Tuesday, January 29, 2008

"Well, I Have Been Told That Theirs is the Party of Inclusion..."

I can't even find the words to express my rage at this shit.

The Huffington Post: "The Ascendancy of Barack Obama in Small Town America."

Read the Rick Murphy column that Baldwin cites in its entirety. I dare you.

Monday, January 28, 2008

You Still Got Them Candles?

New gig. New interview. Keep the fingers crossed and the chants chanted.

And no, I still haven't heard back from [name of publication redacted]. Which means I didn't get the job, methinks. And that is all your fault, obviously. Chant harder!

Sunday, January 27, 2008

"Reclaiming Space Opera for the Left"

Orbitbooks.net has posted the prologue to Iain M Banks' Matter here for your delectation.



A light breeze produced a dry rattling sound from some nearby bushes. It lifted delicate little veils of dust from a few sandy patches nearby and shifted a lock of dark hair across the forehead of the woman sitting on the wood and canvas camp chair which was perched, not quite level, on a patch of bare rock near the edge of a low ridge looking out over the scrub and sand of the desert. In the distance, trembling through the heat haze, was the straight line of the road. Some scrawny trees, few taller than one man standing on another’s shoulders, marked the course of the dusty highway. Further away, tens of kilometres beyond the road, a line of dark, jagged mountains shimmered in the baking air.


New Culture novel! Go look!


Saturday, January 26, 2008

Ah, I've Just Remembered

I find Debra Dickerson tiresome.


In case anyone was wondering.

Being reminded of Debra Dickerson (unfortunate) has had the unintended consequence of reminding me of Gary Dauphin (very, very fortunate). ebogjonson.com is back up, thank God. You probably remember Dauphin's construction of the very popular "Should I Use Blackface On My Blog?"

It's thanks to ebogjonson that I discovered Michael Taussig. Dauphin is also responsible for the way I walk around calling certain people--like Debra Dickerson--"talking androids."

Friday, January 25, 2008

CraigsList


While looking for the kind of low-paying freelance writing work that is apparently all I'm capable of, I found the following ad which made me INCANDESCENT WITH RAGE.


I am finished with my course work and working full time and in a full time internship. I need help with my dissertation. I have done all the footwork for the literature review, I have two experts in the field (substance abuse) on my committee. I am looking for a writer/ researcher that can help me get this done! We will collaborate but I do not have the time to put my ideas to paper.

I will pay well for good work that will help me pass on my first time defending.

Thank you.


"I do not have the time to put my ideas to paper"? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? You write the dissertation yourself, you fucking assclown; and you gnaw your own fucking foot off with worry in the wee hours before your dissertation defense. You know why? Because you write that shit yourself.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

What Historical Pattern?

Found the link to this transcript over at And We Shall March ("Black. Geek. And Fine With That"), and it's excellent. So I am [ganking it from her] and offering it to you here. Who keeps you supplied, kids?* I do. Gloria Steinem and Melissa Harris-Lacewell on Democracy Now with Amy Goodman.

*bonus points if you answered "Sho Nuff!"


Like Pam, I'm going to offer you a taste to get you intrigued:

Melissa Harris-Lacewell: Well, again, you know, this is a bizarre reading of history, this notion of sort of African American men somehow standing over and above white women. I’m just not sure exactly what history is being claimed here, particularly in electoral history. We know that there are far more white women in both the House of Representatives and in the US Senate than there are African Americans, either men or women. So it’s an odd sort of claim to make that Barack Obama’s gender is this kind of clear straight line.

What I do agree with is that we ought to be in coalition. But I think we’ve got to be in coalition on fair grounds. Part of what, again, has been sort of an anxiety for African American women feminists like myself is that we’re often asked to join up with white women’s feminism, but only on their own terms, as long as we sort of remain silent about the ways in which our gender, our class, our sexual identity doesn’t intersect, as long as we can be quiet about those things and join onto a single agenda. So, yes, I absolutely agree, we must be in coalition, but it must be a fair coalition of equals.

