Showing newest 8 of 16 posts from July 2009. Show older posts
Showing newest 8 of 16 posts from July 2009. Show older posts

Friday, July 31, 2009

Field of Schemes: A Glimpse at the Neocon Playbook

Occasionally, we get an IM, an email or read a comment saying, "That might have gone a bit far." For instance, Ezra Klein's recent deconstruction of Megan McArdle in the Washington Post tonally paralleled a lot of what Mr. Awesome had to say about her column, and some readers reacted as if Klein had been infected with a kind of political rabies. One can only imagine their reaction had they read our piece here. Probably something on the order of setting fire to this portion of the internet to prevent the contagion from spreading.

We're not insensitive or insensible to such criticism. Admittedly, sometimes snide jabs here veer wide of the mark or hit it with a viciousness that's perhaps inappropriate. For some time now, I've regretted saying that, "Glenn Beck is such a glutinous wad of overfed white Americana that he looks like 185 pounds of lard and bull semen poured into a 5-foot 8-inch man-shaped condom." Condom was all kinds of wrong. I should have said "tapeworm."

Joking aside, sometimes the content excoriates individuals, but despite whatever attempts I make at handwringing, I can't bring myself to feel much shame or dismay at it. The targets of that acidity willfully fabricate evidence, often in service of ideas that can bring direct harm to people. Mr. Awesome flayed McArdle's column, but the column itself was like watching Harry Lime in The Third Man explaining his indifference to the specks of humanity on the ground, then interrupting his impious sermonizing to shout through a megaphone at them that his defrauding them and their being prey to indifferent death is to their benefit. Whatever I may say about Glenn Beck cannot elide that the man has stood in front of The Alamo and fetishized it as a symbol of armed insurrection, lionized a man who shot minorities in the back and killed them, then turned to his audience with a wink and a smirk that looks like it was carved out of a bucket of Country Crock, as if to say, "I'm just thinking out loud! I'm not advocating anything. By the way, the President is a Fascist because he is a Communist, like Hitler. You know what to do, gang!"

It's nearly impossible to be washed over with guilt at unkind words when these people so readily just make shit up, then couple it with equally unkind words intended to demonize the people they're already misrepresenting with contrived evidence. To give you an example of how thorough and pervasive this is, how arrogantly false it is, how almost proudly full of crap the sort of people we occasionally assail are, take baseball.

On July 14, President Obama threw out the first pitch at the All-Star Game. I wrote up an extensive live-blog of the telecast, including Obama's first pitch, and you can get a fair idea of how shabby much of the coverage was. But to give you a fair idea of how much delight these people take in just wildly distorting things, let's look at how the National Review's Andrew McCarthy — not the actor, the conservative attorney who bends over backwards to defend torture and print Birther materialdescribed Obama's pitch, and break down his article FireJoeMorgan-style.


Though it's not a widely appreciated fact, we right-winger sports nuts have long known that the sports press is among the media's leftiest precincts.
Here he just makes shit up right out of the gate. No citation, not even token handwaving. It's just MEDIA=LIBERAL suddenly oriented to sports for no reason other than that McCarthy happens to be writing about sports right now. I'm sure the political orientation of some sportswriters matters to Andrew McCarthy, but nobody else in America knows where most sportswriters fall along the political spectrum because nobody fucking cares.

(Quick: think of the most political sportswriter in America. You pictured George Will, didn't you? Not only someone who isn't a sportswriter but someone whose writing about sports manages to suck all the joy out of them. The only thing remotely interesting about Will's baseball writing is placing his exaltation of the virtues of the sacrifice bunt "for the good of the whole team" against his describing tax hikes on the rich as bizarre and incomprehensible — then laughing and laughing and laughing.)

A pitcher might hurl the ball lefty, but there's no liberal way to throw a baseball, and because of that, the word doesn't get mentioned. Even if the sporting press were somehow all liberal, it never comes out, despite ballplayers being overwhelmingly conservative. How do all these lefty political animals manage to resist the opportunity to mock a bunch of rich, stupid men standing around a room naked after every ballgame?


So I suppose we shouldn't be surprised at how little was said (as in nothing at all) about the reception President Obama received last night when he came out on the field to throw out the ceremonial first pitch at the baseball all-star game in St. Louis. It was a packed house (over 50,000 in attendance), and the jeers were easily discernible.
The reasons nothing was said are easily discernible, too, which immediately disqualifies them from appearing in McCarthy's column:
1. St. Louis' baseball rival team is the Chicago Cubs, and while antipathy is mostly directed at that team, St. Louis fans hate Chicago in general. This rivalry goes back decades. Obama is from Chicago. Obama stood on the mound wearing a Chicago White Sox jersey. In St. Louis. In the ballpark for the St. Louis baseball team. He is a man from Chicago wearing a Chicago jersey in the home stadium of people who hate Chicago.

2.
Missouri's a really white state.
McCarthy doesn't want to go after a solidly red state on anything like political grounds, so it's obvious why he ignores point number two and wouldn't think to suggest that a state with ten counties with fewer than ten black people in them might just boo the darkie on a generally racist principle. But ignoring point number one is just stupid. He opens the column by identifying himself as a sports nut, then deliberately omits any mention of arguably the third most famous and well-established rivalry in the history of baseball. (Red Sox-Yankees and Giants-Dodgers being the other two.) Either he knows nothing about sports, knows nothing like what he claims to know about sports, or he's being a disingenuous ass by deliberately omitting the most basic evidence that torpedoes the point he most desires were real: that everyone booing Obama hates Obama for political reasons. In order for there to be something like a conspiracy of silence about the Obama boos, the boos must be politically motivated, and not the sort of team-spirit booing that would get, say, any famous New Yorker booed for throwing out the first pitch in Boston.


That's what made the booing all the more noticeable to anyone — other than a sports journalist — who heard it.
Again, McCarthy has to enforce the idea that sports journalists are somehow complicit in a deliberate cover-up because otherwise anyone reading this might come to the conclusion that a sports journalist would recognize the boos for Obama coming from the fact that he's a famous Chicagoan wearing a Chicago jersey in the town of Chicago's arch-rivals and say, "Big fucking deal."


The media fawning really is so shameless it's become self-parody. Take ESPN, for example.
Take it to the bridge. Take it to the river. Take it to the limit, and take it out back and shoot it. Just take it somewhere away from this column where it's providing a needless distraction by being completely devoid of significance. McCarthy doesn't fork over a single link or name a single example, because he wants readers to think that the evidence is so overwhelming that simply naming the network is as good as naming a single fact. He needs to suggest that the data is so self-evident because actually looking at the data would reveal his point's total absurdity. ESPN talks about the "it" thing all the time, because it sells pop-culture as much as it sells sports. It's an "it" network, and Obama's still one of the biggest "it" things in mainstream consciousness. Implying that their namedropping Obama counts as some kind of endorsement falls apart when you realize that these same standards prove that ESPN is in the tank for the Octo-Mom. Indeed, by these standards, ESPN's a neocon paradise in favor of murdering people at Guantanamo Bay because every time they show a clip of a home run being robbed at the fence, someone quotes A Few Good Men and yells, "You want me on that wall. You NEED me on that wall!"


Put aside the unacknowledged booing for a moment. The other embarrassing fact is that my six-year-old throws a baseball better (far better, in fact) than Obama.
Here's another "fact" that probably isn't, and that McCarthy will never prove.


Yet the media went out of its way to obscure that, too —
Here McCarthy refers to the abominable shaky-cam aspect of FOX's coverage, which I described thus:
His form is awkward, and FOX is too busy doing their funky everything-but-what-is-on-the-field-is-important camera bullshit to let us see where he threw the fucking ball. Cue another off angle. No idea yet if it was a strike. At the risk of being completely obvious, FOX fucks up everything. You don't need any dynamism for presidential first pitches. You just have a dude stand back there and hold a camera. Instead, FOX seems to have hired a meth head suffering peripheral neuropathy to do his best Paul Greengrass imitation and told him, "Look, at any minute, Jason Bourne is going to start punching the president."
Again, McCarthy describes himself as a "sports nut" in the very first line of his column, most probably to obscure the fact that his whole column is basically a pathetically thin excuse to deride Obama, yet his commentary gives the lie to either his self-description or his argument. Serious baseball fans hate FOX. They clutter up the screen with graphics and seem determined to cover anything but the game itself. They used to take time away from action on the field to show people an animated baseball with wings flying over the plate to demonstrate how a curveball or slider or changeup works. They frequently come back to commercial after the first pitch of the side of an inning, and often even after the ball has already been put in play or someone has made an out. FOX is so generally incompetent at baseball that it seems anathema to them. So either McCarthy is nothing like a serious sports nut at all, or he's again deliberately ignoring the simplest explanation in order to confabulate some sinister liberal motive from the FOX network.


no doubt wishing to avoid unfavorable comparisons to the strike President Bush famously fired from the mound at Yankee Stadium at the 2001 World Series.
There's a delicious consistency in this comment. Neoconservatives seem to adore Bush's presidency solely for pitches. There's Yankee stadium in 2001 and the entire sale of the Iraq war from 2002-2003. McCarthy, like the lot of them, enjoys making this earthy dig on Bush's behalf. He's a man's man, not some limp-wristed liberal. The president you'd want a beer with. Clears brush. Throws baseballs. Now watch this drive.

