Inspired and conflicted by the NYT

This is the least confident defense of the short short...

Mon, 28 Mar 2011 13:59:19 -0400

This is the least confident defense of the short short I’ve ever read, and it leaves me deeply disappointed with the NYT and my beloved T magazine. Mr. Stoddard begins this article with a positive outlook on shorts, one, I’d say, that willingly defies social conceits:

“[M]en’s shorts have been inching away from their own breviloquent description. My call for a return to a common-sense inseam has been met over time with complacency, staunch resistance and — on the occasions I’ve dared to lead by example — merciless ribbing. Just as I was beginning to lose heart, it was revealed that several designers are featuring shorter men’s shorts for spring.” (“A Leg Man,” Grant Stoddard, 3/10/2011, NYT)

Stoddard is more than willing to strut his stuff in beautifully crafted outfits — assembled of garments and by art directors/stylists at the pinnacle of the short game — in theory, but quickly goes turncoat. It’s hard for me to feel bad for somewhere swathed in Yves Saint Laurent while being trailed by photographers, but I can commiserate with anyone playing the odd man out.

One can feel Stoddard itching to tug at the cuffs of his scantly shorts, well within arms reach, as he makes his way down the Sunset Strip, “a couple of motorists cared enough to slow down and holler, ‘Nice shorts!’ with seeming sincerity, though the guy who yelled ‘Sexy legs!’ didn’t sound all that convincing” (ibid).

The rest of the article continues to chronicle his feelings of peculiarity in his new digs, from tourists snapping photos to people at a farmers’ market [sic] looking on skeptically. Well no shit, people are going to look at you funny when “[t]he length of the blazer obscured the shorts completely from most angles. This meant the looks I drew were due to suspicions that I was completely pantsless” (ibid). This, however, does not mean it’s time to accept defeat and put on a pair of flood pants.

If Stoddard is earnestly calling for shorts to live up to their name, it’s at this moment, when his desire to demure is so palpable, that he must hike those shorts up, put on a pair of sunglasses, and stop giving a fuck. I’d appreciate this article so much more if Stoddard made it sound like he enjoyed himself, rather than concluding fashion designers may affect the lengths of work-a-day shorts coming to a store near you (a stunning insight). Instead, he’s practically made a mockery of those of us who would wear shorts that hit well above the knee; at the very least he calls into question one’s ability to rock some short shorts with confidence. Frankly, this article does little to advocate for shorter shorts, I’d argue it leaves them less accessible and more “high fashion” than if Stoddard had left the subject unearthed. And for that, Mr. Stoddard, I will never forgive you, but I hope you got to keep them YSL joints.

MKS

Today is that most hallowed of holidays, International...

Tue, 08 Mar 2011 11:33:00 -0500

Today is that most hallowed of holidays, International Women’s Day, and I, woman, rose with the sun hyper-aware of each minute flaw and filled with an orgiastic desire common to all womenfolk: the desire to be skinnier. After listening to “Someday You Will Be Loved” by Death Cab for Cutie and watching myself cry in the mirror (you know, the usual morning routine) I had the craziest thought: What if there was a magic serum that I could inject into my skin that would make me beautiful? With this injection, I could leave my endless worries behind with those countless hours spent on the treadmill running to nowhere. I could lose fat in all of my problem areas (read: belly, back of neck, arch of left foot) without actually doing anything. See you later, adipocytic danger zones! I dismissed this thought as pure hogswallop and made my way to work, all the while silently comparing myself to every other woman I encountered on my commute.

Only upon opening our dear New York Times at work was I greeted with an International Women’s Day MIRACLE: that very magic serum of my girlish daydreams exists. I had foolishly been trying to increase my self worth Facebook photo album by Facebook photo album, when I could just be increasing it shot by shot of baby-making potion.

“…unlike other popular diet supplements, hCG, which is derived from the urine of pregnant women, has acquired an aura of respectability because the injections are available only by prescription.”

