Ghosts of Christmas Movies Past

Me, posting to my blog.

It has been HELL trying to get into the Christmas spirit this year.  Between a new job that reaches a high in workload in late December, the dregs of humanity constantly filling the airwaves, internet, and front pages, and the general seasonal malaise, there are many things I'd much rather deck than the proverbial halls.  But I ended up at my parents' house the other day (drink!), and while they were napping (drink!) I was hanging out with the Stella and perusing the DVR for something to watch.  Lo and behold, Mom and I had recorded the 1984 production of A Christmas Carol starring General Patton George C. Scott as the unfortunately-named Ebenezer Scrooge.

Next stop, the NYC Beard and Mustache Competition.
Category: Mutton Chops, Extra Fierce

So I decided to revisit this Christmas and childhood classic, figuring the Saturday before Jesus' Birthday (observed) was as good a time as any.  Well, the following 90 minutes were a nostalgia-filled and navel-gazing Dickensian journey for me, which I feel nicely paralleled the theme of the tale I was watching.

First of all, let's address the fact that this thing was produced in 1984.  Nineteen-eighty-fucking-four.  I was just a wee girl who still believed in Santa, though not for much longer, according to Mom and Dad.  A little handwriting analyses of both the Tooth Fairy and Santa's notes to me combined with some subtle questioning about the alleged  Easter Bunny tipped my parents off that I had worked things out, apparently.  Which is kinda sad, but funny when my parents tell the story, so ask them about it when you see them.  My dad uses the phrase "stalking horse."  It's great.  And I guess it's also further proof that Christmas Spirit hasn't been plentiful with me for years.  (This makes me less special than it does normal, methinks.)

Anywhozle, we had a tape of this that my brothers and I watched A LOT.   It didn't even have to be within shouting distance of Christmas, because we were weird kids.  We'd still watch this rather frightening and dark tale pretty much anytime, which might explain a lot about our dispositions.  (Or be appropriate to our innate ones.  I flip-flop on the whole nature-nurture debate.  Still think it's both.) So revisiting something that we could recite by heart before the age of 10 was kinda fun.  And when I hung out with Charlie later that evening, it turned out he had done the same earlier in the week and had a similar take on things.

It's also been years since I read the actual book, so I was kind of surprised by how well the plot holds up.  (And I'm having a "no duh" moment as this blog post is forming.  No wonder people still read Dickens.)  As I was watching it, especially in the beginning, I found myself thinking, "Wow, Scrooge really is a dick."  I mean, for Dickens (haha, dick, Dickens, so many jokes) to set up this character with absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever only for the readers - or audience, in the case of this really good production - to be rooting for his redemption halfway through and celebrating with him in the end is a testament to his work as a storyteller.  In this case, anyway.  I've only read 2 books by Dickens.  The other one was Great Expectations, which I also liked, though wasn't surprised to hear that he was paid by the word for it.

So yeah, Scrooge.  A dick.  I mean, he's practically knocking over old ladies in the icy English streets and setting fire to the very poorhouses he frequently mentions as a solution to the rampant poverty around him, cackling and rubbing his hands in glee while doing so.

Are there no prisons?

He just seizes every opportunity to shit all over anyone's optimistic take on the season, or family, or charity, or anything, really.  You like it, Scrooge shits on it. Coal, caroling, and Christmas-related anything. People remind him that Christmas is a time for generosity and why not make donations (hey, they must work in the Development office!) and he's like, yeah, I'm gonna have to say fuck off.  He treats his assistant like dirt, barely acknowledges Tiny Tim on his way home (more on that dude later) and acts like Clint "Cranky Old Man" Eastwood toward all the public carolers.   Who, by the way, are totally laying waste to the Christmas classics and playing a tuba in the street, like you try rocking the brass section in this weather, Ebenezer! His nephew, who really does come across as sweet but none-too-bright, asks him over for Christmas dinner and he's like, No fucking way, I hate everything and everyone and most of all, I hate you (paraphrasing here).  I mean, wow, what the hell is this guy's problem, right?  But then Dickens goes and SHOWS you what his problem is, and that's when you're reminded of what good writing is.

I'm screwed!

