June 16, 2005
Back away from your copy of Finnegan's Wake, Sheila. Slowly. Go very, very slowly.
Go on over and just keep scrolling
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Mazeltov, Margi and Koolaid!
WooT!
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11:03 AM
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Just try getting gool ol' Marky Mark out of your head now, sucka!
{Insert evil chuckle here.}
Anyway, it's time for the Carnival of the Babewits. Go read. And the next time someone asks you, "jeez, where are all the women in the blogosphere?" just send them over to Mark's place.
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Now for the observation.
Ahem.
Terri's autopsy report came out today. Terri's battle really brought out some of the worst behavior I've ever seen in the blogosphere. If Rathergate was the high point, this was most definitely the low. Perhaps it was simply meant to be that way, to show us the glaring failures of this new medium we're so very fond of proclaiming is the new information revolution. I don't know. I don't read entrails for a living, so I couldn't tell you for certain: this is just my gut feeling. Anyway, a lot of people made hay on this issue. Serious amounts of hay. Enough to feed all the livestock for a very long winter. But, and here's where the observation comes in, very few seem to be chiming in now that the autopsy report is in. Perhaps this is because the actual science of the report goes against what they were proclaiming to be the truth to her condition back when she was alive.
I know whom I'm looking for to chime in on this one, and they haven't. They've been silent all day long about it. I'm not going to name them, because they're very middle of the road bloggers. Not freepers. Not moonbats. They don't deserve the ignominy of being called out for this one. I felt that perhaps they were a wee bit overwrought about the entire deal. Say whatever you will about the entire situation, but you cannot deny that Terri brought out people's passion. And it brought it out in both beautiful and incredibly ugly ways. It was personal for these bloggers and that passion, perhaps, sometimes, I thought, got the better of their usually calm, reasoned rhetoric.
A friend of mine likes to remind me that this is a very new medium and that we'll never really replace the mainstream media, or even really make all that big of a dent in it, because bloggers, as a whole, aren't really held accountable. A reporter is held accountable to an editor, who is held accountable to the publisher, who is held accountable by the paying public. We're just spouting off here and are accountable, in only a very limited sense, to our readers and our blogging compadres. But since we can delete our blogs with the click of the mouse, and we'll never really face any real-life consequences if we've spouted off about this, that or the other, unless we're blogging at work and have been fired for it. That's about it. In other words, we really don't have an obligation to say "we were wrong" if we should be proven to be wrong. Audiences, as anyone who's been doing this for a while can tell you, come and go. You may be someone's favorite one week, and they might lose interest the next. Publish something your reader disagrees with and the beauty of the blogosphere dictates that there's probably someone out there who's said exactly what they want to hear, and has done it even better than the blogger they just abandoned. That's fine. As far as I'm concerned, readers are allowed to do that. What I do wonder about is this, though: there are plenty of blogs, this being one of them, who proclaimed the information revolution was well on its way when Dan Rather resigned because of the ball that started rolling in the blogosphere. Some of these very same blogs made some specious claims about Terri Schiavo. And today they've been proven wrong. Will they feel the obligation to say they were wrong?
And if they don't, what happens to the information revolution?
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12:19 AM
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June 14, 2005
Except...
When someone tries to use me. Then I have to draw the damn line, because homey just don't play that. For those of you who are wondering what I'm going on about this time, well, it's this: I am getting exceedingly tired of bloggers who perhaps don't have a huge audience---and would like to gain one---tracking back to a post I've written on a similar subject WITHOUT LINKING ME. They're doing this to gain hits. To gain notoriety. I know that's the reason they're doing it, but it's---and I'm going to shout this so they get it the first fucking time---TACKY IN THE EXTREME. Your trackback will get deleted. Trust me on this one. Get your own damn audience, or at least get some balls and send me a promo email. If you want me to get angry, like I just did, try and sneak around me, assuming I won't care. Because, let me tell you kids, that's a surefire way to bring the heavens down upon you. But, really, if you want me to promote one of your posts, send me an email that goes something like this:
Hi Kathy,I'm a fan of the Cake Eater Chronicles and I just wrote a post that dovetails nicely with one you wrote about such and such subject. Here's the link if you're interested in reading it.
