Song Of The Day

"He left the road and climbed across the spine of the hill to look down on the other side. From there he could see a ten-acre field of cockleburs spotted with clumps of sunflowers and wild gum. In the centre of the field was a gigantic pile of sets, flats and props. While he watched, a ten-ton truck added another load to it. This was the final dumping ground. He thought of Janvier’s 'Sargasso Sea.' Just as that imaginary body of water was a history of civilization in the form of a marine junkyard, the studio lot was one in the form of a dream dump. A Sargasso of the imagination! And the dream dump grew continually, for there wasn’t a dream afloat somewhere which wouldn’t sooner or later turn up on it, having first been made photographic by plaster, canvas, lath and paint. Many boats sink and never reach the Sargasso, but no dream ever entirely disappears. Somewhere it troubles some unfortunate person and some day, when that person has been sufficiently troubled, it will be reproduced on the lot."
- Nathaniel West, The Day of the Locust

Deconstruction - L.A. Song

Blue screen water
It's not an ocean anymore
It's just a backdrop
Now come on

La la brae bones walk west
Bring your water
Plant your scenery Ramona
Map out the dream
And make the desert grow

Move out flat don't rise up
One neighborhood
Kraft cheese and a cup of joe
Raw fish in a burrito
Game show, straight to video
In the land of the setting sun

Psychotherapy
Sci-fi religion
Tit pigs
Bikini barbell
Chakra
Gridlock
Don't think just talk
Jog don't ever walk
Weight loss
Talk radio
Roll up your windows

Private home securities
Take the streets while the LAPD become blue machines
Cop copter spotlights down
Premiere klieg lights up
None of your business buildings
Gonna keep you out and keep us in
There's a hope downtown
And a mission that feeds
En pocas palabras de espera un duelo [A duel is imminent]
This is no place
This takes place

(Does your horizon burn?)
I have lived here my whole life
I don't need more stories
(Does your horizon burn?)
About your broken midwest boulevard dreams
Stars also lie down that street
(Does your horizon burn?)
Stars also lie down that street
You pretty little town
You sad flower in the sand
(Does your horizon burn?)
You pretty little town
Give me some of you
Give me, give me
Give me some of you
(Does your horizon burn?)
Give me, give me
Give me some of you
Give me some of you
give me some of you
Venus and a silver moon
Give me some of you
(Does your horizon burn?)
Give me some of you
Give me some of you
(Does your horizon burn?)
Give me some of you
Give me some of you

The Love Of Martyrdom

There is a secret masochism to everyday disappointments. Rejection feels like settling into a warm and bottomless bath. Christianity allowed ordinary men to feel as martyrs to faith; modernity allows ordinary men to feel as martyrs to the indifferent universe. Just because the ascetic renounces material pleasures--food, wine, women--doesn't mean he takes no pleasure in his own renunciation. As there is a hidden sense of pride among the meek, there is a hidden sense of heroism among the obscure.

To be betrayed by a friend is, in a small way, to be left to die upon the cross. In the cosmic drama of the mundane, the Crucified King is the central and most coveted role. The Crucified King doesn't have to be Jesus: figures as diverse as Socrates, Job, Sabbatai Zevi, Franz Kafka and John Kennedy Toole wore their own crown of thorns. Glory without suffering and suffering without glory are equally unpalatable to the human condition. If the suffering is comparatively minor and the glory comparatively fleeting, in a sense that makes them feel all the greater.

Suicides have given up in the face of the brutal consistency of the universe; martyrs have taken it as evidence of holiness. To be alone, to be insignificant, to be looked down upon: these are the nails that must go through the hand to touch the face of heaven. It is the sacred task of friends to betray, of women to reject, of the world to ignore. These are the laurels they crown heroes with before banishing them beyond their walls. And here, on the outskirts of Babylon, the orgasmic exultation of the martyrs will flood them all in white streams of love.

