A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME

Back in May, suave oligarch Mexican president Vicente Fox commited a Marge Schott type gaffe when he said that Mexican imigrants in the U.S. take jobs "even blacks don’t want."  Yeesh.  I can’t imagine him saying something that bad without immeditately bursting into a nervous Dangerfield impression - adjusting a suddenly too-tight tie, wiping off mounds of flop sweat.  As if this Lottian level of racial sensitivity wasn’t enough, the Mexican government thought now would be a good time to release stamps (click on picture above) based on a loveable, shuckin-and jivin Jim-Crow era comic book character named Memin Pinguin.  And people got pissed for some reason.  Personally, I can’t see it.  So, ok, his lips are nearly a third of his head.  He can’t help the way he was born ( or drawn)!  Those uptight race-baiters are the same reason I can’t break out my wonderful "Wedding of Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben" figurines at dinner parties anymore.  Anyway, the best part is they may have plans for a movie, although the recent kerfluffle (if I may be so bold to call it that) may put a damper on the B.O. prospects for that.  But controversy sells, right?  I’m crossing my fingers for a double bill with the Song of the South rerelease, or an animated Birth of A Nation remake.  You listening, Eisner? 

I’m not normally presumptuous enough to try to goad my friends into political action, but I’ll make an exception this time.  There are some acts of treachery so vile, and so antithetical to our shared values that one must speak out to retain any shred of humanity.  Steady your stomach, read this poor woman’s harrowing account, and do what you can so that her suffering won’t be in vain.

Men’s magazines bore the shit out of me, as I imagine they do most men who don’t breathe with their mouths.  But just like smart women who religiously read Cosmo, they’re the first thing we pick up when anticipating a prolonged road trip or a particularly involved dump.  Even then, with boredom bearing down hard on us, the pang of consumer regret is sharp and distinct.  The tired one-two combo of tits and product remains the time-tested formula, whether it’s the sub-literate humor of Maxim or the dirty hipster aesthetic of GQ or Details that punctuate the sales pitch.

It’s a shame too, b/c if you can get past the condescension, both templates have some interesting moments.  Maxim has one or two people there who can actually make the stupid news story/celeb meltdown photo caption genre funny (although there’s a million web sites that do it better now….and for free).  And GQ and Vanity Fair will usually have at least one compelling piece of journalism per issue.  But again, I can get that elsewhere nowadays - and I won’t have to put up with the horribly insulting "buy this hi-fi stereo and she just might maybe fuck you tonight" propaganda of a men’s mag.  Look at an old 70’s or ’80’s Playboy, and you can’t help but laugh at the implicit connection they make b/w a bumping 8-track, a sweet butterfly-collared suit, and getting more muff than one guy can handle (Don’t worry, your laughing won’t be interrupted by arousal - unless you harbor nostalgia for the sprawling savagery of an untrimmed triangle.  I don’t think I have that much hair on my head).  But nowadays, of course, it’s the ever-changing digital product lines that get the modern gal moist - or so they’d have you think. 

Which leads me to this awesome MSN article, 10 Things Every Single Man Must Own.  MSN has never been good at the soft sell, or subtlety in any form, for that matter, but this one takes the cake.  Wow.  It basically tells you have to plunk down 2 grand to even get your dick in the door.  I never knew that $200 espresso makers or 300 thread count sheets were the key to finding a soul mate or even just a fuck buddy, but shows what I know, huh?  The author, ever helpful and ever shameless, even goes the extra step and lists brands and average prices.  At least Maxim puts the product list and pricing on a separate page when they’re selling you the metrosexual dream life.*  His breezy lack of self-awareness continues to the byline where, tongue nowhere near cheek, he confirms that he owns 9 of the 10 things listed.  Thanks, chief!  But why stop there?  Why not show photographic evidence of all these possessions in your home, in use?   You could be sipping a toasty espresso with one hand while the other one is occupied to the knuckles inside of a drugged out fashion model, your luxurious 300 count sheets draped over her bony shoulders. 

