Kos Files

Remember Markos Moulitsas, the future of the Democratic party? Here he is today:

When we had the troops to fight the war, they could claim, like Andrew Sullivan did, that the troops were our servants and had to heed their orders. But we're running out of soldiers to death, injuries, AWOLs, and horrific recruitment. Now is the time for these War Cheerleaders, these Chickenhawks, to show their mettle. Now is the chance for them to stand for something bigger than themselves and their video game fantasies. Now is the time for them to be real men. Real Americans.

Gutless bitches is right. They deserve nothing but contempt.

Keep this in mind the next time a Democratic politician stoops to pay Kos homage.

Our Great Malini

Last Saturday night I sat in the second row, center, at the Studio Theatre in Washington to see with my own eyes "Ricky Jay and His 52 Assistants." The award-winning show, which was supposed to end its run two weeks ago, was extended an extra week due to popular demand. Indeed, at the 7:30 performance, there wasn't an empty seat in the house. In addition, the theatre was a small one, so that my wife and I were at times only about six feet away from the man himself. The set design was truly fitting--what resembled a small study with old wooden bookshelves, even older-looking books, and strange bits of memorabilia (such as a white deer's head, propped atop a barrel, with a playing card stuck between its antlers). As for Ricky Jay himself, he is quite a presence, looming, large, and wrinkled--but exuding warmth. He wore a suit jacket with sleeves rolled up, so as to show he is no amateur when it comes to sleight of hand. As for the tricks, a few highlights:

With two volunteers from the audience, Jay played several hands of blackjack and poker, explaining the aim of a con as not just beating a player but rather barely beating him. When others showed a 16 or 17, Jay would turn his cards over, revealing a 17 or 18. He easily dealt himself four aces and later, a royal flush. He also demonstrated dealing from the bottom of the deck and, most improbably, from the middle.

Jay starts the show by going up to audience members, asking them to pick a card, stick it back, and in various ways and flourishes, singles the card out. The point of this exercise, I think, was not so much to show he can easily find it, but rather in his technique, such as pushing the card or shooting it out, as if on its own.

Jay was able to find a woman's card, which she signatured, in an unopen deck. (I know it wasn't really in there but even staring at his hands, I could not figure out at what point he slipped it in.)

Ricky Jay is also an able card thrower. First, as far as the end of the theatre, then as a boomerang, catching it. He then throws the card into the air, and as it comes back to him, he slices it in two with a pair of scissors. Lastly he hurls the cards at ... fruit! Namely, he hits a watermelon, getting a card to stick to its hard shell.

One of the things that makes this show great is Jay's storytelling, whether it be about the Great Malini or the history of three-card monte (of which, even after marking a card so you know what it is, he turns it over and it is an entirely different suit). He is also at times self-deprecating. (There are even a few shades of the comic-book guy from the Simpsons.) When explaining how the Great Malini once made his wife appear from under a cup, he adds, "As hard as I've tried, I cannot even manage to get married."

Ricky Jay is the heir to the Great Malini, a true historian of all things conjurable. I hope he has enough true followers, because one day an apprentice will have to fill his shoes. And I hope to God it isn't David Blaine.

Pardon the Interruption

Lots of sports talk for Tuesday:

(1) Larry Brown: For the second time in three years, Larry Brown has been in contract talks with another team while he is supposed to be leading his current team through the playoffs. The national sports press sounds slightly outraged this morning at Brown's duplicity, which is fitting, although I wonder where the outrage was when Brown was selling the Sixers down the river by throwing in the towel during their playoff series against Detroit--while he was almost certainly in talks with Detroit to become their next coach.

You may think of Larry Brown as a Hall of Fame coach, but I'll always think of him as one of only two basketball coaches bad enough to lose the gold medal at the Olympics--and the first to lose with pro players. (I don't count the stolen game against the Soviets in 1972 as a loss.) Brown is a genius, but he's the type of guy who is ostentatiously classy--but only when it doesn't cost him anything. And when bad times come, he's the first out the door.

