Dust Jacket Dispatch

Guest Blogging for Economically Exuberant

Sat, 06 Apr 2013 12:29:07 -0400

Hey Friends,

Grant here.

I haven’t done this sort of thing in a while, but the timing seemed right. A friend of mine runs a blog on economic philosophy, theory, etc. And not too long ago, he received an article from a disgruntled American who felt that the education system had failed him in learning how to be prepared to enter (and I loathe this phrase) “the real world.” You can find his article here. I wrote a response, because I’m not exactly a fan of teacher bashing. As an English teacher, I had a few choice points to make. My article is also full of additional research and supplemental reading that will make you both happy and sad.

Our 2013 List of April Fools

Tue, 02 Apr 2013 21:58:23 -0400

Kim Jung Eun is going to war with everyone, that new crackpot at Apple is already announcing the 6 before we’ve even managed to download a single gig of porn onto our 5’s and the idiots down in Washington can’t seem to come to some kind of agreement on how to spell compromise. But these aren’t even the biggest fools so far this year.

So read on to see the Top Five Fools of 2013

Our April Fools

1. Justin Bieber – Biebs, we get it, you’re hard. You’re like pale-2Pac hard. Really, we believe you. Anything that will get you to keep your shirt on and stop trying to act like a badass on stage or pretend to get into fights with the paparazzo and your neighbors. (Or get your monkey arrested in Germany.) I mean you’re the cold hearted thug who sang “Eenie Meanie” with a fake Jamaican. Just please… Stop.

2. Oscar Pistorius – Boy did this story have legs. I don’t want to jump up and down and say that I know this legless Olympian killed his girlfriend, but it doesn’t take a gumshoe to crack this case wide open. I don’t think anyone is believing the whole “I thought she was still asleep in bed” story. I mean shit, usually us guys get flack for spraying the toilet with a little friendly fire, but you sure outdid yourself here, Blade Runner.

3. MTV – As if commissioning a reality show based off the wild and crazy lives of back woods West Virginian teens wasn’t enough to earn you a stern “For shame.” Now, it turns out that your reddest redneck, and one of the most popular characters, in your line up, Shain, went and got himself killed. And to profit off of commemorate him you have repackaged your season one DVD set with a “21 potato gun salute.” Classy, MTV. Classy.

4. Wayne LaPierre – Where do we start with you, man? You’ve had the kind of crack-pot year that would make even the Mad Hatter stop and take notice. First you argue that we should arm teachers (that should make PTA meetings more exciting), then you release an ad campaign scaring women into believing that without a gun they are likely to get raped, and now you have outdone yourself by attempting to appeal to one demographic group who really didn’t much care for you or yours, urban minorities. In a recent advertisement only played in inner-cities, you actually encouraged youths to purchase guns so they could stave off the government horde should they reanimate Jim Crow and pull out the fire hoses once more. Wow.

5. Mad Men – Because all anyone can talk about is Jon Hamm’s penis, despite the award winning shows long hiatus. More like Dong-ald Draper. Ho HO!

Written by Philip Roth

Smell My Cooch: The Perfect Allegory For The Kardashian Effect

Wed, 27 Mar 2013 16:25:29 -0400

It’s been bothering you for years now. Nights have been lost tossing and turning over it. Arguments between you and your significant other have erupted whenever it comes up in conversation. Even your therapist is seeing a therapist to grapple with his issues with this dilemma: Whose vajayjay smells better, Kim’s or Kourtney’s?

It’s this age old riddle that the two vapid socialites set out to solve in a recent episode of their show Khloe And Kourtney Take Miami. In what had to be one of the most disgusting spectacles ever aired, the two threw down in classic no holes barred odor-off and the result was possibly the greatest allegory to their general effect on our society ever made.

The Kardashians are an odd beast: a group of hairy half-Armenians move in with a former Olympian who is closer to Gary Busey status than he is his former glory, and their lives are filmed twenty-four-seven, filling out the entire evening block of E!’s high-brow programming. And for whatever reason we tune in to watch as these soulless creatures drive our consumer culture and envelope themselves in the pure definition of First World Problems. We keep up with the Kardashians. We let the take Miami. (We didn’t even let Elian Gonzalez take Miami and he was a cute boy in a closet!) We fed Khloe Lamar Oden just to temper her and then in the most bizarre turn of events we let this group of Armenian social terrorists take New York. Al Qeada may have done less damage.

What have they given us in return? Nothing. Hours and hours of footage of them lamenting about their butt cellulite or shopping for shoes or even disassembling the fake marriage they created as they smelled their fifteen minutes whipping away in the wind. They’ve taught young girls that if you have money, you have everything and have made more poor life decisions than fucking Miley Cyrus. (Alright, the last bit is admittedly over the top. No one has made that many bad decisions.)

Which brings us to last week’s show. Kim and Kourtney, hell bent on proving that a rose by any other name smells like their vagina, rubbed their nether regions with towels and held those virgin cotton sacrifices out before their ogre’ish sister Khloe who then took a big whiff of each, only to declare an ultimate winner (Kim, if you must know).

Which is exactly what they’ve done to us. For six years, they have figuratively made us smell their tangs and like it. And we’ve done so, like Khloe oddly enough, without much complaint. (And really, I mean how weird is it that their sister willingly took a whiff of each of their summer eves? What kind of shit goes on in Armenia anyways?) Which makes us, like them, down right pathetic.

