I'm Mad as Hell...

I just watched, for the first time since I saw it in a theater right after it was released, the film Network. I'd recorded it off TCM as they broadcast their month of Oscar-winning films.

Network was the first movie I walked out on. I thought it was awful. Just awful. I didn't ask for my money back I just left. I haven't walked out on a movie before or since.

Let me say, however, that having watched it tonight I understood my first viewing experience as akin to the way literature is wasted, many times, on the young. Like, the way high school students take a disliking to Charles Dickens.

Tonight I understand that Network is more a premonition than an film.

I encourage everyone to run to your video store, surf on over to Netflix, or do whatever it is you do to rent movies. Order this one. Sit down and watch it until Howard Beal tells you to get up out of your chair.

Then go over to your nearest window facing the nearest bloom of population, fling open your window, lean your torso out, and yell for all to hear: "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

Dressing Palin's Caribou

It's been interesting to observe the story elements the Red folks trot out to prop up the credibility of Their Sarah as The Genuine Article.

Like: They want everyone to know that she hunts and fishes and that she shot a caribou. This is to encourage the inference that, because she did these and other outdoorsy things (while simultaneously believing in Jesus a lot), she's "just like you and me, by golly. Praise God and pass the ammunition."

I lived in Alaska for 18 years. EVERYONE who has lived in Alaska for any length of time has several common stories.

We each have our "bear story": The one about how we had a terrifying run-in with a black bear / brown bear / Kodiak grizzly / sow bear with cubs. These have several common endings: You survived; you almost died; someone you know died; the bear survived; you shot the bear, bled the bear, gutted and dressed the bear, and now it's in your freezer.

We each have our "moose story": The one about how we had a terrifying run-in with a bull moose / yearling moose / momma moose with yearlings. These have several common endings: You survived; the moose (same word for singular or plural) survived; you hid in a safe place while you watched the moose demolish your car / garage / pick-up truck / 18-wheeler and afterward you watched the moose shake it off and lope away; you spent several days in the hospital; you shot the moose, bled the moose, gutted and dressed the moose, and now it's in your freezer.

We each have our "almost lost a (fill-in-the-blank) from frostbite when I got stranded for three hours because of (fill-in-the-blank) between (fill-in-the-name-of-the-town) and (fill-in-the-name-of-the-town) story". These have several common endings: You survived; you have a permanent numb spot on your (fill-in-the-blank); you don't have a (fill-in-the-blank) anymore; you'll never go outside again when it's 60 below wearing only a mad bomber hat, a flannel shirt, a wool sweater, a down jacket, mittens, long johns, pants, insulated socks, and mukluks.

We all know people who died in small plane accidents, who fell off mountains / glaciers / fishing boats / snowmobiles and were never seen alive again. Most of us know people who simply disappeared. We all know people who live so far out in the Bush that they can come into town only by walking miles through the woods to the nearest track and flagging down the train. Some of us know people living really far out in the Bush who never come into town.

We give a wry and knowing nod to secessionists who want Alaska to pile up all its oil money in its own sandbox and quit the rest of the United States and who have formed political action committees to make it happen.

Every one of us know wingnuts who have risen to places of responsibility beyond their aptitude simply because of the church they go to, the people they know, and the ear marks they channel. Alaska is just like anywhere else in that regard. Except that the population is so much smaller there that you tend to know these wingnuts personally.

The truth is that in Alaska, Palin's life experience and homespun yarns are entirely conventional. But people in the Lower 48 don't know that. And you can bet the Reds know that they don't know that. So they're playing it. And she's playing along. Sounds like she's "just like you and me" - only, due to the caribou she makes sure we know that she shot, bled, and gutted, they ask us to award her extra credit for displaying Classic American Rugged Individual Toughness about which most of us have only nostalgic reference.

Try this recipe at home: Start with with the Republican Party. Pound for eight years with George W. Bush til tender. (You'll know when it has reached the right consistency because it will appear wide but it won't be very deep.) Chop until dicey. Add one Sarah Palin. Add 6 oz of Miss Alaska and fluff carefully. To this mixture add a few jiggers of melting glacier water and several chunks of receding ice cap. Shake and pour. Sprinkle with nostalgia to taste. Serve immediately with an accompaniment of chilled barracuda ceviche, et viola! Whaddaya got? Fox news! And anecdotes instead of issues.

I could go on. That's probably apparent.

Suffice to say: I suspect the Reds want us all to bite down HARD on how much in common Palin appears to have with the hockey mom next door - and masticate long enough to really savor the flavors in the class and gender appetizers they've laid before us. And then they want us to start eating our young while we earnestly discuss amongst ourselves the exquisitely politically correct ways we must acknowledge Sarah Palin.

Don't be distracted by those tender nuggets!

Instead, ask yourself: "Who benefits?"

Then get back to work on the boring stuff: Economic parity, energy sufficiency, poverty, health care, education, infrastructure, the environment. Put out your yard sign. Volunteer at the phone bank. Knock on some doors. Donate it if you got it. Let's win this thing.

I Accept

So I opened my email this a.m. while waiting for a conference call (lil' ol' multi-tasker me) and found a message (subject line "I Accept") from "John" aka John McCain Himself. I was somewhat affronted because we don't know each other well enough to be on a first name basis but what really raised the alarm was that it started out with "My Friends..."

Well, I was apoplectic. What have I ever done to get on an RNC mailing list?

I have not lately used The Lord's name in vain. (Although I did change the channel last night a quarter of the way through The Passion of the Christ which I was watching simultaneously with that show that has that Brit chef that says fuck all the time going to save restaurants with his advice and gustatory ethics.)

Perhaps it was that email I sent to WVOM containing a PSA for a class I'm teaching - but THAT was for WORK!

Perhaps it was those letters I've sent the white house that sometimes get replies like "Vice President Cheney thanks you for your thoughts {yeah like I'm going to believe THAT} but, unfortunately, he can't respond to all letters..." Yeah, like I'm sure. He's only my employee after all.

But to return to my apoplexy: I clicked, of course, on that little link they put in there so that you can unsubscribe which, of course, I wanted to do I mean, like, NOW. So it takes me to this page where they have four reasons to choose from:
- I am a supporter but don't wish to be contacted until closer to the election
- I am a supporter but prefer to get updates in the mail
- I am a supporter but do not wish to receive email any longer
- I am no longer a supporter and want to be taken off the email list.

I didn't check any of their boxes because none of it applied to me.

But, thankfully, there is also a comments box. Which I filled right up telling them that I was not now and never have been a supporter of their campaign, that I couldn't imagine how they got my email address, and that I demanded to be removed NOW.

Well.

Turns out that, in order to unsubscribe, one MUST choose from one of the choices they give. How fucking Republican. This I REFUSE TO DO as I'm sure they take stats, like the Mormons, to inflate their total numbers to the press.

So four emails later to several addresses I really had to dig for...we'll see if I get off their night train to the land of the zombies.

I'll keep you posted.