Note: This chart is cropped to conserve space. The baseline is 40% and not 0%. Click for larger version.

That’s a plot of 14 presidential approval surveys since 2001 began. As we head into the State of the Union, Bush‘s approval numbers are headed for an all-time low.

The reason is obvious: it’s the economy, stupid. As the Dow and S&P sink to 3-month lows, one would be wise to ask if a pro-business Republican president really is the best thing for the economy. Because he isn’t.

Democrats, it turns out, are much better for the stock market than Republicans. Slate ran the numbers and found that since 1900, Democratic presidents have produced a 12.3 percent annual total return on the S&P 500, but Republicans only an 8 percent return. In 2000, the Stock Trader’s Almanac, which slices and dices Wall Street performance figures like baseball stats, came up with nearly the same numbers (13.4 percent versus 8.1 percent) by measuring Dow price appreciation. (Most of the 20th century’s bear markets, incidentally, have been Republican bear markets: the Crash of ’29, the early ’70s oil shock, the ’87 correction, and the current stall occurred under GOP presidents.) — The Democractic Dividend, Slate.com

Now we need a good Democrat candidate to step up and articulate this message. Sadly, at the moment that’s as hard to find as an Enron indictment. (Note: both of the above based on material from DailyKos, which might just make it into my daily reading routine.)

(This entry was changed 29 Jan 03 at 00:13. A cutline was added to the chart for clarity.)

And, again, if you’re waiting for the smoking gun, the problem is when you see the smoke coming out of the gun it’s too late, the damage has been done.

That’s press secretary Ari Fleischer in Monday’s White House press briefing. It all sounds good, but unless you’ve got the pre-cogs from Minority Report on your side, it’s not smart to act without evidence — and we just haven’t been given any.

The unprecedented stance for a pre-emptive strike the government has taken can best be summed up as “guilty until proven innocent.” It’s an awful way for the world’s sole remaining superpower to behave. We must have a clear, consistent standard. And we must have proof.

Tomorrow, Mr. Bush will do his master‘s bidding in his address to the nation. With any luck, the writing will be better in the State of the Union than in Saturday’s radio address (“Our nation faces many great challenges all at once.”)

Even if that’s the case, don’t expect any real justification for war with Iraq. The usual crumbs about flouting U.N. regulations will no doubt be trotted out, but you won’t find any parallels with states for which we have evidence of a program to develop weapons of mass destruction. (You remember North Korea, right? That would be the country that Bush labeled as part of the “axis of evil” in last year’s SotU.)

So if Bush won’t tell us why he wants so badly to invade (other than the polls, which I’ll cover tomorrow) then perhaps we should turn to Iraqi oil to stave off crisis”>The Observer:

Facing its most chronic shortage in oil stocks for 27 years, the US has this month turned to an unlikely source of help – Iraq.

Weeks before a prospective invasion of Iraq, the oil-rich state has doubled its exports of oil to America, helping US refineries cope with a debilitating strike in Venezuela.

After the loss of 1.5 million barrels per day of Venezuelan production in December the oil price rocketed, and the scarcity of reserves threatened to do permanent damage to the US oil refinery and transport infrastructure. To keep the pipelines flowing, President Bush stopped adding to the 700m barrel strategic reserve.

But ultimately oil giants such as Chevron, Exxon, BP and Shell saved the day by doubling imports from Iraq from 0.5m barrels in November to over 1m barrels per day to solve the problem. Essentially, US importers diverted 0.5m barrels of Iraqi oil per day heading for Europe and Asia to save the American oil infrastructure.

The trade, though bizarre given current Pentagon plans to launch around 300 cruise missiles a day on Iraq, is legal under the terms of UN‘s oil for food programme.

But for opponents of war, it shows the unspoken aim of military action in Iraq, which has the world’s second largest proven reserves – some 112 billion barrels, and at least another 100bn of unproven reserves, according to the US Department of Energy. Iraqi oil is comparatively simple to extract – less than $1 per barrel, compared with $6 a barrel in Russia. Soon, US and British forces could be securing the source of that oil as a priority in the war strategy. The Iraqi fields south of Basra produce prized ‘sweet crudes’ that are simpler to refine.

