Dear Kanye...

I know this is a day late, but I'm just starting to experiment with shorter blog posts.

With all thanks to The Huffington Post, I present a brief BlaiserBlog playlist, and other suggestions for Kanye West, in his post VMA-award contemplative phase.....

Songs

Your Mother Should Know -- Fab Four
Big Shot -- B. Joel

We Beseech Thee... Hear Us -- Soundtrack of "Godspell"

Video Killed the Radio Star -- The Buggles
Face the Face -- Pete Townshend

I Yam What I Yam -- Popeye

The Man in the Mirror -- M. J.

Recommended Cartoon Strip:

The Wizard of Id

Grin and Bear It

Suggested Authors:

Mother Theresa
Gandhi

Optimism and Obama

Recently, I happened onto a blog called Liberal Rapture, which as far as I can tell, is populated mainly by fierce Obama critics. I posted a comment--in response to a post about how President Obama's broken campaign promises were the same as George W. Bush's lies about so-called Weapons of Mass Destruction--in which I suggested that the tone of what I read was often similar to what I might read on an extreme right-wing blog: the same degree of sarcasm, the same style of derision, the same kind of sweeping generalities and black-and-white descriptions of "truth" and "fact," all squeezed through, from where I sat, a filter that was a bit cynical.

Mere moments later, I was accused of being a paid political operative, or at the very least of being an "Obot," (a moniker I think is damn funny) -- i.e. displaying reflexive loyalty to Obama, supporting Obama for the wrong reasons, espousing misplaced observations and proffering disingenuous arguments. One can also extrapolate an accusation of brain-washing, or programming--a robot does not make decisions for itself, rather merely carries out its programming in a cold, nonhuman automatic fashion.

The host of the blog, a fella named John, was actually one of the exceptions, and he welcomed me and my voice, which I appreciated, and asked me to lay down what motivates me as an Obama supporter, and why, and so I'll begin that. As far as debunking the idea that I'm some kind of automaton, I'll let my writing here, and elsewhere, stand on its own merits.

My off-the-cuff reaction was that I thought President Obama would do--and indeed already had done--a lot for our standing around the world. I think most people on the Left would find this to be self-evident, but I've done some digging, and here's a sliver of what I came up with:

A Pew Research Center poll released this past July (Pew is a nonpartisan organization) showed that attitudes toward the U.S., in the 24 nations polled, had rocketed to levels not seen since before 2001. Additionally, over 70% of 21 of those nations' responders had some degree of confidence in President Obama (George W. Bush pulled in 17% from those same nations in 2008). The poll targeted Europeans, Canadians, Mexicans, Argentines and city dwellers in Brazil, India and China, as well as people in the Palestinian territories. Perceptions of America improved in comparable moderate Middle Eastern states of Egypt and Jordan. Unsurprisingly, our standing is still not fantastic in much of the Middle East, particularly states with Muslim majorities. Also, we took a hit in Israel, where attitudes toward the U.S. were higher when George W. Bush was in office. The most extreme change of opinion? Germany and France, where President Obama's numbers were better than those of either Angela Merkel or Nicolas Sarkozy, respectively.

Some relevant quotes regarding the poll: "His personal popularity and new respect for the U.S. having elected him translates positively for the U.S. image." -- former Secretary of State Albright.

"The image of the United States has improved markedly in most parts of the world, reflecting global confidence in Barack Obama." -- the Pew Global Attitudes Report.

So. One little piece of fact regarding how the world perceives us with President Obama. Having said that, I'm not blind to the plunging numbers here at home in the aftermath of various bailouts and the healthcare morass. I am embarrassed that we're still wading through all this crap, when socialized health care in a civilized, modern nation in 2009 seems like a no-brainer to me, but I am not yet prepared to say I'm "embarrassed" that President Obama is my president--as the denizens of Liberal Rapture would like--like I was when George W. Bush was in office. Today, on Labor Day, he spoke to my union brothers and sisters in the AFL-CIO. I'm pissed that he's having such a hard time getting heathcare reform done, but I take his actions today, for example, at face value. I take the Pew Poll at face value. I take, for the most part, The New York Times at face value, and trust that they will toe the line of journalistic ethics.

Here's David Brooks,in a recent piece for the Times. athough this is obviously an opinion piece, and not a reporting piece. It's good to know the difference.

