“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Hi, I’m Lorne Michaels, the producer of Saturday Night. Right now, we’re being seen by approximately 22 million viewers, but please allow me, if I may, to address myself to just four very special people—John, Paul, George, and Ringo—the Beatles: Lately there have been a lot of rumors to the effect that the four of you might be getting back together. That would be great. In my book, the Beatles are the best thing that ever happened to music. It goes even deeper than that—you’re not just a musical group, you’re a part of us. We grew up with you.
It’s for this reason that I am inviting you to come on our show. Now, we’ve heard and read a lot about personality and legal conflicts that might prevent you guys from reuniting. That’s something which is none of my business. That’s a personal problem. You guys will have to handle that. But it’s also been said that no one has yet to come up with enough money to satisy you. Well, if it’s money you want, there’s no problem here.
The National Broadcasting Company has authorized me to offer you this check to be on our show—a certified check for $3,000. Here it is right here. A check made out to you, the Beatles, for $3,000. All you have to do is sing three Beatles songs. “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.” That’s $1,000 right there. You know the words—it’ll be easy.
Like I said, this is made out to the Beatles—you divide it up any way you want. If you want to give less to Ringo, that’s up to you—I’d rather not get involved. I’m sincere about this. If this helps you to reach a decision to reunite, it’s well worth the investment. You have agents—you know where I can be reached. Just think about it, okay? Thank you.
—Lorne Michaels, Saturday Night Live, 24 April 1976
Gloriosky—!
Oh, I see—oh, I get it—
Though she’s still a little stronger on the see it than the get it. We’re working on that. —Taran Jack Manley, one year and one day old, at the Oregon Coast Aquarium.
“You can tell him by the liberties he takes with common sense, by his flashes of inspiration, and by the fact that sooner or later he brings up the Templars.”
So, right: the default response to a post from John C. Wright, then, turns out to be exactly the same as the default punchline to a New Yorker cartoon. (—And I have to keep reminding myself: this is from the intellectual end of the rump.)
Little things.
It’s not the sum total of what I’ve been up to, or where I’ve been, but I can’t stop listening to this ever since Joshin pointed it out. —I mean, I’ve also been writing, and I haven’t read a news feed in, what is it, three weeks? Four? Something’s happening, I’m just not sure what.
Important events, and important ideas.
Oodles of channels of 24-hour news, moldering reams of newspapers that will not die, 127 goddamn feeds in my goddamn Google newsreader, and I’m only now finding out that Utah Phillips died sometime last year? —Somebody’s priorities are way the hell out of whack.
Free jazz
Never should have played her that Albert Ayler song.
It’s not so hard to be politically correct. All you have to do is not be an asshole.
“‘I think that Nabokov often tries to be inhumanly secure, and confident, and happy, and unregretful,’ Wood observes. ‘If he pulled that off, he would be a monster. It’s a fine thing to try—and an even finer thing to fail.’” —Lev Grossman, “The gay Nabokov”
Magnificently shaggy.
The new Dresden Codak strip is, as they say, a thing. A hell of a thing.
The hairs of my chin bristle as I repeat it, silently—
Autumn Fugue
A book was sometimes held in your hand
when the Committee on Understanding met
as you waited for them to call you in
& the man who mowed the graveyard
waved with a circular wave
in the manner of cousins under the elm
where it seemed sweet spices
had been cast down near accordion streets
so once the small democracies
had begun, time could make an exception
for owls with the faces of seeds
that looked just like themselves only open;
it is late & sweet with a late
democratic sweetness when seeds
had been cast down in the manner of
spices, where once the small committees
had begun, time played accordion
with its foot in the door, & you felt
at ease in a circular way
so even had the parties called your name
you would not have been wrong;
the elms had made an exception
& a book was sometimes found in your hand
that looked just like itself, only open—
For DY
I knew these things were complicated, but damn.
Complications of Taran: Attack air; Considerable distress; Kill previously deathless Cauldron-born; Kill wizard; Strike down warrior; Suicidal Taran attack. Causes of Taran: Craddoc; Dallben; Article; Lot; Request. Treatments for Taran: Shelter; Companion; Critic Taran Adarsh; Ellidyr; Movie. [via]
Plum.
Kris’s Color Stripes really is a wonderful thing to find in your RSS feed of a morning.
Cochliomyia hominivorax delendum est.
How’s that for eliminationist rhetoric?
I feel vaguely guilty, making such a deal of accepting John C. Wright into my life. After all, what’s he done since then? A turgid apologia (i, ii, iii, iv, v, vi) that in no way indicated he’d thought at all as promised on what the Elders of Sodom had wrote, and an all-but-unreadable screed against empiricism (I think): Neo cannot say why he chooses to fight, and thus homosex is wrong, quod erat dammit. Overall a disappointing performance I must say.
