NYCweboy

Scott?

Scott McClellan is not Cher; nor is he Charo, Madonna, Fabio, Fabian, Jaylo, The Rock, or The Edge.

I say this as preface to more on why I don't think I'll ever fully understand the MSM.

Apparently, one-time Bush Press Secretary, Scott McClellan has poison-penned a tell-all on his former boss. 

What I'm finding odd is that, for the last twenty minutes, as both Campbell Brown and Keith Olbermann (I'm shamelessly fickle with the remote) have been reporting this story, chock full of interviews and pundits from both sides of this rancor, everyone of them, to the last, is referring to McClellan as "Scott."  Not "Scott McLellan," once followed by "McLellan" later, but just "Scott.":

"If Scott felt this way, why didn't he speak up then?"

"I think Scott's intentions are good here."

"Scott wouldn't have been involved in those meetings."

"Scott was unhappy with his exit."

Now, I understand that many of these people may have been used to calling McClellan "Scott" when they were working with/alongside of him, but surely when he becomes the story, his last name should be used.  I lose little sleep over the MSM treating GW unfairly, but what kind of press gives us half of the story on a first name basis?  This Scott sounds about eight years old to me, wide-eyed and innocent, you know, maybe a neighbor of Lassie's Timmy.

Google Image Search, for now, anyway, agrees with me, in that all Scotts are not created equal, nor that McClellan is The Scott.  Pictured above is Google's first entry under just "Scott," April Scott, that is, who either won or is entered in something called Quattro High Performance Disposable Babe Tournament.  But Google and its, ahem, priorities, are topics for another day, or week, I think.

- jinbaltimore

  

Where There's A Will

Color me unimpressed with Rick Perlstein's recent guest stint over at The American Prospect's blog TAPPED; too much book promotion ("here's another way the current Presidential campaign is like my book"), too little real insight.  Today I got the deal: with a name like that, and his history, I figured he was, like, 50. Turns out, he's the age of my (younger) sister. (yes, the one with the mansion... and my two amazing nephews. Also, my very nice brother-in-law).

I figured, with a title like Nixonland, Perlstein's book was already a miss, to me; I didn't realize by how much. Perlstein, apparently is doing one of these generational sum-ups that suggest everything we suffer from now is a result of... Richard Nixon. I would have thought that too much anyway...

... but Thank God for George Will: in a preview of this week's New York Times Book Review, Will is the lead review, taking Nixonland apart and handing Perlstein a savage pan. I don't love Will... but I don't hate him either. A talented writer, and a very smart thinker, Will's high-toned Republicanism may not be my ideological cup of tea, but he's got insight into things I'll never get, and a gift for laying them out in a way that's comprehensible. Thanks to Will, I came to understand better the appeal of Reagan, and the expression he gave to a national pride that is a key part of the American psyche (one that I think Bill and Hillary Clinton understand how to express in a way that's winning for Democrats).

People (including my mom... and me on Sundays sometimes when Will says something idiotic on Stephanopolous) on the left can dismiss Will out of hand as tendentious and unaware... but he's not, really. He just thinks about this stuff differently.  Often, he's not wrong... or at least, he gives good voice to the alternative view.  Here is his closing to the Perlstein review:

“How did Nixonland end?” Perlstein asks in the book’s last line. “It has not ended yet.” But almost every page of Perlstein’s book illustrates the sharp contrast rather than a continuity with America today. It almost seems as though Perlstein, who was born in 1969, is reluctant to let go of the excitement he has experienced secondhand through the archives he has ransacked to such riveting effect.

“We Americans,” he says, “are not killing or trying to kill one another anymore for reasons of ideology, or at least for now. Remember this: This war has ratcheted down considerably. But it still simmers on.”

Not really. America has long since gone off the boil. The nation portrayed in Perlstein’s compulsively readable chronicle, the America of Spiro Agnew inciting “positive polarization” and the New Left laboring to “heighten the contradictions,” is long gone.

So exquisitely sensitive are Americans today, they worked themselves into a lather of disapproval when Hillary Clinton said that Lyndon Johnson as well as Martin Luther King was important in enacting civil rights legislation. There has not been a white male secretary of state for 11 years. Today a woman and an African-American are competing relatively civilly for the right to run for president against the center-right — more center than right — senator who occupies the seat once held by Goldwater. Whoever wins will not be president of Nixonland.

That's about a clear-eyed an assessment of the current scene as I could ask. Read the whole thing here.

