Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

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Oblermann, At Length

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I love words.

I was notorious as a child for needing something to read at any idle moment. Eating breakfast? Better hope that cereal box has lots of copy on it. Long car ride? Multiple paperbacks required, just to be safe.

The internet has taken the edge of my constant need to consume the written word, but I sometimes get intellectual heartburn from all the junk food of message boards and user comments I devour to keep my gears spinning. Even worse than the junk are insubstantial articles – 500 and 1,000 word affairs that get me all spun up and then just stop.

I vastly prefer, and eternally adore, longform journalistic writing, especially in the form of media critique. It’s a style of writing I love to consume, and the style I enjoy writing the most. You can trace my appreciation back to being hooked on the reviews at Furia.com in the nineties, and more recently in Jacob Clifton’s poetic, academic, polemic recaps of Battlestar Galactica.

Last weekend the piece that caught my extended attention was from the New Yorker – a complete recounting of the personal history and personal psyche of Keith Oblermann.

Based on the sheer word count that has been devoted to Oblermann recently, I’m assuming you know who he is. You have to remember, I don’t consume these people on television – just through their print coverage and occasional video clips – so I commensurately don’t understand how famous they are to actual teevee viewers. However, even from my detached vantage point Keith Oblermann’s name and face seem to have reached zeitgeist levels of recognition.

I used to enjoy Keith’s critical essays on MSNBC dot com long before I knew he was an on-air personality because he didn’t do the typical journalistic dance of balance when someone was clearly in the moral right or wrong. He just spoke the truth, which sometimes meant speaking out against his topic of discussion. Yet, he wasn’t an op-ed writer – he was just a reporter. He just reported the truth.

Given the recent backlash against him, it seems that Keith (or, at least, his public persona) has undergone a translation from truth-speaking broadcaster to liberal figure(talking)head, held in apposition to make-pretend journalists like Bill O’Reilly.

The difference, I think, is that Keith has aggressively shifted the focus of his considerably audible and influential voice away from the morally black and white and into the politically gray. He’s still engaged in a mainly journalistic pursuit, rather than an opinionated one.

As discussed in the feature-article, Keith recently punctuated a special commentary by commanding our commander-in-chief to “Shut the hell up!” Of course, most of Bush’s words and actions seem more morally black than politically gray to any rational human being, but it is a bit beyond the pale to viciously criticize a sitting president from your anchor chair.

However, Keith has also turned his focus into the Democratic fray to slam Hillary Clinton for invoking the assassination of RFK when discussing why the nominating process might (and, per her, should) continue through the summer. Unlike Bush, this is clearly a gray area, or at least gray enough that a nine-minute retort seems a little overboard … possibly the vented hot air of a gasbag.

As the hot air continues to vent, and as the dissenters continue to get in line, the picture of the New Oblermann becomes increasingly crisp. He is not just liberal Bill O’Reilly, or liberal anyone else, because he’s not simply espousing liberalism. He’s espousing truth and logic, much in the same way Jon Stewart does, except he does not have the shield of “Fake News” to hide behind. And, sometimes to highlight the illogical he needs to rachet up his own rhetoric to full blast to make sure there is no mistaking his commentary for equivocation.

Sometimes Keith Oblermann needs to be illogical to attach the illogic.

A commitment to truth and logic in real news is a scary thing – something many Americans haven’t experienced in their lifetime, and certainly not anything they’ll catch on their local six o’clock news. Keith is treading into untested waters with his brand of journalistic critique. And, even if it’s all just hot air, right now you can hear the bones of the rest of the mainstream media establishment creaking in the wind.

Or at least that’s what it seems like from my teevee-abstaining, mainstream-media-eschewing vantage point.

Best Political Quote…. Ever?

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[The current Republican Party is] a dead, rotting carcass with a few decrepit old leaders stumbling around like zombies in a horror version of Weekend at Bernie’s, handcuffed to a corpse.

Attribution? Improbably, longtime GOPer Larry Hunter, as quoted by The New Republic. Via Salon.

I literally rolled around on the floor in convulsions of laughter the first time I saw Weekend At Bernie’s, but the morbid schtick didn’t hold up as well to repeat views as, say, Clue.

In a related incident, I garnered a Bernie’s reference this weekend during my decisive win of a limbo tournament, made all the more impressive by the fact that I was competing against at least two people less than five feet tall.

Also, IIRC, my unbeaten streak in seriously competitive limbo extends back to at least 1999.

Ontologically related to the above: the movie poster for Oliver Stone’s impending W is so great that I may have to hang it in my home office:

After these messages…

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Today I woke up early so I could go to work early so I could get stuff done early so I could go to a press check and, ultimately, leave early.

After said early departure I engaged in a four-mile marathon walk past and through every hip men’s clothing shop in the entirety of center city Philadelphia, in search of my Lyndzapalooza outfit.

This is a time-honored tradition stretching back to 2003, when I wore my brand new orange sneakers to the first event and got them hopelessly dingy climbing up and down from our stage AKA neighbor’s elevated backyard.

