State of The South

Mrs. King passed away today, the Queen Mother of the South. Will we ever feel such a genuinely regal presence again? Coretta Scott King was composed of a true, noble character. She embodied ideals of Southern womanhood, perhaps ideals aspired to by older generations of women, but timeless values nonetheless, and she was instantly recognizable for a particular comportment rarely witnessed in a public figure, then or now.

Never in public did we ever hear a word of complaint, anger or bitterness from her lips. She was modest and beautiful, faithful and stoic, strong and committed. She cast an aura of warmth and kindness in every step, and she wore a perennial gaze of wisdom, intelligence and pride, although one lowlit with a shadow of sadness and strife.

The depth of her inner reserves of courage and faith must have been of divine, unfathomable proportions as Mrs. King was forced to live much of her life in what must be every mother's nightmare - an inescapable comprehension that there are twisted, dangerous people always lurking, just beyond the reach of the law, who wish to harm not only one's husband, but one's children. Such was the level of evil and rage that permeated the South in the midst of the race war of the Civil Rights movement.

For her, we should never forget that time - nor our history.

So many came to pay respects (and coverage) throughout the day to Coretta Scott at the King Center on Auburn Avenue . How obvious it was that so very few of the hundreds of faces were white ones. How shameful really, as she has always been there - for all of us.

tag: Coretta Scott King

Words Fell

In case you missed the raw, sad interview with Rosanne Cash on Weekend Edition today, here's where you can hear it.

That poor woman's heart still seems on the verge of breaking into a thousand tiny pieces, and taking us all down for the crash with her. Talk about needin' a Python break! (That being a poor gal's version of rushing off to Martinique with a boat load of money and woes shoved in a Prada bag.)

SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM

On Friday, Feb. 3, NPR Music and WXPN offer a midday concert from Rosanne Cash, webcast live at noon ET at NPR.org.

SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM SPAM

Best funeral/hearse song ever is "Long Ride Home" by Patty Griffin. Listen to a stingy little Amazon snippet here.

Also, in local Fight Terrorism, Take A Vegan To Lunch At Longhorn Steakhouse news, click here. Good grief. What a waste of EVERYONE'S time!

Tag: rosanne cash

How Do I Quit You, Jesus?

Looks like He quit us instead! Awwww Man. And we missed it. Too busy yakking on our cell phones and twirling nothing into nothing on our iPods.

Click here to touch the video hem of Its garment. Hee-larious.

Firewall of Shame?

Or just looking out for shareholder value? Still the Google.cn controversy rages on through the night...

Point:
"Reporters Without Borders, a France-based group that defends freedom of the press, blasted Google, saying the company was taking an immoral position that could not be justified.
"By offering a version without 'subversive' content, Google is making it easier for Chinese officials to filter the Internet themselves.

A Web site not listed by search engines has little chance of being found by users," the group said in a statement. "The new Google version means that even if a human rights publication is not blocked by local firewalls, it has no chance of being read in China."

With a population of 1.3 billion people and more than 100 million Internet users, China's largely untapped Internet market is very attractive to technology companies. Google is opening a research and development center in China and owns a stake in Baidu.com, the most popular search engine in that country."

Full story from CNET News.com article here.

Counterpoint:
"Millions of people may now be turning away from Google in disgust, but I've just reinstated them as the default search for my Firefox toolbar, because I think it should be supported for its brave decision.

Even if the primary motivation for going into China is that it makes commercial sense for the company - as indeed it must do, since US law is quite harsh on boards that take actions which could damage shareholder value - it also makes political sense.

Supporters of free speech and open societies should be supporting Google rather than lambasting it. "

Full BBC News.com story here.

Filtering and censorship issues regarding the Internet do not exist only in places such as China or Iran or North Korea. Indeed, filtering and access and censorship issues are at a fast and furious pace right here in 'Merica. What you can count on is that the Internet as we now know it will be refined, realigned, redirected and just generally scattered, smothered and covered right here. WE are ground zero for "Internet neutrality" issues.

