Sex & politics

Well, the news about John Edwards admitting to a months-long affair in 2006 while running for the Democratic nomination for President (but not while his wife was being treated for cancer, he says)—it got me thinking. As you knew it would.

For one thing, Edwards assured the public that he “didn’t love” Rielle Hunter, although of course she’s 1) eleven years younger than he & 2) 15 years younger than his wife, Elizabeth. So she’s got that trophy thing going for her.

Plus, she’s apparently not suffering from incurable breast cancer.

What gets me about that is he’s basically saying it’s somehow less selfish, arrogant & adulterous to carry on with a woman you don’t care about than one for whom you have feelings. How does that work?

(Also that defense in detail of “& I didn’t do it while Elizabeth was actively fighting the cancer”—who thinks that’s a justification?)

But that’s not the only thing that bothers me about this. What I really don’t get is this:

• For at least the last five years he’s been telling the world that he’s a straight arrow, the embodiment of Family Values & therefore worthy of We the People electing him to the office of Vice President, & then President


• He possesses the added saintly association of having his cancer-stricken wife publicly support his ambitions


• He’s been senator from North Carolina—Jesse Helms country—so has had to walk the straight & narrow path for at least the length of his political career


• He does have that wife & four children

He’s really not generally speaking a stupid man

So how is it he engaged in an adulterous affair with someone he didn’t love in an atmosphere where he was bound to be found out & publicly excoriated?

What is it about men & their sliding sense of morality when it comes to this sort of thing?

Let’s leave aside the ordinary schmo who believes he’s entitled by fiat of the Almighty to share his procreative fluids with anyone with the XX chromosome configuration. The one who thinks marriage vows only apply to his wife, but who either thinks he’s not got much to lose by spreading it around or can’t think that far ahead to any consequences.

The stakes may in fact be high for this guy—lose the wife, the kids, the house; but he’s not going to lose his career or his future in the community.

& forget about celebs who feel entitled by virtue of celebrityhood to sleep with anything animal, vegetable or mineral without consequences. They don’t live in the real world & we don’t really expect them to be capable of spelling “morals” much less have them. In fact, behaving like a Restoration earl sells movies & media, so everyone’s happy about it.

But what’s up with guys who have so much more riding on this than the little woman chucking his clothes, baseball card collection & bowling ball in the garbage? Pols know they’re expected to display the family values they purport to believe in. & they know that if they don’t live up their own hype, their careers are toast.

How is it that they risk not only the break up of their family, but public humiliation, alienation of the voters, and—most horrifying of all—the exodus of those big-ticket campaign donors. You really can lose your job & your career future by giving in to your libido (or your ego—or both). & there’ve been so many examples of that—Bill Clinton notwithstanding.

So what is it that makes a smart guy, who presumably loves his family, who is at the height of his career aspirations, who knows what the consequences are—what makes him put all that on the line to make it with a videographer?

I just do not get it.

Culture vulture

A friend sent round this Yankee or Dixie Quiz. So I took it.

My score came out 80% Dixie (Do you have Confederate ancestors?). Which is a complete crock, because how is it that I could have only THREE answers that are pegged as solely south/southeast and all the rest be somewhere else (with some also the south), and STILL be tagged Dixie?

I mean, I started off #1 as being “clearly Massachusetts, Maine or Rhode Island”. I’ve spent maybe four weeks in Mass, one in Maine and I’ve driven through RI. Go figure.

Caramel I’ve always pronounced the way it’s spelled, and never confused it with the biblical Mount Carmel. (Nor do I refer to the place of Christ’s crucifixion when I mean horse soldiers, for that matter.)

My answer to #3 was “common throughout the US”. Four WAS “southeastern US, but five was “no bias” and six “common nearly everywhere”.

I’ll give them y’all on seven. Guilty, guilty, guilty.

Eight was “all US; slightly favors the southeast”. Nine “common throughout the entire US”. Ten “universal generic term used nationwide”. Eleven, “very strong bias toward the Northeast US”. (Although I grew up in California and never left the state until I went to Mexico in high school, and I never called them anything else.)

Twelve—really, I use both terms, but it’s “all of southern US and Midwest except Great Lakes area.” Thirteen “favored in western Great Lakes region”. Fourteen “used nationwide and in southern urban areas”. Fifteen “most common nationwide except for Great lakes area.” (And I lived in Wisconsin for a while, so I recognized the term used there. I just never used it.)

