- You know, you try and try and try to stay "neutral" in world affairs, and still some psycho foists a jihad on you. What's a country like Switzerland to do? (P)
- Some 700 Club intern just got called in on the weekend to figure out how Chile might have offended Pat Robertson's God. Better get that research done by Sunday, dude, or you'll be struck by lightning. (P)
- Talk about your tin ear for politics: PETA's protesting Sea World shows that exploit murderous killer whales that kill. (P)
- Jenny Sanford gets to divorce her husband. Why doesn't the rest of South Carolina? (P)
- Just like A-Rod to get into a "fender bender" in his Maybach. If you're gonna crash a half-million dollar sports car, frickin' do it right. (P)
- Rick Perry is poised to win the Republican primary for Governor of Texas. And of course, if he loses, he'll run for President. Of Texas. (P)
- C'mon, Fitty: what's the point of being a famous hip-hop artist, if you have to Photoshop yourself into amateur sex videos? (P)
Friday, February 26, 2010
FO News Roundup: February 27, 2010
Special Weekend Edition!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Cyborgs on Ice!
PHUTATORIUS
I have a long list of grievances about figure skating. A long list that, if I had little else to do during my workday, would lend itself to an extended extended extended post (and you'd love it, too, ONTRI!). But I'll do only a "short program" today, as I mean to discuss a most strongly-held pet peeve: the flesh-colored tights that the women are increasingly wearing over their skates.
More...
First, a disclaimer: I raise this issue not as some sexist couch jockey who is determined to objectify female athletes by critiquing their wardrobe and equipment selections. I really don't care what Lindsay Vonn or Dara Torres wear when they compete; if they think a burqa will make them faster, they should go for it. Just bring home medals to the U.S. of A.
But figure skating's different, of course. Figure skating is a sport predicated entirely on aesthetics: [sadly,] it's all about how you look. So I have to ask the question: what in the name of Dick Button is remotely appealing about flesh-colored tights over skates? For starters, it's not at all convincing. You're not hiding anything, ladies. That's current points leader Kim Yu Na in the photos above (credit: New York Times). Check out that first picture: either Kim has some kind of grotesque protruding bone spur, she's acquired by mutation or surgery an additional joint midway between her knee and ankle, or that unsightly bulge is the poorly-concealed top of her skate. Who is she kidding? WHO?
And of course there are the skate blades. You can "flesh up" the boot, but not the blades. So even if we bought into the fiction that is apparently intended here — that the skates have been fully integrated into Kim's body, that "they are a part of her" — we have to accept that Kim has metal skate blades either screwed into or growing out of the soles of her feet. The very suggestion is, to me, horrifying. If this sport means to tap into our several souls' common craving to witness beauty — if its appeal is to that part of us that deeply appreciates the human form, its capacity for grace and will to perfection — why are we turning our female skaters into cyborgs? This isn't figure skating. It's disfigure skating.
The only possible justification I can muster for this offensive trend is that blending the skate boots into the legs might allow skaters to bluff mistakes past the judges. I write this knowing very little about figure skating, but I throw it out as a possibility. And then I throw the possibility out, too, as it seems to me that judges should be able to see through that sort of crap anyway, and if I were a judge I wouldn't particularly take to a skater who resorted to this sort of trick.
For years now people have been using ice skates to ice skate. It's sort of a requirement of ice skating that I think all of us in the crowd accept. In the spirit of our common humanity — and in recognition of how ice skating works — show us your skates, ladies. Please. There's no downside to it, and you'll be substantially less freakish and terrifying. And Mithridates says he'll give you beads.
I have a long list of grievances about figure skating. A long list that, if I had little else to do during my workday, would lend itself to an extended extended extended post (and you'd love it, too, ONTRI!). But I'll do only a "short program" today, as I mean to discuss a most strongly-held pet peeve: the flesh-colored tights that the women are increasingly wearing over their skates.
More...
First, a disclaimer: I raise this issue not as some sexist couch jockey who is determined to objectify female athletes by critiquing their wardrobe and equipment selections. I really don't care what Lindsay Vonn or Dara Torres wear when they compete; if they think a burqa will make them faster, they should go for it. Just bring home medals to the U.S. of A.
But figure skating's different, of course. Figure skating is a sport predicated entirely on aesthetics: [sadly,] it's all about how you look. So I have to ask the question: what in the name of Dick Button is remotely appealing about flesh-colored tights over skates? For starters, it's not at all convincing. You're not hiding anything, ladies. That's current points leader Kim Yu Na in the photos above (credit: New York Times). Check out that first picture: either Kim has some kind of grotesque protruding bone spur, she's acquired by mutation or surgery an additional joint midway between her knee and ankle, or that unsightly bulge is the poorly-concealed top of her skate. Who is she kidding? WHO?
And of course there are the skate blades. You can "flesh up" the boot, but not the blades. So even if we bought into the fiction that is apparently intended here — that the skates have been fully integrated into Kim's body, that "they are a part of her" — we have to accept that Kim has metal skate blades either screwed into or growing out of the soles of her feet. The very suggestion is, to me, horrifying. If this sport means to tap into our several souls' common craving to witness beauty — if its appeal is to that part of us that deeply appreciates the human form, its capacity for grace and will to perfection — why are we turning our female skaters into cyborgs? This isn't figure skating. It's disfigure skating.