Authenticity With A Bullet

Four people were recently shot in an altercation outside a plaza in my hometown of Hamilton. According to one unnamed young man, "A lot of wannabe gangster kids hang out there. It probably started over something stupid." By "wannabe gangster kids" I'm positive the man meant kids with baggy jeans and clownishly oversized shirts, not men in crisp Italian suits with Tommy guns. The word gangster has now become synonymous with "gangsta," which is sad for sartorial reasons if nothing else.

The "wannabe" part of the sentence also struck me in this context. When does a "wannabe gangster kid" become a real gangster kid? Possibly when he shoots four people, which is likely the reason the shooter did it. Being called a gangster used to be an insult; the Nazi propaganda machine even referred to Churchill as a "gangster" and distributed pictures of him holding a tommy gun. Nowadays calling a political figure a gangster would probably win him the youth vote, if the youth who aspire to be gangsters voted.

Although I can't relate to most gangster values, the ideal of being "authentic" is universal. Some may desire to be called a gangster, but nobody wants to be called a wannabe. If being a gentleman was still an ideal in society, accusations of inauthentic gentlemanliness might lead to a duel. Now that being a gangster is an ideal, accusations of inauthentic gangsterism might lead to a drive-by shooting. Human nature hasn't changed; it's just that the societal ideal for authenticity has declined.

Of course postmodernists, authentic in their self-congratulatory inauthenticity, would say that I view the notion of "decline" from my own socially constructed value system. This is true. And when all the socially constructed value systems of old are deconstructed, the postmodern paradise--which is a void--will indeed triumph for one second before being filled by new, some would say grossly inferior value systems like gangsterism. When wannabe gangster kids shoot each other, they are saying in the boldest of terms that they want to be real; and postmodern irony has no real to offer them.

Whoever the anonymous shooter is, he has proven he's not a wannabe. He has lived up to his ideals, which demand tit-for-tat violence over any perceived disrespect. But for all the wannabes out there: is this really what you want to be? We all have the urge to kill sometimes, but isn't that what the army is for? At least by joining the army you would kill for a reason above petty personal disputes. Even killing for oil is surely a grander cause than killing because someone stared at your girlfriend too long. We all need values--nature abhors a vacuum and man even moreso--but aren't there better ways to be real?

When In Babylon, Do As The Babylonians Do

"In its issues of July 6th, 7th, 8th, and 10th, 1885, there was published in this paper [Pall Mall Gazette] a series of articles entitled 'The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon', in which were exposed the results of an inquiry into youthful prostitution in London. The moving spirit of this campaign, which was intended to provoke Government measures for the protection of minors, was the journalist W.T. Stead. In his excess of zeal he did not hesitate to undertake on his own initiative an experiment which, when the scandal came out, brought him to justice and caused him to be condemned to three months' hard labour."
- Mario Praz, The Romantic Agony

Exclusive Details

Suri's Birthday Weekend:

Buy a pack of squares
Arrive at the apartment
Confront the investor
Explain the situation
Have him sign the documents
Bind him to a chair
Handcuff him
Place him face down on the bed
Shoot him once
Remember gloves
Scan apartment
Kill the dog, kill the dog, kill the dog, evidence
Kill the dog, kill the dog, kill the dog, evidence
Kill the dog, evidence, kill the dog, evidence
Kill the dog

Lyrics courtesy of Big Black, inspired by a piece of evidence in the "Billionaire Boys Club" trial. The original list was allegedly composed by the defendant, Joe Hunt.

Modern Love: A Primer

Myth has it that there is someone, somewhere out there who is right for you. Out of the billions of people on this Earth, one is perfectly compatible in every way, the missing piece to fit your puzzle. Magically, they are likely to live within your local radius, speak your language and share your socio-economic background. This is a belief usually acquired in youth through unconscious osmosis. And it is bunk. Who you surrender your freedom-cum-isolation to depends not on shared interests, but shared, or shared aspiring, social status; not serendipity, but accident of birthplace largely dependent on one's ancestors' socio-economically driven migration patterns. Partner selection has been elevated to such a high socially constructed level of meaning because it serves a pseudo-mystical function for the otherwise faithless. The search for God may be unfashionable, but the search for Mr. Right remains the Homeric Odyssey of the bourgeois female.