And it’s one of the things that’s exciting about Barack Obama’s campaign, working on it in New Hampshire, seeing it at work in Iowa, being a part of meetings here in New Jersey, is in fact that you cannot pick what an Obama supporter looks like. Obama supporters are young and old, black and white, male and female. And it is, in fact, the most sort of nurturing and coalition-building space I’ve ever had an opportunity to do political work in.

Ernie and Bernie Trade Success Stories




from the fantastic Cat and Girl. And why aren't you reading Dicebox, yet?

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Where It Takes You


While researching some information on Nashville landmarks for a screenplay I'm writing, I stumbled upon a [presumably long forgotten] web page...

...never mind about a link; publishing it would feel too weird, as if I'm holding back the curtains so that you can peek in someone's living room. I realize that once something is placed in the public domain, the author[s] no longer have control over its transmission or replication, but--well, there it is. At any rate, what I wanted to share with you was this interview with Majora Carter I found after clicking through a series a links initiated by that rogue/lost/unshareable webpage. It's about the kind of environmental activism that most interests me, but least interests most media outlets. It's about Carter's work with Sustainable South Bronx, an organization she heads.

Anyway, check it out. It makes for interesting reading. Particularly the bit at the end, when the interviewer points out something that Carter has been struggling to convince her neighbors of (and see the value in):

Q: That's the irony: People in your community generally have far lower-impact lives than wealthier folks with cars and frequent-flyer lifestyles.

A: Exactly, and yet we don't have a sense of belonging to the environmentalist identity. It's an extremely alienating definition, a serious identity crisis for the movement as far as I'm concerned. It makes low-income communities of color say, "We can't do it, we can't afford it, it's something that we can never aspire to -- nor do we necessarily want to." But it's self-defeating to the point where it's detrimental to our own health.


Sunday, January 20, 2008

Universities overproduce Ph.D.s


Ha ha ha he he ho ho ho hoHO HO HO.

Unemployably yours,
Dr. Jugo Naturale-Gladwell

Saturday, January 19, 2008

PBS: One Nap at a Time

When it comes to food I'll probably never make, I've been loving the stuff Claus Meyer makes on New Scandinavian Cooking. His stuff looks amazing, and apparently he's largely the one responsible for the Nordic Cuisine movement going on in Denmark right now. But I mainly just watch his show because I'm impressed with his command of idiomatic English.

And moving briskly through the first month of 2008, I can say that I remain horrified and compelled by nutsy ass Rick Bayless. I thought that I had this guy figured out...but I don't, and that disturbs me. I am always a little suspicious of people whose facial hair is white while the hair on their heads remains dark. Also, he has a really soft voice and very dark eyes and...I don't know. He looks evil to me.
As soon as I finish my yoga,I'm going to make sausage out of your intestines

Thursday, January 17, 2008

In Retrospect

I probably should have taken that job at Paul's law firm.


1/17/08 3:00 PM

PS: Christian Bale was in the office yesterday...just though I should tell someone.
Jugo: ...

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

What the Hell? No, Seriously

Hey, remember that nonsensical note-to-self I mentioned in the last post - the one that read "poster abt. roommates -- guerrilla warfare& hydration"? I just found that written on another piece of paper. I have no idea what it means or why I would have chosen to scribble it on two [possibly more] pieces of paper.

Other things I have found in old notebooks today: a list of horrible sounding shots that Julie and I came up with sometime in 2003. This list is written on a Cookie Monster scratch pad, if that helps any with the mise-en-scene.

