A Dummy for Sushi

A funny article in the Wall Street Journal about Sushi Bullies reminded me of my own hard learned lessons. In short, sushi chefs are motherfuckers. Japanese food culture is hyper-rigid and these guys (sorry ladies) don't appreciate any wavering or derivation from the protocol. So if you're sitting at a sushi bar, and you should always sit at the bar, here are some tips to keep the Chef from going kamakaze. Do as I say, not as I did.

1. Only order sushi or sashimi. Rolls are the Big Mac of the sushi world. And while the Japanese adore McDonald's a California Roll will in no way endear you to the Chef. And you're at bar to suck up to the Chef.
2. Wasabi is only for sashimi! Because sashimi is fish unadorned, it's ok to stir wasabi into a little soy sauce for dipping. Sushi, however, will already have the "exact right amount' of wasabi between the rice and the fish. These guys are armed with eons of prejudice and very sharp knives so please don't be foolish.
3. In the same vein, when eating sushi, only dip the fish in soy sauce never the rice. I'm sorry but their sushi rice recipes are as revered as the mysteries of the Japanese Imperial Family's lineage and they don't like round eyes messing with either.
4. Always offer to buy the Chef a drink. This action will help to alleviate a multitude of sins and he'll be honored.
5. And finally, saké is ok with sashimi, and it's also ok before your sushi, but not with the sushi. Only beer or tea. Saké is made from rice and for whatever reason the Japanese are NOT down with eating rice and drinking rice at the same time.

These mistakes are the equivalent of salting your food before tasting in a French restaurant. But while the French are usually half in the bag or feeling up a skirt somewhere, the Japanese are watching for the slightest breach of etiquette and they never forget, in part probably, cuz fish is brain food. Just know the militarism of a tried and true Sushi Chef makes the frothing psychosis of a French Cook seem downright fun loving.

Good luck, dont' be foolish and next time we'll talk noodles. Your assignment is to watch the terrific Tampopo and get to slurping.

Watch the 30 Rock Season Premiere Here!

The Collapsing Log Cabin Fever of Matt Drudge

I really have no idea if Matt Drudge is a torch or not. I just continue to be amazed that this whole Bush admin generated national nightmare was caused by Drudge's loose lips on a measly consensual blow job. Who rats out blow jobs? Today, according to Eric Boehlert, The Drudge Report just might be loosing some of its shit stirring magic. And because what real red blooded American, ninny or otherwise, doesn't love Doris Day, I want to tell Matt, "Don't fret honey, Que Sera Sera"

Oct 31 - UPDATE: Does Drudge Matter Anymore?

Bloomsday in NYC?

Today the 51 members of the New York City Council will finally have to publicly pick sides over whether they, and Mayor Bloomberg, should be able to run for another four years in office. It's going to be tight and Bloomberg's squeezing of members and supporters into rushing this vote has been rubbing a lot of people the wrong way.

Our friends are divided on this, young Rachel Trachtenburg thinks Bloomberg is the worst Mayor ever while sexy New England surfer dude John James thinks Bloomy hung the moon. It's all perspective folks you should look into getting one.




Others hope to introduce an amendment for a public referendum on whether Moneyberg should be allowed to lord ad infinitum. A vote by the citizenry to counter a blatant insider power grab seems fair(er) since term limits are a product of the people. See for instance venerable New York media dude Kurt Andersen's 2 Cents on the Term Limits Debate

...this is a developer story, err I mean... a developing story

Fatten Up Already

America is obsessed with miracle diets. The latest, a morning banana craze is sweeping across Japan and moving with tsunamic certainty towards the gullible food fadests of the Lower 48. Alaska has blubber and Hawaii has Wo Fat, so they get a pass on this plea to defeat dietary hucksterism at home. The rest of us seem to have no idea why fat is important. And after all, you really are what you eat. Jennifer McLagan and Michael Pollan both have written interestingly about food as history and how "diet book culture" has fogged over our memories and taste buds.

