Red or Blue, Wonder Woman’s Boots Were Made For Walking
by Bob Suicide
It's official: NBC told Wonder Woman to grab her redesigned hooker boots and take the walk of shame off their network. But what does that mean for comic-based television programming as a whole, as well as the more niche super heroine-led titles?
The realistic answer: not much.
With the level of backlash this show has received at every turn, from both die-hard fans as well as general network audiences, it shouldn't come as a surprise that the Wonder Woman re-boot didn't last long. The real surprise is how many people don't seem to remember how poorly the original show did. It was only on for three seasons, and the first performed so badly that they had to completely re-vamp the entire premise, moving it from the '40s to the '70s. So from the outset, a big-budget reboot of a mediocre show from the '70s didn't seem like the best idea. And yet, everyone seemed to take the news that Wonder Woman was cut before she even had a chance to take flight with great confusion: "Woaaaa? Where are we to find our strong female heroine now?" they bemoaned.
As a true, man-shirking Amazonian, Wonder Woman was created as a symbol of female empowerment (despite her skimpy outfit and some serious bondage imagery) in the '40s. However, after the death of her creator (Dr. William Moulton Marston, a psychologist who helped invent the modern polygraph test), she reverted to the archetype of women of the period, obsessing over marriage and dealing with copycats who were "biting her style." After several re-inventions, she's had her powers, friends, home, and even her origin stripped to the point where it was questionable whether she was even a remotely positive feminist example for women. And yet, for some reason, the sacking of Wonder Woman has many questioning the viability of leading heroines in any television show. There's a startling amount of people asking, "If she can't make it, who can?" I could make some comment about sexism, decrying the numerous male superhero shows that made it to broadcast vs. the cancellation of a heroine's show before it even aired, but the best I could come up with is: If they aired the BS that was The Cape, they should have given the go-go booted, bouncing-titted fail of a show equal airtime. But, somehow, even that argument rings hollow.
Specifically, speaking as a die-hard fan, I would hope that people would not equate the nixing of something SO far from the original source material (meaning the comic - not the original TV series) as an indictment of the genre as a whole. However, some media outlets appear to be spinning this as a turn of events that, by superhero association, also puts the upcoming Hulk reboot in jeopardy. If the Hulk remake does poorly, it will not be because audiences don't like comic-based television shows, and it won't imply that the genre as a whole is declining, like many assert, or for that matter, that male-led TV show are no longer viable.
The sad fact is some things don't transfer to other mediums well, both Wonder Woman and Hulk being good examples.
In traditional Wonder Woman storylines, Diana talked her enemies out of their life of crime rather than clobbering them with her heightened heroic powers. Translating that low-energy, moral discourse to a television show would be like giving Monica from Touched By An Angel a golden whip and some hot pants: awkward, confusing and boring. And, with several failed movies at the box office, the reluctant beast that is the Hulk doesn't ever seem to translate into a leading movie man despite his larger than life movie screen size. No one wants to watch a geeky scientist, who gets angry and turns a particularly unattractive shade of green, run and whine for two hours.
While some have said the Wonder Woman pilot wasn't that bad, some reasonable amount of fail must be inferred based on its poor performance in screen tests, and the raucous backlash that each spoiler produced. The lack of a TV series with a female superhero as the title role doesn't mean we should settle for a insultingly vapid husk of a show that resembles Wonder Woman in name only. Especially when the premise of the show appears to be that this "Wonder Woman" is a billionaire (her career went from lawyer to CEO between the two scripts and the pilot) whose hobbies apparently include reenacting the street-walking scenes from Pretty Woman in her spare time.
The revival of Wonder Woman was the first thing the new NBC CEO requested and it had his full backing; it's therefore even more of a big deal that he declined to pick up the pilot. You know it had to be bad when he decided to scrap his first major act as a network head, an action which in the backstabbing world of entertainment will no doubt leave him open to political attacks from rivals inside and outside his company.
Some have asserted that this might be the best thing to happen to Wonder Woman, and are crossing their fingers in the hopes that she might find a home on cable. (Although this is highly unlikely since media reports seem to indicate the general industry opinion is: 'If NBC doesn't want it, who would?') Fans see cable like the lush hills of Themyscira, offering the show more freedom to let Diana's invisible plane fly.
But, if this show isn't dead - and I'm predicting right now that it is - someone needs to ground that plane. When it comes to comic adaptations that make us fans look bad, Wonder Woman is major a no fly zone!
Conan O’Brien: It’s Good To Have You Back
By Edward Kelly
Intimate is not usually a word used when describing late night talk shows. Generally, a better track to take is to simply focus on the host’s ability to crack a few jokes, ensure that they’re relatively amiable, and that they interview a hopefully engaging guest. But if it were that easy then everyone would be able to do it.
On Monday night, Conan O’Brien returned to the airwaves on the cable network TBS. His new show, aptly titled Conan, marks what will hopefully be the denouement of The Late Night Debacle. To refresh: O’Brien took over The Tonight Show in June of 2009. After only seven months at the helm, NBC decided that maintaining a cool head in the face of trying times was a really dumb idea. Instead they seemed to think that panicking, airing private grievances in the most public of forums, and spending Brinks truck’s full of cash would be a much better way of doing business. It was like the National Broadcasting Company decided that nothing says “profits” to shareholders like the execs reenacting plots from Degrassi Junior High. You know what came next: O’Brien was ousted and offered his too-late slot back, and Leno was reinstalled in his old post-news position.
