I’m with James Wolcott – thus far, this has been the Crappiest. Christmas. Evah.
For me, it’s not just the wretched-and-getting-even-worse condition of the economy, and the more or less unmitigated fucked-upness of the country in general (thank you, eight awesome years of Bush/Cheney!). It’s also personal, and familial. Right here, right now in my undisclosed location deep in the swamps of New Jersey, the wells of melancholy run deep, and the bad vibes reverberate in every direction.
It hasn’t quite risen to Dawn Davenport-esque heights of dysfunctional family drama – yet. But give it time, I say! The day is still young.
At any rate, a very Merry Christmas to you all. And may you all find cha cha heels (or their hedonic equivalent) under your Christmas tree this morning.
My apologies to my readers for abandoning this blog so suddenly and without explanation. I wasn't planning to take a hiatus, but a combination of burn-out, lots of other stuff on my plate, and one of those periodic bouts of melancholy I'm plagued with, made blogging seem more like a duty than a pleasure. For a time, anyway.
But thankfully, I'm over that now. Regular blogging will resume momentarily.
I can't say I know Brian Beutler well, although I did meet him last year at Yearly Kos, and have exchanged a few words with him during my occasional forays into DC. Like everyone else, I was shocked to learn that he was shot last night in the Adams Morgan section of DC, the victim of an attempted mugging. He is expected to make a full recovery, but Jesus fucking Christ -- what a horrible ordeal! I was mugged a few years ago, and even though, except for the pepper spray, I was unhurt, it was still . . . well . . . I guess traumatic is the word I'm looking for. And it permanently altered my habits (no more after dark walks for me) and my relationship to the neighborhood I live in. As for being shot --I literally cannot imagine it.
Brian's a talented journalist and a good guy. I'm not a praying person by any means, but he is in my thoughts. I know enough about hospitals to know they're sucky places to be, and I hope he gets out of there soon. Do check out Brian's blog and the stories he's written for The Consortium Report.
UPDATE: My friend the inimitable Addie Stan has more.
When GLBT activists first began pressing for gay marriage, and when in fact many GLBT groups made gay marriage the top priority on their political agenda, I thought it was probably the wrong decision on their part, both strategically and substantively. It's not that I opposed gay marriage -- in fact, I strongly supported it. But I thought that other concerns -- such as the right to be free of discrimination in jobs and housing, and even the right to serve in the military, were more important.
I also thought that pushing for gay marriage was too radical. Face it, gay marriage is a lot of conservative folks' worst nightmare. Wouldn't it be better to work up to that gradually? To ease people into it by first advocating for less controversial measures, like a statute outlawing job discrimination against GLBT folks? Or by not asking for anything more, for now, than civil unions?
Gay marriage as an issue didn't sit right with me for another reason: it seemed not only too radical but also too conservative. There are radical traditions within the GLBT liberation movements that are sharply critical of marriage for being a conservative, bourgeois, heteronormative institution. I always found those critiques useful, as I did the (similar) feminist anti-marriage critiques. I never entirely embraced the anti-marriage ideology, but I thought there was much truth in the anti-marriage arguments, and much reason, for me and other feminists, to be deeply skeptical of marriage as an institution, and and to view the romanticized portrayals of marriage that saturate our culture with a gimlet eye.
But then two things happened. One is, I got married. Ever since I was in my teens, I was never certain that I wanted marriage for myself, though I knew I wanted to be in a lifelong, committed relationship. And when I got married, I felt some uncertainty as to whether I was doing the right thing. It's not that I doubted for a moment that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with my husband. But I worried a little if marriage would change the nature of our relationship.
I also had some concerns about entering an institution that arbitrarily granted instant social status. Why should getting married make me suddenly more worthy of respect? Why did having a wedding (which I also felt ambivalent about -- had it not been for my husband's wishes, I would just as soon have eloped) instantly make me the center of attention? Weren't all my fabulous single friends just as worthy of celebration and admiration? And what about my gay friends, who were forcibly denied the right to marry? Where was the justice in that?
Btw, I'm not kidding when I say that getting married grants you instant social status. It really does -- if you're a woman, at least. You're no longer condescendingly viewed as the sad, lonely maiden aunt. You're no longer patronized as one of those "terrific" single women who "has it hard" (because of the supposed lack of marriageable men). Oh no no. Once you're married, you're treated as one of society's winners. You've made it, you've snagged the biggest prize there is -- a dude. And just about any dude will do, really.
