This just in from our correspondent Danny Ambrose: “I was just at A & P and saw this insanely depressing, yet enormously funny flyer in the window. I couldn’t help but take it. Paul is the coolest guy around. Everybody in the universe who is over 21 is invited.” (see full flyer below) (more…)

The election bores me. I know it shouldn’t, this is the year everything changes, yeah, got it. Been hearing that about ER and x-men comics for years.

But I just can’t get it up for the “race” this time. I know everybody’s being funded by the same companies, know everybody’s gonna be playing the same game in office, know we don’t get to hear one single solitary truth on the campaign trail. I thought I’d be foaming at the mouth with excitement for the machinations of the process, but I suppose it’s like the end of the Matrix, all I see is code, and frankly, it’s dull. Even the press has realized they’ve no idea what’s going on, their inability to even pretend to predict winners in the primaries becoming damned embarrassing.

And so, it is with tears of joy I welcome Bill Clinton’s entry into the arena, as Hilary’s political hitman. The man who at one point ran the free world is now out on the stump implying that Obama only won some primaries because he was black, calling Obama an out and out liar, and basically acting as Chris Partlow to Hilary’s Marlo Stanfield. (You’ll only get that if you watch The Wire, and if you don’t, fuck off, you’ve no taste and should burn in the fires of Hell. Sucka.)

This is what politics is all about for me. Let’s see some ugly. Let’s see some shrewd and twisted maneuvering, forcing Obama to talk about race by talking about Obama not talking about race while saying all the while you’re not talking about race. Let’s inject some Machiavelli into this here clusterfuck.

And yes, I mean Tupac’s Machiavelli, not The Prince.

Because, low down and dirty as it is, at least it’s showing some wee bit of authentic human emotion. Bill’s pissed, and whether or not it’s a smart tactic, it sure does remind me why I loved the shit out of that guy. He gets pissed, and when he’s angry, you better run.

That’s what I want in a president.

That, or a black guy.

Once a year I hijack my Dad’s house up in New Hampshire for some weekend antics with friends. It’s like throwing a party while your parents are away except that you’re a full grown adult and they’re totally fine with it. And uninvited football dudes from the next town over don’t come to rough you up and steal your chicks. It can’t be beat.

The house is 5 hours north and still a solid 45 minutes off the highway. The proximity of the trip to its end is marked by a large roadside sign for a mystical place that reads in big cozy red letters:

HART’S TURKEY FARM

The sign’s marquee proclaims the latest turkey-related news to the community as though the town were ignorant of what goes on there. Like a giant annoying switch, the sign throws me into frenzy of New England twang announcing the turkey specials as loud as possible in the car for the remainder of the trip:

HAHHTS TURKEE FAHM…. BRING DOWN YA TURKEES FOR EXTRA GOBBLIN AND MUSTAHD. IF YOU GOT EM, WE’LL EAT EM. DON’T MISS OUR PORK TOP ROUND ROAST, BEST FAH THE HAWLIDAY FAMBLY TIME!!! (more…)

Mid-Afternoon Sermon, 8/19/04 (Sunday)
“Tiny Strands of Pungent Necessity”
by Reverend Clarence Clorfahll of the Church of The Lord of God of Kings
Bethesda, MD

audio recording created and transcribed by Jeff-Tom Rebkowitz, The Younger

REVEREND CLORFAHLL: (Clears throat) Floss. Floss!

CROWD: AMEN!

RC: Where would be be without it!?

CROWD: LOST!

ONE SMALL BOY: FUCKED!

RC: (Glares briefly at Small Boy. Moves on.) People… today finds me vexed. See, many people ask me after my sermons, as I have a good soak in my parlor tub, they ask me: “Sir Clarence, when you talk of the Floss of Life, of the tiny stinging burn of The Small And Exalted String…” (he waits for shouting)

CROWD: (SHOUTING)!