"Amazingly, some liberals are now lashing out at Obama because the entire country doesn’t agree with The Huffington Post. Some now argue that the administration should just ignore the ignorant masses and ram health care through using reconciliation, the legislative maneuver that would reduce the need for moderate votes.

This would be suicidal. You can’t pass the most important domestic reform in a generation when the majority of voters think you are on the wrong path. To do so would be a sign of unmitigated arrogance. If Obama agrees to use reconciliation, he will permanently affix himself to the liberal wing of his party and permanently alienate independents. He will be president of 35 percent of the country — and good luck getting anything done after that."

The folks at Liberal Rapture, however, seem to hate the Huff Post, too. And so I did some more research, because I wanted to know what the hell I was critiquing, and it seems that many of Liberal Rapture's posters, and citizens of other blogs that interest them, are essentially bitter and angry and highly motivated Hillary Clinton supporters who appear to wish President Obama ill at every opportunity. I think this is cynical--hoping that one's own president fails. Yes, President Obama is your president. If you're on the Left and he's not your president, then you are an extremist, Sir, or Madam....

I heard a few traces of "Secretary Clinton was done wrong" during the primary process. I don't know the ins and outs of that, I'll be honest. What I do believe, however, is that national politics can get nasty. I doubt that either Clinton, Bill or Hillary, have any illusions about this. In a perfect world, this would not be the case, but sadly, with as much money and power being thrown around, and with a Congress that doesn't seem to have a backbone when it comes to campaign finance reform, there are endless loopholes that politcal operatives can exploit. In a (semi) perfect world, we walk away with President Al Gore in 2000. That didn't happen. I've heard endlessly bitter Liberals blame my man Ralph Nader for that travesty, but I have a different narrative. Mine is that breaking a two-party system is important, and in a democracy that purports to be an actual demorcracy of the people, it is not encumbent on any candidate to step aside. Al Gore ultimately lost that battle in the Supreme Court, but where Al Gore really lost that election, in my opinion, is when he showed a collossal lack of leadership during the campaign. It was his election to lose, and he did. Time to move on.

And so... In 2008 I thought I'd be an early Hillary supporter, but there was this overall sense of entitlement that I sensed from her dispatches and from what I read about her campaign (the Times--which endorsed her--The New Yorker, occasionally my hometown Jersey papers.). I wasn't in love with how she handled herself as the presumptive nominee, and I didn't like how her most vociferous supporters comported themselves--again, this idea that everyone ought to get out of the way, like Ralph in 2000. I heard a similar argument from my rural Social Studies teacher in 10th grade re: Ronald Regan, who thought the Gipper plainly deserved "his due in Warshington...".

But in 2008, I knew the Right was salivating at the prospect of a Clinton-bashing campaign unlike all others before it. Shock and Awe wouldn't have done justice to what they would have rolled out against Hillary in 2008. Might have cost us the White House.

However, I'm an optimist. I considered the nomination a mostly win-win situation. Elect Ms. Clinton, and we win--first woman president; Bill travels abroad and repairs our reputation; intellectualism is saved--she's obviously the smartest person in most rooms she enters, obviously dedicated, obviously a tireless worker.

But with Obama, I had fewer reservations. His stance on the Iraq war was unmarred by voting for it in the first place, and he did not carry any Clintonian baggage. That played a significant role. Change was necessary, and more radical change than a Clinton administration could have offered, in fact or in perception.

President Obama fired off a video message to Iran. I really liked that, and I took it at face value. Here's where I run afoul of the Liberal Rapturians, and their particular sliver of the Left: I believe. I believe in my own critical thinking process. I believe that President Obama is smart. Dude was elected the first African-American editor of the Harvard Law Review and graduated from Harvard magna cum laude.

Magna. Cum. Laude. is. not. a. fraud. It's a pretty good rallying cry. My parents were both English professors, and while I'm a parttime student of politics, I was raised as a fulltime student of critical thinking, and have been all my life. I read a lot. I've taught in two different departments at two four-year institutions. And I'm a stagehand. We solve problems. It's confusing, I know--one member of Liberal Rapture needed significant persuasion that my résumé was legit. This is a cynical attitude.

