Hi everyone. Usually, you tune in at this time to read a Lost recap. However, The DCeiver shall be drydocked for the next forty-eight hours to receive some much needed upkeep.
However, beginning later this morning, I will be spending the next two days bothering the blogosphere and hurting America as the guest in someone else's house. Won't you please join me?
Here's hoping the Great Fitzkin rises out of the pumpkin patch at the Barrett Prettyman Courthouse to leave all you good boys and girls some shiny new indictments!
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Hi everyone. Usually, you tune in at this time to read a Lost recap. However, The DCeiver shall be drydocked for the next forty-eight hours to receive some much needed upkeep.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
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)
Posted by The Deceiver at 10/25/2005
Monday, October 24, 2005
...be happy. Last night's show was a superior live rock show in every facet.
BUT! Do yourself a favor and get there early enough to see Montreal's Stars perform.
In truth, if all you Monday people are like the Sunday people, then no worries. The place was jam packed at the beginning of Stars' set and by the end, the crowd was offering the band a raucous show of approval. Seriously. This is a much hyped band that earned every accolade last night--playing the hell out of the songs they recorded.
By means of comparison, here are just a few ways--the little things that make a big difference mostly--in which Stars managed to provide a live show superior to say...another much-hyped indie band we talked about last week.
- They knew how their songs began.
- They knew how to play their songs so that tempos didn't sag.
- They knew how to sing into microphones so that the vocals were intelligible.
- They knew how to end their songs.
- They knew how to perform as if showmanship was something that mattered.
- They acted as if playing their own music meant something to them.
- They acted as if playing their own music was something they found to be enjoyable.
Again, you know, the little things.
Stars bring some captivating R&B flourishes to their already lovely indie-tinged pop. Their songwriting is Brill Building-pure, and I find them to be like a less cynical Beautiful South--but be warned, the male-female vocal interplay is probably 90% of the reason I make that visceral connection. But these guys are a generous band who play with real vigor and style and just seem to be having a hell of a lot of fun playing. Sunday night's crowd received them with tremendous enthusiasm. I was really impressed when, during a quieter song, the packed house listened with total appreciation--I didn't hear a single side-conversation (whereas, by the epicenter of last week's CYHSY show, that audience had basically turned to one another for entertainment), the audience just transfixed.
These guys are a great band and a terrific complement to Death Cab. So, I urge you, don't sleep on them. Get to 9:30 early and I promise you will not regret it.
Posted by The Deceiver at 10/24/2005
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Previously on Lost: A bottle, containing the castaways notes and a rejection letter from McSweeneys washed up on shore, prompting much concern among the womenfolk. Meanwhile, on the other side of the island, the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited got thrown in a hole by the Desert Island Dicks. But when they were finally released to visit the Desert Island Dicks at their Hatch of Sadness, they discovered that they were really the Desert Island Dead.
Love. We take it as an article of faith that love will keep us together. No matter what kind of weather. And if some black smoke stompy monster comes along, doing us wrong, you just have to stop. Stop looking for your wedding ring, that is. Sun and Jin are the focus of this episode. They are separated by time, distance, and recent marital troubles. But the island, as Locke would have you believe, just wants you to be happy. The island is just misunderstood, is all. You just need to lay back and enjoy the island's wondrous life-changing contrivances.
Scene up on Sun and Claire, standing on the beach, staring at the sea. I need to point out again that just a few days ago, the Losties were all a-Hersheysquirt over the coming of The Others. Who were they? Savages? Murderers? Amway salespeople covered in toxic goo? Nobody knew, so it was run to the rape caves. Now, the terror of a few days past is a distant memory, most of the Losties are lolling around on the beach, and Sun and Claire are watching the water--as if a John Millington Synge play might break out at any moment. But just then, Sun realized something that launches her into a panic. Her wedding band is gone!
This prompts a flashback. We go back to Korea, and the recently graduated Sun has returned with her art history degree to discover that her family has become Jewier than ever. Mom Sun is in full Fiddler On The Roof mode, desperately trying to set her daughter up with a good man with plenty of sperm. She's doing the full-on Yenta thing because she's terribly worried that Sun might go from "silver" to "bronze" -- apparently, marriage in Korea involves a lot of complicated metallurgy. Meanwhile, somewhere across the flashbackscape, Jin is talking with a friend about an impending job interview. His friend, who is basically the Korean version of Jonathan Silverman, is reading the horoscope pages if the newspaper. The camera leans in on the page, thus assuring that it will be the Lost Screenshot of the Week and that everyone will hastily try to locate or make Korean friends to translate. Jonathan Daewoo-Silverman tells Jin that his true love will be orange. Jin leaves for his appointment, secure in the knowledge that he'll never worry about scurvy again.
We come shooting out the flashback hole to discover Jin and the other members of the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited, huddling together in the Sad Hatch, wondering what's to become of the precious maidenhead at the hands of the Desert Island Dicks. After a brief convo, Ana Lucia -- still hated by Wife of DCeiver -- makes a pronouncement: they will gather food and water and go over to the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited's side of the island. Duh of the century, y'alls. The Jack side has food, medical supplies, rape caves, and its residents haven't seem to have forgotten that there's this thing called bathing. Seriously, Dicks. Try it sometime. Plus, Hurley's golf course was recently written up in Zagats.
So, the Desert Island Dicks and the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited set off to return to scenic Lostie beach. Basically, seeing Ana Lucia in action, attempting to lead, clues us in that she's basically a Bush administration type of leader, who covers over her criminal incompetence with constant carping about how damned resolved she is. It's clear no one likes her, that she probably ran for Desert Island Dick chapter president on a platform of "9/22". "My opponent is living in a pre-9/22 world!" They had hearing on whether 9/22 could have been prevented, Bernard probably storyboarded a version of Fahrenheit 9/22 on palm fronds and flipped them real fast for Libby to watch. But after all was said and done, they re-elected Ana Lucia because they were afraid of gay marriage. Oh well. Her leadership has clearly been FEMA-tastic.
Back at the beach, Sun is still freaking out about losing her wedding ring. I can totally sympathize with her. I, myself, came within a hair's breadth of losing my claddagh on the first day of my honeymoon. For that matter, I, too have had my spouse handcuffed to a wrecked piece of airline fuselage. And you want to know something else? My wife has no idea whether or not I speak Korean! (I can't. Heh. Little does she know!) Sun's crisis attracts the attention of Jack, whose keen senses can detect a personal problem within five nautical miles. Jack predictably swoops into action, because he IS Fred from the Scooby gang, and ends up telling her that he, too, once lost his wedding ring. What did he do about it? He went out and got a replica made without telling his wife! Dun-dun-dun! There's that germ of deceit that brought on the collapse of his marriage. I can't sympathize with Jack the same way I do with Sun, though, even though he, too, lost his wedding ring. And it's not because I probably wouldn't just telephone the people in Ireland and get a new claddagh sent before my wife found out--I probably would. It's that, unlike Jack, my marriage isn't entirely based on a fucking Coldplay song.
Back on the other side of the island, Jin and Bernard and Ana Lucia are fishing. Ana's all: "Hey, Jin, are you going to help us." Jin's just munching on some sea urchin. Ana's all hating. Jin's silently scoffing. Ana's all: "Fine. Whatever. Don't help." Jin stands up, tosses his net out, and reels in a mess of fish straightaway. "How you like that, beyotch?" he thinks, Korean-steez.
Memories of fish take Jin back to Flashbackistan. He is revealed in the office of a hotel manager. The job interview is to be a doorman at some schmance Korean hotel. Based upon what you see in the interview, the process of seeking employment is vastly different there than it is here. Whereas in America, we take care to appear confident and capable, in Korea, it's important to show up and thoroughly debase yourself. Here we stand on our heads to prove we are the best suited for the job. In Korea, the job goes to whoever can paint themselves as the most unworthy. Many of you probably don't have any understanding of these cultural distinctions, but it just so happens that in my last job search, I had the opportunity to apply for a job with a firm based out of South Korea. My cover letter is excerpted below.
To whom it may concern:
Greetings, your loftiness. My name is the DCeiver, and I am humbly seeking consideration for the position of Administrative Assistant that you posted. I am absolute scum, worthy of nothing more than your constant disdain. As you can see from my resume, I have many years of commensurate experience, and I can state with certainty that in all of the positions I have held, I have learned to be expectorated on with regularity and accept it as a needed reminder of my base existence. I believe I can be a tremendous asset to your company, as I have a good track record of bringing down torrents of icy shame upon myself, allowing my superiors to look like iron-chiseled gods when set against the sticky, broken form of my vile person. Attached to this cover letter are the names of several references, each of whom can speak at great length at my willingness to submit to having my rectum clawed at by jagged, rusty spoons on a daily basis, solely for the amusement of executives. If hired, not a day will go by that you do not enjoy the opportunity to think of me as some half-monkey/half-cockroach creature unworthy of even bathing in your toe-jam.
