Bryan Joiner

Why then I

I’m back

My blog gives me the search terms people use to find this ole’ blog, and here was yesterday’s list. It goes downhill pretty quickly:

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Yikes.

I had a friend in town for the weekend, and you know how that is: exhausting. But it was fun, and I did a couple really great things, the best of which was going to Ellis Island, which is really fantastic. The boat ride is fun too. Other than that, it was a lot of catching up with old friends and eating the fresh tomatoes from my neighbor’s yard. They are resoundingly delicious and she replenishes them faster than I can eat them. Her name is Anna and she is an older woman from Italy/Yugoslavia; that is, as it has been described to me, she is from an area that went back and forth between the countries in World War II-era disputes, and she speaks the languages of both countries. She lives with her brother and maintains and impressive garden, in which there is a shaded seating area with grapes growing overhead. Anyhow, it’s all very nice to look at and even better to eat, and I’m happy that she’s nice enough to share the food with me.

Labor Day

See y’all on the flip side.

Great Quote – Harry Potter

Yes, I said Harry Potter (vol. 5):

“I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, I didn’t plan any of it, I just did whatever I could think of, and I nearly always had help”

Chickens

In The Ethics of What We Eat, by Peter Singer and Jim Mason, the authors describe the nightmare conditions of the American chicken industry, focusing on chicken giant Tyson foods, animal cruelty and its commercial pollution of the “Delmarva Peninsula” — the tract of land composed of Delaware, parts of Maryland and Virginia. The conditions are horrible enough that Tyson Foods did not cooperate with the authors, nor did most of the large meat processing corporations profiled in the book. This code of silence is driven, it seems, out of self-preservation: the mode of production is horrifying enough that the company fully understands the consequences of exposing its operation to the world would be catastrophic. Yet, they seem fine with this arrangement. Why? Because you like cheap chicken and they like money. That appears to overwhelm any ethical concerns they have for the livestock they are raising and killing, often in spectacularly incompetent fashion. The authors, quite refreshingly, don’t recommend vegetarianism as the only ethical solution to this dilemma: they simply implore the reader not to buy chicken from these people, and cite some producers who operate their farms under humane conditions.

The “big” chicken industry looks, to me, a lot like the Chickenhawk industry that roosts about 100 miles away from the Delmarva Peninsula, inside the Beltway. There’s bloodletting, a lack of simple decency and a code of silence that protects the structure — even though those at the top of the pecking order they know what they are doing is wrong, and opposed to the fundamental values of our government. They just don’t care. Worse still, they have an army of bird-brained Chickenhawks who think they’re part of the plan, and they get treated well — plenty to eat, comfortable life — right up until they step out of line. Before they realize, their throats are cut, and they’ve been replaced. A few of them actually survive the throat-cutting process — much like, horribly, many chickens survive the throat cutting process and are left to bleed to death — and they also bleed to death on the grandest stages, giving ineffectual testimony before an astonished Congress that, like the small number of ethics-conscious food consumers, is powerless to stop the bloodletting.

Actually, that description may not be fair to the Bush Administration. The administration and its cronies are far more effective at silencing the troublemakers than big chickens, which resorts to such wonderful measures as electrocuting them, scalding them, and when that doesn’t work, “stomping on them, beating them, running over them on purpose with a fork-lift truck, and even blowing them up with dry ice ‘bombs.'” Sounds lovely. Now listen to what happened to Russell Skoug.

In an incredible, eviscerating article for Rolling Stone magazine, Matt Taibbi describes “The Great Iraq Swindle,” the grab-bag of millions upon millions of dollars in defense contracts gathered and executed by the most incompetent people this side of the Washington Generals. In fact, we ought to call them the Washington Generals. The Washington Generals, according to Taibbi, were so callous with their disregard for American taxpayer money that they used $100,000 in rolled $100 bills as a football. (And that was one of the confirmed accounts). He estimates America has spent $500 billion on the war and $44 billion on the Iraq recovery effort, an effort so botched that the tally is embarrassing to completely recall. “And what did America’s contractors give us for that money?” he asks. “They built big steaming shit piles, set brand-new trucks on fire, drove back and forth across the desert for no reason at all and dumped bags of nails in ditches.”