An aura of respectability, you say? Aside from the injections, you only have to limit your daily caloric intake to 500 ~~kilocalories calories kilocalories~~ calories. How can this wunderdrug possibly work? As the Doctor told one patient:

“Dr. Blyer looked uneasy. ‘Your legs are thin, your face is thin,’ he told her. ‘You’re a very attractive woman.’ But he reassured her that she would lose weight where she wanted to, in her stomach. The hCG, Dr. Blyer said, ‘tricks your body into a state of pregnancy; it burns off fat so the fetus can get enough calories, but it protects muscle.’”

So, you inject pee into your body to conceive a ghost baby who then prevents you from feeling hunger or pain until you are beautiful and svelte? Where do I sign up?

EMH

In Defense of Pedantry Recently, in response to a nationwide...

Wed, 02 Mar 2011 23:30:44 -0500

In Defense of Pedantry

Recently, in response to a nationwide quandry, the NYT deployed its finest grammarians to investigate the burning issue of the apostrophe in “a holiday called Presidents’ Day or President’s Day or Presidents Day.” Our savvy readers will no doubt instantly note the identity crisis striking at the heart of our already polarized nation: we the people have no idea how to punctuate that (al)most patriotic of domestic holidays, President(‘)s(‘) Day. No wonder Republicans, Democrats, and Tea Baggers cannot sit down and rationally converse!

In addition to pointing a virtual but undoubtedly chalk-dusted finger at the divided state of our politics, this article also addresses economic issues. In southern Louisiana, “punctuation and tight budgets have collided. New welcome-to-the-parish signs urge visitors to ‘please put litter in it’s place.’ Local officials acknowledge the blunder, but they have told reporters that they simply have no money for replacement signs.” Quelle horreur, as MKS would say.

Any NYT article that begins with such fine investigative journalism as citations of signage from not one but four big box chain stores must end with a reference to Twitter. Clyde Haberman, our eager grammarian, does not disappoint. By confining tweets to 140 characters, he writes, “the punctuation mark is often the first thing to disappear.” Meanings blur when words are deprived of our familiar dots and squiggles. Whether this malleability cheapens or enriches tweettext remains to be determined. His final series of puns, for example, almost undermine his defense of clarity through their potential for rich ambiguity: “if won’t is your wont, you simply can’t stand the cant.” Where is the categorical imperative here?

My real question, though, and this query is surely something that burns in everyone’s heart of hearts, involves the placement of the apostrophe in “farmer(‘)s(‘) market.” How am I supposed to blog confidently about recent purchases of organic rainbow chard and raw milk camembert from the Hudson Valley if I cannot correctly punctuate the source of these finds? Surely when the NYT Magazine does a Brooklyn-related follow-up, all my anxieties will be dissolved.

ARC

With a few days now between us and the Academy...

Wed, 02 Mar 2011 22:42:00 -0500

            With a few days now between us and the Academy Awards, it only now feels appropriate to look back on coverage of the media earthquake felt even here in the Philippines (just kidding, no one gives a shit here). Wading through the NYT’s anticipatory and ‘post-game’ coverage, one article shone through as particularly dispensable.

            The article profiles Zachary Quinto, who serves the Academy Awards’ lawyer. Double-snore, but ok, please continue. Mr. Quinto handles most of the “day-to-day Oscar work”. What might “day-to-day Oscar work” entail? Mostly trolling e-Bay for people selling Oscar statues and sending cease-and-desist letters to street DVD vendors in Vietnam (good luck!).

            Naturally, the real glamour comes on Oscar night when Mr. Quinto is charged with hunting down gate crashers. This is also the best part of the article: the climax of an anecdote about the time he detained a man posing as Jack Valenti where “[Mr. Quinto] just said very loudly, ‘O.K., these are the first three arrests of the evening,’. Easy there, Columbo! We all agree with you, the Academy Awards are really important and justify your Judge Dredd-like ability to not only prosecute but also arrest party crashers, but you have to admire the gall of trying to sneak in by posing as THE PRESIDENT of the Academy. Way to bury the lede, NYT. This profile should be on that guy.

