Last night the missus, who is a middle-school chorus and music teacher, conducted her kids in their Spring Concert. It was a delightful evening, because she’s a brilliant educator and musician (she got multi-part harmonies out of sixth graders, people), and the kids are adorable and love to sing. Amy’s also around to correct any Christina Aguilera tendencies they might have, so there were no constipated facial expressions, flailing arms and pointless runs up and down the scale. Believe me, this is an achievement in and of itself in this day and age.

I bring it up not just to brag about how dope my special lady friend is, but because during the concert the woman in front of me began, quite audibly, to talk shit about my wife. Apparently she wasn’t happy with the grade her daughter was given (it had to do with very clear-cut violations of the absence policy and nothing more), so she began tearing into my old lady for the benefit of another woman in the audience. It took me a while to catch on, but eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. It culminated as Amy took the stage to begin conducting. “Look at her,” this broad said. “She’s miserable. She’s nasty.”

“She’s my wife,” I interjected.

Normally, one would think, when confronted with the fact that the spouse of an individual about whom one was talking shit was right there in front of one, one would smile awkwardly, murmur an apology, and shut the fuck up. Oh, but ladies and gentlemen, this is Long Island. And on Long Island, along with the God-given right to crispy bleached teased-up hair and an inexplicable attachment to lacrosse, people have the right–no, the duty–to continue talking smack about a person’s wife even when that person is right there listening and asking you to please stop. That’s right. After I called her on this crap, this miserable harridan not only explained to me how awful my wife was, but then after I turned around having had enough of it, continued the harangue several minutes later. And even then, after I turned around again to inform her that I can still hear her and that though I’m sorry she has a problem with my wife I can assure her my wife loves all her students and that at any rate there’s probably a more appropriate venue for these complaints than in the goddamn auditorium during the goddamn Spring Concert (I didn’t say “goddamn,” though–I was superpolite, since I didn’t want to make my wife’s life any more difficult than it already must be if she’s had to deal with this hag),she continued to inform me just what a sack of shit my wife is, and that she (the crone) has the right to talk about whatever she wants wherever she wants.

Listen. It’s a free country (and I told her so–boy, did she love that!), and I’m sure this (miserable ugly lonely pathetic shlub of a) woman is perfectly nice once you get to know her, and I guarantee you that whatever went down with her daughter wasn’t anything personal. But folks, maybe it’s just me, but if you are talking about what a shitty person someone is, and that someone’s husband or wife turns around and informs you of his or her relationship to the person in question, turn around and shut your goddamned pie-hole.

Seriously, man. I’ve been in fights before, like in high school or on message boards or whatever, where I figured I was as pissed as I could get. But believe me, it was nothing close to how mad I got at this loudmouth. Maybe it’s some sort of primitive instinct to defend your mate, but it really felt like my blood was on fire. If she was a guy (jury’s still out), I’d probably have slugged her.

Interesting postscript to this story: When I first sat down, carrying a big bouquet of flowers for the missus and not knowing this woman from Adam, she joked and smiled and was like “Oh, how nice of you to bring me flowers!” I joked and smiled back. Then I overheard her talking to her friend (who I assure you was mortified when I later turned around to shut her friend up and wanted nothing more to do with the whole situation) about how her husband (who wasn’t there) hasn’t brought her flowers in literally years. So no matter how many points she thought she scored off me during our subsequent confrontation, I could rest secure in the knowledge that she’s trapped in a loveless hell of her own design. Oh, dip!

As the end of this post by Kevin Parrott proves:

SENTENCES IN ALL CAPS WITH NO PUNCTUATION ARE ALWAYS FUNNY

DO YOU THINK I’M KIDDING

Some bits and pieces from throughout the blogosphere.

“If the Bush Administration Lied About WMDs, So Did These People”–says it all, really, but you’ve got to read some of the assertions by people who’ve magically transmogrified into doves now that a Republican’s in the White House. Via Instapundit.