Sixteen FINALLY got me back home: “used heavily in northeast US and California”. But as for 17—again, in Southern California we never called it anything else, so how did that become “used heavily in Great Lakes and Midwest region”?

Eighteen brought me “this is common throughout most of the US”. How 19 got me “largely a Texas term but also used in the urbanized Northeast”, I don’t know. And for 20 in LA we never called it anything BUT pillbug, so I’m not getting the “Great Lakes region and northeast US”.

Even so—notwithstanding the categorization of some of these terms, how is it I could still come out 80% Dixie, when most of my responses came from multiple areas?

Now, as it happens, I do have Confederate ancestors. Yankee ones, too. You gotta problem wid’ dat?

Working theory

New workforce study out, reported by The Onion. This should resonate with all three readers of this blog.

Leaving aside the point that it’s satire, it reminds me how obtuse asshole bosses can be. I once worked for a woman who was a blonde version of Dilbert’s pointy-haired boss in every respect: ignorance, self-puffery, paranoia, micromanaging, etc.

Yet she cooked up one of those “team-building” outings to Annapolis, which included several Dilbert videos featuring her alter ego as the example of how not to manage people. It never occurred to her that she herself was the object of derision in those videos.

This is something I've wondered about for years: how is it that some people 1)get hired & 2)remain employed when they display no discernible skills, talent or even basic intelligence? I once expressed to a friend this wonder regarding a particular person when I was working in the film industry. She looked at me in amazement & exclaimed, "But, [Bas Bleu] don't you know that when you can't figure out why someone's in the position they're in, it usually means they have photos!"

Well, perhaps. But I'm reasonably certain that some of them--most, but not all, in management--are too stupid to operate the camera. So I still don't get it.

My bad...

I realized after posting yesterday that as Raymond Chandler aged, Philip Marlowe’s attitude toward gin mellowed somewhat.

Terry Lennox of Silver Wraith fame was drunk on gimlets, and he introduced Marlowe to them. He even dictated the recipe: “A real gimlet is half gin and half Rose's Lime Juice and nothing else. It beats martinis hollow."

Well, even at half and half, the Rose’s will peel the enamel off your teeth. A professor at Santa Monica City College who taught a course on detective literature made it 2:1 gin to Rose’s. But it’s a delicate balance—do you prefer to risk disintegrating teeth or deadened brain cells?

The Long Goodbye was written in 1953. Five years later, when Chandler published Playback, Marlowe was drinking Gibsons (martinis with an onion instead of an olive).

I can’t see it myself—but then I’m more of a vodka girl.

There’s a passage from Goodbye, where Lennox describes the comfort to be found in a bar at a certain time: “I like bars just after they open for the evening. When the air inside is still cool and clean and everything is shiny and the barkeep is giving himself that last look in the mirror to see if his tie is straight and his hair is smooth. I like the neat bottles on the bar back and the lovely shining glasses and the anticipation. I like to watch the man mix the first one of the evening and put it down on a crisp mat and put the little folded napkin beside it. I like to taste it slowly. The first quiet drink of the evening in a quiet bar.”

Good luck trying to find that sort of respite at any time in any boozery these days, where the techno pop and TVs blare at you from the instant the bartender turns the key in the door to open.

Terry Lennox—and Marlowe—would not be able to sit in a bar for the time it takes to down a single gimlet in this age. They’d take one look at the cosmos and cranberry martinis and beers with limes in the necks being drunk by poseurs who think their quaff is a statement, not a drink; and they’d have just walked out and gone dry.

Down these mean streets

I recently relocated from the Metro DC area to Metro Seattle. This move involved being housed in a corporate apartment for the past two weeks with nothing but what I brought with me on the flight from Dulles.

I had less than three weeks to organize this move. I did my best in the circumstances, but for some reason I only put four books in my luggage. (If you’re interested, they were Strapless, a “history” of John Singer Sargent’s “Portrait of Madame X”, which I do not recommend; Final Salute: A Story of unfinished Lives, based on Jim Sheeler’s Pulitzer Prize-winning account of notifications of families of service members killed in the current wars—also over-written, but still worth a read; The War Works Hard, by Iraqi poet Dunya Mikhail—recommended without reservation; and Trouble Is My Business, a collection of four short stories by Raymond Chandler.)

This aggregation barely lasted three days. Fortunately, it turns out that my corporate apartment is a block away from the largest branch of the King County Public Library. And they’ll let you get a card on your say-so that you live in the area (two-book limit on checking things out until you prove your bona fides). And so I had a card within a day of arriving.