Instead of disappearing quietly back to the graveyard shift, O’Brien did what he does best: went right on being Conan O’Brien. He hit the road with his Legally Prohibited From Being Funny On Television Tour and signed up for a Twitter account. Then came the deal with TBS. Now, with the agreed waiting period required by NBC at an end, the new cable show is up and running.
Obviously, there’s a lot of expectation on O’Brien to perform. After all, the main criticism NBC lobbied at him was that, under his tutelage, The Tonight Show’s ratings had sunk to an unprofitable level (though O’Brien refuted this on 60 Minutes). So, how did he do on his “second annual” first show? Well, I think I speak for everyone when I say it was the greatest television moment since the invention of those glass tubes that allow diodes or cathodes or whatever to somehow transmit atoms and stuff, thus making TV possible. (I do not know science.)
Look, obviously, O’Brien did a great job. He’s been doing the hosting thing for 17 years; he’s a skilled comedian, a whip-smart interviewer, and can work a crowd like no one’s business. The show was hilarious, full of O’Brien’s trademark absurdist wit and loads of charming self-deprecation. Was it the greatest thing on TV ever? No. But it was great to have him back.
See, I have an overblown appreciation for O’Brien. Part of it lies in simple nostalgia. I have many a fond memory of half-studying while sitting too close to the TV so I could watch Late Night without waking my parents. His is the kind of manic, intelligent, silly humor that should never have been on a network, but, remarkably, survived and thrived. Classic bits like the Walker, Texas Ranger Lever and his State of the Show Address and utterly silly moments like Vomiting Kermit and The Interruptor made the whole affair feel like you were part of the world’s most insane inside joke. With O’Brien as the red-coifed ringmaster, you were suddenly part of an awesome alternate universe in which bears masturbated, horny manatees had websites, and you couldn’t get any further into the future than the year 2000.
I think that’s what I loved so much about last night premiere; you sensed that ensconced in a slot that carries less weight and pressure again, O’Brien felt like he was back to being O’Brien (also the masturbating bear showed up and, in all honesty, I think I squeed). He seemed more relaxed and more comfortable, and the whole thing felt very intimate.
Having endured more Network BS and public humiliation than perhaps any talk show host in the history of TV, and after his enforced post-prime time TV absence – all of which elevated him to folk hero status – Conan is now a changed man. And that’s not a bad thing. He’s come out the other side with a beard and sense of melancholy. During the monologue of the premier edition of new show, O’Brien slipped into his stereotypical “nerd” character — the nasally Poindexter whose invisible glasses keep slipping down his nose and insists on correcting you — and he quickly had to course correct when he realized that he was pantomiming texting (or tweeting, more accurately). With a smile and a laugh he noted how he wouldn’t be back if it weren’t for the internet and the “I’m With Coco” community — the very “nerds” he was mocking. It’s the type of shifted perspective that makes O’Brien all the more endearing.
O’Brien is a niche comedian who is passionately invested in his craft, so it stands to reason that he gravitates to the bizarre factions of humanity — the folks that invest an absurd amount of time in a hobby that most consider weird. When he hits the streets, it isn’t to talk to tourists on the Sunset Strip: it’s to hang out with Olde Time Baseball Players or send a correspondent to the world’s weakest Stargate convention. And it was that type of kinship and familiarity that felt largely absent from The Tonight Show. Such intimacy returned in full force last night when Conan hugged audience members (becoming more and more creepy with each hug motion) and riffed with his old buddy/sidekick Andy Richter about the inherent weirdness of “Asian Val Kilmer” Halloween masks.
The ringmaster has returned and it’s good to be at the circus again.
The Buttocks are Not a Sexual Organ: ABC and the FCC
Im just grateful that the FCC does not have the authority to regulate the internet. And Id bet that members of the Anal Sex and Ass Appreciation groups agree. Because, let me tell you, The Federal Communications Committee has something against butts.
And this isnt just any grudge, its a rancor for whichthe ABC network might have to pay $1.4 million USD. The story goes like this:
In 2003, ABC showed an episode of NYPD Blue that showed images of a womans ass as she got ready to shower. The woman was Charlotte Ross, the character was Det. Connie McDowell. Some of you may remember the episode. If not, and once again, let me be grateful for the Internet, you can see screenshots here or the video clip here. Fast-forward to the present, when the FCC is fining 52 ABC stations for showing the episode and the nudity contained therein.
The FCC deems "sexual or excretory activities" shown in an "offensive" way before 2200 as indecent.
ABC has rejected the claims, saying the buttocks are not a sexual organ.
But that isnt even the whole story oh no! Because the FCC goes on to point out that the episode also portrayed some of the womans breasts. And for this partial breast and butt transgression, ABC may be paying upwards of a million dollars, as the United States has recently sanctioned a very large escalation in such fines.
The broadcaster has said it will appeal against the decision, which is the second largest indecency fine imposed on a broadcaster.
In 2006, the FCC imposed a $3.6m (£1.8m) against CBS for an episode of Without A Trace, which was settled for $300,000 (£152,000).
I know, I know, the argument can be made that, while one does not have to agree with the rules that are in place, you cant argue against the enforcement of said regulations. But Im still a little confused. And a bit humored, in fact, as I attempt to envision FCC officials white and old and male sitting around discussing, Cartoon butts? Okay! Female butts? No good. What about tightly fitting, sheer material over a female butt? Hmmm
I am perhaps oversimplifying the issue, but I still get carried away with such scenes.
