Friday, June 29, 2007

Some Of Your Friends May Already Be This Fucked.

There was a time when rock musicians were downright fundamentalist in their belief that their music should never become the theme song shill to a commercial interest. Well, a lot has changed in the past decade and a half. A generation weaned on the underground scene have taken over the creative departments at ad agencies, and they’ve asserted their indie tastes at a time when it’s harder than ever for bands to break out on terrestrial radio. Nowadays, a band that’s blog-hyped today could find themselves in a commercial for Outback Steakhouse tomorrow. And guess what: the world didn’t end as a result.

Still, there are limits. And one has to think that there are special places in Hell reserved for bands that do what Future 86 has done.* Click on the link and prepare yourself—you are likely to feel a strong pang of embarrassment on their behalf.

*Then again, who knows, maybe “I Want It All” really comes across in an intimate club setting, you know, played acoustically.

Widely-despised Wackjob Plots Return to Congress.

Shelley Sekula Gibbs, who got to be Congresswoman for about a week last year because it's been well accepted that America just doesn't have to make a lick of goddamned sense anymore, is busy rubbing her clawed hands together, plotting and planning a way to return to Congress and fulfill what her tiny pea-sized brain tells her is her destiny of representing a district full of dickwads in Texas.

Walk through the corridors of any of the House Office Buildings, and you'll come to realize that the majority of the people who you come across, are howling, implacable dicks. So, consider: if the howlingest dick of them all was Tom Delay (and he was), you'd have to be a right featherbrained asshole to be able to work for him. Then, consider the fact that Shelley Sekula Gibbs was so awesome in her towering, alienating unlikeability, that not even the fuckjobs who worked for Delay found it possible to be in her presence for even an hour without experiencing a supernova grade spasm of unadulterated repulsion, and they walked out en masse, rather than stay at work for her, spend the next few weeks jerking each other's grizzled, flaccid knobs, and collect the easiest paycheck they'd ever earn in their horrible, misbegotten lives.

So, if Shelley Sekula Gibbs makes it back to Congress, you can only imagine that she will be staffed by people who make the terrifying, oily, tentacled demons found in H.P. Lovecraft novels look like Santa's elves. And that possibility would really piss me off if I didn't feel that deep down, most of Gibbs' potential colleagues and co-workers didn't truly deserve it.

Dinosaurs Will Die.

Damn. The Rolling Stone is speaking some free-range truth:

So who killed the record industry as we knew it? "The record companies have created this situation themselves," says Simon Wright, CEO of Virgin Entertainment Group, which operates Virgin Megastores. While there are factors outside of the labels' control -- from the rise of the Internet to the popularity of video games and DVDs -- many in the industry see the last seven years as a series of botched opportunities. And among the biggest, they say, was the labels' failure to address online piracy at the beginning by making peace with the first file-sharing service, Napster. "They left billions and billions of dollars on the table by suing Napster -- that was the moment that the labels killed themselves," says Jeff Kwatinetz, CEO of management company the Firm. "The record business had an unbelievable opportunity there. They were all using the same service. It was as if everybody was listening to the same radio station. Then Napster shut down, and all those 30 or 40 million people went to other [file-sharing services]."

Yep. This is what I've been saying for years--finally, people are starting to come around. The fact is, Napster was pretty damned good for record sales. N*SYNC's sophomore album was leaked far and wide, and that shit did record-breaking biz. Radiohead's Kid A success, while not in that league, was still pretty surprising to just about everyone: leaked on the web, the record still hit number one its first week of sales. Pretty unexpected for a record of glitchy laptop noodling.

Then, Napster was brought down, and basically overnight, record sales went right in the crapper. Not a coincidence. To the tar pits, then. And deservedly so.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Another Next Big Thing.

New game: Cast Member of Rorschach's Birds or Member of the Sugarcubes.

Einar Benediktson
Por Eldon
Tim Getman
Brian Hemmingsen
Nanna Ingvarsson
Einar Melax
Marisa Molnar
Bragi Olafsson
Margret Ornolfsdottir
Jjana Valentiner

If you ask me, the best way to find out is to just come see Birds, at Rorschach.

It's our official entry in the Capitol Fringe Festival. Opening night is Saturday, but tonight, we're hosting one last Pay-What-You-Can Preview. I'll be there! So come and enjoy our world-premiere show!

Details here.

Friday, June 22, 2007

We up in ur media, recontextualizin ur pop cultchurul signifirez.

Presenting: "Same Girl" by R. Kelly (featuring Usher), as performed by David Frost and Richard Nixon, as performed by Michael Sheen and Frank Langella in Frost/Nixon.

The Gaggledouchecyclepocalypse is Upon Us.

Tracy K. sends us the most frightening thing we've seen in a long while:
Egads, no! It's a gaggledouchecycle! Overrun with duffeldouches!

Tracy adds: "Complete with an assload of Mom Jeans!"

Heaven help us all.

PREVIOUSLY, on The DCeiver: So Dark the Con of Conference Bikes

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Look Who's Honoring Us Now!

Washingtonian readers have named DCist their Favorite Local Blog. No arguments here, obvs. Congrats to Sommer and company, as well as the folks who contribute tips and suggestions and comments--what the DCist audience gives back is just as important as anything we give out.

And check it: what's got two thumbs and has made marginal contributions to both Washingtonian's number one AND number two blog this past year? This guy! (Indeed: I'll just choose to believe there's a connection.)

The King of Abstract, Muddled Reasoning.

Because he'd prefer that people with life-crippling ailments be hooked up to state-funded feeding tubes personally installed by the medical practice of Doctors Frist, Coburn, Moreau, Strangelove and Who rather than get up and start living their lives as a functioning member of society, President Bush yesterday took to the microphones to reaffirm his desire to see stem cell research, if not Robitussin and Trojans, banned.

"Destroying human life in the hopes of saving human life is not ethical."
But torture them? Sure! Why the fuck not! We're so FUCKING HUMANE and shit.

Also: Congratulations to the troops! If we take Bush at his word, we can presume that the President thinks of you all as a flock of goddamned parakeets or something.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

The Audacity of Dopes: Democratic Candidates Inspire Buyer's Remorse Seventeen Months Before Purchase.

This L.A. Times article doesn't surprise me at all. Taking stock of the available choices, the electorate has settled into a stance redolent of Meat Loaf: they would do anything for the Democratic Party, but they won't do that. Or this. And especially none of this crap.

The reasoning behind these attitudes isn't particularly cogent. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, things aren't looking good for the Dems top-shelf candidates and that's bad, because in the dictionary, next to the definition of "diminishing returns," there's a picture of Joe Biden, Bill Richardson, and Chris Dodd.

