Sophist’s World

I’m heading to New Hampshire for a story next weekend, and since I expected to encounter some crazy people, my googling naturally took me to the Larouchies. This story from the official LaRouche organ, relating to their crash of a Nader 2004 event, is awesome.

At this point, LYM member Nick Walsh couldn’t take the lies any longer. He stood up and confronted the synarchist’s lies:

“You put Gorgias to shame,” he said. “Your sophism is what Plato documented to have destroyed Athens. It’s these clever lies and manipulative psychological tricks that the Sophists used to destroy Athens—and you know what I’m talking about.”

As Walsh was speaking, Camejo’s two spokesmen from the podium came down, along with another goon, to surround him. After a slight nervous hesitation, Camejo theatrically jumped up and started yelling, “Take him out! Drag him out!”

The goons, led by Dedric Muhammad, then assaulted Walsh, who tried to sit down on the floor in passive resistance. The assaulters strangled him in a choke-hold that cut off his breathing for several seconds. Walsh’s arms were gashed and scratched. They then dragged him outside the meeting room, and began to kick and pummel him. The beating would have proceeded if another LYM member had not interfered to stop them.

Later in the story…

What the Nader-Camejo team is discovering is that their slimy operation does not work so well, when the LYM is around. Camejo himself is touring campuses throughout the United States, hoping to dupe youth with his cynical lies. The previous week he was at the University of California at Berkeley, where he was also confronted by an LYM team, which dramatized the Naderites’ commitment to depopulation by bringing along a hooded creature called Death.

God bless you merry lunatics.


Would it dent your enjoyment of Once, the beautiful Irish movie that, if seen on a date, will get you instantly laid, if I point out that it’s a jukebox musical? Glen Hansard, who plays “the guy,” is an established musician and the force behind The Frames, and “the girl” is Marketa Irglova, who collaborated with Hansard on last year’s perfect album The Swell Season. “Falling Slowly,” the haunting song they sing together in the piano store, is from that record. A few of the other songs are from Hansard’s previous albums.

So the movie’s a bit of a promotional tool – a device to get you checking out The Frames. It should work, by the way. After I saw the film I rushed home and downloaded “Falling Slowly” and set about ordering some of the other albums. Hansard is a Cat Stevens with the childlike fantasy and bile replaced by weary romanticism.

Bless you, local ads

I’m a local newspaper fan and naturally I love that the Falls Church News-Press runs ads on Comcast. I love even more that three of the features they advertise in a word blur midway through the ad are “gay/lesbian commentary,” “poker columns,” and “peak oil crisis.”

Gonna make you sweat

I go to the Black Cat’s bad music night and have a great time. There are maybe two, three songs out of 25 that I don’t freak to, jerking and dancing like a epileptic in a gas chamber. Towards 1 a.m. I notice that I’ve danced so feverishly that I’ve sweated off my hand stamp. Both the red “over 21” stamp and the black backstage stamp have vanished.

I head right outside the backstage and ask the ticket-taker/stamper, who’s a bit occupied explaining the theme of the night to a glammy guy and his girlfriend, to re-stamp my hand.

“Why don’t you have a stamp?”

“It was hot in there and I got sweaty.”

“He doesn’t have a stamp,” she says to a fellow ticket-taker/bouncer.

“You need a stamp!” she says. “Where’s your stamp?”


“Go outside and get stamped!”

“Wait, can’t you just…”


And the bouncer shines a white light on me, exposing the layers of sweat generated by “Get Into My Dreams (And Into My Car”) and “I’m Too Sexy” and “The Final Countdown.” I am frogmarched to the bathroom.

“Why are you soaking wet?”

“I was… dancing.” As I say this I sigh, internally – no explanation will work tonight.

“Dry off your hand and come back out here. I’ll be waiting.”

This is done, but Jesus, I’m really sweaty. The thing is, I get really nervous when I’m packed in a room and when I’ve, you know, got a light shined on me as I am marched through that crowded room. The sweat issue has hardly resolved itself. I peel my black shirt off my white undershirt and walk outside.

“Look, I just…”

“Here, get stamped.”

For some reason I acquiesce and get the stamp for the bar I’m absolutely not re-entering tonight. And that’s how I danced so hard I got kicked out of a dance party.

Predictable, and yet…

Did anyone not expect that to be the last shot of Gilmore Girls? Did anyone not tear up like a tiny Bosnian orphan nonetheless?

For those of you who read this blog but do not watch the show, OK:

The first episode of the series ended with Lorelai and Rory having late dinner at Luke’s diner, Luke being Lorelai’s inevitable on-again-off-again flame. Luke is kind enough to keep the place open for them as they discuss Rory’s entrance into the Chilton high school, the first step on her journey into the Ivy League and (one day) globe-trotting journalism. The camera pans back away from the table and through the window as we look on, into the diner.

The final episode ended with Lorelai and Rory having early breakfast at Luke’s before Rory boards a plane to start covering the Barack Obama campaign for an unnamed small magazine.* After a year or so of turmoil, Lorelai and Luke are back together, their previous problems pretty much solved. The camera pans back away from the table and through the window as we look on, into the diner.

*As I’ve spent the last week reporting and planning trips to cover a presidential campaign myself, I got a giggle out of the idea that Rory would be working for said magazine and be placed “on the bus.”

About that concert

I wrote most of this before, and it was nuked by one of those Firefox crashes that happen from time to time. Save your blog posts, kids.

For the most part, it was an excellent show. Sloan’s last record was Never Hear the End of It, a nudge-nudge title for an album of 30 songs written, sung, and played by different assortments of the band. The drummer plays rhythm guitar, the rhythm guitarist plays bass, the bassist plays drums. Drummer Andrew Scott, unfortunately, is a weak singer and a merely okay songwriter, and he got far too much time at the mic. But the shambolic “let’s point on a show”-ness of the set worked for the rest of the night. Chris Murphy sang a line from “The Spirit of Radio,” the encore started with a “mini-jukebox” of Patrick and Chris singing short bits of songs they hadn’t played yet.

And you’re welcome

Saw Sloan today and elbowed into the small stage scrum to get Chris Murphy to sign my Never Hear the End of It post.

“Can you sign it to Dave?” I asked.

“Wait,” Murphy said. “Are you the Dave we know? The Dave from Cleveland?”

Fuck journalism school. If I hadn’t been grafted with a set of standards, I would have said: Yes. Just flew in yesterday! Let’s talk over the contracts backstage. Instead I noted that I was from “Delaware.”

“We don’t have many fans from Delaware!”

Bleaurgh. The point of this post is to note that I forgot to thank Murphy for the signature. It was a good one, too – big cartoon balloon letters spelling out “DAVE” and his name beneath them. I forget to say “thank you” sort of frequently. Everybody, I mean nothing by it.


In the First State this weekend for the first time in what seems like months. Put honestly, I’m doing a cut-and-run from DC. I just need a day or so out of the city to decompress.