Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Robert Goulet: He Did The Music World A Frickin' Service

I know one thing we can agree on when a professional gets his mitts on a song, that's when it really takes off. With that in mind, sad news. Robert Goulet passed away today whilst waiting for a lung transplant at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in L.A. He was 73. In lieu of a more fitting tribute, please enjoy a great SNL sketch, "Red Ships of Spain."

Goulet. Goulet, indeed.

Metric System

So, while we were out, Mayor Fenty basically all but assured that he will go down in history of some-sort of DC Mayoral combination of Harriet Tubman, FDR and Batman (or maybe just Hawkman...don't want to oversell it) by doing something that everyone in their right mind has wanted done to Washington since I was knee-high to something that was slightly taller than a younger version of me--abolish the insipid taxi cab zone system, in favor of meters, which is what the rest of goddamned modern world uses in taxis. What could Fenty possibly do to not go down in history favorably? Had George W. Bush found a way to rid the city of the cursed zones, we'd all be saying "SHUT THE HELL UP, poltergeists of our war dead! It now doesn't cost me a half-dozen different amounts to go from Dupont to Silver Spring! ZOMGS! Bush for Nobel Peace Prize! Bush for King of the Ocean!"

Virtually everyone agrees that this is a good idea. It's one of the few things that even some of our areas more poo-poo bedecked diptards think is a good idea. I had to laugh at some of the coverage of it though. One local FOX news teaser put it like this, "With the stroke of a pen, Mayor Adrian Fenty changes one of DC's longstanding regulations." Such melodrama! You'd think the Mayor was invalidating the Magna Carta or something.

Naturally, the cabbies are all aggrieved that their precious, incomprehensible zone system has been taken from them. Apparently, a city-wide taxi strike is planned for Halloween night, but seeing as the zone system has a negligible level of public support, it looks as if the cabbies will be doing little more than hurting their own bottom line. The cabbies, from what I gather, are trying to make a case that the meter system will undermine their traditions of being independent businessmen, but it seems a little too late to be encouraging potential riders to make those sorts of decisions. I haven't the faintest clue why the meter system precludes the current ownership model, and I think Matt hits the nail right on the head when he says:

In DC, by contrast, it's much cheaper and easier to get a cab up and running so they're mostly owner-operated. Tadesse and many other cab drivers feel that letting the mayor impose the meter will somehow undue this system. But it's not clear exactly why they think that, so it's hard to know what kind of policies could assuage those fears while simultaneously letting us enjoy the bounty of the meter.

All, too true, and anyway, I ask you: I'm supposed to get wistful for their lost business traditions when those traditions contained the ever-present, never-properly-defused perception that the very system they're asking me to support the retention of was nothing more than a convenient way to obfuscate travel costs and scam the customers? Sorry, no dice. The cab drivers have had ample opportunity to combat the poor perception of the zone system, years to make its vagaries clear and to breed a consumer base amenable to their particular wants and needs. But they sat on their ass, living large on the zone system, and have found themselves at the endgame without having built a foundation of customer loyalty and trust. Whose fault is that?

I'm looking forward to seeing a meter in cabs throughout the city. You should be too!

Oh, yes! You. Me. Blogging. I Remember.

Oh hai. Yes, I remember that I'm supposed to be some sort of blogger. Forgive the week or so absence. I've been experiencing many delightful changes and some poorly-timed technological hamstringing. But whatever, we've returned, so let's catch you up.

I left my old job.
Yea, verily. A week ago Friday was my final day at the old job. The good news: for once my leaving was a good thing on wholly good terms. I guess the days of restraining orders, irate stares, furtive calls to my lovely lawyer Shayna (Am I within my first amendment rights to urinate on the company server on my last day of work? Evidently not, thanks a LOT founding fathers!), and being frogmarched into the parking garage at the business end of a switchblade are, for the moment, over. The bad news: I really enjoyed the job! So even though I'm happy with my choice of leaving, I remember all those shit jobs I stayed at way too long in my life and feel like if there were any justice in the world, I'd be able to point at my resume and say, "These people? Total aces. That's why I stayed all those years." I had the BEST coworkers and a ridiculously awesome boss, who in turn had a ridiculously awesome boss, and it sucks that my career history, in terms of years, doesn't reflect the enjoyment I experienced working with them.

Is that weird? Well, it's true. My colleagues were kind enough to take me out on my penultimate day, as if they needed reinforcing about how awesome they all were. My last day, I walked through it sort of discombobulated. And when I finally knocked off for the last time, I'll admit it, I felt the loss pretty sharply. It's a lucky thing to be able to spend that significant portion of your waking hours with people who can effortlessly fill it with real delight. I'm sure they'll all be great Facebook friends and Netflix Buddies and they'll help me crash our Christmas Party later on this year.

Two Days of Unemployment:
So, I was unemployed for one weekend and I set out to LIVE! TRULY LIVE!