But that’s not all they did: they also fucked Russell Skoug. Taibbi recalls how Skoug, working for the private contractor Wolfpack, was tasked with fixing Humvees as part of his duties on the ground. It is beyond the point of our story that Skoug had no previous experience repairing Humvees: one day — actually, September 11th, 2006 — Skoug set off across Iraq to find repair parts when the U.S. Army vehicle in which he was traveling was hit by a bomb. He was airlifted to a hospital in Germany and back to the United States, whereupon his employer tried to deny him the medical insurance claims to pay for his injuries. Nevermind that Wolfpack was required to provide medical insurance in a war zone, Taibbi writes, Wolfpack CEO Mark Atwood let Skoug go with some pittance payments and scolded his wife when she tried to recoup the hospital bills, which totaled over $500,000. Confronted with this, Atwood refused to speak to Taibbi, saying, “I just want some peace.” And you thought they were cruel to the chickens.

The worst part about all this is that, despite this callous regard for their own followers, Cheney, Bush, et al. have no shortage of hens clucking away at their heels. Last night, I was watching The News Hour with Jim Lehrer. Judy Woodruff was conducting a debate on the Alberto Gonzales “legacy,” a hilarious ludicrously-phrased topic, with Michael Greenberger, a former justice department official in the Clinton Administration, and Noel Francisco, a partner at the Jones Day law firm (which represents R.J. Reynolds) and former associate counsel to President Bush. Over Greenberger’s polite objection, Francisco painted a rosy picture of the Gonzales era, saying that history would judge him fairly:

I really do think that, once we have the distance of history between us, the American people and history will look at the attorney general and look and see that he made the right decisions and the president made the right decisions in combating the war on terror and combating this new and dramatic threat to our country.

He was saying this about Alberto Gonzales. Just a reminder from the Think Progress blog:

– It was Alberto Gonzales, not Congress, who fired attorneys for political reasons.

– It was Alberto Gonzales, not Congress, who gave the White House political team unprecedented power to intercede in the affairs of the Justice Department.

– It was Alberto Gonzales, not Congress, who allowed his department to illegally hire attorneys based in part on their loyalty to the Republican Party and the Bush administration.

– It was Alberto Gonzales, not Congress, who dissembled and misled about the administration’s spying activities.

– It was Alberto Gonzales, not Congress, who lied in stating that all Bush appointees would be Senate-confirmed.

Oh, did I not mention that Francisco, like former White House spokesman/part-time Nantucket resident Ari Fleischer, blames Congress?

I don’t care who the attorney general was. I think you would have seen the similar thing going on regardless of who the attorney general was. The issue might have been a little bit different, but they’d still be trying to come out with a scalp.

Just repeating the party line: it’s the Democrats’ fault. Always the Democrats’ fault. That’s how you move up the pecking order. You can be as smug as you want (watch Francisco or Fleischer for examples), callous (Rumsfeld teasing reporters who challenged him during the beginning stages of the war) or plain incompetent (recall Gonzales’ “I don’t recall” fiasco from his Senate testimony), as long as you keep moving forward and, never, ever deviate from the plan, and you will be fed. This is classic chicken behavior. In The Ethics of What We Eat, Singer and Mason describe how egg-laying hens “are like fans at rock concerts in that they have a mob mentality. They will crowd all over each other to get into a particular nesting box, although the one right next to it—which is identical as far as he can tell—is empty.”

The worst part about this war, as filmmaker Charles Ferguson said on Charlie Rose a few weeks ago to promote his incredible film No End In Sight, is “the emotional and intellectual blindness of the people that did this;” the inability to see the error of their ways, and the chance to fix things through a slight change of course. They won’t go to the other nesting box. Jon Stewart recently said that the worst part about this war is that the people who are least responsible for it feel the worst about it, and vice versa. As you go through the massive the pecking order, it’s shocking how few people have broken with the administration for the far easier path of telling, and acknowledging, the truth. Like the men in charge of “big chicken,” it’s not that we’re actually dealing with chickens. We’re dealing with cowards.

Ron Paul

My brother sees them everywhere. He lives in Arizona — a state as red as the desert floor — and he’ll be driving on the highway when he’ll see a hand-made, spray-painted banner along the side of the road reading simply “Ron Paul.” This happens, he says, all the time. On the campus of his alma mater, Arizona State University, he says that among young Republicans, Ron Paul is the cool and standard choice for the 2008 Presidential nomination.