In the Beginning, people hunted animals, ate the fat of those animals and lo and behold their brains got bigger. That's the story. Our story. So don't monkey with the system people. Your body needs fat. It doesn't need tofu pups or food that has been "optimized for your health." Over processed foods are bullshit and imitation food is nonsense. Eat simple fresh things.

Now don't go overboard with bacon smoothies or bone marrow tacos, simply eat loads of fresh veggies as a counter balance. Meals with lard or butter or schmaltz are more satisfying and keep you from gorging on crap like Rice-A-Roni, the San Franciso Treat. A change in eating habits will have a greater health and economic impact on the nation than the cumulative impact of the next 20 wonder drugs.

And because the pharmaceutical giants are only in business to make money they will screw you. Better served to eat like a caveman: grab the pork butter to fry your turnip greens, braise some ox-tails and lather fresh butter on whole bread. Your life will be changed and your heart will be none the wiser because a barbecued brisket is assuredly less dangerous than a stray banana peel.

The Barack Hussein Obama Bin Laden Blues

Political Campaigns are about as exciting as crossword puzzles. For about 4 intense minutes you poke yourself in the head with a sharp pencil trying to decipher the game before realizing these people aren't using real words in the first place. So as the Campaigns are finally winding down we thought we'd take you back to our Unconventionally Yours versions of the Democrats and the Republicans clamoring for attention in 2008.

This, by the way is our good friend, Ralph Gean. He wrote The Barack Hussein Obama Bin Laden Blues with Hillary Clinton in mind but once she got shoved aside by Obama he changed the protagonist in the ditty to McCain. Lucky you John.

America's Funniest Team: The Dallas Cowboys

The gold plated turnip truck that brought Jerry Jones to Dallas seems to be suffering during this gasoline crunch. Besides the injury to Romo, TO's flakery and PacMan's boozy breakdown somebody is syphoning off the corn squeezins that traditionally fuel the Cowboy bandwagon. Unfortunately, this current spiral seems driven by a lack of old-school Irving, Texas mayhem. Can someone please put the funniest back in America's Team?

This humorless situation necessitates a reminder of the glory days when Dallas was synonmous with super shootingstars like Rafael Septien and Lance Rentzel. Or the manical Charles Haley constantly stroking himself. Of course, our all time favorite Cowboy move remains Thomas Henderson snorting cocaine during Super Bowl XIII. Digging your dope out of your sock on the sideline of a televised football game just nudges Michael Irvin showing up for court in a full length mink coat on charges with possession of coke in the company of hookers. We can all sympathize with escapism but what we won't tolerate is boring.

Today both the high flying good times and the proficient footballing are gone. Where have you gone Dandy Don? Or even Barry Switzer? PacMan Jones is just a poor excuse for a delinquent. And that's got to be somebody's fault. The best the Cowboys have today is a narcissitic health nut in TO, a quarterback so sweet he dates the dumbest girl in the room and an owner too crazy to actually be believed. Chutzpah? Anyone? Actually, Jerry Jones is a pretty entertaining freak show but for chrissakes, does anybody have Pete Gents number ?

Gossip as God

Something to consider next time you’re churning the rumor mill: Gossip is the 21st century, human equivalent of picking fleas off your friends. According to an article in this month’s Scientific American Mind, gossip is a mechanism for social bonding, functioning much like grooming among other primate species. Gossip encourages egalitarian behavior by punishing group members who don’t pull their weight or play by the rules. "Many social critics have bemoaned this explosion of popular culture as if it reflects some kind of collective character flaw," writes Frank McAndrew. But, “in a highly mobile, industrial society celebrities may be the only ‘friends’ we have in common with our neighbors and co-workers."

Who started all this idle talk and newsmongering about the affairs of others? Rona Barrett did, that's who.