Actually, nothing life-changing occurred, but it was still a fun couple of days. Me and some Rorschachers turned a print shop's screwup into a lovely breakfast outing, I got to see Stars at the 9:30 Club (truly my favorite band on the earth right now), and then me and the entire internet got together at the Matty/Capps/Becks/Cat/Spack Mid-October Fest, where UVa. didn't convert a fourth down and yet did, I heard of Sommer's tete-a-tete with Kanye West (Ye hearts the bloggers!), experienced new acquaintances without alienating the old, and ZOMG--in the highlight of the evening, someone who I've long figured to be one of the most RIDICULOUS people on the face of the earth hilariously revealed themselves in a display of such full-tilt, freshman-year RIDICULOUSNESS that it all but proved the existence of God, extra-terrestrial life and the G Spot. (And while I've had it on good authority that said RIDICULOUSITE did not, in fact, surreptitiously shack up in the Flophouse confines, you can be quite sure he left behind some ejaculate all the same. Break out the luminol!) Twas PERFECT.

A computer-filled household is hit hard.
This time has been filled with the struggles, as well, as my happy, PC-filled home took a few hits. I am between work laptops, and my desktop is currently comatose. I returned from Las Vegas a few weeks ago to the news that the desktop was having trouble getting out to the internet. I checked the connections, the cables, disabled this and such, enabled that and such--nothing. So, knowing that I should prepare for the worst, I backed everything up and placed the call to Dell technical support. Then I sat back, and watched helplessly as I, as their idiot proxy, followed their instructions to the letter and wound up totally lobotomizing the computer. Argh. Since then, Dell's been kind enough to send along to disks that they say will restore the machine to glory, but I haven't had the heart go get back on the phone with them. Maybe tomorrow. Hopefully, it'll all work out or I've got myself a very expensive doorstop.

The new job.
The new job has turned out EXCELLENTLY. I'm enjoying the challenge, excited about having time to reflect on things, loving my new colleagues, and having myself a great time getting up to speed. Each day begins with a blank slate and the need to fill it, and I find myself going home each day feeling pretty damned fulfilled. Which is a good way to be, I think! Plus, I have a lovely view from our window, and Yglesias has proven himself to be a regular Jeff Corwin of the Watergate habitat.

So, anyhoo, a bevy of lame excuses for being an absent blogger, as per blogging protocol. But don't worry, these pages shall once again thrill to the sound of my half-assed musings! Thanks!

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

The Audacity of Dopes: Romney-Craig, A Presidential Cock-Blocking

Once upon a time, the Xenu-hating robot Mitt Romney and endearingly pervy Larry Craig couldn't be tighter. Craig was Romney's "Senate liaison," and total BFFs for life. But, as you no doubt know, while Mitt was busy rearing Tagg, Craig was hard at work trying to tag some rears, and when, the news broke about Craig's bathroom indiscretion, Romney had to frost Craig in public as a part and parcel of needing to pretend like he was hearing about the whole mess for the first time.

It's all so sad, a candidate and his wingman, breaking up for good. This fickleness is par from the course for Romney: as Ana noted not too long ago, Mitt "distanced himself from his own wife once it was reported she donated to Planned Parenthood." Say what you want about Romney, but when you've got an opposition research team working the other side of your own bedroom, your candidacy is pretty hardcore.

Naturally, Craig's totes aggrieved at the whole set of circumstances. He told Matt Lauer today, "[Romney] not only threw me under his campaign bus, he backed up and ran over me again." Note that he cried on Lauer's shoulder, rather than seek the comfort and support from the ladies of the Today Show "Fourth Hour!"

What we wonder, of course, is how this is going to affect Craig's loyalties when it comes time to cast his vote for a Republican nomination seeker. Clearly, he was drawn to Romney for his doe-eyed, ditzy vulnerability and his overall fuckableness. If he learns how to quit Mitt, where's he going to go. Mike Huckabee is looking pretty good these days but everyone knows that he's all super-Christy-married to his wife and probably wears one of those hard plastic cock-sockets that the Daily Show did a piece on, where your penis is fortified against accidental titillation when you have to whip it out and take a leak. There's a remote chance that Giuliani swings that way (he's at least tripled the number of sham marriages Craig has, anyway) - but Rudy's probably an uber-dominant top who likes to play the "mean dad," so unless Craig wants to get cracked open, 9-11 style, it's unlikely he's going to cast his lot with him.

Of course, that leaves weird Ron Paul, Alan Keyes and the remaining collection of bad-haired gentlemen whose waxy skin encloses an assortment of dessicated, gin-soaked organs. So, the question remains: Who is Craig going to vote for in the Idaho primary?

The answer? Trick question! No one gives a slick fart about the Idaho primary!

(We also would have accepted "Hillary Clinton.")

PS: God, wouldn't it be GREAT to find yourself in a voting booth adjacent to the one Larry Craig was in, come election day? You'd almost HAVE to try tapping his foot, wouldn't you?