But we don’t have to stand for it any longer. They’ve gone too far and, disgusted us one too many times. We could change the channel and refuse to take one more whiff of what they’ve got cooking. We could watch Mad Men or Breaking Bad. We could watch the History Channel or even turn on The Voice. Anything has to be better than them. Hell, even Honey Boo Boo has never wiped her ass and asked us to sniff it.

Cause that shit is gross.

The Mix Tape: 3 Songs About the Fall of Humanity

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 18:03:00 -0400

Three Songs About the End

Written by Grant Goodman

The decline of humanity is a topic that I’ll always find to be enthralling. Whether watching The Book of Eli, reading X/1999, or seeing WALL-E for the fiftieth time, the destruction of modern society on Earth never fails to capture my interest. Maybe it’s because of the idea of a fresh start. From the worst possible scenario comes hope that maybe, this time, we can get things right.

There are more than a few songwriters out there who have the same fascination. Here are three you need to listen to.

Kevin Devine - All of Everything, Erased

Devine’s narrative includes a conversation with god and a delusion of escape.

“I faced the devil’s day./The sky was murder red,/the streets were headstone gray./A flaming ferris wheel spun where the sun used to be.”

Toad the Wet Sprocket - Silo Lullaby

The best nuclear apocalypse song to feature a full string section. It’s told from the perspective of the man who pushes the launch button for a nuclear arsenal.

“My hand won’t shake the console/My handcuff will not rattle/as I win the final battle of all wars./And down beneath the ocean/I’ll dream of wings in motion./Blinding glory/That’ll show ‘em what freedom’s for.”

Josh Ritter - The Temptation of Adam

Love blooms in a missile silo. And Adam decides that he’d press the launch button and destroy the world if it would keep Marie down there with him.

Let's Kick This Congress To The Curb

Tue, 12 Mar 2013 20:32:00 -0400

Imagine this: you’ve noticed a structural problem with your home, something that you have no hope in being able to fix yourself. So you call a contractor. Now maybe you chose this contractor out of all the others because you liked their ad or because your father used them. Regardless, this is the one you chose and when he comes to your house he tells you how dire the situation is—says without his immediate help and expertise, your entire domicile is bound to collapse from within. So you pay him, handsomely. A few months later your house is still deteriorating and the contractor has yet to make a single repair. You complain and complain again, so he makes a quick patch that he says will tide you over for a little bit of time but not for long.

Then the next year, as the moans of an achy house begin to get too loud to ignore, you call him again, pay him again and sit around disappointed as he fails to ever show up to fix the problem you’ve given him money now twice to correct. So the next year you call him again. And so on down the line until, in theory, your house caves in and you are left homeless—assuming you didn’t die in the wreckage or go broke in the process.

Sounds ridiculous right, paying a guy who is clearly not getting the job done? Then why do we do it year after year after fucking year when it comes to the legislative branch of our federal government? The 435 members of the House and the 100 members of the Senate have proven to be so inept at their jobs that the citizens of the United States have given them a whopping 15% approval rating (and for those who pay close attention to the news, you know that statistic seems a bit high for the shit show that goes down in Capital Hill). Imagine patronizing a restaurant or hiring a mechanic who had a 15% Yelp rating. We’d avoid that place like it was infected with the zombie plague. (If you don’t believe me, the sub shop Danny’s in College Park has been closed down repeatedly for rodent infestations and health violations so numerous even Nate Silver can’t get a read on them and they still have a 60% rating on Yelp. So just imagine what kind of hairy toenail a place would have to serve up to garner a 15%.)

And don’t be obtuse by blaming a singular party or person. Congress is far too big with far too many people for one of the two cults we have running our nation to be solely to blame. Republicans, Democrats and those hipster Independents are all at fault. They can’t compromise, something they were elected to do. They look at reaching across the aisle as if it would give them coodies. They are more concerned with their next election than they are in fulfilling the promises of the previous one. It’s absurd.

Our house is crumbling, our walls are getting ready to come down all around us unless we do something—quick. We need to hire someone who will fix it—moreover, someone who will actually just do their goddamned job. This congress has been worthless, has been for some time. Pelosi, Bartlett, cry-baby Boehner… they’ve had their chance and they all failed, miserably. In fact no congress has been as unproductive as this one since the post WWII era where times were mostly good and we were still excitedly watching replays of the A-bomb blasts like a NASCAR wreck on ESPN. Now, though, we have Fiscal Cliffs, sequestrations, a nation divided on gun policies and a crazy whack job in the land of KIA who says he’s going to go Slim Pickens on us with his friend Dennis Rodman.

So let’s pass the torch and give someone else a try. If they were in any other profession, we would never think of rehiring them. And though you might be afraid that the replacement legislators would do a disastrous job, can we really get much worse than what we have?

Let your congresspeople know that they will no longer get your vote. It’s time for the incumbents to crumble and for our nation to begin rebuilding.

Written by A Disgruntled Constituent

The Mix Tape - The Front Bottoms

Sun, 10 Mar 2013 14:28:18 -0400

The Front Bottoms

Sometimes the best concerts you wind up seeing are the ones where you don’t know any of a band’s music going into the show. When the Fillmore hosted the Idobi Meltdown on Saturday, 12 of the 14 bands playing were unknowns to me. And while pretty much every act was awesome, it was the set from The Front Bottoms that stuck with me. They were up there having an absolute blast, playing hard, and chugging the occasional beer (or bottled water).