That’s why videos like this make me so angry. To boil it down, CNN anchors are playing some silly game where they ask a Democratic and Republican college student who they think will be the nominee for their respective party in 2008. Thankfully for us, neither of these students is dumb enough to answer such an idiotic question — and, naturally, they are mocked by the hosts. The Republican says she would vote for Ron Paul, leading the female CNN host — Kiran Chetry — to stop her mid-answer and ask if there are any “top tier” candidates she would support because Ron Paul “doesn’t have a chance.” When the Democrat won’t specify a candidate, and says that any Democrat would be better than President Bush, the male host — Rick Sanchez — asks her if she would “vote for Porky Pig” simply because he was a Democrat.

As I said earlier, kudos to the students for not giving into this crap. This is the line of thinking of the hosts:

a) Have college students on the program to ostensibly get their views.
b) When those views don’t conform with the mainstream, challenge them.
c) When they don’t back down, mock them.

Of course, the problem is how the “mainstream” is defined. The implication here is that Ron Paul is not a “top-tier” candidate because he hasn’t raised enough money — the unspoken, fallacious idea being that the reverse is also true. Aren’t we supposed to judge candidates based on their ideas? The Republican student — Laura Elizabeth Morales — does just that, saying:

You’ve got Giuliani out there, who’s really an anti-gun Republican who’s going to lose a strong base, especially here in the South. And then Mitt Romney kind of flip-flops on his issues. John McCain, I think, is pretty much just ‘out,’ but we really need a strong, solid conservative…”

… which appears to be a well-thought-out argument, and certainly one not worthy of being mocked. When Rick Sanchez virtually asks the Democrat student, Rachel Moore, if she considers who the person is at all when voting — seriously, what kind of question is that? — she deflects him with far more grace than he deserves.

But back to Ron Paul for a second. For all the hubbub of Rudy Giuliani’s supposed torpedo of Paul at the May 15th debate over 9/11, look at these results of the debate as voted on at MSNBC.com. Notice anything? Certainly, this doesn’t conform with the glowing tabloid-cover reports we got here in New York City of our former mayor’s performance — the nation, or at least the nation on the Internet, thinks Paul blew Giuliani (and everyone else) away. Now, I’m willing to admit that these results are likely skewed somewhat toward Paul because he is popular among young voters, who are disproportionately represented on the Internet, but it’s the fact within the fact that matters: Ron Paul is extremely popular among young voters. (The video is one of the most-viewed on YouTube, almost certainly for this reason). No one on the left, not even Dennis Kucinich, has the sort of “outsider/young voter” cache that Paul has. This is probably because “top-tier” candidate Barack Obama steals a lot of it.

It’s pointless to argue over whether these CNN anchors are clueless about Paul’s popularity on college campuses, as they clearly are, but the greater point here is that we make a literal mockery of the electoral process when we ask what the average voter “thinks” will happen — we need to ask them what they think. That’s how good ideas are spread, and that’s what this process should be about. Rick Sanchez, Kiran Chetry and the producers at CNN who promote this type of crap ought to be ashamed of themselves. Sadly, they never are.

Hillary vs. Rudy: The “Rivalry”

There’s an article in this week’s Sports Illustrated about the Roger Federer versus Rafael Nadal rivalry, differentiating it from rivalries where it’s impossible to root for both sides. Federer and Nadal are both so likable, the article states, that it’s not like those nasty contests — Duke/UNC, Red Sox/Yankees, Hillary/Rudy — where you really can only pick one side or the other, and there’s no middle ground.

That line of thinking — that there’s a Hillary vs. Rudy “rivalry” — is another reason that, despite what I see as a lack of substance for Hillary, she leads national polls, as does Giuliani. I think that, to some degree, Americans may not be actually okay with Hillary Clinton (perhaps they haven’t thought it out quite yet), but they’d be more than excited for a Hillary vs. Rudy showdown in the general election. It would be exciting and vicious, with the left’s reigning hero (B. Clinton) going against the right’s reigning hero (of 9-11), in a New York-style throwdown. It’s the stuff of an easily-to-follow narrative, a manifest destiny continuation of the aborted 2000 Senate race, in a country where nuance doesn’t fly — just ask Barack Obama, who’s been skewered for speaking like a human being during debates.