DCeptette: Stepp On!

  1. Oooh, snap! Rusty and cohort deliver a finely-tuned takedown of Laura Sessions Stepp. Prosecutorial, even. Hats off! [WhyIHateDC]
  2. Apparently, voters find Christopher Dodd to be more evil than Tom Tancredo. Ordinarily, we'd remark on the cognitive dissonance on display, but we're guessing that this has gone a long way to making Tancredo cry, so we'll leave it be.
  3. WTF times infinity, obvs. [Wonkette]
  4. Vanessa Grigoriadis, sizing up the slings and arrows thrown in the direction of she and her spouse by Gawker, asks herself, "Are we ridiculous?" We don't know! Though when your next sentence is: "Perhaps a little, and I was contemplating this, nervously, when I got a call from my new mother-in-law, who had received the news by way of a Google alert on her son’s name." Really? Your husband's mother has a Google alert on her son's name? You ridiculous apples didn't fall far from the ridiculous tree! (Oh, by the way: HAI, Craig Maldonado's mom! We is up in ur Googol alertz!) [NY Mag]
  5. "Adventure food!" Not for the squeamish. (Then, again, maybe I'm wrong!) [Thrown For A Loop]

Service Journalism.

An item from the DCist tip line:

If you have any interest in buying an apartment in SE near the new ballpark, avoid Capitol Hill Towers. You see, I live here and rent a parking space for $175 a month. But the building management decided they’d rather screw the residents and allow hotel and public parking. So when I come home later at night I’m left without a parking space. So much for that $175 a month. I’ll be moving as soon as my lease ends…cause frankly, the building isn’t worth dealing with that crap.
Good to note, but you pretty much had me at "apartment in SE near the new ballpark." You'd have to straight up have your head examined if you're dumb enough to live near the effing baseball stadium. Let alone buy an apartment there. Sheesh.

Monday, October 15, 2007

In other UVa. Football news...

Hey! Here's something I wish I had seen: apparently, UVa's own Marques Hagans got some playing time in under center for the Saint Louis Rams! Awesome!

The bad news, he was sent in as an emergency QB to basically kneel on the ball twice at the end of the game because the Rams were getting killed, had no one else to play QB that wasn't badly jacked up, and everyone just wanted it to end.

He did catch five balls for 74 yards though! Fantasy bait!


Amanda and I are among those who are giddy at Virginia getting ranked 19 in the initial BCS standings. Hoo-rah-ray, right? Actually, this probably says more about the essential tweedledumbery of the BCS system as it does anything else. Is beating UConn a quality win these days? There was a time that a win over UConn and 2 dollars couldn't get you a Gusburger.

Of course, I remember a time when we were ranked number one in the nation. And, that, ladies and gentlemen, was like having an ecstacy and angel-cum hoagie injected right into your thymus gland. I mean, you didn't believe an effing word of it, but holy shit: UVA WAS THE NUMBER ONE TEAM IN THE NATION! THE NATION! POSSIBLY THE WORLD! AT THE VERY LEAST NAFTA!

Of course, that feeling only lasted a few hundred hours, as Georgia Tech came to town and the Satan-kissed foot of Scott Sisson (if I remember it right, though, Satan kisses the feet of all Yellowjacket kickers) sent us tumbling back down the AP. That game was the beginning of so many things going wrong. In fact, I can say with certainty that Georgia Tech was responsible for initiating all of the shame spirals of my youth.

Anyway, I look ahead on our schedule and see that all of our challenging games (Maryland, Miami, Va. Tech) lay ahead. But for the next five days, we're going to celebrate the inclusion.

Friday, October 12, 2007

Tiny Cups of Bad Yogurt.

Oh hai. I'm at McCarran Airport and my flight is delayed, but there's free public wi-fi, so I'm blogging.

A few minutes ago, a passed a crowd of people who were just arriving in Vegas. As they went by, this kid--maybe eleven years old--blurted out in a reverent semi-whisper of awe and surprise, "TCBY!" Yes, here at the airport, there is a TCBY, and it pleased this kid greatly. I've not spent a lot of time on the west coast lately...maybe this part of the country is only now getting to know The Country's Best Yogurt. But it sure excited this kid, and in a very specific way.

See, this wasn't an example of a child yelling "Me wanty!" and settling in for an extended tantrum of demand-seeking. Not at all. In fact, the kid made no move toward the TCBY or otherwise indicated that he really wanted some. That there was a TCBY at all was enough for this young man. His exclamation was the McCarran Airport Circa Today version of "What brave new world is this, that has two flavors of hopefully uncursed fro-yo that might blend, mix and resolve itself into a swirl!" It was the very idea of the TCBY and its successful existence that buoyed this child, lifted his spirits, and lit a light in him that would almost certainly ensure that he'll be able to bravely face the days to come.

