SCREEDS TO LIVE BY: Krugman, Indiana, Christgau

Since it opened, “Fahrenheit 9/11” has been a hit in both blue and red America, even at theaters close to military bases. Last Saturday, Dale Earnhardt Jr. took his Nascar crew to see it. The film’s appeal to working-class Americans, who are the true victims of George Bush’s policies, should give pause to its critics, especially the nervous liberals rushing to disassociate themselves from Michael Moore…


Paul Krugman on Moore in today’s Times


————————————————————————


…Regarding My Life itself, it is long. Yes. While I doubt that any of the reviewers who have disparagingly compared it to the memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant have ever actually read the latter, I also doubt that they have read the former. Say what you will about Clinton, but he is one of the few U.S. presidents since Grant to have written a book by himself. While reading it I often wished someone else had written it for him, since he clearly has a tin ear and little sense of what to include and what to leave out. All the same, it’s impossible to actually read this book without missing Clinton, for unlike his predecessor and his successor, the Spook and the Born-Again Cokehead/Booze Hound, he isn’t mean-spirited, homophobic, racist, or idiotic, never confuses himself with Jesus Christ, and even when putting annoying people in their place, does it with a light touch. “Unfortunately, my relationship with Bill Bennett didn’t fare well after I became President and he began promoting virtue for a living.” “Vice-President Dan Quayle said he intended to be the ‘pit bull terrier’ of the election campaign. When asked about it, I said Quayle’s claim would strike terror into the heart of every fire hydrant in America.” Clinton is even gracious to Barbara Bush, a vicious old bag in pearl sets who could’ve given Angela Lansbury notes for her role in The Manchurian Candidate…


Gary Indiana on Clinton’s MY LIFE in the Voice.


————————————————————————


Also,


Dud of the Month


WILCO

A Ghost Is Born (Nonesuch)


Not counting the 11-minute synth drone that Jeff Tweedy says reminds him of his migraines, the most blatant of the mannerisms that riddle this privileged self-indulgence is its dynamic strategy. Play the soft parts loud enough to hear and the loud parts will demonstrate the limitations of your cheapjack sound system, you pathetic transistorized consumer clone. Fortunately, there is a counterstrategy. Play the soft parts as faintly as they deserve and you’ll still be able to make out the guitar workouts that are the only conceivable attraction the album will hold for any neutral party not seeking an associate degree in sound engineering. Once Tweedy wrote legible songs. They didn’t add up to much because he didn’t, but they had their shallow charms. Here he’s beyond such compromises. “Handshake Drugs” we get, and the NPR-ready one about the best songs not getting on the radio is a clever feint. But it’s hard to imagine any of the suckers who fell for the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot hype striving to identify with, say, “Muzzle of Bees.” Not impossible. Just hard. B MINUS…


Robert Christgau lets Tweedy off easy.