On the back of Trouble, I felt like reconnecting with Chandler—when you are uprooted and plonked down in an alien environment, comfort reading is a bit like comfort food. It gets you over the hard parts. I’m not a fan of meatloaf and I gag at mac and cheese; but favorite books are like Moët Brut Imperial—they go down silky and leave you lighter when you’re done. So I checked out Volume I of the Library of America’s collection of Chandler’s stories and novels, and have been wallowing in blood, bruises and bourbon for a week.

It’s a blast from many pasts.

I discovered Chandler as a junior in college—introduced by a gentleman caller who lived smack in Philip Marlowe’s Hollywood territory. At that time (cusp of the 80s), the streets around Cahuenga, Franklin, Gower and Sunset were still pretty mean. A lot of the buildings there dated from the 20s and 30s, so Marlowe could well have known them.

I read most the oeuvre over a summer and picked up the left-over bits within a couple of years. I revisited one or two of the stories in the intervening years; but this is the first time I’ve delved deeply back into that world for 20 years. (I’ve not been back to Hollywood for about that time span; I wonder what’s changed there?)

I have to say—no one can open a story like Chandler. He uses language like a diner uses the smell of bacon and coffee to lure you into his world. One of my favorites:

"There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge."

That’s from “Red Wind”. Anyone who’s ever experienced a Santa Ana—even in the age of air conditioning and the ubiquitous water bottle—will recognize the condition. You can’t read that story without feeling your skin cracking with dryness.

One that I’ve always loved is the beginning of Farewell, My Lovely—not, technically, the opening graf, but this description of Moose Malloy comes on the first page, and once you read it, he’ll be ingrained in your cortex:

“It was a warm day, almost the end of March, and I stood outside the barber shop looking up at the jutting neon sign of a second floor dine and dice emporium called Florian’s. A man was looking up at the sign too. He was looking up at the dusty windows with a sort of ecstatic fixity of expression, like a hunky immigrant catching his first sight of the Statue of Liberty. He was a big man but not more than six feet five inches tall and not wider than a beer truck. He was about ten feed away from me. His arms hung loose at his sides and a forgotten cigar smoked behind his enormous fingers.

“Slim quiet negroes passed up and down the street and stared at him with darting side glances. He was worth looking at. He wore a shaggy borsalino hat, a rough gray sports coat with white golf balls on it for buttons, a brown shirt, a yellow tie, pleated gray flannel slacks and alligator shoes with white explosions on the toes. From his outer breast pocket cascaded a show handkerchief of the same brilliant yellow as his tie. There were a couple of colored feathers tucked into the band of his hat, but he didn’t really need them. Even on Central Avenue, not the quietest dressed street in the world, he looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.”

Moose—like so many of us—is looking for love in the wrong place, and within a few pages he’s murdered the manager of Florian’s in his search for little Velma, who used to sing and dance there—eight years ago.

But my all-time favorite is from The Long Goodbye:

“The first time I saw Terry Lennox he was drunk in a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith outside the terrace of The Dancers. The parking lot attendant had brought the car out and he was still holding the door open because Terry Lennox's left foot was still dangling outside, as if he had forgotten he had one. He had a young-looking face but his hair was bone white. You could tell by his eyes that he was plastered to the hairline, but otherwise he looked like any other nice young guy in a dinner jacket who had been spending too much money in a joint that exists for that purpose and for no other.

“There was a girl beside him. Her hair was a lovely shade of dark red and she had a distant smile on her lips and over her shoulders she had a blue mink that almost made the Rolls-Royce look like just another automobile. It didn't quite. Nothing can.”

I picked up my copy of The Long Goodbye at Gatwick Airport on my way back to LA from following the pilgrim route from Paris to Santiago de Compostela the autumn after I graduated. I’m not sure whether I love it the best of Chandler’s works because it’s superbly plotted and written (as Ross MacDonald described Chandler) as by a slumming angel; or because I associate it with that particular trip and time in my life. But I’m looking forward to rediscovering it again.

Chandler is certainly free with the similes and metaphors, especially in his earlier works. And his plots get pretty convoluted. (I read somewhere that when John Huston was filming The Big Sleep, after one day’s shoot, he realized that no one could understand who killed the chauffeur. So he called Chandler, who had written the screenplay while drinking heavily. And not even he could unravel the threads.) But the man knew how to evoke a sense of place and time like very few other writers.