(2) Johns Hopkins: The Blue Jays won the NCAA lacrosse title yesterday for the first time in a generation. Too bad. Hopefully bad luck will return to Homewood next year. Don't feel sorry for them--believe me, they deserve it.

(3) Danica Patrick: I know nothing about racing, but the attention lavished on her sticks in my craw a little since she didn't win the Indy 500. The guy who did win--Dan Wheldon--looks to be on a pretty impressive hot streak. He's the overall series points leader and Sunday's win was his fourth victory in five races. Yet Wheldon is nearly anonymous to the casual observer and Patrick is omnipresent. That hardly seems just.

Let Patrick win something, and then we can all celebrate her. The rest of Danicamania has the distinct odor of Kournikova-ism. People who value sports should want to avoid that at all costs.

(4) French Open: Lindsay Davenport is the opposite of Danica Patrick. Nobody fawned over her when she was a young teen coming up on the tour. Nobody cared when she got her game and her body into shape and started winning Grand Slams. Nobody even really cares now that she's making another run deep into the French Open. All Davenport does is win and embody everything that's great about tennis. Why can't ESPN do big, gushing profiles on her? She deserves them.

Then there's the big question presented by this year's open: How good is Roger Federer? He's only 23 and he's already won four of the majors. He looks like a dominant champion.

But in tennis champs come in two varieties. There are the unstoppable juggernauts who take over the game for years at a time (Sampras, Lendel, Borg) and then there are the transition players, who take over the game for a couple years and then fade away (Hewitt, Wilander). Which is Federer?

Good Question

Orson Scott Card asks:

I mean, what kind of idiot breaks a hole in the hull of his boat during a storm, just because he doesn't like the guy at the tiller and thinks the storm could have been avoided?

You're welcome Andrew!

Lacrosse on ESPN.com

Perhaps for the first time ever, lacrosse is the main story on ESPN.com. Of course that's only because the piece is a profile of gay Dartmouth goalie Andrew Goldstein, and it leads a package about gay athletes, but hey, whatever.

The striking thing is this mind-blowing hightlight of Goldstein stopping a shot against Syracuse and then blitzing 80 yards downfield and scoring on the Orange. In terms of pure foot-speed, it's a pretty astonishing move by Goldstein.

The Point Is Probably Moot

BREAKING NEWS out of New Jersey: Due to an illness, Rick Springfield will not be performing this Saturday at the Borgata Casino in Atlantic City. The already sold-out show has been rescheduled for October 1, leaving many fans with open plans for tomorrow night. (But maybe Night Ranger will be performing next door at Harrah's?)

Not to bust on Rick Springfield, a talented actor and musician, whose classic "Jessie's Girl" I have on my iPod, but what else would you want him to play at a concert?

The ACLU Cashes In

Galley Friend and intellectual powerhouse Chris Levenick has a great story in the Wall Street Journal this morning about a church-state controversy brewing in the California desert:

In 1934, a gritty prospector named J. Riley Bembry gathered a couple of his fellow World War I veterans at Sunrise Rock. Together they erected the cross, in honor of their fallen comrades. The memorial has been privately maintained ever since, with small groups still occasionally meeting to remember the nation's veterans.

A wrinkle developed in 1994, when the federal government declared the surrounding area a national preserve. With the cross now located on newly public land, the memorial soon caught the attention of the American Civil Liberties Union. Working with Frank Buono, a retired park ranger turned professional activist, the ACLU demanded that the National Park Service tear down the cross.

Mr. Buono insists that his seeing the monument ("two to four times a year") violates his civil rights. A federal district court found in his favor, and the decision was subsequently upheld by the Ninth Circuit. Last-ditch attempts to deed Sunrise Rock over to the local Veterans of Foreign Wars were struck down in April. Defenders of the memorial hope to appeal, but their options are narrowing.

But that's not even the real story. As Levenick details, the ACLU has turned a tidy profit on the case, since "the taxpayer once again ended up paying the ACLU for pressing a highly controversial church-state lawsuit."

