Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The other day I stumbled upon this complex.com post chronicling what they believe to be the 25 Greatest Hip Hop Love songs of all time and immediately thought two things: 1. I liked that post better the first time I read it, on this blog almost four years ago.(Don't worry, I'm not accusing anyone of idea jacking - no one reads this fucking blog.) and 2: I no longer see shamelessly pining for a woman with an overproduced track serving as the backdrop particularly a badge of courage any more. I mean, in a music that historically seemed like it was one testosterone injection away from overdose, with bravado being a damn near prerequisite to ever gripping a microphone - and add to that the rampant homophobia - it would seem to me that artists would arbitrarily do a love song just to put the Nike symbol next to the "I'm not gay" on their checklist. Not exactly worthy of a Purple Heart in my book. But what I have always thought was an exhibition of bravery was when an MC was willing to bare his soul and talk about the woman who had cavalierly decided to rip his beating heart out of his chest cavity. Maybe its because I'm a writer, an unrepentant introvert who finds hand holding and windy walks romantic when I'm not sodomizing strippers and finding fuck buddies off of craigslist, but these five odes to soul crushing harlots has always stuck with me.
Artist: Da King and I
Album: Contemporary Jeep Music
5. Its one thing to play the sleuthy Hercule Poirot role when trying to figure out if your significant other is cheating through their unexplained absences, new sexual habits, and their sudden indifference to your fuck-ups - but its another thing to be blindsided when a friend informs you that he saw your lady with another man. I always appreciated how Izzy openly wondered how he would question her, and the careful analysis of her bullshit answer afterward. I've been there my friend.
Artist: Main Source:
Song: "Looking at the Front Door"
Album: Breaking Atoms
4. Ok, this isn't technically a song about about Heartbreak. But you have to admit, a guy screaming "You are mistreating me!" from the rafters in song form is a hell of a lot more ballsier than talking about a girlfriend who has a penchant for servicing other penises. Kudos Extra P.
Song: "Ga Head"
3. Nothing says you are secure in your manhood like openly admitting that your woman's sexual misadventures caused the emptying of tear ducts. This song pretty much explains the mindset of a lot of suspicious boyfriends, that if your significant other is indeed cheating, said behavior is undoubtedly encouraged by her good for nothing friend. But with one catch. Here the good for nothing friend is the person she's cheating with. Two girls fucking each other is sexy at bachelor parties or in porn, but it severely loses it luster when it invades your home. Sidebar: Five of my girlfriends went on to become card carrying lesbians. I took no creative license with that last statement.
Artist: Slick Rick:
Song: "Mistakes of a Woman in Love With Other Men"
Album: The Ruler's Back
2. Slick Rick is a Master Storyteller, everyone knows that, but the real brilliance of the English MC was always the relentlessly unflinching way he went about it. I mean, in "The Moment I Feared" he told a fictitious story of him getting forcibly sodomized in a correctional facility - who else does that kind of shit? This is far from my favorite Slick Rick song, but the melancholy dripping from the vocals has always haunted me - as if he actually recorded this song while being emotionally tortured by a lover's betrayal.
Song: "Da Nex Niguz"
1. Vulgar. Crass. Crude. Misogynistic. Ladies I know, its all of that. I'm sure this wasn't the intent of Onyx, but I always loved this song because of how it mirrors the extent men will go to shield their true feelings from their friends. Acting as if a woman's cheating was old hat while dropping invective filled talking points about her is a staple of male friendships. Sorry ladies, its an ugly reality. This song also tackles another way men deal with cheating. When women get cheated on its about the betrayal, when men get cheated on its about the sexual act more than anything. Sure the betrayal part stings too but nowhere near the mental images of her gaining stretch marks around her mouth while servicing that new guy. Painful visual recreations of all the extra room she has acquired in her vagina by all the incessant pounding with a guy with surely a wrecking ball of a cock. Yes, men are excessively visual.
You don't have to be the fiercest advocate for Barack Obama to recognize how many codewords, euphemism if you will, have been used over the past year by some of the harshest critics of the 44th President of the United States. Since calling the man a "nigger" isn't particularly the most politically correct thing one could say, more times than not you'll hear some uneducated maggot sloppily stringing together a litany of "ists" into one sentence without knowing what any of those words actually mean: Socialist. Marxist. Communist. Outside of a certain congressman from Georgia, its become pretty impolitic to refer to Obama as "uppity" - but you can't throw a rock without hitting a clumsy Politico reporter implying as much - or a former Vice Presidential candidate implying as much with her "not a professor of law standing at the lectern" dogwhistles.
