a reminder of Mrs. Bratman's past, present, and future hotness...
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Tuesday, December 11, 2007
A Public Service Announcement
Which of us has not borne this terrible stigma at one time or another in our life?
Watch this video and learn how to protect yourself; until there's a cure, this is our best line of defense.
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Sunday, December 09, 2007
1888: A Year In Review
Of all the years I have reviewed so far for the feature A Year in Review, 1888 is probably the one which holds the most fascination for me. The height of the late Victorian period is an age which is rich in the kinds of characters and events especially favoured for coverage by the Pop Culture Institute; many of their lives and works (for good or ill) resonate with us still.
From the diminutive Queen who towered over the era to which she gave her name to the five humble streetwalkers - Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly - who found themselves butchered by Jack the Ripper; and from Annie Besant who organized a strike by match girls in London to Susan B. Anthony and her agitating for women's rights in Washington, DC, it was a time when women (in the West, at least, and whether they agreed with the tenets of feminism or not) were about to embark upon their arduous journey to equality. Brazil, on the other hand, was just getting around to abolishing slavery.
The year in which the National Geographic Society was formed was first and foremost an age of science and exploration; while Thomas Edison was scratching his head over how to invent sound film, Louis Le Prince was filming his motion picture Roundhay Garden Scene - all 2 seconds of it; for his soundtrack he could have used Handel's Israel in Egypt, which was the first classical music recorded - in the style of the day - on a wax cylinder.
George Eastman meanwhile had patented his new Kodak camera, complete with a new innovation - roll film - which would revolutionize photography, overnight making everyone the potential subject of a portrait; for the budding landscape artist, perhaps a photo of the newly opened Washington Monument would suffice. Or, should you find yourself on the other side of the world, you might catch an early glimpse of a remarkable dolphin named Pelorus Jack in New Zealand's Cook Strait.
Today, whenever inordinate amounts of snow fall on Manhattan, it's bound to be compared to the Great Blizzard of '88, which killed 400 along the Eastern Seaboard in March; references to Vincent van Gogh's missing ear (which he gave to a prostitute named Rachel for safe-keeping) also date from December of this year.
Known as the Year of Three Emperors, Germany's Wilhelm I, Friedrich III, and Wilhelm II all shared the throne in 1888; in presidential politics Grover Cleveland won the popular vote but lost the Electoral College to Benjamin Harrison during a hotly disputed election. That other American pastime - baseball - added to its own body of lore with the publication of Casey at the Bat.
Knute Rockne, Anita Loos, Max Steiner, Irving Berlin, Jim Thorpe Raymond Chandler, T. E. Lawrence, T. S. Eliot, Eugene O'Neill, Robert Moses and Fernando Pessoa were among those born; poets Edward Lear and Matthew Arnold were among those who died.
The last surviving documented person born in 1888 was Adelina Domingues who died at the age of 114 in August 2002; no word on whether or not she used Mum deodorant, the first commercially available product to combat body odour, which was invented in Philadelphia the year she was born.
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From the diminutive Queen who towered over the era to which she gave her name to the five humble streetwalkers - Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly - who found themselves butchered by Jack the Ripper; and from Annie Besant who organized a strike by match girls in London to Susan B. Anthony and her agitating for women's rights in Washington, DC, it was a time when women (in the West, at least, and whether they agreed with the tenets of feminism or not) were about to embark upon their arduous journey to equality. Brazil, on the other hand, was just getting around to abolishing slavery.
The year in which the National Geographic Society was formed was first and foremost an age of science and exploration; while Thomas Edison was scratching his head over how to invent sound film, Louis Le Prince was filming his motion picture Roundhay Garden Scene - all 2 seconds of it; for his soundtrack he could have used Handel's Israel in Egypt, which was the first classical music recorded - in the style of the day - on a wax cylinder.
George Eastman meanwhile had patented his new Kodak camera, complete with a new innovation - roll film - which would revolutionize photography, overnight making everyone the potential subject of a portrait; for the budding landscape artist, perhaps a photo of the newly opened Washington Monument would suffice. Or, should you find yourself on the other side of the world, you might catch an early glimpse of a remarkable dolphin named Pelorus Jack in New Zealand's Cook Strait.
