The events of last week have been staggering and unfortunately have kept me from posting something profound on this blog. I apologize for that. Let me explain…

Oregon’s Capitol Building is old, very old, and was last renovated back in the 1970’s complete with the installation of the brightest burnt orange carpet one has ever seen. When you first start working in the building you become nauseated by the overwhelming color foul committed by the squares of dingy orange chasing you around the senate wing. After a few months of working in the building you have trained yourself to never look down and eventually after your year anniversary you are numb in sight from your ankles down. It is something that all senate employees have become accustomed to over the last 30 years.

Recently, budget funds allowed for a renovation of the wings (senate and house) which included removing every disgusting orange square of carpet and modernizing the look of Oregon’s most recognized building. Unfortunately my office, being in the main part of the building and not the wings, was not included for total remodel but at least we scored new carpet and hand-me-down office furniture to update our environment. Trust me, after two years of orange and old, I was thrilled.

My excitement was soon foiled as I am highly allergic to whatever substance is in carpet glue and between recovering from a cold and the constant exposure to a substance worse then phermeldahyde I’ve become the poster child for decongestant and Kleenex. In a sniffle-some process that took about a week my coworkers and I packed up our offices, cleaned, reorganized, plat mapped and watched as our little rooms transformed into the jewel of modernization. I’ve never been so happy to finally see the weekend roll around.

Over the weekend, however, a fire broke out in the office of a very influential member of Oregon government. It just happens that it is within the building and on the same floor that I work. The entire 70-year-old office, which housed historical items from the foundation of Oregon, is a total loss and the entire building is a smoke-infused mess. Upon returning to work cheerful and fully-loaded with Sudafed, I am greeted by cleaning crews, environmental safety specialists and the overwhelming smell of ancient barbeque permeating my nostrils.

I have no idea how, between carpet glue, cleaners and fire residue I’m still the everglowing personality behind a desk of the senate parliamentary administration. There are boxes piled in my office a mile high that need unpacking, no furniture to unpack them into yet and I can’t find my stapler, which I promise is TOTALLY unrelated to the fire. At least I have Pedro, the angry beta fish, to keep me company in this insanity they call “government”.

Hope all is well with my 2 other talented ladies on 3 Women and our dedicated readers…much love to you all.

We have chosen to first visit the most popular museum, the Air & Space museum. Just before, we had to cross a grey Washington DC. Not a bright day over here. The threatening clouds weren't predicting much good today.

The museum was huge and took us through all the stages of flying humans, on earth and beyond. In a simulator we were the pilots of a battle aircraft and had to shoot down the enemy in the air. Making 360° we were sometimes hanging with our knees around our ears.
Afterwards Mike decided to buy him a ton of extra weight to carry the rest of the day. Those souvenir shops do work!

Leaving the museum lead us to rainy Washington. The next hour, while going to the Capitol and walking around it, it didn't stop raining. We were pretty much soaked and decided to take the Hop on Hop off bus to see all the other stuff. Luckily it stopped raining even before we got on the bus. Only wet feeling for the rest of the day were wet branches of trees at the top of the bus and my feet.

After our bus tour we stepped off at the White House. Because of security we couldn't get at the oval office side at first, but later on we managed to reach it. Security people seem to be very tense in this area. To finish off the sightseeing part of the day we walked through all the memorials and at the end we even saw Marine One flying above our heads.

In 1865, that same Washington elder statesman tried to negotiate a peace settlement with his longtime friend Jefferson Davis.

One son served in Lincoln’s Cabinet, had his house burned to the ground by Gen. Jubal Early’s Confederate forces and resigned his high government post in a sort of political trade.
Another son served in Congress, became a general in the Union Army and then a senator after the war and led a life of brawling adventure.

Jubal Early

The family name still causes tourists to stop in awe and respect just one block from the White House, inside the nation’s Capitol and in front of a handsome bust in Vicksburg, Miss.

The Blairs of Virginia, Kentucky, Missouri, Maryland and the District of Columbia played a uniquely influential role in American politics from the time Francis P. Blair Sr. became involved in the financial Panic of 1819 until the end of son Frank Blair’s Senate term in 1873.
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Francis P. Blair Sr.
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Francis Preston Blair Sr. (1791-1876) began a long and distinguished career of semigovernment service and influence during the 1819 crisis. He led the Relief Party and became an influential writer of newspaper opinion pieces on politics.

His articles and support for Andrew Jackson so impressed the new president that Jackson urged Blair to move from Kentucky to Washington to become a full-time newspaperman.

In 1830, Blair established the Washington Globe, a party organ, and also published the Congressional Globe. He gained national importance as a political journalist and ran the printing business for Congress. However, he is remembered best as the leader of Andrew Jackson’s “kitchen cabinet.

Blair’s business partner, John Rives, described Blair as 85 pounds of bones and 22 pounds of “gristle, nerve and brain.”
 

Blair continued to run and edit his newspaper throughout the presidencies of Jackson and Martin Van Buren. When James K. Polk was elected president in 1844, Blair excused himself from the newspaper business but not from his role as an influencer of government policy. He traveled all the way to Jackson’s home, the Hermitage, in Tennessee to visit the former president.
 

Blair supported John C. Fremont’s 1856 Republican presidential nomination even after he “retired” to his 20-room mansion, Silver Spring, in Maryland.
 
John C Fremont

He aided Lincoln from the first days of the crisis between the states, offering a prestigious Union Army position to Robert E. Lee, apparently on the president’s behalf. (Controversy continues.)
 

He also crossed Union lines into the Confederacy more than once on peace missions, using a note Lincoln had written that read: “Allow the bearer; F.P. Blair, Sr., to pass our lines, go South, and return.”

Abraham Lincoln

President Lincoln was a frequent guest at Blair’s Maryland home, where Blair and his family entertained and persuaded the president.

Montgomery Blair

Montgomery Blair (1813-1883) graduated from the U.S. Military Academy at West Point in 1835. He saw action in the Seminole War, established himself as a lawyer and served as mayor of St. Louis (1842-1843).
 