It is secular blasphemy to say that who you end up making babies with is not the most important thing in the world. Close proximity generally creates enough co-dependency to make for at least an acceptable facsimile of love. We love our brothers and sisters because we experienced so much together and saw them all the damn time. Co-habitating with a stranger, within broad limits of compatibility and given the necessary sexual combustion to transcend brotherly-sisterly feelings, is likely to produce equally effective bonding/hidden resentment. Most women and many men are enough in love with the idea of love to "fake it till it's real"--until a baby pops out--and the ensuing sense of shared parental obligation does the rest. It's not romantic perfection, but it's worked well enough to keep the species going up till now.

As for the personified El Dorado of modern love, that perfect specimen of looks and responsibility and status and (non-threatening) intelligence, he/she does not exist and is likely too good for you anyway. Most attractive people aren't smart, most smart people aren't assertive, most assertive people aren't compassionate, most compassionate people aren't fun, most fun people aren't responsible, etc. As noted romantic Immanuel Kant said, "Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made." You're going to have to pick and choose the qualities you desire most in a partner, or simply bumble along until someone chooses for you. I'd say the bumble approach is the most common, and certainly it saves effort better spent on more productive matters, like writing jaded missives to a limited audience.

I am not a hopeless romantic, as you might tell. I think the communal matchmaking of most cultures of the world (and ours in times past) was probably a better use of resources and created more lasting, loving matches to boot. But then sex--the divorcing of physicality from metaphysical meaning--and the city--mass urbanization and the resultant anomie and loss of deeply-felt community--happened. Where once people asserted God is love, now they believe love is God. It demands worship through oaths of fealty, fits of delusion and the ritual recitation of platitudes. The benefit of substituting love for God is that love can seemingly take the form of real people, whereas only one man allegedly took the form of God and he's long gone. Plus orgasm is easier to attain than religious ecstasy. The drawback of substituting love for God is that love can seemingly take the form of real people, and real people specialize in disappointment.

We create images of gods and goddesses in our heads then find someone who can be molded to fit the form. Instead the previously conceived image is molded to fit their form, and we retroactively assume that was our ideal all along. Perhaps the process is beautiful for and not in spite of being an illusion. Maybe, but I still believe there are more beautiful illusions to be found and made. Preferably ones that don't require living up to a false ideal propagated on television and in magazines that purport to show what happiness looks like. It doesn't look like me, and it doesn't look like you either. If it exists, it is as likely to be attained through disenchantment as enchantment. At the very least, strict disenchantment forces enchantment to take on impressively gargantuan forms for it to attain victory. Until that big love comes, let freedom-cum-isolation reign.

The Protocols Of The Youth Of Orange County

The Political Will and Testament of Lauren Conrad:

I have often been a prophet in my life and was generally laughed at. During my struggle for power, Heidi and Spencer primarily received with laughter my prophecies that I would someday assume the leadership of American popular culture and thereby of the entire youth and then, among many other things, achieve a solution to the Heidi problem. I suppose...the then resounding laughter of Heidi and Spencer in the Hills is now choking in their throats. [applause; Lauren coughs]

Today I will be a prophet again: If Heidi & Spencer within Orange County and abroad should succeed once more in plunging the peoples into war over Spencer's sister, then the consequences will not be the release of the sex tape into the world and therein a victory of Heidi and Spencer's terrifying obsession, but on the contrary, the destruction of Heidi and Spencer in the Hills. [applause]

It is clear to us that the war can only end with the destruction of the Orange-Skinned peoples or the disappearance of Heidi and Spencer from the Hills. On September 3, I already announced in the offices of Teen Vogue (and I am careful not to make rash prophecies) that this war would not develop as Heidi and Spencer imagine, namely that the Orange-Skinned peoples will be destroyed. Instead, the result of this war will be the destruction of Heidi and Spencer. For the first time others will not bleed mascara alone. For the first time the genuine old Laguna Beach law will be applied: "A powdered eye for a powdered eye, an artificially whitened tooth for an artificially whitened tooth!" And the more this war spreads, the more anti-Heidism will spread, the more my friends will finally speak out. This may be said to Heidi and Spencer. Anti-Heidism will be nourished in every shopping mall, in every spray-on tanned clique of BFF clubbers which must be informed why they must sacrifice to the bitter end. And the hour will come when the most evil world enemy of all times will have played out its role for perhaps a thousand years at least.

