The Ongoing Nausea
I made the mistake of reading "reader reaction" to Andrew Sullican's "Stand By Our Man" (ie, Dubya). Some of the writers displayed the same grasp of world affairs as my cat (less: "it's all about biting people!" she says, and of course she's right); many of the letters had been posted, if the bad grammar and spelling mistakes were any indication, by the left's equivalent of mouth-breathing yahoos; some of the correspondents were obviously pissed that they had to take time off from Clinton-worship to write. Write an essay saying maybe we should quit sniping at Mr. Bush for trivialities while he has a war to worry about, get pissed on by a bunch of idiots. If this was France during WW2, people like these would have been busy kissing the Nazi boot. The only comfort I can get from the situation is knowing that people like these have nowhere to hide any more than the rest of us. Where can they go? The Yukon? Antarctica?
There. I feel better now.
One other thing: my favorite (not really) letter was from some idiot who complained that when (in the news footage) we saw Bush being told of the attack while he was in a classroom full of little kids, he -- I have to quote this person -- "remained seated in a classroom, listening to children read, waiting to be told what to do. He should have immediately stood up and said 'Children, I have to go, something has happened.' A President is told America is under attack, and he just sits there. Outrageous!"
My god, I'm glad that my parents didn't have that attitude. "'Children, something has happened'?!" And then just jumping up and leaving everyone there, mouths hanging open? Oh yeah, if I were a kid that would really reassure me.
Not being blinded by Bush-dislike and still somehow able to remember what it was like to actually be a child, I could see that he immediately grasped the seriousness of the situation: after the aide whispered in his ear, you could see that his face just froze. Being able immediately after that to turn and smile at the kids as if nothing was wrong was not cluelessness, it was a display of amazing self-control. But we are barely out of the Age of Oprah, so I'm not surprised that the sight of someone controlling their emotions goes unrecognized.
Well, in lighter news on the personal front, it looks like I'll be able to get a decent one-bedroom after all. Good-bye, cramped studio! Hello, bigger place with hardly any furniture! (Until I buy some.) I go see it tomorrow. It's not in my same complex, but over in Casselberry, so I'll need to get someone to help me move. I guess I will keep the tower bookshelves, for now, but this desk has got to go. It's too feeble and wobbly. (Notice: desk for sale!)
It occurs to me that I have never explained why I call myself "Charlotte Corday" for this journal. ("Like, it's your name?" Nope.) Corday was the woman who, during the French Revolution, all by herself, assassinated Jean-Paul Marat in his bath. (He was one of the scuzzier figures during the Reign of Terror. I may replace the image I have on this site with that gif I have of David's painting of the dead Marat.) Her motives may not have been the purest -- some revolutionary dispute, I believe it was; I'd have to check Schama's Citizens out and read it again because I can't remember -- but obviously she did not have any self-esteem problems. She knew what she wanted and went right to get it -- without, it must be said, massacring all the women and children in the area.
There. I feel better now.
One other thing: my favorite (not really) letter was from some idiot who complained that when (in the news footage) we saw Bush being told of the attack while he was in a classroom full of little kids, he -- I have to quote this person -- "remained seated in a classroom, listening to children read, waiting to be told what to do. He should have immediately stood up and said 'Children, I have to go, something has happened.' A President is told America is under attack, and he just sits there. Outrageous!"
My god, I'm glad that my parents didn't have that attitude. "'Children, something has happened'?!" And then just jumping up and leaving everyone there, mouths hanging open? Oh yeah, if I were a kid that would really reassure me.
Not being blinded by Bush-dislike and still somehow able to remember what it was like to actually be a child, I could see that he immediately grasped the seriousness of the situation: after the aide whispered in his ear, you could see that his face just froze. Being able immediately after that to turn and smile at the kids as if nothing was wrong was not cluelessness, it was a display of amazing self-control. But we are barely out of the Age of Oprah, so I'm not surprised that the sight of someone controlling their emotions goes unrecognized.
Well, in lighter news on the personal front, it looks like I'll be able to get a decent one-bedroom after all. Good-bye, cramped studio! Hello, bigger place with hardly any furniture! (Until I buy some.) I go see it tomorrow. It's not in my same complex, but over in Casselberry, so I'll need to get someone to help me move. I guess I will keep the tower bookshelves, for now, but this desk has got to go. It's too feeble and wobbly. (Notice: desk for sale!)
It occurs to me that I have never explained why I call myself "Charlotte Corday" for this journal. ("Like, it's your name?" Nope.) Corday was the woman who, during the French Revolution, all by herself, assassinated Jean-Paul Marat in his bath. (He was one of the scuzzier figures during the Reign of Terror. I may replace the image I have on this site with that gif I have of David's painting of the dead Marat.) Her motives may not have been the purest -- some revolutionary dispute, I believe it was; I'd have to check Schama's Citizens out and read it again because I can't remember -- but obviously she did not have any self-esteem problems. She knew what she wanted and went right to get it -- without, it must be said, massacring all the women and children in the area.