Saturday, January 31, 2009

We Are 3rd (Maybe) In Digital TV?

Drat the Dutch and the Finns; those two technological giants already have switched to all-digital TV systems. Now, the Land O'The Free and the Home O'The Brave faces the Big Switch in a fortnight. What about all of the aluminum-foil-covered rabbit-ear antenna sets? What about the rooftop antenna sets? Without a digital TV converter box — not easily attached to old TV sets — millions of viewers will be staring at snow on their screens on February 17. The Krait (Gail Collins' distaff colleague on the NY Fishwrap's Op-Ed page is Maureen Dowd, aka The Cobra.) looks bemusedly at the flurry of activity to save TV for the geezers. Forget the onset of the Son of the Great Depression! The geezers might miss "The Lawrence Welk Show" replays on Saturday nights! The geezers might miss BillO on Faux News! O, the horror of it all! If this is a (fair & balanced) national crisis, so be it.

[x NY Fishwrap]
TV In Peril. Is Nothing Sacred?
By Gail Collins

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On February 17, the nation’s TV broadcasters are scheduled to go all-digital, and Americans with unconverted analog televisions will get their reception cut off. Perhaps you are one of them. Perhaps you are in such a pathetic state of denial that you are not actually sure if you’re an analog person or not. Perhaps you think an analog is a rare burrowing creature found mainly in Australia.

All I can say is, shape up people. We are post-inauguration now. It’s all about the issues. You can’t palm yourself off as an informed citizen just because you know how many electoral votes Montana has.

In 2005, Congress voted to end analog broadcasting. The impetus was to raise money for the Bush tax cuts by selling off the emptied space. (Bad) But it also freed up lots of room for better Internet reception and public safety communication. (Good)

Other countries are doing the same thing. The Netherlands and Finland have already gone all-digital. In fact, the most unnerving thing about our Feb. 17 deadline is that the United States would be clocking in third. What are the odds that the Bush administration could pull off a complicated public initiative more efficiently than anybody but the Dutch and the Finns?

Everybody agrees that consumers shouldn’t suffer from the transition. So people who get analog reception — mainly those who use a rooftop antenna or indoor rabbit ears — are supposed to get converter boxes that allow them to get digital signals. In places like Britain, the government figures out which households are affected and then sends somebody to install the needed equipment.

Needless to say, the Republican-controlled Congress did not consider anything that socialistic in 2005. No, our plan was so deeply privatized that one DTV converter box retailer hired Joe the Plumber as a spokesman.

People who needed a converter box were supposed to request a $40 coupon, which could be used toward the purchase. The coupon was then sent to them by third-class mail — an interesting choice which sometimes meant the coupons, which expire in three months, did not arrive for four to eight weeks. The lucky recipient could then go to an electronics store, find the right kind of box, take it home and install it. (Just for fun, imagine the oldest member of your family doing this.)

Meanwhile, a public awareness campaign was under way. The Federal Communications Commission decided to spend $350,000 sponsoring a race car named “The Digital TV Transition.” Government officials no doubt imagined the golden moment when a Nascar announcer cried: “It’s the Digital TV Transition — over the finish line in record time.”

In the first race, the car hit a wall. In the second, it crashed and burned. Fans got to hear commentary along the line of: “Well, it looks like the Digital TV Transition is going to have to be towed off the track.”

Still, thanks to public service announcements on TV, an estimated 90 percent of TV owners now know something is up. Unfortunately, the announcements created a deep unease among people who were not affected by the transition at all, like cable or satellite subscribers.

Attention must be paid! The TV is in danger! Some folks thought they needed to buy a new set. Others may have been digging shelters in their backyards. Quite a few applied for those coupons even though they didn’t need them, creating a shortage.

Did I mention that once the government ran out of coupons, no new ones could be issued until the old ones expired? Or that people who didn’t manage to cash their coupons in before the expiration date couldn’t ask for a replacement?

At this point there are an estimated 6.5 million families still relying on unconverted televisions, and a waiting list for coupons. The Obama administration has asked for more time to straighten things out, and the Senate voted unanimously to postpone the deadline for four months. This shows that legislators of good will (Democrat Jay Rockefeller of West Virginia and Republican Kay Bailey Hutchison of Texas) can work in a bipartisan manner when the issue at hand is every American’s God-given right to television reception.

Then the bill moved to the House, where quick action required permission of a two-thirds majority. For once, the Republicans got a chance to make their presence felt, and they instantly sprang into action and refused to allow anybody to do anything. This shows you why Nancy Pelosi always seems a little irritable.

How could the Republicans not be worried about this? A disproportionate number of the endangered TV viewers are senior citizens. Bill O’Reilly’s entire audience is in danger!

The House is going to take another crack at the delay proposal soon. If they act, Obama officials will have another four months to resolve all the problems. As if they didn’t have enough to do. ♥

[Gail Collins joined the New York Times in 1995 as a member of the editorial board and later as an op-ed columnist. In 2001 she became the first woman ever appointed editor of the Times editorial page. At the beginning of 2007, she stepped down and began a leave in order to finish a sequel to her book, America's Women: 400 Years of Dolls, Drudges, Helpmates and Heroines. Collins returned to The Times as a columnist in July 2007. Besides America's Women, which was published in 2003, Ms. Collins is the author of Scorpion Tongues: Gossip, Celebrity and American Politics, and The Millennium Book, which she co-authored with her husband, Dan Collins. Her new book is about American women since 1960. Collins has a degree in journalism from Marquette University and an M.A. in government from the University of Massachusetts-Amherst.]

Copyright © 2009 The New York Times Company

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Thursday, January 29, 2009

You Got That Right, Dude: It Sure As Hell Ain't McDonalds! (Or, Turducken!)

This blogger has eaten "Turducken" — a Cajun dish consisting of a partially de-boned turkey stuffed with a de-boned duck, which itself is stuffed with a small de-boned chicken. The thoracic cavity of the chicken and the rest of the gaps are stuffed, sometimes with a highly seasoned breadcrumb mixture or sausage meat, although some versions have a different stuffing for each bird. However, ingenuity lives in the Land O'The Free and the Home O'The Brave. A pair of barbeque mavens in Roeland Park, KS (a Kansas City suburb) — Jason Day and Aaron Chronister — have offered a pork challenge — "The Bacon Explosion" — to the turducken. If this is (fair & balanced) sus scrofa, so be it.

[x NY Fishwrap]
Take Bacon. Add Sausage. Blog.
By Damon Darlin

"The Bacon Explosion" by Don Ipock for The New York Times

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For a nation seeking unity, a recipe has swept the Internet that seems to unite conservatives and liberals, gun owners and foodies, carnivores and ... well, not vegetarians and health fanatics.

Certainly not the vegetarians and health fanatics.

This recipe is the Bacon Explosion, modestly called by its inventors “the BBQ Sausage Recipe of all Recipes.” The instructions for constructing this massive torpedo-shaped amalgamation of two pounds of bacon woven through and around two pounds of sausage and slathered in barbecue sauce first appeared last month on the Web site of a team of Kansas City competition barbecuers. They say a diverse collection of well over 16,000 Web sites have linked to the recipe, celebrating, or sometimes scolding, its excessiveness. A fresh audience could be ready to discover it on Super Bowl Sunday.

Where once homegrown recipes were disseminated in Ann Landers columns or Junior League cookbooks, new media have changed — and greatly accelerated — the path to popularity. Few recipes have cruised down this path as fast or as far as the Bacon Explosion, and this turns out to be no accident. One of its inventors works as an Internet marketer, and had a sophisticated understanding of how the latest tools of promotion could be applied to a four-pound roll of pork.

The Bacon Explosion was born shortly before Christmas in Roeland Park, Kan., in Jason Day’s kitchen. He and Aaron Chronister, who anchor a barbecue team called Burnt Finger BBQ, were discussing a challenge from a bacon lover they received on their Twitter text-messaging service: What could the barbecuers do with bacon?

At the same time, Mr. Chronister wanted to get attention for their Web site, BBQAddicts.com. More traffic would bring in more advertising income, which they needed to fund a hobby that can cost thousands of dollars.

Mr. Day, a systems administrator who has been barbecuing since college, suggested doing something with a pile of sausage. “It’s a variation of what’s called a fattie in the barbecue community,” Mr. Day said. “But we took it to the extreme.”

He bought about $20 worth of bacon and Italian sausage from a local meat market. As it lay on the counter, he thought of weaving strips of raw bacon into a mat. The two spackled the bacon mat with a layer of sausage, covered that with a crunchy layer of cooked bacon, and rolled it up tight.

They then stuck the roll — containing at least 5,000 calories and 500 grams of fat — in the Good-One Open Range backyard smoker that they use for practice. (In competitions, they use a custom-built smoker designed by the third member of the team, Bryant Gish, who was not present at the creation of the Bacon Explosion.)