Email From A Hater

To: Assholes everywhere
Re: Don't hate the player, hate the game

Can't I hate both!?

Biblical Prophey Comes To Pass!

MTV Greenlights ‘A Shot at Love With Tila Tequila' Season 2

"And you, O Asia, who share in the glamour of Babylon and the glory of her person - woe to you, miserable wretch! For you have made yourself like her; you have decked out your daughters in harlotry to please and glory in your lovers, who have always lusted after you. You have imitated that hateful harlot in all her deeds and devices."
- 4 Ezra 15.46-49

Illustrated Lyrics Of The Day

Swans - Celebrity Lifestyle

The secret sign of a charmed existence
Is the shiny liquid on her lips
And the ecstasy that comes with her image
Grows from the power that the money gives
And she's got a celebrity lifestyle
And she's just floating in space
Yeah she's got a celebrity lifestyle
And all her children want a suck and a taste of oh her
Celebrity lifestyle
Yeah her celebrity life
And she's just a drug addiction
And a self reflecting image of a narcotized mind
The secret wisdom of 120 days is hidden deep in between her legs
And sexual transcendence is reserved for the wealthy
But is only one joy that money can make
She's got a celebrity lifestyle
And she's got a glowing white face
Yeah she's got a celebrity lifestyle
And she ties her naked children up with wires and lace
Oh her celebrity lifestyle is the product of a celebrity mind
And her celebrity mouth is the perfect image of the end of time
Oh we're alive
Oh we're alive
Oh my celebrity lifestyle
Oh my celebrity fear

Is Paris Burning? Soundtrack To A Sex Tape

Full Tracklisting:

1. "Baby's On Fire" by Brian Eno
2. "Celebrity Lifestyle" by Swans
3. "Hollywood Babylon" by Killing Joke
4. "Sex Bomb" by Flipper
5. "Nutz on Ya Chin" by Eazy-E
6. "I Parade Myself" by Gang of Four
7. "The Passion of Lovers" by Bauhaus
8. "We Luv Deez Hoez" by Outkast
9. "Big Dumb Sex" by Soundgarden
10. "Zoo Music Girl" by The Birthday Party
11. "Whisper Song" by Ying Yang Twins
12. "Touch Me I'm Sick" by Mudhoney
13. "Orgasmatron" by Motorhead
14. "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?" by Revolting Cocks
15. "(She's A) Universal Emptiness" by Swans
16. "Last Tango in Paris" by Herb Alpert

Without Entourage In Babylon

Having seen approximately half an episode, I can safely say the show Entourage goes against everything I stand for. An example: two goons are trying to woo the same harlot. One starts listing facts about Sudan and the conflict there to earn points as a humanitarian. When goon #1 asks goon #2 how he knew so much, goon #2 produces his blackberry and says he read out what he just googled on the screen. The idea that anyone could actually know anything for the sake of knowing or prioritize cold hard reality over hot vacant image is beyond the show's pale. I'm not speaking as a self-righteous liberal or a disgruntled conservative here--just as a self-righteous, disgruntled viewer. The characters on Entourage exist in the same Babylon as Sex and the City, a world where everything to do with life, death and spirit is secondary or non-existent compared to sex and said Mesopotamian city. But that show doesn't bother me as much because it's for women, and I ignore it as I would a tampon commercial. Entourage is ostensibly a show for men, and the idealized image of men it projects is what bothers me.

