Priorities? Here's one: FUCK YOU, NEW YORK

Oy. First off, this can't be good, no matter how you slice it:

After vowing to steer a greater share of anti-terrorism money to the nation's highest-risk cities, Homeland Security officials today announced grants to New York City and Washington that would be slashed by 40 percent, while dollars headed to spots including Omaha and Louisville, Ky., would surge.

New Yorkers are understandably and justifiably pissed about this. But look at it in raw dollars, and it looks at least a little different:

The net effect was that the grant to New York City, which was $207.6 million last year, will drop to $124.5 million this year, while Washington will see its grant dollars drop a similar 40 percent, to $46.5 million this year.

Meanwhile, grants for cities like Louisville, Omaha and Charlotte, N.C., each jumped by about 40 percent, to about $8.5 million each. Newark and Jersey City, which received a combined grant, also saw a large increase, rising 44 percent to $34 million.

Throwing $8.5 million to Omaha or Charlotte is certainly defensible. Newark and Jersey City are so close to NYC that that number also makes sense. What's insane, is that NYC and Washington are LOSING funds, not just in raw dollars but huge percentages. The political ramifications of that are perhaps as big as the actual national security implications, which is why this likely won't last.

But what it shows - for like the zillionth time - is that the people running things have about no connection with the real world. They are either 23-year old Chickenhawks who have posters of W hanging on their ceilings, or older buffoons who have gotten their jobs solely due to fundraising and not disagreeing with W or Cheney, ever. That's pretty much it, with perhaps a handful of exceptions.*

*Note: It's not clear that any such exceptions exist.

Death Be Not Proud

There’s a lot of things out there that I get satisfaction from. The schadenfreude of seeing Republicans everywhere get FINALLY called on the carpet for at least a modicum of their transgressions. Barry Bonds hitting #715 if for no other reason than to shut up the whiny sportswriters who feel superior to him. But it says an inordinate amount about my geek quotient that this might make me happiest of all:

Earlier this year, Microsoft released betas of Office 2007, and the first thing reviewers noticed, besides the new interface, was that Times New Roman had been deposed as the default font with something called . . . Calibri?

I really hate Times New Roman. There’s no good reason for the level of dislike I have for it – it just seems lazy to me. When I see documents in that font, it suggests to me a lack of creativity or personality in the writer. Is that fair? Probably not, but that is the wonder of me. Presumably, I’ll grow to loathe this new Calibri font as much, though it’s initially much more appetizing to look at.

Oh, come on!

Granted, it's a less terrible prospect than running for President, and far less egregious than Jeb being our next President, but is this really necessary? Are you really going to mess with my NFL this way?

Florida Gov. Jeb Bush said he was privately approached about his interest in becoming the NFL's next commissioner.

That's just not fair. Can't I at least envision a future without a member of the Bush family impacting my daily life? PLEASE????

The Steroid Debacle

It gets tiring writing about steroids, because it's a no-win situation. As I have written several times, I think it's a pretty safe bet that Bonds took steroids, and among the biggest ways that seems true is he hasn't sued the writers of Ghosts In The Shadows, or anyone else who has accused him of such.

And if anyone starts to suggest he was roiding the last two years or so, after genius Bud Selig finally got around to making steroids illegal in MLB, that's one thing. But they haven't even said that.

Athletes of all types - any competitive athlete, that is - does what it takes to give himself or herself the edge. Cardinals legend Bob Gibson has said frankly that if they'd be available and not illegal in his day, there is no question he would have done it. And then there is this, from Tim Keown in espn.com:

Well, if that ain't full circle: This week's Nation magazine, in one of the many Barry vs. Babe comparisons leaking in from outside the sports world, cites a section of a book titled "The Baseball Hall of Shame's Warped Record Book" stating that Ruth once fell ill after "attempting to inject himself with extract from a sheep's testes."