Anywho, the trek, it was long. Every store is selling the same ugly men’s clothing right now, except for Diesel, which is selling fucking uglier men’s clothing. What I really wanted was a Flash t-shirt … well, no, what I really wanted was a Cheetara shirt and a Wonder Woman shirt, but in the midst of writing like 20k unique words over the past month I forgot to order them, which initiated this whole sad hunt. Eventually I found what could be my new favorite piece of clothing (only, mine is green).

Late in the game I dragged my ass the length of South Street, now quite sweating underneath my favorite suit, and increasingly parched. I bypassed mucho de Starbucks to hit one of my few favorite indie coffee shops, Java Company, on 4th and South.

As I ordered my iced soy chai latte (one of my few truly yuppie vices) I overhead a conversation:

“Rip Torn?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he was in Clue

And, now, make sure you are picturing this correctly. I am at my most corporate, in my best suit, and also sweating to death and in running shoes trailing shopping bags, and I whip my head around and say the following:

“Um, are you talking about Clue, the movie? Because Rip Torn is not in Clue. Clue starred Martin Mull as Colonel Mustard, Christopher Lloyd as Professor Plum, Michael McKean as Mr. Green, Leslie Ann Warren as Ms. Scarlet, Madeline Kahn as Mrs. White, Eileen Brennan as Ms. Peacock, Colleen Camp as Yvette, and Lee Ving as Mr. Body.”

(Actually, it took me one or two tries to get it all out in a string, because I was getting the McKean’s name tangled, and also because I kept getting distracted by 20 ounces of iced chai latte sitting in front of me, but that was the gist of it.)

Absolutely dumbfounded at my sudden outburst, one of the men from the original conversation replied.

“And Tim Curry.”

“Yes,” I acknowledged, exasperated that he even felt the need to point this out, “and featuring Tim Curry, also as Mr. Body.”

At this point the entire coffee shop, and some children outside, are all staring at me.

“It’s my favorite movie.”

The men stared back at me, their dumbfounded faces slowly melting into a wash of pity and revulsion in reaction to my savant-like obsession with the film.

“Um, yeah. Funny how it’s a movie, but it’s a board game.”

“Yeah, my brother loved that board game. We watched it, like, a dozen times.”

“I’m going to go in the back and look it up on IMDB. I think Rip Torn was in it.”

“Yeah, I think he was.”

I turned, finally, to retrieve my drink, and received a conspiratorial wink from my barista.

“I love that movie. I thought it was so funny when I was a kid, and now when I see it I catch all these different jokes.”

Sensing she was on my side I chose not to delve into a treatise on the obliquely scatological and intensely political humor of the film.

“Yeah, it’s actually pretty subversive.”

Now completely dehydrated and about to crumble into a dusty mix of my constituent non-H20 molecules, I paid for my drink and left.

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And that is why it is after 1 a.m. and my heart is beating about as fast as a hamster’s.

Sound and Vision

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On Friday night I attended the New Artists opening at Muse Gallery, a third of which was the art of one my increasingly close friends, Jennifer Vessels.

I was one of the first guests to arrive, and I got to experience the art of all three of the new members in a nearly empty room to the hypnotic sound of Dante on his hang drum. I had seen some of Jennifer’s work before, but smaller, and as prints – never up close, original, and with all of the beautiful texture that each of her collagraphs contain.

Each piece was labeled with title and price, and though I understand that the intent of the show is not necessarily to sell the pieces, the concept of selling a piece of physical artwork is so strange to me. I could sell one of my songs, but I would always be able to play it. Elise could sell a photograph, but it would just be a print – a single version of an original negative.

I marveled at that, lost in the detail of her lines and colors on a second walk through the gallery. How to be Jennifer, so entangled in music and light that she can contain them both on a canvas, yet able to part with a piece, never to see its texture again.

Ladies of Oscar

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These actually happened to be the top two movies on our queue prior to the Oscars, and we got one on each side of the ceremony.

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Best Supporting Actress Tilda Swinton in Michael Clayton – One of my favorite actors, but she barely notches enough screen time for her billing, let alone for an award. And that doesn’t even take into account her lackluster performance. Her accent slips in multiple places, she has no good dialog save for her big scene with Clooney, and there she barely holds her own.

(Meanwhile, Clooney chose not to get into character whatsoever, leaving the whole affair with the air of a double-feature episode of Law and Order. The in medias res fails utterly because nothing interesting happens between the tease and the fulfillment.)

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Best Actress Marion Cotillard in La Vie En Rose – One of the most notable performances I’ve seen this decade, and certainly in line with the strength of Helen Mirren’s win last year for The Queen. I know it’s easy to be impressive when you’re aping a real live person, but Cotillard goes beyond tricks of impersonation we’ve seen in other recent biopics to portray the actual heart of her character – without doing any of the singing.

(That she maintains that heart through an utterly bewildering series of narrative shifts in an overall average film is even more impressive. It would have been embarrassing if she didn’t win.)

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That all said, they gave two of my favorite acceptance speeches of all time. I’ll let you decide which film we saw prior and which we saw post.

My report on Oscar’s best men coming never, because I don’t have a hair on my body that wants to watch either of those movies, even if I like one out of their three directors.

(ps, In case you need to fine tune to understand our taste, the next movie we received was Ratatouille, which is surely one of the most disappointing movies I’ve ever seen, especially after watching The Incredibles two or three times in the last week.)