At the risk of sounding naive

Let me see if I have this straight.

You have a guy who has consistently mismanaged your money. He has lied to you on multiple occassions as to what the true cost of items are, where he is getting the funding for them, and how your pocketbook has been affected. You have him dead to rights on exactly how he's been screwing you and you've begun to have had enough. Then, one day, he tells you the good news: "Remember a couple of months ago when I said you were colossally fucked?" he says, "Well, it turns out I didn't even get that right. But, silver lining, you're only going to been habitually ass-gored."

Why 1) would this be good news or 2) would anyone believe that the colossal fucked numbers weren't fabricated (just like all the previous figures) in order to make the habitually ass-gored numbers seem better?

White House Lowers '06 Deficit Estimate

Seriously, someone explain this to me. (And, while your at it, explain how a reduced deficit brought on by increased tax revenues coming in from a business boom being steadily pushed, if not propelled, by our tax subsidies [military contracts in Iraq] or family grocery budgets [higher gas prices] can possibly be taken as 'good news,' or even mildly sensical when the job rate isn't exactly kicking ass?)

One Day I Woke Up and All of My Friends Were Unemployed

One day I woke up and all of my friends were unemployed.
And I thought, “That’s funny”—
Or decidedly unfunny, since these were the funniest, most talented people I’ve known.
And since to the list you could quickly add thoughtful and humane,
I knew it stung.
Not poverty, mind you—any pussy could persevere that—
But indignity
And again, not the kind you think.
For there was no lack of dignity with these fine people
They carried themselves far better than anyone else could.
But rather the indignity that comes
From not being able to laugh quite as loud
Roughly, from the throat belly and balls
Because the world wasn’t a jack-booted thug
Who you could fight with honor and spirit
But a fucking maitre d',
Lispy and effeminate
Demanding placation
From the clamoring acquiescence
Lining the street to the door.

And we are fools
onto something
and in for
a long hard night.

This dude has a newspaper gig and draws none to shabby, though he'd never tell you as much.

Lifestyles of the Rich, Strung Out, and Petty

Scott Weiland is not many thing, but apparently he is a smack talking genius. Here's his recent 'press release' about Axl Rose:

"get a new wig motherfucker. Oh shit, here it comes, you fat, botox faced, wig wearin' fuck!"

Notice the deft use of the monological call and response. Anwering your own question is a totally underrated mode of insult. I'm fond of this as well:

"What we're talking about here is a frightened little man who once thought he was king, but unfortunately this king without his court is nothing but a memory of the asshole he once was."

Mind you, he is WRITING this, not speaking it. It reminds me of when I was 6. That's pretty great. (Also, when did Axl Rose become every white dude painting houses for a living? With cornrows.)

I was just struck (again) by how beautifully this album cover encapusulates the music inside it: throbbing, muddy, heart-wrenching sincerity headed knowingly toward the edge of the cliff and trying to turn certain (induced? entropic?) demise into a dignified walk into the sunset.

Or some shit. Not many album covers do this without being too literal. It's a fine line, but this really looks like what it sounds like and colors the music in a pretty great way.

For Jay

The cow eased up to the bar
Took off his sunglasses
Laid down a fifty
And told them to keep pouring.

He kept glancing at the game
Shadowboxing his watch
Bullshitting with the other cows
And told them to keep pouring.

When his udders ached
He pissed
When his feet grew bored
He moved.

A day passed, maybe two
years maybe ten
miles maybe fifty
states maybe one hundred
countries maybe one thousand
people maybe the whole goddam
thing.

And in another
day
year
mile
state
country
and life:

When his udders ached
He pissed
When his feet grew bored
He moved
And when he couldn’t take it anymore
He did.

3.20.03

Dispenser of Wisdom

My dissertation is currently languishing in Academic purgatory, but no fear: Teenage Fashion Show has knowledge and insights falling out of its pixelated ass. Here's a freebie dissertation for all you suckers: lawn mowing. What is the rhetoric of lawn mowing? When did it originate? What specific class-consciousness did it birth? What sorts of public domains were opened up by this unique production of space? How did it factor into the creation of a suburban, bourgeoisie identity? As a site of adolescent enculturation into patriarchal masculinity? As a multi-valiant site of emasculation in the post-modern novel: physical (the academic with knee high black socks, unable to win this puny fight with nature), post-capitalist (the idiocy of working 60 hours a week to pay for something that you have to devote another 2 hours a week to maintain; working for the privilege of working), and sexual, as manifested in both in popular (Franzen's The Corrections) and more popular (King's The Stand) novels. And just think of your sexy interdisciplinary conferencing with landscape architecture and critical geography! You're guaranteed a cross-over spot in Cultural Studies and Women's Studies (who got to write the history of lawn mowing? who wasn't being allowed to mow the lawn, which may as well be spelled p-u-b-i-c h-a-i-r? can we interrogate the psychological connection between young men whose fathers demanded meticulous diagonal lines and a penchant for the landing strip?) Congratulations! You have tenure.

You know what you can't get tenure for? Writing and teaching about the fucking First Amendment and hoping that your students turn out a little smarter and a little less douchebaggy for it. Apparently, that's ridiculous.

P.S. Be the first person to actually show me the cite to a scholarly work on suburban lawn mowing practices and you’ll win me shooting myself in the head.