Today, whenever inordinate amounts of snow fall on Manhattan, it's bound to be compared to the Great Blizzard of '88, which killed 400 along the Eastern Seaboard in March; references to Vincent van Gogh's missing ear (which he gave to a prostitute named Rachel for safe-keeping) also date from December of this year.
Known as the Year of Three Emperors, Germany's Wilhelm I, Friedrich III, and Wilhelm II all shared the throne in 1888; in presidential politics Grover Cleveland won the popular vote but lost the Electoral College to Benjamin Harrison during a hotly disputed election. That other American pastime - baseball - added to its own body of lore with the publication of Casey at the Bat.
Knute Rockne, Anita Loos, Max Steiner, Irving Berlin, Jim Thorpe Raymond Chandler, T. E. Lawrence, T. S. Eliot, Eugene O'Neill, Robert Moses and Fernando Pessoa were among those born; poets Edward Lear and Matthew Arnold were among those who died.
The last surviving documented person born in 1888 was Adelina Domingues who died at the age of 114 in August 2002; no word on whether or not she used Mum deodorant, the first commercially available product to combat body odour, which was invented in Philadelphia the year she was born.
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1888: Abso-tively, Posi-lutely The Penultimate Mini-Milestone
Well, another mini-milestone has arrived, and thank goodness it's almost the last one; what started out as a clever idea quickly grew tiresome, like a Steven Seagal movie, or having children. The very last mini-milestone will occur at post number 1969 probably just before Christmas.
There isn't much to say in this one except the usual: how grateful I am to my readers and for what little input I manage to drag out of them. Efforts to build a community around this site are ongoing, and as such will be forthcoming in fits and starts whenever I can manage to wrestle a little energy from my ageing carcass and something resembling cogent thought from my overworked brain.
In the meantime, please enjoy, comment, make suggestions, and tell your friends.
~ MSM
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There isn't much to say in this one except the usual: how grateful I am to my readers and for what little input I manage to drag out of them. Efforts to build a community around this site are ongoing, and as such will be forthcoming in fits and starts whenever I can manage to wrestle a little energy from my ageing carcass and something resembling cogent thought from my overworked brain.
In the meantime, please enjoy, comment, make suggestions, and tell your friends.
~ MSM
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Monday, December 03, 2007
I Can't Seem To Help Myself
Gradually I am coming to understand why I keep fucking this up; as a happy accident, as I am coming to understand what I'm doing wrong, I am also coming to understand how to fix it. All of which amounts to a lot of coming and a lot of understanding, even for me.
Naturally, I've done it again, embedded a video and locked myself out of the blog. And since every time previously the only way to fix it was to write some stupid explanation afterwards, renouncing the blogosphere forever as the murderer of dreams, etc. etc. that's what I'm doing now, to whit:
Everything hates me; boo-fucking hoo.
That oughta do it. What I'm really doing, though, I haven't the faintest idea. The morally neutral and non-sentient circuitry of my computer isn't responding to my histrionics even in the remotest way, but is simply doing an end run around some minor glitch in its code which my posting this would seem to encourage.
Please be patient; a bigger problem is brewing on the home front. I renamed my Music folder, and now iTunes can't find anything to play; I renamed the folder (back to Music), but it still can't seem to find it. Unless... I also renamed my external hard drive; if I change its name back... Yes! There's my iTunes! I did something right!
(Honestly, I shouldn't even be allowed to own a computer.)
Here then, is to the Pop Culture Institute: Long May She Snark!
~ MSM
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Naturally, I've done it again, embedded a video and locked myself out of the blog. And since every time previously the only way to fix it was to write some stupid explanation afterwards, renouncing the blogosphere forever as the murderer of dreams, etc. etc. that's what I'm doing now, to whit:
Everything hates me; boo-fucking hoo.