GHOSTS! First up Jacob Marley.  THE CHAINS, people.  (I had a Dickens-themed Christmas party last year and my parents were some of the only guests to dress according to the theme.  Dad wore Stella's chain and went as Marley. Mom had a newsboy cap and crutch and went as Tiny Tim. It was pretty awesome.)  Nice metaphors, those chains.  I really would have liked to see a good slap from Marley to Scrooge, because you'd think seeing a reanimated long-dead coworker would inspire you to cut the sarcasm, but not here.  So, he gets more ghosts for his sass.

Childhood is really the best time to lay some solid emotionally-destructive groundwork on a person, won't you agree?  And clearly the Scrooges wasted no time.  When the ghost of Christmas Past shows up and brings him back to gaze at himself as a boy, the poor little sap is sitting all alone in a freaking schoolroom on Christmas Day reading Robinson Crusoe.  And then we see him later as youngish man, when he gets a visit from his sister and finally perks up a little.  And lemme tell you, at this point in the film, so did I, because I never realized who played Fan all those times I watched as a kid.  That's right, the future (and now once) bride of Mad Martigan both on and off screen - Joanne Whalley!

You know, Sorsha?

Sorsha?  I don't love her - she kicked me in the face!

YES! SORSHA!  I'll tell you who loved Sorsha - this girl!  She kicked ass (among other parts, when the situation called for it).  And got to smooch Val Kilmer.  And by the way, she is still gorgeous, according to IMDB.

But our hero's happiness is short-lived, because his dad is outside, and he looks like the ultimate sinister version of the Quaker Oats guy with his perma-scowl and pilgrim hat.

Ooh, Juxtaposition...

Edmund and the White Witch Scrooge and the Ghost then hit up a bumpin' party at Mr. Fezziwig's place (that guy rules) but we get to see Ebenezer strike out royally with the nice girl who got away, and then flash forward to watch her happy with another guy and their 42 kids.  Nice going, Neezy.  Those brats coulda been yours.

Tangent re: The Ghost of Christmas Past.  Earlier in the week, Morgan and I went to Santaland in our...12th(!?) annual Morgan+Rosie+n* trip to Santaland, where I decided that I needed a nice self-pic to have as my G+ icon (instead of the Bullock? Never.) so I turned the phone on myself and came up with this masterpiece.

I am surrounded by toddlers running amok.

And my mom saw this pic, and always knowing how to make me feel particularly pretty, told me I looked like David Doll.

Thanks, Ma.  

Which is actually kind of perfect timing, because David "Doll/Buster Poindexter" Johansen was the world's GREATEST ghost of Christmas Past in the Bill Murray movie Scrooged.  Which is amazing.

Niagara Falls, Frankie Angel...

So I didn't mind the comparison, because it's seasonally appropriate.  But back to Patton and Company.

After he snuffs the Ghost of Awkward Adolescence and Fumbled Romances, THIS GUY shows up.

Bitch, please.

This guy looks like a '70s porn star and Grizzly Adams had a baby.  In a Christmas bath robe.  This is when we get to see Tiny Tim in all his preachy glory and feel horrible about ourselves because he's so damn pious and holy and can't freaking walk and oh my god, gimme a break already.  Nobody is that well-adjusted.

Plate 267 from The Big Book of British Smiles

My mom had joined in the rewatch at this point, and she and I were trying to figure out Tiny Tim's deal.  Birth defect? Scarlet Fever? What?  My mom changed her diagnosis from Polio to Diptheria based on geography and historical context.  I choose to believe it's some sort of Rickets-Consumption-Scurvy hybrid that would have landed him a guest spot on House about 150 years later.  Also, I like to reference consumption whenever I can, because it is an awesome word (albeit for a terrible disease.)

But how the Cratchits put up with Tim's incessant optimism, I'll never know.  I just know that I'd feel like a terrible person all the time around the kid, because he's knocking at Death's door and selling cookies, and I am Abe Simpson.

I lied about being Scrooge McDuck.  Sorry.

Once the ghost of Christmas Present is done with him, the next ghost shows up, and it's actually pretty creepy for a while here.  First of all, the ghost looks like Emperor Palpatine, and doesn't speak.  It just points at things, and the Foley artists make with the squeaky gates.  This used to TERRIFY me.