I'll explain the title of this post in a bit (and trust me, it will be worth the wait).
But first: while reading this fun and informative article about the political culture of Jersey City, New Jersey in Politics magazine, I came across the following quote, from former Jersey City mayor Gerald McCann:
"Politics is a big deal in Jersey City," he says. "Everywhere else the
national pastime might be baseball, but in Jersey City the pastime is
politics."
And it occurred to me: so maybe that's where it comes from -- "it" being my lifelong penchant for political junkiedom. I suppose I get it from my parents, both of whom are Jersey City born and bred. And I myself lived in Jersey City for a few years early on in my life -- in fact, my earliest childhood memories are from that period.
Here's the thing about Jersey City: local politics is indeed the number one obsession there. The other important thing about Jersey City is its longstanding tradition as the most politically corrupt city in America. New Orleans? Chicago? Kansas City? Providence, Rhode Island? Cicero, Illinois? Pikers, all of yiz*!
(*Linguistic note: "yiz" is the Jersey City-ese plural for "you" -- exactly as "youse" is the Brooklynese version of same).
As the Politics article points out, Jersey City has long held a well-deserved reputation on the corruption front. It goes back at least to 1889, when a New York Times story, headlined "Jersey City Corruption," described the city as (in Politics' words) "a hopeless cesspool in which corrupt judges, law enforcement officials,
politicians and the press all interact to operate with equal disregard
for law, ethics or the public good."
My family's history intersects with Jersey City's history. Indeed, my paternal grandfather was a Jersey City Teamster and a ward healer. I'd love to claim that he was a principled lefty who courageously fought the machine and stood up for the rights of workers everywhere, but sadly, the evidence indicates otherwise. Indeed, while Jersey City was very much a Democratic city, its political culture was not progressive at all, not even when it came to labor. Beginning in the 1930s, for example, the city's despotic mayor, Frank Hague, tried to suppress union activities.
Interestingly, both of my parents had a strong visceral reaction to Jersey City's head-to-toe, all-permeating culture of political sleaze: they became conservative Republicans. They tell a story that when they voted for president in 1964, theirs were two of only three votes in their Jersey City precinct for Goldwater (and they never did find out who the mysterious third voter was, either). My dad later became involved in local politics in the town where I grew up. Both my parents remain devout conservatives to this day, though I've spent a frustrating lifetime trying to argue them out of it.
Back to Jersey City -- there is at least one thing to be said in that metropolis's favor: politics there are rarely boring. Indeed, the history of Jersey City is one long, tawdry, albeit richly comic, spectacle. Above all, there are The Mayors. With depressing but predictable regularity, they end up in jail. And even when they don't, many of them blaze new trails in the annals of American buffoonery. Herewith follows a brief rundown of a few of Jersey City's finest.
Seven years ago today, I did something that turned out to be the smartest thing I've ever done in my life: I got married. The past seven years, plus the three before that that my husband and I were together, have been the happiest of my life by far. And since deep down I never believed I ever really would find happiness, I feel extraordinarily blessed. It's something of a miracle to me, still.
The joys I've experienced in my relationship with my husband are countless. But today I'll write about just one of them: a deeper appreciation of the genius of Frank Sinatra.
I knew from the beginning that my husband was a Sinatraphile. It was right there in the letter he sent in answer to my personal ad. It was such an erudite and beautifully written letter that I knew right away I had to put it in the "keeper" pile. I was a little worried, though: the writer didn't give his age, and he mentioned his love for Sinatra tunes. This, I assumed, must mean that he was considerably older than me -- by 20 years at least, I reckoned. But then again -- the letter was so great. All right, I'll give him a shot, I decided.
As it happened, he was actually a bit younger than me. And he turned out to be even more wonderful in person than his letter had been. We hit it off on the very first date. When we both started talking about our mutual obsession with Richard Nixon, we knew it was love.
And yes, we are officially the two biggest nerds on the planet.
As our relationship grew, we developed a new mutual obsession: Frank Sinatra. I'd already been a fan, of course -- how can you be a lover of American popular music and not be? Especially if you're from Jersey and you have an Italian grandma who grew up in Hoboken and who'd claimed she'd turned down a chance to date Frank Sinatra. (My beloved Nana, may you rest in peace, but I have to confess I never did buy that story).
