Note: This post ran in a different form on March 6, 2009.
Pop quiz! Guess which of these Greenwich Village townhouses exploded exactly 40 years ago today…
a.) The one that looks different than all the others; or b.) One of the others
Answer: a! The building with the funky-angled protruding living room.
Yes, that’s the one. A few members of the Weathermen (l/k/a the Weather Underground) apparently mishandled some nails and dynamite and…yeah, kablooie. According to ever-reliable Wikipedia, it took nine days of body part collection to determine that three people had died in the blast. Two others survived and escaped arrest, with one remaining on the lam for more than a decade before getting pinched for pulling an armored car heist with Tupac’s stepdad. I am not making this up.
A slightly more thorough reflection from Bill Ayers and Bernardine Dohrn here.
We know, we know: The State of the Union played its typical role as an irrelevant exercise in smarminess and manufactured etiquette, and the iPad cooks blueberry pancakes while producing orgasms on command. We’re not going to talk about these things — we’ll leave that to everyone else in America.
We want to instead bring attention to a deserving topic the mainstream media has unconscionably abandoned in recent times: the plight of the Missing Young Reasonably-Attractive Blond White Woman (MYRABWW). The fact that most sane American media consumers suffered Natalee Holloway overload years ago hasn’t deterred Western Hemisphere evildoers from creating MYRABWWs (evildoers from other parts of the globe being more egalitarian in their kidnappings and slayings of Westerners). No, the epidemic has carried on with nary a stumble. After all, there are,like, other things going on. But while Anderson Cooper and his ilk have moved on to maintaining spectacular muscle tone (nohomo) in way-less-pretty Caribbean locales, one news outlet has steadfastly maintained its toehold on the stories that matter. It should come as no surprise that this outlet, as the only collection of newsgatherers brave enough to regurgitate the same below-the-fold story for three straight years, also happens to represent America’s last bastion of objective journalism; its last semblance of an independent media unshackled by governmental censorship; its last bearer of the torch of free speech; its last source…of hope. These descriptors can, of course, apply only to one Fox News.
This isn’t to say that others have failed for lack of effort: CNN, via a series of ever-dumber website redesigns and an increased focus on Anna Nicole Smith and her pitiful troupe of supporting characters/survivors, tried valiantly. I mean, they really tried. NBC fortified its all-news cable offerings with more talking heads, some of whom can scream almost as loud as Glenn Beck — the key word, however, being “almost.” No, the reasons for Fox News’ emergence as the paragon of free press become apparent as soon as one scoots over to their easy-on-the-eyes (read: a few giant words and a plethora of shiny photos) website: Awash in patriotic colors (signifying love of country manifested in intense scrutiny of a few America-hating politicians), the homepage alone betrays Fox News’ unmatched tenacity in thoroughly reporting stories (the ACORN Pimp, Sarah Palin) the whole lot of its capricious competitors have long since abandoned in pursuit of…whatever. So dominant, in fact, is the network in its coverage of breaking and long-since-broken news that it has seemingly set its sights on a burgeoning form of new media — fake news.
For the moment, however, Fox News’ looming standoff with The Onion is neither here nor there; this is about the MYRABWWs. And nowhere is the network’s MYRABWW prowess more evident than in its U.S. news section, a cornerstone of FOXNews.com that comprises unrivaled coverage of the Supreme Court, the H1N1 flu virus, and, in America’s Future, the four most important issues we’ll face going forward: Water, Security, Islam in America, and, of course, Textbooks. But the domestic news section’s ticket-puncher has long been and will, God-willing, continue to be, Crime. This is where you’ll find the news that shapes America. This is where you’ll find the MYRABWWs.
On that note, we’re pleased to report that, as observed in a random sampling taken earlier today, Fox News continues to hold itself to the same standards that brought us groundbreaking pieces on JWoww’s wardrobe transformation and the status of the eight-limbed Indian girl: Front and center on the domestic Crime page — nay, the entire U.S.homepage — is an update on the latest tragic twist in a case involving a Virginia MYRABWW. Kudos, Fox News. Keep us in the know (unless the victim’s black, brown, pudgy, big-nosed, brunette and not super-hot, over 30, freckly, foreign, or a man).
Ms. Nina Nilssen, rest in peace. Middle America never knew ya.
(Note: This post originally ran on March 9, 2009. We know, lame. Trust that we’re working on other projects intended to turn that frown into an upside-down frown. Enjoy.)
Everyone knows industry shills are gonna be industry shills (and sometimes, as Jon Stewart observed the other day, industry shills are gonna pose as cable news channels), but this is excessive: A preeminent ‘authority’ — the head cheese of the National Association of Realtors at the time — actually penned a book under this name in 2005:
Aside from winning the prize for Longest Subtitle That’s Really Two Sentences in One and In Hindsight Doesn’t Make Any Sense, David Lereah gets our vote for Dumbest Pictorial Metaphor on a Book Cover: You see, the home is rising, which is not unlike climbing, which represents an increase in the home’s worth. Just like it says in the Longest Subtitle! But the family that owns the house is looking as if maybe they’d like to go inside their home now, please, because little Tina has to pee and Norman’s missing the Jets game. But if it falls back to the ground, it’ll smash into pieces and maybe kill Tina and/or Norman! So either Tina’s gonna pee her pants and Norman’s gonna miss the game or someone’s getting impaled by a splintered 2x4. Then there’s the possibility that Lereah meant it the other way — that the family’s missing out on this so-called “boom,” likewise represented by the soaring value of the home they didn’t buy. It’s somewhat unclear, but I’m guessing he meant the latter.