Last night, as I watched Johnny Weir skate, I once again saw the euphemism game being played with reckless abandon. Maybe words like "Flamboyant", "Eccentric", "Different", and "Sassy" are accurate descriptions of Weir for all I know - but its Men's figure skating for Christs sake, not Bare knuckle boxing. I'm sure the same way I'm always screaming "Just call the guy a nigger already" at some mouth breathing Teabagger on television, similar sentiments adjusted for sexual preference are being screamed by my gay brothers and sisters to people trying to be polite about their bigotry.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Its been a few months since alcohol and I have been on speaking terms, hell, the cold turkey approach feels more like I went to have that evil seductress wiped from my memory on some "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" shit. The benefits have turned out to be everything that I expected. I've lost more pounds than a Nate Newton drug bust. I no longer perspire while eating, or get winded while riding on the elevators. The money I've saved from no longer buying booze, criminally overtipping bartenders, and taking cab rides could fully keep a garden variety baby mama content and away from Johnny Law if I indeed had one. Its also unfortunately done a number on my temperament, turning me into a rather reasonable individual - now I give someone an extra warning or two before kicking their bicuspids down their respective throats. I embrace all of it, even the unexpected civility that no longer getting shitfaced has brought on. But there is an evil side to sobriety that no one tells you about. Let me explain:
No more excuses for forgetting names: I'm not a Kanye West hater, I'm actually a fan, but one thing that friend and foe alike can agree with is that homeboy is a dick. It's just who he is. So I'm sure the people who love him the most, his family and friends, know this fact better than anyone and love him despite of it. Once your alcoholic street cred has been established people tend to let you get away with things that are usually hell-worthy trespasses, like forgetting someone's name. I cant tell you how many times this conversation has occurred at a bar:
Man: HumanityCritic!!! What's up man?
Me:(handshake) Hey man! Nothing much, same shit different toilet bowl.
Man: You forgot my name didn't you?
Me: That's ridiculous, of course I remember your name.
Man: What's my name then?
Me: (looking in the air for answers) Um, give me a second, its right on the tip of my tongue.. Yeah I forgot it.
But all is always forgiven because of my liver ruining tendencies. I mean, I've even had brief dalliances, that's an artful way of calling them "cuddle buddies", who have easily accepted the fact that I forgot their name only a couple of days after my loving cunnilingus made their nether regions smell like a brewery. But now that I'm sober, alcohol can no longer be the fall guy for what I'm sure is my repentant insensitivity.
"Moments of asshole" flashbacks: I have never served my country. When I went into my senior year of High School I had fully intended to graduate and then immediately enlist into the service. Then the 1st Iraq war broke out, so guess what I wasn't doing after graduation. I say all of that because I sincerely respect the brave men and women who fought and continue to fight for this country, and I don't want to offend them by equating a product of my sobriety to post traumatic war flashbacks - I know that doing so is a proverbial minefield.(See, I even felt uneasy about typing "minefield") But seriously, its the only thing I can relate it to that will make sense for anyone reading this. Now that I'm sober there some rather unseemly things, despicable acts that alcohol buried deep in my subconscious, that randomly come back to me with HD levels of clarity. Headbutting a guy because his girlfriend called Obama a "Muslim". What did he do? His only crime was having a bitch as a girlfriend. Beating up an old bully for general principle purposes when I saw him at a bar last year. Really? His bullying of me happened more than 20 years ago, and said bullying stopped because of me putting him on the business end of beating back then. We were all squared up Karma-wise. Getting a blowjob from an ex-girlfriend's sister just because my delicate feeling were hurt. Trust me, there isn't a format big enough to contain all the uncalled for things that I've seen in flashback form these past months.
