
After a week of caustic comments about Bobby Jindal's awful coming out Tuesday, Peter Sagal has the last word (on Wait, Wait): "He spoke to the American people as if he were reading Goodnight Moon to them."
Devoted to media matters, politics, poetry, creativity, the evolution of consciousness, and autobiographical reflections, "The Laverytory" is the blog of David Lavery, literature, film, and television scholar/critic, now teaching at Middle Tennessee State University.

Chevy Chase:
Last week we made the comment that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Now here to reply is our chief meteorologist, John Belushi, with a seasonal report.
John Belushi:
Thank you Chevy. Well, another winter is almost over and March true to form has come in like a lion, and hopefully will go out like a lamb. At least that's how March works here in the United States.
But did you know that March behaves differently in other countries? In Norway, for example, March comes in like a polar bear and goes out like a walrus. Or, take the case of Honduras where March comes in like a lamb and goes out like a salt marsh harvest mouse.
Let's compare this to the Maldive Islands where March comes in like a wildebeest and goes out like an ant. A tiny, little ant about this big.
[holds thumb and index fingers a small distance apart]
Unlike the Malay Peninsula where March comes in like a worm-eating fernbird and goes out like a worm-eating fernbird. In fact, their whole year is like a worm-eating fernbird.
Or consider the Republic of South Africa where March comes in like a lion and goes out like a different lion. Like one has a mane, and one doesn't have a mane. Or in certain parts of South America where March swims in like a sea otter, and then it slithers out like a giant anaconda.
There you can buy land real cheap, you know? And there's a country where March hops in like a kangaroo, and stays a kangaroo for a while, and then it becomes a slightly smaller kangaroo. Then, then, then for a couple of days it's sort of a cross between a, a frilled lizard and a common house cat.
[Chevy Chase tries to interrupt him]
Wait wait wait wait. Then it changes back into a smaller kangaroo, and then it goes out like a, like a wild dingo. Now, now, and it's not Australia! Now, now, you'd think it would be Australia, but it's not!
[Chevy Chase tries to interrupt him]
Now look, pal! I know a country where March comes in like an emu and goes out like a tapir. And they don't even know what it means! All right? Now listen, there are nine different countries, where March comes in like a frog, and goes out like a golden retriever. But that- that's not the weird part! No, no, the weird part is, is the frog. The frog- The weird part is-
[has seizure and falls off chair]
Perhaps there is a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagined are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.
--Wallace Stevens, "Adagia"
Learn to obey. Only he who obeys a rhythm superior to his own is free.
--Nikos Kazantzakis, The Saviors of God
If they give you lemons, make scrambled eggs. I make the worst scrambled eggs.
One of [Wilhelm] Dilthey's main achievements was that he called attention to the fact that all life is intrinsically hermeneutic. It always has an interpretation of itself at hand. This is not an extrinsic and secondary trait but a very property of life, and this reflectivity that accompanies life seemed to Dilthey even richer and wiser than the abstractions of conceptual thought. As every man, consciously or subconsciously, has a Weltanschauung, or world view, he also has, prior to all philosophy, a view of man. Every cultural product, even the earliest religion and art, contains an image of man.
--Michael Landmann, Philosophical Anthropology
And, finally, New Rule: Stop pretending that other governments have nothing to teach us. From those socialists in Sweden, we can learn how to fix a banking crisis. And from our friends in China, we can learn how to punish the jerks who caused it.
You know, the ones who took bailout money and bought private jets made out of rubies and veal. This is Dick Fuld of Lehman Brothers. [slide of Fuld] What a "dick" Fuld. He personally made $500 million in sub-prime mortgages, and he gets to keep it while you and I pay off his bad bets. [slide of Madoff] This is Bernie Madoff. Bernie stole $50 billion, mostly from other Jews. For Jews, this was the worst pyramid scheme since the actual pyramids.
Which brings me back to China. Now, a couple months ago, some greedy businessmen in China were caught spiking the milk they sold to children with melamine, a plastic-derivative which boosted the protein levels and, thus, their profits. Well, you know what the Chinese are doing to the businessmen behind their milk scandal? They're putting them to death.
Talk about lactose intolerant.
Now, am I saying we should treat the bankers who poisoned our financial markets with tainted investments the way China treated its poisoners? Please, we're not China. We're just owned by China. So, no, I don't think we should put all the bankers to death.
Just two. I mean, maybe it's not technically legal, but, let's look at the upside. If we killed two random, rich, greedy pigs. I mean, killed. Like, blew them up at halftime at next year's Super Bowl. Or left them hanging on the big board at the New York Stock Exchange. You know, as a warning, with their balls in their mouth. I think it would really make everyone else sit up and take notice.
This crisis is rooted in greed. And if two deaths shocked a society of 300 million into acting decently enough to avoid this in the future, well, they'd die as heroes. And, you know, it's not like collateral damage isn't built into our assessment of things.
Cars kill almost 50,000 people a year, but we accept that as a fair price for being able to get around without riding on top of an animal.
So, two dead bankers really starts to look like a bargain. And isn't that what they love? Bargains?
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless, like a river flowing,
passing yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.
--Jorge Luis Borges, "The Art of Poetry"
[The Cabalists] thought that a work dictated by the Holy Spirit was an absolute text: in other words, a text in which the collaboration of chance was calculable as zero. This portentous premise of a book impenetrable to contingency, of a book which is a mechanism of infinite purposes, moved them to dispute the scriptural words, add up the numerical value of the letters, consider their form, observe the small letters and the capitals, seek acrostics and anagrams, and perform other exegetical rigors which it is not difficult to ridicule. Their excuse is that nothing can be contingent in the work of an infinite mind. Leon Bloy postulates this hieroglyphical character, this character of a divine writing this character of a divine mystery, of an angelic cryptography at all moments and in all beings on earth.
--Jorge Luis Borges
A few weeks ago, the President warned that our nation is facing a crisis that he said "we may not be able to reverse." Our troubles are real, to be sure. But don't let anyone tell you that we cannot recover -- or that America's best days are behind her.
[I]f nothing is done, this recession might linger for years. Our economy will lose 5 million more jobs. Unemployment will approach double digits. Our nation will sink deeper into a crisis that, at some point, we may not be able to reverse.
You could not discover the limits of the self, even by traveling along every path: so deep a locus does it have.
--Heraclitus
Where is your authentic body? You are the only one who can never see yourself except as an image; you never use your eyes unless they are dulled by the gaze they rest upon in the mirror or the lens (I am interested in seeing my eyes only when they look at you): even and especially for your own body, you are condemned to the repertoire of its images.
--Roland Barthes, Roland Barthes
(of language, behavior, or a person) offensively coarse or rude, esp. in relation to sexual matters: a crude joke. See note at rude.
constructed in a rudimentary or makeshift way : a relatively crude nuclear weapon.
• (of an action) showing little finesse or subtlety and as a result unlikely to succeed : the measure was condemned by economists as crude and ill-conceived.
In time, only those things last
which have not been in time.
--Jorge Luis Borges, "Quince Monedas"
How did people live in the old days, how did they eat, how did they drink, how did they sleep? . . . We have no idea how our parents lived. When they tell us about it, when they take us with them into the past, we are amazed; we hear of a world in which everything was different. . . . What our grandparents tell us is even stranger, at least if we try to understand what their story contains. "There were no cars"; that is all right; but let us not have the idea that we understand what this simple information, this fact, implies. A city without cars is radically foreign to us, as foreign as a wagon rumbling on the main street with the driver asleep in the back . . . . the past cannot come to us because there are no points of contact, no similarities. Discontinuity permits no communication.
--J. H. van Den Berg, The Changing Nature of Man
The common end of all narrative, nay, of all, Poems is . . . to make those events which in real or imagined History move on in a strait Line, assume to our Understanding a circular motion the snake with its Tail in its Mouth.
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Jack: How can you read?
Ben: My mother taught me.