Mr. Day said his wife laughed the whole time. “She’s very supportive of my hobby,” he said.

The two men posted their adventure on their Web site two days before Christmas. On Christmas Day, traffic on the site spiked to more than 27,000 visitors.

Mr. Chronister explained that the Bacon Explosion “got so much traction on the Web because it seems so over the top.” But Mr. Chronister, an Internet marketer from Kansas City, Mo., did what he could to help it along. He first used Twitter to send short text messages about the recipe to his 1,200 Twitter followers, many of them fellow Internet marketers with extensive social networks. He also posted links on social networking sites. “I used a lot of my connections to get it out there and to push it,” he said.

The Bacon Explosion posting has since been viewed about 390,000 times. It first found a following among barbecue fans, but quickly spread to sites run by outdoor enthusiasts, off-roaders and hunters. (Several proposed venison-sausage versions.) It also got mentions on the Web site of Air America, the liberal radio network, and National Review, the conservative magazine. Jonah Goldberg at NationalReview.com wrote, “There must be a reason one reader after another sends me this every couple hours.” Conservatives4palin.com linked, too.

So did regular people. A man from Wooster, Ohio, wrote that friends had served it at a bon voyage party before his 10-day trip to Israel, where he expected bacon to be in short supply. “It wasn’t planned as a send-off for me to Israel, but with all of the pork involved it sure seemed like it,” he wrote.

About 30 people sent in pictures of their Explosions. One sent a video of the log catching fire on a grill.

Mr. Day said that whether it is cooked in an oven or in a smoker, the rendered fat from the bacon keeps the sausage juicy. But in the smoker, he said, the smoke heightens the flavor of the meats.

Nick Pummell, a barbecue hobbyist in Las Vegas, learned of the recipe from Mr. Chronister’s Twittering. He made his first Explosion on Christmas Day, when he and a group of friends also had a more traditional turkey. “This was kind of the dessert part,” he said. “You need to call 911 after you are done. It was awesome.”

Mr. Chronister said the main propellant behind the Bacon Explosion’s spread was a Web service called StumbleUpon, which steers Web users toward content they are likely to find interesting. Readers tell the service about their professional interests or hobbies, and it serves up sites to match them. More than 7 million people worldwide use the service in an attempt to duplicate serendipity, the company says.

Mr. Chronister intended to send the post to StumbleUpon, but one of his readers beat him to it. It appeared on the front page of StumbleUpon for three days, which further increased traffic.

Mr. Chronister also littered his site with icons for Digg, Del.icio.us and other sites in which readers vote on posts or Web pages they like, helping to spread the word. “Alright this is going on Digg,” a commenter wrote minutes after the Explosion was posted. “Already there,” someone else answered.

Some have claimed that the Bacon Explosion is derivative. A writer known as the Headless Blogger posted a similar roll of sausage and bacon in mid-December. Mr. Chronister and Mr. Day do not claim to have invented the concept.

But they do vigorously defend their method. When one commenter dared to suggest that the two hours in the smoker could be slashed to a mere 30 minutes if the roll was first cooked in a microwave oven, Mr. Chronister snapped back. “Microwave??? Seriously? First, the proteins in the meats will bind around 140 degrees, so putting it on the smoker after that is pointless as it won’t absorb any smoke flavor,” he responded on his site. “This requires patience and some attention. It’s not McDonald’s.” ♥

[Damon Darlin was named technology editor for The New York Times in May 2007. Mr. Darlin joined The Times in August 2005 as a West Coast correspondent and “Your Money” columnist. Previously, Mr. Darlin was senior editor at Business 2.0 since 2002, where he began as executive editor in 2000. From 1997 to 2000, he was assistant managing editor and managing editor at U.S. News & World Report. Before that, he was senior editor at Forbes Magazine since 1993. Darlin received a B.A. degree in American history from the University of Chicago in 1979.]

Copyright © 2009 The New York Times Company

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John Updike's Final Word

[x Wikipedia]

John Hoyer Updike (March 18, 1932 – January 27, 2009) was an American novelist, poet, short story writer, art critic, and literary critic. Updike's most famous work is his Rabbit series (Rabbit, Run; Rabbit Redux; Rabbit Is Rich; Rabbit At Rest; and Rabbit Remembered). Both Rabbit is Rich and Rabbit at Rest received the Pulitzer Prize. Describing his subject as "the American small town, Protestant middle class," Updike was widely recognized for his careful craftsmanship, his highly stylistic writing, and his prolific output, having published more than twenty-five novels and more than a dozen short story collections, as well as poetry, art criticism, literary criticism and children's books. Hundreds of his stories, reviews, and poems appeared in The New Yorker, starting in 1954. He also wrote regularly for The New York Review of Books. His work attracted a significant amount of critical attention and he was considered one of the most prominent contemporary American novelists. Updike died of lung cancer on January 27, 2009.

If this is a (fair & balanced) requiem for a real heavyweight, so be it.

[x NY Fishwrap]
Requiem
By John Updike

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It came to me the other day:
Were I to die, no one would say,
“Oh, what a shame! So young, so full
Of promise — depths unplumbable!”

Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise;
The wide response will be, I know,
“I thought he died a while ago.”

For life’s a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark, and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur. ♥

[This poem is taken from John Updike’s forthcoming collection, Endpoint and Other Poems.]

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Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Wobegon Boy Waxes Hopeful

Hope is — according to the online dictionary — the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best. The Wobegon Boy is suffused with the anticipation of our happy ending. Unfortunately, "hope" rhymes with "nope." If this is (fair & balanced) réalité, realität, realtà, or realidad, so be it.

[x Salon]
A Hopeful People
By Garrison Keillor

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It is God that has made us and not we ourselves, we are his people and the sheep of his pasture, and George W. Bush is no longer the top sheep. Altogether a cause for rejoicing as we forge ahead in the struggle to achieve inner tranquility, which for me the other morning included misplaced glasses, a madcap dash to the airport, and en route in the taxi a call from my wife saying, "You forgot your billfold." One more sheep with a thorn in his hoof.

Tranquility. A woman you barely know comes to your home with a sheaf of papers and explains what the documents are about and you don't understand a word and the papers are a blur of fine print but you sign them. For all you know, she could take them to the bank, get a hundred grand in 50s, jump in the Jaguar and be in Toronto by midnight. You trust not. You hope not.

Paranoia belongs to the fringe right and left, not to genteel burghers like you and me. We sit under our fig tree and enjoy our cheeseburger without brooding too much about toxic chemicals used by meatpackers or thought-control drugs injected into the beef. Every morning in the newspaper, some columnist cries out in alarm that yet one more disaster is creeping toward us like a cougar about to spring and chew our throats, and we read a few paragraphs and turn the page and warm up another Danish.

We are a hopeful people. I have at home a traveler's phrasebook that tells you how to say you have a toothache in French (mal de dents), German (Zahnschmerzen), Italian (mal di denti) or Spanish (dolor de muelas), which, of all my investments, was the most hopeful and most foolish. I bought it in the airport years ago, imagining that on the flight over the Atlantic, I'd pick up an active vocabulary of maybe 400 words or so, and be able to converse with cabdrivers and hotel clerks about the weather or the arrival of trains or location of suitcases, and so forth. I had a couple of old uncles who got along with small, active vocabularies, things like, "OK then," or, "Oh for goodness sake," or, "Well, you never know" -- and I thought I could do the same in other languages.

The little book stayed in my suitcase. Cabdrivers in Berlin had no need of conversation with me, and I never experienced a Zahnschmerzen or mal de dents over there, and if I had, the dentist surely would've known the word "toothache." My attempt to say "mal de dents" might actually have made the French think I had a sharp pain in my left ventricle and they would've thrown me down and torn my shirt open and slapped the paddles on my chest and there I'd be with a toothache and also convulsing helplessly on the Rue de Tutti and regretting my attempt at international understanding. I'm sure this sort of thing happens all the time.

The second most unused book, I suppose, is the Holy Bible, a perennial bestseller thanks to our good intentions to attend to the Word and divine the Lord's Will, which one does for a few days until you realize that you already know the Lord's Will and you would prefer not to.

After that come diet books, which are bought in vast number and perused and put away. Twenty bucks for nothing, when the secret of dieting is simply: "Eat when you're hungry." And then the spiritual books about achieving inner tranquility and "How to Achieve Orgasm in 30 Days or Less" and inspiring books of all sorts.

We are a hopeful people.

One ponders that as we see the fresh faces in Washington replace the bullheads who've been bottom-feeding for eight painful years, and one is full of hope that the replacements will do the right thing and serve the common good, but then we are the same people who planned to converse in French about toothaches, and that didn't happen either.