Thanks for your time,
So and so blogger
Now, that wasn't so hard, was it? I may link you. I may not. You'll never know unless you try.
And just a super sekrit message to the dude who inspired this post: if you'd sent me an email, I would have linked to you. It was a good post. But now I won't because you tried to horn in on my blog and my traffic without giving me anything in return. It's pretty fucking simple. Blogging is, at best, a quid pro quo excursion. If you're not going to give, neither am I. Take your parasitic behavior and go elsewhere.
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03:36 PM
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I am not, however, obsessed with all things Apple. I think people who buy those things are probably pretty nice, but are misguided and really should be shown the light.
I am also---as you, my devoted Cake Eater readers, already know---a wee bit obsessed with all things Stewie. And as the laptop is named "wee bastard" I've always had Stewie wallpaper. It just fits. But recently the husband, who is never on my computer, has tired of the old Stewie wallpaper. So he went out and found me a new one.
Well, lookie at the new wallpaper the husband found for my computer.
I just had to share.
Heh.
UPDATE: Jonathan emails and tells me Ipods annoy him, despite his adoration of all things Apple. He apparently doesn't know why.
Hmmmm. Could it be that cult membership only goes so far? Perhaps there's hope for these people yet!
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03:18 PM
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Now, if you were to ask this question of the husband (which I did: he's my polling sample) he would tell you a. every beach should be topless (And yes, just to confirm any leaps of the imagination you might have made with that little bit of disclosure, yes, the French Riviera is one of his dream vacation destinations.) and b. just say no to the "grape smuggler"-type swimsuits, aka speedos. You see, in his mind, a woman's body is a beautiful thing. He's not going to mind one bit if a woman has a few extra pounds on her---as long as she's topless. Naked breasts distract from any imperfections apparently. For a man's body, well, according to the husband, said man shouldn't wear one of those itty bitty speedos unless he's got the body to pull it off, and even then it's a flip of the coin as to whether the man really should be wearing the thing. What I find ironic is that if he ever were to make to the French Riviera, he'd find a lot of speedos mixed in with all of the topless women, because I believe that's one of the places in Europe where hygiene requirements dictate that men have to wear such a swimsuit.
As for what I think, well, I think as long as you're comfortable in your swimsuit and it doesn't keep riding up your butt (hence forcing you to keep digging for gold...in PUBLIC), you can wear what you'd like. Even if it's a Speedo. Because, really, there are some men who can get away with wearing speedos. (Michael Phelps comes to mind. Hottie McHotHot! Rowr.) It's all about being comfortable with your body: if you're comfortable with your body, well, that feeling of confidence that you give off has a way of hiding cellulite and stretch marks. It's a magic little thing.
A couple of years ago, back when we could afford such a thing, the husband and I were members of what would be thrown into the city club designation for places where you spend an obscene amount of money playing the meet and greet game. It was the same deal as a country club, only without the golf course. There was a health club instead. It was a pretty swank club and we enjoyed our membership there not only because was it the best people watching opportunity in town, but also because there was a rooftop pool replete with BAR SERVICE! There's really nothing quite so nice on a hot summer afternoon than having a very cute, very nice, young waiter deliver you a refreshing, cold glass of Chardonnay as you read the latest edition of The Economist whilst sunning yourself poolside. That's living, let me tell you.
Ahem.
Anyway when I first went to the pool, of course, I was a wee bit nervous about how I looked in my swimsuit. Now, I'm not a bikini girl. I haven't owned one since I was about five-years-old (It was green with cute little fishies on it) because I thought (and still think) they were too revealing for me, so I've pretty much been a maillot girl ever since. If you don't know what these are, well, know that it's got a low-ish back on it, it covers my rear-end, and it shows what I would consider to be a reasonable amount of cleavage. Nothing too fancy, in other words. It's also functional and as such it makes me feel comfortable. But this was the club--- with rich bitches who spend every waking moment on the elipticals in the health club. I was nervous that I was going to be the only one with cellulite poking out. The husband told me I looked fine and then shoved me out the door.