-Well, Dick, what do you think? Are buttocks more offensive than breasts? Which will scar our children more?
-And, hey, what about the value of the fines; how do we decide those? Should we base them on absolute or relative size? Do we charge more for more, how do they say, junk in the trunk? Or, what about the super skinny actresses with no meat on their behinds
should they be charged as much?
-Ad infinitum
Fun, isnt it?
In addition, let me highlight something that I find particularly ridiculous about this story: The episode aired in 2003. By charging the network such a high fine and bringing national (and international) coverage to the story, many more people are going to view the guilty body parts. I know I wouldnt have seen the tna without hearing of the story. Then, let me ask the perpetual (and probably rhetorical) question, Is this about money or principles? Does the FCC really care about protecting the viewers (from the allegedly potential harms of viewing such flesh), or are the fines predominantly created for the purpose of generating revenue?
That video clip and those images were definitely the least sexual things Fatality saw all day
Smurfuckingtastic
The Smurfs are celebrating their 50th Birthday.
The little blue bastards are older than I thought. Apparently they were created back in 1958:
The late cartoonist Pierre Culliford -- best known by his pen name, "Peyo" -- first introduced the tiny blue figures in a comic strip in October 1958. He called them Schtroumpf; they became known worldwide as the Smurfs.
I don't know about you, but back in the '80s I was hoping that Gargamel would roast a few of the annoying little fucks.
Anyways, here is a video to get you in a smurfy mood:
If that's not enough, look forward to the upcoming year's comic book releases, remastered versions of the television series, and even a 3D animated feature film.
Wil Wheaton's Geek in Review: The Big Goodbye, Part Two: Journey's End
The crew got the camera and sound equipment together and loaded it on a cart that looked heavy and awkward.
"Do you know a fast and preferably easy way to get over there from here?" the camera man asked me.
I couldn't suppress a smile. "Yeah. I do."
We headed out of the stage and back past the Hart building.
"See that window?" I said. "That used to be Gene's office."
"Mmmm," came the reply.
"Nobody is going to care about these things like you do," I thought. "Just keep it to yourself."
I looked at the window just a little bit longer. I recalled watching Shatner's infamous "Get a Life" sketch on 3/4-inch video tape in Gene's office with some of my friends who worked there during the second season.
A few Trekkie VIPs were there on a tour, and they watched it with us. (In the pre-Internet days, it was not very easy to watch that sketch on demand come to think of it, thanks to NBC's armada of lawyers and the DMCA, it's just as hard today.) At one point in the sketch, Shatner says, "That was the evil Captain Kirk from episode 37, The Enemy Within . . ." and all of the Trekkies derisively snorted in unison, "YOU MEAN EPISODE FOUR!" I looked at my friend, who very subtly shook his head. These were Big Deal Trekkies; pointing out that they'd just brought the sketch into the real world would have created some problems.
Back in the present, I laughed out loud, and a couple of the crew looked at me. "Memories," I said.
I led them across the lot, on a route that would appear circuitous to anyone who didn't work there for the better part of four years. On the way to the stage, I passed the same familiar and significant landmarks from my youth that I wrote about in Just A Geek: That's where I met Eddie Murphy when I was sixteen . . . Hey! I crashed a golf cart there when I was fifteen . . . There's the mail room . . . There's stage six, where the bridge set started out . . . I almost got up the courage to kiss that girl at the Christmas party on that stage in . . . there's the stage where Shatner told me, "I'd never let a kid come onto my bridge."
The next line in Just A Geek is ". . . this street feels exactly the way it did when I worked here . . . here's where my trailer used to be . . . Though I stood in that same place, it didn't feel the same, at all. Different trailers were there, filled with different actors working on different shows, but that wasn't why I just couldn't deny that twenty years had passed since I started working here. Maybe it was the knowledge that Star Trek is really gone for good, at least the way I knew it. Maybe it was the pain in my hip . . . or the responsibility on my shoulders. Maybe it was the fact that I have two sons who are older than I was when I started working on the series. Most likely, it was a combination of all those things.
I walked a bit farther, to the entrance to stages 8 and 9. In the hallway between them, where our security guard stopped tourists and Trekkies from coming onto the sets, where our bulletin board for callsheets, shooting schedules, and my brief foray into editorial cartoons used to be, there was now some sort of big, loud . . . something, with a fan and a bunch of pipes running out of it. As much as it should have prepared me, I was just gutted when I opened the stage nine door. Instead of seeing the back of a turbolift and a corridor leading to the transporter room and engineering, I saw a bunch of sets under construction. Sets that were quite clearly houses and other rooms set squarely in the 21st not the 24th century.
"Wow," I thought. "It's all . . . gone."
I stood in that open doorway for a long time and just stared, working hard to replace the reality inside the stage with the memories inside my head.
". . . ready?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Are you ready?" The producer asked.
"Uh, yeah." I reluctantly let the door close.
"It's too loud here to shoot, so we're set up behind the stage." He said.
I followed him down the street, past where my school room what was effectively all of high school for me used to be. There was a production golf cart for Everyone Hates Chris there now. I lingered briefly.
Moments later, we were set up in the alley behind the stage, just outside a giant open door. I looked inside. Where Sickbay once was, there was a set that looked like a child's room. Where the Holodeck once stood (and all the shuttlecraft interiors were shot) there was a large drop cloth and a several cans of paint. Where Picard used to command the battle bridge one of my all-time favorite sets there was a tropical backdrop.
I sighed and blinked back some tears.