That oughta do it. What I'm really doing, though, I haven't the faintest idea. The morally neutral and non-sentient circuitry of my computer isn't responding to my histrionics even in the remotest way, but is simply doing an end run around some minor glitch in its code which my posting this would seem to encourage.
Please be patient; a bigger problem is brewing on the home front. I renamed my Music folder, and now iTunes can't find anything to play; I renamed the folder (back to Music), but it still can't seem to find it. Unless... I also renamed my external hard drive; if I change its name back... Yes! There's my iTunes! I did something right!
(Honestly, I shouldn't even be allowed to own a computer.)
Here then, is to the Pop Culture Institute: Long May She Snark!
~ MSM
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Monday, November 26, 2007
It's Doing It Again
Once again Blogspot has forgotten how to play nice with my computer; it hangs when I try to blog using Firefox, and crashes when I use Safari. I reinstalled Firefox and restarted, which is all I had to do to fix the problem last time, only this time the solution is proving more elusive.
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Same story... Yada yada can't publish anything new yada yada kick the fucking thing down the alley yada yada total shit yada yada step on their necks.
Honestly, it's all getting very dull.
~ MSM
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Sunday, November 25, 2007
Beyond The Comfort Zone
It was months ago when I discovered where my comfort zone was as a writer, and on that day I could have easily hunkered down in that sweet spot and written from there for the rest of my life. But no... Comfort's not good enough for me; I have to work from a place where it sometimes takes five hours of reading and 10+ rewrites to produce a single 100-word post.
Having spent the greater part of five hours committing literary seppuku in order to write both the DiMaggio and Mishima posts below as if by cesarean section, I can safely say that I am officially out of control. The worst of it is, I'm still not pleased with either one; in both cases I feel I've failed to knock them out of the park. Typically, though, it's the pieces I'm less than pleased with that get the most praise from readers - wherein I can virtually predict how much acclaim something will earn by how chuffed with myself I am for having written it - which is the only reason I would ever publish anything with which I was less than utterly satisfied.
Every year it's the same thing; the run-up to my birthday elicits such a panoply of conflicting impulses I scarcely know what to do except hang on for dear life until it passes. What it generally comes down to is, on the one hand, a kind of exasperation that I could be this old and still not established in my career and, on the other hand, a kind of relief that I'm not in the same position, only ten years older. This quandary typically manifests itself in one of two ways: either as writer's block, or a condition I like to call 'writer's frenzy' which, as you might expect, is the opposite.
At least this blog makes me feel like I'm actually doing something about that nebulous beast I'm fond of calling my career; to whit, I've just received an early birthday present - a request to reprint a very popular piece I recently published entitled RIP Norman Mailer. This singular honour, as much as the two new blogrolls to which I've been added, tells me that I must be on my way. That the request came from someone with those three magic letters after his name - P, H, and D - is either icing on the lily or gilding the cake; I can't decide which right now, what with all the frenzy.
As for that comfort zone of mine... It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there. Once, while engaging in a mental tug-of-war with a fellow commenter at Joe.My.God, I was referred to by my opponent as a "brain shark"; whether he meant it as a compliment or not is irrelevant, because I took it as such. My brain, like a shark, cannot stop moving or it will die.
Really, it's as simple as that.
~ MSM
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Having spent the greater part of five hours committing literary seppuku in order to write both the DiMaggio and Mishima posts below as if by cesarean section, I can safely say that I am officially out of control. The worst of it is, I'm still not pleased with either one; in both cases I feel I've failed to knock them out of the park. Typically, though, it's the pieces I'm less than pleased with that get the most praise from readers - wherein I can virtually predict how much acclaim something will earn by how chuffed with myself I am for having written it - which is the only reason I would ever publish anything with which I was less than utterly satisfied.
Every year it's the same thing; the run-up to my birthday elicits such a panoply of conflicting impulses I scarcely know what to do except hang on for dear life until it passes. What it generally comes down to is, on the one hand, a kind of exasperation that I could be this old and still not established in my career and, on the other hand, a kind of relief that I'm not in the same position, only ten years older. This quandary typically manifests itself in one of two ways: either as writer's block, or a condition I like to call 'writer's frenzy' which, as you might expect, is the opposite.