My particular background is complex, and the question of whether someone is a fraud is complex and subjective, and the political whining from Clinton supporters that I unearthed sounds like a broken record, and I'm arguing it's time to reset the needle. The Left needs to unify for the greater good of the country. The election is over. Senator Clinton lost. She is now Secretary Clinton, and I am thrilled that she's holds that crucial post. I do not view it as a cynical move of President Obama to keep his enemies close, although clearly that played some role. On that topic, I believe her to be an Obama rival, and not an enemy. I believe (again, that word) that she's one of the best qualified Americans for her current job. To the victors go the spoils. It's not perfect, but it's the system we have. And it's not like Ms. Clinton has been consigned to politcal irrelevance after losing the Democratic presidential nomination of 2008. Far from it.

I think a more productive way to channel all the energy that's directed at tearing down the Obama presidency would be to start one's own damn party. That is--if you feel let down by Democrats, and your "grandparents are rolling in their graves", as has been written on Liberal Rapture--and you "heard the spine of the party snap" at some point at which your candidate got the short end of the stick, then run with it. And this is not a "love it or leave it" perspective---I'm a huge supporter of breaking the two-party system.

But that doesn't mean I hope President Obama does poorly. Or that I'll insist he supports all my agendas, chapter and verse, before I support him, as has been intimated by some on Liberal Rapture. That view is not only unrealistic, it's also overtly dogmatic.

I heard on the radio the other day a quote from former NYC mayor David Dinkins: "Campaign with poetry and govern with prose." I think that's apt. I don't love that President Obama has tacked to the center, but I understand it. For me, I think a Liberal Line In The Sand might look like inclusion of a single-payer system or a public option in healthcare reform. I think that the administration was naive in their courting of the Right, although again, I understand why they might have tried. It's called optimism, and I take it at face value.

Sidebar: For that matter, Dinkins wasn't my favorite New York City mayor (I lived there for 13 years), but his connection is relevant: Initially, some etablishment black democrats (scion of the Civil Rights movement John Lewis, Rep. Charlie Rangel, David Dinkins, and others) backed Hillary, and a newer wave (Mayor Corey Booker from Newark, former everything Colin Powell, author Toni Morrison, celeb Oprah, etc.) supported Obama, and what this said to me was that a significant part of the Liberal establishment was threatened by Obama the candidates. That very notion helped me to settle on Barack Obama, who represented the kind of change I believed the country needed.

My point is that Hillary lost, and it's time to move on. I am not a fan of conpiracy theories--that, for instance, man didn't land on the moon, the U.S. government somehow orchestrated the 9/11 attacks, or that Secretary Clinton was screwed out of the nomination--although again, I'm open to analyzing claims of individual electoral grievances on a case-by-case scenario. Unfortunately, It's national politics. It's not fair to begin with. I think Hillary would agree with that, but I also think she would agree that unreasonable criticism of the Obama presidency is counter-productive with what's good for most Americans.

So be positive and start your own party. Endorse change and not divisiveness, for many analysts will tell you that Hillary's perceived divisiveness was outflanked by Obama's perceived message of change. That's perception. Sometimes perception is truth, to the voting public. Nothing's perfect. I'm looking forward to President Obama's speech on Wednesday, and I'll be rather crushed if the public option in healthcare goes the way of the dodo, but we're all going to soldier on. In the end, on our deathbeds, I doubt we'll be saying things like "Gee... I wish I had been a more vociferous jerk to my fellow Liberals." or "Wow. I wish I worked harder." Rather, I think we'll be saying things like what the late, great Kurt Vonnegut wrote in his posthumously pubished "A Man Without a Country"--and I'll paraphrase here--What I've learned is that, for the love of Mike, we've got to be kind to each other!

So please. Go forth and be kind. Sarcasm and derision and comparing Obama's deal-cutting on healthcare to Bush's lies on WMD may make you feel "better," but ultimately, isn't a false goodness? On the scale of reason, it tips out at "extreme." It makes me feel like we're not on the same side at all--the Liberal side. Never mind that we're not all Democrats, I mean the same side in a global, human fashion.

Find another way to work out the anger. Hillary lost. Sorry about that. She still rocks as Secretary of State. I watched John Kerry go down in flames when his war credentials were destroyed by Swift Boaters and their supporters, vs. a guy who essentially skipped out of his militay duty. Kerry VOLUNTEERED for Christ's sake.... still. That election is over, and I can't live in the past. Rather, I can enjoy the irony of meeting one of those Swift Boat guys, who happens to be the neighbor of a radical feminist Lesbian member of my family. He's a fantastic neighbor, and helps out my relative, and her spouse all the time. He's a nice guy. Who knew? And yet... he was instrumental in bringing down Senator Kerry. Do I hate him for that? No. Meeting him renewed my feeling that we have to find common ground to make discourse better in the future.