"Everything okay?" The producer asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm just overwhelmed by a sadness right now that I can't really explain."
"I understand," he said. "This happens whenever we work with someone from Next Generation. I don't know what it was about you guys, but every single one of you loved each other and remembers working on the show very fondly."
"I didn't know that," I said, around a lump in my throat. "But I'm not surprised. I . . . I really miss those guys."
For the next few hours, we filmed host wraps. I told stories about my time on Star Trek to anyone who would listen, and a few who wouldn't.
In front of stage 16, where this photo was taken, I recalled an encounter with Lawrence Tierney (best known as Joe in Reservoir Dogs), who played Holodeck tough guy Cyrus Redblock.
"Hey," he said to me one afternoon between scenes, "do you play football?"
I was 15 at the time, and weighed 95 pounds . . . if I was soaking wet and carrying a ten-pound weight.
"Uh, no," I said.
He leaned into me, menacingly.
"Why the hell not? What are you, some kind of sissy faggot?"
I panicked, certain that he was going to beat the shit out of me because I was more comfortable throwing 3d6 than a pigskin.
"I'm not strong enough to play football!" I said.
"Well, maybe you wouldn't be so weak if you played football!" he growled.
An assistant director arrived just in time to call us to the set and save me from certain death.
"Everyone has their own story about Planet Hell," the producer said, pulling me back to 2007, "but yours is the first one that includes a fear of death unrelated to atmospheric smoke."
"Boy, we sure like to complain about that smoke. Did you know it was mineral oil-based?" I said.
"After all the cast interviews I've done over the years, I know everything in the world there is to know about that smoke." He said, dryly.
Now it was my turn to laugh.
When the day was over, we headed back to stage 24, where they were set up to interview Ron Moore.
"How's it going?" I said to him when he walked into the stage.
"It's weird," he said. "This is the first time I've been here in years."
He looked around and his voice softened. "Did you know there aren't any writers left in the Hart building? Brannon is moving out, and he was the last one. It's just a bunch of accountants right now."
"That's poetic," I said.
He looked away for a moment and furrowed his brow.
"It's just . . . I look around here and "
"I know." I said. "I totally grok."
We talked for a few more minutes, until they were ready for his interview.
"I will kick myself later if if I don't tell you how much I continue to love Battlestar," I said before I left. I didn't get up the nerve to add, "and I'd really love to work on it if you have anything for me, because it's just about the best sci-fi on television, ever." Later on, I kicked myself, and delivered one more to Jenny and the wimp.
"It's always good to see you," he said.
"Thanks, man. You too."
I shook hands with everyone and said goodbye. When I got out of the stage, and walked past the Hart building I stopped and looked at Gene's old office window one last time. Though I'd said goodbye to Gene at his funeral in 1991, I said goodbye to him again and to so many other things.
On my way back to the valet, I walked past the commissary, where I ate grilled mustard chicken with curly fries a few times a week during much of the series. I remembered a day, during the third season, when I didn't have a lot of cash on hand and no credit card, so my server got severely under-tipped. I planned to make it up to him the next day, but when I walked in, he silenced the entire commissary by running toward me from the back, screaming at me for stiffing him the day before. It was the first and last time in my life I wanted someone to be fired for the way they treated me. Strangely, I still feel bad that I unintentionally stiffed the guy. Funny how those things stay with you and come back when you least expect them to.
Just past the commissary, where there used to be a company store that sold T-shirts and satin jackets celebrating the wearer's affinity for Cheers, there was now a smaller company store that included a Coffee Bean. I stepped into the same room where I once bought really cheesy TNG T-shirts and insanely cool tiny communicator pins for my friends and family, and bought myself an iced green tea.
I made my way back to the valet, where I traded my orange ticket with numbers on it for my car. While I waited for it to arrive, I struggled to put the nostalgia and associated sadness of the day into perspective. I didn't mourn the loss of my sets, as much as I mourned the time in my life those sets represented: a time when my biggest responsibility was knowing my lines and getting to the set on time, not coming up with college tuition for the next four years. A time when KROQ played music that was relevant to me, and I knew all the DJs. A time when my biggest problem in the world was getting out of costume and makeup early enough to make it to the Forum for a Kings game. A time when my life was simpler and easier, when I had the luxury of taking for granted that I would always have everything I wanted and my opportunities were as numerous as the little mirrored stars on the black velvet starfield that hung behind Ten Forward on stage 9 . . . stars that are, most likely, cut up into hundreds of little bits to be doled out at auction for the next decade.
But, complicated as it is, I really like my life. I have a beautiful wife and two children who, though they don't carry my DNA, are clearly mine in every way that matters. I'm not going to be buying a boat any time soon, but I have been able to touch lives as a writer in ways that I never could have when I wore a spacesuit, just reading the words that other people thought I should say.
The valet brought my car around, and I gave him a couple bucks from my front pocket.
"Thank you, sir," he said.
Goddamn, it's weird to be sir."
"No problem."
I got in my car and headed toward a red light on Van Ness, where a big decision loomed: turn left and drive back over Los Feliz, the way I always used to drive? Or make a right and head down across Beverly?
Luckily, this was an easy one. I hit my blinker and began my voyage home.
Wil Wheaton doesn't need to walk around in circles.
Bradbury Sets the Record Straight on Fahrenheit 451
I love Ray Bradbury. Love. I celebrate the guy's entire catalog.