"Sobriety goggles": If John Meyer's dick is like David Duke, then my unimpressive chubby penis was like the Statue of Liberty on some "give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses" shit during the tenure of my alcoholism. Yes, I'm a germaphobe who usually wears three condoms and hazmat gear to have sex, but occasionally alcohol would make me lower my defenses and have sex with a woman I had no earthly business fucking. But I always laughed off penetrating goblins and treasure trolls and blamed it on the booze, but at the same time clumsily trying to find some redeemable trait about said beastly conquest: "Sure, she wasn't cute, but did you see the knees on that one!" Even though its really done a number on my social calender, sobriety no longer allows me to be so pedestrian about choosing my sex partners - now it takes more than low self esteem and amusement park height requirements to count my ceiling tiles. Women who looked as if they stared at the arc of the covenant too long would usually be embraced when I was drinking, not now, now I tightly close my mouth and furiously shake my head back and forth like a toddler who doesn't want to eat something.
Finding out how horrible people are: Lastly, and most unfortunately, sobriety has opened my eyes to the steaming piles of monkey shit some people happen to be. I mean, I used to think I was a pretty good judge of character but apparently I was wrong. There have been 5 situations so far where I was talking to somebody that I previously held in pretty high regard and the realization of how horrible they actually were covered me like a torrential downpour. It was that same feeling you get as soon as you figure out that the person you're in love with is breaking up with you, its exactly like that. Its okay though, I'm sure friends and family alike will think the exact same thing about me as soon as they stop drinking.
Bigots, the whole lot of them. Every time I hear some political analyst that I respect say that these folks legitimately have concerns or that they "don't belong to either political party", I want to go on a fucking killing spree. Sure, I'm certain that there is a sliver who really care about taxes and spending - about the same minuscule sliver of folks who read Playboy for the articles, about as measly as the percentage of men who actually care about their woman achieving climax. Remember what Janeane Garofalo said about the Tea Party folks: "It's about hating a black man in the White House. That is racism straight up. This is nothing but a bunch of tea bagging rednecks." Now I know why the reaction to her saying that was so visceral, because the ones feigning outrage knew that she was speaking the absolute truth. I mean, how many more videos of people gleefully sharing their racism and lack of knowledge do we need at this point? The Tea Party Movement, and by a larger extent the popularity of Sarah Palin in said fringe, is the direct result of having an intelligent Black man as Commander in Chief. Smart black guys threaten bigots in general, but a smart black President? Enter the Tea Party people and the popularity of a functioning illiterate half term Governor who runs her entire political operation from a facebook page.
Kudos to Chase Whiteside for doing such a bang up job.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
I still stand by my position that having "Question Time" happen on a regular basis would be an extremely bad idea - it would quickly snowball into a coordinated talking point fest where republicans would treat the entire exercise like one giant cross examination of the President. That said, the Bipartisan Health Care Summit proposed by the President is one hell of an unanswerable chess move. If the Republicans accepted, Frank Luntz authored talking points and garden variety lies that the mainstream media ushered into the public's consciousness like a horny prom date would be mercilessly dispatched in real time. If they declined, you'd have a televised Health Care discussion on C-SPAN with only the President and Democrats in attendance, with the President possibly uttering “I invited the Republicans to work in a bi-partisan effort to reform our Health Care system for the American people, but they refused.” every few minutes. Its a win-win situation that reminds me of the 2008 Presidential Race when Barack Obama refused to blink when John McCain floated the clumsy idea of suspending his campaign and rescheduling the debate. Obama basically told the war hero to go fuck himself and that he was attending the debate with or without him. John McCain's only option was to attend, just like the only option for the GOP is to attend the Health Care Summit the President proposed. GOP insiders have conceded as much. Checkmate Motherfucker.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
It seems like a year doesn't go by without me chronicling people's unrepentant ignorance about my dreadlocks, either in the form of hamfistedly clumsy questions or extremely rude actions that would get most people flattened like Dixie Chicks CD's circa 2003. You'd think that after having my hair loc'd for 14 years that I'd be used to all the inartful statements and overall belligerence, but you'd be wrong about that my friend. Instead of my naive belief that the world would one day evolve and finally rid itself of the misconceptions surrounding dreadlocks, things have gotten progressively worse, like that undisciplined kid whose desperate need of a foot in the ass has turned him into an uncontrollable little shit. Not only do the offensive questions about my hair run rampant, women more times than not take it upon themselves to invade my personal space with reckless abandon in the name of curiosity. I mean, I like a woman to run her fingers though my hair like any other red blooded American male with a functioning penis and certifiable hetero street cred - but is it asking too much to seek my consent? "No means no" ladies! Also, before you think the blatant disrespect is coming from one particular ethic group, again you'd be wrong. It has been my experience that dumb shit either said or done to me because of my hair spans the racial spectrum like one of those Benetton commercials. Or people who unfortunately like Nicki Minaj. Or skinny jeans. You get the point.
