Friday, June 29, 2007
This Day in the History of Screwups
I could write about Gavrilo Princep perforating the ArchDuke Ferdinand and setting off WWI, but it wouldn't be half as interesting as what LawDog wrote on the subject, so I'll just linky.
Whatcha Readin'? Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man
I just finished a fascinating book yesterday that I'd never heard of before, and I feel like telling you about it. It's called Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man by James Weldon Johnson, and the first thing you need to know is that it isn't "real" autobiography. This seems patently obvious when you read the thing, but when I decided to post about it, I Googled the title and it appears that much very serious scholarship has been dedicated to discovering and explaining why the book was written as it was. I don't disagree with the scholars I read, although it does seem like their conclusions are pretty straightforward stuff.
Anyway, the book was published anonymously in 1912 (The edition I read was the reprint from 1970 and acknowledged openly in an introduction that the book was fictional--it also named Johnson as the author) and purported to be the story of a man born just after the Civil War to a young white Southern aristocrat and a former slave. The father moves the mother and child to Connecticut and the boy progresses to the middle grades in school before he finds out that he is one of the "negroes" in the class (I'll let you read the scene of discovery yourself--it actually mirrors a very old comedy routine, which only makes it nastier.)
I've read some autobiography from that period, like Frederick Douglass' account, but this one comes at things from a different angle. The protagonist has the option, right around the turn of the 20th century, of either using his considerable talents to bring credit to black people in America and thus help "build a race" . . . . . or, on account of his complexion, to pass as a white man and make a pile of money. Most good character-driven fiction comes from putting people into impossible positions like this and forcing them to make choices, and this one works.
The title is a grabber, to be sure. I'd never heard of this book or of Johnson, but I happened to notice the title as I wandered around the public library. If you read it in public, be prepared to discuss it with everyone you meet. I had a very good discussion my dentist between the time she expressed shock at the title and the time I couldn't talk anymore.
Aside from the racial questions he tries to address (always a big deal for an American audience whether it's 1912, 1970 or 2007) the most intriguing part of the narrative is the continuous thread of music--and this is something I haven't read any of the scholars addressing. Johnson was well-known as a composer and musician in New York, and so is his fictional counterpart. As a boy, growing up in Connecticut, he is known as a musical prodigy playing classical music. After he discovers that he's one of the "negroes" at his integrated school, he continues to play that music--but when his mother dies and he makes his way south and then to New York, he discovers rag time music and it becomes his total passion. He believes rag time is one of the only genuine American artistic innovations (it was--it became jazz--but saying so in 1912 was a bold prediction for Johnson) and is proud that it was developed by black musicians. He notes, for instance, that in Paris he heard rag time called "American music" more often than not, while in America it was still widely unknown outside large cities. During this time, when he's trying to make his way as a "negro" but still make a success of himself, he makes a name as a musician by blending rag time and classical music concepts, reinterpreting classical music in rag time style.
Near the end of the narrative, he makes his Faustian deal and decides to "pass." He'll become a white man. What finally seals his fate and makes it impossible for him to go back is falling in love with a beautiful white woman with an amazing singing voice--whom he woos by playing Chopin and his own classical compositions. No more rag time.
Even as the tale ends, the complexity of the choices he's made never lets up. It never becomes simple. At the end, he manages to be happy and regretful at the same time, in a believable way. This is something a lot of authors have their characters say, but it doesn't always ring true. You'll believe it in this story.
Anyway, this is a good read whether you really want to think about all the social implications or not. If you read it, though, he's going to break your heart several times. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Anyway, the book was published anonymously in 1912 (The edition I read was the reprint from 1970 and acknowledged openly in an introduction that the book was fictional--it also named Johnson as the author) and purported to be the story of a man born just after the Civil War to a young white Southern aristocrat and a former slave. The father moves the mother and child to Connecticut and the boy progresses to the middle grades in school before he finds out that he is one of the "negroes" in the class (I'll let you read the scene of discovery yourself--it actually mirrors a very old comedy routine, which only makes it nastier.)
