I’ve got a new “Think Again” column called “Rupert Murdoch and the Myriad Means of Misinformation” and it’s here.
And I did a podcast interview with World Policy Journal editor, David Andelman here about Obama’s foreign policy. (I’ve been a senior fellow of the World Policy Institute since 1985.
Now here’s Charles:
Hey Doc —
"There was a chill last night, in the hobo jungle/Over the trainyard lay a smooth coat of frost."
Weekly WWOZ Pick To Click: "The Hottest Spot In Hell" (J.J. Grey and Mofro) — If I want, I’m going to buy any building I want in lower Manhattan and turn it into a cooking school, a gymnasium, and a chapel in which sad monks will chant daily the songs of how much I love New Orleans.
Part The First: As much as I hate to argue with The Landlord, especially when he’s cough-wrong-cough, his list of really bad songs is very thin. In the summers of 1972-76, I worked as a ranger in a state forest in Massachusetts. Many times, I had only the furry critters of the forest and an AM radio for company. (Yes, children, once there was music on the AM dial.) Those were prime years for pop music offal. My bona fides in this regard hereby established, I would point out that a list of bad songs that makes no room for Gallery ("Nice To Be With You"), Vicki Lawrence ("The Night The Lights Went Out In Georgia,") or Hamilton, Joe, Frank, and Reynolds ("Treat Her Like A Lady") is just scratching the surface.
Anyway, the worst record ever made is "I’ve Never Been To Me" by Charlene, and there is no argument to be had with that. The music sucks and the lyrics suck, and the politics suck even more than the music and lyrics do. If I’d bought the brain-dead POS, the jacket art would have sucked. Among major artists, although he’s right and Mountaineer Mike is wrong about Sir Paul, there’s is a deplorable lack of bad Dylan — most of it, I would argue, comes from the hash-album Columbia released called "Bob Dylan," which included his craptacular cover of "Big Yellow Taxi." And not a single cut by The Doors, the most overrated band of all time? This is sad, really.
Part The Second: I am firmly of the opinion that, last Christmas Eve, Ted Olson was visited by three spirits. And a great job, they did. First, he whacks Prop 8 out of the ‘yard in California and now, this. "Your reclamation, then."
Part The Third: Free trade is groovy.
Thanks, Bill. Thanks, Al. Thanks, DLC. Really.
Part The Penultimate: Bob Somerby is a friend and fellow Sox obsessive. He also was an important introduction for me to the saloons along the docks of Blogistan, as well as an invaluable resource during the Reign Of Penis-Obsessed Witches, 1992-2001. But, honestly, I don’t know what he’s on about here. "Can you feel respect or sympathy for the average shlub who gets his ass disinformed by Fox?" Well, no, as a matter of fact, I can’t. That shlub, I guarantee you, is begging to be misinformed. He waits in line patiently for hours every day for his steaming bowl of Bullshit Stew. He drives 40 miles out of his way to shop at Hogwash Depot. My sympathy — let alone, my respect — is better employed elsewhere.
Part The Ultimate: It seems to have been lost on some people who are following the moronic controversy over the Not At Ground Zero Culinary
Academy And Rec Hall that we were all treated to a dry run by these harpies a few years back, a completely lunatic exercise about which you can read in a certain book I can recommend.
The planned Flight 93 memorial in Pennsylvania was rocking right along until Alec Rawls, crackpot son of John, started yelling about how the memorial was designed to be a crescent pointing to Mecca, and that it was all actually a clever scheme to memorialize the hijackers and not the victims of their crime. The usual suspects chimed in. Not enough people loudly pointed out that the whole notion belonged in a locked ward at the Nervous Hospital, and the design wound up being changed, and the people in charge of the memorial became embroiled in ill-feeling and raw anger.