So, in Vegas, things are looking up for optimism. I silently applauded the kid, not just for his enthusiasm, but for the way he made it clear that he was placing no massive external demands on this thing we call life. Is there an airport with a TCBY somewhere? Yes. And that's enough. This kid's attitude will serve him in good stead, as I believe that one day, a decade from now, he will have a moment where he surveys his nondescript existence and exclaims with all the joy a formerly young man can muster: "Yes! Middle management!"


Hee. When Sommer passed this little tidbit on to me this afternoon, I was racking my brain, trying to figure out when I had ever sent a letter to the editor of the City Paper. Turns out, I hadn't. Which isn't to say that this piece of correspondence isn't a thing of beauty (or that I have good handwriting--I don't). Certainly the argument made in its content isn't going to be refuted by many--it's sort of known medical science by now. But, there is a key piece of evidence missing that proves I didn't pen this wonderful letter to the editor: Had I submitted this, it would have included an invoice for the cost of the stamp.

That said, I fully approve of this author's efforts--though it's probably best to just go down to Champlain and affix your theses right to the door with gum or something. I hope that Andrew Beaujon will do his best to make sure this missive is preserved. When the aliens come to sift through our apocalyptic remains, it will serve as fitting proof that not everybody walking the face of the earth was a stone cold dumbass.

Neither A Borrower Nor A Lender Be.

Hey, internets? Did you loan me a tie? Like a year ago? Red and black, in a stylish diagonal pattern? Because I found it in one of my suit pockets and I can't remember buying it myself. I like the tie, I guess, and maybe I did buy it. But I've worked very hard to cut down the occasions at which I have to wear neckties down to about four a year. So, I could really give a shit about it. You want it? Just identify.

On another note: Internets, did I loan you my copy of Everything is Illuminated? I realize that using my blog to track down the whereabouts of a Jonathan Safran Foer novel is just asking to be snarked out severely, but I was wondering, all the same.

Love you lots, interwebs!

Where Boys Become Men and Men Become Wolves.

OKAY. Bloggerati! Listen up! Shut up for ONE SECOND about Friday Night Lights. Here's the real:

If you missed "Werewolf Bar Mitzvah" tonight, then you missed the best moment of the Fall TV Season so far. Do not even try to argue this with me. Really. Have some dignity.

Naturally, you can't find a clip of this anywhere on the interwebs because NBC doesn't know what the hell they are doing.

Laura Sessions Stepp Will Gray Rape the Mind Grapes of Arlington's Youth

Rusty brings us terrifying news that Laura Sessions Stepp is coming to Arlington to be a part of some sort Community Role Models Mentoring Fair--and just the thought gives me shudders. Parents, if you don't want your children to become screwed-up brain tangles of combatively batty sex advice and gender theory so outmoded that it makes Cardinal Richelieu look like Erica Jong, DO NOT SEND YOUR CHILD TO BE "MENTORED" BY LAURA SESSIONS STEPP. Do not let your child go near anyone who bases their mentoring on Laura Sessions Stepp. Hell, allow a week before you even let you kids go into Central Library--that crazy lady's liable to be hiding behind the microfiche player, ready to jump out and grab your kid and begin the sort of dumbing down that can only come from someone who cannot string three paragraphs together without setting off a Bastille Day of pure vine-ripened asininity.

Really. If Arlington County thought it fit to warn us all in emails about that dude with the plastic bag who kept getting pwned by the women he was trying to attack, then I should have some damn Code Red missives up in my Gmail, because the threat of Stepp is much, much worse. Believe that.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007


When next I write, I'll be coming to you from The City That Didn't Bring You Piety or Restraint, Las Vegas, Nevada. I think we've spoken on this before: trip for work, possible OJ trial, me doing reporter-type things, hoping the week goes by quickly. I really have very low expectations, since it looks like I won't get much more than four hours a day of free time--and that's out of twenty-four. Still, if you count cards and can stand being around people who are expensing everything, look me up at the Mandalay Bay. Assuming my room reservation is solid. Otherwise, look for me at a Best Western, and bring some luminol so I can thoroughly vet my bedding.

The Wire

Most of you know that I'm perennially behind the times when it comes to the great teevee that's been shown over at the Home Box Office. One huge gap in my knowledge is finally being filled...I speak of the fluffed-by-critics, bluzz-receiving show The Wire. I'm three episodes in and I'm already beginning to see what everyone's talking about--foundations are being laid for some pretty satisfying studies in character. I've been told that The Wire gets a lot of Big Picture things right--crime, municipal politics, employment, education--and that the show gets braver and more searing as time goes on. Well, I hope that all the critics that routinely shit their pants over this show are even half right.

And how about this McNulty fellow? Something tells me he's likely to become something of a connoisseur of the Charm City shit sandwich, n'est-ce pas?

Thursday, October 04, 2007

Con Ed

I've taken the liberty of RealityCatting a poster that's being disseminated by the Young America Foundation, the original of which reads, "No Education is Complete until it includes us." I'm not against this notion in toto, but trust me: Ann Coulter and Michelle Malkin are two people who have nothing to teach anyone.