The only possible justification I can muster for this offensive trend is that blending the skate boots into the legs might allow skaters to bluff mistakes past the judges. I write this knowing very little about figure skating, but I throw it out as a possibility. And then I throw the possibility out, too, as it seems to me that judges should be able to see through that sort of crap anyway, and if I were a judge I wouldn't particularly take to a skater who resorted to this sort of trick.
For years now people have been using ice skates to ice skate. It's sort of a requirement of ice skating that I think all of us in the crowd accept. In the spirit of our common humanity — and in recognition of how ice skating works — show us your skates, ladies. Please. There's no downside to it, and you'll be substantially less freakish and terrifying. And Mithridates says he'll give you beads.
The Blame America Crowd
MITHRIDATES
Last week a militant launched a deadly terrorist attack on US soil. Most reasonable people came out and unconditionally condemned the attack, but others sympathized with the perpetrator's motivation while condemning the violence. Comments (assume [sic]s where warranted) include:
Other crazies displayed an all-too-familiar willingness to blame America first, claiming that the US government brought this action on themselves. Rep. King's reaction was to lambast federal policy, while adding (with a sickening smile) that the attack was unfortunate. These people are clearly "prime example[s] of the 'hate-America crowd,' . . . dripping with contempt for the nation's politics, its leaders, its economic system and for their foolish fellow citizens.'' Some notable conservatives have even D'gone so far as to call flying planes into American buildings courageous.
Our tax policies have indeed caused hardship. I mean how should an independent IT contractor be expected to know how to legally deduct a piano on his tax form? But ask these America haters in what other country low-tax supporters would feel more welcome. France? Not even close. Canada? Laughable.
For the most part, no one is seriously blaming the incident in Austin on anyone but the attacker (a Bush-hating, church-bashing, anti-tax, anti-everyone nutjob), despite the usual victim game played by certain righty types. That tiresome game, of course, involves combing through every corner of every article in search of a suggestion of commonality between the perpetrator and the Tea Party Movement: further evidence that the mainstream media is out to get you!
Of course, supporters of lower taxes (like Bush-haters and church-bashers) are mostly peaceful people who are appalled by the violence of those claiming to act in their name. But the low-tax community needs to root out the militants among them and speak with one voice, condemning these actions unconditionally.
And what about all those nutjobs out there who actually sympathize with and support the terrorists?
Last week a militant launched a deadly terrorist attack on US soil. Most reasonable people came out and unconditionally condemned the attack, but others sympathized with the perpetrator's motivation while condemning the violence. Comments (assume [sic]s where warranted) include:
This is just the start of things like this. I DISAGREE with the way this guy rebelled, but i fully understand is frustration!!!"and
I feel for the guy and I'm sure that there are many more out there who feel the same way. Of course, killing yourself and taking others with you is a horrible and wrong thing to do.Others went further and actually saw good in the attack . . .
Hopefully, with such extreme measures a few Americans that actually posses a good head on their shoulders will take notice, and then TAKE ACTION. . . or even worse, took the opportunity to threaten more violence against the American people:
Go here and do a little research before something with jets or propellers falls on your head...More...
Other crazies displayed an all-too-familiar willingness to blame America first, claiming that the US government brought this action on themselves. Rep. King's reaction was to lambast federal policy, while adding (with a sickening smile) that the attack was unfortunate. These people are clearly "prime example[s] of the 'hate-America crowd,' . . . dripping with contempt for the nation's politics, its leaders, its economic system and for their foolish fellow citizens.'' Some notable conservatives have even D'gone so far as to call flying planes into American buildings courageous.
Our tax policies have indeed caused hardship. I mean how should an independent IT contractor be expected to know how to legally deduct a piano on his tax form? But ask these America haters in what other country low-tax supporters would feel more welcome. France? Not even close. Canada? Laughable.
For the most part, no one is seriously blaming the incident in Austin on anyone but the attacker (a Bush-hating, church-bashing, anti-tax, anti-everyone nutjob), despite the usual victim game played by certain righty types. That tiresome game, of course, involves combing through every corner of every article in search of a suggestion of commonality between the perpetrator and the Tea Party Movement: further evidence that the mainstream media is out to get you!
Of course, supporters of lower taxes (like Bush-haters and church-bashers) are mostly peaceful people who are appalled by the violence of those claiming to act in their name. But the low-tax community needs to root out the militants among them and speak with one voice, condemning these actions unconditionally.
And what about all those nutjobs out there who actually sympathize with and support the terrorists?
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
FO News Roundup, February 23, 2010
Seven bullets today:
- Mass killer and IHOP suckerpuncher Amy Bishop may have planted a "herpes bomb" in her lab building. The jokes just write themselves these days. (P)
- Apple's iPhone Patrol: please leave the sex apps to the professionals, people. But as always, keep the fart apps coming. (P)
- Nurse, get me 100 ccs of Viagra, with a Cialis chaser. Boner's gone missing! (P)
- If Elvis left the building, would Schiphol air security notice? Because they sure as hell didn't see him coming in. (P)
- Have a heart, Albania. (Yeah, we've done that line before, but who's gonna know?) (P)
- Brown votes for the jobs bill. What kind of Republican are you, Scott? (P)
- Lost in the Fox News outrage: the patriotic hero of their story thinks the Pledge of Allegiance is the "national anthem." (P)
DKG, The Economist Jump the "Make 'Em Filibuster" Bandwagon!