Of course, to give this comparison any weight, McCarthy has to ignore obvious evidence again. After the first pitch, Obama joined the announcer's booth and admitted that he stopped playing baseball when he was a kid, and that he turned all his attention to basketball. Obama admits, hey, he just wasn't that into it. McCarthy doesn't acknowledge this, because nobody is going to be the least bit surprised to learn that a man who stopped playing baseball at 10 throws a pitch with less accuracy than a man who loves baseball and owned a Major League Baseball team. This kind of deck stacking is critical to the hearty man's man image so beloved by neoconservatives, and is why the fact that Obama's a baller will get dropped like a hot rock the next time a republican who can't dunk (all of them) gets elected. The comparison always has to be uneven to keep the conservative machismo mystique alive. Take a guy who's basically never bowled (Obama) and compare him to someone who put a bowling lane in the White House (Nixon). Gerald Ford was an all-star for the Michigan Wolverines. You know who couldn't make a flying tackle to save his life? Franqueer Delanope Rosenfag.


Now, take a look at this clip from MLB.com, about 24 seconds in. It's the only decent footage I've seen, and it shows that Obama's first pitch did bounce.
There's nothing I can do to make fun of this. McCarthy goes on about ESPN's "laughable coverage" of Obama's first pitch and how they said the pitch didn't bounce, then links to footage of the pitch not bouncing and says it bounced. There's no Zapruder film, no back-and-to-the-left movement, no grain. He literally just links you to footage of one thing and tells you it's something else. This must be the neoconservative Noble Lie I've heard so much about — the Straussian notion that the stupid herds of humanity will be too distracted by things like shiny facts and sparkly dispositive proof, and that good, earthy baseball-throwing conservatives who own ranchland will occasionally just have to make shit up to get America on the right track about the important matters. Obama can't throw a pitch. Throw everyone in Guantanamo, bomb Iran to a sheet of glass and burn down the welfare state because a ball that stayed in flight until it reached a glove bounced on the ground and threw up liberal clods of failure dirt because I said so.


In fact, the pitch did not even reach home-plate — and they evidently knew it wouldn't. The player who was sent out to catch Obama's pitch (more on that in a moment) was crouching on top of home plate, not behind it where catchers always set up. And even so, he had to reach out a couple of feet in order to short-hop the ball, which otherwise might have bounced all the way to the backstop. Now, about that player who caught Obama's pitch: It was none other than the Cardinals' great first-baseman, Albert Pujols. What does that matter? Well, the tradition is that the first pitch is tossed to the catcher, not the first-baseman — and, in fact, the starting catcher for the National League last night was the Cardinals' own Yadier Molina. But while Molina is popular, Pujols is like God in St. Louis (in fact, a fan in the stands either last night or the night before was holding a banner that said, "In Albert We Trust").
Self-proclaimed sports nut Andrew McCarthy has somehow never seen a ceremonial first pitch in his life. Sometimes the catchers stand straight on home plate and don't bother to crouch. Sometimes it's not even a catcher doing the catching. Sometimes you get the entire starting lineup out there to catch nine balls thrown by nine ladies from a hospice, and the balls go everywhere and nearly thunk a player in the face. Moreover, McCarthy has ignored that even major league pitchers whose job it is to throw a ball with perfect accuracy sometimes have things called wild pitches that go nowhere near the plate. Yet, in order to sustain his fantasy of an Obama conspiracy, he has to rely on the absurd notion that Obama has enough discipline as a hurler to throw the ball the exact same distance every time, and that the ball would not veer left or right or sail over Pujols' head. In order for McCarthy's claim to at all make sense, the Obama staff had to know that Obama would fail with such repeatable precision that the ball would always fall a few feet short of the plate and require a regular player — not a catcher — to catch it, because a catcher would be obliged to squat down and thus would be unable to step forward and rescue Obama's ignominious pitch from hitting the dirt exactly where it would always hit the dirt.

Also, for those scoring Occam's Razor at home, the entities multiplied needlessly for this master conspiracy to take form now include:
A FOX Sports director who knows to cut to shaky cam to obscure Obama's pitch.
A FOX Sports cameraman who knows to get a tactical case of palsy before the presidential first pitch.
Albert Pujols, a non-catcher, to be able to stand up and rescue Obama's first pitch.
A magic pitch from Barack Obama that fails with exact regularity.
A crafty and alert Obama staffer who put all this together and managed to keep it from leaking.
A complicit media, every member of which, except the redoubtable Andrew McCarthy, would work to hide the truth.
It's like McCarthy accepts that the moon landing occured but believes Neil Armstrong lied about his lunar golf swing. No, it's worse than that: it's like Watergate, except they got away with it. No, scratch that. Still not dire enough.

It's like all those State Troopers Clinton had murdered because they had proof he'd had sex once.



I think Obama's people knew he would get a very mixed reaction last night. His entrance was shrewdly orchestrated. The cheers and boos started as soon as he came onto the field, but he was steered immediately over to shake hands with Stan Musial — the most beloved player in the history of the Cardinals. No true St. Louis fan would boo Satan if he was shaking hands with Stan the Man. The president then went straight to the mound, where today's Stan the Man, the great Pujols, took good care of him — quickly embracing Obama right after making sure his heave looked borderline respectable . . . with a little help from the cameras. Finally, Obama moved was ushered quickly over to the third-base line, where Cardinal legends Bob Gibson, Ozzie Smith, and Lou Brock (among others) were there to share warm-handshakes.
Here's where McCarthy's conspiracy makes the least sense, and why he deliberately avoids mentioning anything about the Chicago team jacket Obama is wearing. Take all those entities cited in the bullet points above. Add to them Stan Musial, Bob Gibson, Ozzie Smith, Lou Brock and others. McCarthy's entire thesis rests on the idea that the Obama team shrewdly acknowledged all the factors I named, recognized the necessity of adding this wall of celebrities, yet somehow sent the president out there wearing the jersey, not of the home team, but of a team hailing from St. Louis' arch-rival city. They had the wit, foresight and presence of mind to plan all these other factors to minimize boos, yet sent him out there wearing the colors of a hated team from a hated city instead of having him wear a Pujols replica jersey to shamelessly generate a cheap crowd pop. The only way they could mastermind a fuckup more comprehensive would be if they had sent Obama to speak at Notre Dame while carrying a bible and being marched in by a platoon of Archbishops while overlooking the fact that he dressed himself up in an EAT AT JOE's sandwich board with "ABORTION IS PRETTY AWESOME" flashing intermittently on the front and back.

This is why McCarthy has to bury and fabricate evidence to make his point, because anything like a reasonable or objective glance at any makes it implode under the weight of its own stupidity. If we take McCarthy's own words at face value, that he's a serious sports nut, we can only conclude that he's a colossal moron about baseball or a disingenuous liar looking to marshal any tactic or tatter of reality to advance a nebulous point that Barack Obama is a bad president because he "can't throw ball good." It's up to you which conclusion is more probable.


In the box score, as reported by the Obamedia/Sports Division, it will read like a standing-O for The One as he hurled a bull's-eye before strutting off to warm waves of adulation. If you were watching, though, Obama looked like the guy who bowled a 37.
I'm going with the latter.