PS: I also know Dreamweaver.
Back on the sad side of the island, Michael is walking with Libby, looking for food and criticizing the way they live. "We've totally got rape caves, you know. And a golf course." Michael says that the Desert Island Dicks have major "trust issues." Uh. Michael. You're one to talk. Hello? Locke? Jin? The burning of the raft? The crying of Lot 49? The way you just assume that the evil Stevedores want to harm Walt? Libby tells him that they do not forage for food any further than where they are. Michael's all, "Huh, on our side of the island, we go inland to get our food, and we have a guy with a bunch of knives and another guy that has percocets and the bass player from Driveshaft (you know, the band that does "You are everybody?"), and a golf course, and a complete development of rape caves with reasonable rent control measures in place." Libby says they do not go inland to forage because "That's where they come from." That was a big mistake.
Libby runs back to tell the others that Mike has taken off into the forest. They surmise that he has gone after Walt, believing him to be the captive of the "Others." Ana Lucia ain't having none of it, and harshes that they had better clear out before the Others find Mike and gets their location out of him. Jin won't go along, insisting that he be allowed to find Mike. Adebisi tries to stop him, only to get punched by Jin. Adebisi returns the favor, then, as if nothing happened, decides that he'll accompany Jin. Adebisi is like the Tailie version of John Locke, apparently. At any rate, with Adebisi and Jin roaming the woods together, this can only mean one thing: the dialogue between the two of them is going to reach Shavian dimensions.
Back at the Lostie side of the Isla de Encanta, Hurley is helping Sun look for her wedding ring, having surmised that Vincent the dog has eaten it. He asks Sun if she comes from the "Good Korea or the Bad Korea." Duh, Hurley--look at how pretty Sun is! Of course she comes from the Good Korea. Obvs. The prospect of sifting through a healthy dollop of dogshit reminds Sun of that time she was set up on a date with Baldy, a Harvard-educated Korean-born man who adopted the sartorial conventions of a James Bond villain. They met at Jin's hotel. Jin, bowing low in base subservience, did not lay eyes on Sun. Sun is totally hating on the arranged marriage thing, but as it turns out, Baldy is as well. Ominously, they drink orange juice. So, they hit it off, and agree to a second date, sometime after Baldy gets back from Moonraking.
We return to Jin and Adebisi, skilled anecdotalists, looking for Mike. Jin's attacked by a boar and knocked to the ground. They discover the corpse of a Tailie. If I'm succinct in this section of the recap, it's solely because I just can't do the torrent of luscious prose that pass between these two men justice.
Sun, frustrated by her inability to find her wedding ring, does a pretty credible imitation of the black-smoke stompy monster and goes medieval on her garden of lifesaving spices. She better be careful, because, man, it seems like Shannon needs some of her homemade asthma remedy every five minutes, doesn't it! I mean, am I right folks? Shannon's asthma: so not dropped like a handful of slaw by the writers! At any rate, her activity attracts the attention of Locke, because as you know, the black smoke stompy monster is Locke's secret island girlfriend. Locke's good at finding things--you figure that maybe if Sun agrees to give up heroin, he'll show her that her ring is up a tree somewhere. Locke tells her that since coming to the Isla de Encanta, he's not lost anymore, and the trick to finding what you need is to simply stop looking for it. He's right, too. That's why, in contrast, I spend a half-hour each day searching for my virginity.
Back in Flashbackistan, Sun once again is able to enter the hotel without Jin seeing her. Baldy, on the other hand, runs into Jin on his way in to meet Sun. Having just returned from making sure the Diamonds Are Forever and that the View was still sufficiently Kill To-able, he's without a saucy boutineer to attract the ladies, and he asks Jin for his. Jin, who's always handing out flowers to people, does so. Baldy and Sun have another great date, and everything seems to be going really well, so we know that somewhere overhead, the Enola Gay is waiting to drop the atomic anvil. And so he does: Baldy confesses that he's just going along with the Anatevka act to mollify his 'rents, that he's actually betrothed to an American Woman. Sun, taking the immortal words of The Guess Who to heart, bails, crestfallen and heartbroken.
Back in the jungle, our two gregarious conversationalists, Jin and Adebisi, enter, having just regaled one another with their respective versions of "The Aristocrats"--Jin's version with the wading pool full of kim chee, three telescoping cattleprods, and twin daughters with no discernable gag reflex having KILLED, mightily. Adebisi tells Jin that he has Mike's trail, and that he knows it's Mike's because the others "don't leave any tracks." Jeez-o-flips! All you hear out of these Tailies is stuff about the Others. The Others, the Others, the Others. They don't leave tracks! They are perfect killing machines! Their supple shins move gracefully and deadlily! Where they poop, beautiful flowers bloom! I'm so effing SICK of the Others! Why don't they just marry the others.
Adebisi and Jin's recent reconvening of the Algonquin Round Table is cut short, when Adebisi hears a noise. Oooh, it's the Others! The Tailies secret dream lovers! I'm guessing that the Others started killing the Desert Island Dicks because they kept coming around at night blasting "In Your Eyes" out of held-aloft jamboxes. Guh! Adebisi and Jin hide in the foliage--it's a wonder that they can tamp down their need speak trippingly to one another and stay quiet--and watch as the Others' beautiful, quiet, deadly calves pass by. As they do, Jin notices that one of them is carrying a teddy bear. After they are well past, they get up and take off after Mike, who was lucky to avoid the Others.
Meanwhile, back in Flashbackistan, Sun leaves the hotel, and the whole Sun/Jin missing each other is starting to get a little silly. Right then, some lowly Korean plebe runs up to Jin. His lowly Korean plebian son has got to go wee-wee, real bad. At the job interview, Jin was told not to let "his own kind," i.e. low-class nobodies, into the hotel. But Jin's heart melts at the sight of this poor child, bladder swollen to the point of bursting--AS BIG AS AN ORANGE (!?)-_ and relents. And, of course, in that way that your boss just ALWAYS happens to walk into the room just as you are climaxing after a lengthy session masturbating with the electric hole-puncher, Jin's boss chooses to walk out at the moment and chastise him for doing so, saying "That child can piss in the gutter for all I care." This pisses Jin off, so he quits on the spot. Ironically, many months later, Jin's boss will be awarded an iPod after willingly submitting to a golden shower proffered by American University students, who, if you haven't heard, are just crazy about pissing on people. That's right, ol' Daniel Lubrano just can't stop urinating on people.
Back on the clean, scat-free sands of Lostie Beach, JJ Abrams finally stops holding out on me and gives me some effing Kate! Sweet sassy molassey! The man knows that a day without Evangeline Lilly's like a day without sunshine! Kate comes upon Sun to talk to her about the lost wedding ring. This is a good sign, because, let's face it, there's no problem we face today that can't be solved with sexiness. But this conversation turns to talk of the bottle that washed ashore. And if you've gone out and equipped yourself with a Distant Early Anvil Alert System, at this point you probably noticed it going off--the ring is buried with the bottle!
Over on the other side, Sawyer and the Desert Island Dicks continue their traipse across the Isla de Encanta. Suddenly, Sawyer can't walk and has to sit down. Ana Lucia gets all snippy, but Sawyer explains that it's important that he establish himself as the red herring with regard to the next episode, so that people think it's plausible that he's going to be the one to die when the series resumes in three weeks. Now, of course, we know that Sawyer's not going to be the one to snuff it, because Josh Holloway was robbed at gunpoint this past week and it came out that he and his wife had recently settled into a house on Hawaii. It's not likely that he'd do that if he were getting killed off. Of course, maybe the producers didn't tell him:
JJ Abrams: Josh! Hey, what're you doing here?
Holloway: Oh! Hey, JJ! This here's my new house! The show seems to be going like gangbusters, so my wife and I decided that maybe we ought to sort of next here for a while.
JJ Abrams: Oh yeah, Josh. Why, I think you just bought the house you'll eventually DIE in.
Holloway: (nervously) Uh, yeah, JJ. I don't like to think of it like that, though. Maybe, the house I'll "grow old in."
JJ Abrams: That's funny. I didn't say anything about growing old.
Holloway: Okay. Just what are you getting at, Hinty McJones?
JJ Abrams: "Hinty McJones?"
Holloway: JJ, I've told you, I am terrible at nicknaming.
Back on the other side of the island, Jin and Adebisi have come upon a stream of fresh water. Adebisi has to run back into the woods to find something he left behind--I guess he hasn't gotten Locke's memoranda from the Swan Hatch Offices that as of now, all searches are to be cancelled in the hopes that they will subsequently succeed. While Adebisi is gone, Michael, naturally enters and tells Jin not to follow him. He then runs off. Jin follows, despite the fact that Adebisi hasn't come back. Luckily, Michael's "Find Walt and rescue him from his evil stevedore captors" strategy has still not evolved beyond Plan A: run around haphazardly while yelling at the top of his lungs. This allows Jin, and Adebisi afterwards. Michael wants to keep searching. Jin is all no it's not safe. Michael won't listen. Adebisi tells him he has no idea what the Others are capable of. Michael still insists that he will search. Jin finally says: "You will find him." Oddly, Michael then appears to give up and go with them. I'm confused--are they resolved to try to find Walt despite the danger or are they giving up?