Nevertheless, as I was educated in the Jeffersonian tradition, I hold that "no education is complete"...PERIOD. Nevertheless, I'd think twice before casting my lot with this baker's dozen of thinkers, whose contributions to civilization are quite paltry when placed against the sorts of personages who actually SHOULD be a part of a rounded education.

By comparsion, my education, for example, included Aeschylus, Apollinaire, Aristophanes, Aristotle, Artaud, Bacon, Beaumarchais, Beckett, Bentley, Boccacio, Brecht, Campion, Chaucer, Chekhov, Cicero, Cocteau, Congreve, Dante, Dennis, de Saint-Denis, de Stael, de Vega, Diderot, Dryden, Dumas fils, Eisenstein, Esslin, Euripides, Farquhar, Faulkner, Freud, Freytag, Frye, Garcia Lorca, Goethe, Gogol, Goldsmith, Gorky, Grotowski, Guarini, Hauptmann, Hazlitt, Hebbel, Hegel, Heywood, Horace, Hugo, Hume, Ibsen, Ionesco, Jonson, Jung, Kaiser, Kierkegaard, Kyd, Lawson, Lessing, Lillo, Locke, Lodge, Marx, Machiavelli, Marlowe, Mayakovsky, Miller, Milton, Moliere, Nietzsche, O'Neill, Pirandello, Plato, Poe, Pushkin, Racine, Rousseau, Schiller, Schopenhauer, Seneca, Shakespeare, Shaw, Sheridan, Sophocles, St. Augustine, Strindberg, Tertullian, Tolstoy, Voltaire, von Schlegel, Webster, Whitman, Wilde, Wilder, Williams, Witkiewicz, Wycherley, Zola, among others.

So, I'm guessing that my poster full of people who built the world more than trumps the above poster filled with a donut's box worth of tourist ideologues who have the privilege of walking the earth my guys constructed. And I've been way more correct on the Iraq War than everyone in that poster combined. Did my superior education help? Well, it didn't hurt. So suck it, Young America Foundation.

Push the Little Daisies and Make 'Em Come Up!

Okay. For the record, I was not looking forward to seeing this show. I totally figured that I would hate it. Guess what? It's FUN! And sort of achingly romantic. And the avalanche of stultifying WHIMSY I thought would be coming is significantly leavened by a pomo snarky archness that's actually quite winning. The Metacritics seem to agree: this 86 grade is the highest garnered by any new television series. I decree it officially Season Passable.

Bet you can guess what show has gotten the lowest grade from Metacritic!

Yowch! It doesn't get much worse than "Extreme dislike or disgust!" Tom has more on this matter here, though, for what it's worth, the decisions made in his scenario would have probably made Studio 60 at least 40% more interesting.

Tomorrow night=30 Rock premiere! Ready yr mindgrapes!

Not A Girl, Not Yet a Columnist.

When we last checked in with Laura Sessions Stepp, she was discussing the divine and holy miracle of "gray" rape--a new wonderful method by which women can bottle up the harm that's been done to them and never mention it to anyone, and live with the tremors of psychic anxiety forever and ever. Laura's done the world a service with taking up the cause of "gray" rape. And really, why shouldn't she have? Didn't God gray rape Mary to make a Baby Jesus? Didn't America gray rape the Enlightenment in order to write the Constitution? Does mankind not dream of slipping the bond of our earthbound state to gray rape the rest of the known universe? I think so.

This week, sadly, Laura's on less rarefied terrain. In her latest installment, she puzzles over what it means to be a woman, or a girl, or a girl who calls herself a woman, or something. Fuck if we can figure this out. But we read it so you don't have to.

"Here's a question my female friends and I sometimes ask ourselves: Why do our younger colleagues freely call themselves girls?"
That's easy, Laura. You see, most of your friends and colleagues actually are girls. Six year old girls. That must be the case, because once you hit seven, you reach the "Age of Reason" and become more or less fully equipped to understand what a tiring, prating dumbass you are.

"Unreconstructed '60s feminists we may be, but we insisted on being called women when we were their age -- and were ready to pounce on any guy who didn't go along with us so we could reveal him to be the male chauvinist that he was."
Pounce on them? Huh. Talk about a mixed message! I thought you were against all this hookup stuff!

"I wonder if that reflects a greater comfort with youth and femininity, or if they aren't sure what being a woman means. If the latter, I can hardly blame them, because the social culture they're swimming in doesn't know, either."
Right there is the Laura Sessions Stepp Credo: Laura doesn't "get it" so the "social culture" is broken.

"Forty-year-old women get their faces stitched and tummies tucked in an effort to look 18 again. Fashion houses tout the thin-boy look over the curvy female."
Yes. Right! We just invented vanity yesterday!

