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Add one part satire to two parts sincerity. Sprinkle on a couple of rants. Stir liberally.
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Daily Blah FAQ
Who are you?
I'm the newly-appointed Future editor at Business 2.0 and the former San Francisco correspondent for Time Magazine.
Wow, so does this mean everything you write reflects Time Inc's opinion? Or do you perhaps have some sort of standard disclaimer to the effect that it doesn't?
Naturally, the opinions contained in this blog are not those of my employers. In fact, some opinions may be the polar opposite of my employers. Some may be the same, for all I know. Hey, it's not like I ask my employers their opinions about everything in the news, okay? Let's just say that if this were a Venn diagram with one circle marked "my opinions" and the other one marked "my employers' opinions", there would doubtless be some overlap. But neither I nor my employers are able to pinpoint exactly where that overlap is.
What is this Daily Blah thing?
An experiment for a column I wrote about blogging back in December 2001. All these years later, I haven't been able to kick the habit.
If it's called Daily Blah, how come you don't always write every day?
I am trying harder. I promise. Please don't hurt me.
Mister, you talk funny. Are you one of them furrners?
Why yes I am, as it happens. I was born, raised and educated in Great Britain. I've been living in the U.S. since 1996 and identify as British.
I say, old chap, you forgot the "u" in "colour."
No I didn't. I may identify as British, but I am also an American journalist writing for an American audience about mostly American issues. These two different sides of me are a constant source of tension. Nevertheless, Daily Blah will adhere to American English grammar and spelling.
Praise for Daily Blah:
"It is fun to watch the author's navel-gazing joy." - Sunday Times (UK)
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"Dude, lay off the crack pipe." - Souris Hong-Porretta, gamesmith
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Daily Blah for... Friday, March 14, 2003
Cricket Gets Angry
One of the things I remember fondly about growing up in England is the dependably dull drone of cricket commentary. I have about as much time for cricket as I have for baseball, which is to say none whatsoever. But my father invariably listened to the play-by-play on the radio -- even, as is common, when watching the same match on TV with the mute button on. Cricket is an interminably slow game designed for drowsy, sunny afternoons; like fishing, it's practically a Zen meditation. Rather than try to get around that fact -- as an American commentator would by blurting endless statistics -- the benign, grandfatherly cricket announcers turned being boring into a fine art. "And there's a number 39 double-decker bus pulling up outside the grounds ... sparrows seem to be nesting in the pavilion ... a gentle breeze stirs the freshly-cut blades of grass around the wicket ... the new bowler has a rather fashionable haircut ... I have here a delightful carrot cake sent in by a Mrs. Wadsworth of West Riding, Surrey ..." And so the old voice would ramble brightly on, even when -- especially when -- rain stopped play.
As ever, technology seems to be changing things. Emily sent me this link to the Guardian's online commentary on the current India vs. New Zealand match by London-based reporter Scott Murray, who is apparently having something of a bad day: "Meanwhile, have you ever thought WHAT SORT OF LIFE IS THIS AND WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING BOARDING A TRAIN FOR MOORGATE AT 6.30 IN THE MORNING AND THEN STANDING AROUND FOR AGES WAITING FOR A TUBE WHILE STARING AT A SIGN TELLING YOU THAT IF YOU WAIT FOR FOUR MINUTES YOU CAN BOARD A TRAIN TO UXBRIDGE I'D RATHER WAIT FOUR HOURS FOR A JOURNEY WITH THE GRIM REAPER," he writes in a sudden splurge. "LOOK I'M SORRY THIS ISN'T EXACTLY THE SORT OF QUALITY EDITORIAL COPY YOU EXPECT FROM THE GUARDIAN BUT LOOK AT THE FACTS I'M ADRIFT IN THE MIDDLE OF ONE OF THE WORST CITIES IN THE WORLD SITTING IN FRONT OF THE SAME COMPUTER SCREEN I FACE DAY AFTER INTERMINABLE DAY HELL ... No? Only me then? Good."
Murray then proceeds to have an e-mail dialog with readers around the world about whether his job is really that bad, how he could be living in worse places, and what results you get when you bang your fists on the keyboard. As in the old-school commentary, any actual cricket is no more than an interlude -- but the style is far from sunny. "The rest of the over passes without incident," he writes at one point, "much like our lives." It's hilarious and astonishingly iconoclastic stuff, as if an MP just got up in the House of Commons and started doing an impromptu rap. Murray's voice is the flipside of the English character, the side that finds a cloud to every silver lining. They should put him on the radio; that would really put the cat among the pigeons. Or perhaps he can come over here and do baseball play-by-play. After all, if American Idol is any guide, the U.S. really loves sour Brits.
Tres Amusant
Meanwhile, as if to prove nobody hates the French more, my countrymen come up with this bon mot. Go to Google UK, search for "French military victories" and hit "I'm Feeling Lucky."
Daily Blah for... Tuesday, March 11, 2003
You Want Freedom Fries With That?
Now here's a story to sink your teeth into. A couple of Congressmen have censored the Francophonic output of the Capitol cafeteria. "Freedom fries" and "freedom toast" are now on the menu, lest our poor impressionable representatives be influenced by any reference to those European peaceniks.
On the surface, it sounds like a moronic publicity stunt -- the sort of thing those chicken-livered, helmet-haired philanderers in Washington are doing all the time to save them from having to come up with any real policies. You could brush past it, shrug, and hope they grow up one of these days. Go a little deeper, though, and the implications are frighteningly Orwellian.
Orwell knew what a powerful tool language was. Consider what's being done here: because the French oppose official U.S. administration policy, anything that bears their moniker is to be replaced with the word "freedom." Things that are free are now diametrically opposed to things that are French. Now I'm no scholar of human rights, but it seems to me that one very essential freedom is the right to oppose official U.S. administration policy. (I oppose official administration policy; evidently my name should be erased from the phone book and replaced with "Freedom Freedom.")
Sadly, there's more of this sort of thing going on in America today than we realize. A father and son in Albany, New York went to the mall and had T-shirts printed up with antiwar slogans. They wore them to the food court and were asked to leave. They refused. The son took his T-shirt off. The father did not, and was arrested. Yes, actually arrested! Luckily, the guy turned out to be a lawyer and charges were soon dropped. The next mall-based protestor may not be so lucky.
Remember the tautological slogan from 1984, pasted in enormous letters on the Ministry of Love? FREEDOM IS SLAVERY. It's the kind of phrase with a hundred layered meanings, but the one I like is this: redefine freedom, and you have none. The redefinition, in this instance, is support for a U.S.-led attack on Iraq. You can have any outcome to the current crisis you like, to paraphrase Henry Ford, as long as it's war.
Besides, as the French ambassador sniffed, the origin of french fries is Belgium. And where I come from, they call them chips.
Anniversary Ring
Brace yourself for another round of anniversary stories: the cellphone turns thirty next month. Weighing in at two and a half pounds -- compared to two or three ounces today -- the very first model was inaugurated on the streets of New York on April 3rd 1973 by researcher Martin Cooper. The first sentence spoken on a cellphone wasn't quite as memorable as Bell's "come here, Watson, I need you": Cooper simply called up a rival at Bell Labs and told him "I'm talking to you on a real cellular phone." No doubt this was immediately followed by "what? What? You're breaking up!" And a new era in human communication was born.
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