Since talk radio, cable TV news, and the blogosphere are all abuzz about the New Yorker's latest cartoon cover, allow me to throw my two cents in. Contrary to what some commentators are saying, the cover illustration showing the Obamas as fist-bumping terrorists who have "infiltrated" the oval office is satire and is funny. It is a direct (and amazingly obvious, though to some, such as Thom Hartmann, it isn't) satire on the racism of the American public and those media engines (such as Fox News) which stoke it. Apparently, some feel that unless the very target of the satire is not featured clearly in the text, then it can't function as satire. Or as Thom puts it, unless you have a toothless yokel holding a bottle of moonshine imagining the scene in a thought balloon, it can't be satire. He, in fact, sees this as nothing more than a racist caricature, on par with offensive images such as depictions of "little black Sambo" or the Coon's Chicken logo. I beg to differ. The cover's satire clearly is not an attempt to peddle the racist accusations and stereotypes that have dogged the Obamas but to illustrate their patent absurdity. No intelligent, liberal New Yorker reader is going to view the cover as anti-Obama propaganda, nor will he or she suddenly be persuaded to vote McCain because of what it depicts. Likewise, no McCain supporter who would read the New Yorker (if there are such types) could possibly take the cover seriously. Any dunderhead who finds his way to this cover art and believes it to be either an honest attempt to bash the Obamas or an honest claim about what the Obamas stand for is not likely to be an Obama voter in the first place or even a voter! If anything, the cover will serve as an excellent talking-point opportunity to further clarify who Barack Obama is and what he and his family are all about, since, unfortunately the rumors of their being America-hating Muslims and extremists still abound. That the media are all abuzz with this issue serves the Obamas well, in fact. Over the next few months, every racist jackass in the country will be bashing Barack Obama; this cover will serve to disarm at least some of them.
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So, before you pick up that phone and cancel your New Yorker subscription, relax and take a moment to reflect on these five marvels that Allah, the compassionate, the merciful, in His infinite grace has bestowed upon us: (1) Hammer horror films. Since I was a child, these full-blooded, full-bosomed, supernatural thrillers have warped my fragile little mind. In a good way. (2) Unagi (eel sushi). I'm craving it as I write. (3) Thomas Kemper sodas. Especially root beer, blackberry, and orange cream (the latter takes me back to grade school and those two-toned ice-cream cups of vanilla and orange--mmmmm!) (4) Daniel Craig as James Bond. Being a life-long Connery fan, I could scarcely conceive of a blond haired, blue-eyed, non-broguing Bond . When Craig debuted (to a chorus of jeering by die-hards) he made the role his own like no one else has done since Connery. He gave it a much needed blood transfusion after two and half decades of fumbling about. Craig's a Bond to be reckoned with--steely-eyed, ruggedly handsome, hard-bodied, powerful, smart (but still a little reckless), and most importantly, vulnerable. You punch him, he bruises and bleeds. You break his heart, he cries. You pound a knotted rope against his balls, he screams in pain. But when you cross him, expect to pay dearly. (5) The voice of British folk singer Ewan MacColl, especially when he does sea-chanteys, Child ballads, and other traditional music. The record series he made with Peggy Seeger, The Long Harvest, was my first introduction to him. His wild, crackling, nasal delivery is, I confess, an acquired taste and not for the faint-hearted, but vastly entertaining if you dig such things. And I do.
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Here's Ian, who also likes Ewan MacColl (or so I have interpreted from certain phrases in his babble):
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