(He takes a breath)

I don’t know why I’m so bitter.  I have a wonderful girlfriend, and she still continues to hang around, despite the fact that I haven’t spent more than two dollars on a shirt in a year.  I think it’s the combination of artlessness and pushy insistence that MSN brings to these inane how-you-should-be-living guides as they further obliterate the line between the editorial and advertising departments.  I’m still waiting for the Why Haven’t You Bought This Shit Yet? article.  As the economy continues to tank, the high priests of consumerism adopt a desperate, almost demanding tone.  This toxic combo of arrogance and ignorance is the default ‘tude nowadays, in politics and in culture.  The Wrongest are determined to be the Loudest, and ignoring them doesn’t seem to be an option. 

*though Maxim would never cop to it being anything as fey as a metrosexual look, their case is mortally wounded by the fact that they sell their own gay-ass branded highlighting kit. 

I love this site .  Basically, people send in their secrets on a postcard.  There’s a tremendous range here, from the banal to the cute to the criminal.  The juxtaposition makes for addictive reading.  From people admitting they’ve called in sick from work to masturbate all day to confessing that they occasionally enjoyed their stepfather’s molesting them, you’ll (hopefully) feel better about yourself after persuing this a while. 

I have learned that the machine I spoke of in the last post was none other than the perpetually mocked E-Meter, shown in use here by Swordfish himself, and the mother of Michael Jackson’s first wife.  They claim it can help users "see thoughts".  Sillies.  Only high quality acid can do that.  It doesn’t help matters that it bears a kissing cousin’s resemblance to the pictures of medical quack devices from the 18th century I always used to see in Health class.  But don’t rush to judgment , for Travolta says - "I also take a machine with me with I’m on location. It’s a religious device and I enjoy it. I’m always totally refreshed by it."  Refreshed?  Refreshed is what you feel after downing a Shasta, not the feeling religion gives you.*  Well, anyway, check out this site for more "wacky" details about the career-killing cult’s favorite boondoggle.

*the appropriate feelings being never-ending guilt and shame. 

Well, maybe ‘mighty’ is a bit much.  But I did see Patrick Renna of The Sandlot* and Disney’s The Big Green fame out at the festival on Vermont Avenue today.  Unfortunately for all involved, he wasn’t playing the irascible scamp as usual, but rather aggressively encouraging passers-by to take a Scientologist administered stress test.  This, of course, involved a machine with a dial, to add the requisite scientificalish sheen to the sad affair.  Sowjanya’s friend Casey was the only with the balls, or ovaries as it were, to submit herself to the cult member’s questionings.  It was too loud to eavesdrop (not that I didn’t try), and also Dan and I were too busy giggling like naughty Japanese schoolgirls that the kid from The Sandlot was out here pressing flesh for the Cruise Cult.  But I did notice they made her wrap her hands around two pieces of metal tubing connected to the machine while she talked.  I kept thinking they were trying to make some sort of 2005 version of those tree-house phones kids used to make with two cans and a piece of string.  Casey didn’t divulge much, but she did say they asked at one point "What’s the one thing that’s ruining your life right now?"  Huh? 

Kind of sad, really.  This has got to be the Seventh Circle of pseudo-celebrity Hell.  Hey, at least he’s not on Hollywood Squares.  I keep wanting to believe it’s some sort of Hollywood version of a Masonic conspiracy, where those who don’t push Dianetics are blacklisted and locked out of jobs.  But the more depressing reality is that this is probably the best thing going for Patrick Renna right now, and he’s doing it entirely of his own accord.  Which of course is a horrible mistake.   After all, the only thing Scientology is getting Tom Cruise right now is uniformly negative press coverage.  Between feuds with Brooke Shields, truly bizarre Oprah and Access Hollywood appearances, and reports of him playing Katie Holme’s manager, L. Ron Hubbard is not being a very good puppeteer at all. **

* "You’re killing me, Smalls!"

**Sarah Vowell was wise to his ways long ago.   

Two stories that make blogs look halfway interesting. 

First, a L.A. Friendster blogger gets mugged on the MTA.

Then, an asian kid’s last post helps police nab his killer.  Chilling. 