PHUTATORIUS
The Economist observes that the filibuster is too easy, if you don't actually have to do it:
This comes on the heels of Doris Kearns Goodwin's interview on The Daily Show, in which she, too, argued that Dems should call the GOP's filibuster bluff.
Of course, we opined on this matter weeks ago. Now that not just one but two august publication and an esteemed Presidential scholar have weighed in on the question, can't you see, Democrats, that the answer is right in front of you?
Oh, and you heard it here first.
The Economist observes that the filibuster is too easy, if you don't actually have to do it:
In the Senate the filibuster is used too often, in part because it is too easy. Senators who want to talk out a bill ought to be obliged to do just that, not rely on a simple procedural vote: voters could then see exactly who was obstructing what.
This comes on the heels of Doris Kearns Goodwin's interview on The Daily Show, in which she, too, argued that Dems should call the GOP's filibuster bluff.
| The Daily Show With Jon Stewart | Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c | |||
| Doris Kearns Goodwin | ||||
| ||||
Of course, we opined on this matter weeks ago. Now that not just one but two august publication and an esteemed Presidential scholar have weighed in on the question, can't you see, Democrats, that the answer is right in front of you?
Oh, and you heard it here first.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Some Thai Food
MITHRIDATES
Thailand is one of the truly great food countries in this world of ours. The 28 cent meat on a stick from a street vendor for breakfast; the $4 Chinese feast happily devoured by the only white guy in a hole-in-the-wall in the coolest Chinatown going; the Laotian smorgasbord for dinner last night. Thailand — and especially Bangkok — is food heaven.
So, why, on the afternoon of my last day in country, am I penning my travel memoirs over a $4 Big Mac Set at McDonald's? It's definitely not that I'm sick of Thai food. I was sick of Indian food after two weeks there, but with apologies to my Hindu friends, Thailand is simply a superior food destination, with more tasty culinary diversity in a much smaller country. So why am I here? You got it. It's the ambiance! Attached to the Westin Grand Sukhumvit on Soi 19, my delightfully bright red corner booth overlooks the chaos of swanky Sukhumvit Road. The air-conditioning slowly allows my shirt to dry after a day of touring through the capital on foot. The music is of the Thai elevator variety, but it's really quite soothing.
Bangkok isn't the only place where Mickey D's provides an oasis for a weary American. McDonald's is by far the cleanest, friendliest, and overall nicest place in all of Athens, Greece, for example. In addition to the creature comforts, the ubiquity of McDonald's is reassurance of the continued dominance of American culture around the world. Those golden arches in their legion in every corner of the globe remind the world that we're still here, we're still loud, and you still frickin' love us!
I mean, sure, sitting on the floor at Vientiane Kitchen was more authentic. But then again, with all due respect, authentic Lao would probably be sitting on the shit-covered floor of a mud hut eating a bowl of rice. This clean, comfortable booth all to myself is authentic American - and it's wonderful!
But here we are after two weeks in one of my favorite countries. Over the next several episodes we'll discuss food, of course, but also elephants and roosters; Buddha; the most dangerous activity in Thailand; language; friendliness and sleaze; Thai massage and Thai "massaaaaage"; boys, girls, and that 3rd kind unique to Thailand; martial arts; dung; sweat; and the remarkable transformation of Bangkok from grimy, sleaze capital of the world to kickass cosmopolitan destination. Stay tuned!
Thailand is one of the truly great food countries in this world of ours. The 28 cent meat on a stick from a street vendor for breakfast; the $4 Chinese feast happily devoured by the only white guy in a hole-in-the-wall in the coolest Chinatown going; the Laotian smorgasbord for dinner last night. Thailand — and especially Bangkok — is food heaven.
So, why, on the afternoon of my last day in country, am I penning my travel memoirs over a $4 Big Mac Set at McDonald's? It's definitely not that I'm sick of Thai food. I was sick of Indian food after two weeks there, but with apologies to my Hindu friends, Thailand is simply a superior food destination, with more tasty culinary diversity in a much smaller country. So why am I here? You got it. It's the ambiance! Attached to the Westin Grand Sukhumvit on Soi 19, my delightfully bright red corner booth overlooks the chaos of swanky Sukhumvit Road. The air-conditioning slowly allows my shirt to dry after a day of touring through the capital on foot. The music is of the Thai elevator variety, but it's really quite soothing.
Bangkok isn't the only place where Mickey D's provides an oasis for a weary American. McDonald's is by far the cleanest, friendliest, and overall nicest place in all of Athens, Greece, for example. In addition to the creature comforts, the ubiquity of McDonald's is reassurance of the continued dominance of American culture around the world. Those golden arches in their legion in every corner of the globe remind the world that we're still here, we're still loud, and you still frickin' love us!
I mean, sure, sitting on the floor at Vientiane Kitchen was more authentic. But then again, with all due respect, authentic Lao would probably be sitting on the shit-covered floor of a mud hut eating a bowl of rice. This clean, comfortable booth all to myself is authentic American - and it's wonderful!
But here we are after two weeks in one of my favorite countries. Over the next several episodes we'll discuss food, of course, but also elephants and roosters; Buddha; the most dangerous activity in Thailand; language; friendliness and sleaze; Thai massage and Thai "massaaaaage"; boys, girls, and that 3rd kind unique to Thailand; martial arts; dung; sweat; and the remarkable transformation of Bangkok from grimy, sleaze capital of the world to kickass cosmopolitan destination. Stay tuned!