Kate and Sun have uncovered the bottle. Kate, for reasons I don't quite get, starts leafing through the letters. She says she never got a chance to say goodbye. Sun groks she's talking about Sawyer. Across America, Skaters of all shapes and sizes experience orgasm. Sure enough, there's Sun's wedding ring.
On the other side, Jin looks down at his own hand. At that moment, he seems to feel some sort of emotional weight wash over him. A desire to see his wife again? Are he and Sun strangely bonded through the power of Dharma Initiative induced flashback? Nah. It's just that stupid handcuff.
Jin flashes back to Korea. He's unemployeed, wandering the street, and contemplating the water. A girl in a bright orange dress passes by. As he cranes around to ogle her rear, he runs smack into Sun. Now here's a girl for whom I could beat people up on her fathers behalf, thinks Jin. Sun smiles back at Jin, tenderly. There's is a love that could endure anything. Except, perhaps, having to wait three fucking weeks for the next episode.
Posted by The Deceiver at 10/20/2005
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
- I normally love me some Tony Kornheiser, but when it comes to DC United, homie is Sofa King, We Todd Ed. So before he says another word about it, I say: Freddy Adu may burn for some more PT, Tony, but I wager that if you took Adu on a team run your way, I could take a team run the way Peter Nowak wants it done and I'd be whippin' up on your ass seven days a week, twice on Sunday. You were beating the Play Freddy Drum like a samba-crazed Brazilian all last year, but the reality on the field, TK, was that every minute Adu played at Esky's expense was like acid in the face. Circa 2004, Adu was milk money, but Alecko was the ma-fuckin' gravy train (and a Cavalier from The U., to boot, no effing surprise there). Freddy's got bulk and a better game this year, but we all know how this story's gonna go, Ton--another year tops and he's off to Europe where, if he plays for a top squad and not some Bundesliga retread, Adu is gonna catch plenty o' pine. This is futbol ree-al-i-tee, Tony. But seriously, dude, if you like your chances, just pick a sunny day, and I'll meet you at the RFK gates. Adu and Lalas will be on your side, but you FUCKIN' LOSE--because Christian Gomez is on mine. Cut and print. (Washington Post)
- I think if nothing else, we're all thankful that George W. Bush doesn't seem to know Harriet Miers as well as DC Councilmember Jack Evans knows Marsha Ralls. How well does Jack know Marsha? We'll let Amy and Roxanne intimate. And dig the pic. Not to be crass, but the woman is a walking billboard for IWouldHitThat.com. Talk about your DailyCandy! I am Jack's painfully throbbing loins! (Reliable Source)
- You have to love the headline of this John Kelly column. I'll try to break down my nanosecond by nanosecond thought process as I read it: "Hmmm. 'Cost of milk?' What about it? Has it gone up? Gone down? Or is it a new Bloc Party song? Let's see, next word. 'Sends.' Sends? The cost of milk is sending something? What is it sending? What could it be sending? 'Milk Prices Higher.' Oh! The cost of milk is affecting the price of milk! That's unexpected! Thank God the Washington Post chose to not keep me in suspense, wondering what prices the cost of milk were affecting. I might have has to, I don't know, read the article, or even worse, used my brain to try to deduce something that was merely implied." (Washington Post)
- WMATA launches a snigletty ad campaign, creating words to define people and places and things you encounter riding Metro. They give "person who crowds or blocks Metro doors, making it difficult for others to exit or enter promptly" the term "Doorker", apparently because "Grand Master Asshole" didn't test well. (WMATA)
- DCist gives Renee Fleming rave reviews, but I don't know--seems like all you hear out of Stereogum and other hipster outlets these days is endless bloggorhea buzz about Fleming. I mean, it's like not a day goes by! I say, she's just another blog-anointed buzz machine. Clap Your Hands Say Coloratura. (DCist)
- I'm sure by now you've read that Josh Holloway, a.k.a. Sawyer, and his wife Yessica, were robbed at gunpoint this past week at his home in Hawaii. Neither were hurt, but the question remains: do you think Holloway got off at least one nickname at the assailant?
- Actually, wouldn't you think it'd be funnier if, unlike his character, Holloway himself was just really bad at nicknaming people, and just sort of gave up after "Shooty McGee" and "Take it easy there...uh...Gunhead" failed to stick?
- Last week, our explorations of the IMDB led us to mention that we had met Kelvin (Desmond's hatchy predecessor) before. Actor M.C. Gainey, who played Bearded Man in "Exodus, Part 2" was listed by the IMDB as playing "Kelvin" in tonight's episode. The IMDB has now been mysteriously amended to delete all mention of "Kelvin." Interesting, no?
- Okay, this is too hilarious to be true, but according to the IMDB, Greg DeGroot, perhaps an offspring of the Dharma Initiative founders Gerald and Karen DeGroot, will appear in episode six of this season, and will be played by Thomas Gibson, who's best known as playing Greg from Dharma and Greg. This isn't a study question per se...just something to fuck with your beautiful minds a bit.
THE TIP TOPPED
1. Park Police
If you recall my delight many moons ago at finding myself to be fortunate enough to be in the same room with this Baltimore three-piece, you can imagine how I've been hungering for their Ranchero disc. It's fuckin' good. Think Jesus Urge Superstar era power-pop smarts in a record about the open road. The lyrical peaks are witty enough that I'd warn Steve Malkmus that he's been lifted of his thesaurus, and I'll be damned if the music didn't feature summa that unexpected waggle that made the Archers of Loaf so danged good. For DCers, these guys bring their mission to Asylum on October 27. Go pay some heed.
2. Madeline Albright on Gilmore Girls
The hottness. Makes you wonder what show Condoleeza Rice will be on after her time at the State Department is done. I'm gonna guess Three Wishes--tune in and watch Amy Grant watch me break my foot off in 'Leeza's bee-hind. Baby, baby! I'ma taken with the notion!
3. Ted Kennedy
Holey moley! Frickin' Ted Kennedy actually tried to save some motherfuckers from drowning! Good for him--every Catholic knows that faith without deeds is as dead as Mary Jo Kopechne. Now, if Ted would just retake the SATs on my behalf, I'll consider him fully reformed.
4. Allan Houston retires.
Does anyone remember what was it that he did for a living?
5. The Colbert Report
Just one more thing that makes Bill O'Reilly cry like the tweedly little pussy-ass bitch that he is.
6. Reviving old Diner features.
As satsifying as beating yourself off with your "luxury" hand, and nothing to Swiffer up afterwards.
THE FLIP FLOPPED
1. Fiery Furnaces open a new chapter of total suckdom.
They get NO LOVE. And New Yorkers will DANCE. TO. ANYTHING. The fact that Alex Kapranos wasted a track on the new Franz to Eleanor Burgerfries is distresscakes. You could do so much better, Alex.
2. Not getting tickets to SNL this weekend.
When I put in for the lottery this year, I had no idea that SNL would taunt me by basically direct-marketing an episode to me with Franz Ferdinand as the musical guest and CZJ as the host, who, I'm sorry, is hot despite having to be the Douglas family brood-mare.
3. Respect the fucking escalator.
Serials. Have we forgotten the wisdom of Mallrats?
4. How it came to pass that we have forgotten the wisdom of Mallrats.
Maybe it's because Jason Lee went out and named his fucking kid Pilot Inspektor. Think about it Jason: My Name Is Earl equals massive Nielsen love. But what if that shit was called My Name is Pilot Inspektor? Not even you would watch that! I would watch it, as I was forced to admit to Cruel Blogs Are Sommer Than Others last night--but even then, only once, and the whole time I watched it, I'd wonder to myself: "How's this kid going to fill out a fuckin' job application?"
5. Iraqi Constitution
I heard it said that the Constitution is going to diminish the spirit of al Qaeda. Considering that Saddam, in his own psychotic, brutal way, kept al Qaeda the fuck away from his evil domain, I have to wonder what scary-ass shit they're gonna put on a piece of paper to chase the terrorists out of the country now that they're all cooled out on chaise lounges in Mosul and shit. Maybe their Constitution is I Am Charlotte Simmons written in Farsi!
6. Judith Miller to be given the First Amendment Award.
Whereupon I will wipe my ass with a copy of the First Amendment.
So, I went to see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah last night at the Black Cat, and enjoyed the company of Mr. Information Leafblower, Ms. Cruel Sommer, and got to meet DCist colleague Ms.
Blogs t r e t c h for the first time, as well (and, Amanda, I must say with all affection, your observation on the relative tallness of the audience...that's sort of the pot towering over the kettle, isn't it?). Elsewhere in the house, I was grokking the chilled-out vibe of some other cool MF, which must have meant the Upstate Life was there doing his thang as well. So holla atcha.
