The Boston Globe-Xeroxer

So the hardworking staff of Campaign Outsider opened up the Boston Globe Thursday morning, and what did we find?

This big bold headline on the Op-Ed page:

Name that decade

Really? It’s gotten so bad that the local broadsheet is blatantly ripping off Campaign Outsider’s longstanding Name That Decade maybe-contest, without even the decency to change a word or two?

Not to mention, only two of the six snippets on the op-ed page actually did name that decade.

Snippet #1: Joanna Weiss dubbed it “The ‘reality’ decade:”

THAT’S “REALITY’’ in air quotes, of course, since the reality TV that dominated the cultural landscape bore little resemblance to actual life. But in the summer of 2000, when a group of Americans ate bugs while surrounded by cameras on a remote Pacific island, the nation was introduced to a new world of entertainment possibilities. And when a cunning, sometimes-naked Rhode Islander named Richard Hatch won $1 million and worldwide fame, a new career path was born: reality star. A few “American Idol’’ stars launched A-list careers. More reality contestants became demi-celebrities, with diminishing returns. Make waves on “Project Runway’’ and, a few years later, you could at least be hosting a blog on a Lifetime website.

Snippet #2: Matthew Bernstein settled on “the You Decade:”

THE 1970S were the Me Decade. The first 10 years of the 21st century are due for a pronoun of their own – one born of the computer age and its power to set free the individual. These last 10 years will be dubbed, inevitably, the You Decade. After all, no matter where you went, there you were – on YouTube, on Facebook, on Twitter, or in silhouette in the early iPod ad, gyrating with abandon, earbuds tuned to – who else? – U2.

You too.

To recap: The Boston Globe is now ripping off a humble country blogger to sell a few papers.

Think about that, Globies, the next time you start flexing those Pulitzers.

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Ear, Ear

Oddly, two contrary theories about the cause of Impressionist (performance) artist Vincent van Gogh’s legendary ear-ectomy are in the news this week.

Let’s start with Adam Gopnik’s piece in this week’s New Yorker.  The lede:

It is, in its strange way, at once the Nativity fable and the Passion story of modern art. On Christmas Eve, 1888, in the small Provençal town of Arles, the police found  a young Dutch émigré painter in his bed, bleeding from the head, self-bandaged and semi-conscious, in a run-down residence called, for its peeling exterior, the Yellow House. A few hours before, the Dutchman had given his severed ear – or just its lower lobe; stories differed – to a whore named Rachel in a maison de tolérance, a semi-legal bordello, as a kind of early Christmas gift. (She had passed out upon unwrapping it.) The painter, Vincent Van Gogh, was known throughout the town as a crazy drunk who hung around the whorehouse too much for his own good, and who shared the squalid Yellow House with another so-called artist, even scarier than he was, though not usually as drunk and not so obviously crazy. That other artist, Paul Gauguin – after being interviewed by the police, and insisting that his friend must have sliced off his own ear in a fit – then sent a telegram to the Dutchman’s brother, urging him to come at once. Then Gauguin left for Paris, as fast as trains could carry him, never to return.

But, Gopnik notes, that traditional version has been challenged by “two reputable German academics, Hans Kaufmann and Rita Wildegans . . . [who ] argue that it was Gauguin who sliced off van Gogh’s ear, with a sword that he carried with him for self-defense, and that the two artists – out of shame on van Gogh’s part, guilt on Gauguin’s – decided to keep the truth to themselves.”

Interesting . . . but then there’s Martin Bailey’s piece in The Art Newspaper. The lede:

An envelope depicted in a Van Gogh painting provides a clue that could help to explain why the artist slashed his ear. The envelope, in Still Life: Drawing Board with Onions, 1889, is addressed to Vincent from his brother Theo. Until now, no one has considered whether the artist was illustrating a specific letter.

The letter in the painting probably arrived in Arles on 23 December 1888, the fateful day when Vincent mutilated his ear in the late evening. It almost certainly contained news that Theo had fallen in love with Johanna (Jo) Bonger, and Vincent was fearful that he might lose his brother’s emotional and financial support.

Back to the traditional version of van Gogh’s ear-splitting statement, as rendered by Bailey:

The established view is that Vincent did not learn of Theo’s engagement until after he mutilated his ear, but our research suggests that news of the love affair reached him on 23 December.

So, to recap:

Paul Gauguin cut off van Gogh’s ear, presumably in defense of his life.

Or . . .

Van Gogh cut off van Gogh’s ear, presumably in defense of his lifestyle.

Discuss among yourselves.

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Name That Decade: The Sequel: The Sequel

New addition to the Decadthalon!

New York Times columnist Clyde Haberman weighed in Tuesday with a piece headlined:

Telling Future? First, Let’s Try Naming Past

Haberman’s contribution to the festivities:

[L]et us briefly look back on the ’00s, a decade that in one respect ends exactly as it began: without a consensus on what we should call it. Plenty of names have been suggested over the years. The Oughts, the Naughts, the Naughties, the Zips, the Preteens, the Ohs and the Oh-Ohs are among the more familiar. You’ve probably heard them all. None has caught on.