As it turns out, the husband was (once again) right. I needn't have worried. It became quite obvious that the world, and the people in it, really aren't airbrushed. (It'd been a while since I'd gone to a pool. My expectations for embarrassment were high.) There were women there, well over the age of forty, standing around, chatting with friends, who were dressed in skimpy bikinis and they looked fabulous---despite the fact you could divine how many kids they'd had just by counting the stretch marks on their tummies. They didn't care. Neither did they care if there were a few dimples on their thighs and butts. They just didn't give a rat's ass. Why? Because they were comfortable with their bodies.
These women were a sharp contrast to the young woman who always sat devotedly next to her asshole boyfriend at the edge of the pool. (He stole my waiter once by waving a fifty dollar bill in midair, at a club where everything was done by tab, hence he was forever shut into the asshole category as a result.) Now the boyfriend was the type who thought it necessary to wear his diamond-encrusted Texas Timex to the pool (along with a few guido chains around his neck) and was more interested in showing off how much money he had than actually having a good time. Well, let me amend that: showing off how much money he had was his idea of a good time. His girlfriend, who I'm very sure was not used to going to clubs of this nature, was an interesting people-watching specimen. I will admit, she fascinated me because she was, well---how do I put this?---incongrous? Yeah, that works. Her attitude didn't match what she looked like. That's why I found her interesting to observe.
She was tall, thin, and was a bottle blonde. Every time she took a swim, she never dipped her head under the water, because it would wreck the full war paint she had going on, to say nothing of her perfectly arranged hair. Now, this woman had what a lot of men would consider to be the perfect, early 21st Century body. And by that I mean she could have body-doubled for J.Lo. I would swear on a mile-high stack that she'd had gone for the ass implants. Her butt was completely, perfectly, round, like you'd cut a softball in half and had slid each half under either cheek. These implants, of course, matched the ones on her chest, which were just right. Not too large, but not too small, either. Her stomach was flat, her thighs were slim, her toes were professionally tended to, as were her hands. She had the perfect body that only the best plastic surgeons could provide and yet, surprisingly enough, after all that, she wasn't comfortable with herself. Her boyfriend apparently thought all of his money needed to be displayed appropriately, hence she was always in a bikini. She was perfectly tanned and was quite pretty naturally. But she wasn't comfortable with herself. Her arms were always crossed over her chest. She wore a towel around her waist as much as she possibly could. She always looked as if she was trying to hide, always looking down and trying to be invisible, so that the teacher wouldn't call on her. The older, bikini wearing women, who were busy chatting with their friends while they tried to keep their kids from kamikazi-ing off the side of the pool and killing themselves in the process, intimidated this girl. And it was there to see by anyone who'd bothered to look.
Hence, this is why I say, wear what you want to the pool or the beach: if you're comfortable in it, who cares what anyone else has to say about it? You could have the best body money could buy and still not be comfortable with it. So, why bother worrying (and spending thousands of dollars fixing it) about it? You'll save time and money that way. And, as the husband always claims, confidence is the sexiest thing a woman can wear. Don't worry so much about how it fits.
Now, run along and see what the other fabulous demystifying divas have to say on the subject. Also, please go over and say "hi" to Divaesque Lady Kate, who is also contributing to our vast knowledge on this subject this week. Also, make sure to check out what the boys have to say on the topic. The Wiz is taking a bye week, so he won't have anything to say, but make sure to read what Phin, Stiggy and The Foreign Minister have contributed.
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12:07 PM
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- "This proves that justice can prevail in America," said Tara Bardella, 19, who came from Arizona two weeks ago to wait for the verdicts. "We love you, Michael!"
- "I'm shaking," said Emily Smith, 24, of London, who was among the few lucky fans who got courtroom passes. "I believe justice has been done today."
- Lifelong fan Raffles Vanexel, 29, of Amsterdam, said he "cried like a little baby" when the verdicts were read.
"I feel like I was reborn," said Vanexel, who claimed he helped lift Jackson onto an SUV for his notorious rooftop dance after his arraignment. "The best is yet to come for Michael. This time around, the world owes him something."
- Martin Stock, the founder of a Jackson fan club in Germany who stayed up past 11 p.m. to watch the outcome, said he was overjoyed, even though he had expected his idol's acquittal.
"The whole trial was laughable and Michael was treated inhumanely. I think people were trying to throw him into prison to get at his money," Stock said.