Because I don't have a girlfriend who would take pleasure in easily dispatching the aforementioned offenders, I'm left to do what most artsy-fartsy writer types find themselves doing - venting a litany of frustrations through my potty-mouthed prose. Enjoy.
Tug of War: I laugh when I hear other folks who have dreadlocks complain about people asking to touch their hair as if that's some sort of hellworthy trespass - those complaints usually prompt me to inquire, "They actually ask you?" Ladies, I can never imagine what its like to have your personal space invaded just because some man lacked the necessary vocabulary to respectively compliment your breathtaking curvature. But after having my hair pulled as many times as I have, I can't say that I know what it feels like to be groped but I can at least emphasize with you. Whether its women who weren't accustomed to seeing hair of my texture, so their curiosity took over and they pulled my hair on some "look, shiny object!" toddler shit. Or the women I like to call "Dreadlock Birthers", a gang of ladies who explain their penchant for rude hair pulling as them failing to believe that all of my hair originated at my scalp - I always make sure to tell both sets of ladies that they would be on a strict jello and apple sauce diet if they were born a different gender.
I adore cancer kids, I swear: I can't tell you how many times some person looked at my flowing dreadlocked mane and asked, "Why don't you donate your hair to cancer kids?" Sure, if I ever decided to chop off all of my hair for a more aerodynamic look, "Locks of Love" would be the first place I decided to stop as soon as I left the barber shop. But the aforementioned question always tends to be seasoned with irritation, as if I'm a selfish bastard who is unaware that the sole reason for existence is to routinely be sheared like sheep for hair donation. Even though I always have utter contempt for the person who asks that question, I still give every dollar I can to cancer charities in case I turn out to be wrong on this issue.
Hey lady, I got something you can play with: This is a pretty new phenomenon, one that started about a year ago, but I've had women randomly come up to me and play with my hair. Check the wording. Not "play in my hair", a phrase that suggests an intimacy that leads to the exchange of bodily fluids and early morning snacking. I'm talking about "playing with my hair", like draping it over their head, making it an impromptu wig - or cavalierly whirling it around, the same way you'd do handle a jumprope. As amazing as someone doing that to a complete stranger may sound to you, the truly amazing part is how these women never seem to understand how incredibly fucked up they are being. I remember this one women seeing the grimace on my face after she twirled my hair around and asked, "Am I out of bounds here?" In which I responded, "Put it this way, I'm about to beat six shades of shit off of your boyfriend as punishment."
The Human Scratch and Sniff: A couple of days ago, as me and my homeboy watched a local band play, a woman decided to grab two great big handfuls of my hair and take one gigantic whiff. It was weird man. I didn't know if she was doing so because she had a thing for smelling dreadlocks, or if she wanted to reaffirm some misguided belief she had that all dreadlocks were dirty. I quickly got my answer when her head emerged from my dreadlocks with a look of astonishment, saying "Wow, your hair really, really smells good!!!" Its times like those where I'd usually have some crass but timely quip, some rhetorical take-down that I'd deliver with assassin like accuracy. But before the wheels in my head started turning, a woman that I know damn near gave her an atomic wedgie, pretended to smell her panties and then proceeded to say "Wow, your drawls really, really, smell like roadkill." My hero.