Every Day is Like Sunday

We've made it clear our feeling that sport is soap opera for men, so when I caught an NFL commercial trying to tap into the sensitive/indie market this past Sunday, I burst with laughter. Tarnishing Morrissey by having the same ad guys who re-cut vocals for Dodge Truck commercials sing "Every Day is Like Sunday" as a way to sell us mainstreamers football has to be one of the worst advertising pairings in history. N'Sync for Chili's baby back ribs makes sense but Morrissey for American Football? It seems unlikely the publishing company was pitching this song as a cheap option, rather someone must've typed into the database: give me any song with 'Sunday' in the title. No other explanation could allow for this mismatched Ole Miss Frat Boys meet Mexican Angelenos conjoiner. It just doesn't jive with American Football, except of course, in a world where Sundays are laced with emotion and unlikely dramatic twists in an open ended romantic serial. Seriously, give that guy a raise, Morrissey.

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The Proverbial Turd Blossom

Growing up picking hallucinogenic mushrooms out of cow patties, we took to referring to them as turd blossums to keep Gram and Gramps from wising up to our early morning forages amongst the heifers. When Bush nicknamed Karl Rove his "Turd Blossom" it definitely ungilded our psychedelic lilly a bit. Dubya must have recognized Rove's potent magic out on the West Texas plain and bestowed a nickname capable of bending reality and conjuring every possible Presidential grandeur. It was a helluva trip. Rove is gone now from the President's dreams and radio silence is the only thing emanating from the White House. With typical cleverness our favorite old time Republican, John Batchelor recognized this loss of vigor and explains how not having Rove's merry pranksterism at hand has left the Bush Administration as boring and blunt as Carrie Nation's hatchet upon a barstool.

Still Showin' Through, Boysss

According to the critical darlings at the Austin Chronicle, the Scoot Inn can claim the Best Bar Interior in Austin. Describing the place as "gold rush funeral home meets Tamale House" is an intoxicating depiction of the Scoot.


This former mexican heroin bar on the wrong side of the tracks just so happens to be owned by one of our favorite madmen, the oft-mentioned Herr Stockbauer. A man whose history of election rigging and fraud makes Acorn look like the Glee Club. Regardless of over stuffed ballot boxes and influence peddling, the Chronicle's recognition of the Scoot Inn's magical interior is warranted. The antiquated trappings of victorian splendor haphazardly allied with weimar republican decadence make this place unlike any other watering hole north or south of the Mason-Dixon. But more than anything, it's the collection of nefarious jackals who call the Scoot Inn their 'Local," that's earned it the more accurate descriptor- "Paul Lynde's Head."

Just Like Heaven?

The story of Governor Sarah Pallin's Main Street USA is a real humdinger, yet the way the state government hands out welfare it could easily be the story of Main Street USSA. Albeit with churches awash in petro dollars poised to host the Last Days refugees. And moose (pl)

The Scrap Heap

Saturday's Vendy Awards in DUMBO are a culinary destination for those who love to waddle and nosh. I live a food quest and will eat anywhere, anytime, under most any circumstance. Therefore street food carts and their proprietors are a constant pique of my interest. The 5 finalists are vendors of varying shades who are competing for the Top Cart in NYC. You can have Project Runway's elitist designs, give me some street side collard greens or a taco in a napkin and i'll prance up and down the runway of life like Heidi Klum in gilded garters. It's an event designed to support street vendors while allowing us habitues the opportunity to eat and drink like Falstaff in Eastcheap. Once more into the breach, my friends, once more. And repeat.

What is that Damned Thing Lurking in the Shadows?

Who is this mysterious Shadow Candidate for Shadow Senator of the District of Columbia that has Megan Kelly's, as well as Joe Lieberman's, panties in such a wad, if not a bartender masquerading as the reincarnation of Hagbard Celine? But is that really possible? Well, there are some clues....

Your Blazing Saviours

Do yourself a favour and hit up the Charleston in Williamsburg tonight. A metal show in that tiny venue is sure to blow the roof off the place and your head off your shoulders. Headlining are the incredible Saviours whose stonery metal brings back major 70's riffage and all around good headbanging vibes. Tthis is the only night you'll ever see them in a venue of less than a 100 people! Rounding out a terrific lineup are stalwarts Titan and Villains.