RC: (appears relieved) …they ask me, “when you talk of those little chunky pieces of cheese and meat that pop out from between your teeth, are you talking about our morality in general, or more about a specific lesson on interacting with each other, or perhaps regarding pureness of thought?” (more…)

To: Lou O’Bedlam
From: Danny Eagle

Don’t fret Lou, I’ve made a call to Chief Meteorologist John Davitt at New York 1. He looks like a muppet, but the man knows his stuff. He says that LA is not in any real danger from the inclement weather. He says rain is actually a normal part of most climate systems and though it may seem apocalyptic to see anything other than particulate matter in the sky over LA, things will be absolutely fine.

During our wide reaching discussion on weather, which among other things included tidbits about green screens and magic electronic markers, he reminded me that it is 23 degrees here in New York. I confirmed this during my walk to work today. He also confirmed my suspicions that though it’s 23 degrees technically it feels like 16 with the wind. I’m not sure my personal weather equipment (my face) knows the difference but I do know it’s very cold. While you wait for the rain to stop and the sun to come out and warm your brittle LA bones and thin blood, contemplate what it is to live somewhere where the weather isn’t licking your ass everyday with its sunshiny face. And you’ll be just fine. I love you Lou, stay strong.

To: Danny Eagle
From: Lou O’ Bedlam

Here in L.A., rain is coming down harder than a year old piece of chocolate. Stop.

Every minute or so a car will drive by my window, sounding more like a speedboat cutting through waves than tires on asphalt. Stop.

I fear that the entire city will soon be under water. Stop. Never in the history of the world has it rained for three days straight. Stop. On and off. Stop.

Due to the water falling from the sky, many have lost their lives due to falling into unseen puddles, or drowning by looking up to the strange “clouds” above with their mouth agape. Stop.

Please send inflatable raft, provisions, diving equipment, hookers. Stop.

When I finally headed back to class after winter break, I had had a grand total of five, count it FIVE, weeks of glorious vacation. Go ahead, hate me, I know I would. And guess what? That’s just one of the many benefits of being in graduate school. Planned Parenthood is another one of these fabulous grad-student byproducts, and recently, I was lucky enough to experience this unfortunate consequence of school-provided healthcare coverage and the need to not make babies.

Allow me to elaborate. Planned Parenthood NYC-style means that the facilities are located in NoHo, but are not, other than perhaps the people occupying the waiting room, by any means stylish or trendy. Although, let the record state, that Planned Parenthood NYC-style is on the up and up in that it does not require a woman desiring birth control pills to undergo a pelvic examination””absolutely glorious. Do not, however, allow this pretense to lull you into a false sense of security. In truth, visiting a Planned Parenthood Clinic exacts a far greater toll on a woman then getting naked, donning a paper gown and slipping into the stirrups””it require copious amounts of patience.

The Planned Parenthood Clinic is much like a tootsie pop: it takes a hell of a lot of licks, a.k.a. time, to get to the center. But unlike a tootsie pop, once you find yourself getting increasingly bored, angry and/or frustrated with the licking method, there’s no amount of biting that will get you to the chewy center any faster. (more…)

As the stock market crashes, the dollar bottoms out, indexes plummet, foreclosures are rampant, banks go bust, and we all get our recession on, it becomes blindingly obvious who the real visionaries of this world are. As panic ensues throughout the pin-striped and permanent-pressed world of high finance, woe begotten Wall Streeters invariably begin to shy away from risky ventures and put all their Benjamins into more conservative, stable commodities. For those that haven’t already lost it all, the most consistent of these is G to the O to the L to the D, and I ain’t talkin’ bout the fool’s kind. I’m talking about the kind worn by those who “Pity the fool”…

I realize now that Mr. T is his own federal reserve, and he is evidently a financial genius. The only interest he cuts is an interest in Jibba Jabba. He has tastefully accessorized himself with immunity to the erratic whims of the global market, and he somewhere sleeps snug, donned in shiny, chain link economic security…

PS—Say no to drugs…

This morning I’m to have brunch with a guy who found me on Facebook. Found me because we went to first grade together, haven’t seen each other in a good eleven years, except for a brief “hey it’s you!” at a deli six years back.

According to his Facebook profile, he is married, watches tennis, has two friends in Switzerland, his Hebrew name is Adam, and is a big supporter of cancer prevention.