We have not ended rainfall or sunlight; in fact, rainfall and sunlight may become more important forces in our lives. . . . But the meaning of the wind, the sun, the rain—of nature—has already changed. yes, the wind still blows,—but no longer from some other sphere, some inhuman place.
--Bill McKibben, The End of Nature
Our age is characterized by a variety of generalizing theories, each of which is applied to everything in the universe except itself, and each of which would fall to the ground if it were so applied since it at once becomes apparent that it has been busy sawing off the only possible branch on which it could have been sitting.
--Owen Barfield
After I returned from my survival test, the two old people trained me in dragon ways, which took another eight years. Copying the tigers, their stalking kill and their anger, had been a wild, bloodthirsty joy. Tigers are easy to find, but I needed adult wisdom to know dragons. "You have to infer the whole dragon from the parts you can see and touch," the old people would say. Unlike tigers, dragons are so immense, I would never see one in its entirety. But I could explore the mountains, which are the top of its head. "These mountains are also like the tops of other dragons' heads," the old people would tell me. When climbing the slopes, I could understand that I was a bug riding on a dragon's forehead as it roams through space, its speed so different from my speed that I feel the dragon solid and immobile. In quarries I could see its strata, the dragon's veins and muscles; the minerals, its teeth and bone. I could touch the stones the old woman wore its bone marrow. I had worked the soil, which is its flesh, and harvested the plants and climbed the trees, which are its hairs. I could listen to its voice in the thunder and feel its breathing in the winds, see its breathing in the clouds. Its tongue is the lightning. And the red that the lightning gives to the world is strong and lucky in blood, poppies, roses, rubies, the red feathers of birds, the red carp, the cherry tree, the peony, the line alongside the turtle's eyes and the mallard's. In the spring when the dragon awakes, I watched its turnings in the rivers.
The closest I came to seeing a dragon whole was when the old people cut away a small strip of bark on a pine that was over three thousand years old. The resin underneath flows in the swirling shapes of dragons.
--Maxine Hong Kingston, Woman Warrior
What will be the physiognomy of painting, of poetry, of music, in a hundred years? No one can tell. As after the fall of Athens, of Rome, a long pause will intervene, caused by the exhaustion of consciousness itself. Humanity, to rejoin the past, must invent a second naiveté, without which the arts can never begin again.
--E. M. Cioran, The Trouble with Being Born