Okay – time for the hardworking staff of Campaign Outsider to jump in the pool.

How about The Nils?

Can we get a witness?

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Location, Location, Location

From our Krazy Konnections desk:

Tuesday Boston Globe Metro page B3 (jump) headline:

Group names accused Irish priests

Nut graf:

Yesterday, a Waltham-based group that has been chronicling the US clergy sexual abuse scandal released the names of 60 to 70 accused priests it says were born in Ireland or are of Irish descent who came to the United States and were reoffenders.

Tuesday Boston Globe Metro page B4 (ad) headline:

Ireland’s Wonderful West Awaits You

Body copy:

Once you’re in Ireland’s Wonderful West, who knows where your adventure will take you!

Maybe to a Catholic parish in America?

Just asking.

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Name That Decade: The Sequel

Campaign Outsider’s wildly unpopular Name That Decade maybe-contest has drawn up to zero submissions. Regardless, the hardworking staff soldiers on.

Which means we continue to read newspapers, resulting in our encountering the best decade-naming effort by far, compliments of the Boston Globe’s irreplaceable Dan Wasserman.

His editorial cartoon has Father Time assigning “THE ZEROES” to the Wall St. Crash, “THE OH, NOs” to Wars and Terror, “THE UH, OHs” to Climate Change, and “THE OWE OWEs” to Debt for future generations.

Oh-kay.

Dan wins the Campaign Outsider maybe-contest hands down.

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Name That Decade

With just four chin-stroking days left ’til New Year’s, everyone’s trying to come up with a suitable handle for the past ten years. 

The Washington Post’s Howie Kurtz (via Media Nation) writes them off as the Awful Aughts, while New York Timesman Paul Krugman dubs them The Big Zero, because “It was a decade in which nothing good happened, and none of the optimistic things we were supposed to believe turned out to be true.”

And then there’s this, from Politico’s Playbook

THE PASSING DECADE, which still has no name — The Financial Times’ rubric: “the noughties.” The New Yorker’s Rebecca Mead explores this question in “What Do You Call It?” 

Splendid readers, what do you call the past decade (whenever it ends)?

Send your entries to Campaign Outsider, and the hardworking staff will figure out whether to have a contest.

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All We Are Saying . . .

Full-page ad in Sunday’s New York Times:

It’s signed, “Love and Peace from John & Yoko.”

The ad directs readers to the website http://www.IMAGINEPEACE.com, which contains this Holiday Message From Yoko Ono:

Dear Friends

The WAR IS OVER! campaign was once a tiny seed, which spread and covered the Earth. John and I believed it helped many people to stop their wars. Since then, every WAR IS OVER! campaign has impacted the world as powerfully as the first one.

Start yours tomorrow, and you will see that it spreads and covers the world very fast and, meanwhile, makes you a Small Pebble Person.

Small Pebble People are people who know that small pebbles, when they’re dropped in the ocean, will immediately affect the ocean of the whole wide world.

Don’t throw a big stone. It scares people and creates repercussions.

Just drop a small pebble.
We’ll keep doing it. Together.
That’s how the world gets changed…by Small Pebble People.
We change, and the world changes.

Happy Holidays.

I love you!
yoko

Yoko Ono Lennon
Christmas 2009

Cut to: Pres. Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech about “just wars.”

Compare and contrast in clear idiomatic English.

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Six Hicks Pix Click

Sunday’s New York Times Week in Review section featured The Year in Pictures 2009. And that featured six – count ’em, six (out of 50) – photos by Times staffer Tyler Hicks.

One guy. Over 10% of the year’s images.

Give that man a raise.

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High Noonan II

From our Credit Where Credit’s Due desk:

Dr. Peggy Noonan made a house call on Saturday. And here’s how the Wall Street Journal political physician described the symptoms of what Campaign Outsider calls Obama Estrangement Syndrome:

Is the left out there on the Internet and the airwaves talking about him? Oh, yes. They’re calling him a disappointment, a sellout, a DINO—Democratic in name only. He sold out on single-payer health insurance, and then the public option. He’ll sell you out on your issue too.

The pundits and columnists, dreadful people that they are, call him cold, weak, aloof, arrogant, entitled.

So Noonan decided to give the beleaguered president a Christmas present:

There are people who deeply admire the president, who work with him and believe he’s doing right. This week, this column is their forum. They speak not for attribution to avoid the charge of suckupism.

From “an accomplished young man who worked with Mr. Obama on the campaign and in the White House:”

“Here’s what I know about him. He still has this amazing ability to tune out the noise from Washington, read the letters from the people, listen to their concerns, listen to his advisors, hear both sides, absorb all the information, and make the decision that he honestly feels is right for the country.”

