Life Imitates Simpsons

Just as the Warren local newspaper summoned up thoughts of the Onion, some CNN broadcasts lately have been reminiscent of the Simpsons, and specifically Kent_Brockman. Tonight on Wolf Blitzer's show, "The Situation Room," the audience poll asked the following question:

"If you could have a face transplant, whose face would you want?"

Jack Cafferty, the guy administering the poll, then announced, "And we'll read all the ridiculous responses we expect to get from you people later tonight."

I don't know about you people, but that struck me as a little bit . . . well, you_know.

Anyway, in France they apparently did an actual face transplant on a woman whose face had been disfigured, using the facial skin of a woman who had been declared brain-dead. (Apparently, in France, brain-dead people do not enjoy the luxury of state supreme court intervention.) At least, they are calling it a "face transplant." However, they're only transplanting skin, not bone or muscle, so in my estimation, this is more of a "skin transplant." How this differs from what we currently call a "skin graft," I really don't know. Maybe it's just that this new nomenclature made it easier to come up with tonight's fascinating viewer's poll. (Of course, if they just transplant skin, you're still going to look like you, not someone else . . . am I being nit-picky here?)

In other news, Wolf himself reported that a bunch of people out on some body of water somewhere today celebrated the end of hurricane season by "blowing on a ceremonial conch shell." He repeated this important tidbit of information a couple of times while waiting for the footage to show, until it became apparent that they didn't actually have any footage of the ceremonial conch-shell blowing. What they did have abundant footage of was these supposed conch-shell blowers trying, and failing, to light two "hurricane flags" on fire. It seems they were trying to send a little "Fuck you!" message to hurricanes in general, but since the wind was blowing and it was raining a bit, their efforts were all for naught. All in all, not a great day for hurricane-season-ending celebrators.

And now, without further ado, the results of tonight's CNN readers poll:

"If you could have a face transplant, whose face would you want?"

--My own, about 20 years ago
--Gorbachev, without the birthmark
--Frank Zappa
--Bob Marley (and his hair too)
--Wolf Blitzer
--Anderson Cooper

Suckiest poll respondents ever!

[Confidential to burb: "Someone else! Someone else!"]

Art Imitates Life?

I just realized that in yesterday's post, I never got to the part to which the title was supposed to refer. And now I don't remember what, exactly, I wanted to write about that part. What's more, I can't remember which phrase came first--"Life Imitates Art" or "Art Imitates Life." One definitely came first, and then people started twisting it around and using the other one so frequently that now I can't remember which started first. (That happens a bit with the phrases "Dog Bites Man" and "Man Bites Dog*"--the second is used so often now that sometimes you have to stop and think of what the original phrase was. Of course, this one is obvious--but I digress.) And now, of course, I realize that "Art Imitates Life" was the original phrase, but I still can't remember what I was going to write about the other one.** Sigh.

There are a lot of great things about being in your 30s. In a lot of ways, things become much clearer, quickly. You kind of look around at your life and think, "Am I happy with this?" And then you either carry on, or you make minor adjustments, or you make major upheavals. I'm in the minor adjustments stage, and it's a good place to be, actually. You're not just sitting there, stagnating, not trying to improve yourself, but neither are you completely uprooting and taking off to, say, Africa (not that there's anything wrong with that!).

On the other hand, you start to go a little senile on certain things. Things you should remember or know how to do, and then you just blank out on them. I don't remember this happening as much in my 20s . . . but then, I have no way of knowing, of course, if that's because it didn't happen or because I don't remember it.

I guess I should amend this to the first person--these are my experiences, not everone's. I'm sure there are plenty of 30-something folks out there who would say they are still as sharp as ever. To those people I would say, "Ha! You're in denial!" (Just kidding.***)

Things I Just Can't Remember Anymore

1. How to spell "recommend." (I've now made myself practice it so much that hopefully I'll never forget. These obstacles can be overcome.)
2. The capital of Indonesia.
3. The names of people I've met at certain parties about 15 times, but then I never see or talk to them away from these parties, and I'm sorry, but if a person didn't really jump out at me, and I never see or talk to them, I'm probably not going to remember their name. If I was able to do that, I'd have been a politician or a sales rep.
4. How to post photos to my blog. I have to ask burb every time. (This problem is being remedied by Blogger, which is currently addressing the needs of people like myself who need for them to make this process so easy that it would be almost impossible to screw it up unless you were doing it on purpose, and even then it would be hard.)