Also via Insta, Howard Kurtz on the non-looting at Baghdad’s national history museum, and the lack of any corrections or apologies from the news media. To quote Jack White, I said it once before, but it bears repeating now.

(I would like to point out that I wouldn’t be surprised if some of what we heard about Iraq wasn’t true. One constant about government, all government, is that it lies to its people on a regular basis, and despite my support for some of the foreign-policy aims of the current administration, there’s no reason to assume this isn’t still the case. But basically you’d have to come up with a hell of a whopper to make me think that your dishonesty outweighs the moral necessity of ousting fascists.)

Little Green Footballs, meanwhile, has a chart documenting the countries that provided weapons to Saddam Hussein during his years in power, and–get this!–the United States isn’t even in the top ten! Who’d’a thunk it? I’ve always thought the anti-war “argument” that “The U.S. created Saddam Hussein, man!” was idiotic for an entirely different reason–as Christopher Hitchens often puts it, wouldn’t that double or treble our obligation to get rid of him?–but here’s a whole ‘nother way for it to be dumb. (Of course, this is not to say that we didn’t provide support in other ways–intelligence, for example; general handshakes-from-Rumsfeld cheerleading; and of course, oil revenue), but given the information linked to above, five’ll get you ten that we weren’t close to No. 1 on those lists, either. Our suddenly principled anti-war friends the Russians, French, and Chinese, on the other hand…

Speaking of the French, here’s another discussion (via LGF) of France’s various impending crises, this one focusing on the influence of radical, non-integrated Muslim immigrants. I’m a little uncomfortable with the way all French Muslims are tarred with the same brush by some of the people in the discussion, but it’s hugely important for European nations to come to terms with the problems posed by their Muslim citizens and non-citizens. Arabs are an ethnic group, Muslims a religious one, and neither should be discriminated against. But Islamists–radical, intolerant Muslims who believe in the subjugation of women, homosexuals and non-Muslims by any means necessary and who apparently are the most prevalent and vocal demographic group in many Muslim countries–are a political group espousing a violent, fascist ideology, and this has to be addressed. The problem, of course, is that some of the nations of Europe are cozying up to the Islamists’ bosses in the Middle East, and making excuses for them when their supporters kill people for speaking out.

(That, of course, was what happened in the Netherlands with Pim Fortuyn. Fortuyn was gay, and not just a little bit–he was a Wildean dandy. He disliked Islamists because–can you believe the nerve of this guy?–they think people like him should be executed. What a right-wing lunatic this Fortuyn was! And so he was assassinated by a left-wing activist who decried Fortuyn’s “intolerance.” This sentiment is echoed in the BBC obit I linked to above, which talks about how Fortuyn succeeded politically in the Netherlands “despite” its legacy of tolerance. Calling a political movement out on its stated aim–to institute sharia law and openly persecute homesexuals–is “intolerant,” I guess.)

Comics Activist Sean T. Collins Gets Results! From a comment on the comics article I posted at Blogcritics:

“I used to read comics, as a kid. I suspect there are lots of people like me, who put away what we perceived as childish things when we grew up. And still, at least once every couple of months, I daydream about a certain Fantastic 4 storyline that kept me up nights way back when…

“The sad part is, I’m even a geek who would have no trouble being seen with comics and so on, and I work right around the corner from a comic store. Guess how many times I’ve been in there. Go ahead, guess.

“That’s right, none.

“What’s my problem? I’ll swing by this week. Thanks for the kick in the pants. :)”

Got one! Thanks, Philip, and tell ’em Sean sent you!