Shots, Which to Julie and Me, Sound As Gross or Grosser Than The "Blowjob" Shot, Which is Actually Surprisingly Tasty, Which Poorly Prepares Any Potential Nineteen Year Olds Who Have Not Actually Performed One Yet, Not To Mention Any Names

The Messy Toddler
The Dog Dish
The Deviled Egg
The Overnight Bag
The Green Bean Casserole
The Kimchee Kicker
The Threadbare Carpet
The Nasty Surprise
The Insufficient Funds/The Bounced Check
Red. No. 5
The Carnival Sideshow
The Stunt Double
The Teenage Babysitter
The Comptroller
The Bong Water
The Blood Drive
The Battle of the Bulge

Tumbling Dice

While going over some notes in a writers' meeting this morning, I stumbled across the following, entitled "Notes for Blog." If you think this is weird, ask Julie about that time I found a crumpled up post-it note that I'd inscribed with this cryptic message: "We must go back to the YMCA. We must wrestle with the muscular Christians." Or how about this one (written on the back of a bounced check notice, natch): poster abt. roommates -- guerrilla warfare & hydration.

What could it mean?


I want to talk about five years. I want to think through the first five years of the 1970s, because that period witnessed my birth, but also because I have developed new interests and resurrected old obsessions. I want to talk about Nellcote and Exile on Main Street; I want to talk about Marlon Brando. I want to talk about Meredith Hunter and the Hell's Angels, but I also want to include a discussion of Rumble in the Jungle and the Mr. Olympia pageant at which Arnold Schwarzenegger won his sixth and penultimate and last non-controversial title. I want to talk about about Morrison and Hendrix, but mainly about Janis, and I want to know what you know about Anita, Bianca, Marianne, Tommy, Spanish Tony, and the lot. I want to know about the sweet black angel coming to rescue the crossfire hurricane and maybe ignite Jack Flash. I want to get all of that. For one thing, because

...and then that's it.

I think I meant to do something with that, but it's lost to me now. Hmmm. Also -- hasn't that shit been done to death already? Had I just woken up from a nap? Possibly.

Dear Folks

I need all of you to gather together, clasp your cyber hands, and wish upon a star. I interviewed with [name of publication redacted] last week and I still haven't heard anything. Let's all light some candles and chant some spells and help mama get a job, shall we?

With more than a slight note of hysteria in my quavering voice,

Mrs. Jugo Naturale-Gladwell

Monday, January 14, 2008

This Post Ain't Shit

Astute readers will know that I installed sitemeter functionality to this blog about a month ago. I was not interested in busting anybody out; but I was curious to know if more than three people were reading this here blog. The answer is a resounding "no," if by "reading" you mean, you know, actually reading. I get the occasional visitor (see this week's poll at right), but these people usually stay only long enough to determine that there's nothing of use here. I will get the random drop in from people in Bulgaria or Glasgow or Bumbleclatch and that's always cool to see, even though said e-tourists usually swing through here because of some image link (oddly, the most popular image referrals are the picture of baby teeth that I posted during my dental odyssey and that picture of Robson Green I posted when I was all about Wire in the Blood). But those people never come back. How sad. The Get Down is for everyone! The Get Down is love.



Anyway, if I do have readers -- I mean, apart from the three or four of you I have harassed into engaging with me on a regular basis (again, see poll to the right) -- why not take this opportunity to de-lurk? Is there anyone out there? Is there? Hello?


Friday, January 11, 2008

You Don't Say

image link
L.A. is the country's least affordable housing market



...
according to the National Association of Home Builders & Wells Fargo's Housing Opportunity Index, which measures the ability of the median income-earning household to own a home. Throw into the mix the region's high rate of foreclosures and subprime resets, and it's easy to see why there is a huge population of renters. They can expect monthly payments to rise 4.8% this year, thanks in part to a tight 3.7% vacancy rate.

What's Going On?


Tamla 310

Some parts of my name I like.

Ebony's Advice For Life


I don't know if I like the album, but I gotta say: I dig the album art.

Anyway, my advice for life on this late Friday afternoon is this:

1. Keep in touch with your friends more -- even if you are by nature a salty misanthrope

2. Protect your credit

3. Listen to more reggae

Thursday, January 10, 2008

...Then You Must Have That True Religion

image link



I was in Harlem several weeks ago to speak at the Apollo Theatre about my old friend Art Blakey. Later I wandered around my hometown, which was once a beautiful and organic community. It is hard to get there now: no New York taxi driver will take you. If you take a cab out, it's a gypsy cab, with a dark driver, unlicensed.