And a whole bunch of other stuff I can't remember right now . . .


*But actually, I hadn't heard anyone use this phrase in quite a while, until Svengolly's very true comment posted recently.

**This could be because I'm a little bit buzzed right now. --Dedicated to truth in blogging since 2004.

***???

Life Imitates Art

So Jackspatula and I survived another holiday outing to his hometown of Warren. Warren is like the Gary, Indiana, of Ohio--and if you've ever been to Gary, you know exactly what I mean. A once-thriving industrial center that went to hell after numerous factory closings . . . they really need to get Billy Joel in to write a song about it. (Or maybe not--does the world really need another version of "Allentown"?) We actually had a pretty good time relaxing and hanging out with the parents--his parents, that is, who have been divorced for 20 years and live in separate houses but still spend the holidays together, go on vacation together, etc. Perhaps the best part of the whole trip, though, was reading the local newspaper, which frequently reminded me of the Onion. Some actual headlines:

"Terrorist Cells Are Unpopular"
"Woman Reports Freezer Cleaned Out"
"Penguin Men Visit Akron"

And, in the advertising section, "Sell your camper or RV for as little as $23!"

Apparently, all the editors fled a long time ago, along with the GM workers.

Anarchy Rules! Short Stories Rule! Just Read Something, People!

In keeping with the (semi) literary theme of the last post, I wanted to expound a bit on one of my nightstand books. The collection of John Sayles stories includes the title story "At the Anarchists' Convention," and it's one of my favorite short stories of all time. As all of us are painfully aware, the holidays are upon us, and in my opinion, there is no better time to check out a collection of short stories than the holidays. Many of us will be spending copious amounts of time with extended families, and some of us go a little bit nuts being around large groups of people for long stretches. A book of short stories (along with, perhaps, several glasses of wine) is just what you need at times like this--when it gets to be too much, you can sneak off somewhere for 15 or 20 minutes, read a short story, and feel renewed, or at least have something to think about while everyone else is complaining about hip pain or talking about how to get cranberry sauce stains out of the tablecloth or pretending to be interested in the 16th football game of the day. And with any luck, your family will never even realize you were gone! It's perfect.

So, if you get a chance to swing by the library soon and pick up this short-story collection, I highly recommend it. The title story, in particular, is a gem. (Yes, it's one of the three in the book I've actually read. I plan on reading the rest . . . over the holidays!) Just think about it for a minute . . . a convention of anarchists! The whole story just drips with delicious irony, and the title character is delightfully self-deprecating. The premise rests on the fact that all of the anarchists are getting up there in years, because really, who's an anarchist anymore? And their whole group is organized around committees and subcommittees, and they have officers and circulate petitions . . . basically, everything that isn't related to anarchy per se is what they do. (There is a wonderful part where they all throw away the name tags given to them at the door to the convention--"Name tags at the Anarchists' Convention," the narrator writes disdainfully, as if this is just going too far.) This collection came out in 1975, but the depiction of utter chaos and discord that often results when you try to organize people of supposedly like minds rings perfectly true today. (In fact, it summoned up a lot of deja vu from when I worked with MoveOn.org last year . . . )

If you're looking for more great short-story selections, here's my top 10 list. (Finally, another top 10 list!) In no particular order:

1. The anarchist convention story (see above)
2. "A Good Man Is Hard to Find," Flannery O'Connor
3. "To Build a Fire," Jack London
4. "In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried," Amy Hempel
5. "The Lottery," Shirley Jackson
6. "Lust," Susan Minot
7. "Where I'm Calling From," Raymond Carver
8. "The Enormous Radio," John Cheever
9. "The Burning House," Ann Beattie
10. "Everyday Use," Alice Walker

What We're Reading, or, We Really Need a New Bookshelf

Every time I clean our bedroom (which hasn't been lately, by the way), I marvel at how many books Jackspatula and I are managing to accumulate on our respective nightstands. I have yet to actually do anything about the increasingly alarming height of the stacks, though. Jackspatula's stack in particular is getting out of control. Alas, our bookshelves are full, so chances are the books will remain where they are until we get it together enough to go out and purchase a new bookshelf, which, given our track record, will probably be sometime around 2015. Not only that, any new book we purchase will likely be added to one of the stacks, because where else would it go? Chances are, we will meet our grisly demise on some unassuming night when one of the stacks finally topples, killing us both instantly. Death by book-stack, that's our fate.