Fucking hilarious video [:07 MPG, 363k] from an informercial’s site. Quite possibly the best product demonstration ever, and all the better if your player defaults to automatic rewind and replay. (The site also boasts the best-ever before & after photo.)

But please, ladies, if you’re thinking about buying the product (and why would you? you look great!) may I suggest a more lasting solution? Or at the very least a cheaper one?

Easily the most traditional of the four movies we saw on Saturday, Hour is saved from cliché by the presence of Spike Lee at the helm. The movie’s riffs on New York (not actually in the book, B tells me, though the same writer penned the screenplay) are particularly interesting given this is Lee’s first real post-WTC film.

The addition of talented actors such as Ed Norton and Philip Seymour Hoffman can only add to the film’s appeal, but there’s not that much to start with. There’s not so much a plot as a snapshot of relationships: Ed and his girlfriend, his father, his friends, his city. These are occasionally compelling, but there’s no escaping the fact that none of these people are particularly good or even honorable. That’s not necessarily an indictment, but this is: I’m not even sure that they’re interesting.

Pedro Almodóvar is one wacky guy. I’ve seen several of his films, including ¡Átame!, Todo sobre mi madre, and La Ley del deseo, and my reaction is always the same: wow, that was weird…but I liked it.

Talk to Her is no different. Suffice to say the ‘her’ in question is a woman in a coma and you begin to get the idea that this film is far from the beaten path. But even that is not the most eyebrow-raising element. That distinction would have to go to the sex scene, which I would put against any movie I’ve seen as the weirdest (and most hilarious) ever.

There’s just nothing like an Almodóvar film. Just go see it. (If you don’t end up liking it, you probably need to loosen up.)

Another film about outcast groups, this one tells the true story of half Aborigine, half “white” children (known as “half-caste”) and the Australian government‘s effort to “breed” them white. (An effort that didn’t end until 1970.) Much like The Pianist, it is a story of discrimination — and determination.

The movie follows three girls named Molly, Daisy and Gracie after they were forcibly taken from their mothers and placed in a school to “civilise” them. The three girls — Molly, the oldest, in particular — decide to set off on a 1,500-mile journey to return home. On foot.

I marvelled at this movie. Molly’s sheer will and cleverness was nearly as amazing as the government’s arrogance (represented smoothly by Kenneth Branagh) in its wish to “save them from themselves.”

A very good film about a very brutal time in the world’s history. Fascinating to watch as the film maintains a certain nobility, even while the protagonist slips into a feral pseudo-existence.

Every time I see films about the period, the tiny incremental details (forbidden to enter the park, use the benches, walk on the sidewalk) of the discrimination against Jews, the banal practicality of it all, hits me hard. The brutality is incomprehensible.

I had a personal response as I watched people being lined up and selected seemingly at random for slaughter. Though I’m not Jewish and could probably avoid the pink triangle if I chose to lie, it’s frightening to me to think that if I ever were “rounded up” in such a group, my height would guarantee I would get far too much unwelcome attention. It would end badly.

The Pianist reminds us of our humanity, just as it reminds us that we must be ever-vigilant against tyranny. Let the words “Never again” be our motto forevermore.

Well, Brandon liked it.

89 seconds of good editing. (QuickTime, 6.1M)

I’ve been very interested in the trends surrounding the music industry the last few months. A great article in Wired covers the current state of affairs very nicely. Snippet:

To leap the hurdles posed by digital technology, the industry must find a way to make money selling downloaded music on a per-track basis, allow in-store CD burning, slash recording costs with cheap software and hardware, and change artists’ contracts to reflect the new economic reality. Doing any one of these will be next to impossible. Doing all of them would be one of the more amazing turnarounds in business history.

While these systemic challenges continue to press the labels, a few more articles provide context. In Canadians Burned By Blank-CD Levy, the writer tells us that more than 40 countries add a fee to the price of blank CDs, to “compensate musicians and music publishing companies” for music swapping. In Canada, this means you can legally copy a friend’s CD.

But if that seems like a method that works, consider: the levy will increase tenfold if the 2003 proposal is approved, and to this day not a single cent has been distributed from the fund. (Not to mention people who buy CD-Rs without using them for music; some surveys put this number at half of all CD-R purchasers.)