Did She Mean To Say That?
PHUTATORIUS
I saw this commercial yesterday and had to do a double-take. Played it back on YouTube just now, and yes, indeed, this exchange really did occur:
"Amy," Nutrisystem Success Story: I can take care of the things that need to get done!
Marie Osmond: Including yourself.
Amy: Including myself.
[chuckles all around]
Wow. It's all there, starting at about 1:49, and it almost justifies what they've done with the "Substitute" riff.
I saw this commercial yesterday and had to do a double-take. Played it back on YouTube just now, and yes, indeed, this exchange really did occur:
"Amy," Nutrisystem Success Story: I can take care of the things that need to get done!
Marie Osmond: Including yourself.
Amy: Including myself.
[chuckles all around]
Wow. It's all there, starting at about 1:49, and it almost justifies what they've done with the "Substitute" riff.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Three Albums
PHUTATORIUS
So we're promoting the site now through Facebook. We're finding now that we have 20+ "fans" — some of whom aren't even Facebook friends (!) — and on that basis we're talking ourselves round to thinking we have readers. In the hope of dispelling that delusion, I'm writing today to solicit "reader input" on a cultural exercise of great importance:
Brothers and Sisters, name the recording artist with the three best consecutive albums (Three Albums, for short). And, of course, name the albums.
More...
I've been thinking about this question for a while, and because I'm a dork, I've raised it over drinks with friends (who are also dorks — dorky friends, I'm relying on you here). I have some ideas, but before I get to them, first some Rules and Guidelines.
☞ Rule: A greatest hits release doesn't count as an Album, for these purposes. That Steve Miller abomination with the Jordache logo is not an Album (and for that matter, it sucks anyway).
☞ Rule: A live release is not an Album, either, unless it's substantially comprised of new songs written specifically for the release. Thus and so, Under a Blood Red Sky is not an Album. Rattle & Hum? Yeah, probably.
☞ Rule: No EPs or singles compilations, please. We're talking strictly about studio albums. Hatful of Hollow, Louder Than Bombs, and the World Won't Listen are not studio albums. I know this pretty much dooms the Smiths, because it leaves no room to maneuver around Meat Is Murder. This breaks my heart, but it's increasingly clear to me that the Smiths were a singles band, anyway.
As for Guidelines, I figure I'll throw out some general principles you can choose to accept or reject. Obviously Quality comes first, but we might favor as well Three Albums that reveal significant Growth or Refinement on the part of the artist. I'd be inclined to credit Three Albums delivered in a short span of time — say, yearly releases — over a series of three that span a decade or more. It shows me more. Variety would seem important to me. It's the spice of life, after all, and a sign of an artist's versatility. If the Three Albums don't reveal the aforementioned Growth or Refinement, Sustained Level of Brilliance might carry the day. Don't come to me with Two Sandwich Albums on Either Side of a Fair-to-Middling Third. That's not Three Albums. And don't tell me an album is so good it ought to count as Three. I've been in that place. I've considered The Violent Femmes and The Stone Roses. They belong in another contest.
Everybody got it? Good. I submit the following Three Albumses for your consideration:
Start with the Beatles. Get 'em out of the way. You could conceivably do Five, Six, or Seven Albums here, given that we're talking about the Beatles. But Three is the order of the day. I say Revolver, Sgt. Pepper's, and the White Album. But wait, Phutsie: The Magical Mystery Tour came after Sgt. Pepper's and the White Album. Yes, it did, but as I understand matters, it's a soundtrack built around re-released singles ("Strawberry Fields Forever," "Penny Lane"). I won't say I can't be convinced otherwise, but for now I'm excluding TMMT on the ground that it is a compilation.
Some other obvious candidates occur to me. The White Stripes: [self-titled], De Stijl, White Blood Cells. R.E.M.: Life's Rich Pageant, Document, Green. The Clash: [self-titled], Give 'Em Enough Rope, London Calling. And of course an old and enduring favorite, James, for whom I propose two Three Album possibilities: Strip-Mine, Gold Mother, Seven and Gold Mother, Seven, Laid (I see Strip-Mine and Laid as substantially equivalent).
I'd like to nominate My Aim Is True, This Year's Model, and Armed Forces as contenders, but the first album was recorded by "Elvis Costello" (who recorded with an uncredited backing band), whereas the next two were by "Elvis Costello and the Attractions." Can I get a ruling here?
I am what I am, and I'm a Man of Enthusiasms Others Do Not Share. On that score, I submit to you probably my favorite Three Album set, Stereolab's Mars Audiac Quintet, Emperor Tomato Ketchup, Dots and Loops. What Stereolab accomplished between 1993 and 1996 — in terms of the distinctiveness and layered complexity of their sound, their complete overhaul of that sound, and just overall excellence from the standpoint of writing damn good songs — rivals any comparable three-year period from the Beatles' career. Roll your eyes. Laugh. I'll pull a gun on you, I swear. You'll sit down at gunpoint and listen to these albums, and you'll come around. Camper Van Beethoven, of course, falls into My Unshared Enthusiasm category. [self-titled], Our Beloved Revolutionary Sweetheart, Key Lime Pie. Eat it, skeptics! And just to push the envelope in this quarter, I'll throw out the Boo Radleys' Giant Steps, Wake Up Boo!, and C'mon Kids!, although the last of these grates on me a little (which was, I've read, the Boos' intention).