Friday, February 05, 2010
A few weeks ago I watched a CurrentTV segment about the porn industry, and how those particular purveyors of triple penetration love making and romantic sentiments like a chick fellating a stranger through a wall were losing their proverbial shirts because of all the online outlets that provide their hard work free of charge. I wanted to feel their pain, I really did, the combination of a piss poor economy and ever improving technology must be a poisonous cocktail for your garden variety porn distributor. It truly is hard out here for a smut peddler. That said, I'd be lying if I claimed that I wasn't a proud participant in their untimely demise. Its not so much because I'm a cheapskate, even though I'm sure I've saved shitloads of dough lovingly stroking my unimpressive penis in front of a computer screen screaming "Oh baby, give the drummer some!" - its really because cavalierly stealing filmed penetration online has saved me awkward situations of the soul crushing variety. Let me explain:
The Ninja Exit: When you go to a store that strictly sells videos with the same exact ending, a young woman's face resembling a glazed donut, there's no particular need for "The Ninja Exit". See, there is absolutely no confusion why you're there - sure, its shameful not to have an actual real live woman to provide the only respectable outlet for a sexual release, but at least you're amongst friends. But whenever you go to a video store, a proper one that sells regular films where only the viewer gets fucked, self respecting gentlemen who routinely masturbate have to exhibit the elusiveness of your garden variety Ninja. Most times the aforementioned video store will have a back room where they store all of their X-rated titles - usually the only thing that momentarily impedes your path into that masturbatory promise-land are a set of rather unseemly looking doorway beads. Anyways, even though the sole purpose of me getting out of bed that day was to rent films of women being consensually degraded and folded up like origami - I always felt the need to show a disingenuous interest in the regular movies before making my entry into the porn room as stealthy as humanly possible. Looking back I suspect that the employees knew what I was up to, with me sporadically looking up while clutching a copy of "Gigli", with that "I'm going to masturbate in every room in my house" look in my eyes - before disappearing out of sight as soon as said employees looked away or answered the phone. Thank god that emotionally taxing exercise is over.
Don't stand so close!: Personal space has always been important to me. Call it rude if you want to, but I've been known from time to time to even give my closest friends rather pedestrian, space clearing forearms to the chest whenever their conversation finds itself inside of my coveted personal space. So if your personal space is valuable in normal situations, just imagine how precious it is when you are trying to figure out which delectable seductress you're going to spill your homemade man-sauce to. Most dudes know to follow this unwritten rule to a tee, sometimes you find yourself having an entire row of filth all to yourself because of how much that protocol is respected. But sometimes there is someone, usually a miserable sad sack of a human being who mistakenly thinks supermarket decorum is the same as porn decorum, who takes it upon himself to stand right beside you as if he was your fucking hypeman. Even though I was always tempted to threaten brutal violence for such a hellworthy trespass, more times than not I just screamed "Will you get the fuck away from me!" at the top of my lungs like a mentally disturbed person taking up residence in a padded room. Something about another dude in close proximity while making masturbation plans that completely ruins the pornographic renting experience.
Intrusive cashier: As if renting pornography wasn't embarrassing enough. Nothing batters your self esteem like traveling through three cities to peruse smut in a video store so seedy that it would light up like Yankee's Stadium under a black light, the last thing I needed was awkward encounters from the fucking cashiers of all people. Whenever I walked up to pay for my rentals, and I knew damn well that there were some rather questionable choices in there, my shame had me transfixed on her face for the slightest sign of emotion. I obsessively tried to read into the manner in which she grabbed my card, how she grabbed the designated DVD's out of the drawer, the tiniest of vocal inflection to let me know that she was trying to either hide her disgust or pity. But even if all went well on those neurotic fronts, the cashier always felt the need to inform me that I had already rented one of those movies: "Sir, do you know that you've already checked out "There is no such thing as a wrong hole" two times already?". I always gave her a quick nod and a dismissive "I know, hurry the fuck up!" waive of the hand - but I always wanted to run out of the store screaming. I mean, I'm sure people re-rent things all the time - don't shame me just because what I'm re-renting what happens to be a woman getting all of her orifices filled up like a bowling throw.
No more hazmat suits: But the real benefit of getting your pornography online is that you no longer have to wear a fucking hazmat suit to handle your DVD rentals. Ok, maybe I wasn't wearing a hazmat suit. But I'm a germaphobe, so when I thought about all the other grubby masturbators who handled said DVD's before me I made sure to use industrial strength gloves when getting the DVD out of the case and into designated DVD player. I accidentally touched a case with my bare hand one time and spent the better part of an hour fighting back vomit as I scrubbed my body with Laundry Detergent using S.O.S pads. Yeah, I'm sorry that the porn industry is losing money, but its much better this way. For me anyways.