He moved to the nation’s capital in 1852. His family established residence at the town home (now called Blair House) owned by his father on Pennsylvania Avenue near the White House.
 

He was U.S. solicitor in the Court of Claims from 1855 to 1858. He and associate George T. Curtis served as counsel for the plaintiff in the Dred Scott case of 1857. Scott and his wife sued in federal court for their freedom after their master moved them to Missouri, a free territory.
 

Blair and his partner represented Scott before the Supreme Court but lost the case when Justice Roger Taney ruled that a slave’s status did not change when he moved from territory to territory. Taney held that Dred Scott, a slave, was property. Thus, Scott was not a man and had no standing in federal court.
 

A fervent opponent of slavery, Montgomery Blair joined the new Republican Party. He became an ardent supporter of Abraham Lincoln for president.

In 1861, Lincoln appointed him postmaster general, but Blair’s influence far exceeded the standard definition of that office.
 

Modern observers would find it difficult to understand the importance of the postmaster in 1860. One line in Lincoln’s first inaugural address indicated the importance of the mail in those days. Faced with secession, Lincoln asserted: “The mails, unless repelled, will continue to be furnished in all parts of the Union.”
 

Described as the most learned man in Lincoln’s Cabinet, Blair is credited by most with founding the Universal Postal Union, an international agreement that standardized postal rates and services. He also originated prepaid postage, free mail delivery in cities, money orders, and postal railroad cars.
 

House burned
 

Montgomery Blair became a key Lincoln confidant and leader of Lincoln’s kitchen cabinet. In 1861, he was the only Cabinet member who urged Lincoln to reinforce Fort Sumter, a subject far afield of his duties as postmaster. During the war, Montgomery Blair and his father frequently had the president’s ear.
 

When Gen. Jubal Early and his Confederate army invaded the North to pressure Washington in 1864, his troops sacked and burned Falkland, Montgomery Blair’s rural retreat in what is now Silver Spring.
 

Early recalled the day this way: “[W]hen in front of Washington some of my troops were very determined to destroy the house of Mr. Francis P. Blair and had actually removed some furniture, probably supposing it to belong to his son, a member of the Federal Cabinet. As soon as I came up, I immediately stopped the proceeding and compelled the men to return every article so far as I knew, and placed a guard to protect it. The house of his son, Montgomery Blair, a member of the Cabinet, was subjected to a different rule for obvious reasons.”
 

Letter from Lincoln
 

In May 1864, a convention of Radical Republicans selected John C. “Pathfinder” Fremont as their candidate for president. Fremont accepted the nomination and told the audience: “Today we have in this country the abuses of a military dictation without its unity of action and vigor of execution.” Lincoln wanted Fremont out of the race.
 

Fremont demanded the resignation of the man who had urged Lincoln to make Fremont a general earlier in the war, Montgomery Blair, who was disliked by Radical Republicans.
 

On Sept. 22, 1864, Fremont withdrew from the contest. On Sept. 23, 1864, President Lincoln sent the following letter to Montgomery Blair:
 

“My Dear Sir: You have generously said to me more than once, that whenever your resignation could be a relief to me, it was at my disposal. The time has come. You very well know that this proceeds from no dissatisfaction of mine with you personally or officially. Your uniform kindness has been unsurpassed by that of any friend; and, while it is true that the war does not so greatly add to the difficulties of your Department, as to those of some others, it is yet much to say, as I most truly can, that in the three years and a half during which you have administered the General Post-Office, I remember no single complaint against you in connection therewith.”
 

After the Civil War, Montgomery Blair rebuilt Falkland, which Early’s raiders had burned. He became active in Maryland politics and practiced law with his son, Woodbury. After Montgomery Blair died, Woodbury continued the law practice with his brothers Gist and Montgomery Jr.
 

Montgomery Blair High School in Silver Spring is named for him.
 

Frank Blair
 

Francis P. Blair Jr. (1821-1875), the younger of Francis P. Blair Sr.’s two sons, was commonly known as Frank.

A lawyer, Civil War general, attorney general of the Territory of New Mexico, member of the Missouri Legislature and the U.S. House of Representatives, he spent his final time in public life in the U.S. Senate.
 

He probably drank too much alcohol, used too much tobacco and too quickly let his anger get the best of him. Yet he was a Lincoln man, a dedicated Union man and perhaps the best of Lincoln’s politically appointed generals.
 

Frank Blair certainly earned the right to be called the most colorful of the amazing Blairs. He exhibited his rambunctious nature at college. A professor at Yale said Frank gave him more trouble than all the other scholars combined. Frank also attended the University of North Carolina before ending up at Princeton.
 

Colonization
 

Although Frank, like the other Blairs, supported Lincoln and decried slavery, he was a bigot and owned slaves himself. When his brother Montgomery moved to Washington, taking Frank’s favorite slave, Nancy, Frank griped, “It is indispensable comfort to have a neat servant, particularly in this region of dirt and coal dust.”
 

As a member of the House of Representatives, Frank Blair generally defended Lincoln’s policies. Nevertheless, the Blairs and the president were not in complete agreement on the question of slavery. Every man in the Blair family, it seemed, favored separation of the races through the colonization of American blacks abroad.
 

On April 12, 1862, the day after slavery was abolished in Washington, Frank Blair said on the House floor that Liberia had “failed to attract the freed negro population in any considerable numbers” but stated his support for Negro colonization in Central America. “There is a vast difference,” he said, “between the idea of being colonized on our own continent, under our own flag, and being buried in Africa.”
 

Blair hoped colonization would serve to avoid present and future racial disharmony.
 

He also believed colonization might disrupt the political power of slaveholders in the South. Blair said, “We can make emancipation acceptable to the whole mass of non-slave-holders at the South by coupling it with the policy of colonization. The very prejudice of race which now makes the non-slaveholders give their aid to hold the slave in bondage will induce them to unite in a policy which will rid them of the presence of negroes.”
 

Blair pushed a bill through the House that authorized the president to spend $100,000 for colonizing the freedmen of the District.
 