"Last week, NBC rolled out a remade "Bionic Woman," super-intelligent and super-athletic but, let's face it, also a super-cold robot."
You didn't watch The Bionic Woman, did you?

"Yet less than a year ago, the media could not get enough of the "train wreck girls," Britney, Lindsay and Nicole, seemingly so fragile and way too human."
Less than a year ago?! How about less than a week ago? This is supposed to be your proof of a bipolar culture--a teevee show about a cyborg exists, and so do some drunk, Hollywood, skanks! At the same time! Where to turn, where to turn? Please tell me you aren't going to try to kick all this faux relevance up a notch!

"To top it all, the woman who is under the greatest public scrutiny these days, Hillary Rodham Clinton..."
Oh, crap! You did.

"Then this summer, she showed a tiny bit of cleavage on the Senate floor, prompting comment from The Post's fashion columnist -- and a small firestorm of debate both about the appropriateness of the comment and of the cleavage itself."
Yes. That article was by Robin Givhan, and the two of you are really battling it out in the race to the bottom in contemporary American letters.

"Such conflicting images challenge young women like Liz Funk, a college junior who is writing a book about women in their late 20s. Funk says she and the young women she calls her 'girlfriends' have no problem on weekends dazzling guys and each other with their short skirts, four-inch heels and blouses that show way more than Clinton's Senate attire. But as they tiptoe into their professional lives, they adjust their wardrobes -- as well as other outward signals such as their tone of voice -- in order to convey a professional image in a working world still dominated by men."
OMG. Really, Laura? Really? This is not about conflicting images! What you describe is a person who understands perfectly well that different occasions call for different kind of dress! It's getting harder and harder to stand by and watch you try to spin some profound societal dissertation out of the utterly commonplace! People wear different clothes on dates than they do in the workplace! YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON IN CHRISTENDOM BLOWN AWAY BY THIS.

And really, that whole "convey a professional image in a working world still dominated by men" is just one of your canards. Can't prove it, can't disprove it. But I have a sinking feeling that women dress professionally in the working world because it is dominated by professionalism. The same way a soccer player wears shinguards at a soccer match because that setting is dominated by motherfuckers kicking you in the motherfucking shins.

"Thank goodness they don't feel that they have to wear neckties instead of necklaces, as many women who started working in the 1970s did."
OH YES! THANK GOODNESS! First they came for our necklaces...and I didn't say anything because I AM NOT A COMPLETE SODDING IDIOT.

From here, her article begins to stagger around like a drunk at a wake:

--pretty dresses and salsa dancing won't stop you from becoming the chief at Travelocity!

--Good news, womyn! You can use your "emotional quotient" in the workplace, which is good since Stepp doesn't seem to believe any of you have an IQ.

--"If you're a young woman in Sudan searching for clean water for your family, or in Cambodia looking through dumps for small items you can trade, teasing out the difference between 'girl' and 'woman' isn't exactly on your mind." Yes, Laura--it's just terrible that these people don't have the free time for such piddling concerns! We're coming to save you, Darfur! We won't rest until all of you are just as solipsistic as the rest of us!

--One of the people Stepp talks to has Maureen Dowd as a role model. I mean...THERE'S YOUR DEBILITATING PROBLEM RIGHT THERE!

--"So here's one final thought: Perhaps this generation avoids the word 'woman' not because they're uncertain what it means but because they are certain -- and not sure they measure up yet." That's not so much a "final thought" as it is a "final, crazy-ass, unsubtantiated claim."

Besides, that wasn't Stepp's final thought. You can tell because it wasn't sufficiently All About Her. Here's her parting shot: "We, their elders, sang 'I Am Woman' to make ourselves heard. They have the tougher job of living our dream."

Oy. Spoken like a true attention whore!

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

You Don't Have To Be a Douchebag to Work For Donald Rumsfeld, But It Helps (And Let's Face It, You Probably Are One Already, Anyway.)

Now that he's long since retired, you wouldn't think there'd be much new to learn about former Secretary of Defense/celebrated ninny Donald Rumsfeld. But guess what! There totally is, and it's this: Donald Rumsfeld hires women to push around other women on the streets of DC! What a fucking pussy!

It all went down this afternoon, as my coworker Kristen was heading back to our office from lunch with a friend. As she came down L Street, she noticed a phalanx of suity, security types headed in her direction, and at the center of the scrum was the idiot son of a goat's taint, Donald Rumsfeld. Kristen, figuring that giving them a wide berth was the better part of valor in this instance, stepped all the way over to the edge of the sidewalk, tiptoeing on the curb's edge. But that wasn't good enough for one woman in Rummy's detail, who stepped away from the pack to brusquely shove Kristen in the street as they passed by!

Kristen was obviously flabbergasted and floored by the whole experience of being pushed into the road by some utter jackass--the only thing she could think to do was to yell "Bitch!?!" after her assailant. Rumsfeld and his crew of goons just kept on sauntering down the sidewalk as if nothing had happened. (This all happened after 11:30am, so it's safe to say that Rumsfeld probably reeked of liquor when all this happened.)