If you'd like to read more, there's an excellent, albeit rather academic, paper on the web refering to "The Filtering Matrix" you can browse through here. Then, rather partisan but nonetheless illuminating, info on "internet neutrality" and pending legislation to revise the Telecom Act is on the Common Cause website.

Buy Google shares here.

Tags: Google, Sergey Brin

Awesome Moron

But he's ours! Since I'm actually working in the real world again, or at least the taxpayer-funded branch of it, I have, sadly, neglected blogging duties. Here's a fun clip from RocketBoom instead. Boy, do some people have all the fun...

I know this violates my treatise (no link available to such) that anyone not capable of providing "original content" for their own stupid blog should not be allowed to blog, but what's a working gal to do?

Horsey Women Ride Herd On NOLA

Will somebody please get rid of that inflated point of idiocy, Ray Nagin, and install Julia Reed Mayor of New Orleans? Right away. Now!

Ms. Reed was kicking ass and taking names on Larry King last night, stating that every time Ray Nagin opens his "lunatic" mouth, not only do "chocolate" frogs come flying out, but precious attention is, again, diverted from what exactly IS going on in New Orleans. And a lot of really great things seem to be shaping up, if the cameras would ever get over Mr. Chocolate.

As one blogger says, those "horsey Uptown (New Orleans) women" are running the whole show in NOLA anyway. And it's about time they got the credit, rather than some grossly inefficient, camera-preening stooge who's already screwed everyone in his wake, white and black, front to back. Let the horsey women rule, dammit.

Of course I adore Ms. Reed, because not only is she a Vogue contributor, she inscribed her hilarious book, Queen of the Turtle Derby, to me "from one Southern writer to another." I literally walked on air outta Barnes and Noble after the signing clutching the purchase to my bosom.

I was so giddy with author awe, I completely forgot my manners. I should have asked Ms. Reed, an infamous world class partier of legendary standards on the Southern Bad Girl Society circuit, if she'd have cared to join me for a round at the Yacht Club, or at least a martini at Twist. Silly me. I just hope to have the opportunity for clear thinking nice-nice at some point down the road.

Tags: Julia Reed, Ray Nagin

Alligator Lizards In The Hair

Never having had access here in the ATL, I'd never heard a word uttered from Howard Stern's ugly mouth, but I caught him on Larry King the other night and naturally fell in love with the way he's giving the finger to the FCC. Sign me up!

Congress and the FCC are on one of those coffer-replenishing "decency" rampages of late. And Jeff Jarvis over at BuzzMachine is really pissed-off. Says the Big JJ:

"There is no free speech about free speech in Washington because Washington can't hear. The scandal here is that Washington acts as if it listens to and represents the people by holding these hearings. But the people are not welcome."

Full outrage here.

So when we all storm the Big Media Bastille, take over the airwaves and roast Michael Powell on a bonfire of used iPods, I'll have my "American Romantic" show. First on the playlist, Ventura Highway. Don't you dare laugh at me. I love that song.

Seems America has been drinking some Apple-flavored Kool-Aid of late. Can't quite figure out if this is a good thing or a bad thing -- yet.

Here's your moment of classic American Romantic, kiddies. And you thought you were cool.

Are All Men Really Gay?

Funny, I was just reading a short story which attempts to place the burden of gross societal isolation on male homosexuality, or, better yet, on men's ultimate indifference to the fate of women/womanhood, in a short story collection by Alexander McCall Smith, the African author of The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. Or is it just indifference to intimacy in general? Tune-in to Brokeback Mountain to find out more.

So then I sneaked a peek on that same movie by reading the DTL review first. Hate when that happens, but as a single working mom, I'm way too busy being a societal scourge myself to get to the cinema as often as I'd like. Too many men to vilify/screw while stirring the meth pot instead. I'll be sure to cry extra tears to make up for his deficit when I finally see this must-see for the NPR set.