Meanwhile we have this classy family in the White House, overachievers but gracious about it, mischievous kids and a smart man and a woman who sometimes tosses him glances that say, "Oh, just get over yourself." What their presence says about the decency and generosity of this country is huge, friends, just huge. Rejoice, America. Je suis Americain. Ich bin ein Amerikaner. ♥

[Garrison Keillor is an author, storyteller, humorist, and creator of the weekly radio show "A Prairie Home Companion." The show began in 1974 as a live variety show on Minnesota Public Radio. In the 1980s "A Prairie Home Companion" became a pop culture phenomenon, with millions of Americans listening to Keillor's folksy tales of life in the fictional Midwestern town of Lake Wobegon, where (in Keillor's words) "the women are strong, the men are good looking, and all of the children are above average." Keillor ended the show in 1987, and 1989 began a similar new radio show titled "American Radio Company of the Air." In 1993 he returned the show to its original name. Keillor also created the syndicated daily radio feature "A Writer's Almanac" in 1993. He has written for The New Yorker and is the author of several books, including Happy to Be Here (1990), Leaving Home (1992), Lake Wobegon Days (1995), and Good Poems for Hard Times (2005). Keillor's most recent book is a new Lake Wobegon novel, Liberty. His radio show inspired a 2006 movie, "A Prairie Home Companion," written by and starring Keillor and directed by Robert Altman. Keillor graduated (B.A., English) from the University of Minneosta in 1966. His signature sign-off on "The Writer's Almanac" is "Be well, do good work, and keep in touch."]

Copyright © 2008 Salon Media Group, Inc.

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Tuesday, January 27, 2009

If Not For Snark, This Blog Wouldn't Have A Personality!

In the dim past of this blogger's life, someone — in exasperation — told him: "If it wasn't for sarcasm, you wouldn't have a personality." The truth hurts and sometimes the hurt is deserved. However, sometimes sarcasm is deserved. Indeed, sometimes snark is deserved. Thanks to Lewis Carroll, for a great word in his 1876 poem, The Hunting of the Snark. If this is (fair & balanced) philology, so be it.

[x New York]
Snark Attack
By Adam Sternbergh

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You have to give David Denby credit for bravery: Writing a book titled Snark: It’s Mean, It’s Personal, and It’s Ruining Our Conversation is like writing a book titled Keying My Car: It’s the Wrong Thing to Do or Why Flaming Bags of Dog Poop on My Doorstep Just Aren’t Funny. You invite the transgression even as you decry it; you loose the hounds on yourself. Given Denby’s age (65) and position in the firmament (film reviewer for The New Yorker), he could have written the most concise, insightful, artfully balanced, and expertly argued book about snark and still come off like an Internet-age Andy Rooney, wagging his finger from his rocking chair at the boisterous kids on the lawn. And he has not written the most concise, insightful, artfully balanced, and expertly argued book about snark.

I’m sorry, did that sound snarky? I apologize. Denby’s book invites—even begs masochistically to receive—a snarky response, but he won’t get one here. I enjoy snark. I practice snark. And I hope herein to defend snark. But it’s too easy to stamp this book with some snarky dismissal (EPIC FAIL) and continue on one’s self-satisfied way. Denby’s book is serious, and wrong, and it deserves an appropriate response. Moreover, the book is premised on a popular meme: that so-called snark, what he calls “a nasty, knowing strain of abuse spreading like pinkeye through the national conversation,” is both increasingly unavoidable and intrinsically corrosive. I disagree on both counts. Snark can be misused and misdirected. It can be mean, and it can be personal. It’s also not only useful as a form of public conversation but necessary, for reasons that Denby either ignores or fails to comprehend.

The first difficulty of writing about snark is that you have to define snark. This proves consistently tricky, no less so for Denby. His definition is a tap dance on hot coals, as he mostly tells us what snark is not. It’s not irreverence or spoof or satire. It’s not Jon Stewart or Stephen Colbert or Keith Olbermann. It’s not irony, at least not irony as exemplified by “the sharpened blade of Swift.” “Snark is like a schoolyard taunt without the schoolyard,” he writes. “Snark is hazing on the page.” Basically, Denby argues that snark is humor as a vehicle for cruelty. Of course, a book titled Cruelty: It’s Ruining Our Conversation hardly jazzes the reader, as it might have been published at any time in the last 400 years. Snark, as a term, feels current, modern: a viral killer for our cacophonous age.

Denby traces snark’s history from Roman poet Juvenal to Spy magazine to Maureen Dowd (see here), then contends it has flowered into an epidemic, thanks to the Internet. “I would bet that half the words written as instant messages or Twitter are snark of one sort or another… even a man as generous as Walt Whitman would be hard-pressed to hear in these flares the barbaric yawp of a free people,” he writes of the electronically enabled hoi polloi who insist on ruining “our” conversation. Snark “prides itself on wit, but it’s closer to a leg stuck out in a school corridor that sends some kid flying.” It’s the bitter bile coughed up by the angry defeated, “repackaging the anger as smear.” It’s the lingua franca of the bullying and the jaded, yet it threatens to choke us all, as the “gas of snark enters the air around us as a corrosive sense that cynicism is hip and everyone is vulnerable.”

To anyone who survived the nineties, these attacks may sound familiar. Denby’s essentially rehashing the arguments mounted against irony, post-9/11, when everyone was dancing briefly on its grave. Denby even exhumes Jedediah Purdy, irony’s premillennial adversary, who bristled at his peers’ morally asphyxiating detachment, calling it “the negative security of perpetual suspicion.” Snark, as it’s usually understood, is irony’s bastard offspring. It’s irony curdled into something even worse. But irony’s critics were wrong then, just as snark’s critics are wrong today.

Let’s examine the charge that snark is, by nature, disenchanted and apathetic, unable to rouse more than a fleeting sneer toward whatever victim stumbles into its crosshairs. “Snark’s aesthetic judgments can’t be trusted; it has too modest a rooting interest in artists actually succeeding at anything,” Denby writes. My first exposure to snark as an Internet term for sarcastic criticism was with the Website, "Television Without Pity." Founded in 1999 by three friends of mine, the site, which wore its snark proudly—its credo was “Spare the Snark, Spoil the Networks”—was a virtual watering hole where TV fans could gather to rant about, snipe at, dismiss, ridicule, and, yes, snark on their favorite shows. It was consistently funny, occasionally mean, and snarky to its bones. But it was never, ever, disengaged. In fact, TV creators used to frequent the site to gather judgments and solicit opinions. These creators recognized the obvious: Just as anyone who ever read the lyrics to a Nirvana song (or Peter Bagge’s comic-book series, elegantly titled Hate) would know that slackers, in their wounded idealism, could be wincingly earnest, any visitor to "Television Without Pity," or similar snarky fan sites, can see that its acid-tongued readers are the best fans a culture could hope to produce— informed, demanding, passionate.

This raises a tricky question that Denby, like most of snark’s critics, never addresses: Where exactly did all this snark come from? Did we simply transform overnight into a nation of venal assholes? I’d argue that slackers adopted irony not as a pose of hipster cynicism but as a defense against inheriting a two-faced world. When no one—from politicians to pundits—says what he actually means, irony becomes a logical self-inoculation. Similarly, snark, irony’s brat, flourishes in an age of doublespeak and idiocy that’s too rarely called out elsewhere. Snark is not a honk of blasé detachment; it’s a clarion call of frustrated outrage.

Take this small example from Denby’s book: In pining for the tough-talking wit of Rosalind Russell and her ilk, he writes, “Whatever its miseries, the country in the thirties and forties was at peace with itself spiritually: We were all in the same boat.” Now, you could calmly point out Denby’s lazy generalization as he reimagines a time of widespread inequality as an idyllic epoch of snappy-pattered togetherness. Or you could respond, “Denby, you dumbass, not only were we not all in the same boat, we weren’t even at the same water fountains.” Sometimes the snarky response is the correct response.

This seems truer than ever before. Consider how much of our public speech—in politics, celebrity, sports—is composed of spin, prevarications, and barefaced lies. If you’re looking for a telltale moment from the last election as to the state of our political discourse, don’t look toward Sarah Palin’s mean-girl snark attacks at the Republican Convention (as Denby does) or to the columns of Maureen Dowd. Look instead at that unguarded moment when commentator Peggy Noonan let slip her true feelings about Palin’s nomination into a hot mike—in contradiction to what she’d just said live on-air. Or consider the oft-made but pertinent point that postdebate commentators reside in “Spin Alley.” When we live in a world where professional analysts on TV can be trusted to simply say what they actually believe, then I think we’ll find that snark will start to turn its own volume down.

Yet in snark Denby sees a symptom and calls it a disease. In a particularly tin-eared moment, he defends, of all people, Tom Cruise. Given the wealth of legitimate snark victims, why pick the star who best personifies the meticulous image-grooming and draconian information control that’s come to characterize modern celebrity? Surely Denby is not blind to the damage done to journalism, and society, by a culture of habitual lies. (Maybe not. He goes on to stick up for Barry Bonds.) Later, Denby notes with patrician dismay that a blog named With Leather declares itself to be “all about the assholes and idiots in the world of sports.” He priggishly clucks at this “mix of adoration, envy, and resentment,” without even a nod to the world of sports being, self-evidently, full of assholes and idiots. Or that there’s a lucrative industry built up around camouflaging that fact from fans, who, not surprisingly, are then drawn to blogs like With Leather.