Poor Dennis.
It’s been a pretty shitty month.  CNBC is dumping your confused little
black hole of ratings and replacing it with a show called Mad Money with Jim Cramer.  Ouch.  That’s gotta hurt.  Not to mention your sad, painfully unfunny Daily Show
appearance a few weeks back.  Seeing Jon phoning in the laughs was
excruciating to watch, especially since there was nary a peep out of
the studio audience the whole time.  But I guess laughing was his only
choice, since you wouldn’t let him get a word in edgewise.  You
launched into your pseudo-intellectual Mad-Libs game stand up act from the moment you hit the couch, and didn’t look back.

And
you should really watch it Dennis - you could really sprain an ankle
the way you were backpedaling on Bush there.  "I only supported him on
the war", etc.  Yeah, yeah, sure, sure.  Was it that kind of tepid
support that snagged you a spot next to the straight shooter himself on
Air Force One?  But I understand.  That was when 9-11 Changed Everything, and
so you had no choice to bravely join the nuke-em-all dogpile and call
everyone to the left of Buchanan a traitor to the Homeland.  The free
speech libertarian was now an anti-thoughtcrime crusader, and a vicious
defender of the status quo.  The switch was jarring, to be sure.  It
can’t be easy going from being the contrarian curmudgeon one day to
fawning lapdog to power the next, but you didn’t even break a sweat.
Of course, if the millionaire son of a former president can play a
jes-folks cowpoke, I guess anything is possible.

But as Bordello of Blood clearly showed, you were never very good at
acting.  In America, it’s an age-old tradition to conflate a simpleton
with a populist ala Bush, but no Nascar dad is ever going to mistake
you for anything but the smug pretentious fuck that you are.  The irony
is pretty funny, actually.  All the references to De Gaulle and Pétain that you used in tarring Kerry just went over their pretty
little heads, and painted you, not him, as the prissy French faggot in
their eyes.  Now that the War With Islam is just background noise, the
Inquistors are onto their job of repealing the Enlightment.  So, now it
seems, the bride is getting cold feet after finally seeing the 12 foot
high writing on the wall.  Being a student of history, he knows that,
after the darkies, the faggots, and the liberals, the intellektuls are
the next ones with their head on the block.  Well, tough shit, says I,
and thanks for nothing.  You and your fellow libertarians sacrificed
most of your core principles for a few tax cuts, massive deregulation
and a dull illusion of security.  Don’t ever tell me you support free
speech, a right to privacy, or hate government intrusion into your
lives while you kept silent during Guantanimo Bay, the Patriot Act, and
Real ID.  For you all your clever talk of appeasement, you guys are the
real collaborationists.  The fairweather ‘liberals’ all wet their pants
on 9-11, and circled the wagons against a completely imagined alliance
b/w the pacifist left and Islamic fundamentalism.  But now, after Terry
Schiavo and Justice Sunday, the bible beating is getting a little too
loud for them, and they’re trying to pull a Prodigal Son, but without
the tearful apology part. 

Well, sorry, but fuck you and the war you rode in on.  The Sane Side
don’t want you now.  You threw in your lot with the crazies, and that’s
where you get to stay.  It’ll be fun to see you justify their attempt
to ban gay authors, or rationalize the N.C. church’s decision to excommunicate Democrats from their congreation,
or make Bill Frist (M.D.!) look uh, not crazy, when he says AIDS can be
spread through tears or sweat.  It’s fun times we’re living in now,
Dennis, and you can take part of the credit.  Thanks to you, the
terrorists truly have won.  America is on the fast track to become as
theocratic and rabidly anti-intellectual as their stone age societies
we want to flatten to the ground.  If you suck up hard enough, maybe
they won’t put you in the gulag with the rest of the egghead
know-it-alls.  But still, no matter what happens, it’s going to be a
little bittersweet for the perennial teacher’s pet.   After all, when
they’ve burnt all the books, who will care which ones you’ve read? 

I knew CNN had gone downhill in its race to be Fox Lite, but jeez this poll question is bad.   

Would it matter at all if I knew the context? 