These are but a few of my reasons for supporting the Obama presidency--with critical caveats--and but a few of my definitions of optimism.

As always, thanks for reading. Apologies for that last paragraph never ending. I'm having formatting issues with Blogger.

Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence. --- Helen Keller

Israel is no longer a people that dwells alone, and has to join the global journey toward peace, reconciliation and international cooperation. --- Yitzhak Rabin

Dr. King wants the same thing I want -- freedom! --- Malcolm X

A Lion in August

I woke, this morning, to the news of Senator Edward M. Kennedy's death, and in my own, small way, take this time to celebrate what he meant to this country and to the ideals of equality to which he dedicated his life.

And I urge everyone to do the same--his is a story of incremental success and unwavering forward motion, sometimes by inches. His is the kind of voice that even in death will continue to drown out the nihilist extremists who seek to sabotage universal health care for Americans, something that we must enact. We must.

The Liberal Lion. I love that characterization. Lions, it should be said, are cool. Lions glide among the gazelles, their mantle of leadership obvious and silent. They are both impassive and terrible, swift and serene. And, not for nothing, but the women do the hunting, which is always sexy. Behind every good king of beasts is a hardworking woman. I will not, perhaps, be lionized by my liberal female readers for that last line, but I cannot help myself.

And what is the Conservative counterpart? The Conservative Cougar? The Conservative Crustacean? The Conservative Critter? George Bush? Ron Paul? Senator Kennedy counted Orrin Hatch as a friend across the aisle--perhaps it's him.

Senator Kennedy was the Anti-Bush (George, Jr.), although cut from very similar cloth. Both from New England families of privilege and power; both Ivy-League students of questionable motivation; both with cush assignments in the military; both heavy drinkers; George, Jr. took a series of executive posts and found God, while Ted came of age in the Senate and found humility, taking a deferential stance from the first day. The winds of tragedy buffeted him from that moment forward--the assassinations of both older brothers (their eldest brother had already been killed in action during a WWII bombing raid); a near-fatal plane crash that confined him to hospital immobilization for six months; the indefensible beavior on the alcohol-soaked island of Chappaquiddick; cancer for his 12-year-old son, who survived but at the cost of one of his legs, below the knee; the premature deaths of three Kennedy nephews, part of the clan of 13 children of JFK and RFK to whom Teddy became surrogate father. It's a lot to sail against, those winds, but the lesson that Teddy learned was, again, the value of imcremental progress. Support for the Civil Rights Act; opposition to the Vietnam War and nearly every military engagement since; the Americans with Disabilities Act; Voting Rights; partnering with President Bush on No Child Left Behind; authorship of a purported 2500 pieces of legislation, of which some 300 were signed into the law of This Great Land. You should check it out.

George, Jr. and Edward were once both indifferent playboys with unwanted power and responsibilities thrust upon their at-times narrow shoulders. Edward built a career of achievement and coalitions--perhaps always atoning for that awful night at the bridge in the summer of 1969--that reasonable people in this country celebrate today. In the Senate, he retained a back-row seat, refusing to move forward in the chamber, as is the custom, preferring to assail his colleagues's backs with the booming voice of righteousness. In his last weeks and days, it was reported that the Senator could be seen sailing against the wind still, in the waters around the Kennedy Compound in Hyannis.

George, Jr..... still has time to turn his face into the wind and to atone for his mistakes and who they affected. What will he do with that time? What will any of us do?

The ides of Blogust (or A Fear of Facebook)

And we're back..... back into the fold, back in the saddle, back where we belong, back in black, after three glorious weeks as a returning staff member at Camp Ballibay for the fine and performing arts, and, let's face it, finely performed arts.

About this word, Fine. What on earth does it actually mean? Many words, I find, lose their meanings when repeated several times under one's breath. Fine, fine, fine. Arts that are fine. Immediately, I start reassigning possible interpretations, like Find Art--a directive from a suspicious governing body, perhaps; or Art Fine, a duty paid by the audacious.

