And Like, Wasn’t The Cold War In Like, Antarctica?

From The Washington Post:

“Appearing on National Public Radio’s light-hearted quiz show ‘Wait, Wait . . . Don’t Tell Me,’ which aired over the weekend, [White House Press Secretary Dana] Perino got into the spirit of things and told a story about herself that she had previously shared only in private: During a White House briefing, a reporter referred to the Cuban Missile Crisis—and she didn’t know what it was.”

Huh?

“‘I was panicked a bit because I really don’t know about . . . the Cuban Missile Crisis,’ said Perino, who at 35 was born about a decade after the 1962 U.S.-Soviet nuclear showdown.”

Yeah. That’s so not an excuse.

“‘It had to do with Cuba and missiles, I’m pretty sure.’”

A White House Secretary who doesn’t know what the Cuban Missile Crisis was should be fired, as should a White House who would hire such an individual, as should every teacher in every school district in which Perino came up. There is no reason not to be at least vaguely familiar. The average American certainly should be, but certainly the White House Press Secretary should be, should be considerably more literate and intellectually curious than the average American. I understand that Perino offered it as a cute little anecdote for an NPR game show, but it is further proof that the current president has more contempt and disrespect for the press than has any other.

A Mixed Day

Yesterday was mixed. I managed to wrangle the vendor to help me finally fix the WYSIWYG editor so I don’t have to write EVERYTHING in HTML all the damned time anymore as I have been doing for months. That was good. I did figure out a better way to archive a certain section of our Web site. That was good. I did finally find the sweet spot in the office where I can put my XM Repeater to get flawless reception and am now listening to Supreme Court arguments on the SPAN while I werk. That was good.

Taking out the side view mirror in the parking garage was not so good. Ouch. Poor Esther.

1200 Nappy Headed Hos to Go

I have lately altered my radio listening schedule, mainly to avoid the feast-or-famine phenomena I was experiencing. Try to listen to the full Stern show, followed by the Rachel Maddow Show, Countdown, and woman-and-a-doctor type programs, all in one day. Then try realizing that, for most of the weekend, you’re pretty much bored with nothing on the TV machine and no decent radio. Inspired by the practice I began to get me through the commute to Gonfalon Farm, I am now banking Stern shows for the weekend and taking Dr. Maddow on the train with me each morning. You can almost get through four Stern shows in a weekend while you’re doing your laundries and your cleaning and your cooking and your yardworks, and I often find myself uninspired to take on such chores unless my mind is occupied with spoken prattle.

The disadvantage is it does ruin somewhat the timeliness of the Stern show. For instance, this week I am certain Mr. Stern will be discussing the reemergence of the croc-faced cowboy, the nutsy honky himself, Don Imus. Howard was doing some major hating on the I-Man last week, especially regarding the stunning predictability of the move confirmed by his broadcast today: Imus has recruited a team of two African-Americans to join him in the studio. It is precisely the wrong move, condescending, patronizing, transparent, and still unbelievably missing the damned point. It is the radio personnel equivalent of “I have a lot of black friends,” but it will probably somehow save Imus’ skin, which I’m not so sure it’s clear why he’s so on fire about doing anyway.

Interestingly and somewhat ashamedly enough, it is Imus’ brand of radio that first got me listening to the radio to some extent. Imus apparently was at one point a jock at WGAR in Cleveland, home also of the fella Stern dubbed the “one-eyed cyclops,” John Lannigan. I notice this kernel of buckeye radio humor in Imus’ schtick, the Big Chuck and Little John element of it. My theory is that he took this obvious, blunt, and “wacky” sensibility with him to NYC, where he decided he had to put a mean bastard hat on it to make it funny. The result is not funny. Not at all.

Let me be clear. Don Imus is not funny. Don Imus never has been funny. And the real reason he ran into his trouble this year isn’t because he was mean, or racist, or mysogynist, though he was certainly all of those. He wasn’t funny, and that’s why he was chased off the radio there for a minute, and it’s why he’s patronizing the hell out of his listeners by casting black sidekicks while keeping the inflammatory McGuirk. You shouldn’t be listening to Don Imus. You should be listening to Howard A. Stern, the best and only and actually funny. Riiiiiight?

Live From New York

It is a shame but seems to be true that the Saturday Night Live requires the right guest host to be good. The last truly sublime episode I can remember until last night featured Hugh Laurie of House. Last night’s episode, featuring NBC Anchor Brian Williams, was terrific. Key moment: Williams in a room explaining to many of the Democratic candidates that the media had already decided that Hillary was the nominee. Incidentally—following his bang-up interview with George Suckamuckagus this morning, it’s official: I’m a John Edwards guy.

