Clinton Interviewed on Fox News Sunday

Bill Clinton on Fox News. I don't know who they have working over there, but even I could have told them that was a bad idea. For those of you who don't know, since he left office, Clinton has spent most of his time working for his nonprofit charity foundation, which mostly centers on combating AIDS. In a recent article with the New York Times, he commented that he regrets not doing more about the AIDS epidemic during his tenure as president, however the Republican legislature wasn't wildly supportive of any measures to combat the disease outside the United States. Now, Clintion persues the AIDS problem with relentless zeal, raising over seven billion dollars for his foundation. In Africa, he's a rockstar. He's also commented publically that the nice thing about being out of politics is that he doesn't feel the need to be nice anymore. With this in mind, was it particurarly bright to drag Clinton onto Fox News under the pretense of talking about his non profit works, only to lambast him about Bin Ladin? So, yeah, he verbally ripped Fox News and the whole conservative Right a new collective asshole. I exhibit no surprise. Full Transcript here.

A Philosophical Problem

It would have been kinder, perhaps, if my parents had named me Jane Doe. That, at least, would have passed under the radar of children and stuck in the memory of adults. As it was, I had to endure nicknames like “Christy Cruncher” in grammar school, and as an adult, I’ve learned to respond when people call me Christine, Christina, Crystal, Kristen, or Kirsten—if they remember the gist of it.

My name never fit me. A blonde in a pink mini skirt with portable Chihuahua looks like a Britney. An elderly bridge club bitty with blue hair looks like a Harriet. An Aryan twelve year old with a billy club looks like a Damian. I have no idea what a Christy looks like, and as far as I can tell, we don’t look like anything. I lack the soccer-mom wholesomeness of Canadian politician Christy Clark, or the grunge sexuality of porn star Christy Canyon. I have nothing in common with professional female wrestler Christy Hemme, or all-Ireland hurling champion Christy Ring. And if I looked anything like New York Giant’s pitcher Christy Mathewson, seppuku would be my only honorable option.

Native American’s had the right idea. Children got a name at birth, which they kept until they came of age. Then they chose a new name for themselves that reflected the person they had become as an adult. Granted, a name like “Standing Horse” would not have gone over well in school, but it beats the current system, where our parents slap us with whatever strikes their fancy, and we’re stuck with it until we become a Hollywood actor or a pope. It’s that sort of draconian patriarchal anthroponymy, that forces me to live in a world where I share a name with the Christy awards, which annually “recognize excellence in Christian fiction.” My roommate never lets me hear the end of it. It’s not fair, it’s not right, and I shouldn’t have to put up with it. I’m giving serious thought to trademarking my name and suing. If Dolly Parton can trademark her boobs, I can put an end to the Christy awards.

It makes me feel sorry for pets, who can’t protest the hideous names their owners inflict on them, and I’m one of the worst offenders. I’ve owned parrots named Coco and Muffin, when I should have bought a box of chocolates and been done with it. That was years ago, but last week I relapsed into old habits when I walked into Petco with a fishbowl and declared to the clerks that I intended to fill it with fish. I bought two pudgy specimens, which at this moment are swimming accusingly in my direction because I named them Gollum and Sméagol. It made sense initially. Like their namesake(s), goldfish are cold, slimy, good swimmers, and will eat other fish if given the chance. That, and I can now sing the Gollum fish song whenever I feed them. ( “Catch a fish / a juicy fish / so juicy sweeeeeeeet!” ) Shortly after I released them into the aquarium, however, I started to question my logic. For the next two hours, Sméagol circled the bowl with Gollum in hot pursuit, each nipping at the other fish’s billowy tail.

Oh god oh god. What if this was my fault? Was Sméagol doomed to perpetual torment from his darker companion? Was Gollum about to conspire with the spiders in my apartment so he could steal my jewelry? I should have gone with my first instinct to name them Buddha and Lord Ganesh, or at least the innocuous Ariel and Garamond.

Then I got worried. What if I do look like a Christy? I could be on the verge of turning to the porn industry, or Christian fiction, or—God help me—Canadian politics. What if, by being named Christy, I’m doomed to become a Christy? Now that I think about it, I do have this impulse to pick up hurling.