Some final ideas before I open up the floor for comment — Liz Phair: Exile in Guyville, Whip-Smart, Whitechocolatespaceegg. They Might Be Giants: Lincoln, Flood, Apollo 18. The Stooges: [self-titled], Fun House, Raw Power. The Flaming Lips: The Soft Bulletin, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, At War with the Mystics. You can accuse me of grasping at straws here by this point, but it ain't easy. Understand that I've considered and had to reject Joy Division, the Pogues, Green Day, Black Sabbath, Oasis — even Led Zeppelin and Blondie, any of whom have Two Albums better than anything I've listed in this paragraph. But for one reason or other (front man hanged himself, III wasn't all that, what the Jaysus happened with Be Here Now?) they don't have Three. And of course I've left it to Mithridates to argue for the Police.
Anyway, we all have our Enthusiasms and Prejudices, and we all have distinct record collections. E.g., I've only got one Bob Dylan album, so someone else will have to post an entry on his behalf. Write a comment, make a case, so we can threaten or laugh at you.
So we're promoting the site now through Facebook. We're finding now that we have 20+ "fans" — some of whom aren't even Facebook friends (!) — and on that basis we're talking ourselves round to thinking we have readers. In the hope of dispelling that delusion, I'm writing today to solicit "reader input" on a cultural exercise of great importance:
Brothers and Sisters, name the recording artist with the three best consecutive albums (Three Albums, for short). And, of course, name the albums.
More...
I've been thinking about this question for a while, and because I'm a dork, I've raised it over drinks with friends (who are also dorks — dorky friends, I'm relying on you here). I have some ideas, but before I get to them, first some Rules and Guidelines.
☞ Rule: A greatest hits release doesn't count as an Album, for these purposes. That Steve Miller abomination with the Jordache logo is not an Album (and for that matter, it sucks anyway).
☞ Rule: A live release is not an Album, either, unless it's substantially comprised of new songs written specifically for the release. Thus and so, Under a Blood Red Sky is not an Album. Rattle & Hum? Yeah, probably.
☞ Rule: No EPs or singles compilations, please. We're talking strictly about studio albums. Hatful of Hollow, Louder Than Bombs, and the World Won't Listen are not studio albums. I know this pretty much dooms the Smiths, because it leaves no room to maneuver around Meat Is Murder. This breaks my heart, but it's increasingly clear to me that the Smiths were a singles band, anyway.
As for Guidelines, I figure I'll throw out some general principles you can choose to accept or reject. Obviously Quality comes first, but we might favor as well Three Albums that reveal significant Growth or Refinement on the part of the artist. I'd be inclined to credit Three Albums delivered in a short span of time — say, yearly releases — over a series of three that span a decade or more. It shows me more. Variety would seem important to me. It's the spice of life, after all, and a sign of an artist's versatility. If the Three Albums don't reveal the aforementioned Growth or Refinement, Sustained Level of Brilliance might carry the day. Don't come to me with Two Sandwich Albums on Either Side of a Fair-to-Middling Third. That's not Three Albums. And don't tell me an album is so good it ought to count as Three. I've been in that place. I've considered The Violent Femmes and The Stone Roses. They belong in another contest.
Everybody got it? Good. I submit the following Three Albumses for your consideration:
Start with the Beatles. Get 'em out of the way. You could conceivably do Five, Six, or Seven Albums here, given that we're talking about the Beatles. But Three is the order of the day. I say Revolver, Sgt. Pepper's, and the White Album. But wait, Phutsie: The Magical Mystery Tour came after Sgt. Pepper's and the White Album. Yes, it did, but as I understand matters, it's a soundtrack built around re-released singles ("Strawberry Fields Forever," "Penny Lane"). I won't say I can't be convinced otherwise, but for now I'm excluding TMMT on the ground that it is a compilation.
Some other obvious candidates occur to me. The White Stripes: [self-titled], De Stijl, White Blood Cells. R.E.M.: Life's Rich Pageant, Document, Green. The Clash: [self-titled], Give 'Em Enough Rope, London Calling. And of course an old and enduring favorite, James, for whom I propose two Three Album possibilities: Strip-Mine, Gold Mother, Seven and Gold Mother, Seven, Laid (I see Strip-Mine and Laid as substantially equivalent).
I'd like to nominate My Aim Is True, This Year's Model, and Armed Forces as contenders, but the first album was recorded by "Elvis Costello" (who recorded with an uncredited backing band), whereas the next two were by "Elvis Costello and the Attractions." Can I get a ruling here?
I am what I am, and I'm a Man of Enthusiasms Others Do Not Share. On that score, I submit to you probably my favorite Three Album set, Stereolab's Mars Audiac Quintet, Emperor Tomato Ketchup, Dots and Loops. What Stereolab accomplished between 1993 and 1996 — in terms of the distinctiveness and layered complexity of their sound, their complete overhaul of that sound, and just overall excellence from the standpoint of writing damn good songs — rivals any comparable three-year period from the Beatles' career. Roll your eyes. Laugh. I'll pull a gun on you, I swear. You'll sit down at gunpoint and listen to these albums, and you'll come around. Camper Van Beethoven, of course, falls into My Unshared Enthusiasm category. [self-titled], Our Beloved Revolutionary Sweetheart, Key Lime Pie. Eat it, skeptics! And just to push the envelope in this quarter, I'll throw out the Boo Radleys' Giant Steps, Wake Up Boo!, and C'mon Kids!, although the last of these grates on me a little (which was, I've read, the Boos' intention).