That’s the recurring blind spot in the criticism of snark. Can it be nasty? Definitely. Is Perez Hilton a repugnant Horseman of the Apocalypse? You bet. Is snark scattershot in its application? Of course—all too often it’s applied like a clawhammer to the soft skulls of undeserving targets. Does the reflexive glibness practiced at certain outposts of the Internet (which, contrary to Denby’s sensationalism, flourish mainly in the niche of media and celebrity gossip; snarky blogs about economics, business, politics, and technology are the rare exceptions) produce, in the regular reader, a wearying hopelessness, building up in your system like mercury poisoning? Yes, I’m afraid it does—though no more so than the wearying hopelessness that might come from watching too much Nancy Grace.

Charges against snark are valid, especially when backed up with cherry-picked evidence. But you could make the same accusations against all strains of humor, throughout history, when misapplied. In targeting snark, Denby sights a trendy straw man, but he misses the important point that snark is not an idea; it’s a conduit—an outrage delivery device. He claims that snark is the favored voice of a generation “who know, by the time they are 12, the mechanics of hype, spin, and big money,” and about this, he’s exactly right. But instead of moving on to denounce the toxic pervasiveness of hype, spin, and big money, he blames the refuseniks who rail against it, claiming that everything seems “lifeless and unreal to them.”

Current events are certainly unreal but snark’s response is hardly lifeless. Snark is not the poison; it’s a home-brewed antidote. It’s the angry heckler at the back of the room. But Denby can only hear the hecklers, not the ridiculous act they’re heckling. When you are living in a nation awash in bullshit, it should not be surprising when people cry out, The nation is awash in bullshit! and maybe throw in an extraneous And your mother dresses you funny! It should also not be surprising, I guess, when people like Denby, ensconced on their porches, their conversations interrupted, tut-tut and tell those people to keep their voices down.

Next: David Denby’s Hall of Shame

[Adam Sternbergh is an editor-at-large at New York and the co-author of Hey! It's That Guy: The Fametracker.com Guide To Character Actors. Sternbergh is a writer and co-founder of Fametracker — w Web site which dissects celebrity and the entertainment industry.]

Copyright © 2009, New York Media LLC

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We Need A 4th Monkey: Do No Evil

We are about to become the equivalent of "good Germans," who ostensibly were not to blame for allowing Hitler to persecute the Jews, and who did not see the Holocaust as it occurred before their eyes. Denial of the truth is universal in many places: Germany, Japan, Serbia, and now the Land O'The Free and the Home O'The Brave. It is difficult to deal with war crimes and the criminals who commit them. The United States must not emulate the "good" Germans, Japanese, Serbs, and other perpetrators and enablers of crimes against humanity. If this is (fair & balanced) national shame, so be it.

[x Salon]
This Modern World — See No, Speak No, Hear No....
By Tom Tomorrow (Dan Perkins)

Click on image to enlarge. ♥

Tom Tomorrow/Dan Perkins

[Dan Perkins is an editorial cartoonist better known by the pen name "Tom Tomorrow". His weekly comic strip, "This Modern World," which comments on current events from a strong liberal perspective, appears regularly in approximately 150 papers across the U.S., as well as on Salon and Working for Change. The strip debuted in 1990 in SF Weekly.

Perkins, a long time resident of Brooklyn, New York, currently lives in Connecticut. He received the Robert F. Kennedy Award for Excellence in Journalism in both 1998 and 2002.

When he is not working on projects related to his comic strip, Perkins writes a daily political weblog, also entitled "This Modern World," which he began in December 2001.]

Copyright © 2009 Salon Media Group, Inc.

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Monday, January 26, 2009

KLAR? A Users Guide For This Blog

KLAR — Keep Learning And Revising. This is a guide to the new version of this blog. If this is (fair & balanced) innovation, so be it.

[x Sapper's (Fair & Balanced) Rants & Raves]

• Above The Banner

Google Search Tool For The Blog
Blog Visitor Count

• The Banner — Blog TitleAdditional Blog Features:
Double-clicking on words for an Answers.com-response
Reminder of the internal search tool for the blog

• Left-side MenuRSS Subscription Options (drop-down menu)
Comments Subscription Options (drop-down menu)
Blog ArchiveSearchable/Clickable By Current Month & Day
Searchable/Clickable By Year (Previous Years)
About Me (Blogger Profile)
_________________
On the right side of the page, blog entries are in two different font colors: Green Text sets off the blogger's introductory and concluding remarks and the posted text itself is in brown. In brief, Green Text was written by the blogger and brown text was written by someone else. Finally, each blog post concludes with a ♥.

Copyright © 2009 Sapper's (Fair & Balanced) Rants & Raves

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Thanks For Smarts, Class, & Syntax... (And Dick Cavett)

Richard (Dick) Cavett, born a Nebraska boy with cheek, hits all of the right notes about the ceremonies just past in Washington, DC. If this is (fair & balanced) lachrymosity, so be it.

[x NY Fishwrap]
I’m Not Weeping; It’s An Allergy
By Dick Cavett

Tag cloud of this article:

created at TagCrowd.com





These foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit.
– Shakespeare, “The Merchant of Venice”


I had neither planned nor expected to cry.

If it’s true, as some maintain, that men who cry are pantywaists, then I stand condemned.

Not being one of those whose tear-production is either quick or voluminous, I was amazed at how many times, watching the all-day spectacle, I lost it.

And it wasn’t just at the easy times like, say, during a sudden close-up of a tear-streaked elderly black face in the crowd, but also at moments that were just plain “for the country.”

“Historic” and “historic moment” and “historic day” were repeated mercilessly, but remained true. Only a zombie could fail to feel the truth of it.

*****

It seems, doesn’t it, that there are two kinds of tears?

There’s the kind produced by the death of your dog (which just happened to me once again, and about which I always offend someone by asserting that the reason the death of a pet is worse than the death of a human is that you have mixed feelings about all people), or by the loss of a loved one. And there’s the almost opposite kind — but still tears — produced by watching Astaire and Rogers, the young DiMaggio and the young Ali, a sudden Picasso, Ol’ Blue Eyes’s voice, the 23rd Psalm, or any performance by Meryl Streep. Or Obama’s grin for his daughters.

Music bypasses the brain and goes straight to the heart. I wish my life had more of it. Once, years ago, I was taken along to Tanglewood for a concert by the great Zino Francescatti, a name scandalously unknown to me the day before.

Somehow we were in the front row. I was not on TV yet or I would have been even more embarrassed when, repeatedly and to my total amazement, the virtuoso violinist caused me to, as suddenly as a hiccup, give forth with an audible, gurgling sob. Beauty tears, I guess you could call them. Tears of joy.

Aretha can make me cry. So could Ella, and Etta, and Ruth and Billie, and Carmen and Lena, and, and . . . the list goes on and on of female black singers who have unlimited access to my emotional innards.

And yet somehow I was never moved — a limb confronts me and I am about to venture out upon it with a dangerous confession– by the sanctified Marian Anderson.

Her affectations and regal bearing I found embarrassing. It takes a heart of stone not to be moved by just about anybody’s rendering of “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” but her choosing to make “hand” sound too much like “hahnd,” and her queenly personal use of the royal “we” and “our” in both speech and writing sort of put me off. (Sorry to those for whom this admission will place me beyond redemption.)

The refreshingly robust delivery of “Amazing Grace” by Wintley Phipps last Tuesday got to me big-time. And I always worry for that great song, fearing it might grow stale through overuse. It gets trotted out to give instant depth of feeling to mediocre dramas that can’t otherwise spur emotion. One year, it was the theme music of three feature films.

I find most “sacred music” pretty dismal. I don’t have a strict policy of “nothing sacred.” Once past the overly familiar “Mine eyes have seen the glory” stanza of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” at least a dozen lines in the sublime later verses — even just reading them — can make me gurgle and (since I don’t own one) ask for a hankie.

At least a dozen lines and passages in it simply cannot be read impassively, from “I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel” to whole stanzas like:
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat:
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.

One moment in that stirring hymn never fails me. Though not much of a believer, I have only to think and hum the first line of one of the less familiar stanzas to induce instant throat stricture:

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free
While God is marching on.

Why was Julia Ward Howe not forced to turn out at least 20 more hit singles?

*****

I felt bad when George Bush was booed.

But only briefly. My sympathy for that man has a half-life of about four seconds.

There was a surprising number of outpourings of sympathy for his having to sit there and, as it was too-often described, “take it on the chin.” Was there ever a chin more deserving of taking it?

