Guess what time we ate dinner tonight? Why, 8:30, which I think reclassifies it as “supper.” It couldn’t be helped — those weird bands of snow squalls that killed three people on I-75 in the morning continued all day. One minute you’d look out the window and it would be a regular old boring winter day, and the next it would be a spinning whiteout. A night to stay in, but Alan and Kate didn’t. (Bass lesson.) Hence, a late dinner.
Roast chicken, mashed potatoes and Mark Bittman’s spicy-sweet green beans. Pretty good feed for a snowy night.
The best thing I saw today was this, a Conor Friedersdorf piece on the problem with conservative cultural criticism. Roy Edroso has gone into this at some length, working from the assumption it’s difficult to consider art critically when you see it as merely another opportunity to propagandize. (I’m not going to look up links, sorry.) Truth be told, the one thing I tend to avoid, in political journals at both ends of the spectrum, is the arts coverage. The New Republic has had some good critics over the years, but ever since I sprained my eyes rolling them over a piece about “The Untouchables” in the Nation or one of those, I haven’t bothered.
It sounds like nothing much has changed:
There isn’t anything wrong with lamenting the effect songs like “Sex Room” might have on teens hearing it at their first dance. But how absurd to reduce rap to Ludacris and Sir Mix-a-Lot. And how impossibly, comically uninformed to assert that the entire genre is bereft of “human feeling.” Did the right learn nothing from its panicked, reductive reaction to Elvis Presley and the Beatles?
Friedersdorf is describing a National Review podcast featuring Mark Steyn, Jay Nordlinger and that old waste of space, Mona Charen. At one point they wonder why Kids These Days aren’t interested in the old standards. To which one can only say: Sheesh.
Much more amusing, in a good way, was the end of “30 Rock.” In honor of its last episode, a glossary of all seven years. I’d forgotten about many of these.
Oh weekend! Let me fall into your arms. I have plumb run out of gas.