Vibrational Match

I have a few posts ago discussed a recording artist called Marnie Stern. This is now more than a passing fancy. It is full-on obsession.

You can’t just pick up “In Advance of the Broken Arm” and listen to it and give up. You have to take it up and swish it around a little and spit it out first. After a while, it will evaporate into your head and will cause a new fold to grow into your brain. Once your cranial capacity has been adjusted adequately, you will begin to crave this, not so much like one craves a drug; more like one craves very good soup.

Go sample some at the Marnie Myspace. » File under “mythic and weird, but mind-expanding.”

A Puzzling Trade Association Custom

I have just got back from what I find to be a puzzling trade association custom, the stuffing party. Or, perhaps it is just the custom where I work, and other trade associations have more sense about this sort of thing.

What you do, see, is you get a group of people into a big room, and some of these people earn $30 an hour for their jobs, and some of these people earn like $110 an hour for their jobs. So what you do is you have these people stuff envelopes, which is something you could be paying another group of people like $15 an hour to do.

It always confounds me, but I usually put in an hour or so anyway. I figure it’s entertaining to watch a group of people get vastly overpaid to do shit work.

Anyway, happy halloween, and happy birthday also to Kevin Pollak. I am reminded today that the photograph that heads this stupid blog is of me in a fabulous Halloween costume conceived and sewn by that lady who doesn’t eat onions. Thanks Mom.

Touristing With The Matriarchs

I do not understand people who do not eat onions and, to a lesser extent, people who do not enjoy spicy food.

For me, food that stirs senses other than the bland buds on the tongue is amazing. If it pours an aroma down my nose or excites the back of my throat or gives me tears and demands a quench, if its flavors are motley and challenging, then it is delightful. And I find onions delicious, especially when complimenting other flavors, such as that of meat. Rarely do I cook anything without starting by chopping an onion, and when I do chop the onion, I whistle. It cuts down on the tears. Honest.

My mother and my grandmother, they do not enjoy spicy food and my mother will not eat onions. Her eyes well up just by her saying the word “onions.” It is a shame because it causes her I suspect to miss out on reading the most celebrated online satire publication ever. They were in town this last weekend, and my Grandmother asked me to take them to my very favorite restaurant in the world, but I could not, because they can’t eat the Salvadoran food.

I had unfortunately purchased TourMobile tickets ahead of time and they were not transferable, so we ended up doing much of our touristing Friday, the day the Good Lord at last opted to give us buckets and truckloads of rain. But we did okay. We saw the Lincoln, the Vietnam, and the real reason for the tour, to see the WWII. It’s a big glorious memorial and it made my Grandma weepy. And we got wet. But we survived.

We visited America in Union Station for lunch. My ordering the N’awlins Red Rice and Beans with Andoullie Sawsage inspired my Grandma to do the same. She of course took one bite and determined that it would not suit her, so she grabbed half of mama’s sandwich. To the restaurant’s credit: The waitress offered unsolicited to remove my Grandma’s untouched dish from the bill. I did not have the same problem. I inhaled my dish with wine. It was delicious.

As a bonus, we jumped off the bus at the last minute to see the Jeff, which is my personal favorite. Saturday there was not much time for me to tourist since I had to pre-clean for the maid, so they toured Ye Olde Towne via the Torpedo Factory and such. Sunday, I drove AWAY from the Marine Corps marathonors to the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center, where we spent several hours looking at flying things. It was a lovely weekend that made me realize that I could perhaps learn to be a better tourist in my own backyard, as I’m sure could many D.C. people. There is so much offered living here, so much to do, so much to see.

Editor, Express:

THE THIRD WORST thing that could happen by your forcing the Metro train doors open is that you might find yourself a Darwin Awards nominee, killing or injuring yourself via your own brutish stupidity.

The second worst thing that could happen is that you could achieve such a status not only for yourself but for the pack of idiots you are trying to help rush the Metro train doors. They are foolishly trusting your physical mettle as much as you do, and if you fail you’re not just responsible for hurting yourself; you are responsible for hurting them, too.

However, the worst thing that could happen is that you could make me and several hundred, perhaps several thousand, late to work. Foolish feats of strength such as the one I witnessed this morning are often why Metro trains end up stuck.

Please, mister: Don’t try to force the train doors open again.

Aaron B. Pryor
Arlington, Va.