Word: spans
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...YORK—I’ve developed a strange addiction to watching C-SPAN after midnight. I used to only watch Manhattan public access when I got the after-twelve TV craving—specifically “Spic ’n’ Spanish,” the saga of Big Al, a young Puerto Rican man who goes clubbing Monday-Sunday in pursuit of a perfectly shaped female ass to capture on his camcorder. Which of course, he’ll never find. No, instead Big Al has all sorts of other adventures, chasing women down...
...SPAN was not so predictable a development. It started with the House of Commons, the British men in crisp suits bellowing and sweating in the clear colors of Channel 24. They would yell and debate and point and lose their tempers—granted, over referendums in counties I’d never heard of, or over rights to voting procedures which I’d also never heard of. I am slowly learning, in bits and pieces, about Ireland and the rocky relationship of England to the EU—but more than that, parliamentary TV is entertaining. It?...
...issue for the fellow who referred to prisoners at Guantanamo Bay as “the bad guys,” takes some kind of pleasure in the death penalty (which he affectionately calls watching a man fry). He doesn’t, of course, appear on C-SPAN. He doesn’t say enough to fill a sound bite, and certainly not to fill the hour-long slots. No, I watch the House of Representatives Ways and Means Committee, the Senate Committee on Aging and the full House on that charming night when the Republicans called the police...
...away, the most addictive programming on C-SPAN was the FCC hearings. I watched Lewis Dickey, chair of Cumulus Entertainment—a villain in the classical mold, clear blue eyes and smug jaw—say that he did not force his local affiliates to ban the Dixie Chicks, that he called them and told them to do it, but it was something that they would have wanted to do anyway. I, of course, at 1:30 in a pitch black night, dressed in an oversized striped T-shirt and lounging on the couch drinking cranberry juice, heckle...
...tenure is now alive again. I’ve feel as though I have found a secret path into politics, a path which leads me to the human element, shows me the off-the-cuff bits which land somewhere on commercial cutting room floors. In short, C-SPAN is a way around the glossy sheen of Bush’s and Rumsfeld’s incessant deflection, a way around the incessant talking heads who spout the party line 23 hours a day. It is a bit of the truth, a bit of the voyeur, and if nothing else...