A warrior
 

The Blair family made several efforts to persuade Lincoln to make Frank a general, but at first the president put them off. Finally, in the autumn of 1862, after Frank had raised five regiments of troops and said he hoped to raise two or three more, the president made Blair a general in the Union Army.
 

Despite much newspaper criticism, Frank Blair proved himself one of the better political generals. A very capable and fearless leader at Vicksburg, he gained Gen. Ulysses S. Grant’s notice and praise. “There was no man braver than he,” Grant wrote of Blair. “No man obeyed all orders of his superiors in rank with more unquestioning alacrity.”
 

Ulysses S. Grant

After a shaky start, Blair also established a lifelong mutual respect with Gen. William T. Sherman. The men served together during the campaigns for Vicksburg and Atlanta, and Blair commanded the 17th Corps during the March to the Sea. When newspapers criticized Blair as a political general, Sherman said Blair was “brave, cool and of ability.”
 

Franc B. Wilkie, a reporter for the New York Times, described Frank Blair this way: “He was a most interesting man in every respect. … He was versatile, doing everything well, from leading a charge to uncorking a bottle, and in all instances characterized by a calm, dispassionate manner. … Beneath all his outward calmness he had a tremendous force — a fact demonstrated by the momentum with which he threw his columns against the bristling, deadly heights of Chickasaw Bayou.”
 

A bust of Frank Blair causes visitors to marvel at Vicksburg. A statue of him campaigning in St. Louis entertains tourists in Missouri. Both were created with family money. In Statuary Hall within the U.S. Capitol, Frank Blair’s larger-than-life statue represents his state of Missouri along with a statue of Thomas Hart Benton.
 

The term “larger than life” perfectly describes the Blair family.

• John E. Carey is a frequent contributor to The Washington Times.

Anyway, apart from drooling over AC/DC, I explored the far end of the National Mall today. For the first time in about four weeks at least, I was faced with a properly massive rainstorm this morning. So after breakfast, at which I continued the Obama arguments I'd been having with the Aussie girl who'd joined us downstairs for the Convention yesterday evening, I grabbed my umbrella and set off. I stopped first in the International Spy Museum (another one of the exceptions that charges for entry), and had great fun examining all the various devices used (mainly by the CIA and KGB) to conceal weapons, bugs and cameras throughout the ages, as well as reading the features on the Cambridge spies (which brought back six-year-old memories of Another Country), McCarthyism and various other double agents. From there, and I was glad to see that during my spy exploit the rain had completely stopped, I headed to the Capitol, where a large knowledgable tour guide took us round the architectural 'bare bones' of the old buildings and locations of Congress (including the famous 'whisper chamber' effect in the old Senate hall). That seen, I went past the Supreme Court to the Library of Congress (which I remember well from National Treasure 2!), but was disappointed to find that all the interesting parts (i.e. the books) required me to be a member of the Library, so I had to content myself with a few hasty photos while the warders had their backs turned. I was going to look into the Botanical Gardens as well, but wasn't really in the mood for looking at piles of self-satisfied plants, so headed past the White House (which I won't be able to visit, since I'm unlikely to be able to "make a booking six months in advance with your local member of Congress") back to the hostel, briefly venturing out again to stock up on drinks at the nearest 7/11.

My camera is down to 280 photos remaining (already), so I will now upload what I have to my laptop, and from there onto Facebook before long. Then, perhaps, I will be able to finish the blasted Olympics stuff I've been trying (and mostly failing) to watch over the last few days before tuning into Obama's speech to the Convention in a few hours' time.

]]> http://profart.wordpress.com/?p=52 Thu, 28 Aug 2008 12:07:02 +0000 profart http://profart.wordpress.com/?p=52 The complete ignorance of art history and political imagery in this country is rearing its ugly head. The discussion of the neo-Classical stage set for Obama's speech is both interesting and depressing. 

The man is running for the White House. The set references the White House. What is the big deal? 

This country began its artistic roots in the neoclassical- the style hugely popular in the 18th century and referencing the power imagery of Rome and the Classical world. It was used all over this nation's capital, including the Capitol Building itself and the White House.

The stage set uses Doric-style columns, which communicate more strength an solidity than the elegant Ionics used on the White House itself. They are also simpler than the Corinthian columns of the Capitol (though Doric pilasters can be seen on the lower and upper levels). 

The format of the stage follows the Pergamon "altar", which was probably actually a war memorial, and is Hellenistic. 

Western power imagery is usually laden with Classical imagery and visual vocabulary. I find it fabulous that Obama's campaign is showing its cultural knowledge and understanding by using these Classical elements in their own power imagery. Politics is all about power. Of course it will reference Rome. People who laugh are only revealing their own ignorance. 

Perhaps they ought to take a class in art history.

In a letter to station managers, Obama campaign lawyer Robert Bauer wrote: "Your station is committed to operating in the public interest, an objective that cannot be satisfied by accepting for compensation material of such malicious falsity."

Bauer also wrote to Deputy Assistant Attorney General John C. Keeney, noting that the ad is a "knowing and willful attempt to evade the strictures of federal election law."

I mean we can't have people pointing out the fact that The Annointed One knowingly associates with an unrepentant terrorist can we?  So tell us oh Wonderous One - what is fasle about this ad?

In the Obama campaign's own response ad, an announcer states: "With all our problems, why is John McCain talking about the 60s, trying to link Barack Obama to radical Bill Ayers. McCain knows Obama denounced Ayers' crimes, committed when Obama was just 8 years old."

So a non-denial denial.  America has lots of problems, this is old news, I was just 8, I denounced their actions.

Of course, you decided to launch your political campaign for the State Senate from this unrepentant terrorists living room (and his wife is worse by the way).  You continue to work with this ultra-liberal twit who thinks that they didn't bomb enough.  Who was on the front page of the NYT on 9/11 boasting about how he still believed in his cause.  A guy who was recently photographed like this:

"It seems they protest a bit too much," American Issues Project spokesman Christian Pinkston said. "They're going all of these routes — through threats, intimation — to try to thwart the First Amendment here because they don't have an argument on merit."