I just have one question for these so-called fans: would you leave your kid alone with this man?
If so, you deserve to have your reproductive rights cancelled. You're not intelligent enough to bring a child into this world.
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June 12, 2005
Kuwait appointed a woman to its cabinet for the first time in its history on Sunday, marking another victory for women's rights activists just a month after they won the right to suffrage.Prime Minister Sheik Sabah al-Ahmed al-Sabah appointed Massouma al-Mubarak as minister of planning and as minister of state for administrative development affairs, Kuwait's state news agency, KUNA, reported Sunday.
Ms. Mubarak, 54, a political science professor at Kuwait University, has been a leading advocate for women's rights in the country. {...}
Hurrah!
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11:08 PM
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{Hat Tip: Doug}
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Pfft. Whatever.
Dude, I just live here. The minute I win the Powerball I am so outta here.
Seriously. Don't vote for Minnesota's quarter. It's lame and this, despite Downtown Minneapolis being loaded with goateed graphic designers, is the best they could come up with. And then they argued for months about not being able to tell whether that's a loon or a duck in the foreground. It's a loon. Or maybe it's a duck. Who the fuck knows? It's pathetic. Colorado's is better.
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10:30 PM
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June 11, 2005
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I must admit, Yogi's always been one of my favorites, and what's funny is that I've always thought that he wasn't far off with some of these mistakes. There is great truth to some of them. For instance:
I think Little League is wonderful. It keeps the kids out of the house.
Yes, I know, it should be "it gets the kids out of the house," but, honestly, what frazzled mother could disagree with that?
Make sure to go on over and read. It's a good chuckle-inducer.
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10:37 AM
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June 10, 2005
Go over and keep on scrolling.
One rule that I would add to this post is that if a man is sick and keeps on whining about it, ignore them. If a man is sick and is quiet, get thy man some medical attention.
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Well, I was.
While I didn't really get along with my fellow staffers all that well, it was an interesting experience, laying out my own designs, writing the content and, of course, taking the photographs. Because you take a lot of photographs when you're on yearbook. Roll after roll of film. Which you then have to lovingly develop and create prints for. (This was the eighties kids, no digital pics here!) And all so you can capture the essence of a year in the life of the student body. Now yearbooks are great when you're in school. You run around and have everyone and sundry sign them. Soon thereafter, however, they wind up packed away in a box, gathering dust and will only be dragged out when the owner gets wistful for their youth and has cracked open a bottle of Jose Cuervo, to help them remember only the good stuff associated with high school, and to help the bad stuff slide away into the ether.
The funny thing about being on yearbook is that you have extra junk to remember your days in high school: plastic sheet after plastic sheet of negatives. Photos that you took that have wound up in your possession because the yearbook advisor threatened you with death if you left them sitting in the lab. Because she sure as hell didn't want to have anything to do with them. And when you run across these, you hold them up to the light, you laugh and note the ones that made the cut, and then you notice all the photos that didn't make the cut.
Since Steve and Robbo have decided to take us for a trip down memory lane in recent days, I decided I'd share a few not-so-choice photos that have heretofore never seen the light of day. Because, you know, they were my pals in high school. Hence they made it into a lot of photos because they were easy that way.
I remember this one well. Like all good high school kids, they were rock star wannabes. Well, let me clarify: Steve-o was; Robbo had different ideas. Steve dragged him into it with the promise of updating some of Bach's greatest hits. Of course, Steve-o was lying but Robbo was more than a wee bit gullible at that stage so he went along with it. They never really did get around to modernizing The Goldberg Variations, hence Robbo was a wee bit miffed about the whole thing and was always and forever threatening to quit the band. Particularly after Steve-o decided it would be good for their rock and roll props to wear their bridles around school. Robbo was just mortified, but Steve? Well, Steve, of course, thought he was hot shit. Even though they were the most pathetic excuse for a band I've ever seen. I have no idea who the other two kids are---they were younger than us---but I remember that the kid directly to the left of Robbo, well, he was in a lot of other pics---he seemed to always jump into shots, like he was auditioning for a Calvin Klein gig---so my editor told me to can the photo.