Sadly, while I didn't despise the show to anywhere near the degree that ILB did, I left the show feeling a little bit disappointed. The gory details are there for you absorption over at DCist. It's healthy, I think, to be skeptical of anything that comes down the pike arriving on a crest of obvious hype, and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah have certainly been blog-darlings for the bulk of the year. But the truth is, I spent a lot of time with their debut recording over the past two weeks as I boned up so as to offer the most-informed review I could for DCist, and along the way, I really fell in "deep like" with the record. In all honesty, their self-titled record is basically a filled-out EP, but these guys do have the songs. "Upon This Tidal Wave of Young Blood", "Over and Over Again" and "The Skin of my Yellow Country Teeth" are a trio of fuckin' cherry tunes that--I'm sorry--most bands would kill to have in their catalogue. In that sense, and on record, the hype is well founded.
So, let me be clear: I would have loved nothing more than to avoid jumping up and down on these kids' heads, but based upon what I saw live, these guys just aren't ready to play Division I ball. The type of music they play--recalling the droning groove of the always transcendant Feelies--really requires tightness and momentum, otherwise it reduces to loose, churning inertia. They came on like gangbusters out the gates, but the moment where they took their first long-ass pause after song 4, the band never got back what they had. Their running start devolved into endless pauses, endless silence between songs--and it exposed a couple glaring flaws: 1) these guys do not have much in the way of stage presence; they can't banter and won't try and 2) they don't seem to know how to play their own material! So many awkward starts to songs! You mean you don't know how your tunes begin? Worst!
The CYHSY performance did much to advance a theory I've been kicking around lately--that our recent crop of New York City bands are, more and more, emerging from the five boroughs with great big flaws that match their great big hype. We're very conditioned to think of New York City as the acid test of cultural value--taking Frank's lyric, "If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere" as a revelatory axiom (funny how no one ever comments on the lyric "I want to wake up in the city that never sleeps," by the way--I mean, if the city never sleeps, than what're ya doing snoozing, Frank, you out-of-touch greenhorn?). But, having made it there, CYHSY mostly made number two on the stage in DC. And I'm sorry, but we do have some standards here, be they vaunted or not.
The truth is, the Sinatra Axiom needs to be coupled with a Hometown Exception, obvs. These bands, in truth, haven't made it anywhere, and really need to get out of town to reality-test their performance in an environment that doesn't exacerbate and reinforce their bad habits. I was very gratified to find that Mr. ILB seemed to enthusiastically second this thinking of mine--he's a guy whose lived these streets I've merely walked.
Reading along with folks like Brooklyn Vegan, you sense a definite trend in the way these NYC-centric bands experience the early days of their budding hype. They build a hometown following. They bop from Rothko to Roseland out to the Warsaw and Southpaw, maybe on to the Knitter. Everyone blogs their ass off about them. Then they head on down to play SXSW, and not suprisingly, take a massive flotilla of homers with them, to the point that my friends in Austin send me panicked emails wondering why all the streets have had their names changed to Rivington and Ludlow. They come back to do a stand at the Mercury Lounge, then it's on to the inevitable CMJ showcase and plans for a gig at Irving Plaza sometime after the leaves change.
That's sort of a joke, but, you know what? It sort of ISN'T. The fact is, these bands are gigging endlessly in front of a crowd that's more than willing to do more than simply, tastefully wellwish--they want to anoint, to tastemake. And the diehardiest of them all can simply jet along with them. Now, it's a certainty that a well-tuned ear can pick up on critical feedback--I'm not trying to say that NYC is full of standardless suckers--but against the backdrop, alongside the steady drumbeat of hype, among the true believers it's real easy to tune that shit out. When you think about it, the way the Strokes experienced love and backlash in sledgehammer bursts alternating on daily overnight deliveries was a huge boon to them. If nothing else, it made them rehearse as if their lives depended on it, maybe even too much--there are undoubtedly people who still believe there was no live drumming on Room On Fire at all.
I can empathize with the fragile of ego and understand why a lot of bands might not want to take steady, regular doses of the bad with the good. But sooner or later, you've gotta ask yourself: is there any value from receiving feedback solely from the types of people who end up on Blue States Lose? When I see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah come out and fumble through the beginnings of songs, I'm seeing a bad habit that's become ingrained--and it's gotten to be that way because hometown crowds, excited by the prospect of participating in the start of something that felt like a big, fun, new thing, never came around to saying, "By the way, you might want to learn your new material."
All of this is just conjecture, of course. I really don't mind if the guys from CYHSY want me to blow it out my ass--I'm still rooting for them to win. But there's evidence. The resounding "Feh." that the world outside of Williamsburg greeted Fischerspooner with. Radio 4 followed up the superlative Gotham! with The Stealing of the Nation, a record so mediocre that you wondered where Gotham! came from in the first place. Or The Liars, who followed the magnificent They Threw Us All In A Trench And Stuck a Monument On Top with the wretched, unlistenable, ear-raping shitcob They Were Wrong So We Drowned. Did I mention stellastarr*? I read now that the Fiery Furnaces' drummer has bought Northsix. What do you think removing the pressure of winning bookings in NYC is going to do for that band? Will it inspire more of the lovely weirdness of Blueberry Boat, or the wince-inducing excess of Rehearsing My Choir (talk about ironic titles, the Furnaces' "choir" seems to find the new record to be a disaster!)?
What I'm trying to say, is that if you live in New York City, and you love a band dearly, set them free. Get them on the road. Get their shit tested in front of crowds that don't have a stake in their music, though, for God's sake, don't send them out of town until they can start, play, and finish every one of their songs with something approaching deftness. (Sarah, we likey the Nightmare of You--don't let this happen to them!) It's good to have friends and fans, but anyone who's ever met a Berkeley Democrat knows of the deleterious effects of constantly being told that everything you say and think and do is right and good and awesome. It's a big country, filled with cities and towns that have very real standards. And, yeah, if we have to, we'll cut you, sure as shit--and we won't cry about it neither. Don't talk about your name unless you're bringing some game.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Rorschach Theatre kicks off Season Six with The Beard of Avon, Amy Freed's hilarious piss-take on the authorial origins of the greatest English-language plays not written by Joe Eszterhas. The play is directed by Jessica Burgess and stars Rorschach artistic partners Grady Weatherford as Will Shakspere and Scott McCormick as...I don't know...stuff. We think the show will be majorly awesome and funny as hell, so come.
The show runs October 22 ? November 20, 2005.
Pay What You Can Previews Begin October 19.
Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays at 8pm
ADDITIONAL SHOWS at 5pm on Sat Nov 12, Sun Nov 13, Sat Nov 19, Sun Nov 20
THREE PAY-WHAT-YOU-CAN PREVIEWS:
October 19, 20 and 21 at 8pm
(There are no reservations for previews
Tickets for previews are sold at the door)
At the Sanctuary Theatre
Casa Del Pueblo
1459 Columbia Road, NW
For INFO: 202-452-5538
TICKETS AND SUBSCRIPTIONS: 1-800-494-TIXSVisit us on the web.
Or, go behind, above and among the scenes by reading The Rorschach Theatre Blog.
Posted by The Deceiver at 10/18/2005
- Oh, yeah. Take the time to recognize. (ESPN)
- Seriously. Why do people have to do this? (Craigslist)
- Please note: all of Guided By Voices' unused lyrics will be repurposed as Washington Post headlines. Via Pygmalion in a Blanket. (Washington Post)
- Washington's mystery stench revealed as waste from a Capitol Heights pumping station, so, it looks like DC Bachelor is off the hook for the time being. (WJLA News 7)
- PG County Judge Dick Palumbo is saying that the dismissed protective order that led to the protectee, Yvette Cade, being set on fire by her estranged husband, came to be dismissed through "clerical error." Do you get the feeling that Palumbo imagines "Clerical Error" as one of those invisible ghostie motherfuckers that run around the panels of The Family Circus, causing trouble? I do. Anyway, now that Cade is covered with third-degree burns and the husband is charges with murder in the first, the protective order has been reinstated, presumably by the little ghostie motherfucker named "Shallow Attempt to Cover My Ass After the Damage Has Already Been Done." (Washington Post)
Posted by The Deceiver at 10/18/2005
Monday, October 17, 2005
For those of us firmly in the Butterstick camp, it's hard to accept the announcement that the baby panda now has an official name. We'll still continue to refer to our beloved cub by the nomenclature that first won him the love and affection of the nation.
But the real story is, in naming the new panda Tai Shan, one voting bloc in particular has emerged to become the dominant electoral cross-section in--at the very least--matters concerning the naming of zoo animals: Rush fans. Long thought dormant as a force to be reckoned with at the polls, especially considering their lightly-regarded post-Presto output, it's clear that Rush fans are re-exerting their influence in a way that's sure to make some permanent waves--sending signals that this is no fly by night demographic.