No, this was kidz. A lot of kidz. Rockin' kidz, dancing kidz, drawing kidz, actin' and singin' kidz. This was a return to the summer camp of my youth, where I spent all the summers of the 80s plus 1990, for good measure. This is where I grew up.

This was Ballibay's 45th year--many things the same from my era, many things changed. New buildings, new programs, and best of all, new food. Lovingly sculpted muffins; camper curated pizza; 30-minute old organic radishes, lettuce, tomatoes from the new camp garden; local dairy offerings; real-deal maple syrup; artisinal beets; and once-a-week-reliable burger night, but not the mass-produced hockey pucks of yore. Rather, these are grass-fed, happy cows who attained, on average, a third-grade reading level before they self-determined to a humane slaughter. I do not in any way mean to degrade. It was good beef.

And no electronic distraction--cell phone posession on campus is verboten, and happily for me, my Verizon coverage has failed to penetrate the magic bubble of the Ballibay mountain. Add to this analog logorithm an e-mail check only every three days, and for 21 days and nights, swear off Facebook.


And here's where the fear comes in. Hi--My name is Andrew, and I was addicted to Facebook. My day job as a light-board programmer put my laptop within arm's reach, enabling relentless social networking and a captive audience of whomever was signed on at the time. I lived for the red square of notification and the circled numerals of a robust inbox. I measured the comments on my Notes as a personal ego inflator. I was an online Narcissist. 'Tis true.

And now? Well I am taking bets with myself on what's awaiting my return--are weeks' old notifications really all that important? Have I lost more than a half-dozen chances to save the planet with a virtual tomato plant? How many of my "friends" have excised me from their ranks? Perhaps a few requests will be there, too, given all the new friends I've made at camp.

But the lesson is thus: I didn't really miss it--I watched the other, younger staff obsessively check-in with their FB accounts every chance they got, and I just walked on by. For these three weeks, what concerned me was the immediate: directing a play, teaching a few writing workshops, getting the kidz' postal packages to the dining hall every day at 12:15...decrying the iPod at every available turn.
Look -- it's great as the 21st-Century Walkman. But it's not great as a human aggregator. What I mean is that information at our fingertips gives the illusion of mastery, and when it comes right down to it, if we can no longer acknowledge the ineffable in everyday life, and pretend that it's only a matter of time before Steve Jobs comes up with an "Ap" that somehow makes it easier, then the battle is already lost. Sure--your iPhone can now tell you how to decode the Paris Metro, but what is the loss in that gain? Here's the parallel lost opportunity: talk to a fellow human being to find out the same information; learn a whole bunch of interesting things you weren't bargaining for, because your head wasn't buried in some i-Screen; get invited to leur cousine's bistro for an apres-hours cafe au lait. Learn the oral tradition from a dying breed. iProducts may be great for self-insulation, but they're eroding the crap out of our shared planetary culture.



Eh bien. Myself, I'll try limiting the FB Narcissism to just once or twice a week. I have plans to make, anyway, like what I might direct next at Ballibay, and how it'll be lit. Or unwritten poetry to contemplate: the full moon rising over a misty horse pond; the dew-laden spiderwebs on Ballibay's Outdoor Platform; the fungilike artwork that springs from the campus--five-part harmony totems, painted and hoary, each one a paean to the three Jannones and their multi-generational vision of how to wind-up one's artisitic pogostick and do God's work in the mountains of Northeast Pennsylvania.

jeudi 23 juillet

Today is my 40th birthday, and it's coincidentally the 18th stage of the Tour de France, cycling's premier race, a stage race for the ages.

I thought a lot about what to write for a birthday post, or a 40th blog. What I came up with is this: While Lance Armstrong rides his individual time trial, I'd compose my post. The Individual TT is simply the rider against the clock--rather like a metaphor for life, and at the Tour today, everyone is riding 40.5 kilometers. (If you want to know how many miles that is, don't ask me--rather, I could direct you to some nifty conversion tables on the Internet.) So far, the fastest time is 48:34, by Swiss Mister and fabulous Fabian Cancellara.

But for me, surpise, it's all about Lance. In Fourth place overall in the General Classification after heroics in les Alpes--essentially in service of the stronger rider on his team, Alberto the Condor Contador--he has a shot at putting himself back on the podium in Paris in at least third place, if he can shave 30 seconds from Frank Shleck, who along with his Luxombourgian brother Andy, mowed over the Col de la Colombiere and the Col de Romme in Stage 17. Time to leave nothing on the course. Lance is a just a little over the 17 minute mark, and I'll be hitting the "Publish" button as he crosses the line, about 21 minutes, hopefully, from now.