Adelle DeWitt: We can offer you a clean slate.
Echo: Did you ever try to clean an actual slate? You always see what was on it before.
--"Ghost," Dollhouse 1.1
Rabbi Mendel once boasted to his teacher Rabbi Elimelekh that evenings he saw the angel who rolls away the light before the darkness, and mornings the angel who rolls away the darkness before the light. "Yes," said Rabbi Elimelekh, "in my youth I saw that too. Later on you don't see these things any more."
--Martin Buber
Welcome to the last act of the last season of the very best TV show of all time, and here's your Dramamine.
--Jacob (TWoP)
If fire is lighted in water
How is it to be extinguished?
If the fear comes from the protector
Who is there to protect you from this fear?
--Nagarjuna
[I]t would also be nice if Dollhouse proved to be a mega-hit, enabling Whedon to pick and choose his projects (and his network collaborators) henceforth. The show may already have more than its share of fan sites (Watching Dollhouse and Dollverse, to name just a few), but then, if nerdy fans ruled the earth, the current TV lineup would include Cop Rock, Wonderfalls, Deadwood, Lando Calrissian's Nuage Lounge and Buffy XXV: Spawn of Xander. Maybe a sprinkling of Fox's sensibility is just what Whedon needs to reach the Twilight-suckling mainstream.
So if you Buffy fans feel slightly disappointed on Friday night, remember Paul's words: "Nobody has everything they want. If you have everything, you want something else. Something more extreme. Something more specific. Something perfect." If the fates cooperate, Dollhouse will be on the air long enough to evolve from something shiny and extreme to what Whedon and an unwieldy gaggle of fans want it to be: something more specific. Something clever and layered. Something perfect.
You know, the last thing that I think we're looking for at this juncture is advice on fiscal integrity or ethics from Karl Rove. I've never seen anything really like it . . . [former White House chief of staff] Andy Card saying that we were somehow denigrating the presidency because people were wearing short sleeves in the Oval Office. We're wearing short sleeves because we have to roll up our sleeves and clean up the mess that we inherited.

Evolutionists Flock To Darwin-Shaped Wall Stain

To destroy a city, a state, an empire even, is an essentially finite act; but to attempt the total annihilation, the liquidation of so ubiquitous but theoretically or ideologically defined an entity as a social class or racial abstraction is quite another, and one impossible even in conception to a mind not conditioned to Western habits of thought. Here is a truly Faustian ambition to transform by physical action not merely the earth, but the qualities of the creatures who dwell upon it, an ambition related to the modern quest for the breaking down of mountains, the escape from the bounds of the earth, the control and reform of human genetics, the manipulation of life itself all of them ambitions which, before this century, were the dark matter of myth and necromancy.
--Stillman and Pfaff, The Politics of Hysteria