What I like about heavy metal is the sort of renaissance fair gone methhead vibe. There is danger but also some loveable gallantry. So get thee to the Charleston pleb where the night will be thankfully free of swing jazz. Sort of reminds me of that ELP song, Lucky Man what with the guitar mayhem and fair maidens by the score.

An Honest Debate Can Be Had: The Penguin v. The Batman

The McPenguin makes some pretty good points but the O'Bamaman's bondage hood and leotard are too intoxicating for this independent mind.

The Endless Dumbing Down of American Pies & Thighs

As the Debate between McCain and Obama slogs on tonight, ask yourself, "What Would Woody Guthrie Do?" This Land Is Your Land after all.

Jesus is Lard

Once upon a time I helped produce a venture for The Vice Guide to Travel that sent artist David Choe to the Congo in search of a dinosaur known as Mokele-mbembe. Choe is fearless and a believer in the possibility that a live dinosaur can be found. And soon I came to believe as well. The Congo is mad. It's perhaps the one last place in the world isolated enough and also free of dramatic climate change over the eons to have a habitat conducive to the survival of undetected dinosaurs. What can I say? I am a sucker for pipe dreams.

Such a tale is fascinating in the hands of Redmond O'Hanlon. In dizzying contrast to O'Hanlon's objective explorations however, are the most ardent hunters of dinosaurs, the most enthusiastic believers in living dragons: Creationists. We learned along the road that legions of Christian missionaries/crytopzoologists are prowling the ends of the earth to prove dinosaurs and humans existed side by side. Their quest is a crusade to debunk evolutionary theory. According to them, Jesus' triumphal entry into Jerusalem might not have been astride a mule after all but rather a lowly T-Rex. Way to burst my bubble.

BREAKING NEWS: Christopher Buckley Out at National Review over "Sorry, Dad, I'm Voting for Obama"

Chris Buckley's resignation over his temporary support of the opposition makes for a dark day at National Review. If conservatives can't deal with reasonably argued dissension within the tribe then the old war horse and Founder of National Review, William F. Buckley is indeed turning over in his grave tonight.

Read "Sorry, Dad, I'm Voting for Obama"

No No No, I Don't Sign It No More

Don't ask! Ringo is out

Ringo Starr has announced he will no longer be signing autographs. And who can blame him? Don't send him anything because he's over it, retiring his John Hancock to the annals of rock & roll history. His refusal to knuckle under to the knuckle heads reminds me of Mencken's take on fame,

A celebrity is one who is known to many persons he is glad he doesn't know

.
From afar, I've always dug his version of The No No Song and if he'd add a "don't sign it no more" verse and rerelease it, I venture he'd be back signing all the way to the bank in no time. Give Ringo a break, he's just the drummer dammit.

"Sorry, Dad, I'm Voting for Obama"

The son of William F. Buckley has decided shockingly to vote for a Democrat. Chris Buckley is a respected conservative and great wit, his fiction is marvelous, his essays prescient, and he comes with a quite extraordinary life story. Appearing on 60 Minutes while tripping on LSD for one thing.

So I was fascinated to read his declaration of support for Obama.


This interview with Buckley on Bloomberg TV is long but well worth the investment if you
like funny stuff and Wall Street has already
broken your heart.

Wanna get FuckedUp for 12 Hours tomorrow?

To celebrate the release of The Chemistry Of Common Life, Fucked Up will be playing live for a ridiculous twelve straight hours on Tuesday, October 14, from 2PM until 2 AM. The show is at the Rogan store on the corner of Bowery and Bond. Admission and alcohol are free. Blood is optional.

Depressions Be Dammed I'm Gonna Have Some Fun

The New York Daily News reports that prostitutes are banking while the rest of the world is getting fucked by the financial crises. It's a funny story without real legs though the thought of pouring over the 7 volumes of Remembrance of Things Past with Sienna, the English Literature graduate student and happy hooker (see article) certainly appeals to the modern man in me. Hello Odette, my name is Charles Swann, I'd love to hook up but we gotta make this quick.