If there's any joy to be taken in McCarthy's contemptible essay, it's that soon perhaps his theory of an All-Star Game coverup will gain mainstream traction, and The Pitchers will join The Teabaggers as the second fringe conservative group named after gay sex terminology.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

'Poor People Can't Have Health Care Because I Fear Dumb Shit'

Note: unlike many of the other guest pieces on Et tu, Mr. Destructo? today's editorial response comes from a real, live person: the mysterious Mr. Awesome, a law student who is not a pundit and fears nothing. He last paid us a visit to relate his tale of seeing Barack Obama with The Devil.


Tripping the McArdleverse
by Mr. Awesome

Megan McArdle is a libertarian blogger for The Atlantic, a prominent DC-area think-speak magazine. Like all DC-area magazines, the quality of its contributors varies by an enormous margin likely explained through the dense, varicose veins of patronage and glad-handing that runs through that town. Sometimes, you can find incisive, solid commentary under the banner of The Atlantic. Sometimes, you will find contrarian white noise, and sometimes you will find grossly dishonest crap. Megan McArdle produces the last two, with gusto.

She belongs to an exceptionally stupid set of youngish libertarian Economist-esque pseudo-thinkers. Her "columns" mix the very best shallow diarist introspection of yuppie navel-gazing with the arrogant dead thought theatrics of a fake intellectual who operates with no standards of proofreading or fact-finding. She is a small fish in the great pond of bullshit punditry, but she's like a clownfish, really bright and attention-grabbing — because she's just so damn terrible. She lives in a dense tangle of white privilege anemone, which will cause a nasty rash if you touch it. There is perhaps a moray eel of intellectual accountability staring at that shiny overgrowth all bug-eyed like, "What the fuck is that?"

Here she explains why public health care is bad:


Basically, for me, it all boils down to public choice theory. Once we've got a comprehensive national health care plan, what are the government's incentives? I think they're bad, for the same reason the TSA is bad. I'm afraid that instead of Security Theater, we'll get Health Care Theater, where the government goes to elaborate lengths to convince us that we're getting the best possible health care, without actually providing it.

That's not just verbal theatrics. Agencies like Britain's NICE are a case in point. As long as people don't know that there are cancer treatments they're not getting, they're happy. Once they find out, satisfaction plunges. But the reason that people in Britain know about things like herceptin for early stage breast cancer is a robust private market in the US that experiments with this sort of thing.

Enjoy this link to the wikipedia page on public choice theory. I have now provided more citation than Megan McArdle chooses to in her entire column. Here, McArdle name drops a theory founded on the real or imagined essential ignorance of the voter in order to buttress a bog standard "The government = DMV = BAD!" argument. Never mind that the TSA in particular has been totally farmed out to the private market. That's incredibly ironic and destroys what little substance existed in that first paragraph, but, well, okay. At least there were words there.

Then we get some stuff about herceptin. Fun fact about herceptin, it was developed in a private-public partnership between the company Genetech and researchers at UCLA — like most long-term medications with no immediate profit (excluding purely elective treatments like Viagra.) Herceptin is one of many drugs originally developed in the United States through public-private partnership. In fact, this is how the plurality, if not the majority of new medical advances are produced. Moving along:


So in the absence of a robust private US market, my assumption is that the government will focus on the apparent at the expense of the hard-to-measure. Innovation benefits future constituents who aren't voting now.
Wait, what?

McArdle found the time to implicitly prove that a public option will totally destroy the pharmaceutical industry. That's rhetorical economy. Seriously, this is the next paragraph. I'm not cutting things out of context. She goes from herceptin to this. The private pharmaceutical industry has been destroyed somewhere between these two paragraphs, like in one of those side by side picture puzzles where something subtle is different between the two. In the last paragraph, it was the year 2009. Now it is 2015, and Skynet has sent the Wilford Brimbots for your diabetes testing supplies.

Of course, the usual public option threat is that it will destroy our current HMO system. But, in the McArdleverse, your conventional understandings of the relationships between related things do not apply. Cheap government health care will destroy the pharmaceutical industry beyond repair or reconstruction for some reason lurking between those two paragraphs. Deal with it.

Now that the private pharmaceutical industry is destroyed, there is only the government to fund research. And the government will only fund research with tangible short-term benefits. Because that's what they do at the National Institute of Health and the National Science Foundation. They fund things that make a short-term tangible profit, because no one else will.

This is an unusual perspective. Typically, the government funds research which will not make a profit, because if you can secure venture capital, you won't have to go through an entire grants application process. I honestly have never seen the argument that government research is too short-sighted or too results-driven. It's usually the exact opposite. This is like seeing someone criticize NASA for being all about the money. I really have no idea.

She continues:


In fact, innovation is more often a matter of small steps towards perfection. Wal-Mart's revolution in supply chain management has been one of the most powerful factors influencing American productivity in recent decades. Yes, it was enabled by the computer revolution—but computers, by themselves, did not give Wal-Mart the idea of treating trucks like mobile warehouses, much less the expertise to do it.
Yes, Wal-Mart, the model of innovation we should apply to medicine. You see, they treated trucks like mobile warehouses by storing things in trucks as they drove around the country. No one else ever had this idea. Short-term train depot storage, shipping warehouses and staged military field logistics all took the lesson from Wal-Mart, the amazing small step toward perfection that is realizing that objects in transit still exist. People in mobile homes do not merely shop at Wal-Mart — they were created by Wal-Mart.

Oh, sure, computers made it possible to realize that objects in motion are objects, what with the floating points and all that, and, sure, computers were created by the government. But did the government ever think to use these computers to sell swimming trunks for $5? Did the government ever even consider that they could sell product at a loss to drive regional competition out of business, then resume normal pricing? No.

The government was aware of the possibilities behind this innovation, and attempted to prevent that last practice through anti-trust and anti-monopoly regulation, sure. But it was Wal-Mart who realized the innovative potential of having those laws thrashed through Supreme Court reinterpretation until they became meaningless.

Health care works the same way:


In the case of pharma, what an NIH or academic researcher does is very, very different from what a pharma researcher does. They are no more interchangeable than theoretical physicists and civil engineers. An academic identifies targets. A pharma researcher finds out whether those targets can be activated with a molecule.
You see, the academic researcher (government bureaucracy, TSA, DMV, EWW) is like a sidekick to the production research of the private market. You may ask, "How does this jibe with the stuff above about the government being short-sighted and unable to wait on advanced research?" Well, it doesn't, at all.

In the McArdleverse, research is conducted in phases. The original researchers "identify targets," like livers and brains and such. Then they pass on that info to the private market, like "Yo, check out the liver, dawg. You should activate that shit moleculewise." The researchers who invented herceptin would be surprised to know their research was conducted in the form of protracted two-stage alleyoop between entirely different sets of researchers incapable by structure from performing one another's research tasks.

Sure, you could try to get a public university professor to conduct animal testing trials. You could ask a guy at UCLA or wherever to test different formulations of actives for varying effectiveness. But you would only confuse and enrage the academic. Academic researchers have, as a rule, never participated in for-profit research, which is just a completely different skillset. The academic is a Shaquille O'Neal who spends all day lumbering around the paint, rebounding and, confused as to its nature and purpose, constantly dishing the rock to able power forwards who've discovered advanced basket making.

The government does not develop market-ready medicines. Penicillin is a lie. And even in the McArdleverse, the private pharmaceutical industry is dead. Fulfilling this ostensibly necessary portion of medical development would just die out because of the public option. All mechanisms related to its hypothetical function shall be lost beyond repair. There is no market purpose nor competitive niche which could possibly sustain an industry before the all-consuming destruction of public health care. Like all true free market believers, McArdle understands that the free market is the best way of doing things until you cause it to cease to exist by being mean to it or looking at it the wrong way.

It's an infinitely self-diversifying and adapting system, until you do anything that slightly inconveniences it in a way that doesn't translate to an immediate example of why it's the best system ever. It's like a Holodeck that can create any world you can dream of, but if Captain Picard even so much as outlaws simulating the Underage Babyfucking Planet of Murder III, then the whole damn thing is completely broken and unusable.

McArdle realizes there are victims, such as herself, McArdle:


At this juncture in the conversation, someone almost always breaks in and says, "Why don't you tell that to an uninsured person?" I have. Specifically, I told it to me. I was uninsured for more than two years after grad school, with an autoimmune disease and asthma.
I'm alive, writing stupid shit for a magazine on the internet! So, you go tell this on the mountain, because if my stupid-ass decision is good enough for a callow twentysomething woman, it's sure as hell good enough for everybody, including their children. The stagnant tide straightens all boats!