“You have to feel sorry for him,” someone cooed. “No. You do not!” I shouted at the screen. I know he “tried” and he “did what he thought was right.” But so does the incompetent surgeon.

What does that excuse?

His brief discomfort “sitting there” can’t have been less endurable than the discomfort of the young soldier describing on the news how he watched helplessly as his gut-shot buddy bled to death on the sands the smirking Texan sent him to.

*****

And a hearty sayonara to that other fellow.

Do freshman philosophy classes nowadays debate updated versions of the age-old questions? Like, how could a merciful God allow AIDS, childhood cancers, tsunamis and Dick Cheney?

*****

As with all good entertainments, there was unintended comic relief.

Not since Robert Goulet forgot the words to the national anthem has there been a moment to rival the chief justice’s blowing his lines, turning The Oath of Office into an Abbott & Costello “Who’s-on first?” routine.

The giggling schoolboy side of me thought it laughable as hell. What would the funny man do next? Drop the Lincoln bible on his foot?

Yet the increasingly curmudgeonly side of me frowned and found it inexcusable. It isn’t as if some tipsy, third-rate actor did it. It was the chief justice of the Supreme Court of the United States!

And he was playing to perhaps the largest audience in world history.

Nerves? Stage fright?

How nervous could a man in his position possibly be? As one of the dozen remaining people in the country with job security — and for life — oughtn’t he be at least relatively calm?

*****

All in all it was, to put it feebly, a day to remember.

And, remarkably, I heard, the mobs of millions produced not a single arrest. All kinds of history was made that day.

What this — as Tennessee W.’s Blanche DuBois says, “young, young, young man” can do for the country and the world is yet to be revealed.

But for starters isn’t it nice having someone in the Oval Office with smarts? And class?

And syntax? ♥

[The host of “The Dick Cavett Show” — which aired on ABC from 1968 to 1975 and on public television from 1977 to 1982 — Dick Cavett is also the coauthor of two books, Cavett (1974) and Eye on Cavett (1983). He has appeared on Broadway in “Otherwise Engaged,” “Into the Woods,” and as narrator in “The Rocky Horror Show,” and has made guest appearances in movies and on TV shows including “Forrest Gump” and “The Simpsons.” Cavett received a B.A. in theater from Yale University.]

Copyright © The New York Times Company

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Praise The Lord (Of Your Choice) — Kristol-Unclear Is Gone!

This is Kristol-Unclear's Farewell Address in the NY Fishwrap. Goodbye, Kristol-Unclear, don't let the door hit you on the way out. If this is (fair & balanced) gloating, so be it.

[x NY Fishwrap]
Will Obama Save Liberalism?
By William Kristol

All good things must come to an end. January 20, 2009, marked the end of a conservative era.

Since Ronald Reagan’s election in 1980, conservatives of various sorts, and conservatisms of various stripes, have generally been in the ascendancy. And a good thing, too! Conservatives have been right more often than not — and more often than liberals — about most of the important issues of the day: about Communism and jihadism, crime and welfare, education and the family. Conservative policies have on the whole worked — insofar as any set of policies can be said to “work” in the real world. Conservatives of the Reagan-Bush-Gingrich-Bush years have a fair amount to be proud of.

They also have some regrets. They’ll have time to ponder those as liberals now take their chance to govern.

Lest conservatives be too proud, it’s worth recalling that conservatism’s rise was decisively enabled by liberalism’s weakness. That weakness was manifested by liberalism’s limp reaction to the challenge from the New Left in the 1960s, became more broadly evident during the 1970s, and culminated in the fecklessness of the Carter administration at the end of that decade.

In 1978, the Harvard political philosopher Harvey Mansfield diagnosed the malady: “From having been the aggressive doctrine of vigorous, spirited men, liberalism has become hardly more than a trembling in the presence of illiberalism. ... Who today is called a liberal for strength and confidence in defense of liberty?”

Over the next three decades, it was modern conservatism, led at the crucial moment by Ronald Reagan, that assumed the task of defending liberty with strength and confidence. Can a revived liberalism, faced with a new set of challenges, now pick up that mantle?

The answer lies in the hands of one man: the 44th president. If Reagan’s policies had failed, or if he hadn’t been politically successful, the conservative ascendancy would have been nipped in the bud. So with President Obama today. Liberalism’s fate rests to an astonishing degree on his shoulders. If he governs successfully, we’re in a new political era. If not, the country will be open to new conservative alternatives.

We don’t really know how Barack Obama will govern. What we have so far, mainly, is an Inaugural Address, and it suggests that he may have learned more from Reagan than he has sometimes let on. Obama’s speech was unabashedly pro-American and implicitly conservative.

Obama appealed to the authority of “our forebears,” “our founding documents,” even — political correctness alert! — “our founding fathers.” He emphasized that “we will not apologize for our way of life nor will we waver in its defense.” He spoke almost not at all about rights (he had one mention of “the rights of man,” paired with “the rule of law” in the context of a discussion of the Constitution). He called for “a new era of responsibility.”

And he appealed to “the father of our nation,” who, before leading his army across the Delaware on Christmas night, 1776, allegedly “ordered these words be read to the people: ‘Let it be told to the future world that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive, that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet it.’”

For some reason, Obama didn’t identify the author of “these timeless words” — the only words quoted in the entire speech. He’s Thomas Paine, and the passage comes from the first in his series of Revolutionary War tracts, “The Crisis.” Obama chose to cloak his quotation from the sometimes intemperate Paine in the authority of the respectable George Washington.

Sixty-seven years ago, a couple of months after Pearl Harbor, at the close of a long radio address on the difficult course of the struggle we had just entered upon, another liberal president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, also told the story of Washington ordering that “The Crisis” be read aloud, and also quoted Paine. But he turned to the more famous — and more stirring — passage with which Paine begins his essay:

“These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.”

That exhortation was appropriate for World War II. Today, the dangers are less stark, and the conflicts less hard. Still, there will be trying times during Obama’s presidency, and liberty will need staunch defenders. Can Obama reshape liberalism to be, as it was under F.D.R., a fighting faith, unapologetically patriotic and strong in the defense of liberty? That would be a service to our country.

Editorial Remark At The Conclusion: "This is William Kristol’s last column." ♥

[William Kristol is founder and editor of The Weekly Standard, the influential journal of politics and ideas located in Washington, D.C. He is also a regular panelist on "Faux News Sunday" and an analyst for the Faux News Channel. Kristol received both his A.B. (1973) and Ph.D. (1979) from Harvard University. If there is any justice, Kristol and his fellow neo-con war criminals (who gave us the Iraq War) should go to the dock in the World Court at The Hague. Let Kristol-Unclear, Paul Wolfie, and Perle of Foolishness stand alongside The Dubster, The Dickster, and The Rumster before they all climb the scaffold stairs and dance at the end of a rope like Saddam Hussein. War criminals of a feather should hang together.]

Copyright © 2009 The New York Times Company

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Sunday, January 25, 2009

When Life Is A Super-Hero Sandwich And Every Day You Just Take Another Bite

Note from the blogger: This blog will undergo renovation beginning tomorrow to take advantage of new bells & whistles, courtesy of Blogger (aka Google). Stay tuned.

In the meantime, The Fraternity of Crocodiles ("Zeeba Zeeba Eata") in Stephan Pastis' strip ("Pearls Before Swine") in the funny papers have organized a band of Super Heroes. The story of this intrepid squadron follows (Remember to click on the images to enlarge the text.):







If this is (fair & balanced) phantasmagoria, so be it.

[x Rolling Stone]
The Legend of Master Legend
By Joshua Bearman

Tag Cloud summary for the following article:

created at TagCrowd.com



Everyone has the opportunity to awaken and become who they always wanted to be.
—Green Scorpion


Master Legend races out the door of his secret hide-out, fires up the Battle Truck and summons his trusty sidekick. "Come on, Ace!" he yells. "Time to head into the shadows!"


The Ace appears wearing his flame-accented mask and leather vest; Master Legend is costumed in his signature silver and black regalia. "This is puncture-resistant rubber," Master Legend says proudly, pointing at his homemade breastplate. His arms are covered with soccer shinguards that have been painted silver to match his mask. "It won't stop a bullet," he says, "but it will deflect knives."

"Not that any villain's knives have ever gotten that close!" the Ace chimes in.

When Master Legend bursts into a sprint, as he often does, his long, unruly hair flows behind him. His mane is also in motion when he's behind the wheel of the Battle Truck, a 1986 Nissan pickup with a missing rear window and "ML" spray-painted on the hood. He and the Ace head off to patrol their neighborhood on the outskirts of Orlando, scanning the street for evildoers. "I don't go looking for trouble," Master Legend shouts above the engine. "But if you want some, you'll get it!"

