Ok, I've got serious doubts at this point that I'll ever manage to catch up on these topics. I'll try to keep on top of things better (that's... what... she...) from here on in but that's no guarantee. I appreciate today's free writing assignment. Here's my commentary on a few things in the news to edu-ma-cate ya!
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http://www.slate.com/id/2215823/
Best excuse for failing a drug test ever. 'nuff said.
***
http://www.slate.com/id/2215819/
The Decemberists are a lot like Clinic; you pretty much know what the new album is going to sound like if you own any of the previous. But this review doesn't fault the new The Hazards of Love for it's lack of musical experimentation so much as Colin Meloy's pretentiousness, "indie high-quirkiness," and flattery of English majors with its lyrics. To fault Colin for archaic syntax and $5 words is like asking why Morrissey always got to sing with that weird warble. Or wtf's up with KISS and the clown make-up after all these years. Or bitching that Scott Weiland won't stfu about his smack problem. Some things simply come to define an artist or a band. This article may not have been so irritating if it had been just a little bit funnier. 'Cuz you know what? Colin Meloy is a pretentious jerk but I wouldn't want to hear a Decemberists' album recorded any other way.
***
http://www.newsweek.com/id/193370
The article itself does a decent job of striking a balance between reporting the facts for both sides of the "shootin' dem der evil wolfs from this here whirlybird shoor is a rootin' tootin' good time, ya know" story until the end, where Amanda Coyne lets her politics slip in to ask who will be on the airwaves bashing Palin next year for her enthusiastic, unmitigated support for culling Alaska's wolf population. You know who will? I hope every body.
The wholesale slaughter of a predatory species to protect wild populations of moose and caribou is troubling for a whole host of reasons:
*questionable ethics of "managing" wild populations in the first place
* true goal of the program is unclear (maintain wild food supplies or turn Alaska into a hunter's paradise)
*poor scientific evidence establishes the basic premises of the program (too many wolves, wolves responsible for recent prey species population declines, etc.).
What the article also fails to explore and should be of immense concern is how the lack of natural predators will adversely affect moose and caribou populations and thus Alaska's ecological balance in the long term. But what else can you expect from a candidate who "knows" global warming is a sham since God promised never to destroy the world by flood again in Genesis (love me some rainbows) and literally prays for global conflict to usher in the Rapture?
Please oh please let the Grand Ol' Potatoheads put this crazy woman at the top of 2012 ticket. We need another easy win.
***
And to wrap up, an older story, but nonetheless interesting...
http://www.newsweek.com/id/84531
It's always a problem when non-industry folk report on comics for the mainstream media. The author focuses almost exclusively on the novelty of two women (popular novelist Jodi Picoult and prolific comic scribe Gail Simone) recently taking up the creative reins of DC Comics' Wonder Woman. Upon reading this article, one gets very little sense of the true subversiveness and sexual deviancy lying at the heart of Wonder Woman's origins. Here's a quick primer:
http://www.comicbookresources.com/?page=article&id=7921
You got to love the CCA. Lurid murder and monster stories are verboten at this time but not-so-subtle scenes of BDSM skate right through when dressed up in super hero tights (or in this case a red and gold bustier). A golden lasso to tie you up and then some light spanking? Does anyone know if a drug test can find trace amounts of super heroin(e) in your system?
***
Until tomorrow, good night my good readers...
(Edited to make the final joke clearer)
Monday, April 13, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
30 Days of Write, 8 April
Local Area Man Asked to For Comment About Local Area Man
by blcknite
Wednesday night reporters from 30 Days of Write were dispatched to the far ends of the internet in search of a story with the dry wit and sardonic prose of the Onion. Most failed to return from assignment due to breaking updates from a man claiming to drop a deuce after finishing the whole Bloomin' Onion at Outback, exchanging Passover jokes via email (Jesus was just hanging around and had nothing better to do than exchange a few yucks with the staff), or stalking their one true love from high school via Facebook (she really loves me, she just doesn't even know I am yet). Apparently there is also a lot of free porn out there as many chronic mastubators employed by 30DW quickly discovered. On the plus side, recent surging demand for alcohol-free lotion and Kleenex has boosted sales at local retailers.