Shanksville became part of the Sept. 11 story when a neoconservative faction of the U.S. government, led by Vice President Dick Cheney, carried out the attacks. A screw-up early on the morning of the covert operation resulted in a U.S. fighter jet shooting down United Airlines Flight 93. It is suspected that Flight 93 was either intended to crash into the 7 World Trade Center building -- also known as the Salomon Brothers building -- or possibly the U.S. Capitol in order to take out Congress. Eliminating Congress would have allowed President Bush to declare martial law and suspend the U.S. Constitution indefinitely.

The new memorial should generate enough of an emotional reaction to distract from the embarrassing 7 World Trade Center report put out by the National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST) last week. The NIST report attempted to explain away the controlled demolition of the Salomon Brothers building as some sort of new and miraculous phenomenon never before seen in buildings made of steel.

After Flight 93 was shot down over Shanksville, the Sept. 11 plotters decided to use the mistake to their advantage by concocting a patriotic story about Flight 93's passengers overtaking Arab hijackers, and then intentionally crashing the plane into the ground. The myth was later made into a movie to solidify the official lie. Despite the fact that cell phone calls from Flight 93's passengers could not have been made from the airplane, few question the story.

After the steel cross arrived in Shanksville, thermite residue was scraped from it before volunteers painted it white. Thermite is used in controlled demolitions because it can chemically cut through steel in only a few seconds.

The cross is not part of the $58 million Flight 93 National Memorial that is being constructed in Shanksville to support the government's Osama bin Laden conspiracy theory.

Ca să-şi ducă bine rolul până la capăt, conform instrucţiunilor presupuse, trebuia să fie draguţă şi surâzătoare. Cam ca o gazdă de pensiune care să n-aibă nume adevărat şi pe care s-o cheme « mami » şi atât. Îşi şi imagină personajul, desenându-l în ţuşe groase şi suprapunând imagini adunate de-a lungul concediilor: personajul „mami” ar fi o femeie de peste 50 de ani, supaponderală, urâtă şi ştirbă, stil flower print, surdă numai la nevoie, dar de altfel foarte vigilentă la tranzacţii, disimulantă, curioasă, gata să leşine şi să se încrunte aparent inocent ca să-şi atingă scopul, obiectivul, inima de client. Cu siguranţă Tudor nu se gândise să-i atribuie ei un asemenea rol odios, dar în acelaşi timp ştia şi el că nu s-ar putea comporta ca o soră de caritate. Ştia foarte bine ca muşca, tăia, tranşa situaţia fără scrupule de câte ori era nevoie. Tocmai de-asta i se paru puţin ireală cererea lui, cu toate că o acceptase pe loc şi, pentru o secundă, sincer. Ah, ce-ar lovi în carne vie acum, ce-ar stropi cu picatură  chinezească..

Îşi îndreptă coloana, tuşi uşor, ca la teatru şi stinse mucul de ţigară insistent pe coada balconului. Îşi reintră în rol. Astfel, se hotărî să arunce ţigara în grădiniţa din faţă şi nu în scrumiera de lângă ea, fără remuşcări. Îl pierdu din privire pe Tudor, cu furie - el era regizorul existenţei sale viitoare. Era deja departe, în capătul străzii. Se întoarse spre băiatul bun-la-toate şi aruncându-i o privire de patron de prăvălie îl întrebă dacă a terminat.

-Am terminat deja de ceva timp. Aşteptam să veniţi de pe balcon să vorbim despre bani. Eu nu ştiu cum v-a zis domnul, dar eu am nevoie de bani şi vreau să mi-i daţi acum, că trebuie să plec acasă la ora asta.

-Păi tu ce-ai vorbit cu Tudor ? nu v-aţi înţeles ?

-Ba da, dar mai rămăsese o datorie de un milion. Şi pentru văruit, şi pentru parchet. Şi am nevoie urgentă.

-Ce nevoie ai tu ?

Nu-i veni să creadă ce spuse. Cum îndrăznea să intre în viaţa intimă a unui străin ? cine se credea ? de unde atâta infatuare şi încredere în sine ? continuă:

-Adică ce faci tu cu banii pe care-i câştigi ? ieşi seara în cluburi ? bei cu prietenii? Îi cumperi iubitei tale lucruri?

- De unde?! Nu cheltui pe prostii, domnişoară. O bere, două cu baieţii atâta tot. În plus sunt încă în şcoală şi lucrez în timpul liber.

Urmă o scurtă tăcere, timp în care baiatul avu timp să-şi ia geanta cu scule şi să se enerveze puţin, cum ar fi trebuit încă de la început.

-Şi fac ce vreau, sunt banii mei, nu dumneavoastră aţi stat aplecată pe parchet.

Aşa e, nu stătuse, cu toate că i-ar fi plăcut.

-Aşa e, eram curioasă, doar atât. Mi-am dat seama că eşti tânăr. Şi mă întrebam pe ce-şi mai cheltuie banii tineretul din ziua de azi. Ştii tu, nimeni n-are niciodată de-ajuns, când eşti adolescent cu atât mai mult – parcă ai şi mai multe obligaţii.. de natură socială mă refer – ieşiri in oraş, haine, telefoane, chestii de genul..

Băiatul îşi încrucişă mâinile în faţă, ţinând cutia de scule în echilibru pe degetul mic şi spunând fără nicio mimică:

-Haideţi, tanti, că eu am treabă. M-am şi grăbit să vă fac parchetul ca să plec. Aşa am vorbit şi cu domnul Tudor, nu ştiu dacă v-a spus dar eu nu pot să stau mai mult de ora şase. Un million rămăsese.

Deci pentru tânărul din faţa ei devenise o tanti. Pân-acum, era „domnişoară”. Ce-i drept, şirul de întrebări pe care i le adresase erau fie întrebările unui sociolog ratat, fie întrebările unei babe curioase. Dar era sigură era că, obiectiv, cronologic, spiritual, ea nu-i printre acele tanti. O fi şi ea tanti în felul ei, dar numai în situaţii excepţionale şi, de ce să nu recunoască, măcar faţă de ea însăşi, ce se-ntampla acum în casa ei era o situaţie exceptională. Viaţa ei, aşa simplă înainte, devenise un vis aproape complicat din care simţea că nu poate ieşi decât atunci când îşi băga nasul, femeieşte, în poveştile altora. Abominabile, de dragoste, de boală, de ora 5, de pagina 5, de deochi, de otv, n-o interesa de fapt.. şi-ar fi vrut să fi putut intra şi în viaţa puştiului din faţa ei.

