America oversweetened with sugar substitutes
Sometimes I have dreams, simple aspirations that appear surprisingly translucent and pristine in a clouded mind perpetually stuck in a sky-darkening and bone-drenching monsoon.
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Sometimes I have dreams, simple aspirations that appear surprisingly translucent and pristine in a clouded mind perpetually stuck in a sky-darkening and bone-drenching monsoon.
Oh boy! Did you read the news today? I hope you did, because I sure didn't. I missed what Eurasian pan-epidemic was stirring the global marketplace, didn't seem to catch the newest allegations against the Revenge Department (I'm sorry, did I say revenge? I meant Justice), didn't even examine the latest ex-starlet toxicology screen or wade chest-deep through any month-old, drug-ridden stomach contents.
Tucked away in the quaint and unobtrusive suburbs of Washington, D.C., a pleasant neighborhood has become embroiled in a fierce conflict. Actually, it's less of a even-sided battle than an unjustly imposed terror, a rapacious scourge worthy of the Cossacks and the Barbarian hordes and even the uncompromisingly cruel Wayans Brothers (pogroms and pillaging are one thing, but did you see "Little Man?").
Ballsack, bollocksack, nutsack, bumper nuts, ballbag, beanbag, bawbag, fruit basket, scrot, scrote, escroto... the list goes on.
While I've always prided myself on my stellar news coverage (sitting just above FOX News and falling right behind elementary-school PA system announcements in the media spectrum), I only wish I didn't have to report this.
"When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying the cross."
It's no secret that independent hip-hop and the collegiate experience have been inexorably linked for some time now. Succulent scratches over soulful beats seem to always be heard cleverly dissecting the silence of residence hall corridors, emanating like a funky odor from grungy dorm rooms. This ever-solidifying connection was on full display as West Coast luminaries Blackalicious thrilled and entertained a crowd packed into the Tavern Friday night.
I come to you a changed man. I arrive weary and sore yet invigorated and hopeful, bearing simply a tale of discovery and reinvention, faith and celebration and unmeditated violence and airborne swine. This is the story of How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Holiday Season.
I used to think motherhood was sacred. Perhaps it was a result of being beaten over the head with endless Madonna and Bambini paintings during my past Italian adventures, but I've just always felt that the undeniable yet inexplicable bond between mother and child was the last good and pure thing left in our rapidly devolving world. To this day, I bashfully fancy myself as something of a momma's boy, reluctantly clinging to my mother's teat like a second-guessing suicidal man holding onto a skyscraper ledge.
Ah, the Midwest. The enduring heartland, the center of our collective consciousness, the bowels of western civilization. This amorphous blob of space, plopped down in the middle of our country like an obese man confined to a living room couch, has come to represent different things to so many different people.
"The Soci?t? Anonyme: Modernism for America" The Phillips Gallery 1600 21st St. N.W. Until Jan. 21, 2007 Tickets: $12 for adults