I've read some autobiography from that period, like Frederick Douglass' account, but this one comes at things from a different angle. The protagonist has the option, right around the turn of the 20th century, of either using his considerable talents to bring credit to black people in America and thus help "build a race" . . . . . or, on account of his complexion, to pass as a white man and make a pile of money. Most good character-driven fiction comes from putting people into impossible positions like this and forcing them to make choices, and this one works.
The title is a grabber, to be sure. I'd never heard of this book or of Johnson, but I happened to notice the title as I wandered around the public library. If you read it in public, be prepared to discuss it with everyone you meet. I had a very good discussion my dentist between the time she expressed shock at the title and the time I couldn't talk anymore.
Aside from the racial questions he tries to address (always a big deal for an American audience whether it's 1912, 1970 or 2007) the most intriguing part of the narrative is the continuous thread of music--and this is something I haven't read any of the scholars addressing. Johnson was well-known as a composer and musician in New York, and so is his fictional counterpart. As a boy, growing up in Connecticut, he is known as a musical prodigy playing classical music. After he discovers that he's one of the "negroes" at his integrated school, he continues to play that music--but when his mother dies and he makes his way south and then to New York, he discovers rag time music and it becomes his total passion. He believes rag time is one of the only genuine American artistic innovations (it was--it became jazz--but saying so in 1912 was a bold prediction for Johnson) and is proud that it was developed by black musicians. He notes, for instance, that in Paris he heard rag time called "American music" more often than not, while in America it was still widely unknown outside large cities. During this time, when he's trying to make his way as a "negro" but still make a success of himself, he makes a name as a musician by blending rag time and classical music concepts, reinterpreting classical music in rag time style.
Near the end of the narrative, he makes his Faustian deal and decides to "pass." He'll become a white man. What finally seals his fate and makes it impossible for him to go back is falling in love with a beautiful white woman with an amazing singing voice--whom he woos by playing Chopin and his own classical compositions. No more rag time.
Even as the tale ends, the complexity of the choices he's made never lets up. It never becomes simple. At the end, he manages to be happy and regretful at the same time, in a believable way. This is something a lot of authors have their characters say, but it doesn't always ring true. You'll believe it in this story.
Anyway, this is a good read whether you really want to think about all the social implications or not. If you read it, though, he's going to break your heart several times. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Sitemeter is addictive
It's amazing how habit-forming Sitemeter data is. It's probably all ego, but I can't help wondering what a person in Buenos Aires or Christchurch, New Zealand thinks of the inane crap I write. I've now had visitors from every continent except Antarctica.
The "Referrals" page at Sitemeter is my favorite, though. I've even found some spots I didn't know existed, like MissouriCarry.com. That's a big help for me, because Missouri is the only state I visit regularly with a concealed carry permit (my CCW is no good in my home state--more on that later.)
Most of the search result referrals are about what you'd expect. People searching for "Illinois gun works" and "Dan Kotowski" get sent here (this page is one spot higher on the Google front page than Dan Kotowski's loving Wikipedia homage, and that's hilarious.)
Well, this morning, somebody Googled the phrase "investigate people questions they ask to school staff" at the British version of Google (www.google.co.uk) and found out that this blog is the internet's number one source for . . . . well, something. So they visited. I hope they found something interesting, and I hope they were just trying to investigate good schools and not under investigation. That would be no fun at all, but then again, I could be getting visits from wannabe pedophiles the way Ambulance Driver did.
The "Referrals" page at Sitemeter is my favorite, though. I've even found some spots I didn't know existed, like MissouriCarry.com. That's a big help for me, because Missouri is the only state I visit regularly with a concealed carry permit (my CCW is no good in my home state--more on that later.)
Most of the search result referrals are about what you'd expect. People searching for "Illinois gun works" and "Dan Kotowski" get sent here (this page is one spot higher on the Google front page than Dan Kotowski's loving Wikipedia homage, and that's hilarious.)