Enough reportage, however. I'm 40, dammit. No more thirties for me--new vistas, a new decade, a revived artistic pursuit, a lot of hope for myself, and let's face it, for humanity. And how strange--it's just another day, another rotation on the axis, another revolution--for me--of our planet around its star. What have I gleaned from all this craziness? All this zany optimism in the face of a mind-boggling existence?

Well, it's like bike racing---Lance on the Ventoux (a legendary climb, and one of the Texan's favorites and the penultimate Stage in this year's edition before the peleton rides into the City of Light). It's about time--how much we are given, how much we take and what we do with it. We are all caught in a frozen cosmic moment--the length of our lives puny in comparison to the sluglike progression of glaxies and their stars. Here's a parallel: on my computer screen, as I feverishly click between my word processor and Versus's live Internet coverage, a grainy blue-and-yellow Lance is frozen on his bike, trapped momentarily by a spotty satellite or misbehaving ditigal relay. Or more likely, one fewer bar of connection between my laptop and the wireless router out there somewhere nearby, which connects me to the Internest.

And so I stop, hit refresh, repetez la phrase, as Mr. Kingston, our beloved high school French teacher might say. Life is full of these repetitions: "I love you." is a nice one. I say it to my father now at the end of each phone call. He's 80, has emphysema, and still hits the golf ball more cleanly than his younger son--who's 40 today. Have I mentioned?

And boom. Just like that, Phil Liggett's voice pops back on, and I can check Lance's progress. I show about 30 minutes in, on my kitchen timer, which sits next to me and my two bike water bottles and cup of coffee. I am hydrating during my Individual Blog Trial, Inidividual Life Trial, Individual Time Machine.

I mentioned the other day that if I could acquire a time machine, one of the things I'd love to do is to go back and visit particular restaurants in New York that have since closed. Anyone who spends time in Manhattan knows this phenomenon.... one day you walk down the street and that fantasic French/pasta/fusion/Irish pub you simply adored, is a hole in the ground, or boarded up, and you have to check yourself to make sure you're on the proper block--and that in fact it ever existed at all.

Lance, and the rest of us, on the Ventoux. It's an uphill battle, life, in that we slow as we age. Our bones break. The healing is more reflective. George Hincapie, another fine American cyclist, and probably my second favorite rider, rode his time trial today with a potentially cracked collarbone. The pros refuse to go to the hospital sometimes, because they know if the X-Ray reveals a fracture, they're automatically out of the Tour, and they'd rather endure the pain and make it to the Champs-Élysées. Speaking of pain, Lance has lost 40-some seconds to Olympic star Bradley Wiggins. I am facing up to the reality Lance may in fact slip from Fourth to a lower overall standing today. Oh well, and I'm over 200 lbs. What can you do?

Ok Ok!! Yes. I can get under 200 lbs. and shame on me for comparing my weight to Lance's effort today. He puts us all to shame, or rather inspires us to greatness. And we don't have a lot of time left.

A fun little metric I put on the blog is a ticker that figures average lifespan -- you input your date of birth, and it calculates how many days you've lived, and how many likely remain.

Time remaining -- I only have about 8 minutes to find some artwork that accompanies this post if I want to hit Publish when Lance crosses the line. I also have to steel myself for the possibility I'll lose the Internest at a critical moment, and I'll have to pull the trigger on my own. That's all any of us can do, really--another metaphor for life. We all pull our own triggers. Make sense of that as you will!

I hope everyone who reads this enjoys it. I enjoyed putting it out there. Go Lance. Go George. Go Bless Us, Everyone.....

Blaiser's Top Ten Top Ten Lists

Number Ten: Top Ten reasons why the California Raisins had more recording success than the disgruntled second-cousin copycat group, the Idaho Prunes.

Number Nine: Top Ten reasons why people should steer clear of me if any two of the following conditions are in play: When Mercury is in opposition, the moon is full, and the Yankees are playing the Red Sox.

Number Eight: Top Ten reasons why we will still buy Prince CDs even though he did the moral equivalent of MJ bleaching his skin, by converting to Jehovah's Witnessery...