So hearing from him is always a real treat, considering he's at an age where no one would really blame him if he decided to drop out of the public eye altogether, and his feature in L.A. Weekly last week is no exception. Later this month, Gauntlet Press will be releasing Match to Flame, a collection of short stories leading up to Bradbury's 1953 classic Fahrenheit 451, and when it comes to that particular novel he's got a lot to say right now. Arguably his most well-known full-length book, it is taught in middle schools and high schools pretty much everywhere, often coming tightly bundled with themes of censorship and McCarthyism. Well, enough is enough: Bradbury has had it with all these teachers and critics on his alleged theory and meaning, and he took this interview as a forum to set the record straight once and for all.
Bradbury, a man living in the creative and industrial center of reality TV and one-hour dramas, says it is, in fact, a story about how television destroys interest in reading literature.
It's really as simple as that, kids. But here's some more:
As early as 1951, Bradbury presaged his fears about TV, in a letter about the dangers of radio, written to fantasy and science-fiction writer Richard Matheson. Bradbury wrote that Radio has contributed to our growing lack of attention.... This sort of hopscotching existence makes it almost impossible for people, myself included, to sit down and get into a novel again. We have become a short story reading people, or, worse than that, a QUICK reading people.
He says the culprit in Fahrenheit 451 is not the state it is the people. Unlike Orwells 1984, in which the government uses television screens to indoctrinate citizens, Bradbury envisioned television as an opiate. In the book, Bradbury refers to televisions as walls and its actors as family, a truth evident to anyone who has heard a recap of network shows in which a fan refers to the characters by first name, as if they were relatives or friends...
His fear in 1953 that television would kill books has, he says, been partially confirmed by televisions effect on substance in the news...Useless, Bradbury says. They stuff you with so much useless information, you feel full.
It makes a lot of sense, too, once you think about it: in the big passage where Montag's boss is talking about how firemen came to be, what he speaks of is a society doing it to themselves, not at all the state intervening for them. People being too offended by books to bother with them, stripping out paragraphs until nothing is left but the footnotes. You could really analyze from the angle that the firemen only come to clean up what most people don't want anymore, now that everyone has their flat wall-sized telescreens and favorite programs and interactive entertainment and... hey, wait a minute.
So maybe it's with subtle guilt that we, as a society in general, choose to continue pushing the Big Brother Oppressor interpretation of Fahrenheit 451we would never forgo literature by our own choices!but it's a choice that really chaps Bradbury's hide.
He bristles when others tell him what his stories mean, and once walked out of a class at UCLA where students insisted his book was about government censorship.
I've got to admit, it must be beyond annoying to have a bunch of kids tell you what they know your book must be about when you wrote the thing your damned self. I'd bristle, too.
But it seems like the bristliest bunch in the whole lot of this article are television executives, who claim that Bradbury's claim is stuff and nonsenserather, television has energized the book market through its snappy advertising and cross-promotion. Naturally!
Bradburys latest revelations might not sit well in L.A.s television industry, where Scott Kaufer, a longtime television writer and producer, argues, Television is good for books and has gotten more people to read them simply by promoting them, via shows like This Week and Nightline.
Kaufer says he hopes Bradbury will be good enough in hindsight to see that instead of killing off literature, [TV] has given it an entire boost. He points to the success of fantasy author Stephen King in television and film, noting that when Bradbury wrote Fahrenheit 451, another unfounded fear was also taking hold that television would destroy the film industry.
Kaufer also points out that Bradbury's stories made some awesome movies and television series. Touché! But does that take away from any legitimate fear that drove Bradbury to write the novel, regardless of what spin anyone else wants to put on it? Of course not. If he says that's what the book is about, then guess what: that's what the book is about. Let the man speak. He's Ray fucking Bradbury, for crying out loud, and reallywas he wrong?
_DictionaryGirl_ is off to listen to music on her futuristic "seashell" earpod headphones and chat with her "family" on the "wall screen." Oh Ray, please forgive her. Also, big ups to Media Bistro, where they've even got video on the subject. Word.
SCOTUS Interruptus; June 4, 2007
Welcome to the second installment of Subrosas SCOTUS Interruptus, a quasi-weekly column dedicated to keeping the SuicideGirls.com community abreast (hey-o!) of the Courts important decisions, argument schedule and whatever else is relevant for that particular week. As always, a record of the opinions published by the Court can be found on their website here.
Justice Ginsberg is Every Woman. Its All in Her.
Ruth Bader Ginsberg is a very distinguished jurist who has made a long history of staunchly left-leaning votes mixed in with a genteel aura. Always polite, never combative even with her polar opposites on the bench. Heck, Ive even heard tales about subtle flirtations that go on between her and Nino Scalia. Shes a powerful arbiter of our rights and a dogged defender of personal freedoms, but shes also a lady, dammit.
Until this term, that is. Girlfriends on a rampage, yo.
Whatever else may be said about the Supreme Courts current term, which ends in about a month, it will be remembered as the time when Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg found her voice, and used it.
Both in the abortion case the court decided last month and the discrimination ruling it issued on Tuesday, Justice Ginsburg read forceful dissents from the bench. In each case, she spoke not only for herself but also for three other dissenting colleagues, Justices John Paul Stevens, David H. Souter and Stephen G. Breyer.
But the words were clearly her own, and they were both passionate and pointed. In the abortion case, in which the court upheld the federal Partial-Birth Abortion Ban Act seven years after having struck down a similar state law, she noted that the court was now differently composed than it was when we last considered a restrictive abortion regulation. In the latest case, she summoned Congress to overturn what she called the majoritys parsimonious reading of the federal law against discrimination in the workplace.