She wrote and produced this film about six women in James Joyce's life: three fictional characters plus his wife, his benefactress and his publisher. Her involvement didn't stop there. Fionnula wanted to represent the Joycean universe correctly, so she played all six characters herself, and delivered close to 90% of the spoken words in this film. It is more or less one of those "one woman shows".
Fionnula did not shy away from the controversial parts of Ulysses. Quite to the contrary, she went right after the juiciest in-your-face material. The centerpiece of the film is Molly's masturbation, the filmed version of which must occupy about 20 uninterrupted minutes of screen time. The entire scene, including finger-to-genital contact, is pictured on camera. This is an extraordinary moment in cinema, because the naked woman playing with her privates in front of you is not a B-movie starlet, a stripper, a porno star, or a fading movie queen making a final grasp for attention, but a legitimate classical actress, ala Dame Edith Evans or Meryl Streep. Since she is an excellent actress and a natural looking woman, the scene creates the impression that we are actually watching a woman masturbate, and that she is unaware of our presence.
Where does Nixon’s fictional self-creation end and the historical figure begin? Can such a distinction be made about a man who watches the movies Patton for the third or fourth time and then orders an invasion of Cambodia meant to destroy the Vietcong Pentagon, which he told us was there, but which has never been found?
No wonder anyone who cares about politics now finds the claims made for literature by most critics ridiculously presumptuous. Why should literature be considered the primary source of fictions, when fictions are produced at every press conference; why should novelists or dramatists be called "creative" when we have Rusk and NcNamara and Kissinger, the mothers of invention, "reporting" on the war in Vietnam?
--Richard Poirier, The Performing Self




The hero whose attachment to ego is already annihilated passes back and forth across the horizons of the world, in and out of the dragon, as readily as a king through all the rooms of his house. And therein lies his power to save; for his passing and returning demonstrate that through all the contraries of phenomenality the Uncreate-Imperishable remains and there is nothing to fear.
--Joseph Campbell, The Hero With a Thousand Faces

Not how the world is, is the mystical, but that it is.
--Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logicus Philosophicus
I was never really clear on that.
--Hurley
Okay… See, we did crash. But it was on this crazy island. I mean, we waited for rescue, and there wasn’t a rescue. And there was a smoke monster. And then there were other people on the island—we called them the Others, and they started attacking us. And we found some hatches and there was a button you had to push every 108 minutes or—well, I was never really clear on that—but the Others didn’t have anything to do with the hatches, that was the Dharma Initiative. They were all dead—the Others killed them. And now they’re trying to kill us. And then we teamed up with the Others because some worse people were coming on a freighter. Desmond’s girlfriend’s father sent them to kill us. So we stole their helicopter and we flew it to their freighter, but it blew up. And we couldn’t go back to the island because it disappeared. So then we crashed into the ocean, and we floated there for a while, until a boat came and picked us up. And by then there were six of us. That part was true. But the rest of the people who were on the plane . . they’re still on that island.
The End
On February 15, 1991, the American Broadcasting Corporation announced that Twin Peaks would be placed on "indefinite hiatus," a move ordinarily resulting in eventual cancellation. That week's episode had ended with the soul of Josie Packard (Joan Chen) entrapped in the knob of a bedside table in the Great Northern Hotel room where she had just shot Thomas Eckhardt (David Warner), the mysterious Hong Kong businessman who had rescued her from a life of prostitution so she might become his love slave, and then died herself, of no apparent cause, while engaged in a gun-to-gun standoff with Sheriff Harry S. Truman (Michael Ontkean), her secret lover, and Special Agent Dale Cooper (Kyle MacLachlan), the FBI man she had tried to kill in the first season's cliff-hanger finale. The episode--recall, recall 1--that had seen the reappearance of both The Man from Another Place (Michael Anderson), a strange lounge-lizard-dwarf who in a memorable dream sequence in the third episode had, through dance, backward speech, and prediction of resurgent gum sales, invoked unknown powers to help Cooper's unorthodox sleuthing, and BOB (Frank Silva), the mysterious psychopathic being who, while parasitizing since childhood a prominent local lawyer, Leland Palmer (Ray Wise), had raped and murdered Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee), the beautiful coke-sniffing, high school homecoming queen whose "first note" dead body, "wrapped in plastic," had generated, in Shoenbergian atonal style, the whole seriatim music of this nighttime soap opera, murder mystery, comedy. . . . )
Levi-Strauss has said that "myth is an act of faith in a science yet unborn," but that point of view is still too close to Frazer; it sees myth as a foreshadowing of something which will be truly known through science. You could just as well say that science is an act of faith in a mythology yet unborn, and that when we truly know the universe of which we are a part, we will see that the way DNA spirals in our cells and the way nebulae turn in space are all related to a particular dance of idea and pattern.
--William Irwin Thompson, Darkness and Scattered Light
A suggestive analogy is to be seen in the case of the grayling moth, which prefers darker mates to those actually offered by its present species. For if human art can offer to a moth the supernormal sign stimulus to which it responds more eagerly than to the normal offerings of life, it can surely supply supernormal stimuli, also to the IRMs [Innate Releasing Mechanisms] of man and not only spontaneously, in dream and nightmare, but even more brilliantly in the contrived folktales, fairy tales, mythological landscapes, over- and underworlds, temples and cathedrals, pagodas and gardens, dragons, angels, gods, and guardians of popular and religious art. It is true, of course, that the culturally developed formulations of these wonders have required in many cases centuries, even milleniums, to complete. But it is true also . . . that there is a kind of support for the reception of such images in the deja vu of the partially self-shaped and self-shaping mind. In other words, whereas in the animal world the "isomorphs," or inherited stereotypes of the central nervous structure, which for the most part match the natural environment, may occasionally contain possibilities of response unmatched by nature, the world of man, which is now largely the product of our own artifice, represents to a considerable extent, at least an opposite order of dynamics; namely, those of a living nervous structure and controlled response systems fashioning its habitat, and not vice versa; but fashioning it not always consciously, by any means; indeed, for the most part, or at least for a considerable part, fashioning it impetuously, out of its own self-produced images of rage and fear.
Joseph Campbell, The Masks of God: Primitive Mythology
It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.
--Oscar Wilde

