Not sure what this is but just stumbled upon it and assumed that it was some kind of forum for...I saw this cover at the grocery store today
and thought, Who knew the guys at Money magazine were so slyly subversive? I mean, everyone knows the fix is in, right?
Then it dawned on me that the story is probably serious.
My cynicism about this administration knows no bounds.
This entry #100 of the new NKA. I don’t have much to say in it though—not in the mood. There’s stuff going on around here I’ll be talking about soon and that’s where my head is right now. Darin’s come back from a whirlwind business trip—yay.
We’re getting ready for Sophia’s birthday party—an undertaking scary and overwhelming enough to send Darin on another business trip. Sophia likes to punctuate a lot of conversations these days with, “It’s time for my birthday party!” I keep trying to explain to her that she has to wait for her party. Sophia thinks I’m trippin’ and can we get the party on already?
I’m just glad that rain is no longer scheduled for party day. Would have really harshed the buzz on the petting zoo, let me tell you.
This graphic had me in tears. (Of laughter, doofus.)
One of things I occupy my day with, in addition to running around after two tots, writing, websurfing, and sometimes chatting on the phone, being the Forum Moderator at Wordplay. Normally I love this job—Terry and Ted are the coolest, not the least of which because they made this damn site out of the goodness of their hearts; I love being a community of screenwriters; I love doing my part to keep the community together and operating.
Sometimes this involves telling people when to shut the fuck up.
There are certain topics that I simply abhor. In fact, I made a list once:
I don’t remember where the child porn one comes from. But all the others—hundreds and hundreds of posts going ’round and ’round and ’round. These conversations, when they get started, are annoying, unproductive, and, worst of all, off-topic.
The topics are—wait for it—movies and screenwriting. That’s it. That’s what we’re there to discuss.
My job is to point out when the topic is veering off of the main road, to stop it cold when it’s gone too far off, to delete posts that are offensive or spam or both, and to send e-mail to people who need a little behind-the-scenes nudge or bitch-slap, as the case may be.
Several times a year, like the change of the seasons, my quashing of a topic invariably leads to calls of “Censorship!” And this makes me crazy for a couple of reasons.
The old joke is that freedom of the press is reserved for the guys who can own the presses. And as we all know, there’s no such thing as a joke.
At Wordplay we don’t have to let anyone say anything. It’s Terry’s site, he’s footing the bills, what he says goes. If you want to start your own screenwriting-themed site where any dork can say anything he or she wants to, hey: call up your ISP and cough up the dinero. Nobody owes you a platform, capiche?
(And when losers start posting things about how my ending certain threads is akin to book-burning…well, that really makes me mad. Because not only is it insulting, because clearly these morons know not a thing about actual book burning, but then I have to go through the rigamarole required to delete their stupid posts.)
Censorship is about the government stopping you from exercising your right of freedom of the press. The government is always the 800-lb. gorilla: it gets to make the laws, and it gets to enforce them at the point of a gun. The Bill of Rights, natch, is designed to remind the government of which rights belong to the citizens and cannot be taken away. They’re the rights that governments always find pesky and inconvenient, which is why the Founding Fathers decided to make it clear what they were. (Well, clear to everyone except maybe Antonin Scalia. But that’s another entry.)
Freedom of the press doesn’t apply to my press. I don’t have to publish you. In fact, I can keep printing things you don’t like. You are perfectly free to go out, get your own press, and print things I don’t like.
The problem we have these days is that we have too few presses, major or minor, and the current administration wants to ensure that we have even fewer than we do now by having the FCC lift all regulations on who can own what in which market. What’s happens, of course, is what always happens: the guys with the big money buy the little guys (or quash them), leaving only one dog in the yard. One big, rich dog, who would like to look out for his interests and doesn’t have to worry about anyone else calling him on it, because anyone else who might call him on it is, well, a big, rich dog too.
Why is this a problem? Well…Rupert Murdoch happens to be for the Iraq war. And what a surprise: so are all the editors of all the newspapers he owns. Not very many viewpoints in a world where all the presses are owned by the same guys. Who are allowed to own all those presses because of their friends in the government. It’s censorship by fiat.
And it’s a little more important than your not being able to post about whatever you like wherever you like.
Save your goddamn cries of “Censorship!” for when they matter, okay?