Holy crap, I forgot about the fog.  Fog always makes it scarier!

It takes him to a Christmas yet to come where Tiny Tim is dead and people are sad, and Scrooge himself is dead but nobody gives a shit.  In fact, his maid fences all his stuff, and he's just lying there dead, all alone.  And it's really, really sad.

And then he wakes up and turns into Oprah.

AAAAAAAAND *you* get a goose!  

And at this point, I had (temporarily) drunk the Dickensian Christmas Kool-Aid.  I was like, yeah, Scrooge! You go!  You buy people geese and be nice to your nephew and actually treat people like they exist for reasons other than to piss you off with their humanity!  YAY!  Give your clerk a raise!  Kiss the crippled boy!  Give the Whos down in Whoville their Christmas presents back because your heart grew three sizes that day!

I'm not saying that catching this on TV turned my Christmas frown upside-down and cured me of my seasonal ails (consumption?) and changed my life forever.  That crap only happens in TV-movies based on hit Dickensian novels.  And ABC family movies.  But it was a lot of fun re-watching something that was a childhood staple as a somewhat jaded adult and still get a little caught up in the excitement of watching this shmuck turn his life around for the better.

So the lesson?  Don't be an asshole. You'll die alone.  Also, there might be ghosts involved.

Now I'm on my way to midnight Mass.  Whatever perky lessons I learned from Dickens may very well be snuffed out by the homily.  If I can stay awake...

Merry Christmas!

*Let n= whoever the hell shows up

Birth

Happy Birthday to my baby brother, who turned 29 yesterday.  (Chriiiiiiiiiist...)

Happy Birthday to my Stella, who turns 4 today.

And while I'm at it, Happy posthumous Birthday to Beethoven.  If only you were alive to hear my say it.  (oooooh, so mean, so sorry...)

"Watch the hair."

Incidentally, I want to focus on birthday wishes for my beloved (and I guess in this case, the Immortal Beloved) this weekend.

And now for some Batman-related humor.

A Stellavision commercial

My dog:  a special snowflake. 

That crown stayed on for 5 seconds.  And then she tried to eat it.

The War Effort in a Nutshell

When I switched to basic cable, I knew I'd miss a lot of things.  Non-stop Law and Order, NY1 (God I miss, you, Pat Kiernan) and Comedy Central, especially.  Even though in recent years, it has paled in comparison to the Comedy Central I discovered in 8th grade, when my parents got us basic cable. Back then, basic cable actually MEANT something ::waves cane angrily::  I could tune in and watch hours and hours of stand-up, marathons of "Whose Line is it, Anyway?", and imported Canadian gems like the "Kids in the Hall."  Now, the "basic" in "basic cable" is a shortening of "Basically, you're screwed when it comes to entertainment."   I really miss Comedy Central.

But I've got Fox News, so at least there's still something to laugh at.

Like the war on men.

My first reaction:

Followed by:

"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!" ::points finger at screen:: "War on..??. HAAHAHAHAHAHA!"  ::slaps knee, gasps for air, tries to wipe spitwater off of monitor::

Yeah.  (I tried to get a nice youtube vid of a quick spit-take, but the best I could do was this low quality Golden Girls' clip.  Sophia's reaction at 17 seconds is how I reacted to this, and to a lot of things.  Internally.)

Point of clarification - Now, I wasn't actually watching Fox.  The last time I watched Fox was on election night with Kris and Dan and we would flip over for a chuckle, linger a bit too long, start to rock back and forth like rhesus monkeys, and then run back to the soothing voice of Rachel Maddow.  Checking in on Fox those few times was like immersion therapy when the returns weren't looking so good for Obama, and then schadenfreude when they were.  So I wasn't watching Fox in this particular instance, I just needed a nice little segue, and I'm pissed off at cablevision all the time, so that's why the intro paragraph above is what it is.  

I actually came across the link to the War on Men (god, so stupid) on several of the feminist-pinko-man-hating-ladyblogs I've got bookmarked on Google Reader.  So I clicked on it, and it was so hilarious, I had to screencap it.

Cold shoulder.  Good strategy, there, soldier.  Sun Tzu got nothin' on you. 