Capitalist Shrugged

Ayn Rand Saw This Coming

Objectivist are a strange group, serving as minions to a personality cult all their own but in this crippling economic situation they may just have a valid point. As a quasi egalitarian, I personally don't find much buggaboo in socialist politics and am content to stop pretending free enterprise is always best. However, Bush's approach has been predictably half-assed and Ayn Rand would surely shout so from beyond the grave, if she believed in an after-life that is. So I'll make a point in her absence, if we as a country believe in free markets we need to embrace capitalism wholly. Let it carry the day with all of its faults and let people, and companies, pay the price for poor judgement, poor luck and poor timing. That's just the way the cookie crumbles.

As far as book reviews go, Atlas Shrugged is a damn fine yarn. Pick up a copy at your local fire sale.

Worst Week Ever?

The Dow Jones Industrial Average had its most volatile day ever Friday, oscillating more than 1,000 points before ending up 128 points down, capping the worst week in the Dow's 112-year history. The index lost 18.2 percent of its value between the opening bell Monday and closing bell Friday. Amid the panic, some very somber discussions are being held and all the papers lead with some kind of reaction to the bad news.

After the panic attack of reading about this subsided I turned to the sports page only be greeted by the nerve wracking proposition of todays Red River Shootout. The shootout is the greatest rivalry in sports and actually a college football game played the second weekend in October between Texas and Oklahoma. Texas is my team but ever since that maniac Bob Stoops' rolled into Norman I've been jumpier that a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Oklahoma has won 6 of the last 8 in part cuz Stoops is craftier than Mac Brown and now Oklahoma has Sam Bradford a magical Cherokee Indian at quarterback. Criminy!

They've been playing this game for over 100 years and because of the fanatical following of both schools and States, the game is played every year at a "neutral site" halfway between Austin and Norman. The roving bands of crazed supporters were too much for either little college town to handle so the game is held at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas, during the State Fair of Texas. The designated "home" team alternates from year to year, and ticket sales for the game are split 50–50 between the two schools, with the stadium divided along the 50 yard line. It's wild scene man cuz these people are crazed about beating each other and then there are carnival rides. This is not some Florida powder puff bullshit. The two programs have a combined 11 national championships since 1950 and this year a national title could again be on the line so expect total mayhem.

On the lighter my dad took me to the Texxas Jam in 1978 at the Cotton Bowl. And while perhaps not a highlight in the annals of responsible parenthood the video shot there of Aerosmith and the fairgrounds in '78 allows a brief respite from the worrys. Stop worrying, Texas Fight.

AND WE HAVE A WINNER

"Johnny Rotten, You Fat Old Irish Fuck"

Way back in the Year of Our Lord 1996, the Sex Pistols announced they were reuniting to tour. I'd seen PiL in '86 but this was different. I didn't care if the band lipsynched the whole damn record. I was going to be there. So my buddy Stephen Schubert "borrowed" a car from his job at the Porsche dealership which we loaded down with a variety of drugs and booze for the three hour drive from Houston to Austin. After innumerable pit stops and dust-ups we finally made it to the venue, jacked, as they say, to the gills. The Sex Pistols were slated to play a former K-Mart in an abandoned strip center. As we drove up nothing hinted at a punk show. It was just a huge deserted parking lot with a few cars, no loitering punks, and even weirder, no cops.

The venue was sparsely populated with an unexpected mix of mexican rancheros and leather fags. Now in the old days gay bars were the only place punk bands could play so that was reasonable and it gave the dull cavernous space hope. The Mexicans I had no idea about. But Mexicans are fun. I only mention this curious blend of concert goers because there was no one who looked to have ever been affialated with underground hardcore or even popular punk stuff.

So it's a weird crowd, we're blitzed, and it's hot as shit. Had to be 95 degrees inside at 10pm. No AC. But with the 'punk & disorderly' spirit possessing us, we gave the place and crowd our full attention. We rolled around like Sid Vicious had dropped us off himself, bullshitting with anyone who would talk to us and trampling roughshod over the rest. "Support or Die" was the tongue in cheek motto of the moment. As we continued ramping up in anticipation of the show, I decided we should go backstage. This thinking didn't portend any journalistic interest, rather the opposite, I wanted to drink the Sex Pistols' beer and I was certain they'd share a pint with a couple of kindred spirits flying on mushrooms. There was no security so getting backstage took about 10 seconds of effort.