Late last year I was diagnosed with attention deficit disorder. (That’s right–this blog isn’t some attempt to cash in on the popularity of Alan David Doane’s. Hey, we all know how that kind of thing turns out!) One of the symptoms of this disorder, aside from the fact that I can’t carry on a conversation if someone puts a cereal box with words on it in front of me, is that I procrastinate, because I can’t focus enough to actually do things that require any planning. Right now there’s a hella big list of such things:

* Buy a new cell phone to replace current broken one

* Buy new sneakers to replace current broken ones

* Set up stereo surround equipment given to us as wedding gift last August

* Order satellite TV now that our cable has been taken away

* Get JRR Tolkien-related tattoo

* Order wedding album from photographer (again, wedding took place last August)

* Buy laptop for which gift of money from parents for wedding was intended to provide

Here’s what we’re gonna do. Every time I actually do one of these things, I will let you all know. It’s gonna be like you’re right inside my head, struggling past the shiny objects that distract me (the new Led Zeppelin triple-live album, Kingpin issue one) and moving toward fulfillment. (In other words, don’t hold yer breath.)

There you go, referring to your “journey” again. Must I repeat myself?

While we’re on the subject, a note for the gentlemen of reality television: As a general rule, when wooing women on national television, DON’T GET SHITFACED

Over at Journalista, Dirk’s in the middle of a very thoughtful and interesting ongoing examination of Marvel’s publishing practices, and how they are trying, succeeding and/or failing at entering the “true mainstream” by breaking into the bookstore market and (or perhaps by) varying their output from exclusively superhero-oriented books. Today’s installment features an interesting examination of Brian Michael Bendis’s excellent Daredevil. Dirk’s theory is that though Bendis is a clever writer with a knack for the police procedural/crime drama elements inherent in the Daredevil character, he’s too smart for his own good: readers who might get involved for those aspects, Dirk argues, are inevitably thrown for a loop when ol’ Hornhead shows up in his red tights and beats up a flying guy named the Owl.

I definitely see his point–when you’re going, as Bendis is, for a more realistic style of story, the suspension-of-disbelief-heavy superhero elements might seem incongruous–but as usual, I think his supposition of an audience distrustful or disdainful of superhero conventions just doesn’t hold water. How much money do the X-Men, Batman, Superman films, Spider-Man, The Matrix, Buffy, Smallville, and (yes) Daredevil make, anyway? There’s something to be said for the “I didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition” angle–people picking up what looks like a straight noir book might be unpleasantly surprised when the superheroics start. But based on the sheer numbers of people who seem to dig superheroes just fine, surely the crossover audience exceeds that of people who’d forego a great story simply because someone in it wears a costume and fights crime.

I’ve often said that the anti-superhero camp in the comics world is just as cultish, irrational and unrepresentative of the world at large as the only-superhero camp. Dirk’s not nearly as far gone as many, but I think it’s a mistake to assume that superheroes are an obstacle. The fact that for the most part superheroes are the only game in town? That’s another story.

Goddammit, but everyone does cocaine. Ever since I joined a publication that chronicles the lifestyles of the young and the gorgeous, this has been probably the most surprising aspect of this new milieu I move in. You may not be aware of this, but I guarantee you, that actor you love? That actress you think is the next big thing? The band you really dig? The writer you feel like you know? They are all off their tits on blow. I do see the attraction to this lifestyle, insofar as everyone in New York City is doing bumps in the bathroom all the time, and so if you were to want to socialize in New York City it might behoove you to do bumps in the bathroom as well. (Indeed, one pastime my wife and I enjoy is estimating how much coke I’d be doing if I weren’t married and living on Long Island.) But as evidenced by the behavior of everyone from Colin Farrel to Marilyn Manson to the men and women of Fleetwood Mac, cocaine is nothing more or less than the world’s most expensive method of becoming an asshole. Lorne Michaels once said that cocaine is God’s way of telling you you have too much money (he should know), and I’ve got to agree with him. Can you imagine if all these line-snorting socialites spent their money on something worthwhile, like Bide-a-Wee or Fantagraphics? Instead, they’re out buying eightballs and assuring people how much they looooved their last movie.