Without further ado, I present the titles of our would-be assasins, so that history may record the complete and non-revised truth about what 30-something, fairly educated, semi-professional raging liberals are reading these days. (Yes, I feel Jackspatula and I can safely represent this entire group.)

My Stack:
Bill Clinton: My Life, by Bill Clinton. I love him, but this man just does not know when to shut up. I got about a quarter of the way through it, and he was still talking about people he met when he was 14. He's met about 150,000,000 people in his life, and he remembers the names, birthdays, and states of origin of every single one of them. And feels the need to share this with you. I will never finish this book.
Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them, by Al Franken. Amusing, but it makes me too angry. I got about three-fourths of the way through and then stopped reading after last year's presidential "election." Yes, this book has been on my nightstand for that long.
The Anarchists' Convention and Other Stories, by John Sayles. Sayles is a great short-story writer, but for some reason I keep reading the first three stories over and over and never get any further into the book. It's the anarchist's way, I guess.
Wise Blood, by Flannery O'Conner. Again, a great short-story writer, but I'm not sure she should have attempted a novel. I've tried to read this about four times and never get more than a third into it.
Positively Fifth Street, by James McManus. One of two books on my nightstand I've actually finished. This is a great story about a journalist/slash/amateur poker player who went to Vegas in 2000 to cover the World Series of Poker and wound up winning his way into the main event and then making it to the final table. It's a great read if you can get past his constant whining about how much he misses his family. (You were gone for, like, 10 days, man! Think of the soldiers in Iraq who have to leave their families behind for months! Get over it!)
The End of the Affair, by Graham Greene. The other book I actually finished, and for the second time. It's a perfect little novel.
Nobody's Fool, by Richard Russo. This is the only book that will for certain eventually leave the nightstand, as it's a library book. I got about a quarter into it and then quit. I"m not sure why--it's pretty good, but it just didn't grab me strongly enough. Out of laziness, though, I keep renewing it instead of returning it. (In my opinion, online library management is the absolute best use of the Internet, along with poker, Netflix, and, of course, blogging.)
The Professor, the Banker, and the Suicide King, by Michael Craig. A crazy book about a millionaire who challenged a bunch of poker pros to play heads-up games for stakes like $20,000-$40,000 blinds. This is the one I'm reading now.

Well, that's it for me. Now, for the real big-stack contender. An asterisk indicates a book that I have also read. I have no idea how many of these he's actually read.

Jackspatula's Stack
Men at Work, by George Will (baseball book)
*An Ordinary Person's Guide to Empire, by Arundhati Roy (political, obviously)
*Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight, by Alexandra Fuller (memoir, quite excellent)
*Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley (classic)
*The Perfect Storm, by Sebastian Junger (much better than the movie)
*Breakfast of Champions, by Kurt Vonnegut (classic)
Hiroshima, by John Hersey (war book, obviously)
Ernie's War: The Best of Ernie Pyle's World War II Dispatches (war book, obviously. Whenever I see the title, I think of Gomer Pyle. I doubt the book is anything like that.)
To Set the Record Straight, by John J. Sirica (book about Watergate)
Buckeye, by Robert Vare (book about famed--infamous?--OSU coach Woody Hayes)
*Into Thin Air, by Jon Krakauer (book about crazy/stupid people dying on Mount Everest, highly recommended)
Doctor Zhivago, by Boris Pasternak (classic that I'm ashamed to admit I haven't read)
*The Inferno, by Dante (classic, obviously)
Leave It to Psmith, by P.G. Wodehouse (classic, but I know nothing about it)
*Girl With Curious Hair, by David Foster Wallace (collection of short stories. This guy is a genius, but not for everyone--it's not easy reading.)
Flyboys, by James Bradley (war book)
Flags of Our Fathers, by James Bradley (war book)

Yes, between the two of us we have 25 books on our nightstands. Which brings me to my new life slogan, which I plan on repeating until it comes to fruition:

Save a Liberal--Donate a Bookshelf!