Great reporting on a fantastic story.

Two Questions

(1) Is there a movie you want to see this summer more than Layer Cake?

(2) Is there anyone with a better voice than Michael Gambon? My God, just listen to those pipes.

Whoa

From the Miami Herald:

According to a Coral Gables police report, Collazo dropped his pants, took out his penis and accused his players of not having the testicular fortitude it takes to play baseball after a loss to Florida Christian on April 7.

''He then,'' according to a Coral Gables police report, ``pointed to his penis, testicles and asked the team if they had a set of these or were they equipped with a vagina.''

Collazo, who led Gulliver to the Class 3A state championship last season, did not comment on the allegations.

Kos: Voice of a New Generation

Markos Moulitsas--political strategist, liberal guru, and blog impressario--now gets behind a plan for Democrats and abortion: Democratic politicians should simply say that they're pro-life. Because that then neutralizes the issue. What a genius!

Peter Beinart has a lot of work to do.

Also in the George Gurley New York Observer column on Bob Saget was a choice quote from his colleague Penn Jillette (of Penn & Teller fame). Talking about his upcoming documentary The Aristocrats, which features about one hundred comedians in the raw, Jillette says:

This movie is a pure dream of Thomas Jefferson, in that it's a hundred people saying anything that pops into their head, with no fear whatsoever. You know a lot of the Hollywood people--and this pissed me off so much--would say, "Oh, your movie's fine in the blue states, but what about in the red states, where you get to the stupid people?" And I would say, "Oh, by 'stupid people' you mean people who can program a machine, fix cars and perform surgeries? As opposed to we who are in Hollywood, who can't do f--king anything?"

The Real Bob Saget

I used to think there was no worse comic hack than Bob Saget--everything from his "star turn" on Full House to his atrocious hosting of America's Funniest Home Videos. His material was just awful.

But it turns out it was just a job and the real Bob Saget likes to work blue. In a fascinating New York Observer column by George Gurley, we learn that Saget was notoriously dirty in college and that what his fellow comedians found amusing was his going clean for television. (Unfortunately the article from May 9 is only available in the archives for a fee.) But reading a hard copy of it, I found it simply compelling. Saget apparently goes blue in an upcoming documentary directed by Penn Jillette called The Aristocrats--what Geoffrey Gilmore describes as "one of the most shocking and, perhaps for some, offensive films you will ever see." The former dad of the Olsen twins tells a joke, repeated in the May 9 Observer that is so shocking (coming from Saget) that I won't even reprint it here.

But who knew Bob Saget is our generation's own Buddy Hackett?

How Mean Is John Bolton?

So mean that he makes grown senators cry! The Radioblogger has an unbelievable mp3 of Sen. George Voinovich on the floor of the Senate speaking out against Bolton--and he's so moved that he gets all choked up!

Bonus points: Voinovich tells us that "I came back here and ran for a second term because I'm worried about my kids and my grandchildren. [whimpering sound]"

Yes, it's true: The reason to oppose Bolton is for the children!

You know, I hear they're the future of this great country of ours.

In an interview with Hugh Hewitt, John Podhoretz recounts this excellent story:

In 1995, George Voinovich, when he was governor of Ohio, he was at the Cleveland airport. The President of the United States was in Cleveland, so there was a no-fly zone declared for the airport. And he insisted that his pilot take off, his personal pilot take off, despite the fact that there was a no-fly zone declared. And he got on the phone with the air traffic controller and said, what are you going to do? Shoot me down? . . .

As a result of that, in 1995, the Federal Aviation Administration fined George Voinovich $20,000 dollars for interfering with the good agency and, you know, the good order of the American aviation system. And for that man to claim that any other human being does not have the temperament to serve in a senior job, when he behaved that way...

Blinq

My beloved Philadelphia Inquirer has recently launched a very excellent blog with the witty name, Blinq.

