Oh, look, Eric Rudolph is sorry — at least a little bit:
Convicted serial bomber Eric Robert Rudolph apologized Monday to his victims and their families for his 1996 bombing of Centennial Olympic Park, in which one person died and more than 100 were wounded.
He did not apologize for any of his other attacks, including the bombing of a family planning clinic.
Because they deserved it, the baby-killers. Also, some of them were gay and were probably going to get all gay-married and stuff. Those folks at Olympic park might have been pro-life, just like Eric.
I hope he enjoys eating hot dogs with Terry Nichols. I bet he’s a fun lunch date.
Well, someone’s feeling testy today, eh?
You might say. En route to looking up something else, I found this page from an Islamic swimwear catalog. It’ll give you an idea what “freedom” will look like for women in the new, improved Iraq. Why, some of those sluts are showing their feet! And what’s with those drawstring-waist tunics? Don’t they know the barest suggestion of a female form can drive a man to madness?
Better to burka the lot of ’em, just to be safe.
A bunch o’ bloggage today, I fear, and little else. I was busy, or at least preoccupied:
A moment of silence — and then many more, please — for Dr. Robert Moog, inventor of the synthesizer that bears his name, who died Sunday. Alan hates Emerson, Lake and Palmer, in fact cursed their name just the other day, in his own mild-mannered way: “For one horrible moment I thought they were playing ELP, but it was something else.” I saw them in concert in college, and I remember two things about it — Keith Emerson looked pretty cool in leather pants, and Mark Brunswick did a hilarious impersonation of him later in the student newspaper office, using a typewriter, a Coke machine and a wire-service terminal.
Ah, electronic music. I came of age when it did, and never thought much of it, from “Switched-on Bach” to Kraftwerk. When I think of Yes, I smell marijuana — the two are that closely linked in my mind, from years of sitting in someone’s airless dorm room, forbidden to talk while Rick Wakeman’s “Journey to the Center of the Earth” played on the stereo. After a few listenings, I could imitate David Hemmings pretty well: “Voices, voices, voices, they heard voices,” but no one ever wanted to hear it. Maybe, if we were lucky, we’d get an encore of “Long Distance Runaround” or “Roundabout,” during which we could perhaps murmur in quiet conversation, because it wasn’t quite so deep, lyrically: In and around the lake, mountains come out of the sky and they STAND THERRRRRRRE.
You know, it’s amusing for a while, but as Diane Keaton says in “Manhattan,” you get over it.
A few months ago a TV station in New York fired a reporter for getting caught, on an open mic, cursing at some idiots trying to disrupt his live shot. I’d be interested in hearing from any TV journalists who’ve had to deal with situations like this, in which a guy mooned a live shot, unbeknownst to the reporter.
I think it’s pretty funny, myself, but then, I think 90 percent of all local-TV live shots are fairly stupid: Yes, Bill and Monica, I’m standing on a street corner where, a mere five hours ago, a man was shot. Everyone has gone home now — really they went home about four and a half hours ago — but you can see that the corner remains, and I am standing on it. What? What moon? I know of no moon…
Coincidentally, the station in question, WBNS-TV, has a history of live-shot hijinks. One reporter lost his upper plate during a report a few years ago, and not long ago, an anchor was caught on camera flipping the bird, on the set. Must be something in the contracts.
Finally, summer is definitely on its way out. The temps today barely cracked 70, and the light is growing sort of autumnal. I could write a mournful few hundred words about it, but I’ll save that for September.