Oh, God, poor Robbo. Sigh. I remember this all too clearly. Our senior year the drama department produced Fiddler on the Roof and Robbo, God Love Him, was cast as Tevye. I have two words to describe this HUGE blunder on the part of the drama department: pity casting.
Now, Robbo thought this was a pretty cool deal. He'd been involved in every musical and every play since he was a freshman, but he'd never played a lead, because, well, not to put too fine a point on it, he sucked. And I mean he blew. There's just no getting around how awful he was in actuality. Couldn't sing on key to save his life. But he was a good little trooper, always volunteering to paint sets, help with crewing duties even if he was already in the chorus...there was no job that was too small for Robbo to apply his meticulous attention to it. He loved all of it. So, when senior year rolled around, the musical was chosen, auditions were scheduled and Robbo was as jittery as a junebug---and of course had to make sure all of his friends were up to date on all of his conundrums. Which piece should he choose to audition with? Would it be too much, do you think, to have actual dance moves choreographed beforehand? Should I go down to the costume shop and get a fake beard? I mean, he went on and on and freakin' on until we all began to wonder if he was really lining himself up for membership in the Blogistan High Chapter of Future Homosexuals of America, instead of just auditioning for the school musical.
Well, Robbo, blew the audition. Of course. What's surprising is that he knew it, too. His hopes were completely dashed and he moped around until the cast list was posted outside the door to the school theater. Then what to his wondering eyes should appear? His name on the cast list. He'd bagged Tevye, along with two other guys. He fainted. Right there. Dropped like a stone. You really should have seen it: it was like every bone had been plucked out of his body and he simply fell down for lack of a skeletal system. You see, there had been so many other guys who were also seniors, who had been involved in the theater department (yeah, I know, that's unusual, but Blogistan High? Well, it was an unusual place.) and there simply weren't enough male parts to go around: so they had three Tevye's---one for each night the musical ran. Robbo got the Saturday night performance. Only because the drama teachers thought they could sneak him in.
That, of course, was the night my yearbook advisor scheduled me to go and take pictures of the production. This particular photo was taken before everything went horribly, horribly wrong. I mean, Christopher Guest wouldn't have even had to mock anything if he'd seen this play. He would have actually felt sorry for the cast and crew. Waiting for Guffman had nothing on Blogistan High's Saturday night performance of Fiddler on the Roof. Suffice it to say, this photo, three minutes into Tevye's opening bit of Tradition represents the high point of Robbo's theatrical career. This was before he set himself---and the whole backdrop---on fire with the candle he was carrying for the wedding scene. (Yep. Set himself on fire. I know. Pathetic, eh? He actually had to stop, drop and roll to put himself out.) This was before he almost ripped his hamstring in half during the Russian dancing scene after Tevye's arranged for Tzeitel's betrothal to Lazar Wolf. This was before...well, I think you get the gist. The whole thing was like a performance of Macbeth is always supposed to go: it was cursed from the get go.
Hence this photo never made it into the yearbook. My yearbook advisor had also helped out with the musical and wouldn't allow any photographs of Robbo to be included on the pages we'd allotted. Everyone else got their due, but he was strictly VERBOTEN. I remember him asking me when the yearbook came out why he wasn't included. I lied and told him it was because of space issues. He seemed to accept that answer, but I suppose we're all grown up now and he can take the truth.
Now, while Steve-o might have flirted with Rock-n-Roll Greatness, and Robbo had his love of the theater to keep him warm at night, it should be noted that if you ever really needed to find these dorks, you went to the computer lab. Where invariably you would find them hanging out with Bill.
Since computers were new-fangled doohickeys way back when, and the school was keen to promote that they actually had computers, my editor was all over me to go and take some pictures of the few people who actually hung out in the lab. This meant, one more time, being forced to resort to getting my pals to pose for pictures. I remember the conversation going something like this:
Steve-o: Make sure you're getting my good side. Are you getting my good side?
Kath: You have a good side? Hmmph. Who knew? What the heck do you guys do on these things anyway?
Robbo: Search for interesting things to do, of course!
Bill: Which, knowing you two, includes trying to find pictures of South American farm animals
Steve: You know what I want? I want software that will allow me to chop the heads off pictures and replace them with funnier stuff.
Robbo:: Can you really do that?