The Latest In A Series Of Super Tuesdays

I'm sorry I neglected to mention my vacation; I sort of assumed I'd post more, but frankly, I'm tired and needed a rest. Lucky for me, the addition of co-contributors means I get back to see two interesting posts from my pals.

So here I sit in my favorite cafe in Maine, sipping cappucino and eating a small piece of apple tart, catching up on the web. My mom is reading her latest Swedish mystery, something my Aunt recommended.

I am in the heart of Obama country here - aside from Obama's fairly commanding win of the Maine caucuses, my Aunt is a hardy Obama supporter, more so than my Mom, though both for similar reasons. After a day of shoring up my strength with Red, I am in the lions den, looking, well, like a cartoon bull.

My Aunt, like most of humanity (or at least, most of America), has full cable, so my Mom and I have been overwhelmed catching up on the cable news shows we never see.  I have to admit, from their cracked lens, this race is much different than the one I know on the web, or in real life. And that's before I get started on Chris Matthews.

I get the impression that tonight's results will be what many of us expected all along: Clinton appears on track to win, probably by 5-9, though I think it's 10 or better. Obama and his people seem to have essentially conceded it (he's heading to Indiana before the vote's over), and now we're arguing if close only counts in hand grenades and horseshoes.

Myself, as a Clintonite, natch, says winning and winning and losing is not.  Obama spent money like water to battle himself to a slightly less losing proposition than he had when he started 6 weeks ago.  All the excuse making - and the none too subtle suggestions of racism, fearmongering, and stupidity in PA's electorate - can't hide the fact that Obama's appeal to working class folk looks completely unsuccessful.  If it's by as much as I suspect it might be, this loss doesn't just make a case for Clinton staying in, it is indeed the case of asking, finally, why Obama can't close the deal with voters he needs. I don't take any pleasure in saying that, despite what Obama supporters might think; talking to my family's matriarchs, we are closer together than further apart, and we all want a Democrat in the White House. What I don't want, and what concerns me, still, is an Obama candidacy that can't relate to the needs and politics of working class voters in a successful way.

In the end, I don't think today changes all that much; not for the candidates. And not for the Democratic Party. Barring an incredible surprise, we will be, as with other Tuesdays, right back where we were, only in Indiana. And for me, personally, it's just another quiet evening in the country, possibly with some of the best ice cream I've ever had, and the company of family I care about. That's a pretty Super Tuesday, any way you slice it.

-- Weboy

Defending Your Life... And Theirs

Well, things seem to be shaking out okay on the adserving front, so I'm starting to calm down.  And maybe I can even get to one or two of the things I was meaning to take up.

So, first off, over the weekend I caught this post by Jeralyn Merritt over at Talk Left, talking about Mickey Sherman's new book, How Can You Defend Those People? I hadn't realized that Merritt is a well known attorney who defended Timothy McVeigh, and her own decisions about who to defend thus become an interesting part of the overall discussion.

Merritt talks about Sherman's interviews with various lawyers, asking them where they would "draw the line" in defending bad characters - child molesters, bombers, mass murderers... these are the sorts of responses that come out. 

The reason I mention this, though, is because my mom's reaction was strong, and reminded me why I'm glad I get her insights.  She pointed out that in fact one shouldn't draw lines.  Everyone is entitled to a defense. It's not for us to judge who should and shouldn't get one.  She reminded me of debates she had with her students - back when she was teaching professional ethics in healthcare - where they wanted to pick and choose "good" clients from "bad" ones (it's why many of them wanted to wind up working with children... less moral qualms). 

Obviously, there's a difference between medical and rehabilitative treatment and legal services.  But still; I'm reminded of how Alan Dershowitz can suggest that he'd defend Hitler if the alternative was no one. That's what it is, I think, to believe in the law, and to believe in the rights of all people, however monstrous. It's an interesting question (and here, already I've managed to invoke Godwin's Law), a reminder of our humanity. I wouldn't want to be the one, necessarily, defending Timothy McVeigh either.  But if you have, I'd wonder why then decide you can't defend someone... for something.

But When Anything I Wear Doesn't Please Steven, I Take It Off

I've been writing too much politics.

Via James Wolcott - a fan as much as I, I can tell - is this impressive reconsideration of Joan Crawford, framed around her 100th birthday, though as the Siren notes, it's probably a good 3 years past 100 for Joan.

