The concept behind the latest iteration of the Survivor series–segregating contestants on the basis of race–is one of the most repugnant ratings stunts in the history of mass media.  Unfortunately, the show’s producers are merely capitalizing on a disturbingly ominous cultural trend: it’s acceptable to be a racist again, at least in the former CSA.  For your consideration:

• Virginia Senator George Allen’s bone-headed “macaca” remark directed at S.R. Sidarth, a Democratic operative who happened to be of Indian descent
• Tramm Hudson, a Florida congressional candidate, commenting that “blacks are not the greatest swimmers.”
• A Baptist church in Mississippi that voted out a 12-year-boy who happened to be biracial because church leaders did not want his black relatives attending with him
• A white bus driver in Lousiana forcing black children to the back of the bus to make room for white students. 

In the opinion of this liberal Northerner, we ended Reconstruction much too early.  Of course, racist tendencies are not exclusive to the South and all of these incidents were quickly condemned in local media.  But it’s so dismaying to see this kind of behavior nearly forty years after the peak of the civil rights movement.  It makes me wonder if this current wave of bigotry is simply a continuation of our long and dismal xenophobic history or if it’s being provoked by other factors such as economic uncertainty or post-9/11 fear of the Other. 

Whatever the reason, let’s hope low ratings force CBS to make this season of Survivor the last.  Hell, maybe the bad publicity will be sufficient to kill off the entire misbegotten genre of reality television.  Except Amazing Race.  That show is kind of cool.

Amazingly, the storm clouds broke up just as I arrived at the fairgrounds last night and, aside from being slightly cool and windy, the rest of the evening was pleasant enough.  This was my first concert at the grandstand and I was quite pleased with my seat and unobstructed view of the stage.  While I know many people are passionate Sonic Youth fans, their particular brand of distorted jam play leaves me cold and none of their songs stuck in my head. 

The Lips put on a riotous show that included dancing guys in Santa Claus outfits, dancing girls in retro sci-fi miniskirts, colored paper streamers, giant beach balls, and other whimsical props.  Wayne Coyne, the lead singer, had an easy rapport with the audience and was quick to thank all of the stagehands who worked frantically to get everything set up once the skies cleared.  Let’s hope the Fair’s organizers now realize that there is an audience for acts other than Brooks & Dunn and are able to book another band of equal caliber next year. 

A new high-rise condominium development is going up on the block adjacent to my workplace, The sales website promises “five-star amenities” and generally makes the building sound like the closest thing to a yuppified heaven on Earth.  I like the notion of a thirty-second commute to work, but any inclination I had to make a serious inquiry about the availability of units was quickly disspelled when I realized one thing with jarring clarity–I would have to live in downtown St. Paul.  The last time I found myself in downtown St. Paul at night, I nearly died from a sense of unbearable loneliness.  A bramble of tumbleweed drifted through an intersection as my desperate cries for human companionship echoed among the deserted office buildings. 

Now, I certainly intend no offense to my many friends who call St. Paul home.  Many areas of the city are quite lovely.  However, I think I’ll remain a Minneapolitan for the time being and admire your fair environs from afar.

Katja tapped me with a meme a couple weeks ago and I didn’t realize it, so this is overdue:

Why do you blog?

Aside from my narcissistic tendencies, I blog because I’m a compulsive writer.  It’s the form in which I express myself best.  Before I started blogging, I kept a journal for about ten years, but that was a rambling, self-indulgent mess.  Blogging forces me to be a better writer; it also gives me a forum for normalizing society’s view of what it means to be a 30-something American guy with a physical disability. 

Oh, and girls.  My blog serves me way better than any dating profile. 

How long have you been blogging? 

My first entry appeared on August 24, 2002.

Self-portrait

See the upper-left corner. 

Why do readers read your blog?

I assume most of readers fall into one or more of the following

a) family
b) friends
c) friends of friends
d) anonymous gimps/geeks/fellow travelers who have some fleeting interest in what I have to say

What was the last search phrase someone used to get to your site? 
“19th floor”

Which of your entries unjustly gets too little attention?

I’m gratified that anyone takes the time to read me.

Your current favorite blog?

MetaFilter, now and always

What blog did you read most recently? 

ThinkProgress

Which feeds do you subscribe to?

Way too many to list here.

What four blogs are you tagging with this meme and why?

Blue, Sally, Goldfish, and PZ because I would gladly hang with any of them. 

Military SF doesn’t usually hold much appeal for me, but I picked up Old Man’s War on the strength of recommendations from Cory Doctorow, among others.  The novel’s basic premise is this: in the future, senior citizens on Earth can volunteer for the Colonial Defense Force to protect human colonies from ruthless alien civilizations that are competing for the same real estate.  The bennies of CDF service include a brand spanking new genetically modified body primed for combat duty.  John Perry, a widower and writer (natch), narrates the story of his transformation from newbie CDF recruit to grizzled veteran of several battles with assorted alien baddies.

Several reviewers have compared this novel to Heinlein’s classic Starship Troopers (which I haven’t read).  I was worried the book would be a testosterone-fueled romp through the galaxy complete with obsessively detailed whiz-bang descriptions of the military’s toys.  There’s some of that, but Scalzi chooses to focus on the human costs of war and the arbitrariness of those losses.  I do wish that characterization had been a little stronger.  Many of the supporting characters seemed to be indistinguishable; they might as well have been called Wise-Cracking, Jaded Soldier #1, Wise-Cracking, Jaded Soldier #2, and so on.  But Scalzi has crafted a satisfyingly lean machine of a plot that kept me too entertained to pay much mind to the book’s flaws.  I will likely pick up Scalzi’s sequel, The Ghost Brigades. 

Next up: the It Book of the summer, Scott Smith’s The Ruins.