Some final ideas before I open up the floor for comment — Liz Phair: Exile in Guyville, Whip-Smart, Whitechocolatespaceegg. They Might Be Giants: Lincoln, Flood, Apollo 18. The Stooges: [self-titled], Fun House, Raw Power. The Flaming Lips: The Soft Bulletin, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, At War with the Mystics. You can accuse me of grasping at straws here by this point, but it ain't easy. Understand that I've considered and had to reject Joy Division, the Pogues, Green Day, Black Sabbath, Oasis — even Led Zeppelin and Blondie, any of whom have Two Albums better than anything I've listed in this paragraph. But for one reason or other (front man hanged himself, III wasn't all that, what the Jaysus happened with Be Here Now?) they don't have Three. And of course I've left it to Mithridates to argue for the Police.
Anyway, we all have our Enthusiasms and Prejudices, and we all have distinct record collections. E.g., I've only got one Bob Dylan album, so someone else will have to post an entry on his behalf. Write a comment, make a case, so we can threaten or laugh at you.
The Frozen Burrito Mystery
WHITECOLLAR REDNECK
What is it about the physical makeup of a microwaved frozen burrito that permits it to be cool to the touch where you test it, but molten hot where you first bite into it? There's a skinless square inch on the roof of my mouth that would very much like to know the answer.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Your Public Apology Insults Me and I Don't Want To Hear It
PHUTATORIUS
Kazuhito Tadano was young and needed the money.
Later on, after he'd signed a minor league contract to pitch in the Cleveland Indians organization, word got out that back in Japan, when he was young and needed the money, he'd appeared in a gay porn video. Within minutes, Indians officials had swung him in front of a podium to deliver a public apology.
As an Indians fan, I followed this story, and as an Indians fan, I was one of the folks to whom Tadano apologized. At the time — this was back in 2004 — I couldn't quite put my finger on why all this orchestrated penitence troubled me.
Six years and dozens of public apologies later — and with the Mother of All Public Displays of Humility due from Tiger Woods any minute now — I think I've finally sorted through my feelings on this: I don't think I'm owed an apology by Tiger Woods, and it insults me that he thinks I am.
More...
Kazuhito Tadano was young and needed the money.
Later on, after he'd signed a minor league contract to pitch in the Cleveland Indians organization, word got out that back in Japan, when he was young and needed the money, he'd appeared in a gay porn video. Within minutes, Indians officials had swung him in front of a podium to deliver a public apology.
As an Indians fan, I followed this story, and as an Indians fan, I was one of the folks to whom Tadano apologized. At the time — this was back in 2004 — I couldn't quite put my finger on why all this orchestrated penitence troubled me.
Six years and dozens of public apologies later — and with the Mother of All Public Displays of Humility due from Tiger Woods any minute now — I think I've finally sorted through my feelings on this: I don't think I'm owed an apology by Tiger Woods, and it insults me that he thinks I am.
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Now let's put aside questions about whether anything Tiger says today will be sincere and from the heart, and whether he, and not a team of attorneys and PR consultants, actually wrote a word of it. A public apology from Tiger Woods presupposes that we all go around relying on Tiger Woods to be faithful to his wife, such that when he didn't, we all suffered some grievous personal harm. I can't speak for the entirety of the public — boy, do I wish I could, but I can't — but for me, this is emphatically not the case. There may be folks out there in the general public whose hearts were just torn to bits upon reading the tawdry revelations about Tiger's sex life in the press. But if you're one of those people, you don't need an apology. You need what we here at Feigned Outrage call perspective in life.
Has anyone else noticed that as often as we're subjected to these apologies for the personal failures of public figures, they never actually apologize for the aspects of their carrying-on that do cause public harm? Consider all the politicians who grandstand about immoral sexual practices while at the same time engaging in them. I'm thinking of you, Mark Sanford, Larry Craig, David Vitter. That's hypocrisy — and at times even bigotry: consider Craig's condemnation of homosexuality, even as he "cruised" sporting goods stores in Boise and did the Solicitation Soft Shoe in men's rooms. We ought to be entitled to apologies for the hypocrisy, but we never get those. We don't hear "I'm sorry for telling you all how to behave, when I can't myself adhere to those standards." We don't even hear "I'm sorry for diverting public funds to my personal long-distance relationship with my mistress." At best we get an acknowledgment of the error and a summary reimbursement, alongside "I'm sorry that all of you put so much faith in me, and I let you down."
Let's out this sort of apology for what it is. It's an apology that means to repedestal the fallen man, to reexalt the speaker over the listener. The news crews are here to see me. You care about me. My conduct, which has nothing to do with you, nonetheless wounds you, because I'm special.