- Am înţeles. Te grăbeşti, îţi dau eu de la mine în cazul ăsta. Nu-l mai sun pe Tudor, te cred pe cuvânt. Lasă-mă numai să caut banii în geanta asta plină de hârtii. Crezi că mai poţi aştepta atâta timp ?

- Haideţi, doamnă.. oameni suntem.. zise şi izbucni într-un râs cam tâmp…

Lucru care o ului pentru o fracţiune de secundă, dar o antrenă şi pe ea într-un râs fără noimă şi un pic mai surd decât al băiatului. Îi dădu hârtia fără să-i mai zică nimic. Ce personaj ! unde s-o grăbi ? eu cred că are o gagică. Sau poate-şi pune şi ea parchet sau poate cineva din familie are vreo nuntă sau poate el vrea pur si simplu să vadă vreun meci.

Culmea, acum devenise „doamnă”. Băiatul din faţa ei nu-i putea prinde esenţa: doamnă, domnişoară, tanti, babă, femeie, matuşă… eternul feminin.. oare ce era de fapt? Nu-l interesa, nici măcar din politeţe. În plus, ea va trece prin toate rolurile astea, odată şi-odată, cât mai conteaza înşiruirea sau concomitenţa lor sau perceperea lor exactă?

Acum nu mai putea afla povestea băiatului, cum ieşise deja pe uşă, ca o urmă mai tânără şi mai murdară a lui Tudor. Nu-i spuse şi lui „drum bun”. Dar îl întoarse din drum să-l anunţe că s-ar putea să mai fie nevoie de el, dacă noua locatară vrea să mai schimbe ceva.

- Am înţeles. Mă sunaţi. O seara bună.

- Să ai şi tu. Vezi, ai grijă la lift, dacă nu-i împingi bine usa, se blochează. Mai bine o iei pe scări, spuse, afişând, din nou spre uimirea ei, o grijă maternală, de tanti sau de mami.

-Da, oricum o luam pe scări. Hai, bună seara

Şi băiatul se pierdu în spirala de beton. Aşa cum făcuse şi Tudor acum un sfert de oră şi aşa cum avea să facă şi ea cât de curand. Crina va lua cu siguranţă liftul, îşi imagină ea, trebuie să fie o persoană comodă. Îşi opri gândul şi se întrebă oare de ce credea asta. Nu-şi putu aduce aminte, aşa că închise şi încuie. Puse cheile pe etajeră, în timp ce afară se auzeau sirene şi susur de greieri.

Track: 10: Honey Don't, Track: 11: Every Little Thing, Track: 12: I Don't Want To Spoil The Party, Track: 13: What You're Doing, Track: 14: Everybody's Trying To Be My Baby, Track: 1: No Reply, Track: 2: I'm A Loser, Track: 3: Baby's In Black, Track: 4: Rock And Roll Music, Track: 5: I'll Follow The Sun, Track: 6: Mr. Moonlight, Track: 7: Kansas City/Hey-Hey-Hey-Hey!, Track: 8: Eight Days A Week, Track: 9: Words Of Love
Banged out in a hurry for the 1964 Christmas market, Beatles for Sale sometimes sounds it, loaded with ill-conceived covers and some of John Lennon's most self-loathing lyrics. On the other hand, the people doing the banging-out were the Beatles, whose instincts for what worked musically were so strong that they could basically do no wrong--any record that has "Baby's in Black," "I Don't Want to Spoil the Party" and the delectable "Eight Days a Week" on it is only "minor" in the most relative sense. And, though their voices had been frazzled a bit by constant touring, they revved them up for some joyous shouting, and indulged their fondness for American country in subtle, playful ways. --Douglas Wolk

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I gave up giving tours several years ago. After a few platonic friendships crossed the line into the murkiness of long distance love, followed by a looong spell with a live-in boyfriend, I became too busy, too important, to drive around the city with a band in tow. But something about the lads in the British import band Passenger, made me change my tune.

Passenger came to my tv show via Brighton and were sent to me by the gals at Girlie Action. Lead singer Mike Rosenberg, a baby face with a sharp wit and old soul, proved to be a ready opponent for my snark and subversive interview style. Their performance was impressive enough to raise my jaded ass's interest and I actually stayed in the studio to watch.

Still with a good show in the can, I didn’t suspect I’d see them again. The invite to a gig after a taping is something I normally deflect with a lame excuse, more often than not. But that night, when out searching for my first meal of the day, I found myself pulling up in front of the Hotel Café.

Yeah, I know. The Hotel Café. While I had created a new singer songwriter show, Songwriter’s Stage, for Vlaze TV, it isn’t exactly a haunt that you’d ever find me in. No offense to the many talented songsmiths and troubadours that perform there…I just like my music with a healthy serving of edge and vitriol.

[caption id="attachment_161" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Mike Rosenberg of Passenger"][/caption]

Perhaps it’s the fact that Passenger’s comparisons to David Gray are a bit misleading. Yes, the melodies are soft and pretty and the harmonies give it that Starbucks song-of-the-week feel. But those who have likened Mike’s lyrical sense to Nick Drake are a bit more on the money. Drake and a lethal dose of biting British self deprecation. That's the combo I'm all about. An ironic fist in a velvet glove.

So, while I normally distance myself from the interview subject, that evening I found myself on an all night adventure. The guys took me to an odd house party with two grand pianos and a Fuse TV crew goading us into doing fake vodka shots for their program about 'partying'. It was somewhat amusing to watch Mike and guitarist Stephen’s faces as they took in all the bizarre pre-mating habits of fringe Angelinos on the make.

“What a perfect Hollywood party to have gone to.” one of them remarked.

“Oh, this is by no means what a Hollywood party is like.“ I corrected.

