Happy New Year
Just about to head out for a Parisian new year's eve, and I wanted to wish everyone -- including my 2-3 readers -- a new year that is better than the last.
With love,
--Andrew
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Just about to head out for a Parisian new year's eve, and I wanted to wish everyone -- including my 2-3 readers -- a new year that is better than the last.
With love,
--Andrew
I should be tired by now. I am tired. Why? Because I keep naively hoping that President Bush has bottomed out and is going to break from character. He's not, we're screwed, etc. You've heard it from me before.
Now, his minions in the Senate are going to change the Senate rules to allow him to appoint judges to the federal bench by fiat. Supreme Court justices will follow, once all the pieces are in place and he's unchallengeable.
Could you imagine if a Democratic president had attempted this? If Clinton had attempted this? The Republicans would have gone nuclear. They would have been right.
Americans shake their heads in disgust at Putin when he changes the rules of government to suit his political whim. Yet they turn a blind eye when Bush prepares to do the same thing. And make no mistake -- it's the same thing.
I'm sure both leaders believe their goals to be just and right. But the reason for having checks and balances -- what checks and balances remain, that is -- is to prevent the minority from the whims of a leader who is convinced that he's right, when there's a chance that he's wrong.
I'll not naively hope that Bush will all of a sudden play the statesman and not press this issue as far as he's indicated that he's prepared to do. But I will hope the Democrats go nuclear. They would be right to do so.
Reading through Salon today, I came across an archived Christmas article from way back in 2001, musing on the topic of "It's A Wonderful Life." I won't do it justice in explaining it, but here's an excerpt:
"In Capra's Tale of Two Cities, Pottersville is the Bad Place. It's the demonic foil to Bedford Falls, the sweet, Norman Rockwell-like town in which George grows up. Named after the evil Mr. Potter, Pottersville is the setting for George's brief, nightmarish trip through a world in which he never existed. In that alternative universe, Potter has triumphed, and we are intended to shudder in horror at the sinful city he has spawned -- a kind of combo pack of Sodom, Gomorrah, Times Square in 1972, Tokyo's hostess district, San Francisco's Barbary Coast ca. 1884 and one of those demon-infested burgs dimly visible in the background of a Hieronymus Bosch painting.
There's just one problem: Pottersville rocks! ... George's confusion, even dismay, is understandable -- it's always a shock when the laws of space and time cease to apply. But if he'd hung out for a while, had a few drinks in the Indian Club, dropped a couple dimes in the dance hall, maybe checked out the action at the burlesque, he would have gotten a whole new take on the situation."
View the whole article here (subscription required -- view the ad and get the day pass).
Nothing much on TV today, so default to the cooking channel. It's a @#%$ "Naked Chef" marathon.
If I hear Jamie Oliver say "pukka" one more time, I'm going to shove a rolling pin up his ass.
And so this is Christmas, and what have I done? Not too much, I'm afraid to say. It's been pretty slow since I got back to Paris on Monday. Had a couple of nice dinners with Jodi, but aside from that there's been quite a bit of postponing work around the flat.
Unless you were at a shopping centre this week, it's been very quiet here in town. It's the first holiday I'm actually spending in Paris, and there seems to be a collective ho-hum around here. Not that Christmas has ever really been anything more than a very quiet day for me as a non-Christian. Your saviour may have been born today, but for me it's just a free day off.
The most memorable Christmas I ever spent was when I was in high school. My entire family got a stomach flu on Christmas morning, and we all spent the day in bed, together, alternating trips to the bathroom to throw up. I distinctly recall "It's A Wonderful Life" playing simultaneously, although slightly out of sync, on at least 3 different channels. In the pre-Tivo days, this afforded a very unique opportunity to (a) skip commercials, and/or (b) not miss anything when you went to the bathroom. I can tell you, there's nothing like common misery to bring a family together -- that may have been the single moment in our lives our family was closest.
Sometime about 2 years ago, I bought a copy of Groove Armada's CD Lovebox, and I vaguely remember there was some internet content on there that required registration.
Fast-forward to this year, back in late summer I got an e-mail from Groove Armada offering me the opportunity to buy tickets to their Saturday show at the Brixton Academy in advance of the general public. Despite the fact that the mediocre CD I bought hasn't graced my player since 2002, I leapt at the opportunity to go see them live. I even knew other people in London who would be interested.
Fast-forward again to this past weekend. The tickets bill a 9pm start, albeit with special guests, and explicitly state the following words: "Until 3AM".
So my friends and I show up at 10:30, figuring that the opening act would be finishing up. We were right.
So we sit, and sit, and sit, and wait, and wait, and finally at Midnight, Groove Armada take the stage -- for 90 minutes. I think they played 11 songs, including the encore, which was a song they had already played.
And then, apparently, recorded music played over the loudspeakers until 3AM.
Now, you'll have to pardon me for sounding like a crotchety old man here, but here's my response: "What the Fuck??!??!!!!?"
9PM start time, 3AM finish. You reasonably have the right to expect no less than 4 hours of live music, even allowing for delays, set breaks, and stage breakdown from act 1 to act 2. You reasonably have the right to expect the headliner to play until about 2:30, no?
What the fuck?!?
I suppose you have to expect the minimum from touring international arena/stadium acts these days, that's just the way things seem to go unless you're lucky enough to be going to see Springsteen (who routinely plays upwards of 3 hours).
But then why explicitly bill a 3AM finish when you don't mean it?
It. Just. Doesn't. Make. Any. Sense.
If you like sleeping in uncomfortable bunk beds in tiny, 70's-era flats, with drunken 19-year-old Spanish neighbours, Tignes is the place for your ski holiday.
If you prefer skiing on rocks and ice to snow, while the aforementioned Spaniards, armed with snowboards, tackle you in the lift queue, make Tignes your holiday destination.
If you like to eat pizza, pizza, and pizza, more pizza, and only fucking pizza, visit Tignes, jewel of the Alps.
Otherwise, I'd recommend someplace else.
Had a bit of a snafu with the old server... naturally the day after I left for Thanksgiving holidays. We're back on the air now, with limited updates as I flow in and out of town and have limited connectivity.