I want a personal exemption from Tiger Woods's apology to the general public, and if I don't get one, I'll be requiring Tiger to deliver an apology for the apology at a press briefing, no later than tomorrow. My people will be in touch with your people, Tiger, about the script.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
FO News Roundup: February 19, 2010
SEVEN bullets. Has to be a record (note that none of them carry (M)s):
- "Troubling." Fox News comments on the loss of a reader. (P)
- Hate to harp on a sentiment, but EAT IT, CHINA. (P)
- Am I the only person in the world who thinks it's terrific that Google has scanned millions of out-of-print books and proposes to make them available to anyone with an Internet connection? Apparently. (P)
- We all know Boston hasn't been the same since Cheers left the air, but "less drunk" than a city in Utah? COME ON! (P)
- Look out, Silver Screen: snappy artificial mother/daughter repartee is coming for you. (P)
- SHOCKER (sez Us Magazine): JWoww and Snooki aren't Italian. Adjust your stereotypes accordingly. (P)
- FO exclusive sneak peak at Tiger's statement: "I did it all for the makeup sex. Right, baby? Baby?" (P)
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Surprising Asian Flare
WHITECOLLAR REDNECK
One more observation from my Virgin Islands vacation: one of the restaurants on St Thomas describes its food as "Delicious Caribbean fare with a surprising Asian flare." We didn't eat there, but I had visions of some poor guy quietly enjoying his jerk chicken before a Japanese ninja-type guy jumps out and lights a magnesium stick right in his face. Flair/flare confusion claims another victim!
Monday, February 15, 2010
Deep Questions, Steel Drum Band Edition
WHITECOLLAR REDNECK
Having just returned from a week in the Virgin Islands, I'm left with this question: how do teenagers in the Virgin Islands ever make out at high school dances? I think the slowest tempo a steel drum band can play is somewhere between andante and allegro, and when you're dancing that fast it's impossible to cop a quick feel, let alone get into some serious "The Lady in Red" face-sucking. Hmmmm.
Friday, February 12, 2010
FO News Roundup, February 12, 2010
Quotes, quotes, quotes:
- Michelle Obama on Sarah Palin: "I try not to set opinions about people that I haven't had a substantive interaction with." But if everyone adopted that view, who would have an opinion about Sarah Palin? (P)
- Texas Athletic Director on new NCAA recruiting rules: "Obviously, since this legislation impacts only two programs in the country, we feel we are being singled out." (P, with nothing to add)
- John Mayer on the "N-word": "It was arrogant of me to think I could intellectualize using it, because I realize that there's no intellectualizing a word that is so emotionally charged." How about "it was arrogant of me to think I could intellectualize anything, because I'm John Mayer?" (P)
- Spokesperson for anti-whaling org on recent activity in the Japan Sea: "A Sea Shepherd Delta launched from the Steve Irwin annoyed the harpoon vessels with rotten butter bomb attacks." What?!? Are Kim Jong-Il's PR people moonlighting? (P)
Friday, February 05, 2010
Phutsie's Pop Culture War Fantasies: Sinéad Sings "Troy," Destroys American Idol
PHUTATORIUS
Our ever-deteriorating popular culture fires aesthetically offensive mortars at us all day long. Taylor Swift. Jay Leno. The Grammy Awards. Twilight. How I Met Your Mother. Whatever the Hell Happened to MTV. It's a near constant bombardment of shallowness and crap, and occasionally I'll close my eyes and daydream scenarios wherein those of us who are most aggrieved seek out one another, form a resistance, and begin to fight back.
Now of course daydreams are by their nature exercises in self-indulgence, and so I'm not ashamed to say that a full two thirds of my pop culture war fantasies culminate in me taking the podium at the Academy Awards and raining down rhetorical hell on the VIP audience. I've written before that I'm a dork, and probably too much of my free time is given over to the composition of these lecture-rants I'll never give at the Oscars. But we have other weapons, and one of them is Sinéad O'Connor, psychotic guerrilla songstress. She's our most radicalized asset, we've been holding her in reserve for a high-stakes mission, and we've been only barely able to contain her fury. Now we're going to unleash her on American Idol.
More...
Picture this: a young, mangy woman with shaved head and downcast eyes steps tentatively onto the Idol set. It's a put-on, of course, because we know how fierce she is, and we know her plans. Simon, Randy, and Paula raise eyebrows in perfect synchronization, but they at least act as though they're reserving judgment. Susan Boyle, right? You never know. It's clear from his face, though, that Simon is piecing together a thousand-word rant on the "hair gimmick."
The woman looks up. Her eyes, cool and blue, betray nothing of her intentions. She stands lightly, with arms at her side and ankles crossed, and she waits.
"It'll be this 'Mandinka' song, then?" Simon snaps, squinting disdainfully at the note in front of him.
Sinéad shakes her head.
"The musicians have rehearsed 'Mandinka.'"
Sinéad speaks for the first time, says quietly, "No musicians."
Simon snorts. Paula shrugs. "Do whatcha gotta do, Sister," Randy contributes, in his signature faux-hip argot.
Sinéad tiptoes to the microphone, drops feet to flats, turns wild eyes on Camera 1. "I remember it," she begins. "Dublin in a rainstorm . . ." And she sings "Troy" straight through, a capella.
What follows is something of a cross between the final scenes of Carrie and Raiders of the Lost Ark. The sheer power of Idealized Guerrilla Siren Sinéad O'Connor shears the flesh from the judges' bodies. The audience reacts in a panic as the stage catches fire, fissures appear in the walls and widen, and a great chasm opens in the ground in front of the stage. By the time the song is finished, the American Idol studios have been obliterated, along with much of the surrounding city block. Somehow, miraculously — as if Sinéad had wanted it this way — only Ryan Seacrest survives. Now deaf and blind, he climbs out of the rubble to tell the world what he saw and heard, The Last Things He Saw and Heard.