Sometimes inspiration comes from random places. Even though my chubby fingers have been working overtime, this time with writing projects and not masturbation(I'm lying, I'm quite the multi-tasker) - unfortunately I have neglected the one thing that has let people in on my pre-ejaculatory exploits and random acts of violence. This blog. It wasn't on purpose, it just became a rather taxing exercise to bare my soul without simply regurgitating old blog posts. But since I have stopped drinking, become obsessed with spreading my demon-seed now that I'm on the bullet train to 40, and destined to stop my fists from speaking before I do - its literally opened up a new world creatively. But before I reengaged the blog I needed a well deserved kick in the ass. Enter Mela Machinko, said inspiration. My long time internet buddy, sultry songstress with the voice of an angel, had a post on her blog entitled "To My Exes- Sorry About The VD". She got the idea from a Tucker Max message board, it basically chronicles what you would say today to all your ex's if you had the chance. Well, here goes, this is "Part 1" because the list of my relationship mea culpas are far too long for one post. PS. I don't have any venereal diseases, I'd fuck a virgin with three condoms while wearing riot gear if you left me up to my own devices.
CT: You were my very first girlfriend, real girlfriend that is, and you had my nose open like 80's era cocaine binges. Because I put everything in that relationship and it didn't work out, over the years I privately blamed you for my laissez faire stance on commitment. That was wrong and I was a coward to do so. Matter of fact, you were unfortunately a template for a lot of my hangups. But at the end of the day you weren't at fault at all, I was, you were just a convenient fall guy for my asshole behavior. My scumbag tendencies. What I remember about our relationship is that you were extremely sweet, and I always promised myself that I would put how you broke up with me in a book because of how caring and thoughtful it was. Despite my misplaced anger I always appreciated that. I'm glad that you are now married with beautiful children. By the way, you aren't the only ex that got married after dating me - I'm beginning to think the movie "Good luck Chuck" is based on me. "Based" I said, that flick was quite the shit sandwich.
DT: You always thought that I was being respectful of your wishes by not rushing you into sex. That wasn't it at all. I was just self aware enough to know that an insufferable asshole taking someones virginity could leave an emotional scare that lasts a lifetime. But I took your virginity anyway and indeed proceeded to treat you like the 50th thing on my priority list. That is still one of my greatest regrets, along with that rodent I took to Prom and the petri dish of a stripper I had no business fucking in Las Vegas. I digress. You were everything a guy could want: Smart, funny, beautiful, and you loved my clumsy ass to death - but I pissed it all away only because a relationship to me at that time was nothing more than a figurative straight jacket on a free spirit such as myself. Man was I on some bullshit. After we lost touch for the better part of a decade, I was deathly afraid that I had soured you on relationships, turned you into a unrepentant cynic, or a lesbian.(Don't laugh. 5 ex's are now lesbians) But I was happy to find out after we connected via facebook that my concerns were unfounded. I just hope that some decent guy sees you for the treasure that you are.
SR: What can I say, you turned my feeble world upside down like any 29 year old should to a 17 year old. You taught me things that I didn't know existed, discovering new sexual worlds even though I wasn't planting any flags anywhere. To me, at that time, I may as well been fucking that blue Avatar broad. Sure, you weren't a girlfriend, you were just some lady my parents gave a room to for a year - but if I've ever pleased a woman in the slightest in my sexually underachieving lifetime its all because of you. Every bit of it. While my friends were struggling with less than generous girlfriends, I got to tell "..and then I took her from behind as she coked eggs" story. Sidebar: You are the reason why I still love the back of a woman's knee. I'm not trying to overstate this but you continue to have an effect on me. Sometimes I'll have flashbacks like a war veteran of our sexual escapades that happened over 20 years ago. Brief whiffs of your perfume worn by some random woman always tend to stop me in my tracks. You always hear men who played under Vince Lombardi say that even today, years after the Hall of Fame Coach's death, they'll sometimes hear his voice of that he'll frequently appear in their dreams. Yes, you are my Vince Lombardi.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
I was watching "Hardball" yesterday where Chris Matthews, the man who lets exemplary oratory cause him racial amnesia, had on David Corn and some republican blogger who I couldn't identify in a fucking lineup. They were talking about what most people have been talking about since Friday: Obama's thrashing of the GOP at the Republican retreat in Baltimore, and the possibility of having something like that on a regular basis. A "Question Time" west of sorts. There is actually an online petition for the idea that has wide ranging support from across the ideological spectrum.