To read a dissent aloud is an act of theater that justices use to convey their view that the majority is not only mistaken, but profoundly wrong. It happens just a handful of times a year
The oral dissent has not been, until now, Justice Ginsburgs style. She has gone years without delivering one, and never before in her 15 years on the court has she delivered two in one term.
Some say can thank the sterling attitudes of our two newest Justices for this little burst of Girl Power.
Some might say her dissents are an expression of sour grapes over being in the minority more often than not. But there may be strategic judgment, as well as frustration, behind Justice Ginsburgs new style. She may have concluded that quiet collegiality has proved futile and that her new colleagues, Chief Justice John G. Roberts Jr. and Justice Samuel A. Alito Jr., are not open to persuasion on the issues that matter most to her.
Justice Alito, of course, took the place of Justice Sandra Day OConnor, with whom Justice Ginsburg formed a deep emotional bond, although they differed on a variety of issues. And Chief Justice Roberts succeeded Chief Justice William H. Rehnquist, with whom Justice Ginsburg often disagreed but maintained a relationship that was at times surprisingly productive.
For example, in 1996, over Justice Scalias vigorous dissent, the chief justice gave Justice Ginsburg his vote in a decision holding that the Virginia Military Institutes men-only admissions policy was unconstitutional. In 2003, they made common cause in a case that strengthened the Family and Medical Leave Act. When Justice Ginsburg criticized a Rehnquist opinion, she did so gently; todays adversary could be tomorrows ally.
If there has been any such meeting of the minds between Justice Ginsburg and her new colleagues, it has not been evident. She may have concluded that her sides interests are better served by appealing not to the courts majority but to the public. Shes sounding an alarm and wants people to take notice, said Debra L. Ness, president of the National Partnership for Women and Families, an advocacy group that focuses on the workplace.
Good. Give em Hell, sister.
Case of the Living Dead?
Claiborne v. United States
Mario Claiborne was a small-time career crack dealer who was busted selling rocks to an undercover agent. Federal sentencing guidelines provided a range of 36 to 47 months in prison. The trial judge looked at the facts and the attenuating circumstances and gave him 15 months. US federal prosecutors appealed the sentence, arguing that the judge should not have the discretion to go beneath federal guidelines in determining the length of a sentence. The Supreme Court granted certiorari. Claibornes case was briefed and argued in front of the Court in February of this year.
Then while awaiting the Courts opinion, Claiborne died. Bad news for him, but also bad news for his attorneys. Normally, when a criminal defendant dies while his case is on appeal, the appeal is dismissed for constitutional reasons and reasons of judicial economy. In this case, it could leave a lot of folks with a lot of unanswered questions.
Michael Dwyer, assistant federal public defender in the Eastern District of Missouri, on Friday filed a motion asking the Court either to go ahead and decide the Claiborne case as presented, or to grant expedited review of another case from Dwyer's office involving the same Guidelines question. The alternative case suggested is Beal v. U.S. (docket 06-8498) -- like Claiborne, from the Eighth Circuit Court. The Supreme Court considered the Beal case at a Conference in February, but took no action on it, apparently intending to hold it until after it had decided Claiborne. Mario Claiborne's death in a shooting incident in St. Louis on Wednesday has raised the question of what the Court would do with the case, and the issue.
Dwyer contended in his motion that "the close similarity of the facts and decisions of the districts courts and appellate panels in Claiborne and Beal makes the latter case an efficient and effective vehicle to resolve the urgent issues presented in Claiborne. Because of his representation of Claiborne, the Federal Public Defender for the Eastern District of Missouri could expeditiously prepare Beal for briefing and argument."
Most commentators seem to think that Dwyers motion to convince the court to decide Claiborne has little chance of success, but they might buy his argument to substitute another case in its stead. Dwyers motion can be found here and the Solicitor Generals response can be found here.
Smile, Justice Souter! Youre On Candid Camera!
If youre like me, youve always wanted to be inside the Supreme Court while a case was being argued. Maybe Im over-romanticizing it, but it would seem to me that there could be no more dramatic setting in American government than one where rulings that will shape our nations laws for years to come. It would be riveting. Like Law and Order or Boston Legal, but for real.
I dunno. Maybe Im just a law geek, but I know Im not the only one who feels this way. Senator Arlen Specter agrees with me enough that hes introduced a bill that would open the Supreme Courts oral arguments to television cameras. The bill is receiving widespread support by watchdog groups and government accountability organizations. Unfortunately, the Justices themselves are not such big fans of the idea.
By way of background, the current Justices have widely opposed televising their public proceedings over the years, perhaps none more famously than David H. Souter, who testified before Congress that any cameras entering the Court would have to roll over my dead body. In general, opponents offer four main arguments against televised coverage. First, they fear the medias obsession with sound bites will lead to snippets from oral argument being taken out of context and unreflective of the true issues before the court. Second, opponents say the presence of cameras could lead to grandstanding by the advocates or even the Justices themselves. Third, opponents say televising oral arguments would demean the legal problems if not jeopardize the due process rights of parties before the court. Fourth, they say increased visual exposure could jeopardize the Justices safety.
Not mentioned above is a fifth reason why they dont like this idea: Justice Scalia is worried that the camera will add ten pounds.
Interestingly enough, the problem with the Justices arguments is that there doesnt seem to be enough actual law to them. Until now, perhaps.