Pundits have all but ignored the influence of Rush's fanatical devotees. Since the late 1980s, their discography has winnowed to a smattering of buzzless studio albums and an output that leans heavily on live recordings and greatest-hits compilations. The influence of Rush fans as a voting bloc had also eroded under public scrutiny of bassist/lead vocalist Geddy Lee, as critics wondered, "What about the voice of Geddy Lee? How did it get so high?" Many people wondered if he spoke like an ordinary guy.
In the early part of this year, fans of the band lost their battle with Google Maps in their attempt to make Toronto International Airport locatable by simply typing in the title of Rush's "YYZ." But the defeat only seemed to galvanize supporters--so when the opportunity arose to name the recently birthed National Zoo panda "Tai Shan"--from 1987's Hold Your Fire album, they made the most their opportunities. "Tai Shan" ended up winning with 44% of the votes cast, besting second place "Qiang Qiang" by over 22,000 votes. Going into the election, "Qiang Qiang" was thought to have significant advantages--not the least of which were the fact that one would only really have to remember one word instead of two.
But Rush fans, egged on by the hives-inducing bass noodlings of their beloved band, paused their seventy-minute percussion sonatas long enough to cast the deciding votes.
What this means for the future is anybody's guess. Friends of the National Zoo should brace themselves for a slew of Rush-inspired animal names. Elephant babies named Tom Sawyer. Food courts rechristened as La Villa Strangiato. They may as well start looking for a giraffe named Red Barchetta to replace Jafari right now. Even curiouser is how localized this bloc is, whether this demographic will extend their effect to other referenda, and whether or not local politicians will move to capitalize on it. I think if there's one thing all of us can agree on, it's that nobody wants to see Adrian Fenty launch a "Closer To The Heart" Listening Tour in 2006. I mean, my body can only produce so much vomit before I'm venting actual critical organs.
Finally, with another baby panda out in San Diego, look for Coheed and Cambria fans to quickly launch a write-in campaign to name the cub "Miss Erica Court", ensuring that she will grow up to be one fucking cynical and maladjusted little panda bear.
Posted by The Deceiver at 10/17/2005
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Previouslies: The castaways all put messages in a bottle for the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited to take with them on their ill-fated journey out to sea, where they ended up as the captives of the Desert Island Dicks, headed by Adebisi and Ana Lucia, who may, as it turns out, have a bigger cock than Sawyer and his Dangerous Hair.
The scene opens in the larder of Desmond's Hatch on the Isla de Encanta. Hurley is revealed, he's in the process of getting blown away by all the food. He starts tucking in, downing Apollo bars, potato chips, steaks. Apparently, at one point, Walt's picture appears in a "Missing Child" ad on the back of the milk carton. This should clue you in to the fact that this is a dream sequence. But if that doesn't do the trick, Jin enters and starts speaking English. Good English. Not Engrish. And then Hurley starts speaking Korean. And the chicken from Hurley's old fast food job is there, too. So this is a dream. "Everything is going to change," Jin says, "Have a cluck-cluck-cluckety day!"
Hurley is dreaming because Hurley is asleep at the Execute Button. Now, some of you factual killjoys have pointed out that the computer is actually an Apple II or something, which is too bad, because the Commodore 64 was always my idea of a shitty computer and it just flowed better through my typing fingers. But that's ruined now, so I'm rechristening the computer. Please leave your ideas for the computer's name in the comments box. Awesome. Kate wakes him up and Hurley types in the cursed numbers. And like I thought, this new stage of living la isla loca has brought in the very outside-world shittiness that befouls our days here in the real world--tedious, menial jobs. I bask in that prescience, since later on, we'll find out I was very wrong about something else.
Meanwhile, over on the Desert Island Dicks side of the island, Sawyer's hair is looking parched. Michael is still sick with the need to let out to find Walt. Sawyer wants him to shut up. Jin can't speak English well enough to tell him that Malcolm David Kelley's reworking his contract and just won't be appearing on as many shows this year. There's a commotion and the top of the cage opens--it's Adebisi, and he wants the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited to climb a rope out. Sawyer can't truss it. Ana Lucia orders them out at gunpoint. Jin and Mike do as they are told, if only to avoid getting caught in the thicket of brandished cocks between Ana Lucia and Sawyer. Sawyer tells Ana Lucia that he isn't coming, but she cuts him off by slamming the cage shut mid-sentence. Sawyer gives her a new nickname: bitch. Wife of DCeiver totally concurs.
We return from commercial to a flashback of the Season One DVD's. Hurley is winning the lottery and falling to the ground in a dead faint. Ma Reyes comes in, concerned, bitching at him, telling him he eats "basura"--"trash." The writers threw that piece of Spanglish in because they knew most white people would recognize it, seeing as it's the only word they use to communicate with the people that clean their offices at night after they go home. The cleaning people come in around six, looking for all the piles of crap labeled "BASURA" and they throw them away, then they go home and find out that the apartment building they live in is going to get razed so that condominiums of similar quality but seven times the cost are going in their place and that they are going to have to pull their kids out of school and move to a shittier neighborhood, only this time they won't be as quick to clean up the graffiti because they know when they do the fucking real estate speculators will move in and price them out again, to the point that they wonder with rueful irony whether they should take all the "Basura" signs personally. Actually, I'm sure that the writers of LOST didn't intend this moment to be a guilt-inducing class-war grenade. But I do. Anyway, Hurley doesn't show mom his winning lottery ticket. And so, once again, keeping it real is about to go horribly wrong.
Back on la Isla, Charlie is interrobanging Hurley about the hatch. But Hurley won't offer up more than vague details, which pisses Charlie off. Using Claire's baby as a prop to get what he wants--which is so fucking suburban by the way--he pleads, "Don't lie to the baby." Oh, but Charlie...aren't we lying to the baby right now? Ave Maria, and all that? Put it this way: Hurley--just tell Charlie you don't remember any details of the hatch because you were getting stoned. He'll understand.
Hurley comes upon Rose, who's doing laundry and singing spirituals because even though Jack's been an effective leader, he hasn't had the time yet to call the state legislature into session to ratify the 13th Amendment. Let's all hope that Walt's rescue doesn't end in the retrying of the Dred Scott case--although I'd trust my fate to a court from the Isla de Encanta a lot sooner than I'd trust out current Supremes--and that's even if you packed the island court with evil Stevedores and a bag of Arzt's judicially active remains. Rose doesn't seem interested in the hatch, and Hurley correctly surmises that her lack of abiding interest makes her the perfect candidate to help him with his hatchy mission. So they go.
Meanwhile, Claire, who has dropped her pregnancy weight like it was hott, is strolling up the beach--as if 48 hours ago they weren't all fleeing to the rape caves to evade the coming of the Others. You know. The ones that may or may not have played a role in kidnapping her baby? Anyway, she's all lah-dee-frickin'-dah until she comes upon a bottle floating in the surf. It's the bottle they castaways put messages in to give to the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited. Claire recognizes this as potentially bad. Ever notice how Sting always sang "message in a bottew" instead of "message in a bottle?" Sigh. Sting sucks so much.
Back at the hatch, Jack has allowed Hurley to bring Rose on board as an official Hatcharian, where she'll help Hurley catalog and inventory the food and plan for its rationing. We learn that Rose's husband is named Bernard, and I begin to strongly suspect that a character named Bernard sounds more like something Sam Anderson might play instead of Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje. Hurley doesn't want any part of food rationing because he knows from experience that people will be angry at him and hate him. Kate comes in and helps herself to some shampoo. "This is how it begins," Hurley says, unintentionally referencing Wild Palms.
We flash back to Hurley at Mr. Clucks, where he's angsting over the lottery ticket and unable to fully open up to his friend DJ Qualls. Hurley is called into the boss' office. His boss, who is played by the same actor who played Locke's boss in the Locke flashback, plays a little game of audience misdirection, "Is there something you want to tell me, Hugo?" Hurley, who knows the lottery ticket in his pocket entitles him to quit his job, does so. DJ Qualls quits along with Hurley in solidarity. Are you wondering whether Qualls enthusiastic support might turn to resentment when he finds out that Hurley's swimming in tall dollars while he has to go back to a fast food career? Let's step back inside the Mr. Clucks to ponder that. Because it looks like rain is coming. A rain of anvils.
Back at La Isla, Charlie is arguing with Locke that he should be entitled to know about the Hatch, Jack and Sayid are looking for the source of the hatch's weird magnetism, and Ana Lucia and Sawyer are having a spirited cockfight. Wife of DCeiver would like to express her thorough disdain for Ana Lucia. "Even Sawyer is too good for her," she says. Our BFF Elissa, who's joined us for the Losting this evening, adds, "At the airport bar, she drank tequila and tonic! Who fucking does that?"