Back in the States, the RIAA was successful in its bid to force an ISP to give up a file trader’s name without a court order. Yet another example of the terrible law we call the Digital Millennium Copryight Act: stripped of any burden of due process, large companies can now move to identify anyone they wish to interrogate.

Come to think of it, what do they plan to send to that KaZaA user, anyway? A cease-and-desist letter? An invoice, as has been used to some success in Denmark? Wasn’t it always said/assumed that the companies would never go after consumers directly? The recording industry’s announcement of their plan to hold ISPs more accountable seems more their style: levy invisible, mandatory fees indirectly on the consumer to preserve their business models.

Perhaps someday the average consumer will get so sick of it all that (s)he will look for a clear, reasonable copyright policy that doesn’t assume every Internet user is a criminal.

I’m not holding my breath.

Going in to this movie, I knew precisely two things about it: 1) it was shot on DV, and 2) it sold for $5m at a festival.

I’m not prepared to say they overpaid, but the foremost thought I had after leaving was, simply: Wow, did that look awful. The story — a sort of Rushmore Lite thing about an erudite youth and his love for an older woman — was serviceable, and Sigourney Weaver and “Lilith” are certainly sophisticated, compelling women.

But why did they have to look so bad?

In the movie Bed of Roses, (which I actually rented in exchange for a free Alanis Morissette CD — don’t ask) Christian Slater decides to become a flower deliveryman, as then everyone would always be happy to see him.

I can’t remember a time I’ve ever gotten flowers, but I feel the same way towards package companies. If my slumber must be disturbed at some unholy hour (*cough* 11:10 *cough*) then at least I get a big box out of the deal. (In this case it was a computer peripheral, so double nerd bonus.)

The evening began like any other: I went to Des Moines to see Nickelby, and drove back at a leisurely pace of 70mph. Things were fine until about 10 o’clock, just a few miles from the Ames exit on 35. At that point, there was a huge bang: my left rear tire.

The car limped to the shoulder and I assessed my options. As luck would have it, I had neglected to grab either my gloves or cellular phone on the way out. With the temperature at a brisk 2°F with windchill, those omissions were seeming less than smooth. I checked my wallet and confirmed my AAA card expired four days ago, so my plan to siphon enough gas to spell out the letters ‘CALL AAA’ and set it afire was out.

So it was time to consult the manual. After flipping through the first few pages, which inexplicably gave me the history of the oPPBuick Motor Division (maker of cars that are “SUBSTANTIAL”, “DISTINCTIVE”, “POWERFUL”, and “MATURE”) I found the page giving me instructions on what to do in case of a flat. First I was to pull over to level ground (bummer if you get a flat in the mountains, I guess) and “everything you’ll need is in the trunk.”

I popped the trunk — light was out, natch — and lifted some stuff out to uncover the tire flap. Except, hello, what’s this? An aerosol-ish can labeled Gold Eagle Tire Inflator & Sealant. Now this was promising! Maybe I didn’t have to change a tire barehanded in the butt-ass cold after all. I retired to the interior of the car to read the tiny type.

Apparently, whatever they put in that junk is some sort of freaky chemical, because it comes with a little warning (“flammable”) sticker to place on the tire after you’ve used it. Naturally, freaky chemical doesn’t work when it’s below freezing, so they recommend placing the can on your heater vent (“DO NOT use a flame.”)

So I did that. Waited. Listened to bad radio music (“Waiting for Tonight.”) Waited some more.

Then I grabbed the can and shook it. The effect was something like a Slurpee that had been left in the freezer, then thawed for a brief time. I flipped the can over to read the temperature clause again and noticed the tire’s outlet should be at “5 or 7 o’clock.” Took a gander. Mine was at 12:20. I slipped the car into gear and ever, ever so gently rolled forward what I thought would be a half-revolution. 10:45. I gave it another go. 9:00. Fuck it.

By this time, of course, I became aware that I had to pee like nothing else. So I shook up the slushy super chemical, twisted that sucker on, took a look up and down the highway and disappeared down the side.

I was relieved when I came back up, but not for long. The “super” chemical wasn’t. I pushed, turned, held, pulled. Other than a few tricks of light from the passing semi-trailers, nothing doing on the ol’ tire. I threw the can — which henceforth will be known as Useless Chemical — into the trunk. Then I lifted up the tire cover and unscrewed the jack. After some groaning, it came free.