Okay now is the start of the story I've come to tell.

We slip past the barricades through a curtain and there they are, the four of them, John, Steve, Paul and Glen. All alone. Staring at us. They walked right up to us probably half assuming we were supposed to be there. It was just the Sex Pistols and us, frozen for a second eying one another. Sensing the moment, I reached out to catch Glen's hand saying with great emphasis, "Glen Matlock, you are my favorite Sex Pistol!" As the moment played out in silence I looked to Schubert. He was just staring drunkenly at Johnny Rotten. And Johnny Rotten was staring back at him. Then slowly Schubert deadpanned, "Johnny Rotten, you fat old Irish fuck." I gulped having lived through a similar situation between Schubert and Dennis Rodman while out on the latter's boat. Anyway, Rotten was better prepared for the moment merely grunting "piss off" and flinging a can of Guinness that knocked Schubert's glasses off and cartoonishly bruised his forehead  Then the Sex Pistols were gone. They marched past us, jumped on stage, and launched into Bodies. My body went numb. We were left to our own devices.

That's the story. It's one of the proudest rock 'n roll moments of my life primarily because Glen Matlock was never anyone's favorite Sex Pistol. That riff had caught the whole band off guard. While the spontaneous 1-2 of willfully misplaced adulation combined with Schubert's "fat old Irish fuck" quip has to be one the most absurd, i.e., punk moments in Sex Pistols lore. The rest of the night was a blur of backstage beers being thrown in both of our faces.

And it's because of that night I'm giving John Lydon a pass on the Country Life TV advert. We shared a riotous time. The lump never really went away. And for a moment we were all friends.

Bravo Mr Lydon. Bravo Absurdity.

And God Bless the Dazzler
RIP
Stephen Schubert
May 21, 1966-March 19, 2007

UPDATE: This viral protest ad is hilarious however.

The Wisdom of Waiting for the Messiah

Lyndon Flakebower (not his real name) made us take down the internet classic My Best Fiend video cuz it was interfering with his ability to conduct business with Banana Republicans and oil industry zealots. Times are tough if you don't have a trunk full of krugerrands buried in the briar patch, so we understood. Pulling the greatest gold to ever hit the internet from YouTube was difficult and our addiction to Flakebowerian revelry sent us scrambling to pantries far and wide for leftovers, crumbs of the master to see us through this depression. A depression in every sense of the word.

The Royal Order of Flakebowerian Nonesuch is gonna have to lay low for a few fiscal quarters. At least until our Wall Streeter gone wild feels we're worthy of his return. So commit his words, his wisdom and his visage to memory. Remember him. Clicking on the pictures will yield hints at the breadth of the masters accumen but keep it on the down low. And remember boysssss, it's just business.

to live on in hearts...

Just kidding you can see the video here

And Now For Something Completely Different

The show SPIN is running at the old Cherry Lane Theater in Greenwich Village thru Nov 8 and is getting big ups here at The Mule. This is fiery and subversive shit from the stageFARM not some lily-livered broadway sap.

The show is comprised of 5 short plays dealing with the topic of spin and runs from 8-9:15pm in the evening. It's a bargain, it's fast paced and smart. Sneak in a flask if you must, but get out an mingle minions.

Half price tickets can be had by thumping the discount code SPFARM21


"As with last year's 'Vengeance,' the stageFarm is interested in using five great playwrights as a barometer for what's happening now. 'Spin' is this year's zeitgeist, it's the victory of style over substance. Presentation increasingly obscures content in American discourse and decision-making. The media, industry, politics, the establishment and the arts have conspired to bring us not their constituent parts, but a presentation of what they would like us to think they are. 'Spin' is the icing under which the cake of our country now lumbers. Everyone's running around spun out, high on icing"

All Aboard for Atonement

Jewish Traditions are old school and that makes them pretty cool. Far out names and wild scenarios are dreamier historical precedents than anything Pitchfork or Politico can clue me to. As the suns set this evening, you better get on the right path because the book on you is closing for the year. No rewrites. No last minute addendum.