            Obviously this is just a fluff piece that we needn’t be mad at, unless we’re any one of the visitors to Mr. Quinto’s office over the next twenty years who happens to get caught glancing at the framed copy of this profile on the wall of his office and end up subjected to the faux-modest story-behind-it. But otherwise harmless, and the reporter knows it and takes the opportunity to sprinkle the piece with these gems:

“It was as ominous a moment as any in the history of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.”

“His power is greater than that of a bouncer’s.”

“Some of the more memorable culprits: shops peddling pornographic Oscar statuettes;”

WJS

Oh, NYT, how I’ve missed thee. Lazing about, growing...

Wed, 23 Feb 2011 19:16:51 -0500

Oh, NYT, how I’ve missed thee. Lazing about, growing content with my ignorance - well, no more! Not with such eyebrow raisers as “Perfect, With Childbearing Hips,” by Andrea Askowitz (The NYT, 02/17/11). Yes, this is a “Modern Love” piece, and yes, it may be cheating, but I been on my break, so let’s giddy up:

Askowitz, a Miami native and most notably (seemingly, given the NYT coverage), author of “My Miserable, Lonely, Lesbian Pregnancy,” chronicles her journey through pregnancy and impregnation (sic) through this article: “The donor I picked was 6-foot-2, played baseball in college and said in his audio interview that he loved his mother.” (ibid). Mother-loving aside, this article lacks some steam for me.

Sure, she faces adversity, but that’s not the point, she just seems averse to having a second child: “I hated pregnancy and delivery. I would never get pregnant again. But I could make another woman pregnant. I had sperm” (ibid). Oh man, if I had a nickel for every time I said that to myself.

No LGBT appeal, no real-world appeal, what are we to take from this article? Askowitz launches into a description of a woman’s waist-to-hip ratio, “Scientists have discovered that the lower the body’s waist-hip ratio (medically known as the WHR), the more attractive the woman. Marilyn Monroe, for example, had a 0.7 WHR, meaning her waist was 30 percent smaller than her hips. Salma Hayek and the Venus de Milo also have small waists relative to the size of their hips” (ibid). Well, if the Venus de Milo had it, it must be true.

Askowitz follows with play-by-play of her match.com history; finding a woman with a suitable WHR, who also happens to be considering childbirth, Askowitz strikes: “On our first date, Victoria told me she was planning to have a baby, alone if she had to. She knew I had done it alone, but she didn’t know I still had eight viable sperm vials. I don’t normally believe in love at first sight, but at the end of that first lunch, I wanted to offer Victoria my sperm” (ibid). Creepy, right?

Eventually, Victoria decides she’s ready to do it, have identical half-children with her partner: “The nurse instructed me to stand between Victoria’s legs. I held the syringe steady with my first two fingers, like a cigarette. I looked into Victoria’s eyes again and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’ Today, we have a 7-year-old daughter and a son approaching 2. They have the same almond-shaped eyes and pudgy feet, like little muffins. They share half of their biology, but much more, they share two mommies, the family I always wanted” (ibid). First, I’d like to thank the NYT for offering a stage for us newavers, how would we live healthy, fulfilled, alt lives without this kind of coverage? Second, “I held the syringe steady…like a cigarette,” gross.

MKS

In the losing game of law, the winners truly stand out from the...

Wed, 23 Feb 2011 17:35:00 -0500

In the losing game of law, the winners truly stand out from the crowd… and not just because of the snappy red tie/red pocket square duet.

“The trial gods are very powerful,” said Peter E. Quijano. “You respect them. You make little offerings.”

For three straight days while awaiting a verdict in the recent terrorism trial of his client Ahmed Khalfan Ghailani, Mr. Quijano ordered a cheddar burger and bloody mary from the same waitress in the same booth at the Whiskey Tavern on Baxter Street.

Mr. Quijano, as he did in that case, also tries to insert the name of his Scottish terrier, Watson, into summations.

“It’s part of the human condition that no matter how many years of education you’ve had, you still have faith in certain totems,” said Arthur R. Miller, a law professor at New York University. He added, “I won’t go to court without a three-piece suit and without a red tie, and without a red pocket square.”

