We feel okay about posting embarrassing pieces on people we respect and admire for a couple reasons:
1.) The majority of these guys are masters of self-deprecation whose very personas render any attempt at mockery as effective as a tag attempt when you’ve clearly declared “forthfield.” Many of their careers and attendant are made off self-mockery. They laugh at our silly little efforts.
2.) We’ll never be as famous as they are, so there’s little risk of meaningful retribution. Although, in the case of today’s venture, there’s plenty of potential ammunition (see: Bowl-Cut Era, 1985-89).
3.) We only target those who can dish it at least as well as they take it. That means no nonagenarian academics, humorless professional altruists, or dogs.
In this shot, sent to us by a reader, David sports a blood-red, cobweb-plastered vintage velour sweater in a misguided homage to two seminal sci-fi films that defined* his youth: Attack of the Killer Tomatoes and The Giant Spider Invasion. The grin, nestled below coke-bottle glasses, seems to present a less cynical incarnation of the smarm modern-day Cross has come to embody, while the tuft of Jew-fro (no idea if he is Jewish) is receding in a manner that suggests it is not long for this world. Dave’s arrived at the party, he’s wearing his red cobweb sweater, and goddammit, where are the pretzels.
Another international catastrophe, another repugnant remark from Pat Robertson. Aside from revealing that Familia Robertson has never spent a tropical dime that wasn’t minted by Club Med — “(the) Dominican Republic is prosperous, full of resorts, etc.” — he gloated over the prospect of 100,000 deaths serving as further evidence that his laughably anachronistic interpretation of The Book is the definitive take.
If any 700 Clubbers still take the guy seriously after this one, it’s time for them to kick-start that secession movement. And as for Robertson himself, do the world’s rational ultra-majority a favor and die. Just die. Like now.
If you’ve ever strolled the streets of San Fran, Manhattan or any number of other global metropoli, you’ve seen the BNE guy’s work. It’s pretty basic: Put “BNE” in all-caps Helvetica Neue Condensed, black on white. Multiply times 100,000 or so. Travel around the world, affix to stop signs, parking meters, streetlight poles, etc. Wait for people to get curious.
We started seeing the BNE stickers around SF in 2006 or thereabouts; the perpetrator would get slap-silly on entire blocks of meters in the Tendernob. Someone working for Gavin Newsom noticed it soon thereafter, and the mayor caught a few headlines — and, more significantly, contributed to the BNE guy’s murky legend — by putting a $2,500 bounty on his head. Nobody managed to collect, stickers kept going up, and the artist’s identity remained an enigma.
Then, news broke earlier this month that the guy behind BNE was setting up for a show in Hell’s Kitchen. The Paper of Record scored an unprecedented interview with the alleged artist and managed to reveal next to nothing about him. We took matters into our own filthy hands. NYC ad agency Mother, underwriting the show at its new warehouse on 11th Ave. and West 44th, tried to play up the show’s import by making it an exclusive “who do you know” deal, complete with a tight guest list we managed to weasel onto. For all the frills — dance floor, DJ, pretty people, free booze galore — the show felt uninspired: The artist’s trademark, predictably, dominated the landscape in varying forms, the most evocative of which was a 15-foot-tall block-graf rendering running the length of the north wall. Most of the other pieces commented on the alleged artist’s announced desire to rival the visibility of multinational brands. (He told the Times that “I don’t see other graffiti writers as my competition anymore. Now I’m going up against the Tommy Hilfigers, Starbucks, Pepsi. You have these billion-dollar companies, and I’ve got to look at their logos every day. Why can’t I put mine up?”)
Late yesterday, the group bidding to buy the St. Louis Rams attempted to salvage its efforts by giving the heave-ho to its most controversial member, right-wing bobblehead/Hillbilly Heroin addict Rush Limbaugh. An apparently even-more-outraged-than-usual Rush responded by striking a grandiose tone:
“This is not about the NFL, it’s not about the St. Louis Rams, it’s not about me,” Limbaugh told his radio audience following the announcement. “This is about the ongoing effort by the left in this country, wherever you find them, in the media, the Democrat Party, or wherever, to destroy conservatism, to prevent the mainstreaming of anyone who is prominent as a conservative.”
Fine, sure, whatever. Rush will be Rush, and Rush is known for hyperbole and stoking political division. In concluding, had he wished to be entirely forthcoming with his loyal legions, he should’ve added that “Furthermore, this is about my ratings — increasing them, to be specific.”
But he chose a different route:
“Therefore, this is about the future of the United States of America and what kind of country we’re going to have.”
Well, then…this is a whole ‘nother story, Rush. You didn’t miss out on this nation-shaping moment because you once played a “comedic” song on your show titled “Obama the Magic Negro.” Or because you villainized welfare and essentially characterized the entirety of Black America as a collection of deadbeat dads and lazy sons in a single broadcast. Or, on a slightly related note, because the NFL is 65 percent black, and that these players (and, more importantly, their union) actually hold some sway over things — a fact apparently overlooked until yesterday by your would-be partners.
No, these matters are inconsequential. You lost your bid, Rush, because of a vast leftist conspiracy, driven by Enemies of America who don’t want you to have a 5 percent stake in an abysmal collection of football players. At stake: ONE COUNTRY.
So let us take a moment to pray, then, for the future of our nation…and for those insufferable Rams, who must now face a season of universal health care, Spanish in the locker room, and bottles of painkillers that don’t go missing while their owners are out on the field.
Bay Area hip-hopper The Clap may or may not have perished in one of the myriad natural disasters that have struck Southeast Asia and Oceania in the past three weeks. Composing one-third of seminal San Fran provocateurs Dead Horses, The Clap and his misogynistic, drug-riddled hedonism will be missed by many dozens of people should he fail to return of good health and spirit. He also owes DCQ $31.50, so there’s that, too. Clap, please come back and kill ‘em all, preferably before rent’s due on the 1st.
(Warning: Video and lyrical content therein completely devoid of moral fiber).
Little late on this, but eh. Reckunize? Another brother whose inebriated persona made him a star. And no, Eminem is not the guest. If you’re still at a loss, consider that mystery doc’s pals are trying to get their crossover on too, with mixed results.
Dude’s back with Relapse, by the way, if ya ain’t heard it (even though the resurgence of the psycho homophobe comes off as stale on a couple tracks). It doesn’t hurt that he channels the cadence of DCQ OG faves The Pharcyde and Brotha Lynch Hung on “3 a.m.” and “Stay Wide Awake,” respectively.