If you can't go for only two years out of college — you know, like everyone who didn't learn vector calculus — without insurance during the period of life in which you're least likely to die of anything, fuck you. It's like driving to the store without a seat belt. Why do you need the government to make you have seat belts? It's only up to the store.

McArdle doesn't like unnecessary risk to herself anymore than McArdle does. But McArdle soul-searched long and deep, broadening her personal experience by asking McArdle about how McArdle felt about health issues related to McArdle. This is the rare moment in punditry when the author plays the, "I know poor people and they hate welfare!" card by referencing herself. Yes, it truly is all about her.

To McArdle's question, McArdle poses a question:


Why don't you tell some person who has a terminal condition that sorry, we can't afford to find a cure for their disease? There are no particularly happy choices here.
Oh, shit, she's got hostages! Drop the health care — slowly! — or everyone dies of multiple sclerosis!

A question she answers with fat people, and elitism:


The other major reason that I am against national health care is the increasing license it gives elites to wrap their claws around every aspect of everyone's life. Look at the uptick in stories on obesity in the context of health care reform.
This canard was adapted from the trans fat bans and then just pasted unaltered onto the health care debate. You see, trans fats are horrible shit that makes you die and serves no other purpose except being marginally cheaper than other preservatives. So, when the government wanted to ban them, a lot of people became extraordinarily angry, as though the government were one step from mandating seat belts at the dinner table. The funny thing about just repurposing this shtick for health care is that fat people are NOT the primary drain on resources — it's really old people. And really old people, as a rule, are not hugely fat, or they would never have become really old. The really old, in the last years of life, are where you will find a plausible crunch in life-saving funding. It's also just as viable an avenue for a scare tactic.

But McArdle can't be bothered to know this much about things. She has an opinion to get out there and she snags whatever castoff words, phrases and ideas are available, like a lazy television writer trying to invoke current events. You could ask her, "Should we increase funding for roads by taxing rich people?" and she'd say something like, "No, that's a terrible idea. Researchers in Scandinavia found out years ago that taxing rich people makes roads explode because coffee prevents heart disease and eggs are good for you." This is the natural endpoint of education without understanding.

Play her off, fat people:


These aren't just a way to save on health care; they're a way to extend and expand the cultural hegemony of wealthy white elites. No, seriously. Living a fit, active life is correlated with being healthier. But then, as an economist recently pointed out to me, so is being religious, being married, and living in a small town; how come we don't have any programs to promote these "healthy lifestyles"?
Yes, fat people. What right has the government to try to help them not die of being fat? This is an even worse example of big city elitist mockery than the time the Surgeon General put those messages on cigarette cartons as a cruel reminder to smokers of their inevitable death. Every time I sit in a car, the government is in my face to remind me that my sideview mirror is an inaccurate measure of the distance of things, shattering again and again my happy faith in the accuracy of mirrored surfaces. The government has always been the archetypal jackass who spoils the end of the movie or reveals the wires in poorly staged shots.

It is weird to see libertarians go to the fat well so often. Fat people are a stark reminder that private consumers can make terrible choices with their money, purchasing cheap, fattening foods which slowly kill them while robbing them of their quality of life. Rational actor theory doesn't really account for fat people.

Yeah, and what's to stop the government from promoting religion, marriage, and living in a small town? Like it does already, with tax subsidies for marriage, tax exemption for religious organizations, and a state-federal tax system which puts more money into rural areas than it takes out? No, seriously.

Finally, she remembers the elderly, sort of:


Of course, the obese aren't the only troublesome bunch. The elderly are also wasting a lot of our hard earned money with their stupid "last six months" end-of-life care.
"WHAT WILL BECOME OF US WHEN WE INSURE THE ELDERLY?"

And here, an old classic. She's almost done with this, thank goodness.


Once the government gets into the business of providing our health care, the government gets into the business of deciding whose life matters, and how much.
Indeed, why should anyone ever say who gets to live and who gets to die? These are difficult decisions, and like all hard choices, they're best left unmade.

It's over. It's fucking OVER:


The real issue is the effect on future lives, and future freedom. And in my opinion, they way (sic) in overwhelmingly on the side of stopping further government encroachments into health care provision.
This argument about health care is a scrapbook of other arguments — pharmaceutical regulation, research funding systems, and so on, then propped up by a flimsy assertion. She tags "This is about health care" up top, then just rambles crap she misremembers, thinks she knows, and misunderstands. Maybe she is honest, to a point. Maybe she is a sincere believer that this mishmash of broken, scrambled factoids is an actual train of thought, and that this train actually does connect at the health care station. Maybe she's not, and she's trying to trick people, giggling that anyone in the world would buy this, literally or figuratively. This is the classic case of giving a doofus the undeserved credit of being a mastermind: The Mr. Bean fallacy.

The uninsured are unreal for the McArdles of the world. The McArdles do not listen to these people, believing their own sheltered lives are a viable facsimile for anyone's troubles or experience. They are so smart that they don't have to conduct research before reaching conclusions; they are so wise that they require no experience to understand other people's lives. They are so damn great and important that the petty problems and limited movement of their tiny orbits around unaccountable safety are the total motion of the world. Theirs is a nation of 300 some million, the vast majority of whom are extras and objects in their boring, whitebread existence.

In the McArdleverse, a rich white girl speaks with the voice of poor fat people who can't afford health insurance to deliver a dire warning about elitism and freedom of choice. Meandering, self-aggrandizing sermons about choice echo from the dotted-line mouths of people who can't afford choices. Fat people are why you shouldn't have health care. The government destroys products just cause. Pharmaceutical research is inextricably tied into the dysfunctional cash grab of corporate health care oligopoly in the McArdleverse. The silken strands of the fragile Free Market tie together all manner of unrelated things into a spiderweb of inevitability and helpless shrugging. As in our world, the poor will sicken and die needlessly in the McArdleverse, but in her world they are the empowered victims of helpless fate, and not the sacrifice offered up for the profits of a few and cowardice of many.

This "essay" is not an attempt to describe our world. It is an attempt to pull our real world into the McArdleverse, where our failure as a society is excusable, or even noble. Megan McArdle makes a living writing this crap. Think about that the next time you produce some item or service of actual quality.

Friday, July 24, 2009

It's a Thousand-Year Reich! Uh-Uh-Ohhhh-Ohhhh!
It's a Thousand-Year Reich! Uh-Uh-Ohhhh-Ohhhh!

Don't you hate it when you find a cool Youtube* like the Matlock beat, click the poster's profile and realize you'll never have any idea who that person is? Isn't it worse when it turns out they only have one video? Well, coldstatic, whoever that person happens to be, at least did the internet the courtesy of uploading nine videos, all of popular songs, set to edited footage of Triumph of the Will.

They're hilarious. Each one, by title or tempo manages to capture a perverse insight into the mood of the footage, loathsome though it is. For instance, take Ace of Base's "Beautiful Life," set against the FĂĽhrer's trip to Nuremberg, which is filmed almost as if it's a weekend getaway:


If all coldstatic had to offer were just videos, it'd be pretty clever yet at the same time nothing especially heady. But some videos come with funny riffs on political theory and agitprop, like this one from the Fischerspooner "Happy" video that just takes the concept to another fantastic level:
Electronic-Disco rhythm, as a regular repetition, is the purest, the most radical form of the militantly organised rhythmicity of technicist production, and as such the most appropriate means of media manipulation. As an archetypal structural basis of the collective unconscious in a worker mass, it stimulates automatic mechanisma and shapes industrialisation of consciousness, which is necessary in the logic of massive, totalitarian production.
Mock philosophy aside, all the songs are good. I've only seen Triumph of the Will twice, once out of curiosity and once in a college course, so I can't speak to the degree of sophistication in cuts or speeding up the film. But they're all clever enough that it's hard to pick which two are best. The Pixies' "Cecelia Ann," set to a brief military parade, romps like a western horserace scene. Garbage has an almost grooving march feel, and the Elliot Smith song is too hysterical for words.

Still, I think of all of them, the mash-up of Will and Smashing Pumpkins' "Tonight Tonight" works best because of the melodramatic strings, the surging sense of breakthrough and achievement, and the fact that Billy Corgan is a total piece of shit.


The world is a vampire.