There is a legitmate concern about steroids in terms of their long-term consequence to your body. But a professional athlete basically has to think that way of their entire career. Football players are cripples as adults, and none have regrets. Baseball players are less impacted, but all they focus on each and every day is winning the next game. And that's what you want from players on whatever team you root for. Love Barry, hate him, whatever - but the guy did whatever he did not JUST for personal fame, but because he's a competitive athlete. I can't quite fault him for that.

Orenthal James

I guess I don't really know what to make of this story but it's no kind of good. Can't this guy just sink into oblivion? Isn't he supposed to be searching for the real killer somewhere? Disgusting.

I remember sitting at my desk at work, saying that I knew O.J. was really innocent, that this was all some weird mix-up...and then hearing that he was fleeing in his Bronco, and realizing that one of my childhood heroes was a murderer. The O.J. trial was interesting on a variety of levels, but the end result was it led to a murdering abuser going free to play golf and make fun of his crimes for pay-per-view. Not good times, bad times.

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

After reading Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore, I really couldn’t wait to read more of his work. Notably, I’d heard the most about The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, so I grabbed that (along with, cough, a few others) and read that one first.

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is an insane book. Both in its genius and in the way it breaks virtually every rule I have been taught about creative writing. On the surface, it is about Toru Okada, a man in his mid-thirties who has quit his job as a lawyer to stay at home and figure out what he wants to do with his life. He’s afforded this luxury because his wife Kumiko has a successful career of her own which adequately pays the bills.

Their cat, named after Kumiko’s brother Noboru Wataya (a rising political star who Toru loathes), disappears and Kumiko is upset about this, hiring a mysterious woman named Malta Kano to assist in the cat’s recovery. Soon after, Kumiko herself disappears, eventually getting word to him that she’s been unfaithful and wants to separate. This leads to a LOT of odd happenings, mostly dark and mystical. They include Toru befriending an amusing, morbid 16-year old neighborhood girl, a Lieutenant from WWII who has witnessed numerous war crimes, a psychic prostitute, wells, baseball bats and a litany of other things.

The titular wind-up bird, a bird whose song sounds like someone winding a spring, appears throughout the book (including most notably as Toru’s self-chosen nickname by May Kasahara, the sixteen-year old girl), as do other things like the song to the Thieving Magpie, a blue-black mark on several people’s faces. The story is essentially of people – Kumiko and Toru, as well as many tertiary characters – coming to grips with the responsibility of themselves, understanding their own darkness and doing what is necessary to move forward in life.

Not all of the pieces of the puzzle make sense initially, and others are never neatly wrapped up at the end of the book. It’s very easy to see how this could (should?) drive some readers mad, and be unsatisfying. And in truth, there are questions I’d love to know the answer to – like Infinite Jest, it seems likely there are online groups to discuss some of these things, but I’m not quite willing to do that, as I’d rather stew on these things myself or let them stay unsolved.

Murakami is indeed a very talented writer, using simple prose to discuss the surreal, and adding an almost palpable level of darkness and menace. I read a review by Laura Miller on Salon.com where she referred to him as “Paul Auster with a heart,” and that feels about right (and is unsurprisingly probably one reason I like his writing so much.) I will continue to read his works, even if I know I won’t always understand everything.

On a related note, while reading this book I was (and as I write this, still am) a bit swept up in a somewhat older CD, Stellastarr*’s Harmonies for the Haunted. The music fits this book beautifully, and the lyrics to “Lost In Time” felt so appropriate that I kept hearing them through my head as I leafed through pages:

I tried to say I miss you tonight
And they claim you've already died
But the truth is that we're lost in time
We're lost in time
We're lost in time
We're losing time

These haunted dreams are brushed aside
We'll meet again
Another life

I doubt they are avid Murakami readers, but the themes of their songs made this reading experience even better. I look forward to reading more of his work, and recommend both of those I've read to anyone who enjoys good literature with a surreal element.

It's not a perfect book, but it tries to be, and that's pretty important all on its own.

Rating: 8.5/10.0