For one thing there was no hosted open bar from a booze company that no one has ever heard of. No unemployed actors serving expensive appetizers in honor of a major movie release. No DJ with his stage name in glittery sticker letters across his laptop, pumping out banging disco house music. There were no roving club kid photogs goading under age kinds to pull their tops down for a moment of cyber fame. There wasn’t even a celebrity sighting.

In fact, the only real Hollywood thing I was able to show them was the La Brea tar pits – I drove them over to Wilshire, prepping them on the monument to our pre-historic predecessors. As I pulled my convertible up to LACMA, their faces fell.

“That’s it?” Their manager, Dan, yelled. “Those don’t look like woolly mammoths. They’re like cartoon fiberglass elephants. Fooking ‘ell!”

I had failed as a tour guide.

Luckily last week I had the chance to redeem myself. The boys were hopping back across the pond to support the drop of their album Wicked Man's Rest. I bought me some spf 50, map quested Zuma Beach and rsvped to every annoying pool party and drink fest that came across my email spam box.

Dinner at Jones and a small gathering at the Woods with James Murphy in attendance, was a nice evening out for Passenger…but where was the gin soaked night? The evening of excess? The morning after where you aren’t quite sure where you are or which playmate you woke up next to? I’d have to try harder.

Passenger performed again at the Hotel Café. Even though only six weeks had passed, their performance was so much tighter and dynamic. I got chills listening to Mike warble songs such as Things You Never Done and Table For One. And the upbeat single about stalking (which was just banned by a radio station) Night Vision Binoculars, got the early dinner crowd clamoring to meet them afterwards.

Now, I suppose that too many years spent up all night and sleeping all day has jaded me. My smooth skin belies the time I’ve spent partying hard, and hitting the bottle harder. But a domestic partnership, a serious illness and a jaded 'been there, done that' glaze has seriously mellowed me out. My idea of wild fun would have been punk rock karaoke or maybe splurging on a really expensive bottle of wine. I must admit I’ve become more of a boho hipster, rather than a fun-thirsty scenester.

Passenger must have sensed this. Which is probably why they left nothing to chance this time and had their management company make a reservation at a club called Villa. Yeah, that Villa. As in the Villa I only know of from the check-out lane tabloids. Passenger told me the Weho address and I sniffed at it, snobbishly.

“I don’t go west of Fairfax Ave.” I chided.

“Why not?” They asked.

“You’ll see." I warned.

The MacLean-mobile pulled up to what once was the yuppie pub, Sloans. Now transformed into Villa, the place looked like a Kubrick wet dream. White silk cord ropes hung draped from the ceiling. A giant stuffed peacock competed for attention with a giant silver hot air balloon and a white Apollo space suit. The walls were frescoed with paintings of books as if the Eyes Wide Shut orgies had spilled into a billionaire’s library.

The place was gorgeous. That is, until the clientele arrived.

If reality television had spawned a nightclub, then this is where they would come for re-runs. Every fake tanned, fake-titted girl teetering on heels, in a too short t-shirt-cum-dress, came in hungry for attention. It made me do a double take in a way that even blatant beastiality would fail to. It was so...Jerry Springer episode: Tanorexic oompaloompa girls and the trucker hatted dudes who love them.

If this place is supposedly good for spotting stars, then where were they? Where the hell was gorgeous Villa denizen Jonathan Rhys Myers? Where was Johniston or Brangelina? Was the lack of wattage because it was karaoke night? And why was Lukas Haas checking email on his Sidekick WHILE he was on stage singing Bitter Sweet Symphony? That's enough to make The Verve break up again. Permanently.

“The décor is wasted on these people.” I remarked “None of them know what those strange oblong things called books are.”

“No.” Stephen agreed. “They probably call it ‘the wall with good children’s names'.”

“Yes, like Gatsby Silverstein. Or Nietzsche Jones.”

I shudder to think. Makes Apple Martin or Pilot Inspektor Lee sound kind a good Christian name. Doesn’t it?

We stepped outside for a cigarette to a hail of flashbulbs. That horrible swarm of parasitic paparazzi that you see on TMZ, were in the flesh outside of the club. Even with a little experience walking down a red carpet, I was a bit taken aback.

“Is this what it’s like when you go out in Hollywood?” Mike asked.

“NO." I stammered. “This is how the other half live. I’m an east side hipster. We stick to indie rock, red wine and artistic integrity.”

Actually what we were witnessing wasn’t exactly how the other half of LA lives. It’s really more like an eighth…the real Hollywood stars don’t hang out at Villa on a Monday night. They go to bed for an early call to the set the next morning. Or they attend a charity function where the swag bags include strands of black pearls and complimentary blackberrys. No, this type of Hollywood crowd is a very specific breed. The 'dancing with the d-list' kinda crowd. The reality TV has-been kinda crowd. And that includes you, Miss so-called World 2006.

Almost as if on cue, two of the perma-tanned d cup girls came out for a cigarette, and the parasites went crazy, clicking and sticking microphones into their faces. I couldn’t tell you who these trollops were, or what they possibly had to say that would hold anyone’s interest…but someone was paying the shutterbugs to capture their every move.

“Who are they?” Stephen asked.

“I dunno. Maybe they’re Hef’s playmates? Or maybe they’re on some reality show.” I offered.

“What show would that be, ‘Surgical Mistakes’? Stephen quipped. No doubt coming soon on Spike TV.

This was exactly the part of Hollywood that out-of-towners want to see, but are then very sorry when they do. It’s an embarrassment to someone like me to try and explain away why America is fascinated by this type of vapid vomit. It’s a peek behind the curtain at what glamour really ISN’T about.

Perhaps I should have stuck with ferrying them on a trip to the Sunset Strip. Even though the brains over there aren’t exactly firing on all cylinders either, at least it’s fun to watch the crowd that hasn’t made it past 1986. Watching someone like Vince Neil imbibe and make an ass of himself seems almost wholesome next to this slutbag contest. This was just…depressing.