___________________
* — Full disclosure: I didn't actually find this stuff. Credit goes to this guy, who you should be following already, if you do the Twitter thing.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Tea Party Host Stephen Baldwin Owes Nearly $1m in Back Taxes

Time has not been good to Friend of the Blog Stephen Baldwin. Once the star of such films as The Usual Suspects and Bio-Dome, this actor's career has taken a nosedive, resembling Danny DeVito standing next to "twin" Arnold Schwarzenegger when compared to his brother Alec's return to critical acclaim.

When we last checked in with Stephen, he was hosting a July 4th Tea Party and encouraging as many as 12 Americans (not pictured) — who looked like they got lost on the way to buy tickets to Spamalot! — to protest Barack Obama's tax policy, which unfairly penalizes people like Mr. Baldwin to the benefit of the people surrounding him.

While at the time, the circumstances surrounding his looking like a haggard, oiled and thinning version of his Christ- and smirk-fueled self seemed mysterious, recent news may shine some light on them:
Actor Stephen Baldwin, brother of Emmy winner and "30 Rock" star Alec Baldwin, filed for bankruptcy in New York on Tuesday, according to a court document that says he is millions in debt.

The 43-year-old actor filed for Chapter 11 protection claiming he owes more than $2.3 million and owns a New York property valued at only $1.1 million.

Baldwin... owes about $1.2 million on two mortgages on the New York property and more than $1 million in taxes. He also has credit card debt, court papers showed.

New York newspaper Newsday reported earlier this month that a homeless man who was allowed to live on Baldwin's property was arrested on heroin charges and suspected of dealing drugs.

Police told the newspaper that Baldwin, who has described himself as a born-again Christian, was shocked and just trying to do a good deed.
While the latter two paragraphs might, to a salacious mind, explain why the man looks like sweating dogshit during public appearances lately, the purposes behind those public appearances are neatly explained in paragraph number three. After all, if most of us had a million-dollar tax bill, we too might be up in arms about the Obama tax increase on the wealthiest Americans (although we might be less disingenuous about claiming our crusade was for the good of the middle class).

If only Baldwin's motives were this pure. Unfortunately, maybe Baldwin just doesn't like paying taxes of any kind, in any amount, in any circumstance. For example, according to the Wall Street Journal (emphases mine):
Big income tax troubles are also evident from the court filing, with $749,974 owed to the IRS on taxes as far back as 1999 and a $139,288 debt for unpaid withholding taxes, as well as $194,527 in unpaid state income taxes.

The youngest of the acting Baldwin brothers also has more than $70,000 in credit card debt to shake, according to court documents.
As if his failure to pay taxes and its contradiction of his born-again Christianity's injunction to render unto Caesar and also to tend to the poor and downtrodden weren't enough, a decade of not bothering to pay taxes while racking up massive debt is a real bummer of a blow to his newfound calling as a representative of the party of fiscal restraint, fiscal responsibility and balanced budgets. Stephen's sort of out of his sort-of job.

What does this tell us about Baldwin and about his future? First of all, despite all previous evidence to the contrary, Baldwin legitimately seems better at staying in character while acting than in real life. If you read through the script even once, that means that from then on messy things like facts won't get in the way of staying on message: you know what's to come and what to do. The process brings fewer pitfalls than real life. More importantly, though, these circumstances tells us he's going to need to get back in front of the camera ASAP.

My suggestion? One word: sequel.

The end of Sharks in Venice left me (and perhaps dozens of others) with an empty feeling, an inchoate sense, a wonder about what came next. Now is the time to provide that answer to adoring fans. I ask you to watch this and tell me, can there be any doubt that this is what moviegoers would want more of?


The answer, obviously, is no.

To rescue himself and his station as a speaker for the Republican Party, Stephen must become again what he was born to be: actor, thespian, man-god.

Of course, Sharks in Venice was brilliant in its high-concept simplicity, and we can't easily go back to that well again. The Medici treasure is gone, like the mafiosi, and the sharks have been exploded from the canals. But there are countless cities, waterways and ancient time-traveling 16th century treasures left to rescue from nature's killing machines. Off the top of my head, I can think of one way out, one bold new way forward. Stephen, if you're reading this, get Spielbergo or Troma on the phone and tell them this one word:
Sharkqueduct!
America will thank me. And you.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Erin Andrews Nude Peephole Video Download Link!

From two articles on Deadspin.com:
Yesterday a video posted on the site NSFWPOA.COM hinted that a naked blonde woman videotaped through a hotel peephole was a popular sports personality. Well, the mystery is solved, I guess. Yes, that was Erin Andrews on the video circulating around. The direct quote from the attorney: "While alone in the privacy of her hotel room, Erin Andrews was surreptitiously videotaped without her knowledge or consent.
Apparently the ESPN lawyers are trying to shut the vid down, but they can't stop the internet!

Seriously, what do they think they're going to do? This will be everywhere in a bit.

Better yet, what are they going to do to me? Sue a dead African dictator? Hahahahahaha!!!

Links to the vid while they still work, pick whichever download works best for you! Go go go go go!!!

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Youtube Doubler VI: Requiem for Alex Jones

A friend of mine sent me this.

You can listen to this on a loop endlessly. It actually gets funnier and more beautiful at the same time, due in no small part to the piano version of the Requiem for a Dream soundtrack.

Reminder that this person was an occasional commentator on Glenn Beck's show, is a friend to Ron Paul, appears on FOX News on occasion and believes that we will be destroyed by human-computer hybrids controlled by David Rockefeller and Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands.

Click the picture to play:

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

MLB All-Star Game '09: Where Presidents Meet Captains and Baseball Meets Announcing Indifference

The 2009 MLB All-Star Game is in the books, the 80th midsummer classic, and this time it was once again for all the marbles. No, not pride, but home-field advantage for the winning league, a prize so coveted that the teams shed superior starting players as early as the third inning, and half the people in the dugout seem to find the onfield play merely a polite excuse to bullshit with members of other teams for three hours and tell stories they haven't heard before.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Let's look at how the game unfolded.

Your hosts once again this year are noted dead-dad profiteer Joe Buck, Tim McCarver and Scraps, the small anthropomorphic mouse who inhabits an otherwise unoccupied chamber in McCarver's skull and controls his thoughts and actions through a combination of heart, grit, hustle, guttiness and mouse fundamentals. Conspicuously not in attendance: famed post-op transvestite Jeanne Zelasko, who apparently was called away from the game to narrate a GMC trucks commercial for which Will Arnett was available to do the voiceover.


8:00 (all times p.m. and in Eastern)
Annnd once again we have FOX's excitement-draining solemn "MMMM HMMMM HMMMMM HMMMMM" music. Leftover World Series simile: it's like the sort of music you use to commission battleships to. Current simile: it's the sort of music that swells in the background when a ranking general stands in front of several coffins and begins a speech, "When they found the bodies of Lieutenants James E. Green, Darian McDaniel, Beth Cowlings and Theodore Tibbet at the blast site...."


8:01 - 8:07
Buck, evidently unaware that he is no longer employed solely by the St. Louis Cardinals begins a long hagiography of the franchise, its players and fans, noting that the last "listened to one of its most iconic storytellers." By this, he's referring to his father, but it's impossible to hear the remainder of his introduction because of the sound of his digging a tool into the ground and noisily dropping spadefuls of earth before prying the coffin open and shoving a Budweiser into both hands on his father's corpse.

Some random FOX douchebag who will probably never be seen again walks in foul territory intoning about the living memorials to the game that are Cardinals Hall of Famers. He's wearing a loud magenta tie, his hair spiked upward and what looks like rub-on tan by the trowelsful.

Scene: President Barack Obama walking in the American League clubhouse as we go to commercial.


8:04
Scenes of Obama in the AL and NL clubhouses before the game. Ichiro Suzuki is has an irrepressible grin while getting Obama's autograph. Then, Obama starts straight bustin' on players. He points to Prince Fielder, who won the Home Run Derby, and asks Albert Pujols, who plays in St. Louis, "What happened?" You can tell Obama wanted to take it one step further and say, "He came into your house and did that. You can't let the man come into your house like that. You gotta protect this house."


8:07
"THE ALL-STAR GAME IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY PEPSI!!!" This moment provides the high-water mark of Joe Buck's excitement for the game, although he does at several points nearly reach this level of enthusiasm again when discussing other products in between long interruptions for this game of "based balls."


8:15
Ah yes, batting 9th for the American League: pitcher Roy Halladay. Note: the All-Star Game should never again be held in an NL park because managers then have to pinch-hit for good pitchers who are dealing and remove them from the game or face the horrible prospect of people who never bat taking three grandmotherly cuts before succumbing to the inevitable.