I am newly single, live in an apartment the size of a storage unit, have never been outside the country, and am an confirmed atheist.

Yes, I have considered the option of doing a whole lot of lying at brunch.

But frankly, that’s what I did last time, and I feel kind of bad about that, so not only am I not going to lie, I’m going to own up to the lying I did last time.

Being 30 means never having to say you’re sorry, but feeling that’d be irresponsible if you don’t.

So here I go, preparing for a quiet comparison with the person I could’ve maybe been if I’d stayed in school, continued to believe in some kind of god, and kept my life on a proper track, as opposed to my particular brand of pinball-style progress. I’ve been playing it out in my mind, spinning my current situation in such a way as to make it objectively equal to however this guy’s life is.

Which is silly.

Maybe I’ll just say I’m an astronaut.

I’m packing my toothbrush and a bunch of sweaters and going north. Five hours away from this humming smelly place is a fireplace I’m going to park my ass in front of. There’s already two feet of gleaming, unspoiled snow on the ground up there and a gas station nearby that sells lots of day-glo orange camouflage hats. I’m gonna drink beer and whiskey with friends and watch some football games that I don’t understand. Hell I might even play some Scrabble! If you need me for anything, tough crap. But that said, have a great weekend!

So I went to a lecture last night in San Francisco put on by Stewart Brand’s Long Now Foundation. The featured speaker was the much-celebrated futurist Paul Saffo. A Harvard teacher, Saffo writes for Foreign Policy, The Washington Post, ABCNews.com, and in the near future, The Back Alley Tabernacle. Check him out. He’s incredible. Watching him talk and forecast, one can practically hear his brain whirring and clicking. It felt like being in the college classroom I dreamed about but never experienced. The one where everyone in the room is smart, beautiful and motivated. The one where you leave class feeling hopeful about the future instead of depressed.

I also left inspired to make some predictions of my own about life in the U.S.. Here they are:

1. Roomba robot vacuum cleaner owners will finally realize they were/are lazy fucktards for spending hundreds of dollars trying to avoid a ten-minute chore. By the end of 2009, Roombas will be common yard sale items, shoved in milk crates next to singing plastic trout and copies of The DaVinci Code.

2. Before 2010, there will be a mobile phone backlash among 15-25 year olds. Realizing owning phones only makes them trackable conformists in a too-networked society, they will rally at bonfires to burn their iPhones and celebrate their freedom. Dozens will perish inhaling heavy metal fumes. The resulting use of protective dust masks will spawn a fashion revolution that will pave the way for the adoption of Muslim hijabs. As a result of this apparent mass conversion to the words of The Prophet, tensions between the West and Muslim nations will decrease significantly.

3. Hillary Clinton will snag the nomination from Obama, thanks entirely to voter fraud via rigged electronic voting machines (see New Hampshire 2008). In a match up against McCain, Hillary gets her ass whipped, handing the Republicans control through 2016. Millions of Democrats apologize to Ralph Nader, abjectly apologizing for their years of derision, having finally realized they were taken for granted by their thoroughly diseased party.

In other news, you really should watch this video. It’s funny how Steve Jobs increasingly looks like Darth Vader/Larry Ellison while Gates is finally getting his due.

I have a friend who has never eaten a pickle. She also doesn’t know what mustard tastes like because she’s never used the condiment. I, myself, have never sipped on a hot cup of coffee. I enjoy the scent of fresh ground beans and, ahem, even like the smell of coffee breath, but for no real rhyme or reason, I’ve just never been compelled to drink a mug myself. Needless to say, my friend and I are typically found on the sober end of the spectrum when playing Never Have I Ever.

Last night, at Danny Eagle’s birthday festivities, I met a 28-year-old girl who had never been into a Forever 21 before that day. Now that’s fucking crazy. Food is one thin, there’s so much variety your mouth is bound to have not gotten to something yet, but as far as cheap retail therapy sessions go, Forever 21 reigns supreme. As she shared with me the horrific details of her first foray into the sweatshop-supporting store [editor's note: don't ever go into a Forever 21 on the weekend], I almost needed to sit down.