The houses on 125th Street are boarded or sealed up, as are the houses along each avenue. The people in the streets, on stoops, in alleys or before a -- somehow -- fugitive bar.

Around 123rd Street, an enormous luxury high-rise is going up. The people of the neighborhood have scrawled, in white paint, on the walls of the construction site: Where will we live? For Harlem is an exceedingly valuable chunk of real estate and the state and the city and the real-estate interests are reclaiming the land and urban renewalizing -- or gentrifying -- the niggers out of it...

Each generation has had to look out on this dangerous and lonely place and try to invest it with coherence -- striving to make it my home. When I was young, the world was White, everywhere, forever. But it is certainly not White in the same way for any young black person today.


-- James Baldwin, "Whose Harlem is This, Anyway?"

Don't Look At Me

image link
Problematic, but utterly predictable: I'm so in love with Malcom Gladwell I want to put on a dress made of curtains and run through the Swiss Alps.

I just read a review of his work which calls it engaging but over-simplified. I don't know if I agree with the latter characterization, but regardless, I couldn't care less. If it were true, it wouldn't bother me a bit; I've come to terms with the fact that I'm not nearly as smart as I thought I was. Quite frankly, I'm sick of feeling stupid. Over-simplified? Keep simplifying and then send it my way. I tell you honestly, family: the sheer weight of things that astound and mystify me on a daily basis should be a cause for concern.

That's all immaterial, of course, as it doesn't account for why I suddenly want to just scoop this man up and carry him around in my pocket and occasionally take him out so that we can make big, nappy-headed babies.

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Bande A Part


Jump the Gun mod clothiers of Brighton, England

hangMhigh Vintage Western Wear

Bombshell Betty's
Vintage Clothing

Gentleman's Emporium, purveyors of fine steampunk-ish clothes

Tuesday, January 08, 2008

One More Thing I've Been Wrong About

From the "Why Didn't Someone Tell Me?!" files.

Episode 78: just deserts

Admittedly, it's not a phrase I use that often. But when I have, I guarantee you I spelled it with a double-barrelled "s" in the middle (i.e. "desserts). I'm not asking anyone else to care about this, by the way.

desert [3,noun]
Pronunciation:
\di-ˈzərt\
Function:
noun
Etymology:
Middle English deserte, from Anglo-French, from feminine of desert, past participle of deservir to deserve
Date:
13th century

1 : the quality or fact of deserving reward or punishment
2 : deserved reward or punishment —usually used in plural [got their just deserts]
3 : excellence, worth


This piece of knowledge brought to you courtesy of Deborah Ng and the commenters at www.freelancewritinggigs.com.

What Teachers Make

A Metaphor for My Entire Holiday Season





Hello Santa Suited Participant,



We want to personally thank you for your participation in the 2007 Las Vegas Great Santa Run . This year we had an impressive 7,269 Santas, while Liverpool had just over 6,000. You helped us break the Guinness World Record for the Largest Santa Gathering, even if it was only for a week. Unfortunately, Derry , Northern Ireland gathered over 13,000 Santas and set the stakes even higher for next year. We look forward to showing them what Las Vegas can do!


We would love for you to share any great photos or stories that you have from the 2007 Las Vegas Great Santa Run . We will post some on the website so that others may share in your experience.


We look forward to seeing you on December 6, 2008 for this year's Las Vegas Great Santa Run !


And for the record, I know that I look more Papa Smurf than I do Santa Claus.


... Was a Rolling Stone



It was the third of September
That day I'll always remember, yes I will
'Cause that was the day that my daddy died
I never got a chance to see him
Never heard nothing but bad things about him
Mama, I'm depending on you to tell me the truth

And Mama just hung her head and said,
"Son, Papa was a rolling stone
Wherever he laid his hat was his home
(And when he died) All he left us was alone"
"Papa was a rolling stone, my son
Wherever he laid his hat was his home
(And when he died) All he left us was alone"

Well, well.