Which leaves us with the option of installing Mike Gravel as our Supreme Turkmen--a not altogether uninteresting idea, because the man is alternatively baffling and terrifying--or hoping that a candidate emerges who can traverse the center-left terrain, demonstrate the managerial acumen the voters seem to want from their Presidents these days, present a sensible alternative to the GOP's platform of Creationism, torture-porn and unwanted babies by the metric ton, and demonstrate the capacity to campaign over the long haul.

That's why this news is curiouser and curiouser...From the Associated Press:

New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg on Tuesday switched his party status from Republican to unaffiliated, a stunning move certain to be seen as a prelude to an independent presidential bid that would upend the 2008 race.
Just sayin'.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

The Next Big Thing: Unbuckled Six.

Back once again.

For the District. DCist returns with Unbuckled No. 6.

From Alexandria, we got headliner Le Loup. From Brooklyn, we got The XYZ Affair. And from whatever corner of our consciousness that inspires us to let some affable troublemakers get their up-to-no-good on, we got the guys from Middle Distance Runner taking over the DJ booth. For details, click here, or, I don't know...just look at the above illustration. Like the last scene of the Sopranos, it's all there.

Le Loup | Website | MySpace
The XYZ Affair | Website | MySpace
Middle Distance Runner | Website | MySpace

DCeptette: Just another apocryphal mess version.

  1. James W. Bailey, thank you for this. It's been a long time coming. [DCist]
  2. The Politico has a Facebook page. Can the group, "The Most Dangerous Place In DC is the Space Between Mike Allen and a Mirror" be far behind? [FishbowlDC]
  3. Mike Gravel's Fortress of Rock-Tossing Solitude REVEALED! [SFist]
  4. The new new thing? Google Street Level Drag Racing! Daniel Radosh, you are a genius. [Radosh]
  5. R. Kelly and Usher have a song out in which it is revealed they are dating the "Same Girl." I'm presuming the song ends with Usher realizing why his girlfriend smells like urine, and vomiting profusely. Seriously. Would you write a song about putting your dick in the same place as R. Kelly even as a joke? [Fimoculous]

A Correction.

Paul H.'s new website was pimped here the other day and I accidentally gave out the wrong address and blog name. For the record, the blog is called Creativiste and is at It should be pretty riveting stuff, Paul knows what he's talking about. And I'm sure it won't just be Richard Florida fanatic Ryan Avent tuning in, I will as well.

The Audacity of Dopes: Fred Thompson Hell Bent on Ruining the Next Morrissey Album

When I read that former Senator Fred Thompson sought out former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher for some sort of ring-kissing sit down, I had the same thought as most Americans. Wait--Maggie Thatcher is still alive? Forcing my brain to relearn that caused me to forget how to perform CPR, so, good luck to the next asshole who has a heart attack on the Orange Line with me.

Last I heard from the Thatchers was that Maggie's douchebag son Mark and his shithead friend Simon Mann got caught trying to stage a coup in Equitorial Guinea, so, I'm at a loss to figure out why a presumptive Presidential candidate would want to meet with Margaret Thatcher except maybe to pop her in the mouth. Mike Allen, writing for that shitstained little journal of navelgazing, The Politico, says that Thompson "will pose for photos with Thatcher, which his advisers hope will enhance his support among devotees of former President Ronald Reagan." Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to to suck up to Reagan fans. Why not just name Margaret Thatcher after Ronald Reagan?

Anyway, here's hoping that the residents of the Falkland Islands aren't so busy that they won't have some spare time to come to Guantanamo Bay to have their genitals hooked up to electrodes.

DCeptette: Pay to Cum Version.

  1. Brilliant. [DCist]
  2. Confidential to City Mouse: Saw the Keegan 1776 on Sunday (my dad-in-law is in it, who's from Delaware, by the way, and who has only ever played members of the Delaware delegation, this time marking his third time playing Caesar Rodney), and trust me, afterwards everyone was saying how amazing the assistant direction. I was all, "Yeah, natch." Between you and me, though: sort of a "Hollywood ending," don't you think. Oh, well. Sometimes I wish I had yr email address is all.
  3. Paul H. debuts latest blog venture--Creativalue--and trust me, he'll have a lot of interesting things to say about the nexus of vital creativity and business tradition. So, at the very least, Ryan Avent will probably read it. [Creativalue]
  4. Fucking A. I have had that god damned Journey song in my head for over a week now, and I haven't even seen the Sopranos season finale yet! Anyway, Gawker veers briefly from snark to near sincerica today as Alex Balk details his take on the ending. I look forward to knowing whatever it is he's talking about. [Gawker]
  5. Ryan Adams is all sober now. Potential downside: dope is the source of all his power (Sky Blue Sky makes the argument that this was the case for Tweedy) and he never pens another song quite like "Look Who Got A Website" again. Potential upside: maybe he'll return the bottle of top-shelf bourbon he stole from my friend Colleen six years ago. [Idolator]

Monday, June 18, 2007

The DCeiver Advises the Youth of America

Oh, youth of America. We don't enjoy the best relationship, you and I. Your sulking makes me nervous and your teenaged unpredictability sometimes horrifies me. And fuck if I can understand why you guys have to be so damned spastic all the time! I was walking through a Metro Station behind two of your young gentlemen this weekend, the whole time thinking: "Jesus! Just walk in a straight motherfucking line! Don't slap that! Why do you have to slap everything? Why can't you simply walk without a mess of flailing limbs? I don't understand!"

I forget, sometimes: you all have it pretty rough. It seems like from Grade 7 to 12 has only gotten shittier since I left that age behind. And this week, the Washington Post reminded us of this fact in a story too crazy-ass to believe:

Fairfax County middle school student Hal Beaulieu hopped up from his lunch table one day a few months ago, sat next to his girlfriend and slipped his arm around her shoulder. That landed him a trip to the school office.

Among his crimes: hugging.

All touching -- not only fighting or inappropriate touching -- is against the rules at Kilmer Middle School in Vienna. Hand-holding, handshakes and high-fives? Banned. The rule has been conveyed to students this way: "NO PHYSICAL CONTACT!!!!!"
I want you to know, I am typing "What The Fuck!?!" just as hard as I possibly can.

Oh, my Good, sweet, Christ-on-a-Cranberry-Cross. You have got to be fucking kidding me! Really? Really? No physical contact? Oh my God, Joyce Kilmer Middle School, you had better have a pretty damned good reason for this nonsense.

Deborah Hernandez, Kilmer's principal, said the rule makes sense in a school that was built for 850 students but houses 1,100. She said that students should have their personal space protected and that many lack the maturity to understand what is acceptable or welcome.
Right! If only mankind could conceive of some sort of INSTITUTION that, oh...I don't know, leveraged the knowledge of skilled professionals in an effort to maybe INSTILL LEARNING about what is and isn't "appropriate."

