Fake apology. Fauxpology. Unpology. Non-apology apology. It’s all bullshit and you’re an idiot if you play along.
I’ve spent decades in the corporate world, and way too much of that time has been dedicated to crafting artful PR bullshit. I’m not proud of the fact, but truth is I’m good at it. And when making the language behave unnaturally is your stock in trade, you get really, really good at spotting it when other people start force-feeding perfectly honest words into the sausage grinder.
Which brings us to the much-discussed Ryan Lochte “apology.” Which, by the way, was written for him by some weasel in his agent’s office. Said weasel understands the basics, but sadly has all the grace and nuance of a hyena on a Cialis bender.
Didn’t work, though. See the fat, middle-aged guy with an open sore on his mouth loitering by the edge of the dance floor? That’s Lochte. See all the sorority girls easing away from him? Those are his former sponsors.
I’m not disappointed in Ryan Lochte.
That would be like getting disappointed at the sun for rising in the east. At squirrels for hoarding nuts. At Arsenal for finishing fourth. No, I’m not disappointed in Ryan Lochte. I’m disappointed in myself.
When I saw the headline – Ryan Lochte and three others robbed at gunpoint in Rio – my first thought was something like “damn, that’s awful.” But it should have been “wait – what’s the operative word in that sentence?” The answer, of course, is “Lochte,” and if I were even a little alert I’d have known, without question, that a raging, sideways douche-bro shitrain was a’fixin’ to blow up.
I should have known. You should have known. We all should have known, and the fact that we didn’t, that’s on us.
And it just keeps getting worse. First he made up the robbery story. Then we get video proving he lied and we learned that it all went down because he and some douche-bro teammates were trashing a store in the middle of the night. Then he lies some more. Continue reading
A number of people who are supposed to be friends have crossed a line and I don’t know if there’s a way back.
In recent months I have been called an idiot.
I’ve been called silly.
I’ve been called a child.
I’ve been called privileged.
I have also been called a sexist and a misogynist.
Not by Republicans, or trolls or anonymous blog commenters, though. No, I have been called these things by people whom I considered to be friends. Plural. As in, several people, some of whom might be reading this.
This isn’t all of it, either. In more Facebook shares and comments and stray tweets than I can readily recall I have had my intelligence, my character, my good faith, my commitment to my country and my family and my community questioned, often in pointed and patently insulting terms.
I’ve held my tongue for the most part, but the time has come to make something clear to those among you who have chosen the path of condescension: you have damaged our friendship badly, perhaps irreparably. Continue reading
This may be Andy Kaufman’s greatest gag ever, but it’s getting away from him.
Some time back I floated the theory that Donald Trump is actually Andy Kaufman and I’ve suggested that this election is an elaborate piece of performance art. You may think I’m being silly, but that theory comes closer to explaining the last few months than most “serious” punditry we see.
This morning I see that at least one poll has him losing to Clinton by four points in Georgia. I repeat, in GEORGIA! That’s in the heart of freakin’ racist cracker Dixie.
If the goal were to destroy the GOP, what more could the man possibly do? Continue reading
Apropos of Denny’s insighful analysis earlier today, the Washington Post blows the headline.
a less gutless rag would have gone with
Broad array of military luminaries condemn Trump over attacks on Khan family but none withdraw endorsements
A few things, first on the competition front:
1: The guy who won the bull riding was a rookie. A 20 year-old rookie. He rode three bulls in three rounds. These are serious bulls, and the idea that anybody rode one of them is ridiculous enough. Three in three days? By a wet-behind-the-ears kid? That’s absurd.
2: The guy who won the all-around was FIFTY. SIX. YEARS. OLD. Continue reading
Because it’s a Power Pop Saturday and I can, that’s why.
FYI, Rick didn’t cease to exist at the end of the 1980s.
Remind me – Khizr Khan’s son died in which war, again?
The headline and video couldn’t be much more compelling.
The soldier’s father, Khizr Khan, could not be more right about Donald Trump, a narcissist of the first order, and maybe even a sociopath, who has spent his life serving nothing but his own insatiable, infantile id. Continue reading
The NBA is mulling pulling the All-Star Game from Charlotte over the state’s reprehensible HB2 “bathroom law.” Good – this is as it should be.
But the ESPN story cited here, penned by NBA reporter Brian Windhorst (whom I really really like), has a little problem. Not massive, but important. Here’s the quote: Continue reading
Today we launch a new campaign aimed at taking back the future.
The original text for this meme was a lot longer. But when you boil it down to its essence, the message is pretty straightforward. We have become so incredibly negative that it’s eroding our ability to even consider the positive. We’re so terrified of where we are that we have ceased thinking about where we want to be.
When they first hit in 1997 with “MMMBop,” I remember Hanson being dismissed by my music intelligentsia friends as some kind of put-up job, a prefab kiddie novelty act. Thing is, it wasn’t true. At all. The brothers Hanson – Taylor, Isaac and Zac – were legit talented, their shiny, radio-friendly sound underpinned by a rich sense of Chicago R&B rhythm and Gospel-inflected harmony. (It’s fun trying to write in hipster-reviewer speak, init? Hey, I’ve been telling you for years I ain’t no reviewer.)
Now, nearly two decades on, they’re better than ever. Let’s kick today’s #SVR with a recent acoustic performance of that hit, one that strips down to the naked essence of a worthy pop gem.
I don’t care if you stuff your pockets until it looks like you’re smuggling carburetors. If you’re too macho to carry a bag, that’s your issue.
I can imagine how the conversation would go. My father is still alive and it’s Thanksgiving. We’re having dinner at his place. I walk in, say hello to everyone, and he draws a bead on my latest purchase.
“Nice purse,” he says. Continue reading
Rich Flierl may be at the mercy of circumstances, but new CD makes clear his rage to grow and innovate. Let’s hope A Swan’s Song isn’t.
Dotsun Moon was rolling in the wake of 2011’s outstanding 4am, but a couple years later singer Mary Ognibene departed the band, leaving songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Rich Flierl wondering what to do next. An extended search for a worthy replacement proved difficult – understandable, given how perfectly Ognibene’s talents meshed with Flierl’s dark, brooding vision. 4am wandered the borderlands between trip-hop, shoegaze and the lush, cinematic alt.Americana we might associate with The Lost Patrol and The Blueflowers. (Flierl describes it as “DreamBeat Noir,” which is as good a tag as anything I can come up with.) It was a seductive amalgam, and it’s hard to imagine easily replacing any element of the collaboration.
Flierl auditioned a number of singers, but no one really panned out. Continue reading
I have some advice for you: if you’re going to get sick, don’t feel the need to be innovative about it.
Nothing good comes of winning at Stump the Doctor. No, come down with something run of the mill, something ho-hum, something boringly common. Or be rich. One or the other.
Back in May I wrote about my evolving issues with spinocerebellar ataxia, a rare brain malady that affects your speech and movement. Short version: it sucks. No treatment, no cure, no hope for one. If you recall, the docs wanted me to take a DNA test to confirm the specific type I have (they suspect it’s SCA-6, if it matters), but my co-pay on the test was going to be $7,000. So we’re just going to have to go on suspecting, I guess. Continue reading