But through my hubby, I was introduced to many Sinatra recordings that either I'd never heard, or had never listened to very closely. And I was astonished, particularly when I listened to the dark, anguished albums Sinatra had made in the 50s following his devastating break-up with Ava Gardner: In the Wee Small Hours, Where Are You?, and Only the Lonely. I don't think he was ever a greater singer than in those albums. There was a beauty, an aching tenderness, and an emotional depth there that he never quite equaled anywhere else -- though of course he made plenty of other absolutely wonderful music.
So the man who became my husband and I would frequently listen to Frank together. We'd watch his movies. We each devoured, in turn, a book that has to rank among the most gloriously trashy literary masterpieces of all time: Mr. S: My Life with Frank Sinatra, a memoir written by Sinatra's manservant, George Jacobs. It has been said that "no man is a hero to his valet," and rarely has there been a more vivid illustration of that maxim. Except, Sinatra clearly still is the hero of that book, in spite of himself. Anyway, if you have any interest whatsoever in Sinatra, show business, or the master/slave dialectic, you must read it. You can thank me later.
So yes -- we listened to Sinatra together. And we arranged it so that lots of Sinatra was played at our wedding. In fact, the very first song we had played was "The Best is Yet to Come." We both love the brash, bold, "we're taking the world by the balls and you can't stop us" gusto of that one.
I wanted to close this post with a Youtube video of Sinatra performing that tune, but unfortunately I couldn't find one. However, I did find a different video I really liked. It's of Sinatra circa 1970 1971, singing the great Harold Arlen/Johnny Mercer tune, "One for My Baby."
What do I love about this video? Well, first of all, there's the song. "One for My Baby" has got to be one of the all-time classic American songs. It's probably the greatest song ever written about what F. Scott Fitzgerald called the "three o'clock in the morning" time of the soul.
And then, of course, there is Frank. What I love about this video is that it gives you the Full Frank. It's fairly late in his career. He's wearing a really bad toupee. He starts off with crude banter that includes the typical corny jokes and casual sexism. But then he opens his mouth to sing, and suddenly he's an artist -- one of the greatest, I believe, that 20th century America produced. His voice has seen better days at this point, but he still absolutely nails the emotional content of the song. It's a beautiful thing to see.
I also love the way he casually lights up a cigarette and starts smoking it mid-tune.
This one's for you, baby. Happy anniversary!
UPDATE: Commenter Bloix points us to this absolutely wonderful video of a much younger Sinatra singing the same song. His voice was in much better shape at that point and he was able to achieve more subtle effects. It's probably more interesting musically, just as the later clip is more interesting performance-wise. I highly recommend them both!
Thank you, Bloix, and thanks to all of you for your kind wishes.
I have an interesting tale to relate about Maureen Dowd. It involves an experience a friend of mine had with her. I'll get to it in a bit, but first I wanted to make some comments about Maureen's latest bout of asshattery: her column on l'affaire "Bittergate."
This episode has already been dealt with admirably by Bob Somerby, Digby, and Whiskey Fire's Molly Ivors, but I also have something to add.
Dowd tells us that although she herself is from working class stock (and has the bowling trophy to prove it), neither she nor her family have ever been "bitter." The implication is that whatever economic hardships the Dowd clan faced, they didn't react to them with an unseemly resentment. Well guess what? There's a very good reason for that. It's called the New Deal.
Modo grew up in a 1950s America that is very different from the America we live in today. The America of the postwar era enjoyed unprecedented levels of economic equality -- "The Great Compression," as economic historians call it. There was considerably more economic mobility. Union density was at a record high, which is a big reason why working class jobs were far more secure than they are today, and far more likely to come with good health insurance, decent pensions, and other benefits that are increasingly becoming a thing of the past. Maureen's dad, whom I believe was a cop, most likely had one of these good union-type jobs.
Now, far be it from me to romanticize the 1950s. As Paul Krugman once said in a talk I heard, the 50s may have had a lot more economic equality, but it was also the era of "sexism, racism, and really bad coffee." And no matter what period of history we're talking about, life is rarely easy for those on the lower rungs of the income ladder.
A couple of things I've been meaning to note/respond to:
First, I wanted to extend a warm welcome to the most recent addition to The G Spot conspiracy, Historical Agent. Historical Agent describes herself as "a Ph.D. student in American history with a long way to go until I get to be called doctor." H.A. is a witty, penetrating, and highly original writer and thinker, and I am honored that she will be writing for this site. She will probably begin posting soon, perhaps as early as today. She'll be a fantastic blogger -- of that I have no doubt.