This time around, freed of the college earnestness and the influence of the gentleman caller (who quite fancied himself built in the mold of Marlowe—in his dreams), I’m struck by a couple of observations about the gender assumptions of the times.

Marlowe is indeed a paladin, a principled man in a world that has lost all honor. Educated well enough to quote [Christopher] Marlowe, Shakespeare and other literary giants, he’s still tough enough to fight literally and figuratively with the forces of corruption that swirl around him.

But he’s also a chick magnet, that quintessential indicator of a protagonist devised by a male. At least 93% of the women in these stories throw themselves at him, the good as well as the bad. He never pursues any one of them; in fact, he has to brush them away like lint off his suit.

He’s somewhere in his forties. Women in that category are “of a certain age”, desperately trying to disguise their years (and Chandler is pointedly cruel about that); but he’s just all the more attractive because of his seasoning. Also, his face is frequently the object of various fists, saps and gun butts. That doesn't seem to discourage the women.

He barely makes a living and spends a considerable portion of his earnings on booze. Mostly bourbon or rye; Scotch when he can get it. (Gin he clearly holds in disdain—you can predict with absolute accuracy that a character has no self-respect or redeeming social value if s/he drinks gin.) He has a shabby office with a reception room always kept unlocked, and an inner office with empty filing cabinets and a desk of uncertain lineage whose primary function seems to be to hold a bottle of rye.

And yet his financial circumstances seem to raise no flag for the women who pursue him with the single-mindedness of a four-year-old determined to stay up past his bedtime.

You can pretty much bet the ranch on the fact that any woman who doesn’t succumb to his charms is going to be a psycho or a drunk; possibly both. Of course, many of the women who do fall for him are bitches or psychos, as well. I guess it was that kind of world.

You can also depend on the “good girls” (and they’re all “girls”) being sent packing, generally sooner rather than later. Marlowe isn’t going to trade in his efficiency with the Murphy bed at the Hobart Arms, his drugstore lunch counter meals and his office desk drawer bottle for domestic happiness.

Finally, you’re going to want to be ready to cherchez la femme: a woman is usually at the root of all evil. Sometimes innocently, but usually decidedly on purpose. Turns out little Velma wasn’t worth Moose’s devotion. Carmen Sternwood in The Big Sleep is the very Energizer Bunny of psychotic nymphomaniacs. And poor Terry Lennox had good reason indeed to be drunk in that Rolls Royce Silver Wraith. (Then there are The Little Sister and The Lady in the Lake…)

Don't get me wrong--I still love the stories and the writing. And Marlowe does seem to be partial to redheads. I'm just sayin'...

Chandler didn’t write Marlowe a permanent love interest until Playback. Which, BTW, also has a memorable beginning (not the first graf):

"So I went to bed. But not to sleep. At three a.m., I was walking the floor listening to Khachaturian working in a tractor factory. He called it a violin concerto. I called it a loose fan belt and the hell with it. A white night for me is as rare as a fat postman."

Well, comfort is where you find it, I guess. I’ve now got mail addressed to me at my temp address that will permit the King County Public Library to authorize me to check out the full complement of books (100, they tell me). Plus, now that I think I’ve found a permanent place to live, I can spend my off-time actually, you know, discovering the PNW.

For the moment, however, I may pour just a skosh of the Glenlivet I’ve got in my freezer. I did at least have the presence of mind to tape the daylights out of that bottle, wrap it in bubble pack and put it in my luggage, along with the four books. It's been getting syrupy with cold ever since. I've just been reaching over it to get to the ice cream.

But I think now's a good time to open it. Marlowe deserves the effort.

Summer madness

Well, I think the Wall Street Journal has lost its editorial mind; this opinion piece likens the box-office hero of the summer to the current occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Evidently Bush is a superhero in everything but the cape & rubber suit (which is an image I fervently hope to erase from my cortex).

This Klavan character goes on to whinge about those liberal meanies who don’t get that we’re on a crusade against the infidels. Or that everything Bush does is ordained by God (as opposed to Cheney, KBR & Standard Oil). Because, like Batman, he’s a True Believer.

Well, as my box-office hero was wont to remark, “Everybody has to believe in something…I believe I’ll have another drink.”

Stick that in your teetotal leotard, W.

Something to look forward to

Interesting story in yesterday’s WSJ about The Greatest Generation taking up “cane fighting”, AKA “cane fu”.

