The Coretta Scott King Funeral: Summary

CARTER: I hope we can take the opportunity to remember what Coretta Scott King stood for.

BUSH, JR.: Coretta, Coretta, terruh, war, don’t listen to Kayne West.

CLINTON: Yes, I too am a white ex-President. I’m sorry. But don’t blame me. I spoke in many African-American churches when I had something to gain, such as a second presidential term. Now, not so much the case. But Hilary, who is likely running for President in ’08, might do this too. This is what Coretta would have wanted: blatant opportunism. Have I finished seducing you?

LOWERY: George Bush doesn’t care about black people.

MICHAEL BOLTON: They put me here because Stevie Wonder’s feeling a little under the weather.

BUSH, SR.: Reverend Lowery, shut up, boy, and shine my shoes.

ANGELOU: I know why the caged bird sings. And so do you. Let’s just hope the press is awake to spot the absurdities we’re experiencing today.

Side By Side On My QWERTY Keyboard

Tim Redmond’s public flailing against Craig Newmark has garnered a few notable responses. Locally, there was a thread over at the SFist, in which mystified San Franciscans responded. More prominent, however, is Anil Dash’s rant against predictable liberalism and defensive newspapers.

But what I see here in all these reactions is hostility and divisiveness from both sides. (I still remain as baffled as Dave Barry was by a Chronicle reporter’s recorded comment, “I have podcasted. I’m not a complete idiot.” And I have, in a few private incidents, been privy to outright hostility from print reporters when trying to piece together a story.) The journalist boosters note the online paucity of what Crooked Timber’s Henry Farrell has identified as a a “comprehensive, neutral and authoritative argument” (emphasis in original). The online boosters decry how out-of-touch the journalists are, pointing out the new playing field requires people to keep current and unfettered. But both parties share an fascinating and one-note view: the reactionary need to keep both forms separate and discrete, as if bloggers and journalists should be neatly arranged into some red state-blue state dichotomy.

Yes, newspapers will dip their toes into the podcast arena, as admirably as the Chronicle has. But they will do so without understanding the podcast’s personal, subjective and, one might argue, authentic and perhaps unpolished form. Because there are innumerable blogs trying to get to a story first, the blogger will leap to get her hands on a story quick. But because the work is rushed, there will be mistakes and corrections — the possibility that misinformation might sneak through the cracks and be further disseminated.

But at the risk of allowing my idealistic side to come through, isn’t this all pretty silly? One would think that journalists, many of whom are intimately familiar with the innovations of gonzos like Tom Wolfe, Hunter S. Thompson and George Plimpton, would embrace an alternative after decades banging out the same who what when where why template. Likewise, one would think that the bloggers and the podcasters would see the creative and informational value of limitations, much less holding onto a story until more confirmed information has come in.

As someone who has worked both sides of the spectrum, I’m wondering why, in all the ink that’s been spilled on the subject, so few people are willing to put their bile aside and contemplate some hybrid of the two forms. You want to talk Web 2.0? Let’s try fusion. What if the newspapers hired more bloggers and podcasters? What if bloggers set self-imposed limits on their content or made more phone calls instead of relying exclusively on Google search results?

Anger, arrogance and dismissiveness might make a writer feel good and drum up some initial attention. But take it from a piss-and-vinegar guy like me: it’s the ideas, multilateralism and flexibility that will stand the test of time. I fail to understand why the blogging/journalism war has become as inflammatory as the situation in Beirut. Surely, both sides have much to learn and benefit from each other.

My Kicking Fetish

Okay. I’ll confess. Every so often, in a moment of weakness, I’ll jump for something based off of a cover.

EXHIBIT A: The cover of The Bells Are Ringing. This was added to my DVD rental queue because, aside from the strange combination (well, to me anyway) of Judy Holliday and Dean Martin appearing in the same film, who can resist the image of Dean Martin kicking his leg into the air while Judy Holliday is slightly insocuiant about it? I’m telling you. Legs kicking in the air! It’s my downfall.

bellsareringing.jpg

Yes, I have a kicking fetish.

I should also point out that as a kid, I had an obsession with the Rockettes — in large part because I always associated them with kicking. Which either makes me extremely gay or just plain deviant.

When watching football, I think the punter is the most impressive player. Or at least, I’ve always thought that he does the most work. Because the arm is far more precise, whereas the foot is not. Even if he is a microscopic dot from really bad seating, you’ll always see his leg in the air without binoculars. But a quarterback’s snap? Not always.

My favorite moment during a crime drama was always when they kicked the door in. And the thing that most impresses me about horses is when a horse somehow kicks down a stable door, or when a horse proves to the foolish human trying to tame it that it is the master by whinnying and standing on hind legs.

It’s my firm belief that people should kick more. Or at least realize that their legs are good for a lot more than walking or running.

Leaping, of course, has some acceptance in our society. But kicking? Not so much. It may, in fact, have something of a stigma attached to it. Likely because kicking is considered more of a threatening physical action rather than something which permits excess energy to be happily applied to the leg. In fact, why permit kicking to remain in its default emotional setting? Kicking can be joyful, artistic, and just downright goofy.

The solution here, of course, is to get all happy kickers together in an arena and demonstrate to the world that it’s okay to kick from time to time. There’s no shame in kicking. And yet even sex manual authors sometimes overlook the kick’s possibilities.