Of course, all of this plays into the theory that the Republicans want Hillary to be the Democratic nominee because she’s beatable, and if Hillary is the nominee, Giuliani is the only one that can beat her. She would wipe the floor with Romney. She really would. But there’s always the distinct chance that Giuliani screws up, and Hillary takes the election home. It would be attack vs. standing firm, and the first one to budge would lose. Even I think it would be fascinating, and probably the most fascinating election I can remember, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to vote to make it happen. If there’s one thing we’ve learned, being a good campaigner won’t make someone a great President. I just think, with the Hillary vs. Rudy hoopla, a lot of Americans have forgotten that. They’re more excited about the race than the destination. And it’s the destination that really matters.

The Brady Baby

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Blowing up all over the Internets.

Metabolife

Last night, I took out my Nike+ and ran 10K. I’m not training for a marathon — despite some talk of it earlier in the year, I missed the application deadline — but I wanted to kill the last of the “obviously attainable distances” (5K, 5 miles, 10K) while I’m still in the honeymoon phase with my new toy. Plus, I’m fairly sure I had never run a 10K before, even though I ran cross country in high school, and ran 5 miles last week without a problem. A 10K is less than 1.5 miles beyond that, so I figured what the heck? I had a minor cold earlier in the week so I had more or less been in the house since Sunday. I mapped out my route during the day on the Nike website, which has Google Maps built in, and relaxed/carbo loaded for a half an hour when I got home before setting out toward the Queensboro Bridge.

I realize this may not be interesting to someone like Rafe, who could run 6 miles and not even realize it, but I’m getting to the point of the story. Actually, here’s the point of the story: I should listen to myself, because I very often know what I’m talking about.

We’ll fast forward through the run, which was pleasant because it was the first cool day in a while that I had gone running. Quite intentionally, the middle parts of the run took me through some of the dingier areas of Western Queens — specifically, Queens Plaza and the bridge — which encouraged me not to stop even if I felt like it. Quite unintentionally, a very creepy Radiohead song (Climbing Up The Walls) came on as I was running there, which gave the whole thing a post-apocalyptic feel. Or, I should say, a more post-apocalyptic feel than normal, because outer Queens Plaza feels all “Escape From New York” on the best days. Soon enough, though, I was running along the East River and huffing and puffing my way back home. The legs are there, but the lungs are not — the result of too many long-winded conversations with Bob over the past several years.

When I passed through Astoria Park at the 9K mark on the river side, I passed a group of people who looked like they were staring into a tree behind me, so I craned my neck to see what had drawn their attention. There was nothing in the tree, but just to the side of the tree, sitting on top of a lightpost, was a hawk the size of an iMac staring bemusedly right back at them. Both parties seemed to be determining which one was more out of place. I would have stopped if my run was a bit shorter, but I was so close to home, I had to keep going. And then I was done.

As soon as I got inside, I saw that I had a message from my friend Brad, who was grilling at his house, a five-minute walk away. Did I want to come? I said yes and immediately regretted my decision, just because I didn’t want to walk over there. I scarfed down a banana, some walnuts and a protein shake, took a shower, and thought I’d be happier staying on the couch, watching my recently-purchased The Bourne Identity on my recently-repaired PS2, and eating whatever pasta was left in the apartment. Turns out I was out of pasta, and since I said I would go, I went. It was fun, and I ate two chicken sandwiches, a piece of corn on the cob and a salad like they were nothing and, at 10:30, headed back home. I thought that I would have a small snack back at my apartment and go to sleep. I was wrong.

A sidenote: despite my jubilant, already-linked-once post from the other day about marathoners/runners using exercise as an excuse to eat enormous amounts of food, I don’t actually need an excuse/a motivation/a physiological requirement to stuff myself silly. I can already eat non-stop and get away with it. Two years ago, I was unemployed, more or less sedentary, and could handily outeat my 6’2″, 240-lb. roommate. I weighed maybe five pounds more than I do now. My metabolism is generally haywire (in a good way), and for that I can do nothing other than thank Dr. J. As you’ll see in the following picture, I’m not exactly alone:

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(note: this is probably the best picture of all four of us ever taken.)
(note II: it’s much better when WordPress doesn’t cut me off)

… so really, I’m used to it by now. And last night, I thought I had eaten a decent amount of food for a normal day (I had), and I got in bed and tried to go to sleep. And… nothing.