Their self-titled album captures the majority of that spirit, but you still have to see them live. Brian Sella’s lyrics are a blend of stream-of-consciousness, conversation, and clever turn of phrase that I really can’t compare to any other act. Take, for instance, this block from the opening track, “Flashlight,” which goes:

“They are probably just drinking and talking about how she misses getting fucked up and hanging around/And he says ‘Hey you’re good at that’ and she says ‘Thanks, it’s kind of all I got’/And then she looks away and says ‘It’s also all I need.’”

There’s a blend of cavalier attitude and tender poetry that dots the album. You’ll find the former in “Looking Like You Just Woke Up” which bounces along to the words of “I love to wait/I love girls with ex boyfriends that they aren’t really over.” You’ll find the latter in “Rhode Island” in which he writes, “You gotta promise not to break,/no matter how far you are bent.”

Since I come from a family that includes a few trumpet players, I should add that it’s nice to hear some brass in these songs. (Granted, if you’re expecting beautiful sound, you won’t find it here. But the particular tone of this trumpet works with the band.)

I said it earlier, but I’ll close with it, too. You have to see these guys in concert. You’ll have one hell of a time.

—Written by Grant Goodman

Margin Notes - Wendy Mass, Every Soul a Star

Thu, 07 Mar 2013 19:29:38 -0500

“Life is short, but it’s wide”

—Wendy Mass, Every Soul a Star

No, I’m not writing about philosophy. No Buddha loves you, hug-each-other, sing a song stuff here. This one’s about education. It’s about immersing yourself in the study of…well…everything.

If you’re reading this blog, you have access to the greatest source of information the world has ever known. The internet is a tool for finding out pretty much anything you’ve ever wanted. Want to know what flavors of Doritos are being sold in Thailand? Search. Want to read a scholarly dissection of Camus? Search. Not sure about the difference between H2O and H2O2? That’s right, search.

Yet, access to information is not the same as knowledge. Put in some effort. Run a search for something you’ve always wondered about. Do some reading or some watching. It’s good for you.

—Written by Grant Goodman

To Write Love on Her Arms

Mon, 04 Mar 2013 21:27:31 -0500

When I went to the Fillmore last month to see Satellite, Now Now, Will Anderson of Parachute, Anthony Raneri of Bayside, and Jon Foreman (of Switchfoot), I was going for the music. Some people, however, were going there to reaffirm their will to live.

The organization that was backing the tour, To Write Love on Her Arms, is an outreach program for people dealing with depression, suicidal thoughts, self-harm habits, bullying, identity crises, eating disorders, and probably a few that I’m missing.

The evening was helmed by Jamie Tworkowski (founder) and the recurring theme of the evening was survival through storytelling. The idea that everyone’s story—even that bitter, crushing one that’s been sitting on your chest like a stone for months—is one that needs to be heard. This message was reinforced by Steven McMorran of Satellite who, in between songs, simply state that “your story matters.” It surfaced in Anthony Raneri’s cover of “Megan,” which is the story of a guy waiting for a “reunion” with his girlfriend, convinced that the only way he’ll ever see her again is by lying down on the train tracks. At song’s end, he finally accepts the help of those around him and lives to see another day. That very same message of struggling to survive was present in Jon Foreman’s acoustic version of “Dare You to Move,” which goes: “Tension is here/Between who you are and who you could be/Between how it is and how it should be.”

Though I don’t personally struggle with the hardships that TWLOHA aims to talk about, I certainly know people who do. Some of them are peers, some of them are students. And, sometimes, the best thing you can do is let them talk. Because they need someone to listen to them. Because our stories only matter when someone else can hear them.

The unstated subtext of the evening was that silence and isolation are killers. Being cut off from listening ears can kill your sense of worth. And having the mindset that no one understands you is unbelievably dangerous. Your story may be unique, but your depth of emotion is not. You’re human, and our species has been around for quite some time now. Loss, pain, and self-loathing have been with us from the get-go and there are plenty of people who will acknowledge that.

Jamie Tworkowski was able to point out that these issues are often glossed over or pushed back into the shadows and ignored. That it’s seen as a weakness to discuss profound sadness, crying jags, and feelings of ostracism. And that the best way to make things better is to talk about them.

He’s onto something there.

—Written by Grant Goodman

Goodbye, Mr. Moody

Thu, 28 Feb 2013 21:10:00 -0500

There was a time when, had you asked me or not, I would have told you that Californication was my favorite show on television hands down. The first two seasons spun me into the kind of whimsy that few shows can. It was smart, funny, sexy (HBO and Showtime seem to have a quota system on breasts. I’ll let you know when I crack that Divinci code), and more importantly than all of that, it was written with the kind of compelling complexity that made you starved for more in the week away.

But now—now—it’s nothing like that. Now, the show has spiraled out of control into some kind of vapid, demoralized homage to titties and beer (Zappa fans be damned). The plot—a dried out writer, Hank Moody, who pines for his one true love turned “It’s Complicated” and a chance at the good life—was tired three seasons ago. Now, after another season starting with him and Karen breaking it off yet again, this time after Hank’s ex-girlfriend kills herself (it sounds compelling, I know, but trust me, she is mourned for five minutes. Total), the plot feels less like a marathon runner at mile twenty-two and more like a champion steer who has broken three of its legs. And so it is with a heavy heart and great regret that I am taking my love and affection for the show out back and putting two in its head.