Number Seven: Top Ten reasons why if you and I get into a bar fight using only our cellphones as blunt instruments, I will win, and then still be able to use said phone to call an ambulance for you.

Number Six: Top Ten reasons why three French guys have won one-third of the first 9 stages of the 2009 Tour de France.

Number Five: Top Ten reasons why, despite the superiority of my cellphone, I will never win a bar fight against David Mamet.

Number Four: Top Ten reasons why The Empire Strikes Back was the best of the six.

Number Three: Top Ten reasons why John Ashbery has been writing the same poem all these

years, and it's still a pretty damn good poem.

Number Two: Top ten reasons why, despite many years living in Brooklyn, when I unfold my irony board, I still have a lot of trouble with French cuffs.

And the Number One Top Ten List: two words: Senator Franken!!!

I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike...

I love cycling.

Riding a bike is the ultimate rugged individuality for a liberal hermit. You go from point A to to point B on your own power, and on your own terms. Good for lungs, heart, legs, soul. And you save on tolls.

I love badasses.
Lance, Greg, Jan, Carlos, Miguel..... But especially Lance. And George Hincapie. The Tour is the most difficult endurance sporting event known to man. What these guys go through during 21 stages, 3500 kilometers, in a little over three weeks, is unfathomably, um, sweaty. And they get to eat a lot. And there's brinksmanship with the tactics, and they ride over cobblestones at like 25 mph, and I don't know how long a kilometer is compared to a mile, and the lieutenants exhaust themselves for the team leader in the mountain stages, so that bit by bit, the leaders are stripped away to the last man, who either has the petrol in the tank to claim the summit first, or he doesn't.

Lance
Lance has won seven of these mothers, all in a row. During that time, he trained all year exclusively for the Tour, and beat everyone into submission. Normally, I have an issue with Texans, but for Lance I make an exception. By his own admission, not the most talented rider in the peleton, but by God he worked the hardest and he wanted it the most. Add the king of directeurs sportifs, Johann Brunyeel, to that font of desire, and you get the best cycling drama out there.

Drama

The Tour is long, and has something for everyone -- the General Classification (overall winner, Yellow Jersey), the King of the Mountain competition (Polkadot Jersey), the Sprinter competition (Green Jersey), the Best Young Rider (White Jersey), even the guy who's Dead Freakin' Last has a special place in Tour lore -- he's called the Lanterne Rouge, or the Red Lantern, a pro cyclist caboose.

Lance on the Tourmalet, Greg LeMond's win in 1989, when he rode the fastest time-trial ever to steal the Tour from Frenchman Laurent Fignon on the streets of Paris, Lance winning a stage after the death of his Motorola teammate Fabio Casartelli, LeMond humbling his French mentor, dubbed "The Badger," on the way to the first American TDF win in '86, Lance on the Ventoux, George Hincapie winning his first mountain stage after serving the glory of others for so long, Lance on L'Alpe D'Huez, Thomas Voekler electrifying all of France by staying in yellow for ten days in 2004, just for the sheer Frenchness of it all.

Pagentry

The spandex-bespecacled peloton, flying

through medieval towns with sunflowers and lavender their permanent spectators. It's gorgeous. And the circus in the mountains. Check out the Basques in the Pyrenees and the costumed fans who wait hours just to sprint alongside their favorites for a few precious seconds in July. Good stuff. Don't forget the team time trials, and the legendary "Blue Train" of Lance's former Postal Service squad.

Miscellany

There are no New York Yankees in the Tour de France.

My grandma became a fan when I helped her move in July of 2004 and we took breaks by watching the Tour.

Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen -- there's something really great about two elegant Brits dissecting the Tour and its myriad inner tales. There are no better cycling commentators on the planet. Add class clown Bob Roll, and it's a trifecta.

Robin Williams is a huge fan, and used to travel with Lance's entourage, calling him "Brother Armstrong." I like that.

My sister was a Category 2 racer once (nearly pro!). She still rides, and is also into trail running now

In 1999 or 2000, after Lance won, I stapled a Postal Service envelope over the top tube of my bike, and rode a victory lap in Prospect Park, Brooklyn.

Wilbur and Orville Wright were bicycle makers before they were aviators.

Stage racing combines teamwork and individual effort, like no other sport I know.

The Tour is an international competition that happens every year, unlike the World Cup and the Olympics.

Queen never wrote a song about freakin' NASCAR.... I'm just sayin'