Well, this morning, somebody Googled the phrase "investigate people questions they ask to school staff" at the British version of Google (www.google.co.uk) and found out that this blog is the internet's number one source for . . . . well, something. So they visited. I hope they found something interesting, and I hope they were just trying to investigate good schools and not under investigation. That would be no fun at all, but then again, I could be getting visits from wannabe pedophiles the way Ambulance Driver did.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Correcting Jesse Jackson
Arrest Motivates Jackson to Fight for Gun Control
Luckily enough, Jesse, you don't make the rules, and nobody has to give a fig that you think "bear arms" means "go on a canned hunt on a preserve."
And by the way, Jesse, you don't know what the word "semi-automatic" means--and you're embarrassing yourself. I hunted deer with a semi-automatic weapon for years when I was a boy--it was a Remington 1100 Lightweight Youth. My grandpa still uses a full-size Model 1100 for deer every year.
If you want to have any credibility on guns, Jesse, call your local range and sign up for an NRA safety course as a bare minimum.
"I think people have the right to bear arms at a hunting reserve. But you're not hunting deer with semi-automatic weapons," Jackson said in a phone interview.
Luckily enough, Jesse, you don't make the rules, and nobody has to give a fig that you think "bear arms" means "go on a canned hunt on a preserve."
And by the way, Jesse, you don't know what the word "semi-automatic" means--and you're embarrassing yourself. I hunted deer with a semi-automatic weapon for years when I was a boy--it was a Remington 1100 Lightweight Youth. My grandpa still uses a full-size Model 1100 for deer every year.
If you want to have any credibility on guns, Jesse, call your local range and sign up for an NRA safety course as a bare minimum.
Monday, June 25, 2007
"Legitimate" Fortune-Tellers Only . . . .
It was bound to happen. In Salem, Massachusetts, the established, "legitimate" fortune tellers are upset that upstarts from out of town are allowed to share in the racket. Apparently Barnum was wrong; suckers are in limited supply and protectionist legislation is indicated. The established hucksters are going so far as to tell the city council that some of these newcomers might be—and I’m not saying I believe this slander, mind you, but—well . . . . faking their psychic readings. Unlike the responsible, trained, highly educated psychics who have worked so hard to represent their honorable profession in Salem, these newcomers may be incapable of using tea leaves and tarot cards to tell you what your dead grandmother thinks of your boyfriend. Shocking, I know.
I wish I were making this up, but I’m not: One of the psychics describes having to do a “genuine” psychic reading for a police officer before getting her license. Another describes having to use her aura-detecting machine to correct the damage done by an out-of-towner who’d told a client that her aura was black (you’ll be relieved to know that her aura was actually “blue and beautiful.”)
“Salem Struggles to Sort Out ‘Psychic Free-For-All’”
“Fortune Tellers Did Not See Dead Raccoons, Car Vandalism in Salem’s Future”
Tip of the hat to James Randi, who notes in all seriousness that if any of these psychics are able to do the things they claim, they could simply demonstrate their powers and collect a cool $1,000,000 from the James Randi Educational Foundation.
Somehow I think the money is safe for another day.Mawwage . . .
My cousin Steve made an honest woman out of the mother of his son yesterday. Unfortunately, it was too late for her to do much about his reputation. . . . but whaddya gonna do? They put on one of the best weddings I've ever attended, which is important, because Lord knows no wedding is complete without the Armed School Teacher's Seal of Approval. Well, Steve and Sarah, I gladly bestow The Seal upon your nuptials.
"NEPOTISM!" I can hear some of you declaring shrilly. Well, you are wrong, sirs und madames. Here's what set the Steve and Sarah wedding apart and won the coveted prize:
"NEPOTISM!" I can hear some of you declaring shrilly. Well, you are wrong, sirs und madames. Here's what set the Steve and Sarah wedding apart and won the coveted prize:
- Sanity. A small, casual wedding held in a beautiful, shady backyard. No band, no frantic last-minute crises. Two groomsmen (Steve's brothers, Daryl and Daryl) and two bridesmaids. Kids allowed to play, guests in shorts.
