Blair's Speech
I'm finally getting around to watching Tony Blair's speech to congress from CSPAN’s stream. Fairly impressive.
Sure there was plenty of environmental bunk, and conciliatory talk regarding the EUros, but you’ve gotta expect at least a little of that from a Labour PM with big time internationalist tendencies. He’s a pinko, but a pinko I can at least respect. As The Lileks wrote so eloquently, “We can argue about the shape and direction of Western Civ after we’ve made sure that such a thing will endure.”
It’s also good to hear the word “Liberty” being mentioned again in these big global speeches. The overused term “Freedom”, which, after a century of abuse from criminals, tyrants, and fools, has become increasingly meaningless. Liberty, it seems to me at least, has survived the last hundred years of doublespeak relatively intact.
I’m just shooting off my mouth (or fingers I guess) here, and I’d love to see some kind of statistical analysis on the use of the word in political and intellectual discourse over the past 200 years, but Liberty has fallen out of mainstream use for most of the last century. Of course, our presidents occasionally throw it in as a reference to the quant language of the past, but that’s just because it’s, well, a quant word.
This, of course, is part of its beauty and power. It’s a word with history. Ignoring the abortion of the French Revolution’s “libert’e” which was quickly subsumed by “egalit’e” and “fraternit’e”, there’s 250 years of American history embedded in the word. Before that there’s 500 more years of British history, going all the way back to angry aristocrats challenging the absolute power of a divine monarchy.
The American Heritage Dictionary defines Liberty as “The condition of being free from restriction or control.”, stemming from the Latin root “liber” meaning free. In its modern use, as in the Enlightenment era, it also has undertones of independence, integrity, and especially in America, orneriness (as delightfully portrayed by our much beloved First Navy Jack).
Libertarians have done much to revitalize the word for our modern world, but, despite the small section of the blogosphere which I frequent, both big and small “L” libertarians are a small minority voice. Blair in the UK certainly seems no great friend of liberty, but during his speech I felt he at least grasped the historical and geopolitical importance of the term. Wherever true liberty has taken hold, prosperity has spread. Wherever it is absent, poverty and misery runs rampant. The more people with real power start yammering home about the word, the better.
As a side note, I found Blair’s little attempts at humor in the beginning and end of his speech were actually pretty damn funny. Decent timing, alright delivery. Two centuries on, the Bitish sacking of DC in the War of 1812 is a big goddamn joke. Somebody should tell the Canadians, I think they’re still holding a grudge.
And did anybody notice which Dems just didn’t seem to be enjoying themselves? Most of their party were smiling and happy and jumping to the ovations along with the GOPers. Everyone was united in a big “we love those good ‘ol limeys” fiesta. However, a few key Donks looked downright irritated at the whole thing.
Of their number, I only took note of a few. Teddy Kennedy was one, but I can put his lack of enthusiasm down to his being drunk, or simply that he’s a filthy Kennedy. Those people have no goddamn manners you know. Hillary Clinton was another, which I actually found somewhat surprising, since she was in no way a huge opponent of the war, and Blair even went so far as praising her husband somewhere in the speech. I don’t get it.
Anyways, it was a pretty damn good speech, overall.
The British parliamentary system, in my humble opinion, has some serious deficiencies (I know many Brits defend the whole unwritten constitution thing, but c’mon guys). However, in its production of quality orators it towers over the American system. They’ve got Churchill. They’ve got Thatcher. They’ve got Blair. What have we got?
Even if you despise the man and his policies (I’m not particularly fond), Bill Clinton was a fantastic public speaker, certainly the finest in the last quarter century. Compare his finest speeches to what the British PM delivered to the American congress this week. Blair makes Clinton look like a tired old QVC pitchman.
Mojo Meets “The Man”
After many years of good and bad times, I have three taste buds that still work. One registers beer, one registers meat, and the most sensitive and rewarding one registers heat. All the rest have been killed in action. Gloriously, I might add.
I love spicy food.
You name it, I enjoy it. Tabasco sauce, hot wings, curry, Mexican, Thai, whatever. A nice sting on the lips just means the cook likes you. In the higher levels of heat, the pain becomes a masochistic challenge to my manhood. Some may say my compulsion for spice borders on the insane. Surely, someone who seeks out pain in this way suffers from at least some kind of mental illness, or is, at the least, a serious dumbshit.
Regardless of the intelligence or mental health issues raised by this behavior, I’ve been going to greater and greater lengths to get my heat fix, testing the limits of my endurance. Ordering the hottest spice setting on whatever menu I’m perusing. I’ve been working my way slowly up the burn scale, from the lowly pepperchini to the dreaded Wing Dome 7-alarm wing (sold one wing at a time, for fear of killing diners). I had mastered them all, but I had not yet become their master. There was one challenge left before me.