Secondly, my friend Scott McLemee notes "Kathy G. Spot believes that I am a geezer." Well, to be precise, in the comments section of the Poly Styrene post to which he is referring, I out us both as "fogies." In calling Scott a fogy, I hope I wasn't being an asshole (though God knows it wouldn't be the first time). And as I said, I called myself a fogy too, and there can be little doubt that I am. The digital subscription service I recommended to him is something I only discovered, um, last year. And I didn't buy a cell phone until last month, and that was only under the threat of spousal duress. So I believe my own geezer cred is more or less unassailable.
Actually, I've been in "hey you kids, get offa my lawn" mode for some time now. It suits me, I think -- it's a far better fit for my naturally grouchy, cynical personality than the first bloom of youth ever was. I notice that in listservs I'm on, I seem to be taking on the role of the older-but-wiser Voice of Experience. When the young 'uns start rhapsodizing in that adorably moonstruck way of theirs about the Age of Aquarius that will dawn when Obama enters the White House, I'm given to say things like, re: Obama and the left, "Just you wait. He will fuck us, good and hard."*
Well, someone has to explain the fact of life to these chickadees.
I always thought "Born To Run" could only have been written by a guy from Jersey. Suffice it to say, I didn't find Jersey to be the most appealing place to grow up in. The small town where I was raised was equally small, provincial, and conservative in mind-set. And there were no cultural resources to speak of. What made things worse was that the enchantments and bright lights of New York City were just a commuter train ride away. It was so close yet so far, which only deepened my despair.
It's kind of like those studies that show relative income -- how close your own income is to those around you -- influences happiness, and that you're likely to be less satisfied if your relative income is lower, holding all else constant.
So yes, I followed the Boss's advice, I got out while I was young, I ran 'til I dropped, and baby, I never went back.
But Jersey really does seem to be changing in some profound and very encouraging ways. Bean notices that the Garden State's "progressive social agenda" is "putting supposedly progressive NY to shame." Within the last two years, Joy-zee instituted civil unions and abolished the death penalty, and now it is about to adopt paid family leave.
Today's Jersey is a very different place from the Jersey I grew up in. It used to be considered a swing state, but now it's moved firmly into the "blue state" column. And thanks to an influx of immigrants, it's also far more diverse.
I saw these changes writ large when I visited my home town over Christmas. True, some things were, reassuringly, the same as they ever were -- there was the same bespeckled man who's been behind the counter at the same little bookstore since forever. And also the same stoner dude on duty at the same record store, with the same mullet, even (only now the color of said mullet is snow white).
But the differences were striking. The stores are now owned by South Asian and East Asian immigrants rather than white ethnic Catholics and Jews. The generic liquor store has been replaced by a fancy wine shop. The dining choices have improved in a major way; there's even a Thai restaurant, fer gosh-shakes! (And if you knew what my hometown had been like before, that's virtually unthinkable). On the downside, there are more chain stores than there used to be. But mostly the changes are positive. And though I can't say for sure, I'm willing to bet that it's a more liberal and tolerant place than it used to be, as well.
I'm curious, though, as to why New Jersey has changed in this way: why it's become more liberal and more diverse. Immigration is undoubtedly a key, and George W. Bush may have created more Democrats, in New Jersey and elsewhere in this country, than any other single force. But it must be more complicated than that. Anybody have any ideas?
Ezra and others have linked to this heartbreaking, and infuriating, New York Times story about an Arkansas boy who, for years, has been the target of bullies. Ezra writes:
I was badly bullied as a youth -- chunky, bespectacled bookworms don't
do so well on the schoolyard -- and it made for a miserable elementary,
junior high, and early high school experience.
Hmmm . . . chunky,
bespectacled bookworm picked on by schoolmates -- sounds a lot like my (exceedingly lousy) childhood and adolescence. For me, it was verbal abuse rather than
physical, but it left psychic scars that I never have and (I'm
sure) never will recover from. Not that I want to wallow in self-pity (especially since this is a new blog and most of you haven't gotten the chance to know and love me yet!). But that's just a fact -- for many people, bullying inflicts deep wounds and serious damage. I've racked up years of psychotherapy, and I'm blessed, now, to have a lot of love in my life. But facing all that intense abuse and hostility, day after day, for years, permanently altered my personality (and not in a good way, either). How could it not?