At least this blog makes me feel like I'm actually doing something about that nebulous beast I'm fond of calling my career; to whit, I've just received an early birthday present - a request to reprint a very popular piece I recently published entitled RIP Norman Mailer. This singular honour, as much as the two new blogrolls to which I've been added, tells me that I must be on my way. That the request came from someone with those three magic letters after his name - P, H, and D - is either icing on the lily or gilding the cake; I can't decide which right now, what with all the frenzy.
As for that comfort zone of mine... It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there. Once, while engaging in a mental tug-of-war with a fellow commenter at Joe.My.God, I was referred to by my opponent as a "brain shark"; whether he meant it as a compliment or not is irrelevant, because I took it as such. My brain, like a shark, cannot stop moving or it will die.
Really, it's as simple as that.
~ MSM
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Saturday, November 24, 2007
BAFTA Pays Tribute To Billy Connolly
Billy Connolly isn't a comedian, nor is he an actor; he's nothing less than a philosopher who chooses to express himself through stand up comedy, folk music, and/or the inhabitation of disparate (not to mention occasionally desperate) characters.
Here he is, squirming in the hot seat at a tribute to him and his career at BAFTA, hosted by Mr. Genial himself, Michael Parkinson. In attendance are his good lady wife, Pamela Stephenson, colleagues from the ridiculous (Eddie Izzard) to the sublime (Dame Judi Dench), and providing the rebuttal no less than Saint Bob himself.
As usual, I'm showing the first part only; if you wish to watch on, simply click on the screen and start searching!
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Friday, November 23, 2007
Now Showing: "The Last Duet on Earth"
During my frequent nocturnal intoxicated ramblings throughout the Web, I often come across crazy-ass shit; witness, Exhibit A - the above video. From the immense imagination of Graham Annable of Oregon, it's The Last Duet on Earth.
Seriously, though, what's not to love? From its pertinent social message to its surprise twist ending, I enjoyed every frame; plus, zombies and banjo music somehow just seem to go hand in hand, don't they?
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Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The Glitch Is Back
Whatever the problem is, it wasn't with the U2 video (as related in the post below) but resides within Blogspot itself; the post published below seems to have awakened the problem.
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Therefore, I must regretfully announce that publication of the Pop Culture Institute will be halted, effective immediately until such time as Blogspot gets it shit together.
~ MSM
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Wednesday, Bloody Wednesday
Earlier today, as some of you may know, I posted a video of U2's classic Sunday, Bloody Sunday; this being the anniversary of the day in question, I thought it would be a nice way to commemorate the occasion. Boy was I wrong.
The Anglo-Irish War had nothing on the bullshit that video put me though. (I am, of course, exaggerating; posting the video had no death toll, although it came close.)
As usual, of course, Mr. Gagne saved the day when I was ready to delete the whole fucking thing and start over. Not only did he manage to calm me down (without a Taser - take note VPD) but he also managed to fix the problem faster than James Herriot could fix a spaniel.
Still, when you think about how many hundreds of videos I've posted on here, this is the first one that's given me trouble, a perspective Mr. Gagne was only too willing to shoe-horn in between my numerous interruptions and bouts of operatic melodrama. In other words, just another day at the office for the Pop Culture Institute.
Having spent six hours grappling with the problem has left me without the energy to publish any more today. I'm taking the evening off and I'll be back here tomorrow as usual.
~ MSM
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The Anglo-Irish War had nothing on the bullshit that video put me though. (I am, of course, exaggerating; posting the video had no death toll, although it came close.)
As usual, of course, Mr. Gagne saved the day when I was ready to delete the whole fucking thing and start over. Not only did he manage to calm me down (without a Taser - take note VPD) but he also managed to fix the problem faster than James Herriot could fix a spaniel.
Still, when you think about how many hundreds of videos I've posted on here, this is the first one that's given me trouble, a perspective Mr. Gagne was only too willing to shoe-horn in between my numerous interruptions and bouts of operatic melodrama. In other words, just another day at the office for the Pop Culture Institute.