Entourage reduces men to what the Sex and the City women want them to be: namely women in reverse, as slobberingly devoted to social relationships and the opposite sex as Carrie is. That's another thing that bothered me about the Sudan-referencing scene: the idea that knowing about the world outside of the bedroom and boutique would even impress such a person. It would only annoy her, I would think, by consciously or not reminding her of how small and illusory her sphere of existence is. A social conscience for her is limited to the occasional celebrity AIDS gala at best. She's fucks politicians for their power, not their positions; she fucks musicians for their mystique, not for their music. The substance is only useful insofar as it validates the style. To acknowledge that life is bigger than who said what to who fucked who is as uncalled for as throwing a moneylender out of the temple. And this isn't about religion despite my choice of metaphors; it's about values, which can be secular without being completely devoid of honour.

I know I was born in the wrong century or at least half-century. I admire warrior-poets not rapper-actors. And yes I'll admit this rant is based in part on a certain bitterness that my values are out of fashion. (I won't say old-fashioned; I'm not a conservative except in the sense of conserving the tradition of going through and beyond tradition.) I do enjoy my generation's hedonism when I'm drunk, but I guess I'm just not drunk often enough to give that part of me majority say. I really can't picture being sober, living like an Entourage member and not coming to hate myself and/or the world. It's said that Jews control the entertainment industry but I'd say Babylonians. There were always Israelites who turned to Baal and if Hollywood attracts a fair share of them I'm sure it pleases Yahweh as much as a wet t-shirt contest pleases Allah. As a Jew I know that my people, and humanity in general, are divided between those who climb the mountain and those who worship the golden calf. That the majority worship the calf doesn't give them the right to dictate values. Truth isn't democratic. Between Ari Gold and Franz Kafka I choose to focus on the latter as ethno-metaphysical kin. If that means I'm without entourage in Babylon so be it. Better trial without end than freedom without point.

Michael Vick & Dog-On-Dog Violence

Michael Vick, you are an asshole. You are worse than Guernica. You should be thrown in a pit and forced to fight other criminals to the death. People who abuse dogs show their own cowardice and weakness. This is the result at least in part of a mainstream hip-hop culture that values power without responsibility, that takes growing up without a father as an excuse to act like a child. It's no surprise that subscribers to this caveman value system would abuse animals. They consider animals their moral equals, competitors even for the same raw meat. I know the type. I knew a guy who'd start teasing his dog in a vicious way if people started playing with it. He was jealous of the attention. He was too morally defunct to make any distinction between man and animal, likely because he himself skirted the line. Of course he dressed and acted hip-hop. And he was white, for the record. I consider hip-hop no more instrinsically black than I'd consider Christianity intrinsically Jewish. Both are value systems that quickly spread beyond their original contexts because they held a visceral mass appeal amidst a world of declining empires. The details have changed but the plot barely has. And since I consider it my fundamental right as a human being to make value judgements, make value judgements I shall. One thing that pisses me off is when obvious aggressors play the victim card when it happens to be convenient. For instance, 50 Cent is suing an Internet advertising company that used his likeness without his permission. Fair enough. What annoys me is this: "The rapper, whose real name is Curtis James Jackson, is a well-known victim of gun violence, Raymond [his lawyer] said." While this may be true, it's about as disingenuous as saying Lee Harvey Oswald was a well-known victim of assassination. It would be one thing if 50 Cent was shot nine times because he wrote a book critical of the Prophet Muhammad and had a fatwa put against him by the Iranian government. That might justify victimhood status. As it stands, proudly participating in a culture of gun violence should earn you the status "oft-wounded advocate," at best. The truth is so obvious I guess the media figures there's no point stating it. Pit bulls are bred to be violent; they can't overcome their nature. Human beings can, and respect for the notion of human potential and moral agency should make us use the term victim sparingly. Dogs can't help living like dogs; people can. And this is why no sympathy should be shown to cold-blooded killers.

Song Of The Day

Today's song of the day is an anthem for our times, courtesy of Jarvis Cocker's electro-erotic side-project Relaxed Muscle. Read this article while listening for added effect. Or just turn on the TV.