Locke tells Charlie that Hurley is in charge of all the food they found in the hatch. You can basically see Charlie process this information in terms of Hurley's relative girth and make the "good grief" look. Now, you know what this is? It's prejudice. Wrote a paragraph about it. Wanna hear it? Here it go: We've seen Hurley already take charge of everyone's feeding. He's turned down food himself on two occasions. He made sure pregnant Claire got an extra helping of airplane food. So, for Charlie to reach any conclusion other than this food situation is in capable hands is BS. Hurley built these ninnies a freaking golf course, man. It's just as safe to conclude that he wants to build Kitchen Stadium up in the rape caves, now that he's secured a bunch of secret ingredients that aren't wild boar. Iron Chef La Isla de Encanta would get pretty boring if the secret ingredient was always "WIIIIIIIIIILLLLD BoooOOOOOAAAaaaAAR!" Now he's got all kinds of shit to work with--I'm guessing Locke and Sun -- the Constant Gardener -- would be the Iron Chefs.
- Apollo bars
- Danger Hair
- Crippling personal insecurities
- Remnants of Arzt
- Wild Boar (Hey, once I try something and like it, I'm the type of lame who just orders it every time.)
Charlie has what his countrymen would call a "row" over the hatch's food. Once again, mommy Claire and baby Aaron are invoked for maximum manipulation. Hurley refuses to budge, so Charlie accuses him of being "management"--the "Man" in charge. Oh, but we're sort of in charge of something ourselves, aren't we Charles?
"Charles. Charles in charge. Of our horse, and our smack! Charles, Charles in charge. Hiding chiva from Jack!"
We leave Hypocrisy Beach for the Hurley flashback, He and DJ Qualls are in a record store, singing Driveshaft's hit tune, "You Are Everybody", poorly. Qualls says: "Driveshaft. More like Suckshaft!" No, DJ. ABC's Nightstalker is the Suckshaft. Hurley, feeling bold, asks cute record clerk Starla--that's right: bitch's name is effing Starla--to go to see the Hold Steady show at the Troubadour. Across town, I can hear the Governess saying: "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" DJ Qualls is dutifully impressed with Hurley showing some sack. Hurley says: "I just wanted to it before..." "Before what?" Qualls asks. Before the plot of Empire Records unfolds here next week, I think.
Back in the Hatch, Jack and Sayid continue to prep for their International Male: Basements of Grime photo-shoot by exploring underneath the sealed Chamber of Secrets. The concrete that blocked their entry topside extends down here, and Sayid remarks that it's not unlike Chernobyl--just to give us one more thing to think about. They hear a strange hissing sound. Jack investigates, and in doing so, stumbles upon Kate, post-shower, wrapped in a towel. This causes every Jater around the world to have a spontaneous orgasm. Not me. I'm a Jater-hater. I'm a Skater-hater, too.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the island, the Desert Island Dicks and the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited are making their way through the jungle. We meet another one of the D.I.D.'s, Libby. She tells us there were 23--that's right: 23!--survivors. And guess what? They've got a hatch of their own! But there hatch is a sad, decrepit hatch. It's going to need a lot of plastic surgery and make-up for it to become The Swan. And the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited can't help but notice that there are a LOT fewer people than 23 here. Sickness? Others? Stompy monster? We don't know. We meet Sam Anderson, and you Angel fans can smile to yourselves at the Wolfram and Hart mini-reunion taking place between Sam Anderson and Daniel Dae Kim.
Back on our heroes side of the island, Claire and Shannon present a front of unified blondeness to break the sad news to Sun that the bottle sent with the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited has floated back to the Isla de Encanta. She takes the news with trademarked South Korean stoicism, which is more than we can say for Hurley, who's decided to solve his food problems by dynamiting it. We're treated to memories of Hurley and DJ Qualls stealing gnomes and referencing S. E. Hinton novels on the fateful night that the news broke about Hurley's lottery winnings and EVERYTHING. CHANGING. Hurley is confronted by Rose, who tells him that you can't just stick a bunch of dynamite on your problems and blow them up. That's the terrorist way, after all. Americans get faith-based organizations to give their problems blankets laced with smallpox. All better!
Happily, Rose helps Hurley find a third way of solving his problem--pony up all the food at once for one big happy luau. Hurley hands out food to the castaways and before we know it, everyone's aglow and smiling and having a good time feasting. Everyone except Sun, that is. She's seen apart from the revellers, digging a hole to hide the bottle in until such time as she can access the hatch's computer and launch the Isla de Encanta's version of the PostSecret blog.
Over on the other side of the island, the Desert Island Dicks and the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited have nothing to feast on but their grief. But here's where we learn that Sam Anderson is actually Rose's husband, not Adebisi! Oh well, I liked the idea of two people split up on opposite sides whose island experience took them in two different directions. Sam Anderson seems to be no less a sweetheart for all his troubles, while Adebisi's dug down a bit deeper into a hardscrabble survival mode. I would have found a reconciliation with greater contrast interesting, but, whatever, I trust JJ. We close with the camera alit on the beatific Rose. After helping Hurley to think outside his box, she knows her husband's doing his damnedest to get back inside hers.
Next week: The Others and their terrifying shins!
Posted by The Deceiver at 10/13/2005
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
- Proponents of the death penalty say that it's the only way the loved ones of murder victims can reach closure. I'm not so sure. In fact, if you ask me, it seems that Jerry Kilgore's new attack ad star talks about her murdered husband so much that it makes you wonder how she'll get some closure to her damn mouth. (Washington Post)
- Which competing interest will emerge victorious in the frenzied bidding war for the Sursum Corda housing complex? We know this much, in the event of a tie, this AU Student plans to be the one to, uh...shower the victor. (DCist)
- With every passing day, the prophetic vision of this movie comes closer to reality*. (NBC Channel 4)
- "Comcastic"=worst word ever in LIFE! Ugh. I take Comcastic to mean something akin to what comes across in the following sentence. "You think that's bad, Irene? Try waking up with your face caked in santorum. Frankly, it's the most comcastic thing that's ever happened to me.
- Garrett Graff once said of me, "we have never seen a mocking as merciless as the one [DCist] handed out to the Examiner's gossip columnist, Karen Feld." Well look who's riding the snark train, now? (Though Feld totally deserved it this time, too. Obvs.) (FishbowlDC)
*but not this movie. or this one. hardly the work of visionary auteurs.
Washington. Are you tired of pitching woo? Making stew? Winning iPod nanoes with an ersatz loo? Don't know what to do? Try fighting foo!
First, check that calendar, make sure you've got some free time this Sunday, say...around 9:30pm.
If so, then go right here.
No need to rush. Maybe tomorrow. Say around 4pm.
I can't stress this enough: 4pm is the hour, no irony. Get it? 4pm=HOUR, NO IRONY.
(with a tip of the hat to Neurobashing)
- Everyone seems super-fascinated that Jin--perhaps, maybe--knows how to speak English. Of all the underwhelming things to fixate on! I mean, if I were stranded on a deserted island with black-smoke stompy thing, polar bears, reincarnated daddies living in boars' bodies, astral projections of loved ones, hatchy goodness, Dharma initiatives, crazy French women without a trace of French dialect, les Autres, evil stevedores, Ethan Roms, the incredible healing spine of John Locke, and the bass player from frickin' Driveshaft--that's right, THE Driveshaft--I doubt I'd be the one saying: "Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait...wait. Wait. Wait. Hold on. Wait. Wait. You mean to tell me that there are TWO Koreans here that BOTH know how to speak English? What are the odds of THAT?"
- For that matter, you might ask yourself: between his artistic pursuits, his umpteen years of construction work, his umpteen years of rehabilitation, his umpteen years of near abject poverty, his many months pursuing the custody of his son, and the typical racism of country clubs, how did Michael learn how to play golf?
- Where exactly, was Desmond running off to? I thought this guy was convinced that the world had ended or that everyone on the surface was sick or that, at the very least, the broken computer meant something really bad would happen. His whole worldview was sort of built on sand, wasn't it?
- Latest from IMDB: As always, take it with a grain of salt, because I think a generous helping of disinfo is being salted away here, but tonight we're promised an appearance frm DJ Qualls. "Marvin Candle" apparently was played by Marvin Candle. And next week, we meet "Kelvin"--and guess what? We've seen him before...