8:19
It's time for Special Americans MAKING A DIFFERENCE. Truly, these people are ALL STARS among us by doing what basically anyone with a heart, money, free time or a combination of all three would do because they're not inhuman fucking monsters. What a revelation. Can we get a slideshow of people who treat the indigent like they're living, human beings? This is all you need to know about America: these people are being singled out for unique achievements in this country by doing nice things for people to whom they are unrelated and don't owe money. Mad!—they're mad, I tell you.


8:21 - 8:23
Series of clips of Obama, Bush II, Clinton, Bush I and that god-blessĂ©d peanut farmer Jimmy Motherfucking Carter highlighting the good works of Americans MAKING A DIFFERENCE. Special note: almost every person they're profiling is a community organizer, and not one is a governor. Obama and both Bushes are pretty clearly reading a prompter, while Clinton hides it best of all, and Carter's too old to worry about it anymore. Also, both Bushes recorded their greetings in the same room. MIGHTY convenient—do these two know each other??? Does the media know???


8:24
[Insert your own "really old" joke here, because I would feel like too much of an asshole for picking on Carter. But suffice to say the man is showing his years.]


8:31
Fuck yes, Sheryl Crow national anthem time. Let's take time to honor the American booking agent MAKING A DIFFERENCE who chose a white milquetoast American quasi-rocker who hasn't been relevant in a decade and who, more importantly, barely sounds like a credible singer with the benefits of multiple takes, backing instruments, Auto-Tune and other studio magic. Then let's have her sing one of the most challenging songs in English a cappella. Well-fucking-done. Whoa—hold up. Nevermind. Cancel the outrage. Turns out she's from Missouri, where this game is being played. If the Dodgers make the Series this year, is there any way we can get Manson to sing the anthem for Game 3? He used to record, was pretty big in LA, and he's been a resident of the State of California for 40 years.


8:38
Obama comes out and shakes St. Louis legend Stan the Man Musial's hand and throws the first pitch. His form is awkward, and FOX is too busy doing their funky everything-but-what-is-on-the-field-is-important camera bullshit to let us see where he threw the fucking ball. Cue another off angle. No idea yet if it was a strike. At the risk of being completely obvious, FOX fucks up everything. You don't need any dynamism for presidential first pitches. You just have a dude stand back there and hold a camera. Instead, FOX seems to have hired a meth head suffering peripheral neuropathy to do his best Paul Greengrass imitation and told him, "Look, at any minute, Jason Bourne is going to start punching the president."

Also, you've got to love that Obama, an avowed White Sox fan, is wearing a White Sox jacket to throw out the first pitch. No pandering. No one-day-only Cardinals jacket. Fuck that shit.


8:41
McCARVER:
(referring to what's been broadcast already) Well, we've seen a lot!

Attaboy, Tim. You guys had to handle a national anthem and a president throwing out the first ball, and you skipped the second part almost completely. This is some kind of mad breakneck pace of content. I feel like a need an MRI, but if I had one it'd just show this blacked-out mass like people who die from the explosive concussion of a suicide bombing.


8:48
McCARVER:
(referring to NL starting pitcher Tim Lincecum) We talked about his bionic arm.

No one besides McCarver talked about it. McCarver started mentioning it before his head-mouse, Scraps, probably started pounding a flashing yellow button inside McCarver's skull labeled "GRITTY" until McCarver's gaze drifted Jeter-ward. Lincecum doesn't have a bionic arm. He actually has a pretty normal-looking non-meaty one for a major-league pitcher. What he does have, however, is a really unique delivery that exploits all the momentum generated from his legs upward, reducing the strain on his arm and efficiently using virtually his whole body instead of one group of muscles. This is pretty much the exact fucking opposite of having a bionic arm. Praising Lincecum this way is like saying Spud Webb could dunk because his femurs were one or two inches longer than they should have been proportionally. It's basically the type of mistake you can make as a broadcaster for your sport only if you've engaged in a years-long commitment to try to know fuck-all about it.


8:49
Nearly 50 minutes into the broadcast, Lincecum throws the first pitch of the game.


8:57
Albert Pujols boots a ball at first base, putting the AL up by one. This error derails the Joe Buck sloppy blowjob train for about three seconds.


8:58
BUCK:
Jason bay, who bailed the Red Sox out of the Manny Ramirez situation...

Buck here seems to think that having one of the top-five greatest hitters currently in the game batting cleanup for you is some stygian prison of circumstance. The Red Sox wanted to trade Ramirez and only took Bay when they felt the compensation was worthwhile. Otherwise they were prepared to wait out the rest of the season paying one of the greatest hitters available to be on their team and keep being one of the greatest hitters available. Whatever clubhouse cancer Manny might have been, his numbers didn't dip significantly to incentivize getting rid of him at any cost.

This is something anyone could have learned by reading a sports section during the two-week period around the trade deadline last year, or during the playoffs, or by listening to commentary during any Dodgers or Red Sox game not broadcast on FOX, or by reading almost any baseball hot stove articles this summer. Again, this statement is the sort of thing that only makes sense if you know it comes from someone who makes every effort to learn absolutely nothing about his job. Which is what makes McCarver and Buck such a perfect storm of ignorance. If you staffed your commentary booth for the World Series of Poker with two autism sufferers who couldn't understand numbers, you'd still blunder into more accidental insights about probability and human nature than Buck and McCarver deliberately make about baseball.


8:58
BUCK:
LINED!!!!—INTO RIGHT FIELD.

Joe's talking about a hit to nearly dead center. For the purposes of this game, the middle of the outfield will now be called "right field." The field to the left of home plate will be called "Daphne," and the field to the right of home plate will be called "Barvo."


8:59
Lincecum doesn't run over to cover 1st base on a play on a ball hit between 1st and 2nd. The AL goes up by 2. It's probably because Tim's legs and brain aren't bionic or filled with mice or something.


9:02-9:05
I don't really understand how it happened, but McCarver goes on this weird allegorical soliloquy for the better part of what feels like forever, only there are two problems with it:
1. It's about I-Beams, which no one gives a shit about.
2. It's about I-Beams, which McCarver doesn't know shit about.
At some point, I just go to Wikipedia and figure out that McCarver is mostly making this up or merely repeating something he heard that he thought was insightful and drew one of those enlightening parallels that sportscasters always like to make between baseball and structural engineering. The whole wandering episode is enough to inspire temporary pity for McCarver, who at some elemental level you have to realize is a nice person who loves his family and friends and is loved by them in return, and who's probably someone's grandpa, and who probably has once or twice in his life had his eyes well with tears in response to a harsh comment hurled at him. On the other hand, Scraps is probably totally confused inside the good ship McCarver's Skull and just slapping vainly at panels marked "GUTTY," "HUSTLE," "I TRIED TO DESTROY THE PRINCE OF LIES BY DRIVING OVER HIM WITH A CAR" and "CALM EYES," and wondering why moist nuggets of McCarver brain cheese aren't being dispensed for his keeping operating conditions nominal.
___________________

Speaking of supernatural horrors: there's no other place to put this, but there's a camera setup behind home plate that looks like the goddamned Angel of Death. (Click for a larger, uncropped version of the picture at right.) FOX in their infinite wisdom put some kind of special camera back there that provides the home audience with de-saturated grainy footage similar to what you got out of the family Magnavox 20 years ago after dad dropped it during a move, lost the rabbit ears and had to stick two wire clothes hangers on the back of it and drape enough tinfoil off the top of them to line every hat in a libertarian haberdashery.

But most macabre detail of all is the fact that they shrouded the thing in black cloth, while display lights or reflection off the lenses give the impression of two nearly rectangular yellow eyes peering out from it. The whole thing almost looks like a predatory jawa except for the fact that it looks the same size and stature as everyone else in the section, and the black cloth could easily have been woven from funerary garments and the bodies of dozens of expired crows.

The overall effect is deeply unsettling for the entire game, if for nothing more than because when baseball fans see the creepy specter of Death behind home plate, the role is usually portrayed by Commissioner Bud Selig.
___________________

9:06
BUCK:
The great — and I mean great — Albert Pujols.

Buck uses this formulation a couple of times, no doubt because it means getting to use one complimentary word twice in a row without dangerously dipping into his Strategic Adjective Reserves. Also, he uses it a half-inning after Pujols committed an error and just seconds before he grounds out to third. Joe Buck will never surrender. Joe Buck is a Light Brigade of Alamos.