Hey Mama, is it true what they say,
that Papa never worked a day in his life?
And Mama, some bad talk going around town
saying that Papa had three outside children and another wife
And that ain't right
Hey, talk about Papa doing some store front preaching
Talked about saving souls and all the time leeching
Dealing in debt and stealing in the name of the Lord

Mama just hung her head and said,
"Papa was a rolling stone, my son.
Wherever he laid his hat was his home.
(And when he died) All he left us was ALONE."
"Hey, Papa was a rolling stone.
Wherever he laid his hat was his home.
(And when he died) All he left us was ALONE."

Uh!

Hey Mama, I heard Papa called himself a jack of all trades.
Tell me is that what sent Papa to an early grave?
Folks say Papa would beg, borrow, steal to pay his bills.
Hey Mama, folks say that Papa was never much on thinking.
Spent most of his time chasing women and drinking.
Mama, I'm depending on you to tell me the truth.

And Mama looked up with a tear in her eye and said,
"Son, Papa was a rolling stone (Well, well, well, well)
Wherever he laid his hat was his home
(And when he died) All he left us was alone"
"Papa was a rolling stone
Wherever he laid his hat was his home
(And when he died) All he left us was alone"

"I said, Papa was a rolling stone. Wherever he laid his hat was his home
(And when he died) All he left us was alone"


Also..
















4. I can't even be bothered putting in my contacts or picking out my 'fro anymore, so I walk around most days looking like the "Chocolate Rain" guy...click here for image link




...and let's face it, that means I'm walking around looking less like Misty Knight and more like Yertle the Turtle. Jesus, take the wheel!

I Need Two Pair

Things I currently need your help with:

1. Can't stop listening to "Air Force Ones" (Nelly)
2. Lost the ability to listen to and empathize with the bullshit of others
3. Unable to stop producing my own patented brand of down-home bullshit

All right! Let's split up the work and get this done! Who's going to take what?


Monday, January 07, 2008

You Don't Stop

this photo cracks me up


I'm always suspicious when blackness becomes the vehicle by which someone achieves transcendence or through which someone mines "authentic" emotion. Would anyone like a gospel choir to lend emotive weight to their tepid brand of anodyne de-soul-ed, de-funk-ed/defunct, de-gospel-ed adult contemporary MOR bullshit? Anyone?

So you'll appreciate how hard I rolled my eyes when I got to the line about "being raised by black queens at Sound Factory." Still, that's probably just jealousy because I wasn't raised by black queens at Sound Factory: I was raised by the black queens who raised those other black queens and that's neither here nor there. I'm just glad to hear a straight man talking about the allure of gay clubs -- not for straight women, but for straight men. I love it when dudes surrender to their inner queen.

"Straight to the Dance Floor" -- Frank Broughton


image credit: click here
Straight to the dancefloor

Attitude wanted a straight journalist to visit some gay clubs and write about them like a horrified David Attenborough. I explained that gay clubs hadn't shocked me since the night I saw a live fist-fucking show, but I'd be happy to write about why they are often more fun than straight ones. (originally appeared in Attitude... with a very gay picture of me).
Give me some clarity of purpose. I don’t want to fuck about. If I’m in a club I want to dance until I sweat custard, with my head drowning in smiles and narcotics. Or drink until I need an address label. Or meet hot people for sex with a minimum of lying.

I’m happily hetero. My knob brings me lots of pleasure but I can’t get excited about anyone else’s. I don’t see the attraction of sleeping with a man when there are so many soft pretty girls to go after first. However, when it comes to a night out, I’ve weighed the alternatives, I’m a grown-up and I’m not about to compromise.