When asked for comment, a local area man said, "Oh, this is one of them damn meta-jokes you ritalin-addled, post-toasty assholes are so fond of, huh? Well it's not very fucking funny. You think just because half the stories on the Onion are about a 'local area man' doing something to annoy his friends that if you openly comment about that beaten-to-death trope, that it somehow constitutes a joke? Well, mister, I got news for you. Back in my day, a joke needed a punchline or at least a pink monkey puppet thing periodically shouting 'Zoom!' after ribbing members of the audience. Now you dumbasses have your 'irony' and your 'deadpan' and you think you're hot shit. Screw you, Conan O'Lamebrain! Jack Paar will always be the best host of the Tonigh Show. Ever."
The man then proceeded to rip off his clothes and shout "Owls are assholes!" as he ran down South Congress Avenue.
Next: Economic recovery diagnosed with March Madness, expected casualties 63
by blcknite
Wednesday night reporters from 30 Days of Write were dispatched to the far ends of the internet in search of a story with the dry wit and sardonic prose of the Onion. Most failed to return from assignment due to breaking updates from a man claiming to drop a deuce after finishing the whole Bloomin' Onion at Outback, exchanging Passover jokes via email (Jesus was just hanging around and had nothing better to do than exchange a few yucks with the staff), or stalking their one true love from high school via Facebook (she really loves me, she just doesn't even know I am yet). Apparently there is also a lot of free porn out there as many chronic mastubators employed by 30DW quickly discovered. On the plus side, recent surging demand for alcohol-free lotion and Kleenex has boosted sales at local retailers.
When asked for comment, a local area man said, "Oh, this is one of them damn meta-jokes you ritalin-addled, post-toasty assholes are so fond of, huh? Well it's not very fucking funny. You think just because half the stories on the Onion are about a 'local area man' doing something to annoy his friends that if you openly comment about that beaten-to-death trope, that it somehow constitutes a joke? Well, mister, I got news for you. Back in my day, a joke needed a punchline or at least a pink monkey puppet thing periodically shouting 'Zoom!' after ribbing members of the audience. Now you dumbasses have your 'irony' and your 'deadpan' and you think you're hot shit. Screw you, Conan O'Lamebrain! Jack Paar will always be the best host of the Tonigh Show. Ever."
The man then proceeded to rip off his clothes and shout "Owls are assholes!" as he ran down South Congress Avenue.
Next: Economic recovery diagnosed with March Madness, expected casualties 63
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
30 Days of Write, 7 April
When I was a youngster growing up in Oklahoma, my family lived in a log house built from the foundation up by my father on a spacious twenty acre lot in the middle of nowehere. One winter afternoon many years ago, my younger brother and I, bundled up tightly in our snowsuits, waddled out the front door to play in the bitter cold. We bounded awkwardly down the hill in too many layers of warmth for comfort and across the little stream towards the flat expanse of long, wild grasses we knew lay up the other slope. Winter's arctic charm had embraced each blade with ice over night, leaving behind a great glimmering field of fragile spires pointing skyward like the spear tips of a tiny pixie army.
We mounted the narrow path upwards through the trees, the boyish joy of razing winter's troop already ringing loud in our ears with its promise of crunch, crunch. The ground frozen solid and hard made the climb all the more treacherous for the smooth soles of our little shoes so we clung to each other for support. And then we heard a whimper.
Winter in Oklahoma sends all signs of life on wing to the warmer south or deep into burrows to wait out the brutality. Several feet of snow fall every year without fail, sometimes leaving six inches or more behind from a single night's passing. The long denuded branches of shedding trees hang heavy with ice for much of the season. Electric lines weigh heavy under the burden, too, and power outages during the winter are not uncommon because cables simply snap from carrying too much load. This time of year is far from hospitable to life and yet here we were, clearly detecting vulnerable signs of it.