Every day since this article was published on February 18th, 2011, EMH has eaten a ~~everything bagel with lox, capers, red onions, and cream cheese~~ Cheddar burger and bloody Mary ordered from the same ~~MKS~~ waitress in the same ~~clothes~~ booth at the Chinatown Coffee Company on H Street. She will win this case. EMH

“Pets as Bedmates,” or “Doggie Do’s...

Thu, 17 Feb 2011 16:13:00 -0500

“Pets as Bedmates,” or “Doggie Do’s and Doggie Dont’s” is an emotionally-laden caveat against welcoming filthy animals into your lovenest for the Fido generation. You’re lonely, you’re anxious, you wake up to the sound of your own sobs in the middle of the night from a dream about the one who got away boffing your best friend only to be comforted by your real best friend: Man’s best friend. We’ve all been there; some of us more than others.

While it may be tempting to cozy up to your pot-bellied pig (read: little spoon) every night, this misunderstanding of the term “animal husbandry” could easily summon the Black Death to descend upon your pillow palace. Don’t be too quick to give fluffy the boot, however as:

“…kicking pets out of bed isn’t likely to be an option for many people. First of all, it’s difficult to retrain animals once they have established a routine. Erica Lehrer and Richard Goldman of Houston learned that when they tried to keep their three cats out of the bedroom after installing an expensive black carpet.

“They staged a protest: cried all night, pounded with their cat paws on the door,” said Ms. Lehrer, 52, a writer. After three sleepless nights, she said: “They won and moved back in. We bought a really good vacuum cleaner.”

“Now we know that white carpet is better than black if you have cats,” added Mr. Goldman, a 54-year-old business consultant who disliked all cats before he married Ms. Lehrer, and finds himself in the guest room when the two in his home are too active in the bed. “Marriage is a journey, and this is part of it.”

While this cat in a hot twin bed might be just another bump in the proverbial road that is marriage for the Lehrers, Kathy Ruttenberg’s “upstate menagerie” consisting of 160 animals has proven to be less of an aphrodisiac. Her mother worries that the animals may put Kathy, 53, in the permanent zone of marriage ineligability.

“Bye-bye, boyfriend. Hello, love?

“The truth is, with all my animals around me, I feel loved here, and I always have someone to come home to and someone who misses me when I’m away,” said Ms. Ruttenberg, who grew up on the Upper East Side and got her first pet, a dog, 20 years ago, after a terrible romantic breakup.”

Ah, now the message is clear: rabbit tears will not heal wounds. Even of the heart. EMH

“The NYT discovers Brooklyn”

Sun, 09 Jan 2011 20:44:00 -0500

“The NYT discovers Brooklyn”

Has humanity finally become redundant? Not entirely, assures the...

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 13:34:38 -0400

Has humanity finally become redundant? Not entirely, assures the NYT, but almost. South Korean robots trained to teach English are rapidly becoming useful assistant teachers, perhaps more reliable than their human counterparts. Also used as robotic Doras, androids are being tentatively introduced into preschools in California. Considering their current governor, this preparation for the real world may be doubly appropriate. Even shrinks have cause for concern; the closing line of this NYT clip features a robotic voice droning, “don’t be depressed.” Until we analyze their dreams, however, I see ample cause for anxiety. ARC

The NYT staff whips out their decoder rings in an attempt to...

Thu, 24 Jun 2010 13:54:50 -0400

The NYT staff whips out their decoder rings in an attempt to solve an oddly contorted neck and beard in the Sistine Chapel.

Art historians and scientists have teamed up to produce an article that justifies anyone’s dire predictions for the death of art history. Some brainiacs at Johns Hopkins University claim to have discovered the outline of a human brain and stem in Michelangelo’s “The Separation of Light from Darkness.” Apparently, however, this isn’t even the first hidden anatomy lesson postulated to exist in the Sistine Chapel:

“In 1990, in an article in the Journal of the American Medical Association, a physician described what he saw as a rendering of the human brain in the Creation of Adam, the panel showing God touching Adam’s finger. And one physician, a professor of medicine at Baylor University, published an article in a medical journal in 2000 suggesting that Michelangelo had included a drawing of a kidney in another ceiling panel. The author was, perhaps not coincidentally, a kidney specialist.”