A straight dancefloor? Polluted with bystanders hovering like flies, choking vital dancing space, all self-consciously casual, trying to hide the lust that dragged them and their ten mates away from Formula One and frozen pizza. These well-ironed islands of uselessness shark into you smelling of Lynx, hoping no-one will rumble their evil pulling mission. And despite making no visible advances they still dream that a Mixmag vixen – that one with the orange cleavage – might suddenly put tongue to ear and beg them for a rodding.

And no eye contact: Sometimes I could suffocate in a straight club thirsting for some eyeball hockey: a casual glance, a cheeky wink, a bit of fucking human interaction. No, no, no. Just hundreds of clubbers facing the same way so they get a really clear view of the back of each other’s heads and the DJ’s exciting display of… wearing a baseball cap. ‘Wot you staring at?’ says the podium-pretty with the Twix-fronted G-string, as if you’re not supposed to notice her. ‘You looking at me/my bird/my pint?’ says the angry Anthony with the bird and the beer who really would rather be watching motor racing. Garage clubs are the keenest purgatories: dancefloors full of tempting midriffs dressed in leopard-skin shoelaces. The joke is, there’s a squadron of coked-up Moschino boyfs standing guard from the sidelines. A single flirty glance at Augusta and Delphine and before you can say twice as nice you’ve got Chris and Trevor to answer to. At some hetero hoedowns there’s less human contact allowed than your morning tube.

As the Hugh Scully of dance music, I’m acutely aware that the roots of club culture are as gay as pyjamas. Modern clubbing emerged in dark New York lofts full of newly emancipated homos. These were places where togetherness, unity and freedom were hard-won cultural victories, not just Rozalla lyrics. The straight, British version of all this dance communion finally came along with rave, but today (with a few notable exceptions) that big happy vibe only happens to music you could dig roads with. I missed the whole acid house explosion anyway, because I was off investigating journalism and poverty in New York. While the UK was busy wearing dungarees and driving round the M25 to hug mud, my girl and me were being raised by a family of black queens on the floor of the Sound Factory. A glorious introduction to clubbing and one that left me completely underwhelmed when I sampled the alternatives.

All this is why I like to party at les establishments homosexuelle. Of course I draw the line at high energy (nasty music made from cheesy covers of songs that were fairly parmesan to start with), but all things being musically equal, I would much rather frolic with you fags than bear it with the breeders. The lack of direction in straight clubs is depressing: why does everyone pretend they’re not interested in the pleasures on offer? The dancing’s half-hearted, the pulling is strictly amateur and the notion of letting your hair down seems to have died out with miners and Marathon bars.

In gay clubs people check each other out – honestly and openly; in straight clubs they pretend sex is the last thing on their mind. Sure, there’s room for ridicule and embarrassment under both regimes, and gay culture is truly merciless (no pecs, no sex), but at least you homos get on with it. Looking at faces, measuring up bodies, winking at smiles, unashamedly lusting after each other – isn’t that the whole point? I love the flirting, the teasing and the tempting; the way everyone’s clear on why they’re there and what they’re after. Boy-boy rituals seem much more fun and much less time-wasting than the red-faced dilly-dallying that happens when you add m to f. The rules are clear-cut, the vibe is conspiratorial, there’s a communal spark in the air – the basic energy of proper clubbing.

Now by definition I don’t play an active role in all this happy copping off. True, but if I’m out to enjoy the music, I prefer to be excluded from the sexual equation – being left out of the chat-race leaves my night more focused. An occasional pretty girl to decorate the dancefloor and I’m happy. When you’re off your head, when your brain thinks it’s funny to make your mouth speak martian and a pill’s shrunk your dick to age seven, the last thing you’re going to do is mate successfully. With fewer female distractions I can get on with the pressing matter at hand – escaping from the real world and losing myself dancing to the nice music.

I get a vicarious kick from the lad-lust all around me. I appreciate its honesty, it’s straightforwardness. I love the way everything is either ‘yes, gorgeous, where’s the nearest duvet?’ or ‘no fucking way fishface’, with hardly any ‘maybe, let me keep you hanging on for ages’, to confuse matters. Plus, OK, I do join in to an extent. I’m a big old flirt and I love the attention I muster from the boys. There’s a true purity in flirting with people you never intend to shag – like non-contact karate, or speaking Esperanto. It’s fun, it’s playful, it’s good for your cholesterol level.