Right after I witnessed the President effortlessly lay waste to the republican party, their clumsy talking points bouncing right off of him, I was all for turning such an affair into a regular occurrence. Instead of the usual political shows where Democrats and Republicans just scream at each other the entire time, here you'd have a respectful discourse where real ideas get aired out and people actually got a chance to learn something. Just imagine the possibilities, the President debunking right wing smears in real time and forcing our inept media to go from ineffective referee to serviceable arbiter of the truth. Because of the new ground that could possibly be broken in terms of transparency and the political upside to liberals in a world where right wing talking points serve as the motor to our traditional media - I was all ready to sign that online petition with a quickness. Then I actually thought about it.
This is still America. If anyone can royally fuck up a free lunch, its us. If you think for one minute that "Question Time" would even remotely resemble what we witnessed last Friday, you are sadly mistaken my friend. I'm sure the rules would change, with each side having time restraints or some shit. Because we are allergic to anything new I'm sure we'd feel the need to add a debate moderator, I envision them hiring George Stephanopoulos to fill that respective slot. The "Demand question time" petition calls for it to go uninterrupted, without commercial sponsorship. That's cute. You can bet that right after Obama waxes poetic about sanctions on Iran or his unwavering focus on education, a bewildered caveman or those four douchey Free Credit Report guys will be shamelessly peddling their wares just as if this form of televised Democracy was "Two and a Half Men". But most of all, republicans would carefully coordinate their questions as if they were playing the role of District Attorney and Obama was a criminal defendant. With the current political climate what it is, its not that difficult to imagine the Republicans getting increasingly unruly: Constantly interrupting him, sneering, etc. It would be a fucking mess, no better than the mindless cable pap that we currently decry. The only UK imports that us yanks haven't totally turned to shit are Andrew Sullivan and "The Office", that's about it, what makes you think we wouldn't fuck up "Question Time" as well? You always hear drug addicts talking about how their turbulent tenure of drug abuse was all about trying to recapture that first high. That reminds me of everyone who co-signs that petition. What we had Friday ain't coming back, that genie is out of the bottle unfortunately. Lets hope the White House sticks to its guns and continues to gives the "Question Time" idea the proverbial gas face.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Look, I know I'm a few days late on this, but I just had to comment on how the President made 140 republicans proverbially bite a curb right before he stomped on the back of their collective heads. It was truly a thing of beauty. Garden variety republicans found themselves being mercilessly beaten with their own talking points, the same ones that inept cable news hosts would usually allow them to peddle with reckless abandon. Politicians whose agenda for the past year has been solely obstruction, found their attempts to score political points sent in the other direction - facts have a way of cavalierly swatting bullshit into the cheap seats. It was like watching a Bruce Lee fight scene: The taking on of all-comers, the graceful debate pivots, roundhouse kicks to false premises, leg sweeping politically disingenuous arguments - best best of all, holding obstruction up by the neck for the whole world to see. I'm sure that performance would have made the creator of Jeet Kune Do would be proud.
But on a larger level this was an elaborate trap set by Barack Obama, and we saw him starting to construct said device during his State of The Union speech. Even though you couldn't throw a rock without hitting some pissed off liberal who thought his proposed "spending freeze" was a disastrous idea during a recession, and I can't say that I particularly disagreed with them, I got the feeling that that was the beginning stages of a plan to counter GOP obstruction. Understandably, I'm sure the President was rather perplexed that the republicans were reaping political benefits by sitting on their hands while the political clock ran out. By proposing republican ideas and making them vote against their core beliefs in the name of obstruction is a great way to prove to a nation that isn't well served by their news media where the gridlock in Washington is really coming from. His appearance at the Republican retreat in Baltimore was only a way to build on said narrative. How many times did the President cite republican ideas that he adopted, only to get the business end of a republican stiff-arm later?
Who knows if this plan will work, but successfully tying the "obstructionist" label around the necks of republicans could be so politically toxic that there may be some votes to be had by reasonable members of that party. That's if there is such a thing as a reasonable republican.