Yes, Californication has devolved to the point to warrant an Old Yeller reference. It’s that bad.

I knew shenanigans were abound when, after two phenomenal seasons that had me foaming at the mouth (see what he did there?) and watching each episode back to back like a goddamned crack addict, the unfortunately penned third season put sex crazed David Duchovny/Hank in an all girls school to teach writing. The show ceased to have drama and became more about Hanks buxom stripper student (he fucks her), his boss’ sex-starved wife (he fucks her) and the disenchanted librarian-type goddess who served as his TA (you guessed it, he fucked her too). The big moment arrives when the three end up in the same room at the same time, their uncrossed legs baring each of their hungry holes as Hank tries to sing and dance his way through writer Tom Kapinos’ take on teaching.

I know what you’re thinking, that sounds kind of entertaining. Sure, if you have the attention span of a four year old and consider Jersey Shore a legitimate show, I think you might have enjoyed it. Even the die hard fans like myself were willing to forgive it and stay tuned for the occasional good moment like when superior author Richard Bates tucks and does the pee-pee dance.

And then there was the fifth season (notice we skipped season 4 which was unquestionably fantastic, ending with one of the greatest finales I have ever seen). Hank scraps the book idea and begins working on a movie set for a rapper-turned-actor played shamefully by the RZA who might as well have donned white face only to paint it black and sing “Mammy” in his best Al Jolson voice (it was that racist, yes).

And I was still willing to forgive it then. But fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times and fuck you Tom Kapinos. Season six starts with the premise of Hank Moody penning a rock opera for the only thing of substance it seems he has ever done, his novel God Hates us All. There is sex, drugs and rock-n-roll (which was already done—and done extremely well—in the Great Gatsby themed season 2) and there is even a muse. Yes, Hank has stumbled upon a muse, a woman who he met in rehab who claims her voodoo-vag has the power to make an artist spin gold from their brushes, Fenders and typewriters alike. Mind you, Hank and Karen—his one true love, let us not forget—had only been taking a bit of a break to give Hank time to get on the wagon and grieve over his dead girlfriend. Well, seven episodes later, he’s out of rehab and doing coke and the dead girl has already been eaten whole by the maggots of who gives a fuck. As far as Karen goes… Hank doesn’t even seem to care anymore. And so neither do we. The show has become a half-hour lazy journal entry to “The Red Shoe Diaries.”

The worst part is, this is how Showtime comedies seem to end up. Weeds took a turn for the worse and the mundane after two seasons of ticky tacky and their new show, House of Lies, doesn’t have one character to like even if you added up everyone in the room (sorry Cheadle, I love you, but Marty Kahn is one of the most despicable roles ever played—and you do it with tongue fully in cheek, but that still doesn’t make it alright).

So it’s time to say goodbye to Hank Moody, my one time “muse” and soul-brother. I think Duchovny feels the same way, too. As of late the bags under his eyes have grown more severe and his handling of the character is less and less energetic. He’s exhausted. We all are. So let’s go out back. Here Yeller. Let’s just go out back.

Written by Mother Fuckaaaaaaaaah

Margin Notes: "The Deep" By Anthony Doerr

Wed, 27 Feb 2013 21:28:08 -0500

Tom tries to answer, but the whole sky is rushing through the open door into his mouth.

—Anthony Doerr, “The Deep”

Dave Eggers helms this incredible project that gets published once a year. It’s The Best American Non-Required Reading collection and it’s assembled by groups of high school students who are simply sifting through all the year’s fiction and non-fiction in search of the most intriguing writing they can find. The 2011 edition contains page after page of brilliant, stirring stories, longform journalism, comics, flash fiction, band names, and tweets. It was “The Deep,” a short story by Anthony Doerr, though, that hit me the hardest.
Some lines stick in your thoughts and float around. Others get carved in and they stay there, permanent fixtures that you’d never want to remove.

Tom has a heart condition. He can’t get overworked or overexcited. He has a life expectancy of sixteen, maybe eighteen years. When he finally goes to elementary school for fourth grade, what is it that sends him to brush up against death? A picture book of the deep ocean, filled with colorful creatures and strange plants and sights so amazing to Tom he can’t believe they actually exist. And that picture book belongs to Ruby.

A few days later, when this boy with a delicate heart condition opens the door to find Ruby standing there with a few tadpoles swimming in a jar of water, he can’t speak. She says she’s brought them because it seemed like he was interested in sea creatures. And that’s true. But in addition to being a catalyst for his love of the ocean, she has also triggered his interest in girls.

With Ruby standing outside his door, there’s no room for words. How could there be? All of life is filling him up, all at once. Too much is happening at once and while Tom’s heart is okay, his brain is paralyzed.

It’s magic, really. That spark, that flash, that moment in which you realize that there’s something out there that has set you alight. It will always set you alight, if you give it room to breathe.

The problem is that there’s so much time in between childhood and adulthood in which all of that fire can be snuffed out. I’m a teacher and I watch it happen all the time. Students who leave my middle school classroom come back to visit me years later and high school has burned them out of all of their loves. The things they loved when they were twelve are things they no longer have time for. Too much studying, working with a tutor twice a week, sports practice goes until 7, the musical is opening in a week, and the list goes on.