I mean, I could be forgiven for thinking the whole thing is some colossal joke, right?  Look at this page.  I mean, really LOOK AT IT.  First off, the graphic is priceless.  Huffy woman (clearly a huff-po reader) shuns everyman-in-button-down, and he is forced to break through the fourth wall for some hint of human connection, such is his abandonment.  The audience will clearly connect with him and relate to his hitchhiker pose, suggesting, "Women, AMIRITE?"  Where are the UN sanctions?  Clearly this woman is waging a war.

Forget about the main graphic for a second.  Take a break from buying Cyber Monday half-price War Bonds (do your part for the war effort later.  I'm planting a Victory Garden!).  Thanksgiving has taught us that the main course isn't all there is to feast on, because side dishes are decidedly satisfying.  So check out the side dish stories.  Go on...

Yes, that says "Nude Man evades police atop horse statue." With a picture!  Underneath an ad for Moby Dick.   Above a video of war hero John McCain.  This layout is so male-themed, it's about to kill a stag with its bare hands, cook it over an outdoor fire it built, and piss out the flames.  It's so manly, I want to wage war on it.  

Women, amirite?  All wanting equal pay and shit.  Expecting bodily sovereignty.  Getting annoyed when you treat them like a monolithic hive of man-hating ladybees that all think the same way.  (Must...not..make..pun...about drones...and warfare...and bees...)

This has to be a joke, right?  This is practically ripped from the Onion.  

These are actual sentences in the article.  Actual sentences by author Suzanne Venker.  Who is not an onion columnist.

"In a nutshell, women are angry."

Yeah, I think men would also be angry if forced into a nutshell.  I freak the fuck out when I'm in a nutshell.   In a nutshell, Rosie is a nutjob.

"Women aren't women anymore."

Like we ever were?  As Bridget Jones says, "Underneath our clothes, our bodies are completely covered in scales," so this hasn't exactly been a secret for quite sometime now.  

"Now the men have nowhere to go."

Because we've burnt their castles and taken their goats!  Because this is WAR!  Pillage, pillage, pillage!  (Can you tell I've been mainlining Game of Thrones?)

Angry, covered in scales, and burning shit down.
Forget Rosie the Riveter, this war has Daenerys the Dragon Mama.

Sigh.  Joke's over.  People actually think like this, and that's ... not funny.  Enough so that this women has an audience for her rhetoric in which she constantly throws other women under the bus.  Irony alert - would she have so much success as an author without the gains of feminism?  And way to get the definition and aim of the movement wrong.  Striving for equality doesn't mean taking things away from men, but that's exactly what  Venker wants men (and everyone) to think in her effort to kill feminism dead.  And who are these scaredy cat men she's talking to?  None of the dudes I know think like this. They aren't threatened by the idea of women doing the same crap they don't think twice about. 

I don't really see what's in it for her, though.  Perhaps she thinks if she makes herself out to be on their side, she'll be spared when all the threatened men inevitably revolt and take back...the gains we haven't made yet?   Sounds like she's the one pitting women against men in this fake game where only one gender can have...stuff.

Oh no, my cover's been blown.  I'd better report back to Feminist HQ and reveal this information leak.  I wanna know who's been talking to Venker.  

Someone's going in a nutshell for this.

Friday filtering

Not officially back to work until Monday.  I did work a teensy bit from home yesterday while inculcating my parents into the cult of 30 Rock, but I'm itchy to do more (but not so itchy that I'll give this apartment the cleaning it so desperately needs).

While charging their various communication devices, my parents discovered the myriad perks of 30 Rock including "Blerg" and the miracle that is Kenneth Ellen Parcell.  My favorite?  Any time Kenneth mentions "The Hill People." My dad, on the other hand, thought that M.I.L.F. Island was pretty great, although he referred to it as "M.I.L.F. Camp" on the phone later that evening, which might actually be funnier.

So, while awaiting communication from coworkers, I've been spiraling into an internet rabbit hole (that's not a euphemism for drug use). Here are some of the greatest hits of the morning (still not 11 a.m. as I type this)!

Here's this great article on Wired that sums up some of my own reservations about modern technology, and maybe makes me question said reservations just a little bit.  