Today I was drawing on the white board with Fia. In the absence of any requests—a long-time favorite was “Draw a baby sun!” as in the baby sun from “Teletubbies”—I drew some waves. Then I drew a boat on the waves.
Fia came over to inspect it. “Put Daddy. And Mommy. And Sophia.”
“Anybody else?”
This seemed to stump her.
“Simon?”
She nodded. “Put Simon.”
I dutifully drew all crew members on deck.
“Okay, now draw the shark underneath the boat.”
Hmmm. The…shark?
“The shark’s going to swim up to the boat and eat everyone up.”
I’m beginning to see why parents everywhere worry about what their kids seem to get into when the parents aren’t around. Where did she learn about sharks? That they swim under boats? That they eat the people on the boats?
Okay, maybe Sophia is a little smarter than I’ve given her credit for, and trust me: I’ve given her plenty of credit.
You want the absolute bar-none best lunch in LA?
Go to Chaya Brasserie, which is near Cedars-Sinai Hospital. Don’t even look at the menu—it’s a good menu, everything’s great, but don’t waste your time. When you sit down, say, “I want the tempura bowl.”
This is the best tempura ever. Darin doesn’t even like tempura, but when I say, “Chay–” he cuts me off and says, “Let’s go.”
The bowl has: a slab of seared ahi tuna; tempura of two shrimp, two stalks of asparagus, two woodear mushrooms, two shiitake mushroom, and two pieces of Japanese eggplants; the best wasabi cream sauce you have ever had in your life; a superlative version of the classic tempura dipping sauce; and perfectly done sushi rice.
It’s the priciest tempura we’ve ever had and so worth it.
Chaya Brasserie has great desserts, but if you want the most total superlative finish to the meal, you get in your car, turn north on Robertson, turn right on Melrose, drive until you get to Sweet Lady Jane. Park. You and your companion should each order a dessert, but don’t worry: you won’t be able to finish both. You’ll take about half of each home.
You will go into a “fabulous food” coma. Which is unfortunate, if, like Darin, you have to go home and work.
Guess what we did today?
ps - The tempura bowl is only available at lunch, which is why this is the best lunch in LA.
Brad DeLong has an interesting analysis of the Byzantine (and, as always, completely and totally political) machinations of the current White House.
In case you need some easy reading for a Sunday night: The 10 Most Startling Speculations about September 11 (via Long Story, Short Pier)
For about thirty minutes after his chief of staff told him that America was under attack, George W. Bush continued to sit in an elementary school classroom listening to a second-grader tell a story about a pet goat. He did a marvelous job of looking completely unsurprised. Meanwhile, four hijacked jumbo jets were able to fly off-course across several states without encountering any opposition from the most powerful and responsive air force in the world.
Less than a month later, on the pretext of pursuing terrorist mastermind Osama bin Laden, the Bush administration began what it called a “war” on the impoverished and already war-torn country of Afghanistan. It turns out this assault had been in the works well before September 11 took place.
Soon after replacing the Taliban government with one more to its liking (and, in what is surely a coincidence, resuscitating the world’s most bountiful opium fields), the administration began agitating for a similar, but even more destructive, bombardment of the oil-rich nation of Iraq. This, although Osama bin Laden was still at large and no link between him and Saddam Hussein could be established…
Evidently someone found my site by searching Google for “Arianna Huffington nude pics.” You can try it yourself: there I am, first entry.
Verrrrry interestink. But stupid.*
*C’mon, who said it?
Look, I’m no devotee of Miss Manners—last year I didn’t send one thank-you note sent out after Sophia’s 2nd birthday party.
But now the invites are out for her 3rd birthday and little things like letting me know you’re coming are a bigger deal. Fia goes to preschool now and there are 16 kids in her class. (Somehow this works out to the proper number of kids-per-teacher every day, because every kid doesn’t go every day. Or something.) At this level, you invite everyone in the class. That’s how it works. If nothing else, it’s the way for the parents to meet.
Plus I sent invites to about, oh, 8 others, all of whom have at least 1 parent and possibly 2 in tow.
So far the only RSVPs—in case you didn’t know, RSVP stands for “Répondez s’il vous plaît,” which is “Please respond” in French—I’ve gotten have been the two or three people I’ve seen in person. No phone calls. No surprise responses. Nothing.
This is extremely frustrating. I’d really like to know how many kids are coming, how many adults are coming, and how much grub I need to score at Costco, you know?
Be nice to party planners. RSVP when they ask you to!