Next was the tire itself. I twisted the massive butterfly thing to a certain point, but then it would go no more. I tried throwing my weight behind it, but no luck. I decided to slip in the passenger side of the car, warm up, and regroup.

The manual was just as I remembered it: useless. The remove-the-tire stage was a single photo and caption. I put the book down in disgust. Then I noticed the high-mounted lights close in my rearview.

What was this? A helpful trucker? No, it’s a… sheriff. I got in the car of Deputy Brian T. and he ran my license just to be sure we could be friendly. Oh my, could we ever: he was pretty hot, with a clean-cut look and some nice little glasses that were working for him. “Would you like me to call a tow truck?” Brian asked, helpfully. I was digging the warmth of his car, but not so much that I was going to wuss out.

“That’s OK,” I said. “I think I’m just going to give it a go.” Okay, he said. He’d be right here to watch. I exited and went back to give the thingy another twist. It was truly going nowhere. I managed to get Brian to take a look. He bent over into the trunk (the uniform was working, too) and gave it some heave. Nothing. “It’s rusted,” Brian pronounced. “Some WD-40” would probably do the trick. Alas, there was none in his car. The “donut” was not coming out.

We repaired to the interior of his cruiser — Impala, not Crown Vic (“I guess they went with a Chevy because it’s cheaper. I like the Crown Vics, though”) — and he radioed in to “44” that the “subject” was going to need a tow. With a little time to kill, we got to chatting. Brian has two kids, 2 and 4-nearly-5. He works an 11-to-7 shift and will sleep at 7 if they have a sitter, otherwise might not be until 2:30. He’s got two radios, one that does statewide (troopers) and one regional where he can pick up Ames PD and the like. No computer, but that’s fine with him because he likes having people sit up front. That way, after awhile you can smell if they have alcohol on their breath. (Many people smoke when they drink, so it’s hard to get a reading right away.)

About this time the tow appeared, and I met J.R., a young, trim guy in a blue do-rag, Carhartt jeans and cowboy boots. J.R. (I got his name from a sewn patch on his work shirt, of course) told me I had two options: he could put on the donut “and you can still drive tonight” or he could tow it. I told him to give the temporary a try. He leaned deep into the trunk, the upper half of his lithe body tensing as he threw some weight into the twisty thing. Nothing. Some more efforts. Nope. A flashlight, a change of position. Nuh-uh. I was enjoying the view, but it wasn’t going anywhere.

J.R. tried a little kicking, but even that didn’t work. By this point, my options became one: tow the beast. So that we did. I swung up into the truck and we swung out into the lane. Deputy Brian, bless his heart, had watched us the whole time and ran interference as we re-entered the highway.

“Bye, Brian,” I said as the cruiser pulled away. “Oh, was that Brian ——?” asked J.R. It was. The two had worked together before. “He seemed like a nice guy,” I said. He is, J.R. agreed. Then, to the tune of Randy Travis‘ “A Man Ain’t Made of Stone,” we cruised to the service station. J.R. seemed to relax. We talked about his work — roughly the same hours as Brian, turns out — and then a little bit about his background. He went to ISU as ag business, got started doing the service station work part time and “I just loved it,” he said. He did a lot of partying when he was in school, he said, and all of his important learning took place outside the classroom.

Like Brian, he asked after my own studies. As with the other, I dodged the question and returned to the speaker, because both these guys were friendly, relaxed, and enjoyed what they did. It was actually refreshing, and after J.R. dropped me off at the apartment, I realized that I had genuinely enjoyed their company.

Too bad it took me a hundred bucks and two freezing hours to have it.

The reason I went to see this movie can be summed up in two words: Charlie Hunnam. I’ve had the Hartnett-level hots for the boy ever since his appearance as Nathan in the original Queer as Folk.

Given my somewhat shallow motivation, the film was a pleasant surprise. Hunnam breathes life into the virtuous Dickensian title character without making him seem insufferably nice or superior. Throw in the excellent supporting cast, including Christopher Plummer in a role that will make you forgive him for solving a problem like Maria, and you’ve got a winner.

Of course, that’s provided you don’t mind a period piece. (Personally, I love the sound of proper English well spoken.)