If only there was a fiction writer courageous enough to just lay it all on the line and advocate a complete separation of the sexes. Margaret Atwood is likely the only female writer brilliant enough to undertake that considerable task.

Note that I place emphasis on the word "fiction," as I'd hate for reality to intrude on a good fantasy. Those glib, attention-grabbing titles such as MoDo's bestselling Are Men Necessary? are clever and righteous as long as you're gettin' some. If not, then that camera loving, Bible thumpin', Oprah-speak spewin', bad-teeth brother in-law of a dead coal miner on CNN starts looking adorable. And books, well... not so terribly engrossing.

Of all the seemingly zillions of writers I've read over the years, on a cumulative basis, there's probably no one writer's work I've followed more than the ATL's own David T. Lindsay, possibly one of the greatest overlooked media critics on the planet. (I'd call it a "career" rather than "work," but last time I checked, it ain't that.)

It's a crying shame, of almost Brokeback Mountain-hankie proportions, that Mr. Lindsay harbors no grand ambitions, and presumably never has, as he so modestly declares with not so much as a quiver of a proud yet likely grossly underutilized lip. (Think, proportionally, of just the TV lip-flap time allotted to another fine Atlanta writer, Cynthia Tucker, and a veritable wall of shame emerges.)

In a reply to a letter-to-the-editor in the January issue of Stomp and Stammer, an editorial hallmark of the last truly funky publication on the Eastern Seaboard, Lindsay valiantly blurts, "I'm not vying for a gig at the daily newspaper." Jeez hon, who is nowadays?

Sure. About as much as I never think about owning the S-class model.

Despite the (premature) death knell being sounded for all print matter lately, DTL should be at something no less than The Economist. It doesn't matter if you rarely agree with a word he writes. I frequently do not, sometimes to the point of venomous outbursts involving a car or refrigerator door.

But given that there are so few writers with the sheer natural ability and stamina to take you, masterfully, beyond your comfort zone so that you hardly even realize you're out of it until you start to head back to base camp then all of a sudden you're in a freakin' mind-blizzard that's about to hurl you off into the void, again, that you read 'em for the sheer adrenalin rush alone.

Of course, some of us are excellent, experienced, uh, climbers. It's just when we get a little overly confident, stuff starts screwin' up. But I diverge...

DTL's so good, we should be paying to read his work. Hell, he should be given government funding to practice his craft. He should be bathing in a bubble bath of hard-earned, taxpayer C-notes while we serve him fine (French) sparkling wines and (subsidized) domestic pate. Every now and then he could deign to lean over the edge and stuff one of those bills in my diamond-studded thong. Surely that would be a sign of a civilized society, as the reinstatement of the death penalty and assorted warmongering ain't exactly doing it for us right now.

At the very least, there should be a collected series of Lindsay's work available. I say series, as the dude's been at it since I was a teenager, and that, alas, was a long long time ago. It honestly pains me when I think about the dozens of youngsters reading S&S now who know him only as a joyless, forsaken oppressive, and not as the hilariously scathing caustic who could hurl one-liners about awful bands faster than a teen can drone on about his iPod. Twenty or so years later, recalling "The reason ninjas were invented" is enough to make for a darn good day.

Of course, if there was such a book it would be called "unmarketable." Or would it? To understand what technology has done to the literary market place, I direct your attention to this extremely valuable piece, from Wired Magazine's editor-in-chief, about the "Long Tail."

Here's a bit from that:

In 1988, a British mountain climber named Joe Simpson wrote a book called Touching the Void, a harrowing account of near death in the Peruvian Andes. It got good reviews but, only a modest success, it was soon forgotten. Then, a decade later, a strange thing happened. Jon Krakauer wrote Into Thin Air, another book about a mountain-climbing tragedy, which became a publishing sensation.