Just reading the opening grafs I flashed back to one summer when I was taking a course in writing healthcare materials for low literacy levels. It was held at a small (somewhat stark) college near Portland, Maine, which was also hosting a high school football camp and some Elder Hostel activities.

All three groups shared the cafeteria facilities for breakfast and lunch. (Come dinner time I bolted to nearby boîtes for seafood and white wine.) Now, the beefed up tackles and halfbacks were boisterous, but generally well-behaved.

But God help you if you got between one of the Elder Hostiles and his bran flakes. They had no compunction whatsoever about shoving you out of the way.

I shudder to think what that experience would be like if they’d known about this form of exercise.

For the record, I do not own a cane. However I do possess a blackthorn walking stick, given me by a gentleman caller on the occasion of my graduation from college. He’s a Sherlockian, and the stick is similar to that carried by Dr. James Mortimer in The Hound of the Baskervilles.

Being a stick there’s no hook, but that is one solid piece of hardwood, and I assure you that were I to crack someone’s head he’d be well and truly bopped.

Just sayin’...

Yo, ho, ho

Eric Felten, who has pretty much the best job on the Wall Street Journal, gets paid to write about booze. Wine is taken care of by another column (husband/wife team of Dorothy L. Gaiter and John Brecher); Felten concentrates on cocktails and spirits.

It’s not just mixology. In addition to one or more recipes for a drink, Felten delves into history, putting specific beverages or alcohols into a sociological context. By the time he’s done with most columns, you feel almost morally obliged to go out and try the libation du jour.

This week he takes on rum, specifically white rum. After a brief anecdote about George Washington, Felten dives into a taste comparison of nine different white rums. This includes three “boutique rums” from Martinique.

(Historical note of my own: at the end of the Seven Years’ War in 1763, the victorious British could have chosen Martinique and other sugar-producing islands in the West Indies as spoils of war. Sugar at the time was a tremendous cash crop—slam-dunk buckets o’ cash in the treasury coffers. For some unknowable reason, the Brits instead chose Canada. Lots of real estate, but nothing in the way of mercantile wealth to compare with Martinique.)

His comments are passing strange: “Mild, but saved from blandness by a nice hint of black pepper.” “Burnt, almost acrid scent. Predominantly vegetal flavors.” I’m not really sure what these mean.

But here’s the thing that caught my particular attention: his recipe of the week is for something called “Ti Punch”. Equal parts of white rum and simple syrup (essentially sugar water), with a single slice of lime.

Don’t know about you, but the enamel is peeling off my teeth just thinking about that one.

12 July 2008 UPDATE:

In yesterday's WSJ, Felten published this correction:

"A superfluous keystroke last week rendered the recipe for Ti Punch undrinkable. The recipe should have read ½ oz of sugar cane syrup, not the 1½ oz that was printed in the paper. If you tried it, and spat the treacly mess out in disgust, try it again, this time with ½ oz sugar syrup to 1½ oz white rum, a slice of lime and some ice. My apologies for having wasted any of your rum."

So it wasn't just me...

Red, white & blues

A friend of mine helps to raise my blood pressure every week by sending me links to Peggy Noonan’s column in the Wall Street Journal. Throughout these past months she has been consistent in her constant carping about the Democratic presidential campaigns. It’s like a nightmarish endless loop, with no Escape key.

Her primary target has been Hillary Clinton—God forbid that a week should pass without Noonan flaunting her mean-spirited, bloody-minded streak, blowing poison darts at Clinton. Now, of course, she’s retooling for Obama.

So when my friend sent me today’s piece, his comment was, “Not the usual column.”

Well, not “usual” in the sense that she’s not grousing about a Democrat. That is rather a nice change.

On the other hand, her chosen “hero” is definitely a Republican—not surprising she couldn’t find anyone among the D-Day survivors who didn’t serve in the Reagan administration worthy enough to focus on. Those years were her high-water mark & it’s been hard for her to adjust to the post-Ronnie world ever since.

But frankly, her “opinion” is nothing out of the ordinary with respect to Omaha Beach. She’s about 576,344th in line to laud the boys of Omaha & use them as examples of Americans at their best. Her encomium is well within the range of “usual”, & pretty far down the scale of insightful or elegiac.

What, then, is really the point?

Oh, right—that she gets it. The point is, as always, her.

& that is indeed “usual”.

Sign of THEM times...

Okay, I appear to be in a somewhat facetious mood, but here’s another forward I got this week.

This doesn’t happen very often, but words just fail me.