CULTIVATING LIBERALISM
FOR ALL CLIMATES
SINCE 1759
 
Google
 

Free daily alert to Candide's Notebooks
Your email:

By Feedburner (more versatile)
By The Notebooks
(quicker)

Daily Bloggerback
Best of Blogs: January 24, 2006

From the left, the right, the in-between: we include the political,
the social, the cultural and the undefinable, and on the weekend, a few bloggers' fictional fancies, too.

Featured Blog I: Jesus Christ
What's in a Name?

With all the people in the world named "Jesus" at birth, you wouldn't think it would be such a big deal for someone later in life to seek to legally change his name to the full name of that alleged deity. After all, girls named "Mary" have pretty much accomplished that -- like Cher, Charro and Beyonce, the Mother of God doesn't have a last name. And in any event, the last name "Christ" isn't so uncommon. As I noted here, a New York recently did grant a man's petition to change his name to Jesus Christ. The law certainly doesn't care; unless you're trying to evade creditors, what you call yourself is your own business. Who would object? Blogger Tim Murphy, for one. He got quite upset when he read that a Mr. Peter Robert Phillips wanted to officially be known Jesus Christ. No matter that Mr. Phillips already owned property and had a US Passport, Social Security card, District of Columbia drivers license issued under that name, and just wanted his West Virginia drivers license to match. Murphy thought the guy should be legally barred from calling himself JC -- because ... Read the Raving Atheist's full post...

Featured Blogger II: West Virginia Redux
The Body of Miners

[West Virginia's mining disasters manage to sober even the Rude Pundit, the Notebooks' Rabelais-in-Chief and Terri Garr all in one.]

Sometimes being a leftist is exhausting. Essentially, these days especially, you're just reduced to a plaintive "Told you so" when the typically hideous, awful slide into corruption or calamity occurs. The stripping away of civil rights in the wake of 9/11? Told you so. The degradation of the environment to the point that it endangers the way in which humans exist? Told you so. And part of the frustration is saying, "Told you so" again and again on the same goddamn issues. It's not unlike watching your best friend constantly going home with men, getting fucked, declaring the hope of love for the fucker, and then getting dumped within six to nine months. And no matter how many times you tell him, "You know, maybe you shouldn't emotionally commit to everyone you fuck," he'll just keep goin' along, gettin' his heart broken almost as much as he gets his rocks off. But you're a good friend. You'll be over to help delete the photos from the hard drive, wash the semen stains from the sheets, get him ready for the hope that he's learned something this time, praying that he'll at least go into therapy. Take worker safety. No, let's get even more specific: let's say mine safety. No, let's get even more and more specific: let's say mine safety in the administration of George W. Bush. Back in September 2001, another of the great disasters of that time was the series of explosions at a coal mine in Brookwood, Alabama on September 23, killing 13 people. The mine's owner, Jim Walter Resources, had been cited more than 250 times in three years by the Mine Safety and Health Administration for "allowing combustible materials...to build up underground," according to the November 12, 2001 In These Times. The MSHA, in December 2002, said that the company was at fault for the explosions and deaths at Brookwood, because of a botched evacuation and rescue effort and for the aforementioned build-up. It was fined $435,000. Read the full post...

 


 


THE DAILY JOURNAL VANPOEM
 

As One Put Naked Into a Cigarette Boat

Continue chiding, since it's part of the new aesthetic,
and parcel to our coming home, as if
we'd disappeared into the burning bush
that calls to those who sit vacantly in parlors
awaiting a fate freighted with song and dance.
I stroll while staring and raging
with difficulty at the stubborn sky.

On my honor I step a little distance
from behind the curtain, only to disappear
the moment no birds sing, which occurs frequently.
Leaves dustier than furniture, the sound
of sleeping grating through the cosmos,
my footstool, my only talisman.
It's been real, arguing on your behalf.
Gray cobweb shadow, falling, floundering,
finding a place to not be shy and think
boldly about the oldness of beauty, a place
to rest its weary insubstantial head.

It may be that I stand on the threshold
of the checkout line, unsure of what
to be impulsive about, which momentous emptiness
to spontaneously identify my alienation with,
what kind of languor to slide into

before being reduced to grubbing for credentials,
locked in that tumid late-afternoon skin,
effervescing in its sea of dreams.
And all the things hearkening back to it,
the boat ride to breaker beach
there at the end of one world
where it paid to rage at the stammering waves
that kicked and screamed solely for my benefit,
staged objections to the inexorable fact of me.

Look: I've installed a turnstile in my kitchen,
so your picture-postcard of desolation has no power over me.
In this doggy-dog world land is made motionless
and the broads are standing on the wharves
with some of that sipping whisky on those silver trays,
which we'd be a bear to pass up. You speak
of the old gods who've washed up on shore,
but I don't see them, don't hear their hue and cry,
though their maze awaits us, will amaze us.
Here, let me get this little rock out of my damn shoe.
Then we can talk about paddling off to parts unknown.

 
Van Foreman
 
 

 


 

Read Pierre’s Latest at


 
The Latest Comments
 

In The Notebooks:
The Latest

Featured Essays:



GOOGLE GOOGLE NEW YORK TIMES NEWSPAPERS NETFLIX UK INDEPENDENT NETFLIX
  
Add to Google Reader or Homepage Subscribe in NewsGator Online Subscribe in Rojo   Add to My AOL Subscribe in FeedLounge Add to netvibes Subscribe in Bloglines Add to The Free Dictionary