The whole thing is pretty astounding, and not just for the way it makes John Ashcroft look classy by comparison. Remember to watch out for Rummy and his passel of thugged-out fucksticks as you navigate the streets of the city. And be glad he ain't guarded by Blackwater, because those guys aren't good for anything other than getting wasted and firing automatic weapons indicriminately into crowds of innocent bystanders.

New Piece of Fuglitecture to Project Invincibility, Provide a Place for Washingtonians to Run To 'When There's Nowhere Left To Run To Anymore.'

Oh, hell, yeah! Guess what, terrorists? If the Tower Companies get their way, all you shoebombing dickwads can officially suck Washington, DC's fat one. That's because those insane motherfuckers to the Tower Companies plan to build The Tower of Invincibility right here in the merry old 202. And after that, who's gonna dare fuck with us!? Ol' Jhoon Rhee will finally get to retire!

Based upon the artist's rendering of the proposed architecture, the Tower of Invincibility will look like the old Riggs Bank building at Wisconsin and M, NW (now PNC Bank--because you can't spell "Pinochet" without PNC!) after it's been masturbated into tumescence by some sort of wackadoo cult of transcendentalists. After that, it will move to it's new location, which is yet to be determined because you--that's right, YOU!--"The People"...haven't decided where it shall go, yet! Over at their website, you can vote for where you'd like it to go! Area submissive bottoms in search of a strong piece of architecture to serve as a stern "daddy" figure will obviously take a shine to the architectural rendering, so if you'd like this building to go somewhere other than Larry Craig's poopchute, we suggest you get voting!

Oh, look! I can receive updates on the Tower of Invincibility Project? Don't mind if I do!

Once this thing is built, it will take the reins of "Fugliest Building in DC" from that library that everyone but me and Kriston want to see razed to the ground. The most terrifying building in the area will remain the DHHS Death Star at 5600 Fishers Lane in Rockville, and the saddest location in DC will continue to be the Walter Reed Hospital, where Bush sends all the troops he hates because they're too broken to keep surging.

It's time you all started taking the Tower of Invincibility very seriously! We can't afford to be innocent! It's a do or die situation!

DCeptette: Daft Punk May Be Digging A Tunnel From My Window To Yours

  1. So, on October 6, LCD Soundsystem might be releasing a free remix of Neon Bible. Or not. Anyway, suck on the sound of stolen thunder, Radiohead! And plan for your site outages accordingly. [BrooklynVegan]
  2. Until NBC finally releases "To Catch A Predator" for the XBox, you can at least chillax with the Chris Hansen Soundboard. Most girls can't handle it! [Blogs t r e t c h]
  3. "Not unlike Georgetown, H Street protects its unique ghetto vibe by not having any metro stations within a 15 block radius." Uhm...what?! [Gridskipper]
  4. Obama sez: "That's the truth as we all understood it then, and as we need to understand it now. And we need to ask those who voted for the war: how can you give the President a blank check and then act surprised when he cashes it?" You'd think these would be the words of a candidate committed to withdrawing our troops from Iraq. But, then, you'd be wrong. [Yglesias]
  5. Peace out, Pareene. [Wonkette]

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

Uhm, Nice Try.

Oy. That's some pretty fancy talk coming from the douchebag who pens such rhetorical atrocities as: "You hear old-timey carnival sounds being plundered, freakish chants, stabs at free jazz and air kisses to Bowie. You hear everything. Sometimes you hear everything all at once." Hey, twit! We hear you're not hearing much of anything lately!

"Air kisses to Bowie." Christ. I could not make this shit up if I tried.

I Can Has Islamic Jihadism?

Tom assays the current chit-chat on online Islamic extremism, and comes across notice of a "website design contest open to anyone in the world with an Internet connection" where the grand prize was "the opportunity to launch a rocket attack against American forces in Iraq with just the click of the mouse from the winner's computer." His take:

"It's inhuman and morally outrageous, yes. But man, that's a pretty good idea for an online contest. If you could just tone down the evil you might really have something there."
Ehhh. For my part, this just demonstrates how badly mired contemporary jihadism is in outdated, Web 1.0 paradigms. This contest reminds me of a site from back in the 90s that purported to allow web-users to make a donation to feed the homeless or clothe the mentally ill jusy by coming to the website, and pressing a button that "triggered" a donation.

Like many of the things people got forwarded back then, like ASCII renderings of tweety-bird and dire warnings of how Congress was going to defund the National Endowment for the Arts based upon a bill that had gone down to defeat five years prior, this online donation mechanism was pure and simple bullshit. In the first place, you weren't actually donating your own money, and anyway, you'd have to be a ridiculous fool to believe that some organization out there was sitting on some pile of money, but would not donate it until some dude from Sheboygan pressed a button on some webpage. I guess we were to believe that there was someone in an office somewhere who registered each button-press and said, "Oh ho! I guess we have to contribute a dollar, now! I sure hope they don't come back in five minutes and press the button again--oh, my stars and garters! That's exactly what they are doing!"

