Thank you, Martin Lawrence. Thank you, Bruh Man. Thank you, Whitty Hutton. And thank you to the enterprising soul who is prolly gonna make some extra bank this weekend:
Using our advanced knowledge of aesthetics and personality types, we've placed each sock wearer from this NYT article into a category, based solely on their socks:
A potential side effect of The Scandal:
1. Sales of Penn State apparel might be down, but there are still millions of Penn State fans out there, and most of them own T-shirts, game shirts, hoodies, et cetera.
2. A significant number of Penn State fans will be inspired to ditch some of their apparel. Some will go in the trash, but much of it will be donated to charity.
3. When Americans donate clothes to charity, much of it makes its way to Africa.
4. If all of that is true, there will soon be a significant uptick in the number of PENN STATE and HAPPY VALLEY items being shipped to Africa.
5. Assuming that many of the recipients of these clothes might be unfamiliar with American institutions of higher learning — and the Sandusky scandal is probably not in the news in their countries — then the brand "Penn State" will have increased visibility (benignly) in the eyes of Africans.
6. If increased visibility = higher status, then it is highly possible that Penn State will see an increase in interest from African citizens in the coming years.
And that thing is the PMRC. And what better way to recall those days than this Oprah episode: You've got Jello Biafra in a suit; Tipper looking all Tipper-y; Ice-T at the cusp of his second career as a guy with mass appeal; a babyfaced Juan Williams; Rabbi Abraham Cooper; and writer Nelson George. You can see Modern Cable News brewing in it. Part 1 of 5:
But it's actually chocolate sauce. Y'know, like Heidi Klum, as you see here.* Except you strap a stuffed shorebird to your crotch to hide your chucky, and you use little BP flowerbursts to cover your nipples. You can cover your ass with an object of your choosing (mud plug?). YOU'VE GOT SEVERAL MONTHS TO PERFECT IT, SO GET CRACKIN' NOW.
(NOTE: SHOREBIRD-ON-CHUCKY NOT SHOWN)
* Klum's choco-slathered pics were published before the Gulf Coast oil spill and therefore she has nothing to do with the idea for this Halloween costume.
From a WaPost weather chat:
Woubrn, Mass.: Please stop stealing our snow, I getting tried of skiing on man-made Snow in Vt., and it's getting wasted in D.C. where all you do is complain about all the beatiful snow you are getting at our expense. Seriously, what has casued this massive shift of snow to the south?
Ian Livingtson: But we are (or used to be) enjoying it! The southward shift in the storm track this season has had many causes. Both of our blockbuster storms were heavily steered by a large high pressure system in Greenland. This feature can help keep storms that would often drift north targeting our area.
Judging from those typos, it looks like that Massachusetts ski nerd is the only thing "getting wasted."
By Monday, as your happiness freezes in a giant snow drift, you will seek comfort in opiates.
Sometimes you just gotta do the muh-fuckin' Chilly Willy. This snippet has a Great Recession theme. I think Chillz gets to keep the booster seat, however. It's a metaphor of some sort:
NOTE: Chillz is slightly more verbal than Curious George.
As nature embraces change and young men prepare their sexual-experience-acquisition schemes, we at Pop Cesspool choose an autumnal mood. This is the season of the nerd. To wit: Uriah Heep, "The Wizard," which seems to be about a real wizard, not your mountain-dwelling stoner uncle, or, for that matter, your dungeonmaster ... still, though, nerdfactor: high:
... I get this song in my head. I blame it totally and unequivocally on the hooks, not on my own morbid sense of humor, which tends to be well-checked when dudes start catching on fire through no fault of their own. Here you can get it live, prefaced by some talk about Die Toten Hosen:
This twister was in Canada, but whatever. They're weird, too.
The rise of the pocket video camera means that every single fucking tornado that comes into contact with civilization is now probably preserved in pixels. I'm actually OK with this, because of all the shit that happens on a regular basis in the sky, tornadoes are the closest thing -- in disposition, if not constitution -- to angry extraterrestrial life forms descending on the landscape. In fact, I have a hypothesis that goes something like this: Give a Flip camera to every knucklehead in tornadoland, and large swaths of our nation's rich UFO-conspiracy heritage would start to dissolve. Because, really, look at that huge fucking tornado. Holy shit.