Suddenly Touching the Void started to sell again. Random House rushed out a new edition to keep up with demand. Booksellers began to promote it next to their Into Thin Air displays, and sales rose further. A revised paperback edition, which came out in January, spent 14 weeks on the New York Times bestseller list. That same month, IFC Films released a docudrama of the story to critical acclaim. Now Touching the Void outsells Into Thin Air more than two to one.

Full article here.

One other note before I let you go, isn't it just good old-fashioned, fun-lovin' narcissistic male arrogance to say that a good woman's vagina, or her brain for that matter, ultimately goes "to waste?!" That's so retro it's almost funny. He's almost funny - again. After all these years. Almost.

So who's so isolated now?

Pirating On Roof Tops

Don't encrypt? Thanks!

Pressure Drop

Uh oh. Kevin over at NG declares that I'm back to blogging, so I'd best get to it although I'm not sure if I have much to say at the moment. This too will pass. Currently, I'm in a boggy state 'o mind where I'm not really good for much except sittin' around wishing I had a long lost friend and a couple beers at my side, a front porch and a funky street to keep watch on.


And what about when Michael Stipe wore his hair long? Then there was the Deacon Lunchbox tribute show I missed and am still kicking myself in the ass for having done so. (Be sure to scroll down for poetry samples.)

Gawd, I loved DL. His and Clay Harper's ludicrous antics got me through many a hell hole back in the day. My dear pal Lu took a beautiful portrait of DL which hangs in her guest bedroom now. I go over and drink too much in hopes of falling asleep there late one night just so I can wake up to that image. Now that would stir some kind of those wonderous early morning musings. (I keep a Coolies 45 near the washing maching just for a regular smirk, least the day's tone get too corporate or humorless.)

And thinking on Lu's amazing portfolio she put together recently on Power Point, at our advancing years, to get into SCAD to finish a degree... what a beautiful angel she is. Then there's that one person whom I can't seem to reach who has held my heart in his hand since I first laid eyes on his sweetest, wild, scruffy self. I would give a million...

This blog put together with help from a Kathleen Edwards CD and a really awful REM bootleg. (Is there any other kind?) Thanks Craig over at Town Cryer. In lieu of anything terribly poignant to say, have some pics from recent time outta the ATL:

Photos courtesy of Tom Roche

Surf's Up

OK then, where were we? My head's been so scrambled lately with such a diverse amount of ya-ya, I'm not sure quite where it is, nor what's quite normal right now. Perhaps a bit of blogging will help straighten it all out, eh?

The holidays did a whammy on me. I'm exhausted. Even with a brief run down to the Lowcountry to admire the view and the marsh perfume, I only succeeded in stirring up emotions and associations and relationships that sometimes should just be left the hell alone.

So it's back to the safety and routine of the ATL. I'll just sit here and contemplate this striking image of what should be home until I render myself suitably situated. If only returning home was filled with such grand serenity. Sometimes home is best contemplated from afar.

And whatever I do, I'm going to sit down and read a least two of the many books given to me for Christmas. While I am pleased that people acknowledge me as an avid reader, as is another of my favorite bloggers, if only I had the leisure time to read 'em. My mother gave me another pointless biography of yet another utterly pointless example of wacko Euro royalty, Princess Alice of Battenberg, the mother of Prince Philip. Talk about a case she was! I can't wait to get to the part where she escapes from the mental hospital to go help the poor. Jeez-us.

Actually Alice, despite suffering from crippling bouts of religion and schizophrenia, managed to actually do something during WWII, unlike most of her pointless Euro-trash relations. She helped save a Jewish woman and her family from the Gestapo, by hiding them under her tiara or nun's habit, presumably -- whatever it was she felt like wearing that year. As I said, what a case. And quite a good read I must admit.

Above shot of Sullivan's Island courtesy of dear friend of a dear friend (Joey "Joe Bob" Hindman), Steve Rhea.