Deborah Hernandez basically comes to us, circa today, an obvious survivor of a harrowing fall through the Dipshit Tree, having, during her rapid descent, managed to hit every single branch. That's all the needs to be said about that, though, if you read the remainder of the article in the Post, I assure you, you will want to kill yourself.

It falls to us here at the DCeiver to attempt to provide some advice to the young students who are subject to the inane rules of this confederacy of dunces who run this school. In the first place: Students of Kilmer Middle School, take heart! This non-contact rule is the Height of all Things Asinine. We're very sorry to have learned of your plight and are moved by your circumstance.

By means of advice, let me tell you, the students of Kilmer Middle School a story. One winter, many years ago, Wife of DCeiver (then merely GF of DCeiver) took a sojourn up to upstate New York to visit friends at Ithaca College and Skidmore. We had occasion to drive through Pennsylvania, and ended up on Route 81 (I think), and upon getting on this highway, we were greeted by stern signage detailing the extreme costs of tickets we would receive should we dare to speed. And the penalties started at 56 miles per hour. Now, I can't remember the exact cost of a speeding ticket at 56mph, but I remember it was excessive. No way I wanted one. So, I drove all the way through Pennsylvania with one paranoid eye on the speedometer, cursing my lack of cruise control. The whole ordeal was a miserable experience. All that work, trying to satisfy Pennsylvania's crazy laws.

After it was over, I realized something: at just about any point in the trip, I could have easily been tagged with a speeding ticket and forced to hand over money. My attempts to control the circumstances were naive and belied my lack of real roadtrip experience. But, realizing that I was as likely as not to get a ticket even putting forth a massive effort to comply with the law, I finally said, "Fuck this. I may as well speed all out. If I'm going to risk getting ticketed at 56, I may as well get ticketed for doing something significant. So, on the return trip, I kept my speed up around 80.

You guys at Kilmer are in much the same situation. Not only is the no-touching rule asinine on its face, but it's so easy to accidentally violate it that there's simply no point in trying to comply with it in good faith. Proper relationships involve touching! It's in our nature to reach out, form bonds, achieve intimacy. A handshake is a precursor to a warm friendship, a high-five is a simple means of celebrating accomplishment, a hug can comfort or arouse.

In short, we're wired for this stuff. And you young middle schoolers are so freaking spazzy as it is, that trying to regulate this shit is a fool's errand.

So look, kids. You can make yourself miserable trying to obey this rule or you can resign yourself to the fact that you'll never be able to comply with this rule and, if you're going to get caught anyway, you may as well get busted for doing something truly memorable.

Basically, I guess I'm talking about handjobs. Enjoy your summer break, kids!

The Audacity of Dopes: Secret Service Hearts Obama

From the Washington Post we learn that the Secret Service has conferred upon Barack Obama a dope new nickname: "Renegade." If that doesn't endear Obama to Rage Against the Machine's Tom Morello, I don't know what will.

It's a pretty hype nickname to be carting around in these times of fighting a global war on terror. Obviously, the Secret Service has spoken, believing Obama to be the guy who's gonna clean up Deadwood with a jaunty mean streak and a cunning smile. Back when Time magazine was holding their fete for their 100 Influential People, I wondered what might happen if honoree Osama Bin Laden showed up. I don't know if Barack was there himself, but chances are, if he had been, and if he'd seen bin Laden across the room--no doubt chatting up Cate Blanchett!--he would have recognized the opportunity to win the election outright and he would have walked over and killed bin Laden with his bare hands.

It would have been a splashy party, for sure. I'd have a picture of Obama with my ETP colleagues Rachel and Julia, posing on either side of Obama as he brandished Bin Laden's head and smoked a cigar with a big grin. No one could tell him he couldn't smoke then! And in every debate, he could answer every question the same way--"I alone have feasted on the enemies of this Nation, and the their blood, with which I have slaked my thirst, has only made me more powerful!" We'd likely be unable to wait to vote for this post-modern Beowulf.

Alas, this didn't happen. But "Renegade" did, and there can be little doubt that his people leaked that shit immediately. By contrast, Hillary's Secret Service nickname is "Evergreen"--because no matter how cold the weather gets and how blasted the terrain becomes, she absolutely will not die.

Other Secret Service nicknames you may not know about include:

Joe Biden: "Plagiarist"
Sam Brownback: "Funbags"
Christopher Dodd: "Topher"
John Edwards: "Yglesias"
Jim Gilmore: "Expendable"
Rudy Giuliani: "Douchebag"
Mike Gravel: "Eraserhead"
Mike Huckabee: "Edward Penishands"
Duncan Hunter: "Cilantro"
Dennis Kucinich: "Teacup"
John McCain: "Aim For His Stomach"
Ron Paul: "Fountainhead"
Bill Richardson: "Senor Bad Touch"
Mitt Romney: "Sevigny"
Tom Tancredo: "Cumdumpster"
Fred Thompson: "Necessary Roughness"
Tommy Thompson: "The Other Thompson Guy"

Arlington Terrorized By Most Inept Criminal Ever.

So last week, four friends forwarded me a message from Arlington County's Emergency Alert service. The email, in part, read:

The Arlington County Police Department’s Robbery/Homicide Unit is investigating the early morning assault of a woman in the Lyon Village neighborhood of north Arlington. Detectives believe the suspect may have committed several similar assaults over the past two months.

The most recent assault occurred today in the 2600 block of Lee Highway at approximately 1:20 a.m. A woman who had recently arrived at her apartment heard a knock at the door. When she opened the door, a man lunged at her with a plastic bag. The woman was able to block the man's attack and he fled on foot. After the woman called 911, numerous police officers set up a perimeter and a short time later a man meeting the general description of the suspect was stopped at a nearby location. The man was interviewed during the morning hours by detectives and subsequently released without being charged. Investigators in the case characterized the man as a "person of interest."

There have been three other incidents along the Ballston-Rosslyn corridor in Arlington between April 16 and May 28 in which women walking alone at night have been attacked from behind by a man with a plastic bag. In each case, the woman was able to fight off the suspect and he fled on foot. The suspect is described as a black male, 20 to 35 years old, 5'10" to 6' tall, with a medium build, light to medium complexion and a clean shaven face.
Okay. First off, why do so many of my friends subscribe to the Arlington alert service? I've lived in Arlington longer than any other place and have found it to be safe enough to forego bringing an SMS service into it. What constitutes a typical emergency in Arlington, anyway? "Warning: Property values MAY plateau!" "Alert: Beloved Clarendon fixture may NOT have to decamp to Falls Church in the wake of our stupid decision to overdevelop every motherfucking square feet of earth."