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
- All this talk about whether Architecture in Helsinki is more like the Arcade Fire or the Fiery Furnaces. Aren't we losing sight of what's important? And that is, if you build an arcade in Helsinki, isn't it more architecturally sound to install some fiery furnaces as opposed to setting it on fire? I know it's cold there, but jeez, people. Take that open flame outside the arcade and apply it directly to Devendra Banhart--he's super flammable, and his burning stench will help ward off the wolf parade. (DCist)
- We'd be a bit more excited about American University throwing the book at asswipe Ben Ladner if we were sure that the book they threw didn't have checks for many, many thousands of dollars folded up in its pages. (DCist)
- Speaking of American University, this City Paper story is probably the greatest single thing ever covered by our hometown weekly. I'm really quite speechless. And I'm disappointed that my own friends from AU have never shown this sort of freakdafied dimension in our social interactions together. Yeah: Jordan, Liz--I'm looking in your directions, darlings. Still, if I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: if you were to set a thousand AU students before me, each one drenched to the bone by another man's urine, I would still respect them more than Ben Ladner. (City Paper)
- Speaking of the City Paper and getting pissed on, a few days ago, I suggested that the new stadium for the Nationals be called "The Plantation." I am one prescient motherfucker. The City Paper has documented the plans for the new arena and my god the place is going to be one cronytastic megalopolis. The big winners are K Street, the pols, the Booz Allens and the Doug Jemals of the Future. Getting pissed on--baseball fans, who'll surely not miss the VIP treatment provided for people who don't seem that interested in cheering on the home team. (City Paper)
- We are so relieved that the Bono-stumping-for-Rick-Santorum story from earlier today turned out to be a hoax. Santorum disappoints us, and leaves a bad taste in our mouth. (Wonkette)
Posted by The Deceiver at 10/11/2005
Friday, October 07, 2005
Commander Cuckoo Bananas, in response to concerned questions over the avian flu outbreak, recently stated that he is "monitoring" the situation.
Sigh. Based upon the way he heroically "monitored" Hurricane Katrina, we already know the basic plot points to the avian flu story: Three days after the avian flu has taken over the New Orleans Convention Center (having finished its official plenary session and divided into multiple breakout sessions), Shepard Smith will girlishly shout at Sean Hannity to get some "perspective." A rattled President Bush will then summon some shitwad buddy he used to get high with under the bleachers at his high school pep rallies and dispatch him to airlift some Sudafed to the white people. Kanye West will declare that the President doesn't care about chickens, Tom Delay will issue a statement reading "Suckers!" from his virus-protected haven in some penitentiary, and the Jeebus Freak League will photoshop a flu virus into the shape of Terri Schaivo. Don't worry, though, Trent Lott's front porch figures to come out of it okay.
Posted by The Deceiver at 10/07/2005
- To our buddy at VCU, Sabrina Audrey Jess: be careful out there.
- Harriet Miers dropped by John Cornyn's office yesterday, and, regardless of what you may think of her qualifications, you have to be happy to have made it out alive. After all, Cornyn's kind of a loathsome psychopath, and he's well known to have come out in favor of judges he doesn't like getting the Grand Theft Auto treatment. And hey, just yesterday, he made it clear that he loves him some unlimited torture when it comes to interrogations. We're guessing Cornyn probably went with his Advise and Consent Waterboard Kit, generously leaving the genital electrification to sterilization enthusiast Tom Coburn. (Washington Post)
- Oh, if I had a nickel for every time some dude from Portland told me the attack on the Pentagon never happened! (Craigslist)
- Capitol Punishment bemoans the state of negotiations in the land of the Washington Nationals, declaiming, "...as in all cases involving sports business, it's the fans who get it in the keister." Maybe. I'd be more sympathetic if the fans in this case didn't line up, bend over, and basically ask the MLB to make them bitches for life. Seeing as they did, with heartrending, sorrowful protestations over the lack of a baseball team, my advice to Nationals backers is to keep their keisters in the air and try to enjoy it with something approaching dignity. (Capitol Punishment)
- This kid was just making his way, the only way he knew how. That, apparently, was just a little bit more than the law would allow. (Washington Post)
Posted by The Deceiver at 10/07/2005
Thursday, October 06, 2005
So, I'm grabbing ahold of a funny little musical meme I read over at Bradley's Almanac.
The Task: Choose a band/artist and answer ONLY IN SONG TITLES by that band:
Are you male or female: "Here Comes Your Man"
Describe yourself: "I've Been Tired"
How do some people feel about you: "Where Is My Mind?"
How do you feel about yourself: "Oh, My Golly!"
Describe what you want to be: "Debaser"
Describe how you live: "Dig For Fire"
Describe how you love: "Gouge Away"
Share a few words of wisdom: "Distance Equals Rate Times Time"
Band: Please. Pixies. Obvs.
This tag goes out to all the usual suspects. You know who you are.
Posted by The Deceiver at 10/06/2005
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Previously on Lost: Jack bonded with the mysterious Desmond over Powerade. Later, Jack's key would get all magnetized, perhaps sowing the seeds of doubt? Locke demonstrated his computer savvy, and Michael and Sawyer of the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited found their way back to shore, where they ran into Jin--and Les Autres.
Scene up on the Other Shores of the Isla de Encanta. The newly landed Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited is about to face off against the Others. Sawyer sets his hair to kill and gets set to dispense some of the homespun con-man fisticuffs that have so far solved none of his problem. The Others brought big sticks to the fight. No fair. Our heroes are dragged into the woods.
There, they're tossed in a hole and locked up. We see now who the Alpha Other is--it's Adebisi! Okay! Here's where I'm thinking that there's nothing to worry about. This is where Michael should gather Sawyer and Jin and say, "All right. I know the deal with this shit. Motherfucker's a crazy drugged out loon. Don't eat the spaghetti sauce--there's microfine ground up glass in that shit. The boxing tournament is fixed. Watch out for all the neo-Nazis who are subliminating their fear of totally queering out by beating the shit out of people. And whatever McManus promises you, don't count on it--it always goes wrong. That man is Fate's little bitch. Stick with me and we'll get through this. I can do this time. Shit. I can do this time sitting down! Sitting in a wheelchair, preferably."
Now, I trained at the Television Without Pity Pop Cultural Academy--mainly auditing classes on Anvil Theory and Snark Nomenclature (auditing=snuck in and hid in the back of the lecture hall), so I might as well identify the first dropped anvil right here and now: Adebisi=so totally Rose's husband. Obvs. And when Little Miss I Love The Lord is finally reunited with her Lord of the Flies, the castaway sex is going to be so fucking asstastic that the black smoke stompy monster's going to flee in terror.
Meanwhile, flashback time. You may not know this, but at some point between being conned out of his kidney, getting paralyzed, training for his walkabout and getting in a plane crash, whole months of Locke's life went by without anything remotely interesting happening. In Locke's case, he spent some time trapped in a Chuck Palahniuk novel, going to support groups full of whiny bitches just so he can throw his stolen organ trump card. It's there that he meets Helen, played by Katey Segal, newly freed from John Ritter's tragic legacy.
Poof. We zip back to the story, revealing our heroes down in Desmond's Geodesic Den, and once again, we're seeing quality scenework that was featured in episode one of this season, with a new twist--we see Kate climb down out of the air duct, grab a gun, and take on Desmond from behind. In the melee, someone squeezes off a shot, and it takes out the Commodore 64 that runs Desmond's world-altering Plinko machine.
The destruction of the Commodore 64 totally reminds Locke of this time he fucked Katey Segal, only to leave her bedside to go hang out by his dad's house--but this time, his dad actually got in the car with him, and he had the opportunity to ask him why he tricked him out of his kidney, only to be told: "There is no why." For the philosophically inclined, by the way, that phrase is a sort of shibboleth, and should clue you into the ongoing debate between Intrinsicism--as espoused by Locke, whose beliefs in what the Isla De Encanta is all about can't be shaken because to him, they're self-evident and need no explanation--and Subjectivism--espoused by Jack, whose need to know the reasons why everything is the way it is lead him to similar batshit extremes in this episode. Yeah, we kicked a little post-grad knowledge to the people. We're like that.
Back in the hatch, Kate is dispatched to retrieve Sayid's magic fingers from the verdant valley of Shannon's labial folds and put them to work fixing the Commodore 64. Jack, freaking, wants some answers from Desmond, who provides them, and they are simple: he was on a round the world race when he ran aground on the island, totally ran into Kelvin, who gave him some food, taught him to work the Plinko machine so that he could save the world every 108 minutes. Fucking obvious, really, and hey, there's a movie about the whole thing, maybe Jack should watch it. That's just great, thinks Jack. One of the known benefits of being stranded on a deserted island is that fact that you rarely encounter the sort of schmuck who, within fifteen minutes of meeting him, is totally insisting that he unspool his crappy student film for your viewing pleasure. The film is called Orientation, which totally sounds like it's going to be some boring-ass Dogma 95 piece of crap.
Back at the beach, we're introduced to Prisoner Number 4815162342: Ana Lucia. She was last seen flirting with Jack at the airport bar back in Sydney. And don't worry, love triangle fans--like Kate, she's preternaturally hot, too.
Back at Desmond's place, Locke and Jack are setting up for the First Annual Hatch Film Festival. The movie is old and grainy and contains content that'll have Lost fans Googling their fingers to the bone looking for things like The Dharma Initiative and Dr. Marvin Candle and Hansa Foundation (or Hanso Foundation, I have no Tivo to check--it's worth pointing out that there is an actual Hansa Foundation) and other shit like that. The upshot of the film has something to do with the para-sciences and utopia building and the establishment of a station on the Isla de Encanta and the later discovery of a powerful electromagnetism that has something to do with the numbers and the countdown. It's hard to follow, with the Stereolab-meets-Devendra Banhart soundtrack and the distracting pictures of polar bears. But, hey, there's a nice shout-out in there to the University of Michigan.