9:13
McCarver starts talking about the clubhouse interaction between Ichiro and Obama. "That was the best expression. Delighted! Sheer delight! Like a 12-year-old!" McCarver seems genuinely amazed at how Ichiro's foreign features so closely resemble people, and how childlike his simplicity appears to McCarver's culture.


9:17 - 9:22
Obama makes a surprise (at least to the audience) appearance in the announcer's booth, and the whole experience is surreal for two reasons:
1. He immediately upstages Buck and McCarver not by being The President but by being interested in talking about the game. It's like he runs some foreign land where sports media talks about the sport — probably some socialist country where they play football with their feet or some gay shit like that. His voice is calm, even and curious, immediately distinct from McCarver's tendency to excitedly wander as if he's just broken free of the hospice guards and Buck's vacuous detachment that always sounds like he's checking his bank account on a Blackberry while reading off a recommended bullet-point.
2. This doesn't have a lot to do with baseball, but Obama casually mentions the sports he played "growing up as a kid in Hawaii," and I realized what an amazing torment this whole exchange must be for birthers. Everyone else in the country is going, "Hey, cool—president in the booth" (I loathed Bush, but he was refreshingly fun when he sat in on a Nationals game for a couple innings; as a former owner, he knew his stuff), while a subset of the population is probably knotting their hair thinking about how he was born in Ghana or Kenya or Indonesia or out of the butt of a Greek god of Liberalism and Discord and stamping in place screaming, "LIES! LIES! LIIIIIEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!" Trust me, the image gets funnier if you imagine Colonel Klink saying it.
"Hhhhoooooogan, do you have a radio in this room?"
"No."
"LIIIIIEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!"

9:22
Unfortunately, Obama's record of smooth knowledgeability for minutes on end comes to a crashing halt when he mistakenly asks Buck and McCarver for opinions on why the AL has won 11 of the last 12 All-Star Games. Truly just a novice move on the president's part. A real baseball fan would never ask these people a baseball question. After all, you don't go to the mortuary looking for an obstetrician, so you don't ask Buck for something he doesn't have a computerized pre-game prompt about. McCarver's opinion: it's the presence of the Designated Hitter in the AL — despite that position's being created 23 years before the AL went on its run of dominance. Buck's insight: the AL "is just better."


9:25
Chicago White Sox starter Mark Buehrle is warming up in the bullpen. Obama: "About time." Obama references Buehrle's last start in Minneapolis and how he struggled, a fact he effortlessly drops into the conversation with an ease that dares to suggest anyone can do it. (For the record, Buehrle follows with classic performance for him: a 1-2-3 inning where he throws something like six pitches.)


9:38
It wouldn't be the All-Star Game or, really, any game he's ever started without Derek Jeter doing a totally unnecessary jump move + throw. I bet when Derek Jeter plays things like Halo online, he'll run up a staircase and away from an enemy that doesn't know he's there just so he can run to the edge of a platform and jump off, turning in air to strafe the enemy with bullets while falling two storeys downward to a pile of crates. I bet when Derek Jeter tosses the football with buddies, he deliberately slows down for the last five feet before the catch so he has an excuse to make a leap for an extended one-handed grab. I bet Derek Jeter fucks in a special harness. I bet Derek Jeter has a bunch of copies of those special gold-plated editions of CDs like The Dark Side of the Moon or Rush's Moving Pictures, even though neither he nor anyone else can detect a single fucking difference in fidelity. I bet Derek Jeter stocks all his bathrooms with tiny clamshell-shaped designer soaps so he can do "hands" exercises just by trying to hold onto the goddamn things. I bet Derek Jeter orders a pizza and then waits outside his house in a gorilla mask and tries to scare the pizza man into dropping it so maybe there's a chance he can dive for the pie and get it before it touches ground. I bet Derek Jeter is going to write his next autobiography just like Tristram Shandy because fuck anyone who wants to dive right in without examining what it means to be a human first. I bet Derek Jeter practices dunking with an oblong medicine ball on a hoop that's smaller than regulation diameter. I know that Derek Jeter is going to get his pilot's license and fly every route that kills rock stars or Kennedys because, goddamn it, it needs to be done.


9:57
After FOX's chyrons try to call Brad Hawpe Ryan Braun, Buck basically admits he doesn't even know how to score the substitutions and defensive reorderings the managers made before the inning. Can you imagine going to a doctor and having him pull out a giant poster of anatomical illustrations, point to the heart and say, "We call this 'The Organ of Mystery.' No one knows how it got there or what it does, but we think it might be the seat of both courage and bile"? Why does Buck feel it not only acceptable but perfectly normal for him to make routine asides that say, "Here is another aspect of my job that I couldn't begin to comprehend"? Wouldn't anyone in America who exists outside of some right-wing fantasy about the Teamsters be absolutely mortified to tell everyone who knows about his job that he doesn't know how to do it?


9:59
Buck and McCarver discourse nimbly on physics by wondering how much faster Carl Crawford would get if he pulled his pant cuffs up. No, really.


10:01 - 10:04
Jeter fails in the clutch to ground into his customary double play, but later scores from first base on a Joe Mauer opposite-field double. Good baserunning; poor old guy was really chugging hard around third.


(???)THE TIME of MYSTERY(???)
Perhaps the heart is the organ that perceives time. Until we can cut a man open while he's still alive and speak directly to the organ itself with a speaking trumpet, it's likely we'll never know. Suffice to say that my time-organ goes out of whack right about now. Stuff happens now for a while, but it's boring and I don't care. I stand in the kitchen eating pepperoncinis and pickles from various jars — Claussen, Vlasic, some French sour gherkins they have at the Fresh Market — until I get bored and decide on a beer and then sit down. Somewhere in all of this, there is an astonishingly long Taco Bell ad riffing off the title of the song (and idea behind) "It's All About the Benjamins," to make it, "All About the Roosevelts."


See? Taco Bell is cheap enough that you can eat there with dimes — not the kind of hot babes your pick-up artist ass just negged at the Friday's bar so hard that she couldn't wait to roll in your Mitsubishi Galant to an eatery of late-night availability — actual ten-cent pieces. It's a powerful message. Now stop for a moment and realize that Taco Bell paid someone millions of dollars to come up with the idea of rewriting a rap song to sell a product.


10:19
Taco Bell commercial with Joe Buck in a traveling van making tacos. I'm in hell. I'm in a complete hell.


10:19
FOX cameras show a person who is obviously Tampa Bay Ray Jason Bartlett. FOX chyron: "SHORTSTOP, BEN ZOBRIST."


10:22
As they go to commercial, FOX shows about five seconds of an unnerving bald dude who plays The Observer on the FOX TV series Fringe. Think of the guy who played the principal in Back to the Future and the carrier captain in Top Gun, only he's dressed like a man in black and moving his head left to right with a robotic evenness. Only Buck and McCarver say nothing about him, and there's no chyron explaining what we're seeing, and considering he was on the show for all of maybe 40 minutes over the course of the season, most of America probably just went, "WHAT THE FUCK???"


10:29
I know I've complained about it before, but the fact that baseball keeps accreting these patriotic obligations over the decades and never lets them go is incredibly frustrating. I tend to love America more than I criticize it, but one of the things I love about it is the typical lack of obligation an average citizen feels to take part in martial or patriotic public displays. So come on, 9/11 was eight years ago. We already began this whole show with the goddamn President of the United States, the anthem being sung to tens of thousands standing with hand on heart and a flyover by a stealth bomber. Do we really still need "God Bless America"? Isn't that a little selfish? Hasn't he done right by us amply enough already?

But if you're going to make us sit through the loyalty oaths at a baseball game, can you at least give us someone to get behind? I'm sure music-nobody Sara Evans has some people who care about her, but taking a country star immediately shrinks your target audience by about 60%. Once you do that, you leave most of the audience focusing on the fact that she looks like she's overdosed on keratine or tanning beds and has an orange tone that would look unnatural on a bunch of terra-cotta warriors. The only other thing to notice is that, like Sheryl Crow, she's in danger of being off on every note unless she just flaaaaaaatens every vowel through her adenoids in that "I am singing country music so I sound like this" style. America comes out as "Uhhh-MAY-REEE-kuhhhh" like Hugh Laurie pretending to sound like Bruce Springsteen, and the whole affair goes on longer than all three outs of the top of the 7th inning.