Life During War Time

After several years of freelancing (the best way to stay creatively, if not barely, employed while essentially unemployed) I've returned to the brick 'n mortar workplace. Within hours of sealing the deal and resuming a life of careerism, I was obligated to give-up: cigarettes, blogging, a performance of Christmas carols (sung in French no f-in less) by my child's kindergarten class and a chance to go to Africa with the BBC. No kidding.

Of course I'd made the typical Graham Greene-like pact with God to stop smoking once and for all if suitable employment came my way, so that anticipated sacrifice had to be commenced right away, firmly. And missing kiddie events is a guilt that can eventually be ignored with the general hustle and bustle of daily life in a big city. But who'd have imagined giving-up blogging? Or a lengthy trip to Africa, a place I've dreamed of visiting since I was a child?

All to make money to keep food on the table and an ITP (Inside The Perimeter) condo over our heads. Life is indeed cruel, especially for those of a ludicrously long-suffering and utterly pointless romantic nature. More on the BBC Africa Project later... when I have the strength to blog about it. I'm going to go faint or something now. Take in a Pride and Prejudice show to enhance the drama that lies within. Sigh...

Then again the comforts of steady, office/adult-oriented, stimulating work are so routine at this point in the game that any wisps of inner pity over perceived personal and cultural sacrifice are actually quite well assuaged by such pleasurable familiarity and organizational requirements. However, there is really no burning need to shout from the rooftops about one's closeted (professional only, mind you) tendency to tack Miss Hathaway, n'est ce pas?

In other reports of guilty pleasure, such as the warm and quite satisfying smugness that comes from having one's editorial work appear in a major daily, my charming friend and occasional colleague, Suzan Satterfield, had a seasonal rant in the AJC's back pages yesterday. Here's a bit...


Leave it to the far right to suck all the joy out of the holiday season.

That's right. I said the "H" word. I've said it for years, and now I'm (gasp!) letting my children and guests in my home say it, too. It wasn't until this year that I knew just how radical and militant I was every time I uttered "Happy holidays."

Full editorial here. Happy Holidays!!!! (My Christmas cards say it too.)

U2 Worship

Last time I saw U2 was over twenty years ago. I was so wasted at the time I can't remember if it was the Boy tour or the War tour, or even what venue it was in. I think it was the Fox, as I vaguely recall seeing stars as Bono climbed a bank of speakers.

Then again, I can find no Googlable record of U2 having played the Fox in the early 80s, only the Agora and the Civic Center. Hmmmm.... pointless now, but I could have sworn it was the Fox. I do vaguely recall that The Alarm opened. The Hair Tour. Things used to be so simple; overly-amplified good hair was reason enough to go to a show and get trashed. Tickets sure seemed a lot more affordable too, even accounting for inflation.

I don't do stadium rock much anymore. I've simply outgrown the hype, unless the tickets are freebies. Even then it would be a rare outing for me to wander downtown to arena-rock. Still, I couldn't help feeling a little left out while listening to U2 all weekend on the radio. Nostalgia is a powerful force.

Instead, I decided to heed the call to sing-along loudly at church. Now, I have a deep and abiding wariness of any guitar-strumming, Accessible Christ kinda church service, where people wear jeans and display sinfully casual modes of worship, so can't say I'd ever been to a service featuring rock 'n roll music.

When I go to church, I want to hear crashing pipe organs and choirs of angels, not some self-absorbed wanker who finds a musically limited and predictably arrogant way to justify dumping his girlfriend.

Then again, now that Bono, in recognition of his relentless faithfulness, many good deeds and sheer loveablility, has ascended into heaven and is seated at the left hand of God The Father Awmighty, who shall come again to judge the living and the former mullet-wearers, my terribly staid, formal church went way outside the latest Book of Prayer and put together a U2 eucharist, this being U2 weekend here in the ATL.

The service was led by the engaging and quite young assistant rector, Noelle York-Simmons, an unabashed U2 fan who rocked out at the alter while preparing the sacraments.