Doerr understands this, too, and his story is about the struggle to hold onto what matters, even if those things may make your heart stop beating.

—Written by Grant Goodman

Margin Notes: Charles Yu. Sorry Please Thank You.

Mon, 25 Feb 2013 10:00:00 -0500

Is language all about desire? Is desire all about loss? Would we ever need anything if we never lost anything? Is everything we ever say just another way to express: I will lose this, I will lose all of this. I will lose you?

-Charles Yu. Sorry Please Thank You.

Hi there. It’s been a little while. I’ve been reading. And writing. And listening. And grad-schooling. And I’ve been tired. But I’ve found that hidden “refresh” button that we all have somewhere in our brains. Or maybe it’s our hearts. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor.

For many, many reasons (some good, some terrible), I’ve done less pleasure reading this year than I have in the past five years of my life. So I went ahead and forced myself to crack open a book a few weeks ago, so that I could spend 30 minutes a night reading, no matter how tired I was.

I’ve never been on a diet, but I’ve often heard that when people are denied something for a long time, they go absolutely nuts when they finally get their hands on whatever it is. Well, that’s what I’ve been doing for the past three weeks.

It turned out that I was starving for words.

Now, I’m feeling a bit more nourished. Happier. Smarter. Funnier.

So guess what you’re going to be seeing a lot of? That’s right: a whole series of literature-inspired posts.

Let’s start with Charles Yu, whose prose is brilliant, charming, achingly honest, and often times disturbingly philosophical. His latest short story collection, Sorry Please Thank You, is all over the map. This one particular quote, hanging out there at the top of the page, comes from a story that is printed like an instructional manual. It never tells you exactly what the device is, but it’s an object that takes your desires and turns them into realities. The way I read it is that it’s simply about life, as if the human brain and body is the device in question.

When this question series about language popped up, I knew I was in love with this little story.

Language is definitely about desire. It was created in order to satisfy the desire to voice the complex thoughts and images stewing in our brains. To be able to say, “I need this, I want that.”

In the beginning, there were probably far more needs being voiced than wants. That’s changed over time, for sure.

But then there’s that follow-up question. Is desire about loss? Is it there because we know that one day everything will vanish? Is it about recognizing that we have the chance to have something for only a little while, and then we have nothing for all of eternity? Is language a tool to let us say and write everything because we know that one day we won’t say or write anything ever again?

It’s worth thinking about.

—Written by Grant Goodman

Suddenly, I recognized those bloodshot rearview mirror eyes as...

Sun, 24 Feb 2013 20:11:43 -0500

Suddenly, I recognized those bloodshot rearview mirror eyes as mine.

Debunking The Common Gun Debate Myths

Mon, 18 Feb 2013 15:47:00 -0500

Ooh, somebody stop me! - The Mask

Myth #1: Hammers Kill More People Than Assault Weapons

By now I’m certain you’ve seen the FBI’s 2011 Crime Report and if you’ve somehow missed it, turn on FOX news and by day’s end Wayne LaPierre will enlighten you as to what it says. In 2011 there were 323 murders caused by rifles (which assault weapons are—sort of). On the other hand, and this is what everyone is so quick to point out, during that same year there were 496 murders caused by “blunt objects,” of which hammers were an example. So first off, hammers are one of a countless objects that are considered “blunt” (a table leg or my shoe, for instance, would also fit nicely—or nastily as it were—into this category. Secondly, when people tout this statistic they tend to be missing the forest while focusing on the tree. They are clearly ignoring the over 8,000 other murders that were caused by guns. And while Congress may not be cutting its teeth on the ideas of regulating handguns, it still doesn’t remove the plain and simple fact that in 2011 guns killed. A lot. And a lot more than that silly hammer that you might have unassumingly left in your toolbox out in the garage (you might want to get it quick before the hoodlums abscond with it and commit mass hammerings in your local schools!).

Myth #2: A Harsher Licensing Process Violates The Second Amendment

Heaven forbid that Johnny Bluecollar has to go through a process similar to the one that haunts our dreams of the DMV in order to purchase his Bushmaster .223 (a favorite amongst crackpots and mass-murders). And while there are those—looking at you Ann Coulter, you little minx—who will argue that driving is a privilege and not a right, they are completely missing the fact that rights are all incredibly regulated and never absolute. For instance, that pesky first amendment right of assembly does allow one to gather, like, let’s say on the National Mall, but our government requires that one gets the proper permits before holding said gathering on the Mall. And if you were to look at the forms, you would notice that they require a number of facts including your Federal Tax ID or your Social Security number. So the notion of requiring a similar application process is by all means legal and could hardly be rationalized to be anything but beneficial to the overall health and well being of society. Plus, we wouldn’t want some communist to go and easily purchase some weapons at their local gun shows only to turn those weapons on the good capitalist people of the United States not would we?

