Forbidden (or merely crafty) Thoughts In a Doctor's Office

1) I wonder if doctors believe they're superior to Congressmen. They probably do.

2) Is there any human organ more inaptly named than "testicle"? (Seriously, "testicle"?)

3) The other patients who took Tootsie Rolls from this bowl -- you sure what they had wasn't contagious?

Paging Noah Baumbach

You wouldn't finger me as a fan of independent films -- a category I define broadly as movies that people in New York and San Francisco like to watch -- and you'd mostly be right; the last great movie I saw was "The Sorrow and the Pity," followed closely by "Terms of Endearment." But lately, in the service of little-C catholicism, I've been trying to expand my filmic diet, and so it wasn't too long ago that I ventured out to see the latest from the director all the kids are talking about, Wes Anderson. Let me put it this way, so as not to offend: Hated it.

But something in the movie did catch my eye -- the final credits, in which I spied a heretofore unknown name in the screenwriter's billing, that of Noah Baumbach. Now, friends, Dennis Kucinich makes it a point to know most every big name he reads; I never forget a name, this is one of my peculiarities. Go ahead, ask me anything. I dare ya. Who was Ross Perot's running mate in 1992? Easy. Vice Admiral James B. Stockdale. What about, oh, say, Michael Dukakis's veep choice from 1988? Lloyd "I knew JFK" Bentsen. In fact, ask me about any VP choice of the last 200 years! I know them all! This what I do, folks. It's a hard, sometimes sad, often solitary life, but someone's got to know these things, and in our time it's me. Ask me the name of the US Open Women's tennis champion, 1992. No, forget it, don't ask me. It'll be an insult to my intelligence, and it'll make you look like a fool in front of your woman. For real, don't ask me. You'll sound stupid, trying to trump me with something so outlandish and then having me slap it back in your face like it was last week's electric bill. So, better not to ask me.... What? You still want to ask me? Yeah, I figured you would. They always underestimate me. Anyway, here's your answer (punk): Monica Seles (of course). She of sound mind and firm abdomen, strong thighs, a grunt you'd have to be a priest not to notice. Now go cry to your sister.

But I was saying. I saw the name Noah Baumbach and I got curious, and when one is curious these days one of course types his query into a computer, and when that query is "Noah Baumbach" one finds some interesting movies and a half dozen or so Shouts & Murmurs from The New Yorker. Curious about Mr. Baumbach -- curious about he'd ended up as Mr. Anderson's partner on this movie -- I looked up some of his old films, and today was able to watch his second film, "Mr. Jealousy," with Eric Stoltz and Annabella Sciorra (Michael Powell reminds me that she also starred in "Jungle Fever.")

I hear you in the back yelling at me to get to the point, so I will. It's not even a long point: What a perfectly delightful mediocre movie! Yes, some of the lines are bad and the structure's all wrong and the narrator's intruding and the acting's not that great (I let Michael know it's no "Jungle Fever") but for all that, the plot is creative and surprising, with odd twists you wouldn't guess (watch for the stutter) and even a good ending, a good, good ending.

So please: Do watch.

Also, one more thing, yes, of course I know the answer to that. The Piggly Wiggly.

FLASH!!!!!!!! BRIAN WILLIAMS WINS!!!! FLASH!!!!!

Can someone please explain to me Matt Drudge's inexplicable fascination with the men who anchor network news? Who cares about network news ratings? Do you? I don't. I didn't even know anyone watched network anymore. Is this a sexual thing?

Now we're blind to Eyes on the Prize

My party, the Democratic Party, has long been supported by Hollywood. It is a pact with the devil, I tell you, as I've long suspected that these firms are living in the past -- they do not realize how the media landscape has changed, how decrepit copyright law is, how damaging their ideas are to the world of ideas. Larry Lessig is a good resource on this, the best there is, and he's done good, good work. But I just wish that influential others would do more, for look at this -- "Eyes on the Prize," that magnificent documentary of the Civil Rights movement, is
now no more, thanks to the media companies.

I am so a fan of Susan Sarandon and her not-husband Tim Robbins, but guys, please -- can you make sure your industry doesn't eat our culture?

Al Zarqawi captured�

Let's hope that this is true....

A Note on Reality

"Are you for real?" This is a question I'm asked frequently in my life. I walk around my house without shoes. I go without meat and eggs. I call for radical change in the nation. It all sparks incredulity. "Are you for real?" And I must respond that indeed I am. That indeed meat is murder. That indeed the country needs change. And again I'm asked. And again I answer. Such is the life of man on the edge of things, a man on the fringe.

"Are you for real?" Now the question resonates on my blog. See the comments posted here if you must. An argument rages over whether I am really the Dennis K. Well, what can I offer you, friends, other than my word? Nothing much. We can quibble over facts and you'll win some and I'll win some and we'll be nowhere in the end. What I want from this site is not a discussion of my reality. "Are you for real?" In the end what does that matter, I wonder? What matters beyond that I am here, I am real, and I offer you these words....

Now with Syndication....

As requested, I've turned on the site feed. URL: http://deejaykucinich.blogspot.com/atom.xml

How I Spent My Christm Holiday Break

Well, boy. As you may have noticed I took about a week off from this site, left my troubles behind, flew off to the Alaskan Wilderness for my annual thinking/relaxing/mountain surveying retreat. As it happened, though, I spent most of my time watching TV, drop-jawed at the horror coming in over the screen.

Still, a few fun times were to be had. To wit: For Christmas an old, round-heeled lady friend of mine surprised me with something I'd put on my Amazon wishlist only as a gag, thinking it'd be a cold day in you-know-where if anyone bought me that. But she did: An iPod Mini! I spent much of the week, then, bleeding my ears with some of my favorites -- the audio version of James McPherson's great book on Antietam, The White Stripes over and over and over again, and after watching the droll "Napoleon Dynamite" I hooked on to this great instrumental group The Penguin Cafe Orchestra, who, really, I can't recommend enough.

The reading life was not as well nurtured, but I did squeeze in a couple tomes. One I'm almost embarrassed to admit, but this blog's about truth, so here we are: "State of Fear," Michael Crichton's anti-environmental screed. I have to say, as much as I hate the man's views and his thin characters and predictable plotlines, he sure does know how to keep a fella intrigued. I don't know what it is -- it's the kind of book you can't put down, partly because you're angry, partly because you can't bear not to find out what happens in the end. And also, too, Crichton's anti-global warming evidence is ... interesting. I'm not saying I believe him. But it's well-documented, well-annotated, and were I a climate scientist I'd be rushing to the public square right this second to disprove him.... Anyone? Anyone?

Lastly, then, I reread "On Photography," Susan Sontag's masterwork on the visual life. We lost great one this week. RIP, old girl. RIP.