—And then John H. Richardson has to cast a chilly pall over the whole enterprise anyway by going and talking to Mike Austin, an eighth-grade teacher in Oklahoma who until recently was saving the world one essay at a time over at the Return of Scipio.
Yeah, that Return of Scipio. Took me a minute too.
And Richardson has a lovely conversation or two with Austin, who seems a much nicer person than the Scipio Resurgent, much I’m sure as John C. Wright is much nicer than 
johncwright; he seems a hale enough fellow, I suppose, who could essay a hearty laugh—but that’s just how it works. Most of us are better than our manifestos.
But still and all:
As we drive back to my hotel through the clean wide streets of Oklahoma City, I take a chance on some gentle teasing: “Everything’s so well-groomed, you got no garbage, no graffiti—I do not see the collapse of American civilization here.”
His answer comes out cold as a can from a Coke machine: “If you were to look at the streets of Nazi Germany in 1936, they would appear a lot like this. Probably cleaner.”
I’ve heard this exact argument before, from the Glenn Beck follower types, but I can’t believe they really mean to compare their fellow Americans to the most cold-blooded killers in human history. It must be rhetoric. They can’t be that alienated from the society that has given them, beyond any civilization in history, lives of such extraordinary privilege and comfort. My voice rises with my exasperation. “You could say that about any town anywhere!”
His answer comes back steady and patient, like he’s explaining history to one of his eighth graders. “The government in Washington, DC has encroached so much on states’ rights, it seems like we don’t have a federal system any more, rather an imperial one. And when the states lose their rights guaranteed in the Constitution, then what you have is tyranny.”
Obama is a fascist, he continues. Setting the limits of investment-bank incomes and claiming the right to seize General Motors are just two examples. Where in the Constitution does it grant him those powers? Are we a nation of laws, or is this a lawless regime that sends out its goons like Mussolini?
(And there it is, the voice of the blog: What has always stood against lawless men? Force. That is the only idiom understood by such men. To answer lawless men with force is to speak their language.)
[…]
“There are things worse than violence, John,” Austin tells me. “Slavery is worse than violence. The most peaceful place in the world is the cemetery.”
It is really a quite serious matter that the right-wingers have gone around the bend and apparently aren’t coming back…
There’s a new outfit in town—
—whose name’s suggested perhaps by all the glittering potentates who came to do homage to the aforementioned Elders of Sodom on receipt of their open letter to Wright. The basic mission statement for members reads as follows:
As a member of the Outer Alliance, I advocate for queer speculative fiction and those who create, publish and support it, whatever their sexual orientation and gender identity. I make sure this is reflected in my actions and my work.
This first of September, the Kalends of Sextilis, they’re asking for a show of hands. They suggest a link to fiction which is in any way on mission, and while there’s this or that I could point to, there’s also this or that game I don’t want to give away, and so instead I’ll highlight an old series of posts:
It’s how I started swatting at screwflies, anyway.
John C. Wright will of course forever be known for or at least in light of his hatred of homosex, but for all that he can’t bring himself to wish for the destruction of its practitioners, adherents, and supporters; at worst, we all get to sit in closets again, as Morality ever-so-passively just somehow returns. —Mike Austin, the (former) Scipio Resurgent, is at once more cosmopolitan and strict (then, Scipio was famously Græcophilic), but even he can’t bring himself to take the action he seems to think is vital; can’t help but laugh with the mainstream media man who’s come to talk to him; can only lash out at abstract ideas that have never set foot in Oklahoma or anywhere else. —They may have gone around the bend, but there’s enough shame yet to prevent them from actually advocating the clear, precise, destructive, eliminationist praxis needed to bring about the world they think they want.
And where there’s shame, there’s hope?
Room enough, anyway, for words: and enough of them, from stories told, from lives lived, from experiences actually had, will always outweigh an argument merely propounded.
We’ve always been better than our manifestos.
Sure thing.
Who’s keeping the office pool on Christianist Ministers Likely to be Found in the Next Six Months with a Baggie of Meth and a Rentboy these days? I want to put a benjamin down on Steven Anderson.
Go, look, see.
Yes, the beginning of this chapter’s been a slow burn (in more ways than one), but if you haven’t read this week’s Dicebox page because you’re doing the web equivalent of waiting for the trade, well, you’re putting off till later what you could be appreciating right the heck now.
Four minutes, sixteen seconds.
Just like that right there. [via]
Always already.
Beloit College has posted its “Mindset List” for the Class of 2013: the things that for them have always already happened. It starts with “Martha Graham, Pan American Airways, Michael Landon, Dr. Seuss, Miles Davis, The Dallas Times Herald, Gene Roddenberry, and Freddie Mercury have always been dead,” and ends with “There has always been blue Jell-O,” with 73 steps in between. —For me, the worst was at the top: “If the entering college class of 2013 had been more alert back in 1991 when most of them were born…” Christ. I was already about to drop out of college in 1991. [via]