Instead, I headed into the kitchen for something to wet my palate, where I ran into Uncle Jemimah, who I had just had the pleasure of meeting. We struck up a conversation and upon learning that I live in the Upper East Side, he launched into an excited tale about how when he was 10 years old he resided in the area as well, just a few buildings away from the apartment that was found on the opening credits of The Jeffersons.

“Wait, what’s ˜The Jeffersons’? I asked, unsure of whether it was a movie, television show or perhaps even reality series. (more…)

I had the exhilarating experience of flying over my handlebars yesterday on my way to work. A taxi pulled into the bike lane and stopped short right in front of me to drop someone off. I tried to yell but it was more like an abbreviated “ooooho…” and then I was airborne. The driver got out to help peel me off the pavement and was deeply apologetic. A gruff stranger handed me a piece of a torn shipping envelope with the taxi’s license number on it giving me the advice “Never walk away, it cost me a job once.” My crooked bike laid in the street. I wasn’t even mad.

In shock I rode to work with a wrist and shoulder my doc would make me go to the emergency room to have x-rayed. I even got some work done before going to the hospital after hearing my coworkers all tell me I didn’t seem right. I spent 7 hours in an overflowing emergency room with constant reminders of how much worse it could be rolling in. I saw some bad shit in that place (and got a taste of what Louie probably sees daily). I went home so glad things were not far worse.

But today I’m fucking pissed. That fucker who ran me off the road is out picking up fares while I’m home from work. I called the city and was told I’m have to attend a hearing to file a complaint against the driver; basically, red-taped out of getting the guy in trouble. People like me get killed by people like him and most times, there’s no penalty involved.

I get that I live in a city, filled with big zooming cars and that it’s not safe out there. But when are we going to wake the fuck up and realize that it’s got to be different?

Needless to say, it was strange to be “home,” or better put, in LA. I have yet to find the proper term to identify this feeling of oddness, but it was definitely a mix of having unfettered fun with old friends (all the while knowing I had to say goodbye in just a few days), combined with the dawning realization that this place is no longer where I live, multiplied by LA’s stark incongruity with the city I now call home. The result was that I felt totally out of sorts to say the least. Perhaps it was just all the holiday baked goods I ceaselessly consumed.

There was also the fact that I was bunked up at my parental unit’s home, an abode I hadn’t resided in for a period of longer than two nights in perhaps six years, maybe more. I’m 26, but I felt like a friggin’ teenager, waiting for my parents to set a curfew as I headed out for the night. Plus, I was without vehicle and couldn’t help but feel like a total tool driving around in their plush Lexus. I’m convinced the kids I almost ran over one afternoon (cut me some slack, it had been five months since I’d been behind the wheel) shouted yuppie soccer-mom-like obscenities as I speed away from the almost-crime scene.

Perhaps one of my strangest suburban encounters on this whirlwind trip home was an expedition I took with my sister and Boo to one of the many meccas of suburbanites—the outlet center. Make no mistake, I love shopping, quite likely more than most, yet I found myself visually distracted from the task at hand by all the oddities on display for my unadulterated people-watching pleasure.

First, there were the Asians (my brethren), who couldn’t resist snapping a photo (or two or three) in front of their cars in the parking lot. Do I hear MySpace profile shot? They weren’t tourists, so perhaps they were just excited at having found a spot so close to BCBG. Your guess is as good as mine. After witnessing the photo op for the fifth time we still couldn’t put our finger on an explanation. (more…)

The Wire’s back on. That means don’t call me on Sundays, for the next eight weeks. Don’t even think about making plans that take us to six in the evening. And don’t talk to me about how we’re winning the drug war, or how the average American worker is a-okay, or how political reform is right around the corner, or how the educational system really does work, or how the media is on our side.

The Wire done called bullshit on all that.

And don’t even start with how Hollywood isn’t racist, or how racism is on the way out. Because if that were true, it wouldn’t only be the white actors from the show staring in big ole movies. It wouldn’t have been season 2 of the show, the one with the most white people, that was the highest rated.

But The Wire don’t care. The Wire don’t need no Emmys.

Here’s my ad for The Wire:

“The Wire - so good, my dad actually bought the DVDs.”