Show me the projected-path map for a hurricane, and my inner 12-year-old rushes to the surface: Where's it gonna hit? Hmm? Hmm? That kid is an asshole, though, because ever since Katrina, there's no reason to get excited about a huge fucking storm heading toward any coast. So then my inner old guy speaks up, and he tells the 12-year-old that he's an asshole, and the 12-year-old goes back to his room to do the private things that 12-year-olds do. I'm always catching that kid with his winky in his hands. The old guy? He wants you to look at the map, in case Bill is gonna fuck your shit up. That means you, Bermuda:
The worst Michael Jackson impersonator needs nookie, too, y'all.
UPDATE: I realize why people are celebrating him so heartily in death. We finally get to remember him exactly the way we want to, without fresh heaps of bullshit getting in the way.
... I start to hear Enigma's "Sadness, Pt. 1" in my head.
That is, various chunks of this hot mess, such as this silly nugget:
... should be read aloud, and reverently, to this colossally unsexy '90s bullshit:
HE GOTS AWESUM BONERZ UNDERNEATH THA DESK.
If I'm gonna listen to a talking head go off on some political/media/academia/insider shit, I want it to be this sassy every time, even if it's just a pissing match. Here I am now, entertain me. That said, I wouldn't want Ill Doctrine to roll the way Star & Buc Wild do. I can't fill my day up with hard-boiled haters. Only part of my day. Vid:
Pretty soon, 4-wolf moon shirt.
then 5-wolf moon shirt.
it's like razors: pretty soon 3 wolves and 1 moon will seem technologically obsolete.
Maybe the way to avoid a totally destructive and impractical "3 Wolf Moon" arms race is to escalate via fractions of wolves.
So, y'know, you could start with a "3.00001 Wolf Moon" shirt.
Then I'd come out with a "3.00002 Wolf Moon" shirt.
And if people escalated all the way to a "3.99999 Wolf Moon" shirt, I'd start adding decimals to the Moon part.
"3.00001 Wolf 1.00001 Moon" shirt. Yeah, that's where we should start. FOR OUR OWN GOOD.
Trouble is, how do you represent 0.00001 of a wolf?
I mean, yeah, it's easy to represent 0.00001 of a moon.
But the wolf? That part is hard. We'll have to talk to some ethicists.
From the NYT:
Maybe the women are all hiding in the chic boutiques.
Never was a Chrysler fan; grew up in a Ford household. But I always admired the ubiquity of the company's 1980s product, even though I'm truly glad we never owned one of those frickin' minivans. America was flat-out addicted to some of those cars. Lee Iacocca was a local boy, too, and his success came at a time when Valley folk were struggling to find reasons for boosterism at any level. So with the shit hitting the fan, I see this 1984 commercial not with nostalgia and not with sadness, but with admiration for the ballsiness that Iacocca displays. I'm not sure even Lee could've fixed this current mess, but damn, he's totally in your face:
The mini heatwave, the assy economy, the stupid hippie attacks on otherwise boring bank branches, the anecdotal evidence that D.C.'s petty-crime crazies are getting that much more brazen, blah blah blah ... this easily could shape up to be one of those cranky-old-fart rants about how the world is falling apart. But bear with me for a few seconds, because I've got a feeling that shit is gonna fall apart with style in the '09, like NYC '77, Summer-of-Sam all over again. I'm no fan of spasmodic violence, so here's hoping that the riot gear stays in the warehouse. I'm also past the age where urban decay has a whiff of romance, so I won't be rooting for another crack epidemic or a plague of meth zombies. And I'm definitely not cool with blackouts and other disruptions of utility service, because I sweat more than a 'roid-laden wrestler. So if any of those things happen, don't come looking for me, because I'll be just as annoyed as you are. (Or maybe "cautiously amused.") But I will say this: My spidey sense is tingling & jingling, baby. There might be chaos on the horizon, and a small part of me is thinking, "this is what happens when the game has no reset button."