The place was packed. It was standing room only, and families, particularly ones with teens, were out in force singing "Sunday Bloody Sunday" all together during communion, loving ever minute of being together in such a genuine display of peace, love, understanding, and call to worship.

I was there by myself, and never for a minute felt alone. Thanks to blaring U2 songs, chiefly the overtly religious ones, there was a warm buzz of fellowship all over the place, something that is often missing in the high-church formality of the Episcopal liturgy, particularly at All Saints'.

When Rev'd York-Simmons worked Bono's current call to end world hunger into a homily admonishing all who were present to understand that God's compassion for us requires that we do all within our power to end the needless, unthinkable death by starvation of 11-million children under the age of five every year on this planet we all take-up space on, the collection plates, the contents of which would be given to a global children's charity, easily filled to overflowing.

As the glorious vaulted ceilings of the gilded All Saints' sanctuary next to the Varsity filled with Bono's urgent, holy voice giving rock and roll thanks to God, so did each heart that walked out of the church last night and on to the week ahead. Not only will we sing a new song... this time we will mean it. Just as God, Jesus and Bono want us to do.

Case The Promised Land

Date up. Date down. Just as long as you date all around. I gotta admit, I love the glorious muck of the gender fuss that's been created in the wake of Sex In The City, simply the best show ever put on (cable) TV. I miss it every Sunday, in the way I miss John-John and Diana. I just do. It's a generational thing. You wouldn't understand.

But I bet plenty of Dear Readers can relate to this article from today's New York Observer. Here's an excerpt:

J. Courtney Sullivan, a 24-year-old assistant editor at Allure magazine, has written a book called Dating Up: The Ultimate Guide to Finding the Man You Deserve, which will be published by Warner in February 2006. “My friend and I couldn’t get over how every great woman we know from college—great, smart, accomplished women—date these total schlubs: guys with no money, no ambition, no redeeming qualities and no clue,” she said. The book, however, is not your standard gold-digging manual. “It’s not like, ‘Run off and marry a banker,’” she said. “At the end of day, the most important thing is to be with someone who treats you well.”

For Ms. Sullivan, dating down, while appealing, has its limits. She referred to her own relationship history, with a series of starving-artist types. “For me, it was almost an escape,” she said. “I could leave the office after a stressful week on Friday and relax with one of those guys, bumming around drinking margaritas at Tres Aztecas, listening to him drone on about the one time his band played CBGB’s or whatever, and basking in his no-pressure lifestyle. It was like a little glimpse down the path not taken or something. Of course, eventually this always became entirely maddening and ended in a screaming ‘Why don’t you grow the fuck up?’ fight.”

Full story here.

"Treat you well" crap. Huh? Women still need to buy into that tired 'ole bill of goods? That's what passes for literature these days? No, that's what passes for life these days: security-ridden bullshit. Something to pass needy, predicatable time with for utter sellouts with not an ounce of passion or romance left in their frozen reality, just PTA-induced rivalries, pasted-on smiles and magazine-induced fantasies all poofed-up and overly worked-out for the benefit of McMansioned friends and mothers once or twice a year at the alledgedly picture-perfect, family values holiday dinner.

Frankly, all this gender stress is Springsteen's fault. He told us thirty years that men were glorious chrome and fire angels just waiting for wild American beauties, as we all are at heart, to "case the promise land" with on an urban wonder fest of passion and desire and mutually-held dreams.

Bruce didn't say nothin' 'bout no mutual funds, and thirty years later I'm still a working girl still listening to Thunder Road still waiting at the house, albeit my own now, for that low rumble along the... driveway.

Goddamn you Bruce. Goddamn rock & roll.

Tags: Springsteen, Music, Dating

Burn Your Laptop

Not only does the U.N. wish to give every kid in the world a dinky laptop, it is foaming at the mouth for control of the whole enchilada - the Internet as we know it. Hell, every entity under the sun wants control of the Internet, our government included.