Still not joining facebook.

Here's a picture of the President, proving that he should not only remain President, but he should also be my BFF. 

I saw that on the new Jezebel tumblr that went up while the old site is down.  I like the tumblr better because the comments on the original site had become troll central.  HATE.

Here's a picture of my brother and me hanging out yesterday, I mean, 28 years ago.

And yes, he is the cutest wubby that ever lived.  And no, my feet aren't that big, I was clearly wearing Charlie V's socks resulting in an optical illusion.  And speaking of optical illusions: THOSE PANTS.

XKCD continues to inspire me to be a better and funnier nerd.  

OBJECTS IN MIRROR

And speaking of mirrors, I always forget that when you take a picture of a reflective surface, you end up in the picture.  I took a picture last week of this bus stop ad near my job.  

I'm appalled that people don't understand how to use a Venn Diagram.  It's not just me, right?  There's no possible way those circles can intersect, right?  It's maddening.  

DRUNK HISTORY!!!!!

I read this thing about octopodes yesterday  - linked to in this post - and almost cried.

My niece turns 16 tomorrow.  Gotta work on her present and check back in with my work friends.  I feel kind of impotent to do anything helpful to the Sandy effort, but I'm awaiting notification from New York Cares about stuff that's within walking or bus distance that I can volunteer with, so that may change within a few hours.  So maybe the above diversions are stupid and vapid in light of all that's happened, but it's kept me from going completely stir-crazy.

It's still sort of Halloween...

My momma's house...when they had power.

Happy Halloween - hope that there are some treats to be found, given the week we've had.

In the meantime, I have a riddle for you.  What has two thumbs and would have been burned at the stake?  This girl.

Take the quiz, see if you'd join me in the extra-crispy club.

Boo! Hurricanes, Halloween, and Haints

Screencapped from this link -
http://goes.gsfc.nasa.gov/goescolor/goeseast/overview2/movie/latest_ref.mov

I've been stuck inside all day riding out the hurricane.  I could have gone over to my momma's when I had the chance (and I think she'd have been happier had I done so) but I had some projects to work on and didn't want to come home tomorrow night to my apartment covered in cat vomit.  What can I say, the felines get a bit spiteful if I'm gone for more than a day.  Must be all that toilet water they drink.

The Junk Drawer Within a Junk Drawer

It's ... Junk Drawer-ception

Warning:  intentional use of necessary quotes ahead:  The "theme" of this blog is "junk drawer," so here's a similarly random post about the flotsam and jetsam bobbing around on my brain waves.

This song:

This book:

This thing I hope I'm doing tomorrow, if my incipient head cold doesn't, er, come to a head...

This driftwood:

This place where I found it.

This amazing blog:  Sweaters for Days and Moves Like Jagger

This TV Show:  Parks and Recreation

This Poem

This article.

That dream I keep having that's a lot like Coraline.

This GIF, and how it took me way to long to make it:

"SWEETHEART?"

This question:  What's everybody from "Deadwood" doing these days?

Clenching, that's what.

This thought:  "Dear god, I can't believe it's three more months until a new season of Downton Abbey."

Unbalanced on the Equinox

It didn't work.  The first time I tried, I broke the egg.
Guess I was...MYTH-TAKEN.

Equinox:  

from the Latin "nox" meaning "night" and "Equus" meaning "horsey."

Wait, scratch that.  Let's begin again.

Sunscreen, Dramamine, Various Clowns

Or "My Summer: An Epitaph"

IPhones, bitches...

Last Monday was Labor Day.  Ugh.

Yep, that's about right...

How it works.

Permanent link to this comic: http://xkcd.com/385/

Show xkcd some love.  It gets about 35% of mine.  For reasons like the comic above.
And below.


Useless

Permanent link to this comic: http://xkcd.com/55/

Baby Cheetah

Saw this on Jezebel.  I want it.

Weekly Swanspiration

In honor of my buddies who got married this week and celebrate today.  I hope this is what we all look like in a couple of hours.  Congrats, my dears.  :)

Going the extra mole...

Went upstate with some friends last weekend and spent a really relaxing time in the country which involved a lot of lounging, a little swimming in a local lake, and some light hiking.