As far as I can remember, we've had one bona fide, pants-shitting energency here: 9-11. And for the life of me, I cannot get the world to give us any credit for it! Everyone thinks it happened in Washington, DC. I remember reading somewhere that when the Redskins were approached with the possibility of wearing ACFD gear on the sidelines, their response was, "Why the fuck would we want to do that?" Everyone thinks DC's fire department were first on the scene that day and they weren't. Hell, the City Paper even had a story that related how DC's finest made off with an assload of Arlington's gear at the Pentagon site--though, it being the City Paper, I'd take it with a grain of Oxycontin. Wemple probably commissioned a diss of DCFD after they failed to get Stephanie Mencimer out of a tree or something.

And don't get me started on New York City. They don't share shit with nobody. New York City got Bono and U2 and a scroll of names at the Super Bowl. So far as I know, Arlington hasn't yet been treated to so much as Better Than Ezra's drummer showing up at a yard sale to drop off a fax copy of the folks who perished at the Pentagon. America fucking loves that field in Shanksville more than us. "What a brave field," they always say, "NEVER FORGET!"

Anyway, we have this dude, running around with a plastic bag, attacking women, and, I'm sorry, even though this most recent assault happened four blocks from my place, it's hard for me to get worked up about it. How does this guy get a "person of interest?" What's to be interested in? This guy isn't the zodiac killer.

It's easy for me to be blithe about this becaused this guy has not yet successfully completed any of the assaults he's attempted. All of the women he's attacked have fended him off and simply run away. It's easy to see why--he's using a plastic bag! And while a plastic bag may serve ably as a metaphor for life in American Beauty, as a weapon, it leaves a lot to be desired. Let's just start with the fact that the only people who are in danger from plastic bags are the toddlers of particularly inept parents. I guess if Plastic Bag Guy teamed up with Six Inches Of Standing Water in A Bucket Man, we might really have to call in Batman or something.

Anyway, I hope we don't arrest Plastic Bag Guy. As long as he's not really hurting anyone, let's strive to turn his mild annoyance into a source of pleasure for the entire community. Let's let him roam the "Ballston-Rosslyn Corridor" as the area's own inept version of Sasquatch or something. He can shamble out from behind the Cheesecake Mosque, and people can point and laugh. Particularly daring people can agree to be "assaulted" by him for entertainment ("Oh, no! He's got the bag on me! Maybe this time, the plastic won't tear easily!"). He can be one of those "boogeyman" stories we tell particularly easily led children, and maybe those little shits will start behaving in a civilized fashion.

Saturday, June 16, 2007

Legends of the Hook

According to the grapevine, the esteemed Mr. D.R. Tyler Magill is getting wed this evening in Charlottesville. I was not an acquaintance of Mr. Magill's, but was familiar with both his legend and his great works--writings in the Yellow Journal, bringing a vital sense of chaotic energy to what could have been the wholly fusty environs of the Glee Club, the creation of Slag Battery Blowjob. All sorts of things. He strove everyday to make UVa. an exciting and weird place. You could say, he fucked its ass into the twenty-first century.

In tribute to the man, I am reprinting and example of Magill's fine work--two of his finer pieces from a collection entitled, "The Poetry of George Welsh."

The Gut Check (Song of the Calipers)

You there...
#66, Dixon,
Have you looked at yourself,
I've seen you over there
in that Bryant Hall dining room,
Son, gorging yourself on eclairs and puff pastry.
Do you think Steve Emttman even knows
what eclairs are?

Now drop and give me twenty.

Futility, In and Of Itself

I think,
on third and 26,
you've got to
just run it up
middle. Between the tackles,
that's my bread
and butter.

Gotta surprise the other team, Frank.
Nothin' as surprising
as Way coming at you.
Especially if you're
expecting it.

Hee. Okay, one more:

[That Sweet Ineffable Reason]

that sweet ineffable reason,
franK. i t allboilsd o w nto
oh, nuts, oh nuts &

Oh, nuts.

frank, get the iodine.


o nuts.

Anyone have the Complete Yellow Journal online? If so, email!

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Who will preside over the rapid descent of the handbasket?

This article on MSNBC's website speaks of how the Bush administration hasn't even begun to fight the limited array of configurations into which the deck chairs on the sinking ship that is the Iraq War can be fit into before the last piece of the foredeck sinks into the briny deep of the President's utter retardation, but what is available for you to read has been bowdlerized from the original. That article, still available through the magic of the Google cache, included this telling paragraph:

Speaking to reporters, and referring to the debate over the war in Iraq, [Defense Secretary Robert] Gates said he had wanted to renominate Marine Gen. Peter Pace as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff but then concluded doing so would create "a confirmation process that would not be in the best interest of the country."
Right. Because the worst thing that could possibly happen now is that someone might make the collossal mistake of attempting to discuss this collossal mistake. God forbid anyone find a way to save our collective ass.

Oh. And in other news, Turkey is apparently spoiling for a confrontation in Kurdistan. I'm not sure I can form the words necessary to accurately describe what a huge, huge, huge, help that would be to our efforts in Iraq, but that's because, unlike the White House, I'm not fluent in fucktardese.

[h/t: AMC]

Pissing on the Satellite Party.

I just got through reading this item on Stereogum, and while it was by no means, in and of itself, the inspiration for this post, it was largely, the straw that broke the camel's back for me. Maybe it's been said before, but it's just not said enough: Perry Farrell is a fucking fraud.

It pains me to say that, as I have a soft spot in my heart for Jane's Addiction (even Strays), and i largely give them (and Pearl Jam) a lot of credit for teaching a generation of metal fans to develop a modicum of self-respect. Still, the inescapable truth is that Farrell is little more than a drug-addled twat. He's always claimed way too much credit (and not nearly enough blame) for Lollapalooza, totally douched it up latching on to the techno craze, and basically struts around with an unbelievably vast opinion of himself he's done nothing to deserve.

Take this Satellite Party shit. To hear Farrell talk about it, it's like he's unlocked the Arc of the Covenant of something. He talks about his shitty band in these terms that you'd have to have ingested two huge Aaron Sorkin-loads of shrooms to even halfway believe. He tells interviewers that on UltraPayloaded, he's more or less created the music that will instantaneously unlock the mysteries of the celestial spheres and douse the listener in fluffy bunny rabbits and orgasm-inducing ambrosia and that the experience will be tantamount to seeing the face of God. In the first place, Fergie is a collaborator on this record, so you know this is just an impossible claim from jump, but sadly, his prize gimmick is some moldy old field recording of Jim Morrisson, saying only fuckadoo knows what. Christ, I'm surprised there isn't a whole room full of tapes with Morrisson blabbing on them--if they don't exist it's only because someone who loved him burned them.

Farrell likes to talk talk talk about what a pants-crapping genius he is, and every time I read something from him, it's all I can do to not reach inside the magazine and strangle him like a rabid hamster. For all his messianic bluster, his non-Jane's output is basically a pile of dreary sludge and as an artist, he's totally incapable of carrying Third Eye Blind's jockstrap. And that's sad, because Sixpence None the Fucking Richer can carry Third Eye Blind's jockstrap six days a week, twice on Sundays.