Why don't we just give it away to the Junior League, for chrissake? They're the best at making boring lists and marketing 'em as something worthwhile.

So self-anointed information czars of all flavors, Kofi Annan leading the pack, are all gathering in Tunisia (WTF?????) today for the World Summit on the Information Society, or How Best To Wrest The Internet Away (from private, non-profit, USA-oriented control). So far, the internationalists have agreed to do nothing. But rest assured, they'll be back.

In the meantime, I've got relatives (with all their teeth and laptops too) out in the woods of S.C. who can't even get 'em no DSL service! No long-distance wireless networks utilizing microwave dishes, routers... nope, nuttin' honey. Shame shame shame. And wonks at M.I.T. are cashing-in on crafting prototypes of Wal-Martesque laptops to hand-out on a global basis? Excuse me, but didn't somebody 'round here just loose a job over likeminded, albeit smaller-scale, insidery shenanigans?

WTF - again!!!?? They got DSL or massive airports or free router programs all across Africa to power these puppies with? Throughout Algeria? Liberia? Congo? Calcutta? (Well, I bet they got something there.)

My suggestion...once you've torched a vehicle, then flambe your charity case laptop. What else ya gonna do with it? Sprint across Kenya with it strapped to your back until you get to the Starbucks in Mombasa for a look at Disney.com?

Tags: Computers and Internet, Wireless, U.N.

Get Back Loretta

The CMA's annual awards show moves to NYC tonight. Why this has to be is beyond me. I can't think of a single New Yorker who listens to or appreciates country music. Then again, they probably can't get over Brooks and Dunn shouting cliche-ridden jingles from their rooftops. Neither can I.

On the way to a real job interview today, I had a few minutes to spare and picked up an actual hard-copy version of the AJC. Glad I did, otherwise I might have missed the bricks-and-mortar-bashing guest editorial by Atlanta blogger, Leonard Witt, the Robert D. Fowler Distinguished Chair in Communication at Kennesaw State University, a member of Atlanta Media Bloggers and chief blogger at the excellent PJNET.

Witt is trying hard to keep the faith in Ye 'Olde AJC. Why this too really needs to happen is also beyond me, but he goes way out on a limb and says:

Thanks to inexpensive digital publishing tools, the public has found its voice and is demanding to be heard. If the AJC integrates its journalism expertise and vast resources into this new bottom-up model, it will thrive, while improving the reach, depth and quality of journalism it cooperatively produces with its audience.

The movement toward community journalism has begun, and every day the Journal-Constitution waits, the further it falls behind the curve.

Full editorial here.

Such reasoning assumes that the AJC is not quite to the critical, Terry Schiavo/pull-the-plug NOW state of utter vegetation, and can (should?) be resuscitated. The clock is ticking though - loudly. At what point will newspapers/Big Media have to pull-in Congressional assistance in a last-gasp effort to save their own dinosaur-ass? Believe me, droves of droning lawyers are likely hard at work already.

And here's your Moment Of Real Deal, lovies...

Monster That Head-Rolling Story

Who is Jean-Claude Dassier?

A.) Bass player in a Montreal punk band.
B.) Maureen Dowd's lover.
C.) An idiot.

The answer is "C." Dassier is, for the time being, head of a French news service called LCI. Recently, he took it upon himself to censor coverage of the riots in French suburbs. As self-appointed chief protector of French mass-sensibility, Dassier decided that he, as big swinging dick of a major news service, would save the citizens of France from themselves.

In a bumbling attempt to do this heroic deed, Dassier kept footage of burning cars off his airwaves (his government-alotted bit of 'em at least) in a move that no doubt has legions of Internet users laughing their asses off at this hysterically fatuous assumption that raw information was something Big Media could still master and command.

From the MediaGuardian:

But he (Dassier) admitted his decision was partly motivated by a desire to avoid encouraging the resurgence of extreme rightwing views in France.

