Wednesday, January 10
But at least I'll be talented in the morning
Pretty much the only Dead White Male inventions I can't bring myself to defend are all those rules of the rhetorical road that take all the fun out of fighting. They're like condoms for your brain. Slippery slopes are real. Straw men? Come on -- he was the neatest guy in Oz. Ad hominem? It is SO relevant that Michael Moore is fat and you know it, too.
I insult people all the time. Other bloggers insult me. If only they would -- I dunno -- do it better...
Take Warren Kinsella.
I'm prepared to excuse almost anything -- Liberal Party hackership, a law degree, skin as thin as Nicole Ritchie after a coffee enema -- if the offending package also contains a minimum daily requirement of talent.
Warren took time out of his manic midlife crisis (some guys buy sports cars, he files lawsuits) to notice that I wrote this at Kate's place:
Speaking of hair, here's the problem with Warren's high dudgeon: that Colby Cosh has more hair than he does is simply a demonstrable, objective fact. No ad hominem there. That Colby Cosh's toe nail clippings, even the ones in that month old pizza box, also have more writing talent than all of Warren's body parts put together is also pretty obvious to the unbiased observer. Note, however, that Warren doesn't take issue with that, because he's smart enough to know he'd lose.
Like most homely women, I'm terribly vain. Yeah, it stings to get called an "unsightly gnome", but it's much closer to the truth than, say, "Bettie Page look alike" or "Scarlett Johannsen's virtual clone". My failure to conform to long established standards of attractiveness (standards I have no argument with, incidentally -- I could stare at both of those women for hours and I'm a raging het) causes me intermitent anguish.
However, ugliness has its consolations, even for females. Remember Fraser on Cheers, meeting his future wife for the first time? "Normally women of your limited physical appeal attempt to compensate by developing a pleasant personality"? Naw, I didn't either, as you know. Never dawned on me to bother. But if I'd been graced with the genetic gifts of my older half-sister, who -- unlike many people who only think they do -- really did look like Marilyn Monroe, I likely would have ended up like she did: a pregnant unwed high school dropout whose son no longer speaks to her, assuming she can even be found. The last time I saw her she was passed out in a bowl of Ceasar salad, sometime in the mid-90s. For all I know, she's still there.
Beauty fades; stupid is forever. And I must be doing something right: not a few people have expressed their surprise that my fiance is much better looking than I am. Go ask.
No, what I have is talent. I've no need to flip through my thesaurus to mount a volley of empty calorie adjectives when I want to get someone good. Can one really "give" a "whole new dimension"? And does the part about Gandalf even make sense? I know it follows from dwarf, but... what kind of spell would a wizard put on an already ugly individual -- a "beauty" one? Gandalf couldn't possibly make me any shorter or give me more cellulite. And besides, I'd whale him in the crotch with his own staff before he got the chance.
See, here's how it's done: I can't find a link, but not long ago Rick McGinnis wrote something or other about Andy Warhol, to whit:
That too many people get paid to "write" such things can only be explained as the residue of original sin.
On the internet, nobody knows you're a dog. So, yes, I'm resigned to being an unsightly gnome. But at least... well, you know how it goes...
I insult people all the time. Other bloggers insult me. If only they would -- I dunno -- do it better...
Take Warren Kinsella.
I'm prepared to excuse almost anything -- Liberal Party hackership, a law degree, skin as thin as Nicole Ritchie after a coffee enema -- if the offending package also contains a minimum daily requirement of talent.
Warren took time out of his manic midlife crisis (some guys buy sports cars, he files lawsuits) to notice that I wrote this at Kate's place:
Kinsella's latest for the Post, about the execution footage of Saddam Hussein, managed to say absolutley nothing original in the space of 700 words, using [the] most hamfisted prose imaginable.So what does Warren take issue with here? At his "blog", he lets his dozen readers know:
Couldn't they just give Colby Cosh Kinsella's space instead? He's got more hair, too...
Funny. I particularly like getting mocked for my physical appearance by the Constipated Catholic, who gives a wholly new dimension to the phrase "unsightly gnome." Get back under your toadstool, you hateful dwarf, or we'll get Gandalf to cast a spell on you!Now, guys who call their "blogs" -- are you ready for this? -- "Musings" really shouldn't make fun of my site's (exceedingly clever) handle. It's like the name of his "band" -- out of, what, 10 million words in the English language, Warren chooses these three for his punk combo: "Shit." "From." "Hell." Heck, Warren, I'll let you use the Receding Hairlines if you ask nice...
Speaking of hair, here's the problem with Warren's high dudgeon: that Colby Cosh has more hair than he does is simply a demonstrable, objective fact. No ad hominem there. That Colby Cosh's toe nail clippings, even the ones in that month old pizza box, also have more writing talent than all of Warren's body parts put together is also pretty obvious to the unbiased observer. Note, however, that Warren doesn't take issue with that, because he's smart enough to know he'd lose.
Like most homely women, I'm terribly vain. Yeah, it stings to get called an "unsightly gnome", but it's much closer to the truth than, say, "Bettie Page look alike" or "Scarlett Johannsen's virtual clone". My failure to conform to long established standards of attractiveness (standards I have no argument with, incidentally -- I could stare at both of those women for hours and I'm a raging het) causes me intermitent anguish.
However, ugliness has its consolations, even for females. Remember Fraser on Cheers, meeting his future wife for the first time? "Normally women of your limited physical appeal attempt to compensate by developing a pleasant personality"? Naw, I didn't either, as you know. Never dawned on me to bother. But if I'd been graced with the genetic gifts of my older half-sister, who -- unlike many people who only think they do -- really did look like Marilyn Monroe, I likely would have ended up like she did: a pregnant unwed high school dropout whose son no longer speaks to her, assuming she can even be found. The last time I saw her she was passed out in a bowl of Ceasar salad, sometime in the mid-90s. For all I know, she's still there.
Beauty fades; stupid is forever. And I must be doing something right: not a few people have expressed their surprise that my fiance is much better looking than I am. Go ask.
No, what I have is talent. I've no need to flip through my thesaurus to mount a volley of empty calorie adjectives when I want to get someone good. Can one really "give" a "whole new dimension"? And does the part about Gandalf even make sense? I know it follows from dwarf, but... what kind of spell would a wizard put on an already ugly individual -- a "beauty" one? Gandalf couldn't possibly make me any shorter or give me more cellulite. And besides, I'd whale him in the crotch with his own staff before he got the chance.
See, here's how it's done: I can't find a link, but not long ago Rick McGinnis wrote something or other about Andy Warhol, to whit:
All his life, Warhol was plagued by insecurities about his appearance -- most of which were perfectly justified.Now that's writing. Merely stringing together a series of words until your counter says 700 is not:
Put down your pen. That's what some of us were taught in journalism school, anyway. When the intended subject of an interview says that what he or she has to say is "off the record," then that's the end of the interview, pretty much. The reporter in question should put down his or her pen and turn off any and all recording devices. No reporting of what is said. Period.Got that? Put. Down. Your. Pen. Downdowndown. Placez la pen de la tante (ou ton oncle) sur la table. Or "dans," as the case may be...
That too many people get paid to "write" such things can only be explained as the residue of original sin.
On the internet, nobody knows you're a dog. So, yes, I'm resigned to being an unsightly gnome. But at least... well, you know how it goes...