The journal Neurosurgery, however, is hardly eBay, and these gentlemen are (hopefully) no amateurs of Dan Brown. A University of Pennsylvania associate professor saucily recalls Sigmund Freud by warning that “sometimes a neck is just a neck,” and we ourselves must suppress an awkward gulp at what organ seems most apparent in the helpful black outlines above. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but sometimes…well, maybe I’ve been looking at too much Georgia O’Keefe. ARC

Paris, so hot right now. It seems the NYT is into coffee table...

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 23:44:40 -0400

Paris, so hot right now.

It seems the NYT is into coffee table books. Interesting, I always took them more for the sorts of people who leave pretentious novels (read or otherwise) draped about their apartments.

Nothing says reading or viewing pleasure like squares. Squares !

Just imagine the conversations:

-“So, in England, they have this Square, and it’s like no traffic formation you’ve ever seen.”

-“Fuck that british square, yo. I was just looking at a picture of a square in Italy that would kick that funny-speaking Brit square’s ass.”

Unfortunately, the book, “Great Public Squares: An Architect’s Selection,” by Robert F. Gatje, is not portable enough for our NYT reporter: “The book is useful both for travelers and architecture fans, but its coffee-table size makes it strictly for home use. ‘Great Public Squares’ would also make a handy travel-sized paperback — or, better yet, a killer iPhone app.” PILAR VILADAS, The NYT, 6/9/2010

Yeah, this is gonna be a good book, even if I look like a dork toting it around the great cities of the world in search of only the most exceptional squares architecture has to offer.

MKS

Having shaken off the jet-lag of my transatlantic transition, I...

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 15:08:00 -0400

Having shaken off the jet-lag of my transatlantic transition, I return to praise a great American; I salute you, James Cameron.

Mr. Cameron recently talked some shit on BP to the NYT, and I think we should all look up to him for it. After all, he’s rich enough to name names. It’s a sad day when Hollywood’s wealth is the most trustworthy voice an NYT consumer can find, but just listen to him:

“Sure, thev’ve got lot of cameras down there, but do we want BP choosing where they’re pointed? It’s easy to coordinate multiple cameras on the seabed. It’s nothing more dire than combat. Reporters and the media are allowed in combat situations. Why not when a foreign corporation working in the U.S. economic zone has created the biggest hit to the environment ever and a huge hit to the economy of the southern states?” - James effing Cameron, the NYT, 6/4/2010

We gotta give it to Jimmy boy, here (can I call you Jimmy boy?). Although his films often seem to involve green screens, CGI or other forms of black magic, the man knows how to point a camera - he knows how to make one for Christ’s sake. And it’s true, I want another lens, a 3D lens, down there watching that oil continue to spew, rendering audiences all over the world motion sick.

Jimmy boy is obviously no stranger to ocean videography. His love affair with the sea began long ago, learning how to operate a sub well before resurrecting the Titanic in his greatest aquatic feat. Apparently, Bill Paxton was involved. Cameron said he “did six subsequent deep-ocean expeditions, spent nine months at sea and participated in 55 deep submarine dives.” ibid

This man can make us laugh, cry and puke in a bucket of popcorn while getting used to the future of cinema. I, for one, think he could cork this hole. He and Francis Ford Coppola should join up for the headiest challenge of their careers (aka real life). If they succeed, there may be more than an Oscar in store.

MKS

I think I’ll hold out for this environmentally friendly canvas bag with “WWJCD?” printed proudly atop the image. One needn’t be Dan Brown to grasp the symbolic importance of certain seemingly serendipitous initials. And just think how good a bottle of FFC’s merlot would look tucked inside, nestled against DDV’s limoncello. ARC

Look out; your technological clock is ticking. A recent exposé...

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 19:55:36 -0400

Look out; your technological clock is ticking. A recent exposé in the NYT reveals the dangers of “tech overload,” complete with a useful list of seven warning signs, the most interesting ones excerpted here:

“Do you frequently find yourself anticipating the next time you’ll be online?”