Clearly, whatever pile of money there was was destined for the cause anyway, making the whole "interface" aspect of it just an empty exercise in web-branding. Any terrorist web-design contest is undoubtedly the same way. Surely they would not belay an attack simply because no one entered their stupid contest.

At any rate, if there did exist an actual web-based terrorbomb launching mechanism, I'm pretty sure that the good people at Unfogged would simply build some sort of bot to put a stop to it.

DCeptette: Serenely dribbling

  1. In which the Nabob fails to learn the carbo-loading lessons taught by The Office. [PIAB]
  2. The Bush administration has apparently hired some woman named Debra Cagan to work at the Pentagon, and the fact that she goes abroad and freely admits to foreign leaders that she simply, flat-out hates all Iranians is only the second-most terrifying thing about her. The most terrifying thing about her is that she looks like Alan Cumming after a semen facial has been allowed to crystallize on her face and hair. Be warned, as one commenter aptly puts it, your penis will fail to function ever again when you see this woman's visage. Unless of course, you are Paul Wolfowitz. [Wonkette]
  3. My coworker Kristen has officially put Britney on suicide watch after today's sensible ruling that her kids would be better off lost at sea for all eternity than to remain under her crazy-faced care. Nevertheless, I remain concerned that the real threat to mankind has not been defeated or contained, and by that, I am referring to Kevin Federline's remorseless, implacable spermatazoa, which could probably impregnate the corpse of Boris Yeltsin at this point. F'reals, y'all. I totes believe that if I walked into a room with K-Fed carrying a dozen eggs, we'd be feasting on free-range game hens by nightfall. [BWE]
  4. Gridskipper surveys DC's late-nite eats. A modest proposal: let's double these offerings by the end of 2008, shall we? [Gridskipper]
  5. I review Okkervil River. [DCist]

Okay, Jones Soda must be stopped.

Rare are the instances that a news article begins with a sentence like this:

Ever wonder what the Seahawks' locker room tastes like after a big game?

Uhm, let's see...I think I'll go with...fuck NO? Well, the rapacious gustatory dicks at the Jones Soda Company have based their latest atrocity on the gridiron exploits of those same Seatte Seahawks, and really...this shit is getting ridiculous:

Clare Bowles, a spokeswoman for the Seattle-based company, said the four literally named flavors -- Dirt, Sports Cream, Perspiration and Natural Field Turf -- are "pretty lifelike."

"Perspiration Soda is kind of salty tasting," she said, with a slightly higher sodium content than the average soda, with a smooth, "stinky football sock" finish.

A sip of Sports Cream Soda conjures up the experience of rubbing ointment into an aching muscle, while Natural Field Turf Soda is like "playing tackle football, and you get tackled really hard, you're down on the ground and you get a little bit of the grass in your teeth," Bowles said.

The only sweet soda of the bunch, Sweet Victory, has a berry flavor.

Oh, sweet mercy. doesn't this shit just give Mahmoud Ahmadinejad that much more room to criticize us? Natural Field Turf Soda? Stinky football sock finish? And there's no way a soda could possibly "conjure up the experience of rubbing ointment into an aching muscle." Know how I know? Because the taste of that experience is NOT GERMANE TO THE EXPERIENCE.

Of course, it figures that "Sweet Victory" would just get some vague, berry flavor. I mean, they go such lengths to nastify the entire football experience, but when it comes time to build the recipe for how victory tastes, these assholes are just, "Uhm, I dunno...berries maybe? Don't you think berries?"

Then again, like any Seattle Seahawk fan has the first fucking idea what a "Sweet Victory" is like.

CSI: Kerfuckadoo

Because the Wife of DCeiver and I enjoy staring straight into the face of howling inanity from time to time, we both indulge our guilty pleasure gland and watch CSI: Miami, the worst show in the history of television (well, that, and our unspoken desire to one day go thirdsies with Emily Procter).

Anyway, we hope that Emily Gould was watching tonight, because that was some close-to-home-hitting bananas nonsense, as the "plot" of tonight's episode hinged on an internet feature loosely based on Gawker Stalker. Suffice it to say, it was absolute, pure nonsense from start to finish, wretched and hilarious in it's utterly horseshitified depiction of both the web and human behavior as a whole.

As of this writing, Gawker Stalker has not figured even tangentially in anyone's murder, but after tonight's episode, you almost wish it would, if only to demonstrate that even if G.S. led to someone's brutal death, it would not go down with anywhere near the mewling asininity of the show's dramatization.

Monday, October 01, 2007

Uhm, yes, interwebs. We heard...

Hey kids! Did you hear that Radiohead has a new album coming out?

What? No?!

Can I come live at your house?

Because...Jesus wept!