Having spent six hours grappling with the problem has left me without the energy to publish any more today. I'm taking the evening off and I'll be back here tomorrow as usual.
~ MSM
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Tuesday, November 20, 2007
HAPPY 60TH ANNIVERSARY!
It couldn't have come at a better time; the people of Britain - still reeling from the devastation of World War II, facing a winter of severe cold and the privation brought on by rationing - lined the streets to see their beautiful future Queen married to a handsome naval officer.
It was sixty years ago today Her Royal Highness The Princess Elizabeth married the newly-created Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, at a ceremony in Westminster Abbey (which, thankfully, had been spared the recent ravages of the Luftwaffe).
Following their marriage the Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh took as their London residence Clarence House, and set about the task at hand: begetting the son and heir. One week shy of their first anniversary, in November 1948, hundreds of guns across the country and around the Commonwealth boomed their appropriate greetings for the new Prince Charles.
Earlier this year the Royal Mint released a special double portrait £5 coin - only the fifth time in history they've done so - in honour of the royal milestone; only last week, in the lead-up to today's anniversary celebration, Buckingham Palace released some 60 fun facts about the blessed event of six decades ago. And finally, last evening The Prince of Wales and Duchess of Cornwall hosted an intimate dinner party for the Queen, her consort, and 25 very special guests in Clarence House; the home which has always held so many dear memories for them now holding even more.
Today's occasion - the celebration of their diamond anniversary - was remarkably low-key, at Her Majesty's behest; there were no parades or street parties, no fireworks or pageants. Just a church service, the opening of a new pedestrian walkway, and the unveiling of a plaque. Highlighting yet again that theirs , though a love match of the highest order, always was and always will be a working relationship.
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It was sixty years ago today Her Royal Highness The Princess Elizabeth married the newly-created Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, at a ceremony in Westminster Abbey (which, thankfully, had been spared the recent ravages of the Luftwaffe).Following their marriage the Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh took as their London residence Clarence House, and set about the task at hand: begetting the son and heir. One week shy of their first anniversary, in November 1948, hundreds of guns across the country and around the Commonwealth boomed their appropriate greetings for the new Prince Charles.
Earlier this year the Royal Mint released a special double portrait £5 coin - only the fifth time in history they've done so - in honour of the royal milestone; only last week, in the lead-up to today's anniversary celebration, Buckingham Palace released some 60 fun facts about the blessed event of six decades ago. And finally, last evening The Prince of Wales and Duchess of Cornwall hosted an intimate dinner party for the Queen, her consort, and 25 very special guests in Clarence House; the home which has always held so many dear memories for them now holding even more.
Today's occasion - the celebration of their diamond anniversary - was remarkably low-key, at Her Majesty's behest; there were no parades or street parties, no fireworks or pageants. Just a church service, the opening of a new pedestrian walkway, and the unveiling of a plaque. Highlighting yet again that theirs , though a love match of the highest order, always was and always will be a working relationship.
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Monday, November 19, 2007
Check Out Spain's Hottest Ringtone
More than half a million people in Spain and Latin America have downloaded a ringtone of an actor playing King Juan Carlos telling Hugo Chávez to shut up; mugs and t-shirts are also available, and websites (as is their wont) have been springing up as well.Diplomats have been labouring mightily to defuse the potential rift between Spain and Venezuela, while the public, it seems, can't get enough. The incident has put the King's already-high approval rating even higher, coming as it did hot on the heels of a nationalist visit to the Spanish enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla.
It hasn't been all good news for the Royal Family, though, as late last week it was announced that His Majesty's oldest child Infanta Elena and her husband Jaime de Marichalar, Duke of Lugo would henceforth be living apart.
(Muchos gracias to my Spanish-Canadian correspondent, Javier Mainar, for the heads-up on the story; sorry I couldn't find the link to the ringtone. If you can, let me know; I'd love to get it for mine. ~ MSM)
[S O U R C E]
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