Relaxed Muscle - Sexualized

Ooh!
Ooh!

The drink that I drink is sexualized
The thoughts that I think are sexualized
The life I live is sexualized
I shoot from the hip 'cos I'm sexualized

The posters on the walls - all sexualized
Shopping malls - all sexualized
The car that I drive is sexualized
Yeah, the hole in my life is sexualized

Oh-oh, sexualized
It's keeping me up all day and all night
And I ain't got no more time for the wife
So, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me

Prudent preachers are sexualized
Student teachers are sexualized
Instructors in the gym - all sexualized
Fill you to the brim 'cos I'm sexualized

I woke up in the morning I was sexualized
A new day was dawning I was sexualized
Read the morning paper, it was sexualized
I really got to make-up - got to sexualize

Oh-oh, sexualized
You're keeping me up all day and all night
And I ain't got no more time for the wife
So, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me

Oh, God it's in my eyes!
'cos everywhere I look
Everything's sexualized
I said, oh, a goddess in my eyes
'cos everywhere I look
It's all sexualized

It's all sexualized
Oh, oh, all sexualized
Oh, all sexualized
Ohh

The girls in FHM are sexualized
Take a look at them, they're all sexualized
On the TV it's all sexualized
Everything that I see is all sexualized

Everybody in the street - sexualized
And children on the swings - yeah sexualized
When you're talking on the phone - sexualized
And they're sitting in their homes all sexualized

Oh-oh, sexualized
Keeping me up all day and all night
And I can't even get it on with the wife
So, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me, sex me!

Oh, it's in my eyes!
'cos everywhere I look
It's all sexualized
I said, oh, I gotta shut my eyes
'cos everywhere I look
It's all sexualized

Stop Snitchin': The Message Of Our Times

According to the Associated Press, a woman had the word "snitch" burned into her face with a branding iron in apparent retaliation for helping police in a domestic violence case. Those who think today's hip-hop has no social conscience obviously aren't familiar with the Stop Snitchin' campaign, which is to today's rappers what stopping the Ethiopian famine was to the rock stars of the 80s. While activists waste time focussing on issues like the genocide in Darfur and global warming, today's hip-hop stars know that the bigger issue is giving back to the community by making sure it stays crime-ridden and riven by tit-for-tat violence. Bully for you, assholes! I have to drop my sarcastic tone here because this legitimately pisses me off. I know all hip-hop isn't so stridently pro-ignorance as its mainstream proponents (though some lesser known rappers like Immortal Technique and Dead Prez are also outspoken in their self-righteous stupidity), but those underground rappers aren't the ones making a cultural impact. The kids in size XXXXXXL white shirts I see at bars and clubs don't know who Grandmaster Flash or Boogie Down Productions are. Their knowledge of hip-hop history extends nor further back in time than Tupac. And in a marvelous example of a self-fulfilling prophecy, by embracing the ghetto values of their idols they make sure the ghetto remains drug and crime-ridden enough for new idols to emerge and keep rapping about the same tired material. There are smart, educated people that love hip-hop. I know some. But it is sublimely ignorant to pretend there is no link between, to give an example close to my neighbourhood, the spate of gang-related gun violence in Toronto last summer and the kind of value system that promotes Stop Snitchin' as a community cause. Then voices emerge complaining that the police isn't doing enough to solve these crimes! A human being has a limited supply of sympathy to go around, and I don't waste mine on those who live and die by the gun. But it is not even the violence that offends me so much as the stupidity. The prideful stupidity at that. I don't know why so many people in my generation have been suckered into this world of crass materialism and terrible fashion sense. Or why seemingly attractive girls are into these assholes. Oh wait, I do remember now: because people are idiots! I know it's not exclusively hip-hop's fault. A decade ago the same idiots with ridiculously long shirts would've had some other ridiculous look. I think the net volume of human stupidity (about 70 percent of all young people at the very least) remains constant through time even if it takes different forms. Lower-class people (which is not exclusively defined by wealth) are going to embrace whatever lower-class values are fashionable. But the current form I witness when I go downtown is this one, so that is where I direct my wrath. I blame the death of God. Seriously. Religion used to be enough to placate the mass of idiots, but in a post-religious world cults of materialism like mainstream hip-hop have simply taken its place. I defy any believer in a utopian or pro-masses ideology to explain the popularity of 50 Cent. This is why I could never be a socialist and why even democracy is a deeply flawed political system in my eyes. I believe the Stop Snitchin' campaign has officially destroyed any remaining faith I may have had in my generation, mainstream culture and the future. I invite any remaining people with souls to join me in my underground bunker as I wait out the apocalypse. May a better world emerge from the ruins!