Opting out

Originally titled "Facebook Can Blow Me" but that would have been fueling the "antisocial" take on the argument.

Cohesion on the Space Station

Initially saw this on Jezebel and Buzzfeed. The narrator is really digging his experiment. REALLY digging it. The narration and the visuals... don't always correspond.


"...so I'll end up drinking my experiment. You've gotta conserve your resources when you're in the frontier."


A Philosophy shared by many...

Cheers, hoopleheads and anachronistic swear words.

Best line of the narrator: "I'm gonna give it another puff. Just because I'm in space and I CAN."

That guy is having the greatest time.

Beginner's Film

A few weeks ago, I went to the Museum of the Moving Image with some of my former students.  We made a bunch of stop motion animation videos.  Here's mine.

It's about a girl's journey backwards in time, where she ultimately must confront the demons of childhood and come to terms with the darkness within her own mind. Narrated by Morgan Freeman.


Nah I'm kidding, it's a bunch of crap I had in my bag and some of the props from the museum that I futzed around with for 11 seconds worth of footage that took about 11 minutes to make.  Narrated by Morgan Freeman.

Kidding again.  It's narrated by Samuel L. Jackson.

Enjoy.

Geeking out on semiotics and graphs

Or How I Fell into an Internet Wormhole and Lost Several Hours of my Life

I'm not overly fond of the word "cute."  In specific instances, yes, it is perfectly appropriate. Volkswagon bugs are kinda cute.  Babies are cute.  Baby shoes are really cute.  Dogs are cute.  Puppies are paralyzingly cute.  Kittens are the embodiment of cuteness. Teenage objects of teenage crushes are cute.  Plastic buckets and shovels for the beach are soooooooo cute.  This fan-freaking-tastic little Dark Knight is unbelievably, extraordinarily cute.  It enthralls quickly with its cuteness.  I am in its cute thrall.

 

Yet more signs of the times

Wait, wait.  I'm confused... who's allowed in this room?

Weekly Swanspiration

 

“It’s like yoga, except I still get to kill something.”

(re: fishing)

Think: Does This Need to be Posted?

It's been a week since the shootings in Aurora.  And in that time there have been eruptions all over the media of clashing opinions on what went wrong and how it could have been avoided.  Fingers point in all directions simultaneously attacking and invoking the constitution, and sometimes in direct contradiction.  Some call for censorship of violence in art while at the same time citing the second amendment to defend the ownership of assault rifles.  Bloggers and commenters form opinions, pass judgment and hit "submit" in minutes, often without a second thought, often without pausing to remember that at the heart of the matter is the fact that there are victims here.  The rush to be heard, to express one's opinion bypasses the inclination to be sensitive to survivors.  As revolutionary as the internet and media technology are right now in their capacity to connect people and communicate knowledge, the relatively anonymous setting allows individuals to espouse a range of personal, political, and often judgmental viewpoints. This lends itself to rash and self-serving behavior more likely to sever ties than forge them.  Instead of understanding, we have angry reactionary rifts; instead of dialogue, we have Babel.

Because we do need to talk about Aurora.  Something horrific occurred.  The fact that it was a senseless act doesn't mean that people aren't going to *try* to make sense of it.  It's how we comfort ourselves - if we can figure out why it happened, maybe we can prevent it ever happening again.  And there's some merit to this line of reasoning: if we can grow from a tragedy, that makes it less meaningless and the survivors can feel that perhaps it will not have happened in vain.  But in this search for meaning, we end up on different sides of the blame game, trying to solve the perverted retroactive logic puzzle: "If only _________, then this wouldn't have happened."  As if finding the right fill-in-the-blank would somehow fix everything.  As if crafting the perfect argument it would undo what happened.  As if by blaming the right person or institution, we would somehow be able to hit the big reset button.

Of course we need to examine the factors at play in what happened, but we have to acknowledge that just as the effects of the Aurora shooting were immediately chaotic and widespread, the causes will never be as simple or reductive.  Multiple variables led up to what happened, some of which will probably take a very long time to surface.  But what a lot of people forget in their rush to examine, discuss, pass judgment, and blame is that there are real people, real victims in this scenario.  And using this tragedy as a prop to troll the internet and mainstream media about violence or personal rights or, for God's sake, appropriate parenting in a movie theater is insulting to these people, and ultimately selfish.  How does angrily spewing an opinion while attacking someone else's help anyone involved?  In fact, how does it help the spewer?