I haven't decided whether Sinéad survives. "THE PHOENIX FROM THE FLAME! I WILL RISE!" are indeed lines that receive particular vocal emphasis in the song she sang, but it's not clear to me that they don't carry more force if she herself succumbs to her own destructive power. That is, if she doesn't rise immediately, she can be, in a way, more threatening. Does she martyr herself to destroy American Idol, or does she reveal a certain degree of invulnerability by escaping the building's collapse and the ensuing conflagration, without a mark or a scratch? Tough call. I'll have to think about it.
Our ever-deteriorating popular culture fires aesthetically offensive mortars at us all day long. Taylor Swift. Jay Leno. The Grammy Awards. Twilight. How I Met Your Mother. Whatever the Hell Happened to MTV. It's a near constant bombardment of shallowness and crap, and occasionally I'll close my eyes and daydream scenarios wherein those of us who are most aggrieved seek out one another, form a resistance, and begin to fight back.
Now of course daydreams are by their nature exercises in self-indulgence, and so I'm not ashamed to say that a full two thirds of my pop culture war fantasies culminate in me taking the podium at the Academy Awards and raining down rhetorical hell on the VIP audience. I've written before that I'm a dork, and probably too much of my free time is given over to the composition of these lecture-rants I'll never give at the Oscars. But we have other weapons, and one of them is Sinéad O'Connor, psychotic guerrilla songstress. She's our most radicalized asset, we've been holding her in reserve for a high-stakes mission, and we've been only barely able to contain her fury. Now we're going to unleash her on American Idol.
More...
Picture this: a young, mangy woman with shaved head and downcast eyes steps tentatively onto the Idol set. It's a put-on, of course, because we know how fierce she is, and we know her plans. Simon, Randy, and Paula raise eyebrows in perfect synchronization, but they at least act as though they're reserving judgment. Susan Boyle, right? You never know. It's clear from his face, though, that Simon is piecing together a thousand-word rant on the "hair gimmick."
The woman looks up. Her eyes, cool and blue, betray nothing of her intentions. She stands lightly, with arms at her side and ankles crossed, and she waits.
"It'll be this 'Mandinka' song, then?" Simon snaps, squinting disdainfully at the note in front of him.
Sinéad shakes her head.
"The musicians have rehearsed 'Mandinka.'"
Sinéad speaks for the first time, says quietly, "No musicians."
Simon snorts. Paula shrugs. "Do whatcha gotta do, Sister," Randy contributes, in his signature faux-hip argot.
Sinéad tiptoes to the microphone, drops feet to flats, turns wild eyes on Camera 1. "I remember it," she begins. "Dublin in a rainstorm . . ." And she sings "Troy" straight through, a capella.
What follows is something of a cross between the final scenes of Carrie and Raiders of the Lost Ark. The sheer power of Idealized Guerrilla Siren Sinéad O'Connor shears the flesh from the judges' bodies. The audience reacts in a panic as the stage catches fire, fissures appear in the walls and widen, and a great chasm opens in the ground in front of the stage. By the time the song is finished, the American Idol studios have been obliterated, along with much of the surrounding city block. Somehow, miraculously — as if Sinéad had wanted it this way — only Ryan Seacrest survives. Now deaf and blind, he climbs out of the rubble to tell the world what he saw and heard, The Last Things He Saw and Heard.
I haven't decided whether Sinéad survives. "THE PHOENIX FROM THE FLAME! I WILL RISE!" are indeed lines that receive particular vocal emphasis in the song she sang, but it's not clear to me that they don't carry more force if she herself succumbs to her own destructive power. That is, if she doesn't rise immediately, she can be, in a way, more threatening. Does she martyr herself to destroy American Idol, or does she reveal a certain degree of invulnerability by escaping the building's collapse and the ensuing conflagration, without a mark or a scratch? Tough call. I'll have to think about it.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
FO News Roundup, February 4, 2010
- "I hate Valentine's Day. You pay a ton of money, you get this lousy prix fixe menu, the service sucks, and you end up spending three hours across the table from your woman, starting to look like Ruth Bader Ginsburg." CNN's Ashton Kutcher fetish subsists, unabated. (P)
- Scott Brown takes office, Dow plunges 270 points. Just sayin'. (P)
- Pluto's PR people make their case for planethood (photo at right). Really? Is that the best you can do? (P)
- C'mon already: it's a Prius. Brakes? We don't need no steenkeen' brakes! (P)
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
FO News Roundup: February 3, 2010
- I have to struggle to imagine J.D. Salinger driving a Land Cruiser. Not sure why, but I picture writers in beat-up Volvos. (P)
- Punxsutawney Phil (the little shit) predicts 6 more weeks of winter. No word from him on when we'll have an economic recovery. (P)
- Ten films tapped for Best Picture! A cynical plot to sell more movie tickets? You tell me: they did nominate The Blind Side, for crying out loud. (P)
- If you've been waiting 20 years for the "Real Story" about Milli Vanilli, then this article's for you. Also, let us know so we can ban you from accessing our site. (P)
- $768.2 billion. Maybe we should apply "don't ask, don't tell" to the defense budget. (P)
- "Fucking retarded," were Rahm Emmanuel's words, to which Sarah Palin takes offense — at "retarded" on Trig's behalf, and at "fucking" on Bristol's. (P)
- U.S. government: don't drive your Toyotas. No conflict of interest there. (P)
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