On the other hand, cocaine is probably the number-one source of the renewed interest in Gary Numan records. So, carry on snowblind!

I meant to link to omnibus post by Instapundit on the “Bush lied about WMDs” canard a couple days ago, so here ’tis.

For anyone who’s done any serious study of the topic, the notion that the whole WMD angle was a sham is laughable. No one, except the Saddam Hussein government, argued that the regime was not pursuing a WMD program–not the Clinton administration, not the UN, not the French/Germans/Russians (that’s why the sanctions were still in place, duh–they couldn’t countenance actually removing them with such a threat still extant), not a single branch of the military/state/intelligence departments. The regime was never, ever going to just “give up” trying to get those things. It was either end the regime, or maintain a genuinely Orwellian perpetual Cold War of no-fly zones and punitive sanctions that hurt primarily average citizens who had nothing to do with the WMD program, and which were being countervened by the duplicitous regime, as well as by countries with ever-increasing smuggling ties to Iraq’s oil, such as Syria and Turkey (and, yes, France, Russia and Germany).

Besides, if you were going to just fabricate a reason to go to war out of whole cloth, wouldn’t you pick something that wouldn’t necessitate your administration going on the Sunday talk shows week after week insisting that your reason was valid? Give Rumsfeld some credit–even if you think he’s a liar, at least acknowledge he’d be a good liar.

While we’re on the topic of anti-war bullroar, here’s a summary of the quote-unquote looting of Baghdad’s museum.

Finally, to those who say “It must be all about oil–we’re not intervening in the Congo/Burma/Zimbabwe/etc!” I’m sorry, but that argument does no good against me. I strongly, indeed almost maniacally, advocate using the military power of the United States and its allies to depose autocratic regimes and end human rights abuses. Indeed, aside from the direct defense of American lives, I can’t think of a better use for our brave, genuinely heroic armed forces. Which is why a) When Paul Begala says (as he did on a recent Imus show) that no amount of saved Iraqis is worth the death of one Marine, I weep for American “liberalism”; b) I’d be tickled, in a perverse way, to see how the “what about the Congo?” crowd reacted if we were to move in to prevent an atrocious Third World disaster like that. I guarantee you that if a Republican’s in the White House, he’d get compared to Hitler for doing so. As someone–Victor Davis Hanson, maybe?–put it, some people seem to feel it better for nothing to be done than for the right thing to be done by the “wrong person.”

Don’t feel too bad, Bill–I didn’t make the list either…

Over at the USS Clueless, Steven Den Beste has recently posted an overwhelmingly comprehensive series of essays and letters on the sorry state of France, which is currently paralyzed (as is its wont) by organized socialist labor unrest and is headed toward a seemingly inexorable fiscal and political crisis. For hardcore political wonks, for worst-case scenarists (is free speech dead in France? is democracy? will France become a socialist dictatorship? a Muslim theocracy? will it swing to fascism? will there be war in Western Europe yet again?), and for people who simply enjoy schadenfreude at France’s expense, it’s all must reading. But it’s a lot more serious than the usual smelly-waiter frogbashing. Check ’em out.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

Proving that the “direct market” of selling comics in comics-oriented specialty shops isn’t a totally lost cause, retailer Stephen Holland describes, in a fascinating essay for Ninth Art, how his shop, Page 45, has become successful at luring regular people into the comic-shop no-man’s-land. His secret? Act like a normal bookstore, for crying out loud. Keep your store clean, bright, and well-organized. Hire helpful, knowledgeable, personable, clean staff. Adamantly refuse to play into preconceptions and prejudice: do not sell toys and ephemera, keep superhero books in their own sections rather than letting them take over the store, don’t name your store after a Batman villain or a Dr. Who episode. Organize and design your store window and put things in it that aren’t Vampirella models.

You mean, if we want more and first-time shoppers, we should model our store after places where people already like to shop? And we won’t even need posters showing that Ben Affleck reads Exiles? Why, that’s so crazy it just might work!

