Every year seems more apocalyptic than the last. It’s like a rule. Twenty-eleven looked innocuous at first, an interstitial sort of number, with no particular ring, not beloved of Nostradamus or the Mayans or anyone really. And yet we’ve had Haiti, Fukushima, that Harold Camping and his Rapture blah, and now the debt ceiling fiasco which according to the Nonstop News threatens to return the world to a state only Cormac McCarthy has dared to dream.
But that’s OK. We’re used to a spot of doom out here on the left coast. They thought Carmageddon would finish us off, the closure of a freeway, but we barely noticed. We scoffed. We cocked a snook. We’re so close to The End in LA—aka The Precipice aka The Fucking Brink—that they named the place “angels”. Except it’s Spanish so you pronounce it Los An-hell-es, with Hades right there at its heart.
Drop me in the water. Wash me down.
But so much for what looms. Best to focus on the positive, that’s what people say. According to Darwin, we’re optimists by nature, it’s in our code. Optimistic savages and only the hopeful survive. So here’s a spoonful of sugar. (But just one—too much sugar will kill you. That’s another thing people say).
Mayer Hawthorne’s new single, a sort of Steely Dan slash Curtis number, a nodder, a bopper, a proper lifter upper. It’s a salute to Detroit, as it scrapes back from its own private apocalypse. “It’s gonna take a long time. It’s gonna take it but we’ll make it one day.”
You know when dogs poop or pee and start kicking dirt with their little hind legs? That’s joy right there. Some say they’re trying to spread their scent all around, others that they’re trying to bury their mess. But I don’t buy it. Because they always miss—they’re always about a foot to the left, kicking irrelevant dirt around like it’s the most fun anyone could have. I say they’re just happy— they take a shit and do a little dance, a little James Brown I Feel Good. And why the fuck not?
The Weiner scandal. It’s old I know, but I miss it already. What a beautiful thing to live in a time where scandals are name appropriate. If only this happened more often. Speaker Boner would be out the door. Congressman Dick Neal from Massachusetts would do well to avoid Rep. Cummings from Maryland. I’m not sure what happens with Senator Sam Brownback, but it sounds filthy. And as for Senator Rimjob from Kentucky…
The annihliation of Rick Santorum by Dan Savage was a thing of beauty. And so easy. This breakdown by Rotten.com tells the story. Evidently, all you need to do to keep someone out of the White House is redefine his name as something gross and get everyone to Google it. So let’s get moving. Let’s turn Pawlenty into smegma and Romney into spunkbutter. It’d make the New Hampshire primaries worth watching.
Masturbation is a cure for restless leg syndrome. Also restless cock syndrome. Also boredom. Presumably this means you can get a prescription for porn.
Weed is legal now in Connecticut, so all those Rastafarians with glaucoma who go to Yale can—wait, hold it in, long as you can… OK now—breathe a sigh of relief. Clearly this is a landmark ruling. I asked one such Ivy League rasta about it the other day and he said, “lissen bredda, dem pussy klaat Connecticut legislature nuff vex me up. Dem a galang lakka seh repeated clinical studies have demonstrated inna sexy body gyal big up all yoot.” Which is good advice, even if you’re not vegetarian.
Nancy Pelosi. Yes, I know. But this is what it’s come to. Obama just volunteered to do what Bush could only fantasize about—to shred the safety net, sell out the elderly and the handicapped and turn America into Africa where flies crawl into the mouths of dying orphan babies and nobody cares. He even bragged that by dropping his pants and bending over for his “colleagues in the House”, he was being a grown-up and “getting things done”. This time would be different he said. This time he would ask for lube. Meanwhile Eric Cantor’s telling the world: “Lube is off the table. Astroglide is a job-killer which America can’t afford at this time.”
In the face of this heist, the only prominent Democrat with the stones to say “hell no” was Nancy Pelosi. The Democrats are such damp invertebrates that their cojones are in the custody of an old harridan named Nancy. Good on her.
Anonymous—that faceless army of hacker renegades and revolutionaries are sticking up for the little guy when no one else could give two shits. They’ve been on a rampage this year and remain our best hope to unsettle the powerful, the desiccated lizards in charge. And I salute them. Go on Anonymous, invade the rich and bully them. Vandalize their pages. Rape their hard drives and publish their emails. Murdoch needn’t be the only magnate brought low by hacking.
The way FOX news people squirm around the whole News Corp stink is a joy. For years these lockstep propagandists have pretended to be a news organization, and here we have a giant news story breaking on both sides of the Atlantic, and they’re like MC Hammer—they can’t touch it. We report, they decide to look the other way. Contrast this with the way that NPR’s David Folkenflik covered the debates about NPR funding back when the Repugs were blaming Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me for the ballooning deficit. One of these organizations is a national treasure.
Marcus Bachmann. Because he can’t be parodied. A closeted Christian “pray the gay away” conservative who in his heart is as gay as Glee. As gay as blancmange. As gay as the cast of Glee eating blancmange and watching Sex & The City reruns. But he’s why Michelle will never run this country, so for that alone, dear Jesus, we are grateful.
Slutwalks have gone global. Even Korea and India have joined in the fun. And the rise of public sluttery in the name of feminism is surely a win-win for both genders. It’s possible though, that the message might be better driven home if the sluts were drunk. Because, my ya ya sisters, drunkenness isn’t consent either. I can think of no more powerful feminist statement than a parade of drunken slappers in microminis and clear heels staggering down the street, stopping only to pee in a drain. Like Newcastle-upon-Tyne after ten o’clock. Perhaps they could combine these drunken slutwalks with those trendy downtown art walks? (If there are any sluts reading this, do get in touch, perhaps we can knock a few ideas around.)
The brilliant Ian Dury on Reasons to Be Cheerful Part 3. “A bit of grin and bear it, a bit of come and share it, You’re welcome, we can spare it. Yellow socks.” Where is the Ian Dury movie? Come on England, make it happen.