A few years ago, I started hearing hushed voices in the night, telling tales. Tales of a hot sauce of great strength. A sauce, of which the mere dipped toothpick’s taste, caused a deep burning in the mouth and throat. Of which a small dab on your meal could cause convulsions of pain. The only name associated with these folk tales was a mysterious and reverent mention of “The Man”.
Could such a substance exist? And if it did exist were these tall tales merely the exaggerated ramblings of ignorant peasants or flavor challenged barbarians? I knew I would have to find out, or my soul would never rest.
Several Fridays ago, I made the journey to the mythical place, “Dixie’s”, where “The Man” was said to originate. To get there, I had to go to “The Eastside”, crossing a floating graveyard known only as “the 520 bridge”. The Eastside is a desolate place, filled with the ruins of the Puget Sound’s once mighty technology industry. Now it is strictly the domain of big haired white trash, strange, mall dwelling creatures, and the uncountable hordes of heathen yuppie scum, with their larval young in tow.
It is a wasteland, which on sight fills the heart with dread and sorrow. I go to this hideous place on rare occasion, preferring the comforts of the well-fortified city. However, knowing the nature of my quest heartened me greatly. I would meet this mighty “Man”, and I would best him. Or I would die trying.
With some difficulty, my stalwart companions and I found our destination hidden just off the freeway exit. Dixie’s is a converted auto shop made into a BBQ restaurant. It is physically connected to another auto shop. The smell of motor oil mixed together with roasting animal flesh. It was sunny that day, but this place seemed to darken the sky.
“We’re doomed! We should flee!” shouted one of my compatriots.
I turned, slapping him across the face. “Pull yourself together you goddamn woman!” I shouted, feeling a deep rage, “We’ve come too far to turn back now! I will not be stopped by your wimpering!”
His cowering began to diminish, as his wits returned. We exited the car, and moved into line with a number of locals. We told them of our desire to meet this mysterious “Man”.
“You are insane. ‘The Man’ is not to be trifled with,” one of their number spoke, “you should leave while you still can!”
We stayed, and he shook his head at us. Slowly we moved forward in line, passed the outer doors and into the inner cooking chamber. This was a surprising pleasant place. The smell of cooked meat wafted across our noses, triggering our hunger. I pulled up to the counter.
Taking my order was a very nice old lady (the female half of the couple who owns the place). I asked for the beef spare ribs meal and she prepared my order promptly. I paid the bill and hauled my meal out to one of the tables on the patio.
The ribs were well cooked. Tender and juicy, sliding off the bone. The house BBQ sauce was itself unremarkable, being neither particularly smoky, sweet, nor spicy. The rice and beans were delicious, and the cornbread and lemon cake were both delicious. As I was finishing my meal, I wondered what all the fuss was about. Had we journeyed all this way for nothing?
A scream of pain behind me in the distance answered this question. I could see the owner, a large man, aggressively taunting one of his patrons, who was coughing and choking. “Take it like a man!” I heard him shout.
This, I knew immediately, was my adversary. In his hands was a small bowl of what could only be, “The Man”. It appeared, from the horrified look of the sauce’s victims, that the mighty substance was indeed a force to be reckoned with. Women, who were treated to a merciful toothpick taste, blushed and panted in obvious discomfort. The men-folk, given a small dab on their food choked, shrieked and cried on contact. This was indeed the sauce I had sought for years.
Slowly making his way through the other diners, he finally approached our table. I looked up wide eyed, some mixture of sheer terror and unbridled excitement coursing through my veins. I had saved one of my ribs for the event. Shaking inside, I put up a brave front. That is, until one of my compatriots spoke.
“My friend here,” he said, pointing at me, “says he thinks your sauce isn’t that hot.”
My calm expression immediately crashed into one of panic. He had sacrificed me so he would not face The Man’s wrath. I was doomed, indeed.
The owner turned to me, “Oh really, you motherfucker!” He dalloped a spoonful on my rib.
I looked at the sauce for a moment, stunned by its hideous beauty. Although terrified, I knew I must persevere. I would conquer, or be conquered. All had led to this moment. My inner-strength, along with my composure, returned. I picked up the rib, looked up at my would-be tormentor, consumed the sauce-covered portion, and smiled.
I could immediately feel the spice working. It was certainly hot, but not more so than a good 6-alarm wing.
“It’s got a little kick to it,” I said, smarmily.
The man standing before me was enraged by my lack of overt suffering.
“Want another ‘un, boy?” he growled.
Two of my other companions (the ones who had not betrayed me), were moaning and suffering from their small doses. I nodded happily. He slopped another large spoonful onto my plate. As he did I could feel the burn of the first hit becoming more intense by the moment.
I greedily consumed this second section. The pain was suddenly very real, as was the peyote-like nausea. This sauce was, to put it mildly, toxic.