Had a busy week, so precious little time to engage in the verbal diarrhea of blogging.  My brother Jon was in town for five days, one of which was at Coachella.  Now, I had pretty much resigned myself to a miserable time in Indio due to the testimonials of my friends who had went last year.  It was above 100 degrees there last year, and I believe Will even got sick from the heat.  Man, we really lucked out.  The temperature was in the high 80s, and there was a pleasant breeze blowing all day.  Dave Dean had advised me to bring lots of cash for water, and double up when I did - one for my head, and one to drink.  I bought one bottle of water all day.  With the weather not an issue, we were free to enjoy the amazing lineup on Sunday.  The scheduling gods were also smiling on us, as there was little overlap of the bands we wanted to see. 

First band up was M.I.A., whose delayed debut may be my favorite album of the year.  This was a electrifying start to the day, and we were lucky enough to get front row seats.  The bass already at an incredible level, M.I.A. instructed them to push it up.  Wow.  It was so overwhelming, most of the professional photographers in the pit got up and left.  Having owned some bass CDs as a young wigger-in-training in high school (and blowing at least 3 sets of speakers in the process) a little low frequency ain’t no thang to me.  When they played the remix of one of her songs that was set to the beat of the Dead Prez song "Hip Hop", Jon and I went crazy - that being one of our all time favorite beats, and a speaker buster if there ever was one.  After her set ended, the audience screamed for about 10 minutes for an encore, which hurt my ears much worse than the bass did.  It was funny to see her talking behind the stage to some roadie.  By the look of her facial expressions, she didn’t seem familiar with the concept of an encore.  She came back onstage finally, cheerfully chiding the audience by informing them "I’ve only got one album, guys."  I’m glad the trouble with her visa was cleared up, and will definitely see her again if she comes back to the states.

Next up was Arcade Fire, who more than lived up to the reputation as a sensational live act.  They performed like they knew this was a ‘big show’, and they needed to give it their all.  Not to say they were desperate for approval, but rather that they acted more like a hungry young unknown act than a critic’s darling for whom the show is merely a breather from their Dionysian exploits (cough cough Strokes cough).  Before they got through the second song, Richard Parry (the one who looks like Napoleon Dynamite) was climbing the scaffolding,drumming inaudibly against the metal along with the keyboardist (who apparently cut himself judging from the finger-sucking and bloody keyboard).  The large, enthusiastic crowd was another big plus, and when they screamed along "I guess we’ll just have to adjust" on the first song "Wake Up"*, I knew it was going to be a great set. 

Aesop Rock went on about 10 minutes after Arcade Fire.  About as good a set as I could expect from an dense, abstract rapper.  I’m a big fan, but his style of quick, obtuse lyrics doesn’t lend itself to a live show.  From the shows I’ve seen, the more catchy mainstream rap acts are more fun to see live, hence the surprising success of Jay Z’s Unplugged album.  Still pretty cool to see live, though.

The Faint were next (Actually NIN was next, but we were eating - blasphemy!).  I was blown away both by the quality of their live show, and the size and enthusiasm of their following.  I knew Arcade Fire would have a large and eager crowd, but I thought The Faint were kind of still a band on the margins.  The fans seemed to know every word - even more surprising considering the set was from the most recent album, Wet from Birth.  I had heard a few tracks when it first came out, and dismissed it, thinking it  a poor follow up to their other great albums.  The live set showed me the error of my ways.  The show seemed an odd mix of sexed-up rave and political rally, as the crowd went from shouting "Erection" to "Paranoia", reflecting the album’s amusingly schizophrenic obsessions.  Top notch performance, great crowd, and the best video wall show I’ve ever seen, even topping the Flaming Lips New Years Eve Madison Square Garden setup.

I couldn’t have asked for a better experience to have with my brother in L.A., and I’m sure he’ll say the same thing.  I love live music, but I hate crowds and heat.  Thankfully, the weather was pleasant, and I could feed into the energy of the audience instead of constantly feeling like I’m going to be trampled by sweaty teenagers - my normal concert experience.  Great Fucking Time. **

* My vote for rock moment of the year, at 2:52 in the song.
**Keep in mind my only other all-day festival experience was at Charlotte’s 106.5’s Weenie Roast - when you’re waiting around in 95 degree heat for Tonic, you know something’s horribly, horribly wrong.