It also served as a reminder to me underlining the fact that mediocrity and grotesque reign over talent and beauty. Why is Passenger, with their gorgeous melodies, playing an early slot at the Hotel Café? While Heidi Montag of The Hills is singing at Universal Ampitheater?!? Why, in a town of creative people, do we allow this to happen? Why can’t we urge everyone to stop reading OK magazine and stop tivoing Sunset Tan? Why couldn’t I convince any of my friends to go see the free Shakespeare in the park this summer? And who the hell greenlit Don’t Mess With The Zohan?

No seriously. I mean it. For fuck’s sake! I want to know who greenlit it, and I want his head on a platter!

Frankly I’m tired of having to go to the BBC for good comedy via Gervais and Izzard. I’m hoping that by the time I re-read my worn out copies of books by Evelyn Waugh, another Sedaris will be published. I’m really, really, really hoping Vicky Christina Barcelona will beat House Bunny at the box office but I’m not going to hold my breath.

Perhaps that’s what Silverlake is for. A place on the east side for those of us cultural snobs to retire to, after the glitter fades. We’ve drunk ourselves into an oblivion, partied like rockstars and watched our creative dreams slowly erode. So we barricade ourselves beyond the 101 beltway, light candles for Elliot Smith, eat at vegan bistros, and keep working on the great American novel or album.

When a group of lads like Passenger come to Los Angeles, I want to have something worthy of them to show them. Something smart. Something thoughtful. Something truly glamorous – the type of glamour that inspired De Mille, Hawks, Altman and Allen.

I know I’m not responsible for the entire city of Babylon. But I am a citizen here and so I must accept that this is how it is, or change it. After all, it’s been years and I still live here. I could live anywhere in the world. It must be because somehow that promise of glamour, of greatness, of creative utopia is still somewhat alive. Perhaps like the song, the feeling remains, even after the glitter fades.

Da! Da…”muncim” de zor..nu mai e mult, o sa vezi, de fapt. Le-am zis. Da. Pai daca vii acum, le mai zici tu o data. Nu mai trebuie nimic. Adica…niste tigari. Eu zic sa vii mai repede ca de mine n-au fost prea impresionati, poate tu ne scoti o reducere totusi. Pai ti-am zis ca nu cred ca avem bani pentru amandoi acum. In fine, vino si vorbim. Bine. Pa.

O vreme n-a fost prea vesel aici. Nici chiar dupa ce ma mai impacasem cu situatia. Si asta da situatie, trebuie sa recunoastem. Incercam sa stau cat de mult afara, plecam dimineata si veneam seara, cand era prea frig sa mai merg fara sir, cum ma obisnuisem, cuminte si constiincios sa fac. Fara sir dar totusi foarte constiincios. Destul de tarziu mi-am dat seama ca plimbarile mele fara scop si directie aveau si meritau cate un pic din ambele.

Ma trezeam ca intr-un cosmar, da, ca intr-un cosmar, pe cate o straduta atat de incarcata de lucruri de demult incat cu greu reuseam s-o strabat pana la capat. Pentru ca…: ce-a fost acolo trebuie sa ramana acolo, impachetat bine de tot, ca un obiect de sticla cand te muti, sa nu cumva sa se ciobeasca. Sa-i cream strazii parcului bancii cladirii dealului o cupola, un acoperis, o manusa, ceva, sa sa nu se piarda, sa nu se duca, sa nu ramanem fara tot ce-a fost acolo. Aiurea. Am inceput sa sterg singura tot, cat de mult am putut, pasii mei din trecut, discutia avuta pe strada x, balconul cu iedera de vizavi, seara in care nu ne mai gaseam masina, tanti cu motanul portocaliu, replicile alea stupide..tot. Sau ma rog, tot ce se putea. Ma duceam zi de zi sa-mi “spal” strazile si locurile, sa nu mai fie, sau si mai bine, sa fie din nou, sa fie altele. Era mai bine asa.

Dar seara veneam acasa. Acasa era crunt. Daca eram destul de obosita incat sa adorm de cum ajungeam in camera mea (ma rog…in “dormitor”), cele 15 minute in care faceam un dus fulger si eventual lasam un mesaj pe frigider, reuseam sa ma prefac ca sunt singura in casa. Asa, imi iesea. Dar serile cu insomnii erau interminabile- era suficient sa aud televizorul mergand in camera cealalta si adio singuratate crosetata. Prost obicei cu televizorul, e de la mine, dar e prost. N-am negat niciodata asta. Interminabile erau…cat o viata de om pierduta, cat o noapte polara, cat un ev mediu. Da ma, chiar asa.

Am ramas totusi cu niste chestii, bine puse deoparte- de mine in orice caz nu, care penduleaza destul de regulat intre lacrimi si greata. Ignoranto! Altii nu stiu ce sa puna maine pe masa, tu stai sa alegi daca sa plangi sau sa vomiti. Nu ma lamentez, vreau mai degraba sa-mi fac o harta fiziologica, sa tina loc de jurnal si sa fie mai bine. Poate data viitoare va fi mai bine. Nu va fi, dar poate ca. Atata timp cat sunt capabila sa spun poate ca, puteti sa stati linistiti, nu-mi bag degetele in priza.

                Dar acum vine si ea. Ea va schimba totul aici. Incerc sa nu ma agat prea tare de asta, pentru ca ar insemna ca tot ce mi-am construit si reparat singura o sa se duca dracului. Dar stiu c-o sa fie mai bine acum. “Crezi c-o sa inteleaga lumea? Sau crezi ca ar trebui sa nu stie? Sa stie altceva, eventual?”, m-a intrebat intr-o zi, cand a venit sa-si vada camera. Dar cui ii pasa de asta?

Nu-şi putea imagina vreo altă utilitate pe care s-o aibă locul ăsta strâmt şi prost luminat, dar extem de aproape de zona intrării, la care se refereau mereu ca la un axis mundi al dezordinii, ca la ochiul uraganului care era apartamentul şi viaţa lor acolo, locul unde paradoxal se întâlneau lucrurile de care nu te poţi lipsi cu cele de care ştii că te poţi lipsi dar în privinţa cărora nu-ţi pierzi speranţa că vor folosi cândva la ceva. E, în principiu, un loc identitar, care vorbeşte sintetic, fără prea multe divagaţii, despre oamenii casei.