Whatever its ingredients were, they were obviously not meant to be eaten by man. My tormentor looked on happily, sure that he had beaten another fool into the ground with his concoction. He had not. I remained calm, hiding the pain and stomach revulsion.
“Take it like a man!” He chuckled cruelly. “You want another one sucka?”
I stared at him in open defiance. “Yes please,” I said politely.
Gnashing his teeth in frustration, he slathered another spoonful on the remains of my meal. “We ain’t scared of you motherfucker!” he shouted. The oedipal insult seemed to be one of his particular favorites.
I looked down upon this third serving, hesitated from the already crippling pain. Then I consumed it as I had the previous two.
My vision was starting to blur, sweat pouring from my forehead. The pain was now overwhelming. But I continued to stare him down.
“Not bad,” I said arrogantly.
He shook his head, a defeated expression crossing his face. He grumbled, more vehemently than before, turned around, and walked into his building.
I had won. I had defeated “The Man”. I had become master of the spice.
Put the price was such terrible pain. This was certainly the hottest thing I’d tasted. My body went into shock. After the owner was out of site, I began trembling and weeping. My crew, with our mission accomplished, fled quickly back to the safe confines of the city
For roughly half an hour afterwards, I was very close to vomiting. The painful burning in my lips, mouth, and throat continued for another hour after that. The horrifying hallucinations of five dimensional intelligent spiders continued for the rest of the night. The rest of the weekend was spent with fists clenched, cursing against whatever vile gods had allowed “The Man” to come into existence, as my bowels violently rebelled against the physical laws of our universe.
But I emerged stronger. Better as a spice aficionado and as a man.
I had faced the ultimate culinary challenge, and emerged not only alive, but thriving. I am now the king of spice. I can proudly declare that I have met “The Man”, and that I bested him.
Every one should have such a moment in their lives.
Back From The Land Of The Walking Dead (With Clean Underwear)
Wow. Two posts in a month. That's like a new record or something...
Two 60-hour work-weeks followed by two 90-hour ones'll do that to ya.
Living at the office isn’t so bad, especially since I have no real life to speak of. It was the inability to do laundry for two weeks that really bugged me. Sure you can wear pants and shirts a couple times before things get horrible, but, unfortunately, that’s not the case with underwear. Only at my apartment for 7 hours a day, six of that sleeping (if I was lucky) there was zero time to visit my building’s washing machine. Each morning I would wake to find the supply of clean underwear rapidly dwindling.
As with all clear-headed bachelors, I have an underwear prioritizing scheme that constantly reminds me when laundry day is near. First worn are the favorites, the single color boxers made of a pleasant fabric. Then come the patterned ones with cheaper cloth. When you get to the ill-fitting holiday or cartoon-themed boxers, with the schlong-holes in the front for your package to slide uncomfortably out of all day, you know you really need to put a load in the machine.
The process is beautiful, and has never failed me before. However, even the most well developed or robust systems have their limits, and my work schedule took me well outside acceptable tolerances.
There is one last, final, failsafe in my system, that serves as an emergency stopgap and reminder that the laundry needs doing. I speak of the much-hated tighty-whitey, a piece of apparel that no man of substance wears of his own volition. I have one pair that I keep for just such emergences, a final reminder to DO THE GODDAMN LAUNDRY. Their oppressive constraints and nad-crushing fabric go against everything good-hearted people around the world believe in.
I’ve had to resort to this pathetic last straw a few times before, and always I was forced by the discomfort to quickly visit that machine of detergent and fabric softener. But when I got home on Tighty-Whitey day at 2:00 AM with a 9:00 AM meeting on the other side of the lake, I had several options: 1) do an emergency load and waste another two hours, 2) go bare-assed to my meeting in the morning, or 3) commit suicide to avoid this forthcoming shame.
Having been averaging four hours of sleep for the previous week, option #1 was a non-starter. My demure Victorian inner-nature prevented any serious consideration of option #2. I mean, there are some things that just aren’t done. By process of elimination, I had come to the conclusion that honorable death was my only option.
Deciding upon hanging, I looked around for a suitable rope-like implement to do the job. I settled upon a short power cord I had sitting amidst a pile of detritus in the corner of my bedroom. This was a most fortuitous decision, since when I reached down to pick up the future noose, I found my salvation. There, sitting under some empty boxes, was a package of boxers, unopened.
This treasure would see me through the rest of this latest hell-project. No one need die a grisly death by strangulation. Or, at the very least, I need not die such a death, which is the important thing, really. I will never again think underwear a crappy Christmas present again.
There was much rejoicing.
So with that taken care of (I finally did a load last night), and now that I’ve recovered from the final 30-hour straight work session, there may actually be more bloggin’ in store. I’ve got an inspiring, life-affirming story of personal growth, spiritual exploration, and explosive diarrhea that I’m dying to share with the world. I’m sure you all will love it. Or hate it. Whatever.
