John McCain (left) spews insane gibberish while Barack Obama (right) tries to get a word in edgewise.

This is not meant to be partisan, it’s just a fact: every time John McCain opens his mouth, somewhere, a new-born baby kitten is smashed to death with a giant rubber mallet. It’s true. I’ve been watching it happen all night. The only thing more punishing than watching that debate is watching that debate while trying to be funny on a live blog.The teevee pundits (minus that libtard whiner Olbermann) all agree that Old Out to Lunch walked away with the victory even though Obama managed to seem more presidential. And they’re right.

Let’s face it. Seeming like a statesman isn’t exactly a feat when you’re sharing a stage with Assy McGeezer while he’s waving his arms and shouting about how a diplomatic mission to Iran would precipitate a second Holocaust. Anyone whose ever been shouted down by a crazy old relative at the Thanksgiving table knows how Obama must be feeling tonight. No doubt he’s right now telling Michelle something along the lines of, “I swear I would have punched him, but he’s just so fucking old.”

But, in the end I think this is probably a net gain for Obama. Next time he’ll know that McCain is going to come out swinging - and by swinging, I mean obsessively ranting about earmarks while drool dribbles out the right side of his mouth. McCain’s not going to top this performance and when he’s still saying the same things he said tonight three weeks from now, he’ll have revealed himself to be more-or-less a one trick – that trick being the oldest living survivor of the Jackson admistration.

Barry’s gotta step it up a little bit though. And if McCain is going to continue to be this crazy and condescending, politeness alone isn’t going to do the trick. He has to up the irony and the sarcasm. Tonight everyone thought Barry was going to be the condescending one. He doesn’t have to be a dick, but our buddy from Chicago definitely needs to start making fun Old Straight Talk a little bit. Get the laughs Barry, and you’ll get the White House.

Remember the times before we had real news, when right wing crazies went on and on about Obama the terrorist?
Oh, apparently Biden “should be named an honorary soldier in Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.”
[Family Security Matters]

If going to the HRC rally… erm, I mean, DNC protest yesterday wasn’t horrifying enough, I decided to assuage the horror with the judicious application of a matinée, a movie unrelated to politics, with characters I know and have missed and that, though it’s gotten mediocre reviews, I knew I would still like.

No, assholes, not Sex & The City, what kind of Cynic do you think I am? I went to see Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull. I like when things blow up. But then I found that I will never, ever escape politics or cheeze, as the advertisement below was allowed to assault my eyes.

On the other hand, Bill Frist got a haircut! (I’m so ashamed I know that).

So, I just published a little rant about interns over on DCist. It might be because I don’t have one, not that I could easily fit one onto my couch or whatever but I’d totally love someone to fetch me coffee in the morning. Anyway, go read it.

How Not to Be That Intern [DCist]

All day, MSNBC has been running two-second clips of the new Obama Girl-Mike Gravel pairing, and I’ll admit that I have had a bit of an ideological soft spot for him since I interviewed him. But, um, well, he can’t sing. It is worth sitting through the video to watch him do the Soulja boy dance, though.

And by “worth it,” I mean “it will kill your soul and make it easier to get through the rest of the election season.”

So, once upon a time (you may recall), I had a pre-caffeinated inspiration and with the help of Eric Brewer, made the Obama-Gregory Dance-Off a reality. Yes, I am fascinated by people dancing.

That said, D.C. takes a shit-ton of flak for being filled with boring nerds. Mostly, it’s true. But I’ve been in 3 cities in the last week and I took some video in both places, and I dare you to say it again after you’ve watched.

First, as featured on Attackerman, I got people dancing to Kanye at the Obama party in Philly.

Awkward? Yeah. Next up, I got D.C. media types and scenesters dancing to some old school Biggie Smalls.
Read the rest of this entry »

…when telling the story of his time in ‘Nam: “And that’s all I have to say about that.” Now I’m off to go hang with family and be Jewish for a bit. With Pope Nazifuck here visiting my city that’s never seemed like more of an appealing option. Avinu Shalom Aleichem my brothers!

Meatloaf and “family” star in an AT&T go phone commercial parodying the lyrics of “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights,” one of the most overrated and overplayed songs in the history of the universe that additionally a) sucks ass worse that I can say and b) plays up the worst of stereotypes about women and sex (and also makes it seem like Meatloaf could get tail which, really, ladies? He shouldn’t).

By the way, for the first time in my life, I am now embarrassed that, stashed in my parents’ house, is Tiffany’s eponymous album on actual vinyl. Damn you, Tiffany.

I really don’t need to witness any more of the future.

We’re kind of just fucked, really. Our government has no idea what it’s doing and the only reason we haven’t fucked things up worse or been attacked again is just sheer chance. What has inspired my pessimism? Well, 2 years ago our weaponry customer Taiwan (oh, yes, by the way, the U.S. is the biggest arms dealer in the world) ordered up a couple of helicopter batteries for the helicopters we sold their military that they’re totes not supposed to use to attack China or anything. And some lackey walked into the parts room, picked ‘em up and shipped ‘em out. Only, it turns out they weren’t helicopter batteries. Read the rest of this entry »

Several months into my subsistence as a freelance political blogger and fine art photographer, something of a routine has emerged. Early-ish in the morning I ride the train from my outpost deep in the untamed frontier of Brooklyn (let’s just say that I don’t live anywhere near a river, but there are plenty of drainage ditches and a pungent canal) into Manhattan. I work from a one-person table against giant plate-glass windows on the Lower East Side called 88 Orchard, on Orchard Street as one might surmise. It’s nice spot because the coffee’s good, the light is beautiful because of the giant windows and a certain red-headed friend of mine works right across the street and we eat lunch together.

Being what and where it is though, the place attracts all kinds. Like right now for example, there is me, a blogger, personal hygiene in deep neglect, sitting here hardly communicating with the world outside of my computer. The girl next to me is wearing a beret and a scarf and she is writing furiously in a moleskin. A woman at the counter just ordered something with vanilla and caramel in it, and she’s trying to get her wallet out of her bag without dropping the parka-clad chihuahua she’s holding under one arm. There are two workmen, wearing paint-stained Dickies pants looking tired standing in line.

And the guy behind me, the guy who has inspired this post, the guy who has revealed to all us of in the coffee shop this morning that he is a producer of Broadway shows, a man so thoroughly annoying in his femminess as to make me wonder if I am, in fact, a biggot, who has since 8:30 in the morning refused to allow his exhuberence for his life and his work to be in any way curbed by the conventions of communicating indoors in close proximity to numerous strangers. Thankfully, he’s not talking on his cell phone, which I think is the only thing that could possibly make him more annoying.

He is working on a musical called, “Reality.” It’s based on reality television, but it’s a musical. He’s also dating a great guy, who, look, I could go on, but I won’t because when I really made fun of his “Reality” scheme in the paragraph I just deleted, I felt pretty bad about it because he seems like a genuinely decent human being who loves what he does and I’m just jealous of his career and his meaningful personal relationships. Just know this: the Lion King was so successful as Broadway musical that the Little Mermaid is now doing really well even though it’s not half as sophisticated artistically. For real, though. He’s talking so much, so loudly. God. Oh, God.

I do feel better now, though.

Previously: A Note of Personal Discontent