A problem with my self-image.

I'm happy enough about the way I look. ("Phew!" I hear you all exhaling.) Sure I could be thinner, or have whiter teeth, or clearer skin, or be less fat, but generally when I stare at myself naked in the mirror for hours I'm okay with what I see. And then I see pictures of myself and am horrified. I finally figured out what a third-grader could have figured out: I am not symmetrical. All these years I have grown accustomed to (and even fond of) the image I see looking back at me, while in actuality, I appear the EXACT OPPOSITE! Compare these two photos. The first is the way I see myself:
Friendly, confident, handsome, hair swept to the LEFT. A guy you can trust. A guy you'd like to have a beer with, but also think can handle our current economic crisis as well as two foreign wars.

Now, here is the Chris that the you (the public) are used to, the one I never see:
Shifty, lazy, incompetent, hair swept to the RIGHT. A guy who'll let you down. A guy you can't stand being around; someone who'll blow $700 billion on Cheetos and start a war with Barbados.

There seems to be a simple solution. I could start parting my hair on the other side. Then you all would see the me I see now, the charming, good-looking, world-changer. But what would I see every morning during my ritual mirror-stare? An ugly, morally bankrupt shitbag with stupid-looking hair. Could I bear looking at that for the rest of my life, even if I knew that everyone else saw the opposite? Could you?

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P.S. I've forgotten how I look with short hair. I think that means it is time for a trim. Wish me luck.

P.P.S. A second ago I accidentally typed "Whish" instead of "Wish." But the more I think about it, the more I want you to whish me luck too. LUCK!

First encounters with the niece.

"Take this uncle away – he bores me."

Grandma multitasking.

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It's been good to be around my eight-week old niece, Quincy Rose Despres, for the first time, if only in that she has inspired my songwriting. I've already come up with two keepers, just in the last four hours. Behold:

"I'm An Uncle Over Here"


"Remote Control"



Songs for Quincy Rose Despres are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Words and phrases that I will DEFINITELY be tired of by November, if not already.

"Change."

"More of the same."

"Panini."

Hockey Moms Against Sarah Palin.

(via Andrew Sullivan's Daily Dish)

This aggression will not stand.

Please read a brilliant new article about one of my favorite movies, taken in light of the last eight years. It is worth it just for the analysis of the Larry Sellers scene as an allegory for the current Iraq War. I'm totally serious.

"Walter Sobchak, Neocon: the prescient politics of The Big Lebowski" by David Haglund (via Slate.com)

I need an internet vacation.

One thing I like about articles on Slate.com is that they are rife with embedded links that supplement the article. One such article was read by me about a week ago; the subject was the overuse of the phrase "my friends" by politicians who are anything but. Here is a screen shot of part of the article (which can be found here) – you can see how many handy hyperlinks (in blue) there are to supporting articles or videos:

One link in particular caught my eye...
As I pointed my cursor to click on the link to William Jennings Bryan's "Cross of Gold" speech, I automatically readied myself to be directed to YouTube and a video of Bryan's fiery oratory. I guess I can be forgiven for assuming that, in this political season, the next campaign speech I came across would be just like the previous hundred. Or shouldn't my brain be agile enough to realize that a speech delivered in 1896 is unlikely to appear online in video form? At least it was the funny kind of stupid.

Earlids.

Eyeplugs...

Presidential Crimes.

Dear all,

Looking back over the past eight years, I have often been amazed at the Bush administration's ability to deflect attention from their scandalous behavior by behaving even more scandalously. Every time we begin to wrap our heads (and our media) around , they hit us with the next, effectively tabling the discussion of the former as we stand, slackjawed, marveling at the ever increasing pile of evil deeds. It can be overwhelming, and the promise of a new administration in five months can make us want to look forward, not back. But as Elaine Scarry writes, in an article in the Boston Review that is thoughtful and well-researched (not to mention enraging), we must not forget what has gone on above our heads, behind our backs, or even in front of our eyes. Here are the opening paragraphs of her article:

We have at the present time two government leaders, a president and a vice president, who, according to all available evidence, have carried out grave crimes. Will these two men leave office and live out their lives without being subjected to legal proceedings? Such proceedings will surely release new documents and provide additional testimony important in resolving their guilt or innocence. But the public record is now so elaborate, so detailed, and validated from so many directions that a weight is on the population’s shoulders: does our already existing knowledge of what they have done obligate us to press for legal redress?

The question is painful even to ask, so painful that we may all yield to an easy temptation not to pursue it at all.

Please do yourself a favor and, when you have a few minutes, read the rest of the article here: http://www.bostonreview.net/BR33.5/scarry.php

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For a lighter political moment, please laugh with me at a hapless Fox News reporter who strolled into a protest yesterday in Minneapolis last week in Denver and got more (and less) than he bargained for:

The ever-reliable Harper's Magazine contextualizes this rebuffing of the media here: http://harpers.org/archive/2008/08/hbc-90003473

A tableau.

I am standing in the kitchen of my parents' house, making a sandwich. The stereo is blasting, tuned to the Spanish radio station because the cleaners are here. Both are in the laundry room (adjacent to the kitchen), one folding towels and the other gathering the mop and bucket. Suddenly I start laughing. For the first time in my life, I recognize the song playing. It is "Amor del Bueno" by Reyli. I know this because my friend plays drums on this record. If I spoke Spanish, would I tell them? Would it impress them? I don't say anything, but as I spread my mayonnaise I chuckle. Somehow this has activated my upper-class white guilt.

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"Amor del Bueno" by Reyli