“Have you ever lied about or tried to hide how long you’ve been online?”

(and, perhaps the most damning)

“Have you ever chosen to spend time online rather than going out with others?”

Well, dear reader, we are not alone, and this addiction is probably not our fault. We members of the technocracy are witnessing (or failing to witness, due to our increasingly short attention spans) a (r)evolution in the ways our brains function. The ability to multitask, increased with technology such as the smart phone, is causing rerouting and reorganizing of the human brain. Our general attentiveness to distractions originally served a necessary, protective function, to “alert humans to danger, like a nearby lion.” This alert button, however, had a negative consequence for our lion-prone ancestors, “overriding goals like building a hut.” Today, however, our stakes have been raised: “the chime of incoming e-mail can override the goal of writing a business plan or playing catch with the children.”

Forget the mud-brick hut (although perhaps you can find a handy recipe for mud-bricks on your iPad!)—our future, our children, are now in jeopardy! And it is from the mouths of babes that we detect a telling language pattern surrounding this tech addiction. Carrying on the family tradition of hypermedia consumption, a child of the central NYT tech addict recounts his difficulties maintaining concerted focus. “When he studied, ‘a little voice would be saying, “Look up” at the computer, and I’d look up,’ Connor said.” This same displacement of media consumption desire, the creation of an internal mechanism that urges internet usage, is echoed in a quote from another hyper-consumer:

“‘The media is changing me,’ he said. ‘I hear this internal ping that says: check e-mail and voice mail.’”

Not only do these comments place the blame for internet addiction on some source outside of individual volition, they also situate this call, the need for external technological gadgetry, internally. We no longer have merely a biological clock, we are ruled by an internal technological craving. Consult David Cronenberg by all means, but I am still waiting for them to explain my email anxiety through hormones. ARC

In keeping with our unusual choice of posts, I’m begging...

Sat, 29 May 2010 05:49:00 -0400

In keeping with our unusual choice of posts, I’m begging you to read this recent John Waters interview in the NYT. The man is so succinct, so reasonable and yet so potentially creepy I have nothing to add to the conversation (apart from an urge to watch that scene in Cecil B. DeMented when the studio execs are synchronized-slurping their fresh Baltimore oysters). ARC

Money to Blow: The New York Times.

Thu, 27 May 2010 06:37:00 -0400

Money to Blow: The New York Times.:

Today we’re presenting something a little different: a well thought out and clearly presented post — no thanks to us.

MKS

I was very late in making The New York Times my primary news source, and for a poor reason- elitism. There are still sections that ooze smug privilege, like the quarterly fashion magazine. The features that illustrated the strains of the recession through depressed private jet markets and frugal…

I specifically recall one of those “recession features” with the title: “It’s Not So Easy Being Less Rich.” I must admit, though, that as a reader predisposed to ATNTFTB before it even existed, I found this article more LOL than offensive (if “lol” stands for “full of morally bankrupt lifestyle choices that are nevertheless hilarious for the educated middle-class reader doomed to college debt-related poverty”). My former roommate and I may not ever have the privilege of the last laugh, but we could certainly enjoy a hearty chuckle at the (temporary) loss of the privilegeds’ privileges. ARC

Gastronomy may be moving closer and closer to being considered...

Wed, 26 May 2010 11:33:00 -0400

Gastronomy may be moving closer and closer to being considered an art, but apparently no restaurant is close enough to abstract expressionism to bear the name “Untitled” or “No. 5.” This does not preclude it from having a consciousness, according to the NYT:

“It is unfinished, for the most part unstaffed, and all too aware that it isn’t even a restaurant yet. But that doesn’t keep it from having feelings. It exudes a palpable impatience. Staring out of its construction-smeared windows at West 65th Street, it broods. Biding its time across from the Juilliard School, its annoyance at anonymity grows with the gawking of every new sidewalk superintendent.”