Problematic

I keep winding up in bookstores, and publishers continue to put out awesome books I can't afford. Through supreme force of will, I narrowly avoided spending money on the following books this week:

Only Revolutions by Mark Z. Danielewski.
Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk.
Lullaby by Chuck Palahniuk.
A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby
Snowcrash by Neal Stephenson
American Gods by Neil Giaman
Best American Nonrequired Reading edited by Dave Eggers.
The Harsh Cry of the Heron by Lian Hearn
The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger [Thanks for reminding me, Emi.]
And something by Laurell K. Hamilton, because I never learn.

My problem goes beyond lack of funds. Even if I was a much smarter, less slutty version of Paris Hilton, when the crap would I find time to even read that pile of stuff. I propose that the English department creates a new course called "ENG 493: Read Whatever the Hell You Want." Grades would be based entirely on the number of books read, and how awesome they are. Distinctions on the quality of a given book's awesomeness would naturally be left up to me.

The First Step in Recovery is Admitting You Have a Problem

Just when I think there’s a support group out there for everything, I pioneer a new addiction they haven’t thought of yet. Personal weakness: used bookstores. I’ve always bought books faster than I can possibly read them, but if there’s a sale at Borders or Barnes and Nobel, I forget myself. Used bookstores take it to a new level. By definition, there’s a book sale every day: Michael Chabon? First edition?! Three bucks!! I can’t be held responsible for my actions.

Most recent example: I walk out of a used bookstore in old town Fredricksburg with two trade paperbacks: About a Boy by Nick Hornby, and Bridget Jones’ Diary by Helen Fielding. (The first was made into a Hugh Grant movie. The second was made into a Hugh Grant movie.) Months later, I finally get around to plowing through Boy, before recently setting into Bridget. After a few chapters, I’m starting to suspect that Bridget is really just a Nick Hornby character in drag: Neurotic thirty-something British singleton struggles to attract members of the opposite sex while spouting bizarre life philosophies that feel somehow familiar. Here’s how I figure it. They both live in London. Why not hook up and get hitched? If they breed, they could produce a British Woody Allen.

That aside, Bridget’s compulsive calorie-counting and scale-watching has got me thinking. I don’t have a scale and I don’t count calories—that would require adding, which is a form of math, which I’m strictly against unless under duress. That being said, it does remind me of my semi-yearly cycle of life:

May: Size seven. Yessssss.
June: Extra slice of cake? Thanks, mom!
July: Hmm. Just how many calories are in that enchilada?
August: Fifty calories per cookie?!
September: Size ten. Granola bar. 110 calories. Breakfast of champions.

My mother’s cooking is in cahoots with used bookstores to erode all my self-control. Them, along the Mars Bar corporation.

I Hadn't Thought of That

You guys will appreciate this. Yesterday I sent the following e-mail to my Creative Nonfiction professor:



"I hope you're having a good weekend. I sure am. I was reading the New York Times today, which is my new favored method for procrastinating on homework for your class. I stumbled across this article a moment ago and it hit me. I wish I could write like this guy. Please make this possible immediately. Keep in mind, my comments on your teacher evaluation this semester may hang in the balance."


This morning I got the following reply:


"That would seem to me to be in reach, perhaps not immediately. Two things Hauck does. He assumes a uniformity not just of age but also temperament in his readers, and he tends to feed his sarcasm by developing an original idea (the presposterous sitcom family) by building it out of cliched parts. (Doesn't Dave Barry do something like this too?) The palace made of poop is always hilarious. It makes the irony clear.

"The gift of satire is that rhetorically it has no equal, for nothing immobilizes idiots--not fear of death, not kidnapping of one's whelps--near as much as fear of humiliation or ridicule. People will side with Hitler, Stalin, or Dick Cheney (seriously, listen to him if you can stand it, it's all in the sneer) rather than be the public butt. The down side of satire is that its effect depends on broadly shared moral values, and we hardly have real morality any more, much less shared constants. And that's why the Reich and the Soviet Union were not apt places for satire, executions notwithstanding. In our house, it works for TV, tends to miss on important issues such as lying on the part of Presidents or optional warfare. Revealed: the profound cultural disability of relativism. Bright side: who catches our irony makes moving from one social enclave to another an easier process than it would be otherwise.