The blogosphere has been treated in recent days to a group of law professors of varying ideological preferences pronouncing it within Congress' constitutional powers (some even said "well within") to compel the Supreme Court to allow television coverage of oral arguments. Despite diligent searching, none of those academics has located a precedent that settles the matter, although a few cases have been mentioned suggestively. There is a brand-new lower court precedent, though, that makes the point that inter-branch modesty remains a virtue -- that is, there is a public good in avoiding meddling in another branch's inner workings.
The ruling came in Public Citizen v. U.S. District Court, released on Tuesday by the D.C. Circuit Court in Washington (docket 06-5232). It has to do with the avoidance of judicial meddline with legislative prerogative, and thus is not directly on point in the current debate about Congress' power to tell the Justices how to run their public sessions. But there is a constitutional principle here, and that may well have some relevance.
The Circuit court opinion in Public Citizen can be found here.
Subrosa would like thank KUNGFOO for the column-name suggestion.
Wil Wheaton's Geek in Review: The Big Goodbye
Last week, I went to Paramount to film some host wraps for the Star Trek:TNG DVD documentary, and discovered that the old cliché is true: you can't go home again, especially when your home has been torn down and replaced with sets for a Farrelly Brothers movie.
It wasn't the first time I'd been to Paramount since Wesley Crusher turned into a magic ball of light and floated out into the galaxy to fight crime and save amusement parks from evil developers with The Traveler. In Just A Geek, I wrote,
I found myself at the Melrose Avenue guard shack, half-an-hour early for my 8:30 a.m. call time.
"ID, please." The guard said.
I pulled my driver's license out of my wallet and gave it to him.
"And where are you going today . . . " he looked at my license. "Wil?"
"I'm working on Star Trek." I said.
"Enterprise or Nemesis?"
The Next Generation, I thought.
"Nemesis," I said. "I play Wesley Crusher."
He looked up at me. "Oh my god. You are Wesley Crusher! You look so . . ."
Washed up?
". . . grown up."
"Yeah," I said, "it's been a long time."
"Do you know where to park?"
"Yeah. But I don't know where our dressing rooms are."
But I do! I do know where our dressing rooms are! They're trailers on the street in front of stages 8 and 9. Mine is filled with Warhammer 40K figures and GURPS books. It's right next to Brent's trailer. It's 1989, and I'm back. I'm back home.
When I worked on Nemesis several years ago, returning to Paramount to put on the uniform and immerse myself if only for a day in Wesley Crusher's goofy grin and wide-eyed excitement (I wrote at the time that I couldn't tell where Wesley ended and I began) it was an emotional experience. I felt genuine regret for not appreciating Star Trek more when I was on the series every day, which morphed into a general regret that when I was a teenager, I acted like . . . a teenager. Some of Just A Geek is about this, and the catharsis that came from writing it is a large reason why I was able to accept and embrace my small role in the Star Trek universe.
I went to Paramount last week to go onto our old stages and walk a camera crew through the Guardian of Forever into 1987. I didn't expect it to be particularly emotional. I was wrong.
I live in a different part of town now, and while it's faster to go through Silverlake and across Beverly, I wanted to put myself in a place where I'd be most receptive to emotional sense memories, so I added twenty minutes to my drive and went down the 2, up the 5, across Los Feliz and down Western before cutting across Sunset to Van Ness. I took this route every single day, once I got my driver's license (and a license plate frame on my Prelude that said "My other car is the Enterprise" awesome), and at one time could probably do it with my eyes closed. I told my iPod to shuffle my '80s Alternative playlist, and after an hour of Boingo, Depeche Mode, OMD, Squeeze and The Smiths, I was, as they say, really feeling it when I pulled up to the guard gate on Melrose.
I turned down Only a Lad and rolled down my window. "Hi," I said, "I'm Wil Wheaton, and I'm going to Stage 24 for the Star Trek documentary."
The guard, who was probably in elementary school when I was piloting the Enterprise, nodded.
"May I see your ID, sir?"
Though I'm sir to a lot of people these days, it was bizarre to hear it in a place where I was used to being The Kid or The Boy. I pulled it out of my wallet and handed it to him.
"Okay, you're all set, Mr. Wheaton." He said. "Just pull up to the valet there. I'm sure you know your way around here?"
I smiled. "Yeah, I do."
He handed me back my ID and leaned down toward me.
"We're not supposed to do this, but I'm a big fan," he said, conspiratorially. With anyone who really was a big deal in Hollywood, he was probably risking his job.
"Really?" I said. "You seem a little young for TNG."
He grinned. "Not Star Trek, your blog."
This took me completely by surprise. I don't think that my blog has been anything special recently. I'm so unhappy with it that I've frequently considered putting it on hiatus for a few months.
"That," I said, "is totally awesome. Thank you."
He smiled and then looked over his shoulder at the other guards. He turned back to me, nodded tersely, and waved me onto the lot.
I traded my car for an orange ticket with some numbers on it and headed toward stage 24. A few minutes later, I walked past the Hart building, where TNG's writers and our fearless leader Gene Roddenberry lived while I was on the series. I stopped for a minute and looked at what had been Gene's first-story office window. I was hit by a rapid-fire montage of all the times when I walked past that window and he called me in for a visit. I looked at the empty spot on the sidewalk where Gene's golf cart used to be the same one I frequently got in trouble for racing around the backlot. I felt the first of many tugs at my heart.
Oh boy. This is going to be one of those days, I thought, as I pulled myself back into the present and walked to stage 24 to meet the crew.