Monday, June 11, 2007


Middle of the Melon recently tagged me with a meme, and though I'm late in responding, I feel obligated to give it a go. The task is simple: Eight Random Facts about myself. To keep it interesting, and to perhaps avoid repeating any of the answers I gave back when this was Five Random Facts, I've decided to confine these facts to the period of time I call The Richmond Years.

1. Ahh, Richmond. Capital of the Confederacy. Think: Baltimore, ridden with Klan and pitbull fighting, with senseless beatings replacing car thefts and a better variety of food. If you are going to blow your money and youth socializing in Richmond, stick to one hard and fast rule: If the scene is dominated by VCU, stay. You're likely to witness, or even be a party to, something truly fucked up. If the scene is lousy with University of Richmond students, well, sorry, sucks to be you. I've been there when the ratio flipped from the former to the latter, and man, it's like watching a lame tree sprout before your eyes. (Randy Baker may not like it, but he needs to check himself--he spent most of his time on our side of town.)

2. All of the prostitutes in Richmond--ALL OF THEM--are transvestites. Don't let anyone tell you different. Don't let some dude tell you he found "the one that was a woman." He didn't. As sure as you can't turn left on the Boulevard, he didn't.

3. Side by side, TheatreVCU managed a much stronger good-to-lame ratio as far as their productions went, but my god...that one bad VCU show every year was like a suckfest for the ages. I ended up getting cast in one of the suckfests, and, after the first table read, was so fully aware of the impending disaster that I realized that if I didn't do anything else with my life other than get myself out of that show somehow, I would nevertheless die a hero to the only people who mattered most to me: me, myself and I. In that endeavor, I was successful. When I finally went to see the show, however, I was alarmed at how it was nowhere near as bad as I thought it was going to be. Indeed, it was much, much worse.

4. One night, I went with Fiancee of DCeiver and a couple colleagues to see a show in the Performing Arts Center. I walked into the theatre, and the most extraordinary thing happened: the next five minutes or so of my life were LITERALLY the plot of a Mentos commercial. I cannot possibly blog it and do it justice. Next time you see me, ask me to demonstrate.

5. One of the grad students a year ahead of me was a guy named Richard Helland. He was a great actor, and the sort of guy you were always glad to have around to carouse with, but he'd be the first to admit he wasn't the greatest student in the world. By the time his final year rolled around, he had amassed a transcript full of incompletes, dating back to his second semester. Going into his last semester, here's what he was facing down: nine term papers, a complete write-up of his Comprehensive (the second-year) precursor to the thesis, and, oh yeah...the thesis itself. Amazingly, in one four-week period, he shut himself up in the Theatre Department computer lab and pretty much did not leave until every last page was finished. At first, we thought he wasn't going to make it, but after the first week, a few of us started to believe. By the end, he had the whole program pulling for him. We were about ready to name the computer lab after him. And the best part, he aced everything. He basically did his entire MFA in four weeks. That motherfucker was LEGEND.

6. The saddest thing I ever experienced in my life happened my third year. I was sitting at home, on a Sunday, watching the football game. That's when I got a call from my colleague, Greg, a really great actor and a good friend from my year. He came from a small town in Pennsylvania, and was a little naive around the edges, but he was a stand-up guy, a wicked comedian, and the category-killer when it came to pickup football. So, picking up the phone, I was happy to talk to him. Immediately he starts in, "Hey, Jason, I wanted to call you because I recently found out about a tremendous money-making opportunity." Naturally, I assumed this had something to do with acting, so I was like, "Spill." That's when my relationship with Greg changed forever. "Well," he began, "I recently found out about an exciting way to earn money, and the best part is, you basically make money by sharing." Right then, my heart nearly broke. I knew enough to know what had happened to Greg--he had fallen into the sinister clutches of the beast known as Amway. I immediately begged off the call, put the phone down and collapsed onto my bed. "Those bastards," I thought, "Those shit-lipped, Satanic bastards!" Greg was this beautiful thing, full of potential, and they ruined him--I mean that literally. THEY RUINED HIM. He was never the same: he always seemed sad and joyless and dodgy and clothes didn't seem to fit him very well after that. I have sworn to avenge this great crime. Let it be known, Amway: YOUR HOUSE IS GONNA FALL.

7. Friend to the blog Paul, during my Richmond Years, was then in a band called Otis Wants Bread, and Richmond played a role in some of their goings on: they played the Route One South Music Festival, fired their managers in the parking lot of the Diamond...and the weirdest experience they ever had happened in Richmond. Returning to Charlottesville after a prolonged period of touring, they found themselves running late and in need of food. Luckily, Richmond loomed in the distance, and while it was past four in the morning and Paul didn't know everything there was to know about Richmond's 24 hour eateries (otherwise he would have known about the 3rd Street Diner), he did know there was a 24 hour Dennys not far off the highway. So, they made a break for it, quickly found the Dennys, and pulled into the parking lot, filled with the promise of food. But when they reached the door, they weren't prepared for the sight that awaited them. Right next to the sign, "Open 24 Hours," was another sign, "Closed." "It was right then I knew," Paul relates, "I had finally reached the twenty-fifth hour."

8. One of the things we grad students did as members of the faculty was to teach Public Speaking classes. It was a great way to train and maintain a group of undergraduate operatives, and, by and large, it was really quite fulfilling to see the students go from being terrified of speaking in front of people to being able to handle stringing some cogent thoughts together for their peers. Prior to my arrival, the Phillip Morris company would often pay the MFA's to give condensed, two-week versions of the Public Speaking class for their employees. They had two options for compensation: $1200 in cash, or, the equivalent in cigarettes. Astounding. And, adding to the craziness--I actually knew the one person who EVER took them up on the latter offer.

So there you have it. I tag everyone who's working on Birds. Scotty, make that happen.

Saturday, June 09, 2007

Despite all my rage I am still just a pretentious jerkass...dressed up in Amish bondage gear?

Ladies and gentlemen, presenting your circa 2007 Smashing Pumpkins.

This does not look promising.

DCeptette: They see me rollin, they hatin version.

  1. Lindsay Graham wants his billz to be more bi-curious. [The Caucus]
  2. LOLPresidentz. [Fark]
  3. Or, for the higher-faluting, PhiLOLsopherz. [Flickr]
  4. Sarah Lewitinn apparently really, really, really wanted us to know about the Horrors show. [DCist]
  5. Oh, and the first item in this week's Overheard is basically the best Overheard quote ever. [DCist]

Friday, June 08, 2007

Hands off habeas corpus!