"As for the final humiliations of the semester, methinks how I evaluate you will tend to overshadow how you evaluate me. So get busy and start absorbing. Muhaahaa.

"Best,
Mark"



Damn. I hadn't thought of that. My point is, my nonfiction professor kicks ass. His lectures are just like this. You should hear what he says about the rest of the Republicans.

In a Nutshell

This is due Tuesday. I have to describe a broad part of my life using only concrete details. Here's my first crack at it. Lav, I apologize in advance for refering to you only in the abstract, but I was pressed for space.

---

The RA gave the receiver some final adjustments, securing it to the top of the car’s hood with a wad of gum, and hopped back down, gravel crunching underfoot. “November one tree eight niner echo romeo,” the box croaked, “IFR approach for landing on the one eight, requesting vectors to the initial, over.” The receiver looked like an oversized Altoids tin and picked up radio transmissions about as well. Each voice that flickered over the battered speakers came out thin, strained and hoarse, like every pilot in Florida came down with a cold on the same day. I strained my ear and leaned closer. “Riddle one tree eight niner, turn to heading two six and squawk two four one eight, over.” Nope, it was still gibberish. The individual words made sense, but that was about it.

Beside me, Adrienne shifted from foot to foot, beads of sweat forming at her hairline. The wind was unsteady, moist, and unrefreshing, each gust bringing the acrid smell of brine and sand inland. Night had taken the edge off the heat, but not by much. At midnight, it was still in the high eighties and Adrienne was in the American University sweatshirt she’d put on with her pajamas. I leaned over. “What’d they say?” Adrienne had been a cadet in the Civil Air Patrol before she transferred to Embry Riddle, so she was the closest thing I had to a translator within a five-foot radius. “Someone’s trying to land,” she replied. Her breath smelled like chocolate cake. “I got that, but is it the heavy?” I asked. A moment snailed by. More croaking from the radio. Adrienne shrugged. “How should I know?”

Fat lot of good she was.

I craned my neck. At my count, five planes drifted overhead like Christmas trees with wings, but not a one of them looked significantly larger than any of the others. I decided to try my luck mining my roommate one more time. “Any idea when this thing’s due?” Adrienne kicked a nugget of gravel, which skittered of in the direction of some freshmen. “Nope. Ask Kevin.”

Kevin was our RA. He owned the radio, which he had bought his freshman year to listen to every night while he slept. Like an immigrant that watches movies to learn English, Kevin had learned to speak Aviation through osmosis. He already had his private and his commercial license, so he was working on his multiengine certification. Hot shit. At the moment, he was in deep converse with the cluster of freshmen Adrienne had kicked a pebble at. Somehow, interrupting him to flaunt my ignorance didn’t appeal to me. “I’m sure it won’t be much longer,” I said.

It had better not be, I thought. We’d been out here nearly an hour. I’d been halfway asleep when a thin girl with dreadlocks pounded on our door, discovered it unlocked, and invited herself in. Her nose was inches from my face when my eyes cracked open. A heavy was scheduled to come into DAB tonight and the whole floor was going to drive out to runway 25L to watch it land and we had to come. It wasn’t like I’d spent ten hours in a Volkswagen followed by five hours unpacking or anything. Sure, we’d come.

Everyone had come. A few feet away my suitemate Beth chatted with her roommate, a Jamaican girl with elegant features and a distant expression. We’d met earlier but I’d forgotten her name. She was going to spend the entire summer semester and most of the fall bedridden with homesickness, before dropping out. Beth would get a room to herself for a couple months before withdrawing herself. Financial reasons. The girl that took Beth’s room in the spring would drop out as well, along with the guy in the room across from ours. Embry Riddle’s retention rate was as dismal as its credentials were impressive.

Beth waved at me from her perch on the hood of a car and mouthed, “When is this plane gonna get here?” I started to shrug and then noticed that Kevin wasn’t talking to the freshmen anymore. We felt it before we heard it. The gravel rattled. Everything—the ground, the car, our teeth—throbbed in sync with the engines. Three hundred thousand pounds of screaming metal bore down on our heads, a cacophony of vultures howling in knife factory during a hurricane, blocking out the stars for a terrible instant—and then a very different gust of wind rushed in, knocking the radio off into the dirt. For a moment, the evening was cool, and smelled of oil. It was a perfect landing.