I'd like to add my thoughts, but to do so, I need to quote the Siren:

Anyway, this renewed interest is good news for those of us who love Joan, who find great pleasure in her movies and don't want to hear about the goddamn wire hangers anymore. The Siren believes the book [Mommie Dearest] alone probably wouldn't have permanently altered Crawford's image to the extent that it has. It was the movie, with Faye Dunaway playing Crawford as a cross between Maleficent and Gregory Peck in The Boys From Brazil, that really did the extensive damage. Thank god nobody ever filmed the atrocious My Mother's Keeper or we'd have to go through the same routine every time we wanted to talk about Jezebel.

I tend to agree; those of us who admire Crawford's work, I think, always tend to do it the way she did - defending her as if she never got a fair shake.  That interpretation itself, I think, isn't entirely fair; it's arguing from a defensive crouch, as if Dunaway's mad, out of bounds performance should be the starting point and not, as it is, the outlier. If you love old movies, after a while, it grows wearying to see gay boys and drag queens trot out the familiar lines about wire hangers, the mile wide shoulders, all the falderal. There was a real woman there, a striking looking one, who turned herself into an actress of surprising skill. It's a shame to let it fall into arch camp - as if that was all there was.

As the Joan Crawford Encyclopedia points out, the idea that she played a lot of shopgirls in the 1930s isn't borne out by her filmography. In fact, during the decade she only played three. It's probably more accurate to say, as one British critic did, that she was the shopgirl's delight. Her ascent to the upper classes, or her presence there from the movie's beginning, is sweet revenge if you're trying to alter your own lot in life. And lord knows there were plenty of people desperate to do that in the 1930s.

Also true; though I think it also goes to, as the Siren notes, the fact that her acting, wasn't Method, but was: she did best playing women who were trying to improve themselves, remake themselves; and even in contexts where it wasn't precisely a "shopgirl" role, that dynamic plays itself out.  But certainly, it was the way she was relatable and identifiable to her fan base that drove her success.

Now, on to my favorite topic - The Women.

Beautiful Boys, Unreliable Narrators

In some ways, we are the own unreliable narrators of our lives.  We rarely see ourselves as others see us, stories that seem one way when you are in them can look much different from outside. In the current vogue for memoir, it’s become clear that memory is, in some ways, a liar.  And probably a thief.

At work, Starbucks has selected Beautiful Boy as the book we will feature in the store this Spring (we had copies of The Kite Runner this fall, and Listening is an Act of Love for Christmas).  Beautiful Boy is a memoir by David Sheff about his struggles with the Crystal Meth addiction of his son, Nic. When we received an early copy to pass around, I snapped it up, reading it, very quickly, in about 5 days.

Beautiful Boy is a fascinating, frustrating book, selected, no doubt, both for the quality of its writing and the timeliness (perhaps even timelessness) of its topic. Though I wanted very much to like it, in the end I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it – there are other, better books that cover the ground it covers, and in the end, what’s frustrating about the book is that David Sheff is, indeed, an unreliable narrator of his life.  Much is missing in Beautiful Boy, and it’s a shame.

Separating Dessert Topping From Floor Wax... and The Men From The Boys.

First off, sorry for the light (i.e. nonexistent) posting - long day, long story, long nap. Blogging in earnest will resume tomorrow.

However, I do have a couple of small items - well, not necessarily small in stature, just small in length.

Let's start with Jonah Goldberg. No, really.  I've been following the travails of Liberal Fascism for a while, still refusing to read the book.  I can now fall back, comfortably, on my old retort that I tend to avoid items on the New York Times bestseller list - where Liberal Fascism is now #1.

That perhaps shocking (though "relentless sales job" comes to mind) turn of events is supposed, in a Goldbergian view, prove the book's worth, where success (again "relentless sales job") serves as the most recent substitute for actual seriousness. Every couple of days, I stop by Jonah's blog on the book, hoping a) it will finally be interesting and b) provide some of the more amusing snark I've come to appreciate the guy for... sadly, no.

However, today I caught sight of a series of complaining posts about a review by Michael Tomasky, which led me to Tomasky's multi-page takedown of the book.  As I consider Tomasky a genius (since before moving to New York, when he was at The Village Voice, muckraking the Giuliani years), I had high hopes going in... and they were amply met: the review is one of the most solid critiques yet:

However much or little Goldberg knows about fascism, he knows next to nothing about liberalism. Anybody familiar with Liberalism 101 grasps that there is something deep within liberalism, from its earliest beginnings, that prevents it from degenerating into fascism, and that is its explicit recognition that the state must serve both common purposes and individual liberty. Liberal theorists from John Locke to Cass Sunstein, with hundreds in between, have addressed this point. It is absolutely central to liberal theory and liberal practice. We do believe in such a thing as the common good, yes we do. We want more of it, and we want a democratic leader who will summon us to believe in it, who will locate for us the intersection of self-interest and common interest at which citizens can be persuaded to participate, together, collectively, in a project larger than their own success. But where that collective urge crosses the line into coercion, well, that is where liberals--I mean liberals who know something about liberalism--get off the train, and do their noncoercive best to derail it.