Another unnecessary gender call-out

I'm sure we've all seen a lot of this picture in the last couple of days:

It seemed all they were talking about on CNN tonight was this now infamous "female suicide bomber." I can understand that the capturing of a potential terrorist is news. What I don't understand is the media's fixation on her gender. Yeah, yeah, I know--she serves as proof that al-Qaida is now recruiting women. And again, I could understand if the media made that particular bit of information the focus of their story on her . . . but they didn't. Instead, they kept saying over and over something to the effect of, "What could drive this woman to strap a bomb to her body and attempt to kill people with it? In this shocking story, we'll discover what motivates a WOMAN SUICIDE BOMBER!"

Um, hello? Even without being privy to all the shocking, late-breaking details, I would venture to guess that what motivated her is pretty much the same thing that motivates any MALE SUICIDE BOMBER. I mean, what does gender have to do with it? I'm not trying to be an apologist for suicide bombers. Call their motivations what you will--heinous, fanatical, misguided, whatever--but I seriously doubt the driving forces behind their actions are different for women than they are for men. What the hell is she going to say that's so "female"?? Would she proclaim, "Unlike the men in the movement, I was doing it for the children!"? Or maybe, "I don't really care about getting occupying forces out of my country--I want to drive and wear make-up!" Do you see what I'm getting at here?

The only potential difference I could imagine is that this woman was coerced by her husband and didn't undertake this willingly. Very possible, but what difference would that make? It certainly wouldn't make people in this country sympathize with her. In the eyes of CNN, she's a terrorist regardless, so why harp on the woman thing? Frankly, I'm surprised the media didn't focus on this angle from the start, because they seldom pass up a "woman as victim" opportunity. But they barely touched on this possibility. They were only interested in getting into the mind of a "female suicide bomber" and discovering "her motivations."

Might I suggest that it could possibly be helpful to ask this question about ANY suicide bomber, regardless of gender, and maybe have a dialogue on that issue for a change? I guess in the eyes of the media, that's just not as sexy as a woman packing explosives.

I Tried.

Me & the Doe

When I tried to post this pic to my user profile, it ended up here. Oh well. Here's my girl. How cute is she?

All For Naught

So, last weekend I entered a charity poker tournament at the zoo. I knew very little about this tournament going into the thing, and when I got there, I realized that everyone was in pretty much the same boat as me--no one knew what the prize pool was going to be in relation to how much of the money was going to charity, and in fact, no one seemed to know what exactly the "charity" was that we were playing for. But no one seemed too concerned--we were going to get to play a tournament, after all, which is not that common an opportunity here in Cowtown. I assumed we were playing for some zoo-related charity (which we were) and that the charity/prize pool split would be about 60/40.

On that second assumption, I was wrong.

I won't bore everyone with the details of the play, but I wound up having a very good night. I think all the practice I've been putting in is paying off, because--not to brag--I just dominated my first table. By the first break, I had almost all of the chips. The tournament director then moved me to a different table, one where everyone had about as many chips as I did. I assumed that these would be the better players and I might not last, but no--I cleaned up that table too. So eventually, I found myself at the final table. Pretty exciting, right? Well, kind of. Rumors had been going around that the prize pool was going to be considerably smaller than we all expected. The original buy-in for the tournament was $30, and we each had two opportunities to rebuy for $20 a pop. (A rebuy is when you put in more money and get more chips to play with.) I rebought once, just for the hell of it, so I wound up putting in $50 total. There were about 150 people in the tournament, and almost everyone rebought at least once, so a conservative estimate of the prize pool would be around $7500. Being at the final table should have guaranteed that I'd get at least double my $50 back in winnings, even if I didn't last very long . . . but no. When it was all over, this is what I received:

After all my hard work and over 4 hours of play, I came in 9th and received $45 for my effort. (I heard later that the 1st-place person got around $450.) But wait, it gets better. The next morning, Jackspatula looked at the contents of my envelope and started laughing. There was only $36 in the envelope! So, instead of being $5 down after making it to the final table, I came out $14 down!

But it was all for a good cause, right? I can only hope that the charity's envelope of winnings didn't come out short as well.