Yesterday, the Senate Judiciary Committee, in their infinite piffle, voted to restore habeas corpus, which will make it possible for the Senate to maybe do the same. But nobody should act grateful because, as you may well know, none of these shitstains on any committee or any body of Congress or any White House had the blessed motherdicking right to take it away in the first place. So, officially, from me to the Senate Judiciary Committee: Thanks for nothing, assholes. And that's from the heart, with a chaser of lukewarm piss for the whole family.

It was roundly fucked that President Bush had the temerity to believe he could get away with taking away this fundamental right. I mean, there's hating America--you know, setting the terrorists up with their very own jihadi playground in Iraq and then shitcanning the gay linguists who are trying to save my ass by translating their chatter--and then there's a hate for America so deep and vast that it makes a man want to dismantle part of the novel machinery of liberty installed by our founding fathers. It's things like our fundamental right to a fair trial that separate America from a continent full of people who used to think that authority was given by right to any douchebag wearing a crown that had the backing of the Pope or Merlin the Sorceror.

Whatevs. In another two years, we'll all be free to return to thinking of George Bush as the slow kid who can't be left alone with the bunnies because he hugs them too hard.

Thursday, June 07, 2007

Get Ready for Panda Spawn: The Sequel

In news that's already filling Official Facebook Friend of DCeiver Ana Marie Cox with paroxysms of pure giddiness, the Washington Post is reporting that panda matriach Mei Xiang may be pregnant again! In other words: BUTTERSTICK 2: LIVE FREE OR BUTTERSTICK HARDER!

Suck on our panda's verdant, fertile womb, San Diego Zoo!

In this case, the NextStick will have an entirely different lineage, as Mei Xiang got stuffed with spermatazoa provided by Gao Gao, a male from the aforementioned zoo in San Diego. As always with Panda names, they can be winningly used as stand-ins for the names of actual genitalia.

The Post urges caution, saying that it may be a false alarm. But FUCK THAT! It's the Second Coming! The Return! The Revenge! THIS TIME IT'S PERSONAL! WE ARE UP IN UR PANDAS, INSEMINATIN UR OVA! PRAY FOR MITOSIS!

Well, Of Course!: Crackhead Driver Has Ties to Barry.

I couldn't let the tragic incident of the past weekend, in which Tonya Bell plowed her car headlong into a street festival in Anacostia, hitting forty people, pass without comment. Especially since reading DCist's post on how Bell--who was apparently high on crack at the time of the incident--had been sent by a staffing agency to work at the office of Councilmember Marion Barry. I mean, holy shit! The ingredients of this event featured crack, bad driving, dubious decisions on the part of the police, fate unnecessarily crapping on the good people of Anacostia, and now Marion Barry? It's like the Holy Tango of DC Scandal.

It's worth noting that this terrible event has revealed something of critical interest to those who live in DC: the fact that no one in Barry's office saw trouble coming a mile away with Bell demonstrates that Barry and his staff have failed at perhaps the only real constituent service they could offer--serving as an anti-crackhead distant early warning system. If those guys can't accurately spot an impending crack-induced calamity coming a mile away, what good are they?

The only way this thing could get more DC is for Jim Graham to propose legislation banning street festivals in Anacostia. Or for the Council to insist on a strict curfew for crackheads.

DCeptette: Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart Tonight Version.

  1. Metroblogs' king twit absolutely floored by mundane aspects of the restaurant business. [Metroblogs]
  2. Have you seen the trailer for The Ten yet? Suffice it to say: ME WANTY! [The Ten]
  3. I'm just going to go ahead and officially out myself now: Yes, I'm one of those people who secretly hope that Mike Bloomberg will enter the presidential race. And if you need a reason why, here you go. [NY1]
  4. Oh, you have to be fucking KIDDING me! [FoxNews]
  5. I'm game. Put me down for five bucks on Ron. [Unfogged]

Recent HuffPoing

Today, I ended up down a deep hole thanks to a rogue content management system I have to use for one of my projects. Can't wait until I never have to use it again. Tell me, when the button says, "Save and Continue," you'd think that the expectation would be for the SAVING to come along with the CONTINUING, wouldn't you? Seems like there's little point to the continuing if there's to be no saving. But that's what happened. An entire afternoon's work for shit because the effing program decides that all the changes I made weren't worth keeping. Fuck.

As it was, I was behind from moment one today, so I couldn't go to this annual meeting with its annual open bar. My lovely coworkers were kind enough to bring me some booze and some antipasti afterwards. They are the best.

Anyway, here's what I've been doing at Huffington Post lately.

Bradbury Adds New Heat to Fahrenheit Discussion
Murdoch Has First Date with Bancrofts, Fails to Get to Second Base
Wealthy Benefactor Lionizes Duke Lacrosse Team with Newspaper Ads
Roger Ailes Will Have His Revenge On America
It's Official! "Tuberculosis Guy" is the New Dannielynn!
David Gregory is the Man Who Wasn't There
Joe Scarborough Awkwardly Reminds Us Why MSNBC Has a Vacancy in the First Place
When Things Get Sticky, Turn to The Wiki? (a must for Floyd Landis Fans)
MTV Movie Awards: One Long Decepticon

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

Bush Surgeon General Nominee Not a Fan of the Assfucking.

You know, the Bush administration has historically evinced little regard for sending our fighting men and women off down the deep, black, miasmic hole of his Iraq misadventure, but just try staging your own troop surge in the comforts of your own bedroom! Those rights to bone whatever is available during these dark times, hard won in the Lawrence v. Texas decision, are coming under fire once again as Bush puts forth his nominee for The Guy From The Cigarette Packs That No One Listens To, James W. Holsinger, Jr.

Holsinger, a card-carrying enemy of fabulous non-traditional males everywhere, has dedicated his life to ending the tyranny of buttsex. This, despite Mark Foley's unmistakable sunny glow and good skin tone. He's one of those ex-gay ministry freakonauts, and he even wrote a book filled with specious reasoning, entitled, “Pathophysiology of Male Homosexuality” for the United Methodist Church’s Committee to Study Homosexuality. I'm jacking off to it right now!

Think Progress has some lovely highlights, and by "highlights", I mean "magazine found in dentists' waiting rooms that cater to children who will never read above a third grade level.

"Likewise it is clear that even primitive cultures understand the nature of waste elimination, sexual intercourse, and the birth of children. Indeed our own children appear to 'intuitively' understand these facts."
Yes. Children understand this intuitively, and it's high time we called them out for the bullshit way they make us clean up their bags of shit for the first two years of their lives!

"The anatomic and physiologic facts of alimentation and reproduction simply do not change based on any cultural setting."
Yeesh. Tell that to the Mormon hostess at the restaurant I used to work at who I wasted an entire summer on trying to bone. I've never been so culturally cockblocked!