Bill: {Slaps Robbo Dismissively} No, you dork, you can't. It hasn't been invented yet.
Kath: Bill stop smacking Robbo. There's no violence allowed in the yearbook. Work with me here.
Steve {Wistful} One day they will invent it. I'm sure. And they'll invent a vast thing called the world wide web, and we'll all have these things called blogs, because we named them after the high school, and we'll be able to post anything we want, about any topic...
Bill: Shut up, bridle boy.
Kathy: Oh, for Chrissakes. Knock it off! Just shut up and let me take the damn picture. I need to get out of here; I can feel the geek rubbing off on me. I'm going to have to take a shower when I'm done as it is...
Phin: {Chimes in from other side of the lab} Want me to wash your back for you?
Bill, Robbo, Steve and Kathy: NO!
Sadie: Maybe I'll let you wash my back, Phin. If you're a really good fishie... {insert much batting of eyelashes here}
Phin: Ohboyohboyohboy!
Sadie:...IF Gordo will let me.
Gordo: Nope. Mine. ALL mine. Not sharing.
Phin: Awwwwwww...
Bill: Oh, God. Get me out of here and to Dee Cee!
Sadie: Oh, well. {Shrugs and goes back to what she was doing}
{Insert clicking of the shutter here}
Kathy: I'm outta here!
Sadly, this photo never made it into the yearbook. The editor decided they didn't have space for it at the last minute.
Ah, so there's a couple of choice photos and stories of our high school days. I've got more, sitting right here, waiting for me to go through them, so maybe I'll post some more, or maybe they'll just go back into the box for future use. Who knows?
I believe Madame Sadie and Gordo have taken their own trips down memory lane. Make sure you go and check them out.
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June 09, 2005
Just goes to show that what goes around, comes around.
{Snicker}
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02:25 PM
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- What the hell happened to Steve Miller? I'm a picker. I'm a grinner. I'm a lover and I'm a sinner... What a great song. Rivaled only by Jungle Love
- Lileks was not at the lake today. I looked. So don't be expecting screedy goodness about a trip to the beach in tomorrow's Bleat
- Well water is nasty.
- Joe Walsh's "Life's Been Good" came on the radio and Denis Leary came to mind:
I got two words for Don Henley: Joe Fuckin' Walsh
Denis is only rarely wrong about such things.
Whatever happened to Joe? I loved him because he had the most insane facial expressions whenever he played. He was the shit. I knew Don Henley was a poser at age seven. Warm smell of colitas my ass.
- I'm still liking that new Jack radio station. Some I'm sure would like to shoot me, but I can't freakin' afford an mp.3 player, so piss off.
- We have pooper scooper laws in this city for a REASON, people. Pick up your dog's doo so I don't look like I'm playing a game of hopscotch when I'm over there. It's embarrasing enough as it is. Besides, it gets into the WATER SUPPLY! If you live in SW Minneapolis, please learn that your water comes from these lakes. Fecal matter sliding into water is a BAD THING!
- If you happen to be one of the (very) few people I pass, please don't take it personally, speed up and then try and get around me, as if you're proving you're still running with the big dogs. Really, it's quite lame. I can guarantee you that plenty o' people pass me. You're one of millions, hence I take no notice, unless I have to pass you again and your shirt looks vaguely familiar.
- Sometimes it's quite cute when you parents let your little kids ride their bikes, replete with training wheels, around the lake, and on the walking path, no less. I can understand why you wouldn't want them on the bike path: they'd get mowed down by some random rollerblader. But please realize that when they clog up the path because they're too tired to move it along, it gets annoying for the rest of us. I thank you in advance for your kind consideration in not letting your kid do this anymore.
- My ass feels like it's getting smaller. I wonder if it actually is.
And there you have your (not so) regularly scheduled trip into my brain. Now, per usual, get the hell out!
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Would I lie to you?
What I would like to know is this: where are these people when I need to sell them a bridge? Hmmm. Come right on down. Quality architecture for sale, right here at the Cake Eater Lot!
UPDATE: Apparently, I provide inspiration.
