Karma cruel.
A somewhat more encouraging take than The Contrarian's Doomsday Scenario. But I'm still sticking with my prediction that Clinton finds a way to steal the nomination.
Of course, some have put forth the "scorched-earth" theory — that she's trying to destroy Obama in hopes she can run again in 2012. But I'll be boarding the Mayan mothership at that time, so what does it even matter?
Looks great on my mudflaps!
While the gun-totin,' beer slammin,' sniper fire dodgin' free trade lovin' hatin' lovin' Hillary Clinton worms her way into the bitter Christian hearts of rural Pennsylvanian voters, Barack Obama continues to struggle with accusation of elitism. As a dyed-in-the-wool elitist who rests strong in his convictions that half of this country is indeed stupid and/or backwards, I feel Barack's pain, to borrow a phrase from our philandering ex-president (and Hillary Achilles heel), Big Billy C.
So this thing is gonna go to the convention, eh? I'd love a glimpse at the behind-the-scenes skullduggery. And now I've got one! Well, sort of.
Former "West Wing" writer-producer Lawrence O’Donnell Jr gives us an idea of what a four-day Denver deadlock might look like, with all of the garrulous pedantry you'd expect from an Aaron Sorkin attaché.
Via New York Magazine, who clearly know from elitism.
PS: the "West Wing" link originally came from my coworker Chhaya (proprietress of Liquid Sunshine), who in turn got it from Sampo: The Journal of Abundant Media.
Found via Washington City Paper's blog, Black Plastic Bag (originally from XXL):
XXL: Are you following the presidential race?
DMX: Not at all.
You’re not? You know there’s a Black guy running, Barack Obama and then there’s Hillary Clinton.
His name is Barack?!
Barack Obama, yeah.
Barack?!
Barack.
What the fuck is a Barack?! Barack Obama. Where he from, Africa?
Yeah, his dad is from Kenya.
Barack Obama?
Yeah.
What the fuck?! That ain’t no fuckin’ name, yo. That ain’t that nigga’s name. You can’t be serious. Barack Obama. Get the fuck outta here.
Click the link at the top of the post for the rest of this brilliant back-and-forth. Hey, Barack, if it's any consolation, there are way less people who know DMX. Say, shouldn't Earl Simmons be in jail for animal abuse or reckless driving or getting "raped" by a woman and failing to show up in court to get his due? Oh wait — he has bipolar disorder. Well, that explains some of it. . .
I've been to a couple of Eliot Spitzer press things at City Hall, and let me just tell you — there were prostitutes everywhere. I mean, it was unbelievable. Behind him at the podium? Prostitutes. Walking in the hallway with him? Prostitutes. Waiting in his SUV? Prostitutes. And God forbid you got stuck in the men's room with him. Good Lord, it was like the JFK White House.
Just kidding, I've never seen any prostitutes at City Hall. Unless you count Mike Bloomberg.
But it's been interesting over the last year to watch this guy in whom an overwhelming number of New Yorkers saw a legitimate political gunslinger, a genuine bad-ass who was tearing up to Albany to eff some shit up and maybe mess up Joe Bruno's hair while he's at it. But despite Spitzer's own famous (and not denied) declaration that "I'm a fuckin' steamroller," there was no denying from early on he was getting beat up by what is widely viewed as the most dysfunctional state government in the country. Apparently cracking heads on Wall Street and pissing off the Mob as Attorney General is easier than busting up Albany's three-men-in-a-room mentality as governor. Who knew?
Point being, his star may have been falling, or it never got off the ground, or his own ego took a torch to it, but this is just one hell of a way to go out. Hope it was worth it Eliot! Did you at least get her number?
Why does everyone think that song from Once is so damn great, when it plainly sucks farts? Is this continued evidence of the adult-contemporarification of so-called "indie" music?
Scruffy Redhead and his Shy Girl Friday seem like sweet kids and everything (at least from what I saw on the Oscars), but their little duet is the definition of pap.
Just had to get that off my chest.
Courtesy Wetmachine.
PS: Have you heard about the transcription of a conversation between Lee Harvey Oswald and Jack Ruby that was sitting around in a safe on the 12th floor of a Texas courthouse? Too bad it's probably not real.
Spot International Correspondent Jebson Interlandi in the audience and win, well, nothing.
It's been difficult for me to write anything lately. I'm missing a few brain cells, and I attribute this to the recent Rihanna concert I caught, free of charge, thanks to an old friend of mine who is now her guitarist.
I was hoping to meet her backstage, but no such luck. Has anybody seen that episode of Saxondale where Tommy goes backstage to party with the Queen cover band and they're all out of their wigs, drinking smoothies, eating tangerines and playing on their laptops? Not that Rihanna is anyone's idea of an actual band, but it nevertheless seems to me that even most "real" rockers are getting soft. I've long dreaded the day when standard backstage behavior would consist of snorting lines of crushed vitamin C pills, sipping green tea and playing Scrabble™ with Jesuit missionaries. Well, I'm afraid the hour is upon us. Call me old-fashioned. I still believe in whiskey and coke(™).
In contrast to the lack of proper debauchery exhibited by today's fresh-faced superstars, I've been catching up on theories of genius from the 18th century. Interestingly, the normative language of the day for describing traits of "genius" — particularly in the case of Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart — coincided with an emergence of travel literature describing shamanic personalities. All of a sudden, artistic theory was being modified by the discoveries of the shamanic performer and his/her behavior: irrational, mad, eccentric, possessed, wild, ecstatic, etc. This romantic notion diverged from the "adulthood male" approach to art, which was rational and disciplined. [ED - We riders on the storm call it Apollonian v. Dionysian]. Apparently, these road journals discussing Siberian and Amerindian shamans gave the top music scribes of the day some of their most colorful lexicon. And henceforth, genius was synonymous with the "androgynous child."