Do you know any insomniacs? I used to be one. Here’s what you think when you can’t sleep: “I can’t sleep, I don’t know why, I’ll never be able to sleep again. If I could just stop thinking, I could sleep, but I can’t stop thinking. Okay, time to stop thinking. (One minute passes.) Shit. I can’t sleep.” And repeat, basically until infinity. Or at least it used to be for me. Now, usually, I can pinpoint the solution after only an hour or so of that soul-crushing feeling — and it is positively, horribly soul-crushing, “the grand ‘fuck you’ of life” — and it’s usually one of five things:

1) Listening to music
This calms me down considerably when there’s really nothing wrong. Jazz. Always jazz.

2) Cleaning up
Sometimes I just have that nagging feeling that things aren’t quite right, and I can’t put my finger on it. I’ll think, “It couldn’t be that this place is a mess, could it? Nah,” and I’ll stick with that line of thinking for about an hour before getting up, putting a few things away, and realizing, “That WAS it, stupid.”

3) Writing
Harder now that my computer’s broken, but when I have a real problem, it always seems far less daunting after I confront it directly.

4) Working out
Sometimes a few pushups tires me out in no time after an otherwise lazy day.

5) Eating
By far the most effective method, but I’ve saved it for last for a reason. A fairly obvious reason.

Around 1 a.m., after bouts of watching TV, reading The New Yorker and Sports Illustrated, playing video games and doing all those things three more times, I finally got out of bed and starting to clean up WITH music on (double-whammy!). I felt better, but not tired. So I went out and had a couple of swigs of milk. And I felt a little better. Then I had another banana. A little better yet. And then I did a little math to myself: If I burned 713 calories (as my little toy said I did), I probably needed to eat a LOT more than I had eaten if my body was going to be happy. And happy body = sleep. So I ate a peanut butter sandwich. And a large amount of crackers. And before you know it, I was eating everything in the apartment that wasn’t nailed down. I think I ate a towel.

What I realized is that when I do serious exercise, my body (like those in my family) becomes an absolute freaking furnace. After everything I ate, I could feel it get gobbled up by my stomach, which would demand, Homer Simpson-style: “More.” It was remarkable. I have generally gotten into the habit of eating less than I can, simply because I feel sluggish if I eat a ton, even if I don’t put on any weight. This is not surprising. But that notion fooled me last night: I needed calories, calories, calories, calories, and my body, smarter than my brain, wasn’t sleeping without them. The evening finally ended after I emptied a can of Hearty Vegetable and Pasta Chunky Soup into my stomach, and my eyelids started to droop. The game was finally over, and I wobbled back to bed, before I could think, “‘Boy, I hope this wo—’,” I was out.

So, I see two solutions here: 1) buy pasta, which will greatly simplify this process and 2) when in doubt, eat, eat, eat, because I can handle it. It may seem unnatural, but I guess it’s the right thing to do. Anyway, that’s what I’m up to… so, er, how are you?

Laugh Riot Wednesday

I’ve been cracking up non-stop today.

Instance the first: Philip Gourevitch’s Paris Review “interview” with bryanjoiner.com favorite Mik Awake Esq. DDS.

Instance the second: Catz: The Video.

Instance the third: Auctioning dog-chewed Michael Vick cards for “charity.” It’s actually just the picture that gets me.

Instance the fourth: Actually from yesterday, Earl Weaver, former Orioles manager, on an old radio call-in show. Not audibly appropriate for work in the least; maybe the best thing you’ll ever hear from a baseball manager.

Papi

Ortiz was still light on his feet after the game, dancing in the buff back and forth in the shower room while singing over and over at the top of his lungs the theme from “Monday Night Football.” “Dah-dah-dah-DAH, dah-dah-dah-DAH,” sang Ortiz, apparently jacked up that the team’s fantasy football draft was about to commence as soon as he could find a towel.

(From the Globe)