(Also, it’s funny that Mr. Holland, as well as, presumably, many other people, actually live in Nottingham.)

This old guy says Jesus wants us know it’s very, very important to keep gay people in love from getting married.

These people say that on the contrary, Jesus was pulling for a gay man to become bishop.

I don’t know, but it seems like the Jesus that old dude’s been hanging out with is a real asshole.

Micah Wright works on a comic book called Stormwatch: Team Achilles. In his spare time he designs anti-Bush propaganda posters and concocts paranoia- and profanity-laden screeds about how the vast right-wing conspiracy of comics-related bloggers are out to get him (renowned Aschroft acolytes Parrott and Deppey being the primary offenders).

Taking a break from his busy schedule of screaming about fascism and plagiarizing Laurie Anderson, Micah (as noted by comics gossipmonger Rich Johnston) has paused to complain that the minions at Marvel do not properly know how to treat a star of his magnitude (scroll down). Apparently the editors he spoke with at a recent meeting with the company were insufficiently familiar with his output.

C’mon, Micah–clearly they knew damn well who you were, but were under orders from their puppetmasters at Halliburton and the Justice Department to thwart your chances at publication! I mean, duh!

YOUR LIVES ARE IN NEED OF RADICAL REEVALUATION

For some reason I’m in a terrible mood this morning. I think that’s what happens when work actually needs to be done at my job. This happens so rarely that I’m unaccustomed to the feeling. But yeah, arrgh, I feel lousy. How will this affect my blog output today? Only time will tell. My guess is the word “bastards” will be used with some frequency.

“Isn’t it cool that Francois Mitterand’s last meal included an endangered species?”

No, it isn’t. Thank you, The Corner, for reminding me once again why I dislike the Republican Party!

Jesus: Good

Gays: Good

Pope: Old

The 92nd St. Y in New York City is hosting a roundtable discussion on the future of the Democratic Party. It’s moderated by Danny Goldberg, which I understand–Imus humps his new book all morning long. It’s got Janeane Garafalo on the panel, which I can also understand–in a fine example of the kind of selflessness to which John F. Kennedy called all Americans, she’s valiantly sacrificed being funny to the cause of making sure everyone knows that George W. Bush just sucks.

But then they throw a curveball. Josh Harnett.

Yes, that Josh Hartnett.

I guess “diversity of facial expressions” won’t be in the platform.

I just watched the Maysles Brothers’ Gimme Shelter. Several stunning things about the film:

1) It’s amazing how much the aspects of the Altamont concert considered a “bum trip” at the time are par for the course now: proto-crowd surfing, proto-moshing, proto-slamdancing, sexual assault, musicians alternating between their usual “stirring up the kids” poses and “everybody be cool” I’m-here-to-save-the-day would-be soporifics.

2) The Rolling Stones are pretty unbelievable in a live setting, even when people are brandishing guns and getting stabbed to death. The Missus and I have had several debates about whether Jagger was ever “sexy”–her theory is that since he’s a man and a huge rich rock star, society accomodates him in its view of what’s attractive, a luxury not afforded to the Janis Joplins of the world; mine is that if someone can move like that and sing like that, he (or she–think of Patti Smith) has earned the right to be thought of as sexy regardless of how cadaverous they happen to look. But I think he’s pretty sexy in this film.

3) Obviously the entire situation is eerily reminiscent of Woodstock ’99, the difference being that the thugs who came ready for violence at W99 weren’t a small group of Hell’s Angels, but the thousands upon thousands of meatheads who comprised the audience–as well as the five or six meatheads who comprised Limp Bizkit.

4) The Criterion DVD edition of the film includes excerpts from San Fran’s free-form FM radio stalwart KSAN’s four hour post-show wrap-up, in which they took calls from everyone from the band’s road manager to guys from the Angels. Imagine an FM station being given license to take phone calls for four hours in this day and age.