Early in “Precipice,” the back end of Season Three’s two-part premiere, we find Brother Cavil telling Ellen Tigh, post coitus, “That was really something.” “I thought you might like that,” she replies. This time, the notoriously nymphomaniacal Ms. Tigh is not going to the mattresses for her own gratification. Her bedding by the sleazy monotheist is intended to get her husband out of prison, where Saul has already lost an eye to his Cylon torturers. Her sacrifice will soon prove fatal when the XO poisons her in an agonizingly touching scene for betraying the Resistance.
Cavil has a question for his coerced partner, though:You didn't do the twist this time. What do you call . . . What's that deal you did right at the end? What do you call that?
Ellen: You mean the swirl.
If the well-established Cylon knowledge concerning everything human extended to “terrestrial” television, Cavil might have recognized Ellen’s allusion to a certain sexual technique perfected by the eponymous star of NBC’s megahit Seinfeld (1990-1998). In the Season Six episode “The Fusilli Jerry,” Jerry’s old girlfriend Elaine, who has been sleeping with his mechanic David Putty, reports on their sexual activity:Elaine: He did the move.
Jerry: What move?
Elaine: You know...the move.
Jerry: Wait a second. My move?
Jerry: David Putty used my move?
Elaine: Yes, yes.
Angry that his move has been stolen, he vows to put an end to the rip-off, but Elaine, hedonistically anxious for her new lover to retain the satisfying technique, seeks to convince Jerry that it is not outright plagiarism:Elaine: Well, he doesn't even do it exactly the same. He—he—he uses a pinch at the end instead of the swirl!
Already famous for its regendering of Starbuck, Battlestar Galactica has clearly switched sexes in other ways as well, here giving—in an episode written by none other than Ronald D. Moore himself—a woman a move pioneered by a sitcom-man on the far-away, in space and time, home planet both Cylons and humans long to find.
They got this guy, in Germany. Fritz something-or-other. Or is it? Maybe it's Werner. Anyway, he's got this theory, you wanna test something, you know, scientifically—how the planets go round the sun, what sunspots are made of, why the water comes out of the tap—well, you gotta look at it. But sometimes, you look at it, your looking “changes” it. Ya can't know the reality of what happened, or what “would've” happened if you hadden a stuck in your goddamn schnozz. So there “is” no “what happened.” Not in any sense that we can grasp with our puny minds. Because our minds . . . our minds get in the way. Looking at something changes it. They call it the “Uncertainty Principle.” Sure, it sounds screwy, but even Einstein says the guy's on to something.
The angle of man is necessarily inconducive to the higher thoughts. Walking, as we do, at right angles with the earth, we are prevented from looking, as much as we should, at the legendary sky above us and the only-a-little-bit-more possible ground under us. We can only (without effort) look in front of us and around us; we can look only at things that are between the earth and sky, and are much in the position of a reader of books who can look only at the middles of pages and never without effort the tops and bottoms. We see what we imagine to be a tree, but we see only a part of the tree; what the insects under the earth see when they look upwards at the tree, what the stars see when they look downwards at the tree, is left to our imagination. And perhaps the materialist can be called the man who believes in the part of the tree he sees, & the spiritualist a man who believes in a lot more of the tree than is within his sight. Think how much wiser we would be if it were possible for us to change our angles of perspective as regularly as we change our vests.
--Dylan Thomas
An atheist may be simply one whose faith and love are concentrated on the impersonal aspects of God.
--Simone Weil