The Saints Ain't Marching Anywhere

Last night I went to a Mardi Gras festival at Hess Village, an authentic celebration of the best of Creole culture. It featured jazz, parades, costume balls, feathered masks and the tossing of doubloons. Or rather: beads, breasts, popped collars, drunken hooligans and a most glorious celebration of mass degradation. The saints ain't marching anywhere. Now of course I rue the decline of Western civilization and the nihilistic hedonism of my generation, BUT... Babylon is going to whore itself with or without me, so why not put on my animal skins and help bloody the pagan altar? I take my cue from the Folk Implosion song "Natural One," which tells us, "The world is falling down so we may as well crash with it." I also take my cue from the cliché, "When in Rome, do as the Romans do," which is quite appropriate since we are the Romans and the barbarians are inside the gate. I'm all for women treating themselves with respect, and for men treating themselves with respect at that! But giving a 20-year old woman breasts is like giving North Korea a nuclear bomb: a recipe for the irradiation of the Sea of Japan. And we are all irradiated.

Unfortunately I made the mistake of initially attending the festivities relatively sober. This caused me feelings of disgust, misanthropy, misogyny and melancholy at the surrounding bacchanalia. I felt much like an Old Testament (or as I see it, Only Testament) prophet rueing the Caananite-aping, Baal-worshipping tendencies of his wayward People. But then I had a few shots and remembered that these aren't my People: I owe them nothing and they owe me nothing. Neither blame nor sympathy, that's my motto. This is not my beautiful house, this is not my beautiful wife. So trash the house and ravage the wife! Not literally of course, merely spiritually. When I'm drunk I can play the role of happy spectator, happy participant, instead of ornery observer. I love post-apocalyptic movies, books, games, anything really. So when I'm drunk I turn myself into a road warrior, taking on a wasteland world of irradiated mutants and techno-primitive savages. A man of the 21st century, not a man out of time nostalgic for the Romantic Age. Utopia may be lost or non-existent but dystopia has its pleasures too.

Am I the only one that feels this way? Yes, I am. That has been my most important recent discovery. It's a terrible mistake to assume other people think and feel as you do. Or that they think and feel at all. So: neither blame nor sympathy. Ride the downward spiral with your eyes toward the sky. I may be a hypocrite but we are all hypocrites. I like to think I'm an honest hypocrite at least. We can't all be Jesus throwing money-lenders out of the temple. Some of us need to borrow money to make investments. In other words: capitalism and human nature, which are more or less the same, are inevitable. We can rue it but we must live with it. And if we must live with it we may as well enjoy it, or at least put ourselves into a state where we can enjoy it. If this involves copious amounts of alcohol so be it. I can have my fun and still have my soul. In fact the two make a good cocktail. I'll down it tonight, which will be Night II of the totally authentic Mardi Gras festival. Words like these will not be spoken there because they would only dampen the desert. And dampening the desert is worse than pointless, it's futile. So on we go with the show. To paraphrase Led Zeppelin, "Babylon I am coming."

Foolproof Alibi Of The Day

A woman, who identified herself as the rapper's mother, arrived at the Glendale home and was told that Taylor had been arrested on suspicion of making criminal threats. She protested, 'He's a gangsta rapper.'
- LA Times

Here's What's Playing As Rome Burns!