Either way, that shit’s gonna break apart when it falls back down to the ground and the family will either be irate or relieved or impaled, and someone should sue Lereah anyway for putting that house up there and for writing such a poorly named and misleading book in the first place.
(Note: The bulk of this post originally ran on February 16, 2009.)
A year ago, our freshly-minted Leader of the Free World was already mired in his first political tussle (awwww!!!), trading barbs with Wall Street suits and the Liebermans they own over executive compensation limits. Capitalizing on lingering public hysteria over the Obama brand and society-advancing regime change, however, was a less laudable operation: Pepsi’s “Refresh Everything” ad campaign.
OK, fine. I know that corporations have piggybacked off war, disaster and political propaganda campaigns to turn a quick buck in the past, but Pepsi’s ad campaign (still ongoing) is positively analrapististic. For the uninitiated, watch this Pepsi flack try to keep a straight face while telling us about his employer’s desire to seize upon a “cultural movement” and “a spirit of optimisim” to quench our “thirst for positive change”…through mass quantities of refined corn syrup. He also implies that the Obama campaign ripped off the campaign, using as his crucial piece of evidence the fact that Pepsi is older than Barack.
In its ads, Pepsi tells us that “every generation refreshes the world.” Well, now…come to think of it, that’s absolutely true: The baby boomers refreshed our supply of potential soldiers, the beatniks refreshed American demand for berets, the hippies refreshed our appreciation for the First Amendment, Gen X refreshed the cocaine trade, Gen Y refreshed the flat-top, and the millenials refreshed our definition of “refresh.” Who doesn’t want to be a part of that? I’m in — toss me a Pepsi, Britney!
The more I study the Obama campaign, the more I begin to side with Pepsi: He clearly nicked original Pepsi catchphrases like “Yes You Can” and “Fo Sho!” (because, after all, black is now acceptable in Kansas!). His campaign logo looks eerily similar to that of Pepsi — a company that, again, is older than Obama. And the fact that Obama decided to become president just as Pepsi rolled out its “Change” campaign is too coincidental for comfort. Nope, my mind’s made up — Obama’s a thief. He’s from Illinois, home of Blagojevich and that other locked-up former governor and R. Kelly and Oprah, who once endorsed a memoir that wasn’t even true. It was fictional, which is Dutch for “sucked.”
So there it is — the truth in all its exhaustively-investigated, naked glory. Screw off, Obama. Get your own damn ad campaign. And give Enrique his mole back while you’re at it.
There has been plentiful talk about town recently regarding the Obamas’ artistic choices for the White House. The First Family, thanks to one of the major perks of White House residency, has the opportunity to borrow works not currently on public display from the collections of myriad Washington art museums and galleries in order to reflect their artistic preferences within the mansion. As with Jacqueline Kennedy’s love for Cézanne and Hillary Rodham Clinton’s affinity for living amidst de Kooning and Kandinsky, the Obamas will leave a significant artistic legacy based upon their choices. Many argue that they also have the power to affect the market, boosting the sales and popularity of any artist they decide to showcase. Such was the situation when the Bushes acquired Jacob Lawrence’s The Builders in 2007, which significantly raised the prices of Lawrence works at subsequent auctions.
Working since before the inauguration with White House Curator William Allman and personal decorator Michael S. Smith, the Obamas have selected 45 artworks reflecting bold and eclectic tastes. Within the group lie modern and contemporary gems as well as classics by Mark Rothko, Ed Ruscha, Richard Diebenkorn, Louise Nevelson, Jasper Johns, Edgar Degas, Glenn Ligon, and Josef Albers, among others. The group demonstrates the strong American persona that the Obamas hoped to depict. In fact, all of the selected artists, with the exception of Degas, are American (though even Degas spent time as an expat in New Orleans, perhaps justifying his inclusion).
As with any good political inquiry, a bit of scandal has also emerged. The Obamas had selected two paintings by female African American expressionist Alma Thomas. One of said works, Watusi (Hard Edge) from 1963, is a highly resemblant homage to Henri Matisse’s L’Escargot, completed a decade earlier. The selection immediately brought criticism, especially from Obama-haters, who blustered that “even the artworks he selects are phony.” The painting was later returned to the Hirshorn Museum, with the given explanation that its dimensions were not compatible with the wall in Michelle’s East Wing office. The White House denies that the accusation of plagiary had any affect on the decision to return the painting. Ms. Thomas’ Sky Light is still affixed in the collection.