Then he hands me his business card, which says:
Master Legend
Real Life Super Hero
"At Your Service"

Like other real life super-heroes, Master Legend is not an orphan from a distant dying sun or the mutated product of a gamma-ray experiment gone awry. He is not an eccentric billionaire moonlighting as a crime fighter. He is, as he puts it, "just a man hellbent on battling evil." Although Master Legend was one of the first to call himself a Real Life Superhero, in recent years a growing network of similarly homespun caped crusaders has emerged across the country. Some were inspired by 9/11. If malevolent individuals can threaten the world, the argument goes, why can't other individuals step up to save it? "What is Osama bin Laden if not a supervillain, off in his cave, scheming to destroy us?" asks Green Scorpion, a masked avenger in Arizona. True to comic-book tradition, each superhero has his own aesthetic. Green Scorpion's name is derived from his desert home, from which he recently issued a proclamation to "the criminals of Arizona and beyond," warning that to continue illegal activities is to risk the "Sting of the Green Scorpion!" The Eye takes his cue from the primordial era of Detective Comics, prowling Mountain View, California, in a trench coat, goggles and a black fedora featuring a self-designed logo: the "all-seeing" Eye of Horus. Superhero — his full name — is a former wrestler from Clearwater, Florida, who wears red and blue spandex and a burgundy helicopter helmet, and drives a 1975 Corvette Stingray customized with license plates that read SUPRHRO.

Most Real Life Superheroes are listed on the World Superhero Registry, a recently assembled online roster. ("I can't say if I will ever fight an army of giant robots or a criminal mastermind," an Indianapolis superhero called Mr. Silent notes in his entry. "I just don't know.") Some superheroes have joined forces in local crime-fighting syndicates: the Black Monday Society in Salt Lake City, the Artemis National Consortium in San Diego and the tautologically titled Justice Society of Justice in Indianapolis. Attempting to unite all the superheroes under one banner are groups like the World Heroes Organization and Heroes Network, which hosts an online forum where more than 200 crime fighters trade tactics (should I wear a mask?), patrolling tips (how do I identify a street gang?) and advice/feedback (can you get bulletproof vests on eBay?).

The Justice Force is Master Legend's own crime-fighting syndicate, a rotating cast of ad hoc superheroes that seems to include everyone he knows. There's the Disabler, Genius Jim, the Black Panther and a duo named Fire and Brimstone. At his right hand is the Ace, so named because he always needs "an ace up my sleeve!" The Ace lives with Master Legend at the team's secret hide-out, a dilapidated clapboard house in a seedy neighborhood outside Orlando. In the back is Master Legend's workshop, a converted garage where he develops various weapons, like the Master Blaster: a six-foot-long silver cannon fueled by cans of Right Guard that can shoot "a variety of projectiles," including stun pellets made from plastic Easter eggs filled with cayenne pepper and rock salt. As the superheroes see it, the fact that they can't project energy bolts or summon force fields only adds to the purity of their commitment. Their heroism, in a sense, derives from their lack of powers. What they have instead is the power to craft themselves anew. "This whole movement is more than just fat guys in spandex," insists Superhero, himself a brawny guy in head-to-toe spandex.

Once you take on a secret identity, there's the problem of maintaining it. Many Real Life Superheroes shun press. Some are difficult to reach even by phone. Others allow interviews, but will meet only in costume and in public. The first time I meet Master Legend face-to-mask, for example, it is carefully choreographed by him to occur on the neutral turf of a restaurant in downtown Orlando. "I can't show you my face," he says as we meet in front of Gino's Pizza and Brew, which he has designated as a safe zone. "And there are only a couple places that will let me in with my uniform and mask on. But here they know all about me!"

Why all the secrecy? Compromised methods, safety of loved ones — the "usual issues," according to Master Legend, that are confronted by superheroes. Don't forget, he warns, that the public can be ambivalent toward masked avengers. Consider lovable Spider-Man, constantly facing exposure by his own boss, the irascible J. Jonah Jameson. Real Life Superheroes were alarmed by the sad case of Captain Jackson, a "police-sanctioned" hero in Jackson, Michigan — until his DUI arrest and the resulting Jackson Citizen Patriot headline: "Crime Fighter Busted for Drunken Driving." The article went on to unmask Jackson and his sidekicks, the Queen of Hearts and CrimeFighter Girl. Superheroes nationwide were aghast that a town would turn on its heroes like that, and the incident drove skittish superheroes deeper underground. "You can see why I have to be careful," says Master Legend.

Behind the counter, the cashier giggles as Master Legend orders a beer. "Master Legend thanks you," he says, reaching out a gauntleted hand for the beer. When we go upstairs to the small dining room, the young couple at a nearby table stop eating and eye us nervously. Master Legend gestures wildly as he shows me the scar from the time he was shot while saving an old lady being mugged. "They got me here," he says. "But it was small-caliber. Not enough to take down a superhero!" This is how Master Legend recounts his life, always punctuated with exclamation points, as if every moment is a high-stakes ordeal that ends with some deserving offender getting an "all-night tour of Fist City!" or the business end of his "trusty ol' Steel Toes!"

If there existed a Master Legend Issue 1, it would flash back 26 years to his origin story in New Orleans, where the teenage hero's identity was forged in poverty and abuse. "My momma and daddy were not good people," he says. "Through them, I saw how cruel the world can be." At age 15, Master Legend began looking after his grandma, a caring Creole woman from the bayou who showed him "the goodness of things." When Master Legend found some comics in a neighbor's trash, they became his blueprint. As early as third grade, he used a T-shirt, a magic marker and some old shoelaces to fashion a rudimentary costume, which he donned while protecting classmates from the school bully. He also found a mentor named Master Ray, from whom he learned "kindness and kung fu."

Master Legend was 16 when fate whispered in his ear. One day he was playing guitar in Jackson Square — "just jamming, you know, picking up some change" — when a purse snatcher appeared. Master Legend instinctively tore after him through the alleys of the French Quarter, where he retrieved the purse. Later that night, he was recognized by the criminal and fought him off again. "That's when I knew I had to wear a mask," he says. Being in New Orleans made it easier: "I would dress up in a costume and walk the streets, and no one would notice. I fit right in." The next day, Master Legend's grandma ran across a story on the news: "Masked Man Saves Woman." "The Legend," he says, "was born."

At Gino's, after a few more beers, Master Legend announces that he must attend to some business back at the secret hide-out. After paying, we cross the street. It is early evening. The sun has dipped below Florida's afternoon cloud cover, and Master Legend's silver uniform reflects the warm glow of the horizon. He turns and strikes an inadvertently dramatic pose. A passing taxi stops, and the driver cranes his neck to see the spectacle of Master Legend shining at sunset. Then the driver leans out of the window and yells, "Master Legend! How you doing? Say hello to the Ace!"

The next day, I persuade Master Legend to let me visit his secret hide-out. He gives me directions. Or rather, he gives me directions to a nearby liquor store, and in one last step of cloak-and-dagger maneuvering, he pilots me the final few blocks in the Battle Truck, its rear window destroyed during an attack by a hammer-wielding enemy.

When we arrive, the Ace walks out to greet us. Compared to the Fortress of Solitude with its alien zoo or the Batcave's techno-enhanced crime lab, theirs is a modestly appointed superheadquarters. The pleasant tropical afternoon can't quite conceal the state of the neighborhood, with its crumbling houses on the verge of being reclaimed by swampland. Inside the hide-out, a TV is propped up in the corner on cinder blocks. Master Legend's mattress is on the floor. The wall is bare other than a Halloween decoration of a skull. Against one wall is a folding card table covered with a pile of papers and some ninja stars. I pick one up, inciting a gleeful demonstration. "Just a snap of the wrist!" Master Legend says, sending one flying straight into the far wall. "Catch this!" yells the Ace, joining in. "Takedown!" Master Legend says with a clap when I land one successfully. Eventually, Master Legend announces that "ninja time is over," but not before he freestyles a final behind-the-back throw, nailing the skull on the wall right between the eyes.

Most Real Life Superheroes compensate for their lack of Adamantium skeletons or solar-fueled extraterrestrial strength by claiming extensive martial-arts abilities. Master Legend's own personal fighting style is called "The Way of the Diamond Spirit," which he says represents "an evolution of hand-to-hand combat." As if to demonstrate, he sends a few jabs into the air. "One place you don't want to be," he says, tightening his gloved hand into a clenched fist, "is on the receiving end of the No Mercy Punch!"

The No Mercy Punch makes many appearances in the annals of Justice Force history. There was the time Master Legend and the Ace shut down a crack den; the drug kingpin they put out of business; the money Master Legend forcibly retrieved from a thief who stole from a handicapped Vietnam vet; and the recent mission when the Justice Force had to "put the stomp on a child molester and his gang of crackheads." They had a plan, but things went awry when Master Legend's brother was captured in the thick of battle by the child molester, whom they call Tree Man Roy. "That's when we went into chaos mode," Master Legend says. But they got his brother free and "cut that big ol' Tree down."