If I ran a Mexican drug cartel that sold a lot of weed, I'd stop murdering people to protect my business. Instead, I'd get with Hollywood to create a new-generation Cheech and Chong. Because right now, when the American public* thinks of "Mexicans and drugs," it thinks of severed heads in beer coolers, kidnapped politicians and tunnels under the border. So, y'know, the smart PR move -- for the savvy dealer -- would be to shift the paradigm back to "dopey Chicano dudes who just wanna get high." CNN:
* When I say the American public, I mean the people who don't buy weed. When many weed consumers think of "Mexicans and drugs," they are probably just glad to have the hookup, even if the weed is shitty.
The government wants your clunkers because it wants to eradicate the demolition derby. Fight back, gearheads. Keep your shitpiles. Otherwise this scene will be replaced by Vespas and Priuses colliding, and nobody wants that:
|The Council on Foreign Relations might think this chair is stylish, fashion-forward and/or modern-macho, but its pointy/curved back gives Bernanke a weird, imperial, quasi-diabolical look. Or maybe that's the point.||.|
I'm no expert on Billy Corgan, but I've followed his entire career and I've liked some of his music. And if there's one comment I can make about him, it's that he's one of the *least charismatic* and *most geeky* rock frontmen of all time. So when you write that he "dialed back the rock-star charisma -- waaaaay back -- while testifying before the House Judiciary Committee yesterday" and he "could have been any old D.C. think-tank geek," you come off as kinda lazy and uninformed. Anyway, I'm here if you ever need me.
Now that Everything Officially Sucks And Baby Boomers Are Doomed To Be Unsatisfied Assholes Forever, even the barolo is bad, apparently. You could almost taste the global economic desperation in this, if the sense of entitlement weren't totally in the way:
It might be a "lotsa videos for yer eye" week around here, but don't complain, because this blog post is totally better and more convenient than what you would've been reading or watching 20 years ago. Louis C.K., cranky:
Don't feel bad if you feed shit paste to your pet, because you're not alone, and the fate of the Internet depends on you, anyway: Almost exactly 99.7 percent of YouTube videos feature mutts snarfing peanut butter, and WE DON'T WANT YOUTUBE TO DIE FROM NEGLECT, BECAUSE AMERICA IS AWESOME.
ADDENDUM: Mike is like, "leash 'em, you ingrate"
For years, we've been trained to think that our biggest fears are aliens and asteroids and terrorists and earthquakes and diseases and robots and creatures and hackers. Fuck that -- if the allegations against Bernie Madoff are true, then it's safe to assume that the underbelly of our macroeconomy is rife with epic-sized bloodsuckers. They are the zombies -- they are takin' the life out of you. We just haven't found 'em all yet. But, alas, there has been no high-finance Jack Bauer or Mulder/Scully or teevee-style CSI unit or [insert hero here] on the case. (It's safe to assume so, because a $50 billion cloud of vapormoney shouldn't condense without somebody noticing.) Do I want a new Elliot Ness or a "FraudFiles" show on CBS? Hell no: I want Madoff -- if he's guilty -- to be locked up like Hannibal Lecter, and then he'll do nothing but explain the ways that douchebags can game the system: Tell us what they've been doing, Bernie. And it'll be on teevee.
Back in 1991, I had a film-theory prof who dissed this video -- in terms of concept and execution -- in favor of the video for "Material Girl" by Madonna. Make of that what you will.
• Cherkis wrote about Mingering Mike, and also wrote a song for the article. That link has two files: The "making of" the track and the song itself. Classic.
• DC to BC has another mixtape from the mighty X.O.
• Citizen Mom is on Twitter.
• The Midnight Express has been blocked.
• Father Phawker writes in the Inquirer about white people and voting.
• Upset The Setup is pushin' The Package.
Over the past few days, I've heard several baby boomers say, "I'm going to be working until I'm 100!" or "So much for retirement!"
This frightens me, because I personally can't wait for the boomers to crap out.
Those folks have been fucking up the planet for at least two decades. It's time for somebody else to take a crack at the job.
Sometimes you gotta change the air freshener during a shitstorm, y'know?
Also: Kiss my ass, Dennis Hopper.
Cheers to Adam Davidson and Adam Blumberg for their NPR piece about the "commercial paper market." Even if you think Wall Street should simply burn to the ground, you need to listen to this. It's about how the most boring parts of the financial world aren't so boring anymore. But the piece itself is far from boring. Do yourself the favor of hearing it, instead of just reading it. (Also: WSJ on the current state of commercial paper.)