10:34
Crawford robs a home run at the wall. Since Jonathan Papelbon's pitching, the first two outs consist of his making that anus-mouth face at batters all intimidating-like before giving up 347-foot blasts that die three feet from being home runs. At this point, Papelbon has about 130 saves, and probably a collective 300 feet separate them from being blown saves.


10:41
FOX presents the official FLOMAX break. OH HO HO HO HO HO HO. Get it? Because you need to take a break to pee, and Flomax is for people who FLOW too much—FLOW WITH PEE. THEY ARE FILLED WITH PEE IN THEIR BLADDERS, WHICH MEANS THEY NEED TO LEAVE TO MAKE THE PEE IN A TOILET OR A URINAL, WHERE PEE GOES. THEY ARE SO FULL OF PEE THEY WILL NEVER SEE ANYTHING IN ITS ENTIRETY AGAIN. POOR PEEPLE.


10:43 - 10:48
Curtis Granderson hits a triple off the wall. Victor Martinez gets an intentional walk to set up the double-play, but Adam Jones hits a sacrifice fly to deep right to score Granderson. The AL goes up 4-3, which means Papelbon gets credit for the win. Also note that the "free slugging" AL just won the game on a sacrifice fly, basically the sort of smallball the NL is supposed to win with.


10:51
FOX shows Boston knuckeballer Tim Wakefield and Yankees Hall of Fame-bound closer Mariano Rivera chilling out and laughing in the bullpen, chatting with each other. I hate the Yankees pretty much reflexively and often with focus and vim, and I think we as fans all like it when players get into team rivalries. But let's be honest: when the players are cool guys and easily likable by any fan of the game (Wake and Mo are both class acts, and both are known for being successful throwing essentially one unusual pitch each), we all prefer it when they like each other. It's nice to occasionally be reminded that the people we're watching are kind, adjusted and respectful human beings who can celebrate each other's abilities. Unless we're psychotic or weird — which admittedly tons of Red Sox and Yankees fans are.


10:55
Tonight's Gatorade "video" consists of a slideshow of what might as well be animated gifs, followed by Ichiro drinking Gatorade. How are these connected? What does it mean? Tell me what it means to have G.


11:06
Ryan Howard strikes out on a curveball that tried to bore into the dirt about a foot inside the plate. Ryan Howard is basically Pedro Cerrano without any chance of becoming president on 24.


11:10
Crawford saving a homer is the MERCEDES ATTENTION-ASSIST OF THE GAME. In case you don't know, this is a feature Merdeces has created whereby people who drive while applying makeup and yelling at their children and talking on the phone and watching a TV show on their iPod screen can pay even less attention to the road because the car does everything short of wiping their assholes for them. I wonder if we can plug the MERCEDES ATTENTION-ASSIST into the hearses that carry the bodies of the people killed by drivers reliant on MERCEDES ATTENTION-ASSIST.


11:16
Buck and McCarver point out that Rivera has only one pitch and then go on and on about it like this is the first game he's appeared in. Really? The most famous reliever in history has only one pitch? I would never have known. What's it called? A sput casbla? A butt casthole? A smut highball?


11:20
Game over:
SCORE-4-3
WP-Papelbon
LP-Bell
SV-Rivera
Elapsed Time-2:31
This is the shortest All-Star Game since 1988 — or about half an hour or half a day less than the Home Run Derby. The American League wins for 12th time in 13 years. Rivera sets a save record for All Star Games. The National League didn't have baseruneners for last 7 innings. Interestingly, almost every meaningful moment came from the AL East (Teixiera RBI groundout, Jeter scoring from first on a Granderson double, Crawford robbing a home run, Jones with a go-ahead RBI, Papelbon with the win, Rivera with the save) and came at the expense of the NL West (Giants/Dodgers/Padres pitching, Justin Upton's blown route on Granderson's triple).


11:27
MVP: Carl Crawford. Crawford gets awarded an object quite like clear plastic dildo that's been comically shaped like a baseball bat as some kind of trick. Meanwhile, Bud Selig spies an infant with fresh blood somewhere in the distance, loses interest in Crawford and wanders off with a shuffling, captivated gait.


11:40
We're closing out the game with a new single from Peal Jam, "The Fixer." Aw, nuts, they should have played this sometime earlier in a baseball telecast, like 1995 when anyone would still give a shit.


11:41
Ahahahaha FOX just cuts the song off and goes to another Taco Bell commercial. Telecast over. Everybody go away.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Sotomayor Accused of Revealing Wu-Tang Secret

Alternate Titles:
• A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear Hanzo steel shall not be infringed.
• Testifying Before the Senate Judiciary Committee with Orrin-chan ^_^
• Nomination to Highest 36 Chambers Subject to Proof She Can Interpret Ancient Scrolls of Shaolin Temple
A friend of mine was talking about this on his Facebook page, and I refused to believe it was real until I read a transcript and saw a clip. This is from Sonya Sotomayor's senate confirmation hearings for her appointment to the U.S. Supreme Court:

HATCH: As a result of this very permissive legal standard — and it is permissive — doesn't your decision in Maloney mean that virtually any state or local weapons ban would be permissible?

SOTOMAYOR: Sir, in Maloney, we were talking about nunchuck sticks.

HATCH: I understand.

SOTOMAYOR: Those are martial arts sticks.

HATCH: Two sticks bound together by rawhide or some sort of a—

SOTOMAYOR: Exactly. And — and when the sticks are swung, which is what you do with them, if there's anybody near you, you're going to be seriously injured, because that swinging mechanism can break arms, it can bust someone's skull.

HATCH: Sure.
By all accounts, Sotomayor's confirmation is a done deal. At this point, there's no way she's not joining the court without being found with a dead hooker, a live little girl or with dozens of photos of her wearing a hairnet and driving an El Camino full of illegals across the border while the half-dozen devotional Satan figurines on her dashboard shoot red lasers out of their eyes. The only remaining purpose of the hearings is to gin up quotes for future election-year talking points about activist judges who hate fetuses, freedom and firearms and love moral relativism and minorities. Hence Jeff Sessions (R-Alabama) and his job as Senate Judiciary chairman, to be as much of an acceptable prick to Sotomayor as possible and get in the requisite applause lines for red-state constituencies without coming off like an overt racist who hates all hispanics except:
those with over $1 million per year in declared income;
the "good ones," like that self-loathing guy who authorized harsh treatment of other brown people in the name of National Security (© GOP Productions, 2001, All Rights Reserved);
anyone in Venezuela who can get the oil fields out of the hands of that fat fuck who'd be wearing epaulettes in a Telenovela and back into the hands of the good people at Chevron ("Do people who work in the oil industry in America care about the citizens of Caracas? PEOPLE DO");
Cubans who still send unsolicited letters to the CIA, offering to help destroy Castro.
Comparatively, the Orrin Hatch line of questioning is almost lovable. (Maybe he's hoping the GOP can sweep all the Ninja Turtles and Anthropomorphic Talking Rat constituencies in 2010.) He's trying to waste time, digging fruitlessly to sabotage a nominee who he knows is going to steamroll the process anyway. It's enough to almost make a citizen lament the time-wasting of congress and its petty, venial gestures, if it weren't for the fact that members of it were just days ago debating the worth of honoring a guy who was accused of touching children and who discovered how to slide his feet backwards at some point in the 80s.

Personally, I think the process is just broken and stupid enough that it should keep going. My ultimate goal is to witness this exchange:
HATCH: As a result of this very permissive legal standard — and it is permissive — doesn't your decision in Guile v. Ryu mean that virtually any Essence Weapons ban would be permissible?

SOTOMAYOR: Sir, in Ryu, we were talking about the HadĹŤken, which is a maneuver from the Shotokan fighting school.

HATCH: I understand.

SOTOMAYOR: Those are firebombs created by martial artists.

HATCH: A propulsion of, uh, a propulsion of fire created by spiritual communion with the martial art, whereby, uh, whereby the artist harnesses his—

SOTOMAYOR: Chi. Exactly. And — and when those fireballs are propelled to attack someone or defend yourself, which is what you do with them, if there's anybody in front of you, they're doing to suffer damage. Because you incur damage even if you're in a block stance. Which means that your game won't be—

HATCH: Perfect.

SOTOMAYOR: Yeah.

HATCH: Tatsumaki Senpuu Kyaku, your honor.

SOTOMAYOR: The honor was mine.
(bows)

(exeunt)