Blinq is run by Daniel Rubin, a reporter at the Inquirer and so far, it's a great read, particularly for anyone with Philly ties.

My only complaint is that in his blogroll Rubin links to Gawker, the NYC gossip blog. Now that's just an insult. The City of Brotherly Love don't need no stinkin' New Yawk gossip. We don't idolize the glitterati; we throw batteries at them.

A Conservative Call for Gays (and Women) in the Military

What are the odds Andrew Sullivan will suddenly discover what a smart, intellectually-honest thinker Max Boot is this week?

Seriously. 5-2? 13-5? Let's get the vigorish going . . .

Update, 1:45 p.m.: An anonymous emailer points out that at 11:09 this morning, Sullivan pointed to Boot's "smart comments." Talk about a sure thing.

Affordable Family Formation

Mickey Kaus points us to Steve Sailer's very interesting post on the key to Republican electoral success: "Affordable Family Formation."

Sailer notes four categories making up this idea:

* "The Dirt Gap"--land supply around cities which drives the cost of housing.

* "The Mortgage Gap"--"Bush carred the 20 states with the cheapest housing costs, while Kerry won the 9 states with the most expensive."

* "The Marriage Gap"--"Bush carried the top 25 states ranked on 'years married'."

* "The Baby Gap"--"Bush carried 25 of the top 26 states in white total fertility . . . while Kerry was victorious in the bottom 16."

None of these "gaps" is new, but Sailer's the first person I've seen to combine them into a unified field theory of financial family incentives. Thought provoking stuff.

American Idol

I'm not much of a culture snob, but I just don't get American Idol. I'd never seen the show before this season, when I tuned in for about 15 minutes during one episode. It didn't do much for me.

But millions of Americans can't be wrong, so in honor of last night's Idol finale, here's a link to Matt Labash's brilliant piece, False Idols, from a couple years back:

THERE WAS A TIME, not long ago, when primetime television was populated by famous people. Someone appearing on TV meant that they'd likely worked their way up through the ranks: doing school plays, regional theater, and embarrassing commercials, until finally, they honed their skills, perfected their craft, and slept with the lecherous casting director who'd cause them to become obscenely wealthy and loved by millions.

These days, however, television isn't so much about being famous, as it is about auditioning to become famous. With televised tryouts being the entire point of such shows, aspirants of fame, even in failure, still become quasi-famous by default. There are nights when one can tune into network programming and see nothing but wall-to-wall talent shows. In just the past season, there's been the Debbie Allen-hosted "Fame," a creaky brand extension of the early '80s incarnation in which Cocoa, Bruno, and the rest of the leg-warmer wearing cast would break into song at the slightest provocation. Then there is "American Juniors," in which the cloying, over-rouged Jon Benets of today strive to become the cloying, overexposed Celine Dions of tomorrow.

But with a glut of such shows evidenced by the likes of "30 Seconds to Fame"--in which a contestant has all of a half-minute to say, turn his nostrils inside-out to the delight of an ADD-afflicted crowd--it is time to get back to First Principles--to the show that spurred it all--"American Idol." . . .

No offense, but I've never gotten the Neal Pollack thing. Today I understand a little. In a piece for Slate about the Phoenix Suns he writes:

The coach, Mike D'Antoni, doesn't get out-cooled by his team. Though American by birth, he's arguably the greatest player in the history of Italian basketball. He's married to a model and hangs out with the Benetton and Versace families. TNT recently showed vintage footage of a shirtless D'Antoni, wearing the same crisp 'stache he still has today, holding aloft a trophy while a crowd of Italian revelers dumped champagne on his head. The Italians call him Arsenio Lupin, after a movie about a cat burglar. That's not a reference that means anything to me. I call him Coach Pornstache.

That's alright.

Dean Barnett: Man on Fire

Dean Barnett has a piece at NRO on stem-cell rhetoric and the great news that he now has a part-time job doing book reviews for the Philadelphia Inquirer, a paper near and dear to my heart.

This is a great match and it couldn't happen to a better guy.