The palpable self-importance in this nameless but heavily personified establishment is echoed by its eager staff, who express concern at the blank nametag:

“‘This minute, hundreds of people all over the world are thinking about our spoons and cutlery and olive oil and junction boxes and dishwashers,’ Mr. Benno said. The architectural elements of the kitchen are being built in Quebec, to be shipped in pieces. Tables and chairs are being crafted in Germany following tests during which Mr. Benno, Mr. Novello and Mr. Valenti did a lot of sitting. As for linens? Don’t start.”

Being a formerly avid follower of Top Chef, I sympathize with the amount of tiptoeing and thought that goes into choosing the title of a restaurant. The naming process would reduce otherwise capable and creative chefs to vapid simpletons; we need only recall “quatre,” inexplicably pronounced “cot,” for a cringe-worthy example.

And obviously Restaurant Depot and Whole Foods cannot provide ancestral hand-stitched doilies from Normandy. Mr. Wolf assures us that this establishment will be de la classe, “‘in a temple of high art. It’s one of the few places where the look, and the kind of flatware that is used — and even the way the tableware is presented — can produce a series of icons, as the Four Seasons originally did.’”

Mr. Wolf might do well to bite his tongue. Some intrepid journalism informs us that scandals surround art and the Four Seasons, where Mark Rothko suddenly refused to submit his murals to such a cesspool of bourgeois decadence. Anyway, as already discussed, the Restaurant Who Shall Not Be Named may inspire poetic devices, but it worships at a temple of art conventional enough to require titles. ARC

In the list of many articles that I won’t read but insist...

Wed, 26 May 2010 07:38:00 -0400

In the list of many articles that I won’t read but insist on making fun of:

U.S. Pledges to Stand With Seoul ‘Always’

By CHOE SANG-HUN and MARK LANDLER

Clearly, I’m glad to see that WE WILL DIE 4 U, but let’s be honest: they be looking rough.

The president of South Korea is blinking and Hillary’s normally stately hair is looking rather limp.

What is this NYT? With your copious resources, you couldn’t get a more flattering shot, one in which major world leaders’ eyes are open?

MKS

Au contraire, MKS, this genre of world leader photography has a venerable history. ARC

China’s sexual revolution has found itself a superhero in...

Fri, 21 May 2010 06:37:07 -0400

China’s sexual revolution has found itself a superhero in Ma Yaohai:

“In public, he was a twice-divorced computer science professor dedicated to his students and to caring for an elderly mother who suffers from Alzheimer’s disease.

In private, the professor, Ma Yaohai, 53, led a life that became intolerable to Chinese authorities: for the past six years, he was a member of informal swingers clubs that practiced group sex and partner swapping. In online chat rooms, his handle was Roaring Virile Fire. He organized and engaged in at least 18 orgies, most of them in the two-bedroom apartment in Nanjing where he lived with his mother, according to prosecutors.”

One might assume that such a character as “Roaring Virile Fire” might be supported by his nation as mankind’s next great hope, but instead Professor Ma (speaking of whom, what did he do with her in his two-bedroom palace during these orgies—shove her in a closet?) has been arrested by the authorities for “crowd licentiousness” a.k.a. swinging.

We here at ATNTFTB are certainly supportive of individual liberties, but the language surrounding Professor Ma’s escapades arouses suspicion:

“’Marriage is like water,’ he said. ‘You have to drink it. Swinging is like wine. Some people feel it’s delicious the first time they try it, so they keep drinking. Some people try it and think it tastes bad, so they never drink it again. It’s completely voluntary. No one is forcing you.’”

Not that we’re greedily imbibing the Communist Party’s Kool-Aid, but we would certainly pass on Professor Ma’s rohypnol martini.

Professor Ma may engage in questionable sexual activities with his Alzheimer’s-ridden mother nearby, but the Chinese government easily trumps him in downright psychotic behavior. The NYT informs us that “the law against group sex, generally interpreted by judges as involving three or more people, is left over from an earlier law against ‘hooliganism’ that was used to prosecute people who had sex outside of marriage…One notable swingers case took place in the early 1980s, when the leader of a swingers club involving four middle-aged couples was executed” [my italics, bold, and general air of disbelief]

No one is entirely without fault in this story of a sexual pioneer-turned-martyr. Even the NYT is guilty of fetishizing Professor Ma, as can be seen from the thumbnail image included alongside the article. The cloud of smoke emerging from our hero’s mouth, while upon first glance appearing to be some sort of regrettable, possibly STI-related fungal beard growth, is secondarily reminiscent of the beautiful smoke clouds in the films of director Wong Kar-Wai. By choosing this pose, intentionally or not, the NYT relegates Professor Ma to a fictional world of suppressed Chinese eroticism of the 1960s—instead of being in the mood for justice, we are suddenly in the mood for love.