Master Legend has many more florid tales of adventure, some plausible, like retrieving a friend's stolen money, others quite outlandish, like the child molester and his gang of crackheads. (For starters, doesn't it seem like you would have to be one charismatic child molester to attract an entire gang of crackheads to do your bidding?) On the folding table in the hide-out, I notice a police report. It documents the incident with the hammer and the Battle Truck. Sure enough, it describes how two men were taken into custody for attacking the inhabitants of the house at this address. Master Legend provided a statement, below which the officer wrote, "The hammer was placed into evidence."

Real Life Superheroes have a conflicted relationship with law enforcement. The hardcore types have a somewhat dated, Death Wish-era worldview, as if the cities are overrun by chain-saw-wielding clown gangs and the cops just can't control the streets anymore. The more civic-minded superheroes imagine themselves as informal police adjuncts, a secret society of costumed McGruffs. One of Master Legend's most prized possessions is a framed certificate of commendation from the Orange County Sheriff's Department, for the time he and the Disabler snapped into action after Hurricane Charley, helping to clear the roads and rescue people from the wreckage. "We were on the news and everything," Master Legend says. "The police recognized what we did."

Since then, Master Legend claims that he has developed a police contact on the inside, his "very own Commissioner Gordon." To prove it, he gives me a phone number. I immediately call and leave a message; I've tried to confirm tales from other superheroes, only to discover that the police have never heard of them.

"I have friends in high places," Master Legend promises. "When they see the silver and black, they know who's coming."

As a means of establishing a superhero identity, it is difficult to overstate the importance of the costume. Real Life Superheroes devote much of their time to researching, procuring, making, comparing, fine-tuning and otherwise fetishizing their looks. The costume itself is the radioactive-spider bite, the source of their abilities. Without a costume, after all, you're just another do-gooder schmuck. "Anyone can have this power," Superhero says. "All you need to do is tie a towel around your neck and put a sock over your head and run out the door."

Master Legend often apologizes for the state of his own uniform. It's getting worn, the mask peeling in places, and feels unpresentable, like someone getting married in shorts. He tells me that he's ordered new outfits from Hero Gear, a custom supplier in Minneapolis, but high demand is causing a delay. "If only they were here," Master Legend says with regret. "You'd see a whole new upgrade for the Justice Force!"

Such upgrading can get expensive. Citizen Prime, a superhero based in Utah, spent $4,000 hiring an armorer to forge a sci-fi suit out of plate mail (with canary-yellow accents). Green Scorpion has a tailored mask from Professor Widget, an ultraclandestine supplier of custom equipment who mysteriously appeared online not too long ago. "No one knows who Professor Widget is, where he lives or how he operates," says Green Scorpion, whose mask is supposedly formed from a ballistic alloy that Widget pioneered called Mongreltanium. (It is advertised as bulletproof, which is why Green Scorpion paid so much for it, although he would like to do his own "ballistics testing" before official deployment.)

Professor Widget also provides pricey tailored gear, like the steel cane with modular nonlethal attachments that Green Scorpion purchased with last year's tax rebate. Slightly cheaper are catalogs, which Superhero has used to turn himself into a mail-order Batman; his utility belt bristles with pellet guns, bear mace, a tactical baton and the Arma 100, a nitrogen-powered, 37mm personal cannon.

"A lot of those guys have quite the arsenal," Master Legend says in admiration as he gives me a tour of his own weapons lab, housed in a converted garage out back. This is where Master Legend tinkers with do-it-yourself creations, like the Master Blaster and the Iron Fist, a nasty-looking metal truncheon he made to fit over his hand and deliver "the good old throat slam." These days, budgetary constraints limit him to more basic gear: a staff, a sword, a good old-fashioned chain and whatever else he can buy cheaply and modify.

I notice some thick sheaves of foam on the wall of the lab. "Soundproofing," Master Legend says. "For keeping down the volume."

"During practice," says the Ace.

"What kind of practice?" I ask.

The Ace smiles and pantomimes air guitar.

The weapons lab doubles as the practice room for Master Legend's band, which is also called the Justice Force. "The Ace plays the drums," says Master Legend. "I play guitar and sing." The drums are in storage at the moment, but the Ace assures me that the Justice Force has a tight set.

"This guy's wicked on the strings," he says, pointing at Master Legend. "There's not a Steely Dan song that me and him can't play."

The Justice Force perform originals, too — more than 100 songs, all written by Master Legend. They recorded a single, with their friend, another associate known as the Pain. It's called "Epic of the Sunrise." "Want to hear it?" Master Legend asks.

Back at his computer, Master Legend plays the song and takes me through the verses — a Manichaean tale of near-apocalypse wherein Master Legend is an agent of redemption. "I put how I feel into music," he says, bobbing along with the riffs he composed to accompany the grand opera of his life. "There is a good world out there, and it's waiting to be restored. That's what I'm all about. I really hope I can save the world."

Saving the world, of course,requires personal sacrifice. Few Real Life Superheroes have families. And those with women in their lives often find that their higher calling can cause rifts. Master Legend has seen a lot of relationships go sour, starting with his wife, who divorced him 10 years ago. "She never believed in what I did," he says. Then there was his last girlfriend. "She left because she wanted to sit around on the couch and hold hands. Well, that's not in the cards for Master Legend."

Another casualty of the superhero lifestyle is career advancement. Unlike Peter Parker, Master Legend has no cover job. He can't hold down a nine-to-five, he says, because a life on the precipice of action means always being available to answer the call. "I'll walk right out the door if someone needs me," he says with a laugh. Three years of trade school exposed Master Legend to electronics, welding and other "skills" he drew on while dabbling in odd jobs over the years: shrimp fishing, tree trimming, roofing, salvage work. Lately, he's been working as an assistant to elderly people. Here again, Master Legend finds himself locked in a battle between good and evil. "All these people are waiting to kick out the old folks, put them in the old-folks' home," he says, working himself up with indignation. "But as long as I'm there, they can't! And they hate me for that." For Master Legend, it's all just another type of superheroing. "These are the two sides of my life, which is really one side," he says, "and that's the side of making things right."

The Ace tells me about his conversion to the cause one night as we fetch some Chinese takeout to bring back to the secret hide-out. (Master Legend can't come with us, because he still won't remove his mask in my presence.) "I met Master Legend a long time ago," the Ace says. They hit it off at a party, bonding over music, and discovered that they had a lot of mutual friends. "Before that," the Ace says, "I was married. Had a good job." The Ace made good money setting up stage shows — Nickelodeon events, Blue Man Group, that sort of thing. The Ace used to be a performer himself. In a surprising digression, he tells me he once led a "dance revue" called Male Factor. "This was before Chippendales," he reminds me. "Not like they do now, with just bump and grind, and no imagination. We had choreographers, like in Vegas. In fact, we even did Vegas! Movies, too. Ever heard of Spring Fever? 1982. Starring Susan Anton. Check it out."

But that was years ago, before the divorce. And the brief stint in jail last year. I didn't ask exactly how bad things got for the Ace, but eventually his wife's boss moved into his house, and he moved in with Master Legend. "That's when I got sucked into the whole Justice Force thing," says the Ace. He'd helped Master Legend before, but at a distance and never in costume. "I was getting more and more involved. Then M.L. got me a mask and convinced me to put it on. And that's when I saw the light. It's a powerful thing."

Late last year, when the Ace made his first public appearance, he worried what other people might think. But in the protective warmth of the costume, he says, the fear is quickly overcome. "There's the flawed you and the good you," he says, striking a philosophical note. "And this" — he holds up the mask — "gives us the chance to make up for our flaws."

The windows are rolled down, letting in the sound of cicadas from the dark stand of trees across the empty parking lot. "I know it sounds silly," he says. "But once you change someone else's life, even in a small way, it makes you realize you can change things in your own life."

Back at the secret hide-out, as we lay out the Chinese feast on the table, a friend stops by for a quick conversation with Master Legend. It is dusk, and I watch two silhouettes against the twilight out on the porch, conferring quietly.

"That was the Black Panther," Master Legend says when the friend leaves. The Black Panther "doesn't want to get caught up with the press," so Master Legend didn't introduce him to me, but make no mistake: Black Panther is a Justice Force fellow traveler. Besides sometimes jamming with the band — Black Panther is known to introduce a "reggae vibe" — he helps out on missions. Not too long ago, Black Panther told Master Legend about a local family that was having financial trouble and was in danger of being evicted. So Master Legend helped raise money to cover their rent. "Sometimes that's all people need," he says. "A little boost."

This generous spirit is what so impresses the Ace about Master Legend. "He'll buy a neighbor groceries if they're between checks," the Ace says. "He'd give a guy his last dollar." I've only known Master Legend a short time, but I've noticed that people are always coming by or calling, seeking his advice and help. One of his neighbors even sends his son over to the secret hide-out for guidance, which he gets in the form of Master Legend's boundless optimism and personal training in the Way of the Diamond Spirit.