"Glad you could make it, Wil," the producer said, as my eyes adjusted from the brilliance of the day to the darkness of the empty stage.
"Me too," I said.
I looked around for a moment. Something about this place was incredibly familiar.
"Hey, you know what I just realized? I shot Family Ties here right before I started Star Trek."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I was cast as Tina Yothers' boyfriend. I only did one episode before I booked TNG, but the word on the street at the time was that Gary David Goldberg was going to write me in as a recurring character before I went into outer space." I said. "And, uh, the future."
The stage was completely empty, except for a couple of work lights and the bleachers where audiences once sat. This stage, once filled with laughter and the energy of filming "live, before a studio audience," was now little more than an empty room. My whole life, I've been in love with the magic that goes into creating the suspended disbelief of movies and television, but it wasn't until I stood in that empty stage that I fully appreciated the effort that went into transforming 12,000 square feet of soundstage into the Keaton's lives for eight years.
"So I thought we'd head over toward stage 9," the producer said to me, "and we'll shoot our host wraps in there."
"Wait." I said. "You mean we get to walk into stage 9?"
"Don't get too excited," He said, " there's nothing left from Trek in there."
Though I knew that there was no way they'd preserve our sets for twenty years, and though I knew that someone else would eventually move into our stages, just as we'd moved into the original series' stages, I still felt a little sad.
"Nothing at all?" I said. It was a stupid question. Of course there wouldn't be anything there. But like a kid who just learned that Darth Vader was just a guy in a suit, or that KITT didn't really talk, I had to ask again, just to be sure I hadn't somehow misunderstood the cold hard reality.
"They're building sets for some reshoots on a Farrelly Brothers movie," he said, "So we'll just shoot outside." I was struck by how blasé he was, which also shouldn't have surprised me. How could I expect anyone else in the world to have the same emotional attachment to those stages as I did?
"Well . . . okay," I said.
The crew got the camera and sound equipment together and loaded it on a cart that looked heavy and awkward.
"Do you know a fast and preferably easy way to get over there from here?" the camera man asked me.
I couldn't suppress a smile. "Yeah. I do."
Next Week - Journey's End:
"Everything okay?" The producer said to me.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm just overwhelmed by a sadness right now that I can't really explain."
"I understand," he said. "This happens whenever we work with someone from Next Generation. I don't know what it was about you guys, but every single one of you loved each other and remembers working on the show very fondly."
"I didn't know that," I said around a lump in my throat. "I thought it was just me. But I'm not surprised. I . . . really miss those guys."
Wil Wheaton is going to Reseda, someday, to die.
"Addiction" on HBO
HBO is beginning a series on addiction this week which looks really interesting. The "centerpiece documentary" airs on Thursday the 15th from 9-10:30, and there are13 other independent documentaries on various aspects of addiction airing subsequently. They've collaborated with the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation and the National Institutions of Drug and Alcohol Abuse in putting together the series, so it should be pretty informative. There's also a really spiffy-looking companion site where--and this is the reason I'm announcing this--HBO is going to make all fourteen films available for free "immediately following the premiere."
Free, informative documentaries: cool.
Bitch_PhD doesn't have cable tv.
Comets On Fire Featured in Swedish TV Documentary
A Swedish televison show, Musikbyrån, is airing a 30-minute documentary this month about the current San Francisco Psych-Rock scene. Featured bands are Comets On Fire, Six Organs of Admittance, Brightblack Morning Light, and Howlin' Rain among others. The show is a gorgeous tour of San Francisco with the featured bands as the viewer's guides. The bands' share their own portrait of the city and their music scene through concert footage, videos and interviews.The show was first aired this past weekend in Sweden and will be making its rounds in Europe throughout the month. For the rest of the world, it can also be viewed online, here (when the page opens click the red "play" button by the words Se om senaste programmetthen choose program: 061124, select type of player and enjoy!). The show is mostly in English with Swedish subtitles and is highly recommended viewing!
(Screen-shot from documentary of Ben Chasny of Six Organs of Admittance and Comets On Fire)
Recommended Listening:
Comets On Fire, "The Antlers of the Midnight" MP3
Comets On Fire, "Dogwood Rust" MP3
The Truth About the Fall TV Lineup
Thanks to 411mania.com, we finally have a guide that puts this fall's television lineup into perspective. Check out the new shows in order by night, with cast lists that read "the guy from Office Space" and "John Ritter's son."
photo location
Don't Touch That Dial! People Are Touching Themselves
Forget Shark Week. In what could be the best programming stunt ever, Channel 4 in the U.K. is planning a weeklong series of shows dedicated to... masturbation.
"Wank Week" will celebrate the favorite activity of many (most?) of us. The highlight of the week will be a documentary on the U.K.'s first "masturbate-a-thon" competition.
In what must surely be one of the summer's more bizarre events, hundreds of people are expected to gather in a hall in central London on August 5 to pleasure themselves in aid of charity.
Prizes will be on offer for those who clock up the most orgasms and those who can masturbate the longest - the current record, according to the organisers, is a chafing eight-and-a-half hours.
The wank-a-thon is organized by the San Francisco-based Center for Sex and Culture, which is using the event to raise money for safe sex groups.
Channel 4 executive Andrew MacKenzie seems confident this will be a ratings-grabber.
"Following on from the success of 'Penis week', we feel this is exactly the type of provocative and mischievous programming that Channel 4 should be covering in the 11pm slot."
Right now someone at Fox is taking notes.
Official wank-a-thon logo