Perhaps I'll stop there. I'm not sure how much nerdiness I'm allowed to exhibit in one entry.
I hope everyone was able to catch this excellent Guardian UK blog featuring a post by Moz, or Morrissey, as he's more commonly known. The piece was in response to his "provocative" interview with New Musical Express. You know, the old "create-a-racist" shtick. NME seems to employ hacks who aren't even familiar with Bowie. Maybe Casey should be writing for them. Casey actually asked me once if Dave Bowie (as he actually called him) was "that guy" who wrote "Major Tom."
"No," I told him. "That's Peter Schilling."
"Oh," Casey replied. After a pause and an awkward smile, he continued: "I love that song! 4, 3, 2, 1."
[ED - I must clarify that I am an expert on "Dave" Bowie, and was listening to Peter Schilling's synth-pop tribute to the Thin White Duke back when Jebson was but a spark in his father's drunken, leering eye].
"For fuck's sake, let me rest in peace, you slobbering jackals!"
It goes without saying that Hunter S. Thompson was (and continues to be) something of a "crazy-wisdom guru" to writers, especially those with a political conscience. Personally, I find the innuendo surrounding his legacy a little off-putting. Can't we just let the man's still-potent prose speak for itself?
But what fun would that be? American culture feeds off the spoiled carcasses of its onetime icons.
Anita Thompson, HST's wife at the time of his death, is rankled by the publication of Gonzo: The Life & Times of Hunter S. Thompson. The book, which collects interviews with HST friends, associates, lovers and colleagues, is published by Rolling Stone honcho and onetime HST editor Jann Wenner. Anita believes Wenner has an axe to grind, having never forgiven his star reporter for quitting the publication that helped make his name. (I recall Hunter's byline being on the RS masthead right up until his death, but whatevs.)
AT is also claiming poverty. Better hurry up and make another movie!
Read Anita's anti-Gonzo rant here. And check out L.A. Times' slightly depressing review, at which she also takes umbrage.
I took the above photo out of a 50th floor hotel room window at The Tropicana in Atlantic City on a Saturday morning when the whole town was enveloped in fog. It's the best photo I've ever taken, so if you don't like it you're a jerk.
Anyway, do you ever just kick back with a glass of OJ or Ruby Red and consider how great Ween are? I see that the editorial desk has La Cucaracha over in Current Listening to the left, so I won't harp on how cool this record is except to say that it's pretty cool. Definitely their best of the past handful of years. Check out "With My Own Bare Hands" for the lyric: "She'll be my cock professor, studying my dick." Ween makes the world a pretty OK place to be.
Also Ween-related, I've been enjoying Deaner's fishing/tour blog. In particular "Deaner's Field Guide to the Shit Fish of Southern Long Beach Island," in which he eviscerates the Skate, along with a number of other fish that, if you're into surf casting, apparently suck. It's a good read.
Politics-wise, did anyone catch that Democratic debate at Drexel University earlier in the week? Wow. It was the first good prize-fight of the Democratic primary. It was nice to see the second-tier candidates working in harmony to smear Hillary Clinton. Tim Russert even stuck it to her. In my humble opinion, she needs to be taken down a notch and then have the remaining 50 notches below that yanked out from under her Ann Taylor pumps. She is doing wonders for the pant-suit industry though. She's definitely got that vote in the bag.
In international-relations news, the headline on a New York Sun that had blown into the steps of my building caught my eye the other day. Through the dog urine I could make out something like "Iraq Report Re-Shuffles Presidential Race" or some shit like that, refering to the suspiciously-timed cheery Iraq assessment that just came out. Anyway, it just reminded me of the barrage of suspiciously-timed reports and events that will be arriving on our doorsteps in the coming year as the White House tries to manipulate the presidential election: "Level Of Cotton Candy in Sadr City Reaches Year-Long High," "Anbar Kitten Population Booming," etc., etc.
Now, surprisingly it went wholly unreported in the mainstream media that The Contrarian Media Group had its first official meeting when I traveled down to D.C. a few weekends ago. The main agenda was drinking booze and walking around in the beautiful weather. Casey and Brooke were great hosts and I got to see a lot of the D.C. sights. On Saturday we walked a good part of the Mall, but yours truly was a complete idiot and forgot his digital video camera back at the apartment. Otherwise this useless post would instead be a video post called "Casey's Walking Tour of The National Mall," which consisted mainly of outright lies and veiled threats. You're welcome.
After that we went to the International Spy Museum where I crawled through an air vent with a bunch of kids, which is a pretty rad thing to do after a couple of mid-afternoon cocktails.
Food-wise, the weekend was a full success. Casey and Brooke turned me on to the joys of Tappas dining. Everyone probably knows this, but for around $20 you can get 3 different mini-meals that are like appetizers on steroids. It's great because you don't get bored with your meal like you do at those dumbass Italian restaurants where they dump a 3-foot long oval plate of cheesy bullshit in front of you and walk away. The only snag we had was on Friday night when our waitress blatently implied that Casey was ordering too much food. Now, I'm not an expert, but I'm pretty sure that if you're a waitress the last thing you want to be doing is telling your clients they're ordering too much food. Other than that, all the dining went off without a hitch.
Lastly, for someone without kids, a suspicious number of children's toy catalogues come in the mail to my apartment. So, I'm compiling a list of the most stupid and fucked-up kids toys I come across. A field guide of my own, you could say. Hopefully it'll turn out pretty good.
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