Ultimately, the Obamas have successfully furthered their much-hyped platform of “change” through the art collection. For the first time, the White House contains a plethora of contemporary works, the rooms and halls adorned with paintings and sculptures by a diverse artists’ set: Asian Americans, African Americans, females and immigrants galore. It’s refreshing to see a collection that is somewhat representative of our country’s residents and their ideals — as opposed to one dominated by antiquated portraiture of wealthy old white men.
Images, top to bottom: Berkeley, No. 52, by Richard Diebenkorn, 1955; The Builders, by Jacob Lawrence, 1947; Watusi (Hard Edge), by Alma Thomas, 1963; Alma Thomas in her studio, ca. 1968.
For the past few weeks, asshole mailmen have been bombarding DCQ HQ with “election guides” and “voting cards,” and persistent old mamasita volunteers have been stuffing hit pieces under our door. Apparently there’s an “election.” Bah fucking humbug, I say. After all, King Bloomberg already re-upped his City Hall lease with a four-year, $85 million extension, there’s no spicy legalize pot/criminalize gays ballot measures, and what the hell is a “comptroller” anyway?!?
But haunted by a childhood riddled with Schoolhouse Rock videos (odd how that cuddly little roll of paper left out all mention of “lobbyists”), I succumbed to the nagging urge to “fulfill my civic blah blah” and walked to the local polling place. The wrong one. Outside, loud factions stood on the corner opposite a bodega and screamed at the occasional passerby to vote for their chosen Latina City Council candidate (more on that later). They yelled at me going in and coming out. I feigned confusion: “Wait, who should I vote for?” The ensuing cacophony made me smile until the machetes nearly came out and I decided to mosey along to my proper voting location at the other PS whatever.
Lo and behold, I made it to PS Whatever, and with relative ease received a voting card and a place in front of a curtained booth. “Have you ever used a voting machine before?” the lady asked. “Yup,” I answered, thinking she meant the neat standing contraption with the little pokey thing that produces those pesky hanging chads. You know, a “voting machine.” Instead, I slipped through the black plastic drapes to find myself before the motherboard the little guy operated to create the illusion of the Wizard of Oz in the eponymous movie.
There were scads of rigid plastic knobs and nozzles and whirligigs to fiddle with, set amid a blinding grid of candidates and party affiliations and positions and lines. There was no clear order to the scene. It was like a drunken Scrabble marathon morphed with a game of tic-tac-toe run amok. To top all, at the bottom of the mess there was an industrial-strength red lever — the kind the villain would pull in the Adam West “Batman” series or Leslie Nielsen would employ to great comedic effect in any number of more contemporary works.
I thought this was all great fun, so I uttered not a word to the usher lady looming outside. I yanked the big red lever all the way to the right, which prompted the Wizard of Oz machine to release a satisfyingly Adam West-y “ka-chunk!” I voted for mayor (against Bloomberg just because, you know, fuck the man and whatnot). I slammed The Great Lever back over to the left like an ice road trucker intent on reaching Fairbanks before the whorehouse closes. The console displayed a little “x” next to my mayoral candidate of choice. One motherfucker down. I grabbed the lever again to throw it back over to the right; it wouldn’t budge. I juggled some switches and flicked some knobs — no reaction. My voting was done. The machine stared at me, daring me to feel entitled to some class of explanation: “You dumb motherfucker. Gentrification’s a bitch, ain’t it? Your old-timey neighbors wouldn’t have been so cavalier with my Great Lever. Now go home and watch The Wire on your Macbook.”
So I did. And my curtailed vote didn’t matter: Bloomberg won (albeit not as handily as most had expected), and my vote wouldn’t have changed the local City Council race — incumbent Diana Reyna took it easily despite being thrown under the bus by Assemblyman Vito Lopez, her former boss and benefactor, a Brooklyn Democratic kingpin, and, awkwardly to the fullest, her current neighbor up on South 5th Street.
Lessons learned: Don’t antagonize the mobs picketing in front of polling places, not all NYC public schools are the right place to vote, and never, ever disrespect The Great Lever.
Oh, Pope: Condoms don’t spread AIDS, and telling the good Christians of Cameroon — many of whom believe the disease is more likely to be caused by a witch doctor’s sideways glance than by, say, “sex” — that they do is unfair. And immoral.
Pope, advocating “abstinence” doesn’t work: Humans are designed have evolved to reproduce before they’ve even finished growing. Kids will experiment. Your Promise Keepers rarely Keep their Promises (Poophole Loophole notwithstanding). And even those supposedly filled with the holy spirit will undoubtedly experience urges to fill something themselves (see: half the clergy in Boston).
In other words, Pope, the poor souls of Cameroon and every other African nation once beset by missionaries will continue to have pre-, extra-, and every other kind of hyphenated marital sex, whether you like it or not. And now that you’ve reiterated — in high profile — the Vatican’s antiquated stance on the issue, even more will be confused about the “science” of the AIDS epidemic, even less will use condoms, and even more will get AIDS.