He does this “without worrying too much about the polls, without worrying too much about being a one-term president. He just does what he thinks is right.”

Then there’s the staffer who “spoke warmly of President Obama’s warmth.”

“He’s a young president, young in terms of youthful.” Sometimes people come in to meet him and find “they came for a photo and he gives them a game” of pick-up basketball on the White House court. “Those are the things from a human perspective that make him so accessible. Accessible is the right word. He’s emotionally available.”

Abiding by the Rule of Three, Noonan cites another Obamanaut:

A third Obama staffer spoke of last week’s senior staff dinner, at which the president went around the table and told each one individually “what they meant to him, and thanked the spouses for putting up with what they have to put up with.” He marks birthdays by marching in with cakes. He’ll walk around the White House, pop into offices and tease people for putting their feet on the desk. “Sometimes he puts his feet on the desk.” He’s concerned about much, but largely unruffled. “He’s not taken aback by the challenges he has. He seems more focused than he’s ever been. He’s like Michael Jordan in that at the big moments everything slows down for him.” He’s good in the crunch.

Some may think Noonan is cynically trotting out worshipful Barackniks to underscore the right’s Obama as Messiah meme. Then again, she does end with an anecdote about Michelle Obama giving a couple of old Reaganites a White House tour that stopped by the Lincoln bedroom.

They stood in the doorway, and then took a step inside, but went no deeper. Everything looked the same, but something was different. “We don’t allow guests to stay in this room anymore,” Mrs. Obama explained. She spoke of it as a place of reverence. They keep it apart, it’s not for overnights.

Unspoken, but clearly understood by the Reagan hands, was: This is where he signed the Emancipation Proclamation. A true copy of it is here, on the desk. He signed it: “Abraham Lincoln.” The Reagan hands were impressed and moved. It is fitting and right that the Lincoln bedroom be held apart. It always should have been. Good, they thought. Good.

Good, I thought, Peggy. Good.

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Welcome Matt

New York Times op-ed columnist David Brooks distributed his annual Sidney awards on Christmas Day, and this year’s festivities included a repeat winner:

I try not to give Sidneys to the same people year after year, but the fact is, talent is not randomly distributed. Some people, like Matt Labash of The Weekly Standard, just know how to write. His piece, “A Rake’s Progress” was a sympathetic and gripping profile of Marion Barry, the former Washington, D.C., mayor, crack-smoker and recent girlfriend-stalker.

At the start of his first interview, Labash, making small talk, asked Barry if he still has a scar from an old bullet wound: “ ‘Let’s see,’ he says, lifting his shirt, so that within ten minutes of arriving, I’m eyeball to areola with Barry’s left nipple. It’s a move that’s very Barry. Most times, he reveals nothing at all. Then he reveals too much.”

Labash delights in Barry’s rascally nature, but also captures why the voters of Barry’s ward don’t merely vote for him, they possess him and cherish him.

Two years ago Brooks also bestowed a Sidney on Labash:

Matt Labash of The Weekly Standard is consistently one of the best magazine writers in the country. Since amoral blackguards bring out his best, his profile of political dirty tricks artist Roger Stone was bound to be good. Stone cut his teeth with Nixon, loved Roy Cohn, works with Trump, advised Sharpton and has laid a barrage of fire into Eliot Spitzer. One of Stone’s maxims is: “Hit from every angle. Open multiple fronts on your enemy. He must be confused, and feel besieged on every side.”

But Stone is also a colorful, dashing artist of the underhanded. Labash tried to ply him with alcohol to loosen his tongue. But Stone was one step ahead. He’d already paid the waiter to bring him water disguised as martinis.

Truth is, Labash should’ve scored the Sidney Awards hat trick, since his December, 2008 piece on what remains of Detroit was probably the best of the three.

Representative sample:

This is the place where bad times get sent to make them belong to somebody else, thus, it seems easy to agree about Detroit because the city embodies everything the rest of the country wants to get over.

–Jerry Herron, AfterCulture: Detroit and the Humiliation of History (1993)

Detroit
My plane hadn’t even finished descending through the snow-drizzly sheets of December gray, when already, I heard someone crack on it. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” a Northwest flight attendant announced, “Welcome to lovely Detroit, the one and only home of the Detroit auto worker of America. Happiness is a way of travel, not a destination.”

The lawyer sitting next to me sniggered. He was only buzzing in for a day or so, but knowing I was a reporter, come to write a story on the city, he asked, “How long are you in for?”

“About a week,” I responded.

“Good luck with that,” he said, piteously shaking his head. “It sucks.”

Before I’d left, I’d asked an acquaintance if he was from Detroit. “Indeed I am,” he said, “Give me all your f–ing money.” Another colleague, always mindful of my desire for maximum material, suggested, “You should go when it’s warm, you’d have a better chance of getting hurt.”

Somewhere along the way, Detroit became our national ashtray, a safe place for everyone to stub out the butt of their jokes.

Like David Brooks said, Matt Labash can flat out write.

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