- No DJ, no band. Here's a crazy idea--let's NOT pay a stranger to play the Chicken Dance and Cotton Eye Joe. Let's just put the speakers next to the kegs and pop in a CD of music the bride and groom actually like. We won't get to see grandma's face when "Smack My Bitch Up" comes on, but there are always costs to any plan.
- No drunk idiots. Beer was enjoyed by many, but nobody got drunk and yelled anything unfortunate in front of my kids. I liked that. We were among the last of the old folks/parents to trickle out about dusk or so, and the "All My Rowdy Friends" set was arriving as we left. I'm sure the kegs were empty and the staggering was mighty by midnight, but that's their business. My kids were home in bed by that time.
- Most importantly, I don't think there was one person at this wedding who didn't have fun and wasn't happy for Steve and Sarah. It's hard to stay bitter and bitchy when you're eating wedding cake in the grass on a beautiful day.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Snuffy and JJ Show On Hiatus
Well, it seems that a weekend spent actually protesting peacefully, exercising their rights as American citizens (and their privileges as subjects of Illinois) just wasn't exciting enough for "Father" Pfleger and the "Reverend" Jesse Jackson. There weren't enough TV cameras around, for one thing, and . . . . aw, heck, you just don't get the kind of breathless, open-mouthed attention from The Mainstream Press for a peaceful, civil demonstration of your convictions that a good death threat or a few arrests will bring.
The death threat thing is so two weeks ago. Srsly u guyz, it has been done to death.
So all that left was to go in and get arrested. So they did.
Chicago Tribune Story with Video
Chicago ABC Channel 7 Story with Video
These two say John (the gun shop's owner) invited them inside, but they "feared for their safety." Uh huh. They also claim that they didn't block the entrance and that John "pushed Reverend Jackson." Their stories don't add up. While Pfleger was telling the TV cameras that the complaint said he entered the property, but he "never entered anything, I was on a sidewalk" his partner JJ was telling others that "the police believe he (John Riggio) has the right to lock us out."
If Pfleger were telling the truth, then Jackson's summary of the police position would be all wrong. He, too, would be protesting that they never entered "anything," not saying that he thought he was within his rights to do so. It's enough to make you wonder whether "property," like "snuff," is a word Father Pfleger never learned in school. Does he think property refers only to the building?
Well, whatever. John got to see Snuffy and JJ frog-marched off his property in handcuffs, which is a good day no matter how you slice it. And Pfleger and Jackson got to spend precious minutes surrounded by attentive reporters, so they're probably still breathing in contented little sighs, too.
The death threat thing is so two weeks ago. Srsly u guyz, it has been done to death.
So all that left was to go in and get arrested. So they did.
Chicago Tribune Story with Video
Chicago ABC Channel 7 Story with Video
These two say John (the gun shop's owner) invited them inside, but they "feared for their safety." Uh huh. They also claim that they didn't block the entrance and that John "pushed Reverend Jackson." Their stories don't add up. While Pfleger was telling the TV cameras that the complaint said he entered the property, but he "never entered anything, I was on a sidewalk" his partner JJ was telling others that "the police believe he (John Riggio) has the right to lock us out."
If Pfleger were telling the truth, then Jackson's summary of the police position would be all wrong. He, too, would be protesting that they never entered "anything," not saying that he thought he was within his rights to do so. It's enough to make you wonder whether "property," like "snuff," is a word Father Pfleger never learned in school. Does he think property refers only to the building?
Well, whatever. John got to see Snuffy and JJ frog-marched off his property in handcuffs, which is a good day no matter how you slice it. And Pfleger and Jackson got to spend precious minutes surrounded by attentive reporters, so they're probably still breathing in contented little sighs, too.
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