The Long Slow Slow Long Slowlonglongslow Death of American Journalism

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This from Oboglo.

"America has in fact transformed journalism from what it once was, the periodical expression of the thought of the time, the opportune record of the questions and answers of contemporary life, into an agency for collecting, condensing and assimilating the trivialities of the entire human existence, [...] the frantic haste with which we bolt everything we take, seconded by the eager wish of the journalist not to be a day behind his competitor, abolishes deliberation from judgment and sound digestion from our mental constitutions. We have no time to go below surfaces, and as a general thing no disposition."

Journalist W.J. Stillman, writing in The Atlantic Monthly about the negative influence of the telegraph, 1891.

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What the Cat Promises, the Cat Delivers. Now, in its Network Premiere....

Image by *CQ* via Flickr

Bob Wieder's 'The Little Kenyan Boy'

Said the pros to me, "Barak Obama,
It's sheer insanity, Barak Obama,
To seek the presidency, Barak Obama,
So young, so ebony Barak Obama,
Barak Obama, Barak Obama...

When I won, some said, "Barak Obama,
Glenn Beck swears you're a Red, Barak Obama.
Your health care hopes seem dead Barak Obama.
You should have stayed in bed Barak Obama,
Barak Obama, Barak Obama..."

Salonistas say, "Barak Obama,
Long live your White House stay, Barak Obama.
We’re with you come what may, Barak Obama,
Let’s kill Glenn Beck, okay? Barak Obama,
Barak Obama, Barak Obama...

Peace on Earth to those who smile when they say,
Barak Obama

Coming Soon: A Poetry Salon! (Give Me Some Zombie Fries and I'll Get You In)

Go left and down and hit Salonista Central if you're curious. It's a wiki. I posted this today in the "memories of the salon" section. When it comes to words, I like to multipurpose.

MR: Just to start the ball rolling, I'll recount a fairly recent salon moment burned into these old retinas -- and into the old stirrup and anvil, too. It was a salon hosted by Lyle and Matt to which Lyle had invited some of her classiest musical friends, those interested in your classical music of equal amounts beauty and obscurity, a wonderful ride on the wayback machine, don't you know?

But these delicates did not know much about the salons and (I assume) assumed there would be a certain daintiness about the proceedings.

*Then came Wieder.*

He did a where-are-they now bit in which he managed to defame the memory of Martin Luther King Jr. and all the Kennedys. Ah, the moment dances in memory, as half of us howled for the wit of it but also for the *Wieder* of it. But some of Lyle's guests physically recoiled, having come to the zoo to enjoy the peacocks and prairie dogs only to see the monkeys F**K.

You see, you have to earn the right to be at a salon. Wieder plunges you into an acid bath. When it comes to Wieder, that which does not destroy you, makes you laugh.

Bob Wieder: Still Funny After All These Years

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Tonight is the glorious annual banquet in celebration of yet another year of existence for the Patrick Finley Memorial Fantasy Baseball League, which I once stood astride like a living god but around whose higher echelons I now skulk like a beaten dog.

At last when I say that I am a modest man, I can also add that I have much to be modest about. (Thank you, Samuel Johnson.)

It's a wonderful time. It's quite a feast because we have it at the home of Peter Moore, Cook of Cooks, who lays out as good as grub as you are gonna git, my deft alliteration limning the seamless excellence of the food experience first to last. Also, Peter works for a wine importer, so the stuff he brings out of his cellar -- which, to be honest, is actually at knee level -- is ummmm-ummmm good, as an oenophile might say.

League members are exchanging emails about who might bring what, though mostly no one brings nothing because what Peter already has is so good. A good guest might bring a bottle of wine -- and now we round the last turn into this post's straightaway -- but as I wrote to Peter and the league I would never dare do that because:

The best bottle of wine in our house, except for the bottles that Peter himself has brought into our house, Peter wouldn't use to give his dog an enema.

To which Bob replied:

Damn. And I just laid out $6.99 for a 2006 bottle of Pupflush chenin blanc.

Well no joke. The 2006's are particularly fine.

William Shakespeare's Five and Twenty Random Things Abovt Me

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The rest are just as funny. Kudos to the Canadian, Mike McPhaden.


1 Sometimes I Feele so trapp’d by iambic pentameter... Does that make me a Freake?

2 I haue been Knowne to cry at Bear-baiting.

3 I am not uery ticklish. I am Not. So prithee, do not euen try. Waste. Of. Time.

4 I cannot keep Lice, and know not why.

5 Sometimes I thinke plays are all Talke, Talke Talke, and wish for a cart-chase scene. I tried one in The Merry Wives, but it looked like Shitte, so I cut it. The men playing the horses were so Pissed at me.

P.S. By the way, humorian Robert (Bob) Wieder brought this to my attention. When it comes to yuks, his palate is quite refined.

And a Little Child Shall Lead Them. If a Little Child is Unavailable, How About the Don Rickles of El Cerrito?

Brother Bob Wieder explains how to solve a nomination deadlock at the Democratic convention. I kept looking for the irony but I couldn't find any.