Rival militants clash in Pakistan, 'Children used' in Iraq bombing, Sex slavery widespread in England, North Korea boycotts talks session but forget all that and enjoy the fiddle solo!

The Most Demonic Alliance Since The Hitler-Stalin Pact

Jay-Z and Beyonce are Hitler and Eva Braun, Fall Out Boy is the Politburo.

The Truth Ain't Cute

I blame Japan. As much as I love ninjas and war crimes, I must blame Japan. For what? For the Cult of Cute, which Japan apparently invented as a sort of reverse Bataan Death March for Western civilization. The ultimate and most direct example of the New Cute is Gwen Stefani, who's imported Asian slavegirls hammer home the connection. Her every pose, lyric and video is done with one purpose in mind: to look and sound cute. And nothing says cute like a bunch of little Asian slavegirls dancing in rhythm wearing Hello Kitty backpacks and sucking a lollipop. Other signs of Cute's predominance: phrases like "I heart you" and "le sigh," which are spoken without even the pretense of irony anymore. The Cute phenomenon is separate from Emo, but the two are close cousins, as the Emo look seems to be based around the premise of being "tragically cute." That Samoan poseur from Fall Out Boy, for instance, definitely knows he's cute: he just expresses it in a slightly less sunny way than Gwen Stefani. Fergie and Nelly Furtado have also joined the Cute bandwagon, with Timbaland as their clown prince/minstrel. The key ingredient to a pop song seems to be not necessarily melody or rhythm or even a chorus anymore, but a cute hook. Even I can't help but sing "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard," as much as it pains me to admit.

You know who isn't cute? Charles Bronson. That, my friends, is the counterweight to cute. He's tough as nails, his face looks like a meteor and if you start acting cute with him he'll shoot you. But where's the next Charles Bronson? There's nothing cute about a mustache, which is precisely why we need more of them. The Romans hated mustaches, and look what happened to them. They got invaded by hairy barbarians, and there's nothing cute about raping and pillaging. You know what else isn't cute? Balls aren't cute. They're jangly and hairy and asymmetrical (at least mine are). But what would the world be without balls? It would be a Gwen Stefani video, full of pouty princesses and Asian schoolgirls and well-choreographed dance-offs. Say what you will about Muslim terrorists, but they're not cute. They definitely don't shave their balls. You certainly won't see a Muslim terrorist shucking and jiving in a Pussycat Dolls video. My point is not to glorify the Muslim terrorist, but to point out that Angry can kick Cute's ass anyday. When we had to kick the Nazis ass, we got the least cute motherfucker around, Winston Churchill to do it. Maybe he couldn't dance, but by god he could orate.

Who are these new authority figures telling us what to do? Who are these judges telling us to dance like Janet Jackson and sing more like Mariah Carey? The greatest singers and dancers are the Irish, the ugliest race in northern Europe. Who are these catty gays telling us what not to wear? And I would like to point out that while gays have contributed to the cuteness epidemic, it affects them too. When's the last time you saw a big, fat hairy bear of a gay on primetime television? When's the last time you saw anal sex on primetime television? Never! Because only the cute, fey, best friend of Sarah Jessica Parker gays are allowed to exist in the media. Cheer at their parades all you want, but there's nothing cute about sodomy. In fact, while some conservative cultural commentators deem present society to be like Sodom and Gomorrah, frankly I think the problem is we aren't Sodomy enough. Sure television and movies are sexually provocative, but all they do is tease! I think if at the conclusion of a Christina Aguilera video, she actually got gang-banged, kids would be a lot wiser to what's really healthy behaviour. Sex isn't cute. Kissing is cute, grinding is cute, but suckin' dick definitely ain't cute. "Promiscuous Girl" is a cute song, but there's nothing cute about HIV. OK, maybe a little, but not much. The point is this, kids: would you rather have Charles Bronson defending Western civilization, or Gwen Stefani? There's no sweet escape from the ugly truth.