Myth #3: It’s All A Conspiracy And Obama Is Taking Over

I love this one. The proponents for this quagmire of irrationality often cite Nazi Germany as their historical precedent, but in the end, they propose that Obama is quietly and coyly worming his way into complete tyrannical control of the United States. This misses the mark on two issues, though. First, by 1938, the German gun laws which had been beefed up largely after getting spanked in WWI, were back to something very similar to the state of affairs we have here in our “great” nation. Secondly, unlike previous periods in history, we the people stand absolutely no chance at stopping our government from taking over should they ever make the awful decision to do so. Technology has rendered us helpless, in a way. Obama doesn’t have to creep quietly into your household through a scaffolded legislative process, he can just blast his way through your front door with a cruise missile or one of those nifty drones we hear so much about. Our nation’s government has an arsenal capable of rendering the entire Earth uninhabitable for several hundred millenia. The last thing stopping them from taking over is your antiquated Glock. So stop watching your VHS copy of Red Dawn and get reality. If he wanted to take over, he could.

Myth #4: The NRA Is A Non-Profit Group Looking Out For Citizen’s Rights

Yes and no. Yes, they are a non-profit group and yes, LaPierre is largely advocating things that have to do with the rights of citizens. What is being largely overlooked however is the money trail. In our Occupy All Streets, anti-wealthy society, we shouldn’t be surprised to hear that the main culprit behind all the biggest ruses are those who profit from our blundering. So let’s stop and take a look at what the money tells us about the NRA. First, we see that they are a successful organization in that their million in campaign contributions last year seemingly paid off in that 36 of the 51 Senate votes against recent legislation call for the ramping up of background checks were those who the NRA had donated to that year. In fact, only two recipients of NRA money voted against their interest. That said, there is nothing wrong—or shall we say “illegal”—with an interest group padding the pockets that count. However, it gets trickier when we look at where LaPierre gets all that dinero. In 2008 alone, Smith & Wesson and Baretta donated over fifteen percent of the NRA’s entire earnings. Consider that these are only two of over one hundred gun manufacturers in the US and I think you see where we’re headed. Furthered gun legislation would knock a few zeroes off some very lucrative books and so we see these clever businessmen ensuring that this doesn’t happen by making very smart, tactical donations to the right organizations (again, not illegal). So we know the Pro-Gun lobby has a financial gain behind it that largely creates some of the rhetoric. But what of the Anti-Gun lobby? Where would the non-organic rhetoric derive from there and who would profit from that? (Maybe it’s Crafstmen. I hear they make a mean hammer)? Consider the sources. Always consider the sources.

Myth #5: The Second Amendment Was Made For Private Citizens To Own Weapons. Period.

The second amendment was more of a compromise added to the constitution to appease the good people of Virginia. See, Virginia and other slave states of the time, had this pesky problem of insurrections from the same individuals that they stole from their homelands and threw into labored captivity here in America. So, to help ensure that no such uprisings could threaten their great states, they had mandatory service in the state run militias that were specifically created and used to quell slave rebellions. Patrick Henry, when pushing for the second amendment in the Bill of Rights even said “If the country be invaded, a state may go to war, but cannot suppress [slave] insurrections [under this new Constitution]. If there should happen an insurrection of slaves, the country cannot be said to be invaded. They cannot, therefore, suppress it without the interposition of Congress … . Congress, and Congress only [under this new Constitution], can call forth the militia.” So James Madison, the dynamo of politics he was, included the Virginia backed amendment, only there was a problem, he originally added that no state could force the enlisting in said militias. When Patrick Henry got word of this he was furious and Virginia’s part in this new government became questionable. So they edited the wording to what we know today (even the changing of “Country” to “State”) and removed the notion that states couldn’t force militia service which allowed Virginia to keep up their state sponsored lynch mobs and the South was once again happy (for seventy years, at least, and then things became a bit more complicated). But, long story short, the second amendment had its roots in stopping slave insurrections. Being that we have no slaves anymore, it, like the third amendment (quartering?) has become another antiquated part of our constitution (whereas Article I Section 8 is still quite relevant—look it up).

Myth #6: The Black Market Would Exist Regardless of Legislation

The notion that there is no point in changing things as business will continue as usual or that there are already too many guns on the streets for us to make an impact is one of the most absurd of them all. Sure, any legislation or actions made might not have an effect on crime in the near future, but it’s not the near future that is always what is most important. Short-sidedness is why Congress can’t even agree on what it is they don’t agree on (that and the fact that most of them have managed to burrow their beady-eyed heads so far up their own asses, that they can no longer see straight and all that comes out when they talk is sure-fire shit). But enacting smart laws now will make a better world tomorrow. And tomorrow isn’t the literal tomorrow, but more of our children’s tomorrow. When we created the 14^th amendment to declare all men equal, it wasn’t with the belief that from that exact moment America would be an equitable state for all races. It’s taken years—nearly 160 of them—and we’re only now starting to see the pay-off. (Don’t believe me? Ask our black President how he feels about the topic.) Gun laws made today may very well not effect the Chicago murder rates—have you see those? Geesh!—tomorrow, but some day, at some point, it might help kids walk safely down the street to catch a ride on a school bus and not a gurney. And even if it’s only a “might”, a chance that it will work, isn’t it worth it?

Written by Mythbuster Buster.

5 Things Every Man Needs

Tue, 12 Feb 2013 20:47:00 -0500

Not to invoke some kind of primitive incarnation of man law, but as any true Man knows, there are certain things members of our species require to affirm themselves as a warm blooded males (the anatomical features aside). Here are a few items that veritably define manhood.