One day last year, Fire alerted Master Legend to a controversial freeway extension up near Apopka, where the state was clashing with activists over the plight of the gopher tortoises living on the site. "I couldn't believe it," Master Legend says. "These are beautiful prehistoric creatures, and they wanted to bury them alive with cement. It's crazy, but that's the way of the world. That's why the world needs us." The Justice Force joined the protest, costumes and all, and the state was forced to relocate the tortoises. "That was a great mission," Master Legend says. "Those tortoises are the nicest little guys you'd ever want to meet. They look like living cartoons, just eating their lettuce. They're adorable."

But nothing is more satisfying to Master Legend than helping those who are less fortunate. On their last big Christmas mission, he and the Ace filled the Battle Truck with supplies they bought, having pooled funds from the Justice Force, and headed to skid row. When they arrived, they were mobbed. Master Legend reckons that they gave something to every single homeless person in Orlando: toothbrushes, razors, soap, blankets, canned goods, cigarettes, candy. When the bags were empty, he and the Ace headed back to the secret hide-out to celebrate with a few beers.

"We aren't that much better off than the people we're helping," the Ace notes, gesturing to the squalor of the hide-out. Neither Master Legend nor the Ace received any Christmas gifts themselves, but neither of them is complaining. "A lot of people talk about doing right by other people," says the Ace. "But what are they really doing?"

Despite their successes, things have been hard for the Justice Force lately. "These are bad times," Master Legend says, opening a few "thirst quenchers" after dinner. I've already noticed there are always a few empty twelvers laying around the secret hide-out. Outside the front door, a mountainous pile of crushed cans suggests that Busch is the Justice Force brand of choice.

"This is our one vice," Master Legend says, "the ol' brewski."

"That's right," adds the Ace.

"With all our aches and pains from fighting off so many criminals, we gotta have our beers," Master Legend says.

"Hear, hear!" The Ace hoists his can.

With that, Master Legend unloads about his troubles. It's tough being a superhero, he says, because your whole life must be lived to a certain standard. Looking out for everyone in the Justice Force involves a lot of thankless work. And then there's the wider superhero community, which has succumbed to rival factions and bitter accusations over who the real superheroes are and who should lead them to greatness. A superhero named Tothian, who lives with his parents in an undisclosed part of New Jersey, serves as president of the Heroes Network — the self-proclaimed "United Nations of Superheroes." Tothian has tried to excommunicate several members, including his former partner, Chris Guardian, who then co-founded the Worldwide Heroes Organization. More than a few Real Life Superheroes seem like they're just one splash of acid in the face away from tormented supervillainy. Several superheroes once suggested kidnapping foreign leaders to make a statement on Darfur. Others pointed out that this was (a) illegal and (b) dangerously unheroic. As a universally respected veteran, Master Legend often plays a diplomatic role, moderating between sides. "I don't need any more problems from the superheroes out there," he says. "I have plenty right here."

Case in point is the secret hide-out. "I mean, look at this place!" Master Legend complains, acknowledging the disarray. "It's a disaster!" The reason, Master Legend confides, is that he's being evicted. This is the dominant battle in his life at the moment, one he didn't choose to fight. The secret hide-out, it turns out, is a rental. The state Department of Transportation has invoked eminent domain to widen the freeway, causing a protracted battle. This is why the place is empty. "They're gonna tear down the secret headquarters!" Master Legend says, pounding his beer can on the table. "We have to be ready to leave in a moment's notice."

Master Legend notes the irony: Having defended the gopher tortoises against a freeway, Master Legend must now fight the very same cunning villain again, this time in his own backyard. "It's like they're getting back at me," he says. "And believe me, they're coming full force. I'd rather face a dozen men with chains in an alley than deal with the bureaucracy of the state of Florida." It's a sobering thing, he says, for a superhero to be constrained by the demands of real life. "I want to be out there taking care of criminals, not packing my stuff in boxes."

It's the first time I've seen Master Legend dispirited. He's hardly eaten. But he brightens when talking about the new secret hide-out he just lined up. It's a house right on the next block. The Ace will move with him. They have to wait to get their displacement check from the state, and pay back some people for storage, and then move their stuff in, but if all goes well, they'll be up and running soon.

Master Legend decides we should take a tour of the new secret hide-out. When we get there, the place is empty except for a single ninja star Master Legend placed in the center of the floor as a good-luck talisman. We see the bedrooms, the hallway trapdoor (handy in case the duo are surrounded by "an enemy attack") and the garage that will be transformed into the new weapons workshop and band-practice room. "I know this is a shabby, old place," he says. "But there is a lot of potential here." He's already got big plans for a van outfitted to allow Master Legend to emerge from the back on a motorcycle — the Legend Cycle — while the van is moving, like Knight Rider. Genius Jim, the mechanic, is already scouring his contacts for the van and the Enduro two-stroke that he will turn into the Legend Cycle.

"Can you imagine what that will be like?" Master Legend says. "If everything works out as planned, there will be no stopping us." Together, he and the Ace admire the empty house with satisfaction. Then we go back to their current empty house, where the Ace offers a toast. And we all drink to the new secret hide-out.

I've forgotten all about Master Legend's police contact by the time he returns my call, several weeks after my message. "This is the Sergeant," he says, asking that his name not be revealed. "I was fishing down in the Keys. What do you want to know about Master Legend?"

The Sergeant tells me that one of his patrol officers came across Master Legend running through the bushes in costume one night. The encounter wound up in a report, and that report wound up on the Sergeant's desk. The officer recorded Master Legend's describing how he "fights evil" in the streets, and the Sergeant, who's in charge of vice investigations, took a chance and tracked Master Legend down. Based on the neighborhood, he figured, Master Legend might be a good local contact. "And sure enough," the Sergeant tells me, "I start getting calls from Master Legend with information. And it checks out. Master Legend has helped put away a few criminals."

I call Master Legend to tell him I reached the Sergeant. He's not surprised. "I knew he would come through," Master Legend says. "He's a good guy. I'm in the process of gathering evidence against someone else for him. Master Legend does the recon, and the police strike! Just how it ought to be!"

When I ask how things are going otherwise, Master Legend drops some bad news: The Ace moved out. He just wasn't pulling his weight anymore. "He was depressed because of his personal stuff," Master Legend says. "I wanted him to start pitching in. That's part of getting back to normal. It would be good for him. But he was doing less and less, just hanging around all day."

The situation worsened when the Ace didn't show up for a few Justice Force missions. Suddenly, he wasn't fulfilling his duties as a roommate or as a sidekick. "I wasn't mad," Master Legend says. "I just tried to talk to him. We all did. The Third Eye gave me good advice about how to approach the situation. But we wound up getting in a fight, and the Ace up and moved out. Just like that. Being here was helping for a while, but I guess he just needs to sort things out by himself."

The Ace took his drums, technically disbanding the sonic wing of the Justice Force, but Master Legend has already found some new music partners. Among them is Ace Gauge, the new sidekick who has assumed the role of the Ace. The old Justice Force band, Master Legend says, turned out to be "more of a studio project," whereas this new venture will mean performing again.

"There is just too much going on," Master Legend says, "to worry about the past." The costume upgrades finally showed up, for one thing, and the two-tone bodysuit, improved mask and World War II helmet come together strangely well. Master Legend also found a suitable van and located a motorcycle. In preparation for deployment, he had a magnet made for the van door that says Justice Force Special Operations Unit. On the world-saving front, the team is preparing to mount a new type of mission, a public-relations campaign to raise awareness about a strain of staph infection that's spreading among the homeless in the Orlando area. "It will be like the gopher-tortoise mission," Master Legend says, "but bigger!" The van will be pressed into service, and Superhero might come in from Clearwater with his Corvette.

This may be the real reason Master Legend inhabits a never-ending comic book in his mind, assigning everyone a character in the grand narrative. His roommate turns into the Ace, his mechanic into Genius Jim, and a friend with some recording equipment into the Pain. And so the reality of Master Legend, a guy who has no job and lives in a run-down house in a crummy neighborhood in Orlando, is transmuted via secret decoder ring into an everlasting tale of heroic outsiders, overcoming the odds and vanquishing enemies.

To the outside world, this makes Master Legend seem like a lunatic. But to the people around him, he is the charismatic center of an inviting universe. "It sounds a little silly," Superhero says, "but we all want to be part of a better tomorrow." Or, for that matter, a better today. Being a Real Life Superhero means that Master Legend can get in his Nissan pickup and call it the Battle Truck. He can tape together a potato gun and call it the Master Blaster. He can stand in the porch light of a disintegrating clapboard house, a beer in his hand, and behold a glorious clandestine citadel. And who are we to tell him otherwise? ♥

[Joshua Bearman is a free-lance journalist and has contributed stories to Harper's as well as Rolling Stone. He lives in a cave somewhere in California.]

Copyright © 2008 Rolling Stone

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