
Probably baby kangaroos shouldn't be called "joeys." Only an "Australian" would come up with that name.
St. George and the Godfather unleashes Norman Mailer's critical mind on the characters participating in the 1972 Democratic and Republican National Conventions. That year, the Democrats nominated South Dakota Senator George McGovern, and the Republicans took President Richard M. Nixon.

Ian Frazier, humor contributor to The New Yorker, developed a Russia fetish traveling there and, in 2010, published Travels in Siberia. This hefty travel log relays all kinds of details about Frazier's experiences with his guides, with locals, the climate, terrain, and culture. As made clear by the title, this book focuses on his times in Siberia, the massive symbol that accounts for the bulk of Russian territory (about three quarters of it). The travel-log part that makes for most of the book plodded aimlessly, and the narrative's pace stalled; the best parts relate some fascinating history lessons.
The film relies on loose eye-witness accounts from the Roosevelt's family and friends and the speculation and psychoanalysis of historical writers, such as Doris Kearns Goodwin and David McCullough, whose work sells because they dramatize history. The first episode inscribes an origin story for each future President. The narrative willingly indulges the Great Man theory, that idea that history is the result of the charisma, intelligence, and skill of the heroes and giants of the age. In the case of the Roosevelt Presidents as depicted in this documentary, both are born sickly and, merely by living, miraculously defy death. Describing baby Franklin in the arms of his mother, the narration quotes a family member who likens the pair to a Madonna with child. Rather than simply say that the family was proud of their kin, this testimony is treated as bearing some deeper insight and truth. In another segment, the narrative depicts Teddy's time in the badlands as a trial from which he emerged transformed, like Jesus returning from the desert.
In this tidy one-volume history, Pierre Goubert fairly encapsulates the social, political, and economic evolution of France, from the blurry edges of the monarchy in 987 to the present (about 1980). More fluid and narratively organized than a textbook, but too sweeping to fit neatly with most modern nonfiction historical works, The Course of French History maintains enough momentum to avoid drying out, but never approaches being a page-turner. Goubert, who has done his research, tempers and delivers his own informed judgements passively. This volume suits anyone doing independent study of French, European, or
even World History, giving you all the basics with just a taste of the details.
He established himself on the standup circuit, was an original cast member on MADtv, co-starred with Norm MacDonald in the movie "Dirty Work," and sometimes is a guest on late-night talk shows, but most people know Artie Lange from his eight years on Howard Stern's radio show. Too Fat to Fish, Lange's first autobiographical book detailing his (sur)real-life adventures, camped out defiantly on best-seller lists. In Crash and Burn, his latest book, he relives the decent into the drug and alcohol addiction that nearly ruined his career and led him to attempt a violent suicide.
The following does the man a great injustice, but the fast and dirty Mustaine is this: He grew up poor in an unstable family with an alcoholic father; his mother moved him around a lot to escape the dad's influence, but this influenced Dave such that he grew into a misfit; the experiences impaired his ability to form lasting, healthy friendships; he started getting into music and rock bands, eventually seeing real potential with Metallica; but personality conflicts and alcohol soured his relationship with the band and they kicked him out; so Mustaine built Megadeth, and with them (and their various lineups) he lived the rock star's life, colored with bitterness. His whole life he's felt broken, more or less, and in need of fixing. His breakup with Metallica left him bitter and jealous. After multiple stints in rehab, he found Christ and has sustained living a more wholesome life as a father and husband. He intends to maintain a musical career in some form or fashionI was pretty good at playing guitar, and I was serious about making a living at it. But that wasn't the only reason I played. It wasn't only about strutting an getting laid and trying to become famous. When I held a guitar in my hands, I felt good about myself. When I played music, I felt a sense of comfort and accomplishment that I'd never known as a child. When I replicated the songs that I loved, I felt an attachment to them and to the musicians who had composed them.
It was all incredibly exciting and disorienting and vaguely unsettling. We'd been starving for days, and all of a sudden people were throwing food at us. I remember looking at myself in a mirror when I woke up one morning and noticing that my stomach was grotesquely distended. Of course, that could have had something to do with the fact that I was drunk or stoned virtually every waking moment. The party never stopped. Booze, cocaine, pot, meth--it was everywhere, and it was mine for the asking. Along with groupies, the quality and volume of which seemed to be improving by the day. We'd do an appearance or a gig, or just show up at a party, and everyone wanted to hang with us.
"You're a bad motherfucker!" they'd shout.
I'd nod approvingly. I was a bad motherfucker. And proud of it
We'd wake up in the middle of the day, eat, drink a little bit to take the edge off the hangover, hang out, and then go back to sleep. sometime after sundown we'd wake again, like a pack of fucking vampires, and start playing. We'd rehearse for a few hours, then drink until we passed out. The next day we'd do it all over again.
Certainly I had no idea that my tenure in the band was about to come to an end, and that indeed plans for my dismissal were already in the works. It is a testament to my naivete--or perhaps to my alcohol-induced complacency--that even as strange things happened, I failed to take any action.
I know some people look at me--and I include Lars and James in this camp--and say, "Why can't you just be happy with what you've achieved?" And they're right. Selling twenty million albums is no minor accomplishment. But it's about half what Metallica has sold, and I was supposed to be part of that.
You had to be there to understand what it was like, to feel like you're changing the world. And then to have it pulled out from under you and to see and hear reminders of what might have been every single day, for the rest of your life. And know--you just fucking know--whatever you accomplish, somehow it will never be quite good enough.
I wanted a number one hit. I wanted what Metallica had, even if it meant selling a piece of my soul to the devil ... I suspected they (the producers) were making modifications, softening the Megadeth sound, and I did nothing to stop them. There would be a payoff at the end, I reasoned ... Megadeth was a phenomenon based on raw energy and talent, and when you take that and water it down, it's no longer phenomenal. It's ordinary. By trying to expand your audience, you risk alienating your core fans, and I think we did that with Cryptic Writings, and even more so with our next record, the aptly named Risk.
King Louis XVI, of course, is an immediate underdog. But before the revolution reaches his doorstep, France finds itself at war with a Europe full of worried kings and French expatriate clergy and nobles agitating abroad for counter-revolution. Despite a bad start, France somehow manages to fend off and actually beat the primary aggressors, Austria and Prussia.