Here's the best part:

"In fact, the logical complementarity of the human sexes has been so recognized in our culture that it has entered our vocabulary in the form of naming various pipe fittings either the male fitting or the female fitting depending upon which one interlocks within the other."
Yes. Without heterosexuals, how would humanity have ever learned how to move water?

"Therefore, based on the simplest known anatomy and physiology, when dealing with the complementarity of the human sexes, one can simply say, Res ipsa loquitur - the thing speaks for itself!"
Well, quidquid latine dictum sit altum viditur! Fitting, that he should sign off so, since the Romans were both excellent plumbers and noted buggery enthusiasts. There's a reason they call it a posteriori reasoning, my friends.

Monday, June 04, 2007

Knocked Up

Judd Apatow, man. What can I say. Maybe he's caught up with the rest of the world, maybe it's the rest of the world that's caught up with him. But he really can do no wrong at this point. While Knocked Up isn't quite as good as The Forty Year-Old Virgin (but, then, what is?), it nevertheless brims with all those qualities that made the latter movie so great: an abundance of honesty, of sweetness, a lack of cynicism, vibrant characters, and hilarity by the metric ton.

Apatow, if he's anything, is just an incredibly humane storyteller. He's able to show his characters at their most vulnerable and on their worst behavior, but he never loses sight of this wellspring of human kindness that he obviously faithfully believes in and is willing to go to lengths to depict. What makes his characters somewhat unique is that their failings are never depicted as moral failings. It's the easy way out: paint a character as having some tiny, mean-minded flaw, like all life is about is getting that last vestige of dickhead out of your system--that life inevitably leads some people to become good people. But life's not like that. Life's more of a journey where good people struggle to learn how to become better people. And for the second movie in a row, he makes it clear that all the truly flavorful stuff in life--the humor, the poignance, the rare moments of inspiration--all sort of stem from that difficult pursuit. He's just a freaky genius. And he's got good Munich jokes.

But really, he sort of had me when he started the movie with some ODB. That's how all movies should start.

Sunday, June 03, 2007

Somewhere, Chris Lehmann is not very surprised.

Eric Alterman, a complete asshat who runs a website that chronicles all the mean things conservatives say about liberals because I guess his mom never nursed him and so he imagines that every other person in the world is a thin-skinned infant who cries giant tears everytime some addled right-wing fuck utters what passes for a zinger in their mind, was arrested tonight at the Democratic debate in New Hampshire after attempting to enter the spin room. He was asked to leave, like, a million times, but this guy...he just doesn't get it.

He told CNN he was waiting in the spin room for the debate to end but there was no place to sit. He claimed he saw an area upstairs and was not stopped when he walked up there. He said he saw a bar area and asked if it was an open bar. Told that it was, he ordered a wine and a water. He then said he was approached by a man and asked if he was invited to the party. Alterman said he asked for the man’s name because he had been treated “brusquely”. He said the man declined to give his name and called for an officer.

Alterman said he “never raised his voice once” and identified himself as a journalist. When he asked for the police officer’s name, the office threatened to arrest him. Alterman said he asked for a supervising officer to come over and tried to explain the situation. He claims he was cut off and acknowledged he may have been argumentative when he said, “could I please finish a sentence here?”

Wait a minute! I thought Eric--and let me use his words--"like[s] to separate my role as a journalist from my role as a friendly human being!" I guess he no longer has that problem. But now he's got to face up to his other problems, like his inability to go out in public without humiliating himself. He's like the Amy Winehouse of political pundits, except that Winehouse has talent and people like her. Figure this: Alterman was at a Democratic debate, with people he nominally supports all around and on hand, and only Ed Markey was willing to vouch for him, for all of, like, six seconds.

Anyway, he's already blogged about how the whole thing is everyone else's, or at the very least, Ana Marie Cox's fault (we love the whole, "I was thinking it could go into Altercation the next day"--because when he gets stuck in traffic it's evidence of conservative bias.) The cops detained him, and asked him to pay $30--which is obviously a joke fine the cops decided on to have a few laughs.

We should all be glad he's been released, because the motherfucker would have compared the experience to the night Thoreau spent in jail, or some shit. We look forward to the eventual Julia Allison re-enactment.

Friday's Huffington Posts

So today, at an audition, I was told by an artistic director that Arianna was nice enough to make mention of my most recent take on the Rupert Murdoch affair on the KCRW "Left, Right, and Center" podcast. What a nice thing to hear! Of course, I all but ponyshitted the ensuing audition, but, whatever. I effing rule.

Here's the shizz from Friday:

A Streetcar Named Rupert Murdoch.
I Feel Stupid, and Contagious.
Good News for People Who Make TV News.

Saturday, June 02, 2007

The Cold Comfort of the Cato Institute: A Play in One Act.

It is one p.m. on the day of the end of the world. The DCeiver and the Libertarian stand on a high hillock, serenely observing the crushing carnage as everything they know as existence comes to an end.

There is a long pause.

Finally, the Libertarian turns to the DCeiver.

THE LIBERTARIAN: [shrugs] Well. What can I say? In the end, this just goes to show: the system works.


The DCeiver pivots and stares at the Libertarian.


THE DCEIVER: Dude. Seriously. Go fuck yourself.

The world ends.


It Ain't Bragging If It's True.

It's hard not to totally be thrilled for Catherine, who today had one seriously geeked-out experience with the actress who puts the "Aaarrrrrr!" in Veronica Mars, Kristin Bell. They are BFFs now and shall commence to the making of mix CDs.

Still, we caution Cath: it can be a doubled-edged sword, having a long-standing dream that suddenly and unexpectedly comes to total fruition and fulfillment. We are reminded of the trenchant lyrics of Dan Bern's song, "Tiger Woods" (d/l):

"I got a friend whose goal in life, was to one day go down on Madonna. That's all he wanted, that was all: to one day go down on Madonna. And when my friend was thirty-four, he got his wish in Rome one night. He got to go down on Madonna, in Rome one night in some hotel. And ever since he's been depressed, 'cause life is shit from here on in. And all our friends just shake their heads and say, 'Too soon, too soon, too soon. He went down on Madonna too soon. Too young, too young, too soon, too soon.'"
But perhaps we're being too much of a wet blanket. And hey, it's not like we don't ourselves have a dream of getting a phone call from Amy Poehler! Which one are you, Amy? Do you like me or are you ignoring me?

Friday, June 01, 2007

Laura Sessions Stepp Rides Again

Along with the rest of the astute population of DC, we remain fundamentally puzzled and perplexed at the continued existence of Laura Sessions Stepp. Her take on contemporary sexual mores is so addled and so rife with cognitive dissonance that you practically need a Dramamine IV drip anytime you wade out into one of her verdant fields of fucktastic pollyanna. It's like she was delivered on our doorstep having skipped the past three decades of human life--so she's easily blown away by the most commonplace of human interactions. At the same time, her prudishness seems terribly misplaced, because she shows not even the slightest awareness of the real freaky and perverted shit boys and girls and boys and boys and girls and girls and their pets and parents and clamps and tasers and erector sets and creams and pills and probes are doing to each other right this very second.