Write With Verve

I had a writing assignment for my Creative Nonfiction class. I had to write about something I know, with verve. Lo and behold, I sit down to write and I forget everything I know anything about. I'm an idiot. How did I even get into college? I am Jack's complete lack of surprise.

This is what I managed to poo out before class. People found it funny. My professor probably won't:

---

The compendium of all knowledge in the universe is Wikipedia . The compendium of all the shameless inaccuracies online is the Encyclopedia Dramatica , and it has this to say on the subject of George W. Bush. George W. Bush is a thirty-five year old Texan comedy writer whose numerous accomplishments include pluralizing teh Internetz. With this helpful new terminology in place, we now recognize several Internets that exist beside each other, often connected by a series of tubes .

The first Internet is a place to gather and share information, promote the free exchange of ideas across all distances and cultures, and celebrate freedom of speech.

The second Internet is a place for thirteen-year-old girls to pose as 1337 haxx0rs by putting numbers into misspelled words. Other inhabitants include pornographers; people who pretend they are wizards, night elves or vampires; and people who live in their mother’s basement past the age of thirty-five. Thirty-five year old vampiric porn-collectors are commonplace.

Chuck Norris jokes account for the entirety of the third Internet.

There is a fourth, lesser-known Internet. Whenever a customer buys a can of tuna, or a truck delivers a supply of nail polish, or an employee takes a cigarette break, Wal-Mart computers record the event and store the data in one of several data caches across the country. No one knows the exact size of these data hordes, but they are rumored to store several terabytes, which would make the forth Internet larger than the other three combined. In addition to having a better intelligence service than the NSA,Wal-Mart employs more people than the United States military. They also sell guns. Despite this, Wal-Mart has never admitted involvement in plans for an armed takeover of Arkansas.

People often assume that a person’s involvement with the first three Internets is inversely related to the number of times that person gets laid. Despite this, many flock to matchmaking sites so a computer can pair them with somebody based on similar interests—namely their willingness to pay strangers to arrange blind dates. This industry has close ties to Internet memes, which are in-depth quizzes to unearth your hidden qualities. For instance, if I were a character on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I would probably be Xander. Without the Internets, I would not know this.

The Internets tell us a lot of things. They’re particularly useful in an academic environment. With just a few clicks, I can find out what my classmates had to drink last weekend and who they drank it with. I can also lean where to buy a term paper for $9.95 a page, and the site my professor will use to prove I cheated.

The Internets give me free phone calls to my friend in the Philippines, and let me read (most of) The New York Times for free. I can fact-check the rumor I heard, or look up the obscure reference that went over my head. I can save time and kill time. I can publish any half-ass piece of crap and be sure there will be someone bored enough to read it. Even if it’s another rant about the Wal-Mart conspiracy.

The Beginning

This is my fresh start. To all my friends that followed me here, thank you.

I said a while back that I'd update soon with some real content. I wasn't lying. I really meant to. I just... forgot. That and I was avoiding the whole blog scene. As most of you know the Signal crashed a while back. Which is to say, I got fed up with the bullishit and pulled the plug. I miss it a lot. I also don't. But there comes a certain point in any relationship, be it with a person or otherwise, when you have to weigh its virues against its costs. I could have kept the Signal going for much longer, I think. I could have been that trailer park wife that keeps going back to her loser husband after the black eyes start to fade, but I've out grown that sort of thing.

Meanwhile I'm back on campus. I'm happy to be back. I'm also not. The campus is different than it was last year. I got a few odd looks my first few days of classes. People had thought I'd graduated. I find myself avoiding a lot of the SMAD professors I don't have to talk to. I'm tired of answering questions.

I like my classes. I have four of them. Basic Acting, Film as Art, Film and Society, and Creative Nonfiction. The first three are ok. The third kicks ass, but is hard work. The more I learn about writing, the more I feel like a hack. All the more reason to keep plugging away until I get better. I guess.

I have a new roommate. Kelsey. The long and short of it is that she's a bitch and she hates me. The mitigating factors are that her life to date sucks and mine doesn't and that chaps her ass. Among other things. It's a problem.

I miss my parents. I miss Dave. I miss the sense that I knew what the hell I was doing with my life. If I close my eyes and think real hard, I can just make out what that was like.