The following will seem like a weird tangent.  Bear with me.  Or bail, whatever.

Anyone familiar with the work of Craig Ferguson already knows the following:  he is a class act, he's brilliantly funny, and he's got a dreamy, dreeeeeamy Scottish accent.  Ferguson has had a rough journey getting to where he is.  In his autobiography and his stand-up, he is very open about his past struggles with addictions to drugs, alcohol, and arguably, women.  So he draws on some harsh life experience when he approaches his art.  He's not some snotty hack; he has real substance.  I think he's one of the best late night hosts because he actually seems to listen to his guests when they talk, and it's this ability to empathize that led to what he did right here.

Craig thought about the power of his own words and the people it would potentially hurt. He took his role as an artist and a voice in pop culture and acted kindly, responsibly.  It's sad that I was more surprised by this small example of basic human decency than I was by the fact that a madman unleashed chaos in a crowded theater.  We've gotten so used to people placing a higher priority on saying whatever the hell they want than on considering the feelings of others.  The word "sensitive" has become more inflammatory than any of the 7 more famous ones Carlin was famous for using (that wasn't a shot - I also love me some Carlin).  It happens on the internet, it happens in performances, and it happens face-to-face.

Seeing the above clip reminded me of the fact that a few weeks ago, I was thinking about how Craig was the perfect counterpoint to another comedian in the middle of a media circus:  Daniel Tosh.  When Tosh made his little non-joke about sexual assault, I was admittedly pissed off.  Because even though I admit to laughing at episodes of Tosh.O, my expectations of his particular brand of humor aren't particularly high to begin with.    Commenting on doofy internet videos doesn't take a lot of thought.  It is what it is.  So while I was angry that his response to being called out for making stupid remarks about sexual assault - because I'm sorry, I won't call them jokes because jokes are funny, but that's for another post entirely - I can't say I was surprised.  It was the ensuing vitriol in the media, largely the comment sections of blogs, that really got me heated.  There's this huge misconception about free speech, and a lot of the nastier and more extraordinarily grammar-challenged commenters seem to get behind this misconception:  that free speech means "I can say whatever I want and everyone else has to SHUT UP.  I'm entitled to MY opinion and anything you say against it is you trying to silence me."

Um, no.  Free speech - you're doing it wrong.

Calling Tosh out on a pretty cavalier attitude toward sexual assault and his gross remarks to an audience member that it would be "hilarious" if she got gang-raped isn't infringing on his free speech.  He is free to say what he wants, and people are free to respond in kind.  But what he and his puerile defenders fail to acknowledge (in their scramble to shout louder than anyone else in the room)is that there are victims out there.  And maybe, just maybe, you should consider them or at least be aware of their existence.  So many more than they know.  (I'm not saying we can't joke about horrible and tragic things, but you'd better make damn sure you craft that joke carefully.  You'd better make fun of the right thing.  Tosh failed where others have succeeded.  Lindy West does a nice dissection of the art form here.)  While the Aurora shooting is a shocking single incident, sexual assault is a constant threat in society.  What both have in common is the existence of victims.  The victims of sexual assault however, are much more anonymous and sadly, extensively more numerous.  So many comedians take so much pride in being edgy, and offending groups is like a merit badge.  But seriously, would a comedian get away with making an Aurora joke right now?  Someone would stand up and say something.  Why is what you're saying so important and ostensibly hilarious that you'd take pride in offending a really vast group of people who've been through hell just to have said it?  (I know that's an awkward sentence.  It's 3:20 a.m. right now...)

Commenters and bloggers arguing over free speech often miss a hugely important point:  just because we have the right to say something doesn't mean we should say it.  It's one thing to be passionate about a cause, it's quite another thing to mouth off.  It's like when people say something harsh or cruel, and after getting a nasty look or a complaint in return, throw in this phrase: "What? I'm just being honest."  Well no, you're not *just* being honest, because you're *also* being a jerk.  My favorite of these is, "Wow, you look really tired.  What?  I'm just being honest."   Because if you're being honest, maybe the other person already knows this and doesn't need it pointed out.  Just because it's true - and really, who gets to be the great arbiter on truth? - doesn't mean it needs to be said.  The point is, think about what you're unleashing with this apparent devotion to honesty before you go ahead and unleash it.