1. Television

A must for men. What else would he watch Braveheart or the original Predator on? How else could he truly enjoy the big game, whatever his sport may be? (Unless it’s wrestling. No male above the age of fourteen still watches those fakes in skin-tight onesies parading about the ring.) A man is judged by other men by the size and shape of his TV. Men speak of numbers like 1080p with the kind of pride otherwise reserved solely for the length and angle of their dangle. A television is a man’s portal to his other world: one where gladiators still battle to the death and every seat is on the fifty yard line. Without it, he’d be some hipster loser, sipping PBRs by the case and quoting Nietzsche to his own flaccid reflection.

Sometimes Acceptable – A local sports bar.

Never Acceptable – A computer screen.

2. Lighter

Ever since man’s Cro-Magnon ancestor first drew flame from flint and twig, he has fought to tame the wild menace of fire. And when man finally sentenced that flame to solitary confinement within a plastic Bic cell, he earned the right to gloat by carrying it around in his pocket with his loose change, a bus token and a month old condom. Occasionally man might set fire free so that it can sear his meat, light his lady’s Lucky or even burn down Rome (I’m looking at your, Nero), but in the end, the flame knows who’s boss. Man.

Sometimes Acceptable – A pilot light on the stove or a grill (preferably the grill).

Never Acceptable – Flameless candle.

3. Confidence

There is nothing that makes a man’s chest swell more than the very way that he carries himself. Confidence, more so than looks, money or the size of his one-eyed Mike is what will make the difference as to whether that buxom blonde at the end of the bar will give him a second glance. Without a certain swagger, a man might as well be a boy and that boy might as well go home to his Mommy.

Sometimes Acceptable – Looks, money, a Ron Jeremy’esque stature down below.

Never Acceptable – Excuses.

4. Car

Whether or not man might live in the city, whether or not man might believe in saving the environment, a man does not feel complete without a set of four wheels to his name. How else would he pick up his potential suitor or make that unexpected journey to Atlantic City? Ever since Henry Ford had a dream that there would be a car in every man’s garage and a woman cooking chicken in that man’s kitchen pot, man has had a love affair with vehicles. He names them something feminine, not to show his dominance, but to allow for his unrequited love for that hunk of beautiful steel whose sweet leathery wheel he grasps with nothing less than affection. Not having a car is like being left stranded in the Ozarks of asexuality.

Sometimes Acceptable – A motorcycle or a private jet.

Never Acceptable – A bicycle, rollerblades or “My mom’s car.”

5. A Place of His Own

Where else you going to store all your good man shit? Nuff said.

A Recommendation: Tom Chiarella on the Happiness of Aaron Swartz

Mon, 28 Jan 2013 21:21:59 -0500

I’m calling it right now. This is one of the most arresting articles I will read all year. It will be one of the most arresting articles you will read all year. I’m sure of it.

Tom Chiarella has given an account of what might be the most bizarre funeral request he will ever have. The crux of it: he was asked to give a speech at funeral for Aaron Swartz, a man he had never met. It was also requested that he read a passage from David Foster Wallace. This leads to an awkwardly endearing scene in which Chiarella finds himself being addressed as “Dave” or “David” and leads to this gem: “People in the room that day were mightily, and supremely pissed. And hurt. So see, it didn’t matter if I was or wasn’t David Foster Wallace. And it is not every day that you can say that.”

The real punch, the real twist in this article comes from Chiarella’s recounting of his dinner with his son after the funeral. It is nothing less than a rattling moment of empathy in which he looks at his son and sees a reflection of Swartz, who committed suicide at the age of 26. The moment is undeniably human and undeniably humbling.

Take five minutes to read the article. Chiarella is one of Esquire’s top talents and churns out the kind of writing most people will never be capable of. And, on a slightly related note, if you’re a guy who gives a shit about being well put together and well read, there’s no excuse for not having a subscription to Esquire.

—Written by Grant Goodman

You know, that song mentioned in Jimmy Eat World’s...

Mon, 28 Jan 2013 21:20:06 -0500

You know, that song mentioned in Jimmy Eat World’s “Kill.”

Margin Notes: Another New World by Josh Ritter

Wed, 23 Jan 2013 20:09:29 -0500

We talked of the other worlds we’d discover
As she gave up her body to me
And as I chopped up her mainsail for timber
I told her of all that we still had to see

—Josh Ritter, “Another New World”

This might be the greatest non-traditional love song of all time. It is a captain and his ship and their final adventure together. He has nothing in the world that means anything to him. Not his crew, not a wife. Nothing. And when his adventure into the frozen seas of the North goes horribly wrong, it costs him the only treasure he’s ever had.

There’s a tenderness between the captain and his ship. At the very end of her life, he speaks to her the way people speak to relatives on their deathbeds. We’re not done. This isn’t over. You’re going to get up and we’re going to see the world together. It’s naked denial and scripted reassurance in the face of a certain end and if there’s anything more heartbreaking than that, you’ll have to tell me.

Now, I realize that this is going to come as complete blasphemy to some of you, but I honestly prefer the way Chris Thile and the Punch Brothers cover this song on their EP, Ahoy! Ritter’s version is dreary and brooding throughout, perhaps meant to mirror the captain at the end of the tale, drowning in alcohol and broken dreams. The Punch Brothers make it much more dramatic, letting it build, gathering steam toward the tragedy, only to let it fade and blur into clashing sounds of strings.