The Seriously, Er, Serious Post About Jonah Goldberg

Over the holiday, the launch effort for Jonah Goldberg's new book switched into something approximating high gear; I say "approximating" because the energy around promoting Liberal Fascism appears mainly to come from Goldberg and his Mother, the estimable - or perhaps, estimatable - Lucianne. Book reviews have started to trickle in (pour seems unlikely - the book is long and its audience is narrow), a mixed bag that split largely along predictable party lines, with conservatives hailing the latest addition to a groaning bookshelf of highly similar indictments of liberalism, while liberals dismiss it as at best one sided and at worst, largely unrealistic. Heck, I think both sides are right. It's a weighty addition of unrealistic one sidedness. I'd ignore the book entirely - I still debate whether or not to read it, if only to make my understanding of the man more complete - but I'm sort of fascinated... not with Goldberg's bid to be a successful author (it may work, but I doubt it), but with the grasping attempt to add a layer of "seriousness" to his endeavors, to be the Thinking Man's Polemicist. As I've said, I think Goldberg and seriousness in a sentence is highly humorous.

Like Fox News and its "Fair and Balanced" sloganeering, Goldberg doth protest too much: actual seriousness and deep thought do not require the endless defenses Goldberg musters to make his case for being an author to take seriously.  The argument, really, should make itself in a well researched, well thought out tome.  Liberal Fascism, it seems clear, isn't that book.  But Lord, how Goldberg wants it to be - or at least to be seen that way.

The Goldberg Variation

So many people have already started making fun of it... but I have to join in: Jonah Goldberg's atrocious-seeming new book offers this howler on its dust jacket:

The quintessential liberal fascist isn’t an SS storm trooper; it is a female grade-school teacher with an education degree from Brown or Swarthmore.

What the internet has taught us so far: Swarthmore doesn't offer a degree in education; Brown hasn't either, since 1929 (there's a graduate program... but it's not an education degree).

Which is to say, as someone points out over at Cogitamus, that Goldberg's "quintessential liberal fascist" doesn't exist.

Goldberg - a/k/a son of Lucianne - has enough publishing savvy (his Mom, after all, came to prominence during the Clinton scandals as the book agent for Linda Tripp, among others) to know that you need a hook to sell a book, and his has been that unlike other right wing screeds - or indeed, his own snarky column style - his book is a "serious, thoughtful" examination of the topic of fascism in history and how modern liberalism is its natural inheritor.

Perhaps he'd have a better understanding of "serious" and "thoughtful" if he'd been taught by one of those Swarthmore gals... but of course, she doesn't exist.

Don't get me wrong - I actually like Goldberg, even though he's intellectually a bit of a lightweight and his conservatism grates.  I am always supportive of the folks, like me, with serious geekery going on - Goldberg's teenboy love of sci-fi (he's a Trekkie and a serious Battlestar Galactica fan) and The Simpsons means he can't be all bad, and we are about the same age, both hung out in Towson, Maryland in our teen years (Goldberg went to Goucher College, which few Towsonites take seriously) and similar Mama's boys. Which is why I find the run-up to the release of Goldberg's - sure to be bad - book hilarious.  I mean, if you're going for the intellectually serious pose (which is hard enough for a Goucher grad)... at least try to keep a straight face.

Joltin' Joe

Normally, I tend to watch Ann Coulter sort of out of the corner of one eye, if only because, as any New Yorker knows, you have to keep an eye on the crazy lady, without getting their attention (and I know I'm way too small to matter in the world of Coulter... thank Goddess).

Still, Coulter's column this week, in which she yet again trots out a tired argument from Treason (that's three crazy books ago, for any of you keeping score on the home game), deserves some special recognition.

Treason, you may recall - okay, you don't, so I'll tell you anyway - included a spirited, if largely misbegotten, defense of Joseph McCarthy that showed both the woman's moxie and her weaknesses in full glare: when much of the right has given up on defending McCarthy, it ought to say something; and if someone's going to save him, they need way more intellectual rigor than Coulter brings to the proceedings.

And according to Coulter, now someone has.