There is no real problem with this, possibly. I, personally, have never read a newspaper article and determined to single-handedly right the wrongs of this tired, apocalypse-ready world. In fact, by seeing that picture and determining its specific effect on me, I have identified and can seek to alter the incredibly skewed way I perceive a certain brand of Chinese sexuality. I must admit, however, that despite this realization, I am suddenly less interested in Chinese sexual politics than in 2046. ARC

This is potentially the most horrifying thing I’ve ever...

Fri, 21 May 2010 04:37:00 -0400

This is potentially the most horrifying thing I’ve ever read. Certainly we’ve all considered crawling into a hole and just letting the world pass us by, but we want that to be our decision, not mother nature’s. Au Canada, no such luck:

“OTTAWA — Richard Préfontaine and his wife, Lynne Charbonneau, were watching a playoff hockey game with their two daughters on Monday night when the ground beneath their house gave way suddenly and without warning.

…

The family’s remains were found huddled together on a couch by the television, with rescuers discovering only their golden retriever, tied to a tree, alive.”

IAN AUSTEN/The NYT/May 12, 2010

Another in the many signs of our coming demise, the earth has begun to crumble beneath our very feet. We’re all at risk here; well, those of us living on salt water clay. I salute the NYT for actually making me feel better here, explaining the ornery and finicky nature of this soil. Given it’s foundation on sea-based, volatile clay, much of Canada is just waiting to sink. One professor tells us, “[a] variety of events can break the molecular bonds holding the clay particles together. When that occurs, the clay can spontaneously liquefy with little or no provocation.” ibid

Don’t eff around with this stuff or it could end up costing you dearly. Even if you leave it alone, “a fly landing on the surface can set it off.” ibid. Butterfly Effect- and my general affinity for 2012- aside, this may not be the sound of apocalyptic bells chiming. Apparently the Canadians are wise to their unstable land (or “terre” as it were), and have taken action in the past: “The town of Lemieux, Ontario, east of Ottawa, was relocated in 1991 after officials became concerned about the stability of the clay underneath the town. Two years later, a landslide consumed 42 acres near Lemieux’s former location.” ibid

The NYT says science explains this problem, but I have more dire visions. MKS

We’ve all dreamed of launching a successful blog-to-book,...

Wed, 19 May 2010 11:50:19 -0400

We’ve all dreamed of launching a successful blog-to-book, or perhaps even blog-to-reality television show. But not even the purported popularity of twitterature could have prepared us for what the NYT assures us is happening: a twitter-to-book-to-sitcom.

This is not just any sitcom, mind you. This is a sitcom starring William Shatner that appears to feature at least two wooden ducks and some sort of copper brain as table decorations (note the picture above). Justin Halpern’s rise to greatness “sounds like every aspiring tweeter’s dream come true. A fledgling screenwriter, he had sold only one feature-length script, which was essentially dead on arrival at the studio. After splitting up with a girlfriend, he moved home to San Diego from Los Angeles a year ago, saving money by bunking with his parents.”

Now, not only has fame and fortune inspired the return of his gf (did she ever really, truly love him?) it has also bought him time on the NYT. Mr. Halpern decided, at the suggestion of a tweeterpal going under the assumed name of Michael Bay, to tweet all the darnedest things his father says. Except these things are cute enough to warrant the title “Bleep My Father Says.” Americans are so starved for witty profanity, there is a market for this man’s Benjamin Franklin-esque quotability in both book and sitcom form. If this catches on, we fervently anticipate a Michael Bay summer blockbuster in 2011. ARC