There are plenty of songs about love out there and nearly all of them fail to convey the strength of that feeling when compared to this one.

—Written by Grant Goodman

Local Psychic Claims to Know Original Intention of Deceased Father's List

Tue, 22 Jan 2013 19:30:00 -0500

BETHUNE, S.C. - Local psychic and toaster repairman, Charles Plymouth, released a statement Tuesday proclaiming intimate knowledge of the true intentions behind a grocery list his father left behind. Henry Plymouth, Charles’ father died forty-three years earlier due to lung cancer and while not much remains of his estate, a hand-written grocery list he left behind has caused great debate amongst Plymouth family scholars ever since.

The list in question, written in faded pencil on the back of a Burger King napkin reads:

T.P.
Biscuits for dinner
TV Guide
Word Find Puzzles
Earplugs
?

According to Charles, 63, while in his meditative states, he has the ability to “cross over” into the other world and speak to his long-deceased father. During one of these ethereal conversations, his father divulged to him the true meaning of the items on the famed list.

“When my father wrote ‘Biscuits for dinner,’ what he meant is that we should get one of every kind of biscuit, just in case something happens.” Plymouth goes on to explain that on top of prepared biscuits, his father also intended on getting canned biscuits, dog biscuits, English cookies and the raw ingredients to make homemade biscuits from scratch. “You never know what kind of situation dinner could bring, Dad told me,” Plymouth added. “What if during dinner, a group of ravenous pit bulls or Gypsies attacked your home and ate all your prepared biscuits, you’d need the treats to fend them off and the raw ingredients to make another batch. You never know.”

Others disagree with Plymouth, claiming that his father never intended it to mean every kind of biscuit known to man. “That’s just lunacy,” George Dodds, Plymouth’s cousin says. “What kind of idiot really thinks that old man meant all biscuits. Did they even make canned biscuits back then? How could he have possibly meant that?”

It isn’t just the second item stirring up controversy, either. Charles also claims that his father spoke at length about the first point, “T.P.”, which, according to Charles, stood for tooth paste. “Some filthy people think he meant toilet paper by that, but my father would have never intended on something so foul and vile. That’s just disgusting.”

And while we may never know the truth, Charles Plymouth is certain that he’s settled the debate. He’s now moved past his father’s list and gone on to channeling other deceased beings of controversy such as the writers of the Bible and the Koran. He plans on announcing what these spirits have told him sometime later this week on FOX News.

Written by The Ghost of Jayson Blair

On the Menu: Charleston. Baltimore, MD.

Mon, 21 Jan 2013 18:33:11 -0500

Charleston

Baltimore, MD

French/Low Country

Make sure you wear your best suit or dress when you visit Charleston, because chef Cindy Wolf and her staff are going to make sure that whatever food leaves the kitchen is the finest they can offer. When you’re dining here, in Harbor East, you can approach the menu on the chef’s terms or on your own. There is a suggested seasonal menu of four courses (plus an amuse bouche and a dessert course), but there is also a long list of items that you can mix and match to make your own menu. If you feel especially carnivorous, you could go for all meat and seafood dishes. But then you’d miss out on some spectacular variety that Wolf and crew put out.

The current seasonal menu (January 2013) includes a foie gras soup, a spinach and pear salad, a medallion of turbot, and a portion of grilled squab.

On the night I was there, the first plated dish for every guest was a tiny porcelain mug of creamy mushroom soup, accompanied by a diminutive pastry puff. If it had been a menu item, I would have put in for a full order of that soup, which was unbelievably rich and full of deep mushroom flavors that were absolutely perfect on a January night.

The foie gras soup was rich in a different fashion. The broth contained the French trinity of carrot , celery, and onion, and a lobe of seared foie was bathing in it. The whole dish was also covered with a puff pastry dome that, when soaked in the broth, was unbelievable.

While I had never—not once—in my life ever been impressed by a salad, the spinach and pear salad that arrived next completely changed that. A fan of red barlett pear slices were arranged along the bottom. The spinach leaves were tossed in a citrusy vinaigrette and then molded into a puck. The whole thing was topped off with chopped pecans. It was—and probably will always be—the only salad that I have ever raved about to the rest of the table.

Turbot arrived next, blanketed in a velvety lobster beurre blanc, framed by sprigs of fresh herbs. A side of white asparagus and fava beans rounded it out. The fresh herbs, especially the dill, were the star of that plate.

My final dinner course, a cut of roasted squab, was plated atop a fingerling potato puree and coated in a cognac reduction. If you’ve never had squab, this would be an excellent starting point.

Dessert was a vanilla bean creme brulee that was almost cloud-like. The presence of fresh vanilla was impossible to miss.

I’d also like to point out that between every main course, you are offered mini rounds of French bread (think silver dollar size), slices of raisin bread, or pieces of cornbread. The corn bread is amazing, with a mild sweetness and a delicate crumb. I’ll just say that I went for that every time.

If wine pairings are your thing, you can do that, too. And, if you want, in between your final course and dessert, you can have some cheese and port.

What I’ve learned is that no matter how many courses you have there, they’re all going to leave you smiling.

—Written by Grant Goodman

A band name so terrible you can’t forget it. A song so...

Sun, 20 Jan 2013 14:19:31 -0500

A band name so terrible you can’t forget it. A song so great you can’t forget it, either.