Yom Kippur is observed eight days after Rosh Hashanah (The Jewish New Year). It is believed that on Rosh Hashana God inscribes all of our names in the "books", and on Yom Kippur the judgment entered in these books is sealed. The days between Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur are called the Days of Awe. Yom Kippur is, essentially, our last chance to demonstrate repentance and change God's judgment. On Yom Kippur, our fate for the coming year is sealed.

I am not Jewish, more of a Tom Paine deist cuz I don't dig dogma. I do however dig stories and a day of reflection seems like a solid idea without bugging anyone else. So why don't you all sit down a bit and reflect amongst yourselves. I am sure you can remember a few sins for which you need atoning. Might as well seal fate with a kiss of your own.

Presidential Debate Result: "That One"Takes The Cake

John Sidney McCain III can we please stop the insanity already? You're not in a the position to be giving Barack Hussein Obama great campaign tag lines!

Pick Your Poison: The Debate Plods On

Whether you're pulling for John Sidney McCain III or Barack Hussein Obama, tonight's debate in Nashville will no doubt bring more politics as caricature. So why not turn the empty gestures of party politics into a drinking game? Every time John Sidney sez maverick swig from your Bud Light can and grab a hunk of SPAM off the tv tray. When you hear Barack Hussein mention community organizing give your Kendall Jackson chardonnay a good swirl and schmear some unpasteurized chèvre on a Carr's Table Water cracker. If, like me, you find them both pandering party confidence men then celebrate every time the moderator gets involved.

As for 3rd party options, there's always:

The Beer To Have

When You're Having More Than One

.

What if Ike Turner Trashed America and No One Heard?

On the eve of another Debate, the fuckheads over at the campaigns of Obama & McCain brave on with insipid talk about each others past. The US financial crisis has turned to a world wide meltdown and Governor Palin can only gossip about Obama being within arms reach of Bill Ayres while the Democrats are in a tizzy about McCain's involvement in the Keating Five. LISTEN! If Democrats friendly with leftist professors and Republicans in bed with bankers is tipping point electoral news, god fucking help us. Any god!

This depressing and polarizing political yakity-yak has me on my heels so I propose we head for common ground. Natural disasters have a way of bringing out the best in humans once the whirlpools, tidal waves and fires have subsided.

This vast collection of images from Texas is fascinating in the way attack ads are, just more grounded in reality. And since the political climate demands we pin blame, I say Ike Turner is the perfect fall guy for this Gulf Coast destruction. Ike had a bit of a stormy side in life and perhaps like a vengeful Hindu god he reincarnated in the guise of a monster hurricane. Science Fiction has got nothing on the Hindu Pantheon. Perhaps we should have sacrificed Tina Turner in the face of the storm. It would have made very for great TV ratings and in the end a less divisive collective decision than this Election. Gods are you listening?

The Juice Is No Longer Loose

The OJ Simpson murder trial was a spectacle hijacking American culture for much of 1995. Simpson was able to use his cultural fame as an American footballing hero to escape prosecution but inexplicably the Juice has blown his get out of jail free card and will be sentenced to prison on December 5, 2008.

The Greek tragedy template can hardly be ignored. In the first trial, OJ's fame and fortune were used day in day out as a reason to proclaim his innocence. The evidence of the murder investigation was secondary to the question why would a man so handsome, so successful and such a damn good football player risk his freedom for one woman when there were hundreds waiting in the wings. Johnny Cochran's magic was real and against all odds OJ was loose again. But almost from that very day of freedom his fall has been predicted. He just seemed too crazy.

Orenthal James "O. J." Simpson has been almost a comically bad citizen since that first trial. The irony is the crime in Vegas was a bungled attempt to recover the trappings insulating OJ from jail the first time. He was on a failed hero quest to steal the things that had once marked him a hero. Some signed pictures and footballs, etc. Because sports is merely soap opera for men this is a neatly tied tragic bundle. Get your t-shirts, sportsfan.