French broadcasters have faced criticism for their lack of coverage of the country's worst civil unrest in decades. Public television station France 3 has stopped broadcasting the numbers of torched cars while other TV stations are considering following suit.

"Do we send teams of journalists because cars are burning, or are the cars burning because we sent teams of journalists?" asked Patrick Lecocq, editor-in-chief of France 2. Rival news organisations today questioned the French broadcasters' decision to temper coverage of the riots.

John Ryley, the executive editor of Sky News, said his channel would have handled a similar story in Britain very differently.

"We would have been all over it like a cheap suit. We would have monstered the story, and I didn't get the impression that happened in France," he said.

Keeping with his mission to seriously overserve the public good, Jeff Jarvis 'storms the media Bastille' over at BuzzMachine, where 'monstering the story' is all just a free market shakeout on any given day.

Does this Dassier dude have a future in the Rove White House or what!?

Something Sicker This Way Comes

How do you solve a problem like... Sarah Silverman? You don't.

YOU don't get to do anything to America's fanged little angel. Except pretend to loathe her when you really want to know her better. You can try praying for her soul.

My advice? You'd be better off tending to your own inner-sickness of a garden instead, 'cause, hon, after what she does to our delicate sensibilities and psyche, that's the only place you got left to go.

Here's an excerpt from Slate:

Her (Silverman's) best jokes are thought experiments in the internal logic of political correctness: "I want to get an abortion, but my boyfriend and I are having trouble conceiving."

A Playboy interviewer, probing for something salacious, once asked Silverman if she had a nickname for her vagina. She answered "Faggot"— a throwaway joke that manages to kink sexual identity into such an ingenious pretzel it could fuel a doctoral dissertation.

Full story here.

Intracoastal Dreamin'

Pluff mud, marsh grass and john boats. Fiddler crabs and creek shrimp. Oyster roasts in winter. The faintest wiff of Coppertone and the incessant mosquito whine hanging in the salt air all through the long, long summertime.

My dear friends, Joey (see above) and Annie Hindman, moved back to their beloved Lowcountry recently, after a professional lifetime working the ATL.

Here's what they see now when they look out the back door. And no, I'm not going to bash my head into the wall with envy. No, not today.

I'z goin in dat john boat up da crik git me some shrumps an fush soon doh. Yep dat I'z gonna do.

Rip Yo Bodice, Ladies

Too much, too soon. Woe to the actor who would foolishly follow Colin Firth's Darcy from the 1995 BBC miniseries-adaptation of Pride and Prejudice; or to a director who stumbles into the obvious, clumsily trampling all over the Gothic fragility and self-possessed sexual smoldering Firth absolutely seared into the hearts and minds and assorted other places of the female anatomy.

A needless Darcy re-creation is almost the cinematic suicide that would arise from toying about with Clark Gable's Rhett Butler, as Colin Firth's have-your-way-NOW, poofy-shirt Darcy pretty much slammed the lid on the chest of the Darcy-ideal, for the serious Austen fan.

Women across North America are not happy with this 2005 release of Pride and Prejudice. Not having seen it yet, I'm already feeling their angst. And when American women are not happy, well, heads will... turn away.

From the New York Daily News today:

The trouble started a couple of months ago when University of Colorado English Prof. Joan Klingel Ray, president of the Jane Austen Society, slagged off the movie in an interview with the U.K.'s Telegraph, criticizing everything from Matthew MacFadyen as the male lead, Mr. Darcy, to the movie's in-your-face sexual imagery.

"The Darcy in the film does not have the quality of attractiveness that Colin Firth has," Ray asserted, referring to the star of the acclaimed 1995 miniseries.

She added: "The film is full of sexual imagery, which is totally inappropriate to Austen's novel. In one scene, a wild boar, which I assume is supposed to represent Darcy, wobbles through a farm with its sexual equipment on show."

Full gossip here.

Tags: Movies, Pride and Prejudice, Colin Firth