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June 08, 2005
{...}The World Trade Center Memorial Cultural Complex will be an imposing edifice wedged in the place where the Twin Towers once stood. It will serve as the primary "gateway" to the underground area where the names of the lost are chiseled into concrete. The organizers of its principal tenant, the International Freedom Center (IFC), have stated that they intend to take us on "a journey through the history of freedom"--but do not be fooled into thinking that their idea of freedom is the same as that of those Marines. To the IFC's organizers, it is not only history's triumphs that illuminate, but also its failures. The public will have come to see 9/11 but will be given a high-tech, multimedia tutorial about man's inhumanity to man, from Native American genocide to the lynchings and cross-burnings of the Jim Crow South, from the Third Reich's Final Solution to the Soviet gulags and beyond. This is a history all should know and learn, but dispensing it over the ashes of Ground Zero is like creating a Museum of Tolerance over the sunken graves of the USS Arizona.The public will be confused at first, and then feel hoodwinked and betrayed. Where, they will ask, do we go to see the September 11 Memorial? The World Trade Center Memorial Foundation will have erected a building whose only connection to September 11 is a strained, intellectual one. While the IFC is getting 300,000 square feet of space to teach us how to think about liberty, the actual Memorial Center on the opposite corner of the site will get a meager 50,000 square feet to exhibit its 9/11 artifacts, all out of sight and underground. Most of the cherished objects which were salvaged from Ground Zero in those first traumatic months will never return to the site. There is simply no room. But the International Freedom Center will have ample space to present us with exhibits about Chinese dissidents and Chilean refugees. These are important subjects, but for somewhere--anywhere--else, not the site of the worst attack on American soil in the history of the republic.{...}
Wait for it.
{...}In fact, the IFC's list of those who are shaping or influencing the content and programming for their Ground Zero exhibit includes a Who's Who of the human rights, Guantanamo-obsessed world:• Michael Posner, executive director at Human Rights First who is leading the worldwide "Stop Torture Now" campaign focused entirely on the U.S. military. He has stated that Mr. Rumsfeld's refusal to resign in the wake of the Abu Ghraib scandal is "irresponsible and dishonorable."
• Anthony Romero, executive director of the ACLU, who is pushing IFC organizers for exhibits that showcase how civil liberties in this country have been curtailed since September 11.
• Eric Foner, radical-left history professor at Columbia University who, even as the bodies were being pulled out of a smoldering Ground Zero, wrote, "I'm not sure which is more frightening: the horror that engulfed New York City or the apocalyptic rhetoric emanating daily from the White House." This is the same man who participated in a "teach-in" at Columbia to protest the Iraq war, during which a colleague exhorted students with, "The only true heroes are those who find ways to defeat the U.S. military," and called for "a million Mogadishus." The IFC website has posted Mr. Foner's statement warning that future discussions should not be "overwhelmed" by the IFC's location at the World Trade Center site itself.
• George Soros, billionaire founder of Open Society Institute, the nonprofit foundation that helps fund Human Rights First and is an early contributor to the IFC. Mr. Soros has stated that the pictures of Abu Ghraib "hit us the same way as the terrorist attack itself."{...}
{my emphasis}
Nice, huh?
{...}But the IFC exhibit is treason to the memory of the nearly 3,000 people who were murdered for the crime of going to work on 9/11/2001. Whatever our nation's faults, whatever injustices have been committed in our names, no matter what someone might ever have suffered at our hands......those are not the stories to tell at the site where the World Trade Center towers once stood. At the site where 3,000 people were burned or crushed or leapt to their deaths. Not at the site where we suffered one of the worst surprise attacks in modern history, and against a civilian target.
We don't memorialize our war dead by including pictures of them picking their noses. We shouldn't remember our losses by blaming its victims - or even their great-great-grandfathers. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier isn't inscribed with, "What a Fuck-Up, Huh?" {...}
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The victims of 9/11 deserve better, as do those who mourn them still and those who want to remember. It's really quite simple: a memorial is meant to memorialize. Not to teach. Not to educate. Anything that might happen along those lines is pure gravy. Primarily a memorial is meant to remember those who have fallen.
If these people can't even do that without trying to politicize it---or even realize that some people would think that they're politicizing it---well, they've got their heads shoved so far up their bums that they should be able to save their health insurers the cost of a colonoscopy.
Posted by: Kathy at
11:40 PM
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