Stepp is back today with a piece entitled, "What Does It Mean To Be Manly?" And don't worry, she hasn't the slightest clue. The piece is a disjointed, incoherent mess that won't make sense even if you read it aloud or study it with Talmudic conviction. We've done our best to summarize, and have some special appearances from Wife of DCeiver as a special guest interlocutor.

1: Something about Pirates of the Caribbean
Really? You're seriously using a movie based on a rollercoaster from the director of The Mexican as your jumping off point? Really?

2: "As the unconstrained Capt. Jack Sparrow in the newly released "Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End," he wears a wisp of white lace tied just above his left hand."
Wife of DCeiver: "Uhm...[pause]. He's a pirate."

3. "Swish or swagger? That's the choice that men -- particularly young men -- find themselves facing today."
Oh, no.

4: "Other, shall we say, swishier traits were expected of women, such as the ability to create and nurture connections, kindness and communication."
What? Has anyone ever referred to women as "swishy?" Has anyone ever referred to kindness as "swishy?" I understand, say, "feminine." But "swishy?" Doesn't "swishy" better describe, say...the Erasure discography?

5: "Of course, you could always find some crossover. But while catching up with or surpassing men at school and at their first jobs, young women have dumped much of the feminine to embrace the masculine traits that they think represent success."
First: what does this have to do with the "choice that men...find themselves facing today." And isn't it more accurate to say that successful women have simply embraced traits that lead to successful outcomes?

6: "This has left some young men wondering what it means these days to be a guy."
Of course, she makes this assertion without any evidence to back it up. Seems to me that if men were having this sort of widespread problem, she'd be able to quote at least one piss and moan naif willing to confirm it.

7: "A preppy guy in high school might pair a lime-green Polo Ralph Lauren shirt with light yellow J. Crew pants, a Lily Pulitzer belt and Rainbow flip-flops."
So fucking what, Laura? Every preppy shit-bot back in 80s dressed the exact same fucking way. Hell, they rocked pink Oxfords and floppy cotton cableknits. This isn't in any way novel or exciting, and it sure as shit doesn't speak to anybody's gender role awareness. It only speaks to the fact that given enough idle time and money, the average guy is prone to dressing like he's been gang-teabagged by crud fashion designers.

8: I realize, of course, that Laura probably doesn't know what a "teabagging" is.

9: And seriously, I want to be the one to take her to her first donkey show.

10: "While men used to greet each other with a handshake, now it's a hug."
Yeah, but it's the man version. Like from Dr. Katz: "I'm hugging you...but I'm hitting you!" Call me when members of the varsity lax team are staring into one another's limpid pools like the ingenues from a Bronte novel, and then we can talk.

11: "And male hip-hop, writes one pop critic, 'sounds more lighthearted and clean-cut than it has in years.'"
Whoever this "pop critic" was, Stepp did them a favor by not providing a name, because man is that assertion wrong!

12: R&B singer Akon, who clinched a Grammy nomination for singing about "smacking" a woman, practically croons in another tune "how much of a queen you are to me and why I love you, baby."
Uhm...this is the same Akon that practically raped an underaged girl from Trinidad and Tobago in a violent gang-dry humping? Yeah, Laura...let me tell you how the game is played. Akon puts out a couple sweet-minded, seemingly tempered tunes in order to soften the blow of his otherwise sex-crazed tunes, so that the people who sell his shit can gloss over his perversion and tell parents that he's an artist with real human feeling and depth.

13: "When it comes to mating rituals, young women have rewritten them, leaving some men pining for the clarity of the old days."
Oh for fucks sake. The biggest lie that was ever told was that somehow, women made sense back in the "old days."

14: "Today, as likely as not, there is no date. She will drive herself, meet up with him and either offer to pay for herself or insist on paying. She may bolt later, or they may land in bed the same night, but chances are he won't have a clue why either happened."
Oh, he'll have a clue. He'll have a clue. Sounds like Laura has talked to a lot of guys skilled in the art of self-delusion, or she isn't a very rigorous questioner.

15: Then she quotes, as if he were some sort of expert, "a sophomore at Union College in Schenectady." 1). No. I am not making that up. 2). No. Nothing else really needs to be said about it.

16: Then there's like seven grafs that are all one sentence long, none of which transfers any thought from the previous one, all of which lead to several variations of nowhere. Really, Washington Post, whatever happened to PARAGRAPHS? You know? Where an idea was advanced and demonstrated on the strength of a handful of strong sentences? Isn't the paragraph that basic foundation of grade-school writing?

17: Seriously, her writing heading into the homestretch is just unintelligible:
--women don't want a pushover
--women don't want a meathead
--she turns to a guy who works for a PREGNANCY PREVENTION GROUP to assess whether men have lost their swagger.
--guys are troubled by virginity, but getting blown on a regular basis, so...upside?
--today's polo shirt wearing douches are largely athletes who bang sluts, a fact that hasn't largely changed since the advent of the first popped collar.
--women want degrees and salaries these days, and if that fact has prevented you from getting laid, then trust me, YOU ARE NOT DOING IT RIGHT!
--something about the Nintendo Wii.

18: "In trying to empower the girls," Sandborn says, "we implicitly sent a message that the guys were not as good."
Wife of DCeiver: "Yeah, that's total bullshit." Exactly. God, does Stepp talk to anyone who's not a dyed-in-the-wool whiner? Poor me! My life didn't turn out the way I wanted it because so many people sent me the wrong message! GOD! Shut the FUCK up!

19: "What we haven't come up with is what a positive image of a man would be."
Fucking-a. If you ever feel like you've figured it out, please keep it to yourself.

20: "Maybe Depp is teaching us that it's not swish or swagger; it's both."
Wife of DCeiver: "What the fuck? He's a pirate! A pirate!"

Look: I cannot, in a blog, possibly convey with mere words how brainstoppingly crazy and out of joint with all available reality this assertion is. I'm frankly not sure an opera conceived by Mozart, Antonin Artaud and Sam Raimi could convey it.

Take this picture from Busby Berkeley's 1933 film Footlight Parade, and imagine that there were 10,000 more dancers, and each one of them was exploding in white-hot flashes of blinding, otherworldly light while simultaneously giving birth to an entire universe of singing panda bears and sentient peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and then imagine God Himself shitting his pants full of caramel glockenspiels and slowly going batshit crazy at the sight of it all, as if he were having mercury forcefully injected into his medulla oblongata.

That's about as close as I can get you.