Ask a straight girl why she goes to gay clubs. To avoid moronic chat-up sessions, to shake out the working week and to have a dance. Same as me. And like me, she’s probably envious of gay shagging etiquette, she yearns for the no-bullshit nature of homo hook-ups. She doesn’t want any pressure to join the meat-market, but she’s secretly wishing getting laid was as simple and clear-cut as it is for the fags she’s hagging.

So if a cute straight boy catches her eye on a bent dancefloor, she’s very happy for a chance to play by the rules of the house. When straight folk meet in a gay club they can take advantage of gay culture’s more civilised ways and be honest and direct with each other. If I tell a girl she’s hot at Fabric, it’s a corny line, but in a boy bar she’s allowed to take it as a compliment.

I love the atmosphere gay clubs conjure; I love the single-mindedness of it all. I love being under no pressure to play the big cool stud (please!), and I love giving vent to the queenier parts of my character. Plenty of my mates are confirmed homosexualists in any case, and I’m very happy to head out for a night out with the lads. I can just do my little Frank dance, smile at anyone who looks friendly and talk to anyone who smiles back. If it’s a boy and he gets too interested I’m well-practised in defusing the flirt. If it’s a girl, I’ll just have to surprise her. And on lusty Saturdays at Crash, when my hormones are raging for a sure thing, it’s simple to make it a BYOB party (bring your own bird).

© 2001 Frank Broughton



Saturday, January 05, 2008

I Quit

Neither of these things should need my paltry imprimatur before you clasp them to your electronic bosoms. Especially not this [thank God for fourfour]:


Celine Dion in all her mind-bending glory, via clips from her Vegas spectacular. Bonus points to Celine for dedicating a song to "all the parents, and all the children, everywhere..." which, as Rich J. points, out, is "fucking everybody."




This is David Gregory, chief White House news correspondent, cutting it on The Today Show. He's is doing the damn thing and I am not mad at him. I am, however, mad at that knucklehead commenter who's trying to say that he's got more rhythm than Obama (and we all know what that's about, right?).

Friday, January 04, 2008

Kenya stokes tribalism debate

RE: the chaos in Kenya -- here's an interesting (if basic) article on "tribalism" in Africa and its manipulation by various powers.

read more | digg story

Thursday, January 03, 2008

It's Only Going to be Some Polish Chemicals


Sean Locke in 15 Storeys High. No one is keeping you supplied like I am. No one. Someone buy me this show on dvd, please. And while you're at amazon.com, hook me up with some Peep Show, why don't you?

And then, just because I love you, I'm offering another clip. This one's got Mark Lamarr. Holler!

Wednesday, January 02, 2008

I'm On Fire

I had my picture up on my profile for a couple of days, and it was freaking me the eff out. I'd go back to Hammer, but I want to give you street hoes a little bit of a break. Like the man himself, I took it to heart when I heard the voice of my people crying in the wilderness, "please Jugo -- don't hurt 'em."



So I'm switching it up for the AughtEight, my friends. I comment on a fair number of blogs [actually, that's not true. I comment on four, five sites, tops. It would be more, but Bruns and Broccoli have gone on to their great rewards or something] and I like to have a spotless li'l photo to accompany my words of wisdom. So help me choose one. I wanted to use that a-mazing one of Christopher Hitchens in the shower looking like an angry smoking biscuit, but I knew that the sight of it would cause AdmiralNeck to log off the internet for the rest of life.

<--Aunt Esther

Charlie Watts -->

Eartha Kitt-->

W.E.B. DuBois*-->

<--Lando!

*and yes, Virginia, it actually is pronounced "DuBOYCE." Trust me. You are not being clever by letting my know you took three years of high school French.