Meanwhile, back in flashbackland, Locke and Helen are celebrating their six-month anniversary of uncomfortable coupling. Helen gives him a gift--the key to her apartment, but she makes him promise to stop sneaking out of her bed to go hang out in front of his dad's house. There's a word for women who stick it out with men with crippling daddy issues for six months--desperate. Locke promises to try to try to try, but ultimately, he can't help himself. Helen finds him in front of his dad's house again, chucks his car keys and tells Locke she can help him stop visiting his dad. I'm guessing her solution maybe involves a couple of quick sledgehammers to his spinal column, Misery-steez. That's what I wish, anyway. But actually, she aims to save him through "leaps of faith" and other helpings of psychobabblecakes. So, at least we know who it was that first enabled Locke's weirdo fixation with Messianic horseshit.
Meanwhile, back at the Oswald Island Penal Colony, Sawyer and his moody hair are fixing to make a prison break--and not one based on comical happenstance, like the Fox show of the same name--but one that will employ the hack film noir "sick prisoner" trick. At this point, Ana Lucia seems to have a lot of very pointed questions for the surviving members of the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited. And that's when you know--this isn't Ana Lucia: it's Anvil Lucia. She's a spy in the house of Sawyer, working for Adebisi and Les Autres to suss out what the Rainbow PUSH Oceanaire Club and Rafting Society Unlimited are all about. Ooooh, snap! Sawyer got served! But not before Sawyer gives Ana Lucia a nickname: Cupcake. Because she's tasty. And she has a creamy filling. Of sweet, creamy deceit.
Jack, having had a final tete-a-tete from the fleeing Desmond returns to find Kate, Sayid, Hurley and Locke sweating over the now repaired computer and what numbers to enter to stop the countdown. I love that Hurley's having none of it, encouraging Locke to press enter with the wrong numbers, but it's jack himself who supplies the correct combination. That's when Locke, realizing that there may be someone in the viewing audience who hasn't yet caught on to the fact that he and Jack are the two main competitors for the position of High Island Priestess of Crippling Daddy Issues, asks Jack to be the guy to push the button.
Jack of course, is all: No, you push the button. And Locke is all: Nuh-UH, you push it. And Jack is all: Forget it, I aint pushing it. And Locke is like: I'm not gonna push it. And Jack says: Let's get Mikey, he'll push anything. But Mikey's over all chilled out in a hole on the "Other" side of the island.
Finally, Locke says, "Take a leap of faith!" Because that's his answer for everything. What cereal is a better part of a balanced breakfast? Leap of faith. Fries with that? Leap of faith. What do you wanna bet he leapt to his faith one too many times? Wife of DCeiver, right now, is yelling, "Dude! The leap of faith is NOT pushing the button." But Jack, feeling called out, finally relents, and pushes the button with one second on the clock. The alarms stop. Locke sidles up to Jack, relieved, and says, "I'll take the first shift." So after all they've been through on this island--the marauding polar bears, the savage "Others", the stompy black smoke, the Evil Stevedores and their freaky, freaky pasts--now they have to get a fucking job? So effing worst.
Next week: Hurley has to hear a lot of shit about hiding food in the hatch from a guy who's hiding heroin in a Virgin Mary figurine.
- Just how dangerous do you think Sawyer's hair can get?
- If you were locked in an underground apartment with a hatch that kept you from getting up to the outside world with no one to talk to except a giant Cray computer that set off alarms that required you to enter mysterious numbers, how long would your "lifetime" supply of candy bars last?
- Who are "the Others?" Are they a) the Stevedores of the Damned b) the lost and lonely cast of Carnivale c) The Blair Witch d) exactly like our protagonists on this side of the island, except with a working funnel cake machine that has them all bonkers from powdered-sugar rush e) who are we to call them "the Others"? Maybe it's really us--no, fuck it. Sorry. They're totally the others.
- This week's IMDB promises include appearances by Katey Segal. Next week, we're promised guest star DJ Qualls! Whoop that trick!
- It's surprising. I get the more grief for my mainstream opinions than for my outlandish ones. (DCist)
- Maybe Papa's got a brand new frame: "No Taxation with Such Representation as Myself." (Post)
- One of the important Reliable Source rites of passage: the first time you make a boldfaced mention of Julianna Glover Weiss. (The Reliable Source)
- So doctors at the National Zoo are set to remove a "large, lemon-sized" tumor from an ailing giraffe. When life gives you lemonoma, make lemonoma squares! Frealsies though, what is with the zoo and their strange tendency to describe the vagaries of their world by comparing things to groceries? Well, on behalf of the local blogosphere, I want zoo officials to know that if they get the tumor out and decide to backtrack by cleverly describing it as "about the size of a stick of butter", we WILL fuck you up. (Post)
- Judy Miller is exactly like Anne Frank--or would be, if Anne Frank had, back then, confused her best friends for Nazis and ended up hiding unnecessarily from people who jad just brought over some finger sandwiches. (Fishbowl)
It's important to note that you shouldn't be surprised or aggrieved to learn that the horrible aftermath of Katrina was caused by failures at all levels. If I lean hard on the Federal Government, well--that's who I pay. And I pay them well enough to know that they have the means and the wherewithal to attempt to immunize themselves from blame. But blame needs to be layed at many feet. And perhaps no one was more culpable in the Katrina situation than the National Weather Service.
What does the National Weather Service have to do with anything? They provide us with up to the minute information, sure. And they issue warnings that rarely leave any room for doubt. But they are the cause of a far more insidious problem when it comes to hurricanes. The names they give them simply do not properly prime us for the terrible threat they pose.
When Hurricane Isabel came ashore here a few years ago, I openly mocked it, and Isabel dropped a 250-year-old tree on my car. Now, was I aware on some level that the hurricane could do this? Sure I was. But I mocked anyway, and who could blame me? The only Isabel I ever knew was the moody, vaguely goth younger sister of a high school friend. Could she occasionally annoy? Sure. Did she prompt the odd argument? No doubt. Were there times that Isabel was irrational? Of course. But drop a tree on my car? Sorry, no sir.
We want to fear these storms. We really do. But I'll be damned if I run from Hurricane Florence. I already have had the experience of being in a mandatory evacuation over a Hurricane named Bob. I didn't want to evacuate. I felt like a grade-A pussy running from someone named Bob. I still feel that way.
So, is it any wonder that thousands of people stayed in harm's way, determined to ride out Katrina? Of course it isn't. As a people, we aren't afraid of Katrinas. Katrina does not terrify. Katrina does not even inspire worry. Katrina was that girl you knew junior year. She wasn't one of your best friends, but, yeah, you exchanged Christmas cards and shit because she was a nice girl, always smiling, and she loved animals and hanging out but that you always sort of vaguely felt sorry for because you always suspected her boyfriend John was sneaking around with the mouthy brunette on the yearbook staff in the fluffy sweaters and even if he wasn't getting his dick sucked on the side by her always rather callously seemed to prefer giving his passenger seat to his dumb friend Ed whose head seemed vaguely shaped like a crushed tin can which made it so Katrina had to ride in the backseat with the empty soda bottles and cracked Def Leppard cassettes.
See what I mean? So not scary! Most people just don't run away from a hurricane named Katrina. I'd bet it was all most people could do to resist the urge to make Hurricane Katrina some pizza rolls.
If the National Weather Service wants to get serious about protecting people, they have got to rethink this name thing. They need to start giving these storms some names that absolutely leave NO doubt that they are going to seriously FUCK US UP. Names like Hurricane Deathbroth or the Kneecapper or Margaret Thatcher. Something that's going to inspire the average person to fear for their lives.
Look at the names they're getting into next year. Hurricane Beryl? Hurricane Ernesto? I can see a little germ of fear growing in the face of a hurricane named Oscar, maybe. I knew a thorough-going bitch named Joyce once. But most of these names are just no good! Nadine is the cute barista at the coffeeshop across the street. Tony is the lead in West Side Story. Isaac is the Love Boat bartender. No, no, no. These are mixed messages!
What we need is a hurricane named, let's say, The Penetrator. You tell me that The Penetrator is coming ashore in 24 hours and I am gone like Keyser Soze. Use the names of famous human predators, like Adolph or Idi Amin or Attilla or Affleck, and people will break out in a mad dash for higher ground. Think about it--when the media reports on the "aftermath of Leslie", how worked up do you expect the Federal responders to get? But if you have reporters beaming out picture live from the devastation wrought by The Defecator--then we'll see some motherfuckers rolling out to save some people on roofs!
Think about this: in 2007, the National Weather Service plans a "Hurricane Sebastien." I'm not trying to be cute here, but the most hardcore thing I'd expect from a Sebastien is a pedicure.