DCeptette: Who are these marching bands of Manhattan and why hasn't anyone blogged about them version.
- When I wrote my review of the Clap Your Hand Say Yeah show, I wasn't expecting it to, you know, touch peoples livesor anything. But there you go, the article's been licensed wholesale by Boynton to serve as the text for a new line of "Hope You're Feeling Better After Your Colonoscopy!" cards with smiling, blushing bunnies and kitties and shit on the cover. Actually, we heard from many people who agreed, many people who in good faith disagreed, and more or less, it's all good in the neighborhood. But I was presented with two arguments against my findings that were--how shall I put this? Oh, yeah: stupid-ass. The first was that CYHSY would have been better if we in the crowd had cheered and danced more. Here's where my MFA helps matters. There's a term for people in the audience who are present and duty-bound to exult in the performers that's well documented by theatre historians. They are called claques, and the big difference between a claque and a regular audience member is that claques are paid for their efforts. Any time one of you rockstars wanna hire me as a claque, rest assured--I can most definitely be bought. If the price is right. The second argument is really a variation on the first--that CYHSY had a difficult time performing in Washington because Washingtonians are pretentious. To which I respond: Clap Your Hand Say Yeah are from Brooklyn, you know, home of Ipod Wars? Seems to me that a Brooklyn Band that can't handle pretension is the same thing as a trattoria owner who can't handle marinara.
- Neal Boortz, one of those types of doodz who hates being thought of as a fool so much that he'd rather open his cakehole and remove all doubt, was recently on the air complaining about how easy those people displaced by Katrina have it. Complaining about a Rolanda, who's family have been holed up in a hotel room far too long in Boortz's opinion, Boortz made the following sounds with his lips and gums: "Not one mention in the entire story anywhere about the "W" word, W-O-R-K, work, job.* I dare say she could walk out of that hotel and walk 100 yards in either direction on Fulton Industrial Boulevard [the street on which the hotel is located] here in Atlanta and have a job." When cautioned by the host that, given the rich history of Fulton Industrial Boulevard, listeners might think he's implying that Rolanda turn to turning tricks, Boortz replied: "If that's the only way she can take care of herself, it sure beats the hell out of sucking off the taxpayers." Hmmm. Neal, Neal, Neal. It sounds to me like, in either case, some taxpayer is getting sucked off. Still, I might be inclined to toss our current administration on the scrap heap and give Rolanda a try. All that money I pay Michael Brown to keep me safe--and I don't even get so much as a reacharound. (1115)
- Benjamin Ladner says that he always acted with "intentional integrity." Yeah, so did Oedipus Rex, but that didn't make okay for him to bone his mommy. Claw your own eyes out if you're feeling down, Ben--in the meantime, shut the hell up: when they kicked Oedipus out of Thebes they didn't hand him $3mil of walking around money. (DCist)
- Also in DCist, Gina Marie Schulz, personal assistant to Ladner's wife, told reporters that Ladner was "the most ethical man I ever met." What, did Ladner pull this woman off a pirate ship or something? Honey, I've met more ethical men on the sets of Estonian bukkake movies.
- Finally, I'm calling out Michael Wilbon for his October 20th article on Freddy Adu, which is straight-up some of the dumbassiest hysterical horseshit I've ever seen in a newspaper. Wilbon makes the claim that Adu "was played, as the kids say . . . played as in used, manipulated and lied to." He adds: "We all were played, really." Please. There's not a single fact in all the wide world that comes even close to supporting this and Wilbon, naturally, doesn't argue any. How was Adu "played?" Well, the team put him in advertisements. They put him on the cover of the media guide! I know: Heavens to Betsy, say it isn't so! Oh, and along the way they made him the third highest paid player in the MLS. Oh, yeah. And who are the players getting paid fourth-highest to least in the MLS? Mainly, a bunch of grown-ass men who have paid their dues and value competing over locker room bitch sessions, but nevermind, Adu got hosed. And "we all" did too! Yeah. All us United fans got played! Wilbon says "the league and the team...perpetrated a fraud" on us, and dammit--we only have the fricking MLS Championship Trophy to show for it! Time to start rending our garments! Michael, darling, even if you could get in your wayback machine and travel back to warn Freddy about the mad green and the playoff glory he'd be getting, what the hell do you think his options were? Ride some more pine in Europe away from the eyes of American soccer fans? Play in effing Ghana? Yeah, that's the pathway to a World Cup Career. Now, I know Wilbon wants us to believe that Adu was supposed to be rewarded somehow for "growing the sport"--maybe in his mind the MLS isn't a competitive sports league, but some kind of awareness program, but this is Washington, DC. We are Titletown as far as professional soccer in this country is concerned. The only grand plan serious fans in this town have any truck with is winning championships. Mike, when you got to the part of your weird ruminations where you wrote: "The person I blame the least is the coach, Peter Nowak. Coaches have one job: win," that's where you should have effing well checked yourself. Because in the next breath, you wrecked yourself: "I dismiss his notion that nobody's bigger than the team, because people are bigger than the team all the time, even championship teams, in every sport." Two words for you Mikey: Kwame. Brown. I seem to remember you were on the other side of the "nobody's bigger than the team" argument when we sent his ass home for being a punk. The next time you want to write a serious piece on the MLS, Mike, check yourself in the mirror and make sure you get that clown nose offa your dome. And that is called kicking your ass. (Washington Post)