This time I doubt many people are pulling for anything but prison for the formerly elusive Simpson. The fall is complete. And the Greek for OJ in prison may be more than just theater.

To lay off or not to lay off, that is the question

After a number of lost weekends and unsuccessful business trips, the ever intrepid entrepreneur Lyndon James is back in the thick of things with a new self help project. Based on the model masterminded by Bill Wilson, Lyndon hopes to put the fun back into sobriety with this list of the things that just taste better without the tequila shot.


10 reasons to lay off the sauce for awhile
1. daily sounds start to come come back;
2. keys, wallet and cell phone are surprisingly in their proper place;
3. fewer mysterious bruises and side pains;
4. 2" come off your girth from less gas;
5. you can smell your coffee and taste food;
6. the aneurysm egg yoke in your brain is gone;
7. no more forced sexual sessions with your wife at 4:30 am
8. moisturer skin;
9. you start finding $20's in your clean laundry;
10. you will start feeling sexier about yourself....

But in a typical yet brilliant businessman hedge he has now released his list of reasons to get back on the bottle. Talk about book sales!

10 reasons NOT to lay off the sauce for awhile
1. more wild rides;
2. the night is your friend again;
3. chance encounters increase ten fold;
4. because your more fun when you do;
5. gateway adventures come into full play;
6. late night porn becomes one of your major hobbies;
7. finding lost items becomes fun and rewarding;
8. nudity becomes a natural part of your personality;
9. no more bad dreams;
10. life seems more like living..

To lay off? Or not to lay off?

And keep in mind that unlike Michael Jordan with the shoes and Lance Armstrong with the bike, Lyndon doesn't need the booze to make it happen. Roll video.

Beyond the Palin

When I was a kid having a beautiful but dumb gal on your arm was cool. Preferably one who didn’t ask too many questions. These dimwitted babes operated purely on emotion. Any discussion that didn’t involve tan lines or the temperature of Cold Duck was pointless. Sure there were dreamy reminisces of a hometown’s simplicities but mostly it was exactly like you would expect when dating a Kim Cattrall.

The worst of it was that these kittens never got jokes. And rehashing punch lines to even the most beautiful women is tedium. It takes the fun out of the funny. The endless explaining of the mechanics and irony and references of humor was the only thing that turned me away from a lifetime of free gas station credit card purchases and sex in public. I learned the long and hard way that smart women were more fun, though mind you I'm not complaining about the road traveled.



This leads to the reason why I'm worried about Sarah Palin. She’s got the babe part down and if elected will undoubtedly have the best tan lines to ever preside over the Senate. I just don’t know if she’s smart or not. And smarts is all I want in these people. She appears to have some verbal zingers in her quiver which is nice but she employs them solely in obfuscation or once in awhile in defending her home state’s dreamy simplicity. Palin’s quips never zing with the hum of substance but rather with a kind of hot for teacheresque BDSM. I'm afraid she's nothing more than generic republican emotion. Not being able to name any Supreme Court rulings or recall what she reads is weird but I'm more concerned that if she can't get a simple joke like "Why don’t women have brains?” we're truly doomed. So at tonite's Vice Presidential Debate, I hope Joe Biden tells Sarah Palin at least one joke for the good of the Union. I gotta know.

Punchline: cuz they don’t have a dick to put them in.

The Minnesota Independent put together a nice piece on Palin's religious extremism.

Skirting The Issue

Look hating on Richard Kern is easy. He's a weirdo who wants to take naughty pictures of your gal. But you have to admit the guy has got some gig. Check out his new show at Feature, Inc. beginning tomorrow. The opening will be as New York as downtown New York events get. So follow your mom's advice, put on clean underwear and prance over. As for the rest of your panties, sell them on ebay. A gal's gotta make a living after all.

No word yet of Vans designing a Richard Kern limited edition mirrored slip on shoe, but I am all for it.