Oare ce-ar alege să pună acolo un străin? Sau ce lucruri, mici sau mari, importante sau nu, s-au cufundat în penumbra unui astfel de loc revelatoriu, de când i-au fost ridicaţi pereţii şi pusă prima mobilă? Ştia că, cel puţin în apartamentul ăsta, sunt câteva lucruri esenţiale care stau cuminţi, înşirate sau în dezordine, pe etajera cu pricina, dar parcă mereu adulmecând vreo mână de om care s-ar putea apropia în orice clipă. Lucrurile astea se iau cu sine întotdeauna la ieşirea din casă şi se lasă în acelaşi loc la întoarcere, ca şi cum ar fi piesele cu care fiecare îşi compune o figură publica, o “piele secundă”, cum obişnuia să o numească, de care te dezbraci mereu la intrare. Iar etajera era principala garderoba a acestui du-te-vino cotidian. Portofel, chei, cartelă de intrare, bani sau, pitulată între obiecte sterile, chiar şi pisică ei de sticlă “cu mustăţi pană-de-corb”. Râse, amintindu-şi de vorbele astea, spuse în seara când au cumpărat-o de la un magazin de antichităţi. A crezut mereu că poartă noroc şi că ochii ei de sticlă verde trebuie să te ţintească la deschiderea uşii ca să fii sigur că a doua zi n-o să ai cearcăne, ci ochi clari de pisică. De unde şi obsesia ei ca “pana-de-corb” să nu stea niciodată întoarsă cu faţa spre perete. Ei bine şi pisica avea un culcuş al ei sus pe etajera.

Locul ăsta era promontoriul prin care spaţiul intim al locuinţei, static, ţinându-se mereu locului, fără picioare şi fără dorinţa de a fugi vreodată undeva, comunica cu lumea de afară, lumea troleelor şi taxiurilor, a oamenilor umblând bezmetici, dar, cu cheile luate de pe etajeră si puse în buzunar, deci fără frica de a nu-şi mai găsi casa la întoarcere; aşadar, când ieşi afară, păstrezi cu tine, totuşi, ca un melc, un colţ de casă.. şi cam asta era pentru  ea suportul de lemn ieftin – certitudinea posesiunii (de care, orice s-ar zice, ai nevoie, oftă, chiar dacă eşti femeie cu capul pe umeri, şi nu barbat gelos în zodia berbecului).. noi păşeam afară trecând întotdeauna, într-un fel sau altul prin locul comun pe care ni-l creea etajera.

Aşa ştiam mereu cine a ajuns primul acasă, o dată cu intruziunea în compoziţia de “natură moartă cu etajeră” a unui element care nu era acolo la plecare - o pereche de chei sau de ochelari atârnând, ca un semn, ca un titlu de ziar, pe mica tablă de lemn care-ţi dă senzaţia că ai ajuns acasă. Un loc exclusivist, se gândi, pentru că un musafir nu şi-ar lăsa niciodata acolo nici măcar o pereche de ochelari de soare. Nu găsi nimic străin pe etajera cu telefonul şi răsuflă uşurată.

Capitol workers ask guv, SP

to give pay raise, benefits

By Francis Allan L. Angelo

WILL the executive and legislative branches of the Iloilo provincial government set aside their differences and work together for the welfare of the ordinary Capitol workers? 

This question is being posed to top Capitol officials as provincial rank and file employees appealed to Governor Niel Tupas Sr. and the Sangguniang Panlalawigan to grant compensation adjustments due them.

In an open letter addressed to the governor and the provincial board, some 200 Capitol workers asked the executive and legislative departments “to kindly seek solutions once and for all to remedy the conflicting situation that put the employees as well as the whole people of the province of Iloilo in deep sufferings and burdens brought about by the 2008 budget controversy.”

Among the benefits being asked by the Capitol workers from the provincial government which remain pending because of the budget lockout are:

-         compensation adjustment for local government workers as mandated by Executive Order No. 719;

-         mandatory step increments of some employees;

-         mandatory loyalty pay of employees working for the provincial government for 10 years;

-         anniversary bonus.

The workers said the benefits they are asking will ease their burdens in the aftermath of Typhoon Frank, spiraling prices of oil increases in tuition fees and school materials.     

The signatories said they are “neutral as far as political affiliations are concerned.”

“We take impartiality in dealing with both the executive and legislative bodies. We don’t want to hurt anybody while pleasing anybody. We just want to claim what is due us,” they said.

SUPPLEMENTAL BUDGET

Provincial administrator Manuel Mejorada said they are now preparing the request for a P95-million supplemental budget for the salary and wages of Capitol employees.

The supplemental budget will include P17 million for the salaries, P267,000 for wages, P2 million-benefits, P1.9 million-GSIS payments, P78,000-Philhealth premiums, and P15 million-other benefits (monetization of leave credits).

Other items in the supplemental budget are P4.46 million for the food of Iloilo Rehabilitation Center inmates, P2.5 million for fuel and lubricants of the provincial truck team, P26.2 million for barangay workers and volunteers, P19 million for the development fund and P4.77 million for the calamity fund.

Mejorada said he agrees with the contentions of the workers in the open letter even as he expressed support for their please.

“We will do everything for the workers by giving them what is due them despite this budget conflict,” Mejorada said.

The provincial government is operating under the 2007 reenacted budget after the Department of Budget and Management declared as inoperative the 2008 budget approved by the SP.

The budget impasse is seen to result in a budget shortfall which is likely to affect the salaries, wages and benefits of Capitol workers.

Occupying a large corner lot in the tree-filled residential neighborhood between Georgia's antebellum governor's mansion and capitol, the distinctive Williams-Orme-Crawford-Sallee house has, since the early 1800's, offered its residents an elegant, peaceful retreat in an active community.

Today the appeal of this historically significant home is even greater. Two institutions of higher learning are within a few blocks, as is the historical downtown. The recreational opportunities offered by Lake Sinclair are just a few minutes away by car.