(It's taken me a week to write this post.  I started last Friday, then scrapped most of it because I realized I wasn't following my own advice.  A lot of it was angry and reactionary ranting.  I know that sometimes this blog is a typed equivalent of me standing in the middle of a crowd screaming "HEY!  HEY!  I HAVE THOUGHTS!  THOUGHTS, I TELL YOU!  IN MY *HEAD*!!!" but I should at least practice what I preach, so I delayed posting and this has been largely re-written, and it's better for it.)

In our mad dash to make ourselves heard, is it so much to ask that we consider who will be doing the listening?  You want to be heard?  You'll need other people to hear you.  Not caring whether you'll say something devastating  - or intentionally doing so - to those listeners probably means you won't get your point across. That's how conversation works.  It's teamwork. Craig's philosophy is probably why he's such a natural at it on his show.  Why has it become so hard to think before speaking?

Craig says this better than I do.  Maybe it's the accent.  Maybe it's the hour.

Ok, it's definitely both.

Stop trying to make "fetch" happen.

People think I'm joking when I talk about the Stella. I am... not. And I wouldn't have it any other way. (Recorded on my phone.)

Planet Earth is Blue

Sally Ride passed away this week.  I'm trying to think of adjectives to do justice to her, but I'm coming up short.  Let's go with nouns and verbs.  Astronaut, inspiration, trailblazer, teacher.  She studied, she worked, she achieved, she galvanized. She blasted off into space at 32. She broke boundaries. She smashed ceilings. She opened up possibilities. She led by example to get children - especially girls - excited about math and science.

I was one of those little girls.  I used to watch 3-2-1 Contact on PBS with my brother Charlie when I was supertiny, like aged 3 and 4.  People (nerds) our age might remember this show as a pastiche of weird tech-y and science-y segments, with a little mystery thrown in. (Whaddup, original Bloodhound Gang?! Remember that time you made a pinhole camera when you were all kidnapped and thrown into the back of a van but you used science to figure out where you were and you totally thwarted your enemies?  Classic.)  It also had a killer opening segment and theme song.

AMAZING! Memories...

Anyway, it was a great educational show that was pretty important in hooking my interest in science at an early point in my life.  And I remember Sally Ride would come on the show.  She was in a couple of episodes explaining to the hosts - who were always regular kids rocking the best in early 80's fashion - what it was like to work in space, how to use different tools on the shuttle, how to negotiate the details of your day in zero gravity, etc...  I remember how she never talked down to anyone, how she explained things with enthusiasm and patience, and how much she smiled.  Seriously, do a google image search of her.  She had such a terrific smile.  I mean, she got to go into outer space - wouldn't that make you smile for the rest of your life?

Being on Sesame Street would make me smile for the rest of my life.

When someone dies, one of the stock phrases in our arsenal of "things to say to people who are grieving" is "I'm sorry for your loss."  We all say it, almost as a reflex at this point.  I'm not saying that we don't genuinely feel sorry when the situation calls for it, just that the phrase itself gets so much use that it starts to lose the intended effect after a while.  But then the actual experience of real loss re-infuses the phrase with meaning.  And then we remember why we say it.  Right now, I'm sorry for our loss.  The world is a better place because of her, and it's a genuine loss that she is no longer here to keep doing what she was doing. She was only 61. If she hadn't fallen ill, I know we would have seen so much more come from her work. She was one of those rare people who was brilliant but could still explain things in a clear and thorough way, and make it understandable, interesting, and exciting. This is no small feat.  She made discoveries so she could share the knowledge, so that she could bring more people into the conversation and show them how awesome the study of the universe could be. She was an ambassador of science because she made it accessible by changing how this country thought of the space program and about what kind of people could become astronauts.

I'm so sad she's gone; I'm so glad she was here.

And I know everyone is saying this right now, but it has more meaning than it ever has before:

Ride, Sally. Ride.