My brother and I scrambled a little further up the hill, our stomachs churning that intoxicaing elixir of curiousity and fear which spurs so many wild adventures in the life of a young boy. What we found surprised both of us.
Normally a dog pups during the warmer spring or summer months, Mother Nature having deigned it milder and more conducive to bringing new life gently into the world. But lo, standing before us, gaunt from starvation and trembling from weakness and cold, was a dog with a patchwork coat that looked like a ratty, discarded quilt. Her clutch of half-frozen puppies, newborn and still blind, lay in a little cavity of bare earth, shaking violently and crying out of hunger. Their mother didn't growl or bark but simply moved between us and her babies. I could see it in her big brown eyes. She knew she didn't have the strength to fight us and continue to nurse her young. She waited to see what we would do; I swear by the way she bowed her head, she was begging us two bipeds for help.
I approached this pathetic beast slowly, holding out my mittened hand for her to smell. She approached, sniffed. I rubbed her as best I could with penguin flippers and whispered softly to her. Once she was comfortable around us, my brother and I returned up the hill to our house, a warm wisp of smoke curling from the chimney, to fetch our parents for help.
My mother dragged out the dog house and stuffed it with sheets and rags and an electric blanket whilst my father followed us back to the dog with a cardboard box. Carefully we placed the entire litter in the box for transport . Bounding along side us, Sheba (as I would come to call her) with the triangles of her ears puffed up panted happily back to our house.
None of the pups survived through the spring. Many died during the coldest months either from malnutrition or illness or the effects of long exposure. But my dog Sheba stayed around to become one of my most loyal and protective companions over the years. She may have been nothing but a mutt, but she was my mutt.
We mounted the narrow path upwards through the trees, the boyish joy of razing winter's troop already ringing loud in our ears with its promise of crunch, crunch. The ground frozen solid and hard made the climb all the more treacherous for the smooth soles of our little shoes so we clung to each other for support. And then we heard a whimper.
Winter in Oklahoma sends all signs of life on wing to the warmer south or deep into burrows to wait out the brutality. Several feet of snow fall every year without fail, sometimes leaving six inches or more behind from a single night's passing. The long denuded branches of shedding trees hang heavy with ice for much of the season. Electric lines weigh heavy under the burden, too, and power outages during the winter are not uncommon because cables simply snap from carrying too much load. This time of year is far from hospitable to life and yet here we were, clearly detecting vulnerable signs of it.
My brother and I scrambled a little further up the hill, our stomachs churning that intoxicaing elixir of curiousity and fear which spurs so many wild adventures in the life of a young boy. What we found surprised both of us.
Normally a dog pups during the warmer spring or summer months, Mother Nature having deigned it milder and more conducive to bringing new life gently into the world. But lo, standing before us, gaunt from starvation and trembling from weakness and cold, was a dog with a patchwork coat that looked like a ratty, discarded quilt. Her clutch of half-frozen puppies, newborn and still blind, lay in a little cavity of bare earth, shaking violently and crying out of hunger. Their mother didn't growl or bark but simply moved between us and her babies. I could see it in her big brown eyes. She knew she didn't have the strength to fight us and continue to nurse her young. She waited to see what we would do; I swear by the way she bowed her head, she was begging us two bipeds for help.
I approached this pathetic beast slowly, holding out my mittened hand for her to smell. She approached, sniffed. I rubbed her as best I could with penguin flippers and whispered softly to her. Once she was comfortable around us, my brother and I returned up the hill to our house, a warm wisp of smoke curling from the chimney, to fetch our parents for help.
My mother dragged out the dog house and stuffed it with sheets and rags and an electric blanket whilst my father followed us back to the dog with a cardboard box. Carefully we placed the entire litter in the box for transport . Bounding along side us, Sheba (as I would come to call her) with the triangles of her ears puffed up panted happily back to our house.
None of the pups survived through the spring. Many died during the coldest months either from malnutrition or illness or the effects of long exposure. But my dog Sheba stayed around to become one of my most loyal and protective companions over the years. She may have been nothing but a mutt, but she was my mutt.
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